by Thomas Emson
Spencer gawped.
The narrow stairwell was dark. It led up to another door. Jack kicked through it, and the wind nearly shoved him back into Spencer.
Out on the roof, it was gusting. It sliced into Spencer, right down into his bones. His thin, fraying Adidas hoodie and matching tracksuit bottoms were no match for the elements up here.
He stayed where he was, near the broken door.
Jack rushed towards the edge, and Spencer hoped he would leap off.
He didn’t. He jumped on the high wall skirting the roof and looked down. His cape flapped. He looked like a giant bat.
“He’s here,” he called out, the wind trying its best to steal his voice.
“W . . . who’s here?” said Spencer, desperate to get off the roof, desperate to roll back time.
The Sharpley’s flat. The door open. The PS3 sitting in the hallway. The price tag still on it. Paul and his dad fighting . . .
He cursed himself for not walking by.
“The law are everywhere,” said Jack.
Spencer said nothing.
He could end this now.
He stared at Jack up on the wall. Nothing between him and the streets and pavements of Barrowmore.
Spencer stepped forward.
He could run to him in less than five seconds, shove him.
Do it. End it. Do it . . .
Spencer took two steps, ready to build up his speed.
Jack turned slowly and stared, and the look stopped Spencer in his tracks.
Jack hopped off the wall. He strode towards Spencer, who felt the fear rise up from his belly like lava.
“He’s here, Spencer. He’s here. There’s a psychic storm blowing through this place. He’s here, and there are seers, too. Seers on Barrowmore.”
He was in Spencer’s face. His breath smelled of rotting meat. He grabbed Spencer’s arms and lifted him off his feet. He blustered, words spilling out: “One more to rip . . . one more and I’m free . . . I need to kill again, Spencer . . . I’m itching for it . . . one more to rip . . . one more . . . and him, we have to find him . . . him . . . he’s here . . . and he has them for me . . . for me to devour. . . ”
Chapter 36
A DARKNESS IN THE CORNER OF HER EYE
Tash woke up from her nap screaming, her body drenched in sweat.
The dreams again.
She dreamt a lot. They were vivid. But they’d not been as scary as this for a long time—for nearly fifteen years.
Not since Rachel and those other women had been murdered had she visualized such terrors.
Christ, she thought, crossing to the table where her handbag sat, digging out her cigarettes but then remembering that Jasmine was in the flat.
She put the fags away, the itch for one clawing at her chest, the panic rising.
Sit down, she told herself. Have a sit down, and she returned to the couch where she’d been dozing.
She wiped sleep from her eyes. The dream stained her mind. Most of the time they faded, and she had to grab at them as they floated off.
But this one was staying put.
She shut her eyes, trying to blind herself to the images reeling through her mind. But that didn’t help. The dream replayed itself behind her eyelids. It drove her mad. It made her shake.
In her dream, she was walking through the estate.
It was a bright day, brighter than any she could remember. Everything was blindingly white.
Almost everything.
Just outside her eyeline, a shadow lurked.
Every time she turned towards it, thinking it would come into view, it stayed where it was—a notch in the side of her vision.
It panicked her. In her dream, she tried to escape it. But it was always there.
A darkness in the corner of her eye.
Trying to flee the wraith, or whatever it was, she raced along the streets, the light still blindingly white.
Somehow, she came to a spiral staircase that sunk down into the earth, into a well.
She stared down into the abyss.
Screams came up from the darkness.
The cries of agony.
She could even smell something in her dream, and she recognized the odor. It was sulphur.
Deep in the depth of the well, a fire glowed orange.
Her conscious self told her, “No, no . . . ” Tash’s unconscious form descended the staircase. The darkness was still in her eye. She wanted it to go away. It was claustrophobic.
She raced down the staircase. She noticed the stairs were glistening under her feet. At first she ignored the strange sheen. But then she stopped and squatted and touched the stair, and frantically tried to wipe the blood from her fingers.
She screamed in her dream, and maybe in her flat, and began to descend again until she came to the shore of a lake.
A lake of fire.
Bubbling lava splashing at the shore.
She looked around. She was in a cellar. It was dirty and smelly. Damp on the walls. Rats scurrying behind crates. Cobwebs draped everywhere—and this burning lagoon.
A small raft the size of a tea towel bobbed on the blistering waves. Something sat on the raft. In her dream, she stared at it, focusing. Also in the distance, a voice whispered. It said a word that she couldn’t make out. Although it sounded like “yellow” or “pillow”, Tash knew it wasn’t either of those. It was something much worse. A terrible word. A terrible name.
Ignoring the voice, she reached out for the raft. It was too far. She stretched. The heat seared her face. But she had to get to it. She leaned forward.
Something dark and terrifying reared up out of the lake of fire and engulfed Tash, and that was when she screamed herself awake and sat bolt upright.
Now, sitting on the sofa, her mind spinning, Tash felt a dread slowly washing over her—and over Barrowmore.
Something terrible was here; she could feel it. The killing of the boys was more than just savagery—it had a meaning. Just like Rachel’s killing all those years ago. It indicated a-coming of something—it foretold an arrival.
She shook. Her dad spoke of Armageddon. The “end times”. The Day of Judgment.
Maybe Rachel’s death had something to do with that. Maybe the youths’ murders were also linked.
“Mum, I’m sick.”
Tash started. She looked up. Jasmine stood in the door of her bedroom. Her daughter was pale. Her brow was furrowed, and tears wetted her cheeks.
“Come here, sweetheart,” said Tash, and she embraced her daughter.
The girl said, “I’m not lying about the dreams, Mum, honest.”
“I know, it’s okay.
“I’m really feeling weird. I had a horrible nightmare.”
Tash eased her away. “It’s all right to tell me.”
“It was about a fiery lake and . . . and something in my eye. And someone whispering ‘pillow’ or something.”
Chapter 37
BLOOD AND BLUE LIGHTS
The road leading down to the lock-ups had been closed. A police car blocked the route. Yellow tape marked with the words Police: Do Not Cross ribboned across the street.
Three coppers loitered near the vehicle, ignoring the insults and the jibes streaming from the kids gathered nearby.
Quite a crowd swanned about. The noisy kids insulting the cops. Mums with prams, fearing for their children. Thugs claiming immigrants were to blame. Old men telling stories of 1996 and four dead women. Old women tutting about the state of the world. Journalists digging the dirt on the slaughtered youths.
Faultless looked beyond the roadblock.
In the distance, figures in white coveralls shuffled in and out of a large tent. The bivouac had been erected to protect the crime scene. It covered the entrance of the lock-up where the bodies had been found.
Police vehicles were parked across the road. Their spinning lights sprayed blue into the gloomy sky. Faultless clocked uniformed officers and plain-clothed CID striding around the murder site.
Memories streamed through his mind. He’d stood in a similar spot fifteen years ago, watching as an ambulance ferried his mother’s butchered body to the morgue.
Back then there were police loitering, kids jibing, mums dreading, louts accusing, old men boasting, old women scorning, and hacks sniffing.
Back then it was blood and blue lights.
Back then a fire burned in his breast.
Just like now.
Was the New Ripper back? If so, how come he’d returned at the same time as Faultless? Was that a coincidence?
Something cold and multi-legged crawled down his spine.
Did the killer know who he was?
Had Faultless’s return triggered his re-emergence?
Hallam Buck had named the youths. They were Jason Joseph Thomas, Paul and Michael Sharpley, and Luke Ellis.
Hallam had described their injuries—ripped apart, gutted, disemboweled, brains bashed in, and blood everywhere.
Hallam had offered a piece of evidence: “I’ll bring it round to Tash’s flat.”
Faultless wondered what it could be. Nothing of value, he thought. Hallam’s just using whatever he’s found to get into Tash’s place. You sicko, Buck.
He remembered the scar under Hallam’s eye. He creased his brow, focusing on the blemish. Something he knew but had forgotten lurked in the shadowy corners of his mind. He reached for it, but couldn’t grab hold. He focused. The gloom started to lift. He started to see what was there, his memory slowly revealing the dusty, old recollection.
The light was about to shine on the lost knowledge when someone shoved Faultless in the back.
He staggered forward a couple of steps.
He stared ahead, letting the anger build.
He very slowly turned to face whoever pushed him.
Someone had it coming.
But when he saw the grinning, jowly face, he just curled his lip and said, “Bad smells never go away, do they.”
Chapter 38
OFFICIAL THREATS
Don Wilks lit a cigarette and said, “Do you have permission?”
Faultless said, “For what?”
“To write this fucking book, son.”
Faultless looked straight at him. “I ain’t your son. Donny.”
“Don’t call me fucking Donny. Or Don. I remember you when you were a little cunt, running around here causing trouble. Now you’re just a big cunt, back to cause more. Not on my patch, son.”
“Your patch.”
“Yeah, my fucking patch.”
Faultless slipped a hand into the pocket of his hooded jacket and switched on the mini disc recorder tucked inside.
If Wilks was going beyond the call of duty, Faultless thought it would be better to have a record of it.
He knew from experience that your word against a cops counted for nothing.
Especially if you were from Barrowmore.
“Funny how these scum die just when you turn up like a bad fucking penny, Faultless,” the DCS said.
He tossed the fag aside, making sure it landed close to Faultless’s feet. Charlie glanced down at the stub, smoke pluming from it.
“Not very convenient for me, Don,” he said.
Wilks grimaced. They were standing next to his silver Mondeo. He leaned on the vehicle. Faultless leaned on a wall.
The copper looked over at the kids and the mums and the jobless and the old and the reporters.
“Fuckers,” he said.
“They think the world of you, too,” said Faultless.
“Here, Charlie, why don’t we put aside our differences and go to Rays for a cuppa and a catch-up?”
“What a fucking tempting offer. But I’m having my fingernails removed with pliers. It’s a more pleasant experience than spending time in your company, Wilks.”
The detective’s grin drooped, becoming a frown. “You misunderstand. We need to catch up. You need to talk to me. You can do it freely, or I drag you down the nick.”
“What is it you’re so keen to chat about, Wilks? Your love life? Still fancy young Asian boys?” Faultless chuckled.
Wilks went purple.
He spluttered. “You . . . it’s fucking you . . . you like fucking Paki queers, you fuck . . . don’t you fucking ever call me a fucking homo . . . don’t you—”
“You’re the ideal modern cop, ain’t you, Wilks. I bet they love you down at New Scotland Yard. You’re a star in diversity training, is my guess.”
Faultless leaned back. He’d hit a nerve. It was easy. Wilks was homophobic and racist. Winding him up was a doddle. The knife was in, so Charlie kept twisting. “Case still closed on my mum and Rachel and the other two women, is it?”
“Case ain’t closed, son.” Wilks was cooling down. “No evidence. No suspects. Apart from the one who legged it, of course. Eh, Charlie? Ran off like you had something to hide.”
“I remember you dragged me in after my mum died. You were very sympathetic. Oh no, that was someone else.”
“I don’t do sympathy, son. I do detective work.”
“You didn’t do much of it back then, Donny.”
Wilks reddened again. He leaned into Faultless. “Don’t fucking push your luck with me, toe rag. I know what you’re like—street scum. You ain’t rehabilitated. You’re the same. Bad genes, son. You get it off your mum—”
Charlie’s blood boiled. “Don’t you dare, Wilks.”
Wilks grinned. “Or what?”
“I’ll write about you. I’ll fucking name and shame you. I’ll dig up all the shit about you, Wilks. Every fucking disciplinary you’ve wriggled out of, every fucking suspect you’ve abused, every innocent you’ve framed. Papers love a dodgy copper tale.”
“I’ll fucking sue your balls off if you publish a word about me, Faultless.”
“You can’t sue if it’s true.”
“All right, so you won’t mind me writing a report about your involvement in Tony Graveney’s unsolved murder, then?”
Faultless said nothing.
“You want to tell me where you were on the night of the twenty-sixth of July 1996?” said Wilks.
“Shagging your mother.”
Wilks shook with anger, but he didn’t snap. He said, “You wouldn’t have been smashing Tony Graveney’s head in, would you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And two days later, when we were hoping to have a word, you know, help us with inquiries—you disappeared like a magician’s rabbit. Where d’you go?”
“Got fed up. Went looking for work.”
“You work? Don’t make me laugh, Faultless.”
“I’m working now.”
Wilks looked him up and down. “Writing books. That ain’t work. That’s poncing about.”
“I get paid for poncing about.”
“This book, what’s it going to say?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I’d like a look.”
“I don’t think I’ll require your insights, thanks, Don.”
Wilks narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say anything about me, son.” It wasn’t an appeal.
“Anything I do say, you’ll have a right of reply.”
“I’ll fucking reply with my fist up your arse if you write anything shit about me.”
“Is that an official threat?”
“I’ll fucking write it down if you like.”
Faultless said, “That’d be great,” and he walked off.
Wilks called out his name.
“What?” said Faultless, turning.
Wilks looked him in the eye. “I’m having you for Graveney’s mu
rder, son. And any other cold case that needs a tick next to it. You and me, we’re going to talk soon. Down the nick. Now, off you fucking pop.” Wilks reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He started dialing. Without looking at Faultless he said, “I got a very interesting call to make. Passing on some fascinating news to an old mate.”
Faultless turned and walked away.
He had a good idea who Wilks was ringing. And it wasn’t fascinating news. It was very bad news.
He put his hand in his pocket and switched off the recorder.
Chapter 39
THE SPECIAL ONE
Her mother had always told Tash she was special girl.
“You’re a gift from God, darlin’,” she’d say. “Just like those who have passed.”
“Passed what, Mum?” the nine-year-old Tash would say.
Mum would smile and her white teeth were like pearls. “To the other side, darlin’. With the angels.”
But then Dad would say, “Don’t fill her head with that ghost rubbish.”
“It ain’t rubbish, Roy,” Mum would say. “It’s a gift, and Tash has it.”
She was Dad’s third wife and the only one to produce children. They married in 1975. She was eighteen, and he was thirty-five. Three years later, Rachel was born. Tash came along in 1981. Ten years later, her mum died in a hit-and-run. Dad went mental. He traced the driver’s address. But the police got to him first. He was arrested for causing death by dangerous driving. He was in protective custody during his trial, and after he’d spent six years inside, he was given a new identity. But Dad kept hunting him. He didn’t speak about it now, but Tash sometimes wondered if her dad had ever found the driver.
She thought about her mother and why that particular conversation had come to mind.
You’re a gift from God, darlin’.
Had it been the dream?
Had it been the same dream Jasmine experienced?
Her daughter was curled up in Tash’s arms. They were lying together on the couch. The girl had gone to sleep. Now and again, she jerked, and Tash wondered if the dream was returning to haunt the child again.
Tash kissed Jasmine’s hair and breathed her in. The scent of her offspring sparked something in Tash’s heart—an ache that she could only name as love.
