The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘If you ever want to talk about—’

  ‘I don’t.’

  We sat in silence for ages. I could feel the rise and fall of her chest, feel her warmth, both physical and emotional.

  Becky finally said, ‘I didn’t tell anyone about my stepdad. Not even my mum. I only told Paul about it last year. I know it’s really hard to talk about things, Michael, but you do feel better when it’s all out. It’s as if this great weight is lifted off your shoulders. You’re not even aware it’s there until after it’s gone.’

  But, Liam was still so raw. Unfinished. It would take an absolute miracle to bring Carver to justice.

  Without warning, she changed the subject. ‘Do you like me, Michael?’

  Like her? I loved her with all the flowers in my heart. ‘Yeah.’ Nonchalant. Reserved. Typical of me.

  ‘Do you like me a pond, a river, or an ocean?’

  I sat up. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you like me a bit, a lot, or loads?’

  That was easy. ‘Loads. Why?’

  ‘Do you want to know a secret?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I like you a lot, too.’

  My heart grew wings and flew around the campfire. ‘You do?’

  ‘You’re one of the nicest boys I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Why do you look so surprised?’

  ‘I didn’t think—’

  ‘You can kiss me, if you want.’

  Now what are you going to do? my mind squawked. You’ve never kissed a girl before.

  She leaned closer, wrapped one arm around the back of my neck, and closed her soft, warm mouth over mine. When we broke free, she smiled. ‘You’re a lovely kisser, Michael Tate.’

  I swallowed my heart. ‘I am?’

  ‘Would you like to be my boyfriend?’

  I grinned so wide, I almost split my face in two. ‘I’d love to.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Things moved pretty fast after that final night at summer camp. I moved into Becky’s flat just before Christmas and got a job washing pots at a local hotel in Feelham High Street. Nothing spectacular, but it helped to pay the bills. With our combined income, we found a better flat, and moved out to the edge of town.

  We still helped Paul at the church, and lent a hand distributing food to the homeless in Oxford. I worked at the George Hotel one ‘til nine. I’d made a friend at work, Jimmy Pearce. We’d sometimes go out for a drink together, shoot a few frames of pool, have a laugh. He had a girlfriend called Lucy, and the four of us would occasionally go to the cinema or ice skating in Oxford.

  Life was good. Me and Becky got on well. If I said we never argued, I’d be stretching the truth a bit, but it was never anything serious. Just me leaving my socks on the bathroom floor, or leaving the toilet seat up. I can’t tell you how much that pissed her off. I didn’t get what all the fuss was about; I thought I was doing well to hit the target.

  By the following summer, Woodside was no longer the first thing I thought of in the morning, or the last thing at night. Don’t get me wrong, it was always somewhere close to the surface, especially my promise to Liam to make them pay for what they’d done, but I felt so powerless. Who was going to believe me? The likes of Carver and Kraft held all the power. I’d just be dismissed as someone with a grudge. An ungrateful wretch who was just full of sour grapes.

  That all changed on June third, Liam’s birthday. I always thought about him when the date rolled around, but this year was different. I felt overwhelmed by a terrible sadness. An aching loss. As if a piece of my heart had gone missing.

  Becky seemed to sense this, in spite of my best efforts to hide it. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Tired.’ About as convincing as a cat claiming to like birds.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘A beer would be good.’

  She fetched me a cold one from the fridge, popped the tab, and handed it to me. I swallowed half the can without stopping, hoping the alcohol would blunt the edges of my feelings. It didn’t.

  Becky poured a glass of wine. ‘Do you want to talk?’

  I put the can on the coffee table. My chest felt as if it was swelling like bread in an oven. And then, I sobbed so hard I could barely breathe. On and on, like a burst dam.

  Becky held me close, pulled my head onto her chest. ‘Hey, hey, it’s all right. You let it all out.’

  When I was spent, I sat shaking in her arms like a helpless child.

  ‘What sparked that off?’ she asked.

  I wiped snot from my top lip. ‘It would have been Liam’s birthday today.’

  ‘How long’s he been gone?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he have an accident?’

  That was probably the easiest question I’d ever had to answer. ‘No.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Carver killed him.’

  ‘Carver?’

  ‘A copper who used to come to the children’s home. A sadistic bastard. He beat Liam to death with a truncheon.’

  The colour drained from Becky’s face. ‘A policeman murdered him?’

  ‘Yep. Detective Inspector John Carver.’

  ‘Jesus, Michael, I don’t know what to say. Why did he kill him?’

  ‘Because he’s a fucking psycho.’ I spent the next hour recounting everything that had happened at Woodside, right up to my escape in the laundry van.

  When I was finished, Becky brought fresh drinks. ‘Does anyone else know what happened?’

  ‘No. We buried him at the bottom of the field, like I said, and that was the end of it. One of the kids, Reggie, kept asking if I knew where Liam was, but I told him I didn’t. I was just concerned with staying alive, getting the fuck out of there.’

  ‘And you’ve been carrying this around with you ever since?’

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I made a promise to Liam I’d tell someone. But, who? I could hardly go to the cops. Not with Carver around. No one would believe me, anyway. They’re all in it together.’

  She drank half of her wine, and then said, ‘But, you have to tell someone, Michael. You can’t let them get away with it. Not all coppers are like Carver. They’re not all evil.’

  ‘And how, exactly, do we know which ones are which? They don’t come with psychopath tattooed on their foreheads, do they?’

  After several hours' deliberation, we decided the best thing to do was ask Paul’s opinion.

  Paul listened intently. He looked as if he was contemplating asking God Himself. Finally, he suggested I go to the police.

  ‘But, what if they don’t believe me?’

  ‘You said you buried this poor boy at the bottom of the field at Woodside, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, tell the police where he’s buried.’

  ‘What about Carver?’

  Paul looked uncertain. ‘You’ll just have to take a leap of faith, Michael. Go to Feelham Police Station. I know the desk sergeant down there. Donald Osbourne. He’s a decent guy. I’ll have a word with him if you like?’

  I still wasn’t sure. It seemed way too risky. Even if the desk sergeant was all right, it didn’t mean Carver wouldn’t get wind of it, and stomp all over it with his size tens. No one understood the hold Carver, Kraft, and all his cronies had over me. It was easy for Paul and Becky to say go to the cops; they hadn’t been beaten and systematically abused by these people, had their soul stripped bare.

  Paul said, ‘All you can do is follow your heart, Michael. God will watch over you.’

  We had tea and biscuits, and then headed back to the flat. I closed the front door and stood with my back to it. ‘I can’t do it, Becks.’

  ‘You don’t have to decide now. Think about it for a while. Maybe leave it until after we go down to Brighton with Jimmy and Lucy.’

  ‘It’s too risky.’

  ‘Pa
ul said he’d have a word with the desk sergeant.’

  ‘How does Paul know he can trust him?’

  ‘Sometimes, you have to just take a chance. You said he beat Liam to death with a truncheon?’

  My stomach knotted. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There might still be evidence on it. Blood.’

  I walked along the hallway, and into the tiny kitchen. ‘You’re a genius, Becks. Why didn’t I think of that? Carver would have forgotten to clean the bloody thing off, what with him being a copper.’

  ‘I’m only saying. No need to be sarcastic. I’m only trying to help.’

  I poured a glass of water, drained it in one go, and banged the glass down on the side. ‘I know. But, the odds are all stacked in their favour.’

  ‘You’re giving them too much credit.’

  ‘You weren’t the one who got tortured and abused by them.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Watched their best mate get killed.’

  ‘All the more reason to at least try, Michael.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  I hesitated. I felt naked and exposed. Finally, I said, ‘Because I’m scared I’ll end up in prison. That I’ll lose everything that’s good in my life.’

  ‘That won’t happen.’

  ‘You know that for sure, do you?’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘I’ll be there for you every step of the way.’

  ‘You’ll have a job, if they trump up a load of fake charges against me.’

  ‘They won’t do that.’

  ‘You don’t know what they’re capable of.’

  ‘You’ve got me as a witness. And Paul. It’s not as if you’re just going to walk into a police station on your own, is it?’

  ‘They killed a fifteen-year-old boy, Becky. And others. The ones who disappeared. Even McCree was murdered. This isn’t like telling tales at school. It’s fucking dangerous.’

  She put a hand on my arm. ‘I know.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand it, if I lost you.’

  ‘You won’t lose me.’

  I wanted to believe her, but every time I imagined walking into a police station, a picture of Carver popped into my mind, grinning that lopsided grin, and smacking his mighty truncheon against the palm of his hand.

  ‘I’ll think about it after Brighton.’

  That was easier said than done. I thought about nothing else in the coming weeks.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  It had done us good to get away for the weekend with Jimmy and Lucy. The four of us had enjoyed a good time in Brighton, even though thoughts of Carver kept invading my mind like a nauseous fog. Back in the flat, things started to boil again. I wanted to go to the police, but I didn’t trust them. How could I? Even those two bobbies who had turned up with Carver at the derelict pub had been willing to burn the place down, with me and Liam still locked in the cellar.

  ‘I don’t even know where to begin, if I do go to the cops,’ I said. ‘They won’t believe me. The rapes. The murders. The satanic shit.’

  Becky handed me a glass of orange juice. ‘All the more reason to expose them. Get them locked away where they belong.’

  I wanted to tip the juice away and replace it with whiskey. ‘I might be the one who ends up getting locked away.’

  ‘God will look out for you, Michael. It’s time to tell the truth.’

  ‘Liam said I ought to go to the newspapers.’

  Becky didn’t agree. ‘What are they going to do? They can hardly go to Woodside and dig up the field, can they? They don’t have the authority. But, the police do.’

  In the end, after going around in circles for over an hour, I agreed to go to the cops. I had to do something; my head felt as if it would burst open and spill my thoughts all over the floor.

  Paul arranged the meeting with Donald Osbourne, the station sergeant. He came with us and introduced me to a man massive enough to fill a door frame. His bushy beard looked as if it could house birds. His long pock-marked nose vanished into his moustache, like a slide into a thorn bush.

  Paul introduced us. ‘This is Michael Tate, and his girlfriend, Becky.’

  Osbourne nodded at me and Becky in turn. ‘Pleased to meet you both. Would you like to come through to the interview room, Michael?’

  My heart stuttered. ‘What about Becky?’

  ‘Was Becky present when the alleged incidents took place?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid she must wait with Father Paul in reception.’ He rang a bell. A constable appeared as if summoned like a servant. ‘Cover the desk for me, Weaver. Make these people a nice cup of tea.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  We disappeared along a narrow corridor and into a small room which was about ten feet square. It reeked of pipe tobacco. He invited me to sit at a desk.

  He folded himself into a chair opposite me. ‘Let’s have an informal chat first, then we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Paul tells me you have some serious allegations concerning a children’s home. Is that correct?’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Michael?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Can you tell me the name of this children’s home?’

  ‘Woodside.’

  ‘And where is this home located?’

  ‘Oxford.’

  He opened a notebook and scribbled something down. He looked at me, stroked his beard, and invited me to tell him what had happened.

  I didn’t tell him about my time with the Davieses, only that I’d spent eighteen months in their care before being returned to Woodside. Osbourne scribbled furiously as I spoke, occasionally looking up with alert blue eyes, asking me to slow down a bit.

  When I was finished, he put his pencil on the desk. ‘These are some serious allegations you are making, Michael.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘And you claim this Carver fellow locked you and Liam Truman in the boiler room at Woodside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he beat Liam to death with a truncheon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you buried Liam Truman at the bottom of the field at Woodside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He referred to his notebook. ‘With another boy called Craig McCree?’

  ‘Yes. But, he’s dead.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think a politician killed him.’

  Osbourne raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘Are you serious?’

  I was. ‘Apparently, he liked to throttle him when he had sex with him.’

  ‘How do you know about this?’

  ‘McCree told us. Then, he just vanished, like loads of other kids did at Woodside.’

  ‘Do you know this politician’s name?’

  ‘No.’

  He picked up his pencil and tapped it on the desk. ‘Are you willing to make a formal statement with effect to what happened at Woodside Children’s Home?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I type up everything you’ve told me, get it all in order, then you sign and date it, if you’re happy with it, and we take it from there.’

  ‘Will you arrest Carver?’

  He didn’t answer at first. When he did, his words were measured. ‘I can’t say what will happen, but I have to warn you, it might not result in any arrests.’

  ‘So, it might be a waste of time?’

  ‘I can’t answer that. I have to deal with the facts. I wish I could be more positive.’

  ‘But, it happened. We buried Liam at the bottom of that field. Kids got raped and murdered in that fucking place.’

  Osbourne held up a hand. ‘And we will investigate.’

  ‘Why can’t you just go to the field and look for the grave?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that, Michael. We have to follow the proper procedure. For what it’s worth, we wouldn’t even be having this conv
ersation, if I wasn’t willing to give you a fair hearing. You seem like a decent lad. Father Paul speaks highly of you, says you’ve got yourself a good life, and a good woman to keep you on the straight and narrow. Sings your praises. I’ll do all I can to help you.’

  ‘And if no one believes me?’

  He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, ‘I joined the police force to fight crime, Michael. I’ve always trusted the truth to prevail. If your allegations are true, these men need to be brought to justice.’

  Justice? That was just about the dumbest word ever invented. I remembered Liam handcuffed to the railings in the boiler room, Carver whacking the truncheon into his body, over and over again, smashing his bones. Kraft sitting behind that desk, dressed in his black gown, ridiculous wig perched on his head, sweat dribbling down his face. Where was the justice in that pathetic kangaroo court? Where was the justice when Reggie was tied to a bed having an inverted cross carved on his body? When McCree sodomised him? Or when my mother was lying at the bottom of the stairs, battered and bruised beyond recognition? Or when Davies put his disgusting thing in my mouth, or forced me to beg for scraps of food when I wouldn’t do what he wanted?

  I didn’t believe in justice. Justice wasn’t for the likes of me and Liam. It was just a smokescreen for all those evil bastards who took everything and gave nothing.

  ‘What happens when I sign the statement?’

  ‘It will be handed to my superior officer, and a decision will be made from there.’

  ‘A decision?’

  ‘Whether there is sufficient cause or evidence to investigate.’

  ‘Will it be done here in Feelham?’

  Osbourne shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oxford.’

  ‘So, Carver could end up investigating himself?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘But, he could lean on people, right?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to speculate on what Mr. Carver might do.’

  ‘I am. He’s evil.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, most policemen try to do the right thing, Michael. Have their hearts in the right place. There might be a few rotten apples in the barrel, but the police are on your side.’

  I wanted to believe him, but how could I? Even someone who seemed as honest and straightforward as Sergeant Osbourne couldn’t really give me any reassurances.