Shepherd's Cross (11 page)

Lee spoke first, his younger brother
standing behind him and ogling her like she was the first woman he’d ever seen.
‘Excuse me, pet, I saw you sitting here all by yourself and was wondering if
you’d like a drink or something?’ He sat down beside her without invitation,
laying his arm behind her on top of the cushioned bench.

Laura squirmed uncomfortably in her seat
without replying, staring intently at the door to the gents, praying for
Captain Woody’s swift return.

Jed’s initial shyness disappeared as
soon as he realised that she was frightened of them; his confidence growing
like a bully who knew he wasn’t going to be challenged. ‘Didn’t you hear him?’
he asked, sitting down on the other side of her to Lee. ‘He asked you if you
wanted a drink. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s rude not to answer?’

‘No, thank you. I don’t want a drink.
Actually, I’m waiting for my boyfriend – we’re just leaving.’

‘Boyfriend?’ said Lee. ‘You’re not
telling me
he’s
your boyfriend, are you? Good looking bird like you
could do a lot better than that ugly tosser. Listen, why don’t you ditch him
and come for a walk with me? There’s this place I know where we can be alone.
Not far from here. You won’t regret it, trust me. You posh birds love a bit of
rough, don’t you? I promise I’ll be rough with you, sweetheart!’ The two
brothers laughed at the cleverness of the innuendo, knowing it wouldn’t get
them anywhere, but nonetheless enjoying their intimidating game.

‘Please, just leave me alone. I’m really
not interested.’ She tried to stand up to get away from them, but Lee’s strong
hand gripped her shoulder and pushed her back on to her seat.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he
asked. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet.’ He moved his mouth closer to her ear
and whispered: ‘listen, have you ever been screwed by two men at the same time?
Seriously, come with us – you’ll have the time of your…’

‘Hey, what do you think you’re playing
at? Get away from her, now! NOW!’ James strode towards them, his fists
clenched, ready for the fight. At six foot two inches, he cast an imposing
figure; and while he didn’t particularly relish the opportunity to square up to
two hardened farmhands, he knew that there was a good chance of scaring them
off if he went in with all guns blazing.

Unfortunately for James, Jed and Lee
weren’t remotely threatened by his bravado: they’d taken too many beatings at
the hands of their father to be frightened of anyone; indeed, win or lose, the
Carter boys loved nothing more than a good old-fashioned punch-up. ‘Come on
then, you pussy,’ said Lee, jumping up. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of. I tell
you what, whoever comes out on top gets first crack at your missus. She’s just
told me that you’re shite in the sack anyway.’ Jed laughed at his brother’s
joke as he went to his side to join him in the action.

Publically poking fun at his manhood was
enough for the red mist to suddenly cloud James’s vision, and he leapt at them,
blindly swinging his arms in their general direction. He struck lucky with the
first punch, his fist smashing into Lee’s face with an enormous cracking sound
as his nose gave way, blood gushing down his shirt as he fell to the floor
screaming in agony. Jed jumped furiously at James, pulling him over in a
headlock and trying with all his might to strangle him as he writhed beneath
him, Laura screaming for him to let go and begging for somebody to stop them. 
No matter how hard he tried, James wasn’t able to extract himself from Jed’s
grip, rage giving way to fear as he struggled to breathe and began to lose his
strength. Meanwhile, Lee had returned to his feet and began kicking James in
the ribs, forceful blows being dealt in rapid-fire succession, the sound of his
moaning becoming fainter as he slipped steadily towards unconsciousness.

If it wasn’t for the timely intervention
of Sergeant Brian Jennings, there was no doubt that the Carter brothers would
have pursued their relentless mauling of James Woodsman until it half-killed
him. Laura’s screaming had travelled through to the formal bar, where Jennings
had been enjoying the evening’s first pint of ale. He’d rushed to her
assistance with the spritely movement of a Policeman half his age, dragging Jed
away from James by the hair and throwing him to the floor. It wasn’t long
before Jennings was joined by Bill Turner, whose huge arms wrapped around Lee in
a bear-hug embrace, preventing him from dishing out any more violence.

After a few moments of scuffling,
Jennings and Turner eventually managed to restrain the two brothers. Jennifer
Conway, a nurse living in the village, accompanied James, Laura and Tina to a
room above the pub, where she could administer the relevant first aid away from
the prying eyes of the not-so-good Samaritans downstairs; most of whom had
seemed content to turn a blind eye to the horrific act of violence they had
witnessed before them.

When the Carter boys eventually calmed
down, Jennings looked at them in dismay and shook his head. ‘Congratulations,
you two: you’ll be pleased to know you’ve just been awarded a night in the cell
for your actions. And it’s highly likely you’ll be waking up in the morning
with a charge against you of Common Assault. For Christ’s sake, what were you
playing at? You nearly killed him!’ It had been almost a year since he’d needed
to lock anyone up in the Station’s single basement cell; most of his arrests
were transferred to the larger town of Cornforth. But there was no way of
transporting these two tonight, especially given the worsening conditions on
the roads. And besides, a night in a cold cell to think about their actions was
precisely what they deserved. ‘Bill, I’m sorry to bother you, but will you give
me a hand to take these two over the road? I don’t want them slipping away like
ferrets.’

‘Aye, no problem Brian. C’mon you two,
let’s go.’

The two men accompanied Lee and Jed from
the sanctuary of the warm pub into the bitter cold of the night, leading them
across the green to the lane that led to the Station. They arrived five minutes
later, Jennings opening the front door and ushering them inside. Without saying
a word, he manhandled them through the foyer to a narrow flight of stairs
leading down to the basement. He was furious at the inconvenience that the
Carter boys had caused. Apart from the mountain of paperwork they’d created, he
would need to sacrifice his evening to wait in the Station and stand guard over
them until morning. As much as he wanted to leave them alone banged up
downstairs, he was acutely aware that to do so would result in him losing his
job. He could call Cara, after all it was her turn on duty, but what was the
point? She had to work the whole weekend, and as capable as she was, he
wouldn’t be able to sleep knowing she was alone in the Station with the Carter
boys, especially if Mick and Aidan got wind of what had happened and decided to
come and add to the trouble. No, he would settle in for the evening and hand
over the reins to her in the morning. Turn the heating up, switch the radio on
and boil the kettle.

Jennings and Turner led the pair
downstairs to the cell and pushed them inside, locking the door behind them. ‘There’s
water and a toilet over there, anything else will have to wait until morning.
And if I so much as hear a whisper out of either of you, I swear to God I’ll do
my utmost to make sure you end up serving time for your actions this evening,
do you hear me?’

Jed and Lee looked at the ground and
nodded, their fledgling hangovers and realisation of the trouble they were in
combining to make them feel exceptionally sorry for themselves.

Jennings sighed. ‘Right, I’m going to
leave the basement light on. It wouldn’t surprise me if you two cowards were
afraid of the dark. And remember, not a word!’ With that, the two young men
were left standing in their cell: twelve long hours ahead of them to lament
their stupidity before facing the inevitable wrath of their father.

When Jennings and Turner returned
upstairs, the two old friends sat down to recover from the strain of the
previous thirty minutes. ‘Is there anything you need from the store?’ asked
Bill. ‘I don’t mind opening up and fetching a few things – food, milk, whisky?’

Jennings smiled. ‘That’s kind of you,
Bill, but I’m fine. There’s plenty here in the kitchen. You get yourself back to
the pub – I know I would.’ He suddenly felt very tired, as if he was carrying
the weight of the world on his shoulders. He sat back in his chair and rubbed
his eyes with his right hand. ‘Times are changing, Bill. This place is
changing. I don’t know what you think, but there’s just not the respect
anymore; not the trust there once was. I don’t know…maybe I’m just getting old.’

‘No, I agree with you, Brian. I see it
every day in my store. Look at those security cameras I had installed after the
burglary last summer: ten years ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed that I would’ve
needed them. Kids today are a different breed. I mean, could you imagine either
of us doing something like that when we were young? Or kicking seven shades of
shit out of some poor bugger like those two feral bastards downstairs?’

‘Nope. We wouldn’t have dared.’

‘Of course we wouldn’t. That’s not to
say we didn’t cross the line every now and then, but we knew when we’d crossed
it and we were damn quick to get back behind it again before our parents found
out.’

‘I think that’s half the problem; the
parents. They just don’t seem to make the time for their kids anymore. Look at
Rowan Lane. The kids are weighed down with every toy and gadget under the sun,
wanting for nothing. But most of them are lucky if they get to see their
parents for an hour or two a day. What kind of life is that? Being handed over
to some stranger at eight in the morning and being left to fend for themselves
until six at night. Learning about life from some sixteen-year-old nursery assistant
in a room full of screaming kids all competing for her attention, or even
worse, from some shoot-em-up computer game that they get stuck in front of
until it’s time for bed. It’s hardly surprising they end up not knowing right
from wrong. I tell you, Bill, the whole world’s going to the dogs.’

‘Aye, you can’t just blame the kids.
Like you say, the parents have a lot to answer for. Look at those folk who
moved into Rowan Lane - I can’t for the life of me understand why you’d choose
to move all the way out here, only to then spend half your life sat in a car
trying to get back to where you came from. Fine, you get to tell your city
friends that you live in a big, fancy house in the country, but what’s the
point if you hardly ever get to see it? Every morning, they set off when it’s
dark and come home when it’s dark; too busy to stop and pass the time of day
with you. I don’t want to tar them all with the same brush, but there are
people in that street who are yet to even set foot in my store. It’s no wonder
that there are folk in this village who are suspicious of them. They’ve been
here three years now, and most of them have made no attempt whatsoever to take
the time to become part of the community. There are many among us who rue the
day that those houses were built. It’ll be a different story when they need our
help in clearing the roads so they can get back to work on Monday morning.
You’ve got to be willing to give as well as take, otherwise you soon find
yourself running short of folk willing to help you.’

Jennings smiled at his friend. He knew
that Bill Turner loved nothing more than a good rant about something or other,
but he had to agree with him. Shepherd’s Cross
had
changed since the
newcomers moved in, and not necessarily for the better. But his job wasn’t to
argue the whys and wherefores of village life; he was employed to maintain law
and order, to be a pillar of the community.

An isolated community, which, like it or
not, was having to come to terms with a world that was travelling at a far
quicker pace than most people were comfortable with.

11.30pm:
Frank Gowland had to share with Reverend Jackson the dubious honour of being
the last person to stagger from the door of The Fallen Angel. The two men
huddled together under the limited shelter of a small awning that jutted out
above the entrance, bracing themselves for the short journey across the exposed
village green to the protection of their respective homes. A howling wind had
whipped the falling snow into a swirling blizzard that consumed every inch of
air without respite. There was no getting away from the fact that a miserable
dash for cover lay ahead of them.

‘It’s wild out there,’ said Gowland. ‘We’re
going to have to make a run for it, Reverend.’ A dilapidated caravan, which for
the previous fifteen years had doubled up as Frank Gowland’s home, stood in the
far corner of a field adjacent to the churchyard and vicarage of All Saints’
Church. Sid Henshaw, the farmer who owned the field, had agreed to let Frank
stay there in return for his help during the lambing season. While he would
have preferred a warm room with a free mini-bar at the Ritz, he was grateful
for at least some protection from the elements, especially on a night like
this.

‘
You
can make a run for it if you
want, but these legs haven’t run anywhere in over ten years,’ replied Jackson. ‘And
trust me; they’ve no intention of starting tonight. Come on, we can’t stay here
all night.’

The two men set off into the night,
shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to shelter each other from the worst of the
weather; their progress hampered by the deep snow crunching below them as they
painstakingly waded their way home, the route across the village green dimly
illuminated by the orange glow from a row of streetlights. Other than the
wailing wind, there was no other sound to be heard; most of the houses were now
dark, their occupants having long since retired to the warmth and comfort of
their beds. They marched on, surrounded by life but very much alone as they
reached the temporary protection of the small bandstand that stood in the
middle of the green, pausing to catch their breath and ready themselves for the
final push home.

‘You know, Reverend,’ shouted Gowland. ‘I
must have done something seriously wrong in a former life to have ended up with
this one. And I hope to God I’m a damn sight luckier next time round!’

‘What makes you so sure there’ll be a
next time?’ Jackson replied. ‘What makes you think there’ll be anything waiting
for you other than a lumpy bed of soil and a family of hungry worms nibbling at
your bollocks?’ It wasn’t unheard of for Jackson to employ the use of the
occasional profanity in getting his point across; especially when his vocal
chords had been soaked in cheap Scotch whisky.

‘I’m surprised to hear you coming out
with such talk, Reverend. I never had you down as a doubting Thomas. I mean, if
you’re struggling to keep the faith, what hope is there for the rest of us?’

‘It was a joke, Frank. A joke.’ Jackson
was a relative latecomer to the profession, having been ‘called’ to serve God
at the age of thirty-six. Prior to that, he’d travelled the world in the
British Merchant Navy, living up to the seaman’s reputation for chasing loose
women and frequenting shore-side bars. He was particularly fond of his trips to
Hong Kong: those Kowloon girls; Jesus, the way they could make you feel. The
flabby, spoilt, white girls back home couldn’t hold a candle to their beautiful
Chinese sisters, in or out of the bedroom…especially in it. Back then, if
anyone had predicted his next career move to be as a Minister of the Church,
Andrew Jackson would have branded him a prime candidate for the funny farm.
Sunday mornings were for sleeping off hangovers, not for listening to some
boring old fart of a chaplain telling you what a bad boy you’ve been for
enjoying yourself the night before.

Rather ironically, it was on the streets
of Hong Kong where Jackson’s Damascene moment came about. He could remember it
as if it were only yesterday. His ship was in port and the sun was shining; the
ideal opportunity for an all-day drinking session, with a trip to the Happy
Valley racecourse thrown in for good measure. There’d been six of them, all
crew; young men far from home with money to burn. It had been a perfect day: six
friends enjoying themselves; blissfully unaware of the trouble that was heading
their way.

The fight was over almost as soon as it
had begun, and rather unusually for a drunken group of sailors, on this
occasion they had not been responsible for starting it. A mindless act of violence
from an aggrieved local man called Wei Long, a man hell-bent on revenge after
hearing that his precious daughter Mei had spent the previous night in the arms
of a lowly sailor gong by the name of Andrew Jackson. He’d forced his daughter
to point Jackson out to him from afar; to identify the man responsible for him losing
face before his friends. Whether his rage had blinded him, or whether Mei had
lied to protect her man, it was not Andrew Jackson who Wei Long had stabbed to
death that night. It was Petty Officer Paul Hunter: Jackson’s best friend; the
man who’d been like a brother to him.

The grief caused by his friend’s death
had hit Jackson hard, but the guilt was far worse; gnawing away at him like a
maggot in an apple, eventually dragging him down to the depths of a nervous
breakdown and a botched suicide attempt. Three months spent drugged up to the
eyeballs in a secure mental health unit helped him over the worst of it, but he
would never be the same again. Part of him had died that night along with his
friend. It was during his recuperation that he decided to join the clergy;
believing life-long repentance to be as good a motive as any for signing up to
the cause.

His calling had helped him to face up to
the past, no doubt about it, and helping his parishioners to come to terms with
losing their loved ones had proven to be highly effective therapy for dealing
with his own loss, but try as he might, he could not erase from his mind the
memory of that night in Hong Kong. The strong faith he had once shown in God,
the faith that provided him with the comfort from believing that his sins could
be forgiven, had gradually splintered into searching questions. Questions such
as why had God allowed his innocent friend to die? How could He sit idly by and
watch the evil acts of men who were supposedly created in His own image?
Jackson knew better than most that the answers to his questions lay in his
willingness to submit entirely to the word of God and the Good Book.
Fit in
or fuck off
– the opening words that one of his superiors in the Merchant
Navy had used to welcome the new recruits, a message that was as valid in Jackson’s
current vocation as it was at sea all those years ago. Nevertheless, with every
passing day, Reverend Jackson was finding it more and more of a struggle to
fit
in
with the role that society expected him to play.

‘Bring me a blanket, Reverend. I think
I’ll sleep here tonight.’ Frank Gowland was leaning against the hand rail of
the bandstand; his head spinning from the icy wind and the twelve pints of beer
swilling around his gut.

‘Don’t be so daft, man. If we don’t get
home soon we’ll freeze to death. Come one, let’s get a move on. We’re almost
there.’

They stumbled down the steps of the
bandstand and resumed their meandering stagger home. The blizzard had whipped up
into such frenzy that it had become almost impossible to see the way ahead, the
two men focusing all their efforts on putting one foot in front of the other.
Fortunately for them, the path from The Fallen Angel to their homes was one they
had walked a thousand times.

As they neared All Saints’ Church, the
all-consuming storm was interrupted by a noise coming from above, in the
background to begin with, but gradually becoming clearer as the wind paused to
draw breath before resuming its merciless onslaught.

‘Did you hear that?’ Gowland asked, the
two men stopping to listen.

‘I heard
something
,’ replied Jackson,
straining his eyes in the direction of his church. ‘Sounded like it was coming
from the tower. Probably just the wind playing tricks on us.’

‘No…listen,’ said Gowland. ‘Listen!’ The
sound was clearer now, an aggressive, croaking noise. ‘You’re right; it’s
coming from the church. Let’s get a bit closer – I can’t see jack shit from
here.’

Approaching the church, they were
stopped in their tracks by a deep, broken voice coming from above; angry and
powerful enough to punch through the buffeting wind and fill the men’s ears
with a message that repeated itself over and over again like a scratched
record: ‘Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus - Deus est mortuus’.

They craned their necks upwards; their
mouths gaping open like children trying to catch falling snow with their
tongues. The words kept coming at them, clearer and louder each time. ‘Deus est
mortuus - Deus est mortuus.’

‘Who the hell’s saying that?’ asked Gowland,
his eyes scanning the tower, expecting to find somebody clinging on for dear
life. ‘Maybe one of the young lads from the pub has had himself a skin-full and
shimmied his way up the drainpipe for a dare?’ he said, clutching at straws. ‘Can
you see anyone, Reverend? Maybe he’s round the back – I’ll go around and have a
lo…’

‘The birds…by the clock,’ Jackson
whispered. ‘Look at the birds.’ Two huge, black ravens were perched on a stone
ledge that protruded from the wall of the church tower about thirty feet from
the ground. They were separated by the backlit, round face of the clock; like
two soldiers standing guard, their eyes glowing bright red, piercing through
the black night sky like lasers. They weren’t looking down at the men; instead
they stared straight ahead into the darkness, as if they were fervently
scanning the horizon for the arrival of an approaching friend. Their beaks snapped
open and shut like the manipulated mouth of a ventriloquist’s dummy: ‘Deus est
mortuus - Deus est mortuus’. It was as if the words were coming from them.

As they looked on, the hands on the
clock began to spin round in reverse: giving the impression that time was
moving backwards. The bell, which had hung in the tower since 1743, began to ring
uncontrollably, lacking its usual Sunday morning rhythm. Human faces, which
hundreds of years earlier had been skilfully carved into the stone corbels that
served to support the ledge upon which the ravens were now balanced, suddenly
came to life; their lips parting in hateful grimaces at the world around them,
their eyes gleaming. It was as if the church had come alive; smothered and
possessed by the assault of an evil intruder as it crawled over the roof and
along the walls, working its way into every nook and cranny in a febrile surge
to strangle any holiness that dwelled inside.

Reverend Jackson fell to his knees and
closed his eyes, tracing the sign of the Cross with his right hand. ‘Our
Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom co…’
you have
to have faith, father, for your words to have any meaning
‘on earth as it
is in heaven…’
Deus est mortuus
‘give us this day our daily bread…’
you’re
a disgrace, father…an insult to your maker
‘and forgive us our trespasses…’
Your God is dead
‘as we forgive those who trespass against us…’
DEUS EST
MORTUUS!

‘Reverend, look!’ shouted Gowland,
grabbing his shoulders and shaking him away from his prayers. ‘The ravens…they’ve
gone. Jesus Christ! What in God’s name is going on?’

Jackson opened his eyes and looked up –
the hands on the clock had stopped at five o’clock. In spite of the cold, his
cheeks were red hot. He held out his arm to Frank, who took it and helped him
to his feet. Taking deep breaths to try and calm himself; he looked up at the
church, searching for signs to reassure him that he hadn’t imagined the whole
damn thing. But with the exception of the stopped clock, everything was back to
normal.

‘I don’t know what unholy poison Tina
puts in her beer, but I sure as shit won’t be drinking any more of it,’ said Gowland,
knowing full well that come tomorrow lunchtime he would be waiting impatiently
outside her door again. ‘What the fuck happened there?’

Jackson didn’t answer; unlike Gowland,
he was not prepared to hide behind the alibi of his alcohol addiction in
explaining away what he’d just witnessed. Many years had passed since he’d
encountered any kind of a sign persuading him that there was reason for him to
continue in his line of work. But it
had
been a sign – he was convinced
of that - more convinced than he’d been of anything since taking the job at All
Saint’s Church all those years ago.

Standing in the relentless snowstorm
that engulfed him like a swarm of ferocious bees, Jackson closed his eyes and
prayed.