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  As they walked together from the lounge to the kitchen, giggling like a couple of naughty schoolchildren, they could perhaps be forgiven for not noticing the dark outline of a black cat outside, perched on the ledge of a small window next to the front door; it’s copper eyes following them as they disappeared from sight. As soon as they were gone, the cat’s eyes looked up into the darkness of the landing at the top of the stairs, its scabby, malformed head cocked slightly to one side, as if it were straining its ears to hear the gentle breathing of the little girl in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Then, in an instant, it was gone, vanishing into the night without a trace. It would return again when the time was right. Right now, there was more pressing business to deal with.

  Chapter 15

  10.00pm: Reverend Jackson knelt with bowed head before the crucified figure of Jesus Christ, lost in thought and prayer. He had been in the same position for the previous twenty minutes, and for the first time in as long as he could remember his mind was focused entirely on God, or perhaps more accurately, his faith in God. Year after year, he had grown more and more inclined to doubt His influence; maybe even His existence. Many moons ago, when he had been an eager and impressionable theology undergraduate at the University of Durham, he and his fellow students had frequently been taught that it was human nature to question one’s faith and belief in a divine power, that there would always be periods of weakness and fear that would test the resolve of even the most committed follower. They were taught that to have such doubts was to be human and fallible, and that the only way of overcoming their uncertainty was to submit unreservedly to the will of God and let Him be their guide, their shepherd; to allow Him to take hold of the reins and take the strain. Jackson knew, however, that whichever way his teachers tried to spin it, in the end it came down to a good old-fashioned black and white choice – either you chose to believe or you didn’t. And for a priest, there could be no grey area; it was not possible for a man of the cloth to both run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. You were either in or out; there were no half-measures.

  No matter how many kind words of thanks and encouragement he received every Sunday morning from the loyal stalwarts in his dwindling congregation, if Jackson was being brutally honest with himself, he knew full well that his heart was no longer in the game; that he was going through the motions like millions of other everyday people just like him, stuck in mundane, directionless jobs they couldn’t stand. Admittedly, there were times when he felt like his words were genuinely making a difference to the people around him: for instance, the energy that filled the church when he conducted a marriage between two people who were truly in-love, or reciting a poignant prayer at the funeral of a friend that touched the hearts of those around him; but such occasions were rare highlights in an otherwise monotonous and repetitive vocation. Being unable to find solace in the scriptures, he had sought comfort from the bottle, like so many others he knew who moved within religious circles. But the temporary comfort that the liquor gave him merely served to intensify his craving for the truth, a craving that neither God nor whisky were able to satisfy. For several years, the battle for answers had raged within him, without any sign of a resolution that would’ve enabled his life to move forward with the clear sense of certainty and purpose that every priest needs. All the while, he continued going through the motions of performing God’s work, trying hard to represent Him as best he could, while remaining undecided as to whether or not he was nothing more than an insignificant accomplice in the world’s biggest lie.

  At least that was the case, until the events of last night, when the veil of doubt had been ripped from his face, granting him the clarity that he so desperately desired, a clarity that tore through the uncertainty that had clouded his thoughts for so long.

  The typical Sunday morning sermon delivered from the pulpit of All Saints’ Church tended to be a hit and miss affair; the better ones were more down to good luck than good management. Jackson recalled what Bishop Tom Jessop used to say to the priests in his diocese – ‘your faith determines your sermon’ – which perhaps explained Jackson’s struggle to inspire even himself, let alone his congregation. He’d tried on many occasions to raise the tempo and sound more enthusiastic than he was feeling, but over time he had come to learn that there was no point in trying to fake it; his flock could see straight through him. Nevertheless, they were in for a surprise tomorrow morning; a warts and all, fire and brimstone attack on society’s defiant march away from Christ. A lecture on the need to return to the fold and beg for God’s forgiveness and mercy, before it was too late. And if Jackson’s interpretation of the previous evening’s events was correct, there was every chance that ‘too late’ was not far off.

  Tomorrow’s sermon lay on the small writing table that he kept out of sight in a recess in the wall to the side of the altar. For pretty much all of that afternoon, as well as a significant slice of the evening, he had sat hunched at the table, pen in hand, completely focused on transferring the thoughts in his head onto paper without losing anything in translation. He had frantically scribbled across pages and pages of paper, checking and rechecking for any mistakes or ideas that he could perhaps have written more clearly or expressively. Every hour or so, he stood up and moved to the front of the altar, kneeling to pray to God and to beg Him to forgive him for his years of scepticism and cynicism towards Him. As he prayed, he felt his faith returning, stronger than it had ever been, even in the early days. The carrier bag of liquor that he’d brought with him from Turner’s general store sat dejectedly by the entrance to the church, untouched and undesired by a man who usually would not, could not, have stopped himself from drinking and drinking until it had all disappeared, only for him then to have ventured outside into the cold in search of more. And if the shop or the pub had been closed…well…there was always the communion wine. Not this time, however. He hadn’t so much as given the demon drink a second thought.

  So consumed was he by his work, that he remained completely oblivious to the dark figure sitting quietly on one of the pews towards the back of the church: watching him as he prayed; studying him from the shadows. The flickering light of half a dozen candles did little to illuminate the inside of the church, providing just enough light to see but no more. Apart from the whistling of the wind outside, the church was silent; a sanctuary for those who sought peace and quiet and the opportunity to be still.

  ‘It’s good to see you are hard at work, Reverend,’ came the voice of the figure. ‘It is so reassuring to witness such…such dedication.’

  Jackson jumped to his feet and spun around, peering into the darkness of the nave, straining his eyes to see where the voice had come from. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘Show yourself.’

  ‘Come now, Reverend, is that any way to greet a fellow disciple? Are we not all welcome to enter into the house of the Lord, to seek shelter from the storm that rages around us?’

  Jackson grasped the tall, iron candleholder standing on the floor next to him and held it aloft, shining the light from the candle in the direction of the voice. The flame was not strong enough for him to see who was there, prompting him to take a tentative step forward, his senses telling him that this was no ordinary passer-by seeking respite from the cold. ‘I apologise, but you took me by surprise. I’m not used to having visitors so late in the evening. Your voice is not familiar to me,’ he said, walking down the step that separated the nave from the chancel, edging closer to the pews. ‘May I ask your name?’

  ‘You may. My name is Benedict Blackmoor.’

  Jackson froze as he watched the hooded figure of Blackmoor emerge from the darkness into the dim light of the aisle. ‘I…I don’t think we’ve met?’ he said, knowing full well that they hadn’t but persevering with comforting formalities.

  ‘That’s correct. That is to say, at least not formally. However, I know a great deal about you. And I’m afraid to say, I am somewhat disappointed.’

  ‘Disappointed?’ Jackson asked. �
��Why?’

  Blackmoor laughed; a deep, cynical laugh that echoed around the church. ‘You may well ask,’ he said, moving closer towards him. ‘There are many reasons – too many to discuss in the brief time we have together – your lack of faith, scepticism, complacency; the list is endless. However, the main reason you disappoint me is your pathetic failure to serve the God you represent. You are supposed to be His agent on earth, but all I see before me is a despicable excuse for a priest; a disgrace to the people you are paid to lead and teach. You are not deserving of His grace, Reverend Jackson; any more than you are deserving of mine.’

  ‘You don’t know me,’ said Jackson, his voice trembling. ‘How can you even begin to presume that I…’

  ‘Oh, I know you well enough,’ Blackmoor replied. ‘I come across pitiful, deceitful men like you wherever I go. Some of them are like you, standing watch over dying congregations in tiny churches, and some of them are in positions of real power, in charge of leading vast numbers of hypocritical worshippers in huge, cavernous cathedrals. Underneath, however, you are all the same: nothing more than pariahs, feeding off the donations of the guilt-ridden masses; gorging yourselves on their praise and unmerited flattery, whilst at the same time inwardly denying the very God that keeps you in business. Is it not any wonder why people right across the world are crying out for a new God? Someone who understands their needs and can answer their prayers. Someone who has no need for slothful, gluttonous intermediaries like you; twisting His message and corrupting His flock. I do not blame your God, Reverend Jackson - His message is clear. I blame you, for your arrogance and selfishness. You have failed Him; because of you and your kind, He is dying a slow, irreversible death.’

  Blackmoor reached out his hands and grabbed the collar of Jackson’s cassock, lifting him off the ground and holding him in the air. ‘Wait…wait…please!’ Jackson pleaded. ‘Listen to me, I beg you.’

  Blackmoor dumped him to the floor like a discarded sack of potatoes. ‘Why should I listen to you? What have you done to warrant my attention…to deserve my respect?’ He sneered down at him, despising everything about him, finding no pity in his black heart. ‘Say what you have to say,’ he said, turning his back to him and folding his arms. ‘Not that it will make any difference to your fate. Your actions decided that a long time ago.’

  With the aid of a pew end, Jackson pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and stood, panting heavily as he tried to catch his breath. ‘I don’t know who you are, or why you have come,’ he said, staring at the floor as he thought of how best to continue. ‘I imagine you had something to do with last night,’ he said, not expecting or waiting for a reply. ‘Either way, it’s not important right now. What does matter is the effect it had on me, for which I am eternally grateful. You see, you’re right for hating me; I deserve nothing less. For too long, I have sat impotently on the side-lines, selfishly waiting for proof rather than taking the leap of faith that is essential for believing. But what I saw last night changed everything: at last I saw evidence, perhaps not of God directly, but a glimpse of the consequences of turning away from Him; the pain and suffering that have been forcing their way to the surface for hundreds of years, waiting to break through and consume the world. I only wish I’d had the faith to see it all those years ago. I’m ashamed of myself, both for needing proof of His existence, and for doubting His words and the words of His son, Jesus Christ. May God forgive me.’

  ‘I’m sure He will,’ replied Blackmoor. ‘He forgives all of the wayward children who choose to come back to Him. Such is His weakness. However, I’m afraid that it is not in my God’s nature to be so understanding. Your kind has no place in the new regime; there is no room for your hypocrisy.’ He moved towards Jackson, forcing him backwards and causing him to trip over the step that led to the chancel. Jackson fell heavily to the stone floor, but before he could climb to his feet, Blackmoor was upon him, leaping through the air and stamping his foot onto Jackson’s neck as he landed, squashing his throat beneath its force. Jackson thrashed around helplessly like a fish out of water, gripping his hands around Blackmoor’s ankle in an attempt to relieve the suffocating pressure. Blackmoor was too strong for him, his weight too much for him to shift. Jackson’s vision began to blur, the blind panic from being unable to breathe gradually lessening as he drifted towards unconsciousness. ‘Go to your maker, Reverend Jackson,’ said Blackmoor, his voice calm and emotionless. ‘He is waiting for you. Die with the knowledge that your life has been of no value to your fellow man – you will not be missed.’

  Blackmoor’s eyes filled with rage and hatred as he intensified the pressure on Jackson’s neck, savouring the control he had over him; revelling in the feeling of absolute power that came from taking another man’s life. Jackson’s grip on Blackmoor’s leg loosened as the last of his life drained out of him, his eyes glazing over as he exhaled the remaining air from his lungs.

  And then finally, when all the fight inside him had gone, he passed into death, into a world he once doubted was waiting for him. Blackmoor removed his foot and stood over him, the small vein by his temple pulsing with adrenaline. He cast his eyes into the dark corners of the church, waiting to see if God would charge at him from the shadows, seeking vengeance for the murder of his priest. There was nothing – only silence. Blackmoor shook his head with disgust and turned back to Jackson. He withdrew the ram’s horn and curved knife from beneath his cloak, the tools of his trade glistening against the flickering candlelight. He dropped to his knees and held the knife to Jackson’s throat, its sharp blade pressing against his flesh. Blackmoor looked up at the figure of Jesus Christ impaled upon the wooden cross that hung above the altar. ‘My God, my God’ he said, mocking Him. ‘Why have you forsaken me?’

  There was no reply. Without removing his eyes from the body of Christ, Blackmoor smiled, and plunged his knife deep into Reverend Jackson’s throat.

  Part 4: Sunday

  Chapter 1

  8.30am: Cara sat at the Youth Hostel’s long, rectangular kitchen table, playing with a slice of toast that had long since turned cold and dry. When the Hostel was busy, the table would be swamped by hungry hikers and cyclists: some laughing and talking; others engrossed in maps and guidebooks as they planned the day ahead. Coffee cup stains, scratches and dents: reminders of those who had come and gone over the years; their mark indelibly etched on the table for as long as it remained in situ.

  She could have done with some company that morning, specifically that of her friend, Bronwyn. She was still holding her note, studying it for the hundredth time, and although it clearly suggested that there was a chance she wouldn’t be home until morning, Cara couldn’t help worrying that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t like Bronwyn to simply go off for the evening without saying something; she was too considerate. True, she’d left a note saying she was going to Kate’s house, and maybe Cara was reading too much into it. Either way, it was not in her nature to leave matters unresolved, so with her toast left untouched, she pulled on her boots and coat and headed towards the door. She would call by Kate’s house on the way to the Station; it wasn’t too far out of her way, and if Bronwyn was there, then at least her mind would be put at rest.

  The fresh air on the walk to Kate Irving’s house was welcome and invigorating, affording Cara a brief respite from her worries. Although the sky remained overcast and grey, the snow had stopped falling and the wind had settled down to a manageable breeze. There was a welcome sense of calmness around Shepherd’s Cross: the relentless blizzards of the previous two days appeared to have packed their bags and moved on; deciding that their work here was done, for the time being. Depending on the council’s priorities, the ploughs and gritting lorries would set to work later clearing the roads, which for the most part remained impassable by anything other than the most capable four-by-four or tractor. Although small, there was at least a fighting chance that the next couple of days would see life returning to somewhere near normality; allowing cherished routines to retu
rn again.

  After five minutes of trudging her way through knee-deep snow, cursing every time it cleared the top of her boots and seeped into the gap and down her trousers, Cara reached the door of number thirty-four Juniper Street and rang the bell. She wasn’t expecting a quick response: Kate and Bronwyn were likely to have stayed up drinking and chatting until the early hours of the morning; so she was slightly taken aback when the door suddenly opened, a fully-dressed Kate standing there with a look of pleasant surprise on her face.

  ‘Hello, Cara,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here? Would you like to come inside?’

  ‘Hi, Kate,’ Cara replied, raising her hand and shaking her head to decline the invitation. ‘I’m sorry for bothering you. Actually, I wanted to speak to Bronwyn, if she’s up yet? She probably told you that I’m staying at the Hostel? Anyway, she left me a note saying she was seeing you, and when she didn’t return last night I…I’m probably being paranoid, but I just wanted to check that…’

  ‘I haven’t seen Bronwyn since Wednesday,’ Kate said. ‘She certainly didn’t come here yesterday. Funnily enough, I was going to ask her out for a drink, but the phone was dead. Probably the snow.’

  The colour drained from Cara’s face as she listened to her reply. It had definitely been Kate’s name on the note, and as far as Cara was aware, there was nobody else by that name who Bronwyn hung out with, at least not in Shepherd’s Cross. Perhaps there was another Kate she knew in Newcastle or Durham, but what with the roads being as they were, there was no way Bronwyn could have left the village yesterday; not unless she’d managed to hotwire a tractor.

  ‘I’m sorry for asking again,’ Cara said. ‘But you’re absolutely sure you haven’t seen her?’