Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  Slowly he raised the bottle to his lips, sucked down a great mouthful and decided the drink wasn't suffering. Turning his eyes back to the screen, he watched as the Queen was escorted to her place, attendants struggling to keep umbrellas over her. After another hour or so, the firework display began. Tom watched the screen, seeing the rockets taking off in a Mexican wave around the rim of the stadium. Then, tilting his head to the night sky, he watched the flickering lights bouncing off the low-lying cloud, water coursing down his chin, snaking in rivulets across his bare chest and wildly racing heart.

  The next day he remembered that Charlotte's parents, Martin and Sheila, had moved to the Cotswolds in the weeks after he had married their daughter. He and Charlotte had met up with them in a restaurant with the surprise news that they had got married. It was an announcement that provoked only tight smiles and forced words of congratulation. He sensed the distance between the couple and their daughter, as if they'd resigned themselves to the fact that their little girl had chosen a path in life of which they didn't approve but dared not criticize.

  On the internet he went to the directory enquiries web site, typed in their details and geographic location. The search threw up five possibilities and Tom found them on his fourth call.

  'Hello, it's Tom Benwell here. 'A pause followed, long enough to force him into saying, 'Your daughter's husband?'

  The information finally clicked and Sheila exclaimed, 'Tom! Oh how silly of me to get mixed up. How are you and Charlotte? Everything OK I hope?'

  'Well...' He knew then that his wife wasn't with them. 'As a matter of fact, we've had a bit of a bust up – a few days ago now. She wanted some space, so we're spending some time apart. I was kind of hoping she may have gone to you.'

  Sheila didn't seem at all concerned that her daughter had apparently vanished. 'No, she hasn't rung us. How odd. I hope it turns out to be nothing you can't resolve.'

  'I'm sure we will.' He paused and when he carried on, there were tears running down his cheeks. 'I was silly, Sheila. Made plans about moving house and jobs without telling her. I think it all took her by surprise. Listen, if she calls can you tell her to please phone me?'

  'Of course.'

  'Thank you. And I was wondering, do you have the numbers for any school friends she might have gone to at a time like this?'

  'Tom,' she said, 'you struck me as a very nice man, if a touch naïve. I'll be honest with you, though it seems very strange to be telling my daughter's husband this. Charlotte has always been very single-minded, to the point of not really having any close friends. She always preferred the company of men. Wealthy men, to be frank. 'A wistful note had crept into her voice. 'I don't know why.'

  'The numbers of any friends, male or female, will do.'

  'That's what I'm trying to get to. I don't have any numbers. I'm ashamed to say that her life isn't that familiar to us.'

  Tom was only half taking it in. 'OK, well thanks Mrs Davenport.'

  'Hang on!'she suddenly exclaimed. 'She got a postcard the other day. It was redirected from our old address to here. Sent from Olivia, her old flat mate.'

  Tom had no idea who she was.

  'Anyway, Olivia gives her new address; she's still near Manchester. A place called Disley, I think. Hang on, I'll just get it.' She came back on the line a minute later and read out the address. 'Oh and Tom? Please ring me when she does turn up. She's done this sort of disappearing act before, but it's always nice to know that she's safe and sound.'

  Tom felt his guts tightening and anxiety beginning to build at the back of his head. It was time. He reached for the new bag he'd got from Brain, so plump and soft and comforting.

  The video had finished long ago, rewound itself and was waiting for something else to happen. Tom was slumped in his seat, a bottle of brandy, the powder and the gun on the coffee table before him. He drifted in and out of sleep, stirring every now and again to take another sip or pinch.

  Where had she gone? What about their baby? He'd tried everything he could think of. The staff at the David Lloyd Club wouldn't help. Details of their members' training classes were confidential. When he had lost his temper two assistants from the gym had almost carried him out the door. That was another thing: his temper. It would flare up so easily, then die down to be replaced with stifling despair. The swings in emotion were exhausting him, making it hard to sleep. The only thing that seemed able to straighten out his emotions and make him feel better was the powder.

  The sole evidence that Charlotte still existed was the withdrawals from their joint bank account. A few hundred here, a few hundred there. But always from cashpoints – never transactions at a hotel or somewhere that would give him a clue as to where she was staying.

  Staring at the blank screen in the darkness, he was vaguely aware of a car driving slowly past. A couple of minutes later he heard a tiny creaking noise. Groggily he looked towards the doorway.

  A shaft of light shone in the hall, flickering around, catching on the mirror at the end of the corridor. He got to his feet, having to grab the back of the sofa before he fell over. He picked the gun off the table and staggered to the door. Peering round, he could see a thin ray of light shining through the letterbox. Caught in the bright beam was a piece of wood with a hook on the end. Raising up the gun, he stepped out of the front room. The torch beam jumped to his legs and started travelling upwards as he tried to squeeze the trigger. The thing wouldn't budge and he realized the safety was on.

  The light suddenly cut as the letterbox snapped shut.

  Tom lurched down the corridor. As he snatched the keys off the hook he could hear someone scrabbling to their feet beyond the door. Pushing the key in the lock, he flung his front door open. A dark figure was running from the end of his driveway.

  'You fucker!' Tom screamed, trying to go after him but tripping on the doormat. He fell down the steps, the gun clattering across the tarmac and under the Porsche.

  A car started up further down the street but, by the time he'd got back to his feet, the vehicle had accelerated away.

  He paced to the end of his drive and watched the red lights as the vehicle sped round the corner and out of sight. Hyperventilating, he marched back to his car, reached underneath and retrieved the gun.

  Back inside he turned the hallway light on and examined the weapon. A couple of new scratches had been added to the scarred black metal, merging with the file marks that obliterated where some writing and numbers used to be.

  He flicked the safety catch off, stepped into the dining room and placed it in the second drawer of the sideboard under some napkins.

  He decided that Charlotte would see sense once she had accepted the fact they were starting a family. Every parent yearned for a safe environment to bring their children up in. She would too; she just needed time to come around to the fact she was going to be a mother.

  What he had to do, he decided, was have everything ready for when she came home. He went on to the businesses for sale section of the Cornwall Tourist Board web site, then scrolled through to the cafe.

  A red band across the screen read 'under offer'.

  Tom stared at the screen, heart suddenly thumping. It couldn't be right. He'd wanted that cafe for so long, it had to be his. Switching to directory enquiries he typed the name into the box and a number sprang up a nanosecond later.

  The phone cut straight to an answer phone message. 'Hi, Meg's Cafe is now closed, but we're open again at seven tomorrow morning doing hot drinks and bacon rolls for you early-morning surfers. If you need to leave a message, speak now.'

  He left his message and mobile number, knowing there was no time to lose. He had to find Charlotte and let her know everything was all right, make her see that he had worked out a happy and safe future for all of them. He slipped the Porsche's keys off the hook and drove out of Didsbury, taking the M60 for a couple of junctions then cutting across to the A6 and following it away from Manchester, through Stockport and out towards the Peak District National Par
k. At the crossroads in Disley he turned up the hill, keeping an eye out for the lane on his right-hand side that would take him out on to the moors and the farm where Charlotte's old friend, Olivia, had moved to.

  Soon the countryside around him was almost black, lit only by the dim glow from an occasional cottage or farm and the unnaturally bright road markings in front. After several minutes of slowly following the narrow road as it veered left and right, dipping down and rising up with the contours of the National Park, he saw the tiny sign for Higgleswade Farm. The drive was potholed and bumpy, the bottom of the Porsche scraping several times as he drove up to a farmhouse whose porch was suddenly illuminated by a small security light. The white beam shone down over the roughhewn chunks of stone forming the farmhouse walls, emphasizing the dark shadows filling the deeply recessed windows. Parking next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, he walked across to the sturdy-looking wooden door and shook a bell mounted on the wall. Immediately several dogs started to bark and whine in the low-roofed buildings to his left. Soon after, footsteps approached the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties, blonde hair carefully tousled.

  'Hello,' she said uncertainly, keeping the door half open.

  'My name's Tom Benwell and I'm looking for my wife. Is she here?'

  'Tom Benwell... who Charlotte married?'

  'Yes, I must speak with her.' He stepped forward, trying to see into the kitchen beyond.

  She remained where she was. 'She's not here. I haven't seen Charlotte in years.'

  Tom shook his head. 'It's very important. Charlotte!' he called into the house.

  The dogs started barking again. More footsteps and a heavyset man appeared. A large hand with dirt ingrained around the nails was placed against the doorframe. He leaned round the woman. 'Who's this?'

  'It's the husband of someone I used to share a flat with. He thinks his wife is here.'

  Tom raised a hand as if to push his way into the house. The door opened fully and the man stepped out. 'She said she's not here. So she's not here.'

  Tom stayed where he was, weighing up his options. He looked at the outbuildings to his left, as if she could be hiding there.

  The man followed his glance and said, 'If you walk over to the sheds and get the dogs any more excited, I'll let them out on you.'

  Tom faltered and he turned back to the couple. 'She's really not here?' he pleaded.

  'Really,' said the man impatiently as the woman's expression softened with concern.

  Tom walked slowly back to his car, looking up at the dark windows of the first floor as he did so. With one last glance at the couple in the doorway, he climbed into his car and drove back down the drive.

  He had been going for less than three minutes when his mobile phone rang. Yanking the steering wheel over, he came to a stop on the grassy verge and grabbed it. The signal was weak, so he climbed out of the car and stood up in the vain hope it would help the reception.

  'Hello, this is Megan here,' said a quiet female voice. Even though it wasn't a question, her inflection went up at the end of the sentence.

  'Your cafe,' said Tom. 'It's under offer.'

  'Yes,' she said. 'Who is this?'

  'My name's Tom. I've been planning to buy it for months. You haven't signed a contract, have you?'

  'No,' she replied. 'You know it's ten forty-five at night. You must be very keen.'

  'I really must have it. I'll offer you more money.'

  She laughed. 'The offer I have is already for the asking price. You can't say fairer than that.'

  'You don't understand,' Tom cut across her. 'We're starting a family; we need somewhere nice for the kids to grow up. 'A thought suddenly occurred to him. 'There isn't any chewing gum, is there? On the pavements and roads around you?'

  She laughed again, but more warily. 'Where are you calling from?'

  'Manchester.'

  'You've been to Newquay? Seen my posters in the windows, right?'

  'No. What do you mean?'

  'I've been putting petitions together for the last two years. The place is covered with the stuff and it's getting worse every summer. We're trying to get a ban put on it, but the council say they can't do a thing. Listen – you're a reporter, right? From the local paper? I've told you already – the chewing gum is why I'm moving.'

  'To where?' Tom whispered.

  'Back to New Zealand. We've got a bit more respect for our surroundings over there. I'm sticking with the offer I have; I don't believe in this gazumping business you have over here. If you're not a reporter, thanks for your interest.'

  She hung up and Tom dropped the handset through the car window onto the driver's seat. In his mind's eye he could see the resort swarming with grey spots. Nowhere was free of it. Nowhere. Miserably, he took the sachet of powder from his pocket, licked his finger and dabbed it in. He looked around him. Just visible in the darkness was a footpath sign. He climbed over the stile and trudged across the fields, the occasional bleating of a sheep the only noise to interrupt the utter silence. The sky above was clear, a slither of moon providing just enough light to follow what was little more than a sheep trail. Scrambling to the top of a rocky outcrop, he leaned back against a smooth slab and looked up.

  Out here there were no streetlights or massed homes polluting the night and turning the sky a hazy orange. His view upwards was unbroken and the stars shimmered in the heavens with almost the same intensity as in the Seychelles.

  His plans for Charlotte and the baby were ruined. He could never take them to a place that had been desecrated with gum. Pulling the sachet out, he took another dab and sat back, waiting for the sense of despair to subside. The drug was just beginning to deaden his emotions when his eyes settled on The Plough. As usual, it hung in the same spot, low in the sky. He was staring directly at it, taking a strange comfort in its unchanging presence above, when the chorus of voices spoke.

  They didn't just come from all around him, they filled the very air and surged up from the ground, resonating in his chest. Tom froze until they stopped, then scrabbled on to all fours, eyes blindly searching the rocks he had been sitting against.

  Again they spoke, words enveloping him like a TV surround sound system. Jumping to his feet, he twirled about, but in every direction were empty fields.

  Terror of the incomprehensible took over and he slid back down the rocks, ran towards the road. He got to his car, jumped in and locked the doors. There was no credible explanation – the only possible way a group of voices could suddenly sound in the middle of nowhere was if there were loudspeakers hidden all around the rocks.

  Yet there could be no doubt it was him they were addressing. Because the voices he'd heard were repeating the same word over and over again. 'Tom, Tom, Tom.'

  They came for the car a week later.

  He found that his sleep pattern was coinciding less and less with the night. Now he tended to stay up until the small hours, watching videos, surfing the internet, waiting for the phone to ring. Always suppressing the memory of that awful collection of disembodied voices. Mornings were becoming a thing of the past; his days usually started after lunch.

  So when the doorbell went at ten thirty in the morning, he struggled from a shallow and listless sleep to shuffle down the stairs in his dressing gown. Hoping it might be Charlotte, he pulled open the door to find Ges and Ed outside.

  Ges spoke first, awkward and uncomfortable. 'Hello Tom.'

  Tom scratched his fingers through his hair. 'Ges.'

  'Late night, then?' said Ges. 'The joys of being in between jobs, hey?'

  Ed simply stared at him, shock registering on his face.

  Hesitantly Ges announced, 'Sorry mate, we've come for the Porsche. London office has been hassling us. You haven't been answering the phone and I couldn't put them off any longer.'

  Tom thought about how he'd ignored all his calls. 'No, I understand,' he murmured. As he unclipped the Porsche key he said almost absent-mindedly, 'Seen anything of Creepy George?' />
  Ges looked confused. 'Erm, no. You sacked him.'

  Tom was about to answer, then saw Ed standing there. He handed the key to him and beckoned Ges down the corridor.

  In the front room Tom let out an exasperated sigh. 'He's evil. Keep him away from your house. Have you ever seen him hanging around? Has your wife ever seen him hanging around?'

  'Sally? No, she's never met him.'

  'Good, that's good. But if she does ever see him, get her to call the police. I think he has all of our addresses.' He ran a hand through his tangled curls.

  'I don't understand. Is this to do with why he was sacked? What happened, Tom?'

  Tapping his nose, Tom replied. 'Confidential.' His eyes shifted to the window, filling with regret as Ed circled the Porsche. He turned back to Ges. 'He's evil. Just keep him away from your house. And tell Ed too. I've taken precautions.' He gave a secretive smile.

  Ges hesitated. 'You all right, Tom? I'm sorry I haven't called round before. You can imagine how it's been.'

  Tom waved the comment away. 'Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. 'He looked back out of the window. The silence stretched out as he kept his eyes on Ed unlocking the Porsche and climbing in. 'Well, I'd better get back too...' Ges suggested. He walked slowly back to the front door and hovered at the top step. 'Give us a call. We could go for lunch one day. How about it?'

  Tom nodded. 'Yeah.' He glanced around Ges to have one last look at the car, then shut the door in the face of one of his few remaining friends.

  Chapter 21

  3 November 2002

  The investigation was going nowhere. More than fifty officers were now assigned to the case. Despite dozens of statements from anyone who had been in contact with the three victims, an obvious thread linking them together refused to emerge.

  In desperation they had begun to retread old ground, including raking through the contents of each victim's home again.

  Jon was en route to the facility at Trafford Park police station to help go through the refuse recovered from Polly Mather's flat when the call came through on his mobile.