Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  On the rise above, Vicky clapped one hand across her mouth to stifle an involuntary squeal. She’d underestimated how powerful a grip the emotions reawakened from being here might have. Everything within wanted to close her eyes, but that outcome only replayed images of another sacrifice from the mists of time she would never forget.

  All three naked girls’ chants gave way to unrestrained moans of violent orgasm. The blade flashed across Jeff’s throat. Its wake left a splitting incision, pushed open by a gushing release of blood to mirror the sexual muscle spasms opposite. The men unsheathed themselves from their partners. All six dancers hurried round to feast on blood pouring down the front of the now stained, white-robed offering. His lifeless head hung forward, tongue lolling out as half a dozen thirsty tongues lapped at his sanguine release.

  Bill crawled forward, one elbow reaching over the edge to frame a clear shot. “Fucking hell!” he exclaimed in a hissed whisper through clenched teeth. A dislodged shower of loose, North Downs chalk stones clattered over the crumbling lip into the quarry. An array of hooded heads snapped upwards to assess the origin of their disturbance.

  “Intruders.” The shout carried in a relay from below.

  Bill pulled himself back from the edge. “Time to go.” His foot slipped while scrambling to his feet. He overbalanced. Vicky caught hold of one wrist, while his frantic body fought for purchase to avoid tumbling down the bank. In the struggle to avoid a fall that would end his mortality - either by accident or with unwanted help - Bill didn’t notice the disengaging shoulder strap. His camera plummeted into the quarry. “Oh shit.” An involuntary, effeminate rise in the pitch of his voice, caused cheeks to flush that his uninvited companion would never notice. Both observers tore into the undergrowth from which Vicky had emerged.

  Electric torch beams, concealed beneath ritual attire of several participants, sliced the mist-heavy air. Snagging, scratching thorns tore at the fleeing pair’s clothes and exposed flesh. Bill and Vicky pounded headlong in the general direction of the bridleway, back across the field and beyond another hedge. Their pursuers were too numerous to consider any attempt at lingering, in hopes of concealment. Before long they’d discover both cars parked out of sight nearby. If Bill and Vicky didn’t get there first, it was all over.

  Vicky crashed through the hedgerow, glancing around for her car. The Audi stood where she’d left it, further down the track. She slipped and stumbled through the dark, bashing into Bill. Orange indicator lights winked on the red vehicle, in time with a firm press on her central locking fob. Bill darted past on the other side. His voice rasped through exhausted pants, gasping for air. “Give me twenty seconds before flooring it. I’m parked behind you.”

  Vicky tumbled into the driver’s seat of her Audi, lungs fit to burst. She tugged at the seatbelt, causing the restraining lock to withhold it. Beams of light reached the hedgerow opening they’d poured through ahead. She took a deep breath to slow her actions, then slid the released belt across her body into its waiting socket. Tail lights appeared in her rear-view mirror as Bill fired up the Skoda. Vicky inserted her key, twisted it round to ‘Start’ and crunched the gearbox into reverse. Hooded figures, back-lit by torches behind them, hurried along the track towards her. She flicked her headlights onto main beam, hoping to dazzle the pursuers as her right foot buried the accelerator pedal. At first the wheels span without traction. Then the Audi lurched backwards, bouncing on uneven ground. It tore down the track at a speed Vicky would never entertain on such a surface under normal circumstances.

  Bill skidded out onto Bunce Court Road. He swung his Skoda left, heading in the opposite direction to the primary estate entrance. Car headlights emerged further up the road behind. Vicky’s Audi jostled backwards out of the bridleway. She performed a sudden, half J-turn to aim her vehicle’s nose in the same direction of travel. Bill jerked his head at the mirror in a nod of admiration, then floored the Skoda down an intersecting lane towards Throwley. Vicky roared past on the higher Painter’s Forstal road. Again Bill acknowledged her choice as she disappeared into the night. Had she split up on purpose to increase the chances of at least one of them escaping?

  Two gleaming marbles of light grabbed Bill’s attention. A fox blocked his path of travel. He tugged the steering wheel and grounded the car’s suspension in a roadside rut. The vehicle protested with a creak and a bang, but nothing obvious appeared to have broken. A faint trace of approaching light dappled tree canopies enclosing the lane like organic cathedral arches. Their rising illumination kept Bill moving forward.

  An oil pressure warning light disrupted the familiar array of nighttime dashboard instrumentation. His temperature gauge rose above the halfway mark, with no sign of stopping. “That’s not good.” He flew over a humpbacked rise, concealed in the darkness. The car banged again on impact the other side. Bill tugged his handbrake at the entrance to a nearby farm. The car swung right, careening between a corrugated metal barn and some rusting, long-forgotten agricultural machinery. He stomped on the brakes, then killed lights and engine in a single motion. In the sudden stillness, his head throbbed like a pounding bass drum on which stress was the percussionist. Three sets of headlights swept past the farm entrance in rapid succession. Bill released tensed muscles. Well, they weren’t hanging around. It’s got to be them. I’d better sit tight until morning, then introduce myself to the farmer and call for a recovery vehicle. If I’ve lost all my oil, the engine will cook. He pressed his head back into the seat rest, then attempted to get a few hours sleep.

  Vicky almost lost control of the Audi on a sudden S-bend. She lurched first one way, then the other, before Eastling Road led into the rural hamlet of Painter’s Forstal. Memories surfaced of childhood walks through an orchard near here, with her adoptive parents. “Box Lane.” The phrase came out unbidden. A halo of pursuing headlights tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She caught a tiny gap in the roadside to her right signalling the bumpy, downhill gradient of a single track lane whose name she’d spoken. No sooner had she turned off and extinguished her headlights, than the chasing cars roared past. She brought sidelights back up and coasted downhill, straining to make out the road ahead. At the bottom, a T-junction with Stalisfield Road (a marginally broader thoroughfare) doubled-back toward Sheldwich village and the A251 to Ashford. Chances were, none of those pursuers got a good look at her car. She’d make a casual, roundabout jaunt back to Maidstone via the M20 and hope for the best.

  * * *

  Vicky’s office phone rang, disrupting her focus on a set of case notes. She clocked the caller ID as ‘Building Reception.’ Must be Cynthia. She picked up the receiver and dispensed with her typical business greeting. “Hi-ya.”

  “Hello, Vicky. It’s Cynthia in reception. I have a visitor for you.”

  Vicky frowned, then pulled up her computerised schedule. “That’s odd, I’ve got nobody booked in.” Frank Trimble leered at her from across the office. She rolled her eyes. “Who is it, Cynthia?”

  “A man. He says his name is Bill Rutherford, and that you met him the other night.”

  A faint twinkle in Vicky’s eyes spread south into a subdued smile, somewhere between discomfort and relief. “Tell him I’ll be right down. Thank you.” She hung up.

  Suzie Kempston leaned across the top of her computer monitor. “Tell HIM I’ll be right down?”

  Vicky didn’t bite. “I’m going to lunch, Suze.”

  “Got a date, have we?”

  “No. Someone I met while helping Martha Tomlinson.”

  “That favour you were doing over the troublesome teenager?”

  Vicky stood up and swung her handbag across one shoulder. “That’s it. Back in a while.”

  Suzie watched her stroll out, body language giving nothing away.

  Bill Rutherford stood from courtesy seating in the building reception as Vicky appeared through a security door. “I thought I’d find you here. You said you were a social worker.”

  Vicky stopped. “I didn’t ment
ion I was a social worker in Maidstone.”

  Bill flicked a nonchalant hand gesture. “I live and work here, so thought I’d chance my arm in passing. You and I need to talk.”

  Vicky smirked. “You think?” She folded her arms. “Pub lunch?”

  Bill fidgeted. “If it’s not too expensive. My car bottomed out and went airborne during our little escapade. It needed new shocks and major work on the sump.”

  “I got off easier, then. Come on, I know a decent place. Ham, egg and chips for two won’t break me.”

  Bill’s face brightened. “You’re paying?”

  Vicky performed a quiet but definite foot stamp to make a point. “This once. We’ve got to discuss a plan of action.”

  Bill followed her out onto the street. “I’m glad you got away. Listen, Vicky, I’ve got so many questions about the other night. You seem to know more about what was going on there than I do.”

  Vicky dropped some change into the bowl of a homeless woman squatting against the dirty concrete wall of a bank. She offered the unfortunate lady a genuine expression of compassion.

  Bill eyed her. “That’s a gracious gesture.”

  Vicky shot him a tight-lipped grimace. “Listen, Bill. Don’t get any ideas. I’m not in the market for romance.”

  Bill held up his hands. “Hey, relax. I was homeless for a time myself, okay? I remember what it means when somebody bothers to acknowledge you. The money’s nice. But not being treated as if you’re unwelcome or invisible is better.”

  Vicky’s cheeks rouged. “Oh. I didn’t realise. Sorry.”

  “No harm, no foul.” They carried on walking. “Have you been to the police?”

  Vicky’s eyes reduced to uncomfortable slits. “No. Where to begin? If you hadn’t dropped your camera…”

  Bill winced. “Hmm. Me neither - the police, I mean. All we’ve got is a rather far-fetched story.”

  “If we go together, there will be corroborating witness accounts. Explaining what we were doing there could prove tricky,” Vicky said.

  “Not necessarily. Plod know me from court testimonials I’ve delivered in the past. I’m not their favourite person - no P.I. is - but they’ll understand my reasons. And you? Well, you were looking out for someone’s wayward teenage daughter.”

  Vicky indicated a bright chain pub across the street. “How’s this?”

  “Great. Back to the other night: we can’t provide any evidence. If that group are half as organised as they appear, they’ll have sanitised the scene by now.” Bill opened one pub door for his lunch benefactor.

  Vicky smiled. “Thank you. What about that poor man they butchered? Somebody must miss him.”

  “We’ll give the rozzers a description of the bloke.” He rummaged around in his pocket for a wallet. “Here. Let me get the drinks in.”

  “When Martha handed me a note with the tattooed phrase from Katie’s inner thigh, I knew I couldn’t let it go.” Vicky put down her knife and fork.

  Bill mopped up some egg yolk from his lunch with a hunk of bread. “Jesus. So the same thing happened to your parents and big brother when you were a kid? How do you get over that?”

  Vicky stared past him. “I don’t think you do. My adoptive parents were kind. Without their love, I’d have ended up in care and gone right off the rails. I see that a lot in my line of work.”

  “I imagine you do. Mine isn’t much better. The less sparkling side of human behaviour on full display.”

  Vicky sipped a glass of cola with ice and a slice. “For years the authorities terrified me. Funny when you consider I work for them, now. But I thought after the police raid at Olantigh Priory, the cult was history. That group my father got us mixed up in were well connected.” She fidgeted in her seat. “Listen, I won't mention my past when we go to the police, okay? As far as official records read, I was an unregistered birth to tinkers, taken in by Charlie and Emma Lambert. Victoria Hanson disappeared, presumed dead, nineteen years ago. She was never found.”

  Bill wiped sticky fingers on a paper serviette. “I can keep a secret. Do you hate your biological father?”

  Vicky lowered her eyes and shook her head. “No. I was old enough to realise he’d been lured into that situation. Lured through the promise of a better life for us all.”

  “Are Charlie and Emma still with you?”

  Vicky’s eyes watered as she lifted them. “No. They were both in their late sixties when this bedraggled urchin of Swedish extraction appeared on their doorstep. They moved into a retirement flat after I got my place here in town. Died within a week of each other, earlier in the year, aged eighty-five. Emma first. I was sad, though not surprised, Charlie lost the will to go on without her.”

  Bill took a pull on his pint of lager shandy. “I’m sorry. Of all the doorsteps you could have wound up on, someone or something out there watched over you. They sound like a devoted couple.”

  “They were.”

  Bill twiddled his fingers, keen to lift the mood. “Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you to spot me for dessert? I have got to replace my camera, on top of the car repair bills.”

  Vicky sucked her teeth and played with the end of her ponytail. “You’re cheap, aren’t you?”

  Bill shrugged. “Do I seem bothered about the label?”

  “No. Will you meet me after work for a trip down Palace Avenue to report the incident?”

  “Okay. Plod will be pissed we left it this long, you know.”

  “Yeah. But then, we were chased on foot and by car. And that after watching someone murdered during an occult sex orgy. I’m guessing they’ll understand our shock and hesitation. Assuming they believe us at all.”

  Bill puffed. “Assuming.”

  “That was a success.” Bill scraped his scalp with coarse hands, letting the glass doors of the police station on Palace Avenue swing shut without care. His sarcastic tone of voice didn’t support the positive content of his outburst.

  Vicky rubbed her eyes. “If that woman detective had coughed ‘bullshit’ with her hand in front of her mouth, it wouldn’t have surprised me. The older man gave us more credit. Do you think they’ll raid Hirsig House?”

  Bill shrugged. “DS Tony Quarry is a good copper. I’ve had a few dealings with him before. If it had been up to the other, I’d imagine the phrase ‘wasting police time’ would have reared its ugly head.”

  They crossed to the Archbishop’s Palace for a quiet evening stroll along the River Medway, opposite Crown Court.

  Bill stuffed both hands in his jacket pockets. “We shouldn’t be surprised. It sounds incredible. But at least we’ve gone on record to report the incident. What the dozy buggers do with it is their business. Duty disposed on our part.”

  Vicky stopped. “Not quite. I’ve got to insist Martha Tomlinson keep her daughter, Katie, away from those people.”

  Bill snorted. “Good luck with that one. You saw what Katie was into, if she was one of the naked hedonists like you said. From what you’ve told me, the girl already treats her mum like dirt.”

  “All the same, I’ve got to try.”

  Bill kicked a loose stone into the river. “What are you going to say? ‘Oh, hi Martha, I checked out that house Katie goes to. It’s okay, she’s not making porn. No, she’s involved in occult sex orgies and ritual human sacrifice. I’d suggest asking her to stop.’ Don’t be daft.”

  The chiding tone of his voice caused Vicky to wince. “Okay. Yeah, that will only terrify Martha and create more discord. I’ll have to warn her in a subtle, indirect way.”

  Bill sighed. “I don’t envy you the job.” He caught sight of two rough sleepers setting up a dome tent beneath a weeping willow tree on the far bank. A distant look dominated his stare.

  Vicky watched him. “Hey. The police didn’t have a missing person report to match our murdered man.” Bill remained silent, so she continued. “Martha said Katie’s recent friends were very interested in her work at a local homeless charity.”

  Bill pivoted on his hee
l. “You think they’re luring homeless people in with the promise of a better life, like they did your father?”

  “I don’t know. But it could account for the lack of a missing person record.”

  Bill leaned back against the embankment wall. “I told that client I’d lost my camera, but his wife was attending wild sex parties with her boss. At first I thought he’d want me to keep following her until I could show him definitive proof. The bitch left him the morning after that horrendous session in the country near Otterden.”

  Vicky raised one curious eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

  “That I’m at a loose end for now. If those bastards are fucking with the homeless, it makes things personal for me. Which charity does Katie work for?”

  “Hands of Hope.”

  “I know them. Decent, unselfish people.” He pushed a business card into her hands bearing the title ‘Rutherford Private Investigations.’ “My office address is on there. We’ve already exchanged phone numbers.” He paused. “I’m not hitting on you, Vicky. But it might do to keep in touch, for now. If I learn anything from the charity, I’ll give you a bell. I hardly need tell you we’re dealing with some dangerous people. Rich and powerful fanatics. Should you get in any trouble, look me up, okay?”

  Vicky tucked the card away in her blouse pocket. “Thanks, Bill. I’d better be getting home.” She turned to walk away past a river mooring. Those striking blue eyes glanced back over one shoulder for a moment, strained by the weight of a terrible shared secret.

  Bill half raised one hand. “Take care.”

  * * *

  “What’s your interest in the homeless, Mr Rutherford?” Betty Chalk sat down at her desk in the main ‘Hands of Hope’ office.

  Bill had met her type before. Kind people with big hearts, desperate for funds to support any initiative perceived as worthy. “I was homeless for a time, years back.”