by Shaun Hutson
Hacket raced down the platform, looking frantically for Walton, glancing back over his shoulder as the train came to a halt and its doors slid open. Those already on the train watched with detachment as he ran back and forth up and down the platform, his face coated in sweat, his eyes bulging as he tried to get his breath.
Where the hell was Walton?
He heard the familiar whirring noise which came just prior to the doors shutting and, in that split second he saw the man he sought dive for the carriage at the far end of the train.
He got in just as the doors were sliding shut.
‘No,’ roared Hacket and leapt for the nearest door, jamming his hand into it, ignoring the pain, knowing it would force the doors to open fully once again. As they did he slipped inside.
Seconds later the train pulled away again, picking up speed as it entered the tunnel at the far end of the platform.
Hacket began making his way along the train towards the carriage where he knew Walton to be.
As he came to the door marked ‘ONLY TO BE USED IN AN EMERGENCY’ worried travellers watched him force the handle up and down until the door opened. He squeezed through, feeling the warm air inside the tunnel buffet him as the train sped along, threatening to shake him from his precarious perch. He struggled with the next door, anxious to get into the safety of the carriage, balanced on just the coupling which held the compartments together.
He almost had the door open when his foot slipped. Hacket yelled in terror as he felt himself falling.
He shot out a hand and managed to grab the door handle which promptly twisted in his grasp.
The door flew open and he fell into the carriage, sprawling on the floor, watched by the other travellers but Hacket wasn’t bothered by their stares. He dragged himself upright and struggled on, realising that they were only moments away from the next station. Once the train pulled in he could run along the platform to the carriage where Walton hid then he had him.
The train escaped the blackness and Hacket pressed himself to the sliding doors, ready to bolt out the minute they opened.
The train slowed down, came to a halt.
He was out in a flash, hurtling towards the front of the train.
Towards Walton.
His quarry, as if realising Hacket’s plan, came flying from
the foremost carriage, knocking a woman to the ground in his haste. He ran across the platform, through a narrow walkway and towards some stairs which led to a bridge across another track. Hacket followed, taking the stairs two at a time, his lungs now feeling as if someone had filled them with hot sand, his legs throbbing.
Walton looked round to see his pursuer was still there, still on his heels.
He jumped the last three steps, landing heavily on the concrete as Hacket ran on, now only yards from his quarry.
Walton turned to his right, onto another platform.
It may have been rancid ice cream; it may even have been a puddle of vomit left by one of the many drunks who frequented the underground complex. But, whatever it was, Walton didn’t see it.
His foot slid in the slimy mess and he skidded, stumbled. Then, with a despairing scream, he pitched forward, arms flailing in the air for interminable seconds.
He toppled off the edge of the platform, onto the rails.
Hacket dashed to the edge as he heard the loud crack and the hiss of thousands of volts as Walton’s body was scorched by the incredible electrical charge. His flesh was turned black in seconds, the blood boiling in his veins, and his body jerked uncontrollably as the current continued to course through it.
Hacket reached the platform edge and looked down.
Walton’s body resembled a spent match.
With a gasp, Hacket sank to his knees, eyes riveted to the blackened corpse which lay across the lines.
The stench of seared flesh and ozone was overpowering, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick, but the feeling passed and he knew only the terrible ache in his muscles and the pain in his chest.
Somewhere down the platform a woman was screaming but Hacket didn’t seem to hear it.
He looked down once more at the body of Walton and smiled.
He was still unaware of the figure who watched him.
Forty-one
Edward Curtis pushed another log onto the open fire then sat back in the high-backed leather chair, watching the flames dancing in the grate.
His face was set in hard lines and he reached for the brandy glass on the table beside him, sipping it, not taking his eyes from the leaping flames. His mother used to tell him that you could see shapes in fire, but the only shape that Curtis could see was the outline of Elaine Craven’s mutilated arm.
‘I think it’s getting out of control,’ said Curtis, quietly.
‘You’re the only one who can do anything about it,’ said the other occupant of the room, seated on the other side of the hearth. But the other figure’s eyes were fixed not on the fire but on Curtis.
‘There have been too many incidents lately,’ Curtis said. ‘The Kirkham girl at the hotel. The Lewis baby and now this business with Phillip Craven.’
‘They knew the risks, Edward, you can’t blame yourself.’
‘Blame isn’t the right word. I don’t feel any guilt for what has happened, for what is going to happen. As you say, they knew the risks. But that doesn’t stop me feeling a little helpless. There’s still too much I don’t know.’
‘Are you saying you want to stop?’ the other said, challengingly.
Curtis looked at the figure and shook his head.
‘There’s too much at stake to stop now. Besides, I’ve gone too far to stop.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘We both have.’ He re-filled his own glass and then the glass of his companion.
‘It’s what they would have wanted,’ the other said. ‘We owe it to them to carry on.’
Curtis watched as the figure got up and crossed to the large bay window which opened out from the sitting room. Drink in hand the other pulled back one curtain and looked out over the lights of Hinkston which lay below.
‘You make it sound like duty,’ Curtis said. ‘Saying we owe it to them.’
‘Not duty, Edward. Love.’ The figure swallowed a sizeable measure of the brandy. ‘And something stronger.’
‘Like what?’ Curtis wanted to know.
The other figure did not look at him, merely kept on staring out at the lights of the town. The words were spoken softly.
‘Like revenge.’
Forty-two
‘What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?’
Detective Inspector Madden bellowed the words at Hacket who sat at the desk, his hands clasped around a paper cup full of black coffee.
‘You’re not a vigilante. This isn’t New York,’ Madden continued.
‘Look, he fell…’ Hacket began, but was cut short by the DI.
‘Lucky for you he did. Also you should be thankful that there were plenty of witnesses on the platform to testify to that fact. We could have been forgiven for thinking you threw Walton on the line.’
The office inside Clapham police station was small, its confines filled with a thick haze of cigarette smoke. All three men were smoking. Hacket was sitting on a plastic chair in front of Madden’s desk. The DI himself was pacing the floor agitatedly, and DS Spencer was leaning against the desk looking down at the teacher, a Marlboro jammed in one side of his mouth.
Hacket took a sip of the lukewarm coffee and winced.
‘How long are you going to keep me here?’ he asked.
‘For as long as it takes,’ Madden rasped.
‘Takes for what?’
‘As long as it takes for you to see sense. To keep your nose out of police business and stop acting like fucking Charles Bronson. Like I said to you you’re not a vigilante and this isn’t Death Wish.’
‘I told you, Walton slipped. You know that. Why can’t you just let me go?’ Hacket asked.
‘You’re lucky we’re
not charging you,’ Madden informed him.
Hacket spun round in his seat to look at the DI.
‘Charging me?’ he snapped, incredulously. ‘With what?’
‘Disturbing the peace. Causing an affray. Would you like me to carry on?’
‘That bastard killed my daughter,’ snarled Hacket getting to his feet. ‘You couldn’t do anything about it so I did.’
‘You don’t even know if Walton was the one who killed her,’ Spencer interjected. ‘There were two men involved in the murder.’
‘Great. One down, one to go then.’
‘I’m warning you, Hacket,’ the DI said, sternly. ‘You keep away from this case.’ His tone softened slightly. ‘I’m sorry, we’re all sorry about what happened to your daughter but let the law take care of it.’
Hacket nodded.
‘Let the law take care of it,’ he echoed. ‘And if you catch him, what then? He’s not going to be punished is he? A few years in prison isn’t enough for what he did to my little girl.’
‘That’s as maybe but he’ll serve a proper sentence for his crime, proposed by a judge in a proper court of law. The Fearns family lost a daughter too didn’t they? If you stop to remember that Hacket, two people died in your house that night. I haven’t had any trouble from Mr Fearns wanting to be judge, jury and executioner.’
‘If he can live knowing that his daughter’s killer isn’t going to suffer the way he should then that’s up to him. I can’t.’
‘You’ve got no choice. I’m not asking you to keep your nose out of this case, Hacket, I’m telling you,’ Madden snapped. ‘The last thing I need is some self-styled avenger running around London. We’ll take care of it.’
Hacket shook his head and took a final drag on his cigarette, grinding it out in an ashtray already overflowing with dead butts.
And what would you have done if it had been your child?’ he said. ‘Would you have accepted the judgement of a court?’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have wanted to see the bastard suffer because I won’t believe you.’
‘And what if you’d caught up with Walton tonight?’ asked Spencer. ‘What would you have done? Killed him? That would have made you no better than him and you’d be in the cells now, under arrest.’
‘Five minutes’ satisfaction isn’t worth ruining your life for,’ Madden echoed. He took another drag on his cigarette then hooked a thumb in the direction of the door. ‘Go on, go home before I change my mind and charge you with breach of the peace.’
Hacket paused at the door, turning to look at the two policemen.
‘You know,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m still pleased he’s dead. I just wish he’d suffered more.’ Hacket slammed the door behind him.
Madden dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his foot.
‘Do you know the worst thing about all this, Spencer?’ said the DI nodding in the direction that Hacket had gone. ‘I agree with him.’
Spencer nodded slowly.
‘Join the club.’
Forty-three
He stood outside the door for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes riveted to the doorbell, his hand wavering as he reached for it. Hacket wasn’t sure if he was trying to summon up the courage to press it. Courage wasn’t the word. Right now he didn’t know what the word was and, what was more, he didn’t give a fuck.
He pressed it and waited.
And waited.
He finally heard movement from the other side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
He managed a thin smile as he heard the soft Irish lilt to the voice.
‘It’s Hacket.’
Silence.
‘What do you want?’ she finally said.
‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ he said.
Another silence then he heard the sound of a chain being slid free, of bolts being drawn back. The door opened.
Nikki Reeves stood before him in a long T-shirt which was so baggy it managed to hide the smooth contours of her body. Her eyes were bleary with sleep and she rubbed them as she looked at Hacket, blinking myopically.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she asked. ‘Nearly midnight.’ She remained at the door, leaning against the frame.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, and as he spoke she smelled the whisky on his breath.
‘What’s wrong, all the pubs shut and your supply of booze run out at home?’
He looked at her but didn’t speak. She sighed and stepped aside, motioning him into the flat. He wandered through into the sitting room where he sat down on the sofa.
‘Make yourself at home,’ she said, sarcastically. Nikki sat down in the chair opposite him, the T-shirt riding up over her knees, exposing a greater expanse of her shapely legs.
Hacket gazed at them for a moment then looked at her face.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve coming here, John, after what’s happened,’ she said, sternly.
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he said.
‘I thought you’d said all you wanted to say over the phone.’
‘I just thought you might like to know that your little note had the desired effect. My marriage came close to breaking up, I’m still not sure it’ll last.
She merely shrugged.
‘I told you not to use me like a doormat. I was hurt. I wanted to hit back at you and it was the only way I could think of.’
‘You heard what happened to my daughter?’
‘Yes. I’m very sorry about that.’
‘Well your little note arrived the day of her funeral,’ he rasped. ‘It didn’t take Sue long to figure out that I was with you when Lisa was murdered.’
‘Have they caught the killer yet?’ she asked, conversationally.
He merely smiled humourlessly.
‘One of them is out of action, to coin a phrase,’ he chuckled, glaring at her once again. ‘What you did was unnecessary, Nikki. If you wanted to hurt someone then you could have had a go at me, not Sue. She didn’t ask to be involved in this.’
‘It’s not my fault your daughter’s dead, John. I told you I didn’t mean to be vindictive. I’m sorry for what happened.’
‘Sorry,’ he grunted. ‘Really? Well, you’re right about one thing, it isn’t your fault Lisa’s dead, it’s my fault. My fault for being here with you when I should have been at home with her.’
‘And you came over here tonight to tell me that? What is this, confession time?’
He sat on the sofa looking at her, smelling the booze on his own breath as he exhaled.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked, almost reluctantly. ‘You look as if you need one.’ She got to her feet and padded into the kitchen. Hacket waited a moment then got up and followed her.
‘Sorry I called so late,’, he said. ‘I mean, you might have had someone here. I wouldn’t have wanted to interrupt.’
‘By "someone" I gather you mean another man?’
He shrugged.
‘Why not? You’re a good-looking girl. I’m surprised there isn’t anyone here.’ There was a vaguely contemptuous tone to his voice which she wasn’t slow to spot.
‘Is that how you see me?’ she asked. ‘In and out of bed with any man I find?’
‘It didn’t take you long to sleep with me. Three dates it took, didn’t it? Pretty fast going, Nikki.’ He smiled, again without a trace of humour.
She made his coffee and shoved the mug into his hand.
‘Drink that and go will you?’ she snapped, walking back into the sitting room. He followed her once more.
‘What did you hope to achieve by writing that letter to Sue? Just tell me that. Did you want to break up my marriage?’
‘Just remember who started the affair, John,’ she snarled. ‘You chased me, not the other way round. You knew the risks. We both did.’
‘But you had to have your little bit of revenge, didn’t you?’ he said, bitterly.
‘I don’t like being treated like some kind of whore,�
�� she rasped. ‘You can’t just pick me up, use me then throw me away when you feel like it.’ She glared at him. ‘Now drink your coffee and get out of here.’
Hacket put the mug down and got to his feet.
‘Sue called you a tart and I defended you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I think she was right.’
‘Get out, now.’ She pushed him towards the door. ‘Is that why you came here, tonight, John? For the same reason you wanted me in the first place? Because you still can’t get what you want from your wife?’
Hacket spun round and lashed out, catching her with the back of his hand.
The blow was powerful enough to knock her off her feet and, as she fell to the floor, Hacket saw the ribbon of blood running from her bottom lip. She glared up at him then touched the bleeding cleft which was already beginning to swell up. She looked at the blood on her fingers and her eyes narrowed.
‘Get out you fucker,’ she hissed. ‘Go on,’ the last two words were shouted.
Hacket moved towards the door, pulled it open and looked back at her. She still sat on the floor, legs curled up beneath her as she dabbed at her bottom lip with the end of her long T-shirt. Blood blossomed on the material. He hesitated a moment longer then walked out, slamming the door behind him.
He rode the lift to the ground floor and walked out into the chill night air, standing beside his car for a moment, looking up at the window of Nikki’s flat. Then he slid behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition and drove off, glimpsing the block of flats in his rear view mirror. Then he turned a corner and it was gone.
Out of sight, out of mind, he thought, wondering why that particular cliché had come into his head.
He wondered if it would be as easy to forget Nikki.
Forty-four
She knew she was going to be sick.
She knew it and, what was worse, she knew there was nothing she could do to stop herself. Amanda Riley gripped the edge of the sink, ducked low over the porcelain and vomited. As she stepped back, moaning, she almost overbalanced. It felt as if the floor was moving beneath her although she couldn’t be sure if that apparent undulation was due to her own inebriation or the pounding of the music from downstairs.
