Severed

by Peter Laws

  Nobody else seemed to notice. They were too busy pushing their old groaning bodies up from the pews and hobbling down the sloping aisle. They were lining up and singing and kneeling at the rail, with the audible creak and crunch and crack of old bones. But their heads were bowed and their hands were out and most importantly their eyes were closed. Tongues were set to loll out and flick a gluten-free Jesus back in.

  David was the only one with his eyes wide open. He saw that bulge shift a little, just a few feet from where he stood.

  A Micah-sized lump.

  He thought, Wow, there he is and this is good … he’s listening after all. Then he felt confused and embarrassed because Micah really shouldn’t be on this side of the rail. He should be with the others, kneeling. Not lurking behind a curtain, which was just plain weird, acne or not. The hymn ended and somewhere behind him, someone made a very deliberate, get-on-with-it cough. He turned back to the congregation and in the silence, he opened his hands across the altar. A magician, setting up his most famous trick. He read the usual passage from Corinthians 1, then said, ‘For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim …’

  He saw the shadow just then.

  A puddle of very cold greyness spilled onto the white tablecloth in front of him. Since all eyes remained closed, nobody really saw what that shadow was, but David did.

  ‘… the Lord’s death until he comes again …’ He turned his head to see Micah, who was standing in the strangest of stances. He had both hands behind his back. All solemn, like a funeral pose. His eyes were lost behind that mass of straggled hair that the old ladies always told him to cut. It was worse than ever right now, because he’d deliberately dragged and raked it not just over his spotty cheeks, but right across his entire face. It looked so damn ridiculous and immature. So savage. The hair was wet, maybe from tears, but who was he kidding? It was probably sweat. And that stink, dear Lord, that public toilet stench. The church seemed to be growing darker.

  People were noticing now. Eyes were opening. He heard confused mumbling behind him.

  ‘Micah,’ David whispered, quite firmly. ‘I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t be on this side.’

  Micah said, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama kataltani.’

  It was such a bizarre thing to say that David’s brain was too busy processing it to see Micah’s arms move. But then he noticed that Micah was holding something very long. It looked like a thick table leg, with a wedge on the end. Something big, and heavy and rusty-looking.

  David was so disorientated by this. The table leg. The wedge. The swinging of it up, so that it was really only when he felt the impact against the side of his head that things became—

  Thud.

  He spun around like a dancer towards the others then fell into the altar. He hit it so heavily that it almost tipped over. Both hands slapped the white cloth, fingers splayed, crunching the white sheet into a ripple of thick folds. He thought, my son just bloody well punched me in front of the entire—

  Then someone screamed.

  The Communion wine had tipped over. It was gushing across the cloth, and he was furious that it might stain. Until he saw how the silver goblet stood untouched, full of red wine. He felt a fast, warm trickle fill his ear and he started to blink rapidly. Wails of horror shot from the crowd at the second impact. Something sharp cracked into the back of his skull. That was when the world truly exploded into pain. His scalp went warm and wet. His head felt way heavier, because it now carried extra weight. He let out a hideous grunt and it made people gasp. Then his head yanked and felt lighter again.

  ‘Son …’ He turned his head and was terrified to hear his own voice was no longer clear and well projected. His Bible college tutor had always taught him – you must always speak to the back row! Now his voice was gurgling and bubbling saying, ‘Son … Son … no …’

  ‘Please, Dad …’ Micah said. ‘Don’t look in my eyes.’

  David held up his hands in defence, so Micah swung for those too. He missed, and David heard the thwoop of wood and metal slicing the air. Miriam, and a few of the others, had finally unfrozen themselves from shock. They were climbing over the Communion rail, booming loud voices at Micah to put the axe down, while David’s panicked mind kept obsessing: but we don’t own an axe. How odd. We’ve never needed one. Like that was the most important element to ponder right now, and not the fact that his son was clearly aiming for his neck.

  David heard old ladies talking to God like never before. They screamed their prayers out. Full marks for enthusiasm. The church was exploding with genuine lament at Biblical levels. He thought he heard God eagerly say: This is exactly how it sounded when all those Egyptians found their dead first-borns. Then he realised that wasn’t God saying it at all. It was Satan, filling his ear with excited whispers. Like those screams were music to him. Others were running for the door.

  Micah, blood-spattered and panting, was sobbing and he now turned to the stained-glass Christ. He said, ‘Avi, Avi … Lama kataltani,’ then he raced off across the chancel, heavy axe still in hand. He slammed his shoulder against the side door just a few feet away, and it sprang open. A huge, snarling beast of a wind rushed into the church and blew all the candles out. When the wind roared David knew it was the devil, sighing with contented achievement. David watched his son dwindle on the path outside while Victor and a few others tried to run after him. Yet those young legs made Micah a bullet, and as David’s vision blurred, he saw the old men stop on the path, gasping and gripping their knees. A strange thunder rolled above them. The sky was dimming.

  Miriam dropped and both knees splashed into the blood.

  ‘Jesus, please …’ She cradled David’s head, staring up to the stained glass. ‘Jesus … Jesus … please … please come …’

  Her prayers melted into a squelchy sort of murk, and instead he imagined her voice was Zara’s voice, saying she’d changed her mind and accepted his apology. That she’d come back to love him again, but the satanic wind had another cruel message. It said:

  It’s too late, David. Cos you prayed you’d die in this chancel. That Christmas Eve prayer’s been all signed off and contracted now. No turning back. You belong in the ground. Which was the only time a tear came. He felt it roll from his eye and drop.

  ‘The thunder …’ David whispered. ‘Micah hates the thunder … best get him home …’

  ‘Jesus …’ Miriam closed her eyes. Tears welled through the lashes. ‘Jesus, please …’

  ‘And tell him it’s not crooked, okay?’ His own voice was fading. ‘Tell him we love … and we’re not crooked … we love …’

  He watched the bent ceiling of the Crooked Church turn blue, then grey above him. Then this bizarre demonic weather sent storm clouds around the church, sweeping and squeezing so tight that the chancel turned jet-black. He wondered if the old mineshaft below might have finally opened its mouth as wide as it had wanted to. That two hundred years ago was only ever a dry run for this.

  Then he felt himself sink into the ground, deeper and deeper, and could feel the dirt of the churchyard filling his eyes and mouth and nose. Then all senses were gone. All senses but one. Sound remained. He could hear the Devil’s chuckle in the muffled drumming of distant rain above him, and the clicking of well-dressed bodies that had slid from their coffins, patiently crawling through the deep soil to find him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Professor Matt Hunter pounded his feet down the grass hill, trying hard not to slip on the frost. Around him other parents, school staff and schoolkids were running too, sliding, stumbling and frantically trying to grab the giant inflatable duck that was heading for the water.

  Geoff Butler, a frankly ill-looking conservationist, was rattling his bones down the hill too. He’d introduced himself to the crowd earlier, tapping the mic and welcoming them in a measured, thoughtful tone. Now he cried out his words in a breathless, scrawny wail, ‘Do not let it hit the pond. It’ll smother the real ducks!’

  Matt’s laugh splutter
ed out, but he swallowed it for politeness, and kept running.

  They’d lived in their new hometown of Chesham, Buckinghamshire for four months now. So this morning when he and his family rocked up at this local park event, the plan was to mingle with the locals. The fact that it was a fundraiser for local duck conservation was neither here nor there. Matt liked ducks a lot, especially with pancakes. Yet this morning was primarily about local integration. The social install of the Hunter family into a new community was an important project. So ducks it was, and they all turned up eager and fresh-faced, ready to make new friends.

  Lowndes Park stood on a long downward slope. So, when the giant inflatable duck broke free of its moorings a few moments ago, it naturally headed down. Then a crazy-fast wind came out of nowhere, making ‘Daphne’ (as she was apparently called) tumble and roll much quicker than any of them could run.

  He heard the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of plastic behind him as his wife Wren ran up in line with him, a box of Tic Tacs rattling in her jeans pocket. Her arms swung in a demented power run.

  ‘If we catch this … they’ll love us …’ she gasped, ‘… we’ll be like … local heroes or something.’

  ‘We’ll get the key to Chesham … the secret codes and handshakes … and how about this …’ He caught his breath. ‘The first one of us to grab Daphne … chooses the takeaway tonigh—’

  ‘Stop that duck!’ She surged ahead, Tic Tacs at full pelt.

  Laughing, he cranked his own speed to T-1000 levels while further down the slope he saw little kids and pensioners scurrying to the sides and diving behind bushes. They knew what was coming. A large pond waited below, with real and oblivious ducks chugging along the now-choppy water. Beyond the pond was a busy road where cars trundled back and forth, slowing to see the spectacle. Daphne hit a bump in the hill and a gust of wind sent her reeling eight feet in the air. This made everybody slow down, just at the sheer awe of it, and way back up the hill he heard all the schoolkids who’d sponsored this duck squeal with delight. Then she bounced back into the wet ground again and rolled, faster than ever, rattling a long beard of frosted mud-chips up her chin.

  Matt took a deep breath, gaining on Wren with each step. ‘Chinese!’ he chanted. ‘Chinese! Chinese!’ He quickly stopped his mantra when he remembered others might hear him. Particularly the Chinese guy a few clips ahead.

  Down by the pond a family with two small children were sheltering under a tree. The dad was one of those walking-chunk types. All muscle with a washboard chest, bursting through a grey tracksuit, and baseball cap. He was striding directly into the flight path, while everybody else down there ran to the sides. His kids were clapping out his name, Daaah-dee! Daaah-dee! The mum (also chanting) had her phone out to catch the magic.

  The panic in Geoff’s thin voice hit previously unreached octaves. Now he shouted in tones that only dogs could hear. ‘He’s an idiot! He can’t tell how big she is! He’ll die!’

  Ignorant of these warnings, Daah-dee marched into the dead centre of the duck’s trajectory. He rubbed his neat little beard then fixed his eyes on Daphne’s giant, rolling, goofy stare. He locked his hefty legs into place and stuck both of his massive hands out – Iron-Man-style. He could have shouted something epic like ‘Ye shall not pass!’ but he hollered his own line instead. ‘End of the liiiiine, braaaaaaah.’

  Matt winced, and everybody winced with him, when Daphne eventually fused with tracksuit. She slammed hard. People gulped, genuinely shocked at how loud the crack was. He heard Geoff say, ‘Dear God. His spine.’

  Matt and Wren stopped laughing just then. When Geoff said the word ‘spine’. In fact, nobody was laughing now. The chants of ‘Dah-dee’ clipped off midway and the mum wasn’t filming any more. Now she was scrambling down the hill towards her buried knight, while the entire crowd of runners slid to a stumbling, silent stop around the now-stationary duck.

  ‘Hold her!’ Geoff shouted. ‘Case she blows off again.’

  Twenty hands grabbed her fleshy skin and Matt dropped to his knees. He lifted the giant curve of yellow and there he was: Daddy Chunk, flat on his back, with both of those mighty hands locked like twin vices on the duck’s chest. One of his nostrils was filled with blood.

  ‘Holy crap,’ Matt said. ‘Are you hurt?’

  He winked and shouted to his wife, ‘Did you get it? Did you get it?’

  Her eyes flashed with panic, and she quickly started filming again.

  Matt laughed and reached his hand out to help him up. ‘We’ve got her now.’

  The guy rose to his feet and brushed himself down while the entire park cheered. Naturally he lifted his arms Rocky-style and did a bobbing victory circle on his feet. His entire back and legs were drenched with mud, but the two kids and the woman still flung their arms around him.

  Wren, who had fallen behind, came running over. Her Tic Tac signal rattled to a stop. She grabbed Matt’s waist. They stood together and watched for a moment, listening to the cheers.

  ‘We’ve failed,’ he whispered into her wet hair. ‘The locals are never going to accept us until we catch one of these. You know that, don’t you?’

  She put a hand over his, closed her eyes, and with a solemn nod she whispered, ‘We’ll keep trying. We’ll train.’

  Everybody watched the now-punctured Daphne slowly deflate. The rain picked up, spattering her dissolving curves. People started heading off, while Geoff and a few of his colleagues started sitting on her and rolling around, pressing out the latent air. Matt offered to help, but Geoff said, ‘No. No. She’s a tricky fold.’

  Finally, their two daughters Lucy and Amelia caught up, panting. They’d been up top, in the queue for drinks. That task was abandoned now. Their eldest, Lucy, raked a hand through her wet hair and looked at her fingers, horrified. At sixteen, bedraggled, newborn calf was not the look she was going for. ‘Er, let’s get inside before we drown.’

  ‘Wait.’ Their seven-year-old, Amelia, came up next to Matt and slipped her hand into his. ‘She was a very good duck, Daddy.’ He could hear the smirk on her face.

  ‘That she was.’ Matt stood up straight, pressed his heels together and saluted the sinking material. Amelia did the same. Wren snorted.

  ‘Oh, God …’ Lucy groaned and marched towards town. ‘I’m getting an espresso.’

  ‘Espresso you say?’ Matt flicked his head around. ‘A fitting tribute, yes …’

  They ran off after her, lifting their jackets over their heads, laughing for the entire minute’s wet sprint to the shops.

  CHAPTER THREE

  There was a large, two-floor coffee shop on the high street, so everybody from the duck fiasco rammed into it, much to the wide-eyed gawp of the baristas. It was heaving inside, with bodies everywhere, wet with rain and sweat. The hot, panting breath quickly fogged the huge windows. Matt saw a lone kid quietly draw a set of breasts in the corner of the glass, laugh, then smear it away with the cuff of his jumper just before his mum brought drinks to the table. Sodden jackets were hung from hooks, chairs and anything else that jutted and almost everybody was chuckling and comparing video angles of when the duck went airborne.

  Even the man himself turned up. Dah-dee turned out to be a top-flight financial advisor called Marshall Webster. The entire place erupted with a rugby-roar cheer when he walked in, and he was inundated with offers of latte. Everybody else was inundated with his business card. Nobody refused. Matt saw an old lady try to high-five him and totally miss. She gave him a jiggling hug instead.

  Matt and Amelia stood in the epic queue. She had her nose on the glass display case pointing at each cake in turn. ‘… and I’d eat that … and that … and I’d eat that … that … and that … and I’d—’

  ‘One,’ he said. ‘You’ll eat one.’

  Her ‘pffft’ threw a mist on the glass.

  It took them a good minute to battle to their seats. Amazingly, Wren had found them a table in the far corner downstairs. They all sighed as they sat down, and he swiped a fistful of n
apkins across his wet fringe. The first sip of caffeine brought deep moans of delight. ‘Where’s the other one, Wren? Where’s Lucy?’

  ‘Talking to her new teacher. He’s over there …’ Wren jabbed her doughnut at the steamed-up windows, where Lucy sat on the arm of a sofa. A skinny young man with trendy white-framed glasses was talking to her. His quiff was improbably tall. A man and a woman were with him and were much older; both wore cardigans, and both were red-faced. The man’s sideburns were so thick and curly, even a Vegas-era Elvis would have said they were too much.

  ‘So, which one’s the teacher?’ Matt asked.

  ‘The quiff,’ Amelia said. ‘Lucy says he’s the new RE guy.’

  ‘No way,’ Wren sunk a sugar into her coffee. ‘He looks what … twelve?’

  Sideburns set his teapot down and looked over. Their eyes met. Matt smiled at him but Sideburns didn’t reciprocate. He held the gaze, turned something over in his mouth and looked away.

  ‘See, Wren. Total smash with the locals.’

  The young teacher suddenly stood with Lucy. He threw a satchel over his shoulder, grabbed his coffee and said something to Sideburns, who shook his head firmly and folded his arms. Then he and Lucy began their epic push through all the bodies.

  Matt nudged Amelia, ‘Budge up, Midget. We need your chair.’ She climbed onto his knee.

  They did that thing people do in coffee shops when preparing for a table visitor. They sat more upright, brushed a few crumbs off their jumpers. Amelia attempted her version of table cleaning by flicking lumps of muffin across the room, but Wren raised a finger. It was time to switch to pleasant, presentable, family mode.