by Shaun Hutson
She had everything that her husband’s lover had, so what had made him throw away his settled family life for a fly-by-night tart? It was a question she had asked herself many times and one to which she would probably never know the answer.
She sat down, massaging the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to force the thoughts from her mind. They still hurt, even after two years.
‘Mummy, I’ve finished.’
The call came from upstairs. From the bathroom.
‘Kim smiled and got to her feet, padding up the stairs in time to see Clare emerging onto the landing, her rabbit-motif dressing gown flapping open, her glistening blonde hair flowing behind her like a diaphanous train, reaching as far as the middle of her back.
‘I cleaned my teeth,’ Clare said, grinning broadly to show her handiwork.
Kim nodded approvingly and kissed the top of her daughter’s head as they walked into the smaller bedroom with its brightly coloured wallpaper and mobiles hung from the ceiling. Clare clambered into bed and pulled the covers up around her neck, looking into her mother’s face. Kim leant forward and kissed the child once more, but as she pulled back, Clare touched her cheek, drawing one small index finger through the single tear which had slid down from her mother’s eye.
‘Why are you sad, Mummy?’ she asked.
‘I’m not,’ Kim whispered. ‘People cry when they’re happy, too, you know. I’m happy because I’ve got you and I love you.’ She pulled the covers more tightly around her daughter and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now, you go to sleep.’
‘Were you thinking about Daddy?’
The question came so unexpectedly that Kim was momentarily speechless. She swallowed hard and then shrugged.
‘No,’ she lied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I think about him sometimes but I don’t miss him. Not as long as you’re here. You won’t go away, will you, Mummy?’
Kim shook her head and hugged Clare tightly, aware of more tears trickling down her face. She hurriedly wiped them away as she stood up.
‘Sleep,’ she said, flicking off the bedside light. ‘Love you.’
She retreated slowly from the room, pulling the door closed behind her, pausing on the landing for a moment before making her way downstairs. As she reached the hall there was a knock on the door. Kim opened it to find Inspector Wallace standing there. He smiled and reached for his I.D. card, but Kim chuckled.
‘It’s all right, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I remember who you are.’
‘I did ask you if I could take a statement,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
She ushered him in, through the hall to the living room. He spotted her notes lying beside the chair.
‘I won’t keep you a minute,’ he said. ‘Just a few words about what happened yesterday.’
She offered him coffee and he accepted gratefully, watching her as she walked barefoot into the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a baggy jumper, the sleeves rolled up as far as the elbows. He sat down on the sofa and loosened his tie as Kim returned with the coffee and settled herself in the chair opposite, one leg drawn up beneath her.
‘I’m sorry to bother you at home,’ he said. ‘but this won’t take long.’
He had the questions prepared and as she answered them he scribbled a few notes down. Just routine, so to speak. Tying up loose ends. All part of the job, Wallace told himself. He closed the notebook again and pocketed it as Kim went to refill the coffee mugs.
‘I gather that what you found was important,’ he said, sipping his drink. ‘At least Mr Cooper gave that impression.’
‘Yes, it is important. He thinks it’s the biggest site of its kind to have been discovered this century, if you take into account the underground passages. At first we thought there were just two, but it’s like a honeycomb down there. Those tunnels could stretch for miles. There’s a lot of work to be done. It’s a pity we won’t have time to finish it.’
Wallace looked puzzled but Kim explained what Cutler had said earlier.
‘Charles isn’t very happy at the prospect of the dig being closed down. None of us are,’ she told him, ‘but there’s nothing we can do if Cutler makes his mind up.’
‘This is going to sound like a cliché,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but you’re not exactly my idea of an archaeologist.’
Kim laughed and the sound seemed to brighten the room. Wallace returned her smile, his eyes held by her attractive pale blue ones.
‘What would you say if I told you that you don’t look like a policeman?’ she said. ‘You look too young. And, by the way, the photo on your I.D. card is lousy. It doesn’t even look like you.’
It was his turn to laugh.
They sat in silence for a moment, then Wallace got to his feet and announced that he had to go.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said as Kim led him to the front door. ‘And the compliment.’ He smiled.
‘I hope that next time we talk it’ll be for different reasons,’ she said, her eyes sparkling in the twilight.
He nodded, thanked her again and walked out to his car.
Wallace heard the door close behind him but he didn’t look round. Had he done so he might well have seen the small figure of Clare Nichols standing at one of the bedroom windows looking down at him.
Thirteen
The vein pulsed thickly, looking like a bloated worm nestling beneath the skin. It swelled even more as the youth tugged harder on the piece of material wrapped tightly around the top of his arm. He opened and closed his fist, watching as the bulging vein fattened almost to bursting point.
It was then that he inserted the hypodermic needle.
The steel needle punctured the blood vessel and the lad pushed it deeper, his thumb depressing the plunger of the hypo, forcing the liquid into his body. He drained the last dregs then pulled the needle free, ignoring the small spurt of blood which accompanied its exit from his flesh. He pulled off the tourniquet and clenched his fist, raising his arm up and down from the elbow.
Gary Webb sank back on the leather sofa, his body quivering slightly, but there was a blank smile on his face as he handed the needle to the girl who sat beside him. She watched him for a moment. The veins in his thick bull neck were throbbing and his muscular chest heaved contentedly. He looked at her, watching as she inspected the crook of her own left arm, using her nails to pick away the three or four scabs which had formed there. The pieces of hardened crust came away and Laura Price slapped at the raw part of her arm using the first two fingers of her free hand, watching as the veins began to stand out.
Henry Dexter smiled and closed the door, leaving the two teenagers to their own devices. Out in the corridor he turned to face Mick Ferguson, who was taking a last drag on his cigarette. He dropped the butt onto the polished wood floor of the corridor and shrugged.
‘That had better be good stuff,’ said Dexter, eyeing the other man suspiciously.
Beside them on a table lay two small bags of white powder.
‘It’s the best quality heroin you’re ever likely to get,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now, I didn’t come here to pass the time of day. You owe me some money.’
Dexter picked up the bags and dropped them into the pocket of his jacket. Then he and Ferguson walked down the corridor to another room. There was an open fire burning in the grate, and the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air.
‘Very cosy,’ said Ferguson. ‘You did well when your old man died. How much did he leave you? Two million, wasn’t it? I remember reading something in the paper at the time.’
Dexter passed in front of the fire, the glowing tongues of flame momentarily illuminating his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes and chin. He was almost forty-five, slim and athletically built. Dressed in a well-tailored jacket and trousers, his shirt pressed and sparkling white, he looked immaculate.
‘Was it two million?’ Ferguson persisted.
‘What differenc
e does it make to you, Ferguson?’ he said, crossing to a large wall safe hidden behind a passable copy of a Goya. It depicted a young witch having intercourse with a demon, the creature’s long tongue being used to penetrate her anus. Dexter fiddled with the combination of the safe, pulled the door open and fished out some money. He also carefully placed the heroin alongside the other bags which half filled the cavity.
‘It’s an expensive habit,’ Ferguson said, grinning.
‘It is at the prices you charge,’ the older man told him.
‘Look, most heroin is only 55% pure by the time it hits the streets. The dealers mix it with sugar, brick dust and fucking Vim. That stuff,’ he pointed to the safe, ‘is 70% pure.’
Dexter nodded and held out a wad of notes.
‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Five hundred pounds. Count it if you like.’
Ferguson grinned and stuffed the money into his pocket.
‘I trust you,’ he replied, his attention drawn by a large dagger which hung over the fireplace, its blade glinting in the glow of the flames. He reached up and took it down, hefting it before him. On the mantelpiece there was a candlestick shaped like the head of a goat. The eyes were small rubies and the firelight made it look as if they were glowing. ‘Do you really believe all this shit about witchcraft?’ Ferguson wanted to know.
Dexter didn’t answer, he merely fixed the other man with an unblinking stare.
‘Or do you think those kids you use believe in it? Have you got one of your little ceremonies coming up again, eh? Is that why you need the heroin? To keep them interested?’ He chuckled.
‘Why don’t you just get out of here, Ferguson?’
‘How many of them are underage? Those two in the other room look pretty young’.
Dexter took a step forward but hesitated when he saw Ferguson lower the knife.
‘I couldn’t care less what you get up to in that wood of yours,’ Ferguson said, walking past the older man. ‘I don’t care how many kids you turn into junkies. It’s more money for me. And if that’s the only way you can get them to go along with you, then fine, that’s your business too.’
He stood by the French doors, gazing out into the darkness, his eyes drawn to the black smudge on the nearby hillside where the wood grew. It lay less than half a mile from the house itself. He ran his thumb slowly along the blade of the dagger, then flipped it into the air, allowing the blade and hilt to spin round before catching it safely. He handed it back to Dexter and headed for the door.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said, and Dexter heard his footsteps echoing away down the corridor. He held the dagger before him, then turned and looked up at the mottled sky, where silvery clouds formed a transparent shroud over the moon.
He thought about Ferguson. Arrogant bastard!
He thought about Laura and Gary in the other room, and the others.
His followers.
He smiled crookedly. So what if they only came along for the drugs. They served their purpose. Or at any rate they would. Soon.
Henry Dexter closed and locked the wall safe. Then, replacing the dagger, he wandered off to join his two young companions in the next room.
He could already feel the erection throbbing inside his trousers.
Fourteen
The cellar was large, running beneath the entire house.
As Ferguson descended the stone steps to the lower level a musty odour of urine and straw rose to meet him. The room was empty but for what looked like a set of wall bars in one corner and, against the far wall, two steel cages. The stone floor was a strange rust-red colour. Ferguson paused by the two enclosures and smiled.
Chained inside each one was a dog.
The first was jet black, its coat thick and lustrous, but unable to disguise its powerful, brutish build. The animal was a pit bull terrier. As Ferguson knelt close to the cage it strained against its chain and began barking at him, but it was the animal in the next cage that now claimed his attention.
It was the same breed as its neighbour but much larger, more striking and more fearsome in appearance. The dog was an albino. Its thin coat was brilliant white, in stark contrast to the bloodied pink of its piercing eyes. The offspring of Ferguson’s incestuous mating of its sister pup and its own father, the creature was almost insane and that madness showed in the way it launched itself at the man who had come to feed it. But Ferguson merely smiled and looked deep into those watery pink eyes, transfixed by them, still amazed at the ferocity of this particular dog. He went to a small portable fridge in one corner of the room and pulled out two metal trays, both full of raw meat.
‘Those bloody dogs eat better than we do.’
He allowed himself only a perfunctory glance in the direction of the voice. Swaying uncertainly at the top of the stairs was his wife, Carol. At twenty-eight, she was four years younger than her husband, but already her face was heavily fined. What make-up she wore was clumsily applied, particularly to her lips. Heavy-breasted and a little too large around the hips, she wore a skirt that was shiny through too much wear and too tight to fasten without strain at the waist.
She watched silently as her husband laid the meat trays in front of the cages. The two dogs, aroused by the smell of food, began barking loudly.
Ferguson took a lump of the dripping raw flesh and tossed it into the albino’s cage. The animal snapped it up and chewed hungrily, some of the dark juice dripping from its jaws.
Carol began a faltering journey to the cellar floor, putting out a hand to steady herself.
‘What do you want?’ Ferguson asked. ‘Run out of booze, have you?’
She stood quietly for a moment, watching the ravenous beasts as her husband continued to feed them scraps of meat. The fetid stench of excrement and straw that filled the cellar made her cough.
‘It stinks down here,’ she mumbled, stepping closer to the cages, her eyes fixed on the dogs.
‘Nobody asked you to come down here,’ he hissed. ‘Go on, piss off back to your bottle.’
‘You bastard,’ she said and tried to hit him, but Ferguson was too quick for her. He spun round and lashed out, catching her across the face with the back of his hand. The impact of the blow sent her sprawling and, as she scrambled to her feet, she tasted blood in her mouth. The blow had loosened one of her front teeth and she prodded it tentatively with her tongue. The pain galvanized her into action, and with fists flailing she ran at Ferguson.
He grinned, as if her onslaught were some kind of challenge. He ducked under her clumsy swing and grabbed her hair, several tufts coming away in the process.
The dogs were barking madly now, making an unbearable din in the confined space of the cellar. The sound reverberated around the walls until it became deafening.
Carol screamed and struck out at her husband again but he caught her wrist, squeezing tightly, dragging her down to the floor with him. He was smiling insanely as he hauled her across the ground, and her eyes bulged in terror as she saw what he intended to do.
He guided her hand towards the bars of the albino dog’s cage, laughing as the ferocious animal barked and snapped at the offered appendage.
Carol shrieked as she felt her hand touch the cold steel of the bars. She made a fist to prevent her husband from pushing the hand through but he slammed it repeatedly against the bars until her knuckles bled and her fingers went limp. The dog, already going mad in its eagerness to reach the hand, became completely frenzied at the sight of the blood which dripped from the gashed knuckles.
Carol could feel its hot breath only inches away from her, and the foul odour of it made her want to vomit.
‘It’ll have your fucking hand off in five seconds flat,’ rasped Ferguson, keeping her pinned helplessly against the bars. ‘Want me to show you?’ He jerked her hand closer to the foaming jaws of the crazed dog.
Both dogs kept straining violently against their chains, and their barking seemed to grow louder and louder until Carol was aware of nothing else. She felt herself blacking
out, but Ferguson pulled her head back and with his free hand tugged her away from the cage. Her blouse ripped and her large breasts were exposed. She could feel his erection pressing against her as they grappled on the floor and his hands squeezed her breasts roughly, leaving red marks around the nipples.
She tried to push him off but he was too heavy for her. She felt his other hand reaching beneath her skirt, tearing at her knickers. He ripped them off with one savage grunt and flung them aside.
‘Next time I’m going to let them tear your fucking hand off,’ Ferguson said, his breath coming in short gasps. He stared down at Carol and she tried one last time to slither away from him, but he pinned her beneath him with one powerful arm, releasing his bulging organ from his trousers with his free hand and then forcing her legs apart.
The black pit terrier managed to slip its chain and it slammed into the bars only inches from Carol’s face, its frenzied barks ringing in her ears, its saliva spattering her.
‘Looks like he wants to join us,’ laughed Ferguson, and he drove into her savagely, making her shriek with the sudden sharp pain. He leant forward to kiss her and, as he did, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit hard, feeling the fleshy bulge split. Blood filled her mouth and she spat it at him, but Ferguson ignored the discomfort. He pinned both her arms to the filthy floor, wet with dog urine, and pounded into her, his deep grunts of pleasure mingling in her ears with the noise of the animals.
