by Ryan Casey
The bus took another right. Headed away from Ashton and down the road to where Booths was. Brian’s stomach turned when he saw that Booths. The very Booths that Beth Turner was found butchered in. By the lack of lights, the place still hadn’t reopened. He wasn’t sure anyone would want to go there again anyway.
Beth Turner. There was something about her. Something different to the other kids, something unique. She’d been with Patrick Selter. Something had happened. She’d got the bus to Booths, or to somewhere. Gone into the Booths toilets to see Patrick Selter, to meet him about something. A vow of silence? Patrick had said something about ditching her coat in a panic.
So what had happened in those toilets? What had happened in that half an hour? What had changed?
Brian felt like he was on the verge of his thoughts clicking together when he realised where he was. The pitch black country lane, Westhaven Road, where Sam Betts lived.
The bus flew past the dirt track entrance.
A chill came over Brian. He had a rush of thoughts, but none of them were comprehendible, as he sat there as a passenger in this piss-reeking bus. He took a few steady breaths. Tried to calm himself. Tried to ease his racing heart.
Beth Turner had told her parents the bus had broken down.
Brian stood up. Used the poles as monkey-bars to work his way down to the driver’s cabin.
The bus went from town, down Long Lane, around Ashton, by Booths, down Westhaven Road…
“Excuse me?” Brian said.
The fat, bald bus driver glanced at him over the top of his glasses. “Missed your stop. Another one up the road in a sec.”
“That’s alright,” Brian said, shaking his head. “I actually just… this bus. Did it break down last Friday at all?”
Bus driver frowned. Had another glance at Brian as the bus rocked from side to side. “Did, yeah. Around ‘ere, actually.”
A mixture of excitement and dread pumped through Brian’s body. “Right by the… by the farm track?”
Bus driver nodded. “About tennish, it musta been. Absolute worst place for a bus to break down. Luckily ‘ardly anyone was on. Just some girl.”
The excitement grew more acute, the dread more sickly. Brian had a million questions, but he could only get a grasp on one of them at a time. “What… what time’s the latest bus?”
The bus driver whistled and glanced at his watch. “Don’t ‘ave to worry about that yet. We run ‘til midnight.”
Brian thought back to Harri Johnson. She’d told the police she was out playing with Janine Ainscough and her friends around eleven-thirty.
Eleven-thirty was when the bus four went down Long Lane.
“Do you keep CCTV on these buses?” Brian asked.
The driver looked at Brian a bit longer this time. Peered at him, glassy-eyed. “Why? Should I be worried about you doin’ summat?”
Brian looked away. Shook his head. “I just—”
“We ‘ave to, what with the New Blue Brook nutters getting on this bus. Sorry, shouldn’t call ‘um nutters. What’s the PC term for nutters?”
Brian didn’t respond because he was frozen.
New Blue Brook.
“Anyway, pal, gonna have to ask you to sit down. Procedure when there’s seats available, that sorta thing.”
Brian heard the driver’s words but he didn’t register them.
He saw the glowing white lights of New Blue Brook Hospital approaching in the distance.
He watched as the bus passed by it. Passed by it, like it passed by Long Lane, like it passed by Booths, like it passed by the dirt track.
And in his mind, he saw a man dressed in a black suit sat on a bench, the only brightness on offer those of his blue socks and his bright red tie.
Adrian West.
THIRTY-FOUR
Feigning psychopathy was a tiring ordeal, but it was a small price to pay for security.
Adrian West sat in the trees opposite the Fulwood Grasshoppers Rugby Club. It was a cold night, so he’d been sure to put on two coats, two layers. Not that he didn’t always wear two layers when he was kidnapping someone. Always helped to have a change of clothes when there was the risk of blood being spilled.
Across the road, outside of the jet-black darkness of the trees, Adrian watched as people emerged from the Guild Wheel cycling and walking track. Watched as men and their wives cycled out. As teenagers, a little younger than the adults, but not young enough, zoomed out of the exit.
He waited for his moment. Waited for a child. A child, all on their own.
He was growing thirsty.
He checked his watch. Half eight. If he was lucky, he’d be able to nab a kid some time in the next half hour. Take them through into the woods, have his fun with them. Ditch them at the opposite side of the golf course. All in time for the final bus four to loop him back round to New Blue Brook Hospital, for the soft bastards behind the counter to roll their eyes and nod their heads as he entered, late again.
He felt his hands shaking as he focused on the opening of the cycle path at the other side of the busy Lightfoot Lane. He didn’t like rushing his time with his victims. He preferred to spend days with them, like he had with Sam Betts. Days of extreme pain, extreme agony. But extreme release for him, nobody even batting an eyelid. That was perfection.
That was heaven.
But the kidnappings were growing harder now. Sam Betts was one of a kind. He was loved, for one. Not like the others he used to capture. He was loved, and therefore that meant that the police would be hot on Adrian’s tail.
But killing someone like that. Disembowelling them while they stared up at him, tears in their little eyes.
Taking out those little eyes…
It sparked a light inside him. A new urge for uncharted territory.
And that’s what brought Beth Turner into the mix.
He breathed out slowly, watched the cloud of air from his lungs emerge like smoke from a chimney. He kept on looking across the road, the smells of gasoline and awful manmade constructions clogging up the air. Beth Turner was an accident. A lucky accident. He’d watched her get off that bus four when it broke down around the very dirt track he’d taken Sam Betts from so easily—watched her from the back of the bus.
And then he’d got off at the next stop. Unable to fight the urge. Unable to beat it.
But then he’d seen something. He’d seen someone—the Selter lad, horrible pervert—with his hands all over her. And her face, the look on her face like she was enjoying it. Little slut.
So he’d gone in there and he’d showed her what enjoyment was and okay, okay, maybe he’d gone too far, maybe he shouldn’t have blabbered about what he’d done to Sam Betts and maybe he shouldn’t have cut her so he’d panicked and…
Well. Patrick and Beth had kissed and made up. Arranged to meet at Booths to talk it out. To discuss what they were going to do. To discuss the police.
But as Adrian watched them go into those Booths toilets, he knew for a fact that a kid like Beth Turner couldn’t keep her filthy little lips shut. No way.
So he’d gone in there and shut them for her. Made sure enough evidence was in there to implicate Pervert Selter completely.
And when he’d wandered out, he’d just played the mental nutcase idiot again. Gone back to that vacant, distant son of a bitch disguise that allowed him to get away with all of these joys, all of these pleasures.
It was all too easy.
More cyclists emerged from out of the cycle path. This time, a family of three. A young girl with a pink helmet on. Adrian licked his salty lips. She’d be perfect. An ideal release. And wow—nabbing her right in front of her parents. That would be a new level of kidnapping. A new level of murder.
Truth be told, there were some parts of his murderous escapade that were just for laughs. Andrew Wilkinson’s involvement—wow, what a beautiful coincidence. He’d taken his car into servicing at Galaxy on the Monday. Little did he know, Adrian’s old friend Darren Hopps worked there. The old
friend that once paid Andrew Wilkinson’s family a little finger-cutting visit when the sick fuck messed about with his son, when he saw what happened in the garage with that girl…
So he’d had some fun with him. Paid Darren to keep his car a little longer than usual. Got him to drive it around Long Lane, where he knew for a fact kids hung around on bikes, and he knew for a fact was home to a few derelict old flats that were in CCTV blind spots.
Catching Janine Ainscough was all too easy.
Killing her was even easier.
But now his heart pumped fast again. The red hue came over his eyes. The urge to hunt. To capture. To kill. It had always been there. There’s nothing he’d been able to do to suppress it, right from when he was a little kid and he’d chop the feet off his pet hamsters. As for the Eye Snatcher moniker, he found that vastly out of proportion. Yes, he liked to take eyes out, collect them, but the media made out like it was all just for show. Like he did it to shock the public.
He smiled. Fuck the public. He took eyes out because he loved the look in them when his victims realised they weren’t going to see the final things he was about to do to them.
Granted, he might have to hold off the disembowelling and the eye removal now that Andrew Wilkinson was going down for the murder of the last three kids. The things a man does to keep his family safe…
There was his social worker too. Jed Green. Well, it was safe to say Adrian had people under his thumb. He had friends in the right places.
He had his disguise—a nutcase—and he exploited it. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, he knew it wouldn’t go on, but he’d die doing what he loved. That was something else he believed in.
Besides, he didn’t believe in God or heaven. Might as well make the most of the things he enjoyed on earth. Otherwise, what was the point?
Hopefully his victims believed in God, anyway. Anything to comfort them.
His legs were starting to cramp when he saw the little boy emerge out of the cycle track.
His heart beat fast.
The boy was on his own. He was wearing a silver helmet. Pushing a matching silver bike beside him which looked way too big for him. His hands were scratched. The chain had come off the bike, and the front tire looked flat.
The red hue completely covered Adrian’s eyes as the kid approached the pelican crossing.
He licked his lips.
Time to get to work.
THIRTY-FIVE
Being 8.30 p.m. on a Monday, Brian knew he should be back at home with Hannah right now, but there was only one place he could possibly visit.
He got off the bus number four at the stop after New Blue Brook. Ran into the newsagents, picked up a shitty old temporary phone with ten quid credit and barely any battery on it. Walked down the street, the cold air frosting out of his dry mouth. He held his phone to his ear with his shaking hand, waited for Brad to answer.
“Yeah? What’s up, Brian?”
“Brad, you need to get a warrant for a search on bus four CCTV for the day of Beth Turner’s disappearance right now. And you need to get officers down to New Blue Brook. We’re arresting Adrian West—”
“Woah, woah, woah. What you talking about? We’ve got Wilkinson in. Samantha said you were obsessing about the case not being over, but it’s done. He’s confessed.”
Brian tensed his jaw as he made his way to the New Blue Brook gates. “Adrian West. The… the bus number four. It wasn’t the bus twenty-two that broke down that day. It was the bus four. The private funded bus four. And…” He steadied his breathing, tried to get his thoughts out in a comprehendible manner. “Adrian West is the Eye Snatcher, Brad. Not Andrew Wilkinson. Adrian West is—he’s Damien Halshaw’s dad. I’m certain of it.”
A pause on the other end of the line.
“Brad, are you listening?”
“This is just… It’s crazy talk. You can’t be—”
“Adrian West takes bus journeys on the number four. The number four that goes from New Blue Brook to the dirt track. To Booths. To—to Long Lane and… and to Ashton. He takes bus journeys, Brad.”
“A lot of people take bus journeys—”
“The fucking CCTV,” Brian said. “Get that CCTV right this second before something else goes wrong. Because I swear to you, if Andrew Wilkinson goes down for this murder, more children are going to die. Please. Trust me here.”
The sound of glasses clinking in the background. Of a woman laughing.
“Wait. I thought you were at work?”
Brad stuttered. “Brian, I… I’m out. I’m on an, erm…”
“Your dates aren’t as important as the lives of innocent children,” Brian said, as he turned the corner and walked down the road into New Blue Brook Hospital grounds. “I’m at New Blue Brook. You get that CCTV checked from the bus. Or at least get someone to check that CCTV.”
“What are you going to do?”
Brian stopped. Looked across the car park at the modern, glass-front of New Blue Brook. “I’m going to catch a killer.”
The shitty phone cut out of battery before Brad could protest.
The reception area of New Blue Brook was quiet, empty. Nobody was at the desk. There was a distant sound of chatter from the ward up ahead, but the one Brian needed—Bridgewater—was on the right.
Brian made his way to the glass door of the Bridgewater ward. Through it, he could see the canteen area, a television with nothing on the screen. The lights were dim. The place was dead for the night. Dead, silent.
Just how Brian needed it.
He looked at the security card scanner on the side of the Bridgewater door. That was a problem. He needed to hang around. Hang around and wait for somebody. He knew if he as much as told reception who he was, they’d go demanding a warrant, and he didn’t have a warrant—nor the time to get one right now.
Looking over his shoulder to check all was still clear in the almost medicinal looking reception area, he did the only thing he could and reached for the little black button above the keycard reader—the doorbell to Bridgewater.
He pressed it. Listened to it ring on the other side.
He waited a few seconds. Waited for a sound. Waited for movement.
Nothing.
He cursed under his breath. Walked around in a circle in the middle of reception. He was fully aware cameras were on him. He was fully aware that he didn’t have long here, especially after being dragged out of here once in the past already. He was fully aware what breaking the rules again might mean for his career, for his life.
But not breaking the rules might mean the brutal murder of another innocent kid. It was worth breaking the rules to prevent anything like that.
He went to press the bell again when he saw someone at the other side of the glass door.
It was a bald bloke. Quite chubby, a little on the short side. He was wearing a Liverpool football shirt from about five seasons ago. It was tucked into his Nike trackie bottoms, which were tucked into his black Adidas trainers like he was wearing some kind of onesie.
He looked at Brian with glassy, drugged-up eyes.
Brian lifted a hand. Forced the best smile he could. “Let me in? I… I forgot my card.”
The bald guy kept on looking at Brian. Kept on staring, distant, vacant.
Brian scratched the back of his head. Looked over his shoulder to check all was still clear. Coughed. “Look, I… I don’t wanna sleep outside again. Let me in, right?”
The bald guy’s open, gormless mouth twitched a little.
Then he nodded his head. Started walking in the direction of the door.
Brian felt adrenaline rush through his body. That’s right. Keep walking. Keep walking…
And then the bald guy stopped. Started walking away.
“Tell social,” he said.
Brian frowned. “Tell… Hey, come back here!”
“Tell social,” the bald guy mumbled.
Brian banged against the glass door. His skin tingled. “You don’t have to tell social.
You can just let me…”
A man emerged from the corner on the right. He looked quizzically at the bald guy at first, asked him what he was doing out in the corridor at this time.
The bald guy pointed at Brian, and the man looked through his glasses, right into Brian’s eyes.
The brown leather jacket. The narrow, black-framed glasses. The short brown hair and the slight figure.
Jed Green, Adrian West’s social worker.
“Do you have a problem, officer?” Jed Green asked. He didn’t move. He just stayed stood at the turning of the corridor. Kept a hand on the bald guy’s shoulder. His face flushed more and more by the second.
Brian straightened his back out to look as authoritative as he could. “Where’s Adrian at tonight, Mr Green?”
Jed just looked at him. Stared at him. Face got more flushed. Lips got twitchier. “Do you have a warrant to be here?”
“I will do soon,” Brian said. “When my colleagues see the footage from bus four.” He looked at his phone for show. “In fact, I think they’ll be down here any moment now. So now’s your chance to open your mouth about your little patient. About what he’s been doing. How much does he pay you to go off on his accidental little walks at night, hmm? Or is it sex you prefer? Does he let you in on the action with the kids he kidnaps—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I suggest you drop that tone right this second,” Jed snapped.
Brian could see it. He could see the shiftiness in Jed’s eyes. The way his cheeks were a permanent red. But most of all, how much he was trying not to look guilty. “You’re hiding something. If you weren’t, you’d let me through this door right now.”
“I won’t let you through that door because you aren’t supposed to be here.”
He pressed a red button on the white-painted wall. An alarm sounded out in reception.
Brian felt a fire burning through his body. “You can call your security dogs on me all you like. We’ll be back soon. My colleagues will be here with me. And I’ll lead them in here. I’ll put the cuffs on you myself. I’ll…”
