The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  Rob then found himself battling a heavily bleeding body that fell from the broken doorway. He yelped in shock as the warm blood pumped onto him, retched as it reached his lips. The kitchen worker made strangled sobbing noises, clutching at Rob’s shoulders, panic and terror in his eyes.

  Eyes which glazed as each second passed. Rob closed his eyes, took a deep breath and twisted the body round and backwards.

  The kitchen worker slumped over the safety railing, his arms dangling by his sides, head angled to the ground like a passed-out drunk. More fluid spattered onto the frozen concrete from the hole in his chest, warm blood turning the snow into crimson slush.

  Rob almost giggled as he got to his feet. Another death, though this one had been an accident, and the result was absurd. The dead worker reminded him of himself: so many times when he’d had one too many, slumped over the nearest solid support as he heaved his guts out, feeling his whole life slipping away in a never-ending torrent of fluid.

  He turned his attention to the kitchen. He heard cries of panic, of slamming doors and people running down corridors. The alarm would be raised at any moment.

  With shaking hands he retrieved the Browning. He winced at the pain in his wrist. Should be used to that by now, Roberto, he told himself.

  The air in the kitchen was rank with the smell of burnt cordite and gamey meat. Rob shook his head, told himself that it was just lingering in his nostrils from the encounter outside. That changed when he walked past the refrigerators and closer to the stainless steel worktops. That’s when he saw the source of the smell.

  At this distance it was more potent than the scent of gamey meat. This was the powerful stench of rotting, putrefying flesh. He wondered how long the boar had been dead. And would this one stay dead?

  It lay on its right side on the central work surface. It was roughly the same size as the beasts he and Jason had battled against earlier. Even the complete removal of its pelt didn’t reduce its size. Only the bristles on the head remained.

  In between the trussed limbs Rob could see a clean, surgical cut in the beast’s belly, running from the base of its neck to just above its genitals.

  Rob moved closer, his free hand squeezing shut his nose against the stench. The beast’s eyes were open. They were glazed, immobile and very, very dead. There was none of the liquid blackness and unholy red glinting pupils he had seen in the eyes of the others. Its thick tongue rested between its open jaws on the silvery surface of the worktop like a lump of rotting liver. Those tusks were identical to the others, though. Eight inches long, and unnaturally sharp.

  There was something about the abdomen that puzzled him. The belly bulged.

  Stuffed and prepped for cooking, he thought. But what with?

  He placed the Browning on the adjacent work top and stretched trembling hands towards the belly of the boar. The cut was clean and surgical, a completely straight line. The sliced sides of the belly had been pressed back together but not stitched. In places the flaps of flesh had begun to part again, showing the yellow layers of fat beneath. His fingertips brushed it tentatively, as if expecting the hole to close around his hand and drag him in…

  Stranger things have happened, he told himself grimly.

  The skin was cool, the flesh beneath firm and slightly yielding. Just as dead meat should be. He pressed harder, straightened his fingers and prodded two inches below the slit.

  The boar’s belly flexed. Rob jumped back.

  The flaps of flesh parted. The stench was even stronger now, but it had a slightly different tang to it.

  Something pink and fleshy nestled within. The fluorescent strip lighting revealed just enough detail for Rob Benson to cry out in horror and twist himself away, clutching the stainless steel door handle of one of the refrigerators for support. He sank to his knees, gagging. Dry heaving, gagging on an empty stomach with nothing but the taste of bile for his efforts. Now he wished the hole in the boar’s belly had closed around his hands and dragged him in. Anything but the cold reality of what had been done by human hands.

  Glistening with the remnants of the boar’s blood and intestinal juices was the dismembered torso of a human being.

  A woman. The scorpion tattoo on the left breast was clearly visible.

  * * * * *

  Jason drove through the narrow gateway into Old Court. The headlights shone on the spray of water from the ornamental fountain in the centre of the lawn. Now Jason paused and took in his surroundings.

  Was it only a year ago that he had last been here? It seemed so long ago. The fountain that had tripped him in the darkness as he ran from the Great Hall - for a brief moment it had run with blood as well as clear water, blood from the gash on his forehead caused by the head porter slamming his skull onto the marble edging.

  The Great Hall was exactly as it had been before his attack on the building. The stained glass had been restored; the fire damage to the stonework had been fully cleaned. Inside it would no doubt be the same. All trace of his attempt to destroy the college wiped clean, cleared away and covered up. Given time, even the memories of those who were there on that night would fade.

  In the passageway by the porter’s lodge, he saw a parked Ford Transit. The door was open and the interior light was on, illuminating something dark and vaguely familiar on the bulkhead.

  He opened the door and jumped out, noting that the snow was crisper underfoot. The air was colder, too. The temperature was dropping.

  “Soon fix that,” he whispered darkly. He went to the rear of the van and pulled open the flap that covered the tail lift controls.

  Yes, looked pretty straightforward. He’d seen the cook-chill delivery men doing this time and again outside the Phoenix unit. And it really was as easy as it looked. Finger held on the centre red button, pull the lever down…with a protesting whine the tail lift folded out, fully horizontal, the inner edge flush with the rear doors of the box conversion. He stopped there. He didn’t want to lower the lift to the floor. He was happy with it where it was.

  A four-foot rectangular plate of heavy steel. Three foot above the ground. Just above waist height.

  Although the outer edge was tapered, it wasn’t overly sharp. But reversing - even slowly - it would be a considerable weapon. At the speed he would be going it would be lethal.

  There was just one more thing to do before he climbed back into the van. He threw the fuel filler cap across the courtyard and took out the roll of bandages from the van’s first aid kit.

  When he finished he looked around the wintry scenery of the Court. So quiet, he thought. Better make some noise - give Roberto a chance against Cassell.

  He spun the wheel into a full right lock and pressed down on the accelerator. The lowered tail lift clipped the top of the fountain as it passed by, a shriek of tortured stone filling the deserted Court. The headlights passed along the mullioned and transomed windows, twenty first century illumination invading fourteenth century darkness. Jason blasted the horn and kept his eyes on the double doors of the Great Hall.

  Come on, come on. One of you, come out and ask what the noise is all about…

  He saw the doors vibrate slightly, a sign that they were being opened. Jason grinned. He swung the vehicle round so that the rear was facing the entrance to the Great Hall. He put the handbrake on, engaged reverse then revved the engine.

  The doors opened outwards. Jason pressed down harder on the accelerator, sending black plumes of smoke into the darkening air. He kept his eyes fixed on the reflected image of the opening door in the side mirror. He didn’t wait long.

  Two figures emerged, their gowned shadows cast by the fires within preceding them. They stood facing each other: the bulky one pointing nervously to the van, the other standing immobile, arms folded. They spoke to each other quickly then they walked to the vehicle, warily.

  Jason saw their reflections grow in the side mirror. He took the temperature probe from the dashboard and wound down the window. Now they were coming into the field of ligh
t spread by the lamppost he could see their faces clearly. Davies and Nasen. The Bursar and the Senior Tutor.

  The two Council members separated. Davies stood by the rear of the van, staring in bewilderment at the lowered tail lift. Nasen came up to the driver’s door.

  “Well, well,” he spoke loudly over the roar of the engine. His silver cropped hair gleamed silver in the lamp light, his features creased into an arrogant, disdainful smirk. He stared at the petrol cans on the passenger seat.

  “Back to finish what you started, young Jason?”

  Jason felt a chill. The mocking smirk on the Senior Tutor’s face, the arrogance of his stance - just as it had been last year when the head porter had knocked him down and held him immobile, waiting for the police to arrive.

  With a now almost instinctive movement of his right arm the needle point of the temperature probe shot through the opened window and into the Senior Tutor’s eye - right or left, Jason didn’t know or care. He heard the plopping sound of a freshly punctured eyeball, felt his shoulder jar as the probe struck the back of the skull. That was all he needed to know. Job done.

  “Yes, Senior Tutor. Back for good.” He pulled the probe back, out of Nasen’s skull. Little effort was required as the body was already falling to the snow. Gravity did most of the work for him.

  The Bursar let out a strangled cry of horror. Jason popped the handbrake and sent the van hurtling backwards, acrid exhaust fumes filling the cab. Davies pulled his bulk to the right, but not fast enough to prevent the edge of the tail lift striking his raised left elbow.

  Even over the mistiming roar of the engine Jason could hear the crack of bone snapping. He saw a huddled, black-clad ball of screaming agony shooting past him. He slammed the brakes on, surprised to feel the wheels skid on the grass beneath. The temperature was dropping even faster than he’d realised.

  Davies looked up, his mouth open in agony. His bearded jowls wobbled.

  Jason grinned at him. He leant over the steering wheel, gave a thumbs-up signal and then threw the thumb backwards, indicating the Great Hall.

  Davies glanced at the Hall and swiftly got to his feet. He looked back once at Jason with widened, terrified eyes before shuffling his way to the double doors of the Hall, whimpering.

  Looks almost grateful, Jason thought. Won’t be for long, though…

  Jason put the van in first gear and stepped on the accelerator. The engine roared and the van shot forwards, sliding again on the frozen ground beneath and straight over the bleeding corpse of the Senior Tutor. The steering wheel spun and the vehicle tilted to the left. The remaining petrol cans knocked against each other, one falling and hitting the hand holding the gearstick, making Jason tut in annoyance.

  More annoyingly, it had a galvanising effect on the would-be diners. Cries of horror filled the air, joined with the squelching and cracking noises from underneath his wheels. It was enough to make them move.

  Panic was inevitable, but he had thought the Fellows would remain in the Hall, retreating fearfully behind the false security of the medieval walls, thinking that a maniac with a lowered tail lift could not get at them. That was what he wanted. The more people inside the building the better. More fuel for the fire.

  The Bursar had reached halfway across the lawns, onto the pathway that bisected the lawns of Old Court. He glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the glare of the reversing lights and the smoke billowing from the van’s exhaust. His arm dangled uselessly by his side as he turned back.

  Jason checked both side mirrors. In each he could see the opened doors of the Great Hall. He couldn’t see the retreating, whimpering figure of the Bursar so he knew Davies was roughly in the centre of his path.

  A bonus, he thought. This time let in the clutch slowly, pressed gently on the accelerator. The vehicle reversed, painting a perfectly straight line of black, lumpy blood on the lawns of Old Court. Satisfied the vehicle wasn’t going to skid, he pressed harder on the accelerator.

  The reflected images of the double doors bounced up and down in the side mirrors. He saw the panicked faces of gowned figures within, horrified expressions on their faces as they realised what the driver of the Luton was going to do. Slowly, the doors began to close.

  The van’s engine roared, black fumes enveloping the Bursar as he banged his good fist on the closing doors, screaming in terror.

  Jason caught sight of Davies’ flailing fingers in the nearside mirror before they disappeared and the van slammed to a violent halt. Jason’s head slammed against the headrest and then the bulkhead. He cried out in pain, feeling the straining of neck muscles and the jarring thud of his skull hitting steel and wood.

  His pain blotted out the shriek of buckling metal, the groan of medieval doors protesting against the steel intruder - and the barely human screams from the Bursar.

  Jason’s head slumped forwards. He stared dizzily at the red battery light on the dashboard, wondering why it looked so familiar. He closed his eyes, but the red light remained with him. The red light of sunrise.

  Life fluid of ancient gods, he told himself. Now he remembered. He opened his eyes, glanced in the side mirror. The tail lift had driven a wedge right into the left hand door. Beyond he could see a glimpse of fluttering candles and cressets, the light of the Great Hall banishing winter darkness.

  “Banished by spilling blood,” he muttered. His vision cleared and now he saw the splatters of blood marking the ancient oak timber.

  Then he stared at the figure advancing across the lawns. Illuminated by the headlights of the Luton, striding purposefully across the lawn from the chapel, was the unmistakeable figure of David Searles. The Master of All Souls.

  His father.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jennifer Callaby’s eyelids slowly opened. Andy saw how large and black her pupils were, and he told himself that it was nothing more than pupil dilation, caused by the dim light. All the same, they looked like two black pits of despair.

  She blinked a few times. Her lips parted slowly, a dry tongue attempted to moisten her lips.

  “Andy? Is that you?” The words were barely audible. She reached her hands to his face, a frown crossing her features as she saw the unrecognisable meat of her left hand. Then realisation - and the pain - returned.

  Her howl of despair tore Andy’s soul apart. His head slumped onto the cold flagstones, his teeth clenched together.

  “Don’t look at it, darling. Don’t look…” he forced his head up, held her head in both hands and brought her lips close to him. Her eyes bored into his. Loving, pitying. Despairing.

  “Why, Andy? Why are they doing this?” Tears dripped from her eyelids and ran down Andy’s knuckles. Then she saw his wounded shoulder…and how much pain it caused him to hold her head in both hands.

  “Oh, Andy…”

  “Don’t, Jen. Just look into my eyes. Just look at me.” Be strong, darling. Be strong. He saw some of the despair leaving those black liquid pools. Hope was a far cry from replacing them, but it was a start.

  “It ends now, Jen. They’re not going to do any more to you, I promise.”

  A sound from behind them made her look over his ravaged shoulder. Her eyes widened in terror.

  “Touching, Hughes. Very touching. But the Council have only just started on your woman. And you’re in no position to make false promises!”

  The back of Andy’s head exploded. Stars spun crazily around the whitened face of Jen. A scarlet curtain twitched on either side of his vision and for a brief moment Andy Hughes thought he was back in the Great Hall, witnessing the domain of Andraste. Then his right ear was grabbed and pulled savagely down.

  Jen’s face was replaced with the inverted, grinning visage of Franklin, then a blinding white light as the torch came crashing down on him.

  He heard Jen scream, heard Franklin laugh, and heard the muted sound of his own teeth splintering. The torch was raised again, the light showing all too clearly the pieces of dental enamel buried in the rubber casing of the torch, an
d then it was brought crashing down on the bridge of his nose.

  The pain in his face now eclipsed the agony of his shoulder, compounded by his inability to breathe. His mouth was filled with a gritty syrup of crushed teeth and his nasal passages were blocked with gushing blood, blood that fell back down his throat, forcing him to swallow, choking on the fragments of his teeth.

  “You’ve caused me no end of grief, Hughes. Boyd should have had you banged up by now - but you and your alcoholic friend have fucked that all up. I owe you for that.”

  Andy didn’t see the booted foot of the head porter swing back. But he felt it when it landed in his ribs, felt the splinters of bone break through the hard muscle of his abdomen. He blacked out.

  It was the sound of Jen’s shouting that brought him round. Not screaming, not pleading, he realised as he leant over and vomited black blood onto the stone floor. Shouting.

  Through a haze of black and red he saw the head porter, with his back toward him. He was stood over Jen, his arms folded, his head cocked to one side. The stance of a man gently amused by the defiance of a small child.

  Jen was climbing to her feet, her face contorted with hatred and rage. Never had he seen a look like that cross her features. Jennifer Callaby, the woman who didn’t have a bad word to say about anyone or anything. It was the face of someone who, for the first time in her life, wanted to kill. Perhaps that was why Franklin was so amused.

  He turned and laughed at the sight of Andy crawling towards them. He raised a hand to Jen, who had failed in her attempt to get to her feet. She stumbled, falling back to the floor with a cry of rage and frustration.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute, Ms Callaby.” Franklin knelt down and retrieved the shotgun. Hefting it over his shoulder, he glanced down at Andy.

  “Well, Mr Hughes, you’ve missed all the fun. Your young lassie has quite a sharp tongue on her. Andraste will enjoy tearing that out, I’m sure.