The Chapel

by S. T. Boston

  On the seat next to him sat the zipped-up holdall that contained the three-round Beretta sawn-off semi-automatic shotgun. Within the bag were two boxes of twenty-five cartridges. With the three in the gun ready to fly it gave him fifty-three rounds in all. Likely fifty more than he’d need, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared. He reached across from the steering wheel and rested his hand on the stock of the gun and stroked it affectionately through the canvas of the bag. Far in the west lightning chased through the clouds. It had been moving around him and getting stronger the further west he went. Soon the storm would cycle around and end up right overhead, but that was a few hours away yet, and before then another storm would break upon The Old Chapel. His storm. And he would bring his own lightning, lightning birthed from the barrel of the sawn-off as he pulled the trigger.

  Just after ten PM, Jason passed a sign welcoming him to Trellen. The voices had grown stronger mile by mile and now their whispering filled his head completely with their beautiful poison. He didn’t slow as he crossed into the village, he kept going until one of those voices rose above all the others and said, “HERE!” Jason jammed the brakes on and swung his Audi left onto the drive, the front-end understeering as he caught the shingle a little too fast. The tyres dug through the stones and bit, giving him back control. At the end of the drive, he could see a white Jeep and a VW T4, the kind someone had half converted into a camper. The T4 had been in the picture that had led him here, and in the dimly lit cab, Jason glanced at the paper sitting on top of the bag. This was the place, the photo confirmed it, and the voices confirmed it. He pulled around, close to the treeline and so the T4 hid his car partially from view. He unzipped the bag, took the gun out, a smile forming on his lips when he thought about the look on that fucking bitch’s face when she saw him there pointing a gun at her, then the disbelief as he pulled the trigger. Maybe he’d shoot her in the chest, let the bitch bleed out on the floor while she listened to him hunt down and kill the other two. Maybe he’d shoot her in the face, he expected that at close range the shot in the cartridge would likely take half her pretty face off and that would be fuckin’-a- cool to see, too! Decisions, decisions, Jason mused to himself.

  Gun primed and in hand, Jason got out of the car and stood with the driver’s door open where he emptied the two boxes of twenty-five cartridges into a small canvas shoulder bag that bore the Beretta logo. In his haste a few dropped, they bounced off the driver’s seat and vanished from view under the car. It didn’t matter, he had more than enough. He guessed the bag could hold maybe sixty rounds. It had come with the gun and was designed to carry spare cartridges for when people were on a shoot. He himself was on a shoot, only the game wasn’t pheasant or duck, and the thought brought an amused smile to his face. Ready, or cocked-locked and ready to rock, as he preferred to think of it, he fixed his attention on The Old Chapel and let the darkness in. It was stronger than it had been in the picture, sweeter, purer and less diluted. As he looked another blast of lightning flashed fiercely in the sky a few miles west, presenting him a momentarily lit view of the whole building. For the briefest of moments in that electric light he thought he'd seen a man in a cloak stood on the lawn watching him, then the lightning flashed again, and he was gone.

  Mike was in the kitchen boiling the kettle for a cup of tea that neither of them really wanted when there was a knock at the door. Just as with the previous night, this evening was turning into a waiting game, waiting for something to happen, yet at the same time half hoping it wouldn’t. All morning and since getting in from searching the woods, and spying on the Horners’ place, The Old Chapel had been shrouded in a pensive silence and thoughts on what they should do next had been tumbling around his head all day.

  “Samuels?” Tara asked uneasily.

  “Could be,” he said and grabbed a large carving knife from one of the drawers. “You can’t be too careful, though.” Mike headed down the passageway where Scotty had vanished from the previous evening, the knife in his hand. Whoever was on the other side knocked the door again before Mike reached it.

  “Who is it?” Mike demanded, one hand on the key that was still in the lock, the other clutching the knife.

  "My car broke down about a mile away," came a male voice from the other side of the door. "I can't get my phone to work out here, I was wondering if you had a landline I could use to call for recovery?"

  Mike turned the key in the lock thinking it was likely a shit house story thought up by some reporter who thought they’d get the scoop on just why he and the team were there. He had the door unlocked and half open before he heard Tara screaming for him to not open it, he couldn’t make out what she was saying exactly but somewhere in there was a name he knew, Jason, but it was too late. As Mike registered the name and pushed his weight back against the door, Jason crashed against it on the other side countering his effort. There was just enough space between Mike and the door for it to gain enough momentum to knock him sideways and off-kilter. Mike stumbled back into the entrance lobby, the knife spilled from his hand and tumbled out of reach. He watched in a mixture of shock, surprise and pure horror as Jason came confidently over the threshold with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands. The barrel was aimed at him and his finger was on the trigger, already taking up some of the poundage. For a split-second, Mike looked directly into the shotgun’s eye of death and he felt it wink at him.

  “Well, well,” Jason spat, taking them both in with eyes that looked both predatory and wild with anger. “Look what we have here, a ratting whore and her master!”

  Mike regained his footing as Jason spoke. He knew that if he didn't get the gun from him, they were dead. Mike didn't know what Jason expected, maybe he'd expected them to freeze, maybe he'd expected them to beg for their lives. What he didn't expect was for Mike to rush at him, and it seemed to take him a little by surprise, for his reactions were a little slower than that of an average man. Mike sprang forward, crossed the few feet between them in the blink of an eye and managed to cut below the barrel and come up below Jason. He got a hand on the gun, forced it up and began trying to wrestle it from his grip. Mike had been faster, but Jason was stronger, and now he could feel him winning the tug of war, only this wasn’t the kind at the village fete, whoever lost this would likely lose their life.

  “Get down,” Mike shouted at Tara, only too aware that in such a struggle it was easy for a gun to go off and hit a bystander. Jason’s face was locked in a grimace of fury and exertion, it was damp with sweat and Mike watched a single bead of it run from his forehead down the bridge of his misshapen nose where it then fell to the floor. His breath stank sourly of booze and now Mike knew why he’d not been so fast to react, he was pissed.

  “DIE!” Jason screamed through clenched teeth as he began to get the better of Mike. The gun barrel went from high to low as they struggled, and the barrel was now aimed at the floor behind him. Mike could feel Jason countering his efforts and soon the gun would come back up, only at this angle, it would end up under his chin in a suicide shot, and if that happened Mike knew he’d be dead. “BOTH, DIE!” Jason screamed again, and then there was an ear-splitting bang as the shotgun went off, the kick of it jarred Mike’s his arms. Somewhere behind that deafening sound, he heard Tara scream, and for one terrible moment he thought she'd been shot, but that was before he felt the lancing hot pain spreading through his left leg.

  Tara watched in horror as Mike wrestled Jason for the gun, it swung left, right and each time it swept its deadly gaze across the lobby she dived out of its way. To begin with it looked as if the swiftness of Mike’s action had won him the advantage, but Jason was stronger and slightly taller, and it didn’t take long for him to begin regaining that advantage. His powerful arms forced the barrel to the floor, taking Mike further off balance, then using all his strength he began to bring it back up in an arc that would end directly under Mike’s chin. Mike fought against him and there was a sudden flash from the muzzle and an ear-shattering bang as the shotgun went off. Tara
screamed and watched as Mike instantly let go and stumbled back, the sudden release of pressure caused Jason to stumble the opposite way and for a moment he looked kind of dumbfounded as if he couldn't register what was happening.

  Behind both Mike and Jason, out on the forecourt headlights swept the drive and Tara watched as a what looked like a Toyota Yaris did a U-turn and pulled to a stop level with the door. Mike was on his back, clutching at his leg, his face pale and sweat covered. The car drew Jason’s attention for a split second and he turned to see who the latest person joining the party was. That split second of distraction was all Tara needed to act. She rushed across the lobby and picked up the heavy wooden crucifix from the floor at the foot of the stairs, where it had been resting since they’d arrived. With it clasped in a two-handed grip she rushed at him, bringing it up like a baseball player about to take a pitch. Jason must have sensed or heard her coming because as she got to within six feet of him, he turned and raised the gun at her. Tara cut left as another shot rang out, she’d moved quicker than Jason and the round hadn’t spread enough for the buckshot to get her at that close range. She heard it splinter the wood of the panelling behind her and as it did, Jason screamed in rage. Before he had the chance to fire again, Tara was on him and she swung the heavy cross high and hard and caught him with the arm of the crucifix up under his chin. The momentum and weight behind it instantly shattered his jaw and snapped his neck back with a sickening, Crack. Blood and shattered teeth flew from his mouth and hit the carpet, the impact of the blow knocked the gun from his hand, and he staggered back two or three paces, his neck at an impossible angle. At the door, he wavered briefly before he fell backward through the frame causing the back of his head to hit the stone of the doorstep with a nauseating thwack.

  Tara stood for a few moments, the cross still in her right hand and her chest heaving. She looked from the front door, where Jason lay not moving, to Mike who was now trying to sit himself up, pain creasing his face and a blossom of blood staining his grey cargo trousers. Eventually, the weight of the crucifix got too much and it dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. Tara’s head span and nausea swept over her causing her to double over and vomit onto the carpet.

  “My, what the devil has happened here?” a female voice said from the porch.

  Tara looked up and saw the concerned face of June Rodgers. She was dressed in loose-fitting black trousers and a matching short sleeve top, around her neck was the same lightweight scarf that she'd been wearing when they'd met back in Boscastle. Behind her in the sky lighting flashed, igniting the tree line and briefly turning her figure into no more than a silhouette. Tara wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and straightened up. “June!” she said in surprise. “Wh-what the fuck are you doing here?”

  June stepped over Jason’s body, seemingly not fazed in the slightest by it, “I’ve been getting feelings all day that I needed to come,” she said seriously. “And that if I didn’t, your team and those poor Harrison kids would all be dead by morning."

  “But the Grand Climax is tomorrow?” Tara said questioningly.

  “I’m afraid not, Miss Gibb. The ceremony for the Grand Climax begins at midnight,” she said. “That is in a little over two hours.”

  “My God,” Tara said, realising their mistake. “We never factored in that it turns the 27th at midnight, how could we have been so stupid?”

  “Let’s not worry about that right this second, my dear,” June said, crossing the floor to Mike, “Could you give me a hand here with Mr. Cross, he appears to have been shot.”

  Chapter 47

  The lobby was filled with the choking, acrid smell of gunpowder from the two discarded rounds and the sound of the blast still rang in Mike’s ears like tinnitus and made his head feel like cotton wool. That smoky metallic smell caught the back of his throat and made him cough, the cough then jarred his body and further ignited the fiery pain in his leg, causing his face to crease in pain.

  “Let me see him,” June said, striding over and dropping down by his side.

  Mike smiled weakly at her, “I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he said.

  “It’s a hell of a first impression, Mr. Cross,” she said. Her voice was serious and yet there was the slightest hint of dry humour in there and it made him chuckle. “I wasn’t sure what I’d be coming into by turning up here tonight, but the Cornish equivalent to the Gunfight at the O.K Coral wasn’t it!”

  “Jason?” he asked.

  "If that's the name of the fellow in the doorway I'd say he was quite dead. Now, let me get your trousers down so I can take a look at that wound.”

  “I – wait,” Mike protested but her hands were already unlacing his Timberlands.

  “In a previous life I was a veterinary nurse,” she said as she loosened the zipper. “Not quite the same I know, but I once treated a German Shepherd who’d caught the wrong end of some buckshot, so as experience goes, I’m all you’ve got.”

  “I killed him,” Mike heard Tara say in a hollow voice. She was crouched by his side, next to June watching her work, but her eyes, which were rimmed with red from the exertion of vomiting, looked distant and her face was pallid and sheened in sweat that glistened in the lights of the lobby.

  “Was he one of them?” June asked.

  “One of who?” Tara questioned.

  “From the village?”

  “No, he was an ex. I don’t know how,” she paused a second and Mike saw realisation dawn on her face and that realisation brought her back. “He must have seen the newspaper, Mike. My God. I knew he was crazy, but he was here to kill us.”

  June’s hands stopped working on Mike’s trousers and she looked at Tara with genuine puzzlement before she said, “I suggest you re-think your choice in the opposite sex, my dear. You have enough to contend with here without ex-boyfriends turning up and trying to kill you.” She turned her attention back to the job in hand and fixed her grip around the sides of his waistband. “This is going to hurt, possibly quite a lot but I need to see how badly you were hit and if any of the shot is still in you. Tara, I need your help, you support his lower back and lift his backside. Ready, on the count of three, one-two.”

  On two June tugged his trousers down, taking care as she lifted them over the wound. Thankfully they were lightweight, loose in the leg, and came away easily. It hurt, but not as badly as Mike feared it would.

  “Is it bad,” he said trying to see past June’s head. When she moved, he got a first look at the damage caused by the blast. His skin on the left side of his calf looked gouged and angry like someone had hit him repeatedly with one of those spiky hammers that chefs use to tenderise steak.

  “It could be a lot worse,” June replied as she surveyed the damage. “I’d say the buckshot has grazed the skin, well most of it. There are likely a few bits of it still in there.” She looked at Mike and smiled, “Good news is I think you’ll live. I can patch you up, but we need to get this looked at, at the hospital.”

  “We can’t,” Mike said. “There isn’t time. Patch me up and I’ll worry about the rest later.”

  June’s face frowned with concern and through the open door behind her lightning lit the car park with a series of staccato flashes bringing with it the smell of ozone. it mixed with the metallic smell of the discharged shots and made the muggy air hard and chemical-like to breathe. “You need medical attention, Mr. Cross.” She added seriously. She removed her neck scarf, balled it up and handed it to him and said, “Press this on the wound, it will stem the bleeding a little before we dress it.”

  “Mike, call me Mike.”

  “Mike. Very well,” she looked from him to Tara and then around the lobby. “Where is Mr. Hampton?” she asked with puzzlement.

  Tara’s face fell into a solemn look, “We don’t know,” she said helplessly. “He vanished last night.”

  “Vanished?” June asked sounding bemused. “How did he vanish, my dear?”

  “We were experiencing some major activity,” Mike added
in trying to get over the fact that he was now sat in his boxers in front of a lady he’d only just met. "It started in the upstairs bedroom with a kid's Jack-in-the-box playing to itself, then culminated in the crying that has been so widely reported. Only this time it was different, the lights glowed so brightly that it almost blinded us, then it just stopped, the fuse tripped, and the lights went out. Scotty was gone, as were around an hour and a half of the night.”

  June looked at him confused, and Mike knew he’d spilled it all out like an excited toddler. She stood, and Mike heard her joints crack, her face looked pained, but she didn't voice it. Instead, she bit it back with a deep breath, then said, “Take me through it one step at a time, ‘cos I’m still not quite sure how Mr. Hampton vanished on you. And am I right in believing that you lost over an hour of time?”

  Mike moved his bum on the floor and got his leg more comfortable and winced as he pushed the scarf down onto the wound. It felt better now that the fabric of his trousers was away from the skin, but it still throbbed deeply. “Yes,” he said. “I awoke to the sound of a kid’s nursery rhyme coming from one of the upstairs rooms. Scotty had rigged up some sound amplifiers, so we could hear the whole house. Turned out to be a Jack-in-the-box playing to itself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. That was about two AM, give or take. Then we heard the crying, it started low, barely audible but it soon built. Then as it built the lights brightened, like I said we could barely see it got so bright. Then something happened, like a pressure change – I even felt it in my ears, Tara, too. After that, the lights went out. I think the power surge tripped out the main fuse. At the point, the lights went out Scotty vanished. He had hold of Tara one moment, then the next he was –“