[Ben Whittle Investigations 01.0] The Revelation Room

by Mark Tilbury

  Brother Marcus cocked his head to one side like a dog trying to comprehend a mathematical equation. ‘Yes, Father.’

  Ebb cut to the chase. ‘It’s Brother Tweezer.’

  ‘What about him?’

  Ebb regretted his decision not to eat a Mars Bar before climbing the tower. Vanity had prevailed over good sense. His sugar levels were dangerously low. ‘He tried to rape Madeline.’

  ‘Tweezer? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody well sure. Do you think I’m in the habit of spreading malicious rumours?’

  Marcus took a step back. ‘No, Father. It’s just a shock, that’s all.’

  ‘He defied me.’

  ‘I can’t believe he would go against you, Father.’

  ‘Well he did. Fact. End of discussion.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Whilst I was attending Benjamin’s inauguration. He tried to force himself upon her.’

  ‘I can’t believe—’

  ‘Do you doubt me?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘You’re not harbouring any ambition to be the Doubting Thomas of The Sons and Daughters of Salvation?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  Ebb felt faint. He gripped the guardrail. The sooner he got back down onto more secure ground, the better. He’d never liked heights. He couldn’t wait to get back to his quarters where a nice big family-sized slab of Dairy Milk was waiting for him in the fridge.

  ‘Did he actually rape the girl, Father?’

  ‘No. Madeline kicked him in the face and rendered him unconscious.’

  ‘So no real harm—’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been there. Period. I sent him to put Max in the kennel and fetch a blowtorch. I didn’t tell him to go up to my private quarters and rape the girl. He knows he’s not allowed up there under any circumstances. No one is.’

  ‘Satan might have used the girl to lure Brother Tweezer to your quarters.’

  Ebb took several deep breaths and tried to clear his head. ‘I thought so at first. But Jesus came to me in the barn and told me the girl is blameless. I’m afraid the Devil is inside Brother Tweezer.’

  Marcus looked away. ‘Are you sure, Father?’

  ‘Do you doubt me, Thomas?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Do you wish to undermine my authority?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Or perhaps you believe I’ve climbed all the way up here to tell you bedtime stories?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to join Brother Tweezer down the rabbit hole?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘It can be arranged. Benjamin and Bubba can replace both you and that useless article, Tweezer.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought Satan might be playing games with you.’

  Ebb smiled. ‘Do you think the Devil is capable of playing games with me?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Perhaps all that wacky-baccy has addled your brain and denied you the ability to think?’

  Marcus didn’t answer that. He didn’t need to. Ebb could see the guilt and shame resident in the man’s bloodshot eyes.

  ‘What are we going to do, Father?’

  ‘What can we do? Sometimes the only thing to do when a building is overrun by the enemy is destroy the building.’

  ‘Kill him?’

  ‘It’s the only course of action open to us. May the Lord have mercy upon his soul.’

  ‘Tweezer’s been a loyal servant. I shall pray for his spirit.’

  With Satan running amok, Ebb thought it prudent to pay close attention to Brother Marcus as well. ‘We must all pray for our dear lost soul.’

  ‘He served you well, Father.’

  Ebb gripped the guardrail. ‘Not well enough, Pixie-pea. But I won’t be fooled again.’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Whichever way the wind blows, I shall not bend. However much the tide turns, I shall not drown. However much the earth moves, I shall stand resolute. Unfaltering. A monument to all that is sacred. Do you understand me, Brother Marcus?’

  Marcus did. His head bobbed up and down like a lifebuoy in rough weather.

  ‘I want you to come down from the tower. I want the farm put into lockdown until we’ve dealt with Brother Tweezer.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Carry out your duties with competence and diligence, and you might very well replace Brother Tweezer.’

  ‘Me, Father?’

  ‘No. I’m talking to that parrot perched on your shoulder!’

  Marcus glanced at his right shoulder, and then looked back at Ebb with those shifty, glazed eyes. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Ebb didn’t think Marcus looked very grateful. He looked more like a kid who’d just swallowed a dose of bad medicine.

  ‘Do we have to kill Tweezer? Can’t we just try to drive Satan out of him first?’

  Ebb fought a compelling urge to hurl Marcus from the tower. ‘He is beyond salvation, Brother Marcus. I’m afraid he must shame the shovel.’

  24

  Ben’s hands throbbed, sending shock-waves up into his arms. His shoulders and legs were white sheets of pain. He watched Ebb and Marcus walk into the barn. Marcus was carrying a rifle. Thankfully, it was pointing at the ground. The two men stopped in front of the cross.

  Ebb looked up at Ben. ‘How are you holding up, Benjamin?’

  For one wild moment, he considered telling Ebb to fuck off and bury his head in a hole. Then he looked at the rifle. ‘How do you think?’

  ‘Has Brother Bubba been looking after you?’

  Ben almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. He’d tried several times to engage Bubba in conversation, but Bubba had ignored him. Either the big man was as dedicated to the worthless cause as the rest of them, or too scared to act against them.

  ‘I trust you are purged of all sin?’

  Ben didn’t answer. Arrows dipped in napalm pierced the back of his head.

  Ebb turned to Bubba. ‘What about you? Do you think the Devil has left our friend?’

  Bubba nodded. He didn’t make eye contact with Ebb.

  Ebb asked Marcus for the rifle. He then told Bubba and Marcus to take down the cross.

  Bubba unscrewed the crossbeam from the barn’s wooden frame. The two men carried the cross to the middle of the barn and lowered it to the floor.

  The blood drained from Ben’s head. Three Bubbas and two Marcuses loomed above him. Two of the Bubbas pirouetted like ballerinas. ‘I feel sick.’

  Ebb grinned at him. ‘You just need time to adjust.’

  Ben looked away as Ebb’s eyes left his face and orbited his head.

  ‘Untie the restraints, Bubba.’

  Ben felt pressure on his legs. It was as if Bubba was trying to bore a hole through his shin. But which Bubba? Bubba the mute or Bubba the ballerina?

  ‘He’ll need time to get his bearings,’ Marcus said.

  The pressure on Ben’s legs intensified. He tried to call out and tell Bubba to be careful, but the words stuck in his throat like Post-it notes. He closed his eyes.

  Ebb told Marcus to go back to the house and tell Sister Alice to put the girls in lockdown. Ben watched the words float around inside his head. White letters in an oily black soup. The letters spelled out something important. Ben tried to focus on them. Tried to string those letters together.

  Ebb prodded Ben with his foot. ‘Are you still with us?’

  The letters formed a word in Ben’s head: S – T – U – T – T – E –R – B – U – C –K.

  ‘He’s flaked out, Father.’

  ‘I thought I told you to go to the house and tell Sister Alice to put the girls in lockdown?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Ben watched the letters sink down into that oily soup. Deeper and deeper. The black soup was good once you got right down into it. A little scary at first, but once you took the plunge, it was as fine as an oil slick in a soup bowl could ever be.

  Ebb kicked Ben
’s right hip. ‘Benjamin?’

  Ben swam deeper and deeper into the black ocean. It somehow seemed safer down there.

  Ebb looked at him for a good while before turning to Bubba. ‘Carry him back inside.’

  Bubba nodded.

  Ebb grinned. ‘That’s what I like about you, Bubba. You speak your mind.’

  Bubba took a key from his overalls and unlocked the handcuffs.

  ‘Take him to the Brothers’ Room and keep an eye on him. He’s allowed water, but no food. He’ll be fasting for the next fourteen days. Do you understand?’

  Bubba nodded.

  Ebb slapped the stock of the rifle. ‘Come on, then. Chop, chop. There’s a million things to do before first light.’

  The black ocean was choppy. Ben bobbed up and down in the water. Bile bubbled in his stomach and leaked into his throat. He could see shafts of light above him where the sun pierced the surface of the black water. He tried to swim, propel himself up through the water to reach the surface, but his limbs refused to move in the thick syrupy liquid.

  Ben could see the hull of a ship just beneath the surface. No, not a ship. Way too small. A rowing boat. And Old Joe rowed that boat for all he was worth. Ben smiled. The smile peeled itself like a banana. Old Joe rowing a boat: that was just a joke to end all jokes. Old Joe, with one eye looking east, the other as blind as faith, paddling around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

  Three letters from the alphabet soup floated past him, rising to the surface. S – B – C. Ben tried to work out the significance of the three letters. An acronym? An invitation to play scrabble?

  ‘Hey, whatcha doing down there?’ Old Joe said from above him in the rowboat.

  Ben tried to shout to Old Joe, tell him to throw down a lifeline, but the words formed into white bubbles in the black liquid and popped. Poof. Just like that. Like a dream he’d never had.

  ‘I’ll fetch you some water,’ Old Joe said.

  Ben wondered why Old Joe would want to fetch him water when he was surrounded by the stuff. Swimming in it, you might say.

  High above him, the Stutter-buck of a motor stammered into life. Light shafted through the inky water. ‘Benjamin?’

  Ben tried to swim. Tried so hard to force those dead-end limbs to move. The light grew stronger, the sound of the motor louder. Something touched his lips. Something wet and cold. How was that possible? He looked up and followed the shaft of light to the surface.

  ‘Benjamin?’

  The rowboat vanished. The ocean vanished. Old Joe vanished. Ben looked up. Marcus held a green plastic beaker of water in one hand. The rifle was slung over his shoulder and held in place with a frayed leather strap. ‘Sit up and you can have a drink.’

  ‘Where’s Old Joe?’

  Marcus laughed. ‘Old Joe? There’s no one called Old Joe here, mate. You’ve been away with the fairies.’

  ‘My name’s not Benjamin. It’s Ben.’

  ‘Not anymore, brother. You’re one of us now. Once the Father swears you in tomorrow morning, you’ll be known as Brother Benjamin. You’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘I need painkillers.’

  ‘Sorry. No can do. We don’t allow artificial substances. If you want to sit up, you can have a glass of water.’

  ‘I’m in agony.’

  ‘Pain is all in the mind.’

  ‘You tell my fucking shoulders that.’

  ‘Swearing’s also against the rules. I’m telling you that as a friend, okay? Everyone curses once in a while. It’s to be expected. But if you want my advice, make sure the Father is out of earshot.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘You’ll learn. It’s up to you whether you want to do it the easy way or the hard way.’

  Ben forced himself to sit up. His shoulders and knee would never recover from his ordeal on the cross. He just wanted to dive back into the soothing black water again and never resurface.

  Marcus handed him the water. ‘Don’t gulp it; you might throw up.’

  Ben ignored him and drained the water in one long draught. Water had never tasted so good. So cold and invigorating. What the hell did it matter if he threw up? In the grand scheme of things, throwing up was the least of his worries.

  Ben’s stomach suddenly felt as if it was in the grip of giant pincers. He dropped the beaker on the floor and bent double.

  Marcus put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Whoa there, buddy. I told you to take it easy.’

  Ben rocked back and forth on the bed. He dry-retched several times. Bile burned the back of his throat.

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got work to do. Brother Bubba will look after you if you need anything. Right, Bubba?’

  Bubba grunted and rolled over on his bunk.

  ‘You can have my bunk for the night,’ Marcus said. ‘There’s a bucket in the corner of the room if you need to take a leak.’

  Ben stared at the bare boards as Marcus walked out of the room and locked the door behind him. He’d never given much consideration to the concept of Hell. But now he knew for sure that Hell existed.

  And he was in it.

  25

  Edward Ebb sat at the kitchen table, deep in contemplation. The Lord had laid plenty of food for thought at his table. Overladen it, you might say, but Ebb was old enough and wise enough to understand that Jesus would never ask him to do anything beyond his capabilities.

  A fact clearly illustrated the night Jesus had told him to kill his own mother. Right out of the blue, like a midge on a hot summer’s day, Jesus had interrupted Alan Titchmarsh during a gardening program on BBC Two to tell him that his mother must shame the shovel.

  Uncle Reg, the latest in a long line on uncles, had been watching the TV whilst Ebb had been trying to do his homework at the dining table. Jesus had waited for Uncle Reg to nip to the loo before demonstrating the art of shaming the shovel. The great man had used a pumpkin as a substitute head. He’d smashed that thing to a pulp. Liquidised it. Beaten every drop of juice out of it. Jesus had also performed a miracle to rival His water into wine trick: He’d turned the flesh and juice of the pumpkin into blood and brain matter. His white robe had looked more like a butcher’s apron than a holy gown. The program had concluded with Titchmarsh planting a row of runner beans in the blood-soaked ground and telling viewers about the importance of fertile soil.

  Ebb had needed no second invitation to beat his mother to death. No, sir. But even at the tender age of sixteen, he knew a murder required proper planning. Especially the murder of a close family member. The police always looked in the victim’s own backyard before they poked their noses further afield.

  Knowing the right time to kill his mother was simple. She got drunk in the mornings, slept it off in the afternoons, and started again in the evenings. Easy-peasy, vodka and lemon-squeezy. He’d just have to find a good way to get himself out of school in the afternoon, nip home and smash her pumpkin to pieces with a shovel, and get back to school again without being missed. One problem though: teachers had a nasty habit of checking your attendance in class. Even Miss Parsons, and she was blind in one eye.

  After weeks and weeks of trying to find a solution to his conundrum, the answer came by virtue of a cross-country race. With their usual lack of concern for kids that hated sports and loved chocolate, the school had set up a two-hour course, which at its furthest point ran close to the river. The plan was simple by design. All he had to do was leave the race, go home, bash his mother’s head in with Uncle Reg’s shovel, and rejoin the race.

  But here was the main problem: it would take too much time to execute. And there would be teachers planted along the route to stop the kids from cheating. As the race drew near, Ebb had wrestled with the problem, night after sleepless night.

  The answer had finally come to him in the early hours of the morning after a fretful night listening to his mother at it with Uncle Reg in the adjoining bedroom. All he had to do was cut across the dried-up brook at the back of the park to get home and back again wit
hout being seen. Then he just needed to injure his leg, so it looked as if he couldn’t move. Nothing as radical as a break, because that would hurt like hell on a cheese toasty, but bad enough to swell it up so he could sit down and wait for someone to find him.

  On the day of the race, Ebb consumed three Snickers bars to prepare for his marathon. The initial sugar rush soon dissipated and left him feeling sick as a dog. What if he threw up all over the murder scene? By the time he reached home, his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest. There was a funny tingling sensation in his head.

  He went to Uncle Reg’s garden shed and put on a pair of surgical gloves stolen from the school science lab. Uncle Reg loved the garden. Said you couldn’t beat home-grown vegetables. Jesus would have disagreed. Just ask the pumpkin He’d beaten to a pulp with the shovel.

  Armed with Uncle Reg’s shovel, he went inside the house and leaned the shovel up against the kitchen wall. He polished off four glasses of water. He then picked up the shovel and walked upstairs. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire, as his mother used to say when Ebb was still little and her brain wasn’t so pickled. He made a mental note to raid her chocolate drawer before he left. She wouldn’t be needing chocolate anymore.

  It felt as if someone was whisking eggs in his stomach. He stood in his mother’s bedroom doorway, the shovel dangling by his side. As predicted, Veronica Ebb was lying flat on her back on the bed that seemed to harvest uncles from the depths of its springs and lumps. The room stank of booze. He felt sure that if he lit a match, she’d erupt in a ball of flame. But he didn’t want her to die in such an impersonal way. He wanted to feel her die. He wanted to taste her death. Savour it and digest it so he could relive it, over and over again.

  This was for all the times she’d sent him to bed with a great big hungry bear growling in his tummy. For all the uncles who’d laid their hands on him when he was too little to fight back. All the times she’d woke him up with her howling fake laughter. The times her headboard had beat against his wall like a thumping reminder she was a whore. For all the times she’d called him Pixie-pea.