Witnesses

by Anthony Watson

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he made out another door immediately in front of him, wooden with heavy black metal hinges and a similar ring-shaped knocker to the outside door. He glanced at Dreschler, who gave a quick nod. He opened the door, it too creaking dramatically as it swung on its hinges. The inside of the church was lit by the dying rays of the sun coming through the large western window, bathing everything in a warm, red glow. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

  A gentle nudge to his shoulder propelled him into the church. They were at the rear of the building, so as he entered, the whole of the interior of the building was laid out before him. To his left, as he looked along the length of the church, stood a stone font as high as his waist, the repository for Holy Water, into which the faithful would dip when entering and leaving the church. The font was empty, and he wondered whether the church was still being used for worship.

  Two sets of pews stood either side of a central aisle of flagstones. Eight rows of seats hewn from a dark wood. At the far end was the altar, two steps leading up to a stone platform upon which a table bearing two candlesticks and a wooden lectern stood. The huge window in the west wall towered over the altar. These details were only just visible; the whole interior of the church was now covered in shadow.

  “We need some light.” Dreschler gently pushed Church along the aisle towards the altar, the sound of their boots scuffing the stone surface echoing in the empty church. “Wait here,” he commanded as they reached the altar and strode onto the raised surface.

  At the altar table, he reached over to each candle in turn, clicking his fingers to produce a small flame with which he lit the wicks. The candles sputtered and crackled to life, the flames tall and orange at first, flickering wildly as they established themselves, casting dancing shadows over the walls and floor. The flames slowly dimmed in intensity, orange turning to yellow. A warm glow now filled the top end of the church. To the right of the altar, a huge stone crucifix stood against the wall, an anguished stone Christ hanging from it.

  Dreschler turned to face Church, the British soldier still somewhat shocked by the pyrotechnic display he had just witnessed. “Now,” the German said, his voice echoing in the cramped, ancient space, “we wait.”

  * * *

  Dave awoke to darkness and a rumbling sound in his head. Then came the pain. First his neck and shoulders screamed out at the position he found himself in, toppled over to one side on the back seat of a car, a moving car. He just had time to realise the rumbling was the sound of the car passing over the road before a second pain hit him, this time from his forehead. He reached a finger to the source of the pain and immediately withdrew it as fresh agony pulsed at the point of contact. He cried out with the shock of it, immediately embarrassed at the squeak he’d emitted. He’d had time to feel the rough edge of a crusting-over wound and a fair amount of tender swelling around it. He allowed his head to drop back onto the car seat, feeling again the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back scream out.

  “Ah, you’re awake then.” The voice came from the front of the car, the driver. A familiar voice…

  Dave slowly sat up, wincing at the fresh round of pain the movement caused. Gingerly, so as not to touch the bird’s egg that had grown on his forehead, he rubbed his eyes to remove the grittiness in them. Questions fought for priority in his head: Why was he in the back seat of a stranger’s car? Where was he? Where was he going? Why had Mickey killed himself? Why had he seen Mickey in the kitchen doorway after he’d killed himself?

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “You’re feeling okay?” Dark replied.

  “No. I feel shit – thanks for asking. What’s going on?” He leant forward. Winced.

  “We’re… taking a little trip, Dave. Somewhere nice. Somewhere safe.”

  “Safe? What do you mean safe? Safe from what?”

  Dark sighed, the sound audible, even above the thrumming of the car. “I found you passed out in a pool of blood, slumped over the dead body of your friend. Now, I’m sure you could have explained that away very easily to the police when they arrived, but I fear it may have been less than straightforward and somewhat time consuming. Unfortunately, time is something we don’t have a great deal of right now.”

  Dave shook his head, as if this would somehow help to make sense of what the man was saying. “What’s all this we stuff? What do you mean we don’t have a lot of time?”

  “I know this is all a bit… bizarre right now, Dave.” Dark’s voice had taken on a placatory, gentle tone. “I promise I’ll explain everything to you when we get there. Bear with me, please. You’re in a much better situation now than you would have been if I’d left you at Mickey’s.”

  “Get where? Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

  “Not far. It’s just a little… remote. As I say, time is pressing. The sooner we get there, the better. Oh, and we’re on the A1 at the moment, doing at least seventy-five, so don’t try anything stupid like opening the door and throwing yourself out.” The placatory tone was noticeably absent from his last few words.

  Dave glanced out of the window at the darkness. They were currently on an unlit part of the road, but the sound of the car testified to the speed they were travelling, as did the headlights rushing past them on the other side of the road. Glancing ahead once more, he saw the rear lights of the car in front, approaching rapidly. Dark swung the car into the overtaking lane dramatically at the last moment, and the momentum toppled Dave over onto his side again.

  “Here,” Dark said, reaching down to pick something off the passenger seat. “Have a look at this. It might make things a bit easier to explain if you do some background reading.” He tossed a small, leather-bound book onto Dave’s lap. “I’ve marked the relevant pages.”

  Dave sat upright once more, fumbled with the book. Turning it over, he saw that it was a bible. A number of pages had yellow post-its attached to them, presumably the ones Dark had mentioned.

  “Go on, take a look,” the driver, his abductor, prompted.

  He opened the bible at one of the markers, flicking through the delicate, thin pages. Tight lines of tiny typeface filled the page in two columns. There was no way he’d be able to read this here, now.

  A small torch landed on the seat beside him. “Use that,” Dark said, “it’ll help.”

  He reluctantly picked up the torch, turned it on and pointed it at the page. It was near the front of the book. The heading at the top of the page identified the passages he was to read from Revelations. Chapter eleven.

  “Enjoy!” Dark said.

  * * *

  The heavens have opened once again and the world seems to be made of rain. It has taken you forty-five minutes to get to the scene of the crime, so here you now stand, within the cordon of police tape, getting drenched by the torrents of water being flung from the sky. The body lies some twenty yards along an alleyway in the downtown area. It is illuminated by a floodlight brought here by the forensics division. Sentries are positioned at either end of the alley, dissuading the curious from entering – even at this early hour the streets are busy. The glow of neon suffuses the entrances to the narrow lane, adding red, blue, green tints to the falling rain. A screech of brakes rends the air; a long skid through surface water ends with a loud crash. Shouting ensues. The uniformed policeman guarding the corpse rolls his eyes skywards. His morning has just got worse.

  “You came.” The statement comes from Sergeant Iskandar, a colleague from the homicide division with whom you have a good working relationship before your secondment. It was he who phoned you, roused you from your dreams of falling. “Come, have a look.”

  You walk with him to the body, which lies beneath a black plastic sheet. Water has begun to pool in the folds of it, the sound of the rain falling on it a staccato rhythm. Iskandar reaches for the edge of the sheet, grips it in a gloved hand, and pulls it back to reveal the body beneath.

  You do not recognise the victim. It had been your assum
ption that he would be known to you, that that was why you had been summoned here, but that is not the case. The face is badly beaten but still recognisable enough to be… unrecognised. The dead man is no one you know, either personally or through work.

  “Hatchet?” you ask. The body is ravaged, hacked, bled out.

  “Mm. Or something like.”

  “Salakau?”

  “Until we discover otherwise, that’s our assumption.”

  You nod and return your gaze to the body. Even given your line of work, your constant exposure to the evil man can do to man, each new victim still has the capacity to shock you. This is a good thing, a reminder of your humanity.

  You take a step back from the corpse. “Who is he? I don’t recognise him, never seen him before.”

  “There’s no ID on the body, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

  You turn to stare at Iskandar. “Why did you bring me here? I don’t know him. What connection can I possibly have to this case?”

  The sergeant reaches into his pocket, withdraws a piece of paper, a note wrapped in a plastic forensic bag. He hands it to you. “Cahya Darmadi?”

  You nod, acknowledge your name, puzzled as to why Iskandar has spoken it aloud, but then realise why as you see those two words clearly visible through the raindrops that cover the plastic wallet written on the paper he has just handed you.

  * * *

  Dilly was going to die. Chris was now sure of it. His only concern was that she didn’t die too soon. An hour had passed since they’d left the gas station, but in all that time she hadn’t woken. She’d been quiet, too. The ramblings and mutterings that had accompanied their journey so far had ceased. At one point, he’d thought she had died and had had to pull over and check that she hadn’t. He’d found a feeble pulse and felt shallow breaths on the hand he placed over her mouth, but he was worried. To have gotten this far only to fall at the last hurdle…

  In a way, her weakness was advantageous. Despite all her failings, she was intelligent and, as recent events had proven, strong-willed. Her incapacitation had meant no long explanations were necessary, no need to convince her of the destiny that awaited them both. Perhaps it was fate (and how he smiled at that thought), circumstances had dictated that he was to be successful where so many others had failed.

  If only she stays alive long enough…

  The car crested a rise in the road, the rolling landscape opening up in front of them. And there, perched on the hillside like some lonely sentinel, he saw it, a small, clapboard church, the wood painted white and pale green. He slowed the car to a halt, let the engine idle as he looked at the building about a mile in front of them. A sense of relief filled him.

  They’d made it.

  He turned to Dilly, but saw she still slumbered. It would have been fitting to have shared this moment with her, this significant moment. He gently shook her shoulder, attempting to awaken her, but to no avail. Never mind, the important thing was they were here.

  He knocked the Dodge back into gear and pulled away. The road sweeping around the hillside took them directly into the sun, and Chris pulled down the visor. Within two minutes he was turning left onto the dirt track that would take them to the church, relishing the sound of the tires crunching over the rough surface. The sunlight dappled the trees lining the track and bathed the church, standing in its own meadow, with warm illumination, reflected brightly off the metal angel sitting atop the pointed spire. Pulling up alongside the church, he turned the ignition off and stepped out into the warm sunlight.

  Given its location halfway up the hill, the church commanded a stunning view of the valley beyond, and Chris followed the route of the road as it snaked along the valley floor, winding in and out of copses of trees. A small box-girder bridge carried it across the river, the sound of the rushing water audible even at this distance.

  He inhaled deeply of the clear, fresh air and turned his attention back to the church. Up close, he could see the disrepair it had fallen into. Here and there the paint was flaking from the wooden slats from which it was constructed. In places, the black metal of the guttering was stained brown by rust. A leak had caused a brown stain on the wood beneath it, a long streak the same colour as dried blood.

  It was, Chris thought, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  * * *

  Snow falls relentlessly, adding to the drifts that filled the wide cobbled streets, darkening further a sky already pale from weak winter sunlight. In the distance, a church bell rings, its deep peals echoing between the high buildings surrounding the square.

  Seven o’clock.

  Around you, dark-clad figures shuffle slowly through the deep snow impeding them, heads down against the wind that whistles between the buildings, chilling their faces as it does yours.

  A commotion from the far side of the square halts everyone’s progress. The sound of horse hooves clattering across hard ground, muffled by the snow, but still distinctive enough to send a shudder through your body.

  “Przybywaja!” someone shouts.

  “Boze, pomoz nam!” shouts another. Some part of you realises the words are in a foreign language, whilst another fully understands their meaning, They are coming! and God help us!

  You watch a troop of cavalry enter the square and pick up speed to begin a gallop towards you and the group you are part of. Some try to run, but the snow impedes them more than the horses which are soon upon them, their riders pulling sabres from their scabbards to bring swinging down, cleaving muscle and bone in fountains of red that spray across the white ground. Others stay still, resigned to their violent fate. Some fall to their knees in prayer and die that way.

  “Diably…” a voice close to you whispers as your own death arrives on horseback. You stare into your killer’s eyes, looking for any kind of emotion that may be hidden in them as he raises his sword and brings it sweeping down towards you…

  Church screamed as he awakened from his dream, the sound echoing around the interior of the church. Dreschler gave him a startled look, concern in his eyes.

  “Dear God!” he said, trying to control his heartbeat, which hammered in his chest. Small bursts of light filled his vision, and the air was filled with the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. He tried to raise a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, but found its movement impeded by the handcuffs binding it to the end of the pew upon which he sat. “What the fuck?”

  Dreschler gave an embarrassed smile. “My apologies, Captain Church, but we were both tired last night. And, even though I knew you would sleep well, I knew that I would too, and could therefore take no chances…”

  Church shook the chain angrily, felt the cuff dig into the flesh of his wrist, but ignored the flash of pain.

  “A bad dream I think?” Dreschler’s voice was calm and measured.

  “Yes. A very bad dream, if you must know. One that’s obviously shaken me, as I’m sure you can see. Really, is this necessary?” He jangled the chain again. “It’s most uncomfortable – I can give you my word as a gentleman, and as an officer, that I won’t try any funny business.”

  Dreschler laughed but the sound had no humour in it. “Ah, Captain Church! Your word as a gentleman! Much as I appreciate – and respect – the sentiment, I know as well as you that it is your duty as a serving officer to make every attempt at escape. Is that not so?”

  Church gave no reply, looked sullenly ahead.

  “I can’t allow that to happen, you see. Both our presences are required for what is to happen. Why, I wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to bring you here if I could have done this on my own!”

  “Done what on your own? Damn it, man, you’ve been enigmatic for too long now, telling me nothing, just dropping in obtuse little statements here and there! If this thing we’re here for is so bloody important, why can’t you tell me what it is? What is it I’m supposed to be doing? God forbid I do something wrong – which is very likely to happen if I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to be doing!”

>   Dreschler smiled, the way a parent might smile at a child throwing a tantrum. “You’re absolutely right, Dominic.” Church bridled at the use of his Christian name, the familiarity inherent in it completely inappropriate in the circumstances. “You do need to know. Please accept my apologies for the enigmatic way in which I have been acting of late. I promise you I shall explain everything. But first, let us have some coffee.” He reached for the pot sitting on the small portable stove he’d set up on the altar, and poured dark, steaming liquid into two tin mugs. Church was ready to protest this further delaying tactic by the German until the smell of the coffee intensified as it was poured, and he realised that right now, more than anything else in the world, he really wanted to drink some of it. He automatically reached out for the cup and felt frustration, and anger, as the handcuffs restricted his movement.

  “Here, let me help” Dreschler said, placing the steaming mug into Church’s hands. “Be careful, it’s hot!”

  “Thank you,” Church replied, awkwardly grasping the handle of the mug. It was already warm to the touch but, he realised, nowhere near as hot as the handle of the pot which Dreschler had replaced on the stove. The metal must be searing, and yet the German had picked it up without even the benefit of a cloth wrapped around his hand. He bent slightly to blow onto the coffee and took a sip, relishing the flavour, ignoring the burn of it.

  Dreschler, grasping his own mug, settled down on the pew next to him. “We are here, Captain Church,” he began, “to fulfil our destiny.”

  Church sighed, shook his head. “Damn it, Dreschler, enough of the mumbo-jumbo! No more fancy words, no more being enigmatic. Just tell me what in hell is going on!”

  “In Hell! Oh my, how apt!” Dreschler threw his head back and laughed out loud. “Perhaps you know more than you realise, Captain Church!” He raised his mug in a mock toast and took a deep gulp of coffee. He smiled as he swallowed, but the grin disappeared in a flash as he turned to address Church.