The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  ‘I’ll type up your statement this evening. You go home and have a think about it. Have a chat to your girlfriend. To Paul. Come back tomorrow afternoon and let me know what you want to do.’

  ‘Okay.’

  We walked back to the main office. He opened the door to the reception area and showed me out.

  Becky smiled, but it didn’t lighten the worried look in her eyes. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  We walked out of the police station into a shaft of bright summer sunshine. It was the last time I ever saw Donald Osbourne.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  I didn’t go back the following day. Or the day after. Every time I thought I’d made my mind up, I changed it back again. I chatted to Becky, argued with her, threatened to leave her, chatted to her some more. Round and round, like a bloody dog chasing its tail.

  Paul told me to follow my conscience. He promised to pray for me. I wasn’t even sure if I had a conscience anymore; it seemed to have got itself buried beneath an avalanche of doubt.

  As it turned out, I didn’t end up making a decision one way or another. Paul came to the flat on the Monday morning. Becky invited him into the front room, where I was working my way through another can of beer. His expression was sombre, as if in shock.

  I plonked the can on the table. ‘What’s the matter, Paul?’

  ‘I’ve got some bad news.’

  My heart dropped into my stomach. It was Carver. Had to be. I knew this would happen as soon as he got wind of my statement. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Donald Osbourne. I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  I heard the words, but couldn’t seem to attach meaning to them. ‘What do you mean, dead?’

  ‘He died this morning on his way to work.’

  ‘How?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Knocked off his bicycle on the A473.’

  Becky’s hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh my God. Poor man.’

  ‘I’m afraid he was the victim of a hit and run.’

  I picked up the can and chugged the rest of the beer. My head couldn’t cope; it felt ready to explode.

  Becky invited Paul to sit down. She offered him a cup of tea.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Carver, Carver, Carver, my mind screamed over and over. This had his name written all over it. But, would he really kill another police officer, just for taking a statement from me? It didn’t seem logical. And then, it hit me. Carver had no reason to kill Osbourne. His sole purpose was to warn me. Let me know he was watching me. Waiting. Still in complete control.

  We sat in stunned silence for a while. Becky brought Paul his tea. I asked for another can of beer. Becky spared me her usual really, at this time of day? look. I’d been drinking heavily lately, but it was the only thing that helped me get to sleep at night.

  After a while, Paul said, ‘Don’s cycled that route nearly every day, for the best part of twenty years. It wasn’t even dark when he was hit. It must have been a drunk driver.’

  I swallowed more beer and kept my paranoid thoughts to myself.

  ‘Have you decided anything regarding the statement yet, Michael?’

  ‘No.’ I finished my beer. ‘I can’t think straight.’

  Becky scowled at me. ‘Perhaps you ought to knock the drinking on the head.’

  I walked to the fridge and grabbed another can. ‘The drink’s the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.’

  ‘You think it is,’ Becky said. ‘There’s a difference.’

  I popped the tab, took a few sips, and banged the can down on the side. ‘I’m going to work.’

  ‘You might want to brush your teeth before you go, you stink of booze.’

  I ignored her and stomped out of the flat. I walked the half mile to work with my feet on the floor, and my head somewhere above the clouds. I must have changed my mind about signing the statement at least a dozen times by the time I got to the George.

  Somehow, throwing myself into work acted as therapy. At first break, I sat outside by the bins with Jimmy and had a smoke.

  ‘You look rougher than a badger’s armpit,’ Jimmy said.

  I lit up. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Perhaps the greatest understatement of the twentieth century. ‘How’s Lucy?’

  Jimmy smiled. ‘Still pregnant. Still moody.’

  My mind slipped back to Paul’s words. It’s Donald Osbourne. I’m afraid he’s dead. I knew Carver was responsible. Anyone capable of beating a boy to death with a truncheon was capable of anything.

  ‘Are you and Becky all right?’

  No, we’re carrying around this dirty great big secret that’s eating us both up on the inside. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Want to talk?’

  I almost blurted it out. The lot of it. Woodside, Selwyn and Dolly Davies, Carver, Liam, the abuse, the torture. But, what good would it do?

  ‘Mike?’

  ‘No. It’s all right.’

  And that’s how we left it. I left work at nine. I considered nipping into the Dog and Duck for a few beers before going back to the flat. Perhaps if I got home late enough, Becky would already be in bed, and we wouldn’t have to get involved in another stupid argument. The only reason I decided not to go into the pub was because I looked like shit and smelled a damn sight worse.

  I walked up the stairs to our third-floor flat. My workbag clunked on the metal rail all the way up. I was so knackered. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I unlocked the front door and stepped into the flat.

  Something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first. It just didn’t feel right. Then, I realised what it was: the telly wasn’t on. The flat was deathly silent.

  ‘Becks?’

  No answer. I could now smell something. Faint, but familiar. Aftershave? I hung my workbag on a row of brass hooks, kicked off my trainers. ‘Becky? You home?’

  Still no answer. Maybe she’d gone to bed, decided she didn’t want to argue with me anymore. I checked both bedrooms. Nothing. Beds still made, sheets folded down two inches over the counterpane, pillows stacked on top.

  I went to the kitchen and took a can of beer from the fridge. I popped the tab, walked into the front room, and stopped dead. I dropped the can. It deposited its contents in a frothy spurt all over the floor. Sitting in the armchair, gun resting in his lap, Detective Inspector Carver treated me to his sickening, lopsided grin. There was a length of orange rope coiled up on the arm of the chair.

  Becky was on the sofa, hands cuffed behind her back, mouth gagged with a blue scarf her mother had bought her after they had mended their relationship on Becky’s last birthday.

  ‘Hello, Michael, so glad you could make it. We’ve been expecting you, haven’t we, Becky love?’

  I looked from one to the other, feet glued to the floor. ‘What the fuck…?’

  Carver stood up and waved the gun at me. ‘You sit on the sofa next to you girlfriend, Michael. Take the weight off your feet.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He pointed the gun at my face. ‘Sit down, or I’ll shoot you.’

  I did as he asked. My hands were shaking so badly, I had to tuck them under my legs.

  Carver paraded up and down in front of the sofa. ‘Well, isn’t this cosy?’

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ I asked.

  He ignored me and looked Becky up and down. ‘God knows how you pulled such a pretty bird, Tate. Wonders will never cease.’

  I glanced sideways at Becky. Her eyes were wide, terrified.

  ‘Too slutty for my liking, but a looker all the same.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got to know each other quite well in the short time I’ve been here, haven’t we, Becky?’

  Becky shook her head.

  Carver returned his attention to me. ‘You ever heard the saying, you don’t realise what you’ve got until it’s gone, Michael?’

  My head was racing in a dozen different directions
at once.

  ‘From what I can gather, Tate, this girl pulled you out of the gutter. So, answer me this: why did you want to drag her down into your filthy mess?’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Or, more to the point, why did you want to go spreading malicious lies about me?’

  ‘They’re not lies.’

  ‘Yes, they are. Filthy dirty lies. Now there’s a policeman lying dead in the morgue. His poor widow will struggle for the rest of her life to cope with her tragic loss, all because you couldn’t keep your trap shut.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘It’s a good job I’ve got a good man inside Feelham nick. Someone who knows how to clear up a potential mess. Get rid of statements from liars. Talking of mess, I had to reverse back over that poor sergeant to make sure he was dead. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Tate.’

  Becky made a moaning noise in the back of her throat. Carver smiled. ‘Even Becky can see the error of your ways.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I asked again.

  ‘Me? Nothing in particular. Just tying up a few loose ends. Giving you a chance to say sorry to your girlfriend for getting her killed.’

  ‘Do whatever you want to me, but let her go. Please.’

  ‘Too late, Tate. That horse bolted when you walked into the cop shop, telling a pack of lies and half-truths.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Carver frowned. ‘What for, Michael?’

  ‘Talking to the police.’

  ‘But, you’re talking to the police now.’

  ‘I meant—’

  ‘If you’d just kept your mouth shut and let bygones be bygones, I’d pretty much forgotten all about you, and that scumbag friend of yours. What was his name?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Mouthy little shit, if I remember.’

  I felt heat bubbling up inside me. ‘I wasn’t going to sign that statement.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘So why did you tell Donald Osbourne all that rubbish in the first place?’

  Because it’s fucking true. ‘I don’t know.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘You knew full well what you were doing, Tate. Trouble is, you picked a day when Constable Weaver was on duty. He’s a good friend of mine. Do you know what a friend is, Tate?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Friends look out for one another. Watch their backs. Weaver told me you came into the cop shop with a vicar in tow.’

  I was about to deny it when Carver continued, ‘Quite a nice bloke, for a vicar. I had a nice long chat with him. I’ll give credit where it’s due, Michael; that man didn’t say a bad word about you. Clammed up and refused to say anything other than his name, rank, and number. But, silence is its own worst enemy sometimes. Just in case you’re interested, Father Brady committed suicide. Hanged himself from a rafter in his cosy little cottage down by the river.’

  My mind tried to process what Carver was saying. I stared at the muzzle of the gun. ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of lying, Tate. I leave that up to scumbags like you. Anyway, I made him write a nice, long suicide note apologising to the church for his liking for young boys. Quite a heartfelt confession. Almost brought a tear to my eye.’

  I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. I wanted to grab the gun and shoot the bastard right between the eyes, but I just sat there, a useless, cowering wreck.

  ‘Still, at least he’s with his boss now. I’m sure the Lord will have a forgiving heart where the good vicar is concerned. Now, do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t your mother teach you any manners? It’s not what, it’s pardon. I asked you if you want to do this the easy way or the hard way.’

  ‘You’re sick.’

  Carver laughed. ‘You’re a right one to talk.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  He made a sound like a hacking dog. ‘You’ve done plenty wrong. Trouble is, you always think it’s someone else’s fault. You’re never willing to take responsibility. Never willing to learn. Are you aware of the expression, history always repeats itself?’

  I thought of Liam. Sergeant Osbourne. Paul. I was well aware of how history repeated itself. I didn’t answer. I looked at Becky. Her eyes looked as if they were trying to scream.

  ‘Right. Strip off completely, and then lay face down on the floor.’

  Becky tried to say something through her gag. ‘Umph, mumph, umph.’

  Carver ignored her and waved the gun at me. ‘You can do this with a bullet in your back, if you want, Tate. Your choice.’

  I did as he asked. Carver yanked my arms behind my back and snapped handcuffs on my wrists. He ordered me to lay face down on the floor and bound my feet with rope. He looped the rope through the cuffs, trussing me up like a chicken.

  ‘You do not have to say anything, Tate, but anything you do say will be written down and completely ignored. Is that clear to your limited brain?’

  I closed my eyes. Tried to make everything go away. Convince myself that this was all just a terrible nightmare. Any minute now, I would wake up, and realise I’d drank myself into a stupor again, crashed out on the living room floor.

  ‘Because I’m a compassionate man, I will let you say goodbye to your girlfriend before I take her into the bedroom.’

  ‘Leave her al—’

  ‘Save the theatrical attempt to act like a man. You’re no more a man than a dog turd. Do you want to say goodbye to her, or not?’

  I shook my head, rubbing my chin on the worn carpet. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of watching me break down.

  ‘Are you sure? We don’t want any regrets festering in that head of yours.’

  I bit down hard on my tongue. Hard enough to make it bleed.

  ‘All right. Have it your way.’

  Carver dragged Becky out of the living room. One of her sandals fell off as he pulled her around the corner. Her muffled screams rolled around my head like echoes from hell.

  A few minutes later, Carver returned. ‘Are you comfortable down there, Michael?’

  I ignored him.

  ‘Becky’s as well as can be expected. I was going to shoot her, but then I got to thinking. A scumbag like you would hardly have access to a firearm, would you? So I thought a kitchen knife was in order.’

  I tried to free myself. I only succeeded in burning my chin on the carpet.

  ‘And then, I had another idea. A good one, this. You’ll like it. I asked Becky how old she was while we were waiting for you to come home from pots and pans duty. Twenty-one. I thought it might be a nice touch to stab her twenty-one times. It will certainly give the psychiatrists something to consider when they write their reports, won’t it? They love to overanalyse and work hidden meanings into murders.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this, you cunt.’

  ‘Michael! Calm yourself. Sticks and stones. You have a little rest and leave the dirty work to me. I’ll be back soon. Then we can talk about what to do next, okay?’

  I experienced the same complete helplessness I’d felt when my mother died. When Liam died. Carver was right, history had a way of repeating itself. All too often.

  He took one of my discarded socks off the floor and stuffed it in my mouth, pushing it back as far as he could. ‘Don’t move.’

  I lay trussed up on that floor for what seemed like hours. I heard thumps and muffled screams coming from the bedroom. Something crashed to the floor. More thuds. I banged my head against the floor as hard as I could, trying to knock myself unconscious.

  I didn’t notice Carver return to the front room. He grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. He brandished a blood-stained knife in front of my eyes. ‘Pack that in right now, unless you want me to slit your throat.’

  I could barely breathe. He let go of my hair. My head thumped against the floor. He pressed his shoe against the back of my neck. I could smell shoe p
olish. ‘I want you to listen carefully, Tate. Your girlfriend is dead. She put up a valiant fight. Still alive when I stabbed her in the eye. Credit where credit’s due, she had spunk, which is more than I can say about you.’

  I tried to move my head, but he pressed down harder with his foot. ‘I’m going to untie the rope in a minute, but I promise you, one wrong move, and I’ll make sure you die a long and lingering death. If you behave, I’ll make it quick for you. Do you understand?’

  I don’t know how the hell he expected me to answer.

  He stepped off my neck and rolled me onto my side with his foot. I noticed that he was dressed in my white T-shirt, jeans and trainers. All soaked in blood.

  ‘I’m just going to get cleaned up and changed back into my suit. Don’t move.’

  Time ticked by in unrelated chunks. I briefly wondered if I might be able to get up, throw myself through the window before he came back, but my limbs were too numb to move, my mind too numb to think.

  Carver returned about fifteen minutes later, untied the rope, and released the handcuffs. ‘Your water isn’t very hot, Michael. Almost cold. Don’t you switch the water heater on?’

  Did he seriously expect an answer?

  He rolled me over onto my back. He was back in his charcoal suit. Spotless black loafers. Hair combed. Pale blue eyes showing no signs of humanity. He ordered me to dress.

  I took the sock out of my mouth and forced myself to put on my blood-soaked soiled clothes and trainers.

  ‘This gun has a silencer fitted. I will have no hesitation in shooting you if you so much as move a muscle without my permission. Am I making myself clear?’

  I tried to focus on praying. Begging God to take me away from this shit.

  Carver grinned. ‘Come on. We’re going for a little walk.’

  I was past caring. I wanted to die. Everyone I loved was dead. No, not just dead – murdered. The world was full of evil bastards. It wasn’t survival of the fittest; it was survival of the greediest and the cruellest.

  Carver walked me to the fire escape, gun pressed into my back, close enough to feel his hot breath on my neck. ‘For the first time in your life, Tate, you’re going right to the top.’