by Tiana Carver
‘You’re doing fine, Phil. Just keep going.’
‘I was in the cage and he was coming towards me, and … those eyes … in the hood, those eyes …’
‘What about those eyes, Phil?’
‘Dark … dark … like looking into something black and bottomless …’
‘And he was hooded?’
Phil nodded. ‘And then … and then he was there, outside the hospital … there … real …’
Marina looked at Don, who nodded too, grave-faced.
‘Don’s here, Phil. He’s going to talk to you. He’s got … things to talk to you about.’
She slid her hand from his, moved away. Don sat next to him. Leaned in to him.
‘Phil? It’s me. Don, I’ve got … I’ve got something to tell you. About the hooded figure. The man who kept you caged in your dreams. OK?’
Another imperceptible nod.
Don took a deep breath. Another. Ready as he would ever be. ‘He’s real, Phil. That’s why he was at the hospital. He’s real. And I know who he is.’
Phil opened his eyes, stared at Don. ‘How …? How …?’ His voice small, tiny, like a child’s. A lost child’s.
‘Because I know him, Phil. I’ve come across him before. And I’m going to tell you all about it. This is about you and your life. Are you ready for this?’
‘Will it … will it stop the nightmares?’
‘Hopefully.’
Phil swallowed. Hard.
‘Then I’m ready.’
79
The car drove through the night-time streets. Dwindling, emptying of people and traffic the further it moved away from the centre of town.
In the back, Donna tried to control her heartbeat. It was slamming against her chest, almost up into her throat. She hadn’t felt like this since Bench gave her some of that nearly pure charlie that time at a party. But that was a pleasant experience. Well, at least until the nosebleeds started. This was anything but.
Beside her, Ben sat staring out of the window. Not wanting to look at her, too scared to look at the men in front.
Donna had tried talking to them. No response. They had just pulled them into the car, driven away.
‘Wait,’ Donna had said, ‘there’s someone in my house. A copper. She’s been stabbed. You’ve … you’ve got to go back …’
One of the men had turned round, stared at her. Anger in his red, painful-looking eyes. She recognised him as the one she had pepper-sprayed in the face.
‘Stabbed?’ he said. ‘Your speciality, is it?’
‘What? No, I …’
He turned as far round in the passenger seat as he could go, looked her right in the face. Flecks of foam and spittle flew off his lips as he spoke. ‘You know what you did? You put my partner in the hospital. He’s fighting for his fucking life after what you did to him. D’you know that?’
A Scottish accent, she thought, her mind temporarily displaced by fear. She hadn’t been expecting that. She said nothing.
‘Bitch,’ he said.
‘Easy,’ said the driver. His voice was more dispassionate. She responded immediately to that, wanted to cling on to it. Dispassionate meant he wasn’t going to hurt her. Then her mind flicked over some of the punters she had had who had seemed dispassionate. At first. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
Donna was breathing hard, terrified. She wanted to say something that would make this man calm down, that would take away the imminent threat from him.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Her words just seemed to make him more angry. ‘You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry? You humiliated me, you nearly killed him …’
She sat back, eyes closed, preparing herself for a blow.
It didn’t come. She opened her eyes.
He had turned back round, was staring out through the windscreen. The driver was silent, just kept driving.
Donna said nothing.
And that was how it had been all journey.
Ben startled her away from her thoughts, pulling at her hand. She looked down at him.
‘I’m scared,’ he whispered.
Me too, she wanted to reply. But stopped herself. That was what she wanted to say, but not what he needed to hear. He was just a kid; he needed her to be strong. To tell him lies that he hoped would come true. Like Father Christmas and life is fair, that kind of thing.
She summoned up a smile. ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she whispered back. And squeezed his hand.
He looked up at her once more, his eyes meeting hers, trusting in her words.
And in that instant, her heart broke.
She looked up again, spoke to the men in front.
‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said the one with sore eyes, not even bothering to glance round this time.
She looked down at Ben once more, then out of the window. She didn’t know which was worse. This journey or the eventual destination.
She felt Ben’s hand squeeze hers all the tighter.
Wished she could believe in lies too.
80
‘There’s no easy way to do this, no easy way to tell you …’
Don sighed. Felt Marina looking at him. Continued.
‘Right. There was a commune. This was in the seventies, round about then. You know the type. Hippy dropout place. All kaftans and cheesecloth and children running about naked. That kind of thing. Beads and badly played guitars and free love.’ His face darkened. ‘Or at least it was, in the beginning.’
He took a sip of coffee, continued.
‘The Garden. That was the name.’
Something flickered behind Phil’s closed eyes. ‘The Garden. But that’s—’
‘Don’t interrupt, Phil.’ Don’s voice was not harsh, just firm. ‘It’s better that I tell you this without interruption. And you just listen.’ He cleared his throat, continued. ‘Like I said, the Garden started off with the best of intentions, the way these things always do.’ He sighed. ‘But along the way, like always happens, that initial vision, such as it was, got corrupted.’
Another mouthful of coffee. He wished it were something stronger.
‘Brainwashing. That’s how the allegations went. Not just a commune, but a cult. And abuse. All kinds of abuse. Sexual, psychological, physical. That was bad enough. But then other rumours started. Even nastier ones. That the communists, for want of a better word, were being hired out. Pimped out, sold, even.’
‘In what way?’ Phil couldn’t help asking the question. He was too much of a detective.
Don didn’t seem to mind this time. ‘As sexual slaves,’ he said. ‘All ages. Rich perverts could get in touch, have a look at the menu, decide what they wanted. Sliding scale of payment depending on who they wanted and what they wanted them for.’
Another sigh. He shook his head.
‘We heard that some rich sicko wanted a couple of adults to chase on his estate instead of foxes. They never came back. Torn apart by hounds, we reckoned. And women. Lots of women. Some of them came back. But not all. And I doubt the ones that did were ever the same.’ His voice caught. ‘And the kids …’
He took a moment, composed himself.
Silence thudded inside the house.
‘Anyway,’ Don said, clearing his throat, ‘a couple of them escaped. Man and a woman, with a couple of kids. Boy and a girl. Just … just young. They came to us. Not immediately, of course. Took them a while to trust us. We were the enemy, after all.’
No bitterness in his voice, just a wistfulness.
‘But they spoke to us. To me. I was a DI then. They wanted what was going on at the Garden stopped. Couldn’t bear to see their dream go sour. Couldn’t bear what was happening. It took a hell of a lot for them to get away. A hell of a lot. And they wouldn’t talk unless we guaranteed protection. So I did.’
More silence.
‘I arranged for the family to go into a safe house with twenty-four-hour protection. They were
a really nice couple. A lovely family. I spent a lot of time with them. He had been a journalist before they joined the commune. She was gorgeous. And so were the kids.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Especially considering what they’d been through. And when we got them there, they talked. Told us everything. Everything …’
His voice tailed away, his words getting lost in memories. Not pleasant ones. He brought himself back, continued.
‘The Garden had started out OK. Guy in charge had genuinely believed he was doing some good. But then others got involved. Took over the running of it. They were … bad. Very bad. And that’s when everything changed.’
Another sip of coffee. It had gone cold. Don didn’t care.
‘So we made plans to raid the commune. Gary and Laura, that was their names, gave us as much detail as they could. Layouts, who lived where, access in and out, as much as they knew. But we had to be careful. There’d been the Jonestown massacre in America a few years before, and we didn’t want a repeat of that. We didn’t think it was likely, not in Colchester, but we couldn’t take any chances. They had them pretty brainwashed by now, half starved, ready to do anything they were told. So it took us a while to formulate a plan and get it implemented.’
He sighed again.
‘And when we did finally move on the Garden … it was deserted. Empty. Like they had all been … I don’t know. Beamed away to the mothership. Completely deserted. Like a landlocked Mary Celeste. We never found them. Not one of them. Ever.’
Don drained his coffee mug.
‘Well, Gary and Laura got to hear about this in their safe house. And they went ballistic. Were terrified. They said they had to be moved because they would be next. There was a penalty for giving up the Garden, and it was death. They were in fear of their lives.’ He paused. ‘And with good reason.’
‘What happened?’ asked Phil.
Don was reluctant to let the words leave his mouth. But he knew he had to. ‘They were killed. Murdered. In the safe house. Along with the uniforms who were watching over them.’
The silence in the house was pounding, turned up to ear-bleed level.
‘And the …’ Phil’s voice was also unsteady, ‘the children?’
‘They were spared. Left there.’
‘Why?’
Don shook his head, trying to dislodge the memories. ‘I don’t know. To suffer? Because it was more cruel? I don’t know.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were put into care.’ Another sigh. Don really wanted a drink now. ‘But that wasn’t much better than the Garden had been. And they didn’t even have their parents with them.’ Don’s voice shook. He struggled to get it under control. ‘The girl … the little girl died. She wasn’t well. Wasn’t strong. She … she couldn’t last.’
Phil hesitated before speaking. Wanting to hear the answer, but dreading it also. ‘And … and … the boy?’
Don’s eyes locked with his.
‘I’m looking at him,’ he said.
81
Mickey Philips lay on his side, mouth open, gently snoring. Lynn Windsor propped herself up on one elbow, watched him sleep.
It had been a good night. She had to admit that. Her expectations hadn’t been high before he had called, but Mickey had surprised her. He was strong, manly; yes, she had expected that given the way he was and the job he did. But what she hadn’t expected was his tenderness. And his attentiveness towards her. His confidence as a lover. She had never come just by being touched, had always found it difficult. But the way Mickey touched her … And as for his oral skills … she had never felt anything like it. Probably the best orgasm she had ever experienced.
So she watched him sleep. Not with love or tenderness, but with regret. Because this was the first and last time she would have him here.
She moved the duvet back, slid slowly out of bed. Naked, she walked round to where Mickey had left his clothes, throwing them in a heap on the floor in a hurry to be with her. She worked her way through his pockets. Looking for something specific. Found it in his trousers.
His iPhone.
She had told him he had better switch it off; that they didn’t want to be disturbed. There had been a slight conflict in his features, but she had done something with her hips and arranged her underwear in such a way as to win the argument hands down. He had done what she had asked, Lynn watching, memorising his numerical pass code as he did so. Now she turned it on. Keyed in the number when asked. Waited. The icons came up. She went straight into his missed messages, his voicemail. Checked it. Several calls asking him to come back to work. There was an emergency. Lynn had smiled. She knew just what that would be. She deleted them all. Then she found his texts, started scrolling through.
There were plenty. She deleted all the ones from work, requesting he come back. Then she checked the others. Most were mundane, arranging drinks in the pub, five-a-side, that kind of thing. But one stuck out. Exactly the kind of thing she had been looking for. She read it:
Adam Weaver. Got some info on him. Business stuff. Import-export business with that Lithuanian bloke Balchunas. Harwich. Shipment coming in tonight. CALL ME NOW. IMPORTANT. AND BRING YOUR WALLET. Stuart
Anger stabbed at her, mingling with panic. Her face contorted with anger, eyes fiery slits.
How did he know? How? And who was Stuart? She felt herself breathing heavily, her hands shaking as she held the phone. She looked over at Mickey lying asleep in her bed. It would be so easy, she thought. Just to walk over there, cut his throat while he slept. No more Stuart, no more information he wasn’t supposed to have.
Mickey stirred in his sleep, turned over.
She looked again at the message, concentrated. Decided what she could do about it. Really do about it. Got it.
She worked quickly through his contacts. Stuart was listed as: Stuart CI. Confidential Informant. Not much of a code name. She deleted his number, put her own in, checking first that he didn’t have it. Then she got her own phone out and wrote him a text:
Adam Waver. Got some info on him. Seriously gangstered up in Lithuania. Lots of enemies. Word is he was killed by Lithuanian hitman. Back in Lithuania by now. No need to call. Stuart
Pressed send. Heard his phone ping.
At the sound of the text coming through, Mickey stirred. Looking around, Lynn quickly replaced his phone in his trousers, remembering to turn it off again first. He turned over, opened his eyes.
‘What you doin’?’ Voice full of sleep.
‘Just going to the bathroom. Back in a mo.’
‘Don’t be too long.’
She quickly went into the bathroom, waited a while until she thought he would be asleep again. She still had to re-input his informant’s number in his phone, take hers out. She couldn’t do that if he was awake.
When she came back out into the bedroom, he was sitting up in bed, waiting for her.
‘Missed you,’ he said, pulling back the duvet.
She gave him a smile, slid in alongside him. Looked down at his erection. Summoned up a smile.
‘Don’t you ever stop?’ She giggled as she said it.
‘With you here? Nope.’
She felt his arms round her, his mouth on her body. He would never check, she thought. His phone. Never connect it with her. Or at least she hoped not.
She lay back, felt him work his magic on her body once more.
Abandoned all earlier thoughts she had had about him. Compartmentalised her rage at him, let it go.
It’ll be a shame to miss this, she thought. A real shame.
But some things are more important.
82
The boy was scared. Terrified. But back in the cage where he belonged.
The Gardener stood at the other side of the bars, studied him. Head to one side, beneath the hood he was smiling.
‘Back where you belong … Thought you’d got away, did you? Eh? No … you’re too important. Yes … Too important. The future of the Garden depends on you … Yes …’
The boy pulled away, sat at the back, staring. Trying not to cry, not even to whimper.
The Gardener turned, surveyed the space. This was good. This was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.
It had been a struggle, getting everything in, especially since he couldn’t go the other way, his usual way. The police still had that blocked off. But he already had enough of the things he needed to hand. Another tool set. Another workbench. Already there. And the walls had the symbols on them. Of course they did. That had been one of the first things he had done when he moved in.
The symbols. The cycle of life. The seasons of life. Birth to death to rebirth. And on. And on. Paul had taught him well. Made him understand.
Paul. He could hear him now, from where he was. Crying softly, pleading. He ignored him. Looked at the symbols.
Everything had its season, everything had its time. Everything in the garden lived, everything died. Paul’s words. And the Gardener had taken them to heart. Because the Gardener wanted the Garden to continue. And it had done. But not without sacrifices.
Every season. Every solstice. Every equinox. A child had to be sacrificed in order for the Garden to continue to flourish, to thrive. He had made the rest of the Elders understand that. If they wanted to do what they did with the Garden, he had to be responsible for making it grow, keeping it alive.
And he had done. For years. So many, he had lost count. Select an offspring, prepare it, sacrifice it. And keep the Garden alive.
The offering was never wasted. Blood and bone and flesh were reused, put back to work. It helped feed the Garden. It helped it grow. Made it strong. And it needed it now. More than ever. That was why this boy – this sacrifice – was so important. Because he had been there. Had seen for himself what was happening. The Garden was dying.
The rest of the Elders could talk, about new blood, about revitalisation, about all those things. But if he didn’t keep the sacrifices going, if he didn’t appease the earth the Garden grew in, it would never flourish again. And it had to.
It had to.
