Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  There hadn’t been much to him at all; no great, obvious muscle mass. He was a fairly tall bloke and of a slim-to-scrawny build. Or rather, he had been.

  But there had been power in those arms when the pair of them had fought and — for a time — Blakely had thrown him around like he was merely a rag doll. An amusement.

  But, then again, he had been in the process of murdering most of Blakely’s friends and companions.

  Adrenaline.

  It could make you do crazy things; give you an almost inhuman strength.

  For a time.

  He remembered reading an article in a paper somewhere about a mother who had lifted a solid section of wall after it had fallen on her child. Three men couldn’t shift it. But the mother, hell-bent on saving the sprog she had popped out only five years earlier, had raised the still-cemented bricks while her neighbours had pulled the kid to safety.

  Then, she had turned to check that her child was safe. She had smiled, seeing that he was. And had promptly died of a massive heart attack.

  Adrenaline.

  He pushed out a long breath and turned again — onto his side this time — propping himself up on his elbow. He reached over to the bedside table where he found the packet of tablets that the accommodating, latte-licious whore had pressed into his pocket up on the open deck that morning.

  So much had happened since then.

  Lost briefly in remembering, his eyes found the beautifully crafted handle of the flick-knife that now sat next to the ibuprofen. Blakely’s knife.

  He licked his lips; his thoughts returning — suddenly — to the dark-haired dancer. To that delightfully tight, little button arse that she seemed to enjoy showing off as she paraded around the upper deck.

  Popping two of the pills into his mouth he swallowed them down without a drink.

  Yes, a lot had happened since that morning.

  But the night wasn’t over yet.

  Slowly, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His thigh stung as he flexed the healing muscle. He winced silently, examining the wound. The stitches were holding at least.

  He had made a good job of them; each stitch sewn individually as his brother had taught him. Individual stitching made it easier to cut them out later.

  A travel-sized sewing kit was never too far from his weapon of choice these days.

  He jumped up, immediately regretting the action and paused, bent — almost doubled-over — in pain for a moment, sucking in quick, small breaths. It wasn’t just his leg, his ribs ached too; the muscles around them pulsing with every heart beat.

  And his face, God, his face was sore! He could only imagine the bruising as he ran the tips of his finger over his swollen cheeks in the darkened room.

  And it hadn’t been just Blakely he had had to contend with today.

  There had been Stacey too.

  She had scrambled about a bit, trying to hold on; not managing to inflict any real damage on him. But, still.

  She had twitched and writhed as he had dragged her from the bathroom, but there was no real fight left in her by then. Life and sense were ebbing from her in the dark red gush that sprang from her shattered, little face.

  A broken china doll.

  She had flailed in his arms, striking wildly at him as he had nibbled at her neck; tasting her young flesh. Then, the nibbling turned to biting and then, suddenly, he had been tearing soft, pink chunks from her.

  He couldn’t say whether she had been conscious when he had torn out her throat.

  He hoped so.

  And then there was the artist; Kelly.

  Jesus, she was tough for a bird! What a scrapper!

  She had been busy painting when he had found her and was in an almost trance-like state, moving from the pallet to the fresh canvas and back again in a quiet fury of fluid movements.

  It was odd to say the least, but enticing and he found himself watching her from the shadows for some time before finally revealing himself to take control of her.

  Watching her work he had realised, all of a sudden, that he had encountered the strange, inky-haired artist — who reminded him of something from the Goth scene back home — once before.

  The night before, in fact.

  She had been the sickly sack of scrawny-looking bones that had staggered from the theatre not too long before he himself had given up on the cacophony of moral dogma.

  Funny how things worked out.

  He had imagined — for the briefest of moments — the pair of them working together.

  He was well acquainted with the work of Kelly Livingstone. He had even visited a gallery to see it! Though, he had never previously known her face before this surreptitious boat trip.

  Initially, Vince had made him visit the gallery; dragged him there — almost kicking and screaming — muttering something about culture.

  Ha! He pissed fucking culture!

  Back then he had been so reluctant.

  Why the fuck would he want to go looking at a bunch of sappy paintings by stuffy, bloody, self-involved artists?

  But Vince had insisted.

  And the twisted, old bastard had been right.

  He had enjoyed himself. Kelly’s work had given him a lot to think about; it had given him a semi just to look at it, if he was honest!

  After that particular excursion he had enjoyed a very interesting evening with a homeless girl — who remained a missing person to this day — revisiting the savage imagery of the paintings he had enjoyed most. Recreating them in his very own very physical style.

  Never-the-less, it was thanks to Vince that he had been introduced to the brutal work of the enlighteningly morbid artist who now laboured before him; creating new works in his unknown presence.

  Watching her, his breath had quickened.

  He admired the vicious honesty and wild passion of Kelly’s work. He adored it in a way that made him want to fuck the canvas; to just be fucking part of it!

  But that simply wouldn’t do.

  And besides, he didn’t work well with others. And he knew it.

  In the brief time between him revealing himself and her realising that she was no longer alone, their artistic differences had caused a rift to open up between them, forcing his hand towards the action of having to knock her the fuck out.

  She had struggled — hell, she had given him a fucking good run for his money — but he had his way in the end.

  He only hoped he hadn’t gone too far.

  He couldn’t recall everything, but knew he had become rather excited by the whole . . . affair. What if he had gotten too carried away and . . .?

  Still. Never mind.

  He had been exhausted afterwards and crashed out on the bed for . . . he didn’t really know how long. But now he was refreshed and ready for action.

  He pulled his trousers back on and stumbled over to the re-stocked mini-bar that was no longer locked.

  Unfortunately it was no longer cooling the contents either. The first real downfall he had encountered since cutting the ship’s imaginary power cord. Still, you couldn’t make an omelette . . .

  If he was honest with himself — and he generally was — he hadn’t really expected it to work. And certainly not this well!

  He grinned, taking a small bottle of Spanish beer from the mini-bar, pleased to find that it was still fairly chilled.

  He popped the top using the edge of the dressing table, slamming his hand down hard, before shaking it off as the excess bubbles danced over his fingers. Bringing the bottle to his dry and swollen lips he downed the liquid in several gulps before tossing the bottle onto the floor.

  He stretched slowly, feeling every cut and every bruise complaining as he did.

  He was becoming more and more accustomed to the feel of the ocean beneath his feet and even the ever-growing storm had done little to dampen his heightened spirits and cheery mood.

  Tapping his pocket to locate his cardkey — though he doubted he would be needing it anytime soon — he
gave a small nod; confirming to no one but himself that the key was safe.

  He began whistling the tune of an animated film he had seen as a child as he returned to the bedside table unit, grabbing Blakely’s knife and pushing it into his free pocket.

  Moving back towards the door he reached for the handle.

  ‘It’s off to work I go.’ he grinned as he stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

  19:30

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  Christine struggled to keep up with Prior as they entered the medical bay for the second time that evening. The doors closed behind her and she found herself momentarily blinded as before.

  Her mind rattled as she tallied the death toll that this unknown killer had managed to rack up in only a few short hours; Gary Blakely, twenty-three members of the engineering crew (that she had counted), Stacey Atkins and now Dr Cunningham.

  And they were still no closer to discovering his identity. Neither did they have any idea why he was killing in such an apparently sporadic and disparate fashion.

  Why he was killing at all.

  Christine couldn’t help but feel that had she not offered her assistance earlier, she would still have been receiving a knock on the door right about now from the green-eyed Security Chief, Jonathan Prior. She could just imagine the conversation; the awkwardness and his eventual imploring of her to join him and offer her professional opinion. She could see him in her mind, cautiously inviting her input whilst he tip-toed around the issues of her recent past.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realised that there was in fact nowhere else she would rather be at a time like this. Regardless of her fears and her somewhat shattered confidence, this was what she did; it was who she was.

  She would much rather be aiding in the investigation than be sat in the dark of her room, climbing the walls in terror and self-loathing. Or drowning her sorrows and trying to numb the sense of panic and pain with a nice bottle of rosé.

  I do drink far too much. She thought as they approached Dr Matthews and the handsome, blonde-haired ox that was Davies.

  Matthews looked undeniably shaken. If it was possible she looked even paler than she had earlier and her hands shook whenever she unclasped them. On the table before her lay the undeniable outline of a body covered by a thin, pale green sheet. Seeing Christine and Prior she opened her mouth to speak.

  Silence.

  She gave herself a moment before she tried a second time.

  ‘He was in the mortuary freezer.’ she stammered.

  Christine shifted her weight, stretching out her stiffening left leg as Prior lifted the sheet before them.

  The sight that greeted them seemed a quiet Sunday afternoon compared to the body they had just left. And yet it was no less horrid.

  The only visible injury was located in the centre of the deceased doctor’s forehead, just above the line of his eyebrows. It was an open wound that looked to extend at least an inch deep into his skull. The hollow gash was merely millimetres thick, but appeared to have done the trick.

  Christine leaned in, visually examining Cunningham; inspecting the bruising around the site of the wound.

  It was dark and distinct; a deep blue-black contusion with edges that were crisp rather than diffuse. Such a defined pattern indicated that the blood from the ruptured vessels beneath the surface of the skin hadn’t had much opportunity to seep into the wider tissue area. It was what she would have expected from such a mortal-looking injury and she anticipated that the bruising appeared so sharp due to the fact that the blood had ceased pumping around Cunningham’s body shortly after the injury had occurred; which in turn, indicated that the damage had been sustained peri-mortem.

  ‘This was the cause of death?’ she asked, confident in her silent deduction.

  Dr Matthews nodded, ‘He doesn’t seem to have suffered any other external injuries. But, I’ll know more when I . . .’ Her words trailed off to nothingness as she fought to control the emotion that quivered in her voice. ‘They say you shouldn’t carry out a pathological examination on someone you know. Have known.’

  ‘I hate to say it, Dr Matthews,’ Prior said, his voice quiet and almost as lost as hers, ‘and I hate to be the one to point it out and sound completely heartless here, but I have a feeling that you’re going to be quite busy with post-mortems.’ he paused, touching her hand, trying to comfort her, to make a human connection, ‘And most of them will be concerning people that you . . . that we, all of us . . . have known. And loved. I need to know that you can cope.’

  Christine stared at him, feeling for him and knowing that he was right. And that Dr Matthews was now the only one who could do this. The only one qualified.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, noticing the shining bruise that was beginning to show across his cheek, blackening the skin below his left eye. Then she recoiled, clearly catching the scent of vomit from his ribbed, wool jumper. ‘And what is that smell?’

  ‘Davies’ he said, pointing to his cheek. Matthews looked concerned for a moment and threw a daggered glance at the blonde ox, but Prior shook his head, grinning. ‘Nothing to worry about. A simple miscommunication.’ Then he pointed to his jumper. ‘The Atkins girl. The sister. Is she still here?’

  Matthews nodded her head towards a separate room. The room she had discovered Cunningham’s almost-empty wine bottle in earlier that morning. ‘She’s talking to somebody now.’

  ‘It might be easier you know, Doc. Having more autopsies to . . .’ Davies’ voice tailed off as he continued to stare at the body of Dr Cunningham. Matthews’ eyes locked him suddenly with a daggered glare.

  Christine could see that he immediately regretted airing the statement and wished that he could take it back; that he had been trying to bring some sense of alleviation to both the awful situation and the hawk-like doctor in the only way he could think of.

  All he had managed to succeed in doing was to incite a visible rage in the tall, angular woman, whose light blue eyes — though glistening with tears that threatened to breach her severe exterior — had turned suddenly dark as the storm outside, flashing with a white hot anger.

  ‘Easier!’ she snapped, turning on the blonde bull, ‘You think that having more people to cut open and catalogue and try to determine a cause of death for; that having more human organs to weigh and dissect and label and store will be easier?’

  ‘I just thought it might, you know, keep you busy — ’

  ‘Busy?’ she repeated, furiously.

  ‘I thought that if you were just going through the motions it might be more — ’

  ‘Going through the motions!’ she interrupted a second time. ‘This isn’t like mopping up the floor at the end of the night, Marc. Or getting your paperwork in order, or fucking tidying your room in case you pull, you know!

  ‘I . . . I Know, I just . . .’

  ‘What was the mechanism of death?’ Christine cut in, trying to divert Matthews’ frustrated attention away from wanting to throttle Davies.

  Matthews shook her head in clear irritation. ‘He . . . I can’t be absolutely certain until . . . but, from the looks of the bruising around the wound, I’d say death occurred within minutes of him being stabbed. The instrument entered just above the procerus muscle and penetrated the skull.’ She pushed out a heavy sigh before continuing; slowing her words as she began to come down from her rage, ‘There’s clear evidence of sharp-force trauma; a single, swift delivery by some sort of blade. He’s most likely suffered an epidural bleed.’ Matthews paused, eyeing Christine coldly, ‘But, like I say, I can’t be absolutely certain at this time.’

  Christine nodded.

  She glanced around the room, which finally appeared to be settling in terms of noise and hustle, despite the fact that it was still bursting at the seams with bodies and medical staff.

  She couldn’t help but notice the mortuary freezers at the far end of the room and found herself contemplating the limited amount of space that woul
d be on offer to house the ever-increasing number of cadavers needing to be stored.

  Christine couldn’t bring herself to air the question. Thinking of Matthews’ reaction to Davies words only moment earlier made her slightly nervous and she flicked her eyes up to meet Prior’s. He gave a small, but resolute nod, seeming to know her thoughts.

  Scanning the medical bay once more, Christine suddenly frowned.

  ‘Where’s Kelly?’ she asked.

  Matthews stared at her for a moment, but before Christine could push for an answer a team of two security officers and two medical staff — none of them older than twenty five — burst into the light of the medical bay, each shielding their eyes as they did. They pulled between them a large, deep, squeaking laundry trolley; an off-white and blood-stained blanket covering the mass of oddly angled shapes beneath it.

  The lead security officer, a tall lad with broad shoulders and short-cropped black hair clicked off the torch in his hand and — seeing Prior — made his way towards the Security Chief.

  ‘Sir.’ he said, pausing to take in the bruising that now adorned his commander’s face as well as the stench of the drying vomit that had become a crust on the wool of his top. He chose not to mention them. ‘We’ve done all we can down in engineering, the medical teams tried to revive the victims trapped inside the lock-down area.’ He paused a second time and shook his head, gnawing his lower lip for a moment as he pushed back the emotions that were clearly beginning to overwhelm him.

  ‘It’s alright, Stratton.’ Prior said, ‘You’re doing fine.’

  The man named Stratton pushed out a long breath and continued to shake his head, his dark eyes glassy as he stared into the space between Prior and Christine. ‘There were so many, Guv’.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Prior asked, nodding towards the trolley they had just wheeled in.

  Christine couldn’t help but feel for the young man who seemed suddenly younger still. A boy lost in a wood of terrifying clinical chaos.

  ‘That’s Blakely, Sir.’ he said, trembling, ‘We did our best, but he’s still . . .’

  Prior put his hand on Stratton’s shoulder, reassuring him. ‘Did you take pictures of the scene, check for evidence?’