by Lex Sinclair
Beneath the altar there was no sign of black candlesticks. No decorations belonging to the liturgy of hell or black magic, for that matter. He watched Mollie ascend the three steps to the altar and turned left to the pulpit where Sofie had clearly reciprocated that she had killed a middle-aged woman in self-defence by ramming a metal crucifix through her neck. He stood over the steps. What he saw astonished him; although he kept his emotions within not to cause alarm.
On the bottom step there was an evident stain soaked into the thin crimson carpet that was barely discernible. Kneeling down, the rugged man with a chiselled jaw that could take a hard punch even after all the years as an amateur boxer pressed the tips of his fingertips to the stain. Dry. That was a pity. If he could some blood on him from where he touched the carpet, it would unequivocally prove that Sofie Lackberg had a case. Instead all they had were dry stains outside and inside the church and a pregnant, traumatised foreign girl lying in a hospital bed.
He had spoken to Reverend Ray Stewart about Sofie’s statement. He had no knowledge of the young girl or anything to do with black magic or devil worship. Of course, he did go on to tell Inspector Jones that he had to learn a little about devil worship, for the simple reason that it was part of his training to become a minister. Parishioners would often attend his Sunday service. Some of them would also stay behind afterwards to ask specific questions regarding life and religion. He went on to explain that there had been one girl who was frightened of the devil after staying up late one night and seeing a film on the TV. She’d asked him how the devil might tempt her. And what she could do to keep him as far away from her. But apart from that nothing.
Inspector Jones had felt insolent and silly when he had no further questions. Nevertheless, he did say, ‘This devil worship escapade is becoming more and more popular though, am I right?’
To which the reverend replied, ‘There has always been devil worship. Ever since people believed in God, others have believed in the devil. When people believe that love and forgiveness is the answer to peace, others believe that vengeance and anarchy is the solution. And to more modern day relations. Some people believe that there shouldn’t be a death sentence for prisoners - others do. People believe there shouldn’t be gun control, others do. To this day people that you and I talk to, work with and walk the same streets believe in racism, war, abusive behaviour, rape, stalking, murdering. Then there are others who believe in the opposite. It has been that way since the dawn of time. It all relates to what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, though, ‘spector. I see the work of Satan everyday. I get up in the morning and I see kids living in fear of their abusive parents. Men and women taking the vows in this very church to be married till death do them part, only to go out a few months later and have an affair behind their spouse’ back. Then there’s the football hooligans shouting abuse at one another one o’clock in the morning. And the drug dealers. Crooked police officers. You name it, anything that in one’s perception is considered immoral and repulsive can - and is - considered the work of the devil.
‘For all I know, this young girl, could have broken into the church and spilled something on the carpet or deliberately cut herself to make it look like something far worse.’
‘I’ll check to see if there are any signs of a break in,’ Inspector Jones had said.
Reverend Stewart had raised his right hand. ‘There were no break ins that I could see. I’m just saying that, to my knowledge, nothing like that has ever occurred in my church. If there was something like that I’d damn well put a stop to it immediately and tell you.’
Inspector Jones got to a vertical base and joined Mollie who was looking for anything out of place.
‘Nothing,’ she said and shrugged.
‘I found a dry stain on the carpet where Sofie said she’d killed Margaret. But until we have a missing persons’ report or a dead body, we don’t have a case. I’m gonna head down the stairs and up into the organ alcove to see if there’s anything else.’
Constable Mollie Jenkins glimpsed the dark recess overhead where the organ player sat during the services. She touched the plain-clothed officer on the arm as he was about to walk away from her. ‘I’ll check up there,’ she said, pointing to the niche. ‘You check downstairs. I’ll meet you back here in a couple of minutes, unless you find something of interest.’
The young detective inspector nodded approval.
Mollie followed the broad shouldered officer past the pulpit, around the corner out of the church and slowed when they reached the two pews behind a green curtain with the holy cross embossed in the centre.
‘This is where the choir puts on their shroud prior to the service,’ Inspector Jones said. Then he cornered the first long bench and bent down to see if anything was awry. Nothing. ‘Okay. I’ll be downstairs. Shout if you see anything.’
‘Will do,’ Mollie said.
She watched the inspector descend the wooden stairs, his footfalls loud and heavy. Then she grabbed the handrail and checked the niche where the organ was situated.
The darkness was absolute. When she reached the tiny recess, all Mollie could see was the organ and the cushioned pinewood stool. There was minimal room for movement, never mind hiding a cadaver. Nevertheless, she used her eyes to roam. Nothing.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Inspector Jones’ patience was growing very thin indeed. The unyielding door that had to be locked wouldn’t budge an inch. He ran at it and drove his shoulder not once, but three times, achieving a sharp pain in his right arm and shoulder, nothing more. Finally realising that his endeavours were fruitless, the inspector relented. He didn’t like the fact that the reverend had given him the key to the church but hadn’t mentioned anything regarding the vestry being locked. He didn’t trust coincidences. The door was locked. Therefore a key was required to open it. A key which hadn’t been provided by the reverend.
13.
The countryside cottage which belonged to Reverend Rodney Ward whose alias was Reverend Ray Stewart was cloaked in darkness. The curtains on all the windows had been drawn, blocking out all the light. The old man who had a similar dulcet tone to that of the great British actor, Donald Pleasance, sat on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, clutching a crystal ball. The phosphorescent light danced on the whites of his magnified eyes. Within the crystal ball he watched attentively the inspector ramming his entire bodyweight, shoulder-first into the door of the vestry. Wheezing laughter, Rodney Ward knew that the inspector would now come here, to the cottage, and demand access into the locked vestry. But, of course, that wasn’t going to happen. Margaret’s cadaver had been temporarily placed in there until the Circle found a suitable time and place to dispose of the faithful followers’ remains.
Margaret deserved a proper burial service. Whether or not, under the circumstances, she was going to get one would be another matter entirely. That resilient bitch had avoided her second baptism; the baptism that would protect her from the holy light once and for all. They were moments away from scalding the five-pointed star of the pentacle into her tender flesh and preventing any divine intervention from occurring when she’d... done what she had. Now Margaret was dead. Charles and Yvonne, having been present in the church, (the ultimate insult to God to re-baptise Sofie upon the sacrificial altar) were inconsolable. Devastated.
And Sofie had escaped once again.
Nevertheless, the visions, dreams and hallucinations had yet to make themselves present fully. Once they assailed the young Swedish woman inexorably, she would go mad. The beast from within in the form of an unborn foetus would overwhelm her. She was beyond salvation. Her personality would alter so drastically she’d become a whole different person. No hypnotism. There wouldn’t be any need. The forces within would destroy her as she gave it life. For the time being though, Reverend Ward and his fellow members had to somehow get Margaret’s cadaver away from the prying of the young detective.
&nbs
p; Staring fixedly into the crystal ball, Reverend Ward watched as Inspector Jones and Constable Mollie Jenkins took their leave from St. Catherine’s Church. They dutifully locked the door behind them and ambled down the path. Inspector Jones, for the second time, halted, peering closely at the indistinct trail of blood leading from the top step to the pavement.
Cussing quite creatively, Reverend Ward draped a velvet cloth over the crystal ball, picked it up from the table and carried it under his arm. He grabbed his keys and exited his residence, got into his silver Mercedes. Then he followed the meandering rural road up over the hilltop, getting as far away from the two officers.
Then a dreadful thought occurred to him.
Oh, fuck! No! Bollocks!
He started striking the steering wheel violently, cussing at the top of his voice, turning beetroot-red.
Reluctantly, he drew the Mercedes over to the side of the road at a lay-by. Then he leaned over the passenger seat, removed the velvet cloth and studied the crystal ball. What he saw made his slam the steering wheel once, blasting the horn. From within the magical glass, he watched as Constable Mollie Jenkins and Inspector Jones began their journey to his cottage. His home, which he had left unlocked...
Everything was upside down. But she didn’t know why. She didn’t have a clue. Yet she didn’t feel dizzy or disorientated, merely perplexed at how she got to be where she was. Nevertheless, everything in the last two weeks had been surreal to some extent to another. She couldn’t decide if she was dreaming or hallucinating or actually wide awake. The wooden structure that contained her was filled with mounds of hay and had a pungent aroma she couldn’t relate to.
A straw of hay snapped.
Sofie whimpered.
Then from around the corner a goat edged closer to her. Around its neck something long and glistening dripped deep red splotches on the untidy farmhouse floor. The - whatever it was - dragged across the hay, and only when the goat stopped right in front of her did Sofie see that they were her ovaries.
Her mouth yawned but no scream came forth. Only her mind screamed.
The goat licked her face. She tried to recoil but after being unsuccessful, she relented, taking some comfort that the goat was of a cordial nature and that at least she wasn’t alone. She just made sure to squeeze her eyes shut. Yet, the sounds of the drip... drip... drip... of blood perforated her ears.
When she regained consciousness, the goat was gone. A large, rectangle mirror approximately four feet tall had been placed against the far wall between two heaps of hay enabling the young woman to see her reflection. And what she saw liquefied her bones, turning the marrow to mush. Before her she saw a young woman, golden blonde hair, dappled in crimson smears, touching the cold hay-strewn surface, pale, naked, with trickles of blood snaking their way from her womb to her pallid, bloodless face. Her wrists and ankles had been nailed to the seven foot timber cross where they’d gone numb and lifeless. From she could deduce, she’d given birth and now the satanic cult had hung her upside down, leaving her to die, slowly and painfully from blood loss. Her face was unrecognisable. Instead it looked more like war paint.
Before her Sofie saw two people she’d never believed she would see again.
Mum and dad stood side by side, holding hands, smiling at her. They looked proud of her, as opposed to being aghast at the condition of their own flesh and blood, left to die in this godforsaken barn in the middle of nowhere after giving birth to something that apparently was not of this world and would unleash hell upon the unsuspecting civilised world.
‘Mum! Dad!’ Sofie cried out.
Both her parents stood with the same fixated expression. Neither of them even demonstrated the slightest bit of revulsion, never mind actually breaking their physical bond and coming to her rescue. They merely stood, motionless, like spectres of the recently departed welcoming her to the afterlife, if only she could pry herself from the six inch nails embedded through her wrists and ankles into the coarse timber, scraping the thin flesh of her aching back.
‘Help me!’ she cried, wondering why on earth they wouldn’t do so of their own accord.
Minutes passed and still her mother and father watched her, with unsmiling eyes. Then, still holding hands, they both pivoted as if in slow motion and disappeared around the corner out of Sofie’s peripheral sight, as she screamed and screamed and screamed for them to come back...
The sun spread its magic on the moors speckled different shades of green and yellow. Inspector Jones had finished jotting down notes in his pad, placed the top back on his biro and closed the pad. It rested in his lap, while he gazed out the passenger window of the patrol car, working through the gears. The constable had slipped the gear stick into second to climb the steep incline after allowing for a tractor to pass. The neatly trimmed hedgerow was an impenetrable green wall following them round the serpentine road.
‘What were you writing down?’ Constable Mollie Jenkins asked.
‘Everything that I’ve seen so far that may or may not corroborate Sofie Lackberg’s outrageous account.’
‘I’m not sure if she’s in the right frame of mind to know exactly what had happened to her, if I’m totally honest,’ Mollie said, keeping her gaze on the road ahead and nothing else.
‘Well, we’ll see. But that was definitely blood outside the church. You can’t deny that.’
Mollie shook her head. Inspector Jones had noticed she did that a lot. He couldn’t help but find it a little annoying. Why she couldn’t just say ‘No’, baffled him.
‘Also, there was a stain on the carpet,’ he said, matter-of-factly.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at Reverend Ward’s rural domain. Inspector Jones’ first impression of the solid building with two horizontal windows and black front was shabby. The gravel path was ash-white, a narrow path cutting a straight line in the overgrown meadow. Constable Mollie Jenkins’ noticed that the reverend’s Mercedes was not in the yard made a sharp U-turn before applying the handbrake and killing the motor.
‘He’s not home,’ she told the inspector.
‘How’d you know?’ The young detective had been in the process of undoing his seat belt when Mollie had spoken.
‘His car’s not here.’
Inspector Jones sighed. He allowed the belt to slip away from his lap and return to its position when not in use while he mulled something over. ‘Where else would he be?’
Mollie shrugged.
‘Does have any friends, family or a girlfriend living in the area?’
Mollie shook her head.
She’s like a child, shaking that damn head of hers, he thought.
‘No to which, Mollie?’ the inspector snapped.
‘All three, as far as I am aware,’ she replied, not approving of his tone.
Inspector Jones didn’t quite fathom how the local authorities couldn’t have just got the reverend’s home phone number or the number of the church from their records. Yet the superintendent had said the reverend was fairly new to the town and to his knowledge he hadn’t registered with the local landline. Or his number was unlisted.
‘So, whadda’ya wanna do now?’ Mollie asked, breaking his reverie.
‘Well, I dunno about you, constable. But I’m gonna knock on the front door and make sure he’s not there. If he doesn’t answer, then we’re gonna sit here and wait for him to come back. It’s Sunday tomorrow. He can’t have gone far.’
Mollie nodded, as opposed to saying ‘Yes’, which quietly infuriated the plain-clothed officer.
He did well to satiate his vexation and not slam the passenger door on the patrol car. Then he ambled around the rear of the patrol car, heading for the front door, not bothering to wait for the inexperienced uniform to follow. The curtains were drawn shut, concealing the interior from anyone like the inspector peering inside. Inspector Jones thought
that rather peculiar as it was a glorious day in November. The resplendent sun was dazzling in the azure sky. If the reverend had decided to take his leave then why hadn’t he at least opened one of the curtains?
Behind him the female constable’s footfalls crunched over the innumerable ashen stones that gleamed as though they were pebbles seen from the bottom of a fountain. Out of courtesy, Inspector Jones waited. Then when both he and Mollie stood side by side he rapped hard on the dense oak and almost fell forward when the yielding door jostled in its frame.
The two officers of the law exchanged a glance. Then Inspector Jones reached down and tried the black doorknob. When he turned and heard the audible click of the door coming free of its latch, the inspector’s sense became attuned to the potentially perilous situation he might have been putting not only himself but an inexperienced small town constable into.
Reaching behind him he brushed the tail end of his long winter coat to one side and withdrew his .45 from his waist belt, switched the safety off, made sure it was loaded before raising it out in front of him at arms’ length. He put his index finger to his lips, gesturing for the female officer - who was now looking terribly anxious - to remain silent. Then, without any more deliberation, he nudged the front door open.
Inspector Jones’ jaw tightened as he motioned for Mollie to say something aloud so whoever was inside, shrouded in the dimness would hear them prior to entering without permission. The aperture in the doorway silhouetted the inspector in the perpendicular daylight.
‘Hello!’ Mollie cried out. ‘Is anyone in there? It’s the police! If you’re not Reverend Ray Stewart then please state who you are and what you’re doing in his home!’
Inspector Jones nodded an approval.
They waited several moments for a response.
‘Watch my back at all times,’ Inspector Jones whispered.
