Aye, right.
‘Well, well, well.’ I stepped closer, letting all that pain and anger sizzle in the words: ‘If it isn’t the man we were off to see next. Hello, Steven.’
‘This isn’t... I wasn’t...’ More tea slopped down his front.
‘I think you’ve got some explaining to do.’
But Kirk was off, the mug flying away to crash against a headstone as he sprinted across the graveyard. Wouldn’t have thought a wee fat man would’ve been able to go that fast.
I lumbered after him, brolly bobbing and weaving — more trouble than it was worth, so I let it fly free. ‘COME BACK HERE, YOU GREASY LITTLE GIT!’ Not so easy, running through the thick grass with a buggered foot. Gritting my teeth. Pushing through the stabbing jerk every time my right shoe touched down.
But worth it, because Steven Kirk deserved everything that was about to happen to him.
He scrambled over the rear wall of the graveyard and out into the chunk of waste ground beneath the railway lines. I bent into it, sped up, slapped one hand down on top of the wall and swung my legs up and over. Landing awkwardly on my right foot — a red-hot crowbar slamming through the flesh to lever the bones apart.
Kirk wasn’t slowing — if anything he was getting faster, accelerating down the slight slope. Increasing the distance between us.
‘COME BACK HERE!’ Finding it harder and harder to run now, every other step a screaming ball of agony.
He was going to get away.
And after this, it was pretty damned unlikely he’d head home and wait for us to show, like a good boy. He’d disappear. Properly this time.
MOVE FASTER!
Push.
Bite down on the pain and sodding run.
A jagged huff-huff-huff noise grew louder behind me, then Alice went past, arms and legs pumping, red feet flashing their white soles as she chased after Steven Kirk. Hood thrown back, curly brown hair streaming out behind her in the rain.
Kirk glanced back over his shoulder — face an unhealthy shade of sweaty puce — then put his head down and his elbows up, really going for it. But Alice was fitter. And faster. Getting closer and closer.
Then she was airborne: a flying tackle that slammed into the middle of Kirk’s back, sending them both crashing to the wet grass at the base of one of the railway pilings. Rolling over and over, limbs sticking out, then curling up as they struggled.
Only when they stopped, it was Kirk who came out on top, straddling Alice, rearing up, one fist curled back and ready to smash down into her face.
Which is when I finally arrived. ‘NO YOU DON’T!’
He barely had time to turn and stare at me before I battered into him, tearing him off her and into the grass again. Cracked the bony ridge of my forearm into his nose. Once. Twice. And three time’s the charm. Putting my weight behind it. Bouncing his head off the ground as blood spattered out into the gloom. Doing it for every little boy and girl he’d hurt. For the people’s children he’d brutalised, and tortured, and killed.
He screamed, so I smashed my elbow into his mouth as well. Did that again too.
Because let’s face it, you have to take the tiny moments of joy when you can get them.
Should castrate the bastard, right here. Stamp on his balls till they burst. See if he still feels like interfering with children after they had to surgically amputate whatever ragged scraps of flesh I left him with down there.
His face got another elbowing, my teeth bared as I broke his. Not even bothering to hold back the laughter. Hard and sharp and loud and—
‘God’s sake, you’ll kill him!’ Alice’s hands grabbed at my arm and collar, hauling me backwards. Off Steven Kirk. Pushing me away. Her face all pinched, eyes shining, nose red, tears on her cheeks. ‘Stop it!’ Then she was on her knees beside him, wiping the blood from his cheeks and chin with a handkerchief. Holding him as he sobbed.
I stepped back, a dull throbbing spreading down my right arm, making the fingers tingle, breath heaving in my chest. ‘I did it... for... He was... trying... to hurt... you.’
Alice glared up at me. ‘We’re meant to help people!’ Then she closed her eyes and turned away. ‘I can’t even look at you.’
Raised voices carried from the church’s front doors, down the nave and over the crossing, but by the time they reached the chancel, Saint Damon’s gothic pillars and grimy tapestries had reduced it to nothing more than angry noises, stripped clean of actual words, leaving only trouble behind.
I leaned forward in my pew, arms resting on the row in front, and nodded at Mary Brennan. ‘Are you OK?’
She blinked back at me. Then stared across the rows of plain wooden benches to a small door set into the far wall. The one Saint Damon’s registered first-aider had taken Steven Kirk through. ‘I don’t understand...’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Steven?’ A frown. ‘Months and months. He helps clean the church.’
Couldn’t help glancing around at that: the mildewed Bibles; the cobwebbed carvings; the paintings of religious icons thick with dust; the fourteen Stations of the Cross, so filthy you could barely make out the suffering in them. Oh yeah, Steven Kirk was doing a great job.
‘Was that before or after Andrew went missing?’
More blinking. Probably trying to process the implications of that.
‘Steven? But... he’s... his mother’s dying.’
The angry voices echoed away into silence, then the noise of marching feet — getting louder. One set of clacking heels, one set of squeaky damp rubber soles.
Sounded like it was time for my shouting at.
Across the apse, that small door opened and out came the large woman in a pastel-purple cardigan who’d taken Kirk away to fix him up. Her flushed-pink scalp clearly visible through the thinning, lank, grey hair. Kirk scuffed along beside her, holding a wodge of blue paper towels over his nose and mouth. Looking everywhere but at me.
The marching came to a halt and when I turned, there they were: Alice — who also wasn’t looking at me — and an old bloke dressed all in black, except for the flash of white at his throat. Jowls hanging over the lip of his dog collar. A fringe of grey stubble above his pendulous ears. Wire-framed glasses and narrowed baggy eyes. ‘What on God’s earth were you thinking?’ Not a local lad. That flat, back-of-the-throat accent definitely marked him out as Dundonian, no matter how hard he was trying to sound posh. ‘How dare you come into the house of the Lord and assault one of my parishioners!’
Never punched a priest before, but there was a first time for everything.
When I got to my feet, I had nearly a foot on him. Looking down on that grey-fringed bald pate. ‘One: it didn’t happen in the church. And two: I’m not the one putting the people coming to this church at risk.’ I poked a finger into his chest. ‘That’s you.’
Spluttering. Jowls wobbling. ‘I’m calling the police.’
I grabbed a handful of his cassock and spun him around till he was facing Steven Kirk.
‘Unhand me!’
Alice glowered at me. ‘Ash!’
Tough.
‘What’s the matter, didn’t you run a background check on the man you’ve got cleaning this tip?’
It was Kirk’s turn to glower — over the top of his blue paper towels as they slowly turned a dark shade of purple. Voice all muffled and squishy. ‘Yooo brurk mai teefff!’
The priest wriggled free. ‘How dare you behave this way in a—’