Jack of Ravens

1

Neshoba County, Mississippi, December 1963

The radio played bluegrass while men in short sleeves with fists like hamhocks and bellies like barrels drank from the bottle and played cards for nickels. Church, Tom and Niamh huddled around a table in one corner, their clothes sweaty and the dust of the road coating their boots.

Niamh looked transcendentally beautiful in a floaty cotton dress. Tom had decided to grow a beard and had adopted a down-at-heel beatnik chic. Church barely noticed any of the changes that had come over his travelling companions, or any of the towns they had passed through during the last week. Ruth’s death haunted him day and night, and he was starting to feel as if he would never get over the empty-headed, hollow-hearted feeling.

‘Those men keep staring at me,’ Niamh said, puzzled. ‘Are my clothes not correct for this time and place?’

‘They’re perfect,’ Tom said. ‘You’d better start getting used to it.’

‘Church?’ When he didn’t respond, her hand sought out his and gave it a warm squeeze.

‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

‘Where do you want to go next?’

‘Does it matter?’

Tom pulled a collection of flyers from his haversack. ‘I like the look of this San Francisco.’ He studied the information, as he had done many times over the past week.

‘One place is as good as the next,’ Church said.

The door swung open and an intense young man of around eighteen stepped in hesitantly. He had a sensitive face emphasised by large brown eyes that took in detail quickly.

The barman bristled. ‘I told you-’

‘I’m just looking for someone,’ the teenager interjected.

‘I know who you’re looking for, and you won’t find her in here. Or any of her kind.’

The teen opened his mouth to protest, then resigned himself to an exasperated silence.

One of the men chuckled as he checked his cards. ‘You had J. Edgar Hoover round yet about those Little Green Men?’

The teenager’s cheeks flushed. ‘It wasn’t Little Green Men.’

‘Aliens killed Kennedy!’ Another of the card-players brayed with laughter.

The teenager stalked over to their table. ‘You can laugh all you want. There was a conspiracy.’

The men continued to mock loudly. Niamh leaned into Church and whispered, ‘Who is Kennedy?’

‘Used to be the president. Assassinated last month in Dallas. A lot of people who didn’t have a voice loved him. A lot of people with conservative views hated him.’

‘It was the same in the Court of Alexander of Scotland,’ Tom said. ‘Politics and conspiracy go hand in hand.’

‘They arrested one man for killing Kennedy,’ Church explained. ‘Lee Harvey Oswald. But lots of other people thought Oswald was set up, that other people had a hand in the murder.’

‘Who?’ Niamh struggled to grasp what Church was saying.

‘Criminals like the Mafia. The government’s own agencies. Political protestors. Businessmen. Renegade politicians and military types. In my time, it’s become a kind of … myth.’ Church shrugged.

‘Why would anyone want to kill their king? Unless it was for sacrificial purposes-’

The teenager was growing more passionate. ‘There is evidence! My dad worked at the Kodak labs when they brought in the Zapruder film of the assassination. It definitely showed a guy with a spider on the back of his neck making a signal …’ The table fell silent. The teen looked from face to face until the card-players all burst out laughing as one.

‘How come LBJ hasn’t got the exterminators in?’ one of the men said through tears of laughter.

‘Because there’s been a cover-up.’ The teen was red-faced with anger. ‘When Life magazine borrowed the film to copy it they said they damaged it. Six frames were cut out and it was spliced back together. They were the frames with the spider-guy in them.’

As the jeering rose up again, the teen turned on his heel and marched out. Church followed a moment later.

The teen was sitting in an old pick-up on the dirt road. The Beatles were on the radio singing ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’ and the youth was beating the rhythm on the steering wheel.

Church leaned into the passenger window. ‘I heard what you were saying in the bar.’

‘Hey, you’re English. Like these guys.’

‘My name’s Jack Churchill. Church to my friends.’

‘Gabriel Adams. Gabe. So what — you come to laugh at me, too?’

‘I’ve seen them.’

Gabe’s eyes grew wide. He snatched a cardboard box from under his seat. Inside were newspaper clippings, sketches, maps and pages of detailed notes. ‘JFK couldn’t have been shot by a lone gunman. It’s impossible. And I can prove it.’

Church stopped him getting out the sheaf of papers. ‘I just wanted to say stay away from the spider-people. They’re dangerous. Don’t waste your life chasing this kind of stuff. Enjoy yourself.’

Gabe looked hurt. ‘You don’t want to hear my theory?’

Church’s attention was caught by a blaze rising up away through the trees. Gabe blanched when he saw it.

‘What is it?’ Church asked.

‘I don’t know … I think … Marcy?’ Gabe turned the ignition.

Church hesitated, then got in. ‘Trouble?’

Gabe’s pale face revealed the answer as he gunned the pick-up in the direction of the fire.