by Wes Markin
While his five-year-old son continued to juggle the ball from foot to foot, Douglas flinched as a cold sliver of air found its way through a fracture in the single-paned glass. He reached out to touch it, taking care not to press too hard in case it should worsen, or cut him. He’d need to replace it as soon as possible. He wished he could afford double-glazing, but he merely sold the product, and didn’t earn quite enough to purchase it for himself, even with the discount his employers offered.
Outside, the day darkened as a heavy cloud seized the day. Rain, and a storm that they’d been predicting for days, was about to make its long-awaited arrival. He tapped the window to alert his son, and then cursed out-loud for his thoughtlessness. He’d just worsened the crack.
Ian, distracted by his father beckoning him in, lost control of the ball and it bounced over the shallow garden wall.
Douglas watched the ball roll towards the main road, and watched his son break the rule to never leave the garden.
Yet, there he was. Already out of the gate, and onto the pavement.
Douglas banged the window again. No longer caring about breaking it. As his son ran out onto the road, he shouted his name.
‘IAN!’
One second, he was there, the tiny person they’d nurtured, the next second there was the loud sound of brakes. Douglas saw a flash of red, heard a terrible sound, and his son vanished.
Douglas felt his daughter take his hand as the Ford Capri shrieked to a halt. There was a trail of blood on the road, and the realisation that Ian was underneath the car broke his world into pieces.
He snatched his hand away from his daughter and put his fist through the glass.
1978
BRADLEY WINKED AT Catherine, lined up the bean bag and attempted to take out the pyramid of tin cans. He clipped the top one. It clattered against the back of the metal stall and disappeared into the darkness. ‘Shit!’
Beside him, Catherine laughed. Bradley turned to her. ‘You distracted me.’
‘How?’
‘Your constant flirting.’
She hit him on the shoulder. ‘You were the one winking!’
‘Come on now, lovebirds,’ the stall owner said, holding out the third, and final, beanbag. ‘Some of us ‘ave got to make a living around ‘ere.’ He was an elderly man with a chiselled face. ‘And take a look be’ind you.’
Bradley turned and saw that the queue had swollen while he’d been fluffing his opening two shots. He turned back, nodded and reached out for the third beanbag. The weather-beaten old man handed it over, sneering. His few remaining teeth were discoloured.
‘This one’s for the biggest teddy you’ve got, Captain!’ Bradley looked at his girlfriend with the most heroic expression he could muster.
‘They’re all the same size, smartarse. Just throw your bloody bean bag before I charge you another twenty pence.’
Bradley took a deep breath. He let the sweet smell of candyfloss give him a boost. He let the thump, thump of the fairground music focus and steady him.
‘Okay, let’s end this, and get on Hook a Duck.’ He pulled his hand back and lined up his third shot. He smiled. ‘No wink this time, Catherine.’
As Bradley launched the beanbag, there was a loud bang, everything around them shook and the tin cans came crashing down. In dismay, he watched his beanbag sail through the exact spot where the cans had been standing a fraction of a second before.
‘What was that?’ Catherine said.
‘Don’t care,’ Bradley said, ‘I was on target, Captain, so pay up.’
‘Kids kicking the back of my stall, I bet,’ said the owner, heading to the back of the stall. ‘Not the bloody first … what the fuck?’ He moved aside the stand for the cans and pointed at the beanbag that was stuck to the metal wall at the back of the stall.
Behind Bradley and Catherine, the Waltzers were in full flow. The music boomed, and the riders wailed. The young couple couldn’t hear what the owner was saying. They didn’t need to. The ride’s multicoloured lights lit up the back wall of the stall. Blood streaked down the metal from the suspended bean bag.
As the stall owner reached out to touch the bean bag, Catherine moved in closer to Bradley.
Bradley held his breath and, when the owner withdrew his hand sharply as if he’d hurt himself, he flinched.
The owner went through a side door. It was clear he wasn’t heading around the back to catch a couple of kids. This was more serious.
Due to the cacophony behind him, Bradley spoke straight into Catherine’s ear. ‘Stay here.’
‘No, I’m coming with you.’
She clearly regretted this decision after they’d raced around the back of the stall to join the owner. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she turned to bury her face in Bradley’s chest. Bradley wanted to turn away too, but he managed to keep up the pretence that he could take this obscenity on the chin.
A young man was pinned there. His mouth hung open, and the weapon which had speared him to the metal stall protruded from it.
‘A socket bayonet,’ the owner said loudly. ‘I ‘ad one just like it, back in ‘42. It was for using on the Fritz though. This is fucking blasphemy.’
Bradley held his girlfriend’s head to his chest, so she didn’t have to see.
The owner pointed at the glinting, metal rectangle emerging from the young man’s mouth. ‘That’s the socket, see? That’s where it fixes to your Lee-Enfield.’
Bradley shot the owner a confused look.
‘A rifle! The socket also makes it easier to wield if it’s not attached. Some psycho rammed this blade down the kid’s throat and stuck him to my stall.’
Bradley had heard enough. Still clutching his crying girlfriend, he turned to one side and started to be sick.
‘Jesus,’ the owner said. ‘You know who this is?’
Bradley was spitting out chunks of the hotdog he’d eaten minutes before and was unable to respond.
‘It’s that bloody lad … the one in all the papers. He mowed a poor kid down a few years back. Surely, you remember?’
‘No,’ Bradley managed to say.
‘Yes … it definitely is the little dickhead who got away with it.’
Bradley wanted to remark that he clearly hadn’t gotten away with anything but vomited again instead.
1
THE WAITING ROOM was warmer than last time, and DCI Michael Yorke welcomed it. The weather this month had been particularly ruthless, and anybody who saw fit to crank up the heating was a hero in his books.
He looked at his wife, Patricia. She was engrossed in a newspaper article about the volcanic ash cloud which was currently turning their skies to the colour of mud and ridding their lands of the minuscule amount of sunlight late February usually allowed them.
‘Planes are still grounded,’ she said.
‘Lasted six days last time, didn’t it?’ Yorke thumbed through a pile of magazines on the table beside him. Gossip magazines. He picked up Heat and considered selling his soul to this editor of trash talk to pass the time.
‘Yes. Same volcano too. I won’t even bother to try and pronounce it.’
‘It’s a good job we’re not rolling in it, or our winter break to Dubai would have been in jeopardy.’
‘Yes … we won’t have that problem getting to Butlins.’
‘Be careful young lady.’ Yorke grinned. ‘That was the go-to holiday for most of my childhood.’
Patricia smiled and turned the page.
Yorke abandoned the unflattering pictures of celebrities and instead listened to Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones on the local radio which was playing through the waiting room speakers.
The song wasn’t just a hit with Yorke; the young receptionist was also humming along. He looked up at Yorke with raised eyebrows. Yorke nodded his consent. The receptionist smiled and cranked the volume up a notch.
Yorke slumped back to consider the last couple of months, and how successful they’d been for his adopted son, Ewan.
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Before his adoption, the fourteen-year-old boy had been through hell. Both his mother and father had been murdered by the same crazed lunatic who then went on to mutilate him just before Yorke and his team had managed to intervene.
The killer was no more, but that was not closure. Despite Patricia and Yorke offering him a loving home, he’d spiralled into depression and loneliness. Bullying at school had brought things to a head. As a family, they’d acted quickly, and come together to support one another. They’d also sought out private therapy, regardless of the costs. A weekly one-hour session was doing Ewan wonders. He’d also started dating. His girlfriend Lexi was lovely and very studious. She’d been helping Ewan with his maths - his weak spot, which was a huge bonus, Yorke thought, smiling, because it was saving him on obscene one-to-one tuition costs.
Yorke looked at his watch. The one-hour session with the child psychologist was about to come to an end, and then they were off to pick up their one-year-old daughter, Beatrice, from nursery.
Yorke started singing along to the next verse of the song. When Mick Jagger reached the lyrics suggesting that every cop was a criminal, Yorke felt an icy tingle in his bloodstream. He recalled a warning he was given several years earlier by the man who’d murdered his sister …
Look at your own, pig. There’s a bent bastard shitting in the same toilet as you.
‘Are you okay?’ Patricia rubbed his back. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is it that overactive brain of yours again? That refusal to ever take a day off?’
Yorke gave her a wry smile. ‘Just hungry.’
The door opened and Dr Helen Saunders and Ewan emerged. Both were smiling as if they’d just shared a joke. It was a good sign.
Jagger was bringing the song to a close in the background.
Yorke and Patricia rose to their feet to meet Helen and Ewan as they came across the waiting room. In the background, Yorke noticed that the female presenter on the radio sounded shaky. ‘That was Sympathy for the Devil by The Rolling Stones.’
Yes. Her voice was definitely quaking.
‘It was a request …’ the presenter broke off to take a gulp of air. Was she crying? ‘A request from …’ Again, she broke off.
Ewan and Helen seemed oblivious to the radio presenter’s distress and were still striding towards them. Yorke held up the palm of his hand. They stopped, and their smiles fell away.
‘It was a request … a request … okay, okay, I’ll say it … it was a request from the man with a gun to the back of my head.’
Like most of Salisbury’s residents, Yorke knew Radio Exodus well. It was based at the local hospital. If his fellow officers weren’t already listening at the local police station, then their hotline would certainly be in meltdown from tuned-in anxious residents. Still, it was best to double check, so he delved into his inside pocket for his phone. He swore when he saw that his phone had no reception.
‘The signal is bad in here.’ The receptionist was now on his feet, pointing down at the phone on his desk. ‘Do you want me to—’
The presenter had started to speak again, so Yorke silenced him with the palm of his hand.
‘He has a question,’ the presenter said. ‘The man behind me … the man with the gun … he has a question.’
Yorke looked at Patricia. His wife was renowned for having the constitution of an ox; right now, she was ashen faced. He gripped her hand.
‘He would like a listener to phone in the name of his favourite song. If they get it right, then … then …’ Yorke flinched as she cried. ‘Then … I can live.’
‘Jesus,’ Yorke said.
‘But he’s only allowing twenty seconds for someone to phone … please somebody … anybody.’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Helen said, who’d enveloped Ewan and pulled him in close. ‘What sort of question is that?’
Yorke nodded at the receptionist, who then picked up the phone and started dialling for the police.
The presenter said, ‘Before he starts the timer, he wants to help … he has a clue … his favourite song is from the seventies. It is a song about the …’ She broke off again, spluttering on her tears. ‘About the inevitability of death and …’ She groaned. ‘Okay, okay, stop, stop! That hurts! It’s about the inevitability of death and the foolishness of fearing it. Please, I have twenty seconds, please help.’
Yorke felt the blood rush around his body. ‘I know this, I bloody know this.’ He pointed at the receptionist. ‘Look online for the number for Radio Exodus.’
Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, the receptionist looked stunned, and wasn’t moving for the keyboard. Yorke read his name badge. ‘Listen carefully Terry, forget the police. They’ll know.’ Most of Salisbury will bloody know by now. ‘Just get the number for Radio Exodus – we can still help her.’
Terry heard Yorke, snapped out of it, parked the phone and typed on the keyboard.
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Yorke could feel his every nerve-ending burn.
‘Please, I’ve ten seconds!’ The presenter said something else too, but it was muffled by her desperate tears.
Terry picked up the phone and dialled the number. Yorke counted down in his head. He gripped the side of the reception desk, feeling his heart threatening to burst from his chest.
Terry’s eyes gave him the bad news before he had chance to tell him.
‘On hold?’ Yorke said.
Terry nodded.
Yorke smashed the palms of his hands into the reception desk. ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’
‘We have a caller!’ The presenter cried.
Yorke looked up at the speaker above the reception area. ‘Thank God.’
‘Nigel … Nigel Hawkins … hello … please give me the right answer.’
Yorke took a deep breath. It was going to be alright. The correct answer was Don’t Fear the Reaper by The Blue Oyster Cult, and Nigel was just about to unleash it.
‘I hope this isn’t real, Janice,’ Nigel sounded distressed. Who wouldn’t be? ‘I hope it’s some kind of joke … the answer is …’
Go on, save her life. For God’s sake, save her life.
‘… Dancing with Mr D by the Rolling Stones.’
There was a muffled thwap and a thud.
‘Janice?’ Nigel said. ‘Janice?’
His question was answered with the steady hum of static.
‘Are you okay?’
No, she’s not … you idiot. You just gave the wrong fucking answer.
Yorke felt his wife’s hands on his shoulder. It was only when he opened his eyes, and looked up at her sad face, did he realise that he’d fallen to his knees.
2
WITH THE VOLCANIC ash cloud hanging heavy and low, there wasn’t a moon and there certainly weren’t any stars.
At the front of the hospital, the press were being fenced off. This had taken a police presence on an unprecedented level. There had been no keeping this one quiet. The murder had been broadcast for the world to hear – literally. Radio Exodus may have been local, but the web ensured it could be picked up in other countries. It would be hitting the international news in next to no time.
Martin Price, Public Relations Officer, and his team were among the media. Price was holding a large coffee from Costa as he attempted to calm the hordes. That would be the first of many caffeinated drinks. He’d a long night ahead of him fending off these vultures.
Yorke slowed his vehicle and flashed his ID out of the window at a police officer. The officer moved some cones and allowed Yorke to drive through into the hospital grounds. Yorke then followed the directions he’d been given from HQ.
The radio studio was tucked away around the back of the maternity ward. Its private carpark didn’t accommodate many. It didn’t need to. It was off-the-beaten track and little known. Yorke took the last space right beside the black major incident van.
Outside, a single, flickering bulb was the only source of lighting. Yorke also clocked that the C
CTV camera was like something from the dark ages. Getting in here undetected must have been the easiest thing in the world for the killer, Yorke thought.
PC Sean Tyler was shielding the police incident tape which, in turn, shielded the crime scene. He already had his hand in the air to welcome him. He hopped from leg to leg as he scribbled Yorke’s name in the logbook. He could have been cold, shaken up by events, or possibly both. He held out a sealed bag. ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper. I knew the bloody answer to that question, sir. I was just too late.’
‘Join the club, Sean.’ Yorke took the over-suit and shoes.
‘Bloody Nigel Hawkins. He beat us all to it. Too fast on the draw.’
Yorke ran his thumb and forefinger over his beard which was getting more unruly of late. ‘A pub landlord too. The amount of quizzes he’s hosted, and he couldn’t get an obvious question right.’
‘Strange though, isn’t it?’
‘Go on.’ Yorke tore open the sealed bag and slipped on his over-suit.
‘Well, if I’d have asked that question, I’d have expected the caller to get the question right. For him to get it wrong must have been quite a surprise … yet, the killer sounded like he pulled the trigger without a second’s thought.’
After Yorke slipped on the overshoes, he climbed over the blue-and-yellow tape and put a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. ‘Exactly right, Sean. He was always going to kill her. He was playing.’
‘So, we shouldn’t feel too bad about being too slow on the draw?’
‘No, Sean, we need to feel very bad about it.’ He squeezed his shoulder. ‘And the worse we feel, the more likely we are to show this fool that he’s chosen to play with the wrong people.’
Yorke entered the studio, patting his over-suit to check that his jacket underneath was zipped all the way up. As a university student, he’d discovered one of his best friends murdered. That day, he’d felt a cold start up in his neck, before spreading, relentlessly, all over his chest and torso. It’d felt like the talons of some demonic entity reaching around inside the trunk of his body. From that day forth, irrational as it seemed, he’d lived in fear of it happening again, and so always ensured that the base of his neck was hidden away when death was involved.
