The Murder Diaries_Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  He crossed the River Dee, slinking into Wales.

  Away to his left he glimpsed the New Cut shining under the sodium light, the black water far below, drifts of mist beginning to form, the same stretch where William Camber, the fisherman, had met his tragic accident.

  Sam eased off the dual carriageway at the first exit and headed left up the hill toward Hawarden village. Then left and quickly right, before turning on to the A5104, and the quiet rural road signposted for Llandegla and Corwen.

  The road was rising now, the cottages were thinning out, and soon he was travelling through unfenced moorland. It was misty and the wipers were working overtime.

  He’d been this way many times before, though mostly long ago, though more importantly, once recently, to check out it was still as he remembered. He passed the old pub, the last watering hole before Corwen. It was blacked out, the owners and guests hunkering down after a surprisingly busy night.

  The mist was worsening.

  The headlights were on full beam.

  The Cayton Cerisa motored happily on.

  No traffic at all, nothing coming, nothing behind.

  He passed an abandoned white delivery van, dumped at the roadside, tyres missing, burned out at the front. It hadn’t been there last week.

  Up ahead there was something else on the road.

  Sam slowed, and the big case in the boot slithered toward him.

  It was a ewe, standing in the centre of the road, quite unperturbed, a nervous lamb to either side. Sam edged forward. The ewe didn’t move a muscle. Sam cursed aloud. There was no way past. Edged forward again. The ewe dug in its heels, imagining it was protecting its young.

  ‘Ba-aaa,’ it cried, as if she could stare him down.

  He jumped bad temperedly from the car and crept to one side of the stubborn animal and slapped its rump.

  ‘Ba-aaa, ba-aaa,’ it complained, and ambled away into the heather, the lambs giving him one final worried look, before disappearing after their mother into the darkness.

  Back in the car, not far to go now.

  He was almost at the turning.

  Then he saw it, the short gravel track to the right. He turned off the road and bounced along the track, the full beams dancing from jagged grey rocks and heather and scrub, making weird shapes and patterns on the mottled stone, and then he saw the signs.

  Llandegla Quarry. Disused. Dangerous, Keep Out. Keep Away. Steep Drop.

  He pulled the car to a stop and got out. Looked around. Silence, but for the wind. No birdcall, no traffic, no aeroplanes in the sky, nothing. He had the world to himself. He grabbed the torch and went to the back and opened up. Set the torch on the roof and heaved out the case.

  It hadn’t got any lighter.

  Collected the torch and pulled the trunk toward the quarry. The plastic wheels were amazing. Worked incredibly well, even on rough ground. Then he was standing by the last of the Danger signs. Peering over the edge. Shining the torch down. Maybe a hundred feet. The beam bounced back from the water below. The winter and spring rains had gathered there. In high summer it was bone dry, you could walk on the bed. He had done that many times when he used to come here with the unofficial camera club, taking more meaningful black and white arty-farty shots. They thought they were being so clever. He still had some on his bedroom wall, striking they were too, and that reminded him, he must get rid of those, into the fires, pity really.

  He glanced back at the case. Thought of Brownhead inside. Brownhead would not be missed, not by him.

  Wheeled it to the edge.

  Pushed it over.

  It fell in silence, cartwheeling in the air, the torch beam following it all the way down.

  SPLASH!

  Reached its destination.

  The water was shallow. The case was vertical, jammed in the thin layer of mud beneath, perhaps two thirds standing proud of the water, like the first standing stone in some elaborate plan.

  He chuckled and turned about and hurried back and jumped into the car. Reversed back to the main road, the car making that brutal reversing noise. Why do cars do that?

  Headed back toward Chester.

  Job done.

  Number six.

  100 Ways to Dispose of the Body.

  Case them and hurl them into a disused quarry.

  Anyone could do it.

  He buzzed down the windows to keep awake and headed home to bed and brandy, and a sound night’s sleep.

  It had been fun.

  He had enjoyed it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Following his father’s death Armitage was taken to the police station to await collection. It had gone five o’clock before the on call social worker arrived. He was a tall slim guy who didn’t say much, as he signed the necessary papers, and led Army away to the car. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Army.

  ‘Saint Edmonds, on the Wirral.’

  That didn’t mean much to the boy.

  ‘What’s Saint Edmonds?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Saint Edmonds was a vast Victorian orphanage that stood in its own grounds. It hadn’t altered much in the hundred and twenty years since the day it was built. It intimidated the boys on the day it first opened, and it was still doing so when Army jumped from the car and stared up at the vast building. To anyone it was overwhelming; to a little boy, it was the stuff of nightmares.

  The social worker met the bursar who introduced them to an under manager named Hancock, who led them away through a maze of corridors, to a small musty office where the necessary handover documentation could be checked and signed. Everything was in order, done by the book. Everything at Saint Edmonds was done by the book, and now Armitage Shelbourne’s welfare belonged to Saint Edmond’s Orphanage.

  ‘You’re in luck, you haven’t missed tea,’ said Hancock.

  ‘I won’t be staying here long, will I?’

  ‘Well, Master Shelbourne, we will have to see about that. It depends on whether anyone takes a shine to you, you know, likes the look of your face. Foster parents will always take the children they like the look of the most, the ones who laugh and smile. You take a tip from me, young man, if you want to find a good home, when the foster parents come calling looking for children, smile, be happy. No one wants a misery guts.’

  Armitage didn’t feel like smiling at all.

  He thought he might never smile again.

  At that moment a scruffy boy came running down the corridor.

  ‘Ah, Swallow, just the tyke I was looking for, and haven’t you learnt yet not to run in the corridor? How many times have I told you about that?’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Never mind about that now. This is Shelbourne, take him with you to tea, make sure there is an extra place laid. Look after him, boy.’

  Swallow glanced at the skinny new arrival. He was about a year younger than himself. He nodded at the kid and said, ‘Come on mate,’ and when they were out of earshot he said, ‘What’s your name.’

  ‘Armitage.’

  ‘No, I mean your first name.’

  ‘That is my first name.’

  The boy pulled a face and said, ‘Bit of a wanker’s name, aint it?’

  ‘Is it? They call me Army for short.’

  ‘Yeah, Army,’ he said. ‘That’s much better. We’ll call you Army. Mine’s Dennis. Come on, we’d better hurry or we’ll miss our tea.’

  Army followed Dennis through the dim corridors. Dennis was still talking, babbling away about rules and regulations, and he spoke very quickly, imparting advice that was all pretty meaningless to Armitage.

  ‘The one you need to watch out for is Mister Gilligan, he’s a bastard.’

  ‘Will you point him out to me?’

  ‘I won’t need to; you’ll know him when you see him.’

  They came to a pair of half glazed doors, and the faintest whiff of well-boiled cabbage. Through the glass they could see hundreds of boys, all ages, standing at their tables, waiting permission to sit.


  ‘Follow me,’ said Dennis, and he pushed through the free-swinging doors and scooted around to the right, across to the far side of the hall to a long table where two empty places remained at the bottom end.

  ‘Stand there,’ he said, ‘opposite me, and wait.’

  Army stood at the table and waited. He was different from all the others, wearing his own clothes. Everyone else was decked out in navy trousers and thick grey shirts. They all craned their necks to inspect the skinny new kid. Nothing special about him. Looked a bit of a weed to most eyes, an easy touch, maybe, easy prey. Two of the older ones turned back to the front and grinned at one another. The kid would have to grow up fast or they would eat him alive.

  Three adults entered the hall, pompous men, noses in the air, one wearing a black gown, the flankers in mismatched jackets with leather patches over the elbows, and cord trousers. They stepped on to the raised platform at the end of the hall, ambled to their table, chatting amongst themselves, not in any hurry, as if they hadn’t noticed six hundred ravenous boys, waiting on their every word. The men stood behind their chairs and stared out over the gathered throng.

  ‘Quiet!’ yelled a jacketed one.

  Then the gowned one raised his head and said grace, speaking in a rush. It almost came out as one long word, ‘Forwhatweareabouttoreceivemaythelordmakeustrulythankful, Amen!’

  ‘Amen!’ bellowed the boys as one, pulling out the long benches and sitting down to thunderous noise.

  Tea was about to begin.

  Brown Windsor soup.

  Thick, gooey, and vaguely warm, though it didn’t taste of much. Some of the kids said it was the leftovers of yesterday’s gravy, and they were probably right.

  ‘Who’s your new mate,’ said one of the bigger boys to Dennis.

  ‘His name’s Army.’

  ‘Oooh Army! Get him. Hard are ya? You and whose army?’ said the other one opposite.

  ‘What happened to your parents, eh? Got tired of you? Chucked you out? Couldn’t wait to see the back of you?’

  ‘They’re dead,’ said Army.

  ‘So are mine, so what?’ said the big boy. ‘Expect us to feel sorry for you?’

  Army pulled a face but said nothing.

  ‘I never had none,’ said Dennis. ‘You’re better off without them.’

  ‘You must have had parents, dickhead!’ said the big one.

  ‘Yeah, they probably took one look at him and threw up. Chucked him in the canal as a baby, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Dennis flushed; then pulled himself together.

  ‘Shut your fat face, Robinson. At least I’m not in here ’cos my parents can’t stand the fucking sight of me.’

  That shut the big one up, for a while.

  The soup was finished, not a drop remained. A boy came running down the line like a sprinter grabbing the baton for the relay race, collected all the soup plates, and disappeared.

  Another kid rolled up a double decker steel trolley, began unloading dinner plates, and set a meal down before each boy. Dennis and Army were at the bottom of the table, the bottom of the heap. They received their food last, and inevitably it would be the smallest and least appetising portions.

  Army peered down at it. One thin slice of curling cheese. One browned pickled onion. One slice of margarined bread. One red apple. One tiny scone containing, as he would soon discover, two dried up sultanas, and all arranged haphazardly on a warm heatproof olive green plate.

  Army glanced across at Dennis.

  His head was down and he was eating like a dog. Rapidly, nervously, while occasionally he would glance up, as if imagining one of the bigger dogs might steal his tea. He didn’t say a word; none of them did, not while they were eating. Army ate his meal in silence. Left the pickled onion. He noticed he wasn’t the only one to reject the onion.

  Dennis had already finished.

  ‘Don’t you want that?’ he said, breathlessly, staring across the table, glaring at the unwanted food.

  ‘No,’ said Army. ‘I don’t.’

  Dennis’s hand shot across the table and scooped up the foul smelling article. Threw it in his mouth like a gobstopper. Chewed it hard through an open mouth. Grinned and breathed across the table. The stench was vile. Army turned to his right and glanced up the table. He counted twenty boys on either side. Forty identical empty olive green plates. Not a morsel remained. It had taken less than ten minutes.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Army.

  ‘Yep,’ said Dennis, ‘Nothing else till breakfast, ’cept the cocoa of course, but don’t drink that if you wet the bed. Gilligan goes crazy if you wet the bed.’

  ‘Are you a bed wetter?’ scowled Robinson, eager to get involved again. ‘You look like a bed wetter to me.’

  ‘No,’ said Army, ‘are you?’

  Robinson flushed.

  Dennis giggled behind his hand.

  Mr Hancock suddenly appeared at the end of the table, his hands in the pockets of his brown corduroy trousers. He smelt of stale adult, swayed back and forth a couple of times and said, ‘Ah, there you are, Shelbourne.’

  ‘Ooh, Shelbourne, is it?’ said Robinson. ‘Born in a shell were we? Come to think of it you look a bit like a crab.’

  Several of the others laughed. Even Mr Hancock smirked.

  Dennis didn’t laugh.

  Then Mr Hancock said, ‘All right, all right, Robinson, that’s enough of the jocularity. Have you all finished your tea?’

  The boys glanced down at their pristinely clean plates.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Robinson.

  Two others tittered.

  ‘Yes, well, if you have, Shelbourne, follow me, I need to talk to you about one or two things.’

  Army slipped from the end of the bench and stood up and made to follow Mr Hancock, then glanced back at the table. The boy opposite Robinson was staring at him, grinning stupidly, making gestures with his fingers, one hand, finger and thumb making a circle, the other hand, index finger, pushed in out of the circle, time and again. Army had no idea what that meant.

  He didn’t want to know either.

  They skipped up the stone stairs to the third floor to Mr Hancock’s office, a small room with a tiny window that looked out over the back gardens, and a fine view of the bins and the waste food receptacles. The window was slightly open introducing an aroma of stale bin. Hancock didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said.

  Army sat in the plain dining chair set before the desk.

  ‘You won’t be going to Kings, you know that don’t you?’

  ‘Oh but...’

  ‘No buts, Armitage. We can’t possibly lay on transport for one boy to travel to Chester and back every day.’

  Army linked his fingers in front of him and stared down at his hands.

  ‘I will arrange for you to go to the local comprehensive. You’ll be with all the others. It’s for the best.’

  Army said nothing.

  ‘And erm, I have another disappointment for you, the dancing classes have had to be cancelled.’

  Army said nothing. Pulled his fingers tighter and tighter, as if trying to pull them from their sockets.

  ‘Don’t do that, boy!’

  Army stopped.

  Said nothing.

  Pouted and looked up and across the desk.

  ‘I have one bit of good news for you though,’ said Hancock. ‘I understand you are a bit of a singer?’

  Army said nothing, and nodded.

  ‘Good, well I’ve arranged for you to join the choir at the local parish church. You’ll find out all about that come Sunday.’

  Army still said nothing, just nodded again.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Army shook his head.

  ‘Good, that’s the spirit. Well, run along and find Swallow; he’ll show you where you sleep.’

  Army said nothing.

  Stood up, and ran outside.

  The dormitory housed eighty boys; it was one section of the junior
s, the normals, as they were known. The non-normals slept on the floor upstairs, which was a nuisance because when they were at their most agitated at full moon, they would leap around and scream and keep the normals awake.

  The dorm was a long narrow room with forty beds on either side. The beds had large numbers affixed to the top of the metal headboard, in case anyone forgot who they were and where they slept. The numbers were more necessary upstairs. Dennis was docked in eighteen, Army was given the only vacant berth, twenty, halfway along the line.

  At half past eight they were herded into a line of open communal showers. It was a tough moment for Army. He had never been naked before in company and the others guessed it, and teased him mercilessly. What’s that pimple between yer legs, Barmy? All the new jerks were the same on their first strip. Walking through the dorm and across the corridor and into the showers, he had no idea where to put his hands.

  ‘Bed wetter,’ whispered Robinson in his ear, as they left the dorm.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Dennis. ‘He’s an idiot.’

  Robinson glared at Dennis and Army in turn.

  Army said nothing.

  Tried to ignore him. Tried to ignore everything.

  It was like being in hell.

  The dorm lights were switched off at half past nine. The room was in darkness, except for a moon-like nightlight set high up on the beams immediately above Army’s bed. Every half an hour Hancock would come in and wander down the dorm, slow noisy footsteps on the polished wooden floor, ensuring that every boy was in their own bed; no talking, or larking around. No one dared.

  Army wiggled and wriggled fully down the bed, pulled the covers over his head, locking himself inside, away from the weird world in which he found himself, and cried.

  Not blaring wails, nor gasping for breath jerky sobs, just a still, silent cry, as the tears slipped helplessly down his fair face, dampening the sheets. He was crying for his long dead mother whose memories were fading; and his father too, who had so violently been taken from him. He was crying because he could not go to Kings, he was crying because of the loss of the dancing lessons he adored so, but most of all, he was crying for himself.

  He hated the place, and everyone in it, except perhaps Dennis Swallow, and he wondered what tomorrow might bring. He didn’t really care. Perhaps the world would end tonight, he pondered.