The Chalk Man

by C. J. Tudor

  All the keys to the places she cleaned hung on that rack, with the addresses of the owners on. Not very secure, or clever, especially as Hoppo’s mum smoked, so she would often linger outside the back door at night and sometimes forget to lock it again.

  That morning, she would later tell the police (and the newspapers), she noticed that the keys to the church were on the wrong peg. She didn’t think much of it, nor the fact that the back door was unlocked, because, as she said, she was a bit forgetful, but she did usually put the keys on the right pegs. The problem was, everyone knew exactly where she kept them. A miracle, really, someone hadn’t used them for stealing stuff before.

  All you would have to do was sneak in, take a key and then let yourself into someone’s house when you knew they were out. Maybe you’d just take a small thing they wouldn’t notice, like a tiny ornament, or a pen from a drawer. Something that wasn’t valuable and they would probably think they had misplaced. Maybe that’s what you’d do. If you were the sort of person who likes to take things.

  The first clue that something was amiss was when Gwen found the church door unlocked. But she dismissed it. Maybe the reverend was already in. Sometimes he woke early and she would find him in the church, running through his sermons. It wasn’t until she let herself into the nave that she realized something was wrong. Very wrong.

  The church wasn’t dark enough.

  Normally, the pews and the pulpit at the end of the nave were solid, black shadows. This morning they glimmered, with tracings of white.

  Perhaps she hesitated. Perhaps the hairs on the back of her neck shivered a little. One of those faint trembles of fear you put down to your imagination playing tricks on you but, actually, the real trick is fooling yourself that everything is all right.

  Gwen traced a faint cross over her chest then fumbled for the light switch near the door and flicked it on. The lights along the sides of the church—old, some broken, in need of refitting—buzzed and spluttered into life.

  Gwen screamed. The inside of the church was covered in drawings. On the stone floor, the wooden pews and the pulpit. Everywhere she looked. Dozens and dozens of white stick figures drawn in chalk. Some dancing, some waving. Some far more profane. Stick men with stick penises. Stick women with huge breasts. Worst of all, stick hangmen, with nooses around their stick necks. It was weird, creepy. More than creepy—downright scary.

  Gwen almost turned and ran. She almost dropped her cleaning bucket right then and sprinted from the church as fast as her pale white legs could carry her. If she had, it might have been too late. As it was, she hesitated. And that’s when she heard a faint noise. A tiny, feeble groan.

  “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  Another groan, slightly louder. One she couldn’t ignore. A groan of pain.

  She crossed herself again—harder, deliberately—and walked down the aisle, her scalp prickling, skin pimpled with goosebumps.

  She found him behind the pulpit. Curled up on the floor in a fetal position. Stripped naked, apart from his clerical collar.

  The cloth had been white but was now stained red. He had been beaten violently around the head. One more blow and it would have killed him, the doctors said. As it was, he was spared death, if “spared” was the right word.

  The blood wasn’t just from his head, though. It was also from the wounds on his back. Carved with a knife; two huge, ragged lines spreading out from his shoulder blades and down to his buttocks. It was only after all the blood was cleaned off that people realized what they were…

  Angel wings.

  —

  Reverend Martin was taken to hospital and hooked up to a lot of tubes and things. There was an injury to his brain and the doctors needed to work out how bad it was to see if they needed to give him an operation.

  Nicky went to stay with one of her dad’s protester friends—an older lady with frizzy hair and thick glasses. She didn’t stay there long, though. A day or so later a strange car pulled up outside the vicarage. A bright yellow Mini. It had a lot of stickers on: Greenpeace, a rainbow, “Fight AIDS”—all sorts of stuff.

  I didn’t actually see her. I heard it from Gav, who heard it from his dad, who heard it from someone in the pub. A woman climbed out of the car. A tall woman, with red hair that flowed almost to her waist, dressed in dungarees, a green army jacket and para boots.

  “Like one of those Greenham Common types.”

  But it turned out she wasn’t from Greenham Common. She was from Bournemouth and she was Nicky’s mum.

  Not dead, like we all thought. Very far from dead, in fact. That was just what Reverend Martin had told everyone, including Nicky. Apparently, she had left when Nicky was very little. I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t get how any mum could just leave. But now she was back, and Nicky would be going to live with her, because she had no other relatives and her dad was in no condition to look after her.

  The doctors did their operation and said he ought to get better, perhaps even make a full recovery. But they couldn’t say for sure. You could never tell with head injuries. He was able to sit up on his own in a chair. To eat and drink, go to the toilet, with a little help. But he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—talk, and they had no idea if he understood anything that anyone said to him.

  He was taken to some home for people who weren’t right in the head, to “convalesce,” my mum said. The church footed the bill. Which was probably just as well, because I guess Nicky’s mum couldn’t have afforded it, and wouldn’t have wanted to either.

  As far as I know, she never took Nicky to visit him. Perhaps it was her way of getting back at him. All those years he had told Nicky she was dead and stopped her from seeing her daughter. Or maybe Nicky didn’t want to go. I wouldn’t have blamed her.

  Only one person visited him regularly, without fail, every week, and it wasn’t any of his faithful congregation, or his devoted “angels.” It was my mum.

  I never understood why. They had hated each other. Reverend Martin had done horrible things and said horrible things to my mum. Sometime later she would say to me, “That’s the point, Eddie. The thing you have to understand is that being a good person isn’t about singing hymns, or praying to some mythical god. It isn’t about wearing a cross or going to church every Sunday. Being a good person is about how you treat others. A good person doesn’t need a religion, because they are content within themselves that they are doing the right thing.”

  “And that’s why you visit him?”

  She smiled strangely. “Not really. I visit him because I’m sorry.”

  —

  I went with her once. I don’t know why. Perhaps I had nothing better to do. Perhaps it was just nice to have Mum’s company for a while, because she still worked really hard and we didn’t have much time together. Perhaps it was the morbid curiosity of a child.

  The home was called St. Magdalene’s and it was about a ten-minute drive away, on the road to Wilton. It was up this narrow lane, lined with lots of trees. It looked nice: a big old house, with a long striped lawn and pretty white tables and chairs laid out in front.

  A wooden hut stood at the far end, and a couple of men in overalls—gardeners, I guess—worked busily. One strolled up and down with a large, whirring lawn mower; the other chopped up dead tree branches with an ax and chucked them into a pile, ready for a bonfire.

  An old lady sat at one of the garden tables. She wore a flowered dressing gown and an elaborate hat on her head. As we drove past she raised a hand and waved: “Nice of you to come, Ferdinand.”

  I looked at Mum. “Is she talking to us?”

  “Not really, Eddie. She’s talking to her fiancé.”

  “Oh, is he coming to visit?”

  “I doubt it. He died forty years ago.”

  We parked and crunched up a gravel driveway to a big doorway. Inside, it wasn’t like I imagined. It was still nice, or at least they had tried to make it nice, with yellow painted walls, ornaments and pictures and stuff. But it smelled of doctors. A dist
inctive smell of disinfectant, pee and rotting cabbage.

  It made me feel like I might throw up, even before we got to the reverend. A lady in a nurse’s uniform led us down to this long room with lots of chairs and tables in it. A TV flickered in one corner. A couple of people were sitting in front of it. A really fat woman, who looked like she was half asleep, and a young man with glasses and some kind of hearing aid. Occasionally, he jumped up, waved his arms in the air and shouted: “Whip me, Mildred!” It was both funny and kind of embarrassing at the same time. The nurses didn’t seem to notice at all.

  Reverend Martin sat in a chair near the French doors, hands resting on his legs, face as expressionless as that of a shop-window dummy. He had been positioned so he could look out at the garden. I don’t know whether he really appreciated this. He gazed out blankly, at something—or perhaps nothing—in the distance. His eyes didn’t move at all, not when someone walked past, or even when the hearing-aid man shouted. I’m not sure he even blinked.

  I didn’t run out of the room, but I came close. Mum sat down to read to him. Some classic book by some dead author. I made an excuse to go and walk around the garden, just to get away and get some fresh air. The old lady in the big hat was still sitting out there. I tried to stay out of her view, but as I drew close she turned.

  “Ferdinand isn’t coming, is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I stuttered.

  Her eyes focused on me. “I know you. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Eddie.”

  “Eddie, ma’am.”

  “Eddie, ma’am.”

  “You’re here to visit the reverend.”

  “My mum is.”

  She nods. “Want to know a secret, Freddie?”

  I thought about telling her it was Eddie, then decided against it. There was something a bit scary about the old woman, and not just because she was old, although that was part of it. As a kid, old people, with their droopy skin and scraggy hands, bristling with blue veins, are kind of monstrous.

  She beckoned me with one thin, bony finger. The nail was all yellow and curled. Part of me wanted to run away. On the other hand, what kid doesn’t want to know a secret? I took a small step closer.

  “The reverend…he’s got them all fooled.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve seen him, at night. The devil, in disguise.”

  I waited. She sat back and frowned. “I know you.”

  “It’s Eddie,” I said again.

  Suddenly, she pointed at me. “I know what you did, Eddie. You took something, didn’t you?”

  I jumped. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Give it back. You give it back or I’ll have you horsewhipped, you little vagabond.”

  I backed away, her cries echoing after me: “You give it back, boy. Give it back!”

  I ran as fast as I could, back up the path to the house, heart thudding, face flaming. Mum was still reading to the reverend. I sat on the steps outside till she had finished.

  But before that, I quickly returned the small china figurine I had taken from the communal room.

  —

  That was all later. Much later. After the police visit. After they arrested Dad. And after Mr. Halloran was forced to resign from the school.

  Nicky had gone to live with her mum in Bournemouth. Fat Gav went round to call for Mickey once or twice—to try to make up—but both times Mickey’s mum told him Mickey couldn’t come out and slammed the door in his face.

  “That was a pile of stinking Buckaroo,” Fat Gav said, because later he had seen Mickey down the shops, hanging around with a couple of older kids. Rough kids who used to hang out with his brother.

  I didn’t really care who Mickey hung out with. I was glad he wasn’t part of our gang anymore. I did care that Nicky had gone, more than I could admit to Hoppo and Fat Gav. It wasn’t the only thing I didn’t admit to them. I never told them that she came to see me one last time. On the day she left.

  I was in the kitchen, doing homework at the table. Dad was hammering somewhere and Mum was vacuuming. I had the radio on, so it was a miracle I heard the doorbell at all.

  I waited for a moment. Then, when it became apparent that no one else was going to answer it, I slipped from my chair, trotted into the hall and pulled the door open.

  Nicky stood outside, clutching the handlebars of her bike. Her skin was pale and her red hair was dull and tangled, the skin beneath her left eye still shaded yellow and blue. She looked like one of Mr. Halloran’s abstract paintings. A patchwork, pallid version of herself.

  “Hi,” she said, and even her voice didn’t sound like her own.

  “Hi,” I said back. “We were going to come and see you, but…”

  I trailed off. We weren’t. We were too scared of what to say. Like with Mickey.

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  But it wasn’t. We were supposed to be her friends.

  “D’you want to come in?” I asked. “We’ve got some lemonade and biscuits.”

  “Can’t. Mum thinks I’m packing. I sneaked out.”

  “You’re leaving today?”

  “Yeah.”

  My heart dropped like a deadweight. I felt something give inside.

  “I’m really going to miss you,” I blurted out. “We all are.”

  I braced myself for a biting, sarcastic reply. Instead, she suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. So tight, it didn’t really feel like a hug, more like a death grip; like I was the last raft on a dark and stormy ocean.

  I let her hold on. I breathed in the smell of her knotted curls. Vanilla and chewing gum. I felt the rise and fall of her chest. The small buds of her breasts through her baggy jumper. I wished that we could stay like that forever. That she wouldn’t ever tear herself away.

  But she did. She turned just as suddenly and swung her leg over her bike. Then she pedaled furiously down the road, red hair flying behind her like a mass of angry flames. Not another word. No goodbye.

  I watched her go and realized something else: she hadn’t mentioned her dad. Not once.

  —

  The police came to talk to Hoppo’s mum again.

  “So do they know who did it yet?” Fat Gav asked Hoppo, popping a fizzy cola bottle into his mouth.

  We were sitting on a bench in the school playground. The place where the five of us always used to sit, on the edge of the field near the hopscotch squares. Now there was just the three of us.

  Hoppo shook his head. “I don’t think so. They were asking her about the key, who knew where it was kept. They asked about the drawings in the church again, too.”

  That caught my attention. “The drawings. What did they ask?”

  “Had she seen anything like them before? Had the reverend mentioned any other messages or threats? Did anyone have a grudge against him?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. Look out for the chalk men.

  Fat Gav looked at me. “What is it, Eddie Munster?”

  I hesitated. I’m not sure why. These were my mates. My gang. I could tell them anything. I should tell them about the other chalk men.

  But something stopped me.

  Perhaps because Fat Gav, although he was funny and loyal and generous, was not good at keeping secrets. Perhaps because I didn’t want to tell Hoppo about the drawing in the graveyard, because then I would have to explain why I didn’t say anything at the time. Plus, I still remembered what he said that day. “When I find out who did this, I’m going to kill them.”

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s just, we drew chalk men, didn’t we? I hope the police don’t think it was us.”

  Fat Gav snorted. “That was just stupid shit. No one is going to think we went and bashed a vicar’s head in.” Then his face brightened. “I bet it was some Satanist or something. A devil-worshipper. Is your mum sure it was chalk? Not blooooood?” He reared up, curled his hands into claws and gave this big Hah, hah, hah, haaaah evil laugh.

  Then the bell rang for afternoon lessons and the s
ubject, if not closed, was put away for a little while.

  —

  When I got back from school a strange car was parked on the drive and Dad was sitting in the kitchen with a man and woman in shapeless gray suits. They looked hard and unfriendly. Dad sat with his back to me, but from the way he was slumped in his chair I knew his face would be troubled, bushy brows drawn together in a frown.

  I didn’t get a chance to see much more because Mum emerged from the kitchen and pulled the door closed behind her. She ushered me down the hall.

  “Who are they?” I asked.

  Mum wasn’t one for sugarcoating the truth. “Detectives, Eddie.”

  “Police? Why are they here?”

  “They just need to ask your dad and me a few questions, about Reverend Martin.”

  I stared at her, heart already beating a little faster. “Why?”

  “It’s just routine. They’re talking to lots of people who knew him.”

  “They haven’t talked to Fat Gav’s dad, and he knows everyone.”

  “Don’t be cheeky, Eddie. Go and watch some television while we finish up.”

  Mum never suggested I watch television. Usually it was no TV until I had done my homework, so I knew something was up.

  “I was going to get a drink.”

  “I’ll bring you one.”

  I looked at her for a bit longer. “Nothing’s wrong, is it, Mum? They don’t think Dad has done anything?”

  Her eyes softened. She laid her hand on my arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “No, Eddie. Your dad has done absolutely nothing wrong. Okay? Now, off you go. I’ll bring you some squash in a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  I wandered into the living room and turned on the telly. Mum never brought me a drink. But that was all right. Soon after, the policeman and woman left again. Dad went with them. And I knew that wasn’t all right. Not one bit.