by Mark Tilbury
But mostly, it was for the time she’d thrown him down the stairs when he was seven years old and almost turned her Pixie-pea into a mushy pea. He’d been unconscious for close on a lifetime. He’d woken up to find her bathing his head with a cold flannel that stank of damp and TCP. A few days later, she’d had to take him to the doctor because he kept having fits. She’d made him tell the doctor he’d been sleepwalking and took a tumble down the wooden hill. Ebb had done what mummy had asked. The doctors had prescribed some gloopy medicine, and pills to control the fits.
As he looked at his snoring mess of a mother, a thought struck him. What about blood? If he smashed her pumpkin head to a pulp, he would get covered in blood. It was one thing feigning an injury, quite another trying to explain to the teachers why he was covered in blood.
The shovel saved him. The shovel told him to go to the spare room and put on a pair of Uncle Reg’s overalls. That way, Ebb could stash the bloody overalls in the garden shed, along with the shovel, and get Uncle Reg locked up for life. Perfect. Ebb had almost fell to his knees and kissed the shovel. The shovel also told him to put his tracksuit on over his PE kit and wear his mother’s pink wig, just in case he contaminated the overalls with any of his hair and skin.
The overalls hadn’t fit. Uncle Reg was over six feet tall. The arms covered his hands, and the legs gobbled up his trainers and made walking a dangerous experience. He’d nearly tripped over twice on his way back to his mother’s bedroom. But nearly was as good as never as his mother used to say when she’d had a mouth capable of talking sense. To make matters worse, it was hotter than Hell in three layers of clothing.
Ebb picked up the shovel. It made him feel warm and cosy inside. The shovel understood him. Loved him for who he was. He moved close to the bed and raised the shovel above his head. In his excitement, he forgot about the brass ceiling light that Uncle Tom had fitted when he’d occupied Uncle Reg’s berth. The shovel clanged against it louder than a church bell at a wedding. One of the tiny glass shades smashed, raining a fine shower of glass down on the bed.
Veronica Ebb opened her eyes and gawked at her son. She looked like a chicken looking at the dreaded axe. She opened her mouth to say something. Perhaps to ask him why he was wearing her pink wig. Perhaps to beg forgiveness. Perhaps to say goodbye to her little Pixie-pea.
Ebb brought the shovel down on her face hard enough to splinter the bone in her nose. The corner of the shovel gouged her right eye.
Love of the shovel and hatred of his mother poured through Ebb in equal measures. He hit her again and again and again until exhaustion finally stopped him. Spent, he rested on the shovel, gasping for air and looking at the bloody pulp that used to be his mother’s face.
Ebb grinned. ‘You have shamed the shovel.’
Veronica Ebb’s face resembled a giant hamburger with bits of eyeball and tooth ground into the mix. Ebb wanted to stay in that moment forever, locked in a cocoon of pleasure, but time was ticking. He removed the blood-soaked overalls and took them to the shed along with the shovel. He rolled up the overalls and stuffed them underneath Reg’s workbench. He leaned the shovel against the wall.
By the time he’d got back to the cross-country course, nagging doubt had replaced elation. His head felt as if it housed a nest of baby birds, beaks open, waiting to be fed answers. To add to his problems, his plan to twist his own ankle wasn’t so easy to implement as he’d imagined. Every time he tried to roll the ankle over, his pain threshold refused to let him. Perhaps he could smash his ankle with a rock? Again, same problem. Self-preservation blocked the move. Ebb looked up at the sky and howled. He needed Jesus to tell him what to do.
And so Jesus had. In the guise of a rook sitting high in the branches of a massive oak tree. Jesus had gone out on a limb for him, you might say. Told him to climb right up in that tree and throw himself to the ground.
Driven by desperation, and Jesus’s encouragement, Ebb climbed halfway up the tree and leapt to the ground. His left foot landed on the rock he’d been considering using to smash his ankle with. His leg twisted and spilled him forwards onto the hard earth.
He’d spent the best part of an hour in agony under that tree, before Mr Gibbs, the sports master, found him. By then, he’d been convinced that there were vultures circling overhead waiting to feed upon his carcass. After first looking angry, then concerned, Mr Gibbs had called an ambulance on his mobile phone, and tried to pacify Ebb by telling him that only babies cried.
Ebb had spent the rest of the day in hospital having a plaster cast fitted on his broken left leg. By the time an ambulance took him home that evening, the house had been cordoned off with police tape.
He’d spent the following week recuperating at a neighbour’s house. Two days after the killing, Uncle Reg was charged with Veronica Ebb’s murder. The evidence was overwhelming. The only fingerprints on the shovel belonged to Reg. The blood-soaked overalls belonged to Reg. Reg the Veg was duly found guilty of murder and given a life sentence.
Ebb had left school that summer with no qualifications. He didn’t even bother turning up for the exams. He’d stayed in the house as long as he could, but with no money to pay the rent, let alone the bills, he was soon forced to leave. All he took with him, in an old brown rucksack, was a change of clothes, his mother’s pink wig, and the sunglasses she’d worn to cover her eyes when one of the many uncles had got handy with his fists.
He’d spent the next two years sleeping rough and begging on the streets. Fourteen years later, he’d exhumed his mother’s skeletal remains and pinned them to the wall in the Revelation Room. It was a shame that the original shovel was unobtainable.
He’d gone back once and had a look at the old house. It now boasted new windows and a new front door. Reg the Veg’s vegetable garden had been levelled off and grassed over. The shed was gone. In its place, a kids’ swing and slide set. A strange mixture of sadness and nostalgia passed through him. A yearning. A longing to break in and go up to his mother’s old bedroom and relive the beautiful experience of killing her.
But, of course, he knew better than that. Nothing could be allowed to get in the way of his destiny.
26
Maddie sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the floor. A filthy red rug covered the bare boards in the middle of the room. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling cast shadows across the room.
Dixie asked, ‘What did Tweezer do to you?’
Maddie looked up. She thought Dixie might have been pretty, but life had marked her face with harsh edges. Her faded denim eyes looked kind enough, but Maddie didn’t know if she could trust her. ‘Nothing.’
‘Sister Alice reckons he’s in deep shit.’
‘Language!’ Emily said.
Dixie ignored her. ‘Come on, Madeline. Spill. He must have done something bad.’
‘He came into the room when I was handcuffed to Ebb’s bed.’
Dixie raised her eyebrows. ‘And?’
‘I don’t want to say anything out of turn.’
‘Then shut up,’ Emily said.
Dixie told her to go to sleep.
‘I would if you two would shut up yacking.’
‘Why don’t you stop listening instead.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Moody cow.’
‘So would you be if you were in my shoes.’
Dixie let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Oh no, not the dreaded phantom pregnancy again!’
‘It’s not a phantom pregnancy. It’s real.’
‘And who got you up the duff, then? The Tooth Fairy?’
‘You can mock me all you like. I don’t care.’
‘Or maybe it was the Father?’
‘Don’t be revolting.’
‘Nope. Couldn’t have been him because he couldn’t raise a smile when it comes to women.’
‘I’m not interested in your filthy thoughts.’
Dixie laughed. ‘Perhaps it was the Holy Ghost, then?’
‘Piss off, Dixie. I’m not in the m
ood.’
Dixie turned back to Maddie. ‘What did Tweezer do to you?’
Maddie tried to think. Her thoughts were lost in a maze. Finally, she relented and told Dixie about the attempted rape.
Dixie whistled. ‘And you knocked that bastard spark out?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did Ebb say?’
‘He told Tweezer to get dressed. Then he said something about shaming the shovel, whatever the hell that is.’
‘Did Ebb do anything to you?’
Maddie shook her head. ‘No. Sister Alice released me and brought me down here.’
Dixie chewed her index finger. ‘You were lucky.’
‘You call that lucky?’
Dixie did. ‘It looks as if he spared you the initiation.’
Emily propped herself up on one elbow. ‘He’s all right if you don’t antagonise him.’
‘That’s not what I remember you saying after your initiation. You couldn’t walk for a week.’
‘That’s because I hurt my knee.’
Dixie rolled her eyes. ‘Course you did.’
‘He gave me wine earlier,’ Maddie said. ‘Kept going on about Satan being inside me.’
‘If he met Jesus Christ himself, Ebb would be convinced that Satan was inside him.’
Emily crossed herself. ‘You shouldn’t mock Jesus.’
Dixie snorted. ‘I don’t need to mock Jesus with that crazy bastard on the loose. He does enough mocking for the rest of us put together.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Maddie asked.
‘Christ knows. It must be at least three years, give or take a life sentence.’
Maddie’s suddenly wanted her father. Wanted to feel his arms around her, holding her tight and reassuring her. ‘I want to go home.’
Dixie walked over to Maddie and sat down next to her on the bed. ‘I can’t help you there, love. But I can help you learn to play the game and get through this if that’s any help?’
Maddie’s shoulders collapsed beneath the weight of the day. Her heart felt as if it was about to explode. Spill every emotion, every secret, every last piece of her.
Dixie held on to her as Maddie rocked back and forth on the bed. She cried for her mother, lost to a worthless civil war in Rwanda. She cried for her father, who would never see her again. And she cried for a life already over before it had begun.
After a few minutes, Dixie pulled away and rubbed Maddie’s arm. ‘At least that bastard never got a piece of you. That’s one up to you.’
Maddie nodded.
‘Brother Tweezer has always been all right with me,’ Emily said.
Dixie rounded on her. ‘Really? Maybe you can be Tweezer’s bitch one day.’
‘You don’t know me at all, do you? Just because I believe in what we’re doing.’
‘Believe in what we’re doing? Do you really think we’re going to build a spaceship and go to Heaven?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re more stupid than I thought.’
Maddie remembered Emily’s letter home. ‘What spaceship?’
Dixie rolled her eyes. ‘Ebb tells everyone he’s building a spaceship ready for the Rapture. What he really means is he’s getting members to milk their families to pay for his lavish lifestyle. You’ve been up in his room, Maddie. Does it look the same as the rest of the farmhouse?’
‘It looks like a penthouse suite.’
‘Exactly. He’ll ask you to get your parents to cough up, just like he asked Dozy over there to ask hers. How much did he ask for, Emily?’
‘None of your business.’
‘A hundred grand?’
‘None of your business.’
Dixie laughed. ‘You sound like one of those villains going “no comment” to the cops.’
‘Go to Hell. I know who I am and where I’m going.’
‘First she reckons she’s pregnant, now she thinks she’s going to Heaven to give birth to the new baby Jesus.’
‘Mock me all you like, Dixie. But it’s you who will pay the price on Judgement Day. Not me. Not Sister Alice. You. You and all those non-believers who think it’s clever to mock Jesus.’
‘I’m not mocking Jesus. Just you.’
‘You’ve so got it coming to you, Dixie. You and your filthy mouth.’
‘And you’ve got a cuckoo in your nest.’
Emily ignored her. ‘If you’ve got any sense, Maddie, you won’t listen to a word she says.’
‘Please don’t fight,’ Maddie said.
Dixie glared at Emily. ‘She’s as batty as Ebb.’
‘I’ll report you to the Father if you don’t shut up, Dixie.’
‘Would that be the same upstanding Father who grows cannabis in the basement?’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘Yes, he does. Marcus sells it on the streets, along with a shitload of other drugs. Do you know what he calls it? The Crop of Christ. The Crop of fucking Christ? How sick is that?’
‘You’re lying,’ Emily said.
‘It’s good shit. I’ve had some. Me and Marcus sometimes sneak out to the barn and have a toke.’
Emily sat up. ‘You’re a liar. Marcus doesn’t take drugs.’
Dixie took a deep breath and continued. ‘The basement is massive. Marcus says Ebb’s got cannabis plants growing under artificial lights. There’s even a ventilation thingy to keep the plants healthy.’
‘That’s all just a great big fat lie. Marcus doesn’t take drugs, and he certainly doesn’t sell them. He goes to Oxford to spread the word of Jesus.’
‘He’s a dealer, you stupid girl.’
Emily stood up. ‘That’s a lie, Dixie. Take it back.’
‘It’s not a lie. He sells heroin, crack cocaine, weed, amphetamines. You name it, he sells it.’
‘You’ll rot in Hell for all your lies,’ Emily shrieked.
‘And you’ll get a slap in a minute.’
‘He wouldn’t sell drugs. It’s wrong.’
‘What do you care?’
Emily opened her mouth to speak.
‘Well?’ Dixie persisted.
Emily sat back down on her bed. ‘God is watching you.’
‘Fuck God.’
‘You are so going to Hell, Dixie.’
‘I don’t care what you say, you silly little cow. I know it’s true. Marcus helps Ebb cultivate it. As for all the other gear, Ebb gets it from the contacts I gave him.’
‘Contacts?’ Maddie said.
‘Dealers I used to know when I was on the game. I used to carry drugs for my pimp. Ebb picked me up one day. I could tell straight away he wasn’t your run-of-the-mill punter. There was something odd about him. You get this kind of instinct for weirdos. You have to. Anyway, he came cruising along in this battered old Vauxhall Nova looking for a pickup.’
‘More lies,’ Emily muttered.
Dixie ignored her and carried on. ‘We used to operate out of my pimp’s flat. I took Ebb back there, but he told me he didn’t want sex. Well, like I said, I had a feeling about him. I mean, telling a whore you don’t want sex is like telling a barber you don’t want a haircut, right? So I’m thinking he’s going to ask me to do something sick. You wouldn’t believe what turns some of those perverts on. But no, not Ebb. He paid me fifty quid so he could show me Jesus.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Emily said.
‘I thought he was trying to trick me. Maybe Jesus was a code name for something. I was intrigued. I hated what I’d become. I wanted out. I’d been selling myself since I was fourteen. Selling myself and taking drugs to numb the pain.’
‘That’s terrible.,’ Maddie said.
‘You don’t know the half of it. Anyway, the more time I spent with Ebb, the more I realised he wasn’t just using me. The more he spoke, the more convinced I became he was genuine.’
Emily rubbed her stomach. ‘He is genuine.’
‘He told me he had somewhere safe I could go. Somewhere I would be protected. All I had to do was steal my pimp’s
money and drugs. And trust me, the flat was swimming in the stuff. Plus all the gold chains, watches and medallions.’
‘You stole it all?’ Maddie asked.
Dixie nodded. ‘We planned it for weeks, right there in the heart of Jazz’s shitty little empire. The day we made off with everything was the best day of my life.’
‘Stealing is also a sin,’ Emily reminded her.
Dixie turned on her. ‘Considering Ebb instigated the whole fucking thing, I won’t lie awake at night worrying about it. Anyway, we took off with the best part of a hundred grand, bags of cocaine, weed, gold, the lot.’
‘Liar.’
Dixie ignored Emily. ‘On the day we did him over, he was waiting to do a huge drugs deal. Ebb hid under the bed and waited for him to come home. Ebb had a gun and a hunting knife. As soon as Jazz opened the safe, Ebb came out from under the bed. Jazz’s face was a picture. He couldn’t have looked more surprised if an alien had landed a spaceship in the middle of the flat and invited Jazz to tea.’
Maddie tried to digest what Dixie was telling her. It was like trying to digest a fifty-course meal.
Dixie took a deep breath and continued. ‘If it wasn’t so scary, it would’ve been funny. This little bald fat dude pointing a gun at the man who’d made my life a misery for longer than I could remember. Jazz opened his gob to say something and Ebb blew half his face away. Just like that. Poof. Jazz’s head exploded. There was blood and bits of brain all over the wall. He fell to the floor, twitched a few times, and that was the end of Jazz.’
‘She’s making it up,’ Emily said.
‘We stole all the money in the safe. Jewellery. Drugs. Everything. Stuffed it into two massive holdalls and walked out of that flat as calm as you like.’
Maddie looked at the floor. What did you say to something like that? Congratulations? It pays to plan?
‘Just before we left, Ebb shot Jazz another five times. Then he knelt down and prayed for his soul. I puked on the way back to the farm. I was both excited and scared witless. For the first time since I was a kid, I was free. Free of Jazz. Free of punters. Free of beatings. I didn’t know that within a month I’d be wishing to Christ I was back at that flat and working the streets.’
