by Paul Kane
“None whatsoever. I’ve lived over here for 40 years and I can honestly say I’ll be glad to see the back of it.” He waved the gun at the vehicle. “I believe Dutton, may he rest in anything but peace, told you to get in the jeep, Doctor. We have to leave. Right now.”
Andrew was about to climb in when he heard a voice call: “Hey, what’s going on here?”
“Fuck me,” said another, obviously in reaction to the dead bodies.
It was Jackson and Timms, holding each other up – something Strauss never thought he’d see. They’d finally made it to the barrier and beyond, the Brit now completely cured of the sleeping sickness, but both the worse for wear after the crash. Neither of them had their rifles, though.
“I’m afraid we’re about to leave, men,” Fitzpatrick told them. “Enjoy the firework display, won’t you.”
The soldiers made as if to rush the general, but they were in no shape after their ordeal, plus he had the gun trained on Andrew. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt,” said the spy.
It was as he made his way to the driver’s side of the jeep that there was another loud crack of gunfire. Fitzpatrick paused, looking down at the bloom of red that had appeared on his dress uniform at the chest. He, and everyone else, traced the trajectory of the bullet back to the major on the ground. The wounded man was barely able to hold himself up, but his aim was still good.
The general looked like he was about to say something, then his mouth closed and he dropped his pistol, slumping over the front of the jeep, before collapsing to the ground with a thump.
Andrew ran over to Radford, where Jackson and Timms were already crouching. “Major, can you call off the attack?” he asked.
“What attack?” asked Jackson, confused.
The man shook his head. “No… no authority.” He was gasping for breath.
“Then come on, let’s get you out of here. Get you looked at and–”
Another shake of the head. “Just go. Get out of here…it’s too late. Go, I said!”
Andrew looked at Jackson, then Timms. “Into the jeep,” he told them, before yelling at anyone who’d listen to evacuate. Jackson did the same, as he and Timms stumbled over to the jeep like a four-legged animal.
Nobody seemed to be taking any notice. “Get out of here! You have to clear the area,” he shouted again. Suzanne called to him and he reluctantly came back over, sliding behind the wheel.
He didn’t know how much time they had before the bombers dropped their payload, but he’d try to put as much distance between them and the city as possible. “Let’s hope that famous luck of yours is still working, Monks,” he said. As Andrew crunched the gears and accelerated, he held his hand out for Suzanne’s. She took it gladly, smiling in spite of everything.
There was light on the horizon; dawn was most definitely here.
But sadly now, Middletown would remain asleep forever.
Seventeen
They were together at last.
She didn’t know how it had happened, but she was delighted. Everything had changed after he’d kissed her for the first time back there. Then he’d told her he loved her, and they were just sitting here on the beach, waiting for the dawn to break. It was the most romantic thing she’d ever experienced, like something out of a dream. That was it, this was her dream man. The one she’d longed for all her life.
And as they held hands Bridget knew it was going to last forever.
***
When Baker came to, it was still dark in the city.
His legs were both smashed, but strangely he couldn’t feel a thing. He tried to push the driver’s door open, but it was jammed. Hardly surprising after the crash; the last thing he remembered. He could see no sign of the case he had to deliver, and his radio was dead, so he grabbed his pistol and pulled himself along on his elbows, out the back of the ambulance.
Falling onto the ground, he looked around him for Sleepers. The streets seemed deserted. What few bodies there were littered about remained silent and still, including what was left of Coleman, the sergeant noted as he got closer. The trooper looked like he’d been mashed into the road, bits of him still twitching. If Baker hadn’t seen much worse on the battlefield he would have thrown up. The sergeant dragged himself a little further and sat, leaning against a set of railings. He wasn’t sure how long he waited there: he almost dropped off once or twice but kept snapping himself awake. Sleeping was the last thing you wanted to be doing here.
There was movement off to his left and he pulled out his pistol, reflexes still sharp even after everything. It was a figure limping towards him, half stumbling. The closer it came, the more he could tell this person was infected – the secretion covering its Hazmat suit, emanating from a hole in the helmet. He could see enough to know that this was Strauss’ assistant, the one who’d thrown herself out of the window.
She was messed up pretty good – looked like she was walking with a broken leg for a start – but then he couldn’t really talk. “Stay back,” Baker told her, holding the gun at arm’s length. She wasn’t listening. Before he could fire, she fell over, then began crawling towards him. “I said stay back,” he warned again, stifling a yawn. God, what was wrong with him?
There was something about her movements that made him lower the gun, or maybe it was the fact he felt some kind of connection with her. She didn’t appear to be a threat. This woman, with her healed over eyes, just wanted company it seemed. She was reaching out now, and Baker was yawning again. He put down his pistol and found himself holding out his hand. A hand, he noticed, that was already weeping a strange viscous fluid, turning wispy on contact with the air. Baker snorted; Strauss hadn’t been the genius he thought he was, his antidote only temporary. She drew up alongside and sat there, with him. He wondered what she was seeing, what she might be dreaming about. He wanted to see it, too. Whatever it was, it was probably better than the reality of this situation.
Dawn was coming, the first signs of light flooding the scene.
It wasn’t long after that he made out the drone of the engines. Heavy birds, flying in this direction. He’d heard engines like that before, in combat, and it never ended well. Baker knew that if he were out of contact for too long, they’d take action. He hadn’t wanted to do the things he’d done, wished he hadn’t acted the way he had (unlike Strauss’ assistant, he’d been following orders – ones he didn’t actually agree with – rather than emotions). Now he was about to pay the price. They both were, in fact.
And in that moment, Baker was grateful for her company.
Strauss’ assistant rested her head on his shoulder and he closed his eyes for the last time, feeling them heal over. But he could somehow still see – and he watched the shapes grow larger on the horizon. Watched as they got into their V-like formation.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I went to sleep after all, he thought.
Next thing he knew there was only the dawn. So bright it was blinding.
And after that there was only the endless dark.
Epilogue
Suzy woke with a jerk from the dream.
Her mum was calling her anyway. “Get up, sleepyhead. I’ve been shouting you for quarter of an hour.”
“Whaa…?” said Suzy, still groggy from the deep sleep. She rubbed her eyes.
“It’s Sunday, remember? Come and have breakfast, then you’ve really got to start getting ready. We want to be leaving by ten.”
That’s right, she’d been looking forward to today the whole week! Sunday. Dad’s day off. He was an important person, her dad; mum too, come to think of it. She was the mayoress to his mayor. Suzanne didn’t understand exactly what that entailed, but she knew they ran the town. That they were trying to build it up, expand it, put it on the map.
One day, her dad often told her, she’d be just as important – if not more so.
Suzy thought about telling her mother about the dream, about how she’d been all grown up but asleep, and how there had been this strange disease t
hat sent everyone to sleep and only she and this other man could save them… But her parents were flitting about, getting everything ready, packing things in the picnic basket. By the time Suzy had eaten her breakfast cereal and got washed and dressed, the dream seemed so distant she could barely even remember it.
Suzy heard the beeping of the car horn, her dad geeing them up to leave.
“Come on, love!” her mum called up the stairs. Suzy couldn’t see what the rush was, you didn’t exactly need an appointment to get into a park. But her parents were always like this, probably something to do with attending all those meetings.
“Coming Mum!” she yelled, dashing down the stairs.
As she stepped out into the late August sun, the first things she spotted were the birds in the sky, and it reminded her of something. She couldn’t think what. They were flapping overhead in a V-shaped formation.
Suzy shook her head; it was nothing. As she walked up their path to the drive, she passed the garden. The plants, the flowers looked so pretty. There had been a rainstorm the previous day, and Suzy had watched the rainbow forming in the sky. “At least the plants will be getting a drink now,” her mum had said. That was probably why they looked so good today. So bright, so colourful… just like the rainbow.
Suzy didn’t think she’d see anything as pretty as them, not even in the park.
But, there again, you never knew what was waiting for you.
You just never knew at all.
The End
Sin
When the box arrived it was treated as suspicious from the start.
For one thing, it was left on the steps of the police station rather than being delivered with the rest of the post. Nothing was signed for, and it was delivered very early; it was still quite dark outside. The parcel was simply left, and reported by some of the early morning shift heading in to work. One young officer called Wells even made a joke about it, affecting Brad Pitt’s gravelly tones as he asked, “What’s in the box? What’s in the fucking box?”
Not particularly funny, given that the whole station was being evacuated at the time and the bomb squad was called in to make sure the package was safe. From a distance, they all watched as men dressed in heavily-padded clothing approached the oblong and went about their business, finally signalling that it wasn’t an explosive device; not that anyone had ever targeted their small station, in their small city. He’d never thought it was anyway. Somehow, he’d known this was connected with the case – his detective’s intuition or “Spider-sense” he’d always relied on; that and the size and shape of the box.
Because when the people who had opened it reported back on the contents, they confirmed that not only wasn’t it about to go off and take out half the street, that it wasn’t in fact Gwyneth Paltrow’s head either, but said instead it was what looked like a foot. A human foot, severed at the ankle.
The killer had finally given one back.
As DI Patrick Hammond approached the – now unwrapped and open – box to peer inside, he felt his stomach rolling. Not because of the colour of the foot, grey; almost white; nor the fact that from his angle he could see right down inside to the crimson meat packed around the bone, bits of ragged flesh skirting the edges where the foot had been sawn off. It was more because he knew whose foot this was, even before he spotted the star tattoo just below the ankle bone, standing out more than ever against the starkness of the dead skin.
Knew it belonged to her, the woman he loved.
Wouldn’t take the pathologist Dr Foxborough to verify that the foot belonged to one of the most recent…no, the most recent victim. Wouldn’t take matching this against any of the corpses that had been stacking up these past few months in the morgue: all missing one foot; the left or the right, it didn’t seem to matter which. This one particular foot they wouldn’t be able to match against a corpse they had back there, because she was still missing – an abductee.
And now amputee, his mind provided; sometimes it just didn’t know when to shut up. Hammond fought to hold back the tears at this, fought to control the memories that were coming back to him, of kissing that foot, of kissing the toes covered in ruby red nail polish – which were still that same colour, if more than a little faded and chipped now. It helped with his composure that his boss, DCI Eddie Balfour – a man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Homer Simpson, right down to the yellow tinge of his skin due to a liver complaint – was now standing beside him.
“Fuck,” the balding man simply whispered, which simultaneously said nothing and everything at once. It was a good job the press were being held back behind a cordon, otherwise they might have taken that as an official statement. It was as good as any, Hammond supposed; probably more than he could muster himself. Then Balfour asked his DI: “What do you make of it?”
Hammond opened his mouth, and closed it again just as quickly. Shook his head. It was better not to speak at that moment, better to say nothing than let it all spill out.
“Looks like a job for Sherlock Holmes to me,” said a voice from behind them, that same wet-behind-the-ears tosser Wells, who’d been doing the Pitt impressions earlier on.
“Come again?” asked Balfour.
“Well, y’know… the game is a foot,” the officer clarified, then sniggered. Hammond looked at the ground, gritted his teeth, the clenching of his jaw causing a muscle in his cheek to twitch. He felt like lunging for the man, pounding his head into the pavement – but gallows humour was part and parcel (very poor choice of words) of their job. How many crime scenes had he visited and made jokes at, because he didn’t know the vics. Because if you didn’t, you’d go stark, staring mad. Poor unfortunates who’d had their hands bound behind their backs and been hung, only to be met with gags like “He’ll be tied up for a while…”; people stabbed, only for some smart arse to state they “Got the point..”; electrocutions that were “Just shocking”, and if it had been delivered by this pillock then no doubt the Connery accent would have been wheeled out. Different, though, when it was someone you knew, wasn’t it? Someone you cared more about than anyone – anything – in this whole world. Loved so much but couldn’t show that you did. A secret love that–
“You get it?” prompted the young lad. “That’s what he used to say, Sherlock Hol–”
Release valve or no release valve, Hammond was seconds away from having this joker.
“Yes, yes,” said Balfour, waving the officer away like the nuisance he was; like a fly buzzing around that didn’t know how close it had come to getting swatted. “Very good. You’ll be live at the Apollo doing stand-up in no time… If you’re not careful.”
The officer got the hint about his job and sauntered off. “Twat,” Hammond couldn’t help muttering.
When he looked up again, he saw that Balfour was watching him, studying him. He had to be careful with that kind of shit – not because he was ashamed or anything, but because he would get taken off the case. He’d be no use to anyone then, especially her. “This one’s really getting to you, isn’t it?”
Hammond gave a half shrug that was perhaps a little too exaggerated. “Shouldn’t have got this far. We should have had the bastard by now. Before…” He nodded at the box, but couldn’t bring himself to look at it again.
Balfour placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.” What he actually meant, and what had been coming across since this investigation began, especially in certain narrow-minded quarters was: “What’s the big deal? They’re only prostitutes.” Papers had said pretty much the same thing, after sensationalising those first few disappearances; letters columns especially, commenting that these women knew the risks, that they kept putting themselves out there amongst all these perverts. What did they expect to happen? Wasn’t as simple as that, wasn’t as clear cut. Yes, there might have been a time when Hammond would have agreed, but he knew so much about that world now – so much about the women who inhabited it. Knew one intimately. To him, it was a big deal, not least bec
ause these were people; living, breathing people (or had been), some of them with families. Hell, some only did this because they had families to support. But maybe he’d been underestimating Balfour, because when he continued the man said: “We have a lead now, at any rate. Our biggest clue yet.”
Or maybe he was just keen to get this one sorted, get it off the books because it was making them all look bad. If the press got hold of this new turn of events, it would like as not send them into another feeding frenzy. Either way, it was time to take a step back now and let Foxborough and the SOCOs do their work.
Take a step back? If only he could.
She certainly wouldn’t be able to now, would she? His mind said, at it again – reminding him of what she’d lost. Maybe even her life? It explained why he’d not been able to get hold of her in days, all that worry hadn’t been wasted after all. Every morning Hammond would wake up expecting there to be another body; expecting it to be hers. Though not expecting this, never expecting this.
Hadn’t he begged her not to keep going out there? In fact, the last time they’d seen each other they’d argued about it, and he regretted that bitterly. She’d seen it as him telling her what to do when that was the last thing he wanted – nobody could ever tell her what to do, she was much too strong for that. No, he just wanted her to be safe and – be honest – he was getting to the point where the thought of all those hands on her, what those men she went with did to her, was driving him crazy.
Should have said something, should have told her how you really feel.
That he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, take her away to the coast like she’d talked about that time, wash away all this dirt and grime and filth. Live the life he – they’d – always wanted, that she’d been trying to save up for all these years and failing. That although he couldn’t promise her the world, he could at least give her his heart, his devotion. But he hadn’t said any of those things, had he? Didn’t seem the time or place when they were having a slanging match, and suddenly things were coming out of his mouth that he really didn’t mean:
