The Girl in the Empty Room

by Neil Randall

  The soldiers moved away.

  Three marksmen approached, took aim, and with clinical precision fired an even, controlled burst of shots direct into the vest. The power and intensity knocked the pig back and forth. The barriers wobbled and rattled as bullets ricocheted from the body armour. A side of the vest was then breached; a jet of dark liquid spurting forth. One barrier gave way. The pig toppled over, splashing to the muddy ground.

  It had been killed outright.

  The officer called ceasefire and began issuing further instructions. Soldiers started digging drainage trenches in an attempt at diverting the rainwater, while others erected barriers around the target area. The mud had become so thick they had difficulty keeping their footing.

  A dozen or so pigs were then brought down from the temporary enclosure.

  “Right, team, gather round,” the officer shouted, to be heard above the pouring rain. “This will be the last exercise of the day. We’ll fire a few warning shots to startle the targets. Then fire at random into the enclosure. Wait for my signal, and then fire again. Understand.”

  “Yes, Sir,” they shouted back.

  On his first command they did as instructed. On his second they fired into the enclosure. Several pigs were mown down, screeching and writhing, crashing into muddy puddles. The unharmed animals that had fallen in fear were struggling to get up due to the thick mud-slides flowing through the enclosure like a river.

  “Ceasefire,” the officer shouted.

  The medical teams moved into position. The rain continued to hammer down in long, unrelenting sheets. The commanding officer stepped forward.

  “Okay, men. Reload. Then fire again when ready.”

  No-one moved back into a firing position.

  “I said – reload and fire!” the officer roared, raindrops streaming down his face. “What’s wrong with you? Are you disobeying a direct order from your superior?”

  One soldier was brave enough to speak out.

  “Sir, with all the respect in the world, we’ve been shooting these poor defenceless creatures all morning. It’s too much. We’ve had to deal with all this screeching and squealing and blood everywhere. It’s enough to put you off the army for good. By God it is.”

  The officer took a few moments to digest this.

  “Medical team,” he said on the half-turn. “Enter the enclosure and treat any injured animals as best you can. Destroy those that are of no use to us.” He turned back to the riflemen. “Men, help clear the area. Ferguson – report direct to me when we get back to base. I will not tolerate any show of insubordination or breach of discipline. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Due to the natural dip in the land a pool of dark water had formed. As they packed up their equipment troops splashed through it, dismembered heads and hoofs bobbing to the surface of…

  …Heavy rain rattled against the roof and windows, breaking the spell of Bogdanovic’s story.

  “What?” said Aaron. “So they just lined those pigs up and shot ’em, just to test out a new bullet?”

  Bogdanovic slowly nodded his head. “Now you understand.” He leaned over and kissed Aaron full on the mouth. “Now you understand how important this tattoo is.”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling strangely mesmerised, as if he was back in the story, watching all those pigs being shot, jumping at the crack of each bullet registering, at each terrorised squeal.

  “Excellent.”

  What happened next was like a memory, like something that had already taken place in Aaron’s life before, maybe many years ago. When he looked down, when he could clearly take stock of his surroundings again, Bogdanovic was scraping a needle across his skin, working with incredible skill and speed.

  “See. It’s taking shape, no? Already you can feel the power seeping into your veins, and it hurts you not, does it?”

  “No. I – I can’t feel a thing.”

  When finished, Bogdanovic dunked a swab of cotton wool into a jar of spirit and dabbed it over Aaron’s wrist, carefully wiping all the blood away.

  “There,” he said, proudly. “Now I must anoint my own skin with your beatific features.”

  Aaron looked up confusedly.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You must help me,” said Bogdanovic. “See that stool, the short, squat one with the large seat, over there? Bring it to me…that’s it…place it under the light there. That way I will be able to see what I’m doing.”

  With everything in place, just as Bogdanovic requested, Aaron went and sat back down on the banquette. Bare-chested, facing the other way, sitting cross-legged on the stool now, like a Yogi in meditative prayer, Bogdanovic began to hum Om in a soft yet convicted monotone. Then, slowly, his head started to turn, but it didn’t stop when Aaron could clearly see one side of his face. No. It continued to turn all the way around, through one hundred and eighty degrees, until Bogdanovic was staring straight at Aaron, his face where the back of his head should rightly have been. In the same manner, Bogdanovic’s arms swung back and around, clicking in and out of their sockets, manipulated like a plastic action figure.

  “Now” – he picked up a fresh needle – “I will scrape the holy needle across my skin, capturing you at this very moment, creating a permanent record of the magic that has passed between us today.”

  The needle started to buzz in his hand.

  Working with the same skill and speed as before, he outlined a perfect representation of Aaron’s head, filling in the features with an artistic flourish, until the face was complete, until Aaron was staring into his own eyes, until he found it difficult to discern between his flesh and bone self and the inky representation so perfectly formed on Bogdanovic’s skin.

  ***

  “Now,” said Bogdanovic, still on the stool, his head and arms returning to their normal positions. “You must pay me.”

  “Pay you? Oh, yeah, of course.” Aaron unzipped his jacket and pulled out a wallet. “How, erm…much do you want?” He looked down at his wrist, at the tattoo which seemed to have miraculously healed already, and which now felt so important to him, because he was certain it would be the catalyst in bringing him and Jacqueline closer together.

  “What I require,” sad Bogdanovic, levitating off the stool, hanging in the air, suspended, his eyes, once again, squeezed tightly shut, “cannot be paid for with such clumsy currency.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  From the front page of The Coastal Courier, 3rd November 2014

  LOCAL SURGERIES OVERWHELMED BY INCREASE IN SEXUAL INFECTIONS

  – COUNCILLOR BLAMES LACK OF EDUCATION IN SCHOOLS

  In recent weeks, surgeries and drop-in clinics in the region have reported an exponential increase (in some cases over 500%) in patients requiring referral or treatment for sexually-transmitted infections. District Councillor Perry Wilmot said of this alarming rise, “With cases of H.I.V., syphilis and herpes on the increase, sexual infection rates in the 18-35 age groups are reaching epidemic proportions. Clearly our young people are playing Russian roulette with their long-term health. If we don’t drum the safe sex message into them from an early age we face potential catastrophe.”

  Local GP Jeremy Mitchell had this to say, “I can’t remember anything quite like this before. Some of the symptoms I’ve seen in patients are so unusual I’ve had to refer them to the main hospital’s G.U.M. clinic for tests.” Full story continues on Page 5

  Steven Bland (Deputy-Editor)

  “Okay.” Hepworth switched the phone from right hand to left. “The body washed up on the beach definitely wasn’t Miss Jacqueline Franklin. Good. I’ll make sure her loved ones are informed…Okay. And are there any clues as to the identity of the body? Interesting…so you think she could well have been Polish, and headquarters are going to contact our Central European counterparts to see if anyone fitting the deceased’s description has been reported missing. Great…Yes, yes, I will. Thanks again, Brian. Goodbye.” He finished the call and looked
across the office at Priestly.

  “So, if the body wasn’t Miss Franklin’s, we’ve still got an ongoing missing person’s investigation to conduct. And did I hear you say something about the dead girl being Polish?”

  “That’s right,” he replied. “Apparently, there was a gold band around her ankle with a Polish hallmark, and a distinctive filling in one of her back teeth. HQ are going to run a continental-wide check on all missing persons – might turn something up, might not – because, from what I gather, there’s quite a lively mix of immigrants working in the region. So perhaps we should start checking out the factories, cafes and bars, just to see if any young women have gone missing. Who knows? This could well be connected with the Franklin disappearance.”

  “Good idea. And I’ve had a chat with our fraud squad. That off-shore account in the Bahamas is proving incredibly hard to track down – where one paper trail ends another doesn’t naturally start up again. In short, we’re having trouble finding out exactly where the money deposited into Miss Franklin’s account came from.”

  Hepworth thought about this for a few moments.

  “Nevertheless, we can draw a few conclusions. Of the men we’ve interviewed so far, most have alibis for the day in question, and didn’t appear to be potential kidnappers or murderers.”

  “Agreed,” said Priestly, “Although I must say I didn’t like the Reynolds character very much, or find his story particularly convincing. Out of all the men who came forward he had a bit of a nasty streak; he was the only one who seemed capable of exacting revenge. Perhaps he called round to Miss Franklin’s house to confront her, things got out of control and…”

  “Or maybe none of the events that have taken place are connected.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “Well, maybe Reynolds, in a fit of temper, broke into the house, trashed the contents and sprayed that message on the wall, simply to get back at Miss Franklin, but had nothing to do with her disappearance. Perhaps the money is completely unrelated, too.”

  “But surely – “

  “Look. Don’t listen to me, Di. I’m just thinking out loud.” He checked his wristwatch. “Right, nearly a quarter past. Let’s go and make a few calls, talk to a few local businessmen, see if we can’t shed any light on all of this.”

  ***

  “Old Bill?” Michael Babb gestured for the officers to sit down in visitors’ chairs. “What have I done this time? Forgot to pay a parking fine?”

  “No, no,” said Hepworth. “We just called in on the off-chance. We’re conducting the investigation into the disappearance of Miss Jacqueline Franklin. As you probably know, a body was found washed up on the beach recently, that of a young woman of around the same age. But this morning the coroner informed us that the body wasn’t hers.”

  “Really? Well, that’s a, erm…relief, I s’pose.”

  “Indeed,” said Hepworth. “But items found on the deceased indicate that she’s of Polish origins. With your company being one of the biggest employers in the area, a company that takes on immigrant workers, we wondered if you were aware of any young women going missing recently?”

  Babb leaned so far back in his leather swivel chair, the material squeaked and the hinges groaned.

  “We’re right in saying that you employ a significant proportion of Poles and Romanians at the factory?”

  “One or two, yeah,” Babb finally replied, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s something we’ve been asked to encourage; the town council got us to sign up to some initiative scheme. But to tell you the truth, the factory is only one of many businesses in my, erm…portfolio. Day to day, a team of managers runs the place. It’s a sheer fluke that you caught me here this afternoon. I had to stop by to sign some papers.”

  “Oh, oh I see,” said Hepworth. “But presumably you’d have been informed if one of your employees disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? How’d you mean? – disappeared?”

  “Just that, Mr Babb.” For the first time, Hepworth’s voice betrayed a little impatience. “A girl of Polish origins washes up on the beach, we’re simply visiting local businesses that employ foreign workers to see if anyone has left recently, maybe abruptly, without giving notice.”

  “Well, as I’m sure you appreciate, we do employ a lot of casual staff here, not on zero hours contracts or nothing like that, just temporary workers during busy periods of the year. As its pretty grim, boring, backbreaking work, quite a few people bail out on us after a day or two, so we have a relatively large turnover of staff.”

  “Understood,” said Hepworth. “But you do keep records?”

  “Yeah, course, but without speaking to the chap who hires people I couldn’t tell you about any comings and goings, not off the top of my head.”

  Hepworth took a business card out of his jacket pocket.

  “Fair enough. Here.” He handed it to Babb. “This has both my mobile and office numbers on it. If you could make a few enquires and get back to me, it would be most appreciated.”

  Babb took the card but made no acknowledgement or promise to contact Hepworth.

  Both officers got to their feet.

  “Out of interest,” said Hepworth, “are you acquainted with Miss Franklin, the missing woman?”

  “Yeah, I am as it goes. She’s good friends with my partner, Katie. Can’t say I’ve got much time for her, though, bit of a druggie, ain’t she? Don’t really like the idea of Katie spending so much time with her, a young mum being pissed up and stoned round her kids is something I don’t agree with.”

  “And was that, to the best of your knowledge, a regular occurrence?”

  “Bloody right it was. If she ain’t have gone missing – and, please, don’t take this the wrong way, ’cause I’m not wishing her any harm – social services or whatever would’ve taken those kiddies off her. Forever forgetting to pick up ’em up from school, never used to feed ’em proper. She was a right state. In many ways those twins are better off without her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  With Michael out all afternoon, Katie found herself scouring the internet again, pursuing all kinds of tenuous links: the C.I.A. conspiracy theory, the proliferation of sexual infections, the story the Boge relayed to Jacqueline and Ryan, the story about the Indian tribe being slaughtered. As pointless as all this seemed, she finally stumbled upon a magazine article entitled: The Bogeyman or Chief Wanayama: Copycat Killings in the Town of Nattawa. At the top of the article, under the headline, was a poem or, more correctly, a few lines of verse, apparently from a song sung by local children during and after the killing spree, which completely freaked Katie out:

  The Boge, the Boge is not a real man

  The Boge, the Boge will kill you out of hand

  The Boge, the Boge will make you understand

  The Boge, the Boge is the bogeyman

  Article by Lake Palmer. Copyright 2009

  The summer of 2004 was one of the hottest on record. The West Coast of America experienced some of the highest temperatures in living memory – sidewalks melted, rivers ran dry, forest fires raged. Nowhere was hotter than the small town of Nattawa. Famed for its Red Indian nature reserve (which finally received World Heritage Status in 1998), this sleepy backwater, heavily reliant upon the tourist trade, an area, in fact, completely rejuvenated following the status upgrade, was location of one of the most brutal and bizarre killing sprees in American criminal history.

  The story begins on the morning of October the 29th. At around eight a.m. the sheriff’s office received a phone call from Hattie Western, proprietor of a cheap boarding house in a rough, rundown area of town, notorious for drugs and prostitution. In gabbled tones, Western reported that a dozen of her guests had been murdered in their sleep.

  Promptly, Police Chief Pete Kennedy, a wily, silvery-haired law enforcement officer with over forty-years’ experience, attended the crime scene with his deputy, Tommy-Lee Jenkinson. The boarding house itself was a ramshackle affair, a three-storey woode
n building constructed in the colonial style, but which had fallen into serious disrepair. Most of the first and second storey windows were boarded-up, the front lawn was scruffy and untended, and the porch area dilapidated, with broken wooden floorboards and a busted rail.

  As soon as the policemen stepped out of the squad car, Hattie Western, an aging, snow-haired mulatto, a former bordello madam and lively local character, pushed her way past the many onlookers gathered on the sidewalk, waving her hands in the air, crying, “They’ve killed ’em all.”

  After calming her down, Kennedy and Jenkinson asked her to show them to the scene of the crime. The room in question, set aside for migrant workers looking for cheap overnight lodgings, was situated on the ground floor, down a narrow, dusty hallway with peeling paper on the walls. What Kennedy and Jenkinson saw inside that room would remain forever etched in their minds.

  “Jesus Christ, Pete!”

  On the floor of this large, dimly-lit space, bereft of furniture, were a dozen old mattresses, lined up, one beside the other. On these mattresses were the twisted, bloodied corpses of twelve men. Stripped naked, they had all been scalped in the manner of a traditional Indian ritual killing, had had their throats cut, and their genitals sprayed with what looked like (and what was later confirmed by a forensic team) black paint. On the blood-flecked forehead of each man rested a card with the image of an Indian chief on it, complete with feathered headdress. On the south wall, sprayed with the same black paint were the words: SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.

  All of which set alarm bells ringing in Kennedy’s head. Once back at headquarters, he dug up some archive material regarding a famous case that was never officially closed. In the late nineteen seventies, dozens of drilling workers excavating for oil on the neighbouring Nature Reserve (years before it received World Heritage Status) had been murdered in the exact same fashion as the men from the boarding house: scalped, throats cut, and with a similar card left on the corpses. Only in the earlier killings, the men had all been infected with a strange sexual disease, a hideous rash which spread over the entire genital region, and which, like the case itself, had never been satisfactorily explained.