Ritual

by Ryan Casey

  What the actual fuck was he doing here?

  He thought about all the times he’d gone on stupid solo missions in pursuit of the truth. The Watson case. The Pendle Hill case. So many. And in all those times, the last thing he wanted was fellow police involvement to slow him down.

  But now, as he watched Chief Constable Jerry Matthews walk towards the unlit church, he wanted nothing more than a few of his colleagues by his side.

  Just a pity the man in charge of his colleagues was the one he was pursuing.

  Then, Jerry Matthews disappeared.

  Just like that. One second he was there, the next, gone. He’d walked around the side of the church. Or he’d gone in through the door. Brian didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. His eyes were stinging too bad. So tired. So stressed.

  He waited. Waited for a sign of life in the church. Waited for a light. For a clue that someone was around.

  Nothing.

  The longer he waited, the more his heart picked up. And the more he worried that he’d have a second heart attack. That he’d collapse in his car and someone would find him out here wondering what the hell he’d been doing before he died.

  What the hell he’d been doing with a gun by his side.

  He couldn’t die that way.

  He couldn’t just sit and wait.

  Not now.

  He looked back at the gun. Swallowed a lump in his throat. He had to get it. He had to take it out of the car. He had to go check the church out. It was the only way he’d know. The only way he’d see what was going on.

  The only way he’d find out the truth about the Children of the Light.

  He took in a deep breath.

  Reached for the gun.

  Wrapped his clammy hand around it.

  He sat up and looked out of the window.

  Someone was at the door.

  Two people.

  Three—

  And then he heard the back door click open.

  Before he could move, hands around his mouth.

  A bag over his head.

  Darkness.

  Fifty

  It was only when Brian started to drift back into consciousness that he realised he’d lost consciousness at all.

  His wrists were sore. So too were his ankles. Raw like someone had been rubbing sandpaper up against them repeatedly, again and again and again. Sweat dripped down his body. He felt like he’d been sweating for a while even though he was shivering cold. His vision was blurry. He was in some kind of dark room. No—not completely dark. Something in front of him. Something light …

  Light.

  It dawned on him like a knife in the middle of the chest.

  The Children of the Light.

  He’d followed Jerry Matthews. Followed him to the River Edge Methodist Church. Only Jerry Matthews had got out of his car. Disappeared.

  Brian had waited and waited and …

  Someone had surrounded his car.

  Three people. Maybe four.

  All wearing dark, faceless masks with three white chalk scratches on each cheek.

  All with leaves on their heads.

  All …

  Were they naked?

  His memory seized him. Made his muscles solidify. He had a flashback. A flashback to back at the Delforth house. Pinned up in the basement. Burned. Tortured. Almost killed.

  He remembered the smell of his own charred flesh. The screams of the woman beside him.

  He’d almost died of shock in there. He’d almost died in the nightmares that haunted him of that moment—no, longer than a moment—ever since.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d survive something like that ever again.

  But he got the feeling he was going to have to try.

  Piece by piece, his vision returned to his watery, stinging eyes. He soon realised he was surrounded. Surrounded by those same people he’d seen outside. Naked from neck to toe. Wearing nothing but a black cotton mask with three chalk marks etched on each cheek. Eyes staring out through tiny holes in the fabric. Leaves on their heads.

  All of them stood around a fire. A fire which burned in the middle of an old rocky construct. The floors of this room were dusty and concrete. Cold on Brian’s skin.

  But as soon as he clocked them, as soon as the fear started to intensify, they started to stomp.

  They stomped, kicking up dust with their bare feet. They chanted words. Words he didn’t understand. A foreign tongue. A language like no other.

  All of them, all twenty or thirty of them, all gathered around and watching him, all chanting as they stomped.

  Fear building in Brian’s core.

  He went to shout out but he couldn’t. A sweaty gag wrapped tightly around his mouth. He felt tears on his face. Ashamed to be crying, but fuck. Sometimes fear was so pure you couldn’t do a thing about it. And he was human after all.

  Any human would be unnerved right now.

  Any human would be terrified.

  They chanted and stomped for another fuck-knows-how-long before one of them walked forward. Walked up to Brian. A woman. Saggy tits and hairy vagina. Reeked of perfume.

  It was only when she squatted right in front of Brian that he saw the knife in her hand.

  It was long. Sharp. Seemingly unused.

  And it was moving up his chest … fuck, he was naked too.

  Moving up his chest and past his nipples, the sharpness tingling his body.

  Resting on his neck.

  Pressing against it.

  In the background, the crowd continued to stomp, continued to chant.

  “You wanted the truth,” the woman said. And it was at that point that Brian realised exactly who she was. Lilian Chalmers. Lilian-fucking-Chalmers. He’d known. He’d known all along. He’d had a chance to stop her when he suspected what was going on when George Andrews pointed him in the direction of the River Edge Methodist Church. But he hadn’t done a thing. He’d stepped aside. Because that was his duty. That was what he was supposed to do.

  “Now you’ll get the truth you’ve craved so dearly.”

  She pushed the knife further into Brian’s neck.

  He braced himself. Braced himself for the burst. The surge of blood from his jugular. The endless choking of his final moments.

  But then Lilian pulled the knife away.

  Stood up.

  Walked back towards the crowd.

  The chants grew louder. More excitable. More incomprehensible. The stomps intensified. And as Lilian moved back to join the crowd surrounding the fire, all Brian could do was shout from behind his gag. Shout as loud as he could. Hope for the best.

  Lilian turned when she heard Brian shouting. She turned and he saw her cruel eyes behind the black mask.

  Then she lifted her knife. Walked back to him.

  Put the knife to his mouth.

  Slit his gag away.

  Brian gasped. He heaved out thick strips of saliva and vomit onto the cold, hard floor.

  “Something on your chest, Detective?” Lilian asked.

  Brian lifted his head. Sniffed up the snot dripping down his top lip. “You won’t get away with this. Jerry Matthews won’t be here to take bribes from you forever.”

  Then he spat a bulky gozz in her face.

  He watched the gozz drip down Lilian’s mask. And as it did, he heard the stomping stop. Heard the chants quieten.

  He waited for Lilian’s mood to turn. For the knife to pierce his throat. For it to finish him, once and for all.

  And then something strange happened.

  Lilian started to laugh.

  And as she laughed, so too did another member of the crowd. And another. And then another and another until eventually everyone was laughing. Everyone was in hysterics. Like this was all some kind of joke. Some kind of setup.

  “You—you think we’re being bribed by Jerry Matthews?” Lilian said, sniggering and spluttering.

  Brian couldn’t respond. He couldn’t understand.

  Lilian put a hand on his shoulder. “We
’d better present Level Ten now hadn’t we? Maybe then you’ll understand. Bribed!” She burst into laughter again. Shrill laughter that made every hair on Brian’s body stand on end.

  And then the stomping started again.

  Only this time it was infrequent and frenzied, like the crowd were getting themselves worked up with a rabid intensity.

  Then he saw two people grab one another.

  Start fucking on the hard concrete floor.

  Then four others pushed one another to the ground and fucked, screaming and shouting and crying out.

  Brian couldn’t feel anything but fear as he watched the orgy unfold. As he watched the hard, loveless fucking occur right in front of the flickering flames. As old women mounted young bodies. As stubby old cocks penetrated anuses, vaginas, mouths.

  But something else caught his eye. Somehow, amidst all this madness, something in the right corner of the room caught his eyes.

  A boy. Young. Probably only in his late teens. Maskless. Naked. Hands tied. Fear on his face.

  He was being dragged out by a man in a mask. Only this man’s mask was different. He had twice the number of chalk marks. More leaves on his head too, with a couple of red berries perched on his scalp.

  As he walked out, the copulating crowd made high-pitched screeches. Like zoo animals.

  No. Worse than zoo animals.

  Because they attributed some kind of logic to what they were doing.

  Some kind of human logic.

  The man dragged the boy out into the middle of the crowd. And one by one, the crowd chanted familiar words. Words Brian recognised.

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  And then the man started beating the boy.

  Beating him with a long metal rod.

  Beating and beating the boy across his already-bruised back as he cried out from under his gag, screamed and struggled.

  Another man stepped out. This man only had one chalk marking on each cheek. The crowd picked up in excitement as they stepped in, escorted by Lilian Chalmers.

  She put him in front of the beaten boy.

  Placed the knife in his hands.

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  The man looked down at the knife. Shaking. Clearly uncomfortable.

  Then they looked at the beaten boy writhing around on the cold concrete.

  “Do it,” a voice said.

  The voice from the main man who’d led him in. Who had more chalk marks on his mask than any of them.

  Lilian walked behind the boy.

  Lifted him by his armpits.

  His eyes widened as the newbie stood in front of him, knife in hand.

  “Do it. See the light. See Level Ten.”

  The words echoed in Brian’s ears. His mind tried to find logic in them. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t attribute that voice to this man.

  He couldn’t attribute any of this to anything.

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  “In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”

  “Do it!”

  The newcomer lifted the knife.

  Slashed the boy’s throat.

  And as the blood spurted from the boy’s neck, as tears rolled down his face, as the screeching of the crowd reached new heights, all Brian could think of was the sound of that main man’s voice.

  The pungent smell of his aftershave.

  Every member of the crowd kneeling beside him.

  Hands together.

  Looking at him like he was some kind of god.

  Jerry Matthews.

  Fifty-One

  Brian stared up at Chief Constable Jerry Matthews, the rest of the cult worshipping him.

  Brian would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid. He was terrified. Terrified by the constant incomprehensible drone from the crowd. Terrified by the sickening stench of sweat in the air. Terrified by the fear he’d seen in that poor boy’s eyes before the newcomer slit his throat.

  But in a sense, he was relieved. Because he finally knew the truth. He finally saw it in all its thorny, distorted glory.

  The police weren’t covering up for the Children of the Light. Jerry Matthews wasn’t being bribed by the Children of the Light.

  Jerry Matthews was the Children of the Light.

  “It was 1995 that I joined the upper echelons of the Children of the Light,” Jerry said, walking towards Brian. The blood pooling out of the sacrifice’s neck sneaked under his toes. “I stood right here and I engaged in what you’ve witnessed just now. I reached Level Ten.”

  Whoops and claps from the crowd.

  Jerry Matthews walked closer to Brian.

  “Must’ve done well to climb the ranks so quickly,” Brian said.

  “I didn’t have to climb any ranks,” Jerry said. “Sure, I killed Alistair Crowley because it was just a part of the process. But I was already sworn in as leader due to my bloodline. An oath my grandfather passed onto my father, Horace. Julia Patricks, 1974. Does that sound familiar to you?”

  The pieces of the jigsaw slotted together in Brian’s mind. Jerry Matthews killed Alistair Crowley in 1995. His father killed Julia Patricks in 1974. Horace.

  “I get it. The Church of Bullshit’s a family heirloom of the cuntiest variety?”

  A few hisses from the crowd. It was hard to comprehend. Impossible to believe these were rational people.

  “You can pretend you aren’t afraid, McDone. But you are. People in your situation always are.”

  He crouched right opposite Brian. He had something in his right hand. Something behind his back. Something Brian couldn’t see.

  “Don’t think I can’t taste or smell your fear. It’s radiating from you in the thickest of droves.”

  “Tends to happen when the chief of police turns out being a psychopathic nutjob.”

  Jerry laughed a little. The white chalk lines strongly contrasted with his black mask. Brian did everything he could not to look at his body, at his penis. As bizarre a situation as this was, he still didn’t want to face the awkwardness of staring at his boss’ ball sack.

  “Y’know, people have mentioned the police. People who’ve, y’know. Known who I am. Sometimes people ask me why the police didn’t ‘sway’ me in some way. Make me see some kind of predisposed ‘justice’. But the truth is it didn’t. It just made my faith in the lord of the skies even stronger. My faith in the sun and the moon and all the forces above—”

  “Spare the religious crap, please. Just face up to what you are.”

  “And what is it you think I am?”

  Brian looked behind Matthews. Looked at the crowd of people all watching, some of them still hard from their mass intercourse.

  “I think you’re a sadistic murderer. I think you’re a dangerous cult. And I think you deserve wiping from the face of the planet.”

  Jerry snickered a little. “Well it’s a good job you’re the one tied up then, isn’t it?”

  He stared at Brian for a few seconds. Stared through the tiny holes in his mask.

  And then he pulled a long, sharp needle out from behind his back.

  “I apologise for what happened to George Andrews. He was a good detective just trying to do what he thought was the right thing.”

  Jerry un-cuffed Brian’s right arm. Pulled it out. One of the other cultists squeezed his bicep and tricep, doing all he could to bring the vein to the surface.

  “I apologise for what happened to your family. To Hannah and to Sam. But we had to send out a message to you. A message we hoped you’d follow.”

  Somewhere at the back of the crowd, an engine kicked in. Another cultist attached the needle to a thin, transparent tube. A tube that wormed all the way over to that machine rattling away in the corner.

  “But I don’t apologise for our sacrifices. For Carly Mahone.
For the others. They failed to reach Level Ten, and they paid the price for that. It’s cyclical. Every twenty and a half years and we can cleanse the world of those who pose a threat to us in some way. But the sun has mercy. They’re going to a better place. A much better place. And they’ll forgive us when they get there. They’ll see the truth, and they’ll understand why we do what we do.”

  He lifted the needle above Brian’s bulging vein.

  “I’ll spare you the pleasure of our usual procedure. We like to involve a lot more needles than this, typically. Alas, we don’t have the time to roll out the red carpet this evening. And you aren’t particularly important to us anyway. So you’ll just have to bleed out slowly. As for the hair, well. You’re getting on a bit. We’ll let you keep that and die with some dignity. Anything you’d like to say, McDone? Anything at all?”

  Brian’s mind raced. He felt sick. Didn’t like needles at the best of times, especially not blood tests. Made him feel faint. Made colours build up in his eyes. “M—Marlow,” he said. And it was the only thing he could think of to say. “He … he tried to stop me. Stop my work on the case. He tried to—”

  “Detective Marlow doesn’t know a thing about us,” Matthews said. He smiled. “He’s just a pawn in a much larger game. And I’ll deal with him too, in due course. His time to serve the sun will come.”

  Jerry stared at Brian a little longer. The machine kept on rumbling. The needle stayed perched above Brian’s vein. The cult members gripped his arm so tightly he felt like it was going to burst.

  “Anything else?” Matthews asked.

  Brian gulped down rising vomit. Held his stare. “I won’t beg.”

  Jerry stared back at Brian.

  “Good,” he said.

  Then he rammed the needle into Brian’s forearm.

  Fifty-Two

  Brian grew more and more lightheaded as the blood drained from his body.

  He wasn’t sure how much blood was in a person’s body. Should probably know it off the top of his head, being a police officer and all that. But he remembered overhearing it once. Being surprised. Surprised at just how small an amount it sounded. At just how quickly it could drain out of the body if someone tried to.