by Ryan Casey
Brian couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure whether Stephen was fucking with him or being entirely sincere.
“Anyway,” Stephen said, kicking a stone and heading in the direction of Davidson Archeological Contractors. “We did get in touch earlier about the length of your suspension. We tried and tried your mobile, but…um…Well, we left the details with your girlfriend. Have a nice few weeks, Brian.”
Brian stood completely still next to the red Fiesta as Stephen disappeared into the distance, whistling at the top of his lungs.
Hannah knew about his suspension.
If that trench on the top of Pendle Hill were right beside him now, he’d throw himself into it and bury his own fucking body.
Chapter Seven
Hannah was waiting at the window to greet Brian when he returned to their semi-detached suburban house.
She only ever waited at the window when she was gearing herself up to bollock him.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he approached the front door, away from the red Fiesta, away from all hope of heading to Brabiner’s Archeological Group this afternoon. Away from all hope of ever carrying out his mission for David Wallson. Away from the detective life again.
“Hello, honey,” Brian called as he entered the door. She didn’t call back to him. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to play this. In his mind, he wanted to walk right up to her and apologise for failing to tell her about his suspension. But he wanted her to understand his motives. He wanted her to understand that he simply didn’t want to worry her.
He popped his head around the door of the living room. Hannah was sat on her own. She stared up at the television, which wasn’t even switched on. Her jaw was tensed. Another telltale sign that she was royally pissed off.
“Han, let me explain.”
“Explain what?” Hannah asked. Her head spun around and her eyes glared at him. They were bloodshot. Red underneath. “Explain why you were suspended from your job? Explain why you didn’t tell me? Explain where the hell you’ve been today if you haven’t been at work?”
Brian gulped. He knew what Hannah was getting at; what she was implying. “I know what you think, and you’re wrong. Just let me—”
“The day after our fucking anniversary,” Hannah said. She stomped to her feet and looked out of the window, her back to Brian. “How could you?”
“Hannah,” Brian said. He approached her and reached a hand out to rest on her shoulder, but thought better of it. “If you know why I was…why I was suspended. If you know that, then you’ll know where I was today.”
It was a few moments before Hannah turned around. When she did, she barely made eye contact with Brian. “I saw it. The police rang and they told me, and then I saw it on the Internet anyway. Storming into a crime scene. And then turning up with that journalist yesterday. I’m a freelance writer, for fuck’s sake. Don’t think I didn’t recognise that slimeball’s car. What’s going on, Brian? What’s going on?”
Brian gulped. The thoughts of David Wallson’s offer spun around his head. “I wanted to tell you. I swear I wanted to tell you. But I…It’s complicated. I can’t go into it.”
“Oh, you will,” Hannah said. “If you want me to trust you, you’ll explain it all to me, right here, right now.”
This was it. He’d have to open up. There was no escape, not if he wanted to keep Hannah on side. Brian took a shaky breath in. The words were waiting at the bottom of his throat, dying to escape. “I…I got an offer. From that journalist. I got an offer to go see the Pendle Hill crime scene while I was at work. I didn’t think much at it at first, but…yeah. The detective in me.”
“The detective in you that you swore was finished. That almost ruined your life once.”
“I can’t run away from what I am, Hannah. But anyway, one thing led to another. I…I went into that pit because I could see that something was off. The bones, Han. The bones were much older than the heads. They were too discoloured. Worn away slightly. Which led me to believe that the bones were what Davidson Archeological Contractors were looking for after all. Anyway, one thing led to another and the journalist—David Wallson—he ended up making me an offer.”
Hannah narrowed her watery eyes. She didn’t speak. She just waited. Waited for Brian to continue.
“He had…he had evidence. Evidence that…” The following words were more of a struggle to get out. “Evidence that Robert Luther killed Nicola Watson. Evidence that—that Cassy didn’t die pointlessly. Evidence that I was right. All along, I was right. And I agreed. Because of that information, I agreed to speak to Darren Anderson, the witness in the Pendle Hill case. And that led me to Davidson’s today. I found something, Han. There’s a guy called Harold Harvey. A guy that begged this group to do a dig for them. And I swear he’s got something to do with a rival firm in town. I swear there’s something not right about them.”
Hannah still wasn’t speaking, but her stare was faltering. She blinked rapidly, as if she was considering Brian’s words; weighing them up inside her head.
“I just wanted to be a detective again, Hannah. That’s all it was. But I know I can’t be now. I know I can’t be.”
Hannah raised her head. She half-smiled at Brian, like she was relatively satisfied with his response. “Thank you for being honest with me,” she said, breaking her self-imposed silence.
Then, she lowered her head and walked past Brian, out of the room, into the kitchen/dining area.
For a few moments, Brian just stood completely still in the lounge and stared out of the window. It was getting dark outside. The Halloween lights of the house down the road were flickering in, sporadically filling their lounge with an amber glow.
Brian let the tension seep out of his body and pulled the curtains together.
He walked out of the room and into the kitchen/dining area.
“In case you were wondering,” Hannah said, as she leaned over the worktop preparing to pierce the film of a ready-made meal. “You’ve got a two week suspension. Consider yourself very lucky.”
She rammed the knife into the lid of the ready meal and sent a loud popping noise through the kitchen.
Brian and Hannah didn’t talk about any of the last two days’ events for the rest of the evening. But even so, there was an aura of discomfort around the house. A sense that always prevailed in the aftermath of an altercation or disagreement, like the radiation left over after a nuclear explosion. It would take time to clear. It might never truly clear. But the explosion was done with. The hardest times were through with.
Staring up at the white ceiling of his bedroom, Brian considered the day’s events. At least the police hadn’t pursued him for questioning Mr. Davidson. That could have caused problems. Knowing the department as well as he did, he figured they’d have been in touch by now if Mr. Davidson had given anything too big away about Brian’s line of questioning.
Then again, anything was possible with Stephen-fucking-Molfer on the investigation.
“What’s on your mind, honey?”
Hannah’s voice made Brian jump out of his fixated trance. He turned to look at her. She leaned back against the wooden headrest of the bed, Stephen King’s The Shining in hand, reading in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. She had a reassuring smile on her face. A smile of acknowledgement and understanding.
“It’s just…” Brian rubbed the top of his head. “Just the case. Just thinking about how weird it all is. About how close I got. Because I swear there’s something wrong with this Brabiner’s Archeology place, from what I’ve been told. I just hope the police—”
“They’ll do their job,” Hannah interrupted. She snapped her book shut. “But you’ve got to do yours. You’ve got to remember who you are now. You’ve got to keep on being the better man than the man you were. Your son—you see him tomorrow. You’ve got to be that good father.”
Brian gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to admit it, but Hannah was ri
ght. He had been a miserable dick when he was a detective. The self-harming and the eventual descent into alcoholism proved that. But he had something now. His career might not be quite as glamorous, but he had a lovely girlfriend. He had a son whom he saw every week. He had something to live for.
Brian leaned over and kissed Hannah on her cheek. She moved away, but eventually let him just about brush her skin with his lips. “I’m sorry for not being honest.” He grabbed Hannah’s hand. Rubbed his fingertips along her palms. “It’s just our lives now. I promise to God it’s our great lives. It’s my son. It’s my silly little PCSO job. That’s what I want now. I swear.”
Hannah looked Brian in the eyes. “And no more of this fake detective crap?”
Brian smiled. “No. No more. Sick of all that nonsense, anyway. I’ll leave it to the other miserable gits to get to the bottom of.”
Hannah smiled back at Brian. She leaned in to kiss him, then pulled away and turned onto her side. “Good.”
She reached for the lamp and flicked it off. The room descended into darkness.
“I love you, Bri.”
Brian closed his eyes. The weight of the case—the case that wasn’t even his in the bloody first place—lifted from his body and drifted up through the ceiling. “I love you too. I love you too.”
No more detective bullshit.
Just a nice two-week holiday.
John Brabiner never enjoyed working late, but it was just a necessary part of his job since he’d set up the archeology company.
He checked his watch as he approached the dig site at Longridge Fell. The rain poured down on the grassy area. In the distance, tall trees loomed over them.
“Okay, boys. Got to think about wrapping up for the day soon.”
“Amen to that,” Harry Wilson said. His orange raincoat hood was tightened right around his head. Looked like bloody Kenny off “South Park”. “Don’t see why we have to work so late anyway. It’s slave labour, this.”
John smacked Harry on his back. “Nonsense. We work late because we promised we’d dig up whatever-the-hell this client wanted us to dig up. If we failed, no doubt they’d be on the phone to Davidson tomorrow to get his team to finish the job. What’s left of ‘em, anyway.”
“Think Mr. Davidson might have a couple of other things on his mind right now, boss,” Bob said. Bob wasn’t wearing a raincoat. The water from the torrential rain waterfalled through his black hair, soaking his clothes.
Bob was right. John had heard about the events at the Pendle Hill dig site. Poor bastards, out there doing their jobs and next thing they know, find themselves beheaded at the bottom of the ditch. The only thing that gave John comfort was the fact that his company hadn’t been approached to take that job. It’d make him seriously consider jobs before he took them. And sure—the job they were doing right now was a last-minute one, but the sum of money was ridiculously large. Too large to refuse.
Thunder sounded overhead as the rain seemed to get heavier and heavier. “Okay, let’s get this place covered up before all our hard work goes to waste. Bob, Harry—you two put that blue mat over the trench. I’ll handle the light.”
“Yes, boss,” Harry said. He lowered himself to the ground and started to unroll a large blue mat out in front of him.
John switched off the spotlight and dragged it towards the white van.
“Coulda given us a light warning!” Harry shouted.
John laughed. “Your eyes will adjust. Now hurry the fuck up back there.”
He grinned as he walked in the complete darkness towards the van. The moonlight wasn’t even so bright tonight, but there was something remarkable about being out in the dark in the middle of the countryside. His eyes were adjusting. All that light pollution of the city was nowhere in sight. Was beautiful, really. It really was something.
He opened the door of the van and the light came on, ruining the serenity of the scene. “There you go, boys. Bit of light for you.” He placed the spotlight on the back of the van and strapped it in. “Jesus, boys—what’s taking you so long? Don’t you fancy a McDonald’s?”
John squinted in the direction of the trench. He couldn’t really see it. But the guys were always fucking about with him; trying to scare him. He shook his head and sloshed through the grass in the direction of the trench. He’d have the last laugh here. He really would.
A bolt of lightning flashed in the distance. The thunder was deafening. Shit. He hadn’t heard thunder make such a sound before. The lightning must’ve made contact nearby.
“Come on, lads,” John said, getting nearer to the edge of the trench. “Lightning’s striking. Wouldn’t want you to fry now, would we?”
He stopped at the edge of the trench. He could see the blue mat that Bob and Harry had been folding out loosely dangling over the trench. Another bolt of lightning flashed, making John jump.
“Gotcha, boys. Gonna make sure you stay down here for this. Quit messing around, you lame fuckers.” He grabbed the edge of the blue mat and pulled it aside.
As he did, he tumbled back. There was a bright light shining from the trench. A flashlight that Harry or Bob definitely had not had beforehand. At least, not that he knew of. And it was shining right up at him, blinding his eyes.
“Je…Jesus, lads. What are you…what are you doing down there?”
It was as John’s vision started to adjust to the light that he realised there was no joke after all.
His heart raced. His throat went dry. “Oh shit…Just…Oh shit.” He turned to run away, but something stopped him. An invisible force gripped his heels and sent him crashing into the wet ground as he tried to throw himself away.
“Shit! Somebody! Please!”
As he dug his bitten-down nails into the dirt, he knew his screams were in vain. He had a sense of what was happening, but his mind still wanted to believe it was all a joke.
“Please,” John sobbed. He stuck his fingers right into the sloppy ground at the edge of the trench as the force pulled him from behind. “Quit…Quit playing around. Whoever it is, just…Please.”
Another bolt of lightning struck in the distance.
A hard thump crashed into John’s back, harder than anything he’d ever felt in his life.
He fell into the trench, his back stinging as it hit the ground.
“Pl—Please. Please, just…”
John looked to his side. He could see their faces as another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. But that’s all there was. Faces, detached from their bodies, blood dribbling from their neck.
And beside them, bones.
The silhouette grabbed the blue cover at the top of the trench.
“Please don’t…I’ll do anything. I’ll do…”
The last thing John Brabiner saw in the flash of lightning was the glint of a bloody sword, as the silhouette pulled over the cover and jumped back into the trench…
Chapter Eight
When Brian woke the following morning, he stretched out his arms and nudged into Hannah’s back. She was completely still, only her steady breaths in and out breaking the illusion of perfect serenity. A smile crept across Brian’s face as he held his eyes tightly shut. There was no feeling of dread in his stomach. No feeling of guilt. He had two weeks off work—well, suspended anyway. Two weeks to get his priorities straight again, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
He opened his eyes and looked around the room. A beam of sunlight peeked in through the gap in the middle of the cream curtains—something that Hannah always insisted on. An OCD kind of thing. Brian pulled the bedding from his body and edged to the side of the bed, hitting the digital alarm clock so that it wouldn’t wake Hannah. 6:09 a.m. He’d be able to get up, make some breakfast for when she rose and started whatever freelance work she had for the day. He didn’t really have much “making up” to do, but there was nothing like a bit of cooked breakfast as a gesture.
Plus, he had to make hi
mself useful. Two weeks doing absolutely nothing and he’d go batshit crazy.
He plodded across the spongy floor towards the partly open bedroom door. Another of Hannah’s OCDs. Some shrink or another might have a dodgy theory about how she must feel “closed in” or some crap like that. And she’d lap that bullshit up. Which is exactly why she wasn’t going to a shrink any time soon, not on his watch.
Brian pushed the door slightly as he left the room. Hannah was still fast asleep under the covers, a half-smile on her lips. A warm feeling rose inside Brian as he stared at her dark brown hair and smooth skin. She really was gorgeous. He was lucky. So, so lucky.
He turned away and walked down the landing area and the stairs. The muddy-brown doormat that Hannah’s sister had bought them as a moving-in gift was already stacked up with the day’s newspapers for Hannah to scour and write a story about. Brian winced as he crouched down and scooped the papers up under his arm, barely taking any notice of the headlines. Stupid, really. All that free access to the Internet and she took out bloody paper subscriptions. Ah well. Something to burn in the garden, or wipe their arses with if loo roll ever ran too low.
Whistling as he staggered into the kitchen area, he plonked the pile of papers onto the side and made a move for the kettle. As he did, one of the papers tumbled from the top of the others, the interior spilling out and covering the floor.
“Fuck,” Brian mumbled as he turned back to the paper and lifted it up. Stupid free leaflets were a pain in the arse. He tried to piece the paper together again as the kettle roared to life. He was having second thoughts about getting up quite so early after all.
As he dropped the fallen paper back on top of the others, an image caught his eye. At first, he shrugged it off—dismissed it as yet another report about the Pendle Hill Massacre.
