The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  ‘Do you have any family? Anyone who can look in on you from time to time?’

  Gordon lowered his eyes. ‘When you get to my age, visitors are few and far between.’

  I scraped a plate that was caked in something brown. ‘When was the last time you saw Vanessa?’

  Gordon screwed up his face. ‘The day before she died. I took her some bread and milk. She seemed OK. Thin. God knows when she had last eaten. And she’d been drinking, but that was par for the course.’ Gordon’s hands shook as he dried a plate with a grimy tea towel, and I marvelled that he was able to look after Vanessa when he struggled to look after himself. ‘There was a funny smell in the house. I called the gas board and reported a leak.’

  Gordon’s voice tremored. ‘Silly cow fell down the stairs. Knocked herself out. Had a cigarette in her mouth and the house went up in flames. You should see it; a shell. I went round to clear out her things. Charlie refused to go back there, and I couldn’t leave her stuff.’

  ‘What happened to the house?’

  ‘The Ridings? It’s empty.’ Gordon set the mug on the counter and dabbed his eyes with a tissue. Suddenly, he squeaked. ‘Quick, I’m going to miss it.’ He hobbled over to the radio and turned it up.

  I washed the last of the dishes, sorting through his words in my mind, then I wandered into a laundry room in search of bin liners. Piles of clothes blocked the entrance, cardboard boxes, more newspapers. I leaned against the door forcing my way through. I was on the third cupboard when I noticed the box on top of the washing machine was labelled ‘Ness’.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I pulled the box towards me and flipped open the lid. A red leather photo album lay on top. Inside were pictures: Charlie as a baby, dressed in a blue woollen romper chewing his fist; two shots of Vanessa in hospital, cradling Charlie moments after he was born; Vanessa, wearing a white leather jacket and a glazed smile, next to a glaring Charlie. The table behind them was covered with empty wine bottles. The next page showed Charlie older, already handsome, even with the aggressive haircut. I sighed and peeked inside the box. There was a takeaway menu for a Chinese restaurant, a bunch of letters tied with string. I read the top line: Mum, I know you won’t read this but . . .’ I was just about to slide the letter out when my eyes landed on something else. A piece of paper with a symbol of a blood-red cross stamped in the corner. It was a leaflet on the Christ Clan; old, judging by how tatty it looked.

  Love! Power! Sacrifice! Blood! Fire! Water! Covenant!

  Cleanse your soul! Water, Fire, Blood. The very life from which the mission of God flows in the world. Join us as we raise churches of souls amongst the destitute, capture men from the jaws of hell, conquer the spiritual powers of darkness. We are soldiers of the Lamb, and we will march through the country: pubs, nightclubs, red-light districts, back streets. The Clan will go where others will not go. We will take the gospel to the forgotten people.

  There was a photograph of a pasty-looking man dressed in a combat jacket and jeans, holding a shovel. In the background was a cornfield. The caption beneath: Our Clan Centres are places of healing! We welcome the downtrodden! Another photo showed a group of men, all in combat jackets, sitting in a circle holding hands. A third was of the leader, Laurence Marlon, standing in front of a group of teenagers. Marlon had dark cropped hair and sideburns that swept halfway down his cheeks. His hands were on his hips, a slight smile on his face. I glanced at the group behind him, and suddenly the back of my arms prickled.

  ‘Wondered where you’d gone.’ Gordon was stooped in the doorway, smiling. ‘Flash-floods have been upgraded. We’re in for a wet one.’

  ‘Gordon, have you seen this photograph?’ I led him over to the window. ‘This guy, he’s the leader you mentioned, right? Laurence Marlon. Look behind him.’

  Gordon pushed his thick glasses up his nose and peered at the photograph. ‘But that’s Charlie.’

  ‘You told me earlier that Charlie used to disappear. Is this where he was going? Christ Clan?’

  ‘My Charlie would never have got caught up in that place,’ he said, shaking his head. Even so I could hear the doubt in his voice.

  I put my hand on Gordon’s shoulder feeling his bones poking through the fabric. ‘How old would you say Charlie is here? Thirteen? Fourteen?’

  Gordon started to rock again. ‘You know what they used to call that place round here? Hell Clan.’ He folded forward and moaned.

  I shoved the leaflet back in the box and led him over to his armchair. ‘Gordon, would it be OK if I took Vanessa’s things with me?’

  He looked up at me, his eyes cloudy with pain. ‘Charlie’s a good kid. He . . . please, just find him.’

  The last thing I heard as I pulled the front door closed was Gordon’s hoarse muttering from the kitchen.

  ‘Torrential rain, unsettled weather. Torrential rain, unsettled weather.’

  25

  The white sign was so small and understated, I almost missed it. ‘Christ Clan’ written in black beneath a blue graffiti cross. The logo looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place it. I parked up next to the pair of large iron gates on Rockwell Road, wound down the window and pressed the buzzer on the keypad. I was just bracing myself for a fight to get in, when the gates juddered open. I shifted the car into gear and the road gave way to a dirt-track running through the heathlands. Glancing in the mirror, I watched the iron gates and six-foot fence shrink from view, wondering idly whether the barrier was to keep people in or out.

  After I’d left Gordon’s house, I’d taken a picture of Charlie in the Christ Clan leaflet and texted it to the Bugle reporter, Jeff Johnson, explaining why it was so important we met. Then I sat in the car and pulled up everything I could find on the new Christ Clan. The group allied itself with the Christian Fellowship Church but, as far as I could tell, much of its success was down to one man: Hector Marlon. Hector created his first app aged twenty, then went on to launch Pocket Church – an app that was part social network, part Biblical resource. With over five million users, it was one of the UK’s biggest hitters. But last year, Marlon surprised everyone by selling it and moving from buzzy Shoreditch to the Dorset coast. In a statement on his Facebook page, Marlon explained that he was sick of the virtual world. He missed physical contact and a slower pace. His goal was to help real people – and it was only right that he returned to the place where it all began.

  I rounded a bend, and in the distance a forest spread to the horizon, beneath a layer of inky black clouds. Beyond it was the sea. I wondered what it would be like to grow up here. The sole child of Laurence Marlon, Hector was only one when the original Christ Clan closed down. And when his dad absconded, all forty-two acres were signed over to him. I wondered how Hector squared his benevolent outlook with the rumours of his father’s sadistic legacy.

  I cursed as a deep pothole scraped the bottom of my car, wishing Hector’s refurb had stretched to the sweeping drive. Up ahead the heathlands opened out into a dark spot of a few acres. Despite the glowering sky, the fields were dotted with people dressed in blue overalls working the land. None of them showed a moment’s interest in my car.

  I turned a final bend and a white Art Deco-style building came into view. It looked identical to the one in the Bugle’s article, except for the enormous blue graffiti cross sprouting from the top. My tyres crunched across the gravel and I pulled to a stop in the driveway, beside a gleaming red Ferrari. In the distance, more people, dressed in the same blue overalls, were on their hands and knees weeding the flowerbeds. I got out of the car and hurried up the steps to the entrance.

  As the heavy oak door closed behind me, the roar of the wind disappeared. The brightly lit foyer was almost silent. On the right-hand wall was a huge mural of Jesus Christ and, underneath in large gold letters, were the words: Everyone’s invited, including YOU. Blowing on my cold hands, I peered through the glass doors, which opened onto a vast room filled with low-slung sofas. A snooker table stood in the corner beneath a giant framed poster
spelling out: Feel the thrill of God’s call!

  ‘Can I help you?’ The voice was high-pitched with a Scottish accent.

  I glanced round and saw a woman with bright blue hair sitting behind a wooden desk. She was so large, her cleavage stood out like a shelf.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. This place is amazing.’

  She smiled. ‘Are you interested in joining us?’

  I pretended to consider her question. ‘I’m undecided.’

  ‘Well, then let me see if I can persuade you. My name is Dolly Summerville.’ She held out a fat hand covered in rings. She was wearing a black T-shirt with a blue graffiti cross emblazoned across the front. ‘Let me show you around.’

  ‘You’ve already seen the Den,’ Dolly said, gesturing towards the glass doors. ‘The Prayer Pod is through there too. That’s a quiet space where we meditate.’

  She opened another glass door and led me through a vast library. Our footsteps were muffled by a large cream rug that was thrown over wooden floorboards. An ornate chandelier hung low over a giant L-shaped sofa, and cushions were piled on window seats that opened out to beautiful views across the heathlands.

  I pointed to the signpost on the wall. ‘A swimming pool? Seriously?’

  Dolly nodded and the rolls of fat on her neck jiggled. ‘Hector believes that spiritual wellbeing is paramount. And that means a healthy heart and a healthy mind.’ She checked her watch. ‘I’d take you there but it’s being used for Aqua-Zen at the moment.’

  We strolled through a long pastel-grey corridor that was dotted with black-and-white photographs of members, along with quotes: ‘I’m back on track with my life’; ‘Everything is easier when you’re walking with Jesus’.

  As I caught the mouth-watering aroma of home-cooked stew, I raised my eyebrows. ‘This place is nuts. It’s like a boutique hotel.’

  Dolly rubbed her nose, slightly dislodging a silver stud. ‘Isn’t it? And this is just the first one. Hector has big plans for more Clan Centres around the country.’ I glanced through an open door to a room that was set up like a classroom, with rows of chairs and a whiteboard at the end. ‘That’s one of our Learning Lounges. There are five in total. We host inspirational talks, run seminars, that kind of thing.’

  Dolly guided me through a boot room to a back door that was half glass. She gazed up at the sky. ‘Let me show you outside before it starts raining.’ The door opened onto a small courtyard that was filled with pots of lavender. She pointed to an outhouse. ‘That’s the Clan Café. Would you like anything?’

  ‘Just a water, please. Here,’ I pulled out my purse.

  Dolly shook her head. ‘You don’t need that. It’s all free.’

  She ducked into the café and returned with a bottle of water.

  ‘Don’t people take advantage of this place?’ I asked, unscrewing the bottle and taking a gulp.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, most people would be happy to walk with Jesus if he led them here.’

  Dolly’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes hardened. ‘Now, that’s what Hector would call an “unkind thought”. But don’t worry, you’ll learn to channel your negative energy during your screening process.’

  I slid the bottle back in my bag, raising my eyebrows. ‘Screening process?’

  Dolly tilted her head back, as if unsure how to read me. ‘Hector likes to know what makes people tick. The screening divides people into different groups so that those who need more care and attention get it.’

  Suddenly Dolly’s face fell. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ She waddled across the gravel path and picked up a Coke can. ‘One of our Clan rules is to love and respect our environment. Littering isn’t loving.’ She crunched the can and slid it in her cardigan pocket. ‘I’ll find the culprit on the security camera. Hector will want to know.’

  We paused by the fence and the wind tossed a wet, briny scent in our faces. ‘How many members do you have here? Surely you’re going to run out of room.’

  Dolly folded her arms; the skin on her chest was puckering in the wind. ‘We currently house three hundred members. But Hector is expanding fast. We’ve been given planning permission to build more dormitories on the land. See those old outbuildings in the distance,’ Dolly pointed to the horizon where I could just about make out a stack of stone boxes, ‘they’ll be razed to the ground to make way for a sports centre. And we are going to increase the usable farmland. There’s a rota, and we all take it in turns to work the land. We’re completely self-sufficient, you know. It’s hard work, but rewarding.’

  ‘Do you get paid?’

  ‘Not in the traditional sense. But our payment is protection.’

  ‘Protection from what?’

  Dolly kicked the ground with the heel of her Converse. ‘Some of our members have been through a tough time. They need protecting from themselves.’

  I nodded, watching the clusters of people working in the field beside us. ‘Do you mind me asking what brought you here?’

  Dolly blinked skywards and her face broke into a smile. ‘A friend threw me a lifeline. I travelled from Poole to see what the fuss was about and I never left. It’s been the happiest year of my life. We’re all grateful to find a community that accepts us for who we are.’

  As she spoke, a group of people loped towards us carrying shovels, their overalls smeared with dirt.

  A skinny man with a pitted, white face broke away and sidled up to us. ‘It’s gonna rain, Dolly. Reckon the Lord might see fit to send us a beef stew?’

  Dolly snorted and patted his arm. ‘I’ll ask the chef. There’s tea and biscuits in the Lounge.’

  As he hurried to join the others, Dolly smiled. ‘You should have seen John when he joined us three months ago. A bag of bones. Addicted to crack, in and out of jail. Last week he won the Clan cup.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Hector awards a trophy to the week’s most compassionate member. It’s a huge honour.’ Dolly glanced at her watch. ‘You know what? Hector’s afternoon sermon finishes in a couple of minutes. If we hurry we can catch the end of it.’

  As we crossed the courtyard to a white-brick building, Dolly smoothed down her shirt and flicked up her hair. We stepped out of the whistling wind into a softly lit atrium that smelt of air freshener and paint.

  Dolly wrinkled her nose and the silver stud twitched. ‘The Chapel block was only finished last week.’ She beckoned me over to a dark blue door and opened it a fraction. I peeped inside and saw rows of people sitting in long lines, all gazing towards the front of the room. The room was so packed I couldn’t see who they were looking at, but I could hear him. A soft voice amped by a microphone, with a slight West-country lilt.

  Dolly dipped towards me and whispered coffee breath in my face. ‘Hector’s Thought for the Day is our most popular session.’

  ‘Is it possible to meet Hector?’ I asked, craning my neck for a view.

  Dolly closed the door and guided me towards a padded cream bench. ‘You know, one of the great things about Hector is that he always has time for people. You see, what Hector believes is–’

  I tuned out Dolly’s voice, and yet another soliloquy about the benevolent Hector Marlon. It was time to kick things up a gear.

  ‘I heard rumours that Christ Clan wasn’t always such a happy place,’ I said, setting my face to ‘nonchalant’. ‘Didn’t it close down in the late eighties?’

  Dolly blinked a couple of times. ‘I don’t know much about that.’

  ‘It was Hector’s dad who was in charge back then, right?’ A shadow passed over Dolly’s face and I hurried on, keen to keep her on side. ‘Hector’s done an amazing PR job. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.’

  Dolly’s eyes brightened when she heard my analogy and she nodded. ‘Sometimes you have go through hardship to know who you really are.’

  ‘Are any of those original Christ Clan members back here?’

  My phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. It was a text
from Jeff.

  The Old Goat in an hour. See you there.

  I looked at Dolly. ‘Is the Old Goat a pub?’

  ‘It’s on Farmer Street. Round the corner. Why?’

  ‘I’m meeting someone after this.’ I broke off as the door opened and hordes of people silently streamed out, all bearing the same beatific expression. Dolly quivered beside me and I glanced up to see a man standing in the doorway untangling the microphone from his blue robe. His youthful face was tanned and he’d gelled his dark-blond hair into a stiff wave.

  When he spotted Dolly, his face broke into a smile. ‘We missed you today, Dolls.’

  Dolly gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘It was my turn for desk duty. Next time, though.’

  He held his hand out to me. ‘Hector Marlon, leader of Christ Clan.’

  I waited a beat, then shook it. ‘Sophie Kent, a reporter from the London Herald.’

  Dolly squealed. ‘I’m sorry, Hector. She didn’t say she was a reporter. I’d never have–’

  ‘Your name is Kent?’ Hector’s hand tightened around mine. Then he seemed to recover himself. ‘We have nothing to hide here, Dolls. Our doors are open to everyone.’

  ‘If they can get past the six-foot fence and electric gates,’ I said, sweetly.

  Hector gave me an odd look, then he gestured for me to follow him. ‘I’m due a break before I start the afternoon sessions. Why don’t you join me? The team has been working on a new Clan cocktail: kale, citrus fruits and cucumber. Dolly, would you mind grabbing us two?’

  Dolly smiled but the moment Hector turned away she gave me a filthy look.

  Hector escorted me through a glass corridor that led to the main building and to a door at the far end. I followed him into his office; a large white room with an ultra-modern gas fire that kicked out a cloud of heat. As I slipped my jacket off, Hector wandered over to his desk and took off his robe. Underneath he was wearing stonewashed jeans and a cream sweater that clung to his slight frame.