Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  As unconsciousness began to overtake him he saw the figure standing over him.

  Saw the long, stiletto blade being held before him.

  Devlin found some lost reserve of strength and, even with the pitchfork still embedded in his chest, he tried to drag himself towards the open back door.

  But the figure merely knelt beside him, like a priest administering the last rites.

  Devlin felt his head being cradled almost lovingly in the intruder’s hands and then, as he found the breath for one final scream of agony, he felt the knife being pushed slowly into his right eye.

  Eighteen

  In the days following Lisa’s funeral Hacket found himself enveloped by a feeling similar to isolation. Despite his return to work (perhaps because of it - the endless chorus of condolence rapidly became tiresome) and the necessity to mix with people once more, he found that Sue was becoming even more distant. He felt like a lodger. She spoke to him as if he was a stranger for whom she existed solely to put food on the table and to offer perfunctory conversation.

  Instead of returning to her own job as a secretary at a computer firm she had considered giving up work completely. Hacket had suggested that, under the circumstances, that might not be a very good idea. Something which had only served, it seemed, to push her into resignation more rapidly. The firm had given her four weeks’ compassionate leave but Sue felt that wasn’t enough.

  And she had begun returning to the hospital on a nightly basis to visit her father.

  His condition had deteriorated during the past week and it now seemed only a matter of days until the inevitable happened.

  As Hacket sat staring blankly at the television screen he heard the door open and realised that Sue had returned from another of her nightly vigils. She closed the front door behind her and walked straight into the kitchen where she made two coffees, returning to the sitting room to set one of them in front of Hacket. He smiled gratefully but received no reciprocal gesture.

  She sat down in one of the armchairs and looked, with equal indifference at the screen.

  ‘Is there any change in your father’s condition?’ Hacket asked, watching as she kicked her shoes off.

  Sue shook her head.

  ‘Have they said how long?’ he said, quietly.

  ‘They can’t be specific. Days, weeks. They don’t know,’ she told him, still gazing at the TV. She took a couple of sips of coffee then picked up her shoes. ‘I feel tired. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘It’s only nine o’clock,’ he said.

  ‘I said I was tired.’

  ‘Sue, wait. We have to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You know what. About us. About what’s happened. We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘Then perhaps we shouldn’t go on,’ she told him, flatly.

  Hacket frowned, surprised by the vehemence of her words and disturbed by their implication.

  ‘You mean you want us to split up?’ he said.

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it properly. I’ve got other things on my mind.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, trying to control the tone of his voice. ‘We’ve been married for almost seven years. I love you, I don’t want to lose you. I want you back, Sue.’

  ‘I want Lisa back but wishing for it isn’t going to make it happen is it?’ she countered, acidly.

  ‘Lisa’s dead,’ he said, through clenched teeth and then finally, he raised his voice in frustration. ‘Jesus Christ, Sue do you think you’re the only one feeling that pain. You haven’t got a monopoly on grief you know. I miss her as much as you do. She was my daughter too, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ His breath was coming in gasps.

  Sue regarded him impassively.

  ‘We’ve got to rebuild our own lives,’ he continued, more calmly. ‘I’m not saying we should forget Lisa, we should never do that, she was the most precious thing in both our lives. But now all we’ve got is each other.’ He sighed. ‘I know you still feel angry about what happened between Nikki and me but it’s over now, Sue. I said I was sorry and I’ll keep on saying it as many times as you want me to. For as long as it takes for things to go back to normal between us.’

  ‘They can’t ever be normal again, John,’ she told him with an air of finality. ‘We’re not talking about just an affair. We’re talking about the death of our daughter. A death you caused because of your affair.’ She eyed him angrily.

  ‘I have to live with that knowledge,’ he rasped. ‘I don’t need you to remind me all the fucking time. Do you have any idea what I’m feeling? What it’s like to carry that guilt with me all the time? Do you care?’

  ‘No John, I don’t. All I care about, all I know is that our daughter is dead. That you’ve wrecked our marriage. Don’t mention love to me again, you don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘So what’s the answer?’ he wanted to know. ‘Divorce? Is that going to make things better? It certainly isn’t going to bring Lisa back is it? And if that sounds harsh it’s because it hurts me to say it. Hurts me more than you’ll ever know.’

  There was an uneasy silence, finally broken by Sue. ‘I’ve been thinking it might be best if I go away for a while,’ she told him. ‘To stay with Julie in Hinkston. We don’t see much of each other now. And I need the break.’

  ‘What about your father? Who’s going go visit him?’

  ‘I can drive in from Hinkston, it only takes an hour.’

  ‘How long will you go for?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’ She got to her feet, shoes in hand, and walked to the door.

  Hacket sank back on the sofa, drained. He heard her footfalls on the stairs as she climbed. He stared at the TV screen for a moment longer, listening to the endless catalogue of strikes, accidents, murders, kidnappings and rapes that the newsreader was relaying, then finally he got up and switched the set off.

  He sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity then suddenly got to his feet, walked through into the hall and picked up the phone.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Inspector Madden please,’ Hacket said when the phone was finally answered.

  Madden wasn’t available.

  ‘What about Detective Sergeant Spencer?’

  The man on the other end of the phone told him to wait a moment.

  Hacket shifted the phone from one hand to the other agitatedly as he waited.

  DS Spencer was in the office, he was told, but the man wanted to know what the call was about.

  ‘Is it important? I want to speak to Spencer. Just tell him it’s John Hacket,’ the teacher told him.

  There was a moment’s silence at the other end, a hiss of static then the other man agreed, announced he was connecting Hacket, and the teacher heard a series of crackles and blips. Then Spencer’s voice.

  ‘Mr Hacket, what can I do for you?’ the policeman asked. ‘Is there any news on the men who murdered my daughter?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘We’re following several leads. It’s still early days…’

  Hacket cut him short.

  ‘Have you arrested anyone yet?’ he snapped.

  Spencer sounded somewhat perplexed.

  ‘I told you, Mr Hacket, we have leads which we’re following up but no arrests have been made yet. We’ll inform you as soon as anything happens.’

  Hacket nodded, thanked the DS then hung up. He stood staring down at the phone for a moment then looked up the stairs towards the landing, towards the room where his wife slept.

  He clenched his fists until the nails dug into the palms of his hands.

  No arrests yet.

  And when they did catch the men, what then?

  Hacket stalked back into the sitting room, reaching for his cigarettes. He lit one and sucked hard on it.

  What then?

  The thought had come to him only fleetingly to begin with, but now, as he stood alone in the deserted sitting room, that thought began to grow stronger. Building, sprea
ding like some festering growth within his mind.

  And he nurtured that thought.

  Nurtured it and clung to it.

  May 7, 1941

  The contractions had begun almost an hour ago.

  Margaret Lawrenson hauled herself out of the chair, her bloated belly almost causing her to topple over. She paced back and forth for a few moments, trying to relieve the awful cramping pains which came so rhythmically. Over the last sixty minutes the contractions had become more frequent and more intense. Each one almost took her breath away and, twice she reeled as if she were going to faint.

  She was alone.

  No doctor had been called to the house. No doctor would be called. Her husband had assured her that the birth would be a straightforward one and she had believed him.

  The thought of George Lawrenson made her momentarily forget even the pains of labour.

  Her husband had been dead almost nine months now, and since his murder (she had no doubt that he had been killed even though the autopsy and examination of the car had suggested a faulty petrol tank) she had lived in the large house on the outskirts of Hinkston alone. She had become reclusive, venturing into the town itself as little as possible. She had no friends there so no visitors ever came out to the house. But Margaret had preferred it that way. She had remained in the large building like some kind of guardian, her husband’s papers, his notes on Project Genesis, safe in her care.

  As she struggled towards the lab her legs buckled and she fell heavily, falling on her side. She felt a sudden gush of liquid from between her legs and looked down to see a flux of thin, blood-flecked discharge spreading across the carpet. Margaret grunted and tried to pull herself upright but it seemed the weight of the child she was carrying prevented that action and she was forced to drag herself along the floor, gasping for breath as she drew nearer the lab.

  If only she could reach its sterile environment, its painkillers.

  A contraction so savage it practically doubled her up caused her to cry out and, for a moment, she stopped crawling. It was difficult enough with the huge weight of the child in her belly, but now the pain was coursing through her as if it were liquid pumped into her veins by some insane transfusion.

  Painkillers.

  She moaned in agony and felt more warm liquid spilling onto the inside of her thighs. She looked down to see that it was blood.

  She was less than ten feet from the door of the lab but it may as well have been ten miles. Every inch took a monumental effort both of will and endurance.

  Margaret Lawrenson suddenly surrendered to the pain, rolling onto her back, knowing that she was not going to make it. Excruciating pain seemed to numb her lower body and she gripped the carpet in anguish as she felt the child move, beginning its slow emergence. She tried to breathe as her husband had taught her, tried to think about him standing beside her. Tried to think about anything other than the savage pain which followed her and caused her to cry out.

  She screamed as she felt the child’s head push clear of her vagina and now she was unsure whether it was being propelled by her own muscular contractions or using its own strength to escape the prison of the womb. Blood spattered onto the carpet and she felt the incredible pressure ease momentarily as the child’s head showed. It nestled between her legs, stained with blood and pieces of placental waste. Margaret gripped the carpet in both fists, her jaws clamped together to prevent the escape of another scream. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and cheeks then ran in rivulets down her face.

  She pushed harder, her muscles finally expelling the child which lay on the floor beneath her, still joined to her by the umbilical cord.

  Margaret tried to sit up, to reach the child and, as she did she felt the remains of the placenta burst from her vagina in a swollen lump. She swivelled round, her body still enveloped by pain and reached for the child. It was coughing, its mouth filled with blood and saliva. She took it into her arms, using her index finger to scoop the thick mixture of crimson mucous from its tiny mouth. It began to cry immediately.

  She raised herself up onto her knees, the baby held in her arms, the umbilicus dangling from its belly. It had to be severed.

  She laid the child down again then took the slippery coil in both hands and raised it to her mouth.

  Ignoring the taste of blood, she bit through the cord, bright flecks of crimson filling her mouth and running down her chin. But she fought the need to vomit and swiftly tied the cord, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  The child continued to cry and she smiled as she heard the sound. It was a healthy yell to signal its arrival in the world. Margaret looked down at it. At her son. He was perfectly formed, and as she picked him up his sobs diminished slightly. She rocked him to and fro in that cold corridor, her hair matted with sweat, her clothes drenched with blood. The coppery odour of the crimson fluid was strong in her nostrils but she ignored it. All that mattered now was that her son was alive.

  The second wave of contractions took her completely by surprise, both because of their intensity and the unexpectedness of their arrival.

  She looked down at her belly to see that the flesh was undulating slowly, swelling then contracting.

  As the pains grew more severe she realised what was happening.

  She screamed in agony as the head of the second child nudged its way free.

  Nineteen

  The drive to Hinkston took her about an hour due to the heavy traffic leaving London, but as she guided the car down the main street of the town Sue Hacket noted that it was still barely noon.

  The sunshine which had accompanied her on the first part of the drive had given way to a cold wind and the promise of rain. She glanced at the shoppers in the high street, noses red from the cold, some walking briskly, others standing and chatting.

  Hinkston was a busy little town close enough to London to qualify as green-belt commuterland but also with enough distance to rightfully be called a country town. Its population, she guessed, was around eight thousand. At least that’s what it had been three years ago when she and Hacket had last visited.

  Sue drove through the town, past a library, and found herself surrounded by houses which were beginning to take on a solid uniformity. She knew she had entered the estate where her sister lived. She found the street then slowed up, looking for the number of the house. She counted them off as she drew nearer, smiling as she saw Julie standing on the front doorstep talking to the window-cleaner. As Sue parked the Metro outside the house, Julie waved and walked out to meet her. They embraced, watched by the window cleaner who nodded affably as Sue approached him, carrying a small suitcase. Julie introduced her and the window cleaner smiled, making some comment about how alike they were and both so sexy. Julie laughed and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. Sue could see his blue eyes lingering on her own breasts, his attention caught by the fact she wore no bra beneath her blouse. She slid past the window cleaner, leaving Julie to pay him.

  Sue stood in the hallway of her sister’s home and put down her suitcase, glancing around at the entryway.

  There was a chain store copy of ‘The Haywain’ hanging on one side of the hall, opposite a particularly large cuckoo clock which looked as though it could have comfortably housed a vulture. Sue noticed that it was almost twelve o’clock and moved towards the sitting-room to avoid the appearance of the noisy bird. Sure enough, the mechanical occupant of the clock duly shot forth on the hour and proceeded to fill the hall with the most unholy din as the hour hand touched twelve.

  Inside the sitting room Sue again glanced around, noting the fixtures and fittings which filled her sister’s house. The room was overflowing with ornaments. Perched on every available ledge. On top of the TV, the wall units, the bookcase. There was even a plastic model of the Eiffel Tower on top of the stereo.

  ‘Mike brought that back from Paris for me,’ Julie announced, entering the room. ‘He was there on business the other week. He doesn’t like ornaments himself but he collects them
for me whenever he goes away.’

  Sue smiled and held out her arms to embrace her sister. The two of them clung to each other for a moment then Julie kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘I’m pleased you came,’ she said, softly.

  They exchanged pleasantries, chatted about the weather and Julie told her sister about the window cleaner, what a randy sod he was. She chuckled as she poured tea for them both as they sat in the kitchen. Sue listened and smiled when she felt she should but her mind was elsewhere. Something Julie wasn’t slow to notice.

  ‘I’m not going to ask you what’s on your mind,’ she said, finally. ‘You don’t know how sorry we were to hear about Lisa. I thought what I’d have been like if anything had happened to Craig.’

  Mention of her nephew seemed to coax a smile from Sue and she looked across the table at her sister.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s across the road playing with one of his friends. It keeps him from under my feet while the school half-term is on. He’ll be pleased to see you. I’ll fetch him in a little while.’

  Sue nodded and sipped her tea.

  ‘Mike’s working late tonight, so…’

  Sue chuckled at her sister’s words and Julie looked puzzled.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sue explained, sighing. Working late. Meetings. She thought of John and his lover. The perennial excuse. I’ve got to work late. She finished her tea and began tracing a pattern around the edge of the cup with her index finger.

  ‘What’s going on, Sue?’ Julie wanted to know. ‘When you rang and asked to stop with us it was all I need to get away, and I can’t stand to be in the house anymore. You never mentioned John. He could have come with you, you know.’