D*ck Pics & Decapitations

“Payne, you’ll probably burn out within a few months.” She told me that first week. And I can feel it now; the sweat beading on my forehead, the acrid bile in my throat, the gun heavy in my hand. Time stands still and Phoebe just stares at me, emotionless, the burdensome barrel pointed at her; the office behind me poised like the crowd behind the guillotine blade. “It’s what you do with it next that counts…

Three months ago: I’m standing at the front of the conference room staring at a screen, watching a grainy black and white film of a man sharpening a razor blade on a moonlit night. Looking around the room I see impressionable faces of the lost generation; the last-ditch attempt at a job that no one really wants -the last chance saloon. On the screen the man holds a woman’s head and the camera focuses on her eye; a brief cut and the razor blade slit’s the woman’s eye in one swift motion; unflinching -the camera and the woman. The film stops and Trainer Bob looks to me:

“So, fact or fake?” The impossibly tall podgy man asks, matter-of-factly. The rest of the trainee’s look as if they’ve been blanched by the horrific sight. I know better of course.

“Fake.” 

“You sound sure of yourself, Payne.” Bob didn’t need to see the obligatory name badges we were all forced to wear. (Some of the more infantile lambs had taken great pains to personalise them, drawing flowers and smiley faces on them) Bob was one of the few people who walked the walk; he wasn’t a trainer by title only. Too many charlatans had learnt their trade by book alone, he ate and slept it. He exuded confidence and cockiness and it was impossible not to like him.

“I’ve seen the film already.” I could hear the scoff’s but Bob’s wry smile confirmed I was right. “Un Chien Andalou; the surrealist masterpiece by Dali and Bunuel.”

“I can see we’re going to get on…” Bob nodded for me to sit back down again; I had passed the test and it was time for some other poor slob to walk the tightrope. In many ways I got off lightly; I recognised the film and it was an easy spot.. The rest weren’t so easy to distinguish from the real thing. 

A ‘Process Content Auditor’ sounds like an interesting job but it’s not -as I soon learnt- but when your job prospects shrink overnight and there’s no chance of a reprieve you’ll take whatever you can get… Ever heard of GeoZone inc? 

Nope – they were a brief flash-in-the-pan dot.com bust and were swallowed by Google. I believed in them and sank too much money, time and effort and it all blew back in my face; hence the Process Content Auditor job for Opaque Services. We only had one client in those days, ProCoginator Social Media Enterprises -ProCog for short. 

In the initial interview they were impressed with my staying power -I kept with GeoZone until their last day (not that I had any choice) and also my warped sense of humor; the fact that I loved horror movies was an added bonus for them too. I soon learnt that loving horror movies meant nothing when faced with the real thing.

Scott-1 stood up next to the screen and we all watched the scene unfold; bleached shaky-cam footage of another woman prostrate on the floor, blood already pooling around her. The footage was obviously from a micro-cam, somehow affixed to the assailant’s helmet because we were stabbing her. Each blow lovingly placed on her already mangled body; each swipe of the bloodied knife a caress; he’s enjoying this -the pathetic whimpers from the woman spurring on his ecstatic moans and the camera shuddered in time. The training room went deathly silent; no one dared to even breathe. I started to wonder why he hadn’t touched the woman’s face yet; and then I saw his knife start edging to her eyes as the blade got closer… 

I lost it then and had to excuse myself. I tried to be as cool and calm about it as I could but it was obvious that I’d failed this particular round; I’m the only one to have buckled under the pressure. But by leaving I’ve acted as a release valve for the rest of them and they can now laugh and feel better for their own discomfort. I no longer cared; I needed to get to the men’s room before I lost it completely. I barely got there in time. For three minutes I vomited it out never aware that I was actually being watched; I forgot to shut the door behind me.

“You have to be a new fish.” She slyly addressed me and I blanched even more. I cleaned myself off the best I could and got up to face her.

“What makes you say that?” I ask, trying to regain my composure. Her face is too hard edged to be beautiful and her eyes tell me that she’s seen everything too many times to care; but there’s a wrinkle of compassion in her forehead.

“Well… two things really.” She replied, as if she’s talking to a wayward child. “You’re vomiting like you’ve just had your first prom… and you’re in the ladies.” I blushed and apologised, my hard-nosed rookie impression shot down in smoke.

“I couldn’t handle seeing the woman being stabbed…. I’ve… never seen anything like that before. Was it real?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” She countered. “My name’s Phoebe, by the way.”

“Not really, I suppose. I failed the test.”

“You failed part of the test, Payne.”  She saw my name badge and knew enough to not make the situation any worse. “We all balk the first time we see images like that -though not in as spectacular fashion as you, admittedly- but it’s how you bounce back that defines you.” This was sound advice and I nodded and thanked her before walking back to the training room. As I left she said, “You’ll probably find you’ve picked up a new nickname. Don’t be surprised if you start getting called ‘Pained’ from now on in.”

“What’s yours then?” I countered.

“Phoenix.”

I walked back to the training room, my head held high. I knew that I was going to get schtick from everyone and there were sniggers, for sure; but most looked sheepishly at me, almost relieved that I had broken before they had.

“Ah, Pained!” Bob quipped, smiling at me. I could see concern mixed with something else that I couldn’t fathom in his gaze. “Welcome back! Have you had enough or are you here for the duration?”

“It’s not how one falls that’s the defining characteristic…” I had rehearsed this all the way from the toilets and it almost worked. “Its how one bounces back that defines you.”

“Splendid! Say hi to Phoebe the Phoenix next time you see her; she’ll be your mentor moving forward!”

First day on the job; seven in the AM, barely made it in time; but there I am waiting at the bottom of a busy but narrow staircase; and it’s obvious that the night shift has just finished. 

“Better push your way through, Pained, otherwise we ain’t gonna get nowhere…” It’s Phoebe, I feel better already just knowing there’s a friendly face and I do as she suggests; just push myself through the masses and no one seems to bat an eyelid. We get to the top and she shows me into what’s called a ‘break room’.

“This is where the breakdowns happen…” She explains. “But as you’ve already had one, Pained, there’s no problem. I just got to run through some quick rules for you.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Pained? Why not? That’s how you’re going to be known for the time being; most of us have got one.” I frown at this and she puts her hand on my arm as she sits me down. “Look… I like you, but there’s no favouritism here.”

“What do you mean, you like me?”

“Bob told me about Un Chien Andalou..  We gonna get along fine.”

“I never said I liked that film, just that I’ve seen it.

“Don’t spoil things so damn fast.” She remonstrated and started telling me the lay of the land. “We clock in at 7am every morning; two 15min breaks and half an hour for lunch. It’s best to bring something in with you as there’s no real kitchen and you’ll need to allow yourself time to queue for the toilets. You’re also allowed up to nine minutes for ‘wellness breaks’, chosen at your discretion... and, yes you will be monitored! Not by me, necessarily, but there’s always someone wanting to trip up the newbies -so don’t give them the opportunity. There’s also an additional 15 minutes to be used as a ‘prayer-break’ for those religiously inclined. Take them, even if you spit on religion -you’re going to need all the breaks you can get!” I shook my head as this was nothing I expected from the interview. Phoebe smiled and nodded sagely. “You ain’t heard nuttin’ yet. Lockers.. well, there are very few and if you don’t need one then brilliant… but if you do best get in there quick; either start earlier than everyone else or accidentally leave stuff in there overnight… 

“You’re not allowed to have any mobile technology on when you’re in the office and definitely no social media open on your desktop -although everyone uses ‘Messaged’ as a shortcut to shouting across the desks.

“No writing utensils are allowed either…” She continued and I could barely draw breath. “Just in case someone writes down a customer’s information, etc… oh yes.. they are that paranoid.” She replied to my unspoken question. “But deservedly so; someone was stupid enough in another company to write down customers details so they could blackmail them with ‘naughty posts’. They were tracked down and dealt with accordingly.”

“But how can I make notes about stuff?” I asked. “I’ve got a terrible memory.”

“You can say a shit memory, if you like -no one stands on ceremony here.” I liked Phoebe immensely.

“Ok.. I have a shit memory.”

“Use the computer’s Sticky Note facility. No one cares about that.” 

“What? Isn’t that double standards?”

“Yup -through and through… but name me a place that doesn’t have them. Know the rules and shortcuts now, it’ll be easier on you, Pained.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Get used to it…. Oh yeah – no boxes or bags allowed either. Clear plastic bags only so people can see what you’re carrying…”

“Paranoid much?” I quipped.

“We’re all paranoid here.. and its whether you’re paranoid enough. Stay long enough here and you’ll start to believe the conspiracy theories. You scoff at it now but the flat earthers sit in the far corner, the lizards in another… Personally I believe that the CIA have been running mind control operations for years and the AID’s epidemic was deliberately released in Africa to destroy the black population there. Nothing like a bit of Eugenics to get the juices flowing.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; whether she was being serious or having a laugh at my expense. “Oh… before I forget; in the event of an evacuation keep an eye on Kevin -I’ll point him out to you on the ‘grand tour’ he knows where all the escape points are. Don’t show any weakness though otherwise you might end up on his hit list when the shit goes down; he keeps a gun taped under his desk… but then we all do.”

We sat at her desk and she showed me the system I was going to use: OPA -I couldn’t even be bothered to find out what it stood for, and Phoebe grinned as the screen hummed to life.

“What do you think of my screensaver?” She asked. I couldn’t make it out; it was an abstract mass of pixels, pale pinks and vivid reds; if I squinted it was like a cross-between one of the Magic Eye pictures that had been popular some time back and a Francis Bacon canvas… “What the hell is it?” I asked.

“Stand back a bit and squint again.” I did as she said.

“Fucking hell…It’s a…!”

“Yup – it’s a cunt.” She said matter-of-factly. “Not mine… but we all have one. There’s a great website which we’ve unofficially chosen as our all-time favourite: www.mybeautiful  cunt.com.”

“Shouldn’t the profanity filters stop you from seeing that?” I couldn’t believe this; it was bordering on surreal.

“Top marks for Pained!” I’d given up trying to correct her now and she carried on regardless. “Yes, you’d think so -and you’d also think that we’d block this site from appearing on the Opaque feed… BUT it’s seen as being exceptionally positive and uplifting, would you believe? So, join the gang and get yourself a full-screen pussy like the rest of us!”

I just couldn’t get to grips with what Phoebe was telling me; I’d never heard such madness.

“Best to shut your mouth a bit, it’s hanging open a bit too wide -people might think you’re developing a fixation on my cunt; and we wouldn’t want that… just yet.” I looked at her with wild eyes. “You’re going to have to chill more, John. You smoke dope or get high?” I shook my head. “Drink? You’re going to have to find your own outlet then otherwise you will burn out. You have a girlfriend or man-toy?” I wanted to close my ears to this but it was too late now, I had to make the best of this otherwise I’d be back on the streets with no job prospects. Six months will be enough to give me a track record then I’d be able to go job hunting again. “Six weeks on the job and normal sex didn’t do it for me.” Phoebe continued. “I could only be brought off anally... It took hubby a while to get used to the idea, but he kinda likes it now.” I didn’t know where to look - I couldn’t face her but nor could I stare in front of me either; her obscene pixelated pussy just throbbed at me. “Geez; I didn’t know you’d be so square. If I were you I’d avoid the rear staircase between 11 and 12.30 then…. Let’s carry on with the training…” I didn’t dare ask what she meant. It was only 2 in the afternoon on my first day and I’d already had enough.. how was I going to make this work for six months?

For the next two hours I was bombarded with obscene picture after obscene picture; after a while none of it seemed to mean anything. Phoebe just sat me down at a computer and told me that the exercise was to select whether the photo was real or fake. Head’s split open, periodal crotch shots; child abuse, animal fellation and after the first three dozen the photo’s themselves ceased to have any meaning and I no longer saw them for what they represented… they became beautiful, surreal masterpieces and it was like I was witness to a gaudy, macabre Bauhaus art gallery…. But after a hundred I was starting to see the artifice behind them; those which were just special effects and those which were actually real. Part of me marveled at the ingenuity of the fakes whilst the rest of me wept for humanity. At the end of the two hours Phoebe came over to me. 

“How did I do?” I asked naively.

“How should I know?” I just looked at her and it dawned on me what was really going on.

“This was nothing about being able to spot a real pic from a fake, was it?” I parried.

“Well, yes… it was partly...”

“But mainly to get used to the type of content I’ll be seeing on an hourly basis?” I thrust further.

“Hourly? More like minute by minute!” Phoebe riposted. “I hate to say it, but there are some that view you as a bit of a flight risk, Pained… and it pains me to say it I’ve stuck my neck out for you. We need to get you desensitised as quickly as possible… if only for the fact that when you’re let loose on the live world, you’ll be the target of everyone’s fun & games here.”

“How do you mean?”

“There’s various games that go on here -some harmless and others... less so. People message the worst pics they find to ‘easy marks’ to provoke a reaction. You’re being strictly monitored and every gesture and outburst by you will go against your probation. The one that scores the most points against you will win.” I just stared at her.

“That’s monstrous!”

“Look, we’re just 12 people moderating 120 million users; the company is trying to resolve human nature and we’re policing the un-policable!  You’ll soon feel as if the world is perpetually teetering on the blink of chaos and the only way to combat that is with gallows humour… it won’t be long before you start joining in on our daily bingo games! None of it is personal, we’re just trying to survive.”

The last thing I did on that first day was to sign a waiver; a non-disclosure agreement: whatever happened to me during my time at work I was not to tell anyone… ANYONE of the emotional toll from working for Opaque. “You’ve probably seen in your contract that you’ll be offered any ‘outreach counselling’ services you need, and it won’t count against you.” Phoebe warned. “Don’t believe it. It’ll all go down against you, one way or another…” 

That night I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t shut my mind off from the sights I’d been partial to. It was like a stroboscope of images; beatings, rapes, open wounds, pet mutilation and among it all was the enlarged open lips of Phoebe’s screensaver. My partner, Michelle, had been aware of my discomfort throughout the night, but I just couldn’t talk about it with her; how could she understand? We lay in bed together and I just needed a release.

I turned over in bed and spooned her naked body, enjoying her warmth; she didn’t stir -she was a heavy sleeper at the best of times. I felt myself grow hard against her and all I could think of was the phoenix’ engorged pussy; opening up like a wound ready to swallow me whole; I spat on my hand and wet my penis, covering it in saliva so it was slippery enough. I didn’t even think of waking her; all I wanted was to be inside, to invade her the same way I had been… I thought about what Phoebe had said, and thrust myself into Michelle’s body. 

“What happened with the eye, Pained much?” Phoebe asked the  next day. I didn’t even care about the name anymore; I was pained. I crossed the line last night.

“I broke up with my girlfriend…” I mumbled; Michelle had been inconsolable. Her scream and the elbow to the head were instant and shocked me out of my stupor. Nothing I said afterwards made any difference… it had always been the unwritten rule and the one boundary Michelle had made me promise not to cross. I could tie her up and even spank her (which was never my thing) but under no circumstance would she ever indulge in anal. What I had done last night was tant-amount to rape and there was no way back. 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Phoebe didn’t push it any further; I suppose it had been inevitable and in a way I’m glad it happened.

I had difficulty the rest of that week; I couldn’t switch off at night and consequently stayed wide awake, endlessly watching the adult channels, an eternal plastic display of desire and empty nothings. I found it hard to concentrate at work and Phoebe took me to one side.

“Get used to the coffee machine; it’ll be your best friend.”

“Won’t it just keep me awake for longer?” I asked, my eyes and speech slurred.

“I don’t care what you get up to at night… you want to stay employed here? Then stay awake.” She pressed a cup filled with diarrhea coloured liquid into my hands; it smelt just as bad. “You won’t notice it before long… it’ll make your spit taste funny and your piss stink… but pretty soon you won’t be able to survive without it!”

The first taste was the worst… and then the second taste… but by the time I got back to my desk and started to trawl through the filth of the internet I’d forgotten my initial revulsion and by the end of the week I’d become another hopeless, helpless addict. It made it much harder to sleep, as I thought it would, but by that stage I no longer cared. Sleep was for sloths, and for the dead.

It was shocking though just how blasé I was becoming about the images I was now privy to … car accidents; suicide bombings, sexualised violence… and the posts were becoming almost comical to me. There was a weekly award to the person who found the funniest post and on the second week I actually managed to scoop up this prestigious prize. The post read: “B4 & After abortion pix!! £10 lighter!! RIP Baby… but C my sexy body!!”

A few weeks later someone sent out an anonymous email from one of our sibling offices asking people to send us naked pictures of themselves so we could block any future revenge porn attempts. This was an April Fools joke, but we were inundated within the first twenty minutes of it being posted; by the time it had been retracted we’d already picked the babe of the month and the munter of the minute. I’d also found my screensaver image.

Then came the terror attacks out of nowhere; the curse of the modern age -the atrocities caught from every conceivable mobile device and every angle known to man. It was unflinching and took everyone by surprise -a series of explosions around the town; the terrorists had targeted certain offices to plunge us all into confusion. (Our office was probably too insignificant to profit from destroying…) For many of the conspiracy seekers this was seen as proof that they had been right all along; for me this was the realisation of my worst nightmares. There seemed to be no empathy to the clips being posted; no editing just raw footage of charred bodies and malformed corpses; smoke billowing out of the offices. This wasn’t special effects; this wasn’t a movie -these were people like me; walking into an office, ready to do a meaningless job… only to be unceremoniously executed in such a horrific way. 

We were on the front line and were deluged by thousands, tens of thousands of clips each that we had to veto. Even the most hardened of us were staggered by the nature of some of the video’s. People had invaded the offices after the blasts, armed with their mobile phones and were actually filming the people dying, ignoring the pleas for help; immune to the suffering of others -and we were just allowing them to post. There was nothing in our rules to stop them; this was news, true unbiased news. 

I couldn’t cope with what I was watching, and, even though I knew it would be noticed and held against me during my performance review, I left my screen and ran to the toilets. All the stalls for the men’s and women’s blocks were occupied and I could hear intermittent sobbing mingled with animalistic sounds of desperate copulation. I understood what Phoebe had said about sex; there were times when only raw sex could heal the wounds.

The only stalls that were free were the mother & baby changing and the disabled toilet; I chose the former not thinking why Opaque would have such an incongruous facility. It was occupied by an older lady I’d noticed a few times, Maude; she had taken on a motherly role to many of the younger interns there which had earned her the nickname of Mother Maude. I blushed and tried to excuse myself from her presence, but she bade me to come in and shut the door.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise this was occupied. I’ll find somewhere else.” I blushed and made to walk past her but Maude shook her head and motioned for me to sit down on the toilet. Shutting the stall door behind her she walked over to me, undoing the buttons on her blouse. I’d never really paid any attention to Maude in the weeks I’d been there; she managed to keep her head down and just get on with her work with the minimum of fuss. But now facing her, watching transfixed as she manoeuvred her left breast out of her bra, I could see that she was truly beautiful, an Earth mother. She stood there, her ample breast inches from my face, and placed her hand on the back of my head; easing me to suckle on her kindness. “Shh, it’s all going to be ok… It’s all going to be ok.” She whispered to me, rocking me in her arms.

“The sheer volume of work is enough to screw anyone up, John.” Maude comforted me later; she was the only one that ever called me by forename. “The recruitment drive maintains that there’s no such thing as quota’s… but you try bringing that up during your performance review!” She sat on my lap there for another five minutes, putting my mind at rest until it was time for me to go back.

“Can I see you again?” I asked, as we parted.

“Yes, I’m here every day about this time; it’s a service I offer people.” She replied. I was shocked at this. “I’m surprised that it’s taken off the way it has, actually.”

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean like that….” I stammered.

“I know… and that’s sweet of you. I’d like that.” She kissed me on the cheek and we walked back to our desks. That night, for the first time, I slept like a baby.

For the next week or so I saw Maude each day at the same time. She never again suckled me and I never asked for it; I’d found someone more important: a friend, and she a kindred spirit. Maude had already been a supervisor but the sheer volume and the ever-changing rules that she was supposed to moderate over made it impossible to keep up. She was also spending more and more time away from her children which worried her.

“Couldn’t you have left them with a child-minder?” I asked.

“Not really – I’ve seen too many videos of baby-sitters raping those in their care or ransacking the properties that I just couldn’t trust anyone with my children anymore. I’m sure Phoebe has told you that it’s not whether your paranoid that’s the issue, it’s whether you’re paranoid enough!”

The next day I spoke to her about something that had been bothering me since the first week. “I don’t understand the double standards here, Maude. How have you managed to juggle these diametrically opposed ideas?”

“Wish with one hand, shit in the other… see which one fills up quicker, I guess.” She wanted me to lighten up; she called me her angry young man.

“Come on, Maude. Posts like ‘Autistic people should be murdered in utero’ aren’t taken down … because it’s not considered a ‘protected characteristic’ but anything that’s labelled black… even if it’s the colour of a pool ball… it’s taken down immediately! It’s crazy!”

“One thing I’ve learnt is this…” Maude explained, “The 90 page document you were given on your first day regarding the standards and principles can be summed up in two lines: dick pics and decapitations are bad; no insides should be seen on the outside.” I smiled, but she continued: “Posts such as ‘Kick all people with red hair’ and ‘burn all fat kids’ would never be flagged as offensive because it’s not deemed a credible threat. It’s just an outpouring of emotion, apparently! But if you were to post: ‘stab all Zionist’s’ or ‘Someone shoot the Queen’ it would immediately be removed! How crazy is that? Stop looking for sense, John. If it still hasn’t sunk in think on this…. Why are animal abuse images never taken down? They’re used for awareness and educational purposes…”

I sighed and nodded; there was no discernible rhyme or reason, Maude was right. As we were about to return to our respective desks I turned to her and said, “I did find a great post this morning: ‘If oxygen was discovered in 1783, how did people breathe before then?’” We laughed all the way back.

And for a couple of weeks the world turned as normal; I found my feet and, with the help of Maude, even managed to sleep a couple of hours a night. I increased my hours as the weeks went on because I found I had difficulty functioning in the other world around me, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. One by one the people I once saw as friends became less defined and mere cyphers, just another social media avatar; but that didn’t matter to me either.

Then Michelle knocked on the door, totally unannounced. I wasn’t really paying attention and just opened the door without checking to see who it was; there was no way I’d’ve let her in if I knew it was her! I must’ve looked pretty gaunt and withdrawn by that stage because she kept commenting on it.

“What’s with you? No one’s seen you in weeks, and I can understand why! Have you even looked at yourself recently?” She moaned.

“Have you? I mean, why are you here at all? I didn’t call you here.”

“No… your mum did. Your mum – when was the last time you called or even spoke to her?”

“I can’t..” I tried walking away from her but she wouldn’t let me. Wherever I walked she followed after me.

“I shouldn’t have run off like that; I know that now.” Michelle explained, trying to hold back the tears. “I had no idea what you were going through… how could I? But look at you now! Whatever this job is, whatever you think it’s doing for you, it’s not -it’s slowly destroying you!” 

She forced me into the bathroom, cleaned the mildewed mirror and made me look into it. I stared into the eyes of a no-one; gaunt and bloodshot; pale and waning. This wasn’t me; this wasn’t who I wanted to become. How did I let things get this bad? But what choice did I have? I turned to Michelle who was now crying with me, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. 

“Come back to me, please.” It was just one sobbing sentence, like a mantra, but all I could hear was one of the first things Phoebe said to me: ‘Chances are you’ll burn out within the first three months…” It was her; it was the company that had done this to me… No longer; enough was enough.

I don’t remember leaving Michelle, or how I got out of the flat; I just remember entering the offices of Opaque; it was clear to me what I had to do. Finding the gun was easy; it was exactly where Phoebe said it was and Kevin did nothing to dissuade me from taking it; I thought he’d fight me for it, and I was ready for the conflict. Part of me was actually disappointed that no one tried to stop me, they just looked on; pretending I wasn’t actually there. Phoebe had her back to me, but I could see her reflection in that perfectly formed, obscene vaginal blow-up screensaver of hers. She knew why I was there, could see the gun  at her head. She swiveled round and just looked at me.

“We all burn out within the first three months, Payne.” She said to me quietly, that last time, each word measured. My hand started to quiver, each second the gun felt heavier and heavier, but I had to pull the trigger; I had to end it. It had to end. 

“It’s what you do next that counts….” She whispered. I just stared at her, saw the smile in her eyes, remembering her nickname and I knew what I had to do.

Watch over

Stan is afraid of the dark and its past his bedtime but he’s been told that he’ll be safe –he’ll be looked after. He has someone to watch over him. The wood is dark and he shivers in the cold, the dressing gown and jim-jams doing nothing against the cutting wind, the slippers already soaked and mud caked but still he walks to the magic place just as he was told to. He tries not to feel the brambles snarl his hair, rake his flesh and he chokes back the tears. He mustn’t cry, this is his secret: he’s been blessed as one of the chosen and this is his night. The owls herald his approach, he can see the clearing at the bottom of the daffodil dell and there his friends are waiting for him to join them. He walks towards them and lets the night envelope him. No one can hurt him anymore.

Jeez… Another nightmare…Who was it who said that if you haven’t settled in to your new house during the first week you probably won’t do at all? Esme asked herself. She knew that it didn’t bode well. It should have been perfect: the dream home in the country miles away from anywhere, the ultimate seclusion: paradise. So what was wrong with it? It was miles away from anywhere, slap bang in the middle of the country in a secluded nook in Sussex where no one knew your name but everyone knew your business.

Staplewood was ideal for Tristan, her husband, less than half an hour’s drive from the nearest commuter town of Haywards Heath but it gave him somewhere quiet to return to after the busy, turbulent days he spent in the office.

She still didn’t know exactly what he did for a living –something to do with selling, or overseeing property abroad… every time he told her she just glazed over, so after a while he stopped trying. She was interested (almost) but he wasn’t the greatest of raconteurs and had the habit of explaining the minutiae of the job rather than the job itself. ‘But the job is in the details’ he would reply, to which she’d just nod.

It sounded trite and stereotypical to say that it was his decision to move here rather than hers; his needs over-riding hers. He needed the peace and quiet and wanted so desperately to be the country mouse, but having already lived in the country and hating it as a child this was the last place that Esme wanted to be; especially going back to the very village… not to mention house that she’d escaped from all those years ago. The trouble with stereotypes, as every writer knows in their heart of hearts, is that they’re, more often than not, true.

Esme had inherited the familial home when her mum passed away and she just wanted to sell it, forget about the past and put the money to better use.

Tristan was in the midst of one of his existential mid-winter crises and was feeling cramped and suffocated in the town; he wanted away from the hustle and bickering, the drunkenness and vandalism. He knew that living in the country would solve all his problems and it didn’t matter how many times Esme tried to tell him the realities behind his sad fantasies he wouldn’t listen. He never did.

Two children, which he was very rarely at home for, were a living testament to this. Two desperate attempts to increase the love that he wanted to feel for her and for the ‘honeymoon period’ after each child was born he couldn’t do enough for them both. He was there in every way possible, giving support and love wherever it was needed, but when the paternity leave ran out so did he –right back to work.

So the latest ‘chance at happiness’ was moving into the country and he had suggested it the same way he had suggested having children – the same way a child would: incessantly, with pouting and the silent treatment when not getting his own way. Esme no longer had the wherewithal to refuse him, he had managed to wear her down. She had even tried leaving him but he had ceaselessly hounded her, begging to be forgiven, pledging anything to be allowed to make it right, promising everything that it would never happen again. And, just like a child, after the initial week of contrition he went back to his old ways… worse, he then sulked for a while afterwards.

Staplewood itself was a small village; just a handful of houses, a restaurant (with delusions of grandeur) and a Norman church. There was an overbearing wood nearby, and two ponds in the immediate vicinity where her father had fished but the bulk of the village itself was a single street which was almost an afterthought to the main Steaplecross road and tapered off to a single dirt track which led to Hardings.

She had been indifferent to the village when she was growing up, aware that everyone in her year at school knew the comforts of living in the towns of Haywards Heath and Cuckfield. They had a social life and were in constant contact with each other; she was the social pariah, outcast because of a situation out of her control. Such was life.

By contrast, her brother Stan had loved Staplewood and saw himself as Alan Quartermain searching through the woods trying to find the lost city full of treasure, but he was the one lost to the wood. He often played there on his own; mum and dad so part of country life they could see nothing at fault –no harm could come to him. Things like that happened to other people, didn’t they?

He was missing just short of a few days when someone found him, his little body swaying in the morning mist; almost peacefully but for the pain etched on to his once ecstatic face. One of Esme’s skipping ropes (which had been used both as a mountaineering rope and a lion-tamers whip up until that time) was tied around his neck but he had died of suffocation rather than by a broken neck. From the clumsy knots used and the choice of the skipping rope the police listed the case as death through misadventure rather than investigate as a suicide, or possibly something far worse. Those were the days, after all; things like that never happened and what was worse no one seemed to question it.

The bereavement was like a tidal wave sweeping the old life away leaving only desolation and guilt. The marriage didn’t last and her father left and tried desperately to live a new life; start afresh. He had been blamed for not looking after Stan by Esme’s mum –after all, it was easier laying the blame on someone else rather than take it on yourself and he died a few years later. Esme’s mother stayed, wanting to stay close to her boy, not prepared to accept that he was never coming back. Esme could only take so much and moved as soon as she got the chance, only visiting when it could no longer be avoided.

She tried feeling guilty over abandoning her mum but after her father left she became the focus point of the blame: she should have been keeping a closer eye on him rather than cavorting with her friends. (What friends, she would shout back.) But the truth was no one had doted on Stan as much as Esme had; no one loved him more. To her mum and dad he was just the latest pawn in their mind games, and now the same thing was happening in her own family.

So moving to Staplewood had been a mistake and Tristan was adamant that they were going to make the most out of the opportunity, despite Esme explaining the history of the house and what had happened to her mum and dad. Tristan was impervious to her pain.

However much Esme loathed to be back there was no way she was going to let it impact on her kids. Luckily Tristan earned more than enough money to allow her the luxury of not having to work, which meant she could enjoy the time with Jacklyn and Beth. Jacklyn was old enough to go to the local primary school at Wardinghurst but Beth wasn’t old enough yet; the two of them could go exploring the local area doing the things that Esme had enjoyed.

She knew that Jacklyn had always found it hard to settle in mainly due to the other kids picking on his name. Tristan had wanted a girl as a first born and had had his heart set on the name and refused to change it, despite her protestations.  Jacklyn often tried his best to shorten the name when introduced but his father would have none of it. Tristan’s will be done regardless of who else it hurt, so there was a constant resentment between father and son with Esme slap in the middle. In one way it had brought her closer to Jacklyn as he seemed to appreciate what she was going through, having to deal with someone as obtuse and obstinate as Tristan.

The village hadn’t changed at all; it still had the ‘old world charm’ complete with shuttered windows and closed minds. Her mother had been ‘a villager’ and trusted but Esme knew that she never would be; she had raised too many questions about Stan’s disappearance and death that no one wanted to answer. It was easy to silence a child, especially when the parents were complicit but when she came of age the village made it very clear what would happen to her if she tried sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

She had been on her way home from the pub (which was now a shamelessly over-priced restaurant), just a hundred yards door to door; it was a close night and she wore a light summer dress and a leather jacket her boyfriend, Steve, had given her the week previously. It looked good on her, everyone loved it (except her mother) and she was happy with how things were going in the relationship. It wouldn’t be long now, she thought to herself, and quivered with anticipation. She didn’t heard them come up behind her. It wasn’t that they were particularly stealthy but her guard was completely down. There were three of them, two men and one woman.

Her arms were suddenly pinned by one of the men, the woman clamped her hand roughly over Esme’s mouth and did most of the talking. “If you know what’s good for you then you’ll shut up.” They didn’t try to hide their identities; what was the point? She couldn’t see the third person but she knew he was there in the darkness. “Don’t ask questions, don’t rock the boat.” The woman hissed. “Keep your mouth shut.”

The third man now stood in front and pressed up against her, running his hands around her in a way he hadn’t done before, his smile predatory, nasty. “She knows… don’t you, babe?”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me that again.” Esme bit back against the hand, causing the woman to flinch before slapping her.

“Does that mean we’ve broken up?” Steve mocked.

“Keep quiet about this; and stop trying to dig up the shit. No one wants to know.” The other man had said before kneeing her in the back, sending her sprawling into the road. The three walked back to the pub leaving her sobbing and alone.

When Esme finally managed to get back home her mum was sitting in the lounge, opposite the door, in darkness. She didn’t say anything but her eyes were full of recriminations, the message was obvious –Esme was alone. No one else cared.

Even though that had happened eight years ago the village hadn’t forgotten. She was still greeted by hostile silences when she walked along the street, even her kids were shunned (another reason why Jacklyn was picked on by the other kids, perhaps?). They were one of the few families to have the luxury of two cars and Esme knew enough not to park her car in the street; parking was bad enough in such a small village and it was only right that Tristan parked his in the drive. They had a garage but it was so full of boxes from the move that it was decided Esme would park in the churchyard for the time being.

Then came the vandalism; subtle at first: broken wing-mirrors, muddied graffiti, scraped paintwork –all of which Tristan put down to kids. The church car park was right on the main road and easily accessible, he said –anyone could have done it, he said...but Esme knew differently. Ultimately it was the red paint that made it untenable. “We’re still watching” said one; “stay quiet” another. Tristan never asked what it was about but moved the boxes from the garage instead, for once making no comment.

Things changed for the better on a walk around Centenary field behind the churchyard. She’d had a tree planted in her brother’s name when the field had been planted with saplings for the new millennium and had been meaning to visit it for ages. She took Beth and Jacklyn on a walk and tried to persuade Tristan to come but he was too busy watching football on TV. Neither of the kids seemed too interested in her family history and were more intent on playing amongst the maturing beech trees. She didn’t mind too much, she was just pleased to have found it after so many years away.

It was doing well and hadn’t been overshadowed by any of the other trees in the clump. She knelt by its base and sent her love to Stan, hoping that he could feel it.

“I’m sure your brother would be proud to see the tree, just as I’m sure he can feel your love even now.” The voice was deep but gentle and she couldn’t place it at all. She looked up and saw a lofty man standing to one side of her, just on the rim of the tree clump. Upon standing she realised that he was a priest.

“Thank you, father…?”

“Jim. Father Jim.” He replied. Tall and thin with strawed yellow hair, he was of a singular appearance, the clerical collar seemed too loose for comfort and his rounded glasses too thick to see clearly, but his face was kind, understanding. “I suppose I should have said Father James, which would be more in the biblical vein but… well, Jim is more familiar. In fact, just dispense with the Father bit completely. Just call me Jim.”

“Jim it is, then.” Esme could feel herself warming to Father James, which made a complete contrast to the last few vicars who had served the village. “How did you know I was thinking of my brother? Or that I even had a brother?”

“Elementary my dear, Esme. May I call you Esme? Thank you. Well, although I’m fairly new here myself I haven’t seen you here before –the village is small enough that it doesn’t take long to memories names and faces.  I deduced that you must have had a family connection to the village (or had lived here yourself) otherwise you wouldn’t have chosen a specific tree to kneel before. And I saw the name on the label there; Stan Woodward –he was one of the children that was… lost, if you pardon the expression.”

“Yes; lost in more ways than one. I’ve got to say you’ve done your homework…. Does that mean you know about…”

“I know how the other villagers have shunned you, yes. I can’t say that I understand why… it doesn’t make sense to me at all. You want to know the truth behind the deaths –is that why you’ve come back?” Jim asked.

“No. To be fair I didn’t want to come back, Father… sorry… Jim.” Esme blushed.

“Either or any combination. I’ll answer to anything these days!” he smiled. “Why have you come back, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My husband’s idea, would you believe? When mum died he saw it as an opportunity to escape his little rat race… I’m sorry, that sounds terrible.”

“Not at all. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way. Does your husband know about the history of the village?” Jim asked and Esme nodded. “And about your brother? And he still wanted to come here.”

“I can see that I’m going to have be guarded around you, Jim. I’ve only known you five minutes and already telling you far too much. It must be your priestly robes.”

Jim laughed good naturedly. “Would you call yourself a Christian then?”

“If I’m brutally honest, no. I’m sorry – I know how that must sound.”

“Ha. I do understand and I don’t hold it against you. To be honest.. and I’m speaking confidentially, mind..” He put the side of his hand to his mouth as if conferring a secret at this. “I can’t say I blame you.”

“Father Jim.” Esme said in mock seriousness and laughed when he put his hand to his mouth in shame.

“The church doesn’t exactly make it easy anymore; it hasn’t always grown with the times. In fact, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma –I could either become a shrink or a priest.”

“Or a bar tender?” Esme replied, drawing a laugh of delight from Jim.

“If only I thought of that! I’ve missed my calling; it’s just a shame I don’t drink…”

“You don’t need to partake of the product to become a barman…. Is that why you became a priest?”

“I do have faith… and I wanted to help people. I trained as a psychiatrist but it felt wrong charging people just to exacerbate their problems. I mean, seriously… when did therapy really help anyone? Surely the whole point of therapy is just prolong the treatment and keep them coming back for more?”

“So what’s the difference from becoming a priest?” Esme was enjoying this chat too much, it had been too long since her last adult conversation (somehow the moans and chiding from Tristan didn’t really count). She was still aware where Jacklyn and Beth were, however; they’d just found the stone mushrooms and so she started to walk towards them. Jim followed her.

“Touché.” He replied. “And, again, I can only agree with you. However I felt that by becoming a priest I could potentially help more people.”

“Then you’re to be commended.”

“Thank you.” He nodded. They had reached the stone mushrooms where the kids were sitting. “Hey, kids!”

“Say hi to Father Jim.” Esme said to them both. She turned to Jim and added, “There’s still got to be some respect, don’t you agree?” She winked.

“Oh, absolutely!”

That evening she couldn’t help but think about that chat. Tristan, as usual, had fallen asleep that afternoon despite the ‘big game’ and was now catching up with the edited highlights in bed. The kids had warmed to Jim just as quickly as she had, it was difficult not to. He was quite an enigma and Esme could easily see him as a lifestyle coach or guru –maybe she’d suggest such a thing next time they met… There’d been something niggling during that whole afternoon which she’d only just remembered: Jim had mentioned noticing a name label on the tree but there hadn’t been one on there in years!

Later that night… she knew that Beth had gone missing. She woke up, a sheen of cold sweat covering her body but it was the knowledge that Beth was missing that chilled her more. Tristan was unresponsive to her shaking him, oblivious to the pain she was suffering –she had lost her brother to this.. this plague of suicides, she wasn’t going to lose her daughter as well. She grabbed her parka and quickly pulled on her wellington boots not caring whether she made any noise; she didn’t even bother to shut the door, she just rushed out to the wood.

It was bitch cold; the wind lashing at her, goading her. It was not going to happen again, not her daughter. The ground was sodden, muddy as hell but she paid no attention to it, going as quickly as she could along the path to the entrance of the wood. She was oblivious to everything else; the only thing that mattered to her was getting her daughter back alive. She found herself pausing at the mouth of the wood, the holly maw almost mocking her –was it the inevitability that stopped her for that second? She wouldn’t be denied though and headed straight for the daffodil dell –the same place where they had found her brother, all those years ago.

The body hung limply like a discarded doll with its back to her, the night abruptly silent, mournful. Esme ran to the limp form barely able to see for the panic stricken tears stinging her eyes; just one thought echoing constantly in her brain: “No.. No.. No..!” She scrabbled at the form, tearing at the coat, turning it round. She screamed.

The sudden hand on her shoulder made her slip as she turned and she fell at Tristan’s feet. “What the fuck is going on? I’ve been calling you for ages!”

“Stan…my baby brother –he’s there!” She turned back only there was nothing there, no body hanging at all. “Beth!! What happened to Beth? Where is she?” She suddenly panicked, that was why she had left so abruptly.

“Beth is at home, in bed. Tucked up asleep. What the hell are you up to? Why didn’t you hear me?” Tristan snapped. “Do you know what time it is? What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry –I thought Beth was missing… I thought she…” She said, unsure whether she had been dreaming or sleep walking. Tristan didn’t seem to care.

“I’ve got an early start, for Christ’s sake.” He turned his back on her and walked back to the house leaving Esme to sob into the chilled night. In her hand she held the glove that her brother had worn the night he had gone missing. What the hell was happening to her?

Father Jim was no stranger to nightmares. It was the same reoccurring dream: leading a group of five children across the icy pond. All the children were tied together; their arms roped in a mock gesture of prayer; their legs tied so they could only shuffle along single file. He was in front, his arms and legs free but tied by the waist to them. The snow covered ice was hard going, made harder by the children’s scuffling gait. Without warning the ice cracked; hairline at first but quickly giving way; the children never had a chance, barely able to scream as they disappeared. Jim knew he would be next just as he knew that it was all his doing, just as if he had tied the ropes himself.

He wasn’t surprised to see Esme sitting in the church, waiting for him later –her children sitting with her quietly. It had barely gone ten.

“I need to talk to you, Father.”

“Is this a confession?” he replied, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt.

“Sometimes I think it’s far too late for that.” Esme then retold the events of the previous evening, even explaining about the glove. “The thing is, there’s no one I can turn to. Tristan just doesn’t want to know. He’s always been insensitive but this is something else entirely. I think someone in the village has already spoken to him; he barely seems to tolerate me now. You probably think I’m mad.”

“Then we’re both mad because I find myself believing you…. One of my biggest fears is that madness is hereditary.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

“I don’t know whether I should tell you this. I’m almost afraid of what you’ll think of me.”

“It can’t be any worse than what’s happened already.” She looked at Father Jim’s pained face. “Can it?”

“I have ties to this village as well. Did you know that?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“My father was Tony Bane… Father Tony Bane.” He saw the colour drain from Esme’s face.

“I can see why you’d want to keep all that a secret. Christ, if the village found out!”

“The sins of the past work by association, unfortunately.”

“Did you know?” Esme asked, her voice now no more than a whisper, not wanting her kids to overhear.

“That my father was a paedophile? That the first suicides that happened here were because of him? Well, I didn’t know at the time but even I knew that things were… wrong in our household. All of a sudden no one talked about him, as if he never existed. Things went bad to worse, as you can imagine and I only found out the truth when I grew up. That was the main deciding factor why I became a priest and ended up here, I wanted to atone for his sins.”

“Did they ever find the body of Juliet?”

“No… that was the only thing that stopped them from lynching him…”

“And then he killed himself… bastard.” She looked up, suddenly realising what she’d said. “Sorry. I can’t imagine how you’ve had to deal with this.”

“It’s not been easy, but he was a sick man… and I’m nothing like him.”

“A sick? You can’t seriously believe that? Or is that the shrink in you?”

“I’m not excusing what he did on the grounds of mental incapacity, far from it. I meant he was sick to do what he did –it’s something that I could never countenance doing. He knew what he was doing and, both as a man and as a priest he should have known better. My only release is that he’s suffering in hell not only what he did to those poor children but because he took his own life.”

“Hell’s a big thing for you Catholics, eh?” Esme said snidely, her world rocked by Jim’s revelation.

“Please. I don’t want to fight.”

“So why did you tell me? You must have known that it would affect me!”

Jim looked heavenward as if trying to draw strength. “Why did I tell you? Good question.” He turned back to Esme and looked her in the eyes. “I wanted you to know that you could trust me. I know what you want to do and you’re not the only one who needs absolution.”

“Big words again, Father.”

“Don’t try to hide from your truth. For whatever reason, Esme, you’ve been brought back to get to the truth. Staplewood has a disease that’s destroying the children. Your family fell victim to it and I’m trying to atone in my own way. Together we may be able to get there, but the whole village is going to be against us. You were given a sign last night….and I think I was as well.” He sighed and recounted his dream to Esme. “I think one of the children on the pond was your brother; I think they’re trying to tell me something too.”

“What do you want me to do?” Esme asked, earnestly.

“It’s always bothered me that Juliet’s body was never found.” Father Jim replied. “The moment a body is found then it becomes a murder investigation…”

“.. I don’t see how that would make any difference… it didn’t with my brother!”

“No… but those were different circumstances. Your brother’s death was put down to death by misadventure –did that never strike you as strange?  An investigation would have brought up a whole different kind of investigation; more searching questions. A missing child in the countryside is one thing; another suicide in a closed community –as Staplewood was back then? Well, that’s a whole different story; the police probably would have uncovered something closer to the truth.”

“You don’t mean?” Esme was shocked. “They were complicit in it?”

“Not in the way that you think…. But did they allow the molestations to happen in their own way? No one wanted to face the reality –that it was a man of the cloth made it so much worse. The fact that my grandfather killed himself actually did them a favour.”

“But that’s sick! I can’t believe they’d sink that low.”

“Don’t you? Are you really so surprised? You’ve already told me how your parents reacted to you. Your brother was the first child to go missing since Father Bruce killed himself; and when he was found hanging it was proof of the wrong that had been done.”

“Surely my brother was murdered? I’ve never truly believed that he killed himself.”

“I hate to be the one to say this but it does look as if he took his own life. The autopsy was very thorough, probably at the villager’s insistence.”

“How do you mean?” Esme asked, confused at the turn of events.

“In some ways a murder would have given them the chance to blame an outsider… Do you remember the body of the tramp who was found at roughly the same time?”

“Oh my God… yes, I do. I know I was only a kid at the time but the news was rife around the school as one of the kids found him in the shallows of the Furnace pond. You’re not saying that…”

“Yes.” Jim interrupted. “I’m saying just that. I don’t know who did it but if it’s as I suspect; it would have been far easier to pin the murder on the tramp, especially if the tramp had died of ‘natural causes’.”

“But that’s disgusting. I knew the village was screwed up but I never thought they were that fucked up.” She blanched suddenly at the turn of phrase. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“I understand completely. But now you know what we’re dealing with and I want… I have to get to the bottom of it all.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Are you sure? This could be dangerous – what I’m going to propose is pretty radical for a priest.”

“You want to find Juliet’s remains, don’t you?”

For the second time in the week Esme found herself in the wood after dark. Father Jim was with her this time and they were near the spot where Esme had been led during her nightmare.

This time she had been careful to sleep in the spare bed– which was happening with more regularity, she had noted. Ever since they had moved to Staplewood they had made love once and once only –the first night. Ever since then he had hardly touched her and the arguments had started over nothing in particular. Often the arguments led to her sleeping alone in the spare bed, and for the first time she was grateful for this; it was easier for her to sneak off to the wood.

Jim was already waiting for her at the mouth of the wood, holding the canvas bag they were going to use to transport the remains back to the churchyard. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You won’t be able to go back from this if we find something.”

“We are going to find her, Jim; I can feel it.”

“So do I. Right… I’ll be guided by you.”

The blind night made it easier for Esme to orientate herself; for some reason she could tell where she had to go by the feeling in the pit of her stomach. It didn’t take them long to reach the daffodil dell; she half expected to see the body hanging from the tree again and could still see it in her mind’s eye.

“That’s it!” She whispered. “That’s why I was shown the vision. She’s buried by the tree there.” She pointed to the base of the tree and the two of them got on their hands and knees. The loamy dirt was cold and wet as it soaked through their jeans; they’d bought hand trowels as they had no idea how deep the body lay; they didn’t want to disturb the body more than necessary. It didn’t matter how long it took or how uncomfortable they were; neither of them spoke for the hour that they moved the earth away; carefully scraping the dirt rather than digging –more like an archaeological dig than an exhumation.

“I think I’ve found her.” Esme hissed. Jim came round to where she knelt and used his hands to verify what she had uncovered. It was indeed a human skull.

“You’ve found her alright… and a whole heap of trouble.” The sudden voice was punctuated by the stab of a torch beam followed by others.

“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” She recognised Tristan’s voice amongst the group.

“She never could, mate – regardless of how many warnings we gave her.” The blast from her past; it could only have been Steve, her previous boyfriend.

“Bastards. We’re only trying to lay this to rest.” She snapped back, cradling the skull in her hands now.

“If you knew where she was why didn’t you give her the burial she deserved?” Father Jim replied, incredulous at what was happening.

“You’ll be the one buried if you’re not careful.” One of the mob snapped.

“What are we going to do with them now?” Tristan asked.

“Nothing’s changed… we stick to our plans, but things have been made easier now.” Steve replied. “We’ve got the one final victim and now we’ve got the prime suspect who killed himself as a final act of contrition.”

“What? What do you mean? You’re going to kill him? Kill the Father?” Tristan was shocked, this was going much farther than he had ever imagined.

“You’ve got no say in this. You don’t know his family –it’s because of his father that we’re in this situation in the first place. It’s only right he pays the price for it.”

“You don’t want to go through this, Tristan. You’re contemplating murder.” Father Jim pleaded, his hands tied behind his back as he lie on the sodden mound from the earth they’d dug up whilst searching for Juliet. Tristan had almost finished making up the noose that would be his undoing. “You can’t do this. Think of what it will mean.”

“Shut up.” Tristan snapped back. “You don’t understand.” Tristan pulled Father Jim up by the scruff of his neck, seemingly ignoring his attempts to shake free.

“Nor do you, Tristan. You’re not even from the village, you’ve got no stake in this at all. You can back out and leave and no one would be any the wiser.”

“Shut up. I have to do this.” He put the noose over Jim’s head and tightened it.

“What about your wife? What about Esme?”

“We’ll both be damned then.” It took three sharp pulls on the rope to hoist Father Jim aloft and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. It would have been a perfect end if not for damning Esme in the process. His last thought was of pain and regret.

Esme was not going down without a fight; they had to drag her back to the churchyard; her hands cuffed behind her back but she made damn sure that at least two of her captors would never be having children again.

“Why are you doing this? What the fuck do you think you’re going to accomplish by killing me and Father Jim?”

“You’ve never listened to us; never left it alone like the rest of us.”

“None of you had your brother taken from you; none of you know what it’s like!” Esme snarled back. They were reaching the churchyard where she had been christened all those years ago. How apt that here was where she was going to die.

“All of us have suffered here. You’re not the only one. That bastard took all our children away from us.”

“How fucking dare you? How can you say it’s the same thing? My Stan killed himself. You damned yourself by ignoring what Father Bane did. How many of you knew and did nothing? How many?!” Silence. Damning silence. “It must have been torture; the longer it went on the more of you suffered knowing that by rocking the boat for one you rocked it for the rest… Damning you for the ineffectual parents you are; so much for community spirit. So now you’re going to end it by killing me and Father Jim? Do you really think it will end there?”

It was neither heaven nor hell that greeted Jim Bane; he felt disembodied; numb. The blackness was comforting but disconcerting at the same time. Where was he? What was happening?

“You must help her. This must end..” It was impossible to quantify what it was; had he been incarnate then he could easily have said that he ‘heard a voice’ but he was both the voice and the receiver. It was part of him as he was part of it. More than that, he knew what it meant.

“How can I? What can I do to end it? They’ve gone too far this time…”

“Have a faith… help her and we will help you.” The presence replied.

“With all my heart.” Then nothing. A deafening absence of any sensation. The silence receded into pain; the pain increasing as sensation flooded him and he found himself lying on the woodland floor, his throat lacerated and bruised where the rope had….

He opened his eyes; Tristan knelt over him, wringing his hands. “Thank Christ.” He whispered.

“Wha… what happened?” It hurt Father Jim to talk but he knew that he had to. There was still much to be done. There was still Esme to be saved and the wrong righted.

“I couldn’t do it… Lord help me, I just couldn’t do it. I don’t know what came over me, I’d never do anything to hurt Esme but….” The tears streaming down Tristan’s face were real, something had made him cut Jim down but now wasn’t the time for rationalising. They could still make it.

“What are you fucking waiting for? You’ve got the gun!” Esme wanted this nightmare to end. There was nothing she could do to get out but there was no way she was giving up; she was damned if she would make this easy for them. She was surrounding by the men in the graveyard, Steve just stared at her. It was obvious that they wanted her to just lie down and give up but there was no way she was going to do that, not whilst there was a breath in her body. “Call yourself men? None of you got the balls to just shoot me.” She spat, thrashing out as much as she could to anyone who got close enough.

“You should never have come back. You should’ve left alone when you had the chance.” Steve replied, holding the gun so it was level to her head; his face emotionless just as it had been that night when he confronted her with the group. This was it, she thought. This is how it ends, her brother unavenged and Father Jim framed for it.

“This ends now!” The voice seemed to echo around the graveyard. Everyone was startled by the shout. “You have no idea what you’re doing.” It was then that they saw Father Jim approach them from the entrance of the church, the porch light suddenly triggered by his presence giving him an unearthly glow. Tristan was behind him holding the canvas bag.

“Oh, I think we know exactly what we’re doing, Father.” Steve replied coldly; his face devoid of emotion. He turned to Tristan and said, “I knew you weren’t one of us.”

“Think about what you’re doing, what you’re all doing. You’re going to kill, murder in cold blood two people.” Father Jim implored.

“It’s not too late. This can’t go on any longer.” Tristan agreed, realising now just how he had been caught up in the maniacal fervour.

“You don’t know what’s happened to us; what it’s done to us.” One of the villagers shouted back.

“You have no idea what it’s like to lose someone.” Another agreed. “You’ve no idea how this has eaten us up from the inside.”

“But I do!” Esme cried out. “And yet I’m the one that you’re punishing the most.”

“You won’t let us forget what happened. You keep trying to dig up the past…”

“My brother died because of it. Why can’t you understand that?”

“You think that by killing me and Esme it’ll stop you from feeling the guilt over what happened to your children?” Father Jim edged ever closer to the crowd, closer to Steve and the gun. “So what happens when you realise that you’ve killed two innocent people… and the guilt over them becomes too much to bare? Whose turn will it be to die then? Don’t you understand? When is this going to stop?” He motioned to Tristan to come forward with the canvas bag.

No one tried to stop him; they knew what it contained and all were shamed. Tristan opened the bag and nestled within were the skeletal remains of Juliet. Steve saw the bones, finally faced with the truth behind his fears. He dropped the gun and fell to the ground before her, sobbing.

“She was the only girl who ever showed me kindness in school.” He wept. “We were in love the only way kids can be…and I said…  I said that I’d always look after her.”

“Now you can.” Father Jim walked up and placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder in reconciliation. “We can bury her and her soul will be finally at rest.”

“But what about the village?” Tristan asked.

“The village will carry on.. it has to, but it can heal now. We should never forget what has happened but we must move on and rebuild. We all need to watch over each other now. Who knows, maybe someone has been watching over us all along.”