by Peter Laws
‘I am getting my anger out,’ Ben snapped. It made Chris blink. Ben had half-cocked eyes and there was something accusing about it. ‘Isn’t that the way? Don’t you always say we have to externalise our pain? Purge it from ourselves?’
‘Yes. It helps, but Stephen’s not real … and … well I never meant externalise your pain as … as a person. Is that what Stephen is? Is he … is he your pain?’ Chris started weeping again.
Ben looked at him like his dad had completely lost his mind.
‘We’ll get you some proper help,’ Chris said.
‘But he does the bits I don’t like.’
‘Don’t. Please.’
Ben suddenly looked back over his shoulder at the door. Then he turned back and pushed a finger up to his lips. ‘You mustn’t tell Stephen about the emails.’
‘What emails?’
‘And the fox. He’d be furious.’
Chris started to press his fingers into each side of his temples again, but harder this time. Like he might break skin and bone.
‘Matt will help me, won’t he? He’ll tell them I’m a good boy. You said the police listen to him. You said he’s a decent man. That you brought him here for a reason. To show the police that I was saving these girls, not—’
‘I brought him here so that he might believe in God again. That his family might believe. That’s all.’
Ben quickly looked back at the door again. ‘I know … Stephen wants to help with that part.’
‘Stephen doesn’t exist! He’s dead!’ Chris shouted, with a fury directed only and purely at himself. There was a crackling anger at the fact that he hadn’t spoken like this back in that kitchen, fifteen years ago. ‘He’s dead, son.’
‘Do you honestly think that?’ Ben said.
‘Of course I do.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘Then why …’ A sudden ripple of a grin. ‘Then why is he standing behind you, right now?’
The ice Chris felt on the back of his neck might as well have been a little boy’s cold fingers touching and caressing him. He spun on his foot but of course there was no one there.
Stephen wasn’t behind him.
At least not any more.
Because when Chris turned back, Stephen was standing right in front of him, glaring at him through the eyes of his son, filling Ben’s lungs with air, his arms with strength. Like someone had slit the boy down the back and crawled inside him like a costume.
Chris tried and failed to hide his terror. ‘I’m going to get help, alright?’
Ben was standing utterly still, his body rigid, while his lips moved in swift, silent whispers.
Chris turned; walked to the door and left the meeting room. He rushed to the office and shut the door behind him. But his hands were trembling so much he could barely work the lock on the door. After a few attempts he heard it click into position. The door had a poster on it that said, Don’t Just Sit There, Pray Something. Seeing it made him suddenly laugh. He pressed his hands together hard, genuinely wondering if he might have just completely lost his mind. That this was a mad fever dream. For Ben’s sake, he longed for that to be true. For the sake of those girls …
He grabbed the phone from its cradle and pressed the ‘9’ key three times.
There was no dial tone. The line was dead.
He looked back at the door and, through the porthole, saw his son, but not his son, looking in. The phone’s base unit was in his hand and he threw it behind him, its frayed cord whipping through the air.
Then Ben just dropped out of sight. Chris’s first thought was that he must have fainted. But then a chair suddenly appeared in the porthole and the metal leg slammed into it. The force of it popped the glass like it was made of sugar.
Chris moaned in horror.
A long arm suddenly pushed through the hole, dragging skin across shards of glass teeth, slashing and quickly drawing blood.
Chris shot forward to push Ben away but it was too late. He had already reached down and grabbed the lock. He turned it.
Click.
The door swung open. Ben’s chest was heaving. Mad tears glistened in each eye. ‘It’s what you’ve always wanted. To be with Mum in heaven. To be a new creation.’
‘Son, please don’t do this. Please.’
‘I’m going to help you, Dad,’ Ben said. He was crying now. ‘The lake’s ready.’
‘The lake?’
‘Let me baptise you, Dad.’
‘I already am.’
‘The lake’s ready.’
‘For God’s sake.’
Ben frowned at that, and when he spoke again his voice was different. Lower. And the crying had stopped. ‘I know it’s painful, Mr Kelly,’ Stephen said. ‘But then birth always is.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
At the top of the ridge, Lucy watched the handlebars of her bike dip up and then down. Her backside came off the seat.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ The slant of the dirt track shot her speed up and the pedals spun without her, smacking hard into the soles of her trainers. Finally she clamped her feet back on and got control of the handlebars. The front wheel stopped shaking and she leant forward so she could push ahead.
The black shape of the church was vanishing behind her as she pelted down towards the Healing Centre. The lights down there were on and spilt out onto the car park. They tossed a glowing sparkle out onto the lake.
When she called Ben earlier she said she needed to talk, but he’d told her that he couldn’t meet her. He had to go down to the centre and see his dad about something. She had no idea if he’d still be there but even if he wasn’t she was making a statement by doing this. By taking the initiative and riding a mile and a half on her bike. She was telling her mum something.
That this was different. That she could make her own decisions now.
When her mum said this afternoon that she shouldn’t get too close to Ben Kelly, she knew mum had read the situation all wrong. Mum just heard he was twenty-two and assumed that was the international codeword for some leering perv, eager to get her pregnant. Mum just had this rabid distrust of most men. Understandable, perhaps, but did Lucy really want to see things through the same sort of constant filter as she did?
She’d spent time alone with Ben once, big deal. A walk through the woods after the youth group pizza session. They’d sat by the fox’s grave, tearing leaves into neat little pieces and talking about eternal life. They were together for, what, thirty minutes?
And they didn’t even do anything wrong. That was the clincher. No kissing, no hand holding. Nothing even approaching that. They just pondered deep things, no matter how much her mum assumed otherwise. Lucy had said she was interested in God, and he’d given her his mobile number.
That was it.
Yeah, he was good-looking but so what? The attraction to Ben was spiritual and philosophical. For the first time in her life, she’d met someone who made her wonder if there might be something else out there. Something watching out for her and making the bad things good.
So in some ways this was more an issue of religious freedom than anything else. It wasn’t her fault that her parents were so pissy about God. Especially Matthew—
Dad. Just call him Dad again, you idiot.
She was halfway down when she saw a pair of red lights blinking over by the waterfall, at the far edge of the lake. A car was pulling up to a little barn where, presumably, the cows were housed at night.
The car moved around the back, out of sight, and then she saw a rectangle of light opening up in the side of the barn. The silhouette she saw was Ben’s.
She reached the bottom of the hill. The door of the Healing Centre was wide open, with light streaming out. She ignored it, turned her handlebars and raced the quarter of a mile to the barn, along the shore of the lake.
Her tired legs pumped the last of the energy she had into the wheels.
Ben would understand. He seemed good like that. He’d realise
that she needed some space and if her mum and dad freaked out they’d take it easier on her because Ben’s dad would be here too. He was a vicar. Maybe he could even answer all those questions that were buzzing around her head. Like why did God say let there be light on day one but not invent the sun till day four? And why did he not stop her real dad from smacking mum’s head on the kitchen worktop, when she specifically, frantically and tearfully prayed so many times that he wouldn’t?
Point was, there’d be another adult here, so it wasn’t like she was being completely reckless.
Ben must have heard her coming because he came from the back of the barn and stood in the puddle of light on the grass. She skidded her bike to a stop right in front of him (instantly aware of how cool that looked), then she let the bike drop to its side, one wheel still revolving, slowly. She bent over to breathe, glanced over at the churning waterfall, which was very close.
He was little more than a sparkling shape against the harsh light of the barn but she saw enough glow around his cheeks to see his shock. ‘What are you doing here, Lucy?’
She put her hands on her hips, chest rising and falling with her breath. She saw his eyes flick down her body and then back up again. It felt nice. ‘Why are you so wet?’
‘I’ve been in the water.’
‘Yeah, I worked that out. Where’s your dad?’
‘In the barn.’ She heard an animal moan inside the barn. Sounded like a cow. The surprise at her arrival softened. He slicked his fringe back with his wet palm and a smile flashed out of nowhere. ‘Have you been thinking about what we talked about? About God?’
‘A bit. Yes.’ She tapped her forehead. ‘He definitely seems to be in there. Lurking about.’
‘And you want to know more? Are you still interested in baptism?’
‘I’m not promising anything, but you have got me thinking. So yes, I’ve got questions.’
She thought that might please him, that she was interested in hearing more, but his face turned crooked, and he spoke not to her but to the sky. ‘I don’t know if I can handle all of this … not all at once.’
‘Pardon?’ she stepped forwards.
‘I think God must be planning a party in heaven tonight and getting lots of guests.’ Even as he said it there was a jittery look in his eyes as if he wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. He used his other hand to wipe his now-wet hair again, and for the first time she saw the cuts on his arm.
‘Whoah, what happened?’
‘I cut it on some glass.’
‘Jesus, you need to go to a hospital.’
‘Lucy. It’s fine.’
‘Don’t be a tool, you’ll bleed to death. Go get your dad.’ She called out towards the barn door. ‘Mr Kelly?’
No answer.
‘Seriously, you need to get that cleaned up.’ She took a few steps to the right, so she could see through the gap of the door and called out again, ‘Mr Kell—’
It was as far as she got.
She saw the head and shoulders of Mr Kelly through the gap in the barn door. He was on his stomach, cheek pressed against what looked like blue plastic, stretched across the hay-strewn floor. His neck was black and his tongue bulged like a bloated purple worm was crawling out across his lips. Gravity pulled it to the floor. His eyes weren’t alive, but they were open. Glassy pupils swivelled down at his tongue. Like Ben, his hair and clothes were wet, but much more so. He looked drenched.
Lucy had a vague sensation of turning and running. Of the heel of her trainers skidding to avoid the bike she’d dumped. And there was the feeling of the breeze from the lake running through her hair and lifting it up. Bringing it high, then tight, then pulling it backwards in a sharp yank.
She noticed that the front wheel of her bike was still spinning. She must have clipped it when she ran past it. The six of diamonds playing card she’d stuck in the spokes rattled like it always did. And oddly it was that sound more than anything else that made her burst into tears, as he dragged her back to the barn.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
‘Dammit.’ Matt clenched his fist to stop himself from slamming it hard into Chris Kelly’s TV. The voice Miller thought he’d heard from inside was just this Christian channel playing. A woman with a deep voice was talking about the Ten Commandments.
Behind him, Taylor appeared in the doorway, panting. ‘I’ve checked the other rooms. There’s no sign of Ben or Chris.’
‘Then we try Cardle’s house,’ Miller said.
‘Or Helston Farm.’ Matt’s heart instantly plunged at the hideous implication of that statement. Of his daughter possibly being up there.
Slam them in like a pizza.
His entire body jerked when his phone vibrated in his pocket and he grabbed it quickly, in case it was Lucy.
1 Voicemail.
He tapped the phone quickly and listened to the recorded message as he rushed down the stairs.
Hi. Professor Hunter. This is Ryan Goldsmith.
Who the heck was Ryan Goldsmith? He was about to throw the phone back into his pocket when he stopped.
The library guy.
He pressed the phone hard against his ear, listening to the recording as he hurried through the house.
‘Well, I’ve been having fun on Wikipedia. I found a link between all those biographies we looked at. Oscar Wilde, Charles II, that gangster Dutch Schultz and the rest of them. Apparently they all converted on their deathbeds. Most of them were supposedly baptised into the church just before they passed away. Bizarre, but I hope it helps. Good luck.’
His feet slowed on the steps, held there by an image of Ben reading his dad’s library books. Or maybe the two of them reading them together, discussing the fear of hell and the power of baptism on a so-called sinful life. He had an image of Ben slipping one of his dad’s clerical collars around his neck to give him some spiritual gravitas.
‘I know why he’s killing them.’
‘What?’ Miller sounded frantic.
‘He thinks he’s saving them. He thinks he’s sending them to heaven.’
Just as he said that, Taylor called out from the far end of the hall. ‘Sarge. There’s an answering machine here.’
Matt raced down the hallway to the table in the corner, which had a little black phone lying in a base unit. A red digital display showed the number 1. It wasn’t flashing, so if this was anything like Matt’s phone at home, the message must have been listened to already.
Miller was standing by the open front door, bending the radio on his shoulder strap up to his mouth. He was instructing some of the extra police that he’d called in from the surrounding towns to scramble to Cardle’s house and the farm.
Matt jabbed the button on the machine.
Message. Received. Today. At. Nineteen. Twenty. Four.
A short click, a slight hiss.
Then Chris Kelly’s voice suddenly buzzed out of the machine and they all turned to stare at it. His voice sounded weird, a little shaky.
Hi, Ben. It’s Dad. Listen, I couldn’t get you on your mobile so when you get this message can you come to the Healing Centre? I need to talk to you. It’s important, so I’ll be here all night. And son? I love you. I love you very much.
Matt could just about hear the machine click itself off as they ran out of the door towards the cars.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
This is happening.
This is actually happening, right now.
The water in the animal feeding trough was bitterly cold. Freezing in fact. It shot up Lucy’s nose and down her throat as Ben slammed her face under and back up again. He was spouting words she couldn’t understand because her ears were so blocked with water. Her nose stung as if she were snorting battery acid.
At one point she thought she heard a voice other than Ben’s. Somebody with him. Lower and angry-sounding, but she was so delirious, so disorientated that she really didn’t know what she was hearing.
She lost track of how many times her face went under. Th
ree, four. Maybe it was ten. Frankly it was impossible to concentrate when all she could hear from her subconscious was,
And this is the final experience of your life. Brace yourself.
Soon she was aware she was in the water and not coming back up again. All sound vanished in a pop. She closed her eyes tight and gulped out an air bubble filled with her vomit. It flickered against her face and rushed up to the surface.
Not coming back up was strangely desirable because Ben was up there, in the dry world. Better off under, in the quiet water, where she could hold her breath and think.
But unexpected thoughts came. In fact she knew she must be going delirious because she started to see her real dad, everyone’s favourite wife-beater, Eddie Pullen. He was way down at the bottom of the trough, looking up at her. Fading in. Tiny but getting bigger and more substantial. Swimming the long, long way up toward her with his cold, greedy eyes.
Hey love! Me, God and your mum arranged that when you died you’d come and move in with me. Down here. Okay? Good … good … now hold my fucking hand …
And as her body started to convulse she could see Dad getting closer, clearer, but now it was through the memory of a gap in the bedroom door. She turned her head to the right and it was Thursday night. She was four. He was ‘scary drunk’, straddling her mum on the bed, pushing a pillow into her face in utter silence. Holding it there until her limbs went limp and still. It took ages, but finally the repulsive twitching in her mum’s body stopped. Then, content that he’d finally killed her, he pulled his hands from the pillow and slid to the side, passing out on the bed, crying.
She remembered being frozen to the spot and watching her dead mum for a whole minute. Enough time for her to figure out how she was going to run away (bus) and where she would live (Blackpool at first, because that was far away) and how she would cope (block out an hour a day, and no more, to cry.)
But just as the plans started to crumble in her mind, her mum suddenly moved an elbow. Her trembling hand reached up silently and pulled away the pillow.