by Tania Carver
35
Paul was shaken. He had to sit down.
They had let him go. They’d had to. Couldn’t even keep him as a witness, because he’d seen nothing. Or at least nothing he wanted to tell them. Because if he did, he would have to think about things too much and it would all start to fall in. No more sun on his face, no more breathing in the open air. No more relaxing. No. It would be back in the cave for him and he didn’t want that. Didn’t want that ever again.
But they had kept on. And on and on. And on. They had told him things, waited for him to respond. To make their minds up about whether he was telling the truth from what he said and the way he said it. And he didn’t want that. He couldn’t have that.
Because if they didn’t like what he said or the way he said it, they would put him in a cell and never let him out again.
And that would be as bad as the cave.
Or nearly as bad. At least he might be on his own there. Just Paul. No Gardener. That would be something.
But he had said nothing. Given them nothing. Because they were the dogs. The earth. He was the wind. The butterfly.
‘I’m the butterfly … ’
He hadn’t realised he had spoken aloud. People tried to pretend he hadn’t said anything, that they hadn’t seen him. Just glimpsed him out of the corners of their eyes and hurried on by. Made him invisible.
He didn’t care.
He walked up the street. Shops and people with bags. Going into shops to get more bags. And more. Hurrying before the shops closed, said they couldn’t have any more stuff till tomorrow. They would wait and then start again. That was their lives.
But not his. Never his. Because he had a joy within him they would never have. Could never know.
He said all this to himself as he walked up the street. Words coming out between his ruined teeth. Words only he knew the meaning of. Words they would never understand.
Up the street and away.
He could hear the cave calling. Knew who was there. What he would do. But Paul was soft. That was his trouble. He would go in, see if he was all right. See if he had changed, if he was ready to come out and be nice. Go from Cain to Abel. And sometimes he would say he was. But he was tricking Paul. Being nice just to get out. Then he would be the same as he always was. Bad. Bad man. Evil. The serpent in paradise. And he would throw Paul in the cave. And Paul would sit there in the dark. Crying, wailing. Feeling guilty for what he had done. Trying to find his way out. To see the sin and breathe the air. But there would be no way out. Not until the Gardener decided to let him out.
And Paul fell for it every time.
Every time.
Like this time. He knew he would fall for it. He always did. Because he was weak. He used to think it wasn’t weakness, it was meekness. For they shall inherit the Earth. But he had tried that. And look what had happened. That was where the Gardener had come from. And the rest of them.
So he hurried away from the people.
Because as hard as he tried to resist it, the cave was calling.
And he knew he would have to open it.
36
Donna closed the door behind her, hard. It felt loud. Final.
She looked down at Ben standing beside her. The little boy was wearing all his best clothes, his new – or new to him – coat on and fastened up to the neck. He looked up at her, eyes uncomprehending but trusting. A shiver of maternal feeling ran through Donna. It was one thing to look after herself. But now she had him to think about.
‘You all right, then?’ she said to him.
He nodded.
‘You remember what to do?’
Nodded again. ‘What you do,’ he said. ‘What you tell me to do.’
She managed a grim smile, hoped it didn’t scare him. ‘Good. Come on.’
She had packed a holdall with as much stuff as she could manage. She slung it over her shoulder, kept it in place with one hand, held Ben’s hand in the other. She looked over at the car. It was still there, the two men sitting in the front, pretending not to look at her.
Donna set off down the road, away from the main entrance on to Barrack Street. It was starting to get dark. The grey in the sky deepening, the sodium lights casting the street in pools of orange.
They passed the car, Donna looking through the windscreen at the two men. Both big, both wearing suits.
Just like Faith had said.
She swallowed hard, gave Ben the signal and started to run.
Initially, nothing happened. Then she heard car doors opening, slamming closed. Feet running behind her. They were coming.
Still gripping Ben’s hand hard, Donna ran down the road and round a corner. There were no houses down here. It was a walkway, a cut-through to another street. Bushes pushing against a chain-link fence on one side, the high wall of a graffitied garage on the other.
She raced down the cut, still holding the bag on her shoulder. Glad she was wearing trainers. Ben was running as fast as he could, trying to keep up with her. They reached a corner, ran round it. Stopped.
It was a longer alley, bushes on both sides, fast-food debris, plastic bottles lying around, broken glass sparkling like uncut diamonds in the weak reflected light of the occasional street lamp. It was deserted.
‘Get behind me. Quick.’
Ben obeyed, holding on to Donna’s leg, gripping it tight.
‘Don’t cling on to me, just stand there.’
He dropped his hands, did as he was told.
Donna waited, flattened against the fence, chest heaving from the exercise. If she got out of this, she told herself, she would never smoke again. Or cut down at least.
All she could hear was her own breathing.
She felt inside her jacket pocket, did an inventory with her fingers. All there. Good. She took out a small cylinder, held it tight in her hand.
Then she heard them, above her own ragged breathing, the pounding of feet on tarmac. She braced herself. Knew she would get only one chance at this, had to do it properly.
The first one arrived. She didn’t even stop to look at him, see if she recognised him. She just pointed her pepper spray, let him have it full in the eyes.
It took him a couple of seconds to realise what had happened, but once the shock subsided and the pain kicked in, he flung his head back, clawing at his eyes. He dropped to his knees, head forward. Gasping, screaming.
The other one arrived then. She turned to him, ready to give him the same treatment. But he was too quick for her. He had quickly sized up the situation, decided the same thing wasn’t going to happen to him. He looked straight at her, anger in his eyes. Punched out his fist. Knocked the can flying from her hand.
Advanced on her.
He smiled. He had her.
Or so he thought.
Heart beating so fast she thought her chest would explode, she reached into her pocket for Plan B. Brought it out.
The kitchen knife.
Gripped it tight. Felt the heft of it in her hand, saw the light glint off the long, sharp, heavy blade.
Didn’t hesitate. Just thrust it outwards, sliced at him. As hard and as fast as she could.
He stood there, shocked, unmoving. Looked down at his chest. Blood began to seep through his white shirt from his left shoulder down to the top of his belt. He looked at her, surprise on his face.
Donna was shocked at the sight too. Couldn’t quite comprehend that she had actually done that, that she was responsible for it. But she recovered quickly. Saw that it had only slowed him down, not stopped him. Slashed him again.
The blood began to pump now, more quickly, soaking the white fabric to a deep red.
Donna looked at the knife, at the man in front of her. He was starting to topple forward, falling to one knee, his hand trying to hold himself together. He looked up at her. The smile was a distant memory. Incomprehension had given way to shock, which had now given up its place for terror. Fear in his eyes.
And Donna felt a surge of strength. She knew no
w what it must be like to be a man. To have that sense of control, that power. It was a new feeling to her. And she loved it.
She looked at the knife again. She wanted to slash him once more, keep slashing, until there was nothing left of him but ribbons of blood and flesh. Make him answer. Make him pay for the years of pain and abuse she had suffered at the hands of men.
The knife went towards him once more.He cowered away.
She stopped herself. Reminded herself she was doing this for a reason, a purpose.
‘Give me your car keys. Now.’ Shouting, adrenalin raising her voice.
He did so, taking the keys out, throwing them on the ground.
‘Pick them up, Ben.’
She looked behind her at the little boy. He was standing there, hands covering his face, shaking.
‘They’re bad men, Ben,’ she urged him. ‘They’re going to hurt us. We have to do this. Quick.’
He didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she said, and bent down herself to pick the keys up. ‘Now your wallets. Just the cash.’
Neither of them moved; they just lay there, groaning.
‘Now!’ She brandished the knife once more. It worked.
They both dug into their pockets, flung their wallets on the ground. She bent down, took the cash out. Didn’t look at it as she pocketed it, but it felt like a couple of hundred there.
‘Now phones.’
They did so. She picked them up, threw them over the hedge.
‘Right,’ she said to Ben. ‘Come on.’
She grabbed his hand, pulled him along with her. It was like dragging a small slab of granite.
They ran back the way they had come. The car was still parked there. Donna ran towards it, threw the holdall on to the back seat. Told Ben to get in the passenger side. He did so, moving numbly.
Donna got behind the wheel.
Drove away as fast as she could.
37
The phone rang. And the rest of the world fell away as the Teacher heard the voice.
‘You’re not supposed to call. Not here.’
‘I know,’ said the Lawmaker. ‘And I wouldn’t be. Unless it was important.’
The Teacher sighed. ‘What? I thought we had it all arranged. A plan.’
‘We did. But things have changed since then. Very quickly.’
The younger one’s heart skipped a beat. ‘How?’
‘The investigation seems to be picking up things we don’t want it to. Talking to people we’d rather they didn’t.’
‘Can’t you fix it?’
‘Of course. But it takes time. And there’s been an added complication. The woman who died.’
‘The accident.’
‘Right. Her … partner, shall we say … has disappeared. Taken that boy with her.’
‘But she doesn’t—’
‘We don’t know what she knows. We can’t take the chance.’
The Teacher sighed. ‘We should stick to the original plan. Let the others do their part.’
‘I agree. But there’s more we could be doing.’
The Teacher felt the chill in the words. Knew that further argument was futile. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘We stick to what we’ve already arranged. As far as that goes.’ The Lawmaker’s voice dropped, became conspiratorial. ‘But I think our Missionary friend may have made his final mission.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I think he’s been recognised. Even after all this time. And if that’s the case, it won’t take them long to put a name to the face. And then … well. Do I need to tell you?’
Silence.
‘It won’t be a question of damage limitation any more. It’ll be the end. Of everything. We don’t need the Missionary any more. He’s done his part, the deal’s been struck. We’ve already got our new partner, could even be the next Missionary. So the current one would just be … in the way.’
‘What are you suggesting?’
A chuckle. ‘That’s what I like about you. So pragmatic. The Missionary is removed. Permanently.’
‘How? Not one of us, surely.’
‘Of course not. But I imagine the Gardener isn’t too happy at the moment. Waiting for his ritual to go ahead, not knowing whether he’s going to get his victim returned to him or not, he’s going to have a lot of pent-up energy. He’s going to need a release.’
‘But on the Missionary … ’
‘Poetic, don’t you think?’
‘Would he do it?’
The Lawmaker laughed. What do you think? The Missionary will be on … gardening leave. Permanently.’
The Teacher thought about it. ‘Does the Portreeve know?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Will he know?’
‘Eventually. They’ll all find out.’
‘So why tell me?’
‘Because the Portreeve is the past. And you’re the future. And it’s always wise to invest in the future.’
The Teacher could find no words.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Remember, you still have a part to play.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘We’ll speak soon.’
The phone went dead.
The Teacher put the phone away. The real world, held in abeyance for the duration of the call, started up again.
But it didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel right.
It felt like an illusion.
It felt like … nothing at all.
38
Phil ducked under the tape, dodged the waiting news crews, walked away from the crime scene. His Audi was parked on the opposite side of the road.
Marina was going back to the station in her own car. Just as well, he thought. He had felt uncomfortable around her. And he had felt bad keeping what he was feeling from her. The trouble was, he still didn’t know what exactly he was feeling. Just that it wasn’t good.
As he reached his car, he heard his name being called. He turned. Saw Don Brennan walking over the bridge towards him.
‘There you are,’ said Don.
‘Don.’ Phil walked away from the car to join him on the bridge. With the lack of action, bodies or blood down below, the gawpers had thinned out. ‘What brings you here?’
Don shrugged, smiled, tried for casual. ‘Oh, you know. Just out for a walk. Bit of exercise.’
‘And you ended up here.’
Another smile. ‘Can’t keep away, can I?’
Phil looked at the man he regarded as his father. He was in his sixties but kept himself fit. He hadn’t succumbed to the expanding waistline and strawberry nose that cursed so many ageing coppers, those who couldn’t deal with the lack of focus and direction once the pension cheques started and the excitement of the job abruptly ceased. He played tennis, badminton. Still had a full head of hair, now white. Still dressed well. Not for him the beige windcheater and elasticated trousers. Instead, a plaid shirt, tweed jacket and jeans.
Don looked down at the house, the white tent. ‘Brings it all back,’ he said, smiling with the corners of his mouth.
Phil waited. He doubted this was just an accidental meeting.
Don looked away from the crime scene, back at Phil. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Early days,’ said Phil. ‘You know how it is.’ He was going to add or was, but decided to leave it. Sure that Don didn’t need any more reminding.
Don nodded. ‘Kid in a cage, wasn’t it? That what you said?’
‘That’s right,’ said Phil.
‘What, down there? In that house?’ Don looked once more at the crime scene.
‘That’s the one,’ said Phil, his eyes following.
‘Any leads? Anything?’
‘Nothing yet. Early days, like I said.’ Phil turned back to Don. ‘Are you really just here by chance, Don?’
Don looked down at the bridge’s stone balustrade, his own hands. Th
en back up to Phil. ‘I just thought … you know, you’re always saying I should come back, get in with the cold-case squad, that kind of thing … ’
‘Yeah. We’ve talked about this before.’
‘I know that. And I’ve always said no. But … ’ His eyes flicked down to the crime scene. Phil could tell he was tempted to keep looking, but he brought his gaze back up. ‘Well, I was thinking. You were saying about how short-staffed you were. Cuts and that.’
‘Yes.’ Phil could see where this was going.
‘Well I just thought … ’ He shrugged. ‘You could use all the help you can get.’
‘You want to work this case? With me? Be on the team? That what you’re saying?’
Another shrug. ‘If you’ll have me.’
‘And what would you do, exactly?’
‘You know. Filing. Office stuff. Bit of legwork.’ He looked away again. Phil couldn’t see his eyes. ‘Check out the files, the archives, see if this kind of thing’s happened before. Any connections … ’
He didn’t look back at Phil. Phil couldn’t read his expression.
‘D’you think it has?’ said Phil. ‘Does it remind you of anything?’
‘Don’t know. I could have a look.’ He tapped his head, looking at Phil at last. ‘Get the old brain cells going again.’
Phil didn’t know what to say. He was sure from his body language that Don had some ulterior motive. But he also knew that if he asked him, he would just deny it. Still, something about this case was stopping Phil from thinking straight. It might be good to have someone he could trust and rely on alongside him.
‘You sure you can stand working with me?’
Don gave a small laugh. ‘Why wouldn’t I? Taught you everything you know.’
Phil smiled. ‘OK. I’ll have a word with Glass, see what he says.’
Don frowned. ‘Glass? Brian Glass?’
‘That’s him. D’you know him?’
‘Years ago. He was uniform when I was CID.’ He nodded, memories screening behind his eyes like old movies. Again the sides of his mouth curled into a smile. Not a happy one, Phil thought. ‘Yeah, I remember him. Doubt he’d remember me, though.’
