It was approaching seven as the street lights flickered on with small bursts of crackle and buzz, casting shadows on the path from a string of parked cars.
“Mum, what’s that?” Aran asked as he pointed away toward their house.
Tanya looked up and squinted in the dim light. She made out the silhouette of an old man coming through the entrance of the lane. He had a brimmed hat on his head and a long coat that hid a frail body underneath. The way he hunched over the Zimmer frame gave the most accurate hint to his maturity.
“What do you mean, Aran?”
“What’s that thing the old man is on?”
“Oh, that. It’s called a Zimmer frame, sweetie. It helps him balance and walk around like you and me.”
“It doesn’t work very well,” Aran said, sounding perplexed.
“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Tanya said, and laughed at the truth of it.
Aran looked up at his mother and smiled. He didn’t know what he had said that was so funny but he liked when he made his mummy laugh; she laughed a lot.
Aran was right, though, he didn’t appear to be moving very fast at all. He had a monastic way about him. Maybe it was the slowness and patience of his movement. It looked like they were going to meet him right outside their front gate.
Approaching the end of the cul-de-sac, Tanya noticed the cars were in the driveways of the surrounding houses, with more cars parked up to the curb. All her immediate neighbours were home, no doors were open and the road was empty of life but for the old man. Tanya knew her neighbours well and met most of their extended families on various social occasions and street parties. The old man was not familiar to her. Tanya wondered where he was going. At the pace he was going, it would take him a good hour just to get to the end of the road.
The old man was at her gate, closer to the road. Tanya and Aran approached from ten yards away. Neither of them could take their eyes off him. His head was down, the brim of his hat obscured his face, and his arms leaned on the rim of the Zimmer frame for stability. A white plastic bag hung from his left wrist and draped to the outside of the frame, black leather gloves clothed his hands. The draw of the bag suggested its contents held some weight and impeded his progress. The side pockets of the coat bulged. He struggled to lift the frame off the ground to push it forward six inches, and take the next step. The old man seemed oblivious to their approach.
As Tanya got closer, she spied the black-and-white clerical collar of his shirt and relaxed a bit. A priest, he must be something to do with the church, but no one she had seen there before. She felt sorry for the old man. He looked helpless and lost, crippled with arthritis in every joint. She hoped not to end up like him when she got old, his back hunched over with his head stooped to the ground, as though it could fall off.
Tanya slowly approached for fear of giving the old man a heart attack. “Hello, Father. Are you okay?” she asked in a quiet voice.
His size surprised her for such a frail old man. He was taller, and fuller of frame under the coat than she had expected, even though he was slumped over the Zimmer.
The old priest did not respond. Tanya turned her head and looked around to see if anybody else was on the road; no, there was no one to help. It was quiet and getting darker. Teatime. Tanya decided to wait for him to finish his next pitiful step before trying again for his attention. She watched him edge six more inches forward and one inch closer to the curb, close to the parked car.
If he carries on the way he’s going, he’s going to walk straight into that car. What’s wrong with him?
“Excuse me, Fath—”
The bottom fell out of the plastic bag and half a dozen oranges spilled out onto the road. Two of the oranges rolled off the curb and under the front of the car. The old priest stopped his poor advances, no longer attempting to wrestle forward. His head turned ever so slowly, an inch, to face the curb and look for the scattered oranges. His body seemed to sink into his stance, beneath his coat, the body language of an old man—a very large old man—voicing dejection and contemplating how long it would take to gather them all back up. Without much thought, Tanya let go of Aran’s hand, leaving him to stand beside the pillar next to their gate, and promptly moved to assist.
“Here, let me help you pick those up,” Tanya said a little louder than the first time she spoke to him.
The old priest did not respond. His head remained tilted at the ground, looking at the oranges.
Tanya stepped between the old priest and the parked car, careful not to startle him. She bent down and picked up three of the oranges. She was looking for the others, the ones that rolled under the car. The old priest turned his head in Aran’s direction, quickly.
Aran was looking at Mummy picking up the oranges when the priest’s sudden movement caught his attention. The priest was looking at him. He was supposed to be an old priest. Mummy said priests were nice, good people you can always trust. But the old priest did not look nice, or good, or trustworthy. He didn’t look like a priest at all. The priest looked like a monster.
The skin was pale, even in the dim street light, except for dark circles in sunken sockets underneath the brim of the hat. Two eyes floated in the middle of that darkness. They were brilliant white with a ring of yellow and a pinprick of black in their centre. A mishmash of wrinkles and drooping folds of skin cast shadows down gaunt cheeks. It looked to Aran as if the old priest’s skin was melting right off his face. The cheekbones were prominent, the nose elongated, and the chin drawn out. The lips were almost non-existent but for a band of black that merged into the cavity of his mouth. The bottom lip regressed to expose pointy black teeth when the old priest conjured a smile of sorts at him.
Aran desperately wanted to warn his Mum that the monster was growing above her when she reached under the car with a feeling hand. Air exhaled from his small lungs. It felt like thick smoke thronged in his throat, clogging his windpipe. His eyes welled, his vision blurred, and his lips quivered. He wanted to cry, too late, to warn Mummy. The monster was looking back at Mummy, standing ten feet tall above her, set to attack. Warm urine ran down his legs but not so much as a whisper came out of his mouth. The monster’s right hand tightly gripped the rim of the metal frame. In one swift movement it swung in a vicious arc and crashed down onto the small of Mummy’s back. Aran heard the discharge of air, the way a balloon might sound if it popped in slow motion when Mummy’s arms gave way and her chest hit the curb.
The old priest pulled a roll of duct tape from his left coat pocket and moved to Aran. With the precision of a soldier arresting a submissive terrorist, he bound and gagged him where he stood. Tape ran over Aran’s mouth and around the back of his head where it pulled tight and fixed without consideration for his wellbeing. He pulled Aran’s arms out in front of him with a force Aran had never experienced, and clapped his wrists together in a painful slap. Aran struggled to see through the tears, afraid, while the monster secured his hands in a ball of tape.
Mummy was moaning on the ground.
Aran watched the monster drag Mummy away from the car, then lift her head by the hair and bang it back down into the curb. He heard the hollow thump her head made against the concrete. Mummy lay still. Aran spilled more tears. The monster fondled at her jacket and found keys in her pocket. The monster picked Mummy off the ground with one hand. Mummy staggered toward Aran. She tried to lift her head so she could see and reassure him that everything would be okay. The monster’s giant hand came over his head and grabbed him by the satchel on his back.
Aran’s feet struggled to find the ground as he stumbled backward up the driveway. The straps of the satchel dug in deep under his arms until he came to a halt on the porch, the old priest by his side and Tanya pinioned against the front door. He heard the key in the lock and the subtle jingle when they turned in the monster’s black claw. He heard the scraping click of the lock r
egress into its housing, and lost his balance when the door opened.
The straps dug deep once again, and the toes of his trainers hit the front step as he flew forward. The thin carpet spread on white tiles with black diamond centres did nothing to soften the landing. Under usual circumstances, he would have cried but not now, not for this. He had so many other reasons to cry; pain had to wait its turn.
He heard a thud and looked to the doorway in time to see his mother’s head crack off the dense doorframe and fall forward to the floor. Her head fell back on her right shoulder and rested by his waist. She was turned up at him. The blood on her forehead wet the carpet and white tiles. Her eyelids fluttered open. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Not directly at him, beside him, not in the way he was looking at her. Her eyes stopped moving. Aran was frightened all over again.
The old priest closed the door, careful not to slam it. He flicked up the lock, put the safety chain on and paused. His head rested up against the front door with his left hand stroking the smooth surface, standing close, rubbing up against it. He slowly took his hand away, moved back a step, turned, and opened the door into the living room on his left. He took a moment to look inside. One foot stood in the hall.
The monster seemed pleased. Mum looked the same way when she wanted to show him the table she had set for Christmas, usually done a week before the big day. She’d tell him to hold on while she gave the room one final inspection and opened the door just like the monster did, excited about what he might think.
Aran was right, the old priest was pleased as he turned back to address his prize.
The only light in the living room came from the outside streetlamps. Tanya flopped lifelessly to the ground on the cream rug. Her right arm fell limply over her head and her fingertips dangled millimetres above the wooden floor. With all the doors open, the living room joined the dining room and the conservatory, providing an unobstructed view to the back of the house and onto the decking. Two sets of folding doors separated the rooms, and when closed the decorative panes of frosted glass allowed enough transparency to keep an eye on Aran from the living room. A glass cabinet stood in the dining area filled with framed photos. Some were of Tanya’s family and friends; the majority were of Tanya and Aran in professional and amateur poses. A glass table with six accompanying chairs sat tightly against the wall with a vase of fresh flowers. The only shelf space was on the white decorative cover of the radiator, displaying coloured and scented candles and a few ornaments. Three pictures on the wall finished the room.
The conservatory was a space set for Aran. It was his playroom. A television with a games console stood in one corner. A red two-seated couch stood against the wall beside an overstuffed toy box. Two matching armchairs fitted either side of the doorway. Access to the kitchen was through the hall and the door from the dining room.
The fireplace next to where Tanya lay was scattered with burnt-down candles. A clean wine glass and an open bottle of red sat resting close to the grate, inviting and ready to pour. Two brown-leather recliner chairs took prime spot in front of the television suspended over the fireplace. The double recliner sat in the bay window beyond Tanya’s feet.
The old priest frog-marched Aran past Tanya, through the dining area, and into his playroom where he flew for a third time, landing headfirst in the belly of the couch. He kept his head tucked into the soft fabric, afraid to move, while the monster shifted about him, pulling at the blinds and checking the locks.
CLICK.
The double-doors locked. Aran felt his heart beat in his tightly bound hands. His snotty nose sucked at the dry, itchy air. He rolled over on his satchel and off the couch. The room was darker than when he had been pushed and thrown in. Sitting on the floor with his satchel against the sofa, he sniffed the air and scanned his playroom to make sure he was alone.
He didn’t know what to do, Mummy needed him. He got to his feet and moved slowly to the locked doors, terrified about what the monster was doing to Mummy.
Flickers of light shimmered through the far doors. The monster’s murky shadow tossed the hat to one side, did the same with the coat, and then disappeared below the level of glass. Aran’s heart pounded in his hands and head as the pain crept all over him. He didn’t know how long it had been since he had retreated back to the couch, when he heard the
CLICK!
His eyes opened at the same time as the double doors. It was dark. The monster had Mummy by the ankles, positioning her on the red rug in front of him.
Aran whined through the tape.
The monster let go of Mummy.
Mummy didn’t move.
CLICK!
The doors to the playroom locked.
Aran sniffled.
A harsh, raspy voice spoke through the darkness, “I’ll bet you’re the resident bully. I’ll bet you’re the bully who gives trouble to all the other kids on the street.”
Aran shook with fear.
Click!
A softer sound when the light in the playroom went on.
Bright light blinded Aran momentarily. The monster stood in the corner of the playroom, looking at him, smiling.
Popping, pure-white, pinpricked eyes met Aran’s gaze; the yellow was gone, a reflection from the streetlight. The monster was whiter than outside, covered in brown freckles that conveyed the depths of its pallor. It was almost bald but for a few clumps of long, scruffy grey hair around the ears, the ends knotty and dampened to a darker shade. The crooked, twitching smile bared jagged, bloody teeth. A burgundy stain drenched its decrepit mouth. The white bit of the collar was wet with red.
The monster’s smile broke to produce two small words that Aran would have been delighted to hear from his mum. They should have spelt good times for both of them, but Aran knew the words weren’t meant for him.
“Play time,” Eamon said.
30:
“Surprise, surprise.”
Hunt had made the call to Tony at exactly 11:15AM and a meeting was arranged in Tony’s office for the following morning. Tony knew the call would come but it did nothing to stop the surge of anxiety that bore down his chest when he heard what Hunt had to say. Hunt didn’t go into detail over the phone; he was still coming to terms with what had happened and couldn’t repeat in words the images that haunted him. Whatever had happened, Hunt was pissed and requested Tony to keep a clear schedule for the following day.
“I’ll be up first thing, Tony.”
Tony summed the months in his head and approximated eight months since the violent attack on Helen Dooley and the murder of Kitty Crawford. Fresh images entered his mind and he dreaded what the next day would bring.
“Hi, Marcus, come in and take a seat,” Tony said, inviting him into his office. He decided not to extend his welcome to “Good to see you.” Under other circumstances it might have been, but not today. Tony concluded his welcome with, “Coffee’s on the way.”
Marcus’ suit looked dishevelled with the cuff of his right sleeve almost covering the handle of the briefcase he held in his hand. He looked lighter than Tony remembered, his hair more grey and his skin appeared two shades paler. Hunt was a proud man, not the sort of person to show weakness around his staff. He liked to think of himself as a person in control but his appearance told a different story. It probably never occurred to him that he too might need some help.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter what the outside looks like,” Hunt said, studying the room, “When you come through these doors, it all looks too familiar.”
The office was a decent-sized with a desk, a bookshelf filled to the brim, and two filing cabinets stuffed with case notes and research papers. The scent of polish indicated the desk had recently been given a fresh wipe down. What remained was a phone, a framed photograph, a closed laptop, a remote for a TV and video, and a desk pad with A3 sheets of paper wedged
in its centre. Indistinct doodles and scattered words stained the top sheet.
Hunt counted five message boards hung on opposite sides of the walls with room for a couple more if needed. Torn white linen covered each board. The outline of pins protruding from underneath suggested a housed map of murderous profiles too gruesome for public viewing. The equal spacing between the boards implied each had a story to tell of equal importance.
“I only uncover those when the door is locked,” Tony said, noting his curiosity. “Unfortunately, I lock the door more than I care to.”
“I think you’re going to need another board,” Hunt said, unable to smile. He took his seat and reached for the photo frame. “May I?”
“Sure.”
“So this is your family?”
“That’s my wife, Jacky, two daughters, Tandy and Fiona, and Adam is the six year old in the middle.”
“Beautiful,” Hunt said, placing the frame back. “He made her kid sit through the whole fucking lot,” Hunt continued, his eyes watering with anger.
The statement took Tony by surprise. He manoeuvred his chair in an attempt to get comfortable and register what Hunt had just said.
“Tell me what happened,” Tony said, feeling Marcus’ anger.
“We have a Mum of one, Tanya Tate, murdered in a bloody massacre and then we have her six-year-old son, Aran, who was forced to sit and watch his mother mutilated by this twisted fuck. That’s what we have.”
Tony felt like he was back at the Psychiatric Hospital looking in the face of another victim. Hunt spoke fast. Retelling what he knew clearly upset him.
“He messed them both up good and proper, Tony. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. What he did to her in front of her own child beggars belief. I wish never to see anything like it again.” Without taking a breath, Hunt carried on. “The next-door neighbour, Sarah Boyle, discovered them when she went to leave a key on her way to work. She had some unfinished business she needed to complete for Monday. A painter was due at her house that morning to give her a quote on some work she wanted doing. She thought it unusual that all the blinds were down when Aran would normally be out with the other kids. Sarah’s bad feeling was compounded when she rang the doorbell and saw blood on the upper part of the doorframe. With no answer, she went back to her house for the spare key.”
The Ice Scream Man Page 20
