S.O.S

by Will James

  He lit some of the candles but kept the electric lights off to save money and sat in a pew near the front, praying for the poor and the sick, the homeless and the needy. His lips moved silently. He was deep in thought. There was a sharp crack behind him.

  Father Tom opened his eyes but stayed very still. He kept his breathing steady. He was frightened. At the back of the church he heard whisperings, a scuffle. He held his breath.

  Suddenly he felt his head being yanked backwards and a tight grip on his throat. He closed his eyes as a blow hit him across the temples. When he opened them he was staring down the barrel of the gun. He glanced up briefly at the man who pointed it at him. He wore a mask.

  “Where do you keep the valuables?” The man snapped. The voice was young; too young to be doing this, Tom thought briefly. The voice was young and afraid.

  “In the safe in the room behind the altar.” Father Tom answered. He sounded calmer than he felt.

  “I-in a safe?” The young man was caught off guard. This was too easy; he was suspicious.

  “Yes. The number is 32, 24.” Father Tom quietly replied. He’d done this before; theft, pain.

  Tom stayed very still. He saw a signal to two others out of the corner of his eye and he heard a scuffle; the faint click of the lock as they broke into the safe quickly and quietly.

  They returned, one of them, short, a hoodie pulled up over his head, a bandana round his mouth, had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. The other one, bigger, more cumbersome, also with a hoodie and bandana, folding away a small knife he had used to prise the hinge without fingerprints. The gunman nodded to them and they proceeded to check every alcove of the Church for anything else of value.

  Finding nothing they signalled to the gunman who turned, and strode menacingly towards Father Tom. The man raised his gun steadily, confidently.

  “Empty your pockets,” he said.

  Father Tom raised his arms to try and pacify him. “I-I don’t have anything in my pockets...” he stammered. “Please, you’ve got everything...” A bead of cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

  “Empty them.”

  Father Tom gulped, the fear rising in his chest, yet he had to reason with them. “I swear to God I’m telling the –”

  Wham! Before he had even blinked the young man had stepped forward and hit him hard across the cheek with his gun. Father Tom fell to the ground in a heap, his frame folding as he covered his head with his arms, waiting for more.

  Suddenly a white light flashed across his vision. His attacker cried out with terror, his accomplices shouting and scrambling. Father Tom stayed where he was, cowering on the ground and heard them flee down the aisle and out of his church, their boots booming and echoing in the vast space. He stayed like that for some time, too afraid to uncover his head, too weakened to get up.

  Finally, unsteadily, Tom got to his feet. He touched his hand to his lip and tasted blood. He’d have a shiner tomorrow, but just a shiner. Relief flooded him. He’d survived; he was still alive.

  He cast around the dim church and saw they’d taken nothing except the stuff in the safe. He made a mental calculation; a chalice, two communion plates – all worthless. They used to be silver, but the church had been robbed three times and now they were polished nickel; worthless.

  Again he touched his face and felt for the swelling as he made his way to the back of the church. He had no idea what had just happened. He stopped. He remembered the gun, the hit and then... then a light. Where had it come from? He tried to think but his head throbbed in agony; it made him wince. He stumbled to a pew, sat and stared into the gloom of the church.

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted something strange; something glinting in the dimness. He stood and walked stiffly to the wall where something lay on the floor between a statue of the Virgin Mary and a portrait of the crucifixion. He knelt, his back aching from the blow, and picked up a small metal badge; silver enamel with a sharp pin on the back. He turned it over in the palm of his hand and saw the word ‘science’. He held it and closed his fingers over it. The church had been cleaned that morning; he’d seen the ladies go round the skirting with the hoover. This wasn’t here then; it couldn’t have been.

  He glanced at the wall and it was then that he saw it. He caught his breath. There, right at the base of the wall and carved into the stone was a symbol. His sense of unease grew. Bewildered, he leant forward to examine it, moving his hand over the strange shapes that had not been there before. Shapes, symbols, lines, all connected, but somehow separate. It looked like some celestial sign.

  Tom stood up and shook his head. He was becoming fanciful; white lights and celestial signs? He took a breath and walked towards the sacristy to get some cold water on his face. It was nonsense; it was the blow to the head. He ran a bowl of icy water and splashed it onto his swollen eye and cheek. Then he stood straight, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and walked back into the church. He turned on all the lights and hurried across to the sign on the wall.

  Nothing in this world was nonsense and signs didn’t just appear for no reason. He knelt and began to copy it onto the paper. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he was certainly going to find out.

  CHAPTER 2 - Newcastle

  Zack woke, as if from a dream, to a sea of snow and shivered. He yawned, stretched out his limbs, causing a flurry to fall from his hair, and looked about the deserted street where he’d spent the night. The snow seemed more churned than usual he thought, as if someone had been there in the night. Strange that he hadn’t woken; he was usually so alert. He shrugged and stood, surprised that he didn’t ache and walked out onto the busier main street.

  Here the snow had turned to a wet, black slush from the traffic and when he looked down his trainers were soaked. He didn’t feel it though; his feet were numb. With his hands buried in his pockets, he narrowly missed a middle-aged man who was charging along the pavement, attention focussed on his phone. Zack swore violently after him, but the man didn’t even break stride and ignored him. Typical self-involved banker, Zack thought, who had to buy his kids’ love.

  He wandered for a while, aware that he must have got used to the icy cold and thought about what to do. Normally he’d have been queuing for a hot drink now at the drop-in centre and some food, but this morning he wasn’t hungry. So he walked, out of the main pedestrian thoroughfare, away from the crowds, alongside the Tyne for a while then down to Jesmond and through to Heaton. It was miles but he didn’t notice.

  Slowly the buildings became more rundown and shabbier and, turning a corner, he recognised where he was. He must have some sort of homing device – if you could call this home. Zack walked on and stood across the road from the ugly, neglected four story building that he had lived in for as long as he could remember. The thought of the place made him shudder. The front garden was overgrown, weeds climbing up the wire fence and nettles choking the hedges and plants with their tight grip. The place was bleak.

  A police car pulled up. Zack pulled his hoodie up over his head and tucked his chin down to hide his face. Cop cars were always pulling up outside Helton Court; there was always trouble of some kind or another. He watched as a couple of officers got out and knocked on the door. Pearson, the man who ran the place, opened up. He remembered big welts on his body from the belt buckle, bruises the size of your fist, and then he turned and ran as fast as he could back the way he came, away from the memories and the pain.

  Once out of view he bent over, breathing hard. He reckoned the police were probably there because of him; he’d been missing for several weeks now and officially the home would have filed a missing persons report. Unofficially they’d have been glad to see the back of him no doubt. He stood straight, not wanting to linger too close to the home and carried on walking. The last thing he needed was to be found now, especially not with his track record with the law.

  As he walked back to the city he wondered what he was going to do. He didn’t think he could last much lo
nger on the streets and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Plus he was always looking over his shoulder. Newcastle was a small city; it was difficult to get lost here. He needed somewhere far away, somewhere so big that no one would ever find him...

  London. The answer came to him in a flash of inspiration. It was so simple. He was always hearing about how big the place was, and how easy it was to disappear there. It was far enough away that they would never think to look for him there and even if they did, they would never find him.

  Fired by his new conviction, Zack made his way to the train station. He milled around in the crowd for a while, watching the guards and working out a way of getting past the barrier without a ticket. He spotted a woman with a big suitcase, three small kids and a pushchair. She’d be enough of a handful for the guards. He moved in closer and fell into step behind her. He was through before she even knew he was there.

  *

  London

  Molly Sharp stood, arms folded across her chest, glaring at her mother. Here she goes again, Molly thought, trying to interfere with my life.

  “It’s just I’m worried about you love,” her mum whined, “you should know I only want the best for you.”

  Molly was unimpressed. Since when did wanting the best include sneaking around in the middle of the night checking up on her or going through her things?

  “You know, it’s really not too much to ask what’s bothering you,” her mother went on in that needling tone that always got under Molly’s skin. “And quite frankly, as your mother, I think I have a right to know!”

  Molly, who had heard this all a thousand times before, stayed silent. She pretended to yawn; she stretched and, making her excuses about how tired she was, slipped out of her mother’s grasp into the sanctuary of her room. She sighed and closed her eyes as she leaned against the door that was her barrier from the outside world.

  She knew really that her mother was worried about her, that she was only trying to help, but sometimes it seemed like the Spanish Inquisition, that she was on the rack being constantly questioned with red hot pokers. Molly knew only too well that she had been acting strangely recently and obviously her mother was going to be concerned, but Molly couldn’t tell her mum the truth, not unless she wanted a trip to the psychiatrist and another course of pills.

  She walked across to the window and opened it, letting the icy air cool her face. She tried to imagine what she’d say. Maybe; ‘Oh yeah Mum, sorry that I’ve been worrying you so much, it’s just that I’ve been hearing these voices in my head all the time,’ or perhaps; ‘Sometimes Mum, I think I hear dead people,’ even; ‘If I really concentrate hard Mum, I can see shadowy figures moving about.’

  Not likely. She’d probably be sectioned or something, or turned into even more of a laughing stock than she was already. Molly slid down the wall not caring that she crumpled her giant poster of Che Guevara and sat on the floor hugging her knees. Perhaps it would be easier if she could talk about it, but there really was no-one that she could tell. Certainly not her mum and she no longer had any friends – the voices had seen to that. She couldn’t hear what anyone was saying to her because of the constant drone in her head and she was terrified that if her class mates found out they would turn against her and think she was a freak.

  No, Molly thought, there was nothing she could do – except put up with it. She sighed and got to her feet. All this should really have reduced her to a crying wreck she thought wryly, but that was another thing that separated Molly from the rest of them. She never cried, ever. Not at her granddad’s funeral and certainly not over something like this. She took her headphones off and sat down on her bed to read.

  She’d only had a second’s peace before there was a loud knocking on her bedroom door. Oh no, she thought; Mum. She removed one ear piece so that she could hear.

  “Molly? Molly can I come in love and talk to you? I’m worried about you...”

  Molly sighed. “GO away!” she called, “I’m busy!”

  “Don’t tell me to go away Molly.” Her mother’s voice sounded more frayed this time. “We need to talk; I need to know what’s going on...”

  “I said GO AWAY!” Molly shouted.

  Suddenly the door handle rattled and Molly was pleased that she’d locked the door.

  “OPEN THIS DOOR MOLLY!” her mother shouted, “You are not escaping that easily!” Sandra began to hammer noisily on the door, shouting through the wooden barrier between them. “Open this door right now before I break it down! How can you be so selfish?”

  The threat meant nothing to Molly but the accusation was like holding a match to gunpowder. Suddenly, shaking with anger, she leapt up and wrenched the door wide open. The frustration that had been building up inside her came spilling out of her mouth as she exploded and screamed at her mother. Sandra screamed back. They raged for a few minutes, each trying to drown out the other. Then suddenly having enough of the shouting, Molly barged past her mum’s diminutive figure and stormed out of the house, the argument still ringing in her ears.

  “Molly, come back!” Sandra shouted after her. She ran down the stairs and towards the open front door. “Come back young lady or you will have to...” her voice trailed off. It was pointless. Molly had gone.

  Sandra shut the front door with a slam and for her part, she raged silently about the house for a while, outpouring her emotions in wild hand gestures, all of them offensive, and screaming at the walls. If anyone could have seen her they would have thought her madder than her daughter.

  When she was calm enough to think clearly she decided to go up to Molly’s room, thinking that there must be some clues as to why her daughter was behaving so oddly. Still shaky from the shouting match, she climbed the stairs slowly, holding on to the bannister for support. She walked along the corridor and stopped by Molly’s room, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She was about to break her daughter’s trust.

  She opened the door and stepped into the mess. She knew it was bad, but this was the most disorganised room she had ever seen. Things were thrown everywhere; clothes dumped on the floor, books sprawled on the bed. Appalled by the state her daughter kept it in she tried to refocus, knowing that to touch anything would create another row. No one was ever, ever allowed in Molly’s room.

  Sandra looked around for any clues into Molly’s behaviour. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, but her eyes fell upon a likely looking book, half open and well used. A diary perhaps? She knew she shouldn’t do it, she knew it was a terrible thing, but she had to. Molly might be in trouble, she might need help. Picking it up she settled herself on the bed and let the book fall open.

  Sandra suddenly let out a gasp of horror. On every page was drawn a girl being tormented by shadowy figures that closed in, swirled about her cowering figure. Molly was an exceptional artist and it was clear that the girl in the pictures was her. The look on her face was one her mother wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It was one of pure terror, more petrified than a girl of sixteen had any right to be. Appalled Sandra shut the book, replaced it carefully and fled out of the room, deeply disturbed.

  *

  Molly strode angrily down the street, her face like thunder. People crossed the street to avoid her; such was the storm cloud that surrounded her. Already, however, as she walked, her mood was subsiding. She regretted the argument, her unkind words making her wince as she remembered them. Nevertheless she continued to march on – better to give her mum space and time to cool off.

  Lost in thought she didn’t notice the young man coming the opposite way down the street, and collided with him making them both stagger backwards. She almost fell and prepared to let off a mouthful of abuse, but when she looked up at the tall dark, boy, too reeling from the impact, she instantly recognised him. Her annoyance at nearly being knocked to the ground was forgotten.

  “Dev? Dev Pathmajaren?” she asked tentatively. The boy frowned slightly over the rim of his glasses, and then a spark of recognition ignited in his dark ey
es.

  “Molly?” he said, breaking into a smile, “Blimey! Molly! God, I hardly recognised you!” He stared at her. She was thinner than he remembered and still lovely, but she looked haunted almost, dark around the eyes and wary.

  “How’ve you been?”

  Molly had begun grinning but now her smile faded. Dev was doing what everyone did; look at her as if she’d lost something, gone awry.

  “Oh erm, fine, you know, busy...” she said. She dropped her gaze and stared at the floor.

  “Are you still painting? You used to do the most amazing pictures at school.” Dev waited for her to look up, but she didn’t. She nodded.

  He stepped forward and touched her elbow. “We should catch up,” he said, “I mean properly catch up.” He was beginning to remember snatches of conversations about Molly. What was it people had said? He continued to look at her with her head down, wringing her fingers together. She’d become a loner his mates had said, gone off on her own.

  “We could have a coffee?” he suggested suddenly. He knew what it felt like to be on the outside. “I mean, if you’d like to?”

  Molly lifted her head. She had always liked Dev, sort of liked, liked Dev, but nothing had ever come of it. She met his eye to sense whether he was serious or not and she saw nothing but sincerity. Yup – she still liked, liked Dev.

  She shrugged and then finally, she half smiled and said, “Where?”

  “The Garden Café. It’s nicer than the high street chains and they do great cakes.”

  Molly grinned. “You’re on,” she said.

  “Great!” Dev meant it too. There was something about Molly, he thought, something fiery and independent that he liked. He could just see a small glimpse of it now; if he’d said Starbucks she wouldn’t have agreed.

  “Tomorrow?”

  She hesitated and frowned. “Hmmm, let me think, I’m not sure. I am so incredibly busy, what with dropping out of college and having no job that tomorrow I’ve got, erm, nothing on at all.” She smiled. “What time?”