He came back and sat next to her.
“Do you believe in evil, Father? Pure unmitigated evil?”
She didn’t give him time to reply.
“It started with a stupid horror movie,” she began.
***
He listened to the whole thing without speaking. When she looked up into his eyes, she realized that he didn’t believe a word of it.
“It’s all true,” she stated softly.
“I have no doubt that you believe it,” he said. “But the human mind is a fragile thing. You have had a bad shock. And I believe that has unhinged you.”
You might be right on that one.
“Just say I’m right. How do I fight such an evil?”
The priest looked her in the eye.
“With all your heart. And with faith in the Lord.”
He looked up towards the crucifix, and gasped.
Kath followed his gaze.
The demon stood on the altar. The once white shirt was almost completely red with blood, and the puppet’s red hair was matted with gore. The weapons were sheathed and Berith stood with his hands on his hips.
“I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’ve already got another man,” the puppet mocked. “What kind of way is that for you to treat your one true love?”
It bent and raised the communion cup to its lips. Wine poured in a gush all over the thing’s body. The red on the shirt turned pink. The cup fell to the altar then rolled off to hit the floor with a clatter.
“I’ve been washed in the blood of the lamb,” the puppet said. Its laughter echoed around the chapel. “Bless me Father for I have sinned.”
The priest stood, too fast, knocking his chair over.
“This is a house of the Lord,” he shouted.
“Good,” the Highlander said. “Tell him he’s got a thirsty guest. And his wine’s corked.”
The priest shook, whether with anger or fear Kath wasn’t sure. He stepped forward towards the altar. Kath put a hand on his arm.
“No. Please. No closer.”
The puppet drew the sword from its scabbard.
“You should listen to the lass, Father,” it ordered. “She’s seen me in action.”
It jumped down behind the altar, out of their sight. Tiny footsteps echoed around the room, soon joined by a laugh and a singsong shout.
“They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek that bugger everywhere.”
“You’re not welcome here,” the priest shouted.
A laugh came from behind them. The Highlander started singing again.
Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong, he is weak, and we are strong.
Tiny footsteps ran in the darkness.
“Not long now, lass,” the voice came from the shadows to Kath’s left. “Just let me get rid of the Holy Joe here, then you and I can have a wee party.”
Kath gripped the priest’s arm.
“You should go,” she whispered.
“I won’t run away,” he explained, but there was a tremble in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Remember what I said before. With all your heart, and with faith in the Lord.”
He shrugged Kath’s hand away and stepped towards the left-hand side.
The Highlander spoke again.
Suffer the little ones to come unto me, for theirs is the Kingdom and the Glory.
“Blasphemy,” the priest shouted.
“No,” the Highlander replied. “This is blasphemy.”
The priest yelled in pain and looked down. The puppet stood beneath him, sword thrust deep into the man’s groin.
It looked at Kath.
“What do you say, lass? Shall I take what little manhood this piece of shit has left?”
He pulled the sword out, and wasn’t gentle about it. The priest cupped his hands at the top of his legs. They filled with blood almost immediately.
“Have a drink, Father,” the puppet said. “Isn’t that the thing to do?” It raised the sword for another strike.
“Stop,” Kath whispered. “Just stop. I’ll do whatever you want.”
The sword hand halted in mid stroke. The puppet’s head swivelled and those too-blue eyes stared straight at her. The front of the kilt moved as the wooden erection underneath rose.
“You’re a wee bit early, lass. I was looking forward to doing this one. We get bonus points for a man of the cloth.”
The priest made a grab toward the puppet. The Highlander danced away then lunged forward again. The blade went clean through the man’s upper arm.
When the sword was drawn out the priest screamed. The puppet jumped into another strike.
“Stop it,” Kath shouted. “Enough.”
It lowered the sword. The priest sagged to his knees and groaned.
“By the power of Jesus Christ I command you,” he whispered.
The puppet laughed.
“Command away,” it said. “I never was one for obeying orders, especially holy ones.”
It looked back at Kath.
“Are you sure I cannae poke him again? Just once?”
“Please,” Kath begged. “Just leave him alone. It’s me that you want.”
The puppet swaggered over to stand in front of her. The erection lifted up the whole front of the kilt.
“Aye, lassie,” the puppet said. “I’ve got a wee bit of Scottish wood just for you.”
Kath only had the vaguest idea of what she was about to do. A plan was starting to form.
But first, I need to get him where I want him, on my terms.
“Let me take you away from here,” she said, as gently as she could muster. “Let’s go somewhere where we can both be comfortable, and we’ll see what we can do about your little problem.”
Every part of her wanted to turn and run but she forced herself to reach out to the puppet. She ran her fingers over the kilt, and gave the pencil of wood a gentle tweak.
The puppet moaned with pleasure.
“I knew you were my kind of lassie,” it said.
It sheathed the sword and raised its arms, like a child wanting to be carried. “Come then, darling. Let us be off to your bedchamber.”
The priest raised a bloody hand as Kath lifted the puppet.
“No,” he warned. “Don’t do it. You’re risking your soul.”
Better that than risking anyone else.
Carrying the puppet like a babe in arms, she unlocked the door and walked out of the chapel.
***
No one stopped or questioned her as she left the hospital. When they passed a clock she was surprised to see that is was three in the morning. They arrived at a swing door that seemed to lead to an open room beyond. Kath was about to step through when the puppet squirmed in her grasp.
“Not that way lass. The sheriff’s men are looking for you.”
She peered through the door. Three policemen stood in the room. They looked ashen and grim.
They’ve found the other officer…and John. And I know who they think is the prime suspect.
She backed away from the door and headed back the way they had come until they came to a junction. They were soon in a long corridor with laboratories and operating rooms on either side. At this time of night they were mostly empty. There was a bad moment when she had to walk past a room where an operation was in progress, but everyone was intent on the patient and Kath wasn’t seen. Ten minutes later she came to an exit and walked out into the night.
Where now?
She couldn’t go back to the flat. That was the first place the police would look. They’d also be watching her office. She put her free hand in her pocket and felt the keys there.
But the warehouse will be empty.
The plan was taking firmer shape.
“Where are we headed, lass?” the puppet asked. It had its head at her neck, and whispered into her ear.
“Somewhere warm and comfortable where we can be alone,” she replied. “Now keep still. We can�
�t have you giving us away.”
“I’ll be good.” It rubbed the erection against her chest. “Just don’t keep me waiting too long.”
She headed away from the hospital as fast as she was able, half-expecting at any point to have a patrol car pull up alongside her. But the roads were quiet. She walked through tree-lined streets where all the homes were dark and quiet. Every so often there would be the flickering light cast by a television, but she dared not disturb them. The puppet was quiet, for now.
And I have to keep it that way.
***
There were more policemen at the pottery, but they were congregated around the administrative block. The warehouse lay in darkness. She guessed they would have checked that the building was locked. If her luck held, they wouldn’t know that she had a key.
She opened the door carefully and slid inside, closing it quietly behind her.
“You call this comfortable?” the puppet said loudly.
“Shhh. Just wait. I have a surprise for you.”
She heard a hiss and felt cold steel at her neck. There was no laughter in the puppet’s voice when it spoke, just cold malice.
“Enough of this waiting shit. I’ll have what I came for, or I’ll send you to join yon boyfriend of yours.”
She surprised herself by managing to stay calm.
“Not far now. There’s a nice warm spot over by the kilns, and there’s a camp bed they use when there’s a big order needed to be thrown overnight and…”
The blade pressed harder against her neck.
“I cannae stand women that talk too much,” it said. “A wee bit less of the mouth and a wee bit more of the hand. That’s what I’m after.”
And you’ll get just what’s coming to you.
She carried the puppet over to the camp bed by the kiln and put it down.
“At last,” the Highlander said. It stood on the camp bed and raised the kilt exposing the length of erect wood below. “Get to it lass. I dinnae have all night.”
She tried to smile as she leant forward. With one hand she started to stroke the pencil, running her fingers up and down its length.
The puppet’s eyes rolled up in its head revealing only white. It moaned in ecstasy.
“That’s it, lass. You’re doing a grand job”
Better than you know.
With one move she grabbed the hilt of the tiny sword, tore it and the scabbard away from its belt and tossed it to a far corner of the warehouse. With the other hand she twisted, pulling the wooden erection off at the root.
The Highlander’s mouth opened to scream. She stuffed the wood down its throat. It gurgled and choked, even as she lifted the puppet by one arm and dashed it, again and again against the kiln door. The head cracked.
It spat out the remains of the pencil.
“You wee hoor,” it shouted. “I’ll see you in hell for that.”
She smiled. “You go first.”
She reached out and pulled the kiln door open. A wave of heat hit her. She didn’t back away. The puppet tried to squirm free but her grip was firm. She swung hard and tossed it deep to the back of the oven. The palm of her hand seared, leaving burnt flesh behind as she pulled the door shut. She was just in time. The screaming Highlander threw itself at her face.
The door clanged shut and the puppet banged against the inside of the kiln. Tiny fists hammered uselessly against metal.
Burn you little fucker.
She watched it through the thick glass window. The flames took the clothing first, the kilt and beret flaring bright yellow. The naked puppet danced in fire, screaming, before falling on its face. The head turned to look at her, those too-blue eyes staring.
Then the fire took it completely.
It was all over in seconds, but Kath stood there for over an hour. She only moved once she was satisfied that the flames had taken it completely. She turned the kiln off and waited for another hour until it had cooled enough to be opened, then took out the ashes with a long handled skillet. She scattered them at her feet on top of the piece of wood that was all that was left of the erection.
Then she danced on them, singing loudly.
Oh it’s lovely roamin’ in the gloamin’
C Is F or Chordewa
Pet Therapy
Jan Edwards
“Bastard. Bastard. Fetch the cart. Bastard. Bastard. Shut up Robbie. Shut up. Bastard.”
Molly frowned at the dark beyond the window and then swivelled her electric chair around for a peek at Reception. There was no one in sight and the only sounds came from Robbie the Macaw, squawking hysterically from the Residents’ Lounge.
Pet therapy had been a staple of the eight-bed Honeywood Hospice for a long while.
Volunteers brought their dogs and moggies in for an afternoon of hugs and strokes, giving many people comfort. Where a moth-eaten, foul-beaked macaw came into the mix was, for many residents and visitors, far less obvious. Personally, Molly had found the bird refreshingly anarchic; to be relied upon for those apt asides that made her smile in a way that very little did these days.
“Probably that cat winding him up. He and Chomi aren’t exactly tight.” Will let out a small grunt and sigh as he moved to a more comfortable spot in a hospital bed too short for his close-on two metre frame. “I wish he’d let an old man sleep.”
“Bet nobody’s covered his cage.” Molly said. “But I like hearing him, Will. He’s for people like us.”
“Speak for yourself.” Will settled into the battery of pillows and closed his eyes. His hand, clamped around the morphine trigger, twitched once, twice, a third time for luck. Within seconds he was oblivious.
Molly glanced around Will’s room with its family pictures and books strewn around. A study more befitting an educated man of advanced age than a death-bed setting. Molly was surprised at the friendship that had grown between them given their age difference, and as surprised at how attached she had become to this building and the people in it. Not the depressing place she had imagined when she first been sent here for respite care. Her parent’s respite, she realised, and not her own. She was only angry that the creeping canker in her blood led to this incarceration.
Honeywood was full of that contradiction and yet also awash with optimism and courage and very little fear. Death could never be evaded; it was here in all its raw essence, but what Honeywood lacked was the antiseptic, clinical, treating-the-meat, kind of thing. Not the constant battery of tests and consultants. Both were caring in their way but a production line of medical procedure, nevertheless. Here it was all about the time and the space to just be. She could not imagine why she had not come here sooner, other than her own fears, of course.
She looked out at the night once again and then back through to the corridor. Robbie was still shrieking. She had been here long enough to know an absence of staff meant just one thing: someone had gone.
“Has to be Hilda,” she said. “Poor old dear’s been teetering all day.” Will didn’t move, or even appear notice her. He was away for the night.
She manoeuvred her wheelchair round and listened to hushed voices drifting along the corridor. It was a pale-sage tunnel that stretched through the building from main entrance to the carefully-shaded conservatory designated as the residents’ communal room, dotted with local art and strategically placed flora, and without the inevitable spatter of notices and warning signs and pair of fire doors, currently and illicitly propped open, it could be a high class hotel, or a spa, or even a larger than average house; provided that house came with reception desk as standard, plus industrial-sized potted plants.
Molly trundled toward the conservatory and stopped just outside. She reached behind her seat for the forearm crutches tucked into their clips and heaved herself upright with reasonable ease and minimal pain.
“Robbie, what’s the racket?” She needn’t have asked. The cause of Robbie’s outburst sat on the dining table staring right back at the bird.
Chomi, as Will had named her, was long and
lean, with the unmistakable wedge-shaped head and over-sized ears of an Abyssinian queen-cat. Its huge copper-coloured eyes, set in short fur of the deepest, glossiest black, were now fixed on Molly.
Calculating, feline eyes.
Chomi yowled that grating, deep yow, like no other breed could ever make.
She yawned, her dark tongue curling like a small scarlet rug, and then poured herself down to the floor. One final creaking moan at the bird and she wafted away at a measured stroll. Her skinny, black tail was held high with its tip kinked slightly, as though it had been broken and badly mended.
Molly always got the impression it was Chomi’s version of ‘flipping a finger’. She watched the cat drift off on some engrossing feline mission and wondered how it had got into the building after security had cleared for the night. But then, she thought, cat. Ergo, a question that was neither relevant nor possessed of an answer. Chomi, Will had told her, meant friend in his native Cape Town, and Molly really had some doubts on that score.
Robbie ceased his torrent of abuse the moment Chomi left and was busily re-arranging his mangy feathers, pausing only to tilt his all-seeing gaze in Molly’s direction as she swayed across the room. “Fuck off,” he muttered. “Fetch the crash cart.”
“Bastard,” Molly whispered through the bars and reached for the thick, tattered, cage drape. Robbie got in a final “fuck-off” as the cover dipped him into darkness, and was silent beyond the faint scritch-scritch of that nut-cracking beak.
“Molly?” The light was snapped on by Beth Cho, the night shift’s senior duty nurse, a rangily-built, Indonesian Staff Nurse in her fifth decade. “What are you doing still up,” she said. “You haven’t taken your medication have you? Oh Molly, you’re here to rest, my dear.”
“Drugs don’t help much,” Molly replied. “And Will wanted to talk.”
“I know, but you should still rest.”
Molly nodded, and then jerked her head toward the resident’s rooms. “Hilda?”
“Yes,” said Beth. “She was a DNR. Nothing we could do, and she’s been in a lot of pain.”
The Demonologia Biblica Page 4