by Ben Cheetham
Face twitching, Robert wrung his hands. For a second, Julian thought his dad was going to fall apart completely, collapse in a heap. But then he took a steadying breath. “Okay, let’s talk about this, see if we can come to some sort of agreement,” he said, putting on his business-face. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can try to put things right as best I can. I’ll give Jake, and Mia if she turns up alive, the life they deserve. I’ll pay for their schooling, find them jobs, whatever it takes. They wouldn’t have to know where the money was coming from. I could go through a third party. It’d be difficult, but it can be arranged.”
“So why didn’t you arrange it years ago, before Mia was driven to prostitution, before Jake became a junkie thief?”
“I’m offering to do it now, aren’t I? Isn’t that enough?”
“Nowhere near.”
“Well, you tell me what you want from me?”
“This isn’t about what I want.”
Robert’s business-face started to slip. Worms of sweat beaded his forehead. “How about this: I’ll go away permanently. I’ll tell your mum I’ve met someone else. She’ll be devastated, but she’ll survive that. I’ll leave everything to you – my savings, the business, everything.”
“That’d just be another lie to add to the list.”
“Yes, but a lie to protect someone we both love.”
“And you get to walk away from all of this, start a new life. No, I don’t think so.”
“A new life?” Robert let out a ragged, pitiful laugh at the idea. “You and Christine are the only life I’ll ever have. Without you I’m nothing.”
Julian was silent a moment, as if mulling over the offer. “It could work, except-”
“Except fucking what?” exploded Robert, his face changing with the suddenness of a mask falling away. A vein throbbed down the centre of his forehead. His lips twitched. His eyes bulged, the pupils huge and black, the blackness stretching back seemingly deeper than light could penetrate.
Julian tensed, ready to defend himself if necessary. “Except you could do this again to somebody else.”
“It was just one time. One fucking time,” Robert ranted. “And she wasn’t forced into it. She was well paid.”
“And that excuses it?”
“Of course fucking not, but-” Robert broke off, catching his anger. The vein receded, his pupils shrank. His voice quiet with shame, he continued, “Of course not. Nothing excuses it. And I’d rather die than do it to somebody else.” His eyes filmed with tears. “Is that what you want? Do you want me to jump off the bridge too?”
Julian’s voice softened a fraction. “No, I don’t want that. But like I said, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what Mr X wants.”
“Mr X.” Robert spat the name out as if it tasted impossibly disgusting. “What more can he want from me than he’s already taken?”
“It’s not what he wants from you, it’s what he wants from me.”
Robert scrunched his forehead, perplexed. “You? Why should he want anything from you?”
Julian released a breath that seemed to have been bottled up inside him for years. “You know, I used to wonder why you kept your distance, why you never hugged or kissed me. Now I understand. You were afraid – afraid your touch would infect me with what’s inside you. Well you needn’t have worried. It was already in me. Mr X drew it out.”
Robert grimaced as if Julian’s words were pins that pierced deep under his skin. They looked at each other, their eyes like open windows. A shock of connection thrilled between them, instantly followed by a shock of realisation – the soul-rending realisation that the thing which had finally, truly brought them together had also torn them apart.
“What did you do?” The question grated from Robert’s lips.
His voice heavy with shame, Julian started to recount what’d happened with Nikki and at Mr X’s house. “Hang on,” cut in Robert. “So you don’t know for sure that you did anything.”
“No, but what about the blood?”
“The blood proves nothing. It might not even have been human.”
“It was.”
“How can you know that?”
“Because of what’s in here and here.” Julian slammed his fist against his chest and head with bruising force. “You see, Dad, I’m a lot like you, but not exactly the same. I have my own dreams and nightmares.”
“What dreams? What nightmares? What are they about?”
“The same thing they’ve always been about. Only now, instead of being attacked, I’m the one doing the attacking.”
Robert shook his head. “You could never do anything like that to anybody. I know you couldn’t.”
“Really. Then you must know me better than I know myself.” A vein of bitter insincerity ran through Julian’s voice.
His fingers whitening on the window-frame, Robert continued to shake his head with increasing vehemence. “He’s bluffing. The bastard’s bluffing.”
“Maybe. But what if he isn’t?”
Robert jutted his face forward, his eyes like knives trying to slice through the fog of Julian’s mind. “Think! Try to remember what happened.”
Julian tried again, vainly. “It’s no good. It’s as if part of my memory has been cut out.”
“Fuck! This can’t be happening. I won’t let it. I won’t let him do to you what he’s done to me.” Tremors of rage and hate shook Robert as he whirled suddenly to head for his car.
Julian stared after him a moment, uncertain whether he should try to stop him, then a surge of concern jolted him out of his seat. Taken aback by the strength of the emotion, he called, “Dad.” Robert looked at him, his forehead knotted, his eyes hard and haunted. Julian felt something like an electric shock shiver through his frame again. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to put an end to this once and for all.”
“You can’t stop him. You’ll just get hurt, and I don’t want that to happen. No matter what you’ve done, you’re still my dad.”
Robert’s eyes softened a shade. An edge of tenderness came into his voice. “He can’t hurt me anymore than he’s done already.”
“What about…” Julian glanced at the house, finishing the question with his eyes.
Robert exhaled a weary, fatalistic breath. “That’s up to you. I’ve put everything I have on the table. There’s nothing left for me to say, except, well, except I’m sorry. Sorry for all of it. Goodbye, son.”
Chapter 23
Julian watched until his dad’s car was out of sight, before heading towards the house. His step faltered at the front door. His mind felt overloaded, ready to burst. The past, present and possible future paraded relentlessly through it, melting into one another like colours on a prism. He saw his dad on top of Deborah Bradshaw, Mia as she’d looked the last time he saw her, Jake dead with a hypodermic needle in his arm, Joanne Butcher’s bloated corpse, himself on top of Eleanor in the barn. Finally, he saw his mum in hospital hooked up to all sorts of IVs, tubes and machines. You’ve got to hold it together for her, he told himself sharply, she’s going to need you now more than ever.
Julian opened the door. “Where’s my mum?” he asked Wanda, who was dusting in the lounge.
“She’s sleeping. She was up late celebrating the good news.” As Julian started towards his mum’s bedroom, Wanda added, “You’re not going to wake her, are you?”
“I have to talk to her.”
“Can’t it wait?”
Julian shook his head. Without knowing it, his mum had already waited fifteen years to hear what he had to tell her. Every extra second was a second too long. Wasn’t it? Well, wasn’t it? Of course it fucking was! But even with this thought ringing in his mind, his feet dragged into the hallway like he was wading through deep mud.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Wanda said. “Mike Hill phoned.”
Julian turned quickly to her. “When?”
“Several times yesterday and again this morning.”
&nbs
p; “Did he say why?”
“No. He just said he wants you to contact him as soon as possible. He mentioned something about Eleanor. I think-”
Before Wanda could finish, Julian had his phone out and was punching in Mike Hill’s number. Mike picked up on the first ring, as if he’d been waiting by the phone. “Is Eleanor okay?” asked Julian.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since she left the house with you the other day.”
Mike’s words drove all thoughts other than thoughts of Eleanor from Julian’s mind. A vision flashed before his eyes of him on top of her, not in the barn, but on the bed at Mr X’s house. Her face was bruised and bloodied, her clothes and throat torn as if by some wild animal. The image staggered him like a punch to the gut. The sound of his breathing filled the line as he tried to work out whether it was the product of memory or imagination.
“I assume from your silence that she’s not with you,” continued Mike.
“No,” Julian answered, the word barely audible.
“I also assume you don’t know where she is?”
Julian shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that.” He wasn’t talking to Mike anymore. He was talking to the inner voice that told him Eleanor hadn’t returned home because Mr X had abducted her.
“Who wouldn’t do what?”
“She’s not some bad girl who might overdose or runaway. He wouldn’t dare go near her.”
“What the hell are you on about?” Mike demanded, his voice swaying between confusion, anger and anxiety. “What’s going on? Julian. Julian…”
Julian didn’t answer because he was running for his car. As he screeched away from the house, he kept repeating to himself in a low, quivering voice, “He wouldn’t dare. He wouldn’t dare.” He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone to his ear as it called Eleanor’s mobile. It went through to the answering service. He tried again, and still she didn’t answer. His chant grew louder and faster. “He wouldn’t dare…”
At the end of the road, he didn’t turn for the forest. He turned for the town-centre. Jumping red lights, overtaking wildly, narrowly avoiding oncoming rush-hour traffic, he soon came to the antiques shop. He sprang out of the car, sprinted into the shop and grabbed the mantrap.
“Hey!” shouted the shopkeeper, catching hold of his arm.
Julian elbowed him away and returned to his car. He flung the mantrap onto the backseat and sped back the way he’d come. The driver-side mirror clipped another car and was sheared off. Horns blared. He barely noticed. “He wouldn’t dare…”
The suburbs were behind Julian now, trees passed in a blur. He took the turn for The Old Forest Road so fast that he almost skidded out of control. The speed of the car was nothing, though, compared to the speed with which the image of Eleanor bloodied and torn turned over in his mind. Over and over, looping to feed his doubt, his fear, his rage. “He wouldn’t dare…”
He hit the gravel road without slowing. Stones kicked up, cracking the windscreen. His body was bounced around by the bone-jarring impact of potholes. “He wouldn’t dare…” The car ground up the slope, barrelling around the final corner. The gate came into view. Still he hurtled onwards, arms braced as straight as ramrods, every muscle tensed. “He wouldn’t fucking dare!”
There was a screech of rending metal and breaking glass as the car slammed into the gate. The air bag blew out, hitting Julian in the face. He sat dazed for a moment, trying to catch his breath, before clambering out of the car. The front wheels were off the ground, resting on the gate, which had buckled, collapsing a section of the fence. The sound of barking reached him from somewhere near the house, faint, but getting louder. He quickly retrieved the mantrap and pulled its teeth apart. He tore the bandage off his ankle and carefully placed it on the pressure pad. Then he got back into the car and ducked down. After a minute or so the dog appeared. The instant it put its nose to the bandage, the steel jaws snapped together, biting into its flanks. The dog jumped about five feet into the air, letting out a high pitched yelp. It staggered around briefly before collapsing. Julian took out his knife and warily approached it. It was obvious at once that it was fatally wounded. Its muzzle was flecked with froth and its breathing was laboured. Blood oozed out from around the steel teeth buried in its flesh. It rolled its eyes at Julian as if begging to be put out of its misery. There was no time for hesitation. He stabbed it several times, shuddering as the blade grated between its ribs. When he was sure it was dead, grimacing with each footfall, he ran towards the house.
Julian wasn’t surprised to see his dad’s car beside the Merc, but even so his heart constricted with anxiety. There was a metal bin with smoke rising from it outside the house. He slowed to an abrupt stop. A deep blackness seemed to emanate from the house’s windows. He felt it almost like a physical force holding him back. Sweat wormed its way down his face as, step by faltering step, like a child learning to walk, he pushed through the invisible barrier. Glancing in the bin, he saw the burning remnants of some white sheets – most likely, the blood-stained sheets, although it was impossible to tell for sure. The knife held in front of him, he reached for the front door. It wasn’t locked. He half expected to find himself faced by the chauffeur – his arrival could hardly have gone unnoticed – but the hallway was empty.
There was a door to the right and left of the stairs. Moving quickly now, Julian opened the right-hand door. It led into a living-room – sofa, armchairs, television, coffee-table, deep-pile rug. Everything as you might expect from a living-room, except the furniture looked new and unused, giving it a curiously sterile, unlived in feel, like a shop window display. The door to the left led to a dining-room – six chairs around a dining-table set as if for an elaborate meal. A fine sheen of dust lay over the table, plates and cutlery. Julian would hardly have been surprised to see mannequins occupying the chairs in poses of eating, drinking and talking. “All of it a fucking lie,” he muttered.
Suddenly, the muffled sound of voices yelling came from upstairs. For maybe ten seconds, Julian stood tense and motionless, vainly trying to make out what was being said, until an agonised shriek impelled him to action. As he sprinted upstairs, there was the sound of breaking glass, followed by a thud. Then silence descended over the house.
The first thing Julian saw when he reached the room was the chauffeur. He was on the floor, facedown, his head through the two-way mirror, which lay in jagged shards all around him. A thick, dark stream of blood flowed from his throat to form a slick around the toppled video-camera. His eyes bulged like marbles and his mouth gaped as mutely as ever, saliva foaming at its corners. His huge hands clawed spasmodically at the carpet. The next thing he saw was Mr X, knelt with his back to him, clutching a large triangular splinter of glass in both hands. Mr X’s breath came in rapid, hoarse clicks as he plunged the splinter downwards again and again. Finally, Julian saw his dad. He was laid on his back, arms flung wide, shirt torn open from neck to waist, chest tarred with blood, like some kind of sacrificial offering. With each plunge of the splinter, his head gave a little jerk.
“No!” cried Julian, charging across the room, white-faced and white-knuckled with intent.
Mr X jerked his head around, the same leering grin twisting his face out of shape. The grin disappeared as Julian buried the knife halfway to the hilt in his back. With a piercing scream, he toppled forward across Julian’s dad. Julian dragged him aside. He squirmed like a skewered worm, scream after scream curdling the air as he groped at the knife’s hilt. The horrific noise barely registered on Julian’s mind. His attention was focused on his dad. Blood welled from gashes like obscenely yawning mouths in his chest and stomach, pooling in the hollows of his body. His eyes were closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Frantically, Julian felt for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. He tried to give mouth-to-mouth, not sure if he was doing it right, but not knowing what else to do. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth. It was blood. He doubled up, retching. Tears blurr
ing his vision, he pressed his hands against the wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was like trying to hold back a burst dam. “Open your eyes, Dad. Live!” he cried, as if he could summon him back from the dead by the force of his will. But he didn’t possess his Grandma Alice’s power. His voice broke. He hung his head.
Gradually, Julian became aware of a grotesque gurgling. Mr X lay motionless on his belly, head twisted awkwardly towards him. His eyes were dull and glassy, his face pale as chalk. Blood ran from his lips, which he’d chewed to a pulp in his agony. His mouth worked slowly, forming barely audible words. Julian leant in close to hear what he was saying.
“Call an…ambulance,” Mr X croaked, blowing putrid little gasps of air in Julian’s face. When Julian glared incredulous hatred at him, he continued, “I didn’t want…to hurt your…father. He attacked-” He broke off, choking wetly. After a moment, trembling with the effort, he lifted his left arm a fraction to display a deep gash on his wrist.
“Where’s Eleanor?”
“Who?”
“Eleanor Hill. What have you done to her?”
“Nothing…Would never touch a girl like…her. Only nobodies nobody much will miss.” Mr X sucked in a tight, rasping breath, before continuing, “Besides, why would I need to when I’ve already got…you…where I want you?”
In a rush of relief and rage, Julian instinctively accepted these words as genuine. He’d never really believed Mr X would go near Eleanor, he realised with a sharp pang in his chest. He’d just needed an excuse to go after his dad, and try and save him from harm. He’d failed in that, though, like he’d failed to save Mia. He reached a trembling hand towards the knife, hissing, “Mia isn’t a nobody, she’s my sister. Where is she?”
Eyes bulging, Mr X gave a low moan as Julian’s fingers brushed the hilt. “Ambulance.”
“Not unless you tell me where Mia is?”
