The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

  The bigger traveller turned, gave Tom his full attention. ‘Why?’ Less a question, more of a challenge.

  Tom didn’t back down. ‘Because I want to see him.’ Eyes holding the other man’s unblinking, face impassive. ‘You going to take me to him or shall I just go and find him myself?’

  The smaller man was now looking between the two of them, head bobbing like a tennis spectator. Tom didn’t blink, didn’t back down. The other man eventually broke eye contact but turned abruptly into the darkness so Tom couldn’t witness it. He had.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  He started to walk towards one of the old ambulances, slipping through the gap between that and a Ford Fiesta. Tom followed, the other traveller behind him.

  Tom was led to one of the yurts. Lights were still on inside. The man knocked on the door. ‘Noah? Someone to see you.’

  ‘Who?’ A muffled reply.

  ‘Barman from the local pub. Wants to talk to you.’ He turned to Tom, eyes on his, smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Wouldn’t say what for.’ Noise from behind the door. It was opened. The traveller pointed at Tom. ‘In you go.’

  His eyes followed Tom as he entered. He came in behind him with the other man. Closed the door.

  Tom looked round. The place looked as he had expected it to look. A bed area, a living area, a kitchen area. Like an untidy studio flat. A woman lay in the bed. She turned away from the men, seemingly bored by the intrusion. Tom noticed she looked a lot younger than the man in front of him.

  Noah was smaller than he had expected. Dark hair, straggly and greasy, with an unconvincing attempt at a beard. He was wearing an old T-shirt and pyjama trousers, pulling a hoody on over the top. His eyes seemed wary, as if he was always expecting trouble or looking for an escape route.

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘To talk to you.’ Tom gestured to the other two. ‘Alone.’

  Noah sniffed, looked at the other two men. ‘Nah, they stay.’

  Tom said nothing, just stared. Should he press the point or accept it? He decided, reluctantly, to accept it. Noah probably wanted the men to stay in case there was any trouble. He looked wiry and sneaky enough to handle himself, but numbers never hurt.

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Tom, aiming for nonchalance.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tom Killgannon. I work at the pub that these two gentlemen have been frequenting this evening. I take it you’re Noah?’

  He nodded. Scrutinised Tom. ‘You say you’re a barman, you sure about that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re not police?’

  Tom frowned. ‘No.’

  ‘You look like police. Maybe you’re undercover.’

  Tom flinched at the words. He hoped that Noah didn’t pick it up. ‘I’m not police, I’m not undercover.’

  ‘You sound like police.’

  ‘I’m not.’ His anger rising.

  ‘If it looks like a pig and oinks like a pig –’

  Tom struggled to keep his temper in check. ‘I’m not fucking police, OK?’

  Noah leaned back, smiled. Like he had just scored a point or had his argument proved. ‘Whatever you say, mate.’ He pointed to a pile of cushions. ‘Sit down.’

  Tom, knowing he would be at a disadvantage if he did so, didn’t move. ‘Fine where I am.’

  Noah shrugged like he didn’t care, but stayed standing also. ‘What d’you want to see me for, then, barman?’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone. I believe she lived here.’

  ‘Yeah? We get a lot of people here. Don’t know all of them. We’re not a cult. We just live here ’cause we like it.’

  Out of his peripheral vision, Tom saw one of the men, the smaller one, nod his head in agreement.

  ‘Her name’s Lila.’

  The man stopped nodding. The room seemed to freeze.

  ‘Lila.’ Noah’s voice sounded suddenly cracked. He nodded, slowly. Playing for time, thought Tom. Drawing his response out, deciding how to play it. ‘Li-la.’

  The smaller man was looking between the other two, fear on his face. They ignored him.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tom. ‘Lila. She used to live here. She’s gone. I want to know where I might find her.’

  ‘What for?’ Noah’s voice too devoid of inflection, eyes too blank.

  ‘She’s got something that belongs to me. And I want it back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Between me and her.’

  Silence once more. Eventually, Noah spoke. ‘What’s she said to you? When did you meet her?’

  Tom’s turn to keep his face impassive. ‘The other night. During the storm.’

  The same flat eyes. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘She mentioned your name. I thought you might know where she’d be. If there was anyone else she would have gone to.’

  Noah shrugged. Aimed for casual. Missed. ‘Not me. Lot of people come here. Lot of people just wander off. We don’t ask them to come, we don’t make them stay, we don’t stop them leaving.’ He stepped in closer, eyes locked with eyes. ‘I don’t know what she’s said to you, but that’s not the way we are here.’

  Tom held his gaze. Felt emboldened by Noah’s response, like he was on to something and should keep pressing. ‘She said she’d done something wrong and you were after her. Sound about right?’

  Tom was aware of the bigger man moving behind him. He tensed himself, fists ready. Noah gave the man a nod and he stayed where he was.

  Attention back on Tom. ‘She was lying. She does that. And steals stuff. She was trouble. I wasn’t sorry to see her go.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  Noah chose not to reply.

  Tom tried again. ‘She mentioned another name. A boyfriend. Kai?’

  Tom was aware of the two men at his side once more. The smaller one stared at the bigger one, open-mouthed, on the verge of speaking. One look from the bigger one stopped him.

  Noah gave another shrug. ‘Can’t help you there. Like I said—’

  ‘Yeah, I get it.’ Tom hated being lied to. And Noah was a terrible liar.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr . . .’

  ‘Killgannon.’

  ‘Mr Killgannon.’ Noah frowned. ‘Irish? You don’t look it. Or sound it.’

  Tom’s gaze never faltered. ‘Father’s side. Second generation.’

  Noah, unconvinced but not pressing the point, nodded towards the door. The bigger man opened it. Tom moved towards it, then stopped, turned.

  ‘One last thing. What d’you know about the Morrigan?’

  It wasn’t the response Tom was expecting. Noah froze. Stared straight ahead, fear creeping into his eyes. He managed to regain his composure but it was too late. Instead he walked up to Tom, faced him, trying to replace the fear with a threat.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Mr Killgannon. These two gentlemen will escort you to the perimeter of the camp. Do get home safely. I hear these cliffs can be treacherous at night.’ Noah, feeling he was on familiar ground, smiled. It wasn’t pleasant.

  Tom returned the smile. Equally unpleasant. He glanced at the other two, then back to Noah. ‘Don’t worry. I can handle myself. It’s others you should worry about.’

  Noah didn’t reply.

  Tom was escorted to the old ambulance, then let go. He walked all the way back to the coastal path, feeling at least two sets of eyes on him.

  *

  It was a long walk home but he made it safely. His parting words obviously hadn’t gone unheeded.

  9

  Pirate John let himself into his cottage and jumped in fright as the wind took the handle from him, slammed it shut. He stood there, hand clasped to his chest, waiting for his heart to slow down once more. He was scared of everything at the moment. Everything and everyone. And with good reason.

  He locked the door, checking it twice, walked towards the kitchen, examining everything on the walls as he went, hoping familiarity would keep him
calm. Bring him safety.

  A framed brittle and yellowed copy of the Daily Mirror announcing Elvis Presley’s death. An amateur watercolour of Port Isaac at sundown, made gauzy by extra layers of dust. A 1980 Sandinista! Clash album cover signed by Joe Strummer, record long since removed. A film poster for Night and the City, Richard Widmark’s scared, shifty countenance seemingly following him as he went. Old model Second World War planes hung from the ceiling, Spitfires and Stukas frozen in a never-ending, unwinnable dogfight. On an old telephone table, at war between describing itself as antique or junk, were three made-up model kits of old Universal horror films monsters: Dracula, the Mummy, Frankenstein’s monster. Well painted but like everything else, old and dust-laden. But cherished, after a fashion, like all the items on display.

  He went into the kitchen, put the kettle on. Took milk from the fridge – the dress-up Liberace fridge magnet today wearing a long mink stole and a gold crown – a teabag from one cupboard and a mug from another. The mug had a reproduction film poster on the side, Hammer’s Hands of the Ripper. He made his tea, moved to the living room, sighing as he sat in the armchair. It was never as comfortable as it looked. Old 1930s, overstuffed with horsehair. Part of a three-piece. All threadbare but still serviceable.

  The room matched the furniture: the walls were tobacco-stained beige; an old, dark wood dresser held period gewgaws and knick-knacks. But here were examples that the world had moved on: a poster of Johnny Cash angrily giving the finger, a flat-screen TV in one corner with accompanying black plastic boxes underneath, shelves of DVDs. Broken Action Men and Barbie dolls arranged on the dresser like serious sculpture, fighting for space with old paperback books and filthy framed photos. A mini cityscape of cardboard boxes stacked to various heights all round the room. Most curiously of all was a hanging curtain of CDs in front of the window. Despite everything crammed in, the house didn’t speak of a rich and full life, which was surely the intention, but rather of clutter and obfuscation, trying to disguise an emptiness at the heart of it. But to Pirate John it was home.

  He found the TV remote, switched it on. Newsnight. Trump and Brexit, played on a seemingly endless loop. He flicked over. A late-night casino cash cow, exhorting the lonely, half-cut night owls to phone in and gamble away on rigged machines. Flick. Late-night local news. The student was still missing.

  And off.

  The student.

  He sighed. There was no getting away from what he had heard, what he had seen. And he couldn’t keep it to himself, couldn’t keep quiet any more. It was wrong. And he had to tell someone about it.

  What he had heard, what he had seen . . .

  He was still shaking from it.

  He got up, selected a Dave Brubeck album, put it on the turn-table. Hoped the sounds would be enough to drown out the images in his head.

  Pirate John ducked and dived, sailed close to the wind, or under it when he could. Out in his vintage – and barely roadworthy – two-tone Hillman; or in his house with the ship’s mast out front turned into a makeshift birdfeeder, and reclaimed industrial pots and vessels turned into flower troughs; or just walking through the village wearing his Second World War sheepskin flying jacket over his MCC cricket jumper, his long grey hair flapping behind him; people thought him a harmless and possibly lovable eccentric. And maybe he was. But he was a lot more intelligent than he was given credit for and had a lot more compassion too. Empathy. And he wasn’t going to go along with what he knew was happening.

  The image came back to him: all that blood, the screaming, the howling, the smell . . .

  He shuddered, turned the music up louder. Wished he had something stronger to hand than tea.

  He had tried talking to Tom, the barman in the pub earlier. He thought that the outsider might be one of the few people he could trust round here. But it hadn’t worked out the way he had expected it to. For whatever reason, Tom was either too busy or unresponsive to chat. Sometimes when he wasn’t occupied he just stood at the side of the bar, staring away into nothingness. No matter how much Pirate John tried to catch his eye, Tom seemed not to see it. So Pirate John had left, alone, the burden he carried overwhelming him.

  Before he could think further, there was a knock at the door. He had rigged up an industrial warning bell from an old factory as his front-door buzzer but it very rarely worked properly. So he knew the knock was for him.

  He froze. A visitor at this time of night was never good. Never.

  Another knock, harder this time, insistent.

  His stomach flipped over. He knew who it would be.

  There was no point not answering, the music was on. His caller knew he was in. So he turned down the volume, and, like a condemned man, went to answer the door.

  A figure stood there, dark even against the night, huddled and hooded.

  ‘Hello, John. Not going to leave me standing here all night, are you?’

  He stepped aside, let the figure in. Straight to the living room, down on the settee. Pirate John followed, resumed his seat in the armchair.

  ‘No tea, John?’

  He hesitated. Should he get up and make tea for a visitor, no matter how unwelcome? A guest was a guest, as his mother used to say.

  He stood up.

  ‘I’m pulling your leg. I’m not thirsty. Sit down again.’

  Pirate John did so. Waited.

  The figure leaned forward. Smile in place, hands clasped together like a parish vicar. ‘So how are you then?’

  He swallowed. Hard. ‘Fine.’

  ‘You see, I’m not so sure. I’ve heard you’ve been having a few . . . shall we say, second thoughts? About our . . . endeavour?’

  Pirate John said nothing.

  ‘I heard you saw something up in one of Bill Watson’s fields a couple of nights ago and that’s made you less keen.’

  The images blazed into his mind once more, unbidden: the ripped-open cow’s carcass, the blood . . .

  ‘You were talking to Bill Watson about it the other night. Asking questions.’

  Again he said nothing.

  ‘Looking like you were ready to back out.’

  ‘No. Not me, Morrigan, not me.’ Trying to keep the shake from his voice.

  The figure’s smile froze in place. Eyes penetrated. ‘You sure?’

  Pirate John didn’t trust his mouth to speak. He nodded instead.

  The figure stared at him, took in his features, scrutinising, an artisan looking for unwelcome and unexpected cracks in a job previously thought finished.

  Pirate John tried to keep his gaze as steady as his interrogator’s, hoped he was managing. Doubted it.

  Morrigan sat back. Spoke almost conversationally. ‘That can’t happen, John. Second thoughts, cold feet, call it what you like. You agreed, remember?’

  He didn’t answer, unsure whether the question had been rhetorical or not. A stare from his guest told him an answer was expected. He nodded once more.

  ‘We all agreed. But it’s been noted that you’re not as happy as the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Pirate John said, unable to stop himself. ‘It’s just . . . it’s . . .’

  The figure stared, waiting for him to explain himself.

  Pirate John sighed. ‘Look, I know we have to, have to do this. It’s just . . . I’m fine.’ He nodded once more, hoping he displayed resolve, knowing he was just trying to convince himself. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘It will, John. It will. It has to be.’ Morrigan sat forward once more. ‘None of us want to do this, John. Really. And we wouldn’t unless we had to. Unless there was absolutely no alternative. You agree?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Good.’

  Silence fell. Pirate John waited.

  ‘What were you trying to talk to that barman, Tom Killgannon, about?’

  Pirate John almost jumped. It felt like Morrigan was reading his mind. ‘Nothing. We . . . we often have chats. He’s good company. An intelligent man.’

/>   Morrigan stared, unblinking. Deciding whether he was telling the truth or not. Eventually a blink, but from the expression, the jury was still out. ‘He’s an outsider, John. And not to be trusted. Just bear that in mind.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good.’ Morrigan rose.

  Pirate John breathed a sigh of relief that the ordeal was over and he hadn’t given anything of himself away.

  ‘Oh,’ the figure said, turning before reaching the door. Delved a hand into a pocket. ‘Just in case this conversation doesn’t take hold.’ Handed something to him.

  He took it, staring at it in horror. A kind of rough doll with the skull of a crow, black feathers stuck on to give it a semblance of life, crossed and tied sticks for a body, more feathers to cover the raw wood. A black stone strung where a heart should be.

  A crow warning.

  He felt his legs give way, had to sit. He managed to rest on the back of the settee, heart pounding, stomach churning.

  The figure smiled. ‘Do I need to do this?’

  ‘No . . . no . . .’ Begging, pleading.

  ‘Good.’ Morrigan plucked the doll from his hand, made it disappear back into a pocket. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight then.’

  Pirate John waited until the figure was gone before running upstairs and vomiting into the toilet.

  He’d got the message.

  10

  Lila pulled the hood over her head, huddled down in the doorway. She was trying to simultaneously make herself anonymous, yet also be visible enough for someone to take pity on her and give her a few coins. Like every homeless person. She found that she didn’t need to make herself invisible. The passers-by did it for her.

  Newquay in the rain. She felt the wet and cold of the pavement through her thin shoes, the rain hitting her knees and calves, turning her jeans into a second skin. Thank God she had the warm, waterproof coat to huddle inside. A small mercy.

  Newquay out of season. The days still cold, sky grey, the promised spring postponed once more. Midweek, out of season and lacking tourists. There was never a good time to be homeless but there were always worse times. And this was one of them. But she was still alive.