Cuckoo

by Richard Wright

  Now he could make out vague shapes in the room. The double bed protruded from the wall on his left, neatly bisecting the space. Though his mind wanted to fill in the details his eye could not pick out, he concentrated on what was actually before him. A black shape, nothing more. Two mounds huddled in the centre.

  His wife, sleeping in the embrace of another man.

  Unexpected fury pushed him into action, and he took an involuntary stride towards them. Fate saved him from his own foolishness, his foot catching something on the floor. Tangling about his ankles, it felt like a living thing was trying to unbalance him. He started to topple. Lashing blindly in the direction of the door, he caught himself on the handle. For a horrifying moment it was not enough. His body was too far forward, the strain too great for his inadequate muscles.

  The consequence of failure was discovery.

  Desperation gave him strength and he heaved, feeling the screams from his protesting arm. Then he was up.

  Bile rose in his throat as fresh weakness took him, but he swallowed it down. Relieved now of the strain, he felt he had pulled every muscle in his left side.

  It was a sacred pain. He hurt because he had succeeded.

  Stirring in sleep, the larger mound turned towards Greg, who held still. If he should wake now…

  The shape settled back to sleep, a regular breathing indicating that the slumber was deep and peaceful. Greg allowed himself to move again. Reaching down to his ankle, he felt for what had entangled him. Recognising the feel of silk, he caressed the dressing gown. The peg on the back of the door where Jennifer hung the garment was loose. Greg had been meaning to tighten it for weeks, for the robe fell often to the floor. It must have tumbled down when he entered.

  His anger had dissolved. Grateful for the muffling effects of the thick carpet he had laid last winter, he glided to the dresser at the foot of the bed. Crouching, he eased open the top drawer, careful to support it as it came. He well knew how easily it could slip from the main unit. With one hand holding the bottom of the drawer, he felt with the other. Listening for any change in the double rhythm of the breathing behind him, twice stopping as the pitch or speed of the sounds altered, he picked through underwear until he found the key.

  It was done. The key was in his hand and the drawer was closed. Holding tight, letting it bite into his hand, he moved back round the bed. Before leaving he picked the fallen dressing gown from the floor and hung it back on the peg. With his hand on the door, he turned back to the bed. Exhilaration at his accomplishment gave him a rush he could not ignore.

  Murmuring under his breath, so low he could barely hear it himself, he addressed the larger of the two mounds. “Got you, you son of a bitch.”

  Then he was out.

  Excitement rising, he moved back to the study door. Laying a hand upon this final obstacle, he gave silent thanks to whatever guardian angels he possessed. Visualising the small brass key in his hand, he fumbled momentarily for the lock, then found it. The small click made him pause as the door unlocked, for it seemed explosive in the gloom. Only when he was satisfied that he had not disturbed the sleeping couple (and his mind retched as he thought the word ‘couple’) did he proceed with opening the door.

  When he had stepped inside he locked it behind him. Being the only entrance to the room, anybody else wanting to enter would have to give themselves away long before they could be a threat. Of course, what he would do after receiving this warning was anybody’s guess, but at least he couldn’t be taken by surprise. Looking round, he conceded the need for the torch here. The strip blinds were firmly closed and the blackness was as thick as in the hallway. Finding the button, he focused the beam of light in front of him.

  Only to find nothing there. That couldn’t be right. Moving the beam from left to right, he reached for the main light switch. Knowing it to be unwise, but unable to understand what the torchlight was presenting him, he flicked it down.

  Such was the change in brightness that he had to close his eyes for a moment. When he could open them again he blinked several times to ensure he was seeing correctly.

  All the furniture had indeed gone, the room now being empty. What came as the bigger shock were the walls, or what now covered them. Pinned to the far wall were dozens and dozens of black and white photographs. These he inspected immediately, and was not surprised to find that he featured in many of them. Most were representations of him on the street or in his car. Two showed him in a bar. In all shots he was the focus, with everything around him blurred and hard to recognise. Only one was specific enough for him to place, for it showed him meeting Alex Carlisle in the foyer of the Ramkin Hotel a lifetime ago. They were shaking hands, Alex looking as upright as Greg remembered thinking at the time.

  He was not the only one to feature in the photos. A quick count showed that there were five other men highlighted prominently, none in his company. Did that mean that these others had shared this fate? Could this wall really be a display of targets that had been chosen along with him? If so, where were they now? Scouring the exhibition, he tried to find a common factor that could link all of the men together. Two were dressed in business suits, one seemed to be a tramp of some sort, one wore a police uniform, and the final man might have been a teacher or lecturer, for he was wandering around a campus somewhere. The only similar thing was the age range, for all of the men looked somewhere in their early thirties. Apart from this they were from obviously different walks of life, with nothing to connect them.

  Why those specific people? Why him?

  Shocked by what he was seeing, he examined the wall to his left. Only then did he appreciate the scale of what was being done. A dozen charts were pinned up alongside one another, each headed by a different place name. On every one there was a list of numbers one to seven. Each number had a line through it in red marker pen. Dublin, Liverpool, Glasgow, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Birmingham, Cardiff, Manchester, Edinburgh, Swansea, York, Aberdeen; all major population centres, all with seven numbers crossed neatly off. The last list, London, had only five numbers crossed through. The sixth, and he could only assume this was him, was as yet untouched. Whatever had begun with the erasure of his identity had yet to be completed.

  Feeling sick to his stomach, he realised for the first time the fatal consequences this might indicate. Bile bit the back of his throat, and before he could stop himself he dropped to his knees and threw up.

  Kneeling there, staring at his own vomit, he wondered how desperate his situation was. He had come to the house of his own free will, placing himself deep within the lion’s den.

  If he was right then his wife was currently curled next to a killer.

  Feeling weak, he glanced up at the third wall. Seven large charts hung there, the first five displaying a series of numerical statistics. Greg did not know what any of them meant, although they could have been medical. All he knew for certain was that the sixth, his own, was blank. Whatever they did, they had yet to do it to him. At once hopeful and fearful, he climbed to his feet. They wanted to do something, but had not yet had the chance. Now the advantage was his, for he had what none of the other targets had possessed. Prior knowledge.

  Eager for one last clue, just one indication of why he had been chosen as the sixth victim in London, he turned back to the photographs. A voice murmured from behind him.

  “All my own work. Do you like them?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HEAVEN

  Eye contact. For a brief moment, just after his eyelids dissolve, he turns to meet her gaze. She imagines what he sees in her. A manipulator? A murderer? Or something deeper than that, at once both less and more than such simplistic human terms can describe. She is always astonished at how difficult it is to read an expression after the eyelids go. No matter what the specimen thinks or feels, the eyes are simple balls of white and colour. She finds the purity of this to be beautiful. The fully exposed eyeballs are a splendid contrast to the now tender red of the stripped down facial muscles. More than th
is, they show the true nature of the human condition. Wide-eyed wonder, shock, and pain.

  She is almost disappointed when they burst.

  Relief is what he feels at this, gratitude that he will never have to gaze on her again. This is to be expected. Everything she has meant to him during his ordeal has been forced into a new light in the past twelve hours. The effect is deliberate. She became his safe haven at the end, something for him to hold on to. Now he has been betrayed. She can imagine the distress this has caused, though she can also experience it in truer ways.

  It will soon be time to drain the tank. A delicate, anticipatory quiver runs through her; a low moan slips across her lips. Forcing herself to remain perfectly still, checking that she is still firmly attached, she waits for heaven.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ANGLES

  Greg turned. Standing in the now open doorway, leaning against the frame with casual insolence, was the man who had stolen his life and his name. Held up for Greg to inspect was the original brass key to the door. Looking down at his own, he realised he had liberated a duplicate.

  He tried to meet his opponent’s amused gaze without fear. What made it harder was that the man’s face was unmarked. Despite the beating Greg had inflicted on him just days ago, there wasn’t a hint of bruising to mar his tanned complexion. “Your work? You took the photos?”

  The other slipped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him and putting an exaggerated finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t want to wake the missus.” Dismissing any risk Greg might pose, he turned his back and studied the pictures on the wall. “It takes a great deal of effort to set up something like this you know. A great deal of preparation. I wouldn’t want you to think you were being treated with anything less than the strictest professional standards.”

  Greg had difficulty accepting what he was hearing. It was just too surreal to be talking to somebody who admitted what was happening. Despite everything - the charts, the pictures, the very nature of what threatened him - he felt elated.

  Looking down at the vomit on the floor, the man tutted his disapproval. “It seems that every time you visit I have to clean up after you.”

  Despite his serenity, Greg’s was reply little more than a whisper. “Why?”

  “Do you really think I’m going to tell you? After all the effort it took me to shatter your life, you think I’ll set it right for you in one night? Oh, you’ve done well, you deserve credit for that. Very few think to come here for information. Usually they end up on the streets or in a cell somewhere. A few have even been committed to various psychiatric wings. But not you. You’re stronger than that. How much have you worked out? Please indulge me, I’m genuinely curious.”

  Greg knew he should run. Nothing stood between him and the doorway, he thought he stood a good chance of making it out, but he wanted this conversation, the chance to reach the bottom of the mystery. He gestured to the charts. “A dozen towns. Seven victims from each, all of whom turned round one day to discover that nobody knew who they were. Family and friends all had their minds altered in some way…” A quick pause, for that sounded so much like bad science fiction even he didn’t believe it. “They remember you as the man whose life you’re destroying. Another identity is set up for your victim, complete with memories to support it, which he may or may not choose to accept. That’s all I’ve got.” He took a deep breath, wishing the man would indicate how right or wrong he was. Nothing was forthcoming. “I don’t know what’s next. Some sort of ritual murder, maybe. That wall,” he pointed, “numbers the victims you’ve chosen in London. I’m the sixth and I haven’t been crossed off because you haven’t finished with me. When you have you’ll choose a seventh, then move on to another town. How am I doing?”

  For a long moment the man watched him. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a musical chuckle bursting through his lips. Greg cast a nervous look down the corridor, but there was no response from the bedroom. Jennifer was oblivious to the confrontation occurring just yards from where she slept. After some moments the merriment faded and the man spoke.

  “I’m sorry, really I am. But you’re so close in some respects, so far in others. All you need to do is change the angle you’re looking from and you’d have it.” Another chuckle. “Still, that is rather the point. I just thought that to get this far you must have pieced it together. Never mind, it’s an impressive theory.”

  Annoyed though he was by the ridicule, Greg couldn’t stem his curiosity. “So where am I wrong?”

  “Oh no, I’m sorry, but you don’t get off that easily. You are becoming something of a wrinkle in our operation…”

  Greg twitched. “You’re not alone?”

  A moment of silence. “Very good. Yes. Well done, you’re a fast one.” All good humour had vanished. The man was angered at letting slip even that small fragment of information. With the sudden absence of pleasantries the real danger of the situation imposed itself. Greg felt like he had stepped on a live wire. Every muscle in him screamed a desire to move in a separate direction. It was only indecision that anchored him. All at once he wanted to run, attack, and urinate where he stood.

  Fixing his gaze again, the other man continued, his voice mesmerising.

  “As I was saying, you have become visible. Your episode at the restaurant was high profile, and we cannot allow our activities to reach the public eye.” He considered for a moment. “On the other hand we aren’t ready for you yet. There is so much you still have to suffer before your time.”

  Greg felt dizzy. The need to run was overwhelming. He had to keep the man talking. “What are you going to do? Brainwash me again? Make me forget?”’ Hearing his voice as little more than a whine, he felt vulnerable and pathetic.

  “And waste everything we’ve built up already? No, we haven’t time to start again.” He took a slow step forwards. “Perhaps it would be simplest to put you in storage. Not as strong a stimulus for your suffering, but not entirely ineffective.”

  Greg knew that this was his last chance. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the man was talking about, except that it was bad and it was now. He ran to the door, flung it open and sprinted into the hallway.

  Or tried to. Before he was two steps to the precious exit an iron hand clamped about his wrist, yanking him back. As his feet lost contact with the floor, star-hot agonies told him his wrist was sprained. Landing painfully, still held tight, he was sure he was about to die. So fast, so strong. Was this the same man he had beaten senseless in the hallway downstairs?

  “Now, now. So eager to leave after all your efforts to enter?” The voice was behind his ear, and he was sprawled too awkwardly to turn and face it. “No, better you stay here a while. Consider yourself a houseguest.” A click and the feel of cold metal around his sprained wrist signalled his captivity. Handcuffs. The other man began to drag him across the floor. The pain from his wrist increased tenfold, causing hectic black dots to dance in front of his eyes. As the other cuff closed firmly around the doorknob he struggled to grip hold of his consciousness.

  “Another valiant effort.” His vision cleared as the other crouched before him. “Now then, you seem fairly certain that you’re halfway to a Eureka moment regarding your predicament.” Greg stared blankly at him. “Well, this is unacceptable to us I’m afraid. We can’t have you believing yourself to be a sane and normal victim. You’d render yourself useless. So I’m going to show you something to make you reconsider your half-cocked notions and blundered theories. Watch closely now, I don’t do repeat performances.”

  Greg watched.

  And Greg screamed.

  Two hours later he had stopped crying. Next to him, his second pool of vomit polluted the air with an acrid, eye-watering stench. His trousers were still damp from his lost bladder control, and his handcuffed arm had begun to cramp from hanging behind him.

  It failed, he tried to tell himself. I am sane. He knew this could not be true. What he had seen could not be real. Perhaps he had been br
ainwashed again, or had hallucinated the whole thing. Or maybe he was just mad. Whatever the case, enough of his rational mind remained to realise that he was deep in trouble. The door that he was now handcuffed to had been closed and locked, and the light was out. Through the blinds the dim grey of morning had begun to make itself known, but inside it was still dark.

  He had to get out. Deciding not to think on what he had seen at the end of the conversation, he cast his mind beyond it, to where his torment had been discussed. Had he not suffered enough? What did the thing mean? Perhaps it was all part of the murder ritual, an inherent suffering before the actual demise of the victim.

  Except, said his subversive subconscious, you aren’t dealing with a simple serial killer are you Greg? You aren’t even dealing with a human being.

  No. Such thoughts would be fully considered when he was out of this place. When he was safe. For now he would continue as though he was dealing with a simple madman. The irony of that made him chuckle, for psychotic killers would be preferable to what he was dealing with. Despite the hysterical edge to his humour, it made him feel almost normal again.

  Shifting his weight, he realised how bad the cramp was when a stab of pain clamped his eyes shut. He let out a hiss. The first problem was his arm. Trying his hardest to block the pain, he twisted his body until his feet were beneath him. Moving before he could convince himself otherwise, he rose to his feet. Stiff muscles protested the action, his arm blazing under the abuse, but he was standing. Allowing his dizziness to pass, he used his free hand to rub life back into his dead one.