by Mark Tilbury
He’d also sensed his driver and general dogsbody was suffering from a severe bout of disloyalty syndrome. He’d have to watch him. Watch him very carefully indeed. He couldn’t trust a man whose eyes looked east and his mouth moved west.
And what was with all the reluctance to clear up the mess in the basement? It wasn’t as if he’d never asked Hemmings to carry out unsavoury chores in the past. There were at least seven bodies buried in the grounds of Thorndike House, and Hemmings had been responsible for killing three of them and burying all of them.
Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and dispense with his driver after this latest setback had been resolved. Feed him to the fish and turn him into piranha poop.
Duggan took a sip of brandy and leaned back in the soft leather recliner. There was a loud crack in his neck, reminding him prolonged stress was every bit as dangerous to the body as it was to the mind. He also had a dull ache at the bottom of his back that sent pins and needles rolling down his legs every time he laid down to go to sleep.
To make matters worse, his jaw still ached like a bitch from his brief flirt with cannibalism. It had been a most satisfying experience, and one he was determined to repeat once they got that wretched boy back to Thorndike House.
If you get him back, his dead father’s voice spoke in his head. Mr Cautious. Mr Pessimism. Mr Fucking Doom and Gloom. You could write a series of books based around Daddy’s multiple negative characteristics.
‘I will,’ he promised. ‘I will, and when I do, the little shit’s going to wish he’d never been born.’
Act in haste, repent at leisure.
Duggan sat bolt upright in his chair. ‘You’re dead. So, shut you’re stupid mouth.’
He remembered the day his father had died as if it had happened merely weeks ago, but eighteen years had elapsed since then. August 3. A date that was duly celebrated every year because it also happened to be Duggan’s birthday.
Duggan had realised he was different from around the age of eleven after developing a fascination with death. Wondering how it would feel to kill someone. Looking for pictures of dead bodies on the internet while pretending to do his stupid, boring homework.
Death excited him. Made his heart beat faster. Gave him a funny tingling sensation in his tummy. To his absolute joy, he’d seen a kid get hit by a car on the way to school once. The boy had been knocked unconscious, and there was a load of blood on his face.
Karl had watched, fascinated, as the boy had struggled for breath. And then the police and the ambulance had arrived and cordoned off the area. Made everyone retreat while they battled to save his life.
Karl had walked to a nearby bench and stood on it to get a better view, but it was impossible to see anything without stilts. Deflated, he’d trudged off to school, his rucksack a lot heavier, his mind black with rage at having been denied a genuine opportunity to watch someone die.
Never one to dwell on things, he’d progressed to taking home dead animals he’d found on the road. Rabbits, hedgehogs, birds. Once, and possibly given as a reward for good behaviour, he’d stumbled across a dead cat lying on a grass verge. He’d spent hours dissecting it and studying its broken, bloodied body.
As with all things fascinating and stimulating, this weird and macabre fetish had soon moved on to more sinister ground. By the time his fourteenth birthday had rolled by, he was already fantasising about killing someone. Not anyone in particular, but a boy at school called Adrian Collet.
Adrian had a mop of blond hair, big brown eyes, and a tendency to pout like a girl. Although in denial at first, Duggan was sexually attracted to him in a way that was impossible to define. He didn’t want to kiss him or do any of that other ghastly stuff he’d read about on the computer. He just wanted complete control of Adrian for a day and to see where it led.
It was widely known Adrian’s parents were strapped for cash, so when Duggan asked him if he wanted to go to the cinema with him, all expenses paid, the boy had been about ready to throw himself at Duggan’s feet and kiss shoe leather.
After watching some crap movie, Duggan had invited Adrian to go for a walk along the river with him. Once there, he’d lured his prey to an old air-raid shelter and beat him unconscious with a claw hammer.
That warm, autumn evening had been one of the best days of his life. He’d secured Adrian’s wrists and ankles with duct tape, and embarked on a three-hour torture fest. Adrian was barely recognisable once Duggan had slashed and stabbed him multiple times and used a pre-prepared syringe to administer neat bleach into the wounds.
Poor Adrian had finally succumbed to death after Duggan had severed his penis with a Swiss Army knife. He’d spent two hours lying beside the corpse stroking its matted and bloodied hair.
It would be another seven years before he killed again, but as with all the best things in life, it was well worth the wait. His twenty-first birthday treat, if you could call it that, was the usual, boring trip out to sea on Daddy’s yacht. A family tradition. Birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, and anything else that gave Duggan Senior an excuse to show off his stupid yacht. He’d even grown a beard one year to give him a salty seadog look.
They’d set sail from Hayling Island on a beautiful summer’s evening, with a good wind and a calm sea. Not a hint of the tragedy about to unfold. Karl had meticulously planned for this night for the best part of eighteen months. Going over every possible outcome until his head was spinning. Testing his cover story. Imagining the barrage of questions that would come his way. He’d even studied several similar cases that had ended in failure. Picked them apart to see where the killer had gone wrong.
To say he’d hated his father was a massive understatement. Not that Duggan Senior had ever done anything in particular to evoke this loathing; it was just his abrupt manner and contempt for anyone who didn’t view the world through Roland Duggan spectacles. That, and his constant swiping at Karl’s mother who was unable to do anything right. Roast beef overcooked. Flowers on the table displayed incorrectly. Ornaments in the wrong place. Alice Duggan had seemed to possess an uncanny knack of ruining everything she touched.
His father had amassed a fortune on the stock market with a simple philosophy and a great deal of luck buying shares at the right time and selling them on again at the right time. On the back of this largely successful career, he’d constantly encouraged Karl to go to business school.
But Karl had neither the drive nor the desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d had better things to do with his time, such as going to parties and fudging his way through university studying psychology.
By the time the sun was getting ready to set and hand its duties over to the moon and stars, both his parents were what his mother would call squiffy. Karl thought it was a silly word. Why did people always have to have daft names for things? Drunk was drunk. Whatever the name for it, it gave Karl a golden opportunity to put his plan into action.
Allowed to drink for the first time ever on one of his birthday celebrations, Karl had taken the chance to lace a half bottle of wine with enough sedatives to knock out a baby elephant. He’d poured his parents a glass of wine each from his specially prepared bottle and listened to their speech deteriorate to an infantile level. Alice had fallen asleep in her seat on the upper deck, conking out midway through a slurry sentence.
Duggan Senior had made it two thirds of the way across the upper deck before crashing out near the winch. He’d narrowly missed cracking his head open on the bloody thing. Proof positive the gods were with Karl that night. The last thing he needed was a corpse with a massive head injury.
He waited half an hour, then hauled his mother out of her chair and dragged her to the guard rail. Unconsciousness had seemed to double her weight, and it had taken all of his strength to hoist her up over the rail and send her to a watery grave.
With a bit of luck, the tide would drag her further out to sea and she’d never be found. But, even if she was, it was well-known she had a serious addiction to slee
ping pills and wine. Falling overboard under the influence would almost seem like a natural death to those closest to her.
He watched the ocean consume her skinny body, then took a well-earned rest in the seat she’d recently vacated. It took a while to recover his breath, and the bottom of his back was in serious danger of going into spasm. But, all in all, a job well done.
Not that he had anything against his mother. She’d always been kind to him. Had a pleasant manner. Perhaps gullible, and an easy target for his go-getting daddy, but having to kill her was, unfortunately, a necessary evil. May she rest in peace.
Now, it was just a waiting game. He needed his father partially awake before alerting him to the fact his poor, downtrodden wife had gone overboard.
As it happened, he didn’t have to wait long. Half an hour later, Duggan Senior started moaning and moving about on the deck.
Karl sprang into action. He rushed to his father’s side and imparted the catastrophic news that his mother had fallen overboard. He couldn’t see her. After a lot of yelling and shaking, Roland Duggan finally picked himself up and staggered to the starboard side of the deck.
‘How the hell did she fall overboard?’
‘She was being sick. She must have lent too far over and lost her balance.’
‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you help her?’
I did! In more ways than you’ll ever know. ‘I tried. But when I got there it was too late.’
‘Get a torch. Get a bloody torch.’
Duggan had complied by fetching a powerful flashlight from the wheelhouse.
After shining the beam on the water for a few seconds, Duggan Senior had opted to become Duggan the Saviour. He’d stripped out of his shirt and trousers and plunged into the now choppy water.
Karl had been surprised and delighted he hadn’t had to help his father over the guard rail. Another sign the gods were in favour of providing him with orphan status.
‘Keep the light on me,’ Roland had said between mouthfuls of water. ‘I can’t see bugger all.’
Karl had duly obliged for a couple of minutes, before leaving his father to flounder in the dark and going to start the engines. He’d then manoeuvred the boat to a safe distance about fifty yards away and waited until his father’s shouts and screams had ceased.
After relaxing with a glass of wine for half an hour, he’d radioed in news of the tragedy to the authorities and prepared himself for the inevitable investigation.
The police had raked over his tragic tale like an obsessed parent with a nit comb. But Karl had met every question with confidence and surety. His mother had fallen overboard while throwing up, and his gallant father had dived in to save her. There was nothing he could’ve done to help either of them, and he’d spend the rest of his life wracked with guilt and shame for his inadequacies.
The search and rescue team never found his parents. It was assumed they’d been washed out further to sea. Karl was hopeful a shoal of predators had eaten them and fertilised the ocean with their remains.
As a result of months of planning, Karl had been rewarded a year later with his rightful inheritance: Thorndike House and a sum of money capable of keeping him in luxury for the rest of his life.
All good things come to those who wait. But that was only the beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tommy had slept for most of the time leading up to Dr Marks’ visit. The doctor at the surgery had upped his dose of Buspirone again and had promised to try to get his appointment speeded up with the mental health team in Oxford. He was also going to request a brain scan to make sure there wasn’t something more serious going on in his head.
All reassuring news! With Rachel at work, and his father doing whatever fathers do in the shed when they’re not wanted, Tommy sat in the leather recliner with Danielle opposite him on the sofa.
Dr Marks, who seemed to be in possession of a cold, took a sip of water, wiped his nose with a cotton handkerchief, and opened his laptop. ‘Danielle informs me you’ve had a bit of a rough time of it since our last meeting.’
Tommy shrugged. ‘You could say that.’
‘Do you remember anything about the episode with your mother and sister the other day?’
‘Not much.’
‘He thought Mum was Bella,’ Danielle said. ‘He was saying all kinds of nasty stuff to her. Telling her he was gonna get her one day and stamp all over her face.’
Marks wiped his nose again and returned the hanky to his jacket pocket. ‘You seem to have a deep-seated hatred for this Bella character. Have you any idea why?’
‘Only that she fucks around with my head.’
‘How so?’
‘Mocks me. Teases me. Threatens to do stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno exactly. It’s as if she knows she’s got all the power, and I can’t do anything about it.’
‘Does she threaten to punish you?’
‘Not really. It’s different. I can’t explain it. I suppose you could say she plays with me. Teases me.’
Marks tapped on his keypad. Looked at Tommy. ‘You’re showing signs of someone who’s been held in captivity for an extended period of time. Many prisoners of war experience this utter helplessness. A relinquishing of power to their captors. Once released, their only chance of a proper resolution is to meet their tormentors face to face. It’s what we call settling unfinished business. Of course, in the vast majority of cases, this is impossible to fulfil.’
‘I don’t ever want to meet her,’ Tommy said. ‘Whoever she is.’
Marks nodded. ‘Today, I thought we might attempt to delve more into your time at this mystery location. See if we can’t unlock something that might give us a clue to its whereabouts. Is that all right?’
It wasn’t, but Tommy agreed. Mostly to prove this was all a waste of time and to get his family off his back, but partly because he wanted Bella and The Master locked up for life.
Dr Marks talked him down the steps and into the corridor. ‘When you open the door with the light on, you will be back in the place of your captivity.’
Tommy moved cautiously towards the door. Considered turning round and running back up the steps.
‘You have nothing to fear here,’ Marks said. ‘I’m right with you. You can leave at any time.’
He opened the door and stepped inside. But instead of the glass chamber, it was a relatively normal room. About twelve feet square, with hideous purple walls, and a red tiled floor. There was a pool table in the centre of the area, and two other boys shooting frames.
‘What do you see?’ Marks asked.
‘Two kids playing pool.’
‘Is there any sign of The Master?’
‘No.’
‘Bella?’
‘No. Just the boys.’
‘I want you to ask them who they are.’
As Tommy approached the table, one of the boys, dressed in blue jeans and a black tee-shirt, looked round and grinned at him. ‘Hey, Number Nine, who let you outta your cage?’
Tommy grinned. ‘How you doin’, Six?’
‘Had better days. You wanna game?’
Tommy declined. ‘I ain’t got long. I’ve got an appointment tonight. The Master said I can have half an hour in recreation before I get ready.’
The other boy, also in casual dress, had a shaved head and snakelike eyes. ‘You know where you’re going?’
‘Nope.’
The boy, who Tommy identified as Number Seven, said, ‘You’d better hope it’s not that fuckin’ pervert, Clancy.’
‘Who’s he?’
Number Six spat on the floor. ‘The biggest cunt who ever walked the earth.’
Tommy shuddered.
‘You want my advice,’ Seven said. ‘If he makes you do oral, bite his fuckin’ dick off.’
‘Then cut his bollocks off,’ Six added. ‘Cut ’em off and make the bastard choke on ’em.’
Six potted the black and grinned. ‘Three-nil. You owe me your
next privilege tip.’
Seven scowled. ‘Double or quits?’
‘Sorry, mate. Too risky with my bad shoulder. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.’
The boys laid their cues on the table and sat on red plastic chairs lined up against one wall.
Tommy joined them. Looked at Seven. ‘So, you’ve been to this Clancy’s house?’
A shadow flitted across the boy’s eyes. ‘Twice. I’ll tell you this for free, the bastard makes The Master seem like a regular dude. You know what gets me the most? He’s a fuckin’ politician. Telling the country what they should and shouldn’t do and treating kids like shit.’
Six shook his head. ‘Tell Tommy what he did to you in the Jacuzzi.’
Seven chewed his lip for several seconds before saying, ‘I wanna puke every time I remember it.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Tommy said. ‘Not if you don’t want to.’
Seven stood and lifted his tee-shirt. Revealed a huge, raised scar around his belly button. ‘He got me pissed on cheap wine while he was chugging back the champagne. Then he got me to strip and lie on the floor…’
‘What’s the scar?’ Tommy asked.
‘The bastard straddled me and throttled me. I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was dying. Then I must’ve passed out. That scar’s from when he brought me round by stubbing out a cigar on me.’
Tommy’s stomach clenched. ‘Shit.’
‘He’d got me in handcuffs by then. And ankle chains. He made me go to the Jacuzzi with him. Sit in there while he did things to me I don’t even wanna talk about.’
‘He’s gotta be killed,’ Six said. ‘Someone’s gotta kill the bastard.’
‘I’d like to hang him upside down and piss in his mouth ’til he drowns,’ Seven said. ‘But we all know he’ll never get caught. Those shitheads never do.’
Six coughed and said, ‘I’ve been to two judges’ houses, a fuckin’ high-ranking cop’s, and a pop star’s. They’re not all as bad as Clancy, but they’re still all sick perverts.’
