by Wes Markin
Back in his fighting days, Bernard had been a good shot, and it was like riding a bike – it never really left you. He shot two residents who were younger and quicker than some of the others hobbling to keep up. They both folded, upending a trailing resident.
After flinging open the fire door, some of the Argentinian killers, disguised as the innocent, fled to fight another day. Bernard had known already that he wouldn’t be able to stop them all but that didn’t stop it being a crying shame.
He looked at remaining residents. The bed bound. The spoon fed. The immobile. About eight or nine of them spread out over four tables. He couldn’t resist a smile. ‘You’ll regret your choice in disguise.’ He said, despite knowing they wouldn’t hear him over the wailing alarm.
He had four rounds left in the chamber, and another magazine in the pocket of his jeans. He’d need to be economical with his final victims. He considered, and then decided to start with those who were sleeping through the ordeal. It may strike fear into the heart of the conscious pretenders and draw from them a confession of who they really were. After four headshots, it was clear that the plan was failing. The remaining residents simply stared in horror at their dead companions who were now face down in their Christmas dinners.
Despite the recoil on the gun being more suitable for a gentleman of his age, Bernard’s hand still ached when he reached the end of the first magazine. He winced his way through the reload. The 8-round stainless-steel magazine featured tabs on both sides for ease of loading, and he was grateful for the modern engineering.
The Queen was just finishing her speech and wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. He looked up at her, and scowled. This is how you repay me? The people I fought for you hunting me in the home I was supposed to pass away peacefully in? How could you let this happen? We’re just meat to you lot … rotten, useless meat …
After executing Brian, Lawrence and Paul, three residents who he’d recently formed a Backgammon club with, he moved onto the final table. Ronnie and Deirdre. He could smell shit. There was no dignity in death really, was there? Ronnie and Deirdre had been married fifty years, neither could walk unassisted anymore. They held hands across the table.
‘Please,’ Ronnie said.
Bernard couldn’t hear over the alarm, but he could read the word on his lips.
‘Please what? It was your choice to come back for me.’ While watching Ronnie, he shot Deirdre in the forehead. The old man’s face melted into despair. ‘Wow, you really are good. Academy Award winning good. Maybe I should just clap, you lying bastard.’ He shot Ronnie in the neck. He slumped from the chair and rolled onto his back. He writhed on his back for a moment as blood pumped out between his fingers. It was the most energy he’d ever seen this man exert. Maybe this was the soldier revealing himself from beneath the disguise?
Then he saw someone running towards the fire exit at the back of the hall. Kate the carer. Heart of gold. Stickler for the rules. At least the Kate they wanted him to know. Who was the real Kate?
Let’s find out.
She slipped over the pool of blood spreading around the two fleeing residents he’d shot before. She came down with an almighty thump.
As he approached her, Bernard realised he was slowing down. All this killing was now telling on him. He wasn’t the soldier he once was. Still, he reached Kate, and lowered himself down behind her. He was unconcerned about the blood soaking into his trouser legs.
Kate was crying and trembling. This felt like his last chance to truly expose them. He leaned down and hissed in her ear, ‘Admit it … just admit who you are …’
She started to speak, but then choked on the tears and snot running into her mouth.
‘Admit it … and I’ll make it quick.’
‘I … I … please don’t. Bernard … this isn’t you.’
He whacked her with the gun. Not too hard. In all honesty, he didn’t have the strength in his old bones to do it too hard. It split her head though, and blood bubbled from her forehead. ‘Tell me! Why couldn’t you leave me be? Were the bullets in my gut not enough for you, you Argentinian prick?’
‘Please—’
‘Enough! No more bullshit.’ He stood up, pointed the gun down and shot her in the centre of the chest.
He watched Kate’s eyes as they glazed over. Desperate for one sign that she wasn’t who she’d claimed to be. But then she was gone, and he’d got nothing.
Up on the projector, a solitary boy in St George’s Chapel was delivering a hymn. It was impossible for Bernard to hear it over the alarm pounding in his ears. He turned to view the carnage around him.
He shouted over at the many dead residents hunched over in their chairs. ‘YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN!’
He paused. Nothing. Just the wail of the alarm.
‘WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE?’
He turned and started to walk for the fire exit on the other side of the hall.
The phone in his top pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and saw that it was his friend. He read the message.
It is over, and you are healed. You can forget now, Bernard. Go in peace, and forget forever 1982.
When Audrey Houghton had heard the first gunshot coming back from the toilet, she’d dived behind the Christmas tree. There she popped out her dentures and sucked hard on her hand to stifle the sounds of her terror.
After the Christmas tree shook, because someone had crashed into it, she couldn’t believe it hadn’t toppled and exposed her hiding place. Was someone watching over her? Richard, perhaps?
So, as the massacre evolved, she squeezed her eyes closed, and thought of her deceased husband, Richard. Maybe if she was thinking of him when the gunman did find her, then it would be all the easier to find the big lug in death?
Once the gunfire had finished, she heard the gunman shouting, and was surprised to hear him over the fire alarm which was playing havoc with her tinnitus. ‘YOU MADE THIS HAPPEN … WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST LEAVE IT ALONE?’
She opened her eyes. From where she was lying, she could see the end of the hall, and the fire exit many had fled through.
Bernard Driggs walked into her line of sight. Her hand was still in her mouth, so it smothered the gasp. He was holding a gun against his side, and was taking something from his shirt pocket.
Bernard! But he’s the loveliest man …? I don’t understand … Louisa and him make a wonderful pair … unless … unless … did he disarm the real gun man?
Bernard took a mobile phone from his pocket. He read the message, said something which she couldn’t hear, and then dropped it on the floor. His empty hand moved to his forehead. He looked unsteady on his feet.
He turned around to stare in the direction he’d just come from. The area that Audrey couldn’t see. An area, Audrey assumed, that was littered with death. Bernard’s hand slipped down over his face and covered his mouth. She watched his body fold in on itself. He slipped down to his knees, and went on to all fours, staring at the floor.
When he lifted his head to look ahead again, he shouted. ‘PLEASE … GOD … NO!’ He manoeuvred himself upright, still staring. ‘WHAT HAVE I DONE?’
He took a deep breath, turned and looked at Audrey as if he’d suddenly heard her, but she hadn’t made a sound. She gulped and squeezed her eyes closed.
Trembling, sucking her hand for all it was worth, she knew this was the end. She tried to reassure herself, in these last terrifying moments, that her life had been full, and fair. She was ready. She had a picture of her and Richard on their wedding day back in her room. In her mind, she looked on this picture, as she did every day.
Some time later, when it became clear that the end wasn’t actually coming, she opened her eyes and saw Bernard standing over her. Despite what he’d done, and the gun at his side, he didn’t look like a monster. His face was blotchy, and his eyes were flicking left and right. Every now and again, the fire alarm made him flinch, despite the fact that it was actually continuous. It was as if his brain was shutting off momen
tarily, before being brought back with a sudden jolt.
‘Bernard …’
He sat down beside her with his gun on his lap, staring ahead.
‘Bernard, what’s—’
‘I’m not Bernard.’ He spoke loudly so she could hear him over the alarm. ‘I mean I feel like Bernard.’ He rubbed his face. ‘But how can I be? I’m not capable of doing this. Who is capable of doing these things?’
Still lying on her back, Audrey reached over and settled her hand on his leg. ‘What happened?’
He turned to look at her. ‘He promised to heal me.’
‘Who did?’
‘He did.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘He takes it all away, Audrey, the pain. That’s what he promises. To heal the pain … but he’s lied.’
She was losing control of the conversation, but it was so abstract in nature, she’d no idea of how to get back hold of it. ‘We can get you help … it’s not too late.’
‘My God … Louisa … I love her so much …’
‘Where is she?’ Audrey said, regretting the question as soon as she’d asked it.
‘The smoke … the burning … my God … I’m a monster.’
Audrey put her hand to her mouth.
‘Every time he took me under, every single time, he always said the same thing. If you ever hear it, Audrey, just run, run the other way and don’t look back …’
Bernard lifted the gun from his knee. ‘My name is the Conduit. I am a channel.’ He placed the gun against his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘I become the piece that is missing from inside people, and I allow the thoughts, feelings and behaviours to move fluidly through me and within them.’
When Bernard pulled the trigger, Audrey barely flinched. Her nerves were shot already.
2
CHEWING ON A parsnip, DCI Michael Yorke eyed up the new puppy. He didn’t really know what to make of it. All he saw was a bundle of black fur bouncing from wall to wall like a puck in a game of air hockey. He certainly didn’t feel like the other residents of the house, who saw fit to drop everything at all opportunities, to fall to their knees and croon over it.
His lack of affection towards it was a major problem because the new puppy was his.
As a favour to Patricia, her friend and dog breeder, Sally, had delivered the Cockapoo first thing in the morning while Beatrice, his two-year-old daughter, had decided that the sole purpose of Christmas Day was to tear wrapping paper off a present in some kind of frenzy rather than actually appreciate the thoughtful gift inside. As Yorke watched Beatrice, he wondered how much better off his wallet would be right now if he’d just wrapped up blocks of wood. When the fur ball wandered in and nuzzled his feet, he almost jumped out of his skin.
‘Merry Christmas, Mike.’ Patricia leaned over and kissed his forehead. ‘Her name is Rosie.’
Ewan, his adopted son, and Lexi, his girlfriend, melted to their knees, and went so gooey eyed that they were practically unrecognisable.
He looked over at his other Christmas present propped up by the fireplace. A second-hand Taylor acoustic guitar. Then, he looked down at the canine. The first present had been a masterstroke. The second … well …
‘Thanks Pat, word please?’
When they were in the kitchen, he said, ‘A dog?’
‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘Yes … thanks … but a dog is not just for Christmas.’
‘The warning refers to children, Mike, not adults.’
‘Are you sure about that? Anyway, did you not think it’d be better to talk first? Especially before introducing a whole new level of chaos into the Yorke household …’
Behind him, he could hear Ewan and Lexi in hysterics as the puppy crawled all over them. He reached behind himself and closed the kitchen door.
‘I’m detecting disappointment,’ Patricia said.
‘Not disappointment … just concern. What do I know about bloody dogs?’
‘You learn quick Mike. I grew up with them. This breed is great with kids too. Clever and affectionate.’
‘Clever and affectionate, Pat? It’s a dog …’
‘You’ll see.’ Patricia placed a hand on his upper arm. ‘I thought it would be good for you. The distraction. She’ll always be there for you when you’ve had a tough day. Think of the walks … those long cleansing walks.’ She smiled.
‘I run for distraction. And I now have a lovely guitar too.’
‘They’re social animals, and you need more of the social in your life. You’re too consumed, and this might bring you out of yourself a little bit more. Sorry if I messed up. As you know, me and Sally are close, she’d take Rosie back if necessary, we’d already anticipated this possibility.’
There was more raucous laughter from the living room. ‘Look!’ Ewan cried. ‘They’re cuddling! Rosie and Beatrice are cuddling!’
Yorke sighed. ‘Not sure taking her back now will make me the most popular person in the house …’
Patricia leaned over and kissed him.
‘… not that I ever was anyway.’
So, as Yorke chewed on that parsnip, he wondered if he would even grow to like, never mind love, this dog. One positive from its presence, he realised, was that it had distracted him, momentarily, from his constant preoccupation with Jack Newton, the boy missing in Old Sarum.
Ewan was currently emptying the gravy boat over his turkey. ‘This gravy is obscene, Auntie Pat.’
‘Sorry,’ Yorke said, ‘But isn’t “obscene” a negative word. Ever thought about just using the word “delicious”?’
Lexi and Ewan looked at him with confused looks on their faces.
‘Never mind, don’t answer that, but go easy, and save everyone else some of that delicious obscenity.’
Patricia was too preoccupied with Beatrice’s attempts to drop food on the floor for Rosie to laugh at his joke. Or maybe, it just wasn’t funny.
‘Thanks again for letting me stay,’ Lexi said. It wasn’t the first time she’d said thank you. She must have been well into double figures by now.
Lexi had been having a lot of problems at home recently. Her mother had died several years ago, and her father, a devout catholic, had become even more god-fearing in recent times. He’d become incredibly controlling, and was outraged that she was in a relationship with Ewan. She’d walked out of the house two weeks ago. At the time, her father had not made any effort to stop her. His last words to her were “good riddance, sinner”. Because she was over sixteen, the law had not gotten involved, but he’d been around to the house on several occasions. Lexi had opted not to go back with him.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Patricia said as an alarm sounded on her phone. ‘Queen’s speech!’ Using a remote, she switched on BBC Radio 4.
They all listened to the speech. ‘It is true that the world has had to confront moments of darkness this year, but the Gospel of John contains a verse of great hope often read at Christmas Carol Services – “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.”’
Yorke looked around the table. He agreed with her message. Despite having to move this year, after a brutal attack on his old home by a criminal he was chasing, he still had so much to be thankful for.
As the speech wound on, he felt his mind drift back to his childhood. The Queen’s speech had never been a focus in his house. They’d have been lucky to get through the Christmas meal without a drunk mother and a tempestuous argument; a reflection on the previous year had certainly never been on the cards.
Despite this, he did have some fond memories of Christmas day. There were a couple of plastic- covered salt piles on his estate used to grit during winter. Himself, his sister, and all the other children on the estate used to gather there to run up and down them. If it had been snowing, it would make for a fantastic snowball fight.
It didn’t matter who you were, or where you came from, everyone has good moments to retreat to.
And then he reali
sed where the boy, Jack Newton, was.
He stood up. ‘Excuse me.’
Patricia looked up at him with a creased forehead.
‘Sorry … it’s important.’
In the kitchen, he phoned Superintendent Joan Madden’s mobile and braced himself for a frosty reception.
‘Merry Christmas, Mike. It’s a shame your name showed up on my mobile, or I wouldn’t have answered. Glad to know you’re enjoying a much-needed break. I’m certainly not now.’
‘I know where Jack Newton is, ma’am.’
‘How have you possibly worked that out on Christmas Day?’
‘Nostalgia.’
‘Come again?’
‘Myself and DS Willows went through all the Nicholas Johnson interview transcripts with a fine toothcomb again last week. Johnson spends more time speaking about the past than anything else. What his parents did to him, how he was treated at school, that experience by the lake. You recall?’
‘Of course. I was there for many of those interviews. It’s not unusual. The monster was simply providing us with his origin story.’
‘What does his narrative lack?’
‘The location of the boy?’ Madden said. ‘Which he neglected to give us before he strung himself up?’
‘No, ma’am, that’s just it. I think he gave us the location. His story is a bleak one. His narrative lacks any happy memories, except one.’
‘Okay, you’re starting to get my attention.’
‘Do you recall the treehouse?’
‘No … should I?’
‘He mentioned it several times. These were the only happy moments in his whole narrative. The time when he used to hide away from his parents in that treehouse in the woods near his house. He said that this was the only time he really laughed – reading the Beano in that treehouse.’
‘You’re going to tell me that Jack Newton is in that treehouse, aren’t you?’
