Severed

by Peter Laws

  Wren looked at him, ‘Finished already?’

  ‘I’m just as full as a pot-bellied pig.’ He leant back on his chair and slapped a hand off his gut. ‘But I better make a bit of room for liquid, cos guess what I’m doing later tonight?’

  ‘Aren’t you finishing that article … the one about cow gods or something?’

  ‘Hinduism, Wren,’ he smiled into his wine. ‘Nah, I’ve bumped that till tomorrow. Tonight, Professor Hunter is’ − he ran his hands across the air − ‘out on the town.’

  ‘Oh, is he now? Who with?’

  ‘Wait for it …’ He grinned madly at Lucy. ‘Mr Ashton! Yes, Lucy, it’s true. I plan on being best mates with all of your teachers – but only the trendy ones. And someday we’ll all go surfing together and they’ll teach me how to skateboard so I can show off to your friends’ − he licked a palm and pushed his hair up − ‘and I’m a gonna be the funkiest fella in all of Chesham, and make no mistake, Daddy-O.’ He shot a finger pistol at her.

  ‘Kill me,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, I jest.’ He set the wine down. ‘Actually, he just wants to chat about my amazing book, and I know you were working tonight, Wren, so … I figured I’d let him buy me a brew. Though, Lucy, I’ll almost certainly try his glasses on and take a selfie—’

  A call you have! A CALL you have!

  Yoda’s voice buzzed from the hallway, buried inside a trendy little apple crate. All their phones lived there at dinner times. A new family rule.

  ‘Darn. I better get this.’ He stood and headed for the hall, calling back, ‘And leave those. I’ll do the dishwasher.’

  A CALL YOU HAVE!

  ‘Jeez, Yoda. Calm down.’ He fished the phone out and answered it at the mirror, laughing at his makeshift quiff. ‘Yello?’

  ‘Matt,’ she said. ‘It’s Bowland.’

  He stopped posing. ‘Oh, hi.’

  ‘Listen, you were right. There was a tape and I’ve got it here in my office right now. Got a minute to hear it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ever took another step down. Then another.

  Maybe Prosper would see him walk into the lounge and get furious. He might even drag him up to the chapel again, all bald head and bulging eyes. Force him to spend a terrifying night up there, all alone. Like the last time Ever tried to spy on their secret meetings. But it was the voice. The sweet, cold whisper that made his feet move.

  Go … brave Ever … go.

  They were so caught up in their whispering that they never even heard him creak on the second-to-last step. They were so animated with confusion, shock and what looked like a growing sense of astonishment, they didn’t even see him step right into the room. Soon his face and his body was flickering by the light from the box of eyes.

  ‘Ever?’ It was Pax, of all people.

  She turned, which made everybody else turn. He braced himself for the shouts, or worse, for Prosper’s low voice of frightening calm. But none came. He just saw the black shapes of his family, set against the white glow of the TV. And they were speechless.

  He said what he thought would be the right thing to say. He said, ‘I want to help.’

  That’s when Mum dissolved into tears, proud ones, while Milton burst into claps and laughter. Prosper just stood by the fire staring at him, a smile sliding across thin lips. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Wow.’

  The only one who wasn’t smiling was Uncle Dust. He looked at Ever with pale cheeks and a twitchy mouth. The other face in the room, the Hollow, was staring out from the world of eyes. He took another chance and tripped a quick gaze at it, just to see what they’d all been so taken with. It was a man, with a bottle in his hand, trying to push through a crowd of other Hollows. Underneath words were sliding across the screen, like a book made real. The Hollow’s name was Matthew Hunter.

  Ever quickly looked away, just in case. And by the time he looked back the TV was off. Now arms were sliding around him, under his armpits and under his knees, lifting him to the ceiling and bouncing him on a wave of baffled laughter. He saw Milton hurry to the corner to dig out his accordion.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Ever, a slow smile growing on his face. ‘Is it still going to work? Are we going to be okay?’

  ‘We are now, boy,’ Prosper laughed so much that his shoulders shook. ‘We are now.’

  ‘But how?’ Dust whispered into Prosper’s ear. The only one in the room not laughing. ‘How?’

  Prosper grabbed Dust’s ponytail and jiggled it. ‘Come on. It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s gloriously, wonderfully obvious. Ha!’

  The rain was falling, and the wind was up, so it didn’t drop straight. Ever saw it turn in happy circles at the window. Much like Ever’s family did for the next half an hour, dancing as the rain danced. He had no idea why this was happening, only that it was, and that he liked it, and that it was infinitely preferable to the wails and screams from before. He saw Prosper and Dust talking feverishly in the kitchen, then at one point he saw Prosper go into his room to find that phone again. ‘I’ll tell Hope.’ He seemed excited.

  Ever was amazed they let him stay up so long, and how they plied him with toast and cake and many hugs besides. He couldn’t even guess why he’d suddenly been invited in, but it was too wonderful to question it. He just took Milton’s hand and danced, falling into a crashing heap on the sofa as they sang and prayed and sang again. The only sad part was that Merit never saw it. She was up in bed, where all kids should be. Ever kept glancing at their secret lookout by the bannister, hoping the noise had woken her. He wished she could see this. How much they were fawning over him.

  When it was finally time for his room, that was okay, because now he was tired and baffled, but filled with the type of peace that makes beds warmer and moons more full. Mum came into his room and tucked his blanket under his chin, just how he liked it. She tickled his nose between two knuckles.

  He asked, ‘What’s going on, Mum? What’s changed?’

  It was the only time her smile fell. She put her fingertips inside the scarf on her neck and scratched her scars. She often did that. It got itchy under there.

  ‘Mum,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s a horrible world out there.’ She lay a gentle palm against his head. She stroked the mop of his hair. ‘It’s evil.’

  ‘But the end’s still coming, isn’t it? It’s coming soon?’

  She pressed her lips against his forehead and kept them there for a long time. ‘Yes … because it’s a miracle … you’re a miracle.’ She pulled back, wiping a tear from her face. ‘Rice pudding and jam for breakfast. How about that?’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Whoa.’

  Then she was gone, and his light was off.

  It took him ages to drift off, his mind was racing so much. It didn’t help when he heard the sound of the front door open. He twitched the curtains and saw that the moon had turned the world blue. But at least it wasn’t hiding behind a cloud, which was a good sign. Comfort Hill and the entire field in front of the house were glowing. He leant towards the window and felt cold glass press against his nose. Three black figures were marching towards the shed. Dust, Prosper and Milton. Then suddenly he heard the growl of an engine and headlights threw long beams across the field. Their van rolled out and he watched it slowly head up the track, leaving a glowing red trail of exhaust fumes. He hadn’t seen that van moving in a long time. He watched it disappear over the ridge, knowing full well that eventually, that road went down to the Hollow towns and the Hollow cities. He thought about Pax’s mum Hope. She was out there, somewhere. Maybe they were going to get her and bring her home.

  He gazed at the moon, wondering why they’d been so interested in the Hollow on the screen before. Matthew. That was a Biblical name. Who knows. Maybe he wasn’t a Hollow at all. Maybe he was good. He might even help them end things. The family certainly seemed pleased to see him. These thoughts brought the whisper back, and it sounded soothing and gentle. />
  It was saying,

  Sleep, Ever. Sleep. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Let tomorrow worry about itself.

  Be brave and trust, because this is for you … but above all, sleep.

  So he did.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He needed privacy for this, so he hurried across the back garden to his precious office, the cabin. Home to all his books and work and his two arcade cabinets. He flicked on the downlighters and sank into a chair. ‘Right, you’re on speakerphone, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she cleared her throat. ‘So this fella Malcom records the services for one of the old ladies. And he uses an old portable cassette player. It’s the only thing he had but the woman at the home only had a tape player anyway. But at least he rigged it to the sound system. Quality’s not great, but it’s good enough. It certainly picked up the attack.’

  ‘And the words Micah said?’

  ‘Yes, though I can’t make much sense of them. I’m hoping you can. Malcolm let me borrow his player, so I’ll get it onto digital soon, but for now … I’ll just do it old school, okay? I’ll hold the phone up to it. Ready?’

  He slapped a yellow A4 notepad on his lap, swung his feet onto the desk and popped a pen on with his chin. ‘Commence.’

  He heard her fumble with something at the other end. ‘Bear with me … this thing’s an antique.’ Her voice sounded distant. He heard her tut and say ‘Stupid thing.’ Then he heard a dull clunk of a plastic switch and a sudden hiss. He could see the spools turning around in his mind. Cassettes were making a comeback, he’d heard.

  The voice of Rev. David East suddenly crackled from the tiny speaker.

  … So you see, even King David, who let God down so spectacularly, was given a fresh start. Which means even the most wretched sinner will always be welcomed with open arms. Even me, and yes … even you … so let’s turn to receive that very same grace, through bread and wine now.

  Bowland called out in the background. ‘Malcolm says that clump is David East heading down the steps.’

  There it was. Thud, thud, thud.

  Matt closed his eyes and quickly constructed a virtual interior of St Bart’s in his mind. The high wooden pulpit; the sloping route back to the chancel; the wooden exit door to the right. He squinted, trying to erase the giant glowing cube that was there before. This morning it would have just been the stone floor, the railing, the altar—

  Just as he thought that, he heard the squeak of the gate on the tape, and what sounded like an echoed laugh.

  ‘Was that Micah laughing?’ Matt said, eyes still closed.

  ‘Just the congregation. Keep listening.’

  Nothing much was happening, so Matt tapped the volume up a little. He jumped when Rev. East started instituting the Communion.

  For I received from the Lord, that which I also passed onto you …

  He mouthed the words along with East. How many times had he himself said those words in church?

  The Lord Jesus on the night he was betrayed, took bread … and after giving thanks he broke it saying, this is my body, which is for you. Do this, in remembrance of me.

  The breeze suddenly geared up a notch outside, and he heard the big oak behind their back gate start whipping its branches against the cabin. He cranked the volume a little louder.

  And in the same way after supper, he took the cup, saying this is the new covenant in my blood. Do this whenever … East trailed off for a moment, as if distracted by something. Matt heard him clear his throat. When the voice came back it was odd and unsteady. Do this whenever you drink it in remembrance of me. For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim … the voice trailed off again.

  ‘He’s seen something,’ Matt said. ‘He sounds fright—’

  … the Lord’s death, until he comes again.

  ‘This is it,’ Bowland said, almost in a whisper. ‘Brace yourself.’

  Matt grabbed his pen, shut his eyes tight and pushed an ear towards the phone, considering that perhaps he’d rather not hear this after all.

  Too late.

  Eloi, eloi … Micah’s voice. Lama kataltani.

  Matt’s eyebrows shot up, and he scribbled the words down.

  A new sound. Some sort of impact that sounded very slight on the tape, yet it still made Matt jump and scrawl a ragged accidental line on his pad. Footsteps staggered on the stone floor. Then it was hard to make anything else out, because the background filled with noise. Screams, mostly.

  He could picture it more vividly than he expected, or indeed wanted. The swinging teenage arm, the long wooden handle slicing the air, the block of sharp metal hacking and burying itself into his scalp. Then being yanked back out again. The sympathy he’d had for Micah East was, he suddenly noticed, fairly non-existent now. A groan of revulsion flowed out of him. Those screams. It was impossible not to visualise the congregation wailing and tearing their hair out, while Micah slammed the axe … and this was the very worst part. He could hear East pitifully pleading with his own child, for mercy.

  Son … he kept saying … son … no …

  Micah’s response was suddenly in English. He said, Please, Dad. Don’t look in my eyes. Matt scrawled that down. Then soon after, that odd phrase came again, only it was shuddering and desperate now, and slightly different this time. Avi, Avi … Lama kataltani.

  He scraped his pencil on the paper again in sharp, capital lines.

  AVI, AVI

  There were new sounds in the chaos now. Feet were running and a door was flung open, followed by a roar of wind and horrified shouts. The voice of a woman came. It was more clear and crisp than before because she must have been close to East now, and to the little mic, clipped to his robes. This must have been when she held him.

  Jesus, please. It was Miriam’s voice. The woman from the hospital room. Jesus … Jesus … please … please come …

  Click.

  The hiss of the tape suddenly vanished and Bowland’s voice came back, ‘That’s all folks.’

  Matt noticed his forehead was buried into his palm. He let out a long sigh, ‘So why did the tape stop then?’

  ‘That’s when Malcolm realised it was still running, so he yanked it off. Didn’t want to record a man’s last moments, is how he put it,’ she sniffed. ‘So, Professor … that sounds less like gobbledy-gook and more like a language to me. Tell me I’m right?’

  ‘You’re right. It’s a language.’ He checked his pad, and asked her to play that section again, just to make sure he’d written it correctly. Then he shook his head, confused. ‘It’s very odd, though.’

  ‘What language is it?’

  ‘It sounds like Aramaic.’ He heard her silence. ‘It’s best known for being the everyday tongue spoken in Ancient Palestine. It’s thought to be the language that Jesus spoke, though there’s some debate on that.’

  ‘Do you know someone who can translate it?’

  ‘Yeah, me … give me a sec.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll wait.’

  He swung his feet off the desk and set the pad down. He hunched over it, pencil tapping against his chin, mouthing each word. ‘This really is quite strange. What Micah said is very, very close to something from the New Testament. Something Jesus said on the cross. Only most translations put it like this … Eloi, eloi lama sabachtani.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Obviously, that’s a pretty significant thing for the Son of God to be saying but you’ll find it clearly in the Bible … hang on …’ He pushed his chair back. It was on wheels, so he could slide to one of his many bookshelves and grab what he needed. He rolled back and slapped out a heavy dictionary of ancient Hebrew and Aramaic. He started flicking through the pages … ‘But Micah doesn’t say sabachtani, which is the “forsaken” part. What he says sounds more like “kill” or—’ He ran a finger down the page and stopped suddenly. ‘That’s it. Kataltani. That’s more like … like the word “murder”.’ He slashed a hard pencil line under the
phrase again. ‘So what Micah shouted, just before he tried to kill his dad was, “My God, My God, why have you … murdered me?”’

  ‘Then later, when he changes it a bit?’

  Matt checked his pad again, and didn’t have to look this one up ‘Avi means “father”, so it’s… Father, father, why have you murdered me?’

  The wind surged outside and scattered dirt against the patio doors. He looked at it. Blinked.

  ‘You still there, Matt?’

  ‘So, he’s quoting Jesus, but not quite.’ Matt tapped the words with his fingertip. ‘God … father … murder. It’s a very unusual way to put it.’

  ‘Well, how about you think on it and let me know if it’s actually significant?’

  ‘Will do.’ He finally looked up from the pad. ‘And did you check his laptop yet? Find anything?’

  ‘Only that it was smashed. The screen, at least. Looks like he smacked it with a brick.’

  ‘And the contents?’

  ‘Nothing major. We rigged it up to a computer and found all the usual teenage stuff. He’d deleted some porn, but that was over a year ago. There was nothing since. Lots of schoolwork.’

  ‘How about devil worship stuff? Upturned crosses?’

  ‘Not a thing. Just a lot of searches about how bad the weather’s been lately, and a lot of stuff about the Bible. New Testament, mostly.’