by Shaun Hutson
* * *
At roughly the same time as Lambert and Debbie were eating their meal, Gordon Reece was pouring himself his fifth scotch of the evening. He had begun drinking at four that afternoon, large wine glasses full of the stuff, and now, two hours later, the first effects of drunkenness were beginning to descend upon him. The drink brought a kind of numbness with it. But it gave him no respite from the image of his dead wife. Her eyeless, mutilated corpse lying in that field like some discarded scarecrow.
He filled his glass again and stumbled into the living room which was lit by the light of a table lamp. The labrador was stretched out in front of the open fire and the animal turned and licked his hand as he stroked it. Reece felt a tear well up in his eye. He tried to hold back the flood but it was impossible. He dropped to his knees, the glass falling from his grasp, the brown liquid spilling and sinking into the carpet. Sobs wracked his body and he slammed his fists repeatedly against the carpet until his arms ached.
God, he thought, please let tomorrow pass quickly. The funeral was at ten in the morning. There wouldn't be many there: he had specifically asked that it should be a small affair. He had phoned Vera earlier in the day, told her what had happened. He'd broken down over the phone. The doctor had given him some tranquilizers and he knew that he should not be mixing drink with them, but what the hell did it matter anymore.
He looked up at the photo on top of the TV and the tears came again. Gordon Reece sank to the ground, the dog nuzzling against him as if it too could feel his grief.
Saturday came and went. The funeral of Emma Reece went off without incident. Father Ridley did his duty as he always did. Gordon Reece wept again, finding that anger was slowly replacing his grief. He felt as if there was a hole inside where someone had hollowed out his body. No feeling any longer, just a void. A swirling black pit of lost emotions and fading memories of things that once were but would never be again.
It had been a beautiful day: bright sunshine, birds singing in the trees, God, that seemed to make it worse.
The guests had gone now. The hands on the clock on the mantelpiece had crawled on to twelve fifteen a.m. and Gordon Reece lay sprawled in his chair with a glass in his hand and the television screen nothing but a haze of static particles. Its persistent hiss didn't bother him because he couldn't hear it. He just sat, staring at the blank screen and cradling the nearly empty bottle of scotch in his lap. He had taken a handful of the tranquilizers. He didn't know how many precisely, a dozen, perhaps more. Washed down with a full bottle of whisky, that should do the trick nicely, he thought and even managed a smile. It hovered on his lips for a second then faded like a forgotten dream.
The doctor had told him not to drink with the tablets. Well, fuck the doctor, he thought. Fuck everything now. He would have cried but there was no emotion left within him, no tears left. All that remained now was that black hole inside him where his life used to be.
His bleary eyes moved slowly from card to card, all put out on the mantelpiece.
'With Regrets.'
'In Deepest Sympathy.'
He looked away and poured what was left of the scotch into his glass. He flung the bottle across the room where it struck the far wall and exploded in a shower of tiny crystals.
In the kitchen, the dog barked once, then was silent.
Reece watched the stain on the wall, the dark patch slowly dripping rivulets of brown liquid. He finished his drink and gripped the glass tight, staring at the photo of his wife on the TV. He clenched his teeth until his jaws ached, his hand tightening around the glass, squeezing.
He scarcely noticed when it broke, sharp needle points of crystal slicing open his palm. The blood mingling with the whisky as it dripped onto his chest. He felt no pain, just the dull throb as his blood welled out of him. He dropped the remains of the broken tumbler and closed his eyes.
Surely it wouldn't be long now.
* * *
He awoke at three that morning, aware of the burning pain in his torn hand. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool and there was a band of pain running from temple to temple which gripped tighter than an iron vice. He moaned in the depths of his stupor, the noise coming through vaguely as if from another world.
The television was still on, its black face dotted still with the speckles of white static.
The dog was growling.
But there was something else. A noise louder than the others, the noise which had woken him. He listened for a moment.
There it was again. A persistent rattling and banging.
Reece tried to rise and the pain in his head intensified. He almost sank down again but the rattling continued and he hauled himself up, nearly toppling over again from the effort of standing. His clouded brain tried to locate the source of the sound and he finally realized that it was coming from the back door. He grunted and staggered out into the kitchen.
In the darkness he almost stumbled over the dog. The animal was making no sound now, just lying with its head on its outstretched front paws, whimpering. Its eyes riveted to the back door.
Reece stood still for a second, listening. His own blood roared in his ears and he was more than aware of his laboured breathing.
The rattling began again, louder this time, he squinted through the darkness, trying to clear his head, trying to see what was making the noise. He stepped closer and then, in the dull light which was escaping from the living room into the kitchen, he saw it.
The handle of the back door was being moved up and down.
Reece swallowed hard.
Someone was trying to get in.
If he had been sober, perhaps his reaction would have been different. Perhaps he would have noticed the dog, cowering in one corner, perhaps he would have noticed the deep cold which had filled the room. Perhaps he would even have called the police.
As it was, he reached for the handle, his other hand turning the key in the lock.
The rattling stopped and, through clouded eyes, Gordon Reece saw the handle slowly turn as the door was pushed open. He took a step back, rubbing his eyes, his heart thudding against his ribs.
The door swung back gently on its hinges and the room suddenly became colder.
Reece gasped, not sure whether he was asleep or not. Was he dreaming? Perhaps he was already dead and in hell. His dulled brain had no answer to give him this time.
Standing before him, the dirt of the grave still clogging her empty eye sockets, was his wife.
There was a blur of gold as the labrador bolted through the open door into the night and Gordon opened his mouth, not knowing whether to be sick or scream.
The thing which had once been Emma Reece took a step towards him. Her lips slid back to reveal teeth dripping saliva and Gordon saw the savage wounds on her throat which had killed. her, the deep scratches around her eyes. Eyes? There was nothing there. Just the torn sockets, black and empty as night. But there was something more and now Gordon prayed that his mind was playing tricks on him. For in those twin black voids were two pin pricks of red light. Light that glowed like the fires of hell and, in his last moments, Gordon saw that red light fill her empty eyes.
He had no time to scream before she was upon him.
* * *
Lambert looked at his watch and then up at the clock on the police station wall. It was nine fifteen, Sunday morning.
'Shit,' he said, 'might as well get it over with.'
Hayes nodded.
'What's Reece's address?' asked the Inspector.
Hayes flicked through the files and found it. Lambert wrote it down. He looked around the duty room. There were only three constables on duty this morning. Three at the station at any rate. The other seven were out looking for Mackenzie.
'P.C. Walford, you drive me,' Lambert smiled. 'Why the hell should I use my own petrol?'
Walford followed him out into the car park and unlocked one of the four Panda cars which the force possessed. Both men got in and Walford started the engine.
'It's a beautiful day,' Lambert observed as the Panda moved slowly through the streets of Medworth. 'Too nice to be doing this sort of thing.'
Walford smiled. 'Where do you reckon Mackenzie is, guv?'
Lambert shrugged. 'He's probably left the area by now. I mean, looking at it logically, if he was still around here we'd have found him by now.' Walford wasn't convinced. 'There's plenty of places to hide in the hills around town. There's caves that run for miles.'
'Maybe. We'll see what turns up.'
'My Mum's scared about all this, guv.'
'You haven't been talking have you, Walford? I don't want too much of this getting out. In a small town like this panic could spread quickly.' He paused, looking out of the car windows. 'I just wish we could find the bastard before he has the chance to do it again. I'd rather people read about this sort of thing in the paper after we caught him. If there's too much talk before hand, it won't make our job any easier.'
They drove for a little way in silence then Lambert asked, 'You live with your parents then?'
Walford nodded. 'I've been trying to find a place of my own but I can't afford it.'
The Inspector studied his companion's profile for a moment. The lad wasn't much younger than him. He guessed there were three or four years between them.
'I sometimes wonder why I joined the force,' said Walford suddenly, swallowing hard and looking at Lambert as if he had said something he shouldn't. The Inspector was staring straight ahead out of the windscreen. He was silent for a time and the constable wondered if he had heard, then Lambert said:
'It makes me wonder why anyone joins.'
'What about you, sir? Why did you join?' asked Walford, adding quickly, as an afterthought, 'If you don't mind me asking.'
Lambert shook his head. 'Sometimes I wonder. At one time I would have said principles.' He laughed mirthlessly. 'But now, I don't know. I thought at one time that, well, I thought I could better myself. Sounds like bullshit doesn't it?' He glanced across at Walford but the P.C. had his eyes on the road. 'I didn't want to end up like my old man. A nothing for the whole of my fucking life.' His voice had taken on an angry edge. 'This job gave me something I never had before. Self respect. A sense of importance, that what I was doing was making some difference to a tiny part of the world.' He grunted indignantly.
Walford brought the car to a halt.
'That's it, sir,' he said, pointing across the road. Lambert flipped open his notebook and checked the address. He nodded.
The house was the end one of a block of three. Two storey dwellings, the standard, council built red brick structures. Identical to all the other houses in the street. In fact, the same as every one on the remainder of the estate. Lambert noted that the curtains, upstairs and down, were drawn. He inhaled deeply, held the breath then let it drain out slowly.
'You stay here,' he said, opening the door and getting out. Walford watched him as he walked across the street and down the path to the front door of the Reece house.
He knocked twice and waited for an answer.
When none came, he walked around the side of the house. There was a purple painted gate barring his way into the back yard but he found, to his relief, that it was unlocked. Perhaps Mr Reece was in the garden.
As he walked around the back, Lambert could see that the garden was deserted. At the bottom was the shattered remnants of a greenhouse, the wooden frame now bleached and bare like the bones of some prehistoric creature. The garden was badly overgrown. He knocked on the back door loudly and called Reece's name.
There was no answer.
Lambert tried the door and found, to his -joy, that it was open. He stepped into the kitchen, recoiling immediately from the smell. It reminded him of bad eggs. And, Jesus, it was cold. He pulled the back door closed behind him and looked around. Nothing unusual. A dog basket in one corner near the larder. A calendar which was a month behind where someone had forgotten to turn the page. Lambert looked down at the floor. There were scuff marks on the lino. He bent to get a closer look, nothing unusual about them. Traces of dirt around too. He stood up and walked into the living room, which was still in darkness because of the drawn curtains. Lambert noticed the shattered bottle of scotch, the broken glass beside the chair and fragments of it still stained with blood. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and, using his handkerchief, picked up one of the fragments and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded the room, particles of dust swirling around in its beams. But, despite the warmth of the sun, the room still felt like a fridge.
Lambert went out into the hall and called up the stairs.
'Mr Reece?'
Silence greeted him. He hurried up the stairs and checked the two bedrooms and bathroom. All were empty.
From the Panda car, Walford saw him emerge from the house and stride down the path of the house next door. He knocked three times, receiving no answer.
'Where the hell is everybody in this bloody street?' said Lambert under his breath.
The front door of the house beside opened and a woman popped her head out. She was in her forties, her hair in curlers and she reminded Lambert of a hedgehog in a dressing gown.
'Do you know Mr and Mrs Reece?' asked Lambert.
'Why?' asked the woman, suspiciously, retreating further behind the half open door until only her head was sticking out.
'I'm a policeman,' Lambert told her. 'I wanted to talk to Mr Reece but there's no one in. Have you seen or heard him around today?'
'Terrible business that,' said the woman, shaking her head. 'And with it only happening down the street too. Makes you scared to go out.'
'Have you seen Mr Reece?' persisted Lambert.
'And what with that other couple being murdered too. I tell you, I don't feel safe, even when my old man's home.'
Lambert was losing his patience. 'Have you seen Mr Reece today?'
'What?'
The Inspector bit his lip. 'Reece. Have you seen him go out, did you hear anything during the night?'
The woman looked horrified. 'He's not dead too, is he?'
Give me strength, thought Lambert. 'No, I just wondered if you'd seen him.'
He turned and set off back up the path, annoyance bubbling within him.
'You'd better hurry up and catch the killer, we could all be murdered in our beds,' called the woman.
'Thank you for your help, madam,' said Lambert and slammed the gate behind him. It was as he looked across the road that he saw Walford climbing out of the Panda.
'Inspector, quick,' he called.
Lambert ran across to the car.
'Message from the station, just come through,' explained the constable.
The Inspector climbed into the car and reached for the two-way radio. He flicked the transmit button.
'Puma Two to base. Lambert here. Come in.'
A hiss of static then Hayes: 'Guv, you'd better come back. We've got Mackenzie.'
There was a grin of satisfied relief on Lambert's face.
'Be right there. Puma Two, out.' He put down the two-way and pointed ahead. 'Let's move.'
With a screech of spinning tyres, the Panda sped off.
* * *
Hayes met Lambert at the door of the police station and, together, they hurried down the corridor towards the cell where Mackenzie was being held.
'Where did they pick him up?' asked the Inspector, excitedly.
'He was run down by a car, outside Two Meadows early this morning,' Hayes told him.
Lambert looked puzzled. 'What the hell was he doing up at the cemetery?'
The question went unanswered.
'Who's with him now?' asked Lambert.
'Dr Kirby and Davies and Bell. They brought him in. The bloke who ran Mackenzie down phoned the station, I got them to pick him up.'
'Well done Vic,' said the Inspector. He suddenly stood still. 'You said he was run down. Is he hurt badly?'
Hayes smiled humourlessly. 'That's the funny thing. There's not a mark on him.'
Lambert pushed open the door to the cell and walked in. Standing on either side of the door were Constables Davies and Bell. Sitting on a chair next to the bed was Kirby and, lying on the bed itself, was the motionless figure of Ray Mackenzie.
'All right, lads,' said Lambert, motioning the two constables from the room. He closed the door behind them and looked at Kirby.
'Well?' he said
Kirby smiled, 'I haven't done a thorough examination yet.'
Lambert walked across to the bed and looked down at the prostrate form, the eyes tightly closed, mouth slightly open. He noted with disgust that a thin trail of saliva was dribbling from it. Kirby got up and crossed to the small wash basin in the cell, spashed his hands and dried them quickly. Then he reached into his black bag for his stethoscope. He pressed it to Mackenzie's chest, hearing at the same time the guttural laboured breathing.
'The heartbeat's strong,' said Kirby.
He checked the blood pressure and found it a little low, but nothing out of the ordinary.
As he rummaged for his pen light, Lambert said, 'Hayes told me a car hit him.'
'Apparently,' said Kirby, still searching.
'Was he unconscious when they brought him in?'
The doctor nodded, finally laying hands on his pen light. He bent closer to Mackenzie and pulled back one closed eyelid.
'Jesus Christ.'
Both men stepped back.
'What the hell is wrong with his eyes?' gasped Lambert.
Kirby, annoyed with himself for having been startled, now leant forward once more and gendy pushed back the eyelid. He found himself staring into a glazed orb of blood. No whites, no pupils. Just the fiery red of blood. He exhaled deeply and flicked on the penlight.
'It looks as though there's been some sort of haemorrhage in the vessels of the eye.' He checked the other one and found it was the same. Slowly, he bent forward and shone the tiny beam of light into Mackenzie's right eye.
The man roared a deep, animal bellow of rage and struck out. The powerful fist caught Kirby in the chest and knocked him back against the wall. He coughed, gasping for air.
