Savage Moon

by Chris Simms

  Movement to his side. The door to the building was opening. The limited view through Jon’s side window only allowed him to see a very shiny pair of black shoes emerge on to the top step. As the wearer began jogging down, perfectly creased suit trousers were revealed, then a light overcoat, smooth as though it had just been pressed. Definitely Rick and, shit would he regret coming out in his best gear! Next into view was a crisp shirt and perfectly centred tie. The side door opened and Rick leaned in.

  ‘Morning.’

  Jon took in the clean-cut looks and slightly damp hair. ‘You been in the fucking shower while I’ve been sat out here?’

  Rick slid into the passenger seat. ‘I dipped my head in a sink of cold water. Needed something to wake me up. Four thirty in the morning. Christ.’

  ‘You asked to come along if a church went up on my shift.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ He pointed a finger upwards. ‘I could see the glow from my windows. Looks like a big bloody blaze.’

  Jon put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb, thinking of Rick’s penthouse apartment, wondering how much it cost. ‘The Sacred Heart, a Roman Catholic church in Fairfield. All those fancy altar cloths and wooden carvings no doubt.’

  ‘From the direction I thought it was the big empty one by the side of the track if you’re on the train going out of Piccadilly. Next to Ashbury’s station, I think.’

  ‘The huge great thing with the green spire? That’s Gorton

  Monastery.’

  ‘Is that what it is? A monastery?’

  ‘Was. A load of monks used to live there. They built the church part and a school too. It was a kind of a religious centre for the local community.’

  ‘But no longer, I take it.’

  ‘No. Like so many churches round Manchester, it’s been derelict for a while now. My mum used to attend mass there right up to the Eighties. She could tell you all about it. Where we’re heading is about a mile east, along the Ashton Old Road.’

  Waiting at a set of lights, he stared across towards the figures huddled on Fairfield Street as it ran round the back of Piccadilly Station. ‘Working girls are still out.’

  ‘Quick handjob to put you in a good mood for work, sir?’ Rick said in a high voice.

  Jon smiled wryly. He knew that in a few hours many commuters would be receiving that exact offer as they walked from the station towards their sterile city-centre offices. Some must accept, or the girls wouldn’t keep asking.

  ‘No need for any of that,’ he replied, imagining Alice curled up in bed, strands of her long blonde hair lying across the pillow. Thank God their sex life was on track again after the long drought brought on by Holly’s birth and his wife’s subsequent post-natal depression. She’d been back to her old feisty self for a few months now, though it would be a couple more before she was weaned off her medication completely.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Rick smirked.

  Jon glanced at his partner, about to ask if he was getting any action in the sack, but the fact that Rick was gay caused the question to sink back. Try as he might, Jon just couldn’t chat to him about anything sex related without feeling awkward.

  The unanswered question lingered in the car and Rick turned away to look out the side window. Idiot, Jon cursed himself. Now on the A6, they passed the gently undulating glass front of the old BT offices, reflections of street lamps gliding across the smoky panes like comets crossing a night sky.

  ‘So, looks like he’s added a fourth to his list,’ Jon said, taking refuge in the safety offered by work.

  ‘Suppose so. When did the call come in?’ Rick was now looking ahead as they sped along the empty road.

  ‘An hour or so ago. There are three fire engines at the scene.’ A few minutes later Jon tapped a knuckle against his side window, just able to make out the tapering point of Gorton Monastery’s spire as it thrust up against a sky tainted orange by the massed city lights. ‘That’s the monastery. See the silhouette?’

  Rick leaned forward. ‘God, it’s massive.’

  Soon a bright patch of light became visible up ahead. It shimmered slightly against the bruised amber sky, the occasional spark carried heavenwards by hot air billowing up from below.

  ‘That’ll be our church,’ Jon said, turning off the main road. They passed a couple of playing fields, and then the road jinked to the right round some houses before revealing what looked like a massive bonfire celebration gone wrong.

  The church was burning fiercely, flames emerging from its many windows and shooting out of the roof at one end where it had begun to collapse. Three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance were parked up, their flickering blue lights muted by the glare of the blaze. Several dozen residents stood beyond the cordon that stretched across the road, many in dressing gowns and slippers. A group of children were dancing in the puddles by the hoses, which snaked along the road before disappearing down open manholes. Jon pulled up behind the last emergency vehicle.

  ‘Quite a sight.’

  Rick nodded. ‘No more wine and wafers in there for a bit.’ They got out of the car, and a faint wave of heat hit their

  faces, even though they were a good hundred metres away from the flames. Mixing with the low roar created by the blaze itself was the diesel chug of the idling fire engines and, above that, occasional groaning sounds of wooden timbers being tortured by the heat.

  ‘Should have brought some marshmallows,’ Jon said, holding his palms towards the church and then rubbing them together.

  Rick looked him up and down, taking in his ragged coat, old rugby shirt and battered jeans. ‘Dressed like that, you’re lucky it’s not November. They might have mistaken you for the guy and chucked you on the bloody fire.’

  Jon held his sides and mimed a ho, ho, ho. ‘Never attended a fire, have you?’

  Rick’s grin faltered. ‘No. Why?’

  Jon nodded at his partner’s suit. ‘That’ll need to be dry cleaned for a start. Something about jets of water hitting red hot mortar, brick and wood. Creates a right stink.’

  Rick turned towards the church, registering for the first time the billows of steam, black smoke and fine particles of ash drifting down all around them. ‘Bollocks.’

  Chuckling to himself, Jon began to survey the onlookers, searching for any lone males who hadn’t obviously just pulled on a tracksuit over their pyjamas. Profit, vanity, vandalism, crime concealment, psychological compulsion, prejudice, revenge: Jon knew the motives for arson. But these fires weren’t about any jilted lover getting back at his ex. They weren’t an insurance job, nor were they lit to hide an earlier crime. Prejudice seemed the most likely reason; someone harbouring a deep-seated hostility towards Christianity. The satanic symbols further backed up the theory. Jon also knew many arsonists couldn’t resist hanging round the scene to witness the results of their actions. Some, he gathered, even got sexual satisfaction from seeing the blaze. He and Rick headed towards the uniform with the clipboard, ‘DI Spicer, DS Saville, Major Incident Team.’

  The officer looked at their warrant cards, signed them in, then stepped aside, allowing them through to the inner cordon.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Sergeant Thompson, Sir. Over there talking to the Fire Investigation Officer.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Jon led the way towards the two men, pausing to address a firefighter who was filming the scene through a camcorder. ‘Got some footage of the crowd?’

  The firefighter tilted his head to the side, camera still trained on the church. ‘Yeah, I’ll do another sweep in a second.’

  Jon nodded, then stepped over to the pair of men. ‘DI Jon

  Spicer, MIT. This is my partner, DS Rick Saville.’

  The two men turned to him, their faces glowing in the heat, and introduced themselves. Sergeant Andrew Thompson was a slim man with thinning hair; the Fire Investigation Officer, Station Commander Dean Webster, was a stoutly built bloke of about fifty with black hair shorn short – a style so many in the police and
fire service seemed to favour. Jon noticed his olive skin and the slight slant at the edges of his eyes. It gave him the look of a Pacific Islander, someone from Fiji or Tonga, or perhaps Samoa. Jon couldn’t help wondering if the guy had played rugby.

  ‘So what’s the sequence of events?’ he asked as they shook hands.

  Sergeant Thompson spoke up. ‘The occupant of number seven on the road behind us called in at twenty-five past three. She’d noticed the glow of flames on her bedroom ceiling, looked out the window and saw the side windows of the church were alight.’

  ‘As in the flames were on the inside of the church?’ Rick asked, wrinkling his nose as a wave of acrid smelling steam washed over them.

  ‘Correct. She rang nine nine nine immediately.’

  ‘Our first appliance arrived fourteen minutes later,’ Webster said. ‘After assessing the situation, they called for back-up. By then the fire was well established. Residents in the nearest homes were evacuated and we commenced containing the fire within the church itself.’

  Jon surveyed the stricken building, with its narrow graveyard and pleasant looking vicarage to the side. A fireman stood in front of the house, playing a stream of water over the windows, dampening the wooden frames in case of stray sparks. ‘Any sign of the priest?’

  ‘None,’ Sergeant Thompson shook his head. ‘His phone number is on the noticeboard at the front gates of the church. No reply on his phone and no response from hammering at his front door. I requested an ambulance as a precautionary measure.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Jon asked, eyes on the deserted property.

  ‘Father Ben Waters.’

  Turning back to the church, he said, ‘Reckon the same guy set this one alight?’

  Webster shrugged. ‘Seems likely. Once it’s burnt itself out we can go in and get some answers.’

  ‘How soon do—’

  A loud cracking sound came from the church and the exposed timbers in the roof shifted. Suddenly the beams collapsed with a massive crash. A cloud of sparks surged up, veering off into the night like a plague of angry fireflies. From the crowd behind them came a couple of whoops.

  ‘Not long, now that’s come down,’ Webster replied. ‘Just a case of pumping in enough water through the windows.’

  Jon thought about the crime scene, any evidence obliterated by a flood of biblical proportions. A young officer appeared at their side, an agitated man standing just behind him. Jon spotted the white dog collar round his neck. He appeared to be in his early fifties, though the anguished look on his face was adding a good few years to his appearance. His neat, side-parted hair could have been blond, or maybe light brown and tinged with grey. It was difficult to tell in the unnatural light.

  ‘Sir, this is Father Waters. It’s his church,’ the officer announced.

  ‘Father. We’re glad to see you. We were getting worried you might have been inside the church,’ Jon said.

  The priest raised a hand and rubbed at a spot just above one eyebrow. ‘No. I’ve been with a parishioner. St Mary’s hospice.’ The hand dropped, then was held outwards towards the burning building. ‘What on earth has happened? Was it deliberate?’

  Gently, Jon took him by the shoulder and tried to turn him away from what remained of his church. ‘We’re not sure yet. Can we talk somewhere more quiet?’

  ‘I just can’t understand . . . I mean, someone has done this, have they not?’

  Firelight caught in the lower rims of his eyes as tears welled up. At the edge of his vision Jon saw Webster turn away in embarrassment at the priest’s show of emotion.

  ‘Sir . . . I mean Father, let’s sit down somewhere.’ Jon looked about. No incident wagon was at the scene. He started back towards his vehicle Rick behind him and the vicar alongside, shoulders sagging in defeat.

  ‘We can sit in my car and I’ll run through what I know. I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer this shock. How long has it been your church?’

  ‘Twenty-one years.’ The reply was flat, all emotion now drained away.

  Jon was familiar with the tone. It was that of someone who’d just been informed a loved one was dead. He thought of how the vicar had come from the bedside of a dying parishioner. How to console a person who spent his life comforting others?

  ‘Did you walk here from the hospice? I’m not sure where Saint Mary’s is.’

  ‘About a mile away. No, I drove. I’ve only just parked . . .’ His words fell away and Jon turned in the direction of the

  man’s crestfallen stare. A blue Volvo estate was parked at the opposite side of the road to Jon’s. Shattered glass lay like jewels on the tarmac by its back wheels.

  ‘My car.’

  Jon looked about. Everyone’s attention was on the church at the end of the close. If anything, the fire made the shadows behind the vehicle deeper, creating an inky space into which a thief had obviously crept. The little bastard, using an incident like this for a bit of robbing. And of all the fucking cars to choose. ‘What was in your boot?’

  The man’s head was bowed and Jon could see his shoulders rise and fall as he gulped in air. ‘A sports bag full of hockey gear.’

  Jon was impressed the man was still playing. He was about to say so when the priest took a step backwards, hands going to his chest.

  Father?’

  The priest looked at him and Jon saw pain and fear in his eyes. Oh shit no, not a heart attack. Jon grabbed his shoulders.

  ‘Rick! Get the ambulance crew.’ He hooked an arm around the other man. ‘Can you walk? Would you like to sit?’

  ‘Can’t breathe . . .’

  ‘It’s OK, we’re getting the ambulance. They’ll have oxygen.’

  He’d half carried him ten or so steps when the paramedics ran over.

  Jon lowered the priest to the tarmac, keeping a hand between the man’s head and the surface of the road. Fragments of gravel dug into the back of his hand as the female paramedic began to loosen Water’s dog collar and unbutton his shirt. The priest squirmed under her touch, short gasps coming from his half open mouth. He clamped a hand over the paramedic’s wrist, preventing her from undoing the next button down.

  ‘Sir, please try to relax.’

  The priest’s eyes were shut tight.

  ‘Sir, what can you feel?’

  ‘My chest is tight,’ he panted in reply.

  The male paramedic crouched down and placed a finger on the side of the priest’s neck. ‘Any pains in your chest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tingling in your arms?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just shortness of breath?’ He nodded.

  The paramedic looked at his colleague. ‘Arrhythmic heartbeat. Let’s get him to hospital. We’ll put an IV in en route.’

  ‘Which hospital?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Manchester Royal Infirmary is closest.’

  The female paramedic extricated her wrist from the priest’s grip, ran to the ambulance and returned with a stretcher. She and her colleague lifted him on to it, raised it up and then wheeled him to the back of the ambulance.

  ‘We’ll take care of your car. I’ll check with you later,’ Jon said through the rear doors, noting that the oxygen mask which hid the lower half of Webster’s face only emphasised the alarm in his eyes. Seconds later the vehicle accelerated away.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Jon, watching the flashing lights until they disappeared from sight.

  As he crammed the last of the pizza into his mouth a shiver sent his arms into miniature spasm. End of April and still so fucking cold. He chewed with his mouth open, watching the vapours of his breath as they curled into the freezing air. The temperature always seemed to drop to its lowest point in the final hour before dawn. It was the night’s parting shot, like an army forced into retreat trying to ruin the territory it had occupied.

  He knew that the horizon would soon begin to materialise and sunlight would warm the earth. But that would make little difference in his tomb of curving brick. In the shadows by his side, his s
leeping bag lay like a giant insect’s sloughed-off cocoon. He’d forgotten to roll it up again.

  Straightening it out, he saw the slugs gathered in its folds, flaky trails of silver criss-crossing the nylon. He plucked their plump forms off and tossed them into the blackness that lurked beyond the weak glow of his lamp.

  After removing his army boots, he climbed in and zipped up the bag as far as it would go. Inside, his hand ferreted in his army coat, searching the breast pockets for the lighter. He brought it out, flicked the wheel and held the dirty flame to the black candle. The wick seemed to suck the yellow glow across, absorbing its power so the lighter’s flame shrank down momentarily as the wick caught. He snapped the lid of the Zippo shut and listened to the peaceful whisper the candle made.

  Staring into the source of light, he thought about his dead mother and where she was now. Would the tongues of flame really be licking her flesh soon? Scorching and blistering her skin but never actually destroying it, so that she would writhe in eternal torment?

  Tears stung his eyes as the memory of returning from school and finding her in the bedroom flooded back. At first he hadn’t understood what was keeping the door shut. As he pushed harder, the tape on the other side began to crackle and tear as it came away from the frame. Finally he’d broken the seal she’d created and the door swung open to reveal her lying on the bed. The windows were closed and the air that washed over him was heavy with the aroma of burning. In the corner of the room was their barbecue from the garden, half the charcoal on it reduced to white ash.

  The police and firemen had been reluctant to explain, but the internet had answered his questions. Carbon monoxide poisoning – a seductively gentle death.

  But her serene appearance was misleading, his father explained. Though her bodily remains were unscathed, her soul was facing an entirely different fate. Stuck in limbo for the moment, Hell would eventually claim it, and Hell would keep it forever. Judgement Day, when it came – and his dad said that time was getting ever closer – would see to that. She had committed suicide and there would be no forgiveness from God.