THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘I slipped,’ she said.

  ‘Best stay indoors on days like this,’ he advised. ‘It can get dangerous quite quickly out here.’ He put out his hand. ‘Shall we? Your husband is wondering where you are, and no doubt you’ll be hungry after your exercise.’ He reached behind her and closed the cottage door, stood close by her side. ‘It’s stew,’ he said, smiling. ‘Nice and filling.’

  She set off with Douglas at her back. ‘Where’s Alex?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s around somewhere,’ he said evasively. ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Exploring.’

  ‘You like exploring, don’t you?’

  ‘I like to know what my surroundings hold in store for me,’ she said.

  They entered the house, the warmth from the fire hitting them like something solid. Douglas took her coat from her, hung it up. ‘Go on through; Paul’s in there.’

  He was sitting at the table, bending over a bowl of steaming stew. He looked up and smiled at her. ‘Here she is!’ he said. ‘We were just about to send out the search parties!’

  Douglas pulled a chair out for her to sit down. ‘Your foot is better?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, not so bad. Thought I’d give it a go.’

  Helen came in, put a plate and cutlery down in front of Susan. Her face was ashen. ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ she said.

  ‘Only three hours, I’m told,’ said Susan, looking at her husband.

  ‘That’s a long time on a day like today. Oh dear, look at those hands; you look like you’ve been digging like a rabbit.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Susan, studying her mud-mired fingers, ‘I’ll need to give them a scrub before I eat.’ She rose from the table. She saw Douglas stiffen.

  ‘Use the sink through there,’ Helen said.

  Susan went into the kitchen, began to run water into the sink, washing off the dirt. She became aware of someone behind her. She saw Hector standing silently at the door. He bore a frail, haunted expression.

  ‘Are you alright, Hector?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Carmichael…’ he began, his voice hushed, then faltered into silence.

  ‘Haven’t you anything useful to do, Hector?’ said Douglas coming into the kitchen. Father and son stared at each other for a moment, before Hector turned from the door and shuffled away. He went to the cooker, lifted the lid off a pan of stew and began to ladle some out onto a plate.

  ‘He doesn’t look well,’ she said.

  ‘Hector never looks well,’ he returned. ‘This is yours,’ he said, holding up the plate. ‘Come and get it while it’s hot.’

  She followed him into the dining room, sat down again. Paul was mopping up gravy with a chunk of bread. ‘You feeling OK?’ he asked as she sat down.

  ‘I guess I’m not hungry,’ she said. She looked up to the fireplace. There was still a single shotgun on its hooks by the portrait of Silas Blake. Douglas had rested the other against the wall immediately behind him as he leant over her and plonked the plate down in front of her with a clatter.

  ‘Nonsense. You’ll be starving. Eat, and don’t argue,’ he said with a grin. ‘You need to fatten up – you’ve no meat on your skinny little bones,’ he added.

  ‘You make me sound like a pig being reared for the slaughter, Douglas,’ she said.

  ‘Ignore him,’ interjected Helen quickly. She sat down at the table. ‘You’ll be coming to see Annabel tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘They don’t have a choice,’ said Douglas. ‘If they don’t want to miss the opportunity – it could be days before she will be receptive enough.’

  Susan nodded. ‘Sure, we’ll be coming.’ She toyed with the stew with her fork, glancing at the shotgun again. Maybe she could make a grab for it. But then what? She’d no idea how to use it, or where the cartridges were. It was hopeless. She pushed the plate away and rose from the table. ‘I’m not hungry. I don’t feel well,’ she said firmly, turning to Paul. ‘I want to go back to the cottage.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten…’ he said.

  ‘I guess I must have caught a cold or something.’

  He nodded, got to his feet and grabbed a walking-stick that had been leaning against his chair. ‘Douglas gave me this. I can ditch the crutch now.’ He smiled at Helen. ‘Thanks for the stew, Helen, it was magnificent.’

  ‘Paul, we’ve got to get out of here,’ she said as soon as they left the house.

  ‘You’re right, something weird is going on,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d go over and ask a few questions. They were very cagey about the Donovans. And they were very evasive about where Alex was, too. Both Douglas and Helen didn’t look at all comfortable. Something about this setup stinks. But maybe we ought to go through with the meeting with Annabel tonight; I want to check it out further.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, we can’t. Paul, the Donovans have been murdered.’

  He stopped dead. ‘You’re getting carried away, Susan. Let’s not go that far, huh?’

  ‘I’ve seen their bodies, Paul.’

  She told him about the archaeologist, the Bronze Age tombs and the discovery of the bodies. He listened intently, the rain pounding down. When she’d finished he shook his head, reached out and touched her arm.

  ‘Susan, are you feeling OK?’

  ‘What? Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Come on, let’s get inside,’ he said dashing as fast as he could to the door. ‘Let’s discuss this in the dry, eh?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ she echoed. ‘You think I’m going crazy?’

  ‘No, not quite crazy…’ he said, beckoning her inside. ‘Look, I believe you when you say something is going on, and I’m not sure what’s happened to the Donovans, but let’s not get too carried away.’

  ‘Carried away? Paul, I’ve seen their bodies! They’re going to kill us, too!’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake? It doesn’t make sense. We came here to make contact with Becky, and they’ve helped us do that. Sure, this entire thing with Annabel is weird, but to jump from something weird to mass murder is a bit of a leap, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’ve got to come with me, to the settlement. I’ll prove it once and for all.’

  He held his hand up to the sky. ‘In this weather? It’s looking to get worse before it gets better.’

  ‘We can’t stay here, Paul!’

  He sighed, went out to her and put his arm around her. ‘You’re wet, tired and up tight. Come inside by the fire and let’s discuss this properly.’

  ‘I spoke to him. I saw the bodies,’ she said, but began to doubt her own mind.

  ‘Just like you saw Becky in your dreams…’ he said.

  ‘That was different, Paul.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, I know, so you say. Look, come inside. Please, Susan…’

  Both of them heard the splashing in the rain, the sound of boots on hard stone, and looked up to see a dark, hooded figure trudging through the veil of rain towards them. The man carried a shotgun. Fearfully, Susan backed away, into her husband. He wrapped an arm protectively around her as the man came closer. A hand whipped up and dragged the coat hood down.

  It was Hector. His cold eyes were narrowed against the wind. He raised the shotgun.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Carmichael,’ he said.

  * * * *

  21

  Beautiful Boy

  ‘Go inside, now!’ he demanded.

  ‘Hector, what are you doing?’ said Paul. ‘Put the gun down!’

  The young man looked down at the weapon, studied its lethal-looking rain-splashed barrel as if he were surprised he had the gun in his hand, and he lowered it quickly. ‘You don’t understand – I’m here to help you! Please, go inside!’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Now!’

  They ducked inside the house, Hector on their heels. He slammed the door shut. Water dripped off them and formed puddles on the stone floor. His breathing was laboured, and Susan couldn’t be certain whether the water that lined his eyes was rain or tears. He looked extremely agitated a
s he reached into his coat pocket and took out a small cardboard box. He handed it over to Susan.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  Next he handed the gun over to Paul. ‘Take it. Take it. That’s a box of shotgun cartridges.’ He tapped the lid of the box in Susan’s hand. ‘Have you ever used a gun before?’ He looked from one to the other.

  Susan shook her head. ‘No, never…’

  ‘I used one once; clay pigeons,’ Paul said. ‘Not exactly Rambo. And it was a long time ago. Jesus, Hector, what’s going on? What do we need this for?’

  ‘You’re not safe. He’s going to kill you both.’

  ‘Alex is going to kill us?’ Susan said.

  ‘No, no – my father. My Uncle Alex is dead.’ At this he broke down and began to weep. Susan went to him but he fended her off. ‘I can’t see that happen to you,’ he said, staring deep into Susan’s eyes.

  Paul said. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’m bloody sure! I saw it with my own eyes. They argued, my father and Uncle Alex. Uncle Alex wanted an end to all this. But my father shot him in the back, then finished him off as he lay wounded.’ His entire body betrayed the torment he was experiencing, from the shaking of his hands to his wild, darting eyes. ‘He plans to do the same to you tonight. Which is why you have to get out of here.’

  ‘Not till we hear an explanation, Hector,’ said Paul determinedly.

  ‘You haven’t got time!’ he wailed. ‘Please, Susan, make him listen!’

  ‘It’s just like I told you, Paul,’ Susan said. ‘He killed the Donovans, didn’t he?’ she asked of the youth.

  He nodded rapidly, droplets of rain being dislodged from his nose. ‘I didn’t see him do it, but that’s what happened. It’s what happens to the people who are brought here to Connalough Point.’

  ‘So it’s true, people who come here to meet with Annabel never leave?’ Paul asked, his face draining of colour. ‘That doesn’t make sense. I mean, what’s all this about her helping people contact their dead loved ones? We’ve been through it – we saw Becky, damn it! The Donovans saw their daughter, too. What’s the real reason we’ve been brought here, and why can’t we ever leave?’

  It was plain to see how difficult it was for Hector to part with an explanation. There was an inner battle being fought. He went over to the window and pulled back the curtains, eager to see if anyone had followed him. ‘I’ll explain everything later. I’ve got to get back. In the meantime get some things together to help you keep warm and dry. You have to get out of here and hide somewhere. I’m going to try and get the Maid of the Storm for us, I’ll pick you up and we’ll make for the mainland. But you have to promise me that you’ll help me when we get there. Tell the police I helped you. I didn’t have a part in any of the killings. You have to believe me. I didn’t want to be a part of any of this, but my father forced me to help, or he said he’d kill me too…’ His panic began to well up again and he pulled back the curtains a second time. ‘Promise me you’ll help me!’ he cried.

  Susan said, ‘We promise.’ She pulled out the map Helen had given her. ‘We have somewhere to go, to hide,’ she said.

  He sniffed, frowned and bent to the map. ‘Where?’

  ‘Roughly about here,’ she said, pointing at the map.

  ‘Near the stone circle?’

  ‘It’s part of the Bronze Age settlement, where your father has been taking the bodies.’ she said.

  He stared at her, then he lowered his eyes guiltily. ‘He uses various places. He made me help him carry the bodies, to dump them.’ His anxiety rose again. ‘But you have to promise to help me! I didn’t murder anyone; I didn’t want to be a part of it!’

  ‘I know that,’ said Susan. ‘And we promise.’

  He nodded, his lower lip trembling. ‘We… We took the Donovans there.’

  ‘Meet us at the same place,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Let’s say a friend showed me.’ She looked at Paul. He was silent, looking stunned by the revelations. His knuckles glared white as he clutched the shotgun.

  Hector took the map from Susan, scanned it quickly. ‘Just up the coast, not far from the settlement, here,’ he said, stabbing a finger onto the map, ‘is a cove I might be able to use to pull the boat into to get you off the island. If the weather isn’t too bad.’

  ‘And if your crazy father doesn’t get to us first,’ Paul remarked dryly.

  ‘It’s getting dark by six,’ said Hector. ‘As soon as it does you get to your hiding place and stay there and wait for me. I will be sent by my father to fetch you at eight to meet with Annabel. That will give you two hours before they realise something’s wrong.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Susan asked.

  ‘I’ll pretend to go to your cottage and instead make for the boat, cast it off and take it somewhere till I can meet you in the morning as soon as it gets light.’

  ‘And if he comes looking for us?’ Paul said.

  ‘He’ll come looking alright. But he won’t know where you’ve gone.’

  ‘And if he guesses right, heads in our direction?’

  Hector pointed at the weapon. ‘That’s what the gun is for.’ He opened the door. The wind and rain dashed in like a pack of starving terriers. ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll be missed.’

  ‘What about Silas Blake,’ Susan said.

  Paul lowered his brows. ‘What about Silas Blake?’

  ‘You know about him?’ Hector blinked, struggled for words.

  ‘He’s being kept in the lighthouse.’

  ‘Lighthouse?’ Paul said. ‘Have you been keeping something back from me, Susan?’

  ‘We can’t do that. It’s a waste of time,’ Hector said, his body sagging helplessly.

  His frustration mounting, Paul said, ‘What’s Helen’s husband got to do with anything?’

  Susan wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘No arguing, Hector. If you want me to help you back on the mainland we have to get Silas out of the lighthouse.’

  ‘That’s crazy!’ he cried, his hands going to his temples. ‘Ok, ok, ok…’ he hammered out like a machine-gun. ‘Whatever. There’s no time to argue. We’ll try. I’ve got to be going. Remember; as soon as it gets dark…’

  He ran out into the rain, and Susan slammed the door after him.

  Paul sank down to the sofa. ‘This is fucking crazy!’ he said, the shotgun still in his hand.

  ‘Now will you believe me?’ she said.

  He blew out a pent-up breath that fogged the cold barrel of the shotgun. He watched the ghostly patch shrink away. His mind was working over things, she thought. Something was going on in his head; his eyes glazed over as he stared into space. Susan had seen it a hundred times. He was working on a plan of action – at least that’s what he used to call it in the past – his way of shutting down so he could assimilate things, formulate a solution. He was a logical man. One thing followed another. Cause and effect. There was no room in his head for unbridled imagination, for concepts he could not grapple with. She knew how difficult it had been for him dealing first with Becky’s death, then with her irrational dreams, how wildly insane it must have appeared to him to come here. And now she was conscious her flights of fancy, her clawing desperation, had brought this unforeseeable, hideous situation on him. Whatever happened to them was entirely her fault. She should never have listened to Silas Blake.

  She left him and went to the curtains. There was no sign of Hector, or anyone else for that matter, but the grey day appeared more oppressive with every passing minute, as if this too were making plans against them.

  So what exactly was Silas’s part in all this? Had Silas known what might happen to them before he suggested they come to Connalough Point? How did he fit into this dreadful jigsaw? Victim or perpetrator? Victim, surely. To be shunned, kept locked away in the lighthouse, to give her warnings – what else could he be?

  The wind howled in the old eaves, but it was losing some of its bite, an
d she saw the rain begin to lessen. Dark clouds of night were massing on the distant horizon, slowly swallowing up the brooding mountains. She shuddered at the thought of the coming night.

  She grabbed the bottle from the table. ‘Stop that!’ she demanded.

  Douglas McLeod’s hand swiped at the whiskey bottle but it grabbed air. ‘Give it back, woman!’

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ she said, her eyes fierce.

  He met her gaze with fierceness off his own. ‘I shall decide when I have had enough. Give me the bottle…’

  ‘Or what? Or you’ll take a gun to me like you did with Alex?’

  He blinked slowly, his eyes already bleary-red with the drink. His lower lip shivered ever so slightly, like a feather in a draught. He turned his head away from her with a grunt and studied the interlocking circular puddles left by the bottle on the scarred old table. He lathered his face with his hand, stretched his eyes wide as if to force them from the alcohol-doused stupor. ‘I didn’t mean to…’ he said.

  ‘Well you did, and there’s nothing that can be done about that now. It’s too late for remorse. You took a step over a line you cannot retrace.’

  ‘He was my brother…’ He shook his craggy head.

  Helen Blake slammed the bottle down on a set of cupboards. ‘But wealth and jealousy counted for more didn’t it, Douglas, in the end? Alex paid the price for your greed, your possessiveness and your anger.’

  ‘He only wanted out because he couldn’t have you. He was the one jealous of me, because I had you and he didn’t. He was going to do it just to make me pay.’

  ‘That’s all in your head, Douglas. He was never after bedding me. He got a touch of righteousness, that’s all. The fear of God caught up with him, but it’s too late for that, too late to go back and undo what we’ve already done. Two more wouldn’t make any difference, I said, but you know your brother; he was as hot-headed as you. It’s in the McLeod blood.’

  Douglas lowered his head, his jaw but six inches from the tabletop. ‘Maybe he was right. Maybe we are damned and we will burn in Hell.’