Scallywag TYPESET

by Brogan, Stuart

  He eyed the series of photographs which had been taken at the scene: the basement, the cages, the implements of torture. He shivered as he recalled the initial call an the sights that had greeted his arrival. He scanned them yet again for anything he may have missed, then focused his gaze on the black and white police photo of Callum Benson, staring coldly back at him.

  He picked up a manila file containing the S.O.C.O reports and flicked through them, eagerly assessing the medical and forensic evidence. Then, after a couple of minutes, he tossed it onto the already cluttered and unruly desk.

  Now was not the time for overlooking something. There was no way he wanted that little shit getting off on some technicality. Or worse yet. Because he or one of his team made a mistake.

  Nope, he would just have to go over it again and again until the case was airtight. He recalled the moment he had entered the ward room, smiling when he saw that smug little git lying on that hospital bed. It had taken all his professionalism and self-control not to dance around and whoop with joy at Scallywag getting his just desserts, but at the end of the day he had a job to do, regardless of his personal feelings, especially regarding that particular suspect.

  He rubbed his gritty eyes, now stinging from the constant academic scrutiny. Despite being a rational and non-religious man, Brewer was a staunch believer in karma. And, as such, was happy to see that Benson was now on the receiving end for the first time in his life.

  After years of petty crimes and running rings around the judicial system it was finally time for Callum Benson to feel what it was like to face the consequences of his actions. Brewer beamed with pride at the thought of all Scallywag’s victims getting some semblance of justice. This was exactly why he had joined the force; to make sure decent, law-abiding members of the community felt safe walking the streets, felt secure in their own homes.

  “Penny for them?”

  The question caught Brewer by surprise and he turned to see Howe standing behind him, clutching two mugs of freshly-brewed coffee. Brewer grinned and grabbed one from him.

  “You’re a diamond,” he exclaimed as he returned to the wall. Howe perched himself on the desk, eager not to disturb the rising mountain of paperwork, his attention also on the wall before them.

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Guv. What exactly are you looking for? I reckon we have enough to bury him. Or, do you figure we’ve missed something?”

  Brewer smiled slightly. “I don’t know, Rob; it’s just a gut feeling I have. Call it copper’s intuition or damn paranoia, but I just can’t help thinking we are not seeing the whole picture. That little git is as slippery as they come, but despite all his guile and bravado, I just can’t picture him as some sort of deranged serial killer, not without help or guidance from another. I know damn well he’s guilty, but if he is just a pawn, I want the king, the person pulling his strings. I have a feeling that we aint going to get him.”

  Howe was a little surprised by his superior’s statement

  “What about all that stuff you said to him in the hospital? You sounded pretty damn sure we had him bang to rights, Guv. You never mentioned anyone else involved in the case. What’s changed?”

  Brewer rubbed his temple then took a small sip from his steaming mug. “That was just for show, Rob. I was hoping he would crack and confess, give us those giving the instructions.” He paused and turned to face Howe. “He’s guilty, Rob, and I can’t wait to see the little shit get sent down. But I also want anyone else involved. There are just too many variables still unaccounted for. For example, the house. How the hell did Benson get that house? The stacks of money downstairs, the building of the basement itself, and who called it all in? There is no way Benson could have done all that on his own. He’s guilty, all right, and rest assured he’s going to pay but there’s something bigger going on here.”

  Howe took a swig from his own mug and lowered his gaze.

  “Maybe we are reading too much into it, Guv. Maybe we will never know who else was involved. Maybe we should be grateful that we saved three lives and are putting away one nasty individual who we know is guilty…” He let the sentence trail off. Brewer sighed.

  “What about this memory loss thing, Rob? Are you buying into it? Could he be setting up his defence for the trial? Play the insanity card and avoid jailtime, instead spending the rest of his life in some country club psyche ward? He could have taken that cocktail of drugs to back up his story, or lack of. Either way he gets to cop a loony plea and we look like a bunch of Stormtroopers walking all over his human rights!”

  Howe shrugged. “Who knows, Guv. That Dr Haver seemed to think it was legit. She is supposed to be an expert in these types of cases, after all. But I will tell you one thing. I’m pretty sure that fucker isn’t human, after what he did to those people. God only knows what would have happened if we hadn’t gotten to them, or what he’s done in the past, for that matter. I know we can’t pin all those disappearances on him, but he must have had something to do with it, or why else would he have been down there?”

  Brewer nodded but remained quiet, his mind trying to sift through the evidence, assessing it once again for any clues as to the identities of scallywag’s cohorts.

  “You know what, Rob? we couldn’t find any information regarding that house. The last time it was sold was in 1976, and that was to a shell company based in Switzerland. Then the trail goes cold. The utility bills were in a fake name and have always been paid via an offshore account. Hell, we can’t even figure out where that account is based, let alone who owns it. According to our tech guys, the funds were transferred into Bitcoins and other virtual currencies, rendering the tracing of funds impossible. It’s just too much work and too high-end for a petty criminal like Callum Benson. He just doesn’t have the skillset to put that kind of pre-planning into a crime.”

  “Have uniform had any joy from the neighbours? What about the person who called it in?”

  Brewer shrugged. “The neighbours have seen someone from time to time, but no decent descriptions. It would appear whoever was living there kept himself to himself. He is either very clever or extremely lucky to have evaded attention. And, to add insult to injury, no one has ever seen Benson around there before. Maybe he just picked the wrong house at the wrong time. Better to take the jail time for a lesser charge than full-blown attempted murder. With regards to vehicles at the property, DVLA say nothing is linked to that address, so we have no vehicle ID to pursue. As for the anonymous caller, as far as we can tell it was made from a pre-paid disposable mobile phone that is now unresponsive, no doubt lying at the bottom of some river.”

  Howe sighed and got to his feet. “Have the three from the basement said anything yet, Guv?”

  “No, the docs say they are so far gone on drugs that whatever they say couldn’t be used as evidence anyway. I just said that in an attempt to get Benson to cough. Those poor bastards are going to be well out of it for months, possibly years. Their toxicology reports came back and were insane; the doctors said they had never seen anything like it.”

  Howe stretched and pulled on his overcoat. “I think we have enough, Guv. Just go home and get some rest. Benson isn’t going anywhere, and if there are others involved, they will slip up sooner or later.” He patted his superior on the shoulder and headed for the door. Brewer didn’t turn

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right. See you tomorrow and we will go over it again with fresh eyes.” Howe huffed and left, not bothering to answer.

  Brewer eyed the photo of Callum Benson once again.

  “Just who the hell are you working for, Scallywag?”

  Ten

  Tuesday 03:12 Hrs

  Callum stood barefoot outside his bay door, his toes cold against the heavy tiles, his body chilled from his flimsy hospital gown. He glanced from left to right, scanning the barely-lit corridor.

  There was no one there; even the armed officer had deserted his post. He cocked his head and strained for any sound, but was greeted by only si
lence. As he tried to focus he was aware of what looked like shadows fleeting from his peripheral vision. If he tried to catch a better glimpse, they would vanish into the dark recesses of the building then reappear just as quickly to torment him yet again.

  He looked overhead at the neon exit sign, pulsing as it fluctuated between intensely bright and barely visible, the glare at some points making him shield his eyes.

  His heart rate began to increase as the feeling of a presence began to take hold. There was someone or something nearby that had yet to present itself; the atmosphere was suddenly saturated with a malevolent force, eager to permeate his very marrow.

  He turned quickly and tugged at the door handle, eager to find sanctuary from the unseen threat. It wouldn’t move. It was locked. Callum tugged harder, his desperation increasing.

  It was then he heard the growl.

  He froze and slowly turned to his left. At the far end of the corridor was a low, black shape, its outline darker than its surroundings, its body hunched. He gasped as the shape began to move methodically towards him, its mechanics precise.

  It was then that Callum noticed the eyes; they were unlike anything he had ever seen, for they were blood-red orbs, staring predatorily at him.

  He started to back up slowly, not wanting to break into a run for fear of startling the creature.

  It kept pressing forward, its sleek frame obviously muscular and covered with thick fur. Callum looked on and suddenly realised it was a powerful looking dog, yet unlike any dog he had seen before.

  He kept edging backwards, gingerly trying each door handle he passed. But, just like his own room, they were also locked. He swore under his breath as the dog continued to move forward, its guttural growl ever present. There was no mistaking the creature’s intentions; it was there to kill him.

  Callum maintained eye-contact with the beast as it started to quicken its pace, eager to get to its intended target. The dog was about thirty feet away and closing. Callum’s eyes darted from left to right, frantically searching for some kind of weapon, but he could see nothing of use.

  He kept backing up, his eyes starting to blur with perspiration. He wiped his face, not wanting to lose sight of his attacker.

  With a sudden bark, the dog launched itself forward, its acceleration defying logic. In a mass of muscle and teeth the dog raced towards him. Callum suddenly froze and looked on in terror as faint blue flames appeared and began to dance around the approaching beast. Then, in a sudden flash of light, the corridor was engulfed by a raging inferno. The fire quickly spread like beautiful tendrils along the walls and ceiling, reaching out to claim him.

  Callum turned and ran, his fight or flight instinct sending a rush of adrenaline through his body. He powered down the corridor, not wanting to turn for fear of losing ground to the beast or to the fire’s sickening flames.

  Ahead of him, approximately twenty feet, away was a doorway leading to a staircase, which he prayed would be unlocked. If not, he would be left with little choice but to fight the beast with his bare hands. And, to be honest, he didn’t fancy his chances.

  He kept going, his limbs burning from the unrelenting exertion. The beast was now less than five feet behind him, as was the raging inferno. Callum crashed through the doorway, the momentum of his bodyweight causing the door to fly inwards and slam off of the inner wall, the velocity of the rebound causing it to immediately swing back.

  Callum suddenly dropped as he slipped on a highly-polished floor, causing him to land heavily on his back. But, despite the jarring fall, he managed to swing himself around and instinctively kick out, slamming the heavy fire-door towards his pursuer just as the creature launched itself at him.

  He held his breath as the impact of the heavy assault caused him to slide backwards, the powerful beast trying to repeatedly force open the door, each new blow sending shockwaves through Callum’s lower body. He frantically clambered for traction, desperate to hold back the unrelenting barrage and keep the flames from reaching in through any gap they could find.

  He kept fighting, his will to survive reaching breaking point. In the last seconds of desperation, he once again lashed out, his foot sending the door crashing into the predator.

  The dog howled in pain as one of its paws got wedged. Callum screamed in triumph as he looked on and, with a sickening crack, he heard it snap between the frame.

  It retracted its injured limb, giving Callum the time he needed to hit the door again. And this time he slammed it securely shut. Then there was silence. Callum slumped on to his back, sucking in lungfuls of fresh oxygen, his mind and body reeling from the chase and subsequent battle.

  Scallywag propped himself up on his elbows and looked about him. He was in an unlit stairwell; above him flights disappeared into the darkness, as so below.

  Callum experienced a strange feeling of sublime acceptance, a wave of familiarity washing over him, yet there was something alien about the place.

  As he looked around, he saw there were no lights or signs of any kind. In fact, the location was barren, devoid of anything resembling human interaction or design. He looked up, expecting to see more building, but instead of a ceiling above him there was only stygian darkness.

  He dragged himself to his feet, the floor around him wet from perspiration and what looked like blood. He tried to control his breathing, his head pulsing, and listened for any signs of the dog, but was yet again greeted with only silence.

  What the hell is happening?

  He closed his eyes in an attempt to focus and take stock of what was transpiring, his mind desperately fighting to make sense of the last few minutes.

  The sudden impact from the blow sent Callum stumbling towards the descending stairs. He reached out to grab the bannister, but missed, and could do nothing as he felt his foot disappear over the first ledge. Another unseen attack connected with his jaw, giving his body the momentum to tip past the fulcrum. Callum let out a gasp as he collapsed with arms flailing, then headfirst tumbled down the flight of stairs, the rotation of his fall causing his head to slam off the concrete every two steps.

  He pulled his arms up as he tried to protect his upper body but, in doing so, left his lower body exposed. He suddenly felt his left leg become trapped beneath his mass and, with a deafening snap, felt his ankle bone shatter under the pressure.

  A surge of pain erupted through his body, causing him to vomit as he finally hit the bottom, his back crashing into the bare brick wall. It had taken just seconds to reach the bottom, yet to Scallywag it had felt like a lifetime.

  Callum raised his head to see where the attack had come from, his eyes blurry from the trauma, his right hand clutching at his protruding ankle bone. At the top of the flight of stairs stood the foreboding hulking figure of Mr Memory, his heavy brown jumper ever present, his face obscured by his trademark latex mask.

  Callum looked helplessly on as the figure slowly descended towards him, his footsteps unnaturally heavy and echoing throughout the stairwell. Callum looked around him for a weapon and, to his surprise and relief, saw a sawn-off shotgun just two feet away from him lying on the floor.

  Crying in both pain and rage, he reached out and snatched it up. He swung it back and levelled it at his attacker, who kept coming despite the fearsome twin barrels aimed at him. Callum roared in defiance and squeezed the trigger, but instead of a huge discharge there came a gentle popping sound followed by a small puff of smoke from the barrels. Callum looked on in horror as a stream of confetti floated free from the shotgun and fell gently to the floor.

  Scallywag was helpless and at the mercy of his pursuer. He glanced up in time to witness Mr Memory/Brown Jumper lunge forward and fall upon him. Mr Memory reached down and, with a vice-like grip, ripped the shotgun from Scallywag’s grasp and tossed it to one side, the metal scraping as it slid across the concrete. Then with his left hand he grabbed Callum by his throat and dragged his battered and blood-soaked body to its feet.

  Callum tried to struggle but it was usele
ss; his attacker was just too strong. Scallywag threw punch after punch, yet Mr Memory didn’t even flinch or respond in anyway. Instead he began to squeeze even tighter. Callum reached out and tore at his mask, desperately trying to reveal his identity. If this was his time to go, he sure as hell wanted to see who his killer was, wanted to look him in the eyes as he did.

  As he began to take his final gasps for air, he summoned the last of his defiant spirit and, with a final burst of effort, yanked at the hood. He managed to pull it free, sending it floating to the floor.

  Callum began to scream and shake violently. The last thing he saw was his own face staring blankly back at him.

  He felt something touch his arm and woke with a start, his senses chaotic, unable to focus on his surroundings, his t-shirt sodden with sweat.

  He scanned the room, urgently searching for his attacker, his body still aching from his encounter. He gasped for air, desperately filling his lungs with oxygen.

  He wasn’t in the stairwell any longer; in fact, he didn’t know where he was. He looked around, first at the large double window flooding the room with sunlight, then at the robust looking grandfather clock marking time rhythmically in the corner. And finally at the large bookshelf stacked with rows upon rows of books. Through his delirium and confusion, he heard an ethereal voice pierce the static, its tone soft and alluring. It sounded distant yet close enough for him to determine its location. He smiled as he moved towards it, the repetition of the sentence filling him with more and more hope the closer he got to it. At first he didn’t recognise the voice but then it came flooding back to him.

  The sudden realisation caused him to well up and begin to cry, the relief of survival almost tangible. He closed his eyes and listened to the voice again.