by David Carter
She rapidly blinked back a wave of tears. “Between living in a loveless, abusive marriage, and suffering from depression, I never truly bonded with him. And to this day we have never been close—and now...”
Elizabeth broke down as she imagined Blaze purposely burning down the school—as an act of revenge against her. “Sorry Father,” she sniffled, “this is all very difficult for me.”
“There is no need to apologise. God has given you the strength and courage to pour your heart out to him.”
“I can’t help feeling it’s all my fault,” she continued.
“Tell me, what is it that causes you to feel so much guilt?”
Her voice trembled as she said, “Well, when Bobby was only a little boy he came to tell me something important. But it was the worst timing possible. I was under enormous pressure at the time: the school was on the brink of financial ruin, I was going through a messy divorce, and suffering severe bouts of depression; I just wasn’t coping.”
“That is a heavy burden for a mother to carry,” he sympathised.
“You don’t understand,” she replied. “Bobby never brought his problems to me, never. He was so withdrawn, and kept his cards close to his chest. But this one time, I think he was eight, he came to me in my office at school with something that was troubling him, and I snapped at him, telling him to get out and talk to me about it later.”
“And, did he?”
“Sort of. When I asked him about it later that night, he clammed up. But after I persisted with him, he told me something that has haunted me for many years now...”
“Go on,” he encouraged.
She wiped the tears from her eyes, before she blurted, “He told me he was attacked by a man.”
“He was attacked! In what way?”
“He wouldn’t say. And in my distressed state at the time, I told him that he was perfectly safe, and assumed he was making it up just to get my attention.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “But you need to know that Bobby had a sick sense of humour, and took great pleasure in watching me lose my rag over his fiendish behaviour. And you must also realise that he was an impossibly unruly child at the best of times.”
“Yes, I do remember Bobby as a somewhat, troubled boy. But you must take solace in the knowledge that you are a fine mother, and have raised your children in the ways of God without the help of a loving husband. You have done the best you possibly could have under such circumstances. God would not ask of you to punish or blame yourself.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, teary eyed.
“Did you ever find out the truth from Bobby?” he asked.
“I pressed him further, but he only gave me a hint. I’ve never been able to make sense of it though, because it was one of his annoying riddles.”
“A riddle?”
“Yes. He had this obsession with making them up. It used to drive the whole family crazy.”
“And what did this riddle say?”
She closed her eyes, remembering the words he had said to her twenty-three years ago. “Confessions and daggers,” she answered.
“That’s rather—cryptic,” he replied. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
“No, I’m sorry, Father, I don’t. Bobby’s warped sense of humour kicked into gear. So instead of living in fear of his supposed attacker, he took great pleasure in the fact that it drove me near insane, knowing I couldn’t work out what it meant. He truly enjoyed having a certain level of power over me. And just for kicks, he gave me a clue, but it was of no use.”
“Would you share it with me anyhow?”
“It was a Bible verse: First John, chapter one, verse nine.”
“I wonder why would he give you that particular reference?”
“As I said, I have no idea.”
“Did you inform the police?”
“Yes, but Bobby refused to make a statement. He was so stubborn and determined to hurt me, that he bottled up whatever it was that happened to him and sealed it shut until now.”
“I see.” He paused for a moment, deep in thought, then asked, “And what is it that your heart desires now?”
She knew it was almost an impossibility, but she said it anyway. “I would like to get to know my son, and to hear that he can forgive me for the terrible things I said to him during his trial—and for not listening to him in his hour of need.”
He considered her words carefully. “With the help of God and a tremendous amount of patience, all relationships can be mended. Sometimes it just takes longer than we would wish. God knows the truth in your heart, and can provide a pathway so you can move forward and have a relationship with your son. Go with God and live in peace, knowing he can move mountains if that’s your heart’s desire.”
She dried her eyes. “Thank you, Father,” she said meekly.
They emerged from their respective sides of the confession box and stood together at the head of the church. Elizabeth couldn’t help embracing his lean figure. “You are a true friend, Jonas,” she said with a sniffle, “I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
“Bobby will come back to you one day. I know it in my heart,” he said with a reassuring smile.
Elizabeth left the church knowing she had made peace with God. Now all she wanted was peace with her son, and she would do anything in her power to make this happen.
Elizabeth was grateful to belong to such a unique church. She loved the fact that a small community of different denominations could all worship together under one roof in relative harmony. The Glendale Christian Church was mainly comprised of Catholics, Protestants, Apostolics, and Presbyterians.
Over the past thirty years, the decline in members attending their own fellowships had become so critical that the doors had to close, leaving most of the smaller denominations without a place to gather and worship. The Catholic Church had also taken a substantial hit with decreasing numbers, and was barely treading water to survive and keep the doors open.
The leaders of each dormant denomination managed to overcome their doctrinal differences to pursue an ingenious idea. And although the members of St Mary’s Catholic Church of Christ were hesitant to amalgamate, they realised it was the only possible solution to the ever-growing problem of dwindling numbers; to use the largest church in the district and rename it the Glendale Christian Church, along with the boarding school, in which Christians of all denominations could come together and worship.
The church catered for every member’s individual needs. Those who wished to participate in confession, communion, baptism, or christenings could freely attain those longstanding traditions. The church also catered for the younger generation—offering a more modern style service with upbeat praise and worship. It had been decided by a majority of elected elders that the church needed to change to retain the curious minds of the young people, to keep bums on seats and not in the back alleys of town, injecting and/or peddling drugs. And although the amalgamation wasn’t a perfect marriage at times, it was still considered a win, as the positives far outweighed the negatives.
With a spring in her step, Elizabeth walked all the way back down the main street to her hotel, and happily opened a bottle of wine when she got there. After such a tense couple of weeks, she savoured each mouthful, before she kicked off her boots, lay on the couch, and dozed off into a blissful sleep; God-forgiven.
Chapter 9
Judge Matthew Jones laid out a selection of mugs, teaspoons, coffee, and tea bags on the beautiful antique coffee table in his living room. He was expecting his important guests to arrive any moment.
He was the president of a secret club in Glendale: The Protectors of the Past. One by one, the members pulled up next to the kerb of his 1950s red-brick house. He welcomed each man with a hearty handshake before going inside. When the last of the members had poured a cup of tea and was seated, Jones grimly said, “It is excellent to see you all here at such short notice, as we have an extremely serious matter to discuss.”
As he looked around his luscious living room, he saw seven men, all lifelong residents of Glendale, all in their sixties and seventies, facing him with concerned frowns. Fred Flemming, a retired lawyer, abruptly asked, “What’s so important you had to drag me out of my afternoon round of golf, Matthew?”
Jones shuffled his oversized rear end in his armchair until he was comfortable. “Somebody delivered two disturbing photographs to my letterbox this morning.”
“Is that all? What’s so disturbing about a couple of photographs?” said Fred.
Jones sighed. “They are pictures of two Glendale police officers engaged in acts so vile, I can’t fathom to say the words!” He took a breath to calm his racing heart. “This is the very purpose of our club: to weed out the parasites in our town, ensuring that positions of power go only to those with upstanding morals and principles that God demands of us through his word!”
Jimmy Hicks, the former Glendale mayor, butted in, “So, Matthew, what are we going to do about it?”
“The questions are, gentlemen: who in Glendale knows about our club? And why did they send me the pictures?”
“Well, you’re a judge, aren’t you? Perhaps the person didn’t have the gumption to confront the officers involved, and wanted someone in a position of power to do something about it,” said Jimmy.
“Unfortunately, that’s not the answer.” Jones stood up and waddled over to the dining table, just beyond the living room, and picked up an envelope. He slid the photos out and passed them around the circle of men.
“Sweet mother of Mary!” shouted Jimmy, outraged as he saw the images of Senior Constable Karl O’Brian and Constable Luke Turner, passionately engaged in oral and anal intercourse.
Fred looked up at Jones in a state of horror. “Was there any form of message with these carnal images?” he asked.
Jones wiped his brow with a napkin, then pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper from the envelope and read it aloud. “Gentlemen of the Protectors of the Past. You are failing to do your self-appointed service to the community of Glendale, so I am taking it upon myself to do it for you. It’s time to clean God’s house.”
Jones loosened his shirt collar. “Whoever delivered the message wrote a Bible verse on the back of one of the pictures,” he said.
Jimmy turned over one of the photographs in his hand, and saw the verse. “1 John, chapter one, verse nine,” he said aloud to the group.
“I know that scripture from memory,” said Fred.
“Would you please recite it for us?” Jones asked. “My memory is a shade rusty.”
Fred cleared his throat. “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, to forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”
“Thank you, Fred,” said Jones. “Unfortunately, there’s another threatening message that our mystery postman left me.” He recited it to the group of men. “Officers O’Brian and Turner must confess the errors of their ways before God at the Glendale Christian Church within twenty-four hours, then leave Glendale, or I’ll make them leave permanently.”
They sat in silence until Jimmy asked, “Is the message signed?”
Jones nodded. “He calls himself, ‘the Watcher’.”
Former Glendale senior constable, Eric Thompson, had been sitting in silence throughout the entire meeting. He broke into a cold sweat, and yelped as his tired, aging body jolted him upright.
“Are you okay, Eric?” Jones asked.
Eric steadied himself, and hoarsely said, “What did you say the name signed on that message was?”
“The Watcher.”
“I can’t believe it!”
“What can’t you believe?” said Jones anxiously.
Eric groaned as he dropped his chin to his chest and broke into tears. After the sobs subsided, he sat up, trembling as everyone stared at him. He wiped the tears from his frail cheeks, before he said, “I can’t believe he’s back after all these years... may God have mercy on my soul...”
Chapter 10
The clock on Archer’s desk chimed eight times. Out of all the objects in his office, it was by far his favourite. To anyone else it was just a small wooden clock with gold numbers protected by a glass cover. But to Archer it meant “playtime”. It was the sound of shattered jaws, torn limbs, and vital body parts getting beaten, broken, and savagely mutilated. It was the screams of agony while being rectally defiled. It was the sound of authority, pleasure, and most importantly: power.
Archer stood up from behind his desk, and stared proudly at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. Apart from his swollen nose, all he saw was perfection. After studying the bruise to his ego, he adjusted his tie, and said to himself, “I am the governor; numero-uno. No one gets the better of me, no one.”
He took off his glasses and huffed a breath of hot air on the lenses, giving them a quick polish; his lifelong habit. He put them back on and headed out of the office.
Blaze’s ears pricked up as he heard a bunch of keys rattling and the squeak of the lock slowly turning in the door to The Wolves’ Den. The door creaked on its metal hinges as it swung open.
“This is it, man,” whispered Danny, so quietly Blaze barely heard him.
Archer had been enjoying the night-time activities in the den for so many years that his sick and twisted mind had become desensitized by such debauched behaviour. He wouldn’t send anyone in that he thought wouldn’t put up a decent fight, as a quick demise wasn’t half as much fun as watching a tough-as-nails criminal have the grin pummelled from his face, and his asshole ploughed like an Amish field.
Archer walked down the centre of the room. The soles of his shoes made crisp tapping sounds which echoed off the grimy walls as he made his way towards Blaze’s cell. All the inmates remained silent. They knew better than to speak while the governor made his entrance; he had taught them well.
He stopped and turned to face Nugget. “I assume you and Bobby are acquainted?”
“Yes, Governor,” he replied.
“Good. Destroy him,” he commanded.
“To what limit?”
“No limits tonight, Nugget. You may do as you please. That should quench your thirst for blood, should it not?”
“Oh yes,” he said, with lust burning in his eyes. “Once I’m done beating the life out of him for you, I’ll take his fine-looking tushy for my own pleasure.”
“As you wish,” said Archer as he unlocked his cell.
He turned around to the cell opposite Nugget’s, then said, “Good evening, Bobby.”
“How’s the nose, cocksucker?”
Archer ignored Blaze’s jibe as he methodically flipped through the keys in his hands. He said calmly, “This is all on you, Bobby. You did this to yourself. I just want you to know that.”
“Whatever. When I’m finished with whatever pieces of shit you throw at me, I’ll be coming for you. And that’s not a threat, it’s a fucking promise.”
Archer chuckled. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,” he said softly. “You are in no position to make any threats. Look around you; this is your new home. Well—for a few more moments at least...”
“I may not get you today, tomorrow, or five years from now. But you have been warned. So you had better stay on guard and keep looking over your shoulder, because I’ll be there when you least expect it.”
“That’s enough chit-chat,” he said sternly. “I want to see if you can back up your idle threats with your actions.”
He unlocked the door to Blaze’s cell, and retreated to the other end of the building where he flipped a switch on the wall, activating a series of video cameras on the ceiling and walls of the den. “Smile, Bobby,” he said, “tonight you are going to be a movie star!”
Nugget lumbered into Blaze’s cell, and locked his fingers together, taunting Blaze by crunching his knuckles, as if limbering up for an easy victory.
“Hey, asshole!” Blaze yelled to Archer. “Lock the door behind your bitch
! I don’t want him crawling away before I’m finished slaying his ass.”
“Are you sure that’s such a good idea? He’s a giant compared with you.”
Blaze paused, then said, “Just give me your word that the door stays shut until one of us is dead.”
“Very well, Bobby, you have my word.”
Blaze bored holes through Nugget’s eyes with a piercing stare, then said, “Hey, doll face, may I have this fucking dance?”
Nugget spat on the floor, an inch from Blaze’s feet. “I thought you’d never ask, baby.”
Chapter 11
The heat under Jones’ collar had risen considerably after the conclusion of the meeting earlier that afternoon. As president of the Protectors of the Past and receiver of the photos and threatening messages, it was unanimously deemed his duty to inform the police officers concerned.
Jones was an outspoken activist against homosexuality, but even he struggled to find the words needed to confront the much admired and respected officers. He attempted to dial the number of the Glendale Police Station, but his trembling hands wouldn’t allow him to do so.
As he contemplated the call he knew he had to make, he admired his exquisite living room, chock-full of antique furniture and the expensive trinkets he had acquired over the course of his life. One of his most treasured items was a beautiful vintage marble telephone. He was holding the receiver in his shaking hands. It had a square, yellow marble base with a gold cradle mounted on top to hold the receiver which had a thin marble grip in the centre, and twenty-four carat gold ear and mouth pieces. It had a circular dial on the front of the marble base with small holes that his oversized fingers could barely squeeze into, and a timeless charm that had won him over when he’d purchased it from the local antique store.
It was just after eight o’clock.
O’Brian and Turner will be one hour into their night shift, he thought.
After much deliberation, he decided on the best approach and hesitantly dialled the number. His heart raced. Thick streams of sweat drenched his back. His transparent white shirt clung to his hairy, clammy skin.