Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Come on,’ he snarled, grabbing Craig around the waist, lifting him into the air.

  The boy writhed madly in his father’s grip, trying to shake himself free, scratching at Mike’s face.

  ‘Get the doctor, now,’ Mike hissed, struggling back through the door with the boy. ‘Do it,’ he snapped as Julie hesitated.

  Sue, still bewildered by the tableau, followed Mike and his maddened son out onto the landing. Julie scuttled downstairs to the phone and frantically jabbed out the number, glancing behind her to see Mike carry the boy into his bedroom.

  Watched by Sue, he threw the boy onto the bed then leapt on beside him, pinning the boy’s arms to the mattress, using all his superior strength to prevent his son from moving.

  The boy hawked loudly and spat into Mike’s face.

  Sue put a hand to her mouth, watching as the mucus dripped from Mike’s cheek like a thick tear. But he didn’t attempt to wipe it away, he seemed too concerned with restraining his son. The boy continued to twist and turn like an eel on a hot skillet.

  ‘The doctor’s coming,’ shouted Julie, making her way back up the stairs, pushing past Sue, who could only look on in bewilderment.

  ‘I hope to God he’s quick,’ Mike rasped. ‘I can’t hold him for much longer.’

  Craig seemed to have found an energy and strength quite disproportionate to his age and size. A strength which took every ounce of his father’s muscle to hold him down. Sue saw the veins standing out on Mike’s forehead as he struggled to keep the boy pinned down.

  Julie ushered her out of the room.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do until the doctor gets here,’ she said, her face ashen.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong with him, Julie?’ Sue asked, a note of fear in her voice. ‘Is it some kind of epileptic fit?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Julie said. ‘A fit. He doesn’t get them very often. I’ve never mentioned them to you. We thought he’d grow out of them.’

  ‘But he’s so strong.’

  ‘He’ll be all right when the doctor gets here,’ Julie said, dismissing the observation.

  Sue was about to speak again when she heard a deafening shout from the bedroom.

  From Craig.

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

  She felt suddenly afraid.

  Forty-seven

  The needle came free and Curtis quickly wiped the puncture in the crook of Craig’s arm with a swab, pressing the pad of cotton wool to the tiny hole for a second.

  The boy winced and moaned slightly but Curtis merely pressed the palm of his right hand to the child’s forehead. He could feel beads of perspiration there but at least the spasms had stopped. Craig let out an exhausted sigh and his whole body seemed to go limp. Curtis covered him with a sheet, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  Mike Clayton looked down at his son then glanced at the doctor who had slipped the hypodermic back into his bag.

  ‘Will he be all right now, doctor?’ Mike asked.

  Curtis nodded slowly and headed for the door.

  ‘We’ve heard things,’ Mike continued, falteringly. ‘Rumours. About the others.’

  Curtis turned and looked at him, expressionless.

  Mike swallowed hard, as if intimidated by the doctor’s unfaltering stare.

  ‘What’s been happening to them?’ Mike asked.

  ‘I don’t discuss other patients, Mr Clayton,’ Curtis said, dismissively. ‘Your sister-in-law, does she know about the boy?’ He nodded in Craig’s direction.

  ‘No,’ Mike said, hastily. ‘She saw what happened tonight. We found him in her room.’

  Curtis shot the other man a worried glance.

  ‘Nothing had happened,’ he reassured the doctor. ‘Julie told her he suffered from epileptic fits. I think she believed it.’

  ‘Good.’

  He made for the landing, followed by Mike. They both descended the stairs, the doctor heading for the sitting room where Julie and Sue sat sipping cups of tea.

  Julie stood up as Curtis entered but he motioned for her to sit once more.

  ‘Is Craig all right?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s fine. He’s sleeping now.’

  Julie looked relieved.

  Curtis glanced at Sue and smiled and she returned the gesture, struck by the firmness of his features, the intensity of his eyes. Despite the late hour he looked perfectly groomed, as if he’d come from a dinner-dance instead of having been dragged from his bed by the emergency call. Julie performed a quick introduction and Curtis shook hands with Sue, gripping her hand in his own. She felt a pleasing mixture of strength and warmth there. She looked at him as he sat down, grateful for the cup of tea which Julie offered him. He seemed relaxed, almost at home in the sitting room. As if he’d visited it many times before.

  ‘Do you live in Hinkston, Mrs Hacket?’ Curtis asked.

  Sue shook her head, unable to take her eyes from Curtis, her mind relaying facts back and forth as she tried to estimate his age.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘We… I have a house in London but I’ll probably be living in Hinkston soon.’

  ‘Any family of your own? I see you’re married,’ he smiled and nodded towards her wedding ring.

  ‘No,’ she said, quickly. For fleeting seconds it occurred to her to mention Lisa but the memory was painful enough locked away inside her mind without exposing it to conversation. She contented herself with a sip of her tea.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Hacket, you look a little pale.’ Curtis chuckled. ‘An occupational hazard of being a doctor I’m afraid, I see everyone as a potential patient.’

  Sue smiled too.

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping very well lately,’ she told him.

  ‘Well, if you do move to Hinkston then please feel free to come and see me. Your sister has the address of my surgery. Whereabouts in the town are you moving to?’

  ‘My husband’s a teacher. He’s due to start work next week at the Junior school about half a mile from the town centre. You know the one? There’s a house next to the school, it comes with the job.’

  Curtis nodded slowly, his expression darkening slightly.

  ‘I know the one,’ he said, quietly. ‘Well, the best of luck with your move.’ He finished his tea quickly, as if the hospitality of the Clayton’s was suddenly something he wished to be away from. He got to his feet and headed for the sitting room door.

  ‘Don’t forget, Mrs Hacket,’ he said. ‘Come and see me.’

  ‘I will,’ she assured him.

  Julie and Mike followed him out into the hall.

  ‘Thank you,’ Julie said as he stepped out onto the front porch.

  ‘Be careful,’ Curtis said, looking at each of them in turn. ‘Watch the boy closely for the next two or three days. Get in touch with me immediately if he suffers anything like a relapse. We were lucky this time.’ He turned and strode off down the path towards his car, watched by the Claytons, who waited until he’d driven off before stepping back into their house and shutting the door.

  Sue finished her tea then announced that she was going to bed. She left Julie and Mike sitting downstairs.

  As she reached the landing she paused by the door to Craig’s room. Hearing nothing, she pushed the door slightly and peered in.

  The boy was sleeping, his face peaceful. A marked contrast to the twisted mask which it had become only thirty minutes earlier. Sue closed the door and wandered across to her bedroom where she slipped off her house coat and climbed into bed.

  As she lay there in the gloom she gazed up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come but knowing that it would not. She heard Curtis’s voice inside her head.

  ‘Come and see me’

  She closed her eyes, seeing his face more clearly, remembering that mixture of warmth and strength in his grip. The penetrative stare.

  Sue allowed one hand to slip beneath the quilt, to glide across her breast, the nipple already stiff and swollen. It was joined
by her other hand which she pushed with exquisite slowness over her flat belly and into the tightly curled triangle of hair between her legs, her index finger probing more deeply until she found the bud of her clitoris. She began to stroke it gently, the moisture between her thighs increasing.

  ‘Come and see me.’

  She pushed one finger into her slippery cleft, her eyes closed now, the vision of Curtis’ face filling her mind.

  ‘Come and see me.’

  Forty-eight

  He had killed Hacket’s daughter and now he would kill Hacket.

  Ronald Mills had decided on his course of action with ease. Ever since he’d seen Hacket pursue Peter Walton through the streets of London, ever since he’d seen his friend fall onto the tracks of the tube train. Mills had watched it all.

  An eye for an eye, they called it. His mother had told him that came from the Bible. His mother had always quoted him lines from the Bible, and most of them he’d remembered. Like the one about suffer little children.

  Mills chuckled.

  God wanted little children to suffer did he? Well, if that was the case then God would love Ronald Mills. God would have looked down on him and Lisa Hacket that night and he would have smiled. He would have seen Mills clamp one hand across the little girl’s mouth as he cut away her nightdress with the point of his knife. He would have watched it all. Watched as Mills climbed onto the bed beside her and unzipped his trousers.

  Suffer little children.

  Afterwards God would have watched as Mills cut the child repeatedly. He used the knife with almost surgical skill, pushing it easily through her flesh until the bed was soaked in blood, until she stopped writhing beneath him, until his penis was hard with lust again and he penetrated her warm but lifeless form for the second time that night.

  Mills giggled again and inspected his hands. They were rough, calloused. The left one still bore the remnants of a tattoo but it hadn’t taken properly and the skin had turned septic. In place of a snake coiled around a knife blade Mills sported a scab curled around a septic boil. He picked at the scab, pulling some pieces of hardened flesh off.

  Mills and Walton had lived in the flat in Brixton for the last ten months. Neither of them had a job but they had made a living dealing in various illegal practices. Mills in particular had found a lucrative market in child pornography. He had become friendly with a couple of dealers and this little sideline had the added bonus of pandering to his own tastes too.

  Walton had worked as a pusher around King’s Cross, even done a little pimping.

  It was on those proceeds that they’d bought the gun.

  It was a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver and Mills gently stroked the four-inch barrel as he sat at the table occasionally glancing at the brown mess on his plate which, according to the box, was liver and onion. It certainly didn’t look like the picture on the box. In fact, it looked as if someone had defecated on his plate. He prodded the cold food with the barrel of the pistol then wiped it on the makeshift tablecloth. Piled up on the other side of the table were some of the magazines he’d been intending to sell the following day. Every one featured photos of children, some as young as two years, engaged in various acts with both men and women. He had heard that one of his dealers could get hold of stuff which actually showed men and babies. Real, new born babies.

  Mills smiled again, the stirring in his groin becoming more pronounced.

  Suffer little children.

  He picked up one of the magazines and leafed through it, his thick lips sliding back as he surveyed the pictures. Many were bad quality, grainy black and white shots taken by amateurs. Probably by those who participated, thought Mills, his erection now pressing uncomfortably against his trousers. But they served their purpose. He finished looking through the magazine and dropped it back onto the pile, picking up the gun again, turning the empty cylinder, thumbing the hammer back then squeezing the trigger.

  The metallic click echoed around the small flat.

  It had been lonely since Walton’s death. Mills didn’t enjoy being alone. Apart from Walton he had no friends and he felt as if Hacket had taken from him the one person he really cared about.

  He would make him suffer for that.

  As he’d made his daughter suffer.

  Suffer little children.

  God would be watching him again. God was on his side.

  He would kill Hacket and God would be pleased with him for upholding his word.

  Mills raised the gun and sighted it, thumbing back the hammer again.

  ‘An eye for an eye,’ he said, smiling.

  Forty-nine

  Birth, marriage and moving house.

  Hacket was sure that was how the cliché went. They were the three most traumatic things in life. As he sat in he sitting room of the house, perched on one of the many packing cases that filled the place like an oversized child’s building bricks he’d come to the conclusion that the former two paled into insignificance alongside the third. It had taken him more than three days to pack the cases, working for anything up to fifteen hours a day. Well, he had nothing else to do. It was better than sitting around in the old house with just memories for company. At least he didn’t have to worry about selling the house in London before he could move into the one next to the school. No chain, no mortgage worries. The rent for the house was deducted from his salary every month. Once the house in London was sold the money would be straight profit. It was an enticing prospect.

  The thought of the money together with the possibility of starting afresh should have left Hacket feeling elated but, as it was, he sat wearily on the packing case, holding a mug of tea and staring around the room his thoughts jumbled and confused.

  He thought about Lisa.

  About the deaths that had occurred in this house.

  From one place of pain to another.

  There was always pain.

  And he thought about Sue.

  He’d called her the previous night to let her know roughly what time he and the accumulated trophies of their life would be arriving but so far she had not turned up. He was beginning to wonder if she would. There was a phone box just across the street. Hacket glanced at his watch, decided to give it another fifteen minutes, then call her.

  There was a knock on the door and the teacher jumped down from the box and hurried to the front door, a smile already beginning to form on his lips.

  At last, now he wouldn’t need to call her.

  He felt his spirits lift as he fumbled with the catch.

  Donald Brooks stood on the doorstep, immaculate as ever apart from the Bakes of dandruff on his collar. The headmaster smiled at Hacket who just about managed to return the gesture, fighting to keep the disappointment from his face.

  ‘Glad to see you arrived safely, Mr Hacket,’ said Brooks.

  ‘I won’t come in. I just thought I’d say welcome and that I hope you’ll be happy in your new home. You and your wife.’

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured Hacket, almost grudgingly.

  ‘What does your wife think of the house?’

  ‘She likes it.

  ‘I won’t disturb her, I’m sure she’s busy unpacking. I’ll go now. I look forward to seeing you on Monday morning.’

  Hacket nodded and closed the door as the headmaster walked back up the path. The teacher sighed and wandered back into the sitting room. Perhaps he should phone Sue now. He glanced at his watch again. Give it another five minutes? He drummed agitatedly on the top of the nearest crate then the front door bell sounded again. This time he moved with less speed, pulling the door open wearily.

  Sue smiled thinly as she saw his face.

  ‘I was going to call you,’ he beamed, stepping aside to allow her in.

  She stepped over the threshold almost hesitantly, moving through into the sitting room, glancing around at the crates and packing cases.

  ‘We’d better get started,’ she said, rolling up the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

  They worked in separate
rooms, pulling the lids from the boxes and crates, unwrapping the contents as if they were Christmas presents. Sue worked in the kitchen while Hacket attended to the sitting room. He had ensured that the stereo was not left to the tender attentions of the removal men. He had transported that particular item himself on the back seat of the car. It had been the first thing he’d rigged up before unpacking and music filled the house as they worked.

  Hacket had no idea of the time, surrounded by empty and half-empty packing cases, his ears filled with the music, his thoughts wandering aimlessly. He wiped his hands on his jeans and wandered across to the stereo, flipping the record before continuing his task.

  Sue appeared in the doorway, her sweatshirt and jeans also covered by a thin film of dust. She had some dirt on one cheek and Hacket crossed to her to wipe it away. She smiled thinly but pulled away and completed the task herself.

  ‘There’s a cup of tea in the kitchen,’ she told him and walked across the hall.

  ‘…But it was only fantasy. The wall was too high as you can see…’

  sang Roger Waters from behind him.

  Hacket wiped his hands again and wandered into the kitchen. He sat down opposite Sue and picked up his mug of tea.

  ‘I’ve just about finished in here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll do upstairs next.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he told her. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘I want to get it finished, John. I don’t want the house looking like a bomb site for too long.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you remember the first place we ever moved in to?’ Hacket asked, a thin smile on his face.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  ‘The flat. Trying to lug furniture up three flights of stairs past the snooker hall, wondering if the blokes inside were going to rob us as soon as we got settled in.’ She almost laughed. Almost.

  ‘Listening to them playing bloody snooker all night. It kept us awake at the beginning didn’t it.’

  ‘As I remember we didn’t mind being kept awake.’