by Karen Long
“This might be our last chance to get her alive,” he said to Mo and Wadesky. “This counts.”
Wadesky nodded, holding a phone next to her ear and a radio in the other hand.
“Make her safe,” pleaded Mo as Laurence, accompanied by Monster, raced for the door.
Eleanor didn’t know how much time she’d have before Hughes either came back knowing the exhumation was a set-up, or she succumbed to shock and blood loss. Trying to keep her hands steady, she assessed her situation. Her head was free from restraint but both of her hands and feet were secured by thick leather straps to the edges of what appeared to be an ancient hospital gurney. By twisting the fingers of her right hand and using a seesawing action she had managed to extract her hand several inches. The last few twists had drawn blood, which was acting as a lubricant. As she worked her hand she peered into the darkness. Wherever she was being held, it was unpowered and damp. She couldn’t estimate how large the room was but there were no windows and no discernible wind direction. She let out a yelp as her hand jammed tightly in the cuff noting that there was a limited echo which implied an unfurnished room with a high ceiling, maybe a storeroom. She thought bitterly of how many times she’d wanted a stranger to tie her up and abuse her and how different the fantasies and controlled encounters differed from the reality of now. She strained her neck as hard as she could and stared at her body. Her thigh was horrendous. The skin had been flayed from the muscle and was held like a tea towel by a small ribbon of skin. She took comfort in the knowledge that there was enough tissue left on her thigh to enable surgeons to re-attach the skin. But what good was that if she couldn’t get off the gurney? The only medical assistance she’d get was going to be from the ME’s office. Angry and frightened, Eleanor twisted her wrist violently. She felt it give and cautiously pulled it free of the strap. Enervated by the sudden hope generated by this she leaned over and began to untie her left hand.
She had no idea how long it had taken her to free herself and climb down from the gurney it could have been hours. Before she could make an escape she had to bind her leg. She had been naked since being kidnapped in the morning and there was no sign of any of her clothing, which would have enabled her to wrap it. Scanning her surroundings she saw the bench with Hughes’ tools arranged on it, shuddering as she saw the knives, needles and electrodes neatly arranged. The ones that had already been used were sticky with her blood. There was a roll of gaffer tape next to the butcher’s knife. Quickly, she grabbed both and tore a long piece from the roll. Gingerly lifting the skin she placed it back in approximate position and wrapped the gaffer tape around her leg. The pain was excruciating and she had to bite her lips to prevent herself from screaming. With her leg securely bound she made a quick inventory of potential weapons. She had the long butcher’s knife in her right hand and held the hurricane lamp in her left. There was a hypodermic needle next to a small ampoule of adrenaline. She filled it, emptying the trapped air and secured it to her arm with a length of gaffer tape.
It was time to leave.
Lee took in a deep breath and tried to calm his thoughts and refocus on his plan. His initial thoughts had been to run down to the basement storeroom and make Eleanor Raven pay for being part of this obscene desecration. But Carin’s voice soothed him, echoing round his mind and soul, assuring him that her body was immaterial to her status now and that once she was exposed to the light of day once more she would inspire wonder in those that looked on her. She was right; he had to rise above these emotions and focus on the task in hand.
He felt his breathing and heart rate slow.
Eleanor moved as quickly as she could but she was intensely cold and the pain from her leg and chest were slowing her down. There had to be a door in one of the walls, Hughes hadn’t just dematerialised. In front of her were a small flight of steps leading up to a metal door about six feet above her head. Keeping her back to the wall and the knife outstretched she cautiously ascended. After a couple of yanks she opened the door fractionally and listened, hearing nothing she stepped through it into what appeared to be a wide, rubbish-strewn corridor of some description. It was hard to get the measure of how long it was as the only lighting was provided by a couple of grimy skylights and the hurricane lamp was of limited use. There were lines of boot-prints in the dust that appeared to be heaviest on her right, so keeping her back to the wall she began to limp in that direction. After about thirty paces the corridor ended in a pair of double fire doors, the left jammed open with a brick. Cautiously she squeezed through the doorway and took stock of the space in front of her. It was a substantial disused warehouse, cluttered with rusted machinery.
Peering into the darkness she could just about make out on the far wall a row of head-height windows approximately fifty feet away. After a quick visual sweep she made her way over, aware that her injured leg was becoming wetter and less responsive. The glass in the windows was almost universally smashed and the latches looked like the old fashioned casement types, but there didn’t seem to be any external bars that would prevent her escape. She hesitated for a moment as she contemplated walking further and looking for a doorway but instinct told her that this was a real opportunity and should be snatched. An ancient filing cabinet was shy of a window by a few feet. If she could drag it closer Eleanor would stand a good chance of reaching one and pulling herself up onto the ledge. She hurriedly placed the knife on the floor next to the lamp and began to walk the cabinet closer to the window. Her hands shaking with the effort she turned round to pick up the knife.
It took her only a fraction of a second to realise the knife was no longer where she’d placed it and that the only explanation for this was that Hughes had picked it up. Decisively she hauled herself up onto the cabinet using her arms to compensate for the lack of strength in her leg. Both of her knees were on top of the cabinet when she felt herself grabbed and yanked backwards. In an attempt to turn the assault to her advantage she kicked back against the cabinet, using her weight to topple Hughes and landing heavily onto him. Before she could respond further she was flung back towards the wall. Clambering to her feet she saw Hughes lunge towards the knife, which had skittered away from him as he fell. Should she run or try to disarm him? Both options saw the odds heavily stacked against her. As he closed the gap Eleanor knew decisively that she wouldn’t run. That Hughes was going to kill her was no longer a question; her only concern now was the terms of that death. She wouldn’t take a knife to the back even though it would be quick and relatively painless because her pride dictated that she’d go down fighting. Neither would she give him the satisfaction of presenting her as a piece of fucking modern art. She would fight to the end.
Hughes lifted his arm still holding the knife and slashed wildly at Eleanor. She had been trained to cover the distance quickly in a knife attack reducing the attacker’s range; getting into his space. Spreading her weight and balance carefully she stepped forward into his path dodging his now ill-aimed blow by twisting to the right. Before he had time to readjust his position and take aim again she used her right hand to punch his temporal lobe with as much strength and speed as possible. For a moment, Hughes seemed to falter and lurch to the left. Knowing her left leg was incapable of bearing her weight as she kicked with the right she grabbed the edge of the cabinet to stabilise herself and kicked upwards, striking Hughes squarely in the face with the bridge of her foot. His nose was still tender from the kick he’d received from Eleanor earlier that morning and the impact dropped him to the ground. She had to act quickly before he had an opportunity to get back on his feet again. Still holding onto the cabinet for support and balance she lifted her foot and kicked downwards with her heel onto the back of his head. She managed to get three kicks in and hoped that he’d lose consciousness with the next but as she raised her leg Hughes’ hand grabbed her left ankle and pulled hard. Her balance askew, she fell backwards hard catching the side of her head on a drawer edge as she dropped to the ground. He lunged forwards, hefting his body ont
o hers and grabbing her face with his hands. He held her nose and clamped her jaw shut his eyes level with hers as he watched her die. Digging what little nails she had into his palm she scratched and tugged for all she was worth.
It took less than sixty seconds for the hissing in her ears to drown out Hughes’ screamed obscenities and the darkness of the space begin to envelop her. It wasn’t as violent a death as she’d feared. The pain was draining from her body and a calmness flooded her brain as her hypothalamus rewarded her fight with a flood of endorphins.
Laurence wasn’t exactly sure how Monster had inveigled his way into the car and was now standing stock still next to him and sniffing the air next to the marl pit. It was, he thought, possibly his own need not to be entirely alone when he found Eleanor’s body. The sun had sunk and he didn’t need to look at his watch to know that six pm had long since passed. When he stepped out of the car and attached Monster to the lead there had been an element, however small, of hope. He’d made his way along the narrow lane next to the dismantled print works and climbed down an embankment that, according to his map, led to a couple of acres of ground where the marl pit had been left exposed and unused. But there was nothing here, no lights, no car, nothing. He could see officers moving around the periphery of the pit and could see glimpses of patrol cars blocking the streets. A helicopter overhead filled the air with a heavy whoop and then passed on. He looked at the buildings hoping that one of them would give some sort of indication that she was there but despite Eleanor’s assurances that he just had to provide his brain with enough information and it would compute an answer, nothing was forthcoming.
Monster was growing restless so Laurence unfastened him and let him wander. His radio buzzed. “Detective Whitefoot?” came a voice he didn’t recognise.
“Yes.”
“Patrol Officer Banks here. Just spoken to a guy in a shop a block away from you and he’s identified Hughes as having been in there earlier buying a paper. Said he was shouting at something he’d read.”
Laurence felt a small surge of hope that they were close. “Ok, keep going. Good work.” Laurence looked at the buildings, “Select one,” he mumbled to himself. He whistled for Monster who was sniffing intently at an old oil barrel balanced on a couple of bricks. Monster looked at him momentarily and then resumed his sniffing. “For fuck’s sake!” Laurence jogged over to the dog and looped the leash onto his collar.
For a second Laurence couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Cautiously he lifted several of the charred pieces of paper from the pile of ashes. It was hard to make out exactly what the sketches depicted. What could have been a stylised horse and a child’s depiction of a white-sheeted ghost with a gaping maw were barely visible but its meaning was clear.
“Timms?” he spoke as calmly as he could into the radio. “He’s here. I’ve found a pile of burnt sketches.”
“Ok buddy, cavalry’s on its way. Back up with you in five. Location?”
“Marl pit behind the print works,” he replied quickly as he walked quickly towards the warehouse.
“You fucking idiot!” Carin screamed into his ear. Hughes was staring mesmerised at the dead face of his muse. “You’ve destroyed any hopes you had of creating a masterpiece! She wasn’t ready. Look at her!”
Carin was right. Her face was twisted and ugly in death. He put out a hand and tried to reposition her mouth but the muscles were flaccid and uncooperative.
“Bring her back!” she screamed again.
“How?” Hughes said despairingly.
It was as if, he thought, Eleanor had known what was about to happen. Perhaps she had been working closely with Carin and had prepared for this eventuality. Carin’s tinkling laugh broke through his grunts as he pounded on Eleanor’s chest. He hadn’t been entirely sure how much adrenaline had been in the hypodermic but obviously it was enough because within a minute of injecting it directly into her heart and commencing CPR he felt the flutterings of a pulse. He checked again, breathing into her lungs to help her journey back. Her pulse was settling and growing stronger and now she was breathing on her own. Although she was still unconscious he’d brought her back from the dead. There was still time to resurrect his plans and her moment of liberation would be exactly when and how Carin had dictated it should be. He sat back, exhausted and watched the change in her cheeks. From the grey pallor of death a pink flush was spreading. “Thank you,” he whispered to Carin. “I should not have lost faith in you two women.” He gently stroked Eleanor’s face as he watched her eyelashes flicker.
“Eleanor?’
She let out a low groan.
“We have to go now. It’s time.”
Hughes knew that he had to work quickly and efficiently if he was to succeed. Eleanor had been too weak and confused to put up any form of protest as he lifted her into the back of her car, which had been parked close by in a loading area east of the entrance and covered her with a blanket. It would only take a few minutes to drive across the wasteland and access the fairground from the south. His original plan was to keep to the roads but he suspected from the increased helicopter activity that the police were closer to him than he’d expected. He switched off the car’s head and taillights knowing that Carin and Eleanor were now working together and would guide him to their destiny. He listened to Eleanor’s irregular breathing in the back. She had put herself through a great deal to get to this point and he had nothing but respect for her. He hoped he was strong enough to fulfil his small role in this unfolding drama.
Laurence entered the old print works through a broken window next to the west side entrance. He shone his torch around and waited as Monster jumped through and began to move uncertainly through the darkness. He laid his hand on his neck and was surprised to feel the dog’s hackles standing upright. Positioning the Glock in his right, his left hand supporting the gun and his torch he made his way slowly though the room towards a door.
Corridors led to more rooms and more corridors. Laurence doubted he’d ever find Eleanor or Hughes in such a huge and chaotic building. Suddenly he was in a huge warehouse it smelled of cold and damp but there was another heavier more familiar smell; diesel fumes. A vehicle had been started in here recently. “Timms?” he whispered into the radio.
“We’re in. Where are you?” Timms responded breathlessly.
“Came in through a window on the west side and I’m in a warehouse. There’s been car activity here recently.”
“Whoa. Shit…” Timms began to talk to someone else.
“What? What have you found?” asked Laurence.
“He’s been here. They’ve found some clothes and empty food cartons… art books.”
“Eleanor?”
“No, no signs of her.”
The conversation was stopped by Monster’s barking. He was running in small, agitated circles. Laurence headed over and stared at the blood drops and tyre prints. He pressed the radio. “Timms I’ve got blood and tyre prints.”
He heard Timms sigh.
Laurence was following the blood trail backwards when Timms caught up with him.
“What have you got?”
Laurence shook his head. “If this was Raven she was bleeding heavily but whoever it was walked from this direction. Monster was several feet ahead and had stopped at a metal door, sniffing intently.
“I’ve got you covered,” said Timms, nodding to him to open the door. Laurence felt sick as he put his hand on the cold metal and pushed it open. It was dark and bitterly cold down there. His torch illuminated a workbench and the gurney.
“Oh fuck!” he gasped as he saw the bloody leather straps and the workbench covered in hammers, knives and a large commercial car battery. “She’s gone. He’s killed her!” he yelled.
Timms grabbed his arm and shook him. “Whether she was carried or made her own way out she was bleeding. Understand?”
Laurence nodded. “She was alive then.”
“He’s got somewhere special lined up. Where?” Timms asked.
<
br /> Laurence was just about to let rip with a torrent of frustrated comments when the charred images came into his mind. Something made sense. The drawings of the horse and the ghost had meaning and he knew where it was. He had been sitting in the car with Eleanor and she’d said that he should look around and take everything in because they would make sense later on. What had he seen? He wanted to scream his frustration. What had he seen?
And then he knew.
“He’s taken her to an old fairground. He’s going to kill and display her there.”
Lee was nervous. He knew that Carin had been delighted with his efforts but it was important that Eleanor herself approved. He’d carried her gently from the car and had propped her up in the trolley car, which he’d positioned at the beginning of the ride next to the ticket office. He was becoming increasingly irritated by her inability to stay conscious for more than a few seconds but had decided against slapping her. That would have been rude and inappropriate now that matters had run their course and there was only the moment of display and passing left to play out. He cleared his throat. She groaned and one eye flickered open for a second or two before she slid down further in the seat. Remembering that he hadn’t got too long before his public arrived he moved things on a little.
“Eleanor?” he said loudly. Again she shuddered and tried to come to but her breathing levelled out again. He reached forwards and pinched her hard. She opened her eyes and looked at him with an expression of disbelief. “Eleanor it is time,” he said meaningfully, hoping this would energise her sufficiently. He reached out and slapped her face, hearing a satisfying crack as his hand impacted her cold cheek. Her eyes were wide open now and something like recognition passed across her features. This was good.
“Look,” he said, sweeping his arm in a wide arc to draw her attention to the surroundings. He felt his cheeks burn slightly as he pointed out the recently redecorated ghost train. He’d applied new brushwork to the battered images and placed the candles in clean jam jars, protecting them from the draft. The ticket office had been cleaned and a shop mannequin, outfitted in some of Cindy’s old clothes, was staring blankly from the window. He’d rigged up an old CD player to a car battery and traditional discordant piped fairground music was playing quietly on a loop.
