Dark of Mind

by Robin Roughley

  He could recall conversations between those who wanted to end their lives, and in some cases, it had been almost like a battle of one-upmanship.

  Each one trying to outdo the other in the pain and misery stakes.

  'I spent the first ten years of my life in a childrens' home,' one would complain.

  'I was abused by my stepfather,' the other would reply.

  'Yes well, I lost my mother in a hit and run,' another would chirp in.

  The harrowing tales would snowball, and he would sit there and read them, cringing as he realised the worst thing he could put was that he had to look after his bedridden mother, hardly traumatic, hardly life-ending stuff.

  Then his master had come along, and Benny had found himself talking about his situation, at first, he had almost been ashamed as he spoke about his mother and how she lived her life.

  The messages had fired back and forth between them both, Benny Foster gradually feeling the elation grow as the messages of understanding appeared in his inbox.

  He had no real recollection of when the man had started to tap into the slow-burning hatred that he held inside.

  All he knew was that the messages from the man had slowly started to grow in size and his replies had been shorter. As he walked, the insidious thought that the man had been using him slipped into his mind and Foster gasped in shock.

  During the one-way conversations, the man had started to twist the blame for Benny's despair from his mother to society in general.

  'It's society that has let you down, Benny, you are an intelligent man forced to look after his mother when that job should be left to others.'

  Foster could remember nodding in agreement as he read the words on the screen.

  'When you worked you paid your taxes, you contributed to the system and yet look at you now, forced to live the way you do and yet you can see the real takers on the street every day, the skanks who spread their legs to all and sundry just so they can have another brat to bleed the system dry with.'

  'YES!' Benny had fired back the one word of agreement.

  'Then you have the so-called fathers, men who don't care about providing for their bastard offspring, they would sooner leave that to the taxpayer, to people like YOU!'

  Foster had felt the anger flare inside as he read the words. 'I hate people like that!' he had stabbed out the reply, his hands shaking with rage.

  'And they hate you, they don't see a valuable member of society, they see a man who has had to put his life on hold while they carry on spreading their bad seed. They are scum who care nothing for the rest of society, preferring instead to use or sell their drugs, they steal from decent people, they attack the weak and the vulnerable and take what they want from them.'

  'They do,' Benny had agreed, his mind full of rising hatred.

  'Elderly, defenceless men and women attacked in their own home, slaughtered by people who should have been drowned at birth!'

  The words had unlocked the memory of the old woman who had been battered in her own home, it had been all over the papers and news the year before, Rose Hope had been in her late seventies, living a life of poverty in a house where she couldn't afford to put the heating on for fear of not being able to pay the bill.

  Gradually the messages had become more hate-fuelled and when the man had asked if Benny would like to do something about it, he had replied with a resounding 'yes'.

  The trouble was Mr Banks hadn't been scum, he hadn't been spreading his ''bad seed''. Foster could remember talking to him outside the library, the sun had been shining and Banks had told him that he used to work in the local parks tending the gardens. He had done the same job for over thirty-five years, making the parks beautiful for the people who visited them.

  Benny had asked him why he had taken early retirement and Mr Banks had pointed to a scar above his right eye.

  'Last summer I was cutting the grass over at Leyland Park and there were three teenagers picking on another smaller kid, so I went over to tell them to pack it in and the three of them turned on me and gave me a good hiding for absolutely nothing.'

  Benny could remember shaking his head in shock at the story. 'But why would they do that?'

  'They do it simply because they can, they never caught the three who did it, in fact I don't think the police even bothered to look.'

  'That's disgraceful!'

  Mr Banks had nodded. 'I know it's a cliché, Benny, but there are a lot of people out there who have kids that they don't care about, they run feral, the teachers can't touch them and, let's face it, when was the last time you saw a copper walking the beat?'

  All Benny had been able to do was nod in agreement, now the truth of what he had done slammed into him, he had been responsible for the death of Mr Banks, a kind man, a good man, someone who had paid his taxes for over fifty years and he hadn't died at the hands of some thug, he had died because the voice on the phone had demanded it and Benny had simply followed the order.

  He came to a sudden halt, the tears sliding from his eyes, the sudden feeling of damnation slicing through his brain as he wept.

  55

  Lasser drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as the sun vanished in a flash of bright light behind the bank of woodland, he was still sitting on the station car park, the window down to let out the smoke, his face thoughtful.

  Bannister had warned him about fixating on Bradley Robbins but Lasser couldn't help it. He thought about Pamela Fitzsimmons in the mental health unit in Leigh, she would probably spend the rest of her days locked up and his gut told him that Robbins had been responsible for priming her to go and kill his brother when she was released.

  The tale was a twisted one, Bradley Robbins had been locked up for arson after burning his own house to the ground when he discovered that his hated brother had been sleeping with his wife.

  Lasser could remember talking to Doctor Philips who had said that Robbins had suffered more than most having been raised in a dysfunctional family, one in which he had been on the bottom rung of the ladder, bullied by his brother and ignored by his parents.

  Philips had painted a picture of Robbins as the victim and at first Lasser had agreed with his assessment, Jake Robbins had been having sex with Bradley's wife on a regular basis and when Bradley had found out he had been too weak to do anything about it. His wife had even moved his hated brother into the house, a house that was still being paid for by Bradley. Lasser could remember shaking his head in disbelief as Philips told him all about how Bradley was a workaholic, never missed a day through illness and then handed most of the cash over to pay the bills and mortgage whilst his brother and wife rubbed his nose in it, living a comfortable life at Bradley's expense. In the end, unable to cope with the shame, Bradley had burned the house down, though he had made sure that the property had been empty before he set fire to it.

  Yet despite the harrowing circumstances Lasser had found himself not trusting the narrow-shouldered man until in the end he became convinced that Bradley had targeted the damaged Pamela Fitzsimmons, knowing that she was due to be released. Two days after she left the unit to live in a shit tip of a one-bedroom flat, Jake Robbins had been killed in the fire started by Pamela Fitzsimmons, and then she had headed across town to try and kill Robbins's ex-wife and her toddler son, the son she'd had with Jake Robbins, a constant reminder to Bradley of what his wife had done, though Lasser and Odette had arrived just in time to save both mother and son from an agonising flame-filled death.

  Pamela Fitzsimmons had been locked up and Bradley Robbins had walked free, a look of innocence plastered onto his narrow weasel-like face.

  When the passenger door opened, Lasser blinked in surprise as Odette climbed into the car.

  'I thought you'd gone,' she said.

  Lasser flicked the spent cigarette into the scrawny bushes. 'I was just thinking.'

  'About the case?' she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

  'About Bradley Robbins.'

  He looked at Odette exp
ecting to see surprise in her eyes, but she looked at him knowingly. 'I've been the same, I just mentioned him to Carole.'

  'You did?' he asked in surprise.

  'You're not the only one who gets gut feelings you know,' she said with a slight smile as she rested her head back.

  So, what did Carole have to say about it?'

  'I'm waiting for Roger to get us Robbins's address, then she says she wants us to head over and have a word with the guy.'

  'Bannister thinks I'm on some kind of vendetta,' he paused and rubbed at his eyes, 'but that's not the way I see it.'

  'I know, Robbins might have had a tough time in life, but I still think he was responsible for turning Pamela Fitzsimmons into a murderer.'

  Lasser nodded in agreement. 'Do you think he could be responsible for controlling Foster?'

  Odette shrugged. 'I have no idea, but before I came out here, I was talking to Roger and he's managed to access Foster's laptop.'

  'And?'

  'He was spending a lot of time on suicide sites,' Odette said with a heavy sigh.

  Lasser thought for a moment as darkness fell. 'That makes a kind of twisted sense I guess.'

  'The problem is Roger can't find any evidence that Foster did more than access the sites, there's no sign of him taking part in any of the discussions.'

  'That proves nothing, he could still have been messaging someone privately.'

  'That's what Roger said.'

  Lasser looked out at the darkening fields, the woodland in the distance now a charcoal smudge on the horizon, the sky still tinted with the last hint of light. 'I just don't understand how someone could allow themselves to be manipulated to the extent that they would commit murder.'

  'To be honest that's not important,' Odette answered.

  Lasser looked at her shadowed face in surprise. 'What do you mean?'

  Odette slid a strand of hair behind her right ear. 'Whoever is doing this is smart enough to know that we will catch Foster and the fact that he had him attack the woman in the park worries me on more than one level.'

  Lasser rested a hand on the wheel as he waited for her to continue.

  'He's treating Foster as disposable, he cares nothing for the man, if he did then he would never have ordered him to attack Julie Chantry in the first place.'

  'So, he's just a blunt tool, nothing more than that,' Lasser suggested.

  'Mm and that worries me,' she paused,' it could mean that whoever is doing this has more than one person under their control.'

  Lasser frowned at the suggestion. 'If Bannister were here now, he'd be calling you a conspiracy theorist, he'd say you have a screw loose.'

  'Like he does with you?' Odette said as she slid the zip down on her jacket.

  'Exactly.'

  'So, what do you think?' Odette asked.

  Lighting a cigarette, Lasser pushed the door open and lodged his foot against it as he blew smoke out into the twilight. 'I don't even want to think about the possibility that this maniac could have more than one killer at his disposal, and I guess Bannister is right, all we can do is try and find Foster before he's ordered to attack someone else.'

  When Odette's phone rang, she fished it from her pocket and briefly checked the screen before tapping the speaker icon. 'Have you got an address for me, Roger?'

  'Bradley Robbins lives in a house named The Rookery, it's out in Appley Bridge, I checked the satnav and it gives directions.'

  'Thanks, Roger, I…'

  'Apparently, he's single and an accountant, aged thirty-five, was originally married to…'

  'It's OK, Rog, we know the guy, we just needed an address.' Lasser interrupted.

  'Oh right, well if you want me to dig deeper then just say the word.'

  'Keep digging,' Odette replied.

  'Will do.'

  She ended the call as Lasser pulled the door closed and started the engine.

  'I'll go in my car, you can follow me,' she said, opening the door and climbing out.

  Lasser waited for her to pull across the car park before following, his face set in a burgeoning look of concern.

  56

  Zero sat in the shadowed car, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on the gear lever as he watched the occasional vehicle drive down the road.

  Glancing at the phone in the holder, he sniffed before turning his attention back to the road as the streetlights flickered to life, in the distance he could see two men walking side by side, occasionally they would bump shoulders and then one would grab the other to stop them falling.

  'Drunks,' he mumbled in disgust.

  Then he turned and looked to the left; Broadway stretched out into the darkness interspersed by splodges of yellow light cast to the ground by the streetlights.

  When his phone started to ring, he waited, counting down ten seconds before tapping at the screen.

  'Why didn't you answer me immediately?' the voice asked in annoyance.

  'I have my phone set on a delay, it lights up first but only starts to ring after eight seconds,' he explained.

  'And why would you do that?'

  'I thought it prudent in case you rang me at an awkward moment.'

  'It is not your job to think, it is your job to follow orders.'

  'Understood,' Zero replied keeping his voice calm and even. 'I'll change the setting, so it rings immediately'.

  'Are you in place?'

  'I am.'

  'Shortly you will see a man walking up Broadway, a thin pitiful excuse for a man.'

  Zero kept his mouth closed as he peered expectantly into the darkness.

  'Did you hear what I said?'

  ''A thin pitiful excuse for a man'', Zero parroted.

  'His name is Foster; he is the one who sprayed acid into the man's face and the one who killed the man in the park.'

  Zero could hear the hint of pride in the man's voice, the underlying tone of pomposity.

  'Earlier today I ordered him to maim a woman in the park, he does as he is told, he worships me.'

  'As do I,' Zero said in his dull, dead voice.

  'Can you see the parade of shops from where you're parked?'

  'I can.'

  'Good, now I will ring you back shortly, so make sure you are ready to move.'

  'I am always ready.'

  'We'll see,' the voice snapped, the phone flashed and died.

  Zero shook his head in disgust, his eyes full of hatred as he eased back in the seat and awaited further instruction.

  57

  John Hinton fumed as he tried to comprehend the news.

  'Are you sure?' he managed to ask through gritted teeth.

  Livy held the pregnancy tester – the end wrapped in a tissue – between her thumb and index finger, her bright red nails catching the light as she grimaced slightly.

  'Well, it certainly isn't mine,' she said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  'But she can't be pregnant,' he snarled.

  'I'm afraid this says differently,' she replied as she tilted her head slightly.

  'But she doesn't even have a boyfriend!'

  'Well, obviously she's had sex with someone and…'

  'Did you know about this; did she say anything to you?' Hinton demanded.

  Plastering a look of hurt onto her made-up face, she sighed heavily. 'Of course not, if she had then I would have told you, I wouldn't have kept it to myself.'

  Hinton looked flustered for a moment and then he gave her a sharp nod before pacing back and forth on the dark-oak flooring. 'After everything I've done, everything I've provided for her and she does this.'

  'Try to stay calm, John, it can happen to anyone,' Livy said knowing full well that her words would infuriate him further.

  Hinton stopped his pacing for a moment, his eyes ablaze with anger.

  'If you're considering ringing her then you need to try and stay calm,' Livy said, her voice brimming with compassion whilst inside she laughed with glee.

  'Ring her? By Christ I'll ring her neck after I'
ve told the whore exactly what I think of her.'

  'Listen to me, John, how you react now will determine so much of the future and…'

  'Future, what bloody future?' he demanded. 'She told me she was staying over at a girlfriend's house and they were doing coursework, but I bet that was all a lie,' he raged.

  'Come on, even if she is staying with a boyfriend then there's not much you can do about it.'

  When he snatched the phone from his pocket she turned and headed towards the door.

  'Where are you going?' he demanded as he stabbed at the screen.

  'I think you need some privacy, I'll put the kettle on.'

  'Never mind the bloody kettle, get me a whisky,' he bawled as he slapped the phone to his ear.

  Nodding, she left the room, her eyes alight with malice, her lips curled in a grin of dark satisfaction.

  58

  Robbins placed a ten-pound note on the bar and smiled.

  'Good round, Mr Robbins?' the barman asked.

  'Afraid not, Samuel, I spent more time in the rough than on the green, in the end I ran out of light.'

  Samuel shook his head in sympathy as he took the money and placed the glass of fresh orange juice on the bar.

  'Keep the change,' Robbins said with a casual wave of his hand.

  'Much appreciated,' the barman said gratefully.

  Collecting his drink, Robbins crossed the room before sitting down at a deserted corner table.

  His eyes scanned the room and he nodded and smiled at two men at the far side of the clubhouse before taking a sip of his orange juice. Checking his watch, he waited for a couple of minutes before rising to his feet and heading for the gents. Once inside, he went to the last cubicle on the left, his finger pressing the call button on his phone as he stepped inside and closed the door before bolting it.