The Revelation Room (The Ben Whittle Investigation Series Book 1) (23 page)

He skirted around the broken glass and gripped the edge of
the right-hand wardrobe door. It took him all the strength he could muster to
slide the door along a runner littered with broken glass. He forced it about
halfway along before it ground to a halt and refused to budge. He had just
enough room to squeeze inside.

Mind out for the monsters in the closet, Pixie-pea.

Ebb didn’t like it inside the wardrobe. A shiver unfurled a
white flag at the top of his spine. His mother could damn well go and whistle
in the wind with the uncles.

The shotgun was leant against the wall at the back of the
wardrobe.

Right back in the dark where the monsters could grab him
by the Ging Gang Goolies.

Ebb laughed. His head was full of jokers right now. That was
fine and dandy by him. The joke would soon be on them. They’d better believe
that with all their hocus-pocus hearts.

He started to whistle. A tuneless whistle that sounded like
Onward
Christian Soldiers
in his fractured mind. It was a whistle designed to ward
off evil spirits. And jokers. And mothers in pink wigs waiting to tickle him.

Run piggy, run piggy, run, run, run, before farmer gets
you with his gun, gun, gun.

Ebb yanked clothes off the hanging rail and hurled them out
onto the floor. He didn’t want to leave any hiding places for the monsters. His
best suit landed in a heap a few feet shy of the bed. He would have to deal
with the aftermath of his actions later. Suits could be dry cleaned. Shirts
could be ironed. Wardrobe doors could be replaced. 

He gulped in air. With most of the contents of the hanging
rail now relocated on the floor, Ebb surveyed the inside of the wardrobe. The
shotgun was propped up against the back wall as expected. He grabbed it, along
with a box of cartridges lying on the floor, and retreated before his mother
got any bright ideas about locking him inside. And she would. She liked locking
him in confined spaces. Just ask his childhood if you wanted proof.

He closed the door and moved away from the wardrobe as
quickly as his injured leg would allow. He put the shotgun and box of
cartridges down on the bed. He then turned to face the mirrored glass.

‘Not so brave now, are you?’

Cyril and his mother exercised their right to remain silent.

He hoped with all his heart he didn’t have to use the gun on
Sister Alice. He didn’t want to kill her. She’d been a good and loyal servant.
Almost like a mother to him. Unlike that uncle-dunking witch pinned to a cross
down in the Revelation Room with her sunglasses hiding the hallmarks of tainted
love.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Tweezer’s poison
had infected Brother Marcus. But surely not Sister Alice?

‘Why hast thou forsaken me, Lord?’

The Lord didn’t answer. The Lord was otherwise engaged.
Possibly denying Tweezer entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven. And rightly so.
The Lord had no place for rapists at his top table. The best Tweezer could hope
for was purgatory, and that was stretching leniency to breaking point. Tweezer
was bound for the flames of Hell on the back of a Harley D. Make no mistake
about that. Lock, stock and chopping block.

Ebb picked up the shotgun. It felt weighty. Both barrels
were still intact. No bank-robbing villain had mutilated it with a hacksaw. He
checked the safety catch. On. Good. He knew it was loaded because Cyril
Penghilly had always kept it loaded. Cyril had been rather fond of his Smith
and Wesson twelve gauge pump action shotgun. Although Cyril pronounced it
“Smiff and Wasson”. Cyril claimed it could take a cow down from a hundred
yards. Ebb thought Cyril was inclined to exaggerate, but he didn’t doubt the
gun’s potency. It certainly
looked
dangerous and
felt
dangerous.

Dangerous enough to shoot the moon, Pixie-pea.

Ebb jumped back and almost squeezed the trigger. He gawked
at the wardrobe doors for signs of his mother. His reflection peeked back at
him from behind the bandages. He looked like a bank robber who’d put his mask
on wrong. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He needed a holiday. Not
just a weekend in London. A proper holiday.

‘When my work is done here, I’m emigrating,’ he promised his
reflection. ‘Thailand. The Philippines. Cambodia. Africa. Somewhere the people
are willing to serve the Lord without question.’

Somewhere with a vibrant sex trade, Pixie-pea.

Ebb released the safety catch and squeezed the trigger. The
force of the blast threw him off balance. His reflection shattered into a
thousand glass fragments. He dropped the gun and fell back onto the bed as jet
engines roared through his ears. His right shoulder felt as if a rampant bull
had butted it. His nose tried to snorkel air through the bandage. Dozens of
tiny pink wigs danced before his eyes.

Wanna play peek-a-boo, Pixie-pea?

Brother Marcus stood at the top of
the tower and surveyed all. The courtyard and outbuildings looked tiny from his
perch fifty feet above the ground. Almost far enough away to look like a
child’s toy farm. But Penghilly’s Farm was no toy farm.

Marcus tried to shake the image of Tweezer’s dead body from
his head. He couldn’t. He was a cold-blooded killer with a guilty conscience to
prove it. It was written in Tweezer’s blood all over the floor down in that
chamber of horrors, the Revelation Room. He couldn’t even claim self-defence,
because he’d not been defending himself, he’d been defending the Father.

To make matters worse, if they could actually get any worse,
he’d killed Max. Once the Father knew that his beloved, pampered mutt was dead,
the shit would really hit the fan. Marcus was tempted to leap from the tower
and leave his life in a heap of broken bones on the courtyard floor below. He
rested the rifle against the railings and peered over the side. How long would
it take to hit the ground? Ten seconds? Twenty? How long would it take before
his spine was shoved up through the top of his head? Would there be anyone
waiting to escort him to Heaven?

Heaven? After what you’ve done?

‘I had no choice.’

Tweezer was like a brother to you. Tweezer looked after
you when you joined the group. He took you under his wing.

‘I had to save Ebb.’

Bullshit. You shot the wrong man. You know it, I know it,
and Uncle Tom Cobley knows it.

‘I had no choice.’

If you jump, what happens to Emily?

Marcus gripped the rail like a man on the world’s most
dangerous rollercoaster ride. Marcus had loved Emily from the first day he’d
seen her in Oxford. He loved her vulnerability and her stubbornness, both of
which she had in equal measures. He loved the way she looked at him with her
head cocked to one side. The way she smiled. The way they made love.

She’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake.

Marcus shook his head. Women were always missing periods and
then getting sick in the mornings, just because they
though
t they were
pregnant.

So you’re just going to abandon her like you’ve abandoned
everything else in your life?

Marcus looked at the rifle and laughed. ‘So shoot me.’ He
put one foot on the bottom rail and stepped up so his waist was level with the
top. He noticed how dark the sky looked. As dark as his heart. Wind whispered
conspiracy theories among the trees.

Marcus wondered whether to go head first or feet first? Or
maybe hang over the side.

A woman’s voice suddenly broke into his mind. ‘What in God’s
name are you doing?’

For one bizarre moment, Marcus thought that his guardian
angel had spoken to him.

‘Brother Marcus?’

He looked over his shoulder and saw Sister Alice walking
towards him. He jumped down off the rail.

Alice moved a few steps closer. ‘What are you doing?’

He picked up the rifle and aimed it over the guardrail.
‘Nothing. I was just trying to exercise my arms. I’m as stiff as a board.’

Alice pursed her lips. ‘You want to be careful on that rail.
One slip and you’ll make a nasty mess all over the courtyard.’

Marcus laughed. The laugh sounded as hollow and lost as he
felt inside.

‘The Father wants to see you.’

Marcus’s heart stopped and fell into his stomach. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’ve been a naughty boy, Brother Marcus.’

‘I haven’t done nothing.’

‘I wouldn’t call getting Sister Emily pregnant “nothing”.
I’d call it a big fat “something”.’

Marcus tried to swallow. ‘Pregnant?’

‘That’s what I said. Pregnant. Up the duff. Bun in the oven.
Whichever you prefer.’

Marcus looked at Sister Alice as if she’d just issued a
death warrant. ‘She’s not pregnant.’

‘The girl’s pregnant, all right. And according to her,
you’re the father. Anyway, I’m not here to get into a lengthy discussion about
it. The Father wants to see you, and if you want my advice, you’ll accept
what’s coming to you.’

‘Emily’s lying.’

‘Young girls don’t tend to lie about such matters.’

Marcus snorted. ‘Don’t they?’

‘No, they don’t. Do you want to know how I know this?’

Marcus didn’t.

‘Because for reasons beyond my comprehension, young girls
are invariably in love with those who take their virginity. And Sister Emily is
clearly in love with you.’

Marcus stalled for time. ‘It could be Tweezer’s.’

Alice wasn’t having any of it. ‘No. It’s yours. And now you
must answer for your actions.’

Marcus looked over the railing. Maybe he could throw himself
over the edge before Sister Alice had time to react. But there was something
about that smug look on her face that seemed to invite confrontation. He
levelled the gun at his accuser. ‘You’re not in any position to tell me what to
do.’

Sister Alice smiled. The smile twitched at the corners of
her mouth. ‘Put the gun down.’

Marcus didn’t like the look of that smile. He checked around
him to make sure that the Father wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows. ‘You
can’t order me about.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, you fool. I’m in charge now.’

‘Since when?’

Alice stared at the barrel of the rifle. ‘Since you and
Tweezer betrayed the Father.’

Marcus’s shoulders shook. The rifle suddenly seemed so much
heavier. The first drops of rain fell, as if the clouds were shedding tears of
grief. ‘I haven’t betrayed anyone.’

‘First you get Sister Emily pregnant, and now you aim a
rifle at me? What do you call that?’

‘I’ve already told you: I didn’t get Emily pregnant.’

‘And I’ve already told you: Tell it to the Father.’

Marcus tried to relax his shoulders. ‘I’m not going
anywhere.’

Sister Alice spread her hands out in front of her. ‘Come on,
Marcus, don’t be stupid. Put the gun down. I won’t tell the Father.’

‘Yeah. Right. And that’s a pig flying up there in the sky.’

Alice crossed herself. ‘Forgive him, Lord. He knows not what
he does.’

‘I know what I’m doing all right,’ Marcus lied.

Alice looked from Marcus to the rifle and then back again at
Marcus. ‘You can still be saved.’

Marcus didn’t want to be saved. He wanted to get as far away
from Penghilly’s Farm as possible. ‘Save your crap. I’m not listening.’

Alice stepped closer. Just a half step. ‘You have Satan
within you. That isn’t your fault, Brother Marcus. You can still be helped.’

‘You move another inch and I swear to God I’ll kill you.’

‘Kill me? Is that what you want to do? Kill an innocent
woman?’

Marcus laughed. The sound was a close relation to hysteria.
‘You’re not an innocent woman.’

‘I love you, Brother Marcus. Please don’t make this hard on
yourself. I only want to help you.’

‘Do you?’

Alice nodded.

‘And what do you think Ebb will do? Give me a pat on the
back and put an arm around my shoulder?’

‘He’ll help you, Marcus. Just like he helps everyone.’

‘Have you ever been in the Revelation Room?’

Alice hesitated. ‘No.’

Marcus saw a look in Alice’s eyes that seemed to contradict
her words. Just a fleeting moment of recognition that was instantly
extinguished. ‘You ought to go down there. It’s a riot. He’s got three
skeletons pinned to the wall.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘One of them is wearing a pink wig and sunglasses. It would
be funny if it wasn’t so fucking sick.’

‘You’re deluded.’

‘And then there’s Tweezer. Ebb tried to kill him with a
shovel.’

‘The Lord is watching you, Brother Marcus. He’s watching you
and keeping a count of all your lies.’

‘But Tweezer grabbed hold of the Father and tipped him over.
He took a chunk out of his face. He would’ve killed him, too, if I hadn’t shot
him in the back.’

‘You did the right thing, saving the Father. That will
definitely go in your favour.’

‘Do you know what Ebb called it?’

‘Called what?’

‘Bashing in Tweezer’s head with a shovel, you stupid cow.’

‘How should I know?’

‘He called it “shaming the shovel”.’

‘You’re hysterical, Marcus. You’re not thinking straight.’

‘Shaming the fucking shovel. What the hell’s that supposed
to mean?’

‘I shall pray for you.’

Marcus gawped at her. What was he going to do now? He
couldn’t stay up here arguing the rights and wrongs of Ebb’s empire with this
deluded woman. Perhaps he ought to just shoot her in the leg and buy himself
some time to get away.

And you’re just going to leave Emily here to rot? It’s
your fault she’s here in the first place.

Marcus tried to reason with himself. He would never have
brought Emily to Penghilly’s Farm if he’d known what was down in the Revelation
Room. Street-dealing was one thing, wholesale murder and shaming shovels a
whole different ball game. Jesus Christ. What a mess.

‘Please, Marcus. Just think about this, for everyone’s
sake.’

If he shot her in the leg, she wouldn’t be able to make it
down the steps. At least it might buy him enough time to get Emily. He could
take Ebb’s Land Rover and be miles away before anyone even knew what was
happening. Ebb was in no fit state to come after him. Or Tweezer. That only
left Benjamin, and he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy after his night on the
cross.

What if Alice bleeds to death?

Marcus dismissed the thought. He couldn’t afford to get held
up by compassion. He’d already made one monumental mistake by shooting Tweezer
instead of Ebb; he wasn’t about to make another on the grounds of whether or
not Alice might bleed to death.

Alice moved with the speed and dexterity of a cheetah. She
grabbed hold of the end of the rifle before Marcus could even register what she
was doing. Instinct caused him to squeeze the trigger. Alice twisted the rifle
to one side. The bullet flew harmlessly towards the sun, narrowly missing a red
kite.

Marcus tried to wrench the rifle away from Alice. ‘Let go,
you fucking bitch.’

Alice didn’t. She held onto the rifle like a starving dog
with a bone. She twisted the rifle left and right in sharp, jerking movements.
Marcus tried to match her, tugging the rifle with every ounce of strength in
his body. They danced around the top of the tower, moving in circles like a
couple performing some strange African ritual.

Alice screamed and bared her teeth. She pulled Marcus
towards her and then thrust him away. He let go of the gun and fell back
against the guard rail. Alice tried to turn the gun around, but Marcus pushed
himself away from the rail and leapt forward. He grabbed her around the throat
and dug his nails into the soft flesh. He squeezed with all the strength left
in him. The rifle clattered to the ground.

Alice screeched and tried to prize his fingers away from her
neck. Marcus dug deeper. He could actually feel her windpipe. He could hear an
awful hissing noise as she tried to draw in air through her crushed windpipe.
Marcus squeezed harder. He had to kill her. It was a simple matter of survival.
Kill or be killed.

Alice stopped resisting. Her body went limp. Her knees buckled.

Marcus relaxed his grip on her throat. How long did it take
to strangle someone? Seconds? Minutes? He didn’t have a clue, but enough was
enough. He’d settle for unconscious. All that mattered was getting away from
Penghilly’s Farm.    

As Marcus let go of her neck, Alice struck for a second time
in as many minutes. This time, she poked him in his right eye with her
forefinger. Her fingernail sliced into the eyeball.

Marcus screamed and lurched backwards.

‘You’re going to die for what you did.’

Marcus clutched his injured eye. A white-hot needle lanced
his brain. His other eye tried to keep a watch on Alice, but tears drew a misty
veil across it, as though it had come out in mourning for its partner.

Marcus watched a ghostly vision of Sister Alice bend over to
retrieve the rifle. He stepped forward and kicked her in the side of her head
with his heel. Although the blow wasn’t hard enough to put her out of action,
it did halt her progress.

She stumbled sideways. ‘You can’t defeat me. God is on my
side.’

Marcus rubbed his injured eye. He should have shot the bitch
when he’d had the chance. He glanced at the rifle lying on the deck. Through
his blurred vision, the rifle now had two handles and three barrels.

Alice rushed at Marcus, hands outstretched like a monster in
a horror movie. She tried to grab him around the throat, but he seized her
wrists and twisted them around. The left one snapped like a dry twig.

Alice screamed and tried to bite his face.

Marcus let go of her hands and shoved her backwards over the
top of the three feet high guardrail. He could no longer afford to think about
what was right and what was wrong. He picked up the rifle and hurried towards
the tower steps.

By the time he reached the bottom of the tower, his hands
were shaking like an alcoholic in dire need of a drink. He forced his mind to
focus on rescuing Emily and getting as far away from Penghilly’s Farm as
possible. They could start again. Get jobs. Have kids. Buy a nice little house
by the seaside. Do all the things normal people did.

His father had always warned Marcus that he would end up in
trouble, and his father had been right. He was in the deepest shit imaginable.
He was in locked-away-for-life trouble, and the sooner he disappeared with
Emily, the better.

Marcus approached Sister Alice’s motionless body with
caution. ‘Are you all right?’

Sister Alice wasn’t saying. Her legs were splayed out
beneath her at a crazy angle. A pool of blood had spread out beside her head.
One of her eyes stared blankly up at the sun. The other was closed. A few flies
buzzed around her like hesitant kamikaze pilots. If she wasn’t dead, then she
was the world’s greatest actress. She was also the keeper of the keys now that
Ebb and Tweezer were both out of action.  That meant he would have to
search her body for them if he wanted to let Emily out of the Sisters’ Room.