Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  Hacket smiled.

  ‘It was a nice place,’ he said.

  ‘Apart from the noise,’ she added.

  ‘And the damp.’

  ‘And the cold.’

  ‘Yeah, a great place.’ He chuckled. ‘It doesn’t seem like six years since we left there.’ He put down his tea. ‘Unpacking today it made me think about the flat, about our first place. It could be like that again, Sue. This house is new. Things don’t have to change.’

  ‘They already have changed, John. We’ve changed. Circumstances have changed. It can never be the same between us.’ There was an appalling finality in her voice. ‘I still love you but a part of that love died with Lisa. Because her death could have been avoided.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding, Sue. Do you think there’s a day goes by that I don’t think about her? About what might have been? I made a mistake and I’m sorry. God knows I’m sorry. Sorry for the affair, sorry for Lisa’s death, sorry for the way I hurt you and damaged our relationship. I know I can’t put those things right and I don’t expect you to forget. But if you could find a little bit of forgiveness, Sue…’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  She took a sip of her own tea and shivered slightly.

  ‘I feel cold,’ she said. ‘Is the heating on?’

  Hacket sighed wearily.

  ‘I’ll check it when I’ve finished my tea.’

  She got to her feet and headed out of the kitchen. He heard her footfalls on the stairs.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, also getting to his feet. He wandered back into the sitting room to be greeted by the music once more.

  He began opening another case, noticing that there were several photos laid on the top of the other items. Framed pictures. He unwrapped the first of them and found that it was a photo of Lisa. Hacket smiled and set it down beside him, reaching for the next one. It was Sue, dressed in a low-cut black dress, taken about a year ago at a party. She looked stunning.

  The music behind him was building to a crescendo.

  He took out the last photo.

  A young couple on it happy and smiling.

  Their wedding photo.

  ‘…When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone, I cannot put my finger on it now…’ Hacket frowned down at the picture. ‘…The child has grown, the dream is gone… ‘

  The glass had shattered, two long thin shards had cut deep into the picture.

  Fifty

  She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there listening to the slow, steady breathing of Hacket and the monotonously regular ticking of the clock. All Sue did know was that she was no closer to sleep now than when she’d first slid between the covers. It had been a tiring day, she had expected to be enveloped by sleep almost immediately, but it was not to be.

  She lay still, hearing the house creak and groan as the timbers settled. After a moment or two of this she finally swung herself out of bed and crossed to the window, peering out into the darkness and the school beyond. She could just make out the shapes of the buildings in the gloom and she pressed her hands to the radiator, aware of a chill which had settled upon her. She had pulled on her house coat as she slipped out of bed, but the chill was present nonetheless.

  Behind her, Hacket stirred, his hand reaching across for her. He opened his eyes slowly when he could not feel her next to him. The teacher sat up and saw his wife gazing out into the night.

  ‘Sue,’ he said, softly. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t sleep, as usual,’ she told him, still continuing with her vigil.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ he urged.

  She finally relented, sliding in beside him.

  ‘John, it’s cold in this house,’ she said. ‘I know the heating is on. It isn’t that kind of cold. It’s…well… as if there was some kind of atmosphere because of what happened here.’

  Hacket sighed.

  ‘I know what you think about things like that,’ she went on, ‘the eternal sceptic - but I can’t help it. I felt like that in our house after Lisa…They say houses carry a residue of sorrow don’t they?’

  ‘Do they?’ Hacket said, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘It sounds like a line from a bad romantic novel. I can’t feel anything, Sue, honestly.’

  She shivered again.

  ‘Relax,’ Hacket said, sliding closer to her.

  She flinched almost imperceptibly as she felt his arm glide across her stomach, around her waist. He pulled her to him. As their bodies pressed together she felt the beginnings of an erection beginning to press into her thigh. Hacket kissed her gently on the lips, his shaft growing stiffer.

  Sue tried to move away but he held her more tightly, his hand now straying to her breast which he squeezed, thumbing the nipple.

  ‘Not now, John,’ she said, gripping his wrist.

  But Hacket would not release her. He tightened his hold on her breast, kneading the flesh so hard that she almost cried out from the sudden pain.

  ‘John, please,’ she snapped, again trying to squirm away from him.

  ‘I want you, Sue,’ he said, raising himself up on one elbow. He straddled her, his erection pointing towards her face, his hands gripping her wrists, pinning her to the mattress. She struggled but could not move him.

  ‘Get off me,’ she shouted, angrily.

  In one swift movement his hands had left her wrists and fastened around her throat.

  Her eyes bulged as he began to squeeze, his thumbs digging into her flesh.

  ‘I want you,’ he breathed, squeezing more tightly.

  She tried to swallow but couldn’t. Her head felt as if it were swelling and, all the time, the pressure on her throat seemed to intensify. She looked up into his face, her eyes blurred with pain and fear. She felt her body beginning to spasm, the muscles contracting violently.

  Sue tried to scream but his vice-like grip prevented that action.

  She bucked beneath him, trying to dislodge him, already growing weak but, finally, with one last reserve of strength she brought her knee up into the small of his back.

  The grip was released and, in that split second, she found the breath to scream.

  Hacket twisted round in bed as he heard the scream.

  He saw Sue sitting upright, massaging her throat, perspiration beaded on her forehead and upper lip.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, shocked by her appearance. He put out a hand to touch her but she drew back, as if frightened of his touch.

  Her breathing was harsh and rapid, her eyes bulging, glazed.

  Only gradually did she regain her senses as the last vestiges of the dream faded.

  It was then that she began to cry.

  Fifty-one

  He felt the gun in his pocket.

  As Ronald Mills stood looking at the ‘FOR SALE’ sign outside the house he gently traced his fingers over the .38.

  There were no lights on in the house. Perhaps Hacket was in bed, he reasoned. After all, it was past midnight.

  Mills walked past the house on the far side of the road, reached the bottom of the street crossed then walked back again.

  Should he just knock on the front door? Wait until Hacket opened it and shoot him down on the doorstep? It would be simple but hazardous. Although he doubted that he would be caught. God had views about revenge too, Mills remembered.

  Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.

  He smiled as he remembered the quote from the Bible.

  God would not allow him to be caught, after all, he practically had God’s blessing for what he was about to do.

  He glanced behind him, noting that the street was empty. Mills paused a moment then walked up to the front door of the house.

  He didn’t knock. Instead he pushed the letterbox open and peered through into the gloom beyond. He could see and hear nothing.

  He moved along the front of the house to the bay window. Cupping a hand against the glass he looked through.

  The
sitting room was empty.

  Something finally clicked inside Mills’ rather dull mind and he glanced again at the ‘FOR SALE’ sign. He hurried around the side of the house, down the passageway which he remembered so well. He smiled as he thought of his last journey along this cramped stone corridor.

  Smiled at the recollection of finding the child inside the house.

  This time, however, it was not to be.

  He peered through the rear windows only to have what he’d already surmised confirmed. The place was empty. Quiet as a grave. He smiled thinly, amused at his joke but angry that Hacket was not there. Mills scuttled back up the passageway, his hand touching the revolver in his pocket once again. He had intended to press the barrel to Hacket’s neck or to his stomach, make him die slowly. Even shoot his eyes out. But now he had been cheated.

  And so had God.

  God wanted him to take revenge for the death of Walton. He knew that. He was only upholding God’s law by killing Hacket. His Will be done.

  Mills headed for the street, stopping beneath the sign again. This time, however, he pulled a piece of paper and a pencil from his coat pocket. Resting the paper in the palm of his broad hand he wrote: JEFFERSON ESTATE AGENTS, then the phone number.

  Hacket may have left the house but he could be traced, thought Mills.

  This wasn’t over yet.

  Fifty-two

  The sun was doing its best to force a path through the clouds and, every so often, a shaft of golden light would lance into the kitchen, bouncing off Hacket’s knife as he ate.

  Sue sat opposite him as he ate, chewing indifferently on a piece of toast. She dropped the bread and ran a hand through her hair.

  Hacket saw how dark she was beneath the eyes.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Tired,’ she told him. ‘I’m going to the doctor this morning, see if he can give me something to help me sleep.’

  ‘Be careful,’ he said, guardedly.

  ‘Careful of what?’ she asked.

  ‘Doctors like to give out prescriptions for sleeping pills and drugs like that. It’s easier than talking to the patient about their problems.’

  ‘I’m not going to him to talk about my problems,’ she said acidly.

  ‘If you’re not careful you’ll need a shopping trolley to carry the tranquillisers and anti-depressants.’

  ‘Have you got a better idea, John?’ she snapped. ‘It’s all right for you. You start a new job today. I’m the one who’s going to be stuck in a new house with nothing to think about but my problems.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘I’m seeing the doctor and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘All right, I’m sorry. I’m just suspicious of doctors, you know that.’

  ‘Well this one is good. He’s Julie’s doctor. I met him the other evening.’ She explained briefly about Curtis’ visit to the Clayton’s home, deciding not to expand on Craig’s condition.

  Hacket listened dutifully, nodding occasionally. When she’d finished he looked at his watch.

  8.30 a.m.

  ‘I’d better go,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘I’ll finish tidying up the house when I get back,’ Sue told him.

  ‘There’s no need. We can carry on tonight.’

  ‘I need something to occupy me, John. Now, go on or you’ll be late.’ She brushed a hair from his collar, looking into his eyes briefly.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, hopefully.

  She smiled.

  ‘You don’t need it.’

  He kissed her lightly on the lips and headed for the front door. She heard it close behind him then sat down at the kitchen table again, finishing her tea. She washed up, listening to the increasingly loud noise coming from the playground just beyond the tall hedge at the bottom of their garden. Then when nine o’clock came she heard the bell sound and the noise receded into silence again. Sue dried her hands and moved into the hall. There she found the number she wanted, lifted the receiver and pressed the digits.

  It was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hello. Yes, I’d like to make an appointment for this morning please,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see Doctor Curtis.’

  Fifty-three

  The match made a dull hissing sound as it was struck, the yellow flame billowing from its head.

  Phillip Craven held it before him for a second, then slowly lowered it towards the boy spread-eagled across two desks.

  The boy shook his head, staring up at Craven with pleading in his eyes, but the other lad was interested only in the match, which he now held close to the chest of his helpless companion.

  Four children held Trevor Harvey down, making sure that he couldn’t squirm away from the approaching flame as Craven waved it over his pale, white chest. He suddenly lowered it onto Trevor’s left nipple and the boy shrieked loudly.

  Craven and the others watched mesmerised as the delicate skin turned first pink then bright red under the fury of the heat. He held the match against Trevor’s chest until it went out. Then he lit another.

  And another.

  He pressed both of them to Trevor’s stomach this time, below his navel, watching as the skin rose in a red welt, already blistering.

  Trevor didn’t shout so loudly this time. He merely grunted and tried to pull away from the others who held him down.

  ‘Oh come on, Harvey, scream for us,’ said Craven, grinning.

  The rest of the class, girls and boys, all the same age as Craven, looked on with the fascination most children of thirteen display toward the suffering of others. Most were glad they were not the one being burned but many looked on the whole tableau as a diverting exhibition and Craven as a master showman.

  He lit three matches and pushed them towards Trevor’s right eye.

  The boy’s eyelashes had actually begun to smoulder when a shout from outside the room caused him to withdraw the matches.

  Another boy came dashing into the classroom, almost falling over in his haste to get behind his desk.

  ‘He’s coming,’ he said, and the four holding Trevor also bolted for their own places leaving Trevor to ease himself off the desks. He swayed uncertainly for a minute then a rough push from Craven sent him crashing into a nearby chair. He sprawled on the floor amid the cheers and laughter of the other class members.

  Hacket heard the rumpus as he strode up the corridor, finally finding the room he sought. He swept in, smiling, closing the door behind him.

  ‘You are form 3A, yes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they answered in unison.

  Trevor sat hunched over his desk, his shirt still unbuttoned, his eye streaming from the effects of the match. Still, he thought, wistfully, it could have been much worse.

  It could have been like it was last week.

  Hacket introduced himself to the class, still smiling broadly, told them where he was from, what they could expect from him and what he expected of them. Finally, he walked to the centre of the room and, standing in front of the blackboard, looked around at the expectant faces.

  ‘I want to get to know all of you so could you each stand up in turn and tell me your names, please? We’ll see how many I can remember.’ He rubbed his hands together theatrically. The gesture was greeted by good-natured laughter.

  One by one the class obeyed and Hacket eyed each member. There were less than twenty of them, mostly sat in groups, apart from Trevor who sat alone at the front of the class, his head still bowed.

  The list of names grew until there were just a couple left.

  ‘Phillip Craven, sir.’

  The boy sat down.

  Hacket snapped his fingers, the name ringing bells of recognition in the back of his mind.

  ‘The artist,’ he said, smiling.

  Craven looked bemused.

  ‘I saw your painting in the annexe outside the headmaster’s office. The one of the owl. It is you isn’t it? There aren’t two Phillip Cravens in the school?’

  The rest of the class l
aughed, Craven turned scarlet and smiled.

  ‘I was very impressed with the painting. A bit gory though, as I remember.’

  ‘Life isn’t always pretty, sir,’ said Craven, his smile fading slightly.

  ‘A philosopher too?’ Hacket mused.

  He looked at the last boy in the class. Trevor remained seated, his head still bowed.

  ‘Your turn,’ Hacket said.

  The boy looked up at him but didn’t move.

  This one is either the comedian or the troublemaker, Hacket thought. There was one in every class.

  ‘Just stand up and tell me your name, please. It’s quite simple.’ He smiled.

  ‘So is he, sir,’ said Craven and the rest of the class laughed.

  Hacket looked around at them and the noise died away.

  Trevor rose slowly to his feet, his shirt undone, his hair untidy. There were stains around his crotch and, even from a couple of feet away Hacket could smell the odour of stale urine. The boy was a mess.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ the teacher asked.

  ‘Trevor Harvey, sir,’ he mumbled.

  Hacket didn’t hear and Trevor repeated himself.

  ‘He’s the village idiot, sir,’ Craven called and the class broke out into a chorus of laughs and jeers once more.

  ‘That’s enough, Craven.’ Then, to Trevor: ‘All right, sit down.’

  As the boy did so his shirt billowed open and Hacket winced as he caught sight of the red and pink welts on his skin. Some were purple, where scabs had formed over wounds only to be scratched off once more. He saw bruises too, and some cuts.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Hacket asked, shocked by the boy’s appearance.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Trevor, trying to button his shirt. But Hacket stopped him, inspecting a burn on his chest more closely.

  ‘Who did this?’

  Silence had descended like an invisible blanket, all eyes on the teacher and the boy.

  ‘Trevor, tell me who did this to you,’ Hacket said, quietly.

  The teacher caught a slight movement out of his eye corner, just enough to see Craven hurl a large eraser. It struck Trevor in the face but he didn’t react, merely sat down.