He rushes his words out: ‘The fact that they’re fishing weights isn’t important. What matters is that they’re lead weights. They’re symbolic.’
‘Symbolic of what?’
‘Hypocrisy. It’s all described in Dante’s Inferno. I have a copy at home. In the Eighth Circle of Hell, the hypocrites are weighed down by heavy cloaks that are gilded with lead. That’s what the killer was telling us with the weights. That’s what all the victims had in common. We thought Mary Cowper was spotless, but she wasn’t – at least not in the eyes of some people. Not when she was doing things forbidden in the Bible. To her own mother, Mary’s sexuality was the work of the Devil himself, which is why she disowned her seventeen years ago. The killer thought Mary deserved an even more severe punishment. Same goes for Cassie Harris and Sue Halligan. They were both following God, but continuing to commit acts against His will, and that was unforgivable.’
‘Okay, but why the panic?’
‘Because it’s not over.’
‘What are you talking about? Daley’s here, in custody. He can’t—’
‘It’s not Daley!’ Cody is practically shouting now. ‘Don’t you get it? It’s his son! It’s Ewan! Mrs Laplace told us that Mary Cowper came to her from Abbotsleigh Primary. Ewan would have been there at the same time. He knew Mary! And if Ewan went online to find his other two victims, he would have used his own computer. That’s why Grace couldn’t find a trace of any such activity on his dad’s machine. And now we need to stop him.’
‘Stop him from what?’
‘The three murder victims weren’t his real targets. They were substitutes – rehearsals for the main event. Ewan Daley was merely working his way up to killing the biggest hypocrite of all.’
51
He remembers . . .
At primary school. Sitting there in his damp trousers, praying that nobody else will notice the stain, the smell. But it seems that most of the class are already aware. Whenever the teacher is otherwise occupied, children turn to look at him and laugh silently. He dreads the upcoming break, when it will be much easier for them to tease and mock and jeer.
He cannot concentrate on the lesson. The teacher is Miss Cowper, and while the other children seem to have no problem with her, Ewan finds it difficult to be in her presence. She reminds him too much of his mother. Always talking about God. Always going on about the terrifying fate that awaits those who stray from the path of righteousness.
She even looks remarkably like his mother, especially now through his tear-filled eyes. It is as though, no matter where he goes, he is unable to evade his parent’s judgemental, scornful scrutiny.
When Miss Cowper strolls slowly down the aisle of the classroom, reading aloud from a book, he finds himself praying for her not to notice his predicament. His embarrassment is intolerable enough already.
But she does halt alongside his desk. When he blinks away the blurriness in his vision and looks up, he sees that her eyes are on him, flickering from his stained trousers to his wet cheeks. And so he adapts his prayers correspondingly. He wills her to see his hurting. Pleads silently with her to show him that God-fearing people are not all like his mother: they can be compassionate and kind. They can offer love in a way that does not entail pain. They can enfold him in an embrace that will shield him from the many tormentors in his world.
And, for the briefest of moments, it seems to Ewan that she is about to do precisely that. He believes he detects the minute shift of her features into an expression of intense pity. He senses a slight leaning towards him, as though in preparation for stepping across the line that divides teachers from pupils.
But then something seems to provoke Miss Cowper to reassert her detachment. She tears her gaze away from his with the briskness of a plaster being torn from a cut knee, and it stings Ewan a hundred times as much. She moves on, continuing along the aisle as though she has already cast Ewan and his plight from her mind.
And now his shame is complete. Everyone knows of his state, and they all loathe him for it. Even Miss Cowper, who had the opportunity to turn it all around for him, chose instead to turn her back. She is exactly like his mother – she could almost be his mother – and he hates her for it.
At the age of six he does not understand much – he has no awareness of the complexities of emotional trauma and psychological transference – but he knows how it feels to want to hurt someone. And right at that moment he wants to hurt Miss Cowper. He wants something bad to happen to her. Something painful. He wants her to trip and break her leg, or to faint and smash her face on the floor. Or simply just to die.
That’s it. She could just die. Something goes wrong with her heart or her brain, and she keels over and dies.
It’s wrong to feel that way. He knows that. He knows he could never wish it of his mother, because children have to love their mothers.
But Miss Cowper is just a woman who looks and sounds like her.
So that wouldn’t be as wrong, would it?
He remembers . . .
He has made it into the school building. The taunts are still ringing in his ears. Those oh-so-visible ears. With only a patina of hair remaining on his skull, his ears seem to jut out like handlebars.
He hopes he will be safer now. The staring will continue, of course, but perhaps the insults and the laughter will be stifled.
Please, Lord, let me get through this day. Don’t make it any worse for me, please. Tomorrow will be easier if I can just get through today.
He ambles morosely along the school corridor. Most of the children are already in their classrooms, but he has dragged his feet. He would quite happily remain all day in this deserted, jibe-free corridor if he could.
But ahead, a door opens. Miss Cowper appears. In silhouette against the bright room behind her, she could easily be Ewan’s mother. And even as she closes the door and heads his way, he still feels as though this is his mother by proxy. She looks out at the world through the same faith-tinted eyes. She has the same idea of where goodness and evil reside, and in viewing Ewan she will see the same wickedness and unholiness that his mother sees.
He has learnt to expect no interaction with this teacher outside the classroom, and his first instinct is to hang his head and avert his eyes to avoid her judgement. And yet, as they approach each other, some spark of rebellion ignites within him. He finds himself lifting his head and staring directly at her, challenging her for a reaction.
Her eyes find him. Ewan thinks he detects a glimmer of emotion there, but he’s not sure what it is. And then she passes him without a word.
He knows he should let it go, but his defiant streak persists.
‘Miss!’ he calls. ‘Miss!’
She stops. Turns.
‘Ewan? Can I help you?’
He rasps a hand across his scalp. ‘What do you think?’
Her eyebrows dance as her mind plays with a response. ‘Very . . . fetching, Ewan. A little more extreme than your usual.’
‘It was my mother’s idea.’
Miss Cowper nods, seemingly unsure as to how to proceed. She starts to move away, but Ewan stops her again.
‘She said it’s what God wanted for me.’
Puzzlement now from Miss Cowper. ‘God?’
‘Yes, miss. Apparently he’s taken an interest in hairstyles now. He used to be interested in my underpants, but now it’s my hair.’
He doesn’t know where these words have come from, and he hears the bitterness in his own voice. The shock registers with Miss Cowper too, and she advances on him, her face set.
‘Ewan Daley, if that was an attempt at humour, then it was in very poor taste. You should never mock the Lord. I think that your mother would be appalled at what you have just said. Would you like me to tell her?’
He stares back at her, and feels the insolence being squashed out of him. Tears fill his eyes, and he hates himself for being so weak.
‘No, miss.’
‘No. I thought not. Now get to your
class, and I suggest you think carefully about your behaviour.’
She spins on her heel then, and marches stiffly down the hall, her footsteps echoing. Just before she disappears around the corner, he wants to call out to her again, but the word that sits unused on his tongue is ‘Mummy’.
He remembers . . .
The onset of puberty. Huge changes in his body, but also powerful changes in his emotions and urges. The world seems a more confusing, challenging place, and he is not sure how he fits in, how he should function. He needs guidance, reassurance.
He is at secondary school now. No more Miss Cowper. But his mother is still around, still demonstrating her warped love for him.
He had hoped the other pupils would accept him more at this school. But it hasn’t worked out that way. Some of them will have heard the stories brought in by his contemporaries at Abbotsleigh. Others seem to possess a mystical ability to sense that he is somehow different. He is still isolated, still unhappy. He tries to focus his energy on his schoolwork, but his hormones provide distractions.
Once, his mother catches him in the shower when he is addressing those distractions.
He doesn’t hear her enter. Is not even sure how she got in through a door he believed to be locked.
But there she stands, and he has never seen such disgust on her face before. Her very expression withers him, destroys his ardour.
But of course that is not enough.
She screams at him of his wickedness. Lets him know of the rotten core inside him. And while she emits her pious roars, she turns the shower to its coldest setting and aims the icy needles at his cowering body, his shrivelling genitals.
He remembers that lesson for a long time. With each period of arousal – and there are many at that tender age – he also experiences guilt, pain, shame. Sex becomes dirty, taboo. Pretty, flirty girls become teasing whores. The frustration builds.
It doesn’t occur to him to question his mother. She is right. Like Mary Cowper, she has God on her side. Of course she is right.
And then it happens.
A water tank bursts in the school. The pupils have to be sent home early.
The first thing he notices when he walks through the front door is the noise. Coming from upstairs. The moaning and the groaning. And he knows what this is. He has done enough research on the Internet to recognise these sounds.
He mounts the stairs. Stands outside his mother’s bedroom for a full minute, not believing his ears.
But he knows what this is.
Gently, with one finger, he pushes the door open.
She is there, naked on her back, a man’s head clamped between her thighs.
She doesn’t see him at first. She is too busy taking her private stairway to heaven.
He finds the scene impossible to process. This is lust. Carnal desire. And she is not married to this man. How can this be squared with what she told her son as she tortured him with ice-cold water in the shower? How does that work?
Is she not perfect? Can God truly condone this behaviour?
She sees him then.
The roar for him to get out hits him like a blast of wind. It rattles him, but he does not move.
Even when she casts her man aside like a broken toy and fumbles for a dressing gown and yells at him again, he does not move.
Even when she thunders across the room towards him, he stands his ground.
She asks him what in God’s name he thinks he is doing.
And then he uses the word. The first time he has ever dreamt of calling her this.
Hypocrite.
It tumbles out of his mouth. It is so natural, so appropriate. It demands to be heard.
The slap is the hardest he has ever received. Her hand swings in a wide arc, and he decides later that he probably could have avoided it. But he lets it land. Lets it rock his head on his shoulders. Lets it leave an imprint on his face.
But still he remains where he is. Defiant. Hating. Perplexed. Saddened.
And knowing it will be the last time she ever hits him.
He remembers . . .
Living with his father now. He has good days and bad days. Mostly bad. His world has been turned upside down. He feels so full of loathing, so angry. He has a couple of school friends, but he hardly ever sees them. Often he tells his dad he’s going to meet up with them, but he doesn’t. He goes for long walks instead. Through the park, or into town.
He cries a lot, too. At night, into his pillow. And that makes him even angrier.
There’s a poem he read. It’s by Philip Larkin. It’s about how your parents fuck you up. So, so true. Look at me, he thinks. What a mess they made of me.
He doesn’t know about God any more. He thinks he believes, but he’s not sure. He’s been let down too many times. God has never seemed to care what happens to him. Nobody cares.
Sometimes the hatred makes him physically sick. He will replay events in his head, again and again, and he will feel the bile rising. He will feel the burning in his stomach, and then his throat, and he will have to rush into the bathroom to throw up into the toilet.
He decides he needs an outlet, and one day he finds it.
He’s not supposed to use his dad’s computer. His dad told him so, in no uncertain terms. But he’s having problems with his own laptop, and it’ll take only a few minutes.
So he enters his dad’s bedroom. Brings the machine to life. There’s a window already open, and in that window is a video that has been paused. And now he’s curious. He can’t stop himself. He needs to know what this video contains.
So he plays it.
It takes him a while to understand what this is, but the dawning is blinding. It is revelatory.
Hypocrite.
They are all fucking hypocrites. They ruin your life in the name of what they call right, and then they disobey all the rules themselves with impunity.
And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
Well, they deserve to be punished too. Why not? Why should they get off scot-free?
Why should the monsters who make it their mission to destroy the youngest and weakest and most innocent among them even be allowed to live?
He remembers . . .
Mere weeks ago now. Searching the web for information on hypocrites and a fitting punishment for them. The lead weights are a nice touch. He’ll use that. Nobody else will figure it out, but he’ll know. He’ll know that the reason for her punishment is in plain view, for all to see. His dad has some lead fishing weights in the shed; he won’t miss one or two.
The lump hammer is easy. He simply buys one in a DIY shop on Smithdown Road. His appearance is more of a problem, though. There are cameras on every street.
He finds his solution at the local supermarket. Or, to be more precise, at the recycling bank in the car park. It’s a simple act to saunter up to it one dark evening, pick up a bin bag dropped next to the clothes container, and walk away again.
In the bag he finds a coat with a hood. A little big for him, but it’ll do the trick, and nobody will be able to trace it back to him. He already knows of a secluded wooded spot in Wavertree Playground where he can secrete the coat when he’s finished with it. Perfect.
The days pass. He does more research. He remembers how Miss Cowper was always warbling on about walking her dog in the grounds of the cathedral, so it’s not difficult to find her.
When the time is right, he does it.
He nearly chickens out, but he goes through with it.
It almost surprises him that, in the dim light of that winter evening, Mary Cowper seems more like his mother than ever before. In the tunnel, when he utters the single word ‘Mummy’, and she turns and faces him, and all he can see is the same burning in Mary’s eyes that appeared every time his mother chastised or struck him, the urge to extinguish that light is irresistible. Every blow of the hammer is a blow into the skull of the woman who took away his h
appiness.
For a few days afterwards it is enough. His need for retribution is sated.
But then the hunger returns, stronger than before.
It is easier with Cassie Harris.
Easier again with Susan Halligan.
Killing his mother starts to become a habit.
He remembers . . .
This evening. Coming home from school. Seeing the police cars outside, the cops outside the front door. Realising it’s all over. Realising his habit will have to be brought to its obvious conclusion.
He turns and walks away. Goes around the corner and calls at the house of Mr Oates. Explains to the old man that he can’t find their key to the alleyway gate, and could he borrow one for a few minutes so that he can put the bin out?
Once he is in the alley, it’s a simple matter to scale the back wall of his house without being seen by the police. Simple, too, to pick the cheap padlock on his dad’s shed, and then collect the things he needs.
And now he’s here.
Here in the middle of Dante’s Inferno, with its bubbling cauldrons and hellish heat and smouldering flesh and skull-splitting screams.
Here is where it ends.
52
Even before Webley can bring the car to a halt, Cody can see that this is going to be a difficult situation. There are too many uniforms milling about, as if unsure what to do next.
Cody and Webley get out of the car, and one of the constables approaches.
‘What’s up?’ says Cody. ‘Is the boy here?’
The constable nods. ‘He’s here, all right, Sarge. You’d better come and take a look.’
Cody moves along the garden path. In through the front door. There is a curious smell here. A burning smell.
He crosses the hall to where several more uniforms are clustered at a doorway.
‘Let me through,’ he tells them.
They part. They let him see. And what he sees takes his breath away.
Hope to Die: A gripping new serial killer thriller (The DS Nathan Cody series) Page 29
