by Peter Laws
When Lucy finally reached the table, she grabbed the espresso. ‘Mine, I take it?’
The young teacher stood awkwardly behind her, one hand holding his cup, the other tugging his quiff into place. He could play keys in an 80s German synth band any day. The strap of his canvas satchel pressed hard across his skinny, rib-lined chest.
Matt sprang to his feet. ‘Hey, I’m Lucy’s stepdad, Matt.’ He just came right out with it these days, the stepdad part. She seemed to prefer that at the moment. ‘And this is Wren, Lucy’s mum. And Amelia.’
‘Hi.’ He put out his hand and Matt noticed a very slight tremble to it. ‘I’m Sean Ashton. I just started teaching RE at Lucy’s school.’
‘Great. Well, pull up a pew, Mr Ashton,’ Matt said.
The young man bit his lip for a moment, then he looked over his shoulder at Sideburns and co. They were staring, with nothing even approaching a smile.
‘Your friends too, if they’d like,’ Matt said. ‘We’ll squeeze them in.’
‘They prefer the window, thanks … and they’re not my friends, they’re my parents.’ He coughed. ‘Though I suppose there’s no reason why your parents can’t be your friends …’
‘I can think of a few reasons,’ Lucy said, then laughed at her own joke.
Sean finally sat, with his satchel resting neatly on his lap. He lay both hands on it, one over the other.
Wren was good at sensing tension. She was good at breaking it too. She smiled at him and said, ‘I absolutely love your glasses.’
‘Thanks. They’re recent. Got them for the new term.’
‘Well, they’re great. And you know, I always loved RE at school. Back in my day, we used to make unleavened bread and stuff like that. Do you still do that?’
‘Not really. Well, I don’t, anyway. It’s my first teaching post out of college, actually.’
‘Yikes.’ Matt remembered (with a shiver) those early days as a newly qualified lecturer at university. The mistakes he made, the times he lost his notes. The afternoon he made a nervy and ill-advised joke that George Lucas should be tried for war crimes, after making The Phantom Menace. And him receiving a formal, written complaint, one hour later. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Well, I’m enjoying the challenge and opportunity.’ That sounded like a sound bite. Something you’d read in a leaflet. ‘It’s good to work in my hometown. Nice to see my parents more often.’ That last bit sounded like a sound bite too.
‘So, how do you know Lucy?’ Wren said. ‘As far as I know she doesn’t take RE.’
‘That’s true, but I’ve just seen her around school and most people know she’s related to … well … to you …’ Sean shimmied on his chair, shifting his position. Now he was looking directly at Matt. ‘So, I was wondering …’ He patted the satchel and went to undo the clasp, but then he paused sharply for a moment. He glanced over his shoulder at the window again. His mum was waving him back over, frantically.
‘Sean?’ Matt said. ‘Do you have a machine gun in there?’
He sucked a deep breath in, then turned back round. ‘No gun. But … I was wondering if you had a pen?’ The clasp popped open and he slid something out. A hardback book. He turned it around to face them all.
‘Oh …’ Lucy sank back into her seat. ‘That.’
In Our Image: The Gods We Tend to Invent by Professor Matt Hunter
Matt whistled. ‘See kids, I told you we weren’t the only ones to buy it.’
‘It’s actually quite profound, Professor,’ Sean patted the cover, ‘… in terms of religion it’s extremely thought-provoking. So, do you have a pen?’
Matt reached into his jacket and pulled out a biro. ‘Should I make it out to Sean?’
‘Yes please. S-E-A-N.’
‘Gotcha.’
‘And can you write … To Sean …’ he ran his hand across the air, ‘embrace the mystery. Matt Hunter.’
‘Um … okay,’ Matt flipped to the title page and started scrawling.
‘That sounds like an aftershave advert,’ Amelia said, ‘… embrace the mystery, Matt Hun—’
Lucy cupped her hand across Amelia’s mouth, so the words became a mumble.
When he finished, Wren leant over and grabbed the pen. ‘Now I guess you’ll want my autograph. Because I live in the same house as him and I’ve seen him on the toilet and everything.’ She clicked the pen on. ‘Oh, the bathroom tales I could tell … for example—’
Matt swiped the pen from her hand and dropped it back into his pocket. Sean laughed. It was the first time his mouth had really moved from a nervous slit. ‘Thank you, Professor,’ he looked back at his parents. ‘I appreciate …’ They were gone. Both of them, vanished. His smile evaporated too. ‘… I appreciate it. But if you’ll excuse me.’
‘Sean?’ Matt leant in. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘… Perhaps we could talk again sometime. Somewhere more private? I’ve a million questions about your book.’
‘I’d love to. Let’s do it over a pint.’ Matt slipped him his card.
Sean stared at it, then dropped it into his pocket. ‘I’d like that. Well look, it was nice to meet you all. See you in the hallways Lucy, and thanks for introducing me to your dad.’
‘Step …’ she said.
‘Sorry … stepdad.’ He tipped his quiff to her. ‘Amelia … Wren …’ He waited for a second. ‘Matt.’
They watched him go back through the crowd and Matt went to speak, but suddenly Yoda started calling out from his trouser pocket. A call you have! A CALL you have! He fished for his phone as the voice grew louder. It was stuck in his damp jeans.
‘You have got to change that ringtone,’ Lucy said.
Wren winced as it grew more frantic, ‘Matt. People are looking.’
A CALL you HAVE!
‘Sorry.’ Matt finally yanked it from his pocket. ‘A CALL YOU HAVE! A CALL YOU—’ He answered, and with a finger in one ear and the phone to the other he rose from the noisy table. He wondered (hoped) if the unknown number might be that guy from eBay he’d called last week. The one who was selling the old, retro Donkey Kong cabinet that Matt desperately wanted for his small but growing arcade collection.
It wasn’t.
‘Err … hello?’
A woman’s voice crackled on the line. A vague hint of Africa in her accent. ‘Professor Hunter?’
‘May I ask whose speaking?’
‘This is Detective Sergeant Jill Bowland. I’m with the CID. Got a minute?’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘You’re the religious professor, right? The ex-vicar who helps the police now and then?’
‘Correct.’
‘Great … I read that you live in Chesham now.’
‘May I ask what this is about?’
He heard her clear her throat. ‘I’m calling about the incident up in Chervil village, which is just up the road from you.’
‘Incident?’
‘You haven’t seen the news?’
‘Sorry, I’ve been busy this morning.’ He didn’t mention ducks.
‘Ah, right. Well, there’s been an attempted murder at the Anglican church in Chervil, right in the middle of the morning service. The victim is Reverend David East. He’s in a coma.’
‘It happened in the service? Sheesh. Was it … terrorism or something?’
‘I don’t think it is, no. East knew his attacker.’
‘Knew how?’
‘It was his son.’
Matt groaned.
‘Anyway, he’s called Micah. He’s sixteen and still on the run, and we’re having trouble tracking him down. Maybe you can help.’
‘I’ll try. Fire away with your questions.’
‘Actually, Chesham’s only a sixteen-minute drive from Chervil. Could you come?’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
He paused, looked back at the girls, giggling around the table. ‘That should be fine.’
‘Excellent. Meet us at the Crooked Church. Heard of it?’
Who hadn’t? He’d seen its photograph a hundred times in YouTube videos and atheist Internet forums. It was the gif that kept on giving. ‘It’s called St Bart’s, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. It’s too remote for a satnav but it’s signposted from the centre of the village. It’s right at the end of an old track so you’d be blind to miss it. Thanks for this …’ A pause. ‘Oh, and I presume you’ll know a little about’ − she cleared her throat again − ‘devil worship?’
A burst of cackles from some teenagers behind him.
‘A fair bit, yes.’
‘Great. I figured you would. Then you’re my expert for the day.’ She gave a muffled holler to someone at her end. ‘Just don’t dawdle, Professor. He’s still out there. And he still has the weapon.’
‘Which is?’
‘An axe.’
‘Jeez. I’m on my—’
Click.
‘… way …’
She was gone.
He headed back to the table to find that Lucy and Amelia were playing Pass the Pigs, an old game he’d picked up in a charity shop the other day. Wren wasn’t playing. She was scrolling through her phone, staring.
‘Daddy? Ready to be beaten?’ Amelia blew into her hand, tossed two rubber pigs onto the table, then punched the air. ‘Yes! Makin’ bacon!’
‘Sorry folks, but I have to go.’ He grabbed his still-damp jacket. ‘I’m heading up to Chervil.’
‘You’re what?’ Wren gawped up from her phone. He saw the local news app shining from her screen. He leant over and caught the headline, VICAR IN CHURCH AXE ATTACK. ‘You’re going for this, aren’t you?’
‘Um …’ he shrugged. ‘Yes.’
‘Says here he’s still on the run.’
‘Wait …’ Lucy sat up. ‘Who’s on the run?’
‘Wren, they just want a bit of advice …’
She stared at him, then pushed up from the table. ‘Two seconds, girls,’ she said, as Wren found a spot out of earshot. ‘Look, I don’t want to be a nag or anything …’
‘But …’
‘It’s like you’ve got a bat-phone these days. Got a psychopath? Call Matt Hunter.’
‘Hey. It’s nice to be wanted …’ He smiled.
She didn’t smile back. Not at all. He just saw the colour in her cheeks go. ‘Wasn’t Hobbs Hill enough? And Menham?’
He waited a moment. ‘Look, it happened in a church. Maybe there’s something I can offer. I know faith stuff, Wren. It’s kinda my thing.’
‘So, it’s a thing now?’ She put her palm on his chest. ‘Can’t you just stick to books and lectures and pub quiz Bible rounds? And … can’t they find someone else?’
‘It’s a sixteen-minute drive away.’
Lucy slapped her hand hard on the table behind them. A pig skittered off the edge. ‘I said … who the hell is on the run?’
Wren quickly span around. ‘Oh, Luce … I’m sorry … It’s not your dad. It’s nothing like that.’ She assembled her face into an unconvincing smile. ‘It’s just some kid from Chervil. Nobody major.’
‘What kid?’
Matt pulled out his car keys. ‘I really have to go.’ He high-fived Amelia and nodded to Lucy, then he turned to Wren who was still standing. He planted a kiss on Wren’s cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
She whispered into his ear, ‘You better. Cos if you get hit by an axe, I’ll kill you.’ Then a very genuine, ‘Just be wise, okay?’
He pushed through all the bodies, making his way to the exit, as those familiar, horrendous snapshots of Menham and Hobbs Hill flickered in his mind again. These were images that had lodged so deeply in his subconscious that he knew he’d never shake them. They were there for life now. Emotional tattoos, he’d heard them called. And usually, they only simmered up in the quiet nightmares that woke him now and then. Usually around 3 a.m. The nightmares he never mentioned to Wren, or to anybody, in fact. The nightmares that occasionally even slipped into waking life. Black figures in the corner of his eye. Strange groans in the cusp of his ear. Black rabbit shadows, springing across his bedroom ceiling.
All just echoes of past trauma, Google had told him.
He slid through the crowd, where thick hairy arms slid against his, and was glad to be out in the street again, pulling in fresh air. How strange, he thought, that even after all that grotesquery, he still perked up now that another police call had come through. Granted, most of his growing police consultancy work was pretty mundane. Last month he helped shut down a religious relics scam on eBay. That took an afternoon. But not since Menham, a few months back, had he been called in for anything violent or extreme. How bizarre, he thought, to feel both fear and excitement right now.
The rain kept falling, so he flipped the collar of his jacket up and rushed through the puddled backstreets. He passed boutique gift shops and cafes that were stuffed with dry people, looking at him with amused sympathy. He found his Lexus and climbed inside, slamming the rain out. It was just as he pulled on his seat belt that he spotted an old green Land Rover with an impressive tsunami of mud up the side. It was parked by the ticket machine with the engine running. The wipers frantically slid from left to right.
Sean Ashton sat in the front passenger seat. He had his head down while his dad, Mr Sideburns, sat in the driver’s seat, loudly berating him. Matt was too far away to hear actual words, but he could tell it was an air-quivering shout. In between the chairs, Mrs Ashton was in the back seat, one pudgy hand on Sean’s shoulder, the other twisting her cardigan with anguish.
Matt considered getting out. He could rattle a knuckle off Sean’s window and check if he was okay. But maybe he’d make things worse. Those two hadn’t exactly seemed into Matt, earlier. Besides, the time really was a-ticking and there was an axe man loose, and all. So, he swung the car out of his space and headed for the exit. He only stopped once on the way out. That was to avoid the flapping lump that lay on the floor. He slowed down, drove around it, then wound down his window to see what it was.
His first and so far only book, In Our Image, lay face down in a black puddle, while the cold wind flapped it like a dying fish. He drove on and saw they’d torn pages out. Loads of them in fact, because he kept seeing white sheets flutter past him as he left the car park. They were turning into papier mâché, slapping against wet car doors and sodden walls. He wondered which of those sheets had his signature on, and if the ink had already started to melt and warp his name. As he drove past the park, he saw a group of Boy Scouts near the pond. They were stuffing a torn, ruined and now fully deflated Daphne into a litter bin.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first time Matt had ever seen (or indeed heard of) the Crooked Church was on a TV panel show. He and Wren were eating ice cream in bed one Friday night, watching comedians rip into the week’s news events. They’d started discussing how the Church of England were making a huge national push to fight inner-city poverty, while at the same time being one of the biggest landowners in the UK. For the entire segment the presenter flicked up a picture of a church porch with a wrought iron sign across it, and everybody chuckled. A few hours later, screenshots and parody songs of ‘Welcome to the Crooked Church’ were racing down Internet delivery tubes.
Paedophile priest in the news? Copy and paste a shot of St Bart’s. Philandering evangelical with a Liberace toupee and personal jet? Copy. Paste. An atheist website even did a range of T-shirts saying ‘Welcome to the Crooked Church’ with a huge cartoon of a clumsy God sitting on the church roof and crushing it. For a while St Bart’s was the poster-child for ruined religion. He’d sent a few pics of it himself when it first went viral and he’d always fancied a little drive up to see this place for real sometime, since it was so close. Today he’d get his chance.
It was easy to find.
When he arrived the rain had dropped to a drizzle, but the dirt track had held on to it, storing it in deep puddles. The track splashed and rocked his car as he followed the signs. His indicator clicked a dull beat
as he pulled up next to a long stone wall, wipers sliding, and there it was through his trickling side window: the outline of the weirdly wonky St Bart’s. He killed the engine and heard rain slowly patting the roof. Then he buttoned the top collar of his coat and stepped out into the mud.
There were cars everywhere, parked haphazardly. Front tyres sat up on ridges, nudging tree trunks. A few were police cars, but civilian ones were scattered too. The ones that took up the most room were two outside broadcast vans.
The sky rumbled again, and the clouds, now gunmetal grey, made the church look crazy-dark for a Sunday afternoon. If anything, the slant of the Crooked Church was even more pronounced in real life. It looked in mid-collapse.
As he weaved through the cars, he was conscious of the hedgerow on his left, and wondered if a figure might spring out with an axe and shout a pre-chop ‘Boo!’. Over the hedge he saw what looked like an old farmhouse, built from the exact same stone piles as the church and wall. The rectory, he assumed; not slanting, but close to it.
A Sky TV rig with tinted windows was parked ridiculously close to the church gate. It touched the car behind too. He had to smear his knees across the headlights just to get through and found that it was actually too tight to make it. Crappiest parking ever, he thought. Then the van doors popped open.
Like a domino effect, three other vehicles did the same further up the road. Reporters sprang out.
‘What’s your business here today, sir?’
Another called over, ‘Where’s Micah East?’
Matt saw a bearded man whisper into the ear of a woman with scary cheekbones. Her thin eyebrows sprang instantly when she heard what he said. She pushed towards Matt while a camera suddenly swung its lens at him, over her shoulder.
‘Professor Hunter?’ she called out. ‘Can we have a moment please?’
He considered hopping the bonnet of the van and sliding across it, going all Starsky and Hutch to get through. But the thought of sliding off and landing arse-end in a puddle on national TV brought wisdom. He realised then that the parking wasn’t crappy at all. In fact, it was very impressive parking, seeing as it was done precisely to trap any visitor for a few precious seconds.