Stolen Souls

27

BILLY CRAWFORD SAT on the threadbare couch in his living room, his back straight, his hands on his knees, listening to the muffled wails above his head. He’d been in prayer for over an hour now. He had neither a clock to tell him so, nor a watch on his wrist. He’d always had an innate sense of time. He went to bed at the same hour every night, and awoke at the same time every morning, had done since he was a boy. Never been late in his life, people would say about Billy Crawford, if they ever talked about him.

The crying and howling from above continued.

It didn’t worry him. No one would hear. The old threestory semi stood well away from any other buildings, just off the Cavehill Road, on the outskirts of the city. It backed on to waste ground, and the adjoining house had been derelict for years. It had changed hands several times as property prices rose and fell, but as yet no developer had tried to turn it back into a home. With the state of the economy now, it would be years before anyone would look at it again.

In addition to replacing all his windows with tempered double glazing, he had insulated the wall cavities. Little or no noise could enter or leave the house.

Let the girl cry all she wanted.

The first girl had cried a lot.

They all had.

He had drowned them out by singing unto the Lord.

“What a friend we have in Jesus,” he sang, his voice resonating deep in his barrel chest, “all our sins and griefs to bear.”

He closed his eyes and felt the shape of the words on his tongue. “What a privilege to carry,” he sang, “everything to God in prayer.”

The wailing from above grew stronger, but his voice swelled, filling the house, blotting out all else until it was the only sound in the whole wide world.