by Andy Jarvis
“Don’t start up again, Baz. It’s been a long day and you’re winding me up again.” He was scaring me as well.
“But Henry even said that the evil saw us as a threat, a way to Isabel’s release, he said. Someone good, or pure of heart, or even naïve. I mean, I admit that’s me alright. And us, a couple of reckless assholes on a weekend bender we might occasionally be, but we’d never hurt a fly. We’re a couple of good guys, right? There’s got to be something in it. And then, there was that storm. God, I’ve never seen anything like it. It must have been something to do with Henry.”
“Oh, yeah, it was something to do with Henry alright, Henry’s bloody good luck. It’s not unknown you know. My mum once told me about one just like it in her day. I even saw the old newspaper articles. We do get them, it’s rare but they happen. It was a freak, a coincidence that’s all, or Henry planned the meeting to coincide with the weather prediction, and then just got lucky.”
“But Ed…”
“Did you know it rains frogs in Kansas?”
“What?”
“It’s the tornadoes, you see. They pick up entire swamps – frogs included – and when the tornado peters out the wind carries them for miles before dropping thousands of the little green bastards on the unsuspecting Kansonians. Of course all the dumbasses blame UFOs despite the fact that the same storms flatten their houses every year. It’s a perfectly natural phenomenon. Like eels coming up out of reservoirs. Or what happened at the church tonight for that matter. After all the stuff we’ve seen already tonight was nothing, nothing that couldn’t be explained rationally.”
“But…”
“Alright then, if this really was some mythical beast, how come it didn’t just disappear in a puff of smoke when we hit it, eh? Answer me that then?” That got him.
“Don’t know,”
“No, and that’s because it was real. Flesh and blood just like us, got it?”
“Well maybe.”
Blue and red light flickered inside the van, and Baz looked at me fretfully.
“Coppers, that’s all I bloody need,” I muttered.
The police car pulled up slowly and silently behind, the alternating blue, red light still flashing as the policeman came up tapping on the window.
“Is this your vehicle, sir?” he said, as I rolled the window down. Why do they always say that? I’m hardly going to admit I’ve stolen it, even if I had.
“Well no, it belongs to my employer but I’m licensed to drive it.”
He paced up and down with a torch looking at the body, tyres and taillights as they do, trying to find something to nick you for. Then, shining the torch in our faces he put his head through the window, flashing the light about trying to see over the back of the seats.
“Is there a problem, constable?” I asked politely.
“That’s sergeant to you if you don’t mind, sir.” He straightened up and pulled out a notebook. “I’ve had a complaint. It seems that two men fitting your descriptions were seen at the side of the B50 road indulging in what was described as a penetrative sex act with…with…a wet fish!”
“Oh no, constable you’ve got…”
“Queer doggers!” he screeched, making us both jump.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. For a start it wasn’t a fish, it was an eel.”
“Oh…oh, oh I see. Fish not phallic enough for you, is it?”
“No, just let me explain will you,” I stuttered. “Baz, help me out for fuck’s sake. Tell him will you.”
But Baz wasn’t helping. I heard him begin to chuckle in the dark, barely able to stifle it.
“I think he’s helped you out quite enough, don’t you…Sir? Now listen to me,” he hissed, sticking his head back inside the window. “What consenting adults do in the privacy of their own homes is no concern of mine. But you…you people make me sick! Oh no, you want to share it with all the world! A bit of voyeurism and exhibitionism, eh?”
“But we…”
“Perverts! Bet you even advertise on the Internet, eh? And what about your friend here? The complainant says the big one was lying beneath, belly down, I’m told.”
Baz faked a coughing fit in a desperate attempt to disguise his giggling.
The copper withdrew his head sharply with a grunt, catching it on the window rim with a dull thud. “Bastard!” he screeched. I had to thump Baz really hard with an elbow to stop him laughing out loud.
“So where’s the rest of your pervert friends?” the copper stormed. “Bet you couldn’t wait to get started without them, eh?”
“But we…”
“Perverts! Queer doggers!”
I tried to explain. He let us go in the end with a caution. A phone call to McBright didn’t help much. McBright tried to claim that he didn’t know us for a start, which was weird seeing as his name is written on all sides of the van. When the copper explained to him that two men had been seen at the side of the road, in the pouring rain slapping each other with a fish, he just replied, “Yeah, that’ll be them.”
There’s nothing like a run in with the law to bring you down to earth. We laughed it off, of course. Baz made jokes about the whole thing right the way up to the end of our journey. “He thought we were a couple of gayboys!” he kept laughing. “Well he was half right, I guess!”
By the time we got back, my arm was throbbing from repeated shoulder thumps and Baz was running out of ideas and the jokes were getting so annoying I was beginning to consider some sort of penetrative sex act with a certain crowbar in the toolbox. “Eel be sorry he called us that,” being a good (bad) example.
We arrived late and the workshop was locked up, thankfully. A bollocking from McBright would just about have tipped me over the edge that night. Letting ourselves in, Baz unloaded the tools and I had a leaf through the outstanding contracts.
“What’s next on the list?” asked Baz.
“Service job in Chesterfield, that’s tomorrow. Then there’s a new contract over in Pendle.”
“Pendle? That’s where they have that witch’s museum, isn’t it?”
“Hold still, Baz,” I said, reaching for the toolbox.
23.
Phone call to my house, 10.15 PM – two days later:
“Hello, is this the one they call Ed?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m sorry to bother you so late at night. My name is Charlie – Charlie Wainwright. I’m Henry’s brother.”
“Henry! How is he? I mean, where is he? He disappeared sort of quickly.”
“Henry’s fine. He’s resting now, and asked me to phone. These things take it out of him, you know.”
“These things?”
“Well the whole ordeal in the church. I take it your church is okay now?”
“Reverend John’s church, actually. Yeah, I think so. Reverend John says it is anyway, and nobody argues with him. He said it felt different – like it did when he was a child.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. Henry wishes to thank you and your friend Baz.”
“Why is he thanking us? We didn’t do anything.”
“Henry has come back to his family now. He’s been away a long time. He wants to ease up a bit now. He wishes to thank you for being there. Now he feels his work is done, for the time being at least.”
“Speaking of work, what exactly did Henry do? I mean there was this freak storm with big hailstones, and I think all the bats suddenly decided to go Catholic…but I just didn’t get the plot. I’m a bit disappointed, to tell the truth. If you don’t mind me saying, I feel a bit like…we’ve all been had. ”
“You watch too many movies, friend. Henry doesn’t ‘destroy ghosts’ with chants, or cast magic spells. He is not like other people. Henry prepares the ground which has become unholy. He walks with the fox under the moon and swims in deep waters, placing the markings and symbols of our clan wherever it is needed, and he listens to the creatures there. He talks with the trees and the wind and hears the stones in the earth. The spirits th
ere acknowledge him. Some welcome Henry and help him. Others do not like his presence and move back to the shadowed places. Henry cannot destroy the unholy; he can only encourage it to move on. It is up to the spirit within to break free from that which holds it to the place it does not belong.”
“Well, I don’t know much about that…I’m still not sure…”
“Life is a gathering force, my friend. It rolls on regardless of those that try to hold it back, to change it for their own self interest. The spirit within you is part of that force. Do not let it be corrupted, for that will only destroy you, and life will go on without you.”
“You’re confusing me, I don’t understand. I mean symbols…what do you mean about symbols? Henry mentioned symbols…”
“You have doubt in the power of symbols. They are created to remind us of the world beyond what is seen, and to communicate with the spirits there. Not all of the spirit world avails itself to men, and that is unfortunate, in that it creates doubt. But you were gifted with a vision from beyond.”
“I suppose, yeah. But what does it all mean, and what did Henry do?”
“You were touched by the unholy one I believe.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the river. You were blessed for a time with the glow of the departed one called Isabel. Without that, your soul would have been consumed by the unholy. Instead, it only came as near as it dare and then fled the workings of Henry.”
“Oh, you mean the fish, or whatever it was. Nice try, but no doubt Henry told you about that.”
“How’s your van? Not too much damage, I hope.”
“The van? The van’s fine. How did you know about that? We didn’t even tell McBright about that. He’d shoot us if he knew we nearly crashed it.”
“Also, my friend, I think you’ll find that they don’t migrate at this time of year.”
“What? What don’t? What are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as you two are okay, that’s all Henry’s concerned about. I ask now, only, that you should give thanks to the spirits that have protected you.”
“Give thanks? I don’t understand? Thanks for what? How do I give thanks? I still don’t get it.”
“You give something back to the earth spirit, in return for its giving you of life. It is not for me to say what. The spirits will guide you and your heart will tell you how and when this should be done. Anyway, I’ve kept you long enough. Give mine and Henry’s regards to your friend. I wish you both a long and happy life, my friend. Peace go with you. Goodbye.”
“Bye,” I whispered, after putting the phone down.
I tried phoning Reverend John on several occasions in the following months, but each time I was answered by someone who called themselves his housekeeper, who said that the Reverend was indisposed or not well. I even once dared to ask if the church was okay, only to be told that she hadn’t a clue what I meant.
We did see him again, eventually. Well, even top of the range heating systems like ours need servicing some time. We came back to Candlewell the following year. Reverend John wasn’t the same. Me and Baz got quite a shock when we saw him. He looked his age now, much older than the last time we met. But although he seemed feeble and walked with a stick, he didn’t look sad or regretful, just resigned and content.
We had arrived on a pleasant spring morning. The church was empty but looked gorgeous, and smelt delicious, adorned from altar to door with bouquets. Red, yellow, white, orange and lilac blooms arrayed everywhere, filling the place with…with happiness is the only way I could describe it.
We walked up the aisle slowly, looking around at the display and breathing deep the bouquet, like it was that first breath you take when you arrive at the seaside or some exotic holiday destination, to get the city out of your lungs.
Baz walked ahead, stopping and turning when we reached the altar. He looked up at the Window-without-Adam, then at me. “I still don’t think an ass like that should be on display in church,” he quipped.
The vestry was unlocked. The boiler, humming away perfectly hardly needed touching. Baz crouched down at the back of it to have a look underneath at the handprints we’d made in the concrete. “One day, mate, eh? I wonder what they’ll think about us two lads in the future?”
“They’ll have a bloody long wait, the way this gem’s running,” I said.
Baz stood up, looking at the boiler, stroking his chin and I suppose thinking pretty much the same as me. “They’d never guess, would they?”
Reverend John must have come quietly into the church while we worked. He was knelt silently in prayer in exactly the same spot when we’d last seen him. I was meaning to ask him about that. I wondered if it was humility or a feeling of unworthiness that someone he had called a pagan had sorted out his own spiritual home.
“Maybe we shouldn’t disturb him,” whispered Baz, as we left the vestry.
“No, it’ll be alright. He knew we were coming.”
Reverend John looked up, opening one eye. “Oh, lads,” he said, fumbling with his cane and struggling to stand. Me and Baz rushed over, worried that he might take a tumble, and helped him to his feet. “Now don’t mind me, you needn’t make a fuss. Well, I am pleased to see you. You both look well.”
“And you too, Reverend,” said Baz.
“Rubbish!” said Reverend John. “I feel awful and look it as well. Have you finished now? The heating has been a real treat this past winter. I don’t know how I’d have managed without it, not with my joints being the way they are.”
“And how’s Silas these days?” I asked.
“Struggling you know. He hasn’t been too well lately. He’s convalescing in hospital at the moment. He’s having a bit of trouble with his breathing now and then.”
“We’re sorry to hear that. I hope he’s well soon.”
“Hmm. Oh yes, I remembered,” he said, trundling back a few pews and reaching down. “Mrs. Braithwaite knew you were coming; she’s left something for you.” He pulled out a massive gold box of chocolates – the really pricey Belgian sort – and the biggest bottle of the old vino collapso I’d ever seen, all tied up in a yellow ribbon. With it was a card: ‘to Ed and Baz. Thank you for the lovely warm church this winter! Love, Cora,’ it read.
“She got better.” Reverend John smiled.
“And she did all this?” I said looking around at all the flowers.
“Yes, she’s home for good this time. I’ve never seen her as happy, not since we were small children.”
Reverend John paused thoughtfully, then sat himself down and sighed. “She’s gone.”
“Gone? You mean Isabel?” I said.
“Yes, yes, Isabel. I miss her you know. Perhaps we’ll meet again soon.”
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask, Reverend,” I stammered. “Did…did that guy do anything?”
“Guy? Which guy?”
“I mean Henry Wainwright. Did he really manage to make Isabel go?”
“Him? Good Lord, no! Whatever should make you think that? A complete fake, and to think I was nearly taken in by him. And the strangest of all things was I kept finding these objects – silly things, like little carvings of animals or birds, or even a pile of pebbles arranged into a fancy shape hidden behind the tapestry or under a pew. One lady said she found them in the graveyard even.”
“Where are these things now?” I asked.
“Oh, I got rid of them. Good heavens! That would look well, wouldn’t it, if the Bishop came along to find pagan symbols littered about the place. No, I destroyed them all. No doubt part of the chap’s act, they were. No, no, a complete fake he was. Isabel decided it was time to leave and she just left. I suppose she realised that I was getting on and not long to go, and that I was happy and resigned to my destiny in God’s kingdom. No, no, she went of her own accord.”
“Are you sure?” piped Baz. “I mean, it was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen, and some of the stuff you were coming out with Reverend, it was
like he’d hypnotised…”
Ankle kicking is an art form. You have to be subtle and discreet enough not to let third parties know (any footballer will tell you that) or make the recipient cry out, yet hard enough to get the message across. Baz was so used to my touch by now that he could read a side heal like my thoughts. He ceased abruptly with a barely muffled ooh like he’d suddenly remembered something important.
“It’s alright,” said Reverend John. “I know what I said, what I confessed. But it was nothing to do with him, though. I just felt that the time had come. It was the only way I was going to free myself from the past. We all have to move on eventually. It’s God’s intention that we progress to his kingdom free from evil.”
“And then there was that storm,” mumbled Baz, stepping out of foot reach.
“Oh, the storm!” exclaimed Reverend John. “I remember it well. Yes, quite a belter that was. And what a stroke of luck for that charlatan! He couldn’t have planned it better. No exorcism is complete without a good storm, is it? You only have to go to the pictures or turn on the telly to know that!” he laughed. “Still, I don’t suppose I’ll ever see my money again. Well, never mind, the good Lord has ways of redressing the balance in this world.”
“I do believe you’re right, Reverend,” I said. “I think you pretty much do your own part in that direction.”
Reverend John glanced up smiling at us then looked down at the floor for half a minute clutching his walking stick as he contemplated his words. “Do you think the Good Lord can forgive this old fool for what he’s done?”
“Sorry?” I said.
“You never told, did you? Why?”
“Told what?” said Baz.
“I assumed you’d go to the police. I waited and waited, expecting to be arrested at any time, but they never came. I did murder a man after all.”
“Not in our book you didn’t,” I said. “It sounded to me like you did the village a big favour. I think either of us would have done the same thing in your boots. In fact, me and Baz would have Charlied him a lot sooner, had we met him.”