by P. D. Viner
‘I think about those women every day. I regret what I did, I was young and stupid. I changed after that, after Mr Meyer gave me Jennifer. I didn’t want that kind of … I didn’t need the women.’
‘And yet you killed Charlie Brindley-Black.’
His mouth moves but no sound comes out. George Larkshead slowly bends forward and then, like a marionette whose strings have been cut – he falls forward onto the table and begins to sob. Instinctively, Tom moves to comfort him – but stops. The petrol pools around him, mixing with the tears.
‘George – George, we need to leave this room. Do you hear me?’
He says something but Tom can barely hear him. He leans closer.
‘ … happy, happy with my family. Claire was my friend, the boys loved me – we played football together. Like my dad did with me when I was young … before … I was lucky – I had survived and come through, life was good. I was happy, I loved my work – was a master carpenter. But I saw her one day, and it all changed. It was back, the hunger in me – like I was twelve again.’
‘You saw Charlie?’
‘Totally by chance. I never go to London, but there I was, close to the gallery she ran, and hungry. I was going to get a sandwich and then get the train home. Another minute and I would have missed her and life would have just gone on and on and not … But I saw her. I walked into the gallery and asked her name, asked about her family and… very quickly realised who she was.’
Tom sees Patterson at the window – they lock eyes, Tom slowly shakes his head, not wanting to alarm George. Do not storm the room, his eyes blaze to the other officer. He hopes Patterson understands.
‘ I knew she was there, knew who she was, I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think of anything else but the way Jennifer died and how it made me feel. She died in my arms, you know.’
‘You had Charlie dye her hair?’
‘I needed her to, she had to become Jennifer.’
‘How did you persuade her?’
‘It was easy, I told her I was making a film, that we had been looking for months for the right woman. It was a biopic of a human rights leader – and then I showed her the photo of her own aunt. That was her, I said. She didn’t recognise Jennifer, didn’t know she had an aunt who died before she was born, her mother had kept her ignorant. She asked to keep the photo for a day or two. I didn’t want to do that, I always had the photo with me – but I had to say yes, as long as she showed no one. I also gave her a lock of Jennifer’s hair to match the colour. I asked her to keep it a secret from her mother. I told her she could reveal the truth on the Friday, when her mother was back from a trip … but there were no Fridays left for her.’
‘And Lucy Brindley, what did you plan for her?’
‘Nothing. I wanted my photograph back, that’s all. Charlie had forgotten it the day we met – her last day. I missed it – I needed it. I have no interest in Lucy or Helena. I have no interest in anyone, DI Bevans. I am done.’ He pulls matches from his pocket.
‘Run, Tom, RUN!’ Dani screams.
‘Christ, George. Think straight,’ Tom pleads.
He looks up into Tom’s eyes. ‘Do you have any idea what it feels like to know death? To hold a body as the soul takes flight? Feel God himself reap? When Jennifer died all those years ago I touched God – through her, I transcended.’ His face lights up with the memory of it.
‘And Charlie?’
The light in his eyes dies. He withers before Tom’s gaze. ‘I held her while she bled to death – the same as her aunt and … there was nothing. Just death. Just a sordid little death.’ He takes a match from its box and holds it to the side, ready to strike.
Tom looks into his eyes – they are blank, he is prepared for the end. The match is moving – ‘The knot. The lark’s head. Why that name?’ Tom grasps at a straw.
‘My grandfather showed me how to tie it, when I was a kid – before he died. He was in the merchant navy a long, long time ago. I was really proud to have mastered it.’ George’s hands stop moving, but match and box are touching. He is lost in his memories for a moment – Tom can almost see them coalesce around his head like carrion birds ready to rip his corpse to shreds. Tom moves towards him…
‘Keep back!’ George yells at him. ‘Don’t let me warn you again, policeman.’
‘George, let’s leave here and talk this over.’
‘I am not leaving.’ Suddenly a beatific expression sweeps across his face. Tom imagines that he’s seeing Jennifer, his angel, on the road again.
‘I’m sorry I cut you DI Bevans, but if you want to live, you should run.’
‘Don’t.’ Dani-in-his-head screams.
George strikes the match, it blazes – Tom remembers his old chemistry teacher setting fire to Bunsen burners to scare the kids. The match arcs away, as George throws it into the petrol-sodden sofa. If he had dropped it straight down, his body would have burned immediately – but he didn’t. It gives Tom a chance. He leaps forward and grabs George in a bear hug, lifting him up off the chair – Tom feels his stitches burst and blood surges through the dressing once more. Flames leap up – Tom drops George’s body as the pain flares in his side. He can’t carry that weight but he can drag him. With supreme effort he pulls the body towards the door as flames lap his face – George is a fireball.
‘Don’t save me – don’t, please.’ George screams. Tom feels his hair start to burn – he closes his eyes and pushes ahead, it is only a few paces. He hits the door with George’s body, the air hits the flame – the petrol burns Tom’s hands. The whole world screams. They are down and rolling, over and over – dirt strangling flames, others leaping up in new places. Only one voice screams now – his.
‘GUV!’ In seconds Patterson is on him beating the flames away, then other men are there too and an extinguisher. ‘You idiot, you bloody idiot. Why risk it – to save that piece of shit.’
Tom is a ball of pain, he doesn’t know up from down – all he knows is he had to try to save George Larkshead from killing himself. He knows something about atonement. He knows that everyone deserves to be saved – we all need a second chance. Then there is no more as Tom is unconscious.
After
The press loved him. Both the deputy and Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police went on record saying he was the new bred of policeman – the future of British policing. An idealist in a senior post – it was ground-breaking. Chief Superintendent Drake took early retirement with a particularly fat golden handshake. DI Ashe never returned to active service and George Larkshead was convicted and given three life sentences. He will never leave prison. His wife and children changed their names and disappeared, three tabloid newspapers have bounties on their heads but they will never be found. Valerie Brindley-Black sold her gallery and left London to move in with her sister. He hopes that together, they will keep their loneliness at bay. But what of him? What of Tom Bevans? His side has almost healed – he will be left with a small scar. His hands have healed too, soon there will be nothing to see.
‘We did it, Tom.’ Her voice is back in his head.
‘No, Dani,’ he says tenderly.
‘What? We solved it and got you promoted – your own unit. What you’ve wanted for years.’
Tom looks around at the empty open-plan office. Within six months it will be the hub of his new special operations unit. He has named it Operation Ares. The god of war, the god of fruitless violence and false masculinity, a coward who kills for the sake of killing. Operation Ares will hunt the men who kill and hurt the girls. They will find them and punish them. Finally he can try to keep his promises to the dead girls.
‘Like me?’
‘Oh, Dani,’ he tells the air, ‘I can’t do this any more.’
‘What? Now we can make a real difference. We’re a team. Bevans and Lancing, deceased.’
‘You’re just in my head.’
‘I’m Dani.’
‘You’re just someone to talk to.’
‘But you love me.’
‘I do. I love you, Dani Lancing, always have and always will, but you’re dead. I can’t keep talking to you.’
‘But—’
‘It’s the end. Goodbye, Dani.’
She’s gone.
He reaches for his mug. World’s Greatest Dad. He looks around the operations room and knows, deep inside, that he will never lay her place at the table again, or ask her opinion on what colour something should be. But he also knows he will still dream of her, still yearn for her, still visit the garden of remembrance to read Keats to her. But she is dead. He feels so lonely; his heart is so cold.
He sits down at a desk and starts to go through files. He needs to find officers for his new team. Not political, not bean-counting – officers that truly want to serve and protect. He opens files. He likes the look of this pathologist, he will interview him, and a female DI who looks tough. They will be his team, his family and friends. He smiles. He finally feels like he has come home.
ONE
Saturday 18 December 2010
‘There’s no such thing as monsters,’ he tells her.
The girl screws up her nose. ‘Look anyway. Please.’
‘Okay.’
She hugs Hoppy Bunny tight as her dad slides sideways off the bed and onto the floor, pulling the duvet to one side and peering into the shadows.
‘Nothing there.’
‘Are you sure?’
Even at five years old she knows that grown-ups can’t be trusted with this stuff. They aren’t clear about what is and isn’t in the dark.
‘I am absolutely, totally sure there’s nothing under your bed.’
‘Check the wardrobe.’
With an exaggerated sigh, he moves across the room and pulls the doors open quickly. Dresses and coats sway violently, like zombie hordes.
‘Dad!’
‘It’s okay.’ He grabs the clothes. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ He pushes them aside and peers into the back of the wardrobe. ‘Just clothes, no lions or witches.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Did you think there would be?’
‘No. No… I was just being silly.’ He sits back on the edge of her bed. ‘There’s nothing there, darling.’
‘Nothing now! What if a monster slides under the door when I’m asleep?’
‘Once I kiss you goodnight the room is sealed, nothing can come into your bedroom in the night.’
She frowns. ‘What about the tooth fairy?’
‘Well…’
‘Santa?’
‘I meant…’ He frowns too. ‘Nothing bad can come in, and Hoppy Bunny’s here to keep you safe.’
‘How?’ She looks dubiously at the small stuffed rabbit.
‘Hoppy was specially trained, he only lets in good fairies or Santa.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Don’t worry, Dani. Mummy and I are downstairs. Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise.’ He kisses her forehead…
… and the memory starts to fade.
Dani watches her younger self melt into the shadows of the night. Frozen in time, for a moment longer, is her father. The sight of him, so young and handsome, makes her smile – a sad smile. Slowly, the black hair, smooth face, elegant clothes slip away. Left behind, lying in the bed, is the older version. His hair is salt and pepper now, his face craggy and lined. He sleeps, but it’s not the sleep of the just. His nights are pained by visions. More than twenty years of night terrors – and she is the cause.
She sits in the chair by the door and watches him sleep just like she does every night, watching for the shadows to take his dreams. When they come, she will sing to him. Sometimes, when he whimpers or calls out, she aches to lean forward and kiss his forehead – but she can’t. Nearly forty years have passed since he banished the monsters from her room. Now it’s her job – to keep him safe in the night.
She curls her arms around herself. The room is cold, though she doesn’t notice, she just likes to feel arms around her. She wishes she could call the child back, see herself again from all those years ago. How old – five? So serious and confident, when had it all disappeared? But of course she knows the answer to that. ‘Dani…’ he calls out in his sleep.
‘Shh, sleep safe. I’m here.’ And softly she sings a lullaby she remembers from all those years ago.
‘Care you not and go to sleep, Over you a watch I’ll keep…’
‘Not her!’ He calls out in pain from the thickness of his nightmare.
‘Shh, Dad.’ She slides off the chair to kneel by his bed.
‘Dani…’ he calls softly.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I can’t find you.’
He’s sweating. His face is pinched and his legs begin to jerk like he’s running.
‘Dani!’ he yells, his hands flail, jaws grind.
‘I’m here, Dad,’ she tells him, hoping her voice might worm its way down into his dream.
He twists sharply and cries in pain. ‘Are you safe?’
She hesitates. ‘Yes, Dad, I’m safe.’
He shakes, whimpering like a child. ‘Dani. Where are you?’
‘Dad, I’m here,’ she whispers. ‘I came back.’
His face contorts and he moans loudly.
‘I can’t see through the snow. Dani, I can’t—’ his body is suddenly rigid. His jaw grinds and darkness knits his brow. His back arcs – like he is having a seizure.
‘Sleep, Daddy. I’m here.’
He makes a low moan and, like a sudden storm, the danger passes as tension slips away from his body and he slides deep into the undertow of sleep. She watches him, listens as his breath softens until it’s barely audible. He’s still. He’s safe. The monsters have left him alone – for tonight. He should sleep until morning.
She stretches in the chair. Her back aches and the pain in her hip cuts through her. She can’t sit any longer, so lies on the floor beside him. She rocks from side to side, trying to get comfortable. It was such a long time ago, surely it shouldn’t still feel like this. Phantom pains. On the ceiling, the faintest movements of shadow – greys and blacks – skirmish above her head. Slowly, the pain recedes and she sinks into the floor. She lies still, missing her night-light, wants something to eat the darkness away. She longs for dawn, for her dad to wake. She wants to talk, go for a walk, maybe see a movie? What time is it now – 2 a.m.? Tiredness sweeps across her. He’ll sleep – she wishes she could.
She lies still for a long time, listening to his breath rise and fall. Finally she rolls over onto all fours – stretches like a cat – and leaves. Outside his door, she pauses for a few moments, continuing to listen to his breath. One day it will end. Will she be there at that moment? Hear the body draw its final inhalation, the lungs expand and then just stop so that the air seeps away and there is nothing. Nothing. The thought scares her. The loneliness terrifies her.
She turns to her own room. Inside is her single child’s bed, the same bed her father knelt under to check for monsters all those years ago. She feels a tiny shudder run through her.
‘Someone walked over your grave.’ That’s what her gran would have said.
The room is too dark, only a little moonlight spills in from the hallway. She isn’t sure she can stay there. The shadows are alive sometimes.
‘Be brave, Dani,’ she tells herself. But the old fears are strong. What would Dad do?
She bends down and looks underneath the bed. Cobwebs. No monsters – unless you’re a fly. She smiles a fake smile, even though there’s nobody there to see it, and she feels braver.
‘Go on, Dan,’ she whispers, and stretches out her fingers to the wardrobe door. It swings open with a little haunted-house creak. The dresses and coats are long gone. It is totally empty. Of course it is. Real monsters don’t hide in wardrobes.
TWO
Saturday 18 December 2010
She cuts him.
His body twists. She tightens her grip on his hand as the pain draws him back from the oblivion of sedation. Eyes flicker. For a second they open: confus
ion, pain, fear. His palm pools with blood.
‘Shh,’ she whispers, as if to calm a baby, squeezing his fingers tight.
He struggles one final time, but the tape she’s wrapped around his body holds him securely. He drops back into the darkness.
With an unsteady hand she fumbles in her pocket for the sterile swab.
‘Damn,’ she spits, frustrated by the delicate touch needed. With a bloodied finger she pokes her glasses, holding them in place so she can peer through the oval at the bottom. His blurred hand sharpens into focus.
She dips the bud into his palm; the cotton bloats, gorges itself. She lets his hand drop – it arcs to the floor and swings, splattering red like a child’s painting, and then comes to rest, weeping onto the carpet. She’s cut far deeper than was needed; bone shows through the deep trench of flesh. She doesn’t care, just runs the swab across the slide, leaving a bloody smear. Done. She feels giddy. Finally she’s done it. Patricia Lancing has her man. She leans forward, her mouth brushing his ear to whisper, ‘You are a monster.’
‘He needs a plaster,’ A small voice says.
Patty looks across at Dani, who with a shy smile holds up the toy she’s squirted with ketchup.
‘Hoppy Bunny needs a plaster. He’s poorly.’
‘Oh dear, let’s get him one. Maybe Doctor Duck should take a look.’
‘Oh yes, Mum. I’ll go get him.’ Her daughter pads away, the memory fading.
‘Danielle,’ Patty calls to her five-year-old daughter, but she is gone. Long gone.
She looks back to the man tied to the chair. ‘Why Danielle?’
The question hangs in the air between them as it has done for over twenty years, poisonous and all consuming.
‘Why my daughter?’
There is no sound from him. She looks at her watch. 3.42 a.m.
She takes the slide with his blossom of blood, puts it back in its box and seals it. With reverence she walks it over to the cooler and places it inside. All is done. She hears her husband’s voice slide back to her through the years: ‘Now what, Patty? Now what will you do?’ Jim asks, but she doesn’t know what to say to him, her mind too full of shadows.
