by Shaun Hutson
There was a wrought iron gate set into it, supported on a wooden frame, the paint of which was blistered and peeling in places. Curtis opened the gate which squealed protestingly on its hinges as he walked through.
The area beyond the hedge was roughly twelve feet square. Surrounded by more hedges, these not quite as well cared for. They were neat but not immaculate. The grass which grew within the shaded square was that little bit longer than that of the lawns, not as neatly cropped. Weeds were poking through it in places. Curtis administered a swift mental rebuke as he surveyed the square because this was caused by his neglect. He was responsible for the care of this part of the garden.
The gardener wasn’t allowed through the gate.
Curtis stood by the gate for a moment, looking around at the tall hedge, also covered by a thin coating of frost. The privet grew three feet taller than him here too. It sheltered the square perfectly.
He walked slowly towards the middle of it, towards the piece of stone which lay there.
The stone was cracked in places due to the ravages of the years and the weather. Moss had begun to grow on it here and there, infesting the cracks in the stone like gangrene infects a wound.
Curtis looked down at the name on the stone.
Below the name was a rose bowl, flecked with rust and, from this he took half a dozen dead stalks of flowers, gathering them up in one hand.
He replaced them with the fresh flowers which he held in his other hand, arranging them so that the red roses seemed to glow against the dull background of the stone.
They looked like a splash of blood on the grave.
Curtis straightened up, walked to one corner of the sheltered green square and dropped the dead flowers into the metal incinerator that stood there, then he brushed his hands together and returned to the graveside, gazing down once again at the name on the stone.
He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, his mind at peace, all thoughts banished. Again, the only sounds he heard were those of birds, his meditative state uninterrupted by nature’s extraneous sounds.
Then he heard the footsteps beyond the gate.
Beyond the hedge.
Heavy footfalls which broke the blanket of frost.
Curtis turned his head towards the gate as the footsteps drew closer.
He heard the latch of the gate rattle, then the dull clank as it opened.
The figure walked through to join him.
Curtis turned back to the grave, hands clasped before him once more.
‘I heard you leave the house,’ said the figure, standing at his side.
‘Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.’ the doctor said, softly, almost reverently, as if to raise his voice would have been to defile the sanctity of this very private area.
The two of them stood silently for long moments, both gazing down at the stone.
And the name it bore.
‘I’ve never thought this was right,’ said Curtis nodding towards the grave. ‘To lie here, even though it is our home.’
‘Better here than with the others,’ said the figure, defiantly.
Curtis nodded in agreement.
‘Have you made up your mind what to do about the woman?’ the other wanted to know.
‘Mrs Hacket?’
‘Yes.’
Curtis smiled thinly.
‘Yes I have,’ he said, his eyes still on the gravestone. ‘She’s due to visit me again today.’ His smile broadened. ‘I think the time has come.’
Sixty
The woman was struggling with the books as she climbed the stairs, and Hacket could see what was going to happen.
As she reached the top step he saw the first of the heavy textbooks begin to topple from her hands. Five or six more followed it, landing with a thud on the floor. She muttered something under her breath and began retrieving them. Hacket scuttled up the stairs beside her and began picking up books too.
He glanced across at her as she shrugged and smiled.
She was very attractive. In her early twenties he guessed. Shoulder length brown hair and wide grey eyes. A nice figure too.
A little like Nikki?
He pushed the thought to the back of his mind, angry that it had even surfaced.
‘You look as if you could do with some help carrying these,’ he said, picking up half a dozen of the books himself.
‘If you’ve got a fork-lift truck handy, it’d be most appreciated,’ she told him, smiling. ‘You’re new here aren’t you?’
He nodded.
‘The new boy. Yes.’ He extended his free hand, balancing the pile of books on the crook of his left arm. ‘John Hacket.’
She took the offered hand and shook it.
‘Josephine Milton,’ she told him. ‘But please call me Jo.’
She scooped up the rest of the books and they began climbing the stairs towards the second landing.
‘What do you teach?’ he asked.
‘Biology. I dissect things,’ she chuckled. ‘What about you? English isn’t it?’
‘English and games,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got the strained muscles to prove it.’
She laughed.
‘Of course, you took over from Ray Weller didn’t you? I suppose you know the story?’
‘About him killing his family then committing suicide. Yes.’
‘Isn’t it creepy living in a house where someone has died?’
‘You get used to it,’ said Hacket sharply. Especially when you’ve lived in the house where your own daughter was butchered. It’s a piece of cake. ‘How much did you know about Weller?’
She shrugged.
‘Not much. Not enough to know why he should want to murder his family if that’s what you mean. He was a nice guy. About your age, easy to talk to. He never struck me as a lunatic.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I haven’t really been much help have I?’
Hacket smiled.
‘It’s probably not important,’ he told her, pushing open a set of double doors to allow her through. Four classrooms led off from the landing they stood on.
‘My little darlings are in there,’ said Jo, nodding towards the door ahead of her. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just helping me in with these books.’
Hacket watched as she walked to the door and opened it, trying to keep his eyes away from her shapely legs and tight buttocks but he lost the battle, content instead to admire them. She pushed open the door, expecting to be greeted by the usual cacophony of sound but there was only silence. The twelve girls in the class looked up as she entered.
All except one.
Emma Stokes remained at the bench, looking down at the white mouse which lay before her.
Its paws had been swiftly and effectively nailed to the bench, spreadeagling it.
Its stomach had been slit, the raw edges peeled back to reveal the network of intestines within.
It was these small tendrils of entrail which the girl was teasing from the ruptured belly of the mouse much as she might pull threads from a torn piece of material.
Hacket, close behind Jo, noticed with revulsion that the animal was still alive. Its head jerking back and forth, its small body quivering as the girl pulled ever-longer lengths of intestine from it.
‘What are you doing?’ Jo snapped, dropping the books on the desk. She moved towards Emma who finally looked up from the eviscerated mouse and pinned the teacher in an unblinking stare.
‘Give me that scalpel,’ hissed Jo, holding out her hand to take the lethal blade from the girl who Hacket guessed was about twelve.
Emma hesitated.
‘Give me that scalpel now,’ Jo said, angrily, her attention flicking momentarily to the mouse.
Emma jabbed it towards Jo’s outstretched hand.
The razor sharp blade cut effortlessly through the ball of her thumb and she hissed in pain as blood spurted from the cut.
She pulled the scalpel from the girl, dropping it onto her own desk. Hacket dragged a handkerchief from his pocket and passe
d it to Jo who pressed it against the wound, watching as blood soaked through the material.
‘I’m all right, John,’ Jo said. ‘I can handle it now.’
He hesitated, looking first at the teacher’s bleeding hand then at the girl who merely looked back indifferently at him.
He thought for a second he caught a hint of a smile at the corners of the girl’s mouth. Not unlike that he’d seen on Craven’s face.
The rest of the class remained silent. Time seemed to have frozen.
Emma Stokes sat over the dying mouse, her face impassive.
Jo stood before her, blood soaking through the handkerchief.
Hacket hesitated a second longer then touched Jo’s arm.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he murmured.
She nodded.
‘You go. I’ll take care of it.’
Hacket glanced around the class once again then walked out, closing the door behind him. He paused, peering through the small piece of meshed glass in the door, watching the tableau he’d left behind.
‘Now Emma,’ he heard Jo say. ‘You tell me what you’re playing at.’
He didn’t wait to hear the answer.
He had a class of his own waiting for him.
Sixty-one
‘John, I want another child.’
At first Hacket thought he had misheard, or perhaps that his hearing was playing tricks with him. Lying on his back, pleasantly drained by their lovemaking, he heard Sue speak the words but it was as if they wouldn’t register. She had her head resting on his chest, running one index finger up and down his belly, twisting the hairs around his navel.
The ticking of the clock beside the bed was the only noise in the room apart from their low breathing. No, he was sure now, he hadn’t misheard.
‘Sue,’ he raised his head and began to speak but she looked up at him and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him.
‘I know what you’re going to say. I know what you ‘re thinking,’ she told him. ‘But that’s what I want. I need another child, John.’
Hacket exhaled deeply as she slid up the bed so that they lay face to face. He took her in his arms.
‘Sue, it’s impossible, you know that. After you had Lisa, after the infection, they told you there couldn’t be any more children.’
‘I know what they told me,’ she said, a little more forcefully.
‘Then why torture yourself like this?’ he asked, softly. ‘Why even think about it?’ He stroked her hair softly then brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
‘I went to see doctor Curtis again today,’ she informed him, rolling onto her back.
Hacket propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her.
‘I told him how badly I wanted another child,’ Sue continued.
‘Did you tell him what the other doctors had said?’ Hacket wanted to know.
‘Yes I did. But it doesn’t matter, John,’ she said, smiling. ‘He said that I could have another child. That there was a way.’
Hacket frowned.
‘How?’ he demanded. ‘He has no right to tell you things like that, to raise your hopes.’
‘I believe what he said and he says I can have another child.’
‘It’s not possible,’ Hacket said, defiantly. ‘I don’t understand how he can tell you it is, not when half-a-dozen other doctors have said you can’t. You know you can’t. What makes you believe him?’
‘Because I’m not the first. He’s treated other women who were thought to be infertile, barren, not able to have children. Call it what you like. He’s treated women in Hinkston and outside and those women have had babies.’
‘Treated them how? He’s a GP, Sue, not a surgeon. Your problem particularly is a surgical one. An irreversible surgical problem. How can he hope to treat a condition like yours?’ There was a trace of anger in Hacket’s voice.
‘One of the women he treated was Julie,’ she said, flatly.
‘Your sister?’ Hacket muttered, incredulously.
‘She and Mike were told that they couldn’t have children. But after doctor Curtis had treated her she had Craig. You know how healthy he is.’
Hacket shook his head.
‘He’s offering us hope, John. Can’t you see that?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know what I can see.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘I want to try, John. I have to. I know another child could never replace Lisa, could never wipe out the memory of what happened but we have to at least try. Don’t deny me that.’
Hacket saw the tears forming in her eye corners.
‘What about you? Don’t you want another child?’ she wanted to know. ‘What have we got to lose?’
He struggled for the words but none would come. The idea seemed simultaneously ridiculous and inviting. Another child, if it were possible might well bring them together again. It might go some way to helping them rebuild what they’d lost together.
But if it failed.
The pain would be unbearable.
So much pain.
‘What have we got to lose?’ she repeated.
The words hung in the air like stale smoke.
Sixty-two
The petrol tank was full.
He’d have plenty of fuel to reach Hinkston and complete the return journey to London.
Ronald Mills glanced down at the fuel gauge and smiled. He’d anticipated having to fill up during the drive but he’d been lucky. The car he’d stolen had a full tank. He’d probably dump it in Hinkston.
Once he’d found Hacket.
Dump it then steal another to return to the capital.
The .38 was in the pocket of his jacket.
The knife jammed into his belt.
He drove with his lights on full beam, ignoring those drivers who flashed their headlamps at him when he dazzled them.
Fuck them.
There wasn’t that much traffic leaving London, but streams of it moved through the night towards the capital.
A car overtook him but Mills hardly gave it a second glance. He was in no hurry. He had plenty of time.
He smiled to himself, glancing briefly down at the map on the passenger seat. He had ringed Hinkston with a large biro circle. The drive would take him about an hour he guessed.
There was no need to rush.
Ahead of him he saw the lights of a service station. The neon figure of a chef beckoned him from the road and he swung the car into the slip road without checking the rear view mirror. The driver behind banged on his hooter as Mills cut across but he ignored the irate motorist and guided the car into the car park of the service station.
A dog in the back of the vehicle he parked next to began to bark at him as he clambered from behind the steering wheel.
Mills stood looking at the animal for a moment, smiling as it harked and snarled, unable to reach him. Then he raised his hand as if to strike at the dog, driving it into an even greater paroxysm of anger. It threw itself against the glass in its efforts to reach him but Mills merely grinned and walked off, the dog’s barks dying away behind him.
The service station restaurant was relatively quiet.
Half-a-dozen lorry drivers, a couple of families, one or two suited men. They were the only customers. None paid him any attention as he sat down and flicked through the menu, wiping the tomato sauce from one corner with his finger.
The waitress ambled over, stifled a yawn and asked him what he wanted.
He ordered then sat back in his seat, glancing around him.
One of the families sitting about twenty feet from him had two children. A boy and a girl. The girl was no more than eight, he assumed. Pretty. Long plaited hair.
Mills clasped his hands together, leant his elbows on the table top and fixed his stare on her.
She was sucking milkshake through a straw, swinging her legs beneath her seat.
Pretty.
He smiled thinly as he watched her, feeling the beginnings of an erection pressing
against the material of his trousers. His gaze travelled from her face to her torso, then down to her legs, which were encased by woollen tights.
So easy to cut those tights away.
To feel her skin.
His erection grew more prominent and he slid one hand into his pocket, rubbing it.
‘Here we are, sir.’
The voice startled him and he looked up to see that the waitress had returned with his order which she set down before him.
He took it without thanks, eating as if he was ravenous. She turned and walked away, glancing back at him as he shovelled food into his mouth, his eyes still straying back to the little girl every now and then.
When he’d finished he crossed to the pay desk, put down the exact amount and walked out.
Back inside the car he sat, watching the restaurant exit, watching for the little girl.
She and her family emerged ten or fifteen minutes after him and Mills watched them climb into a Volvo and drive off.
He looked down at the map, tracing his route with one index finger.
About thirty miles and he would be in Hinkston.
He started the engine.
The dog in the car next to him continued to bark.
Sixty-three
Hacket smiled as he watched Sue cross to the front window and pull back the curtains, peering out into the night.
‘Sue, he’ll be here,’ said the teacher. ‘Don’t worry.’
She looked back at him, shrugged and moved away from the window.
‘You’re like a kid on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa to appear.’
They both laughed.
Hacket beckoned her to him and she sat beside him on the sofa, moving closer as he snaked one arm around her shoulder.
‘I know how much this means to you,’ he said, quietly. ‘I feel the same way. If there is the possibility of us having another child, then I’d be as happy as you.’ He sighed. ‘I just don’t want you to raise your hopes.’
‘Doctor Curtis wouldn’t have told me about the treatment if he’d thought there’d be any doubt about its success, John,’ she said, confidentially.
