‘All I wanted was his Samaritan badge.’ I felt him move toward the child. His knees cracked as he squatted down next to the child. ‘I’m a good Samaritan, aren’t I? You know that, don’t you? Like the other day when I tried to help the good Sisters. That’s what a Samaritan does.’
‘Pete, we need to do something with the child.’
‘He’s dead. You said he was dead.’
As he spoke the words, he stood and stepped into my space and thumped me in the chest. Damn man could see in the dark.
‘He should’ve shared.’
‘Piss off,’ I said. ‘You need to get the vicar. This isn’t right.’
‘The vicar, of course. He’ll know what to do won’t he Ben. But first I’m filling in the hole.’
‘No!’ I shouted. Pete pushed past me, knocking me against the long wall as he climbed the ladder out of the grave. ‘Just shoot him, please,’ I shouted to the night. I followed him up the ladder, but kept my head beneath the parapet. ‘Fetch the vicar,’ I ordered. He sometimes responded to authority. ‘The vicar needs to see the body. Without the vicar, I can’t see this angel thing working. And Pete…’
‘What?’
He had the spade in his hand and stood beside the mound of fresh earth dug from the grave. A shadow crossed the far end of the cemetery. I watched it step up onto the pale steps of the mausoleum, the rifle held at the shadows side. ‘Be careful, eh? There’s a bloke with a gun out here.’
A shot rang out.
Pete ducked and dropped the spade.
‘Get the vicar,’ I said.
He took off, stomping through the cemetery, his dark figure trampling the fresh plots. I crept low to the safety of the yew tree. The drizzle turned heavy. Another shot exploded behind me. Pete’s silhouette dropped to the ground a good sprint from the gate, the feeble streetlight shining on his dark prostrate figure.
The steps to the mausoleum stood empty. Pete stood running for the gate with the shadow of the shooter loping between graves. He dropped to his knees as Pete reached for the gate and lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired.
Pete dropped to the pavement.
I ran for the back of the cemetery, heading for the slagheap overlooking Blacky’s. A low crumbling wall separated the cemetery from the tangled growth and offered me sanctuary. With a leg over the crumbling rock I looked back to the gate and witnessed Pete wrestling with the man. I picked my way through the litter and brambles rampant in the vacant lot.
A howl broke the night time quiet. The silhouette of the girl and her wolf stood on top of the slagheap separating the graveyard and Blacky’s compound. She pointed at the gate. Pete head butted the marksman and took off, lumbering up Church Lane, running for the church. The man dropped to his knees with a handgun pointing at Pete. The flash, then the crack of the shot and Pete had to be dead. No one could miss from that distance.
The man turned and looked into the cemetery. My dark clothing blended with the mottled colorings decorating the slagheap, yet he raised the gun and fired. The flash flared bright in the dark. The crack of the shot followed, the bullet thudding into the dirt five yards to my left. I threw myself to the ground and began to inch through the wet growth.
A whistle from above encouraged me to look upward.
‘Hurry,’ she called out.
Another shot slapped into the top section of the slagheap and she ducked from view.
‘One hundred yards to your right,’ she said. Her voice sounded childlike. ‘There’s a break in the hedge and fence. It’ll get you into the church grounds. I’ll stop him following.’
I saw another flash from the front of the cemetery with the inevitable crack and the slap of the bullet hitting the dirt not two yards from my position. I ran, crouched low, looking for the break in the hedge.
Another shot from the cemetery, but the girl answered with rapid gunfire, the flashes highlighting her silhouette on top of the slagheap. Rain replaced the drizzle. The chanting monks had long disappeared. I dashed across the tangled grass, hurdled the smaller gravestones, hoping to hit the church wall without getting shot. I flattened my body against the solid stone, catching breath before running for the back of the church. I threw my weight against the low wooden door. It held fast. I banged at the door, rasping skin against the rough grain. Behind me the wind pushed through the trees. Raindrops splattered against my face and clothes. I couldn’t see my man, but the firing had stopped.
Reloading, I imagined.
The wind rustled the trees lining the back of the monastery and the rain splashed on the stained glass above my head. My thin coat leaked and my boots sucked at the water, squelching as I paced the path behind the church.
I found another small door with a heavy black metal handle reluctant to turn. It submitted with a loud creak and I ducked beneath the lintel and slammed the door shut. I breathed a sigh, long and loud as my damp body relaxed against the door.
When I focused my eyes in the gloom, what greeted me suggested I might have been better off climbing the slagheap to Blacky’s.
Chapter Seventeen
A vicar, monks & a confession of sorts
Myriad candles flickered in the murky air. The fearsome crusaders leant forward with grim, angry attitudes. A low and mournful sound growled through the building. I followed the cloaked ghouls, their hands protruding from massive cuffs with books held beneath hooded faces. Breath vapors punctuated the phrasing, harmonizing with the dirge played from up high in the roof of the church.
I aped their steps, my footsteps squelching out of time, until we reached the bank of candles. Water dripped from my hair and clothes, my hands grasping at the flickering light, desperate to absorb the heat.
And still the monks chanted and paced and the organ continued the same long deep doleful note.
‘Ben.’
The voice echoed bouncing off the vaulted roof. A step backward took me out of the flickering light and with my hood covering my head I blended into the dark recess by the front door.
‘Ben.’
The eerie greeting boomed as the vocalist stretched out my name, harmonizing with the chant. I grabbed a hymnal and fell in behind the last monk, shuffling in time, my feet still squelching. I couldn’t find the marksman. Someone called my name. Why call and not shoot?
As I performed my second circuit we passed the low, narrow door I had entered. I stepped out of line and pulled on the thick black handle, but it stuck tight. I didn’t like the church. The chill, the dark and the eerie chanting felt wrong and I fancied my chances against the gunman better than the spook going on inside the church. As I tried the handle again the monks stopped chanting, their stillness blending them into the shadows as a figure in an off white cloak and hood drifted into view. His tall figure glided, his hands hidden within the sleeves of his cloak and his bowed head remained hidden by the hood. He didn’t appear to be armed.
The monks began a monologue in an obscure ancient tongue, with no inflection or pauses. The organ softened, but still the tone resembled a tortured spirit. He held out his hands. I nodded to show due reverence. He took another step toward me, his long thin fingers stretching and grasping at the air between us. Religion sucked and those stick-like fingers reaching for me represented creepy.
‘Ben,’ the white gowned monk said in a soft, kinder voice.
Behind me the monks continued their monologue. Long gray hooded cloaks with heads bowed stretched out beneath the massive stained glass windows. The organ moved up another gear, a higher octave inspiring the ghouls. The cloaked figure before me pushed his hood back from his head. He brushed the long, white hair from his face and smiled at me.
‘Hello, vicar. You trying to scare me to death?’
‘Not at all, young Ben. The church is not a place to fear. But it begs the question why you are here. Have you come to confess in the eyes of our God? It seems a curious hour to be unburdening yourself.’
‘No, I haven’t come to confess. As suggested by yourself, I’ve be
en trying to contact Linda, but there’s a maniac in the graveyard shooting at folk. I’ve chosen your church as sanctuary, begging your pardon. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m feeling all that comfortable here either.’ I brushed my hand through my wet hair and shrugged. ‘Crap idea, eh?’
‘Everyone should be able to find refuge in the house of God. There is nothing to fear, only your conscience.’
‘Vicar, the sniper is outside and I’m trapped in here. Bugger my conscience, cause I’m fearing the mongrel will enter this place and shoot me.’
‘Ben, Ben, Ben,’ he said, shaking his head with gravity. ‘God will not allow evil to be performed beneath his roof.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘You and I need to talk.’
The acoustics of the building amplified and dramatized the timbre of his voice. The creepy tones caused my skin to bump, hairs to rise and my body to shiver. Monks swayed with their dark shadows rocking across the muted colors of the windows. Chants followed the lead of the organ and moved up another octave. I stepped away from the vicar, keeping pews between me and the cloaks.
‘You need to talk to us, Ben.’ Again with the creepy. ‘You need to confess your wrongs as you have decided, against our God’s wishes, to end a life and you need to admit to you’re wrong.’
Well, no I didn’t. ‘You’ve been misinformed about Marvin’s murder,’ I said. He backed me against the pulpit. ‘Listen, there’s a bloke outside with a gun, but you’ve got another problem…’
The door I found locked, flung open and Pete fell into the church. Blood covered his right arm. From the slate floor he looked up and pointed. ‘Vicar, Ben shot me.’
Two of the monks appeared, towering above me. They grabbed my arms in a firm hold and the chanting ceased.
‘Easy chaps,’ I said. ‘I didn’t shoot at him, just as I didn’t kill Marvin. There’s a sniper in your graveyard. He’s shooting at anything that moves, eh? Unfortunately Pete’s stupid fat mouth is still working overtime.’
‘Ben,’ the vicar said. ‘You need to slow down and think out your options. The killing has got to stop.’
Calm maybe, but a chilling edge to his voice turned the words sinister.
‘I agree.’
‘So, here, now, confess to me. Unburden yourself.’
‘No. Jesus, we could be here all night and day and for the next couple of weeks. I’ve not been very clever for a lot of my life, but to be honest I don’t see you as my superior or my judge.’ I gave the two monks a smile. ‘You need to get your hands off me, because you’re not strong enough to hold me.’
The monks tightened their grip on my arms. I relaxed, rotating my head and flexing my fingers.
‘Confess your sins, or be damned.’ His creepy, aggressive voice rose in volume and echoed throughout the church. The organ growled in response.
‘You want to hassle someone ask Pete about the child lying dead in the open grave.’
For a moment the vicar lost his power of speech. But he didn’t let my statement stop him for long. ‘And the money?’
‘Money?’ I said.
I twisted to my left and caught the monks by surprise. As they tried to regain their hold I palm struck at the monk to my right and propelled him backward with an undignified grunt. His mate held back.
‘Are you serious? Look at me,’ I said, turning back to the vicar. ‘Look at my clothes, my filthy hands and boots with a gallon of rain water inside them.’ The monks moved close, but decided against restraining me. ‘There’s a dead body, a child’s body in an open grave and you’re asking me about money?’
Again he hesitated. Pete groaned and rolled over trying to gain the vicar’s attention.
‘Money is evil.’
‘Brilliant, Vicar. You think that up yourself?
I approached Pete, but he shrank away from me.
‘Don’t shoot me.’
‘I haven’t got a damn gun you pathetic fool.’
A tall hulk of a monk bent to Pete. The chanting stopped and the line of monks shuffled into the side vestibule.
‘Do you understand nothing will ever justify killing,’ the vicar said. ‘But to do it for money, for wanting to kill so you can possess the evil that is money?’
The vicar hesitated, his neck stretching, his head tilted toward me, the bushy eyebrows hooding the black orbs condemning me. He pointed a bony finger at my heart.
‘That doubles the sin. It’s time to stop.’
‘He can’t, vicar,’ Pete said. ‘He can’t stop killing and I saw Marvin give him the bag.’
‘You have come here to stop, so stop. Bring the money to the church. Give the money up and free yourself from its curse.’
‘Free yourself, Ben. Money’s a curse,’ Pete said.
A marksman controlled the grounds stopping me from walking out on the madness rampant inside the vicar’s church. I watched the monk ease Pete out of his coat and tend the wound on his upper arm. ‘You saw Marvin give me the bag? Crap to that. Did you see me take the bag? Did you see me with the bag outside the square? You and I left the square together. Did I have a bag?’
Pete didn’t understand the question. His finger reached for his nose and I turned away in disgust. ‘I haven’t got the bag,’ I said, turning to the vicar.
He held his hands out, palms up, like giving thanks to his congregation. ‘I’m not interested in the bag. What concerns me is you. I’m worried about you and your desperation. It was Marvin’s wish that his wealth should help the church. He wanted to leave the world a better place and if this helps you change, then maybe, for an old friend, you can grant him his dying wish.’
‘You were there when Marvin died?’
‘No. I didn’t administer his last rites, but I was aware of his wishes. He wanted to give to the church.’
‘You’re not listening,’ I said. The vicar and I stood before the podium. His thugs sat with Pete. ‘I am pig poor and don’t possess a bag of any kind, but this backpack on my shoulders. The only problem relevant to all of us is the child lying dead in an open grave out in your cemetery. This boy,’ I said looking toward Pete. The monks had placed him on the front pew. ‘May not be the killer but he had a spade ready to bury the wee tot until the nutter running about your graveyard with a gun tried to shoot him.’
‘No, I never,’ Pete squawked. ‘I never killed him. I found him like that.’
‘Listen Vicar,’ I said. ‘You’ve got it all wrong and I mean everything.’ I turned to Pete. ‘Did you see me kill Marvin?’ He shook his head. ‘So why did you tell everyone I did kill him?’
He dropped his head. ‘Feral man said …’
‘Tall like me, the Feral man said. He didn’t say it was me. This is crazy,’ I said. I looked back at the vicar. ‘Madness. Why are you listening to this dick? He’s parroting a phrase. He didn’t see the murder. And if you think I killed Marvin, then you need to tell the police. If you reckon I’ve got a load of Marvin’s cash on me, then, again, you got to call…’ My fists clenched tight with my arms rigid and my eyes stared with venom. The vicar retreated.
‘The bloody police,’ I said. My loud voice echoed. ‘I didn’t kill anyone and I haven’t been shooting at anyone. Marvin did ask me to take the bag, but I lost it and he never told me to give it to you. But, and this is a major but, your main problem is the body of the child lying in your cemetery. The only killer here is that fat retard sitting here, in your church.’
I took a deep breath and held it, then exhaled with a slow sigh. ‘I thought I could use your church as a safe house, but I’ll take the madness going on outside rather than suffer the insanity inside this building. Let me out, or I will hurt someone.’
‘Ben,’ Pete said. ‘I didn’t kill him. I don’t know how he died. We was talking that’s all.’
‘In a grave?’
Pete sat on the pew holding his bandaged arm, rocking back and forth. ‘It’s warm in the grave and he was helping me dig.’
‘Dig?’ I looked at the vicar. His shoulders slumped a
nd his head dropped. My two monks sat back with their heads bowed.
‘Pete sometimes digs the graves for us,’ the vicar said.
‘At night?’
‘Why’d you shoot me?’
‘Piss off, Pete. If I’d been shooting at you, you’d be dead.’
The two monks drifted away, the vestibule door clicking shut behind them. The organist ceased playing, soft steps descending from the top balcony. ‘I’ve been keeping this boy out of trouble since I moved into Blacky’s loft. He’s not my responsibility and I’m not sure hiding him away is doing anyone any favors.’
‘All very responsible of you,’ the vicar said. ‘And you’re right, Pete isn’t your responsibility, but the money and Marvin’s death are another matter.’
‘I’m out of here.’
I headed straight for the door where I’d entered, but Pete stood and blocked my path. ‘No, Ben. I’m not letting you leave.’
‘Jesus, are you serious?’ I hesitated, not keen on taking on Pete’s strength. I looked at the bloodied bandage covering his bicep.
‘You have Marvin’s bag,’ the vicar said. ‘We just want what is owed to us.’
‘Go talk to God,’ I said. ‘Marvin never mentioned you as a benefactor.’
I turned back to Pete and grabbed his wounded arm. He squealed and bent away from me as I steered him back to the seat.
‘Fuck you all.’
Chapter Eighteen
You can trust the Clown
From the small doorway, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark wet night. The wind pushed rain into my face and my body shivered. The moon remained hidden, its glow highlighting the dark edges to the low cloud cover. I did a tour of the grounds, keeping my back to the rough stone of the church wall. Noises, cries, creaks and random night life scuttled out of sight, but no one challenged my right to live.
The slagheap stood tall and dark, its peak empty of girl and wolf. The rain eased to a light drizzle. Across Church Lane the lights of the Poet burned bright and its open door offered me sanctuary.
No More Heroes-#1 Dystopian Thriller Heroes Series Page 11