Nailbiters

by Kane, Paul

  No man of the house, my foo… Hammond thought, then was suddenly aware of someone behind him, someone swinging something which connected with his left arm as he turned and sent it numb. He was shoved backwards into a small kitchen table by the large figure that had struck him; the large figure who must have been upstairs all this time. Hammond just about had time to move sideways before what he could now see was a cricket bat came crashing down onto the table beside him.

  As he rolled off and onto the floor he took in the sight of the sturdy guy in front, a hoodie pulled up over his head. The bat was drawn back again, ready to take another swipe at Hammond, but he was ready this time. Barrelling into his attacker, he shoved him against the wall, causing all the air to explode out of the man’s body. Hammond brought up the back of his head, catching the guy under the chin and whipping his head back. Hammond retreated a step or two, tried moving his left arm, but found he couldn’t; it was definitely broken. He didn’t have much time to think about this, though, because the man was coming at him again, swiping the bat from side to side. He lunged and Hammond ducked, the bat striking one of the cupboards and smashing the wood to pieces, smashing some of the crockery inside as well.

  Hammond punched the man in the face with his good hand, felt the satisfying splinter of bone as the nose exploded with redness. The man dropped the bat, hands going to his face, before Hammond followed this up with a knee to the stomach. The big man doubled over, as Hammond scooped up the bat and brought that down on the back of his head. His attacker fell forward and sideways, unconscious or dead – it didn’t matter to Hammond.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ he growled as he carried the bat out through the back door and into the garden. Hammond quickly spotted where Mrs Tyrell must have gone, one door still open on what looked like a coal bunker. He should be calling for back-up, waiting until it arrived before going after the woman, but he had only one thing on his mind: Ella. This woman, her stepmother, was – as insane as it sounded – somehow responsible for what had happened to her, and he was going to get to the bottom of it no matter what.

  Hammond reached the bunker, looked down at the steps which descended into the darkness. That wasn’t completely true, there was a flickering light down there – breaking up the black. ‘Mrs Tyrell… I’m coming down there now, and just to warn you, I’m armed.’ It wasn’t a lie, and though he would have preferred to have an armed response unit with him, or even a pistol himself, the weight of the bat was quite comforting as he made his way down those steps.

  There were several of them, taking him what must have been deep under the garden – perhaps the property had come with this place originally? In any event, Hammond found the bottom step at last, looking around for the source of the light, which appeared to be some kind of lamp fitted to the wall. There was indeed coal still down here, for the fire inside the house he assumed, but there was also something else. And, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he finally saw what it was.

  Chained to the back of the bunker, slumped forward with matted hair over its face, was a body. Naked and filthy, Hammond could see this was a woman, a naked woman, and it was a testament to the state of her that he didn’t recognise Ella until his eyes dropped to take in the stump at the end of her right leg; the wound cauterised but still angry-looking.

  ‘My…My God…’ he finally breathed out, taking a step towards her. Ella wasn’t moving; and like the person who’d attacked him in the kitchen, it was unclear whether she was alive or dead.

  ‘Your God?’ came a voice off to the side of him, unmistakably Mrs Tyrell’s. ‘Do you even have a God, Mr Hammond, liar and fornicator that you are?’

  He was having trouble processing any of this, didn’t know how to answer. Hammond just wanted to go to Ella, to get her down from there. Mrs Tyrell stepped between them, casting a look backwards at her step-daughter. ‘She’s where she belongs, your whore, in the filth and the dirt. Always wild, she was. Always unruly… I tried my best, tried to get her to follow the right path – but nothing ever worked, not even when I was forced to…correct her. Forced to punish her by locking her down here. Imagine how horrified I was when I finally discovered where she’d gone when she ran away, what she’d been up to. And there was only one way I could see to help her, to stop her.’

  A streetwalker! Not any more…

  ‘The others,’ Hammond managed. ‘You used what was happening to do this?’

  Hester Tyrell let out a shrill laugh. ‘Of course not. Of course I didn’t use it. I initiated it!’

  Hammond’s face screwed up. ‘You did what?’

  ‘That agent of the Devil… He wasn’t hard to find, on one of those perverted sites you must have looked into yourself. Wasn’t hard to manipulate – he was halfway there already. An agent of the Devil to destroy the Devil’s work. So much sin… so much…’

  ‘Sin? Jesus! What do you call murder?’

  ‘Do not blaspheme!’ Mrs Tyrell shrieked. ‘And I did not kill anyone.’

  ‘No, not you personally. But you sent the box, didn’t you? You led us to him,’ spat Hammond.

  ‘I knew someone would put everything together, you’re detectives after all. Doing good deeds…well, some of the time. And it was an offering. An atonement of sorts, her road back to a righteous path.’

  ‘What was to stop him from turning you in? Wilkinson?’

  ‘Oh, Heavens,’ she touched her chest, ‘I never even met the maggot.’

  ‘No, you had help. Your friend back there in the kitchen.’

  ‘My…my friend?’

  ‘Or whatever you want to call him, your fucking suitor – whatever. Look, just get out of the way.’

  ‘My…? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, don’t you get it? He’s in a pool of blood back there. Now get the fuck out of the—’

  The scream that followed didn’t come from Mrs Tyrell; it came from behind him. Hammond wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t prepared for it – for the notion that Mrs Tyrell might have had more than one helper; yet another guy, and for someone who thought all that was a sin she sure put it about. He whirled and began bringing the bat up, but it was knocked out of his hand by something else: a coal shovel, wielded by this newcomer. A shovel they then swung, missing Hammond only by inches – their intention to open him up.

  ‘Shit!’ he said, stumbling backwards and losing his footing because of a rogue piece of coal on the ground. Hammond landed awkwardly, banging his injured arm – the pain was incredible.

  The scream turned into a voice: ‘What did you do to her?’

  In spite of the agony he was in, Hammond couldn’t help thinking: who?

  ‘Anna… Mum, what did he do to Anna?’ The man looked over towards Mrs Tyrell, before stepping forward so Hammond could see his…her face, framed by that same haircut he’d seen in those photos.

  ‘I don’t know, Diana,’ answered Mrs Tyrell.

  Fuck! thought Hammond – it hadn’t been a man at all, not in the CCTV footage at the post depot, not in the kitchen with the bat; probably not even in the contact with Wilkinson on those sites! These were Tyrell’s children, hers and Kenneth’s girls – though easily mistaken for men at first glance, built as they were. Ella’s damned step-sisters! Diana moved forwards, holding the shovel high like the Sword of Damocles over Hammond. ‘He can’t be allowed to live,’ she stated.

  ‘An eye for an eye?’ said Hester Tyrell, like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

  ‘How about,’ said Hammond, getting his breath back, ‘turning the other fucking cheek!’ He threw the piece of coal he’d tripped on, striking Diana in the face – hard – causing her to drop the shovel and giving Hammond time enough to get to his feet, to kick out at the woman. She went backwards, striking the bunker wall, which shook and rained coal dust on her. Biting down the pain, Hammond snatched up the shovel and ran into her with it, this time like a jousting knight. The blade rammed into her stomach, and she hawked up blood.

  Now it was
her mother’s turn to scream, running at Hammond and drawing a kitchen knife she’d had behind her back. He turned to face her and was slashed across the chest for his trouble. ‘You crazy bitch!’ he shouted, head-butting the woman.

  Hester Tyrell staggered backwards, a cut opening on her brow. She snarled, then came at him again with the knife, holding it out in front of her. Hammond sidestepped her, then stuck his leg out, which sent her flying. He looked around for the only weapon left, snatching up the bat and hitting Mrs Tyrell as she was starting to pick herself up off the floor. Hammond’s breath was coming in short bursts, slowing up finally. He looked up and over at the other body, slumped and held by chains.

  Family ties…

  ‘Ella,’ he said, dropping the bat and shambling across to her. Even after all this, she wasn’t moving; not even a twitch.

  ‘I did not kill anyone!’

  Hammond hoped against hope Tyrell had been telling the truth. Of course, one of those equally deranged daughters might have done the honours. He reached out, fingers trembling, and repeated her name. ‘Ella… Ella, it’s Patrick.’

  Her skin was cold as he lifted her head up, but then she’d been in this place probably for weeks. ‘Ella…please!’

  He couldn’t see her eyes, because the hair was still hanging over them – couldn’t see whether they were open or closed. But then there was a breath, a whisper, and he could see her smile beneath the dirt. ‘I…I knew you’d come,’ she managed. ‘I…I made a wish…’

  Hammond moved forward, letting her head rest on his shoulder, and now he cried simple tears of joy.

  * * *

  It was warm in the sun.

  Warm on the beach as they walked along it. Ella wouldn’t be running anytime soon, but the prosthetic he’d helped her with that morning, as she sat on the bed and he’d attached it to her stump, enabled to her make her way along the sand – arm in arm with Hammond. She got him to stop for a minute, and he thought it might be because she was sore, but it was only so she could look out over the sea. He’d found out why she loved it so much, the coast – it was where she’d lived growing up with her parents, her real parents. And then her and her dad – before he met Hester, before he’d died.

  The things that woman, that family had put Ella through afterwards… Hammond didn’t wonder any more about why she’d left, about what had put her on the road to where she’d ended up. She’d finally let him in – trusted him with everything.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked her, brushing a strand of that golden hair out of her face now he was able to; using the hand that was only recently free of a cast that reached up to his elbow.

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered, and smiled. She knew how much he loved her – should do, because he told her a million times a day. In fact, they told each other. Knew that the foot thing didn’t bother him in the slightest, that she was still perfect in his eyes. He’d even drawn that star on it in marker pen, to replace the tattoo, to make her feel better.

  ‘It was never a star,’ she said as he did it, taking the pen from him and adding a stick underneath. ‘A wand. A magic wand, like the kind your fairy godmother uses.’

  ‘My fairy what?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Never mind,’ Ella had replied with a laugh.

  As she watched the ocean, he watched her. He’d never let anything happen to her again, and she never wanted him to. They’d agreed to both leave their former lives behind and start afresh, out here. It had been the best thing either of them had ever done. Of course, the past has a way of coming back to haunt you – and news had reached them that week about the trial coming up.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked her again.

  ‘Oh, yeah…’ She looked at him with those blue eyes. ‘I am. Just thinking about, well, y’know.’

  ‘I do,’ he told her.

  ‘What do you think will happen to them?’

  ‘If there’s any justice, the judge will lock ‘em up and throw away the key,’ Hammond answered. Incredibly, all three of the Tyrells had survived what happened, though with extensive injuries. Diana would never walk again, he’d been told, and there was a certain kind of justice in that alone. He just wished it was all three of them. Hammond put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ he promised her, knowing that with both their testimonies it should be enough to see the trio put away for life.

  Then they could get on with their own lives. Maybe marry, have kids someday? They were subjects he hadn’t dared broach, but he would, when the time was right; he wouldn’t put things off again. Ella had enough on her mind for the time being, though; enough on her plate. She’d get through it, of course, she was strong, tough. Actually, they’d both get through it as a couple.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, starting to walk again and he fell in step at the side of her. ‘You can buy me an ice cream.’

  He chuckled. ‘With pleasure.’ And as they walked, he took one last look over his shoulder. Two sets of footprints, side-by-side. But if Ella happened to get tired, or her leg was aching, Hammond would pick her up and carry her in his arms. Then there would be only one pair.

  Because then, as always from this point on, after the trials and suffering were behind them, they would still be together.

  They would be one.

  Suit of Lies

  It has been said that they form a web, a tissue…but they do nothing of the kind.

  He knows what they really make – their texture, cut, their unmistakable uniqueness. For much of his life he has woven the thread. Actually that’s not strictly true. The thread has woven itself – he has merely provided the raw material. From an early age he has done this, since Benjamin learned to think, walk and talk he spouted his untruths.

  Not that it was entirely his fault. His parents set him upon that track. To begin with, whenever he did something wrong and they asked him about it, he would always admit his blame. Take the time he inadvertently kicked over the dog’s water and food…

  ‘Oh, just look at the mess. Benjamin! Did you do that?’

  ‘Y-Yes.’ His reward for honesty was a smacked pair of legs. ‘That’s very naughty. Let this be a lesson to you.’

  It was a lesson all right. Next time the dog would get the blame.

  And so it began. Slowly but surely he learnt as he grew, that if you were ever to get on in this world, if you were ever to get what you wanted, you had to lie. They were small at first, so small you hardly noticed them. White lies. So white they were almost invisible, translucent fibs.

  ‘Have you washed your hands before eating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you play nice with Rosy from next door?’

  ‘Yes.’ The fact that she wet the bed that night was nothing to do with him…

  ‘Was that a bad word I just heard you say?’

  ‘No.’

  So on and so forth. Sometimes he got away with it, sometimes he didn’t. But, as the saying goes, practice makes perfect. And the more he told, the better he became at it. The more he told, the more convincing he became as well. Straight, poker-faced. Totally unreadable.

  Only then was he able to move up a level.

  The lies, especially after he started school, came thick and fast. They took on a life of their own occasionally, developed into elaborate pantomimes that required skill and perfect timing to pull off – not to mention a surplus of slower kids to take the rap. For example, how on Earth he’d got away with the felt-pen graffiti scandal in the toilets he still didn’t know to this day. A combination of quick-talking and Robbie Kemp being in the cubicle next door might’ve had something to do with it.

  ‘It was Robbie, Miss Chambers. I swear. Robbie!’

  He could still see Robbie being hauled out of the boys’ lavs by his ear…could almost feel the lobe straining fit to tear, in an era when such actions didn’t result in the school being sued and the teacher facing child abuse charges.

  Strangely enough that was the first time he noticed the effect of his lies, too. Not t
he effect on poor old Robbie – for that was self-evident – but rather the immediate after-effect of telling the lie.

  It was as Benjamin walked past the mirrors in the toilets that he saw the words still hanging in the air around him. Small, black words and letters, buzzing around his head like flies. He stopped and stared, blinking at the peculiar phenomenon. But then at his age weren’t all phenomena peculiar, and even the strangest things accepted without question?

  The lies finally settled on him, at his shoulder. He tried to brush them off but found that they’d stuck fast to him. And now they were knitting themselves together, intertwining, forming a tiny little square.

  ‘Benjamin!’ Miss Chambers had shouted. ‘Come along at once.’ The headmaster’s office awaited.

  So he’d gone and repeated his story, hands in pockets to hide the felt marks on his fingers. He made such a case that he even had Robbie believing it himself. But he never once forgot the threads, nor the square – which, by the end of the day, was somehow even larger.

  Benjamin was eager to see if it would happen again, and maybe this had something to do with fixing him in his ways. It certainly didn’t help. More lies, more words, more material. It seemed to be a part of him, whether he had his ordinary clothes on or not. Even when he took a bath, or got undressed ready for bed, the growing patchwork of lie-fibres would be there at his shoulder.

  Benjamin would pretend to be sick to get days off school – easy to feign a stomach ache or a flu – just so he could study the upshot of those lies. Those…fabrications. Only later would he grasp the true significance of that word, for the untruths were manipulating themselves into a sort of ‘material’, covering his shoulder and upper arm now. He’d asked his mum once about it, but she didn’t seem to see the thing at all. Or maybe she didn’t want to see.