by Tania Carver
She gave him a smile, slid in alongside him. Looked down at his erection. Summoned up a smile.
‘Don’t you ever stop?’ She giggled as she said it.
‘With you here? Nope.’
She felt his arms round her, his mouth on her body. He would never check, she thought. His phone. Never connect it with her. Or at least she hoped not.
She lay back, felt him work his magic on her body once more.
Abandoned all earlier thoughts she had had about him. Compartmentalised her rage at him, let it go.
It’ll be a shame to miss this, she thought. A real shame.
But some things are more important.
82
The boy was scared. Terrified. But back in the cage where he belonged.
The Gardener stood at the other side of the bars, studied him. Head to one side, beneath the hood he was smiling.
‘Back where you belong … Thought you’d got away, did you? Eh? No … you’re too important. Yes … Too important. The future of the Garden depends on you … Yes … ’
The boy pulled away, sat at the back, staring. Trying not to cry, not even to whimper.
The Gardener turned, surveyed the space. This was good. This was right. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.
It had been a struggle, getting everything in, especially since he couldn’t go the other way, his usual way. The police still had that blocked off. But he already had enough of the things he needed to hand. Another tool set. Another workbench. Already there. And the walls had the symbols on them. Of course they did. That had been one of the first things he had done when he moved in.
The symbols. The cycle of life. The seasons of life. Birth to death to rebirth. And on. And on. Paul had taught him well. Made him understand.
Paul. He could hear him now, from where he was. Crying softly, pleading. He ignored him. Looked at the symbols.
Everything had its season, everything had its time. Everything in the garden lived, everything died. Paul’s words. And the Gardener had taken them to heart. Because the Gardener wanted the Garden to continue. And it had done. But not without sacrifices.
Every season. Every solstice. Every equinox. A child had to be sacrificed in order for the Garden to continue to flourish, to thrive. He had made the rest of the Elders understand that. If they wanted to do what they did with the Garden, he had to be responsible for making it grow, keeping it alive.
And he had done. For years. So many, he had lost count. Select an offspring, prepare it, sacrifice it. And keep the Garden alive.
The offering was never wasted. Blood and bone and flesh were reused, put back to work. It helped feed the Garden. It helped it grow. Made it strong. And it needed it now. More than ever. That was why this boy – this sacrifice – was so important. Because he had been there. Had seen for himself what was happening. The Garden was dying.
The rest of the Elders could talk, about new blood, about revitalisation, about all those things. But if he didn’t keep the sacrifices going, if he didn’t appease the earth the Garden grew in, it would never flourish again. And it had to.
It had to.
There was another reason for the sacrifices.
He enjoyed them.
Fed on the screams, the cries. Luxuriated in the blood. The power.
All seasons under his control. Birth, death and rebirth. All down to him.
At his behest.
He turned back to the boy, who cowered away from him. Chain rattling and clanking as he did so.
‘You should be honoured,’ he said. ‘You have been chosen. Soon. Soon … ’
He turned away once more.
Ignored the boy’s cries.
Ignored Paul’s.
Went to pick some flowers.
83
Phil felt numb. Like his body had become disconnected from his brain, the nerve endings deadened, unresponsive. The room seemed to tunnel away from him. He was viewing his partner and the man he had regarded as his father from the wrong end of a telescope.
The feeling didn’t last. The raging conflicting emotions that Don’s announcement had triggered in him had built up and were now unleashed, adrenalin crashing into his system, like the kind of rush he would get from a car crash.
He didn’t know who to look at, to speak to first. His eyes swivelled, settled on Marina.
‘You knew?’ he said, the adrenalin becoming knife-like, stabbing him, bleeding internal betrayal, ‘You knew?’
‘Just before you did,’ she said, eyes imploring him to believe her, not wanting to hurt him even more. ‘Don and I talked, just before we came to the hospital. I said you should be told.’
There was nothing more he could say to her. He turned to Don. He knew there were more subtle, complex emotions that his body and mind were struggling to get him to feel, but he couldn’t process them at the moment. For now he wanted to feel something direct, something visceral. He felt the anger rise within him once more.
‘You knew,’ he said, his voice dangerously low, ‘you knew all this time. All those years. All my life … ’ His hands twisted and twined. ‘And you never said anything … ’
Don sighed, shook his head. Looked at the floor, then back to Phil before continuing. ‘We thought it best … you didn’t know.’ His voice weary, tired.
Phil nodded, lips pulled tightly across his mouth. ‘Right. So … ’ Hands still twisting. ‘Every time … every time I asked about my parents, my real parents, you told me you didn’t know.’
Don said nothing, found the floor between his feet fascinating.
Phil kept going. ‘Every time … you talked me out of going. Out of going to look for them. Every time. When I was younger. Every time … ’
Don looked up. Pain in his eyes. He seemed to be hurting as much as Phil was himself. His face appeared frozen in pain, unable to release the words he wanted to say.
‘You always said I’d never find them,’ Phil continued. ‘That you’d tried and they didn’t want to be found. That they were nowhere in the system. Every time … You lied to me, Don … Lied to me … And a sister … a sister … ’
‘It was better you didn’t know … ’ Tears had sprung into Don’s eyes as he found his voice.
‘Better?’ Phil gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘Better? Shouldn’t that have been my decision?’
Don said nothing, mouth contorting once more.
Phil’s voice was getting louder. ‘Shouldn’t it?’
‘No.’ Don’s voice as loud as Phil’s. ‘Perhaps if it had been an ordinary adoption, yes. If there is such a thing. But not in this case. No.’
‘Why not?’ Shouting now.
‘Because you weren’t there … You didn’t see what I saw … ’ Don’s voice ragged, breaking. His hand went to his face, rubbing his eyes, tears streaming round the edges of his fists.
Silence fell once more, hitting the room with the force of a bomb. The three of them sat, barely moving. Questions rising like fearful bubbles in Phil’s mind, letting them pop, dissolve away, unanswered.
But not all of them.
He turned to Marina. ‘The nightmares,’ he said. ‘The designs on the wall. The cage. The guy in the mask.’ Hands twisting, locking and unlocking once more. ‘Why? Why all of that?’
‘Because they were real,’ she said, voice calm and low. Soothing him. ‘They were all part of your life. Aspects of your life.’
‘But I … I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember any of it … ’
‘No,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t. You were very young at the time. Your mind was still forming. And if you’d been lucky, it might not have left any impression. But because the memories were so horrific, so traumatic, your brain just … shut them off. Buried them. Repressed them deep inside you.’
Phil nodded.
‘So why now … ’
‘Like I said, it was too horrific. Your mind buried the past, but you still experienced it. It couldn’t get rid of it completely. It can’t. Because it still hap
pened to you. So the memories lay dormant somewhere within your mind. Buried at the back. Just waiting for some trigger, some event to spark them off again. And this was it.’
‘Right … ’ Phil’s mind was buzzing. Like a nest of wasps in his head. Marina spoke, cutting through the noise.
‘Can you remember your parents at all?’
Phil closed his eyes. All he could hear was the humming. ‘No … ’
‘Probably just as well,’ she said. ‘If you were there when they were killed … that won’t be a memory you’ll be in a hurry to access.’
The wave of anger was receding within Phil. But questions were still buzzing and fizzing, his head aching from everything he had to process. He didn’t know what to think, what to say. What question to ask first. Don and Marina said nothing. Waited.
‘The panic attacks,’ he said eventually. ‘Are they connected? Do they have anything to do with … all this?’
‘I would imagine so,’ said Marina. ‘Displacement. Because your childhood trauma was repressed, you’ve never dealt with it, never been able to confront it head on. It’s always been there; it’s just attacked you in different ways.’
‘And the job doesn’t help,’ said Don.
Phil nodded. His body seemed to be relaxing more now, the adrenalin leaching out of his system. He was starting to feel weary. Another question occurred to him.
‘The hotel. Why did I think I’d been there before?’
‘Because you had,’ said Don. ‘You used to live there. That hotel was where the Garden used to be.’
Phil sighed. Rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Silence fell once more.
Eventually Don spoke.
‘I’m … sorry, son. I didn’t … didn’t know what to do for the best. Me or your mother.’ He corrected himself. ‘Eileen.’
Phil was now beyond tiredness. He managed a weary smile. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I can still call her mother.’
Don nodded. Gave a small smile. Looked at Marina, who warily returned it.
‘It’s going to take me an awfully long time to come to terms with this,’ Phil said. ‘A hell of a long time. But I’ll try my best.’ He dredged up another smile. ‘Something Marina always says. Family is more than biology.’ He sighed. ‘Yeah … ’
He felt Marina’s hand on his. ‘I think it’s time for bed,’ she said.
Phil, almost asleep by now, just nodded.
84
Mickey keyed himself in, opened the office door, entered. He had left Lynn’s early, stopped off at his flat to change clothes and grab a quick shower. She had said he could have one at her flat, even offered to share it with him. He had been tempted. Very tempted. But had refused in the end. Night-time lust was one thing. But the morning mindset was something else. He even thought he sensed relief from Lynn that he had declined. Obviously she took her work seriously too. Something else they had in common.
As he had driven away, he had felt guilty for some reason. Not because of anything he had done, or that Lynn had done – he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. They both had. He kept re-enacting scenes over and over in his head, replaying the best bits – and there were many – on the drive to work. And in the shower before that. But something was niggling at him. Something still felt wrong.
He knew what it was, but he didn’t want to admit it to himself. He had slept with someone who was involved – even tangentially – in the investigation he was working on. And he could have compromised that investigation by doing so.
Pulling through the gates of the station and parking up, he tried to banish those thoughts from his head. Concentrate on the good bits instead. They should see him through the day. Or at least until he could see Lynn again. Not that they had made arrangements, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. It had to be.
Entering the office with takeaway coffee, he was immediately hit by the activity. The noise, the bustle. It hadn’t been like this the day before. What had happened? Had the investigation made a breakthrough in some way? And if it had, why hadn’t someone let him know about it? He looked round, hoping someone could tell him, bring him up to speed. Wondering what it was he should know.
He didn’t have to wait long. Glass had seen him enter, was striding towards him. Face like a lightning-struck tree.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ Said loud enough to make others stop what they were doing, stare at Mickey.
Mickey frowned. ‘Sorry?’
Glass crossed the office, reached him. ‘I said where the hell have you been? Don’t you answer your phone?’
‘Yeah, course. It never rang. It’s been on all night.’ His eyes darted away from Glass’s face, not wanting to be caught out in a lie. He knew he had turned it off the night before, at Lynn’s insistence. Something else to feel guilty about, if he allowed it. But he had turned it back on before leaving her flat this morning. And there’d been nothing showing. No missed calls, no voicemail, no messages. Except one from Stuart that he hadn’t had time to check. He took the phone out of his pocket, held it up for Glass to see. ‘No new messages, no missed calls, no voicemails. See? Nothing.’
Glass seemed to be temporarily lost for words. He stared at Mickey, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’d better not be lying to me, DS Philips.’
‘Why would I lie? What do I have to gain from that? I showed you the phone; nobody called me. Or if they did, they didn’t have the right number.’
Glass stared once more, unblinking, as if that was all the answer Mickey was going to get.
Mickey had to ask. ‘So what’s happened? What have I missed?’
Glass gave a snort masquerading as a laugh. ‘What haven’t you missed, you mean. Briefing room. Five minutes.’
He made to walk away. Mickey stopped him. ‘Where’s Phil?’
A smile twitched at the corners of Glass’s mouth. ‘Suspended, DS Philips. If you’d left your phone on, you would know.’ He walked off.
Mickey stared after him, mouth open, wondering whether he had just heard him right.
Phil? Suspended?
Shaking his head, he made his way to his desk. Sat down, still trying to get his head round the news.
He took a sip of his coffee.
Was struck by another thought. If they’d been calling him all night, even though his phone had been switched off, where had all the calls gone?
He shook his head, tried to get his mind in gear, prepare for the morning briefing.
85
Marina watched Mickey enter the briefing room. He looked over at her, frowning, quizzical. Questions in his face.
He knows about Phil, she thought. Knows he’s been suspended and wants to know why. But he doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know the night I’ve just had …
Mickey sat down, still watching her. She returned his look, not able to say anything, not even sure what she was supposed to be conveying. She didn’t smile.
Glass entered. Brisk, businesslike. Placed a folder on the desk, stood before it, eyes sweeping the room. Marina detected a twitch of a smile at the corners of his mouth. It just made her despise the man even more. Especially in light of what Don had told her about him yesterday.
‘Right,’ said Glass, ‘let’s get started. Run through what’s been happening.’ His eyes locked on to Mickey’s. ‘Especially for those of you who don’t know.’
Marina saw Mickey’s face redden, his eyes harden. How to alienate your staff in one go, she thought. Very impressive people-management skills.
‘Finn, the boy who was found in the cellar on East Hill, was forcibly taken from the General Hospital yesterday evening. The person who abducted him … ’ he looked down at his notes, ‘Samuel Lister, was an executive at the hospital. No prior convictions, no previous arrests, nothing. Clean as. As you’re all probably aware, he handed the child over to person or persons unknown and killed himself in the car park.’
Marina watched Mickey’s response. He looked round the room, an undercurrent of desperation to his
actions. ‘Where’s Anni?’
Glass stared at him.
‘Detective Constable Anni Hepburn. Where is she?’
Glass sighed as if Mickey was no more than an irritant. ‘Detective Constable Hepburn is undergoing treatment in the General for a gunshot wound received during the abduction of the boy.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s well. The wound wasn’t serious, as far as we can gather.’
Relief flooded through Mickey’s body. He slumped back into his seat. Glass looked down at his notes once more, continued. ‘Jenny Swan, the child psychologist working with the boy, hasn’t been so lucky. She’s in intensive care. It’s touch-and-go. Right. Updates.’
‘What about the person who drove the boy away?’ said Jane Gosling. ‘Any news?’
‘Just getting to that.’ Glass looked towards Adrian Wren. ‘Adrian?’
Adrian Wren stood up. ‘Nothing much on CCTV,’ he said. He took out photos from a file on the desk before him, handed them round. ‘This is the image from the hospital’s cameras of the vehicle driving away. As you can see, it’s a green four-by-four, a Range Rover. Old, well-used. I’ve tried to get close-ups of the driver and any passengers there might be.’ He handed out another photo. Marina looked at it. The driver’s face was obscured. And where the passenger’s head should have been was just a shapeless, faceless mass of darkness.
The hood, she thought. He was wearing the hood.
‘It looks like he’s wearing something over his face,’ said Adrian. ‘Making sure we can’t see him.’
‘A hood,’ said Marina. All eyes turned to her. ‘It was a hood. I saw it first hand at the hospital. Looked like it was made out of sacking, hessian, something like that.’
‘That rules out a joke-shop mask, then,’ said Mickey.
‘We only had a partial on the number plate. We’ve put it through the computer but can’t get a match. We reckon the plates were stolen, if not the vehicle itself.’
‘What about CCTV from the town?’
‘We’ve looked. Nothing. Either they took a route out of town that avoided the cameras, or they’ve gone to ground somewhere. DCI Glass gave chase but lost them. He’s given a description of the car to all uniforms. We’ve had the helicopter out looking for it. Nothing. But we’re still looking.’
