by Shaun Hutson
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bell. The signal for lunch.
Within minutes, the playground was filled with children, the sound of their voices swelling the air.
Back in his office, Brooks pressed himself against the radiator, the colour gradually coming back to his cheeks. He stood there while Hacket thanked him for the tour of the school and the house then they said their goodbyes and Hacket left, weaving his way through the throng of children in the playground in order to get to his car. Only then did Brooks leave the radiator and move across to the window, watching as the teacher eased the car through the gates and onto the main road.
‘I gave him the job,’ said Brooks as the tall woman entered the office.
‘Did he ask many questions?’ she enquired.
Brooks nodded.
‘He wanted to know about the teacher who was here before him, wanted to know why he left so suddenly.’
‘What did you tell him,’ the secretary asked.
‘I didn’t tell him the truth, if that’s what you mean,’
Brooks said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m not that stupid.’
Thirty-seven
Hacket parked his own car behind Sue’s Metro and then slid from behind the steering wheel. He glanced at the house, hesitating a moment before walking up the path to the front door. He rang the bell, feeling peculiarly nervous. Like a boy on his first date, afraid that no one will answer. He waited a moment then rang again.
The door swung open.
‘Hello, John,’ beamed Julie and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘How did it go?’
‘Fine,’ he said, stepping in past his sister-in-law. ‘Is Sue here?’
‘Go through into the kitchen,’ Julie told him.
Sue was drying some dishes. She turned as Hacket entered the room, her smile rather thin.
He thought how beautiful she looked. It seemed like years since he’d seen her, not days. Even longer since he’d held her.
‘I got the job,’ he told her.
‘That’s great,’ she said, her smile broadening a little.
Julie joined them, aware of the atmosphere. She filled the kettle and prepared three cups while Hacket sat down at the kitchen table. He told Sue about the school, about the job, the salary. The house.
She seemed pleased and even managed to laugh as he mentioned Brooks’ obsession with the cold. They gazed at each other long and hard, Hacket searching for even a hint of emotion in her blue eyes. Some sign of love? Was that what he sought?
‘Are you going back to London tonight?’ Sue asked.
He nodded.
‘I’ve got no choice. I’ll have to arrange the move and there are people coming to view the house tomorrow. Why?’
She shook her head.
‘Just curious.’
‘If you two want to talk…’ Julie said.
‘No, don’t be silly. You stay here,’ Sue told her sister.
Hacket was a little disappointed but hid his feelings adequately.
‘I’d like you to see the house next time I come down Sue,’ he said.
‘What’ did the headmaster say about the teacher who lived there before?’ Julie asked.
Hacket grunted.
‘Very little.’
Julie nodded almost imperceptibly and gazed down into her mug.
‘Why?’ Hacket asked, noting her expression.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything but I think he should have told you. Anyone from around here would have told you. It was all over the local papers at the time. Big news. The police never did find out why he did it?’
‘Did what?’ Sue wanted to know.
‘One night, he must have gone crazy or something. He got a shotgun, killed his wife and his son and then stuck the barrel in his mouth and shot himself.’
Thirty-eight
Elaine Craven sat alone in the waiting room of the surgery.
Shafts of sunlight flowed through the wide windows illuminating the room, making it seem as if the white walls were glowing. Elaine glanced around her, smiling each time she caught the eye of the receptionist.
She was in her late thirties, dressed in a black skirt and a navy blouse, the left sleeve of which was rolled up to reveal a bandage which stretched from her wrist to her elbow. The limb was held stiffly across her chest and, each time she moved she felt a twinge-of pain from the arm. Elaine glanced up at the wall clock above the receptionist’s desk and noticed that she still had another five minutes before she was due in to see Curtis. She tried to move her left arm slowly in an effort to minimise the pain but it didn’t work and she winced once again.
‘What did you do to your arm?’ asked the receptionist, noticing Elaine’s obvious distress.
‘A stupid accident,’ she said, dismissively, and shrugged, but even that movement caused her pain.
The two women exchanged perfunctory conversation about the weather while they waited for Curtis to call Elaine in. Then, tiring of that particular topic the receptionist tried a different subject.
‘How are your family? It’s just the one boy you’ve got isn’t it?’
Elaine nodded.
‘Yes, Phillip. He’s fine. My husband is fine. It’s only me who goes around having stupid accidents.’ She motioned towards the bandaged arm as if to remind the receptionist why she was here.
There was a loud beep from the console in front of the receptionist and she flicked a switch.
‘Send Mrs Craven in, please,’ said Curtis, his voice sounding robotic as it filtered through the intercom.
Elaine got to her feet and smiled at the receptionist once more as she passed through the door ahead of her marked ‘Private’. It opened onto a short corridor which led down to another door. She knocked and entered.
Edward Curtis smiled as she entered his room. He invited her to sit down, his eyes drawn immediately to the heavy bandage on her arm.
‘I hope your family are in better shape than you, Elaine,’ he said, getting to his feet and walking around the desk to her. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘It was an accident,’ she told him. ‘It should never have happened.’ She looked up at him and Curtis saw a flicker of something behind her eyes.
It looked like fear.
‘Let me have a look,’ he said, and she extended her arm until it was resting on his desk. With infinite care, Curtis began to unfasten the bandages, unravelling them as cautiously as he could, apologising when Elaine hissed with the pain. Finally he pulled the last piece free and exposed two large gauze pads which covered her forearm. He reached behind him, into a small tray on his desk, and retrieved a pair of tweezers. Then he took one corner of the first pad between the ends of the metal prongs and pulled gently.
‘Good God,’ he murmured, exposing the forearm more fully. ‘How the hell did this happen?’
The skin which covered the forearm had been removed in several places. Not sliced or scraped but torn off.
The area around the first deep laceration was red and swollen and Curtis could see the first watery deposits of pus nestling beneath the torn flesh.
The second wound was even worse.
He pulled the gauze pad free and could not resist wincing himself at the damage which had been inflicted on the arm. Part of the flexor muscle closest to the ulna had been severed and the bone was showing clearly through the mass of twisted flesh and muscle. There was more pus forming on the extremities of the wound, this time thicker and more noxious. Some of it was already leaking into the savage gash.
He looked sternly at Elaine.
‘When did it happen?’ he said, harshly.
‘Two nights ago,’ she told him.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he snarled. ‘Was anyone else hurt?’
She shook her head, glancing down at the wounds which looked like dog bites, only made by some ravening animal unlike any ordinary pet. She gritted her teeth as he used sterile pads to clean the gashes.
‘It was my fault, I know,’ she said.
‘I knew it was close to the time, I know I should have contacted you but he seemed all right.’
Curtis wiped away the pus, dropping the swab into his waste bin.
‘The treatment must be kept up at regular intervals, you know that,’ the doctor told her, repeating the procedure on the smaller gash. ‘How is the boy?’
‘Restless.’ It was the only word she could think of.
‘Bring him to me tomorrow, before this happens again.’ He jabbed an accusatory finger at the two wounds.
Elaine nodded, watching as he re-dressed the torn forearm. When he was finished she got to her feet, pulled her coat carefully over her injured arm and turned towards the door.
‘Tomorrow,’ Curtis reminded her and she nodded, thanking him.
Thirty-nine
The sun was already bleeding to death as he left Hinkston. By the time he reached the outer suburbs of London the vivid crimson of the sky had given way to darkness.
Hacket was feeling a strange mixture of feelings. Anticipation, excitement and anxiety had all fused together inside his mind. Those three emotions were to do with the job and with the possibility of starting afresh with Sue but he also felt something else.
Suspicion? That wasn’t the right word.
Unease seemed to better suit his mood.
Why had Brooks been so secretive about the previous occupant of the house? Granted, it wasn’t the sort of thing which you told a man who was about to work for you, at least not in so many words. Hacket could understand how the headmaster had feared telling him about the double murder and suicide which had taken place inside the house. But why lie about it?
But, it wasn’t Brooks’ lies that bothered Hacket. It was the reason why the previous occupant had murdered his family then killed himself.
He pulled up at traffic lights, the thought tumbling around inside his head.
Pressure of work? That seemed a bit extreme.
Perhaps he didn’t like her cooking, Hacket smiled grimly.
Maybe he’d had an affair and couldn’t face her any longer.
A bit of a kindred spirit, eh?
Hacket tried to push the last consideration from his mind as the lights changed to green and he drove on.
As he drew deeper into the heart of the capital a curious but not altogether unexpected weariness began to close around him. Like some kind of cloying, unwelcome blanket, he had felt its folds’ slip from him as he’d left the city that morning, but now, as he drew closer to home he felt their invisible weight enfolding him again.
Perhaps it was the thought of returning to so many bad memories.
‘…But the night goes by so very slow…’ came from the car radio.
‘…and I hope that it won’t end though. Alone…’ Hacket switched it off.
He was less than five miles from home now and he glanced down at the dashboard clock.
8.38 p.m.
He yawned and drove on, slowing down as he came to a Zebra crossing. A woman pushing a pram piled high with boxes crossed first, then a young couple holding hands. Then, finally a tall, thin man who glanced at the car as he sauntered across.
In the light of the headlamps Hacket could pick out certain details of the individual.
The lank hair, the pale complexion, the sunken eyes.
There was something familiar about this man and Hacket felt his chest tighten, the hairs at the back of his neck rise.
It was then that he saw the dark birthmark on the side of the man’s neck and, finally, he was in no doubt who the individual was.
Hacket gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, his eyes riveted to the man.
To the man who had murdered his daughter.
Peter Walton sauntered past him.
Forty
Hacket was out of the car in seconds.
He hurled open the driver’s door and scrambled out, pointing at Walton.
‘You, stop,’ he bellowed.
Taken aback by the shout, Walton didn’t wait to find out who this madman was, he simply turned and ran up the street, bumping into people as he fled. He ran not even knowing why he ran, but he had seen the expression of pure hatred on Hacket’s face and it had been enough to convince him that this man, whoever he was, was best avoided.
Hacket slammed his door and, ignoring the blaring horns of the cars behind him, ran after Walton.
Hacket didn’t see the figure that followed him.
‘Walton,’ he roared as he pounded after the fugitive.
People on the pavement who saw him coming stepped aside, those who didn’t were buffeted aside as the chase continued up the road to a junction.
Walton looked behind him and saw Hacket still hurtling after him. Without checking the traffic, he ran into the road, a speeding Volvo narrowly avoiding him. A taxi coming the other way banged on his hooter as he also came close to hitting the running man. But Walton made the other side of the road safely and ran on, glancing over his shoulder to see that Hacket was still in pursuit.
The teacher also ran into the road without regard for the traffic.
A Capri slammed on its brakes and skidded to a halt just in front of him. Hacket leapt up onto the bonnet and slid off the other side while the driver yelled at him.
He hit the tarmac in time to avoid an oncoming Mini which swerved, striking the pavement as it narrowly missed Hacket. He sucked in a deep breath and hurtled on, worried he might lose his quarry on the crowded street.
Up ahead, Walton dived to his left, into a cafe, pushing past the customers, bumping into a table and spilling the drinks that were there. One of the customers jumped up to challenge him but Walton merely pushed him aside and burst through the door which led to the kitchen.
Seconds later, Hacket entered the cafe, following his prey, also ducking through into the kitchen where he heard the cook yelling obscenities as he and Walton raced through and out the back door.
The cool air was a welcome change from the stifling heat of the kitchen but Hacket was already sweating profusely, the salty fluid running down the side of his face. However, he didn’t slacken his pace.
Walton found himself in the alley which backed on to the café and he bolted down it as fast as he could, overturning dustbins in his wake. Anything to delay his pursuer, but Hacket merely hurdled the obstacles and ran on, desperate to catch his foe.
And when he did catch him? What then?
The thought faded as he stumbled over a box, almost falling. He shot out a hand to steady himself, tearing some skin from his palm on the brick wall of the alley.
Then suddenly, he and Walton were free of its confines, back on another street, amongst people again.
Walton slammed into a young lad, knocking him to the ground but he didn’t stop, merely glanced round to see that Hacket was still after him. Walton saw a bus coming down the street and he ran into the road, running alongside it for a few yards before launching himself up onto the running platform.
He laughed as he saw Hacket running after the bus.
Up ahead, the traffic lights were about to change to red.
Stay on red, Hacket thought as he hurtled after the bus.
They did.
To Walton’s horror the bus began to slow down and he looked ahead to see the glaring red light then back to see that Hacket was almost upon him.
Walton jumped from the bus, shaking loose of the conductor who tried to grab him. Then he jumped into the road and scurried back onto the pavement, the breath now searing in his lungs. His legs felt like lead weights and he didn’t know how much longer he could run for.
Hacket was feeling the same. He could hardly get his breath but he ran on, his head spinning from lack of oxygen. Gulping in huge lungfuls of air in an effort to keep himself going. His heart was thudding against his ribs, threatening to burst but still he found more energy to continue the chase.
Walton looked up and saw what might be his sanctuary.
The neon sign for the Underground station glowed like a
beacon in the darkness and he bolted across the road towards the entrance.
Hacket followed.
‘Get out the fucking way,’ shouted Walton, elbowing a passage through the gang of people emerging from the stairway. He battered his way through, slipping as he was five steps from the bottom. He toppled over, landing heavily on the dirty tiled floor.
Hacket ran on, taking the steps two at a time, ignoring the stench of stale urine and sweat which rose to greet him from the subterranean cavern.
Walton hauled himself upright and looked around, seeing the automatic barriers which led to the trains. He ran towards them, scrambling over, ignoring the protests of the man collecting tickets.
Hacket too vaulted the partition and hurtled after his quarry who was now heading for the escalator that led even deeper into the bowels of the earth.
Walton, scarcely able to walk now, staggered along on legs that felt like lumps of lead, struggling down the metal steps of the escalator, pushing past those who stood in his way.
Hacket followed, still unaware of the figure that pursued him
He was panting madly, his throat dry and parched from sucking in breath, his muscles crying out for rest but he knew that if he could catch Walton on the platform he had him. There was nowhere for him to hide. No further he could run.
Hacket stumbled half-way down the escalator but steadied himself, seeing Walton reach the bottom and bolt to his right.
Over his own laboured breathing, Hacket could hear the rumble of an approaching train and a further realisation struck him.
Should Walton board a train before him then there was no way he’d catch the man.
The teacher forced what little reserves of strength he possessed into his screaming muscles and ran on.
There were about two dozen people on the platform, most of them moving forward as they heard the train drawing closer.
Hacket looked to his right and left, sweat now pouring from him.
There was no sign of Walton.
The train was emerging from the tunnel, its lights like the glowing eyes of some massive, fast-moving worm as it slid from the tunnel.
