by Matt Hilton
“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t think so. What is it that’s going through your head, Broom? Is this all just a way of getting your kicks, a bit of excitement? Has life on the island driven you to boredom or something? You’ve written so much about murder and monsters that you felt it would be fun to live out one of your stories?” I flat-handed him in the chest. He outweighed me by at least a couple of stone, yet he staggered back from me as though he was a frail old man. He came up against the counter and I pressed in close, gun pushed into his belly. “Or is it something deeper? Are you so convinced about this childish curse that you decided that you’d give it validity? Jesus Christ! A little boy, Broom? You dismembered a little boy!”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t me, Carter.” Broom looked down at me. Surprisingly he showed no fear. What was that in his features? Concern?
“I don’t believe you,” I said, sounding a little forlorn.
“Look, Carter. Put the gun down, will you? Please?” He slowly moved a hand and laid it over the barrel of the SIG, gently moving it down and away from his body. “You know it wasn’t me.”
“I don’t know that,” I snapped. I stepped away from him, half-turned away from him before realising I was offering him my back. I swung round, again training the gun on his body.
“Look at me.” Broom gestured with open hands, sweeping them from throat to groin. “Look at me, Carter. You said it yourself. You shot this thing. Do I look injured to you? Do I look like someone who’s taken a round to the chest?”
I blinked at the obvious. “I could have missed.”
“Oh, no. You told me you shot the thing from as close as we are now. You said the bullet knocked it off the hillside.”
“Maybe you just reacted to the shot and dove out the way,” I argued, none too convincingly.
Scornful laughter broke from Broom. He thrust his hands into his hair, staring at me like I was as insane as most people thought. My gaze flickered to the floor, realising the absurdity of my argument. Broom lifted his bad leg, jiggling his foot in my line of vision. “You think I’m capable of running around the moors, climbing on rocks and leaping on people? Jesus, Carter! Half the time I can hardly walk straight.”
I exhaled wearily.
Broom went on, “Damn it, Carter! What’s gotten into your head? What on earth gave you the idea -”
I slammed the barrel of the SIG on the tabletop, denting the wood with a livid groove that showed the paler inner grain. “You left me twiddling my thumbs, Broom. Watching a flock of crows that you convinced me marked the location of the next murder. I must have been a complete idiot to believe you.”
“I believed it, too. I left you there in good faith.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I promise you, Carter. I truly did believe that it was a portent. I came back here to conduct research like I said. I was excited by what you told me about the growth of your ability. I wanted to see how best to put this ability to use.”
Scorn huffed in my chest. However it wasn’t solely directed at Broom now. I was doing not a little internalising. The ridiculousness of my accusation was beginning to set in, even if I was too pig-headed to let it go. Many thoughts were flitting around in my mind, each vying with the other to show me how irrational I had acted, how I was still acting.
Broom said, “I can see how you got this notion in your head. I can’t blame you. Out there alone, coming face-to-face with something you couldn’t begin to understand. I’m sorry I left you to face this thing alone. It was wrong of me. I see that now.”
“Broom…”
He waved me down. “Put the gun down, Carter. We’ll leave it at that, okay? You must be tired, hungry; you’ve experienced a terrible shock. Believe me, I understand.”
I was nodding with him, praying that his words were sincere.
“Don’t listen to him, brother. Shoot the fucker and have done with it.”
My teeth ground together, eyelids crinkling tight. Cash’s voice was like a sudden migraine. I snorted. Misreading me, Broom flinched back. I lifted a hand at him, a cautioning gesture. Broom’s frown was troubled.
“Is it Cash?” he asked softly.
Replying directly to my brother, I asked, “What are you saying?”
“Don’t listen to his lies. We both know that Broom’s the killer. Don’t let him blind you with bullshit. Shoot him, Carter. It’s what he deserves.”
Broom moved towards me. I didn’t know what he intended, how he thought he could physically help me. My gesticulation this time was a warning. “Keep out of this.” I didn’t fully know whom my words were directed at, but Broom reacted by quickly moving away. He watched me from the far side of the room. To his credit he didn’t attempt to slip away while I was distracted. Or attack me.
I pushed the SIG along the tabletop, thrusting it away from me like it was something foul. Which I suppose it was. I’d used the damn thing to threaten my best friend - my only friend - in the whole damned world.
“Did you do this to me, Cash?”
“What? Warn you. Save your worthless life? Yes, I did that.”
“You know that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about putting these absurd notions in my mind. Broom’s no murderer. You did this you sick arsehole! I don’t know how, but you twisted my thoughts.”
It had to be Cash’s influence. Even after what I’d endured, there could be no other explanation for my turning against Broom. Intrinsically, he had faults like anyone else. But he was no murderer. All Broom had ever done was to help me. Why the hell would he want to harm me now? Even if he was the killer - a big if - and my theory that I was a handy scapegoat were true, then why would he want to kill me? I’d be no use to him as an alibi if I were lying in a morgue. And another thing; I did indeed shoot my attacker, and there was no way that Broom could wander about unhindered with a 9mm slug in his chest.
I could see what had happened now. Frightened, confused, physically worn down even if my brain was on overdrive, Cash had wheedled his way into a small chink in my armour. Somehow he’d worked at this weakness, nudging and poking my thoughts, insinuating doubt in my mind. It’s a simple theory I’ve considered since, but perhaps my fledgling ability at reading another person’s aura had something to do with it. Supposing that my channelling of this ability caused me to drain my own energy, it would lower my resistance against Cash’s influence over my subconscious. Before, I’d been in total control of my brother. Now it seemed that he had won a small victory over me.
I could have literally kicked myself in the backside - if such wasn’t impossible. Broom had always cautioned me; be self controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a hungry lion, searching for souls to devour. Well, it seemed that Cash had just sampled the devil’s meal. I was determined that I wouldn’t give him an aperitif.
“You are a pig, Cash.”
“Oink! Oink!” he laughed. “Go on, brother. Do us all a favour. Just take that gun, stick it under Broomy’s chin and blow his freakin’ brains all over the ceiling.”
“Forget it, Cash. I’m not listening to you anymore.” Sickened by my actions, I again aimed my words for both of them to hear. Biting my bottom lip I slow-blinked an apology at Broom. The big fella still appeared frightened of me, but he bounced his chin in a conciliatory nod.
“Sorry, Broom,” I said to further mollify him.
This time he gave me a weak grin. He waved a hand at me. “Don’t worry about it, I didn’t take you seriously.”
“Don’t believe him, Carter. He’s trying to get you to let your guard down. He…wants…to…kill…you.”
“Go and crawl back under your rock.”
“I tried to warn you, remember?” Cash said in a maddening singsong. “I told you that there was a test. Are you man enough, Carter? Are you man enough to kill your best friend?”
“Lies.”
“I knew what it would be like when it came ri
ght down to brass tacks. I knew you wouldn’t be up to it. You’re a pussy, brother. A coward.”
“And you are a sick psychopath. I don’t care what you say; I know that Broom is innocent.”
“Why don’t you ask him about his interest in the man in the grave?”
“You’re wasting your breath.”
“Ask Broom why he wanted to know about the procedures the police use to identify bodies…”
“Cash. Would you please just let it lie?” Illogically I ground my palms against my ears; a totally pointless exercise considering his voice emanated directly from the centre of my mind.
“Could it be that the pins holding the dead dude’s ankle together would give the game away?”
“Cash, for crying out loud!” I slammed my hands flat on the table. The SIG did a little jig in place, the rattle of metal on wood was like a distant drum roll. Unaware that I was screwing my eyes tight, I snapped them open and stared directly at Broom. Slack-jawed, Broom returned my stare.
“What is it, Carter? What is Cash saying to you?”
I shook my head. Cash was like a wasp in a biscuit tin, his voice an infuriating buzz. “Ask him brother. But first pick up the gun. Once he tells you his secret he will have no option but to kill you.”
Against my best judgement, I did reach for the SIG. My fingertips fluttered over the grip. I said to Broom, “Cash tells me that you are concerned about the dead man’s identity. Something about surgical pins giving the game away.”
It was neither question nor explanation, but Broom was astute enough to read the fresh accusation in my voice. “What pins? Are you talking about the pins in my ankle?”
“Pins in the dead man’s ankle,” I said, echoing Cash who spoke simultaneously with me.
Broom shook his head in confusion.
“The pins prove the dead man’s identity,” Cash went on, and I voiced his words out loud. “They will prove that the dead man is Paul Broom.”
“What? You can’t be serious?” Broom looked at me as though I’d just told him that the world was indeed flat, and all that we’d been told by modern science was all a sack of hooey. But it wasn’t his disbelief that made me rock back on my heels and blink at him. It was the fact that he had actually heard Cash’s words. Panic welled in my chest as I considered the possibility that Cash was gaining control over me. Mercifully the feeling only lasted a second or so, for I quickly understood that it was nothing more than my own suspicion that I’d spoken out loud, that Cash’s control had merely been in influencing this absurd hypothesis.
Attempting to make amends for my slip, I said, “Crazy isn’t it? I think that Cash is trying to make me believe that the real Paul Broom is dead, and that you are an impostor.”
“What do you believe, Carter?”
He was acting in a more reasonable fashion than should have been expected; maybe that was the true measure of his innocence, and the strength of his friendship for me. I should have left things at that, but it seemed that Cash’s influence demanded an answer. Plus, the controlled manner in which Broom posed the question was the same as the delivery used by the doctor’s who’d initially attempted to diagnose my supposed mental problems. Too say the least, I was insulted.
“Show me your leg, Broom.”
“What? You want to see my leg to prove that I’m not some sort of pod person from Mars?”
“You said it yourself, Broom; some of these Trow have shape shifting abilities. Just show me your leg so that I can prove Cash wrong?”
“Did I say that? I don’t recall mentioning…”
“See, brother, he’s stalling. Just shoot the fucker now and get it over with.”
“Broom, it will only take a second. Just show me your leg, and then we can get it over with.” My final words were for Cash’s sake.
Broom’s head swung side-to-side. “How would showing you my leg prove anything? If I was indeed a shape shifter, couldn’t I simply change my leg so that it was scarred in the same manner as mine is.”
I sighed. “More than likely. But I don’t believe what Cash is saying anyway. But at least it will shut the crazy bastard up. Come on, Broom, just work with me, will you?”
Broom gave a good old-fashioned harrumph; just what you’d expect from an eccentric author of gothic horror. Then again, wouldn’t a shape-shifting creature posing as my scatty friend have done likewise? Next second he strode forward, bad leg swinging and clumping as though to emphasise his physical problem. He came round the table, and I moved away to give him clearance to swing his foot up onto a chair. His eyes flickered momentarily on the SIG before he reached for the hem of his trousers. He snatched his trousers up to his knee, then forced down the cuff of his woollen sock.
The scars on his ankle and shinbone were puckered white ridges, and a good portion of his calf muscle was gone, a striated crater marking major tissue damage. He glared at me. “Satisfied?”
I nodded. My emotions were measured in equal portions of relief and shame. More for Broom’s sake - or maybe to soothe my own embarrassment - I said, “Can we now please stop the lunacy, Cash?”
Cash, of course, declined to answer. I was on my own now. He knew his opportunity for chaos had passed and he’d retreated to his dark place to leave me to endure the uncomfortable aftermath on my own. I pushed my hands through my hair.
Broom pushed his trouser leg down, concealing his horrific injury. He was supremely pissed off with me. I gave him a combined shrug and lift of the eyebrows.
“I can’t believe what we just went through,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. Let’s just pretend that the whole idiotic episode didn’t happen.”
I had no words for him. All I could do was offer him a sheepish grin. Broom scowled at me in return. Then he twisted from where he stood perched on the chair and snatched the SIG into his large hand.
I stiffened.
Broom huffed. Bounced the gun on his palm. “Best I put this away in the safe.”
As he stomped past me, I caught at his elbow. He spun on me, and there were still embers of anger behind his eyes.
I pulled the magazine I’d discretely removed from the gun from my pocket. “Best you put that in the safe as well.”
Gazes locked, Broom took the magazine from me.
“It wasn’t loaded?”
I gave him a strained laugh. “Did you actually think that I would shoot you? My best friend?”
He walked away from me swearing. But at least he was laughing.
THIRTYFIVE
Trowhaem
It was easy to compartmentalise the death of a colleague when referring to him as collar number 443. Designated only by his number he remained an anonymous figure relegated to the roll call of officers killed in the line of duty. Numbers didn’t necessitate the process of grieving. You don’t grieve a statistic. All that was required was a moment’s respectful silence before the world continued on as though nothing untoward had happened. It was a sad fact, but police officers died the world over. Not something that you wanted, but - as part of the job - you accepted it nonetheless. The only thing was, that wasn’t a number that was being loaded onto a stretcher. It was John Entwhistle, and Shelly McCusker knew him personally.
John Entwhistle was a twelve years veteran of the force, what was generally referred to as a lifetime Bobby. He didn’t aspire to making rank, happy with his lot as a constable, and happy performing the duties of a constable. He had joined the force the way a lot of recruits did, full of ideals and a need to help and assist others. Unlike a lot of police officers with a dozen years under their belt he hadn’t grown cynical or jaded with the bureaucratic red tape, or with the loss of faith in human sensibilities, facets of long service that often forced themselves in the way of ideals. John Entwhistle remained a conscientious, hardworking copper who continued to put himself in the line of fire purely for the sake of others.
Damn it! It was those same ideals that had got him killed.
&nbs
p; He was thirty-four years old, married to…Norma, wasn’t it? Father of three young children, seven, nine and eleven years old respectively. As good a husband and parent as he was a policeman. He was well liked around the station, and by the public too. He was one of that rare breed who was genuinely a nice person. No…wait. He used to be all those things. Now he was dead. The latest victim of the brutal killer who had brought terror to Connor’s Island.
Shelly could think of only one way to describe John’s sacrifice: a supreme waste of a good person.
After seeing that John was given the care and respect that was his due, after the report and debriefing with Inspector Marsh, Shelly had found herself a quiet place to weep. Just for a few minutes. A brief respite from the nightmare she was embroiled in. Now she was dry-eyed and ready to get back to business. Bob was by her side.
Shelly rapped on the door to Professor Hale’s caravan with the butt end of her torch, before reaching for the handle and opening the door. Two of the officers drafted in from Lerwick were between Shelly and Janet Hale. The professor was sitting at the far end of the caravan, small and childlike in her ill-fitting bathrobe. Her eyelids flashed once as she peeked up at these new invaders of her home.
Shelly squeezed out a smile of greeting, before re-introducing herself.
“Please…sit down.” Janet straightened a throw on the bunk opposite her, plumped a cushion. Then she sat down and folded her hands in her lap.
The two mainland constables shuffled by, exchanging mournful nods with Shelly and Bob. Shelly waited for them to exit the caravan before sitting down across from the professor. Bob remained in the kitchen area, a staunch sentinel guarding the door. Consciously or not, he stood with his thumbs hooked round the hilt of his extendable baton and the holder of his incapacitant spray; a hulking gunslinger poised to draw.
Janet gave him only the briefest perusal before turning her attention on Shelly. Something in her face said that the presence of a big well-trained man wouldn’t make much difference if her attacker chose to return.
