Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  'I've also made enquiries about nurseries, 'Tom continued. 'There are some very good ones in the area.'

  Suddenly she swept Tom's collection of videos onto the carpet. The violence of her action caused him to sit down suddenly on the sofa. 'Tom!'she yelled, her voice quickly dying down to a whisper. 'There is no bloody baby.'

  A slither of Tom's brain understood the words, but it was out weighed by the far larger part of his mind that was in total denial.

  'Where've you been, anyway? I've been so worried about you.'

  'You what?' She looked at him uncertainly.

  'Where've you been?'

  'Tom, are you hearing me? There is no bloody baby.'

  'I was worried about you.'

  Confused, she raked strands of blonde hair from her face. 'Well, don't be,' she replied, getting to her feet and walking through to the dining room. She placed the box on the dining table, opened up the dresser's top drawer and started dropping her silver napkin rings into the box. Next she pulled open the second drawer, lifted the napkins out and froze. 'There's a gun in this drawer.'

  'Yes, 'Tom replied.

  'What's it doing there? Is it real?'

  'Yes. It's to protect us. There are dangerous people out there, Charlotte. We have to be more careful, especially with the little one on the way. I've been thinking about babies' names.'

  Very slowly Charlotte slid the drawer shut, then moved round towards the door, reaching into her pocket again as she did so. 'There is no baby,' she repeated.

  'Oh, but there is. You're pregnant, Charlotte.'

  'It was terminated. Last month.'

  Tom's head dropped forwards, as if the muscles in his neck had suddenly dissolved. He looked towards his hand and began picking at the seam on the backrest of the dining chair. 'No baby?' he whimpered. His thumbnail began to go white as he dug it with ever growing force into the leather. 'No baby?' His breathing was deepening and picking up in speed, his mind shrinking from her words, desperate to find some way to make them manageable. Suddenly he had it. He looked up at her with tears in his eyes. 'Get out. You're not Charlotte. You've been sent to impersonate her. You're not Charlotte. Get out!'

  'Charlotte?' came a voice from the doorway. Tom heard an Australian accent.

  Leaving her box on the table, she edged round the wall and ran from the room.

  Across the road Creepy George placed his camera on his lap, tilting it forward so he could see the viewfinder. He'd got several good shots of her as she ferried the boxes into the back of the jeep and many at the point when she had leaned forwards to slide them inside the vehicle, bottom poking outwards as she did so. He reached over to the glove compartment and removed a packet of gum from the box he'd stolen from It's A Wrap a couple of months before. Folding a stick into his mouth, he began to ruminate on what was going on.

  Inside the house Tom couldn't move. Her words bounced around his head like a pinball, lighting up every part of his brain so there was nowhere dark and comforting for him to crawl. The only way he could make everything all right was to remind himself her words were fake, spoken by something that looked exactly like his wife. Perhaps a robot.

  He needed some sort of sense in his world. He could feel the threads of reality unravelling in his fingers, everything becoming disjointed. He looked towards the door, saw his feet moving beneath him. Was he awake? He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. Tick tock, tick tock. He turned on the taps. Water flooded the takeaway cartons. Soon he saw steam. He held a hand under each jet of water, felt sweet and sour. No, hot and cold. He held up his hands, looked at their backs. Both were bright red. Holding them against his cheeks, one was hot and one was cold. Had Charlotte just been? He wasn't sure. He turned off the taps and went into the front room. An ornament was gone. There was mess on the floor – chewing gum and videos. He thought she had been, but he was so confused.

  His mind needed something to latch on to. Something he could reason with. He looked at the video at his feet. Seven. With Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman. He looked at the packet of chewing gum lying next to it.

  Chewing gum. Everything had gone wrong because of chewing gum. Those dots on the streets, making it impossible for him to walk through the city centre. The blobs ejected from people's mouths, coated in saliva, dropping into ashtrays, urinals, the pavement itself. Squashed flat by feet. Clinging to the soles of shoes. Cementing itself to paving stones. Swarming at the bases of bins. Massing by the bus stops. Gradually drying, losing its whiteness. Turning grey, then black, but never dissolving, stubbornly existing like some ancient lichen, surviving the rain and frost and sun. Chewing gum. It was why he had fled the city centre, why he had lost his job.

  He focused on the packet, noticed the words 'seven sticks'.

  His eyes shifted back to the video. Seven. That number again.

  Why seven? he wondered, mind scrabbling desperately to mesh something solid out of his fragmenting reality. One for each deadly sin, he knew that. But why seven sticks of gum? One for each day of the week?

  Other collections of seven occurred to him. The seven colours of the rainbow. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. His mind flitted about, coming up with the seven wonders of the ancient world. What was it about that number? he wondered, fingertips pressed to his temples.

  Tentatively, he edged over to his computer and turned it on. Sitting down, he typed into Google 'the significance of seven'. Results one to ten of more than 1,280,000 hits came up. He started scrolling down the screen.

  He read about how often the number features in western culture. Seven days of the week. Seven ages of man. Seven planets in the heavens of old. He browsed through a document that outlined how alchemy was based on seven metals: gold, silver, lead, tin, iron, copper and mercury. Each metal corresponds with one of the seven wandering bodies on which astrology was originally based: the sun, moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn.

  Tom scanned on down, skimming articles that spoke of other collections of seven – the seven seas, seven league boots, The Magnificent Seven.

  Tom turned the packet of gum over and over in his hand, his mind seizing on the various occurrences of the number, knitting together some sort of framework, trying to create some stability. As a sense of excitement began coursing through him, he got up and went over to the drinks cabinet. All his whisky was gone, so he pulled out a bottle of tequila.

  Back at the computer, he swigged some down, doubling over in a fit of coughing. After wiping the tears from his eyes he found that he'd clicked on a new document. Its title was 'The prevalence of seven in the religions of the world'.

  Tom leaned forward, his face now inches from the screen.

  *

  By the time dawn broke he knew he had to get out. To the side of the computer was a pile of printouts almost two inches thick, each sheet of paper featuring aspects of his new-found knowledge.

  He thought about changing out of his tracksuit bottoms, but couldn't be bothered. Rummaging around in his room, he found a pair of white towelling socks, black work shoes and a beige jumper. Finally he put his Timberland jacket on, slipped the gun into the pocket, picked up the nearly empty bottle of tequila and set off for the city centre.

  Specks of gum made walking on the pavement difficult. He stepped carefully round them, walking along the grass verges or in the road where the asphalt was newly laid and relatively clean. Cars beeped him and he ignored them.

  During his walk in, Manchester had been bathed in a light shower. The rain had made the streets damp, darkening the colour of the paving stones and making the white lumps of gum stand out. He looked at the dots all around, tip-toeing into Piccadilly Gardens like he was walking through a minefield. Sitting down on a bench, he watched the people pass by; office workers walking along with phones to their ears, cups of coffee or carry-out bags from McDonald's in their spare hand.

  After nine thirty the shoppers started to appear, heading at a more leisurely pace for the big department stores and expensive boutiques.
>
  Tom crept along, ever careful to watch where he placed his feet. The colourful Commonwealth Games banners and hanging baskets of flowers had long been removed from the lampposts. The building wraps were gone too, derelict structures that had previously been hidden now plain for everyone to see. Craning his neck back, he stared up, saw tiny saplings growing in their gutters, pigeons coming and going through glassless windows.

  The special litter-busting teams in their red jackets had also ceased to exist, so the sweet wrappers, discarded free newspapers, polystyrene cups and cigarette ends had begun to accumulate, forming a layer of rubbish that was pushed to and fro by the wind, shifting restlessly over the immovable spots peppering the paving slabs. Tom stalked through the debris, looking around him as the people emerged from shops, full bags hanging from their arms. Their lifestyle was, he realized, the one that had beguiled Charlotte, clouded her judgement as to what really mattered in life. He watched them as they took a break from their shopping to sit at pavement cafes and drink coffee, eat pastries or muffins and browse through glossy in-store magazines, always contemplating their next purchase.

  Then they would get up, leaving dirty cups and crumb-covered saucers. A light wind blew crinkled napkins and empty sugar sachets on to the street as they strode off, credit cards ready, futilely trying to stave off their feelings of emptiness by purchasing more and more useless things.

  Chapter 23

  4 November 2002

  Head still pounding from last night's booze, Jon watched Sly through the interview room's one-way mirror. His posture of boredom had long been replaced by one of tense agitation. He leaned forward on the plastic chair, arms wrapped tightly round his stomach, rocking backwards and forwards. Half turning to the mirrored window, he repeated yet again, 'You're not fitting me up with those murders. You're fucking not!'

  'What do you think?' McCloughlin asked Jon and the other officers gathered in the shadows beyond.

  Bodies shifted in the narrow room. 'Guilty as sin,' said a voice that curled with disgust. 'Look at him; he's sweating like a pig in an abattoir.'

  'There's certainly enough to charge him,' observed someone else. 'Especially with the fibres at two of the murder scenes matching the suit from his flat.'

  'DI Spicer?' McCloughlin demanded.

  Turning the extra strong mint over in his mouth, Jon hesitated, aware that the men around him were of senior rank. Despite all the evidence, there were doubts in his head that he couldn't ignore. 'I agree that we've got enough to charge him, but I'm not totally convinced yet.'

  'You bloody arrested him,' McCloughlin growled.

  Jon suppressed the urge to apologise. 'I think we've got a member – possibly the leader – of the car theft gang. His prints match partials we've lifted from the letterboxes of sixteen properties where car keys have been hooked out of the hallway. But why has he suddenly started killing people?'

  There was silence all around.

  'OK, 'McCloughlin said. 'We've had him for almost twenty-four hours. I've already requested an extension of another twelve. Then I'll apply for a warrant of further detention – so we have him for another three and a half days if we need. In the meantime, let's keep turning things over. Something's got to give soon. DI Spicer, you can return him to the cells.'

  Leaving Jon, they all filed back up the stairs. Walking into the incident room, McCloughlin called over to the office manager. 'Any progress on where our suspect got all those packs of chewing gum?'

  'The manufacturers confirm it was a limited edition that was produced specifically for a Commonwealth Games promotion. However the agency that was handling the promotion – a place called It's A Wrap – closed their Manchester branch down last month. We've been on to their head office in London and they're getting back to us with more details as soon as possible.'

  Chapter 24

  October 2002

  Tom now spent the majority of his waking hours at his computer, the bag of powder next to the mouse. Though his sense of reality was becoming increasingly blurred, one part of his mind remained clearly focused: the part concerned with researching the number seven.

  The obsession was taking him throughout history, bouncing him between cultures, religions and faiths. He had noted down how the Lord's Prayer is divided into seven lines, how there were seven days of creation and seven days for Noah to load the ark. Bezalel made a lampstand with seven lamps for the tabernacle, Joshua's army marched around Jericho on seven successive days with seven priests blowing seven trumpets. In the book of Revelation he counted no less than fifty-four occurrences of the number, including seven churches, seven candlesticks, seven spirits, seven thunders, a seven-headed dragon, a seven-headed beast and seven vials of wrath.

  And his scouring of the subject didn't focus solely on Christianity. He found mentions of the number in Judaism when it spoke of the seven supreme angels and seven continents; and Islam, which mentions seven heavens, seven hells and seven seas. He read about how devotees walk around Kaaba at Mecca seven times. The tantric system holds that humans have seven chakras, Buddhism analyses human life as an evolution through seven cycles. He found the number repeatedly cropped up in the Rig Veda, the first Hindu sacred book thought to be three thousand years old.

  There could be no doubt the number played a huge part in man's ordering of the world. What Tom couldn't work out was why such massive importance had been attached to it. Something must have happened long ago which had led people to regard the number as so significant. What had occurred? After a fortnight of surfing, he stumbled across a document that provided an explanation. The writer of the document believed that, far back in the mists of time, seven Masters descended from the heavens and imparted their wisdom to select groups of people across the earth. Their visit explained why so many early societies boasted such an astonishingly advanced knowledge of things like astronomy and maths. He stated that structures such as Stonehenge, the pyramids and Easter Island are all lunar observatories, their construction and planning requiring levels of calculation and engineering far beyond anything else the people of those societies possessed.

  The writer went on to say that, because this knowledge was passed on only in part, and usually by word of mouth, it slowly fragmented, pieces of it emerging at various points in history. He pointed out how many major western thinkers believed their insights were the result of picking up on these fragments of long-lost philosophy. Even Isaac Newton stated that he was only 'rediscovering what the sages of antiquity knew'.

  This is it, thought Tom. This is why seven is so important. The Masters numbered seven: that's why seven has come to be treated with such enormous importance.

  One night he had taken a pinch of the powder and was resting from his research. The street lamp outside his house flickered and winked, sending brief bursts of light across his windowsill. Tom stared, intrigued by the flashes. At first they'd seemed totally random but the more he looked, the more he suspected there was a pattern, a code being directed at him. He rose to his feet and wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, walked out of his front door and down his driveway. He stood beneath the lamppost listening to the phosphorescent tube buzz and plink as the light went on and off. In the brief moments of darkness Tom could see the sky above; it was the colour of a bruised apricot, ruined by the light emanating from the city.

  Then, as he stood looking up at it, the lamp went out completely. Though Tom's eyes remained fixed on the lamp above him, he sensed something closing in on him, something surrounding him. He looked down and realized what had enveloped him from all sides: darkness. He turned towards his house and saw that the entire street was plunged in blackness. Wandering to the end of the road, bare feet connecting with the cool pavement, he couldn't see a light in any direction. Standing there, he became aware of the natural light shining down from above and he looked up at a sky that sparkled with the same intensity as in the Seychelles.

  Arching his head back in wonder, his eyes settled once again on The Plough. And as he coun
ted all seven stars making up the constellation, the collection of voices boomed down from the sky above.

  Tom! Tom! Tom!

  He fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears. But the voices carried on with undiminished clarity, repeating his name again and again. He ran back down the street and into his house, slamming the door shut. The voices followed him, and he crumpled on to the sofa, pulling a pillow up to his face and squeezing his eyes tightly shut in fear.

  When Tom awoke the next day, he was still cowering under the cushion. He crept back to his computer. The power was now working again so he turned it on and altered his search to 'the significance of the plough'. Another twenty-nine thousand hits came up.

  Ignoring the sites that spoke about the plough as a tool of cultivation, Tom focused on the quasi-religious, pagan sites. On these he read about how the constellation of seven stars has been called many things by many societies throughout history.

  The Wagon, The Dipper, Arthur's Wain. Greek mythology described it as Ursa Major or the great bear. For the Egyptians it was the astral shape of their god, Seth. The Mexicans believed it to be the foot of Tezcatlipoca. To the Lapps it is the bow of a hunter, to the Sioux a bier. The Siberian Kirghiz legend calls it the seven watchmen. In Hinduism it is known as Saptarshi, or the seven rishis – semi divine sages and sources of all sublunary wisdom. Tom knew they were all wrong. The Plough was the seven Masters, hanging in the night sky, keeping a watch on Earth. And now they had chosen him as their prophet. They had told him how, for centuries, they had looked down as man had strayed further and further from their teachings. The wisdom they had imparted had evolved along false lines and greed had corrupted the people of Earth, tricking them into living lives of decadence and excess. His own wife and baby had been lost forever to it. Now, they had announced, was the time to act. Through him their words would be relayed and people would see the error of their ways. Through his teachings the evils of wanton consumption would be cast aside. A new Golden Age would be ushered in – one where people lived simple, happy lives. Their obsession with shopping would be cured. Superstores, hypermarkets, arcades and shopping centres – those temples built to pursue the activity would be razed to the ground.