The Goat's Head

by Lex Sinclair

  Sofie could literally feel the agitation emanating from Reverend Ward seated to her immediate right in the other armchair, nursing yet another cup of tea. She would wager the two hundred and fifty pounds she’d quite rightly earned that the old man beside her had thoughts whizzing around in his mind as well. Yet his would be on the contrary to hers. He may have disguised his inner emotions exceedingly but that didn’t change the fact that their cult had a problem on their hands that could quite easily escalate into something far beyond their control. At that thought a Cheshire cat grin spread out across the young woman’s face, and in her peripheral vision she could see the old man look across at her and then away again at the sight of her joy.

  The old man noticed the smirk on the young woman’s face and decided to bring her back to reality. ‘You may smile. Because of you Janice’s parents’ have now outlived their baby girl and had their heartache spread across the viewing world for all to see. You did that. Don’t you realise that in many ways you are far worse than I. I have not caused the death of anyone and you call me evil.’

  As he’d hoped, the smile disappeared into that of a solemn expression. Sofie remained seated, silent, unmoving as Reverend Ward got to his feet, went to the bathroom and emerged five minutes later, grabbing his overcoat off the hanger. He removed his slippers and slid his feet into black, polished shoes. ‘I am going to the main street, to the church,’ he announced. ‘I would offer to take you with me but I’m afraid you’d only get yourself and someone else into trouble again. The phone’s been disconnected. But by all means try it - as I’m sure you will - the moment I’m gone. The doors and windows will be locked. There’s some sausage rolls in the fridge if you are hungry or microwave chips and ice-cream in the freezer compartment below. Help yourself. The remotes for the TV and the VCR are on the arm of my chair. You only get the four regional channels up here, though. And the radio is in the kitchen on the worktop. I shan’t be gone long. Please don’t make a mess of my home while I am away, because you will be living here for the next few months.’ He donned his grey hat, opened the front door then faced Sofie once more. ‘If there’s nothing else, I shall see you in a little while. Goodbye.’

  Without any type of response, Sofie watched the old man close and then lock the door behind him, taking the spare key with him. She listened intently to the birds chirruping in the rolling pastures surrounding the cottage and the rumble of the engine starting, gradually diminishing completely as Reverend Ward drove down the narrow country road, obscured by the tall hedgerow all the way down the steep incline into the town, which consisted of one main road and a couple of shops and pubs where a cul-de sac prevented any vehicles driving over the broad footbridge above the town’s river.

  Hating herself for even attempting any means of escape, she got to a vertical base, hobbled towards the door only to have her faint hopes dashed. The windows would have slid to the mid-point in the frame, permitting her enough space to crawl through and out into the open. However, the reverend had fastened and then taken the small brass key with him, as well. Furthermore, the longer she stared at the world outside and saw the frozen terrain, it dawned on the law student that even if she had managed to flee the cottage, she wouldn’t have got very far. Not on her badly sprained ankle, swollen head and numerous other aches and pains riddling her anatomy. By the time she found someone who would help her, she would have either collapsed in a heap or frozen.

  She nudged the double-pane glass with her elbow but didn’t fancy her chances of shattering the glass without maiming herself to total incapacitation. If she managed to break it the dense glass would fall and shred her arm to pieces. The devil worshipper posing as a reverend would return home to a bloody mess, only this time she wouldn’t recover. The previous injuries and loss of blood would be too much stress on her anatomy.

  Cussing quite creatively, Sofie turned away from the picture window, picked up the old man’s mug and was about to hurl it against the stone wall by the fireplace when she thought better of it and placed it in the washing machine with the bed sheets and pillow cases ready for washing. Fuck you!

  What Reverend Ward said about it being her fault that Janice was dead had hurt her, because she knew it was true, at least partially. And just like that, in a blink of an eye, her euphoria had upended itself to melancholy and rage. She desperately wanted to get her revenge on him for keeping her prisoner here in his deserted residence, just like she’d got Margaret and Yvonne back for performing their freaky ritual on her. Bringing that to the forefront of her consciousness brought a sneer to her face, seeing the scalding liquid pop, burst and boil Margaret’s features into a hideous mask. She convinced herself that what had happened thereafter wasn’t her fault; not in the slightest. Rodney just said that because of the news report on the TV.

  Sitting back down in her armchair, Sofie changed the channel using the remote control to see if there were any more reports on the other channels. Yet it was only the local news on the BBC that had reported the incident. Hopefully though, the authorities would soon become aware that she too was missing and would put two and two together and realise that something was drastically awry. Experienced police officers and detectives didn’t believe in coincidences, especially ones that involved a murder of one university student and her flatmate nowhere to be seen.

  Two hours later and Reverend Ward still hadn’t returned home. Sofie knew that he wouldn’t dare leave her here too long unless he had to. It was too risky, no matter how many followers there were within this ungodly cult. However, this gave the young Swedish beauty (although there was nothing beautiful about her battered and bruised current condition) a chance to peruse the TV for news bulletins, hoping to find out how the murder case was progressing.

  On the screen before her a Caucasian woman in her early thirties dressed elegantly in a grey pin-striped suit jacket faced the camera holding a microphone. Her dark brown hair that came to her neck barely moved in the light breeze rustling the trees in the background. Sofie tapped furiously to turn the volume up so she could hear every single word.

  ‘... in what apparently appeared to be a terrible - although frequent - automobile incident that ended the life of a young woman with everything to live for has been declared by the chief inspector as an official murder case. And since this morning’s report, the university of Gloucestershire where Janice Stevens was studying Law it has been discovered that her roommate, Sofie Lackberg, has not attended her morning class and has been reported by fellow students as “being off campus for several days now”. Police are treating the missing person’s case of Sofie in relation to that of the recently deceased, Janice Stevens. The two were described as “inseparable. More like sisters than university friends.” This is breaking news for the BBC.’

  The shot of the crime scene cordoned off with yellow tape cut back to the studio where the anchorman turned away from the big screen he’d been watching the reporter speak to him from pivoted on his chair and faced the camera, said, ‘We will keep you up to date on any other information regarding the murder and disappearance.’ Then he went on to explain in detail about another story.

  Sofie remained in her seat replaying everything from the BBC news broadcast story about her and Janice in her mind on a never-ending loop. She couldn’t help but wonder what poor Janice’s parents’ were going through at that moment. The grief over the sudden and horrific loss of their adorable daughter must be unbearable. And in spite of silently chastising herself for being so selfish and self-centred, Sofie wondered if they had been informed that she too was now reported missing. Evidently, she couldn’t bring Janice back; however, she could tell her best friend’s parents’ who and what induced the death of their child.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of an engine growing louder as it neared her destination. Sofie sighed inwardly at the thought of yet another long night in the company of this creepy old man who pretended to live the life of
a normal, benevolent human being he would never have the courage to be. To confirm this, she heard the tyres rolling over the gravel, crunching beneath, followed by the engine being killed and the slamming of a car door.

  When Reverend Ward entered the cottage he said an obligatory hello but got no response. He closed the door behind him, threw the bolt and carried a plastic bag of provisions into the kitchen area, plonking it down on the work surface, slightly out of breath.

  ‘I take it everything is all right?’ he asked, clearing his throat.

  Sofie frowned at him.

  He opened the fridge and noticed the packet of sausage rolls was missing two. ‘Ah, good,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘I see you’ve helped yourself with something to eat. I hope you have an appetite ‘cause I’m going to put the stove on and do us both a beef dinner. Nice and healthy. Whad’ya say?’

  ‘Fantastic.’

  ‘Now, now. There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ the old man said filling the washing machine tray full with cleaning detergent, closed it and switched the machine on.

  Once the machine started spinning around, a loud clunk came from within. This was then followed by a distinct crack and then finally by the sound of china hitting the aluminium interior and breaking.

  Perplexed and anxious, Reverend Ward hit the STOP button immediately and pried the door open, tossing the damp bed sheets aside, wincing as a shard of china nicked his bare hand and his eyes rested upon the broken tea mug at the bottom of the heap. Squeezing his eyes shut, bunching his hands up into taut fists, he bit down on his bottom lip and resisted the urge to let his emotions get the better of him.

  After several moments spent crouched in front of the washing machine with pieces of his favourite, antique china mug in his palms, Reverend Ward rose, dropped the fragments onto the worktop and said in a false placid voice, ‘Yes, very amusing, Sofie. Very amusing, indeed.’

  Sofie didn’t even glimpse in his direction. Instead she smiled inwardly at her hollow victory.

  Four days later Sofie’s ankle felt a lot better; although it still hurt whenever she applied pressure to it. The purple/yellow contusion on the side pf her head by her temple still appeared the same. But that could be to do with the fact that she kept looking at it in the bathroom mirror and gently running her fingertips over the swelling, believing wholeheartedly that it was due to this lump that she had been suffering with bouts of vertigo which assailed her almost at will, barely giving her chance to seize something close by to stop herself keeling over. Because of this, Sofie had quietly begun to panic, thinking that her condition was getting worse, not better. She’d informed Reverend Ward about her vertigo when he saw her stagger sideways, crashing into the doorway as she exited the bathroom on Tuesday morning.

  The doctor arrived shortly after noon on Wednesday. His thick, cropped black hair was speckled white by the recent flurry of snow floating down from the grey skies. The elegant eyeglasses he wore were rectangular-shape and hung off the tip of his nose as he lowered himself onto the armchair.

  ‘How are we this morning? Any more light-headedness or bouts of dizziness coming on all of a sudden?’ he asked in a clipped, assertive voice.

  ‘Uh... no,’ Sofie replied, taken aback by his impoliteness.

  He hadn’t even looked at her when he asked the question. Neither was there any preamble, like most GP’s she’d spoken to over the years when she had chickenpox as a child and then a nasty flu. He didn’t look at her now, either. His head was down, studying the contents in his satchel he went through, as though her illness wasn’t any concern to him. Evidently, he couldn’t give rat’s arse about her vertigo. Whether she’d been falling over and nearly passing out.

  ‘Reverend Ward, here, tells me that you are pregnant,’ he said, shaking his head at something he’d misplaced and couldn’t find. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She shot a baleful look at the old man standing behind the doctor with his arms crossed in front of his chest like a parent catching their rueful child with their hand in the sweets jar, not hiding his disdain.

  ‘Don’t you think that might be the reason you’re feeling dizzy all of a sudden? Are you eating and keeping yourself hydrated? Getting sufficient sleep? Or am I missing the point?’

  Finally he pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose and raised his head. His expression told Sofie everything. He wasn’t the slightest bit pleased that he’d been called out here during the snow shower to take a look at a young woman who wasn’t a native that had had unprotected sex and ended up pregnant. Not that this needed to be emphasized, nevertheless, while he waited for her to respond, he twiddled his long fingers, waiting without a trace of patience.

  ‘I’m not sure. Do most women who are pregnant start keeling over out of the blue?’ she asked, defending her honour.

  ‘Some do. Some who don’t look after themselves. Who don’t eat, drink and sleep like they should.’

  ‘I have been eating, drinking and sleeping as normal. I don’t think it helps though that I have sprained my ankle and been physically abused. You may not believe this - and by the I-don’t-give-a-fuck look on your arrogant chops - but in the last week I have been kidnapped, physically abused and told by some complete strangers who turn out to be part of a satanic cult that I am pregnant. So, I honestly don’t know if you’d consider that normal! Do other pregnant women covered in bruises and cuts have the same symptoms?’

  Sofie expected and dearly hoped that the general practitioner’s jaw would fall wide open, astonished at the events and trauma she’d undergone. The doctor did no such thing. He nodded, wearing a wry smile, then glimpsed the old man knowingly.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. She’s a feisty one. I like it though. She’s strong. Breakable. But strong. Perfect. You don’t want her to be too fragile because she wouldn’t make it. She’s just right. The only thing, though, is that you’ll have to keep an eye on her all the time when her injuries start to heal. She’ll probably think she’s invincible and try numerous times to run.’ He gazed at Sofie for a moment which seemed to go on for ever then resumed. ‘She looks just like her mother, doesn’t she?’

  Reverend Ward grinned, showing his rotten yellow teeth, nodding in agreement.

  ‘Crackin’ tits. Look at those!’ He pointed at her chest, as though the old man was blind. ‘I bet you caught yourself a good feel, eh?’

  ‘Aye, carrying from the house I fondled those, an’ on the way in ‘ere I gave her a nice rub and grope down there an’ on her arse, too. Haven’t ‘ad an erection in years since that night.’

  The young Swedish woman sat, crestfallen in the armchair. Then her gorge rose and she could feel the bile rising, burning her throat and bringing hot tears, blurring her vision. She was in such shock it felt as though she had departed her physical self, drifted up to the roof and now watched the scene taking place in the cottage similar to that when watching a view from a CCTV monitor. She shuddered at the images in her head of the old man fondling her sensitive parts while she’d been unconscious. Then doubled over and dry-retched, shoulders heaving with convulsions.

  The men’s laughter although raucous was a background din, like the time she’d been to a nightclub with Janice and could barely hear each other even with their voices raised. But they both heard and turned to the sound of glass shattering on the dance floor behind them.

  ‘If you’d like I could send one of the others to come here and stay with you; make sure there are no hiccups like last time? Although, I do feel sorry for Margaret. Poor woman will never be the same after what this bitch did to her,’ the doctor said in a genial tone.

  ‘Probably best if you do just that. Anyway, what about Yvonne? How’s her hip?’

  ‘Fractured. She’ll probably never walk again. This one here is lucky she’s the mother of he-who-shall-not-be-named. Otherwise we could bury her alive for the havoc she�
��s wreaked. Fuckin’ bitch!’

  Reverend Ward closed his eyes, shook his head, upset at the news of Yvonne who would live the remainder of her miserable life in a wheelchair. ‘Give her my condolences when you see her next, would you?’

  The doctor, who was most likely not a licensed general practitioner nodded in acquiescence. Then he said, ‘What about the dreams? When will they start to take effect?’

  Sofie turned her head to and fro as each man spoke, doing her utmost to keep up with the conversation. What did the doctor - or whoever the hell he was - mean by the dreams take effect on her?

  ‘Very soon, I should hope. She will have visions that will traumatise her far greater than anything we’d ever be capable of inflicting. Then she’ll be a shell of her old-self, nothing more. It won’t matter then. She won’t feel like lifting her head by then, never mind trying to make a run for it.’

  In a feeble attempt to cling on to whatever remained of her sanity, Sofie clapped her hands on her ears, blocking out the sound of the men’s voices. She could hear her heart thudding in her eardrums and consciously reminded herself to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth so that she didn’t suffer a panic attack that was imminent.

  It helped immensely when the doctor said something to her which she deliberately ignored, got to his feet and left the cottage. When the old man came into her peripheral vision, another vivid image of his bony hands caressing her firm buttocks that the boys in university loved to squeeze when they passed her in the corridor. But none of them had taken advantage of her and touched her genitals or groped her gravity-defining boobs. She wasn’t averse to the boys eyeing her up and down or playfully groping her because it was innocuous fun. But this old man, who was nearly old enough to be her grandfather was evil and creepy.

  Nevertheless, what did she expect. After all, he was part of a cult that worshipped the devil. In essence because of his fellow cult members, Sofie had been raped, physically abused and involved in a near-fatal car crash which had jarred her back and almost split her head open like a coconut falling out of a palm tree on concrete when she’d slammed the unyielding dashboard. How her scrawny neck didn’t snap was amazing. And had it merely been a car crash on her way home with her best friend, she would have unequivocally been grateful that she’d been spared her life. However, her survival only prolonged her unending misery where it seemed like she was falling into a chasm leading into the depths of hell.