The King of Terrors (a psychological thriller combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by Mitchell, D. M.

  A woman, her face gleaming like a bright full moon in the glare of the headlights; a look of surprise that switched to horror as she burst from the hedge to his left and realised that a car was bearing down on her. She appeared to slip on the snow, crash down the steep bank.

  He hit the brakes, more by instinct than anything. The wheels locked but the car kept moving, slewing madly from side to side. He heard the awful thud of impact; saw her head bouncing off the front of the Land Rover like a volleyball. She disappeared beneath the vehicle and Gareth closed his eyes as if somehow that might stop the inevitable from happening.

  His heart was performing a loud and fast Lord of the Dance routine as he swung open the Land Rover’s door. ‘OhJesusohJesusohJesus…!’ he said in a wild rush of air that spiralled into the sky like a cloud of cigarette smoke. He leapt from the cab, his feet plunging into deep snow. The rhythmic rumble of the engine was ominously loud in the snow-muffled lane, large flakes still falling from the sky, spinning around him and hitting him on the face. He saw her legs – bare legs – lying prone in the light from the headlamps.

  He dashed around to the front, slipping in his haste and grabbing the wing mirror to steady himself. Her head was turned away from him, one arm draped protectively over the bridge of her nose, the other across the chest of her sweatshirt, an oversized, sodden raincoat wrapped loosely around her.

  There was a carrier bag by her side and inside he saw a small cardboard box poking out. But he was more concerned that he’d killed her. Bending down he patted her face. ‘Hello,’ he said dumbly. ‘For God’s sake, answer me.’ He spotted blood on the snow and his insides crumpled. She remained motionless and he saw her face being leached of colour, growing dangerously paler by the second.

  He reached into his coat for his cell phone – he needed to call an ambulance. After much fumbling from pocket to pocket he remembered he’d left the phone on the seat and ran madly back to the cab. He retrieved it, but there was no reception. He cursed, waving it around in the air, as if he could somehow snag a stray bit of signal. He failed.

  Could she be in shock, he thought? He pocketed the phone for now and slipped off his coat to drape it around her body. Flakes of snow settled quickly and evenly on it.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said worriedly. ‘We’ll soon get you taken care of.’

  He tried the phone again. Nothing. He stood there with a hand to his head wondering what on earth he should do now. He could run back up the lane to see if the reception was any better, but he doubted it; he’d be cut off from a signal for quite a distance. Anyhow, she was unconscious, not a good sign, maybe even bleeding internally, broken bones, shock, and laid freezing in the snow. No one else would happen on them as few cars came this way, even in mid-summer, so on a night like this waiting around just wasn’t an option.

  ‘Why me?’ he said angrily. ‘Of all the lanes in all the country you had to fall into mine!’

  The engine grumbled impatiently. The snow came down in thick, unrelenting globs. Deller’s End was still three quarters of a mile away with no other house between here and there. At least there was a landline to use in the farmhouse. Gareth bent to his haunches. Aside from his Land Rover and his own laboured breathing, the countryside was deathly quiet. It was unreal. His breath was pumping out in clouds to play around her face as he thought through the limited options.

  He needed to get her in the vehicle then get home as fast as he could so he could call for an ambulance. But, having made his decision, he was hampered by the thoughts that he could do more harm than good in moving her. She might have a broken neck or something. He swept his hair back over his head in desperation. She’d freeze if she stayed here much longer, he thought. It would take ages to run to the farmhouse and make the call. The nearest cottage back the way he’d come was at least two miles distant.

  Then, as if in answer to his prayers, the woman moved and turned her head, letting out a muffled groan before stretching her legs and falling still again.

  No broken neck, he thought gladly.

  There was nothing for it. He went to the back of the Land Rover, opening the door and clearing the deck of tools and shopping. He took off his jersey and laid it on the floor. Not much but it would have to suffice. He went back to the woman, paused over her, drew in a calming breath and bent down to take her weight, which, as he lifted her, was not too great. Undernourished rather than slim, he thought. She didn’t make a sound as he carried her to the rear of the Land Rover and placed her as gently as he could on his jersey. He tucked his coat around and under her head, noticing with a sinking heart that there was blood streaming down her forehead. He only hoped he hadn’t done any damage carrying her. He did his best to tend to the wound with a dab or two of the sleeve of his coat before he gave in, slammed the door shut and retrieved the carrier bag from the snow, tossing it carelessly onto the passenger seat.

  He pressed the accelerator as gently as he could, both to gain traction and so as not to jolt the vehicle unnecessarily. It appeared to take an age to traverse the snow-packed lane, the drifts getting progressively deeper as he neared the cottage. He could not get all the way to the gate. The Land Rover got itself bogged down in a drift about thirty yards away, so he clambered out of the cab. He checked on the young woman, deciding to remove her coat which was wet-through and no doubt contributing to any hypothermia. He ran the rest of the way to Deller’s End.

  Tossing the dripping coat over the back of his sofa he bawled into the phone that he needed help – ambulance, paramedics, helicopter, anything – and realised he must have sounded like an incoherent, babbling idiot, but they appeared to get the message and advised him to leave her in the Land Rover but to keep her warm and as comfortable as possible till they got there. On no account must he try to get her to the hospital himself. Having got his orders he stripped his bed of his duvet, grabbed a pillow and went back to the woman.

  As he tucked the pillow under her head and wrapped the duvet around her, for the first time he noticed how pretty she was, in a plain, everyday sort of way. No makeup. Face dirtied by her fall. Late twenties, early thirties tops, he thought. Slightly familiar, if he were to be honest, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. But his attention was more drawn to her lips, which appeared as bloodless as her skin.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ he asked, getting in beside her and closing the door on the swirling snow. He picked up the torch he kept in the back and shone it at her. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be long and they’ll be here.’

  He put the flat of his hand on her forehead. Why, he had no idea, because he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was looking for. She felt cold, but was that good or bad? If she’d been hot and feverish would that have been preferable to cold and clammy, given her condition? And what exactly was her condition?

  Jesus, he thought, I could have killed her! And she might die if they don’t get here soon.

  ‘I’m called Gareth,’ he blurted, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Stupid bastard, he thought; like she’s going to hear you. But it made him feel better, to offer what little support he could. The only way he knew how. ‘Welcome to Deller’s End,’ he said, looking through the fogged-up window of the door towards where the ambulance would appear. If they could get down here, he thought bleakly.

  At that moment a flurry of snow rattled softly against the sides of the Land Rover as if to taunt him.

  About three-quarters of an hour passed. The temperature inside the vehicle dropped sharply and he was hoping the young woman was still warm beneath the duvet and was deliberating whether to fetch more from the house when a shadow flitted by the steamed-up window. At first he thought his tired eyes had imagined it, but he distinctly heard someone – or some thing – tramping softly in the snow outside. He thought that somehow they’d arrived without him noticing, to take her to hospital, but it was only when he swung open the back door and jumped down from the Land Rover into the thick snow did he realise no one was there. No ambulance, no paramedics,
nothing.

  Nothing except a deep and fresh set of footprints pockmarking the drifts. ‘Anyone there?’ he called out, flicking his torch beam into the ragged, thorny undergrowth by the side of the lane. The thin beam did little to penetrate the scrub. Gareth traced the footprints, fresh snowflakes already settling in them. They appeared to circle the Land Rover and then head off towards the cottage, where they looked to meld with his own footprints of earlier. He aimed the torch down the lane, and then swung it to his left; the beam struck out across an empty expanse of ghostly white field. There was not a soul to be seen.

  His curiosity was just dipping into the first prickling of fear when he saw the starlight-blink of headlights in the distance, shining sharply through the curtain-like screen of denuded trees. He went back to the Land Rover and waved the torch in their direction, relief flooding through him, warming and welcome.

  * * * *

  18

  Precious Metal

  He insisted he travel with her in the ambulance to the county hospital, just outside St Davids, but when the paramedics discovered he wasn’t family, and in fact was the man who had nearly killed her, they told him it wasn’t a good idea and that it would be better if he didn’t. That didn’t stop Gareth. He followed the ambulance, with difficulty in the worsening conditions, to the hospital.

  Why? He asked himself that and concluded he didn’t rightly know. No, he thought, that wasn’t the entire truth. He didn’t follow the ambulance because of guilt, though he did feel the odd-pang screw up his stomach – after all, it wasn’t entirely his fault, was it? It was simply because during the lengthy time he spent with her before the ambulance came, tucking her up in the duvet, touching her forehead, staring at her face, as peaceful as if she were asleep – during that time a connection had been made.

  She hadn’t spoken a single word, had only looked into his eyes for a split second before the moment of impact, and, he thought, let’s face it she might not have even seen his face through the windscreen, the bright headlights washing him and the Land Rover out all but completely. But something happened back there in that lane. Something he couldn’t figure out but which was drawing him along as easily as if he were tied to her by an invisible cord. Something that made him try to keep up with the ambulance, headed back out into a snowstorm he had so desperately tried to escape.

  Nor did he think it odd that he sat inside Accident and Emergency in an insipid corridor on an uncomfortably hard, plastic chair, staring at notices on the wall opposite telling him not to use his mobile, which he found ironic, because the thing would probably work here where he least needed it. He sat impatiently, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for news of her condition.

  He knew it was faintly ridiculous, but he was worried sick for her. He suspected the doctor also thought something similar as he badgered her for an update and she politely explained she’d inform him as soon as she had details. She indulged him though, and gave him directions to the nearest coffee machine, and advised him to avoid both the tea and coffee and stick to the hot chocolate.

  A police officer turned up after a while, mumbling that he could not get here any earlier due to a number of weather related accidents stretching the available force. He looked weary and hollow-eyed, like he really didn’t care but he was going through the motions.

  ‘So she jumped out in front of you?’ he asked.

  ‘Ran out in front,’ I corrected.

  ‘Do you think she meant to do it?’

  Gareth frowned. ‘Like suicide? No, I don’t think so. There are easier ways. She looked too surprised, and I think she slipped in front of the car. I’m not sure she actually meant to go under it.’

  He grunted something and his pen flicked over the paper of his pad. ‘Seems odd she didn’t see or hear your car, don’t you think?’

  He thought about it. ‘She appeared to be running fast, as if she was being chased.’

  He looked up. ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly? Can you explain?’

  ‘It might be nothing, but I heard someone moving outside the Land Rover just before the ambulance arrived. I saw footprints too.’

  ‘But you didn’t see anyone?’

  Gareth shook his head. ‘Not a soul.’

  ‘And how long after you’d hit her did this happen?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Best part of an hour.’

  He gave a low chuckle. ‘She had a good head start then!’ He snapped shut his book and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. I have your contact details should we need to speak with you further.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea who this woman is, where she was going or what she was doing out there at this time of night?’

  ‘No ID. And not exactly dressed for the weather either. Probably as high as a kite on something or other, wandered, got lost, panicked, saw you and ran to get your help. Bang! Ends up here. As soon as she comes to we’ll interview her.’ He rose to his feet and looked down at him as he plonked his cap back on his head. His radio crackled and thin insistent voices buzzed like a swarm of angry wasps. ‘If you take my advice, sir, you’d best be headed home. You can’t do any good here anyhow, and like I say, she’s probably not going to thank you for your concern; I’ve seen this type before.’

  Gareth wanted to protest, but held it in check. He bade the officer good night and wandered down to the coffee machine. He should have heeded the doctor’s advice – the coffee was dire. Resignedly he sat back down on his chair and waited for news, sipping and grimacing and wondering what on earth he was doing here.

  The doctor came to his side, almost taking him by surprise.

  ‘Is she going to be alright?’ he asked, rising from his chair.

  She nodded. ‘The suspected fracture of the skull turned out to be a quite sizeable blow to the head that caused concussion, but thankfully all she should suffer when she finally comes round are a few stitches to the head , dizziness and a thumping headache. There were no broken bones, no internal injuries. A day or so, depending on how she reacts to the crack on the head and she should be OK.’

  He gave an obvious sigh of relief. ‘So she’s still unconscious?’

  She nodded. ‘Sleeping.’ She glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘If you want to see her you’ll have to wait till tomorrow. That’s when the police say they should be back to ask her a few routine questions.’ She made as if to leave, her shoe squeaking on the tiled floor. ‘One curious thing, though,’ she said. ‘Though she’s escaped having any broken bones this time she’s had more than her fair share for one so young. Long-healed, but either she’s very accident prone or suffered quite a bit of trauma in the past.’ She smiled. ‘Accident prone, I guess, judging by tonight…’ Her bleeper went. ‘Goodnight. You really must be going; you’ll never get home and you could be stranded here all night.’

  He left the building. It was now approaching 9.30 p.m., and they’d stopped clearing the hospital car park of snow a while ago. All traces of tarmac had vanished and cars were transformed into spectral white humps, fast disappearing under the blizzard. He located the Land Rover and drove carefully into town. It looked like a snowplough had been along a while ago and cleared a little, but it was already whiting over with fresh snow. He sized things up and decided it was madness trying to drive back to Deller’s End now.

  There was a pub-cum-hotel he knew of not too far away in St Davids, at which he’d stayed on his first visit to the area when buying Deller’s End. He banked on it not being full. If so he might have to spend a freezing night in the back of his Land Rover, a prospect he did not relish.

  The sullen young man who greeted him at the hotel looked faintly annoyed with having to tend to a new customer, especially one liberally dusted with snow, shoes dripping wet and looking like he’d been blown in by the weather. Fortunately, he said, there was a single room free due to a recent weather-related cancellation. They ran through the formalities of checking-in double quick and Gareth
went up to his room. It was only when he’d shrugged off his sodden coat that he remembered the carrier bag and cardboard box belonging to the young woman, which he’d tossed into the passenger footwell. Not wanting it to become a lure for opportunist thieves he reluctantly went back out to the car park and retrieved it.

  He tossed the bag idly onto the dressing table beside a balding sprig of tinsel someone had placed there in deference to the jolly season, and switched on the TV whilst he showered. It chattered comfortingly away in the background as the warm water fizzed out of the limescale-encrusted showerhead and he began to relax. The late news was on as he towelled himself dry; the usual stuff, snow causing absolute chaos on the roads, even though we expect it every year, indecision and anger about the proposed NHS reforms, and police had found the body of a murdered woman in a Manchester flat and in a state of some decay.

  It didn’t pique his interest. Why should it? There was always someone somewhere being found dead. But his ears pricked involuntarily at the nature of her death. The police weren’t giving much away at this stage, naturally, but the thick-necked officer looking ill at ease before the cameras, his tie slightly askew, an older guy who from his worn expression looked like he’d seen many years in the force, said calmly that some dismemberment had taken place. He said there had as yet been no formal identification of the body, but she was believed to be aged between twenty-five and thirty-five, perhaps foreign, perhaps Polish. He asked for witnesses to come forward. Then it went back to the weather. More snow on its way. Great, he thought, and he flipped through the channels to find something a little less depressing.

  His evening meal consisted of a microwaved pasty and a packet of crisps, which was all that was available without trudging through high drifts to find some late-night café open. He sat on the bed and sullenly watched the TV babble away to itself. Then his attention was drawn to the carrier bag. OK, so he shouldn’t be nosey, he thought, but he brought it over to the bed and took out the cardboard box, which turned out to be an old shoebox that, according to the illustration pasted on it, once held size ten Nike trainers. Something metallic rattled inside. He sat the box on his lap and removed the lid. He shook his head in disbelief.