Beyond Evil

by Neil White

  His pace was quick as he walked away. She was right. There was so much still to do. He looked back just once, and he saw her watching him leave, her arms folded around her chest.

  Sheldon headed swiftly down the stone steps, and when he burst out of the stairway and into the open spaces of the church, it felt like he’d been given another chance.

  He ran out of the church and looked towards the town. All he could see were the stone buildings and slate roofs, dark and moody, but they were just facades, because behind those buildings was the rest of the town, and somewhere in there was the killer of Billy Privett. And as Sheldon thought of Billy, he remembered Alice Kenyon – as if he could ever forget her. The thought of the empty days ahead scared him, but of course they didn’t have to be empty. He could fill them. He could keep looking for Alice’s killer. And Billy’s.

  As he crossed over the road, he walked with more purpose. He knew where he was going next.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Charlie went straight to his apartment, a long run from Amelia’s house. He was sweating and feeling sick, but speed was more important than appearances. He needed to get in and out quickly without being noticed, knowing that he needed to do something with the knife. Perhaps return it to the knife block and then call the police – provided that the two clients in suits had gone. He knew that was the riskiest option.

  He sank to his knees when he got into his apartment, panting hard from the run. All Charlie could hear was the peace and quiet of his home. The hum of his fridge. The sound of the television from the apartment below. He closed his eyes, just to take stock, but his head was filled with the image of Amelia once more. That told him that he had to keep moving.

  He went towards the bathroom, but the sight of his living room made him pause when he went past. It was just as he had left it the previous morning, with beer bottles and an empty pizza box. There was just one boozy night between then and now but suddenly it seemed like a different life so that just worrying about some untidiness seemed like bliss.

  He went to the bathroom and rinsed his hands and face, not sure what forensic traces he had picked up at Amelia’s, like traces of her blood. He scrambled in the cabinet above the sink for a grooming kit that Julie had bought him a few months earlier, a hint that he had ignored. It had ended up at the back, pushed behind mouthwashes and razor packets. He pulled out the nailbrush and scrubbed his fingers under the hot tap, not sure what he needed to scrape away but feeling that it would be a good idea to do it.

  When they were clean, he paused with his hands on the sink, his hair hanging down, sweat dripping onto the porcelain. Once more he thought of Amelia, but he willed himself through it. He didn’t have time for that.

  As he looked in the mirror and stroked at his beard, he knew he had to look more respectable, not like a drinker bogged down with worry. Those that look guilty are guilty, experience had taught him that. But guilty of what? That was the problem. He had no idea. He just knew that it would all look bad to an outsider. A shave was a gamble though, because for every second he spent in the bathroom, it was another second with Amelia’s knife in the apartment.

  As he held the razor, he thought of the people who might have seen him at Amelia’s house. He needed to look different. It was worth the gamble.

  His hand shook, and so he took a few deep breaths to steady the tremble, not wanting to give himself away with nicks and cuts. He watched in the mirror as haggard was slowly replaced by smooth, some remnants of his younger days creeping back as the grey-tinged whiskers ended up in the sink. He couldn’t do anything about the graze though, and it just added to the redness in his cheeks. When he’d finished, he pulled on his other suit, still creased from the weekend, and went to the dishwasher, taking a step back as the steam assaulted him when he opened the door. The knife was there, hot and clean.

  He picked it up using a paper towel and dropped it into a plastic bag. It was time to take it back. He paused for a moment, aware of the risk he was about to take, and had a last look around the apartment, wondering when he would return.

  As he turned towards the door, Charlie glanced out of the window and down towards the street. He jumped back. The two men were there, getting out of a car, the same ones he had seen outside Amelia’s house and at his office.

  Why were they there? Who were they? Had someone spoken to them, one of Amelia’s neighbours? Perhaps they had recognised his car. He had left it just a short distance along her street.

  Charlie went behind the curtains and peered around the side. The two men were looking up towards the apartment. He hid behind the curtain again. It was no coincidence. It was time to go.

  But where could he go? To the police? Of course not. It would be his last moment of freedom if he did, and he would never come out, protesting his innocence to the grave. He knew exactly how it looked. He could feel the weight of the knife in his hand. He felt a jolt as the words murder weapon came into his head for the first time, but he knew that he couldn’t dwell on that. He would have time to mourn Amelia later, but if he didn’t get moving he would have more mourning time than he needed, with just the four walls of a cell to distract him. His avenues of escape were narrowing.

  Charlie’s apartment was on the top floor of a four-storey block. He didn’t want to take the lift, because there would be no escape if the door opened to them in the lobby; really just a corridor lined by mailboxes, accessed using a secure key.

  He tucked the knife under his left armpit, the blade pointing downwards, and fastened his suit jacket. He switched on the burglar alarm and then left the apartment. If they broke in, he would hear it go off, and then he would know how serious they were.

  Charlie thought about his way out of the building. There was CCTV on the landings, fed through to the building manager, so he had to look normal. Charlie jammed his hands into his pockets so that his arm held the knife against his ribs. It looked like he wasn’t carrying anything. He made a play of looking at the lift and then shaking his head, as if he didn’t want to wait around. Every cell in his body screamed at him to run, to get out of there as quickly as possible, but he had to think of the longer view, of how the footage would look in front of a jury. All it would show so far was a man deciding that the stairs, rather than the lift, were the best route. He did his best to make his walk look natural, almost a saunter, and he just hoped that the camera didn’t pick up the sweat on his forehead, or the nervous way he licked at his lips.

  He got to the stairs and pushed open the door. He pushed himself against the wall and waited, so that he could make sure they were on his floor before he set off down.

  It seemed like an age. The knife was sticking into his side, and he was worried that it would prick the skin too much and just add more of his DNA to its tip. But still he waited, trying to keep his breathing silent. He felt the sting of sweat as it trickled into his eyes. Then he heard the noise of the lift as it went upwards, and voices in the hallway.

  Charlie set off down the stairs, trying to keep his footsteps light but moving quickly. There was a knock on his door, and then a pause, before he heard loud bangs and shouts, closely followed by the shriek of his burglar alarm.

  It was no courtesy visit.

  He bolted down the stairs, not worrying about the noise. It was just about getting out. He was holding the knife in one hand now, still wrapped in the bag, the stair rail sliding through his other hand, his footsteps in time with the fast pant of his breaths all the way to the ground floor.

  There was no pretence anymore. The door to the street was made out of glass and Charlie could see the way ahead was clear. He ran at it, feeling it thump against the flat of his hand, and then he was outside, running.

  He got some looks as he ran for the pavement, but that wasn’t his concern. He had to get away. He slowed to a fast walk, his chest tight, his heart hammering, ignoring those who gave him strange looks, sweat pouring down his face.

  Just as Charlie got to the end of the street, he looked back
towards his apartment. There was someone on his balcony, looking out. It was the first man in the suit, and before he turned away, Charlie was sure that the person looked right at him, their eyes connecting even over that distance.

  He had to keep moving.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Henry clapped his hands and everyone turned to look. He had been talking to Arni in angry whispers, whilst the rest of the group were discussing how things were changing. The wire mesh. The visitors to the house. They seemed almost palpably nervous. Fingers were chewed, eyes wary.

  Henry held out his hands. ‘I need to go out, to see if the authorities are watching us,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I’m going to make myself visible, just to see if I’m followed. The rest of you, prepare up here, be ready, in case I don’t come back.’

  ‘I’m scared, Henry,’ a woman said. It was Jennifer Elam, the older woman.

  ‘Just hold your nerve,’ Henry said. He closed his eyes for a moment and his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Just believe in what we are doing.’ His voice was almost a whisper now. His hand gripped his shirt and he opened his eyes. ‘Feel it. We have something special in this group, and you have made me realise who I am. What I am. Rely on that to get you through, because, all I am doing is thinking of us, of what I can do for the group. People will talk about us in years to come, of how we fought back.’

  Henry looked slowly around the group, taking in each one of them. ‘We need more help though, because we have to fight them in their world. Their shallow, pitiful, material world.’ He pointed to John. ‘Do you feel the freedom now?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  John smiled. ‘Like whoever doesn’t have what we have is somehow empty.’

  Henry’s grin spread slowly. ‘That’s right. They are just magpies. They get excited by shiny things, or they worship false faiths like some fad. We are the future, our movement, and so give up everything you own, John. Whatever property you have, or savings, they just tie you to your past life. Donate it to me, for the group.’

  John nodded, encouraged. ‘That will feel good,’ he said, but then he took a deep breath. ‘But there are some things I still find difficult.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Gemma,’ and he looked towards her. ‘You say we shouldn’t feel bonds, that we should be free to share, but I feel like we have a connection, and I know she feels it too.’ Gemma blushed. ‘I don’t want to share her, but you say that I should, and I don’t know how I feel about that.’

  Henry glowered for a few seconds, and no one seemed to be breathing, waiting for his response. When he did speak, his voice was quiet, measured. ‘We do not have possessions in this group. Everything belongs to the group. Even Gemma.’

  ‘But you make her sound like a thing, not a person.’

  Henry’s jaw clenched. ‘What do you want? Marriage? The union of one man and one woman? One more contract with the State?’ He shook his head. ‘You think Gemma is special, but you want to deprive the rest of us of that special thing. You want to keep it all for yourself. That isn’t thinking of the group. I chose her for you, John, because I knew you would like her. You cannot just throw it back in my face and say that you want her all for yourself?’

  ‘No, it isn’t like that.’

  ‘So what is it like?’

  John looked at Gemma, who was staring at her lap. Her cheeks were red, and John couldn’t work out if she was embarrassed or angry. ‘I just like her, that’s all,’ he said.

  Henry paused for a moment, and then he smiled. ‘You are allowed to like her. We all like her.’

  John nodded. ‘All right, I’m sorry.’

  Henry stepped off his stool and approached John. ‘Are you sure you believe in me? In us, as free men?’

  ‘I believe, Henry, but how will we know when we’ve won the fight?’

  ‘Because there will be no rules, no possessions, no restrictions. We will take back what has been stolen. People lost their homes because the banks got greedy. There are empty houses but people live on the streets. None of this is right, and so anyone who isn’t with us is our enemy, you understand that?’

  John nodded.

  Henry grinned. He pointed at Lucy, and Arni, and David, the youngest male, skinny and twitchy. As they got to their feet, Henry ran out of the room, pausing only to collect some boots.

  ‘How long do we wait?’ John shouted, as he followed them outside.

  Henry paused, and then turned back towards the house. ‘Until we come back. Don’t leave. If anyone else tries to come, don’t let them in.’ He pointed to the grilles. ‘The house is more secure, but stock it so we can defend it. Food. Oil. Wood. We might have to barricade ourselves in. Remember Waco, how the police underestimated them?’

  ‘Everyone died in the end.’

  ‘There is always a price to pay,’ Henry said.

  ‘But what about what we talked about earlier?’

  Henry looked angry for a moment, but then he raised his fingers to his lips. ‘Remember what I said. There are things I’ve got to attend to first, because events might derail us.’ Then he ran to his van along with the others, laughing excitedly. There were knives in their pockets; John could see the glint of shiny metal where they jutted out.

  He watched as the engine started and then they set off towards Oulton, bumping along the farm track, throwing up dirt in a cloud.

  John closed his eyes for a moment as the van’s engine faded into the valley, and he was left with just the breeze in the trees and birdsong. Images from his past life came at him. Work. Family. Money. But it had been empty, he felt that now, as if his own life had been working towards this, and it felt like a rush, a surge of adrenaline, that feeling of belonging, of purpose.

  He heard soft footsteps behind him, just light crunches in the dirt, and then arms encircled him gently, a head resting on his back.

  It was Gemma, and so he turned around and took her face in his hands. She looked up at him, and for a moment he saw some doubt, fear flashing across her eyes.

  ‘Things are changing,’ she said.

  John thought about what Henry had asked him to do. He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Yes, changing, but moving forward,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m scared.’

  He closed his eyes so that she wouldn’t see the lie in them. ‘We’ve nothing to fear,’ he said. ‘Nothing to fear at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sheldon came to a stop outside Ted Kenyon’s house. He’d collected his car from the station car park, and had driven straight to Ted’s house again. Except this time he was off-duty, officially.

  There wasn’t much movement inside. He stepped out of his car, the clunk of the car door loud in the street, and then walked slowly to the door. He let the gate clink shut behind him and as he paused, he went to straighten his cuffs. Then he stopped himself. The cuff edges on his shirt were threadbare, with threads of loose cotton trailing over his wrists, and the sleeves on his suit jacket were shiny with wear.

  It was too late to turn back though, because Ted was in the window, watching as Sheldon walked up the path. Ted was at the door by the time Sheldon reached it.

  ‘Here again?’ Ted said, but still he stepped aside to let Sheldon in.

  ‘Mr Kenyon.’

  Sheldon went through to the living room, where he had been before so many times, the scene of terse exchanges, although this was the first time that he could call his visit unofficial. He sat down without waiting to be asked.

  ‘What can I do for you, Inspector? Another search? An arrest this time?’

  ‘It’s not inspector,’ Sheldon said. When Ted looked confused, he added, ‘I’m on leave, just so that I can sort some things out. I’m here in my personal capacity.’

  ‘Personal?’

  Sheldon nodded. ‘As someone who cares about what happened to Alice.’

  Ted sat down. He looked at the floor for a few seconds, his lips pursed, before
he spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet. ‘I never doubted that you cared,’ he said. ‘It was whether you had done enough.’

  Sheldon’s hands trembled, and so he gripped one set of fingers with the other. ‘I did everything I thought I could, and more. If it wasn’t enough, and it was down to me, then all I can say is that I’m sorry for not catching Alice’s killer.’

  ‘And now Billy is dead.’

  ‘Yes. Now Billy.’

  ‘So, you’re done,’ Ted said. ‘You’ve said your piece, and so you can go back to whatever you want to go back to with a clean conscience.’

  Sheldon shook his head. ‘It’s not that.’

  Ted considered him for a few moments before he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want to help you find out what happened to Alice.’

  ‘You’ve been trying for long enough. What makes you think you can do anything now?’

  ‘I might know things that you don’t, and I can guess that you know things I don’t. If we work together, perhaps we can get somewhere.’

  Ted tapped his fingers on the chair arm and stared silently at Sheldon for a few seconds, until he said, ‘Do you think Alice’s killer is lying in that mortuary?’

  Sheldon thought about that. There were only three outcomes; that Billy had known who had killed Alice, that he hadn’t known, or that he had been Alice’s murderer. Sheldon still didn’t know which one was the truth. ‘It’s possible.’

  Ted shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Billy Privett did not kill my daughter.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I could do one thing you couldn’t do, and that was speak to him as another human being. You represented something that could lock him away, the police, and you were prepared to try. I was just a grieving father. He could be more honest with me.’

  Sheldon was surprised. ‘When did you speak to him?’

  ‘Just before the anniversary of Alice’s death. I went to his house. He let me in, which surprised me. He didn’t say anything at first. He took me to the pool room and mumbled something about leaving me for a few moments.’