by Adam Croft
‘But there are people who want to do us harm. People who benefit from the greed, jealousy and hatred of the outside world. People who thrive on those three things. People who are part of the forces of evil. A message of love, tolerance and equality is not something they want to see. It is anathema to everything they believe in. That is why they want to destroy us.’
Father Joseph looked around at the congregation. Heads were nodding, others looked concerned. The body language seemed right. He had them where he wanted them. He felt that familiar buzz of being in complete control. It was a buzz he’d had many thousands of times before, but of which he would never grow tired.
‘In recent days we have seen the forces of evil far closer to home than we would have liked. The Devil has managed to worm his way in, warping the minds of some who were our brothers and sisters. Which is why,’ he said, raising his voice for dramatic effect, ‘we need to be more vigilant now than ever before. We cannot afford to rest on our laurels. Thus I ask you, watch over your loved ones. Watch over your families. Watch over the community. And should you see any sign of the Devil doing his evil work, come to us, for we can cleanse their souls.’
Father Joseph lowered his voice again, looking each of the congregation in the eye as he spoke. ‘For evil will not triumph. We will take our knowledge and our salvation to the Kingdom of Heaven before the Devil can even get his foot in the door.’
24
The Loriton estate wasn’t somewhere many officers would go to single-crewed. And it wasn’t somewhere Jack Culverhouse would have normally fancied going at all, no matter how many people he was with. It was the sort of area where police weren’t welcome. Many of the residents on the estate had had run-ins with the law in the past. Others felt the system in general had let them down, giving them a deep distrust of authority.
There were a few people out and about — a middle-aged woman walking a dog, two men in jeans and t-shirts, a group of children on bikes. Nothing to give him too much cause for concern, but even so he didn’t want to be hanging around here for too long.
He slowed down as he reached the rough location he presumed Ethan Turner’s house to be. He looked over and confirmed the house number, before driving a little further up the road and pulling over.
He sat in his car for a few moments, realising he hadn’t planned any of this. What was he doing? What did he expect to achieve? It went without saying that his ultimate goal was for Emily to be safe and kept far away from potential criminality. His interest in that was twofold: he wanted to protect his daughter and his career. It wouldn’t cause an automatic issue in his job if Emily had links to criminals. But it would be more fuel for the fire as far as people like Martin Cummings and Malcolm Pope were concerned.
But what could he do about it? If the force of the law couldn’t stop someone carrying out criminal activities, what hope did he have on his own? What was he going to do? Knock on his door and ask him to be a good boy? He couldn’t ask Emily to stop seeing Ethan. There’s no way she’d understand. The smart option would be to give Ethan enough rope to hang himself with and be there for Emily when it all fell apart.
A large part of him, he had to admit, wanted to walk up to Ethan Turner’s house, knock on his door, wait for him to answer and punch him in the face. It’d do nothing beneficial, but it’d make him feel a whole lot better. And it’d probably result in him losing both his daughter and his job — the two things he had come here to protect.
As he mulled it all over in his mind, his attention was drawn to movement in his wing mirror. He saw two people coming out of what he believed to be Ethan Turner’s house. One was a lad of around seventeen or so. He guessed the other was around three or four years older, knowing how difficult it was to age teenagers. Take Emily, for example. He knew exactly how old she was, yet she looked and acted a good few years older. It was likely that either one of these lads could be Ethan Turner.
He watched as they crossed the road and got into a red Vauxhall Astra. A few seconds later, the car started to move and drove past Jack, reached the end of the road and turned left. As it did so, Jack started his car and sped to the end of the road, turning left and trying to get the red Astra back in his sights as soon as possible.
There was another car between them. That was good. It meant he was less likely to be seen, but could still keep the car in his sight. They came to a roundabout, and the Astra took the second exit. The car between them carried on round the roundabout. Jack followed the Astra, keeping a respectable distance and trying to observe the car without looking too obvious.
He knew this road linked the Loriton and Sholebroke estates. Neither of them were particularly desirable places to live. It wasn’t an area he was familiar with. Knowing an area like the back of your hand had its advantages in policing. Right now, Jack was at a serious disadvantage in that regard.
A couple of minutes later, the Astra indicated and pulled over outside a public park. Jack continued driving and took the next right. He parked up outside a row of shops, got out of his car and locked it. He jogged back to the junction and headed towards the park, just in time to see the two lads enter the kids’ play area. Two other men — both a bit older — were stood in there, leaning against a climbing frame. Jack watched as the two lads from the Loriton estate approached them. They seemed to all know each other, judging by the bizarre ‘street’ handshakes they were doing.
He was nowhere near close enough to hear what the lads were saying. He didn’t want to risk getting any closer and spooking them. Even so, he’d been around long enough to know damn well what was going on. One of the older lads glanced around, seeming to be casing the area for witnesses. He dipped a hand into his pocket and handed something over to one of the Loriton boys. Jack couldn’t see what it was, but he thought he saw one of the Loriton boys hand something else back the other way. To Jack, it looked like a classic drugs deal. He watched as they did the handshakes again, before the Loriton boys started to make their way back towards the car.
As they passed through the entrance gate to the park, Jack walked up to meet them.
‘Ethan Turner?’ he called out, not sure which one was him. That uncertainty was soon resolved, though, as one of the boys looked up at him immediately. Culverhouse couldn’t hide his anger and resentment any longer. ‘I want to have a word with you,’ he said, walking closer towards him.
‘Shit! Run!’ the other lad yelled, before both turned to sprint in the direction of the car. Just as Jack started to go after them, the boy he’d identified as Ethan tripped. He skidded along the pavement on his side, groaning in pain. Jack was on him in moments. He looked up just in time to see the other lad have to make a decision over whether to help him or continue his escape. Fortunately for Jack, he chose the latter, and sped off in his car, back towards the Loriton estate. The two older lads in the park had also started to run away from him, up towards the top end of the park. Jack was grateful for the element of surprise. Even if they’d realised he was a police officer, there could be dozens of them behind him for all they knew.
‘Nice friends you’ve got there, Ethan. Loyal,’ Jack said as he pushed his knee further into Ethan Turner’s back and dialled the number of the station. ‘Maybe you might like to meet mine instead.'
25
Father Joseph’s tone during the most recent sermon worried Ben. The sermon had been unexpected, although he had a fair idea of what he should expect after seeing Amy Kemp being snatched mid-run.
He’d watched it all. He’d almost been able to read what was going through her mind. He could almost see the cogs turning. He’d been tempted himself a few times, but he knew the risks were too high. The only way he was ever going to get out was by playing the long game. Good things come to those who wait.
Father Joseph and his cronies had one enormous advantage: by and large, they were trusted. That meant they could get away with doing all sorts of things, even in broad daylight, and people would either turn a blind eye or they’d not even see it
. But Ben was different. Ben was watching.
He’d been watching, too, when Amy Kemp had tried to make a run for it. He’d seen her dash towards the policewoman. He watched as she ran past the door to the medical centre and straight into the arms of one of Father Joseph’s henchmen. He hadn’t seen who.
Calling it a medical centre was a joke. It was a damp white brick building, freezing cold even in the height of summer, and had been constructed purely to make the community feel safe. Ben never went anywhere near there, even when he was unwell. He’d far rather lie and hope whatever it was would sort itself out. He couldn’t bare to go into that horrendous building and be subjected to whatever false science Dr Joseph and his cronies were espousing that week.
Ben was well aware that he didn’t have a working concept of what real medicine was like, but he wasn’t exactly sheltered either. No-one in the community was. Enough of the people living here had lived on the outside to be able to make the comparison. Many were able to talk — in private — about the differences between life on Hilltop Farm and on the outside. Only a few were born and raised on the farm with no workable concept of the outside world.
Discussions weren’t often had about comparing Hilltop Farm to the outside world, though. Rumours were rife of other people — even friends and family members — reporting those sorts of transgressions to the powers that be. Father Joseph’s whole ethos was that the parishioners were happy to be here. That they had free will. Ben knew that was bullshit.
No-one thought life here was perfect. Well, perhaps there were one or two of the more dedicated and devoted community members who wore the rose-tinted glasses. But, on the whole, the feeling was that life was still better here, with its leaky buildings and damp floors, than it was on the outside. There was no greed, no envy. The seven deadly sins didn’t exist at Hilltop Farm. Everyone was equal. Sure, they didn’t have cars, didn’t have televisions, didn’t have computers. But that was all stuff, and not only that but stuff they didn’t truly want. It was a material distraction, intended to keep the masses happy and ignorant of the fact that their world was driven by corporate greed and corruption. It wasn’t a utopia by anyone’s standards, but its advantages were deep-rooted and its disadvantages material.
That was what kept the community so dedicated to itself, so reverent of Father Joseph Kümmel. Nowhere else could they live in a way which allowed them to remain ‘off the grid’, not beholden to banks or corporations, living as freely — in a spiritual sense — as they could be. Ben had to admit that there was a certain romance to that, but it wasn’t for him. Or, rather, it would have been for him had the greed and corruption not managed to worm its way into Hilltop Farm in the same way as it did everywhere else.
When the realisation had started to dawn that Father Joseph and his henchmen were not spiritual saviours but were the same corrupt, self-driven bastards as were everywhere else, the novelty had worn off. He’d felt gutted, betrayed. And discovering that they could be killers, too, had sealed the deal for him.
Father Joseph’s sermon had made Ben realise that something big was about to happen. The words reverberated around his head.
We will take our knowledge and our salvation to the Kingdom of Heaven before the Devil can even get his foot in the door.
He had taken that to mean only one thing: that Father Joseph considered an honourable death to be preferable to submitting to the outside world. And if the outside world was going to be breaking its way into Hilltop Farm regardless, if they could not stop the tide, there was only one way out in Father Joseph’s mind.
He’d wondered whether that was the endgame for a while now. Could Father Joseph really command so much respect that he’d be able to enable an enormous, wide-scale mass suicide? Ben was almost certain Father Joseph had convinced some former parishioners to take their own lives. He thought of Isabella Martin, knowing damn well what had happened there. He’d had his suspicions for a while, but that had confirmed them in his mind. And what now of Amy Kemp? Had she been forced to do the same? What if she’d refused?
He put down the metal watering can and eyed the space in the centre of the rooftop herb garden. The dark flat roof was stained grey with the numerous washed-off applications of chalk. He picked up another piece of chalk that he’d secreted in a plant pot, knelt down and started to write another message.
He knew he had to make it good. He knew this message could be his last.
26
He was the only person who ever called her Wend. As he said it, it took her right back to those times when they were younger, playing at their family home. Her parents used to hate anyone shortening her name, and she wasn’t particularly keen on it herself. When Michael did it, though, it was almost sweet.
Was.
Now, it evoked memories of her first major case with Mildenheath CID. She’d nursed Michael through his drug addiction only to discover that he had been the murderer all along. She looked at him lying in his hospital bed, in one of the most notorious prisons in Britain, almost unable to comprehend what he’d become. That sweet, innocent young child. Troubled, yes. Weak, definitely. But she’d never expected him to become a monster.
‘You don’t want to talk to me. I get it,’ Michael said, not breaking eye contact. ‘But it’s good to see you.’
Wendy didn’t have a clue what to say. She’d never made any specific vow to herself never to see Michael again — it just wasn’t something that had ever been on the cards. Why would it be, after all he’d done? She’d come a long way since she’d last seen him. She’d grown as a person and a police officer. Seeing him again now felt like it was dragging her back to the person she’d been back then.
‘I wish I could say the same,’ she replied, trying to keep her voice low and the emotion minimal.
Michael looked away for a moment. ‘You obviously came for a reason, Wend. You can’t tell me you were just passing.’
She had come for a reason. She knew that much. But she had no idea what that reason might be. ‘I suppose I want answers,’ she said, eventually.
‘You didn’t speak in court,’ Michael replied.
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘And what do you want answers to? How do you think I’m going to help exactly?’
Wendy shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now, Michael. All I know is that I can’t make sense of anything. I can’t make sense of what happened to you, why you did it. How sudden it all was. Unexpected. I don’t know. Just... Just why?’ She could feel the emotion building up inside her, and tried to push it back down. She’d done a good job of repressing it for the past five or so years and she was going to carry on.
‘Does it matter?’ Michael asked, as if he’d just been asked what he had in his pockets.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, what difference will it make? It happened.’
‘Because normal people need answers. That’s what difference it’ll make.’
‘What, you mean closure?’ Michael said, almost sneering the last word.
‘Yeah, if you like. I prefer to call them answers, but whatever.’
‘Read the court papers.’
Wendy was trying incredibly hard to keep a lid on her emotions. She was angry — furious — at Michael’s lack of remorse. She was confused at the enormous change in his personality and devastated at the little brother she’d lost. They’d always been a close family. But the deaths of her parents and the complete personality transplant in Michael had ruined all that history and her happy memories. And she held Michael responsible for that.
‘So what happened to you?’ she asked, trying to change the subject and make her journey up here hold at least some value. ‘Who did this?’
Michael gave something approximating a shrug. ‘Other inmates. Obviously.’
‘But why? Why you?’
‘Why not? That’s the type of people they are. It’s what they do. They know why I’m here. They know who I am. It’s what happens. This is
my life now.’
Wendy felt her heart sink a little further. ‘And are you happy with it?’
‘What’s happy?’ Michael asked, after a couple of seconds of silence.
‘It’s what I’ve been recently,’ she replied through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve been getting my life back in order. Just about. I’ve got a new place. Work’s going well. Not that you’d care.’
Michael said nothing.
‘I found out I was pregnant,’ Wendy said, feeling her eyes misting. ‘Not long after you were caught. It was Robert’s.’ She took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. ‘I went back to work sooner than I should have done. Far sooner. I needed to get my mind focused again. I was hiding from what had happened. I was chasing a suspect. There was an altercation, sort of. I tripped. I fell in the road and was hit by a car. I lost the baby,’ she said, almost whispering. ‘First I lost her father, then I lost her.’
‘And you hold me responsible,’ Michael said, flatly.
‘I lost you too, Michael. I lost it all. And so did you. All because of... Well, only you know the answer to that.’
Michael was silent for a few moments. Wendy half-hoped he was thinking about it, trying to formulate an answer for her. Then again, with the time he’d spent inside he’d had plenty of time to think about it. If he didn’t have an answer to that question by now, he probably never would.
As she had expected, he ignored the point altogether.
‘Why did you bother coming up here, Wend?’
Wendy took a deep breath. ‘Do you want me to be honest? I don’t know. I really don’t know. Maybe it was instinct. Instinct that when someone calls you to say your brother’s been attacked, you want to go to him. Maybe it’s an instinct I need to try and iron out of myself. Because it’s clearly not one worth having any more.’