Without Conscience

by David Stuart Davies

  It was probably my impatience, but the traffic seemed particularly heavy this morning. We moved forward sluggishly and then we had the misfortune to get stuck behind a lorry that had broken down. Gingerly, one by one the vehicles behind it had to mount the pavement and sidle by it. I was beginning to think it would have been quicker if I had walked after all, especially when we found ourselves in the herd of slow-moving vehicles trying to circle Trafalgar Square.

  After what seemed an age, we eventually pulled up outside the portals of Charing Cross Hospital. I paid what I thought was an exorbitant fare and raced up the steps into the foyer. To my utter amazement the first person I saw was David Llewellyn. He was accompanied by Sergeant Sunderland and two uniformed officers. My surprise at seeing David was mirrored in his own features.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘How did you find out or are you bloody clairvoyant?’

  I hesitated. Surely this wasn’t about Peter being found. That event would hardly require the presence of a detective inspector and a posse from Scotland Yard.

  ‘Find out what?’ I said with some apprehension.

  David’s face relaxed. ‘Ah, so you don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t know what?’ I snapped, a sense of unease starting to grow within me.

  David pulled me to one side. ‘It’s Harryboy Jenkins. He’s done a runner.’

  I closed my eyes in disbelief.

  ‘And what’s worse’, David added, ‘he’s got your little lad, Peter, with him.’

  Within minutes we had moved into the office of the hospital administrator, a small man with thinning grey hair and a goatee beard who stared at the world though wire-rimmed glasses. He sat glumly in a chair by the door and said nothing. Apart from myself, David and Sergeant Sunderland, we had been joined by a tearful Susan and the doctor and one of the nurses who had been ministering to Harryboy.

  David was pacing up and down trying to contain his anger and frustration. ‘How in heaven’s name could this have happened? A bloody dangerous killer murders one of my constables and then walks out of here in broad daylight, taking another bloody patient with him. And no one notices. No one stops him. It beggars belief.’

  No one offered up any kind of explanation. The administrator examined his fingernails.

  ‘He is very cunning,’ said the doctor. ‘He had us all fooled as to the state of his health and strength. But it is clear that he is mentally deranged and you cannot expect him to act logically.’

  ‘Great!’ David slapped his forehead in exasperation.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the milk has been spilt. Let’s concentrate on what we do now.’

  David nodded. ‘You’re right. Where could this bastard have gone, taking the lad with him?’

  Susan uttered a sob and the other nurse put her arm around her shoulder in comfort.

  ‘If … if it’s any help …’ the doctor began hesitantly.

  ‘Anything. Let me have it,’ snapped David, his angry mood having been replaced by grim desperation.

  ‘Well, when Jenkins first came in and was delirious he kept muttering in his sleep, “I must get back to the hideout”. Something like that. He kept on repeating it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the nurse. ‘I heard him say that … something about a hideout.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said David reaching into his inside pocket and bringing out several sheets of paper which had obviously been taken from a notebook. He scanned them for a few moments. ‘Yes, yes!’ he exclaimed at last. ‘Here we are. These were some observations of Cartwright, one of the constables assigned to watch over Jenkins. He makes reference to his delirious mumblings. Listen to this: “Must get to the hideout. The hideout is where they won’t get me”.’

  ‘Where the hell could that be?’ asked Sergeant Sunderland.

  David shrugged. ‘God knows. It could be anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe Rachel can help,’ I said. ‘She was his girlfriend for a time. She might know.’

  ‘A girlfriend to that goon?’ said David. ‘OK, where can we find her?’

  Benny looked totally bemused when David, Sergeant Sunderland and I walked into his café.

  ‘A table for three maybe?’ he said hopefully.

  I shook my head, frowning. ‘Where’s Rachel?’

  Benny returned my frown and threw in a reprimanding frosty look. I could tell that he thought I’d ratted on Rachel and got her into trouble.

  ‘We just need to talk to her. We need her help.’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen,’ he said reluctantly. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Inspector Llewellyn will explain, Benny,’ I said, as I passed him and made my way to the kitchen. It had been agreed that I would talk to Rachel on her own. It was more likely she would be more relaxed with me without the intimidating presence of two burly Scotland Yarders standing over her.

  Rachel was by the gas stove stirring a pan of what looked like soup when I entered. She turned and gave me a broad smile.

  ‘Hello, Johnny. This is a nice surprise,’ she said, moving the pan off the heat.

  I went over and gave her a hug. She responded warmly but she could tell from my demeanour that something was wrong and her smile dimmed.

  ‘What is it?’

  As simply and economically as I could I told her what had happened at the hospital. At the news that Harryboy had escaped, her hand flew to her mouth in horror.

  ‘He’ll be looking for me,’ she cried. ‘He’ll be coming to kill me.’

  She began to shake with fear. I hugged her tighter. ‘No, no, I don’t think so. The doctor seems to think that he’s not thinking straight any more. It’s escape rather than revenge that’s on his mind. While he was sleeping at the hospital he kept muttering something about getting to the hideout. He used that word “hideout” often. Does that mean anything to you? Did Harryboy ever mention anything like that to you?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘He never mentioned having a hideout in the city. I think we’d have gone there if … wait a minute …’ Her eyes flashed brightly as a thought struck her. ‘He did talk to me once about playing cowboys as a child. He boasted that he was always the chief baddie and had a great hideout. Yes … those were his words, “a great hideout”.’

  Could it be that this is what Harryboy had meant? In his delirium, had he sort of regressed to a childhood state? Was this the ultimate escape for him. To return to the days of his youth and to the safest place he knew. His old hideout. Well, improbable as it might seem, it was the only straw in the wind we had managed to clutch.

  ‘Where was this hideout? Did he say?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘No. But I suppose it must have been somewhere near to where he lived when he was a boy.’

  Within fifteen minutes David, Sergeant Sunderland and I were speeding in the police car to Pimlico. Also in the vehicle was Rachel. She had insisted in coming along as she wanted to help as much as she could. David had phoned the Yard for information regarding Harryboy Jenkins’ old home address and had arranged for two armed policemen to come along to Benny’s café just in case our friend turned up there. On our journey David filled us in on the Jenkins family background. There was no father, just the mother and Harryboy’s elder brother who had lost his legs in a railway yard accident when he was a teenager. The family were poor but respectable. Harryboy was the demon cuckoo in the nest.

  It was late afternoon when we drew up outside a shabby terraced house in Pimlico. A careworn woman dressed in a dull wraparound pinafore opened the door and peered at us with gentle curiosity. Her dry skin was stretched tightly over her high cheekbones, emphasizing her large watery blue eyes. Her fine wispy hair was tied up in a bun but several strands were loose hanging like errant spiders’ webs about her face. I reckoned she would only be about fifty years of age but she looked much older. Worry, penury and hard work had taken their toll on this little woman. I felt very sorry for her. She seemed bemused to find us on her doorstep as though she never had any visitors, let alone four strangers
.

  David introduced himself and asked if we could come in. The woman nodded and without a word led us into the harshly lighted parlour. The curtains were already drawn in readiness for the night which still hadn’t manifested itself fully. Sitting by the fire, in a wheelchair, was a youngish man, a discarded library book on his lap. I took him to be Harryboy’s brother, Jack.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ he asked with the same kind of bemused gentleness.

  ‘It’s the police, Jack,’ said the woman.

  ‘Then it’s Harryboy again. He’s like a damned curse on this family.’

  The woman perched on the edge of an armchair and began rubbing her hands together as though she was washing them with an invisible piece of soap.

  ‘We need your help,’ said David, simply.

  Jack Jenkins shook his head. ‘Look we haven’t seen Harryboy in years. Nor do we want to see him. I told that to the police when they came round a few days ago after he’d absconded from the army. We know nothing about where he is or what he’s done. He is no longer any part of this family.’

  ‘I understand … and sympathize,’ said David. ‘But you see that’s not the kind of help we need.’ And then he explained. When he mentioned that Harryboy had kidnapped a young boy in his escape from the hospital, Mrs Jenkins gasped and cried out, ‘Oh, my God. Whatever next?’

  ‘So … can you help us? Have you any idea where this hideout might be?’

  Jack Jenkins stared at the flames of the fire for some moments before answering. ‘It’s on the rec. That’s a patch of waste ground not far from here. There’s an old water pipe that sticks up above ground. Harryboy used to go down there and hide when we were playing cowboys. He loved it because very few lads would dare go down it as far as he did. He never saw the danger … he never does. He has no fear of consequences.’

  ‘Can you show us where this place is?’ I said.

  Jack glanced at his mother but she averted her gaze.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mother, if you could fetch us a couple of torches, we’ll need those.’

  Mrs Jenkins rose without a word and went into the room beyond which I assumed was the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll take you there,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not far, but we’ll have to go on foot. I doubt if you could get all of us and my wheelchair into your police car, eh?’

  Mrs Jenkins returned carrying two hefty torches. She passed one to David and one to me.

  ‘Right,’ said David. ‘Let’s make a move.’

  THIRTY - FIVE

  Peter was puzzled by the fact that while his skin seemed to be on fire, he was shivering so much he could not keep still. Shuddering and twitching in his fever, he wrapped his coat as tightly as he could around him while the man who had taken him from the hospital struggled to light a small fire in the depths of this dark cavern.

  After the ride in the taxi when he had fallen asleep for a while, the two of them had made their way through a series of deserted streets to a large patch of waste ground, just stopping once on the way at a small shop for the man to buy some food – some tins of sardines – and other stuff like candles and matches.

  Then they had scrambled down into the big cave which opened up out of the rough earth like a great gaping mouth.

  ‘This is my hideout,’ said the man, as pulled back the wire netting, ignoring the DANGER KEEP OUT sign. Holding Peter’s hand in a tight grip, he dragged him down into the echoing darkness. ‘We’ll be safe here.’

  ‘Where’s Johnny?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Who?’ Harryboy had no recollection of the name.

  ‘Johnny. You said you’d come from Johnny.’

  ‘Did I? Nah. There’s just the two us now. But don’t be scared. We’ll be safe here.’

  Peter fought against his emotions. He had been lied to. Lied to again! He wasn’t going to see Johnny. He was going to see no one. So who was this man? Why had he taken him? What was he going to do to him? These thoughts troubled his mind as he was taken deeper and deeper into this echoing tunnel, with only a single candle to guide the way. Great shadows swam about the walls, shifting wildly as the candle flame danced erratically. The air was cool and smelt awful. Peter felt as though he was living through some kind of nightmare. Maybe, he pondered, it was a nightmare. Perhaps he actually was asleep having a nasty dream. He would wake up anytime now and be safe and well. But this thought only stayed with him for a moment. As his body trembled with the fever, to his despair, he knew full well that he was awake and that things were going to get worse.

  Deep, deep down in the cavern, they travelled, the candle providing only a feeble bubble of yellow light in the ebony nothingness. Eventually, Harryboy stopped. ‘This is it,’ he said with great satisfaction. ‘This is as far as we need to go. No one will ever come this far. They get too frightened. But not me.’ He laughed loudly, taking childish pleasure in hearing his voice echo away into the distance. ‘This,’ he announced to the darkness around him, ‘is my hideout.’

  He pushed the boy to the ground and lit another candle, placing both of them down on two of the many large stones which littered the floor of the cavern; and then he set about the task of scavenging for bits of wood and errant twigs. Soon he had enough to build his camp-fire as he had done in the days when he was king of the baddies, the days that he was reliving now. Within minutes the fire struggled into crackling life, the flickering flames gradually growing in intensity and along with two candles they illuminated the chamber like some surreal cathedral.

  Harryboy grinned broadly. Now he was happy and he was safe. No one in the whole world could get him here. He squatted on his haunches and opened one of the tins of sardines he’d bought. He deserved some grub after all his efforts. He turned back the lid with the key and then dug his fingers into the tin, scooping up the cold greasy contents into his mouth.

  He glanced over at the boy, slumped on the ground, huddled into his coat at the far end of the rim of illumination.

  ‘Want some grub?’ he called, but the boy did not respond. Harryboy shrugged. ‘Please yourself,’ he grunted, before bringing the tin to his lips and sucking out the remaining portions of sardines. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as he had done when he was a kid, his eyes alive with pleasure.

  Peter knew he had to escape. He just had to get away. The man was mad. He was like a frenzied crazy character from one of his comics; like someone who had drunk a strange potion created by an evil scientist which had turned him into a kind of zombie. Who knows what he might do next? Perhaps he was a cannibal and intended to eat him. Peter’s mouth went dry at the thought.

  If he could creep back the way they had come, creep off into the darkness, he might be able to get away. Once he got beyond the circle of light provided by the fire and the candles, the man would not be able to see him. This thought gave him hope and he held it firmly in the forefront of his mind.

  With patience he watched the man who, after finishing the sardines, threw the tin into the distance and then sat close to the fire staring at the flames. He looked as though he was hypnotized by the darting fingers of yellow light as they rose and fell, struggling to survive. Slowly, gently and silently Peter uncurled himself and gradually raised himself off the ground into a crouching position. Then he froze waiting to see if his actions had been observed by the man. Apparently they had not. He had remained gazing at the fire, as still as a statue, lost in his mad zombie thoughts.

  Peter began to move. He knew that he had to get past the man before he could start to make his way towards the entrance of the tunnel. Holding his breath, he edged his way into the shadows behind his captor and began to circle the fire and the crazy man. His progress was slow because every few feet he stopped and waited to see if his actions had been noticed. Remarkably they had not; the man remained still and pensive, gazing into the flames.

  In about five minutes Peter had reached the far side of the fire and was on the edge of the expanse of blackness which would eventually lead him to the entrance of the tunne
l. He reckoned that if he kept to the side of the tunnel he could feel his way out of it. With a little smile, he rose to his feet in readiness to set forth into the inky dark.

  Just as he did so an arm clamped around his neck and he felt a sharp object prod into his cheek. He tried to scream but there was no air in his compressed windpipe. With a sudden violent movement he was dragged backwards into the circle of light by the crazy man, his heels scraping and bumping along the uneven ground.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, eh? Trying to leave me?’ he growled, with suppressed ferocity into Peter’s ear, his arm still tight around him. Peter could smell the strong stale, salty fish vapours on the man’s breath. He opened his mouth to reply but no sound came out. This seemed to amuse the man and he giggled like a little girl.

  Peter, his eyes wide with terror, glanced downwards and could see the shiny blade of a knife against his left cheek. Already bright red blood was seeping from the wound it had made. Peter wet himself with fear. The waking nightmare had grown more terrifying. There was no doubt about it now. This man intended to kill him.

  THIRTY - SIX

  A vibrant moon had made an early appearance in the still darkening sky, illuminating the stretch of waste ground where Jack Jenkins had led us. This strange half-light gave the area a surreal appearance like the landscape of the planet Mongo from those Flash Gordon serials.

  With great agility, Jack manoeuvred his wheelchair down from the pavement, across the stretch of rough open ground, through the rubble towards the large concrete pipe which reared up out of the ground like a giant mouth ready to swallow the unwary. A feeble trickle of water emanated from the aperture which was covered by decrepit wire netting, an ineffective barrier to prevent anyone trespassing. The rest of us followed Jack towards the entrance like rats after the Pied Piper.