by Shaun Hutson
Hacket spun round and glared at Craven.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Craven?’ he snarled, angered by the look of defiance on the boy’s face. ‘Do you know anything about Trevor’s injuries?’
‘Why should I, sir?’ the boy said. ‘He probably did them himself and he’s too stupid to remember.’
Trevor was busily buttoning his shirt.
Hacket looked at both boys in turn, aware still of the slight smirk on Craven’s face. He held the boys’ stare, a little unsettled when the youth didn’t look away.
‘This isn’t a very auspicious start to things is it, Craven?’ he said.
‘I’ll try to do better next time, sir,’ the boy said.
Hacket nodded slowly then glanced at Trevor once more.
‘Are you OK? Do you want to visit the nurse, get those wounds looked at?’
Trevor shook his head, pushing some strands of hair from his face.
Hacket glanced around the class once more then picked up the chalk and began writing on the blackboard.
The bell was the signal for a mass exodus from the classroom. Hacket dismissed the children, watching as they trooped past him. Craven avoided eye-contact this time as he passed.
Trevor was the last to leave, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Trevor, wait a minute,’ Hacket called.
The boy hesitated but didn’t turn.
‘Listen to me,’ the teacher said, quietly. ‘Those marks on your body. If you want to tell me who did it, if you want to talk to me then you know where to find me. Do you understand?’
Trevor nodded and sniffed back some more mucus. Then he turned and headed for the door, closing it behind him.
Carter exhaled deeply and wiped chalk dust from his hands.
As he looked up he saw Craven’s face peering at him through the classroom window.
The boy was smiling.
Fifty-four
Gravel crunched beneath the wheels of the Metro as Sue Hacket brought the car to a halt. She switched off the engine and looked up at the house which towered over her like some kind of ivy-covered giant. It certainly looked more imposing than the usual doctor’s surgery, she thought, as she climbed out of the car. The leaded windows and the hanging baskets which adorned the oak front door made the place look more like a country hotel than a place of healing. She wondered how much it must be worth, set, as it was, in about half an acre of its own grounds. Separated by wide lawns and immaculate hedges from the main road which led into Hinkston. Private medicine obviously did have its advantages for those who practised it, she mused.
The large oak door opened easily when she pushed it and Sue stepped into what looked like a hallway. To her left was a dark wood door, to her right a white one marked ‘SURGERY’. She walked in.
The waiting room was empty apart from the receptionist who smiled with genuine warmth, and not the practised response which Sue had seen so many times before in women of the same profession.
They exchanged pleasantries and Sue gave her name then was told that doctor Curtis would be able to see her in a minute or two. He, she was informed, would complete a form with her help in order to register her as a patient.
The door behind the receptionist opened and Curtis appeared.
He smiled at Sue and beckoned her through.
Once inside the surgery Curtis sat down behind his desk and invited Sue to take a seat opposite. She slipped off her jacket and draped it over the back of the chair.
Curtis smiled at her once more and, again, Sue was aware of the combination of strength and warmth which flowed from his gaze. She looked at him, not wanting to make it too obvious that she was taking in details of his appearance. As with their first meeting she was struck by the youthfulness of his features. His smile was reassuring. Inviting even. As he folded his hands across his lap she noted how powerful his hands were, his fingers long and slender, the backs of his hands covered by thick dark hair. There was more than the power of a healer in them she thought.
Sue felt strangely light-headed, as if being with Curtis were somehow intoxicating, his very presence a kind of drug.
An aphrodisiac?
She was aware that her nipples were beginning to stiffen. A welcome warmth began to spread between her legs as she continued to look at Curtis.
She tried to control the feelings, both puzzled and…
And what? Ashamed?
‘Would you like a coffee while we talk?’ asked Curtis.
‘What about your other patients?’ she asked.
‘I don’t have another appointment for an hour. That’s one of the advantages I have over the National Health Service. I don’t have twenty appointments an hour.’ He smiled and buzzed through to the receptionist on the intercom.
‘I’ll just have to take some personal details if you don’t mind,’ Curtis informed her. ‘Date of birth, medical history. That kind of thing.’ He smiled that hypnotic smile once again and Sue answered his questions. The coffee arrived and the receptionist retreated back to the waiting room. Sue sipped from the bone china cup, watching as Curtis wrote on a pink sheet.
‘If I recall, you were having trouble sleeping,’ he said finally. ‘Is that still the case?’
She nodded.
‘Even when I do manage to get a few hours I seem to get woken up by nightmares,’ she continued.
‘What kind of nightmares?’
‘The usual stupid things that make no sense in daylight,’ she said, sipping her coffee as if anxious to avoid the subject.
‘Have you any idea what’s caused the disruption of sleep, Mrs Hacket?’
She put down her cup, avoiding his gaze for a moment.
‘Trouble at home perhaps?’ Curtis continued.
She took a deep breath, as if trying to summon up the courage to tell him.
‘When we first met you asked if I had a family, any children and I said no. Well, I did have, we did have. A daughter. Lisa.’ The words were coming with difficulty, as if she were learning some kind of new language. ‘We used to live in London. A nice house. Respectable.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Our daughter was murdered.’
It was said. Simple really.
‘A few weeks later my father died of cancer, he’d been ill for months. The two things together were too much for me, especially with what happened to Lisa…’ She found she could go no further.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Curtis murmured.
‘Around the time of my daughter’s murder, my husband was having an affair.’ Again she chuckled but there was no humour in the sound. ‘This sounds like a hard luck story doesn’t it? Perhaps I should be telling an agony aunt instead of you.’
‘A doctor should care for his patients’ psychological welfare as well as their physical condition.’
‘Everything seemed to happen at once. That was why I left London. If I’d stayed I’d have gone crazy.’
‘That’s understandable.’
Sue smiled at him, aware of how easily she was speaking. Secret thoughts which she had kept locked away were spilling out almost wantonly. And, as she spoke she felt a numbing weariness envelope her, as if talking about what she felt were draining her. It was like a criminal unburdening himself of guilt, glad to be given the chance to confess.
Was this what John had felt like when he’d confessed to the affair?
But it wasn’t guilt she was purging herself of, it was an accumulation of misery.
She felt the tears forming in her eyes and pulled a tissue from the pocket of her jeans. A couple more deep breaths and she had regained her composure.
Curtis looked on silently, his eyes never leaving her then finally, sitting forward in his chair he leant towards Sue.
‘Have you thought of having another child?’ he asked.
‘I can’t,’ she told him. ‘I mean, I want one but, after Lisa was born there were complications. My fallopian tubes were infected. I can’t have children.’
This time when she looked at hi
m she made no attempt to wipe away the tears.
‘You don’t know how much I want another child,’ Sue continued. ‘Lisa could never be replaced, you understand that. But I think her death hit me harder because I knew I couldn’t have another baby. It made things even more final.’
‘And does your husband feel the same way? Would he have wanted more children?’
She smiled wearily.
‘John always wanted another daughter. We used to laugh about it. You know, how men are supposed to want a son to carry on the family name. Not John. He wanted another girl.’ She sniffed.
Curtis was already writing out a prescription.
‘Sleeping pills,’ he announced, handing it to her. ‘Only a week’s supply. They can become addictive. I could have given you tranquillisers but they only help you live with a problem they don’t remove its cause.’
‘Then how can I ever go back to normal?’ she wanted to know. ‘I know what my problem is. I want another child but I can’t have one. It’s an insoluble problem.’
‘How badly do you want it?’
‘I’d give anything,’ she said, flatly. ‘Anything.’
Curtis smiled benevolently.
‘Promise me you’ll come back in a few days, even if you feel better. Just to talk.’
She nodded.
‘You’ve been a great help, Doctor. Talking about it helps.’
‘So you’ll come back?’
‘Yes.’
She got to her feet and slipped on her jacket. Curtis showed her to the door and opened it for her. He shook her hand and she felt the warmth in his grasp. He smiled once more and then she was gone.
As Curtis closed the door and turned back into the surgery his smile vanished abruptly. He crossed to the door to the left of his desk which was already opening.
‘You heard that?’ he asked as the other occupant of the house entered the office. ‘She said she’d give anything for another child. Anything.’
‘Did you tell her?’ the other wanted to know.
Curtis shook his head.
‘She’s got to be handled carefully but I think she’s at the right stage emotionally. She seems particularly receptive.’
‘When will you speak to her again?’ the figure wanted to know.
Curtis heard the sound of Sue’s car pulling away.
‘Soon,’ he murmured. ‘Very soon.’
Fifty-five
Hacket felt the air rasping in his lungs as he inhaled. He hadn’t realised until now quite how unfit he really was. As he ran back and forth across the rugby field, following the play he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs. As a younger man he’d played both football and rugby for his school but that had been more than ten years ago. He might only be twenty-nine, but he felt as if he had the lungs of an eighty-year-old.
The mud-spattered boys who swarmed over the field with him did so with more urgency, as befitted their age. There were those, as there always were, who struggled to keep up, who were constant targets of abuse from their fitter, more athletic colleagues. They too plodded through the mud puffing and panting.
Hacket watched as a boy he knew as Lee Verno received the ball and began to run with it.
He’d got less than twenty yards when Phillip Craven came hurtling at him.
Vernon tried to avoid the tackle but Craven caught him just above the waist, slamming his shoulder into the other boy’s solar plexus with something akin to relish. They both went down in a muddy heap and Craven rose quickly, smiling as he looked down at Vernon who had had the wind knocked from him. He lay in the mud wheezing, trying to suck back the air which had been blasted from him by Craven’s crunching tackle.
Hacket ran across to the boy and helped him up, bending him over and patting his back in an attempt to re-fill his lungs. The boy gasped, coughed then began to breathe more easily but pain still showed on his face. Hacket asked him if he was all right and he nodded and trudged back into position.
The match re-started and this time it was Craven’s turn to catch the ball. He gripped it tightly and ran, barging past a couple of half-hearted tackles, ignoring the boy who had run alongside him to support.
Two opponents came at him and Craven struck out a hand, catching one in the throat. The other was less fortunate.
Craven’s hand connected with his nose with such force that the appendage seemed to burst. Blood spilled from both nostrils, pouring down the front of the boy’s shirt, staining it crimson. He moaned and fell forward into the mud while Craven ran on to score.
Hacket blew his whistle to halt the game, running across to the boy with the bleeding nose. It looked bad and the teacher could see that the boy was struggling to keep back tears. It might even be broken. There was certainly enough blood.
‘Put your head forward,’ Hacket instructed while a number of the other boys gathered around.
Streams of blood ran from the boy’s nose and dripped into the mud between his legs. The sight of his own life-fluid draining away made him feel sick and he went a sickly white colour. Hacket thought he was going to faint, but the boy retained his grip on consciousness.
Craven trotted over, grinning.
‘A hand-off is supposed to be with the flat of the hand, Craven,’ he snapped. ‘Not a fist. You do that again and you’re in trouble.’
‘It’s not my fault if he can’t take it, sir,’ said the youth, defiantly.
‘Are you all right, Parker?’ Hacket asked the injured boy. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his tracksuit and held it to the boy’s nose. ‘Go back to the school, see the nurse. You go with him,’ the teacher said, pointing to another boy who seemed only too delighted to escort his companion off the field. At least it meant he was out of the action too.
Hacket watched them leave the field then re-started the game again.
The ball was lofted high into the air and it was Craven who caught it, running at speed towards the opposition. Hacket saw him pass two of them but a third, a powerfully built lad called Baker ducked low, beneath Craven’s straight arm rebuff and gripped the other boy’s legs. Hacket couldn’t resist a slight smile as Craven went crashing to the ground, the ball flying from his grip.
‘Good tackle, Baker,’ shouted the teacher.
Craven tried to wrestle free of his captor, digging his boot into Baker’s chest in the process. The other youth reacted angrily and, before Hacket could reach them, Baker had thrown a punch.
Craven jerked free and, instead of rolling away, he threw himself back at Baker, fastening his hands round his throat, bringing his face close to Baker’s.
‘Stop it,’ bellowed Hacket, racing towards them, pushing past the children who had stopped to watch the fight.
Craven closed his teeth around the top of Baker’s left ear and, as Hacket watched in horror, he bit through the fleshy appendage.
Baker screamed as the top of his ear was sheared off.
Blood spurted from it and ran down Craven’s chin.
‘Craven,’ Hacket yelled, trying to reach the boy.
Baker continued to scream, looking up to see the portion of his ear still gripped in Craven’s teeth.
He held it for a second then swallowed it.
‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Hacket, finally reaching the struggling pair.
He hauled Craven to his feet, seeing the blood on the boy’s face, the pieces of flesh between his teeth.
The grin on his face.
Baker had curled up into a ball, both hands clasped to his ear, or at least what remained of it. Blood was pouring down the side of his face, oozing through his fingers.
And he shrieked in pain.
‘Go and get help,’ Hacket roared at a boy close to him, still gripping on to Craven.
The boy ran off.
Another youth took one look at the bleeding mess which had once been Baker’s ear and vomited.
Not only had the top half been severed, most of the remaining ear had been torn. The entire appendage was hanging, held
to his head only by thin pieces of skin and muscle.
Hacket dragged Craven away.
Behind him, Baker continued to scream.
Fifty-six
‘Don’t you think you’re over-reacting a little, Mr Hacket?’ said Donald Brooks, apparently more concerned that mud from the teacher’s boots was dropping onto his office carpet.
‘Over-reacting?’ Hacket gaped. ‘The boy is a lunatic,’ he hissed, trying to control his temper. ‘I saw what happened. If you don’t believe me then go and look at Baker, he’s in the medical room now waiting for the ambulance to arrive.’
Brooks raised a hand as if to silence the younger man.
‘I didn’t say I doubted you,’ he said. ‘But it was an accident.’
‘Craven bit Baker’s ear off. He swallowed it for God’s sake. Are you trying to tell me that’s normal?’ Hacket snarled. ‘What does he do for an encore, pull the heads of babies?’
‘Now you are over-reacting,’ Brooks told him, irritably. ‘What do expect me to do with the boy? Call the police? Have him locked up? I’ve already called his mother; she’s coming to pick him up. I’ve decided to suspend him for a couple of days until all this blows over.’
Hacket shook his head wearily and brushed a hand through his hair.
Brooks huddled closer to the radiator as if fearing that Hacket’s presence in the room was somehow sucking the precious warmth from the air.
‘Have there been incidents like this before involving Craven?’ Hacket wanted to know.
‘Nothing,’ Brooks told him. ‘The boy is a good worker, a highly intelligent child.’
Hacket was unimpressed. He walked to the door of the Headmasters office and peered out. Craven was sitting in the annexe, looking at his own painting. He was smiling unconcernedly.
The teacher glanced at the boy then closed the office door again.
‘He seems to be the dominant one in his class,’ Hacket said.
‘Intelligent children usually are. I don’t have to tell you that, Mr Hacket.’
