Beyond the Blood Moon

by Vic Robbie

  Determined the hit-and-run driver wouldn’t get away, he strode over to the stranded vehicle and pulled open the door, dragging out the driver who was about his size but didn’t have his muscle. The driver struggled to brush him off, but he caught him in his trademark hold that had immobilised the best of wrestlers. A desire for revenge flamed within him and without realising, his forearm compressed the man’s windpipe and he was gasping for air and choking as he pleaded for his life.

  He stopped.

  I can’t do it.

  The memory of Bulldog’s death, his opponent’s life ebbing out of him and the pandemonium that ensued, doused his aggression. And, with an overwhelming sense of shame, he dropped his arms and held them wide apart.

  The driver shaped up to kick him in the groin but, seeing a bystander approaching, he nodded and climbed back into the car, engaged gear and roared away.

  He went over to check the boy who was okay and less traumatised than his mother, who held him so tight she almost squeezed the life out of him.

  I was the target.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Without a routine, Skarab couldn’t function. There would be no purpose to his life, and his planned world would disintegrate.

  He rose at seven-thirty, not a minute before or a minute later, shaved and showered, dressed and ate a light breakfast of cereal and black coffee. At eight-thirty, he prepared breakfast for Bette. Black tea, a slice of toasted wholemeal bread with the crusts cut off and lightly buttered, and a cup of hot water with a slice of lemon. And he collected her newspaper from the front garden, which he placed on the tray with her breakfast.

  He entered her bedroom, and she was feigning sleep as usual. As he opened her curtains, she asked in a sleep-filled voice, although she’d been awake for hours, ‘Is it morning already? Why do you wake me so early?’

  He sighed. ‘Because I must take your blood pressure and pulse and a sample before I leave for work.’

  ‘Work, work, work,’ she said, rolling her eyes and clearing phlegm from her throat. ‘It’s time you put me first.’

  I’m doing this for you.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Without access to certain materials, I wouldn’t be able to treat you.’

  She huffed and reached over and lifted the cup to her lips. She knew that too, but his obsession with routine irked her, and she always tried to catch him off guard just to see his surprised reaction.

  Fifteen minutes later—she could set her watch by him—he returned and took away her dishes. Then he went through the usual checks finishing with a blood test and, as ever, struggled to find a vein thick enough for the needle. Completed, he held the vial up to the light, checking its constituency, and slipped it into his pocket.

  Bette would eventually get out of bed, dress and spend an inordinate amount of time applying several layers of make-up, pausing every so often to preen herself. The rest of the morning she read or watched television and several times reapplied her make-up as if expecting non-existent friends.

  At nine-fifteen, he greeted the guard at the gate of Evolution Industries, so called to disguise the fact it was the Directorate of Vigilance, a department of the State. ‘Good morning, another day of promise.’

  He picked up another black coffee from the canteen and after cursory salutations with colleagues retreated to his laboratory which he always locked behind him. After closing the blinds, he entered a windowless room where he kept the animals.

  The development of chips required constant improvements to increase their capabilities. His current research was implanting chips in rats that transformed the structure of their brains, making them more aggressive to their own species. Not random, but targeted aggression where the chips stimulated them to attack on order. In light of recent events in the War in Asia, it was a development that interested the Army.

  The rodents also had their routine, the lights automatically turning on making them shriek in anticipation of being fed. To one side of the room were four cages of mice. One for older rodents, another for infant mice, a third for breeding mice, and the final one for conjoined mice.

  To the uninformed eye, it appeared part of the same experiment, but this research had a different aim—to preserve life instead of ending it. The results were not shared with the State; instead, he used them for his private work at his laboratory in the country. Work that required an almost constant supply of donors for his tests.

  He took the sample of Bette’s blood and spilt drops onto a glass slide and extracted another vial from a fridge, mixing the blood from that with hers before placing the slide in a chemical analyser. He waited until the result flashed up and grunted ‘good’. He pulled on rubber gloves and reached into a cage and removed a wriggling infant mouse, took a sample, and repeated his actions with an older mouse. Again, he mixed the two samples and waited for the result. Satisfied, he entered the results in a black notebook and sat behind the desk, ruminating on the findings as he finished the coffee.

  At one o’clock, he returned home finding his mother in a more amenable mood. Having changed again, always overdressed in his opinion, she’d remade her make-up. He provided a light lunch, limiting the conversation to pleasantries so as not to trigger a discussion about the procedure she faced.

  ‘How do I appear today?’ she asked, looking for a compliment. ‘Better than yesterday?’ A slight hesitation before she pressed, ‘Do I look younger than yesterday?’

  I hate this game.

  He nodded and played along. If she changed her mind about going through with it, there wouldn’t be a second chance.

  ‘Much better than yesterday,’ he replied even if unsure.

  Pleased, she offered a simpering smile. ‘Isn’t your mother the most attractive woman you’ve ever seen?’

  It wasn’t a question and denying it would only spark a tantrum.

  The timing was now so crucial he needed no obstacles. ‘I’ll treat you this evening, so don’t leave the house. If everything goes well, we should be able to put in motion the steps needed to complete your rejuvenation.’

  Excited as a child with a new toy, she clasped her hands, beaming, then doubts took over. She loathed the treatment as it was like undergoing an operation. She’d enter the room adjoining her bedroom, which she disliked because of the medical paraphernalia. And after being belted into a surgical chair, he’d inject her with an anaesthetic, and she’d drift into unconsciousness. And, when awakened, there was always a pain like a band tightening around her head, and her whole body ached.

  ‘Must I?’ Her voice was timid. She had no option. It was the one thing she desired more than anything.

  He offered a practised half-smile, reminding himself this was his mother, not just another laboratory specimen. And he took both her hands in his. ‘The treatment is working, and we’re so close you mustn’t do anything to jeopardise it. Be patient.’

  She winced. ‘You need more donors; how will you find them?’

  As the State banned all blood transfusions apart from in exceptional circumstances, donors were difficult and dangerous to source, and there were inherent hazards with each one. He removed his glasses and polished them furiously. At first, he thought he could handle it, but as the treatment increased and grew more problematic, he struggled to keep up with demand.

  At his lab in the country, he had two donors, one of which he’d use tonight. The other he’d hold on standby in case there were problems with the treatment. And if so, he might have to abort the entire programme.

  The priority now was to source another donor in the next twenty-four hours.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  If the Benton camp had increased their operations against him, they might have taken Becky to use as a bargaining tool. His brother claimed it was the serial killer, but Headlock wasn’t so sure and wondered how far they’d go to get their revenge. Although he thought they’d have contacted him by now.

  He could deal with the sniping on social media, the retelling of the story in the
media, the constant court battles, but not anything that would harm Becky. He must find her before they got to him.

  The hit-and-run was a warning that no matter how long it took, one day he’d pay for killing Bulldog Benton. While they would stop at nothing, his reluctance to deal with the driver proved the scar would never heal. The reminder of what his strength was capable of frightened him, and he knew he couldn’t harm anyone again.

  The Bentons’ quest for vengeance would never end, and Bulldog’s wife Monica was the driving force behind it, directing every strike. As Bulldog’s manager, cash had been her motivation, and she often forced him into fights he didn’t want.

  Both he and Bulldog knew he was the better fighter, and promoters kept them apart for years, building up the hype for the ultimate grudge match. Headlock’s role was as a ‘face’, a good guy, his looks and shoulder-length blond hair and bodybuilder’s physique helping to promote him as a superhero. While Bulldog played the ‘heel’, the bad guy, dark and brooding with a powerful but not so well-defined body. The kind of guy who would hit you with your back turned.

  Professional wrestling was entertainment, and television and the public demanded their stereotypes, so it had to happen. No matter how much they snapped and snarled at each other in public, they were friends but kept their distance until that fateful night.

  Clouds of smoke drifted around the hall and the ring stank of sweat from previous fights. When he glanced across the ring at his rival’s corner, Monica was the more threatening and for a second Bulldog looked almost apologetic before wrapping a flag around his shoulders and confronting him, shouting in his face, so close he felt the spray of spittle. The choreography dictated he should turn his back on the opponent who would hit him, forcing him to his knees. With Headlock vulnerable, the referee dragged Bulldog away, giving him a theatrical finger-wagging warning to a crescendo of jeering.

  And so it primed the crowd for the action, picking sides as in life. Somebody had to be the loser. The fighters had read the script. The loser would demand a rematch, and the cash would rise in line with the insults. And the money men would arrange a reversal of fortunes so setting up a lucrative decider.

  Although the wrestlers’ bruises were real, it was all good clean entertainment.

  It didn’t last long. Two rounds of sparring with Bulldog unable to land his deadly dropkick that had ended so many fights. And Bulldog thwarted Headlock’s efforts to get in close and force a submission using his trademark headlock.

  Ironically, it was Bulldog’s wife who gave him the opening, shoving her head through the ropes and exhorting her husband to ‘fucking kill him.’ For a moment, Bulldog lost concentration and composure, and he was on him catching him in a side headlock, and the crowd roared, sensing blood.

  If the opponent didn’t block the move by keeping his chin down, the forearm could compress the windpipe and do serious damage, and the referee was in close and on his haunches ready to punish any illegal move. No one resisted the headlock, and when an opponent submitted, he was relieved, but Bulldog fought it, refusing to submit. Benton was suffering, and as he prepared to throw him to end the move, there was an ominous crack.

  Whether the clamour of the cheering and cursing spectators had faded, the sound reverberated around the hall. Bulldog’s eyes rolled back into the top of his head, so only the whites showed, and he went limp and buckled at the knees.

  ‘Stop the fight,’ the referee shouted, waving wildly, and his face reflected death. Headlock still held Bulldog, supporting him, and lowered him to the floor and stepped back, tasting sickness in his mouth.

  Unnoticed, Monica climbed into the ring and approached him, spouting hate. But her words bounced off him as security guards restrained her while her meal ticket lay broken on the canvas.

  She’d be back for him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Headlock arrived at police headquarters wanting to talk to his brother, but he wasn’t available, and his deputy admitted there were no developments. Seeing his disappointment, the cop tried to console him, but it didn’t lessen his frustration. And they still hadn’t identified the dead girls.

  The media were going to town, lumping together both lots of killings and Becky’s disappearance as the work of a madman who was a vampire or a deranged doctor despite the modus operandi not being similar. Police urged parents to keep their children close and schools to increase their security, and adults not to connect with strangers.

  The cop attempted to ease his despair. ‘We can’t be certain the serial killer took Becky. We’re still hopeful we’ll find her alive.’

  Would she be safer in the Bentons’ hands?

  With a sympathetic smile, the cop ended the meeting. ‘My colleagues are out searching. Stay strong.’ And he patted him on the back.

  His brother wouldn’t give up, and he couldn’t imagine his grief if the outcome was what they believed. He’d be out there now, covering every inch of the crime scene, most likely on his hands and knees.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked, forlornly. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’ There was a finality to the cop’s voice.

  He tried to put some order to recent events. The cops finding the bodies of the girls. He and Solo discovering the girl in the alley. And then Becky’s abduction. He couldn’t decide if they were all connected. And was the man in the alley responsible?

  He thought of Solo and where she fitted into this and couldn’t recall her face. He squeezed his eyes tight, forcing his brain to remember. But all that floated into his consciousness was a white blob with no definition. The police had questioned and tested him, but had they done the same to her or was she just a figment of his febrile imagination?

  Determined to get some answers, he asked to see the cop again who returned with a pained look but listened to his request.

  ‘We’re not allowed to divulge information about an ongoing investigation.’ He paused, considering it. ‘But I guess you’re the lieutenant’s brother, and Becky is your child. If it’s of any help, let me find out if she made a statement.’

  He disappeared into a back office and came out about fifteen minutes later. ‘What was the lady’s name again?’

  ‘Blue. Solo Blue.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought you said.’ The cop seemed worried. ‘You’re tired and upset. The mind can play tricks. It’s a tough time, why don’t you go home and—’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Well, yes…’ With a combination of concern and frustration, he rubbed his chin, unsure whether to tell him. ‘We have nothing on this person.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s nothing about her on the computer. She made no statement. And we have no one by that name in our database. There’s nothing to suggest she was actually here in the station.’

  A strange sensation rippled through his head, and he had to steady himself. ‘Paperwork hasn’t filtered through?’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s unlikely.’

  Had she given a false name? Perhaps the series of blows to the head had damaged his brain, and he was hallucinating. But that was replaced by a growing anger.

  The police have slipped up.

  It was a basic rule of policing to get statements from all witnesses. Maybe they believed she had no relevant information, but she’d seen the killer.

  No, I’m deluded.

  At no time had the cops or his brother spoken to her or acknowledged her presence. A numbing sensation crawled through him. What did he know about her? In the taxi before the explosion, her image had been atop skyscrapers all over the city. Yet, he’d never seen it before or since. If he still had her phone that might have proved her existence.

  Again, he tried to recall her features, but they stayed in the shadows. There was another possibility. Barney had an eye for a pretty woman. He would remember meeting her.

  The guilt of drinking at the bar while his daughter was out there somewhere, lost and in danger, we
ighed on him as he waited to speak to the bar owner. If Solo did exist, she might help him find Becky. She’d seen the killer at close quarters and could identify him.

  Eventually, Barney bid his customers a cheery farewell and came over, transforming a smile of welcome into an expression of concern. ‘Sorry to—’

  ‘Thanks.’ He cut short the condolences. ‘It’s vital you remember this.’

  ‘Sure.’ Barney opened up in his eagerness to help. ‘Whatever you want, just ask.’

  ‘The other night, we found a body in Brick Lane?’

  Barney hooded his eyes, recalling it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Afterwards, we came in to wait for the cops.’

  Barney concentrated and glanced around the bar. ‘Yeah, got you a drink, and you were suffering from a bang on the head.’

  ‘I was with a woman…’

  Barney wanted to laugh. ‘Yes, yes, I remember. She was unusual.’

  You might say that.

  ‘A blonde. Well-dressed. You left in a hurry, and she followed you out.’

  He slammed a hand on the bar in frustration. ‘Not that one.’

  Barney raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re an athlete, but two in one night?’

  ‘That was earlier. This was after we found the body. Try to remember.’

  ‘Many people are coming and going on a busy night. I remember the blonde. Whether it was before or after you found the body…’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  Dizziness washed over him again, and he put both hands on the bar, taking a deep breath. He sensed his sanity and hopes of finding Becky slipping away. ‘Try again. Don’t worry about the blonde, that was earlier. We discovered a body in the alley and came in. Some idiot had hit me on the head with an iron bar.’

  Now Barney worried his memory was playing tricks. ‘Yeah?’ But he was doubtful.