St Louis

Chapter Two

Cathy’s skull was full of fire.

Mr Demson shifted her remains with a long poker, whispering a prayer. Her clothes and much of her flesh were long gone, leaving a thin red corpse, burned to a crisp and bones crumbling into ash. Her eyes were now replaced with flame, dark holes spitting red sparks. Her mouth was gaping nothingness.

Demson stood on the oldest part of the school, where his office was, where the chapel was.

Where he had killed Cathy.

She lay in a large metal trough on the balcony of a big Victorian building, Demson looking on as smoke filled the air, the smell of rotten flesh playing on his nostrils. The stars were out; ash and smoke floating up to meet them, dots of white that shined magnificently without the nuisance of light pollution. The stars always twinkled here.

Demson finished his prayer with the sign of the cross.

“What was she here for?”

He turned.

A young man closed the door behind him and joined Demson on the balcony.

He was smaller than Demson, thinner. His suit was black, with a patterned red tie, and his hair, blacker than Demson’s, which was broken with several grey hairs, framed his high cheek bones. He was younger, too, with a faint wry smile, constantly playing on his lips.

“Theft,” he replied, briskly. “But that’s not why I chose her. I recognised her allegiance to the Lord, William, and I knew her soul was pure, now. She had repented for her sins.”

The young man, sighed.

“Brother,” said William Demson. “I would like to return home.”

“I tire of you saying that, William,” Andrew’s voice grew louder. “After every Discipline Day.”

“What you’re doing,” said William, his face even now showing faint amusement. “What you’re doing is wrong.” He laughed, ever so slightly. “You know, the first time you killed, it broke me. This is my brother, killing a bloody kid.” William moved forward, leaning on the balcony wall, crossing his legs casually behind him. “But now it doesn’t affect me. I see Cathy here,” he gestured to what was left of the burning girl. “And, yes, I see another dead child. Another wasted opportunity. But the thing I see the most?”

William turned to look at Andrew, the dim glow of the fire underlining his eyes with black shadow.

“I see my big brother,” he said. “Disappointing me, yet again. And I’ve just got used to that.”

He laughed slightly harder now, but still only fits of sharp breaths.  He turned to look at the stars, and the lapping waves in the near-distance. The building was on the farthest part on the island, looking on to a stone beach, closed in with two cliffs that dipped around and met each other at ground level behind the beach. Whatever grass lay there was depressing; thin strands of green that lined the white cliffs, growing sparser at it followed down the hills, growing yellow and fading into earthy ground as it reached the school complex.

William licked his lips and scratched his chin. His body was full of strange ticks; not over-excited, but restless. He would scratch a lot, his hair, his arms, and he would straighten his tie, smooth his shirt down. His watch, residing colourfully on his left wrist, was constantly checked.

Andrew Demson checked his now, a plain number that he wore on his right. It was almost ten at night. He sighed. So did William, but the latter laughed a little too.

“Your watch goes on the left hand,” he smiled. “As I keep telling you.”

Andrew coughed, disgruntled, but looked away. The stench of rotten flesh had started to ease, and he waited until the fire had ceased and Cathy was in ashes. He waited for a gust of wind.

Grabbing a handful of ashes, his hands enclosed with leather gloves, he muttered another short prayer of condolence.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

Said ash floated, like the smoke did, to meet with the stars.

A tiny ash, still burning, caught on the finger of Andrew’s left glove. Until he finished the prayer he didn’t notice, but as the sign of the cross was completed, he looked down to see his finger smoking.

“Drat,” he muttered, as he clapped his hands together to extinguish the ash. He examined his finger to see a crisp hole on the finger tip. William looked on, amused.

“You took me in when I lost everything,” he said, but he was scowling, rather than giving thanks. Andrew looked up in surprise. William hadn’t mentioned the circumstances of their predicament in some time. “My job, my wife- everything. You gave me food, a bed to sleep in and a home. That’s not something God tells you to do, it’s something you choose to do yourself. So, thanks for that, I guess.”

His tone was still cold, and Andrew tried to interrupt. God had told him to do that. Or that’s what he told himself.

“I’m not finished,” William said, slowly. “Term after term, I watched you slaughter these children. And term after term I delivered a speech to you, like this. And you do not listen!”

William grasped Andrew’s shoulders tight, Andrew jumping slightly in shock.

“I’m doing the right thing,” he spluttered. “You have no idea-“

William laughed.

“Killing children is the wrong thing,” he shook his head and giggled. “It’s a taboo! It’s morally repugnant! You’re not setting their souls free, you’re wasting them!” William roared, “It’s the wrong thing!”

“You’ll never understand, William,” Andrew broke away, turning his back and shaking his head. “This is what needs to be done.”

William jumped round to face him, grabbing the glove of Andrew’s left hand as he did so, slipping it off. The older brother instinctively tried to snatch it back, but William raised a finger. He examined the hole the ash had left as it burned.

“You need to be careful, Andy,” he smiled again, sickly. “Just one spark can leave even the most strongest of forces vulnerable. There’s a change coming,” he frowned and squinted, looking more sinister than Andrew ever could, what little light there was coming from the moon and stars playing on his face and planting subtle shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. “I can feel it.”

He threw the glove off the balcony. Andrew didn’t protest; he was so seething from William’s show of contempt. The glove joined the ashes, the smoke and the stars and disappeared from view, the black night swallowing it whole.

William left, but not before scooping up a little of the remaining ash from the trough and throwing it from the balcony, crossing himself and saying a prayer for Cathy. He reached the door to inside and turned his head.

“God is watching, sure,” he said, and he was serious. “But when He watches you, I know He feels the disgust that I feel. Good luck.”