The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

She pushed back the duvet. It was heavy, warm, moved slowly. Still weighed down by her recent ordeal, she stood up.

  Tom had been good to her. Left a towel in the bathroom, an old dressing gown that was so big she could have gone camping in it, slipper socks and the oversized T-shirt she had slept in. It had an old, worn design on it for Richmond Fontaine. She had no idea what that was, presumed it was a brand of beer.

  More than that, he had left her alone to sleep for a whole day and night. She knew he had gone to work and heard him return, but she just kept her distance from him for now. And he did the same, giving her the space she needed to re-orientate herself. To relax and heal. Not that any of that was possible yet. But he was trying.

  She visited the bathroom, walked downstairs. It was strange being back in that kitchen again. By choice this time, not necessity. And not planning on running straight away, either. She looked at the window she had broken. Still temporarily boarded up. She kept studying it. Reached out, touched it. It didn’t seem real, somehow, everything she had been through recently. Like a particularly bad dream or bad trip she would soon wake from. She looked at her hands. Her ruined fingers were healing. She stroked her hand over the wood of the window again. It was only through touching physical items, experiencing a memory connected to them, that she was able to divine reality. To realise that everything she had been through had actually happened. That it was real and she would have to confront it, cope with it and – hopefully, eventually – move on from it. If she ever could.

  She poured herself a glass of orange juice from the fridge, sat at the table. Tried to make sense once more of the jumble in her mind.

  Tom Killgannon. She couldn’t make him out. He seemed decent enough, and in fact had proved himself to be decent enough, but she still couldn’t work out his motives. He appeared to be driven by complex engines that perhaps even he didn’t understand. He had been good to her bringing her here, not demanding anything and even forgiving her for stealing his stuff, but she just wondered if he had another motive for doing all this. When she looked at him, really looked at him, she saw something surprising. He was physically big and strong but his eyes betrayed him. They were softer, kinder than you’d expect. She hesitated to say soulful because that kind of word just made her want to heave. But there was something there that she recognised. Some kind of damage, something broken in him, like he wasn’t complete. A missing piece he was looking for. She could relate to that.

  She was grateful for what he had done for her. But should she be suspicious of him? She hoped not. She was tired of running, escaping one bad scenario just to jump into an even worse one. She just wanted some peace. But she couldn’t rest fully here. Not being so close to Noah and everyone else. If she stayed here they would find her.

  So she would have to leave. Preferably sooner rather than later. Hopefully Tom would help her. But in the meantime she had to decide whether she was going to trust him or not. She didn’t think he would tell anyone or bring anyone round who would be a threat to her. At least she hoped not.

  She took her glass of juice with her into the living room. It was neat, especially for a man living alone. There were CDs on shelves, some DVDs but mainly books. She studied the titles, looking for something to read to pass the time. She didn’t know any of them. Cormac McCarthy. Don DeLillo. Hubert Selby Jr. And plenty more like that. Nelson Algren. John Steinbeck. And some heavy, thick books by Charles Bukowski. She took one down, found it was full of poems. This would do, she thought. Take her mind off things, pass the time. She sat down, started to read.

  Waiting for Tom to return.

  Waiting for the next phase of her life to start.

  44

  The windows were closed and curtained, the doors locked and bolted. Pirate John had checked and rechecked. And still he was terrified.

  Back in siege mode again, he had moved anything he thought he needed into the centre of the living room, pushing everything else back to the walls, creating a mini island for himself. His phone, the TV remote, a huge plastic bottle of water and cans of food. He would have to go to the toilet at some point but he would put it off as long as possible and even then force himself to vary when and the length of time he needed to go. Just in case anyone was watching and thought there was a discernible pattern to his behaviour. Make it as hard for them as possible.

  He had the crow warning in the room with him. He tried not to stare at it but couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t leave it on the door for everyone to see. And he couldn’t just destroy it. He hadn’t thought of himself as superstitious but he supposed he must be if he wasn’t able to bring himself to do that. Why couldn’t he destroy it? He had asked himself that enough times, even gone so far as to put it in the rubbish, then feel unwell and take it out again. Or stand over the sink holding a lighter to its feathers, unable to bring the flame towards it. So it sat there in the living room, tossed into a far corner, supposedly out of sight. But he knew exactly where it was. Could feel those dead black beady eyes staring at him if he moved. Like it had some kind of evil power over him.

  The rational part of him knew it was all garbage, that there was no such thing as a malign influence. But he felt it now. Penetrating to his core. Like a chill he couldn’t get warm from, no matter how many hot baths he took or layers of clothing he swaddled himself in – or even if he turned the heating up as high as he could. No. It chilled him bone-deep and there was no way he could change it.

  He didn’t know what to do. He knew that sometime soon, or when he least expected it, something bad would happen to him. Perhaps something fatal. And he had agreed to that. They had all agreed to that. But he had never actually thought that it would happen to him. He didn’t think he would be the one to have a change of heart, to want out. Or as he now understood it, to see sense and try and stop this ridiculous mass hysteria. And he certainly didn’t think they would actually try and punish him for it. Not seriously. What had they all been thinking?

  He couldn’t get away without being spotted. His car was too noticeable. And he couldn’t seek forgiveness either. Not once he’d received the crow warning. They weren’t messing about. Look what happened to Tony Williamson, the posh City-boy farmer. Suicide? Everyone knew it wasn’t. He had hoped Pearl Ellacott and Tom Killgannon would look into it for him. See for themselves what had taken place. He doubted that would happen now. It was too late for him. He couldn’t even phone Morrigan – he shuddered at just thinking the name – and say he was sorry. There was nothing he could do. They had won. And he knew it.

  He picked up the remote, flicked on the TV. Local news. He watched in case there was any mention of St Petroc, of the marina development. Nothing. Then he saw the photo of the missing student.

  The parents were making yet another plea but they looked as though they had accepted that he would never turn up again. At least not alive. Pirate John could feel their pain and hurt coming through the screen. It touched him, what they must be going through. That feeling that these things always happen to someone else. The soul-searching, desperately wondering what they had done to deserve this, what had gone wrong. Why were they being punished? He wished he could help them in some way. He felt dreadful, knowing what he had done and not being able to speak about it.

  The report ended and a number flashed up on the screen. For help in finding Kyle. Pirate John stared at it. And realised there was something he could do to help them. Not much, but it was something.

  He committed the number to memory, picked up his phone. Punched in the digits, waited. While he was listening to hold music, a voice came on and told him that the information he was giving would be treated in confidence although calls were recorded. He didn’t care. He waited, feeling his heart hammering, the fingers which held the phone shaking. Eventually it was answered.

  ‘Crimestoppers, how can we help you?’ A professionally cheerful voice.

  His turn now. ‘I . . .’ A deep breath. Another. ‘I . . . it’s ab
out that missing student. Kyle Tanner.’

  ‘Do you have information?’ The voice was interested now, but wary. Trying to coax him along but clearly tired of all the sick practical jokers these kinds of appeals attract, he thought.

  ‘I . . . yes. He’s . . .’ The crow warning caught his eye, sitting in the corner, dominating the room, its dead eyes locked on him. Judging him. Warning him.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, I . . . he’s . . .’

  The crow’s gaze unwavering.

  ‘Take your time, sir. We’re here to help.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He’s . . .’

  Turning away so the crow couldn’t see him any more.

  ‘He’s . . .’

  But still it judged him. Watched him. Like it was reporting back. Like they would know what he was trying to do.

  ‘Sir? Hello?’

  He ended the call. Threw the phone on the floor.

  He was shaking, trembling all over and sweating as if he had just completed a five-mile run. He felt sick to his stomach.

  And still the crow stared at him.

  He stood up, crossed to it. Was about to pick it up but stopped himself. Didn’t even want to touch it. He just stared at it.

  ‘You bastard . . . you fucking bastard . . . I fucking hate you . . .’

  Again his hands went towards it, outstretched, fingers turned to grasping talons, ready to rip it apart, throw it away.

  But he couldn’t reach for it. Unable to let his fingers touch those black, oily feathers, begin to rend it into pieces. Unable or unwilling. He didn’t know which. All he could feel was its malevolent power washing towards him. Its eyes glinting darkly, beak sharp, ready to fight back if he tried anything.

  He turned away, slumped onto the sofa. And burst into tears.

  He was too weak to stop them from doing anything, to fight back. Even too weak to put a pair of grieving parents’ minds at rest. How pathetic was that? How pathetic was he?

  He needed to talk to someone. He needed help.

  He had to talk to Tom Killgannon again.

  Somehow.

  In the meantime he would just sit in his room and wait.

  For the end of his world to arrive.

  45

  ‘Feeling better?’

  Kai opened his eyes. He wasn’t used to Noah being this charming and happily disposed towards him. Usually it was hostility or, at best, indifference. But now the man seemed genuinely pleased to see him all the time. It made Kai nervous.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sitting upright. ‘I’ve been walking around for a bit, getting used to being on my feet ag—’

  ‘Good,’ said Noah, cutting him off. He handed him a mug of something.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Tea. Get you strong again.’

  This was definitely out of the ordinary. Kai went from being nervous to openly suspicious.

  Noah read his features, smiled. ‘You’re an important member of the team, Kai. We need you back on your feet as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why?’ He took a sip of the tea. Too hot. Burned his mouth. He grimaced.

  ‘Got something for you to do. Something only your particular talents will be handy for. Listen to me,’ he said, laughing. ‘I sound like that Neeson bloke in that action film. “I have a particular skill set . . .”’ He laughed again.

  Kai put the tea down by the side of the bed, wary. ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Like I said, something you’ll be good at. In fact, it’s probably something that only you could do. We just need a few more things to fall into place and then you’re on.’

  ‘What d’you mean, fall into place? You said there was an outsider that you needed me to get. I either do it or I don’t. They’re either there or they’re not. What has to fall into place first?’

  A flash of something appeared on Noah’s face. Just for a second or two, then it was gone. But Kai saw it. He recognised it. That old intolerance bordering on anger that talking back, asking questions, always brought. And in that moment he knew – definitely knew – that Noah’s new approach was just a sham. And he should be wary about what was being lined up for him.

  ‘This and that,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just get yourself well again.’

  Kai nodded. Attempted the tea once more. It was still too hot to drink.

  ‘I’ll hear soon. Then we’ll be full speed ahead. And it’ll all be over.’

  There was something else in Noah’s voice, behind his words, that gave Kai pause. Like he wasn’t actually talking to him, just repeating things to himself. The man looked, and was trying to disguise sounding, weary. There was almost sadness there. Or fear, thought Kai. No. That was unthinkable. Not for Noah. He was the one who instilled fear in people, not the other way round. Wasn’t he?

  ‘So who is it, then?’ asked Kai.

  Noah just smiled. ‘A surprise.’

  ‘A surprise.’

  ‘Yeah. But you’ll like it. Poetic justice, let’s call it.’

  Kai didn’t like the way he had said that. There was some kind of sickness in the words.

  ‘And what if I don’t like it?’

  ‘You don’t want to think like that, Kai. Believe me.’ Noah let himself out. The implied threat hung heavy in the air.

  Kai tried to move, felt pain lance through his body, bringing back memories of the pit. He shuddered, reached for his tea, brought it to his lips.

  It had gone cold.

  46

  They sat in the living room, Tom and Lila, both on separate seats, both giving each other plenty of space, drinking mugs of tea. Keeping their own silence like two people who had met at a party with plenty in common but no idea how to start a conversation about it. Music was playing.

  ‘What’s this we’re listening to?’ asked Lila eventually. She was sitting in an armchair, curled up, legs underneath her, Tom’s T-shirt, pyjama bottoms and slipper socks dwarfing her body.

  ‘Skeleton Tree by Nick Cave. And the Bad Seeds, of course.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You like it?’

  Lila made the kind of face someone makes when they’re grateful to their host but don’t want to hurt their feelings.

  Tom smiled. ‘I’ll put something else on.’

  ‘No, no, it’s OK . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. Probably a bit too depressing, really. Those lyrics, the sentiment behind it . . .’ He stood up, crossed to the CD player. ‘Any requests?’

  ‘Whatever you like. What d’you mean by the sentiment behind it?’

  Tom changed CDs. ‘He wrote it just before his son died accidentally. Recorded it afterwards. Not the most cheerful of listens, but cathartic. Very cathartic.’ He drifted slightly, came back. ‘Try this instead. See what you think.’ Al Green’s ‘Tired of Being Alone’ came on.

  ‘I know this one.’

  ‘But d’you like it?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s good.’

  ‘Right. We’ll leave it there, then.’

  ‘Why is your music so depressing? That last one about the dead son, this one about how lonely he is. You not got anything cheerful?’

  ‘What you got in mind – Little Mix?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He laughed. After she realised she hadn’t offended him or upset him, she joined in. It eased the mood between them a little.

  ‘Thought you’d be into rave music and stuff like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Traveller culture, surfer, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Nah, not me. That was Kai’s kind of thing, though. I used to just tag along and pretend to like it.’ She fell silent for a few seconds. ‘Did that a lot, then. No, I like my Zayde Wølf, Joseph. Stuff like that. Passion Pit.’

  ‘Right,’ said Tom, none the wiser.

  It was late. He had worked a full shift but left straight afterwards, not staying to join Pearl for a drink and a chat the way he often did. It hadn’t been a particularly ardu
ous shift, just a few regulars there. The retired teachers were in, a few farmers and farm workers but that was it. No Pirate John or anyone from Noah’s site. Their talk with Pirate John would have to wait.

  Often, he would take some food home – whatever was left in the kitchen – and as usual, Pearl had offered. He had to stop himself from asking for double portions so as not to give away the fact that Lila was staying with him. He just took one portion home, gave it to Lila, and made himself cheese on toast. She was very grateful.

  ‘I didn’t know if you’d eaten or not.’ He had come in to find her asleep in the armchair. An open book of Charles Bukowski poetry beside her.

  She jumped up, a look of terror on her face, ready to run, then calmed down when she realised it was him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, I must have dozed off.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I reckon you needed it.’ He went into the kitchen to prepare her food.

  They ate in the living room, music on. Stayed there after they had finished.

  ‘So,’ said Tom, putting aside his empty mug, arching his back and stretching, ‘how did you end up down here?’

  ‘You know how I ended up here.’ Her eyes looked wary, on guard, not wanting to give anything away.

  ‘Not here in my house. I mean here in St Petroc. With Kai.’

  ‘What d’you want to know for?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Just interested, that’s all.’ He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. ‘Like to know who my housemates are. Whether I need to hide the peanut butter. You know.’

  ‘Love peanut butter. You got any?’

  ‘You still hungry?’

  ‘Just checking. For later.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got peanut butter. You needn’t panic.’

  She looked at him over the rim of her mug. ‘So what about you? Where are you from? You’re not from round these parts.’ She assumed a terrible Cornish accent when she said it. Made both of them laugh.

  ‘No. I’m Northern.’

  ‘Right. Which bit?’

  Tom wondered which answer he should give her. ‘Middlesbrough.’