Severed

by Peter Laws

  ‘Professor? Can you answer a few questions?’

  ‘Sorry, but you know more than I do.’ Matt smiled. ‘Genuinely.’

  ‘Then why’ve they called you up today? Is there something bigger going—?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ a voice barked on the breeze. ‘Let the man through.’

  A police officer in a thick, high-vis jacket was crunching heavy boots down the church path. He had one gloved hand on the opposite shoulder, tugging a walkie-talkie to his lips to pass the message on. ‘He’s here.’

  Questions exploded through the rain. ‘Have you found Micah yet?’ ‘Any word on Rev. East? Is he out of his coma?’ ‘Give us a moment with the professor. Sixty seconds – tops.’

  The policeman just gestured to the sky. ‘It’s going to chuck it down any minute, folks. So how about you get in your cosy vans and relax. And move this bloody van back, now.’ He slid a wet pincer-glove around Matt’s elbow. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Hunter. This way.’

  The van rolled back, and Matt finally made it through the metal gate. The path was lined with headstones and as he walked between them he watched the Crooked Church loom slowly over him. He spotted the famous wrought iron sign over the church porch, which glistened and dripped in the rain. How tempting to take a selfie under it, but no. This wasn’t the time. Especially when underneath it, a thick wooden door creaked slowly open, Dracula-style. Standing in the glow of a warm bulb was a tall, impressive-looking black woman in her late fifties. She had short grey hair, cropped and shaved at the back and sides, but the fringe was thick, and it swept across her forehead, fashionista style. One of her hands was stuffed into the pockets of a long, elegant black coat; the other played with her ear. To be honest, Matt thought she looked like an older Uhura from Star Trek, with that little Bluetooth headphone sticking out of her ear. He got the urge to say ‘Permission to come aboard’. A classic sign that he was nervous. He put his hand out and said, ‘Hi,’ instead.

  ‘Come into the warm, Professor. Come into the dry.’ She had a smooth, Radio 4, book-at-bedtime voice. A storyteller’s vibe. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jill Bowland.’ She was one of those hard shakers, so her wedding ring pressed a stinging crease into his finger. She’d also smoked a cigarette recently, that much was obvious.

  He put out his hand, ‘Good to meet—’

  ‘One second.’ Her eyes flicked over Matt’s shoulder as she frowned and tutted. ‘Marcus. Go back and tell them to move every single one of those vans. Put them right down by the corner. And tell them if we can’t get our cars out quickly, the sky will fall on them. Okay?’

  The officer nodded and jogged back down the path.

  ‘Sorry about that. It’s good to meet you too.’ She offered her hand again, and he noticed something slightly out of keeping with her look. Despite her meticulous fashion sense, there was a thin and clearly home-made bracelet on her wrist, with little cubes and beads of clashing colours. She let him inside with a smile. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t read your books, Professor.’

  ‘Call me Matt. And it’s book. Singular.’

  ‘Well, that’s handy to know. I have a rather epic book queue at home. But naturally I’ll shoot you to the front. This way …’ She waited as he wiped his muddy shoes on a bristly brown mat that said ‘Jesus Welcomes You’. When she closed the church door firmly behind him he heard the iron latch echo as it fell into place, and then they were alone.

  ‘Any news on the son yet?’

  ‘Not yet, though it feels like we have half of Thames Valley police tracking him down as we speak. I’m just tying up a few loose ends here.’

  ‘What sort of loose ends?’

  ‘It’s probably best you see. Follow me.’

  As they walked, he saw pews with knitted kneeling pads, and over by the north wall he noticed children’s books and soft toys. A poster said ‘Ickle Fish’ – the Sunday School he presumed. And on the south wall, he saw a row of about thirty small votive candles, burning slowly in memory of the dead.

  He didn’t need to ask where they were heading. It was obvious.

  Down at the sunken end of the church was a truly bizarre sight: a large, glowing white cube. It was a white, plastic evidence tent, with some sort of industrial spotlight inside. He’d seen police use these lamps before – when bodies were concerned. They’d fire down heat rays from tripods and pick up every detail of grit, hair and gore. It looked strangely pretty, that cube. Like the holiest of holies, filling the chancel with brightness. Their faces started glowing as he felt a strange pressure on his kneecaps.

  ‘You can feel it?’ Bowland said. ‘The slope?’

  ‘Wow,’ he nodded. ‘It’s really pronounced.’

  She stopped by the Communion rail and handed him a white cloth. It looked like one of those muslin sheets you clean baby-sick up with. ‘For the smell,’ she said.

  He copied what she was doing and cupped the cloth across his nose and mouth, then she bent over and unzipped the tent door. The acoustics amplified the zip dragging up. It sounded like a huge wasp was in there, waiting. A bright spike of vivid light fell across her shoes, then she went inside. He followed her in and squinted as his vision filled with light.

  ‘Hope you’re good at holding your breath, Matthew.’

  It was like another planet, another bright dimension. It sure as hell wasn’t the holiest of holies, put it that way. There was no Ark of the Covenant. No radioactive baby Jesus, glowing in sprouting hay, just a harshly lit tableaux of a Communion altar. The hefty wooden table had a white cloth messily hanging half on it, half off. Only it wasn’t very white any more. Over half of it was caked with a wheelie bin’s worth of blood, and on the floor, a vast reservoir of dark, sticky red was filling the stone cracks. Reverend East may be comatose in a hospital bed right now, but it felt like he’d left plenty of himself behind.

  ‘Aw, it reeks …’ Matt squeezed the cloth on his nose.

  ‘Yes. Micah hit some major arteries. Seems like he was repeatedly going for the neck.’

  ‘Which means …’

  ‘He was trying to take the head off. At least it looks that way.’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Thankfully the boy had appalling aim, plus axes are pretty heavy, so … he missed a lot.’

  Some of the blood had browned and dried at the edges, but many of the larger stains had thick, sticky-looking patches in the centre that still looked wet to the touch.

  ‘It’s astonishing that he survived this,’ Matt said.

  ‘The congregation are calling it a miracle, though of course we’ll have to see about that … the doctors reckon he won’t make it through the night.’ She took a step forward. ‘So … about Micah. He’s sixteen, doesn’t drive. His mountain bike is still propped up in the vicarage porch, so we doubt he’s gotten far beyond Chervil village. But there’s hundreds of acres of woods and countryside out there, so he could be anywhere. Might be holing out in an old farmhouse maybe. We’ve been searching for two hours but the rain’s holding us back. We can’t get the cars up some of the roads.’

  ‘Is there a mum?’

  ‘Yes. Zara East, forty-eight years old, but she’s away travelling at present. We’re not sure where exactly but we’re trying to track her down. No siblings.’

  ‘What about motive?’

  ‘Well, this is where you potentially come in … I’m looking into some rumours’ − she bit her lip − ‘that Micah might have been involved in devil worship or Satanism … but we’ll get to that in a second. Just look over the scene. Tell me your first impression.’

  Intrigued, Matt ran his eyes across the stained cloth again, and the silver goblet of wine, filled to the brim with a mixture of wine and blood. He spotted a loaf of bread sitting in a pool of coagulated blood. That particular sight made both his stomach and his heart lurch. He saw a flash of his mother, dead at her kitchen table, seeping into her Sunday dinner. ‘Well it looks fairly chaotic to me, but most of the blood is on the altar specifically. The place of sacr
ifice …’ He turned to her. ‘When exactly did it happen?’

  ‘Micah hid behind a curtain. He stepped out during the Eucharist or Communion … those are essentially the same thing, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, but when in the Eucharist, exactly?’

  ‘Just before he blessed the wine.’

  ‘Jesus’s blood, you mean …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Where are you getting this Satanism thing from?’

  She shifted on her feet. ‘Bear with me, there’s a few things. Firstly, Micah’s lived here since he was seven, that’s almost ten years. The congregation say that for almost all of that he’s been a lovely boy who loved the church, until about a year ago when he seems to have fallen out with his dad. Since then he’s avoided the church, been rude and threatening to some of the older ones.’ She looked down at her notes. ‘That’s when he started dressing differently. Long black hair, black clothes …’

  It sounded strange to laugh in here, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Black jumpers doth not a Satanist make.’

  ‘He was also heard to chant something just before the attack. People were too far back to hear it, but they said it was a repetitive, strange language’ − she glanced at her phone again − ‘“something scary, ancient and satanic”.’

  ‘He could have just mumbled. Teenagers mumble.’

  ‘There’s more. One of the elderly parishioners, Gwen Skeggs. She told me something odd.’ Her voice dropped a notch and she leant in. ‘She’s on a rota to do church flowers once a month. She came in last night to arrange them, ready for this morning, and she looked down the aisle. She saw Micah standing on the altar. Right on top of it.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Pulling his jeans down.’

  Matt winced. ‘Dare I ask what he was doing?’

  ‘He was urinating all over the wood. Had a circle of candles burning, too. Gwen got the shock of her life and rushed out. She climbed into her car and drove straight home. Poor lady was pretty shaken by it, though she’s sure she wasn’t spotted. She said he was too busy praying in this strange language … and before you ask, she didn’t know what it was. Just that it was the same as what he used this morning.’

  ‘I see … so, did she tell Reverend East what she saw?’

  ‘She tried at this morning’s service, but she never had the chance. She insists …’ Bowland waited for a moment. ‘The boy has the Devil in him.’

  Matt took the cloth away for a second and took in the blood smell. Now he could finally understand the other foul stink that lingered here too. It smelt like a toilet here. A gruesome toilet. ‘Teenagers do get angry. They lash out, sometimes symbolically. Especially at the stuff their parents value. It doesn’t mean he was a full-on Satanist.’

  ‘Agreed, but there’s something else over at the vicarage. Have you seen enough here?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty. Smelt plenty too. Plus, I’m kinda freezing my nuts off in here.’

  She frowned at him. ‘You’re cold?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  For the first time, he realised she’d unbuttoned her jacket. ‘I’m rather warm, actually. The lights.’

  He shrugged and felt colder still. Resisting a shiver, he said, ‘I must have rain down my shirt. Lead the way.’

  He was glad to be out of the tent, and though the air was still a little tainted, he breathed it in eagerly as they headed back up the aisle. He turned back to look at the tent for one last time, just as a breeze seemed to make the flaps of the tent twitch a little, like they’d left somebody in there. The wind made a noise too: not a high-pitched whistle, but the sad exhalation of a low moaning breath. Perhaps there were candles burning down there too. Perhaps that’s why the shadows on the wall seemed to move.

  ‘Professor?’ she said, in a tone that made him blink. ‘Let’s not dawdle, eh?’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The world outside felt shockingly gloomy after the glaring light of the cube, but at least his nostrils were free of middle-aged blood and teenage piss. Not a cocktail he’d be ordering again in a hurry. Around him, the wet wind rattled the frantic trees, but it hadn’t managed to shift the sun-blocking clouds, nor did it manage to threaten Bowland’s titanium haircut. At least the reporters had moved. They’d parked their vans down the road, as instructed. Every door still clicked open though, the second he and Bowland walked down the gravel path.

  To their snapping, loud questions she called out a loud and clipped, ‘We’ll update you at 4 p.m.’

  ‘But have you found him ye—’

  ‘4 p.m.’ She turned to Matt and smiled. ‘Got to be firm with them. Like toddlers. Now, follow me.’ They crossed to the other side of the dirt road and pushed through the creaking rectory gate. Someone shouted for permission to film inside the vicarage. She chuckled at Matt. ‘As if.’

  The patchy grass of the front garden was ravaged by the cold weather, and over by a wooden fence Matt saw what must have been the East’s Christmas tree, lying flat on its side on a bed of mud. Globules of rainwater dripped from its browned branches. She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a plastic tag on it. They made a tinkling, fairy-godmother sound as she opened up. Matt was immediately hit with the coldness inside. He ran his hand up and down his arms. ‘Now, come on. It’s like a fridge in here.’

  She nodded. ‘This time I agree with you. The boiler’s broken. Seems like it’s been that way for weeks.’

  He ran his eyes across the rectory. It was much older and much bigger than the 1970s suburban semi Matt was given as a church minister. Yet the age and size of it had clearly brought problems as well as potential. The walls had many lightning cracks across the plaster and the entire place reeked of mould and damp carpets. Wooden beams ran through the ceiling, exposed and splitting. He saw doors open into an old-fashioned kitchen and the lounge was strewn with newspapers and old-looking books, splayed on their spines. He thumped an armchair and the air turned instantly foggy with floating, whirling dust.

  ‘Would you look at that.’ He passed his arm through it like a star field. ‘Guess Reverend East hadn’t mastered the whole cleaning thing.’

  ‘I mastered cleaning years ago. She’s called Fenella. Twelve pounds an hour.’ Bowland put a hand on the bannister, ‘Come on. It’s upstairs.’

  The old wooden staircase groaned with a ghost-ship creak, and they emerged into a wide landing filled with bookshelves. Each shelf sagged in the middle under the weight of biblical commentaries and Bible dictionaries. He recognised some of the titles. Most had been published in the early 1980s. You could always tell when a vicar had been at Bible college − they buy a shitload of holy books around then and never seem to update them.

  All five doors up here were closed, and Bowland nodded at the porthole window in the landing. ‘Bit creepy, living next door to so many dead bodies.’

  ‘Funnily enough, my bedroom in Chesham has a very similar view.’ Matt bent over and peeked through the trickling pane. He saw tombstones out there, swamped in the rainy gloom. The only thing that didn’t look grey were the windows of the chancel, glowing with the blood-filled cube inside. ‘You know there’s a lot to be said for having quiet neighbours.’

  ‘Not that quiet.’ She went to push the bedroom door open, but hesitated, fingertips on the door handle.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  She waited for a moment. ‘You don’t believe in this spiritual stuff any more, do you? You’re not a believer.’

  He shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just curious.’ She pushed the door open and clicked on the overhead light.

  He squinted at the dull, pathetic glow. ‘I never knew you could buy one-watt bulbs.’

  Bowland clicked on a torch instead.

  The stale smell of sweat, farts and general musk lingered. The place was a teenage cliché. An unmade double bed sat in the centre of the room. Jeans, tops and trousers, mostly dark grey, brown or black, were scattered everywhere in chaotic-looking piles. In the corner he saw an old,
first-generation Xbox, covered in dust so thick it could cover coins. Sticky-looking wires trailed to a deep, old-style portable TV, perched on a pile of old encyclopaedias. The only thing in the room that looked reasonably clean was a large halogen heater by the bed.

  Matt blew inside his fists. ‘Any chance we can put that on?’

  ‘Might as well …’ Bowland leant over and clicked it. The room suddenly bloomed with an orange glow. They opened their palms at it, like a couple of hobos in the street.

  ‘First time I’ve seen a teenager’s room without any posters,’ Matt said. ‘No rock stars, no girls in bikinis, no skaters or footballers …’

  She nodded. ‘Least he had the bugs for company.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Matt sprang his gaze to where she was pointing. Up in the far corner of the ceiling, just above a strange little half-sized door, was a fat, hefty-looking spider. It crawled slowly across an intricate web, clearly made from weeks of unbroken effort. It scuttled even faster when the perfect circle of torchlight fell on it.

  Bowland lowered the beam to the door directly beneath it, then walked towards it and got down on her knees. ‘Come on. You need to see inside this little cupboard.’

  Distant thunder rolled outside.

  He lowered himself alongside her, smelling her perfume and crunching his kneecaps into the carpet, conscious that above him, the thick-looking spider sprang and bounced along its flimsy frame. ‘This bolt looks brand new.’

  ‘Yep, and pretty expensive too. Took me a while to smash it off, but I did. I’m a sucker for a kettlebell class.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  She curled her fingers around the handle and pulled. The carpet was too thick underneath, so the little door dragged in spasmodic jerks as it opened. It looked like a pure black hole inside, until she fired the torch at it.