The Goat's Head Page 14

  Before she knew it, the young Swedish woman was very slowly teetering backwards, as if falling in slow motion. Then, as her head dipped back and she faced the opaque windows which had depicted some of the popular stories relating to the Holy Bible, her feet began to rise of their own accord, defining the laws of gravity. She cried out, although the sound barely escaped her parched lips.

  Only by turning her head did Sofie see (although she didn’t trust her eyes) the indistinct shadows taking form on the wall. They had long spindly arms which had emerged from the cloaks wrapped around them that were currently leaden with her bodyweight. And even though Sofie was a slender five foot six female, the now defined shadows managed to carry her without any difficulty whatsoever. She had seen sturdier branches on a dead spruce that would have instantly snapped had she gripped them, and yet these spindly arms made her feel like she was floating to the altar where she was laid out upon the long, rectangular communion table.

  The shadows - or whatever the hell they were - rested her gently upon the cool, flat surface. Sofie was too terrified to resist them when they applied the manacles. However, the feel of the crucifix in her right jeans pocket digging into her thigh comforted her somewhat. Inconspicuously, she kept her hand close to the pocket as she could, her fingertips brushing the top half of the object protruding beneath her shirt.

  Reverend Ward and Margaret stood by the long table, smiling reassuringly at her the way doting parents would when they took their child to the dentist or to the doctors to have an injection they’d been anxious about. Only they weren’t the slightest bit interested in her wellbeing. Not really. They would have killed her as quick as look at her had she not been carrying the child destined to be their lord.

  The manacles were very old. They clamped down and a bolt was inserted through the hole. Sofie realised to get herself free she would have to first let one of the cult members’ close enough so she could do some harm. However, she had no idea what they had planned. Whatever she did she had to make certain it was the right move, otherwise it would cost her dearly. In her incapacitated condition she couldn’t make any errors. This was her one and only chance, and even this opportunity was slim if everything went her way.

  Margaret leaned forward, grinning. ‘Remember I told you about the mark of the beast? You are about to become inducted. You will wear the mark of the beast just like everyone else who has attended your Second Baptism on this glorious day of your rebirth. You have never demonstrated any asinine beliefs or superstition in Jesus Christ and the Almighty God. That is good. For it shows us you have intelligence and that you are not naïve. It will also make this procedure far less painful for you.’ She spoke in a proud, coherent voice. Then she raised her fingers to her mouth, kissed them then touched Sofie’s forehead, dappled in perspiration.

  Reverend Ward exchanged a knowing glance at the middle-aged woman. They both nodded simultaneously. Then Reverend Ward gestured for someone to go or to come hither, Sofie wasn’t certain from her limited position.

  A door opened and closed. Then two minutes later a door opened and then closed on its hinges. Footfalls drew near. A robed figure approached the altar, blocking what dim, iridescent light reached the young, frightened woman, shaking in spite of herself. She despised her emotions for they were as easy to read by her adversaries as words to an avid reader in large print. Yet when she gazed up and saw the prosthetic mask shimmering in the orange candlelight, the scream that had been resting in her oesophagus erupted in a shrill, deafening sound that threatened to burst the congregation’s eardrums and raise the steeple roof.

  And that was nothing compared to what was about to follow...

  What she saw next changed everything. There were times when she thought if she just bided her time she might still escape. However, the sight of the figure towering over without a face, staring at her from two eyeholes that was deep chasms. Reverend Ward began chanting in a foreign language and the congregation who were familiar with the words and their meaning repeated in unison.

  Sofie concentrated on keeping her breathing slow, measured. If she remained calm her thinking process would be lucid enough so she could find a way from the church and to the outside. To salvation. Which had eluded her ever since she’d taken that home carer job.

  The incantation ceased abruptly. Reverend Ward rested his hand on her forehead and said what Sofie could only decipher as a prayer. Then he leaned forward into her immediate vision and said, ‘Turn your head to the right.’

  Tentatively, Sofie did as she’d been asked. Resisting would only make it that more arduous to break free from her manacles prior to whatever they’d intended to do to her.

  ‘The goat of Mendes!’ Reverend Ward bellowed; his voice reverberating ominously.

  Sofie didn’t feel the urine trickling down her inner thighs, soaking her jeans and the cloth she lay upon. The sight of the creature that had materialised, standing on a dais, muscular arms rising above the goat’s head where inhuman fiery eyes burned upon her like live coals of fire studied her without expression had temporarily switched off all conscious thought, paralysing her with trepidation so profound it had to mean the end of her existence. Not only was her life at stake here, but also her soul; her immortality. She would be banished from heaven evermore once this ritual had concluded and, like it or not, she would be condemned for all eternity for relenting to the wishes of the beast before her the cult members called “the devil himself”.

  The terror rattling her bones so ferociously her ancestors could feel the vibrations rocked through, preventing her from emitting the loudest scream she could muster in desperate hope that someone outside walking past might hear her and come to her rescue.

  The robed figure wearing a prosthetic, pallid, featureless mask bent down, then rose a second later with a goat in his arms. He placed the goat on all fours directly above Sofie who stared up with protuberant eyes threatening to pop out of her head. Then he too climbed a dais took the proffered axe that’s blade glinted in the dimming light and raised it overhead with intent.

  Sofie didn’t see him bring it down because the goat’s snout was millimetres from her face. It was sniffing her when its head became separated from the rest of its anatomy and head butted her before rolling off the table and thudding on the altar steps. A geyser of deep red blood sprayed from the top of the cleanly severed neck like a tropical water fountain, dousing Sofie in the liquid. Above her the robed figure stood, axe in hand, the blade dripping blood. Its mask was dappled from the spray. Then, having achieved its purpose, stepped down and away from the communion table, handing the weapon back to its fellow worshipper who had provided it.

  The golden chalice in Margaret’s leathery hands was filled to the brim with the dead goat’s blood. Sofie couldn’t see her, nonetheless, she knew that Margaret was under the table she was lying on, picking up the decapitated head and making sure all the blood gushing out of the stump where its neck had been seconds ago. Then she rose with a groan of exertion and handed the cup to Reverend Ward.

  The old man with bushy eyebrows who was normally softly spoken dipped his index and middle finger into the chalice of warm blood, stirred it anticlockwise then lifted his hand out of the cup and marked Sofie’s forehead. The robed figure that had butchered the innocent goat backhanded her. The young woman’s head snapped to the right in one sharp movement, causing whiplash. The powerful slap stunned her, prevented her from writhing and thrashing about. Reverend Ward finished marking her with the unholy symbol.

  Sofie’s cheek where she’d been struck felt as though it was on fire. In spite of her fingertips brushing the silver crucifix in her urine-stained denim jeans and the fact that the Goat of Mendes was no visible, what reserved energy she’d once possessed for her umpteenth attempt on getting as far away as possible had been thwarted.

  Behind her someone was ascending the altar steps and she could hear the distinct sounds of
hissing. Not people hissing; something hissing, like steam billowing out of a funnel in an old fashioned train. Next she heard water sloshing in a bucket and sizzling. She flinched, breaking out of her catatonic state when boiling hot water sprinkled on her cheek. She cussed under her breath in pain.

  ‘Once this is over, then we’ll be even,’ Margaret croaked in her ear.

  Sofie slowly turned her head in the opposite direction and gasped.

  A black iron rod that looked similar to a fire poker jutted from the pail at the foot of the altar and when the robed figure, lifted it out where coils of steam dissipated into thin air around them and Sofie saw the five-pointed star of the pentacle on the other end of the poker a surge of refreshed panic pumped adrenaline through her system.

  In haste she gripped the silver crucifix, pulled it free from her jeans pocket, turned it so the longest part of the object protruded her hand. Then, with all her ebbing strength, she rammed the object into Margaret’s exposed jugular. She twisted and turned and pushed so that three thirds of the crucifix was imbedded into the middle-aged woman’s throat.

  Margaret toppled backwards, knocking Reverend Ward to one side, grabbing fruitlessly for the crucifix, choking and gargling as an ocean of her life fluid filled her mouth. The barrier blocking off the area where the choir sat during a Christian service struck her at the bottom of the spine, propelling her forward again minus the adroitness she usually possessed when walking with her head up, proud.

  Silence as deafening as Sofie’s scream altered the ambience. The entire congregation stood aghast at Margaret flailing around the altar, crashing into the pulpit, knocking over the golden chalices and candles. Her eyes searched the room, bulbous in shock more than pain at the sight of motionless robed figures without faces watching her, not helping. For the simple reason - they couldn’t. Her eyes glazed over and when she toppled backwards this time there was no barrier to keep her upright. Her narrow skull cracked with a sickening thud on the carpeted steps.

  The last thing Margaret saw before the perpetual blackness blanketed her was the figurine of Jesus Christ, nailed to the silver crucifix, drenched in her crimson spillage.

  Reverend Ward buried his head in his hands and it was only then did the ear-piercing silence end when the members of this satanic cult realised the enormity at what had just transpired, bringing a closure to their proceedings. Crying out, shaking his head frantically to and fro, Reverend Ward darted to where Margaret lay and checked for a pulse.

  While alone, Sofie saw her one and only chance and began pushing the miniature bolts through the holes, unlocking the manacles that bounded her. Using the tops of the fingertips, she pushed the iron sleeve up and off her wrist. She hastened to undo the other one which was much quicker now that she had one limb free. Then got her legs free, swung them off the communion table and limped down the three steps. She turned left and hurried down the outer aisle across the cold, terracotta surface, heart mimicking the sound of a runway horse. The entrance to the church zoomed ever closer. But in her peripheral sight she saw members of the congregation catching a brief glimpse as she shot past. It was only when she darted past the font, swung one leg at a time over the barrier and reached the ten foot double doors, threw the bolt and opened them to blinding sunlight and keening wind did the first shouts ring out. But by then it was too late.

  The yellow radiance blossomed her heart, rejoiced her with something that had long eluded her: hope.

  Her sprained ankle made her wince and she was fully aware that she might never walk properly ever again. Her denim jeans clung to her sodden thighs, the acrid smell of her bladder getting the better of her; the goat’s blood and the sign of the pentacle drying on her forehead. None of it mattered. What mattered was getting down this gravel path where tiny stones crunched underfoot and weeds, sprouting from the cracked surface, snatched at her ankles, making Sofie think in her confusion that the crunching was her bones and tendons snapping.

  Deeper and crueller the winter wind fell around her like a shroud. She reached the pavement and flew down the street, not bothering to wipe away the blood. Best leave it; show the outside world what she’d endured for the best part of a week. Behind her numerous footfalls chased after her. Then they stopped. Sofie chanced a glance and smiled at the crowd of faceless robed figures standing helplessly on the pavement outside the unholy church, hands on their hips, forlorn and disappointed for letting her get away.

  Justice. Justice. It’s fucking justice. Serves them right.

  To make her task easier the street she ran along went downhill into the district area. A bray of hysterical laughter erupted from within as she spotted two old women getting on a bus, pulling away from the kerb and taking their seats. She laughed even harder when she spotted a postman driving past in the opposite direction to the bus. The postman only noticed her as he’d gone by and did a double-take, wondering why a beautiful, sensuous woman had a satanic symbol drying on her brow, running like a madwoman having fled from the nearest asylum.

  The momentum she carried with her down the hill provided by pure adrenaline didn’t abate in the slightest. And even though she could feel as well as hear her heart slamming against her ribcage like the proverbial prisoner she’d been banging on the bars to be allowed out, the young Swedish woman didn’t slow down never mind consider stopping.

  In the near distance she saw the post office sign and intended on seeking help from within, until she spotted the police station another fifty meters ahead.

  I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna make it! I’m free! Fuck you, Margaret! FUCK YOU!

  Her momentum was only broken when her ankle gave out from beneath her and Sofie went crashing into a rubbish bin outside the local newsagent, spilling refuse across the cracked pavement. Using the billboard proclaiming UNIVERSITY STUDENT MISSING! FEARED DEAD, Sofie got to a vertical base and hobbled across the zebra crossing through the navy-blue wrought-iron gates onto the local constabulary premises and barged through the door.

  12.

  Sergeant Mollie Jenkins leapt, startled by the entrance door banging against the wall and the dishevelled girl bursting inside, half-running, half-stumbling, flaying her arms to keep her on her feet. The long mane of natural blonde hair was tousled and damp with perspiration. Mollie didn’t know how to react for a moment. Then she knocked on the blue door behind her where the officers were to get their attention and assist her with this troubled civilian who looked as though she’d been involved in something unthinkable unscathed physically, but mentally scarred by the trauma thereafter.

  Superintendent Dylan bolted out of his office to the front desk, looking around until he saw Mollie tentatively approaching a traumatised young woman who was on the verge of hyperventilating. Mollie made to take the frightened girl in her arms. Instead, Sofie recoiled, knocking the back of her bruised head on the notice board. Convulsions assailed her slender, accentuating frame. She doubled over at the waist and dry heaved... once... twice... then vomited violently on the polished linoleum.

  This time when Mollie made to hold her Sofie didn’t resist. She was too weak. She shivered not from the razor blade cold temperatures outside but from whatever it had been that had put her in this uncontrollable condition.

  ‘There we go,’ Mollie soothed. ‘Ssshhh, ssshhh. Calm down now, pet. Calm down.’ Mollie exchanged a brief look with her boss who nodded approvingly, quietly impressed with how the female officer was dealing with the extraordinary circumstances which had quite literally fallen into her lap without any forewarning. Then he came around the reception desk and sat down on one of the vacant chairs opposite the terror-stricken beauty.

  ‘Whatever’s happened, you’re safe now,’ he said.

  ‘Easy does it,’ Mollie said, caressing Sofie’s back, doing her utmost to slow the girl’s breathing rate before she ended up suffering a stroke.

  Five minutes passed as quickly as five secon
ds for the three of them. However, finally, Sofie resumed her normal breathing rate and began drifting in and out of consciousness. Superintendent Dylan hid his alarm at the situation that had disrupted the mundane nine till five gig that had gradually become monotonous in his ten years on the force in the local area. It was nothing like the programme Cops or the TV shows where two officers drove around their neighbourhood all day, one driving like a maniac, swerving in and out of other motorists while his partner hung out the passenger window firing at the tyres and blowing out the rear window of the criminal’s getaway vehicle. They never showed you an inspector or a constable filling out forms, writing down statements till the early hours of the morning because of some drunken brawl that had transpired at the local pub, costing him or her their relationship. They didn’t show officers walking the streets telling off young hoodlums for throwing beer bottles at passing trains or arresting a known piss-artist for screaming their head off, waking up the decent townsfolk. This was the fucking eighties. Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis were sprinting away from buildings just as they were blowing up and the backdraught threw them ten feet into the air, arms and legs spread out.

  But now all of a sudden a traumatised girl he’d never seen before had come crashing through the door and changed everything.