by Shaun Hutson
He would see men die, he knew that. But he had no fear for his own life. Why should he?
As he rounded a corner he saw the first splash of colour.
Red. Vivid and almost dazzling.
The colour of blood.
It took him a second to realise that the paint was spattered across a headstone.
Patterson took several hesitant steps towards the stone, his eyes narrowed against the sun which was burning so brightly above him.
He saw that the paint was also on another stone.
He made out letters this time. Words.
GOD IS FUCKED
smeared on a white marble stone.
CHRIST CUNT
scrawled over a plinth.
‘Oh no,’ Patterson whispered.
Another headstone had been smashed, shattered by a heavy instrument. Pieces of stone were scattered over the dark earth.
He saw something else on the ground near by, on a grave.
It was excrement.
More of it was smeared on a white marble headstone close to him.
Patterson shook his head.
Not again.
One of the graves had been dug up.
He hurried across to it and saw that the stone had not been touched but, instead, daubed with something. A symbol. A shape?
Earth was scattered everywhere. The coffin was lying at the graveside, the top smashed in. There was more paint on the polished wood, more writing.
CUNT
Further on, to his left, he saw more earth had been disturbed. Another box had been disinterred, dragged from its resting place so that it stood almost vertically in the dirt.
There was black paint on the lid of that box and, again, no words, just a symbol. The same symbol as had been painted on the gravestone.
It took Patterson a moment to realise what it was. His mind was reeling.
In red on the stone. In black on the casket.
The sign he saw was a pentagram.
Twenty-five
There was a sharp crackle as another wasp flew into the ‘Insectocutor’ mounted on the wall of the cafe.
Catherine Reed looked up and noticed that there were already half a dozen charred shapes displayed on the glowing blue bars, like tiny hunters’ trophies.
Apart from herself and Phillip Cross, there were only five people in the cafe.
A couple was chatting and laughing at a table close to the door. Over to her right a man was poring over a newspaper, one finger constantly pushing his tea cup from side to side on the Formica-topped table.
One of the white-aproned waiters was chatting to a young woman who had a map of London laid out on the table before her. Cath watched as the waiter pointed to the map every now and then.
An older man, rugged and unkempt, sat alone in one of the booths at the far end of the cafe, an overcoat wrapped around him, despite the warmth inside the building. Steam rose in a steady cloud from the top of the tea urn perched behind the counter, where two more members of staff were talking while one buttered bread.
A television set, the sound turned down, sat high in one corner close to the door, the performers speaking and moving silently for those who cared to glance at them.
The air smelled of fried food and coffee.
Phillip Cross took a sip of his tea and looked at Cath. ‘How did your meal go last night?’ he asked, trying to inject some kind of interest into his voice.
‘Your brother, wasn’t it?’
Cath regarded him silently for a moment.
‘He’s got a few problems at the moment,’ she said, quietly.
‘What time did he leave?’
‘About eleven. Why?’
Cross shrugged.
‘Just curious,’ he said, pushing a forkful of chips into his mouth.
‘It was my brother, Phil,’ Cath said, irritably.
‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that, haven’t I?’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.
‘Look, even if it wasn’t my brother, it’s none of your fucking business who I have at my flat.’
‘What about us?’
‘What about us? We’re not married, for Christ’s sake. When are you going to accept that this isn’t some big bloody romance, Phil? We both agreed we didn’t want any ties.’
‘You didn’t want any ties,’ he corrected her.
‘So now what? You want a commitment from me?’ she snapped.
There was another sharp hiss of electricity as one more wasp struck the glowing blue bars.
‘Look, I don’t mean to pressure you, Cath,’ Cross replied. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’m coming on a bit too strong. But I think a lot of you.’
She smiled. ‘Thanks.’
‘Why do I get the feeling that it’s not reciprocated?’ Cross added bitterly.
‘I’ve been on my own a long time, Phil’ she told him. ‘I like my own company.
I’ve been in relationships before and they always end up getting too heavy.’
‘It was with the wrong guys’ he offered.
She looked at him over the rim of her cup.
‘And what if you’re the wrong guy too? Where does that leave me?’
‘Me. I. Myself. This conversation is a bit one-sided, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever stopped to think about my bloody feelings?’
‘This isn’t the time or the place, Phil-‘ she began.
‘It never is’ he hissed.
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you mind?’ she asked, noticing that he was still eating.
Cross shook his head.
She lit up.
‘So, what sort of morning have you had?’ she asked, a smile hovering on her lips.
Cross shook his head, trying to keep a straight face but failing.
‘I should fucking hate you’ he said, grinning.
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
‘All I’m asking is that you see things from my point of view. I don’t think you realise how much I think of you.’
She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded slowly.
‘I think I do’ she said quietly.
The face of a newsreader glared out at her from the silent television screen.
Something flashed onto the screen. Uniformed policemen.
A graveyard.
The caption at the bottom of the picture read: Croydon Cemetery.
Cath got to her feet and hurried across to the TV set, curious glances following her sudden movement. She turned up the sound and stood close to the set, staring at it as if hypnotised.
She heard the voice of the priest. The caption told her his name was Colin Patterson.
‘.. . third time this kind of thing has happened here in less than two months.
I find it disgusting and I think the people who did this need help. It’s appalling…’
‘Wasn’t that where you said there’d been desecrations a few days ago?’ Cath called to Cross, who had now turned in his seat to look at the screen.
Other faces, too, were glancing at the set.
‘I’ve still got the pictures at home’ the photographer said.
‘We never ran anything on it, did we?’
‘They stuck a couple of columns inside. I think they used one small photo.’
‘Croydon Cemetery’ Cath murmured to herself.
The picture changed, the story shifted. The newsreader was talking about a new school in Hampstead.
Cath turned the sound back down.
As she sat down at the table she ground out what was left of her cigarette.
‘Didn’t you say there’d been other desecrations there, before you took those photos a couple of days ago?’ she asked, her gaze fixed on Cross.
‘I only overheard the vicar talking to a couple of people while I was there’ Cross explained. ‘He r
eckoned there’d been stuff going on for months.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘I didn’t hear properly.’
Cath was already on her feet.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Cross demanded.
‘Croydon Cemetery. I want to speak to that priest. Fancy a drive?’
‘Cath, I can’t, I’m due at Heathrow this afternoon, Madonna’s flying in, they want pictures….’
‘Then I’ll see you later’
‘Cath, wait’ Cross called, fumbling in his camera bag. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed her a small pocket camera. ‘You might need it.’
She smiled at him.
Then she was gone.
Cross looked up, watching as another insect perished amidst a loud crackle.
The scorched fly dropped to the floor.
He drained what was left in his tea cup.
Twenty-six
Cath had never seen so many cars at a cemetery.
The car park and most of the street outside were crammed with vehicles.
Inside it was swarming with people, many of whom, she assumed, had also seen the report on lunchtime TV and come fearing that the resting places of their own relatives might have been disturbed.
She could only guess at how many people had converged on Croydon Cemetery during the two hours it had taken her to drive there.
Once within the sprawling churchyard she’d had little difficulty finding the Reverend Colin Patterson. He had been walking agitatedly back and forth, speaking to anyone who came to him or who he felt was in need of some comforting words.
In his black robe and standing over six feet tall, he was an imposing, almost threatening, figure and, Cath noted somewhat guiltily, rather good looking.
Not the kind of priest she would normally expect to find.
After a brief introduction, she got straight down to business. ‘Have you any idea who might have done this?’ she asked, pulling the pocket camera from her handbag and looking through the viewfinder.
She focused on a gravestone which bore the words god is fucked in large red letters. She snapped away.
‘No idea’ Patterson told her, sighing.
‘Could it be a personal thing, against you?’ she enquired, moving closer to another of the headstones.
This one was smeared with excrement. The smell was strong in the air. Flies buzzed round excitedly.
‘Priests don’t make many enemies, Miss Reed’ said Patterson.
‘Besides, if it was personal, whoever did this would have come after me.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she told him, snapping off more shots.
Patterson walked a couple of paces behind her as she moved amongst the disturbed earth and the smashed stones.
‘Did you call the police?’
‘They’ve been and gone. They took samples of that’ he pointed disgustedly to the pile of excrement that had been left on top of one grave. ‘They dusted the headstones for fingerprints.’
‘Did they have any ideas who might be responsible?’
‘No.’
‘Were any bodies actually removed from their coffins?’
‘No, thank God. A couple were broken but no remains were touched.’
Cath took several pictures of one such battered coffin, leaning forward to look at the nameplate. Louise banks. She glanced at the black marble headstone which bore the same name. It was spattered with red paint.
Cath read the inscription: Louise banks, aged 16
MONTHS. SLEEP IN PEACE.
She took a step back, glanced at another headstone, this one smeared with excrement.
She read it.
And the one next to it.
She took photos of them both.
‘Father, have you noticed something about the graves which have been desecrated?’ Cath asked.
Patterson looked at her. ‘They’re all children’ he said, softly.
Cath nodded.
‘Not one of them over the age of four’ she murmured.
She moved along to another headstone.
‘Why children?’ she mused.
Patterson had no answer for her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Reed. I can’t begin to understand the type of mind that could do this.’ He made a sweeping gesture with one large hand, designed to encompass all the devastation.
‘When it happened before, were the graves which were disturbed children’s graves too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a list of names of those graves that I could see?’
‘What good will it do?’
‘There could be a link between them. If we find that link, we might find the reason it was done.’
‘What reason could anyone have for disturbing the body of a child once it’s been laid to rest?’ Patterson rasped.
Cath snapped another of the shattered headstones. On the plinth was a roughly drawn pentagram.
She looked at the priest.
‘The list?’ she asked.
‘I keep it in the church’ he told her. ‘And while you’re there, there’s something else I think you should see.’
Twenty-seven
She knew they were watching her.
Shanine Connor walked slowly through the perfume department of Selfridge’s and she knew that the women behind the counters were looking at her. Plastered with make-up and smelling of expensive scent, they followed her every movement with their mascara-shrouded eyes.
Some of the other customers glanced at her too as she made her way through the maze of glass counters, occasionally picking up one of the many testers and spraying her wrist. She didn’t even bother to sniff the fragrance, but the collective aromas helped to smother the more acrid smell of her own dried perspiration.
Shanine caught sight of her own reflection in one of the many mirrors and saw how pale and drawn she looked. Her hair needed washing and she ran a hand through it, wiping that hand on her grubby jeans.
She moved onwards, through the torrent of shoppers, all of who seemed to be moving in the opposite direction. In the jewellery department she paused and inspected some gold-plated chains hanging from a felt board.
The assistant behind the counter moved across and smiled efficiently at her.
‘Can I help you’ she asked, no softness in her voice.
Shanine shook her head and walked on, past the bracelets and watches, through stationery and pens.
Her stomach rumbled as she smelled food.
To her left, up a short flight of steps was the food hall.
The exquisite aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted invitingly on the air and Shanine inhaled deeply.
She looked around, at the confectionery which seemed to surround her. She put out a hand and scooped a couple of wine gums into her palm, pushing them quickly into her mouth before anyone noticed.
As she moved slowly up the steps towards the main food hall, she spotted a security camera overhead.
Fuck it. She hadn’t expected things to be easy.
She passed a fresh fish counter, the smell of seafood almost overpowering. Two Americans, distinguishable by their size and appalling taste in clothes as well as accents, were busy prodding a large salmon which the assistant had laid out for their inspection.
Shanine wandered by, picking up a basket as she entered the small maze of shelves lined with all manner of tinned, packet and fresh foods.
Come on. Do it quickly.
She walked awkwardly with the holdall over one shoulder, aware that it made her more conspicuous and, as she rounded a corner, she bumped into a woman who was leading a child around, practically dragging the youngster by his arm.
Shanine put a loaf of bread into her basket.
A packet of bread rolls she slipped into the holdall.
Tins of corned beef.
No good. How the hell would she get them open?
She found the packet meat. Slipped two packs of luncheon meat into her basket, two more into the bag.
Com
e on. Come on.
The woman with the child was just ahead of her, inspecting some fresh fruit.
Shanine bagged up some apples and bananas and dropped them into her basket, accidentally knocking several of the Golden Delicious onto the floor as she turned. Cursing, she dropped to her knees and started to retrieve them.
She pushed three inside the bag.
The woman with the child kneeled down and helped her pick up the other two.
‘Thanks,’ said Shanine.
The woman smiled, glanced at Shanine’s basket then at the holdall.
Did she know?
Shanine moved around into the next aisle.
A member of staff was stacking shelves there, pricing each can before placing it carefully in position.
She too gave Shanine a cursory glance.
Above her, she saw another security camera.
She moved into the next aisle.
Bars of chocolate. Sweets.
She scooped several Mars Bars into the holdall.
Enough’s enough.
She headed for the check-out, saw that only one till was open. There was a small queue.
The exit door was just beyond.
No doorman.
She stood in the queue, her heart pounding.
No one watching the door.
She never saw the woman with the child beckon a member of staff to her.
Never saw her pointing at Shanine.
Two to go, then she was at the check-out.
Shanine turned, trying to look unconcerned, despite the fact that she felt her heart was about to burst through her ribs.
She saw the uniformed member of staff walking down the aisle, gaze fixed on her.
That’s it.
Shanine dropped the basket, leaped to one side and hurdled the chain next to the other till, dashing for the door.
She heard shouts behind her.
Shanine crashed into the door, hurled it open and dashed out into the street, glancing behind her.
She saw two members of staff emerge seconds behind her. One of them shouted something which she didn’t hear.
Shanine turned the first corner and ran as fast as she could.
When she finally looked back there was no one following.
She kept running.
Twenty-eight
The steps leading down to the crypt were narrow, the stonework shiny with hundreds of years of wear.