by Ryan Casey
Brian wasn’t really taking in Simon’s words. But as he reached a door, stopped at it, the sentence clicked.
Something about “keeping it like it was.”
“What do you mean you kept it like it was?” Brian asked. “Is it the letters you’re on about?”
Simon looked at Brian, not a flicker of emotion on his face.
Then he turned the handle to the bedroom door.
“See for yourself,” he said.
He pushed open the door.
And Brian saw exactly what Simon was talking about. He saw it right away.
The pieces of paper pinned all over the walls.
Incomprehensible handwriting etched in red ink.
And right in front of him, beside the sketches of crosses and suns and hills and what looked like cats and mice, he saw the words.
Saw them in big bold writing.
In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.
Thirty-Six
“Are you gonna be down there much longer, Brian?”
Hannah’s voice made Brian jump. He was sat at the kitchen table leaning over her laptop, the noisy fans whirring through the silence. He’d drifted off. Must’ve drifted off. Hadn’t eaten a thing since he’d got in from work. Well, not work in the conventional sense. He hadn’t been back in work since storming out of the inquiry room.
He knew it was bad. He knew he was putting his career, his future, at risk.
But sometimes morals transcended career.
He was really starting to realise that now.
He leaned back on the creaky kitchen chair and looked at Hannah. She was standing at the door in her dressing gown. He couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not because the kitchen light wasn’t on, none of the lights were on. He hadn’t needed them on when he’d opened up the laptop. When he’d started piecing together every little thing he could from the information George Andrews gave him, and the rest of the case.
He told Hannah he’d be up to bed by ten. Quick look at the time in the bottom right of the computer screen revealed it was half eleven.
Brian stretched his fingers out. Cracked them. Smiled. “Sorry, Han. Really am.”
She walked into the kitchen, her bare feet patting against the cold tiles of the floor. She perched beside him. Looked at the documents on the table, at the word docs he’d created on the screen. “Work?” she asked.
Brian wiped the sweat from his upper lip and stared at the screen. Every time he looked at it, he just felt more bleary-eyed. “Yeah. Just … just piecing the case together. The Mahone and Galbraith one.”
“That’s funny,” Hannah said.
“What is?”
She looked at him. “Work called earlier. Wanted to know where you were. Said you ran out of a formal meeting. Sounded like they really want to speak to you.”
Brian tried to think of an excuse. A way to weasel his way out. But he saw Hannah’s eyes. Saw he was caught in their crosshairs. “No point bullshitting you is there?”
“No,” she said. “No there isn’t.”
He swallowed a sickly lump in his throat and heard his stomach churn. “There’s … there’s a lot going on. In this case.”
“I can see that,” Hannah said, paging through the papers. “And that’s what worries me.”
“Carly Mahone used to be in … in a kind of cult. Call themselves the Children of the Light.” He whispered their name like they might just be listening through the walls. “They’re a nutty bunch. Sex Incantation, orgies, shit like that.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“That’s what I thought. But there’s also strong links to them and the murders of Harry Galbraith and Carly Mahone, as well as Alison West and Jodie Kestrel. Carly was … I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
Hannah put a hand on Brian’s thigh and squeezed. “You can tell me.”
“I’m really not sure I can,” Brian said.
There was silence between them for a few moments. Silence, as her warm hand held onto his thigh. Silence as he mulled over the facts of the case. Carly Mahone’s death. Killed for something to do with promotion to “Level Ten”. Killed in ritualistic fashion because of what she knew; because of what all those who hadn’t stepped up to Level Ten knew. Harry Galbraith killed too. Joe Kershaw, his scapegoating, even though he had no links to the Children of the Light that Brian was aware of yet, nothing but the veterinary syringes he used to drain his mice. Was that a coincidence? Or was that a setup too?
And then there was Alison West. The girl who was best friends with Carly. In the Children of the Light with her. She was scared of something. Terrified.
And then, when she tried to get away, she was dead.
Then Jodie Kestrel. The girl who was cheating with her sister’s husband, Simon. Her breakdown after her sister’s death. The letters on the walls—the letters and the notes that Brian had photographed but kept to himself for now.
In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon …
And Lilian Chalmers. The way she’d looked Brian in the eyes and effectively told him to stay away. The way she knew about him, about his family.
George Andrews and his evidence of the murders of 1995 and 1974.
Identical methods.
Almost killed for pursuing the truth.
The police’s cover up. The financial incentivisation of organised crime.
“When I say I’m worried about telling you the truth,” Brian said, grabbing Hannah’s hand and holding it tight. “I mean it. I mean I’m genuinely worried. How deep this case goes. I’m worried … I’m worried what might happen if I shake the wasps’ nest too much. I’m worried what I might awaken.”
Hannah looked him in his watery eyes for a few seconds.
Then she leaned over to his left ear.
“You’re a man of morals. That’s your problem. But it’s not a bad problem to have.”
She kissed him on his cheek—a cheek he knew was stubbly and unshaven like she hated but hadn’t had time to see to lately.
Then she squeezed his legs again and stood.
“I’ll be upstairs,” she said. “You take as long as you need.”
Brian pulled her down and kissed her on her soft lips. Gave him butterflies, just like it always did. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined they were away somewhere. Her, Sam and him, all of them away, all on some kind of holiday, some peaceful post-retirement break he’d promised his family.
Something he wasn’t sure he could keep on promising.
Then she walked out of the kitchen and Brian was alone again.
He looked at the screen. The brightness burned his retinas. He pulled his phone from his pocket, chanced a look to see how many missed calls he had, how many …
Just as he lifted it out, he saw it was ringing.
Annie. DC Annie Sanders. She was ringing.
At quarter to twelve. Shit. What could she want at this time? What could she possibly want at this time?
He thought about ignoring it, about letting it ring on, but instead, he hit answer and put it to his ear, cringing as he braced himself for a verbal fucking inquisition. “Hi, Annie.”
“McDone. Thought you might’ve topped yourself or … Sorry. I didn’t mean that—”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I should be the one asking questions,” Annie said. “I’m on night duty. Marlow was going spare all day about you disappearing. Heard some talks that they might be bringing the big boss man in to meet with you tomorrow. Doesn’t look good, mate.”
Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose. Fuck. The “boss man” Annie referred to was Chief Constable Jerry Matthews. He was a ball ache to say the least. Brian didn’t see him much these days—thankfully—but he knew from his painstaking lapdog spending cut measures that he’d take any opportunity he could to discard Brian from the force. “I um … I wasn’t feeling good—”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Annie said. “I know what’s going on. It’s this case. Unanswered questions,
all that shit. I get it too. Listen, I … I can’t speak long. But I might have something for you. Seeing as you’re the expert in OTR missions.”
“OTR?”
“Off the record, jeez … Look, listen to me. We got news from the hospital. Joe Kershaw. He’s awake.”
Brian’s stomach did a somersault. “He’s—he’s conscious?”
“He is. But I … Brian, after what you said and what happened to Alison West I’m … I’m worried he won’t be awake too long.”
Fuck. Brian couldn’t believe he was actually hearing these words. It was like he’d stepped into a sci-fi or something. Like his life had turned into one big story. “Thanks, Annie. I … We can speak to Joe tomorrow. One of you can speak to him tomorrow.”
“I hope so,” she said. But Brian heard the uncertainty in her voice. “I really hope so. Anyway, gotta shoot. Stay safe, Brian. You’re a grumpy cunt but you’re alright.”
“Charming.”
Even more charming, Annie hung up.
Brian sat in the silence of his kitchen. Heart racing. Sweat dripping down his upper arm.
Joe Kershaw was awake.
Annie was worried how long he’d stay awake.
So she suspected, too. Suspected there was some kind of cover-up. That the wings of the Children of the Light spread much further than any of them realised.
He got up from the table. Walked out of the kitchen, towards the bottom of the stairs. He stood there for a few minutes. Stood there just staring up at Sam’s partly ajar bedroom door. He wanted to stay at home. He wanted to be that family man. He wanted to let the case unfold like it had to unfold. He wanted to stop digging because he knew damned well he might just be digging his own grave.
But he couldn’t stop digging.
He couldn’t stop digging because that’s who he was.
Not so different to Samantha Carter after all.
He grabbed his black coat and he walked towards the front door.
Grabbed the handle, lowered it.
Then he stepped out into the cool summer night and looked over at the hospital lights flickering in the distance.
Thirty-Seven
When Hannah heard the door click shut for a second time, she figured Brian was back home from wherever he’d disappeared to.
She stood in the en suite bathroom wiping off what little makeup she wore. The light above the mirror was flickering as usual. Something Brian always said he’d fix some day. Just like the loose rear-view mirror in the car. Like most things with Brian, it was always “some day.”
Not that Hannah got on his case for it. She understood he was busy. Respected that when he had stuff going on at work, he really did submerge himself in it completely. She just felt sad for Brian. Not because of a flickering lamp, but simply because of what it represented. The fact that Sam and her were here at home. The fact that he always seemed to be at work —even when he was here, his mind wasn’t here, not really.
She didn’t mope in self-pity about it. Unlike most people, Hannah wasn’t the centre of her own fucking universe. She understood other people had needs and aims in their lives. Knew they had preoccupations of their own.
She just felt bad for Brian. Because she knew how much he wanted to be a dad. But at the same time, she knew how much he wanted to be a good person.
She put a foot on the pedal of the waste bin and threw in some cotton buds. Heard footsteps creaking around downstairs. She knew Brian didn’t like to accept that he was a man of morals but hell, he absolutely was. It was the reason he’d got himself into so many scrapes in the past. So many scrapes that he could’ve avoided—that so many other police officers avoided. He went the extra mile, not because he felt he had to, but because of his obsession with justice. With making sure people were brought to account for their crimes. An inherent sense of moral goodness that drew Hannah to him in the first place.
And sure, he wasn’t perfect. He snored. Farted. He was an ignorant, sometimes arrogant pig who absolutely hated organised fun and wasn’t afraid to make his feelings known if he didn’t like someone.
But he was honest.
He was honest and he was good.
And that’s why Hannah loved him.
She heard the glass smash downstairs and that’s when the worry kicked in. Brian was always so quiet around the house when Sam was sleeping, especially at night. And he wasn’t a clumsy guy. She was the clumsy one of the pair. Always dropping glasses, spilling wine, putting coloured laundry in with whites and turning all Brian’s boxers pink.
But the glass smashing. It wasn’t like Brian.
She shook her head and looked back at the mirror. He’d be up here soon. He’d dropped a glass. So what, big deal. Everyone dropped a fucking glass from time to time.
But as she rinsed her face in the flickering light, she remembered something her husband had said to her.
Something about the case he was working on.
I’m worried what might happen if I shake the wasps’ nest too much …
Hannah stopped rinsing her face. Turned the tap, slowly. Her heart started to pick up as she looked into the mirror. Her stomach turned. She knew she was being paranoid. Knew she was probably just being crazy.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something was desperately wrong.
She wiped her face with a towel and crept out of the en suite. The bedroom was dark. In the gloomy corners, shadows seemed to move in the corner of her eyes. Outside on the street, she saw the flickering lights of televisions in upstairs bedrooms, where children sat up late playing video games and watching Netflix. The pavement was quiet and empty, as usual. The distant whir of traffic from Sharoe Green Lane, from over towards the hospital, buzzed on.
She felt a flicker of relief when she smelled burning.
Funny thing to feel relieved about, sure. But their toaster had been playing up for weeks—another thing Brian swore he’d replace when he “got round to it.” But fuck. What kind of a burglar would be making toast? It was Brian. Brian loved his toast. Brian—
Hannah swore she saw movement in the corner of her eyes.
On the landing.
Outside the bedroom door.
Thing is, she could hear footsteps downstairs.
Someone upstairs.
Someone downstairs.
Brian couldn’t be in two places at once.
Her muscles tightened. She knew she should go to her phone. Call Brian. Call the police. Call fucking someone. But as with any mother living in today’s world, maternal instinct kicked in. She needed to know Sam was okay. Because if there were someone in the house they could take him, hurt him, and …
The burning smell got stronger.
Stronger than burning toast.
Hannah crept across the room, colours swirling in the outskirts of her eyes. She had to get to Sam. Get him out of his cot and get down the stairs and get out of here. She could make it. She could make it away. She just had to hurry. She just had to keep moving. She just had to …
She stopped outside Sam’s door.
Stopped, and every muscle in her body went loose.
Someone was standing over Sam’s cot.
Again, Hannah knew she should run. Knew she should go get her phone. Because the person in the room was a man. Bigger than her. Too strong for her.
But maternal instinct kicked in again.
So she threw herself towards the intruder.
Only she didn’t move.
She didn’t move because someone was behind her.
Someone grabbed hold of her.
She tried to struggle and wriggle free from the sweaty grip of this man, cold ring pressing against her teeth as she tried to bite down, but it was no use. He was too strong.
And he was turning her away from her Sam.
He was turning her away from her baby.
And then she was facing the stairs. She was facing the stairs and she could see the smoke creeping up; she could see the flickering orange glow f
rom the kitchen, smell the fumes getting stronger. See another silhouette standing at the bottom of the stairs, a can of petrol in one hand, a lit match in the other.
“Sorry about this, love,” the deep voice whispered into her ear. “Nothing personal. Really mean that.”
He gripped her tighter, pulled her struggling hands behind her back.
Then the man at the bottom of the stairs dropped the match.
Thirty-Eight
Brian sprinted down the main corridor of the Royal Preston Hospital, a place he’d had the displeasure of visiting on and off duty far too many times in his life.
The lights were bright, vastly contrasting the darkness outside. The smell of greasy food frying away in the cafe filled the waiting area. Shoes tapped against the solid white floor. People sat on the chairs twiddling their thumbs. This place never slept. Always felt like the middle of the fucking afternoon.
And it was a good job. Because Brian needed to find Joe Kershaw. He needed to find him fast.
He ran down the corridor, ignored the “Caution! Wet Floor” sign even though he was fully aware of his stupidity. His heart raced. He wasn’t sure why he was so desperate to get to Joe Kershaw. Just something Annie had said on the phone. Something about her understanding Brian’s worries, getting his concerns.
She was worried something was going to happen to Joe Kershaw before the police had a chance to speak with him on the record.
She was worried someone was going to get to Joe Kershaw.
He caught the eye of a male nurse walking down the corridor, files in hand. He opened his mouth, prepared to lambast Brian, but before he could say anything, Brian stopped right in front of him.
“Police,” he said. “I need to speak with Joe Kershaw urgently.”
The nurse moved his lips, but no sound came out. He pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. “I … I’m not sure—”
“Listen, this is urgent. Really fucking urgent. So do me a favour and help me out here, yeah?”
The nurse swallowed a lump in his throat. Nodded.
“Joe Kershaw. It’s really important I speak to him ASAP. I got a call that he’s awake and … and ready for questioning. Just casual and informal questions. Nothing major.”
