Mr Armageddon

By Ethan Somerville

Everyone has to come from somewhere.

This is the story of Frank Cassidy, and starts with his youth in a backwards Texan town called Promise Falls. He comes from inauspicious beginnings, the only child of a ruthless, philandering Baptist minister and his beautiful, unassuming wife.

At a very early age Frank realises that beneath his unassuming little down’s somewhat rundown surface lay dark, twisted secrets, some of which he can never reveal to anyone. Before too long he discovers secrets of his own, and realises he will be a part of this world forever, always standing on the outside looking in.

As soon as he receives his draft notice he heads overseas to Vietnam, but instead of being turned off war forever, he revels in the military actions and becomes a sniper. He stays for as long as he is able, and on his return he goes to West Point to become an officer.

He revels in the world of darkness that lies not just beneath the surface of his home town, but the thin veneer of all civilisation.

Frank rises quickly through the ranks, undertaking increasingly dangerous missions, until finally he is sent to Colombia to assassinate a drug lord. For someone of his experience, it should be a routine mission.

But for Frank Cassidy, this mission will be a major turning point in his life, a chance for him to turn his back on the darkness and embrace a new life, or delve deeper into the web of lies and secrets and finally take control of it. Which path will he choose?

All he ever wanted was to be a good soldier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Nov 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310662287

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

American Psychics 3

Mr Armageddon

By

Ethan Somerville

Copyright © 2015

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Mr Armageddon

Copyright © 2015 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter 1

Broken Promise

Once upon a time in Texas, about a hundred miles south of Waco, there was a wide place in the road called Promise Falls. It lay in a shallow valley on the shores of a pathetic little trickle known as the Promise River. Surrounded by dry, stony hills, plagued by tumbleweeds and endless westerlies, this dusty little town looked like it had just stepped out of a B-grade western. Clapboard houses, lovingly whitewashed many years earlier, were now a drab, uniform shade of grey. What gardens did exist had to be religiously watered every day, or they quickly degenerated into dustbowls.

The inhabitants of Promise Falls were typically backward and inbred, the sort of racist rednecks everyone hears about, but no-one ever wants to meet. Choice stories about their habits and practises abounded.

Old man Hickman, who ran the local hardware store, was rumoured to have six toes on both feet, but since no-one had ever seen him with his boots off that was never verified. It was said that Fred Hill, a teacher at Promise Falls Elementary, regularly had sex with his sister, and that two of her children were actually his. Although it was impossible to tell which – all five of Nelly Hatfield’s brats looked like they had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Even more disturbing, Sarah Jane Montague actually caught her husband Billy Ray, naked in the back seat of their brand new Chevy, rubbing himself into an ecstatic frenzy against the leather upholstery.

But by far Promise Falls’ most noteworthy event revolved around its Bible-thumping Baptist minister, Reverend John Cassidy. He suffered a fatal heart-attack while in flagrante delicto with his fifteen year old African American maid.

Promise Falls was the sort of town that kids described to their shrinks after thirty years of failed relationships and neuroses. As soon as a child turned eighteen, he or she jumped on the starting blocks and waited for the gun to go off so he could burn rubber out of the one-horse town.

This is the story of one of Promise Falls’ inhabitants; Frank Cassidy, the only child of John and Nora Cassidy.

In most, the desire to leave Promise Falls arrived when they hit puberty and discovered that the crappy little town offered next to nothing in entertainment, employment and future. However Frank wanted to leave from the age of five onwards. He had a knack for uncovering secrets, and discovered something about the town far more disturbing than its seamy surface of sexual perversion.

Frank had never been a particularly happy child. He loved his mother dearly, but she was never more than a shadowy slave of his father, the fire-and-brimstone Baptist preacher. The little boy spent most of his time roaming the local neighbourhood which, during the late nineteen fifties, was a lot safer than it is now. Or so it seemed on the surface. He was happiest on his own, when his father wasn’t shouting at him or beating the bejesus out of him.

Lying along the south bank of the Promise River, on the western outskirts of Promise Falls, was a sprawling shantytown of African Americans. Slavery might have been abolished ninety years earlier, but the blacks were still treated like trash. Even though every Sunday Rev Cassidy climbed up into the pulpit of St Jerome’s and said things like love thy neighbour and all men are children of God, they didn’t seem to apply to the niggers.

Whenever something went missing, it was the niggers’ fault. Whenever an incident of vandalism occurred, it was blamed on the blacks. And when Celia O’Rourke’s body was fished out of the Promise River, minus all her clothes and plus sixteen stab wounds in the chest and stomach, the prime suspects were, of course, the coloureds.

At five Frank Cassidy didn’t understand any of this. He liked to go down to the shantytown to play with the little Negro lads his own age. They were a lot more fun than the snooty white boys, who always teased him because of his big-mouthed self-righteous father. As he trotted down dusty Old Barton Road, he didn’t see the abject poverty; the tumbledown hovels made from other people’s building scraps, the mangy dogs, the scruffy, free-range chickens, the empty beer bottles lined up like sentinels on sagging verandas, and the heavily patched rags flapping on makeshift clotheslines. He saw only the potential such an interesting place offered a small child. Here, he was never admonished for leaving fingerprints, trekking mud or being too noisy.

He met his best friend Bobby Lee at the bottom of Old Barton Road. Bobby Lee was only six years old, but he already seemed like an adult to Frank. He didn’t know his letters or numbers, but he knew the local area better than the back of his own hand. He knew all the best fishing spots, secret trails, hiding places and climbing trees. He could make every place they visited an exciting, magical adventure.

Bobby took Frank down to the riverside, to a neat fishing hole they had discovered only two weeks earlier. It could only be accessed by children as small as the two boys; larger individuals would quickly become trapped in the entwined trunks and vines of the bushes by the water. But the lithe lads slipped through the damp branches like eels, emerging mud-covered and breathless behind Mama Regan’s place, where she lived with her nineteen year old boy Joey.

The boys set up their rods to fish, and spent a good hour swapping stories as the sun slowly angled down on their left. Frank couldn’t understand why a boy as wise as Bobby didn’t go to school. Bobby said he had no wish to go to school, but Frank could tell that he wanted to. Something was stopping him, but Frank had no idea what. He was too young to see the disparity between black and white in this backward part of the south.

When the sun was hovering just above the wester horizon in a brilliant ball of orange, raised voices attracted the boys’ attention. Abandoning their home-made fishing poles – they hadn’t caught anything anyway - they picked their way through the tangles trees to the back fence of Mama Regan’s place. It was falling down and full of holes, enabling the little lads to see through to the white, dusty surface of Old Barton Road.

A large crowd of nervous Negros had collected not far from Mama Regan’s, and they were looking east, towards something the boys couldn’t see. As the boys watched, a woman approached at a run, pulling her grubby-faced three-year-old daughter along behind her. The little girl stumbled and complained, but the woman ignored her. The woman paused to tug on the sleeve of one of the men. He spun on her in anger.

Git yerself inside, woman!

But George – your dinner’s ready! she protested. I bin callin’ you for nigh on fifteen minutes!

The man lifted an arm to strike her. "I said now!" he snarled.

Chewing on her lower lip, the woman hurried off, dragging her protesting child after her.

George turned back around, resuming his gaze east. He looked angry and frightened at the same time, like he was here under duress. In fact all the men shared his expression. But this was something they had to do, even though they knew in their hearts their efforts would ultimately prove fruitless.

What’s goin’ on? Frank whispered.

I dunno, but it don’t look good! Bobby responded.

Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rent the air. The little boys jumped and crouched even lower, even though no-one could see them through the busted fence. The Negros began to back off the road, wanting to run but remaining in place. Now Frank and Bobby could see that all the men were carrying makeshift weapons; bits of board, pipes, picks, hoes, shovels and other tools. But they shook in their dusty hands, betraying their uncertainty.

Then a party of white figures appeared, wearing pointed heads and evil little black eyes that revealed nothing. Their long robes reached the ground and lifted dust from the dry road as they moved so it looked like they were floating on clouds of smoke. Frank gaped in horror and shoved a fist into his mouth to keep his cry of alarm in. Bobby grabbed his sleeve before he could run.

What are they, Bobby? Frank whispered. Ghosts?

His friend’s solemn eyes told Frank that that he’d seen these evil creatures before. They ain’t ghosts, Frankie, Bobby whispered. "They’s men in sheets – white men."

But why? Frank whispered. Hallowe’en is months away!

They ain’t here for Hallowe’en, Frankie.

Some of the ghost-men carried shotguns and rifles, pointed at the angry group. Others carried bats and clubs and slapped them menacingly against their palms. They stopped in front of the blacks.

They’s the Klan, Frankie, Bobby whispered, his eyes like saucers. They’s here for business.

One of the white-robed men stepped forward. His robe did little to disguise the fact that he was enormous; a bear of a man with shoulders wide enough to support a bridge. He was carrying a shotgun at the ready. There was something disturbingly familiar about him; where had Frank seen this big guy before? Stand aside, you niggers, he growled. We’ve got a job to do.

A ripple of uncertainty pulsed through the assembled mob. Then a large black man in threadbare blue overalls moved to the front, stopping before the big man. He carried what looked like half a tree-branch in one huge paw. Frank and Bobby recognised Hank Jones, the carpenter. No you ain’t, he drawled.

The white-robed man moved with savage speed, flipping his shotgun and striking with its barrel. Hank lifted his branch to block, but wasn’t quick enough. The barrel struck him across the jaw and he fell onto one knee. The Klansman lurched forward, bringing his barrel down on the top of Hank’s head. The big Negro sprawled in the dust, blood seeping from a gash in his crown. His friends surged forward to help – and another shotgun blast tore through the air. The blacks froze in horror, and the boys shrank even further down.

Next nigger to move gets it in the head, the big Klansman declared, and sank a boot into the unconscious Hank’s ribs for good measure. There was a sickening crunch and the big body moved a good half-foot across the dirt. "Now back off."

Their resolve spent, the Negroes shuffled out of the Klan’s way. With the burly Klansman at the lead, a small group of five broke off from the main party and marched up the overgrown front path of old Mama Regan’s house, disappearing from the sight of the two boys secreted behind the fence. The remaining Klansman kept their weapons trained on the surly blacks, just in case they tried something stupid.

What are they doing? Frank whispered, his guts tying themselves in knots.

Bobby didn’t answer, pale-faced and trembling.

A scream of protest tore through the darkening afternoon, the querulous, high-pitched shriek of an old woman. Something fell with a crash, closely followed by the tinkle of breaking crockery. The muffled sounds of a scuffle followed. Bobby began gnawing on his dirty knuckles. He was frozen with terror, unable to tear himself away. Suddenly he no longer seemed older than Frank, but much, much younger – a terrified little boy who needed comforting. Frank found himself slipping an arm around Bobby’s shoulders and pulling him close. The Negro boy was trembling uncontrollably now, and even though Frank had been terrified before, he wasn’t so scared now – as though he couldn’t afford to be, not when someone needed his strength.

Suddenly the Klansmen burst from Mama Regan’s house, two of them dragging Joey Regan by his hair. The nineteen-year-old howled in protest, trying to free his curls. His Mama stumbled after him, trying to pull him from the Klansmen’s cruel grip. The big man with the shotgun spun around, cracking Mama Regan in the head with the butt of his gun. She stumbled a few more steps, then her eyes crossed and she sank to her knees. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she collapsed on her side.

Frank glanced at Bobby. The Negro boy’s eyes were brimming with tears.

The Klansmen dragged Joey Regan back to the main group, and he was hustled across the street in a cloud of dust, where there was a huge, gnarled oak with spreading branches. Someone slipped a rope around Joey’s neck and he screamed in protest. The other end of the rope was tossed over a high branch.

This is what happens to filthy niggers who rape and kill good white girls! the big Klansman roared, and in response his men hauled on the rope, hoisting Joey high off the ground. From their hiding place, the boys got a good view of Joey’s agonised face, his eyes bulging from his face. The youth’s legs kicked ineffectually, and then his tongue rolled from his mouth, purple and grotesquely swollen. The Klansmen holding the rope tied it off around the oak’s thick trunk.

Let this be a lesson to you, the Klan leader growled at the silent crowd.

Frank turned to Bobby, who had shrank into himself, arms wrapped tightly around his knees. He wept silently, and had Frank not been holding him, he would have been rocking back and forth. Th-they never done anythin’ like this before! he whispered.

C’mon – let’s get outta here! Frank tugged urgently on Bobby’s arm.

Bobby gulped. We better wait till they go.

The Klan stayed long enough to make sure Joey Regan was dead, then with a few meaningful glares at the blacks, they turned and marched east along Old Barton Road, back towards the centre of town. As soon as the Negroes were sure they were out of sight, they cut Joey down. They tried to revive him, but he was beyond help. When Mama Regan slowly picked herself up from the dust and saw what had become of her only child, she burst into tears and collapsed beside his body. Her mournful cries streamed across the darkening countryside.

Let’s go. Frank pulled on Bobby’s ragged sleeve, and then turned and wormed him way through the tangled foliage towards the river. In the half-light, the branches looked like gnarled monster claws trying to grab him and drag him down into the mud. His heart started to pound, and with a cry he managed to flail his way out of the bushes. He feared to look around in case this slowed him down, and the beasts caught him. He stumbled through the long grass on the outskirts of the Negro shanty town, and took off towards Promise Falls as fast as his little legs could carry him.

Bobby Lee watched him leave, and then dragged a shaking arm across his streaming eyes. You lucky boy, he thought miserably. At least you can spend the night in a clean, dry house away from this awful place.

Frank ran all the way home, even though it was almost a mile through the fields and across the bridge into the north part of town. He was gasping for breath, his knees shaking, as he stumbled up the garden path and headed around the back of the house. Night had fallen, and he knew he was in for a major bawling out from his father for being home so late. And not to mention the beating he would receive for tearing and muddying his clothes. He would get no sympathy for all the scratches and midge-bites he’d sustained while watching those strange men in white murder that poor black boy.

But when tried and failed to open the back screen door without creaking it, he startled only his mother, who had just finished making dinner. She turned to gape at him, her blue eyes wide.

What happened to you? she gasped.

Frank tried to pour out the horror he had witnessed, but could only gape like a beached fish. How could he, a five year old boy, give voice to something like that? I … I was playin’ with my friends down by the river, and it got late before I knew it, he finally managed to whisper. I’m so sorry, Mama.

She grabbed him by his shoulders and propelled him from the kitchen, so quickly his feet hardly touched the ground. Well, you wash up and get outta those clothes ‘fore your father gets home, and just maybe he won’t find out how late and filthy you were!

Yes Mama!

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Chapter 2

Daddy’s Secrets

For a long time after witnessing the Ku Klux Klan in action, Frank pushed his memories of the horrible incident down into the bottom of his mind. He continued to play with Bobby for a while, but a distance had developed between them that no amount of friendship could heal. Frank began to realise that something wider than a river separated them.

Bobby had always known that his people were second-class citizens, but the night Joey Regan died had brought their inferiority home with a vengeance. The whites could stomp all over them and there was nothing they could do about it, just like in the bad old days of slavery. Sure there were a few privileged blacks around, but they worked in the big houses in the north, and were well-treated by their magnanimous white masters. The poor niggers on the south bank of the Promise River were dirt, and modern justice didn’t apply to them. Bobby wanted to keep playing with Frank, but his family started telling him that the boy would only bring trouble, considering who his father was. One day that big-mouthed Reverend would come marching down into the shanty and drag the boy off by his ears, and then … all Hell would break loose.

So Frank Cassidy drifted off on his own, heading out into the fields by himself, where his verdant imagination soon developed a life of its own.

Young Frank had always been interested in soldiers. For his sixth Christmas he received a little box of tin soldiers, which he knew had come from his mother. He soon treasured the soldiers above all else, even the big, thick Bible his father had given him. He began by making battlefields in his bedroom, with matchbox bunkers and play dough hills. Then he took the soldiers outside and staged entire wars in local fields, where he couldn’t hear his father ordering him to stop playing such sinful games of death and destruction. The Rev believed strongly in thou shalt not kill, no matter what commie threat the United States happened to be fighting.

As soon as Frank’s reading skills reached a reasonable level, he started visiting libraries and taking out books about war. Because he didn’t have a television like most of his friends – the Rev thought TV was a tool of the Devil – he could spend many hours reading. When he exhausted the elementary school’s meagre supply of war books, he moved on to the local library. Unfortunately Promise Falls’ only library wasn’t very large and Frank had soon read and re-read all the books in its military section. His excellent memory enabled him to recite entire paragraphs off by heart.

Other kids thought he was weird. However he didn’t receive as much teasing as other nerdy kids in his class. Frank had always been big for his age, a stocky boy with a natural aptitude for athletic games. As he grew he became much sought after by coaches for their football and baseball teams. He won footraces at junior athletics carnivals and could toss a shot putt further than any other boy his age. Despite Frank’s obsession with all things military, and his Bible-thumping Dad who blasted their families every Sunday, his classmates began to accept him into their groups. He was even invited over to their houses and introduced to their parents. The father of one boy happened to be a veteran of the Second World War who’d lost a leg during the D-Day landing. Frank badgered him with questions until the battle-scarred old war-hero told him in not so many words to get lost. Frank was never invited there again, much to his disappointment.

Although Frank made many friends on the sporting field, his best friend, the one who stuck by him through the rest of his school years, was a skinny, pale-faced lad named Pinky Robinson. Pinky had earned this strange sobriquet because whenever he went out in the sun he burned instead of tanned. Thus he spent most of his time indoors, reading and writing grisly little stories in which he transformed from a geeky little wiener into a muscle-bound, rather bloodthirsty monster-hunter. He shared Frank’s obsession with war, and they could talk for hours about historical battles. They even created a table-top war game in Pinky’s garage, using dice to add a realistic element of chance.

When Frank turned twelve, he looked fourteen, already as big and husky as a high school boy. He had broad, sloping shoulders and firm muscles from all of his athletic achievements. His thick, curly black hair softened his blocky face and made him more approachable. Not only was he a school’s star athlete, but he had a decent academic record as well. All of his teachers felt that he had the brains to go on to further, if only he paid more attention and took better care with his presentation. When a topic didn’t move fast enough, Frank doodled military insignias and weaponry in the margins of his notebooks.

The Herbert Hoover High School in Waco couldn’t wait to get their hands on him.

As Frank grew, his father seemed to become even louder and more obnoxious, seeing his control over his son slipping away. His mother began to shrink into herself, slowly collapsing beneath the weight of verbal, mental and physical abuse. One winter she caught pneumonia, and for a long time she was confined to bed, unable to care for her little family. Frank did all he could, but his grace on the athletics field failed to translate to the kitchen, where his enthusiastic efforts only succeeded in creating spectacular messes. His father, who’d never lifted a finger to help inside the house and wasn’t about to start, enlisted the services of a maid. One night he returned with a fifteen-year-old coloured girl named Charlie. Nora didn’t want a stranger in her house, but she kept her protests to herself. Her wishes had long since ceased to matter. Anyway she couldn’t keep relying on Frank – although he tried hard, she couldn’t stomach his constant influx of sludge-coffees, burnt toast and runny eggs.

Frank was free to return to Pinky’s house and their war-games resumed.

Slowly Nora’s condition improved and she was able to rise for short periods. She tried to help Charlie with some of the easier chores, but the girl kept ushering her back into bed. Charlie may have been quiet, rarely speaking more than two words at a time, but she was very efficient. She seemed desperate to keep her mistress placated all costs. Perhaps she didn’t want to return to whatever drudgery she had been doing before.

However Charlie had another reason for keeping her mistress happy. She felt sorry for her. Charlie might have been a poor coloured girl from the shanty, but at least she came from a loving family. This big, posh house was more luxurious than anything she had ever known, with its shiny, polished floors, hot and cold running water, electric stove, refrigerator and lights in every room, but a deadly sickness lay beneath its beautiful exterior - and it wasn’t Nora’s cold.

At first when Reverend Cassidy asked her to look after his sick wife, Charlie was overjoyed. At last, a chance to start earning some money for my family, she’d thought. They needn’t live in that awful shanty for the rest of their lives. But only two nights after her arrival, the sickness reared its ugly head.

Reverend Cassidy was as two-sided as a coin. On Sundays he blustered about the sanctity of the family unit, and the evils of intercourse outside of marriage, but the words meant little to him. He’d pushed his way into the little room he had given Charlie and raped her with a cool detachment – as though he had raped dozens of women before her. When she opened her mouth to scream, he produced a carving knife as though by magic, and said that he would cut out her tongue if a single sound escaped her lips. Tears coursed unchecked down her cheeks, but they failed to touch a heart as cold and hard as ice.

Why’re you so upset? he demanded when he’d finished, and was buttoning up his trousers. I thought you’d be used to this by now. You Niggers start fucking each other as soon as you can walk, don’t you? With a disdainful snort, he exited the room.

Charlie curled herself into a ball, blood trickling from between her legs, and cursed the evil man. He may speak God’s words, but he has Satan’s soul, she thought bitterly. She vowed to return home the very next day.

But early the next morning, a crash in the kitchen jerked her from a light, restless sleep. Pulling on a dressing gown, she stumbled out into the hall to find thin, pale Nora, blonde hair frizzing alarmingly around her peaky face, trying to make herself breakfast. The woman had dropped a saucepan of water all over the linoleum, and was miserably trying to mop it up.

Here Ma’am, let me do that! Charlie grabbed a mop. You should be up in bed!

I’m all right. Nora tried to rise to her feet, her bony knees trembling. She stumbled, falling back against the kitchen table, her feet skidding in the spilled water. Charlie had to catch her before she could fall on her backside.

Come on – let’s get you back into bed right now! She threw an arm around Nora’s waist and escorted her from the kitchen. Mrs Cassidy didn’t protest as the maid helped her back up the stairs and into bed. It was only when she was lying back on her pillows that she noticed the tears coursing down Charlie’s cheeks.

What’s wrong, Charleen? she gasped.

It’s not Charleen – it’s Charlie, she sniffed. Actually it’s short for Charlotte. She gulped and plonked herself down on the edge of the bed. Lord, I miss my folks, she lied.

Why don’t you go visit them? I’ll be all right.

Charlie turned, glaring at her skinny, sick mistress. No Ma’am – you need me here.

And so Charlie stayed, her loyalty to the mistress eclipsing her disgust of the master. Every night she had to endure that big, hairy monster dropping onto her and pounding away for a good fifteen minutes before coming. The sweat poured from him, his breath invariably stank of whiskey, and more often than not the sheer pressure of his weight made Charlie gasp for breath. The Rev was over six feet tall, olive-skinned, and a good three hundred pounds. He had thick salt-and-pepper curls and was liberally dusted with black body hair. Some reckoned his colouring could only have come from a nigger lurking in his family free somewhere, but they would never have dared say that to his face. John Cassidy’s awful temper was legendary.

One night, about a month after Charlie’s arrival the Rev visited her, as usual reeking of booze. He always drank at home because he had a public image to uphold as a clean, sober man of God. But he couldn’t go a single night without downing at least half, sometimes all of a bottle of whiskey. Only when he went out, not returning until the wee hours, did Charlie receive any grace.

When Charlie heard the Rev stomping down the hall, she gritted her teeth and removed her underwear. She didn’t want him to tear it from her, as she only owned a few pairs that hadn’t been repaired over and over again.

He threw her door open with a crash, and the sour stench of him billowed over her almost immediately. He smelled like he had bathed in the stuff. His silhouette almost filled the doorway, looming larger than normal in the darkness. He fumbled for the light switch and the bright glare stabbed into Charlie’s eyes. She retreated under her covers, but the Rev yanked them back. She blinked, trying to focus.

Don’t know why you’re hidin’, nigger, the Rev slurred as he fumbled around inside his trousers for his equipment. You must’ve had at least a hundred men before me.

Charlie didn’t argue – what was the point? All her protests bounced off the big man as though he was deaf to the sound of her voice. He flopped onto her, driving the air from her lungs. She struggled for breath as he shoved his stiffness into her. She was lucky; the sex was no longer as painful as it had been. But she felt nothing but humiliation as he thrust into her, accompanying each motion with a bestial grunt. She wasn’t a whore. She was a good girl, and until Reverend Cassidy ruined her forever, she had been promised to a young man uptown, with a good job as a motor mechanic. He wouldn’t want her after she’d lost her virginity, would he? Once a whore from the shanty, always a whore from the shanty, he would say. Tears of shame burned her eyes.

Because she couldn’t bear to look into the Rev’s ugly, drunken face, she kept her head turned aside, gaze fixed on the old photo of her folks she kept beside her bed. But she soon found she couldn’t draw a proper breath in this position, and had to look up at Cassidy. His pouchy face was beet red, his eyes staring fixedly ahead at nothing as he slammed away. Charlie wondered if he even knew who he was fucking. She managed to suck in a desperate breath, then the Rev gasped too. Was he coming already? Was this indignity over for another night?

The Rev’s eyes bulged from his face as he continued to gulp for air. He almost looked like he was choking. His entire body twitched, and Charlie felt his hot come gush into her. Then he collapsed on her. Usually he pulled out as soon as he’d spent his seed, as though he couldn’t bear another second inside her. But tonight he lay on top of her for a long time.

When Charlie could bear his weight no longer, she tentatively tapped him on a shoulder. She gulped, expecting a mouthful of abuse and the back of his hand across her cheek. Nothing happened.

Sir? she whispered, shaking him more urgently. Again nothing.

Charlie sucked in a shallow breath. The big bastard seemed to be getting heavier by the second! What was happening here? Had he fallen asleep on her? Please – get off me! she pleaded. I can’t breathe!

No response.

Charlie hooked her fingers in the Rev’s curly, white-streaked hair and heaved his heavy head up off her shoulder.

His eyes still bulged from his face, but now they were sightless and dead. Drool spilled from his slack lower lip and splashed onto her chest. Charlie shrieked and started to struggle frantically, but she couldn’t budge the enormous dead weight draped across her. If someone didn’t come to help her soon, he would suffocate her to death. "Help! Help!" she wailed, not caring who came to her aid.

The maid’s hysterical screams startled Nora from a light doze. Her room was directly above the kitchen. She scrambled out of bed and hurried downstairs as fast as her weakened legs could take her. She threw open Charlie’s door to the horrific sight of her husband, sprawled on top of the girl. His trousers were around his ankles, providing the woman in the doorway with a spectacular view of a cavernous ass-crack like a hairy Grand Canyon. For a few seconds she froze in shock.

Help me – I can’t breathe! Charlie croaked.

Charlie’s feeble cry galvanised Nora into action. She darted around the bed and grabbed the Rev by a shoulder, pulling him back with all her might. He rolled from Charlie’s body and crashed onto his back on the floor. At the sight of his bulging eyes, Nora screamed and collapsed to her knees.

Charlie sat up, gasping for breath. Might as well start packing and go home to my old home in the shanty, she thought miserably. No doubt I’ll be blamed for this, and it’ll only be a matter of time before the Klan comes after me and lynches me like they did poor Joey Regan. Nigger whore murders innocent preacher, they’ll tell everyone.

With trembling fingers, Nora checked the Rev’s thick, flaccid neck for a pulse. As expected, she found nothing. I’d better call the doctor, she whispered, rising to her feet and padding from the room.

As soon as she had caught her breath, Charlie grabbed her old carpetbag and began shoving her few things into it. Slinging it over her shoulder, she crept out into the hall just as Nora hung up the phone.

Where are you going, Charlie? Nora asked.

Charlie gulped. Um … home?

Nora stepped forward, grabbing the girl by her shoulders. Her blue eyes were like huge saucers in her pale, peaky face. Please don’t leave me, she begged. I need you now more than ever.

Charlie gaped. But Ma’am – I thought you’d never wanna see me again!

Charlie – look me in the eye.

Charlie gnawed on her lower lip, but did as she was told.

Did you seduce my husband?

No, the maid whispered.

I didn’t think so. Now come on – help me drag him from your room before the doctor comes.

To – to save his reputation? Charlie gasped.

No, yours.

The two women might have succeeded in their plan if Frank hadn’t chosen that moment to pad downstairs to see what all the fuss was about. He arrived on the scene to see Nora and Charlie dragging Reverend Cassidy across the hall. The big man’s pants were still around his ankles, and his pubic hair matted with cum.

What the Hell is goin’ on here? the boy gasped in horror.

Nora told Frank not to tell anyone what had happened, but twelve-year-old boys are rarely known for their discretion. Frank had never had much love for his tyrannical father, and the opportunity to humiliate the old bastard after death gnawed at his insides until he couldn’t bear it any longer. One week later he told Pinky Robinson that the Rev hadn’t died in the kitchen while fetching himself a midnight snack. On hearing the whole sordid truth, the boy’s eyes widened in amazement.

He was a mud-dipper!

A what? Frank gasped.

Don’t you know anything? A mud-dipper is a fella who likes screwin’ niggers!

Please don’t tell anyone, Frank begged.

My lips are sealed! Pinky drew a skinny finger across his mouth.

But Pinky couldn’t keep the secret either, and blabbed it to his cousin, who spread it around Dixon’s Roadhouse where he worked. From there the secret exploded all over Promise Falls. Although the identity of the black maid was never revealed, everyone knew who she was. But they couldn’t understand why she was still working at the Cassidys’ house. Why hadn’t the Rev’s widow kicked her whoring nigger ass out onto the street?

But Nora Cassidy had always been a strange, quiet woman who drifted around town like a frightened ghost, but never said boo to anyone. Perhaps she was glad the Rev was gone. Perhaps he used to beat her in the quiet of their home, so much that he destroyed her will to resist, and created in her an ache for his untimely demise.

After Reverend Cassidy’s death, Nora, Frank and Charlie began the onerous task of sorting through the dead man’s things, and deciding what to throw out and what to send to charity. Charlie thought she might be able to salvage a few things for her family, but although she boasted some tall relatives, the sheer girth of some of the garments rendered them useless.

It would take a month of sewin’ to alter this stuff, the girl muttered as she tossed yet another pair of trousers into the suitcase. Nora simply nodded in agreement. Since John’s death she hadn’t spoken much, but Charlie could sense a deep, inner peace spreading inside her mistress, which she hoped would eventually find its way to the surface and enable her to bloom as a whole new person. She was like a flower that had struggled to grow in the shadow of an old house. Just when everyone thought the plant was dead the house tumbled down, allowing sunlight to revive it.

Frank sensed the change in his mother as well. For as long as he could remember his father had asserted his authority by berating her