Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  He came to Peta, looked straight at her. There was a well of sadness, tiredness there. And something else. Something she couldn’t read. She tried to catch the words on his lips but failed. He moved on.

  The move had spooked her. Glancing around, she knew she wasn’t the only one.

  He reached the end of his students and with a sigh let his head drop until he was looking at the desktop.

  ‘I don’t believe,’ he began, addressing the veneered surface before him, ‘that under the present circumstances we may be able to wring a useful lesson out of today. Neither you nor me. So take the rest of the day off. Go home. Reflect. Grieve. Get drunk. Whatever.’ He sighed. ‘Imagine it’s half-term. Or a week of Sundays. It doesn’t matter which. Just … just go.’

  He put his head up. He didn’t bother to hide the tears.

  ‘Go.’

  Looking and feeling uncomfortable, the students rose and, not without hesitation, made their collective way to the door. Some attempted to stop, talk to the Prof, but he seemed off in a place they would find unreachable.

  Peta was one of the last ones to leave. She looked at him as if expecting him to say something. He said nothing. Just stared ahead. She joined the exodus.

  She walked down the corridor, heading towards the refectory. She could have a coffee, go to the library. Do some work. She could phone Joe, see what was happening with him, maybe help him in his work.

  But she didn’t.

  She thought again of the Prof and how he had looked, his eyes when they locked with hers …

  A well of sadness, of tiredness, and something else … something she couldn’t read …

  Something was going on with him, she thought. Her old police instincts told her so. But suspicions weren’t enough. She had to find out what it was.

  She felt that ball of razor wire in her stomach. That anger. And headed for the refectory. Not because she needed a coffee. But because it had a clear view of the main door. The one the Prof would enter and exit by.

  She would watch him leave.

  And then perhaps engage in a spot of office-breaking again.

  Katya was walking.

  She had walked for most of the night, headed in the direction of the city. She had walked as cars had pulled into driveways, come to rest for the last time that night, their engines cooling and ticking as she passed. As lights and TVs had been switched off in houses and flats, generating a silence and stillness that sometimes reached her on the street. As buses with no destinations had gone by, depot-bound.

  The air had turned cold around her. Small predators moved in the bushes and hedgerows to the side of her. As the night wore on, lone cars would slow as they approached her, hesitate and be gone again. She knew what the drivers were thinking, what they were planning to do with her. She knew she was taking a risk just by walking lonely streets and roads by herself in the dark. She knew there were other, bigger, predators out there. But she didn’t care. She was lit by an inner light, driven by a sense of purpose. She knew she would reach her destination; no one would stop her from getting there. That wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  Just in case someone was tempted to approach her she repeated her plan to herself, aloud, over and over in her native language, like a mantra. Something to ward off evil spirits. Keep her heart and mind focused on where she was going, what she had to do.

  The words were old, familiar. She drew strength from them, companionship. The words and what was behind them made her feel she was no longer alone. Made her feel that others were walking with her. Offering her the rough magic charms of old comforts, old protections.

  And it worked. No one stopped. No one approached her. She was left alone.

  Dawn broke like a sickly egg over the city skyline. By that time tiredness had come and gone, struggled to claim her as the devil in the desert struggled to claim Jesus Christ. But she won. She spoke her mantra aloud, chased the demon of fatigue away. It left with no claim on her. She had felt good after that struggle, calm. She had rewarded herself with a rest, watching the sunrise.

  Katya was sitting on a wall in one of the town’s suburban outer circles. She had taken her new trainers off, saw the damage for herself in the morning light. Her feet had turned to lumps of painful stone, the skin rubbed away in places leaving her socks soaked with blood and sweat. She found an unused tissue in her pocket, split it and inserted the halves into each sock. It was temporary, it wouldn’t hold, but it would have to do. She rubbed them, tried to ignore the pain, concentrate on what was important to her. Only a little longer and that pain would be gone.

  Or at least transferred. Permanently transferred.

  She pulled her trainers back on. Her feet cried out in silent agony. She ignored them. She had to keep walking. Time was precious.

  Standing up, she resumed her walk. Not far now. Soon it would be time to make another call. Then they would meet.

  Then, and not until then, so many souls could finally be at rest.

  She smiled. Took herself once more to the place where pain couldn’t touch her.

  And kept walking.

  The day wore on. And Donovan and Turnbull found they were having very little luck.

  ‘Course, it’s the wrong time of day for this kind of stuff,’ said Turnbull knowledgeably. ‘Should be here at night. That’s when most of them come out. When a man’s most base desires demand satisfaction.’

  ‘Speaking from experience here, are we?’ Donovan couldn’t keep from laughing.

  ‘Fuck off. You know what I mean.’

  Donovan did, but he wouldn’t admit it to Turnbull. They were sitting in a café off the West Road in the west end of Newcastle. Once-red moulded plastic chairs and well-worn Formica-topped tables, wiped down so often there was virtually no pattern left. Dark walls and tinny Radio 2. Plates of sausages, chips, eggs, beans and bacon in various combinations set before them. Tea so strong it turned stomachs to acid. Turnbull had begun tentatively but was now wolfing his food down, a hangover kill or cure. Donovan was picking at his, risking the safest, most edible pieces, leaving the items of more dubious provenance alone.

  They hadn’t had a successful morning. Donovan had a list of prostitutes Michael Nell had persuaded to model for him together with photos. They had addresses, or approximations of addresses where the women worked or perhaps lived. The two of them had knocked on doors, attempted to strike up conversations with whoever answered. They sensed Turnbull for police, even in the clothes he was wearing, and Donovan to have no legal authority. The brothels were on shift work. No one knew, or claimed to know, the pictured women. Certainly no one could tell them where the photos had been taken.

  And Donovan still hadn’t found his phone. He had picked up his old one from the cottage and, after hastily texting Peta, Amar, Jamal and Sharkey his temporary number, was carrying it. They were used to it – he was always losing and misplacing his mobile. He hated the things but had other things to concern himself with. He would worry about its whereabouts later.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ said Donovan, contemplating a chip. ‘I came out last night and couldn’t get anywhere.’

  ‘On your own?’ asked Turnbull, his mouth wrapped around a virtually whole sausage.

  Donovan nodded.

  ‘Not surprised. Should have had Peta with you. Or that bird you had in the car that time. Eased your passage, so to speak.’

  ‘Maybe my head’s just not in the right place.’

  Donovan wasn’t even aware he had spoken aloud until he saw Turnbull stop chewing and stare at him.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Donovan. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ Turnbull took a few gulps of tea. ‘Your head. Not in the right place. Why?’

  Donovan sighed, found his half-eaten lunch fascinating. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

  Turnbull laughed. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell. After all the shit I came out with this morning? Thought we were helpin’ each other here. Don’
t have to like each other to do that.’

  Donovan said nothing. Turnbull shrugged. ‘Please yourself, then. I don’t care.’

  ‘I’ve just got back from Wales. I thought I’d found David. I thought I’d found my son.’ Donovan spoke without looking up.

  Turnbull stopped eating, looked at Donovan. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘You mean … you mean dead?’

  ‘Yeah, I mean dead.’

  Turnbull looked hard at him, the unasked question on his lips.

  ‘No,’ said Donovan, returning the stare. ‘It wasn’t him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Turnbull nodded. ‘They know who …’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Who knows? A boy washed up on the shore. Another unsolved mystery. Another report in another file somewhere.’ He stopped speaking, thought. About everything else that was causing him concern. Katya. Jamal. ‘And then to come back and find the office ransacked …’

  Turnbull put down his knife and fork. ‘What? Your office?’

  Donovan had done the same thing again, speaking without realizing. He nodded.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  ‘We’re not married. I don’t have to tell you everything.’

  ‘But still …’ Turnbull started to question Donovan on the break-in. Proper copper’s questions. Donovan wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  He managed to tell Turnbull as little as he needed to know, keeping Decca Ainsley and his unidentified friend out of it. Turnbull seemed satisfied by what he heard, finished his lunch, threw his knife and fork down with a clatter, wiped his mouth with his waxy napkin, drained the toxic tea from his mug, sat back.

  ‘Feeling better?’ asked Donovan.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Much better. More like me old self.’

  Great, thought Donovan.

  ‘You know,’ said Turnbull, sitting back and lighting himself a fag with no regard as to whether Donovan had finished eating or if he was offended by it, ‘we’ve been going about this all wrong. No wonder you weren’t gettin’ anywhere.’

  ‘And I suppose you know a way to do this that’ll get results.’

  Turnbull grinned what he assumed was a supremely confident grin, completely unaware of the baked bean husks and lumps of unmasticated sausage that lay nestling in the front of his teeth.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Stick with your uncle Paul, you can’t go wrong.’

  ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ said Donovan. He stood up, began to pull on his leather jacket. ‘If you’re so sure of yourself, then, you can get the bill.’

  Donovan turned and walked to the door without looking back or stopping. Turnbull’s grin fell slightly, but he still made his way to the till and paid, then followed Donovan outside.

  The Historian had locked himself away, not for the first time that day, in a toilet cubicle. It was where he came to find solace, no matter how temporary, during his working day.

  The adrenalin high had been and gone, the racking, aching guilt had been ridden out, the panic attacks had subsided. Anyone watching his actions would have thought him to have a bad attack of the runs. And that was the excuse he had ready to give if anyone should ask.

  But they hadn’t. And now he was breathing regularly again, in control once more. He thought back to his early morning’s work.

  The husk had been deposited according to plan. He had been worried it wouldn’t work, that the planning and positioning were too hurried, not thought through enough. But it was fine. He hadn’t been spotted; he had walked up to the lamppost and walked away unharmed. And left them a conundrum that was childishly obvious to him but painfully obscure for the thick, uneducated heads of the police force.

  And he liked that. Drew power from that feeling.

  Not only that, but he had even been able to go to work afterwards.

  There was one thing that rankled, though, one thing that niggled. As he was walking away, he saw the blinking eye of a CCTV camera. The sight of it had almost brought on a panic attack there and then in the street, but he had kept himself together, kept walking away.

  That CCTV camera. He had told himself there was nothing to worry about. He was familiar enough with security systems to know that nine times out of ten there would be no tape in the camera or that, if there was, it would be wiped over on the next shift. And anyway, he was sure the camera hadn’t been on him.

  Pretty sure.

  Panic has risen again at that. He had managed to hold it down. It kept recurring all day but, with frequent trips to the toilet, he had managed to cope with it. Concentrate on the important things. Get the voices to talk to him, tell him things were OK. They were going to be OK. It would all work out in the end. Because inside him, that familiar need was gnawing, that hunger growing. Quicker this time, the gap between test subjects getting shorter. He needed another one, fast. He had to know, had to find out.

  He stood still, tested his body with a deep breath: in, hold steadily … and out slowly. Good. And again, just to make sure. In, hold steadily … and out slowly. Good. His breathing was fine.

  He flushed the toilet, stepped from the cubicle and up to the mirror. He ran his hands under the water, just in case anyone should walk in, dried them on his trousers, then walked out, back to the rest of the world.

  He walked, watched. Felt strong and secure in his power over those he saw, felt the familiar stirrings of an erection in his trousers. Good. He walked with his hips thrust out, enjoying the feel of the fabric against his engorged skin.

  Cup of tea time.

  He made his way into the rest room he had been using for the last couple of days, nodded to some of the others in there. He brewed up, took his mug to one of the easy chairs, sat down before the TV. The local evening news was on.

  And there he was.

  Blurred and grainy but unmistakably him.

  He jumped, spilling hot liquid over his thigh. He glanced furtively round, hoping none of the others had seen him do that. They hadn’t. Their attention was riveted on the screen. He joined them.

  The reporter was wrapping up, talking about how the killer had made a mistake that could prove to be fatal. His last one. He gave that grave, middle-distance stare that they all did at the end of serious news items, then it was back to the studio. The anchorwoman was looking equally grave. His picture flashed up on the screen again, blown up as big as it would go, with a phone number underneath.

  He heard voices behind him: his colleagues giving their opinion of what they would do with the killer, how they wished he was in the room with them right now. How he wouldn’t get out alive, how they would take their time, make him suffer like he made all his victims suffer.

  He wanted to turn, look at them, shout out what they had wrong. That it wasn’t about the suffering. That it was a carefully controlled medical experiment. How they didn’t understand. How they would never understand.

  Hoping his hands weren’t shaking too much, he stood up, placed his near-untouched mug of tea on the draining board and left the room.

  They were on to him. It was only a matter of time. He had been careless, hurried, and now it was only a matter of time. But not now. Not yet. Not when he was so close to finding out the truth. It couldn’t stop now, otherwise it had all been for nothing.

  He had to plan. Find his next test subject. And fast.

  But not straight away.

  First he had to go to the toilet.

  35

  Katya was waiting.

  She sat in the Intermezzo coffee bar nursing her third cappuccino. The caffeine was starting to give her the shakes now, but she didn’t know what else she could do. Walking around town was out; she had walked enough for today, had to save her feet for the final bit of walking she would do later. So she had found somewhere Donovan had taken her. Somewhere she felt relatively safe. Somewhere to be anonymous, to drink and watch the world go by.

  Shoppers, office workers, unemployed. Going by and carrying their cares and worries with them, their loves and hatreds. Thinking of themselves as civili
zed. Cultured even, some of them. None of them realizing how thin the web was holding them in check. How easily the mask of respectability could be removed. Just slightly educated animals. Each carrying an in-built receiver that just needed the right signal, the correct permission and the bloodlust would begin. She had seen it happen. With her own eyes.

  She sipped her coffee, shook her head. She didn’t like spending so long on her own, because once her mind began travelling down that lost, dark highway, unwanted thoughts would arrive in her mind. Unbidden ones, unpleasant. And as difficult to dislodge as concrete monoliths.

  The massacre.

  Her family.

  The gangsters and what they did to her.

  What they forced her to do.

  Another mouthful of coffee, another shake of the head.

  At Joe Donovan’s she had tried to blot those experiences out; relax, luxuriate even, in her new-found freedom. Focus on the future: reuniting with her brother, getting official papers to stay in the country. Making a new life for themselves. A better one. A happier one.

  She had tried not to give in to depression and despair, tried not to sleep all day, help herself to his alcohol. Follow the old, well-worn routes: numb herself, desensitize herself. Then take a knife to her skin and carve pain into her body. Create manageable pain, controllable pain. The kind that reminded her she was alive, but on her own terms.

  It had been a struggle, one that at times she didn’t feel she had the strength to win. But that fire inside her kept her going, kept her strong. Those words of hope, those thoughts. The plan. And the burning desire to see that plan implemented carried her through.

  And Donovan had helped too.

  Poor Joe Donovan. A good man with a good heart. Under different circumstances she might have enjoyed her time with him. Her intimate time. Seen it as more than just a means to an end. She wished she could feel sorry for using him. But sorrow for others was a luxury she could no longer allow herself. Not after what she had been through, what had been done to her. Not when she needed to focus on what remained to be done.