The Two

by Will Carver

  Because, at work, they think I’m a success story.

  But, of course, in my personal life, I’m nothing of the sort.

  Everything I touch dies.

  Everyone I am close to is taken.

  Totty Fahey’s death before Christmas did something to me. It sent me back so that I could move forwards.

  I’ve had Paulson look into the victims’ names, to see if there is any connection, any correlation.

  There doesn’t seem to be anything yet.

  As I suspected, the killer is not stupid enough to be caught out by a shop-front or museum closed-circuit camera. The footage we have of either victim is, in the main, from earlier points in the day. We see Lily walk past the station early in the morning. She was captured at the hospital too, we knew that from her records, but there is nothing that covers the part of the Green where she was left to die on her knees.

  We have watched the screen as Totty dawdles into the National Portrait Gallery, moseys over to the church and hobbles across the square into the bar where we had a witness confirm his presence that afternoon. But there were thousands of tourists and spectators for the plinth that evening. It was dark. We can spot him for a moment in the crowd but the brief reflection of light from the performance has affected cameras on all angles: even when we see him we cannot make out who is with him, then he is swallowed up by a crammed audience. Later in the evening we can pick him from the bunch, but by then he is on his knees and it is too late. Whoever was there with him has vanished undetected for now.

  And Jackson Forster proved a wasted line of enquiry.

  I thought that, perhaps, the way they were killed had some significance. Lily was stabbed through the stomach and Totty was hit through the chest, but there isn’t much to go on here either.

  One was a young woman, one an octogenarian male.

  One, a newly qualified lawyer, the other, a retired rag-and-bone man.

  Of course, there is always the possibility that these are just random people cut down for no other reason than the thrill of killing; that they are in the way of the wrong person at the wrong time. If that is so, it will make the perpetrator more difficult to trace.

  Higgs and several others are correlating and comparing footage from both murders, trying to uncover an overlap; anybody who shows up in both locations.

  I have Murphy running background checks on known acquaintances.

  Legwork. Thankless.

  Pointless.

  He doesn’t think I’m an expert or a genius, neither do the people he is helping to oust me, and he makes it obvious that, whoever is pulling his strings, he’s not buying into the January David mythology. Whenever I see him I am reminded that the upper ranks could still be watching me, just like before, and my own success actually brings more pressure to solve this quickly. Two people have died already. Time is closing in. But we can’t do it overnight. Some cases go unsolved for weeks, months, a year. Some, like my sister’s, take longer. Many are never resolved.

  I am interested in the aspects that people dismiss, the things they can’t understand. The things they can’t see or touch or test. Anyone could see the salt circles, the candles, the bell, the cloth, the piles of herbs, the antique silver. Anyone could see that both victims were found in a kneeling position and it’s this kind of tangible evidence everyone else clings to, they want me to rely on it. So that I’m not such an embarrassment to the force. So I don’t draw attention to myself for the wrong reasons. They want me to ignore the things I claim to see.

  But is there some weight in the fact that Lily Kane’s body went limp at the precise moment I blew out the candle? Is there a reason that Totty Fahey’s did not?

  Why should conventional detective work and unorthodox investigation be separate and exclusive?

  I don’t know it, but I am doing the right thing this time.

  But The Two are trying to give me more.

  What I don’t see is more worthwhile than what I do see.

  The things that we miss hold all the answers.

  The things that are no longer there.

  The signs.

  The symbols.

  The rituals.

  Oh God, I’m starting to sound like Mother.

  V

  I DO NOT hear a voice.

  I’m not insane.

  But I know what the Lord wants me to do and I will oblige. It is not yet the time to put an end to the things that upset me in the newspapers. I have been told. Not with the words of man, that’s not how it works.

  Sometimes, when I pray, there is nothing. I can ask questions which are not answered. It may only be for my own sense of catharsis. When the communication is two-way, it is very different. As though extra information has been uploaded directly to my conscience, as if, all of a sudden, I have a greater knowledge without performing any work to obtain it.

  The voice of the Lord communicates through my own inner voice.

  This can be anything from ensuring I maintain physical fitness to volunteering at a homeless shelter to painting my spare room white.

  The spare room hurt me.

  I hadn’t used it for years.

  I hadn’t even been in there.

  Who am I to question the Lord?

  The room is still pristine when I open the door, this action like releasing the hermetically sealed box of trauma that is my past. When I was still Sammael Abbadon. When my wife still loved me and our child was still alive.

  I cry a silent cry as the door to the compartment in my brain, the one that has been locked for as long as this room, opens. My mouth remains in a mid-yawn position, afraid to move and develop into a quiver. I don’t even realise I am holding my breath.

  I look across the room to where his cot stands in the corner, glowing white, as though dust is frightened to settle on it. There is a white sheet and blanket with two white stuffed animals at the top end, resting against the pure white bumper. My gaze remains fixed on this corner of innocence for I don’t know how long.

  I click back into reality as two tears drop in quick succession onto the exposed skin of my right foot and divert my attention from thoughts of my son.

  The Lord knows I must be stronger than this.

  I pan my view over to the right, where the chest of drawers stands, full of clothes that my son will never get to wear. On top is an unused keepsake box, some books I had hoped to read to him one day and a picture of the three of us the day he was born.

  I tell myself, ‘That is Sammael Abbadon with his family.’

  I tell myself, ‘That is not you.’

  The walls are currently a sky blue colour; we knew it was a boy; we were prepared for that much. To paint these all white will take several coats. I stupidly glossed the radiator a similar shade. It took me days to do it before, and that was when I wanted to be in here.

  But I do not question whether this will be worth the anguish.

  I know that it will.

  This is only the preparation.

  Misery transforms into anger as I take the first step over the border between hallway and nursery. Anger. This is the only emotion that will get me through.

  To give me the strength. The energy.

  I head straight to the corner where the cot sits, the muscles and tendons in my face contracting, tightening the skin and protruding the veins. The bones in my fingers tense into claws, prepared to tear apart whatever lies ahead.

  I start by reaching down into the depths of the cot, screwing up the blanket into a tight ball and hurling it out through the gap in the doorway. Next, ridiculously, I throw the stuffed toys into the hallway, bouncing them off the wall.

  My next adversary, the mattress, is somewhat awkward and troublesome, springing back to shape every time I try to needlessly fold it into something smaller.

  The location of the Allen key I used to connect the panels that make up the cot escapes me. I test its rigidity with a forceful shake. I was hoping to lean it one way, then the other, then back again, and repeat until
something snapped, but it’s pretty sturdy.

  Some of the anguish returns.

  I want to get out of this room.

  Suppressing the urge to weep again, I draw strength from the last ounce of venom I can muster, take a short step back, raise my right knee to my chest then thrust it forwards with a bellowing guttural rasp.

  The pane of wood snaps at the top, in the centre, making the rest of the structure more malleable. Almost in the same movement I grab the right corner, shaking it violently, loosening the screws, then propel it to the back wall, folding the thing in half.

  I do the same thing to the other side. Shouting as I do so. Willing myself to finish.

  Summoning the last of my strength, I drag the thing into the centre of the room, bend my knees, gaining leverage, then lift it before propelling my dead son’s bed across the room, smashing it into the radiator I foolishly glossed sky blue and watch it clatter to the floor at the same time I do.

  On my knees, I scream out vowels to hold back the tears. As the anger subsides back into heartache, I drag myself out of the childless torture chamber and collapse onto the miniature mattress spread out in the hall.

  I let go.

  I weep uncontrollably. Remembering the time we were given the news.

  The time Sammael Abbadon was given the news.

  I recall the instance my wife decided to leave, how we couldn’t survive it together.

  And my heart breaks all over again.

  Today, as I look into the room that has been painted a pure, glowing white, including the radiator which has been re-glossed, I understand why the Lord asked me to perform this task. It was a test. To discover my worthiness. To attach the emotion of clearing my son’s remaining items with the feelings I have when I read about these occurrences in the newspapers.

  More motivation to capture Celeste Varrick.

  Tomorrow, when I collect the paper after my morning run, I will be given further instructions, yet still, it is not the time to take her. There is more work to be done.

  January

  WE’VE KNOWN FOR weeks that there’s no obvious connection between Lily Kane and Totty Fahey. Paulson searched whether they or any family members had police records, whether their paths may have crossed through employment or social engagement. Nothing was found. Paulson perches himself on the edge of my desk, moving a pile of my files to one side in order to clear a space for his enormous frame. He has a stack of papers in his hands.

  ‘I’ve found something that might interest you, Jan.’ His voice is at a low volume and he looks over his shoulder, nervous that somebody might hear what he is about to say next.

  ‘Go on,’ I tell him, leaning forward in my chair, subtly closing the drawer which holds the copy of my sister’s case file and my as yet unopened bottle of Highland Malt.

  ‘I found out a little more about the salt circles and have dug a bit further into the other ritual elements. It’s all very interesting.’ He waves his wad of paper to indicate that everything I need is written in those pages.

  That’s when Murphy blasts his way in. The slam of the door as it swings open, the handle colliding heavily with the wall, startles us both. I jump back in my chair; Paulson clumsily drops his stack of information onto the floor.

  ‘Waste of time and resources,’ Murphy mumbles, ripping his scarf away from his neck while Paulson collects his print-offs and slots them back into order.

  ‘What’s wrong, Murph?’ I ask. Humouring him. As if I care.

  ‘Oh, it’s just the background on these bloody victims,’ he continues with his insensitive diatribe. ‘Totty Fahey has all this family who were clearly supporting his existence all this time. There are loads of them and they’re all crying and nonsensical, then you get fucking Lily Kane …’ He emphasises the curse to demonstrate his frustration.

  Paulson and I wait silently, thinking he has something more to say.

  He does.

  ‘… she has hardly any family and the few that I did manage to find either hadn’t seen her for half a decade or said that Lily Kane had been dead for years. Unbelievable.’ He throws his jacket over the back of his chair before slumping down into it himself, visibly exhausted.

  ‘Well, that sounds pretty suspicious, don’t you think?’ Paulson chips in.

  I divert my gaze to the information on the salt circles that Paulson has printed out.

  ‘Yes. But I checked them out, they’re clean, they just disowned her a long time ago. Nothing more than minor family disagreements evolving into life-long grudges. So, in short, I’ve got fuck-all,’ he confesses.

  But he knew all along that that would be the conclusion.

  ‘So how’s the real police work going?’ Murphy asks sardonically.

  Despite his attitude, he is doing what I ask of him, even though he knows it is punishment for his lack of support on the Eames case. I think he has earned a reprieve.

  ‘Well, Paulson’s been on the Internet.’ I laugh, not making fun of Paulson, just lightening the mood. Bringing us back together as a team. Paulson looks at me, wide-eyed, as if to say, ‘Jan, what are you doing?’ But if we are going to crack this before another life is taken, we need to pull together.

  If I’m going to get out of this rut fully, I’m going to need them behind me.

  I know that much.

  Paulson fights the urge to come back with, ‘Yeah, and Jan has been having some dreams again.’

  He presents his additional findings to me and Murph, telling us that these circles are sometimes used as protection; that they have to be cast. That they define the user’s sacred area. He informs us that the use of candles makes it difficult to determine what faith or belief system these rituals are derived from. That the four points within the circle suggest Paganism or Wicca, yet the candles imply a more conventional religious belief.

  ‘Sounds like Satanic witchcraft to me,’ Murphy jumps in – with both feet – as ignorant as usual, mixing faiths together.

  The easy answer.

  Less effort.

  ‘So we’re adding Satanism into the mix, are we?’ Paulson asks, disgruntled. ‘Seems a bit easy, Murph. Sounds like something the papers would print.’

  ‘And we don’t want them interfering with this.’ I interject, my focus aimed directly at Murphy.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. I’m just saying that we should be wary of misdirection. It could all be nothing.’ Murphy pretends to follow the official line, playing devil’s advocate.

  I, of course, know it isn’t nothing. Paulson does too, which is the reason he looked into it. That’s the aspect that piqued his interest.

  ‘Let’s not rule anything out just yet.’ I speak and they listen. ‘We don’t have time to sit here and learn about every religion and break-off group in the world. Let’s get someone in. Looking at this only briefly’ – I hold the handful of papers Paulson has printed – ‘I think we should pursue this line of enquiry.’

  For now.

  I tell Paulson and Murphy that there’s nothing more to do today, that they can both take off. I’m going to stay for a while to look over the papers that Paulson has printed off, see whether I can find a Pagan or Wiccan, or both, maybe they’re the same thing, to come into the station and act as a consultant for the day. To get things moving.

  But it won’t just be for the day.

  She will be here until the end.

  ‘I can stay and go through them with you if you like, Jan,’ Paulson offers sincerely. ‘I’ll help you locate a specialist.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll go through them tonight. I’ll find someone.’

  Don’t be like me.

  Leave me alone.

  ‘If you want some assistance …’ he pushes.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I insist, interrupting him. ‘I’ve got it. You go home.’

  Murphy throws his coat over his shoulder and grabs Paulson by the arm. ‘Come on. Before he changes his mind.’

  After they’ve gone, I slouch back into my seat once more and,
with a flick of the middle finger on my left hand, I pull the drawer open. It slides out smoothly on its coasters and bangs to a stop at full extension to reveal my bottle of drink. The warmth I’ve been waiting for.

  I pull it out, place it under the desk between my legs and unscrew the cap for the first time. There’s something rewarding about this simple act; I like the sound it makes as you crack the seal.

  I tip out the dregs of an old cup of coffee, staining the carpet further. My left eye catches the folder and a glimpse of the text, which says confidential. It reads Catherine (Cathy) David. It displays the date she was taken. I screw the lid back on the bottle and place it back on the file, covering the words.

  Not at work, Jan.

  Snap out of this.

  What would Cathy think?

  Outside I can hear a cluster of men raising their voices, then a car door slams, then another. I get out of my seat to investigate, taking the empty caffeine-stained I heart London mug with me.

  It’s dark outside. I try to remember the date when the clocks go forward an hour. At this time of year, it’s dark when I head into work and dark when I leave.

  It’s always dark.

  I use my forefinger and thumb to pry apart the blinds.

  Just below, two cars and a van are filling up quickly with uniformed officers. The blue lights are already rotating before they leave the station. I stare at the top of the van, the light flashing, revolving, drawing in my gaze until my eyes zoom in to a close-up where all I can see is the flash of blue, then white, then black, blue, then white, then black.

  Blue.

  Then white.

  Then black …

  I’m back in the room.

  The dust is already at the back of my throat, the scent of spring flowers in every direction.

  This time I am standing up in my invisible chamber, waiting, for what? For the flicker of a candle? For a speck of light to appear in the distance? For The Two to present themselves?

  Not this time.