The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  Carver closed it. ‘Hello, Michael. How are you bearing up?’

  I ignored him and focussed on the emergency door. The red lettering.

  ‘I didn’t tell you where we found the knife, did I?’

  ‘What knife?’

  Carver sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t play games with me. You know full well what knife. The one you butchered your girlfriend with. It was hidden up in the guttering. What were you trying to do, Michael, play a game of hide-and-seek?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Your memory’s taken a rather convenient hike in the hills. But, it does seem odd you tried to hide it before leaping to your death. I mean, why bother? You know what this tells me?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘Tells me you were in complete control of your mind. Which is a good thing because no doubt your brief will claim you didn’t have a clue what you were doing. Diminished responsibility and all that bollocks. But, hiding that knife in the guttering proves, beyond a reasonable doubt, you were fully aware of what you were up to. Am I right, Michael?’

  I stared at the emergency door. Tried to focus my mind on anything but Carver.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’

  I looked, in spite of alarm bells clanging in my head. Poking out the top of his pocket, a knife handle, silver and gleaming.

  ‘Do you recognise it, Michael?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s from your kitchen.’

  ‘I still don’t recognise it.’

  Emily breezed back into the room with a fresh jug of water. Carver let his jacket fall back into place, hiding the knife.

  ‘Are you all right, Michael?’

  I wanted to tell her what Carver had in his pocket, but the words stuck in my throat. ‘Yeah. Just tired.’

  She looked at Carver. ‘Ten more minutes. He needs to rest.’

  Carver smiled. ‘Whatever you say, Nurse.’

  She walked away. Carver closed the door. ‘She’s a little cracker, isn’t she?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Bet you’d like to fuck her, right?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bend her over the bed in that little nurse’s uniform and have your wicked way with her?’

  ‘No.’ The truth. His words sickened me more than the knife in his pocket.

  He sat back down on the bed. ‘She could take my temperature any time. Anyway, we haven’t got long. Better not get bogged down in your deviant fantasies.’

  He pulled the knife out of his pocket. The blade was about six inches long. ‘Sharp enough to cut stone, I’d say. What did it feel like to plunge this knife into your girlfriend’s body over and over again?’ He grinned, the grotesque image reflected in the blade.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You know what they say about liars, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They need good memories. Which is a shame, considering you don’t have one at all.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want you to tell me what happened.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Can’t remember? Yeah, I remember.’ He held the knife in front of his face, inspecting the blade. ‘How did it feel when you plunged the knife into Becky’s eye? Did it pop?’

  I tried to imagine holding the knife. Committing the terrible crime of which I’d been accused. Remember something. Anything. A tiny fragment of truth. Was that too much to ask?

  Carver pulled the sheet off me.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He placed the tip of the blade against his lips. ‘Hush little baby. I’m going to ask you some questions. Depending on your answers, we’ll see how we get on. Now, I want you to understand this: if you lie, there will be a consequence. Can you remember that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Let’s start with something simple. Get you into the swing of things. Are you Michael William Tate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Previously resident at number twenty-five, Evenlode flats, Feelham?’

  I shrugged.

  He moved the blade close to my right foot. ‘You can do better than that.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, all right.’

  ‘Was Becky Marie Coombs your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Carver smiled. ‘See how easy it is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, I want you to listen carefully to the next question, Michael. It’s a big one. The sixty-four-million-dollar question, as they say. Did you kill Becky Marie Coombs?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He pressed the tip of the knife into my foot. ‘How does that feel, Michael?’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Oops, silly me. You’re dead from the waist down, I forgot. No good bringing you any porn, then?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Did you kill her?’

  ‘I don’t… yes… I must have.’

  ‘Correct answer. And did you use this knife to commit the crime?’

  Fuck it. Carver wasn’t interested in the truth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that a confession, Michael?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, how can I trust a word you say? It was only two minutes ago you were telling me you have no memory. Now you’re telling me you used this knife.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘For the tape, the accused is shaking his head in a manner suggesting denial.’

  ‘Tape?’

  ‘The one in my pocket, Michael. Right, you might feel a little prick.’ He jabbed the blade into the sole of my foot.

  I didn’t feel a thing.

  ‘All done.’ He took a cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the tip of the blade. ‘We need a blood sample to match up with our records.’

  ‘What records?’

  He ignored my question. ‘Wasn’t so bad, was it? Just a little prick. You don’t mind a little prick, do you, Michael? Or do you prefer a nice, big fat one? I don’t buy that bollocks about size doesn’t matter. That’s to make inadequate fools feel better about themselves. Now, I want you to hold still while I take a hair sample. One false move and you might not have a dick left to reminisce about.’

  I watched in horror as he cut a chunk of pubic hair from my crotch. He put the knife back in his pocket, along with the handkerchief and the hair. He covered my body with the sheet. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I need a sample of your pubic hair.’

  I wanted to say I was past caring, but I wasn’t. A strange mixture of shame and fear sloshed around inside my head.

  ‘Are you aware of the practice of planting evidence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How pure you are. That’s almost admirable. Well, here’s what we do when the evidence runs thin on the ground, so-to-speak. We get some of our own. Do you follow me, Michael?’

  I didn’t. But, what did it matter? I was in hell. All the rules had changed. The Devil was in charge, and Carver was just part of the plan.

  ‘Here’s the way it works, Mikey. We’ve got to kill a young boy. Don’t ask me why. Suffice to say, he’s served his purpose. Now he has to die because we don’t want him telling tales out of class. Do you follow?’

  Unfortunately, I was starting to.

  ‘We thought it might be a nice idea to put your blood and pubes on the body.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  ‘Not as sick as you, you filthy little pervert. Not even close. Oh, and for the record,’ he patted his suit pocket, ‘this isn’t the knife you murdered Becky with. Just one like it. The real one’s still at the lab. Bagged and tagged. But don’t worry, you’ll get to see the real thing in court.’

  The door opened and Emily breezed in. ‘That’s enough. Michael needs to rest.’

  Carver stood up. ‘Of course, Nurse. I’ll see myself out.’ Smooth and
sickly.

  ‘Are you all right, Michael? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  What could I say? Carver stabbed me and took some of my pubic hair to fit me up with another crime? It sounded almost as absurd as the invisible emergency door and the self-propelled wheelchair. Absurd, and yet so damned real.

  Chapter Six

  Jimmy came, as promised, around midday. He was carrying a bunch of bananas and a magazine. ‘How are you?’

  I wanted to grab hold of him, beg and plead with him to get me out of there. ‘Not so good.’

  He plonked himself down in the chair. ‘Do you like bananas?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ I doubted if I’d ever have an appetite again.

  He put the bananas next to the water jug. ‘I got you a car magazine.’

  I tried to be grateful. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You used to like cars, but I doubt you remember that, do you? I thought it might help to jog your memory.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Carver came to see me at work last night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was just sniffing around. He knows I came to see you yesterday. Asked what we talked about.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him the truth. Said you can’t remember anything. He suggested you were having us all on. Asked if you were always a joker. A bluffer. I told him you were a good friend, end of. He warned me about perjury.’

  ‘Perjury? Why?’

  ‘Who knows? It’s not like I’m a witness or anything. He kept blowing hot and cold. One minute, he was trying to be my best mate, the next, a playground bully. Anyway, he got nothing out of me.’

  I told him about Carver’s earlier visit.

  ‘He stabbed you?’

  ‘In the bottom of my foot.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He went to the bottom of the bed and lifted the sheet. ‘It’s left a mark. We ought to report him.’

  ‘No.’ Louder and more abrupt than I’d intended.

  ‘But, we can’t let the bastard get away with this. What sort of copper stabs a suspect in the bottom of the foot?’

  ‘Won’t do any good reporting him. He’ll just deny it. Say I’m making up stuff to stall the investigation, or something. He’s pure evil.’

  ‘But, he’ll have a boss,’ Jimmy insisted. ‘I don’t mind going down the nick and trying to talk to him.’

  ‘Who’s to say his boss isn’t aware of what he’s up to?’

  ‘But, why your pubes?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll love this. He reckons they’re going to kill a kid, and plant my pubes and blood at the scene.’

  ‘Kill a kid? Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I think he’s bluffing. Trying to scare me. Messing with my head.’

  ‘This is like some fucking horror story.’

  I looked at the emergency door. It gets better, I thought. Boy, does it get better.

  Jimmy sat back down in the chair. ‘This whole thing stinks.’

  I had no argument with that. ‘Whatever his game is, I’m going down for life. Even if I am innocent, I can’t remember a thing and I can’t walk. How do I even begin to prove my innocence?’

  ‘I’ll be your memory,’ Jimmy promised. ‘I’ll be your legs.’

  I forced a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Carver visited Lucy last night as well. Kept asking the same questions he asked me. She reckoned his eyes were roaming all over her body. But, he said something odd. It wasn’t threatening. Not directly. But, she said it seemed to have a hidden meaning. Or a double meaning if you like.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘He said, “It’s a crying shame what happens to people when they least expect it”.’

  ‘Maybe he was referring to Becky.’

  Jimmy didn’t look so sure. ‘Maybe. But, he said, people.’

  In light of what I knew about Carver, Jimmy had a point. However, it wasn’t anything substantial. It couldn’t be proved, threat or no threat. I took the plunge and told him about the emergency door.

  He looked around the room. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Next to the wheelchair.’

  ‘I can’t see anything.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s what Emily said. So, it can’t be there, right?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Emily thinks it might be the morphine messing with my head.’

  Jimmy looked pleased to have an explanation. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s also writing on the door. It looks like dripping blood.’

  Jimmy squinted at the wall. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘One bit says Emergency – Push to open. The other bit says my little love-bug.’

  ‘Love-bug? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  If only I knew. I then told him about my journey in the wheelchair. Along the pitch-black tunnel. The street. The terraced house. Number “19” handwritten in the same way as the writing on the emergency door. The man walking along the street, pissed, singing, smoking. How I’d seen everything in absolute clarity, in spite of the dimly lit street and the rain lashing down. The man banging on the front door. The man headbutting her and throwing her down the concrete steps. Opening the bedroom window a few minutes later and flicking a cigarette butt at the woman. Saying, sweet dreams, you filthy whore.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘She managed to get up and stagger out of the garden. Here’s the thing, Jimmy: she passed right through me, like a ghost. I could smell her perfume. Feel her pain. Then, she went along the street, and banged on someone’s door. Before she went inside, she looked right at me and said, “you’re my little love-bug, Mikey.”’

  ‘Like what’s written on the door?’

  ‘Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Did you recognise the woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you describe her?’

  ‘Quite young. Pretty. Dark hair. The bloke bust her nose. There was blood all over her face.’

  ‘What about him? Jog any memories?’

  ‘No. He was big. Broad. Shoulder-length, dark hair. Nasty eyes.’

  Jimmy stood up and walked over to the wall next to the wheelchair. ‘And you reckon the door’s here?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He put the flat of his hand against the wall. ‘Whereabouts is the writing?’

  At least he wasn’t trying to tell me the bloody thing wasn’t there. I verbally guided his hand, so it was right over the word love-bug. ‘Crazy shit, right?’

  ‘Not if it’s real to you, Michael, no.’

  ‘Can you feel anything?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What does it look like to you?’

  He hesitated, and then said, ‘Just a wall.’

  ‘If you move your hand up about two feet, there’s a bolt. It’s covered in rust.’

  He looked unsure, but did it anyway. ‘Nothing. Sorry.’

  I was about to ask him to try the silver release bar, but what was the point? It was about as real as the Tooth Fairy. ‘Thanks for trying.’

  He stared at the wall for some time before returning to his chair. ‘How long have you been seeing this door?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  Then, Jimmy said, ‘You can go to Aunt Jean’s after school.’

  I jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice coming from this man’s mouth. ‘What?’

  He looked confused. As if he didn’t quite comprehend where he was. ‘I’ve got to go, Mikey. Get ready for work. There’s some photos inside the magazine from our trip down to Brighton. Might help to jog your memory.’

  I thanked him, in spite of my racing heart.

  He smiled. ‘There’s a shilling for the fair, if you’re a good boy.’

  Chapter Seven

  Carver didn’t show up that day. In some strange way, I almost wished he would. At least he was real. Tangible. Even if it was in the most dreadful way possible. I tried to make sense of what had happened with Jimmy. The
way he’d spoken in that woman’s voice. The only logical explanation I could think of was I’d imagined it.

  Like the door?

  Exactly like the door.

  I picked up the car magazine. Custom Car. A semi-naked woman sitting on the bonnet of a silver car, licking her lips, a cane held provocatively in her right hand, boobs blocked out by a box proclaiming Limited Edition. Tacky. I opened the front cover. A dozen or so photographs fell out. Two of them dropped onto the floor. The others were scattered on the bed.

  I put the magazine on the bedside locker and picked up one of the pictures. Two guys grinning at the camera. Me and Jimmy. A pier vanishing into the sea behind us. I had my trousers rolled up to my knees, and Jimmy was dressed in khaki shorts and a white baggy T-shirt. I had no recollection of the moment. I only knew it was me because I saw myself in the mirror every morning when the nurses shaved me. No mistaking my long nose and thatch of blond hair.

  The next picture was one of Jimmy and his girlfriend, Lucy. She had short, spiky hair, and was wearing a bright yellow top. They were both pulling silly faces at the camera. Two more of me and Jimmy. Three of Lucy on her own. Two of Jimmy on his own. One of me and Lucy. None of them sparked a single flicker of recognition. But, what had I expected?

  Not a single one of Becky.

  I leaned over the edge of the bed. The photos on the floor lay face down. Shit. I straightened up and tucked the other pictures back inside the magazine. I was about to put it back on the locker when the cover girl winked at me. I jumped and almost dropped it on the floor.

  Not real. I rang the bell for help.

  A few moments later, Emily walked into the room. ‘What is it, Michael?’

  ‘Sorry to be a pain. I dropped a couple of pictures on the floor. I wonder if you could get them for me?’

  ‘No problem.’ She retrieved them and handed them to me. ‘How was your visit?’

  ‘Fine,’ I lied. If you don’t mind a grown man speaking in a woman’s voice.

  ‘Jimmy seems a nice guy.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he bring these?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be back in about half an hour with your tea.’

  I waited for her to close the door before looking at the pictures. They both featured Becky. One on her own, the other with me. I had my arm around her shoulder. She was wearing a pair of white trousers, with a matching white blouse. She was grinning at the camera, her blonde hair fastened back with a bright red headband. The sun sparkled on the sea behind us.