by Tiana Carver
‘He might. Or perhaps try to find another boy. We’ve got the rest of today and tomorrow. It’s my opinion that he’ll strike within that time.’
‘Where?’ Mickey again.
‘I don’t know. He operates from somewhere safe, somewhere that’s secure for him. Somewhere that means something to him. The cellar was laid out the way it was because of the ritual. And that’s important to him. He must have taken a long time preparing it, getting it just the way he wanted it. He’s going to be spending all his time between now and tomorrow night finding another place, getting it ready.’
‘And going after the boy?’ asked Mickey.
‘Or a boy.’
Silence round the room.
‘Something else,’ said Marina. Everyone listened. ‘He’s done this before. Solstices, equinoxes … four a year. And not just this year.’
Silence once more. Phil was thinking about comics. House of Mystery. House of Secrets. With a graveyard in between.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our work cut out for us. We’re up against the clock with this one. If Marina’s right, and from the look of the evidence we must assume she is, there’s going to be an abduction and murder before tomorrow night. We keep doing what we’re doing. Working on the boy, keeping him safe in hospital. Following the paper trail for the house’s ownership. And don’t forget about Adam Weaver. We’ve still got him to look into.’
He scanned them all once more. Had a sudden, intense flashback to his nightmare. That face, moving towards him, those dark, deep eyes, the blade coming down …
He jumped, shook himself out of it. Looked round. They were waiting for him to speak.
‘I want radar,’ he said. ‘On the space in between the two houses. Check for soundings. For bodies. That’s it. We can do this. Let’s go.’ Hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.
Dismissed, they all rose, made for the door.
Phil saw Marina stand later than the rest. Pack her things slowly. She’s waiting for me, he thought. She wants to talk. Now. About what’s wrong.
She began to move towards him.
Phil waited. Steeling himself.
A tap on his shoulder. He turned. Glass. ‘Phil? Word in my office, please.’
The DCI didn’t look pleased. He turned, walked out.
Phil, giving Marina only the smallest of smiles, followed him.
46
Donna opened her eyes. Tried to move her head. As she did so, a rod of pain pushed up through her spine. She gasped, cried out.
That was what she got, she thought, for sleeping inside a stolen car.
She turned over, groaning, rotating her shoulders as she did so, stretching her legs in the cramped space. Trying to coax her limbs into action, get the blood pumping again. Her body was now angled away from the window, into the car, looking towards the passenger seat. A pair of round blue eyes stared back at her.
Ben.
Scared, cold. Uncomprehending, but still trusting.
Donna didn’t know how that made her feel. She wasn’t the boy’s mother, so she shouldn’t have to feel responsible for him. But then she had dragged him away with her, so perhaps she should.
She sighed. All too fucking much.
He was still staring at her, shivering.
‘What’sa matter? You cold?’
He nodded, eyes unblinking, never leaving her face.
‘Told you to keep warm, didn’t I? Put more clothes on.’ She looked at him again. He seemed to be wearing all the clothes he had brought with him.
‘Auntie Donna …’ His voice tremulous, wavering.
She cut him off. ‘I’ve told you before, Ben, I’m not your auntie.’ Another sigh. Irritation building with it. ‘I’m just Donna. Right?’
He nodded. ‘Donna …’
‘What?’ The kid was becoming tedious.
‘When are we goin’ to see my mum?’
‘I’m …’ She opened the car door. ‘I’m just goin’ for a smoke.’
She got out of the car, slowly unfolding herself out of her curled, cramped state. She shivered. Looked round. The September sun was rising high in the sky. Shining. She shivered again, pulled her jacket round her. Giving off light, but not heat.
She had no idea where she was. She had driven the car as fast and as far as she could from her house. But hadn’t known where to go. At first she had decided on a hotel; use the money she had taken from her attackers to pay for it. But that idea hadn’t lasted long. A hotel would be the first place they would look for her. Especially after she’d cut one of them. Her description would be out there, her face on all the news programmes, in the papers. The internet, even. So no. That was out.
But she had needed to go somewhere. Out of the town centre, through Stanway. She saw the sign for the turn-off to the zoo. Told Ben about it. He had asked if they could go there, and for a second she had thought seriously about it. Drive to the zoo. Catch the last hour before chucking-out time. Find somewhere to hide, spend the night there. Brilliant. Last place they would expect her to go. But that idea hadn’t lasted long either. Her mind had bombarded itself with all the things that could go wrong almost before she had thought of them.
So she had turned off at the new retail park roundabout, taken the road away from Colchester, down to the A12. To London and beyond. Resigned to putting as much distance between herself and the town as possible.
And on the way, going through Stanway, she had seen a turn-off. Between two tree-rich gardens in a row of nondescript houses. Wooded either side. On impulse, she had turned down it.
At first it was just a single-track country road. A few houses on one side, detached, exclusive-looking, she thought. The kind of thing she’d seen on Grand Designs. Big cars parked in front, 4x4s. Paula couldn’t understand that. All that money and they bought something hidden away, somewhere people couldn’t see. She wouldn’t do that, if she had the money. She’d buy the biggest, gaudiest house. Put lights on it. Round it. Make sure no one could miss the fucker. Make sure everyone knew she was minted. Wasn’t just some failure.
But anyway.
She had kept on down that road. Not looking back. Just seeing where it took her. The car swayed from side to side as the road became more uneven, as pockmarks turned to craters, tarmac ran out and became hard-packed dirt and stones. The trees thinned out too. Soon there were none. And the countryside opened up around them.
The road bisected two fields with a view of miles around. It was so pastoral and peaceful, so unlike Donna’s day-to-day life in Colchester, that she could have just parked up, stayed there. Looked out over the calm, serene landscape. Forever.
But she didn’t. She kept going.
Trees began to multiply, and she was soon in a forest. The road stopped completely. And that was where she decided to spend the night.
Ben had complained he was hungry, so she had turned the car round, driven back to the retail park, ordered two McDonald’s. She knew she was taking a risk, but he was starting to complain and she knew he wouldn’t stop until he was fed, so it was a risk she had had to take.
Then back to the forest. And the night, with much pain and discomfort and hardly any sleep, became morning. Now she stood, smoking a fag, wondering just what the hell she had done.
Ben stared at her from inside the car, kneeling on the seat, face pressed against the window. She turned away from him. He opened the door, got out to join her.
‘Where’s my mum?’
Donna didn’t answer.
‘I want my mum. Where is she? You said we’d be meetin’ her.’
Had she? Had she said that? She wished she had brought something to drink. Or a bit of puff. Just to tide her over. Keep her going.
‘Where is she?’
God, that kid …
Donna had put up with him for the sake of Faith. She hadn’t thought of herself as gay. A lezzer. A dyke. A rugmuncher. She had done stuff, lezzie stuff before. Yeah, course she had. But that was for punters, for their enjoyment
, their money. Not for fun. Faith had been her partner in all of that. Neither minded; they liked each other. Were good friends. Donna felt relaxed with Faith, open. Probably more so than with anyone else in her life. So when Daryl had been kicked to the kerb and Faith and Ben had nowhere to go, it had been the natural thing for them to move in with Donna. It was a small house. And Ben needed his own room. So it had been even more natural for Faith to move in with Donna. Share a room. Share a bed.
And do the kind of things they’d done for money, for the enjoyment of punters, for their own enjoyment. And if that made Donna a lezzer, a dyke, then so what? Whatever. Faith would never beat her up. Never take her money. Never force her out on the street to work while she sat at home or in the pub or spent the money she’d made trying to impress some slag.
And now Faith was gone. And Donna was all alone.
‘Where? Where is she?’
Donna turned, stared hard at the little boy. And something in her snapped. Some anger, long-dammed, needed sudden, sharp release. ‘She’s gone, right? Fuckin’ gone. She’s not comin’ back, ’cos she’s—’
She stopped. Looked at him. He was standing there like he had been hit. His mouth began to tremble, eyes began to tear over.
‘Look, I’m sorry, I …’
The tears came. Huge, racking sobs came screaming out, totally unconscious and inconsolable, like only a child could do when faced with the biggest loss of his life. Donna realised that she felt exactly the same. And she could do nothing but join him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, gasping between sobs, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t … I didn’t mean to …’
She hugged him. He let her. Reluctantly at first, then, realising he had nowhere else to go, collapsing into her.
‘I’m scared,’ he said eventually, once the tears had subsided.
‘So am I,’ Donna whispered. ‘So am I.’
He looked at her. ‘What are we goin’ to do now?’
It was almost too painful to return the look. But she had to. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know …’
47
Paul had done it. Gone and done it. And now he was sorry. Like he knew he would be.
He had gone back up to the cave. Let the Gardener out.
He had told himself he wouldn’t give in. Not this time. Wouldn’t listen to the crying and the promises. Oh no. No matter how much the Gardener screamed and sobbed. About how he was going to be good from now on, how he wouldn’t hurt anyone any more. If Paul would just let him out. He was sorry, so sorry …
Same old thing, same old words, same old pleas, time after time after time.
And it always worked.
Because the Gardener knew that Paul was weak. And he played on that weakness, wore him down with guilt until he opened the cave up, let him out again.
And of course the Gardener never kept any of his promises. As soon as he was out, he threw Paul inside and picked up where he had left off. And Paul would have to track him down, find him and haul him away again before he did more damage.
But now he had got him back inside the cave.
Now he could relax.
Paul knew what the Gardener had done this time. The Gardener had told him. Told him it was his duty. His divine duty. And that Paul should understand. And Paul would try to explain again.
‘No … you … What you do, it’s … it’s wrong. It’s … evil. Not what I meant. No, no, no … not what I meant …’
And the Gardener, back in the cave, would pretend to listen. Then pretend to cry. And Paul would have to come away so he couldn’t hear it. Because God was love. And he was love. And he would let him out again.
So he sat outside the cave. And tried to relax.
Breathe in the air. Feel the sun on his face. Hear the river go past, lapping at the bank. Watch the water. See the leaves fall on it.
Relax.
Don’t think about the Gardener. Don’t think about letting him out.
Ignore his cries. Listen to the water.
Relax.
Just relax.
And don’t think about what the Gardener had done.
And what he was going to do.
As soon as Paul let him out again.
48
Rose was angry. Really angry.
Anger was nothing new to her, but this kind was. Sudden and quick. And very, very deep. With a scattergun aim.
Glass had phoned her earlier in the morning. She had been up. It felt like she was always up. Since she had been put on long-term sick, she had had trouble sleeping. More than she had told Marina or any of the police doctors. Much more. Insomnia. Bad, verging on the chronic. She had tried over-the-counter remedies. Prescription pills from her GP. Drinking excessively before bed. Exercising until she was too physically exhausted to move. A long, hot, relaxing bath, even. And nothing had worked.
So she had learned to live with the lack of sleep. Learned to lie in bed at night staring at the ceiling, the walls. Closing her eyes, letting the film play on the backs of her eyelids. The same one. Always the same one.
That day in the boat, unable to move, those hands on her body … Fighting, losing …
Her eyes would open. And there would be the walls, the ceiling. Her bedroom. Just the silence, the shadows. And Rose. Alone. Always alone.
She had even tried to lose herself in sex. Not love – she didn’t want that level of intimacy, didn’t want anyone seeing behind the shield, couldn’t cope with it – but sex. Just to feel exhilarated, wanted. Alive. To have another body next to her to keep the shadows, the darkness at bay. To let her sleep. That hadn’t worked either. She had soon found that she couldn’t bear anyone to touch her. And she hated to have anyone next to her for the night. She would lie awake watching them sleep, wondering how long it would be before their hands were on her body, forcing her, fighting with her …
No.
So she had coped with the silence, the shadows, on her own. Alone. She had no choice. And if she was being honest with herself, she wouldn’t say she was cured. She would just say she was stronger. Better armoured.
And that was enough. It had to be.
But she was also angry. Especially after Glass’s call.
‘Just a catch-up. Checking in. Seeing how your case is progressing.’ As businesslike as ever, but did she catch a hint that he was thinking about her at home? Wondering what she was wearing, perhaps? She put it out of her mind. Just imagination.
She thought of the previous day. The fight in the pub. Obviously nothing had been said. She hadn’t been reported. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just running down a few leads today. Ex-boyfriends, that kind of thing. Nothing concrete yet.’
She was sitting on the edge of the unmade bed. It seemed like this room, not even the rest of the flat, was her world. The TV in the corner, clothes, both clean and soiled, piled and thrown on the floor. Old mugs, ringed with coffee stains, sat on half-read paperback books. Plates with hard, curling crusts poked out from under the bed. She sighed.
‘Time scale? Any ideas?’
‘Early days,’ she said, kicking an empty white wine bottle under the bed, hearing it roll to a stop, clink against another one already under there. ‘But it won’t take long, I don’t think. Something’ll break soon.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I thought we were meeting this morning? Having a proper catch-up?’
‘Yes …’ Glass’s voice became cautious, guarded. ‘Bit difficult. All kicked off here.’
She stood up. ‘But I thought I was coming in to the station.’
‘No.’ Said quickly. Sharply. ‘Like I said, it’s all got busy here. A couple of cases taking up all the space, the manpower. I think it’s best we talk this way. For the time being.’
And that was when the anger started to rise. Because she realised as he spoke what he was doing. Sidelining her. And she knew who had all the office space, whose cases were getting the upgraded treatment. Oh yes. She didn’t even have to ask.
‘
Right,’ she said. ‘Fine. I’ll call when there’s news.’
And broke the connection. Threw the phone on the bed. Sat down beside it.
Phil Brennan. Fucking Phil Brennan again. Always him. Always. She had a special streak of hatred reserved just for him. Because he was everything she saw herself as not being. Successful. Popular. Promotable. Yes, she knew she had been promoted, but even so. It happened more easily for him. It always had.
She looked round the room again. Her world. Everything she had, all that she had to show for her life.
She had never wanted to be a police officer. Not really. It was something she had done to impress her dad. He had been a DCI in the Met. Well-regarded. Well-decorated. One of the finest thief-takers of his time. That was what everyone said about him. That was what he said himself. But with a few more profanities thrown in.
And she had looked up to him. Admired him. But from a distance. It had always been that way, even before the divorce. He had always been out. Working, or networking, he called it. His mother had come to resent it. Partying, she said. Getting freebies off slags. He had laughed it off at first, told her she didn’t know what she was talking about. It was the way the job worked, the culture. He had to go, had to be seen at those places, those parties. Her mother had said nothing then. Just glared at him in silent resentment. Let things continue that way.
She turned a blind eye to the whoring, the drinking. But she reluctantly accepted the unexpected presents, the bonuses. Holidays, home improvements, new cars. All on the sudden windfalls. She wasn’t stupid. She knew her silence was being bought. And she entered into that complicity, albeit grudgingly. As long as the two worlds were separate, then she didn’t need to know the other one existed.
The house of glass and cards held. For years and years. Until one world invaded the other. Until her mother found she had been given a dose of the clap.
She had confronted Rose’s father about it. How could he? How the hell could he? The money, yes, a blind eye. The drinking, she had said nothing. Even fucking those slags … that was one thing, but bringing it home, into the family, infecting her, that was … that was something else. That was intolerable.
