by Cavendish
He jumped down off the bed, taking care to avoid the blood pouring out of her insides. He threw her over onto her back, pausing for one second. She was dead all right. Her eyes were wide open, glazed. The last thing she’d seen had been the pillow but the last person she had seen had been him. He couldn’t take the risk. The police took photographs of dead people’s eyes to see if they had captured the deceased’s last sight.
He gouged out one, then the other, before slicing them until nothing but a mess of blood, muscle and fluid remained. He tossed them on the floor.
His hands. He must wash them carefully before he left, but he wasn’t done yet. He sliced off her breasts, then struggled with disemboweling her. The knife would need sharpening before his next escapade. In the end, a mass of intestines and organs he didn’t even know the names of lay in an untidy heap all around her. The smell of blood and shit, mingled with the damp and fustiness of the old room invaded his nose and satisfied his spirit. Enough for today. She was done. Well done.
He left her and found a ewer of cold water. He took precious minutes washing his hands and the knife. The woman had made a fair amount of noise at first but no one had come. The neighbors were probably used to it. Cries of fake ecstasy to try and entice more money out of her punters. They would just think she had been particularly enthusiastic.
He checked his appearance in the cracked mirror, noted a few specks of blood that had splashed onto his face, and wiped them off. Satisfied he gave no visible evidence of the massacre he had committed, he left the room and emerged onto Henderson Close in a hailstorm.
He whistled as he sauntered up the street, hands in his pockets. Another few hours and he would be back. Meanwhile he must get that knife sharpened.
He passed a shop doorway, briefly glancing at a well-dressed man whose eyes seemed to follow him. Maybe he was one of those.… Donald wheeled round to face him. “Do ye want something?”
The man smiled. He couldn’t be much older than him – probably younger. But what he was doing in this part of the city was anyone’s guess. Smart suit, snowy white shirt, starched collar. He didn’t belong here.
“I would appreciate a few minutes of your time if you can spare it.” Hardly a trace of an accent.
“Why?”
“I can assure you it will prove beneficial to you. To both of us.” The man laughed. “Ah, no, you misunderstand. I am not after your body. I have a…business proposition for you. Purely business. My business.”
Donald Bain studied his face, searching for any clue as to the nature of his business or if he was about to walk into a trap of some kind. He didn’t trust this sort. But if there was money in it. And he did have his knife.…
He nodded. “You can have five minutes. Over there.” He pointed to the nearest ale house. Let this man try any funny business with Big Jock Docherty looking on.
The man smiled. “I can assure you, you won’t regret it.”
Chapter Twenty-One
November 2018
Hannah, Mairead and George made their way down the steps to Henderson Close.
“God knows what Ailsa would say if she knew what we were doing here tonight,” Hannah said, shivering as one of the Close’s unexplained drafts hit her.
“It’s a good job she’s in London then, isn’t it?” George said. “I notice we didn’t get an invite to the company’s fancy Christmas party.”
“Would you have gone if you had?” Mairead asked.
“Probably not. Can’t stand those posh dos. Give me haggis and a pint any day.”
Hannah laughed. It broke her increasing tension. “Is it me or is it exceptionally cold down here tonight?”
“I feel it too,” Mairead said.
Hannah squeezed her hand. “Anyway, we’re here now. Miss Carmichael’s corner and there are the boards. Nothing seems to have changed in the past few hours.”
George bent down and touched the stain. “The blood’s dried.”
“I’d love to know whether that’s a good or a bad sign,” Hannah said. A sigh echoed around them. “Please tell me I’m not the only one who heard that.”
“I heard someone breathing hard or sighing,” Mairead said.
“So did I.” George opened the partition door. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”
The ruined Close was lit only by a few security lights, and shadows were everywhere. “Don’t stare at anything too long,” George said. “You’ll start to imagine all sorts of gremlins and we’ve enough to contend with here as it is.”
Hannah nodded. Wise advice. Already she could picture a hunched figure leaping out of a shadowy doorway a few yards away. Shadows. Only shadows.…
“So what do we do now?” Mairead asked.
George shrugged. “Maybe join hands next to the pentagram and call out to Miss Carmichael.”
“And what if we contact something else? Like last time,” Hannah said.
“I don’t know,” George said, “and that’s the God’s honest truth. We know the three of us have been targeted. Maybe as we’re all here, that could give us an advantage.”
“Or give whatever it is an advantage,” Hannah said. A twist of fear was working its way up from the pit of her stomach. “I feel something’s watching us. I don’t feel I can trust anything I hear or anything I see.”
“Me too,” Mairead said. “I don’t like it. And the whole atmosphere seems…charged. Like a thunderstorm’s about to happen.”
A crash sent them reeling. A few feet away, a shadow moved. It curled and writhed.
“Join hands,” George said and grabbed Hannah’s right wrist. “We’ve got to stick together.”
The three of them gripped each other’s hands. The misty apparition hovered a few inches off the ground. Hannah saw the dimly lit Close through it. A few feet away, a door lay on the ground, recently parted from its frame.
George’s voice echoed. “Please, if there is a spirit out there who can help us, do so now. Miss Carmichael, if you’re there, please help us. Chase this evil spirit back into the pentagram.”
The apparition ceased writhing. Hannah felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Mairead, is there anything behind me? I can feel something.”
“I don’t think so. But it’s so dark behind you, I can’t be sure.”
“It wasn’t so dark a moment ago,” George said, his voice a whisper.
The darkness behind Hannah drifted around them, until they were encased in blackness, unable to see each other. Only the pressure of their hands on hers told Hannah the others were still there.
“What’s…happening?” Mairead’s voice shook.
“Keep hold of my hand,” Hannah said. Seconds ticked by.
A sudden wrench sent a shard of pain through Hannah’s wrist. She had broken contact with Mairead. “Hold my hand, Mairead.”
Fingers closed around hers and Hannah breathed. “God, I thought I’d lost you then.”
“Kirsten.”
The voice sounded soft, male, seductive.
“Kirsten.”
“I’ve heard that name before. Who’s Kirsten?” Hannah asked, her mouth dry.
“Who?” George asked, gripping her hand tighter.
“I’ve heard that voice before too,” Mairead said. “I know I have. I can’t remember. My damn memory…but that voice, calling out for Kirsten.”
The mist suddenly vanished and Hannah gasped. She was holding on to George’s hand and he had Mairead’s but between the two women, a space had opened up.
“You were holding my hand,” Hannah said.
“I know. I was,” Mairead said. “Something wrenched my hand out of yours but I found it again almost immediately and never let go again.”
“I think the answer’s obvious, don’t you?” George said. “Someone, or something, joined us.”
“The apparition’s go
ne,” Mairead said.
Hannah dropped George’s hand. “It’s as if the thing is playing with us. It knows we haven’t got a clue how to beat it.”
“The atmosphere’s changed again. It’s not so oppressive now.” Mairead looked around.
“I vote we go to the pub, sink a couple and try and come up with some sort of plan.”
“George is right,” Hannah said. “We’ll get nowhere like this, and I do have one idea.”
“That’s one more than I’ve got right now,” George said.
Mairead nodded and the three of them made their way back.
* * *
Ten minutes later, with drinks in front of them, George spoke. “Right, Hannah, what’s this idea of yours?”
“Miss Carmichael’s plaque in the graveyard.”
“What about it?”
“Remember at the séance, I was told to go alone to Greyfriars that night. I didn’t and when I did go, I went with you.” She took a deep breath. “I think I should go alone. Maybe I’ll get further.”
“I don’t think that’s at all a good idea,” George said. “Remember what happened when we were both there. If you were on your own.…”
“But that’s my point. Because I didn’t follow instructions, that…whatever it was…was angry.”
“It told you that you belonged there. In the graveyard. Presumably six feet under it, to be precise.”
“Oh my God, Hannah. Really?”
“It was while you were…away, Mairead. Don’t think I’m making this suggestion lightly. Frankly, I’m all out of ideas, so if either of you have a better one, I’d be more than happy to hear it.”
George traced condensation down his beer glass with his finger. “I wish I did, but.…” He shook his head.
Mairead sipped her white wine.
Hannah struggled to quash down the surreal feeling of not really being there. She swallowed hard. “That’s decided then. I go alone.”
“Not entirely alone,” George said. “We can wait by the kirk. We’ll be able to see you from there. The moon’s almost full and it’s a clear night. If anything happens we can get to you in seconds.”
A tinge of relief eased a little of Hannah’s apprehension.
“Tonight it is then. Let’s do it.” She drained her cider and stood.
* * *
Their breath misted in the cold night air. The street illuminations and the twinkling of Christmas lights coming from houses backing onto the kirkyard seemed strangely out of place so close to the gravestones and monuments of Greyfriars. Hannah tightened her woolen scarf more closely around her neck and mouth in an effort to keep out the biting cold.
“OK,” George said. “This is where we leave you. For now.”
Hannah nodded. She pulled her scarf away from her mouth. “Wish me luck,” she said.
Mairead and George nodded. Mairead squeezed her hand.
Hannah couldn’t remember ever feeling quite as alone as she did on that short, but seemingly endless walk to the far wall. She fought for every step, her senses screaming at her to go back to her friends. But she knew she couldn’t. She had to face this. Within her, something stirred. An inexplicable excitement she could not comprehend.
She stared up at the plaque, shadowy in the moonlight.
“Well, Miss Carmichael, I’m here and I’m alone. Please tell me what you want from me and how we can trap that devil back in the pentagram.”
She waited. Her toes began to numb up inside their thick woolen socks and cozy boots. She walked in a tight circle, trying to get some feeling back into them. Her fingers too were losing sensation deep in her winter gloves.
“Someone told me I belonged here. In this graveyard. But why, Miss Carmichael? Why would I belong here? I’m not even from Edinburgh.”
A sudden blast of cold air whipped past her ears, stinging them with the sharp chill. But in the trees not a leaf stirred. It was the stillest of nights.
Hannah shivered. “Please, Miss Carmichael, I don’t know how much longer I can stand this cold.”
“You belong here.” The voice was male, as before but, as Hannah peered through a sudden mist, she could just make out a faint outline. A figure of a woman. The same woman she had seen before.
“Miss Carmichael. Please help me. Help us.”
The figure became clearer. Still ghostly, but now with definition. She wore narrow metal-rimmed glasses and a stern expression.
She mouthed the words but Hannah heard them in her mind.
“Find my killer.”
“But your killer must be dead by now. Unless he is the Auld De’il.”
The woman opened her mouth again and Hannah heard the words in her brain once more.
“Find my killer.”
“Donald Bain. Miss Carmichael, was your killer Donald Bain?”
“He was not alone. The devil was beside him. And he has returned.” Slowly Miss Carmichael’s hand rose. She pointed at Hannah. A sharp, stabbing pain scythed through her chest. She cried out.
The sound of running feet. Coming closer. Hannah was still doubled up, the pain subsiding a little, but it had winded her.
“Hannah, what happened?” George put his arms around her and Hannah took her first full breath.
“Miss Carmichael. She was here.”
“Did she say anything to you?”
Hannah nodded. “She told me to find her killer. Then she pointed at me and that’s when…I had asked her if her killer was Donald Bain.”
“What did she say?” Mairead asked.
Hannah told them what Miss Carmichael had said. “We’re not much further forward.”
“Maybe we are.” George pointed up at Miss Carmichael’s plaque. A deep crack had appeared, barely visible in the pale light.
“That wasn’t there when I last saw it,” Hannah said.
“But why would Miss Carmichael damage her own memorial tablet?” Mairead asked.
“How’s this for a suggestion?” George said. “Supposing the plaque was paid for by her killer?”
In a weird way, Hannah could see what George was getting at and it made some kind of sense. “I was standing right there. In front of the plaque but with my back toward it when she raised her hand. What if she wasn’t aiming at me? What if she meant to damage the plaque all along and I simply happened to be in the way?”
“So she shot right through you,” George said. “That must have been some charge.”
“Believe me. It was. Like a massive electric shock.”
Mairead let out a shriek. “Oh my God! Get it off me!”
“Mairead.” George and Hannah each grabbed an arm as Mairead rose inches off the ground only to be dashed down again. She fell against George. A scurrying sound, like someone running away, but Hannah could see nothing.
“What the hell just happened?” George’s breath clouded in the freezing air.
Mairead shook her head. She was shivering, either with cold or fear or a mixture of the two. “Something grabbed me. From behind. I couldn’t see anyone. I felt this…this.… I don’t know what it was, lift me off my feet and then it dropped me when you grabbed hold of me.”
“Miss Carmichael?” Hannah asked.
“No. She wouldn’t do that.”
Mairead’s certainty took Hannah by surprise. “How do you know?”
“Because…I met her.”
George and Hannah exchanged glances. “You met her?” George asked. “When, for heaven’s sake?”
Mairead put her hand to her head. “Something’s just clicked in my brain. I can’t.… It happened when you say I disappeared the first time. When I lost those weeks. I…it’s all cloudy and vague but I’m sure I stayed at her house. In the New Town. I remember she took me to Henderson Close. She helped families there. One was a poor family who lived in one room. McDo
nald. That was their name. There were a lot of children.… It’s all so disjointed. My memory…there was a boy…Robbie. Nine years old I think. Miss Carmichael took him under her wing. She was going to send him to an expensive private school…. I’m sorry. That’s all I can remember.”
“That’s pretty good going,” Hannah said. “Your memory’s coming back all right.”
Mairead gave a half-smile. “I wish I could fill in all the gaps. I still have no idea where I’ve been living for the past two years or more. Part of me still thinks it was Bishop Crescent, even though I know that’s impossible.”
“Can you remember exactly where you met Miss Carmichael?” Hannah asked. “Maybe if we went there we could…I don’t know, maybe establish a stronger contact with her.”
“I might. I’m not sure. But not tonight. I’m freezing and I’m suddenly so tired I can barely stand.”
“I agree,” Hannah said. “Are you up for early tomorrow morning? Before work? Say eight thirty?”
“Sounds good to me,” George said, and Mairead nodded.
“How about we meet at the Albert Memorial in Charlotte Square?” Mairead suggested.
“I was around there recently,” Hannah said. “That’s fine with me.”
“Let’s get out of here,” George said. “I’ve had enough of this place for one night.”
* * *
Half an hour at her laptop and Hannah finally found what she was looking for. An obscure website with detailed information on the many and various uses of the pentagram. The devil’s trap – a variation of the Grand Pentacle – seemed to hold the key to getting rid of the Auld De’il once and for all. Hannah read the description with mounting hope. “Once a demon has entered the outer circle of the devil’s trap, it is imprisoned there for all time.”
Pray God it will work.
Hannah printed out the article, including a drawing of the special pentagram. She examined the strange symbols, which resembled nothing she had ever seen before. Who cared? As long as it did the job. She folded the paper up. It would stay with her until she had a chance to use it.
* * *
The rain pelted down between seven and eight the next morning before settling down into an unpleasantly cold drizzle that seemed to penetrate every pore of Hannah’s skin. Tightly bundled up in a waterproof coat over a chunky wool jumper, accompanied by thick socks, jeans and knee-high boots, she crammed her imitation Barbour hat on her head, taking care to tuck her hair firmly in. No point in battling the wind for control of an umbrella today. She thrust her gloved hands into her pockets and left her apartment, clumping down the stairs and out into the weather.
