Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘You’re jealous of Curtis.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ he snorted.

  ‘It’s him who gave me that hope. Is that what really hurts you? Is that why you’re so opposed to this child?’

  Hacket didn’t answer. The muscles at the side of his jaw throbbed angrily and he pushed himself away from the table, getting to his feet.

  ‘You don’t understand do you?’ he snapped, heading towards the sitting room.

  Sue followed, watching him pour himself a large measure of whiskey. He downed most of it in one gulp and re-filled the glass.

  ‘Are you going to get drunk now?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’m going to have one more then I’m going to see Curtis,’ he said, flatly.

  The look on her face changed from anger to surprise.

  ‘What for?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I want to talk to him about a few things. Like what this treatment really is. What exactly he’s been injecting into you and the other women he’s treated. What is it that can make a child grow at five times its usual rate?’

  ‘You can’t just go barging into his house, John,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t I?’ he said, defiantly.

  ‘This is because of that girl isn’t it?’ said Sue, acidly. ‘That other teacher you spoke to. Until then you were as happy as I was about the possibility of having another child. But since you spoke to her you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘That’s bloody stupid. It’s got nothing to do with what she said.’

  ‘Hasn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that things aren’t quite right here. I don’t like all the mystery surrounding what Curtis is doing.’

  ‘There is no mystery.’

  ‘He didn’t tell us everything. He told us what he wanted us to know. Nothing more.’

  Hacket finished his drink and slammed the glass down. ‘Well, now I’m going to see what he’s got to say.’

  ‘No,’ she hissed, blocking his path, her eyes narrowed in anger.

  ‘Sue, get out of my way.’

  She spread her arms so that he couldn’t pass her.

  ‘Come on,’ Hacket said, quietly, a little unsettled by the look in her eye. ‘You see what this is doing to us too. I told you, you’re changing.’

  ‘It’s always me isn’t it? Put the blame on me. As long as you don’t have to face up to your own guilt. It’s a wonder you didn’t blame my father for Lisa’s death. I mean, if I hadn’t been out visiting him that night then you could have been with your bit on the side without having to worry. I’d have been in the house. You’d have kept a clear conscience.’

  ‘Get out the way, Sue,’ he snapped, gripping one of her arms.

  She spun round, her left hand clawing at his face, her nails raking his cheek.

  Hacket hissed in pain as he felt his flesh tear.

  She struck at him again but he managed to deflect the second blow, gripping her wrists, holding her at bay.

  He was surprised by her strength.

  ‘Get off me,’ she yelled at him, trying to shake loose of his grip.

  She kicked out, catching him a stinging blow on the shin and he winced in pain, pushing her backwards, bolting for the door. She was at him immediately, gripping a handful of his hair, tugging so hard that several strands came away from his scalp.

  Again he swung round, this time managing to pin her arms behind her back. He lifted her bodily and carried her back into the sitting room.

  As he was about to drop her onto the sofa she spat in his face.

  Hacket looked at her, both surprised and horrified by the savagery of her reactions.

  He pushed her away from him as if she had some kind of contagion.

  Then, as she struggled to get up he sprinted for the front door, opened it and hurried up the path towards the waiting car.

  ‘You stay away from him,’ Sue shrieked from the door, watching as the car pulled away, its tail lights swallowed up in the darkness.

  She was weeping madly, tears of rage pouring down her cheeks. She stepped away from the door and slammed it, walking through into the sitting room, her fury unabated.

  She crossed to the window and looked out into the night then she turned and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  9.46 p.m.

  She looked to the phone.

  Should she warn Curtis?

  She was moving towards the receiver when the first stab of pain tore through her.

  Seventy-nine

  Ronald Mills looked at his watch.

  9.54 p.m.

  He picked a piece of meat from between his front teeth and spat it onto the carpet of the room then he crossed to the bed and pulled the .38 from beneath the pillow.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, dug his hand in his jacket pocket and took out six bullets. He flipped the cylinder out then carefully loaded the pistol. That done, he snapped the cylinder back into place and spun it, holding the gun at arm’s length, peering down the sight.

  Not that he would need to aim.

  He intended getting close.

  And then there was always the knife.

  He wanted to be near to Hacket, and to the woman as well.

  Wanted to see their pain, feel their agony.

  Just like he had done with their child.

  The thought of the act he had already committed and that he was about to commit caused the beginning of an erection which he savoured, smiling as he felt the stiffness growing.

  Perhaps he would gag them in case their screams were heard, but that, he reasoned, would deprive him of one of the most pleasurable parts of the exercise. Hearing them beg for their lives.

  He would take off the woman’s breasts.

  He had already decided that.

  Cut deeply and sever them both.

  He would make Hacket watch while he performed the act, slicing each mammary in turn. Then he would cut her. Five, six, seven. A dozen times. He wanted her to die slowly. He wanted Hacket to see it.

  Then he would kill Hacket.

  He would carve the man’s eyes from their sockets.

  ‘If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,’ he chuckled.

  He looked again at his watch then he headed for the door, locking it behind him, feeling the gun in his pocket, the knife wedged into his belt.

  The drive to the Hackets’ house would take him about fifteen minutes.

  It was 10.01.

  Eighty

  The Renault skidded slightly on the road as Hacket spun the wheel and guided the vehicle into the driveway which led towards Curtis’ house. The smoothness of tarmac was replaced by the loud crunching of gravel as Hacket drove on.

  A powerful wind was gusting across the large open front garden bending a number of topiary animals to such extreme angles it seemed they would be uprooted.

  Hacket heard the strong gusts hissing around the car but his attention was on the house itself.

  The place seemed to be growing from the night itself. Only the dark outline showed that there was a building there at all, its frontage finally illuminated by the lights of Hacket’s car.

  There wasn’t a light to be seen inside the house itself.

  The teacher brought the car to a halt outside the front door, noticing immediately that Curtis’ car was not in evidence. No lights. No car. Nobody home? He swung himself out of the Renault and crossed to the front door, the powerful wind buffeting him, blowing through his hair. He almost overbalanced, such was the force of the gusts. But, eventually he reached the large oak door and knocked hard, the sound dying away rapidly beneath the persistent howl of the wind.

  There was no answer.

  Hacket knocked again, harder this time.

  Still no response.

  He stepped back from the door and looked up at the windows. What little natural light there was reflected back off them and it reminded Hacket of staring into blind eyes. He loo
ked around, wondering if there was access to the rear of the house.

  To his right was a path which curved around one corner of the ivy-covered building. The teacher headed towards it. As he turned the corner the wind seemed to hit him with increased ferocity and he steadied himself against the wall of the house for a second before walking on. The path, sure enough, led to the back of the building but, as with the front, Hacket found it devoid of light.

  Perhaps Curtis was out on a call, he reasoned. Well, if that was so he’d wait for him. He’d wait as long as he had to in order to speak to the other man, to find out what the hell he was up to, to find out what he’d been pumping into Sue.

  Hacket found the back door and pummelled on it angrily as if expecting his outburst to elicit some kind of reaction.

  He stepped back, passing along the path, peering into a couple of the windows close by. He could see nothing through the gloom. His frustration and anger growing he turned away from the house, glancing out over the similarly well-kept back garden. The rockery close by, the lawn which sloped down towards the high privet hedge.

  Hacket frowned, narrowing his eyes in an effort to see through the gloom.

  Down by the high privet hedge something moved.

  He was sure of it.

  Maybe the wind had disturbed one of the well-kept bushes down there, he thought at first. Maybe.

  He took a couple of steps onto the lawn, his eyes fixed on the spot ahead of him where he was sure he’d seen the movement.

  Whatever he’d seen before stirred again.

  Hacket froze for a moment, not sure whether to advance or remain where he was. He swallowed hard, his initial anger now tempered slightly by the realisation that he was trespassing. If Curtis chose to, he could prosecute.

  The doubts vanished from Hacket’s mind as quickly as they’d come. What the hell did he care about trespassing? He had more important things to worry about than that. Besides, if Curtis had nothing to hide then he would not object to this visit.

  Fuck him, thought Hacket, heading for the bottom of the garden and the area where he’d seen the movement.

  As he drew closer to the high privet hedge he heard a high pitched squealing sound, carried to him on the blustery wind.

  He squinted through the darkness once more and saw, a couple of feet ahead, a rusty metal gate set into the hedge.

  It was a kind of entrance, he reasoned, the gate swinging wildly back and forth, flung helplessly by the wind.

  Hacket paused as he reached the gate, gripping it in one hand to stop the maddening squeak of the hinges. He looked beyond into the area shielded by the high hedge.

  Just a simple square of slightly overlong grass, a few flowers.

  The flowers were scattered over the ground, tossed wantonly by the breeze.

  He saw the piece of flat stone at the centre of the square.

  Hacket let go of the gate, pulling it shut behind him as he moved towards the flat stone, finally glancing down at it. Even from so close it was difficult to read the words upon the marble. He knelt and fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. However, no sooner had he coaxed a flame from it than the wind blew it out. Cursing, Hacket leaned closer in an effort to read the words on the stone, realising, as he did, that it was a gravestone.

  He ran his fingers across the stone, almost like a blind man, picking out each word carefully.

  MARGARET LAWRENSON

  BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

  DIED JUNE 5th 1965

  Hacket frowned.

  ‘Lawrenson,’ he murmured. He didn’t see the connection.

  He was still pondering this anomaly when he heard the sound of a car approaching from the front of the house.

  Hacket got to his feet and sprinted across the rear lawn towards the house.

  The sound of the engine grew louder, tyres were crunching on the gravel drive.

  The teacher pressed himself against the wall and peered round into the drive.

  Doctor Edward Curtis brought his car to a halt outside the house, switched off the engine then swung himself out from behind the wheel.

  Hacket watched. Waited.

  Curtis glanced across at Hacket’s car but seemed to pay it little heed, something which puzzled the teacher. Instead, the doctor crossed to the front door and unlocked it, then he returned to the car and fumbled with the bunch of keys, selecting one and pushing it into the lock of the boot.

  Hacket watched, unaware that he himself was the target of other eyes.

  The figure watched.

  And waited.

  Eighty-one

  ‘Bastard.’

  She muttered the word under her breath, clutching her stomach with one hand, wincing with each fresh stab of pain. But it was not the pain to which she directed her anger. She glanced at the phone, wondering once again, if she should warn Curtis. Tell him that her husband was on his way. She looked at the clock. No, he’d have arrived at the house by now, surely.

  Sue exhaled deeply, her mind turning over all the possible scenarios. A row. A fight even. She tried to push the thoughts from her mind.

  Why was her husband so obsessed with the treatment she’d received? Why wasn’t the gift of a child enough for him?

  She felt another stab of pain. One which reached from her vagina to her naval and she sucked in a laboured breath, getting to her feet as if the movement would relieve the pressure on her belly.

  The swelling there was only slight, as if she’d just eaten a heavy meal but it felt heavy. Sue felt bloated. Replete. As if the child she was carrying was growing not by the day but by the minute. Its progress to maturity accelerated beyond comprehension.

  She walked across to the phone once more, her hand hovering over it for a moment.

  Should she call Curtis?

  She was still trying to decide when she heard the knock on the front door.

  Sue froze for a moment, glancing down at the phone then at the door.

  Could it be her husband? Had he finally seen the stupidity of his reactions? Perhaps their night would end in reconciliation instead of anger. She sucked in a deep breath and moved towards the door.

  As she opened it she realised that if it had been her husband out there he would have used his key.

  Ronald Mills stood on the doorstep, smiling.

  Sue saw that he had a hand dug into his jacket pocket but, before she could speak he had pulled it free.

  The .38 looked huge as it was pushed into her face.

  ‘Don’t scream,’ snarled Mills. ‘Just step back inside the house.’

  She obeyed and he pushed her before him, stepping over the threshold.

  The door swung shut behind them.

  Eighty-two

  The boot of the car opened like a large metallic mouth and, as Hacket watched, Curtis leant forward and scooped something up from within.

  Something large.

  Something which he struggled to carry.

  The object was about five feet long, perhaps larger, thought Hacket. Wrapped in a blanket.

  Curtis stood still for a moment, the wind swirling around him, as he braced himself to carry his heavy load.

  His large load.

  Hacket squinted through the gloom once more.

  It was big enough…

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he murmured.

  Big enough to be a man.

  Curtis crossed to the front door of the house and entered, bumping one end of the object he carried against the frame as he entered. Hacket stepped back around the side of the house, pressing his back against the cold stone of the wall, sucking in deep breaths. He stayed there for long seconds then peered around into the drive once more. There was no sign of Curtis, he had not returned to shut the car boot, obviously more intent on depositing his cargo inside the house first.

  Hacket realised what he must do.

  He scurried towards the open front door and paused by the threshold, enveloped by darkness. Curtis had not bothered to turn on any lights when he’d entered.
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br />   From inside the house Hacket heard movement.

  He entered, pulling the door closed but not shutting it, momentarily silencing the wild howling of the wind. He stood in the hallway, looking around in the gloom.

  To his right there was a wide staircase which looked as if it had been plucked from some baronial mansion. It rose into even more impenetrable darkness.

  To his left was a door.

  It was slightly ajar.

  Hacket advanced slowly towards it, hearing sounds from beyond. Another door being opened. The occasional bump.

  He found himself in what he took to be Curtis’ reception.

  The door marked ‘SURGERY’ was open.

  He moved through it, slowing his pace slightly as he came to the corridor which linked the doctor’s office to the waiting-room. He moved slowly, trying to minimise the sound of his footfalls on the polished floor.

  It was like being blind in the narrow passageway. No light to guide him.

  It was then that he noticed the smell.

  Hacket froze, his throat dry, aware of the pounding of his heart.

  He recognised the smell.

  Strong and coppery.

  As he moved another step forward his foot slid in something wet and he almost overbalanced.

  He stepped back, looking down at the spot which had caused him to slide.

  He pulled the lighter from his pocket and flicked it on.

  Illuminated by the sickly yellow flame was a puddle of blood about three inches across.

  There were drops of it all along the corridor - they led to the door of Curtis’s office.

  Hacket flicked off the lighter and moved on, his initial anger now gradually turning to anxiety and something a little stronger.

  Fear, perhaps

  Why question it? he told himself. It was fear.

  As he stood with his hand on the doorknob of the doctor’s office he felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. He pushed the door gently.

  It swung open to reveal yet more darkness.

  And more blood.

  It had dripped onto the carpet. Hacket could see it glistening in the natural light which flooded through the study window.