The news had ended, and the local news had come on. I had been too busy talking to notice what was on the screen.
There was a shot of a little sandy patch of ground in an entrenchment close to a tunnel. Yellow plastic tape marked off an area. Men in white plastic clothes were digging gently. Policemen surrounded them at a distance. A police spokesman spoke into a microphone.
‘We were alerted by a member of the public,’ said the policeman. ‘His dog dug up a bone. He thought it was an animal bone, nothing out of the ordinary. Our tests show that it’s a finger bone.’
There was a question I didn’t hear.
‘No, not in this case,’ said the spokesman. ‘We do have descriptions of the culprits. They’re connected to five incidents.’
This time I heard the question, which was one word.
Murders?
‘It would appear so. Our suspects are a male and a female, both in their twenties.’
He described Jack and I.
My father wasn’t looking at the screen. He was looking at me. I couldn’t control my expression. He looked at the identikit pictures that had replaced the coverage of the old railway lines.
‘Is that?’ he asked, and then left it at that. I knew what he was asking. Was that me? And it wasn’t a question. He knew it was me. His daughter, the serial killer.
The reporter asked another question.
‘No,’ said the spokesman. ‘That was a long time ago and no charges were brought. This area was examined then, as I’m sure you remember, and nothing was found. There’s no connection.’
My father was standing. I imagine he was disappointed. He couldn’t see all of the angles. He could only see the bad side of it.
‘I thought you’d got away with it,’ he said. ‘I really did. But you’ve got his genes after all. And all of that. You did all of that?’
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel solid enough to speak.
‘History,’ said my father. ‘Like I told you, history. You know where you got your name?’
‘Samantha?’
‘That’s the one. It’s for him. Your mother named you after him. As though she hadn’t done enough. That’s his real name, Sam Haines. You’ve seen it, of course.’
Of course I had.
It was written on the parchment that was folded in my pocket.
PART NINE
Sam, aged thirty
Chapter Eighteen
I
I’ve read about different methods that help you to remember things. There are books full of helpful information like this. You can buy books, there are shops that just sell books. I don’t see the attraction of it myself, but then, that’s just me. I’d go for the library. Once you’ve read something, why would you want it in the house? It’ll be the same next time you read it. Books are like that. There’s nothing new the second time. So get them from the library. That’s my advice.
They have books about everything. I found out all of that stuff about Dudley from the library, and I didn’t have to hand over any cash. They’ll have books about improving your mind, too. Those books are everywhere.
It makes you wonder where all the idiots come from.
How to remember things, then.
You can associate a number with other numbers, break it down into smaller numbers, make it into a date. If you’re a big fan of bingo you can turn long numbers into sentences or lists: two fat ladies, one little duck for 882. You can write things down. You can tie a knot in a handkerchief, if they still make handkerchiefs. If you live in Dudley, you can tie a knot in a tea towel.
You can turn lists into stories: two fat ladies cooked one little duck and left nothing, for 8820. You can create acronyms to remember sequences of letters: Studying Ones History Causes Ancient History To Occur Again for SOHCAHTOA, which is:
Sine = Opposite/Hypotenuse
Cosine = Adjacent/Hypotenuse
Tangent = Opposite/Adjacent.
Handy, that. I’ve never needed to use sines or their relatives, but I’d know which sides of a right-angled triangle I’d be dealing with. Triangles do crop up, in everyday life. They cropped up in mine. My brother, his wife, and I. There isn’t a way to measure all of the angles in those triangles, though.
You can create mnemonics. You can relate unfamiliar words or concepts to familiar ones. You can break things down into smaller sections.
Alternatively, you can get your best friend to nail you to your shelves.
II
He only used two nails, one in each hand, straight through the middle of the palms. It seemed to take a lot of hammering. I made a lot of noise. I admit that. I see people at the bus stop with faces full of ironmongery. It must hurt like hell. Being crucified hurts more.
While my hands were out of the way he sorted through the remaining nails. I struggled but that made it worse. He’d given me a knock on the head to keep me quiet while he nailed me in place. That hurt, too. There was blood running down my face. I couldn’t do anything with it. It ran down my shirt and dripped onto the carpet.
It was just as well Judy had left me. A mess on the carpet would have really pissed her off.
I still wasn’t remembering anything. Jack looked at me. He was holding nails.
‘Now do you see it?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
That hurt.
He rattled his nails and looked at my face.
I looked at his face, the eyebrow rings and septum bolt and the rest of it and I knew what he was thinking.
‘I remember it all,’ I said. ‘It’s come back to me. I can see it all now.’
I forgot that my hands were nailed to the shelves and tried to hug him. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a nail scraping against the small bones of your hands. I wouldn’t recommend it. I had never really thought about crucifixion before. It hadn’t looked so bad. Up on the cross, admiring the view. That seemed a fair way to go. I revised my thoughts. I imagined myself supported by the nails, all of those small bones pushed out of joint. The shoulders hauling themselves out of the sockets. Then hanging there until you died.
It’s suffocation that does it, with crucifixions. The lungs can’t work with the arms up there. The weight is in the wrong place. I didn’t have the option of suffocating. My feet were on the floor.
Jack had hit me on the head with the hammer a few times, and while I was groggy he’d nailed my right hand to the shelves. After that, the other hand was a doddle. I didn’t have any leverage and I was woozy. I couldn’t push him away.
Now he was looking at my face, shaking a handful of nails. I bore in mind that this was a man who enjoyed having sharp objects in his face.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘it’s all clear now.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘I get things because I have all this metal. Close to the brain, is the thing. Needs to be in the face. Sorry about the hands. Bit of a waste, that.’
I was glad he was sorry. It made me feel better about the whole business.
He looked at my nose. He tweaked it.
‘Fuck!’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t sure if that would hurt.’
‘Of course it fucking hurts! I’m crucified. Everything hurts. And you hit me with the hammer.’
‘I didn’t think you’d let me do the rest of it otherwise.’
‘Too fucking right I wouldn’t.’
He was looking at the hammer wounds. He looked concerned.
I thought about what he’d just said.
‘What do you mean, the rest of it?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t you done the rest of it? Isn’t this enough? Jesus got away with less than this. No one hit Jesus with a hammer.’
‘You can’t see it yet. The two of us when we were twenty. When you can see that, I’ll be happy. Maybe not happy, but I’ll stop.’
‘I can see it,’ I tried.
‘Sorry mate,’ he said, genuinely regretful. ‘Sorry and all. You’d say that about now. This won’t hurt much. Comparatively.’
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He tweaked my nose again. He tweaked my eyebrow and got less of a reaction. That was less sensitive.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Eyebrow for starters then.’
He pinched my right eyebrow, raising it from my head in a ridge. He held it in his left hand. His right hand manipulated a nail. It looked yards long. He put the point against the bunched flesh.
He pushed it. I screamed and jerked my head back. He held on and pushed harder.
I couldn’t back away. The shelves were in the way. I wished I’d done a worse job on them. Why didn’t they collapse? The rest of my life was collapsing.
Jack pushed the nail into my eyebrow. He’d been lying. It did hurt. I felt the skin stretch and then a pop as the point emerged. He let go of my eyebrow. I could feel the nail in it. He stood back.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s a start. You’ve gone white, mate. You feeling all right?’
I’ve heard some stupid questions in my time. I ignored that one. He looked at my face.
‘Nasal septum,’ he said. ‘This one will sting.’
He gripped my forehead with his left hand and pushed my head against the shelves. I could see that map of Dudley he’d had tattooed on his arm. There were five red crosses on it. The murder sites, as he thought.
He took another nail and put it in my nostril. It tickled, and I sneezed.
‘Fuck!’ he said, jumping back. ‘I’ve got snot all over my hand. You dirty bastard. Don’t you have a handkerchief?’
‘Well excuse me,’ I said. ‘I sneezed on you. That’s a bit of a liberty. All you’ve done to me is nail me to my own fucking shelves and force a nail through my eyebrow. And hit me with the hammer.’
‘Do you have to keep on about the hammer? That was just to keep you quiet. Didn’t fucking work though, did it?’
‘Couldn’t you have drugged me?’
‘I haven’t got any drugs.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get some when they catch you.’
‘They didn’t catch me when I gave myself up. They’ve got no chance if I don’t help them.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘I’m not a gambling man,’ he said, putting the nail back into my nose. It tickled again, and I sneezed again.
‘Fuck!’ he said, shaking ropes of snot from his hand. There was blood in it, I was interested to notice. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘fair play then. If you won’t behave for the septum it’s going to have to go right through.’
He gripped my head again. He put the nail against the side of my nose.
I was in a good spot to watch this time. The point went into a dent in the side of my nose. He increased the pressure. I heard the skin give way. The point went inside my nose. He kept pushing. I felt the nail clear the first barrier and emerge into my left nostril.
He kept pushing.
It scraped the septum. It entered that. It scraped against cartilage.
‘Carefully does it,’ Jack said, looking thoughtful. He pushed again. The point emerged in my right nostril. He didn’t stop. I felt the nail scrape again as it entered the last barrier. With my left eye I could see Jack’s fingers, white around the joints, pushing the nail into me.
With my right eye I could see the flesh on that side of my nose tenting. It bulged out. I could see the nail inside the bulge. My nose stretched absurdly.
I heard the now familiar sound of my skin popping. The point of the nail came into view. Jack stood back.
‘Nearly there,’ he said.
‘Nearly?’ I shouted. ‘Nearly?’
Jack laughed.
‘Sorry mate, you sound like a duck. Didn’t mean to laugh. One more will do it. Eyebrow, nose, what next? Ear’s a bit too normal. Bit of a dead zone, the ear. Tell you what, I’ll do you one in the lip. Goes here.’
He pointed at a small silver spine protruding from the front of his face, about half an inch below his lower lip. He pulled the lip out so that I could see it was just as horrible inside.
Then he got another nail. He put this one into my mouth without using the available opening. This one really hurt, and when I tried to complain about it the point of the nail scratched my gums and rattled against my teeth. I still tried to complain. I felt it was justified.
‘Anything?’ asked Jack. ‘Any new insights?’
The only thing I knew then that I hadn’t known before was that having nails in your face hurt. I’d already had an inkling about that. I wanted to put my hands on my face and feel the damage. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to have delusions. Jack would carry on until he’d got it out of his system.
‘Nothing?’ he asked. ‘Oh well. Sorry mate, the face isn’t going to be enough.’
He unbuttoned my shirt.
‘Time for a nipple,’ he said.
III
That was the one. When he held the nail up for me to look at, I was solidly in the room with him. I didn’t have much choice about that, being nailed to the furniture. The last nail went through my right nipple and I was somewhere else.
I was Sam Haines, aged twenty, helping Jack to hold a purring cat over a woman’s face. I was Sam Haines but not myself, and Jack wasn’t Jack. We were ten years younger, popping fingers from the hands of our victims. The dates were wrong. We buried the bones at the end of the railway line, where I’d found the bones. I saw all five victims. I was at the end of the railway lines, burying body parts. I was Sam Haines, aged twenty, doing all of the things Jack had said I’d done. Jack was going along with it all.
Only Jack wasn’t Jack, and I wasn’t me. There were some giveaway signs. For one thing I had breasts.
I would have noticed if I had breasts. I’d have stayed in more often.
They weren’t large but they looked fine from where I was. They were pointed and unexpected. I was Sam Haines, aged twenty, female. And Jack wasn’t Jack.
The time was wrong, the new bones weren’t buried yet.
I arrived back in my body.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I see it.’
Jack looked up. He’d been unbuckling my belt. He looked at me and knew I’d seen it all.
‘You thought it was us,’ I said. ‘You thought you were remembering it. You weren’t remembering anything. Jesus jumping fuck. You were looking the wrong way. You were receiving signals, you said. And you never noticed. The Sam you murdered those people with. You never noticed she was female?’
He dropped a smattering of nails. They landed on my foot.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘This memory of yours. Think about it. Look at Sam. In the memory.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can’t sort it out. The face is like you. It’s a lot like you. Who else would it be?’
‘My daughter,’ I said, seeing the whole thing, stretching on for decades yet. Going on for centuries, perhaps. ‘She’s my daughter. Samantha. In twenty years, she’ll be doing everything you’ve seen. And your nephew will be going along with her. Picking up signals. You were right. You were just wrong about the direction. You’re picking up the future.’
‘Your daughter? What daughter?’
‘Samantha. She’s mine. That’s why Caroline called her Sam. Because I’m her father.’
He seemed shocked by that. I was learning that he had a strange set of morals.
It became clearer as I told him. In twenty years, our relatives would carry out the ritual he’d confessed to. In twenty years they’d be murderers, and there was nothing we could do about it.
You can see an accident coming, sometimes. You sit in the passenger seat as the car approaches the pedestrian and you know that it’s going to hit him. But if you tell the driver, they will tell you they’ve seen the man. There will be cross words. So you keep quiet and the car mounts the pavement and the pedestrian breaks against the front of the car. You can see an accident coming but you can’t do anything about it. Voicing the prediction invalidates the prediction.
My daughter was going to murder five people. Jack’s nephew was going to help
her.
They were only children, now. I couldn’t tell them anything. Tony would not let me in the house.
An old and familiar misery fell on me. It felt glad to be back. It had missed me.
I slumped, letting the nails take the weight. I thought I was going to faint, or become unconscious, or something else relatively painless. Everything went black. Then I found out why they used the wrists when they crucified people. Everything went red, I felt a new level of pain in my hands, and then I was on the floor with a faceful of ironmongery and holes the size of two-pound coins in the palms of my hands.
IV
Jack left soon after that. He helped me get the nails out and then went. I never saw him again. Some things can ruin a friendship.
The wounds became infected. Judy always said I should clean the house more often. Something got under my skin along with the piercings. I ended up losing a lot of skin. My hands were in bad shape as it was. I only have partial use of my fingers. The thumbs came through undamaged. I typed most of this with my thumbs.
The lost skin came from my face. It fell away from the wounds in my nose and eyebrow. I looked like a guinea pig, half my face red, half of it white.
Jack had left, Judy had gone. My job had closed itself. I decided that I would go, too. I decided I would move away.
I gathered a few things that would be useful on the journey.
I prepared to leave. I had nothing to stay for. I could go somewhere a long way away. I could go to the coast. It had been a long time since I’d seen the sea. I could leave Dudley, as the warlock had eight centuries ago.
I’d thought that was all fiction. I’d thought it was story-book stuff.
I knew it wasn’t.
What if magic has a half-life? What if it wears out? What if a warlock visited Dudley seven hundred and eighty years ago? If the half-life of magic was – say – eight hundred years, then he’d need to have the ritual renewed twenty years from now. He’d need to set things in motion.
He wouldn’t want to do it himself. He wouldn’t want to do his own ritual. He’d want someone else to do it for him.
Seeing the Wires Page 24