From the Dark

by K. A. Richardson

  When he’d received Toni’s text the night before, he’d made a polite escape from his family needing to check on her well-being. The why caused him concern. Was it because of our closeness as school children? Or something else? He’d asked himself the same thing a couple of times now and was no closer to an answer now than he had been then.

  He sighed and pushed himself up onto his elbows, peeking over the top of the couch.

  Toni was in the kitchen, humming softly as she grabbed some bread and popped it into the toaster. He tried to sniff the air, knowing she must be doing something other than just toast judging by the empty packets on the counter, but he came up empty. His nose was still too swollen and sore to allow any smells through at all.

  His breath caught as she twirled in front of the window, the street light outside catching her face and lighting it up in a way he’d never seen before. His heart felt like it would thud out of his chest. Down boy, don’t be stupid. You’re reading far too much into this.

  She called me, though, his heart argued back with his head.

  Yeah, she called cos she felt vulnerable and didn’t want to be on her own. Not as an excuse for you to make a move on her. Idiot.

  ‘She might want that. You don’t have a clue what she wants.’

  Exactly. I don’t. So, stop going on like a teenager and forcing thoughts that are more than likely just imagination.

  ‘You liked her then – you know you did. Feelings don’t just fade, you know.’

  That one he had to acknowledge was true. Annie had been right when she’d said he’d had a crush on Toni – it was a crush long forgotten until she’d shown up again – her leaving the ultimate obstacle between them ever becoming a couple, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny much longer that the crush was returning. With a vengeance.

  It was at that moment that she saw him staring at her. She blushed and smiled.

  ‘Sorry you had to see that. Me dancing in my pyjama’s is not a sight to be seen first thing in the morning. I’ve done bacon, baked eggs and toast. Is that okay? I normally have a hearty breakfast on a morning and figured you’re a bloke and well, blokes like food, don’t they? I need a gag – seriously – just tell me to shut up waffling any time now, please.’

  ‘You’re not waffling. Brekkie sounds amazing. I’m lucky if I get a cup of coffee down my neck on a morning. You didn’t have to go to any trouble for me, you know.’

  ‘Like I say, I eat a good breakfast every day. It’s the most important meal, you know. Do you want to sit at the table or would you prefer it on the couch?’

  ‘Preferably down my throat if I’m honest, no need to mess up your couch on my behalf.’

  ‘Oh, funny guy on a morning, are we? Table it is. I’m dishing up now.’

  Mark winked at her as he stood up, taking pleasure in the second blush that graced her cheeks that morning. Today is going to be a bloody good day.

  19th December, 0910 hours – Edinburgh City Centre

  Mark shivered, tugging his padded coat as tight around him as he could. He’d no sooner got into the office when McPhee had called on him to attend a murder in the city centre. He grabbed some nitrile gloves from the boot of his car, shoved his black winter boots into a pair of blue booties, and walked over to the inner cordon.

  ‘Grant,’ he acknowledged, nodding his head at the officer on cordon duty.

  ‘Bit of a grisly one, sarge. Looks like someone got on the wrong side of the offender and lost. Suspect was locked up straight after the attack – drugged up on crack. I swear these kids don’t have a clue what they’re doing to their bodies. He didn’t even remember attacking this guy. One of the witnesses said he was like an animal.’

  ‘Know what you mean.’ Mark signed the log and Grant stood aside to allow him access.

  He pushed the tent doors aside and squeezed into the cramped space. The crime scene tents were small – and the presence of forensic medical advisor Dr Charles Claybourne and Annie made it even smaller.

  Mark drew in three deep breaths with his eyes closed, trying to quiet his mind to the fact that the tent walls were tricking his brain into thinking he was in a closed space. Inhale… one, two, three… exhale.

  Opening his eyes, he took a second to adjust to the light difference. For all the tent was white, it didn’t allow much natural light in. Bright electric lamps lit the interior with false brightness. Only now did he register the dull hum of the generator running from behind the tent. Not that natural light would have mattered today really – outside the tent was dark anyway. Snow was forecast and the sky was heavy, and he guessed that the air smelled crisp and fresh – nothing was accessing his poor nose at all. He couldn’t even smell the scent of death he knew would be present. Small mercies and all that.

  Finally trusting himself to speak, he said, ‘What’ve we got then?’

  ‘Whoever did this intended to get the job done right. Offender used a knife – I’ll be able to provide a more precise description once he’s back at the mortuary and I can take measurements. He’s been stabbed nineteen times – frenzied attack for sure. Doesn’t appear to be any hesitation marks.’ Claybourne’s voice was solemn and to the point.

  ‘Any ID on the body?’

  Charles nodded and handed him a wallet. ‘From his left pocket. Picture on his driving licence matches his face. He was only twenty.’

  Annie took up the narrative, going straight to the point, her focus on the victim. ‘The knife was recovered by the first responder – I’ll check it against Charles’s measurements after the PM but it looks likely to be the same one. No other weapon found. There is skin and blood under the vic’s fingernails so it looks like he fought back. Danny is photographing the offender in the cells. One of the cops mentioned that there’s CCTV straight opposite from that shop over there.’ Her head motioned towards the shop she was talking about, and Mark backed out of the tent and glanced over. A Premier – those purple and yellow signed shops taking over all the corner shops in pretty much every town he’d ever been in. He’d noted the camera just as one of the uniformed officers walked out of the door clutching what looked like discs in his hand.

  Mark nodded to himself absently – everything looked like it was in hand. He’d review the footage later.

  He made his way to his car and jumped in, turning the engine and heaters on before pulling his phone out. Remembering he shouldn’t use his phone while technically using his car, he turned the key and pulled it back out before hitting dial on the phone’s keypad.

  ‘Boss, everything looks pretty straightforward at the scene. CCTV has been seized by Preston, one of the uniforms. I’ll tell him to pop straight back to the nick with it. Has the death inform been organised? We’ve got an ID.’

  He paused listening to McPhee on the end of the phone – he was droning on like he tended to do from back at the warm office. Mark sighed, moving the phone away from his ear for a second so McPhee didn’t hear. Mark got on okay with his DI to a point – if he took everything McPhee said with a pinch of salt, anyway. The inspector was known for talking the talk but more often than not he’d hand stuff down to Mark and the other detective sergeant, Dougie Carville, to deal with. He claimed to trust his staff implicitly but Mark knew it was more to do with the fact he was easily distracted and couldn’t follow through on an investigation. McPhee also had his head so far up the superintendent’s arse that he could practically see daylight.

  He’d never seen McPhee as happy as the day the superintendent had invited him to play golf with him – brown-nosing had definitely paid off, so McPhee usually made a song and dance and fluffed around an investigation, but relied on everyone else to get the job done and make him look good. Mark had no doubt if it came to someone being thrown under a bus, that McPhee wouldn’t hesitate with any of them. As long as he saved face, that was the most important thing.

  ‘Sorry, boss, but I’ve got another call coming through. Might be important. Are you okay sorting the death inform and transportation of th
e family to the hospital for a formal ID?’

  He didn’t say goodbye as he hung up the phone. The old call waiting ruse works every time.

  19th December, 1005 hours – Wright’s flat, Canaan Lane

  Francis scowled at Lee. He was sprawled on the sofa as if he owned the place – his trainers had been kicked off and were in the middle of the room, his jacket was thrown over the back of the couch.

  He had to admit Lee looked rather sexy lying there, one arm flung over his head, his blond hair tousled and giving him that sleepy look. But sexy aside, Francis hated his apartment messy. Everything had its place and it was orderly and clean. Was. Now it looks like a bloody bomb’s gone off.

  The scowl turned into a frown. For the first time he doubted his choice in Lee – he’s been acting like a spoiled brat, even last night he’d been angling for money off Francis. He needed bringing down a peg or two – if this was going to work Lee had to be pliable and willing. Not demanding and obtuse.

  Lee had had more alcohol than Francis had thought before he’d arrived last night. The dose of Rohypnol resulted in Lee passing out almost as soon as he’d downed his drink. And Francis had contemplated just having his wicked way anyway, Lord knew his hard-on was strong enough. But he liked the interaction and a bit of spice when he had sex. Shagging an unconscious lad held little appeal for him. He’d waited until the early hours then woken Lee from slumber for some fun. Lee had fallen back to sleep almost immediately afterwards.

  Leaning down, he gripped Lee’s shoulder firmly and shook him hard.

  ‘Lee. Rise and shine.’

  Lee groaned and pushed Francis’s hand off him before turning his head back towards the couch back.

  More firmly now, Francis shook him again. ‘Lee, I need to go to work. You need to get your arse up and go home. Come on.’

  One of Lee’s eyes cracked open a slit. ‘Holy fucking Jesus. How much did I drink last night? I’m going to…’

  Lee bolted sideways and threw up on Francis’s perfect grey rug.

  More mess in my apartment. This was definitely a mistake.

  Gritting his teeth, he snapped, ‘Up and out. Now. I’ll clean up your mess. You were mortalled when you got here. We had some fun later but now you need to leave. Please.’ He sighed. Missing out on all that Lee had to offer might be a mistake. ‘I’ll call you later. I really need to get to work, okay?’

  Lee nodded and scrambled for his trainers, pulling his jacket on. He at least had the good grace to apologise. ‘I’m really sorry, Francis. You’re right – I was pissed. I guess I was a bit nervous so had a couple before coming over. It won’t happen again.’ He plainly thought Francis would fall for the doe-eyed look on his face, but the reality was that Francis saw right through Lee. Lee thought Francis was a meal ticket. Nothing more.

  He can go on thinking that he’s going to get all my money. Next time he will do my bidding whether he likes it or not.

  Decision made, Francis saw Lee to the door, and roughly pushed him up against the wall, kissing his neck and massaging his penis. ‘Next time me and you are going to have some more fun, okay?’

  Lee leaned in to kiss Francis on the lips – he deftly moved his head, allowing Lee’s lips to connect with his cheek. No way was he accepting a kiss from someone who’d just thrown up over his expensive rug.

  ‘Now go – I’ll call you tonight.’

  Lee grinned widely and Francis felt his breath catch in his chest.

  Oh yes, this will be so worth having to pay for the rug to be cleaned.

  19th December, 1015 hours – Canaan Lane

  He stayed in the shadows watching as Lee walked down the street. His hips moving with that swagger that older teens thought looked cool. It wasn’t cool. It was barely even swagger. All of them bolted at the first sign of trouble.

  Like the cowards they were.

  He couldn’t follow Lee today, though – he had other plans. The abattoir was calling – he’d managed to procure a last-minute addition.

  Young, blond – just like Lee.

  He was looking forward to getting to grips with him – another piece of art for the vaults he revered so much. This one would be the best yet. He just knew it.

  The young man had been hanging since the day before – he would be perfectly aged by now, like the best steak. He didn’t know the lad’s name – had no reason to. He didn’t care who he was – just that he was there and waiting.

  He’d parked around the corner so made his way back to his vehicle silently, contemplating the pleasure of the day. No matter that other prick he was friends with bragged about what he wanted to do – bragging was just talking the talk. He actually carried through and walked the walk.

  The first snowflakes of the day started to fall – he needed to get there before it got heavier or he’d end up battling the city traffic. Everyone went into panic mode with just one flake of the cold white stuff.

  He turned the ignition and slammed the gear in, not caring about the crunch as his foot left the clutch too early.

  It only took him twenty minutes to get to the abattoir and park up.

  He opened up the hole in the fence and crept through. Then he pulled the fence back into the closed position. The cold crept into his veins unexpectedly, making him shiver and pull his coat tighter.

  He walked in and the low hum of his generator greeted him, the heater in the main room taking the edge off the chill. What windows there were at the far side were cast in grey light, the glow unnatural. He knew the building had been soundproofed back when it had been built – the nearest residents back then had not liked the desperate bleats of the animals being led to their death. Now the area had changed. The houses were gone and it was all industrial, though half the factories were closed and the other half were struggling; and none were positioned too close.

  No one had ever heard his victims scream. And scream they did.

  The lad swung from side to side softly, his chin touching his chest.

  A hook in the back will do that to a man. He knew the lad was trying his best not to move a muscle. Any movement made the hook shift and pierce deeper or twist in his flesh.

  ‘Awake, I hope.’ His voice was dark and ominous.

  He was pleased to see the lad wet himself – clearly conscious enough to hear his words as the spread of the stain spread down his thighs.

  ‘We’re going to play a game. It’s one I will win regardless of how hard you fight or scream, though the aim of course, is that you do both. I want you to fight as if your very life depends on it. Because it does. If you don’t fight, I will keep going and not make the end quick and relatively painless. Understand?’

  Desperation filled the young man’s eyes – a spark of hope that someone might hear him if he screamed. It extinguished quickly, and he realised that the lad had been trying that already.

  Picking up one of the paring knives off the worktop, he advanced forward.

  One quick flick with his hand and blood started seeping from the cut on the young man’s thigh. He gasped loudly, grimacing as the cold hit the cut and made it sting sharply.

  ‘Please don’t do this. I promise I won’t tell. Please, just let me go.’

  Tears fell down the young man’s face and his breath hitched as he sobbed, his head dropping back to his chest.

  ‘Now, now little one, don’t disappoint me. Fight for your life. You never know, you might win yet.’

  He neared the man’s body again and brought the knife into view.

  His dick hardened as the lad started thrashing against the chains that held him a foot off the ground – this was what he wanted. When the man bent his knees and tried to use the momentum to kick out, he stepped to one side and plunged the paring knife into the fleshy right-hand side of the lad’s stomach.

  The thrashing stopped, just for a minute.

  He took the opportunity to change the knife to his favourite. The one from the sheath on his ankle.

  He recalled the day the knife had been gi
ven to him.

  His dad had been a good man – he’d taught him how to defend himself at a young age. The knife had been his main gift for his eleventh birthday. Because at eleven he was expected to start becoming a man. His dad had shown him how to care for the knife, because keeping it in perfect condition meant that he would get years and years out of it. His dad had been right.

  Even now the blade was clean and shiny, the small groove where it met the hilt was free of debris and mess. It hadn’t tarnished at all over the years. The deer-horn handle was a little worn but it had been a great knife when it was bought and it would take forever before it wasn’t a great knife anymore.

  Without pause, he thrust the knife deep into the other thigh of the man hanging.

  Another scream – more tears. More begging.

  He wouldn’t expect anything less, to be fair.

  Whistling now, he set about cleaning his knife. Once he’d finished cleaning it, he made his way back to the side room, hidden from the view of the lad sobbing on the hook.

  He pulled his dick out and moved his hand up and down quickly. Within seconds he felt his orgasm build, and his seed flew as he groaned loudly. Torture is a fucking brilliant release.

  He fastened his trousers and put his knife back in the sheath.

  He’d come back tonight – it was almost time for another art show in the vaults.

  Chapter 12

  19th December, 1340 hours – The Writing Museum, Royal Mile, Edinburgh

  Toni couldn’t shake the feeling that something was going to happen. It was like a lead weight sitting in her stomach and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hadn’t been able to settle all day – no vision had sprung forth, no Sam whispering in her ear, just the awful feeling of utter dread.

  She reread the document page for the fifth time, still not taking in what it said. It was from another museum about an exhibit they wanted to borrow an item for but Toni just couldn’t grasp it.