Yet he could not just walk over there and introduce himself. He would, effectively, be handing himself over to police custody. And in front of the television cameras. Bad enough if Durrant was in the house, completely pointless if he wasn't.
He slowed, then decided to stop. He would sit and wait. For all that this could be where Durrant had hidden himself upon his removal from prison, he had obviously not spent the entire time in the house, and might well be out at that moment. Or perhaps he would be in, sitting with a cup of tea admiring the sea, a reformed man.
That he doubted, but he did not doubt his decision to stand back.
63
There was music playing.
Once more Durrant had lost his senses, had lost control. He did not understand what was happening to him. He had never been like this in the past; he had never had these kinds of urges in prison.
Inside, the other prisoners had all had sex. They were all allowed time with their wives or girlfriends or prostitutes. Prison denied you nothing, except the right to walk down the street when you felt like it. It certainly did not deny you sex.
Durrant had never had sex in those thirty years. Had never wanted to. He'd made an acquaintance, they had worked together, she had kept in touch after she'd left. She'd loved him, he knew that, but he had not been capable of returning the love. Or interested in returning it.
And yet, now that he had been released, now that he had pleasured himself at the expense of the first girl, he found that he was insatiable. He craved it. He couldn't get his mind off it. And it turned out that it was not just about Lorraine Allison. He'd thought he'd fallen for her, but here he was, a few days later, Allison was dead, there was a different woman strapped to the table, and he wanted her just as much. The woman he'd known all those years ago in prison, and who had not tempted him at all in that time. The woman who'd loved him, and who he could not love in return.
He'd lain in bed for as long as possible; he'd tried to think of other things; he'd tried not to play to his own excitement. But his erection was rock hard and damp, demanding his attention.
Now he was standing beside the table, between her legs, lovingly cleaning her, the way he had cleaned Allison a few days earlier. Lewis's body still lay in the room outside, only a few feet away through the open door. He felt disgust with himself at the same time as he was filled with lust.
She was clean; her legs were pulled apart. The lips of her pussy glistened. Sergeant Light did not look at him. She was scared. She had been since the moment she'd opened the door to him naked, assuming that it was Jericho, and his fist had caught her full in the face.
After that she had not seen him – although she had felt his fist again as he removed her from the car – until the moment when Lewis had tried to escape and Durrant had caught him lying on the floor.
She had not imagined prior to that moment that any of this could have involved Durrant. She had been blind to it for fifteen years. As a prison guard she had come to know the man, the quiet studious man, who worked hard and formed interesting opinions and who spoke Latin and who knew about European history. She never thought about what he had done before he'd been put in prison; she had never been able to reconcile the two men, to believe that they could be the same person. She'd put his past out of her mind, and had focussed on the man she knew and with whom she had kept in touch once she had transferred from the prison service to the police force.
She knew nothing of Jericho's involvement with Durrant, that he was the principal investigating officer who had put him away. That she had ended up at the same station had been a strange accident. That she had ended up falling for Jericho, perhaps less of an accident and more another peculiar instance of Durrant and Jericho's similarity, drawing the same things towards them.
'Why are you doing this, Gordon?' she asked.
Her voice was shaking. He'd spoken to Light more than anyone else in his life, and he had never heard her sound like this. He didn't like it. He'd always been drawn to her strength, her lack of fear, her independence.
And although his words to her in the past had been many, he would never speak to her again.
'Gordon, please.'
Her voice was thin, and he despised her for it.
They had been friends, albeit Durrant's notion of that was quite perverse in itself. He had never thought of her in a sexual way; he had never imagined her naked; he had never dreamed of having her lying before him, his to do with as he pleased.
Her body was not as beautiful as Lol's; he was not so attracted to the lines and the stretch marks, the breasts that spread out a little more over her chest. Yet he was consumed by lust and, although he did not think it at that moment, would have had any woman.
He leaned over her, his erection already engorged and damp and aching, put his hands as support on the side of the table and thrust his enormous penis inside her.
She squealed.
There was a knock at the door.
Durrant stopped mid-thrust, his face directly above hers. He grimaced. Saliva dripped from his mouth and landed on her cheek.
64
'Did you hear that?'
Constable Crowthorne turned to the crowd of television people behind him. The squeal had been quite evident in the still, grey morning. Constable Webb knocked again. He stood closer to the door, but there were no other sounds from inside.
'Maybe you people should wait back a moment,' said Crowthorne.
He looked at Claudia.
'No fucking way,' she mouthed at him.
Her look said it all. Hadn't needed the words.
'Did you pick up the scream?' she asked the soundman, leaning in towards him.
He answered in the affirmative with his eyebrows.
'Fuck, yeah,' she said.
She was pumped. Once this was in the bag, and they had made the shows they would be putting out over the next two evenings, there was a fair chance she would be able to go back to New York and accept their offer on her terms, demanding a lot more money in the process.
Webb and Crowthorne looked at each other.
'We ready?' asked Webb.
Crowthorne nodded. General acknowledgement between them that there was no getting rid of the cameras and, if they'd both been asked and had been prepared to be honest, they would have admitted that it made the whole thing even more exciting.
Crowthorne banged on the door this time.
'Open up!' he shouted, but they were no longer waiting for a response.
Webb tried the handle, door was locked. Together the two officers took a pace back and then put their shoulders to the door. There was a slight groaning of wood, but nothing more.
They were in front of the cameras. They had to make a better job of it next time. Another nod between them
The lock clicked. Cher, standing at the back, gasped, putting her hand to her mouth in a wasted affected gesture. She wasn't on camera.
The two constables stared at the door, waiting for it to open. Suddenly they felt very nervous. The door did not open.
'Hello?'
'Shit…'
'Come on,' urged Claudia behind them. 'Come on.'
There was a restlessness about the group of nine. Claudia and the cameraman could not wait to enter, excited by the chase. A couple of the others – Xav and Cher – did not think for a second that this would actually amount to anything. It was all for television; they weren't really going to be standing here if there was the possibility of a genuine serial killer being behind the door.
For the rest, they were scared, in particular the policemen, who suddenly got that feeling of impending dread. They were both thinking the same thing. They should retreat and call for back-up.
'Come on,' urged Claudia from the rear. 'Come on,' she repeated.
Another glance between the constables, then Crowthorne leaned forward, lowered the handle and pushed open the door.
There was music playing. A slow, mellow jazz version of Rockin' Chair recorded in the 50s. Hoagy Sings Carmichael. None o
f them recognised it.
They hesitated as they looked at the empty room, then Crowthorne felt the nudge of the camera at his shoulder, as the cameraman was pushed forward by an enthusiastic Claudia.
Crowthorne stepped into the house, Webb behind him, followed immediately by camera and sound. Each of the Three Musketeers hesitated, and each of them felt Claudia's hand at their backs pushing them forward.
Hattie Morris, her stomach twisting horribly into a tight hard ball of fear, fought the urge to run off back along the beach and entered last.
*
They walked into the centre of the room, looking around in wonder. For a moment, Crowthorne and Webb forgot that someone had opened the front door for them and that that person wasn't in the room. The rest of the troupe filed in behind, and were immediately struck by the curiousness of the place.
Hoagy Carmichael played on, quiet, forgotten, the source a small, old-fashioned turntable.
'Holy fuck,' said Webb.
Crowthorne did not respond. His mouth was slightly open.
'This is fucking weird,' said Webb. 'Are we looking for this kind of thing?'
He turned to Claudia, who was staring around the room, a curious smile on her face.
'Is this anything to do with the guy you might be looking for?'
'Fuck knows,' said Claudia.
The walls were lined with images of the Hanged Man. Images from throughout the ages. One or two larger paintings, but largely there were individual cards pinned to the walls. Whatever paint or wallpaper was underneath had been completely obscured.
Ando was the first to look up, and then the others followed. The ceiling was similarly plastered in the cards, although bizarrely these cards seemed lighter in feel; the borders were all pale, as though the ceiling had been decorated the way a ceiling normally would be.
And although the cards seemed to come from throughout the ages, they were all of the same tone; they all spoke with the same macabre intensity of the cards that had been sent to Jericho. The Hanged Man was suspended at both ends, and the Hanged Man was always a skeleton, smiling sinisterly out from the confines of the card, its eyes burrowing into the watcher.
The room was sparsely furnished, a small sofa against the far wall and another armchair by the window, a coffee table beside it. In the opposite corner from the door there was another table with the turntable and one small speaker.
The carpet was green and dull. Four doors led off, so that there were almost more doors than wall space. The doors too were covered in Hanged Men.
To the right was a small kitchen, the only part of the room that was untouched; yet it was small, functional, a hob and a sink, a couple of cupboards.
Crowthorne picked at a card. It was stuck to the wall. He ran his fingers over them. They had been neatly laid, each corner and edge set with precision.
'Fucking weird,' he muttered.
'Who opened the door?' said Cher into the awestruck silence.
It was a rhetorical question, as she was aware that none of them knew who had opened the door. It had just struck her that it was something they all seemed to have forgotten about.
Any curiosity or wonder they'd had was quickly supplanted by fear and a heightening of tension, as they all looked at the four doors which led off.
Only one of them was a little ajar, that to the left. The bedroom.
Crowthorne swallowed and indicated for Webb to go and check it out. Webb gave him a dubious look but turned towards the door.
It was then that he noticed the slight trail of blood on the carpet, where Durrant had hurriedly dragged Lewis' body out of the way.
The bedroom door was pushed open at that moment, and Durrant emerged. He had been in the act of putting his clothes on when the front door had opened, but then had had a last second change of mind.
Clothes would only give them something to hang on to in a fight.
He held in his hands an eight-inch knife that he'd grabbed from beside the sink on his way to unlock the door. He still had an erection, which was not gong to die down at the thought of committing murder.
The camera held fast on Durrant as the operator stumbled backwards. Cher screamed. Xav screamed.
'Oh my fuck!' shouted Claudia.
Ando, suddenly, seemed unperturbed.
'This is, like, part of the show?' he said with curiosity, while all around him were losing their heads.
Morris was closest to the door, and was the first to move in any direction other than back against a wall. Durrant had chosen which door to hide behind as it was closest to the front door and he needed to get it closed before anyone left.
He grabbed Morris as she was on the threshold, dragged her back inside and slit her throat in one balletic, flowing movement.
He closed the door in the same move in which he swirled round and tossed her body into the middle of the floor. Some of the blood from her neck splashed into his chest and stomach, some of it onto his penis.
Claudia's face drained of blood. Mikey, the cameraman, forgot the first rule of his job, and lowered the camera, so that he could stare in fear at Durrant with his own eyes.
'Is she really dead?' said Ando.
He wasn't sure yet what was happening, and didn't want to over-react in case it was all part of the show and it was a Candid Camera kind of thing. Prank Patrol.
Webb, and then Crowthorne stepped forward, ushering the others behind them. Durrant stood before them all, face impassive. Absurdly they were distracted by his nakedness.
'Is this part of the show?' asked Crowthorne.
He was looking at Durrant, but really speaking to Claudia. She didn't answer.
'You!' he said, half turning his head towards her. 'Woman. Is this part of the fucking show?'
'No!' said Claudia.
Suddenly she had her doubts. Was it part of the show? Had Washington set it up without telling any of them? She almost began to relax. This was why he hadn't come. Bloody brilliant bit of TV if that's what was happening, and it was always going to work better without him telling any of them about it. Even me, she thought. He did the right thing.
She looked at the cameraman, suddenly annoyed, and indicated for him to lift the camera. A feeling began to take over the crowd of eight that perhaps this was all a set-up. Morris wasn't really dead. That blood at her throat wasn't really blood.
Xav and Ando glanced at each other and then at Claudia. Waiting for direction.
Webb took a step towards Durrant, who stood in the same position, the knife held forwards.
'Put down the knife,' said Webb.
Durrant remained impassive. His eyes barely seemed to be moving, but he was choreographing his way around the room, establishing the order in which they would have to be killed.
'Fucking brilliant,' muttered Claudia, who was convincing herself as the seconds passed that this was all a show. 'Absolutely fucking brilliant.'
A thought came from nowhere and she wondered if even Lol might actually still be alive.
Crowthorne, keeping a wary eye on Durrant's knife, knelt down beside Morris and felt her neck. He couldn't avoid getting blood on his hands.
'She's dead,' he said, looking up.
This did not seem to change Claudia's view at all. She had convinced herself that it was all a scam. Television could fake anything. Perhaps Morris had known all along.
'You guys have got guns, remember,' she said to Ando and Xav. There was a light amusement in her voice.
They'd forgotten about the guns.
'Who's got guns?' barked Webb.
Guns. That changed Durrant's plan.
He shattered the uncomfortable stand-off by stepping forward and bringing the knife swiftly up under Crowthorne's chin. Crowthorne reached for Durrant as he did so, but then his arms dropped quickly to his side.
With the knife embedded, Durrant powerfully tugged Crowthorne's limp body to the side, knocking him into Webb as he sprang to his feet. Then the knife was withdrawn, and stabbed brutally down into Webb
's face, out and back in again, as Webb fell to the floor.
Ando had his gun in his hand, was frantically fingering for the catch. Xav only momentarily held his gun before it slipped form his fingers.
Norrie, the sound guy, made a move for Durrant as Durrant stepped towards Ando. He transferred the knife to his left hand and swiped to his side, catching Norrie in the arm and throwing him off balance. Norrie's arm started spurting blood and hurt like he'd never experienced before. He staggered to the side, inadvertently bringing him closer to Ando.
The knife back in his right hand, Durrant stabbed the two men in the forehead, quickly, smoothly, one after the other.
Five down, four to go.
Claudia's face still held a disbelieving wonder, as if she wasn't quite prepared to accept that any of this was real.
'This is just fucking extraordinary,' she breathed.
Mikey, the camera guy, had lowered his instrument once again. He was pushed back as far as he could go.
Durrant was not finished, his movement fluid and sweet around the room, from one grotesque act to the next.
Xav's gun was swiped out of his hands and sent across the room, then he was grabbed by the throat by Durrant's left hand, and then brought forward and his nose broken, face smashed by a crushing blow from the forehead, and although he wasn't dead, he was out of the game.
Cher braced herself. Hadn't she fought a thug on live television only five days earlier? She held up her fists for the fight. Durrant brushed them aside, punched her brutally in the face, forced her back against the wall and buried the knife in her chest.
Withdrew it quickly, with a loud suck of blood and flesh, and impaled it in Mikey the cameraman's head.
Claudia stood a few feet away, her back against the wall, sprayed with blood. Durrant stood before her, red all over.
At last she believed it was real, and yet she still strangely thought that she would not be included in the carnage; she still felt some strange thrill of it all. She was on her way to New York. She was going to be bigger than Steven Washington.
Blood dripped from Durrant, from his hands and his face, from the end of his erection.
We Are The Hanged Man Page 30
