by Bowes, K T
Demons on Her Shoulder
K T Bowes
Copyright K T Bowes © 2013
Published by Hakarimata Press
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to acknowledge those who work hard to protect the sanity of victims of sexual abuse, especially at those times when they are in no position to guard it for themselves. That covers anyone who willingly gets involved, from professional organisations to shocked family members and friends. Nobody is immune from the far reaching fingers of destruction, but all can survive them if we just stick together. To the beautiful city of Lincoln, I grew up in the folds of your stone arms and ran when my childhood was lost. Yet when I returned you welcomed me, like we were old friends.
Cover Image
The photograph of the central tower of Lincoln Cathedral is courtesy of © Copyright Allan Chapman and licensed for reuse under Creative Commons Licence.
Chapter 1
The figure glowered down from his throne in the rafters as the minions circled in the darkness, submission in their downcast eyes. His stone grimace remained fixed on his tiny face but he worked the cavernous space with his personality; dividing and conquering. Anger fluttered down on nervous, leathery wings. He dared to fly closer to the stone figure than the other demons, seeking approval but fearing reprisals. Grief and Guilt perched on the head of a nearby gargoyle, bickering and watching through hooded eyelids as they jostled for grip.
The stone figure sat rigid and still, hundreds of years of pent up aggression stored in the grey, statuesque body. Yet the demons remembered his rule well, the mocking, sarcastic laugh and terrifying violence. They jockeyed for position in front of the imp, not caring how they gored each other with knotted, clawed hands. Despair took a clumsy swipe at Bereavement’s gnarled ears, cackling with mirth as distracted, he flew into a stone pillar. Depression hissed a warning, his cloying misery leaving a bitter aftertaste hanging in the air.
“Father Death, what is your pleasure?” Anger asked, bowing low before the statue and folding his tattered brown wings behind him like a crow. The sons of Death circled in a moth-like dance of worship and adoration, feeling the vibrations in the atmosphere which signified the other’s arrival on the cathedral’s ancient lead roof. The demons came every morning before dawn to pay the Lincoln Imp homage in his enforced stasis; understanding it would not last forever. The glorious and terrible day drew nearer when he would flex his arms and shatter his stone prison, unleashing his spite on the world again. He would be free to rove the earth once more and pick his own victims like in the old days. Until then, his children continued to do it for him, bringing their morsels of pain for his silent enjoyment.
The drone of approaching wings grew louder and the greater horrors landed overhead. As Murder and Violence folded leathery wings and clattered across the roof, the lesser demons received their orders and fled. The sightless, unblinking eyes of the figure perched high on the stone pillar seemed intense in the dawn light as yet more sons paid court.
The lesser demons stayed together as they flew south in bat-like formation, invisible to the sleeping city below. Daylight peeked from behind cloud curtains and their familiar aura covered the area as unsuspecting residents awoke to feelings of inexplicable heaviness and foreboding. The creatures fought and argued for dominance as they landed on a balcony in the oldest part of the city.
“Mine!” Violence hissed, landing behind them on the iron railing. Grief opened his mouth to argue for possession and closed it again as Violence sent Guilt hurtling backwards with a single well-timed blow. A nocturnal ginger cat raised its spine into an arch, hissing and spitting at the demons’ combined foulness. It blocked the glass doorway to an upstairs bedroom, teeth bared and claws ready. Violence swiped at it with a leathery wing and the cat batted with needle sharp claws which glanced off the armoured surface. It yowled in anger and clattered against a terracotta pot containing a small tree and the demon cackled with pleasure.
“Nahla.” A woman opened the bedroom door and cocked her head at the ginger cat. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here. Come in for breakfast.” She opened the door wider, shivering in a silken nightgown which shadowed the outline of a slender female body. The cat picked itself up and shook its thick winter pelt which glistened orange in the frosty light. It stalked past the demons, eyes sparkling with defiance as they held their breath. The cat sat in front of the door and inspected a paw as though disinterested, wanting the demons to betray themselves in a white cloud of exhalations in the frigid air. The woman shivered and shifted her bare feet, desperate to lock out the cold. “Get in here now!” She lurched at the cat and seized it in determined fingers, cradling the wiggling ginger ball to her exposed cleavage.
“Why do we have to play this silly game every morning?” the woman laughed, pressing her lips into the cat’s furry neck. It growled in anger as the lesser demons, eager to begin their meddling, slipped through the open doorway and into the bedroom. Guilt leapt onto the bedsheets which were rucked up from the woman’s disturbed sleep. He rolled onto his hairy back and wiped his scent over the fabric. The cat hissed and flew from the woman’s arms, scratching her in the process as it chased shadows. The woman shook her head and closed the door on Violence, turning the key and peering at the red welt on her forearm. “Not sure why I put up with you,” she murmured at the bouncing feline, watching as the ginger cat did back flips on the bed as though catching moths.
The lesser demons stalked around the upstairs apartment, dogging the woman’s steps as she showered and dressed for work. Her mood became pensive as they began the daily, psychological torture on which they thrived, drawing attention to the scars on her perfect skin and reminding her of the past.
Chapter 2
The clamour of irrepressible sobbing erupted suddenly and without warning. Jayden kept her demure face neutral as the overweight client in front of her crumpled into the swollen armchair like a deflated airbed. The tissues sat a fraction to the left of her seat, just within reach. A jug of cold water condensated on the coffee table next to three robust looking glasses.
Jayden kept still, determined not to halt the spell. It took weeks to achieve a mood of resolution and she doubted her own effectiveness as a mediator. Her mind wandered back over long, frustrating hours of pushing the knotty issue round and around in a giant, self-defeating circle. She released the sigh with care so it wouldn’t be heard and waited for the discourse to go exactly nowhere. Demons sat on the large woman’s shoulder, unseen but there; their aura of hopelessness powerful in the silent room. Grief. Bitterness. Rejection. Sinking in their claws, they patted the woman’s neck with filthy, clammy hands.
Jayden knew them well. They plagued her dreams; returning in the quiet moments to illuminate her failings and highlight the deceit which surrounded her life. She wrestled them off, binding their influence but knowing they returned when she grew distracted or complacent, forcing her to begin the process again. Sometimes remembered pain made her forget to close the doors of her heart and they took up lodging, making a mess like unwanted house guests with no leaving date.
The box of tissues slid towards the leaking woman with deliberate slowness. It picked up momentum as sobbing wracked her body like a detonation. Pandora’s Box flipped open, sending the woman out of control. Her whole frame shook and wobbled in the chair like an oversize pink blancmange and Jayden feared her client might pitch out of its depths and onto the floor. The tissues reached the end of the ta
ble and became visible to the woman as she swiped the back of her hand across her sticky nose. Jayden watched her with care. Desperation oozed from every pore as her brokenness became visible in all its cancerous horror. The transformation looked painful and tragic to watch, but well overdue. With shaking, manicured hands, the poor wife reached out and snatched the uppermost tissue and realising it wasn’t enough, made a swift grab for another five.
Liquid poured from every facial orifice, a year’s worth of poisonous anguish leaking out from the blonde woman’s pain-encrusted soul. It wouldn’t cease any time soon. From the matching chair next to her, a hairy hand reached for the water jug and poured a halting stream of icy refreshment into a clean glass. A tremor in the stubby fingers made the water slosh as he held it up to his companion’s face, his own expression filled with fear. Guilt fluttered around his head, landing and taking off into the tense atmosphere.
The crying ceased and Jayden stiffened with concern. The woman turned her face to the left, snot and tears running like a coloured waterfall. It spread mascara and foundation wherever it touched. Her movements were slow and the man should have seen it coming. But then he should have seen a lot of things coming and hadn’t. She grasped the glass in her sodden fingers and Jayden’s eyes widened as she read the unveiled emotion in her client’s puffy face. Too late. The water cascaded into the man’s eyes, moving through the air in a graceful arc. The glass followed, thudding hard into his forehead without smashing. As it fell to the thick maroon carpet with a muted thump, the woman launched herself, pounding his head, neck, chest and face. She dodged his outstretched arms like a flyweight boxer.
Jayden exhaled and wondered when to break it up, knowing her squeals of alarm wouldn’t help. No other weapons presented themselves within easy reach, but it didn’t matter anyway. Sobbing, the woman slumped over the man, pinning him to the chair. He stretched his arms around her wide frame and patted her back as though she was a child. Without making a sound, the counsellor left her comfy chair and exited the room, leaving the door ajar. She walked to the kitchenette behind the reception desk and began to make hot drinks; a pot of tea for the women and coffee for him.
“Good session?” the receptionist asked, running cold water into a glass and taking a sip.
“Kind of.” Jayden bashed the tea bags around the inside of the pot with a teaspoon, avoiding the scalding hot water and loading the tray with drink paraphernalia. “It’s meant to be a joint session. Weeks we’ve been leading to this moment and the poor guy had no support.”
“That’s the vicar’s fault,” the receptionist said, lowing her voice. “He knows you need two counsellors for restorative couples’ counselling. He’s an idiot.”
Jayden nodded and hefted the tray. Her office emitted no sounds of violence. She knew why she’d been so reluctant to ask that one significant question and wished her male colleague had witnessed the outburst of emotion so they could discuss it later. She vowed in future to wait, the single sentence rocking everyone’s world.
“Tell your husband how his affair made you feel?”
Chapter 3
“Night, Sal.” Jayden waved to the receptionist as she closed her office door, locked it and walked towards the ill-fitting glass exit. Sal waved back with enthusiasm, blonde hair bobbing on a pale face. She nodded towards Campion’s closed door.
“He’s still in his four o’clock session,” she said, her face drawing into a frown. “He’s not great at time keeping, but do you think I should disturb him? What if he’s having problems?”
Jayden narrowed her eyes at the office door adjacent to hers and shook her head. “At six feet four inches tall and a black belt, he can’t be physically out of his depth. And he’d always buzz for help if things got out of hand.” He hadn’t yet, not in eight years of working there. Japanese genetics carefully blended with the frame of a football line-backer made him an interesting combination of distinctive, powerful features. Jayden shook her head. “He’s fine. Hang around if you’re really worried but he’ll walk out looking mystified to see you.” She turned towards the doors and took a grateful step forward.
“Jayden! I’m glad I caught you!”
“You didn’t!” Jayden administered her brusque retort without turning around. “I’ve finished for the day.”
“Yes but wait. I need to see you.” The vicar let the interconnecting door swing closed and waddled to reach her before she got to the exit and took flight like a slender blackbird. “About before, you’re the counsellors, not me.”
Jayden turned her lithe body in his direction, giving him her full attention. Lengthy dark hair cascaded down her back in boisterous waves and her startling green eyes bore into him as she moved to regard his earnest, florid face. The force of her presence knocked the man off his determined stride and gave her the break she needed. She leaned in towards his clerical robed body in a threatening manner. “If you disrupt our appointment schedule in that way again, I’ll walk out that door and never come back!”
The vicar gulped and his penguin-like attire fluttered around behind his portly frame. His feet shifted on the grotty tiles in the wake of Jayden’s hostility. She opened her mouth for the biting conclusion, her pretty lips forming around the words. “The bishop told you last month that you are meant to deal with initial appointments on your own. You take basic details and refer them to us. What you did today was unprofessional! Marching that poor girl and her parents in here like that and forcing Cam to see them. He’s still catching up on the people left waiting in reception which is a poor reflection on our duty of care. He and I planned a couple’s counselling session which I was forced to do it by myself, because it was too late to put them off. The woman turned violent and I was on my own. Because of you!”
Jayden punctuated her sentence with a well-timed finger jab and watched the astonishment in the vicar’s flaccid face turn to guilt. She milked it for all it was worth, tired of his cowardice in the face of his parishioners’ misery. “I’ll have to tell my supervisor about this and she may involve the bishop. I can’t work in these conditions and nor can poor Cam!”
“But the girl was pregnant! At thirteen! I couldn’t deal with her. It’s disgusting!” The vicar leaned forward, his chins wobbling and Jayden raised her hand as though in self-defence. The receptionist tuned in to their conversation with renewed interest. She was discreet, but all clients had an undisputed right to confidentiality, especially in such a small community. She added her opinion to the mix, calling from behind her desk as she zipped up her purse. “They’re a nice family; we can’t all control our kids.” Her arms waved around either side of her head. “And we can’t afford to lose any more counsellors, Vicar. We started with four and you’ve upset goodness knows how many. The bishop will go mad if you chase Jayden away as well!”
“No, he won’t.” The vicar looked smug. “We’re very good friends, the bishop and I.”
“I’m not discussing it now. I’m going home.” Losing patience, Jayden strutted through the glass doors and out into the winter evening, aware the vicar stared after her with his hands on his hips.
The Reverend John McLean contemplated Jayden’s retreating figure for a moment as his white hair fluffed in the breeze from the slamming doors. He squirmed under the possible ramifications of her threat. His claim of allegiance with the bishop drew to a close in the wake of the old man’s sudden retirement and proved an empty stick to beat anyone with. A complaint might prove dangerous, especially with the new incumbent taking up his post.
“Have you met the new bishop?” Sal called, yanking her coat over her shoulders. Reverend McLean growled and tossed his head in defiance.
“Of course!” he snarled and she hid a grin behind the pretence of straightening her scarf.
She rubbed salt into the wound with pure enjoyment. “What’s he like?”
The vicar rolled his eyes as though privy to the new heavyweight’s deepest secrets. “He’s due to arrive in the next few weeks; he’s unexpectedly de
layed in the north of the country but will be in post very soon.” He felt desperate for an excuse to meet his new superior and size him up, but another complaint would not be an advisable pretext.
McLean’s bulbous, red-veined nose wrinkled with the thought of greeting his new boss for the first time. He imagined all kinds of platitudes and wondered whether the congratulatory card addressed to the diocesan office in Harrogate had reached him yet. Bishop Pargetter’s hasty resignation following a major heart attack left a flying bishop in charge and the man had already called for McLean twice on the strength of concerns expressed by the parish. “Not much longer to wait,” he purred with satisfaction. He and Pargetter were old chums from seminary and the former bishop turned a cataract laden eye towards McLean’s archaic modus operandi. Until last month. McLean bristled at the indignity of the meeting with the counsellors in which the vicar was given a directive to operate as per the regulations, the bishop turning on him with surprising ease.
McLean placed a ragged nail between thin, unsmiling lips and worried about his new superior. No more whiskey chasers in the expensively furnished lounge with an old friend. “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured himself out loud, finding himself alone. “St Jude’s is refreshingly free of the usual riff-raff which clings around the edges of decent Christian communities like ours. I make sure of that. It’s a nice safe church with nice safe people and the new man will see that and be thrilled with my current no-nonsense values.”
The vicar poked around on Sal’s neat desk for a while, seeking information he could use to enhance his fake supernatural knowledge of his parishioners. He thrived on the look in their eyes when he spouted something relevant. It made him feel superior and godlike. “The world changed too fast,” he muttered to himself, drawing a blank on the receptionist’s desk. “It’s cascaded down the moral chute. One minute I chatted to fresh-faced newlyweds and baptised fluffy, pink babies and the next it was homosexuals, terminal illness and pregnant teenagers. It happened overnight, like a slap to the face.”