by Wes Markin
Reynolds explained that the woman was called Rachel Lister and provided the details of how she’d ended up in the cellar, and how her partner had been murdered.
Yorke pointed down the corridor at the fish tank. ‘The octopus?’
‘Gone,’ Reynolds said. ‘What we’ve found upstairs is particularly shocking, sir. I suggest I take you both up there first?’
Yorke nodded and they followed Reynolds up the stairs. It seemed to grow colder with every step, and he wondered if a window had been left open upstairs.
Reynolds led them down the corridor and, despite knowing he wasn’t going to be seeing a body up here, Yorke still reached up to check the top button of his shirt was fastened underneath the white suit; he could already feel the cold beginning to prickle him there. At the door of the last room, they all froze and stared at the two clubs laced with blades; they looked primitive, but deadly nonetheless.
Reynolds opened the door and ushered them in. Two SOCOs nodded in greeting and then continued their own explorations.
The filament of a red bulb flickered and the room beneath it twitched. Yorke and Gardner moved inside and although the walls weren’t stone, the place had a cold damp feel you would expect from a temple, and their footsteps seemed to echo. Incense was heavy in the air. Walls were buried beneath tapestries Yorke recognized from his hours of gruelling research on the internet; their colours blunted by the crimson light. His eyes fell to an image of a sacrificed man with his chest open; he was surrounded by a gaggle of priests watching his heart begin its ascent to the sun.
This was the diseased and pulsating heart of Lock’s world.
Yorke glanced at Gardner, the colour had drained from her face. ‘This place feels like a fucking tomb,’ she said.
Yorke didn’t reply, he was staring into a stone basin filled with ash. Lock certainly had an old-fashioned approach to heating. He headed towards the altar, on which a statue was poised to attack from a pyramid of slabs. He touched Lock’s venerated deity, Tezcatlipoca; it was ice cold. The statue was carved from obsidian, with all the attention to detail Lock probably took over dissecting his victims. Tezcatlipoca danced as if to mock them in their belief that they could stop his faithful servant and wore his smoking mirror on his foot. The mirror that could see inside all of them.
Yorke then leaned over a small frying pan with a handle shaped like a serpent. It was half-filled with sand to provide insulation from the heat; while copal, the aromatic tree resin Utter told him about, was burned on a heated charcoal tablet. This close, the smell stung his nostrils. Beside the incense burner was a small, flint knife and next to that a jade bowl, which Yorke recoiled from when he caught the scent of blood. It was surely the bowl with which he offered his sacrifices. He also noticed two plastic tubes; one tube contained a clump of black hair and the other had longer, blonde hair inside. Preston and Jessica’s hair perhaps? Was he keeping souvenirs?
‘Prepare yourself for this,’ Reynolds said, and guided them over the altar. He pointed into the shadows beside the statue. Above them, the filament of the bulb flickered and buzzed again; it wouldn’t hold out for too much longer.
The SOCO backed away from a glass jar they were dusting for prints. What Yorke saw made his blood run cold; beside him, he heard Gardner gasp. He prayed for it all to be a hallucination and closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, the jar was still there.
The bloodless heart took on the yellow glow of the sallow liquid it floated in. Severed veins and arteries rose from the organ and swayed in the liquid, like seaweed.
‘Do you think …?’ Yorke said, but he couldn’t finish his question.
‘That it’s Jessica Brookes’ heart?’ Reynolds said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Does it matter?’ Gardener said, unable to keep the fact that she was nearly in tears from her voice. ‘It was someone’s … and he took it.’
The filament fizzled one more time and then they were in darkness.
15
BENJAMIN RILEY WANTED to look this man in the eyes just once before he died; and while doing so, wanted to ask him why he had murdered Jessica Brookes.
He had experienced darkness many times in his life before. The time his wife was raped; the time he murdered the wanker who did it; his years behind bars; and the kid who tried to hack off his leg – to mention just a few. Riley certainly was no stranger to it. He’d actually thought, or believed, for quite some time he understood it. But now he realised how wrong he’d been.
This was new.
Quite different.
The wound on his left cheek stung, and the blood showed no sign of slowing. He could taste it in his mouth. He spat on the floor, and then looked up at the source of the darkness pacing back and forth in front of him.
The peculiar-looking psychopath, who looked as if he had been dipped in bleach, had come at him like a savage animal. If he had bit as deeply into his neck as he had done his cheek, he would be dead already. After he’d been overcome, Riley had been lashed tightly to a wooden dining chair.
The situation had worsened when the killer had discovered the gun Riley had given Brookes on the bedside table. How Riley wished that his hands were free, and that his own shotgun, which the fucker had kicked under the sofa, was still in his possession.
The killer paced back and forth, staring at the floor, holding the gun, thinking about what, God only knows. What do psychos think about?
The snowstorm outside was now raging and the persistent winds rocked the motorhome back and forth. Under different circumstances, Riley would find the motion soothing, but now, he was sure that only the demon child was the one being soothed. He half-expected the branch of a tree to break through a window like the hand of a great maternal demon and stroke its child’s head, to encourage its malevolent mind. Encourage it to mature and become a prince.
At that point, Riley would, most certainly, die.
But Ewan wasn’t here and so was safe. Also, Brookes would get the warning by voicemail and would evade this ambush. Riley’s family were now happy; true, he not had chance to meet his wonderful little grandson, but you couldn’t have everything. All in all, it was as good a time as any to die. He was old and he had seen more than enough senselessness. He reckoned he could handle it; besides, it would give him a break from this damned leg …
So, fuck the weather and fuck you killer, tonight, I’m ready to die. Just so long as I get to look you in your eyes, just once, before I do, and ask you why.
As a child, Terrence Lock had loved knots. As a scout, he’d been fascinated by the sense of finality that a tied knot brought. He had mastered them all; the figure-eight knot, the reef knot, the bowline, the timber hitch and his beloved sheep shank. There was logic in a knot that wasn’t in life. It always felt finished and complete; and more importantly, incorruptible. Climbers, sailors and skydivers all entrusted their lives to a knot. Since becoming Tezcacoatl, he was certain his plan had been a well-tied knot.
Yet, since Gillian, nothing seemed to be going right. Could knots defy their certainty and unravel?
Tezcacoatl walked over to the old man, forced a rag into his mouth, pinned the gun to his leg and blew a hole in it.
Riley’s scream would have emerged like a homeless banshee, braved the winds and snow to seek out help, and torn the skin from the murderer’s face on route.
But the rag forced into his mouth held the scream and the pain inside. So, instead, he let out a long guttural moan and rocked back and forth in the chair.
When the killer pulled the rag out of his mouth, it seemed to help, and the agony subsided, momentarily. More than likely it was the sudden onset of hyperventilation and blood loss working together to kill the pain.
‘Where is the boy, Ewan Brookes?’ The killer asked.
‘The least you could have done …’ Riley paused for another breath. ‘Was shoot me in the other leg. The one which is already fucked.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Well, if I shoot you again, you will die. You will b
leed to death and you will not have achieved anything, because I will stay here and wait for Ewan all night if I have to.’
Riley opened his eyes and, for a moment, was quite surprised that he was still alive. He groaned when his leg started to feel like it was going through an incinerator again. If he survived this, he would be spending the rest of his days in a wheelchair. He remembered the old idiom – you won’t have a leg to stand on, and a smile crept across his face.
‘Why are you smiling? Do you not believe me?’
‘It’s not that,’ Riley said. ‘But you can wait, if you want. All night. He isn’t coming back.’
‘This is where he lives.’
‘For a bigshot serial killer, you do not seem so intelligent or well-organized.’
Gritting his teeth in agony, Riley considered the monster. How this waif had managed to wrestle him to the ground, he had no idea; his face was gaunt, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in months. His black hair fell past his shoulders and combined with his long black cape, accentuated his albino skin. The bastard looked and sounded like he had just climbed out of a coffin.
The killer turned away.
‘Hey! You turn back around. Show some respect to your elders! That’s what we do in this country. We respect one another, and we don’t take mothers away from their children – you murderous animal.’
The monster turned around. His face looked as if it had been frozen in ice. He said, ‘First of all, this is not my country; and secondly, you talk of murder.’ He cocked his head to the left. ‘I do not murder, because that implies I act from hate or anger; I do not act from either, no matter what you and others choose to believe.’
Riley sucked in a deep breath. ‘No, I don’t believe you.’ Unflinching, he stared into the killer’s eyes. ‘Your face doesn’t move, but I can still see that fucking look in your eyes. I’ve seen it in people’s eyes before. Never quite this bad before, admittedly, but I’ve seen it.’
The killer averted his gaze.
The old man could hear the steady drip of his own blood on the motorhome floor; he was also starting to feel light-headed. He didn’t look down at the wound; he didn’t want to know how much damage had been done to his good leg. He took some deep breaths to try and ward off the pain, so he could continue talking. ‘Let me tell you about someone I knew once. Okay?’
‘Why is that relevant?’
‘Trust me, it is.’
The murderer nodded.
‘When I was in jail, I knew a man called Darren Crawford. A fool who was sentenced to ten years when he ran over a young girl while drunk and high on cocaine. Crawford was only thirty and was, despite his behaviour, a happily married man with a high-flying job. It all disappeared that night in one reckless moment. Eventually, Crawford became a Creeper.’
The tall man narrowed his eyes, clearly confused.
‘A Creeper is someone who cannot cope with what they’ve done, or what they’ve lost. They change. Become hollowed out almost. You can see it in their eyes. We called them Creepers, while we were inside, for obvious reasons. They’d linger in the shadows, often silently. They’d lie awake at night, muttering to themselves; sometimes, masturbate. You get the picture.’ Riley paused to cough; he turned to his side and spat blood on the floor. ‘So, there they were, these Creepers, skulking, thinking, often plotting and generally freaking many people out in the vicinity. But remaining passive. Or at least that’s what we thought.’
‘I am not seeing the point of all this.’
‘You will, or maybe you won’t. I don’t care much either way.’ He took a deep breath, and continued, desperately trying to hide the tremble in his voice. ‘One day, he smashed another inmate’s head so hard into the tap on the shower, the poor bastard was literally left hanging there. Then, Crawford himself charged into the wall, again and again, bouncing his own head off the tiles, until he was no more. The other inmates stood back and allowed him to do it while the guards attempted to get through to him. They were happy to see Crawford smashing in his own skull. It was the least he deserved for his savage behaviour.’ Riley paused again, feeling incredibly light-headed now; he wondered if fear and blood-loss had turned his own face as pale as this cold-hearted monster in front of him.
Riley looked up at him; the killer was staring at him intently. Riley continued, ‘The inmate hanging off the tap? It was his first day. Crawford never even knew him. Maybe he looked at him funny? Maybe Crawford just felt like it? Creepers, you see. Hollowed out, empty. They lose their humanity and their souls.’
‘What is your point?’
Riley spat out more blood; this time, on the maniac’s shoes. Then, he stared deep into his eyes. ‘I’m saying that you can stand there and tell me that you kill for a reason, and I will look you right back in the eyes and call you a Creeper. A hollowed-out Creeper.’
Movement flickered over the monster’s face like the tiniest ripple on a lake.
‘An empty, soulless creeper.’
The killer turned away. Riley stared down at the floor. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘An evil fucking Creeper,’ he said and then thought of the picture of his grandson in his pocket and the smile that would one day break hearts. ‘Why don’t you just leave us all alo—’
After he’d shot the old man twice in the chest and watched his last breath trail out, Tezcacoatl put the gun to his own head and it felt right.
Brandon, and now, this old man.
These deaths today had not been willing sacrifices; they had been pointless. He had always known that people would die in battle during the building of the Second Age, but he’d always believed death in battle should be honourable. There was nothing honourable about these deaths today. They were merely victims, not warriors.
He should have put the gun to his head this morning after the owl had sung. He should have realised why Lord Tezcatlipoca had not spoken to him in so long - he had failed and he had been abandoned.
His finger settled on the trigger.
He closed his eyes again and thought again of the gentle touch of his mother’s silk dress against his skin as he lay on her lap; their hands brushing against each other as they smoothed out the body of the snowman; and the sunrises that seemed to promise a glorious future despite the pain she was enduring.
I am sorry, he thought, I tried, I really did.
And now what was it they called him. A serial killer? A psychopath? A monster? A Creeper?
Alone, never to be accepted, he had failed in his bid for the Second Age. He would have to leave them all alone now to wallow in their self-obsession and destructive natures.
He felt tears in the corners of his eyes. He almost didn’t recognize the sensation; it had been so long. He tensed his finger on the trigger. This time he would—
The motorhome glowed. His eyes flicked open. ‘My Lord!’
And the light was everywhere. It moved around him, and then it seemed to move inside him. It was like sunrise with his mother. He felt his soul warm and he knew he wasn’t a cold killer - he had a purpose!
And for the first time, since he was a child, he felt what the commoners would describe as joy; and he realised that emotions were not all bad, and he would happily welcome this one again.
He ran to the broken window in the back bedroom. The raging wind smashed into his face and his long hair rose in the air around him. He watched the young slave climb out of the taxi beside the caravan the old man had come from.
‘Lord Tezcatlipoca, I hear and I understand!’
Despite the fact that Riley’s caravan had looked like a burning meteorite buried amongst the trees on his approach in the taxi, the place had never felt so cold and desolate to Ewan. The snow drove fiercely into his face as he ran the five metres from the taxi to the door. He knocked hard on the caravan door and, when no one answered, he looked back, with regret, to see the rear-view lights of the taxi disappear into the emptiness.
He was suddenly gladder than ever for Freddy, who was buried in the back
pack slung over his shoulder. He waited another ten seconds or so for Riley to open the door, but it was too snowy and cold to remain outside, so he opened it himself and entered.
Inside, he dodged past the leaves and vines hanging from the many planter baskets on the ceiling, coiling forth like tentacles reaching out from a hostile world. ‘Riley?’
Wondering why the old man had not announced himself yet caused a faint tremble in his legs and he moved quickly around the caravan, calling his friend’s name, holding onto the expectation that he would eventually emerge from behind one of his two huge, potted bonsais.
He noticed a letter from Riley’s daughter by the sink and read it. It was a plea for Riley to let their relationship heal; that her husband was a changed man who desperately wanted to get to know the grandfather of his son. His eyes lingered over the words that were darker than the others; here, she must have pressed her pen down hard.
And Sam, your Grandson will adore you, and when you meet him you will see that none of what has gone before really matters. It is the future that matters. It is him that matters.
For a moment, Ewan wondered if Riley had gone to see his family, but he threw that idea out when he remembered that the front door had been unlocked. But where could he be? The lights in his father’s motorhome were out, leading him to conclude that his father was away …
Unless, maybe Riley and his father were in there watching television with all the lights off?
Back outside, he struggled to keep upright in the deepening snow. He was glad he had put a ski-jacket over his fleece but cursed himself for leaving behind his hat. The cold was really biting deep now.
He spotted the smashed window and stopped dead. His eyes swung to the trees, drowning in snow, and he heard himself swallow even above the howling wind.
