by Mark White
‘No, I agree with you, Brian. I see it every day in my store. Look at those security cameras I had installed after the burglary last summer: ten years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed that I would’ve needed them. Kids today are a different breed. I mean, could you imagine either of us doing something like that when we were young? Or kicking seven shades of shit out of some poor bugger like those two feral bastards downstairs?’
‘Nope. We wouldn’t have dared.’
‘Of course we wouldn’t. That’s not to say we didn’t cross the line every now and then, but we knew when we’d crossed it and we were damn quick to get back behind it again before our parents found out.’
‘I think that’s half the problem; the parents. They just don’t seem to make the time for their kids anymore. Look at Rowan Lane. The kids are weighed down with every toy and gadget under the sun, wanting for nothing. But most of them are lucky if they get to see their parents for an hour or two a day. What kind of life is that? Being handed over to some stranger at eight in the morning and being left to fend for themselves until six at night. Learning about life from some sixteen-year-old nursery assistant in a room full of screaming kids all competing for her attention, or even worse, from some shoot-em-up computer game that they get stuck in front of until it’s time for bed. It’s hardly surprising they end up not knowing right from wrong. I tell you, Bill, the whole world’s going to the dogs.’
‘Aye, you can’t just blame the kids. Like you say, the parents have a lot to answer for. Look at those folk who moved into Rowan Lane - I can’t for the life of me understand why you’d choose to move all the way out here, only to then spend half your life sat in a car trying to get back to where you came from. Fine, you get to tell your city friends that you live in a big, fancy house in the country, but what’s the point if you hardly ever get to see it? Every morning, they set off when it’s dark and come home when it’s dark; too busy to stop and pass the time of day with you. I don’t want to tar them all with the same brush, but there are people in that street who are yet to even set foot in my store. It’s no wonder that there are folk in this village who are suspicious of them. They’ve been here three years now, and most of them have made no attempt whatsoever to take the time to become part of the community. There are many among us who rue the day that those houses were built. It’ll be a different story when they need our help in clearing the roads so they can get back to work on Monday morning. You’ve got to be willing to give as well as take, otherwise you soon find yourself running short of folk willing to help you.’
Jennings smiled at his friend. He knew that Bill Turner loved nothing more than a good rant about something or other, but he had to agree with him. Shepherd’s Cross had changed since the newcomers moved in, and not necessarily for the better. But his job wasn’t to argue the whys and wherefores of village life; he was employed to maintain law and order, to be a pillar of the community.
An isolated community, which, like it or not, was having to come to terms with a world that was travelling at a far quicker pace than most people were comfortable with.
Chapter 15
11.30pm: Frank Gowland had to share with Reverend Jackson the dubious honour of being the last person to stagger from the door of The Fallen Angel. The two men huddled together under the limited shelter of a small awning that jutted out above the entrance, bracing themselves for the short journey across the exposed village green to the protection of their respective homes. A howling wind had whipped the falling snow into a swirling blizzard that consumed every inch of air without respite. There was no getting away from the fact that a miserable dash for cover lay ahead of them.
‘It’s wild out there,’ said Gowland. ‘We’re going to have to make a run for it, Reverend.’ A dilapidated caravan, which for the previous fifteen years had doubled up as Frank Gowland’s home, stood in the far corner of a field adjacent to the churchyard and vicarage of All Saints’ Church. Sid Henshaw, the farmer who owned the field, had agreed to let Frank stay there in return for his help during the lambing season. While he would have preferred a warm room with a free mini-bar at the Ritz, he was grateful for at least some protection from the elements, especially on a night like this.
‘You can make a run for it if you want, but these legs haven’t run anywhere in over ten years,’ replied Jackson. ‘And trust me; they’ve no intention of starting tonight. Come on, we can’t stay here all night.’
The two men set off into the night, shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to shelter each other from the worst of the weather; their progress hampered by the deep snow crunching below them as they painstakingly waded their way home, the route across the village green dimly illuminated by the orange glow from a row of streetlights. Other than the wailing wind, there was no other sound to be heard; most of the houses were now dark, their occupants having long since retired to the warmth and comfort of their beds. They marched on, surrounded by life but very much alone as they reached the temporary protection of the small bandstand that stood in the middle of the green, pausing to catch their breath and ready themselves for the final push home.
‘You know, Reverend,’ shouted Gowland. ‘I must have done something seriously wrong in a former life to have ended up with this one. And I hope to God I’m a damn sight luckier next time round!’
‘What makes you so sure there’ll be a next time?’ Jackson replied. ‘What makes you think there’ll be anything waiting for you other than a lumpy bed of soil and a family of hungry worms nibbling at your bollocks?’ It wasn’t unheard of for Jackson to employ the use of the occasional profanity in getting his point across; especially when his vocal chords had been soaked in cheap Scotch whisky.
‘I’m surprised to hear you coming out with such talk, Reverend. I never had you down as a doubting Thomas. I mean, if you’re struggling to keep the faith, what hope is there for the rest of us?’
‘It was a joke, Frank. A joke.’ Jackson was a relative latecomer to the profession, having been ‘called’ to serve God at the age of thirty-six. Prior to that, he’d travelled the world in the British Merchant Navy, living up to the seaman’s reputation for chasing loose women and frequenting shore-side bars. He was particularly fond of his trips to Hong Kong: those Kowloon girls; Jesus, the way they could make you feel. The flabby, spoilt, white girls back home couldn’t hold a candle to their beautiful Chinese sisters, in or out of the bedroom…especially in it. Back then, if anyone had predicted his next career move to be as a Minister of the Church, Andrew Jackson would have branded him a prime candidate for the funny farm. Sunday mornings were for sleeping off hangovers, not for listening to some boring old fart of a chaplain telling you what a bad boy you’ve been for enjoying yourself the night before.
Rather ironically, it was on the streets of Hong Kong where Jackson’s Damascene moment came about. He could remember it as if it were only yesterday. His ship was in port and the sun was shining; the ideal opportunity for an all-day drinking session, with a trip to the Happy Valley racecourse thrown in for good measure. There’d been six of them, all crew; young men far from home with money to burn. It had been a perfect day: six friends enjoying themselves; blissfully unaware of the trouble that was heading their way.
The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun, and rather unusually for a drunken group of sailors, on this occasion they had not been responsible for starting it. A mindless act of violence from an aggrieved local man called Wei Long, a man hell-bent on revenge after hearing that his precious daughter Mei had spent the previous night in the arms of a lowly sailor gong by the name of Andrew Jackson. He’d forced his daughter to point Jackson out to him from afar; to identify the man responsible for him losing face before his friends. Whether his rage had blinded him, or whether Mei had lied to protect her man, it was not Andrew Jackson who Wei Long had stabbed to death that night. It was Petty Officer Paul Hunter: Jackson’s best friend; the man who’d been like a brother to him.
The grief caused by his friend’s death had hit
Jackson hard, but the guilt was far worse; gnawing away at him like a maggot in an apple, eventually dragging him down to the depths of a nervous breakdown and a botched suicide attempt. Three months spent drugged up to the eyeballs in a secure mental health unit helped him over the worst of it, but he would never be the same again. Part of him had died that night along with his friend. It was during his recuperation that he decided to join the clergy; believing life-long repentance to be as good a motive as any for signing up to the cause.
His calling had helped him to face up to the past, no doubt about it, and helping his parishioners to come to terms with losing their loved ones had proven to be highly effective therapy for dealing with his own loss, but try as he might, he could not erase from his mind the memory of that night in Hong Kong. The strong faith he had once shown in God, the faith that provided him with the comfort from believing that his sins could be forgiven, had gradually splintered into searching questions. Questions such as why had God allowed his innocent friend to die? How could He sit idly by and watch the evil acts of men who were supposedly created in His own image? Jackson knew better than most that the answers to his questions lay in his willingness to submit entirely to the word of God and the Good Book. Fit in or fuck off – the opening words that one of his superiors in the Merchant Navy had used to welcome the new recruits, a message that was as valid in Jackson’s current vocation as it was at sea all those years ago. Nevertheless, with every passing day, Reverend Jackson was finding it more and more of a struggle to fit in with the role that society expected him to play.
‘Bring me a blanket, Reverend. I think I’ll sleep here tonight.’ Frank Gowland was leaning against the hand rail of the bandstand; his head spinning from the icy wind and the twelve pints of beer swilling around his gut.
‘Don’t be so daft, man. If we don’t get home soon we’ll freeze to death. Come one, let’s get a move on. We’re almost there.’
They stumbled down the steps of the bandstand and resumed their meandering stagger home. The blizzard had whipped up into such frenzy that it had become almost impossible to see the way ahead, the two men focusing all their efforts on putting one foot in front of the other. Fortunately for them, the path from The Fallen Angel to their homes was one they had walked a thousand times.
As they neared All Saints’ Church, the all-consuming storm was interrupted by a noise coming from above, in the background to begin with, but gradually becoming clearer as the wind paused to draw breath before resuming its merciless onslaught.
‘Did you hear that?’ Gowland asked, the two men stopping to listen.
‘I heard something,’ replied Jackson, straining his eyes in the direction of his church. ‘Sounded like it was coming from the tower. Probably just the wind playing tricks on us.’
‘No…listen,’ said Gowland. ‘Listen!’ The sound was clearer now, an aggressive, croaking noise. ‘You’re right; it’s coming from the church. Let’s get a bit closer – I can’t see jack shit from here.’
Approaching the church, they were stopped in their tracks by a deep, broken voice coming from above; angry and powerful enough to punch through the buffeting wind and fill the men’s ears with a message that repeated itself over and over again like a scratched record: ‘Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus’.
They craned their necks upwards; their mouths gaping open like children trying to catch falling snow with their tongues. The words kept coming at them, clearer and louder each time. ‘Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus.’
‘Who the hell’s saying that?’ asked Gowland, his eyes scanning the tower, expecting to find somebody clinging on for dear life. ‘Maybe one of the young lads from the pub has had himself a skin-full and shimmied his way up the drainpipe for a dare?’ he said, clutching at straws. ‘Can you see anyone, Reverend? Maybe he’s round the back – I’ll go around and have a lo…’
‘The birds…by the clock,’ Jackson whispered. ‘Look at the birds.’ Two huge, black ravens were perched on a stone ledge that protruded from the wall of the church tower about thirty feet from the ground. They were separated by the backlit, round face of the clock; like two soldiers standing guard, their eyes glowing bright red, piercing through the black night sky like lasers. They weren’t looking down at the men; instead they stared straight ahead into the darkness, as if they were fervently scanning the horizon for the arrival of an approaching friend. Their beaks snapped open and shut like the manipulated mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy: ‘Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus’. It was as if the words were coming from them.
As they looked on, the hands on the clock began to spin round in reverse: giving the impression that time was moving backwards. The bell, which had hung in the tower since 1743, began to ring uncontrollably, lacking its usual Sunday morning rhythm. Human faces, which hundreds of years earlier had been skilfully carved into the stone corbels that served to support the ledge upon which the ravens were now balanced, suddenly came to life; their lips parting in hateful grimaces at the world around them, their eyes gleaming. It was as if the church had come alive; smothered and possessed by the assault of an evil intruder as it crawled over the roof and along the walls, working its way into every nook and cranny in a febrile surge to strangle any holiness that dwelled inside.
Reverend Jackson fell to his knees and closed his eyes, tracing the sign of the Cross with his right hand. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom co…’ you have to have faith, father, for your words to have any meaning ‘on earth as it is in heaven…’ Deus est mortuus ‘give us this day our daily bread…’ you’re a disgrace, father…an insult to your maker ‘and forgive us our trespasses…’ Your God is dead ‘as we forgive those who trespass against us…’ DEUS EST MORTUUS!
‘Reverend, look!’ shouted Gowland, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him away from his prayers. ‘The ravens…they’ve gone. Jesus Christ! What in God’s name is going on?’
Jackson opened his eyes and looked up – the hands on the clock had stopped at five o’clock. In spite of the cold, his cheeks were red hot. He held out his arm to Frank, who took it and helped him to his feet. Taking deep breaths to try and calm himself; he looked up at the church, searching for signs to reassure him that he hadn’t imagined the whole damn thing. But with the exception of the stopped clock, everything was back to normal.
‘I don’t know what unholy poison Tina puts in her beer, but I sure as shit won’t be drinking any more of it,’ said Gowland, knowing full well that come tomorrow lunchtime he would be waiting impatiently outside her door again. ‘What the fuck happened there?’
Jackson didn’t answer; unlike Gowland, he was not prepared to hide behind the alibi of his alcohol addiction in explaining away what he’d just witnessed. Many years had passed since he’d encountered any kind of a sign persuading him that there was reason for him to continue in his line of work. But it had been a sign – he was convinced of that - more convinced than he’d been of anything since taking the job at All Saint’s Church all those years ago.
Standing in the relentless snowstorm that engulfed him like a swarm of ferocious bees, Jackson closed his eyes and prayed.
Part 3: Saturday
Chapter 1
5.30am: Shepherd’s Cross remained cloaked in darkness as it awoke to face another cold, winter’s day. The village was deathly still, submerged in a thick blanket of snow. The wind had finally blown itself to sleep, but the snow continued to fall, softer now but without the slightest sign of coming to an end. A fox scampered silently across the village green, conscious not to attract any unwanted attention from those who would do it harm. It weaved its way through the trees and streetlights as it neared the trail that led to its den in the woods; like a teenage girl skulking sheepishly home in the early hours of the morning.
Liam Turner lay snug and warm in his bed, focusing intently on the Nintendo in his hands; overjoyed at the opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime lie-in. He had delivered newspapers for
his father since turning thirteen: three years of slogging around the village come rain or shine, weighed down with heavy bags of gossip and crosswords; straps digging in to his shoulders like a fully-laden packhorse. Sure, it brought him in a little pocket-money to indulge his gaming hobby, but at what cost? Early mornings and teenage boys were not compatible bedfellows. So earlier that morning, when his father had knocked on his door to tell him that the newspaper distribution guy hadn’t been able to get his van anywhere near the village, he’d been met with a resounding cheer. He was quite happy to forgo a morning’s pay for the chance of a rare lie-in.
Liam’s rare moment of good fortune meant that the streets remained empty; the paths yet to be touched by the footsteps of humans and the paw-prints of their dogs. The Cross was destined to be busy this weekend: the weather would prevent all but the most committed or desperate of souls to brave the roads that led away from the village to the outside world. Children would be coming out in force to make the most of the opportunity to pelt their friends and enemies with snowballs. Newcomers and old-timers would be forced into each other’s company; there would be no escaping to the confines of a city office or the anonymity of an out-of-town shopping centre this weekend. Not everybody would be comfortable with the enforced confinement, however temporary it might be. The weekends of the Rowan Lane children were usually jam-packed with extra-curricular activities such as gymnastics, swimming or ballet lessons: activities that were as much intended to relinquish parents from the requirement to spend time with their children as to genuinely develop the talents of their offspring.
The majority of the Shepherd’s Cross residents remained blissfully unaware of the strange events of the previous two days; of the unnatural occurrences that had begun to unfold.