She offered me a hand, and then pulled me up from my slumped position. She ushered me to her back door, before inviting me in from the rain. I followed, numbed by her sudden kindness. She flicked the switch on her kettle and hit me with a flurry of inane questions about whether I took milk or sugar, whether I would be replacing the fence, what my badge number was.
Truthfully, I’ve no idea what I responded with but the beverage she did produce hit the spot to my tastes and I might have offered to personally fix it. The kindness of the woman brought me down a little. There was good in the world, untouched by sadness, pain, or Arthur-fucking-Henderson.
We parted ways, and I started to head home. Flurries of apologies were thrown into the direction of the lady, whom I didn’t even ask her name. The walk home with my body soaking, my clothes sticking to my body was long. I wished that the person I had caught was Arthur, just so I was a step closer to Arianna.
I arrived at my house with the door still wide open from when I had bolted out after the young man. Worryingly, as I got up to the door, I could see wet footprints on the wooden floor. It hadn’t been raining when I dashed off, so I immediately knew someone had been in my house since I had given chase.
Thinking it could be Michael; I pulled out my phone and dialled his number. It rang a few times, but I didn’t hear so much as a vibration or a ring in the house, so ended the call.
I walked patiently into the hallway, following the footsteps. They led back into the main room to my new base of operations. I picked up an umbrella, the best weapon I could find as I crept to the doorway. I emerged into the dining area, where nothing seemed to be disturbed. I cleared the room, making sure to check any of the corners.
As I made my way back to the hallway, the footsteps had been and gone, just from the main room. They hadn’t led anywhere else, so I halted my search and returned back to the dining room and the whiteboard. Whoever was in here probably witnessed some of the images and thought twice about doing anything or taking anything. Who could it have been? Nothing had been touched, just observed. It could have been Michael I suppose, maybe he’s checking in at the bar?
I sat at the dining table, thinking intently, but not connecting any dots. I was too tired and emotionally scarred to think clearly, so I dropped my head and slept.
The dreams I dreamt were the most disturbing I had experienced in a long time. The same crippling thoughts of losing Arianna cycled around my mind. I dreamt that Arthur violated her, and I was made to watch, not hear. I wanted to wake up but couldn’t. The thought of him running his filthy hands over her made me feel sick. That such a disgusting man could have his way with her, against her will, and I was powerless to do anything.
I hated having anxiety; I hated that feeling of the world swallowing me. I hated it more when my body was so fatigued that I needed sleep and I was trapped in my dreams, forced to relive distant memories, or forced into made-up scenarios that had me powerless. I screamed silent screams at Arthur in the dream. Then, in typical dream fashion, it became twisted. Horns formed from his head like the devil he was, and as he danced around a bound and gagged Arianna, he laughed. His laughter filled the room and drowned out my screams.
The small shreds of hope in my heart started to contend with the defeat in my mind, as the dream took a turn for the better. A devil, in the form of Cyril came forward, the tut of his walking stick drowning out Arthur’s laughter. The tutting got louder and louder, and suddenly an almighty crack over Arthur’s head sent it flying from his body. The devil of my past bested the devil in the present.
My screams stayed silent as I watched a helpless, now naked, Arianna fighting to escape from Cyril. As I got closer, he and Arianna got bigger, and I faded into nothingness. The dream felt ever so real.
“Don’t you dare come at me, boy! You are weak and pathetic! You would be nothing without your father! You are fucking useless,” Cyril said.
Appreciating that I had morphed into my younger self in the dream, Arianna had turned into Alexia, the young girl I considered my sister. Like a time machine, my mind was flicking between people I knew and cared about. The helpless victim in front of Cyril was another person I had failed to protect.
“Don’t worry about me, little brother, I’m safe,” Alexia softly said before my dream changed her back into Arianna. I wasn’t her younger brother, that’s what Robert used to call me.
Arianna then laughed at me, bound and naked like before. Arthur’s newly decapitated head laughed and whispered he was miles away and would never be caught by someone so worthless.
Suddenly, I started to fall. As I was falling, I could see lots of eyes on me like the night I walked into my room at the orphanage. I landed in a pool of blood like the hotel crime scene, where the Gardener stood up from the bed, covered in flowers. His slippery hands started exploring me; he whispered about how many children he had claimed in Fort Rose. Robert appeared and hit the Gardener like he hit Cyril when he beat Erin. “Run, little brother, don’t let him touch you too,” Robert screamed.
My stomach kept churning at the thought of what actually happened at Fort Rose. Why couldn’t I wake up? The night terror continued with Mallory and Miss Battersby each taking me by the hand, my adult self. As they led me away, Miss Battersby crumbled to dust. My grandfather, who I hadn’t thought about since that day he argued with my father demanded I look into the mirror and see the truth. I felt the heat of fire and flames surrounding me to the point I couldn’t breathe.
I was gasping in the dream and Cyril’s stick was tutting. His words became deafeningly loud. “I thought you would be one of the stronger ones, Sebastian. You’ve let me down. Make me proud. Make your FATHER proud.”
The whole room had turned into a mirror, with invisible hands writing some of the code I taught the children back at the orphanage. As I was gasping for air, struggling to breathe, I focussed on the writing in the mirror. It read: J3FF2M. All of the writing changed to J3FF2M, then the mirrored walls shattered and revealed the spot where I asked Arianna to marry me.
Suddenly, I could breathe again, my mind entering a safe place. Arianna could be heard. Her laughter was distant but resonated in my soul. Arthur’s voice followed with creeping doubt. “Detective, ‘X’ marks the spot.”
The spot that I proposed to Arianna. Was that the spot? Was that ‘X’?
My mother appeared and then started to stroke my head like she did when I was a child. She told me the answer was in front of me. She told me the code was the truth, then whispered every painful letter and number: J, three, F, F, two, M. She kept repeating it, and my wife echoing in the distance, saying she was fine, and the answer was there. What answer?
Suddenly, the bright sky darkened. Cyril’s ice blue eyes acted like a frozen sun, looking at my mother and me and getting larger, until I was engulfed in blue flame. The eye got closer and closer. I looked back into the giant dream-weaved eye and my mother started to shake me violently, and through sheer panic started to shield my head.
“Wake up, son, please,” she bellowed until she devolved into screams. Cyril’s eye so large I couldn’t see anything but the ice-like iris and the blackened, soulless void in the centre of his eye. My mother finally succeeded through her screams. “WAKE UP!”
I jolted awake, sweat pouring down my head. My mind was playing tricks on me. I couldn’t escape them sometimes, my thoughts. I try to suppress them, I try to fight them, but they are there, and they don’t leave. They stay loud, but unlike my screams, they don’t stay silent.
The sounds inside my head sadly weren’t as quiet as my surroundings. Peace. Reality. Tranquillity. For a split second, I seemed to forget it all. I exhaled deeply. I jerked my body around slightly and started to feel life. I tried to sit up, lifting my head from the wooden table. That dream felt eerily real. I’d had nightmares before and could usually force myself awake. My mind was taunting me with villains and angels from my past and this one felt real. I reflected on the dream, feeling that this one was different.
I grabbed my pen and went to the board, adding a new line to my shreds of clues:
J3FF2M
The code. What was it again? Every consonant had to be rolled back excluding vowels, and every number coincided with each of the vowels. J = H, 3 = I.
I started to write the answer on the white board. Why was my mother, my true mother, whispering this in my ear? Why was I seeing it in a mirror in my dream? F = D, 2 = E, M = N. J3FF2M = HIDDEN.
I’d never had that before. I sometimes documented my dreams as part of my therapy growing up but nothing quite so blatant and obvious had ever happened. There was always a meaning behind certain events, as my therapist would say. She’d provided me with a book of dreams once.
How intriguing that my mind would take me back to the code though? I didn’t need a dictionary on dreams for this. What was hidden? My mind racked up numerous scenarios and possibilities, but I couldn’t figure it out. I think I was still in shock from how real the dream felt, coupled with the fact an actual message had come out. The answer to finding Arthur is hidden in the clues? How?
My sub-consciousness was clearly joining some dots, but my conscious self was blinded by emotion. I was too tired and groggy to make any sense of it. Still wearing the rain-soaked clothes from the night before and sweat now dripping down my cold body from the night terror, I opted for a shower.
I loved the shower, as by contrast I had warm water hitting me, contrary to the previous evening.
What was I thinking, beating down that kid? Maybe that’s why I dreamt of Father. If that kid had been Arthur, I’d have punched him, beaten him, and killed him like Father did Erin back in the orphanage. I felt awful. I’d accepted that I was losing control of myself by allowing myself to get caught up in pure emotion.
Whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t going to help me find my wife. I needed a clear head, some element of tranquillity like those precious seconds after waking up. I genuinely felt like I was living in a nightmare. That’s when a penny dropped. I had a book on dreams. I needed to get some books on gods, deities, flowers, and decipher the hidden messages within the items and the scripture left behind.
I gave myself a shake, as under normal circumstances, Detective Blackwood would have followed through with that. Only this time, I was Sebastian. A scorned, worried husband and like the dream, a frightened child. I felt out of my depth. I’d hunted beasts successfully, numerous times before; only none of them had ever turned the hunt back on me like Arthur. With reinvigorated pride, I shut the shower off and restarted my mission.
As I was drying off from the shower, I heard loud banging at the door. Thud, Thud, Thud.
“Calm down, I’ll be just a minute!”
I figured it would be Michael but there was no need for the stupidly loud banging. I dried off and quickly threw some clothes on. As I fumbled into some socks, I shouted back at the door to say it was open. It didn’t swing open, so it definitely wasn’t Michael.
The door swung open and I was greeted with daylight. The faint sun blinded me at first as I’d been so used to overcast skies and the comfort of the night. No one was there. I walked onto the porch and looked both ways up and down the street. No movement; pedestrian or vehicle. I turned my back to the door and there it was. I hadn’t seen it before because I’d been blinded by the sunlight. It also explained the incredibly inappropriate banging. A polaroid photograph of my wife, bloodied and bruised, practically naked, almost like the dream, had been nailed to the door. I ripped it off and on the back of it, read a note: Missing you loads babe xxx.
She never called me babe. We hated that kids and youth referred to themselves as babe or baby. In fact, we used to joke about it as we had some friends that used the term in an incredibly cringeworthy fashion given they were in their late forties. It was an obvious taunt. The kisses on the message, was that another ‘x’? Or just Arthur’s piss taking?
I ran back out to the road, looking for the remains of a trail. He had to be close, in fact, he was probably watching.
“I’ll fucking find you!”
I collapsed on the pavement and as I fell to my knees, the sound of a car could be heard. Looking up, hoping it to be a getaway vehicle and a new clue, it wasn’t; it was Michael. He apologised profusely for leaving me, and that his daughter was unwell. I didn’t care. I’d rather he’d have stayed with his family, because if Arthur was watching, they were probably in as much danger as my wife.
A photograph was all I had of her, though the only shred of hope was that it obviously had to be quite new and it had been taken in the last twenty-four hours. I heard my phone ringing from the pavement outside the house and dashed back in the door. I answered, carefully doing my utmost not to roll off a load of expletives to my deserved captor.
“Blackwood.” It was the Chief. Just as well I hadn’t answered with what I was going to.
“Chief?”
“Care to explain how I’ve come in this morning to a complaint from a young man who said that a detective Blackwood beat seven shades out of him?”
“It’s a long story, but I won’t make it in today, I need a personal day.”
“You don’t just get to take a personal day, Blackwood. This isn’t a Hollywood movie. Get your ass in the office, my desk. Fifteen minutes.”
“I said, I am taking a personal day, Chief.”
“Don’t you dare backchat me, Blackwood. You either get in here and explain yourself and put this alleged assault to bed, or I’ll come and drag you in myself. Which is it?”
“Chief, I’ve never asked for you to trust me before. But I am begging you to trust me, that shit last night was me hunting down Henderson. Collateral damage. I’m close. I’m inches away. I turn a few more rocks and that bastard will be mine. Please, just give me twenty-four hours.”
I knew I was on borrowed time. The Chief wasn’t going to bend, and I could hear it in his voice. The scales from that statue were clearly swaying in his head. Did he let me follow the lead I didn’t have, or did he drag me in to the office? Either way, I was going to be looking for my wife.
The line went dead. I had my answer. A text from the Chief said he had no choice but to suspend me, pending investigation. The fact he hung up meant a lot. At least he had my back. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, the phone rang again with Arianna’s number displayed.
“Yeah?”
“Did you like my gift, Detective?” The bastard was taunting me. I heard the background noise as though he was driving; clearly he’d been the one to stick that photo on my door.
“I hope she breaks your neck next time, not just your nose,” I scoffed, proud of my wife’s defiance.
“She does have some fire in her. I admire that. I also love that my encore to our game of cat and mouse is that I get two for the price of one.”
“What do you mean, you son of a bitch?”
“Now, now, Sebastian. Beloved Sebastian, who is going to kill me. Ha! Can you believe that? She thinks you’re going to save the day. You don’t stand a chance of finding her, or me.”
I didn’t answer.
“And the real beauty is that when I kill your wife, because I will, Detective.”
My heart sank; I really was beginning to give up hope. Knowing what this animal was like, I didn’t see the point in taunting him and expediting the inevitable. He really would kill her, and he wouldn’t think twice.
“The beauty is that when I kill your wife, I inadvertently kill you.”
“Fuck you!” I retorted, anger building up inside me.
“It’ll be the perfect crime. I kill someone without even touching him or her. I’ll kill someone by breaking their spirit, their will, and their soul. I will be your end. Arthur Henderson will have bested the decorated Sebastian Blackwood.”
Silence. I was at a loss for words at this point. He had already broken my spirit and my will.
“Nothing to add? Oh well. Keep your phone handy, I’m going to call tonight and that little game we played last night? You’ll get to
hear me defile her one way or another.”
In the space of a day, I had reconciled with my wife, and then lost her. Likely forever.
I had become suspended from duties because of a beating I gave a kid.
I had no real leads other than a lucid dream subconsciously pointing to hidden messages.
That bastard still had my wife.
I needed a lifeline because like my heart, the phone line went dead.
Chapter Eight
Every hair stood up on my body. I could feel a cold sweat running down my forehead. I was so used to anxiety attacks but this one was different.
“Sebastian!” a rough voice echoed down the hallway.
I was shaking. I looked at my hands trembling and placed one of them on my chest to feel my heart racing. Even it was afraid. Thumping like a jungle drum, resonating in my fingertips. I paced up and down the room until I found myself staring in the mirror. I studied my petrified face, then tightened up my tie as best I could.
“One, two, three, four.” I tried counting to ten doing my mental preparedness ritual I’d adopted since I was a child. I heard my name being shouted again. The door handle was being man-handled by the figure on the other side, the outline of his feet shadowing at the bottom of the door, cracks of light breaking in. The figure protested at my stupidity, then chuckled at the thought of me locking myself away. Weddings. I had never been to one before, never mind taken centre stage with all eyes on me.
The people here wanted to be though. It was a happy moment, or so I thought. How could such a joyous moment be fraught with feelings of impending doom. My demons were sitting on my shoulder enjoying my internal destruction. I was beyond nervous. Then I thought of her, Arianna. How did I get so lucky? I had the most amazing woman in the world, and she agreed to marry me. I’d won the lottery of life.
Dancing With Devils Page 15
