by Lee Moan
The big man tilted his head, but said nothing in response.
“I would have done anything for her,” Lawkins said. “Anything. When I heard Ashworth and Sheldon and Jones plotting, I . . . stepped in and offered my services. I told them I’d do it, that I’d get rid of you, for a price.”
“A price?” Garrett said. “How much?”
“Enough to start a new life somewhere. And I gave them my word that if the heat ever came our way I would take the blame for it. After all, I had the motive, didn’t I?”
“Where are they?”
“What?” Lawkins looked up. “They’re all upstairs right now. Having a party.”
“Really?” Garrett said, and Lawkins had never heard the word said with such malevolence, such naked rage.
“Please,” Lawkins began, realising suddenly that he had just given up the only information that he could have used as a bargaining chip to save his own skin. “Please let me go. We’re even. Aren’t we?”
The man lowered his eyes to meet Lawkins own, and without a word he released his grip, letting him drop to the floor of the basement. Lawkins scrabbled around in the dirt, momentarily relieved but watching the dark figure closely to see what he was going to do next.
He ambled to the open door of the basement, stooping low to avoid colliding with the top of the door.
“Where are you going?” Lawkins asked.
The big man looked back menacingly, his eyes drawn to the fire axe secured to the wall. He grabbed it and yanked it free of its moorings. “To kill them all.” He paused, looked down at the lantern resting on the nearby shelf.
“How much did they pay you?” he asked.
Lawkins blinked rapidly, feeling strangely embarrassed by the question. But that, he told himself, was absurd. The man he had been paid to kill—the man he had killed—was asking the question.
“Fifty thousand,” Lawkins answered finally. “Sorry.”
Garrett stared at him for a long moment. “It wasn’t enough.”
With one swing of the axe he swatted the lantern from its resting place, sending it crashing onto the floor at Lawkins’ feet. As the glass shattered and the gas inside ignited, Lawkins let out a yelp that sounded alien to him, as though it came from somewhere outside his body. He watched as his legs caught fire and then very quickly the flames engulfed the rest of his body. The rubber oilskins began to melt against the skin of his arms and legs and then he was in too much pain to scream.
As the fire spread over the soaking floor and filled his nostrils, his lungs, his vision, the last thing Lawkins saw was the dark figure in the doorway, a phoenix that had risen from the grave to wreak its terrible vengeance.
His final thought was of the love of his life, beautiful Freya; and he realised with terrible irony that his attempts at avenging her death had failed in the most bizarre manner imaginable.
I’m sorry, my angel. I’m so sorry.
64
The situation was hopeless, Kelly admitted as she sat behind the wheel of her Jeep. As hopeless as it had ever seemed. And yet, she didn’t feel that it was ‘over’ in the harshest sense of the word. Fate had guided her here, to this moment, to this place and time. She still fully believed that her destiny was unfolding. Her heart belonged to Sam Thorne. She saw the anger, the hatred in his eyes when he confronted her up there, and whilst seeing such naked malice was painful to her, it was also a rite of passage, a stage she knew she had to get through to finally come out on the other side. And there on that plain, a plain filled with hope and love and forgiveness, she would make him her own.
She put the key in the ignition and turned it, the Jeep firing up first time. She would return to her bed and breakfast room at the Tavern and sleep on it, let this storm pass, both the real one and the metaphorical one.
As she fastened her seatbelt, she took one last look up at the Thorne house, allowing herself a rueful smile before releasing the handbrake and pulling onto the dirt road that led into town. She had barely driven more than a few feet before a dark shape leapt into her path. She stabbed the brake with her foot, jolting the Jeep to a stop. The figure in front of her slammed his hands on her bonnet. The headlights lit his face from beneath, accentuating the lines and wrinkles of his advanced age: it was Sam’s friend, the priest.
She looked to her right, in the direction of the front door of the house, and there was Sam, the little girl cradled in his arms, a desperate, pleading look in his eyes. She pressed the button that lowered the electronic windows, blinking as rain splashed her in the face. She didn’t care. Her heart was beating fast. The voice of destiny that had reassured her only moments earlier was whispering in her ear. She had been right to believe the situation wasn’t totally hopeless. She just hadn’t bargained on a second opportunity coming along so soon.
Sam bent down to speak to her through the window. He spoke through tightened lips, his eyes dimmed from humility. “Kelly, we need your help,” he said. “We have to get to the other side of the island, and fast.”
She tapped her finger on the steering wheel, looking out into the stormy night. “Tell me you’re sorry for chucking a young woman out into the stormy night, and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
Sam stared at her, a hangdog expression on his face. He sighed heavily, shifting the weight of the girl in his arms. “Kelly, please, this is an emergency.”
“Apology,” Kelly sang brightly.
Sam shook his head in disbelief, but she almost thought she caught the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips.
“Kelly, I’m sorry,” he finally managed.
“Get in,” she said.
65
The sound of breaking glass was distant, muted by the many floors of Ashworth House. But everyone in the upper room heard it. Ted Sheldon stood up.
“That’s it, I’m going down there.”
The group of friends erupted in disapproval. His wife Carol was the loudest among them.
“No, Ted, it could be anyone!”
He prised her fingers from his arm. “I don’t care. I’m not sitting here waiting for whoever it is to come and find us.” He stopped by the open fireplace and grabbed a good-sized poker, hefting its weight in his hands.
He opened the west door, checked that it had a key in the lock. Then he turned to the group huddled behind him. “Lock this door, and keep it locked. If I’m not back in ten minutes, call the police.”
Carol was sobbing, tears creating blotches of mascara on her pasty white cheeks. “Ted, please, Richard said not to go.”
“Well he’s not here right now, and he’s not man enough to check it out himself. Leave it to me, everyone.”
He slipped out the door, slamming it closed behind him. He paused on the far side of the door, waiting to hear the turning of the key.
“Lock it,” he urged.
Reggie stepped up and twisted the large brass key in the lock. Satisfied, Ted started down the echoing hall, and then to the spiral staircase.
As he descended he tried to imagine who might want to break into Ashworth House on this stormy night. Scalasay was a quiet island, like many of the Hebridean islands. The crime rate was virtually non-existent. It was a simple fact of island life that the people who chose to live on them did so out of a desire for a peaceful, honest existence. Criminal elements were almost always drawn to cities and towns where the pickings were rich and varied, where the chances of being caught were much less than it would be in a smaller, close-knit community. Criminals of all types—murderers, thieves, rapists—used the shadows as a tool in their dark deeds. Yes, there were people in cities, more chances of witnesses, but there were also many more dark alleyways and unwatched places.
So who could be breaking into the mansion on this night?
He reached the bottom swoop of the staircase and paused, looking around the dark, silent lobby. A patch of moonlight shone through the rectangular window above the front door. By its eerie silver light he could see chunks of broken glass scattered a
cross the oak-panelled floor of the lobby. The door suddenly creaked inward a few inches, a whining windy noise blowing through it for a few moments, before it swung shut again, banging noisily against the frame.
Ted’s heart-rate suddenly increased. He gripped the poker with both hands, eyes darting left and right. His ears were poised like a hunting dog. And in the breezy silence he heard the tiniest shuffle of feet. He whirled around, poker raised. Nothing. He turned to his left, his right. He couldn’t see anything, and there were so many shadows here at the bottom of the stairs, so many places for a person to hide. He skipped into the middle of the lobby, twirling around in a constant circle, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his arms feeling heavy and cold.
“Whoever is in here,” he shouted, trying to sound fearsome, but succeeding in only sounding anxious, “you better get the hell out. We’ve called the police. They’re on their way.”
He listened for a response, verbal or otherwise, but nothing came. Then there was a sharp clap behind him, and he spun on the soles of his shoes to find that it was only the door clicking shut behind him. But in that moment he had his back to the rest of the lobby, to the wall of shadow. He saw only the briefest flicker of movement in the dull reflection of the glass panel to the right of the door, a hideous vision of wide eyes and white, livid features floating towards him like an apparition, full of malice, full of rage.
There was a gust of wind by his right ear and then the thud of something sharp slicing through dense meat and bone. As the island’s butcher he knew what that sounded like, what it felt like to do, but in that unreal moment of time he knew what it felt like to have the hard blade cut down through his body. The force of the blow knocked him to his knees. He closed his eyes and screamed, more out of shock than pain. The pain was yet to come. When he opened his eyes and looked down at his chest he saw the top half of an axe blade protruding from the top of his ribs. Its path to that point was clearly marked, and as the poker dropped noisily to the floor he realised that the entire right shoulder and his arm was separated from the rest of him in a narrow ‘V’. His guts felt full of chunks of ice. He swooned, realising that the axe, and the person still holding it behind him, were the only things keeping him upright.
He felt a boot being pressed against his back, then the yanks—one, two, three—of the axe being pulled free. True enough, without its support Ted collapsed sideways onto the varnished wood floor, the smell of rose varnish filling his senses before the full extent of the pain bloomed in his head. He opened his mouth to scream it out, but it was too much and he could only exhale a long, trembling sigh. He managed to turn himself onto his back, some part of him desperate to know who had done this, what madman would do such a thing.
The figure looming above him was a nightmarish vision. Tall, white-faced, mad eyes staring, lips curled in a mask of bestial rage. But the face was unmistakable. He knew that it was impossible, but at the same time he sensed that this was a night like no other, a night in which undreamt of things could come to life, when the dead could rise from their graves and the island could right certain wrongs.
“Garrett,” he mumbled, and he hated the fact that he’d even spoken the bastard’s name because he knew that would probably be his last word on this earth, because the pain was paralysing him now.
The figure holding the axe stared down for a moment, the weapon poised in both hands ready for another strike. The monster seemed to be communicating a silent message to him, a message he understood very clearly.
Then Garrett raised the axe above his head and Ted Sheldon closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow. In the instant before it came, he tried to picture the face of his wife in his mind to give him comfort, but he realised right then that Carol was now alone and defenceless upstairs, along with the others.
Ted Sheldon’s final thought was that he had failed his wife completely. A madman was in the house, and there was no stopping him.
66
They all heard the scream.
Carol shrieked in response and ran for the locked door. Reggie grabbed her, carefully at first but then forcefully as she fought to be free of him.
“We have to stay here!” Reggie bellowed in her ear.
“Oh dear God, what’s happening to my Ted!” she wailed. “What’s happening?”
“Is somebody calling the police?” Reggie yelled over his shoulder.
Denise was already standing at the phone table, the receiver pressed to her ear. But her face was a picture of horror. She tapped the cradle several times.
“The line’s dead,” she said. “Oh, God.”
Then they heard a noise in the corridor outside, and all eyes fixed on the wood panelled door. Everyone held their breath. In the silence they heard slithering footsteps along the hallway outside. Then the door handle suddenly creaked, the handle dropping and rising in three quick movements. Then:
“Shit!”
Everyone looked at each other. It was a woman’s voice.
“H-Hello?” Reggie called out.
“Hello? Jesus, is there somebody in there? Please let me in.”
Reggie let go of Carol, who had stopped struggling, and moved towards the door. Now it was her turn to restrain him, grabbing his elbow. “No, Reggie,” she hissed. “Ted said not to open it until he came back.”
Reggie stared back at her, then looked to Denise.
“But it’s a woman.”
“So?” Carol whispered. “She’s an intruder.”
Reggie faced the door. “Who are you?” he called out.
“Rachel Thorne.”
Everyone gasped.
“Please, I’m begging you. Let me in. He’s coming!”
67
Rachel hammered on the door. “Open up!”
“You said ‘he’s coming’,” the man said. It sounded like Reggie Jones. “Who’s coming?”
She was wondering how best to answer when she heard a crash somewhere below. A surge of white hot fear filled her. She listened intently for a moment. Where was he?
After making the call home to speak to Sam—Sam, oh Sam, where are you when I need you?—she had lost track of Garrett. His silhouette had disappeared around the side of the house. There could be half a dozen ways into this place. She’d heard the smash of glass as Garrett broke in. It sounded like it was somewhere on the basement level. Then she’d heard the screams shortly afterwards. The chances were very good that Garrett was in the house, somewhere.
She slammed her open palms on the door again. “Unlock this door and I’ll explain. I swear I am not your enemy. I’m trying to help you.”
“I –” The man was hesitant.
“Don’t open it, Reggie,” a woman’s voice demanded.
Then there was a sudden bang from the room beyond the door and the people in there all screamed. It sounded as though a door on the opposite side had been kicked or hammered open. The screams were shrill, constant, deafening even through the hardwood door. Rachel could do nothing else but listen. She heard a guttural cry of rage, then the wet thud of a hammer blow or some other instrument. The man’s screams ceased instantly. The women – she thought there were two – shrieked in a terrible harmony. They must have been huddled together, clutching each other for comfort. She heard that awful grunt of animalistic rage and then the shrieks of the two women were silenced. Rachel heard a double thud of heavy bodies hitting the floor.
Then silence. Utter, terrible silence.
Rachel felt as though the blood had ceased flowing in her veins, frozen in midstream, her heart ceasing to pump.
“Oh God,” she breathed.
Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, on the far side of the room, heading towards the door.
She backed away from it, scared to breathe, her heart now working double-time, filling her head with its beat.
The key turned slowly in the lock.
She turned and fled down the shadowy hall.
68
Kelly’s Jeep skidded in the mud and came to a stop in fro
nt of the gates to Ashworth mansion. Sam, seated in the back with Becky, leaned forward and surveyed the smashed gates. Occasional sparks of electricity flashed out of the darkness.
“Are we too late?” Kelly said.
“I hope not,” McNamara said.
“Don’t go any further, Kelly,” Sam said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll burst your tyres getting through there.”
Sam climbed out of the car, followed by the priest.
“What are you doing?” Kelly said. “You’re not going to leave me here?”
Sam leaned on the open window, looking in at her. His gaze moved to Becky.
“Daddy’s just going to find Mummy now, sweetheart,” he told her. “I want you to sit tight here with Kelly. Kelly will look after you.” He met Kelly’s eyes. “Won’t you, Kelly?”
She stared at him, her eyelids fluttering for a moment. “Yes, of course,” she said.
Sam paused a moment, looking back at his daughter. He wanted to reach in and kiss her, hug her . . .
A volley of screams filled the night air. Coming from the mansion.
“Dear God!” McNamara said.
Sam turned and ran through the gates, the priest following close behind. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.
Oh God, please don’t let that be Rachel. Please . . .
He reached the front door and yanked the handle. To his surprise, he found the door was open. The bolts were broken and the wood of the door splintered where it had been forced in.
The flames had broken through the lower floors. The lobby was filling with smoke. . Sam covered his face with the crook of his elbow. McNamara found an old handkerchief and covered his nose and mouth.
“Looks like the fire’s started in the basement,” McNamara said. “The fire’s going to spread through this old house like a tinderbox. Good, old fashioned hard wood.”
Sam looked at him helplessly.
