by C. J. Tudor
“It’s where a lot of kids met to do stuff they shouldn’t. Kids…and perverts.”
He spits out the last word. I look down. “I used to idolize Mr. Halloran,” I say. “But, I suppose, he was just another older man with a thing for young girls, just like the reverend.”
“No.” Thomas shakes his head. “Halloran was nothing like the reverend. I’m not condoning what he did, but it wasn’t the same. The reverend was a hypocrite, a liar, spouting the word of God when, really, he was using it to prey on those young girls. He changed Hannah. He pretended to be filling her with love, but all along he was filling her heart with poison, and, when that wasn’t enough, he filled her belly with his bastard child.”
The blue eyes blaze. Creamy spittle nestles at the corners of his lips. People say there’s nothing stronger than love. They’re right. That’s why the worst atrocities are always committed in its name.
“Is that why you did it?” I ask quietly.
“Did what?”
“You went into the woods, and you saw her, didn’t you? Just standing there, like she used to when she was waiting to meet him? Is that when you cracked? Did you grab her, choke her, before she even had a chance to turn? Perhaps you couldn’t bear to look at her, and when you did, when you realized your mistake, it was too late.
“So you came back later, you chopped her up. I don’t know why exactly. To hide the body? Or perhaps simply to confuse things—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You killed Elisa, because you thought she was Hannah. They were the same build, Elisa had even dyed her hair blond. Easy mistake to make, in the dark, when you’re emotional, angry. You thought Elisa was your daughter, who had been poisoned, corrupted and was carrying the reverend’s bastard child—”
“No! I loved Hannah. I wanted her to keep the baby. Yes, I thought she should have it adopted, but I would never have hurt her. Never—”
He stands abruptly. “I shouldn’t have agreed to see you. I thought you might genuinely know something, but this? This is when I ask you to leave.”
I stare up at him. If I’m expecting to see guilt or fear on his face, I’m wrong. All I see is anger and pain. A lot of pain. I feel sick. I feel like a shit. Most of all, I feel that I have got this terribly, terribly wrong.
“I’m sorry. I—”
His look withers me down to my bone. “Sorry for accusing me of wanting to kill my own daughter? I’m not sure that quite covers it, Mr. Adams.”
“No…no, I suppose not.” I get up and walk toward the door. Then I hear him say:
“Wait.”
I turn. He walks toward me.
“I should probably punch you for what you just said…”
I sense a “but.” At least, I’m hoping for one.
“But mistaken identity? It’s an interesting theory.”
“And wrong.”
“Maybe not entirely wrong. Just the wrong person.”
“What are you saying?”
“Aside from Halloran, no one had any motive to hurt Elisa. But Hannah? Well, Reverend Martin had a lot of supporters back then. If any of them knew about their relationship, about the baby, one of them might just have been jealous enough—crazy enough—to kill for him.”
I consider this. “But you have no idea where any of them are now?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Right.”
Thomas rubs at his chin. He seems to be debating something with himself. Finally, he says: “That night, when I was looking for Hannah near the woods, I saw someone. It was dark, and from a distance, but he was dressed in overalls, like a workman, and he had a limp.”
“I don’t remember hearing anything about another suspect.”
“It was never followed up.”
“Why?”
“Why bother, when we already had the culprit, and, handily, a dead one, who would save the expense of a trial? Besides, it wasn’t really much of a description to go on.”
He’s right. It isn’t a lot of help. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Thirty years is a long time. You know, you might never get the answers you’re looking for…”
“I know.”
“Or worse. You get the answers, and they’re not the ones you want.”
“I know that, too.”
By the time I climb back into the car, I’m shaking. I wind the window down and take out my cigarettes. I light one greedily. I had put my mobile on silent when I went into the bungalow. I pull it out now and find I have a missed call. Two, actually. I’m never that popular.
I call voicemail and listen to the two garbled messages, one from Hoppo and one from Gav. Both saying the same thing:
“Ed, it’s about Mickey. They know who killed him.”
2016
They are sitting at their usual table, although, unusually, Gav has a pint of ale in front of him instead of Diet Coke.
I’ve barely settled with my own pint when he slaps the newspaper down on the table in front of me. I stare at the headline.
YOUTHS ARRESTED OVER RIVERSIDE ATTACK
Two fifteen-year-old youths are being questioned over the fatal attack on former local resident Mickey Cooper (42). The pair were apprehended after an attempted mugging on the same stretch of riverside path two nights ago. Police are “keeping an open mind” as to whether the incidents are connected.
I scan the rest of the story. I hadn’t heard about the mugging, but then, I’ve had other things on my mind. I frown.
“Something wrong?” Gav asks.
“It doesn’t actually say these youths attacked Mickey,” I point out. “In fact, it’s all just conjecture.”
He shrugs. “So? It makes sense. A mugging gone wrong. Nothing to do with his book, or the chalk men. Just a couple of little thugs out to score a quick buck.”
“I suppose. Do they know who the kids are?”
“I heard one of them is from your school. Danny Myers?”
Danny Myers. I should feel surprised, but I’m not. It seems that nothing much can surprise me about human nature anymore. Still…
“You don’t look convinced,” Hoppo says.
“About Danny mugging someone? I can see him doing something stupid to impress his mates. But killing Mickey…”
I’m not convinced. It’s too pat. Too easy. Too much like making an “ ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ ” And there’s something else, niggling at the back of my mind.
The same stretch of riverside path.
I shake my head. “I’m sure Gav’s right. It’s probably the most likely explanation.”
“Kids today, eh?” Hoppo says.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Who knows what they’re capable of.”
There’s a pause. It lengthens. We sip our pints.
Eventually, I say, “Mickey would be really pissed off at being called a ‘former local resident.’ He’d have expected ‘high-flying ad exec’ at the very least.”
“Yeah. Well, ‘local’ is probably not the worst thing he’s been called,” Gav says. And then his face grows hard. “I still can’t believe he paid Chloe to spy on you. And sent us those letters.”
“I think he just wanted to spice up his book,” I say. “The letters were his way of creating a plot device.”
“Well, Mickey was always good at making stuff up,” Hoppo says.
“And stirring shit up,” Gav adds. “Let’s just hope that’s an end to it now.”
Hoppo raises his pint. “I’ll drink to that.”
I reach for my drink, but I must be a little distracted. My hand knocks the pint, sending it toppling over. I manage to grab the glass to stop it shattering on the floor, but ale slops out, over the side of the table, onto Gav’s lap.
Gav waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He brushes at his jeans, wiping off the spilled beer. I’m struck again by the contrast between his strong hands and the thin, wasted muscles of his legs.
Strong legs.
The words
leap into my mind, unbidden.
He’s got them all fooled.
I stand, so quickly I almost send the rest of the drinks flying.
It’s where they used to meet sometimes.
Gav grabs his pint. “What the hell?”
“I was right,” I say.
“About what?”
I stare at them. “I was wrong, but I was right. I mean, it’s crazy. Hard to believe but…it makes sense. Fuck. It all makes sense.”
The devil, in disguise. Confess.
“Ed, what are you talking about?” Hoppo asks.
“I know who killed Waltzer Girl. Elisa. I know what happened to her.”
“What?”
“An act of God.”
—
“I told you on the phone, Mr. Adams. It is past visiting hours.”
“And I told you I need to see him. It’s important.”
The nurse—the same stout, stern one who greeted me before—stares at the three of us. (Hoppo and Fat Gav insisted on coming along, too. The old gang. On one final adventure.)
“A matter of life or death, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“And it can’t wait till morning?”
“No.”
“The reverend isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
She gives me an odd look. And I realize. She knows. They all know, and no one has ever said anything.
“I suppose it doesn’t look so good, does it?” I say. “When residents get out? When you find them wandering. Better perhaps that you keep things like that quiet. Especially if you want the Church to keep on giving you funding?”
Her eyes narrow. “You come with me. You two”—she snaps her fingers at Hoppo and Gav—“wait here.” She gives me another hard look. “Five minutes, Mr. Adams.”
I follow her down the corridor. Harsh, fluorescent strip lights glare down. In daytime, the place just about gets away with pretending it is more than a hospital. Not at night. Because there is no night in an institution. There is always light, and always noise. Moans and groans, the creak of doors, the squeak of soft-soled shoes on linoleum.
We reach the reverend’s door. Nurse Congeniality gives me one final warning look and holds up five fingers before she knocks.
“Reverend Martin? I have a visitor for you.”
For one insane moment I expect the door to swing open and that he will be standing there, smiling coldly at me.
“Confess.”
But, of course, the only reply is silence. The nurse gives me a smug look and gently eases the door open.
“Reverend?”
I catch the doubt in her voice just as I catch a cool blast of air.
I don’t wait. I push past her. The room is empty, the window hanging wide open, curtains flapping in the evening breeze. I turn back to the nurse.
“You don’t have safety locks on your windows?”
“It never seemed necessary…” she stumbles.
“Yeah, even though he’s gone walkies before?”
She stares steadily back at me. “He only walks when he is upset.”
“And I suppose he was upset today.”
“Actually, yes. He had a visitor. It left him agitated. But he never goes far.”
I run to the window and peer out. Twilight is bringing its shades down fast but I can just make out the black mass of the woods. Not far to walk at all. And from here, across the grounds, who would have seen him?
“He can’t come to any harm,” she continues. “Usually he finds his way back on his own.”
I spin round. “You said he had a visitor. Who?”
“His daughter.”
Chloe. She came to say goodbye. A cloud of dread descends.
Night or two camping in the woods doesn’t hurt.
“I need to sound the alarm,” the nurse says.
“No. You need to call the police. Now.”
I sling my leg over the windowsill.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Into the woods.”
—
They are smaller than when we were children. This is not adult perception. The woods really have been cut back, bit by bit, by the housing estate that grew faster than the old oaks and sycamores beside it. Tonight, however, the woods seem huge again, massive. Full of darkness, danger and forbidden things.
This time, I lead the way, feet snapping and crunching on dead leaves and twigs, a torch lent to me (reluctantly) by Nurse Congeniality, picking out the route ahead. Once or twice the beam catches the glowing eyes of some animal before it scuttles away again, into the cover of blackness. There are night creatures and day creatures, I think. Despite my insomnia and sleepwalking, I am not a night creature, not really.
“You okay?” Hoppo whispers behind me, making me jump.
He insisted on coming with me. Gav is waiting back at the home, to make sure they really do call the police.
“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Just thinking back to when we were kids in the woods.”
“Yeah,” Hoppo whispers back. “Me, too.”
I wonder why we are whispering. There’s no one to hear us. No one but the night creatures. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he isn’t here. Maybe Chloe listened to me and booked into a hostel somewhere. Maybe…
The scream rises from the woods like an echoing banshee. The trees seem to shiver and a cloud of flapping black wings rises high into the night sky.
I look at Hoppo, and we both break into a run, the torch light bobbing jaggedly in front of us. We dodge branches and leap tangled weeds…and emerge into a small clearing, just like before. Just like my dream.
I stop, and Hoppo lumbers into the back of me. I shine the torch around. On the ground in front of us is a small one-person tent, partially collapsed. In front of it, a rucksack and a pile of clothes. She’s not here. I feel a momentary relief…and then I swing the torch back round. The pile of clothes. Too big. Too bulky. Not clothes. A body.
No! I run forward and fall to my knees. “Chloe.”
I pull back the hoodie. Her face is pale, there are red marks around her neck, but she’s breathing. Shallow, faint, but breathing. Not dead. Not yet.
We must have got here just in time, and as much as I wanted to see him, to confront him, that will have to wait. For now, making sure Chloe is okay is more important. I look over at Hoppo, who hovers uncertainly at the edge of the clearing.
“We need to call an ambulance.”
He nods, pulls out his phone, and frowns. “Hardly any signal.” Still he raises it to his ear…
…and suddenly it’s gone. Not just his phone, but his ear. Where it used to be, there’s now a gaping bloody hole. I see a flash of silver, a spurt of dark, red blood, and then his arm drops to his waist, tethered by a few ropy bits of muscle.
I hear a scream. Not Hoppo’s. He stares at me mutely then simply crumples to the ground with a guttural groan. The scream is mine.
The reverend steps over Hoppo’s prone body. An ax hangs from one hand, shiny and wet with blood. He’s wearing gardener’s overalls on top of his pajamas.
He was dressed in overalls, like a workman, and he had a limp.
One leg drags now as he stumbles unsteadily toward me. His breathing is ragged, his face gaunt and waxy. He looks like a dead man walking, except for his eyes. They’re very much alive, and blazing with a light I have only encountered once before. With Sean Cooper. Illuminated by madness.
I struggle to my feet. Every nerve ending is telling me to run. But how can I leave Chloe and Hoppo? More to the point, how long does Hoppo have till he bleeds to death? Distantly, I think I can hear sirens. Maybe my imagination. On the other hand, if I can keep him talking…
“So you’re going to kill us all? Isn’t murder a sin, Reverend?”
“ ‘The soul who sins shall die. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.’ ”
; I stand my ground even as I feel my legs weaken, watching droplets of Hoppo’s blood drip from that shiny blade. “Is that why you wanted to kill Hannah? Because she was a sinner?”
“ ‘For on account of a harlot, one is reduced to a loaf of bread. And an adulteress hunts for the precious life. Can a man take fire in his bosom and his clothes not be burned?’ ”
He moves closer, lame leg raking up dead leaves, ax still swinging. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a biblical Terminator. Still, I try, desperately now, voice cracking.
“She was carrying your baby. She loved you. Didn’t that mean anything?”
“ ‘If your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life crippled than with two hands to go to hell, to the unquenchable fire. And if your foot causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life lame than with two feet to be thrown into hell.’ ”
“But you didn’t cut off your own hand. And you didn’t kill Hannah. You killed Elisa.”
He pauses. I see the momentary uncertainty and seize on it.
“You got it wrong, Reverend. You murdered the wrong girl. An innocent girl. But you know that, don’t you? And let’s face it, you know, deep down, Hannah was innocent, too. You’re the sinner, Reverend. You’re a liar, a hypocrite and a murderer.”
He roars and lurches toward me. At the last minute I duck and plow into his stomach with my shoulder. I feel a satisfying oomph as the breath leaves him and he stumbles backward, then a painful clump as the wooden handle of the ax strikes the side of my head, hard. The reverend crashes to the ground. Carried by my own momentum, I fall heavily on top of him.
I try to push myself up, to reach for the ax, but my head is throbbing, my vision spinning. It’s just beyond my fingertips. I overstretch and slip to one side. The reverend rolls his weight onto me. He wraps his hands around my neck. I hit him in the face, trying to shake him off, but my limbs feel weak, the blows have no impact. We grapple back and forth. A concussed man battling the walking dead. His fingers squeeze tighter. I try desperately to prise them apart. My chest feels like it’s going to explode, my eyeballs are hot coals bursting from their sockets. My vision is shrinking, like someone is slowly drawing the curtains.
