Silence followed.
“Nothing to say, Pearce? Yes, I’ve got proof…of a sort.” He checked his watch. Eight thirty. He wondered if it was too early to phone Jen.
“Then you know how he died?”
“The same way the others did,” Andy said dryly. “I can give your…‘interested party’ a copy of the photo - if you’re sure you want them to see it, of course.”
“No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Andy.”
Andy frowned. This wasn’t right. “Pearce, you seem very - well, blase about all this. I said he died the way the others did - and you didn’t question that?”
A sigh. “I know what’s been happening there. I just needed…unofficial confirmation.”
“So what next? Police involvement? Because that’s the next step here.”
Pearce chuckled darkly. “Come on, Andy. You know very well these guys will have one of Cambridgeshire’s Finest on their payroll. No way can they make all these bodies disappear without collusion.”
That, he’d suspected. “So what are you going to do?”
“Question is…what are YOU going to do?” And then he told Andy what was going to happen next.
* * * * *
The boar sniffed the air. Its nostrils twitched wetly: twin plumes of steam snorted into the air from its snout as it effortlessly released its first reborn breath. The flanks of the beast moved like a pair of bellows, contracting and expanding. Each breath that escaped the animal rumbled in its throat, each breath a warning. And then it stood.
Its bristling hide sounded like white noise in the silent warehouse. Its black, dead eyes scanned the warehouse slowly, contemplating its surroundings - or searching for prey. The unnatural white tusks gleamed like ivory in the glare of the ceiling lights.
The eyes narrowed as they fixed on the van - an almost human gesture, Rob thought, as though the beast recognised it and hated it.
And when the beast’s head turned to regard the three men standing horrified and disbelieving behind it, the eyes narrowed again. Rob Benson knew then that the creature recognised him.
But what else did it remember? Why had it come back? Rob stared into the eyes of the boar. He backed away slowly, edging to the rear wall of the warehouse. The boar stood, motionless save for the heaving of its flanks, the steam pouring into the cold air - breath that reeked, stank of decomposing organs and rotten meat. The stench of death.
Now he knew why Jasper had been so fearful, so reluctant to enter the warehouse. He looked to the entrance, saw Jasper sitting by a gap in the double doors. His hackles had raised, lips pulled back from his teeth. Both ears were flat against his head.
The boar squealed as Rob tried to move past him, its wickedly sharp tusks rolling in his direction. He froze against the wall, remained still. The boar roared again, its message clear. Remain where you are!
Rob looked over to the forklift truck that they had used to pull the beast off the van yesterday.
No harm in trying, he thought. The boar was staring at Harrison and Higgins, both men frozen immobile in horror and fear. Its eyes were off Rob, now was the time -
It moved like lightning, tearing its bulk around to block his path to the forklift. It lowered its head and one of its tusks prodded his calf. He let out a sharp yelp of pain. Then another nod forward from the boar: another jabbing, sharp pain in his other calf. He fell to his knees, his face level with the boar’s snout. He stared at it, saw its eyes gleam with anticipation. The tiny red pinpricks of its pupils dilated, scarlet holes of death widening to take him. Black saliva dripped from its gaping mouth, pooling on the floor like tar. It moved closer, its tusks brushing against his throat.
* * * * *
Hearing sobbing from Andy Hughes was one of the strangest sounds Phil Lotson had ever heard. It was a sound that just didn’t fit with the man, not with the almost unnatural calm and self control he had displayed earlier. It chilled him more than the screaming of rage and hatred that Andy had thrown at him fifteen years ago. This meant the stakes weren’t just higher than he’d thought - now they looked unreachable.
The sobbing ceased abruptly, as though Andy was aware that his self-control was slipping - or that he knew he was no longer alone in the garden.
“You knew what Jennifer was in line for. You knew before you sent me here, you fucker!”
Phil took a step backwards as Andy swung in his direction. The rising sun reflected in his eyes, blood red shining on cold gold-flecked emerald, and Phil had never seen rage like it before. This was far, far worse than fifteen years ago…
“Then I’ll bury them all, Pearce. One way or another, it ends tonight. And then I’ll be coming for you!”
His eyes blazed as he cut the connection. He didn’t say a word to Phil, just pushed past him and stormed into the kitchen.
He stood over the knife block, his hand raised, and Phil’s heart sank, his mind slinging him back to that terrible, dream, that moment when Andy had wielded the knife.
Then Andy paused. His hand was rigid over the bread knife, as though frozen. Then he smiled.
A smile that chilled Phil far more than the subzero temperature of the shortest day of the year: a smile that was barely human, glorying in violent actions to come.
“Now why should I fuck around with a knife when I’ve got one of Santa’s specials in Rob’s van?”
The doorbell rang. A monotone version of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas floated down the hallway. Phil and Andy looked at each other.
“Guess Rob had a change of heart,” Andy said tightly. He looked visibly relieved - Phil knew then that Andy Hughes did not want to be on his own when he ventured into All Souls College. His hand left the bread knife and Phil let out a sigh of relief.
He heard a thundering sound from upstairs. Nick never did know how to walk down stairs quietly. The thought of playing with Jasper again had obviously excited him.
“Don’t bother getting the door, Lotson,” he heard Kelly call out. “You just stuff your fat arse with more buns.”
Andy smiled. “Still a gobby cow, isn’t she?” He then stared at his feet, his smile fading. He looked pained.
“She’s been good to you, Phil. And for you.” When he looked up Phil was stunned to see tears in his eyes.
“A great kid, too. You’re a lucky man, Lotson. I’m so glad you have her…”
He heard Kelly curse as the door opened to let the winter chill in. Then a strange tone in her voice.
“Er…can I help you?”
Phil peered around the doorway to see who was at the door. A tall, heavy set man in a black suit and striped college tie stood calmly on the doormat, a briefcase in his left hand, his right hand buried deep in the inside breast pocket of his overcoat. His grey hair sparkled in the winter sun like glitter from the Christmas card Nick had made for them at school. The smile that broke under his steel grey moustache was far from festive.
“Yes, Mrs Lotson. I believe you can.” John Franklin lifted his briefcase and shook it gently. Something metallic rattled inside. Phil let out a strangled cry as the head porter of All Souls walked into the hallway uninvited.
* * * * *
The hypnotic gaze was broken. The boar roared: black spittle flying in Rob’s face as it was torn from its victim. Rob staggered backwards, watching in disbelief as the speckled black and white fur mingled with the black bristles, sharp canine fangs clashing with porcine tusks. Jasper’s teeth sank into the beast’s flank and tore away a piece of flesh that came away with a wet tearing sound. It was in his black-blood stained mouth for a brief moment and then his jaws bared once more. His throat was empty and Rob realised with horror that Jasper had swallowed it.
The roaring of the boar, scarcely noticing the wound in its flank, was matched in volume by Jasper’s ferocious barking. Jasper didn’t have a chance.
But he’d given his caretaker one. Rob wasted no time. In spite of the pain from his bleeding calves, he leapt to his feet and raced to the forklift. He leapt into t
he cab of the machine and twisted the key.
The machine hummed into life. Rob pressed his foot hard on the pedal and swung the wheel in a hard right lock. He looked behind him and saw the boar throw Jasper clear across the warehouse floor, right up to the gap in the doors. Jasper landed heavily on his back with a yelp, his paws scrabbling in the air.
Rob brought the forklift around, its tines scraping on the concrete with an ear piercing screech, to face the creature. But it wasn’t hanging around. Having dealt with Jasper it turned to the nearest human.
Jasper’s shattered ribcage made a sickening, clicking sound as he hauled himself along the warehouse floor, whining as he tried to escape the slaughterhouse. His hind legs dangled uselessly, nothing but dead weight now his backbone was broken. His nose twitched as it met the cold, clean air of the outside world.
Higgins let out a groan, his stomach bulging. The boar snorted wetly, shaking its head to dislodge its tusks from Higgins’ belly - or rather, Rob realised, to enlarge the wound it had made. The tusks came free with a triumphant flourish and a sickening, squelching sound. The beast shook its head again, more vigorously, in an attempt to remove the garland of blue and red intestine that trailed around its tusks. Higgins screamed again as he saw his own internal organs pulled out and dropping to the floor.
Higgins sank to the floor like a split sack of potatoes. His legs gave way and he fell heavily to his knees before toppling into the glistening pile of blood and offal in front of him. The boar turned its head to the ground, raising a paw to rid itself of the lower intestine that crowned it, oblivious to the mechanical yellow monster speeding towards it.
Instead it turned its attention to the horrified Terry Harrison who stood to one side of the now-dead director of Granta Office Supplies. His feet slid in the red mess. The boar stood its ground, steam rising from its gaping maw, daring Harrison to move.
“I’m marking YOUR card, motherfucker!” Rob screamed, aiming the machine to the beast. His words echoed around the warehouse, rolled through the partially-open doorway leading to the offices and the workers beyond. He pulled down on the lever that controlled the elevation of the mast. With a whine the forks moved upwards.
He saw Harrison break free, running towards him and the forklift truck. He took his foot off the pedal, realising that if he carried on he would impale Harrison and not the boar.
“KISS-ARSE!” he bellowed. “SHIFT! Fucking MOVE!” To get the speed was one thing, difficult enough in this limited space - but he needed to get the angle right. First time.
Harrison stumbled, slipping on the pool of blood from his boss. That was all the boar needed. Its right tusk tore into the back of his thigh and drove upwards at a sharp angle, up through his buttock and beyond.
Even over the noise of the electric motor Rob could hear the scrape of tusk against pelvic bone as it worked its way through Harrison’s groin, bursting through in an explosion of blood and urine. The scream was barely human.
The boar continued its charge, a flick of its powerful neck muscles flipping the writhing sales rep over its head. Its tusk slid out with a sickening plopping sound, and Terry Harrison crumpled in a heap besides Mark Higgins, bleeding and weeping.
Now the boar was in Rob’s sights. He made another, final adjustment on the elevation. Only when the tines were level with the softer grey fur of its belly did the beast seem aware of what was coming.
It tried to move sideways but wasn’t fast enough. Its left flank was angled towards the speeding truck when the forks struck.
The left tine entered the creature’s throat smoothly, passing out just below its right ear, while the right struck the ribcage with a jarring thud. The creature roared and thrashed on the impaling tines: the wheel spun in Rob’s hands and he fought to control it, burning the skin of his palms in the process. The rubber wheels of the forklift painted black smears on the warehouse floor as Rob fought to keep the machine moving. He pulled down on the mast elevation, raising the beast to his eye level, and kept his foot on the pedal. The machine bumped, tilted to the left as it ran over something then came back down to the floor with a crash. He could smell the stench of acid escaping from the battery cells behind him.
Only when the red coated tines hit the far wall, crashing into the brickwork on the side of the entrance doors, was the truck halted. He pulled on the park brake and jumped out of the cab, sank to his knees, shuddering and watching the beast buck and writhe its agonised death on the forks. Black blood splattered and dripped on the floor along with chunks of masonry and clouds of brick dust. He shut his eyes against the beast’s horrifying shriek of pain, an almost human cry. Coughing up brick dust, Rob heard more cries - more human than…
He opened his eyes and gasped.
The tines of the forklift had struck something else before they had entered the wall. The right had entered Mark Higgins’ already gored belly like a final insult. The left…
Oh, dear God. The left…he stayed on his knees, clasping the sides of his head, moaning. He couldn’t look up. He stared at the floor, gibbering.
He could see Higgins’ entrails, crowned with an envelope that had been brown once, with his name written on it.
He heard voices from behind the closed door and stood up shakily, knowing he had to move. No one would believe him if he told them why he had run the forklift into the wall.
No, he decided as he ran blindly towards the exit, his eyes stung by the dissipating clouds of ash and black dust. When the rest of the crew start work there’s only one conclusion they’re gonna draw.
The boar had disappeared. All that remained of it was the black dust that seared Rob’s throat and stung his eyes. No sign of the creature that he had run through with the forklift.
Just the impaled bodies of Mark Higgins and Terry Harrison: the latter’s groin pierced and pinned not by the tusk of a creature that had no right to exist, but the steel of an industrial machine operated by a man.
Rob sobbed as he picked up the shattered body of Jasper, already going cold in the morning air. He was dimly aware of curious faces pressed against the windows of the office building opposite but concentrated more on opening the side door, getting Geoff Michael’s dog into the van. His head rolled on the wooden partition, blood oozing from the gored holes in his body. Blood that soaked into the bubble wrapped shotgun that Andy had brought with him.
Rob slammed the door shut, sobbing uncontrollably, but this time with rage and grief rather than fear.
Now he believed.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Phil Lotson’s eyes were so rooted on the briefcase and its contents that he didn’t notice Andy slip quietly away.
Franklin kicked shut the door behind him. Only when Kelly and Nick opened their mouths to scream did Phil realise that Franklin had withdrawn his hand from the inside pocket. He saw what Franklin was pointing at his family and he opened his mouth to scream.
The head porter lowered his briefcase, wiped his feet on the mat and walked forwards to Kelly. He grabbed her by the hair and pushed the barrel of the Browning Hi-Power handgun under her nose.
“Mr Lotson.” Franklin spoke slowly and calmly, without looking into the kitchen. “In the living room, if you wouldn’t mind. Take your boy with you. And tell him to keep quiet. No one’s going to get hurt.”
Phil blinked as the 9mm automatic swung in his direction. He froze. He looked at the mute, terrified face of his wife, shaking as Franklin pushed the silenced Browning into the small of her back. Nick began to cry.
Phil’s reaction took him by as much surprise as it did Franklin. The vision of that summer day, that trip punting down the river of blood and the killing of his wife and son, flooded his mind while adrenaline flooded his body. Without even crying out he launched himself down the hallway, a cannonball aimed at the head porter.
A soft thud and his left leg gave way. He sank to the floor, his momentum carrying him forward, rolling along the carpet. Only when he came to a halt by Franklin’s feet did the pain
from his exploded kneecap make itself known. His scream was barely human, and brought fresh cries of terror from his family.
Franklin crouched down with a grin. He placed the Browning on the welcome mat, just out of reach. Not that Phil was going to reach for the gun anyway. He was twisting on the floor, hyperventilating, consciousness cruelly eluding him.
Franklin rose to his feet and reached for Nick and Kelly. He clamped a firm hand over each mouth. He pressed hard, his fingernails gouging into the flesh of their cheeks, making them struggle even more, and their muffled cries rose in pitch. Then he slammed their heads together.
They stood at the foot of the stairs, swaying like drunks.
Franklin worked fast. Turning back to the briefcase he flipped open the catches and raised the lid. The black and red mist of agony lifted slightly from Phil’s vision, slightly, just enough to see what Franklin held in his hands.
Phil’s cries were stifled by the five inch strip of ducting tape Franklin pressed against his mouth. The head porter rose to his feet.
“That’s the trouble with these modern homes,” he said. “The walls are so thin, and I can’t count on both of your neighbours being out at work. Not this side of Christmas.”
Phil found that not being able to scream made the pain in his obliterated knee even worse. He thrashed wildly on the floor: his face white, blood seeping into the carpet.
Franklin shook his head as he turned to Kelly and Nick. They were starting to make noises again.
He grabbed Nick by his sweatshirt and shoved him through the open doorway over Phil, into the living room. He crashed to the floor, falling besides the presents under the tree. Franklin was on him in an instant. Pressing his bended knees into Phil’s belly he pulled Nick’s hands behind his back and wrapped another length of tape around them. He was hauled to his feet, another piece of tape clamped over his mouth, and pushed back to the floor. Phil felt Nick’s bound hands collide with his shattered leg and brilliant white light blinded him.
When his vision cleared and the pain became almost tolerable, he saw Franklin had repeated the process with Kelly. Kelly’s wide eyes bore into Phil’s piteously. Franklin looked down and nonchalantly kicked Phil just below the sternum.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 31
