Severed

by Peter Laws

  ‘But what’s the point if Matt’s not here?’ Hope kicked a chunk of gravel at him. It clattered on the car. ‘Is he with the police?’

  When Milton responded, it was with a roar. ‘Listen to yourselves!’ he shouted. ‘Listen to what you’re saying. You’ve been away from home for way too long already. He is not a frickin’ “he”. “He” is an it … and it is not with the police, okay? Where’s your damn faith?’

  ‘Then where is … it?’ Dust said.

  Mum pulled fully back from Ever and rushed to the back of the car. She stood there, framed by a sea of glowing, fast-moving clouds. Her hair glistened with starlight, and the loose threads of her scarf danced in the night wind.

  ‘Wait. You’re saying it’s in the boot?’ Hope said.

  ‘See? See?’ Milton nodded. ‘There’s always hope.’

  ‘But he still called the police.’ Dust looked at the road. ‘And the other one. The wife. You said they were coming together.’

  Hope was laughing now. ‘She was the only way to get him over here. He wouldn’t have come himself … but look … now he’s here anyway.’ She slapped a hand on Milton’s shoulder. ‘The Lord’s in this. He’s got better plans, even than me.’

  ‘But what if she comes?’ Dust said. ‘What if she comes after him?’

  ‘Easy. We get his phone and fob her off. And if she does turn up, I’ll deal with her. We’re friends, don’t you know?’ Hope smiled. ‘Now get that boot open.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Matt had been blindfolded with a foul-smelling rag for what seemed like an hour now. At least it felt that long since he last saw the light of Bessie’s hallway. Just before he’d lost his sight, they’d smacked him on the shoulders with that damn walking stick. Just one last thwack. One for the road! Then he passed out. They must have dragged and yanked him out of her house.

  He’d only become vaguely aware of movement when they dropped him into something. Even in blindness, he could tell it was the boot of a car. It was the way it sank as he crashed into it, on his side. Then all those hands fought to keep his limbs inside. He started to struggle and kick out but was rewarded with a heavy thud above him. The wind and their voices grew muffled. The engine rumbled.

  As he rocked from side to side, sliding on the turns, he tried to kick his way out. Tried a lot of things, actually. But when you have plastic cable ties on your hands and feet, your options are severely limited. Eventually he just lay there, shoulders and legs throbbing, feeling baffled, hurt and something else too. Something major and true, that threw an icy shadow across his entire psyche. He was scared. He was very, very scared.

  The engine noise sometimes blended with muffled voices from inside the car. They frequently seemed to be shouting at each other.

  He’d made a foolish attempt to mind-map the journey. Frantically doing a mental satnav to confirm the way they came. Surely he could figure that out? He was clever, supposedly. He lost track after thirty seconds. There was all the sliding around and junk falling across his face to contend with. And the thought of impending death. There was that too.

  So he felt both relief and dreadful shock when the car finally stopped. When the boot opened, he heard a new voice, a man say, ‘Get him in the church.’ Matt thought he might laugh just then and say, Wow guys, in my day we just invited people to a carol service and offered them hot chocolate. None of this rope and car-boot malarkey. But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything, at all. Because every time he had opened his mouth before, that crazy-eyed old man whacked him with the stick. He thought of Bessie. How she never answered when he cried out to her. Just before he drifted from consciousness.

  Still blindfolded, he heard more voices now. Then many more hands heaved him out and dumped him onto a surface that had no in-built suspension: the ground. They lifted him by the armpits and dragged him. He felt the cold sting of rain slap his face, and the tips of his shoes scraped lines through gravel. Then that sound soon changed, like they’d stepped into an echo chamber. The ground became smooth and the air musky. He instantly knew he was in St Bart’s. He could just tell by that smell and the familiar echo, designed by centuries-old architects to strike reverence into the faithful. He was now, rather ironically, a prisoner inside the very institution he’d once described as a prison. He’d used that specific word in a recent article about oppressive biblical texts. And, of course, he’d headed that piece with a picture of this place – just at the very start of its meme wave. WELCOME TO THE CROOKED CHURCH, the headline read. How witty he’d been. How droll.

  He could smell David East’s three-day-old blood, stubbornly clinging to the air.

  He couldn’t tell how many people were around him, but it sounded like a lot of them. And they kept speaking over each other. Words tumbling over words. At one point he felt a set of fingers grab his hair and lift his head up. Then a voice boomed near his ear and said, ‘Look everybody. Daddy’s home!’ Which made the church fill with wails and screeches that were either excited or panicked, he couldn’t tell which. He knew which one he was, though. Holy shit, he was panicked. He was trying to be calm, for survival’s sake, but holy shit, it was scary not being able to see.

  Then the voices grew louder but more compact as he was dragged into what sounded like a little room. He braced himself, expecting to be dropped to the floor, but then he heard a woman’s voice say something odd. ‘Put him in that chair, Dust.’ Heavy hands placed him carefully onto a rickety, creaking seat.

  Voices filled the space. A mixture of strange Jesus prayers and barked instructions like ‘Watch him’, ‘We’ll get things prepped’, ‘You, you and you … watch all the doors’. And finally, a strange sentence that made no sense whatsoever. ‘Where’s Ever? Get Ever ready.’ Someone asked about Matt’s phone too. Where was it, did they bring it with them, who had it, was there enough charge in the battery? He heard a lot of mumbling about how to operate it. It was the one time he had the energy to call out. He said, ‘Dammit, leave my phone alone,’ shouting into the void of his blindness. He sounded so pathetic that he wasn’t surprised when a couple of them laughed. Then something hard touched his thumb, and a finger pressed into his thumbnail. He heard a familiar, light-sabre swoosh. The sound of his phone opening. He snapped his hand back. They laughed again, and somebody said, ‘Halleujah.’

  ‘Phone’s ready,’ a man shouted.

  After a while, it grew quiet, then suddenly muffled. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like they’d all moved back into the church, leaving him behind. For a few moments he listened to them singing wild, frightening hymns of a valiant Jesus, slaying the father who first slayed him.

  Matt waited. Caught his breath. He risked a voice. ‘Hello?’

  No answer.

  If he really was alone in here, he’d smear his face down a wall or something and get this damn blindfold off. Look for a way to fight. Then a voice spoke up. A man’s voice.

  ‘Quiet down …’ it said.

  ‘Dust?’ Matt said. He recognised the tone. ‘Is that your name? I heard them call someone Dust …’

  ‘Don’t look at me.’

  ‘I can’t see you … not through this …’

  ‘Good. Now, how did you know about the farmhouse? Did Zara tell you? Prosper’s right, isn’t he? She betrayed us.’

  ‘She didn’t tell me anything because I never found her.’

  ‘Then why were you there?’

  ‘Her husband, David, he’s awake. He said Zara was up at your farm, but she wasn’t there …’ Matt shifted his hands again. The plastic cable-tie on his wrists felt tighter than ever. He wanted to strangle the guy, but he opted for calm. ‘Why am I here?’

  Silence.

  ‘What have I ever done to—’

  A woman’s voice, extremely close to his head, said, ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  Matt jumped.

  ‘Verity,’ Dust said. ‘Shhh …’

  ‘It’s fine. I can talk.’ The woman’s voice came closer. He felt her bre
ath on his cheek. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘I’ve never met anybody called Verity.’

  She laughed. ‘Fair point. But surely you recognise my voice?’

  ‘I’m better with faces. Can I see your face?’

  ‘It’s shocking …’ Dust said. ‘Evil’s so mundane to them, they can’t even remember the crimes they do …’

  Matt started tugging at his wrists again. ‘What crimes?’

  ‘… it’s like destroying folks is just another thing to do on a summer’s day … like it’s no big deal.’

  ‘What’s no big deal? What do you think I’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Just a sin you did. A sin that’s obviously got lost in the Hollow pile. But we’re not like you, we remember. And we don’t cover the past with lies, we tell it how it is, with all the pain and all the sorrow. So how about I dig this sin out and see if it rings any bells …’ Dust came close. ‘You know … you remember … that time you raped Verity here.’

  Confused fireworks blasted at all levels of Matt’s mind, rendering comprehension and articulate responses a luxury. All he could manage was a sound that was supposed to act as a question. He said, ‘Huh?’

  ‘Bet you’ve done it a million times. Made a million little Evers all over the world.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘To a million wives. To a million husbands, too, I’ll bet.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? I’ve never even met a Verity.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Her voice again, closer than ever. Her breath on his chin, now.

  ‘Wait … Verity,’ Dust said. ‘Don’t …’

  Her fingers were spider-walking up his cheeks, scurrying around the sides of his head.

  Dust said it again. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘I want him to see my face … I want him to remember.’

  The blindfold dropped around his shoulders and he squinted at the bulbs of the small room. They seemed fiercely bright. But he slowly opened them, and eventually he saw her face appear, pushing through the forest of his lashes.

  ‘Reverend.’ She nodded as she came into focus. ‘Hello again.’

  Matt’s voice said, ‘Jess?’

  But his brain said, Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Wren marched around the kitchen, swinging each cupboard open in a gruff, sped-up version of her usual babysitter routine. ‘Tea and coffee. Hot chocolate. Help yourself to any food you want. Wi-Fi code is here.’

  ‘Ta.’ Tracey, their new babysitter, was scrubbing a towel across her head.

  ‘Your hair won’t survive out there. Amazing colour, by the way. Where do you get it—’

  ‘Gotta run, sorry.’ Wren spun and grabbed her coat as the lightning lit up the hallway, then she sat on the bottom stair and pulled on her boots, yanking the laces way tighter than she needed. There was something satisfying about the feel of it. Like she was garrotting someone. Someone called Matt Hunter. All laced up, she leant through the lounge door where Lucy and Amelia were squealing playing Mario Kart. ‘Amelia, show Tracy how to work the TV. And you do NOT make her watch Troll 2.’

  ‘Oh, but I bet she’d love to see—’

  ‘I said, no!’ she snapped and zipped up her parka. ‘Look, I’m not in the mood.’

  Amelia was staring at her, her face gentle and serious. ‘Maybe the roads are closed. Maybe he’s stuck somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, well if he turns up you just tell him I’ve already left.’

  ‘Mum …’ Lucy put her controller down. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t go out in it either.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Wren caught the clock on the wall. ‘Crap. Gotta go. Enjoy the cinema, Lucy. And Amelia, be hospitable.’

  Amelia saluted her. ‘Well, you know what they say about hospitality. You can’t pi—’

  ‘Bye,’ Wren said.

  She scooped up her keys from the bowl and flipped the parka hood over her red fringe. She looked like a cartoon character staring back in the mirror, all padding and just face, then she stepped out into Waterworld. The wind instantly caught her. It seemed to pick her up in four hurried steps down the path. She ran the gauntlet to the car, zapping her keys and throwing herself inside. It was shocking how soaked she became. Drenched in ten seconds. This weather at the moment, she’d never seen anything like it.

  She shivered, pushed the ignition button and the car purred into life. Then she pulled the belt across her and yanked out her phone. She stared at the screen as the car rocked in the wind. She couldn’t help it. She tapped onto the astonishing message she had just received and read it for perhaps the eighth or ninth time.

  Wren. I’m not going to that prayer meeting at Chervil any more. I hate that stuff. And you can’t go either. I’m serious. Be back late. Explain tomorrow. I heard it was cancelled cos of rain anyway. Love you.

  ‘Well, I’m bloody well going.’ She threw the phone on the passenger seat and surged off.

  She tried to stop thinking about him as the wipers danced and the sky kept flashing, but he kept coming to mind. Which was strange, because Wren’s therapist had taught her such nifty techniques to block him out. But still, she thought of her first husband Eddie. She didn’t often do that. She was getting better at burying his shouting echoes and not feeling the flash of his stubby fingers, pressed into her throat. But there he was again, Eddie Pullen, sitting in their horrible little flat, telling her that baby Lucy had to be her priority now and that her architecture dreams would obviously have to wait. That she shouldn’t have to work. Which became you mustn’t and ended up as … you will not work. She felt that hot press of Eddie’s mouth against her ear, because that was the way Eddie always shouted best – in a whisper.

  She started firing up her methods to block Eddie out, and tried her favourite tool. She said, ‘Wren Hunter and Matt Hunter’ over and over, because the therapist said she had to remind her brain that she had a new life now. That the controlling beast of Eddie was locked away in a prison cell. But saying Matt’s name along with hers didn’t soothe her as much as it usually did, because she couldn’t stop thinking of Matt’s text.

  And you can’t go either. I’m serious, he’d said.

  The rain was remarkably loud, and it was a strange, long and lonely drive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Matt shook his head, frantically. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Verity sat cross-legged in front of Matt, tilting her head as she curled a thick strand of her very straight hair. It was much, much longer than it used to be, but now she had it down, and wasn’t hiding behind a farmhouse door, he saw those old echoes in her face. Around her neck, a thin scarf was wound tight. He knew why.

  ‘Careful of its eyes,’ Dust said. ‘Not too close.’

  ‘Oh, shush, he’s tied up.’ She turned back. ‘So, you’re denying it then, Rev?’

  Rev. She always used to call me that.

  ‘Rev? Can’t you speak?’

  ‘Jess, come on. I didn’t—’

  She blew a puff of air into his face, while Dust twisted his hands and paced the floor. Trembling, Matt looked into those bright, familiar eyes.

  ‘Then why did I catch you?’ she said. ‘You were holding my hand after. And you were the only one in the alley. Hmm? Fiddling with my clothes?’

  Matt couldn’t stop blinking. The harshness of the light, no doubt. But every time he closed his lids, a very old world sprang up. He saw a cold night, light years into his past. He was in his twenties, helping out with the Street Angels scheme. He and a posse of local Christians were hanging around the city nightclubs, every weekend, from 11 p.m. to 5 a.m. They helped drunk people get home and got homeless people into shelters. This church-in-action stuff really appealed to him, back in the early days. He could see himself then, all denim shirt, jeans and cheap trainers, back when he was as naive about fashion as he was about life. When he thought TV panel shows weren’t scripted and that God cared about him.

  During one Street A
ngel shift he was standing awkwardly by a nightclub, pounding out muffled beats at four in the morning. He and the other volunteers handed out free shoes to anyone who might have lost one that night. It was a surprisingly common and incredibly dangerous injury, they’d been told. People staggering home shoeless could easily slash a major artery on broken glass. Unless the trusty Street Angels swung in with a two-pound plimsoll to save the day. The Angels held people’s hair as they vomited into drains. They got between brawls on the steps of pubs. And they looked for the forgotten, the lonely, the hurt.

  Like her.

  ‘Jess, I was helping.’

  ‘Helping yourself.’ She nodded. ‘All those sweet little women.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that …’

  ‘All those teats hanging out, and too drunk to stop it. Oh yeah, I get it. You and your clan … prowling the city and hungry with it.’

  Another flash of him and the team and their usual patrol of the backstreets. They’d hunt for people face down in puke or bloodied and shivering from a pub brawl. They all wore high-viz jackets and goofy-looking caps, so that everybody knew who they were. Despite the few accusations – ‘You’re parasites, you’re trying to convert us’ – most of the drinkers knew it. They seemed aware. That when a little old lady in a Street Angels baseball cap held the hands of a weeping woman on rickety heels, there was something profound going on. He’d seen complete strangers break down and tell the Angels secrets, crimes, regrets.

  Then there was that one snowy night, where the Angels had to slip through sleet to help people home. He happened to turn a corner and saw her hair first. A short tuft of dirty blonde, pressed into a melting pavement. He hurried closer, clicked on the torch and groaned in shock. He saw a very young girl in a baggy pink tracksuit, passed out. Clearly not a clubber, clearly not a night out. This one was homeless. For her, every night was a night out. He remembered thinking she was about twelve, though he later found out she was seventeen. She had a strip of blood, smeared from the corner of her mouth. It ran across her cheek and up into her ear. He remembered the pattern of it quite vividly, and what he thought was a really tight, ridiculously thick necklace that turned out to be a bike chain wrapped multiple times around her throat.