The Man in the Hallowe'en Mask

All Hallows Eve

Michael Rymes pushed open the door of the Cricketers Arms and made his way toward the bar. It had been a tough day. He was seriously looking forward to a cold pint, to wash away the stresses and tribulations of work. The Cricketers had the best kept IPA in the village, and beyond.

Michael had lived in Chiselford for a year now. He still didn’t know many of its two thousand souls; he liked a quiet drink, eschewing quiz nights and darts tournaments, and his work took him out of the village most days. As area manager for a high street bank, he covered thirty or forty thousand miles a year driving around the region.

Pete, behind the bar, picked up a pint glass when he saw Michael coming, raising an eyebrow to confirm. Michael smiled and nodded. The fine ale spurted for two pulls of the handle, then settled to a clear nutty brown as Michael double tapped his phone to pay. He was soon seated at a corner table with a commanding view of the cosy bar, its oak beams, low ceiling and glowing fireplace radiating welcome warmth. It was cold outside for the penultimate day of October and the nights were certainly drawing in.

Michael’s first swallow - always the best, in normal circumstances - was spoiled by his suddenly noticing the flier on the wall opposite. Hallowe’en Special, Friday 31st October. Pumpkin Soup and choice of main course with a drink included, £13.75. Bloody Hallowe’en, he thought, spluttering slightly as the beer went down the wrong way.

“Better be careful, Mike.” A firm hand clapped onto Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t want you choking on your beer. I’d rather not be writing your funeral eulogy just yet.”

Oliver Miller dropped into the chair next to Michael’s, setting his pint down on the round wooden table top. He’d changed out of his dog collar, into a plain beige sweater and jeans.

“Ollie. Good to see you, mate. It was that poster, put me off my beer. I don’t do Hallowe’en. Waste of a good Friday night. Pumpkins and trick-or-treat are mindless American imports we can all do without.”

Oliver took a swig of his beer and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Oh, Mike, live and let live. There’ll be a good crowd in tomorrow, like as not. Healthier company than him over there, at any rate.”

Michael glanced in the direction where Oliver had nodded. Solomon Till, a single fifty-something whom Michael knew by sight, was sitting alone, an inch of beer left in his glass, staring avidly at his tabloid newspaper. Michael saw Till glance at his wristwatch before going back to fixate on his muse within the newsprint.

Miller’s lips narrowed. “Bet he’s on page 3. Not too sure about that one. He hangs around the primary school. I see him when I leave after my religion and social studies classes. I asked him what he was doing once. Said he was seeing the children safely across the road. I don’t like to think the worst about anyone but I really think we need to keep an eye on him.”

“That’s right, Isabel,” nodded Oliver Miller, to the eager, blonde ten-year-old who had put up her hand. She was among the twenty-seven who were sitting cross-legged on the carpet at the front of the classroom. “You should never talk to strangers, even if they tell you that your parents have sent them to pick you up from school. Get away from them quickly and tell a grown-up you can trust. Who can tell me which grown ups you can trust?”

Up went a forest of hands. Oliver Miller surveyed the canopy and chose Floris, a red-haired boy with dimples and an impish smile. “Our parents,” he offered.

“Good, Floris. And who else can we trust?”

The answers came thick and fast. Teachers, policemen and policewomen, doctors, nurses, dentists and, of course, vicars.

Miller nodded. “Well done. And what about online danger? Who goes online when they get home after school?”

The same forest of hands.

“Ok. So, what dangers might there be, when we are online?”

Miller fielded the responses and steered the class discussion toward the lesson’s objective - understanding all kinds of stranger danger, including online grooming of children.

“Now please go back to your tables - quickly and quietly - and design a poster about stranger danger. Please don’t forget online stranger danger, because that’s very important. The danger can come at any time, without any warning. You could divide your paper into two columns - things we should do, and things we shouldn’t do. I’ll be giving out class credit points for excellent work. Off you go.”

The children beetled back to their desks and set to work.

“Good, Isabel,” Miller said, holding up the blonde child’s paper as he stood next to her. “Do you see this, boys and girls? Isabel has put that you should never go with a stranger, even if they seem to be a nice person. That means online strangers too. If they tell you to meet them somewhere, should you go? Who thinks yes? Who thinks no, you shouldn’t go?” Unanimous; the answer he expected.

A quiet cough, from the classroom doorway. “Good morning, Mr Miller,” said Janina Garvey, the school’s head teacher. “I’m really pleased to see you’ve been teaching 6J about stranger danger. I’m sure none of them would ever go with a stranger, whether it was online or in person. Isn’t that right, boys and girls?”

In chorus, “Yes, Mrs Garvey.”

Neither Oliver Miller nor Janina Garvey saw the silent, cynical smile that passed between blonde Isabel and dimpled Floris as the head teacher of Chiselford Church of England Primary School departed, leaving the curate of Saint Werburgh’s Church in sole command.

The glow of the computer’s screen giving out the only light in the curtained bedroom, the dark-clad, solitary user clicked the mouse with his right hand as he drew on the cigarette held in his left. Placing the cigarette in the ashtray, he began to type.

“Mega Hallowe’en rave. In the woods behind Chiselford Primary School. If your parents are at the grown-ups’ do in the Cricketers, see you in the woods. Be there or be nobody. Cool prizes for the best costumes. See you tomorrow night.”

Sitting back, he flicked his lank hair behind his ear. He had checked his profile earlier that evening. Simon Porter, aged fourteen years. Another drag on the cigarette. A quick look at the photo, that wasn’t of him - it was one he’d grabbed off the internet, of a kid decades younger than himself. A quick tilt of the can of beer next to the mouse. Then back to the girlie magazine on his desk and, after that, to his favourite bookmarked Pornhub and Hentai sites.

Several videos and a handful of Kleenex later, he checked the party chat feed. With a tingling thrill, he saw there were three responses, two of whom where kids he knew from his reconnaissance.

Tomorrow promised to be a really good night.

“Welcome to Chiselford Church Hall.” Oliver Miller addressed the hundred or so in his congregation. Well, not exactly a congregation, because he wasn’t qualified to be a vicar yet. He was still a curate. More of an audience than a congregation, he supposed.

He went on. “Thank you for coming along this morning, to share a cup of coffee with us and to focus upon our most important priority - keeping children safe amid the multitude of dangers that surround them in this modern world.”

Much nodding.

“The focus has shifted now. Back when I was a schoolboy, my mother warned me about strangers in cars, and all the things they might say to tempt me to get in. These days, the bigger danger comes from strangers online. Often, they pose as someone much younger than their actual age, to gain children’s confidence and entice them into a situation they - the abuser - can control. Children are duped into trusting the abuser, who then convinces the child victim that the abuse is their own fault - they are dirty; they wanted to do whatever it was the abuser made them do, and so on. So, they don’t tell anyone what has happened and what continues to happen, because they are ashamed and they think they will be in terrible trouble. And that is where the church can help. God sees all, and he knows children are innocent. That is the way he created them. The message you need to give your children is to put their trust in God, in the church, in those they can truly depend on. Parents of children who attend Chiselford CE Primary can rest assured they are in safe hands, because I visit the school daily and I teach every class all they need to know about Our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit.”

There was a satisfied silence. Until one lady stood and spoke out. “Mr Miller, thank you for your reassuring speech. Unfortunately, it has come to my attention that there may be a threat to our children hear in Chiselford. I speak for a group of parents who have heard of a man posing online as teenager, presenting a threat to our children. May I please ask if you are aware of this, and what is being done?”

Oliver Miller swallowed. He was unused to this confrontational stance, although he knew such attitudes, with their bundled sense of entitlement, were part of the daily routine for those who worked permanently at the village school.

“Madam, thank you for your question. We are, er… aware of that man. He is under investigation. We are working closely with the police and with social services to ensure the safety of all children.”

There followed a number of questions about supervising children’s online activity, age limits of various chat applications, and peer pressure to equip them with the latest smartphones and tablets, all of which Oliver fielded with aplomb, drawing on his long experience with children.

Rihanna’s Cheers, Drink to That reverberated around the Cricketers bar as Michael stepped into party land phug where everyone had to do what the drunken majority said, like it or not. He briefly considered leaving straight away. He didn’t need this onslaught of noise, flashing lights, crowd and enforced bonhomie.

Michael didn’t leave. He gently elbowed his way to the bar. What the fuck was he doing here? Pete looked under pressure, beads of sweat like jewels on his brow. No words, and the pint of IPA was there, then Pete was away to serve a ranting spook with smudged make-up, eternally sure she should have been served next.

Michael jostled his way from the bar into the overcrowded floor, casting around in search of Oliver. He wasn’t here, in the biggest room, so might as well try round the…

“Hello, mate.” A gentle but firm hand on his forearm.

Rich and fruity, the voice warmed like a well-seasoned and matured Christmas pudding.

Michael felt at a disadvantage. “I’m sorry; I don’t think we’ve…”

“Silas Wendell.” His breath came damp and earthy. “I’ve been in Chiselford a long while. Been meaning to catch up with you. Now’s my chance, I suppose.”

Michael focused on his interlocutor. “I’m sorry, sir. Did you mistake me for someone else? My name is Michael Rymes.“

The ambient noise seemed to stop. All Michael could see was Silas Wendell’s orange full-face Hallowe’en mask. Wendell continued. “I know who you are. Sit down. Listen to me.”

Two chairs and a table had appeared on the floor among the revellers. Michael fancied he was in a dream; a toy universe where anything could happen. He also felt an indefinable compulsion to follow Wendell’s instructions, as though the safety of the world rested upon it.

“I watch out for kids.” Wendell sat back, arms folded.

Michael’s face remained impassive.

Wendell leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t you care about kids? You got none of your own, then?”

Michael inhaled. “I have no children of my own, no. However, that absolutely does not mean I do not care about children’s welfare. Forgive me, but why are you taking such a confrontational stance? We have only just met.”

Wendell nodded. “Fair enough. You don’t know me. So I’d better tell you. Thing is, I hate fucking paedophiles. I’ve made it my job to find them and bring them to justice. I know what I’d like to do to the fuckers. First, cock off. They don’t deserve to keep it after they’re dead. It’s a sign of manhood. Bro, they are not men. Then their cock goes in their own mouth. Oh, and before we get to that stage, I break their thighs and wrists, with my sledgehammer. Then I cut off their cocks with my knife. Not too sharp. Don’t want to make it too easy for the fuckers.” Silas Wendell lifted his orange mask, revealing a weathered countenance with eyes full of black hate.

Michael really had had enough. Rising to his feet, he raised his voice. “Look sir, Mr Wendell, I don’t have any more to say to you and I would be grateful if you would leave me in peace now, please.”

Pete flicked a glance across from behind the bar. Perhaps Michael had had too much to drink. He appeared to be holding a conversation with himself. Keep an eye, Pete thought. He didn’t want to evict a regular - his friend - from the premises. But he cared about his job more than friendship.

Wendell nodded, extending his hand. Michael returned the nod and responded with a firm grip.

Where on Earth was Oliver? Michael scanned the crowded bar room, to no avail. Then he realised Silas Wendell was gone.

At least it was Saturday. No need to be up for work. Michael had a mercifully dim recollection of spending much of last night with his face in the toilet pan. He hadn’t drunk all that much beer. He guessed his upset stomach had arisen from Silas Wendell’s commentary on how he would like to deal with paedophiles, given half a chance. Michael had never been a retributionist. To him, the law should be about improving people’s behaviour through a combined programme of stick and carrot. It certainly wasn’t about revenge or punishment.

Bugger. No milk and no bread. Reluctantly, but with no alternative other than dry cereal and black coffee, Michael headed round to the village co-op. Shit, why did they make the aisles so long and so narrow? Why did there have to be kids and their mums with trolleys blocking every bloody aisle?

Wait, there was Norman. Special Police Constable Norman Reid. Basket full of sandwiches and cans of pop. And he was in uniform. They only called out the specials if something was going on.

“Norman! What’s up? Something happened?”

Michael’s old friend was unusually serious. “I’ll say, yes. Something has happened. Did you know the new church curate, Oliver Miller?”

The universe lurched for Michael. All he could say was, “You what?” It came out in a kind of croak.

Norman gently touched Michael’s forearm. “Come and sit in the car, Mike.”

Michael couldn’t remember his last time in a police car. Looked a basic model. Engine running and heater blowing.

Norman’s tone was gentle. “Michael, when did you last see Oliver Miller?”

Michael thought back. “Day before yesterday. He was in the Cricketers. Norman, you spoke about him in the past tense. Is Ollie OK?”

Norman swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mike. Ollie’s not OK. I’m very sorry to have to tell you, Ollie was found dead this morning, up in the woods. Seems to have happened last night.”

Michael felt numb. “Last night? The woods? I looked for him in the pub. He didn’t come.”

Norman’s training kicked in. “Mike, I know this is a shock. I’ll drive you home and make you a cup of tea. Then, if you can tell me anything about who might have…”

Michael shook his head. “I have no idea why anyone would want to harm Ollie. He was a good man, god-fearing, a curate with plans to become a vicar. How did he die?”

Norman was silent. “He, er… I don’t really have all the details.”

“Oh, fuck off, Norman. I can see it on our face. You know more than you’re letting on. How did my friend die?”

Norman Reid broke eye contact. “Mike, I’ll tell you this because we go back. But you didn’t get it from me, OK?”

A nod.

“Ok. Take a breath. Oliver had been castrated. His penis had been cut off. It was found in his mouth. And all four of his limbs had been broken. Pathologist said it looked like it had been done with a heavy hammer.”

Michael’s eyes bulged. “Norman, I know who did it. Silas Wendell. He practically confessed to me, last night. Hallowe’en. He had a mask on. He told me how he’d do them, in graphic detail. Just like you said. But he got the wrong man. Ollie’s not a paedo. I mean, wasn’t. He’s… he’s going be a vicar. Was going to. Oh, shit.” Michael collapsed into racking sobs.

Norman said gently, “Mike, I’m going to drive you round to hospital. I want you to have a check-up. You’re a bit confused, which is hardly surprising in the circumstances.” The policeman made to drive off, but his passenger’s hand was firm on the gear knob.

“Norman, I know it was Wendell. He told me how he did the others.”

Norman’s gaze was steady. “Mike, we have strong witness evidence from kids that Miller lured them up there to the woods. Someone did him, yes, but it can’t have been Wendell. Silas Wendell died thirteen years ago.”