The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  “Well,” he replied with a smile, “if you saw it on Youtube then it must be true, right? And there is no need to apologise, an inquisitive mind is a healthy mind. If there is anything that you’d like to know about the work we do while you’re here just come right on over. God knows I bore poor Lucinda with it enough; it would be nice to have a willing audience.”

  “I will, thanks,” she replied and knocked back the last dregs of Bollinger from her glass whilst wondering if there would be another refill.

  “Do all these people live in the village?” Ellie asked wanting to change the subject. “We drove through the other half of it earlier and it didn’t look that big.”

  Lucinda nodded and said, “There are twelve families who live in the village. Six homes either side of The Old Chapel. It was thirteen families until Minister Deviss died. Well I say families, he lived alone, but you understand what I mean. I or one of the others hold these little gatherings a few times over the summer months. You know what they say, a small community is a close one.”

  “Died!” Ellie exclaimed, “How?”

  “Ellie!” her mother snapped. “Don’t be so rude.” Carol placed a hand on Lucinda’s forearm, the one carrying the now empty bottle of Bollinger. “I’m sorry,” she added.

  “It’s quite alright,” Lucinda said and smiled a little awkwardly. “There was a fire in two thousand and eight, sadly Johnathan, or Minister Deviss as he was known to many, died.”

  “At The Old Chapel?” Ellie asked. The giddy feeling brought on by the champagne was gone, replaced now with intrigue.

  Seth answered as Lucinda nodded sadly, although her pretty green eyes looked expressionless and failed to convey her body language. "They recorded the cause of the fire as unknown after a brief investigation. There wasn't much of the place left, save for the walls and bell tower.

  “The next morning,” Lucinda took over, “I went into Charlestown to get a few groceries. I saw the smoke as I drove by on the road.” Her voice cracked a little, like fragile porcelain but her eyes remained clear. “As I got to the end of the drive, I could see the still smouldering remains of the building. Johnathan, Minister Deviss, lived on site, he was old and would have had little chance of escaping a fire the likes of which had gutted the building. We are so cut off here no one knew, the place just burned to the ground. Sometimes remoteness can be a dangerous thing.”

  “How awful,” Carol said sincerely, holding a hand to her mouth.

  “The Reeds renovated the place from a shell to how it is today?” her father asked.

  She nodded, “Sue and Tom have done a marvellous job with it, truly stunning. It sat as a shell for so long, somewhat of a blot on our otherwise perfect village. Seth and I helped out with the kitchen, a contact of ours. The Reeds live in Wiltshire and Tom’s fitter came down sick and he couldn’t find another willing to travel.”

  “The church let it stay that way, burned out?”

  Ellie could think of a few questions of her own that she’d like to ask, but this succinct history of the building was interesting enough, for now. She cast an absent eye to her brother, hoping that he would follow the rules and not venture into the surrounding woodlands, where she felt she could get lost herself. For now, he was content skiting its peripheral. Ellie kept a half eye on him, almost expecting to see a pair of dark robed arms dart out from the undergrowth and snatch him away.

  “It was an independent chapel,” Lucinda said sounding a little uncomfortable. “Johnathan preferred it that way, less bureaucracy. He owned and operated the chapel for the community. After it burned down, the local authority took ownership and auctioned it. Minister Deviss had no will and no family to pass it on to. I guess in a way we were his family.”

  “The first family who bought it never got any further refitting the roof that’s now on it,” Seth continued, weighing the empty bottle in his hand. “I think the job was too big for them or they ran out of money ‘cos they put it back up for sale after a year or so, eventually the Reeds bought it. Whilst the fire gutted it, structurally the place was still sound.” There was something in his voice that gave Ellie the impression he wasn’t telling the whole truth and Lucinda looked at him warily as if she herself was afraid of what he might say. He’d also looked away from them as he spoke, only briefly but Ellie had clocked it, a sure sign that someone is either lying or hiding something. Her gramps had always told her that the old two sides to every story thing was bullshit, most had three sides. A story was a triangle and the third side was always the actual truth.

  “They don’t build them like that anymore,” her father commented, nodding his head, and not seeing the deception. Sometimes there was a benefit in studying psychology, it taught you to read people and Ellie had a knack for it.

  “No, they sure don’t. We are just grateful that someone with the money and experience to turn the place around eventually took it on. Gave it a new lease of life. It’s the kind of thing I’d love to be able to do, but my talents are somewhat more academic than practical. I have trouble fixing a shelf up straight,” he laughed.

  Henry, who’d lost interest in the copulating butterflies and their mid-flight courtship that looked more like a perilous mid-air fight to the death, now strayed to the bottom point of the garden, where the narrow path weaved through tall oak and pine trees to the barn, just visible through the foliage. He found, what looked to be a small blackberry bush and was now busy plucking the sun-ripened fruit from its thorny appendages, before popping them into his mouth.

  "I'm sorry," her mother said, looking toward Henry, "It appears my darling son has decided to raid your fruit bushes."

  Lucinda smiled, "It's really no problem," she replied. "The forest is riddled with them, most just go to waste, I've never been one for jam or winemaking.” She glanced a little awkwardly at the rest of the guests as if she suddenly wanted to be away from them, and said, “Look, it’s been great to get the chance to meet you properly, the food will be going on soon, we have fish, steak, and burgers of course. Feel free to help yourselves. If you fancy another drink feel free to leave your car here, it’s not a long walk back, just be mindful of the narrow road. We don’t get a lot of traffic through here but there was a very nasty accident a few years back.”

  "We saw the roadside shrine on our way in, and again today as we headed out," Ellie said, pushing for more information. “What happened? Was it someone you knew?”

  “No,” Lucinda said flatly. “As I understand it, it was the young man from Winns, the estate agency that sold the place to the Reeds. He had a head-on with a lorry from one of the local quarries the day he closed the deal. No one is really sure what happened, but I suspect he was on his phone or something. Horrible business.”

  One tragic event after another, Ellie thought to herself with a shudder that prickled goosebumps onto her skin despite the warmth of the evening. She suspected, no – more knew there was more to it that was being told. For one, she didn’t buy that the poor man whose death place was now marked by brittle plastic florist’s wrapping and a few headless flower stalks was on his phone because out here there was no phone signal. As for the death of Minister Johnathan Deviss, could that be who still resided there? Who'd turned Henry's room to ice? Was that who had stalked her in the field that morning? It didn't make sense if he'd been a man of the cloth then why had the presence felt so malevolent? Come to think of it, if The Old Chapel had been a place of worship then why did it feel so wrong? There were too many questions and not enough answers. Something told her that Lucinda, and very likely her scientist husband Seth, knew the answers and suddenly she found her initial warming to Lucinda waning.

  Chapter 13

  The banging awoke Mike with a start and for a few seconds his mind, stolen so abruptly from sleep, cast him into confusion and he didn’t know where he was. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten to wherever he’d woken up or what he’d been doing before he’d fallen asleep. It was a momentary confusion that he’d only suffered a few
times in the past, and those had been in his younger days and usually followed a night’s heavy drinking.

  BANG – BANG - BANG

  He sat up, arched his neck, his heart pounding against his ribs from the shock of the sudden awakening, the sound of it rushed through his ears where it pulsed with a steady thud-thud-thud. Looking around the darkened room he realised where he was, Tara’s – this was her lounge. Then he remembered, he’d come back here after they'd visited the Reeds. On the floor sat their laptops, screens dark having long since gone into sleep mode. Scattered in a higgledy-piggledy fashion across the top of her large pine coffee table sat the congealing remains of an Indian takeaway. Jutting above plates soiled with the remnants of a very tasty Lamb Bhuna and a lone surviving onion bhaji, that now looked rubbery enough to use as a bouncy ball, stood a half-full, or half empty, depending on your life philosophy, glass of red wine. The glass next to it was empty. Mike knew the half-full one would be his, he rarely drank, and the alcohol had likely played a big part in sending him to sleep.

  BANG – BANG - BANG

  Mike pulled away the light fleece throw that had slipped over his legs. He owned an identical one, his, however, had never seen the other side of his airing cupboard door. Claire had purchased it, along with some natty kid’s bedroom lights in Ikea just a week before the accident. The cloud, sun and moonlights still sat, all these years later in their bags abandoned in the untouched nursery that they would never illuminate. How long had it been since he’d been in that room? A month, three months? He really couldn’t remember.

  It dawned on him that at some point during the evening he must have fallen asleep on the sofa, and before turning in herself, Tara had covered him. Possibly even laid him down, for his head had been resting mercifully on a soft, plump pillow. He was still in his suit trousers, and his shirt was still on, although untucked and only held together by four or five buttons.

  The banging came again, a set of three hard thumps, BANG – BANG - BANG, followed by a fourth that had a slightly different sound, one that suggested the object had been hit with something harder. Mike knew what it was, a foot. Someone was at Tara’s front door and having not been able to rouse the reaction they’d wanted with fists alone, had opted for giving it a good hard kick. Something he himself had done many times, years ago when he’d been a regular uniform patrol bod and presented with the door to a slummy house whose occupants were less than keen on speaking to the Plod.

  He squinted at the green of the digital clock on Tara’s Blu-ray player. His head hurt, likely a mix of the wine, which never agreed with him, and having been woken so suddenly. His mouth felt dry and he considered a sip of wine to wet his palate, then thought better of it. Slowly the numbers came into focus, it was a little after three thirty in the morning. He heard someone cough, a male cough, from whoever stood the other side of the front door.

  Bang – Bang – BANG!

  This time the third strike was the foot again, and then a voice, muffled by the thickness of the fire-door that separated Tara’s flat from the communal area, but still loud enough to make out, “Open the door, Tara – I just want to talk, that’s all.”

  Mike stood, and his head swam briefly. He tucked his shirt in and fixed another button then walked toward the hall, the moonlight bathing Tara’s lounge in enough silvery light to see by. He reached the hall at the exact same time as Tara appeared from her room dressed in a loose-fitting tee and a pair of red boxer-style shorts, her blonde hair was tousled by sleep yet still somehow managing to look appealing. The skin of her legs looked pale in the moonlight despite their tan. Mike saw instantly that she was shaking, her right hand was up to her lips and she bit nervously at her fingers.

  “TARA, I know you’re in there!” the voice shouted. The words had a slight slur to them, Mike had dealt with enough drink-related issues in his time to know when someone was either tipsy, drunk or all the way wasted. This voice was drunk but not wasted. Drunk to the level where a person might still be mostly in control of themselves, and often if the mood suited, quite violent. The slight pause was broken with another loud BANG as the door was kicked, this time hard enough for Mike to see the bottom move inward and away from the frame, followed by the irate voice which screamed, "If you don't open this fucking door I swear to almighty God I will kick the fucker down!"

  Tara fixed him with wide eyes, frightened eyes, eyes he’d not seen before but imagined she’d worn many times before her arsehole ex, Jason, treated her to a beating. A beating that in his sick and disturbed head he no doubt justified by telling himself that she’d both earned and deserved.

  “JASON!," she half-mouthed, her voice shaking and no more than a whisper. Mike had been conscious long enough to have already reached the same conclusion and he felt thankful that he’d ended up staying the night. “He had my number, but I don’t know how he found out where I lived?”

  Mike knew it probably hadn’t been that hard for him to figure out. One Facebook profile with slightly lacklustre security access, and the odd photo, maybe one taken outside the house, or a friend tagging themselves into your pad was all it took. But that didn’t matter right now, one way or another, he had found her.

  “You’ve got five seconds you fucking bitch then I’m gonna start kicking this thing down! You’d better not be in there ignoring me. Three years I done thanks to your testimony and I figured it was time we made even.” The door was kicked hard as if to punctuate his point.

  Before becoming a detective, Mike had experienced plenty of drunks, he’d also been called to more domestic disturbances than he cared to remember. Some had been no more than crossed words overheard by a concerned neighbour, some had been worse, much worse. Victims such as Tara who’d suffered the temper of a sick and twisted mind were more common than they should have been. Now, with a drunk and angry Jason on the other side of the door he felt a familiar rush of adrenalin; something he’d not felt since his days in a patrol car, responding to a job and heading into God knows what. All you knew is you had to go. Only this time there was something else with that adrenaline - anger, and lots of it. He'd never met Jason, he’d pictured himself dishing out a little restorative justice on his face a few times, playing out various scenarios in his head, but had never had the chance. Now here he was, just the other side of the door, the very arsehole who’d made Tara’s life a living hell, who had beaten her to unconsciousness and all because the dog had tripped her, and she'd spilled food on the rug. Now that arsehole was back trying to lay the blame for his incarceration on her. Mike felt incensed, but this was more than his inbuilt moral compass for right and wrong, his anger at Jason was so strong it was palpable. He’d never dated Tara, they’d never been more than work friends, but it felt like more. There was that mutual attraction that they never acted on, the proverbial elephant in the room whenever they were together. How he felt now was proof, proof that if he told himself he liked her as no more than a colleague he was lying, and if there was one person it was pointless lying to, it was yourself.

  Stood poised between the hall and the lounge, Mike lifted a hand, one that told her in no uncertain terms to stay well back. He looked into her wide eyes and she nodded in understanding. Mike stepped decisively forward, removed the security chain, unlocked the door, and threw it open.

  The man on the other side was maybe an inch taller than Mike, his dark hair was cut close to his head. Prison cut, Mike thought to himself. His clothes looked dirty, his white shirt that showed prison toned muscles beneath was torn at the neckline and had spots of blood on it, a sign that maybe this wasn’t the first fight he’d spoiled for that night. Jason had no visible wounds to show where the blood could have come from, so Mike guessed that whomever had faced Jason prior to this had come off worse. Mixed with the blood was a good dose of dirt and Mike mused briefly that he would be a good challenge for a laundry commercial, one where the detergent claimed to get out any stubborn stains in just one wash. His jeans, once most likely a very faded blue, wore what looked
like remnants of vomit as well as a good stubborn grass stain that ran down the side of the left hip as though he’d slid down a grass embankment somewhere.

  Jason was more toned than well built, as if cast from a steel girder. Mike had met enough crazed and deranged people in his life to know when he was faced with one, and now one stood right in front of him. Mike was no slouch in the fitness department, visiting the local gym as much as he could, but not as often as he would have liked. Jason had height and muscles on him that outranked him, and it occurred to him quite quickly that if he didn’t assert the upper hand fast then Jason could and likely would wipe the floor with him. Mike began to wish that he had encouraged Scotty to catch the Red Funnel during his call earlier instead of telling him to stay on the Island. There was no doubt the pair of them could have taken Jason on, hell Scotty had muscles and height on Jason and just one look at him would have probably seen the shithead heading for the door. It was fair to say people of Scotty’s build often won confrontations on looks alone, without the need to ever raise a fist. Mike, on the other hand, was in the camp that did have to prove themselves, not with the stature to send would be challengers running for the hills in fear of being handed a six-pack of whoop-ass.

  Jason’s brow creased as he stared at Mike, his mouth opened and closed a few times as if the synapsis in his brain needed to form speech wouldn’t fire. Finally, he growled, “Who the fuck are you?” as he spoke spittle flew from his lips, a large glob or it arced gracefully through the air and landed on the breast of Mike’s shirt.

  “A friend of Tara’s,” Mike replied calmly, keeping his anger at the brimming point where if it were needed, he could tap into it. “She doesn’t want to see you, and from what I understand you’re in breach of your licence by just being here, so if I were you, I’d just leave before you get yourself nicked.”