by Mark White
As the four of them began their journey back to Fellside Hall, King fought hard to conceal his overwhelming delight at the unhampered progress being made. The portending signs and omens of the previous two days were stirring His desire and bringing Him ever closer to this world; the five witnesses required to bring Him forth were now in place, and the bloodshed necessary to give His spirit the physical form it craved had commenced.
Nevertheless, His thirst was deep; it would not be quenched by the souls of two boys. There would need to be greater sacrifice, with further blood needing to flow in His name. King’s eyes were ablaze with anticipation as the Range Rover wound its way confidently up the lake road towards Fellside Hall. There was no time to waste.
Chapter 9
2.00pm: Bill and Yvonne Turner were trying hard to remember a time when their cosy general store had been as busy as it was today. They weren’t used to having a queue of impatient customers lining up at the counter, most of whom were struggling with overflowing baskets containing various everyday grocery items, from loaves of bread to tins of baked beans. Enforced isolation from the nearest town of Cornforth, with its supermarkets and easy access to any and every consumer product imaginable, had sent many of the residents into panic-buying mode, as if they were unsure as to where their next meal would be coming from. The herd mentality had started kicking in earlier that morning, as unprepared villagers with bare cupboards began swarming into the store like a plague of starved locusts.
Unfortunately for Liam Turner, his good fortune at avoiding the morning’s paper round was kicked cruelly into touch when his father banged on his bedroom door and ordered him to get his backside into gear and downstairs to the give them a hand. His spotty adolescent face was a picture of misery as he begrudgingly fetched extra provisions from the stock room to the sales area, traipsing back and forth with all the urgency of a geriatric sloth. Saturday was his day, goddammit, a day when he was allowed to do whatever he wanted, which usually meant getting as far away from Shepherd’s Cross as he could. Being cooped up with your parents above their place of work was suffocating at the best of times, and being denied the opportunity to escape for a few hours and indulge oneself in the endless pleasures of comic books and computer games seemed to him to be wholly unfair.
With all three of the Turner family working together, the queue eventually became more manageable, although it remained at least two deep at any given time. Bill was in his element: for him, there was no finer sound than the opening and closing of an overworked cash till. He couldn’t care less about the state of the muddy, wet floor that his customers had created; there would be plenty of time to clean that up after he’d had a chance to count the day’s takings.
Emily Mitford was next up to be served, followed by a haggard-looking Reverend Jackson, the contents of his basket consisting of nothing more than eight cans of strong cider and a half-litre bottle of scotch whisky.
‘Good afternoon, Bill,’ Emily said, placing her basket onto the counter. ‘You seem busy today?’
‘You can say that again,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never known anything like it – you’d think that folk around here were preparing themselves for a nuclear attack. The snow’s supposed to ease off in a couple of days; it’s not like we’re all going to starve to death. Mind you, I’m not complaining – trade’s never been as brisk. Reverend Jackson,’ he said, looking over Emily’s shoulder at the man behind her. ‘Is everything all right? If I may say so, you don’t look too well. Reverend Jackson?’
‘Uggh? What’s that?’ said Jackson, signs of life returning to his tired-looking eyes at the mention of his name. ‘Sorry, Bill, I was a million miles away. Did you say something?’
‘Just commenting that you seem to be a little under the weather.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replied Jackson. ‘No, I’m fine thanks. Just tired I suppose - I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last night. An early night will sort me out.’
Bill Turner’s eyes rested on the alcohol in Jackson’s basket. It was an open secret that the Reverend enjoyed a tipple, which was a polite way of stating that he had a drink problem, but nobody ever dared to suggest as much to his face, not even Bill Thompson, the church warden. After all, Jackson had been their vicar for twenty years and had served them well. Most of the villagers had family members who at some point had either been baptised, married or buried by him. Being there to accompany people through life’s most significant events meant that he had become an important pillar of the community, alcoholic or otherwise.
Even so, Jackson wasn’t lying about his lack of sleep the night before. What he’d witnessed at All Saints’ Church had kept him up all night, praying and scanning passages from the Bible between swigs of whisky, searching for any guidance that could help explain what he’d seen, and more importantly, why it had happened. Those words: Deus est mortuus – obviously they were Latin for ‘God is dead’ - but what on earth did that mean? It was like a scene from The Omen, not the sort of thing you’d expect to find down at your local village church on a Friday night after closing time. Night had passed into day, but Jackson remained in the dark, no matter what angle he approached it from. He had seen something, he was certain of that. Drink or no drink, he could remember everything; every last detail from the spinning clock hands to the grimacing faces on the supporting corbels. He wanted, needed, to understand the message. For Christ’s sake, he had spent most of his Christian life praying for a sign to convince him that he was on a worthwhile path. Evidence? Maybe. Maybe the smallest shred of evidence was what everyone wanted, believers and cynics alike. But this was no shred: this was a hit-you-right-between-the-eyes sign that something else was out there, something that even the most die-hard scientist would have difficulty explaining away in some nondescript, academic textbook. This was real, damn it, and it had come right out of the blue when he’d least expected it.
The bell above the door rattled to announce the arrival of a new customer. Edward Bainbridge strolled casually into the store, briefly acknowledging the people inside with a cursory nod. He looked around at the shelves, some of which were now half-empty thanks to the unusually brisk morning trade. ‘My God,’ he said, turning his nose up as if someone had broken wind. ‘It’s like some kind of third world market stall in here. You’ll be dishing out ration books next. Dear me; Waitrose has nothing to fear as long as this place is in business.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Yvonne Turner appeared from the back room, holding a tray carrying a tea pot and three cups for her family. ‘What did you say?’
‘It’s alright Yvonne,’ said Bill. ‘He’s only joking with us, aren’t you sir?’
‘No, I’m not, actually,’ Bainbridge replied. ‘I mean…it does look somewhat worse for wear in here. No offence, but it’s not exactly the type of environment where one would choose to spend one’s hard earned money, is it? A general tidy up would help, and maybe a lick of paint wouldn’t go amiss, and…’
‘Excuse me,’ Yvonne interrupted, ‘but who the hell are you to come swanning in here like the Lord of the Manor, telling me how to run my shop? You’ve lived in this village nigh on three years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen you in here. You can’t just come out with comments like that to people you don’t know. I’ll have you know we’ve been working flat out all day serving customers; and grateful customers at that. We’re not a bloody supermarket. Jesus…I thought your wife was bad enough!’
‘Calm down, Yvonne!’ urged Bill. He turned to face Bainbridge. ‘Look, you. Joking or not, you’ve got no right coming in here and insulting us like that. It’s been so busy today that we haven’t had time to tidy up. It’s not normally like this. Turner’s general store is doing just fine thanks, and has been for three generations. My father, and his father before him, have stood behind this counter through wars, recessions and food shortages. We’re a rural village store, sir, not a giant supermarket. We stock life’s essentials, and maybe a few luxuries here and there. You’ve come to the wrong pl
ace if you’re trying to find pickled jalapeno peppers or freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice. Now then, was there anything in particular you were looking for?
‘I was,’ Bainbridge replied. ‘But not anymore. I’m afraid your insolence has just cost you my business, Mr Turner. Furthermore, I can assure you that my wife shan’t be frequenting this place any more – nor shall any of her friends after I’ve spoken to them.’
‘Well all I can say is, thank heaven for small mercies!’ said Yvonne, her remark causing Emily Mitford to raise her hand to her mouth to stop herself from giggling.
Bainbridge’s face turned bright red, like that of a spoilt school boy who for once was not going to get the candy bar he wanted. ‘Bloody in-breds,’ he muttered, turning abruptly to leave. As he did so, he slipped on the wet mat next to the door, falling awkwardly onto his backside like a circus clown. Liam Turner, who up until this point had stood silently on the side-lines, suddenly burst out laughing, unable to contain his amusement. To him, Edward Bainbridge looked exactly like a character from one of his comics who had stepped on a strategically-placed banana peel. His laughter must have been contagious, because it was only a matter of seconds before he was joined by Reverend Jackson and Emily Mitford, sniggering away like naughty school children.
Bainbridge jumped to his feet, trying to hide the fact that he’d fallen over, his pride and temper visibly shaken as he rounded on the others like a wounded animal. ‘How dare you laugh at me? No…wait…you carry on. You just carry on. It will help my case enormously when I drag you into court for every penny that this pokey shithole has ever made you. Oh dear: it appears you’ve forgotten to put a sign up warning your customers of the slippery wet floor. I’m surprised to see such commercial negligence, especially from a business stretching as far back as yours, Mr Turner. And how fortuitous to have a vicar as a witness – Reverend Jackson - I assume I shall have your honest support when you are called to the witness stand?’
Jackson raised his hands in an attempt to calm the situation. ‘Please, everyone, let’s all calm down. I’m sure we can discuss this matter like adults.’ The room fell silent. ‘Good, now…I think we should start with some apologies. I’m happy to go first.’ He looked at Bainbridge. ‘I’m sorry for laughing at your accident, Mr Bainbridge. I didn’t mean to; it wasn’t funny. It was nothing more than a nervous reaction to a tense situation.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ added Emily. ‘Are you all right? You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’
A smug expression settled onto Edward’s face. He could feel the control being handed back to him. ‘You can all apologise as much as you want to. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that. It just so happens that I’m an experienced personal injury lawyer by trade, and I know only too well that there isn’t a defence solicitor in this country who could get you off this particular hook. Actually, Emily, seeing as you asked, my neck is feeling rather sore. And my back,’ he said, pretending to be in agonising pain. ‘I think I may need to get this looked at.’
Yvonne Turner was about to tell him what he could do with his hoity-toity legal threats, when a razor-sharp look from her husband informed her that it wouldn’t be the wisest of moves. As far as Bill Turner was concerned, this whole charade had gone far enough. He certainly wasn’t in a financial position to tackle the consequences of calling Bainbridge’s bluff. ‘We’re sorry,’ he said, staring at the others, one by one, signalling to them to nod in agreement with him. ‘We didn’t mean to upset you. We, I mean I, value your business, as well as that of your wife and her friends. I guess I was offended by you criticising my shop. But you’re right; it needs a good sort out. Thank you for your advice, Mr Bainbridge.’
Edward looked at them in turn, like the cat that got the cream. ‘Hmm…very well. I’ll let it pass this once. After all, we don’t want any bad blood between neighbours, do we? All the same, it would be wise to listen to the advice of professionals like me. I’m able to bring a lot more to this village than merely my money, you know. You’d do well to remember that. Good day to you all.’ With that, he left the shop, leaving the door wide open for Reverend Jackson to close behind him.
‘What an arrogant man,’ said Emily, after making sure he was well and truly out of earshot. ‘And I thought his wife could be blunt.’
‘You shouldn’t have given in to him like that, Bill,’ said Yvonne. ‘He was in the wrong and you know it. He should be the one apologising to us for his behaviour. Downright rude, that’s what it was.’
‘For God’s sake – sorry Reverend – but what else could I have done? Do you realise the trouble we’d have been in if he’d decided to haul our backsides into court? It might have ruined us, Yvonne. We can’t afford to upset someone like him. It’s just not worth it.’
‘He’s right, Yvonne,’ said Emily. ‘With people like him…I’m afraid that sometimes you have no other option than to take a step back and play the game their way. Turn the other cheek, eh Reverend?’
Jackson didn’t answer; his thoughts had drifted back to the events of the previous evening and the work that lay ahead.
‘I know, I know,’ said Yvonne. ‘But it’s just so infuriating. Here we are, working our fingers to the bone on a freezing cold Saturday, running around like blue-arsed flies while trying to remain as polite as possible. Then someone like him saunters in, probably fresh from a morning lounging by the fire, and starts criticising us.’
‘He wasn’t having a go at us, mother,’ said Liam. ‘He was complaining about our store.’
‘Oh, make no mistake, Liam. He couldn’t give a monkey’s about our store. He came in here with the sole intention of winding us up. Spite, that’s all it is. Pure spite. That might be the way things are in whatever jumped-up city firm he works for, but out here we don’t act like that. We respect each other – we look out for each other. At least we used to, before his kind decided to move here.’
‘Respect – that’s exactly the right word for it,’ said Bill, returning from the store cupboard with a mop and bucket to sweep up the water by the entrance door. ‘Now, I’m not tarring everyone who lives in Rowan Lane with the same brush. On the contrary: there are one or two of them who are the nicest people you could ever want to come across. But some of them…it boils my blood when I think how rude they can be. I’m sure they don’t all mean to be that way: it’s probably the way they’ve been brought up; but they don’t half get my back up, driving around in their expensive four-by-fours like they own the place.’
‘You sound envious,’ said Jackson, re-joining the conversation. ‘One of the seven sins, you know?’
‘No,’ replied Bill, resolutely shaking his head to deny Jackson’s assertion. ‘It’s not envy, Andrew. If anything, it’s pity. Believe me; I wouldn’t change my situation for all the money in the world. This place is in my blood: the store, the village, the customers; I’d never swap my life for theirs. Especially that Edward Bainbridge, no matter who much he earns from climbing on the backs others. I mean, come on…a personal injury lawyer! What kind of life is that, preying on people’s misfortune; encouraging them to claim for imaginary whiplash and God only knows what else? All so he can get his slice of the pie. Nope, if anything I reckon it’s money that’s the problem; the route of all evil, as you might say, Reverend. As far as I’m concerned, if you spend your time filling up your life with meaningless shit; you end up with nothing more than a shit life to show for it. Pardon my French.’
‘Well, he’s gone now,’ Yvonne said, handing Emily’s shopping back to her in two paper grocery bags. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll get his comeuppance one day. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes I wish that Rowan Lane had never been built. I think I preferred life the way it used to be. We don’t need Edward Bainbridge’s ill-gotten money, or his meddling interference in our affairs.’
‘Aye, and I don’t see many of that lot filling up your pews on a Sunday morning either, Reverend. No wonder they’re so bloody snooty towards us – there’s no space left for God in
their self-centred lives.’
Deus est mortuus! The thought struck Reverend Jackson like a bolt of lightning. ‘That’s it – you’ve hit the nail on the head!’ he cried, oblivious to the shocked reaction to his unexpected outburst. ‘Yvonne, please, let me pay for these and be on my way, will you? I’m sorry, but I must get to work. There’s something I need to do. Sorry to rush you.’
‘Of course, Reverend, no problem,’ replied Yvonne, confused as to his sudden change of behaviour. She totted up the items and placed them into a bag. ‘That comes to thirteen pounds and fifty-five pence, please.’
He handed her fifteen pounds, and without waiting for his change, muttered his goodbyes to everyone and hurried out of the shop.
‘What on earth’s got into him?’ asked Yvonne, holding the unwanted change in her hand. ‘He looks like he’s just seen a ghost.’
Bill shrugged. ‘No idea. Was it something I said?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Emily. ‘But something obviously struck a raw nerve. I haven’t seen him so animated since he tripped on the church’s old aisle carpet and fell against poor Seth Rogerson’s coffin. My goodness, that was so embarrassing – the whole church was in uproar.’
Bill smiled. ‘All the same, I hope I didn’t offend him in any way?’
‘Oh, I don’t think you offended him at all,’ Emily said. ‘You made a lot of sense to me; maybe something you said happened to spark an idea off in his head? Either way, I have a feeling we may find out what’s on his mind at tomorrow morning’s service. Stay tuned, folks!’ With that closing remark, she bade them farewell and walked outside into the cold afternoon.
The snow had begun to fall again; fat, full flakes drifting lazily to the ground. Reverend Jackson strode as quickly as he could across the village green to All Saints’ Church, deep in thought, oblivious to the world around him. For the first time in years, he couldn’t wait to get to church; couldn’t wait to close the door behind him and get to work. If he was right about the meaning behind last night’s vision, he had no time to waste.