Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both!

by Jeremy Costello

  York finished his pint and waved to the tolerating landlord to pour two more. ‘You still see either of the Faulkners, Julian or Arthur? They still in this area?’

  Sneeze. ‘Ah, that’s where the homework ends, I see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, Nicolas, the story of the Faulkner family is legendary around here. The speculation surrounding what went on in that house is breathtaking. You say you’re chasing ghosts, then you’re in the right place because ghosts are all you’ll find.’

  The landlord brought the fresh pints over. He lingered slightly. Anything for few extra seconds away from the bar lout, no doubt. When he walked away, York said, ‘So start at the beginning.’

  Blithe examined his pint. ‘You don’t give up do you?’

  ‘It's important,’ York replied.

  ‘Arthur Faulkner was a World War Two vet,’ Blithe revealed. ‘I wasn’t born at this point, but rumour has it that the Arthur Faulkner who left for the trenches was not the same Arthur Faulkner who returned. I mean, I don’t know what happened to him out there, but I heard he was a POW, endured years of brutality…

  Sneeze.

  ‘I don’t know how much of that is true, but when he returned his mind was broken. I mean, he was gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ For some reason, York recalled the sepia photograph in the basement of the Faulkner home.

  ‘Yeah,’ Blithe muttered. ‘There’re people around here know more about it than me, but apparently the man could no longer distinguish between civilisation and warfare. The town folk, they tried to warn the local coppers, you know, said he was dangerous, a menace. It went on for years. He lost it a couple of times in town, snapped at locals, threatened to kill people. But no one listened. The police kept an eye on him when he came into the market, but they didn’t interfere. And then the worst happened and they had no choice but to lock him up.’

  York leaned in, pint forgotten. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He shot the doctor who was at the house treating his wife,’ Blithe whispered. ‘Shot him in the chest with an old German pistol. Apparently when they took him away he was screaming about them coming for him, calling the coppers Nazis and Gestapo scum. His wife was so sick, she died that day. The doctor was on his way to break the news to Arthur, and when he found him in one of the upper rooms, Arthur had the pistol levelled at him.’

  ‘Jesus,’ York murmured.

  ‘Yeah. Mid 1960’s, Julian would’ve been eleven or twelve at the time, suddenly parentless. He was taken to an orphanage. Best thing for him you ask me. Stories were, Arthur used to put the kid through hell, training him for combat. You can’t’ve missed the assault course in the back yard.’

  ‘No, I saw it,’ he said. ‘He used to put Julian through that?’

  ‘And worse. We heard that Arthur locked him in the basement for days at a time with no food or water, and then he’d be dragged out to hunt in the woods for sustenance and the like, anything wild that was edible. And get this, apparently Arthur taught him to not waste any part of the prey. He forced his own son to eat everything, the liver, the heart, the intestines, the lot. Poor kid probably didn’t know any different in the end.’

  York took a deep breath and shuddered, the image of the teeth marks in Janine Bluestock’s heart flashing to mind. ‘So no one knows where Julian is now?’

  Blithe sneezed again. ‘Nah, he’s been gone for years. He came back for a while when he was old enough to get out of the orphanage, but after he tried to burn down the house he disappeared. It’s like he fell –’

  ‘Off the face of the planet,’ York finished.

  ‘Yeah, exactly.’

  ‘And Arthur?’

  ‘Oh, he’s still alive,’ Blithe declared. ‘In his seventies now, I suppose. He’s been in Rampton Secure Hospital over in Retford since the incident. They can probably tell you more if you drive up there, but I doubt they’ll let you see him. I’ll bet the man’s in a cell with more padding than a schoolgirl’s bra.’

  York finished the dregs of his second pint. Blithe sneezed into his.

  Julian Faulkner. The Valentine Killer. Trained for combat from an early age. Goosebumps rose on York's arms as he recalled how easily he’d been overcome in the alley and left for dead. The sheer strength and manoeuvrability of his assailant had been astounding. Everything clicked, all the patterns fitting together like pieces in a jigsaw. Only one thing remained for him to do in the East Midlands. Go and see if Arthur Faulkner really was as far gone as Blithe made out.

  51

  The air had grown cooler now as York climbed out of the car and stepped onto the gravelled lot at Rampton Secure Hospital. The sprawling complex was enclosed inside a twin-rigged chain-link fence a couple of miles from Retford, Nottinghamshire. The foreboding redbrick structure stood ominously alone in Robin Hood’s country, secreted away from civilisation much like the minds of some of its residents.

  After calling ahead and writing down directions from a guy named Jason McCullick, York screwed up the scrap of paper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. His hand brushed against something else. Standing in the subtle breeze of twilight he pulled the foreign object from his pocket and held it at arm's length, scrutinising its existence.

  Remember this, Nicolas…Remember me.

  On the night of his back-alley scrap with the Valentine Killer, he recalled the blurry image of the blonde woman looking down at him, assuring him help was coming. For some unexplainable reason, he’d believed her unequivocally. As his mind raced backwards, he remembered her sliding something into his pocket. Then she took off and he proceeded to bleed to death.

  Keep your eyes open. Help is on the way.

  Tentatively, he unfolded the slip of paper and read what was written in neat effeminate handwriting.

  Nicolas

  If you recall speaking to me on the phone, then you know who I am and what I can offer. I have been watching you. I can only apologise for the cloak and dagger routine but I in turn am being observed. If they see me talking to you, they will know I am not who I say I am.

  When the time is right, I will arrange to meet you.

  What I said to you on the phone is accurate. Your son is alive.

  Below is the address of a house I have had under surveillance for some time. I believe Frasier, amongst others, is being held there by an organisation headed up by someone who goes by the alias “The Face.” One wrong move here and he will disappear, and probably so too will your son.

  I don’t know where else to turn now. I am desperate and you are the one person remaining who might be able to help.

  You need only to believe, Nicolas, and you’re one step closer to getting him back.

  K.

  York toppled against the car, a sharp stab of pain lancing through his wound. He bit down on his lip to stop from crying out. A billion questions danced around in his head:

  Who was this woman and how did she know these things? Could he trust her, and who were “they”?

  How was he the one remaining person who could help her?

  Shoving the note down into his pocket he stood up straight and brushed himself off, took several deep breaths. He thought about calling Graham and getting him to run some checks on the address, but the author of the note was right, he needed to play it cool.

  Heading unsteadily into the hospital reception, he asked the desk girl for Jason McCullick.

  ‘Someone say my name?’ The voice emanated from behind the desk in a small back office. Poking his head around the door, a lean thirty-something with a full head of wiry red hair and matching beard eyed him unashamedly. ‘Help you?’

  ‘DCI Nicolas York,’ he replied holding up his ID.

  ‘Ah, the mysterious detective up from the Big Smoke,’ said McCullick cheerily in a thick Scottish brogue. ‘Thank you for calling ahead, sir. How exactly can we help you?’

  York plucked off his hat and laid it on the reception counter. ‘I’m not even sure you can. I just have a few qu
estions about Arthur Faulkner if you wouldn’t mind indulging me.’

  ‘Ah, the illustrious Mr Faulkner,’ said McCullick. ‘Colourful character, that one.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  McCullick looked him up and down. ‘You okay, Inspector? You’re looking a little ashen.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.’

  Unlocking the door from the inside, McCullick let York into the office and offered him a cup of coffee. He graciously accepted, needing something to warm him through.

  ‘So what exactly is it about Arthur that interests you so much?’ asked the young carer.

  ‘Well, that’s a touchy subject. Do you care directly for him?’

  ‘We’re no wee outfit here,' said McCullick. 'We have over four hundred patients and I myself am merely one of two thousand staff members.’

  ‘You call them patients?’

  ‘Did you miss the sign on your way in saying “hospital?” We run a facility for the sick here, my friend, regardless of what they might have done to put themselves here.’

  York nodded. ‘And Arthur Faulkner?’

  ‘Aye, Arthur is amongst the sickest, been here since 1966. Totally delusional, hasn’t responded to treatment in over twenty-five years. Man still thinks he’s being brutalised inside a POW camp, hospitalised a number of the carers believing them to be German soldiers. Last time that happened was over three years ago now, though. These days he just sits at his window and stares out into the day. Man really has suffered.’

  He’s suffered? York wanted to say. What about the wife of the doctor he murdered? What about the son he tortured? Instead he said, ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘Aye,’ the Scot replied. ‘That is if he’s pliant. Spends most of his days pretty zoned out now. He doesn’t get any visitors.’ Grabbing a large bunch of keys, he added, ‘Sign in at reception and pop on this pass. We’ll see if the patient is in the mood for company.’

  *

  As they walked, York wondered why they always painted the walls inside hospitals white. He thought about asking McCullick but decided against it. The moans and voices from some of the cells radiated out into the corridor, echoing eerily back and forth. ‘Everyone has their own cell?’ York asked.

  ‘My God, yes!’ gasped McCullick as though the question was stupid. ‘Would you throw a naked flame into a box of dynamite?’

  ‘Got you,’ York nodded. ‘I guess some people still have imaginary friends.’

  ‘Some people are their imaginary friends.’

  Other carers roamed the corridors, some with clipboards and white coats, others in navy blue tunics pushing trolleys of meds. They all looked busy.

  ‘Here we are, Inspector,’ McCullick declared. ‘He’s had his medication today so he’ll be nice and docile. Just keep your distance and try not to agitate him, okay. I’ll wait right in the doorway.’

  Sliding the key into the plain white door, McCullick clicked open the lock and pushed it wide.

  ‘Evening Arthur,’ said McCullick. ‘I have a visitor for you.’

  York stepped into the small room, boxlike, one comfortable looking armchair and one bed made up in crisp white sheeting. Just like McCullick said, Arthur Faulkner was sitting by the window examining the dying sun. He looked to be around seventy years old, the few remaining wispy strands of grey hair matted to his head. He wore only a dressing gown and slippers, a thin tendril of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Not even going to say hello, Arthur?’ said McCullick.

  Arthur Faulkner remained still. York wondered if he even knew he had company.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed a few feet from the patient, York examined the man’s face. The sepia photograph he'd seen at the Faulkner house was some fifty-odd years old, but there was no doubt that this was the same man. The crescent-shaped eyes, the faint hook of the nose, it was easy to tell that Arthur Faulkner had once been handsome.

  In the doorway, McCullick waited, eying the scene curiously. ‘I don’t know, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Maybe you just caught him on a bad day.’

  York leaned forward trying to gain an ounce of recognition. ‘Arthur, my name’s Nicolas. Is it okay if I talk to you for a minute?’

  Nothing, not an iota of acknowledgement; Frank Blithe’s words echoed hollowly around in his head: When he came back he was broken. I mean he was gone.

  ‘Arthur,’ he pursued, ‘I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’d like to speak to you about your son, Julian. Would that be alright?’ The patient blinked, blinked. There seemed to be nothing behind those crescent eyes that remained in the real world, but suddenly Arthur Faulkner spoke, his voice cracked and strained. ‘Are you Julian?’

  ‘No, Arthur,’ he replied leaning in. ‘I’m a police officer. I’m here to talk to you about Julian.’

  Faulkner looked confused. ‘Who’s Julian?’

  McCullick raised his hands, palms up: don’t ask me.

  ‘Julian is your son, Arthur,’ he urged. ‘Do you remember him?’

  The faintest of nods. ‘Robert. My son, Robert.’

  York glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who’s Robert?’ he asked McCullick. ‘He mention that name before?’

  ‘Ignore it, Inspector,’ McCullick advised. ‘Robert’s one of the carers here who regularly looks after Arthur. He’s quite fond of him. Over time we think Arthur has come to think of Rob as a son.’

  ‘Arthur,’ said York turning back to the patient, ‘When did you last see Julian?’

  ‘What did they say to you, Robert?’ Faulkner muttered, his eyes flickering left to right. ‘What did the Nazi bastards do to you? Did they hurt you, did they hurt me? Oh Robert, oh Robert, Robert, how can they justify this. One more day in the box, one more day, one more day, one more day, one more day…’

  York waited patiently while Faulkner rambled on senselessly.

  ‘There’s a police officer here to see you, Robert,’ Arthur Faulkner droned. ‘He wants to throw you in the box again. How can they justify this? How can they justify this? It’s okay, Robert…one more day, one more day, one more day…’

  McCullick edged further into the room. ‘I think you’re out of luck. You’re not going to get any sense from him today, he’s in the clouds.’

  York sighed and stood to leave when Faulkner suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm, the clear definition of a grizzled swastika-shaped scar on his wrist. His eyes came alive and full of wild angst, meeting with York’s in a cataclysm of torment. In a moment of lucidity, the patient’s frantic eyes cleared. ‘You’ll never catch him, you Nazi bastard! He’s too smart for you, too smart for anyone. He’ll find a way, a way out of this hole. You see if he doesn’t, you Nazi bastard!’

  McCullick came charging into the room. ‘Come on now, Arthur, we don’t play like that anymore,’ he said, prizing his patient’s grip from York’s arm. Arthur Faulkner held York’s gaze for an intense second longer, his face full of dark determination.

  Fighting with Faulkner’s grip, McCullick pushed him back into his seat with little resistance and as soon as it began, it stopped. Faulkner went back to staring out of the window as if nothing had occurred, eyes glazed like honey.

  ‘Come on, Inspector,’ said McCullick. ‘That's enough for one night.’

  ‘Docile my arse,’ York muttered looking into Arthur Faulkner’s eyes.

  ‘He should’ve been,’ said McCullick defensively. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  ‘He murdered his doctor and tortured his son is what happened, Jason! The man is a fucking liability, drugs or not.’

  ‘Which is why he’s in here!’ McCullick said forcefully.

  Physically shoving York out into the corridor, Jason McCullick slammed Arthur Faulkner’s door closed and twisted the key. ‘Just what the bloody hell are you doing here, Nicolas? Is it an official visit to help with an investigation or do you just want to upset my patients?’

  He stared back at McCullick silently.

  ‘I thought so,’ M
cCullick said. ‘So how about you tell me what’s going on before I call London and report this to whoever it is I report things to.’

  *

  Back in the reception office York nursed his second mug of coffee. After his visit with Arthur Faulkner, the chill was eating him from the inside out.

  Jason McCullick perched himself opposite and took a sip from his own steaming cup.

  ‘What was that, Nicolas? You’re going to need to tell me. You turn up here, looking like death I might add, and lay into one of my patients like it’s a personal vendetta. Just what the bloody hell is going on?’

  ‘You watch the news, Jason?’ York asked without hesitation.

  ‘Aye, sometimes, why?’

  York leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘There’s a maniac running around London, cutting the hearts out of his victim’s chests and eating them. I believe that man to be Julian Faulkner.’

  ‘My god.’ McCullick sank into his seat. ‘But he seemed like such a quiet guy, pleasant almost. Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty much. By comparison, Arthur Faulkner is a teddy bear. His son is dangerous and we need to find him. I figured your patient might’ve been able to help.’

  McCullick shook his head from side to side. ‘Arthur’s been out of it for years. He was never going to be able to help you.’

  ‘What about you? How well did you know Julian?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ the Scot admitted. ‘He used to visit his dad once a month or so, but I haven’t seen him in two, maybe three years now. Strange guy, very quiet, but always courteous. Some days he’d sit with Arthur for hours. Not even talking, you know. Just sit there as if he wanted only to be in the man’s presence. I wasn’t the only one here who found it a little weird. Some other carers were unnerved by him. He was quite a big man in relation to his father, broad shoulders, big arms, and he carried with him this intensity you couldn’t ignore. But we never had any trouble from him. He’d turn up, visit Arthur, and leave.’