On the Shambles, Henry Gibson watched from his bedroom window as two figures walked quietly passed below. Both men were dressed in t-shirts, soaked to the bone and seemingly oblivious to the stinging rain against their exposed necks and arms. Drugs, he thought and closed the curtains thinking for the first time in many years of his old school friend, Jim March, screaming in agony among the sun blanched reeds on the outskirts of a tropical jungle somewhere in Burma. Rest in Peace my friend, he thought and went downstairs to make tea. Like many others that night, he did not want to know what was going on out there; the sirens awoke within them a primal need for safety; men checked doors and drew heavy bolts; elderly couples held hands as the occasional shriek cut through the silence of Cornhill. Fiona Burn, a middle-aged woman- residing off Ash Road in a two-up, two-down- with a history of mental illness since her son's suicide four years before, knew that this heralded Judgement Day and stepped out into the street. She was greeted there by a young woman who had recently been visited by one of Martin Clear's many conquests. The younger woman opened her mouth wide and Fiona was taken. Similar events took place all over Measton. Fathers initiated sons, wives took husbands, friends visited each other for more than a chat and strangers shared the intimacy of the voices on streets silent all but for the whispery downfall. Mothers tucked in children with more than bedtime stories.
The rain was unrelenting and the river continued to rise.
*
Chapter Eight
1
Weaver knew that he was about to die.
Callaghan was too heavy and possessed of a strength that he could not match. The older man's impetus had allowed him to fall upon Weaver and get his hands around the younger man's throat. Weaver grabbed Callaghan's wrists and tried to push them away but to no avail. The hands only seemed to tighten and, as Callaghan leaned down hard, Weaver felt his windpipe close. He looked up at the older man imploringly, shaking his head wildly but saw that dear old uncle Eric was not there anymore. Cold, matter-of-fact, bloodshot eyes looked impassively down at him. Weaver heard the high-pitched whistle that escaped his throat and felt his tongue bulge in his mouth. In one last desperate attempt at freedom, his feet found the hallway wall. He pushed against the wall with all the strength he could muster and almost bucked the older man off his chest but only succeeded in cracking the top of his head on the opposite wall. His hands weakened and the world before him began to blur. Callaghan grinned down at him. As Weaver slipped into unconsciousness, he heard a distant voice: "Daddy!" Then there was nothing but-
-Davey's eyes snapped open. He was under water and yet his leg seemed to be on fire. He looked up and saw the colossal outline of the railway bridge from which he had fallen. He felt the pull of the undercurrent and held his breath; he was going under. Mummy was right; he should never have left the street. Never. She was always right. He thought of his mummy waiting at home for him and desperately flapped his arms and kicked his legs; the searing pain in his right leg made him stop, the air threatening to escape from his lungs altogether. He looked up again and saw the bridge fade as he sank into the green murk of the river. Panic threatened to overwhelm him but soon subsided. A calm peace came over him and the first adult thought of his life occurred with clarity: I'm going to die now; I'm going to see daddy. He wasn't scared anymore. He looked down into the depths of the river and prepared to let go.
The figure that reached up from the depths shattered his calm.
He struggled against the current, desperate to get away. The human shaped thing floated ever closer, its facial features unrecognizable in the muddy water. Still it reached for him, its fingers stretched and wide.
An image flashed into his mind of a tall, skinny man painting a picture; he was slapping thick dollops of green and brown paint onto a canvas without looking.
The man could not see what he was doing because his eyes were closed.
The hand paused inches from his face. It didn't matter now; his lungs were ready to burst anyway; his throat burned with the effort. But the hand did not grab him; instead, it pushed gently at his chest until he could feel himself drifting back to the surface. The boy in the water did not wish him any harm. He felt love radiate from the river boy with each strong push. He looked up; the bridge was clear again; he was inches from the surface. He looked back down to his savior but he had gone. He broke the surface-
- gasping for air with the living after image of his painting imprinted on his mind. He coughed violently and put his hand to his throat in agony. Uncle Eric- Callaghan. He looked around the hallway from where he lay. Callaghan was gone. The front door was still open. He heard whimpering from Sarah's bedroom. Weaver staggered to his feet. The world span momentarily. He placed a hand on the wall to steady himself. He breathed in and out hard, the pain in his throat like broken glass. He moved unsteadily along the hall, using the wall for support until he reached Sarah's room. The door was open and Sarah's bedside lamp lit the scene.
Callaghan stood at the foot of Sarah's bed. Sarah was curled into a foetal ball against her pillows, surrounded by a lifetime of cuddly toys. She looked from her father to Weaver and back to her father.
Callaghan's face was going through a series of bizarre contortions.
As Weaver leaned on the doorframe he watched the older man's jaw widen into the beginning of a voiceless scream until he would shake his head violently in internal denial. The process would then repeat itself. This happened three times as Weaver watched. He beckoned to Sarah to come to him but the teenager only looked at him with wide tearful eyes. She was terrified. Callaghan turned to look at Weaver and for a brief moment, Eric was looking at him- good old Uncle Eric- and just as quickly Eric was gone. Again the mouth gaped into that awful silent scream.
The room seemed to fill with whispers, gaining volume and intensity. It was the bathroom back in Brighton once more. Voices wanted access to Weaver; he could feel them prodding at his mind, seeking entry.
"Daddy!" Sarah had pushed herself into a kneeling position. "Please! What are you doing?"
Callaghan's mouth snapped shut. Uncle Eric looked out of his grizzled face once more. He looked from Weaver to his daughter and back again. He looked confused- a man that had woken up in a strange place. His mouth moved mutely. He looked at his daughter again and shook his head violently. He clasped the side of his head and gritted his teeth.
"I'm sorry," he said through clenched teeth and propelled himself towards the window. Before Weaver could move, Callaghan's head hit the glass, his shoulders following; he pumped his legs once, twice to clear the jagged shards and threw himself into the darkness. Wind and rain invaded the room.
There was a muffled thud as Eric Callaghan hit the ground seven floors below. Weaver lurched to the window and looked down at the dark shape on the road. Sarah began to scream.
*
2
Only the ward reserved for the elderly mentally ill was undisturbed by what had taken place at the hospital.
Collins followed the uniforms through the corridors, appalled by what he saw. None of his experience and training had prepared him for any of the carnage that greeted them at every turn. The younger men were similarly affected. One of the uniforms had vomited upon the sight of the corpse with ragged holes for eyes. That had been Julian Knight his name badge had informed them. According to the information he had been given on the rapid journey from Measton, Knight had been the nurse in charge. A quick glance at the wall next to the inert form revealed the cause of death; a blot of dark blood was already drying on the wall with a smeared tail of the same running between the places of impact and where Knight's head had come to rest. His first hope was that the nurse had been killed before his eyes had been gouged from their sockets; he feared otherwise. He had placed a hand on the shoulder of the young PC and told him that it was alright, it was understandable. The young man, barely shaving, Collins thought, looked at him gratefully, wiped his mouth and carried on.
All of the nurses were dead it seemed, e
ither through vicious beatings or strangulation. The walls were caked in blood and faeces; the smell was overwhelming. White tunics blackened in the dim light with drying blood. Bodies slumped against walls at obscene angles like rag dolls cast away by unruly children.
The nurses' station in the secure ward was locked from the inside. Collins nodded to the uniformed duo at his side and stepped away. A few hefty kicks and the door swung in revealing a woman cowering in the corner clutching a book; it was not a holy book- something to ward off evil spirits- but something about symbols. He stepped towards her holding out his right hand.
"It's alright love," he said soothingly. "I'm DCI Collins and all of the men with me are police officers. You're safe. They're all gone now." That much seemed to be true. The smashed window and distended bars had provided them with a means of escape; he had men in the surrounding countryside trying to pick them up; the problem was the darkness. Rennick Hospital was set in beautiful farmland that led down to the river. With no light, the task was not an easy one. But these people were sick, he told himself. Surely they couldn't get far. He was confident that they'd apprehend at least a few of them. Whether he could get any sense out of them was something else entirely.
The woman in the office was in no condition to talk. She shook her head and rocked back and forth, shrieking when he or his WPC approached her. At his instigation, a nurse from the EMI unit was summoned to administer a sedative. The nurse, obviously shaken by what she had seen on her short journey, administered the injection with a shaking hand. Subdued, Martha was led out of the small office to an ambulance outside. Collins sat in the swivel chair before the monitors and watched his colleagues search the wards for survivors, clues, anything. The truth was they had no idea what they were looking for.
"How could I be so stupid?" Collins muttered to himself. "Heaney!"
The ashen faced detective walked into the office. "Sir?"
"Get this system sorted. Do they record or is it just a monitoring system?" Relieved to be doing something practical the younger policeman was soon on his hands and knees under the desk.
"We're in luck, Sir. It records on a twenty-four hour loop."
"Really? Start rewinding then." The two men watched as their colleagues reversed out of the room at high speed and then nothing for what the counter informed them was forty-four minutes. One-by-one the inmates returned to their beds and lay down. The last one to return, hence the first to leave his bed, was none other than Andrew Davies. The counter showed that only one hour and twenty-two minutes before, all had been quiet and peaceful. DS Heaney punched play and they watched the silent figures sit up and get out of bed, their hospital gowns flapping in their wakes as they walked off camera. Collins stroked his chin thoughtfully. "So why did they all get up at that particular moment? It looks-"
"Organised. I know, chief."
Collins glared at Heaney. "Don't call me chief, Heaney. This isn't tele."
"Sorry guv, I mean, sir."
"Who organised them, then?" Collins mused aloud. "Rewind the tape further." It didn't take much. Another sixteen minutes and they saw Davies visiting each of his fellow inmates in turn. Davies the catatonic? Apparently not.
"What's he doing, sir?" Heaney asked. Collins shrugged. They watched the former teacher stand at the foot of each bed with his mouth gaping and saw the intent postures of each subject before he returned to his bed to be catatonic once more. "Again," Collins said. They watched the pantomime once more. The gaping mouth, the transfixed listeners. As Heaney rewound the tape for the third time, Collins said: "Has this thing got sound?"
Heaney located the volume control and turned it. As he did so, Davies arrived at the first bed. There was the sound of breathing and snoring, nothing more. "Louder," Collins instructed. The background hiss of the tape became intense. Davies opened his mouth wide and released a strangled sigh but there was more to it though. Both men strained to hear. Beneath the elongated sigh, Collins thought he could discern whispers. The hairs stood on the back of his neck.
"What the hell is this, Sir?" Heaney sounded frightened; Collins didn't blame him.
"I don't know, John," he muttered. He looked at the other man and saw the fear that he also felt. "Let's get this tape to someone who can make some sense of it."
Collins left the nurses' station and headed back along the corridor. Mercifully, bodies were being covered so he did not have to look at the eyeless face of Julian Knight again. His head ached with the enormity of what he had experienced. As if this wasn’t enough there were murders to consider- the seemingly unconnected attacks on Susan Callaghan and Craig Phillips that now seemed to fit into the whole but how and why, he did not know. It had all started with Davies though, hadn't it? He still awaited forensic DNA matches from Patsy's bite wounds to be sure but it seemed obvious that Davies had started it all. And now this- Davies' gaping, hissed communication with the others on the ward. He shook his head. He was missing something; he couldn't see the wood for the trees. What had brought about the change in Davies? All reports painted the picture of a fastidious, well-liked young man who enjoyed his job and had a genuine passion for his chosen field of study. Admittedly, his bizarre revelation on the chalkboard indicated a deep-seated sickness within the man but- that said- there was no evidence to support this confession despite a thorough search of the history teacher's alarmingly pristine house. His hard drive contained no traces of any kind of pornography. To all intents and purposes, this was a healthy, intelligent man. Go back to the beginning, he told himself. He took a radio from the PC standing at the main entrance.
"Who did the search inventory at Andrew Davies' house?" he asked the Duty Sergeant. "I want it available to me in half-an-hour."
As Heaney steered the Rover through the wrought iron gates and out onto the narrow country lane, flashbulbs lit the night. Collins saw a familiar figure standing with a microphone in his hand before a camera man. Great, he thought. Fucking wonderful.
*
3
Albert Pinchin was born during the hot summer of 1912 into a Measton solely concerned with agricultural market days and river trade. He had seen ninety summers come and go and remembered well the Great Flood of 1933. He had known the father and son in that famous print on the Measton Hotel wall by name and could tell anyone who cared to listen how the boy in that picture had met his end in the final weeks of World War II in the far flung location of Burma- the place where the war had refused to end. He was as much a part of this town as the Old Bridge and he knew its ways well enough to sense that many things were coming to a head. Measton may have always appeared to be a sleepy Cotswold town with the usual inbred charm but beneath the quaint façade of the town there was a darkness that he knew all too well.
It was a constant undercurrent. Always had been, and would be always, he thought. It was a town of habits as regular as his own.
Since the death of his third wife, Peggy, Albert had woken at 5.30 and relieved himself while his only companion, Bob, took his turn on the back garden. Bob was an aged Border Collie, the last in a long line of sheepdogs that had walked the banks of the river with Albert for over sixty years. Albert would dress, stretch his arms, back and legs in his rather antiquated, pre-fitness video style, slurp a mug of tea after pouring Bob a bowl full of the same brown liquid (Bob also had two sugars) before setting off down his garden path, through the rickety gate, across Boat Lane and onto the wooded land that gave way to the common meadow. He cut a diagonal, jaunty stride across the meadow until he picked up the river path which he would follow for the two miles that would bring him to the steps from the river up to the Old Bridge. By that time, Cotswold Stores would be open and he would pick up his pre-ordered copy of The Times, a pint of milk that he would stow away in his ruck sack and, if required, half-an-ounce of rolling tobacco. Old Throatburn, as he had liked to call it. He would make the return journey at a more leisurely pace, his appetite for a boiled egg and half a grapefruit building with each step. He would occasionally pick up a
stick and toss it for Bob who would gamble after it before collapsing in an exhausted, panting heap.
At 5.30 that morning, Albert arose and, despite the rain rhythmically dancing its fingers across his cottage roof, went through his morning ritual. A bit of rain wouldn't stop him. Never had, never would. Only last December, he had trudged the same journey through six inches of freshly laid snow, mercifully leaving Bob by the fire at home. He put his waterproof coat over his coat and opened the door to the inclement weather whistling for Bob to follow. The dog whined and curled up in his basket, giving his master cow eyes. Stupid animal, Albert muttered and slammed the back door behind him leaving his lazy companion in the warmth of the kitchen. The rain cut icy splinters into his face and the ground underfoot was hard going causing him to stop for breath several times as he crossed the common meadow. It was not unusual to see fellow early risers walking their dogs- even at that time of year- but as far as Albert could see he was alone. He used the lights of Riverside in the distance to guide his way until he reached the river path.
The River Dark Page 25
