Shepherd's Cross (12 page)

5.30am:
Shepherd’s Cross remained cloaked in darkness as it awoke to face another cold,
winter’s day. The village was deathly still, submerged in a thick blanket of
snow. The wind had finally blown itself to sleep, but the snow continued to
fall, softer now but without the slightest sign of coming to an end. A fox
scampered silently across the village green, conscious not to attract any
unwanted attention from those who would do it harm. It weaved its way through
the trees and streetlights as it neared the trail that led to its den in the
woods; like a teenage girl skulking sheepishly home in the early hours of the
morning.

Liam Turner lay snug and warm in his
bed, focusing intently on the Nintendo in his hands; overjoyed at the
opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime lie-in. He had delivered newspapers for
his father since turning thirteen: three years of slogging around the village
come rain or shine, weighed down with heavy bags of gossip and crosswords;
straps digging in to his shoulders like a fully-laden packhorse. Sure, it
brought him in a little pocket-money to indulge his gaming hobby, but at what
cost? Early mornings and teenage boys were not compatible bedfellows. So
earlier that morning, when his father had knocked on his door to tell him that
the newspaper distribution guy hadn’t been able to get his van anywhere near
the village, he’d been met with a resounding cheer. He was quite happy to forgo
a morning’s pay for the chance of a rare lie-in.

Liam’s rare moment of good fortune meant
that the streets remained empty; the paths yet to be touched by the footsteps
of humans and the paw-prints of their dogs. The Cross was destined to be busy
this weekend: the weather would prevent all but the most committed or desperate
of souls to brave the roads that led away from the village to the outside
world. Children would be coming out in force to make the most of the
opportunity to pelt their friends and enemies with snowballs. Newcomers and
old-timers would be forced into each other’s company; there would be no escaping
to the confines of a city office or the anonymity of an out-of-town shopping
centre this weekend. Not everybody would be comfortable with the enforced
confinement, however temporary it might be. The weekends of the Rowan Lane
children were usually jam-packed with extra-curricular activities such as
gymnastics, swimming or ballet lessons: activities that were as much intended
to relinquish parents from the requirement to spend time with their children as
to genuinely develop the talents of their offspring.

The majority of the Shepherd’s Cross
residents remained blissfully unaware of the strange events of the previous two
days; of the unnatural occurrences that had begun to unfold.

A strange sense of foreboding hung in
the morning air; a sense of impending evil that would not be kept at bay any
longer.

7.30am: 
Brian Jennings woke with a start; his eyes frantically darting from side to
side until his brain eventually registered where he was. Panic quickly changed
to pain as he tried to straighten his neck, which for the past hour had been
slumped awkwardly against his chest as he sat dozing in his chair. He couldn’t
remember the last time he’d slept so badly: he’d be lucky if he’d managed two
or three hours all night.

He stood up with a heavy sigh; placing
his hands on his hips and arching his back in a concerted effort to stretch
himself back into life.  It had been a long, uncomfortable night, and his only
consolation was that in an hour or so he would be able to hand over to Cara and
go home to a hot bath and a soft bed. He limped towards the kitchen, his left
leg refusing to wake up, and filled the kettle with water. Opening the cupboard
door, he pulled out a bag of croissants that were slightly on the wrong side of
fresh, and took a plate from the draining board by the sink. He peered into the
fridge, cursing the empty shelf that normally held a bottle of milk – he would
have to use that UHT crap that Cara put in her equally crap instant coffee. He
shook his head in resignation at his misfortune – today had not started well.

Taking out a tray from the shelf below
the cutlery drawer, he filled it with his poor excuse for a breakfast and
returned to his desk, stopping on the way to switch on the radio for the
morning headlines. It was a busy news day; the focus being almost exclusively
on the snow, which appeared to be causing chaos right across the Northeast. A
number of accidents had been reported on the roads: there’d been a twelve car
pile-up somewhere along the Newcastle city bypass – no casualties but a young
couple had been taken to the Freeman Hospital, where their condition was
described as serious but stable. A car-transporter from Germany had overturned
after skidding into the side of a bridge on the A1 dual carriageway, spilling
its load of BMWs across the road and killing the driver.

The list went on: road closures, more
accidents, advice not to travel unless the journey was absolutely necessary;
all delivered in the typically over-zealous tone that the media loved to use
whenever snow fell across the British Isles. On hearing the news, Jennings felt
slightly better for his own predicament – he’d spent five years as a traffic
officer and understood the pressure that his colleagues in that particular
department would be under; working round the clock to help incompetent and
hysterical motorists, most of whom should never have been out on the damn road
in the first place. He knew one thing: he didn’t have to look outside to know
how heavily the snow had fallen overnight in Shepherd’s Cross. If the news was
reporting mayhem on the main arterial routes around the towns and cities, it went
without saying that it would be ten times worse across the higher ground of the
North Pennines. There’d be no getting in or out of this place without the help
of the farmers. And they’d be too busy tending to their own needs for some time
yet.

Jennings took a sip of his
insipid-tasting tea and grimaced. He had intended to drink at least a couple of
cups before heading downstairs to deal with the Carter boys, but there wasn’t a
cat in hell’s chance of him managing to neck even half a cup of the sterile piss
he was holding. Besides, he was more than happy to let the two brothers stew in
their cell for a while longer, especially after the trouble they’d given him
through the night.

They’d been so full of beer when he’d
arrested them that he’d been almost certain that they would have snored their
way through the whole night without so much as a whisper. And that had
certainly proven to be the case, for the first few hours at least. It was not
long after midnight that the shouting started; after finally managing to fall
asleep, he’d been dragged back to consciousness with the sound of screaming and
cries for help. Believing there to be some kind of major crisis, he’d rushed
downstairs into the basement, only to find the two frightened brothers cowering
together in the corner of their cell. When he’d asked them what the hell they
thought they were playing at, Jed had whimpered that they’d seen a dark, hooded
figure standing on the other side of their cell; dressed like a monk in a black
habit. They hadn’t been able to make out his face, but they’d seen his hands –
long, crooked fingers with sharp nails, clasped together in-front of his
waist.  At first, the figure had just stood there silently for what must have
been a good five minutes. Then, without saying a word, he’d lifted his right
hand to neck-height, and with an extended finger, he’d traced the nail from
shoulder to shoulder across his throat, and then pointed with the same finger
to each of the boys in turn. He was going to kill them, Lee had said. They had
to get out of there, before he got to them. Please, please would he let them
go? They weren’t making it up, said Jed, honest to God they weren’t!

Jennings had searched the basement and
found nothing; no evidence to suggest that there was even the smallest grain of
truth to their claims. He’d told them that in future they should consider
laying off the wacky-backy; that you could never be sure what kind of shit the
dealers mix in with it to bulk it up. As expected, he’d been met with
over-enthusiastic protestations of innocence – how they never touched anything
other than booze. But he hadn’t believed them. He’d told them that he didn’t give
a shit what kind of crap they chose to shove down their throats; a few hours
ago they’d brutally kicked the stuffing out of some innocent kid in-front of a
packed room of people, including his poor girlfriend. From where he was
standing, they deserved everything that was coming their way. He only hoped
that the Woodsman kid would have the courage to press charges. They deserved to
be punished for what they did, he had told them. They needed to learn their
lesson.

He’d left the Carter boys and returned
upstairs. As he did so, he’d noticed a sharp breeze coming through the basement
window – a window that he couldn’t remember ever being open in his eight years
in post. He’d closed it; ensuring that the clasp that held it in place was
firmly secured. Must have been that bloody cleaner, he had reasoned, making a
mental note to pull her up on it next time he saw her.

As he went back up the stairs and closed
the door, he had prayed for no further outbursts until at least seven o’clock
that morning. Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered: he had been called
downstairs to calm them down on two further occasions. Both times they had cited
the same reason for their shouting – a dark figure standing at their cell,
making threatening gestures towards them. And on both occasions he’d found
nothing or nobody there to convince him that they were telling the truth.

The third and final time he’d been
called to help them, around four o’clock if he remembered correctly, he’d
refused to respond to their shouts for help; leaving them alone in the hope
that they would cry themselves to sleep, like two overgrown babies tired of
constantly demanding attention from their exhausted mother. Fortunately for
Jennings, the strategy worked – eventually the noises in the basement grew
weaker and weaker until they disappeared altogether; peace and quiet finally
winning the day.

Therefore, as Jennings placed his
disappointing cup of tea onto the table and prepared himself to go downstairs
and introduce the Carter boys to their hangovers, he could perhaps be forgiven
for his unsympathetic indifference to the fate that lay in store for them at
the hands of their father, or to the criminal charges, which he didn’t for one
minute believe would make the slightest difference to their future conduct.

Accompanied by the dulcet tones of the
Mamas and Papas as they sang ‘California Dreaming’ from the radio, Jennings placed
the bag of croissants and two bottles of water on to his tray and walked over
to the door leading to the basement. They would need something to soak up the
alcohol, and if stale bread was good enough for his breakfast, it would
certainly be good enough for theirs. They could be spared the torture of
sampling the tea, however: he didn’t have the heart to force them to drink that
shit.

Balancing the breakfast tray in one
hand, he opened the basement door. It swung open and clunked against the wall,
and he immediately felt the cold air rising up the steps to greet him. He
descended the steps with caution; partly to avoid spilling the contents of the
tray, and partly because of the inadequate job that the basement’s single light-bulb
was doing in illuminating the stairway. As he neared the bottom step, he was
struck by the stillness below; at the very least he was expecting to be met by
the sound of snoring teenagers.

Upon reaching the basement floor, the
first sight he was met with was the small window to his left – it had swung
completely open, revealing layers of ice and snow frozen to the three iron bars
that blocked any chance of escape to the outside world. Despite being almost
eight o’clock in the morning, it was still dark outside; the sun refusing to
show its face from under the blankets. Although the wind had died down, cold
air crept between the bars and into the room, sending a shiver down his spine.
He placed the tray on to the floor and went to close the window. He stared at
the clasp and raised his eyebrows: he could have sworn that he had fixed it
firmly in place. He closed the window and slid the hook into its clasp;
checking twice to make sure it went in securely.

‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine!’ he
shouted, bending down to retrieve the tray from the floor. ‘How are the heads
this morning, lads?’ The way in which the room was designed prevented him from
actually seeing into the cell until he reached it – it was situated at the far
end of the narrow basement running along the side wall. Nevertheless, Jennings sensed
that something was amiss; considering the racket they’d made during the night,
he was surprised that they had now decided to completely shut up shop. ‘What’s
the matter, lads?’ he asked, reaching the cell. ‘Cat got your tong…Jesus
Christ!’

The tray crashed to the ground; its
contents spilling everywhere. Jennings paid it no attention – his eyes were
fixed on the scene inside the cell.  Jed Carter was lying on the floor, a pool
of dark red blood surrounding his head. The right side of his face had caved
inwards, his eye all but severed from its socket; mashed into a pulp and
partially concealed by his blood-soaked, matted fringe. A greyish, jelly-like
substance, which Jennings presumed could only be brain tissue, protruded from
his broken skull like foam poking through a torn leather seat, causing Jennings
to turn away and retch violently over the discarded croissants. Composing
himself, he returned his focus to the body. Three of the fingers on his right
hand were bent unnaturally backwards, severely bruised and purple in colour.
There was no movement, and Jennings could tell from the boy’s motionless chest
that he wasn’t breathing, although he had already guessed that he was dead from
the extent of the injuries to the poor lad’s skull.

One of the metal legs from the bed was
lying approximately three feet away from Jed’s head: one of its ends was
covered in a mixture of clotted blood, tangled hair and skin; offering an
obvious clue as to the cause of his battered face. But Jennings didn’t spend very
long looking at him; his eyes were drawn to the dangling feet of Jed’s older
brother, Lee, who was hanging directly in front of him; his leather belt
strapped around his twisted neck and attached to the upper bars of the doorway
to the cell. Jennings could smell the urine that had soaked Lee’s trousers as
he strangled to death – the final surrender of bodily functions as it gave up
its struggle to survive. The boy’s head was tilted to side, the pain evident
from the desperate expression on his swollen face. His lifeless eyes stared
directly at Jennings, as if to ask why he hadn’t responded to their cries for
help – why he had buried his head in the sand when they had begged him to set
them free. Why he had left them alone to die under his supervision, whilst he
just sat upstairs, abandoning them to their fate below.

Jennings retreated until his back struck
the opposite wall to the cell. He slumped to the floor; trying to take in the
gruesome sight before him. He failed to hold back the vomit as he felt himself
retching for the second time, moving his hand from the floor just in time to
avoid the hot, stinking liquid as it gushed from his mouth. When his stomach
was finally empty, he sat upright and gasped for air; tears streaming from his
eyes.

On my watch, for Christ’s sake
!
He’d only left them for two or three hours - surely he could be forgiven for
that? After all, like the story of ‘The boy who cried wolf,’ they had called
his bluff all night, until he had finally become so angry and exhausted that
he’d refused to listen to their shouting any longer. That’s when it must have
happened.
What must have happened
? He closed his eyes and took a deep
breath.
Think, man, think. Use your head – work it out.

He opened his eyes and became a Policeman
again, weighing up the pros and cons of all of the various explanations that he
thought could be plausible. Nobody had done it to them, he could be sure of
that. The cell was locked, and although the basement window was open, there was
no way anyone would have been able to climb through the bars unless they
happened to be less than six inches wide. And there was no way anyone could
have crept into the locked Station, taken his keys from his side, opened the
cell and killed the Carter brothers, only to return and silently slip away
unseen into the night. No way. There was only one rational explanation: Lee had
unscrewed a leg from the bed, and in a drunken fit of rage caused by only God
knows what, had proceeded to beat his younger brother’s head to a pulp; only to
have finally come to his senses when it was too late to undo the damage. Then,
having realised the seriousness of his actions, he’d untied his belt and hung
himself from the cell’s bars.