by Steve Mosby
‘I miss you so much,’ he whispered.
‘And Paul Carlisle,’ the voice said. ‘The last of them.’
Groves put the photograph down gently, then looked out through the doorway again. Even kneeling on the floor, he could still see down the sloping path to the floodlit clearing. To the man kneeling there, penitent in the rain.
‘The last of them,’ the voice said again.
Groves understood. He looked down at the second item that had been left for him.
After a few moments, he picked up the gun, clambered painfully to his feet, and stepped outside into the driving rain.
Pete stopped the car short of the illuminated clearing. The other van pulled up alongside us.
‘Everybody wait,’ Pete said into his mic. ‘Hang fire. I repeat: hang fire,’
I stared through the windscreen. The rain was so heavy now that the wipers were having trouble slashing it away.
The circular clearing was about twenty metres in diameter, and brightly lit by four floodlights positioned around the edges, their lamps angled downwards towards the man kneeling in the centre, his arms out in front of him, cuffed at the wrists and tethered to a post in the muddy ground. He was naked, his skin bright white where it wasn’t bruised, and his head was resting on his outstretched arms, face pointed down.
For a moment, all I could hear was the rain. But I could see enough of the man to recognise him.
‘That’s Paul Carlisle,’ I said quietly.
He had been abducted and brought here. But in his case, there had been no pretence at faking a death or staging a scene, and he hadn’t been confined to a cell underground.
To the right, a pale path wound up a hill towards the church. There was a thatch of trees to the side of it, and I could see people there: five or six of them, naked and bedraggled, their arms chained around the trees, as though embracing the trunks. Their knees and feet were churning the mud into waves. Where I could see faces, they looked shocked and terrified.
‘Jesus,’ Greg said quietly, leaning between the seats.
‘And look over there.’ Pete pushed his arm in front of me, pointing in the direction of the large building to our left.
The main building of what had once been Cane Hill Hospital stood four storeys tall. Here at the back, at ground level, there was a patio with an awning above, and as I watched, I saw an old man walking slowly along it. I couldn’t see his face, but he was dressed in a neat black suit.
‘One of the Cane twins,’ I said.
‘So where’s the other?’
I scanned the treeline, where the people were tied up. They were the damned, I guessed – the occupants of Hell, brought out from beneath the church to witness whatever was taking place here. From what Charlie had told me, Heaven was based in the main building. So if one of the brothers was over there, the other ...
‘Somewhere in the trees, I guess,’ I said.
‘I think you’re right.’
Pete inclined his head towards his mic again, and I could tell he was about to order everybody out. But that was when I saw the figure moving down the path from the church, and I held out my hand.
‘Wait. Look.’
This new man was emaciated, his skin hanging off his bones, and he was walking awkwardly, stumbling slightly, as though he hadn’t moved as far as this in a long time and was on the verge of collapse. As he staggered into the floodlit clearing, I realised who it was. I’d seen the photo in the file.
‘That’s David Groves,’ I said.
As I watched him limping closer to Paul Carlisle, I noticed the gun he was carrying, and suddenly I understood. Not completely, and not the why of it, but the what.
David Groves was a good man. A decent man.
Maybe the best man I’ve ever known.
Without thinking, I opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.
The baby was crying.
Which was bad luck, Merritt thought. But then, what could you do? From his army days, he remembered a soldier raising some ethical dilemma, when the rest of them were all reclined on their bunks. You’ve rescued a woman and her baby in enemy territory, and you’re hiding afterwards, and the baby starts crying. If you don’t kill the kid, the soldier told them, the enemy are going to find you and kill you all. If you do, you’ll be okay, but you’ll have killed a baby. None of them had taken the scenario seriously at the time; they’d all laughed it off. Life didn’t work like that. You did what you were told, or what you had to do. Killing the baby wasn’t going to help him here, otherwise he would have done it.
‘What’s happening?’ Jamie said.
Merritt looked across the room. The boy was doing his best to soothe Ella, but for once the baby was oblivious to his attentions. It was as though the little girl knew everything was falling apart. Merritt could hear the officers working their way through the rooms on the lower floor. A few shouts. None of his men were here tonight, but there were immigrant workers – carers and the like – who didn’t know the full truth of Cane Hill, and who were probably panicking, wondering what the hell was going on. Nothing bad was happening in this room yet, but that would change very shortly. The baby seemed to know that, as though it had some kind of sixth sense.
Merritt checked his gun.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said.
‘What’s happening outside?’ Jamie asked again.
‘A test.’
‘What kind of test?’
What kind indeed? Merritt heard a clattering next door, and then movement in the corridor outside the room. The door was locked, but that wouldn’t stop them. Not for long.
‘Take Ella into the centre of the room for me, please.’
Jamie did as he was told, carrying the baby. Merritt moved into the corner of the room, behind the door. When it opened, it would act as a shield. He’d have a chance.
Not a good one, admittedly. When the alarm had first sounded, he hadn’t quite believed it. This wasn’t meant to be the way things ended here. Whatever he thought about the Cane family deep down, his life here had been a good one, and – again picking his words carefully – he’d wanted them to have the conclusion they desired. He’d immediately done the mental calculations, and figured his chances of escape were slim. He could have run for the woods, but the weather was bad and the terrain on this side of the compound was terrible. He wasn’t sure he could reach civilisation, gather his things and get away in time. He had an exit strategy, of course, but it required a twelve-hour head start, and it began with him being able to drive out of here.
It all catches up with you in the end.
He shook his head.
‘What kind of test?’ Jamie said again.
‘The Book of Job,’ Merritt said.
Of course, that meant nothing to the boy. A part of Merritt wanted to explain. He wanted to tell the boy that, in a story in a book called the Bible, God had pointed to Job as a righteous man, but had then been challenged by the Devil, who argued that Job’s goodness and faith were only due to circumstances -that they came from the abundances God had blessed him with. So God allowed the Devil to torment and torture the righteous Job, taking everything from him apart from his life. All simply in order to test him: a bet between the pair of them to see if, in the end, Job would curse God and relinquish his faith and everything he believed in. A human life reduced to the status of a poker chip.
The door handle rattled twice, then stopped. Merritt said nothing. They wouldn’t try again, he knew. The next time, the door would come in. He had enough bullets to take a few of them – maybe buy Cane some time to see the result of his wager. For himself, he wasn’t going to prison. That would be intolerable. He would save one bullet: head off to whatever actual afterlife was waiting out there. If there was one, then for him it would be Hell. He knew that for certain. His own heart was entirely settled.
‘What does that mean?’ Jamie said.
Merritt didn’t answer.
The door banged and splintered. He took aim.
The last of them.
Groves couldn’t even remember the man’s name as he moved across the clearing towards him. What did names matter anyway? He believed what he’d been told. The Devil, at least, had never lied to him.
The world around him was shaking and trembling, but he struggled on, his thigh muscles sore and tight now. The gun in his hand was heavy; hard to keep hold of it. But he did. Moving slowly towards the man.
What did it matter?
The rain soaked his hair and was pouring down his face, pooling in his eye sockets like tears. He blinked it away, then rubbed at his face with the back of his free hand, only for more water to take its place. He was shaking violently, but barely registered the discomfort. As bad as the weather was, and as much of a shock to the skin, it still seemed warmer out here than it had been in the grave.
David, David, David.
Someone was shouting his name.
He ignored it, remaining focused on the man kneeling in front of him now.
The last of them.
The man barely even looked like a human being any more, crouched and folded over like that. He reminded Groves more of cattle: staked up and shivering and ready for slaughter. He recognised the muscles and form of a man, but the sight was almost alien to him now; it barely made sense. With every drop of rain, the thing moaned and shuddered, as though being struck by gunfire rather than water. Even if it had once been a man, its actions had long since taken it out of that sphere.
David.
Groves remembered the dream he’d had, and the bitter satisfaction he’d gained from imagining hurting the people who had killed his son. And why shouldn’t he? What difference had it ever made, trying to do the right thing? He’d have arrested him once, he dimly remembered. He’d had a belief in justice. Where had that got him? It was a lifetime away now. How naïve he had been.
David!
With the rain hitting him from all sides, Groves pressed the gun into the back of the man’s neck. The man tried to duck away, legs kicking in the mud, but Groves raised his hand and pushed the barrel down harder, between the tendons. The man stopped fighting, apparently resigned.
Everybody stand back!
STAND BACK!
Groves put his finger on the trigger. Everything had counted for nothing, and here was the man – the last of them – who had murdered his son, who had taken his world from him and caused all this to happen. The hatred piled up inside him, and he started to pull the trigger.
David! Don’t forget who you are!
The gunshot rang out.
And then another: a dull thud.
A third.
Then silence.
Groves stared down at the gun in his hand, confused by the sounds. The gunshots had been real, and yet his finger was still on the trigger, and the man on the ground was still alive and whimpering. He looked around, the rain splashing over his face, and for the first time he noticed the cars around the clearing, and the young man who was standing at the edge of the light, one foot into the mud. The man who had just been talking to him.
Now, though, that man was looking off towards a large building to one side, with an expression of horror on his face. That was where the shots had come from, Groves realised. Something had happened in there. There was shouting coming from that direction now, and when the younger man turned back towards him, he looked terrified.
‘David,’ he said. ‘Please. Don’t forget who you are.’
Groves stared at him for a moment, at the panic and desperation on his face. He looked back at the man kneeling before him, then up into the sky, closing his eyes. He held the trigger firm. The rain struck him hard – constant solid taps on his face – and Groves allowed himself to become lost in it for a moment ...
He opened his eyes, and instead of rain filling the world above him, all he saw was snow: beautiful bright white crystal shapes floating down through the black sky towards him. One of them kissed him coldly on his cheek. Another landed on his forehead. Let’s never forget this moment, he thought. Let’s not forget who we are right now ...
And suddenly, the world thumped, and the rain started up again. Groves stared down at the gun in his hand, still pressed against the neck of the man cowering on the ground, then up at the man standing metres away from him, his hands out now.
‘David, please.’
‘I’m not a killer,’ he said.
‘I know.’
Groves lowered the gun. Dropped it. He thought of all the things that had been taken from him – his son, his career, his faith – and he stared at the wretched man on the ground before him and whispered:
‘You’re under arrest.’
And then he closed his eyes again, feeling an inexplicable and giddy flood of love in his heart. He felt the summer sun on his face, as though God Himself was smiling at him.
I love you, Jamie, he thought. I’m coming now.
I’ve earned it.
Breathe, Sasha thought.
It was like her chest was encased in rock.
Breathe.
‘You okay?’ Killingbeck said.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You did good. We’re clear.’
The adrenalin was still coursing through her, the insidious poison of it doing everything to convince her otherwise, but he was right, and she forced herself to nod – acknowledge the simple praise. The man in the corner of the room was lying on his stomach, hands cuffed behind him, gun safely removed from the scene. Officers were attending to him, just as others were to the two children who had been in the centre of the room when Barnes had battered the door down and she had started to step inside.
She could still see it clearly. The boy had been staring at her, his eyes wide in fear and confusion, and something had made her stop just before she cleared the busted door. The boy and the baby were in the middle of the room, just as the young girl had been in the raid yesterday, and that memory had immediately come back to her. Clear the corner. Maybe without yesterday she would have attempted that mechanically, but the positioning of the children, the look on the kid’s face, had made her think bait. She had crouched down low, aiming the Taser as she cleared the door.
The first shot had gone high, just above her head.
The second had been hers. The electricity suddenly running through the man’s body had jolted his hand up, and the two quick shots he managed before dropping the gun had blown chunks of plaster from the ceiling.
All over in seconds.
Breathe.
She did, slowly. Then she walked across to the boy and the baby. The baby was screaming, which Sasha figured was fairly understandable, and the boy was doing his best to rock and reassure the child. However frightened he’d been when they had burst in, the kid seemed much calmer now. Almost unnaturally so.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she said.
He didn’t seem to acknowledge her words, too intent on soothing the child in his arms. Sasha looked to one side and saw Mark entering the room at the far side. He was moving too quickly – it’s lucky we cleared it, she thought – but he pulled up short when he saw her standing there, her visor flicked up. In all her years, Sasha didn’t think she’d ever seen such relief on someone’s face before. She could still feel the whisper of that bullet above her head, and that strange pressure wrapped around her chest – breathe; just breathe – and she smiled at him before turning back to the little boy and the baby.
‘It’s going to be okay,’ she said.
Part Six
And in life, She had named Him the Devil, for He was a wicked child with evil in His heart. And He had wanted Her to love Him, but She could not. And in life, She had named His brother God, for His virtue and goodness had been apparent. And when He came to Her in Heaven, She could not be sure which He was, and on some days She spat on Him, and on others She loved Him dearly, just as He had always desired, and so it came to pass that He became They.
Extract from the Cane Hill bible
Mark
The boy in th
e pit
Two weeks after the events at Cane Hill, I parked up outside a house in the south of the city.
The curtains were closed in the front-room window, but I saw them move as I walked up the front path, and I didn’t need to ring the bell. I was expected, of course; by the time I got to the front door, it was already opening, and I was greeted by an attractive woman in her late thirties. She had shoulder-length brown hair, cut neatly, and was wearing jeans and a mohair jumper. She looked tanned and healthy. Having spoken to Detective Sean Robertson again, I’d been led to believe that Caroline Evans had developed problems with alcohol addiction following her son Jamie’s disappearance. If so, there were no obvious signs of it now.
‘Detective Nelson?’
‘Yes.’
I showed her my ID, and she smiled. It was an odd smile. Hard to work out whether it was happy or not.
‘Please come in,’ she said.
Ten minutes later, I was sitting in an armchair in Caroline’s front room. She sat down on the settee opposite me, next to Jamie, and put her arm around her son. For a moment, he didn’t respond to the touch, and the gesture seemed a little awkward, but then he leaned into her slightly. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then moved her arm away and rested her hands in her lap.
‘Hello, Jamie,’ I said. ‘My name’s Mark. I’m a police officer. I was hoping to talk about everything that’s happened to you.’
‘I know.’ He glanced sideways. ‘Mum told me.’
‘And is that okay with you?’
‘Yes.’
He looked up at me, and I was startled by the assurance in his eyes. I remembered the photograph of the boy from the file: the one found in Paul Carlisle’s collection. Although over five years had passed since it was taken, the resemblance was clear, and there was that same sense of curiosity and confidence in the way he looked at me now.
In other ways, of course, he had changed. His hair was strawblond and shoulder-length now, and like his mother’s, his face was tanned and freckled. He looked older than his years. Even at eight, his body already seemed lean and strong, as though he’d grown up on a farm, working outside in the sunshine. The only obvious concession to his actual age was the stuffed toy he was clutching tightly in his lap. An old and battered Winnie-the-Pooh.
