[Ben Whittle Investigations 01.0] The Revelation Room

by Mark Tilbury

  Ma puffed on that Woodbine like a steam train. Her hideous features vanished behind a cloud of smoke. Ebb hobbled over to a fire extinguisher secured to the wall. He lifted it out of its bracket, released the pin, and aimed the nozzle at his mother’s image.

  His mother laughed. A witch’s cauldron kind of laugh. He was about to pull the trigger when the smoke cleared in front her face. But it was no longer Veronica Ebb’s face. It was Cyril’s leathery chops; not so much lived in as ransacked.

  Cyril grinned. You should have gone west, young man.

  ‘Cyril?’

  Cyril saluted. That’s me. But you can call me bunny.

  ‘You’re not there,’ Ebb shouted. He squeezed the trigger and emptied a stream of pressurised foam at Cyril’s face. The foam obliterated all traces of the farmer from the mirrored door.

  Exhausted, Ebb dropped the canister on the bare oak floor. It landed with a hollow thud and rolled several feet before coming to rest. Job done. That would teach Cyril to fiddle with his bunnies. He staggered back to the bed and sat down. His brain felt as if it was filled with treacle.

  You can lead a bunny to fire, but you can’t make it burn, Pixie-pea, his mother said from beyond the wardrobe doors.

  Ebb summoned all the strength within him to retrieve the discarded extinguisher. He raised it above his head and hurled it at the wardrobe door. The glass exploded and fell to the floor in a waterfall of fragmented shards.

  I won’t always be able to pick up the pieces, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb stumbled over to the bed and collapsed on top of the cool cotton sheet. His wounds begged Jesus for forgiveness. His heart banged in his chest like a blacksmith’s anvil. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the skylight. His mother’s face appeared in a cloud. The cloud resembled his mother’s pink wig.

  Ebb closed his eyes and begged Jesus for guidance. Jesus didn’t seem to be in any mood to offer direction, other than to reiterate Ebb’s belief that all the bunnies should go down the rabbit hole.

  His mother, God rot her soul, offered to tuck Pixie-pea in and read him a bedtime story. Ebb ignored her. She could mock him all she liked. Her caustic tongue was the least of his worries.

  Where the hell was Sister Alice? He’d asked her to fetch Brother Marcus, not give birth to him and raise him up on cornbread and potato wedges. He was beginning to have a nasty feeling about Sister Alice. What if she deserted him and formed a union with Brother Marcus? What if the pair of them were plotting against him right now? He was in no position to fight back. Tweezer’s barbaric attack had weakened him considerably.

  Ebb forced himself off the bed. He had a shotgun stashed in the back of the wardrobe, and he was willing to risk the wrath of Cyril’s ghost to get it. Anyway, the farmer was as dead as yesterday. He’d ploughed his last furrow and planted his last seed in God’s earth almost ten years ago. Ghosts were just illusions conjured up by the mind in times of stress.

  He skirted around the broken glass and gripped the edge of the right-hand wardrobe door. It took him all the strength he could muster to slide the door along a runner littered with broken glass. He forced it about halfway along before it ground to a halt and refused to budge. He had just enough room to squeeze inside.

  Watch out for the monsters, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb didn’t like it inside the wardrobe. A shiver unfurled a white flag at the top of his spine. The shotgun was propped against the wall at the back of the wardrobe. He started to whistle. Onward Christian Soldiers. Designed to ward off evil spirits. And jokers. And mothers in pink wigs.

  Run piggy, run piggy, run, run, run, before farmer gets you with his gun, gun, gun.

  Ebb panicked at the sound of Cyril’s voice. He yanked clothes off the hanging rail and hurled them onto the bedroom floor, just in case the farmer might surprise him and launch an unprovoked attack. His best Armani suit landed in a heap a few feet shy of the bed. He would have to deal with the aftermath of his actions later. Suits could be dry cleaned. Shirts could be ironed. Wardrobe doors could be replaced.

  He gasped for air. With most of the contents of the rail now relocated on the floor, Ebb grabbed the shotgun along with a box of cartridges. He retreated before his mother got any bright ideas about locking him inside. And she would. She enjoyed locking him in confined spaces. Just ask his childhood if you wanted proof.

  He closed the door and moved away from the wardrobe as quickly as his injured leg would allow. He put the shotgun and the box of cartridges down on the bed and then turned to face the mirrored glass.

  ‘Not so brave now, are you?’

  Cyril and his mother exercised their right to remain silent.

  He hoped with all his heart he didn’t have to use the gun on Sister Alice. He didn’t want to kill her. She’d been a loyal servant. Almost like a mother. Unlike that uncle-dunking witch pinned to a cross down in the Revelation Room, sunglasses hiding the hallmarks of tainted love.

  It was becoming increasingly obvious that Tweezer’s poison had infected Brother Marcus. But Sister Alice? Surely not.

  ‘Why has thou forsaken me, Lord?’

  The Lord didn’t answer. Probably engaged in denying Tweezer entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. And rightly so. The Lord had no place for rapists at his top table. The best Tweezer could hope for was purgatory.

  Ebb picked up the shotgun. It felt weighty. Both barrels were still intact, no bank-robbing villain had mutilated it with a hacksaw. He checked the safety catch. On. Good. He knew it was loaded because Cyril Penghilly had always kept it loaded. Cyril had been rather fond of his Smith and Wesson twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun. Cyril pronounced it Smiff and Wasson. He claimed it could take a cow down from a hundred yards. Ebb thought Cyril inclined to exaggeration, but he didn’t doubt the gun’s potency. It certainly looked dangerous.

  Dangerous enough to shoot the moon, Pixie-pea.

  Ebb jumped and almost squeezed the trigger. He gawked at the wardrobe doors for signs of his mother. His reflection peeked back at him from behind the bandages. He looked like a bank robber who’d put on his mask all wrong. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He needed a holiday. Not just a weekend in London. A proper holiday.

  ‘When my work is done here, I’m emigrating,’ he promised his reflection. ‘Thailand. The Philippines. Cambodia. Africa.’

  Somewhere with a vibrant sex trade, Pixie-pea?

  Ebb released the safety catch and squeezed the trigger. The force of the blast threw him off balance. His mother’s reflection shattered into a thousand glass fragments. He dropped the gun and fell back onto the bed. His right shoulder felt as if it had been butted by one of Cyril’s bulls. Dozens of tiny pink wigs danced before his eyes.

  34

  Brother Marcus stood at the top of the tower and surveyed all. The courtyard and outbuildings looked tiny from his perch fifty feet above the ground. Almost far enough away to look like a child’s toy farm. But Penghilly’s Farm was no toy.

  Marcus tried to shake the image of Tweezer’s dead body from his head. He couldn’t. He was now a cold-blooded killer with a guilty conscience to prove it. It was written in Tweezer’s blood down in that chamber of horrors, the Revelation Room. He couldn’t even claim self-defence, because he’d not been defending himself; he’d been defending the Father.

  To make matters worse, if they could actually get any worse, he’d killed Max. Once the Father knew that his beloved pampered mutt was dead, the shit would really hit the fan. Marcus was sorely tempted to leap from the tower and leave his life in a heap of broken bones on the courtyard floor below.

  He rested the rifle against the railings and peered over the edge. How long would it take to hit the ground? Ten seconds? Twenty? How long before his spine was shoved up through the top of his head? Would there be anyone waiting to escort him to Heaven?

  After what you’ve done?

  ‘I had no choice.’

  Tweezer was like a brother to you. Tweezer looked after you when you joined the group. He took you under hi
s wing.

  ‘I had to save Ebb.’

  Bullshit. You shot the wrong man. You know it, I know it, and Uncle Tom Cobley knows it.

  ‘I had no choice.’

  If you jump, what happens to Emily?

  Marcus gripped the rail like a man on the world’s most dangerous rollercoaster ride. Marcus had loved Emily from the very first day he’d seen her in Oxford. Loved her vulnerability and her stubbornness, both of which she had in equal measures. Loved the way she looked at him with her head cocked to one side. The way she smiled. The way they made love.

  She’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake.

  Marcus shook his head. Women were always missing periods and getting sick in the mornings.

  So you’re just going to abandon her like you’ve abandoned everything else in your life?

  He looked at the rifle and laughed. ‘So shoot me.’ He put one foot on the bottom rail and stepped up so as his waist was level with the top. He noticed how dark the sky looked. As dark as his heart. The wind whispered conspiracy theories among the trees.

  He wondered whether to go head first or feet first? Or maybe hang over the side.

  A woman’s voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

  For one bizarre moment, Marcus thought that his guardian angel had spoken to him.

  ‘Brother Marcus?’

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Sister Alice walking towards him. He jumped off the rail.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He picked up the rifle and aimed it over the guardrail. ‘Nothing. I was just trying to exercise my legs. I’m as stiff as a board.’

  Alice pursed her lips. ‘You want to be careful on that rail. One slip and you’ll make a nasty mess all over the courtyard.’

  Marcus laughed. The laugh sounded as hollow and lost as he felt inside.

  ‘The Father wants to see you.’

  Marcus’s heart stopped. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve been a naughty boy.’

  ‘I haven’t done nothing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call getting Sister Emily pregnant “nothing.” I’d call it a big fat something.’

  Marcus tried to swallow. ‘Pregnant?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Pregnant. Up the duff. Bun in the oven.’

  Marcus looked at Sister Alice as if she’d just issued a death warrant. ‘She’s not pregnant.’

  ‘The girl’s pregnant, all right. And according to her, you’re the father. Anyway, I’m not here to get into a lengthy discussion about it. The Father wants to see you, and if you want my advice, you’ll accept what’s coming to you.’

  ‘Emily’s lying.’

  ‘Young girls don’t lie about such matters.’

  Marcus snorted. ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No, they don’t. Do you want to know how I know this?’

  Marcus didn’t.

  ‘Because for reasons beyond my comprehension, young girls are invariably in love with those who take their virginity. And Sister Emily is clearly in love with you.’

  Marcus stalled for time. ‘It could be Tweezer’s.’

  Alice wasn’t having any of it. ‘No. It’s yours. And now you must answer for your actions.’

  Marcus looked over the railing. Maybe he could throw himself over the edge before Sister Alice had time to react. But there was something about that smug look on her face that seemed to invite confrontation. He levelled the gun at his accuser. ‘You’re not in any position to tell me what to do.’

  ‘Put the gun down.’

  ‘You can’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I’m in charge now.’

  ‘Since when?’

  Alice stared at the rifle. ‘Since you and Tweezer betrayed the Father.’

  Marcus’s shoulders shook. The rifle suddenly felt so much heavier. The first drops of rain fell as if the clouds were shedding tears of grief. ‘I haven’t betrayed anyone.’

  ‘First you get Sister Emily pregnant, and now you aim a rifle at me? What do you call that?’

  ‘I didn’t get Emily pregnant.’

  ‘Tell it to the Father.’

  Marcus tried to relax his shoulders. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Alice spread her hands out in front of her. ‘Come on, Marcus, don’t be stupid. Put the gun down.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I won’t tell the Father.’

  ‘Yeah. Right.’

  Alice crossed herself. ‘Forgive him, Lord. He knows not what he does.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ Marcus lied.

  ‘You can still be saved.’

  Marcus didn’t want to be saved. He wanted to get as far away from Penghilly’s Farm as possible. ‘Save your crap. I’m not listening.’

  Alice stepped closer. Just a half step. ‘You have Satan within you. That isn’t your fault, Brother Marcus.’

  ‘You move another inch, and I swear to God I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Is that what you want to do? Kill an innocent woman?’

  Marcus hacked a small laugh. ‘You’re not an innocent woman.’

  ‘I love you, Brother Marcus. Please don’t make this hard on yourself. I only want to help you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘And what do you think Ebb will do? Give me a pat on the back and put an arm around my shoulder?’

  ‘He’ll help you. Just like he helps everyone.’

  ‘Have you ever been in the Revelation Room?’

  Alice hesitated. ‘No.’

  Marcus saw a look in Alice’s eyes that seemed to contradict her words. Just a fleeting moment of recognition. ‘You ought to go down there. It’s a riot. He’s got three skeletons pinned to the wall.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘One of them is wearing a pink wig and sunglasses. It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sick.’

  ‘You’re deluded.’

  ‘And then Ebb tried to kill Tweezer with a shovel.’

  ‘The Lord is watching you, Brother Marcus. He’s watching you and keeping a count of all your lies.’

  ‘Do you know what that mad fucker called it?’

  ‘Called what?’

  ‘Attacking Tweezer with a shovel, you stupid cow.’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Shaming the shovel.’

  ‘You’re hysterical, Marcus. You’re not thinking straight.’

  ‘Shaming the fucking shovel. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I think you’re suffering delusions, Brother Marcus.’

  Marcus didn’t hear her. ‘Tweezer grabbed hold of Ebb and tipped him over. Bit a chunk out of his face. Would’ve killed him, too, if I hadn’t shot him in the back.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘I shot him in the fucking back, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I shall pray for you.’

  Marcus gawped at her. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t stay up here arguing the rights and wrongs of Ebb’s empire with this deluded woman. Perhaps he ought to just shoot her in the leg and get the hell out of there.

  And leave Emily to rot? It’s your fault she’s here!

  Marcus tried to reason with himself. He would never have brought Emily to Penghilly’s Farm if he’d known what was in the Revelation Room. Street-dealing was one thing, wholesale murder and shaming shovels? Jesus Christ, what a mess.

  ‘Please, Marcus. Just think about this, for everyone’s sake.’

  Maybe he would have time to get Emily. Take Ebb’s Land Rover and be miles away before anyone realised. Ebb was in no fit state to come after him. Or Tweezer. That only left Benjamin, Bubba and the girls.

  What if Alice bleeds to death?

  Marcus dismissed the thought. He couldn’t afford to get held up by compassion. He’d already made one monumental mistake by shooting Tweezer instead of Ebb; he wasn’t about to make another by showing concern for Sister Alice; she seemed a
s mad as Ebb.

  Alice moved with the speed and dexterity of a cheetah. She grabbed the end of the rifle before Marcus could even register what she was doing. Instinct caused him to squeeze the trigger. Alice twisted the rifle to one side. The bullet narrowly missed a red kite circling the farm.

  ‘Let go, you fucking bitch.’

  Alice held onto the rifle like a starving dog with a bone. She twisted the barrel left and right in sharp, jerking movements. Marcus tried to match her, tugging the rifle with every ounce of strength left in his body. They danced around the top of the tower like a couple performing some strange African ritual.

  Alice screamed and bared her teeth. She pulled Marcus towards her and then thrust him away. He let go of the gun and fell back against the guard rail. Alice tried to turn the gun around, but Marcus pushed himself away from the rail and leapt forward. He grabbed her by the throat and dug his nails deep into the soft flesh.

  The rifle clattered to the ground. Alice screeched and tried to prize his fingers away from her neck. Marcus dug deeper. He could feel her windpipe. He heard an awful hissing noise as she tried to draw in air. Marcus squeezed harder. He had to kill her. It was a simple matter of survival. Kill or be killed.

  Alice stopped resisting. Her body went limp. Her knees buckled.

  Marcus relaxed his grip. How long did it take to strangle someone? Seconds? Minutes? He didn’t have a clue, but enough was enough. He’d settle for unconscious. All that mattered was getting away from Penghilly’s Farm.

  As Marcus let go of her neck, Alice struck for a second time in as many minutes. This time, she poked him in his right eye with her forefinger. Her fingernail sliced into the eyeball.

  Marcus screamed and lurched backwards.

  ‘You’re going to die for what you did.’

  Marcus clutched his injured eye. A white-hot needle lanced his brain. His other eye tried to keep a watch on Alice, but tears drew a misty veil across it.

  Marcus saw a ghostly vision of Sister Alice bending over to retrieve the rifle. He stepped forward and kicked her in the side of her head with his heel. Although the blow wasn’t hard enough to put her out of action, it halted her progress.