Gated II: Ravenhill Academy

by Matt Drabble

  It had been well over 20 years since he had attended an actual crime scene, not since he had paid his dues during his provisional days in the city. He tried to wrack his brains for the appropriate protocols, but came up dry save for the mantra to “not touch anything”.

  He pushed the door further open with his foot and stepped inside. The thick acrid smell assaulted his nostrils and he felt the taste of copper in his throat.

  “COLIN?” he shouted loudly as his voice’s volume was augmented by the rising tide of panic in his guts.

  Again there was no answer and he wasn’t surprised.

  He made his way along the narrow hallway, carefully stepping over the drips of blood on the carpet that were already darkly drying. He pulled his sleeve over his hand and pushed open the lounge door.

  There was an armchair with its back to him facing the dying flames of the fire. A man’s hand hung limply over the armrest and running red droplets had frozen on the paling flesh as they dried. The stench was immediately overwhelming. It was unmistakably blood mingled with something far fouler. He knew what happened to a man’s bowels when faced with absolute horror and he had no wish to look upon Colin’s limp corpse, but he did his duty just the same.

  He edged carefully around the chair being sure to avoid stepping in any of the mess. There was a glinting silver-bladed axe lying on the floor; its razor’s edge was stained a murderous red. He moved around to face what was left of Colin and had to throw a hand quickly up to his mouth to stop the vomit from spewing out and contaminating the scene. The bloody mess in front of him had once been Colin Merryweather; despite the lack of a face or even a head, he could still tell the man from his clothes and build.

  He suddenly grew very scared. Surely Mavis must have either discovered the body, or even witnessed the murder? Both scenarios would account for her current state of confusion and detachment. He had no idea just who might have carried out such a heinous act, but they might still be in the house.

  He backed out quickly and carefully; all the while, his ears were attuned to the house and its noises in case he was being observed or even stalked.

  After what seemed like an age he was outside in the freezing cold again, but his skin still felt hot and sweaty. Someone had taken an axe to Colin Merryweather’s face, and not even he deserved that.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jemima dragged herself out of bed with a head full of fuzzy warm dreams.

  The night had been filled with strange flashing images. Sometimes they were of peace and contentment somewhere far away. The sun beat down hot upon her body under a crystal blue sky and all was quiet and serene. The fields were stocked full of bountiful crops and the wheat swayed in the gentle breeze. This was a town of perfection where anything was possible and the bitter bile of crime never dared to rear its ugly head. They were untouched by the outside world here and protected against the fickle fingers of fate. But there was a dark side here too. The woods beyond the town borders were dark and full of hidden dangers. In spite of it only being a dream, she knew that there was always a price to be paid, a price that demanded blood and sacrifice.

  She woke with contrasting emotions that something was desperately wrong with her. But as her senses rallied and strengthened, the feeling of unease began to fade along with the dream.

  She stood trembling slightly with the cold and the waning images and sensations. Her mind seemed oddly fogged these days and she found it hard to concentrate. The hours slipped by sometimes without her even noticing and she found it difficult to keep a grip on her own thoughts.

  She caught a scent of something, something that flashed through her mind at breakneck speed so fast that she barely caught a glimpse. A face or a voice, something that loomed over her free will and invaded…, the thought was cut off abruptly as she rushed to the bathroom barely in time before she threw up into the bowl.

  ----------

  Sarah stared in disbelief, unable to comprehend the words that had just come out of the Headmaster’s mouth. “Are you serious?” she asked – unnecessarily, judging by Barnaby’s stern expression.

  They were gathered in his office: Sarah, Jemima - who looked a little green around the gills -, Stuart, Hannah and Maurice. It was breakfast time and the kids were all in the dining hall being supervised by Rosa Marsh and the kitchen staff.

  “I’m afraid so. The line isn’t all that clear but Sergeant Ross was able to tell me enough. Mrs. Merryweather’s husband was found dead yesterday afternoon. Ross needed a little information on Mrs. Merryweather, and well, this is a small area after all and rumors are sure to spread quickly. I thought it best to pass on some clear information untainted by ghoulish gossip.”

  “What did she do, chop the old bastard’s head off with an axe?” Maurice joked with bad taste humor.

  Sarah stared in horror as Barnaby’s face paled and the room fell silent and awkward. She’d had enough experience with axes to last her a lifetime.

  “Holy shit, you’re not serious?” Jemima remarked with wide eyes.

  “The details of the situation are unclear at this point,” Barnaby replied coolly. “Sergeant Ross wasn’t ringing to offer information, rather to gain it.”

  “What do we tell the children?” Sarah asked with concern.

  “Nothing for the time being,” Barnaby said firmly. “Fortunately we only have a dozen pupils in-house, so for the time being we can afford to say nothing. The weather is supposed to worsen this afternoon so I can’t see any information leaking out from the village. After the holidays I would imagine that the facts will become clearer.”

  “Did she really do it?” Jemima mused aloud to no one in particular.

  “I called this meeting to quash rumors Ms King, not to start them,” Barnaby said warningly.

  “I was only asking,” she replied in a low embarrassed voice.

  “I’m sure that it’s all in God’s plan,” Hannah Marks said through a beaming smile.

  “God’s plan?” Sarah snapped. “Let me tell you, I’ve seen an awful lot of what some people would describe as God’s plan and you can stick it, sister.” She realised that they were staring at her again, like they had when she started yelling at the police sergeant the night that she thought one of the children was missing and she had pulled the alarm. She had tucked away her hip flask that night in the back of her wardrobe and it was still there untouched. She had enough loose marbles rolling around after Eden Gardens without greasing the gears with vodka. That night had scared her as she had realised that her ghosts were not buried as deeply as she had hoped.

  “It’s alright, dear,” Hannah said soothingly as she touched Sarah’s arm lightly. “Everything is going to be perfect, even better than it was before, a true paradise.”

  Sarah stared at the school nurse. Her pudgy hand was stroking her arm and she pushed the hand away in disgust. “I don’t know what you are talking about Hannah, or what you’re on, but I ain’t buying it.” She had never known the woman to speak of religion before, but now her eyes were bright and sparkling. There was a local priest who came into Ravenhill on occasion to hold services at special times of the year. He held a memorial in November on Remembrance Day, as well as services in September and July to commemorate the terror attacks. She couldn’t remember Hannah ever showing much interest in religion, let alone use God’s name in a sentence.

  “That’s as maybe, Ms Marks,” Barnaby interjected, “but for now we follow my plan. This matter is not to be discussed with any of the children, especially when they are short on numbers and with too much time on their hands for idle chatter.”

  Sarah was standing at the back of the room as they all trooped out. They were supposed to head for the dining hall for breakfast but Barnaby’s revelation had left her with little appetite. Once upon a time, in a dim and distant past, Tolan Christian had held an entire small town under his spell, including her, and she had slain the only man that she had ever loved with an axe. It was only through her dreams that she saw Samuel’s kind and ge
ntle face before she swung the blade. She remembering swinging that axe a second time and indeed saving her friends, if a little late. She remembered Tolan’s face as it crumpled in shock at her treachery and she remembered the feelings of rage that she still held for the monster.

  She was lost in her guilt when a hand touched her shoulder. “He sees you,” Hannah Marks whispered in her ear as they were the last ones to leave the office. “He sees you and he’s coming; he’s coming back to deal with his betrayer.”

  Sarah stepped back from the nurse and stared incredulously at the smiling round face before her. “What did you say?” she asked, shocked as she felt a strange alien presence in her thoughts and mind - strange fingers probing around private territory and peeking into her dark corners.

  Hannah merely walked soundlessly out into the corridor to join the others.

  “What did you say?” Sarah demanded as she reached out and grabbed the nurse’s arm in a painful pinch.

  “Ow, Ms Mears, you’re hurting me,” Hannah said loudly and the others turned their heads.

  “Who’s coming? What the hell did you mean by that?” Sarah demanded, tightening her grip.

  “Ms Mears, what on earth are you doing?” Barnaby snapped. “Unhand her at once.”

  Sarah ignored the Headmaster and pulled the pudgy nurse in closer. She suddenly felt a strong hand on hers and looked up to see Stuart’s concerned face. She realised in a flash that they were all staring at her and she was acting irrationally again. She began to doubt what she had heard in the nurse’s whisper, if there had even been one. She had been lost in her thoughts of guilt and anger and it wasn’t impossible that Hannah might not have said anything at all.

  She let go and tried to find a smile. “Sorry,” she said lightly. “I guess I don’t know my own strength,” she laughed falsely, letting go. “Sorry I thought that you said something is all.”

  The others wandered off down the hallway with varying degrees of distrust in their eyes, all except for Stuart. She saw the worried look in his eyes and tried to reassure him. For a second he leaned in closely and she thought that he was going to try and kiss her again; she also didn’t know if she would try and stop him. It was then she realised that he was smelling her breath, presumably to see if she’d been drinking.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she said haughtily and his cheeks reddened when he noticed that he’d been caught in the act.

  “I was just making sure,” he shrugged, embarrassed.

  “Oh wonderful, is that what everyone thinks of me around here? That I’m some kind of lush?”

  “No of course not,” he replied, not entirely convincingly. “You have to admit that you’ve been behaving a little oddly lately.”

  “Well, Mr. Keaton, that’s not really any of your concern now, is it?” she said coldly, turning on her heels.

  “Apparently not,” she heard him say sadly as she walked away.

  ----------

  Father Brendon Monroe watched the heavy snowfall with mixed emotions. On the one hand, the white curtain was hugely impressive as a show of Mother Nature’s forceful will but on the other, the roads were becoming drowned under the white weight. The sight was intensely relaxing and peaceful. As far as he could see out across the stretching fields the world was covered under a thick blanket of perfect precision. The blizzard might have caught the TV weather people with their pants down, but the wily old heads in the village had been preparing for weeks. Country folk and their superstitions had proven far superior to all of the orbiting satellites. It was comforting in a way to know that man still had a thing or two to teach the technological world.

  Fortunately he had no other duties in any of the surrounding villages for the next week or so. So there would be no need to risk the wrath of the weather by trying to reach them. The Beast was safely locked away in the garage and the monster 4x4 shouldn’t be required, or at least he hoped not.

  He heard the clinking crockery from the kitchen as Edna Bailey busied herself. The elderly housekeeper had been a woman possessed lately. The small cottage surfaces seemed to scream for mercy under her hard polishing hands. His freezer was packed to the gunnels with meals that she had stockpiled, presumably for an upcoming apocalypse. He only prayed that she wasn’t making yet another pot of tea; he wasn’t sure that his system could stand another brew. His prayers went unanswered as she suddenly appeared through the door pushing the trolley stacked with tea and cakes. He was a big man with a large appetite, but even he was wilting under her attentions.

  Just then the phone rang and he gave a slight nod upwards, better late than never, he thought as the interruption was most welcome.

  “Hello?” he answered happily.

  “Father Monroe?” a man’s voice replied.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Sergeant Ross; I’m afraid that we have a bit of a situation here Father and I could use your help.”

  “Of course, Sergeant, whatever you need.”

  “This is a little bit delicate and I was wondering if you could pop round to the station?”

  “Of course, Sergeant,” Brendon replied looking over at the tea tray and thinking that nothing could be worse, especially in a sleepy village like Bexley Cross. “I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

  ----------

  Sergeant Donald Ross hung up the phone and turned pensively towards the maintenance closet. There was no such thing as a cell in the small station and he’d had to improvise. He’d called the main city desk yesterday to report the dead body of Colin Merryweather and the fact that he’d taken the man’s wife Mavis into custody. He’d been assured down the patchy connection that help was on the way, only for the weather to worsen and the roads become impassable. He needed the crime scene processing and the victim autopsied. He also had a school secretary who had stopped speaking and now only sat making soft moans and rocking herself back and forth like a junkie with her supply cut off.

  His first thoughts had been that Colin had been murdered and his wife was either a witness or had merely stumbled upon the scene and been sent into shock. He’d also been concerned that there was a maniac killer loose in the sleepy village. But when he’d returned to the truck to call for help she had calmly told him that in fact it was her hands that had slain the man in such a brutal manner. He still shuddered at the sound of her serene and quiet voice as she’d confessed. Apparently, Colin had tried stopping his wife from going to see a “him”. If they had both been 20 years younger, then Donald would have assumed that this was the consequence of an illicit triangle. But he found it hard to picture Mavis Merryweather carrying on with some kind of “fancy man”. And yet she had taken an axe to her husband’s face and obliterated it. He would have found a defense of a battered woman being pushed too far easier to believe than what he had in front of him. He had called PC Paterson in for help, but the young lad seemed only interested in taking peeks at the woman in the closet. Donald had never processed a murder scene before and he didn’t know how to proceed now. Freyford was the nearest large city to them and the Superintendant there had told him to lock the house up and stay the hell out. The SOCO team should have been with him within the hour, but the snow had quickly put paid to that. There was going to be a helicopter dispatched, but the winds had increased dramatically and that was soon abandoned as well. All he could do now was to wait for the weather to break and for the professionals to arrive and take charge.

  Mavis had refused to effectively communicate ever since he had moved a cot into the closet and placed her on it. The woman now sat rocking back and forth with a glazed expression frozen on her face. He could hear her reciting prayers over and over again under her breath. It had been a long time since he had attended a church service, but they didn’t sound like any prayers that he recognised.

  The door knocked and he watched as Paterson got up to answer it without being told for once, a minor miracle in itself. The cold wind rushed in through the open doorway as the local priest stepped inside.

  -
---------

  Alex Thompson tried to steer the conversation around to one of his own choosing for the umpteenth time. Joshua was holding court as per usual and all faces were trained upon his serene expression.

  They were gathered in the computer lab but their supervisor, Ms King, was vacantly staring out of the window. Ever since he had left Joshua alone with the young teacher she had been acting differently and he was worried. Joshua seemed to have an ability to alter the moods of those around him and he was like a magnet for the other kids. He gave sermons about the evils of the modern world that tapped directly into the minds of those who felt abandoned by their parents here at Ravenhill. For some reason, Alex had yet to succumb to the American’s charms completely. It was as though Joshua required him to stay above the sycophantic robots that he was surrounding himself with.

  Eventually Joshua finished his talk and the others began to drift away dismissed. Several of the girls couldn’t help but throw lingering looks back at Joshua. Starry eyes full of dreams reluctantly left the room until they were alone with only the teacher for company.

  “You’re concerned Alex, what’s troubling you?” Joshua asked.

  “It’s just…,” he nodded towards Ms King who was staring blankly out of the window.

  “Oh have no fear; Jemima here has no interest in our conversation, do you dear?” Joshua said towards the teacher.

  Ms King only continued to stare out of the window as though she was the only creature on the planet.

  “You may speak freely,” Joshua urged gently.

  “Is she ok?” Alex asked, concerned.

  “Oh quite so, in fact she’s happier than ever.”

  “What did you do to her?” Alex couldn’t help but ask, despite his better judgment.

  “I have shown her happiness Alex, the true happiness that only exists in the word of God. The vast majority of the world seeks the same Alex, to simply live in peace and to find contentment. But I know that you seek something different, my friend. I know that you are part of the rare minority that wish, no, deserve to sit by the throne and wield the power. There must always be the shield, Alex, and there must always be the sword. There will always be those who will seek to destroy what we can create; believe me I know of what I speak.”