The Footprints of the Fiend

by William Stafford

  “But...” Miller tried to resist, “They’ll be wanting their coffee.”

  “Fuck ‘em,” Woodcock made a dismissive gesture. “Now, what’s up?”

  Miller told him about the hours she’d spent with the masked gunman. Woodcock reached for her hand and patted it, his boyish face at its most sympathetic. He suggested she talk to someone about it.

  “I thought I was,” Miller wiped her eyes.

  “I mean someone who’s paid for it - I mean, someone who can counsel you. I’m rubbish at this kind of thing. But what about you and me going out for an Indian later? On me.”

  Miller looked at his expectant expression. He could be so sweet.

  “I’d rather have it on a plate,” she laughed. She reached across to pat his cheek, so glad he’d got rid of his Stevens-like moustache.

  “Oi, oi!” Speak of the devil. Stevens sauntered along. “We’ll have no fraternising in the canteen. Environmental health don’t like it.”

  Uninvited, he pulled up a chair. Miller and Woodcock shrank from each other.

  “You look like you’ve been crying, Miller. What’s the matter? Has he hurt you? Too big for you, is he? Eh? Eh?”

  Miller answered his lecherous laughter with a look of disdain. She stood up, nodded to Woodcock, and strode away. Brough and Wheeler would have to go without their coffee. She went to the Ladies to wash her face.

  Fuck ‘em.

  ***

  The man in the mirror was still there when Theo dared to look at it again. He was waiting patiently for Theo to compose himself. It took a while.

  Theo gaped at the face that was where his reflection usually was. It didn’t move when Theo moved. He tried bobbing up and down and went through his entire repertoire of grimaces and girning. The strange face just watched him with dark, piercing eyes. The eyebrows were thick, black and untamed. The broad cheekbones were thrown into stark contrast by luxuriant mutton chops that framed the lower part of the face. The lips were thin, the mouth a slash.

  Theo had the impression he had seen the face before, somewhere else.

  He reached up and touched his own face. It hadn’t changed. It felt like it usually did. He could feel stubble where the man in the mirror had none.

  “This is happening?” he asked.

  The strange head dipped in a nod.

  “What is happening exactly?” Theo had to ask. “I don’t understand.”

  The stranger in the mirror raised a knobbly finger to his lips and smiled.

  ***

  “Yet she became more and more promiscuous as she recalled the days of her youth, when she was a prostitute in Egypt.” Trevor Nock was in full flight. He knew the passage by heart, had learned it specially. He stood beneath his placard, declaiming, the Bible in his right hand merely a prop. The placard bore a silhouette of a naked woman, a slash of red cut across her. Passersby averted their eyes as they went by but some were stopping to listen, keeping a safe distance, wondering what the nutter would spout next.

  “There she lusted after her lovers,” Trevor continued, mistaking the growing audience for potential converts, “Whose genitals were like those of donkeys,” he paused to allow the imagery to sink in. “And whose emission was like that of horses!”

  This was met with open laughter from some of the students on their way to college. A few old women looked scandalised. A couple of stallholders were becoming annoyed. The nutter was deterring customers.

  Mr Iqbal, whose stall offered bolts of fabric at a pound a yard, was the most pissed off. His pitch was closest to the fountain where the nutter was making his pornographic announcements. He looked around and spotted two community policemen in bright lemon tabards, among the crowd, enjoying the show. He went to them and complained.

  “He’s harmless,” said one.

  “All right for a laugh,” said the other. They were annoyed to have their enjoyment interrupted.

  “You think it is permissible to have someone shouting such filthy things at this hour in the morning. Think of the children!” Iqbal urged them. “Think of your grandmother. Would you want her hearing such filth?”

  The community coppers exchanged long-suffering glances. They nodded to Iqbal and, clearing their throats, approached the nutter at the fountain.

  “Scuse me, sir,” said the first. “Have you got a permit to be stood standing there?”

  “Donkeys!” Trevor iterated. “Horses!”

  “Going to have to ask you to move along,” said the second. “Can’t have you, um, doing whatever it is you’m doing, upsetting folks.”

  Trevor ignored them. He continued to address the crowd.

  “So you longed for the lewdness of your youth, when in Egypt your bosom was caressed and your young breasts fondled!”

  “Steady on,” said the first community copper.

  “No need for that, sir,” added the second. He reached for Trevor’s placard and was swiftly rewarded with it being thwacked across his head. The crowd cheered to see the copper’s hat come off.

  “Right, you!” The first copper grabbed the placard but the nutter refused to let go. A wrestling match ensued while the second copper dropped to his knees to retrieve his hat. The first copper toppled over his partner. The crowd applauded. Trevor righted his placard and waved graciously to his congregation.

  Before he could declaim another word, the community policemen had composed themselves. They took him by an arm each and frogmarched him through the marketplace and around the corner towards Dedley’s police station.

  “Doing you for assault, mate,” one muttered into Trevor’s left ear.

  “And the rest!” added the other to his right.

  Trevor, martyr-like, raised his eyes patiently to heaven.

  “That a man cannot quote the scriptures in his own town!” he complained. “These are dark days indeed.”

  “What do you mean, scriptures?”

  “Ezekiel, Chapter Twenty-three,” said Trevor. “You should read it.”

  This gave the community coppers pause.

  “Oh,” said one.

  “Oh,” said the other. “We thought you was advertising the new stripper club.”

  9.

  Pastor Mike arrived at Dedley Police Station. The front desk receptionist greeted him by name. While they waited for Trevor to be brought up, they commented on the weather, how it was still pleasant but you could tell it was turning colder.

  Pastor Mike emanated a serenity that made him an attractive figure. He always wore a navy blue polo neck with a blazer and corduroy trousers to match. The dark blue brought out his pale grey eyes and made his honey blond hair glow like a halo.

  “This reminds me of picking up my daughter from school detention,” he laughed. “Rachel was prettier than Trevor Nock, of course.”

  The receptionist nodded. Talking about the weather was one thing but if Pastor Mike was going to bring in anecdotes from his personal life, some kind of lesson or sermon could not be far away.

  A uniform brought Trevor Nock through and pointed at the ledger where he was to sign out. Trevor seemed abashed. He couldn’t look Pastor Mike in the eye. He hung his head as he shuffled towards the exit. Pastor Mike placed a paternal arm across Trevor’s shoulders. The receptionist noted he seemed to shrink from the pastor’s touch.

  Out in the open, Pastor Mike steered Trevor away from the High Street and through back streets towards the church. Trevor knew better than to wriggle or resist; Pastor Mike was rougher than the arresting officers had been.

  To Trevor’s surprise, Pastor Mike did not bundle him upstairs to the office. Instead, Pastor Mike removed his arm from Trevor’s shoulders and held open the door to the cafe.

  He smiled at Trevor and ushered him in.

  “Find a table. Coffee?”

  “Um
m,” Trevor nodded. He chose a table near the window. Pastor Mike looked over from the counter and shook his head. Trevor shifted to another, further back, invisible from the street.

  Uh-oh, he thought.

  The noise of the coffee machine meant he couldn’t hear the chitchat between Pastor Mike and the woman behind the counter. What was her name? Stephanie or something.

  Where was Linda?

  A flash of guilt made him sweat. Was Linda’s absence because of their little, um, discussion? Would Pastor Mike tear a strip off him for that as well? Trevor was certain that Stephanie or somebody was gossiping about him and about Linda. Linda had probably blabbed.

  Trevor felt sick. Everyone was against him. Even Pastor Mike who purported to be his friend.

  Pastor Mike came over with two coffees, old-fashioned cups and saucers rather than the more prevalent cardboard beakers with the plastic lids. He perched on a stool opposite Trevor and put his hands together, his fingertips at his chin.

  Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, thought Trevor. And here comes the lecture...

  He steeled himself.

  “Trevor, Trevor, Trevor,” Pastor Mike began. “What am I going to do with you? We can’t have you going rogue, Trevor. Today’s business in the marketplace - it’s not on, mate. You’re known around town. People know you come here. You’re associated with this church. People will link your behaviour, your actions, with this church.”

  “M sorry,” Trevor muttered, looking at wayward sugar grains on the tabletop.

  “Oh, Trevor. It’s not that I don’t agree with the sentiment. I know why you did it. I don’t want that den of iniquity to throw open its doors and the harlots within it to throw open their legs. I don’t want that any more than you do. But what you did today undermines us, undermines our efforts. There are ways and means, Trevor. Remember that we are in the right. We have right on our side. But what you did today casts doubt in people’s minds. We cannot be seen like that. We can’t have people thinking we’re just those religious nutters from up the road. We have to be credible. We have to be clever, Trevor.”

  “M sorry,” Trevor repeated.

  “Drink your coffee.” Pastor Mike pushed the saucer towards Trevor.

  “It’s hot.”

  “Drink it.”

  Trevor glanced upwards - a mistake. He met Pastor Mike’s steely glare. He looked away but he could still feel those pale eyes burning into him.

  He put the cup to his lips. It was almost too hot to hold.

  “Drink it!” Pastor Mike urged.

  Sweating and choking, Trevor drank, while Pastor Mike sat back and watched, leaving his own coffee to cool.

  ***

  Brough got Miller to drop him off in town. He needed to pick up a few things for his overnight stay at the Railway Hotel. He assumed the en suite would have those little bottles and sachets but he preferred to select his own toiletries, cruelty free and made from fruit. Miller had agreed but had seemed impatient on the drive up from Serious, speeding up at traffic lights, and muttering curses at lorry drivers who tried to cut her up at roundabouts. She barely slowed down to let him out and didn’t stick around to hear his thanks. She sped away - Brough remembered she had moved. The house had been sold to fund her mother’s accommodation at the Dorothy Beaumont rest home. Brough shuddered, recalling his last visit there. He realised he had no idea where Miller was living these days but he was sure as hell her hurrying off had everything to do with a date with that Woodcock.

  He seems pleasant enough, Brough reflected. If he can get from under that wanker Stevens’s shadow.

  But was he good enough for Miller?

  That remained to be seen.

  Brough reminded himself it was none of his business. Good luck to them, he decided, and headed for the local branch of ValueDrug.

  After he had made his purchases - some apple shampoo and conditioner, toothpaste with bicarbonate of soda in it, and some mint-infused shower gel - Brough strolled through the town. His long hair and unruly beard made him feel like he was undercover still. He eyed his fellow pedestrians and didn’t recognise any of them as they bustled around the marketplace like rejects from a George A Romero casting call.

  Their presence made the familiar high street unfamiliar. He checked that the landmarks were still there. There was the fountain, standing proud but ignored. There was the castle keep, peering down from its hill, between trees that were shedding their leaves.

  Yes, Dedley was still Dedley - Brough didn’t know whether to take comfort from that.

  He left the High Street and walked along a narrower thoroughfare, where the shops were smaller and a greater proportion of them were boarded up and forgotten. Unusually the street was deserted. Most of the time it was a cut-through for the car-park on the slope behind the magistrates’ court, but today it was empty. Brough supposed he should be grateful; he wouldn’t have to step into the gutter to get around women with double-breasted pushchairs.

  He was considering taking the next right and making his way to the barber’s he knew was tucked away around there, between a betting shop and an accountancy firm, or something, but then he became aware there was another pedestrian in the street. A man was coming towards him. Shuffling. He seemed to be looking directly at Brough.

  He’s probably just working out how to get by, Brough told himself.

  But as the man drew closer, he slowed, catching Brough’s eye. He sidestepped to get in Brough’s path. Brough was forced to stop.

  The man looked him in the eye while his hand reached inside his pocket. He withdrew a small booklet and thrust it towards Brough. Brough, reluctant to accept it, glanced at the bright illustration on the cover: Jesus in white robes with a red sash, holding a flower under a child’s nose.

  Oh, yuck, thought Brough.

  The man pushed the pamphlet closer. Brough leaned back but took it.

  “The answers you seek!” said the man, his eyes twinkling. Brough could see he was unshaven, his clothes baggy and threadbare. “Come and see us!”

  The man pointed to an address at the bottom of the booklet.

  Flames of Revival, Brough read, and a street name that was only yards away. He nodded to the man, pocketed the booklet and said he would read it later.

  The man suddenly seized Brough’s hand and peered into his face. The smell of coffee was sour on his breath. Perspiration beaded his brow like bubble wrap.

  “You should come and see us!” he insisted. Brough tried to wriggle free. The man wouldn’t release him.

  Brough told him to fuck the fuck off. At last he managed to get his hand free. The man reached for it again so Brough punched him in the face with his other hand. The man fell backwards, landing on his bum. Brough hurried back the way he came, all thoughts of the barber forgotten.

  “Cub and see ud!” Trevor Nock called after him, holding his injured nose.

  Brough crossed the marketplace and ducked into one of the narrow entries that linked the High Street to the dual carriageway that ran parallel to it. He poured half a bottle of hand sanitizer onto the knuckles of the hand that had struck the man.

  He was panting, frantically trying to get his hand clean as though trying to erase the incident and the encounter.

  He attacked me! Brough tried to convince himself that was the case.

  No; you overreacted. You should go back and find him and apologise.

  What if he presses charges?

  What if he knows who I am?

  Brough felt sick.

  He made his way past the bus station and the entrance to the zoo to the Railway Hotel. He checked into his room. He cleaned the en suite before he used it.

  10.

  “It’s good of you to meet with me at such short notice, Councillor.”

  Gerry Dixon glanced quickly around t
he restaurant in case the loudness of his companion’s voice was overheard by other patrons. It was early evening and there was only one other table occupied. Places like the Simoom tend to do most of their trade when the pubs chuck out. He guessed the other customers were out of earshot.

  “Gerry, please,” he smiled across the table. He was already sweating and they had yet to order a thing.

  “Gerry,” the man opposite repeated as though attempting a foreign language. He beckoned to the waiter and ordered poppadoms without consulting Councillor Dixon - sorry, Gerry.

  “And I insist this goes on my expenses not yours.”

  “Now, listen, Mr Johnson -“

  “Charlie, please.” Charlie Johnson was a cool customer. He watched the councillor like a snake eyeing a freeze-dried mouse. You’re already dead, mate. “Now, about the decision...”

  “Um, there is no decision. Well, um, that is to say, not yet there isn’t.”

  “Oh?”

  Charlie Johnson raised an eyebrow. He froze in that attitude while the waiter placed a dish of warm poppadums and a selection of sauces and chutneys on the table.

  “Do explain.” He came to life again as soon as the waiter was gone.

  Gerry Dixon took a swig from his lager and then wiped his mouth with his fingers.

  “It’s a, um, contentious issue. We ran out of time. But it’s rescheduled for next month.”

  “Next month?” Johnson allowed the councillor to see he was aghast. “Oh no, that will not do. We are keen to get moving on this as soon as. If it’s a question of more...”

  “No, no!” Gerry interrupted quickly. “All that was quite sufficient. Generous, in fact.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Although there is more where that came from should you find more palms in need of greasing. But there can be no more delays. We’re already auditioning girls - and that’s quite a pleasurable process, I can tell you - and there isn’t so much as a pole for them to cling to. It must go through. The licence must be granted.”

  “I’ve done what I can. I’ve lobbied on the grounds of creating employment, of attracting business into the town and on getting rid of an eyesore, but there’s strong opposition in the Chamber. Folk see it as immoral and degrading or something.”