Pariah

by Thomas Emson

  Chapter 71

  GOBBY LITTLE SHITE

  Staying cool, despite his heart thundering and his balls shriveling, Don Wilks said, “Where are you off to, Faultless?”

  Faultless stopped and stared at him.

  Wilks stared right back, although he was a bundle of nerves.

  Why the fuck was Faultless still alive? Had Graveney fucked up? Or perhaps the moron had decided to delay the hit.

  Then Faultless looked away and started walking again.

  Wilks crawled alongside him, leaning out of the driver’s side window.

  “I’m just asking, Charlie. Where are you off to?”

  “A stroll,” said Faultless.

  Pulling himself together, Wilks said, “Don’t stroll too far, son.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be too far away from you. You’re electric.”

  Wilks laughed. It was all right. If Faultless had got away from Graveney, at least he had no idea that Wilks had set him up. Or he gave nothing away if he did know.

  Cool little bastard, thought Wilks and said, “Still got that mouth on you.”

  “Yeah, still got that.”

  “Big time writer, gobby little shit.”

  “That’s me.”

  He was dying to ask Faultless if he’d had a run in with Graveney. But that was out of order. He’d give himself away. This bastard would smell a rat and suspect Wilks of being up to no good. Instead, he carried on winding Faultless up.

  “Do all those poncy writer people you mix with know you were a lousy little yob, Faultless?”

  “They know, Don.”

  “They like it, do they? Having a bad lad around. You get to shag all those posh birds, do you?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I shag ‘em all.”

  “Bet your mum would be proud, eh?”

  Faultless stopped dead and glared at Wilks, who braked.

  Faultless said, “You done with me?”

  “For now, son. For now.” He thought for a few seconds and then added, “We’d like a word about Tony Graveney, though. You’ve not seen his brother, have you?”

  “Should I have, Wilks?”

  Wilks felt himself redden. He tried to stem the blood flowing into his cheeks, but preventing it was impossible. He just smiled a big, red-faced smile instead.

  “I just like having you around, Charlie boy. It reminds me of the good old days, that’s all. Stay close, son.”

  Wilks sped off. The smile turned into a scowl and the beginnings of a headache pulsed in his temples.

  And when he got back to the incident room, his indignation scaled new heights.

  Chapter 72

  DARK OF HEART AND COLD OF BLOOD

  At least he’d pissed off Don Wilks. It made Faultless feel better. He was ready to run. But then the detective had stopped and tried to wind him up. And it was the DCS who ended up being taunted.

  Faultless saw something in Wilks’s eyes when he’d stopped. It looked for a moment like fear. Or shock.

  Why did he ask me if I’d seen Graveney? thought Faultless.

  He stopped. He was near to where Ryan Graveney and Buckley had ambushed him.

  How did they know I was back? he wondered.

  He looked in the direction Wilks had driven, and he knew the answer.

  Fuck you, Wilks, he thought. I’ll deal with you later. For now, he was going to find the old man. He was going to find out who he was. He was going to get answers.

  As he walked, he thought of his mother’s death. He thought about how he’d killed Tony Graveney. He remembered the fury. He could still taste it.

  “You got evil in you, son,” Roy Hanbury had told him at the time.

  Roy wondered long and hard what to do with him after he’d battered Tony to death.

  He said to Faultless, “We are both in mourning, Charlie, and for that reason, I am going to spare you. You were blinded by hate. So am I. The death of my daughter has opened a fucking volcano in me, and hate and rage is just spilling out, hot and deadly. In a way, son, you’ve done me a favor. My enemy is dead. But there will be a war now. You have to go, if you want to live.”

  “I ain’t going,” the young Faultless had said. “I’ll fight them. They won’t kill me.”

  “I didn’t mean them,” Hanbury had said. “If you don’t go, I’ll have to kill you. There was an impasse, son. There was peace. Deadlock, you follow? Means no killing. Sadly, you killed. The way round here is revenge, you know that. But you are like a son to me. You’ve been hurt bad. So I’m offering you deliverance. Here it is.” Hanbury had tossed a padded envelope on the table. “Now fuck off, and don’t ever let me see you round here again.”

  Now he walked for a good while, strolling past low-rise blocks. They were four-story flats. Red-brick boxes built in the early 1990s to accommodate the growing population. St George crosses flapped on the breeze. Two youths watched a rottweiler and an English bull terrier go at each other. The dogs snarled and salivated. The lads laughed and pointed. Across the road, next to a boarded up shop, a police car was parked. The Old Bill had been a heavy presence on Barrowmore these past few days. But the two cops in the vehicle ignored the dog fight.

  Faultless walked on. More boarded up shops. Buildings unused for years. A community center decorated in graffiti—legit graffiti.

  It was a blast of color in the gray grimness of Barrowmore. Faultless admired some of the art. It was excellent. He imagined the smiling, laughing youth at work on the display. There were good kids on the estate. Good people. Not like him.

  Not dark of heart and cold of blood.

  Shame rose up in him. In his youth, he’d been destroying creativity like this. He’d be mocking the teens responsible. The kids who tried to make it better. Not like him.

  Scum, he thought. You were scum, Charlie Faultless.

  As he walked, the shadow of the four tower blocks fell across the road. He glanced up at them as he passed. Monsell House loomed above him. He thought about Tash. His heart flipped. But then thoughts of her brought Rachel to his mind. And the pain uncoiled in his chest.

  What would’ve become of them, had she lived? Would they still be together? Married maybe, with little Charlies and Rachels running around.

  Perish the fucking thought, he told himself. One of you is enough.

  And anyway, they would probably have split up. Time kills everything in the end. Nothing lasts. It all dies. Especially love.

  Only hate thrives, he thought.

  Hate and darkness.

  And its profusion in Faultless’s life fifteen years ago would have killed him in the end.

  Someone would have shot him or stabbed him. A deal gone wrong. Revenge. Bad blood. Something . . .

  If he had been lucky, he would have been banged up.

  And then God might have saved him like He saved Hanbury.

  He closed his eyes and shriveled into himself when he realized what had actually saved

  Rachel’s death. Patricia’s death. Tony’s death.

  They got him out of here. They got him exiled. They got him saved.

  He came to the lock-ups where the first murders had occurred. It seemed like an age ago now. But the police tape still crisscrossed the entrance. Bollards blocked off the road. A police car was parked on the pavement, two cops inside.

  He sensed that he would find the answers in that old lock-up where Montague Druitt’s briefcase had been found.

  Chapter 73

  ZOMBIE MEMORIES

  The assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police said, “This estate is in meltdown, Don.”

  Wilks said nothing. He nodded like he was supposed to nod—with reverence. But he felt contempt.

  The AC was a high-flying female in her forties who was scaling the heights at the Met. In Wilks’s opinion, she was doing a job a
man could do better—all in the name of political correctness and the feminization of what he regarded as a man’s world.

  Women weren’t meant to be coppers. They could do the civvie stuff. They could file. They could type. They could make tea. But in Wilks’s view, the dirty work should be left to men—and men like him.

  Some would say his days were numbered. But Wilks knew his time was coming. Inside, he knew he only had to wait and be patient. He’d always known that. He sensed it. A voice within telling him, Everything you do has a reason; your actions have meaning.

  It was hard sometimes to believe that voice, especially when you saw a dead man walking.

  How the fuck was Faultless alive? He’d given him to Graveney on a plate. Not only was Wilks getting rid of Faultless, he was also making Graveney his bitch.

  Graveney knew nothing about that. He had the brains of a gnat. But if he stepped out of line or decided not to contribute to Wilks’s pension fund, he might find himself facing a murder and kidnapping charge.

  Sitting in his office in the incident room, Wilks now rested his elbows on the desk. The AC sat opposite him. Short, blonde, and stern, she reminded him of an old teacher of his. Miss Reilly. A real cow. She always picked on Wilks, making him look foolish in front of the class.

  He fumed now, thinking about her, and transferred his hate of the old bitch onto the AC.

  She said, “We are being made a mockery, Don. The murder of this child. It really is the final straw for people. Are you making any progress at all?”

  “We’re following a number of lines of inquiry.”

  “Don’t give me soundbites, Don. It just doesn’t suit you. Why haven’t you raided the squat where this Spencer Drake is said to live?”

  He felt himself grow hotter. “There’s no evidence—”

  “I thought breaking down doors was your style, Don. Break his down. You’ve got no excuse.”

  He trembled with rage. He pictured himself laying her across the desk and showing her who was really in charge.

  His anger had given him an erection. It happened a lot. He bunched his fists, trying to control the urge to spring at the AC, trying to ignore the voice in his brain.

  “Seven murders in two days,” she said. “And two of them happen right under our noses. The community leaders are on my back—”

  Wilks shuddered.

  “—and now we’ve got the MP knocking on the Commissioners door with petitions and demands for his resignation. The press is having a field day.”

  “Bollocks to the press,” he said.

  Her brown eyes widened into a stare. “Our relationship with the press is important, Detective Chief Superintendent. It is our route to the public.”

  Fuck them too, thought Wilks.

  Fuck them all.

  His mind whirled. His skin crawled. In his mind, memories that had been buried away were rising up like zombies.

  Zombie memories.

  Chewing him up from the inside.

  Turning him into a zombie, too.

  “In my experience, ma’am, it don’t matter much what you say to the newspapers. They always take the negative line.”

  “It’s why we should manage our relationship with them, Don. Do you speak to our press office at all?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “They are valuable members of the team, and they can advise you—”

  “I don’t need to liaise with them, ma’am.”

  “I think you do. I know you have a junior PR here as part of the investigation. Well, I’ve asked our senior press officer to come down. He’ll be here first thing tomorrow. Be nice to him, Don. He has a rank equivalent to yours, remember.”

  “I don’t respect his rank. He hasn’t earned it.”

  “You’re such an old school dinosaur.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s all very well, Don. I don’t mind. But if you intend to be a racist, misogynist artifact, could you please do so while actually solving these crimes?” She stood up. “And by the way, this afternoon, there’s a public meeting at the Andrew Mayhew Community Center. Do you know where it is?”

  “I know where it is.” Andrew Mayhew had been a fourteen year old kid who died of stab wounds ten years previously. They said the kid never joined a gang and was a bright, popular pupil. They could say what they want; Wilks reckoned he was a little thug who deserved what he got.

  The AC said, “Be there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want you to be there with me. Answer some questions. Face these people.”

  “I’m far too busy—”

  “No you’re not. Good morning, DCS Wilks.”

  She strutted out of the office.

  He fumed. He hurled the desk aside. He punched the whiteboard. It split. He grabbed a chair. He swung it around. He smashed it against the wall. It splintered. He raged. He snarled. He sweated. His blood boiled. He was hot. As hot as he’d ever been.

  He thought about Spencer Drake’s flat and the AC’s criticism. Although Drake officially lived with his mum, it was known he spent most of his time at an empty flat. His mother was a Christian and disapproved of his lifestyle. She’d kicked him out.

  Very Christian, thought Wilks.

  He slumped in the corner and put his head in his hands.

  Something had prevented him from raiding Drake’s squat. That voice in his head. He called it instinct. But maybe it was something different. Maybe it was not really part of him and came from somewhere else. Maybe he was merely a host, accommodating the presence he felt deep in his brain.

  He groaned.

  Fucking AC, he thought. Fucking Spencer Drake. Fucking Charlie Faultless and Allan Graveney.

  He had to do something. He had to take control. He had to be Don Wilks the monster again.

  Right, he thought, getting to his feet. Right . . .

  Chapter 74

  TAKEN

  It came through the ceiling. Tash was napping on the sofa at the time. Jasmine was in her bedroom. They were unprepared for it. There was no chance to escape.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She gasped, holding her breath.

  Her skin crawled.

  She kicked up her legs and threw out her arms.

  All of this happened in less than a second.

  And it all happened as the ceiling collapsed.

  Debris rained down. Plaster fell in chunks. Dust showered, filling Tash’s eyes and mouth.

  Something dark fell from the hole in the ceiling. A black flash. It coiled on the floor and sprang up, becoming a shadow that blocked out the light. The darkness flapped, as if it were a cloak. Faces writhed in the folds of the blackness. They stretched as if in agony. And Tash was convinced she could hear them scream.

  The dark shape then narrowed and took on a form—the form of a man.

  All this happened in just two seconds.

  By then, Tash had let out her breath. Her eyes burned with dust. She spat it out of her mouth and sneezed it from her nose.

  An arm reached from the dark shape and grabbed Tash around the throat, and the grip was cold and clammy. It lifted her. It tossed her. She sailed across the room. Everything wheeled. She smashed into the wall. Stars erupted before her eyes. Her head throbbed with pain. She fell and hit the floor, dizzy and disorientated.

  And then a voice said, “Seer bitch. I’d kill you if I could. I’d kill you both.”

  Her vision swam. A chalk-white face blurred before her eyes. It became three, four, five faces. It flickered. It was hazy.

  The voice echoed in her head. “But I’m killing your offspring first. Then I’ll be back to see you suffer. Taste your grief, you whore. Say bye to your baby girl.”

  The darkness swept away, letting the light return and leaving her flat fuzzy and unclear.
>
  Knowledge suddenly overwhelmed her. It was as if masses of information had been downloaded into her brain. For some reason, she knew the voice. She knew its dangers. She knew the threat it made was real. She knew Jasmine was in danger.

  She reached out and cried her daughter’s name, but only a moan came from her. It was a mother’s desperate lament.

  And when a spiteful, cruel laugh drowned out Jasmine’s scream, the horror of it was too much for Tash, and she passed out.

  Faultless had walked back the way he’d come and found a narrow path, crammed with weeds and waist-high grass.

  He followed it. Stinging nettles pricked his skin. Rats scuttled over his feet. Thorns tugged at his clothes. But he made it through and found himself at the rear of the lock-ups.

  A footpath ran behind the garages, hemmed in by a high wall. He smelled beer and tobacco. Cans of booze peppered the tall grass. He saw syringes and used condoms.

  He started walking, making his way along the footpath. He tried to count the lock-ups as he went. He’d walked back ten garages before finding the alley that led to the path. Ten garages from the one where Jason Thomas, the Sharpleys, and Luke Ellis had been murdered. Ten garages from the police car.

  He kicked his way through the undergrowth. Thorns and nettles filled the path. He crushed beer cans beneath his feet. There were cigarette ends everywhere. He saw aerosol cans. He saw plastic bags filled with glue. He saw knives and empty bullet casings.

  He walked and he counted—eight, seven, six, five . . .

  Ten garages.

  . . . three, two—

  “Hey you,” said a voice.

  He turned.

  He cursed.

  The two cops sitting in their car outside the garage had decided to make a nuisance of themselves. They must have spotted him and followed.

  “What can I do for you, gents?” he said.

  The two cops came to a halt five yards away from Faultless. They looked at him and then looked at something one of them was holding in his hand.