Ritual Read online

  ‘You’ve resigned?’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. Just killed. Well, I’d better get back to the hospital. They’ve given me an annexe room to do a thorough examination of the body and clothes. I only rattled through them when I arrived hoping for some obvious clue. I thought you’d be more help than you have been. But there you are, that’s the game!’

  ‘I’m sorry about being so clumsy, Jefferson.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. It’s your neck. From what I hear of you recently, it’s quite typical.’

  Jefferson was a bald-headed Naval type in his early fifties, and efficient as they come. When he smiled, as he was doing now, his yellow false-teeth didn’t smile with him. It was rather disconcerting when you’d been clumsy. David led him down the stairs.

  ‘Jefferson, if you could tell the boy’s mother the truth, I’d be very grateful. It would be better from you than me. Explain the delay.’

  ‘But I didn’t know there was a delay, old boy.’

  David ushered him into the passage.

  ‘You’ll think of something. You’re so efficient. You’ll never let the side down, will you? So I know you’ll think of something!’

  Neither Jefferson’s teeth or mouth grinned this time. David shut the door in his face and returned to his room. He pulled himself tiredly onto the bed. Might as well make my last report, he thought. He lugged open his hold-all. It had been tampered with. At the bottom of the case was the usual bunch of garlic flowers, a broken crucifix and a broken arrow. He searched the case for a signature to the handiwork. Of course, it could be anyone. The occultist’s limited imagery was becoming very boring. If only they could think of some original way to express themselves, it wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. At the bottom he found the photograph of himself and the little girl playing on the lawn together. He’d no idea how it had climbed from his inside pocket to the case. Then he discovered that all his wood sculptures were missing. All except the paper-knife, which he had had in his pocket. The final wrench!

  Quickly he moved to the window. It was open to capacity. When he left earlier in the evening it had only been ajar. Of course, it could be an inside job. Mother or daughter. Or Gypo. Anybody. And he was fed up with anybody!

  He slumped onto the bed with the photograph in his hand. The familiar spring twanged against his shoulder blade. His mind was a fun-fair without the fun. Bright noises and creaking lights with failure at the centre. His will power was split. He wanted to retire to a library, but he also wanted to squash the rotten fruit in this village.

  Resting his sweaty head on the pillow, he studied the photograph.

  I’ve failed you, little girl. Yes, I said I’d revenge you but I’ve given in. Oh, I’ll sleep tonight, all right. They know they’ve nothing to fear from me now. There’ll be no nightmares. I’m my own anti-climax. I’m haunted by myself. Tired, Tired. You were a lovely kid. Pale hair and laughing.

  He tried to stop himself but it was useless. The bitter tears forced themselves through his eyelashes. They hung like irritating tassels on the end of his nose. His mauve eyes lost their colour. They went dull like frozen flesh. He always embarrassed himself when he cried. His Puritan conscience told him it was girlish. But he couldn’t stop the tears now. Then he began to sob. The whole of his body ached under the torrent. He lost control. The dam broke. Desperation took over. He stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth in order not to wake the house. This is what they do when epilepsy comes, he thought. It stops you biting your tongue off. Another sob compelled him to hug his chest.

  He didn’t hear the intruder. Anna swayed in the doorway in her bear fur. Instinctively she wrapped her long arms round him. There was no doubt, this man itched her where it hurt. Not absolute lust, either. He was like her. Always splashing out of his depth.

  ‘Get out of my room! All right, you’ve beaten me! What’s worse, you’ve not just beaten the policeman, you’ve eaten the man away! All because you lied!

  ‘I’ve always been very attracted to you. You could’ve helped me sterilise this cesspool! But no, you had to swim, eat and fornicate in the excrement yourself! You should disgust yourself like you disgust me! None of you have any idea what you’re doing, by Christ!’ David thrust the tear-stained photograph into her hands. ‘This little girl could have been like one of the monsters you initiated—but she wasn’t—no, she was sweet, laughing and loving, she was—so what happened? I’ll tell you! A grown-up version of one of your monsters came along and staked her to the kitchen table with a carving knife! She’s the nearest thing I’ve ever had to a daughter. Not very near, maybe. I’m the kind who’s always best with other people’s children, I suppose. But I promised myself, and her, that I’d get the killer. Well, I haven’t kept that promise.’

  David fastened his teeth on a sharp sob. He grappled for breath then stumbled on. ‘No, I’ve failed as usual! I’m not torn by that, though. Only by the futility. Well, I’ve finished. Finished! Don’t try and put those cuddle-arms round me! You don’t mean it. You’re a little whore!’

  It was strange that though Anna was very proud of her title, she found it very bitter in David’s mouth. She dearly wanted to seduce him into bed with her. She knew that way she could relax his tensions. Half of which she was sure in his case, were only sexual frustrations. She didn’t really want the sex now. Just the company and the sensitivity. Soon she knew she would have to experiment with God. Sensuality alone was acid.

  ‘Come on, David, you know I want you. Not just this way, either—whatever you think. I want you. And you’re the same as me, you know!’

  He jerked to his feet and refastened himself.

  ‘How could I make love to you?’ he shouted. ‘How? You could be a murderess!’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘You must be ill, David...!’

  ‘Am I? More likely you are! Well, prove me wrong! Why do you corrupt the children, eh? What smutty kicks do you get out of it? Does it help your sexual power complex? Oh, yes, corruption is fascinating. But one has to be pretty snakey to resort to corrupting kids! Now, if you’d corrupted me, a policeman in his line of duty—well, that, at least, would have been a minor triumph! But oh, no, you prefer to pervert unformed minds, don’t you? And you’re very capable of killing, too—I’m sure of that! Well, aren’t you?’

  David grabbed a hank of Anna’s hair and shook her like a dead rabbit. Then he hit her. Then he hit her again. The first three swings across the face and the nape of the neck made her breath hiss. But the fourth blow crunched on the bridge of her nose. He was hardly aware of what he was doing now. Pure instinct. He smashed her again across the nose. Blood exploded. The nose was pouring carmine. It splattered over the white cloak. She screamed with shock more than anything else. David was stunned. He had a swelling oval of her blood on his wrist and knuckles. She screamed again.

  19

  He hit her again. He couldn’t bear her screaming. Blood spurted from her nose like a whale’s spume. She pulled the eiderdown off his bed and thrust her head into it to staunch the blood.

  ‘You’re a murderess! You killed Billy! You!’

  Then there were heavy feet storming up the stairs. Mr. Spark entered to find his daughter, streaming blood. David massaged the trickles off his knuckles. It only took Mr. Spark a glance to know what was going on.

  ‘Get out of my house, Hanlin! Out! Now! I could have you demoted and out on your ear for smashing my daughter about like this! I’ll call your superior now!’

  David knew he’d gone far too far. He rapidly cleared his belongings out of the drawers and stuffed them into the hold-all. Mr. Spark went to the door.

  ‘I shouldn’t, Mr. Spark, I shouldn’t report me! I think you’ve got too much sense to make an idiot of yourself! You know your wife and daughter are in this up to the neck!’

  Mr. Spark paused, looked at the bear skin round Anna’s shoulders and realised David was right.

  ‘I still insist you get out of my house,’ he said, de
sperately.

  ‘Insist all you like! If I wanted to stay, there’s nothing you could do about it, and you know it! But I don’t want to stay in the house where the wife cuckolds the husband with his next door neighbour on a midnight beach! Mind you, you’re very honoured, from what I hear, he’s very good at it! And then there’s your sweet, innocent daughter, who was happily plunged by the Squire. And she’s probably a filthy little murderess, into the bargain! Still, in an advanced family like yours, it’s not very big time, is it?’

  The Inspector packed all his belongings, Without waiting for Mr. Spark’s reaction he ran down the stairs. Instead of going straight out into the street, he barged through the dividing curtain into the shop. Mr. Spark stumbled after him. He arrived just in time to see the Inspector pocket two packets of Liquorice Allsorts. He coughed briefly and was about to protest, when David picked up a nude doll out of a cardboard box. It was split down the abdomen. It was one Billy fell on when Mr. Spark clipped his ear.

  ‘Mr. Spark, fat Billy had one of these dolls in his pocket this morning and he’d thrust a hat pin into its pink guts...’

  Spark tried to interrupt him, but David went on. ‘On the back of this particular doll he’d painted the word ‘DIAN’ in large black capitals! I find that rather disturbing, don’t you? Especially when you consider it’s the same kind of doll as you sell. Or did he steal it? Or did you give it him? You had the motive, didn’t you? You were very fond of your daughter. Probably more fond than your wife. It doesn’t look good, does it? If I wasn’t so tired and mixed up, we’d see! But it can wait till tomorrow. I know you won’t run away. You’re too sensible! No, please don’t bother to give me an alibi. I’ve had enough lies tonight to last me for the rest of my life!’

  He handed Mr. Spark two five pound notes from his wallet.

  ‘For your trouble and the Liquorice Allsorts. Give your wife my regards when she returns from celestial rutting with Lizard Chops. Oh, I nearly forgot, here’s the key. And here’s ten bob tip to get the eiderdown cleaned. And threepence for your daughter. Beating her gave me great pleasure. No, I can let myself out, thank you.’

  He brushed past the speechless Mr. Spark and stepped out into the alleyway.

  ‘The Police will arrive tomorrow, Mr. Spark, and they’ll ask a lot of unfortunate questions. I hope you’ve all thought up some pretty classy answers!’

  David changed his grip on his bag and sauntered into the street. Mr. Spark had nothing to say. He shut the door and pounded up the stairs. By God, he was going to give his family what for!

  Well, well, thought David, my action was heroic, all right. I’m a real gentleman! Look at the way I made her nose bleed! That was very nice, I’m sure. It’s surprising I didn’t kill her. But I don’t think my super would’ve taken to that kindly! Well, I’d better knock up ‘Green Fingers in My Hair’ and doss down for the night. Bugger me, he thought, looking at the grin on his watch, it’s three o’clock! No wonder I’m dead beat. When I was a young hopeful, my Mum would go spare if I wasn’t in by ten, but now I’m a grown failure I can do whatever I like as long as it doesn’t include success!

  He hurried through the hot night to the pub. When he got there, he banged very hard on the door marked ‘Bed and Breakfast’. He banged three times, building on the bass notes. No answer.

  Of course, they’re not in, you fool! They’re having a good rut on the beach like everyone else! Where next? I know, the Police Station’ll find me somewhere. But where the hell is it? Yes, it’s down here. What an evening I’ve had, eh? Homos, rutters, horses on fire, piss on altars and ending up with a nose bleed and Liquorice Allsorts! Lovely? Ah, here we are.

  He pushed open the door of the station. The moustached sergeant was half asleep. His heavy head rested on his arm, which was resting on his desk.

  Pity to wake him up. Still, it’s his job. He must know what’s going on in this horrible village, too. Of course, I forgot, he keeps his nose clean!

  Deliberately David twisted the sergeant’s moustache. He would like to have tied them in a Granny knot. He felt particularly sadistic tonight, which was hardly surprising. The sergeant blustered out of sleep.

  ‘What in the name of Christmas Shit...?’

  Then he looked into the cold purple eyes of the Inspector. Sleep left the sergeant like a gun shot.

  ‘Sir! Oh, sir, sorry, sir...’

  ‘Sleeping on duty, eh? My God, this village is in a right mess! You know what’s going on down at the beach right now, don’t you? Now, don’t try and deny it—I know you do! Oh, it doesn’t matter. In the morning you probably won’t have a job to know anything about anything! The Murder Squad are coming down here—and they’ll want to know plenty—especially about you and this station. But I think you’ll be too embarrassed to tell them about your bad eyesight and the bogeys up your nose! Don’t speak until I tell you to! Where can I sleep for the night? Now you can speak.’

  ‘You won’t report us, sir, will you? I mean...’

  ‘That is not the question I asked you, Officer. Don’t worry, I’ll mention the brilliant body-discovery by your swimmer. But I’m afraid I’ll have to report that you allowed them their little orgy. And you did. Oh, you knew all right. So where can I sleep? And that’s all I want to know.’

  ‘What about a cell, sir. They’re not very comfortable but they have a very interesting history. Forgive the flippance, sir, but I think I’m in for a nervous breakdown! My old woman will do her nut if I get the push! The cells are this way, sir…’

  He turned to lead the Inspector to stony comfort. He turned back and the Inspector had gone. The sergeant thought about crying but decided he’d keep all his strength for his nervous breakdown that was due to arrive in the morning.

  Now David was in a killing mood. He half ran down the High Street.

  Might as well go and sleep on the beach.

  He stopped outside the churchyard. The yew trees were still kissing. The moon was hot.

  I’ll sleep in the church. Then in the morning everyone will think I’ve gone. And then...

  He creaked open the gate and moved down the path. He remembered there was something he wanted to check so he sidled between the graves. The stones seemed to ache under the moon, as if the dead were trying to push them away. Trying to get out. But the graveyard no longer frightened. In fact, it comforted him. He smelt the fetid breath of the dead. He recognised it as his own breath. Like the bad breath he had when he woke up.

  When he reached Dian’s grave, he wanted to dig it up and expose it to the midnight. He wanted to ask it questions. Not about who killed her. But what was it like with six feet of moist clay on your ribcage? Were the worms good companions? And, mainly, was six feet of clay all there was to it?

  He stroked the marble letters on the tombstone. Then he remembered what he’d come for. To examine the watering can. It stood like a miniature crane on the gravel. He picked it up and shook it. Empty. Then he turned it upside down. It had no bottom. There were rusty flakes of metal where the bottom had been. So the Reverend had certainly not been watering the graves. What had he been doing?

  David swung the watering can in a vicious arc above his head and then, like a hammer-thrower, he hurled it at the moon. The moon attracted everything. The can achieved the peak of its curve, then dropped and ricocheted off the tombstones. Then he ran over the graves, vaulted the wall, tripped through a garden of asters until he reached the silent vicarage. He had no reason to intrude on the Reverend, except sheer bloody-mindedness.

  Taking the brass saint door-knocker firmly in his hand, he rapped five times. Very hard. He tried the tenor notes this time. No lights went on. Nothing. The knocking reverberated as though the house were empty. Next he tiptoed round the building, tapping on appropriate windows as he went. He tried to peer into the dark rooms but stubbed his toe on an aggressive drainpipe. That settled it. To bed.

  Having returned the way he came, he moved down the path to the church door. To his surprise it was open. He wen
t inside. It was thick black velvet. The darkness fondled him. Only the stained glass window over the altar smouldered a rich turquoise. The cross burnt like a dull flame. The atmosphere had knives. His feet clunked on the flagstones. He felt the dark gathering against him. A deep stirring. Perhaps there was someone in the church beside himself. He flashed his torch over the grey stone and white effigies, and then directly on the cross. Nothing. No one. Nowhere.

  Instead of being like an ice bucket, the church was sweating. A sticky heat throbbed from the altar. He moved to the altar and examined it. Still nothing.

  Perhaps it’s my nerves creaking. I’m over-tired. Perhaps I’m giving strange sensations to perfectly normal things. Perhaps it’s me who brought the evil in here. I’m not sure any more whether it’s me or them. I’m not sure. Perhaps...

  One thing is certain, God isn’t here. Well, no God I recognise. Possibly the Reverend uses the church for the odd Black Mass. No, no, that’s not right. If only I was sure that everything I’ve seen and heard in the last two days wasn’t just an extension of myself. Perhaps it’s all my fault. Perhaps I brought the darkness into this village. But that doesn’t explain things. Nothing does!

  Suddenly for no reason he felt the oppression pass. He selected six praying mats and laid them end to end between two pews. Then added one more for a pillow and lay on his bed of prayer. As he took out a packet of Liquorice All-sorts, he felt years of praying knees press against his back and thighs. He popped a four-layer sweet into his mouth and carefully chumped it layer by layer. A climax was coming in his life. He was sure of that. He stuffed three more sweets in, chumped them, swallowed them, and fell asleep.

  He didn’t hear the footsteps enter. He didn’t see the cold face peering down at him. Or he would’ve been frightened. The face and footsteps went out of the church.

  From the moment the face peered into his sleep, he began to dream and then to nightmare and then to sweat and then to shout and then to cry. He didn’t scream. But the dark had crawled into his sleep to haunt him.