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

by Jeremy Costello

  He looked confused. Then he said, ‘Do you doubt me? Is my information incorrect?’

  She could not reply.

  Moving closer, he said, ‘I couldn’t believe our fortune when the plane went down. It was like a sign that our reunion was imminent. I’m sure you felt it too. For days I’ve marvelled at the wonder of it all, the carnage instilled just so you and I could be together again.’

  Anthony’s words snagged at her seams. ‘If what you say is true, you could have killed me any time you liked. The fact that I’m still here contradicts you.’

  Anthony’s crooked smile dashed her confidence. ‘What makes you think I want to kill you? Quite the contra, Abigail, I’d be lost without you. All these others, they have no place here, they don’t belong.’ Gauging her frown, he said, ‘I’ve become quite fond of you over the years. I don’t want to hurt you. That would negate everything we have achieved.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying “we”?’ she asked. ‘Like I’ve had anything to do with this. How can you stand there and suggest we’re something of a team? Watching me from afar doesn’t mean you know me. It doesn’t mean you understand me or care for me…’

  ‘I have been more intimate with you than any other individual in your life!’ he said abruptly. Anthony flinched. ‘You think physical contact means anything? Edward, James, their love for you is mere smoke compared to mine. And that is why our reunion is so important. You belong at my side, Abigail.’

  Finally her legs corresponded with her brain and she took a tentative step backwards. If Anthony noticed, it didn’t bother him. ‘None of this makes sense,’ she muttered. ‘You had your head bashed in. I carried you back to the camp myself.’

  ‘It’s amazing what the human being is capable of,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘When he puts his mind to it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ever tried knocking yourself unconscious with a rock? It's more difficult than it looks.’

  ‘You’re insane,’ she trembled.

  ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘No, no, no! You don’t get to say that to me, do you understand?’ He advanced towards her. ‘I stood in. I kept my eye on you when your parents died.’

  Another step back. ‘When you killed them…’

  ‘I freed you from them!' said Anthony frantically. 'They were despicable people, Abigail, they didn’t deserve you, they didn’t deserve life. They grew remorselessly rich by the most abhorrent means. Don’t ask me to apologise for what I did to them, they got off lightly. Don’t you see, I’ve been the only solid figure in your life, the only constant. I have been your guardian, your mother and father combined, your brother, your lover, your everything!'

  As the day grew warmer, Abbey trembled harder. The mist had begun to lift, the gruesome effigies of Elaine and Sol growing more defined. Their chests on display, it was impossible to miss the ragged hole cut into each. With only a handful of feet remaining between Anthony and herself, she looked back to Elaine. ‘Wait,’ she stammered. ‘You were with me when Elaine was murdered. We watched it happen together.’

  Anthony smiled, calmer now. ‘Ah, yes, the irresolute Oliver. Haven’t you wondered why the old chap hasn’t been looking too great? Needless to say, it’s not food poisoning. His quite sickening guttural responses have been down to nothing more than vivid recollections. He even braved the storm last night in search of Eric. Old boy feels kind of guilty, you see.’

  ‘No, I don’t see.’

  Anthony looked impatient. ‘Oliver killed Elaine. Under my supervision, of course.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured disbelievingly. ‘He…he wouldn’t.’

  ‘He would and he did. I simply told him I’d gut every single one of the survivors should he not do as I ask. It was the perfect ruse, was it not? How could he know that I intend to do that anyway? When only you and I remain, everything will be perfect.’

  The sun had begun to dominate the clouds, most of the remaining mist burned away. With no clear path around Anthony, she glanced passively over her shoulder. Where the arroyo ended, the jungle began. There was no easy way out.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he warned. ‘Don’t you understand? This is where you belong.’

  She said nothing.

  One more step.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he assured her. ‘But I will. You can’t escape this, Abigail. This moment was destined to happen, it was inevitable. You run now, you ruin everything.’

  He stepped up to her, brushed a wistful hand through her hair. ‘I’ve waited so long for this moment,’ he said softly.

  She winced at his touch, tears forming in her eyes.

  ‘That day in your flat…you were unafraid. Now is no different, Abigail, you don’t need to fear me. Nobody can hurt you, they never could.’

  Her throat was arid, no words would form. She wanted to hate this man, this murderer, but his tenuous grip on sanity dominated her, enthralled her. The black admission sitting deep within her subconscious taunted her, an admission she dared not say aloud for fear of it becoming more real. The words hung there like an advancing cancer, a stain, yet it pushed against her mind’s forefront unwilling to be buried: Anthony made her feel safe.

  Sensing her vulnerability he took her in his arms, her tears flowing freely. She nestled against his shoulder, his protective embrace encapsulating her, his heartbeat thumping rhythmically against her chest.

  ‘What’s your real name?’ she muttered tearfully.

  ‘Julian,’ he replied quietly. ‘Julian Faulkner.’

  ‘Julian?’ She felt his head move against hers. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Before he had time to question the apology, she jammed James’s penknife into Anthony's side. She stepped away as he lurched backwards in a trickle of blood, his eyes brimming with disbelief.

  ‘What have you done?’ he spat, reaching for the knife’s hilt. ‘Abigail, what have you done?’

  ‘You’re insane, Julian. And you’re wrong, I do get to say that to you. I didn't ask you to watch out for me, to stalk me, spy on me. You say you're my everything, but you're nothing to me...nothing!'

  ‘You can’t do this to me!’ He gripped the hilt and tore the knife from his side in a spray of scarlet. He stumbled backwards steadying himself on a decaying tree, the knife held up bloodily like an object of fascination.

  Dismayed, Abbey began to back away.

  ‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ he blurted. ‘You’ve spoiled everything. You’re no better than them.’

  Waiting to hear no more she turned and fled into the jungle, putting the valley and the raging Julian at her back.

  Legs a blur beneath her, she ran as fast as the jungle’s density would allow. She could hear no sounds of pursuit, no thumping footsteps in her wake. But she was not stupid. Julian...Anthony, whatever his name was, would be coming.

  59

  London, 1992

  The focal point of the dimly lit holding room was the prisoner sitting on the far side of the cell’s only table, half of his face bathed ominously in shadow, his expression biased to neither malice nor friendly, just indifference.

  Facing the man in custody was Nicolas York and Dr Alistair Woodrow, a specialist from Bristol who had been brought in to document a professional evaluation. He was considered to be amongst the top three psychiatrists in the country. His opinion was vital to the investigation and to any court proceedings that might ensue. Behind the one-way glass, Mason and Graham were standing in morbid silence watching the scene unfold.

  ‘So,’ York began quietly, his arms folded, ‘what do we call you?’

  The subject’s face didn’t alter, much like the expression of the robotic child with the gutted rabbit. ‘It’s up to you. We can continue to call you Jonathan Wheeler, or would you prefer Julian Faulkner?’

  After Jason McCullick had shown York the photographs of Arthur Faulkner standing morosely with his son, there had been zero doubt that the broad character had been Jonathan Wheeler, their very own audio technician. As he was
taken into custody he hadn’t fought, hadn’t even protested, merely allowed himself to be taken away in restraints.

  ‘I went to see your dad yesterday, Julian,’ York revealed. Faulkner’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Wow…I mean there’s fucked up and there’s fucked up, but your dad, he is fucked up!’

  Beneath the table Woodrow nudged his leg.

  ‘I sat there asking him a few questions, you know, just chewing the fat, and he was about as responsive as, well…you! The difference is he was high on meds. Dribbling down his front, jabbering on like an idiot. The man was an embarrassment, you should’ve seen it. I felt sorry for him.’

  Faulkner’s face darkened, becoming distracted.

  ‘Bet he wasn’t always like that. Nah. He was a veteran, a tough bastard, wasn’t he? If he could see himself now, pissing his pants, not able to wipe his own arse, man would be ashamed of himse –’

  ‘You talk too much,’ said Faulkner, his tone low and firm.

  There was a moment of tense silence, followed by the drumming of Faulkner’s fingers tapping on the table.

  ‘Actually,’ York corrected, ‘you don’t talk enough.’

  ‘How’s the wound?’ Faulkner asked. There was no mocking tone to his voice; it seemed like a genuine question.

  ‘The one from the knife you jammed in my back?’

  Faulkner turned his head slowly sideways. ‘I like that knife.’

  ‘How?’ York asked calmly. ‘You mean for hunting animals in the woods up in Lincolnshire? Or cutting out girl’s hearts because you like the taste?’

  Faulkner’s eyes glazed over.

  ‘That’s right, Julian. I made a house call yesterday to the home you grew up in. Beautiful area out there, lovely countryside. Wasn’t much left of the house, though. You saw to that, didn’t you?’

  Faulkner stared.

  ‘Why, Julian? Why did you try and burn down the house?’

  ‘If you had the opportunity to erase something from your life that terrified your dreams, would you?’

  York pictured the sealed boxes he kept in storage, photographs of his family secreted away inside. Erased? ‘Yes, I probably would.’

  ‘Then you don’t need to ask me anything more on the topic. Do you?’

  ‘You’re not in control of this interview, Julian. Don’t push your luck.’

  Faulkner smiled. ‘Like I said in the alley that night, you need me. I keep you alive. Do you want to become like these people? The Freudian wannabe here, the loyal sentinel on the door? Or how about Superintendent Mason who is no doubt watching from behind the glass? These people are not like you and I. They’re as good as dead because they care about nothing but money and possessions. But you and I…you and I, Nicolas, we live for a purpose.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that exactly?’

  ‘The chase,’ Faulkner revealed, ‘the adrenaline. Have you not learnt anything from me? With nothing left in your life, especially now your partner is dead, it has been me and me alone keeping you alive simply with the power of occupation. Were I not here, you would shrivel up further into your ball and be dead by Christmas. I kept you alive, me!’

  ‘By sticking me with a knife and leaving me to die?’ York challenged. ‘Besides, it wasn’t exactly you alone, was it?’

  Faulkner twitched.

  ‘Where’s your brother, Julian?’

  ‘Brother?’

  ‘Or perhaps his name is Julian and you go by something else!’

  Faulkner appeared genuinely perplexed. ‘If this is some type of psychoanalytical test, Nicolas, you will fail. I do not have a brother. I am Julian.’

  ‘I could wheel a monitor in here right now and show a video of you and your brother standing with your father.’

  ‘You’re mistaken. Having a brother is the kind of thing a person remembers, would you not agree?’

  ‘Just tell us where he is, Julian, I’m finished talking with you. I just want to go home to bed. The sooner your brother is apprehended, the sooner that can happen. So, one more time, where is he?’

  ‘So it is a test then,’ Faulkner decided disappointedly. ‘How original.’

  ‘I saw you put through that assault course. I saw your father abusing you, forcing you to do it over and over again until you made it flawlessly to the end. And I saw another boy, exactly the same as you, except he carried a birthmark right here.’

  ‘Change the record please,’ Faulkner sighed. ‘You and I both know I don’t have a brother.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Doubt began to manifest inside York’s gut. The fact that Julian Faulkner was a grade-A psychopath, and therefore one of a very convincing breed, warned him to tread carefully, to avoid being taken in by the bullshit. Or, had there been something wrong with the cine film and some kind of ghosting had occurred creating a second imperfect image of Julian on the reel. No one in Market Rasen had mentioned a twin, let alone a twin with a skin defect.

  ‘Can you feel it, Nicolas?’ Faulkner smiled coldly. ‘That niggling sensation grating on your insides, telling you you’re wrong. It was a fine notion too while it lasted. I would’ve liked a brother.’

  ‘Fuck,’ York muttered and stood to leave. Woodrow stood too, his notepad in hand. ‘You’re going to tell me where he is, Julian, or this is going to get much worse for you.’

  Faulkner scoffed. ‘And how much worse do you suppose it can get?’

  Out in the corridor, York and Woodrow were joined by Mason.

  ‘Just what the fuck is going on?’ Mason snapped at no one. ‘Does he not have a brother or is he trying to fool us?’

  ‘I believe the answer is neither,’ Woodrow interjected. The man had a squeaky voice that matched his suit.

  ‘Neither?’ York questioned. ‘That doesn’t make sense, Woodrow.’

  ‘It makes perfect sense if you look at it from the angle of the mind,’ Woodrow assured them. ‘There was an interesting case-study on this subject written up by an incredibly established practitioner named Karl Fiebig fifteen or so years ago.’

  ‘Please get to the point,’ York grumbled. ‘Does the crazy man have a brother or not?’

  ‘Ignore him, Doctor,’ Mason butt in. ‘But yes, does the crazy man have a brother or not?’

  The timid Woodrow composed himself. ‘Have either of you ever heard of a condition called Multiple Personality Disorder?’

  ‘Schizophrenia?’

  ‘No, not schizophrenia, that’s a common misconception. A schizophrenic sufferer is born with the affliction. It’s a brain disorder that causes hallucinations so vivid the subject could believe he had a demon in the passenger seat of his car, or that a cow had just flown past his window. The sufferer will also be clumsy or struggle to take care of himself. More relevantly, he is unable to plan anything. The man in that room is meticulous, scrupulous.

  ‘Multiple Personality Disorder is very different. Through some trauma, probably in childhood, the subject develops a second or third or twentieth personality to help cope with that trauma. As we’ve discovered already, Julian Faulkner suffered greatly as a child.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ York stepped in. ‘What are you saying, Woodrow, that our man in there has multiple personalities? The second boy in that film is right there in the flesh. It’s not just a personality we’re seeing, it’s an actual person.’

  ‘I was just getting to that,’ said Woodrow stepping away from York. ‘You see, Fiebig’s case-study was all about the opposite of MP disorders. It spoke of a theory that stated if one individual could harbour two or more personalities, then the same must be said of the opposite. Julian Faulkner has a brother, he just doesn’t know it.’

  For a few seconds Woodrow let the officers digest what he was telling them.

  ‘How can he not know?’ Mason questioned. ‘He grew up with him.’

  ‘The two brothers were traumatised in childhood,’ Woodrow clarified. ‘Much the same as an MPD sufferer. Only with the Faulkner children, rather than creating mo
re personalities to cope with that trauma, they began to share the same personality, until one day they could no longer differentiate. The two brothers are in each other’s lives, they know each other, and yet both of them are totally unaware of the other’s presence. They think they are one person.’

  ‘My God,’ Mason murmured. ‘Is this even possible?’

  ‘It’s rare to say the least,’ Woodrow replied. ‘But there are case studies.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ York cut in. ‘Julian Faulkner is a psychopath. He could just be telling us what he wants us to hear. He doesn’t want us pursuing his brother, he wants us closing the case.’

  Woodrow nodded in agreement. ‘That’s your call, and it’s quite possible. But I’m here only to document the interviews and give my professional opinion. And my professional opinion is this: if you drop this now, the brother will walk free. He’s out there, and since the two brothers are sharing the same personality, you can bet your bottom dollar he’s going to keep on killing. What Julian is capable of, his bother will be too.’

  Before York could respond, Graham joined them in the corridor. ‘Nick, there’s a woman here to see you. She says it’s urgent.’

  ‘Kind of in the middle of something here, Will,’ said Mason.

  York held up his hand. ‘Wait, what does she look like?’

  ‘Oh erm, she’s erm small, blonde…’

  York sprinted from the corridor and disappeared.

  *

  Apprehensively, York pushed into the briefing room that Abigail Fuller and Roy Sunnily had shared recently. As expected, a woman waited alone, her face shrouded in anxiety. She was not the woman he was expecting. ‘Do I know you?’

  Like Graham described, the woman was petite and had blonde, almost silver hair. He failed to mention she was elderly, pushing eighty, wearing a tweed jacket and ankle-length skirt.

  ‘I’m so sorry for the intrusion, Inspector,’ said the woman demurely. ‘I know you’re busy. But I wondered if you’d mind sparing me a few minutes.’

  ‘It’s actually a bad time right now, Miss…’