Black Ceremonies (9 page)

“Well—”

“He fell to his knees again. “I beg of you, Father, give me shelter for the night.”

I will admit my first instinct was to again direct him to seek a room at Kirowan’s inn. The wretch had admitted to countless dubious and sinful activities, and I was not sure of my own safety if I allowed him to stay.

Perhaps Crawford sensed my feelings for he suddenly became hysterical. “Oh, Lord protect me! The sea wants it back!  Verily it is true, here be sea monsters!” he raved.

And then he howled a jumble of harsh guttural gibberish – of which I only recognised one word, the name of the ancient Philistine deity Dagon – before breaking down in tears. “Ah God, forgive this unworthy sinner,” he cried.

I chided myself for my doubts. The Lord would protect me. God had obviously directed Patrick Crawford to my door; it was my Christian duty to give shelter to this repentant sinner.

“Very well,” I relented, “I can provide you with a bed for the night.”

I had expected this to please the old sailor, but he suddenly began to moan. “No, no, no.”

“What is wrong?” I asked, confused by his response.

“Please Father; let me spend the night here in your church. Let me spend the night in prayer,” he begged. “You did say no one could take me from Lord’s house. Let me spend the night here. That way it’ll be safer for the both of us.”

I was about to ask what he meant by that, when he began to rave again. Most of it sounded like more of the harsh guttural gibberish that he had uttered before. The only part I could make out clearly: “Sanctuary, grant me sanctuary. The Lord have mercy upon me. All life came from the sea, and the sea shall give up its dead. But it will not give me up.” And that, I did not entirely understand, although some of it certainly sounded blasphemous.

The poor wretch was obviously disturbed. And so I acquiesced, “Very well, Mr Crawford, you may remain in the church over night.” I would get Dr Hodgeson to take a look at him on the morrow.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” I asked.

Crawford smiled, calmer now that I had granted his request. “No, Father, no! The Lord shall protect me.” 

However, before I left I thought it wise to make sure the church silver and the communion wine was safely locked away. Then I said a final prayer and bid the old sailor, good night, telling him I would return early in the morning.

Upon reaching the door, I looked back. Crawford had again removed the crown from his haversack. He appeared to be gloating over his treasure. He was muttering something – although I doubted whether it was a prayer.

Crawford’s prediction of a storm proved correct. That night rain fell in sheets, and the wind howled. The howl of the wind sounded like shrieks of agony and cries of despair.

It was truly terrible, and I shuddered to think how it would be to encounter such a tempest at sea.

Little did I expect that I was soon to learn that there was more to Crawford’s story than I had imagined possible.

True to my word, I returned to the church early the next morning.

Inside, ah, you will think me mad. I opened the door, and water lapped out. Seawater, I can still smell the brine. It was not deep now, but it must have been, for everything in the room was awry and wet, and draped with seaweed. And amidst it all, sprawled before the altar was the sailor.

Patrick Crawford was dead, an expression of utmost horror upon his face and seaweed wrapped around his neck; his lungs full of the salt water.

Beside him lay his haversack and the tattered remnants of a yellow cloth, but the strange crown had gone.

The sudden disappearance of Father Michael O’Donnell caused great shock and consternation among his congregation.

The strange story revealed in the above document, may have some bearing on the matter.

Written in his own hand, it was found in the priest’s house, and perhaps serves to illustrate the state of his mind prior to his disappearance.

Although Donald Kirowan remembers a man fitting the description of Patrick Crawford drinking in his bar, the man never asked about lodging for the night.

Certainly Father O’Donnell never contacted me about Patrick Crawford. And no trace of the sailor’s body has been found. Although, curiously the church did have a slight smell reminiscent of the sea, for a few days after Father O’Donnell’s disappearance.

Two weeks later, Father Michael’s body was found, washed up on a beach some forty miles from his home.

A pair of reliable witness testified that they had seen someone matching the priest’s description on the cliffs a few miles further up the coast.

But whether Father O’Donnell fell from the cliffs by accident, or by the intervention of another’s hand, or – heaven forefend – by his own choice, is unlikely to ever be known.

Dr Thomas Hodgeson, Physician.

Hugh Clifford glanced at the station clock, and sighed loudly. He was one of six people waiting on the single platform of Barrow Ashton railway station for the eight thirty a.m. train into Mortbury. The clock now read eight fifty-five. 

The others standing on Platform 1 were a youth whose features were obscured by his hood and a cloud of cigarette smoke, a young woman with two small children – one of each sex. Clifford made a mental note to sit well away from those four. And a smartly dressed older man, who was cleaning his glasses. Clifford paced around in frustration, made a cursory examination of the timetable again – he knew it off by heart – then paced around some more. Again he sighed, although this time in relief, for he could hear in the distance the approaching train.

After the train had come to a halt, the doors opened, and no one got off. The waiting commuters moved to board the train. The teenager barging past the others, jostling the elderly gentleman in the process.

“Out of my way, granddad!”

The man staggered, but recovered from the shove that Jason Marshman had given him.

“Fuckin’ nonce!” Jason muttered, tossing his cigarette butt away.

“Are you all right?” Clifford enquired.

“What? Oh, yes. Thank you.” The man smiled.

The smile quickly faded, and he glared at the yob’s back. “I’ve got your number, sonny,” he said softly.

Politely, Clifford waited for the others to board the train before getting on himself.

The reason for Clifford’s journey was simple. This was a shopping trip; normally he enjoyed such excursions, as he would usually spend his time browsing in book- and record shops. But this was a shopping spree he was not looking forward to. His purpose to buy a mobile phone. He was a self-styled Luddite, and up until now he had avoided owning one. But after considerable badgering from his friends, and some work acquaintances, he had acquiesced and finally agreed to purchase one. Although that was more to do with the fact that he was fed up of the constant pestering to get one, and the looks he would receive when it was revealed that he did not possess such a device, than any real desire to own one.

He was meeting up with one of these friends – Jeremy Sheridan had at least had the decency to offer to help Clifford find the right phone.

As the train set off, Clifford found a seat. He took out his book and began to read. After a few moments he was roused from his reading by the guard.

Previous experience had taught him it was a waste of time enquiring why the train had been delayed, but he couldn’t resist commenting as he bought his ticket. “Running late again.”

“That’s right, sir. Very observant of you.” The guard smiled insincerely. “Not to worry though, sir. We’ll be able to go faster on this next stretch and regain some time.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Clifford had not long resumed reading when a phone rang.

“Yeah, I’m on the train,” the recipient of the call – a fat, bearded man – said loudly. Clifford tried to shut out the noisy one-sided conversation that followed – the fat man often having to repeat himself.

The yobbish youth had met up with a group of his friends; they were all drinking cans of lager and getting rather rowdy. Unable to concentrate on his reading, Clifford noticed that the man he had spoken to on the platform was also engaged in making a phone call.

The elderly man finished his call, and consulted a notepad that evidently bore a list of telephone numbers. He crossed off the number he had dialled, and then rang the next one on his list. His call lasted long enough for him to say just four words. Then he repeated the process, over and over again.

Despite himself, Clifford watched, strangely fascinated. The man was too far away to hear and unlike most mobile phone users on board trains, the softly spoken old man did not raise his voice. Clifford wondered briefly whether the old man was mentally unwell and was calling people just to say –
I’m on the train.
That was four words after all, and it seemed to be what every telephone caller on every train, he had the misfortune to overhear seemed to say at some point in their phone conversation. Sometimes more than once if the reception was poor.

Somewhere on the one carriage train a small child began to wail, Clifford frowned unable to ascertain whether it were male or female. Not that it mattered; the sound was annoying whatever its source.

The dapperly dressed old man checked his watch and smiled at Clifford. Embarrassed that the man had noticed his observation, Clifford quickly returned his gaze to his book.

The old man appeared unconcerned that Clifford had been watching him, and for the rest of the journey continued making his calls whilst Clifford – who had abandoned any attempt to read due to the increasing noise that his fellow passengers were making – concentrated on the passing countryside. 

“Ah, Hugh! There you are.” Jeremy Sheridan greeted his friend with a roguish smile. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.”

“Sorry, Jeremy. Although, I don’t know as it should be me apologising. Bloody train was running late!”

“Well, if you had a car you wouldn’t have to use them.”

Clifford held up a hand in protest. “Don’t start, Jeremy. Be satisfied with your victory.”

Sheridan laughed. “Ah, Hugh, we’ll soon have you living in the twenty-first century – even if we have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

“No, Jeremy,” Clifford protested, “I vow I shall succumb no further.”

“Come on then, you old Luddite.” Sheridan led the way out of the railway station. Laughing, he said, “If we get a move on, we’ll have time to have a look for a computer for you.”

Clifford shuddered. “Dear Lord,” he muttered. “Where will it end?”

Jason Marshman drained another can of lager and tossed it out of the window of the Ford Fiesta.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Scott leaned forward in the passenger seat to turn up the volume of the car stereo.

Jason pressed his foot down on the accelerator. To the accompaniment of the latest hip-hop CD, he drove precariously and well past the speed limit. He glanced
i
n the rear-view mirror. “Hey, Bazza, stop hogging the joint, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bazza said from the backseat.

Beside him, Deano whined, “It’s my turn next.”

Scott opened another can of beer. “Bloody heap of junk. Why’d we have to nick this one?”

“Shut up, Scott. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothin’.”

Deano was busy updating his Facebook status on his mobile. “He’s pissed off that Julie Tate hasn’t called him.”

Jason laughed. “She’s a slag.”

“That’s why he’s pissed off she hasn’t called.”

“Shut up!”

“Ring her then,” Jason urged his friend.

“No way!”

“Why not?”

“She’s a slag!”

Jason laughed again. He would have been unaware of his phone ringing if he had not had it set on vibrate. 

“Maybe this is her calling me.” Pulling the phone from his pocket, Jason thumbed the answer button. “Yeah?”

A soft voice spoke four words.

“You what … the fuck?” Jason suddenly lost control of the stolen car.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jase?” Deano shouted.

“I can’t control it!”

“Stop fucking around!” Scott yelled.

The vehicle veered from one side of the road to the other. He struggled with the steering wheel, but whichever way he turned it it would not direct the car from its course.

“Slow down, man!”

“Hold on!” Frantically, Jason slammed on the brakes, but the Fiesta would not slow.

“Oh Jesus!”

“Stop the fucking car!”

“I can’t!”

“You fuckin’ maniac, Jase.” Bazza laughed.

Three phones rang simultaneously. Deano still had his gripped in his hand, he had been about to call 999. He read aloud the text message that had been sent to all three passengers –
My name is Death.

“You what?”

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Jason decided he had to get out of the car. He was not wearing a seat belt and he opened the door.

“What are you doing?” Scott reached for the steering wheel. “Don’t be fucking stupid!”

Jason wasn’t listening and threw himself from the speeding vehicle.

“Fuck!”

“Oh God!”

Straight into the path of a lorry that was coming in the opposite direction. Jason didn’t even have time to scream before the lorry hit him. The young joyrider was killed instantly.

His friends did scream as the Fiesta went off the road straight into a brick wall. Bazza was the only one who survived until the car’s fuel tank exploded.

After a shopping trip that had seen Hugh Clifford make not one but two concessions to the modern age the two friends had gone to Jeremy Sheridan’s apartment. Although Sheridan had tried to convince him to buy an I-pod, Clifford had purchased a portable compact disc player. From now on, his train journeys would no longer be blighted by the menace of other people’s mobile phone conversations and crying children, he would be cocooned in a world of classical music.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it, Hugh?” said Sheridan, pouring his friend a drink.

“What a rigmarole,” complained Clifford. “So many to choose from, and then the range of payment plans! All of them expensive of course. Ah! What a dreadful experience. And not one I plan to repeat anytime soon - and to think there are those people who regularly change their make and model of phone.”

“You’ve got to stay up to date.” Sheridan smiled.

“But why? When something works perfectly adequately? Why change it?”

“Technology marches on, Hugh.”

“Cameras, Bluetooth, whatever that is, apps.” Clifford threw up his hands. “It’s all so confusing.”

“You’ll soon be wondering how you ever managed without it all.”

“Oh no, I won’t.” Clifford reached for his glass. “I will only make calls myself in emergencies. I will not become addicted to it like so many people have. Everywhere you go you see them - phone permanently attached to the side of their head, or slavishly typing their text messages. Like a lot of zombies!”

Sheridan laughed.

“There was an example of one such addict on the train this morning. Perhaps addict is not the right word to use, but it will do.”

“Oh?”

“He was armed with phone, notepad and pen. Written on his pad was obviously a list of phone numbers. He would dial a number, wait for a response, say something briefly, and hang up. Then, with a satisfied smile upon his face, he would cross out the number.”

“How odd.”

“Yes,” agreed Clifford. “Phone call after phone call he made, only uttering what could be the selfsame message.”

“What do you think he was saying?”

“I don’t know.” Clifford shrugged. “I did wonder whether it was: I’m on the train
.”

Sheridan grinned.

“Gave me the creeps actually.” Clifford finished his brandy.

“Another drink, Hugh?”

“Hmm, yes please, Jeremy. Funny thing is he was waiting at the station before me, but I‘d certainly never seen him in Barrow Ashton before.”

“Really? What did he look like?” Sheridan asked, refilling their glasses.

“Why? What difference does it make?”

Sheridan shrugged. “Just curious.”

“Well, he was somewhat upon the short side, slim, elderly – certainly at least twenty years older than either of us. Very smartly dressed in a dark, not quite black suit, that looked quite expensive. He wore glasses and a somewhat ostentatious bow tie. His grey hair was almost white.”

“Very—” Sheridan began to say, but he was interrupted.

“Ye Gods!” Clifford cried, as his new mobile phone began to ring. “It’s started already.”

“That’s odd.” Sheridan frowned. “You’ve not had chance to tell anyone your new number yet.”

“Exactly, I thought by getting this damn thing that I would at least escape the plague of the call centre.”

“Well answer it, man,” Sheridan urged.

Clifford pressed a button, and held the phone to his ear. “Hello, Hugh Clifford speaking. Who’s calling?”

Clifford recognised the softly spoken voice that said, “My name is Death.”

He paled, and held the phone out to his friend. “It’s for you.”

“Oh?” Puzzled, Sheridan took the proffered phone, and turned away, to stand looking out of the window. He had a picturesque view of the park. There was a man with whitish-grey-coloured hair sitting on a bench. He appeared to be crossing out something written on a notepad.

“Hello?” Sheridan said. There was a thump behind him. “Do be quiet, Hugh, I can‘t hear. Hello? Who is this? Is there anybody there?”