by Jordan, G R
There was a knock at the door. It opened and Tania came into view. With a single finger, she beckoned Kirkgordon out of the room. He found it hard to deny that he enjoyed the intrusion.
“Just wondered if you wanted a more comfortable bed,” whispered Tania.
She’s certainly forward, thought Kirkgordon. “I really need to be near, Tania. It’s just that he often gets reoccurrences. It wouldn’t be doing to be otherwise occupied when one of the dreams come. He had been a week without an episode but this last one wasn’t so good.”
Tania was smiling up at him. “I wasn’t offering any sporting activities. There’s a rest room, for the nurses, with beds. Just thought it might be more comfortable than that chair in there.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay. It has been good. And I like you a lot for an oldie, but it takes a while before I climb into bed with someone. But don’t panic. You’re still on the possible list.” She reached up and kissed his cheek before turning and walking away. He looked her up and down, thinking how much he liked scrubs, before realizing how close he had been to falling into Tania’s arms.
It doesn’t do to be too far from Alana, thought Kirkgordon.
To avoid the awkward subject of his own failings as a husband and father, he ran through the things he still had to do in Dillingham. Oh yes, contact Havers for Austerley to get that book. Still, I can do that in the morning. No, sod it, let’s wake the bugger up. After all, he’s always manipulating us.
Courage failed Kirkgordon and he ended up walking to the car park to send a text to Havers instead. The night air was cold now as it was shortly about to catch the morning, and Kirkgordon found it refreshing. For a few moments he closed his eyes, listened to the quiet rustling of the few creatures on the move and took in the breeze tingling his wet lips. Some sort of paradise, he thought. Then his mobile phone vibrated.
“It’s 4 am, who the hell’s this?” asked Kirkgordon to the disturber of his peace.
“Ah, Mr Kirkgordon. Good to see you are not resting on your laurels. Major Havers speaking and, as I recall, you are the one who sent me a text message requesting a certain item.”
“Do you sleep, Havers?”
“Do you, Mr Kirkgordon?”
“Okay, touché.”
“Please tell Mr Austerley I shall obtain his book at once and deliver it to him by the fastest possible method. Do tell me, Mr Kirkgordon, is Mr Austerley faring well?”
“Well, he’s just had one of the attacks, Havers. Quite bad by recent standards, too. Actually smacked one of the nurses.”
“What was the subject of the nightmare?”
“Usual suspect. Farthington ripping his foot off and that. But there were a few new elements. A swinging cage and some nude dancing chick in silhouette.”
“Anything else?” Havers sounded worried.
“No. Expecting extras, were you?”
“Keep your wits about you, Mr Kirkgordon. Mr Austerley is, as you know, receptive. New dreams always give cause for concern. But I shall depart now as I have a plane to catch.” There was a whirring sound in the background, loud like a fierce wind.
“Are you on a plane?”
“Not quite yet, Mr Kirkgordon, but my library books are overdue. Be vigilant.” And the line went dead.
Aw, crap, thought Kirkgordon, Havers never says things in jest. I’m tired, at the dry end of a few pints and about to babysit the mad end of an occult receiver. The only positive thing is a young girl who says I’m on her “to bed” list. And that’s a positive I really need to avoid. I just love my job.
Father Jonah
It might seem strange to some people, thought Kirkgordon, but I need to go to church today. He remembered the look Austerley had given him and the snide comment about Tania as he had left the room. I probably deserved that one. Why did people always think you had to be perfect to go to church? Anyway, that’s up to them, not me. Kirkgordon knew his God had been there on that island even though the events hadn’t been pleasant.
The morning was bright and fresh after a little clearing rain and the birdsong complemented the smell of the oak trees, their leaves dripping. The sun was still cool, and Kirkgordon felt refreshed as he walked. Tired, oh yes, very tired, but refreshed. His mind wandered back to a day the previous week when he had been holding his son in his arms before letting him loose on the public play park, and he wondered why it couldn’t be like that all the time. His son didn’t know his Dad fought with demons from parts of the skies unseen by human eyes. And, thankfully, the boy had never met Austerley.
St Jude’s was a modest grey building. It had the obligatory steeple but also a modern building attached at the side. Although this building was dark now, Kirkgordon could see tables, chairs and a large sign telling folks to “come on in for rest, prayer and a fill-up”. Come to think of it, he could do with a decent meal. He hadn’t had any breakfast and last night’s beer had left him hungry. But 9:30 am for a service? Day of rest, wasn’t it?
After shaking hands with an elderly gentleman in the entrance vestibule, Kirkgordon took a prayer book and hymnal and sat down three rows from the back. There were in the region of thirty other people there. A greying priest, in quite reserved garb for an Anglican, emerged from the rear along with a posse containing three choirboys and a junior. The priest, who was a good six inches smaller than Kirkgordon, nodded knowingly as he passed by. As the priest reached the front of the main aisle, another man sat down beside Kirkgordon.
Kirkgordon buckled at the smell coming from the man. I know that smell, thought Kirkgordon. That’s horse shit, genuine manure. Wearing a dirty, blackened overcoat and worn-through jeans, the man – Kirkgordon assumed he was a tramp – coughed loudly. Some of the spittle landed on Kirkgordon’s knee. The tramp placed a yellow plastic bag on the floor and proceeded to pick his nose with total abandon. Out of the corner of his eye, Kirkgordon could see a matted beard and missing teeth. And eyes that resonated wariness.
After a moment, Kirkgordon realized that the eyes were out of place. Damn he’s good, thought Kirkgordon. I’m six inches off his face or I wouldn’t have got it. Total pro, he’s a total pro. But if he’s here, we are really in trouble.
“Is that his book?” whispered Kirkgordon.
The tramp nodded gently.
“You smell like crap.”
“The manure is genuine, Mr Kirkgordon. You are being watched, so don’t pick up the book. I’ll leave it behind for the priest to find. Make sure you stop and chat with him today. They’re pretty modern for Anglicans, here. Coffee and doughnuts after the service.” The tramp – or, more correctly, Austerley and Kirkgordon’s boss, Havers – spoke in barely audible tones. Every now and then he would break into a deep, chesty cough and spit on the ground. It certainly gave the pair of them a great deal of room.
Havers stayed for the whole church service, playing the part of the tramp incredibly well. On leaving, he even managed to fall into the arms of a rather snooty lady with a large bonnet. Kirkgordon chuckled to himself as he watched her try to appear Christian, feigning help for the tramp while keeping as great a distance as possible. Having taken a moment to let Havers leave, Kirkgordon was the last person to exit the nave and shake hands with the priest.
“Thank you, vicar, nice service,” ventured Kirkgordon.
“Why, thank you Mr…?” asked the priest.
“Kirkgordon. All one word. All one surname. Seems to cause some confusion round here.”
“Scottish name, you see. Not used to that sort of name round here. Bit too far south.” The priest’s voice was laboured, like he was struggling with the delivery of the words rather than the thought processes. His eyes looked glassy, roaming without ever finding a target, almost as if they were redundant while his mind worked on weightier things.
“Well, I’m not from round here. Just babysitting a friend at the care home.”
“Oh dear, is your friend alright?” asked the priest.
How do I put this, thought Kirkgordon? He’s about to get a prosthetic because I shot him in the foot with an arrow while trying to kill him to prevent him from summoning a demon and then a three-headed dragon ripped his ankle apart. “He’s getting a new foot after a serious accident,” he said.
“Sorry to hear that. I’m Father Jonah, Mr Kirkgordon, but I’m often known as olhos dos outros to my friends. Ohlos for short. But where are my manners? Come back to the manse for dinner. My daughter is an excellent cook. I bet you enjoy mussels, Mr Kirkgordon.”
Kirkgordon knew that he was to receive the book from the priest but as nothing was forthcoming yet he decided he had better stick close. Besides, it gave him an excuse to be away from Austerley.
After retiring for a short time, Father Jonah returned, dressed in a white monk’s habit complete with cord belt. The old man must have clocked Kirkgordon’s strange looks because he explained that he had been a monk before God had led him into service with this particular church.
“Just as all my troubles seemed to have reached a head, I was finally able to see the way,” he said.
Kirkgordon nodded politely but was feeling a little uncomfortable. This was one rather kooky individual.
Leading Kirkgordon to the back of the church, Father Jonah pointed to a red motorcycle, announcing it as their mode of transport. He threw over a helmet with a cross motif on it. Over the priest’s habit he threw on a motorcycle jacket displaying a message of the grace of heaven. Kirkgordon felt he was riding with the holiest of Hell’s Angels except for the strict adherence to the speed limit. It was not long before he recognized the route.
The care home came into sight and the priest rode easily into the car park, stopping right in front of the main entrance. Without a word, he reached inside his habit and handed Kirkgordon the yellow packet Havers had left behind.
Kirkgordon wasted no time in taking the book to Austerley. He advised Austerley not to get his crayons on it and received an expletive in reply. On Kirkgordon’s return to the motorcycle, Father Jonah said nothing but drove back to the church, parking in the same spot.
“I guess lunch is off the menu, then. Well, thanks for the book.” Kirkgordon turned to go.
“My house is the one beside the church. You need to talk and there are many questions you need answered. But first we eat the mussels.”
The priest walked off leaving Kirkgordon stunned. How did he know so much about him? And so accurate. It took all his composure not to yell at this crazy man. Kirkgordon followed him into the house.
A young girl, possibly twelve or thirteen, took Kirkgordon’s coat before scuttling back to what was presumably the kitchen. The priest led his guest into a bland sitting room with an old sofa. The cover reminded Kirkgordon of a seventies convention – he swore it should be wearing flares. There was a wooden table on which was a single bottle of supermarket sherry and two large tumblers. The priest poured two generous measures and handed a tumbler to Kirkgordon.
These are no sherry glasses, he thought. And he’s no priest.
Father Jonah waved Kirkgordon towards the sofa. The girl brought in a plate of mussels with a small fork and handed it to their guest. After blessing the food, the priest motioned for Kirkgordon to eat and they sat in silence.
Kirkgordon barely managed to avoid spitting out his food as he realized the mussels were pickled. What on earth is this nonsense, he thought. His tongue railed at the sharp, acidic taste and part of him just wanted his bed.
But Kirkgordon had been raised on good manners and he managed to finish his plate. The girl came back so quickly for the cleared dish that he was sure she had been watching from somewhere. The priest remained mute and produced a plastic tub with some small holes in its lid. Opening the receptacle carefully, he took out a toad and walked towards Kirkgordon. Without warning, the man placed the toad on Kirkgordon’s head and retreated to a distance of about five feet.
This is surreal, just crackers, thought Kirkgordon. Where does Havers get these clowns? Still, I had better see it through. No doubt there will be some strange spiritual significance. There had better be!
Looking straight at Kirkgordon, the priest began to spit at him, drawing up huge amounts of snot through his nose. Several globules landed on Kirkgordon’s clothes before two caught him square on the face. That’s it! That is damn well it, thought Kirkgordon.
“Right, you’d better have a damn good reason for this, vicar. I’ve never smacked a holy man before but you’re going to be the first unless you come up with a good excuse. And fast, too!” raged Kirkgordon.
“Ah, good. So, you are not just one of Havers’ pigeons, then. Sitting there, doing what they are told. That’s good, really good.”
“What are you on about? Are you saying this was some sort of a test? There are other ways. And get me a bloody towel. Gobbing on people is disgusting.”
“Havers’ last man, Wilson, was a true devotee. Sat right through everything I did and never complained once. Nothing to upset the contact. Poor boy. Excuse my language, but Havers is a bastard, a slave to the job. He doesn’t care one jot for his people.” The girl returned to the room and handed Kirkgordon a small towel to wipe himself down.
“I’m a little confused. This was all to see if I was one of Havers’ men? I guess he pays the bills, so I am. And he isn’t totally cold, he just puts the job first.”
“In the stakes of a holy war, people often get neglected or eliminated as a problem, sir. But a holy war is all about people.”
“Holy war? What are you on about? Evangelism?” asked Kirkgordon.
“No. The war that is coming. Why are you here, Mr Kirkgordon? Why?”
“Well, Austerley has this problem with his foot. Actually, with having no foot. On that leg.” Kirkgordon tapped his leg.
“His foot is as much your problem as his. But that’s not why you are here. Havers did not need you to be a nurse.”
“Wilson. You said the previous guy was Wilson. Where is Wilson?” asked Kirkgordon.
“Gone. Missing. Disappeared. That’s all I know, but Havers knows more. Havers always knows more.”
“You can say that again.”
“Now listen carefully, Mr Kirkgordon. When it happens—”
“When what happens?”
“When it happens, sir, he’ll want you to destroy them all.”
“Havers will?”
The priest nodded. “But remember mercy and restoration and forgiveness. Remember them well.”
“Why? And for who?”
The priest turned and exited the room.
“Father is done now. Please take heed of what he says,” said the girl.
“But what’s coming?”
From behind her back, the girl produced a man’s necklace with a solid dangling cross on it and handed it to Kirkgordon. “Here. So you remember. God bless.” Then she opened the door that led out of the house.
Kirkgordon tried to speak but the girl didn’t even look at him, she just held the door open. His time here was clearly finished. I want a normal life, he thought. And the next time someone gobs on me I will floor them. I don’t care who they are.
Kirkgordon stepped back out to the church car park and started to walk back to the care home. His stomach rumbled so he detoured via the nearest pub for some lunch. Things were getting strange. I need Austerley, he thought. If I’m in the kingdom of madness then the crown prince should be able to furnish me with some details.
The Offensive Side of Havers
Something wasn’t right, thought Kirkgordon. It might be Sunday afternoon and Austerley might have had a big lunch but there was no way he would be sleeping after having got his hands on that book. He had been so insistent about getting it and had really thought he was onto something. No, this would not do. Something was wrong.
Turning around, Kirkgordon left Austerley lying asleep in his room, snoring loudly on his bed. Kirkgordon needed answers and someone was going to have to explain what was going on. In his haste, he n
early knocked an old lady over. Standing in just a pink nightgown, she stared at Kirkgordon for a few seconds before grabbing him by the wrist.
“It’s okay dear, I’ll just get someone to help you,” he told her. “Nurse! Little help required, nurse!” The old woman tugged hard at his arm. “Okay dear, what is it?” He noted the deep wrinkles on her skin. She was leathery, as if she had been soaked and then left to wrinkle in the sun. Kirkgordon reckoned she must have been close to a hundred.
For all her supposed age she seemed to have the strength of six good men. In fact, her nails were digging into Kirkgordon’s arm but he ignored the pain and let her lead him. She stopped at a doorway and pointed inside. Looking in, Kirkgordon saw a gentleman of maybe fifty years lying asleep on his bed. He was covered up by a drab blue quilt and there was a glass of water by his beside. Also by the bed were some family photos, a Gideon’s bible, a jug of water and a bottle of a golden energy drink. And one other object, which the old lady began to point at.
It was an emerald brooch encircled with diamonds and rusted clasps. It looked rather unremarkable to Kirkgordon but the lady was making a big fuss about it. Getting agitated at Kirkgordon’s lack of interest, she pointed back and forth from the brooch to the sleeping gent.
“There, there, Mrs Moor. Are you after that brooch again?” It was Tania, complete in her scrubs.
