by Mark Tilbury
‘I’m not saying—’
‘Brother Gerald committed the sin of homosexuality. He deserved his punishment. But never confuse God’s will with mine. Brother Gerald suffered death by a thousand cuts because that’s what the Lord decided.’
Tweezer gawped at Ebb. ‘I’ve never let you down, Father.’
Ebb raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Poor Madeline might beg to differ.’
‘I never—’
Ebb held up his free hand. ‘Save your lies, rapist. I want you to focus all your attention on crawling to the other end of the room. Do you think you can manage that without tripping over your tongue on the way?’
‘Why?’
Ebb pointed the rifle at Tweezer’s head. ‘Yours is not to reason why, Pixie-pea.’
Tweezer groaned and rolled onto his front. He hissed like a steam kettle about to come to the boil. ‘My legs. Oh, God, my legs.’
Ebb was unimpressed. ‘My legs, my eye. Use your arms to pull you forward.’
Tweezer inched forwards, mewling like a cat with its tail caught in a mousetrap. He stopped after a few feet and looked over his shoulder at Ebb. ‘Why are you doing this, Father?’
‘Move.’
‘I don’t want to go in the Revelation Room.’
Ebb shook his head. ‘That’s too bad, Brother Tweezer, because that’s where you’re going.’
‘I don’t want to die, Father,’ Tweezer whined.
‘Then you should have thought about that when you attacked Madeline.’
Tweezer hiccupped a sob. ‘I didn’t attack her.’
‘God will be the judge of that. Get moving. A slug on a sleeping pill could move faster than you.’
‘My legs are broken.’
‘Don’t tell fibs. One of your legs is broken. The other one is wounded. There’s a difference.’
‘There’s no difference in the fucking pain.’
‘Perhaps you need a bullet up the backside to hurry you along?’
Tweezer didn’t. He put his head down and inched forward.
‘The Infiltrator will be pleased to see you. That’s if he’s still alive. He looked in pretty bad shape the last time I saw him. He’s a tough nut to crack, I’ll give him that.’
Tweezer reached the other end of the room. He lay on the ground panting and wheezing and sobbing. They didn’t make men like they used to. Ebb was inclined to blame it on the overuse of comforters in infancy. And antibacterial wipes. And indulgent mothers who perched themselves on the edge of a baby-boo’s crib waiting for the first murmur of discontent.
‘Move away from the door,’ Ebb instructed.
Tweezer rolled over and whimpered.
Ebb studied the man with contempt. The big biker man. The man who’d used his bare hands to kill. The man who’d subjected Brother Gerald to death by a thousand cuts. He leaned the gun against the wall and took a bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘Move one whisker, and I’ll kill you. Is that clear to your ears, Pixie-pea?’
Tweezer gasped and minced words through clenched teeth. ‘Yes, Father.’
Ebb inserted a brass key into the lock and turned it anti-clockwise. He opened the door and picked up his rifle. The Infiltrator was still sitting tied to the chair where Sister Alice had left him. The Infiltrator was looking ragged, with his bushy beard sprouting in all directions. Ebb wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a hedgehog peep out. ‘I’ve brought you some company.’
The Infiltrator didn’t seem very appreciative. He thrashed from side to side in the chair, thus proving you didn’t need much fuel in the tank to start an engine.
Ebb turned his attention back to Tweezer. ‘In you go.’
‘Please, Father, I don’t want to go in the Revelation Room.’
‘Once you’re in and settled, I’ll fetch you some water.’
‘I don’t want water.’
‘There’s no point in throwing temper tantrums, Pixie-pea.’
Tweezer didn’t move. ‘Please, Father. I’ll do anything. Please.’
‘If you want me to shoot you, then I will. It’s up to you.’
‘And what happens if I go into the Revelation Room?’
Ebb smiled. ‘I’ll make sure you get a fair hearing.’
‘No, you won’t. You’ll just murder me like you did all those other poor sods in there.’
‘Have you been given the powers of prediction?’
Tweezer looked up at Ebb, his good eye burning as bright as a church candle. His hair was splayed out in wild clumps above his ears. His ridiculous goatee beard was almost white with froth and dribble. It was a good job that Max wasn’t too fussy about what she ate. He would make sure he chopped Tweezer up into indistinguishable lumps for her. Ebb had learned the skill of butchery from the internet. It was simple when you got down to the bare bones of it. There wasn’t that much difference between a pig and a man when it came to butchery, except a man kicked up a lot more fuss about going to meet his maker.
A shadow moved in the corner of Ebb’s eye. He snapped his head around, fearing that the Infiltrator might have somehow slipped his bonds, but the Infiltrator was still tied to the chair. Ebb rubbed his eyes and then focused all his attention on Tweezer. He ached for his bed. For the feel of the cool cotton sheets. Perhaps a good bottle of red and a box of Milk Tray to calm his shattered nerves. Perhaps when things settled down he could take a trip to London and indulge himself in the services of a rent boy. Sex was so much more enjoyable without the restrictions of relationships. He’d allowed himself to fall in love once with Brother Gerald. Never again. As far as he was concerned, it was once smitten, twice shy.
‘In. Now!’ Ebb shouted.
Tweezer crawled into the Revelation Room.
Ebb waited for him to get a good way inside and then followed him in. Peace and serenity washed over him. This was his private space. A place of renewal and rejuvenation. A place of solace.
The Infiltrator tried to speak, but his efforts were in vain. Sister Alice had secured his lips with duct tape as instructed. The chair rocked precariously.
‘See how the Infiltrator fights his fate, Brother Tweezer?’
Tweezer didn’t respond. He lay face down on the floor, motionless. Ebb jabbed his backside with the rifle. ‘Come on, sleepyhead. You’ll have plenty of time for rest later.’
Tweezer didn’t respond.
Ebb studied him with caution. Experience had taught him that Satan could strike without warning. There was a slim possibility that Tweezer might have passed out, but Ebb hadn’t built his empire by taking risks. He aimed the rifle at Tweezer’s backside and pulled the trigger.
As expected, Tweezer was feigning unconsciousness. He roared back to life, screaming and bucking like a bronco. The shot echoed around the Revelation Room. Tweezer made frantic efforts to clutch his backside and eat the concrete floor at the same time.
Ebb waited for him to settle down before trying to reason with him. ‘Why do you fight me?’
Tweezer whined and sobbed like a child with a scraped knee.
Ebb looked at him. There was little point in engaging with a burnt bunny. Not when he was destined to shame the shovel. ‘Have some dignity, Brother Tweezer.’
Brother Marcus called out from the Cannabis Room. ‘Father?’
Ebb steadied himself. He’d never allowed Brother Marcus access to the Revelation Room before. That privilege had only been afforded to Brother Tweezer. Marcus had never enquired as to what lay beyond the locked door in all his time tending to the Crop of Christ. Brother Marcus knew the virtue of keeping his nose out of private affairs. But he might react unfavourably. It wasn’t every day you met three skeletons and the Infiltrator.
‘Brother Marcus?’ Ebb called, in the calmest voice he could muster under the circumstances.
‘Where are you, Father?’
‘I’m in here. Come on in.’
Brother Marcus walked into the Revelation Room with Max panting and slobbering on the leash beside him. He stopped just inside the doo
r, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
Ebb pointed the rifle at the floor. ‘Welcome to the Revelation Room.’
Marcus pointed at the Infiltrator. ‘Who’s that?’
‘The Infiltrator? I’m not sure. Brother Tweezer shot him.’
‘Shot him? Why?’
‘He was up a tree overlooking the courtyard. I suspect he’s an agent of the Devil. Or a cop. Which amounts to the same thing in my book.’
‘A cop?’
‘Yes; a cop. Blue lights? Nee-naw, nee-naw?’
Marcus didn’t look as though he was catching on. ‘But why would a cop be up a tree?’
Ebb ignored him. He didn’t have time to discuss the Infiltrator right now. He walked over to the far wall where the three skeletons were secured to their crosses with twine. Each skeleton had a small leather-bound book perched in its ribcage documenting its life and association with Ebb.
Marcus gawked at the skeleton with the pink wig and sunglasses.
Ebb snapped his fingers and introduced Marcus to Brother Gerald. ‘He died about a year before you arrived.’
‘Died?’
Ebb pointed the rifle at Brother Gerald’s pelvic area. ‘Guilty of the sin of homosexuality. Tweezer subjected him to death by a thousand cuts.’
Marcus’s mouth hung open. Ebb’s mother would have said he looked as if he was trying to catch flies. The man would certainly need to sharpen up if he wanted to take Tweezer’s place as his right-hand man. There was no room for faint hearts in leadership. ‘Do you know the principle of death by a thousand cuts, Brother Marcus?’
Marcus shook his head. His eyes seemed to be drawn to Ebb’s mother. Particularly the wig perched on her head.
Ebb ploughed on. ‘It’s an old remedy. You hoist the accused up in a net so that tiny portions of his flesh are poking through the holes, then you just chop away at the pieces of flesh until the job is done. Can’t say for certain how many times Brother Gerald was actually cut. A thousand might be stretching it a bit.’
Marcus looked from Ebb’s mother to the Infiltrator and then back at Ebb’s mother.
‘That man could certainly scream. Two barn owls left their roosts that night, didn’t they, Brother Tweezer?’
Tweezer didn’t answer. He seemed too concerned with trying to breathe and plug up the holes in his leaking body.
Ebb excused him on the grounds of compassion. ‘Brother Gerald tried to seduce me.’
Marcus looked at Ebb with those peek-a-boo eyes. ‘Seduce you?’
Ebb crossed himself and gazed at Brother Gerald’s grinning, cavernous mouth. The mouth that had performed oral sex on him. The mouth that had whispered promises of love. The mouth that had threatened to betray him when Ebb had refused to acknowledge that they were an equal partnership. The mouth that had made demands and threatened to take all his money and leave The Sons and Daughters of Salvation. The mouth that had voiced suspicions about Brother Cyril’s death after a blazing row had loosened his tongue.
‘I tried to save him, but he was beyond salvation.’
Marcus gawped at the skeleton. He pulled on the end of his nose as if trying to flush thoughts from his brain.
Ebb smiled. The Revelation Room was a lot to digest in one sitting. Tweezer hadn’t reacted in any way to it, but then Tweezer was a psychopath and a rapist.
Ebb didn’t think it prudent to tell Marcus that Brother Gerald had rescued him from the streets and given him a home in his flat. Or that Brother Gerald had educated him and taught him the importance of widening his vocabulary. Or that he’d introduced him to religion and the art of lovemaking. These facts were like discussing the foetus in relation to the man. Important, but not necessary to know.
Brother Gerald had even sold his flat and persuaded Cyril Penghilly that his rundown farm would be better served as a commune and a place of worship. Brother Gerald had befriended Cyril in church after the farmer’s wife had died, but Ebb hadn’t been interested in such trivialities. All he’d been concerned with was making The Sons and Daughters of Salvation into the thriving community it was today.
Ebb had been genuinely surprised the day Jesus had come to him in the form of a water melon to tell him of Brother Gerald’s traitorous nature and his propensity toward sin. Even more surprised when Jesus had insisted he elicit a confession from Brother Gerald by tying him to the bed and torturing him with a razor blade and battery acid. By the time they hoisted Brother Gerald up in an old fishing net in the barn, the man had admitted to the crimes of perversion, jealousy, greed and envy. Praise Jesus.
‘Things were good with Brother Gerald for a while. But when Satan is buried deep within, I’m afraid there can only be one outcome. The transformation was terrible to see. Terrible.’
Marcus held Max’s leash a little too tight for Ebb’s liking. ‘Let go of Max, Brother Marcus. You’re in danger of throttling her.’
Marcus dropped the leash. He looked as if he might be about to throw up. Or run. Or challenge the very wisdom of Jesus Christ.
‘Are you okay?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Yes, Father. Just a bit—’
‘Shocked?’
‘A little, Father.’
‘Don’t be. Even I doubted Jesus’s wisdom at first. But He does not lie. Take that poor wretch on the floor. What do you see, Brother Marcus?’
‘Tweezer?’
‘What else?’
‘I see a man who’s badly wounded, Father.’
‘Do you take pity on him?’
‘A bit. I still don’t believe—’
Ebb held up a hand. ‘He tried to rape Madeline.’
‘I know, Father.’
‘Rape her and subject her to the most terrifying ordeal imaginable. Now he garners pity, because that is always Satan’s trump card, is it not?’
Marcus nodded.
‘So let’s not be fooled. The man is alive with demons, just as Brother Gerald was before him. We must root out evil as we find it before it takes hold and destroy us all. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Marcus’s eyes seemed to contradict his words. He’d have to watch him very carefully indeed. He moved on to Cyril. ‘This is Brother Cyril. He wasn’t a member of The Sons and Daughters of Salvation. It might be prudent to describe him more as a founder.’
Marcus stared at the skeleton. ‘What did he do wrong?’
Ebb was in no mood to go into detail. He didn’t bear Cyril Penghilly any malice. It had simply been a clash of ideals. Cyril believed the farm belonged to him. Ebb didn’t. What Cyril failed to remember was that Ebb had given him the sum of eighty thousand pounds to secure the services of the farm. Well, technically Brother Gerald had given him the money from the sale of his flat, but you didn’t want to split hairs on a bald head.
‘He wanted to go east, I wanted to go west. He died without fuss or fanfare.’
Marcus looked at the skeleton as if trying to seek the truth from its bones.
Ebb moved on and pointed the rifle at the skeleton in the pink wig. ‘And this is the mother of all creation.’
Marcus stared at the wig. ‘Who is it?’
Ebb smiled and shook his head. ‘I shall discuss her in more detail when we have more time.’
‘It’s his fucking mother,’ Tweezer shouted. ‘His own fucking mother.’
Ebb pointed the rifle back at Tweezer. ‘Lies fall from your tongue like confetti at a wedding, my friend.’
Tweezer propped himself up on one elbow. ‘I’m not lying. It’s his own mother. He battered her to death with a shovel.’
Ebb considered emptying the rifle into Tweezer. But bullets were too good to waste on his sorry soul. ‘Perhaps I should set Maxine upon you to flush out the truth?’
‘It’s the truth.’
Ebb turned his attention back to Marcus. ‘God will be the judge of him.’
Marcus bowed his head. ‘Yes, Father.’
Ebb tried to justify his decision to trust Brother Marcus. He was a good drug dealer and a com
petent musician. He was also fearful of God. But was he up to the mark for dealing with the finer points of faith? The plain truth of it was this: at the moment, it was a straight bat between Marcus and Bubba to take over Tweezer’s duties and responsibilities, but the thought of Bubba trying to assist with exorcisms was too comical to contemplate. What would Bubba do? Grunt Satan into submission?
Ebb walked to the far corner of the room and rested the gun against the wall. He then picked up his shovel. It was a pity he hadn’t been able to retain the services of the shovel that had shamed his mother. That would have been the icing on the wig. But this shovel still felt good in his hands. Weighty. Balanced. Bubba had sharpened the edges with an angle grinder in the workshop. Sharpened them to guillotine status.
He walked over to where Tweezer lay mewling on the floor like a tomcat that had just had its balls bitten by a shit-house rat. Ebb hummed. A tuneless hum, born of contentment rather than melody. He liked the analogy of Tweezer and a tomcat. Unfortunately for Tweezer, his strutting days were over. He’d pounced on the wrong bird when he’d assaulted Madeline.
Chapter twenty-eight
Ben lay on his bunk. Every bone in his body felt broken, every joint on fire, every nerve on high alert. The dark accentuated his suffering. He had no idea of the time or how long he’d been lying there. He wanted to get up and try to get his joints moving, but pain pinned him to the bed. Crucified him, you might say.
His father was dead; he’d been living next door to death when he’d interrupted youth club with that awful phone call. What Ben couldn’t understand was what had possessed him to think that he could somehow rescue him. Now they were all going to die, right here on this stinking farm. Cause of death: stupidity.
There was a sliver of moon framed in the sash window. It looked like a small ‘C’ carved upon the black canvas of sky. ‘C’ for ‘condemned’. Ben arched his back to relieve the stress on the base of his spine. The movement ignited flames in his tortured limbs. He sank back onto the lumpy mattress and tried to relax. Tried to breathe into the pain the way Pastor Tom had taught him to all those years ago when he’d jumped from the conker tree. The pain didn’t seem to have much regard for relaxation techniques.
