Shepherd's Cross (21 page)

Cara took the opportunity of being alone
to tidy herself up. She went to the large mirror that hung above the
mantelpiece and studied her reflection, her cheeks still flushed from their
embrace. Despite her ruffled hair, she couldn’t prevent a beaming smile from
spreading across her face, adrenaline still racing around her body. She felt a
mix of guilt and pleasure at the situation she’d allowed herself to get into,
but overriding both of those emotions was the feeling of sheer happiness; it
had been so long since she’d allowed herself to get that close to somebody.
Something about Ben Price had grabbed her from the first moment she’d seen him:
a sadness in his eyes; a vulnerability. Perhaps it was because his situation
almost mirrored her own; both of them recently separated, wading their way
through the pressures of life without the support of a loved one to fall back
on when events became too tough to face alone.
Get a grip, you soppy tart
.
Before you know it, you’ll be singing ‘Strangers in the Night’ and asking
what his star sign is. Why don’t you be honest with yourself and admit that you
fancy the pants off him!
Okay, so maybe there was a physical attraction,
but that was more of an added bonus than anything else. There was something much
deeper that drew her to him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She didn’t hear him as he came back into
the room, her thoughts elsewhere. ‘What are you smiling for?’ he asked,
startling her, making her jump away from the mirror.

‘What?’ she asked, coming back to the
present. ‘I wasn’t smiling, was I?’

He walked towards her and held out his
hands, which she took without any hesitation before moving towards him and
allowing him to hold her. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s better than crying.’
He held her close, needing to feel her next to him.

‘I’ve had a lovely evening,’ she said.

‘Me too. But before I get down on one
knee and ask you to marry me, how about I put the kettle on and we round off
the evening with a nice cup of coffee?’

‘Good idea. Mind you, I don’t want the
details of our hot date straying beyond these four walls, do you hear? I have a
reputation to keep; you know what this place is like for gossip.’

‘My lips are sealed. I’ve never been one
to kiss and tell, and besides, there’s no way I’m jeopardising my chances of
seeing you again. Speaking of which, how would you rate my chances? I’m not
talking about a full-on, heavy-duty relationship – I think we’ve agreed that
neither of us are in the right place for one of those just yet – but I don’t
think there’s anything wrong with spending some time getting to know each
other.’

Cara folded her arms and smiled at him. ‘I
would say your chances are better than average,’ she said, moving closer to
him. ‘But nothing serious, eh? Let’s enjoy the ride – no pun intended!’

‘You’ve got a one track mind, Cara
Jones,’ he joked, taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen. ‘Not that I’m
complaining!’

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.

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?’