Shepherd's Cross (14 page)

10.00am:
‘A question for you, Reuben: of all the gifts he gives us, which do you think
I’m most grateful for?’

‘Come on, Benedict, how do you expect me
to answer that? There are far too many to choose from.’

‘True, but there is one that stands head-and-shoulders
above all the others; for myself at least.’

‘And that is?’

‘The power to kill without guilt, Reuben,
to be free to wash the blood from my hands without fear of recourse, knowing
that he’ll protect me; knowing that I have his blessing.’

Benedict Blackmoor and Reuben King were
sat at either end of a large, mahogany dining table, a late breakfast of toast
and smoked salmon laid out before them. Ted Wilson was slouched in a leather
wing-backed chair by the fire at the other side of the room, staring blankly
into the flames like a lobotomised inpatient, the hypnotic force of Blackmoor
continuing to hold sway over him.

‘Look at him just sitting there,’ King
said. ‘He’s nothing more than an empty shell – what use can he be to us? Do you
really think we need his help?’

‘Patience, Reuben,’ replied Blackmoor. ‘He’ll
come round soon enough. I admit that I may have expended more energy on him
than was necessary – we’ll need to give him time to recover. But of course we
need him: you know as well as I do that we can’t do this without five witnesses.
We still need two more to complete the circle; the sooner the better. At the very
latest, we need them by midnight tonight.’

‘Yes, but we also require the blood of…’

‘Yes, Reuben; I’m fully aware of what we
need. We’ve spent years getting ready for this. Now is not the time to start
panicking; we must remain calm and controlled.’

‘You’re right, I’m sorry,’ sighed King,
getting up from his seat and pacing back and forth in front of the fire. ‘I
don’t know what came over me; I guess I’m feeling the pressure more than I
expected to. I just don’t want anything to go wrong.’

‘It won’t,’ said Blackmoor, dabbing the
corner of his mouth with a napkin. ‘As long as we hold our course, we will have
nothing to fear. Everything is going to plan - you can smell the fear
descending over the village. Never before have I felt his presence as strongly
as I do now, not even during our time in Rome all those years ago. He is so
close that I can almost touch Him. All the same, there remains a great deal of
work ahead of us. Starting with our next witness.’

‘Do you think she’s ready?’ asked King. ‘She
is so young.’

Blackmoor smiled. ‘Youth and beauty are
to be encouraged,’ he replied. ‘It’s always easier to corrupt the innocent;
they are so much more…vulnerable. She is perfect for what I have in mind. We need
to go to her this morning.’

‘And the Police? You don’t suppose
they’re onto us?’

‘Come now, Reuben, from what we saw of
them yesterday, do you honestly believe that we have any real cause for
concern? They’re nothing more than provincial bureaucrats going through the
motions. Especially that Sergeant Jennings – he didn’t know how quickly to
leave us alone. At least the woman had the intuition to doubt us. Even then,
she was putty in my hands. Anyway, that little surprise that we left for them
this morning should keep them gainfully occupied while we go about our
business. Now, please sit down and finish your breakfast.’

As he walked back to the table, King grinned
at the thought of Sergeant Jennings discovering the two mutilated bodies in their
cell.
That will serve the bastard right for poking his nose into other
people’s business.
Last night, he had accompanied Blackmoor to the village,
where they had indulged themselves in some light-hearted entertainment at the
church. How they had laughed at the pitiful sight of the priest on his knees in
the snow, begging for his God’s intervention. They should have murdered him then
and there, King had said, but once again, Blackmoor had instructed him to be
patient.
‘The priest carries the weakening faith of the flock’, he had
told him. ‘It is not yet time to relieve him of that burden’.

They had approached the Police Station
as night drifted into day, relishing the task that lay ahead of them.
Unfortunately for King, he had no other choice but to appreciate the unfolding
events from the side-lines: he didn’t yet have the skill to have been able to
follow his friend into the basement. The cries and screams of the boys as Blackmoor
teased them were like music to his ears. If only the sacrificial lambs had
realised the contribution that their deaths would make to the greater cause;
perhaps then they wouldn’t have been so vocal in their opposition to
Blackmoor’s presence. Naturally, the halfwit Policeman hadn’t believed the boys
– why would he? The narrow-minded fool; a shepherd as cowardly as the sheep he
endeavours to protect.

As they finished breakfast and sat back
to enjoy their coffee, King was barely able to conceal his happiness at the
memorable night that had passed. It had been an unquestionable success in every
regard; exactly as they had planned it. Nevertheless, the blood of two young men
would not be sufficient. There would need to be others. And soon.

11.00am:
Sergeant Jennings cursed at his Land Rover’s inability to climb the final hill
that led to the entrance of Moorland Farm. He’d been fortunate to have made it
this far, requiring the assistance of his heavy-duty snow chains to navigate
the treacherous, abandoned roads. He pulled over and switched off the engine,
hoping that the journey back to the village would not be as precarious.

He stared out of the window at the
short, steep hill that rose before him, contemplating the devastating news that
he would shortly be delivering. Everyone who knew of Mick Carter was aware of
his reputation as a bad-tempered bigot, but that didn’t prevent Jennings from feeling
sorry for him. No father deserved his children to die like that; even if the
father in question had spent considerable time laying into them when they were
alive. Being a messenger of doom was one of the many parts of Jennings’s job
that he could do without, especially when it involved the sudden, unexpected
loss of a loved one. He could never tell how they would take it; everyone
reacted differently. He just hoped that Carter wouldn’t become violent: he’d
had to endure more than his fair share of trouble for one day without needing
to defend himself against a grieving father.

And so it was, with a heavy heart, that
he climbed out of the car and began walking towards Moorland Farm, his boots
sinking into the snow, impeding his rate of progress as he stumbled his way
awkwardly up the bank.

The dark grey sky and withered, skeletal
trees cast a sombre atmosphere as he approached the cattle grid that marked the
entrance to the farm. A single track, bordered by a hedge on one side and a
broken old fence on the other, stretched the two hundred yards or so to the
dilapidated buildings. Through squinted eyes, Jennings thought he could detect
the vague outline of a man walking around the side of the house, only to quickly
disappear behind it. He couldn’t be entirely sure - the falling snow blurred
his vision - but the faint sound of a door banging shut in the distance
supported his hunch that someone was home.

The walk up to the house was lonely and
daunting, but there was no escaping the conversation that lay ahead. As he
churned the words he intended to use over in his mind for the final time, the
sound of a chainsaw erupting into life violently broke the silence and shook him
from his thoughts. He took a deep breath and headed in the direction of the
snarling growl of the saw. Taking his time, he skirted around the side of the
building to the rear yard, where he was met by the sight of Mick Carter slicing
into a length of tree trunk held firmly in place by a wooden A-frame; a torn
pair of overalls masking his tough, sinewy physique.

If Carter was at all surprised by the
sudden appearance of Brian Jennings, he certainly didn’t show it. He didn’t
even flinch: instead, he placed the chainsaw on the ground, its engine still
running, and folded his arms; his innate disdain for authority evident on his
face. ‘Sergeant Jennings,’ he said, without the slightest hint of a welcoming
smile. ‘What brings you here?’

Jennings straightened himself and looked
Carter directly in the eyes. ‘I need to speak with you Mick – I’m afraid I have
some news that you’re not going to like. It might be better if we go inside.’

Mick shook his head to decline the invitation.
‘My boy Aidan’s asleep downstairs with the fever. Suffering awful bad with it -
best we leave him be. What you’ve got to say to me, you can say it out here.
And make it quick – I’ve got a pile of logs to get through this morning. Damn
fire’s burning through them like they was shit paper. And before you go
accusing me of something I’m not guilty of, I can swear on my sons’ lives that
I haven’t left this farm in nigh on five days. Now, what have you come all this
way to tell me?’

On this occasion, Jennings was content
to ignore the abruptness and ignorance of the man standing before him. ‘It’s
your boys, Mick – Lee and Jed. I’ve come to see you about Lee and Jed.’

Mick looked at him and shrugged his
shoulders. ‘Nothing to do with me what they get up to. They’re old enough and
dumb enough to fend for themselves. If they’ve been getting themselves into bother
again, they can bloody well face the consequences.’

Jennings steeled himself: ‘They’re dead,
Mick. I’m so sorry, but they died in the early hours of this morning, while
they were being held in the Station on suspicion of assault. Dr Barratt has
been down and confirmed it.’

As much as Jennings wanted to stare at
the ground, to disappear into another world, where he could be alone and
without obligation to fulfil the more unsavoury demands of his job, he knew he
needed to stand firm and look this man in the eye. No matter what he thought of
him, it was right to show him respect. Maybe he even owed it to him; after all,
Mick’s sons had died on his watch.

You could have cut the atmosphere
between the two men with a knife. For what seemed like an eternity, they stood
looking at each other, like two gunslingers on an empty street, each waiting
for the other to make the first move, the rumbling of the idle chainsaw being
the only sound in an otherwise silent film scene.

It was Carter who drew first. ‘What did
you say?’ he asked, closing his eyes and pursing his lips, cocking his head
slightly to ensure he heard him correctly this time. ‘What did you say to me?’

Jennings held his ground, knowing that
to show fear could be dangerous. He needed to keep the situation under control,
to remain calm. ‘I said they’re dead, Mick. Died this morning. They were under
arrest for…’

‘How?’ asked Carter, his eyes still
closed. He began to rock back and forth on his heels; Jennings couldn’t decide
whether it was out of anger, shock, or both. ‘How did they die?’

‘There’ll be a full internal
investigation, of course, but…’

‘How did they die?’

‘…but the evidence suggests that Lee
fatally assaulted Jed before hanging himself from the cell bars. There was
nothing I could have done to prevent it. I’m so sorry, Mick. I really am. We’ll
know more when the investigation team get here, but that could take a while,
what with the weather and the road conditions. Until then, they’re being kept
at the Station. I can assure you that their bodies…that your sons…are being
treated with the utmost privacy and dignity. Apart from Dr Barratt, PC Jones
and myself, nobody knows anything about this. And I’ll make sure it stays that
way, I promise you. At least until the investigation is complete and they can
be moved somewhere more appropriate.’

‘I want to see them, Jennings. I want to
see my boys.’ Carter opened his eyes and looked straight at the officer, staring
at him in a manner that suggested that he would be wise to accept his request.

Jennings shook his head to indicate that
he didn’t think it was a good idea. His mind couldn’t help but drift to the
image inside the cell that he’d been met with earlier this morning: Jed’s
pulverised head that had left him barely recognisable, and Lee; his bulging
eyes straining to remain in their sockets, puffed up so big that they’d seemed
ready to explode any moment, his leather belt tearing into his neck. There was no
way that Jennings could let their father see them like that. ‘That wouldn’t be
wise, Mick,’ he said. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I would sincerely advise
you to wait a while. I don’t think it would do you any good to see them; not…not
as they are now.  Just give it a couple of days, please. We’ll have them…’

‘DAMN YOU, JENNINGS. I WANT TO SEE MY
BOYS!’ The words echoed around the farm, as if they’d been screamed from the top
of the barn. The volume and intensity of Carter’s demand took Jennings by such
surprise that he was forced to take a defensive step backwards, almost falling
over in the snow. As he struggled to compose himself, he saw Carter taking a
step towards him, his fists tightly clenched by his sides, undiluted anger on
his face. Jennings knew immediately that he had no other option than to attempt
to appease his attacker: he did not have the strength or the ability to defend
himself against someone as incensed as Carter; someone as motivated as he was
by raw grief and rage. Besides, the man had a legal right to see his sons if he
wanted to. Jennings would have preferred the boys to have first spent some time
in the company of a skilled undertaker, who could have at least made them
slightly more presentable. He recalled the words of Fred Leechmere, an
undertaker in Newcastle, whose craftsmanship was often used by the Police for
the more ‘grisly’ suicide and murder cases – ‘you can’t polish a turd,’ Fred
had said, ‘but you can sprinkle a little glitter on it’. But whatever he
thought best; it was not in Jennings’s power to deny Carter his wish to see his
children.

‘Alright, alright!’ he shouted back,
stretching out his arms and holding his palms up in an attempt to calm him
down. ‘You can see them – this afternoon.’ Carter stopped in his tracks and
silently urged Jennings to continue. ‘I just didn’t want you to see them as
they are, Mick. I wanted you to see them as you remember them; as much as
possible, anyway. But it’s your choice, I can’t stop you.’

‘When?’

‘Three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be
there to meet you. Just you - I don’t think Aidan should see them yet. Jesus
Christ, Mick; I honestly don’t think
you
should be seeing them yet. I
really don’t.’

Mick walked back to the chainsaw and
bent down to pick it up. He looked at Jennings. ‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck
what you think,’ he said, his words spoken slowly and clearly to emphasise his
hatred for Jennings. ‘And when I come down to the Station this afternoon, I
want to know exactly what happened last night. And what you did to prevent it
from happening. And God help me, if you had any part to play in their deaths, I
swear on my life that I’ll not rest until justice is done, do you hear me?’

As Jennings turned to leave, he stopped
and faced Carter for the last time. ‘I can’t pretend to understand how you must
feel, Mick, and I can see why any man would react this way to such devastating
news. But I didn’t have anything to do with the death of your boys.  All I did
was lock them up for the night for a serious assault on someone who didn’t
deserve it. What they did, they did to themselves. I just wanted you to know
that.’

Mick Carter raised his chainsaw and
thrust its blade threateningly towards him. ‘I’ll make my own mind up about
that,’ he replied, moving a step closer towards Jennings. ‘Now get the fuck off
my farm before I run you through.’

Jennings backed away. In light of the news
he’d just delivered, he was prepared to forgive Carter’s hostility towards him.
Not that he had any choice in the matter – he sensed that the man would have
quite happily cut him open without battering an eyelid.

As he began making his way back along
the track to the car, his mind was drawn once again to the indelible image of
Jed and Lee. Maybe it
was
his fault; maybe their blood
was
on his
hands, and if any retribution did come his way, maybe it would be nothing short
of what he deserved.