Mersey Dark

by Michael Whitehead

  “Very little, I’m afraid. There was almost nothing in the way of evidence. There was one body and it was as consumed as the body in our wardrobe. The hair we are about to have analysed is the first real lead I have come across.” Templeton’s face was earnest and Tanner found himself liking this man despite his reservations.

  “As you say,” Tanner replied. He motioned to the door, allowing the older man to leave the carriage first, “shall we?”

  Tanner didn’t know what he had expected when they set off from Liverpool, but he was almost certain it wasn’t the sight that greeted him now. The picture book cottage was the only building in sight. After the rush and bustle of his home town this was almost surreal in its seclusion.

  A well maintained, thatched roof sat atop white painted wattle and daub walls. The garden was immaculate, with perfectly manicured lawns surrounded by borders of red roses. encompassing all of this, as if in an attempt to keep out the imperfection of the world, sat a white picket fence.

  The horses blew hard as the partners opened the gate and headed along the path to the green front door. The driver dropped from his seat and began scooping large bails of hay from the back of the carriage using a small pitch fork.

  Templeton used the silver ball on the end of his cane to knock three times, then stepped back and waited for a reply. There was an uncomfortable moment when both men stared at the door, waiting for it to open but it didn’t. After a few moments he tried again, to the same result. The two men looked at each other and indicated the back of the house, after the journey they would rather wait than leave disappointed.

  The rear of the cottage was as picturesque as the front. The garden was just as inviting, with more roses, white this time. At the far end, hidden from the road by a slight dip, was an enormous greenhouse. A white frame held huge panes of glass that reflected the spring sun.

  Templeton nodded toward a flash of red movement against the deep green background of the plants. To one side was a sliding door, Templeton knocked on the frame but the sound was lost even in the silence of the countryside, so they slid the door open and stepped inside.

  “Close the door behind you, please,” a voice shouted from deep inside the greenhouse. Huge plants with massive leaves grew so close together that the single pathway between them was the only way forward. To one side enormous blades of grass towered over both of them. The air was hot and damp, giving Tanner the impression of a bathroom on the occasions he had taken a hot bath.

  “Do stand still, I will come to you,” the same voice said, getting closer. The two men looked at each other and as they did a butterfly, as big as a blackbird landed on the lapel of Templeton’s suit jacket. It’s wings were almost transparent, Templeton looked down at it with a look of wonder that made Tanner want to laugh.

  “Ah I see you’ve met my Amber Phantom,” an elderly women said as she came into sight from between two tall palms. She was dressed in canvas trousers and a bright red smock, her hair was startling silver. “He likes you.”

  “He is simply stunning,” Templeton said, sounding genuinely enthralled.

  “I’m glad you like him, do tread carefully in here there are a number of rare fauna among the flora. How may I help you, gentlemen?”

  “J.C. Simmons?” He asked.

  “Exactly,” she replied, producing a cloth from her belt, wiping her hands that looked to be covered in soil, and holding one out to shake with both of her visitors.

  “I’m Detective Tanner and this is my associate, Templeton. We were advised to speak to you on a delicate matter by Mr. Rathbone at the Philosophical society.”

  “Ah, William sent you, how very civilised. How is the old goat? I don’t see so much of him anymore, not since I moved out of the town and into the country. More space out here to spread myself out. You know, make a mess.” As she spoke her eyes kept drifting to Templeton, he was at least twenty years her junior but Tanner was beginning to think his partner had caught her eye.

  “He seemed well, Miss Simmons,” Tanner began.

  “Please call me Jane, detective. How about we step up to the house and I can make us all some tea?” she asked.

  “Tea sounds wonderful,” Templeton said, holding out his arm in order that Jane could place her hand through it. She gently held out a hand to the butterfly on his jacket and allowed it to alight onto her finger. She then gently blew it and watched it fly away, before taking the offered arm. In this way, Tanner found himself walking behind the couple almost like an unwelcome guest on a date. They moved around the side of the cottage and in through the front door but not before Templeton complimented Jane on her garden.

  “Thank you, Mr. Templeton,” Jane said. Tanner expected his partner to correct her use of his name, he did not do so however. The pair entered the cottage first, leaving him to pull the door shut behind him.

  The interior of the cottage was much as one might have expected. It was clean and quaint. Pots and pans were suspended from hooks on the kitchen walls, and sketches of various plants were framed and hung on the opposite wall.

  “Mr. Templeton, detective Tanner, exactly what can I do for you?” Jane asked, pottering about the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting a tea pot on a tray.

  “Mr. Rathbone led us to believe you are the person to speak to about a natural philosophy matter,” Tanner said.

  “I will certainly do my best for you. My father was more of the naturalist, though I did inherit love of such matters,” she said, placing some fine china cups beside the pot. On the stove the kettle was producing a steady waft of steam.

  Tanner reached in to his pocket and produced the handkerchief that contained the sample of hair. He placed it, open on the table. Sensing that her visitors had come to the crux of the matter, Miss Simmons stopped her pottering and leaned in to see what he had produced.

  “I wonder if you can identify this for us, Jane,” Templeton asked, as she looked at the clump of hair and blood.

  Without speaking further she scooped the handkerchief up in one thin but nimble hand and placed it in a glass bowl. Placing this to one side she took a tea towel from the table and poured boiling water from the kettle into the teapot.

  With this done, Jane turned from the table and shuffled from the kitchen. Templeton and Tanner were left for a while, staring around the room, waiting for her return. When she eventually appeared she was carrying a microscope, made of brass. It was probably the single most complex piece of equipment Tanner had ever seen in his life. It had mirrors and knobs, gears and platforms, none of which he could do more than hazard a guess at their use.

  “Now, let’s see,” Jane said, but instead of turning to the hair sample she began to pour three cups of tea, adding milk and placing a bowl of sugar in the middle of the table. Finally she sipped her own drink and placed it next to the instrument.

  With her tea ritual over, Jane finally placed the hair sample on a glass slide and fastened it under the main part of the microscope. She adjusted a knob and the barrel moved up and down, then turned a second one and the eye piece did the same. Eventually she appeared satisfied and uttered a single word, “impossible.”

  She raised her head from the eyepiece and looked at Tanner and then Templeton.

  “Where did you get this sample?” she asked.

  Tanner looked at Templeton, the older man was looking to the detective for permission to tell her the truth. He shrugged and nodded.

  “The hair comes from the scene of a murder, Miss Simmons,” he replied.

  “Sorry, I should have been clearer. Which country did you get it from?” she clarified.

  “It was found in a house in Liverpool,” Templeton said, looking inquisitive.

  “I say again, impossible,” she said, and looked back down at the sample once more.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” Tanner began. “Would you mind explaining why?”

  Jane looked from one man to the next, Tanner had the impression his honesty might be being judged.

  “Did someone
at the Literary society put you up to this? I know they like their little jokes,” Jane said, taking another sip of her tea and replacing the cup.

  “I beg your pardon, Jane, but we are completely in earnest,” Templeton said. Tanner saw the expression of bemused suspicion relax from her face as Templeton spoke, evidently she was happy to believe him.

  “In that case, gentlemen, it would appear we have something extraordinary,” she said.

  Tanner said nothing, he simply looked down at the glass slide, still in place on the microscope. Templeton tilted his head slightly, inviting Jane to continue.

  “This is rat hair,” she said. For a moment she paused, as if she expected the two men to be as shocked as she was, then she seemed to realised she hadn’t explained what made it unusual. “The only thing is, judging by the length and thickness of this hair, the rat it came from might have been as much as six feet tall.”

  “Are you sure?” Tanner asked, the question surprised out of him before he could recall it.

  “Not completely, detective. I asked if it might have come from elsewhere because there are large rodents that live in Africa and Australia, I believe. None as far as I’m aware are as large as this specimen would appear to be.”

  “Sorry, I meant are you sure that it’s rat hair?” Tanner asked.

  “Detective, as I believe I mentioned, my father was an eminent naturalist. He studied a number of animals over his career. He used many rats in his mazes and other experiments. I would spend hours in his lab helping, and as often just getting in the way. I have seen rat hair under a microscope hundreds of times, that is rat hair.” Jane was not angry but her tone would brook no further argument. Tanner simply nodded his thanks.

  The three of them lapsed into contemplative silence, drinking tea and occasionally looking at the microscope. After a minute or so Jane stood up and proclaimed, “biscuits! What we need are biscuits.”

  Chapter Eight

  There had been fear, then pain, followed by a time of great hunger, and when that was satisfied had come confusion. The world was not as it had been, he saw through new eyes, he thought through a fog made by two minds trying to think as one.

  Below was the person he had been, bound to the life he had once known by memory. Love, friendship, and warmth all taunted him with their absence. The family to which he had once belonged, now no more than a distant land, glimpsed on the horizon of his mind.

  Above was a raging torrent of anger and confusion. It blotted out the life he had known, rusting the edges of this thought and corroding his sense of self. Hunger and fear reigned over his choices, beating like a fettered, corrupted heart.

  One memory stood out in his fevered mind, his last as a human. He had been dragged to a chamber by strong, heavy hands. There had been a gathering of people, their leering, laughing faces had mocked him as he was forced to the floor.

  The chamber had smelled of foulness and corruption. The stench of human waste had burned his nostrils, nauseating him. Such things had little effect on him now, the aromas were somehow enticing, speaking of safety and the welcoming darkness.

  A dark-skinned man had stood before him. His face was painted in a hideous visage. He was dressed in furs and feathers, giving him the look of a monster, a demon. The others had backed away when the demon had appeared, subservient and scared.

  Words had followed, causing terror. They meant nothing now, knowledge of such things had been lost in the changing. The memory of fear was burned red in his mind, causing his heart to beat faster at the merest thought of that moment.

  The fire had risen hot, robbing the chamber of air. His breath had been stolen from him as the air was heated and ruined. The demon had danced before him, leering and mocking. The gathered men had laughed, more through fear than amusement. Still the terror had gripped him, even as he felt the power to turn away from the apparition evaporate.

  What followed was confused and lost to his memory. There had been magic, the calling of spirits, that much he knew. He had begged and cried but his voice had fallen on deaf ears. Now he had no voice with which to cry.

  Darkness had taken him then, his conscious self, lost to the red void. When he had woken, there had been little left of himself. Just enough to lament his loss and to feel the confusion the new invading mind had brought upon him.

  For a time it had felt like an intruder, a second self, trying to take over the space in his head. Then over time, he had learned that the two were one. The new half was stronger and not to be denied. It carried with it red anger and a need to kill, to feed and destroy. He had hidden in the chamber, scared to leave and join the world of men. Then the hunger had overwhelmed him and he had ventured out, not into the light but the shadows and the dark places. Night was his friend, his protector and his life.

  He understood that behind the fear and anger was a purpose. In him had been instilled a yearning for revenge. He had left the place of his changing complete with the knowledge that his creation had been for a reason.

  He had travelled at night, following the compass in his head. Understanding that all he had to do was follow the red hatred. The need to kill would keep his mind from the division that would end him. The higher, stronger part of his mind would lead him to his destiny and free him from his hell.

  Finally, his new self had found the place it sought and yearned to fulfil its purpose, its need. For once, the smaller weaker part of his mind had won through. The fear it carried had made him weary and it fought for control. He had watched, and waited.

  The house was like the others around it, uniform and clean. The smells that permeated it enticed him and drew him closer but he knew that to strike too soon would mean his death. From the darkness he watched.

  He saw his victim. Surrounded in that enticing red glow. It burned at his mind as he watched from the shadows and he knew that he could not wait much longer. If he did not strike soon, his stronger self would deny the caution that held it in check and attack, disregarding the consequences.

  Then, his chance had come. His victim had left the house, he had watched her leave from his hiding place. His stronger self had screamed that he should rush out and attack, to kill and be done. He had watched her leave in a horse drawn carriage.

  For a moment his two minds had been torn asunder. The higher, stronger mind had tried to follow the carriage, desperate to tear and claw at the flesh that called to him. The smaller, weaker mind had understood that she would return and that this was a chance.

  Upstairs a window was open, just a little but it was enough. It sat like an invitation and the more rational part of his mind knew it was the best chance he would have. The wall was scaled with ease. No longer did he have the weak, human fingers of his former life, the claws he now possessed were made for this.

  He slipped into the house, smelling the rich aroma of people. It carried with it memories of his former life, of love and warmth. It also carried the scent of blood and sweat. These things cried out to his stronger mind, angering it and driving it to the edge of madness.

  A sound had startled it out of its confused memories and driven the human part of it’s mind below. His stronger self readied itself to fight. The door had opened and an old man, singing to himself as he had entered the room. Weak and half blind, he had not even realised his own danger until it was far too late.

  The old man had bustled about the room, putting away clothes and straightening curtains. All the while unaware that he was being watched, being stalked by his own death. He had the innocence and weakness of the unaware but finally something had made him stop.

  “Who’s there?” the old man had asked.

  The words had meant nothing to him. Communication had been reduced to smells and colours since the changing. The old man suddenly smelled of fear as he spun around, trying to see who or what was watching him.

  He stayed still, letting the fear build in the old man. He could smell the blood, running hot, turning sweet with terror. His hunter’s mind was in total control as
he moved a step toward his prey. This was not the one he had come for but the flesh would satiate his hunger.

  He heard the old man’s words once more, terror driving cracks into his voice. Still he waited for the moment, relishing the smell of fear, letting it make him drunk. Then, when the need could be denied no more, he attacked.

  Fury overtook him as he tore into the weak flesh. First with the claws the changing had granted him, then with the razor sharp teeth. He flayed the meat from the old man’s bones, gorging himself on the hot blood. Gluttony silenced both parts of his mind for a while. Nothing mattered but the hunger and the need to feed it.

  When he had returned to himself the body before him was no more than a loose collection of bones and tattered flesh but for now the hunger had been reduced. Not gone, never gone, but diminished. He had surveyed his surroundings with fresh eyes, trying to find a place to hide.

  He had opened the wardrobe and pulled the clothes into a loose nest. Collecting the remains of his prize, he had closed himself in, letting the darkness protect him as it always did. He had lay in his hiding place and breathed in the smell of his kill.

  With his hunger satisfied, his human mind had gained a measure of control. Sadness had consumed him. He knew what he had become and he mourned the loss of all that had been taken from him. With the confusing red haze that drove his mind cleared by the flesh in his stomach, he was all too aware to what he had been reduced.

  At that moment, he might have been able to end it all. The animal part of his mind was quiet and asleep. He could have crawled from his hiding place and found a blade with which to put paid to his misery. The claws that had replaced his hands would be clumsy, his thumbs no longer worked as they once had. He could still hold a knife long enough to draw his own blood, as he had spilled the blood of the old man.

  He lay in the darkness, enveloped by his own misery when the door had opened downstairs. Voices had found him in the darkness, a man and a woman. He knew his victim had returned and that knowledge awoke the animal inside him. Slow and clumsy, it was made drowsy by the large meal he had consumed, still he sniffed the air and scented his true prey.