The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  In the centre of the room, two circular wooden chairs hung from the ceiling. Hector gestured towards one and I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ he said, laughing as I perched on the edge. ‘You’ve got to commit to the chair. Go on, put your feet up.’ I curled my legs up on the sheepskin blanket and the chair swung gently.

  Hector kicked back in his chair. ‘I take it you’re not here to fill out an application form,’ he said, studying my face. ‘You should consider it, you know.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t think a religious commune is very me.’

  ‘You know, ever since I was tiny, I knew I was different. I have a gift. Before I was old enough to understand this gift, I used to call it my Colour Code.’

  He turned his head to face me and his pale blue eyes glinted in the half-light.

  ‘I see shades of colour around people. Sometimes it’s faint, sometimes it’s intense – and the colour changes depending on a person’s emotional state. Contrary to popular belief, blue doesn’t mean sadness. It means peace.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ I said, dangling my leg over the side of the chair, wondering how long I had to listen to this drivel.

  Hector picked up the sarcasm in my voice and sighed. ‘Do you know what I see when I look at you, Sophie? The colour black.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘And let me guess, if I sign myself over to Christ Clan, you can spirit the black away.’

  ‘Eventually, yes. But what you’ve got going on there, isn’t a quick fix job.’ Hector focused his gaze on me and I went still. ‘The pain is streaming out of you. That hole in your life is like a cancer; it’s destroying you from the inside.’

  Suddenly the room lit up and there was an almighty crash of thunder.

  I licked my lips. ‘Did you arrange that?’

  Hector grinned. ‘All part of the service.’

  A throng of people trooped silently past Hector’s window, their heads bowed against the rain.

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone talk here?’ I said, grateful for the distraction.

  Hector smiled, revealing overly white teeth. ‘Silence is underrated. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Yours is a frenetic, fast-paced world. A lonely one, too, I bet.’ Hector slid off the chair and closed the window. ‘I used to be part of that world, too. But now I’m here, helping real people with real problems, doing the Lord’s work.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I can’t switch it off. If I see someone hurting, I’m programmed to help.’

  To my absolute horror, I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. I bent down and pulled out the Christ Clan leaflet.

  ‘I’m interested in this person,’ I said, sliding it across the desk.

  Hector picked the leaflet up. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Hector sat down in the white leather chair behind his desk and narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought all the old propaganda had been pulped.’

  There was a knock and Dolly appeared holding two glasses of thick green goo.

  Hector smiled. ‘This is the cocktail I was talking about. It’s going to do wonders for your immune system.’

  I took the glass from Dolly, then zoned in on Hector, determined to keep him on track. ‘The boy standing behind your dad. His name is Charlie Swift, and he’s on the run for murdering his mistress.’

  The second glass slid out of Dolly’s hand too quickly and juice splashed onto Hector’s desk.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Hector.’ She patted herself down for a tissue, cheeks flaring.

  Hector gave her a smile. ‘I’ve got this, Dolly.’

  Dolly went bright red and bustled out.

  When the door closed, I leaned my elbows on his desk. ‘You must have heard about Charlie Swift in the news.’

  Hector pulled a tissue out of his drawer and mopped up the juice. ‘I don’t follow the news anymore. I imagine that sounds strange to you. Your whole livelihood depends upon the misfortune of others. But here,’ he gestured around him, ‘is a safe space. A place where outside influences don’t matter. What matters is our community.’

  ‘But the outside world impacts your community, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not if I’m doing my job right.’ Hector tossed the tissue into the bin under his desk. ‘This is a simple place with simple people and a simple message.’

  His languid manner was beginning to piss me off. ‘Plus it’s much easier to control people if they’re shut off from the outside world,’ I said.

  Hector crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his chair back. ‘It’s easy to dismiss what you don’t understand, isn’t it?’

  I held up my hands. ‘Look, I don’t doubt you help people. Whether you need to sink millions into a state-of-the-art health club to do it is up to you. Just don’t peddle it in my direction. God, Buddha, UFOs; it’s all the same to me.’

  Hector let his chair drop forward and the breeziness left his face. ‘You know, you remind me–’

  ‘Stop psychoanalysing me.’ It came out harsher than I intended. ‘Look, I appreciate the thought, but you’re wasting your time.’

  Hector cocked his head to one side. ‘Do you know one of the reasons Christ Clan actively searches for members in rough places? Do you know why we live by the motto: everyone is welcome? Because being Laurence Marlon’s son has been one long fuckfest.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Good word.’

  ‘People here have long memories. No matter what I do, no matter how many people I help, I will always be the Shepherd’s son. And until my dad decides to reappear and clear his name, the cloud of suspicion will hang over me.’

  ‘So why return to Bournemouth?’

  ‘Because it means more. People round here have very little respect for me, for my work. But if I can change their minds, perhaps they’ll realise the apple can fall a long way from the tree.’

  ‘So that’s why you’ve reopened Christ Clan.’

  Hector shrugged, his gaze lost over my head. ‘I could have changed the name. But why should I? I’m not my dad.’

  ‘Do you think the rumours are true?’

  ‘When I find him, I’ll ask.’ The light shifted and suddenly Hector looked even younger. ‘Sorry, it’s a running joke. I’ve spent a lifetime searching for my dad.’

  ‘Yeah, well, dads can be overrated.’

  Hector’s eyes snapped towards mine and an odd look swept over his face. ‘If I do find my dad, I’d like to ask him what he thinks of the changes I’ve made. I don’t mean the material stuff. I mean the cornerstone to the Christ Clan’s beliefs. His version was all about purifying society’s strays. He believed that the soul had to be cleansed by fire, water and blood: the three principles of baptism. I think God created us in a certain way for a reason. You have to find that good inside of you. It is already there, if you know how to set it free.’

  ‘Is there goodness in everyone?’

  ‘No one deserves to be shut out.’ Hector followed my gaze to the leaflet. ‘No matter what they’ve done. The past is the past.’

  ‘What if the past catches up with the present?’ I said, sharpening my voice. ‘Charlie Swift’s mum left a wedge of her estate to Christ Clan. And this photograph establishes another link to your organisation. You say you have nothing to hide, but are you willing to have that tested?’

  Hector leaned forward. ‘What do you want, Sophie?’

  ‘I want to know if Charlie’s been here.’

  Hector held my gaze. ‘He has not. As far as I know Charlie Swift has never had any link to Christ Clan, either now or then.’

  I prodded the leaflet. ‘How do you explain that photo then?’

  Hector shrugged. ‘It’s an old photograph. It could be anyone.’

  ‘Come on, Hector. You’ll have to do better than that.’ When he didn’t speak, I stared at my fingernails and altered my voice. ‘Fine, have it your way. I’ll set the team on digging around in your past. Who knows, we might even unearth
your dad. You can thank me later.’

  Hector scribbled down a number and handed it to me, all the friendliness leaving his voice. ‘Any further questions, you can direct them at my solicitor.’

  As I reached the door, Hector cleared his throat. ‘He wouldn’t want to see you in this much pain, Sophie.’

  I whipped my head round. For one brief moment I wondered if Hector really was able to see inside people. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Hector’s eyes were on the window. ‘I’m talking about God.’

  26

  The Old Goat car park was almost empty: two other cars and a huddle of teenagers in caps and high-tops who drifted away as I switched off the engine. I took a moment to steady myself. Hector’s perceptiveness had hit me harder than I cared to admit. Suddenly, I caught a flicker of something out of the corner of my eye and a creeping sensation spread through me. Like I was being watched.

  My phone rang, making me jump. I glanced at the number and my stomach turned.

  ‘Dr Betrand?’

  ‘Yes, Sophie, hello. I have your results.’ I gripped the phone tightly and closed my eyes. ‘Everything came back normal.’

  I exhaled loudly, as a warm dose of relief spread through me.

  There was a pause and I could sense Dr Betrand picking over his words. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Sophie?’

  ‘Thank you, no. And thanks for getting back to me so quickly.’

  I hung up and thumped the steering wheel, thanking my lucky stars that I’d dodged that bullet, at least.

  I slammed the car door shut and sprinted across the gravel just as the rain started.

  I opened the door and was hit with a waft of beer, bleach and grease. The barman glanced up as I entered, then looked away. A pale, thin man was hunched over the bar studying the front page of a newspaper. I recognised the cough.

  I slid onto the stool beside him. ‘One of yours?’ I pointed to the giant headline: City on high alert for wanted killer.

  Jeff Johnson peeled off his glasses and grunted. ‘I wish. Try page eight.’ He licked his finger and flicked to an article about a local nursery teacher strike.

  I nodded at his glass. ‘Same again?’

  I ordered a round of drinks, studying Jeff out of the corners of my eyes. Horn-rimmed glasses, a receding hairline and skin the colour of ham that had been left out too long.

  I pulled out the Christ Clan leaflet and slid it across the bar. ‘You got this photo I sent?’

  Jeff drained his glass, then sat staring at the foam puddling at the bottom.

  ‘I just paid Christ Clan a visit,’ I said, handing over cash to the barman. ‘Interesting place.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘Hector Marlon is quite something.’

  ‘He’s a prick.’ Jeff coughed again, then hoicked up something that turned the tissue red. He caught me looking. ‘Stage four. Lung cancer.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  Outside a roar of thunder split the air. I took a sip of Coke. ‘Look, Jeff. Cards on the table. I’m finding connections between Christ Clan and Charlie Swift all over the place. That photo proves he spent time there as a kid and–’

  ‘There are three things you need to know about that photograph,’ said Jeff, pushing his pint glass away and prodding the picture. ‘The first is: look what your friend’s wearing.’

  ‘You mean, the combat jacket?’

  Jeff shook his head. ‘The combat jacket, everyone wore. It was Christ Clan uniform, so to speak. I’m talking about the gold epaulettes on his shoulders. Only the magic circle wore those.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Marlon called ’em his Golden Flock. Kids, mainly. Groomed them to do what he wanted.’

  My grip tightened on the glass. ‘Which was what?’

  ‘By the late eighties, Christ Clan wasn’t doing so well. Rumours dogged the place. Membership was dwindling. So were the donations it relied upon to operate,’ said Jeff, sniffing wetly. ‘Marlon used the Golden Flock to keep things ticking over. Made them break into people’s houses and steal food, money, whatever they could lay their hands on. Marlon trained them to be invisible. I mean, these kids were ghosts. Most of the time people didn’t know they’d been robbed until much later.’

  Jeff drained half his pint in one go.

  ‘The Golden Flock were damaged goods. Marlon messed with their minds good and proper. Don’t forget, these kids had nothing. Society had rejected them; they didn’t have the emotional bones to deal with this kind of crap.’

  ‘So what did they do?’

  ‘They did what Marlon told them. I tracked down an ex-member. The details he gave me would make your skin crawl.’

  I glanced at the photograph of Charlie. ‘What’s the second thing I need to know about this picture?’

  ‘The man standing next to Charlie Swift.’ Jeff took a long swig, thumped his glass down and looked at the barman. ‘You want to take it from here, Fred?’

  The barman emerged from the shadows. He was wiry; an angular face spread with stubble. He couldn’t have been more than forty-five but the stooped way he carried himself made him seem much older.

  I looked from the photo to Fred, frowning. ‘That’s you? Did you know Charlie?’

  Fred leaned across the bar and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. I opened my notebook to a fresh page, waiting, but Fred didn’t speak.

  Beside me Jeff shifted his weight and, even though we were the only ones in the pub, he lowered his voice. ‘Tell her about Samantha Hartley.’

  ‘The girl who ended up dead in the river?’ I asked.

  Fred’s eyes flicked to the floor. ‘Samantha got caught up in the crossfire.’

  ‘Between who?’

  ‘Two men you don’t want to get on the wrong side of.’

  I leaned forward. ‘Is one of them Charlie Swift?’

  Fred reached behind him for a bottle of whisky. He poured himself a double measure then downed it in one.

  I glanced at Jeff for help but he was staring down at the bar, looking sicker than ever.

  This was taking too long.

  I closed my notebook. ‘OK, forget Charlie for a moment. Let’s go back: what can you tell me about Laurence Marlon?’

  At the mention of his name, Fred went still. ‘The Shepherd was the real deal.’

  Jeff gave a thin laugh. ‘Fred, come on, we’ve been through this.’

  Fred picked up a pint glass and started drying it with a cloth. ‘You can mock, but you didn’t meet him. He had the voice of the Lord running through him.’

  Jeff snorted and Fred worked the cloth faster in his hand.

  I reached across the bar to Fred. ‘I want to understand. About the Shepherd. About everything. Please,’ I gestured to the photograph on the bar, ‘I need some details.’

  Fred held my gaze, his eyes dark and empty. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to have no one who cares if you live or die. My childhood was– When I was recruited by Christ Clan, it was like I’d found my place. Somewhere I belonged. Mr Marlon cared about us. When he looked at you, you felt it, right here.’ He pointed to his heart. ‘But when his light moved away from you, it was the worst feeling in the world. You’d do anything to get it back.’

  ‘Anything?’ asked, watching Fred closely.

  Fred sighed. ‘The Shepherd was sick. I realise that now. The sickness made him do things.’

  I glanced at Jeff. ‘What kind of things?’

  Fred didn’t answer immediately. He finished drying the glass and set it down, then he looked towards the window. ‘It started with Fight Night. The Shepherd used to make members fight in front of the whole commune. The loser would be punished.’

  ‘Punished how?’

  ‘No food for twenty-four hours. Scrubbing toilets, that sort of thing.’ Fred chewed his lip. ‘But it got worse. Solitary confinement in the Bunker; a shitty, freezing hell-hole in an outhouse. But even that didn’t satisfy
him. He raised the stakes. The fighters were given weapons: crowbars, hammers, whatever was lying around. People got smashed up but we never went to hospital in case it raised questions. Mr Marlon told us Jesus was testing our stamina and strength.’ Fred raised his shirt and turned to the side. A purple scar ran from his ribs to his hip. ‘A hammer with a nail stuck to the end of it. Nearly ripped my kidney out.’

  ‘And you didn’t get medical help?’

  Fred grimaced. ‘Vodka, and a needle and thread. I wasn’t going to be the Shepherd’s first failure.’

  Jeff twisted his pint glass round and raised his gaze to Fred. ‘The power went to Marlon’s head though, didn’t it, fella?’

  Fred nodded slowly. ‘He believed we’d all had a crappy time in life because we were sinners. The only way to atone for our sins was to purify ourselves. We bathed together in the freezing river every Sunday. Lit fires and burned our belongings.’

  ‘Water, fire,’ I paused. ‘What about the blood?’

  Fred waited a beat, then his voice flattened out. ‘Once a quarter we sacrificed a sheep and drank its blood. Mr Marlon told us that sacrificing one of God’s creatures was the ultimate display of purity.’ He caught my shocked expression and his eyes narrowed. ‘Look, I know how it sounds. But the rituals . . . they made you forget. They wiped you clean. Trouble was, some people got a taste for the violence.’

  Fred reached out for another glass and I saw a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Two red triangles, one pointing up, the other pointing down.

  ‘Marlon’s mark,’ said Jeff, following my gaze. ‘Tell her.’

  Fred traced the shapes with his fingertip. ‘The first triangle signifies water, the second signifies fire. And the red is the blood.’

  ‘A badge of honour amongst the Golden Flock.’

  Fred’s expression darkened at Jeff’s sarcastic tone. ‘You make it sound a lot more organised than it was. We were just a bunch of scared kids doing what we needed to survive.’

  Questions flooded my brain, but I didn’t want to overwhelm Fred. I could see the toll this conversation was having on him.

  I softened my voice. ‘Why didn’t you leave Christ Clan?’

  Fred’s laugh cut straight through me. ‘And go where? I had nothing. No money, no food, no prospects. Christ Clan was messed up, but the real world was worse. We had no place to go, and the Shepherd knew that. Towards the end, he was bad. Real bad. Drinking. Drugs. You name it. He could feel it slipping away. He reeked of failure.’