James moved forward and yanked down his brother’s trousers and long-johns, revealing his genitals.
“Jesus Christ!” He could barely bring himself to even look at his brother’s penis. Despite the chill of the night air and William’s obvious fear - conditions that would make most men shrivel - the thing hung down to his mid-thigh like some sickly, tumescent snake.
No wonder the poor girl bled so much after being ploughed with that monstrosity, he thought.
“Why do you do it, William? Are you driven to madness by this abomination between your legs? Tell me. Why?”
“Blood…” The response was barely more than a whisper.
“What?”
“It’s their blood. I love the blood that comes when I…put it in them. The heat as it flows over me, their screams echoing in my ears, making it bigger and harder, bringing even more blood… ”
“Enough!” As he heard the sickness spout from his brother’s lips, James saw the despicable penis twitch with the hint of a burgeoning erection. “My God, man, you don’t deserve a second chance, but - you are my…mother’s son.”
James’ reticence to use the word ‘brother’ was not lost on the Reverend, but he had no time to mourn it as James proffered the knife.
William stared at him, panic in his eyes. “What do you expect me to do with that, James?”
“I think you know what I want you to do with it, William. I want to you to cut it off. Slice it from your body - that disgusting bloody…freak-show!”
“You can’t be serious, James?”
“I am deadly serious. Cut it off! If you’ve no pecker you can do no more harm. Simple as that.”
William swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. He reached out a wasted, trembling hand, its skin almost black with swollen and burst capillaries, to take the knife.
“This is my bad hand, James. You know full well I favour the right.”
“I do know, William. That is why I’m asking you to use your left. One hideous atrocity to kill another.” He shook his head in despair, “What sins our mother committed to have given birth to such a cursed creature as you so late in her life, only God knows.”
“James! How can you speak to me like that? For the love of God, I am your brother – your flesh and blood.”
“Enough! Just cut it off, William. Slice that thing from your body and you can go on your way. If you are truly sorry for your sins and truly have no desire to commit further crimes then this will be a small price to pay.”
William pressed the blade against the base of his penis, his emaciated hand trembling.
“It’s a sharp blade, William…one quick slice and it’s done.”
The vicar pushed the razor-sharp edge harder, a thin dribble of blood leaking from his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t do it!” He held the knife out to his brother. “You do it, James. Please!”
The elder brother grabbed the knife, wiped the blade on William’s coat then slipped it back into its leather pouch before returning to Albert.
“Thank you, sir.” Albert returned the weapon to his coat pocket.
James turned to his brother once more. “I’m sorry, William, but if you can’t do this one thing to prove you are sorry and to save your foul skin, then may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Albert!”
Albert grabbed William’s arm again, he and his accomplice pulling tight on their respective limbs as James brought the edge of the brick down hard against his brother’s temple, rendering the vicar unconscious. He rained down blow after blow, splitting the skull, forcing an eye from its socket, the orb hanging limply on its string of nerves against William’s cheek. Possessed by fury, the elder brother continued smashing at William’s head, exposing grey-pink brain and pulverising it to a liquid slime.
“I think he’s dead, boss.”
James continued his assault, years of rage and shame being spent in these few, fateful seconds.
“Mr Chillingworth!” Albert raised his voice, “I think he’s done.”
The employee’s words finally found their way through. James dropped the gore-encrusted brick and sank to his knees, sobbing quietly into his palms. Albert and his mate gently laid the body of the parish vicar in the trench behind them and waited, heads respectfully bowed, for their employer to give further instructions.
After a moment and taking deep lungfuls of the frosty air, James Chillingworth composed himself and rose slowly to his feet. He took a quick, last look at his late brother.
“Bury him well, gentlemen. The constable will be busy at one of the public houses for a few hours yet, spending some money that unexpectedly came his way. You’ll not be disturbed.”
PART ONE
1917
Despite the best efforts of the relatively sweeter smells of cigarette smoke and pipe tobacco, a cloying stench of carbolic hung thick in the air.
The room was filled with a dozen bunks, set in two rows. On each bunk sat, or lay, a wounded soldier: some missing arms, others legs - wooden crutches propped against the beds of those who’d lost a lower limb. Others, their extremities all accounted for were swathed in reeking, blood stained bandages - a couple of these unfortunate souls burning with fever and gabbling deliriously, infection finding a warm home in poorly treated wounds. One other, Private Joseph Legg, limbs all present and correct with not a puss-soaked dressing in sight, sat cross-legged on his bed, rocking silently back and forth, his gaze fixed on a place far beyond the wall at which he stared.
It was eight in the morning. Nurse Mary was doing her rounds, waddling through the ward, her starched white uniform stretched to its limits by thighs that no man, either drunk or sober, had ever lain between. She growled a “Good Morning” to each patient as if it pained her to do
