by Chris Petit
Cross took a deep breath. ‘You can’t beat them. This whole struggle will take its own time. They’ll silence you and they’ll silence me if they think we know too much. Why do you think they arrested Willcox?’
Candlestick shrugged. Cross told him that Willcox had confessed to two murders as part of a deal. He saw he’d caught Candlestick off guard and tried to push the advantage. ‘If you hadn’t led us to Willcox in the first place—’
‘He was a wanker,’ said Candlestick defensively.
‘Get out while you can. You’re already in the South. No one can touch you here.’
‘No one can touch me anyway. Get up.’
He levelled the gun at Cross.
‘Now kneel down.’
Cross felt the cold point of the gun in his ear. He slowly raised his hands in surrender and remembered the priests of his childhood, arms aloft in benediction.
‘Twelve years ago I killed Tommy Herron. That was the best. I thought it would always be like that. But everything winds down, gets dull with repetition. Even killing gets to feel like old elastic. The tension goes, the edge, the feeling that once kept you buzzing for days and makes you different from all the other cunts. At first it’s the best thing you ever did and in the end it means no more than sneezing. You walk in a room, you trigger someone, you leave. It’s over so fast and the way these things are planned you’re in and out in less time than it takes to piss.’
Candlestick grabbed Cross by the hair again and twisted his face round.
‘But look at me now and know that in a month or three months you were going to kill me. Know that I was living only on your say-so. Think of the power and the control. That’s what gives the swelling to a killing. Pumps it up so you’re pistol hard for the cunt that’s waiting.’
The noise of Candlestick cocking the gun sounded deafening to Cross. He screwed up his face, waiting.
A wail from the back of the barn saved him.
‘Stay there,’ Candlestick hissed.
Cross knelt, trembling, his breath whistling like old bellows. He looked up as Matthew entered, pushed out of the shadows.
His mouth gaped at the sight of the boy – he had no head. Cross went completely numb. Then he saw. The boy’s head was covered by a black hood. Matthew walked with his arms outstretched like a blind boy feeling his way. As he got closer, Cross could see the material sucking at his gasping mouth each time he drew breath. Anger at seeing Matthew hooded drove away his fear.
‘Let me see his face,’ said Cross.
Candlestick stayed the boy with his hand. He then reached behind him and there was a blur as something shiny cartwheeled through the air and landed at Cross’s feet.
It was a knife with a sculpted handle, broad bladed and around a foot long.
‘Pick it up,’ said Candlestick. ‘Feel the blade.’
One side of the blade was serrated. Cross felt the clean edge with his thumb and winced. There was a razor thin line of blood where he’d touched it.
‘That knife has done good work,’ said Candlestick in a weird high-pitched voice. Cross looked at it with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.
‘God said to Abraham, kill me a son.’ Candlestick gave a queer giggle.
The boy turned his head, trying to understand what was going on. Candlestick pressed down on the boy’s head and put his mouth to his ear.
‘Whoo-whoo-whoo!’
He laughed. Cross wondered whether it was Benzedrine kicking into his system that was making him so charged up. Candlestick looked at him with a terrible bonhomie.
‘Go on, admit it, you’re flattered.’
‘Flattered?’
‘Because you believe everything will be revealed, that I – flattered by your persistence – will yield my secrets.’
‘I’m here for my son.’
‘How touching.’ Candlestick sneered and raised the gun straight-armed at Cross’s head. ‘Put down the knife now. Drive it into the ground and take three steps forward.’
Cross hesitated and Candlestick screamed at him to do it. The boy jumped with fright and whimpered. Cross leaned forward and stuck the knife into the earth. Candlestick moved behind him and he felt the gun at his head again and the guttural whisper of the man’s breath hot in his ear.
‘I’m on! And I’m going to do your cunt in. Do you know what, Tommy? Afterwards I’ll fuck the boy. All the while thinking of you, Tommy, only the best thoughts.’
‘I’m not Tommy,’ said Cross uncertainly.
Tommy Herron, he presumed. Cross suppressed a shudder, trying not to imagine what had gone on there, and prayed that he could draw some slim hope from Candlestick’s crazed distraction.
‘You’re all the same to me,’ Candlestick said with strange tenderness. ‘Tommy, Mary, Francis, young Matthew there.’
A chill settled over Cross at the mention of his son. He looked at Matthew, who appeared calmer now.
‘Do you know what this is?’
Candlestick held out a piece of folded paper over Cross’s shoulder. He told him to take it and open it.
Cross saw some sort of painting, torn from a book. In the gloom of the barn it was hard to make out the detail. It showed two figures surprised in some act of – ‘Abraham and Isaac,’ said the voice in his ear – sacrifice. Cross remembered. As a test of faith, God had instructed Abraham to kill his son, only to reveal the order to be a cruel hoax. Cross realized that there would be no last-minute reprieve for them.
‘What are your feelings contemplating this scene?’
Cross said nothing.
‘Do you think there is a God to intervene? Try praying now and see what happens.’
Cross shut his eyes and tried to quell the tide of rising panic.
‘Or is it the devil’s turn now? Poor wee Mary Ryan gabbling the Hail Mary over and over. So many of them do. That rather than the Lord’s Prayer. Now and at the hour of our death. It is, Mary, it is. The hour is here. She would have done better with the Lord’s Prayer. But deliver us from evil, amen. What are your feelings looking at this picture? You never said.’
Cross clenched his teeth. He’d not give him the satisfaction.
‘Aww,’ cajoled Candlestick, like Cross was a child spoiling his game. ‘I think your feelings are not pity for the boy, or even respect for the father’s awe in the presence of God, but a very exact curiosity at the surge of power you feel with the knife in your hand. You know the dead. You tidy up after them. The dead are your business. You must wonder how it feels to do it – lead us not into temptation – just as the priest in confession wonders what this fucking business is all about.’
Cross shook his head vehemently, trying to block out the words, before they could reach the part of him that knew it was true.
He was aware of the knife being pressed into his hand. This is another of his games, he told himself.
‘Move,’ the voice said.
Cross was nudged forward by the barrel of the gun. Inch by inch they moved in a slow procession towards the boy, who gazed around in sightless fear.
Cross tried to find the split second that would allow him to turn the knife on Candlestick. He imagined sliding the blade in, slipping it between his ribs, up into the aortic chamber, lifting him on the knife’s handle until his feet dangled free of the ground and his eyes popped in bloody surprise. He truly wanted to see the blood run from his nose and his mouth and ears and eyes. If it didn’t he’d cut the cunt until it did.
His mind snapped back. He tried telling himself that time wasn’t quite used up. Candlestick would not deny himself the satisfaction of killing the boy, however much he might make it look like he wanted Cross to play the executioner. Candlestick was too driven to let anyone else do his killing. Cross prayed that he could use the knowledge to his advantage.
Candlestick halted Cross in front of Matthew.
‘He’s the sacrifice. Do it and the other killings stop. Refuse and they go on.’
‘You couldn’t stop if you tried. Go ah
ead and kill the others,’ said Cross. ‘You must be able to see that their deaths mean nothing to me compared to his.’
‘I’ll kill him anyway, and the others too. You’ve five minutes to decide.’
Westerby was drenched and her reserves ebbing. It had taken much longer than she had expected to cover the ground between farm and barn. The physical effort of her slow, wet scramble across the rutted fields had at least distracted her from what was waiting. Several times she’d lost her bearings before she at last saw the barn through the driving rain. She was lucky not to have missed it – it was away to her left, not straight ahead as she had thought. She wasted time negotiating her way round the back, looking for a second entrance that was not there.
Peering through the crack in the main door, she could see Cross’s back. She willed him to stop blocking her view.
The first thing she heard was Candlestick’s voice saying, ‘Well?’ and Cross, a long while after, replying, ‘Give me the knife.’
She watched Cross stoop to pick up the knife that was thrown in front of him and move slowly forwards. He still blocked her view.
She would have to go in blind, she thought grimly, gripping the gun and levering the safety catch off. She could not understand why Cross had been given the knife.
She saw the boy then, in his hood, and Candlestick dragging him by the sleeve and making him kneel. She had to force herself not to cry out.
She gradually understood what she was seeing. ‘Please God,’ she said and threw her weight against the door, hoping that surprise would give her enough of an advantage.
She got off one shot, knowing as she pulled the trigger that she’d missed. She then lost sight of Candlestick behind Cross and when he re-emerged he had Matthew and was grinning with bared teeth, his gun held to the boy’s throat.
Westerby had no choice but to drop her gun. She kicked it away as she was told. Candlestick then ordered Cross to throw down the knife and move back.
She was puzzled by the glint in Candlestick’s eye – a mixture of wild glee at her failure, but also of fear, no more than a tiny nugget but enough to give her hope. Her arrival was an element he’d not foreseen.
Words were her only weapon now. She felt surprisingly calm, compared to outside. The burning spasms in her stomach had subsided. She was aware of the dull throb of a headache above the bridge of the nose which she used to concentrate all her attention on Candlestick.
When Matthew tried to squirm free, Candlestick told him to hold still, otherwise he would make him watch while he killed his daddy. The boy froze and Westerby imagined his eyes searching the darkness of his hood for some sign that the nightmare would end.
‘He won’t kill you, Matthew,’ she said.
Candlestick jabbed with the gun at his head. Westerby flinched, knowing he was only a fraction away from pulling the trigger. The gun then swung towards her. She glimpsed its black snout and saw the spit of flame. The gun was back at Matthew’s head before she realized that he’d deliberately fired wide. The singing noise she had heard had been the bullet passing by.
‘You’ll not kill him,’ she repeated.
‘Watch me.’
‘You won’t.’ Westerby shook her head. ‘Because the time isn’t right.’
Was it her imagination or had she startled him? She tried to picture the tiny casket deep inside him where desire and fear fought for control.
‘I am the sacrifice,’ she said.
He regarded her curiously as she spelled it out for him – she was the next proper victim. Her age made her that. Eddoes, forty-nine, Caddy, forty-two and Causley, thirty-five. The next had to be twenty-eight. It had been her own birthday just the day before she and Cross had first made love.
‘And I’m bleeding,’ she said.
Westerby saw his confusion, muddled with eagerness.
‘That’s important, isn’t it?’ she went on.
She took a step forward, seeing his inquisitiveness. She prayed that Cross understood what she was trying to do.
‘I know all about the bleeding,’ she said. ‘And why the deaths only happened then.’
She took another step forward, losing sight of Cross. She reached up to undo her jacket. Again Candlestick made no move.
‘If I’m bleeding, you can get it up? Isn’t that how it goes?’
‘Shut up, cunt.’
She was getting to him. She reached up and undid a button of her shirt.
‘You don’t really want to kill Matthew. Not in your heart of hearts. He’s only seven. Something happened when you were seven. Something that made you wish you were dead.’
Candlestick sneered.
He’s bluffing, she told herself. I’ve hit a nerve.
’Why’s the bleeding so important?’ she went on. Again there was the glimmer in his eye, the focus shift away from the boy. ‘Has it something to do with your secret as a little boy?’
The tug of his curiosity pulled her forward. She risked undoing another button on her shirt. She was no longer aware of the boy or Cross – this was a battle of naked wills between the two of them.
Each step a thought, like walking a tightrope. One false move and we all fall.
She was aware of the cool night air on her skin where her shirt was open and of Candlestick looking at the shadow between her breasts. She was wearing nothing under the shirt.
Would she have thought of this without the strange incident with Rintoul? she wondered. And how old had she been when she had undressed for the two boys that long-ago summer? Seven, perhaps. She remembered the surge of power it had given her, showing herself off. It was the first time she had been aware of that feeling and it far outstripped any fear of getting caught. She looked at Candlestick and told herself to forget about his gun and bullets, treat them as toys. This was just another childhood game they were playing. He was nine feet away, maybe ten. The boy was still now, as inert as a rag doll. As for Cross, she just had to trust that he was using her diversion as she hoped.
‘Tell me about the bleeding,’ she said, undoing another button and parting the front of her shirt to show him the swell of her breasts. Ten more paces and two or three more buttons.
She suddenly faltered. She had a flash of him raising the gun and blowing her brains out. The confidence drained out of her. The boy seemed to sense this and cried out, ‘Daddy!’
Candlestick poked the gun at Matthew’s temple.
‘Stop it!’ he yelled, his voice edgy. Seeing him so rattled, Westerby risked another step.
‘You kill when she bleeds. The bleeding controls you, doesn’t it?’
She saw that she had hit home.
‘Who is she? Another innocent like Becky? Some doormat you wipe yourself on?’ She pressed on before he could answer. ‘I got it wrong at first. I thought you killed when she bled because you couldn’t have her then. Because her bleeding made her taboo. But it’s not that, is it?’
She undid the button by her navel. Seven paces.
You want to touch me. You must touch me. You need to.
She said these things to him in her mind, willing him to submit.
‘You kill with the bleeding because when she bleeds is the only time it works for you. She bleeds. You kill and afterwards you can fuck. Is that what you do? Fuck after?’
Candlestick gave a roar of anguish and swung the gun up. If he doesn’t fire at once, she thought. She stared down the barrel again, praying for the tremor that wasn’t there.
’What happened when you were seven? Shall I tell you?’
Her hand strayed to the last button.
‘Shall I whisper in your ear?’
He wanted desperately to touch her, to rest his head against the warmth of her breast. She was parting her shirt now, letting him see. He lowered the pistol. He’d wait until she was close enough, until he could smell her bleeding, then he’d kill the copper and the boy and have her. That much was clear. He was mystified by her, confused by her understanding. She was the only one to show compassion, and
in her compassion lay betrayal, he knew. He could see her riding him in a frenzy after he’d done the copper and the boy. Their blood mixed with her own bleeding would stir her lust until it boiled and he imagined the hot jolt of putting himself into her. Bitch! he thought. She’d sooner give him over to the copper than give herself to him. He shoved the boy aside and reached out with his hand to touch the white of her skin. So soft, so smooth. He looked into her eyes. They were the same faraway blue as Becky’s. He placed the gun against her pelvis – he’d shoot the other two any second now – and felt himself harden. ‘Show me,’ he said, and she pulled aside her shirt. He smelled the warmth of her skin, a soft, milky smell that made him want to lay his head there and sleep.
Westerby cupped her breasts. Candlestick was fixated, then, sensing her control, he tore his gaze away.
‘I know your secret,’ she whispered. ‘Rest a while and I’ll tell you. Come and sit down over there.’
She gestured with her head towards the camp chair, and felt herself being nudged with the pistol in its direction.
As they turned, she saw Cross out of the corner of her eye and her anger at him mounted. She wasn’t sure that he’d moved at all. The distance between him and the gun was hopeless. The strength drained from her. She sensed Candlestick noting her hesitation.
In whose compassion lies betrayal, he thought. So lonely baby, he whispered.
He said something she didn’t catch. If she could get him to sit, they might just have a chance, but that depended on Cross.
They reached the chair and he sat. She opened her shirt and took his free hand, put it to her tongue, licked his fingers and placed them on her nipple.
She saw his eyelids grow heavy with desire and close – not for long enough.
At the root of her disgust she felt something, which, to her shame, she realized was arousal. The power she felt had made her moist.
‘Tell me my secret,’ Candlestick said in an urgent whisper.
‘Your secret is—’ Her feeling of a moment earlier gave way to a wave of loathing. She felt the keen edge of Cross’s jealousy like a stab.
