Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Robyn?’ Charlie repeated. ‘Robyn, for Christ’s sake!’

  Robyn said, in a high voice, ‘He hit my shoulder.’

  Charlie stared at the dwarf with renewed fury. ‘You runt, David,’ he breathed, taking two awkward steps forward in the bottom of the skiff. But David laughed, a ridiculous hysterical laugh, and swished his machete from side to side, and taunted Charlie as if he were taunting a dog.

  ‘Come on then, bozo. Come here and get it. You think I’m a runt? I’ll show you who’s a runt! I gave my arms and legs to the Lord Jesus Christ, that’s how much of a runt I am! Would you dare do that? Would you give your cock and your balls to the Lord Jesus Christ? That’s what I did! I cut them off myself, with a big sharp knife, and I ate them! You can’t do anything to me that I haven’t already done to myself, bozo, so you listen good. I’m going to kill you, you and your harlot too! I’m going to cut you into little pieces, the same way I did with Mrs Kemp! I’m going to drink your blood, bozo! I’m going to drink it out of your arteries while you’re still alive! You got me? So come on here, come on – and make me happy!’

  Charlie remained crouched in the middle of the skiff, watching the dwarf intently, lifting first one hand and then the other to give the impression that he was skilled in some kind of martial art. He wanted to say all kinds of things to David to psyche him out, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. The only noises he could make was a series of attenuated burps. Fear, he thought. I’m afraid.

  ‘I’m going to take your manhood first,’ the dwarf promised him, whistling his machete around his head. ‘Your manhood – and then your head. Just think how pleased Mme Musette is going to be, if I bring her your head.’

  ‘You asshole,’ snarled Charlie. ‘You couldn’t even go the whole way, could you, and do a good job of killing yourself?’

  The dwarf let out a noise that was halfway between a retch and a scream and hobbled violently towards Charlie with his machete swinging. Charlie threw himself sideways out of the skiff, splashing noisily into the muddy water under the bridge, and the dwarf toppled after him, still screaming. Robyn fell into the water, too, clutching her injured shoulder; but Charlie knew that it was only three or four feet deep, and that she wouldn’t come to any serious harm.

  For David the dwarf, however, the water was overwhelming, and his scream of fury turned to a gasp of shock. Charlie immediately waded towards him, with a surge of muddy wash, and gripped the stump to which his machete was strapped. David bucked and jumped and heaved his amputated limbs, but Charlie smacked him hard in the side of the face, and twisted the machete free of its leather strap. He tossed it away, into the water, and it skipped just once on the surface before sinking.

  David screeched, ‘Heretic! Heretic! Bastard! Heretic!’ in a voice that sounded completely unreal. But then Charlie seized hold of the back of his neck, and forced his head under the water, into the mud. David struggled and thrashed like a maniac. Charlie found it almost impossible to hold him. But he knew that if he didn’t kill David now, he would return time after time to haunt him, and that in the end he would destroy him, and Martin, and Robyn too. With that determination firing him up, he kept David’s face pressed deep into the mud, two feet below the water, and he held him there and he held him there and he wasn’t going to let him go for anything.

  David struggled and struggled, but gradually his convulsions became weaker, and more spasmodic. His back arched in one final shudder, and then he floated face down in the water, nudged by the current, a torso with stumps for arms and legs, wrapped in a soaking robe. A dwarfish parody of Ophelia, ‘Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, / Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay / To muddy death.’

  Juddering with cold and exertion, Charlie waded his way back around the skiff. Robyn had pulled herself up on to the muddy bank of the bayou, underneath the trailing vines, and she was pressing her hand over her shoulder where David had cut her. She was white-faced, and shaking. Charlie sloshed up to her through thigh-deep mud and put his arm around her and held her very close. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s dead.’

  Neither of them turned to watch David’s body float like a water-sodden cotton bale out from under the bridge and slowly away down the bayou. Charlie carefully opened Robyn’s blood-soaked blouse and lifted her hand away from her wound. It was a vicious, blunt, nasty cut, and there was no doubt that it needed stitches. But David had missed her vital arteries, and chopped his machete into nothing but muscle and bone. She was lucky: a second blow could have caught her in the skull.

  ‘Listen,’ said Charlie, ‘I don’t know even the first thing about dressing wounds. But if you can hold on until we reach the next community, I’ll make sure that you get this properly stitched.’

  ‘They’ll call the police,’ Robyn protested. ‘The next thing I know, they’ll put me under arrest. Or worse – they could hand me over to the Célèstines.’

  ‘Listen, don’t worry about it,’ Charlie reassured her. ‘We’ll find ourselves a country doctor. One who doesn’t ask too many questions.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Robyn. ‘Country doctors who don’t ask too many questions died out with Young Dr Malone.’

  ‘Young Dr Malone? You’re too young to remember that.’

  ‘If you think I’m too young to remember Young Dr Malone, then you’re too old.’

  Charlie helped Robyn back into the skiff, and made her comfortable, padding her wound with the tail torn from his shirt. Then he paddled out from underneath the bridge, into the glaring sunshine, noon in south-western Louisiana, with the cypress trees turning crimson, and the sky clear. Robyn said, ‘God, this hurts,’ but a little while later they passed the body of the dwarf David, dipping in the bayou, and Robyn didn’t complain after that. All she said was, ‘I wonder who his parents were? I mean, they must have sent him to school, and been proud of him. And look at him now.’

  Charlie said, ‘My mother always told me, “Never ask questions when you know that you’re never going to be able to find out the answer”.’

  ‘Is that what they call homespun philosophy?’ asked Robyn.

  Charlie didn’t answer, but carried on paddling. He was finding it increasingly difficult to shake off his dreams. In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether this journey to rescue Martin was in itself a dream, propelling a flat-bottomed skiff along a narrow Louisiana bayou on a warm October afternoon, while the police were hunting for him high and low, and Marjorie was fretting, and M. Musette was lasciviously sharpening his butcher’s knives for the second coming of Jesus Christ.

  Around three o’clock, dry-throated, exhausted and hungry, Charlie finally raised his paddle out of the water and let the skiff glide. Robyn had been drowsing, her head couched against her arm. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him. She kept his shirt tail pressed to her shoulder. It must have been hurting pretty bad by now.

  ‘I think I’ve had it,’ Charlie admitted.

  ‘We can’t go on like this,’ said Robyn. ‘We have to find someplace to stay for the night; and another car, too.’

  ‘Another car?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Sure. How else are we going to take Martin away from the Célèstines? On bicycles?’

  Charlie knelt up, setting the skiff tilting from side to side. He shaded his eyes and peered at the fields spread out on either side of the bayou. ‘There’s a girder bridge, no more than a half-mile ahead of us. I guess we could land right there, and hitch ourselves a ride. That’s always supposing somebody comes by.’

  ‘What if they don’t?’ Robyn wanted to know.

  ‘Then we’ll walk,’ said Charlie. ‘Acadia can’t be too far from here.’

  He paddled towards the bridge. The bayou was wider here, and the bridge was a steelgirder construction, with tarred wooden slats for a roadbed. It was only when he was far too near to it to turn back that Charlie saw the Louisiana State Police cars parked on either side of the bridge’s ramps, and the wide-hatted
officers standing waiting with pump-guns resting on their hips, their eyes concealed by orange Ray-Bans, their faces laconic and bored, as if homicide suspects came paddling their way down the bayou every damn day of the week.

  There was, of course, no chance of escape. One of the officers lifted a loud-hailer from the roof of his car, and called out, ‘You there! Charles McLean and Robyn Harris! We’re arresting you here for homicide in the first degree, kidnap, and grand theft auto. Would you pull your boat into the side here, please? We have instructions to shoot you if you try to get away.’

  Robyn said urgently, ‘Do you really think that they’d shoot?’

  ‘Do you really want to put them to the test?’ Charlie said.

  He guided the skiff towards the muddy bank, until its flat bottom scraped against the mussels that clustered below the waterline. Then he balanced his way on to dry land, turning around to help Robyn out. Two young police officers came down to the edge of the bayou to guard them, and to drag the skiff right out of the water. Charlie climbed the levee and stood in the sunshine with his hands on his hips, exhausted, out of breath, and resigned at last to being caught.

  The officer with the loud-hailer came forward and took off his sunglasses. ‘Sergeant Ron Duprée, Louisiana State Police,’ he said, in a very slow drawl. ‘You’ve been causing us a whole lot of trouble, sir.’

  Charlie said, ‘If you’re going to arrest me, don’t you think you ought to read me my rights? You wouldn’t like to be responsible for having my indictment disallowed, would you?’

  ‘Well, we can Mirandize you all in good time, sir,’ Sergeant Duprée told him, holding his sunglasses up to the light to check that they were perfectly polished. ‘Right now we’d like to invite you along for a little ride.’

  Robyn put in, ‘We don’t have to go anywhere, not unless you arrest us properly and read us our rights.’

  Sergeant Duprée turned and stared at her in exaggerated amusement. ‘Well, now, I always was partial to an outspoken lady.’ He walked up to Robyn with his thumbs in his belt and grinned at her. ‘You’re perfectly correct, my dear lady, you’re not obliged to come along for this ride, not in the eyes of the law. I can’t coerce you. It’d be different, of course, if you were to volunteer.’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ said Robyn. ‘I’m not going to volunteer.’

  ‘But supposing your boyfriend here was to happen to meet with some unfortunate accident?’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’ Robyn demanded.

  ‘Sure I’m threatening you. This isn’t New England, this is south-western Louisiana, and here we have a way of doing things different. Totally according to the letter of the law, mind you, but different. You could say we were more community-conscious, if you like. More neighbourly. And there’s some neighbours of ours who’d like to have a little talk with you, about this and that.’

  Charlie said coldly, ‘I suppose you mean the Célèstines?’

  Sergeant Duprée looked back at Charlie over his shoulder and gave him a toothy grin. ‘That’s right first time, sir. Right first time. Give the man a porce-a-lain rabbit.’

  Robyn said, ‘Charlie?’

  Charlie let out a long breath. ‘I don’t think that we have very much of a choice, do you?’

  Sergeant Duprée laughed, and slapped Robyn cheerily on the shoulder. ‘Right again, sir. Right again.’

  Covered all the way by pump-guns, they were led to one of the three police cars that had been parked beside the bridge. Sergeant Duprée opened the rear door for them, and they climbed in. The car was unbearably hot inside, and smelled of McDonald’s hamburgers. Sergeant Duprée climbed into the passenger seat and took off his hat. ‘We’ll have that air conditioning blowing in a while, folks, then you’ll feel more comfortable. I have to say that you’re both in a sorry state, aren’t you?’

  ‘Miss Harris’ shoulder needs attention,’ said Charlie. ‘She’s been given a serious cut.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure your friends at L’Église des Pauvres can help you out there,’ Sergeant Duprée said. ‘They’ve got all the facilities for dealing with cuts to the human body that anybody could wish for.’

  They drove at nearly sixty miles an hour along a narrow, dusty highway, in between fields that were the colour of red roof tiles. The air conditioning was set to Hi, and after a few minutes the interior of the car was freezing. Sergeant Duprée took out a pack of grape-flavoured chewing gum and offered it around. ‘You surely caused us a whole lot of trouble, I’ve got to tell you,’ he repeated, folding a purple stick of gum between his front teeth.

  ‘Is the church far?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Three miles, that’s all. The town of Acadia is just over to your left there, you can see the spire of the Baptist church once we pass these cypress trees up ahead here. Then L’Église des Pauvres is about three-quarters of a mile further on. It used to be a farm, years ago, before the Célèstines took it over. Scarman’s Farm. Lots of people hereabouts still call it Scarman’s Farm. We Police Sergeant Duprée however, have to be accurate in our terminology.’

  They drove for a little while without talking. Then Charlie said, ‘Can I ask you what you think about the Célèstines? I mean, you personally?’

  Sergeant Duprée barked with laughter. ‘Me personally? I think they’re fruitcakes.’

  ‘But it doesn’t concern you, what they’re doing?’

  ‘Sir, they aren’t breaking no laws. I may disapprove of them, morally or whatever, but just like I said we do things here by the letter of the law, and if they want to eat themselves for lunch, that’s up to them.’

  ‘Besides which, they keep you paid off?’ Charlie added.

  ‘Now, that’s where you’re wrong,’ Sergeant Duprée told him, without taking offence at Charlie’s allegation that he was taking bribes. ‘The Célèstines themselves don’t pay nobody nothing. Not a cent. But let me put it this way: there are plenty of influential people in this state who have friends and family connected with the Célèstines, and it wouldn’t be wise of me to encourage career problems, would it? It’s all a question of politics. Apart from which, those Célèstines have official approval from some very high places indeed.’

  After about ten minutes, they skirted a wide cornfield, and then turned off to the right along a rutted, uneven track. At the end of the track, there was a metal gate, and a high fence wound around with razor-wire. A man in a plaid shirt and a stetson hat stood by the gate holding a rifle. When he saw the police car approaching, he swung the gate wide and allowed it to enter, although he approached it with his rifle held ready and peered into the windows. ‘Looks like you had some good hunting there, Ron,’ he remarked.

  Sergeant Duprée chewed his gum noisily. ‘Where’s the big chief?’

  ‘Main building, I guess. You’ll have to go round the back way, there’s a couple of buses blocking up the front.’

  ‘Hasta la vista,’ said Sergeant Duprée and pointed forward like an orchestral conductor, to indicate to their driver that they should move on.

  L’Église des Pauvres still clearly showed its origins of Scarman’s Farm. They drove around a cluster of outbuildings and barns and pig-pens and silos: although there were no animals here any longer, and no feed, and no manure. All the buildings had been immaculately whitewashed, and were presumably being used as offices and dormitories. The main building was a converted barn, with an arched roof, its northern side shaded by an enormous and ancient oak. On the apex of its roof, a high gold cross caught the sunshine, almost as if it were alight.

  They parked close to the oak, and climbed out. Sergeant Duprée didn’t bother to cover Charlie and Robyn with his gun, now that they had safely arrived. ‘Come along,’ he said, and beckoned them to follow him up the wooden steps and into the double doors of the main building. Charlie glanced at Robyn, but at that moment she wasn’t looking at him. He hoped to God that she didn’t think he had let her down.

  Inside, the main building had been divided up into corridors and separate roo
ms. It was very silent and cool in there. All the walls were painted white, and the only decoration was a painting of St Célèstine contemplating the Cross. There was a smell of subtropical mustiness and rose-scented room spray, and something else, like herbs and formaldehyde all mingled together.

  Sergeant Duprée led the way along the central corridor until they reached a pair of swing doors. He pushed them open, and ushered Charlie and Robyn into a high, white-painted room, illuminated by clerestory windows. There were rows of trestle tables on the floor of the room, nine or ten of them, each laid with a bright, white linen tablecloth, and decorated with fresh flowers. A small group of people were standing at the side, talking in cheerful, animated voices. Charlie instantly recognized both M. and Mme Musette. At the far end of the room, the floor had been raised into a low platform, and on this platform stood a huge altar, draped in yellow and white, the colours of the Papacy. Behind the altar rose a polished brass crucifix, at least twenty feet high, with an elegant and sad-faced Christ nailed on to it with shining chromeplated nails, and crowned with chrome-plated thorns.

  Sergeant Duprée led Charlie and Robyn over towards the Musettes. M. Musette was wearing a white cassock and a white cape around his shoulders. A gold crucifix shone on his chest. Mme Musette was dressed in a very white silk sheath that reached to her calves, so tight and clinging that Charlie could clearly see the outline of her nipples and even the depression of her navel. Her hands were concealed in elbow-length while silk gloves.

  ‘Well, well, Mr McLean,’ said M. Musette, extending his hand. ‘You have decided to join us at last. And Ms Harris, too! Welcome to L’Église des Pauvres. You couldn’t have chosen a better time.’

  Charlie ignored M. Musette’s hand. ‘Forget the welcome, monsieur. All I’m going to do is repeat what I said before. I want my son, and then I want to leave.’

  Sergeant Duprée chuckled. ‘This gentleman’s an optimist, you have to give him that.’