Shepherd's Cross (17 page)

‘Respect – that’s exactly the right word
for it,’ said Bill, returning from the store cupboard with a mop and bucket to
sweep up the water by the entrance door. ‘Now, I’m not tarring everyone who
lives in Rowan Lane with the same brush. On the contrary: there are one or two
of them who are the nicest people you could ever want to come across. But some
of them…it boils my blood when I think how rude they can be. I’m sure they
don’t all mean to be that way: it’s probably the way they’ve been brought up;
but they don’t half get my back up, driving around in their expensive
four-by-fours like they own the place.’

‘You sound envious,’ said Jackson,
re-joining the conversation. ‘One of the seven sins, you know?’

‘No,’ replied Bill, resolutely shaking
his head to deny Jackson’s assertion. ‘It’s not envy, Andrew. If anything, it’s
pity. Believe me; I wouldn’t change my situation for all the money in the
world. This place is in my blood: the store, the village, the customers; I’d
never swap my life for theirs. Especially that Edward Bainbridge, no matter who
much he earns from climbing on the backs others. I mean, come on…a personal
injury lawyer! What kind of life is that, preying on people’s misfortune;
encouraging them to claim for imaginary whiplash and God only knows what else?
All so he can get his slice of the pie. Nope, if anything I reckon it’s money
that’s the problem; the route of all evil, as you might say, Reverend. As far
as I’m concerned, if you spend your time filling up your life with meaningless
shit; you end up with nothing more than a shit life to show for it. Pardon my
French.’

‘Well, he’s gone now,’ Yvonne said,
handing Emily’s shopping back to her in two paper grocery bags. ‘Don’t worry,
he’ll get his comeuppance one day. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes I
wish that Rowan Lane had never been built. I think I preferred life the way it
used to be. We don’t need Edward Bainbridge’s ill-gotten money, or his meddling
interference in our affairs.’

‘Aye, and I don’t see many of that lot
filling up your pews on a Sunday morning either, Reverend. No wonder they’re so
bloody snooty towards us – there’s no space left for God in their self-centred
lives.’

Deus est mortuus!
The thought struck Reverend Jackson like a bolt of lightning. ‘That’s it –
you’ve hit the nail on the head!’ he cried, oblivious to the shocked reaction
to his  unexpected outburst. ‘Yvonne, please, let me pay for these and be on my
way, will you? I’m sorry, but I must get to work. There’s something I need to
do. Sorry to rush you.’

‘Of course, Reverend, no problem,’ replied
Yvonne, confused as to his sudden change of behaviour. She totted up the items
and placed them into a bag. ‘That comes to thirteen pounds and fifty-five
pence, please.’

He handed her fifteen pounds, and
without waiting for his change, muttered his goodbyes to everyone and hurried
out of the shop.

‘What on earth’s got into him?’ asked
Yvonne, holding the unwanted change in her hand. ‘He looks like he’s just seen
a ghost.’

Bill shrugged. ‘No idea. Was it
something I said?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Emily. ‘But
something obviously struck a raw nerve. I haven’t seen him so animated since he
tripped on the church’s old aisle carpet and fell against poor Seth Rogerson’s
coffin. My goodness, that was so embarrassing – the whole church was in uproar.’

Bill smiled. ‘All the same, I hope I
didn’t offend him in any way?’

‘Oh, I don’t think you offended him at
all,’ Emily said. ‘You made a lot of sense to me; maybe something you said
happened to spark an idea off in his head? Either way, I have a feeling we may
find out what’s on his mind at tomorrow morning’s service. Stay tuned, folks!’ With
that closing remark, she bade them farewell and walked outside into the cold afternoon.

The snow had begun to fall again; fat,
full flakes drifting lazily to the ground. Reverend Jackson strode as quickly
as he could across the village green to All Saints’ Church, deep in thought, oblivious
to the world around him. For the first time in years, he couldn’t wait to get
to church; couldn’t wait to close the door behind him and get to work. If he
was right about the meaning behind last night’s vision, he had no time to
waste.

2.30pm:
‘You stay here and look after the farm. I’m going alone.’

‘But dad,’ pleaded Aidan, wiping tears
away from his eyes with his shirt sleeve. ‘They’re my brothers. I want to see
them.’

‘Boy, you’ll do as you’re bloody well
told. You’re sick – you can’t be going outside with a fever like that. Stay
inside by the fire where it’s warm. I’ll not be gone long.’

Aidan Carter turned his face into his
pillow and quietly wept. He knew there was no point in pushing his father: when
Mick Carter said no, he meant no; and pity the man who insisted on trying to
change his mind. Mick had told his son of Jed and Lee’s deaths as soon as Sergeant
Jennings had left the farm. He’d been subtle enough to spare him the grisly
details, telling him instead that they’d been banged up for the night for
fighting and had been found dead the next morning. He didn’t know anything more
than that, he’d told him, but was due down at the Station for three o’clock to
find out the full story. Aidan, the youngest brother at only fourteen years
old, had burst into tears, tears that almost three hours later had yet to dry.
He’d went to hug his father, an automatic and understandable reaction for a son
given the circumstances, but Mick had pushed him away, uncomfortable with the
kind of closeness his son was asking of him. For what must have been a good
hour at least, the two of them, father and son, had sat side by side in front
of the fire, saying nothing, the only sound being the random crackling and
spitting of burning logs. Eventually, Mick had stood up and walked to the
kitchen. ‘I’ll fetch you some broth,’ he’d said. ‘You need to keep your energy
up if you’re to fight the fever.’ Aidan hadn’t replied, but had just sat there
silently, staring into the flames and trying his hardest to picture his
brothers’ faces, terrified at the prospect of not being able to remember what
they looked like. They weren’t the kind of family to take photographs,
especially not since their mother had walked out on them six years earlier.
There were one or two yellowing family pictures on the wall, but the youthful
faces of his brothers bore little resemblance to how they looked now. Or more accurately;
how they looked last night.

Mick pulled on his boots and fastened
his dirty, torn overcoat. ‘I’ll take the Massey,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll need
it on these roads.’ Retrieving his crook from the coat stand, he reached the
door and stopped, not turning around, and hung his head down towards his chest.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ he said, his voice quieter and softer than usual. ‘We’ll be
all right. We’ll be all right.’ With that, he opened the door and stepped into
the blizzard outside, leaving his only son all alone in the world to fend for
himself.

He walked across the rear yard to the
barn opposite the house, his right hand fishing in his coat pocket for the keys
to his tractor. Although the barn was completely exposed to one side, the tough
sheets of corrugated iron that constituted the other three sides stood firm
against the onslaught of the wind and snow, protecting the hay bales that were
stacked up inside ready to be taken out to the sheep on the hills. The barn’s
relative warmth and dryness came as a welcome relief to Carter, who paused to catch
his breath. Removing the keys from his pocket, he headed to the tractor parked
at the far end of the barn, but as he made his way towards it, he was stopped
dead in his tracks by a peculiar sight in front of him. On top of the tractor’s
bonnet was perched the biggest, blackest raven he’d ever seen. It must have
been a good three to four feet in length, with a thick beak at least six inches
long protruding from its head like a sharp, blackened knife blade. However, it
was not the bird’s size that struck Carter as unusual, but its eyes: piercing,
bright red eyes that stared directly at him like blood-red rubies.

For a moment, the two of them remained
where they were, eyeballing each other, waiting for the other to make the first
move. Out on the moors, ravens and carrion crows were common place, but in all
his years spent outside working the land, he’d never come across a bird with
eyes like this. His left hand tightened around the ram’s horn at the top of his
crook. He slowly raised the crook, taking care not to scare the bird away. He
needn’t have worried: the raven showed no signs of fear towards him;
nonchalantly remaining perched on the hood of the Massey Ferguson, staring at
him like he was prey.

‘Look at me like that, will you?’ said
Carter. ‘I’ll fucking show you, you ugly, black bastard!’ With a gut-wrenching
scream, he lunged at the bird with his crook raised high above his head,
uncontrolled rage on his face as he lashed out in blind fury. The raven watched
the stick as it came towards it, and with the deftness of a matador it hopped
silently from the bonnet and flew outside and around the back of the barn.
Carter, swinging into thin air, lost his balance and fell against the tractor, raising
his hand in the nick of time to prevent his head from smashing into the side of
the engine. Steadying himself, he breathed in huge gulps of air, trying to
catch his breath and return his senses to somewhere near normality. He was
still leaning against the tractor, recovering from the rush of blood to the head
and wondering what the hell it was he’d just seen, when a cold, calculating
voice came from behind him; causing every hair on his body to stand on end.

‘Come now, Mr Carter. Is that any way
for a man of the country to behave towards our feathered friends? I thought you
farmers were supposed to be at one with nature? Your behaviour is most
disappointing, if I may say so. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be so harsh.
After all, it’s not every day that a man loses two of his children in such
a…how should I phrase it…such an unfortunate way.’

Carter steadied himself, his pulse
racing hard. He turned to face the man behind the voice. Their eyes met and
Carter gasped. Blackmoor stood grinning before him, draped in a long, black cloak.
Only his head was exposed; gaunt, hollow eyes staring confidently at Carter,
reading his thoughts like an open book.

After a considerable pause, Carter
summoned up the courage to speak, but his voice came across broken and uneven. ‘Who…who…ergghh…who
are
you?’

‘My name, not that it will shortly be of
any significance to you, is Benedict Blackmoor. I am a tenant at Fellside Hall.’

‘What are you doing on my farm?’ asked
Carter. ‘And how…how do you know about Jed and Lee?’

‘Two questions at once? Let me try to
answer them both together. The purpose of my visit to your farm, Mr Carter, is
one of both business and pleasure; although pleasure has the upper hand.’ For a
brief moment, Carter thought he saw Blackmoor’s black eyes change to the same
bright red colour as those of the raven, before returning to black once more.
His upper lip peeled back as he smiled, revealing an even row of white, polished
teeth. Never in his forty-six years had Carter encountered anyone with such a
strong, powerful presence, which seemed to pull him involuntarily towards him;
willing Carter to be with him, to please him.

‘Permit me to come straight to the
point, Mr Carter. I am here to kill you – just like I killed your two sons this
morning. Not the happiest of news for you to hear, I grant you. However, I can
assure you that your death will not be in vain. There is no cause more worthy
of dying for than that of His return.’

Carter took a step back from Blackmoor,
who began to slowly walk towards him, the intensity in his eyes growing as he
sensed Carter’s fear. ‘Wait! Why are you doing this?’ he asked, panic rising
within him. ‘You don’t have to do this – what have I ever done to hurt you?’

‘Sshhhh. It’s not your fault, Mr Carter.
He needs blood, and soon. You and your boys will not be missed; your selfish
and greedy ways have endeared you to nobody.’ He took another step towards
Carter, and from beneath his cloak he withdrew a long, broad knife. Carter’s
eyes fixed on the curved blade, and the long, sharp nails protruding from Blackmoor’s
crooked fingers that gripped the hilt. He began to groan, abject terror
coursing through his veins. He wanted to run, to scream; but he couldn’t move. Blackmoor’s
hold on him was too strong. He tripped on a flagstone and thudded to the
ground, landing on his backside with a high-pitched yelp.

‘Please,’ Carter cried. ‘Let me see my
boys. I need to see my boys. They didn’t deserve this.’

‘You’ll see them soon enough,’ Blackmoor
replied. ‘Come on…get up.’

‘I…I can’t,’ he said. He was telling the
truth. His legs were like jelly, fear having sapped any remaining strength he
had left. He became conscious of a warm, wet feeling around his crotch; his
bladder emptying itself like that of an incontinent child. ‘I’m…I’m sorry,’ he
cried. ‘I didn’t mean to be a bad man. I tried to be good, honest I did. But I
couldn’t help the way I was. I couldn’t help it, damn it!’ He started crying,
unrestrained, long-overdue crying that came from deep within him; unfamiliar
tears of sadness streaming down his weathered face. He knew he was going to
die, he’d known it the very moment he’d laid eyes on Blackmoor. There was an
inevitability about it all; no point in fighting it anymore. Blackmoor held out
his left hand, and despite his knowledge of what was to come, Carter reached
out his own hand and accepted it.

‘Try not to worry,’ Blackmoor said,
pulling Carter to his feet. ‘It will all be over soon. Maybe you and your
children will have more luck in the next life, eh?’ His face suddenly changed,
becoming greyer, more serious; and as Carter stared into his eyes, they began
to glow; the same, deep ruby-red as the raven that had greeted him earlier.

‘Wait, wait…please!’ he pleaded. But it
was too late. Blackmoor thrust the knife into Mick Carter’s stomach; the
razor-sharp blade sliding effortlessly into his flesh like it was cutting
through hot, melted butter. Agonising pain shot through his body, causing his
eyes to almost burst out of their sockets as he violently inhaled a huge
lungful of air. He could feel the knife inside him, jarring against his spine
and vital organs, scratching every nerve ending in his body like nails across a
blackboard. Even as he stood there bleeding to death, he was unable to take his
eyes away from those of his killer: he didn’t see Blackmoor pull out the huge
ram’s horn from inside his cloak, placing it near the gaping wound in his gut
to collect the blood that poured from it; but he felt the full force of the
knife as Blackmoor wrenched it upwards inside him towards his chest, glancing
off a rib before cutting into his heart.

Blackmoor’s eyes blazed like burning-hot
furnaces at the pure ecstasy he felt at taking this man’s life away from him;
the power and absolute sense of dominance surging through him like a bolt of
lightning. The rush of adrenaline almost forced him into hysteria, his mouth
wide open at the exquisite pleasure of his actions. ‘Yes, YES!’ he cried,
Carter’s blood now overflowing the ram’s horn, spilling down over Blackmoor’s
hand and onto the dry, stone floor of the barn. ‘This is for you, my lord! I am
honoured to do this in your name!’

Carter gulped at the air like a drowning
fish, his life-force draining from him along with the last of his blood. He
could feel no pain now, only an approaching sense of nothingness, of falling
into an infinite, all-consuming darkness from which he would never return. With
a final shudder, his body stiffened and died, a lifeless vessel without further
purpose; beginning its slow, one-way journey to decay and putrefaction.

When he was certain that Carter was
dead, Blackmoor allowed the corpse to slide from his knife onto the ground. A
feeling of calm engulfed him: he suddenly felt tired; a satisfied,
post-orgasmic fatigue flowing through him in gently-rippling waves. He stared
at the horn in his left hand, full to the brim with fresh, warm blood. As he
wiped the blade clean on a nearby hay bale, he thought he heard a noise coming
from the house, like that of a metal pan being dropped onto a tiled floor. He
quickly withdrew to a dark corner of the barn behind the tractor, contemplating
his next move. He could hear a door being opened, followed by the voice of a
boy shouting into the wind. ‘Dad? Dad? I didn’t hear you leave – are you still there?
Dad?’

So, there’s one left, is there? Another
rotten piece of fruit from Carter’s loins. Do I let him go, or do I reunite him
with the rest of his clan?
He listened to the boy’s
approaching footsteps as he crunched his way towards the barn.
It would
appear that the fool is making that decision easy for me
. He crouched
further into the dark recess of the barn, waiting – waiting for the boy to
discover his father lying dead on the ground; his guts spilling from the gaping
wound that stretched from his belly button to the middle of his chest.
Two
birds with one stone
, he thought.
He will be pleased.

He watched the boy as he rushed to the
side of his father, screaming hysterically for him to wake up. He poured some
of Mick Carter’s blood from the horn onto the floor, creating space for more to
be added. He looked at the boy, who was now kneeling beside his father and
praying to God to bring him back; to not leave him all alone. Blackmoor stared
at the crying boy without emotion; his face devoid of either pity or leniency.
He came out from behind the tractor, revealing himself to Aidan Carter, who
just looked at him in despair and pointed to his father. ‘Help,’ he whispered. ‘Please
can you help me?’