by Martyn Ford
‘Thank you, Kelly.’
The nostalgic tingle of progress. A little glimpse into what satisfaction might feel like, if it was ever even possible.
Chapter 13
Bronzegate Prison. Razor wire wrapped around high walls, CCTV cameras posted on anything vertical. Squared spires and concrete and windows shrouded in steel painted blue years ago, now flaking and weatherworn. Seagulls circled above – confused and lost and squawking about it.
Inside, that echoing sports-hall brickwork, those shiny rubber scuffed floors, and the claustrophobia you surely never get used to. The room set aside for them was just off the main quad, next to offices and well away from the other prisoners.
Their contact was a guard called Peter, the friend of Kelly’s father, who wore smart trousers, a white shirt and a heavy leather belt that jingled with metal as he walked. He met them at reception and escorted them along a warren of corridors, beneath suicide nets and through three locked checkpoints. Everything was clad in thin steel grids, many of which seemed to serve no purpose beyond a reminder that this place was, first and foremost, a cage.
‘Sorry we have to do it in here,’ Peter said, holding open the office door and inviting them inside. ‘The family area is quite spacious and, well, visiting times and all that. I know you’re here too,’ he added, nodding at Isabelle, ‘it’s just that without the proper call, the paperwork, it’s a bit . . .’
‘This is fine,’ Sam said, peering around the small room.
‘How long has he been here?’ Isabelle asked.
‘Here, six years – but inside, about double that.’
‘Does he get many visitors?’ she added.
‘His mother comes once a week – and he calls her every single day, four p.m., like clockwork. In case you were wondering why he has “Mary” scribbled on his face. These bruisers, they always have a soft spot for their ma.’
Sam helped himself to a seat and Isabelle stood against the wall, waiting while Peter went and fetched Joey Osbourne.
Wearing baggy jogging bottoms and a navy fleece zipped right up to his chin, the inmate entered a few minutes later carrying a curious contempt that filled Sam with a blip of fear. Those wild, violent eyes he recognised from a hundred places. Men who can hide behind charm and smile for decades, only to erupt when given half a chance. And yet, unrestrained and well behaved, the bald man strolled slowly past Isabelle to the foldable chair held out for him. He sat directly opposite Sam, the corner of a desk between them.
‘You all right, Pete?’ Joey said.
‘All good. Joey, this is Detective Isabelle Lewin and her colleague . . .’
‘Sam’s fine,’ he said.
The tattoos were as billed – outrageous and pervasive. The kind of brazen artwork that advertises you have no interest in employment, no interest in normal exchanges with normal people in normal places. A crucifix on his left cheek, spreading diagonally across his temple and down to the top of his ear. Latin scripture spiralling around his thick neck like a noose. Just behind his fleece collar, the top two legs of a swastika. Although, Sam noted, the symbol was almost hidden – perhaps regret, maybe even tolerance, had seeped in through these bars over the years. But that was unlikely. Extended periods of time with hostile men of all colours and creeds tends to make such tribal prejudice worse before it makes it better. Maybe he was just feeling cold.
The tattoo that interested Sam the most, however, was on the right-hand side of his bald head – a busy pentagram hosting weaving snakes and two naked women. Predictably crude, their poses were as pornographic as they were gratuitous. One had a slit throat, though thankfully no colour besides swamp green had been used. The other poor lady was missing her hands, her feet and the flesh and skin from her skull. Despite this, the women seemed happy and horny, wrapped around the frame of the tilted star, stretched over a bulging vein on Joey’s temple.
And there, on his chin, calligraphy. ‘Mary’. The mother he still spoke to every day, without exception.
Peter placed a fire extinguisher on the floor to keep the door open, and then left the room. Sam wondered now just how well behaved a convicted murderer has to be for such a blasé lack of security. Twelve years of peaceful, polite civility wasn’t enough for him. Despite Peter’s confidence that he posed no risk, Sam made sure his feet were planted firmly on the floor. His body was drip-feeding him adrenaline – his intuition detecting things everyone else seemed able to ignore.
‘How can I help you?’ Joey said, getting himself comfortable. He slouched with his legs spread wide and his arms folded across his chest.
Isabelle stood by the door, hands clasped behind her – like an exam adjudicator, here to keep this visit somewhat official. She breathed through her nose and surveyed the room with her calm, almost docile eyes.
‘Have you any idea what this is?’ Sam asked, holding his phone out with the picture of their crying Hecate on the screen.
Joey leaned forwards and pretended to strain his vision, glanced to Isabelle, then back to Sam. ‘That, my friend, is a mobile telephone.’
‘Of course.’ Sam tutted. ‘Obvious now you say it.’
‘Pleased to assist.’
‘How about the photo, seen one of them before?’
‘I’ve seen many photos.’
‘Joey.’ Peter’s voice came through the corridor from the office next door. ‘Be nice.’
Smiling, Joey waved his hand. ‘It’s a . . . a religious thing, called a crying Hecate.’
‘I understand you enjoy making them?’ Sam said, sliding his mobile back into the pocket of his jeans.
‘Yeah, but they told me to stop. Ironic, as it’s remarkably hellish in here, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen worse.’
‘As have I, friend, as have I.’
‘Why did you make them?’
‘To curse my enemies,’ Joey said, laughing with wide eyes, waving spooky, childish fingers.
There was a loud buzzing sound, a rumble above them and then a lock clanking nearby. The electronic ligaments of this metal beast were on the move. Bronzegate Prison was old – it required more than a lick of paint – what it really needed was a bulldozer and dynamite on its load-bearing walls. Sam was then aware of a fan on the ceiling, which twitched on its axis – it had been left on but something inside stopped it from turning.
‘The hand of the dark lord shall rise from below and snatch whomever she chooses,’ Sam said.
‘That’s right. The light of her torch exposes everything.’
‘Do you believe they work, the dolls? They drag demons back down into hell?’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I believe you got the idea to burn their heads from someone else.’
Joey stopped in his tracks, narrowed his eyes.
‘That, or you carved this one too.’ Sam tapped his pocket.
‘Mine are neater. That one looks like shit.’
‘As I understand, charring the face is not conventional.’
Joey seemed reluctant to go down this road. So, go down it we must, Sam thought.
Looking at his tattooed knuckles, Joey picked at a nail. ‘I’m guessing this has something to do with the Clarke kids?’
With the slightest turn of her head, Isabelle exhaled. It had been a while since he’d been stopped in the street but, to this day, people still looked at Sam and frowned in recognition, or something close to it. He had the lowest celebrity status one could attain, rivalled only by first-week rejects on obscure reality TV shows. Joey was simply joining dots.
‘Where was it?’ he asked.
Hesitating, Isabelle opened her mouth to speak, but decided instead to stay silent. It probably was too late anyway. They could move on, but he would piece it together himself. Was this the kind of man who would talk to the press? Isabelle was leaving it up to Sam to decide.
If in doubt, be honest. ‘In a tree near the Clarkes’ house,’ he said.
‘Well, fuck me. Was it pointing?�
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Sam nodded.
‘Going by your photo, looks like it’s been there a fair while too.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you believe in God?’ Joey asked, tilting his head.
‘I believe God is just a word for things we don’t know yet.’
‘And you think I have some of that precious information? What does that make me?’
Sam’s eyes went briefly to the ceiling, to that crippled fan, and he sighed. ‘An angel.’
More laughter.
Last try. ‘Do you know anyone else who might make a doll like this, with a burned head?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Joey whispered. This was a lie, the first one of the day. The tone of the conversation had changed. A door had closed – silent and without ceremony, but they could go no further.
Sam sat back in his chair. ‘I don’t work for the police any more, you know that, right?’
‘And her?’ Joey nodded towards Isabelle.
‘You can tell from a mile, can’t you?’ Sam turned, looking up. ‘Think it’s her posture. Like a bouncer.’
Total serenity from young Isabelle – bulletproof, immune to the outside world. He wondered if she could even blush.
‘I was on a job back in the Nineties.’ Sam shuffled round to face forwards again. ‘There was an officer, a colleague of mine, they called him Wiggie – his old nickname at school.’
‘Here we go.’
‘Wiggie was trying to build a case, tracking this heavyweight drug dealer. And we knew, I mean, we knew what he was up to. But he was almost supernatural – we just couldn’t tie him to anything. Frustrating, to know something you can’t prove.’
Joey looked bored.
‘Anyway, eventually, when everything else had failed, when he walked free from court, when he’d bribed, wrestled, wriggled out of the system, he finally slipped up. Routine stop and he’s got a kilo of heroin in the boot of his car. Hurray. Dead to rights. Down he goes, they throw the book at him. Later, Wiggie told me over a drink or two that he’d planted the drugs. It was seen as ticking boxes – a formality. After all, it’s the kind of thing this guy did anyway – true enough, right?’
‘Has this story got a point?’
‘The point is, Joey, that the police can cause an enormous amount of harm when they want to.’
‘Good job you’re retired, then.’
The interview fizzled out after this – a few more attempts to pry some information, but, as Sam suspected, Joey wasn’t willing to disclose specifics. He’d taken the Wiggie story as a lazy, idle threat. And what else could Joey lose? Sam gave him his personal number and told him to call if he changed his mind. They left just after 11 a.m.
On the way back to the car, beneath those tall wired walls and bewildered seagulls, Isabelle seemed dejected, as though they’d wasted time.
‘That anecdote true?’ she asked.
‘Certainly is.’
‘How does that square with your honesty?’
‘Perfectly.’ Craving poison, Sam began to smoke. ‘I reported Wiggie – that shifty bastard. He lost his job, his pension, everything. The dealer in question was released, I think even compensated. I wasn’t a popular man. And I’m not sorry.’
Isabelle appeared, in an odd way, to like this answer. She would not, however, like the rest of his plan.
Back home, in his flat, Sam took out his phone, scrolled through his contacts and pressed a number saved as Lei R.
‘Is that Mr Maguire?’
‘It is indeed. How’s the uniform treating you?’
‘Itchy, smells like plastic.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Listen, this isn’t a social call.’ Sam twirled a biro in his fingers, leaning on his kitchen counter.
‘Thought not.’
What he was about to do was at the very edge of his moral borders – misleading, unpleasant, but not – and he was careful here – lying. When it was over, when the ends had justified these means, he would rectify any deception. But first, like a conductor, he had to make certain things happen.
‘Remember that morning, ages ago, at the estate? The fire?’
Lei sighed. ‘I know I owe you a favour,’ he said. ‘Just tell me what it is.’
‘I need you to arrest someone.’
‘OK, that shouldn’t be a problem. Who?’
‘A woman, Mary Osbourne.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know.’
‘So . . . why would I arrest her?’
‘Well, Lei, that’s why it’s a favour – if she’d broken the law it’d be, you know, your job.’
‘OK, fine. We generally need a reason though.’
‘Of course – arrest her on suspicion of possession with intent to supply. Class A. Heroin.’
‘Jesus Christ. Then what?’
‘Go through the motions, swab her, grill her, whatever. Then release her without charge, before three thirty p.m.’
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘You can.’ There was a short silence, then another sigh. ‘Good choice,’ Sam said. ‘Look, it’s theatre, all right? Break a door if you can, shout a bit. Just make sure it’s an experience she remembers.’
‘Fucking hell, Sam.’
‘Half past three. And, Lei, there’s a good reason for this, I promise.’
He gave him the address and then rested his phone face down on the arm of his sofa, next to the ashtray. Then he read through the statements taken from the Clarkes’ neighbours. Jasper Parker was among them but not, Sam noticed, his lodging daughter. He made a note to change that.
From a small camera mounted on a stab vest, we see a narrow, shaded corridor. A radio crackles, electronic voices whispering. Boots on the floor – the footage shaky, fish-eyed. Close. We see a door with a brass number five at the top, in the centre of the wood, next to a peephole. To the left, three officers wearing full riot gear are ready to go – the closest one gives us a single nod. Below, a pair of gloved hands hold a metal battering ram. It swings back, out of view. And bang. It begins.
At exactly 4.10 p.m., Sam picked up his mobile and placed it on his thigh. He stared down into the screen, waiting, waiting, waiting. Two minutes later, vibrations from an unknown number.
‘Joey,’ Sam said, with win-win optimism.
‘You sleep well at night?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘These calls are recorded . . .’
‘So?’
‘You’ve crossed a line, my friend. You really do not want to fuck with me, Sam.’
‘I know. I just want you to answer my fucking question.’
The grand bluff – a nuclear warhead loses all power the moment it’s unleashed. But we must pretend. Helpless, locked away, unable to protect his dear mother from an atrocious weapon Sam wouldn’t even dream of using, Joey finally opened that door.
‘I’ll tell you what I know, and then it’s over. Deal?’
‘Of course.’
‘This . . . this is a hornets’ nest. These guys, they’re cold, heartless, eye-for-an-eye killers. Literal interpretation of the worst Bible passages. Fire and fury.’
‘Names.’
‘There’s a group, a fringe Christian sect,’ Joey whispered. Sam pictured him huddled into the prison phone mounted on the wall, checking left and right. ‘It’s called North Serpent.’
‘North Serpent?’
‘Yeah, ha ha, get your laughs in now. The church was established by the Marston family. Bunch of horror-show nutjobs.’
‘Friends of yours?’
‘No.’
‘These dolls – they make similar?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it was a satanic thing?’
‘It is. The church is all about using their own weapons against them.’
‘Them?’ Sam furrowed his brow at the absurdity. ‘Demons?’
‘Yeah, witches, Jews, blacks, gays, you name it.’
‘And you were part of all this?�
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‘I was a member for years. You want to know why I left? Because they’re fucking maniacs.’
‘Quite an endorsement from someone like yourself.’
Joey gave him a tired laugh. ‘Thanks.’
‘OK, so who do I need to know about?’
‘Right, so there’s three brothers. Henry, Gregory and Max – those last two are twins. Then there’s Diane, the oldest. The sister. She founded it. Max is the worst one, he’s just . . .’
‘You sound like you’re scared of them.’
‘You will be too. I’ve seen first-hand what those brothers are capable of. And I’ve heard plenty of rumours.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘These occult rituals get a bit nasty when the sun goes down. At that old house, in that garage . . . Let’s just say a few missing people have died screaming their safe word.’
‘North Serpent still up and running?’ Sam asked. ‘Where are they?’
‘Church itself has folded. They never meet. Got a lot of bad press in recent years. It’s toxic. Last I heard they’re all in hiding. You won’t be able to find the Marstons, let alone Diane.’
‘You’d be surprised what I can do, Joey.’
Chapter 14
Robin ate her cereal on the bed. She held the bowl between her crossed legs and, when she finished, drank the last of the chocolatey milk. As the voice had told her to, she left the empty bowl by the door, then sat back on the mattress.
Her arm was less sore now. She picked at the tiny scab in the crease of her elbow joint, which tickled more than it hurt. It was a bit like the bruise she had after a blood test at the hospital when she was poorly. She thought, when she first woke up here, in this room, that the voice might be a doctor. Maybe he had wanted to test her blood for something. But she was confused and sleepy. Now she knew he wasn’t a doctor and this wasn’t a hospital. Hospitals are white and they don’t have bars on the windows.
But her plan had worked. The door opened and the hand came into the dark room, took the empty bowl away but didn’t ask about the other spoon. When the cereal had arrived, she’d said quietly, through the opening, that she would rather have a little spoon. She only liked big spoons for soup. The voice had returned a few seconds later and passed one through. Now she had that big spoon hidden under her pillow.
