The Church of Broken Pieces

by David Haynes

  None of the acolytes spoke to Wilson or Donovan, they just stared at Frances, all perfect teeth and white smiles.

  “Good morning, Frances. I’ve bought some visitors, and... and two gentlemen who work for your son.”

  The room was warm. No, not just warm, hot.

  “Father, we ask you to take pity on...” The Reverend’s words drifted around the room. Sweat prickled on Wilson’s back and on his forehead. He exhaled loudly and looked at Donovan. He looked to be in some sort of rapture. Probably just a disinterested, fatigued haze. He nudged him with an elbow, making him jump. It was stifling. He watched a droplet of sweat run down Donovan’s cheek and into the fair stubble on his chin.

  His mouth was dry. Did he have a drink this morning? Yes, yes, Donovan brought them both some juice from... no, wait it wasn’t juice, it was coffee. That’s right. Coffee.

  “Many are the afflictions of the righteous...” Cavendish’s voice droned on.

  Wilson’s chest tightened. Just a fraction, a minuscule amount which he would not normally have noticed. But he felt it, all right. Just below the heart. He should leave the room, go and find the Doctor and get her to run some tests on him.

  He ran his tongue over his lips. They were cracked and sore. He could taste blood. Why was the Reverend not sweating? The words tumbled from his lips and became confused in the air above the bed.

  His way to the door was blocked. There were people everywhere. A woman was sitting on the foot of the bed, smiling up at him.

  He reached up to undo his top button, loosen the tie he was... No he didn’t have a tie on. John had got them some clothes from somewhere. Was she laughing at him now? At his clothes?

  “John,” he whispered. But his voice carried no weight, he barely heard it himself.

  A low hum.

  The pipes? The radiator? A low and deep vibration that set his teeth on edge. He winced. Nobody else appeared to notice it, nobody except John who was squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them intermittently. He looked like he was trying to clear a migraine.

  His chest tightened again, making him gasp. Cavendish paused to look at him, still smiling. His voice now gone completely, obscured by that terrible noise. The hum. Or maybe he was just mouthing words?

  Couldn’t they hear that damn hum? What was wrong with them? Where was it coming from? It was like a cloud, a thick and heavy cloud. Stifling.

  He put his hand on Donovan’s shoulder and the man crumpled under his touch. Wilson’s hand might have been a wrecking ball for the impact it had. Donovan dropped to the floor.

  “John!” Wilson dropped down beside his friend. He knew he was shouting but his words fell like a whisper. Donovan was out cold. His eyes rolled back, the whites gleaming like polished bone.

  He looked up. “Help me!” he yelled but they couldn’t hear him. They were smiling down at Frances Pace, oblivious to everything else.

  The hum grew stronger. He closed his eyes against the sound, as if that would close off his body’s reception. But it didn’t.

  A breath, a low-pitched, throaty breath on his neck. He couldn’t have turned even if he wanted to. That sound had taken all the strength out of him. It had removed his will.

  And all eyes, including the Reverend’s, turned to Frances, smiling, unaware of his situation. A slug-like shadow oozed across the ceiling above his head. He watched it for a second as his eyes rolled away and into their own dark cave. He fell forward, but just as his head hit the cold, tiled floor a word he didn’t recognize speared through his confused mind. It obliterated everything as it scorched through his brain matter.

  ‘Baphomet.’

  He knew it was important and that he should remember the word, commit it to his memory. And then the lights went out. Again.

  16

  Reverend Cavendish loomed over him like some demented clown, his smile impossibly wide.

  “Here he is.” His voice was full of the usual smarmy charm he thought he possessed. “You’re making a habit out of this, Mr Wilson,” he continued.

  Wilson tried to sit up but Cavendish put a hand on his shoulder. “I really don’t think you should move until Louise has checked you over.”

  “Leave him alone.” It was Donovan’s voice.

  Wilson pushed himself upright. Donovan was sitting beside him. Dr Hamilton was shining a light into his eyes.

  “Follow the light,” she said to him. “Good, that’s good. How’re you feeling?”

  “Chipper,” Donovan replied, rotating his neck. “Apart from this headache.”

  Wilson’s own head felt like it had been used as a hockey puck.

  Louise turned to him. “And you, you’re going straight to the hospital. Ambulance is on the way.”

  “Like hell,” he replied, a little more aggressively than he intended. “I mean, I don’t need to, my heart, my chest feel fine.”

  “I really think you ought to listen to the...”

  Wilson scrambled to his feet before Cavendish could continue. He almost knocked the Reverend on his ass in his hurry, in his dizzy, head-rush state. He leaned against the wall to steady himself. Its coldness crept under his shirt.

  “Frank, she’s right. No more messing about, you need to...”

  “If I’m going then so are you.” He raised his eyebrows at Donovan.

  “Fine by me,” Donovan replied.

  “Well I’m not going and that’s the end of the matter.” Wilson looked at them each in turn, trying to put his mind back together. He felt woolly headed, like he’d just come out of an Ambien-induced sleep. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was not going anywhere near the hospital.

  Reverend Cavendish was getting to his feet, wiping an imaginary fleck of dust from his shiny suit jacket. “I’ll leave you with Louise. I must get on. Excuse me.”

  He tried to step over and around Donovan, but Wilson caught his arm before he could leave. “Just hold on, Reverend.”

  The man tensed his muscles under Wilson’s grip. The guy was strong, no doubt about it. Was it a show? Cavendish tilted his head to one side. “Mr Wilson?”

  Wilson let go of his arm. “What happened to us? I remember you...” What did he remember?

  “As I told Louise, one moment you were both standing there, listening to my prayers for Frances, and the next, well, you were both lying on the floor unconscious.”

  Frances Pace. Wilson looked down at her skeletal frame in the bed. The equipment used to keep her in whatever state of life she occupied was gathered about her like robotic visitors.

  “Is she okay?” he asked, looking at her.

  Louise nodded. “Fine, see.” She nodded toward the bed.

  They all turned. Frances’s fingers drummed on the sheets as if she was impatiently waiting for someone. They briefly spasmed into a claw and then were still.

  Donovan got to his feet, aided by Louise Hamilton. “Man, I feel like I’m stoned.” He smiled at the Doctor. “Not that I’d know much about that.” She simply shook her head.

  “Where is everyone? All your... your visitors?” asked Wilson. He didn’t know why yet but it was important he knew where they were.

  “I believe they are in the next room visiting with Raymond Fearn,” Cavendish replied and then added, “Waiting for me.”

  “Then that’s where I’m going.” Wilson pushed himself away from the wall and felt the room tilt.

  Cavendish narrowed his eyes. “You wish to join us again? Is that really wise? Mr Fearn, unlike poor Frances, is conscious and aware of his surroundings. If you have another episode, you may frighten him.”

  Wilson gestured for Cavendish to leave the room. “I won’t have another episode, Reverend. Not today.”

  Cavendish shrugged and then opened the door.

  “Is it a good idea, Frank? We’re probably better off having a cup of coffee and taking a knee for half an hour. Isn’t that right, Doc?”

  Louise Hamilton exhaled loudly. “In my experience, if a woman tells a man what to do, he’ll ju
st do the opposite. And if he doesn’t do it right away, he’ll save it up and do it later. Either way, you’re better off leaving them to get on with it.”

  Wilson nodded at her but she put a hand in the middle of his chest before he could walk out.

  “I will put you on the ECG before you leave today though. I will be doing that.”

  He didn’t doubt it for one minute and he would let her too.

  She turned and looked at Donovan. “I guess you’re going with him too, then?”

  He nodded. “Someone’s got to take care of him.”

  She shook her head again. “And I’ll be doing some obs on you too.”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Wilson followed Cavendish into Raymond Fearn’s room. It was the same setup as the room next door. It seemed that the same faces were in the same place as they had been in Frances Pace’s room too. A woman sitting at the foot of the bed, a space at the top next to Raymond for Cavendish. There was even a clear area for Wilson and Donovan.

  He didn’t particularly want to stand in the same place but the visitors stepped back against the wall to let them through. Wilson tried to make eye contact with a couple of them but they weren’t interested. They just wanted to look at Raymond. And smile.

  Raymond Fearn looked gray, his skin pallid and waxy. Wilson had no idea how long the man had left to live but Raymond Fearn’s smile was warmer and more genuine than anything Cavendish or his acolytes could ever muster.

  His heart sank, tears scorched the back of his eyes. This was what awaited his dad, it’s what had been waiting for him for the last five years. Not here, not in this room, or even in a place like this but someday, and it was going to be soon, the Wilson family would gather around his dad to say goodbye.

  He knew the tears would come if he looked at Raymond any longer so he looked at Cavendish. The man clutched his Bible to his waist and started the same way as he had with Frances.

  “Father, we ask you to take pity on your son, Raymond Fearn. We ask...”

  There would be a big difference with what happened with his dad. A big, greasy, smiling difference. Neither Reverend Cavendish, nor anybody even remotely like him or his congregation, would ever set foot in a room where William Wilson spent his final days.

  As Cavendish spoke he waited for something, he didn’t know what, to happen. Something to knock either him or Donovan off their feet. He glanced at Donovan standing beside him. No sign of sweat or dizziness. He leaned into him, giving him a gentle shove. If he was going to fall over, he would at least fall into one of the visitors. But he didn’t budge, he just gave Wilson a What’re you doing? look and pushed him back. There was no hum, just the reassuring beep of Raymond’s heart monitor and Cavendish’s droning voice.

  When Cavendish finally finished his prayers, Raymond thanked him and everyone else in the room. He didn’t look in pain, although that was probably due to medication. He just looked content and Wilson had to concede that at least in some way Reverend Cavendish had contributed to that.

  As they filed out of the room, Raymond’s family were waiting outside the door. Raymond’s daughter, Wilson assumed, grabbed both of the Reverend’s hands, pulling them to her breasts.

  “Thank you, Reverend. Thank you so much for looking after Dad. Without you, I’m sure it would have been different. Everything would have been different. Worse. I hope this helps the Church.”

  She let go of his hands, and Benjamin Franklin’s face was exposed in Cavendish’s palm for just a second. He showed sleight-of-hand as deft as any magician to maneuver the bill into his trouser pocket.

  His smile fell away, replaced by an expression equally hideous – insincere sorrow.

  “Tending to your father has been an honor, a pleasure, I hope will continue for some time yet. He is a strong man. Strong, kind and at peace and there is no greater thanks I need than the look on his face when we left just now.”

  Give her the hundred-dollar bill back then, thought Wilson.

  The family gave Wilson and Donovan, and their scruffy attire, a second glance before filing into the room.

  “Has that allayed your fears, gentlemen?” The smile firmly back in place, his followers gathered around the next door along the corridor. “You are more than welcome to join us for the rest of the day?”

  Donovan simply turned away. Wilson was slightly more diplomatic. “No, thank you.”

  Cavendish turned away and joined his flock.

  “You want to go and get that coffee now?” Donovan asked.

  Wilson nodded, scratching the back of his head. It felt like there was something nibbling away at the base of his skull, something with sharp teeth. “Coffee and a truckload of Tylenol.”

  They walked to the hallway past Margaret’s open doorway, and glanced inside. Two orderlies lifted her onto a gurney, her wasted body wrapped in white bedsheets. They looked away quickly and headed for the stairs.

  “Not so fast, gentlemen.” They both stopped and turned to each other. They recognized the sound of Louise Hamilton’s voice.

  Donovan grinned at him. “Thought you’d got away with it, huh?”

  “Well, you’ve got to have a checkup too,” he countered.

  “Oh no, a checkup by Nurse Jones! Whatever will I do?” His fake reluctance was pathetic.

  Wilson pulled a face at his friend. He wanted to say something far worse than a pulled face could convey but the Doctor was too close. She didn’t stop when she reached the stairs but rounded the corner, shouting over her shoulder.

  “Mr Wilson, follow me and Mr Donovan, you can go with Nurse Cleaver.”

  They both turned around. Nurse Cleaver was as tall as Donovan and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds. Nurse Cleaver was also a man.

  Wilson patted him on the back. “Have fun,” he said, walking past.

  *

  “Have you had any heart problems before?” Dr Hamilton attached the last sensor to his chest.

  “No,” he answered. “Not since last night anyway. And that wasn’t serious. They wired me up to one of these things in the ambulance so I’m not sure what...”

  “Just lie still, please.”

  He did as he was told and looked out of the window. Steady rain was falling again and elongated teardrops flowed down the glass in steady rivulets. Beyond the rain, the sky represented every shade of gray known to mankind.

  The thought of hospitals and what they represented had the potential to scare the crap out of him. And so he never thought about them. Simple. He had spent a lot of time in their sterile halls waiting for both of his parents to undergo treatment of one sort or another. Those halls with staff, and visitors, rushing to and fro from one emergency to another. The smell of medicine, of fear, of blood, shit and other signs of human decay were ever-present whichever facility you were in, wherever it was. It generated an air of latent hostility toward the human condition. As if something, or someone, was ever so gently and carefully beating the shit out of everyone who walked through the doors. They just didn’t realize it. It was too subtle.

  “That’s it, all done. You can put my shirt back on now.”

  “Huh?” He buttoned up the shirt and slid off the bed.

  “That’s my shirt. No question about it,” she said.

  “John’s idea of a joke.”

  She pulled the report out of the machine. “You’re lucky he didn’t come back with a dress then.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past him,” he said. “How’s it look?”

  “Yes, it all looks good, but...” She motioned for him to sit back on the bed. It flashed through his mind that someone would have died on this bed, probably quite recently.

  “That doesn’t mean everything’s okay, Mr...”

  “Frank, please.”

  “You still need to have more tests, tests I’m not equipped to perform here. Stable angina is usually brought on by exercise, like last night for example. If I had an exercise bike or treadmill, I’d make you run and then we would see where the damage
is.”

  He nodded. The word ‘damage’ wasn’t good to hear.

  “I can check your blood pressure though. When was the last time you had a medical?”

  “High school,” he answered.

  She opened a cupboard and brought out a small machine. It had a collar attached. “Your own doctor never called you in for a checkup?”

  “Several times,” he replied. “I just never went.”

  She wrapped the collar around his arm and switched the machine on. The collar tightened.

  He could see the bemused look on her face. “I’ve never felt the need. I’m a healthy guy.”

  “Not what this says. Your blood pressure is high, Frank. Very high.”

  “It is?” he asked. “But I feel absolutely fine.”

  “What happened an hour ago tells me something different, as does what happened last night at the mill. You need to see your doctor, but in the short term I’m prescribing something for the hypertension, see if we can’t bring it down a touch.”

  “Medicine?”

  She laughed. “Quick, aren’t you? It’s not the end of the world. Take a tablet with your morning juice and you’re good to go. It’s no biggy, Frank.”

  He nodded. It felt like a biggy. “Don’t tell John,” he said.

  She frowned. “What? Frightened he’ll make fun of you?”

  “Frightened he’ll worry,” Wilson replied.

  She nodded. “You’ve known each other a long time, haven’t you? I can see that.”

  This line of conversation sounded like it could run into an area where he’d be forced to lie about their relationship, their jobs. “We have. A long, long time.”

  Before she could ask him any more questions, he changed the subject. “Any problems with the heating in this place?” He remembered how hot he’d been in Frances Pace’s room, how the sweat had dribbled out of Donovan’s hairline in a thick ribbon.

  She turned away, rummaging in some drawers. “It’s all brand new. Why?”