by Andrew Lowe
‘Darren Coleman’s mother is going to find it hard to find consolation in your concern for animals.’
Walton spun round to face Sawyer, raised his voice. ‘We’re the animals. Humans. We’re the ones who can switch off our caring for other living creatures and just feed our own needs.’
Sawyer rubbed at his chest. A burning pain pulsed around his heart. ‘Is this why you couldn’t kill Virginia Mendez?’
‘The woman?’
‘Yes. The woman. You held her for a while, but you couldn’t do it.’
‘She was innocent.’
Sawyer smiled and shook his head. ‘That’s not why you let her go, is it? That’s how you justify it to yourself. You let her go for the same reason you only half-buried Duncan Hardwick and Mark Bishop, the dogfight guy.’ He tugged at the chain, pulled himself around, square on to Walton. ‘Because you want to take off the mask. You want it to be over.’
Walton lunged forward and punched Sawyer on the jaw.
Sawyer absorbed it, took a breath. He raised his eyes to Walton; bloodied, defiant. ‘“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” You’ve done this for so long now, and you’ve built up all this justification. But what’s really happened is that you’ve started to enjoy it for what it is. Pleasure from suffering. You fantasised about that with your father, and you never got to deliver it to him. And now you’ve rationalised everything by selecting targets who you feel deserve the suffering. But now the compulsion has overtaken the logic, and you’re scared of it. You want it to stop. The mask used to be your shield, part of a different personality. But it’s become your prison. And you want to take it off.’
Walton lunged for Sawyer. He zapped him again, driving the prod into his stomach this time. Sawyer screamed, helpless. He kicked and squirmed as Walton pushed his face close, staring through the eyeholes of the mask, scrutinising his torment.
He pulled away, and walked to the workbench.
Grinding. Sharpening.
‘Who are you?’
Sawyer chewed on his tongue, riding the pain again. His chest tremored, and he had to flex and strain his muscles to stabilise the streaks of shooting pain. He spat again. ‘You’re very ill, Scott. And you know it. And you want it to end. If you carry on, then your father has won. It will be like he’s reaching out from beyond the grave, ruining your life, just as he ruined your mother’s, your brother’s, your own.’
The grinding stopped, and Walton’s head rose from his work.
He froze.
A noise from outside. Breaking glass?
Walton picked up the cattle prod and strode to the door. He unlocked the bolt and pulled it aside, then stood in the open doorway, listening. ‘You are police. You didn’t come alone.’
Sawyer looked around in the pool of light cast by the candle. Walton had left nothing useful within reach. He always carried a paperclip in his back pocket, but his hands were secured at his front. He rolled onto his side, hoping to stand and check the wall shelf above, but his movement was restrained by the chain.
Footsteps outside. Running.
The door slammed shut, then shuddered with a heavy impact.
A shout from Walton.
The door flew open. A blue flash lit up the night.
A howl of pain from another voice, male.
Walton stumbled into the barn. He lunged for the workbench and snatched up the filleting knife. As he turned back to face the door, a figure ran in from outside, head down, and drove into him, tackling him to the floor.
Walton managed to hold on to the knife and twist around to face his attacker, who gripped his arm, holding it firm.
The attacker climbed higher up Walton’s chest, pinning him beneath his knees. The two figures grappled in the gloom, and Sawyer shuffled across the floor, closer to the centre of the candlelight, straining to see more detail.
The man on top held Walton’s knife arm in place and reached out with his other hand. Walton tried to bat him away, but he gripped one of the horns and tore off the mask, throwing it across the floor. He drew back his head and brought his forehead down into the centre of Walton’s face.
A wet crunch. Walton roared and pushed himself back, keeping his grip on the knife. He slashed it around in a narrow arc, just missing his attacker’s face. The second man stumbled back and hauled himself upright, at last giving Sawyer a clear view.
Austin Fletcher raised his head and set himself as Walton scrambled to his feet, his face dripping blood. He held the knife upright, and edged forward. Fletcher caught Sawyer’s eye, and Walton lurched towards him. Fletcher read the movement and stepped aside, but too late to dodge the knife as it skimmed away from the original target—his chest—and plunged into his shoulder.
Fletcher howled in pain and reared away, pushing Walton back and pulling out the knife. He threw it aside and ran forward, face flushed red. He hit Walton with a right hook, sending him crashing into the workbench, glancing his head against the side as he went down. Fletcher fell on him, gripped the front of the T-shirt to hold him in place, and hit him with another blow, then another.
‘Fletcher!’ Sawyer cried out, but the blows kept coming, full force into the side of Walton’s face, sending spatters of blood flying into the side of the bench.
Sawyer pushed forward, straining against the chain. ‘Stop!’
More punches, just as strong but less and less frequent.
Sawyer bowed his head and waited, until Fletcher let Walton’s body slump to the floor and fell back, exhausted.
Another minute passed, as Sawyer listened to Fletcher’s ragged breathing.
Fletcher got to his feet; Sawyer looked up. ‘Nice move with the headbutt. I wonder where you got that from.’
Fletcher stood facing Sawyer, the moonlight at his back.
‘Did you track me?’ said Sawyer.
Fletcher nodded. ‘Car.’
‘And is this you saving my life or finishing me off?’
Fletcher pulled a small torch from his pocket, and aimed the beam at the workbench. He opened a side cupboard, then a drawer and rummaged around, eventually taking out a set of keys. He trudged over to Sawyer and crouched beside him. After several tries, Fletcher hit on the key that unlocked the wrist cuff. He dropped the rest of the set on the floor beside Sawyer and stood upright. The filleting knife had fallen near to the back wall shelf, in the centre of the candlelight, and Fletcher’s eyes moved to it. He looked back at Sawyer, then walked over to Walton and squatted at his side.
Sawyer tried a few keys and released the ankle clasp.
Fletcher placed his hand on Walton’s neck, checking for a pulse. He looked back at Sawyer and shook his head.
They carried Walton’s body, with the mask resting in the centre of his torso, through the trees, back to the road, where Fletcher had parked his Fiesta behind Sawyer’s Mini. They bundled the body into the boot.
Fletcher closed the boot, paused, and laid a hand on the driver’s door handle, the other clutching his injured shoulder.
‘So we’re square?’ said Sawyer.
Fletcher’s pinhole eyes narrowed as he reached up to touch the scars on his neck. He sighed and opened the door.
‘Before you go,’ said Sawyer. ‘I’ve got a present for you.’
He opened the Mini, pulled a wallet out of the glovebox, and held it up for Fletcher. ‘I took this from Jerome in the altercation at Dale’s place. He’s Czech. Real name is Marian. No wonder he changed it.’
A hint of a smile on Fletcher’s lips. He took the wallet.
‘We might be square,’ said Sawyer, ‘but I’d say you still have one piece of unfinished business. Do it your way, but I checked. Marian’s immigration status is… open to question. It wouldn’t be hard to get him deported. But I’m sure you can think of something more creative.’
50
THREE DAYS LATER
‘What happened?’ Michael looked up from his handheld game.
‘You mean with the bruises?’
Michael nodded, returned to his game.
Sawyer shrugged. ‘What didn’t happen?’
He got up from the bedside chair, wincing at the pain in his chest. The room held a slight chill from outside. Sawyer closed the window, and gazed out at the wooded slopes of the Goyt Valley, blurred behind a morning fog.
‘The heather is flowering,’ said Michael. ‘Turning purple.’
Sawyer turned, gave his brother a quizzical look. ‘Autumn’s on its way. New colours. Yellows, reds. Orange. Mum’s favourite.’
Michael sighed. He had trimmed his hair down to a uniform fuzz, mirroring Sawyer’s.
‘Had any bird visits?’
Michael’s shoulders twitched with something close to a laugh.
Sawyer raised an eyebrow. ‘Not that sort. Finches, nuthatches, lapwings.’
Michael shook his head.
‘Dad told me that Mum used to go down to Fernilee Reservoir by herself. Reading, watching the wildlife. Is that glue?’ Sawyer nodded to a small plastic bottle on the bedside table.
‘Yeah. Medical glue. It’s therapy. You paint it onto your skin, peel it off when you feel the need to self-harm.’
Sawyer walked around in front of his brother and squatted down to look directly into his eyes. ‘Mike. You could live at my place for a while. Get away from Rosemary House and Chris Hill. Transition.’
Michael kept focus on his game. ‘Your place?’
‘You know. Edale. Near Kinder. I’m thinking we could go out walking, reforge our brotherly bond. Pints and pies in the local.’
Michael looked at him, blank. ‘What happened?’
Sawyer frowned. ‘You asked me that. Difficult case. A suspect wasn’t keen on submitting to enquiry.’
Michael shook his head. ‘To me.’
Sawyer frowned. ‘You mean at Rosemary House?’
‘Jake.’ Michael set down the handheld. ‘I don’t know that. I don’t know what that is.’
‘It’s where you live, Mike. It’s a care facility. You’ve been unwell. Since…’
Michael closed his eyes, rubbed his stubby fingers around the sockets. ‘I know you. I don’t know Rosemary House. Or Chris Hill. And I don’t know why I’m here.’
‘What’s the last thing you remember?’
Michael kept his eyes closed, pondering. ‘I remember coming here. Doctors’ voices. Nurses. You say I’ve been unwell.’
Sawyer shifted his weight, looking up into his brother’s haggard face. ‘You tried to hurt yourself. Do you not remember that?’
Michael opened his eyes. ‘No. I don’t.’ He looked at Sawyer. ‘There’s nothing, Jake. It’s all just… white. Nothing.’
‘Do you remember Mum? Dad?’ Sawyer stood up. ‘Do you remember what happened to us?’
Michael gave a strange, elongated grunt, shook his head. ‘You’ll have to tell me. Take me back. Jog my memory.’
Blinking, Sawyer walked back to the chair. ‘It’ll take time. Mum said you had a “head like a sieve”.’
Michael stared down at the carpet, ran his hands across his scalp. ‘How long have I been here? How long have I been like this?’
‘The doctors say it’s normal to have some memory loss at first. How do you feel?’
Michael looked at Sawyer. ‘I feel better.’
Sawyer bought a double-strength coffee in the hospital Costa and took it to a table outside, in a grubby smoking area. He called Walker on the burner phone he’d bought in Hathersage. It rang and rang, and he was close to giving up when the call connected.
Walker spoke in a low voice, close to a whisper. ‘That you, sir?’
‘Anything?’
Movement at Walker’s end. A squeaky door opening and closing. Low traffic noise. ‘They cordoned off the woodland around the abattoir buildings. Cadaver dogs found one body. Then Keating authorised GPR. Two found in total so far. One IDd as Milton Pope. The other is the young lad. Darren Coleman.’
Sawyer sipped his coffee, watched a visiting family gather round a table. A mum, dad, teenage girl, younger boy. Milkshakes, muffins.
Walker cleared his throat. ‘You found him, sir.’
‘Are they still digging?’
‘Yes. No sign of Scott Walton. Did you—’
‘Is Shepherd involved?’
Walker hesitated. ‘Yes. Farrell told us again not to contact you. There’s been a lot of meetings. Farrell and the IOPC guy, the Federation rep. With Keating and Shepherd, Moran.’
‘Moran?’
‘Yeah. Don’t know why he’s involved. They’re not telling me anything. But, just saying. Getting a vibe. Be careful.’
51
Sawyer parked at the top of road overlooking Hall Leys Park. He waited, watching the crowd around the bandstand. Steel drums, covered food stalls. Some kind of festival. He listened to the album Dog Man Star by Suede, repeatedly glancing up at the rear-view mirror. But the back seat remained empty.
After half an hour, two young women emerged from Samantha Coleman’s house. A detective he vaguely recognised, and Patricia, one of the FLOs. Heads down, they trudged over to a car parked opposite and drove away.
Sawyer took one last look in the rear-view mirror. He got out, walked to the house, and made his way down the path to the front door. Samantha opened it before he could ring the doorbell. She looked dazed, desolate, clutching a tissue.
‘He was…’ She fought back another wave of tears. ‘They found Darren, Mr Sawyer. They found my boy. Did you—’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me. I think they had an anonymous tip-off. I’m so sorry, Samantha.’
She flinched, caught in a spasm of grief. Dark laughter through the tears. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. They say it looked like he didn’t… He didn’t suffer.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I don’t want anyone… I don’t want you to come in. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’ Sawyer held up a hand. ‘I need to make calls. Arrange things.’
‘Samantha.’ Sawyer resisted the urge to hug her. ‘The life you gave to Darren, the love you shared. It will always be real. It will always be a part of you.’
Samantha dropped her head, started to sob. ‘Like you said, it’s better that I know I’ll never spend time with him again, apart from in my memory.’
‘You lost Darren too soon, but you gained so much by giving him the gift of that time. And now you have an answer, you can try to restart your own life.’
She wiped at her nose with the tissue. ‘There’s a woman I used to speak to online. Val. We talked about the limbo of not knowing, the way you shift from hope to hopelessness. Val called it “the beast within”. Her son came back after a year away, alive and well, late last year. She said it was weird, like having a stranger in the house. But she also said that her beast within had been tamed, and she could finally start again. I hope I can do the same.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘I think you’re being humble, Mr Sawyer, saying you didn’t have anything to do with it. And if I’m right, then thank you. We couldn’t bring Darren back, but you’ve saved my life.’
52
Sawyer cut out two squares of foil and burned off the chemicals over the gas hob, as before. He laid them out on the coffee table and rolled one around the pen to form the smoking tube.
Metal on teeth.
He lit a candle, and folded the other sheet in half twice, forming the base for the melted heroin.
Sun flare. Screaming, screaming.
He turned up the volume on his smart speaker: ‘Giant’ by The The. Immense, rolling drums, muffling the sounds and visions.
He tipped the powder onto the foil, held the flame beneath the bead as it traced the grooves in the criss-cross pattern. He leaned forward, sucked up the smoke, inhaled, dropped back onto the sofa.
The drums, pummelling and pounding.
Matt Johnson singing of being a stranger to himself.
His mother’s face. Pulped, lurid red.
The patch of gore on his father’s cei
ling. Oozing, ready to drop.
A surge of bliss as the drug entered Sawyer’s brain and surged to his opioid receptors, banishing pain, slowing his breathing. Again, he laughed out loud, waited for his troubles to soften and recede.
Screaming, barking.
‘I’m sorry, son. I love you.’
His brave and brilliant father, pushing a shotgun under his chin.
Matt Johnson singing of choking to death, of a sun that never sets.
‘Run, my darling!’
‘You’ve been making things hard for yourself ever since.’
Sawyer jolted upright, grinding his teeth through the rush. He took the packet of heroin and tipped it out onto a magazine on the coffee table. He spread the brown powder around the surface of the magazine, then leaned in and pushed one end of the tube deep into a nostril. He ran the other end of the tube across the powder, snorting, inhaling. He tipped back his head and did the same again, taking a deeper snort this time.
The powder fizzed and liquified at the back of his throat, and he took a drink from an old can of Coke, trying to stifle the bitter taste on his tongue.
‘Don’t look back!’
Barking, screaming.
Shotgun blast.
‘I’m sorry, son.’
Pulped face.
Bloodied tears.
Gore splashing from ceiling to floor.
Matt Johnson singing of God and hell and caving in on himself.
Sawyer stumbled off the sofa, struggling to catch his breath.
Drumming, drumming.
He fought for deeper breaths, but his diaphragm wouldn’t contract, wouldn’t allow his lungs to take the oxygen he craved.
Drumming.
Matt Johnson singing that nobody can know him, he doesn’t even know himself.
A rocket of nausea, flaring in Sawyer’s gut, rising up through his throat.
He needed more air, but it wouldn’t come.
He opened his mouth wide, trying to force air down his throat. But there still wasn’t enough reaching his lungs.
