The Revelation Room (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 1)

by Mark Tilbury

  I won’t always be able to pick up the pieces, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb stumbled over to the bed and collapsed on top of the cool cotton sheet. His wounds begged Jesus for forgiveness. His heart banged in his chest like a blacksmith’s anvil. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the skylight. His mother’s face appeared in a cloud. The cloud was tinged pink by his mother’s wig.

  Ebb closed his eyes and begged Jesus for guidance, but Jesus didn’t seem to be in any mood to offer direction, other than to reiterate Ebb’s belief that all the bunnies should go down the rabbit hole.

  His mother, God rot her soul, offered to come and tuck her poor little Pixie-pea in and read him a bedtime story. Ebb ignored her. She could mock him all she liked. Her caustic tongue was the least of his worries. Just so long as she didn’t step out of the wardrobe dressed in his best Armani suit and start packing a case.

  Where the hell was Sister Alice? He’d asked her to fetch Brother Marcus, not give birth to him and raise him up as her own on cornbread and potato wedges. He was beginning to have a nasty feeling about Sister Alice. What if she’d deserted him and formed a union with Brother Marcus? What if the pair of them were plotting against him right now? He was in no position to fight back. Tweezer’s barbaric attack had weakened him considerably.

  Ebb forced himself off the bed. He had a shotgun stashed in the back of the wardrobe, and he was willing to risk the wrath of Cyril’s ghost to get it. Anyway, the farmer was as dead as yesterday. He’d ploughed his last furrow and planted his last seed in God’s earth almost ten years ago. Ghosts were just illusions conjured up by the mind in times of stress.

  He skirted around the broken glass and gripped the edge of the right-hand wardrobe door. It took him all the strength he could muster to slide the door along a runner littered with broken glass. He forced it about halfway along before it ground to a halt and refused to budge. He had just enough room to squeeze inside.

  Mind out for the monsters in the closet, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb didn’t like it inside the wardrobe. A shiver unfurled a white flag at the top of his spine. His mother could damn well go and whistle in the wind with the uncles.

  The shotgun was leant against the wall at the back of the wardrobe.

  Right back in the dark where the monsters could grab him by the Ging Gang Goolies.

  Ebb laughed. His head was full of jokers right now. That was fine and dandy by him. The joke would soon be on them. They’d better believe that with all their hocus-pocus hearts.

  He started to whistle. A tuneless whistle that sounded like Onward Christian Soldiers in his fractured mind. It was a whistle designed to ward off evil spirits. And jokers. And mothers in pink wigs waiting to tickle him.

  Run piggy, run piggy, run, run, run, before farmer gets you with his gun, gun, gun.

  Ebb yanked clothes off the hanging rail and hurled them out onto the floor. He didn’t want to leave any hiding places for the monsters. His best suit landed in a heap a few feet shy of the bed. He would have to deal with the aftermath of his actions later. Suits could be dry cleaned. Shirts could be ironed. Wardrobe doors could be replaced.

  He gulped in air. With most of the contents of the hanging rail now relocated on the floor, Ebb surveyed the inside of the wardrobe. The shotgun was propped up against the back wall as expected. He grabbed it, along with a box of cartridges lying on the floor, and retreated before his mother got any bright ideas about locking him inside. And she would. She liked locking him in confined spaces. Just ask his childhood if you wanted proof.

  He closed the door and moved away from the wardrobe as quickly as his injured leg would allow. He put the shotgun and box of cartridges down on the bed. He then turned to face the mirrored glass.

  ‘Not so brave now, are you?’

  Cyril and his mother exercised their right to remain silent.

  He hoped with all his heart he didn’t have to use the gun on Sister Alice. He didn’t want to kill her. She’d been a good and loyal servant. Almost like a mother to him. Unlike that uncle-dunking witch pinned to a cross down in the Revelation Room with her sunglasses hiding the hallmarks of tainted love.

  It was becoming increasingly obvious that Tweezer’s poison had infected Brother Marcus. But surely not Sister Alice?

  ‘Why hast thou forsaken me, Lord?’

  The Lord didn’t answer. The Lord was otherwise engaged. Possibly denying Tweezer entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. And rightly so. The Lord had no place for rapists at his top table. The best Tweezer could hope for was purgatory, and that was stretching leniency to breaking point. Tweezer was bound for the flames of Hell on the back of a Harley D. Make no mistake about that. Lock, stock and chopping block.

  Ebb picked up the shotgun. It felt weighty. Both barrels were still intact. No bank-robbing villain had mutilated it with a hacksaw. He checked the safety catch. On. Good. He knew it was loaded because Cyril Penghilly had always kept it loaded. Cyril had been rather fond of his Smith and Wesson twelve gauge pump action shotgun. Although Cyril pronounced it “Smiff and Wasson”. Cyril claimed it could take a cow down from a hundred yards. Ebb thought Cyril was inclined to exaggerate, but he didn’t doubt the gun’s potency. It certainly looked dangerous and felt dangerous.

  Dangerous enough to shoot the moon, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb jumped back and almost squeezed the trigger. He gawked at the wardrobe doors for signs of his mother. His reflection peeked back at him from behind the bandages. He looked like a bank robber who’d put his mask on wrong. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He needed a holiday. Not just a weekend in London. A proper holiday.

  ‘When my work is done here, I’m emigrating,’ he promised his reflection. ‘Thailand. The Philippines. Cambodia. Africa. Somewhere the people are willing to serve the Lord without question.’

  Somewhere with a vibrant sex trade, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb released the safety catch and squeezed the trigger. The force of the blast threw him off balance. His reflection shattered into a thousand glass fragments. He dropped the gun and fell back onto the bed as jet engines roared through his ears. His right shoulder felt as if a rampant bull had butted it. His nose tried to snorkel air through the bandage. Dozens of tiny pink wigs danced before his eyes.

  Wanna play peek-a-boo, Pixie-pea?

  Chapter thirty-four

  Brother Marcus stood at the top of the tower and surveyed all. The courtyard and outbuildings looked tiny from his perch fifty feet above the ground. Almost far enough away to look like a child’s toy farm. But Penghilly’s Farm was no toy farm.

  Marcus tried to shake the image of Tweezer’s dead body from his head. He couldn’t. He was a cold-blooded killer with a guilty conscience to prove it. It was written in Tweezer’s blood all over the floor down in that chamber of horrors, the Revelation Room. He couldn’t even claim self-defence, because he’d not been defending himself, he’d been defending the Father.

  To make matters worse, if they could actually get any worse, he’d killed Max. Once the Father knew that his beloved, pampered mutt was dead, the shit would really hit the fan. Marcus was tempted to leap from the tower and leave his life in a heap of broken bones on the courtyard floor below. He rested the rifle against the railings and peered over the side. How long would it take to hit the ground? Ten seconds? Twenty? How long would it take before his spine was shoved up through the top of his head? Would there be anyone waiting to escort him to Heaven?

  Heaven? After what you’ve done?

  ‘I had no choice.’

  Tweezer was like a brother to you. Tweezer looked after you when you joined the group. He took you under his wing.

  ‘I had to save Ebb.’

  Bullshit. You shot the wrong man. You know it, I know it, and Uncle Tom Cobley knows it.

  ‘I had no choice.’

  If you jump, what happens to Emily?

  Marcus gripped the rail like a man on the world’s most dangerous rollercoaster ride. Marcus had loved Emily from the first day he’
d seen her in Oxford. He loved her vulnerability and her stubbornness, both of which she had in equal measures. He loved the way she looked at him with her head cocked to one side. The way she smiled. The way they made love.

  She’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake.

  Marcus shook his head. Women were always missing periods and then getting sick in the mornings, just because they thought they were pregnant.

  So you’re just going to abandon her like you’ve abandoned everything else in your life?

  Marcus looked at the rifle and laughed. ‘So shoot me.’ He put one foot on the bottom rail and stepped up so his waist was level with the top. He noticed how dark the sky looked. As dark as his heart. Wind whispered conspiracy theories among the trees.

  Marcus wondered whether to go head first or feet first? Or maybe hang over the side.

  A woman’s voice suddenly broke into his mind. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

  For one bizarre moment, Marcus thought that his guardian angel had spoken to him.

  ‘Brother Marcus?’

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Sister Alice walking towards him. He jumped down off the rail.

  Alice moved a few steps closer. ‘What are you doing?’

  He picked up the rifle and aimed it over the guardrail. ‘Nothing. I was just trying to exercise my arms. I’m as stiff as a board.’

  Alice pursed her lips. ‘You want to be careful on that rail. One slip and you’ll make a nasty mess all over the courtyard.’

  Marcus laughed. The laugh sounded as hollow and lost as he felt inside.

  ‘The Father wants to see you.’

  Marcus’s heart stopped and fell into his stomach. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve been a naughty boy, Brother Marcus.’

  ‘I haven’t done nothing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call getting Sister Emily pregnant “nothing”. I’d call it a big fat “something”.’

  Marcus tried to swallow. ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Pregnant. Up the duff. Bun in the oven. Whichever you prefer.’

  Marcus looked at Sister Alice as if she’d just issued a death warrant. ‘She’s not pregnant.’

  ‘The girl’s pregnant, all right. And according to her, you’re the father. Anyway, I’m not here to get into a lengthy discussion about it. The Father wants to see you, and if you want my advice, you’ll accept what’s coming to you.’

  ‘Emily’s lying.’

  ‘Young girls don’t tend to lie about such matters.’

  Marcus snorted. ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No, they don’t. Do you want to know how I know this?’

  Marcus didn’t.

  ‘Because for reasons beyond my comprehension, young girls are invariably in love with those who take their virginity. And Sister Emily is clearly in love with you.’

  Marcus stalled for time. ‘It could be Tweezer’s.’

  Alice wasn’t having any of it. ‘No. It’s yours. And now you must answer for your actions.’

  Marcus looked over the railing. Maybe he could throw himself over the edge before Sister Alice had time to react. But there was something about that smug look on her face that seemed to invite confrontation. He levelled the gun at his accuser. ‘You’re not in any position to tell me what to do.’

  Sister Alice smiled. The smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. ‘Put the gun down.’

  Marcus didn’t like the look of that smile. He checked around him to make sure that the Father wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows. ‘You can’t order me about.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, you fool. I’m in charge now.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Alice stared at the barrel of the rifle. ‘Since you and Tweezer betrayed the Father.’

  Marcus’s shoulders shook. The rifle suddenly seemed so much heavier. The first drops of rain fell, as if the clouds were shedding tears of grief. ‘I haven’t betrayed anyone.’

  ‘First you get Sister Emily pregnant, and now you aim a rifle at me? What do you call that?’

  ‘I’ve already told you: I didn’t get Emily pregnant.’

  ‘And I’ve already told you: Tell it to the Father.’

  Marcus tried to relax his shoulders. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Sister Alice spread her hands out in front of her. ‘Come on, Marcus, don’t be stupid. Put the gun down. I won’t tell the Father.’

  ‘Yeah. Right. And that’s a pig flying up there in the sky.’

  Alice crossed herself. ‘Forgive him, Lord. He knows not what he does.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing all right,’ Marcus lied.

  Alice looked from Marcus to the rifle and then back again at Marcus. ‘You can still be saved.’

  Marcus didn’t want to be saved. He wanted to get as far away from Penghilly’s Farm as possible. ‘Save your crap. I’m not listening.’

  Alice stepped closer. Just a half step. ‘You have Satan within you. That isn’t your fault, Brother Marcus. You can still be helped.’

  ‘You move another inch and I swear to God I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Kill me? Is that what you want to do? Kill an innocent woman?’

  Marcus laughed. The sound was a close relation to hysteria. ‘You’re not an innocent woman.’

  ‘I love you, Brother Marcus. Please don’t make this hard on yourself. I only want to help you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘And what do you think Ebb will do? Give me a pat on the back and put an arm around my shoulder?’

  ‘He’ll help you, Marcus. Just like he helps everyone.’

  ‘Have you ever been in the Revelation Room?’

  Alice hesitated. ‘No.’

  Marcus saw a look in Alice’s eyes that seemed to contradict her words. Just a fleeting moment of recognition that was instantly extinguished. ‘You ought to go down there. It’s a riot. He’s got three skeletons pinned to the wall.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘One of them is wearing a pink wig and sunglasses. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sick.’

  ‘You’re deluded.’

  ‘And then there’s Tweezer. Ebb tried to kill him with a shovel.’

  ‘The Lord is watching you, Brother Marcus. He’s watching you and keeping a count of all your lies.’

  ‘But Tweezer grabbed hold of the Father and tipped him over. He took a chunk out of his face. He would’ve killed him, too, if I hadn’t shot him in the back.’

  ‘You did the right thing, saving the Father. That will definitely go in your favour.’

  ‘Do you know what Ebb called it?’

  ‘Called what?’

  ‘Bashing in Tweezer’s head with a shovel, you stupid cow.’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘He called it “shaming the shovel”.’

  ‘You’re hysterical, Marcus. You’re not thinking straight.’

  ‘Shaming the fucking shovel. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I shall pray for you.’

  Marcus gawped at her. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t stay up here arguing the rights and wrongs of Ebb’s empire with this deluded woman. Perhaps he ought to just shoot her in the leg and buy himself some time to get away.

  And you’re just going to leave Emily here to rot? It’s your fault she’s here in the first place.

  Marcus tried to reason with himself. He would never have brought Emily to Penghilly’s Farm if he’d known what was down in the Revelation Room. Street-dealing was one thing, wholesale murder and shaming shovels a whole different ball game. Jesus Christ. What a mess.

  ‘Please, Marcus. Just think about this, for everyone’s sake.’

  If he shot her in the leg, she wouldn’t be able to make it down the steps. At least it might buy him enough time to get Emily. He could take Ebb’s Land Rover and be miles away before anyone even knew what was happening. Ebb was in no fit state to come after him. Or Tweezer. That
only left Benjamin, and he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy after his night on the cross.

  What if Alice bleeds to death?

  Marcus dismissed the thought. He couldn’t afford to get held up by compassion. He’d already made one monumental mistake by shooting Tweezer instead of Ebb; he wasn’t about to make another on the grounds of whether or not Alice might bleed to death.

  Alice moved with the speed and dexterity of a cheetah. She grabbed hold of the end of the rifle before Marcus could even register what she was doing. Instinct caused him to squeeze the trigger. Alice twisted the rifle to one side. The bullet flew harmlessly towards the sun, narrowly missing a red kite.

  Marcus tried to wrench the rifle away from Alice. ‘Let go, you fucking bitch.’

  Alice didn’t. She held onto the rifle like a starving dog with a bone. She twisted the rifle left and right in sharp, jerking movements. Marcus tried to match her, tugging the rifle with every ounce of strength in his body. They danced around the top of the tower, moving in circles like a couple performing some strange African ritual.

  Alice screamed and bared her teeth. She pulled Marcus towards her and then thrust him away. He let go of the gun and fell back against the guard rail. Alice tried to turn the gun around, but Marcus pushed himself away from the rail and leapt forward. He grabbed her around the throat and dug his nails into the soft flesh. He squeezed with all the strength left in him. The rifle clattered to the ground.

  Alice screeched and tried to prize his fingers away from her neck. Marcus dug deeper. He could actually feel her windpipe. He could hear an awful hissing noise as she tried to draw in air through her crushed windpipe. Marcus squeezed harder. He had to kill her. It was a simple matter of survival. Kill or be killed.

  Alice stopped resisting. Her body went limp. Her knees buckled.

  Marcus relaxed his grip on her throat. How long did it take to strangle someone? Seconds? Minutes? He didn’t have a clue, but enough was enough. He’d settle for unconscious. All that mattered was getting away from Penghilly’s Farm.

  As Marcus let go of her neck, Alice struck for a second time in as many minutes. This time, she poked him in his right eye with her forefinger. Her fingernail sliced into the eyeball.