by Anton Palmer
CHILLINGWORTH
MEWS
Anton Palmer
www.AntonPalmer.co.uk
Copyright 2017 Anton Palmer
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PROLOGUE
James Chillingworth thrust his fists deeper into the pockets of his heavy overcoat, his breath clouding in the chill December night and merging into the fog that was beginning to form. He felt his heart start to race as he caught sight of a scrawny figure limping towards him out of the mist, a walking-cane clacking noisily on the road to aid its passage. The pale green light of a gas street-lamp dimly illuminated the hazy vapour behind the shady form as it approached.
“Good evening, James.” The figure touched its hat as a mark of respect.
“Good evening, William.” James Chillingworth’s hands remained buried in his coat pockets.
No respect was due.
No respect was reciprocated.
“If you’ve called me here to see the progress on the new school, James, then I’m afraid there’s not much to show…as you can see. I doubt there will be much progress now until the New Year – 1900, James, the twentieth century – can you imagine the possibilities?”
James Chillingworth’s face, with its tight-set lips, betrayed no ounce of imagination.
Unperturbed, William continued, “The foundations have been dug out - if you look, you can see that they’re deeper than is usual. I secured the services of an architect from London and according to Mr Willis, the modern trend is towards a deeper foundation filled with concrete to support the footings. Adds to the cost, of course…”
James waved a hand to silence his younger brother. “I’ve not called you here for that, William. We are here to discuss a matter of a far more serious nature, I’m sad to say. Although, I have a pretty good idea that you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, brother?”
The Reverend William Chillingworth ran a finger inside his dog-collar, loosening the starched white band for a moment. Despite the chill of the murky evening, he was starting to sweat.
“I have no idea to what you are referring, my dear, James.”
“Oh, for the love of God, man. Just admit what you have done.”
The Reverend slowly shook his head, his gaze struggling to meet that of his elder brother.
“I’m talking about young Dorothy Bridges. A good, Christian woman, engaged to be married…”
William’s heart began to pound at the sound of the girl’s name, perspiration now evident on his brow.
“What the hell is wrong with you, William? You took the girl’s innocence and then, if that wasn’t enough, you proceeded to…to…God forgive me, I can barely bring myself to utter the word-” James took a deep breath before continuing, “You proceeded to sodomise her!”
William’s gaze dropped to the ground.
“You left her bleeding in the church! It’s just fortunate that her father is a fellow mason and had the decency and good grace to speak to me about it first. Hopefully, the incident will never become public knowledge and allow you to bring even more shame on the family name.”
William’s eyes lifted back up to his elder brother, the hint of a smile on his gaunt face.
Had James smoothed things out for him again?
“I’ve given the man some money - for his silence - and Dorothy has been sent to recuperate with relations on the south coast for the foreseeable future. Not surprisingly, the prospect of continuing to live in the same town as you makes her sick to her stomach. Jesus Christ! I’ve had enough, William! I can’t keep handing out hush-money - making charitable donations in your name to keep up the pretence that you are a respected and honourable member of this community: orphanages, hospitals…” he swept a hand towards the freshly dug trenches, “this new bloody school. I’m done with you, William - you have been a blight on our family for long enough.”
“I know, James. I know…and I’m truly sorry, I really am. Thank you, James, thank you. I do appreciate you sticking your neck out on my behalf,” he crossed his chest, “as God is my witness.”
“You don’t need to thank me, William. I gave the girl’s father my assurance that his daughter would never have to see you again.”
“Are you sending me away, brother?”
“In a manner of speaking, William…in a manner of speaking.”
James clicked his fingers and two bulky figures stepped out of the shadows behind his brother. The vicar turned at the sound of their footsteps as the burly newcomers grabbed an arm each and dragged him to the edge of the freshly dug foundations. James picked up a brick from one of the stacks nearby and hefted it in his hand, testing its weight. He smiled approvingly and stepped towards his younger sibling, removing the man’s hat and tossing it into the trench behind him.
“Please, James… my dear brother. Please, there must be another way…”
James lowered the brick for a moment and pondered. “Albert!”
“Yes, sir?” The man on William’s left turned his attention to his employer.
“Do you happen to be carrying a knife of any sort?”
“I do, sir.”
James held out a hand, “If you would be so kind…”
The man reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a sheath knife, nestled in a well-worn, brown leather pouch, placing it into his boss’s outstretched palm.
James unsheathed it and turned the blade over in his hand. “Is it sharp?”
“Very sharp, sir.”
“Good, good. Release my brother’s arm if you would be so kind, please, Albert.”
“As you wish, sir.” Albert dropped his grip on William’s arm and stepped a pace to the left.
James moved forward and yanked down his brother’s trousers and long-johns, revealing his genitals.
“Jesus Christ!” He could barely bring himself to even look at his brother’s penis. Despite the chill of the night air and William’s obvious fear - conditions that would make most men shrivel - the thing hung down to his mid-thigh like some sickly, tumescent snake.
No wonder the poor girl bled so much after being ploughed with that monstrosity, he thought.
“Why do you do it, William? Are you driven to madness by this abomination between your legs? Tell me. Why?”
“Blood…” The response was barely more than a whisper.
“What?”
“It’s their blood. I love the blood that comes when I…put it in them. The heat as it flows over me, their screams echoing in my ears, making it bigger and harder, bringing even more blood… ”
“Enough!” As he heard the sickness spout from his brother’s lips, James saw the despicable penis twitch with the hint of a burgeoning erection. “My God, man, you don’t deserve a second chance, but - you are my…mother’s son.”
James’ reticence to use the word ‘brother’ was not lost on the Reverend, but he had no time to mourn it as James proffered the knife.
William stared at him, panic in his eyes. “What do you expect me to do with that, James?”
“I think you know what I want you to do with it, William. I want to you to cut it off. Slice it from your body - that disgusting bloody…freak-show!”
“You can’t be serious, James?”
“I am dead
ly serious. Cut it off! If you’ve no pecker you can do no more harm. Simple as that.”
William swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. He reached out a wasted, trembling hand, its skin almost black with swollen and burst capillaries, to take the knife.
“This is my bad hand, James. You know full well I favour the right.”
“I do know, William. That is why I’m asking you to use your left. One hideous atrocity to kill another.” He shook his head in despair, “What sins our mother committed to have given birth to such a cursed creature as you so late in her life, only God knows.”
“James! How can you speak to me like that? For the love of God, I am your brother – your flesh and blood.”
“Enough! Just cut it off, William. Slice that thing from your body and you can go on your way. If you are truly sorry for your sins and truly have no desire to commit further crimes then this will be a small price to pay.”
William pressed the blade against the base of his penis, his emaciated hand trembling.
“It’s a sharp blade, William…one quick slice and it’s done.”
The vicar pushed the razor-sharp edge harder, a thin dribble of blood leaking from his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t do it!” He held the knife out to his brother. “You do it, James. Please!”
The elder brother grabbed the knife, wiped the blade on William’s coat then slipped it back into its leather pouch before returning to Albert.
“Thank you, sir.” Albert returned the weapon to his coat pocket.
James turned to his brother once more. “I’m sorry, William, but if you can’t do this one thing to prove you are sorry and to save your foul skin, then may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Albert!”
Albert grabbed William’s arm again, he and his accomplice pulling tight on their respective limbs as James brought the edge of the brick down hard against his brother’s temple, rendering the vicar unconscious. He rained down blow after blow, splitting the skull, forcing an eye from its socket, the orb hanging limply on its string of nerves against William’s cheek. Possessed by fury, the elder brother continued smashing at William’s head, exposing grey-pink brain and pulverising it to a liquid slime.
“I think he’s dead, boss.”
James continued his assault, years of rage and shame being spent in these few, fateful seconds.
“Mr Chillingworth!” Albert raised his voice, “I think he’s done.”
The employee’s words finally found their way through. James dropped the gore-encrusted brick and sank to his knees, sobbing quietly into his palms. Albert and his mate gently laid the body of the parish vicar in the trench behind them and waited, heads respectfully bowed, for their employer to give further instructions.
After a moment and taking deep lungfuls of the frosty air, James Chillingworth composed himself and rose slowly to his feet. He took a quick, last look at his late brother.
“Bury him well, gentlemen. The constable will be busy at one of the public houses for a few hours yet, spending some money that unexpectedly came his way. You’ll not be disturbed.”
PART ONE
1917
Despite the best efforts of the relatively sweeter smells of cigarette smoke and pipe tobacco, a cloying stench of carbolic hung thick in the air.
The room was filled with a dozen bunks, set in two rows. On each bunk sat, or lay, a wounded soldier: some missing arms, others legs - wooden crutches propped against the beds of those who’d lost a lower limb. Others, their extremities all accounted for were swathed in reeking, blood stained bandages - a couple of these unfortunate souls burning with fever and gabbling deliriously, infection finding a warm home in poorly treated wounds. One other, Private Joseph Legg, limbs all present and correct with not a puss-soaked dressing in sight, sat cross-legged on his bed, rocking silently back and forth, his gaze fixed on a place far beyond the wall at which he stared.
It was eight in the morning. Nurse Mary was doing her rounds, waddling through the ward, her starched white uniform stretched to its limits by thighs that no man, either drunk or sober, had ever lain between. She growled a “Good Morning” to each patient as if it pained her to do so, expecting no response that she wanted to hear.
Her expectations were dutifully met.
Bedpans were emptied and cleaned with a solution of carbolic acid. That was the extent of the care the patients could expect to receive. Or at least, the extent of care they would receive from Nurse Mary. No opiates administered for pain; no wounds cleaned; no dressings changed; no words of tender comfort.
Private Legg was her last patient.
“Good morning…” She slapped him hard across the cheek, “coward.”
“How are you feeling today, Private Legg?” She slapped him again, harder this time, the unregistered sting echoing off the bare walls. She placed her face, with its dark moustache and hint of a beard, a few inches from his, bile rising in her throat as she looked into his dead eyes. “Shell-shock, indeed. You’re nothing but a coward.”
Another sharp slap.
“Look at these men around you, why don’t you? Look at them!”
The Private’s gaze never flinched from its unseen, distant focus.
“Arms gone. Legs gone. These two…” she pointed at the feverish men, incoherent as they tossed and turned, “…probably won’t last the week.”
Another slap.
“I’ve lost three brothers in this god-awful war. Three fine men, two with wives and families…”
Slap.
“…but you! Look at you! Not a scratch on you, yet here you are, far away from the front line…pretending to be…mad. You’re nothing but a coward! You hear me? A cowardly, malingering…bastard!”
A final slap. So hard, a few of the other men turned, but nothing was said.
Two A.M.
The ward was silent save for the delirium induced mutterings of the fever-stricken and the snores of the sleeping, the room almost dark. Nurse Mary dozed on her own bunk in the corner, an oil lamp turned down to a dull glow on the desk beside her.
Private Legg uncrossed the limbs that bore his name and stood up. He walked slowly, silently, towards the dim light, his eyes fixed on the bulky form of Nurse Mary as she slept. As he drew close, a floorboard creaked beneath his foot. The white whale suddenly shifted position, the bunk groaning under the strain and he glanced down accusingly at the offending board, two dark knots in the grain staring back at him in the gloom. Pausing a few seconds longer to make sure the nurse was still immersed in slumber, he eyed the instruments on her desk: scissors; thermometer; scalpel.
Satisfied, he crept forward and cautiously plucked the scalpel from the table. The tool felt cold in his hands.
Not to worry, it would soon be warm…
He thrust the blade deep into the woman’s throat, slicing back and forth through saggy skin and gristly cartilage before finally opening her trachea and carotid artery, unflinching as a spray of crimson fluid soaked his arm. Nurse Mary’s eyes snapped open as blood choked and bubbled in her gaping windpipe, her somnolent gaze registering a wide-eyed disbelief. But only for a few seconds; her lids flickering shut once more as her consciousness, along with her life, drained into dark pools on the floor boards.
Private Joseph Legg returned to his bed, crossed his legs and stared at the wall, listening to the dripping of blood - ticking like some infernal clock.
As the last few drops plinked onto the varnished boards beneath Nurse Mary’s bed the wall seemed to shift momentarily under the Private’s gaze, the white-painted bricks appearing to bend slightly further away, the wall behind him grating faintly at the same instant. Private Legg cocked his head to one side, his brow furrowed, unable to quite grasp what he had just witnessed.
It was as if the building had…as if the building had…
It was as if the building…
…had just taken a breath.
1
For a Friday afternoon, the weather was miserable. For a Friday afterno
on that doubled as the last day of the summer term, it was terminally depressed. Rain poured from a grief-stricken sky, the unrelenting torrent instantly drenching anyone caught in it. The deluge birthed gushing rivers which purged the pavements of their dust and dirt, sluicing it away into choking drains. A group of schoolchildren ran through the street towards the large, red-brick building that stood ahead of them, its weather-worn façade glistening darkly like freshly spilt blood as the downpour saturated the brickwork.
For over a century, Chillingworth House had stood at the western end of the main street, the imposing structure casting a stern shadow over those entering or leaving the town whose boundary it governed. Since its founding in the 1900’s – financed by the generosity of the Reverend W.E. Chillingworth – it had provided a roof over the heads of the children confined within its embrace, their young minds to be shaped and sharpened, hammered and beaten by the tools of education. First as a boy’s school - with a break during the First World War when it served a tour of duty as a place of convalescence for wounded servicemen - then amalgamated with a crop of newly erected classroom blocks nearby to form a grammar school, it was now the oldest building in a comprehensive establishment that took in a catchment area of all the villages in a ten mile radius and boasted a register of over a thousand pupils.
For more than a hundred years its walls and floors had echoed to the sound of myriad footsteps, shouts, cries, laughter and tears. A constant theatre of life being played out on stages of brick, wood and plaster. But today that performance was coming to an end, the building’s final curtain. Construction work on brand new classrooms was due to be completed during the summer break and lessons currently taught in Chillingworth House were to be transferred to the new buildings at the beginning of the next school term. According to rumour, a developer was already lined up to demolish the property and build a small development of new homes; although no plans had yet been formally submitted to the local planning office.
