Dead Broken - Psychological Thriller / Horror

by Gerard Gray

  “Please!” I said again.

  “I need a cup of milk to take my tablets with, please, thank you, please, thank you.” My dad said this with a cheeky grin on his face. I reluctantly smiled back at him; it was actually quite funny. My mum’s bitter mask remained stuck fast to her face, though. She didn’t find him funny in the slightest.

  I opened my eyes and rolled over in the dark turning my back on the floating cat. I didn’t want to think about this anymore. This was not the way I wanted to remember my dad.

  *

  I squinted into the light. It only took me a couple of seconds to remember where I was. What time was it? I sat up, my heart beating fast. I looked all around the room to see if anyone was with me but the room looked empty. My eyes came to a nervous halt on the staircase.

  Was the door open?

  I carefully turned myself around on the bed, trying not to make a sound. I didn’t want to alert Steven to me being awake. I stopped in mid twist and stared at my ankle. I was confused. The chain was gone. I cast the stairs a panicked look, the light hurting my eyes. I listened. Could I hear anything? He must have come back.

  Nothing.

  Slowly, quietly, I raised myself up.

  I didn’t move at first. I scanned the room until I found what I was looking for. I had remembered it from my earlier visits, but I hadn’t brought it to my attention until now.

  It was a broom.

  Now, it wouldn’t have been my first weapon of choice, but it was all that I had. I tip toed over to where it was sitting, hoping with all my heart that the floorboards wouldn’t creak and give me away. They didn’t betray me. I picked up the broom and examined the brush. It had a screw holding the pole in place but thankfully it didn’t look that robust. I put the head on the ground and placed my foot on top of it. I twisted it back and forth in a bid to separate it from the shaft. It was quite slack, but it refused to give. I applied a little more strength, but still it wouldn’t come.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, utterly exasperated. I felt like hitting the brush to teach it a lesson but I managed to restrain myself. I manipulated it again, back and forth, back and forth, this time in anger. And I was just about to give up when it splintered and shot out the hole. I fell backwards, almost clattering into one of the bookshelves, but somehow managed to stop myself. I must have looked like the Tower of Pisa, frozen in a state of half fall. I hadn’t made much of a sound, but it was probably loud enough for him to hear in the next room. I listened, a fear gripping my spine. He had slit that boy’s throat. He had cut off his fingers.

  I threw the rancid thoughts across the room. I couldn’t think about such things, not if I wanted to get out of here. I would deal with those demons later.

  I held out the pole in front of me. What was I going to do with this? I wasn’t exactly Monkey. I suppose I could use it to jab him with. I could jab him in the face, perhaps bring it down hard onto his head. For a second I was tempted to spin it around, just like Monkey, but my fear raised its finger and chastised me for even thinking it.

  I started to walk towards the staircase. I could see that the door was lying slightly ajar. I paused on hearing my panting breath. I had to be quiet, but it was difficult when the fear of having your fingers cut off was gnawing at you like a rat.

  A thought suddenly came to me. It was the memory of a download I had once watched by mistake, of a hostage in Iraq getting his head hacked off. The prisoner was dressed in an orange jump suit, his captors hooded in black. His head wouldn’t come off; it took them a number of goes to finish the job. At the time I had thought that this was the worst thing I had ever seen; it wasn’t until later that I realised just how much it had disturbed me, though. Funnily enough, the thought of it no longer bothered me.

  I placed my hand on the banister, bending double; I was about to be sick. The reality of a human being getting his throat cut had managed to break through my defences. I forced myself to get a grip, banishing the image of the boy to the back of my mind. I did this by focussing on my children’s faces. They were my happy thoughts, my light at the end of the tunnel.

  OK, one last breath before we do this. Just think, this could be the last thing I ever do, a bit like that scene from Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid. And just like in the film I fully expected the Mexican army to be sitting at the kitchen table, just beyond the door, waiting for me with all the firepower in Mexico. My heart was missing beats, bubbling like a percolator. I quickly filled a large, blue sponge with air, held it at its zenith, and then slowly released it back into the world. I did this a couple of times, but my heart continued to bump and jump in my chest.

  I needed fresh air. I needed to get out of that cellar.

  I started to move again, quicker this time, until I was standing at the top of the staircase. I held my staff out in front of me. On the count of three I would throw myself through the door, bringing my staff down hard onto that bastard’s head. Hopefully I would be able to get to him before he had a chance to reach for his omnipresent gun.

  I could hear my breath again.

  Cold sweat was dripping from my armpits, down onto my sides below.

  It was now or never.

  On the count of three then: One… two… three…

  With an almighty roar, a roar that my brave hearted Scottish ancestors would have been proud of, I hurtled myself into the early morning kitchen. I brought the broom down hard as I flew right past the table and on towards the sink. I quickly regained my balance and spun myself around, my heart in full attack mode.

  Nothing.

  Not a soul.

  BANG! Both the back and front doors exploded at the same time. Someone yelled something, but in all the commotion I have to admit it was lost on me.

  “Get on the floor! Get on your stomach!”

  The force of the words sent me sprawling to the ground.

  “Place your hands behind your head and spread your legs.”

  I did as I was told.

  I caught sight of several pairs of boots swirling around my head like leaves on an autumn day. It took me a couple of seconds to understand what was going on, but even so I was petrified. I stole a quick glance as several people pinned me to the floor. They were attaching something to my wrists, pulling them tight.

  Men, dressed all in muscular black, wearing what looked like riot masks were all over the room. One of them was pointing a gun slightly above my head. Despite the treatment I was receiving, my mind was beginning to relax, though. I lay on the floor as hands, fast and furious, searched my body.

  “Target secured!”

  The next thing I knew I was getting pulled to my feet and bungled out the back door. I can remember the smell of early morning dew, cool and crisp, as they led me through the wet grass. The police were everywhere, the surrounding fields crawling like ants. I momentarily panicked, but reassured myself that I didn’t need to. These people were here to help; they were doing their jobs. Let them do their jobs.

  Two masked men pushed me into the back of a caged police car. One of them said something to me but my mind didn’t register. I was dazed, the world ringing in my ears like the after effects of an almighty explosion.

  Just before closing the door, I raised my head and said: “The girl. She escaped. You need to help the girl.” I was trying to be helpful. “Oh… and Rambo’s in the fridge.” The officer nodded, pushing over the door.

  I closed my tired eyes.

  My ordeal was over.

  Part 3

  Yesterday, I thought I had problems

  Chapter 23

  The Lady Detective

  The police officers drove me to a remote police station in the centre of a small town. It wasn’t until they were ushering me into the building that I noticed their accents. They weren’t Scottish. They reminded me of my cousin’s accent, the son of my uncle who owned the farm in Cumbria.

  “Where are we?” I asked as they lead me into the station.

  “Gretna.”

  “Gretna?
”

  I had no idea how long we had been travelling in the car. I had fallen asleep soon after we had started to drive. We could have driven for hours for all I knew.

  The officers took me into a little room and proceeded to give me a break down on what was about to happen. First of all they wanted me to consent to them taking my fingerprints along with a blood sample. I knew they were only doing their job so I told them that this was fine by me. I wanted to get this over and done with as soon as possible, and of course I wanted that madman caught. The officer told me that they wanted me to see a doctor, just to check me over. On asking them if I would be going to the hospital they told me that it wasn’t necessary for now. What they needed from me at the moment was a statement, which I was more than happy to give.

  I spent the next hour pouring my soul out to the officers. One of them took down my testimony, only stopping on occasion to clarify what I had meant by one thing or another. I could tell by the look on their faces that they were stunned by my tale. I told them about the connection to the murders down south, that the priest in the news was probably innocent.

  At one point I had to stop due to feeling sick and light headed. The officer offered me a couple of biscuits and a glass of water. We paused while I ate them, giving my head time to rejoin my body.

  Believe it or not, five minutes later we were all in stitches, laughing. I had just told them about my trip to ASDA. I then told them about the book, thinking they would find that funny as well. “Two million pounds?” The officer asked, incredulous.

  “Two million pounds,” I confirmed. “But that was only the down payment. The man was insane. According to him he still owed it souls. He certainly knew how to spin a yarn. He made it out that it was a mystical book; that it was somehow responsible for all the kids he had killed. He was utterly insane.” I started to laugh at this, more out of disbelief than anything else. One of the officers smiled courteously, but they didn’t find it funny.

  I left nothing out, except for one small fact. I didn’t go into too much detail regarding the girl. I just told them that he had wanted me to have sex with her, but that I had refused to do so.

  The officers thanked me for my statement. I was then asked to read it back over and sign it. They finished the interview by telling me that I was going to be questioned by two officers in about an hour’s time. The interview would be recorded for accuracy, and again I had to consent to this. This was fine by me. I wanted to help them as much as possible.

  As the officers left the room I suddenly remembered the girl. I needed to know if she was OK.

  “The girl, did you find her? Did she get away?”

  The officer cast his colleague a pensive look; he didn’t want to answer the question. “I’m sorry, but we found her shortly after we picked you up.”

  My stomach disappeared down a hole. That did not sound good at all.

  “What do you mean by you’re sorry?”

  The other officer coughed, stopping his colleague from going any further. “There’ll be plenty of time to answer your questions later, sir.”

  “Please, I need to know.”

  Again he hesitated. His companion lowered his head as if to say it’s your call. The officer decided to make a u-turn and join his partner. “I’m sorry but I’m not authorised to answer that question at this point in the investigation. Any questions you have you can direct to the Detective Inspector in charge. She’ll be here in the next hour or so to talk to you.”

  The officer made to leave the room, but stopped just before reaching the door. “Oh, would you like a cup of tea, sir?”

  I winced on hearing him say this. I could still remember the way Steven had stirred his tea, deliberately and slowly, just before dragging me into that room for the last time. I felt sick and slightly dizzy. I shook my head. I would never drink tea again as long as I lived. “Perhaps some water?”

  “I’ll get someone to bring you it, sir.”

  “Oh, and could I be a bit cheeky and ask you to bring me some bread or something. I have a problem with my stomach. It’s burning up. I need to line it with something.”

  “Of course, I’ll get someone to bring you a sandwich.”

  I cringed on hearing him say this. I hate butter and mayonnaise with a passion, which means I hate almost all sandwiches. I knew it was pushing it but I had to tell him. It was my pet hate.

  “I’m sorry for being a pest, but I can’t stand butter. Could you just bring me some bread, or a pie or something? No butter or mayonnaise.”

  The officer chuckled to himself, nodded and left the room.

  I continued to stare into the space where he had been standing. I was exhausted. And as I stared, a young girl with black bunches and freckles walked into the room and stared back. Why were they sorry that they found you? Why?

  *

  The female officer turned up about half an hour later accompanied by two other officers. She introduced them to me, but I forgot their names instantly. The room wasn’t exactly small, but the four of us made it feel cramped and stuffy. She was called Chief Inspector Matthews. At a guess I would have said she was in her early forties, emerald eyes, red hair neatly cropped to the scalp. At first she appeared to be quite nice, if not slightly mechanical, a bit like an automaton. I had already given the other two officers my statement earlier; this appeared to be more of an in-depth examination of my account.

  “I just need to go over some of your statement again,” she said, placing a copy of it in front of me. “Is this your statement, sir? Could you please confirm that this is your signature?”

  I nodded.

  “Sorry could you please answer either yes or no for the record.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, yes it is.”

  “Before I begin, I need to know if you knew the victims. It doesn’t say in your statement if you did or not.”

  I hesitated. I didn’t know how to answer the question. I shifted in my seat to get more comfortable. “No, not really… I mean, I had seen them before, but I didn’t know them.”

  “But you had seen them before?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m sorry but I need you to clarify this for me. Either you had seen them before or you hadn’t. Which is it?” I was taken slightly aback. The detective’s tone was clinical, but there was a hint of a threat there as well.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure. I think I saw them in a café about a week ago, possibly in the street as well. But I can’t say for definite if it was them.”

  “Do you know a detective McDonald?”

  I stared at her, slightly confused. “Sorry?”

  “Did you, on the 26th of October, leave a message for a Detective McDonald on his answer machine, stating that you had seen the perpetrators of a crime that had been committed against you on a previous date?”

  It took me a couple of seconds to remember the phone call. I had called him in a moment of confusion, but I couldn’t remember if I’d said anything or not. “Oh. I think I did, but I can’t remember what I said.”

  “Could I show you this picture, if I may?” The detective removed a photograph from a folder and placed it down in front of me. It was blurred, obviously blown up from something. Three kids were standing by the roadside next to some cars. I recognised the tall one as possibly being Rambo, but the blonde one had his back to me and the girl was too blurry to make out. They might have been Steven’s victims, they might not have. I couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Do you recognise the people in this picture?”

  “I’m not sure. They might be…” I suddenly felt like crying. Up until that point I had managed to wipe the kids from my mind; I had expunged the weekend’s events entirely, building a wall between my thoughts and the victims. All at once the weight of what had just happened hit me.

  “Did you find the girl?” I asked, tears gathering at the base of my throat.

  “I’m sorry could you answer the question please. Do you recognise the people in this photograph?
”

  I picked it up once more and examined it. “It looks like… them.”

  “Do you recognise the picture?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Do you recognise the picture?”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand the question?”

  “Have you seen this picture before, sir?”

  “Oh. No. No.”

  “That’s strange. This picture was taken from your phone, sir. It’s dated the 4th of April. Could you please take another look at it and tell me if you now recognise it, sir.”

  I stared hard at the picture for a couple of seconds and then it hit me. Just before the kids had attacked me in my car I had attempted to take a couple of photos of them. Were these those photos? “Oh, I think I remember, now. I might have taken it, just before they attacked me.” I placed the picture back down onto the table.

  “So you admit that you knew the victims prior to this weekend’s events?”

  “I might have done… what I mean is, I’m not sure. I don’t know.” I cast my head, raising both my hands to support it. I was unbelievably tired. I didn’t mind helping the police with their enquiries, but this was a bit much for me right now.

  The officer gave me time to think.

  “Look,” I finally said, staring the woman right in the face. “I’ve been through a hell of a lot tonight. I’m very, very tired. All I want to do now is see my family. You can’t even imagine what I’ve been through. I don’t mind helping you with your enquiries, but don’t you think you’d be better off asking me questions about the priest’s brother than my past grievances with those kids.”

  “Sir, it’s exactly those past grievances that we need to get to the bottom of here. We need to find out just exactly what your relationship was to the victims.”

  “But he’s out there. That maniac’s out there. Ask the priest. Ask him about his brother.”

  “We have done, sir.”

  “You have? Father John Thomas?”