by Peter Laws
Wren openly shivered.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
She raised a hand. ‘Just bruises and scrapes. Nothing broken. Though I’m thinking of burning this entire dinner table with a flame-thrower.’
‘Oh?’ Bowland started pulling out a yellow paper file and set it in front of her.
‘That psychopath ate an entire meal off it.’
‘Kinda puts you off a stir-fry,’ Matt added.
Bowland put a palm on the file. ‘You know, if you’d both rather I fill you in later I can give—’
They both said ‘No’ at the same time. It made them look at each other. They gave one of those quiet laughs couples do when they speak at the same time.
‘No,’ Matt said. ‘Go ahead.’
‘We want to know all of it …’ Wren stared at the file.
Bowland set her cup down and waited for a moment, eyeing them both with a slow, surveyor’s blink. Then she slipped her glasses on and opened the file. ‘Well, first things first. Sean Ashton wasn’t suicide. We found DNA on the shard of glass and we’ve traced it back to Miriam.’
Wren shivered again, but Matt said nothing. He’d thought as much. He stared at the file. ‘Go on.’
‘Seems like he stumbled on her watching your house. She must have thought he might tell someone, so she killed him under the tree, with a broken bottle. I think she just panicked.’
Wren shook her head, ‘Or maybe that’s just what monsters do.’
‘Maybe.’
‘And she was watching the house to keep an eye on me?’ Matt said. ‘So the cult knew where I was?’
‘More than that. She was making sure you were safe. They couldn’t have you hit by a bus. It’d screw up their ritual. So, she watched and kept you protected. Which of course is why she stepped in when Mrs Ashton tried to shoot you. She couldn’t let you die. That was for the boy to do.’
The nerves in his stab wound started to crackle, but he resisted another scratch. ‘You know, the fact that she stood in front of that muzzle makes this case very simple.’
Bowland looked up. ‘It does?’
‘It shows she really did believe it. That she genuinely thought this … this symbol was going to change the world. They all did, I guess.’ He looked away at the open window, at the stone cross on the church. And he saw them all in his back garden. Prosper, Milton, Verity and the rest, hugging and weeping and climbing up on his picnic bench. He often saw them out there, since it happened, like last night when he heard Pax singing at two in the morning. He came downstairs and stood at the window watching for them. He snapped the image away by grabbing his cup. ‘And how’s Ever? And Merit?’
‘Well it’s going to be a very long, very complicated process of therapy, but they’re in the care of counsellors and they’re together. We have specialists who’ve helped lots of other kids with re-entry.’
‘Re-entry?’ Wren said. ‘So this happens a lot, does it? Kids and cults?’
‘It’s more common than people realise …’
‘And Ever’s uncle?’ Matt said.
‘He was uncle only in name.’
‘Um, yeah … Dust.’
‘Physically he’s improving. Might even regain sight in his left eye, but it’s early days. He’s getting the same sort of counselling too. He’s asked to be called by his real name now. He refuses to answer to Dust.’
Matt set the cup down. ‘What is his real name?’
Bowland ran a finger down her file. ‘Marc Coombs. An orphan. Had a long history in children’s homes all across the country. And not the good ones, either. Had a tough time at secondary school, from the looks of it.’ She started flipping through her file. ‘Milton was um … Billy Fenton. Used to be a farmer till he had to sell up ten years back. Lost his wife around the same time. Drunk driver. Almost drove him to suicide till he found this group.’
‘And Prosper?’
‘He was a petty criminal called Jason Meek. In and out of prison for most of his life. He tried to murder his dad once when he was a teenager. Understandable, to be honest. I’ve seen the file.’
‘What about Miriam?’ Wren said, quietly.
‘Her name was Miriam Croft, who became Hope. She had a pretty normal life, as far as we can tell. Ran a dry-cleaning shop, went to church. But her husband beat her daughter one night. Quite out of the blue. She was ten at the time.’ Bowland turned a picture round. A happy, bright little girl in a school uniform beamed back. ‘She suffered major brain trauma. Miriam gave up work to care for her full time. Her husband ran off and was never found.’
‘So this is Pax …’ Matt whispered, gazing at the picture.
Bowland nodded. ‘Real name, Jenny Croft.’
Wren reached over and held the picture. She just kept staring at it.
‘And Verity. She was Jess …’ Matt bit his lip, searching.
Bowland flipped a page. ‘Dean. Jessica Dean.’
‘That’s right. Dean. Jessica Dean.’
‘She ran away from home in her early teens. Classic scenario. Drunk dad, easy with his fists, absent mother. She lived on the streets for a while. A long while, actually. Two years, from the looks of it. She was raped in a back alley, as you know. Which seems to have gotten her pregnant. Eventually she found the group, though we’re not sure how. Found a home for her little boy, anyway. She called him Connor, but he became—’
‘Ever …’ Matt said. ‘And Merit?’
‘Was probably always called that. She was five, so she never knew anything different than the group. The man you found in the car was Merit’s dad, Bill. Seems like Pax and him had a short relationship, but clearly he couldn’t accept living on that farm, and left. Dust said his leaving was an early sign.’
‘Sign of what?’ Matt asked.
‘That the end of was coming.’
Wren hadn’t spoken for a while. She just stared at the picture of Pax. Eventually she set it on the table then slowly slid her head into her hands. Her fingers became lost in the red of her hair. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘No wonder they thought the world was filled with monsters …’
‘Yeah, for them, it really was.’ Bowland gazed down at the files in front of her. ‘We reckon the man who raped Jess was caught, by the way.’
‘Really?’ Matt looked up. ‘How?’
‘Kevin Parsons. Police caught him about six years ago, doing the same to another woman in the city. Seems like he’d stolen one of those Street Angel jackets so he could get alongside people. Pretty insidious fella by all accounts. Explains why Jess got confused when she saw you in the same gear …’ Bowland caught the look in his eye. ‘I’m sorry, Matt. This is a lot to take in.’
Matt and Wren were holding hands. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but he noticed it seemed to be automatic at the moment. This holding on to each other. ‘So, what about Zara East? How did she find the others?’
‘Marc Coombs … Dust … he told me that Miriam was trying to connect with a bunch of vicars’ sons to recruit them for their ritual, but it didn’t take them long to find Micah. Miriam really clicked with him, only he brought his mum along too.’
‘Who was drifting from the church anyway …’ Matt said.
‘Yep. Dust says Micah was fascinated with their teaching and was besotted with Miriam. They worked on him for at least three months. Thoroughly washed that kid’s brain. The mum got drawn in too, until she heard their plans for Micah. She must have threatened to tell. Looks like Prosper and Miriam strangled her and told the rest of the group she’d run off and turned demon. Told Micah that too. He thought the only way to save her was the ritual but then David East didn’t die. The miracle of St Bart’s.’
Matt sniffed, ‘They might call it a miracle but I’m thinking Micah just got cold feet. Maybe he deliberately failed, in the panic of it all.’
‘Or he was a crap aim … but it didn’t matter in the end, because that’s when they found you.’
Matt punched the air. ‘Yay.’
Bowl
and didn’t smile, but she did look at both of them in turn. ‘So, I want to say thank you. Because if it wasn’t for the two of you I’d have two dead children on my hands. You didn’t have to go back in to that church, Matt. And Wren … you didn’t have to let him, either. But you did. In fact, Matt, you didn’t have to get involved in any of this, but you did.’
He looked down at the table. ‘You could look at it another way. If I hadn’t got involved, they’d have never seen me and this could have all been just a failed murder attempt at a church.’
Wren squeezed his hand. She knew this line of thinking.
‘Erm, excuse me, young man.’ Bowland pointed her pen at him. ‘If you have any sense of guilt about this, then you better nip it in the bud right now. Because you know, as well as I know, that after Zara, Miriam was going to end their world one way or another. We’d have tracked Zara down to the farm and found a pile of hanging bodies. Merit and Ever included. You know this is true, don’t you?’
Matt looked at the table. ‘I know it in my head.’
For the first time, Bowland slid her hands across the table and grabbed his and Wren’s. ‘Give it time. It’ll sink into your heart too. You got involved, you saved three lives, including Dust.’
‘But Sean Ashton … he’d be alive today if—’
‘Stop it. I’m serious. Stop it and listen to me right now.’
He looked at her as Wren wiped her cheek.
‘I’ve seen what you’ve done in Hobbs Hill and in Menham. Now for me in Chervil. I appreciate you’re an academic and all, but what I’m saying is, you’re saving lives here, Matt. That’s kind of a big deal.’
He felt Wren’s arm slide around his back; her sniffling head fell against his shoulder.
‘So thank you, both of you,’ Bowland said, and shut the folder softly, ‘but I reckon that’s quite enough for now. You two need rest. So Matt, how about you go and play some of your trendy, silly video games you told me about?’
‘Hey,’ he raised a palm, ‘enough with the trendy.’
‘And don’t forget to eat.’ She hooked a thumb towards the fridge and cupboards. She’d already packed them with goodies she’d brought. Cakes, biscuits and a few bottles of very decent wine. She stood to her feet and patted her jacket down, then after shaking Wren’s hand she said, ‘Walk me to my car, Matt?’
He nodded and led her out.
When the front door opened sunshine splashed up their bodies, and when Bowland tapped out her sunglasses, he grabbed his from the side table and did the same. How amazing to actually have a need for these, after the black skies of recent days.
‘Good weather for the structural engineers.’ She stared up into the sky. ‘They’re assessing St Bart’s today. I hear once the chancel’s properly reinforced, it’ll be fine. I guess the Crooked Church refuses to die.’
He laughed. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’
They walked into the street where her car sat perched on a kerb. She swung her door open but didn’t get in. She turned back and spoke over the roof. ‘And don’t forget to call that number I gave you. You both need to talk through what happened.’
‘Will do,’ Matt said, then he saw her gaze drop. ‘Jill, what is it?’
She sighed, ‘Nah, it’s fine. Another time.’
He put his elbow on her car. ‘No come on, there’s something else.’
She tilted her head. Her earring jiggled.
‘Well?’
‘The boy, Ever. He keeps asking about you.’
‘Asking what?’
‘He says he’d like to meet you again, sometime.’
Matt shrugged. ‘Sure. If it’ll help …’ He broke off. ‘Wait. He does know I’m not his dad, right?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, he does. That’s all confirmed.’
‘Fine, then how about I come this week? Tomorrow maybe?’
She shook her head, ‘Not for a while, yet. He needs time. And so do you. Besides, his doctor says it might not be helpful for him to meet with you this soon.’
‘Cos I’ll bring the memories back …’
‘No … they’re just worried you might confirm what he saw at the end.’ She searched his face. ‘He says you both saw demons, just as the stones fell. Walking through the church, crouching by the bodies.’
He didn’t speak.
‘Matt?’
‘There was a lot going on. The place was dark. It’d be easy to be mistaken …’
‘Did you see something?’
He shrugged. ‘Just a few shadows walking around.’
‘Walking shadows?’
‘Just a trick of the light, I guess … wait, what’s wrong?’
She was taking her sunglasses off.
‘Tell me, Jill.’
‘What if I told you something? Something that’s been getting under my skin for this entire case?’
‘Go on.’
‘What if I said I saw those walking shadows too?’
The sun pulsed. A child in a neighbour’s house started to cry. ‘I’d say there were a lot of candles in that place and we were all a little stressed.’
She turned something over in her mouth. ‘Actually, I mean in Micah’s bedroom. When I went in there by myself, that first morning. What if I said I saw one of those things crawl out of his cupboard and stand up straight? What would you say then?’
He looked at her, but he kept his sunglasses on. ‘I guess … I guess I’d say that we both need rest.’
She slid her glasses back on and put out her hand. They shook across the car roof. ‘Well, thanks again, Matt. And call that number. Talk it out.’ She sank into the seat and closed her door.
The engine started, and she buzzed her windows down. ‘Feels good to need aircon again.’ She snapped her CD player on. The low slink of a guitar riff pumped from the speakers. Dolly Parton, ‘Jolene’. ‘God, it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Glorious.’ He tapped his palm on her roof and she pulled away. He stood on the pavement, watching her car dwindle down the street, while above him a fat sun blazed and five birds flew in wild, diving arcs. He closed his eyes for a moment, just to concentrate on the novelty of outdoor heat. It didn’t last long. When he opened them again, Bowland was gone, and the birds too.
Strange. He took his sunglasses off, because his street had turned oddly grey. He looked up and saw a huge bank of cloud creeping past the sun to block it. He wondered if it might rain one final time, or if he’d hear Pax and the others in his garden again, like they were last night, singing and dancing in twirling circles, while the whispering shadow things hopped and sprung and wandered between them, approving of it all.
Then he heard a voice.
‘Hollow!’
He jumped.
A child’s voice from the pavement.
He twitched and turned towards it. It was Amelia, tugging at his sleeve.
‘What did you just say?’
She cupped her hand around her mouth. ‘I said, helloooo, Daddy. Is anybody there?’
He dropped into a crouch and winced at the ache in his shoulder. ‘Hello, you.’
‘We’re having the cake your friend brought. Mummy says she’s cutting giant slices. Want one?’
‘Absolutely, positively, yes,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said. Then she hugged him. He noticed how she held it for a lot longer than normal. She knew he needed it.
They walked back up the path together, hand in hand, and he closed the front door just before the sun went to hide and the drops began to fall.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
So there you have it, my novel about rejection. What, you say? You didn’t realise the book was about that topic? To be honest, neither did I. But I just finished writing it an hour ago, and I’m sitting here in a pub (waiting for a burger to arrive) and I’m pondering the intense journey I’ve just been on. And I’m thinking … wow … this book is about rejection. The pain of it, the sad isolation of it, the depressing regularity of it. Flick back through and you
’ll see a steady trail of people pushed aside, of fractured relationships, even in the heavenly realms.
The fact that rejection should be a core theme of Severed shouldn’t be a shock, now that I think about it, because it was inspired by the first novel I ever wrote. That was called Congregation which got me a literary agent (yay!) but it was rejected by every publisher who read it (non-yay!) To be fair, it wasn’t that good, and it was very different from the story you just read. But it still explored the same bizarre theological question: what if Jesus and his dad weren’t loving any more? What if they wanted to strangle each other instead? That concept could have made for a funny sitcom I suppose, but my mind turned it into a pulpy, tragic, hopefully okay horror-thriller.
So, my first thanks go to every editor or agent who rejected Congregation and the three more novels that came after, also rejected. You guys were doing your job. You were following your tastes and instincts and lists. I think that’s fair enough, because I never thought I was destined to get a book deal, only that I was destined to try and get a book deal – there’s a big difference. So yeah, thanks for saying no. It made me sad and all. I remember I cried about it one night, sitting at my kitchen table. But still, I think it made me a better writer, and maybe a more rounded person too. Because what sort of adventure has everything going right? The best adventures – the scary ones that actually mean something – they are a wild mixture of springboards, and shocking brick walls.
So big high fives to my springboards, too. To Joanna Swainson, my splendid agent, and to Therese Cohen, who has helped my books appear in other countries, I say thank you. Hardman and Swainson always feels like a cool literary agency to me. So, I’m chuffed my face gets to gurn out from their sleek website. I also want to thank the crack team at Allison & Busby, who gave Matt Hunter some room at the inn. What’s more, you’ve let him stick around, so thank you Susie Dunlop, Lesley Crooks, Kelly Smith, Daniel Scott, and Simon and Fliss Bage. And Christina Griffiths too, who gives the books such a lovely look. Hat tips go to Debra Reid and Harry Derbyshire too. Thanks for helping me put strange Aramaic words into Micah East’s mouth. Thanks also go to Icon Books, who just published my first ever non-fiction book (in all good bookshops now *wink*). Seriously though, The Frighteners: Why We Love Monsters, Ghosts, Death and Gore was fuelled by rejection too. When it looked like my fiction would never be published, I came up with a non-fiction idea as a backup. I’m astonished – nay, elated – that I’m now getting to do both. A hearty handshake also goes to so many of you who’ve come to see me at book signings at events and festivals, who have come to hear me speak or who follow my strange images and left-field utterances on social media. Travelling around and connecting with readers is one of my favourite things to do, so don’t be shy. Come and say hello in the flesh or online. And if you’re looking for a speaker for something, please cartwheel with haste to your nearest email machine and drop me a message.