The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

  She devoured it like she was starving.

  After she had finished he slid his own plate over to her. ‘Think you need this more than me.’

  She devoured that too.

  Once finished she sat back. Looked at him. And in that look, her defences began to come down. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He shrugged. ‘No problem. So,’ he said, head cocked to one side, studying her, ‘you’re not a thief, I can see that. You wouldn’t have broken in here if you weren’t hungry.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And you look scared. So you must have been really hungry to let that overtake your fear.’

  She didn’t reply.

  He leaned across the table towards her. She instinctively drew back. He stopped moving. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, you needn’t be scared. Not now. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  She looked at him as though she wanted to believe, but still couldn’t allow herself to.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked. ‘I’m Tom.’

  Her mouth moved but nothing came out. He could tell she was deciding whether to tell the truth or make something up. ‘Lila,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Lila. Nice name. Pleased to meet you, Lila. So what’s got you so scared?’

  Her lips clammed together. Eyes widened. Wrong question. Or rather right question, he thought, but too soon.

  ‘Look, whoever, whatever it is, if you want to tell me, that’s fine. If not . . .’ He shrugged.

  Why had he said that? Most people would immediately attempt to detain their intruder and call the police. He tried to analyse his actions. As far as he could tell, there was nothing malicious about Lila’s break-in. She was hungry, wet and cold. There was also an element of relief for Tom that she wasn’t who he had first imagined it might be. The remnants of his former life finally catching up with him. So why did he care who this girl was and what she was running away from? Was it for the same reason he found himself extra jobs to do in the bar? To stave off boredom, to not have to think too much? Or did he have another motive, one he couldn’t yet admit even to himself?

  ‘They . . . it’s all about the boy,’ she eventually said.

  He was startled by her words. ‘The boy?’

  ‘The one who went missing, on the TV. His parents . . .’ She sighed. ‘It wasn’t . . . wasn’t me. I did . . . I saw . . . I didn’t think they would . . . Not Noah, not even Noah . . . and Kai . . .’ She sighed. ‘The boy. The missing boy. He was . . . Crow . . . the Morrigan . . .’

  Before she could speak further, they heard a voice.

  ‘Hello? The door was open . . .’

  5

  Tom stood up, looked at Lila, put his fingers to his lips, calling out to the voice. ‘Yeah, just a minute. Just stay there . . .’

  He looked at Lila once more. She was standing, ready to make her way out of the broken window. He gestured at her to sit down, to stay where she was. Staring at him, not trusting him but wanting to, she did as he asked. He placed his fingers to his lip once more and stepped out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him, leaving her sitting huddled at the table in his oversized waterproof coat.

  Once in the hallway he put the light on. The sudden illumination hurt his eyes. He squinted against it. Saw a figure standing there, backlit against the dark outside. Bulky, difficult to make out any features. ‘Yeah?’

  The figure stepped forward into the light and Tom realised who it was.

  ‘Hello, constable.’

  PC Rachel Bellfair pushed the hood of her police-issue waterproof back and shook her hair free. ‘So formal.’ She smiled. ‘Your door was open. I was . . . passing.’

  ‘Passing. Right.’

  It was clear Rachel was expecting an invitation inside but Tom hadn’t moved.

  She gave him a sideways glance, frowned. ‘Your front door’s open. It’s past midnight.’ She stepped towards him. He could smell the sweetness of alcohol on her breath. She reached out a finger, ran it down his chest. ‘Just thought there might be something wrong . . . that you might be in distress . . .’

  Tom involuntarily stepped back. ‘Everything’s fine. Just forgot to shut it properly when I came in.’

  She looked past him towards the closed kitchen door. Her expression changed. Wary. She looked back at him, found a smile. ‘Any chance of a drink? Gasping.’

  ‘You smell like you’ve had enough already.’

  ‘I was at the Round Table meeting.’

  ‘I know. I saw you.’

  She moved forwards once more. ‘And I saw you. Manfully pulling pints behind the bar.’ Her finger extended once more. ‘You know how big your arm muscle looks when you do that? Hmm? Really big . . .’

  He looked round the cramped hall, realised he wasn’t going to get rid of her straight away. ‘Come in here.’

  He led her into the living room. Like the rest of the cottage it was sparsely furnished. Functional furniture, a TV and DVD player, a small pile of DVDs, a bookshelf with a scattering of paperbacks. No pictures. No photos. He sat on the sofa, indicated an armchair but she ignored him, sat next to him.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, unzipping her jacket.

  Tom glanced towards the door once more. Rachel caught the gesture and looked round, her fingers stopping on the zip.

  ‘How’d you get back?’ she said.

  ‘Pearl drove me.’

  Rachel’s expression changed. A smile – if he had to describe it he would call it knowing – made its way across her lips. ‘Did she now.’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And that’s why I can’t go into the kitchen. That’s why your door was open. You couldn’t wait to get her inside, could you?’ She leaned forward, aggression in her voice. ‘Like a younger model, do you? Even younger than me?’

  Tom felt his body respond to her closeness despite the situation. Not now, he thought. Not with Lila in the kitchen.

  ‘The booze has made you brave,’ he said, trying for levity. He regarded her. She was undoubtedly attractive, although the police uniform with its unflatteringly cut trousers, bulky belt, vest, accessories and high-vis jacket did its best to hide that. Well-built with long, dark, curly hair, a pleasant face that didn’t need make-up to be good-looking, and an easy smile. She had caught his eye as soon as he had moved in. She was the first person he had spoken to. More than just spoken.

  ‘So that’s a yes, then?’ More aggression, more bitterness in her voice.

  He sighed, tiring of this. ‘No. She’s not here. Just me.’

  Rachel smiled. ‘All alone, then.’ Another smile. This one less innocent. Her hands went to the front of her coat. ‘Shall I slip into something more comfortable?’

  Tom didn’t move. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She pulled the zip further down. ‘That’s not what you said last time . . .’

  He sighed, shook his head. But his body once again responded. Even more so. He couldn’t help it. He was a man. A lonely man.

  Then he thought of the girl in the kitchen.

  ‘I think you’d better go, Rachel. It’s . . . not a good time.’

  She pulled back, stared at him, a mixture of disappointment and anger in her eyes. ‘Right. I see. That’s the way it’s going to be from now on, is it?’

  ‘Rachel . . .’

  ‘Got what you wanted, so that’s that?’ She stared at him. No warmth, no teasing in her eyes now.

  ‘Please, Rachel . . .’ He tried to put his hand on her, but she shook him off.

  ‘Don’t “Please, Rachel” me.’

  ‘Look, you knew this would be difficult,’ he said. ‘You’re my liaison. You’d be in trouble if your bosses found out. Not to mention your husband.’

  ‘You didn’t mind it last time. Or the time before.’ She nodded in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Maybe I should just make sure Pearl’s not in there. Wouldn’t want to be the laughing stock of the whole village, now, would I
?’

  ‘Pearl’s not in there. There’s nothing between me and Pearl. That’s ridiculous. I just . . . I’m tired. This whole situation, sometimes I need to be alone. You should understand that. Know what it’s like.’

  She stared at him. Said nothing.

  ‘Look, I think you’d better go now. I’ll talk to you soon.’

  She zipped up her coat. ‘Whatever.’ She swept out, slamming the door behind her.

  Tom exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

  *

  When he’d first met Rachel he had been feeling particularly vulnerable. Forcibly moved to St Petroc, his emotions still raw from everything that had happened up North. He had needed someone. And there had been Rachel. And no matter how unprofessional it was, no matter how much he knew it could impact on their future working relationship, not to mention Rachel’s husband and child, they had allowed it to happen. Wanted it to happen. And now, settled, steadier, he had realised it had been a mistake and he had to deal with the fallout from it.

  He heard her car pull away, went to the window. Watched. Waited until the lights had disappeared up the hill and away. Then went back to the kitchen.

  Lila was gone. And she had taken his coat.

  And with it his whole identity.

  6

  Kyle couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or not. It didn’t matter. All he could see was darkness. Different shades, subtle shadowed hues, but darkness all the same.

  Time had become elastic, as immeasurable as everything else about him. He had screamed and screamed, demanded answers, demanded anything, a response, even insults. Was rewarded with nothing. Eventually, exhausted, he had slept. And woken. And then a pattern of sleeping and waking became established but he didn’t know how long each spell lasted.

  He had replayed – again and again – what had led him to this situation. Tried to think what he might have done to cause it, what he could have done to avoid it. Came back to the same question every time: why him?

  The girl in the camper van. He remembered her. Or sort of did. His memory of that night was more dark than light, portions coming back in flashes, snatched glances of dim scenes glimpsed through filthy windows. He tried to jigsaw them together. The weekend away in Bude with his uni friends. The pubs. That spliff. The girl. Always back to the girl.

  The look on her face when he got out of the van, realised he wasn’t at the campsite. Sadness. Actual pain. Like it hurt her to do what she was doing to him. Her melancholy eyes the last recognisable thing he saw as they put the bag over his head, held him tight from behind, bound his arms to his body, his legs together. She might have even mouthed she was sorry, but he didn’t know if that was a real memory or one he had made up to comfort himself. Still, he allowed it to become part of his repeated narrative. Hoped it had been true.

  Then he had been bundled into the back of another van, a proper one this time, stinking of diesel and sweat. Yelling all the while through the thick, loamy-smelling sacking, suddenly sober and alert, not knowing how far his voice was carrying, hearing it reverberate around his head. He tried to get his arms free but only succeeded in tightening his bindings. He smelled the muck from the floor he’d been roughly placed on.

  He had no idea how long his journey was. In retrospect he chastised himself for not doing what he had seen done in films, listening for anything that stood out so he could make his way back to that point once he had escaped. But he was just paralysed with fear. Nausea rose within him and he had no capacity to do anything.

  Eventually the van stopped, the doors opened. Kyle was dragged out between two bigger bodies. An overwhelming smell of alcohol and tobacco, sweat and weed.

  The night air changed. The ground beneath his feet altered. He was now inside. Dragged along what felt like a stone floor. He came to a halt as his escorts stopped walking.

  He found his voice, began to articulate. ‘What d’you want? What’s . . . what’s going on?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Look, is this . . . is this a joke? Yeah? Rand? That you? Fucking joker, OK, Rand, very funny. You’ve made your point now . . . let me, let me go.’

  A smack to the back of his head answered him. He shut up.

  His bonds were cut off. He tried to rub his aching wrists, move his ankles, but again his escorts held him in too firm a grip. He tried to remove his hood but was given another smack for his trouble.

  ‘Hey . . . Ow, that . . .’

  And then he was pushed forward. Into nothing.

  He put his hands out, screamed as he fell. With no idea how far, how long the drop would be, the scream turned into some kind of desperate animal bleat that he didn’t recognise as coming from him. Then he hit the ground. Hard.

  The screaming stopped as the air huffed out of him. His leg buckled, ankle twisted. He rolled onto his back, gasping, gripping his ankle, writhing in pain. Flinching all the while, waiting for the next horrific instalment.

  Nothing happened. He just lay there. A scraping noise sounded above him, something being moved into place. Then reverberated off into silence.

  Pulling breath back into his body, he put his hand on the wall, dragging himself upright, testing his ankle. He could move his foot with some painful effort and it felt swollen and tender so he didn’t think it was broken, just badly sprained. He pulled the hood from his head. Saw nothing but blackness.

  Kyle’s eyes eventually grew accustomed and he explored his surroundings. Clammy stone walls, dirt floor, no door. The only entrance from above. An oubliette. A bucket with a rope attached to be hauled up and emptied. In one corner a rusted bed frame holding a thin wet mattress stinking of damp. And nothing else. No human contact, no noise. Nothing. Just darkness and confinement.

  And that was where he had been all this time.

  His mind, left alone, had drifted, played ‘what if’ games. ‘If only’s. If only he hadn’t spoken to that girl. If only he hadn’t come to Bude with Rand and Jack, his uni mates in Surf Soc. If only he hadn’t joined Surf Soc. If only he hadn’t gone to uni. If only . . .

  Studying English Lit and wanting to stretch his artistic ambitions, he had wanted to join Drama Soc but found he was too shy to audition. Surf Soc was the next stall at Fresher’s Week. The tall, blonde wannabe beach god behind the trestle table had told him it would impress the girls, give him ‘awesome times with lots of chicks’.

  That alone should have put him off but it was a late act of defiance against his parents, the doctors and his lonely childhood. A weak heart, his parents had been told when he was tiny. Operations, in and out of hospital, so often that by the time he was six it had become a second home. His parents always anxious, treating him as if he would break. The doctors said it was healing, that he was becoming as strong as all the other kids his age, but his parents were wary, still wanting to protect him. He could understand that, objectively, but still felt the need to rebel, to prove himself. And becoming a surfer seemed like just the right way to do it. And of course, there were the awesome times with lots of chicks to look forward to.

  Well, he had met one chick. But this definitely didn’t count as an awesome time.

  His heart was pumping so hard it felt like it would burst through his chest. He thought of his parents’ warning. The doctors had never imagined him in this kind of situation. This might be the end of him. He tried to force his pulse down, his breathing to slow. Organise his thoughts.

  His first time on a surfboard. He had barely managed to find his balance without being upended by some wave. And it was cold. Freezing cold. The others didn’t seem to notice, but Kyle did. And when he took yet another battering, when the rain came down almost horizontally, pushed the waves, and himself, towards the rocks, when his head, his body went under once more into the stinging, salted ice water, he wished he had just auditioned. Just stood on stage, belting out Ibsen.

  Then the bar with his mates, talking to a group of other surfers, hard-weathered faces, solid, farm-worked bod
ies beneath washed-out sweats and worn-out jeans. Eyes as jagged and flinty as the rocks in the cove they’d been surfing in. Bigging up their earlier exploits in almost legendary terms. Kyle standing separate, alone. The third wheel, the square peg.

  Then the girl. Small, blonde, pretty. Asking him outside for a smoke.

  He wasn’t very experienced but didn’t want to disappoint her, so in the cold night air at the back of the pub he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. A taste of bitter diesel herbs followed by prickly nausea, sudden empty-headedness. Like his mind was being sucked from his body, a tsunami pulling the sea back from the shore, the better to strike back with ferocity. But there was no strike, no force. Just a uselessness that left him hanging. A powerlessness.

  Take another, she had said. And he had done so.

  That was when the night began to dissolve.

  She had talked. About herself and her friend Kai. About travelling. The future. And he tried to listen, answer, but the world was tilting on its axis, spinning away too fast for him to hold on to. And then he was lost to blackness.

  And now, alone in his oubliette for who knew how long, he cried.

  So much, so loudly and so often that he had physically exhausted himself. Every emotion had been experienced, defiance, anger, all the way to fear, gradually moving to a weary acceptance. Every time he heard the covering over his cell being moved in preparation for food to be thrown down – a pre-packed sandwich and water usually – or a bucket change, he would call out, ask who was there, why they were doing this to him, plead for an answer. There was never a reply. Never a glimpse of another person.

  Kyle still harboured a vain hope that he would be rescued, that someone would have seen his abduction, reported it, and would be out looking for him. A vain hope. But he clung hard to it, the only thing to stop him going insane.

  His mother would be devastated. His dad too, although he had always considered him the tougher of the two. And even though it wasn’t his fault, he felt a perverse guilt for putting them through that.

  So there Kyle sat, alone in the dark with a smashed ankle, unable to escape even if he wasn’t injured – the exit too high, the wall unscaleable. Playing ‘what if’ and ‘if only’ over and over again.