[Ben Whittle Investigations 01.0] The Revelation Room

by Mark Tilbury

  Ebb smiled. The Revelation Room was a lot to digest in one sitting. Tweezer hadn’t reacted when Ebb had first showed him the skeletons, but then Tweezer was a psychopath and a rapist.

  Ebb didn’t think it prudent to tell Marcus that Brother Gerald had rescued him from the streets. Given him a home in his flat. Educated him and taught him the importance of widening his vocabulary. Introduced him to religion and the art of lovemaking. These facts were like discussing the foetus in relation to the man. Important, but unnecessary.

  Brother Gerald had even sold his flat and persuaded Cyril Penghilly that his rundown farm would be better served as a commune and a place of worship. Brother Gerald had befriended Cyril in church after the farmer’s wife had died, but Ebb hadn’t been interested in such trivialities. All he’d been concerned with was building The Sons and Daughters of Salvation into a thriving community.

  Ebb had been truly shocked the day Jesus had come to him in the form of a watermelon to tell him of Brother Gerald’s traitorous nature. Even more surprised when Jesus had insisted he elicit a confession from Brother Gerald by tying him to the bed and torturing him with a razor blade and vinegar. By the time they’d hoisted Brother Gerald up in an old fishing net in the barn, the man had admitted to the crimes of perversion, jealousy, greed and envy. Praise Jesus.

  ‘Things were good with Brother Gerald for a while. But when Satan is buried deep within, I’m afraid there can only be one outcome. The transformation was terrible to see. Terrible.’

  Marcus held Max’s leash a little too tight for Ebb’s liking. ‘Let go of Max, Brother Marcus. You’re in danger of throttling her.’

  Marcus dropped the leash. He looked as if he might be about to throw up. Or run. Or challenge the wisdom of Jesus Christ.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Just a bit—’

  ‘Shocked?’

  ‘A little, Father.’

  ‘Don’t be. Even I doubted Jesus’s wisdom at first. But He does not lie. Take that poor wretch on the floor. What do you see?’

  ‘Tweezer?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘A man who’s wounded, Father.’

  ‘Do you take pity on him?’

  ‘A bit. I still don’t believe—’

  Ebb held up a hand. ‘He tried to rape Madeline.’

  ‘I know, Father.’

  ‘Rape her and subject her to the most terrifying ordeal imaginable. Now he garners pity, because that is always Satan’s trump card, is it not?’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘So let’s not be fooled. The man is alive with demons, just as Brother Gerald was before him. We must root out evil as we find it before it takes hold and destroy us all. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Marcus’s eyes seemed to contradict his words. He’d have to watch him carefully. He moved on to Cyril. ‘This is Brother Cyril. He wasn’t a member of The Sons and Daughters of Salvation. It might be prudent to describe him as more of a founder.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  Ebb was in no mood to go into detail. He didn’t bear Cyril Penghilly any malice. It had simply been a clash of ideals. Cyril believed the farm belonged to him. Ebb didn’t. What Cyril failed to remember was that Ebb had given him the sum of eighty thousand pounds to secure the services of the farm. Well, technically Brother Gerald had given him the money from the sale of his flat, but you didn’t want to split hairs on a bald head.

  ‘He wanted to go east, I wanted to go west. He died without fuss or fanfare.’

  Marcus looked at the skeleton as if trying to seek the truth from its bones.

  Ebb moved on and pointed the rifle at the skeleton in the pink wig. ‘And this is the mother of all creation.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I shall discuss her in more detail when we have more time.’

  ‘It’s his fucking mother,’ Tweezer shouted. ‘His own fucking mother.’

  Ebb pointed the rifle back at Tweezer. ‘Lies fall from your tongue like confetti at a wedding, my friend.’

  Tweezer propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I’m not lying. It’s his own mother. He battered her to death with a shovel.’

  Ebb considered emptying the rifle into Tweezer. But bullets were too good to waste on his sorry soul. ‘Perhaps I should set Maxine upon you? Help you with the truth?’

  ‘It is the truth.’

  Ebb ignored him and turned his attention back to Marcus. ‘God will be the judge of him.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Ebb wondered if he should reconsider his decision to trust Marcus. There was something unsavoury lurking in the man’s eyes. He might be good at dealing drugs. A competent musician if your ears were inclined towards trashy pop music. But was he really up to the mark for dealing with the finer points of faith?

  He walked to the far corner of the room and rested the gun against the wall. He then picked up his shovel. It was a pity he hadn’t been able to retain the services of the shovel that had shamed his mother. That would have been the icing on the wig. But this one still felt good in his hands. Weighty. Balanced. Bubba had sharpened the edges with an angle grinder in the workshop. Sharpened them to guillotine status.

  He walked to where Tweezer lay mewling on the floor like a tomcat that had just had its balls bitten by a shit-house rat. Ebb hummed. A tuneless hum, born of contentment rather than melody. He liked the analogy of Tweezer and a tomcat. Unfortunately for Tweezer, his strutting days were over. He’d pounced on the wrong bird when he’d assaulted Madeline.

  28

  Ben lay on his bunk. Every bone in his body felt broken, every joint on fire, every nerve on high alert. The dark accentuated his suffering. He had no idea of the time, or how long he’d been lying there. He wanted to get up, get his joints moving, but pain pinned him to the bed. Crucified him, you might say.

  His father was dead; he’d been close to death when he’d interrupted youth club with that awful phone call. What Ben couldn’t understand was what had possessed him to think he could somehow rescue him. Now they were all going to die, right here on this stinking farm. Cause of death: stupidity.

  There was a sliver of moon framed in the sash window. It looked like a small ‘C’ carved upon the black canvas of sky. C for condemned. Ben arched his back to relieve the stress at the base of his spine. The movement ignited pain in his tortured limbs. He sank back onto the lumpy mattress and tried to relax. Tried to breathe into the pain the way Pastor Tom had taught him to all those years ago when he’d jumped from the conker tree. The pain didn’t seem to have much regard for relaxation techniques.

  He gasped for air in the stifling heat of the room. He always slept with his bedroom window open at home. No such luxury here. He turned his head to one side. He could just see Bubba silhouetted in the dim light of the moon. ‘Are you awake?’

  Bubba nodded.

  Ben eased himself over onto his right side. ‘Why can’t you talk?’

  Bubba didn’t respond.

  Ben’s mother would have asked Bubba if the cat had got his tongue. They had a cat at home. CJ. No one quite knew why he was called CJ, but CJ didn’t care. He killed things for fun at night and came home for his breakfast in the morning just the same.

  Ben suddenly realised how dumb the question was to a man who couldn’t speak. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’

  Bubba grunted.

  ‘Do you want to communicate with me?’

  Bubba nodded.

  ‘I’ll ask you some questions. Just nod your head for yes and shake your head for no. Okay?’

  Bubba sat up on his bunk and nodded.

  ‘Ebb said you worked for Cyril when he took over the farm. Is that right?’

  Bubba nodded.

  ‘Ebb said Cyril had an accident with a tractor. Is that right?’

  Bubba shook his head.

  ‘What happened to him?’

  No answer.

  ‘Did Ebb do something to Cyril?’

  Yes.


  ‘Did Ebb kill him?’

  Yes.

  The insides of Ben’s things went clammy, like when he was a kid and about to throw up. ‘Did you see him kill Cyril?’

  Bubba nodded and thumped the wooden bed frame.

  Ben forced himself to get up. He hobbled across the room to Bubba’s bunk. ‘Why did Ebb kill him?’

  Bubba shrugged.

  ‘Did Ebb do something to you?’

  Bubba nodded.

  ‘What did he do?’

  Bubba pointed to his mouth and then rested his forefinger on his lips.

  ‘He cut out your tongue?’

  Bubba nodded.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The moon cast an eerie glow across Bubba’s face. Tears shimmered in his eyes. He drew his index finger across his throat.

  Ben didn’t need words to understand Bubba’s simple message. They were all going to die.

  Bubba stood up and walked over to the window.

  Ben wanted to tell Bubba that it would be all right if they stuck together. If they made a plan. Together they could be strong. Ebb had control because individually they were weak. If solidarity could bring down the Iron Curtain, toppling Ebb ought to be a doddle.

  Come on, Stutter-buck, what are you going to do?

  Images swirled in his head. Thirteen again. Stuck in the conker tree. Kids standing around the tree like a lynch mob in an old Western movie. Kids throwing sticks at him. Throwing conkers at him. Calling him Stutter-buck. Chicken shit. Yellow-belly.

  Come on, Stutter-buck, whatcha gonna do? Stay up in that tree all night?

  Such a long way down. Fifteen feet, give or take a tall tale. Might as well have been a hundred. ‘L-leave me alone.’

  It had been all right climbing the tree. Charlie Cory had helped him up onto the first branch by lifting him onto his shoulders. They’d all promised to help him down. Made him feel important. Like Superman for the day. He’d thought climbing the conker tree would help him to be accepted by them. He’d been dumb enough to believe that the stuttering kid with the mop of frizzy hair could be one of the normal guys. Wrong. He would never be one of the normal guys. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

  Come on, Stutter-buck. Jump. Use your hair as a parachute.

  ‘S-s-s-stop it.’

  He sounds like a helicopter. Time for lift-off, Stutter-buck.

  ‘I c-c-can’t.’ He needed to pee. His bladder felt like a swollen river about to burst its banks.

  Do you want mummy to come and hold your hand, Stutter-buck?

  ‘L-l-l-leave me alone.’

  Stutter-buck, Stutter-buck, useless fuck….

  His father would be waiting at home for him. Grumpy old daddy bear waiting to pounce on him if he arrived so much as a minute late. And, boy, was he going to be late. To add to his woes, his new trousers would be all messed up if he jumped.

  He was nothing more than a useless Stutter-buck. Too chicken to jump out of a conker tree. Too chicken to fight back. Too chicken to reclaim his identity from the thieves who’d stolen it.

  The other kids had all gone home for tea around five, leaving Stutter-buck glued to the branch of that conker tree. High above him, birds twittered and poked fun at him long before social media cottoned onto the idea.

  Stutter-buck didn’t jump from that tree. Not on your nelly as his father was apt to say. He slipped off the branch after his legs had gone as numb as his brain. Slammed into the ground and fractured his right knee on impact. Pastor Tom had found him lying at the base of that tree an hour later, sobbing his heart out like a little baby.

  Ben looked at Bubba. ‘I never jumped. I s-slipped. I’m a c-c-coward. A useless c-coward.’

  29

  Ebb raised the shovel above Tweezer’s head. ‘You have shamed the shovel.’

  Tweezer writhed on the floor and looked over his shoulder. ‘No, Fa—’

  Ebb brought the shovel down in a sideways arc designed to decapitate. Tweezer rolled out of the way with the dexterity of a man possessed by Satan. The shovel slammed into the concrete floor inches from Tweezer’s head.

  Ebb’s heart stomped around in his chest like a petulant child. Before he had time to raise the shovel again, Tweezer pounced. He grabbed Ebb’s left ankle and yanked hard enough to spill his assailant on top of him. The shovel slipped out of Ebb’s hands and clattered to the floor beside them.

  ‘Help me,’ Ebb squawked, as Tweezer poked him in the eye. One of Tweezer’s rings ploughed a furrow in Ebb’s cheek, deep enough to draw blood. Ebb clutched his injured eye.

  Taking advantage of his opponent’s distraction, Tweezer bucked and threw Ebb sideways. He then rolled over and pinned Ebb to the floor with his forearm across his throat. Ebb responded by kicking and thrashing and making noises that belonged to the mortally wounded. Tweezer pushed down harder, resting all his weight on Ebb’s throat.

  Ebb stared into those murderous eyes. Deceitful eyes. The eyes of Brutus. Puke decorated Tweezer’s goatee beard. Ebb wanted to cry out for mercy, but the pressure from Tweezer’s arm closed off his throat.

  Spit foamed on Tweezer’s lips. For some reason, it reminded Ebb of Briers Lock. Snot and blood dribbled out of his nose in equal measure. Ebb could see every blackhead and blemish on his attacker’s contorted face. To Ebb’s horror, Tweezer leaned closer. Ebb could smell his foul breath. For one terrible moment, Ebb thought Tweezer was going to kiss him.

  Tweezer opened his mouth wide. Like a vampire about to strike terror into a neck. But he didn’t bite his neck. No, sir. That callous swine had far worse intentions. He closed his mouth over Ebb’s nose and bit down, right through to the bone. He then chewed his way through sinew and gristle before wrenching a chunk of Ebb’s mangled nose from his face.

  The centre of Ebb’s face exploded in a ball of flame. The flames leapt into his brain and set his thoughts on fire. Ebb tried to scream, but his throat was still pinned beneath Tweezer’s weight. His legs kicked out like a dying fly stranded on its back.

  Ebb didn’t see Max attack. He didn’t even feel the dog’s teeth rip into the bottom of his right leg. His injured nose commanded control of all his senses. But as Max bit deeper and shook Ebb’s leg from side to side, the pain ripped up into his groin and seized him by the balls.

  Ebb tried to scream, but only managed to squeak and hiss. His hips gyrated as he tried to dislodge his attacker. His bare feet scraped against the concrete floor, tearing the skin and drawing blood.

  A gunshot. Way off in a distant galaxy. Perhaps a shooting star come to save mummy’s little Pixie-pea.

  Tweezer screamed. He released his grip on Ebb’s nose as the bullet hit him in the back of his neck. Tweezer stared at him with eyes that seemed to hatch from their sockets. He panted and dribbled like a rabid dog. His lips were stained crimson. A grimace stretched those bloodied lips into a wide clown’s grin.

  Ebb’s throat whistled and wheezed and did its best to scream. Stars danced and popped before his eyes. A loud thudding noise boomed in his ears. All the things he’d done for Tweezer. Saved his miserable life when the outcast had turned up at The Sons and Daughters of Salvation with no crib for a bed.

  Tweezer opened his mouth and yawned blood.

  Another shot echoed around the walls of the Revelation Room. Max released Ebb’s leg as Marcus shot her in the back. Max howled and whined as the bullet smashed through her ribs and punctured one of her lungs.

  Marcus fired again. This time, the bullet hit Tweezer in the base of his spine. It severed the spinal cord and killed him. Tweezer fell forwards and treated Ebb to fifteen stones of dead weight. By the time Marcus managed to haul Tweezer off him, Edward Ebb was unconscious and drowning in the rabid waters of Briers lock.

  Ebb regained consciousness five minutes later to find Brother Marcus hovering over him like an expectant father trying to figure out how to deliver a child. Most of his hair had escaped his ponytail in wild, sweaty strands.

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’

&nbs
p; Ebb gasped for air and prayed that the Lord would give him the strength to survive this awful unprovoked attack. He could see Tweezer lying face down on the floor a few yards to his left.

  Ebb’s throat was one step short of strangled. ‘Tweezer?’

  ‘He’s dead, Father.’

  Ebb tried to speak; it was like trying to summon words from a bog. The middle of his face felt as if it had been used to launch a rocket into space.

  ‘I shot him,’ Marcus elaborated.

  Ebb wheezed and coughed. ‘Maxine?’

  Marcus looked away. ‘She’s still breathing.’

  Ebb found his voice. ‘What do you mean? What have you done to her, you idiot?’

  ‘I shot her, Father.’

  Ebb willed his body to rise up and beat Marcus to a pulp. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I had to, Father. She attacked you.’

  This was all the fault of the Imposter. Ever since that swine had shown up, everything had gone wrong. The Imposter had somehow orchestrated the whole thing. As soon as he had sufficient bounce in his bones, he would get answers out of him by blood or by stone.

  ‘You’d better pray that Maxine doesn’t die, Brother Marcus.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know what else to do. She attacked you. She must have got confused with everything that was going on.’

  Ebb glared at Marcus. ‘That dog means more to me than anything else on this planet. So you’d better pray she doesn’t die.’

  ‘I could take him to a vet, Father.’

  ‘Max is not a “him”,’ Ebb wheezed. ‘He’s a she. And you’re not taking her to any vets. The same rule applies to animals as it does to people. We must never interfere with God’s will. If she is to die because of your gross incompetence, then that is God’s intention. Do you oppose God?’

  Marcus shook his head vigorously. ‘No. No, of course—’

  ‘Pray, Brother Marcus. Pray with all your heart.’

  ‘Now, Father?’

  Ebb ignored him. Either Marcus was trying to bait him, or he was as dumb as a muddy puddle. He pointed at Tweezer’s body. ‘Shoot him.’

  ‘But he’s already dead, Father.’