by Bob Goodwin
‘Holy fucking Mary, Mother of God! Cop it sweet you fucking evil bitch! Satisfy the Lord for once in your miserable life.’
Morgan sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide in disbelief. Father Bates must be possessed too. He crossed himself repeatedly then prayed with his fingers in his ears while rocking back and forth on his bed.
The next morning, after a quiet breakfast where no one spoke a word, Morgan helped clear the table and wash the dishes before heading outside. The fire had run low last evening and a couple more logs needing chopping to see them through their last night. There was plenty of wood after a delivery some days earlier, but it was all in large round blocks that needed further chopping to be suitable for the fire. Morgan rolled one onto the chopping area, which consisted of four railway sleepers joined together by metal plates and bolts. He had been told that his real father, whom he had never known, had created the chopping area and indeed built most of the small dwelling.
Morgan swung the axe down with a good strong swing; but it bounced off, causing his hands to jar and only made a small dent in the wood. After twenty strikes, the block was not giving way and Morgan threw the axe down in annoyance and decided another log may be easier.
‘Did Jesus give up carrying the cross?’
The boy was rolling over another block. He stopped and jumped to attention.
‘Oh, you scared me, Father,’ he declared with a gasp. The priest was standing near a tall eucalyptus tree near the carport. He moved closer.
‘You threw down the axe, child. You gave up. You are not going to disappoint me like your mother does. You are not. I will not allow it.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll try again.’ A familiar but uncomfortable feeling was welling up. Morgan was already sweating from his work with the axe but now his internal reaction had further accelerated his heart rate.
‘I will show you for the last time. Now pay attention!’
Father Bates picked up the axe.
‘You should strike the wood closer to the outside and avoid the harder centre.’
He took a hefty swing and struck the block but the axe glanced off the side, shooting off a few small fragments, one of which struck the priest in the eye.
‘Oh, my God!’
He let the axe fall and quickly covered his eye with his hands. Stepping a little to one side, his legs caught the new log Morgan had rolled over and he stumbled and fell awkwardly, striking his head on the unrelenting block.
Morgan stared. The priest was motionless with his arms around the base of the wood, his head positioned perfectly on top and his body stretched out across the sleepers. The blade of the axe reflected the sun onto the priest’s face.
It’s another sign. A message from God.
The boy edged closer and squatted. He could see that Father Bates was still breathing. Morgan stood and raised his arms to the heavens.
‘I pray I be struck down now if I am not needed to perform God’s work!’ Morgan swallowed heavily and patiently waited. Two fluffy grey clouds drifted by. Father Bates made a grunting noise. Morgan picked up the axe.
Chapter 15
Ward Rounds
It was Christmas Eve and including James, there were only ten patients remaining in the psychiatric ward. The staff were overjoyed and welcomed the quieter period after months of 100% capacity of a high acuity clientele. Not that those remaining were easy to manage, but at least the number of staff in comparison to the number of patients was more favourable and the workload was considerably less.
Dr Mark Jeffries had almost completed his rounds. He was the consulting psychiatrist for only three patients out of the ten remaining. There was Norma Haslam who was floridly psychotic and intensely preoccupied with her bodily secretions; there was Adam Sorenson who was still coming down from magic mushrooms; and there was James Champion.
Nine members of the mental health team had gathered in a small room on the ward, working their way through the three reviews. There was little debate about the management of Norma and Adam, and each of these reviews took less than ten minutes.
Dr Jeffries’ registrar, Dr Avni Budshah, had just finished her presentation of James’s case to the team when Dr Jeffries made an unexpected announcement.
‘I think a week’s leave is in order for Mr Champion, starting from today.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Garth with guarded surprise.
‘He’s currently stable, isn’t he?’
‘For two days, yes, but...’
‘It’s Christmas. He’s stable. And I believe his mum is more than capable of looking after him.’
‘Are you kidding?’ declared Deb, bouncing to her feet. ‘Just over forty-eight hours ago, this guy wanted our heads on a fucking platter. And now he’s going home for Christmas fucking dinner! Let’s get real here.’ The psychiatrist studied Deb before responding in the politest tones.
‘I would prefer less swearing and for you to remain seated. I do however welcome your opinion but perhaps not the way it is expressed.’
‘Yeah, I should sit down.’ Deb used her hand gestures to help her speak. ‘And I suppose I should say yes sir, yes sir three bags full, sir, but you know what?’ Now Deb pointed and waved her finger. ‘This is very wrong and I would like it documented that I strongly disagree.’ Deb paced to and fro behind her chair. Her face had assumed a distinct red glow. The others were stunned. Eyebrows were raised and glances exchanged. Even for Deb, this was over the top. Dr Jeffries slowly stood. He was a tall, well-presented man with a strong jawline, and as he rose to his feet, the room fell silent and still.
‘I have been treating Mr Champion for over nine years, during which time I would like to think I have gained a degree of understanding about his mental health, his behaviour and any inherent risks,’ said the psychiatrist firmly. ‘Dr Budshah, would you please document in the file that Clinical Nurse Deborah Rogers has expressed her disapproval. Also, note that Mr Champion can have one week’s leave from today. He is to remain on his involuntary treatment order and in the care of his mother who is to supervise all his medication. He is to refrain from using alcohol and illicit substances. Any breach of conditions will see him promptly returned to hospital.’
Deb moved to the door then turned back to Jeffries. ‘I would suggest you include decapitation amongst the breach of conditions,’ announced Deb as she drew her finger across her throat.
Chapter 16
A Plausible Lie
The glass-top verandah table was covered in newspapers, sheets of paper with handwritten notes, computer printouts of graphs, weather data, pictures and dates of missing persons, a laptop, two empty coffee mugs and one piece of pepperoni pizza lying in its cardboard box.
James was wide-eyed and hard at work checking sheets of paper, and making notes and lists and working on his laptop. Carmel appeared over his shoulder, holding another coffee in one hand and two tablets in the other.
‘You do know that the “strike” arrangement is suspended for the time being.’
‘Sure.’
‘Dr Jeffries said it’s all up to what I think. Essentially, a one-strike-only deal. Do you get my drift here?’
‘Yes, I know all that, but this is important, Mother. I’m onto something big,’ he replied without stopping his paper shuffling.
‘Take these.’ She handed him the tablets, which he hastily grabbed and threw down his throat.
‘Drink!’ She passed him the coffee. He paused momentarily, gave her a look and took the mug.
‘What are you onto exactly? And why do you have all those pictures of people?’
James took a gulp of coffee then put down the mug. He shifted his chair to face his mother. The two looked at one another.
‘Well?’ she asked again.
James was deep in thought wondering how to respond. He needed a response that would seem logical to her. One that would stop her picking up the phone and calling Jeffries.
‘Keep thinking, James. Soon
enough you’ll come up with a plausible lie.’
Shit, she knows me too well! ‘I’m not in the habit of lying,’ said James.
‘Unless it suits your needs that is.’
‘Perhaps it’s best I say nothing then, but as you can see, most of this is just meteorological stuff that I’ve always been interested in.’
‘As I said. Unless it suits your needs. If it wasn’t Christmas tomorrow, I’d be making that phone call.’
‘Thank you for that, Jesus, and happy birthday,’ smiled James with a glance upwards. ‘You know, Jeffries doesn’t have a clue how to manage me. Now he thinks I’ve got a touch of bipolar disorder with my schizophrenia. What next? Honestly, if the guy didn’t have a script pad, he would not be capable of making any contribution to the human race.’ He shifted his chair back in position and got back to his bits of paper and his computer. Carmel pulled out a chair and sat with him.
‘What are you doing?’ enquired a surprised James.
‘Watching you work. Are we in for bad weather?’ She snatched up a newspaper.
‘I work better alone.’
Carmel ignored the remark and focused on the front page of the day’s paper. ‘I see they are still looking for the Chang girl. It seems they have some sort of a lead.’
‘What?’ said James, once again putting his work aside. ‘They have a side profile drawing of a guy with no significant features and long hair. I hardly think that’s a lead.’
‘They say he might be very fit or athletic.’
‘I see dozens of people like that every day at work. That’s not significant.’
‘They say he might dress up as a priest.’
‘Maybe he’s a priest. Then he wouldn’t have to dress up, would he?’
Carmel stared at her son for a moment. ‘I know this thing concerns you. Why?’ James dropped his head into both hands and pushed them back through his hair.
‘Can’t you just leave well enough alone,’ he pleaded.
‘If it was “well enough” I would, but it’s not ... you’re not. For once, as a special Christmas treat to me, just let me in, James. Share your world with me!’
‘You know that old saying, Mother...’
‘And what saying is that?’
‘I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’ James looked at his mother. There was no change of expression. Carmel looked back at her son, her brow furrowed. There was an extended moment of silence.
‘Are you threatening your own mother?’
‘What I mean to say is...’ he broke eye contact and used his hands to help him speak. ‘If I tell you everything, you’ll just send me back to the funny farm.’
‘I don’t think that’s what you said,’ she said firmly.
‘Well it’s what I meant. All I want is this: one week’s leave and then I can return for review. I am not going to harm anyone or cause a public spectacle. So, I won’t be embarrassing you.’
‘It’s not about that. And it’s not about me.’
‘It might be. At least a little.’
‘We are going to visit your father on Boxing Day, so don’t make any other plans.’
‘I’ve got things to do. Cleaning to do,’ insisted James.
‘It’s all up to me. You are in my care. You’re on the involuntary order. You will give me this one day, and I will give you the rest. This is not a negotiation.’
Carmel left the table and went back inside. James spoke in a loud whisper. ‘Well, it was a negotiation and I do believe I won!’ He grabbed his phone and made a call.
‘Hey Carl, its James. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, my friend.’
‘James, great to hear from you! How are you? How’s your lovely Mum?’
‘Yeah, I’m good, really good. Mother’s fine and as lovely as a bear with a hangover.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘No, really, it’s all good. Look, I know it’s Christmas Eve ’n all, but I need a favour. I need weather charts ... like about seventy or so. Can you still get these from the weather bureau?’
‘Seventy! Wow, what are you up to? A major discovery about climate change? Are we headed for disaster? Not before New Year’s, I hope. I’ve got some big plans,’ said Carl.
‘Disaster? Not as such but quite possibly life-saving for someone. Yeah, I know it’s a lot of reports, but it is important, extremely important. If you could manage it, I would owe you big time.’
‘It will be a push, but yeah I reckon I can swing it.’
‘No worries. I’ll email you all the dates and times. I’m chiefly after the storm patterns from these particular dates. In some cases, there may not even have been a storm; so, if you could just note that for me, it would be a great help.’
‘I could probably have it by the twenty-seventh. Hey, we should catch up soon so we can go for a run together. You can tell me all about this storm theory of yours.’
‘I look forward to that and the twenty-seventh will be fine. Thanks mate. All the best to Julie and the kids. Cheers.’
Chapter 17
January 1968 (continued)
No Longer a Child
Margaret Finn stood near the driveway looking down from the one-metre high retaining wall at her son. Morgan’s shorts were almost completely soaked and his T-shirt was heavily splattered with blood. There were smaller red specks all over his face. At his feet lay the untidily severed head of Father Bates. The boy still held the axe. He looked up at his Mum.
‘He was possessed,’ he said calmly. ‘I was directed by God.’
Margaret opened her mouth and gulped air, her vision transfixed on the slaughter.
‘I thought for a long time that you were the one who was full of evil,’ continued the boy. He lifted the bloody axe in both hands and stepped sideways over the headless corpse. Margaret tilted her head to one side and swallowed hard. ‘But I know now that he was the one. He infected you. God has guided me. There is no mistake.’ Morgan propped the axe against the block. His mother sucked in a deep relieving breath and finally spoke. She tried unsuccessfully to sound calm.
‘You’re a mess. You best get inside. Let’s clean you up.’
Margaret adjusted the shower while her son peeled off his clothes and left them in an oozing pile on the cream floor tiles. He slipped into the small cubicle and drew the plastic shower curtain. Morgan adjusted the nozzle so the warm water went into his face. He turned off the hot and cranked the cold up to full. It felt good. He felt the pressure of the stream against his cheeks, lips and eyelids. For a long time, he let the water force itself against his body, imagining it to be holy water. Cleansing and anointing him. Rewarding him for doing his duty. Blessing him for doing God’s work.
After twenty minutes, he stepped out. His clothes were gone. The floor was clean. With a towel wrapped around his waist, Morgan wandered slowly through the house. In the lounge near the fireplace were two lots of clothes. Morgan’s in a plastic bag and Father Bates’ piled on the floor. The sound of wood chopping caught his attention and the boy moved through the dining room, the laundry and then out the back door.
His mother was swinging the axe. She already had a chopped stack ready for the fire. The two parts of Father Bates had been moved to one side and were covered with an old tarp. The chopping area was still in need of substantial cleaning. Margaret instinctively stopped her work and looked up at her son.
‘I think he was dead after the third chop,’ said Morgan blandly. ‘But it took thirteen chops for his head to come off.’
She lay down the axe and walked slowly over to her son. She knelt in front of him.
‘I heard the demon leave his body,’ continued Morgan. ‘It was a sort of gurgling, hissing sound.’ Margaret took the boys’ hands and looked up at him.
‘I love you so very much; but once we leave here, we must never speak of this to anyone else. We will return to Gympie. The church people do not know that Harold even came here...’
&nbs
p; ‘He is not to be called Harold,’ interrupted Morgan.
‘Father Bates then?’
‘Only to the church people, but not to you and not to me.’
‘What then? What do we call him?’
‘We call him “Beast” because they are the letters of his name. We should have seen this sooner. We need to read the signs.’ Morgan spoke so clearly and decisively. Margaret had never heard him speak this way before and it was a little unsettling. She reached up and touched his cheek.
‘My dear Morgan, is everything alright?’ Her hand quivered against his face.
‘I am better than I have ever been, Mother.’
‘Mother?’ said a surprised Margaret. ‘What happened to Mum? You never call me mother.’
‘Mother means warmth, caring, love and shows value in a relationship. Mum is for children. I am no longer a child.’
Chapter 18
Deep-fried Devils
Christmas morning at a nicely appointed fifth-floor unit in Maroochydore, with views over the beach and the Pacific Ocean together with an almost cloudless sky, should have been something special; but for the Chang family, there was no joy. After eight days, Jessica was still missing. The newspaper stories, the radio and television broadcasts, the identikit picture and profile, and the continuing police investigation had delivered no tangible leads. There was no shortage of information from the public and while this was encouraging, nothing meaningful had yet been uncovered. Two men had been arrested for separate crank calls and misinformation.
Tien, Mary and Aaron had gone through the motions of the season and erected a small Christmas tree with lights in the corner near the front verandah. Beneath it they had placed their gifts for Jessica. While Rachel, Ryan, Brad and Damian had reluctantly returned home, they too had left gifts and prayers for their missing companion.
