Last Rites

by Shaun Hutson

  He was also aware of movement. For fleeting moments he thought he was floating. His body was moving along without his feet touching the ground. And, all the time, that blinding white light remained above him.

  So, this was what death felt like.

  Apart from the pain it wasn’t so dreadful, he thought. But he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be enveloped by the light. He wanted to walk. To live. He wanted the pain to stop.

  He tried to turn his head but couldn’t. His neck was broken, that was the only answer.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  The words floated through the haze of pain but they didn’t really register.

  ‘Can you feel that?’

  Mason couldn’t feel anything at all except pain.

  ‘What about that?’

  Nothing, he thought.

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Who was speaking to him? He wondered for a second if it was God.

  Then he blacked out again.

  Where were the clouds, Mason thought. If this was heaven shouldn’t there be clouds? And angels? And Jesus? And everything else that he’d been told to expect when he was a kid. He could see people in white but he was sure they weren’t angels. They had no wings.

  Always a giveaway. No wings.

  And they weren’t floating or playing harps. Two of them were looking at him and they were speaking but Mason couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  He wanted to ask them where the clouds were.Where Jesus was. Where his own mum and dad were for that matter.Weren’t you supposed to meet up with your dead relatives when you went to heaven?

  What a fucking cop out. No angels. No clouds. No mum or dad. No Jesus. Not even any pearly gates. Did all those fucking painters lie? Were the clouds and the angels just a figment of Michelangelo’s imagination? There was nothing to mark this out as heaven.

  Just pain.

  Perhaps it was the other place. Not heaven.

  Downstairs.

  In which case, why wasn’t it hot? Why weren’t demons jabbing pitchforks up his arse? Why couldn’t he see the Lake of Fire? Where were the rest of the damned? Shouldn’t they be hanging up in chains like rotting Christmas decorations? Where was Hitler? Where was Stalin? Where was Attila the Hun?

  He must be well pissed off. What’s the good of having a nickname like ‘The scourge of God’ and not even being in the welcoming committee? Welcome to hell, Attila can’t make it. He’s playing poker with Jeffrey Dahmer, Heinrich Himmler and Torquemada. Sorry.

  Hell. Welcome to it.

  Yeah, you fucking are. Looks like Hieronymus Bosch and Dante were liars too.

  Mason closed his eyes again.

  How long had he been asleep? It was the first thing that Mason thought as he opened his eyes. He had several seconds of blissful comfort and then the pain came rushing in at him from all sides. He sighed and, for a moment, he feared he was going to be sick. Mason prepared to tilt his head to one side, not wanting to vomit all over himself but he couldn’t move his head.The feeling passed and he sucked in a deep breath that hurt his chest.

  His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. Someone was standing close to him, looking at him. Mason felt something being pushed towards his mouth and it took him a moment to realise it was a straw. He managed to guide the plastic tube into his mouth using his tongue then he sucked as hard as he could. The water filled his mouth and ran down his throat and he wanted to cough but the pain was worse when he did. He closed his eyes tightly.

  ‘Just sleep now,’ the figure before him said gently and Mason felt the straw being pulled from his mouth.

  Sleep.

  It seemed hard to do anything other than that.

  Darkness flooded in once more.

  3

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  The cat was overweight. Years of overfeeding had softened its naturally feline shape, bloated it. The indulgence of its owners had done nothing for its health but the cat ate what was pushed before it unthinkingly and it enjoyed the pampering. The nightly excursions into the back garden of the house where it lived and the fields beyond was one of the few acknowledgements of its natural status. A brief reminder of thousands of years of instinct. It didn’t run free through the gardens of the houses or the fields that backed on to them, it waddled as best it could with its oversized frame, the small red collar around its thick neck almost hidden by folds of skin and black and white fur.

  It wanted to hunt. To chase the mice that scurried through the fields and gardens when night came, but its shape prevented that. It made a few half-hearted advances towards birds when it was allowed out during the day and it had once actually managed to catch a mouse. It had strutted defiantly back to its home, the dead rodent gripped in its teeth and the cat had dropped the tiny lifeless form on the kitchen floor but its owner had screamed and scolded it. Still the cat prowled during the hours of darkness, perhaps remembering its hunting triumph. But now it seemed content to wander around outside the back door for fifteen minutes or less then squeeze itself back inside through the flap in the door that was barely large enough to accommodate its overfed frame.

  But, on this particular night, it spotted movement beneath the hedge at the bottom of the garden and it moved with an elegance that years of indulgence had been unable to remove. On fat legs it glided through the flowerbeds towards the source of the movement. The cat paused, ensuring that its prey had not spotted it.

  The mouse continued to clean itself, its snout twitching. It didn’t seem to have noticed the cat which now moved closer, its eyes fixed on the rodent.

  The cat continued to advance, paws pressing soundlessly across the dark earth, its passage further hidden by the small shed that stood between it and the mouse.

  The rodent pricked up its ears and looked around and the cat paused again, sinking lower to the ground but its belly dragged in the dirt and it straightened up again as it continued to close the distance between itself and the mouse.

  The rodent returned to cleaning itself, turning away from the houses and from the cat.

  A strong breeze blew across the garden, rustling the privet hedge and bringing several scents to the nostrils of both cat and mouse. The mouse stiffened, rising up on its hind legs, perhaps catching the smell of its hunter. The cat, for its own part, showed its teeth and prepared to run at the mouse. There was another gust of wind and the mouse scuttled away towards the hedge. The cat followed, moving as quickly as it could, diving at the rodent, hauling itself through the hedge in pursuit of its prey. It hissed and swiped a paw in the direction of the fleeing mouse but missed and could only watch as the tiny creature disappeared into the tall grass of the field beyond.

  Panting from its exertions and wanting only to be back in its basket now, the cat turned and prepared to haul itself wearily through the hedge.

  The hand that grabbed it gripped hard just behind its head, lifting the cat into the air, jamming it into the stinking confines of a hessian sack. The cat barely had time to swipe at its attacker before it was pushed into the blackness, hissing and spitting.

  It tried to wriggle free of the sack but the top was hastily twisted shut.The cat struggled even more violently because it detected scents it didn’t like.The rubber odour of the thick glove that had grasped it and another that caused its hackles to rise.

  The smell of blood.

  4

  North London

  Mason guessed that the nurse was in her late twenties. She had dishwater-blonde hair fixed in a bun beneath her white cap and a light blue plastic overall covering her white uniform. She was reading his chart as she stood at the bottom of his hospital bed, chewing distractedly on the end of a Bic. She glanced at her watch then scribbled something on the chart before replacing it and glancing at him. She smiled when she saw that his eyes were open.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, softly, her smile widening. She took a couple of steps towards him and reached for his right wrist, pressing two fingers against it as she felt for a pulse. She g
lanced down at her watch again, checking his heartbeat. She nodded to herself then ran her gaze appraisingly over him.

  ‘I won’t ask how you’re feeling,’ she continued, the smile still in place. ‘Pretty sore I should think.’

  ‘I’ve felt better,’ Mason croaked, his throat dry. The words sounded thin and reedy, as if they were spoken by a man being throttled. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. The nurse pushed a beaker of water towards him and steadied the straw while he drank a couple of mouthfuls.

  He nodded as best he could when he’d finished and she replaced the beaker on the bedside table. Mason moved his eyes slowly, taking in the details of his surroundings. He was in a room on his own, apart from the nurse. The walls were the colour of eggshells, some of the paint peeling around the door that led in and out of the room. It was very quiet. Both inside the room and beyond.

  ‘Where am I?’ Mason asked, wincing as he tried to move his right arm and felt pain lancing up the limb from the elbow. There was a drip in the crook of the arm, held in place by several pieces of tape. Mason looked at the tube there and saw a droplet of clear fluid trickle down from one of the plastic bags suspended above him.

  ‘St Luke’s Hospital, Camden Town,’ she told him. ‘It was the nearest A and E to where you were attacked.’

  ‘Attacked,’ he repeated, quietly.

  ‘Can you remember anything about it?’ the nurse enquired.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘It’ll come back to you. You’re lucky to be alive considering the extent of your injuries.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Eight days,’ she said, flatly. ‘You’ve been in a coma for six of them.’

  Mason felt a chill run the length of his bruised spine.

  ‘Six days,’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. What did they do to me?’

  The nurse was about to answer when the door behind her opened and Mason saw a dark-haired man with greying temples enter. He looked at Mason then at the nurse.

  ‘Mr Mason’s just woken up, Doctor Parry,’ she informed the newcomer.

  ‘Thank you, nurse. That’s good.’ The doctor smiled. ‘We were wondering how long you were going to keep us waiting, Mr Mason.’ He pulled a penlight from the top pocket of his white coat and advanced towards Mason, aiming the thin beam at his grey eyes. Mason winced but the doctor persisted, inspecting both eyes closely.

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ the doctor murmured.

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Mason offered. ‘Since when was six days in a coma lucky?’

  ‘You could have died,’ the doctor murmured. ‘Given the two options I’d say that qualified as lucky, wouldn’t you?’ He switched off the penlight and stepped back slightly.

  ‘What kind of injuries have I got?’ Mason asked.

  ‘Do you want the full list?’ Parry enquired.

  ‘No,’ Mason decided. ‘I can live without it.’

  ‘The worst damage was to your skull and your neck,’ the doctor told him. He pointed with one long index finger. ‘Needless to say there were countless cuts and abrasions, some worse than others. It could have been much worse though.’

  ‘Who found me?’ Mason wanted to know.

  ‘Apparently, a car drove down the street where you were being attacked,’ Parry informed him.‘Your attackers ran off. The driver of the car called an ambulance. I’m sure the police will give you a much more detailed account if that’s what you want. They’ll be back when they know you’re lucid.’

  ‘Is there going to be any long-term damage, Doctor?’ Mason enquired.

  ‘Apart from some scars, no,’ Parry assured him. ‘We’ll monitor you closely in the next couple of days but, with any luck, you should be fit enough to get out of bed by the end of the week.’

  ‘Why can’t I move my neck?’ Mason wanted to know.

  ‘Because of the brace that’s holding it steady,’ Parry informed him. ‘That’ll be coming off soon. We just need to run a few tests on you. Otherwise, you can devote your time to resting.’

  ‘Resting? I’ve been in a coma for six days. I’d rather get up and walk about.’

  ‘All in good time, Mr Mason.’ Parry smiled, turning towards the door. He swept out without another word.

  The nurse moved forward and helped Mason as he struggled to sit up.

  ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ he told her, smiling. ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she told him, heading towards the door.

  ‘While you’re at it,’ he called after her, ‘I could murder a cigarette.’

  ‘I’ll be back with the tea,’ she told him.

  The door slid shut behind her. The silence descended once more. Mason closed his eyes.

  5

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  The hand that pulled the cat from the sack gripped the animal tightly at the back of the neck.

  Disorientated by so long in the stuffy, dark confines of the sack, the cat hissed as it was pulled free, attempting to scratch the person that held it, anxious to be free of the clutching grip. However, once it was free of the hessian, it merely hung there limply for a moment, its tail flicking lazily. Then it seemed to recover its anger and struck out at its captor.

  The one who held it ensured that the cat was at arm’s length, minimising any chance of being scratched by its claws. The overweight feline hissed but the sound was one of fear as much as of defiance. The smell of blood was still strong in its nostrils and the hand holding it felt it buck angrily in a vain attempt to escape.

  Quite clearly the cat was in no position to free itself from the vice-like grip but the one who held it also knew that speed was of the essence if the required tasks were to be completed.

  Still holding the cat by the scruff of the neck, the other hand now reached to one side, fingers closing over the secateurs. The cat writhed more frantically for a moment, perhaps seeing the dull light glint on the blades of the cutters. If it had known what was coming next, it would have redoubled its efforts.

  The twin blades were driven forward piercing the swollen stomach and ripping upwards, gutting the animal, exposing its intestines and allowing them to spill from the rent like the tentacles of some blood-drenched octopus. Still the animal struggled, even when an ungloved hand pushed through the crimson cavity of its opened chest and gripped its heart.

  The organ was pulled free with relative ease, obstructed only by some muscle and ligament around the pulsing prize. At last the cat’s movements became weaker and, as its mouth lolled open, the secateurs cut effortlessly through its tongue, slicing the pink sliver free. It fell into the dust close to the puddle of blood that now surrounded the feline’s form.

  Whispered words filled the silence. Words of encouragement and delight.The cat’s body twitched involuntarily.

  Flaying it would be relatively easy now. Cutting into the skin then peeling it away from the flesh and muscles. First, the still gleaming eyes must be taken. Gouged and extricated from their sockets and, if possible, kept intact.

  The hand wielding the secateurs began to cut once more.

  6

  North London

  Mason was having trouble keeping track of time. Despite his desire to be up and about, he found that he kept drifting off to sleep almost without realising it.The nurse had told him it was something to do with his body needing to heal itself and he accepted that. He was relieved when they removed the drip from his arm and presented him with something more substantial than saline solution and glucose. There wasn’t much taste to the food they brought him but it was better than liquid, Mason mused.

  His body felt stiff rather than painful now and that was something else he was grateful for.With each passing hour, it seemed that his joints and limbs became more supple. He had less and less need for painkillers, sometimes even refusing them when they were offered just to prove to himself that he was indeed getting better. Mason told himself it was not
hing to do with being heroic. Heroism had never been a strong point in his character but he felt more convinced of his own returning health and strength when he could beat off a headache or backache just by riding out the discomfort.

  Boredom was the biggest adversary. Confined to bed for twenty-four hours a day, he looked at the floor of the room longingly, wanting so badly to haul himself from between the sheets and plant his feet on the tiles beneath. Surely it couldn’t hurt, could it? A steady, careful shuffle from one side of the room to the other. Where was the harm in that?