The Family Lie

by P L Kane

  Slowly, carefully, he stepped up to that tape. Could see even as he did so, that someone had already broken it on the far side to gain entrance. He sighed, but it probably didn’t matter. The police here seemed to think that CSI stood for Can’t See It. As in, can’t see it happening. As in, can’t see the hand in front of their faces, more like, or what was going on under their noses! Which was why Mitch was out here in the first place, when he shouldn’t have to be. God, there should be someone out in these woods guarding the crime scene at the very least, with an active investigation happening – and he used the term ‘active’ very loosely. Hadn’t he himself spent hours in Portakabins guarding scenes just like these? Making sure no one mucked anything up, patrolling the area, and that was after the CSIs had done their jobs in the first place. To his knowledge nobody apart from Wilkinson, and perhaps Larson – the closest thing they had to forensics, the only person he’d met who had half a clue – had even been near the place.

  Mitch took in the blackened area, almost a perfect circle, where his father must have stood. Where he’d dropped to his knees and keeled over, as the flames had lapped over his body.

  Again, he saw that lump in the drawer Larson had shown him: the blacks, the pinks and reds. Identifiable only from its teeth, from dental records, because it had been in such a mess. Not even closing his eyes blotted out the images, only made them worse in fact. More vivid.

  His eyes snapped open again, and he looked away. Looked around for the area where the tent must have been, though the flattened grass and undergrowth would probably have returned to normal by now. Mitch could only imagine what those campers had thought – waking up in the middle of the night to that sight, a human bonfire crackling and popping out there in the trees. He could only imagine because he hadn’t even been allowed access to the statements they’d made, let alone knew who they were. Not that a civilian – which he guessed he was these days – should have access to such material, even if they were related to the victim. Especially if they were related. Mitch could also imagine the reaction from some of the detectives he’d worked with if they were told they had to keep relatives in the loop when they were trying to crack a case.

  One guy he’d come across over the years, Channing his name was, Mitch remembered (too many teeth, speaking of dental records), liked to tell the story of how when he’d been working in Redmarket a distraught father had muscled his way into the investigation. ‘Blasted nuisance he was. Sticking his oar in left, right, and centre! It was because of him I had to transfer in the first place, stirring things up.’ It had been around the time they’d found all that corruption going on with the mayor so he’d made that connection – Mitch had been talking about it with Lucy before he left just the other …

  Shit! Lucy!

  It was only now that he thought about how he’d left things with her again. The way the phone had cut off and how she might think he’d hung up on her because of how things were with them. But then there’d been Denise, the fight, Sheldon, Denise again …

  Instinctively, he reached for his mobile in his pocket then caught himself, suddenly remembering that it had been stolen. Mitch leaned against one of the trees with the tape on it. He would have – should have – been in touch with her all the time under any other circumstances, though even when he’d had his phone there hadn’t been as much contact as usual. Why was that?

  Cut yourself some slack, your dad just died, you saw the body – no, don’t got there again. You’ve been in not one, but two brawls (if you could even call the first one that). And she hadn’t been here, that was her decision. Not that he wanted … Too busy, even though she could see how upset you were. Just like Bella, couldn’t be bothered to—

  He stopped. Mitch hadn’t thought about his sister in ages either, had been meaning to give her a call as well. She didn’t even really know the ins and outs of how their dad had met his end. In front of him, on this patch of grass, surrounded by these trees.

  Bloody hell! Why was it down to him to keep everyone updated, that wasn’t his job! Why did he have to keep reporting back to them, why weren’t they here? Why wasn’t she – Bella – here? With him, going through all this?

  Why was the only friend he had in the universe right now small, black, furry, and wanted fish or meat all the time?

  You don’t choose cats, they choose you – hadn’t he heard that somewhere? The feline in question had chosen his dad, then him. Something in the family line, perhaps? Some kind of—

  Bella’s ‘gifts’, being able to talk to the dead – if you believed in all that bollocks – his senses. Just a policeman’s eye, putting together clues. Knowing when things were about to turn sour. Common sense. That’s all. But trusting it. Being self-aware, knowing your surroundings. Knowing when—

  When you were being watched.

  Mitch looked up and across, caught sight of the figure which ducked behind a tree. There was a rustle of leaves off to his right and he twisted, saw another. Off to his left, a third. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, before he’d had a chance to even think about it. About maybe having the element of surprise, though if they were following him that would have been out of the window straight off the bat, wouldn’t it. Had they been following him since the Commune? Come from the Commune?

  Mitch set off, aiming for the middle figure he’d seen. The one that was hiding behind the tree ahead of him. ‘Hey! Hey you! Stop!’ He almost said ‘police’, needed to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t anymore; wasn’t here in any kind of official capacity. But he could make a citizen’s arrest, right? Like last night in the pub. Only what was he going to say these people were doing? Loitering with intent in the woods? He was doing that himself, for Christ’s sake! Used to do it as a kid. And loitering to do what? Get the jump on him? There were three like the other night at his dad’s place, dressed in dark clothes the same way. Were they wearing caps? Was it them? Members of the Commune, or not? Or was this Granger and his mates, like he’d imagined might be waiting for him outside the pub or on the walk back?

  Needless to say, whoever this was didn’t stop, and by the time he got to the tree in question the figure had vanished. Mitch whipped his head left, then right, searching for signs of the other two. Nothing.

  A snap of bracken, and he saw the original one he’d been pursuing ahead of him. Saw he was wearing a hoodie rather than a cap. ‘Gotcha,’ Mitch whispered under his breath and set off again. He lost that guy minutes later, but picked up the scent of the one off to his left, changing course immediately to run after him. His ribs were still throbbing, but he put that out of his mind, concentrated on catching up with these men – catching at least one of them. Wasn’t thinking clearly, or might have been worried about what they’d do to him if they turned suddenly and ganged up. Three against one, not great odds – especially when the ‘one’ in question was already injured. Another lucky punch to the side and he’d be on the floor, theirs for the taking.

  Shit! Mitch lost sight of his target, but spotted the figure from the right briefly, running through the trees. Off he went again, cutting across diagonally, but all the time moving forward. Heading away from … being drawn away from the crime scene. Was that the intention in the first place?

  In any event, all three of them seemed to be coming together. Heading for somewhere rather than away. Then Mitch saw where they were going, their destination all along. Of course! Mitch spotted the person he was trailing just as they slipped in through the entrance – the bars there prised away, allowing one person at a time to squeeze through. Had there been time for all three to go in there? Maybe, probably. One of them was inside, that was for damned sure! Which meant he had to follow; couldn’t risk losing them. Losing a lead. No way of calling for anyone else, for help – his quarry would be deep inside and out the other end by the time he did that anyway – plus what help would the likes of Wilkinson possibly be?

  No, he was on his own. Like he had been all along with this, not even the cat here to keep him company this ti
me. His, what, familiar? Mitch was beginning to wish he did have bloody magical powers, like those cops in that book he read once. No, not the cops, the people they were after in that alternate universe.

  Didn’t matter, he had no such abilities.

  Swallowing dryly, Mitch reached the entrance to the cave system. The one all those people had got lost in: the one that kid had got lost in when Mitch was younger, resulting in those bars, though they’d got rusty and weakened in the intervening time.

  He had no choice but to go in. Disappear, as those figures had done.

  Into the darkness.

  ***

  One of the first things Mitch had done inside the cave was reach for his flashlight, switching it on.

  He swung it around like a lightsabre, wishing it was such a weapon – but expecting at any moment to encounter Darth Vader blocking it with his red one. Yet there was nobody, not even the person he’d followed in here. Though when he cocked an ear, Mitch could hear the echo of footfalls in front of him.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out again, and now that echoed as well, rebounding off the walls and coming back at him tenfold. Unsurprisingly, there was no reply. He pressed on.

  The walls of the cave were dry to begin with, but the further inside he went the wetter they became. No great shock, when you weren’t that far from the lake and were going lower now, and still lower. Mitch hesitated, shivered – feeling the coolness as he descended.

  Lower, like a descent into—

  He shook his head, continued on, continued to swing that flashlight left and right. Seeing patterns on the cave walls, weird swirling shapes that might have been natural or man-made, he couldn’t tell which. On he went, and down. There were even makeshift steps, almost unnoticeable at first, then more ridged. Deeper, more slippery.

  Mitch lost track of time in there, just as he’d lost track of the figures he’d been hunting. There was no sign of them at all now, not even sounds ahead of him. Then he got to a fork in the caves, one tunnel going off to the right, one to the left. They could have split up, or all gone in one direction – he had no way of knowing.

  ‘Fuck me!’ shouted Mitch, frustrated, and once more the words came rushing back at him like wind. He had to choose, left or right.

  Life or death.

  He had no idea where that thought came from, but it didn’t exactly set him at ease. Was one the way where he’d become lost and trapped, doomed to die in here? Nobody even knew he was in here! Now would be a really great time for those super senses that he didn’t really call super senses to pipe up.

  Left. Maybe. No, definitely … left. Mitch ploughed on, even when the tunnel seemed to zigzag. Something was telling him if he just kept going forwards at some point he’d hit the centre of the cave, and then—

  He slipped, toppling sideways into the wall. Dropping his torch on the hard floor. It clanked, clacked, and then cut out. Utter darkness, like the darkness he’d stared into at the mouth of the cave – at the door of the cellar – and Mitch began to panic.

  Why the hell had he followed those idiots inside? He didn’t even know who they were, only that they’d run when he shouted at them. Who wouldn’t, with a madman screaming for them to stop? Whoever they were, they clearly knew this place better than he did. Might even be able to find their way around in the dark. Which was more than he could.

  He couldn’t even find—

  Wait! There it was. Scrabbling about on his hands and knees, Mitch was feeling around in front of him, and his fingertips had brushed the edges of the torch. But he’d knocked it away again, sent it sprawling out of reach. Mitch’s breath was coming in quick gasps, his hands slapping the floor of the cave and feeling around for that torch again. It felt like he’d put his right hand in something soft and pulled a face, yanking it back out again.

  Mitch heard a scratching sound, shuffling.

  Jesus! What the hell was that? Something brushed against his shoulder – something passing him, behind him? He had no idea! Sweat was streaming down his face – it was now simultaneously hot and cold in the corridor – and it was running into his eyes, stinging them. Not that he could see a bloody thing anyway, but—

  The torch. The fingers on his right hand found it again, snatched it up quickly this time (he learned from his mistakes, Mitch) and pressed the button.

  Nothing happened. Still just blackness in front, to the sides, behind. What had touched his upper arm? Were there bats in here?

  He kept flicking the button: on, off, didn’t matter, it was completely broken by the ‘looks’ of things. Or maybe loose, the end where the bulb was might be, the bit you unscrew to change the batteries. He checked, and it was. So he screwed it up tightly, tried the button again and said a silent prayer, though he didn’t really believe in all that.

  Nothing happened. Again. The prayer had failed, maybe because he didn’t really trust anything like that. Guardian angels or whatever. Didn’t even believe in those voices Bella heard, guiding people. Telling them what they wanted to hear. Warning them.

  She didn’t warn you, did she? Didn’t say, ‘Whatever you do, don’t go back home, don’t leave the back door open, don’t get into those fights.’

  Don’t. Go. Inside. The. Sodding. Cave!

  Shouldn’t have needed a warning, should have been common sense again really. Caves? Give that one a miss, because you might never find your way out again. Might end up starving, or—

  Water. That was the main one, wasn’t it? You could last a lot longer without food – and right now those cheese sandwiches were fighting back, threatening to come up again as his stomach tied itself in knots. Can’t afford to lose your lunch, because that’s all you have inside you, and you’d also lose … Water. Mitch would be dead in days without that, as opposed to weeks without sandwiches.

  Crap, was he getting delirious already? Surely not? But then how long had it been, how much time had he actually spent in this place? Now it was pitch-black, and he couldn’t see his watch, it was even harder to figure out the passage of time. Or where you were. On the ground, on your knees. That’s where! Get up. That’s the first step, bats or no bats.

  Mitch grabbed the wall again, steadying himself as he rose. Leaning against it and feeling his way along. Breath coming in gasps, dread rising within him. He was still holding the torch, still living in hope that it might suddenly come on and illuminate the whole place, give him a fighting chance against whatever evil was lurking inside.

  This must have been what it was like for the boy years ago. He could relate. That had been a lad, though, didn’t know how to keep himself calm, level-headed. And that’s what you’re doing, is it? Could’ve fooled me! No matter how much we kid ourselves we’ve grown up, that we’re adults, Mitch knew that inside everyone was a small child, especially when the trappings of society, as the Commune called it, were taken away. They didn’t seem to care, might not care if they were here in this cave, in the dark. Which could offer a clue as to the identity of those—

  Then he heard it again: scratching, scuffling. Ahead of him; ahead and down. His first instinct was to go in the opposite direction, but he knew he had to face this. Mitch felt along the wall, his only anchor in the black, moving towards the noise. Where he thought it was coming from; it was still hard to tell because of all that echoing. Twisting and turning, impossible to fathom where he was going or be able to find his way back.

  Down and down. Down those steps in the … dream. Was he dreaming? Down those steps into the … cellar at his dad’s, the one he’d always been afraid of because little kids always are. Cellars, they’re another no-no, right? Cellars and—

  Caves. Tunnels. Tunnels with flickering lights at the other end of them. The light at the end of the … Usually a train, in his experience. Something that hit you slap bang in the middle of your—

  A space ahead. Flickering on the walls.

  Walls that Mitch could now see were covered in paintings, etchings, the markings leading to them all along. Faded, because they’d c
learly been here oh so long. Centuries maybe? Mitch was no expert on that kind of thing. No historian, no archaeologist. No Indiana Jones! Couldn’t read the language, it made no sense to him, but the pictures, they made all the sense in the world. Figures, dark figures, hooded figures in a circle with what looked like a yellow light in the middle.

  Made sense, not least because he could see the live version up ahead in that space. See those three … no, more than that, four, five, figures that were in this opening. They’d joined their friends. Standing, chanting, dressed in strange robes. The Commune’s other more serious, more disturbing ‘uniform’.

  Holy mother of … Had he stumbled upon the crux of the entire thing? Why they had come here, come back here, what they were doing? What they were worshipping in these caves? Trying to summon something, destroy that society which could do with taking a leaf out of their book? Start again, start from scratch. And had his father stumbled onto it too, perhaps without even knowing it – or remembering it, given his condition? Stumbled onto it like Mitch was stumbling through these caves, and paid the ultimate price for it in the end?

  The figures were moving now, holding hands and shifting sideways, round and round – allowing Mitch a glimpse of what was in the centre, what had been causing all that flickering, illuminating the scene much better than even his torch had done. Causing the heat. Another fire, built from kindling and moss or whatever else they could find here in these tunnels. The figures were going faster and faster, round and round like they were participating in some kind of schoolyard game. The chanting was growing louder, words rebounding off the rock, almost deafening him.

  He could feel a tugging at his sleeve, his wrist, but when he looked there was no one there. Just a tugging feeling then, a need to be closer, to observe more, but at the same time not wanting to be within a million miles of all this. Mitch inched nearer, as the figures speeded up. Round and round, the flames they surrounded flickering furiously, casting shadow upon shadow on—