by Mark Tilbury
‘Is little Chloe-woey in there, too?’
Chloe broke free of her mother’s grasp and ran to the bottom of the steps. ‘You don’t scare me,’ she shouted, her voice older, deeper, defiant. ‘You think you can hurt me, but you can’t.’
‘My, my, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Purple-five had risen from the grave.’
‘You’re nothing but a pathetic sadistic twat.’
Mel stood behind her daughter, barely able to comprehend what she was hearing.
‘Sticks and stones, Purple-five,’ King shouted. ‘Sticks and stones.’
What came out of Chloe’s mouth next stopped Mel’s heart.
‘“How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!”’
King thumped the door. ‘Don’t mock me, girl. Don’t you dare take Hamlet’s name in vain.’
‘What’s the matter, Mr. Game Master? Too close to the truth?’
‘You’ll be sorry you said that, Purple-five.’
Chloe’s hands clenched. ‘Fuck you!’
‘I’m going to kill you. Slowly this time, you ungrateful bitch. Gouge out your eyes, cut out your spiteful tongue, slice off your ears.’
Mel put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Chloe?’
Chloe ignored her. She stared at the door, head tipped back, breath coming in short gasps. ‘You can never kill me.’
‘Is… that… right?’
‘“The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue.’”
A noise came from the other side of the door that belonged to an enraged animal. And then King’s laboured voice. ‘Open the door now, and I’ll spare you.’
Mel said, ‘Come away from the steps. He might have a gun.’
‘He’s a fucking coward.’
‘Please.’
Chloe stepped back and allowed her mother to pick her up. The child’s eyes appeared almost black in the shadowy light of the basement. Saliva, white and frothy, dribbled down her chin. Sweat glistened on her forehead as if she was in the grip of a fever.
Mel walked to the shelving unit and squeezed into a small space between the wall and the unit. ‘Keep quiet, okay?’’
Chloe wiped her chin with the back of her sleeve. ‘Is he going to chop off our heads?’
How the fuck did you answer that? ‘No.’
‘He hates me.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you, okay?’
Chloe nodded, bottom lip trembling.
After several loud thuds, the door flew open and banged against the wall. ‘Looks as if you might need a locksmith for that door, Mrs. Hollis.’ King’s shadow stretched down the steps like a grim reminder of Chloe’s name for him. ‘You see how much easier this would have been if you hadn’t obstructed a police officer.’
Mel held her breath, trying not to give herself away.
‘I wonder where the little piggies are hiding.’
Please, God, make this work!
After a few moments, King said, ‘All right, have it your way.’
Please, God. Please.
King stepped onto the landing. His right foot instantly slipped over the edge of the first step. To correct his balance, his left foot tried to find purchase in the oil, spilling him further forward. A gunshot echoed around the basement as he tumbled forward. He dropped the gun as he fell. It came to rest about halfway down, spinning in the oil.
Mel watched her adversary crash down the last few basement steps. He cried out as his head cracked against the concrete at the bottom, leaving him in a twisted heap, one leg bent up underneath his body.
And then silence.
When he still hadn’t moved after several minutes, Mel walked across the basement with Chloe in her arms. She stood a few feet away from his motionless body.
‘Is he dead, Mummy?’
‘I… think… so.’
‘What if he’s just pretending?’
Mel didn’t have an answer to that. A small puddle of blood had spread out beside his head. Only one problem: he was blocking off the steps.
He might be playing dead to lure you into a trap.
Mel could see the gun glistening on the steps in a puddle of oil, tantalisingly close.
She made a snap decision to pass Chloe over the top of him. She whispered in her ear, ‘I’m going to put you on the steps. I want you to go carefully because of the oil, okay?’
Chloe nodded.
‘Go on your hands and knees. Don’t think about the Tall Man. Just remember Mummy will make sure he doesn’t touch you.’
‘Okay.’
‘When you get to the top, go into the kitchen and wait there for me, okay.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Good girl.’ Mel strained every muscle lifting Chloe over the body. She held her breath as she watched her daughter crawl up the concrete steps, slowly, methodically, as if they were cast from ice. She looked so small, so innocent, so vulnerable.
Chloe reached the top and scrambled into the kitchen.
Your turn.
Mel’s feet felt encased in concrete.
One foot in front of the other.
Why were words so easy, and actions so hard? She noticed a large bruise on the Tall Man’s face. Blood trickled from his nose. And then, as if conjured from her worst nightmare, his face morphed into that of her mother. Wild red-rimmed eyes staring east and west. Chipped yellow teeth. Hair splayed out as if caught in a strong wind.
It was all Mel could do to suppress a scream. She closed her eyes.
Your mother’s dead. Dead and buried in Feelham Cemetery forever.
If this thought was meant to comfort her, it didn’t. She opened her eyes. The Tall Man was back in all his twisted glory. She forced herself to step over him, her stomach riding on a rollercoaster.
Two steps up now. Within touching distance of the gun.
You don’t even know how to fire a gun.
Four steps. Feet slipping in the oily coating. She grabbed the greasy handle of the gun. Picked it up. The cold metal felt alien, full of threats.
‘“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’”
The voice, thick and slurry, made Mel cry out. Her left foot lost its grip, and she fell to her knees. She looked over her shoulder as the Tall Man propped himself up on one elbow. She tried to crawl up the steps, but the surface refused to allow traction.
The Tall Man screamed as he tried to unravel his twisted leg. He looked at Mel with eyes forged in hell. The scream gave way to a series of laboured pants. Bloody spit bubbled on his lips.
Mel gave up her fruitless attempt to get away. She sat on the step and pointed the gun at his head, gripping the handle with both hands. ‘Don’t move.’
His lips peeled back. ‘What shall I compare thee to?’
‘I’ll shoot you.’
The Tall Man didn’t appear disturbed by threats. A laugh, thick with phlegm, gurgled in his throat. ‘Is that right, Mrs. Hollis?’
Mel bit down on her lip. ‘Yes.’
‘You have all the integrity of a stewed prune.’ He rolled onto his front and edged towards the first step, using his elbows to propel himself.
‘Stay there.’
He slithered forward. ‘I suppose you’re proud of your little plan to thwart me?’
‘I’m not proud of anything.’
‘You do realise it’s a criminal offence to attack a police officer attending his duties?’
‘Come any further, and I’ll shoot you.’
He edged closer. ‘I don’t think you will, Mrs Hollis. I don’t think you’re even capable of shooting the breeze.’
‘Do it!’ Chloe shouted, in that alien, grown up voice Mel recognised as Amy. ‘Do it, now!’
‘Ah, Purple-five. I wondered when we would see your true colours. No pun intended.’
‘Shoot the bastard,’ Chloe demanded.
Mel’s finger tightened on the trigger.
‘You know the rules, Purple-five.’ Blood stained his te
eth and dribbled down his chin. ‘You landed on the Death Square.’
‘And now it’s your turn,’ Chloe said.
King crawled forward, almost within striking distance of Mel. ‘Et tu, Brute?’
Mel fired. The bullet took away half of King’s cheek and one of his eyes. The remaining one stared at Chloe for a few seconds before he slumped forward, chin smashing into the concrete step. Mel fired again. This time the bullet hit him in the top of the head, rendering him permanently mute and motionless.
‘Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!’ Chloe screamed.
Mel dropped the gun and crawled up the remaining steps. When she reached the top, knees scraped and dripping with blood and oil, she wrapped her arms around her sobbing, shaking four-year-old little girl.
‘It’s over, Pumpkin. It’s over.’
Epilogue
By late spring, Chloe Hollis was sleeping reasonably well again. Mel had always been aware of how resilient children were, but Chloe’s ability to recover from such a traumatic series of events astounded her. The child rarely spoke about what had happened at Rose Cottage, and she’d had no more past-life recollection. Not that Mel wasn’t thrown into a panic every time Chloe had a bad dream or seemed upset. It would take many years for Mel to relax again, but at least each new day put the horrors of that Christmas further into the past.
Chloe had a new rag doll. Sally. As yet, Sally had shown no signs of being possessed by Grandma Audrey. Long may it continue. Mel prayed that the evil witch would stay in the sewer where she belonged for all eternity.
Naturally, Chloe missed her daddy. Mel took her to Feelham Cemetery every Sunday to lay fresh flowers on the grave. Chloe told him how much she loved him and what a great daddy he was. She would also recount everything she’d done that week, even telling him all about Mel as if she wasn’t there.
Mel missed him, too. More than she could have ever imagined after discovering the truth about Stephanie Wallace. Chloe had no recollection of the affair. She didn’t even remember Ruby talking to her, although she did occasionally say she missed the doll. She swore that Sally would never get thrown out by mistake like Ruby, especially when they moved.
Mel had found a temporary flat to rent on the outskirts of Feelham. She planned to stay there until Rose Cottage was sold and she had the means to buy another house. She’d been looking on the internet at properties along the south coast. Brighton. Chichester. Bournemouth. Far enough away to wipe the slate clean and start again. Feel safe, without painful reminders of the past waiting around every corner.
DI Cartwright had told Mel they had evidence to suggest Peter King had murdered Tony, as well as Charles Honeywell, Gavin Westwood and Olivia Watson. They’d also recovered nineteen heads from upright freezers in King’s basement. The long process of identification was under way. Three had been positively identified from dental records, but the others were still unknown.
Mel was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that Charles Honeywell was King’s lover and complicit in all the murders. Upon hearing the news, Mel had been violently sick. She couldn’t stop thinking about all the times she’d confided in him. The years she’d worked with him at Feelham Primary School. How he’d taken Chloe to see Gavin Westwood. And all along, he’d been King’s lover and accomplice.
The police had rescued four girls from the bowels of Feelham Theatre. All were suffering the effects of dehydration after six days without water. They’d had to resort to licking condensation off the walls. One was unconscious and had to be resuscitated twice in the ambulance on the way to hospital.
Chloe’s hysterical reaction to going inside Feelham Theatre now made perfect sense to Mel. It must have terrified the poor child. Mel always avoided going anywhere near the place when she went into town. It was like some great monolith shrine to evil as far as she was concerned. If she had her way, it would be knocked down and turned into a memorial garden for all the poor girls who’d lost their lives in Peter King’s sick, depraved game.
One girl, Tanya Whichello, had sent a letter to Chloe telling her what a brave and special little girl she was, and how she would always remember her. Over the course of the following few weeks, Mel and Tanya had talked on the phone. Tanya was back at home living with her parents. She’d enrolled at college to train as a hairdresser. Maybe one day, when Chloe got married, she would let Tanya do her hair for the wedding. Chloe had thought that was the best thing ever, and she’d made her mother promise to stay friends with Tanya. It was the very least Mel could do.
Mel sat on the small hard sofa in the rented flat with Chloe snuggled up next to her. They were watching Finding Dory for the thousandth time. Mel knew the story backwards and upside down by now, but it was such a simple joy to be sitting in safety with her daughter and just doing what normal people do.
‘I love you, Mummy.’
‘I love you, too. A million times over.’
After a slight pause, Chloe said, ‘I’m glad the angels helped me to choose you, Mummy.’
Tears stung the back of Mel’s eyes. This one simple statement held such a complex and intricate meaning. Life wasn’t just a random act of chance. There were forces at work beyond this world, arranging the pieces, bringing to justice those who had committed despicable acts.
‘Me, too, Pumpkin. Me too.’
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Readers who enjoyed The Liar’s Promise will also enjoy
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Acknowledgments
Huge thanks to:
David McCaffrey, Maggie James and Jipsy Lee for beta reading the book.
Bloodhound Books for all their help and support, especially Fred, Betsy, Alexina , Sarah, Sumaira and Clare.
Tracy Fenton and everyone in THE Book Club on Facebook.
The Abattoir of Dreams
If you enjoyed The Liar’s Promise then don’t miss Mark Tilbury’s stunning Psychological thriller The Abattoir of Dreams.
The past is never far away.
Michael Tate has not had an easy life. With his father in prison, and his mother dead, Michael was sent to Woodside Children’s Home.
Now an adult, Michael wakes up in hospital from a coma suffering from amnesia and paralysis. Confused and terrified, he is charged with the fatal stabbing of his girlfriend, Becky. He also learns he attempted to end his own life.
Detective Inspector John Carver is determined that Michael is sent to prison.
With no way of defending himself, Michael is left in his hospital bed awaiting transfer to remand.
But then strange things begin to happen and his childhood comes back to haunt him.
Can Michael ever escape the past?
Will he ever discover the truth about Becky’s murder?
And why is DI Carver so eager to make him suffer?
The Abattoir of Dreams is a bitter sweet story of murder, innocence and abuse.
* * *
Order your copy here
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