The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  Donovan was right about the water. The pipes chugged into life and threw out a weak stream of warm, not hot, water, and no matter how hard he worked at the complimentary bar of soap it wouldn’t lather.

  “Frank?” Donovan shouted.

  “What?”

  “Going to find us something to wear. Won’t be long.”

  The door slammed shut.

  “Good luck with that,” Wilson called, giving up with the soap.

  He had no idea what time it was but he remembered telling Dr Hamilton they would go back to the hospice for nine this morning. He very much doubted whether she would be there at that time, she may even still be at the hospital.

  That was a good thing. He didn’t think he could move quickly, whether his ass was on fire or not. Part of it was the nocturnal run and the way his body felt, not just his chest and heart, but his whole body. He’d never been hit by a car but it couldn’t be any worse than this.

  But the bigger part of his reluctance to move anywhere quickly was pure and simple. It was fear. It was the first time he had actually been afraid for himself and it was humbling. He felt it for other people all the time. He was scared for his dad, for his sister and for John, but even when someone had a gun pointed at his face he wasn’t scared for himself. Why should he be? He’d never looked into someone’s eyes and seen the capacity or the desire to pull that trigger, swing that bottle or bat.

  One day he would. He would find the guy who either had the look or just didn’t care, and then he might feel afraid. But then it would only be for a split-second anyway. Just before the lights went out.

  But there was no getting away from it, he was spooked now; frightened of his own body and how it might betray him again. He felt like a coward.

  13

  Reverend Cavendish was in a terrible mood. A mood so dark he was struggling to keep his smile fresh, warm and beautiful.

  Several events and the people involved in those events had conspired to put him down in that bad place. They had succeeded. He was still smiling though. Smiling with that delicious grin the good Lord had bestowed upon him. Just.

  First came the early morning disturbance by the moronic Sheriff. Four o’clock in the morning! What was he thinking? The Reverend’s remit had been made clear by those who hired him – to be a Community Champion. To be there whenever, wherever and however his community needed him. But at four o’clock in the morning? Seriously?

  And what was it all for anyway? It wasn’t as if any of the local ‘community’ were in any way troubled by the incident. Indeed, hardly any of them had bothered to climb out of their pits to see what all the fuss was about. Most of them were zombies in any case. Hardly any better off than the rich bastards in the hospice.

  The two faggy lawyers had been there though. The paramedics had been wheeling the older one, Wilson, out on a gurney when he got there. Shame he hadn’t died. Donovan, the other one, looked like he might have been crying.

  He looked out of the diner’s grubby window at dirty puddles on the road. Soiled and filthy like the rest of town. He was angry. He didn’t like fags. There was a boy in the platoon, Christie, who they all thought was queer and when the IED took his feet, legs and balls off in one fell swoop, Cpl Cavendish turned his back and walked away without a word. Just desserts, he thought.

  He hadn’t liked Wilson or Donovan before he thought they might be queer for each other. Now he knew they were, it made them unlikeable for a reason. Although he didn’t always need a reason to dislike someone, it helped when a perfectly good one popped up.

  He thought Donovan might like boys and girls though. One of those who couldn’t make up their minds which hole to put it in. They were the worst sort. You could never quite work out what they were thinking, or about which gender.

  He shivered. Donovan had been here in the diner earlier, talking to Courtney – dear old Courtney the Cutter or Courtney the Cooker, whichever form of self-harm she was currently enjoying. She and Donovan had been laughing. In all his days in Hemlock he didn’t think he had ever seen the girl smile, let alone laugh. Bitch would have lost her dead mom’s business by now if it weren’t for him and the Church of Broken Pieces. Some people had nothing to laugh about. She was one of them.

  It was a steak morning. He cut a slice and pushed into his mouth. It was delicious, as it always was. The girl knew how to cook, that was for sure.

  Was that singing? Could he hear her singing in the kitchen? Dear God Almighty! This couldn’t go on.

  “Courtney!” he called.

  No response, just more singing.

  He sighed, checking his smile in the window. He picked up his plate of steak and eggs. No, her behavior was getting out of control.

  “Courtney!” he shouted again. He had walked over to the counter. He could see her moving about in the back, wiping surfaces. Bending over the sink, her ass cheeks pressing against her waitress uniform. He started to feel aroused.

  “Courtney!” He kept his voice light and cheery despite how he felt. The gift of deception was a useful quality to possess. People didn’t know how to take you. It gave you power. He slammed the plate down on the counter. The knife and fork bounced off, scuttling across the floor.

  She jumped and when she looked up, her eyes were filled with fear. God alone knew what had befallen her before he’d arrived, he hadn’t managed to get it out of her. Something pretty vile, he thought. Abusive partner, maybe? No rush, plenty of time to find out. She walked toward him.

  “Oh sorry,” he beamed. “I dropped my plate.”

  She looked down at the steak and eggs. “Something wrong?”

  “The steak’s overdone, I’m afraid.” He put on his best apologetic smile.

  “It’s medium, how you always have it.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I asked for it rare this morning. Bloody.”

  “I don’t think you did. But I can cook you another one.” She reached to take the plate.

  Well that was no good. Questioning him? She was right, he had asked for it medium, as he always did, but that was no excuse.

  “But I’m not surprised you didn’t hear me.” He reached forward, intending to tap the side of her head. “All that singing you’ve been doing!”

  She flinched and jumped away from him. Fear. The thrill it sent through his balls was almost too much. Flesh 69 had nothing on this.

  “Don’t touch me!” she hissed.

  He left his hand there, poised in mid-air. The feeling was delicious. She was frightened of him. Not just a little bit scared but terrified of his fingers touching her flesh.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” he said, smiling. “I was only going to...”

  “I don’t care what you were going to do. Don’t you lay a finger on me, or... or I’ll...”

  “What?” he asked. “What will you do if I come around the counter and touch you, Courtney? Cut yourself again? Or maybe you’ll light one of those cigarettes you keep back there and press it to your arm. Mmmmm, I can almost smell the cooked flesh. Like a good roast pork, don’t you think?”

  Her eyes widened in shock. It wasn’t exactly a doe-eyed come-to-bed look, it was more powerful than that. It sent the strongest surge of sexual desire he had ever felt through his body.

  He withdrew his hand, afraid he might make a mess in his pants. Should he go around the counter and show her what she’d done to him? Unzip and show her? Yes, yes that was exactly what he should do.

  He flashed her his winning smile. “No need to be afraid, Courtney, I only want to show you how much...”

  His damn cell was ringing. Vibrating in his pant’s pocket like a damned rattlesnake. He smiled to himself, that wasn’t the only dangerous thing down there. But shit-a-brick, it just wouldn’t quit. He pulled it out of his pocket, almost throwing it across the floor as he did. If it was the fuckwit Sheriff again, he’d have to tell him exactly how he felt abut him.

  He looked at the number. It was his turn to grow wide-eyed. He looked at Courtney and then walked
to the door.

  “Reverend Hal Cavendish. Good morning, sir.” The display on his cell said ‘Adolf Shitler’. He’d programmed it in after the last call. Fortunately that had been two months ago but he was still very proud of the name he’d chosen for his boss, Theo Lunn.

  “Reverend Cavendish, I’d like you to tell me what it is that you think is happening at Hemlock Mill. At Kennebec Health Consultancy?”

  He stepped onto the sidewalk. “Perhaps you’d be better asking Dr Hamilton that question?”

  His answer was greeted by silence. That wasn’t good. He needed to watch his mouth if he wanted to keep riding this particular gravy train.

  “What I mean is, sir, I’m doing everything I can to prepare those poor people and their souls for the next life. I’m bringing them the inner peace they yearn for by reuniting them with the Lord. Our prayers are...”

  “Do you know how bad for business this could be, Reverend? Your livelihood depends on Kennebec Health Consultancy and the Church of Broken Pieces. Depends on it.”

  Pompous prick, thought Cavendish. It was a hospice. What exactly were they consulting on? How to lie in bed when the reaper came?

  “Of course,” he replied. “Which is why I will be doubling my efforts this week. I’ve already...”

  “That’s right, you will. I’ve made arrangements for The Deliverers to be with you later this morning.”

  “This morning?” asked Cavendish. “But it’s only Thursday, we’re not due prayers until tomorrow.”

  “Yes, they will be there tomorrow as well. At times such as these we need to show we are doing everything we can to protect our assets. That means the church and the hosp...”

  That’s right, thought Cavendish, go on and say it. Say what it is, you dumb fuck.

  “Health Consultancy. We still have your full co-operation, don’t we, Reverend?”

  “Absolutely!” he replied. He hated how his voice sounded; how it had changed since his brief thrill-ride with Courtney.

  “Because we have high hopes for you. The board believe you can go a long way with our organization. We don’t envisage your tenure in Hemlock Mill being the crowning glory of your career. No, we see a higher role for you, somewhere more suited to your talents. One of the bigger cities perhaps? New York, Boston, the list goes on.”

  Cavendish bristled with pride. He had never met the board, but hearing them mentioned in the same sentence as himself was wonderful. New York! A parish in New York and all that living in the city entailed would be... well it would be orgasmic!

  “What time can I expect The Deliverers?” he asked.

  There was a brief pause. “In around an hour.”

  “Thank you for the opportu...” He stopped speaking, the phone line was already dead. Adolf Shitler had hung up. He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody was watching and then spat onto the sidewalk in front of him. His mouth always felt dry after he’d spoken to Adolf. Not just dry, parched.

  He turned off Main Street and started walking up the hill toward the church. New York. Anything was possible in New York. Anything his heart desired. Maybe Adolf was just yanking his chain, making him dance around a bit, do what he wanted him to? But maybe he was genuine, maybe he could see the potential for good old Reverend Hal Cavendish. Maybe.

  He didn’t particularly care for the way Adolf called him Reverend though. It sounded like he was making fun of him, calling him a derogatory name. Substitute Reverend for shithead or cocksucker and it would sound the same, mean the same.

  Not that he was particularly attached to the word, or to what it meant, but it sounded like an insult and that wasn’t good. Still, it wouldn’t do to tell Adolf what he really thought of him, not when New York was in the pipeline.

  When Adolf and another shit-for-brains had interviewed him for the position, he’d only just completed his online qualification with the Universal Life Church. He had no idea what a reverend actually was. His qualification didn’t tell him, nor did it give him the right to call himself one. What it did do, however, was give him power.

  He had given his new profession a great deal of thought prior to taking the course, for which he paid nearly five hundred dollars. At best he was apathetic to God, at worst, he despised It. Not for causing wars or for causing famines, earthquakes, tsunamis or any of that nonsense. No, if the Reverend could have positively attributed those things to God then he might have some respect for It.

  No, it was the vague notion of Its power that made him angry. There was nothing definitive about the strength It allegedly possessed. There was no point in having all that power, all that energy, if people were constantly confused and unsure about it.

  Make it obvious. Why not show everyone that if they fucked with you, you could obliterate them in any way you chose? Give them a hideously deforming and painful illness, drop a meteor on them, inflict wounds at random to people who misbehaved. That was what power was about. Not this ethereal, wishy-washy notion of ‘He moves in mysterious ways’. Bullshit.

  But within the position of reverend was a sense of influence, of coercion and for those with the right aptitude, omnipotence. Qualities he very much admired but was unlikely ever to possess in any other job. It was an obvious, if belated, choice of career.

  The invitation to apply had been slid under his door in a pristine white envelope, addressed to Reverend Harold R. Cavendish. At first he thought it must be a joke. The only people who knew he’d been taking the course were himself and whoever marked his papers at the Universal Life Church.

  But when he opened the envelope and read the handwritten invitation, he found it impossible to resist. His new life awaited him. It didn’t once seem odd that such a position, within a new church, with power and wealth at his fingertips should come to him and his Mickey Mouse qualification from the Universal Life Church. It was destiny, proof positive that he had chosen the right career.

  He reached the turning for the Church of Broken Pieces just as a car sped past him, horn blaring. Traffic was light on the best of days but such noisy traffic?

  He turned his head just in time to see a car turning into the Kennebec Health Consultancy’s grounds. He recognized the bright red color of the Ford.

  “Fags,” he whispered, smiling and waving at them. What the fuck were they still doing here? They should be long gone by now. Maybe he ought to give them a shove in the right direction.

  14

  “Why did you wave at him?” Donovan asked.

  Wilson shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do. I thought it might irritate him, too, knowing we’re still here. He doesn’t like us, and I’m so, so sad about it. I’m trying to win him over.”

  Donovan laughed.

  “What is it about him that gets to you?” Wilson asked. “I mean, specifically and not just his general cheese factor.” He pressed the call button on the gate.

  “You know what? I have no idea,” Donovan replied.

  “Frank Wilson and John Donovan to see Dr Hamilton,” Wilson said into the intercom and the gate swung slowly inwards.

  “I pretty much took an instant dislike to him,” Donovan continued. “Don’t ask me why, it’s never happened before but I can’t shake it off. Courtney’s no fan either.”

  “Oh? What she say about him?”

  “Not much. It was the impression she gave.”

  “This morning?” Wilson pulled into the same parking place he had used the previous day. Donovan had not only come back to the room with a selection of clothes for them to wear, but also brought a couple of Courtney’s apple pastries and coffee.

  “He was in there this morning, same old smarmy grin plastered all over his face, looking like he’d just stepped out of a clothing catalog.”

  “Like me?” Wilson asked, looking down at his oversized Levi’s.

  Donovan ignored him. “I didn’t acknowledge him, pretended I hadn’t seen him. But the way she was looking at him when I got in there…” He inhaled deeply. “Remember how she was the first time we
saw her?”

  “Goddamn.”

  “Well, she looked like she wanted to stick forks in his eyes. And knives. It was chilling.”

  “What’s that about, I wonder?” Wilson opened the door and stepped out.

  Donovan walked around the car. “I don’t know. She’s a nice girl though, Frank. I mean, I don’t know much about her or anything but she’s... she’s...”

  “She’s a damn good cook.” He patted Donovan’s shoulder. “Now who’s getting flustered around a pretty girl?”

  “No, I’m not.” He sounded defensive which made Wilson smile. It was strange how these things started.

  “Where did you get this stuff, anyway?” Wilson gestured toward his clothes.

  Donovan smiled. “The thrift shop. Lucky they had your size.”

  “This isn’t my size,” Wilson replied. “I’m not even sure it’s the right gender.”

  “Course it is.”

  Wilson shook his head. “So why do I look like a reject from the Seventies, while you look like a musician?”

  Donovan shrugged. “I’m so very sorry they didn’t have a whole t-shirt rail dedicated to Eighties rock idols. It was the best I could do.”

  They took the steps to the door. “Are these lumberjack boots?” Wilson asked.

  “I think so, she tried to sell me some with cleats. I told her you didn’t need them.” Donovan looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  “They feel like they’re made of wood.” Wilson pushed the door and they stepped inside.

  They walked across the empty space to the nurse’s station. Nurse Jones hadn’t lifted her head to greet them.

  “Morning,” Wilson said.

  She jumped, his voice obviously a shock, even though she had buzzed them into the grounds.

  “Sorry.” She almost smiled. “Busy morning. We had a... Anyway, you’re here to see Dr Hamilton, aren’t you?” She pushed her chair away from the desk.