The Butcher and the Butterfly (16 page)

The office now
fell silent, quieter than the deepest darkest cave. The atmosphere
was harsh, full of knives and unsaid words of love and of hate. The
children were ushered in, all five of them staring at the floor.
The girls stood behind the boys and each one of them had their
hands crossed in front of their stomachs. Their red eyes, glazed
and soar told the tale of many a shredded tear. Their father, sat
in the cell directly in front of them, began to shed his own.

With an audible
click in his throat as he swallowed he spoke to his now lost
family.

‘You all must hate
me?’ He whispered but their eyes remained upon the floor.

Mrs Depor coughed
behind her raised hand and her eyes scanned the kids and with a
burning look that the Devil himself would have been proud of, she
stared hard at both their father and his murderous lover.

For a while the
three of them looked blankly at each other; not knowing what to say
or how to say it. Guilt was a strange mistress and John was in her
bed now. He wanted to tell them how sorry he was but didn’t have
the guts to do it. They didn’t want his pity nor his apology. Al
his children wanted, his dear sweet kids who hadn’t done anything
to deserve what he had done, was their mommy back. But that aint
gonna happen and John placed his dirty shaking hands on the cold
iron bars of his cell. He pleaded for them to look at him, sent out
messages with his mind but to no avail. He heard the woman in the
cell next to his, a woman he had plotted with and fucked utter some
caring ‘it will be okay’ nonsense but he didn’t hear it. John was
too far away, lost in his own madness, seeing flashes of memories
in his mind of all the good times. For there were good times.
Seeing his wife pregnant, knowing that he would be a dad not just
once but five blessed times. The day of their marriage, their first
kiss and the first time they made love beneath the half-moon
outside in the fields. Maybe this was punishment enough for John.
Maybe not.

Looking over the
scene that he had set in motion, the sheriff stood in the doorway,
his huge frame leaning against the door frame. He was neither
saddened nor pleased at what he was seeing. He knew what must be
going through Johns mind, could see it in his eyes. But the
children were harder to read. Their eyes had remained locked onto
the floor. He took in a deep breath.

‘Have you children
nothing to say to your father? He aint long for us now.’

Both Mrs Depor and
Cathy looked harshly at the Sheriff. He had spoken out of turn but
the fat old lawman cared little.

‘Do you not have
an apology for your children, John? Do you not care a jot for
them?’

John sobbed openly
and like his kids locked his eyes upon the cold, concrete
floor.

‘I have no words
of comfort for them Jameson.’ John paused seeing images of the boys
hurt in scraps or his girls petrified of a dangling spider, ‘I
never have.’

Mrs Depor leant
over to the five children, her brow beginning to shine as the sweat
built up. She whispered something to them and almost in unison they
looked up from their dead gaze and looked at their father.

John opened his
mouth to utter some heartfelt apology but the words couldn’t come
out. He stood there like a fish; mouth open, bobbing for air. He
tried a second time and a third but the blank stares from his
children stopped them in their tracks.

The Sheriff pushed
himself free of the door frame and as he went to enter his own
office a knock at the door made him jump.

11

Ten minutes is a
long time. It doesn’t feel like it, but it is. A life time of
misery can be caused in just that short time. Lives can be taken
and, on the other hand, lives can be made. For a Watchman days of
planning can all be for a brief ten minutes of gun fire and blood.
Stephen had seen this many times. Had dished out ten minutes of
pain and torment many a time and as he kneeled upon the floor
weeping into his blood drenched hands he wandered how many more he
would have to go through before his time was up on this earth.

Jonah, the gun
that had been with Stephen since he turned from a young boy into a
man, was slung to the side of him. Discarded almost. It’s dark,
cold metal frame was wet with the blood of its latest victims and
its barrels, the guts of the weapon, emanated a deep green glow.
Jonah had eaten well today. Jonah, as Patience had warned, had
gotten the better of Stephen and the bodies that surround the
Watchman were a testament to that.

He remembered
knocking the door. Waiting outside in the blinding heat for the
door to open and for him to take the lives of Cathy and John. Their
souls were needed for better things and Stephen needed to act fast.
But there had been a voice in the back of his mind. A small voice
but a vibrant, forceful one. He had tried to ignore it but that
hadn’t worked and the voice grew stronger. It reminded the Watchman
of his tutor, how he had sounded, all throat and spit. You either
listened to what he said or you faced the lash. The voice in
Stephens mind threatened the same. It uttered sentences that he
couldn’t make out at first and even though he stood at the doorway
for no more than thirty seconds the voice in his mind made the time
feel a lot slower than it had been. Thirty seconds dragged out to
feel more like thirty minutes as Stephen tried to shake the voice
from his head. When the door finally opened and the Sheriff stood
before him the voice became more than just an annoyance, it became
whole. It just simply became, like water becomes ice. Stone becomes
sand.

Kill him! Kill the
fucker!

Jameson had smiled
and went to greet him; outstretching his arm and handing the hero
traveller his hand

Don’t take it.
Don’t take the hand of the man you hate. Enemy!

Before Stephen
could think otherwise he had drawn Jonah, the gun with a soul, the
gun that had become whole, aimed and fired. Stephen remembered
seeing a small red flower open up in the sheriff’s forehead, the
grin still on his face and moments later

Ha! Ha fucker!

the back of the
sheriff’s head exploding all over the door and the side walls of
the court house. Jameson fell from the doorway his face landing
hard upon the wooden surround. Dark red blood, almost black, ran
from the open wound in the back of the Sheriffs head. In his hands
Jonah began to throb, pulse with life. The whole was becoming more
than whole now.

Move in Stephen.
Take them all. I wants them all. Do it before its gone.

The voice was
Stephen and Stephen was the voice. Jonah had done what the witch
had warned. He should have listened to the old girl in the rickety
hut. But Jonah had been too quick.

You aint seen
nothing yet

Slowly, like a man
in control, Stephen moved in. Like a ghost floating through a
haunted church Stephen moved into the office. He hadn’t heard the
screams coming from all parties nor did he care for them. He
couldn’t remember what Mrs Depor had been doing, nor the kids for
that matter - all he cared for was seeing to John and Cathy.

They deserve it
Stephen. Use me. Use all of me

It was Jonah.
Jonah had taken over. He controlled the Watchman now and his blood
lust, his need for harvesting souls was insatiable. He gave up
trying to control it, his minds calming words fell on deaf
ears.

He moved through
the office ignoring the five children and their minder and focused
his attention on the two criminals locked in the cells. As he spoke
to them, Stephen remembered his voice being quiet, without humour
or concern. His mind was far off from what he was doing and what he
was saying but somehow he had control over it; somehow he could
utter the words he wanted as well as those of Jonah.

‘Your lives are
coming to an end.’

Cathy screamed,
her mouth almost swallowing the cell she was in, her eyes squinting
shut with the effort, ‘You are no better, you delusional fuck. I
know what you are! I have seen your kind before!’

Stephen shook his
head letting the words go in one ear and straight out the
other.

John had spoken
next but Stephen couldn’t remember what he had said. It was lost in
the red mist that Jonah had brought with him.

‘You two are
filthy murderers who do not deserve to walk on the green lands or
the yellow wastes of this world. Your souls shall join those of
many others and be used as food for the Bitch herself.’

Cathy could only
watch as the gun was raised and then aimed at her head. Behind him,
Stephen could feel the fear that was rising in the children and
there was something else. A yearning for more. More blood. More
souls for the bastard Jonah. All around them the air grew hot,
stale, the scent of death and cordite filling their nostrils.

‘If you are
looking for tears Stephen, if you are looking for fear, then you
are looking at the wrong woman. I care little for those kids, I
cared little for Ellen. All I care for is my John and you can go
fuck yourself for all-.’

But her words had
been cut short. The blast from Jonah echoed around the small office
and the bullet it released tore through her face, shredding skin
and tearing out teeth as it went. She fell to the floor hard, blood
pissing from her skull. It sounded to John as she tried to say
something but it was lost in the blood gurgling from her destroyed
mouth and throat. The children as well as Mrs Depor screamed in
terror but they did no try to escape. They were scared stiff stuck
to the spot, their legs turned to jelly, and their guts twisting in
fear.

The Watchman
remembered back, remembered pointing his gun at John, seeing his
tears, seeing his fear, seeing his soul. The gun in his hand pulsed
as the soul from Cathy rushed into its barrels. But its appetite
was insatiable.

‘I am sorry for
what I have done, Stephen. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I
feel.’ John sucked in a huge deep breath and turned his attention
to the crying children huddled in the corner. ‘I hope one day you
can think better of me my children. I hope one day you will think
back to your dad and say only good things about me.’

The ex-deputy
looked back to Stephen and gazed into his deep dark eyes and in
that moment he knew that Cathy had been right.

‘You are what they
say you are, aren’t ya? I can see it in yer eyes. Should have seen
it before. A killer knows a killer. Fuck it, fuck you and the whore
bitch that…’ But again Jonah’s single barrelled bark brought
silence to another and John’s headless body slumped forward like an
old sack of potatoes and leant against the iron bars.

And then the world
went completely red and he knelt now, in the blood and gore of
those he had slain and Stephen reached over and grabbed hold of a
small teddy bear that one of the children had been concealing under
her dress. It was tatty and covered in blood. Their father had died
quickly. How he would have enjoyed killing him slowly, giving him
the same treatment as the Quint brothers had given his poor wife.
Scanning the room he threw the bear back into the lifeless hand of
the child it had come from. The souls of Cathy, John and the
Sheriff had filled Jonah and Stephen could feel it pulsing with a
deathly beat. He had assumed Jonah was well fed and would leave
well alone, but Stephen had been wrong. The voices, the controlling
voices started to take over again, powerful, stronger than last
time. They cried out for more. More souls for Jonah, more treats
for Petra!

And he was unable
to control the guns strong will. He had turned quickly and in one
fluid, deathly, evil motion, destroyed the lives of six other
harmless souls. He was killing without a care. The children tried
to hide between the legs of the corpse of the woman that had taken
care of them over the last couple of days but she could protect
them no longer. Stephen out of pure instinct halted his deathly
tirade when he went to reload Jonah. He looked at the weapon and
smiled at it. Stephen remembered that. How easy death would come to
the ones that he hunted. As if he had never stopped to reload, the
Watchman carried on with his deadly tirade and now, kneeling in the
blood of six children, their minder, two criminals and the Sheriff
he could feel the power coursing through his veins.

12

He stood up from
the gore covered floor. Jonah was holstered; his appetite had been
sated. Stephen walked across the slippery wooden floor his boots
leaving bloody trails like footprints in the deep snow, the
footfalls on the bare floor boards echoed loudly in the quiet
office. He marvelled at the lifeless fat legs of the Sheriff
hanging over the threshold as he left the Court House. Not being
careful and using his own feet he pushed and kicked the body of
Jameson well beyond the line of sight of anyone passing and closed
the door. Stephen wasn’t surprised to see the road out front
empty.

His tally was
building up and so too was his awareness that sooner or later the
good people of Rockfall would cotton onto his ways and set a mob
upon him. Hopefully he would be long gone by then. Exiting the
shade of the Court House he winced at the harsh sunlight pouring
into his eyes, they began to water almost instantly. He was
reminded suddenly of his training, of the words that were beaten
into him on a daily basis – Don’t trust in hope, trust in the now –
Don’t trust in hope, trust in the now – on and on he would have to
say it until his throat was dry and his tongue swollen. He would
have to write it down, not on paper, but in the dirt and mud of the
training yard under the watchful eye of his master, Yarik. But
Yarik was dead now, heeding not the words he trained.

Stephen wiped the
tears from his eyes with a dusty, blood stained sleeve and walked
over to the water well. He was thirsty but the thought of using
that old contraption didn’t sit well with him so he decided just to
lean against the cool rock, his head flopped forward and his arms
crossed about his chest; waiting for his next order. The dust
whipped around his feet and the wind whistled through the gaps of
the buildings. Last night those same buildings looked like rotten
teeth, but now, in the light of day they looked pathetic; ready to
fall with but the slightest of strong winds.