The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

As soon as this is done, he thought, I’m off. Get that copper off my back and you won’t see me for dust.

  *

  The night arrived. Cloudy but dry. Cold. He drew the chalk circle round the fire he had made, sat in it. Waited until midnight. To make sure no one from the site was around, he had taken himself off to a quiet spot where he wouldn’t be disturbed. Then he propped the doll in front of him, took the needles from his pocket. Began the ritual.

  ‘Three times I wound thee . . .’

  He stuck the needle in as far as it would go, left it there.

  ‘Three times I wound thee . . .’

  Another needle, another stab.

  ‘Three times I wound thee . . .’

  And again.

  ‘Three times you burn . . .’

  He took the doll, stuck it into the flames three times. Each time holding it until his fingers threatened to burn as well, then withdrawing it. It sat in his hand glistening, starting to melt.

  ‘Three times I curse you . . .’

  That part was easy. He hurled as much invective as he could at the doll. Found it difficult to stop at three.

  ‘To hell, never to return . . .’

  He threw the doll in the flames, watched it burn.

  Now what?

  ‘Thought I might find you here.’

  Noah looked up, startled. There stood Detective Sergeant Hickox, arms folded, cigarette in mouth, smile on his face.

  ‘Got a tip-off you were thinking of doing a runner. Got down here real quick.’ He looked at the fire. ‘Been watching you for a while. Didn’t want to interrupt.’ He laughed. ‘Like playing with dolls, do you?’

  Noah didn’t stop to think, just became action and reaction. He jumped to his feet and lunged at Hickox, who, taken by surprise, fell under Noah’s first blow.

  ‘You’re supposed to be dead . . .’ Noah screamed. ‘Dead . . .’

  Hickox retaliated quickly, landing a punch on the side of Noah’s head, trying to scramble to his feet. Noah was knocked off balance. Hickox got up.

  ‘Right, you little fucker, I’ve got something to haul you in for now . . .’

  Noah realised he had done just what the copper wanted him to do. But he wouldn’t go with him. No way. Desperation kicked in. He picked up the dry end of a burning log from the fire, swung it at Hickox. It connected with the man’s face. He screamed, hands moving up instinctively. Emboldened, Noah shoved the burning log directly at his face.

  Hickox tried to duck and dodge out of the way, soon lost his footing. Fell to the ground beside the flames.

  Noah didn’t stop to think. He picked up a second burning log, flung it into Hickox’s face. Then another. Hickox screamed. Noah smelled burning flesh, heard sizzling, knelt down next to him.

  ‘I’m not going back, I’m not going back . . .’

  He took the log, raised it and brought it down on Hickox’s head. Again and again until he lay still.

  Now he looks like the clay doll, thought Noah, and started to laugh.

  His laugh became so hysterical he didn’t think it would ever stop.

  *

  Noah sat next to Hickox’s dead body all night. The adrenaline come-down left him shaking and sobbing. He had killed a man. Actually killed a man. And not just any man, but a copper. He knew how they looked after their own. Knew what they did to a cop killer.

  He had to get away. Hide the body. Had to . . .

  Calm down. Think. Plan.

  Hiding the body was easy. Just bundled it up in an old tarp, stuck it in the back of a van at the site. Said no one was to go in there. Nobody argued.

  Deciding what to do with it was the hard part. And then deciding what to do with himself. The more he planned, the more he thought of Morrigan. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been set up. Fear or not, he had to go and see Morrigan.

  ‘How did it go, Noah?’

  ‘How d’you think?’

  ‘Please keep your voice down. I have neighbours.’

  Noah began pacing the floor. ‘It was a fuckin’ disaster. You know it was.’

  Morrigan arched an eyebrow. Smiled. It wasn’t pleasant. ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but not like this. I killed him.’

  Another smile from Morrigan. Like a chill that had entered the room.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’

  ‘What would you like me to say, Noah? Or should I call you Dean?’

  Noah stopped, mouth open. Whatever he had been about to say left him immediately. What had he just heard?

  ‘I know who you are. I know what you’ve done, and who was after you.’

  It was too much for Noah. His head swam, pulse pounded. ‘Why?’ It was all he could manage, his voice feeble and broken.

  ‘Because I needed you. You’re going to be useful to me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just ask?’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t have worked. You needed a demonstration of what I’m capable of. Otherwise . . .’ Morrigan shrugged. ‘Where’s the loyalty?’

  ‘So this was all just . . . this ritual, it was just bullshit?’

  ‘Rituals are never bullshit, Dean. This one worked perfectly. I wanted you in a position where you would be able to assist me, let us say, and you needed to get rid of an irritant from your past.’

  ‘But I killed him . . .’

  ‘Yes, you did. And when you get rid of the body, I’ll be the only other person who knows. The only living person, of course. And that’s how I want it to be.’

  Noah looked round the room again. So boring, so mundane. He couldn’t believe that anything special happened here. But it did. He was witnessing a very special kind of evil. ‘So you’re going to blackmail me, that it?’

  ‘Remember I said I was performing rituals of my own last night? Those, along with your actions, will aid me. Your ritual was for my benefit. Not yours.’

  ‘You told him I was there, you knew I’d . . . I’d do something to him.’

  ‘Hoped. Not knew. But I did think something like this would happen. It’s not difficult to plan if you know what you’re doing. It’s all about power, Dean. And that’s what I have now. Over you.’

  He just stared ahead, like an animal trapped in a cage realising there’s no escape.

  ‘Power, Dean. The most potent magic of all. Power gives one the ability to transform things, to remake them in one’s own image. To create willing acolytes. Power. That’s real magic.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘You can keep on calling yourself Noah. In fact, I prefer it. You will get rid of the body to my specifications. As I said, I’m the only other person who knows what has happened and where the late, unlamented Detective Sergeant Hickox’s final resting place will be. And in the meantime, I will need your services.’

  ‘For what?’ Noah almost didn’t dare to ask. He certainly didn’t want to hear the answer.

  ‘There is a time coming when I will need you. And you will be there for me. Because you know what happens if you aren’t.’

  It was a warm sunny day when he left Morrigan’s house but none of that touched him. It felt like a giant open jail that he was walking around in only through the grace of Morrigan, but in reality he was trapped in it.

  *

  Noah stood up. The day, in all its bleakness, was in full swing now. His reverie had got him nowhere, just reminded him of how much he hated and feared Morrigan.

  He turned his back on the sea, walked slowly back to the camp.

  Waiting to see what fresh hell awaited him.

  50

  Tom had barely spoken to Lila during the day. Or rather, she had barely spoken to him.

  She had clammed up, whatever was on her mind staying there. All the good work of getting her to trust him, to open up the previous evening, had been undone by Rachel’s arrival. Or by his response to Rachel’s arrival. And he felt as bad as he could about that.

  It
was always the same with Rachel. Sex followed by remorse. Never again, he always told himself. I’ll be stronger next time. But he knew he wouldn’t be. She would turn up, weave her sex magic on him and the cycle would begin again.

  Rachel had only stayed for a couple of hours. The sex hadn’t been great; he had been distracted throughout, disappointed in himself. Like pushing rope, Rachel had said at one point which made him feel even worse.

  As he went to bed he was sure he could hear noises from behind Lila’s bedroom door. She was still awake. That made him feel even more guilty. If she couldn’t sleep and was having night terrors then he should have been there to help her. He felt like he had let her down.

  She communicated only through shrugs and monosyllables. Picked up the Bukowski collection she had been reading the previous day, continued with that. Ignored him. Or tried to. She sneaked glances at him from the corner of her eye when she thought he wasn’t looking. He tried to read her features. She didn’t seem scared; maybe she was just as disappointed in him as he was. If so, she had every right to be.

  ‘I’m just going to work. Will you be OK here?’

  They had eaten and she had picked up the book again. ‘Yeah,’ she said, eyes never leaving the page.

  ‘I’ll try not to be late. If you’re still up maybe we could spend some time together? If you like.’

  ‘Yeah.’ A shrug. Non-committal.

  ‘OK then. See you later.’

  She didn’t reply. He looked at her, pretending to read.

  ‘Listen, I . . . I’m sorry.’

  She almost looked up. ‘For what?’

  ‘For last night. For inviting Rachel in. I shouldn’t have done it.’

  Another shrug. ‘Your house. If you want your girlfriend here, that’s up to you. Nothing to do with me.’

  He knew she was suppressing what she really wanted to say.

  ‘It was the wrong thing to do. I won’t do it again.’

  Another shrug. ‘Do what you like.’ The words said so casually, the emotion behind them anything but.

  Tom stared at her some more but she was affecting not to look at him. He left the house.

  All the way to work he thought of her, how he could make things right again. But he was surprised out of his reverie when he reached the Sail Makers. It was busy.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Pearl, taken aback by the number of people, the noise.

  ‘Round Table again,’ she replied. ‘Upstairs. Special meeting about the marina. Sometimes they stop off down here, get fortified before tackling work of national importance.’ She smiled while she spoke.

  ‘Hey,’ said Tom, ‘maybe they’ll ask me to become a member.’

  Pearl laughed. ‘Yeah, if you’re still here in thirty years’ time. You might not be considered the newcomer by then.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Tom, smiling. ‘I bet I will.’

  ‘I’m sure. They won’t even let me join. Mum and Dad say it’s not for me, I wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘Dodged a bullet there.’

  She laughed. He joined in.

  ‘It used to be organising local fetes and stuff like that. But the marina’s all they talk about now.’

  ‘Spent the money before they’ve got it?’

  ‘No, more like a real determination to make it happen here.’

  ‘What, like finding which local councillors to bribe and having a whip-round?’

  Pearl’s smile faded. ‘Don’t know what they’re doing or what they’re planning but they take it very seriously. Never seen them like this before. Fixated. Only thing they talk about.’ Someone came to the bar, a middle-aged farmer. ‘Evening, Bill. What’ll it be?’

  Bill Watson asked for a pint of bitter. Pearl poured it. Tom looked at the clientele once more.

  There was a guy in a wheelchair who two other people were helping up the stairs. A woman walked up behind him, presumably his wife, although from her body language she seemed more attached to the strapping, handsome man who was holding on to the wheelchair’s base. A few farmers he didn’t know came in and went upstairs, all waiting patiently for the wheelchair to be moved. Pearl was right, Tom decided. All of them seemed to have the same kind of expression. Driven. Determined. Desperate, even. And something about the eyes too. Wide, even flickering with fear or apprehension. On all of them.

  Then Rachel entered. Tom looked surprised. He smiled at her. She was out of uniform and he couldn’t help but stare. Despite what he had thought earlier he could feel his body responding just at the sight of her.

  ‘Evening,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ she replied, as if she barely knew him, eyes anywhere but on him.

  Her attitude took him aback. He knew they couldn’t be seen to be overly friendly in public, but she seemed decidedly frosty towards him.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. I’ll have a gin and tonic while I’m waiting, please.’

  ‘Right.’ He didn’t know what else to say and she offered nothing in the way of conversation. He handed the drink to her, took her money.

  ‘Thanks.’ She turned, made her way upstairs.

  He watched her go. Wondering what had just happened.

  The retired teachers, Emlyn and Isobel, came in next, all smiles as usual. They also took their drinks upstairs. Tom was thinking again about Rachel but didn’t get far. The next person through the door was Pirate John.

  Tom stared. Pirate John looked terrible. He seemed to have aged about ten years. His face was grey, his features sunken and sallow.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked as John came towards the bar.

  Pirate John looked at him, opened his mouth, but whatever was going to come out was stopped. A farmer came up, put his arm round Pirate John’s shoulder.

  ‘Good to have you with us,’ he said, his voice hearty, his red face smiling. ‘Coming up?’

  Pirate John nodded and allowed himself to be led upstairs. He gave a backward glance towards Tom, his eyes begging, imploring. Tom stared back, concerned. He crossed over to Pearl.

  ‘You seen the state of John?’

  ‘Yeah. Awful.’

  ‘And he looked scared. You don’t think it’s got anything to do with what he wanted to talk to us about?”

  Pearl looked at him, frowned, eyes widened. ‘You think?’

  ‘Let’s nab him afterwards. Maybe he actually does have something important to tell us.’

  ‘For once,’ said Pearl, aiming for levity. Missing.

  51

  Pirate John sat at the back of the room. It seemed like the whole village was crammed in there. People he had grown up amongst, been to school with, shared his life with. His friends. Now they couldn’t bring themselves to look at him. He reckoned he knew why. When they looked at him, noted his defiance, they were looking at the part of themselves they couldn’t bear to see.

  He had been thinking a lot recently. About his situation in the village, about his life in general. About fear. And he had come to understand something. People were capable of anything if they were given permission to do it. The Stanford Prison experiments where half the student volunteers were made jailers and half prisoners. No matter what they were like before they took part, they all soon lived up to their roles. Especially the jailers. The civil war in the former Yugoslavia in the nineties. Rwanda. Neighbour turning on neighbour. As viciously as possible. Coming home from work and slaughtering the family next door. Because they were told they could. Given permission by a higher authority to let their basest urges run free.

  As he kept looking round the room, searching for a face that would look towards him, smile even, his mind slipped back to when it all started. It was a kind of end of innocence, in a way. He had thought he knew people, knew what was going on in the village. But he was blissfully unaware of what was really happening. That first Round Table meeting. When everything changed. When Tony Williamson disappeared and Morrigan took over.

  *

  It had started as normal.
All milling about in the bar, enjoying a few pre-meeting drinks, bit of chat. They were all there. The farmers drinking their ale, herding together looking slightly lost in a social situation. The retired teachers, Emlyn and Isobel, the local policewoman Rachel Bellfair, Dan and Elaine, of course. The usual production of getting Grant Jenner, head of the Round Table, and his wheelchair up the stairs.

  Shame about Grant, thought Pirate John. Crashed his car one night and was now paralysed. He liked a drink and, it was agreed by common consent, he was lucky to be alive.

  Tempers were going to be high that night. It was to be expected. They were there to discuss the proposed marina.

  Grant was wheeled to the front. ‘Thank you all for coming. As you know, this is a special meeting. Or at least a meeting with one agenda. The marina. I’m sure you’ve all heard about it by now. There’s a shortlist, and St Petroc’s on it. I don’t need to tell you just how important this is for our village, for the whole area. After the government threw us over the cliff with the whole Brexit thing – and no, I don’t want an argument, thanks – we need this. Desperately. We need this investment, the jobs. We need it or, quite simply, we die.’

  He waited, let that sink in.

  ‘We’ve got the economic figures for St Petroc and the surrounding area. The demographics of who’s living here. The young people have all but gone. The businesses in the town are closing at a rate much higher than the national average. Wages are falling. Unemployment is rising rapidly, again much faster than it is nationally. The Brexit crowd, Gove and Johnson and their ilk, lied to us. Things aren’t going to be the same for farmers, they’re not going to get better. They’re going to be worse. Much worse. Without an EU deal, the subsidies, the Common Agricultural Policy, sheep farmers are going to go to the wall. We’re not getting seasonal labour from Europe. I don’t need to tell you all how much we’ve already lost in letting crops rot because we can’t get pickers.’

  Murmurs of assent in the room.

  ‘Smaller farmers are already selling up, letting big agri-business concerns take over their land and do what they like. We supply sixty per cent of our own food in this country. We’re only ever nine meals away from empty supermarket shelves. And it’s going to get worse. We’re in a dying land. And we have to do something about it.’