The Realms Thereunder

3

The kirk was a small stone building, rectangular and grey. There was no belfry or steeple, just an iron cross on the east end of the roof. Rab Duthie led Officer Alex Simpson through the large wooden door, beneath a carved wooden emblem of a burning bush and the Cross of St. Andrew.

Outside, the sky was grey and cold, but inside the church it was warm and bright. The lights and heater were on and candles had been placed on the altar, the windowsills, in freestanding holders-anywhere there was space for them.

There were about half a dozen people spread throughout the church, sitting in the pews, their heads bowed, some of them clutching their hands, some of them reading silently from Bibles. A man dressed in black walked towards them down the centre aisle. He had a head of well-combed iron-grey hair and a cleanshaven chin. When he spoke, his voice was soft with a very thin

Edinburgh accent. He greeted Rab first, shaking his hand in both of his, and then turned to Alex.

“Reverend, this is a man from the Constabulary-says he’s looking into the-our troubles here.”

“Is that so?” he said, turning a weary smile to Alex and offering a hand.

Alex took it and introduced himself.

“Rector John Maccanish,” the reverend introduced himself.

“How do you do? How can I assist you?”

“Well, Rab said it best,” said Alex. “I’ve heard about the trials ye’ve been facing up here, and I’ve come to help.”

“Of course, help with what, exactly?”

Alex gazed out into the church. “Ye’ve got a fair few in today- late-morning prayer meeting?”

“It’s-” Maccanish seemed to wrestle with how much to say.

“I’ve organized a few weeks of twenty-four-hour prayer. It’s been- a hard time for the parishioners up here.”

“Rab was telling me about that. There are the things that have been told to the police-the thieving, the vandalism, the suicides.

And then there are the things you don’t tell the police-the ‘accidents,’ the fighting, the drinking, the victimising, the bad crops, sickly animals, new mothers miscarrying. And then there are the things that you don’t tell each other.” Alex turned his eye to Maccanish. “The nightmares, the screams you think you hear in the night, the sleeplessness, the foul looks that you imagine people are giving you in the street, the curl of your own lip and the shortness of your temper to everyone you meet. Ill will. The sense that there’s a thick, oppressive force covering the vale-as heavy and as dark as a wet, woolen blanket-smothering the very life from you, from the loved ones around you.”

Maccanish stood staring at Alex, blinking his eyes. “And you’re with the police?” he asked.

“Aye, the police.” Alex gave another grin.

“Well, you’re absolutely right about all of that-dreams, cries in the night, and the rest. Except for the part about no one telling each other-they tell me. All of them. Everybody feels it, and they come here. In their minds, the church is here to prevent all evil touching them-so they can just ignore it and get on with their lives, whether they step in the building or not. When that is found not to be the case-well, then it’s the kirk’s fault for letting it happen, isn’t it? They come here angry, you understand, livid-demanding answers, explanations. I’ve got none for them. They don’t prepare you for this type of thing in the seminary. I’ve been threatened, officer,” Maccanish said, holding out his hands, “attacked! Not by men, by women-mothers in desperation. They want to know what to do. And what can I tell them? It’ll be alright in the end? No. I say watch and pray, read your Scripture, search your hearts, and meditate on the Word. And they leave here angrier than they arrived-spitting, cursing, blaspheming all manner of obscenities. And where do I turn? I called the bishops, but they just fobbed me off. I wanted them to come up and see-feel what it’s like to walk down these paths, and they agreed, but their secretaries refused to make appointments. We’ve been abandoned, all of us. We’d abandon each other, if we could.” Maccanish ran his hands through his hair and composed himself. Then he continued.

“I had a sit-down with the wife, to work out what to do- we prayed long and hard, we listened for the Spirit to guide us, and you know what we heard Him say? Watch and pray. It was the hardest thing to hear at that time. But we set our shoulders to the task. ‘John,’ my wife said. ‘John, go down to the kirk with this load of candles. Get down on your knees and I’ll bring a pot of tea around directly.’ I came down to open the kirk and I found three elderly ladies-parishioners-standing on the doorstep. I asked them what they were doing here and they said that they’d come to help me watch and pray. I nearly bawled like a bairn, I was so relieved. That was over a fortnight ago, and I’ve rarely left the building since. It’s turned the church right upside down. Over two-thirds of my congregation has abandoned the building-won’t even come in sight of the place. I go to visit them and their doors are barred. But there are those who previously wouldn’t nod to me in the street, turning up every day, sitting and praying for hours on end. But praying for what? Watching for what?”

“For me,” Alex said solemnly. “For me, Reverend Maccanish- you’re in the middle of a spiritual battle. You’ve been invaded. And being taken off-guard and ill-prepared, the only thing you could do was dig in, keep your heads down, and wait for reinforcement.”

“A spiritual battle,” Maccanish repeated, his eyes shining. He began nodding his head. “Aye-aye. So what are you? Are you the reinforcement? Are you like-a spiritual general or something?” he asked eagerly.

“Me?” said Alex. “A general? No, I’m not a general.”

He paused for dramatic effect-he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m Black Ops.”