Thorn In My Side

by Sheila Quigley

  Passing Sandham Lane, he headed for the castle. The road was busy with tourists. To his right was an ice cream van that looked like it was doing a roaring trade, and next to it a fish and chip van, equally busy.

  He carried on down towards the castle, one of many in the north- east of England. Being a sixteenth-century castle, this one was much younger than a lot of castles in the area. Lindisfarne’s position in the North Sea had made it vulnerable to attacks not only from the Scots, but from the Vikings as well. The island had once been a very volatile area and had a fascinating history.

  As he walked towards the castle, in his mind's eye the tourists became Vikings on the rampage. He flinched as one huge warrior strode towards him. Keeping his eyes directly in front of him, Smiler kept on walking, telling himself over and over that Mike was right, it was all just his imagination.

  The warrior, complete with horned headgear, holding a shield in one hand and a spear in the other, kept on coming. Behind him a huge band of warriors, all glaring ferociously at Smiler, kept pace with their leader.

  Smiler stared in terror, then blinked rapidly when Tiny pulled on his lead. But the huge man kept on coming and remained a Viking -- until he passed Smiler’s peripheral vision, when he became a family man in blue T-shirt and jeans. Smiler turned his head quickly, and stared out at the empty sea. As a party of tourists passed behind him, he let out the breath he wasn’t aware that he’d been holding, then shuddered. It seemed as if a cloud had suddenly covered the sun.

  He reached the castle. To his immense relief, the Vikings had faded, and normal twenty-first century people walked back and forth. A group of about thirty people hung on to a tour guide’s every word. Lovers walked past hand in hand, basking in the late afternoon sunshine. A couple of old men with walking sticks stepped out of the way of a party of pre-teen school children. None of them gave Smiler a second look, although Tiny drew admiring glances, and many pats -- which, as usual, he accepted fawningly.

  Smiler found the island fascinating, and much larger than he’d first thought. The air was bracing, and the sun shining. He actually felt more at home after only a few hours than he had anywhere in his life. Certainly Aunt May’s cottage was really welcoming, much more than any place he’d ever lived with the woman he’d called mother.

  He ran the fingers of his right hand down the scars of his left arm, paused a moment, each slash fresh in his mind, then reversed the process.

  If only… if only life had been different. He could still see his mother's face. Just over thirty she’d been when she’d died, and had looked sixty years old or more. She had never shown him any love that he could remember. The only touch his skin had felt from her hands had been a hard slap or a punch. He often wondered why she just hadn’t aborted him. No life at all would have been better than the one she’d given him.

  Why had she let those things happen to him?

  Why hadn’t she tried harder?

  He tried to put her out of his mind. Every time he thought of her, he knew, he just got upset. He was starting a new life, another chance, thanks to Mike.

  Hold onto that thought, he told himself, think of Mike, think of anything. Snakes raking in the gutter for his gear, his first proper Macky Dee’s with Mike, Aunt May’s leggy flowers. But he wasn’t strong enough. He shuddered, and the sky began to darken. His breathing became harsh. A small doorway opened in his mind. He tried hard to close it, but the rift grew bigger, letting things slip through, things he didn’t want to remember, things that should stay buried, things that crushed his soul.

  A moment later they faded, and a girl with long dark hair lay huddled in a field, crying for help. She was weak, terrified and a long way from home. Her fear transferred to Smiler as he sank deeper and deeper into the abyss of his own mind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  She sank into the grass. Thankfully, the driver of the car hadn’t seen her. She’d panicked for nothing. When the car, lorry, whatever the damn thing had been, hadn’t stopped, she’d walked for another three hours, and now she was totally exhausted. Looking down at her poor aching feet, she bit her lip. She’d used her lighter to burn the stitching round the sleeves of her short jacket, then, ripping the sleeves off, she had shoved her feet into them, doubling them over. To be able to walk she’d had to leave her toes exposed. Each one was cut and bleeding, and the sleeves were worse than useless now. Blood was seeping through the holes, mixing with the dry earth to make mud and infection.

  She sighed, a pitiful lonely sound in the silence of the empty field. The last thing a diabetic needs is damaged feet. That bottle top she’d pulled out had hurt like hell, but she couldn’t even remember standing on the damn thing.

  Taking the remaining sweets out of her pocket, she stared at them for a moment. Knowing there was nothing else she could do, she put a handful in her mouth and started to chew.

  Tears fell unchecked down her face. She had always found self pity pathetic, but she had never been in a situation so frightening in her life. Looking around, she guessed that somehow she’d wandered inland, which was what she’d intended. She also figured that she was near the village of Fenwick, a small hamlet three or four miles from Holy Island. Her heart sank, even further than she thought was possible. This was a place she definitely didn’t want to be, far too close to the brothers and him! She had planned on being much, much further inland than this.

  She knew she couldn’t walk any further, and that in a few more hours she would without doubt be in a coma. She’d tried to fight this damn disease, like she knew better than the doctors. It got her as it always would, and with a vengeance. If she’d been alone that night, six years ago, when she had stubbornly denied that there was anything wrong with her, and her sugar had dropped so low it hardly had a reading, she could have gone so far under that the way back would have been nigh on impossible.

  Damn it… Why the hell did I have to be the one to get it? There are millions of other people in the world.

  Why me?

  If I didn’t have diabetes, I could have gone on, escaped – but I’m fucking well cursed.

  'Shit!!!' she screamed with frustration, startling a flock of seagulls that took flight, screeching their way into the air.

  'And that’s all I need, somebody wondering what the hell’s frightened youse ugly lot. Ohh. Damn, damn, damn.'

  The tears came again, thick and fast as she looked around her, wondering what to do. It gave her only small satisfaction to remember how hard she’d bitten down on that creepy bloke’s hand, running away, screaming and spitting blood out of her mouth, a taste she had no fancy for. Really it had been nothing short of a miracle that she’d escaped at all.

  Sighing, as a feeling of total, utter helplessness came over her, she folded in on herself and sank to the ground. Staring at sharp blades of grass, she cried some more. Then slowly a look of determination came over her face.

  'Sod them,' she murmured, lifting her face to the sky and feeling the warm sun on her skin. 'Sod the fucking lot of them… Who the hell do they think they are, coming here with their freaky plans? Bunch of fucking creeps… Well, I’m not dead yet!'

  Slowly, stubbornly, she struggled to her feet. The main problem, she figured, was finding somebody to trust, as well as finding somebody who would even believe her.

  'One thing I know for sure.' She took a step, then another, stuck her chin out and muttered defiantly, 'I’m not dying in this fucking field.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He doesn’t look like a murderer. But then, really, not a lot of people do. OK, if you have any sense you can spot the nutters right off, but that doesn’t necessarily make them all murderers. Mostly the real culprits wear a sane mask that can fool even the best of policemen, as well as judges, doctors and lawyers, Mike thought, as he watched the man through the two-way glass. This one had been picked up running amok, covered in blood, in the main street. But is it a sure- fire bet that he’s guilty?

  Mike was waiting for Detective Kristina C
lancy. It had been a surprise to find her working in Berwick. A nice surprise, because she hadn’t changed one little bit. She came thudding down the corridor, her brown eyes laughing. He was surprised to see she’d grown her hair, and now sported a saucy fringe.

  Mike smiled. Late as usual.

  As they sat down and Kristina switched the tape on, Danny Wilson looked up. Having been told in full detail how the girl had died, Kristina was finding it hard to hide her feelings. She threw Danny a look of undisguised disgusted.

  'OK. Care to tell us what happened?' Mike asked, his voice quiet but laced with steel.

  'I don’t know,' Danny sobbed, 'you’ve got to believe me, I don’t know…'

  He looked at them both in turn, his eyes wide with amazement, shocked to find himself in this predicament, before hurrying on. 'I was at the hospital all night, honest. Ask my mate Evan, he’ll tell you. Then… then I fell asleep on the bench outside… I went in a couple of hours later and… and there she was… Oh,' his face lit up, 'the milkman, he’ll tell you… Yes, the milkman… he woke me up, he did, because I was asleep on the bench, he’ll tell you.' Danny nodded his head adamantly, pleased that he’d remembered at least one person who had seen him.

  'Name of the dairy?' Kristina asked.

  'Don’t know.' Danny kept hold of his hands to stop them from shaking.

  'We’ll find out.'

  Danny tried a small smile, but it was rewarded by a frozen stare that made him even more nervous. He swung his face towards Mike. No joy there. The glaring look he received was worse than the one from the woman.

  'So you truly expect us to believe that someone broke in and murdered your girlfriend while you slept outside?' Mike asked, with raised eyebrows.

  'A likely story.' Kristina snorted. Without giving Danny a chance to say anything, she went on, 'Have yer seen what yer’ve done to her, you mad bastard?'

  'I haven’t done anything.' Danny’s voice was rising higher by the second, panic obvious in every word he uttered as he stared at Kristina and Mike in turn. 'Honest, it wasn’t me… It was not me… It was not me.'

  'Where’s the weapon?' Mike asked. 'Where did you manage to hide it?'

  'What weapon?' Danny frantically looked around. The room was small, bare cream walls, one desk, four chairs, one door. His eyes skittered back to the door. The surface was covered in scratches. His imagination went wild. He pictured people trying to claw their way out of here. His heart lurched, pounding in his ears. The walls, the doors, everything was closing in on him. There was no escape. How could he get out of here?

  'Where is the weapon?' Mike demanded again, leaning forward over the desk.

  Weapon? Danny’s mind struggled to get round what they were saying. I wouldn’t hurt her. I’ve never once lifted my hands to Shelly, never mind use a weapon!

  What sort of a weapon?

  A knife?

  A gun?

  Judging by the hate in the eyes of these two coppers, it has to have been a pretty nasty weapon.

  Oh Jesus.

  And the way the woman cop keeps looking at me as if I’m some sort of an animal is seriously freaking me out.

  What am I supposed to have done?

  'I love Shelly,' he blustered, glancing quickly from one to the other.

  'Fine way of showing it,' Kristina said. 'Just admit it, tell us what happened and it’ll all be over… Cuppa tea, nice long rest, maybes even a shower.' She smiled sweetly at him.

  Danny looked at the woman in amazement. Is she taking the piss?

  Mike, his voice now soft and chatty, said, 'Did she annoy you, is that why you killed her? We both know how annoying women can be, don’t we? Promise you the moon, then change their minds when you’re up and ready for it.'

  'Or,' Kristina suddenly snapped, 'find her in bed with one of your mates, eh? So yer thought yer would just kill her for having sex with someone else, even though you play those sort of games? That’s it, isn’t it? Male ego hurting, was it? So just kill her, eh? Restore the balance of power? Is that how it was?'

  'No… What games? I don’t know what you’re talking about… I didn’t kill Shelly, why would I? You’ve got it all wrong.' Danny jumped up, judging the distance to the door. He had to get out of this nightmare.

  'Sit down,' Kristina said.

  For a brief moment, Danny glanced down at her. Suddenly unable to control his fear and panic, he made a bid for the door, only to be blocked by Mike, who grabbed him from behind and forced him back into his seat.

  'Try that again, and I’ll fucking well see that you’re incapable of even walking again, never mind running.' The words had been whispered in Danny’s ear so that the tape wouldn’t pick them up, as Kristina conveniently coughed as loud as she could.

  'I want a solicitor.' Shaking, Danny slumped in his seat.

  Mike nodded at Kristina to switch the tape off. Kristina spoke into the mike, ending the session, then turned it off.

  'I just bet you want a solicitor. Realised what you’ve done now?' Mike slapped his palms hard on the desk, and Danny, his eyes bulging in fear, jumped.

  'It wasn’t me, honest.' He sobbed like a baby. 'Where’s Evan? He… he’ll tell you it wasn’t me. It couldn’t be me, see, ‘cos I told you where we were last night. Ask Evan.'

  'Was he in on it an’ all, eh?… Some sort of filthy disgusting perve ring yer’ve got going between yer’s?' Kristina yelled. 'For God’s sake, is she even the bloody first? Is she? Is she? How many others have yer disfigured in this way? Tell me, are we gonna find more bodies? More poor girls discarded like so much trash?' She leaned forward in her seat, her voice suddenly calm and controlled. 'How many more?'

  Terrified, confused and utterly devastated at the thought of Shelly being dead, Danny could only gaze at the floor, tears running unchecked down his cheeks.

  Disfigured? What do they mean, disfigured?

  Oh God, what the hell has happened to her?

  Why would anyone want to hurt her, disfigure her? His brain actually hurt trying to figure out the whys.

  Shelly got on with everybody, and she could certainly stick up for herself if she had to. If he hadn’t seen her blood-covered body himself, Danny would never have believed it.

  In fact, he still didn’t believe it. He was stuck in some sort of nightmare with these monster coppers, and he really couldn’t tell which one was worse. He’d never been in a police station in his life before, never mind being interrogated by the coppers from Hell.

  'Oh God,' he muttered.

  'Pathetic,' Kristina said.

  As Kristina glared at Danny, Mike opened the door and asked the officer outside to take Danny back to his cell until the duty solicitor could come in.

  'And send Mr Miller in,' Mike said, as the officer escorted a sobbing Danny back to the holding cell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jill was just finishing her salad sandwich when there was a knock on the door. One of the porters popped his head round.

  'The family’s here now, Jill, two brothers.'

  'OK, send them in.' Jill hastily shoved her tea into a drawer kept empty for that purpose. Relatives could turn up at any time, and the last thing they expected was the person dealing with their dearly beloved’s body to be taking care of their own body’s demands.

  The two brothers walked into the morgue, their faces grim. With them was the blonde woman police officer that had picked Mike and Smiler up from the train station. The younger brother was dabbing at his eyes with a paper handkerchief. The older one’s face was set in a stern mask.

  Jill introduced herself, and found out that these two brothers were Gary and Liam. Gary’s head was shaved bald, and he had the stance of a boxer. Liam was taller but much slimmer. Both of them wore dark suits with white open-necked shirts. Liam’s suit looked like he had grown out of it, or borrowed the suit from a shorter friend. As Jill took the white sheet off the body, she heard Liam sob.

  For a moment there was silence as all three of them stared down at the d
ead girl. Jill stepped back to leave the brothers alone with her. Sometimes, even though the family had been told more or less what to expect, they still couldn’t believe that the lifeless body in front of them was the same person they had last seen laughing or crying, or in some cases arguing. Jill always felt sorry for the relative who had last seen their loved one alive after a vicious argument.

  Liam’s sob turned into a gasp as Gary said loudly, 'What the fuck?'

  Jill frowned. 'Excuse me?'

  Gary recoiled from the table, and spun round to stare at Jill. His face was covered in red blotches and she could feel the frustrated anger radiating off him. He swung his arm back and pointed at the dead girl. 'It’s not her. That’s not my sister. It’s not our Shelly.'

  'What?'

  'It. Is. Not. Her. How many times, for God’s sake?'

  'But she was found in your sister’s boyfriend’s flat, in their bed to be precise. And she fits the description,' Jill said, her eyes flickering towards the dead girl.

  'Well I’m sorry, pet, we don’t know who the poor bugger is, God bless her soul. But that sure as hell isn’t our Shelly.'

  'You’re certain of that?' the policewoman asked. She stepped forward and looked from one brother to the other.

  Liam nodded, staring in wide-eyed horror at the dead girl. 'She’s got the same hair, definitely the same hair,' he managed a moment later. 'But that’s it. Don’t know about the eyes. Our Shelly…' He sobbed, looked at Gary and muttered, 'Sorry,' as he dashed tears from his eyes.

  Jill was unsure whether they were tears of relief that it was not their sister, or tears of sadness for whoever this was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Smiler found himself outside the priory with no recollection of how he had got there, only a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, and an overwhelming blackness in his head. He sat down on a seat near the entrance.