by Shaun Hutson
‘I’m talking about doing a serious investigation into the causes and nature of vandalism, and you’re talking about witchcraft.’
‘I’m talking about selling papers,’ Nicholls told her, scanning some more of the pictures. ‘Has it only happened at Croydon Cemetery so far?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Check out some others.’ He grinned. ‘Just be careful no one puts a spell on you.’
‘I’ll get my broomstick and black cat and get going, then,’ Cath joked, getting to her feet. She paused as she reached his office door.
‘Terry, what if it turns out to be real?’
He looked puzzled.
‘If it really is linked to black magic,’ she prompted.
‘Then we’ll run it on the front page next to the interviews with Father Christmas and the fucking tooth fairy.’
He heard her laughter as she closed the door.
Nicholls reached for the phone as it rang.
Thirty-four
Frank Reed sat at his desk glancing out of the classroom window into the corridor beyond.
He could see the heads of dozens of children as they hurried by, some using as much restraint as they could muster to stop themselves from running. But the final bell had sounded. They could go home and that was exactly what they were doing, with undue haste and delight.
Reed cleaned the blackboard behind him and dropped the chalky eraser onto the ledge beneath it, wiping his hands to remove the dust. He massaged the back of his neck with one hand, feeling a dull ache growing more intense there.
He gathered up his text books and shoved them into the battered leather briefcase he always carried them in.
Ellen had bought it for him for their first wedding anniversary.
Ellen.
He looked at the case and gritted his teeth.
Bitch.
As he left the classroom he locked the door, twisting the handle to ensure it was correctly secured.
Two young boys sprinted past him up the corridor.
‘Don’t run’ Reed shouted, smiling to himself as he saw them stop dead and continue at a more leisurely pace.
He watched them reach the door at the end of the corridor and was about to turn when he saw a familiar figure heading towards him.
As ever, she was dressed in a grey tracksuit, her long blonde hair pulled back and fastened in a pony tail. She seemed to bounce along on her immaculately clean trainers, and Reed smiled as he saw her.
Judith Nelson was six years younger than Reed, the head of the Physical Education department at St Michael’s for the last five years now. A divorcee who now lived alone, she’d joined the school about a fortnight after Reed.
‘Do you always have to look so bloody healthy?’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s very depressing for the rest of us.’
‘Fresh air and exercise,’ Judith said, smiling. ‘You look like you could do with some, Frank.’
They headed off towards the staffroom.
‘I could do with something,’ he said, wearily.
‘Problems at home?’ she enquired.
‘I wouldn’t bore you with it, Judith.’
‘Why not? I bored you with my problems when I split up with my husband.’
Reed didn’t answer.
‘Come on, Frank’ she persisted.
‘You didn’t have kids, did you?’
‘No, but splitting up still wasn’t easy.’
‘It’s always more complicated with kids, Judith.’
‘Is that the problem, then?’
‘Ellen won’t let me see my daughter.’
‘She can’t stop you, can she?’
‘Not legally, no. I can take it to court, fight her for custody, all that shit. But I don’t want to do that unless I have to. For Becky’s sake. I don’t want her to see me and her mother fighting over her. The problem is, I think that’s what it might come to. I’m not letting her go without a fight.’
‘Has she said why she won’t let you see her?’
‘Look, Judith, no offence but forget it, will you? I appreciate your concern but….’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.
‘Just trying to help.’
They entered another corridor and Judith glanced into one of the empty classrooms.
‘Not again’ she murmured, her attention caught by something inside.
Reed followed her gaze and saw a figure seated at the rear of the classroom.
He followed Judith inside.
The young girl who sat at the back of the room, satchel clasped on the desk before her, was about eleven; she was pale, thin-faced and a little scruffy.
The cuffs of her dark blue cardigan needed mending and he also noticed a button was missing. The white socks she wore were badly in need of a wash, as was her grey skirt.
When she saw the two teachers she seemed to sink back against the wall, as if trying to blend in with its yellow-painted brickwork.
‘Didn’t you hear the bell, Annette?’ Judith asked. ‘Home time.’
The girl lowered her gaze, reluctant to meet the stare of the teachers.
‘All your friends have gone,’ Judith prompted.
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said, almost inaudibly.
‘Go on, run along now,’ Judith said, softly, one hand touching the girl’s shoulder.
She pulled away sharply, her head still lowered.
Reed looked on curiously.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Judith asked.
The girl nodded and got to her feet.
As she eased herself out from behind the desk, Reed saw a large bluish-yellow bruise on her calf.
Aware of his prying gaze she hurriedly pulled up her off-white sock and made for the door.
‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to go home,’ Judith called after her.
The two teachers watched as the young girl disappeared out of the door and went slowly up the corridor.
‘That’s three times in the past week I’ve found her here after last bell,’
said Judith.
‘What’s her name?’ Reed asked.
‘Annette Hilston.’
‘I know the name. Big family, aren’t they? Five or six kids.’
‘I think Annette’s the youngest. I can’t understand it. She used to be such a happy kid - chatty, friendly - but over the last few weeks she’s become very withdrawn.’
Reed frowned. ‘Did you see that bruise on her leg?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen other marks on her, too. In the changing rooms, when the girls have been getting ready for sport.’
‘More bruises?’
Judith nodded.
‘And marks on the wrists?’ Reed persisted.
‘How did you know?’
‘One of my lads, Paul O’Brian, he’s the same. Withdrawn, unsociable, and he had what looked like burns on his wrists. He says there’s nothing wrong, but if I didn’t know better I’d say he was acting as if he was scared of
something.’
‘Like what?’
Reed shook his head. ‘His parents, maybe?’
‘Do you think that’s the problem with Annette, too?’
‘It’s possible. Just do me a favour will you, Judith? Keep an eye on her. If you see any more injuries on her, let me know.’
‘You think the parents did it?’
‘I didn’t say that, and this conversation doesn’t go any further, right?’
Judith nodded.
‘There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation for it,’ he said, none too convincingly.
‘For the bruises and marks, you mean?’ Judith said, her words hanging in the air.
‘For the sake of those kids,’ said Reed, ‘I hope to Christ there is.’
Thirty-five
‘She should be in fucking hospital’ shouted Talbot, angrily.
From behind his desk, Dr Maurice Hodges watched the policeman pacing angrily back and forth.
‘Your mother fell, Mr Talbot, she didn’t
collapse,’ the physician said, finally.
‘She should be in hospital anyway’ the DI persisted.
‘They can’t do any more for your mother in hospital than we can do for her here. She’s been examined, she’s fine.’
‘She’s got cancer, in case you’d forgotten, Doctor. That’s a bloody strange definition of “fine” Talbot rasped.
He ran a hand through his hair and finally sat down. ‘Jesus’ he muttered.
‘I can understand how you feel’ Hodges told him.
‘Can you?’
A long silence followed, finally broken by the doctor.
‘She knows about the cancer, Mr Talbot’ Hodges said, quietly. ‘When she fell, earlier today, we took her to St Ann’s for a precautionary x-ray. We wondered if she might have cracked a rib when she fell.’
‘Yeah, so?’ Talbot said, challengingly. ‘What’s a broken rib got to do with fucking lung cancer?’
‘She asked to see the x-rays and the radiologist showed her. She saw the shadow on the lung and asked me about it when she got back.’
‘So you told her?’
‘I thought it was right.’
‘The radiologist showed her the x-rays’ Talbot said, incredulously. ‘What the fuck was he doing that for?’
‘Look, that was nothing to do with us, Mr Talbot, if I’d known…’
The DI got to his feet again.
“Well, Mrs Talbot, the good news is your ribs are fine, the bad news is you’re dying of cancer. Was that it?’ He rounded angrily on Hodges.
‘Did you want to tell her yourself?’ Hodges responded.
Talbot exhaled deeply and shook his head.
Hodge watched as the policeman sat down once more.
‘She’s been asking me to take her home for a while now’ Talbot said, finally.
‘I keep telling her it’s impossible.’
‘Is there no way?’ Hodges asked.
‘Why do you think I put her in here in the first place? There isn’t a day goes by without me feeling guilty about locking her away here like some family secret.’
‘I’d hardly call it locking her away, Mr Talbot.’
‘That’s what it feels like to me.’
‘There are people who can look after her at her home if that’s what you want.
The Macmillan nurses are a fine organisation - they tend to cancer patients in their own homes, visit on a daily basis.’
Talbot shook his head.
‘Then you might have to think about finding her a place at a hospice when the
time comes’ Hodges said, softly.
‘No way’ Talbot snapped. ‘I’m not sticking her in one of those places. It was bad enough putting her here.’
‘You haven’t any family who-‘
‘No.’ Talbot snapped. ‘No family.’
No fucking family.
He got to his feet once again, this time walking towards the door of Hodges’
office.
The doctor rose and followed him.
‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Talbot,’ he said, quietly.
The DI smiled humourlessly and, when he spoke, there was a crushing weariness in his tone.
‘So am I, Doc,’ he murmured.
He held the physician’s gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away.
Cath saw him enter the office and smiled briefly before returning her attention to the screen before her.
Unlike her editor’s desk, Cath’s was organised chaos. Notebooks, pieces of paper, books, even a piece of half-eaten cheesecake, all looked as if they’d been piled on the desk in some bizarre kind of competition to see how much rubbish could be placed on one single piece of furniture. There was scarcely room for her word processor. She sipped from a plastic cup as she worked, oblivious to the noise around her; the constant symphony of ringing phones and chattering voices, of shouts and occasional laughter.
‘Did you find what you wanted this afternoon?’
The voice startled her and she spun round in her seat to see Phillip Cross standing beside her.
The photographer was looking at the screen glowing before Cath.
‘At Croydon Cemetery’ he continued. ‘Was it worth the trip?’
‘It was incredible’ she said, excitedly. ‘Phil, look at these.’
She pushed some of the photos she’d taken towards him, watching as he inspected each one carefully.
‘You could have done with a bit more backlight on some of these’ Cross said, grinning.
Cath eyed him irritably.
‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he said, still grinning.
‘I didn’t want your professional opinion’ she snapped, snatching the pictures back from him.
‘Excuse me,’ said Cross holding up his hands.
She returned her attention to the screen once again.
‘You saw what was done to those graves’ she said, fingers skipping over the keyboard. ‘It’s the same as what was done a few days ago. The pictures you took there.’
‘Same idiots,’ he said, shrugging. ‘What’s the big deal?’
‘Can I have those pictures, Phil?’
‘Why, don’t you think your own are good enough?’ Cross chuckled. He looked at his watch. ‘What time are you getting out of here tonight?’
‘Why?’
‘I wondered if you wanted to get a takeaway, we can go back to my place and-‘
‘Not tonight, Phil’ Cath cut in.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m working on this story, and besides, tonight’s no good anyway, I’m seeing my brother about something.’
‘Again? Are you sure it’s your brother?’
‘Don’t start that again. Tomorrow night, OK?’
He looked down at her. ‘Maybe, I’ll have to check my diary’ he snapped and walked away.
Cath turned to say something then decided against it. She looked at the screen, then at her watch. Another hour. She went back to work.
Thirty-six
Shanine Connor still had most of the food left. As she sat on the pavement in
Leicester Square looking around her at the dizzying array of neon, she slipped a hand inside the holdall and pulled out a Mars Bar.
As she did, her hand brushed against the knife.
Two girls, no older than she, passed by and shot her curious glances.
As they moved away from her, Shanine saw one turn and look back briefly.
She watched as they headed across the road towards a club which seemed to be lit entirely by red and blue fizzing lights. She saw others approaching the doors. A sign which read ‘BUZZ’ glowed brightly in the night, above the entrance. The bouncers, dressed in black suits, stood impassively, expressions hidden behind the dark glasses they wore.
Shanine watched the two girls approach the entrance.
Girls like her.
One was dressed in a short black dress which clung to her slim form like a second skin, a black silk jacket slung casually around her bare shoulders. Her blue-black hair seemed to gleam in the reflected glow of the neon.
Her companion was wearing a trouser suit, immaculately tailored.
Shanine pulled at a rip in her grubby leggings, running one filthy hand through hair which needed washing.
The girls had disappeared inside the club.
Girls like her.
She got to her feet and hooked the bag over her shoulder.
Leicester Square was busy, this night and every night. Constant streams of people criss-crossed en route to or from restaurants, cafes or cinemas, forming one enormous amoebic mass until each face became indistinguishable from the next. Shanine moved among them, glad of the anonymity the crowd offered.
She chewed at the Mars Bar as she walked, the craving in her belly satisfied long ago. The food should last her another day or so she guessed.
And then what?
It was money she was desperately short of.
The smell of body odour that tugged at her nostrils was, she knew,
her own.
Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a nice long soak in a bath, followed by a soft bed.
Perhaps if she could find a hostel. She knew there were plenty in London. If she could find one …
What if they found her there?
For all she knew they were already searching for her.
How would they know she was in London?
They seemed to know everything.
They knew her thoughts before she did.
Ahead of her the lights grew even brighter and she heard music blasting out into the night. Loud and powerful.
She paused at the door of The Crystal Room, looking in at the massive array of electronic games, the noises they made competing with the music for supremacy.
She could see people inside. Mostly young men.
There were some young women, mostly in groups of three or four. Some standing talking, others playing the machines.
Girls like her.
She stepped in, looking around. The music seemed to engulf her.
“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous One or two of the occupants of the place glanced at her.
‘Here we are now, entertain us… .’
She had no idea what she was looking for in this place.
Was it help she sought?
‘I feel stupid and contagious
Standing beside one of the motor racing games, a tall man with a barrel chest and neck as thick as chopped oak watched her from behind his sunglasses.
‘Here we are now, entertain us….’
Shanine heard rattling behind her as money spilled from one of the machines and the happy winner scooped up his bounty.
Money.
She looked at it as a starving man would look at food.
The tall man watched her.
Shanine wandered slowly around The Crystal Room, the music still thundering in her ears.
‘A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido Some of the faces in here were pale and gaunt like her own.
Lost. Afraid.
She walked towards the exit.
No help in there.
The tall man watched.
The music blasted on. A deafening litany.
A denial. A denial. A denial
It swept her back out into the night.
Thirty-seven
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.
Fifteen years.
Twenty.
