12.

Sergeant Mollie Jenkins leapt, startled by the entrance door banging against the wall and the dishevelled girl bursting inside, half-running, half-stumbling, flaying her arms to keep her on her feet. The long mane of natural blonde hair was tousled and damp with perspiration. Mollie didn’t know how to react for a moment. Then she knocked on the blue door behind her where the officers were to get their attention and assist her with this troubled civilian who looked as though she’d been involved in something unthinkable unscathed physically, but mentally scarred by the trauma thereafter.

Superintendent Dylan bolted out of his office to the front desk, looking around until he saw Mollie tentatively approaching a traumatised young woman who was on the verge of hyperventilating. Mollie made to take the frightened girl in her arms. Instead, Sofie recoiled, knocking the back of her bruised head on the notice board. Convulsions assailed her slender, accentuating frame. She doubled over at the waist and dry heaved... once... twice... then vomited violently on the polished linoleum.

This time when Mollie made to hold her Sofie didn’t resist. She was too weak. She shivered not from the razor blade cold temperatures outside but from whatever it had been that had put her in this uncontrollable condition.

‘There we go,’ Mollie soothed. ‘Ssshhh, ssshhh. Calm down now, pet. Calm down.’ Mollie exchanged a brief look with her boss who nodded approvingly, quietly impressed with how the female officer was dealing with the extraordinary circumstances which had quite literally fallen into her lap without any forewarning. Then he came around the reception desk and sat down on one of the vacant chairs opposite the terror-stricken beauty.

‘Whatever’s happened, you’re safe now,’ he said.

‘Easy does it,’ Mollie said, caressing Sofie’s back, doing her utmost to slow the girl’s breathing rate before she ended up suffering a stroke.

Five minutes passed as quickly as five seconds for the three of them. However, finally, Sofie resumed her normal breathing rate and began drifting in and out of consciousness. Superintendent Dylan hid his alarm at the situation that had disrupted the mundane nine till five gig that had gradually become monotonous in his ten years on the force in the local area. It was nothing like the programme Cops or the TV shows where two officers drove around their neighbourhood all day, one driving like a maniac, swerving in and out of other motorists while his partner hung out the passenger window firing at the tyres and blowing out the rear window of the criminal’s getaway vehicle. They never showed you an inspector or a constable filling out forms, writing down statements till the early hours of the morning because of some drunken brawl that had transpired at the local pub, costing him or her their relationship. They didn’t show officers walking the streets telling off young hoodlums for throwing beer bottles at passing trains or arresting a known piss-artist for screaming their head off, waking up the decent townsfolk. This was the fucking eighties. Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis were sprinting away from buildings just as they were blowing up and the backdraught threw them ten feet into the air, arms and legs spread out.

But now all of a sudden a traumatised girl he’d never seen before had come crashing through the door and changed everything.

Standing, he went round the reception desk and phoned for an ambulance. The young woman wasn’t seriously ill but whatever had transpired wasn’t normal. Probably been assaulted by some crazy, drug addict boyfriend and fled her home. But as he enquired for the ambulance service and told them the destination and who he was, Superintendent frowned, seeing the blood-stained symbol through the strips of matted hair on Sofie’s brow, familiar with it but unable to tell exactly what it was.

Mollie had calmed down; glad that Sofie had lost consciousness and yet paradoxically worried because of the thought the young woman may never gain consciousness again.

‘D’you have any idea what that mark on her forehead means?’ Superintendent Dylan asked.

Mollie did a double-take, not having any notion of what he was referring to. Then she swept back the damp strands from Sofie’s brow. For a second it just appeared that her head was stained in blood. However, the longer she stared at it, the more it dawned on her that it was in fact a mark made on purpose. She recognised it, for the simple reason her ex-boyfriend, Carl, had been an avid fan of the occult.

‘It’s a pagan symbol, I think,’ Mollie said, barely believing the words coming out of her mouth. ‘My boyfriend said...’ her voice trailed off.

‘Your boyfriend said what?’ Superintendent Dylan pressed.

‘My ex-boyfriend... No, it can’t be... Never mind.’ Mollie gently eased Sofie back into the chair and stretched her legs out, keeping a hand on her at all times in case she toppled sideways and thudded to the floor.

‘Spit it out,’ Superintendent Dylan said in a taut voice.

Mollie hesitated. However, when she saw the unflinching gaze making her uncomfortable, she spoke. ‘Pagan symbols are usually associated with...’

‘... devil worship,’ Superintendent Dylan finished, aghast.

‘I know, it’s ridiculous,’ Mollie said, misunderstanding her boss’s silence.

Let’s just hope it’s just some sick bastard trying to frighten the poor girl and nothing more. Because this devil worship bollocks is becomin’ more and more popular these days. And I for one am startin’ to get pretty freaked out about it all.’

Carl had said something similar when Mollie had listened to him one night explaining his intrigue in horror films when she’d inadvertently guffawed at how moronic some people were. The whole black magic, devil worshipping may have been a laughing matter to those who had been fortunate enough not to encounter it, nonetheless, there were more and more people, both young and old, joining cults, mostly in the United States but some here in the United Kingdom, as well. The popularity was growing at an alarming rate. Carl said something about there being a “chosen one” who would bear the one who wore a goat’s head; an angel of Satan, who would unleash anarchy upon the modern day world that would be inevitable. Mollie had never been one for horror, science-fiction or fantasy, because it never made any sense to her. She believed there was enough horror in the world as it was without people making crap up and forming fanatical allegiances, to the point it was considered another religion, like Christianity or Catholicism.

There was nothing wrong with sitting in a theatre for an hour and a half watching an inexorable murderer butchering young, attractive women, like the one sitting next to her. It was another aspect entirely though when some arsehole decided that looked fun and acted out what he’d seen on the big screen in real life to satisfy his demented pleasures.

In spite of the fact that Carl was less potent than a strong fart, his interest into the occult and the fact that she more often than not worked twelve hour shifts, it had been one of the reasons why they no longer went out together. She would feign interest. But it didn’t work. She’d woken up from a doze and Carl hadn’t stopped talking to her the whole time about how horror films were evolving from the dark dungeons and ancient castles of Count Dracula to the Bates Motel own by that psycho Norman Bates. And how horror books were also evolving... blah, blah, this, and blah, blah that.

Jesus, will you gimme a break! she’d felt like saying.

Sofie had no idea where she was; all she knew was she was levitating again. Yet this time she couldn’t do anything about it. The only part of her anatomy that was working was her brain, and even that was shutting off into another deep slumber. When she woke again, her mind was all fuzzy and disorientated. The weariness leaden her to such an extent that she didn’t have the strength to open her eyes so she could see where she was.

As long as I’m not in that God forsaken church again, she thought before drifting off again.

The veil of deep, undisturbed sleep lifted, enabling Sofie to open her heavy eyelids enough to see the dim room which smelled strongly of disinfectant. In front of her an obese, cordial-looking woman in a sky-blue uniform was filling out a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. She finished jotting down something she couldn’t see from her position, placed the top back on the biro and smiled benignly at her, noticing she was awake.

‘Hey there, sweetie. How’re you feelin’, huh?’

Sofie tried to move, groaning with exertion.

‘No. No. You stay right where you are, my lovely. You need proper rest, fluid and medication. You’re not just looking after yourself any more. You have a baby to think about, too.’

Constable Mollie Jenkins and DI Jones arrived a day later to the ICU where Sofie was currently resting. Her condition was stable. However, after being told by a qualified nurse that she was with baby, Sofie fell into a deep melancholy. In spite of escaping the satanic cult, the pregnancy was still a life-altering issue. Now, she had to answer questions about everything.

After reassuring the doctor and the nurse that their patient was not a suspect; that they only wanted to ask some questions regarding her barging into the local police station, they were permitted to sit down. Mollie introduced herself again.

‘Detective Inspector Jones.’ The gentleman who had to be mid-thirties with short, black hair proffered his hand.

Sofie gently shook it.

‘There’s nothing for you to worry about,’ Mollie said. ‘We just wanted you to tell us what made you come to us two days ago in a panic.’

‘It’s a long story,’ Sofie croaked.

‘We got time,’ Inspector Jones said. ‘You just tell us as much as you can, and if there’s anything that needs clearing up, we’ll ask.’

Once she’d stopped coughing, Sofie picked up the plastic cup of cold water and savoured the cool, fresh liquid running down her throat. Then she told them about the night she was supposed to be a home carer. About the ritual that had been performed on her while she was restrained. How she tried to flee. She choked back tears of profound sorrow when she mentioned the car crash and the demon witch killing her best friend, Janice. About how Reverend Rodney Ward had taken her into his care, informing her she was pregnant, even though she was a virgin. Then the events in the local church; involving the discussion with Margaret and the incident with the goat. And barely escaping having the pagan symbol burnt into her flesh.

She wasn’t the slightest bit surprised by the silence of the two gob-smacked officers. She didn’t care if they didn’t believe any word of it. Didn’t care if they chose to transfer her to an asylum where she’d spend the rest of her life in padded cells and under constant supervision. If it meant she was safe and away from the satanic cult then she didn’t care.

Inspector Jones had trouble clearing his throat. ‘Well,’ he said, after a moment. ‘That’s one hell of a story, Sofie.’ He looked in her direction but his eyes refused direct contact.

Sofie didn’t need to be told he didn’t believe a word of it.

‘Do you know of a “Reverend Ward”?’ Inspector Jones asked Mollie.

Mollie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not. Nor have I heard of any recent deaths, especially murder.’

‘It wasn’t murder,’ Sofie snapped. ‘It was self-defence. Christ Almighty!’

‘Have you checked the town’s church?’ Inspector Jones asked Mollie.

Mollie shook her head, nonplussed. ‘No. This is the first we’ve heard about this. The nurse and doctor did clarify that there was a symbol in blood on her forehead, which Superintendent Dylan told you about.

Inspector Jones lowered his head, contemplated. He had a hard time believing the whole devil worship side of the story. However, if the police constable, superintendent and the doctor and nurses had all seen the mark on the girl’s forehead then it was definitely something that needed chasing up.

‘Well, first thing’s first. We’ll need to go and take a look around this church -’

‘- St. Lawrence C of E Church,’ Mollie said.

‘St. Lawrence C of E Church. There is only one church in town, I assume?

‘Yes.’

‘No Chapels?’

Mollie shook her head for the third time.

‘Excuse me,’ Sofie said, interrupting their exclusive conversation, wondering how obtuse the two of them were. ‘What about my friend’s death? Janice? Remember? It was on the BBC news?’

Inspector Jones glanced at the constable beside him who appeared equally as perplexed.

‘What news report?’

Sofie stared at them both, incredulous. ‘What are you talkin’ about “What news report?” It only happened a couple of days ago. The police are searching for Janice Stevens’ flatmate. Me!’

All of a sudden, Inspector Jones’ chiselled, rugged features tautened into anger. ‘If this is a hoax, little miss, then I assure you there will be serious ramifications against your actions. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Cheeky fuck!’ Sofie spat, face turning the colour of a ripe tomato.

Inspector Jones mouth gaped. Then snapped shut again. At that moment he wanted to reach over and slap Sofie hard across the face. However, his police intuition overrode his emotions. His experience for his age came through. Not many people who were sober, pregnant and had just been through a hellish ordeal with evident injuries spoke to an officer of the law like this unless there was a good reason. He could see Sofie’s anger didn’t have anything to do with being short-tempered or a troublemaker. Her anger was raw, tangible, not out of disregard.

‘Where did you see this news report?’

‘At Reverend Ward’s cottage on the hill, opposite the farmland.’

‘And this was on the BBC?’

‘He called me into the living room. I sat down while he turned the TV on, and pretty much, straightaway, a news reporter stood at the scene where Janice’s yellow Fiat had gone crashing head on into a rock wall. They said on the news that the coroner had said that hadn’t been how the university student had died. Because she’d been cut across the throat and they were treating it as a murder case.’ When Sofie finished speaking, she was out of breath.

‘I’m not from this area,’ Inspector Jones said. Then he turned to face Mollie. ‘Have you heard about any reports of this nature recently?’

Mollie shook her head.

Fucks sake woman. Shake your head one more fuckin time and I’m gonna thump you, Sofie thought, gritting her teeth.

Inspector Jones jotted down something in his notepad, shaking his head. Then he looked up again five minutes later, filling three pages of his almost unintelligible handwriting. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to add to your statement, Miss Lackberg?’

‘No.’

‘Okay... About this whole... How shall I put it... devil thing. Whatever. This sacrifice. So, lemme get this right in my head before I completely lose my marbles. You’re telling me that when you were a little girl your parents were devil worshippers, yes?’

‘So I was told,’ Sofie said.

‘Okay. So this, Margaret woman. Who you now say, you killed - in self-defence. She told you about how it was your destiny to unearth this demon -’

‘- she called it “The thing with the goat’s head”,’ Sofie said.

‘Right. You set it free. Because you solved the mystery, which enabled you to escape the cavern you’d fallen into when you were running in the forest.’

Sofie clarified that so far Inspector Jones had his facts correct.

‘But, how then can you be pregnant with it inside of you? That’s the part I don’t get. I mean I don’t get any of it, if I’m being frank.’

‘I released his spirit, and the goat’s head, by removing the cross from the ground.’

‘And you believe this?’ Inspector Jones cocked an eyebrow.

‘Only when I took a pregnancy test and had it confirmed by the nurse and doctor that I was in fact pregnant.’

Inspector Jones rubbed his hands together. ‘Isn’t it more likely that you were raped while being unconscious?’

‘I thought of that,’ Sofie said. ‘But when I looked... down there, there were no signs of me being raped. Otherwise I would have felt it.’

He thought if Sofie had been raped, he could have built a tangible case on that alone, stating that she’d been raped by someone who was involved with a satanic cult. Furthermore, if he discovered Margaret’s remains and have her death confirmed by a coroner or a medical examiner then he’d be making progress. Nevertheless, if Sofie and the doctors confirmed that there were no signs of rape and that the pregnant girl was still a virgin, what case did he have?

‘Okay,’ he said, rubbing his rugged features. ‘What’s your friend’s name again?’

‘Janice Stevens.’

He jotted the name down.

‘And the car was a yellow -’

‘- Fiat. It wasn’t brand new. But it wasn’t an old banger, either. It was a gift from Janice’s parents at the first Christmas in Uni. I remember because we went for a spin in it.’ Remembering that joyous day brought fresh tears to the surface. ‘Sorry.’

‘Apology is unnecessary,’ Mollie said.

Inspector Jones turned to the female constable and said, ‘I’d like to speak with Superintendent Dylan, and see if we can get to the bottom of this news story. Something here doesn’t quite add up.’ He turned back to Sofie. ‘Tell me now, please, if you’re lying. Miss Lackberg.’

Wiping her tears away, Sofie said through gritted teeth, ‘I’m not lying.’

Inspector Jones studied her haggard, bruised face that was otherwise striking. He saw no trace that would convince him she was.

Inspector Jones got out of the patrol car and yanked the zip up on his winter coat until it covered his exposed neck from the razor blade wind stinging his cheeks. In front of him he saw St. Lawrence C of E Church. The grey stone building although weathered with fissures snaking up the walls stood steadfast in the gale.

He had spoken to Superintendent Dylan who had no knowledge of Sofie Lackberg, Janice Stevens or anyone in the local area forming a satanic cult or performing ungodly acts that were considered black magic. He’d also got a colleague back a t HQ to call the BBC. They had denied any such report on an incident involving a yellow Fiat careening into a stone wall or the death of a university student in the local area in the past week or two.

So this where Margaret was killed with a metal crucifix, apparently. He would wager at least fifty pound that when they opened the door (after obtaining the key from Reverend Ray Stewart) and searched the interior they would find no body or any other indication that there had been any ritual or struggle.

He followed Constable Mollie Jenkins down the gravel path. Stopped. He bent down and peered closer at a faint trail of red coming from the entrance to the pavement. Up until now, in spite of having no evidence to support Sofie’s statement (which he didn’t believe), Inspector Jones had been firmly convinced that the young woman - traumatised or not - believed everything she’d told him. She said with conviction. Furthermore, the tale had so many nightmarish incidents; not to mention the injuries she’d sustained. The deep gouge in her abdomen. The swollen contusion on the side of her head where Charles had struck her. Another bruise where he head had walloped the dashboard and the back of her head when she’d fallen over and knocked herself unconscious. This was topped off by the badly sprained ankle. And now this mark of further evidence to back up her statement.

However, the town’s reverend wasn’t called Rodney Ward. It was Ray Stewart, who said he rented a room above the post office.

The female officer followed the inspector’s gaze, seeing the blood trail. Then she walked back to where he’d hunkered down, wondering who or what to believe. She got down on her haunches so that she was eye-level with the steely-eyed detective.

‘This is the first conclusive indication that that girl is telling the truth,’ he said, matter-of-factly.

‘Well, let’s look inside see if there’s anything else,’ Constable Mollie Jenkins said.

Rising simultaneously, the two officers of the law walked forward, unlocked the door and entered...

Golden motes drifted down from the rafters. In contrast to the yellow radiance outside the dimness over the threshold gave the impression of night. It took a few seconds for their eyes to adjust. When Inspector Jones pupils expanded, he blinked. In front of him he saw an ordinary church; just like any other. As he stood next to the font and scanned the lofty interior he saw nothing awry. There was no sign of heavy curtains made out of silk damask in scarlet and black hues to block out all the light. No large tapestry upon which was woven an enormous figure of Satan. He didn’t expect to see anyone still here, standing motionless in the pews donning a black robe with a five-pointed star embossed on the front. There were wall sconces on the grey stone pillars. But that was nothing out of the ordinary.

Following Constable Mollie Jenkins’ lead, Inspector Jones sauntered at a snail’s pace down the crimson-carpeted aisle, looking left-to-right, scanning the pews meticulously for anything that didn’t fit in with the normality of any other church. Nevertheless, his eyes did not deceive him. He saw nothing, save cushions and one Holy Bible that hadn’t been collected from the previous service.

Beneath the altar there was no sign of black candlesticks. No decorations belonging to the liturgy of hell or black magic, for that matter. He watched Mollie ascend the three steps to the altar and turned left to the pulpit where Sofie had clearly reciprocated that she had killed a middle-aged woman in self-defence by ramming a metal crucifix through her neck. He stood over the steps. What he saw astonished him; although he kept his emotions within not to cause alarm.

On the bottom step there was an evident stain soaked into the thin crimson carpet that was barely discernible. Kneeling down, the rugged man with a chiselled jaw that could take a hard punch even after all the years as an amateur boxer pressed the tips of his fingertips to the stain. Dry. That was a pity. If he could some blood on him from where he touched the carpet, it would unequivocally prove that Sofie Lackberg had a case. Instead all they had were dry stains outside and inside the church and a pregnant, traumatised foreign girl lying in a hospital bed.

He had spoken to Reverend Ray Stewart about Sofie’s statement. He had no knowledge of the young girl or anything to do with black magic or devil worship. Of course, he did go on to tell Inspector Jones that he had to learn a little about devil worship, for the simple reason that it was part of his training to become a minister. Parishioners would often attend his Sunday service. Some of them would also stay behind afterwards to ask specific questions regarding life and religion. He went on to explain that there had been one girl who was frightened of the devil after staying up late one night and seeing a film on the TV. She’d asked him how the devil might tempt her. And what she could do to keep him as far away from her. But apart from that nothing.

Inspector Jones had felt insolent and silly when he had no further questions. Nevertheless, he did say, ‘This devil worship escapade is becoming more and more popular though, am I right?’

To which the reverend replied, ‘There has always been devil worship. Ever since people believed in God, others have believed in the devil. When people believe that love and forgiveness is the answer to peace, others believe that vengeance and anarchy is the solution. And to more modern day relations. Some people believe that there shouldn’t be a death sentence for prisoners - others do. People believe there shouldn’t be gun control, others do. To this day people that you and I talk to, work with and walk the same streets believe in racism, war, abusive behaviour, rape, stalking, murdering. Then there are others who believe in the opposite. It has been that way since the dawn of time. It all relates to what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, though, ‘spector. I see the work of Satan everyday. I get up in the morning and I see kids living in fear of their abusive parents. Men and women taking the vows in this very church to be married till death do them part, only to go out a few months later and have an affair behind their spouse’ back. Then there’s the football hooligans shouting abuse at one another one o’clock in the morning. And the drug dealers. Crooked police officers. You name it, anything that in one’s perception is considered immoral and repulsive can - and is - considered the work of the devil.

‘For all I know, this young girl, could have broken into the church and spilled something on the carpet or deliberately cut herself to make it look like something far worse.’

‘I’ll check to see if there are any signs of a break in,’ Inspector Jones had said.

Reverend Stewart had raised his right hand. ‘There were no break ins that I could see. I’m just saying that, to my knowledge, nothing like that has ever occurred in my church. If there was something like that I’d damn well put a stop to it immediately and tell you.’

Inspector Jones got to a vertical base and joined Mollie who was looking for anything out of place.

‘Nothing,’ she said and shrugged.

‘I found a dry stain on the carpet where Sofie said she’d killed Margaret. But until we have a missing persons’ report or a dead body, we don’t have a case. I’m gonna head down the stairs and up into the organ alcove to see if there’s anything else.’

Constable Mollie Jenkins glimpsed the dark recess overhead where the organ player sat during the services. She touched the plain-clothed officer on the arm as he was about to walk away from her. ‘I’ll check up there,’ she said, pointing to the niche. ‘You check downstairs. I’ll meet you back here in a couple of minutes, unless you find something of interest.’

The young detective inspector nodded approval.

Mollie followed the broad shouldered officer past the pulpit, around the corner out of the church and slowed when they reached the two pews behind a green curtain with the holy cross embossed in the centre.

‘This is where the choir puts on their shroud prior to the service,’ Inspector Jones said. Then he cornered the first long bench and bent down to see if anything was awry. Nothing. ‘Okay. I’ll be downstairs. Shout if you see anything.’

‘Will do,’ Mollie said.

She watched the inspector descend the wooden stairs, his footfalls loud and heavy. Then she grabbed the handrail and checked the niche where the organ was situated.

The darkness was absolute. When she reached the tiny recess, all Mollie could see was the organ and the cushioned pinewood stool. There was minimal room for movement, never mind hiding a cadaver. Nevertheless, she used her eyes to roam. Nothing.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Inspector Jones’ patience was growing very thin indeed. The unyielding door that had to be locked wouldn’t budge an inch. He ran at it and drove his shoulder not once, but three times, achieving a sharp pain in his right arm and shoulder, nothing more. Finally realising that his endeavours were fruitless, the inspector relented. He didn’t like the fact that the reverend had given him the key to the church but hadn’t mentioned anything regarding the vestry being locked. He didn’t trust coincidences. The door was locked. Therefore a key was required to open it. A key which hadn’t been provided by the reverend.