by Wes Markin
Yorke had a bad case of déjà vu. Eight years ago, he’d journeyed to the same disused pig farm with the same break-neck intensity. And what he’d found there would haunt him until his final day.
Following a fatal high-speed pursuit last year, these sporty sedans had been fitted with specialised winter tyres. It showed. Over the steep frozen hills, the car rose and sank with no fuss; around sharp corners, the wheels squealed, but never slipped. But, with so much of his conscious thought dedicated to Harry’s wife’s murderer, the car’s handling alone was not enough to keep him alive. He also needed the wailing siren on the roof.
He looked into his rear-view mirror, but the road was empty; Jake, who had followed in his car with Willows, must have fallen behind.
Blazing through Tilshead – virtually the geographical centre of Salisbury plain – he ignored the slowdown signs and caught sight of the Rose and Crown public house where he’d once been for Sunday lunch with Harry and Dawn almost ten years ago. Into his mind crept the final day of Thomas Ray’s trial ...
Yorke held Harry’s shoulder gently outside the court, making it seem like a gesture of support, rather than what it really was. Concern that Harry might just go for his wife’s killer.
Sucking hard on the cigarette in his hand, Yorke watched Thomas Ray, hiding behind that wild mane of white shaggy hair, being led away. Diminished responsibility. Murder to manslaughter in two simple words. As if blowing someone to pieces couldn’t really be your fault.
The press rounded in on the killer.
‘I have saved myself and I have saved you,’ Thomas said, and not for the first time.
‘What have you saved us from, Mr Ray?’ A young journalist from a local newspaper said.
With a huge paw he split his mane and revealed his eyes. ‘Them.’
Harry threw his burning cigarette in Ray’s direction and then turned his back―
A shrieking horn drew Yorke from his trance. He had started to stray into the wrong lane and two oncoming headlights swelled at an alarming speed. Swerving, he felt his chest freeze.
After managing to steady the car, he looked at his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Pull yourself together!’
His phone rang, it was Gardner. ‘Yes Emma?’
‘Thomas Ray was released from the secure hospital in Bristol three months ago―’
‘You’re joking? After eight years?’
‘If you remember, he was detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure due to a successful insanity defence, the trial judge set a minimum of eight years, and when he was reviewed, three months ago, they deemed him sane.’
‘But still, eight years, for what he did. It’s bollocks.’
‘I agree. But I think they made their decision based on the fact that he had terminal cancer, less than four months to live, they sent him home to die.’
He thought about the Sapphire CCTV footage. Crap VHS, but that slight hunch in Ray’s back had been a giveaway, as had the eyes. Eyes as hollow as the Grim Reaper’s.
‘If that’s him on the footage, then they made a bad decision. Have you checked into his current state of health?’
‘I contacted the hospital and they confirmed they have been making visits to the farmhouse to treat him for the pain―’
‘Have they told the nurses what happened there? I bloody well hope so.’
‘I don’t know, sir, but I’ve spoken to a doctor, who claims he’s near the end and is in no fit state to drive, never mind conduct that abduction. You’re not going there alone are you?’
‘Of course not, I have Jake and Collette in the car behind.’
‘You might be best waiting for more back-up.’
‘You just said he was incapable of doing anything. Besides, I don’t want to go in all guns blazing, in case he does have the boy, and he is capable of doing harm. I’ll be in touch shortly.’
West Lavington, a small village and civil parish, suddenly hovered into view like a curious but careless moth investigating a lit candle. The village disappeared as quickly as the immolated insect.
Something moved in the road ahead of him. It was too late to stop, so Yorke braced. There was a thump and the car hopped. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, but it was too dark to see what he’d left for the early morning drivers.
The phone went. He fished it out from his inside jacket pocket.
‘Jake, you’ve fallen behind,’ Yorke said.
‘I just heard from the station. Sean has contacted the hire company. Thomas Ray received the van yesterday.’
‘Funny that, because I just heard he was at death’s door.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry up.’
He slowed down slightly as he passed through Potterne, one of the most swollen villages in Wiltshire. There was traffic coming the other way, so he turned off his full beam.
‘I can’t drive as fast as you. Not only do I value my life, but I’ve not been lucky enough to get on that high speed pursuit course you did.’
‘I’ve seen you drive, you don’t need a course; speed up, and I’ll buy you a pint of Summer Lightning later.’
‘Okay, and that’s because it’s rare that you offer to buy.’
He hung up and tore over a round-about, his tyres screeching; he came off at the second exit, which bore right to Little Horton, his destination.
If it was Ray, why would he give his name when hiring the van? Did he want to get caught? Maybe, he doesn’t care if he’s dying anyway?
But it doesn’t add up. Where would this dying man have been hiding while we were in the school? There are plenty of coppers there who would recognise him through any disguise after what he did to Harry ...
He shut off his siren before entering a quiet, dark farming community. He drove down Pig Lane, heading south into Little Horton and cruised along several winding roads until he arrived at the Ray’s eighty-eight acre farm yard.
Long grass poked out of the snow like nerve endings. Broken fences lay scattered as if there’d been an animal stampede.
There was no moon, and no streetlights, so he relied on his full beam, and second gear to negotiate the Ray farm entry road. Along the way, he noticed a decrepit barn on his right.
He reached the end of the road. The lights were on in the farmhouse, so he switched off his full beam. Reaching for the door handle, he stared at the house in the middle of the field.
It glowed like a burning corner of hell.
The growl of a car engine shook Paul Ray from his sleep.
Is it too late to run to the window and wave Dad off on his way to work?
He rolled onto his back and the memory of what he’d seen his dad doing the other day oozed into his thoughts like an infected cut. I’m never going to wave him off again, not in a million years―
The wind squealed, the cold raced over him and he stared deep into two pebble-sized black eyes. He felt a scream rushing up his throat.
The eyes neared. His heart pounded the inside of his chest. The beast stroked his cheek with its twitching snout.
Where am I? Lewis, where are you? Help me ...
The scream burst free, partly made up of Lewis’ name, partly made up of a sound he’d never heard himself produce before. The animal reeled in the air and backed away.
Despite feeling as if his blood had frozen solid in his veins, Paul scurried backward, moving like a crab until he banged his head on the wall. Using his sleeve, he rubbed at the warm, gluey residue on his cheek; his eyes darted from side to side, unable to settle.
Am I in the barn on Nathan’s parent’s farm? No, it’s bigger, dirtier, emptier ...
Paul shook, tears began to build. ‘Lewis, where are you?’
In a small pool of light given off by a tiny lamp, the pig that had licked him grunted and shook its large head side to side, flapping sail-like ears, baring black and white teeth, beating its trotters on the floor and raising small clouds of dust and hay.
‘Lewis, help me!’
&nbs
p; Paul rose, sliding his back against the wooden slats behind him, staring at the beast. ‘Don’t come near me ... please.’
This is horrible, how did I get here? He eased himself along the slats, determined to carry on going until he found a door.
Lewis said he was going to take me to the doctors and that’d he’d just let my school and parents know. Then, I got into his van.
Why can’t I remember anything else?
Around him the slats clattered as the screeching wind attacked them. He tasted sick in his mouth, but carried on pushing himself further along. He could feel splinters of wood poking and scraping his shirt, but they weren’t getting through, weren’t cutting him. Yet.
The beast stopped pounding and moved back into the darkness.
I hope it’s scared of me.
‘I don’t understand any of this.’ He wiped at his tear filled eyes and then the corners of his mouth where the sick oozed.
Lewis gave me something for the runs. Was it that tablet which made me sleep? Did Lewis bring me here? Why? Why would he do that?
When he reached the barn door, he shook it with trembling hands, noticing his palms were sweating despite the ice cold wind.
But the door was locked. He shook it for a long time and his arms started to burn; eventually he let them fall to his side, and turned back to look into the dark barn.
The wind relaxed and Paul could hear more pounding coming from the darkness.
More of them ...
Crying even harder, he turned back and continued to shake the barn door.
With the shrieking wind at his back, Yorke and Jake hurried through the pelting snow to the farm house. Willows stayed back to observe the area in case the dying man tried to make a run for it.
Yorke’s bad case of déjà vu continued. He looked down at the floor at the exact spot on the path where Dawn’s body had been thrown by the shotgun blast. A layer of snow covered the area, but Yorke could feel the broken concrete and frozen weeds under foot, a result of eight years of neglect.
The curtains in the front room were drawn, but the lights were bright enough that Yorke and Jake could find their way to the door without a torch.
His phone buzzed. The message told him he had three voicemail messages. He sighed. Harry, for sure.
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and knocked on the door; they both took a step back.
No answer. Yorke tried again, glancing at Jake, who suddenly looked paler than usual. ‘You okay?’
‘After what happened on this particular doorstep, not really.’
‘He wasn’t riddled with cancer when he did that.’
‘I’m sure he could still pull a trigger.’
True, Yorke thought, kneeling down, but what if Paul Ray is here now? He shouted through the letter box. ‘Thomas Ray, Police. You need to open up immediately.’
They waited. Yorke tapped his foot on the ground; he could hear Jake pacing side to side.
Then, Yorke pressed down the chrome door handle.
Jake darted back. ‘You’re mad!’
The door was locked.
‘Three of us here is not enough,’ Jake said. ‘The man is a murderer.’
‘Okay, phone for more back-up. I’ll try the back door.’
‘Maybe, you should wait, we can have some officers here in ten minutes.’
‘A child is in danger. We have enough evidence for entering and arresting. I’m trying the back door.’
‘Stubborn bastard, Mike,’ Jake said, sighing.
‘Stubborn bastard, what?’ Yorke said with a grin.
‘Stubborn bastard, sir.’ Jake said, grinning back.
Yorke slipped around the back of the farmhouse, leaving Jake to his mobile phone call. At the back door, he tried knocking, but again got no answer.
He tried the handle. Unlocked.
He slipped in and paused to listen for someone in the house, but could pick up nothing over the wind.
The kitchen was dark, so he used his Maglite to look around. Cupboard doors were either open or hanging off; drawers had been pulled out and emptied. Cooking instruments were piled high on the surfaces. Someone had been through this place like a Tasmanian devil.
Suddenly feeling shaky, he contemplated stepping back outside and waiting the ten minutes for the extra officers. He turned and looked at the open back door, and then the image of the twelve-year-old boy with the blonde hair flashed through his mind, and he could feel Sarah Ray’s hand gripping his arm as he made the promise. He turned back.
An inch at a time, he opened the kitchen door, peering through the widening gap as he did so. The hallway was lit by a shaded bulb from the right hand side room.
He turned off his torch and slid along the wall; a rancid smell of old dogs intensified. At the edge of the doorframe to the lit room, he paused and listened, but he still couldn’t hear anything except the wind outside.
He slipped his small torch into his pocket and turned into the room.
Inside was a white rug on which slept a Dachshund. Next to that was a fireplace piled with logs and a couple of old wooden chairs facing a giant, flickering TV.
He stared at the Dachshund until he was sure it wasn’t breathing. He stepped forward, kneeled down and put his hand on its cold, hard back. Stuffed.
Fascinated, he picked the animal up and was surprised by how light it was. Something glittered in its mouth, so Yorke shook it and a padlock key fell out. He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.
The TV was old and it reminded Yorke of one that he had grown up with. He fondly recalled his mum and older sister having to lift it together while he opened the doors for them.
Beneath the TV was a VCR, as old as the TV, and Yorke pressed the large square play button and listened to the mechanism clip the tape with a clunk.
On the screen was the barn he’d seen on the way into the farm. It had been filmed on a lighter evening when the moon was completely full. Twenty seconds passed without the shot changing, so Yorke stopped the tape and hit fast forward. The VCR screeched. He pressed play again and the image of the barn returned.
He tried again, and again. The image didn’t change. The barn was all he was getting.
Jake came up alongside him. ‘We have several officers from a local station less than ten minutes away.’
After looking through the entire house and confirming that nobody was home, Jake and Yorke headed outside and drove back to the old barn. Two police cars pulled up beside them. Jake exited the car and ran over to them, while Yorke turned the vehicle to face the barn and stopped in the same spot that the camera would have been set up. The moon wasn’t bright, so he used his full beam to light the exterior of the barn. It looked unchanged from the video footage.
He exited the car and, through the whipping wind, sprinted towards the barn door, brushing snow from his face along the way. He grabbed hold of the rusted padlock and, from his pocket, plucked the key that fell out of the stuffed Daschund’s mouth. He slipped it in the padlock. A perfect fit.
At the opposite side of the barn to the pigs, Paul was sitting with his back against wooden slats. He’d grabbed the small lamp and now kept it between his legs. It didn’t give off much warmth, but he felt slightly safer in the light. With his cold hands, he rubbed his cheeks and was surprised to see that he was still crying. He’d never thought it possible to cry as much as he’d done in such a short space of time.
Lewis, he thought, where are you? Who’s doing this to me?
The wind relented for a moment allowing him to hear the pigs wrestling. He gulped and his throat tingled from all the attempts earlier to shout for Lewis’ help.
Will Mum and Dad know I’m gone yet? Dad, I’m sorry for saying I’d run away.
He drew his knees up to his chest, taking care not to knock the lamp over. Then, he rested his head on his knees, recalling the advice his father often gave his obsessive mother about “mind over matter”.
I’m warm, he thought, shivering, and I’m safe,
I’m warm and I’m safe―
One of the pigs grunted loudly from the darkness. It sounded nearer than all the others. Bolting upright, he thrust out the lamp so he could see the outline of the beast skulking in the shadows.
Not the one that woke me up, it looks different. Angrier―
He rose to his feet.
Don’t show it you’re afraid.
‘Get away!’
It spun and vanished into the shadows. Paul breathed a sigh of relief―
There was a loud clunk. The door... He scurried backwards. The pigs were squealing louder.
Help? Lewis?
But if he really believed that, why was he retreating further into the barn, clutching the lamp with a trembling hand? Along the way, he scoured the floor for a weapon. There were several farmyard implements, but they were all too bulky to wield. What he really needed was a spade or a rake.
The door started to open as Paul reached the far corner of the barn. Please be help ... please.
He switched off the lamp, held his breath and slipped down into the corner.
Several steps into the old barn, Yorke took a deep, cloying breath of air, scented with death. Around him, barn slats juddered as they sliced the wind into burning cold slithers. He heard loud beating noises above him and he turned the Maglite up at them. Shadows darted and hidden creatures hissed down at him.
He continued ahead, piercing the dark, mote-filled air with his torch. He revealed an old cobweb filled trough; a smashed up lawnmower; a pile of rusted spades and rakes; a wheel-less small tractor on its back and … his breath caught in his throat … a naked body hanging from a rail.
‘Sir, are you alright?’ Jake called from behind him.
‘Contact HQ immediately, we have a body,’ Yorke said, bypassing the smashed up lawnmower, and drawing close enough to identify the corpse as male. The hook on the rail had been worked into his back, so his shoulders and head slumped forward like a forgotten wooden puppet’s. He hung a good metre off the ground and his toes pointed down. Gasses generated by decomposition had emptied his stomach and intestines on the floor.
