Shepherd's Cross (16 page)

Ben looked quizzically at his daughter. ‘Because
that’s what people do when they like each other. Just as you sometimes like to
invite your friends over for parties and sleepovers. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, it’s just that…if you like her,
why are you going to make her eat that disgusting food you cook? She might run
away and never come back!’

Ben put his daughter down and folded his
arms. ‘Hmmm, you could be right there. I know – I’ve thought of a better idea.’

‘Oh yeah?’ she smiled, folding her arms to
copy him. ‘What’s that then?’

‘THIS!’ he shouted, proceeding to chase
her through the snow, tickling her when she fell over until she begged him to
stop, threatening to wet herself if he didn’t.

After an agonizing few seconds for
Chloe, Ben collapsed next to her and tried to catch his breath, an exhausted
father and daughter laughing together in the snow. As he gradually recovered
from his overexertion, he looked around at the other adults and children
playing on the village green, some of whom were enjoying the spectacle of
watching Ben and Chloe enjoy themselves. His smile faded as a thought suddenly
crossed his mind: he couldn’t remember the last time that he’d had so much fun,
or indeed the last time he’d had a real date to look forward to.

And he
was
looking forward to it.
For the first time in two years, Ben Price had a reason to smile.

1.30pm:
The black Range Rover pulled up alongside the entrance to Sid Henshaw’s field
at the rear of All Saints’ Church, its powerful engine rumbling confidently
against the surrounding tranquillity of the countryside. The falling snow had
been granted a temporary reprieve; however the dark, grey clouds remained,
masking any heat or light that the land so desperately craved from the sun
hidden above them. In spite of the field’s close proximity to the houses and
buildings of Shepherd’s Cross, there was not a soul to be seen; only the faint
sound in the distance of people going about their business. The neighbouring
churchyard was silent: the white, snow-covered headstones protruding from the
hallowed ground like uneven, broken teeth; encircling the church as if they formed
part of a huge, cavernous mouth on the verge of consuming its next meal. It was
impossible to win the battle against the onslaught of winter; despite mankind’s
relentless crusade for technological advances in the name of self-preservation,
there was no escaping the omnipotent control of Mother Nature, her changing
mood mercilessly indifferent to the plight of insignificant, self-obsessed
mortals.

‘Is that it?’ asked Reuben King, staring
out of the driver’s side window to Frank Gowland’s old, battered caravan lying
unevenly in the far corner of the field. He shook his head in disgust. ‘He
lives in that…that filthy squat?’

‘I’m afraid so…when he’s not living in
the pub, that is,’ replied Ted Wilson from the passenger seat beside him.

‘You want us to hire him to repair Fellside
Hall? Judging by the condition of his personal dwelling, Mr Wilson, I have to
say that I am not overflowing with confidence in his abilities as a handyman.’

‘I admit, Dr King, that it’s perhaps not
the best advertisement for a skilled craftsman, but trust me, I’ve used Frank
for various property jobs down the years, and there’s nothing wrong with the
quality of his workmanship. I’m willing to vouch for him.’

‘Hmm – I hope for your sake that your
faith in him proves not to be misjudged. Anyway, as you know, whatever skills
he may or may not possess are now subordinate to our primary interest in him as
a witness. How confident are you that he will come quietly?’

‘Leave him to me,’ replied Wilson. ‘That
man would crawl to Fellside Hall on his hands and knees if he thought there was
a chance of some work. But why choose him to be a witness? After all, he’s not
exactly Shepherd’s Cross’s most upstanding citizen.’

‘You should never question Professor
Blackmoor’s judgement; his intellect is far beyond our comprehension. However,
the answer to your question is simple. Professor Blackmoor values vulnerability
equally as much as God does, perhaps even more so. Think about it: has God not
built his entire church on the backs of the weak; preying on their fears and
insecurities? Is it not their blind faith that has provided him with the
resources to sweep across the world like an incurable disease, immune to the
antidote of free-thinking and self-direction? Mr Wilson; when we have fulfilled
our purpose and brought
Him
back into this world,
His
world, it
will be the doors of the weak that He will be knocking on first. They will be
the first to convert. Those of a more independent mind, who think they know
better than to believe in the promise of Heaven and the threat of Hell; they
will be the last to be called upon. Of course, by then they will have seen His
power first hand – you will see - they will come crawling to His feet and beg
for His mercy.’

‘It all sounds rather serious,’ said
Wilson, trying to lighten the mood a little. ‘Right then,’ he said, turning up
his collar and opening the car door. ‘You might as well stay here while I go
and fetch him. I shouldn’t be too long.’

King watched him as he made his way
across the field.
Foolish man
,
how blind he is. No matter…he will
find out soon enough.

A dull, thumping sound coming from the
boot of the car shifted King’s attention away from Wilson, who by now had
reached the caravan and been invited inside by a half-dressed Frank Gowland. King
twisted his body in his seat and looked over his shoulder in the direction of
the disturbance. ‘Stop struggling. There’s no point in making such a racket –
nobody can hear you. You might as well be a good girl and lie there quietly.
Don’t worry; you don’t have too much longer to wait before we reach our
destination.’ For a moment, the thumping stopped, and a satisfied King returned
his attention to the caravan. However, a minute later the noise resumed, this
time louder and more frantic. She hadn’t been an easy catch: on the contrary;
he had found her to be far stronger than expected. It had taken a considerable
amount of chloroform to enable him to contain her and carry her to the car. He
knew that when Blackmoor was introduced to her, he would have no problem
breaking her spirit
.
Until then, however, if she continued to irritate
him, it appeared that he would have little alternative than to administer a
second dose. He couldn’t afford to have her attracting any unwanted attention:
besides, like her, Frank Gowland had also yet to be introduced to Blackmoor’s
hypnotic powers. He couldn’t be allowed to hear someone struggling in the back
– it was imperative that he be accompanied to Fellside Hall without suspecting
anything other than a plump, juicy job waiting for him on his arrival.

As far as King was concerned, the
reasons why Blackmoor had selected Ted Wilson and Frank Gowland to be witnesses
were perfectly understandable. Wilson was the formal link between the outside
world and Fellside Hall, and Gowland could carry out much of the necessary
repair work on the property. More importantly, they were possibly the only two
people in Shepherd’s Cross whose time spent in the company of Blackmoor and King
was unlikely to encounter any undue suspicion from prying Police officers or
fellow residents. And the girl? King smiled. He had a pretty good idea why
Blackmoor had chosen her to complete the circle. As he sat in the car waiting
for Wilson and Gowland to return,
he couldn’t help but admire his friend:
Blackmoor had known that Wilson would prove useful to them; he knew the area,
the land and its people. And Blackmoor’s hold over Wilson, once it had lost its
initial heady effect, had secured him firmly into the fold – as yet, there were
no signs of him questioning their cause or rebelling against the demands made
on him. On the contrary, Wilson’s obedience was proving to be resolute, and
growing stronger with every hour that passed.

A further ten minutes elapsed before the
caravan door swung open and the two men walked outside; Ted Wilson leading the
way, with Frank Gowland closing the door behind them and stumbling to the
ground in a haphazard attempt to catch up. On seeing them approaching the car, King
checked a final time for any sound coming from the boot. When he was convinced
that the second dose of chloroform he’d needed to administer had done its job,
he opened his door and stepped outside to greet his new target.

‘Ah, Mister Gowland,’ he said, his face
a pretence of happiness, as if he was being introduced to his long-lost
brother. ‘How very happy I am to meet you at last. Mr Wilson has informed me
that you might be the perfect man to help restore Fellside Hall to something
like its former glory.’ King cast an enquiring glance at Wilson for
confirmation that his conversation with Gowland inside the caravan had gone
according to plan.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Wilson. ‘Frank’s
your man for the job – a genuine jack-of-all-trades, aren’t you Frank? He’s
agreed to come with us to the Hall to see what you have in mind, Dr King. I
said we’ll drop him back here later, if that’s all right with you?’

King grinned. ‘Certainly,’ he replied,
knowing full well that it was highly unlikely that Gowland would ever step foot
into his filthy caravan again. ‘I appreciate your…flexibility. I imagine a man
like you is very much in demand?’

Gowland looked across at Wilson for
support, before quickly returning his attention to King. ‘Errm…aye,’ he
replied. ‘There’s always something that needs doing. But I’m never too busy to
turn away work…especially not with the economy the way it is. To tell you the
truth, I haven’t been up to Fellside Hall since messing about up there as a
young lad. Ted tells me it needs a heck of a lot of work doing to it?’

‘Indeed it does,’ King replied. ‘Which
is why my associate, Professor Blackmoor, and I have taken up Mr Wilson’s
recommendation to call on your services. Naturally, you will be well rewarded
for your work.’

Gowland’s face couldn’t mask his greed,
like a down-and-out gambler whose last spin of the roulette wheel had finally
gone in his favour. ‘I’m very grateful for the opportunity, Mr King.’

‘
Doctor
King.’

‘Sorry. Dr King.’

King winced as he caught a whiff of
Gowland’s alcohol-infused breath, but he didn’t mind. Alcohol was merely
another method that could be used to control him and ensure that he did their
bidding. Nevertheless, he was beginning to tire of the forced formalities
between the three of them. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, motioning for them to climb in
to the car. ‘We can talk further on the way up to the Hall. Professor Blackmoor
is very keen to meet you, Mr Gowland. I think you will find that he is very
passionate about his plans.’ He allowed a knowing smile to pass between himself
and Wilson. Gowland, oblivious to any underlying subtext, opened the rear door
of the car and climbed inside; unaware that Bronwyn Hess was lying unconscious
only three feet behind his seat.

As the four of them began their journey
back to Fellside Hall, King fought hard to conceal his overwhelming delight at
the unhampered progress being made. The portending signs and omens of the
previous two days were stirring His desire and bringing Him ever closer to this
world; the five witnesses required to bring Him forth were now in place, and
the bloodshed necessary to give His spirit the physical form it craved had
commenced.

Nevertheless, His thirst was deep; it
would not be quenched by the souls of two boys. There would need to be greater
sacrifice, with further blood needing to flow in His name. King’s eyes were
ablaze with anticipation as the Range Rover wound its way confidently up the lake
road towards Fellside Hall. There was no time to waste.

2.00pm:
Bill and Yvonne Turner were trying hard to remember a time when their cosy
general store had been as busy as it was today. They weren’t used to having a
queue of impatient customers lining up at the counter, most of whom were
struggling with overflowing baskets containing various everyday grocery items,
from loaves of bread to tins of baked beans. Enforced isolation from the
nearest town of Cornforth, with its supermarkets and easy access to any and
every consumer product imaginable, had sent many of the residents into
panic-buying mode, as if they were unsure as to where their next meal would be
coming from. The herd mentality had started kicking in earlier that morning, as
unprepared villagers with bare cupboards began swarming into the store like a
plague of starved locusts.

Unfortunately for Liam Turner, his good
fortune at avoiding the morning’s paper round was kicked cruelly into touch
when his father banged on his bedroom door and ordered him to get his backside
into gear and downstairs to the give them a hand. His spotty adolescent face
was a picture of misery as he begrudgingly fetched extra provisions from the
stock room to the sales area, traipsing back and forth with all the urgency of
a geriatric sloth. Saturday was
his
day, goddammit, a day when he was
allowed to do whatever he wanted, which usually meant getting as far away from
Shepherd’s Cross as he could. Being cooped up with your parents above their
place of work was suffocating at the best of times, and being denied the
opportunity to escape for a few hours and indulge oneself in the endless
pleasures of comic books and computer games seemed to him to be wholly unfair.

With all three of the Turner family
working together, the queue eventually became more manageable, although it
remained at least two deep at any given time. Bill was in his element: for him,
there was no finer sound than the opening and closing of an overworked cash
till. He couldn’t care less about the state of the muddy, wet floor that his
customers had created; there would be plenty of time to clean that up after
he’d had a chance to count the day’s takings.

Emily Mitford was next up to be served,
followed by a haggard-looking Reverend Jackson, the contents of his basket
consisting of nothing more than eight cans of strong cider and a half-litre
bottle of scotch whisky.

‘Good afternoon, Bill,’ Emily said,
placing her basket onto the counter. ‘You seem busy today?’

‘You can say that again,’ he replied. ‘I’ve
never known anything like it – you’d think that folk around here were preparing
themselves for a nuclear attack. The snow’s supposed to ease off in a couple of
days; it’s not like we’re all going to starve to death. Mind you, I’m not
complaining – trade’s never been as brisk. Reverend Jackson,’ he said, looking
over Emily’s shoulder at the man behind her. ‘Is everything all right? If I may
say so, you don’t look too well. Reverend Jackson?’

‘Uggh? What’s that?’ said Jackson, signs
of life returning to his tired-looking eyes at the mention of his name. ‘Sorry,
Bill, I was a million miles away. Did you say something?’

‘Just commenting that you seem to be a
little under the weather.’

‘Oh, I see,’ replied Jackson. ‘No, I’m
fine thanks. Just tired I suppose - I didn’t get a great deal of sleep last
night. An early night will sort me out.’

Bill Turner’s eyes rested on the alcohol
in Jackson’s basket. It was an open secret that the Reverend enjoyed a tipple,
which was a polite way of stating that he had a drink problem, but nobody ever
dared to suggest as much to his face, not even Bill Thompson, the church
warden. After all, Jackson had been their vicar for twenty years and had served
them well. Most of the villagers had family members who at some point had
either been baptised, married or buried by him. Being there to accompany people
through life’s most significant events meant that he had become an important
pillar of the community, alcoholic or otherwise.

Even so, Jackson wasn’t lying about his
lack of sleep the night before. What he’d witnessed at All Saints’ Church had
kept him up all night, praying and scanning passages from the Bible between
swigs of whisky, searching for any guidance that could help explain what he’d
seen, and more importantly, why it had happened. Those words:
Deus est
mortuus –
obviously they were Latin for ‘God is dead’ - but
what on
earth did that mean? It was like a scene from
The Omen
, not the sort of
thing you’d expect to find down at your local village church on a Friday night
after closing time. Night had passed into day, but Jackson remained in the
dark, no matter what angle he approached it from. He
had
seen something,
he was certain of that. Drink or no drink, he could remember everything; every
last detail from the spinning clock hands to the grimacing faces on the
supporting corbels. He wanted,
needed
,
to understand the message.
For Christ’s sake, he had spent most of his Christian life praying for a sign
to convince him that he was on a worthwhile path. Evidence? Maybe. Maybe the
smallest shred of evidence was what everyone wanted, believers and cynics
alike. But this was no shred: this was a hit-you-right-between-the-eyes sign
that something else was out there, something that even the most die-hard
scientist would have difficulty explaining away in some nondescript, academic
textbook. This was real, damn it, and it had come right out of the blue when
he’d least expected it.

The bell above the door rattled to
announce the arrival of a new customer. Edward Bainbridge strolled casually
into the store, briefly acknowledging the people inside with a cursory nod. He
looked around at the shelves, some of which were now half-empty thanks to the
unusually brisk morning trade. ‘My God,’ he said, turning his nose up as if
someone had broken wind. ‘It’s like some kind of third world market stall in
here. You’ll be dishing out ration books next. Dear me; Waitrose has nothing to
fear as long as this place is in business.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Yvonne Turner
appeared from the back room, holding a tray carrying a tea pot and three cups
for her family. ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s alright Yvonne,’ said Bill. ‘He’s
only joking with us, aren’t you sir?’

‘No, I’m not, actually,’ Bainbridge
replied. ‘I mean…it does look somewhat worse for wear in here. No offence, but
it’s not exactly the type of environment where one would choose to spend one’s
hard earned money, is it? A general tidy up would help, and maybe a lick of
paint wouldn’t go amiss, and…’

‘Excuse me,’ Yvonne interrupted, ‘but
who the hell are you to come swanning in here like the Lord of the Manor,
telling me how to run my shop? You’ve lived in this village nigh on three
years, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen you in here. You can’t just
come out with comments like that to people you don’t know. I’ll have you know
we’ve been working flat out all day serving customers; and grateful customers
at that. We’re not a bloody supermarket. Jesus…I thought your wife was bad
enough!’

‘Calm down, Yvonne!’ urged Bill. He
turned to face Bainbridge. ‘Look, you. Joking or not, you’ve got no right
coming in here and insulting us like that. It’s been so busy today that we
haven’t had time to tidy up. It’s not normally like this. Turner’s general
store is doing just fine thanks, and has been for three generations. My father,
and his father before him, have stood behind this counter through wars,
recessions and food shortages. We’re a rural village store, sir, not a giant
supermarket. We stock life’s essentials, and maybe a few luxuries here and
there. You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re trying to find pickled jalapeno
peppers or freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice. Now then, was there anything in
particular you were looking for?

‘I
was
,’ Bainbridge replied. ‘But
not anymore. I’m afraid your insolence has just cost you my business, Mr
Turner. Furthermore, I can assure you that my wife shan’t be frequenting this
place any more – nor shall any of her friends after I’ve spoken to them.’

‘Well all I can say is, thank heaven for
small mercies!’ said Yvonne, her remark causing Emily Mitford to raise her hand
to her mouth to stop herself from giggling.

Bainbridge’s face turned bright red,
like that of a spoilt school boy who for once was not going to get the candy
bar he wanted. ‘Bloody in-breds,’ he muttered, turning abruptly to leave. As he
did so, he slipped on the wet mat next to the door, falling awkwardly onto his
backside like a circus clown. Liam Turner, who up until this point had stood
silently on the side-lines, suddenly burst out laughing, unable to contain his
amusement. To him, Edward Bainbridge looked exactly like a character from one
of his comics who had stepped on a strategically-placed banana peel. His
laughter must have been contagious, because it was only a matter of seconds
before he was joined by Reverend Jackson and Emily Mitford, sniggering away
like naughty school children.

Bainbridge jumped to his feet, trying to
hide the fact that he’d fallen over, his pride and temper visibly shaken as he
rounded on the others like a wounded animal. ‘How dare you laugh at me? No…wait…you
carry on. You just carry on. It will help my case enormously when I drag you
into court for every penny that this pokey shithole has ever made you. Oh dear:
it appears you’ve forgotten to put a sign up warning your customers of the
slippery wet floor. I’m surprised to see such commercial negligence, especially
from a business stretching as far back as yours, Mr Turner. And how fortuitous
to have a vicar as a witness – Reverend Jackson - I assume I shall have your
honest support when you are called to the witness stand?’

Jackson raised his hands in an attempt
to calm the situation. ‘Please, everyone, let’s all calm down. I’m sure we can
discuss this matter like adults.’ The room fell silent. ‘Good, now…I think we
should start with some apologies. I’m happy to go first.’ He looked at
Bainbridge. ‘I’m sorry for laughing at your accident, Mr Bainbridge. I didn’t
mean to; it wasn’t funny. It was nothing more than a nervous reaction to a
tense situation.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ added Emily. ‘Are you
all right? You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?’

A smug expression settled onto Edward’s
face. He could feel the control being handed back to him. ‘You can all
apologise as much as you want to. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that. It
just so happens that I’m an experienced personal injury lawyer by trade, and I
know only too well that there isn’t a defence solicitor in this country who
could get you off this particular hook. Actually, Emily, seeing as you asked,
my neck is feeling rather sore. And my back,’ he said, pretending to be in
agonising pain. ‘I think I may need to get this looked at.’

Yvonne Turner was about to tell him what
he could do with his hoity-toity legal threats, when a razor-sharp look from
her husband informed her that it wouldn’t be the wisest of moves. As far as Bill
Turner was concerned, this whole charade had gone far enough. He certainly
wasn’t in a financial position to tackle the consequences of calling Bainbridge’s
bluff. ‘We’re sorry,’ he said, staring at the others, one by one, signalling to
them to nod in agreement with him. ‘We didn’t mean to upset you. We, I mean I,
value your business, as well as that of your wife and her friends. I guess I
was offended by you criticising my shop. But you’re right; it needs a good sort
out. Thank you for your advice, Mr Bainbridge.’

Edward looked at them in turn, like the
cat that got the cream. ‘Hmm…very well. I’ll let it pass this once. After all,
we don’t want any bad blood between neighbours, do we? All the same, it would
be wise to listen to the advice of professionals like me. I’m able to bring a
lot more to this village than merely my money, you know. You’d do well to
remember that. Good day to you all.’ With that, he left the shop, leaving the
door wide open for Reverend Jackson to close behind him.

‘What an arrogant man,’ said Emily,
after making sure he was well and truly out of earshot. ‘And I thought his wife
could be blunt.’

‘You shouldn’t have given in to him like
that, Bill,’ said Yvonne. ‘He was in the wrong and you know it. He should be
the one apologising to us for his behaviour. Downright rude, that’s what it
was.’

‘For God’s sake – sorry Reverend – but
what else could I have done? Do you realise the trouble we’d have been in if
he’d decided to haul our backsides into court? It might have ruined us, Yvonne.
We can’t afford to upset someone like him. It’s just not worth it.’

‘He’s right, Yvonne,’ said Emily. ‘With
people like him…I’m afraid that sometimes you have no other option than to take
a step back and play the game their way. Turn the other cheek, eh Reverend?’

Jackson didn’t answer; his thoughts had
drifted back to the events of the previous evening and the work that lay ahead.

‘I know, I know,’ said Yvonne. ‘But it’s
just so infuriating. Here we are, working our fingers to the bone on a freezing
cold Saturday, running around like blue-arsed flies while trying to remain as
polite as possible. Then someone like him saunters in, probably fresh from a
morning lounging by the fire, and starts criticising us.’

‘He wasn’t having a go at us, mother,’
said Liam. ‘He was complaining about our store.’

‘Oh, make no mistake, Liam. He couldn’t
give a monkey’s about our store. He came in here with the sole intention of
winding us up. Spite, that’s all it is. Pure spite. That might be the way
things are in whatever jumped-up city firm he works for, but out here we don’t
act like that. We respect each other – we look out for each other. At least we
used to, before his kind decided to move here.’