Severed

by Peter Laws

  The bald-looking one, who looked like a gargoyle – Prosper, he’d learnt – was standing over Matt right now, with his arms folded. He’d just come back from the choir vestry, where the arguments about Zara East’s body seemed to have died down – at least for now.

  His head shone, and he pressed his hand across it, like he was holding his brain in. He whispered strange prayers over Matt. But he kept his big eyes wide open since he was making sure Matt didn’t move. He saw Verity shake her head at him, like Matt wasn’t up to snuff, then he watched her move to the pews. She sat next to a young woman he’d learnt was called Pax. Pax held the hand of a little girl who looked no more than five. It was the kid from the window at the farmhouse.

  Pax would giggle every now and then, and wipe spit from her lip. It was pretty obvious that this was the mother Bowland mentioned on the phone. And that the kid on her lap was the child the man had tried to rescue from the farmhouse, before he got a steering wheel wedged in his throat and they took his eyes. The others, as far as he could tell, were fetching the other one called Ever, because without him this whole ritual was a no-go.

  Seeing them all gathering around him, lighting candles, and checking all was in place, was strangely reminiscent of any other church prep he’d seen. These were just people, waiting for a service to start. He even saw an accordion lying on a pew, ready to play. As if Matt’s impending – and he assumed bloody – death would somehow be a happy, celebratory affair. Which sounded so depraved and sick, until he thought of the ancient Aztecs lopping off heads to appease the Sun God, and a million trendy Christians with lattes in one hand and the other raised in wonder at the cross. What was about to happen to him wasn’t so strange after all – since so much of religion flowed on the streams of blood sacrifice. It was helpful to theorise about all of this. To judge it all as an interesting object lesson in anthropology. It’d make for a killer PowerPoint one day, when he got back to his uni job. When he got back. And all this pondering was an attempt to drown the other voice out. The voice that said …

  No, Matt. It is neither a matter of when nor if, because you are not going back to anything other than this. Consider this instead … when an axe takes a head, how long does it remain conscious? Will you see your twitching body, from a once-impossible angle … and will brain and vision last four seconds or maybe even five? You can see a lot in four seconds, wouldn’t you agree? Enough to turn you mad, perhaps? Count it. Count four seconds. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three … That’s a lot of time to notice things—

  His chest shuddered so hard that his ribcage hurt.

  He had to focus. He had to theorise on a solution. He had to watch.

  He swallowed and let his brain take the wheel again.

  Bowland was bound to come. She’d visit the farmhouse, find his abandoned car and somehow, they’d track him here. Somehow, it’d be okay. The voice that said these things was growing more and more quiet, he noticed.

  So, Matt waited, and stared at the drunken sway of the candles. They’d put candles all across the altar, and on the floor too, so the shadows of the ceiling bulged above him. He’d spotted a bundle of rope under the altar, too. He’d bet money on what it was for.

  Got to keep you steady when they sever that old noggin off—

  —but for now, they seemed content with these agonising little cable ties. He even saw them drag out a metal bucket filled with ash and strips of material and there were chunks of what looked like white sticks or branches in it. This bucket of black and grey powder stank of smoke. Whatever they’d burnt, they started to scoop handfuls of it into heaps, just so they could smear a metal cross that lay on the altar as well as scrawling shapes across the church walls. All around him he could see, and smell, the violent swipe of endless upturned crosses. Then Prosper smeared inverted crosses on Matt’s cheeks, forehead and clothes. He only stopped smearing when the church door suddenly swung open.

  Matt shifted his head as best he could. It was the big guy, Milton. He was walking in with another kid in tow, older than the little girl. Ten, maybe. Verity saw the boy and ran towards him.

  ‘They found you, praise Jesus …’ She snaked her hands around the boy and held him close, looking over at Matt. That look of hers sent the whole church into a strange quake and spin. She caught Matt’s stare and pushed her lips forward. It said everything he needed to know. That here was the result of whatever happened in the alleyway that night. And my God, he could see it in her eyes – She really does think it was me.

  ‘Look, Ever,’ she said. ‘This is your father.’

  Matt started shaking his head, pressing his temple into the altar. He tried to shout No. No, I’m not, but it came out as pure noise.

  The boy had already been chewing his fingers. Now he started gnawing at them.

  Prosper planted two hands on the boy’s shoulders and hurried him down the aisle towards Matt. The kid kept staring at the floor, petrified, while Matt struggled hard against the cable ties and kept groaning desperate, yet pointless, words against the tape. Prosper just smacked him again with something heavy and sharp – a metal crucifix, smeared in soot.

  ‘Where’s Uncle Dust?’ Ever said.

  Prosper turned. ‘He’s in danger but we can still save him if we finish this, first.’

  Ever shook his head. ‘No … tell me what happened.’

  ‘A bunch of Hollows came from the woods, all right? They’ve dragged Dust off.’

  ‘What?’ Ever gasped. ‘But I didn’t see any outside.’

  ‘Dammit boy, they weren’t in their skin. They came crawling out as they are … as shadows, and they’ve taken him to the woods, but there’s still time to stop them. So come on, boy, let’s throw all those Hollows to the sky.’ Prosper nodded to Milton to hold Matt down, then hurried to the side door of the chancel and threw the door open. Matt knew this was the door Micah had escaped from the other morning. Outside he saw a world in wild, flashing chaos. Some of the candles instantly went out, swallowed by the screaming wind.

  ‘Look at it out there!’ Prosper said. ‘End’s comin’ … Jesus is coming … resurrection day. As soon as Hope gets here we can—’

  ‘Don’t wait.’ Milton’s breeze-block hands pressed Matt’s head down. ‘She said just do it.’

  Prosper’s smile quickly faded. ‘What? Where is she?’

  ‘Keeping us safe, like always. So, mate, there’s no time. She said to just do it.’

  Prosper looked frantically into the rain.

  ‘Prosper … now.’

  He sucked in a breath of courage and quickly grabbed something from a stone shelf: a black pouch. He turned the Velcro flap open and pulled something from the inside by the handle. A stubby little Stanley knife. Verity and Pax immediately started singing in the pews, and so did the little girl on Pax’s lap. They stood to their feet and began a solemn walk to the altar.

  Matt flung himself back from the table, but Milton’s hand smacked it back into place. Pain sliced deep into his cheekbone. The hand stayed locked, then other hands pushed him down, too. Verity, Pax, Prosper, Milton, and then the little girl, holding him in place. He saw Milton drag something long from a bag.

  ‘That’s too heavy,’ Ever said. ‘I can’t lift it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that: you use the knife, and when it’s dead we take the head.’

  ‘Why can’t we do fire?’

  ‘There’s no time. Just cut him. Just cut his throat.’

  Matt screamed just then, staring at the axe, shining and brand new. A replacement for the one Micah lost. He screamed, right against the tape, and let out great hisses of desperate breath.

  ‘I need Dust, I need him …’ Ever sobbed and turned to Verity. ‘Mum, I can’t do this. Not alone.’

  ‘You’re braver than you think.’ Verity was crying too. ‘So kill it. Kill the Father. Kill the Father for Jesus.’

  ‘But what if we’re wrong, Mum …’ He gulped his words out. ‘What if we’re—’

  ‘Kill it!
’ Her shout ripped his voice away, and her eyes bulged with pain and madness. ‘Kill it for me, Ever! For what it did to me. Kill it. Kill it.’ She tore her scarf from her neck and rubbed and clawed at her throat. Her terrible scars looked like they were moving and wriggling.

  Matt heaved against the altar and Prosper slipped the knife into Ever’s hand. ‘Careful, it’s sharp. But the blade’s pretty small, so you’ll have to push it in him then drag. Like this, see?’ He stuck his hand forward, then hacked a line in the air. ‘Milton? Flip him over.’

  The singing grew louder.

  All those hands turned him around and Prosper cupped a wet palm across Matt’s forehead. He was face up now, throat bared. Arms and wild faces hovered over him and the little boy with a knife in his hands stepped slowly closer, staring at the twitching veins in Matt’s exposed throat. The kid was framed by the huge arched window behind him. Matt watched it flashing with holy figures in furious stained glass.

  The inevitability of the moment sank in just then, from a body and brain that finally admitted the truth. That he was pitifully unable to throw all these hands off. The realisation hit Matt like a hammer. Actually no. It felt more like a fast train on a wet day. Because up until this moment there really had been at least some hope. But now the black tar had swallowed it all up, and Matt’s brain exploded with ridiculous, distracting questions – anything that would stop those thoughts of the axe. The types of questions he’d ponder in the dentist chair, just to take his mind off the coming pain of the drill. With his mind an utter tornado of shock he thought, I wonder which one of them plays the accordion, I wonder what happened to that Dust guy, I wonder if this church roof leaks, I wonder if my beautiful daughters get married, I wonder how many candles there are in this room …

  Yes … yes!

  I’ll count the candles. I’ll count while I die … maybe it’ll help …

  One … two …

  Life flashing. Lurching panic.

  ‘Now, Ever.’

  Three … four …

  Counting like that silly Dracula puppet from Sesame Street.

  Five …

  Yes … I’m a kid again, watching the Count and I’m sitting on my dad’s lap. Hi, Barnabus Hunter. Fancy seeing you in my final moments.

  Six … Seven …

  In the days when his dad acted like a dad. In the days when I loved him …

  Eight …

  Before he stopped being a dad and became a father, and somehow turned into a beast.

  Nine …

  And the desperate panic that the final image of his life wouldn’t be his family or even his mum on Sizewell beach. It’d be him sitting on his damn father’s lap counting for ever …

  Ten …

  At last, their names blossomed on his lips … Lucy … Amelia … and … Wren … then nothing came but the rain and thunder and the strangely beautiful singing that filled the church. Then the rain went quiet as Milton gripped the handle of the axe and locked himself into strike position.

  Pax’s voice. ‘Now, Ever, Now! Make me clever again.’

  Prosper’s groan … ‘I can hear Dust screaming … he needs you, boy. He needs you. Say the words …’

  ‘I love you, Ever.’ Verity whispering through her hands. ‘Be brave, Ever. Kill it for me.’

  ‘Say it …’

  Then everything moving into one bone-deep breath as Ever spluttered out his pre-rehearsed line … ‘Avi, Avi, lama kataltani.’

  My father, my father, why have you killed me …

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Pats on his shoulder.

  Applause.

  Then the last thing. The only thing.

  The diorama snapshot of Milton, gripping the axe handle, eager to finish it, while the boy raised the knife with two hands above his shoulder then slammed the blade down with a wail of terror and rage, so loud that it was hard to tell if it was coming from the boy, or from the flashing glass Jesus who also happened to be dying in agony behind him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Wren sprinted across the field, slipping and stumbling her way back to the car. Her thoughts were a whirling mess of information. She had no brain space to consider why this was happening. Only that it was.

  Kind, lovely, self-sacrificing Miriam was now running at her at full pelt, shouting in a voice so brutal and guttural that Wren felt dizzy with the terror of it. ‘Holloowwwww.’

  No time to scream.

  No breath to scream it.

  Finally, the stone wall came into view. It blocked her from the car, so she figured the best way to clear it was to grab it with both hands and fling herself over. She just needed to slow down a little to make—

  Wet footsteps, close behind her.

  Thud. Thud. Thud.

  Miriam wailed, ‘Come and die, you fucking ghoul.’

  Getting closer.

  Wren’s hands were not builders hands, but architects hands. They were creamed with Nivea every night and were exceptionally good at sinking an eight ball. Now those hands slammed into the top of the rough stone wall. She moaned at how sharp it felt. Then she sprang up and over with a picture of herself vivid in her mind – clearing the wall in slow motion, like this was a parents’ race at the school sports day, while all the other school mums cheered her escape.

  Then her right knee slammed into the wall. She fell against it on the wrong side. Miriam’s side. Not nearly high enough. She dropped and heard Miriam panting.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Frantically she clambered up onto the wall and shrieked, when a strong, slapping clamp of a wet hand grabbed her ankle. She twisted, flipped over to her back and looked down her body. A mass of wet hair was snapping its teeth at her feet. She dragged again at Wren’s leg, tugging her down.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Wren said, close to a sob she noticed. Then a mad thought. Maybe she just didn’t like the meal the other night. Everyone’s a critic.

  Miriam slowed for a moment and her wet mouth opened in a smile. The type that would scare children in pantomimes. ‘Because I believe it. Because it’s real. And the storm believes it too.’

  A gust of drenching wind pushed at them both, and Miriam almost toppled over. Wren kicked out. She shoved a clear foot into Miriam and made contact with her chest. Her mad ranting got lost in a puff of air as she fell back. All this gave Wren a perfect, golden moment of time. Enough seconds to spring up and slide across the toppling rocks and drop to the other side. Mud slapped against her belly as she dropped on all fours, then she flung herself up and stumbled towards the car in a wild, skittish escape. Thank heavens their car had that fancy feature where you didn’t have to take your key out of your pocket. The sensor picked up the fob and you just grabbed the door handle and flung it open. In the dealership, Matt had said that this feature was a great idea that’d really be handy. She called it a pointless, pricey gimmick. How insane to know that a sales clerk’s skills of persuasion would be the very thing that might save her life.

  She flung the car door open and dived inside, slamming the door shut against the booming thunder.

  She jabbed the ignition on, flicked on the lights.

  She gasped.

  The harsh glow of the headlights lit up Miriam who was spider-walking over the wall and reaching for the bonnet. She threw the car into reverse. The tyres churned back. The rear end of her car dropped a little as she hit that deep, colossal puddle she was trying to avoid earlier. A quick glance to the right showed there wasn’t enough of an arc to turn the way she came. She’d wedge the car into the wall while Miriam scrabbled at the door.

  So she locked the wheel into a hard left, and scraped the front right bumper along the wall, barely clearing it. Now all she had to—

  Glass shattered.

  She leapt in her seat when the rock came through the passenger window. It landed in a mass of glass in the footwell and leering through the broken hole was an actual Disney witch. The car was moving, and Wren had locked th
e door, but that had little effect on her terror. Miriam was now running alongside the car, grasping at the jagged glass teeth of the window which slashed her fingers. She was trying to climb in, reaching an arm into the car, always calling her name.

  Wren picked up the pace on the turn and the tyres soon hit thinner ground. She ploughed ahead at last and Miriam quickly slid from the window, raking her arms on the glass, and landing in a tumbling heap of glass. Soon, she became a horrible, red-lit figure in the rear-view mirror.

  But she was still coming. Still running and bleeding through the rain.

  Her car threw water high on each side while she grabbed her phone and smeared the rain from the screen. She jabbed 999 and finally it was dry enough to register. She shouted out her location … but the voice on the other end was quiet and small, and soon fizzled away to nothing.

  Wren thought, I should’ve run Miriam over.

  Then she thought, But that’s good, isn’t it? That my natural instinct was to get away, and not to just kill a person.

  Then all thinking stopped, because a mass of white filled up the windscreen. She slammed the brakes hard. Too late. A parked, dirty, white van was jack-knifed across the road. When she hit it, the airbags of her dashboard burst and flung her back into her seat. She tried to reverse, but the wheels just span. She pressed the airbag down and looked to the left at the shattered passenger window. Panic bloomed. She checked her mirrors. It was clear for now, but there were screams on the air that weren’t the storm.

  There was no other choice. She opened her door and fell out into the rain.

  A house was on the left, looking black, deserted and incredibly lonely. She considered getting in there to grab a kitchen knife, a fire poker, anything. But then she heard this strange wailing coming from the church, and what seemed like an open door spilled light and screams into the graveyard.