Compulsion

by Shaun Hutson

  Thompson tried to roll over and, as he did, he heard a sound close to him.

  It was low, rasping breathing.

  Nasal. Thick and mucoid. As if whoever was inhaling and exhaling was doing it through fluid.

  He moved towards the sound as best he could, shuffling along in that reptillian way.

  His cheek was against a stone floor, that much he knew. As for the rest of his surroundings, he had no clue.

  The smells told him nothing.

  The tape had been wrapped so tightly and thickly around his eyes he wouldn’t have been able to see through it even if he had been able to open his lids.

  The mucoid breathing continued.

  So too did another sound close to him.

  A muted sobbing.

  Disorientated by his blindness and pain, he struggled to locate its source.

  The room he was in was silent but for these sounds. He could hear nothing else but the blood rushing in his own ears and the thumping of his own heart.

  He tried to wriggle free of the rope, but the hemp just bit more deeply into the flesh of his wrists.

  Thompson wondered how long he’d been here (wherever the fuck he was) and who had gagged and trussed him so expertly.

  He stopped moving when the pain became too great. Besides, the effort of slithering around on the cold floor was making him tired. He had cramp in his shoulders and the pain just seemed to increase the throbbing in his head.

  He lay still, sucking in breaths through his nose.

  There was a sound away to his right (his left? Behind him? There was no way of telling in this void) and he heard footsteps moving slowly towards him.

  Another smell reached his nostrils.

  He felt a hand sliding up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Felt something cold and sharp being pushed into his flesh. He tried to cry out in pain, but the tape that had been used to seal his eyes had also been used to seal his mouth. The needle was driven into a vein. Within seconds, he began to lose consciousness.

  11-32 P.M.

  Ronni checked her watch against the clock on the wall of her father’s room.

  It felt as if she’d been at the hospital for an eternity.

  Twice already, a nurse had advised her to go home. That her father’s condition had stabilized. That there was nothing she could do.

  Twice Ronni had politely refused the offer.

  The doctors still didn’t know what had caused the sudden fluctuation in blood pressure. It was still high, but at least it had stopped rising. The danger, at least for the time being, appeared to have passed. However, she had been told that her father was still in danger. An operation to remove a steadily growing blood clot now seemed inevitable. And within the next twenty-four hours.

  She hadn’t rung Andy to tell him what had happened.

  What was the point?

  What could he do?

  She wondered if she should ring Shelby House, then decided against it.

  Ronni reached out and touched her father’s hand.

  “I’m still here, Dad,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  “I won’t leave you.”

  She bowed her head, eyes closed, just the sound of the ventilator and the ever-present oscilloscope filling the room.

  “Dad,” she murmured, looking at him again.

  She barely suppressed the scream.

  The face of Janice Holland was staring back at her.

  Ronni tried to pull her hand away, but Janice gripped it like a vice.

  Dead fingers held her tightly.

  And, all the time, eyes like those of a fish on a slab fixed her in an unblinking gaze.

  The blue-tinged lips moved. Formed words.

  But Ronni heard them only inside her head.

  “Let him go.”

  She closed her eyes again.

  When she opened them the vision of Janice Holland was gone.

  Her father’s motionless body lay where it had always been.

  Ronni pulled her hand away quickly, massaging her fingers. She thought she could still feel the touch of cold flesh on them.

  Her breath was coming in gasps.

  She sat for what seemed a long time staring at her father, as if waiting for his features to transform again into those of Janice Holland.

  Wondering if those lifeless lips were going to mouth more words.

  Was this what Harry Holland had felt like when he’d watched Janice die?

  Was this what she herself had to look forward to?

  Ronni swallowed hard and sat back in her chair, not taking her eyes from her father’s face.

  It was another hour before she left.

  Gordon Faulkner banged on the main doors of Shelby House and waited.

  Every now and then he dabbed at his cut cheek with his handkerchief. His arm and leg were sore where the pellets had hit him and his mouth felt numb from the kick he’d sustained.

  Little, bastards.

  He had found the knife with relative ease: a nine-inch, wickedly sharp sheath knife with a double-edge.

  He looked down at the blade as he continued to bang on the doors. Faulkner had no doubt they would have used the weapon on him if they’d got the chance.

  The thought both angered and worried him.

  “Donald,” he called.

  “It’s me. Open up.”

  Faulkner had no spare keys with him. When he’d ventured out into the driveway in pursuit of the trespassers, he’d thought it best to leave them all with the older man.

  No need to make it easy for them and let them just walk in.

  Now he stood, leaning against the door, wondering if the intruders had indeed left the grounds. He’d chased off those three. But there may be more.

  Faulkner had decided that it would be safer inside than out.

  Besides, he needed to get some plasters on these cuts and bruises and swill the blood from his mouth.

  He was about to shout again when he heard the key being turned on the other side of the door.

  He practically fell into the hallway, almost colliding with Colin Glazer and Donald Tanner.

  “Lock it,” Faulkner said breathlessly.

  Tanner complied.

  Glazer looked at his face.

  “What happened?” he wanted to know.

  “I had a run-in with the bastards who’ve been doing this,” Faulkner snapped. He held up the knife as if to reinforce his words.

  “Is everyone all right? I thought I heard a window being broken while I was out there.”

  “They threw a stone,” Glazer told him.

  “They ran off after that.”

  George Errington appeared from the day room and peered at Faulkner over the top of his glasses.

  Eva Cole joined him and they both gazed on apparently unperturbed by Faulkner’s dishevelled and bloodied appearance.

  “I’m going to call the police,” Faulkner said.

  “What’s the point?” Tanner asked.

  “They won’t do anything anyway.”

  “I’ve got this,” Faulkner announced, brandishing the knife.

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Of what?” Glazer said challengingly.

  “They tried to kill me. It’ll have fingerprints on it.”

  “If I was you, I’d let me have a look at those cuts.” The voice came from the stairs.

  Jack Fuller advanced towards Faulkner and put a comforting arm around his shoulder.

  “It’s me who’s supposed to be looking after you.” Faulkner smiled.

  “You were a medical orderly in the army. You’re not now.”

  “Come on,” Fuller insisted.

  “It’d be best if we wait until Ronni gets back,” Eva Cole offered.

  Glazer put out his hand.

  “I’ll take the knife, Gordon,” he said flatly.

  Faulkner hesitated a moment, then handed it to the older man.

  “Which window did they break?” he asked.

  The downstairs office,” Fuller
said.

  “We’ll board it up with some plywood for the time being.”

  Faulkner nodded and allowed himself to be led along the corridor by Fuller.

  “You need to rest,” Glazer said.

  “We’ll be fine until Ronni gets back.”

  “I hope you’re right, Colin,” Faulkner intoned.

  Glazer merely smiled.

  FOR A MOMENT, the taxi driver wondered if she was going to get out. He glanced around at Ronni who sat gazing blankly ahead.

  “Nine-fifty, please,” he said.

  Ronni nodded and pushed a ten pound note into his hand.

  Only then did she reach for the handle and open the door.

  She could see lights on inside Shelby House.

  “Your change,” said the driver, offering some coins.

  “Keep it.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered unenthusiastically.

  Ronni stepped out into the drive and made her way to the main doors.

  Behind her, she could hear the tyres crunching gravel.

  She hoped he didn’t wake any of the residents.

  As she unlocked the main doors and walked in, she saw her concerns were unwarranted.

  George Errington and Colin Glazer emerged from the day room and smiled at her.

  She smiled back as warmly as she could.

  “Everything all right, George?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Faulkner’s asleep upstairs,” he told her.

  “They came again while you were gone,” Glazer added.

  “Who?”

  “Those kids. They tried to break in.”

  “Oh God, no. What happened?”

  They ushered her towards the day room and Ronni was surprised to find all the residents sitting in there despite the lateness of the hour.

  Helen Kennedy sat her down.

  Barbara Eustace offered a consoling smile and tapped her arm.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Ronni asked.

  “Gordon got a few cuts and bruises, but that was it,” Jack Fuller informed her.

  Ronni ran a hand through her hair.

  “When is this going to end?” she murmured and Helen saw tears in her eyes.

  “How’s your father, Ronni?” she asked.

  The younger woman could only shake her head.

  “He’s hanging on,” she muttered, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  “They’re not sure .. .”

  She looked across at Harry Holland, who was smiling at her understandingly.

  “I know how you feel,” he told her.

  ‘1 know that, Harry, and I appreciate it.” She sucked in a deep breath.

  “Did Gordon call the police?”

  “We told him there was no point,” Errington said.

  “Perhaps I’d better call them.”

  “Why?” Jack Fuller asked.

  “They’ll do nothing, you know that. Besides, what can you tell them?

  You weren’t even here when it happened.”

  Ronni looked at him, wondering if that was an accusatory edge to his voice.

  She decided it wasn’t.

  “Go to bed, Veronica,” Barbara Eustace said.

  “Rest.”

  “I can’t. I should speak to Gordon. Find out ‘ “Go to bed,” Fuller said, sharply.

  “He’s right,” Eva Cole added.

  “Go now,” Donald Tanner insisted.

  “There’s nothing you can do tonight,” Harry Holland told her.

  Ronni regarded the row of faces opposite.

  “Go to bed,” Fuller repeated.

  Ronni nodded and got to her feet. When she reached the door of the day room she paused and turned to look at the residents once again.

  “We’ll be fine,” Errington insisted, answering her unspoken words.

  She trudged up the stairs, passing the room where Gordon Faulkner was snoring contentedly.

  She closed her door, then undressed wearily and sat on the edge of the bed. Through the thick walls, she could no longer hear Faulkner’s snoring.

  There was a tap on the door.

  “Yes?” Ronni said, clearing her throat.

  Helen Kennedy entered carrying a mug of steaming liquid. She set it down on the bedside table without speaking, gently squeezed Ronni’s arm, then retreated from the room.

  “Thanks, Helen,” Ronni said and took a sip of the warm milk.

  Helen made her way back downstairs to the day room where her companions waited.

  “How much did you give her?” Fuller asked.

  “Forty milligrams, like you said,” Helen answered.

  “The same as I gave Gordon.”

  “They’ll sleep until morning,” he said flatly.

  “We won’t be disturbed.”

  THE PAIN WAS agonizing.

  Carl Thompson howled, but the sound was muffled by the gaffer tape wound tightly around his mouth.

  The piece that was ripped from his eyes tore away a small portion of his eyebrow and dozens of eyelashes. For a moment, he thought the left lid itself had torn, so intense was the pain.

  Light flooded in from all directions and he squinted as the fluorescent glow assaulted his eyes.

  There was still a dull ache at the back of his head, but that had subsided somewhat. Now he began to look around, trying to take in every detail of what was before him.

  As far as he could tell, he was in a room about twenty feet square. It was without carpets or furniture, although there were a couple of old filing cabinets in one corner. The only things in the room were several mattresses for both single and double beds and stacks of brilliant white sheets, all covered with thick polythene.

  To the rear of the room there were two industrial-size washing machines.

  A flight of stone steps led up towards a white door.

  The walls of the room itself were also white.

  Everything was white it seemed to him.

  Even the one small window high up in the wall. It looked as if the glass and the latch had been painted over.

  Ceiling. Walls. Doors. And, of course, the sheets.

  At last he could identify that smell he’d detected when he’d first woken.

  It was freshly laundered linen.

  To his right, sitting on the floor, arms and legs bound, was Donna Freeman.

  The thick tape was still around her eyes and mouth.

  To his left also on the floor, but lying on it immobile was Graham Brown. He had a bad cut on his head and blood had dripped from the wound onto the stone floor to form a congealed pool.

  He didn’t recognize the old man who stood before him holding the piece of gaffer tape.

  There were two other old men there as well, one of them peering over the top of his glasses, looking down disdainfully at Thompson.

  He also saw an old woman. White hair. Short. She was staring at him as if he was an exhibit in a zoo. Her expression was a combination of distaste and curiosity.

  Thompson studied all the faces.

  Fucking old bastards.

  “Not so tough now, are you, lad?” said Jack Fuller.

  “You or your friends.”

  You let me go and I’ll show you fucking tough, you old cunt.

  Harry Holland stepped forward and pulled something from his trouser pocket. He thrust it towards Thompson.

  It was a photo of Janice Holland.

  “You killed my wife,” Holland told him.

  “Look at her face. I look at that face every night and realize I’ll never see her again. And it’s because of you and these’ he nodded towards Donna and Brown these like you.” Holland stepped back.

  George Errington moved towards him, still peering over his thick glasses. He ran appraising eyes over Thompson, then nodded towards the motionless body of Brown.

  “That’s how you would have left us, isn’t it?” said Errington.

  Thompson held his gaze.

  “He might die,” the older man continued.

  “
It looks as if his skull could be fractured. If you hadn’t come in here, it wouldn’t have happened, would it? You’re to blame if anything happens to him. You were trespassing. We were defending ourselves. Remember that.” Errington stepped back.

  “Did you make her come with you?”

  The next voice belonged to Eva Cole.

  She was pointing towards Donna.

  Thompson shook his head, but that act caused a resumption of the pain in his skull. He winced.

  “Ah,” Eva chided.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Thompson sucked in air through his nose. When he exhaled a bubble of mucus swelled from his right nostril.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” Eva persisted, again nodding towards Donna, who had turned her head in the direction of the voices.

  Thompson didn’t move. He merely stared deeply into the milky blue eyes of the old woman before him.

  When I get out I’m going to fucking kill you, you old cunt.

  “Or is he your boyfriend?” Eva grinned.

  Thompson lunged forward, his eyes blazing. But he could get no closer to the white-haired woman and she merely moved backwards, the smile still on her thin lips.

  “We need to talk.”

  The voice came from Jack Fuller.

  Thompson saw him step forward.

  He saw the syringe in his hand; saw him lift it into the air and work the plunger, expelling any air bubbles present, A stream of clear fluid spurted from the tip of the needle.

  Thompson felt a sudden twinge of fear. He swallowed hard and tried not to show his concern to the old people watching him.

  Fuller moved towards Brown first. He ran the needle into his arm and pressed down on the plunger, then refilled the syringe from a bottle he took from his pocket.

  The older man pushed up the sleeve of Donna’s jacket. She began to struggle as he did, but he ignored her vain attempts to scramble away.

  He regarded the crook of her arm: the bruises. The track marks.

  He shook his head contemptuously.

  “No need to make a new hole,” he murmured.

  As Donna tried to squeal through the gaffer tape, Fuller took the nail of his index finger and worked it beneath one of the scabs on her arm. The flap of dried skin lifted and he peeled it away, exposing reddish-pink flesh beneath. He ran the needle into the hole he had exposed. Into the pulsing vein.

  Donna’s squeals of anger turned to muted sobs.

  Fuller refilled the hypodermic a third time.