The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  Very little digging had been required to establish a possible motive for Callaghan to kill Black; the Head had dismissed Callaghan the previous year for unprofessional conduct- or something like that- although at this point (without access to Black's files which were at present locked away) the details were unclear. He was a drinker apparently and had been nicknamed Mr. Perv by the generous children of Measton High which in itself did not bode well but there was more to come before he could really theorize. What was his link to Davies? He picked up the History teacher's file.

  Davies had an exemplary record, was well-liked by his students (a bit of a heartthrob it seemed among the more impressionable girls) and had never given any cause for suspicion regarding his holiday activities. There were several Thailand stamps in his passport which, given the teacher's own unique mode of confession- if it was indeed a genuine admission- would allow one to put two and two together. Other than that, there was nothing. The only damning evidence was that written in three inch high letters on his blackboard by his own hand. Davies was good for nothing now. Yesterday he had driven out to Rennick to see the man in person but, if anything, his catatonia had only worsened. It had been mealtime and Collins had watched an auxiliary nurse try to feed Davies but the food would simply drool over his bottom lip and plop on to his lap; Collins had also noted the man's incontinence. He was going to ask one of the psychiatrists in residence whether this could be some kind of act but decided not to bother. Who could possibly make themselves appear that way? He had read somewhere that the majority of people found it impossible to piss themselves intentionally such was the level of social conditioning applied during infancy. Unless you were a pisshead of course. He had never envied the clean-up crew in the cells after a busy weekend.

  Collins considered his doodle; it seemed ridiculous looking at it now. Too simplistic. It was entirely feasible that several elements were unconnected any way. Besides. What kind of madness could affect such a variety of people? Okay. There were three teachers from the same school involved. His initial findings indicated that Davies and Callaghan were not socially connected in any way at all. In fact the two men lived such different lives the school would be the only point of reference for them both. Davies was a keep-fit nut, a health freak. Callaghan was more likely to be found leaning against a bar than lifting one with heavy weights at either end. The Clear and Phillips connection was also intriguing. According to Saunders, they were not friends. In fact, Saunders had said that Phillips was exactly the sort of young man that would make Clear walk the other way as quickly as he could without looking like a coward. Phillips was a bully apparently, always had been in fact, while Clear was a "good kid". Saunders’ words. Could Phillips also be involved in the disappearances? He rubbed his face again. How Black came into all of this God alone knew. His wife may have had an idea but she was still heavily sedated. His DS had tried speaking to her this morning but she was a mess. More time needed. But even so, who was to say that she could illuminate matters?

  Fuck.

  His leg throbbed gently under the desk and he had a meeting with the Super to contend with before the end of the day (the end of his day, not mine, he thought bitterly) not to mention the press, regional and national now. Collins wanted to go home and stay there. For about a week. Preferably under a blanket. There was a tap at the door.

  "Yes," he sighed.

  PC Hendricks put his head and shoulders around the door. "Is now a good time, sir?"

  "Yes, Hendricks, come in," Collins said shuffling the paperwork he had been examining back into its relevant file. "Well done. I got your report. How is she?"

  "She's in a fair bit of pain and traumatized, as I am sure you would imagine," Hendricks said. Collins indicated that he should sit down. "But she seems like a strong character. More worried about her daughters than any thing else."

  Collins grunted. "That's your mother hen for you."

  "Yes sir," Hendricks said. "But I think she'll be in hospital for a week or two. He tore her very badly. She also sustained a fractured jaw."

  "Bastard. I hope he broke his hand."

  Hendricks shook his head. "No sir. This was inflicted when he forced the whisky bottle into her mouth."

  "Christ."

  "It seems that he was intent upon forcing her to drink a bottle of whisky before he did the rest. Any way, it's all in my report, sir."

  Collins drummed his fingers on the desk. "Was it you that contacted family, next-of-kin?"

  "Yes, sir," Hendricks confirmed. "Obviously her husband being her official next-of-kin we had to look elsewhere. According to Mrs. Callaghan's older daughter, their closest blood relation is a-" he flipped upon his notebook- "Mister David Weaver."

  "Fuck off!"

  "Sir?"

  Collins scratched his head thoughtfully. "Coincidence," he muttered. "I knew him when he was a boy. Did you call him?"

  "Yes sir. He arrived from the south coast this morning and will be taking care of the girls while Mrs. Callaghan recovers."

  Collins thought about the apparent synchronicity of this latest news. Surely blind chance, nothing more; life did this to you. Messed with your brain leading you to make connections that weren't really there. You could make any number of integers connect, if you thought about them for long enough. If a thousand monkeys typed for a thousand years, would one of them re-produce the works of Shakespeare? And all of that kind of stuff.

  "Will that be all, sir?" Hendricks asked quietly.

  "Yes, thank you. Good work."

  Hendricks left and Collins picked up the telephone. "Ask the Super whether he's available or not," he snapped, immediately feeling for the PC that had answered the phone.

  The darkness continues to grow, he thought. The sense of things spiraling out of control threatened to overwhelm Collins. Obscenity and ugliness, he thought- the prints Man seemed to leave on Nature like so many greasy smears on a child's drinking glass.

  5

  Mary Moran's father, Madman, had long since died. But when he had been alive and on one of his rare stretches of freedom or apparent renewed fidelity to his wife, Mary was always "the Welsh Witch". With the dreams that she had been having recently, those words were never far away. Neither was her brother, Grant.

  She had arrived at the shop early that morning, having been awoken by another nightmare. Busying herself at her father's legacy, Cornhill Stores, stocktaking tinned goods, rotating or discarding yoghurts and pre-packed sandwiches did nothing to remove the cold imagery of the vision from her thoughts. By the time Miriam arrived to sort out the newspapers for delivery, she had already consumed more caffeine than she would have taken in a day and smoked three of her usual five or six cigarettes too. She had looked at the hulking silhouette of the railway bridge in the early morning mist that rose off the marshy wasteland that was Ross's as she had stepped outside to smoke. She stood next to the freshly filled trays of fruit and vegetables, the smell of onions strong but comforting and thought not for the first time how odd it was that the scene of the greatest tragedy in her family's dramatic history was within viewing distance of their greatest success. It was like a constant reminder that, despite the comfort of owning the only convenience shop on the continually expanding Cornhill area of the town, Mary's childhood had been far from idyllic. Even before Grant's death, life at home had been rough. Her father, “Madman” Moran, in and out of prison for burglary, his drinking and violent temper colouring the times that he was at home; her mother, always strong and proud despite what many would regard as the indignities of being married to a career thief- a thief who was, let's face it, pretty awful judging by his many convictions. With her striking Irish auburn hair and voluptuous frame, she had been a diamond among the curlers and petticoats of their street. Hence the succession of "uncles" that had passed through her childhood when Madman was "away". Mary had inherited her mother's good looks and height. At 5' 9, there were few local women that could look her in the eye. Her eyes were all her father's. John Moran's twinkli
ng green eyes looked back at her each morning and, with her gypsy olive complexion, added to her pretty pixie looks. Those looks, a criminal father with gypsy blood and a mother generous with the men had made life hard at school too. It didn’t help that Mum would often send them to school dirty as a result of a night of carousing with Uncle Whoever. Gypo, Did, Diddy-Coy and comments on her odour were the norm, although when Grant had been alive woe betide the fool that had badmouthed either of his two younger sisters. When Grant had died, Mary had been six, Laura five. Following his death, there had been a respite from the other kids although this was short lived. At Measton High the abuse had been terrible. For some, school constituted the best years of their lives; for Mary it had been a necessary hell. But she had stuck at it and even left with a few qualifications, never mind the fact that she didn't need them- by then they had the shop- unlike Laura who had "bunked off" more regularly than she had attended. No one cared really. The Educational Welfare people had them pegged as "travelers", so didn't bother with the usual letters, visits and warnings and their mother had descended in to a world of alcoholism and promiscuity that they had merely glimpsed in earlier years. Grant's death had been the final catalyst in the cocktail of self-destruction that Vera Moran had been preparing for years. But the shop remained.

  Always the shop. The shop they had won. "A gift from the Gods," Madman would say. "What do you think my little Welsh witch?" Although nothing was ever said directly, there was always the feeling that such luck was a balance for Grant. It was a thought that was unspeakable but it was there between them all nevertheless. The life of an eight year old boy against financial security; there was no contest but Cornhill Stores had stabilized the family even after the father's disappearance and the subsequent news of his death. Even after her mother's final descent. Mary was thankful for Miriam. Miriam had been the stalwart presence of her childhood in the shop and at home; now sixty with grown up children of her own she had remained loyal to the Morans and their fledgling business from the outset. It was a happy accident that his father had employed Miriam at a time when she had fallen upon hard times. Her part-time job had become a fulltime position to ensure that the shop had stayed above water while Vera Moran slept off her nocturnal excesses in the two-storey accommodation above the shop and the girls were at school. In a moment of clarity and charity, Vera had offered Miriam a part-share in the business and subsequently, a part-share in their lives. When Vera had finally succumbed, Mary had been eighteen and working alongside Miriam in the shop since leaving school; Laura, at sixteen, was a mother to six-month old Jake and, at that time, co-habiting with Jake's father. The business had passed in equal shares to the sisters and, although Laura wanted nothing to do with the shop, Mary put her share of the profits into Laura's bank account each month. As the business grew from the traditional corner shop to mini-market, the profits escalated and with the advent of video rental it turned over a tidy sum. The geographical location of the shop was perfect; town was too far to walk with shopping bags and the nearest of the new brand of Supermarkets was a car journey away. Thus the local clientele used the store when they didn't have the time or couldn't be bothered to go further afield. Mary and Miriam were careful with pricing; they both knew that escalated prices would drive their customers away. Buying local produce fresh from market gardeners helped keep prices reasonable and added to the local flavour of the shop. Neither woman suggested taking on assistants; they both enjoyed the routine, chatting to the customers- neighbours really- and rarely argued. The irony of the perfect location she thought as she smoked and looked across Ross’s distant fields at the old railway bridge, the scene of her big brother's death.

  The bridge had figured in her dream. Grant and the other boy throwing missiles in to the river. The little boy falling from the catwalk. Grant stepping off the contraption deliberately. She watched the first of the commuter trains rumble across the bridge at 7.10 and thought it strange that she should dream of the event that had shadowed her childhood. She had of course visualized what had happened many times but she had never dreamed of it before. She shivered in the February chill that seemed to emanate from the river. As Grant had hit the water, it became nightmarish. She viewed the scene under water through the green-grey gloom of the river. Out of the depths a figure reached to her. She knew in her dream that it was Grant; she felt his desperation; his need to reach out; his need to be saved. As his fingers had stretched ever closer, his shape seemed to lose its cohesion until his hand no longer resembled a hand but a series of tentacles undulating, wanting to snag her wrist, wanting to pull her down. It was then that she had snapped awake, her body coated in clammy sweat.

  Experience had taught her well that her more powerful dreams were often significant. As a child, the night before Grant had died, she had dreamt of him falling, falling, falling.

  As the bizarre news came through of the previous night's events in sleepy old Measton, Mary felt that the dream was her own way of perceiving what had happened. The "welsh witch" tag was no accident. She had always had some kind of "rub" as Madman had called it, "like my grandmother; there was no fooling that old bitch" but Mary's gift for precognition was epitomized by occasionally reaching for the phone before it rang, thinking about someone continually until they walked in through the door after years away, knowing instinctively that Miriam had dropped her gold chain behind the ice-cream refrigerator. Nothing major really. But the dreams were strong. When old Mrs. Phillips had not been in for her Daily Mirror and morning chat they had thought little of it; she didn't come every day. But that night she had dreamed of the old lady smiling and waving from across the river bank. The following morning, after knocking at Mrs. Phillips' door for several minutes, she had calmly called the police and informed them of her concerns. Later she had been discovered lying peacefully in her bed. She had been dead for over thirty-six hours. Some would say that it was common sense; Madman would tell them it was his Welsh witch.

  Grinding her cigarette on the pavement and dropping it into a drainage grate she thought about the other boy. She remembered his name. Why shouldn't she? They were at school together at Measton High albeit in different years. David Weaver. She wondered what had become of him. He had always seemed nice enough- would smile and nod to her sometimes in passing. He hadn't forgotten who had saved his life.

  She hadn't seen him for years.

  So when David Weaver parked a VW Beetle outside the store and walked into the shop, looking at his shoes for the most part and asked for a packet of Marlboro cigarettes, she was not overly surprised.

  6

  John-o had spent much of the day feeling as though he was coming down from a bizarre trip. Well, that's what it was it was, he thought, as he flicked through the daytime TV channels without really taking in what it was that he was seeing. For once he had the place to himself. His ever-present housemate, Sean, had left the house at lunchtime and was yet to return which meant that he was currently occupying an armchair in someone else's house staring vacantly at a different television or playing on someone else's games console.

  The day had ground painfully and slowly. He reflected on the previous night's weirdness constantly, trying to make some sense of it all. There was what he had come to think of as "The Sign" on his drive back from Cambridge-

  Harlequin

  -followed by his fatal brush with Mother Nature. Time and again he saw the deer's grimace of pain as it began to transform into the face of his old friend, Tom. Then there had been Joss, the archetypal woodsman and his strange revelations. It was a warning, he'd said. In the cold light of day that should have seemed like so much superstitious bullshit but the more John-o mulled it over, the more it made sense. It had been a warning. He was sure of it. How else could he have known that Tom was in danger (well, in danger of burning some messed-up pervert to death, any way)?

  He shook his head. "Too many drugs," he muttered and reached for his stash. He licked the gum of two Rizla papers, sealed them, added a third and began to spr
inkle homegrown grass onto them. He crumbled half a cigarette onto it, rolled it together dexterously, licked the sealing strip and smoothed it all down. The perfect spliff. He reached for his Zippo to spark her up and then stopped. At that moment it didn't seem like such a good idea. He had the fear as it was; getting stoned would only accelerate his paranoia. There was nothing like a bad nature trip to fuck you up.

  He put the joint into his stash tin (after bending it slightly) and reached for the telephone. He stopped again. That day he had thought repeatedly of calling Greg Clear. On the one hand he had information about Martin- albeit odd info- that he felt that he should share with Greg and his family while, on the other hand- Well. How could he tell Greg what Tom had told him? Don't worry Mrs. Clear, Martin's fine and well and hanging around somewhere in the countryside. Yes, that's right. He told Tom that he'd been hanging around by the river. Not only that, he also solved the Great Measton Cat Mystery. No. He couldn't do it. Not to mention the fact that Tom seemed to think that Martin had changed somehow. But Tom was acting rather strangely himself. He thought about the cold murder he had seen in his friend's eyes as he had been about to set the prone figure on fire. It was all fucked. FUBAR in fact. Fucked Up Beyond All Reason. John-o could fully appreciate his friend's rage but Tom wasn't the sadistic type he had seen in the lock-up. He had thrown himself at Tom when he had realized what was about to happen and Tom had struggled like a man possessed. Literally. John-o had wrapped his arms around his friend all the time telling him: It's me mate. Stop. Calm down. Come on. Tom would relax then. What a bizarre scene for any one that had happened along. Two grown men lay spoon style on a filthy workshop floor, one whispering soothing words into the other man's ear. Nice. But as soon as John-o relaxed his hold, Tom would pull again towards the unconscious figure a few feet away. Eventually- after a long period of calm- Tom had said his name like a man coming out of a daydream. He had managed to get Tom out of Phillips' torture room. He called for the boy but he- whoever he was- had vanished back into the night. Now, as he sat flicking desultorily through the channels, the boy bothered him. How did he know what was happening? More than that, how did he know that John-o was looking for Tom any way? The boy had stayed ahead of him without speaking, his footsteps not making a sound. He shook his head and clicked the Standby button extinguishing the daytime drivel. He felt the need to get out.