The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  Wilson had to agree with him. None of this was helping them find his friend.

  24

  Reverend Cavendish was seething. He watched the police cars speeding in and out of town all morning, both liveried and unmarked cars. He had never seen so many police before but not one of them, Sheriff Taylor included, had bothered to contact him and let him know what was happening. Not that he needed to know what had happened but surely, as this shitty little town’s only leader, he should be told what was now happening. Had either Wilson or Donovan been arrested yet? Both of them, perhaps? The thought gave him a temporary warm feeling in his groin, but it was fleeting and dissipated as quickly as it had arrived.

  He checked his cell again. The screen’s wallpaper showed him standing outside the church with his irritating congregation behind him. That was all very nice but there were no missed calls and no messages. His call log showed only the five calls he already made to Sheriff Turd-Breath. None of which had been answered. None of which had been returned.

  He called the Sheriff again, without holding the handset to his ear. He knew there would be no answer. He stared at the screen and waited for the Sheriff to deliver the expected message that he was unavailable.

  He didn’t. Instead the screen flashed with the name Adolf Shitler. Cavendish winced. He thought about canceling the call but Adolf wouldn’t stop ringing until he answered. He had experience of the man’s tenacity where phone calls were involved.

  He swiped his finger over the screen. “Good morning, Theo,” he said with the easy false-glee he had perfected.

  “I hear there has been another death in Hemlock.”

  How the fuck did he know? “Yes, sir,” he said. “Absolutely no connection to the Church of Broken Pieces or Kennebec Health Consultancy. Just the town drunk, that’s all.”

  Adolf made no reply, but in the background Cavendish could hear the sound of an engine.

  “It’s nothing for the Church to be concerned with, Theo. Town business that’ll probably blow over in...”

  “What do you know about the victim?” Adolf interrupted.

  A brief moment of panic gripped him. Did Adolf know what he’d done? He pushed the feeling away, it was ridiculous. Nobody knew what he’d done to Phil Moody. Nobody knew how much he’d enjoyed it.

  “Not much. As I said, he was a drunk. Nobody liked him, certainly nobody I’ve ever spoken with had a good word for him. I tried to reach him several times but his choice was made several years ago.”

  In fact Cavendish had never sought to reach Phil Moody. The man revolted him, always had. He sometimes reeked of spicy sausage and sweat but always alcohol of some variety. The only time he hadn’t felt sick when in the man’s company was when he’d been hammering galvanized lumber nails into his head and face. Phil Moody was just about bearable at that moment, but at no other time was he someone a reverend should be trying to reach.

  “I’ll be in Hemlock Mill at...” A brief pause as Shitler checked his expensive wristwatch, no doubt. “At two o’clock this afternoon.”

  Cavendish felt ill, sick to his stomach. “Is there a reason you’re...” But the line was dead. Adolf Shitler was on his way. That his own power and influence could be dismissed so easily by Shitler was wholly emasculating. It was infuriating.

  He wandered back up the hill to the little chapel and unlocked the door. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to go inside, it was just that he didn’t want to step inside his house. One of his suits was still covered in parts of Phil Moody. The suit would have to go, be burned or buried in a deep hole, but it could never be worn again. That made him mad too. Fat, fucking Phil Moody couldn’t even die without leaving a stinking mess.

  The Church of Broken Pieces was austere. It wasn’t large, there were only five rows of pews on either side of the aisle, but the lack of almost any form of ornamentation made it appear larger than it actually was. It was unemotional and unfriendly. Even if there had been a church-going population in Hemlock Mill, they wouldn’t have come here. It was unwelcoming. Deliberately so.

  He walked slowly up the flagstone aisle and climbed the four steps into his pulpit. He had stood in the box countless times but not once, much to his chagrin, had he given a sermon. At least not out loud and certainly not to anyone sitting in the church.

  That fact alone was disappointing. The pulpit was a position of power. Elevated above the congregation as it was, his lecture would be listened to, the words cherished above all others. It was almost irrelevant what those words were. Or in his case, completely irrelevant. There was nobody to hear them. There was no captive audience.

  Over his left shoulder, a few steps back, was an altar. Although calling it a table was probably more apt because that’s what it was. A table with a white tablecloth draped over it and a wooden cross in the middle. It was depressing, even to him, if only for the lack of any objects of value. On the base of the cross was a price sticker. It valued the crucifix at a cent under three dollars. There would be no midnight flits with the church’s gold. There wasn’t any. A point not lost on him.

  He opened the untouched copy of the Bible on the lectern. The spine creaked as he turned the pages, his eyes skimming over the words. When they promoted him to New York, he would get his hands on the gold. There had to be some. It might be dollar bills instead of ingots but his pockets would be full of it and then one ruined suit wouldn’t matter a jot. It was a good thing too, he had a feeling there were a lot more ruined suits in the pipeline. Money and power. Now there was a heady combo. It was what made the world go round.

  A shiver ran through his body. Shit, it was cold in here. Was there even any way to heat it? He had no idea, he’d never once had to consider the comfort of a congregation. Cold air tickled his neck, making him grunt.

  He climbed down out of the pulpit and looked to where the draft was coming from. In the back corner there was a rear door, a fire escape, although quite why they would ever need one of those was a...

  Something was different. He didn’t come into the building every day. In fact it had been at least a week since his last visit, and that was only to check the fuse box when his electrics had gone down. He took a moment, moving his eyes to the door and then back again. The cross, the pathetic three-dollar crucifix, was gone. He felt his temper rise again. Was nothing sacred? He giggled like a schoolgirl at the phrase.

  But still, if someone thought it was okay to steal something that belonged to the Church, and therefore by association to him, they had no respect for his position, for his power. He marched over to the altar and stared at the circular indentation the base of the crucifix had made in the cloth.

  The fire escape door wobbled gently in the corner. That was obviously where they had got in. Little bastards. He stepped to the side of the altar, meaning to close the door, but he didn’t get any farther.

  John Donovan was huddled against the back of the altar, his knees pulled up to his chest, rocking back and forth. The crucifix was pressed against his forehead.

  He was momentarily stunned by the sight but it took only a second for anger to come hurtling to the surface.

  “What the f... What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “You shouldn’t be in here!”

  He took a step closer when Donovan failed to answer, but not within striking distance.

  “I’m talking to you!” he shouted. “Answer me!”

  He was greeted with silence. The man just rocked back and forth, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

  How dare he come in here? How dare he break in and take something that didn’t belong to him?

  “Look at me!” he screamed.

  And how dare he ignore him? He kicked Donovan in the thigh and stepped back. It wasn’t a hard blow. He’d kicked an insurgent so hard in the face once that one of his teeth became embedded in his boot. This was just a tap in comparison.

  Donovan fell to the side. No, not fell. He toppled. The impact of hitting the floor jarred the crucifix from his fingers and it col
lided with the wall, its lowly price label on show. Donovan slithered across the floor like a snake, his fingers reaching for the totem like a baby stretching for a dropped toy.

  Cavendish watched, bemused, as Donovan grabbed it and then pushed himself against the wall and resumed his rocking. Cavendish allowed a grin to work its way across his lips, creating a lopsided sneer instead of his usual polished smile. He didn’t need to be a shrink to see the guy had lost, or was well on his way to losing, his marbles.

  “I think the cops might be looking for you,” he said, slipping his hand into his pocket and bringing out his cell. “Burglary, especially of a church, is a very serious crime.” He watched Donovan for a reaction to the next part. “But they’re far more interested in what happened to Phil Moody. How you hammered a dozen nails through his head and cut his balls off.”

  Nothing. The kid didn’t even blink. He just kept staring straight ahead. Cavendish followed his line of sight but there was nothing to see except the white cloth overhanging the altar.

  He’d seen it before in Iraq. The thousand-yard stare. Boys on the battlefield with images so clear, so real and so utterly horrific that they were locked into it, their minds trapped in that moment forever. What had Donovan seen that did this to him?

  He crouched down to his side. “Pussy,” he whispered into his ear. It sent a flutter of aching desire up through his groin and into his stomach.

  “Fag pussy.” He pulled away and jumped up, disgusted with himself. There was something more than just plain old sexual arousal going on here. Something more than just the heat he felt when he watched the girls on Flesh 69. This was akin to the stimulation he experienced with Courtney. It burned hotter, fiercer and seemingly without regard for the gender of the other person. It was about as far away from love, whatever that was, or lovemaking as was humanly possible.

  In Courtney’s case it was delicious, something to be savored like a rare fillet, but in this instance it was repellent; a disgusting and disgraceful sensation that should be locked away forever.

  Instinctively he spat at Donovan, just as he had spat on the dead Iraqi scum. It landed on his shirt but he didn’t notice, didn’t change position. At that moment Cavendish believed he could have done just about anything he wanted to John Donovan and he would have allowed it. A vile thought crept into his mind. He shuddered and turned away from the other man.

  What he should do was call the cops. Leave a message on Taylor’s phone that John Donovan had broken into the church and was near-catatonic. In his opinion, the man had done or seen something terrible and had locked himself down. Oh, and by the way, Sheriff, what exactly is all that hoo-ha in town this morning?

  He could go and fetch his suit and decant some of the Phil Moody’s gore onto Donovan’s shirt. That would get the Sheriff hard. But, then he’d get blood on himself again. They might want to look inside his house or take samples from him. All it took was one errant bloody thread, one stained fingernail, to land him in trouble. It was all a bit too close to home.

  He turned back around and looked at Donovan, the tingle of excitement still tickling his balls. He couldn’t stand to let go of his new toy just yet. There might be some fun to be had.

  Donovan was still rocking to and fro, the glazed look of despair in his eyes with his fingers clasped tightly around the cheap wooden crucifix. Nothing new, except for the way his lips moved, the occasional click as his lips came together, but other than that he was silent.

  “Got something to say?” Cavendish sneered, crouching down again.

  The pace of Donovan’s rocking increased tenfold in an instant. His body jerked backward and then forward, jarring his back against the wall, making a bass-drum boom with each impact.

  His lips moved in a blur, and as Cavendish moved closer he heard Donovan’s whispered chant. The guy had well and truly lost his marbles. It sounded like he was asking for a bath mat.

  “Can’t promise you a bath, Mr Donovan, but if you come with me we can work something else out.” He moved around, almost squatting over him and hooked his hands in Donovan’s armpits. There was no resistance and Cavendish was able to hoist him into a standing position easily.

  He tried not to look at him as he put his arm around Donovan’s shoulder and guided him toward the office on the opposite wall to the fire escape. He couldn’t take him home, he might be seen. Besides, Adolf Shitler might wonder what was going on. The office was fine. It abutted his home and was entirely enclosed without any windows.

  He kicked open the door and sat Donovan down on the only piece of furniture in the room – an old wooden chair. It belonged in a country kitchen but it would do for now.

  “Here we go. You just stay right there until I decide what I’m going to do with you.”

  He stepped back, smiling. Donovan’s lips moved frantically, his whispered voice little more than a hiss but the same words just kept spilling out.

  “And for fuck’s sake, shut up about the fucking bath mat would you.” He slapped Donovan across the cheek. It felt wonderful.

  He wiggled his fingers, feeling the charge rushing through his bones, and lifted his hand again to deliver another smack but a police siren screamed past on the road out front, making him jump. He lowered his hand. He needed to go and tidy up his place before Shitler arrived. He needed to get rid of all traces of Phil Moody from his kitchen and bedroom.

  He walked to the door but just before he walked through, he turned around and winked at Donovan. “Maybe I’ll cut your tongue out instead. Won’t be any more bath mats then, will there?”

  He closed the door behind him and locked it, using a key from his chain.

  25

  Cavendish had only met Theo Lunn in person on one occasion – the interview. It was the one and only time he had ever been for a formal interview. When he joined the Marines he had been inducted, not interviewed, and it was a brief affair. He would never admit it but looking back on the event, it had been a frightening experience.

  He’d showered again, washing the last traces of Phil Moody’s reek off his body. He’d masturbated too. He had energy to discharge before Shitler arrived. Being in possession of that extra zip was likely to distract him and he couldn’t afford that. Not with New York as a potential result of the meeting. The source of that extra zip was the presence of John Donovan, locked in the office, in the torture chamber, just a few feet away.

  He straightened his pale blue silk tie and adjusted the collars on his shirt. It was a shame his favorite suit was out of action but this one would have to do. He tucked the shirt into his trousers and felt a stirring in his groin. It seemed Donovan’s proximity was having an effect on his zip restoration. A positive but, at this exact moment, unwelcome one.

  “Not now,” he whispered, looking at his reflection in the mirror. Over his shoulder, the beige carpet was stained with an ugly brown splodge. To anyone else it would appear to be a coffee stain but Cavendish knew it was part of Phil Moody’s left testicle; unrecognizable as such but it had dropped off the sleeve on the right arm of his suit as he was picking it up to push it into the wardrobe. The stringy residue was all it could be.

  He smiled at himself. He was good looking; a clean-cut, well-proportioned man with a killer smile. And a killer personality. He laughed. He was funny too. What organization wouldn’t want someone like him to lead the way? Christ, give him a couple of years and he would be sitting in Shitler’s chair interviewing someone for the post at Hemlock Mill.

  A bang on the door tipped him out of all thoughts about Shitler’s leather chair and deposited him back in his room. He took a deep breath and walked along the corridor toward the door. It was already half-open by the time he reached it. He was about to curse them for their rudeness when Theo Lunn stepped into the hall. He turned slowly and looked the Reverend up and down. It felt like being run through an X-ray machine. He looked immaculate. His suit was a level or three up from Cavendish’s own, and his blonde hair was clipped short and clearly groomed with products the
Reverend considered were for fags and pussies.

  “Theo!” Cavendish exclaimed, walking forward with his hand outstretched. “You made good time.”

  Shitler ignored his hand, choosing to look past him to the kitchen. “You’ve cleaned up the mess then?”

  “Mess?” Cavendish said. “I’m sorry, what mess?”

  Shitler looked him up and down again before walking to the kitchen.

  Cavendish followed behind. He was working hard to conceal his anger at such a display of rudeness, almost contempt.

  Shitler reached the kitchen and looked around. It didn’t take him long.

  “You missed a bit.” He pointed at a mark on the tile behind the sink. Cavendish followed his finger. There was a small brown dot, no larger than a speck really. It could have been anything.

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure what you’re driving at. It’s meat...”

  “Oh it’s meat alright, a tenderized portion of town-drunk is what it is.”

  Cavendish felt his mind shift away from his body. Just a fraction but enough to make him think he was dreaming.

  “I... err... I’m...” He realized he was shaking his head but he felt powerless to stop it. His denial was being usurped by utter incomprehensible shock.

  Shitler waved a dismissive hand, smiled at him and then walked over to the stain. He leaned forward to get a closer look and then touched it with his forefinger. He sniffed it and then turned back to Cavendish who was rooted to the spot in disbelief.

  “Careless.” He examined the spot once again and then walked back to Cavendish. He presented it on the end of his finger as if it were an enticing morsel of cake.

  “Open wide,” he said, pushing it toward the Reverend.

  Cavendish looked at the man and then back to the speck on the tip of his finger. What the hell was happening here? This was his house, his castle. It must be a dream. He couldn’t lose control of things like this, so quickly and without resistance.