Dark Choir Read online

  Dan knew he would explode. He was glad this argument was happening now and not in the café or where there were other people about. In a field in the middle of nowhere was the best place to do it. She was still berating him when he bellowed at the top of his voice.

  “You know fuck all about what went on in that house!” he yelled. “Fuck. All.”

  She backed away, eyes wide, then turned her back on him. He let the silence hang. He’d expected her to shout back, hit him. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but she didn’t do either of these things.

  “I want you to take me back. Now,” she said quietly. “You shouted at me. You’ve never shouted at me before, and I see another side of you now. Take me back to the house, Dan. Take me back now.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t. Don’t come near me.” She stormed off in the direction they’d come. He followed at a distance behind.

  Eighteen

  Jason Hereford sipped his coffee. It had gone cold. He cursed and looked at the clock on the classroom wall. It was nearly six o’clock and already getting dark. The empty desks before him seemed to only have been vacated a few minutes ago. To his right the dark green of the playing field stretched away into a white evening mist.

  He looked at the blackboard again. He’d drawn the squares and spaces to the detail in the crossword book he held in his right hand. He could predict the groans he would hear in the morning when his class arrived.

  Jason was probably the only person in the school. He wondered if that annoying drama teacher was still in the staff room covering the floor with acres of paper to complete some background scenery for a play she was doing with the remedials. He shook his head. May as well read Shakespeare to monkeys than try to get that lot to act. Time and money would be better spent sending them all to work in a factory. Start as they mean to go on. He was offered head of the remedial class last year but just didn’t have the stomach for it. If you don’t let people know their place early, they get ideas and you end up with the namby-pamby society we’ve got now.

  He stood back. He’d need to look at it in the light. He should have finished work hours ago but the thought of going home to Debbie and the girls just depressed him. However, he couldn’t stay here all night.

  Movement out in the field caught his eye. In the mist he thought he saw a figure standing, watching. The blurred landscape yielded nothing.

  He decided to turn the light on and backed into his own chair at his desk, the scraping of the chair deafening in the silent room. He walked over to the classroom door and flicked the light switch but it didn’t work. He wondered if there’d been a power outage but the light from the block of classrooms across the edge of the field still glowed, blurred by mist. That part of the school hadn’t lost its power.

  A noise caused him to look to the back of the class. A hollow pop like something flimsy and plastic hitting the floor. He saw a small arm release whatever it had dropped and fall slowly to its side. The kid, that’s what it must have been, stood with its back to him, hood or its dark coat up.

  “How long have you been there?” he demanded to know. He strode forwards. The kid didn’t move.

  “Come on. Turn around. Let’s see you.”

  The figure didn’t turn. Instead, Jason stumbled backwards in shock as the small figure lifted two feet from the ground. It elevated and hung in the air, toes pointed to the floor.

  All of the sudden the neon lights overhead flicked on, bathing the classroom in white, modern brightness.

  The figure had disappeared.

  “Must have imagined it,” Jason said out loud. But the figure had looked so real.

  Jason remembered that he’d heard something drop to the floor. Sure enough, crimpled and flesh-like, the cruel visage of Margaret Thatcher looked up at him. A mask.

  “Shit,” he said, picking it up. He knew in that instant he would need to pay Widdowson a visit.

  The king-size profiling bed took up nearly the whole of the small bedroom. Angela Teal waddled over to the bed and lay down. Chubby fingers searched for the control to the bed. She angled the head end up to the sitting position. Then she reached over and pulled the cot side up, settling in.

  The afternoon had given over to full dark and it was only half past four in the afternoon. Meagre light from the streetlight outside played against the condensation on the window.

  She reached for the TV remote control and flicked the screen into life. With another press of the button the DVD began playing, the screen filled with close-ups of sweaty, writhing flesh.

  Angela was already wet and with watching these images, she began to probe herself. She flicked the sound up a notch to hear the animalistic grunts and cries.

  This was her favorite porno. Shelly’s too.

  As she lay there letting the sexual images wash over her, she imagined Shelly lying next to her, conjured memories from the nights they’d spent together. Back then Widdowson had suggested she stop having Shelly over and even work somewhere other than Willow House. She would get into trouble otherwise.

  Angie had loved Shelly and she was pretty sure Shelly had loved her back. She’d sensed that Shelly had needed love. Of course she’d fought it at first and cried out, but this was just a barrier Angie needed to break through. Shelly had to experience love. Angie had to show her love. It was the right thing to do. She’d even bought this bed out of her own money (and some of Shelly’s) to make it easier for her to stay over.

  Just thinking about their nights together was enough to make Angie climax, which she did after a few minutes. She turned towards the window to reach for the tissues to wipe her fingers when she saw a figure standing just on the other side of the glass. The streetlight behind the figure put them into a silhouette. They were just standing there, looking right in.

  She froze, a sudden sense of dread spreading from the centre of her being. Angie felt the obscured gaze regarding her darkly. Angie knew the watcher wished her harm.

  She backed away from the window and looked to the living room. The phone was there. She should call the police. If the watcher got in, who could she call out to? The only neighbour she had was an old woman who could hardly walk. The front door was locked but if they wanted to get in, they could just smash the window.

  “Oh my God!”

  The figure hadn’t moved but in the condensation on the inside of the window a curve traced carefully as if drawn by an invisible finger. Angie was now backed up against the cot side of the bed, paralysed with fear as letters were slowly marked out in the glistening beads on the window.

  She could even hear a squeak as the letters were drawn. The movement stopped. She read the word left there.

  CHOIR

  When she looked up the figure had gone. She reached forwards and wiped away the word. She turned off the TV and managed to put the cot-side down. Then she turned on all the lights in the house and checked the front door.

  Picking up the phone to ring the police to report the intruder, her fingers froze over the dial. The police wouldn’t be able to deal with this situation. This intruder had some sort of magic powers. How the hell did they write that word on the inside of the window?

  In haste, she tapped in Widdowson’s number. Widdowson would know what to do.

  “God wants an army of real people. He wants and army of upstanding men and women, a nation of righteous, faithful, citizens to bring a new Israel to this land, to Scarsdale. Amen.”

  The evening congregation were slow to respond. Widdowson eyed them, picking out individuals and giving them the glare.

  “I said, Amen.”

  “Amen” the more attentive members echoed.

  “Just like the soldiers who drank from the stream of water that we read about in Judges 7:7 or the priests of God who turned tail and worshipped with whores and loose women at the altar of Baal in the book of Judges, you will be rejected by Him who sits on the throne. There is no place in the army of God f
or idolaters, sodomites, and the sexually perverse.” He climbed down from the stage and addressed the congregation directly. “Don’t think that this is just meant for Old Testament times? God is the same today, yesterday, and tomorrow. There is no place in this church for the man who watches pornography on a Saturday night then comes and sings here on a Sunday morning. If that’s you then your worship is detestable to God, a stench in his nostrils and he will have you out.” He pointed randomly into the audience. “I hear you say ‘oh, but Pastor, that’s not me.’ Oh really? I say this. What films did you watch on TV last night? What books have you been reading? What music have you been listening to? Ungodly films, ungodly TV, ungodly books, and ungodly music.”

  Some rang out a chorus of Amens, but most of the congregation sat wide eyed and looking guilty.

  “I see what you write on Facebook…” he pointed to a teenage girl in the audience “…Caroline.” Caroline looked left and right, her face reddening. He pointed to another, an older woman. “What does God think, Veronica, of you? On your bookshelf, Fifty Shades of Grey. Pornography.”

  “It’s my daughter’s,” Veronica protested.

  “I don’t care if it’s the Pope’s. He does not want your excuses!” he said, raising his voice, then shouting, “God does not want your excuses! Get rid of it. Repent. God will only give you so many chances, but he will not tolerate this pornography, this idolatry.” He leapt up onto the stage again. “Elders, come forwards.” Seven men and women, came out and flanked the pastor. “Congregation, leave your seats and come forwards so the elders can pray for you. Confess, confess your sins to us and you will be forgiven.”

  One man stayed behind and was keen to talk to Widdowson. Widdowson knew him, Jason Hereford. The elders had collected confessions from most of the congregation. The two hours of hard preaching had softened them up to confess. One of the elders had already approached Widdowson and told him Brian Redding had confessed to stealing some wood from a builder’s yard. He’d pop around tomorrow, give him the usual talk about having to involve the police unless Brian wanted to increate his monthly tithe.

  Last year, one stupid bastard, an accountant called Norman White, had confessed in such a meeting as this that he’d been watching child porn. A visit from Gould and the man was now one of the church’s best contributors.

  Jason wanted to talk. That much was clear. And he didn’t want to unpack some minor theological detail Widdowson had alluded to in his sermon, either. As subtly as he could Widdowson told the elders to give him a minute, and he ushered Jason into his office.

  The office had been a kitchen when the chapel had originally been built. Now a computer sat on an oak writing desk and three office chairs stood sentinel against a wall.

  “You look troubled, Jason.” Widdowson opened the conversation, taking his place behind the desk. Jason’s body language was nervous and urgent. Beneath his tweed jacket, shirt, and tie Widdowson could see he was sweating and he already had an inkling as to what this was about.

  “I think I’m being blackmailed.”

  “You think? I haven’t got time for nervous people who think they’re being blackmailed, Jason.”

  “Someone knows, Pastor. About St. Brendan’s. I’ve got a career to think of. I’m head of the department now. If the past got out, well, it doesn’t look good for a teacher, does it? I mean, all that Panorama Winterbourne stuff is still fresh in people’s minds. I’d be labeled. I could still get prosecuted or even jailed. We did some pretty mean stuff back then.”

  “Just tell me why you think you’re being blackmailed.”

  Jason sighed. “Okay. I was working late one night at the school, and I was the last one to leave. I was in the old part of the school. They still have those roll-down blackboards in the room I teach in. I was doing a crossword for the following morning on the blackboard. You know it gets dark early this time of year. Anyway, it was dark. I decided to the turn the light on and it didn’t work. There was someone else in the classroom. It was him. I’m sure it was.”

  “What made you think it was male?”

  “Not sure. Outline of the body? I don’t know how he could have got in. I was in the classroom the entire time.

  “Could have been a kid that hid while all the others headed out. You said were looking at the blackboard most of the time.”

  “No. I watched them all leave. He was half my size and he dropped this. Did it deliberately.”

  Jason handed him the Margaret Thatcher mask.

  “And the significance of this is?”

  “You read the reports. You know what we, I, used to get up to.”

  “And this is blackmail?”

  “I haven’t finished. Next morning, I came in. Kids were waiting for the lesson to begin. I rolled the blackboard down and my crossword wasn’t there. Instead, someone had written the word ‘choir’ in…well…”

  “Written it using what?”

  “Well, let’s put it this way. It wasn’t Nutella.”

  Widdowson sighed heavily.

  “I’ve spoken to Gillits,” said Jason. “And Jackie. The same thing’s happened to them. The same word. I’m just remembering what Pendred used to say about the Dark Choir. It was only a stupid story. He’s locked up in the mental hospital, so it can’t be him doing this.”

  “Oh, you have been busy,” said Widdowson.

  “I need to preserve my career.” He let an angry silence fall between them. “You don’t think Ann Prendergast is behind this, do you?”

  “God no. She’s in some old folks’ home in Belper. I made sure she was neutralised.”

  “This is serious, Widdowson. You said you’d protect us. You said you’d manage the situation, keep the accusers quiet. We all gave you enough money, enough time. I’ve put my neck on the line for you many times since then. You need to sort this out, Widdowson. Put a lid on it.”

  “Jason, when I find out who is daring to rake up the past in this way, I will strangle them to death with my own bare hands.” He stood, gestured to the door. “No one plays silly buggers with Pastor Widdowson, you know that.”

  Placated, Jason left the office. Widdowson sat back down, looked into empty space and said, “Shit.”

  Just before he went back to the church to talk to the elders and collect confessions, he checked his mobile phone. He had a missed call from Angela Teal. Even before he listened to the message, he knew exactly what she had said.

  Nineteen

  Monday had passed slowly. Alison tiptoed around Dan and Beverly and their awkward silences. She’d fully gone back to calling him Mr. Hepworth and the closeness they’d established seemed to have evaporated. Beverly repeatedly insisted they take this Brendan Widdowson character to court for historic coercion, and Dan had tried to explain how devious and snake-like the pastor was. Bev then took her usual moral high ground and stated that no one was above the law.

  Fine. Let her try it. As long as he didn’t have to get involved, but his involvement in her plan was inevitable.

  On the subject of the funeral she wasn’t taking no for an answer. His sister was going and so should he. He agreed, just to shut her up. Actually, walking through the doors on the day would be another matter. Dan would need to find a way out.

  The sleeping arrangements were also a cause for concern for his fiancé. She’d slept in his bed, he slept in his mother’s old bed. Bev found the room to be too cold and moaned that there was a draft. There were several. However, when he suggested they swap beds, she wasn’t keen. Dan knew she wanted to suggest Alison give up her room, but she didn’t openly suggest it which was unusual for her. She’d conceded when he said it was only for one more night.

  Tuesday arrived. He woke in Diane’s old bed, her Bible lay on the bedside table, her silky bathrobe thrown over the chair before the Welsh dresser littered with bottles of perfume and talcum powder containers. Old woman stuff.

  He decided then and there he couldn’t walk through the doors of tha
t chapel. He was tired of arguing. He got up, washed, dressed, and went downstairs. Beverly had got up early and gone for a run. She came back, showered, and Alison cooked a light lunch. He helped Alison change Lindsey into her best clothes and she was hoisted into the wheelchair. Dan wore what he called his “interview suit” that Bev had brought up. Beverly herself looked nice in a trouser suit, white blouse, and jacket. However, his eyes widened when Alison appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She’d also changed for the funeral.

  The nurse looked resplendent in a black calf-length dress which restrained her ample bosom. Her fair hair contrasted perfectly with the black of her dress. Her red lips matched her nails. If his fiancé hadn’t been present, he would have told her how beautiful she looked. She caught his gaze and seemed to know what he was thinking. She flashed him a knowing smile just as Bev’s head turned away.

  “We won’t all fit in the adapted car,” said Dan. “How about you and Alison go with Lindsey, and I take the Morris.”

  For a second he thought Beverly might argue and say that Dan and her should go in her car, but she couldn’t resist giving Alison another grilling, so she agreed. They locked up the house and all left together.

  The day was overcast and a slight drizzle leaned the atmosphere a depressive hue. The weather fitted his mood. He followed the girls into town and watched as they found the only parking space in front of the chapel. There were quite a few people here already. Widdowson’s faithful would fill the chapel. He was outnumbered, totally.

  He looked at the arched door, the smug Christians entering, then saw Widdowson at the door.

  “Fuck this,” he said and hit the accelerator. He turned left up the high street and left the car in Morrison’s car park.