by Karen Long
“She’s asleep upstairs,” he answered vaguely, as he scrutinised the face.
“I want to see her now,” he sobbed, his body trembling with shock.
“Toby realised that the blistering was the result of the child lying face down in his own vomit, as there were still small pieces of food attached to his chin and T-shirt.
“I want mummy!”
His voice was becoming shrill and penetrated Toby’s sensitive hearing, putting him on edge. “Be quiet!” he shouted. He was pleased to see the immediate effect this had on the boy. His eyes grew wide and his mouth clamped shut. “Good boy,” he said in a soothing tone. “I’m going to wipe your face for you…”
“No!” screamed the boy and covered his face with his now dirty hands.
“If you want to see mummy, you have to do as I say. Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded slowly, his lips trembling.
Reaching for the bucket of warm water and flannel he’d brought down for a different purpose, he wrung it out and cautiously put his hand through the bars. Tommy cowered in the corner, his back pressed against the bars. But the crush was small enough to allow Toby to reach the child’s face and rub it. “Keep still,” he hissed.
“Please can I see mummy now?” he pleaded.
The child was no longer beautiful or desirable. No amount of scrubbing was going to improve his skin or appearance. Balling the flannel, Toby flung it at the wall, showering them both in acrid water.
Tommy began to cry.
The summer storm had been anticipated and, to a large extent welcomed as a concept, if not the reality. Clouds roiled around the CN Tower at unnatural speed, looking more like a movie effect than a natural phenomenon. The downpour, when it finally began, was almost biblical in its ferocity, lifting drain covers and turning the roads into a watercourse. Sarah Wadesky had left her umbrella in the car and was now experiencing the lack of any meaningful public help with saturated hair, clothes and spirit. She glanced up and down the street, watching as uniformed officers carrying photographs and notepads knocked on houses and entered shops in an effort to find someone, anyone who had seen who had taken Tommy Banks. In a futile gesture she twisted the dial on her radio and checked her phone, just in case something had come in and was being missed. How, she thought, could a child vanish so completely and un-witnessed?
Timms looked at Ethan Banks and felt a hot prickly sensation rise beneath the collar of his shirt. Determined to keep a hold on any counter productive statements or gestures, he tried to conjure up an image of baby Tess and the boys, which was guaranteed to shine a light on any difficult day. Unfortunately, this image was marred by the looming figure of Grandma Wadesky and her perpetually humourless expression. So, gritting his teeth, he yanked the chair out and sat down heavily.
Ethan Banks, was, in many respects the adult version of his son. Pale skin, wispy blonde hair and blue eyes were the outward marks of shared genetic inheritance. Where the adult Banks differed was in the mean twist of his mouth, eyes that reflected little light and a penchant for prison tattoos. The uneven swastika that spanned his neck and the large breasted naked woman, legs opened invitingly on his bicep, made Timms want to grab him by the throat and throttle him. “You’ve been informed that your son has been abducted?” said Timms, as empathically as he could.
Banks lifted his eyes and stared back insolently. He placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, inhaling deeply.
Timms swallowed and soothed himself. “Do you have any ideas on who might have taken him?”
“Now how the fuck would I know that? As you can no doubt see –” he gestured expansively to the room “– I don’t get out much.”
Timms cleared his throat and loosened his collar. “I understand that. But, as we all know, being inside is no deterrent to making enemies and that can lead to families being involved. Now! As we are all desperately trying to find your son, I’m sure that you’d like to give us as much help as you possibly can. Is there anyone you can think of, or even hint at, being involved in your son’s abduction?”
There was a slight pause as Ethan Banks picked a small piece of tobacco from off his tongue. “All the help I can give you is this.” He leaned towards Timms, a hint of a smile playing across his face. “Go fuck yourself.”
Timms closed his eyes and inhaled. Slowly he stood up. When he opened his eyes he saw Ethan Banks leaning back nonchalantly in his plastic seat, his legs apart and a scowl on his face. Silently, Timms turned his back on him, nodded to the guard and left the room. Pausing only to listen to the sound of the key turning in the lock.
Milo Cresswell had been crying for the last fifteen minutes and Smith had been unable to get anything out of him, other than the statement that ‘he was not to blame’ and ‘knew nothing’. Smith suspected that this was probably correct but the grey area existed because Milo had served eighteen years, in various prisons, for the sexual abuse of thirteen boys all under ten years of age. This, in itself, proved that nothing Cresswell said was to be believed. The elderly man had ushered him into the small, city-owned apartment and encouraged him to look round for himself. Smith had taken in the piano, checking that the stool had not been raised above the level Cresswell would use himself and done some casual rifling through magazines. He also checked that the man wasn’t using a password to enable himself to use his ancient pc and that there weren’t any signs of an internet cable being utilised. Satisfying himself on these levels, Smith had proceeded to ask the paedophile whether he had any information regarding the disappearance of Thomas Banks. The man had instantly dissolved into tears and a mantra of innocence.
Smith had had enough. He was tired, upset and making no progress in trying to gather sufficient information to bring Tommy Banks safely home. So, having to listen to irredeemable bastards like Cresswell blubbing and carping was beyond the tipping point for Smith. Which was why a silent Milo Cresswell was being taken, in handcuffs, to spend the next forty-eight hours in a holding cell, with a probable visit from the duty doctor.
Dr Blackmore ushered Eleanor in with a smile and pointed to the patient chair. “Good evening detective. How are you?”
“I’m in the middle of a case so I’m tired and there aren’t enough hours in the day to follow up leads and catch the guy responsible. So I’d appreciate if you’d bear that in mind next time you feel the need to drag me in here on a whim.”
Seb Blackmore nodded and sat himself down. “I’m working a case as well. The difference being that your clients are dead and mine is still alive and savable. There are few ‘whims’ in my line of work.”
Eleanor twisted the corner of her mouth with irritation and sat down heavily.
“You look tired,” he said quietly. “Have you started eating more?”
There was a long pause before Eleanor started speaking. “Yes, I believe I have.”
He nodded and repositioned himself. “I want to try something a little different this session.”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes.
“I need you to be more relaxed and without the use of class A drugs or a DUI conviction I only know one other way.”
“I am not being hypnotised, if that’s what you’re about to suggest.”
He smiled. “Forget everything you’ve seen or read. You will be completely aware of everything I’m asking, just a little less inhibited.”
“I can’t imagine a scenario where I would accept that happening.”
“Ok, how’s this? I will use a technique that will relax you and make you less distressed with the interviewing process. I won’t make any attempt to take you into anything deeper than a drowsy state. At no point will you feel helpless or violated in any way.”
“I’ve arrested people who’ve used that as a defence strategy.”
He laughed. “Then I’ll come quietly officer.”
She scrutinised the face in front of her. There seemed to be a dichotomy between the youthful, open features of the man and his ability to set her nerves on edge and under
mine her confidence and carefully constructed barriers. She spread her hands in a gesture of defeat and made herself comfortable. “Do it!”
“There’s a lever on the right-hand-side of your armrest that will tip the chair back slightly.”
In seconds she found herself lying comfortably and staring at the expanse of ceiling, noting with interest that where there should have been a central light fixing, there was a nothing but a small grey dot. She focused on the spot with interest, surprised when she heard Dr Blackmore’s liquid tones mentioning the importance of doing just that. The ‘spot’ he explained through an increasing aural mist, was a way of relaxing her tired muscles and mind. A voice in her inner self was about to question the relevance or even likelihood of this being so but a calmer Eleanor shushed it. She had been so tired recently and just looking at the little grey dot made her feel as though she were lying in soft warm sand on a foreign beach, the sounds of the waves being the only disturbance. A warmth was cradling her and the snatches of voice that drifted into her consciousness were imploring her to sleep. She would, just for a little while and let all her worries and concerns drift into the ocean, to be swallowed and digested by the currents.
She didn’t need to turn her head in order to know that she was no longer alone on the beach. A man was walking towards her, he seemed unthreatening but his presence was intrusive and unwanted. She wanted to tell him to leave but decided to ignore him, even when he sat a little to her right, shading his eyes from the sun.
“Eleanor, can you hear me?” he asked. “I need to talk to you about some things that happened to you recently. Would that be alright?”
She wanted to explain that she needed to be quiet and just take a few moments to relax but his presence was authoritative and persuasive. “Yes,” she replied.
“Is there anyone else next to you Eleanor?” he said quietly.
“No,” she replied, raising her head a little and scanning the horizon. “It’s just us.”
“Maybe you need to sleep a little deeper then,” he said quietly.
The sand seemed to rise and engulf her, leaving only her face above the grains. It felt heavy and protective. “Look again,” came the insistent voice from further away now. She opened her eyes and allowed them to adjust their focus onto the horizon. There was a shape, a dark corrupted shadow that flickered like a mirage. She pushed herself a little further into the sand. “Can you see him?” asked the voice more insistently.
“Yes,” she murmured. “He’s there but I don’t want him. Can you send him away?”
“Not just yet Eleanor. We need to talk to him before we can do that. Who is he?”
Eleanor was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“A child,” she whispered, hoping the figure wouldn’t hear or see her. “He’s dead.” Her voice sounded metallic and brittle in her ear.
“How can you tell he’s dead?”
“His skin is swollen and black. There are flies moving in and out of his eyes and nose.”
“Are you a child Eleanor?”
“No,” she answered puzzled. “I can’t be a child.”
“Look at your hands,” said the voice firmly. “Can you see them?”
Eleanor lifted her hands from the sand and looked at them. They were smaller than she remembered. The nails were pink and the skin freckled and unwrinkled.
“You’re a girl Ellie,” he said kindly. “You’re just a child… Caleb’s been hurt. Do you know who hurt him?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “The man who lives there.”
“What has he done to Caleb? Will he tell you?”
She wanted the voice to stop because the boy was moving closer to her, the buzzing of the flies overwhelming the soft lap of the waves.
“Ask Caleb what happened.”
She hesitated before asking, her eyes locked onto him. “What did he do?” she heard herself ask the figure, which lurched towards her.
“He has to explain to you what happened Eleanor, it’s very important,” said the man’s voice.
The boy was very close to her now. She could see the eyes were flat and milky, incapable of focus. His skin was slipping from his hands and he made small scooping gestures to try and pull it back, like an ill-fitting glove. The grossly swollen belly and genitals were lined with green bands that spread like webbing across him.
“Caleb?” she asked tentatively. “What happened to you?”
The figure stopped moving and then began to topple towards her. She let out a scream as the boy’s full weight lay upon her chest.
“I can’t breathe,” she gasped, struggling in the sand.
“Breathe slowly Eleanor,” said the man’s voice. “Nothing can harm you while I’m here. Caleb wants to speak to you. He can’t leave you alone until you’ve asked the question.”
She was panting, desperately trying to suck air into her lungs. She screwed her eyes tightly shut, trying not to let the milky, lifeless eyes meet hers. “I’m scared!”
“Ask him the question Ellie,” said the voice firmly.
“You wanted to tell me!” she choked. “Before you died. You wanted to tell me something…” she was aware that a groaning sound was emanating from somewhere deep within her. The warm sand was beginning to cool around her and it no longer felt nurturing but cloying and dangerous. “Please tell me.”
The boy opened his mouth and filled her world with darkness. “I felt love.”
There was a noise, a heavy mechanical chugging sound that made her chest hurt and her eyes water. Caleb was gone now and she wanted to go home. She looked around her and saw the man sitting next to her. He was staring at the ocean, his face a mask of fear. Why was he afraid? He said he wouldn’t be. She sat up and looked to the horizon. There was a figure but it wasn’t Caleb. It was someone that trailed death behind them and he was watching her.
She screwed her eyes tightly shut, making them hurt with the pressure.
“Has Caleb gone?” asked the man’s voice, barely audible above the chugging roar.
“He has but…” She didn’t want to talk anymore. She was scared and missed the warmth of the sand.
“Eleanor. Listen to me. Is there anyone else there?”
She groaned and tried to get further into the sand, rocking her body from side to side, like a snake escaping from the desert heat.
“Eleanor it’s time to wake up now,” he said kindly. “You’ve been very brave.”
Something about that phrase triggered a panic and she began to thrash around in the sand. “I don’t like it here!”
A clock was ticking and reminding her that it was morning and she had to get to work.
“Eleanor, are you awake?”
She looked at the man’s calm, friendly face. It took her several moments to name him and understand where she was. She opened her mouth to speak but her lips were uncomfortably wet and salty. She’d been crying.
“I’m awake.” She took the tissues he held out to her and wiped her face.
“Tell me how you feel?”
She grimaced and thought about it. “I’m tired.” She smiled. “Like running a marathon tired.”
He nodded. “It will have released of lots of hormones. You did well. Can we talk about it for a minute or two? It will help when you mull things over tonight.”
“Yes,” she said resignedly. “We can talk.”
“You confronted Caleb.”
She scowled. “That sounds aggressive. ‘Confront’.”
“You confronted your fears. Your fear of letting down your friend, of not understanding what was happening to him, of not being there for him. That’s what you’ve dedicated your adult life to: not letting people down and being there for them. The victims of violent crime are avenged by you aren’t they?”
“‘Avenged’ makes me sound like a comic book hero… I do my job.”
“Your job was selected so that you can bring justice to those denied it.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with praise.
“You spoke with Caleb.”
She nodded and fixed her gaze on him.
“Did he explain what had happened to him? Did he give you the sign that you missed?”
She leaned forward. “Where are we going with this? I didn’t commune with a dead child’s spiritual emanation. I spoke to myself. The dead are gone.”
“But the guilt lives on inside us, like a cancer. I don’t believe in ghosts either detective. I believe we haunt ourselves.”
She rubbed her face vigorously with the damp tissue and then balled it and threw in neatly into the bin. “Are you performing an exorcism on me Dr Blackmore?”
He pursed his lips, as if pondering this concept. “You could call it that.”
She sank back into the seat and let her eyes close as she thought. “Can I be healed through this process? Can I let go of Caleb?” she asked quietly.
There was a moment’s silence before he spoke. “I believe so.” He sighed and she sensed him moving closer to her. “I think you hate yourself. You punish yourself for not saving Caleb, for allowing yourself to be captured by Lee Hughes and not being able to bring him to justice. You have a deep and chaotic anger inside of you and I am afraid that we are going to lose you again… Maybe for good this time.”
She snapped open her eyes. “Is there an ‘unless’ in that scenario?”
“Unless,” he emphasised, “you can learn to forgive yourself and understand that none of us is a god.”
She swallowed painfully and pulled the lever that reset the chair into an upright position. “I need to go now.”
It was after nine pm when she staggered into her apartment. Eleanor knew she should have gone back into homicide and helped Laurence with the warrant but she felt so exhausted she headed home, not even bothering to text him. As she paced her bathroom, waiting for the water to fill the tub, she tried to settle the surges of emotion that started in her belly and spread wave-like through her chest and throat, ending in a band of pressure that wrapped around her temporal lobes like steel. She was agitated and confused, not quite able to rationalise the events of the past couple of hours. She wanted the distress to end, for thoughts and fears to be buried deeper again, locked away but it seemed too late for that. The dead were rising inside her.
