by Sam Millar
Jack’s gun rested two feet away, almost invisible between the rabbits’ bloody carcasses. Controlling his breathing, he now felt a calmness slowly oozing through his body.
Keep staring at her, but picture your gun; keep it firmly in your head. Shoot Jeremiah first—wound if possible. Take the chance with the razor, not the shotgun.
Judith rose, and then stretched leisurely, like a drugged cat. Weirdly, her naked body—now moist with blood—shimmered with the gentle texture of a soft, carved pebble.
Walking towards the humming freezer, she opened its lid, its pale, jaundiced light blinding her momentarily like a vampire at sunrise.
“I was surprised at how easily his cock and balls gave way to the blade—a bit disappointed, actually. I thought there would have been more resistance, even though the shop assistant had informed me that the razor had a near-surgical cutting blade.” She shrugged her shoulders before dipping into the freezer, the tiny stepping-stones of her spine arching a perfect “c”. “Thankfully, this was more challenging …”
Jack was winded as it hit him smack up the balls. Only pride prevented him from buckling in pain.
Mister Spittle’s head rested contently between Jack’s legs, like an egg in a nest. Belatedly, Jack’s body responded before his mind registered, shoving the ghastly item away, kicking at it, wildly.
“Filthy bastard!” he shouted, hating himself for allowing her to shock him. Rage was simmering under his powerlessness.
“Filthy bastard, indeed,” Judith grinned. “See how old Spittle went for your cock, after all these years in the freezer? Told you he was a perv, didn’t I?”
Jack was tiring, mentally and physically, draining of all emotion. Had he detected a softening in Judith’s voice, an understanding that he had full sympathy with her, that all he wanted to know was that his son was safe and well? But the ugly, honest, rational part of his brain, the part that gives open appraisals and realistic predictions, the part that no one likes to acknowledge—that little voice was now laughing at him, telling him that he would have to make his move soon if he wanted to live. Better to die trying than to be slaughtered like one of the hapless rabbits. He hadn’t come this far simply to have his head removed, to see the inside of a freezer.
“Albert Miles may have deserved his fate, but the little McTier girl, Nancy—what harm had she done? Why was she killed?” asked Jack, control slowly coming to his voice.
“Nancy was a beautiful, pigeon-plump, utterly delicious little lady, but bloodthirsty in the way that all little girls are. She loved to watch as I cut the rabbits,” said Judith. “To my surprise, I did have feelings for her but I had to remain focused, knowing that the sins will be visited upon the sons and daughters.”
“But … why? What did she do to deserve such a terrible death?”
“She did nothing. It was her grandfather, the good Doctor John McTier. But he wouldn’t have cared less about me killing him. I needed to hurt him in a very bad way.” Judith seemed in a trance before she spoke, again. “McTier was the doctor at the orphanage. He saw what went on, all the rapes and beatings, but did nothing. He also enjoyed his private viewing every Saturday night at the orphanage, along with the other good citizens of the town.”
“Viewing?” asked Jack, the question long ago answered by his own speculation.
Judith smirked. “I have a sneaking suspicion you already know, Mister Calvert, but I’ll humour you, anyway. Spittle made a small fortune with his nightly showings of children being raped. They were all there, the pillars of the community, the ghouls, the bad, and the ugly: Dickey Toner, John McTier, and quite a few others. There was a cop, also—though he may not have participated, as such. He had more interest in backhanders.”
“A cop?” Jack’s adrenalin flowed a notch quicker. “Who … what was the cop’s name?”
Judith shrugged. “He remained faceless, collecting his payments away from prying eyes, only the stench of his cigars leaving fingerprints floating in the air.”
“Are you sure he was a cop? Did you hear his voice, anything to recognise him by?”
“Just his stench and fat silhouette, but I have a feeling in my bones that I will meet him one day, soon. He was shrewd enough, doing most of his dealings with the owner of the Graham building, Peter Bryant.”
“Bryant …?”
“I thought that would get your attention.” Judith smiled. “Your whore friend’s father owned the Graham building and surrounding area. The bastard died of cancer, a few years ago, making it impossible for me to have my pound of flesh, or to extract any relevant information about his cop friend. Fortunately, his daughter was able to pay.”
“It was you on the phone, wasn’t it?”
Judith ignored his question.
Jack licked his dry lips. “All … all I ask, Judith, is that you tell me what happened to my son. You of all people should have an understanding of what I’m going through. I’m a proud man, but I’m begging you, tell me something, anything. Please. I can help you.”
“Help me? Where was all the help when I—we—needed it? The only one who ever tried to help me was a boy called Michael Wainwright, imprisoned in the same hellhole as me. Michael vowed always to protect me, no matter what. He attacked Mister Spittle, one night, after I had been raped …” Judith’s voice trailed. “Spittle murdered him, buried him in the grounds of the orphanage. Spittle wasted no time informing me that I would join Michael in that cold hole in the ground if I resisted any further.”
Jack’s heart gave a little lurch. He wondered if Judith had heard the sound. There was little doubt in his head that it was a chopper, coming in to land.
“But Spittle was wrong,” continued Judith. “He hadn’t killed Michael. Michael was too strong for him, and escaped after feigning his death. I knew that in my heart, and knew that one day he would come back to me, love me forever, protect me always.”
The light was closing in behind Judith, and her shadow fell on Jack, but even in the dullness, he could see that she was considering him, washing her ink-blue eyes across his face. Deciding.
No longer hearing the chopper’s sound, Jack wondered if he had imagined it; if it had ever really been there.
Standing slowly, Judith secured Jack’s gun as she did so. “Personally, I have nothing against you … Jack. But you must understand that I cannot allow you to interfere with justice. I can’t allow you to harm those whom I love. Please allow me to introduce you to Michael, my hero …”
Jack craned his head slowly, as directed, and tried to speak. No words came.
Adrian’s eyes were huge in the frame of his sunken face, wide and vacant, like a window forced open. He was barely recognisable as the young boy who had fled into the storm. He held the shotgun inches from Jack’s face.
It shocked Jack, Adrian’s state, and he gasped inwardly as he felt the muzzle of his own gun being placed against the back of his head, the heaviness of the trigger hitting home as Judith pulled the trigger.
At that exact moment, everything around him seemed removed, hardly real. There were words in his head. There was a gap, a delay between the moment he heard the words and when he finally understood them.
Then the explosion came.
Chapter Forty-Three
“Death never takes the wise man by surprise; he is always ready to go there.”
Jean de la Fontaine, Fables, Book 8
IN A SPLIT-SECOND judgment, Benson had fired, just as Judith fired the first chamber in Jack’s gun. Benson did not ask Judith to drop the gun. He did not ask her to surrender. He did not give her a second chance to pull the trigger again.
The shotgun blast hit Benson, slamming him violently against the door of the shed, filling him with disbelief that his godson could have done such a thing.
“Drop it!” shouted Johnson, tumbling to the ground, his finger already squeezing the trigger, the gun aimed directly at Adrian’s head.
Jack leapt, adrenalin and instinct guiding him, pushing Adrian to the fl
oor, knocking the shotgun from his hands.
“You murdered her!” screamed Adrian, over and over again, punching and kicking Jack.
Seconds later, Johnson stood over Adrian, gun primed.
“Don’t!” shouted Jack. “He’s … he’s my son … don’t shoot … please don’t shoot.”
“Johnson … do … do as Jack says … lad. It’s … it’s over …” groaned Benson.
While Johnson cuffed Adrian, Jack hastily knelt beside Benson, ripping his own shirt, hoping to stop the frightening flow of blood. The burly cop’s enormous chest had taken most of the blast. A large napkin of blood stained the top half of it.
“Easy, Harry,” whispered Jack, desperately trying to staunch the flow.
Benson’s tongue darted in and out, trying to capture air.
“It … it wasn’t his fault … Jack … Adrian …” Pink blood bubbled at the side of Benson’s mouth. “Should … I should have known better … fucking cavalry charges, at my age. You … should always go by … the fucking book.”
“Easy … easy, Harry. Don’t talk. Help is on its way … we’ll use the chopper. You’ll be in hospital in no time.”
Benson forced a smile. Another pink bubble appeared at the side of his mouth, followed by a spurt of blood. “If … you’re daft enough … to take that chopper, trust me, you … you will end up in hospital.”
Benson’s fingers worked their way into his coat pocket, returning a few seconds later.
“Here … take this.” Benson squeezed Grazier’s glass eye into Jack’s hand. “That fucker Grazier … saved … your life … Shaw … Shaw found it on Grazier’s body … I … didn’t catch on to that … Long John shit … on the phone … till Shaw handed me that … glass fucking eye …” Blood was flowing more fluently now. “The bodies … in Barton’s Forest … Grazier and Harris … throats cut …”
“Don’t talk, Harry. Save your strength. You’ll need it for all that fishing we’re going to do.”
“Stop making me … laugh … it hurts my ribs.” Benson attempted a smile. “Promise … promise you’ll … say nothing about … the car crash … if you don’t promise … I’ll come back … and fucking haunt you …”
“Stop talking like that, you old bastard. You are not going to die on me. Do you hear me? I will not allow you to—”
“Promise!” hissed Benson, through clenched teeth. “That bastard Wilson … would take Anne’s … police pension … promise me …”
“I … I promise, Harry, I promise …” Jack allowed the blood to flow freely now. There was little point in trying to halt it. “Adrian didn’t mean to shoot you, Harry. You know that, don’t you? His head is all fucked up. Harry? Can you hear me, Harry …?”
Benson’s eyes stared up at his ex-partner, his best friend. He didn’t answer.
Chapter Forty-Four
“Personally, I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must.”
Samuel Beckett, First Love
THE RAIN SOFTENED the soil along the graveyard, adjacent to the Graham building, making the task of the mechanical digger a lot easier. For such a metal monstrosity, the digger moved delicately, almost pawing the soil before interrupting it.
Watching the digger, Jack became almost hypnotised by its movement mingling with the sound of falling rain on his umbrella.
“Are you listening to me?” asked Shaw.
“What? Sorry … my mind was elsewhere.”
“I said Wilson would never have authorised this exhumation. Too much manpower and overtime money wasted, for his mentality. It was a godsend, his unexpected resignation. Don’t you think?”
Jack detected just a hint of curiosity in Shaw’s voice. Everyone was speculating on Wilson’s sudden vocation for civilian life. Rumour was rife—something to do with the Graham building and protection money, and a can of worms spilling on to the streets, crawling all over town. Local politicians’ names were being whispered. A judge and a member of the clergy had already been taken in for questioning by the police. Only Jack Calvert held the secret, for now. But soon the worms would find their way into the homes of so-called respected citizens, and into the mouth of William Wilson and his cronies.
The digger stopped abruptly, indicated to do so by one of Shaw’s assistants. Less than a minute later, a small, badly dilapidated box was removed.
“They couldn’t even grant the children a respectable burial,” whispered Shaw, surprising Jack with the emotion in his voice. “Too many bodies, Calvert. I’m afraid we’ve unearthed more than death in this wretched patch of earth.”
“When you live in a place, it becomes you whether you want it to or not, Shaw. We are all guilty of whatever this burial ground accuses us of. Each and every one of us.”
Shaw looked away from the digger. “When you didn’t show up for Benson’s funeral, it caused a bit of a stir. But as I listened to Wilson’s last official speech about Benson’s bravery, I realised you wouldn’t have been able to control yourself. You did the right thing.”
Jack laughed bitterly. “The right thing? I wouldn’t know the right thing if it slapped me about the face. I’m no better than Wilson, Shaw. Make no mistake about that.”
The rain was falling in brown streaks, as if washing all the filth from the sky’s crust. Jack felt despondency seep in as the rain soaked through his clothes, chilling his bones.
“How is your son? You understand that it will take time and patience? Fortunately, there is a lot of help nowadays.”
Jack shuddered involuntary. He wanted to go home, but needed to talk to someone, someone with answers and explanations. Walls were never good listeners, despite what the old war posters proclaimed.
“Murder charges have been reduced to involuntary manslaughter. I’m waiting to hear if he will be released on bail until the trial. All I can do is hope that eventually all charges will be dropped. It wasn’t Adrian who fired those shots. It was drugs and the brainwashing.” Jack looked away from Shaw. “I don’t know … I don’t know if he will ever be the same, sullied by such an experience and knowledge of evil … what he saw, what he went through. In times like this, I would have whispered a tiny prayer to God, but if this case has taught me one thing, it’s that God never did exist.”
The agnostic Shaw said nothing for a while. He appeared transfixed in his own world of the dead, as he watched the digger vomit up more soil and potential revelations.
“How is Miss Bryant? Thank goodness the newspapers were willing to print the red herring that she was fatally wounded.”
“I never thought I’d be grateful to any newspaper,” acknowledged Jack. “Sarah will need major surgery on her face. They still can’t tell me if she will ever regain the full use of her legs. The doctor said she was lucky. Time will tell what his definition of being lucky is.”
“I completed a toxicology test on the remains of both Jeremiah Grazier and Joseph Harris, yesterday. They had both been poisoned—though in different ways. Harris’s stomach revealed vitamin tablets laced with cyanide. He consumed a large quantity of alcohol—probably whiskey—preceding administration of the cyanide. Both men had their throats cut, also, prior to death. Not a very gentle death at all,” said Shaw.
Jack shuddered before sucking in a taste of dirty air. He dreaded asking Shaw the question, but had no other choice. “Do … do you think both murders were committed by one person? The same person? You don’t think Adrian had anything to do with them?”
Almost tenderly, Shaw reached and touched Jack’s shoulder. “It really doesn’t matter what I think. My files on both deaths are now closed. Let us worry about the living, now. The dead can take care of themselves.”
“Harris had nothing to do with any of this,” said Jack. “We found the money he withdrew, along with his passport, in Grazier’s cupboard. It looks as if they set him up, using him to take us off their trail. Poor bastard. Even the child porn magazines, conveniently found in
Harris’s cottage, were purchased by Jeremiah using his own credit card.”
An assistant was waving, indicating that Shaw was needed over at the tent that constituted a makeshift headquarters.
“I’ll call you if there are any further developments, Calvert,” said Shaw, turning to go. “By the looks of things here, it’s going to be a very long time before we get any answers. In the meantime, if you need anything, just give me a call.”
Removing a photo from his pocket, Jack said, “There is one thing I would appreciate you doing for me. This belonged to Judith Grazier. It’s a picture of a young boy called Michael Wainwright. He’s in there, somewhere among the dead. I want you to find him. I want you to do this. Understand? It would mean a lot to me. I need to give him a decent burial.”
Hesitantly, Shaw took the photo. “I’m not supposed to …” He sighed, looking from the photo to Jack. “I’ll do my best to locate the subject … the boy’s body.”
“Despite all that she did, I can’t help feeling sorry for her—for all those kids. The system failed, not only Judith, but literally hundreds of others, and I don’t suppose we will ever know the exact number.”
