Pariah

by Thomas Emson

  Tash leapt to her feet. “We can’t just sit here. We’ve got to find her. He’s going to murder her, Dad. He’s going to cut her open and—” She slumped back on the couch. “Why didn’t he take me? We can exchange. I’ll go in her place . . . I’ll—”

  “No you won’t,” said Faultless. “Well sort this.”

  “How?”

  Faultless had no idea.

  Then a voice said, “You got someone to look at this?”

  They all looked up at once.

  When he saw the speaker, his skin crawled.

  It was the old man, peering out of the hole in the ceiling, the stump of a cigar between his lips.

  Hanbury said, “Jesus . . . ”

  The old man said, “Can I join you?”

  They had to help him, Faultless taking his weight on his shoulders as he eased himself down into Tash’s flat.

  Now he sat on the sofa, smiling and chewing on his unlit cigar. Faultless, Tash, and Hanbury stood and stared at the fella as if he were an alien.

  The old man’s face triggered memories in Faultless. He remembered being carried and laid at Hanbury’s door after the assault by Graveney and his thugs. He remembered being laid at Patricia Faultless’s door more than thirty years ago. And it was this old man with the tuft of hair on his chin and his long, snow-white hair who had left him at both thresholds.

  As he stared at the man, Faultless started to feel hazy. The tattoos on the stranger’s body seemed to move. Faces smiled and grimaced. Figures danced, skipping up and down his arms. Words appeared across his chest, writing themselves on his skin. They were strange words to Faultless, but they looked like they were from an ancient language.

  “Do I know you?” said Hanbury.

  “You might do, Roy.”

  “You fucking know me, obviously.”

  “I have my ear to the ground.”

  Faultless came to and said, “Who are you?”

  “You can call me . . . Lew,” he said, as if he’d just come up with that name.

  Faultless narrowed his eyes. “You’re not Lew, are you.”

  “I am Lew. That’s what I’m called. Just like you’re called Charlie Faultless. You might not be Charlie Faultless, but that’s what you’re called.”

  Faultless felt something uncoil in his belly. A feeling of panic rose up into his chest. He wanted to ask this old man, Who am I? He wanted to know if he’d saved him from Graveney’s men. He wanted to know if he’d killed Graveney. And as if he could read Faultless’s mind, Lew said, “I’ll answer your questions later, but first—tea.”

  Tash erupted. “My daughters missing, my little girl. We have to find her. I am not making fucking tea.”

  Lew said, “Find her yourself, Tash Marie Hanbury.”

  Tash gawped. Faultless bristled. Hanbury reddened.

  Tash found her voice. “Fuck off out of my home.”

  “Why?” asked Lew. “For giving you some good advice?”

  “Now look, mate,” said Hanbury.

  “She’s a seer,” said Lew, and his voice was sharp and loud, and its power made Faultless tremble. “She’s a seer and she can find him. Where he is, her daughter will be.”

  Faultless said, “Who the fuck are you? You came with fire. You killed Graveney. I saw you. You carried me home yesterday and . . . and you brought me here thirty-four years ago. I dreamed you.”

  The man’s coal-black eyes glittered. He stared at Faultless but spoke to Tash. “Have you found her yet, Tash Marie Hanbury?”

  Tash stared into space, her mouth open. Hanbury went to her, concerned. She held out a hand to keep him at bay.

  “What’s wrong with her?” said Hanbury.

  “Nothing’s wrong with her,” said Lew. “She’s a seer, ain’t she. She finds him. She hunts him. She’s a seer, and—”

  Tash said, “I know where she is.”

  Chapter 79

  SALVATION

  Hallam looked at the knife.

  “Lick the blade,” said Jack. “It’s got blood on it—old blood. A lot of blood. See how sweet it tastes. You ever tasted blood, Hallam?”

  Jack brought the knife up to Hallam’s face. He saw his reflection in the blade. He saw his eyes were wide with fear—or maybe it was excitement.

  “Taste,” said Jack.

  Hallam licked. He gasped. It was like honey. It sent shockwaves through him.

  Jack laughed and drew the knife away. “The fresher it is, the better it tastes, Hallam.”

  He looked over to where Spencer had been ordered to take the girl. She lay on the floor with her arms out to her sides. Her wrists and ankles were in manacles, which had been attached to spikes in the floor. She was screaming for her mother.

  “Do you see her?” said Jack. “She’s waiting for you and the knife. She’s waiting to die.” He handed Hallam the knife. “Take it. I won’t tell you again. Take it.”

  Hallam took it.

  “Can you find me the treasure in her, Hallam?”

  “I . . . I don’t know . . . I . . . I’ll try.”

  “You don’t try. You do. She’s the fifth, Hallam. The fifth. You remember the other four, don’t you?”

  Hallam remembered them. He was obsessed with them.

  Rachel Hanbury, Patricia Faultess, Susan Murray, Nancy Sherwood. Four women, mutilated. Their throats cut. Their organs removed. And something else. Something ultimately more precious than a kidney or even a heart. It was a rumor rifling through Barrowmore at the time. Whispers heard on street corners. Murmurs in alleyways. Gossip spread by old women with nothing better to do.

  But when they fail to catch a killer, speculation will thrive. Myths will blossom. Tales will grow.

  Just like they’d grown around Jack the Ripper in the 19th century.

  And just like they’d grown around the New Ripper fifteen years ago.

  Never caught. Never understood. Still a mystery.

  The “why” had never been answered. Why had these men killed? Why had these women died?

  And while that riddle remained, people would make up answers.

  But Hallam knew why. He looked into Jack’s cold, black eyes and saw the answers to all the questions.

  “What if I can’t find the . . . the . . . what I’m looking for?”

  “You’ll find it, Hallam. Then you’ll find the first four.”

  “F . . . first four? F . . . find them?”

  “The killer has their treasures still. I need them. I need all five. And once I have all five, I have my key to the door of the world.”

  Hallam looked over to where Jasmine had been chained. Spencer squatted nearby, chewing his nail.

  Beyond them lay darkness—a deep, cold, eternal darkness. Hallam felt it call out to him. Heard it sing his name. He knew his world had changed, from the moment he’d found the briefcase. He’d wanted to keep it so he could impress Tash, impress anyone who’d listen.

  But now he had so much more.

  He had salvation.

  He’d been salvaged from the wreckage of his life.

  The darkness called him again, and then Jack, who came from the darkness, said, “You know you can do this, and when you do you will be a king.”

  Hallam looked at the knife. He went towards Jasmine and the darkness.

  Chapter 80

  PEACE AMID THE CARNAGE

  Anger laced every word, every statement. You could hear it in their voices. They slagged off the police, and they slagged off the government. They slagged off everyone they could, because they had to have someone to blame.

  Blame yourselves, thought Don Wilks. You’re making your own monsters.

  He hated the public.

  He folded his arms and leaned back in the chair. He stared out at the crowd packed into the community hall. Sharing the stage with Wilk
s was the assistant commissioner, a couple of local councilors, the member of Parliament, and two community workers.

  Fucking do-gooders who know nothing about what life’s really like, thought Wilks.

  He glanced at the AC. The bitch had forced him to take part in this circus when he could be out on the streets, doing his job.

  The MP raised his hand to quiet the audience. He was Asian, a 29-year-old lawyer. Wilks sneered at the man. He’d only got voted in because most of the population around this part of Whitechapel was Paki—or Bangladeshi, as the politically correct cops these days insisted on calling them.

  All the fucking same, thought Wilks. All fucking foreign.

  Apparently the flashy, young MP had recently been critical of extremist elements of Islam. He’d slagged off nutty imams for leading impressionable young Muslims on the path to terrorism. He’d encouraged integration and co-operation.

  Bollocks, Wilks said to himself. Probably a cover for being a suicide bomber.

  The MP said, “These murders have horrified the world. It’s all very well having press and broadcasters from across the globe descending on Barrowmore for their soundbites, but what happens when the story is of no further interest? There will still be anguish here. There will still be fear. And unless the police pull their socks up, there will still be a killer on the loose.”

  The crowd cheered and clapped.

  More fucking votes for you, thought Wilks.

  He hated politicians.

  He leaned forward now and scanned the faces. He was looking for Faultless. The bastard might have been stupid enough to turn up. If he were here, he’d be pinned to the floor and handcuffed.

  After his bollocking from the AC earlier, Wilks had issued an order for Faultless to be arrested.

  Two grunts spotted him near the scene of the murders—very handy, Wilks had thought, a bit of circumstantial there—and approached him.

  Unfortunately, Faultless trounced the pair.

  Never mind, thought Wilks. Another good reason to hunt down the bastard—assaulting police officers. Faultless would go down for that, even if Wilks failed to make any of the other accusations stick. He was going to try to pin the murders on him, although he knew Faultless was clean. What he wasn’t clean of was Tony Graveney’s death. But too little evidence, too few witnesses, and too much time gone by since the killing meant they’d probably never get a conviction.

  Shame Allan Graveney was still missing. That was a Faultless job too; Wilks knew it. Graveney was supposed to finish him off. Wilks had handed the bastard to him on a plate. But somehow prey became predator. And Wilks was sure Graveney’s ugly old body lay hidden somewhere on Barrowmore. If they could find the corpse, they might get a charge out of that.

  The MP yammered on. The crowd applauded. Wilks sweated.

  He hated this world.

  He hated everything about it and everyone in it.

  He just didn’t belong.

  He shut his eyes to block it out. The sounds of the meeting grew distant. His mind wandered. It went to a dark place. A place hiding terrible secrets. A place where he kept atrocities like other people kept antiques. He stayed there, and he found peace—peace amid the carnage.

  And in that bleak, bloody darkness, he heard a voice.

  It was calling to him, now. It was looking for him. He listened. He felt completely relaxed. He waited. The owner of the voice would find soon him. He’d found him before. And when he did, it had been like finding love for Don Wilks.

  Chapter 81

  THE DESCENT

  “Deep,” said Tash. “Deep somewhere. Underground. Under . . . under the world. She’s deep, deep down.”

  They were standing outside the lift on the ground floor of Monsell House. A sign saying Out Of Order was pinned to the elevator. Litter was strewn all around the reception area. Someone had tried to burn through a door marked Caretaker. Its frame was black with soot. The door had been padlocked. At the bottom of the stairwell lay a Costcutter bag full of beer cans. Someone had dropped their booze. Maybe they’d been attacked. Maybe they were being chased and dumped the alcohol while they were running away.

  Faultless’s gaze returned to the elevator door. It was steel. The word Hell and an arrow pointing down had beenpainted on the door.

  It was maybe more accurate a description than the vandal responsible had imagined.

  Tash was staring at the lift door.

  Faultless said, “You saying she’s in there?”

  Tash said nothing.

  Faultless looked over his shoulder. Hanbury nodded at him. Charlie shrugged. He looked at Tash. She was fixated on the door, focusing on something.

  He was trusting in her psychic abilities. He was trusting something he’d been convinced was bollocks.

  He thought about Lew. His weird tattoos. The black eyes. The face that came up from the depths of Faultless’s memories. The old man had left them soon after Tash announced she knew Jasmine’s whereabouts. Outside the flat, Faultless had watched him stroll down the passageway, smoke wafting from the old fella’s cigar. Soon the smoke was a thick mist around Lew, and in a few seconds he’d disappeared completely.

  Tash laid her hand on the door. “He’s down there somewhere. Him. The . . . the evil thing. Down there. And Jasmine, he’s got—”

  Faultless eased her out of the way and started kicking the door. Hanbury appeared next to him and was driving his heavy boot into the door. It buckled. After a while, Faultless was able to pry it open. He stood in the narrow gap and stared down. His legs turned to liquid. The abyss stared up at him. A burning breeze wafted up from the pit and boiled his blood.

  “I can see way down,” he said. “But that doesn’t make sense. This is the fucking ground floor. There’s nothing down there, is there?”

  Using all his strength, he pushed the doors apart. They groaned and eventually jammed, providing a twenty-four-inch space for Tash and Hanbury to join Faultless in looking down.

  “That’s not supposed to be there,” said Hanbury. “What is it? It’s impossible.”

  “There’s nothing there,” said Faultless again.

  “There’s something,” said Tash. “There’s Jasmine.”

  He looked up. It was wires and cables and scaffolding. They looked like veins and ligaments and bones to Faultless.

  He looked down again. There were none of the mechanisms of modern elevator systems down there. It was as if the 21st century ended there on the ground floor, and beyond it was a place lost in time. The shaft was mud and clay. In places, bones jutted out of the walls. They looked human. Faultless took a deep breath and shook his fear away. An old, wooden ladder, some of its rungs decaying, was bracketed to the side of the chute. Weeds coiled around it, and moss covered some of the steps, making them look slippery.

  Faultless said, “We go down.”

  As they descended, it became hotter and hotter.

  Hell, he thought. The sign was right.

  Faultless led the way, followed by Tash, with Hanbury taking up the rear.

  “Are you sure this is right?” he asked Tash above him.

  “No, I’m not, but it’s what I’m . . . ”

  “What you’re what?”

  “What I’m seeing, Charlie. That’s all I can tell you.”

  It was dark. It was hot. Sweat poured down his face. The shaft stank of rotting meat. On occasions he was convinced he could hear voices—wailing voices. He was also sure that he could smell something.

  Ammonia, maybe. Or sulphur. Or death.

  “Can you see the bottom?” asked Hanbury. He sounded out of breath.

  Faultless looked down. The darkness stretched. He saw no end. He said, “Not far now, mate.”

  Above them, something grinded–like metal grating against metal.

  In the heat of the shaft, a cold fear ran through Fau
ltless. He looked up. The sound came again, followed by a loud clank and then a hum.

  “What the fuck is that?” said Hanbury.

  The humming grew louder.

  Faultless recognized it.

  It was an elevator—coming down.

  Chapter 82

  CHARNEL HOUSE

  Faultless swung sideways, holding on to the ladder with one hand. “Hurry up, Tash, get past me,” he called up, and she descended quickly.

  When she got level with him, she stopped. She looked into his eyes. He stared right back. He wanted to leap at her, kiss her. She wanted the same, he could tell. But instead he said, “Get moving.”

  She did, heading down.

  He looked up and hurried Hanbury along.

  He could hear the lift. He craned his neck as Hanbury went past. Up in the shaft, he could make out the elevators shape coming down. Its hum grew louder. He glanced below him and started to descend again.

  He was sweating. His heart raced. There was an ache in his ribs where the copper had truncheoned him. He was exhausted, his vision swimming.

  But he had to go on. He had to survive. He had to find out.

  “Move,” he told them below him. “Move.”

  “Where are we going?” said Hanbury.

  “Ask your daughter, mate. She’s the psychic.”

  “You’ve called me mate twice in the last few minutes. You’d have done that fifteen years ago, I’d have cut your tongue out.”

  “You did worse than that, Roy. You threatened to kill me.”

  “You what?” said Tash. “Dad, you did what?”

  “Didn’t you know?” said Faultless. “Thought you were psychic.”

  “Shut up, Charlie,” she said. “Dad, were you going to kill him?”

  “Save your breath, darlin’,” said her father. “Save your breath and keep going. It’s all in the past now.”

  Fucking past, thought Faultless. You can say “it’s all in the past” and try to forget it, but not when the past made you. Not when it left you lost. Not when it had stolen everything you thought you were.

  He looked up. His legs grew weak. The elevator was coming closer. He could see it now.