The Old Religion

by Martyn Waites

  ‘Morrigan has no power over you, Noah.’

  Noah laughed. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Morrigan has power over everyone round here. Even you.’

  ‘Bullshit. Morrigan has no power at all. It’s just fear and mass-manipulation.’ He stood up, stood right next to Noah. ‘That’s all it is. Smoke and mirrors. The emperor’s new clothes. It just needs one person to stand up and call it out. You can do that, Noah.’

  Tom placed his hand on Noah’s shoulder. Noah turned towards him, no longer hiding the fear in his eyes. Tom knew in that moment that Noah could go either way. He just had to say nothing, wait and see.

  Noah smiled. ‘You think Morrigan doesn’t control everyone? Even you? Morrigan doesn’t need to do it alone. Morrigan works through others. Like me.’

  ‘Noah, whatever Morrigan’s got on you it’s not important . . .’

  ‘Not important?’ Noah laughed. ‘Really.’

  He shook off Tom’s hand, walked to the door, called in his two men again.

  ‘Take him home,’ he said, pointing to Tom. ‘And make sure he stays there.’

  They crossed to Tom, took one arm each.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tom, as they dragged him towards the door. ‘Just tell me. Where’s Lila being kept? Please, let me know. Just tell me and I can get her out.’

  Noah turned his back on him.

  ‘Please . . .’

  Tom was dragged out. Noah didn’t move.

  *

  Tom was driven home. Already there was a reception committee waiting for him. Cars and other vehicles, four-by-fours, quad bikes, ringed the front of his house. Local villagers sat in them or strolled about. They all stood to attention when Tom was driven up.

  He was pulled from the car, pushed towards his front door.

  ‘Stay in there,’ said one of the travellers, ‘until you’re told otherwise.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  He smiled. ‘Then you’ll never leave your house again.’

  Tom walked up to the front door.

  Locked himself inside.

  59

  Darkness was falling. The calm of the day gone, the wild of the night to come. It was the wolf hour.

  Kai walked through the caves. His injuries still hurt, the pain intensifying the nearer he came to the pit, the source of most of them. He tried not to let it show, certainly not in front of the two men Noah had given him. He wasn’t sure whether they were there to enforce Kai’s word or to ensure he didn’t run. At that moment he didn’t care. All he was bothered with was not appearing weak.

  And ensuring Lila did as she was told.

  It had taken him longer than he thought to reach the pit. His knowledge of the caves wasn’t good, as he had demonstrated to himself on his earlier escape. But again, not wanting to lose face before the other two, he had pretended he knew where he was going. And he had found the pit. Eventually.

  He didn’t catch the smirks that passed between the two men with him.

  He reached the edge of the pit, peered down it, torch in hand. He hid his shudders at returning there, swallowed down his nausea on seeing Kyle’s body.

  ‘Hi, Lila,’ he called.

  She looked up. Her face twisted with disgust, hatred. ‘Fuck off.’

  The two behind him smiled. He was glad for the bad lighting in the cave as they couldn’t see his face redden. He tried to ignore her reaction.

  ‘Got something for you,’ he called, and threw down a white cotton shift. ‘For you to change into.’

  ‘I said, fuck off.’

  The two others didn’t bother to hide their laughter now. Kai felt himself getting angry.

  ‘Put it on. That’s an order.’

  ‘Don’t take orders from scum like you. Now, as I’ve already said, fuck off.’

  Kai felt himself start to lose control. ‘Put it on. Now.’

  ‘Make me.’

  He paused, looked between the other two who shrugged. He looked back down at Lila, incandescent with rage, knowing there was nothing he could do about it. So angry yet so impotent.

  ‘I will. Oh, I will.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  Kai stared at her. ‘Or . . . these two here will. Yeah. They’ll climb down there and . . . and make you put it on. They’ll put it on for you.’

  ‘And I’m sure they’ll look very nice in it.’

  The two men’s laughter increased. Kai was even more enraged.

  ‘You’re going to die tonight, Lila. One way or the other. Now put that on. Do as you are told . . .’

  Lila picked up the shift. Looked at it.

  ‘Put it on. I’ll wait.’

  ‘And watch as well, fucking pervert.’

  ‘You used to be my girlfriend. I can watch if I want to.’

  Lila gave a cruel smile, mimicked his words back to him. The other two, all pretence at respect for him gone, laughed even louder. Which just made him all the more angry.

  She stared up at him, defiance in her eyes.

  ‘You’ve got . . . got to take your things off underneath, put it on . . .’

  ‘Make me. Come down here and make me.’

  Kai, by this point fuelled by anger and embarrassment, turned to the henchmen. ‘Give me the ladder. Now.’

  They unfurled a metal segmented ladder they had been carrying, threw it over the rim of the pit. Held the top. Kai, ignoring the pain in his body, went straight over the edge and climbed down. Once there, he tried to ignore Kyle’s body, crossed straight to Lila. Grabbed her.

  ‘You . . . will . . . do as . . . you’re told . . .’

  He grabbed the shift, tried to force it over her head, simultaneously pulling at her clothes.

  Lila fought back, scratching, clawing him, punching him. She noticed which points on his body had the most effect, kept hitting them.

  Kai began to crumple under the weight of her blows. She delivered one final kick, ran for the ladder. Climbed up. The men grabbed her at the top. She knew it would be pointless to struggle against them. Knew that her rebellion and defiance had been for Kai alone.

  ‘Leave him down there,’ she shouted, trying to kick the ladder away. ‘Leave him, bastard, lying cowardly bastard . . .’

  One of them pulled her away from the edge, the other held the ladder as Kai came back up. He looked in an even worse state than when he had gone down. He moved over to Lila, stared at her. Held up the shift. Triumph in his eyes.

  ‘Now who’s won?’

  ‘It’s not over yet. Like I said to Morrigan, if I’m going, you’re all coming with me.’

  Kai tried to hold her gaze, stare unblinking and smiling into her eyes. But he couldn’t. He dropped his look, turned to the other two.

  ‘Bring her. It’s time.’

  Then stomped off to what he hoped was the exit.

  60

  Pirate John tried once more, turning the key as hard as he could, flooring the pedals, but it was no good. The car was dead.

  It was dark, the village deserted. He knew where everyone would be, or at least preparing for. It was, he had decided, the perfect time to make his getaway, so he had loaded up the car with as much stuff as he could and got ready to set off. And now it wouldn’t start. Typical. Just his luck.

  One last try, one last failure. He rubbed his face, felt sweat on his hands, thought what to do next. If the car doesn’t work, he thought, then the bus will. I just have to get out of the village to find one.

  Out of the car and straight up the road. He didn’t even look back.

  *

  ‘Beware the calling of the dead.’

  Pirate John had been walking for nearly an hour and hadn’t seen a bus. He had tried to keep off the main roads in case he was seen, but when no buses turned up he abandoned that plan and found himself on the cliff-side path, walking towards the next village, or even town if his feet held up. Anywhere to be away from St Petroc and all its attendant madness.

  As he walked he thought o
f Morrigan’s words to Tony Williamson. ‘Beware the calling of the dead.’ He tried to laugh it off, but in the darkness, with the sound of the water against the rocks, it all came back to him. He was chilled by something more than the night.

  ‘Walk along the cliffs around here, where there have been lots of shipwrecks off the coast, you can hear the dead calling out their names. And sometimes they call out the names of those about to join them. Take care you don’t hear your name . . .’

  The wind whipped up around him. He turned up the collar of his coat, a belated and futile gesture as his ears were already frozen and it didn’t reach them anyway. It made him lose his footing slightly, stumble over rocks he might otherwise have noticed.

  You would think Morrigan had planned this wind, he thought, and laughed to himself. The laugh was stolen away by a sudden gust.

  He saw something ahead of him on the cliff edge of the next bay. Something that wasn’t usually there. At first he thought that a couple of the stones from the circle had uprooted themselves and gone for a walk. A pair of granite would-be suicides goading each other to jump into the crashing water below. But as he approached he saw that they weren’t stones, but men. At least he assumed they were men; bundled in insulated waterproofs they could have been either gender. And they were holding something. Fishing rods.

  It wasn’t unusual to see night fishers in the area. But they tended to appear when the weather was calmer, the water smoother. Neither looked at him, both intent on what was happening at the ends of their lines.

  Then he heard something. Or rather someone. Calling his name.

  He stopped walking, listened.

  ‘John . . . John . . .’

  He looked round. There was nobody about but the two night fishermen up ahead and himself. And they were ignoring him. There it was again.

  ‘John . . . John . . .’

  The call of the dead. He shuddered. Get a grip, he thought. Have a bit of common sense. It was the wind playing tricks on him. Making him believe he had heard something that wasn’t there because he was in an agitated state. Projecting whatever fears Morrigan had tried to instil within him onto the wind, an oncoming storm. That was all.

  ‘John . . . John . . .’

  He moved quickly, almost running, stumbling over the stones, sharp and misshapen, catching at his feet.

  He neared the fishermen. Couldn’t make out who they were under all their clothing. All he could see of their faces was a dark shadowed hollow where their hoods took in what moonlight there was and gave nothing out. Blank-faced. Empty inside.

  Stop it, he told himself. You’re falling for Morrigan’s bullshit again. You’ve avoided the crow warning, you’ve got away. You don’t have to—

  ‘John . . . John . . .’

  He moved quicker, stumbling again, falling to his knees this time, the stones piercing his jeans, ripping them, drawing blood. And hurting. He stood up. Saw the two fishermen were barring his way.

  ‘Excuse me, I need to get past . . .’

  The path was narrow along the cliff edge, with enough space for one person to pass another but not much else. Move too far to one side and you were in the heather and gorse. Too far in the other direction and you were on your way down to an early death.

  ‘I said I need to . . .’

  ‘John . . .’

  ‘John . . .’

  He realised the source of the voice. The night fishermen.

  He could see smiles glinting like blades inside their hoods.

  ‘Just move, please. Let me pass and . . . just let me pass.’

  But they didn’t. They moved towards him. Both at the same time, taking slow, menacing footsteps.

  He backed away, stumbling once more, keeping his balance. If he went over now it could be fatal.

  A desperate anger rose up within Pirate John. ‘Listen, let me past or I’ll . . . I’ll fight you. Both.’

  No reply.

  ‘I . . . I will. Honestly. I will . . .’ He struck what he assumed was a boxer’s stance.

  The two men looked at each other, backed off.

  Pirate John smiled. ‘That’s better. Good. Move and let me pass.’

  They did so. Pirate John, wary all the time, shuffled past them. Neither made any attempt to stop him. ‘Thank you,’ he said once he was safely out of their reach.

  He continued walking away from them.

  Heart still hammering, he trotted on. He had won. This really was going to turn out all right. He was going to escape. No one would—

  ‘John . . . John . . .’

  ‘Not again . . .’

  He turned, ready to argue, but didn’t get a chance to move.

  The first fishing hook landed on his arm. Penetrated his coat, right through his layers to his skin. It was razor sharp. Embedded. The fisherman pulled. Pirate John, caught off guard, went along with it.

  The second barb caught him in the cheek. He yelled. The fisherman pulled. Pirate John tried pulling back but felt the hook ripping his face. He tried to get his arm up, release the barb, but it was no use. He was hooked.

  He turned his attention to the other hook in his arm. Tried the same thing there. Nothing. Then felt another barb catch him in the neck. It stung. They pulled. He screamed.

  He looked at the fishermen. They had put down their poles and held two reels of wire each. They were drawing him towards them like reeling in a catch. He had no choice but to go along with it. One of them looped the wire around him like a lasso, pulled tighter. Pirate John was trapped now.

  He tried to pull away, felt the flesh in his face and neck tear, smelled the coppery smell of blood, felt his face and body become wet and sticky.

  ‘John . . .’

  ‘John . . .’

  Laughing now while they said it.

  Pirate John felt his body weaken. Another lasso of wire, another pull tight.

  Then he felt the ground shift from under him and he was flying over the edge towards the rocks.

  No time to think, to feel, to decide whether he had been right or wrong.

  Nothing.

  A crow wheeled overhead, cawing as it went.

  61

  Tom had been busy. He hadn’t allowed his enforced captivity to get the better of him, to just sit and feel helpless. That wasn’t part of his training. Instead he remained calm and rational. Thought. Planned. How to turn the situation to his advantage. He had made several trips to the utility room, the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom, gathering, respectively, bottles on the way to recycling and cans of petrol, tea towels, bottles of spirits and bed linen, ready to implement his plans.

  But first, he had to speak to the people outside. Give them a chance.

  He loaded everything into the bedroom underneath the big window that opened out on to the front of his house, then went to the door and stepped outside.

  The light spilled out behind him. They had been sitting around, some holding shotguns and rifles, waiting, on edge. His sudden appearance brought them all together. Weapons were raised, pointed towards him. He could tell they were scared, nervous. This wasn’t what they usually did. Who they usually thought of themselves as.

  And that’s what he would impress upon them.

  ‘Listen up,’ he shouted. He held his hands in the air. ‘No weapons, I’m not here to attack you. I just want to talk to you. Yeah?’

  No reply. They hadn’t elected a spokesperson and no one wanted to take on that role so they collectively fell silent, each person waiting for the next to react first.

  ‘I’m sure you think you’re doing the right thing, or the right thing as you see it. I’m sure you all think that going along with the rest of the village, doing what you’re told, is right. Holding your guns on me. Why are you doing that? What have you been told about me? I’m an enemy? A dangerous person? What? I’m just a bloke. Trying to live my life. Trying to make sense of what’s going on here.’

&n
bsp; Again no reply.

  Tom continued. ‘You might feel that here, now, in the dark, this is right. But tomorrow you won’t. Each one of you, all of you, won’t be able to face yourselves in the mirror in the morning. Know why? Shame. You’ll all be ashamed of what you’ve done tonight. You won’t be able to look at each other either. You’ll hate each other because everyone else will remind you of what you did. You’re going to hate yourselves. Is that what you want?’

  Tom waited, hoped his words were sinking in.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He checked the crowd, tried to see where the lone voice had come from. A young man, features trying to hold anger but badly covering up his fear. He had spoken. Tom recognised him.

  ‘I know you,’ he said, pointing at the young man. ‘You work in the garage where I got my Land Rover serviced. You might have even done the MOT. Didn’t you?’

  The youth just studied his feet, suddenly struck dumb.

  Tom scanned the crowd, kept trying. ‘You.’ He pointed at a middle-aged man. ‘You eat in the Sail Makers. With your wife. We’ve chatted about rugby. I brought you and your wife your food. You always have the steak, medium rare. Why are you doing this? How am I suddenly your enemy?’

  Again, there was no reply.

  ‘You work in the village shop,’ he said, pointing at a stout woman holding a shotgun. ‘You’ve sold me eggs and bread, newspapers. Did you want to shoot me then?’

  He didn’t expect a reply, but this time he received one.

  ‘Don’t try that bullshit on us.’

  Tom didn’t recognise the speaker but he recognised the fear in his voice.

  ‘Yeah,’ said another, suddenly emboldened.

  ‘Yeah, fuck off. We don’t need you to tell us . . .’

  Others joined in now. The mob had found its voice.

  Tom nodded. ‘Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. What happens next is your own fault.’

  He went back inside, shutting the door hard behind him.

  He could still hear their jeering as he walked up the stairs, fear- and rage-fuelled voices, building themselves up to an angry, unstable mob. He went into the front bedroom, took a cheap lighter from the bedside table, picked up a bottle and lit the petrol-soaked rag stuffed in the neck of it.