Severed

by Peter Laws

  This was precisely what Jesus hated most, wasn’t it? The dishonesty.

  He shuddered and let his fear for that so-called ‘god’ up there turn to hatred instead. At least that was real, because Ever really did loathe the Father for many reasons. One, for flooding the world with monsters. And two, for putting his family through lives of hell. Okay, they might have been strange people, but they were good people. And none of them deserved what the Hollows had done.

  But the main reason he hated the Father was simply because he had been so unfatherly. Because what was more twisted, more unloving, than murdering your only begotten son on a cruel and shameful cross?

  So, he brewed up some spit of his own, and shot it up, and when his went up it was high enough to hit the ceiling of the chapel, which nobody else had managed. And so the place exploded into loud and happy cheers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sean Ashton’s mother had a very slight voice, but the wind carried it carefully like a loyal butler, eager to serve it. ‘Keep still, Professor,’ she said, with her raw, tear-reddened eyes fixed on Matt. ‘Keep still or I’ll keep you still.’

  Matt saw a movement in the corner of this eye.

  It was PC Briggs, rushing through the police station door. He put a hand out. ‘Okaaay, Barbara. Let’s just take a few little breaths here.’ If this was supposed to be his hostage negotiation voice, it totally, and terrifyingly, sucked.

  Matt spoke, as calmly as he could manage. ‘Mrs Ashton. Could you please let my wife go back inside?’

  She blinked, drew in a breath.

  Say her name. Personalise it. ‘Wren had nothing to do with this.’

  She slowly nodded. ‘But you stay.’

  Matt quickly turned back to her. ‘Get inside. Now.’

  There were a few seconds of utter bafflement on her face, and he knew she was considering refusing to budge. So, he did something he never did. He shouted at her. Matt Hunter, the sort of chill-fella who talked stuff out with his wife all calm and Papa-Smurf-style. He shouted ‘Go!’ The bite of it, the desperation of it, made her face twitch and they caught each other’s gaze for a heartbreaking millisecond. Then Briggs grabbed her elbow and yanked her up the ramp. Matt saw Wren’s red hair fall across her face and her profile vanished. He considered that perhaps this would be the last image he’d ever have of her, in an almost theoretical, interesting-fact kind of way. Then he thought, no … perhaps this really will be the last ever image he’d have of her, which was when his heart dropped through his chest, and his fingers started trembling.

  He turned slowly back and noticed the fat pastor was on his knees now, praying in the same way he probably ate cakes, frantically and with wet lips. He did it with such energy and swaying jubilance that Matt had no idea if he was praying to God to stop this, or to let it gloriously happen. The only one in the three-car clan who wasn’t praying was Mr Ashton. He’d walked out onto the road and was calling to his wife from behind, not wanting to rush her in case she squeezed the trigger by accident. ‘Barb, please,’ he kept saying. Or at least he was trying to say it, through tears. ‘Put it down, love. Let it be. Let it be.’

  Mrs Ashton swayed at her husband’s voice, a snake and its charmer, but Matt’s eye stayed fixed on the barrel because it kept swinging in tiny arcs. He heard other policemen from the station, ushering people to step back.

  She mumbled something that Matt couldn’t really hear. It meant he had to awkwardly ask her to repeat it. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you.’ His mouth had lost all moisture.

  ‘I said, did you bed him?’ She sounded like a ruined woman, confronting her kid’s heroin dealer. ‘Did you turn him?’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘No … I promise you, no. I wrote a book, that’s all. He was just trying to find his way, Mrs Ashton.’

  She drew in another breath, but this one was horribly long. The length of it felt ominous to him. Like she was brewing up to do something significant. Pull a trigger, maybe.

  For a few seconds there was no talking, just the sound of a plane streaking across the sky, and the impatient car horns beeping further down the street. These came from drivers who couldn’t see what this was. They probably thought it was some chump up front, taking yonks to park. He watched the barrel sway up then down as if she was weighing up the pros and cons of going for the chest or shooting him directly in the face. Jesus … what a choice. His brain scrambled through his memory files, trying to figure out which was best to absorb a bullet. He’d read of hunters who somehow survived rifle shots to the heart, and even the head. And plenty more who’d died. Most, in fact.

  There was a low wall to his left. He’d have happily, and most giddily leapt over it. Except some dimwit with an eye for Victorian fencing had fitted a row of pointed, wrought iron railings on it. He’d skewer himself and get shot in the spine as a bonus.

  ‘Barbara,’ Briggs again, firmly. ‘Put. It. Down.’

  Yeah, that’s right, Briggs. Try a pissed-off tone. That might work.

  She raised the barrel. Stood up straight.

  Wren was inside, only because they’d dragged her inside, but he could hear her struggling. She’d be tearing herself from a policeman’s grip, like one of those lairy women in a nightclub fight. Typically, she’d be trying to get back to help, but he dreaded her actually doing it. She didn’t need to see this. He was learning how trauma can linger. But this … this would be too much. She didn’t need to see her husband shot. He thought of his kids. God, he loved them. He loved his family so, so mu—

  A new voice burst into the silence. A woman. ‘Mrs Ashton?’

  Matt must have closed his eyes. He hadn’t realised he’d even done that until he felt them flick open.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I’m a Christian too.’

  Matt, and everybody else, dropped their mouths at a woman in a backpack. She casually walked along the pavement, hands by her side. It took him roughly one second to recognise her. It was the woman from the Crooked Church. The one he’d met at the side of David East’s hospital bed.

  Miriam.

  Huh? It was a bobble-hatted Miriam not just walking, but strolling towards Mrs Ashton, like this was a coffee morning and she was handing out biscuits. ‘I’m a committed member of a Christian church up the road and—’

  ‘Step aside,’ Briggs snapped. Then again more forcefully when she ignored it, ‘Step aside.’

  ‘—and my name is Miriam Aimes. And all I can say is that Mr Hunter here is not a bad person at all.’

  ‘Miriam,’ Matt said. ‘Don’t.’

  She ignored him. ‘And I truly think Jesus is working in him. He’ll find his way, but he needs time to do that.’

  Mrs Ashton raised the barrel and jutted her elbow out. Everybody gasped.

  Then, Miriam did something astonishing. She strode between Matt and the gun, putting out her arms to the side, like a human shield. Despite her jolly tone, he was close enough to see her hands were trembling too. She spoke again, but the happy tone was fading. Worry sang now. ‘Believe me … Jesus wouldn’t want you to do this. And to be honest with you, Barbara, I don’t fancy it much, either.’

  Mrs Ashton tilted her head. ‘And what do you know about Jesus?’ She cocked the gun.

  ‘I know that he heals the broken-hearted.’

  Click.

  These sorts of things happen fast.

  Matt saw Mr Ashton move first. Then Briggs shouted across the pavement − ‘Barbara, no!’ And in between them, he saw this silly, mad, amazing woman, Miriam.

  Matt lunged forward. He grabbed Miriam’s waist to pull her down, and it was just as he yanked the polyester of her coat that the world filled with a cracking sound. It didn’t sound like an explosion. It was nothing like the boomy eruptions from video games and action movies. There was no epic echo either, no cool ricochet. Just a short, sharp crack and then the worst part – the jerking spasm of Miriam’s body as she slammed hard against him. Then the shot turned into wails from everybody watching. Then the
wails turned into screams and the screams turned into shoes running on the pavement.

  Matt and Miriam crashed against a telegraph pole and he quickly looked down to see the slash in the material of her jacket. He saw a hole that wasn’t there before. He pressed his hand against it and felt the pulse of something warm and wet. ‘Shit … shit …’ They both slid to the floor. He heard the gun clatter off the pavement.

  Other bodies swarmed around them. A policewoman was on her knees, talking to Miriam, while Briggs already had Mr Ashton in his grip. He kept barking the words ‘ambulance’ into his radio. Then finally Matt saw Wren flying down the ramp, and he breathed again. She dropped hard and grabbed not only Matt’s hand, but Miriam’s too.

  ‘You pulled me down,’ Miriam groaned. ‘Thank you, Matt. You saved my life.’

  ‘What?’ he spluttered out a laugh. ‘You saved mine.’

  Miriam’s laughter quickly became a cough, and over his shoulder he saw Mrs Ashton being led into the building. She was looking up into the sky, squinting and silent. Mr Ashton had his arm around her shoulders. He paused to look at Matt and Miriam who still lay heaped on the floor. ‘I’m … I’m … I’m …’ He let out a quivery breath but couldn’t finish his sentence. It was the clearest, most heartbreaking apology Matt had ever witnessed. Briggs hurried the Ashtons inside.

  Miriam, of all things, was smiling. ‘You weren’t hurt, were you, Matthew?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, then it hit him again. Harder this time. ‘My God, thank you.’

  Wren said the same, her eyes glistening. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’

  Her smile faded as she winced in pain. Then it came back brighter than before. ‘Look at that sun …’ Her eyelids started to flutter. ‘So pretty.’

  Somewhere, a siren was wailing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Ever and Uncle Dust often sat here to talk. At the top of Comfort Hill, on a little bench that leant against the chapel. It groaned and creaked against the metal whenever they moved.

  ‘Probably should have oiled this seat more,’ Dust said, flicking his ponytail over his shoulder.

  Ever shot up. ‘Shall I get some now?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t bother. Let’s just sit and talk, instead.’

  Unlike this morning, the mist had cleared now, so the farmhouse looked bright and crisp on the valley floor. He even saw the tip of his tree by his favourite part of the stream, and the shed, of course, sat right near the bottom of the hill’s stone trail. The huge, scary rope that was wrapped around it looked tighter than ever, but at least the door wasn’t moving any more. Dust must have seen him staring at it, because Ever felt a big warm arm slide around his shoulders and pull him in.

  ‘Don’t ever be ashamed of fear, son.’

  ‘I hate it. Fear makes me feel like a little kid.’

  ‘And was Jesus acting like a little kid, when he was scared? When his dad had him dragged to that big old cross? When he started sweating blood in the garden?’ Dust swept his hair back. ‘He was man enough to admit his fear and weakness. It made him strong, Ever.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you’ll never get as stressed as Jesus was. None of us will.’

  ‘We might …’

  ‘No way. He was betrayed by his own flesh and blood. But your family’s right here,’ he hooked a thumb at himself, ‘and we love you. I love you … with every word and step and breath … and burp and laugh and tear and song that’s in me. Got it?’

  Ever chuckled, ‘Got it.’

  Dust slipped off his glasses and cleaned them on his jumper, while they watched white smoke curl from the farmhouse chimney. Mum had already headed down to make a big lunch. He’d watched her walk down earlier and noticed how she’d walked in a large, curving arc, away from the shed.

  He could tell that the time had come. The moment to ask his big questions about what was going on. But neither he nor his uncle seemed ready to go there just yet. The others were. Ever could hear them inside the chapel behind them. They were right up against the metal, whispering prayers through the cracks.

  He thought of a new subject. ‘How can the Hollows worship the Father, after what he did to his son?’

  ‘Who knows? It’s baffling. They sing songs to him, build cathedrals for him. They wear crosses around their necks like it’s no big deal. It’s barbaric and … weird. That’s the truth of it, Ever. The Hollows aren’t just dangerous. They’re weird.’ He spun a finger at his temple. ‘One time, I saw a hundred of them in the park and − get this − one of them was dressed as Jesus, carrying a cross. And this Hollow had fake blood all over its face, and twigs were pushed into its head because they love that he died. They’re obsessed with it. It’s their favourite part.’

  Ever screwed up his face. ‘I’ll never understand them.’

  ‘I’m not even sure they understand themselves. They’ve lied to each other for so long and hidden their weakness, they’ve started to believe the biggest trick of all. They think Jesus did it on purpose. That he died willingly. Can you believe that?’

  ‘It’s stoopid.’

  ‘And sick too.’ He patted Ever’s knee with a hand covered in decades-old scars. Slashes from knives, mostly.

  ‘The Hollows … they’ll be coming for us soon, won’t they …?’ Ever said, just as the breeze moaned.

  ‘The closer to the end we get … yes. Prosper’s sure of it …’ He looked him in the eye. ‘But don’t be scared. We’re all here for you. Just like the family was there for me, when I needed them. Took me off the street and dusted me off. Gave me a home and love. And you … I got to be an uncle. That was best of all.’

  He heard a surge in the prayers. It told him that it was time.

  ‘Okay … so why’s there a Hollow in the shed?’

  The prayers sank into quiet. Ears, not mouths, touched metal now.

  ‘Well, you know how Jesus is coming back to take the Father’s place and give this world a proper God for a change?’

  ‘Yeah. Second Coming.’

  ‘And that he’ll make everywhere like this valley? Take all the Hollows away?’

  ‘Yep, nice and safe.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, sometimes … sometimes you need a symbol to unlock that sort of power. And the Father seems obsessed with them. The Bible’s filled with people doing seemingly pointless things – they build an altar of stones, they lift a snake in the air, they slaughter a ram on a hill – and somehow those acts change things. I mean, think of Jesus. He didn’t just heal people, he often did some sort of ritual to make it happen. Like the healing of the blind man … what did he do first?’

  Ever looked up. ‘He spat on dirt and rubbed it into his eyes … and then he was healed.’

  ‘Exactly. He was only healed after the symbol.’ Uncle Dust leant a little closer. ‘Now the Hollows’ big symbol is the cross, and they reckon it saved the world, but we know better. We know that symbol ruined everything. But we don’t throw those crosses away, we turn them upside down, and make something new. That power. So, we’re going to show the world a new symbol that’ll make things right … but listen to me … it’s our faith that really matters. The symbol … that’s the key. But it’s our faith what makes the key turn … do you understand?’

  ‘You need to just tell me. What do we have to do?’

  ‘Okay …’ Dust pointed down the hill at the shed. Ever’s heartbeat flicked up a notch. ‘Prosper, me and Uncle Milton caught a Hollow in the city.’

  ‘On purpose?’

  ‘Yes. We brought it back and put it in the shed.’

  ‘Why on earth would you—’

  ‘Jesus wants us to kill it.’

  The praying started again, and the corrugated metal behind Ever’s shoulder creaked as they all leant up against it inside.

  ‘Is that what Micah was supposed to do? Kill a demon?’

  ‘That’s right. But it didn’t work out.’

  Every bone in his body started to contract. He could feel hi
mself shrinking, literally shrinking into the bench. ‘But, I thought … I thought we had some other path to try. Milton keeps talking about another path.’

  ‘Forget the other path. We’re on the same path, just with a different person. Micah tried and now … well, now it’s going to be you, Ever.’

  ‘Wait … you want … you want me to kill it?’ He started shaking his head.

  ‘But listen to me, my beautiful boy.’ Dust’s arms clamped around him. ‘We’re going to make it super easy for you. You’ll do it way better than Micah. All you have to do is stop its heart. Once it’s gone, me or Milton can do the rest.’

  Ever couldn’t speak. His chest pumped in and out. ‘But why me?’

  ‘Cos you have to get used to killing.’

  ‘I don’t want to get used to it.’

  Squeals of lament now. Hammering on the floor and walls inside.

  ‘You’ll have to, okay?’ he said. ‘Or Jesus won’t come back. We’ll be overrun with Hollows and lose this place for ever.’

  Ever had his face in his hands but something else was stirring. He spoke into his palm, ‘Jesus was scared too.’

  ‘Terrified.’

  ‘But he was brave …’

  ‘Exactly. And you’ll be brave as well, because he’s in you. He’s in all of us.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure this’ll bring Jesus back?’

  Dust opened his mouth, then just looked away for a moment.

  ‘Hey … what’s wrong?’

  Dust shrugged. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’

  The prayers of the chapel grew to screams.

  ‘Okay then … so what if I can’t do it?’ Ever said.

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Then what if it gets me first?’

  ‘It absolutely won’t. There won’t be a chance of that.’

  ‘But why me? Why can’t you do it?’

  Uncle Dust looked back and wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘Because you’re the gift. Not us … you are. You’ll know what it all means, when the time comes.’