The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

  Sometimes that feeling was the only thing keeping her going.

  19

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Noah stared at Kai. Unflinching, unblinking. Hard, cold eyes.

  Kai both flinched and blinked. ‘It’s . . . can we talk somewhere private?’

  He had driven straight back to the camp after his encounter with Tom Killgannon. Didn’t even stop to pick up what he had gone for. This was more important.

  Noah walked away from Kai, expecting him to follow and he did. Noah led him to the yurt that had held Lila. It seemed to Kai that months had passed since then. He tried to work out how he felt about entering the place Lila had escaped from. He thought about Lila, tried to work out his feelings towards her. They had been lovers once, of a sort. He’d always got the impression that he was more into her than she was into him, that she was only with him for the sake of convenience. In the camper van he had somewhere they could stay, a method of transport and, with the bits of dealing he was doing, an income. And she said she liked surfing although she never actually did it. She seemed happy to be with him, though, and he liked that. But he also thought that if someone else had come along when he did she would have been just as happy to go off with them.

  And now she was gone completely. Again, he still didn’t know how he felt about that. Especially under the circumstances.

  Noah turned to him, stopping any further introspection.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  Kai stared at the ground, unsure where to start.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s . . . it was that barman. The one who was here the other night.’

  Noah’s fists clenched, back straightened. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He . . . he was waiting for me in the village. Pulled me into a back alley. Started asking questions. Threatening me. His hands . . .’

  Noah stared straight at him. ‘About what? Questions about what?’

  ‘About . . . Lila.’

  ‘So the same thing as the other night.’

  Kai nodded, avoided Noah’s gaze. Unsure of how much to tell him.

  ‘What?’ More a command than a question.

  ‘He asked more than that. Knew more than that.’

  Noah stiffened. His voice, when he spoke, dropped to a near-whisper. ‘What did he tell you? What does he know?’

  ‘He . . . he asked about the student. The missing one. He . . . said Lila had something to do with that.’

  Noah thought for a few seconds. It seemed to Kai like hours.

  ‘He said Lila had something to do with that?’

  Kai nodded.

  ‘He knew Lila had something to do with that?’

  Another nod.

  ‘That’s what he told you.’

  Another nod, avoiding eye contact all the time.

  Noah stepped forward. Invading Kai’s personal space. Kai didn’t dare move.

  ‘Are you sure that’s what he said? Those exact words? That he knew she was involved?’

  Kai said nothing.

  ‘Because he could have just as easily said something about it and hoped your answer would confirm it for him. Couldn’t he?’

  Again, Kai said nothing.

  Noah moved in closer.

  ‘Couldn’t he?’

  Kai, realising he had no choice, nodded.

  ‘You gave yourself away.’

  Kai looked up. ‘No, I . . .’ Wilted under Noah’s stare. He tried again. ‘He knew about the crows.’

  This seemed to genuinely interest Noah. He frowned. ‘Really? He knew about the crows?’

  Kai nodded, desperate to be believed. ‘That’s what he said. And something else. He mentioned . . . Morrigan.’ He flinched as he said the name.

  Noah’s expression hardened, the iron gate descending. But before it did, Kai thought he glimpsed a second of fear in Noah’s eyes.

  ‘Morrigan? You’re sure?’

  Kai nodded.

  ‘Tell me everything that happened.’ Noah paced over to the other side of the yurt as Kai talked, made a play of thinking. Kai stayed where he was. Noah looked at the ceiling, pointed.

  ‘Look,’ he said, finger raised. ‘That’s where she got out, see?’

  Kai looked. The cords had been loosened. There was dried blood on the canvas. He wondered how much it had hurt her to do that. Felt a pang of sympathy but tried not to let that show in front of Noah.

  ‘It’s been repaired, of course. Can’t happen again. This place is perfectly escape-proof now.’

  Silence. Kai felt he was expected to fill the void.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes,’ Noah said, turning to face him. ‘It is good. Because this is where you’re going to be staying for the foreseeable future.’

  Kai couldn’t quite take in what was being said to him. ‘What . . . why?’

  ‘Yes, Kai, I’m afraid so. I’ve been thinking this for a long time now but what you’ve just told me has confirmed it. You have your uses, in small, menial ways. But you’ve become a liability to me, Kai. Just like Lila was. And that means I have to leave you here while I decide what to do with you.’

  ‘But . . . I . . . I told you about this straight away. I, I attacked him, hurt him. I . . .’

  ‘You told me an old woman from the village showed up and recognised you. She was your rescuer.’

  ‘Well, yeah, but—’

  ‘Well, nothing, Kai. If she hadn’t appeared who knows what you would have told him? What secrets you would have divulged? No, you’ll be staying here. Till I decide what to do with you.’

  Kai knew what that meant. Anyone who entered the yurt under these circumstances – and there had been quite a few – was never seen again. No one asked what happened to them but there were rumours. Sometimes more than that. No. He wouldn’t let that happen.

  Kai looked round. Noah was at the opposite end of the yurt, watching him. The door was behind Kai. He could easily reach it. He did so, turning quickly, making a run for it. Pulling it open, dashing outside.

  To be met with a baseball bat to the stomach, end on, taking his breath away. He dropped to the ground, hands grasping his injured stomach, curled into a foetal ball, gasping, pain flooding his torso.

  Jason, one of Noah’s closest ‘advisors’, stepped inside.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Noah, stepping over Kai’s body and making his way outside. He locked the door behind him.

  Kai lay there, too damaged to move.

  20

  Pirate John had committed one of the bravest acts of his life: he had left the house.

  After Morrigan’s visit he had pulled the curtains closed and, panic flooding his system, lived like the only survivor of some terrible apocalypse: eating from cans and dried food saved up from his emergency pantry supplies, drinking only bottled water, no phone, internet or even TV. Alone with himself. He found it wearyingly frightening.

  He couldn’t trust anyone or anything around him. Had they poisoned his water supply? Substituted his regular canned beer for something else? His fresh food, had that been deliberately contaminated in some way? It was easy to do. The Russians did that kind of thing all the time. He kept away from the windows, used only strategically placed diffuse lighting in case his silhouette appeared through the curtains, making too clear a target for any putative marksman.

  And all the while thinking, planning. Trying to find a way to get through what was happening around him not only with a clear conscience, but more importantly, alive. To stop himself from going insane he had started writing down everything that was happening, keeping a journal containing as many factual accounts of the madness as he could find. He had a stack of A5 ring-bound notebooks that he hadn’t been able to shift so he’d torn into them and got started.

  Bill Watson. Pirate John knew what he had seen that night. The usually taciturn farmer naked, covered in the blood of a cow he had just slaughtered in his barn, standing in the middle of one of his fields, flinging b
uckets of cow’s blood around him, all the while howling at the night sky. Morrigan was behind that, Pirate John had no doubt. Bill Watson had been in trouble, seen his herd struck down by some mystery illness. Everything was apparently fine now, though. Defra had cleared it up, pointed to contaminated feed. But Morrigan had developed such a hold on the area with talk of the old ways, the old religion, that Bill Watson had been convinced it was his ritual alone that was responsible for his cows’ recovery.

  Bill had led him to ask around, find out what else had been happening that some people might not have been aware of. The plight of Grant Jenner, another farmer who he was familiar with, had come up in conversation. A car crash had left him in a wheelchair, but Pirate John knew that Morrigan’s hand – to some degree – was behind it. He didn’t yet know how or why, but he would find out.

  Jack Tillis was another one of the village’s close-knit group of farmers, a man Pirate John personally disliked and whose political views he had little time for. But something had happened to him, too. Something involving migrant workers and unharvested crops.

  Tony Williamson was a down-from-London newbie farmer, spending an awful lot of money on organic principles. Pirate John wasn’t sure where he fit in yet, but he was certain to play a part in Morrigan’s design.

  Everywhere he looked he could see Morrigan’s work.

  And all of them had something to do with the bid for the new marina. Not to mention the missing student. Pirate John was sure he was vital to that.

  Looking at his notes made him feel brave once more. Or at least able to come to a decision. He would have to leave the house, do something about it. What was the worst that could happen? Well he knew the answer to that, but still he had to do something, even after being warned. He didn’t think they would go so far as to kill him, although with all the madness that was happening at the moment with the resurgence of the old religion, he wouldn’t put anything past anyone. It was a chance he would have to take. Because if he didn’t, things would get an awful lot worse.

  He would have to be clever, sneaky. That was fine, he was used to ducking and diving. Let them all believe he was doing one thing – towing the line – when in reality he was doing another – gathering evidence against them. His bravery increased the more he considered what he was doing. This wasn’t just being brave and standing up to bullies, this was actual heroism. Pirate John could save the day.

  But he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed an ally. And there was only one person he would consider. An outsider. Someone who definitely didn’t know what was going on.

  He left the house, set out to find him.

  *

  ‘Tom in today?’

  Pirate John tried to ask the question as casually as possible but there was no doubting the urgency behind it.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pearl, ‘day off.’ Then smiled at him. ‘You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.’

  Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded that. Pearl was a real looker, even if she was Dan and Elaine’s daughter and probably young enough to be his too. But not tonight.

  ‘That’s no hardship,’ Pirate John said, not wanting to give any indication that there was something on his mind. He didn’t know how much Pearl knew, how deeply she was involved. He hadn’t seen her at the gatherings but that didn’t mean anything. ‘Always a pleasure.’

  She leaned on the bar, looked at him. Smiled. Hardly rushed off her feet. ‘What’s on your mind, John?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. This an’ that. You know.’

  Her smile didn’t fade. ‘Good to hear it.’ She walked away, busied herself along the bar.

  Pirate John watched her. Was she involved? It didn’t seem like it. Surely he would have known by now. She would have said something. Even a nod and a wink, something like that. Just to let him know. Others in the village had when he’d walked to the pub. Had looked at him in such a way that he was left in no doubt that they knew what he had been doing, thinking, knew all about Morrigan’s call. And what it entailed. Eyes on him like never before. But not Pearl. He didn’t get anything like that from her. So either she was very good at hiding it or she genuinely wasn’t involved. He tried again.

  ‘Know what Tom’s up to today? Is he at home?’

  ‘No idea,’ she said, coming back to his end of the bar. ‘Could be out somewhere, could be . . .’ She sighed, shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  Pirate John detected a kind of sadness when she spoke of Tom. A wistfulness. He didn’t have time to dwell on it. He came to a decision.

  ‘What time d’you get off work?’

  She laughed. ‘You asking me out for a date, John?’

  He felt himself redden. ‘No, nothing like that. I was just . . .’ He looked round, checking that no one was listening to them. He had no idea if anyone was or wasn’t. ‘D’you get a break? I want to have a word. About something important. Just not here. In private.’

  Pearl frowned but still didn’t seem to be taking him seriously. ‘Sounds ominous.’

  Pirate John kept a straight face. ‘Can we talk when you’re finished? Please?’

  She shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But you’re not getting me into one of your schemes, are you? I’ve told you, we have suppliers for everything we need here.’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Just . . . a chat.’

  ‘OK then. I’ll be off in a couple of hours. We can have a coffee.’

  He thanked her, waited. Time couldn’t move fast enough.

  21

  Lila pulled her coat around her. It was warm but not comforting. And it didn’t stop the coldness gathering around her heart.

  An amusement arcade on the seafront at Newquay. It looked like the end of the world. Run down, rain-lashed, even the electronic bleeps sounded mournful. She had spent most of the day in and around there, only spending money on a takeaway cup of tea from the café next door that both looked and tasted like the water hitting the shore. She hadn’t eaten anything. She was saving what little money she had for later, hoping to make some more in the meantime.

  It wasn’t looking promising.

  ‘You’ve got contacts,’ Leon had said earlier, in the caravan. Getting ready for work, doing up the buttons on his Crack Converters red polo shirt. ‘Conroy said so.’

  She didn’t reply for fear of being caught out in a lie but cocked her head to one side slightly to show him she was listening and not contradicting.

  ‘So he wants you to use them. Says some guy – your boyfriend?’

  She shrugged. ‘I know who he means.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Leon scrutinised her, her non-committal answer making him wonder whether this boy was still around. ‘Well, Conroy says he doesn’t need him. You can do instead. You get the gear from here, go and sell to them.’ Leon gave her his entrepreneur smile. ‘Another revenue stream coming online.’

  Again she didn’t contradict, didn’t agree or disagree. ‘So what do I do, then?’ she asked. ‘What’s the prices, do I haggle?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re a self-employed small businesswoman now. You’re the backbone of the economy. You’ve got targets and profit margins and all that shit. Course you haggle. You get the best price possible. You’ve got something they want. And soon, there’s only gonna be us supplying it. Bargainin’ from a position of strength, innit?’

  She could have laughed at his appropriation of business-speak. ‘OK then,’ was all she said instead.

  But she couldn’t go back to the camp. And couldn’t tell them that. She’d be out and homeless all over again. So she had to do something. She had to be smart.

  And that was why she had found herself in the amusement arcade. This, she had decided, was to be her new territory.

  Except it didn’t seem to be working.

  She had wandered around, trying to catch kids’ eyes, even giving a sotto voce indication of what she was there for. ‘Weed, Charlie, ecstasy . . .’ And if that didn’t work: ‘Spice, meow meow, whatever you want I’ve got . . .’ But the ki
ds all seemed to be sorted. None of them approached her. A few older men did, cruising the aisles looking for young, fresh meat, not too fussy about which sex they’d settle for. She told them where to go. And they did. No bother, no drama, usually. It was a numbers game to them: keep trying till they found one that would say yes. And they did. Or they wouldn’t have kept going there.

  The kids staring at the games, immersed in dancing figures on the screens, the cars, the guns, the monsters, the women, the gore. Deaf to everything but the tinny beeping and bleeping of the theme tunes, the screams of the dying, the screech of tyres, the incessant emission of ammunition. The rush they got from what they were doing as potent as any drug. Lila saw that.

  She made another round of the place as the clientele refreshed itself. Began her whispered litany once more.

  No interest. No sale.

  Well, some interest, but unwelcome.

  The guy behind the counter of the change booth was staring at her. She had noticed him looking over earlier and panicked, thinking she was about to be detained and arrested but he hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t approached her, confronted her, stopped her. Just looked and allowed her to go on. So she let it go, thought it was just the kind of place where dealing – and everything else – was tolerated.

  But now he was really giving her attention. Making his earlier glances seem casual. And that wasn’t a good thing.

  He got out of his booth, began to walk towards her. Young. Tall, but not carrying it well, like he was used to sitting down all day, his back curled and hunched. Thin and gangly, turn sideways and he’d be flat. Hair long and greasy, skin pallid from lack of daylight, spotty and pitted from fast food. But his eyes, the look on his face. Like the bullied kid at school who never got a chance to get even until he grew older and achieved a small kind of power. Victim turned persecutor. But cruelly so. And his latest victim, he had obviously decided, was Lila.

  He stopped in front of her. ‘I’ve been watching you.’

  His breath stank. Whatever unpleasantness curled behind his eyes curdled in his body too.