by Wes Markin
‘Yes, Emma, that’s easy to say. We haven’t met this bastard yet. Robert must have genuinely believed that if he assisted in our investigation, his wife would perish in a similar fashion to that poor boy. Terror affects people in different ways. We’ve seen it before.’
‘You’re right. She didn’t perish in the same way though, did she? A fatal blow to the back of the head? A fall? Could it be that she tried to escape and died in the attempt?’
‘There’s only one way we’re going to know for sure. We must find him, before he moves again. I’m continuing with this lead – it’s all we’ve got right now unless something comes out of the medical records. Can you continue with Robert? Keep going over the story with him until something jumps out.’
‘It sounds like you’re giving the orders again, Mike.’
‘Yeah, sorry …’
‘Don’t be. I like it.’
Reginald Ray watched the bartender pick up some empty glasses. He liked the way he moved. Really liked it. It reminded him of his own youth when he was quick and agile. Of course, he’d never had the fresh face this young man had, but he’d had that bounce in his step.
Reginald sat in the corner of the pub. It was a dimly lit tavern. An appropriate choice. His face did seem to be much better after gorging on Samuel Mitchell these last couple of days, but it would still stun and shock most people, especially under bright lights.
The glass collector couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He had long black hair and wore jeans that were too tight for him. How the hell do you get into them, young man? He thought to himself. Such dexterity, strength and … flamboyance. He licked his lips.
He was disappointed, but not saddened, by his brother Robert’s refusal to join him in this adventure. His wife’s death had been an accident. Sandra had attempted to flee the barn at the Ray farm, and she had tripped and smashed the back of her head on an old pig-feeding trough. He didn’t feel bad about this. Not in any way. She was always going to die. Just not by his hand, but by the hand of his brother, when he’d eventually seen sense.
But, alas, Robert had not come round to his way of thinking and for a reason completely unknown to Reginald, the police had caught up with him! This didn’t worry Reginald. He’d been incredibly careful. His brother would not be able to point out his whereabouts.
His thoughts turned to Paul Ray. This did sadden him somewhat. He’d stumbled on him completely by chance on the night Robert’s wife had died. Reginald had been heading back to the Ray farmhouse to retrieve some old artwork he suspected was still on the property. He’d worn a bag over his head to protect his sores from the bitter winds. When he’d arrived, he found Paul burning the farmhouse down! He’d been too late to stop this, and so had simply knocked him unconscious with one of his tools and took him back to the farmhouse where he was keeping Samuel. Paul Ray, his beautiful descendent, had fire in his belly, and Reginald had been so sure that he’d get through to him. But then he’d just upped and left… No worries. He knew where he lived. He would be picking at that thread later.
Reginald took a mouthful of his pint as the only other drinker in the pub wandered over. He looked older than Reginald and swayed slightly while he walked. It clearly hadn’t been his first pint of the day. Judging by the absence of any other clientele in this place, he was probably keeping this place afloat.
As he passed the bartender, he handed him an empty pint glass. The bartender pulled out an earphone so he could hear the old man.
‘That pint of Crop Circle just rocked my world, Steve.’ He had a thick Irish slur. ‘If you continue to churn them out as nicely as that fella, it’s going to become my usual.’
‘Come on now, Kenny! In place of the Lightning?’
‘Aye buddy. In place of the Lightning.’
Kenny wandered over to Reginald’s table. He paused, looked down at him and squinted.
‘Horrified by my appearance, old man?’ Reginald said.
‘No, sir. If there’s one thing my old mother taught me before she departed these sweet climes was to never judge a book by a cover. Appearance doesn’t matter to me one bit. Nor does shape, size or colour. I was just trying to remember your name … Robert Bennett! That’s it! You know, I never forget a name. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in one of Salisbury’s public houses before, have I?’
Reginald took a mouthful of beer. ‘Not that I recall. Probably should have come sooner. The beer tastes good.’
‘To die for.’
Reginald smiled. ‘Interesting choice of words. Truth is my wife died recently.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, buddy, and I’m sorry for my play on words. My wife died a long time ago. Must be fifteen years since. I know exactly how you feel. But I want to tell you something.’ He tapped his head. ‘She’s always with me. I hear her in here. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I can still communicate with her. Sometimes she nags at me, but more often than that, she keeps me company and I still love her for it.’
Reginald smiled again. ‘It’s funny you should say that. I can hear those that have long gone in here too.’ He tapped his own head.
‘They’re never truly gone!’ Kenny said, smiling back.
‘You are so right. Soon, hopefully, my late wife can join in the conversation.’
‘Aye, she will. If she’s anything like my wife, you won’t keep her quiet for long.’ Kenny looked at his watch. ‘But I’m running late now to meet some buddies. I’m heading to The Cloisters. Feel free to join us when you’re done here.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Reginald said. ‘Goodbye old man.’
After Kenny had left and Reginald had finished his pint, he waved Steve over. The bartender came but he barely seemed to notice Reginald’s appearance. Surprising really, considering the mess his face was in. It was probably the earphones lodged in the young man’s ears which were distracting him. He bobbed his head up and down.
As Steve reached down for the glass, Reginald stroked the back of the young man’s hand. He pulled away.
‘Sorry.’ Reginald held the palms of his hands up.
It was at this point that Steve noticed Reginald’s face. Reginald knew this because it was the same reaction that he’d seen countless times before. A quick flickering of the eyebrows to show surprise, a slight scrunching of the cheeks to demonstrate disgust, before a chewing of the bottom lip to reveal embarrassment over the inappropriate response.
The bartender took his earphones out. ‘No bother.’ Again, he reached down to take the glass and again, Reginald stroked his hand. ‘Hey man!’ he said, jerking away.
‘Sorry, again.’ Reginald put his hands up a second time. ‘You needn’t worry though; you won’t catch it.’
Steve’s face reddened as he chewed his bottom lip again. ‘It’s not that.’ He shook his head, thought for a moment, and then swooped for the glass a third time. Reginald’s hand darted out and he sighed as he brushed against the young skin. Steve took a step back. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
‘And why is that, Steve?’
The bartender creased his forehead. He was surely wondering how he knew his name. It took a moment for him to recall the fact that Kenny had used it. ‘Just leave, sir, please.’ He took another step back.
‘An old man touches your skin, wants to feel your freshness … and you won’t let him?’ Reginald shook his head. ‘Well, they say the youth of today are selfish, but I had no idea that it was this bad.’
Steve looked around the pub.
‘Yes, we are all alone.’ Reginald rose to his feet. ‘It’s still quite early. I had to wait for the Irish dribbler to leave before I could talk to you.’ He kept himself hunched over slightly. ‘You have to excuse me, young man, the muscles aren’t what they once were.’ He put his fists in the centre of his back and pushed his shoulders back. There was a cracking sound. He moaned, feigning discomfort and reached down for the Tesco bag-for-life on the chair beside him.
‘So, you’re leaving?’ Stev
e said.
‘All in good time, son, all in good time.’ Reginald hobbled around the table. He acknowledged that pretending to be old and frail, and moving this slowly, was actually more tiring than moving at his normal speed. ‘I’m just going to make one more visit to the bar.’
‘Then, I’ll go out the back and phone the police.’
‘Will you do that, son? Will you deny an old man a last drink just because he wanted to lay his hands on a fine young thing? The modern world beggar’s belief sometimes, it really does.’ He hobbled towards Steve and stopped inches from him.
‘Maybe I should just escort you out myself.’
‘Do please,’ Reginald said. ‘If there’s one thing I enjoy more than touching youth, it is being touched by it.’
Steve raised his hands.
Good, Reginald thought, the pretence is working. He thinks I am weak and vulnerable. Oh, you overconfident young man. To be young and full of spunk! How I miss it. How I crave it. ‘Go on, Steve, make an old man’s day.’
Steve huffed. ‘That’s it. I’m calling the police. It’s not my place to manhandle an old man. Something goes wrong, I’ll be the one that ends up in court.’
Steve turned and marched to the bar. He didn’t bother lifting the hatch, he just swooped under it.
Ah, there it is again, Reginald thought, the agility of the youngster.
Steve bypassed a shelf of spirits and disappeared through a doorway.
Reginald stretched out fully, suddenly feeling more alive. He reached into the bag-for-life and his hand settled on the handle of his claw hammer. He grinned and let the bag fall to the ground.
He held the hammer up in front of his face and turned it. Despite the lack of lighting in the public house, the stainless-steel head and its claw sparkled.
Oh Steve! The old man that you think you left standing out here isn’t as vulnerable as you think.
He chuckled and strolled to the bar. Like Steve, he didn’t bother with the hatch, and ducked underneath it.
Not bad for a seventy-year old man, eh? I have the energy of a sixteen-year-old boy coursing through my veins. Literally. Bless you, Samuel.
Raising the claw hammer again, Reginald bypassed the shelf of spirits and turned to face the open doorway. Steve’s back was to him.
Steve had a mobile phone to his ear. ‘Fucking reception,’ he hissed.
‘You could always try outside, Steve?’ Reginald said.
Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. His phone fell to the floor. ‘Shit! Now look what you made me do!’ He turned.
Reginald swung and buried the claw into Steve’s forehead. He let go of the handle, and the claw stayed rooted. ‘You are a lovely young thing, Steve.’
The claw hammer slipped free and fell. Reginald hopped back so it didn’t hit him on the foot.
Steve stared at him for a few moments, swaying slightly. Blood spewed out of the hole on his forehead and streamed down his face. He opened his mouth to try to speak but nothing came out.
Then, his face started to twitch. His top lip curled right up as if he was sneering, and then he plunged backwards to the ground. There, he convulsed a few moments, before finally growing still.
Reginald took off his T-shirt and jeans and laid them on the bar. He closed the door behind him and Steve. Then, he knelt and licked the blood from the young man’s face.
He leaned backwards, letting the blood slide down his throat, and took a long, deep breath.
It feels wonderful.
Reginald fell onto Steve and started to feed.
14
THE CONTRAST BETWEEN boss, Simon Young, and his loyal lieutenant, David Hewitt, was striking.
Simon Young was a very short individual, who should not have been able to hold court over people, but did, with great success, due to a set of stony eyes, which seemed to bore through any person held by them. Whereas, David Hewitt, was a hulking man, who had long features and a lazy eye, and was renowned for being a difficult conversationalist. He was good at giving orders, because if you ignored them, he would crush you to dust, but he couldn’t hold a room with a simple, menacing look like his boss.
The only similarity they shared were the silenced pistols they pointed at Lacey.
‘I used to watch a programme called Little and Large when I was younger,’ Lacey said to the two new occupants of the treatment room. ‘Do you remember it?’
Young didn’t respond. He just continued trying, unsuccessfully, to chisel away at Lacey with an icy stare. Hewitt did look confused for a moment, but he quickly returned to his go-to angry stare. His wife was in danger, after all. She had a primed needle filled with a deadly chemical pressed to her neck.
‘Guess not,’ Lacey said. ‘How about the Krankies? Kids’ entertainers? One dressed as an adult, the other as a little boy. Remember? They were actually man and wife. It was a bit worrying that it was the wife playing the little boy—’
‘You really don’t give a fuck about anything, do you?’ Young said. ‘We are about to put holes in you.’
Lacey smiled. ‘On the contrary, Simon, I do give a fuck. Dangerously so by the looks of it. I gave a fuck when you killed someone very close to me back in Southampton and, for that, I took Tobias from you and destroyed your businesses.’ She paused to relish the twitch that had suddenly flared up in Young’s top lip. She looked at Hewitt. ‘And David. I gave a fuck when your wife decided to get involved with a friend of mine, despite her knowing what would happen to him and his family—’
‘That’s bullshit,’ Caroline said.
‘Shut up, bitch,’ Lacey said, applying pressure to the needle against her neck.
‘Okay … okay …’
Lacey continued, ‘Now, where was I? Oh, yes … Caroline got involved with him despite knowing what would happen to him and his family, and so, for that, I want her to watch her husband die.’
Silence settled over the room for a moment.
And so, Lacey thought, begins my best laid plan.
Young burst into laughter. He looked at Hewitt, who was now as white as a ghost, and nodded to signal it was okay. Hewitt started to laugh too but it was obviously forced. Caroline didn’t laugh.
‘You really are fucking crazy, aren’t you?’ Young said.
‘Jesus,’ Lacey said. ‘How many times do I have to go through this with people? Crazy is far too general. I have a label! I’m a malignant narcissist. I crave power, I have a sense of grandiosity – as I hope you are starting to realise – and I have sociopathic tendencies. Unlucky for Mr and Mrs Hewitt here, I do not have a conscience. So, when he dies, I will feel no remorse.’
Young laughed again. Hewitt forced out a chuckle for his boss. Caroline remained stoic.
After they had stopped laughing, Lacey said, ‘How is it that only Caroline is taking this seriously? Have you watched the films I sent you, Simon?’
‘Oh, I watched them alright,’ Young said, the gun shaking in his trembling grip, ‘I know what you’re capable of. That’s why there will be a hole in your forehead, the moment that needle pierces her skin. Good luck pushing the plunger.’
She removed the needle from Caroline’s neck, placed it on the floor and with the sole of her shoe rolled it forward. It stopped at Young’s feet. ‘Go on, have it. I can’t kill her anyway. More’s the pity. I made a promise to a friend of mine.’
Caroline sat up and grabbed Lacey’s shoulder. ‘Bitch!’
‘GET THE FUCK OFF HER!’ Young said.
Caroline let go of Lacey’s shoulder, scrambled off the bed and over to her husband. He wrapped an arm around her, while keeping the gun pointing at Lacey.
‘Where’s my son?’ Young said.
Lacey clicked her fingers. ‘And there it is! The reason.’
‘The reason you will die,’ Hewitt said.
‘No, David, the reason that you will die,’ Lacey said.
Young stamped a foot. ‘Enough of this! Where is he?’
‘Last night, after myself and Tobias gave your man
the slip, I took him somewhere very special.’
‘Where?’ Young said.
‘Somewhere far from prying eyes like yours, Simon. But the thing is, I have no conscience, as I explained before. I thought to myself, if I can’t have him, then you can’t have him, so I put him in a little black box …’
‘No,’ Young said, taking a step towards her. The gun shaking hard now. ‘You’re fucking lying.’
‘Calm yourself Simon. He’s still alive, for now. I put Tobias into his little black box, and I screwed the lid down tight. If you check my bag, which I left in the lounge, you will find the screwdriver I used. If we get to him, then we can open it up, quickly – no need for us to scramble around for one that fits. Yes, we still must dig him up first, I buried him quite deep, but after that, we can open …’
Young had taken another few steps and now had the silencer on the pistol pressed against her forehead.
She smiled. ‘What time is it Simon?’
Young now had tears in his eyes. ‘I’m going to fucking kill—’
‘What time is it?’
Hewitt shouted out the time.
‘Shit,’ Lacey said, still smiling. ‘It’s a little bit later than expected. He should have enough oxygen left for the rest of the day, but you can never be too sure. You use it up quicker when you panic—’
‘YOU COLD-HEARTED BITCH.’
