Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

I returned to my vigil, determined that this was my last day. If I couldn’t break through to get some answers from Liza I’d have to rethink my plans entirely. Maybe go west down to Devon, and lie low for a couple of weeks. But the money was running out; dare I sneak back to my office for my savings book?

I found myself shivering even in the watery sun that filtered through the naked trees. This wasn’t good. The soaking I’d got the other night, the continuing lack of sleep and accumulation of cold and pressure were taking their toll. The Riley was there again today, and the copper still stood sentry. This was beginning to make little sense, and was getting to the point where I couldn’t think straight. Though my body felt cold my head felt feverish. Not good. I needed to get warm. I needed hot food and shelter.

I kept slipping in and out of sleep throughout the day, not sure if I was dreaming and not sure where I was when I woke up. What a stubborn spark flickers inside us, insisting that our petty lives are worth fighting for. At times I thought I was back in the camp, cold and hurting and wishing for death. Whatever I’d remembered two days ago in my fugue was fighting to surface. But I had no notes to trigger the memories. Nor did I want to. I was especially scared of this one for some reason.

As the evening drew in, I dragged myself upright, ate the last of the bread and the canned meat, vowing if I survived, that I’d never eat the damned stuff again. Then I stumbled into the village.

It felt like I was coming down with flu. I spotted a pharmacy and got some Beechams powders. I was in time to get some hot tea and a scone at the cafй on the high street. I swilled the powder down with the tea. I got pitying looks from the waitress and scowls from the supervisor, so I didn’t stay long. But it gave me a little new energy and my head was clearing. I was good for an hour or two, but where could I lay my shattered body out of the cold? I walked on down the hill; walking up was too much effort. Then I saw it.

The Rosslyn Hill Chapel sits back from the street in its own grounds. Its squat arches look welcoming enough, even to a non-believer. Amid the red brick of the surrounding tall terraces the grey-white stone made the Chapel an invader, a missionary among heathens. The sign said it was built in 1691: before Scotland lost its independence.

I pushed open the door and walked into a warmly lit hall with a great wooden-arched ceiling. Above the entrance floated an organ gallery with tall pipes glittering under the hall lights. Stretching away from me were the pews leading to the altar and pulpit.

It seemed empty but expectant. Candles had been lit and subdued electric lights illumined the stained glass panels on all sides and behind the altar. It was prettier by far than the dour Presbyterian Kirk of St Mungo’s in Kilpatrick, but then so was a Nissen hut. This Chapel felt snug and safe, and I took a seat in the back row under the organ. I laid my head down on my arms and rested on the wooden shelf jutting from the pew in front. I must have nodded off; I jerked awake to the sound of music playing above me. My neck felt broken.

There seemed to be no one else in the church except me and the unseen organist, so I settled back down. The eyes of saints and Mary Magdalene and a tortured Jesus inspected me. I wondered what sort of man they saw. I couldn’t tell them.

The last time I was in church was for my dad’s funeral. I’d vowed never to go in one again.

I’d forgotten the power of the sanctified space and its battalions of ghost congregations. I could hear old hymns rising and falling, lauding their god with martial words. Slow marching down the aisle in my Boy’s Brigade uniform, the tall flag held at an angle and straining at my arm. The minister’s cadences echoing through shards of sunlight on a summer day. Only the hard pew keeping me awake through the droning and the exhortations to be good, to be better, to lead us from temptation and to forgive our trespasses. Sitting rigid between my parents as the velvet collection bag clunked round and our envelopes went in.

It was so soothing – the warmth and the music – that I stretched out on the pew.

My head felt thick and hot, and black dreams began to crowd in on me, to drag me to my confessional.

I am in her bedroom. Standing over her. She is lying on her bed naked from the waist down. Her thighs are parted and blooded. Between them lies the hilt of a bayonet.

I lean over and take hold of the slippery grip. I clasp it firmly and tug. It gives, and jolts her limbs. It releases a fresh gout of blood. There is a foul smell. I pull out the long blade. I push Lili’s thighs together and flip the corner of the bedspread over her. I walk over to the sink and drop the bayonet in it, and begin running cold water. My bloodied hands are sticky and I have to scrub at them to get them clean.

That’s how they find me. The cries in German echo through the house and their boots rush through the hall and on to the stairs. I turn and wait for them.

I woke sobbing in the darkened church. The organist had long gone and moonlight spilled through the stained glass panels. Mary Magdalene looked down on me, her face blank and pitiless. Jesus strained at his nails and called for release.

None came. None ever comes. I let the tears flow down my face until I could weep no more. Lili… the girl had a name. The girl whose body I assaulted was called Lili. I got up and stumbled down the centre aisle and up on to the dais where the altar stood.

There was a big bible resting open on the lectern. It was too dark to make out all the words. But I didn’t need much light. It was the Beatitudes, Matthew Chapter 5. I had to learn the whole text by heart to earn my badge for bible studies. The familiar litany sprung up: Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Thanks, Lord. I’ll take comfort from that next time Wilson beats me up.

Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you and persecute you and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely…

And there standing in that holy place, facing the congregation of St Mungo’s Kirk, with my father and mother in the front row proud to burst, I laughed out loud. I laughed until it choked me and sent me back down on my knees in the moonlight. A good joke, God. Now you can stop. Now you can fuck off and wreck someone else’s life. I get the message. You’re the boss. I’m sorry about playing three-card brag in the Kirk at the school assembly; I’m sorry about kissing that Catholic lassie… Well, you know what I have to be sorry about, Lord. Just let’s call it quits now, OK?

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Killing myself would be exactly what Caldwell wanted. “A kindness,” he’d said. “Put you out of this pain. Like a mad dog.” I let his words roll through me, eating me. I punched the tiles till my fist hurt.

But then I held my breath. He said he saw me coming out of Lili’s home. That he confronted me back at my safe house. His SOE report talked about me being shopped by the Maquis after they found out about the killing. That wasn’t my dream. The Germans found me. Did it matter? It was only variations in horror.

Either way, I murdered her. Yet the last dogged, pig-headed bit of me demanded the final truth. Like arguing over whether the Titanic hit an iceberg or a rock.

Yet I clung to this discrepancy like a Sanskrit scholar gnawing away at an eroded inscription. Either I was mad or he was lying. Where there was ambiguity, there was work for an obsessive private eye. Marlowe never gave up. I crawled to my feet.

There was a big clock above the altar. It was just after three. Behind the altar was a door which led to some back rooms. I found a toilet and a kitchen, and made myself some tea. In another room was a couch and chairs. I bedded down on the couch but lay sleepless – I thought – till the dawn, pushing the memories around, trying to lift the haze that surrounded the time before the killing.