He spent the rest of the journey thinking how he could broach the subject of what they would do for the next two days when the car pulled onto the muddy drive of One Farm Road.
A black Daimler sat parked before the house facing them. Leaning against the bonnet, Dan saw a large-framed man in a black suit, clipped grey moustache and snow-fine grey hair.
“I don’t fucking believe it,” growled Dan.
“You know him?” said Alison.
“Doesn’t everybody?” The car stopped. “Brendan Widdowson. The bastard.”
Dan got out of the car to face him.
Nine
Brendan Widdowson stiffened and pulled his jacket over his torso as if adjusting some kind of armour for a fight. His hair was greyer than Dan remembered. He’d lost none of his presence. A tall, well-built man, he towered over Dan’s slighter frame. The man’s eyes narrowed as if weighing up the opposition, but he was absolute in his confidence, his righteousness.
“Let me deal with this this,” said Dan moving ahead of Alison.
“Try to be diplomatic,” she said. He briefly wondered what she meant.
Dan marched up to the pastor and stopped a foot away from him.
“Daniel,” Widdowson addressed him in his powerful, Welsh accent. “You have grown. The last time I saw you, you were only a skinny little thing.”
“Pastor Widdowson.” Daniel fixed his features into a hostile grimace. “Let me ask you a question. Does the phrase ‘fuck off’ mean anything to you?”
Widdowson folded his arms, a slight smile creasing his lips.
“So, Daniel. The hostilities remain, I see. I had hoped you would be man enough by now to put such childish behavior behind you. Especially in these circumstances.”
“I don’t want you here. Get off of my property.”
“Your property? Umm…interesting. This was your mother’s house. What will she be thinking, looking down, seeing you, an adult, behaving in this way?”
“Nothing. She’s dead. And she’d not the only fucker I want to see in the ground.” He moved a step closer to Widdowson. “Now,” Dan gestured to the Daimler, “get in your car, drive away, and don’t come back.”
Widdowson didn’t move. He showed no sign of retreat. He just stared with those blue eyes, the same way Dan had seen him stare at his parishioners when he was preaching. The hard stare of conviction. Consequently, Dan didn’t move. He wasn’t going to move until Widdowson left. The two men glared at each other.
At last, Widdowson looked over to the nurse. “Alison. Lindsey wasn’t in church on Sunday. I would have thought that two days after her mother’s death would have been the right and proper time to bring her to church.”
“I’m sorry, Pastor,” she said. “What with Mr. Hepworth here arriving…”
“Don’t apologise to this bastard, Alison!” Dan spat the sentence out more like an order. Then turning to Widdowson, “Lindsey’s days of hearing your fucking voice on a Sunday morning are over. She gets a lie-in from now on. Is that clear?”
“Then the blood is on your hands, Daniel. You may choose to abstain from the love of our holy father, but to drag another away…well…that is unforgivable. The retribution you will suffer on the Day will be great, indeed.”
“Save your threats. They mean nothing now. Lindsey and I walked away from that shit long ago.”
Widdowson leaned in close. “Lindsey isn’t walking anywhere.” A faint smile curled upwards indenting hardly noticeable dimples of mocking joy. Dan could feel his fists clenching, his hands drawing back to ram a fist into Widdowson’s face.
“Detective Inspector Gould is one of Pastor Widdowson’s parishioners, isn’t he pastor?” Alison’s voice broke through Dan’s red mist. Gould. He remembered the policeman. Remembered what he could be like. Realisations exploded in Dan’s mind. Possible consequences for his actions were anticipated. Widdowson would like nothing better than for Dan to hit him. He’d have his mate, his deacon and parishioner, Gould, arrest and charge Dan faster than he could actually hit Widdowson in the face.
Widdowson looked up, the mocking sneer wiped from his face. “Yes, Alison, he is.”
“Dan is very upset over his mother’s death.” Alison moved forwards and squeezed the pastor’s arm. “Perhaps it would be better to return when Daniel’s grief is not quite so raw.”
Widdowson studied Dan’s face which was still a mask of hate.
“Perhaps it is best I leave. I will return,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
“We have nothing to discuss.”
“Oh, but I think we do. Good day and may God soften your heart, Daniel.”
“There is no God, Widdowson. You taught me that. Nice car, by the way. How many parishioners did you fuck over to get that? Then again, it makes up for the size of your tiny maggot-penis you…fucking… Bible fucker.”
“Dan, that isn’t helping,” said Alison.
Widdowson’s eyes flickered with rage, but he just got into his car and drove off.
In the kitchen, Dan sat down and held his head in his hands.
“I should have hit him.”
“That’s what he wanted. He was goading you. His friend, the DI, would have been up here in a shot.”
“What could he do? I was provoked. You heard what he said about Lindsey.”
“Widdowson would have pressed charges, Gould would push for maximum sentencing, and you would have a spell in prison. You’d lose your job and your house. They’ve done it to people in this town before. You underestimate how powerful Widdowson is these days.”
She disappeared into the pantry and returned with a bottle of whiskey. She poured them both one.
“Diane never had booze in the house.”
“Medicinal. Calms you down. I got it in when I knew you were coming. Thought you’d need it, especially if Widdowson turned up.”
Dan took a gulp. “I was going to hit him. Thanks for stepping in like that.”
“My pleasure.”
“No. I feel like you had my back then. That you’ve got mine and Lindsey’s back.”
“I can understand why you don’t like your mother. Especially after what you said this morning about the glass in your shoes when you were a kid. So, what’s Pastor Widdowson done to annoy you?”
He sighed. “Apart from being the ideas behind her actions? I know he’s…well…evil. Really evil.” He let a heavy silence hang. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay.” She got up. Without warning, she went behind him and started massaging his shoulders, her deft grip unknotting tense muscles. Dan was initially surprised at this very forward tactile invasion but didn’t protest. “Why don’t you go down to the pub? Give Billy a ring. Unwind. You’ve got the will reading tomorrow.”
He thought about the long walk home, the man on the bridge, but the thought of a few pints with the lads overwhelmed that fear. Besides, with Widdowson promising to visit again, a mad, bald guy in a purple robe was the last of his worries.
“Okay. Will you be okay here on your own?”
“Of course.” She finished the massage. “There. I’ll get some lunch going.”
Dan stayed sitting at the table, thought it best not to get up just yet. He’d enjoyed Alison’s massage much more than he should have.
Patrick
Patrick sat up in bed, his finger in his ear, a clear line of dribble slowly reaching the rough material of his pajamas. Pajamas issued by the orderlies at St. Vincent’s which smelt of Carbolic soap. He murmured softly, unsure of his new surroundings.
The beds of the other patients lined each side of the ward. High above, the neon lights flickered. The last of the patients hobbled from the bathroom to his bed, carrying his towel.
An orderly, a large Jamaican lady, walked into the ward and looked over the thirty beds.
“You,” she said, pointing at him. “New boy. You go to sleep. You gotta be up early in the morning to work in that gard
en.” Patrick didn’t move. He looked at her quizzically, uncomprehending. “I turn the light off, then you sleep. Night night, you lot, and no noise tonight. You hear? If the matron hears your noise, she’ll be out here, and I’ll be the one getting it in the neck!”
The overhead neon lights shut off and the wide heavy door closed. Patrick stared into the darkness, still unable to comprehend why he was here.
In the bed across from him, covers flew off and the patient in that bed sat up staring at the newcomer.
Another patient, to the left of the first, also sat up. He stared at Patrick as well, but then got right out of bed.
“Vince,” said the first man. “Go and check that she’s gone.”
The second man got up and ran to the door. A third and a fourth got out of bed to look at the newcomer.
“She’s gone,” said Vince.
“Right,” said the first man, padding over to where Patrick sat. He stopped at the foot of the bed. The other three men crowded around the bed.
“He’ll make a load of noise, Connor,” said Vince.
“They always do first time. They soon learns to shut it.”
“This one won’t, Connor. He’s from the disabled ward downstairs. Where they keep the wheelchair kiddies. They send them up here when they’re sixteen.”
“What’s your name?” spat Connor. Patrick didn’t answer. “Dumb, he is. Deaf and dumb. Backwards too, I ‘spect.”
“They’re all backwards down there,” said Vince. “Some of ’em are crippled and all.”
“Look at it. It looks backwards. Dribblin’. It shit itself earlier.”
Vince turned to Connor. “How we gonna do this?”
“Same as always. I go first. You lot grab its arms and legs.”
“But it’ll start screaming.”
“No, it won’t.” Connor smiled and casually took hold of Patrick’s head. Connor forced Patrick face down into the bed. “Stuff a pillow over its head. Hold it there and they won’t hear it scream.”
Patrick struggled, but the men held him down. His weak, spindly arms and legs were no match for their combined strength. Vince took over for Connor and held the pillow over his head. Patrick’s muffled screams couldn’t be heard through the cloth and the down.
“Right,” said Connor, unfastening his pajama bottoms. “I’m going first.”
Ten
Brendan Widdowson pulled his large Daimler into the drive of Orchard Way, parked, and got out. The houses of the new estate appeared to be mainly narrow red brick structures, a mixture of bungalows and two storey houses. The tarmac and brick work was still clean and new. Gillits’s bungalow was at the very end of the estate and nudged onto the fields that stretched away across the motorway in the distance.
Widdowson was glad the Lord had blessed him with the large cottage he lived in and wasn’t condemned to exist in one of these pokey holes.
Rising above the spotless tiles of the roofs of the new builds, the clock tower of St. Vincent’s rose into the sky, the clock stuck at the same time, the mechanism inside dead. Widdowson glanced up at the tower momentarily.
Widdowson rapped sharply on the door and the door opened automatically. Gillits waited in his wheelchair like an angry child. “You took your bloody time.”
“This better be good,” said Widdowson.
“See for yourself.” Gillits gestured to the words on the stained wall. “Written in shit. I’ve cleaned most of it off but you can still read it.”
Widdowson frowned. “Choir.”
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s a warning. That’s what it is?”
“Who did this? Did you see them?”
“They came in the other night.”
“But did you see them?”
“No. They came in, did this, and left. They also came into my room and removed the bulb from my lamp. Tore the lightbulb out of the light up there.” He wheeled nearer. “Widdowson. Someone knows.”
“Don’t be absurd. No one knows. We made sure of that. It was years ago, forgotten now.”
“Obviously not. Someone’s remembered.”
“How do you know this is anything to do with…with, well, the past.”
“There’s one thing I didn’t clean off. Look at the window.” Widdowson studied the small, brown smear on the window. “It’s his hand print.”
Widdowson said nothing. He looked back at the word written on the wall then back to the hand print. “How the hell did they do that,” he said turning to Gillits. “Replicate a hand print like that? It looks like…like. No, it can’t be.”
“You see my point, Brendan. Someone has been talking. Someone wants to frighten us.” He wheeled closer to Widdowson. “Pendred. Our friend up at the nut house. He’s always had a big mouth.”
“Pendred is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. When those kids went missing on the moors two years ago, he rang the police and said he’d murdered them. Whatever he says, no one would believe him.”
“Then one of the others. Whoever did this, they want something. Is this blackmail?”
“That would be the most likely explanation. So why did you call me, Dennis?”
Gillits stared at him with incredulity. “You said you’d protect us. You said you’d make it all go away.”
“I said I’d keep the information buried. I never said I’d protect you. That was never part of the deal.”
“That’s not what you said at the time. Look Brendan, I didn’t ask you here to argue. Listen, have they done anything to you? Visited you?”
“No,” he looked at the vandalism again. “I can find out who’s behind this. I’ll put the feelers out, as they say.”
Gillits laughed darkly. “I’m sure one of your congregation won’t be behind this.”
“My influence goes far beyond the church walls, Dennis. Nothing happens in Scarsdale without me knowing it.” He gently touched the handprint. “This, though…looks…exactly like—”
“What? I know what you’re going to say. It looks like his hand.”
Night fell and a mist from the river curled around the foundations of Willow House to settle as a fine ghosting across the lawn around the bungalow. From the bungalow, soft light shone out into the night.
Melody was alone on the night shift tonight. Louise had rung in sick at 8:30. Finding a replacement at that hour would be impossible. The late shift had got all the residents into bed except Stephen and Nigel. The others, Greg, Diane, and Lindsey, all needed hoisting into bed which was really a two-man job.
Nigel sat in his chair twisting his hair and absently making noises. Stephen was on his side, gurgling, appearing to watch the TV, but Melody could never really tell. His wide-set eyes never seemed to focus on anything, even when you called him by name.
At 10:00 p.m., Melody put Stephen to bed. She wheeled the wheelchair up to the settee and gently pushed his hips until he felt his way onto the wheelchair. She took him to his room at the end of the corridor and steadied him as he padded from the wheelchair to the wide profiling bed. She checked his pad and it was clean.
The same couldn’t be said for Nigel. She led him by the hand to the bathroom. He walked slowly with his Chaplinesque gait and didn’t even scream tonight when she changed him. He screamed the most when he was in the shower. When Alison had worked here, she insisted he be strip washed, but the staff found it easier to put up with the screams and shower him in the mornings.
His room was lit by a single lamp. Nigel was totally blind, but the lamp was for the staff to see him when they checked on him. She closed his curtains against the mist and helped him to bed. He sat in the middle of the large bed still twisting his hair and putting his fingers into his mouth as he usually did.
With the boys in bed, the unit was quiet. Just the hum of the lights and the clicking of the heating systems broke the silence now that she’d switched the TV off.
From the office, she coul
d hear all of them through the intercom. She could hear Stephen making the odd hum of concern and contentment, Lindsey making that laughing sound she sometimes made, and Nigel snoring.
Melody looked out through the office window. The glow from the one sodium light to shine across the car park fought against the cloying mist that had now filled the night. Melody never liked looking out there. The old asylum was near, just through the trees. That was a dark place. She didn’t know much about what it was used for, but she knew a dark place when she saw it.
She sat, watched the clock, and felt her eyes drift. In an hour’s time she’d need to turn Lindsey and check on the others too. She could afford a little sleep. Some of the other staff went into the lounge, got blankets from the linen cupboard, and slept all night. One nurse was sacked when the manager arrived to spot check and found her asleep in Lindsey’s bed when Lindsey was at her mother’s.
Tonight, Lindsey was quiet. Melody could hear her soft breathing through the intercom, could feel her own eyelids drooping. She would need to take the washing out and put the next load in as well. The laundry room was down the end of the building. And she had to take those yellow clinical waste bags out, but that could wait because she really needed two minutes sleep. Just two minutes to let her eyes close and then she’d do those jobs.
“…choir shall sing. Vengence is your’s, sayith the Lord…”
Melody’s eyes snapped open. A voice. A voice from the intercom, speaking. A man’s voice. From Stephen’s room! Someone had got into the building.
“…those who mocked will choke on their own piss…” the voice hissed from the intercom.
Melody shot to her feet, ran down the corridor. As she reached Stephen’s door, she realised that whoever was in there might be dangerous. She put her ear to the door but heard nothing significant. She looked back up the corridor wondering if she should call the police.
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