by Max China
The creature had come to rest on its side. In profile, it looked like a grotesque parody of an ostrich. Attached to a tiny head, the petrol-tank body was fuelled by means of an enormous proboscis. The hind legs, disproportionate in size, intrigued him. Designed for walking? No, more like landing gear.
His eyelid began to itch.
The irritation too much, he decided he’d find some lotion to relieve it temporarily. He turned away, got up, and went inside.
Chapter 3
St. Michael’s Church. 8:21 a.m.
A silent scream parting his lips, Timothy Salter jolted upright in bed and pitched himself forwards, eyes wide, hands outstretched, snatching at empty air; his first thought, always his sister. Crushed by nightmares as surely as Sarah had been under the wheels of the train, his shoulders slumped. He fell backwards onto the dishevelled bedding.
Arrows of light beamed through the boarded-up slats of the presbytery window and stabbed at the darkness of the squalid room. His eyes adjusted. On top of the bushel crate he’d turned onto its end to use as a makeshift bedside table, was a photograph of him and Sarah taken by his father in the garden of their home. It was a tenuous link to the only happiness he’d ever known. His gaze lingered over her. Only ten, wisdom beyond her years already apparent on a face now faded by exposure to daylight. She stood with one hand on his shoulder and a wan smile at her lips. Her hair was swept from her face by the breeze blowing that day. Blonder than he was, she seemed to be staring right back at him. For an instant, he saw through his father’s eyes, saw himself dressed in a black and white cowboy outfit, wearing a too-big Stetson, sat astride a tricycle, aiming a toy gun at his dad, while Sarah, grinning at his antics, looked straight ahead. He imagined the touch of her hand on his shoulder. He always thought of her hands. They seemed too big for a little girl. He remembered his mother’s words. “Smile for the camera, my lovely angels.”
He smiled.
A flashbulb went off in his mind.
Long lost voices came back to him. His mother and father. He’d already been alive longer than they had lived.
‘Are you sure it’ll be all right to leave the children with your sister, Russ?’ His mother saw him watching, and she moved with his father out of earshot. Though he couldn’t hear them, Timothy read their lips, a talent he’d picked up from a deaf boy at the nursery. ‘She isn’t really old enough.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ his father replied. ‘She’s eighteen next month, and she’s lived with us long enough to know what’s what.’
‘I know. I just worry Jane isn’t mature enough to look after them without us around.’ She sighed. ‘I wish Mum and Dad hadn’t gone to live in Australia.’
‘And I wish mine weren’t dead. Look, it’s just for the weekend,’ his father said, embracing her. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll be fine. We’ll have fun.’
Timothy lifted the photograph and began the ritual he repeated every day. He scrutinised the shiny surfaces in the background of the picture. A dark garage window had caught the shadowy image of his parents, their faces obscured behind the brilliant star-shaped flash from the camera. What happened to you? Even today, he didn’t know for sure. He knew they’d been killed, but there had been some reluctance on the part of the authorities to explain exactly how. On the day his parents were due home, the police arrived with a man and woman he didn’t know. Social workers. Despite Jane’s protests – ‘I’ll call Nan and Grandad,’ she’d yelled – he and Sarah had been taken away and placed into care.
If Sarah had only known their grandparents had left Australia almost straight away, to come for them, she might have been able to hang on. No, she wouldn’t – we ran because she wanted to save me.
After the accident, he’d been returned to the home. The same night, the men came and took him out of the dormitory to another room. He shook his head violently, but the experience remained. The men were fascinated by his apparent refusal to cry out. They drank, laughed and took photographs.
When it was over, and he’d been returned to bed, the caretaker came. ‘Come on, boy. I’m getting you out of here.’ Snatches of what the man had said in the car journey came back to him. ‘One day, Timothy, you’ll see what I did was right. I’m taking you to a woman I know. She couldn’t have a kid of her own. She’ll see you right. Her people are rough and ready, but they’ll not allow any harm to come your way.’
He lived with the woman among travelling people for twelve years, always moving. There wasn’t a part of the country he hadn’t seen. They’d accepted his refusal to speak, assuming he was mute. He learned to work the land using only basic tools, earning his keep doing odd jobs; he became a skilled gardener.
One night, sitting around the fire somewhere in the wilds outside Scotland, a wandering woman came by the camp. She stayed for just one night. He listened enthralled as she told stories, but one in particular struck him. The woman’s eyes burned into him as she related the tale. It was his story. The story of him and Sarah, right down to what happened with the train. The old woman concluded by saying the little girl’s ghost would find no rest until her brother returned to the lanes she haunted.
As soon as he had the chance, he returned to Churchend. The orphanage had been closed for years. The old priest had accepted his offer to work on the grounds; he’d seen how destitute the boy appeared.
‘Where are you staying?’ the priest asked.
Timothy took a pad from his pocket, scribbled on it with a pencil, and held it out.
Father Raymond took it. ‘I’ll not see you sleeping under the stars – not while there’s room under God’s roof.’ The old man had never discovered Timothy’s true identity. Over the years, he revealed snippets of information to his guest, usually when in drink. ‘My predecessor, he knew what was going on. How could he not have?’ He’d scrutinised Timothy. ‘If that’s what you’re thinking, you’d be right. The drunken pervert kept a diary. I found it over there.’ His hand indicated the altar. ‘There, of all places. Brazen. No shame. Died of a heart attack when he heard the caretaker had gone to the police. And then the whole sorry tale came out.’ The priest took a sip of his whisky, swilled it around the glass and then drained the last of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It took a while for the authorities to close the place down. They never found the little boy. His grandparents had come all the way from Australia to apply for adoption. Heartbroken, they were. That family was cursed, I tell you. The caretaker stood before the courts and testified, but I think he knew more about what had happened with the children than he let on. With the men involved convicted and jailed, it didn’t take long for the stain to spread over the church. People began to stay away.’ He stood and swayed, gripping the edge of the table. ‘Pass me the bottle, would you?’
Timothy obliged.
Father Raymond poured himself another and offered the open neck to his guest. Timothy shook his head.
The priest lowered his voice, and holding the back of his hand to his mouth, spoke with theatrical discretion. ‘You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I swear I’ve seen a little girl running among the graves.’ Distracted by his recollections, he failed to see Timothy sit up, more attentive. ‘I always think there’s more to ghosts than we can fathom. You know, there’s a reason for everything on God’s Earth. Life has a way of negating evil things. Did you ever wonder why you always find a dock plant among nettles? The cure for our ills is never far away if you know where to look for it.’ After that conversation, Timothy took to walking the lanes, the tracks, the graveyard, endlessly searching. But he never saw Sarah.
His reverie over, he picked up the tear-off calendar. August 9. The words of wisdom beneath the date were attributed to Abraham Lincoln: “The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.”
Twenty-seven years had passed exactly like that, but nothing had changed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall. Gaunt. Deep-set eyes stared back at him. He saw nothing in them other than a bleak wilder
ness and ever-lasting guilt. He touched them, expecting to feel pain. He’d lost weight. He had to eat. If his death was judged self-inflicted, that would be suicide, and he’d be consigned to purgatory, never to see his loved ones again. He hesitated, and then, ripping the page clear, crumpled it into a ball and placed the calendar back by his bed.
He got dressed, slipped his Bible into the top pocket of his boiler suit and prepared for what he had to do.
Chapter 4
Ashmore Top Security Hospital. 8:25 a.m.
The guard pushing the wheelchair bearing the oversized prisoner along the corridor glanced down at Wolfe. The giant’s head, dipping lower with each stride, slumped and came to rest on his shoulder.
‘He’s gone,’ the guard said, like a parent who’d succeeded in getting a wayward child to sleep, and continued towards the lift.
Although the patient was strapped in and flanked by a contingent of ten men, Chisolm eyed him warily. ‘Do not assume for one moment he’s less dangerous because he’s doped up,’ he said, without breaking stride. ‘I heard he came up like a jack-in-a-box last time he was moved. Doctors underestimated the dose needed to keep him under. Took a bite out of someone’s arm, right through the shirtsleeve, swallowed it before anyone could stop him. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Did it for pure devilment.’
‘I heard that, too.’ The guard steered the wheelchair round a corner. ‘No one knew what he was like back then, did they? To be honest, I’d gladly finish him if I had the chance. Do society a big favour.’
‘I think that goes for all of us,’ Chisolm replied. A chorus of grunts signalled the squad’s approval.
Impassive, if Wolfe had heard their words, he gave no sign. His face pressed close to his exposed upper arm, a trickle of fluid oozed from the corner of his mouth, staining the high-cut sleeve of the blue gown he wore. Wolfe had long ago perfected the art of swallowing and sly regurgitation after studying early twentieth-century magicians and escape artists, particularly Houdini. The cocktail was strong enough to fell an elephant; Chisolm had told him that once he’d drunk it. The effects, though diminished by his slow expulsion, were enough to dull his senses. He wondered absently if they’d deliberately overdosed him. He needed to be sick, and fast. But not yet. Outside, that’s when he’d do it – if he was still conscious. He focused on the whisper of rubber wheels against the hard vinyl floor, on the stopping and starting, as he was reversed into the sterile security zones between doors; one banged shut and locked before the other unlocked and opened.
The last of the liquid expelled, Wolfe’s tongue felt huge, rubbery. He bit into it, focusing on the pain. Sheer force of will prevented him from falling under the spell of the residual chemicals.
Another door. Fresh air on his skin. The sun shone through his eyelids; blood orange, the colour of tomato soup. He was outside. The August warmth soothed him. Suddenly spun around, he was being hauled in reverse. The wheelchair bumped up something with a metallic clang. A ramp. The whine of an electric lift. He daren’t peep beneath his eyelashes – Chisolm would see. The motor stopped. More manoeuvring. He was in a vehicle. His concentration lapsed, and he slipped into the dark streets he inhabited in his dreams, lurking in the shadows, away from the gas-lit pools of light that gleamed off wet cobblestones in the midnight mist, looking for prey.
His body sagged.
‘Finally,’ Chisolm said, checking his watch. Eight twenty-eight a.m. ‘Now he’s really under.’
Chapter 5
Copse Hall. 8:31 a.m.
George Kotlas turned into the visitor’s car park and pulled up close to the reception building. He looked around as he opened the back door and unhooked his suit jacket from the holder above the window. The tarmac and white-lining was obviously new. Only one other car was parked there. A mixture of excitement and anticipation fluttered in his stomach. He recalled the letter Dr Rubenstein had sent three weeks ago. It had contained a brief introduction, together with an invitation to call him, but it was the title – Director of Forensic Psychiatry, Proof and Experimental Unit – that drew Kotlas in.
‘Dr Rubenstein? It’s George Kotlas. You wrote to me—’
‘Dr Kotlas.’ Rubenstein cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I did. I take it you’re interested?’
‘At this stage, I’d say I’m more curious. Why approach me?’
‘Haven’t you heard, Kotlas? There’s an acute shortage of psychiatrists per se. And practitioners with your provenance are rarer still. I sent a non-disclosure form with the letter. Sign and return it to me. Until then I’m not at liberty to discuss anything further.’
Kotlas complied. A flurry of correspondence followed; a formal interview was arranged and confirmed in writing, along with a list of procedures to be followed on his arrival at the hospital. It occurred to him that Sunday was an odd day to ask him to come in, but it was his day off. It suited him. He still didn’t know exactly what his new role, if successful, would entail. He patted his pocket to check his passport hadn’t fallen out, locked the car, and then followed the directional signs for Reception.
Once Kotlas had completed his security induction, he sat examining his knuckles, comparing one hand to the other. When he’d finished that, he turned to his palms. Unsurprisingly, the calluses on his right were harder and thicker than those on his left. The security guard that had recorded his fingertip biometrics had remarked on them. ‘Are you sure you’re a doctor? Your hands look like you lay bricks in your spare time.’
Kotlas had grinned. ‘I do a lot of work with my hands.’
The door in front of him opened. A bespectacled middle-aged man stepped through and locked it behind him. ‘Dr Kotlas, I presume?’ He closed the space between them with surprising speed and held out his hand. ‘I’m Dr Rubenstein. Philip, but we use last names around here. Welcome. I’m sorry about the delay. Control Room protocol, I’m afraid. Come on through.’ He unlocked the door again. ‘I’ll escort you up to my office.’
Rubenstein used his keys to open and close the numerous doors that barred their way. Finally, he led the younger man into a long passage around the corner.
‘I’ve lost my bearings a little bit,’ Kotlas said, and paused in the middle of the corridor. ‘Is this new? It’s just that I noticed a large, older building close behind where Reception would be.’
‘Keep moving, Kotlas.’ Rubenstein glanced at the CCTV monitors projecting from the ceiling. ‘You’ll make security nervous. To answer your question, it’s a blend of new construction and the adaptation of the existing. This institution is the first of its kind in the country. Aside from those who work here, few are aware of its existence. Copse Hall is a private enterprise, located on a vast country estate, well away from prying eyes. Here, we hope to gain greater insight into the minds of some of the worst former juvenile killers in the world. What goes on here is not for discussion beyond these walls,’ Rubenstein said. ‘You know, I’m envious of you, Kotlas. At your age, the possibilities of being on the cutting edge, the opportunities that will present themselves . . .’
‘We’ll see.’ Kotlas nodded thoughtfully. ‘Very quiet, isn’t it?’
‘We have just a few patients at the moment, and the staffing levels are commensurate with that. I’ll explain further when we get to my office. Right. Here we are.’ Rubenstein stopped by a passenger lift. He placed his fingertips on the reader control, and the steel sleeves of the doors slid open. They stepped inside. The doors automatically closed and they began to ascend.
Rubenstein unlocked his office door and ushered Kotlas through. ‘There’s another reason for the facility appearing quiet. We’ve sent ten guards out to collect our star patient, from Ashmore.’
‘Ashmore? That’s where I work,’ Kotlas said.
‘I must confess, it’s part of why I approached you.’
‘So, not so much about shortage, more about provenance.’ Kotlas’ eyes narrowed. ‘Ten-man security detail? Not many warrant that. I think I know the answer to my next question. What’s his name
?’
Rubenstein indicated the vacant chair. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, walking around his desk. ‘First things first. I already know a lot about you. Let’s fill in the blanks.’
‘No. Wait. How can you have arranged to do that without me knowing?’ Kotlas shook his head.
Rubenstein peered over the top of his spectacles. ‘Patience, dear boy. We’ll come back to that in a few moments.’
Ten minutes later, Rubenstein pushed away from the desk and walked to the window. He turned, and leaning against the window board, faced Kotlas. ‘Look, as far as I’m concerned, based on what we’ve discussed, the job’s yours.’
Kotlas smiled. ‘That’s great, but you haven’t explained exactly what my role is . . . if I accept. Or how you managed to find out so much about me. You said this is a private company?’
Rubenstein rubbed his lower lip with a forefinger. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘So tell me, who leaked the information?’
Rubenstein strode back to his seat, sat down, propped his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together. ‘I want you to continue your work with Wolfe.’
Kotlas leaned back in his chair. ‘And the leak?’
