Possessed

by Peter Laws

  It may have been early March, but right now, the world felt a long, long way from spring. The afternoon was dull, cold and as grey as a gun as Fenn’s car rolled slowly along Cheddington High Street. Matt leant out of the window like a motorway dog, and a gust of grim wind flapped his eyes into a flicker. He pulled back and resumed his methodical scan from house to house, to garage to house.

  ‘Still no crosses,’ Matt said. ‘Plenty of gnomes, though. I’ve never really understood what people see in—’

  The car jerked forward as Fenn hit the brakes.

  Matt’s cheekbone bumped against the window frame. ‘Er, hello? Nearly chopped my head off.’

  Fenn was rummaging a clumsy, fat finger into his ear. He dug his hands-free earpiece out and it bounced against his thick neck, tapping a flashing blue light against his shirt collar. He shook his head and slapped a hand on the steering wheel.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Matt said.

  ‘He’s taking the piss out of us.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve just been informed that there are no Leopolds living in Cheddington, at all.’

  ‘How about a Leon?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘Nope. Not in the records, anyway.’

  Matt groaned. ‘Let’s just keep on looking, though. Least until we find the cross.’

  ‘The cross? I’m telling you, he’s taking the piss …’ The engine moaned its own frustration as the terraced streets of Cheddington rolled by again. They passed a school on the right which seemed weirdly quiet for a Tuesday in term time.

  After a while, Fenn started making small talk. ‘So, come on, then. Did you really used to be a vicar? Like a proper one?’

  ‘Yes, my child, I did. But it wasn’t for me in the end.’

  ‘When did you know, that it wasn’t right?’ The car rolled on, as they looked from house to house.

  ‘Well, I knew I wasn’t fitting in well at Bible college when I made a joke in the dining hall and it fell flat.’

  He looked across at him. ‘What was the joke?’

  ‘Somebody asked me if I believed in a theological concept called Penal Substitution, so I put a banana between my legs and said, you mean this? I thought that was pretty damn funny, but nobody laughed. I think I was doomed from that moment.’

  Fenn started chuckling.

  ‘Seriously, that was a clever, multi-levelled joke, that.’

  ‘I’m more of an agnostic myse—’

  ‘Stop.’ Matt slammed a palm against the dash.

  Fenn hammered the brakes. The car jerked hard.

  ‘Over the top of those trees. There.’

  Fenn was shorter than Matt. A lot of people were. So he had to push himself up and press his slip of hair into the ceiling of the car. At first he saw nothing, but then his grimace of physical discomfort turned into a cautious, edgy grin. The engine surged again and he quickly pulled away.

  The car reached the shaggy row of trees and he swung a hard right into a large concrete drive, scattered with three other cars. Fenn almost clipped the back of an old Skoda in his haste to get in. Their tyres ground to a stop, and for a few seconds, all Matt heard was the skittery hiss of the wind, whistling through a gap in his window.

  ‘Out you get,’ Fenn said. ‘Chop-chop.’

  When they stepped out into the cold, Matt noticed that Fenn had blocked all three cars in. Deliberately, he could tell. Fenn looked across the roof of his car and narrowed his eyes at the building, biting the inside of his cheek. ‘Would you call that cross pretty?’

  ‘Prettier than most, I suppose.’

  They headed towards the little church, an old prefab, all wood and peeling roof felt. The walls were painted a sickly shade of flaking blue, and yet the front door was a horrendously insipid salmon pink. That door must have been a deep red once, only now it had become heavily sun-faded. If not, then the church had chosen their door to be the shade of an uncooked economy sausage. Surely that was reason enough to cancel all religious movements with immediate effect.

  He watched Fenn walk forward to the door, but Matt slowed so he could look up to the apex of the roof. The cross was made of two thick strips of aluminium bolted together, and draped around each strip were fairy lights. The kind you’d buy in a garden centre to magic-up a tree on a darkening barbecue night. The bulbs twinkled on and off against the dull, cloud-packed sky above. The lights were cable tied and fixed, but not so tight that they didn’t shiver a little in the wind. They made a clinking noise, and the thought occurred to Matt that this sound was a bit like (actually, it was identical) to Tom’s handcuffs, tapping against the bar.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They stepped inside the cold church porch, each foot pressing into a spiky-looking welcome mat, which read: Holy Spirit You Are Welcome Here. He also clocked a noticeboard, bolted to the wall. It was filled with neat papers, including an A4 sheet. It proudly announced a cutting-edge outreach event this coming weekend – Community Potato Carving and bible puppet show! And a demand in oversized capitals: bring the kids!

  The sudden sound of muffled voices made Fenn slap a finger to his lips, but they kept going, heading up the corridor towards a wooden door with frosted glass panels. When they went through, the voices grew louder, but not much. They found a simple church sanctuary with long wooden pews with Bibles neatly placed, and – what was wrong with these people? – salmon-pink carpets. The entire place was empty. Behind the pulpit onstage was another door, and this was where the voices were coming from. It must have been the vestry.

  Nodding to each other Matt and Fenn both headed down the aisle. If this had been America, Fenn might be pulling out a handgun right now. Shoulders locked into a cool-looking, Kiefer Sutherland grip. But this was Cheddington, England, and so the only weapon they had was Fenn’s podgy, clammy hand, reaching towards the handle of the vestry door.

  He didn’t open it. Fenn cupped his ear towards the wood instead, and Matt did the same. Matt knew those tones and rhythms instantly. People were praying in there. It sounded like the classic patting the divine back stuff – Lord, we just want to say we love you. We just want to worship you, Father. We just, just, just …

  Fenn pushed the door and it swung open so silently that the man and two women inside didn’t notice at all. In fact, for a long moment Matt and Fenn were able to just stand there and watch. The man and the two women were on their knees in the far corner, focused on a candle and scatter of papers on the floor. Harp music drifted from a Bluetooth speaker up on a filing cabinet.

  Matt took a step further inside … and froze when he saw all the eyes.

  A rack of puppets hung on hooks on the side wall. Biblical characters … Moses, Jesus, Mary, Peter, Centurion. And the token Random Blind Guy who was ready to be healed and made a ‘full person’, as if disabled people weren’t totally human before.

  Their felt mouths gaped open and their arms and little hands lolled with thin black rods hanging from them. Empty bodies just waiting for a hand to slide up inside and bring them to life. He tried not to think of Tom Leopold, and his own puppeteer, Baal-Berith – but it wasn’t easy. Instead Matt considered how many churches had bought puppets in a bid to appear more normal and cool and less creepy. Oh, the irony. He stared at the goggled, bugged-out eyes of the apostle Paul, staring up at the ceiling, with a twisted neck.

  Matt tore his eyes from the Muppet Bible Movie, because the prayers were moving into more interesting territory.

  ‘… and just drag it out of him, Lord,’ the man whispered. ‘With the same power that made the world and raised the dead and flung all stars into space. With the kingdom authority of the Lord Jesus Christ, drag every ounce of darkness from his heart and set our brother free. For your glory, and for your fame, and in the blessed name of …’

  Fenn coughed into his fist. The prayers stopped instantly.

  Three heads whipped towards them. The women saw Matt and Fenn first. Each looked in their sixties, seventie
s perhaps. Their cardigans screamed the latter. A frown on each face tripled their wrinkles. Then the man’s head turned, twisting around to see them. Matt saw a boyish face appear, with a crop of curly ginger hair and a neat ginger beard. Quite handsome with it, freckles and all. He wore a thick woollen jumper, in light green. Something that a farmer might like – only the cut was stylish.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry but …’ he cleared his throat. His accent was like a 1940s newsreader. Clipped and proper. ‘I’m afraid this prayer meeting is rather private. But if you’d like—’

  ‘Do any of you know a man with the surname Leopold?’ Fenn said.

  The two women clearly didn’t. They looked at each other and shrugged.

  But the man’s reaction … now, that really was quite different. He didn’t say a single word in response. He didn’t have to. It’s just that the colour vanished from his cheeks, like a switch flicked in his bloodstream turning all the red cells white. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  It took an awkward ten seconds for Fenn to dig his ID from his trouser pocket. He flashed it. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Martin Fenn and this is Professor Matt Hunter. And, Father, we need to know why you just gulped at the name Leopold.’

  The man pushed himself up. ‘He’s a member of our church.’

  The women frowned. One of them, who wore golden teddy bears for earring studs, shook her head. ‘Since when?’

  The other agreed. ‘There’s no Leopold here, Pastor.’

  ‘Actually, Mary, there is.’ He was up on his feet, wiping his hands down on his blue jeans. He blinked a lot, almost a squint, but not quite. His green eyes matched the wool of his jumper. ‘Detective, I’m Simon Perry. I’m the pastor here and I saw him last night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At his house. But I haven’t seen him since. Is he hurt?’

  ‘We just need his address. Right away.’

  ‘Of course. He lives here in Cheddington. 22 Kerry Avenue.’

  One of the women looked like she’d just swallowed a wasp. ‘Pastor. I’m sorry, but that’s not right. There’s no Leopold at 22. That’s where …’

  ‘Where Tom lives …’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Tom …’ The ladies shared a look of bafflement.

  Matt had already walked towards the candle on the floor. He dangled an arm down to the A4 sheets. ‘May I?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Perry smiled.

  Matt lifted a wedding photograph from the floor and saw a beaming couple sat against the white leather seats of a Bentley. Both were holding one another’s hands, fingers laced together. Their rings were clearly in shot and the bride had long, thick, beautifully curled hair draped over her shoulder. The man, all rugged and smiling, had that happy glint of pure, unfiltered delight in his eye.

  Matt stared at the man’s face, and shivered. ‘That’s him. That’s Leopold.’

  ‘No … that’s Tom Riley,’ one of the women said. ‘Everybody knows that. That’s a picture of Tom and Justine on their wedding day.’

  Justiiiiiiiinnnne.

  Perry was leaning against a desk, arms folded. ‘Mary, you’re right … his name really is Tom Riley, but his father used to call him Leopold as a child. It was a nickname, and a cruel one at that. If you’ll excuse for a moment, ladies,’ Perry waved Matt and Fenn into the corner, and started to whisper to them, out of the women’s earshot. ‘Look, Tom’s always had long blonde hair, throughout his life, even as a child, but his father mocked him for it. He called him Leo the Lion, then that wound up as Leopold. He’s dyed his hair black since, and his dad’s long dead but … where did you even get that name, anyway?’

  ‘It’s the name he gave us.’

  He blinked. ‘So Tom’s with you? I don’t understand. I thought you were looking for him?’

  ‘I think it’s best you grab a jacket, Reverend,’ Fenn said. ‘Wind’s getting up.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You’re taking us to Tom’s house.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Right now.’

  Fenn apologised to the ladies, while Perry reached over and tugged a dark blue duffel coat from a coat peg. The sleeve hit one of the hanging puppets and it slid off its hanger.

  When Perry didn’t notice, Matt said, ‘Your Moses just fell off.’

  One of the women was already scooping it up. She dusted off its white curly beard and held it for a moment, smiled, then placed it carefully on the hook. ‘I love these little chaps,’ she said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fenn swung the wheel. ‘It’s left, yeah?’

  ‘Right,’ Perry nodded. ‘Sorry. I mean that’s correct. It’s left. Turn left … he lives on the outskirts of the village, overlooking the fields.’

  Matt was sitting in the back, still fumbling for his seat belt when Fenn surged into a sharp, three-point turn. He slid around the smooth leather back seat, then finally clicked himself in. All docked, Matt watched the houses slide past and asked, ‘So, Reverend … why were you at his house last night?’

  He turned. ‘Tom just had a problem he wanted to discuss.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I’m not really at liberty to say.’

  Just as Matt opened his mouth, Fenn switched gears and said, ‘Let’s just check the house first and see what we’re dealing with. We’ll dig more after that. Okay, Matt?’

  ‘Okay,’ Matt said. A little voice from the back seat.

  ‘Take this right,’ Perry said. ‘Then drive all the way to the end, then turn left. Where that rabbit is. Do you see?’

  Matt looked from the window and saw a little black rabbit sitting on the edge of a kerb. It was sniffing the air, paws dangling.

  ‘Bold little tyke,’ Fenn said, ‘coming into the streets.’

  ‘Not really … we’re right on the fields here. You see rabbits round here all the time.’

  Matt watched the rabbit and the rabbit watched him, then the car drifted by and Matt sank back into his seat. The houses were getting more and more spaced out, and he started to see stretches of dirt paths winding off into vast rolling fields. He saw a washing machine on its side in a ditch. A dog’s tail hung out of it, wagging.

  They reached the end of the road. ‘What’s Tom do for a living?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘He’s a chef at the Cross Keys pub in town. Best shepherd’s pie this side of heaven.’

  ‘And his wife?’ Matt shared a cautious glance with Fenn. ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Justine? She’s a mobile hairdresser, though my wife says she mostly cuts from home these days. She’s set up a little salon for herself in the cellar. I bet she’ll be in today …’ Perry was looking at Fenn. ‘Please tell me where Tom is. You two are worrying me.’

  ‘He’s safe, don’t worry,’ Fenn said.

  Perry looked thoroughly unconvinced and turned his head to gaze across the fields. ‘Just follow this dirt track and it’s the last house on the right.’

  The car started rocking gently from side to side as the ground turned from tarmac to dirt. Then Fenn pulled up to another police car that Fenn had called in. It was already there waiting. Two uniformed officers stepped out.

  As soon as Matt stepped out, he looked across the vast open space and felt a wave of wind push at his back and sweep across the fields. It was easy to follow its journey. It flattened out the tall grass, pressing the field like a wave, like a huge invisible hand, stroking the land. It rolled up into the distance to the top of the hill, where a crop of tall trees stood alone. Fenn had said that Totternhoe was somewhere over that hill, and the greenhouse on Pendle Street that Tom was found in. Matt clocked the distance and realised that a naked fella could easily cross that entire stretch and be missed.

  Hair dancing, Matt turned to the house. Its white PVC door was spattered with dirt and soil from the field. In fact, the entire front looked hammered with the elements. The pink council bricks looked crumbly and jagged in places. Weather-beaten.

  ‘Reverend?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘Y
es?’ His arms were in a tight fold as he stared at the house. His duffel coat had a hood, but he hadn’t flipped it up yet.

  ‘I’d like you to wait here for now. We’re just going to have a quick little gander.’

  ‘Sergeant?’ Perry’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like me to pray, before you go in?’

  ‘Do you think we need it?’ Fenn said.

  ‘I do …’

  Matt came round. ‘And why do you say that?’

  ‘Can’t you feel it?’ Perry pulled his arms in tighter, staring at the house. ‘Something not right. Look at the sky.’

  Matt saw a swirl of dark cloud looming.

  ‘Then pray it doesn’t rain.’ Fenn pushed on the gate and headed up the broken, breeze block path to the front doorstep. Matt noticed how slow he was walking. A measured stroll, so he could look left and look right, and stare down at the path for signs or evidence. Matt did the same, and couldn’t spy anything quirky. No abandoned knives, no bloody, Tom-sized footprints soaked into the concrete.

  Fenn reached the front door and knocked. Three hard, serious-sounding booms.

  They waited, but all they could hear was the distant hiss of blades of grass sliding around and making room for the sky. Fenn took a pencil from his inside pocket and used the rubber end of it to lift the metal lip of the letter box. He called through the gap. ‘Mrs Riley? Mrs Justine Riley?’ His voice sounded strained in that position. When he heard no reply he cranked up the volume. ‘Are you there, Mrs Riley?’

  Matt turned back and spotted Reverend Perry. He’d finally stopped hugging himself, and the biting wind had forced him to put his hood up. Now his hands were locked into a ball, tapping off his chin as he paced the dirt out there. He was whispering to God like an earnest monk, unable to look at the house.

  ‘No cause for alarm,’ Fenn shouted through the door, ‘but this is the police, and we’d like to talk to you … or anybody else who might be in there.’ Fenn’s voice dissolved into a strained groan. He could crouch no longer. He shot a hand out and Matt helped him up. ‘Got a dodgy knee,’ he whispered. ‘Sports injury.’