The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  I heard something, faint at first, then more defined. The sound of rushing water. I watched in utter disbelief as the sea in the photograph moved and lapped against the pebbled beach. A boat in the distance bobbed on the water.

  And then, I heard Jimmy’s voice: ‘Say cheese.’

  Becky turned to face me. ‘I hope your hands are clean. This is my best blouse.’

  ‘I thought you preferred dirty hands.’ Me this time. Running my other hand through my hair.

  ‘Michael Tate, wash your mouth out with soap.’

  ‘Hold still,’ Jimmy said.

  ‘Get one of us kissing,’ Becky said.

  Jimmy laughed. ‘No tongues.’

  ‘Jimmy!’ A woman’s voice to his left. Out of the picture. Lucy?

  ‘Okay. That’s it. There’s only so much you can do with a face like Michael’s.’

  ‘Ha, ha. You’re a fucking scream, Jimmy-boy.’

  Lucy wandered into shot. ‘What are we going to do tonight?’

  ‘I fancy sleeping on the beach,’ I said. ‘Under the stars.’

  Becky shook her head. ‘If you think I’m sleeping out here all night, you’ve got another think coming. It gets bloody freezing at night.’

  I didn’t seem deterred. ‘I’ll keep you warm.’

  ‘What? By slobbering all over me?’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘You can call it slobbering, if you like,’ I said. ‘I prefer to call it making love.’

  Becky adjusted her headband. ‘You can forget that. I’m not doing it outside.’

  ‘I remember Charlie Dalton telling me he did it outside once,’ Jimmy said. ‘In a farmer’s field. A horse bit his arse. Put him off sex for ages.’

  Lucy turned to Jimmy. ‘Sounds like horseshit to me.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Remember when you thought it was romantic to put those candles around the bed?’

  ‘How could I ever forget?’

  Lucy grinned. ‘He starts doing it, then goes all frantic, bucking and jerking like a madman. Tell them what happened, Jimmy.’

  Jimmy hesitated, and then said, ‘Burnt my fucking toe on a candle.’

  Everyone fell about laughing. And then, they were all abruptly still again. The picture returned to normal. Just a simple snap of me and Becky, posing for the camera. I turned it over. I don’t know what I was expecting. Some mechanism which turned it into a 3D moving picture? The four of us hiding on the back? Ha, ha, fooled ya!

  I realised I was holding my breath. I let it out and gasped for air. I put the photo on the bed and leaned back against the pillows. I wondered if I’d been transported back in time. Back to that moment on the beach. It was no dumber than being wheeled through an imaginary door to a rain-swept street, was it?

  When my breathing had settled down, I looked at the other photo. The one with Becky on her own. She was sitting on a wooden bench on the pier. The sea shimmered in sunlight. A seagull pecked at a chip on the floor. Becky still wore the same clothes, but the headband was no longer in her hair. She smiled, but the smile looked forced.

  She moved along the bench. ‘Where’s Jimmy and Lucy?’

  I sat down next to her. ‘Gone to have a look around town.’

  ‘Why did you walk off like that?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know’

  ‘I thought you were enjoying yourself.’

  I turned to face her. ‘I am. It’s just…’

  ‘The other stuff?’

  ‘Yeah. I keep thinking it will be all right, and then I think about it, and I’m not so sure. I can’t seem to get my head around it.’

  ‘Me, too. Perhaps we ought to go to a lawyer, or something.’

  I laughed. ‘What lawyer’s going to listen to someone like me?’

  ‘You don’t know until you try.’

  I shook my head. ‘I ain’t talking to no lawyers. I don’t trust them.’

  ‘Then go to the police.’

  I gazed out to sea for a while, gnawing on my index finger. The seagull plucked the chip off the wooden boards and flew off. I envied his freedom. I wanted to fly away, too. Somewhere. Anywhere. ‘I don’t trust coppers; they’re all bent.’

  ‘Not all of them, Michael.’

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘But, we don’t have much choice, though, do we?’

  ‘We could just forget about it.’

  ‘And let them win? I love you too much to let that happen. We have to be strong.’

  The photograph suddenly stopped moving. I vanished from the picture. The ocean stilled. Back to the original picture of Becky, with that troubled look on her face.

  Emily walked back into the room, carrying a tray. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  I put the photo down. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’ve been crying.’

  I reached up and touched my cheeks. Soaked with tears. ‘I…’

  ‘Did you remember something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘It might help you come to terms with—’

  ‘Murdering my girlfriend?’

  She put the tray down on the over-bed trolley. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant… with your situation.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You need to eat something.’

  ‘Do you really think I care about food?’

  ‘It’s shepherd’s pie.’

  I was about to say I didn’t care if it was humble pie, but I didn’t want to get mad with Emily, one of the few people willing to treat me like a human being. ‘Okay. I’ll try it.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s better. You might want to take your thumb out of your mouth first.’

  I unplugged my thumb and watched her walk out of the room. I played Becky’s words over and over in my head. I could even smell salt in the air. What the hell was this? I looked around the room, half-expecting to see Becky standing in the corner, covered in blood, her sightless eye staring at me. Accusing. Thankfully, she wasn’t.

  But, scrawled on the door, in fresh red lettering, were the words: we have to be strong.

  Chapter Eight

  Sharon, and another nurse I’d never met before, hoisted me out of bed and into the wheelchair the following morning. Apart from the fresh writing, the night had passed without incident. I’d slept fitfully, unable to shut out the impossible moving images displayed on the two photographs.

  Just being upright felt better. I tried not to think about the journey along the pitch-black tunnel a couple of nights ago. The invisible pusher propelling me towards that terraced house. It was even possible to convince myself I’d dreamed the whole thing, until I looked at the emergency door and its secret messages scrawled in red.

  The other nurse, Tina, put my feet on the footrest, and then crammed my feet into bright green slippers which looked as if they might glow in the dark.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  Sharon gawped at me as if I’d just propositioned her. ‘We aren’t going anywhere. You’ve got a visitor who wants to take you for a walk in the garden.’

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Since when have you been on first-name terms with the police?’

  ‘Carver?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Carver to you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with him.’

  Sharon didn’t look at all bothered. ‘It’s not your choice. You’re a murderer. Murderers don’t get to pick and choose who they see.’

  ‘Where’s Emily?’ A dumb question. Desperate.

  ‘Emily’s off for two days. You’ve got me and Tina. I’ll personally be glad to see the back of you. People on the ward are talking about you as if you’re some sort of celebrity. But, we all know what you are, don’t we? A nasty, vicious killer.’

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Then, it’s a good job you’re in hospital,’ Tina said. ‘For now.’

  Carver walked into the room. His pale blue eyes flashed. He treated me to that awful lopsided grin. ‘Nice to s
ee you vertical, Michael.’

  I looked at the door. At the words, we have to be strong. Becky’s words, before I’d taken a knife to her and silenced her forever.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day outside, Michael. I thought we might take a little walk in the garden.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Really? A little dicky bird tells me you need some fresh air. Isn’t that right, Nurse?’

  Sharon nodded. ‘Might put a bit of colour in his cheeks.’

  ‘I need my painkillers.’

  ‘Stop being a baby, Michael. These girls don’t care about your headaches.’

  I almost reminded him I’d suffered a fractured skull in the fall, but I knew it wouldn’t make a scrap of difference. He was enjoying this. My pain was just a bonus.

  ‘What a wimp,’ Sharon said.

  ‘Haven’t you got any pride, Michael? Making yourself look like a big baby in front of these two lovely nurses.’

  Tina and Sharon walked out of the room, whispering among themselves.

  Carver shook his head. ‘What are you like?’

  ‘I can’t think straight.’

  He put his face close to mine. ‘Do you think I care about that?’ Saliva flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘You sick fuckers are all the same; willing to dish it out, but when it comes to taking a bit back, that’s a different matter altogether, isn’t it?’

  I wiped his spit from my face.

  ‘I don’t suppose you offered poor Becky some aspirin after you plunged that knife into her eye, did you?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Remember? So you keep saying. But, I don’t believe you. That’s why we’re going somewhere quiet. Have a little chat about that.’

  On the way through the main ward, I almost called out and asked someone to help me. But, what could I say? Help, call the cops? By the time we reached the garden, I felt nauseated. He parked the wheelchair next to a wooden bench with In Memory of Joan Hurst inscribed on a brass plaque. The garden looked colourful, alive, with flowers and shrubs in a variety of stone pots and troughs.

  Carver sat down on the bench. ‘I love the peace and tranquillity of gardens, don’t you, Michael?’

  I focussed on a large bush, with blood-red flowers.

  ‘So symbolic of life and death, flowers, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you say so.’ I studied that bush for all I was worth. I played the words, we have to be strong, over and over in my head.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know your pubic hairs are currently residing on the semi-naked body of a young boy called Thomas Wakeman. He’s buried in Bluebell Woods. I doubt anyone’s going to find him, but just in case they do, you’ll be the prime suspect.’

  We have to be strong.

  ‘There’s no end to your depravity, is there, Michael? It’s a damn good job you landed on that builder’s van, else Becky’s mother might never have seen justice done for her daughter. Your lot always try to take the easy way out, don’t you? Fucking cowards, the lot of you.’

  ‘Says the man who’s trying to stitch me up with some boy’s murder.’

  Carver laughed. It sounded like smashed glass. ‘Wash your mouth out with soap. No one’s trying to stitch you up. Your pubes are simply an insurance policy.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about that. Suffice to say, everyone thinks the world spins clockwise. But, it doesn’t. Not on your nelly. It turns anticlockwise.’

  I didn’t have a clue what he was babbling on about.

  ‘You’re going down for life, Michael.’

  Back to more familiar territory.

  ‘You like going down, don’t you?’

  ‘Why are you even bothering to talk to me?’

  ‘Because my boss says I need to nail your arse to the mast. Leave no stone unturned. And we all have to do what our bosses tell us, don’t we? That’s how come the world keeps spinning anticlockwise.’

  ‘You’ve got the knife. You’ve got the evidence. I don’t understand why—’

  ‘Yours is not to reason why, Michael William Tate. Yours is but to do or die.’ He pulled a long, thick needle from his pocket and stood up.

  I gripped the arms of the wheelchair. I thought about trying to wheel myself away from him. Back into the ward, call for help, but, thoughts and actions were only distant cousins. He pulled my dressing gown aside, and thrust the needle into my leg, just above my right knee.

  I cried out, even though I couldn’t feel a thing. He left the thing embedded about half an inch deep. ‘How does that feel?’

  What was I supposed to say? Wonderful, Detective Inspector. Just what the doctor ordered. A fresh approach to the healing process.

  ‘That’s Mrs. Carver’s best darning needle. She’s a stickler for mending things. I couldn’t tell you how many pairs of socks she’s mended with that darned thing. Darned thing, get it?’

  He pushed it in further. About an inch now. ‘Women, eh? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. But, I’ll tell you this for nothing; I wouldn’t be without my Angie. She’s my rock. My calm water. My clockwise in this anticlockwise world. Just like Becky was, right?’

  I closed my eyes as he pulled the needle out. He put it to his lips and licked the blood off the shaft. Slowly and deliberately as if relishing the taste. ‘I always like to lick it clean.’

  I watched a blob of dark red blood bloom on my leg.

  ‘How about I thrust this needle into your eye, Mikey?’

  Why was he calling me Mikey again? ‘Please…’

  He held the needle up to my face. ‘How would you like that?’

  I tried to edge away from him, but there was nowhere to go. The needle glinted in the sun.

  ‘I want you to tell me, in your own words, why you killed Becky Coombs.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He suddenly changed tack. ‘Who’s the Queen of England?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Queen Elizabeth or Mary Queen of Scots?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘The Prime Minister?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Wilson or Callaghan?’

  I didn’t recognise either name.

  He held the needle in front of my eyes. ‘See no evil, Mikey.’

  What happened next defied logic. The wheelchair lurched forward and banged into his legs. He dropped the needle on the floor and staggered backwards. He gawped at me, grin slipping from his chops. ‘What the hell…?’

  I felt a slight rock as the wheelchair settled. The brake was applied. No one anywhere near it.

  Carver rubbed his shin. ‘What the fuck?’

  I felt hysteria bubbling up inside me, like a volcano about to erupt. I pulled the dressing gown around me and tightened the cord.

  ‘There you are.’ Jimmy. Thank Christ.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Carver asked.

  Jimmy ignored him. ‘Has he been harassing you again?’

  ‘I’d watch your mouth, if I were you, Mr. Pearce.’

  ‘Is that right? And why would that be?’

  ‘You know full well why. You’re a direct associate of the accused.’

  ‘Has he been doing anything to you?’ Jimmy asked me.

  ‘No.’

  ‘If he—’

  ‘Don’t let that mouth of yours run away with itself,’ Carver said. ‘You never know where it might lead you.’ He bent over and picked up the needle. ‘I’ve got better things to do than shoot the breeze with a pair of losers like you. But, before I go, I want you to remember one thing. This is a cut and dried case. If you think you can worm your way out of anything by cooking up some half-baked plot – don’t bother. That applies to you more than him, Mr. Pearce. Do you see the colour of my ink?’

  Jimmy ignored him and rolled a cigarette. When Carver was gone, he sat down on the bench. ‘Twat.’ He lit his cigarette, took a couple of deep drags, and picked a flake of tobacco off his top lip. ‘What did Carver want?’
r />   ‘The usual shit. He likes playing games. Before you turned up, he stabbed me in the leg with a needle.’

  Jimmy’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  I lifted my dressing gown and showed him.

  ‘He can’t fucking do that.’

  ‘He can do whatever he likes.’

  ‘No, Michael, he thinks he can. There’s a difference.’

  I didn’t agree. From where I was sitting, Carver could do exactly as he pleased. I changed the subject. ‘I’ve had a look at the photos.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘How well do you remember the day they were taken?’

  ‘Pretty good. Why?’

  ‘Do you remember telling us a story about Charlie Dalton having sex in a field?’

  Jimmy grinned. ‘Yeah. He got his arse bitten by a horse. You remember that?’

  ‘Not exactly. Not in the way you might think.’ I told him about the photos coming to life. How me and Becky were talking about going to the police. ‘I could actually hear the ocean. It was so real, Jimmy. Did I ever say anything to you about going to the cops?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Did I have any enemies?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Except that guy you beat the crap out of when he stabbed me.’

  ‘What about at work? Did I fall out with anyone there?’

  ‘No. You just did your job and went home most nights.’

  ‘So, what the hell does all this shit mean?’

  Jimmy dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. ‘Seems as if someone – something – is trying to help you.’

  ‘By making photos come to life?’

  ‘The story about Charlie Dalton is true. That’s something solid.’

  It didn’t alter the fact I felt like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood, did it? ‘That’s not all. There’s more writing on the door.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘We have to be strong.’

  We sat in silence for a minute or so. Then, I told Jimmy about the wheelchair lurching forward and hitting Carver in the leg.

  ‘That sounds like something Becky would do.’

  I wanted to believe that, but it was hard to have faith in something which defied logic. I wasn’t even sure if Jimmy was real, for Christ’s sake. ‘Can you take me back inside now? I need a rest.’