by Chris Parker
‘And what are they?’
‘Shadows.’ The voice belonged to Nic not Marcus. Peter swivelled to face him. He felt the blood drain from his face. His partner had changed, lost his identity, turned into a faceless black human form. ‘And those shadows surround me, too, because you bring them home with you. You breathe them into me. I see them. I feel them. Every time you get out of our bed in the middle of the night and drive away to another crime, you leave me alone with the shadows. Don’t you realise that? Don’t you understand how they are drawing the life out of me? How they threaten us?’
‘He’s right. You carry the shadows everywhere and they cling to your home.’ This time it was Marcus who spoke. Only when Peter looked to him he found himself suddenly transported in to Marcus’s garden. Now he was standing in front of the weeping willow. The shadows surrounded the light. Peter turned a slow, tight circle, staring into the impenetrable darkness. His right foot caught against an unexpected object. He looked down. The earth had been disturbed. A grave had been dug. It held his partner.
‘Help me! Get me out!’ Nic’s voice, faint and desperate beyond measure, choked off abruptly as the earth began filling his throat.
Peter dropped to his knees and began clawing frantically at the soil with both hands, like a dog searching for a hidden treasure. ‘Nic! I’m here! I will save you!’
The willow shook, its lowest branches rustling against the grass. The shadows closed in. Peter dug frantically. ‘Just hold on!’
He threw the soil behind him, felt some hitting his own chest and thighs as he increased his efforts. Only the more he dug the deeper and darker the hole became, just a shadow within the earth with no sign of his lover inside it.
‘Nic!’ Peter heard the terror in his own voice, saliva spraying from his mouth, his tears blurring his vision. ‘Nic!’
There was no reply. Peter screamed. His hands closed around an object and he pulled it from the soil. It was the branch from the willow tree, painted purple, trembling in his grasp as if gulping in air. The earth-shadow released itself and soared heavenward. Peter fell backwards, dropping the branch.
‘Nic!’
‘Help me! Get me out!’ The desperate voice again. Peter pushed himself to his knees and began to dig some more, going ever deeper.
And so the nightmare held him. Repeating itself. Increasing his sense of hope and desperation in equal measure. A nightmare that refused to end.
Whilst Peter slept, the killer reviewed the lessons he had learnt from his second killing.
28.
The next morning was unusually bright and clear for the time of year. The sky was cloudless and blue, promising warmth it did not deliver. At 9.25am Simon Westbury, protégé of Marcus Kline, walked into the Cross Keys public house less than two hundred and fifty metres from the offices where he worked. He smiled and waved a greeting to Cassandra, the dark haired half-Italian twenty three year old who served him breakfast here most mornings. She was behind the bar talking on the phone. She returned both the smile and the wave before mouthing ‘Usual?’ whilst listening to the voice on the other end of the line. Simon nodded and took his preferred seat at the corner table by the window.
He liked this place. It was what he and his friends referred to as a ‘proper pub’. It was a phrase that brought out even more sarcasm than usual from his boss, who argued that neither Simon nor any of his friends were old enough to remember what proper pubs used to be like. What Simon actually liked about the place was the old-fashioned wooden floors in the bar, the large windows that looked out onto a road that was now dominated by the tramline, the fine selection of ales and, most important of all, Cassandra.
She had started working there, doing the morning shift, three months ago. That was when Simon had decided that it was the best place in town for a spot of breakfast.
‘It’s all about location,’ he had explained once to Marcus and Emma when they had taken an unexpected interest in his early morning habit. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and it makes sense to take it somewhere close to the office.’
The other two had looked at each other and smiled. ‘You don’t even need to be him,’ Emma gestured towards her boss, ‘to know that you’re lying your head off. Any girl could see that you are not going there for the eggs benedict.’
Marcus had nodded his head in appreciation. ‘I’ll tell you what then Emma, you tell me why he’s going there and I’ll do my best to go one better.’
‘There’s no charity donation involved in this one is there?’
‘None at all. This is all just practice and fun.’
‘Practice and fun and the chance to show off again,’ Simon couldn’t help himself. ‘And, of course, the chance to be right again, to win when there wasn’t even a competition there in the first place.’
‘Everything is a competition,’ Marcus countered. ‘One of the keys to being a great strategist and a successful businessman is to recognise what the nature of the competition is before anyone else does. That’s how you get a head start. That’s how, sometimes, you even get to influence the rules.’
‘Enough of this competitive nonsense!’ Emma spoke quickly, before Simon could counter again. ‘The simple fact of the matter is that you, Mr Westbury, are going to the Cross Keys because there is a girl there that you fancy. And the way you have just started blushing confirms it!’
Emma giggled both at Simon’s embarrassment and her own success. She looked triumphantly at Marcus. ‘How are you going to be beat that then?’
‘By telling you about the girl.’ Marcus looked intently into Simon’s face. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions about her, just the usual stuff you would expect. You know the sort of thing. All I want you to do is answer my questions silently in your mind. Say nothing out loud. Don’t even try to visualise her until I ask you to. And certainly don’t think about her name, or even….’ His voice trailed off. He turned his attention back to Emma. ‘That didn’t take long, then.’
‘But you haven’t even started yet, you haven’t asked him anything!’
‘Actually, I’ve finished. I now know at least as much as young Simon here about this dark-haired beauty.’
‘That’s not possible!’ Emma turned to Simon for support, but he was already looking down at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief.
‘Dark-haired could just be a lucky guess,’ he mumbled.
‘Only you don’t believe that it is,’ Marcus said. ‘And when I also tell you that she is of Italian descent, has not been working in the pub for very long, is twenty three years old and is the sort of expressive person who will almost always wave a greeting as well as a goodbye, then you will know that there is no luck involved.’
‘Tell me he’s wrong!’ Emma demanded of Simon.
‘Wish I could,’ Simon pursed his lips and exhaled forcefully. ‘At least he couldn’t tell me her name.’
‘Cassandra,’ Marcus said without hesitation. ‘Can’t think it can be anything else.’
‘Oh God, I hate this man!’ Simon groaned. ‘I’m going back into my office. If anyone needs to contact me, tell them to send thought waves to the boss and that he’ll pass them on.’
‘I’m not your secretary,’ Marcus said as his protégé turned to walk away. ‘And before you go anywhere, ask me the question.’
Simon halted. ‘What question?’
‘The question.’
Simon looked to Emma for help. He shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know what the question is.’
Emma took pity. ‘He wants you to ask him how he did it.’
‘What if I don’t want to know right now?’
‘There is no time like the present.’ Marcus smiled. ‘But, still, if you don’t want to know the Magician’s secrets, perhaps you do Emma?’
‘I certainly do.’ Emma matched Marcus’s smile. ‘I think learning can only eve
r be beneficial.’
‘I think you deserve a migraine each!’ Simon glared at the other two. ‘C’mon then, let’s get it over and done with. How did you do it? I’m guessing, though, before you answer, that you simply read micro-expressions on my face as you forced me to think of Cassandra by telling me not to.’
‘You think that doing something like that is simple?’ It was Marcus’s turn to shake his head in disbelief. ‘Wow! How can anyone – let alone you – think that something that requires such incredible skill is simple?’
‘Alright then! That’s how you did it and I acknowledge that only you can do it because you are a genius!” Simon raised his open palms in submission. ‘Can I please go now?’
‘Not quite yet.’
‘Oh, come on! This is torture! Emma, please make him stop.’
‘I don’t know how to, I’m only the secretary. You’re the future Marcus Kline, you’re going to be the new, improved version. That’s what you always say after a couple of drinks. So if you can’t stop him what chance have I got?’ Emma’s eyes twinkled with delight.
‘A single migraine is not good enough for you,’ Simon growled. Then he straightened and looked Marcus full in the face. ‘Come on then, what else do I need to know?’
‘That I didn’t get that information by reading the expressions on your face. I knew that you would recognise the covert commands I gave you, but on this occasion they were just a form of misdirection. I used them to steer you towards an incorrect conclusion.’
‘But if you didn’t read my face, how did you do it?
‘By very good fortune, I had a couple of drinks in the pub last night. Cassandra and I had a very pleasant chat.’ Marcus beamed. ‘She told me that she usually served you breakfast.’
‘That’s… that’s cheating!’ Simon exploded as Emma burst out in a fit of laughter.
‘That’s not cheating at all. It’s just an example of how to create and control a competition. And also how to recognise and take advantage of opportunities when they come your way.’
‘But…but you’re not supposed to misdirect people! You are supposed to help to them change things for the best!’
Marcus waited until Emma had regained control before replying. ‘Misdirection is an important tool. It’s an essential part of the Magician’s armoury. Misdirection limits opposition and hides your real intention. Sometimes we will even use it to keep our behaviours secret. I don’t always need people to know what I have done, or what I am doing. Sometimes the outcome is all that matters. Even for me. The learning point Simon, is that if you want to become a master of influence you need to master the fine art of misdirection…’
Simon looked out of the pub windows and watched idly as a tram moved passed, heading into the city centre. It was hard to get Marcus Kline out of your head once he had found a way in – or, as in Simon’s case, once you had invited him in.
Could he really one day become a better and improved version of his boss? Was that really possible, or was it a young man’s bravado? Perhaps bravado was needed, Simon considered, if he was to have any chance of superseding his mentor. Perhaps courage and self-belief were as important as a willingness to work hard? And yet, if he possessed those qualities why hadn’t he asked Cassandra out? After all, for a man who didn’t believe in love at first sight, he had come pretty close to it the first time he saw her.
Simon looked instinctively for Cassandra behind the bar. She was not to be seen. In all likelihood she was collecting his breakfast. In a minute she would be back, smiling her smile as she placed his coffee and egg and bacon ciabatta in front of him. In a minute he would have the chance, once again, to suggest a drink together, or a visit to the cinema, or a dinner, or any combination she liked. Or anything else, for that matter. Only right now probably wasn’t the right time. Even if Marcus’s voice in his head was saying, ‘The clue is in the words, Right and Now. Just take the Bard’s advice, Screw your courage to the sticking post and you’ll not fail.’
Yeah, right. Easy enough for Shakespeare to write and Marcus Kline to say – and, actually, even if it wasn’t easy for either of them, what the hell did they know? Apart from just about everything to do with words and influence…
Simon sighed. He had never hesitated about something so much before. He was the guy who always volunteered first, who accepted the challenge ahead of everyone else, because he knew that was the right thing to do if you wanted to become the best. So what was stopping him now? Realistically, what was the worst that could happen? Simon shook his head. That was a question he didn’t want to answer. He turned his attention instead to the television on the wall to his right.
The presenter on the local BBC news programme was reporting a murder in the city, the second she said in less than week. The images that appeared next were of a detached house in the suburbs transformed into a crime scene. Simon was only mildly interested and his interest disappeared completely when Cassandra appeared carrying his breakfast. He watched her walking across the bar. He marvelled at her smile and tried not to stare. He heard Marcus Kline’s words of encouragement whisper in his mind. He felt his stomach tense and his appetite disappear. And then she was next to him.
Simon Westbury didn’t hear the news presenter revealing the name of the victim, the man who had lived for over twenty years in that detached house, who was, according to his neighbours, a vital part of their community, a man who helped others, a man with many friends and no obvious enemies. If Simon had heard the name the shock would have distracted him even from Cassandra.
29.
A street changes when a murder occurs within it. The change isn’t the result of just the event itself, nor the unwanted police activity, nor the sometimes welcomed and enjoyed media spotlight. These all play their part, but they are finite in nature. They come eventually to be viewed by residents as the markers of a form of psychological no man’s land; those activities and the period of time sandwiched between the killing itself and the establishment and acceptance of a new, forever altered reality.
A street changes inexorably and in silence when a murder occurs.
Even if the killer is never identified, this change is the greatest secret connected to such a crime. It is never discussed nor openly acknowledged by any who live there.
Yet all feel it.
It is as if the emotional intensity of a killing, the anger, the hatred, the fear, the violence, seeps into the very soul of the street, into the pavement and the brickwork, into the hedges and the gardens. It hangs in the air and is breathed in by the entire community. It clings to the darkness of night, penetrating every home.
Whenever people drive slowly by a fatal traffic accident they often say to themselves or their passengers, ‘There but for the grace of God go I’. When people see a news report about a murder on a street, they never think to offer the same heartfelt thanks. Peter knew they would if they realised just how the murder of one human being kills a street.
Peter had recognised this change long ago. He believed that it was as sure as death itself. He knew the damage that it caused. He knew that he was powerless to prevent it. And he gave it no more attention than a casual glance. It was a reality he was neither paid nor trained to manage.
In Peter’s experience every event rippled out through a wider community than one would ever expect. From his perspective there were usually far less than six degrees of separation between cause and effect, between one individual and a seemingly random other. That was why, as a detective, he started his enquiries within the victim’s most immediate social circle, casting his net gradually wider only if the answers he sought were not forthcoming.
Peter had been called to this killing in a suburban street only minutes after he had woken up. It was everything he had been secretly dreading. And more. In life this new victim had been nothing like Derrick Smith, the small-time criminal who had been killed only four days before.
/> Was that all it was?
Only four days?
In one sense it seemed to Peter to have been, quite literally, a lifetime ago. And yet now, now that a second person had been killed in exactly the same way, it felt like a hand on his shoulder, as close as his own shadow and as impossible to pin down.
The second victim seemed as far removed from Derrick Smith as it was possible to be. He was a legitimate and successful businessman – on no grand scale admittedly, but first impressions suggested that he had done well enough to create the sort of life that many would aspire to.
He had been married to the same woman for twenty six years. They had lived in this house for more than two decades. They holidayed in France twice every year. They were solvent and apparently secure. They were likeable and appropriate neighbours, friendly without being too intrusive, quiet without seeming remote. They were a well-established part of the street.
The victim’s wife had been visiting her sister in Durham for the last few days. She had been informed by the local constabulary and was now being driven back to Nottingham by her sister and husband. Although she didn’t know it yet, she would choose to leave the street; sooner rather than later, Peter guessed.
Today she would feel the change rippling out to greet her long before she arrived in her neighbourhood. And when she did, she would see everything differently, hear everything differently, and feel her awareness locked inside her. She would be isolated from the inside out. She would be unable to put into words the way her world seemed to her now. She would become convinced that her only option was to move away, to find a street that had not been changed.
The tragedy, Peter knew, was that wherever she went she would carry the stain from this street with her.
Peter Jones, the man, the everyday human being who knew what it meant to be in love, to have dreams, to care for others, wanted to wait for this woman to return. He wanted to hold her and let her cry against his chest, to promise that he would catch the person responsible, to offer some form of reassurance about the essential goodness of humanity, to create some form of hope – however false.
