by Andy Jarvis
“Charlied him?”
“Charlie Bronson,” explained Baz. “Like in that classic film, Mr. Majestyk – you know, a swift boot in the goolies and a fist up the snout while he’s doubled over.”
“Charlied! I like that!” Reverend John smiled broadly. “I wonder if I could use that in one of my sermons?”
We sat and chatted a while, Baz occasionally looking at his watch, reminding me we had to be somewhere else on a job that afternoon. All too soon it was time to go.
“You must come back anytime at all,” said Reverend John sadly. “My doors are always open to you.”
“Well, I guess we better go,” I said, trying to contain myself.
“Bye bye, lads. Take care.”
“Bye, Rev,” said Baz, hugging Reverend John tearfully.
I followed suit, and we were away before one of us cracked.
On the way home I stopped on the bridge where we once swam and laughed with Henry.
“What are you doing?” said Baz.
“Nothing. Just wait in the van a while.”
I got out and walked over to the wall and peered down into the black pool below watching the slow whirl of shadows and bubbles. I felt a gentle breeze gathering pace, blowing into my face, my eyes and my hair. The sun shone down, warm and penetrating. I looked up at the buds, and the crocus on the riverbank, and the promise of a glorious spring in a place that had touched my soul. I suddenly felt a great love for Reverend John that I couldn’t fathom, along with a sadness that he would not be around forever, and that all his good work would end. Nobody could replace him. I felt inside my jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. McBright’s begrudged yearly bonus. A lot of cash. A lot of well earned pints.
A fine spray of dew from nearby branches hit my face, clean and fresh, not like the stinking grimy rain of the industrial areas, nor the slimy inner city sort, filled with the stench of car fume and old take away bins, but real rain! The wind whipped up suddenly hard, nearly blowing the envelope from my hand. “This could go a long way in Reverend John’s pot,” I whispered to myself.
I jumped back into the van, still clutching the envelope.
“What was all that about?” said Baz.
“I was just having a look, to see if I could see any more eels. Just to prove a point.”
“And?”
“Nothing, but then they’re bottom dwellers; not very easy to spot,” I said, slamming the van into reverse and backing up over the bridge.
“Now where are we going?”
“Back to St. Mark’s. I forgot to make a donation.”
Silas passed away peacefully, shortly after our visit. Reverend John followed some months later, taking the secret of Candlewell with him. Well, not exactly, but me and Baz aren’t going say anything. We wouldn’t want the Reverend’s grave digging up because some locals said he was a murderer and not worthy of a Christian plot. No, Reverend John’s stone, surrounded by the beautiful lawns of St. Mark’s, will always remain an icon to a strong man who did so much for the weak and underprivileged of the world. I imagine if there is a Good Lord up there he’ll be saying to Reverend John: “Well, I’ll let you off on this one. That scumbag old man of yours was really winding me up with that black mass stuff.”
24.
I met Arden at a service station on the motorway. He had some business up in the North East, something to do with artefacts found there, that were once thought to be from Norfolk, and needed verifying. And me, I was paying a visit to Candlewell, just a weekend away for the hell of it.
It was the first time I’d been back since Reverend John had died. In the meantime I’d tried hard not to go, to resist the temptation. I had even avoided contact with Arden. I wanted to forget as much as possible about our time in Candlewell, to avoid the people or anyone related to our time there. To clear out all the debris and confusion and look upon life from a realistic, down to earth perspective. But now I felt the time was right. Life felt normal again and I had questions that I felt safe to ask. I phoned Arden and we arranged to meet.
“Who was he?” I asked.
Arden pondered and stirred his coffee slowly before answering. “Ed, I’m afraid that even if I knew that, I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you.”
“Why not? You got hold of the guy in the first place. You must know something about him.”
“Correction, he got hold of me, remember? He came here of his own accord.”
“So why don’t you know anything about him?”
“It’s not up to me. The Global Paranormal Society is protecting his privacy. You see, his people would not want disturbing. Henry’s powers are a very unique thing, something his folk do not take lightly or like to use without good warrant. I’ve tried to find out more about him myself, but all I could get is the fact that the Society hold him in very high esteem. That recommendation is as good as it gets.”
“I thought Henry was false,” I said. “I just assumed he was like one of those fake mediums.”
“Yes, I’m afraid the world is full of them,” said Arden. “But Henry doesn’t pretend to be a medium in that sense. He doesn’t talk to spirits. The Society made that quite clear to me before he approached us. I personally believe Henry is genuine. He truly has a gift. I’m not the first to say so, nor will I be the last, I’m sure. What’s your verdict now?”
“Pass. I guess that’s why I asked you to come. So, if he’s so good, why don’t we know more about him? Someone so good must be in big demand.”
Arden took another sip of coffee. “I think if you know too much about a medium, or spiritual guide as they usually call themselves, or they’re too readily available, then they most likely are false.”
“How do you mean?”
“Think about it, Ed. If you look one up on the internet well…why are they there?”
“As a business concern. To make money.”
“Exactly.”
“Henry didn’t make any money?”
“Probably not a great deal. You see, this is the only work Henry does, I’ve been told. He has to keep his mind clear for it. And he makes no claims on the state. It’s part of his belief to be totally independent from help. He considers it to be begging.” Arden took another sip and pulled out a cigarette, tapping the end onto the table and looking around. “No smoking I see. Just as well, I’m trying to quit.”
“You know, Baz said something very similar, that his beliefs were in nature, but he couldn’t live on just that.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened,” said Arden, “that is, if you want. Reverend John was very tight lipped about the whole affair after Henry’s departure but he’s gone after all, so I see no harm in discussing it now. It’s entirely up to you, Ed. I’d understand if you didn’t want to talk about it.”
I recounted the story of Henry’s ‘exorcism’ that day. How he seemed to have a hypnotic hold over Reverend John and Silas, and the confession of Reverend John, including the part about the black mass, the altar and Isabel with the crucifix of mandrake. Then I told him about the events that followed, about his early years after, alone with his father, the banishing of Isabel and his sending away to school and eventual return to murder Reverend John Sr.
“I’m not even sure why I’m telling you that part,” I said. “Me and Baz could still be charged for withholding information about a serious crime.”
“For heaven’s sake, Ed, far be it for me to go and squeal on my friends after all you’ve done. It’s the distant past and there’s really no justice to be served anymore. This is one skeleton that will stay firmly in the closet, I promise.”
The storm, Arden knew about already having read about it, although he wasn’t in the village at the time. I told him about the bats and the boiler firing up shortly after their fleeing the church. I also told him Henry’s story about his forefather’s legacy, as recounted to us in the church on the night before the exorcism.
I left out the part about the encounter with the eel on the trip home. The whole thin
g seemed so long ago and so farfetched as to seem ridiculous and I expected I’d only get into another argument about it, like the one I had with Baz on that wet and windy drive home. And I didn’t want someone with a scientific mind telling me about how big they’re supposed to grow, or their migratory habits. As far as I was concerned the thing was just moving on, taking advantage of the flooding and swapping ponds because it had outlived its habitat.
I never told him about Isabel’s Light and the effect it had on Reverend John. That seemed unnecessary, and although he was gone, it felt strangely like a betrayal of Reverend John’s trust. Somehow it seemed too personal for Reverend John, for Mrs. Braithwaite and Silas.
I also left out Charlie Wainwright’s phone call at first. I wanted Arden to give an objective opinion of events without throwing in something that just seemed unexplainable and may, after all, have been a trick by Henry’s people.
When I’d finished I just shrugged my shoulders and looked at him expressionless. “So, do you believe that this Henry really has some power, some control over spirits, to be able to exorcise them?”
Arden stirred his half empty cup and tapped the end of his still unlit cigarette. “Hmm, there’s a lot of coincidence there all together in the same place. It’s an incredible story but I wouldn’t want to speculate. As you say some of it at least, could be explained rationally, but all of them happening together? I don’t know. If the church is okay and the haunting ended, well then I suppose he must have done something.”
“But surely Reverend John did that when he laid Isabel and child to rest. That would have been it, wouldn’t it?”
“I would have thought so, but remember, you called me when there was something after; a re-occurrence of the mist after the funeral. That’s why you asked for my help.”
We lapsed into silence for a minute or so before Arden spoke again. “Why is it so important that you know about Henry?”
“Just curious I guess. It’s like I said, maybe he did something, maybe he didn’t. But who are they? What are his people called? I know I should have asked all this a long time ago but at the time I was just convinced he was a complete fake. I took him for granted. Where the hell are these people?”
“Ed, there is a huge diversity of culture and spiritual belief in this world, some very primitive, but they all seem to share some common beliefs and exorcism, in one form or another, is universal to most of them.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Henry even said something like that himself.”
“I think you’re very privileged,” said Arden. “I can’t imagine him wanting just anyone to know that, let alone anyone to witness his work. He never told me anything about himself, or how he was going to go about his business. I had to research all that with a little help from the Paranormal Society. Henry’s folk are a very isolated and mystic people.”
Arden slid his cup to one side, still tapping his cigarette on the table. “I’m just going outside for a few drags, is that okay? There’s not many places left in the world for a chap to have a smoke.”
“Actually, I think I’ll join you,” I said.
We walked out onto the bridge that joins the Northbound services to Southbound, overlooking the motorway.
Arden lit up, shielding his fag and lighter inside his lapel against the chill spring breeze, and leant against the railing drawing, exhaling and humming contentedly as we surveyed the steady stream of commuters below in the late afternoon sun.
“Well, it’s quite an incredible story, Ed,” said Arden. “But, do you think Reverend John really did experience this black mass and see something inexplicably evil, or just unexplainable? Or do you still think he was hypnotised?”
“I don’t know now. I used to think I knew, but I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on things.”
Arden took a long drag, letting out a curved stream of smoke that fragmented in the wind like a tattered banner. “You know Ed, there’s something special about that village, quaint and picturesque qualities aside. It’s timeless, and I don’t just mean the simple things like log fires and real ale. It has a certain durability, if you like, resistant to all the pressures of a changing world, self supporting, vibrant and strong. It still has the stuff England was built upon. Places like that are under threat in an ever changing world. The lifestyles, the simple home life around the hearth and the feel for the country, the earth, the soil, they need protecting. The generations that follow don’t seem to stay, attracted away by modern life. I really don’t know what’s to become of places like Candlewell in the long term. Sometimes I just wish we could slap preservation orders not just on buildings or scenes of historic battles, but ways of life.”
“So that the past is never forgotten and true earthly values and morals aren’t cast aside in the pursuit of selfishness?”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Arden. “That’s exactly what I mean. Wherever did you get that from?”
“I guess it’s just something I learned from Reverend John. He once said that Paradise was really right here on earth, if only we could just see it. And I guess I heard it elsewhere sometime…or read it somewhere.”
“My word, Ed, I do believe you’ve changed! You really seem to have matured since we last met.”
“No, I haven’t changed. I’m still mates with Baz, still go watch the football and all that. It’s just that I’m a little more concerned, you know, worried about what the future holds. I guess the whole experience has unsettled me…and made me feel a little more responsible for my actions. Other than that I can still sing, laugh, drink and fart along with the best of them.”
Arden smiled. “Well, I guess you really still are good old Ed the heating contractor after all. I’m glad, really. No one should lose their true identity. I just think we should all let the inner person shine out.”
“I got a phone call from Henry’s brother.”
“Really?” said Arden, sounding very surprised. “I didn’t realise he had a brother. Was it recently?”
“His name was Charlie. He said that Henry was indisposed and had asked him to call me. It was just a couple of days after the exorcism, or whatever it was.”
“What did he say?”
“He just wanted to know if the church was okay, and if me and Baz were okay, and to say that Henry thanked us.”
“He wanted to thank you? What did he mean by that?”
“Well, just for being there,” I said. “He said he couldn’t have done it without us, but I’m not sure why. I mean we were just watching. And I think he was worried in case the whole affair had some bad, traumatic after effect on us or something.”
“Oh, well no doubt it hasn’t,” said Arden. “In fact, I’d say quite the opposite. If anything Ed, I’d say you’re more lucid than ever. And how about your mate Baz, he’s okay, I take it?”
“He’s fine. No ill effects whatsoever. I’d say he’s just as daft and happy as ever, probably even more so.”
“Then I think you certainly are privileged for the man to thank you. I believe that is a huge accolade coming from his people. You must have done something very big.”
“Yeah, maybe we did,” I mumbled.
25.
I still go there sometimes, in my dreams and in real life. Mrs. Braithwaite and Mrs. Cass are still about. I even popped into church one Sunday morning to give thanks for, well, the way things have turned out, even if I am still sat on the fence about the whole religion thing. Sure, I believe there’s something out there now. I mean, hell, Isabel was there alright. I just can’t dig the Bible or any other ‘religious’ version. Too many simple answers. Anyway, I got a real buzz out of Mrs. Cass’ organ playing. Some of those low notes when they hit the pews just so it sends you off right out of yourself. And the acoustics in St. Mark’s would do any rock recital proud. I even paid attention to the new vicar, although he’s not a patch on Reverend John. His sermons are about as wishy-washy as dilute emulsion paint on wet plasterboard. Mrs. Cass makes fun of him, being one of those middle-aged, trendy new-sty
le vicars, trying too hard to look young and cool.
“Probably still lets his mum dress him,” she quipped one morning as he arrived at church on a Harley, wearing blue jeans and Ferragamo shades.
But I keep coming down here on the odd weekend just to chill. I suppose it’s one way of getting the folk of Candlewell used to my face if I’m going to come and live here. And I need the quiet because I’m writing a book about it now. I just grab a pint and sit in some quiet corner of the inn or outside if it’s warm and scribble away, then type it up later. I’m going to call it The Haunting or some such cheesy title. Somehow I’m going to work Reverend John, Isabel and all the other folk into the story, but I’m not sure how. I mean I don’t want to offend any of the people of Candlewell, so I’ll probably change the names and alter the story, hoping no one will recognise themselves. One hell of a story it’ll be if I tell it like it really happened. I’ll have to pass it off as fiction, of course. I mean who’s going to believe any yarn about a vicar, a new age bohemian and two central heating engineers?
I’m not sure why I’m doing it even. I guess I want something to leave behind to prove that I once walked upon this good earth. We all should leave some sign or symbol behind that we were here and how, if at all, it made a difference and I’d felt for some time that I never really wanted my life measured in tap fittings and copper pipe.
I still haven’t found Miss Right yet, although there’s this really cute and classy lady that works down at the fishmonger’s on the Candlewell High Street that’s caught my attention. She’s really polite and well spoken, and to me being a fish girl doesn’t make you any less important than royalty in this world. Mind you, I suppose she’s out of the question, me being a city boy and all. But I’m still working on a date or a proposition or something. We just exchange a few pleasantries about the weather and such and she smiles as she hands over a perfectly boned and filleted hake. She probably thinks I’m thick. She knows I don’t live there and probably wonders what I do with a fresh piece of fish. Not a lot. I usually give it to the chef at the Bell. I hope she doesn’t mistake me for some sort of pervert with a fish fetish. It wouldn’t be the first time.