Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  Goodge turned away from them, waiting for them to leave. He wasn’t the kind of man for small talk.

  ‘What now?’ asked Decca, thumbing through the pages.

  ‘You go back to work,’ Kovacs said. ‘I am not a gambling man, but I am betting she will no longer be at this Donovan’s place. You have the list of where she might be. Her and her brother both. Go and look. Find them.’ He handed the list to Decca, who pocketed it. Smiled at him. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  He led Decca, with Christopher bringing up the rear, through a locked door and down into the building’s basement. The room was freezing. Decca pulled his jacket around him. Then looked ahead. And felt even more chilled.

  In the centre of the room was a chair. Sitting on the chair was a man, stripped to the waist. Covered in blood and bruises. Before him stood one of Kovacs’ imported hard men, wearing a sweat- and blood-stained T-shirt, jeans and boots. And a huge, darkly glittering mass of hard, sharp metal on his right hand. As Decca watched, he swung his fist into the seated man’s face. His head went back but he didn’t fall. He screamed, blood, snot and spit arcing from his face.

  ‘Soundproofed,’ said Kovacs to Decca, smiling. ‘Just as well. Our friend here is a policeman. He has been telling his superiors about my business. And I don’t like that.’

  Another fist, this time to the chest. Another scream. Decca flinched as if they were happening to him.

  ‘He has been telling the police when my next shipment is coming in. So we have to do something about that, do we not?’

  Decca, thinking it was his turn to speak but finding no voice to use, nodded.

  ‘Good. We move the shipment forward. Tonight.’

  ‘I will be there,’ said Christopher. ‘Take charge personally.’

  Kovacs frowned at him. When he spoke, the composure of a few seconds ago seemed dented. ‘Do you think that wise? What if they are waiting—’

  Christopher looked at the man in the chair. ‘We would have heard.’ He looked directly at Kovacs. Something passed between the two of them, a kind of understanding Decca was not privy to. Kovacs cast his eyes down, nodded. Again there was that look, again it seemed to be fear.

  ‘Good.’ Kovacs seemed relieved. ‘Good.’ He reached underneath his jacket, handed Decca a gun. ‘Take this. You may need it. If you do, use it.’

  Decca took the gun, weighed it in his hand. Felt a thrill course through his body. This was it. No matter what was going on behind him, or around him, this was it. The real deal. He pocketed it, happy to feel it pull down one side of his jacket.

  Decca looked between the two men, waiting for further instructions, but neither spoke. He took this as his dismissal cue and walked out, patting both the gun and the folded piece of paper. No one called him back.

  Outside, the tarmac-grey clouds overhead were threatening biblical weather conditions. The air was cold and carried on it the fetid, post-industrial stink of the Tyne. Decca looked around, breathed deeply. Fresh air had never tasted so good.

  He was a real-life gangsta.

  Clint would be proud.

  Nell watched her sleep, the weak sunlight pushing its way around the thin, ancient curtains.

  He had never seen a more beautiful woman than Anita. He knew in the bar that there was some connection between them, had felt it across the room. And then afterwards in her room. It had been sublime. He had never experienced anything like it.

  Her body was perfect. He had watched her undress, tentatively at first, nervous about revealing herself to him, then with growing confidence as she saw how appreciative he was of her.

  And then he had seen the bruises. And that did it for him.

  ‘You like it rough?’ he had asked her.

  She had stared at him, her eyes wide and doe-like, as if trying to imagine what answer he would want to hear.

  ‘Like a bit of pain, do you?’ He pressed his thumb on one of her bruised ribs. She gasped, squirmed under his hand. ‘Like that? Yeah?’ He pressed harder. She went down on the bed.

  ‘I like … whatever you want to do to me …’

  And that was it. In that moment he knew he had her.

  And he wasn’t about to let her go.

  He looked at her again, sat on the bed next to her. Her chest rising and falling with her sleeping breaths, showing off the extra bruises and hurt he had given her. He felt his erection rise.

  She was the best. She was perfect.

  He had been looking for a woman like this all his adult life. And now he had found her he wasn’t going to let her go. He still had a stolen credit card that hadn’t yet been traced, so he was good for a little while yet. And when that ran out he would get another one. He knew how to do that, who to go to. Had done it before.

  But that was in the future. Right now he had things that needed doing. Something taken care of. He placed his hand on her ribs, moved them slowly up over her breasts, stopping to touch her nipples. His movement wakened her. She opened her eyes, smiled. Said something he couldn’t identify that sounded like ‘Dec,’ then stopped, realizing where she was and who she was with.

  He smiled at her, continued to caress her body.

  ‘Good morning, Anita,’ he said, pointing to his erection. ‘Look what I’ve got for you.’

  She looked, summoned up a smile.

  He continued to caress her.

  The smile turned to a grimace as his fingers found the sore, broken parts of her body and pressed down hard on them. She gasped, writhed.

  That was all the encouragement he needed. He took her then, as hard as he wanted to.

  ‘You’re mine now,’ he said, grunting the words out. ‘You know that? Mine. I love you.’

  And Anita let out a cry that could have been pain or pleasure.

  Nattrass walked briskly through the corridor towards the incident room at Market Street police station, a file of papers clutched tightly in her hand. She tried very hard not to run. She reached Bob Fenton as he was taking off his overcoat, placing it on a hanger, putting it on his coat stand. His actions were mechanical, no life to them.

  ‘Sir.’

  He looked at her, a weariness in his face and body that was impossible to hide. He looked nearer the end of the day than the start of it.

  ‘Diane.’ He tried not to sigh as he said her name. She knew it wasn’t anything personal. ‘You’re very bright and breezy this morning.’ He looked at her again. ‘I take that back. You look like you haven’t been to bed.’

  ‘Got a couple of hours’ kip in the office, sir.’ The word ‘overtime’ began to form on Fenton’s lips so Nattrass hurriedly continued. ‘I think we may have a breakthrough.’ She was breathing so hard she could barely get the words out.

  A light went on in his eyes, a small kindling. He uncurled his tired shoulders, stood upright. ‘Tell me.’ He perched on the edge of his desk.

  ‘The last girl who disappeared, Jill Tennant. We’ve been focusing on trying to trace the youths who were seen walking along the road beside her.’

  Fenton said nothing, waited.

  ‘I think we’ve been looking at the wrong people.’

  ‘Explain.’

  Nattrass took a big breath, went on. ‘I checked some of the eyewitness statements from Jill Tennant’s disappearance. Yes, there were two youths carrying on. But a lot of them also mentioned an old couple. Or what they took to be an old couple.’

  She paused, tried to get her breath back. She felt dizzy, light-headed.

  ‘This is how we didn’t get it first. How it slipped past. Witness statements this time say an old couple and then leave it at that. They don’t seem to have been pressed on it. Except one. This witness—’ she checked the name on one of the papers in her file ‘—Hazel Blaine, says it wasn’t an old couple walking down the street, but a man pushing an old woman in a wheelchair. So I checked the statements for Ashley Malcolm’s disappearance. Same thing. Man pushing a woman in a wheelchair. And then I contacted forensics about the Ashley Malcolm crime scene. T
he snow was melting that night, so they couldn’t get a definite print, but they found tracks on the pavement—’ she consulted another piece of paper in her file ‘—“consistent with a pram or a wheelchair”.’ She closed the file, looked at Fenton. ‘I’m willing to bet there’ll be something similar in the Lisa Hill files. I think that’s our man.’

  Fenton stood up, tiredness gone from his body, eyes alight once more.

  ‘And you’ve been up all night?’

  She shrugged. ‘More or less.’

  He shook his head. Smiled. ‘Jesus, the overtime. Right,’ he said. ‘We need to trace this eyewitness, re-interview her. See if she can put together an e-fit. Then re-interview all the witnesses, see if we can get a better description of this man. Right. Meeting in the incident room, five minutes. The whole team, detectives and uniforms. No one starts anything until they’ve heard it.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Nattrass turned to leave.

  ‘Oh, Diane,’ he said as she was nearly through the door.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Heard anything from DS Turnbull?’

  At his words, the elation she felt began to leak out of her like air from a punctured balloon. ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Fenton nodded. ‘I see. Well, we’ll deal with him later. In the meantime, well done.’ Fenton smiled. ‘Good police work. Very good.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  She left the office, went to make arrangements for the meeting. She smiled to herself, a quick speed grin. Not all of the air had leaked out yet.

  32

  ‘She’s not there.’ The Historian sighed. ‘No matter how hard I look, she’s not there.’

  Jill felt herself ebbing away. No longer a part of the world.

  ‘The one spirit I thought … I knew … I knew I’d see …’

  His words had long ago stopped meaning anything to her. They were just part of what she existed with, like the cold air on her naked skin, the pain, the regular abuses he carried out on her.

  ‘When she, when she passed over, I thought she’d still be with me. All the time. My father I didn’t care, but her …’ He sighed. ‘And I couldn’t find her. Not anywhere. I tried silence, hoping she’d come to me, I tried looking for her, actively seeking her out. You know, mediums and such. Nothing.’ His voice took on a deeper degree of sadness. ‘Nothing. And I do miss her so. Not a day goes by …’

  Jill tried to move, found it too painful. The end, she felt, couldn’t be far away. His last attack on her had been the most frenzied. He had used knives. Taken out his rage and lust on her with knives. And she couldn’t even scream.

  ‘You know,’ he continued, his voice conversational, low. ‘Sometimes – and I shouldn’t say this, should I? – but sometimes I wonder. I really do wonder. Are these really ghosts around us? Spirits of the long since departed? Or is it …’ He stopped. ‘Is it … me?’ He continued speaking, voice clearly choked with emotion. ‘Because if I can see them then I should be able to see her. But if it’s not that, well … I’m not saying I’m mad … but that would mean there’s no such thing, wouldn’t it? No ghosts. No spirits. No … soul. Do you understand? Because this is important. This is what it’s all about. It would mean there’s nothing else. Us. Now. Is all there is.’

  Jill felt a different kind of blackness dancing around her eyes. Starbursts of dark light played in front of her. She tried to breathe deep, felt her body take in only pain, not air.

  ‘And I have to know. I have to know. If the body has a spirit, a soul. If it leaves at the time of death. Because if it’s not, if there’s no such thing … then, what’s the point? Why do anything?’ He stood up, began pacing the room.

  Jill just wanted it to end. Everything to end. One way or another.

  ‘I mean, that would make us nothing more than, than bone machines. Just slabs of meat that think. Just another component in this, all this. The city. The world. Just one huge machine built on bone, kept going by bone. And flesh. Just … cogs. D’you understand?’

  His words a buzzcut blur, his voice a chainsaw hum slicing through her dimming brain.

  ‘We’re born, we live, we die, we go under the earth. And sometimes we’re remembered, but most often those graves become forgotten or lost or hidden. And the living don’t care, they just keep going, walking over the dead, not knowing who or what is underneath them. All those lives, all those deaths … Just … food for the bone machine. To keep it going. Why? It doesn’t make sense, does it? No, we must be something more. We have to be. And I have to know.’

  Jill felt him climb on top of her. Even unrestrained she would have been too weak to fight him off.

  ‘I need to know. And you’re going to tell me. You’re going to show me the truth.’

  She felt the knife, pain on pain. Again. And again. She knew the pain wouldn’t last. Couldn’t last. Knew that the torture would end soon. Knew also that whatever took its place couldn’t be worse than this.

  ‘Show me … show me …’

  Holding her hard. Another stab.

  ‘Show … me …’

  The Historian sat in the corner of his room, hunched up. Foetal, like a newborn: naked and red with blood not his own. Not born again in light and understanding, just continuing on in darkness and ignorance.

  The voices were swishing and swirling around his head like so many sonic kites. He ignored them, focused only on the body on the worktable, now just an empty, bloody husk. A slab of useless meat.

  It had been so close. So close. That rising, her body bucking … him pressing down against her, that final judder … and then … nothing.

  He would run the camera back, check the tape later. But he knew what he would find. Nothing.

  And it made him feel impotent, like when he couldn’t come in front of the whores no matter how much he strained and panted, and they would laugh at him behind their hands. They would pretend they weren’t, but he could see it in their eyes. They couldn’t hide their eyes. And he remembered the anger he felt those times. How he had lashed out. Gone too far, one time. But that had been OK, then. That had worked out, opened up a whole new avenue. Gave him something to spend his money on and a thrill of achievement. But that anger he’d felt then, that was how she made him feel now.

  So close. And this one, he had felt, would be the one. But she wasn’t cleverer, more intelligent or better than any of the others. She was just a whore, like all the rest. A useless, disappointing whore. A carcass to be used, then discarded.

  He looked around the room. The lights. The figures. No longer necessary totems for an important ritual, now just so much useless set dressing for a play missing an ending. A joke without a punchline.

  A joke.

  And that embarrassed him, angered him further.

  And it was all her fault.

  Leaping to his feet, he grabbed his knife, lunged at the empty shell before him. He slashed at it once, twice, further and again; screaming incoherent abuses, exorcising his pain and anger.

  Eventually, spent of energy and rage, he tired, dropped the knife and slumped to the floor once more. He sighed, sat completely still, barely breathing. For how long he didn’t know.

  The voices were still there, attempting to talk to him in soothing, reassuring tones. Telling him she was there, that he had missed her, that he wasn’t to worry. He didn’t listen. Didn’t trust them. He had to make up his own mind, find out for himself.

  This was no longer satisfying him. His experiments were no longer satisfying enough. He needed more. He felt impotent rage fluttering within, feeding on his stillness, growing again. Knew what he needed. Another test subject. And quickly. And he didn’t care how he got her or who she was.

  He looked again at the carcass.

  But first he had to get rid of that. And in doing so, teach them a lesson.

  A history lesson.

  He smiled widely. It was like opening a door to winter.

  He didn’t have to consult his books this time. He knew just the place.

 
; 33

  ‘Here bastard, drink this.’

  Donovan shoved a mug of hot coffee at Turnbull’s prone form. Turnbull moaned and burrowed in further. He was curled up, his face pressed into the back of the sofa, still wearing his clothes, his backside sticking out from under a duvet that Donovan, in a moment of weakness, had thrown over him the previous night.

  Donovan dragged over a small table and placed the mug on it, half-hoping Turnbull would knock it over and scald himself with it. He sat down on the armchair and looked across at him.

  ‘Oi, sleeping policeman, wake up,’ he said, louder than was necessary.

  Still no response. He picked up the remote for the hi-fi, pointed and clicked. The Drive By Truckers burst into action, their angry-hearted, Jack Daniels-fuelled, southern-fired stomp boogie kicked up to eleven. Turnbull shouted incoherently and jumped up as if on fire. Donovan, smiling, watched, his amusement tempered by the fact that the mug of coffee was still upright.

  ‘What the fuck …?’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Donovan above the din. ‘Sleep well?’

  Turnbull’s eyes roved the room. It took him several seconds to place where he was and who was talking; once he had, his body hit the back of the sofa and slumped down as if he’d been shot.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said with his eyes closed.

  ‘No way to talk to your generous host. Most people who find an intruder pissed and passed out on their sofa would call for a policeman.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Turnbull’s words seemed to come from a mouthful of pillow.

  Donovan laughed and, victory won, turned the music off. The abrupt silence seemed just as deafening. Turnbull sighed.

  ‘Oh, God …’ He breathed through his mouth, head held at one side, eyes screwed tight.

  Donovan knew the feeling well enough. As if the laws of physics had ceased to operate and you’d been made aware of the nauseating, dizzying speed of the universe. ‘If you’re looking for sympathy you’ve come to the wrong place,’ he said. ‘In fact, you’re lucky you found the right place. They take the Tony Martin approach to burglars around these parts.’