by Quig Shelby
Chapter Six
They recognised each other immediately; old friends from a distant life, and still bonded. Vankoni had slipped through immigration, and he and Din hugged one another.
‘Good to see you old friend,’ said Din.
‘Looks like you’ve come a long way since the village,’ said Vankoni smiling widely, and looking at Din’s gold watch.
Din was also wearing one of his smart Savile Row suits.
‘Wait until you see the car,’ said Din.
Din lifted one of Vankoni’s battered suitcases, and they made their way to the airport car park.
‘How was Jo’burg?’ asked Din.
‘Hard work for us outsiders.’
Vankoni and Din had grown up together in Tanzania. But after a robbery gone sour Din had fled to the UK, whilst Vankoni limped to South Africa. He’d done some bad things to survive, forever watching his back. After six years he was making another fresh start; he’d send money home to his wife and kids.
Din wasn’t married; he had girlfriends all over London, and played them off one against the other. He liked to unload, but they rarely got the chance to polish their claws in his den. That’s why there was a spare room, and bed, waiting for Vankoni at Din’s house.
Vankoni was suitably impressed with Din’s sports car, and they headed for something to eat. Tomorrow he’d get some new clothes - after all they were blood brothers.
‘Dela’s looking forward to seeing you again,’ said Din.
Vankoni smiled.
‘But hands off this time my friend, she’s married.’
‘I knew Dela wouldn’t remain single for long,’ said Vankoni.
Dela had been married before, back home, though she had never told Felix.
‘She’s married to an English guy this time.’
‘OK.’
‘He’s a nurse but don’t let that fool you. Dela tells me he doesn’t value life as much as some people would like to think.’
‘I must thank Dela for this,’ said Vankoni pulling a piece of paper from his pocket.
He had received it by fax at the airport, just before his flight. It was a sketch of a plane with the word Agwe underneath; the watchful Spirit of journeys.
‘There’s a ceremony tomorrow,’ said Din smiling ‘just like the old days. Feel free to come.’
‘Chicken or goat?’
‘Dog actually.’
‘In my honour?’ Vankoni wondered.
‘I’m afraid not my old friend. Dela has quite a few followers over here as well. They want a gift to the Spirits.’
‘Alright, it will be nice to see Dela again.’
‘Just remember hands off this time, the husband’s a friend of mine,’ and they both laughed.
Chapter Seven
The heavy iron-gate slammed shut behind him, the latch falling swiftly into place like a guillotine. He made his way up the stone path, towards the church, and surveying the tombstones as he went. This was St Agnes, and his pallbearers stride suddenly halted. His searching hazel eyes pierced the skyline until he found him - the gargoyle.
‘You look captivated,’ said Eve, the new church curate, ghosting in by his side.
‘He does have a certain charm,’ replied Reverend James Middlemass.
James turned to face her, and a smile began to warm his cold face. The weather, like James’ heart, seemed stuck in the freezer, but maybe a thaw was on the way.
‘It’s quite a building,’ said Eve.
‘Have you seen the gargoyle, I mean close up?’ asked James.
‘Never.’
‘Well let’s get you inside then. I think we just have enough time,’ he said, checking his watch.
Eve marched briskly up the path, with James closing in the rear. She had long auburn hair that shined whenever the light passed by, and a faint hint of eau de toilette to set his pulse racing. James was fifty, twenty years her senior, but he was in tip top condition, and had something new to capture her heart.
They stepped under the stone arch, and into the church. There was a font decorated with cherubs to their right, and at the front, beyond the rows of freshly polished pews, boasted the octagonal pulpit, most of its gilded stencil rubbed off by the passage of time. They headed for the tower.
The steps snaked their way to the top, Eve went first. The thick cassock she delighted in wearing wrapped itself around her hourglass figure with every turn. They passed three stained glass windows, and James pushed gently against her to open the blackened oak door. He could feel her breath against his face.
On the roof there was a stiff breeze. They could see the tree tops swaying in the old village below, and hear the sea roar. Bishopsfield was on the coast, a short commute outside of London.
‘Eve, meet St Agnes’ very own resident gargoyle,’ said James.
The church had been built in 1440, and the five foot monster was incorporated high above the entrance, to frighten away the Devil, and protect the congregation inside. The gargoyle was perfectly chiselled; his talons were carved into the church stone.
Eve delved into the pocket secreted in her cassock.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, withdrawing a small silver case.
‘No, not at all,’ he replied as she lit a cigarette.
In fact he quite liked it; the way she held the cigarette, and puckered her lips to draw out the nicotine. There was something almost quite forbidden in it, and it suited her attire perfectly.
The wind was picking up a pace; the weathervane clattering above their heads. Eve stamped out the cigarette on the floor, and they made their way back down.
James hung his new woollen coat on the back of the office door, and sat on one of the hard wooden chairs, his long legs stretched forwards. Eve positioned herself near the old cast iron radiator, its pipes almost burning to the touch. Her thick black cassock was buttoned all the way up to the neck. It was tailored in at the waist, and stopped short just above her ankles, wrapped in dark blue nylons. Her shoes were flat, black, and heavily scuffed on the toes.
‘The kettles boiled,’ said Eve without turning to face him ‘I’ll have tea with milk, and no sugar.’
She already knew he was wrapped around her finger, and found it quite amusing; the way he tried not to stare, the awkwardness in his voice when she stood too close. But he was no means unattractive, and she knew half of the congregation swooned over him - albeit the older ones.
James made them both a drink. Certain she wasn’t watching he poured a clear tasteless concoction into hers; a love potion. Bought from Dela Eden Obi, to bring them as close as he dared imagine.
‘Shall we get ready?’ asked Eve.
‘Of course,’ replied James, awoken from his daydream ‘for what?’
‘James you’re so forgetful. The church committee of course. What else could I mean?’
He smiled, he had a few suggestions, but now wasn’t the time. They could here footsteps approaching. Someone had been kneeling in the pews, praying; she strained her neck around the office door.
‘I’ll go and get Lucy,’ said Gladys the church warden.
‘Thanks Gladys,’ replied James, still looking at Eve’s shoes. How could he forget?
A careless driver had put an end to his daughter’s English studies at Oxford. Now she stuttered and spluttered her syllables, confined to a wheelchair.
James had lost his heart to voodoo years ago, whilst a missionary in Burundi, when healed of his own cancerous predilections. Then years later he met Dela Eden Obi, whilst in search of his daughter’s cure; and now it had his soul.
Lucy entered the room. There was sadness in her eyes, because she knew what she used to be; the best catch in the village. But she was still the apple of her father’s eye.
Her parents slept in separa
te bedrooms at their rambling vicarage, living on the memories of what they used to be, but Christine wouldn’t fault him if her husband looked elsewhere. Lucy’s accident had nearly destroyed him, and she understood his rebellion.
Lucy had been written off. The prayers said at her bedside were well intentioned but ineffectual; unlike the utterings of Dela Eden Obi. The vicar and his wife like, Rasputin’s Czar and Czarina, were completely mesmerised.
‘Hello James,’ said Mr Pandalay, sitting next to Lucy’s wheelchair.
Mr Pandalay, who ran a not too distant antiques shop, was looking dapper in his pin striped suit. He smiled at Lucy. Charles Carney, the vet, followed hot on his heels.
‘I hope I’m not late,’ said Mavis, who always wore her mousy hair in a bun.
‘Well if you’re late that goes for me too’ said Gasper Owido, who was both officious and flamboyant. He wore a checked suit, and tweed flat cap.
Gasper was new to the village and nouveau riche. Bishopsfield wasn’t stuck in the dark ages, but being the only African for miles around meant he was the talk of the town.
Last to arrive were Bill and Barbara who ran the village pub. Bill was in his mid-sixties with a ruddy complexion. His skin had the consistency of a potato, and his thick eyebrows were knitted together. Barbara had squeezed herself into a tight pair of jeans, but didn’t have the figure for it. Her hair was long, and dyed blonde. She wore rectangular rose tinted glasses to hide the age in her eyes. The rouge lipstick was an attempt to make her lips look fuller, but had given up at the last minute.
The meeting began with a short prayer in aid of Lucy’s progress. Then their important discussion began - items for the church bazaar. Only Eve and Mavis were blind to the knowledge that bound the rest of the group together. All secret societies had their code, and like snakes slithering in a basket they were intertwined.
The morning after he had offered a stuffed otter for the bazaar, Charles Carney checked his diary for the first appointment of the day. Mrs James was bringing in her Alsatian, Mr Troubadour, to be neutered, which gave him an hour.
He was already wearing his green surgeon’s gown, as he lifted up his bag of instruments. There was a glint in his eye as he grabbed the key to the cellar. His hair was thin, and he wore round spectacles with gold frames. Charles was single, and lived alone. The practice adjoined his house, laying just on the edge of old Bishopsfield.
Charles flicked on the light switch, humming as he descended the stairs. Three caged dogs greeted him, and a ceramic table. Charles hadn’t euthanized an animal in years, he simply knocked them out. Vivisection had always been his favourite part of the veterinary course, but those animals were dead, and it kind of spoiled his fun.
Charles looked at the cages for a fitting specimen, reminding himself the best would have to wait for Dela’s ceremony.
‘Patience my beauty,’ he cooed to one excited mutt, as he patted her head through the wire.
For another he injected a muscle relaxant before sliding the bolt open. The dog vainly tried to lick his face.
‘My you are a friendly one,’ said Charles carrying the beast to the slaughter.
With his scalpels gleaming he covered up the other cages with sack cloth; he wasn’t heartless.
Chapter Eight
Sure he was tormented, but that didn’t stop his tongue hitting the floor. He’d never paid her any attention, not the attention she deserved. But now Bheki Ncube was standing before him, in her tightest red dress. It was all he could do to stay behind the desk. She’d had a day’s beauty sleep since her last shift; and boy could he tell.
‘Hi Bheki it’s good to see you again. How did it go?’ asked Joost van Houten, trying to stay calm.
‘Good,’ she replied.
‘Here’s my timesheet,’ she said, handing him a slip of paper nonchalantly.
He looked at her, differently, intently, and she knew why; she could cause a pile-up.
‘Thanks, payday’s Friday,’ he stammered.
‘I know,’ she replied coolly, and indifferent to his palpitations.
Joost ran a small nursing agency in north London. He had a partner who’d invested the capital, but he stayed away from the office; although today he might just have wished he hadn’t.
‘Take a seat,’ said Joost ‘please.’
‘Oh dear am I in trouble?’ asked Bheki, with mock concern.
Wearing that dress was no accident. They’d met a couple of times, but he’d always appeared dismissive, arrogant perhaps. She was curious.
In spite of his woes Joost was flattered by his advancing years. There was more character in his face, experience in his eyes, and an irresistible brooding look.
Joost was more interested in Bheki’s curves, than what she had to say, and he wanted to rip her dress off. But he’d doubted he was her type; until now. The way she was playing with the pen on his desk hinted at a little more than boredom.
‘I saw a friend of yours this morning,’ said Joost.
‘Oh really,’ said Bheki, trying with all her might to look beyond Joost at the calendar on the wall, in which she had no real interest.
‘Well a work colleague at least. Felix Gale, the nurse you worked with at Atoll nursing home. He came in to register.’
It was called Atoll, but in the office was known as At Hell. Joost always had trouble finding nurses to cover; the patients were bothersome, the care assistants unhelpful.
‘What did you make of the place?’ asked Joost.
‘Difficult, I’d prefer something closer.’
‘For you, no problem,’ said Joost glancing at her knees, and the silk nylons; struggling to hide his feelings.
‘Would you like a drink? he asked.
‘Tea please.’
‘Two sugars right,’ said Joost smiling.
‘I don’t take sugar.’
Damn, thought Joost.
‘Of course, you’re sweet enough,’ he said.
Bheki looked uncomfortable, she wanted him to squirm; at least for a moment.
Double damn; he wished he hadn’t said that.
‘Two teas Irena please,’ he shouted into the office next door ‘and no sugars.’
Bheki was warming to his approach, even if it did feel a little awkward. He wasn’t smooth tongued, but perhaps that was a good thing; for now.
‘There is a psyche unit near your part of town,’ said Joost. ‘And the pay is much better.’
He didn’t want to lose her.
‘How much better?’
‘An extra fiver an hour.’
‘When’s the first shift?’
‘Monday if you like.’
Actually there were shifts going tonight, but he had something else in mind.
‘Two teas,’ said Irena placing them on the desk, and looking Bheki up and down.
Now Irena was a beauty too, and Joost, not unnaturally, had a thing for stunners. But he was also drawn to the desperate hooker look, and, maybe unknowingly to both of them, Bheki’s past had left its mark. Whether it was immaculate clothes and makeup, or dressed like a tramp with misapplied lipstick, and the darkest of eyeliner, he could be hooked.
‘This hospital, what’s it called?’ asked Bheki, after giving Joost’s eyes more time to disappear into her thighs.
He’d decided to let her know how irresistible she was, even if she already knew it. After all she was a traffic stopper - cut and dried.
‘Blackfriars,’ he replied, after putting his tongue back in his mouth.
‘And have you an address?’ she asked, wondering when Joost would make his move; unless he was a voyeur.
She needn’t have worried.
‘I have,’ he said, shuffling to the edge of his chair ‘but it’s a little tricky to find.’
‘I got
lost the first time,’ he added, trying to sound concerned.
He needn’t have bothered with Bheki. She liked to despise her lovers.
Now was the moment to check his timing.
‘If you’re not doing anything this evening, perhaps I could show you where it is.’
He tried to stay humble, as if he wouldn’t take her affirmation for granted.
Bheki waited, delaying her reply to perfection. Joost tried unsuccessfully to hide his consternation. His pulse was racing, and he couldn’t bear to let her slip away. He untightened the knot in his tie.
‘Maybe I could even take you out for a bite to eat?’ he asked, throwing in his hand.
It was time to stop playing games, and at least Joost had laid his cards on the table.
‘Sure, why not,’ she said, still trying her best to look ambivalent.
‘Eight O’clock?’ asked Joost, reeling her in.
‘Perfect.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Joost smiling.
And then just before an awkward silence could ruin the moment, the phone rang.
Bheki waved goodbye over her shoulder, certain he was watching her ass swing out of the office, hypnotised.
‘Hi Felix,’ said Joost ‘I’ve got a shift for you tonight at Blackfriars.’
On the street outside Bheki smiled to herself. It had been easier than she’d imagined. She straightened her hem line, as a car screeched to a halt.
Chapter Nine
There was a boy’s voice imprisoned inside John Lacey’s head. He would whisper his spite, whilst John tried to escape the malice in a drug fuelled haze. John had never forgiven the boy, and the boy would never absolve him, for John was the boy and vice-versa. Abused as a child; despair, fear, and anxiety were some of the levers the boy pulled. John heard other voices too, but had never reached out for help, until he met Dela Eden Obi; he mistrusted authority figures, thanks to the priest.
The last voice John heard, before Dela came to his aid, was Sergeant Cooper. The Sergeant was a bully, and ‘one mean son of a bitch’ to use his own words. He was brutish and threatening, and wanted every ‘wise ass filleted like a kipper’. John had been on the verge of snapping like a pencil, when Dela gave him the potion. The voodoo Spirits it invoked chased the ghoul away.