‘It’s a cliché of the genre, but the profiler always says it at the end of the briefing.’
A frown. ‘Nope, you’ve lost me.’
‘He will kill again!’
‘Of course he will.’ McDonald stuck the lid back on the marker pen. ‘He’s a serial killer, it’s what he does.’
“Well, well, well,” the God Wolf growled, “if I’ve not just caught the tastiest little morsel in the whole dark world.”
“You can’t eat me!” gasped Imelda. “I’m made of bones and stones and glass and groans, and if you eat me you’ll get a terrible tummy ache and die!”
The God Wolf smiled at her. “I’ll take my chances,” he said. And swallowed Imelda whole.
R.M. Travis
Imelda’s Miraculous Dustbin (1999)
Stay away from ma b*tches, they ain’t down with no snitches,
I got me my riches, givin’ punks like you stitches!
Donny ‘$ick Dawg’ McRoberts
‘Livin’ Free Or Dyin’ Tryin’’
© Bob’s Speed Trap Records (2014)
The God-In-Waiting sways gently in the smoke, head down, hands making delicate figure-eight patterns as it swings. No movement of its own, just that final rattling breath, then peace and stillness. Grace and purity.
It’s time.
The racks beneath the God-In-Waiting are full of fish, hanging from their poles like the divinity above. He removes the poles, stacking them on the rack next door to cool. It’ll be a good batch of smokies. They always are when a new god comes into being. Must be the air.
Or maybe it’s the cleansed body, hanging above them as they smoke? Maybe it’s the juices that drip like tears from the body as it takes on its final form? Whatever it is, the result is excellent fish.
Next is the scraper – just a plank of wood fixed on the end of a broomstick – he uses it to push the smouldering embers away, heaping them up against the far wall. Then stands beneath the God-In-Waiting.
It’s beautiful …
Once Upon A Time
The man hanging on the wall has got nothing on but a kind of nappy, wrapped around his waist. His skin is a dark, rich wood, polished so much it glows against the cross. Someone’s made him a hat of barbed wire, which must hurt something horrible.
A wobbly voice fills the air, echoing back off the church’s stone walls. ‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth …’
It’s a pretty sound – even if the words are just made-up – floating above the pews, wrapping around the big wooden man. Maybe it makes him happier if people sing to him? He looks very sad.
Father’s over by the altar, talking to the priest man. Both of them dressed in black, like crows – though the priest man’s got on a kind of dress. Both are wearing those little white things around their necks. Dog collars. Both pretending to be something they’re not.
‘Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua. Hosanna in excelsis …’
The man’s been stuck to the cross with big metal nails, and there’s holes in his side. Maybe that was mice? There’s mice in Father’s house and they eat holes in everything. Scurrying about in the dark. Leaving their little black presents behind.
‘Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis—’
‘NO! NO! DAMN IT, OLIVER!’ A man’s voice, not pretty and floaty, but hard and grating. ‘How many times? It’s pronounced, “ex-chel-cease”. We’re going to stay here and do it again and again until – you – get – it – right!’
Father looks up at the gallery that runs above the back six rows of pews, where the organ is. Then down at him. ‘Justin, thumb out of the mouth, eh champ?’ He smiles. ‘You’re a big boy now.’
Justin’s not his real name: it’s from Father’s favourite album, about a little boy who turns into a rabbit and has to save the world from the king of dead things. And Justin’s as good a name as any.
He takes his thumb out of his mouth and wipes it dry on his T-shirt. ‘Sorry, Father.’
‘That’s my boy.’ Then Father shakes hands with the priest man and wanders down the apse. Ruffles Justin’s hair. ‘Come on, slugger, time to go home.’ He turns and waves at the priest man as they leave the church.
‘Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth …’
Down the steps in the warm sunshine, one hand on Justin’s shoulder. Steering him to the car with its little Scottish flag fluttering on the end of the aerial. ‘In you get.’
Justin does what he’s told.
Gravel scrunches and crunches under the wheels as they leave the church grounds.
‘Did you hear the singing, Father? Wasn’t that—’
The slap is as hard as it is quick, snapping his head to the side, the sound like a gunshot going off.
‘Don’t you dare embarrass me like that again. Sucking on your thumb like a baby. That what you are? A baby?’
He blinks the tears back. Bites his lip. Lets the burning needles sink into his cheek. Don’t cry. Feed off the heat. Don’t cry. It’ll only make it worse.
‘You want to wear nappies and sit in your own filth again? IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?’ Little flecks of spit settle against the dashboard. ‘ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU!’
Justin takes a deep breath.
Don’t cry.
Feel it burn. Own it.
He stares down at his hands, curled in his lap. ‘No, Father. Sorry, Father.’
‘Good boy.’ And just like that the storm passes, the clouds’ shadows slip away and Father smiles at him again. ‘Come on, why don’t we go get some ice cream? We can bring some back for Mummy, she’ll like that, won’t she?’
Justin nods, even though it’s not true. New Mummy doesn’t like anything. She just cries all the time.
‘And, slugger?’ Father ruffles his hair again, the fingers warm and hard where they dig into his scalp. ‘You stay away from church music, it’s nothing but lies. See these?’ He lets go of Justin and unhooks the white band from around his throat. Shakes it like a dead mouse. ‘They call them a “dog collar” for a reason. They choke you. There’s a chain that clips onto them, so you can go walkies. Because it’s all lies: the churches, the hymns, the bible, the whole God-bothering holier-than-thou, deviant filth-mongering lot of them. Lies and liars.’
Justin doesn’t move.
This can go one of two ways, and one of them ends with screaming and bruises and getting locked in the Naughty Cupboard – peeing blood for a week.
Father clicks on the car stereo, and the album picks up where it left off. A hissing of drums, then the man’s voice comes over the top, quiet as treacle. ‘You have to hide right here,