Last Rites

by Shaun Hutson

  The dog turned its head when it heard his voice.

  Andy ruffled its fur with one hand.

  ‘You don’t care, do you?’ he murmured. ‘Why should you? It’s not your problem. I wish to Christ it wasn’t mine.’

  He guided the Land Rover around a bend in the track, flanked on one side by a barbed-wire fence and on the other by a high hedge. The fence posts were missing or broken in several places and Andy shook his head wearily.

  ‘Better get that fixed too,’ he murmured.

  The dog started to bark.

  ‘All right, calm down,’ Andy said, lowering the sun visor in the Land Rover as the early morning sunshine momentarily blinded him. ‘I’m not asking you to help.’

  Still the dog barked, rising from its seated position on the passenger seat now.

  ‘Sit down, Sam,’ Andy snapped, pushing the dog’s hindquarters back towards the seat.

  The collie barked even more loudly, its head pointed straight ahead, its ears sticking straight up. It resisted Andy’s attempts to calm it, the sound of its barking filling the vehicle, ringing in the farmer’s ears.

  ‘Sam,’ he shouted, slowing the Land Rover down to negotiate a gently flowing stream that snaked across his land.

  The dog’s barking now subsided into deep guttural growls. Still it was gazing ahead, as if it could see something that Andy couldn’t.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he muttered.

  The growls were punctuated by subdued yaps now and, as Andy glanced again at his dog, he saw that its hackles had risen. It had also slunk backwards, as if trying to push itself through the seat. Its lips were drawn back from its teeth as it continued to growl, head still pointing directly ahead.

  Andy brought the Land Rover to a halt, swung himself out of the vehicle then walked around to the passenger side and flung the door open.

  ‘Out,’ he snapped, clapping his hands.

  The dog wouldn’t move. It remained on the passenger seat, growling.

  12

  North London

  Peter Mason paid the taxi driver and stepped back from the road as the vehicle pulled away.

  He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his keys, wondering why his hands were shaking slightly. He’d been fine leaving the hospital, fine inside the confines of the cab with the smell of his own freshly laundered clothes strong in his nostrils.

  Mason stood motionless on the pavement for a second longer, allowing a youth in his late teens to speed past on a skateboard. He weaved in and out of pedestrians, finally disappearing around a corner out of sight. Mason sucked in a deep breath and clutched his keys more tightly. So tightly in fact that the metal dug into his palm. The jolt of pain seemed to shock him from his trance and he advanced towards the wood and bevelled-glass door ahead.

  There were cracks in the glass. It looked as if someone had struck it with a stone. It needed repairing.As he pushed his key into the door, Mason wondered if he should alert the landlord.

  Why bother? You won’t be living here for much longer.

  A lorry passed by noisily outside, the sound reverberating both inside the small hallway and also inside his head. Someone on the pavement shouted. There was a loud laugh. Mason closed the front door hurriedly, wanting to shut the noise out.

  It was much cooler in the hallway and he stood there motionless for a moment.There were mail boxes mounted on the wall just inside the door, each one bearing a name and Mason unlocked his and pulled out several letters and a padded bag. He scanned the envelopes disinterestedly. Circulars. Bills.

  He headed towards the staircase on his left. It took him up to the first of three floors. There were two flats on each level and a basement dwelling too. All were occupied. All the residents paid the same exorbitant amount of rent as Mason. On the first of each month it was extracted from his bank account, tugged like a tooth from recalcitrant gums.

  Well, that won’t be your problem soon, will it? The only things you’ve got to think about now are finding another job and getting out of London.

  He reached the door of flat number three and selected another key, pausing a second before letting himself in.

  It felt cool inside the flat. Even in the summer it always felt a few degrees below the outside temperature. The sun never shone directly through the windows of the flat, mainly because of the taller buildings that flanked it. Mason dropped the mail onto a table beside the phone.

  He switched on his laptop as he passed. It sprang into life. The screensaver was a tropical beach and Mason glanced at it dumbly for a second, wishing he was there, stretched out on the golden sand with the sun beating down upon him and the waves rushing softly to the shore. Christ, that must feel good.What he wouldn’t give to be there.To be anywhere other than here. He continued on into the kitchen and filled the kettle.The milk in the fridge was off. He stood gazing accusingly at the carton, wondering whether or not he should pop out to the shop at the end of the road and get some fresh.

  Fuck it.

  He’d drink it without just for now. He put two big spoonfuls of sugar into his mug with the tea bag and waited for the kettle to boil. Back in the sitting room he checked his e-mails.

  Nothing of interest there either, he thought, deleting the messages once he’d read them.

  I’ve been away for two weeks and nothing has happened. Nothing.

  He wandered back into the kitchen and made his tea. He found a couple of broken Rich Tea in his biscuit barrel on the worktop.They’d do for now. Carrying them in one hand and the mug in the other he returned to the sitting room and sat down at the laptop once again, gazing at the screen blankly.

  He knew what he had to do. He had to start somewhere. Mason sipped at his tea, wincing when he burned his tongue.

  You should have got that milk.

  No. Too much to do.

  13

  Walston, Buckinghamshire

  Andy Preece looked angrily at the collie. The dog was still on the passenger seat of the Land Rover, its head pointing forward, its lips drawn back to show its teeth as it growled.

  ‘Sam, for Christ’s sake,’ Andy snapped. ‘Get out.’ He clapped his hands. Even banged on the side of the vehicle in an attempt to persuade the animal.The sound reverberated across the stillness,the only sound now the low rumbling growl of the dog. As Andy watched, it slunk lower onto the seat, the growls degenerating into whimpers.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Andy said, quietly.

  The dog looked at him for a second then jumped down from the Land Rover. It stood beside the door and Andy could see that it was quivering. It continued to gaze ahead. Andy turned to look in the same direction but he could see nothing. The field to his right was hidden by the same high hedge that had flanked him for most of the drive. To his left, visible over a low stone wall, was another field but ahead of him he could see only a copse of trees and, beyond it, a gentle slope that led up to a low ridge.

  The dog was gazing in the direction of the copse, barking every now and then, the sound alternated with either the whimpering or the growling that Andy had heard earlier. He opened the back of the Land Rover and reached in, pulling the double-barrelled shotgun from inside. He broke it, checking that it was loaded then he laid the weapon over his forearm and glanced in the direction of the copse once again. It was less than fifty yards away. Andy began walking towards it.

  The dog hesitated for a moment then barked loudly and scurried along to join him but, instead of racing ahead, the collie kept close to him, almost bumping into him. Andy glanced down at the dog then ahead of him towards the trees. There was tall grass around the copse but the field that it stood in was bare earth. Andy slowed his pace, not quite sure why he had. The dog’s erratic behaviour, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, had unsettled him. What the hell had made it react like that? Was there a fox inside the copse?

  He looked down at the animal as if expecting an answer. The dog padded on towards the trees, travelling with its belly c
lose to the ground. He saw its nostrils flare and, as they did, it began to growl again.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, stopping ten yards from the perimeter of knee-high grass.

  The dog, now rooted to the spot, continued to growl. Andy snapped the shotgun closed and hefted it before him. He took another couple of steps towards the trees but the collie didn’t follow. It remained where it had stopped, gazing fixedly at the copse but not moving closer.

  Andy was less than five yards away now.

  The smell began to fill his nostrils and he coughed; it was so vile and cloying.

  ‘Jesus,’ he gasped, advancing more slowly, as if the stench was palpable and he had trouble pushing his way onwards. The fetid stink reminded him of rotten meat.

  That thought had barely passed through his mind when he saw the blood.

  It was smeared on the trunks of a number of the trees near him and sprays of it covered the grass before him. Andy could see from the rusty colour of the fluid that it had congealed. Whatever had left its life fluid on the bark and the blades had done so some hours ago.

  Andy glanced behind him and saw that the dog was now lying on the ground whimpering softly. It made no attempt to come closer.Andy swallowed hard and stepped into the copse, the shotgun held firmly in his grip. The stench was stronger amongst the trees. It was darker within the confines of the copse too, the branches seemingly knitted together above him to form a canopy that the morning light was having trouble penetrating.

  There was more blood too. Lots more of it. Andy held the shotgun more tightly and advanced deeper into the copse.

  If this was a fox or badger kill then whatever it was it was big, he mused. A rabbit or even a lamb wouldn’t cause a stench as overpowering as this and it certainly wouldn’t have left so much blood.

  Then he saw the sheep.

  It was hanging from the branches of a tree to his right, suspended by its hind legs. Its head had been torn off, its body slit from neck to rump. What remained of its intestines hung from the gaping gash that had practically cut it in two lengthways.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Andy gasped, taking a step backwards, his eyes still fixed on the butchered carcass. He felt his stomach contract and, for a moment, he thought he was going to be sick but the feeling passed. He sucked in a deep lungful of the rancid air, wanting to be away from this sight. Wanting to be out of the gloomy embrace of the trees.

  However, as he prepared to retreat he finally lost his battle and his breakfast came rushing up his throat.

  There were other sheep hanging from nearby trees. He counted seven before he finally turned away and vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach.

  Desperation

  The man ran as best he could in the cramped confines of the tunnel. More than once he thought about dropping the spade so that he could move more easily but he decided that it was best to keep the implement with him.

  If the time came he may well need it as a weapon.

  As he ran he realised, to his relief, that the tunnel was widening once again and he found extra energy at this discovery.

  From behind him, the sounds of movement had become more frequent and also, to his distress, much louder.That would seem to indicate that whoever was now following him was gaining.

  Above him, the thick brown matter that he’d seen on the tunnel roof was still there and, as he sucked in each fresh breath, it was tainted with that same purulent stench that he’d recoiled so strongly from when he’d first encountered it. But now the smell seemed the least of his worries. He was breathing heavily, gasping for breath in the tight confines of the underground culvert, his heart hammering against his ribs and sweat beading on his face.

  More than once he thought about turning the torch behind him in an effort to see how close his pursuer was but he didn’t want to give away any more clues to his whereabouts. It was just possible that whoever was chasing him had careered off down one of the smaller, narrower walkways that led off the main tunnel.

  The man’s legs were aching, his feet soaking wet and, more than once he almost slipped in the liquescent mud he hurried through. Just ahead there was another puddle and, he noticed, some bricks had fallen from the walls and roof of the culvert. They formed a small obstacle that he would be forced to clamber over. Steadying himself he picked his way onto the pile of crumbled masonry, ducking his head low to prevent his hair scraping the ceiling of the tunnel and becoming coated with the putrid dark slime that covered the stonework there. However, he couldn’t help himself and he felt the cold muck dripping on his face and scalp as he climbed.

  He instinctively shot up a hand to wipe away the vile secretion and, as he did, he slipped on a lump of fallen brickwork. He stumbled and fell, the spade slipping from his grasp, the torch cracking hard against one wall. The impact was enough to shut it off and blackness flooded the tunnel.

  The man hit the ground hard, grunting with pain as he slammed into the wet floor beneath him. He rolled over in the moisture, reaching for the torch, desperate to see its light again, fearful of this almost tangible darkness. He shook the implement violently and it flickered back into life. But the beam it gave off now was sickly yellow, not the powerful glow it had possessed when he’d first entered the underground tunnels. He shook it once more. Flicked it on and then off but still it produced only the same feeble yellow glow that was barely more adequate than a candle would have been. But it was still light and he clung to that. Better the paltry glow of a match than nothing at all in this place.

  He picked up the spade and moved on, ignoring the pain in his ankle. He must, he reasoned, have twisted it when he fell. Every time he put weight on it pain shot up his left leg. But there was no time to feel self-pity and certainly no time to rest and inspect the injury.

  The sounds from behind him made him all too aware that his pursuer was now very close.

  He wondered how much longer he had.

  14

  North London

  Mason woke with a start, sitting bolt upright on the sofa where he’d fallen asleep. He looked anxiously around, as if to reassure himself of where he really was, desperate not to be in the place he’d found himself in his nightmare.

  Fists and feet slamming into you.

  His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. He sucked in a couple of deep breaths, his mind finally getting a fix on his surroundings.

  ‘Shit,’ he murmured, pressing both hands to his face.

  It’s all right.There’s no one trying to kill you.You’re in your flat.

  Again he looked around, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for a moment. The same images that had assaulted his subconscious flooded briefly across his mind and he opened his eyes again. Breathing heavily, he got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the tap and filled a glass with water. He drank it quickly, gulping down the clear liquid as if it was life saving.

  How long have I been asleep?

  He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that it had been almost three hours since he’d dropped off. His head felt as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton wool. He shook it gently as if to clear the fuzziness, then he drank some more water. Walking back into the living room he crossed to the window and looked out, down into the street below.

  It was busier than when he’d first arrived.There were some schoolchildren passing on the opposite pavement, young kids. No more than nine or ten, he guessed. A taxi was sitting helplessly behind a large lorry that was having problems negotiating a path through the parked cars on one side of the street. The taxi driver was shouting something at the driver of the lorry, occasionally sounding his hooter as if that simple act would magically remove the articulated obstacle from his path. The passenger in the taxi was leaning forward, presumably asking how much longer they were going to be stuck in the jam. Traffic moving in the other direction had also slowed to a crawl. Mason watched two youths, both about sixteen, standing outside the hairdresser’s directly opposite.

  One was
smoking and Mason looked on as the first offered the second a cigarette while they both glanced through the windows into the salon, their attention taken by a blonde in her twenties who was having extensions attached.

  Mason sipped at his water, feeling his heart thump a little faster.

  Those bastards are about the same age as the little fuckers who almost killed you.

  He drew breath slowly and deeply.

  It doesn’t mean they’re the same. Not all kids that age are like the ones who attacked you.

  He watched as the two youths finally made their way along the street and out of sight.