by Shaun Hutson
‘Thanks for taking him to school, Sue,’ said Julie who stood at the kitchen sink, her face looking distinctly haggard. ‘Mike would have stayed off work but he says they’ve got a big contract to finish…’
Sue held up a hand to silence her.
‘Leave the washing up, I’ll do it when I come back,’ she said.
‘No. I’d rather keep myself occupied. It stops me thinking about Dad,’ Julie told her.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I’m ready, Auntie Sue,’ announced Craig, appearing in the doorway like a soldier ready for inspection. Sue smiled and heard the front door open as he rushed out to the Metro to wait for her. She turned and looked at Julie then followed him out.
Craig sat in the passenger seat beside her, well strapped in, happily telling her directions to his school, pointing at friends he knew as they passed them on the journey.
Sue saw mothers with younger children and her expression hardened.
The emotion she was feeling was something close to resentment. That others should be enjoying the simple pleasure of walking their children to school while she would never know that joy. Was it resentment she asked herself? Envy or jealousy? It all amounted to the same thing.
‘That’s Trevor Ward,’ Craig announced pointing to a tall, thin child with glasses who was crossing the road ahead of them. ‘He picks his nose and eats it.’
‘Does he really?’ Sue answered, deciding that kind of personal detail didn’t interest her too much.
‘His Mum and Dad can’t afford a car,’ said Craig with glee.
‘Not everyone is as lucky as your mum and dad, Craig,’ she told him, the merest hint of rebuke in her voice. Some people aren’t even lucky enough to have children she felt like adding, administering a swift mental slap for the feelings of self-pity she felt surfacing. But, surrounded by children as she was, it was difficult not to feel the resentment which Lisa’s death had brought. Sue suddenly felt very weary.
She brought the car to a halt outside the main gates of the school and leant across to unlock the door for Craig.
He told her he’d get a lift home with a friend of his. His mum always picked him up. Sue told him to get a teacher to ring if there was any change of plan. He nodded happily, unfastening his seat belt and pushing open the door.
‘See you later,’ she said, smiling. ‘Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?’
He looked at her and chuckled, as if it were something he’d meant to do but it had just slipped his mind. She turned her face slightly to allow him to kiss her cheek.
Craig took hold of her chin, turning her face back towards him then, kneeling on the seat, he kissed her full on the lips, pressing his against her own for what seemed like an eternity.
Then he pulled away and jumped out of the car.
Sue watched him run off into the playground, still shocked at his response, still able to feel the pressure of his lips against her own.
She raised two fingers to her mouth and gently ran them across her lips.
As she did she saw that her hand was shaking.
Thirty-one
Hacket stared down at the black marble stone and glanced at the inscription, feeling the tears begin to prick his eyes. He sniffed them back, holding the small bouquet of violets in his hands. The right one was still heavily bandaged and, even with the benefit of painkillers, he could feel a dull throbbing pain coming from it.
The sun was out but it was cold, the light breeze occasionally intensifying into a chill wind which caused him to shiver. The flowers which already stood in the small pot on Lisa’s grave had wilted, some shedding their withered petals, and it was these petals that the wind scattered like discarded confetti.
Hacket stood for a moment longer looking down at his daughter’s grave then he knelt and began removing the old flowers from the pot, laying them on the wet grass.
The sunshine and the Sabbath day had coaxed a number of people to the cemetery and he glanced around to see others performing tasks similar to his own. Replacing flowers, pulling unwanted weeds from plots. He saw an elderly woman cleaning a white headstone with a cloth. Not far from her a man in his early forties stood, hands clasped before him, gazing down at a grave. Hacket wondered who the man had lost. A wife? A mother or father? Perhaps even a son or daughter like himself. Death held no discrimination for age, sex or creed.
Hacket began placing the new flowers in the pot his mind full of thoughts. Of Lisa. Of Sue.
Of the phone call he’d received earlier that morning.
DS Spencer had phoned about ten a.m. with the news that, due to lack of evidence, Peter Walton had been released.
Hacket had barely given him time to finish speaking before angrily slamming the phone down.
Released.
The bastard had gone free, just as Spencer had warned.
So, now what?
Hacket continued pushing flowers into the pot, the question eating away at him.
Did he go looking for Walton? Try to trace him? Spencer had said that his address had been unknown so where did Hacket begin? He had no doubt of his own ability to kill Walton should he find him but his first, main problem, was actually hunting the bastard down. And Hacket was no detective. Where did he start? He exhaled wearily. In films it was so simple. The avenging angel always knew where to find his intended prey. Everything always went according to plan. Only this wasn’t a film, this was real life with all its attendant complexities.
Hacket had no doubt he could kill Walton.
No doubt?
He had fantasised about it, dreamt of the most elaborate ways of inflicting pain on the killer of his child and yet, if the time came would he have time to make Walton suffer as he wished him to? Would Walton kill him?
And Spencer had also said that another man could be involved.
What then?
What? If? How? When?
Hacket turned and hurled the dead flowers into the nearby waste bin. He turned back and looked at the grave, massaging his forehead gently with one hand. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, the pressure building slowly but surely. Just as it was building within him until all he wanted to do was scream and shout. Anything to release the pent up emotion which swelled like a malignant tumour. Only this cancer was eating away his soul.
He looked down at the grave and thought of Lisa.
Of Sue.
Hacket had never felt so lonely in his life.
He turned and walked slowly back towards the car.
Thirty-two
The crying awoke her.
Michelle Lewis sat up quickly, rubbing her eyes as she heard the howls from the bottom of the bed.
Beside her, Stuart Lewis grunted and swung himself out of bed.
‘The joys of parenthood,’ he said, smiling thinly.
Michelle also clambered out of bed and moved towards the cot which held their child.
Daniel Lewis was crying loudly, his face creased and red. ‘He looks like a bloody dishcloth,’ said Stuart, yawning, looking down at the screaming bundle which his wife carefully lifted into her arms.
‘You probably looked like that at six weeks,’ she told him, rocking the baby gently back and forth.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, watching as she unfastened her nightdress and eased one swollen breast free, raising the child to the nipple it sought.
He had been a large baby, over nine pounds at birth, but Michelle had been fortunate. The delivery had been an easy one. She had always had what Stuart referred to as ‘child bearing hips’ which was his way of saying she needed to lose a little weight. But she had already begun her exercise classes to lose the pounds she’d gained while carrying Daniel and she was confident she’d soon have her figure back. After all, she was only just past her twentieth birthday, her body was still very flexible.
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ said Stuart, running a hand through his hair. ‘Do you want anything?’
She didn’t answer, merely hissed in pain as
Daniel chewed rather over-enthusiastically on her nipple, coaxing the milk from the large bud and gurgling contentedly. However, after a moment or two, Michelle removed him from her left nipple, noticing as she did how red it was. The baby yelled for a second but soon quietened down as she lifted him to the right nipple, allowing him to close his mouth over that. He began sucking vigorously, his eyes darting back and forth as he accepted her milk.
‘It’s a pity you can’t do this,’ said Michelle, smiling. Stuart rubbed his chest and shrugged.
‘Sorry, love,’ he said. ‘Empty.’
They both chuckled.
Daniel continued to suck with ever increasing vigour. ‘I’m sure he’s getting some teeth,’ Michelle observed, feeling the soreness beginning around her nipple.
‘He’s too young for that isn’t he?’ David asked, deciding not to bother with the tea. Instead he sat down on the edge of the bed beside his wife, watching as she nursed the baby. He remained there for a moment longer then got up and wandered along to the bathroom where he urinated gushingly.
Michelle held the baby to her breast, aware of a growing pain around her nipple.
The child had gripped the mammary in both tiny hands and was clinging on like a leech, his mouth still sucking hard. She was sure that he had some teeth, he must have. His jaws continued to move up and down, swallowing the milk greedily. Another minute or so and she’d move him back to the other nipple again, the right one was becoming painfully sore. Besides, he should have had enough by now.
She held him gently, frowning as she felt the pressure on her breast increase. His tiny fingers raked across the flesh leaving four red lines and she winced.
‘I think you’ve had enough, young man,’ she said, and prepared to transfer him back to the other nipple, if not to terminate the feed there and then. She lifted him gently.
He did not release her nipple.
‘Daniel,’ she said, softly, easing him away.
The child continued to suck.
Michelle took hold of one of his tiny hands and tried to pull him away but he wouldn’t budge.
She felt a growing pain in her breast as he continued to suck.
‘Daniel, that’s enough,’ she said, more urgently.
He seemed to be nuzzling against her with renewed vigour, pushing his head against the mammary, closing his jaws even more tightly over the protruding nub of flesh and muscle.
She let out a yelp of pain as she felt a sharp stab around her nipple. As if he were biting her. Using his teeth. Teeth which, by rights, he shouldn’t have.
Michelle for some inexplicable reason felt suddenly worried. The child would not let go of her nipple and as she tried to pull him free she felt the skin stretching, most of it still held in his mouth.
The pain was growing.
‘God,’ she hissed as Stuart re-entered the room and looked at her.
He saw the baby pushing hard against her breast, saw the skin of that breast being pulled taut, saw the pain on Michelle’s face.
Then he saw the blood.
It trickled from the baby’s mouth, mingling with the overflowing milk to create a pink dribble which dripped onto the bed.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, worriedly, taking a step towards the bed.
Michelle didn’t answer, she merely continued to tug at the baby who was now hanging on grimly, using both hands to anchor himself.
The pain spread across her chest until it felt as if her entire torso was ablaze and, finally, unable to bear it any longer, she pulled the child hard.
As she did, Daniel bit through her nipple, severing it.
Blood jetted from the swollen tissue, spraying the child and the bed, soaking into the sheets.
The baby swallowed the nipple with one gulp, blood and milk dribbling over its chin.
Michelle screamed and looked down at her torn breast, a flap of skin hanging over the lacerated mammary. Blood was pumping furiously from the wound and she hastily laid the baby down and tugged the sheet to her chest, pressing it against the wound which bled profusely.
Daniel lay contentedly on the bed, his eyes still as bright and alert.
‘Oh Jesus,’ gasped Stuart, moving towards her. ‘I’ll get an ambulance.’
He looked once more at his child, its face soaked in blood, still chewing on a piece of skin which had come free with the nipple. Then he dashed for the phone.
‘No,’ Michelle called. ‘Not the ambulance. Not yet.’ She was pressing the sheet to her mutilated breast, trying to stem the flow of blood as best she could. ‘You know who you’ve got to call.’
He hesitated a second longer then stabbed out the digits.
Behind him on the bed, the baby gurgled contentedly.
Thirty-three
Stuart Lewis looked at his watch and then continued gazing out of the front window. Every few moments he would step back to take a drag of his cigarette but then anxiety would force him back to his vigil.
He checked his watch again.
5.46 a.m.
He had made the phone call more than twenty minutes ago.
‘Come on, come on,’ he whispered, agitatedly, his face pressed to the glass of the window again.
Finally, the car swung round the corner and came to a halt outside the house. Stuart moved towards the front door and unlocked it, opening it as the occupant of the car clambered out.
Doctor Edward Curtis strode up the path and through the front door.
‘Upstairs,’ Stuart said, and the doctor followed the younger man as he bounded up the narrow flight, hurrying towards the bedroom where his wife waited.
As Curtis entered the bedroom he was struck by the strong smell of blood.
The sheet which Michelle Lewis held against her breast was soaked in the crimson fluid, some of it beginning to congeal on the material. There were spots of it on the wall and carpet. It looked as though she was wearing red gloves. The child lay beside her, its shawl similarly dotted with crimson, its face and hands stained dark with its mother’s blood.
It was the baby that Curtis approached first.
‘How long ago did this happen?’ he asked, unfastening the black bag which he carried.
Stuart told him.
‘And you haven’t called an ambulance?’ Curtis wanted to know, smiling with relief when Stuart shook his head.
Curtis reached into his bag and took out a syringe. He quickly took it from its plastic wrapping then pulled out a bottle full of almost colourless liquid. He upended it, jabbed the needle through the top and drew off 50ml then he gently took hold of the baby’s arm, found a vein and ran the needle into it.
The child didn’t murmur as Curtis pushed the plunger, expelling the liquid into its veins.
He waited a moment then withdrew the syringe, dropping it back into his bag. Only then did he turn to Michelle who was still holding the sheet to her chest in what looked like an exaggerated attempt at modesty.
‘Let me look,’ said Curtis and she lowered the blood-spattered sheet.
Not only had the nipple been torn off but a piece of flesh as large as the palm of Curtis’s hand had also been pulled from the breast. He could see muscles and vein networks exposed. Blood was still oozing from the wound, dribbling down Michelle’s stomach.
Curtis reached into his bag once again, this time pulling out some gauze and bandages.
‘I’ll dress the wound as best I can,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to go to the hospital, you’ve lost a lot of blood.’
Michelle nodded obediently as Curtis pressed a gauze pad to the place where her nipple used to be then hastily wrapped bandages around to keep it in place.
‘Tell them whatever you have to,’ he said. ‘Whatever you can think of. The child will be fine now. But he’s not to be left alone for a while.’ The doctor looked at Stuart who nodded. ‘He’ll sleep now.’
Curtis got to his feet and headed for the door.
‘Wait five minutes then call the ambulance,’ he said.
They heard
his footfalls on the stairs, the sound of his car engine as he drove off.
Both of them looked into the cot where the baby lay, already beginning to drift off to sleep.
They smiled down at him then Michelle wet the tip of her finger and wiped some blood away from his mouth.
He was really such a beautiful child.
Thirty-four
She had hesitated for a long time before finally deciding to call him.
It had been over a week since her father’s funeral and she hadn’t spoken to him since then, but now Sue Hacket sat beside the phone looking down at it as if expecting the digits to reach him without her having to touch them. She hadn’t even been sure at first if she wanted to speak to him but she had found that loneliness is a truly contagious disease and Sue was finding it creeping into her life despite being surrounded by Julie and the family. She had tried rehearsing what she should say to her husband, even got as far as lifting the receiver once but then replaced it and resorted to pacing the floor of Julie’s sitting room surrounded by the dozens of ornaments.
Julie was out shopping. Craig was at school and Mike at work. She was alone with only her thoughts for company.
Finally, almost reluctantly, she lifted the receiver and slowly pressed the numbers which would connect her with Hacket’s school.
The connection was made, she heard the dial tone.
‘Can I speak to John Hacket, please?’ she asked when the phone was finally picked up.
The woman at the other end apologised but Mr Hacket had taken a week’s holiday. She could leave a message if she wanted to, the secretary had his home number.
‘No thanks,’ said Sue and replaced the receiver, looking down at it for a moment before lifting it to her ear and jabbing out the digits of her home number.
Home. The word seemed curiously redundant.
The phone was answered almost immediately.
‘Hello.’
She recognised his voice and, for a second, thought about putting the phone back down.
