Evil Beneath Us

by Laybourne, Alex

  Jeremy had heard the phrase ‘a weight being lifted off your shoulders’ before, but only at that moment did he realize how true it was. He stood up straight and it was as if he had grown several feet overnight.

  “You stupid boy. You two came up here, got drunk, and decided to sleep it off. Do you have any idea …” William stopped and looked over at the wailing figure of Simon’s mother.

  “Julia.” William directed his attention towards the lady. “It’s going to be ok. We are going to find him.” William took Julia’s hand inside his own, placing his other on top, encasing her hand gently and reassuringly. Jeremy looked at the scene and saw his mother standing beside the woman she had known since school. He then saw his father, crouched down, cradling the fallen woman in a way that struck him as odd. A cold shiver ran down his back, as strange images filled his head.

  He and Simon had been friends since they were born due to the fact that their families were so close. Simon had never known his father, and nobody ever talked about what happened to him. In many ways, given their close relationship, William had become the father figure in Simon’s life. His mother dated, but never anything serious. Jeremy had heard stories, but was not really wise enough to the ways of the world to understand what they truly meant. He didn’t think Simon’s mother was a prostitute, but he had heard rumours, from Simon too, that there were always men in her bedroom. Some he said would walk in and out of the house on a regular basis, offering him no acknowledgement. Others he would see creeping by his bedroom door once, leaving under the cover of darkness, never to return.

  “The boys just got drunk. I bet you Simon is curled up in that damned bunker, covered in vomit with a heavy head. Call it a life lesson.” William was a lot calmer talking over the situation with Julia than he had been with Jeremy. Even then, his public demeanour was a lot more relaxed than it would be once they got home and re-opened their discussion behind closed doors.

  Rising back to his feet, William strode towards the bunker. “You stay there,” he snapped at Jeremy. Dropping to his feet, he sized up the opening and sat back on his heels. “Simon,” he called, “Simon, are you in there? It’s William. It’s all right. We’re going to take you home,” he called, leaning towards the small, exposed entryway.

  He got no response. Looking over his shoulders at Jeremy who stood still and afraid to move, he began to dig. William scraped away handfuls of sand, working furiously to enlarge the entrance. Dropping down onto his stomach, William worked his way into the bunker. “Jeremy,” he called out, his voice echoing, “hand me my torch. I can’t see anything.” William worked one arm out of the bunker, his hand opening and closing, impatiently grabbing for the torch.

  Seeing it laying on the ground, Jeremy picked it up and placed it in his dad’s hand. Snatching it impatiently, William pulled his arm back inside the tight opening. Jeremy felt sick; a ball of ice had formed in his stomach. He swallowed hard as he saw the corona appear around his father’s body in the bunker’s entrance. He waited, counting slowly in an attempt to lower his heart rate.

  A gasp followed by a cry, a sound Jeremy would not have thought possible for his father to make, came from within the concrete structure. In a series of frantic movements, William hauled himself out of the bunker, emerging with a deep gasp for air as if he had been drowning and only just managed to break the surface in time. Sweat covered his body, and his face grew paler by the second.

  “What …” he began, looking at Jeremy with wide eyes. He dropped to his knees and vomited on the ground. Choking and coughing at the steamy expulsion pooled over his hands.

  Having seen William’s response, Julia rose to her feet and proceeded to move towards the bunker. She shook off the weak attempts at protest offered by Sandra, Jeremy’s mother. She looked frail as she moved; her hands clasped at her chest.

  “Julia, you don’t want to.” William tried to stop her. Jumping to his feet, he moved to block her path. However, Julia was an independent woman, raising a teenage boy all on her own. She would not be stopped, and so she pushed William to one side.

  “I need to see him too, William.” Julia dropped to her knees, took the torch which had been discarded during William’s hasty exit, and crawled inside.

  Jeremy looked across at his father and saw tears welled in his eyes. He watched Julia intently, and flinched when the inevitable scream came.

  It was then that everything slowed down for Jeremy. His vision and his hearing focused itself on whatever he was watching. The rest was consumed by black, becoming nothing but background noise. He watched as Julia flinched, and clawed her way out into the open. It looked as if she was dying. Jeremy turned away from her screams, and as he did they fell away. He looked at his mother. She was on the phone talking to somebody. Jeremy focused but was too late. “By the old bunker in the dunes, just off Walcott Road.” That was all he could make out before she placed the phone in her pocket.

  Time stopped when he saw the look on her face. Their eyes met and everything changed. A flurry of activity behind him pulled Jeremy back to life. Julia grabbed him by the shoulders and spun Jeremy around to face her. Before he could think, a hand shot out and an explosion of stinging pain spread across his face. His cheek burned with the heat of the impact.

  “You evil bastard!” she shrieked as she lashed out once more. Her nails dug into his flesh and tore deep strips down his neck. She gripped his shirt and shook him like a dusty rug. Jeremy struggled to keep his balance, such was the force of her rage; her grief.

  “Julia, Julia, let him go, let him go.” William jumped up and managed to break Julia’s iron grip.

  “How could you? He was your friend. Your brother,” Julia said, tears flowing uncontrollably. Her face was contorted in such a way it no longer looked human.

  “Julia, that’s enough,” William roared, his voice filled with an equally violent anger.

  “Why? He should know what he has done. He should know he killed his brother. If he hasn’t figured it out already. Maybe that is why he …” Julia fell silent when William slapped her across the face. He used the back of his hand for the act and the heavy sound of flesh meeting flesh rang out around the dunes. The sandy paths they stood upon had born witness to the unravelling of countless secrets during the years. Every word, every action sent out into the wilderness; aired for the world to hear in one of the few places the world didn’t listen.

  Julia stood in a stunned silence for a moment not noticing the thin trickle of blood that came from her lip.

  “Julia, I’m …” William began, but Julia didn’t hear him. She had turned her back and was emptying the contents of her stomach over the sandy floor.

  Jeremy wanted to run. He turned a full circle, looking for a place to flee, a route away from the madness, but he couldn’t move. It was as if he had grown roots; forever tied to his new place of nightmares. A few moments later, and the attention was once again on him. The window was closed, latched, and the blinds had been drawn.

  “Dad, is it true?” Jeremy managed to stutter the words, staring his father down. The man he had feared for so long, the man whose gaze had made him tremble.

  William didn’t need to answer. It all made sense now. The family friends, the way William had taken Simon under his wing, the times Jeremy thought he treated Simon like the son he had always wanted, while he, Jeremy, was nothing but a troublesome disappointment.

  The sounds of the arriving ambulance and police cars woke up the town as they raced through the dunes, following the unpaved road that led through the sand for the very purpose of involvement in scenes such as the one that was unfolding.

  The following two hours saw the sun rise and a beautiful morning dawn. Yet, the dark skies that had settled over Jeremy’s life would not be burned away by any number of suns. Time had taken on a new level of existence, passing at a speed that somehow took forever yet managed to be over in the blink of an eye.

  Police tape decorated the dunes, strung from bushes and sticks inserted into t
he ground by the diligent officers ignoring their imminent change in shifts. Several officers spoke to Jeremy, another to each of the adults who stood together, William in the middle. Both women leaned against him; he was their pillar, their support.

  Three others had taken fold-up shovels from the back of the squad cars and were busy digging in the sand; further expanding the entrance to the bunker. Two paramedics arrived, after the first ambulance had been called away to an incident where access to the victim was somewhat more immediate. The men disappeared into the mouth of the bunker, their green suits swallowed by the dark. They left a short while later, their faces as green as their uniforms. They were sweat drenched and unstable on their feet. Between them they carried a black body bag. It looked empty; it certainly didn’t seem as if it contained the body of a sixteen-year-old boy.

  After a brief consultation, the paramedics were excused, much to their relief. Jeremy was handcuffed and led to the back of the nearest squad car. He sat in the increasingly stifling car for close to an hour before the engine was started and they left for the police station. Jeremy had tears streaking his face by the time they left. It had all been too much for him. The revelations of the morning, the horrors of the night before, and the looming threat of his future. Not once had his parents spared him so much as a glance after the police arrived, and that only served to sharpen the edge of his anguish.

  Chapter 2

  The interview room at the Damworth police station was one of four identical rooms set in a designated corridor on the first floor of the building. It was above the squad room and holding cells, and directly below the detectives’ floor. Along with the interview rooms, there was a small room for fingerprinting, one for photographs, and another for family members. It was a room that had seen many tears over the years; for lost ones and loved ones losing their way. Yet William, Sandra, and Julia shed none. They had nothing left to give. Silence dominated the small room. Nobody looked at anyone. Nobody made any attempts to move, or fight off the awkward atmosphere. The room was just off square, with light blue walls. A dark carpet covered the floor, and three sofas rested against the three main walls. Two plastic chairs were stacked behind the door. William sat on one of the sofas, while his wife and Julia, the long-time lover of both him and his wife, sat on opposing sofas. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room with a small selection of magazines spread over its surface.

  There was a knock at the door. Julia and Sandra both jumped. William looked up at the officer and without waiting for words, stood up and followed him out of the room, leaving the two women to their own devices.

  Jeremy sat alone. The officers had seen the look on the paramedics’ faces, and heard the rumours of what had been found in the bunker. They had refused to remove Jeremy’s handcuffs. He saw his father standing in the doorway, his face appearing and disappearing. Stealing glances at his son, the captive. He knew nobody believed him. His father had spoken briefly with him when they first arrived at the station, but William had not been able to raise his gaze to look Jeremy in the eye.

  Standing up from the table, Jeremy moved over to the window. It was barred, to prevent anybody from trying to escape. The view was nothing special. The officers’ car park and a view of the church that stood on the other side of the street.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, Jeremy,” a voice called from across the room.

  Jeremy jumped. He hadn’t heard the door open.

  “My name is Detective Trevor McIlroy, but why don’t we keep this on a first name basis?” He smiled at Jeremy. It was fake. Anybody could have seen it. All just a tactic to get him talking.

  “Ok,” Jeremy answered, still standing against the window. His father’s face was pressed against the glass. His gaze cold.

  “Please, take a seat. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can get this whole thing put to bed.” This time the smile seemed genuine.

  Moving from the window, Jeremy sat down. “Could I get a glass of water?” he asked, his mouth as dry as a desert.

  “Of course. Let’s get this interview out of the way, then we’ll get you a drink.” Trevor didn’t look at him. He was busy shuffling papers and initialling the corner of every page, front and back. “Before we start, I am legally required to record this conversation. Your father is right outside, and as you are a minor, his consent is required for me to do the interview. He already signed this form, authorising our chat.” Trevor slid a piece of paper from the pile and showed Jeremy the signature on the bottom.

  “Am I under arrest?” Jeremy asked, the words were hard to push over his lips. “Do you think I killed Simon?”

  Trevor raised a finger, signalling that Jeremy should wait a moment. He placed two tapes inside an old-fashioned cassette recorder.

  “We have digital things, but those recordings go straight to a storage for the court’s use. We lucky few still get to work from the old copies,” he explained when he saw Jeremy’s expression when looking at the archaic device. “No, you’re not under arrest. Simon got hurt. Something happened out in the dunes last night and we just need to have a little chat to see if we can figure it out.” Trevor smiled once more and Jeremy felt uneasy. “Let’s get started, shall we?” He pressed record and the tapes started to roll.

  “This is Detective Trevor McIlroy sitting at Damworth police station talking with Jeremy Clark. It is seven minutes after ten on Sunday, April 20th, 2014.” Trevor continued talking. What the recordings did not record was the nod and half smile Trevor gave Jeremy, another smooth way to steady the nerves and play the good cop role. “Jeremy, before we get things started, I would like to stress that you are not under arrest, and can leave at any time. Your father, Mr. William Clark, is serving as the appropriate adult, and is standing outside of the interview room at this time. I have in my possession a signed form 17b, consenting for the interview to be conducted under these circumstances. Jeremy, do you understand what I have said?” Trevor stopped talking and looked at Jeremy.

  “Yes,” Jeremy answered, his voice a whisper. “Yes,” he said again, louder this time so that it would be picked up by the recorder.

  “That’s great. Now, do you understand why you are here?”

  “I’m here because you think …” Jeremy paused, remembering what Trevor had said before the tapes started to roll. “Because something terrible happened last night and my friend got hurt.” Jeremy felt tears stinging the back of his eyes.

  “Not just hurt, Jeremy, but dead. Something happened last night, and your friend died.” Trevor spoke with a different tone, a flat, emotionless one. He was not pointing out an error, but stating a fact. He did think Jeremy had killed his friend, and he was out to prove it.

  “Yes, Simon died. Something took him,” Jeremy answered listlessly. He knew that it sounded false, fake, but that was still how it felt to him.

  “Well, why don’t you start by telling us what happened last night? Start at the beginning. When did Simon come to your house?” Trevor sat back and picked up his pen. Poised to take note of everything that was said from there on out.

  Jeremy was quiet for a few moments. Trevor could not decide if Jeremy was composing himself or simply nervous and getting his statement ready, but he waited patiently, nonetheless. When Jeremy began to speak he sounded nervous, searching for every word. He soon settled, and his words began to flow with a slow purpose. A deliberate speed allowing him to think before the words were given breath.

  ***

  Simon had arrived around mid-afternoon, and together the boys had headed into town. Lacking any real purpose, they wandered around, bemoaning the lack of life the place seemed to have. The town centre was drab, filled with the standard named stores, an unhealthily large number of second-hand shops, and an equally unnerving number of empty premises, their windows boarded up for good.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, as boredom set in, they found themselves sitting outside an off-license. It had not been their intention, but rather the wall that ran the front of the shop
had been there when then decided to sit down. Neither of the boys had seen the old man as he approached them, but once he stood within a few meters, his general aroma was enough to pull their gaze in his direction.

  “Watchawot?” he growled at them, his overgrown beard hiding his mouth, for the most part.

  “Excuse me?” Simon asked, nervous. There was something about the man that had them both on edge.

  “Watchawot, wikeyabear?” the man asked again, holding out his hand for the boys. It was only then that Jeremy understood his request. He looked over at Simon who returned his stare, clueless as to what silent conversation was supposed to be taking place.

  “Beer,” Jeremy answered, fishing a crumpled ten pound note from his wallet.

  The old drunk snatched it from his hands and walked into the shop.

  “You will never see that money again,” Simon said, looking at his friend with an admonishing gaze. “What are you going to do with beer? You can’t drink it.” He looked around, indicating with the subsequent hand gesture, that they were underage and in a populated area.

  “Oh, Simon, don’t be so nervous. You and I are taking this to the bunker. We’re gonna have a drink, kick back, and relax. It’s the weekend. Let’s get a little crazy.” Jeremy punched his friend playfully on the arm.