Severed

by Peter Laws

  Hope sank with him, all the way down, with one hand always over his mouth and the other squeezing his forearm over and over. He realised, with a nauseating wave of horror, that she was pumping out all she could. She was milking a cow. In fact, she looked at him like he actually was a cow. Like he was an animal who might have diseases. He tried to shout out ‘Matthew’ again, but it came out as puffs of blocked air against her palm. He hadn’t registered it at first, but his glasses had slid down his nose. Now as his bottom hit the dirt, he felt them fall from his face and bounce off his knee. He thought he could at least grab a bottle to smack off her head, but then she spoke, and it took even that desire away.

  ‘You deserve this, this was always the end for you,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Jesus won’t be mocked.’

  He gave up then and his body went into a shuddering state of shock, which brought a final revelation. The fat pastor’s prayers had worked after all because now Sean had met God’s fearsome angel. A female messenger with sharp claws, and she’d opened up a hole in him. Something to drain the sin away. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the delirium of pure and violent shock, but his last words seemed like the right ones. And the words were not to her, but to God. He said, ‘I repent. Please, take me home.’

  The pressure in her hand grew less, then she pulled her palm away completely. He could tell Hope was watching him die. She grabbed her backpack and sat on her haunches, tilting her head. At one point, he felt her pick up his glasses again. She slid them back into place on his head, then she scooped up mud and smeared them on the lens, so he couldn’t see her any more. Which was probably for the best.

  He started to spasm as the world began to fade, and he wondered whether he was about to open his eyes in heaven or hell. He had no idea which it might be. But at least he’d repented. At least there was a chance. He started to cry.

  It was very cold, near the end.

  MONDAY

  THE SECOND DAY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘I’m dying,’ Matt gasped, as he tried to squeeze the thirtieth press-up out of his flaming arms. ‘I’m literally dying.’

  Wren was next to him, arms shaking as she did the same.

  ‘How long of this nightmare is left?’

  She shook her head quickly, lips pressed tightly together. ‘Can’t speak.’ Her cheeks were as red as her hair.

  ‘All right! Great work, guys,’ the bouncy DVD woman hollered into the lounge. She was called Melody Ross, and apparently four sets of these a week was the key to a healthy, new-year heart. After the blowout of Christmas, he and Wren had picked this disc up from a supermarket shelf. It was something to add to their running and swimming. Something they could do as a couple. Which was nice, he supposed, because at least they’d have their heart attacks together. That was something. ‘All right, people,’ Melody cut him off. ‘Up on your feet for a ten-second breather, then it’s … sixty seconds of high knees.’

  They groaned and staggered onto their elbows. They looked like they’d both just stumbled out of a plane crash.

  ‘And I mean high, folks. Knee to chin.’

  Wren narrowed her eyes. ‘I’d like to put my knee on her chin. Over and over.’

  They kicked their gym mats to the side.

  ‘Starting in … three … two … one,’ she whooped. ‘Run for your life!’

  The room filled with the sound of cut-price trainers slamming against a hard-oak floor, and through it all was an added humiliation. Amelia sat on the sofa, slurping her cereal and watching them. She was in her school uniform, cross-legged, an iPad on her lap, but she’d turned that off a while back once the burpees started.

  ‘Amused?’ Wren said, wheezing.

  Amelia spoke through Coco Pops. ‘I’m waiting for the best bit.’

  ‘When we collapse and die?’

  ‘When you do the star jumps. They’re coming right … about …’

  ‘All right, guys,’ Melody shrieked, ‘aaaaaaaaaand, shooting stars for sixty. Go!’

  Matt and Wren flapped their arms wide and Amelia hacked out an old man’s laugh. It was only when they hit sixty seconds that he turned from the screen. Amelia had set her empty bowl to the side. She was holding the iPad up, filming it all.

  They both dived on her, dragging it out of her hands and frantically looking for delete while Melody barked about the power of smoothies. Amelia just ran off with it. ‘I’m off to school. See you on YouTube.’

  The ordeal now over, they both padded their faces with a hand towel and chugged Council Pop like they were Robinson Crusoe. They slid the patio door back for their usual cool down, out in the cold garden air with open, sweaty arms. They leant and stretched, creaking out muscles and tendons. It was frosty again. The type of morning that might even call for gloves later. But right now, it was exactly what they needed, shorts and all. They filled the air with puffs of hot mist.

  ‘I feel better that we did it,’ he said. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. But I do wonder if anyone in the church tower ever looks down at us doing this,’ she said. ‘Bet they’re killing themselves laughing.’

  ‘Then they can feast their eyes.’ He turned square on to the church and squatted frantically up and down, then he broke into the running man dance as she laughed out a cloud into the air. They dropped into their garden chairs, red-faced.

  ‘So,’ she said finally, ‘how did you sleep last night?’

  Oh, I dreamt of happy trains for most of the night. Until about four this morning when a tall black rabbit ploughed an InterCity directly into our children and turned them into jam. ‘Pretty good, thanks,’ he said. ‘But I reckon I would like to talk over breakfast. It’s just been a bit heavy lately … What time’s your meeting …’ he paused. ‘Um … hello?’

  She was ignoring him. She was up on her tiptoes, staring over the fence at the end of their garden. A gang of muttering heads had gathered at the church. That was no big deal. Lots of people cut through here on their way to the train station. But there were other voices unseen, coming muffled from under the willow, right behind their garden fence.

  ‘Ey up,’ Matt said. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘How about you check it and I’ll make us some breakfast?’

  ‘Do we have Pop-Tarts?’

  ‘And undo everything you’ve just done? The pain. The agony … for naught?’

  ‘But what a way to go.’ Matt grabbed the key for the back gate and jogged across the grass, one hand across his body in a final, tight stretch. He unlocked the padlock and pulled back the bolt. The noise made the voices on the other side suddenly cease. It was only when the gate pulled back that he remembered how he was dressed. Ruddy-faced in shorts and a Planet of the Apes T-shirt on a cold January morning.

  Phil, the church gardener, stood with another passer-by. Both faces were totally sapped of colour.

  ‘Oh, Mr Hunter … we’ve just called the police.’ Phil said it very quietly. Very solemn. ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘Police? Why, what’s hap—’

  ‘It’s a tragedy, is what it is.’ Phil stepped aside.

  Matt’s knees buckled.

  Sean Ashton sat rigid and stiff against the tree, his mud-covered glasses frosted to his face. And his arm lay open and strewn to the side, with a large pool of almost-frozen blood, with one single shark’s fin swimming through it. A shard of glass.

  Phil let out a groan. ‘Poor lad’s gone and topped himself.’

  Matt fell against the fence while behind him he heard Wren’s trainers, crunching fast across the grass to see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Ever yawned as he headed up the sloping path of Comfort Hill. They walked in single file, like always, only today they’d done something really unusual. Everyone let him walk up front. This was really quite bizarre. Normally it was Prosper who led the way, or every now and again Uncle Dust. But when they gathered on the path this morning, hands softly touched his back and shoulders. Then his mum leant in and left a kiss and a whisp
er on his cheek. ‘You’ll lead us today.’ When she said it, Ever caught a glance of Merit’s face far behind, crunching into miffed confusion. That threw an enormous smile across his.

  So now his were the footsteps that crunched the day’s first line into the gravel. Amazing. He turned and looked down the slope. The rest were trudging behind him, about twenty steps back. They slowed for a moment just to look at him and he saw Prosper whisper something to his mum. They were all smiling. It was odd, but it was a ‘nice’ odd. Though he found his uncle’s smile hard to read. It was certainly on his mouth, but not so much in his eyes. Ever couldn’t quite figure that out, but it did annoy him a bit. He’d ask about it after the meeting.

  He turned and resumed the march, and finally hit the summit of Comfort. The name was, of course, Prosper’s idea, because here was a place where Jesus could tell them it was okay, that the end was coming. That the Hollows would soon die so that his family could go back out and live in the world. He looked forward to that. To enjoy all the good things that he’d heard about. Like playgrounds and forests and beaches.

  A cold breeze swept around him and Jesus sent a message on it. Soon. Ever. Sooooon.

  The rusting metal chapel waited for them in the mist, sparkling with frost and morning magic and not a little danger too. Ever figured if the farmhouse was the safest place in the valley, the chapel was its opposite. It was higher up, so it was easier for outside eyes to see it from a distance. It was supposed to be like a reminder flag to the world, showing them that the last believers of earth were still here, thank you very much. Hiding, but still eager for Jesus to return. More than eager: they were bringing it about.

  But this place of comfort had another danger too. One that was harder to grapple with, because it wasn’t to do with the Hollows. Simply put, this chapel did something to the grown-ups. When they got inside, the happy, gentle family faces would sometimes twist and contort. Not every time, but often enough to frighten him. And the sounds they made – the wails, the moans, the grunts. He shuddered just thinking about it. Especially Hope, who sometimes dropped to all fours and scrambled around up here. At least he didn’t have to see that today. He bit his lip hard, a form of self-discipline, and he told himself it was stupid to be scared of comfort. Of loud, bone-chilling comfort.

  The others had reached him now. They gathered round his shoulders, staring at the chapel, just like he was. Some singing birds even swooped up to join them. A nice touch from Jesus, Ever thought. They flew across the roof, slashing curves through the mist. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Mum. She dropped to her haunches and he saw the scarf on her throat was a little looser than usual. He could almost see the scars underneath. She took his hand, opened the palm. ‘How about you open up today?’ She pulled her hand away to see he now held the chapel key.

  ‘Me?’

  She nodded, proudly. ‘You.’

  ‘Mum … what’s going on? Why is there a Hollow in the shed?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ She put her hands around his red cheeks, the wool of her gloves as soft as clouds. ‘End’s comin’… that’s what.’ She smiled but looked away quickly at the chapel. He heard her sniff and raise a hand to her face.

  ‘Hey, Big Man,’ Milton’s voice boomed, and the birds scattered like it was one of his gunshots. ‘How about you take us all to Jesus.’

  Ever waited. Scared of comfort, and of Prosper’s bauble eyes always on him.

  It didn’t help when Prosper’s voice rolled like low thunder. ‘You heard him. Lead the way.’ And Ever finally started walking towards the door, which rattled in the wind. So much so that it looked like something inside was eager to get out. At one point, Ever worried that the large black cross they’d hung on the door might fall off. But no, Prosper had screwed that thing in tight. So, there it stayed – shaking a little but strong, reliable and in its right and proper position. Upside down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PC Briggs, an eager man with ballroom dancer’s hair, scratched his pointy elbow then resumed the position he’d held for the last thirty minutes: fingertips hovering over his tablet. ‘And is there anything else you want to add …’ he coughed, ‘Mr Hunter?’

  Matt pulled his gaze from the corner of the desk. ‘Sorry, I didn’t …’

  ‘I said is there anything else you want to add?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s all I know. We met at the pub. We drank. He drank a lot. I dropped him off at his granny’s house and that was it. Oh, and that run-in with the two guys in the pub. You should definitely track those dickheads down.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got all that.’ Briggs tapped a finger on his chin. ‘And from what you’re saying, Mr Ashton was in a suicidal state.’

  That seemed to snap Matt out of his staring. He looked up quickly, ‘What? I never used the word suicidal. I said he was … upset … I said he was concerned.’

  ‘About his sexuality’ − he scrolled through his screen − ‘and his parents’ reaction?’

  ‘Yes … deeply concerned …’ Matt felt his stomach turn a little, from the guilt of sharing what was supposed to be a private conversation. Though to explain the whole night, and why the church pastors were at his house, seemed impossible without it. All that mattered now was the police figuring out what the hell had happened under that weeping willow last night. Still though … this distant, quiet voice kept nagging at Matt’s psyche, saying it really wasn’t that complicated at all. That in all probability, this time ‘concerned’ really did mean suicidal, after all.

  ‘And his father and the church brigade,’ Briggs said, ‘they planned to carry out some sort of exorcism, you say?’

  ‘I don’t know if they’d call it that specifically …’ Matt leant forward. ‘But Sean said they’d planned to cast the spirit of homosexuality out of him. Which really does still happen today.’

  ‘I see.’ He tapped some words on the screen.

  ‘I’m just glad he managed to avoid it.’

  Briggs frowned. ‘Avoid it?’

  ‘Well I told you, he didn’t go home. He went to his grandmother’s instead, so he didn’t have to face them.’

  Briggs’ mouth rounded into an ‘o’.

  ‘Wait … what’s wrong?’

  Briggs sighed.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Actually, he didn’t avoid it. The church came round to his grandmother’s house because she called them. So they prayed, after all. The parents, the pastors. Apparently, Sean was extremely upset and ran out of the house crying.’

  ‘Jesus …’ Matt slid a splayed hand across his forehead, anger blending into sorrow and back again.

  ‘Ah, yes …’ Briggs tapped his chin the clicked his fingers, ‘that’s right. The granny was the one who used the word suicidal. My apologies. I’ll make a note of that. Mr Hunter … are you okay?’

  ‘No, I am not. I’m furious. Did you know how many gay Christians kill themselves? The stats are horrendous. It’s an absolute scandal.’

  ‘And just think what it might do to his pupils. Can’t be easy having your teacher kill himself. Anyways … do you know why he’d do it at your house?’

  ‘He wasn’t at my house. He did it in church grounds.’

  ‘Which is right next to your house. Meaning he may have been coming to find you.’

  Matt ran his hand across his knee. ‘Maybe he wanted to talk. I told him he could, but … I was asleep.’

  ‘Unless he was just seeking some sort of spiritual peace in his final moments. Repentance, even. He just found the nearest holy site he could think of. The church.’

  ‘Are you religious, Mr Briggs?’

  ‘Can’t see how that’s relevant …’ he said, ‘but if you’re asking … no I’m not. Not by a long shot. But I do know religious people do strange things sometimes. They like their symbolism. Maybe he felt closer to God by dying there.’

  Matt thought about it all for a moment. ‘If it was suicide then the church should be charged with some sort of—’

&nbs
p; ‘If it was suicide? You think it could be something else?’

  ‘Of course. It could be anything.’

  ‘Well … not quite anything … wasn’t a bear attack, was it?’

  ‘It could be those idiot bald guys for all we know.’

  Briggs pursed his lips together and nodded in the silence. It was long enough for Matt to gradually start hearing the tick of a clock, hidden somewhere in the room. Finally Briggs spoke. ‘I hear you witnessed the Chervil boy yesterday. Saw him get hit by the coal train?’

  ‘Yep. I’m a regular dead body magnet at the moment.’

  Briggs waited. Watched him, then closed the cover of his tablet. ‘Yeah, I think I’ll let you get back to your wife.’

  ‘Good.’ Matt pulled his coat from the back of the chair and walked out.

  He found Wren standing white-faced by the coffee machine. She was sipping warm pond water from a tiny, plastic cup. When she saw him, she set the cup down and just stood there while her chin trembled. He put his arms around her, slowly. They stood there for a full minute, oblivious to anyone walking past.

  She pulled back. ‘I don’t know how you cope with it. I only saw his hand, but the image. Every time I close my eyes …’

  He saw her face as it was an hour ago. When she tumbled through the back gate. He’d spun to warn her not to look but she was just too fast. He saw her mouth drop open at the exact same time he stood on a twig, so it sounded like her jaw had clicked horribly loud. He saw the bulge of her eyes and the hand across her face, when she took in the sparkling red ice rink that had sprung from Sean’s wrist. After it happened, they both had the world’s most morose shower and change, and they sat in the kitchen in gaunt silence, waiting for the police to arrive.

  ‘The images. They’ll fade,’ he said to her.

  ‘Will they?’

  He swallowed. ‘Actually, no … they won’t. Shall we find a coffee shop? Somewhere to talk? I’m not hungry but we should probably have breakfast.’