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The Divine Calling

Norm Hudson

    He always said a prayer before he killed them. And tonight was no different. He knelt down.
    “Our Father who art in heaven——————.”
    The words came quickly. Easily. From years of practice.
    Like his hands. They’d had practice too. And tonight they were excited.
    He clasped them tighter to calm them.
    They couldn’t let him down. Not tonight.
    Not that they ever had. None of those other times. They’d been strong. Powerful. As they’d squeezed the life out of their victims. Pathetic, gasping victims. All the same at the end. But not at the beginning. At the beginning they were flirty. Smiling. Attractive. Like his mother. That’s why he killed them.
    His prayer was finished. God was with him. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. Strong. Powerful. He’d need that tonight. Susan Hamilton was going to be difficult. She hadn’t been at the beginning. But when he’d finished with her, there had been the angry, abusive phone calls. And the letters. Pushed through his letterbox. He hadn’t reckoned on that. The others had been easy. Through the years. Soft. Submissive. Sheeplike. Like women should be. His flock. That’s how he thought of them. But times were different. And women were different. One of his flock had strayed. And he had to bring her back into his fold. A lamb to the slaughter.
    He pulled on his black leather gloves and buttoned his coat so that it covered his collar. It wouldn’t take long to reach her place. A short walk. Through the cemetery. His favourite place. They were all here. His victims. Where he felt close to them. And soon there’d be another one. To complete his mission. The last. He’d made a vow.
    “You sure, angel?”
    Her voice in his head. His mother’s voice. Teasing. Tempting. Tantalising. He stopped and looked down. There it was. Like it always was. A small, white feather. He picked it up and stroked the underside of his chin with it. Like his mother always had.
    “You sure you don’t mind going outside.”
    He remembered the way she’d stroked the feather so gently under his chin and looked at him with those beguiling, blue eyes.
    “It won’t be for long.”
    Her eyes had left his then and found those of her gentleman caller. And the feather had fallen down. A fallen angel. Like her.
    That’s when he’d found his calling. His mission. And she’d been his first.
    “No more,” his voice whispered to the feather as he dropped it.
    Words he’d used his whole life.
    But there were always more.
    But not tonight. Tonight would be his last.
    He’d take the short cut along the river. There’d be less chance of someone seeing him. The river was like black satin shining in the moonlight. Dark. Deep. Deathlike. A favourite haunt of suicides. He pulled his coat collar round him to keep out the damp night air and buried the thought.
    The house was in darkness when he reached it. Like he expected it to be. After all she was a clean living woman. Or had been.
    In bed, he thought. The bed they’d shared. That would make it easier. Cleaner. And ironic.
    He glanced round. There was no one about. He tried the gate at the side of the house. Locked. A careful woman. Like himself. But not careful enough. She should have updated her burglar alarm. He glanced up at the box that he knew any burglar would steer clear of on the side of the house. It didn’t work at night. He knew that.
    He climbed over the gate. It was easy to gain access. After all he was an expert at it. There was no sound from upstairs. He slid silently towards the kitchen drawer and removed the long carving knife. A forced entry. An attempted robbery. He knew she kept her handbag by the bed. He had it all planned. Still his hand tightened unusually nervously as he turned the handle of the bedroom door. He felt a sick panic in his throat. Something was wrong. He glanced at the bed. Had she stirred? No. Nothing. She was asleep like she always was. The covers pulled high over her shoulders as if in protection.
    But nothing could protect her. He raised the knife in the air and plunged it deep into the covers, raising it again and again. And each time he plunged it, he said the prayer.
    “Our Father who art in heaven. Our Father who art in heaven. Our Father who art in heaven.”
    When his hands were done, he dropped the knife and looked at the blood spattered covers of the bed. It was done. She’d never blackmail him again. He was free.
    He ransacked the bedroom drawers. And moved methodically from room to room pulling out the contents of drawers and cupboards.
    But there were no letters. She must have disposed of the threatening letters he had posted through her letter-box.
    Only God knew what had made him do such a foolish thing.
    He stuffed a gold necklace and the rings he had found in his pocket. He’d dispose of them safely. In the river.
    The sun was just rising as he made his way back along the river bank. He had no time to lose. He put his hands in his pockets and withdrew the necklace and rings he’d placed in the plastic bag. He picked up a heavy stone from the river bank and placed it in the bag then he dropped it into the river. The sun was strengthening as he reached the cemetery’s gate.
    He’d always liked mornings. A new beginning. With prospects. And he was in his favourite place. And no feather. It was gone. He felt a breeze stir his cheek. He closed his eyes and gave thanks.
    “Our Father who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name————————————.”
    “Goodness me, Reverend, that’s a divine calling you’ve got, out and about at this time!”
    The voice startled him. He opened his eyes.
    It was Mrs. McGinty. The widow McGinty. But not like the others. Not soft. Not submissive. Nosey. Nit-picking. A nasty nuisance. He hadn’t been happy when she’d been made an elder.
     But he didn’t see her. He only saw the feather in her hands.
    “You surely don’t mind going outside,” she said. And the words hit some unseen gong in him, “in all weathers,” she added.
    “The lord calls us at all times,” he said, his trembling hands letting his coat collar fall to reveal the white dog-collar.
    “Ay, you’ve never said a truer word.”
    She paused and looked him shrewdly in the eye.
    “You’ll have heard about Mrs. Hamilton, I daresay.”
    The hand that had held the knife shook slightly but imperceptibly.
    Damn the woman! he thought. She’d always had her suspicions. But she couldn’t prove anything. He felt his hand steadying. The power returning. How he’d like to grasp her throat. To squeeze every last malicious mouthful out of it. But no. No more. He was finished with all that.
    “Mrs. Hamilton?” he said, and her name rolled off his tongue as if it were of no consequence.
    “You’ve not heard?”
    Her voice was joyful. Victorious.
    “Dropped dead at the postbox. Posting a letter.”
    “Dead!”
    He sounded shocked even to himself.
    “Ay. And such a young age. I thought you’d be the first to know!”
    Her voice had a touch of acidity.
    “Posting a letter, you say,” he added when he’d rallied himself.
    “Ay, to her sister. They say she arrived tonight and is staying at the house. It won’t be for long.”
    He barely heard the words. He was watching the feather in her hand.
    “I thought you might have been round to give her some comfort.”
    The voice sounded mocking or was his imagination playing tricks?
    His mind raced. The sister. Had it been the sister in the bed? He tried to remember if he had seen her face.
    “No,” he said outwardly calmly. “I didn’t know!”
    “I guess you’ll be knowing soon enough!” the old woman said.
    He nodded.
    He’d made a mistake. He’d killed the wrong woman. He’d meant to kill Susan Hamilton. But Susan Hamilton was already dead. He’d killed her sister!
    Yes, he’d be knowing soon enough.
    “I was speaking to the sister yesterday. Seems she had some letters of her sister’s for you.”
    “Letters,” he repeated, his voice a hoarse whisper.
    “Yes. That’s what she was posting when she dropped dead. Seems she wanted to return them to you.”
    Impossible. There’d been no letters. He’d ransacked the place.
    He watched the feather fall from the woman’s hand. It curled itself around his mother’s gravestone.
    “She was going to bring them round to you but she gave them to me instead when I called at the house to offer my condolences.”
    The woman withdrew a packet of letters from her pocket.
    From where he was he could see where they’d been opened.
    “’Course these are just some of them. I’ve kept the others in a safe place.”
    She’d known what he’d been thinking. She’d read the letters.
    “Do you mind?” he said, indicating his mother’s gravestone.
    “You’d rather go outside,” she said.
    He nodded.
    “You sure?”
    He looked at the woman. Not flirty. Not attractive. Not smiling. But just like his mother.
    He picked up the feather and stroked his chin.
    “I think I’ll go round and give her some comfort,” he said.
    “It’s a divine calling you have, Reverend,” she said.
    He opened the gate of the cemetery and took the short cut along the river. There would be less chance of someone seeing him. The river was like black satin shining in the moonlight. Dark. Deep. Deathlike.
    “One more,” he said, dropping the feather into the inky blackness of the river.
    It wouldn’t take him long to reach the widow McGinty’s house. He’d ransack it, find the letters and then deal with her.
    He always said a prayer before he killed them. And tonight was no different. He knelt down.
    “Our Father who art in heaven——————————.”
    The words came quickly. Easily. From years of practice.
    Like his hands. They’d had practice too. And they were excited.
    He clasped them tighter to calm them.
    They couldn’t let him down.
    Not that they ever had. None of those other times. They’d been strong. Powerful. As they’d squeezed the life out of their victims. Pathetic, gasping victims. All the same at the end.
    His prayer was finished. God was with him. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. Strong. Powerful. He’d need that.
    He rose from his knees. As he did so, the soft mud of the riverbank on which he was standing slowly sank into the river. He was up to his waist in icy water and the current was pulling him fast. He wasn’t worried. He had strong hands. Powerful hands. He would make a grab at the reeds that were growing by the side of the river.
    That’s when he saw the feather. Lying. Trapped. In a slowly sinking sludge of mud at the riverside.
    He tried to reach it. To rescue it. Like he’d always tried to do.
    But, even as it sunk, darkened and dirty, into the slime, it teased. Tempted. Tantalised.
    It won’t be long, he thought. It won’t be long.
    For, as his feet gave way in the mud and he felt his head go under, he knew he’d completed his mission. His last.
    “You sure, angel?”
    He saw the feather sucked down and disappear.
    He tried to nod but the water had entered his mouth and he felt himself choking. Choking.
    No more, he thought. No more. This was the last.
    But he wasn’t worried.
    He’d had a divine calling.

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