by Wes Markin
‘The Morris family,’ the farmer said, leaning into Yorke’s car window, exhibiting his heavily pockmarked skin. ‘They stopped farming a few years back when the father and daughter both passed within months of each other. The wife and her granddaughter still live there. You know, the young one is simple, and Stella Morris, well, she has some kind of wasting disease. What do you want from them?’
‘It’s police business.’
With a creased forehead, the farmer pointed out the directions and then disappeared into the night with his dogs.
With his windscreen wipers going full blast, struggling against a snowfall that he imagined would take some victims this evening, he turned left off the main road, passed a sign that read “slow down, vehicles pulling out” and crunched down a country lane. The car didn’t slip; someone must have taken the time to grit. But that’s where his luck ended. The lights on the main road behind faded, and he was left with only his headlights.
The road seemed to spiral on forever, leaving him more and more to the mercy of the darkness. Over the screeching wipers, he could hear vicious-sounding dogs.
I was stupid to come here alone.
Eventually, he saw light. He passed a large wooden barn on his right and then a couple of hundred metres later, crunched to a halt beside the farmhouse. His headlights pointed out a second barn in the distance.
There was enough light coming from within the house to make the porch visible, but the gloom and its shadows made it a risky option. He turned his car, so his headlights shot straight into the house. The old porch looked like it belonged in Tennessee rather than Wiltshire. There was a figure hunched over in a chair. He waited a moment for the figure to move, to get up and welcome him in.
All remained still.
It would be sensible to wait the ten or fifteen minutes for Topham and company to arrive, but somewhere around here the Ray family needed him.
He killed the headlights and got out of the car.
Sheila glanced back and saw Jake slightly hunched over in the doorway, waving. She waved back as she reached the end of the drive. That was all he was getting. Tonight, at least.
A taxi was parked outside their house. The headlights were on. After unsuccessfully trying to see who it was through dark windows, she started the short walk back to her mother’s house, looking one last time at Jake.
Look at him with the weight of the world on his shoulders, what about me? What about the one who has to suffer all of this shit?
He closed the door.
I can’t let him know he’s forgiven – not until serious changes are made. Promises are not enough.
She thought of the packet of menthol cigarettes sitting in her bag, and realised she could murder one right now – but it was something she’d have to resist, after what the doctors had told her a couple of days ago.
Turning down a dark-narrow path which acted as a short cut between the houses, she quickened her pace; not because of fear, but rather because of the smell of piss. A blast of icy-cold air convinced her to button up her wool-lined winter coat.
‘I know what it’s like,’ someone said behind her.
She took a quick gulp of air, and turned with widening eyes. Lacey Ray.
‘To not be the only one.’
Sheila snapped her head left and right looking for help. Nobody. Alone. ‘What do you want?’
‘Shush, if you shout, I’ll have to kill you.’
Sheila felt pressure on her stomach. She looked down. Lacey had a long, kitchen knife pinned there.
‘And do not think about sudden movements; I will be able to split your belly open very quickly.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Congratulations.’ Lacey smiled. ‘So it really is in your best interests to make this easier for me.’
‘What do you want?’ Sheila said, feeling her lips tremble. She looked left and right again. Nothing but a solitary streetlamp at the end of the dark lane, spearing the darkness.
‘What every girl wants.’
‘My husband?’
‘Come on Sheila, does every girl want your husband?’
‘You obviously do, why else would you be doing this?’
She snorted. ‘He probably told you I was in love with him. It’s not love I’m after, Sheila. In fact, it’s not love most girls are after, although they convince themselves that they are. It’s respect. Simply, respect. Surely, right now, with everything that has happened, you of all people can understand that?’
‘My husband does respect me.’
‘Really?’ Lacey raised her eyebrows. ‘Did you watch that movie? Did you see the things we did? Does he even respect himself?’
‘It was years ago, and you probably convinced him to make it.’
‘Is that what he told you? It’s always our fault, isn’t it? We make them bully us, hit us, rape us and kill us. Does he know he’s going to be a father? Do you want me to tell him for you?’
Sheila saw a group of young people pass the entrance to the path. If she shouted now, they may hear her. Pressure increased on her stomach. ‘Don’t bother, Sheila.’
She looked down at the blade, when she looked back up, the group has passed.
‘Good.’
‘Couldn’t you just leave us both alone?’ Tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes.
Lacey reached out her empty hand to Sheila’s face and brushed a tear away. ‘He isn’t worth your tears.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘Shhh. Be calm, Sheila, this is all unplanned ─ for once ─ and I really want to enjoy the spontaneity of it all. It’s already making me feel quite ... what’s the word?’ Lacey moved her empty hand down over Sheila’s body. ‘Perky?’ The backs of her fingers brushed against her breasts.
Sheila took a sharp, deep breath and held it as Lacey’s hand continued to trail down her body, until it came to rest on her thigh.
West, east and south faded into black and snow drove hard into the desolation as if it was deliberately trying to avoid the farmyard Yorke stood in. Before him, the old farmhouse appeared to be collapsing in on itself. The scent of boiled meat spilled through an open door while the old woman on the porch remained motionless.
As he stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the porch, her voice came at him like something that belonged hidden away in the woods, far from mankind. ‘Who is it?’ The stench of boiling flesh seemed to intensify as if it had come from inside her when she opened her mouth.
Yorke negotiated two creaking stairs, expecting his foot to go through each one. ‘Mrs Stella Morris?’
‘Yes.’
‘DCI Yorke, I’m here regarding a very serious matter.’ He chanced another step. The old woman didn’t move. She was yet to move.
‘Really? And what is that?’
He remained cautious, ascending slowly. ‘We have evidence which suggests that a missing boy and his parents may be on this property.’
He stopped when a young girl stepped out onto the porch and took hold of the handles of Stella’s old-fashioned wheelchair. He recalled the reference the farmer had made to a “simple girl”. The girl didn’t look simple, just scruffy. Her hair hung in tangled knots and her face was dirty.
‘My daughter,’ Stella said.
Your granddaughter, you mean, Yorke thought, remembering the dog-walking farmer’s words from earlier. He held back correcting Stella. If this young girl didn’t know, this certainly wasn’t the time to break the news to her.
He squinted, wanting to see the old woman more clearly, but he couldn’t even see her mouth moving. So he gambled on a couple more steps. ‘Is it just you two here?’
‘Would you believe me if I said yes, Detective?’ This time, the words seemed hissed rather than spoken.
‘Why wouldn’t I? That’s a strange question.’
‘What evidence led you to believe that those missing people are here?’
Closer now, he saw her toothless mouth as black and desolate as the road had loo
ked to him only moments ago. ‘A sample of mud taken from the scene where a young boy went missing.’
‘Ahhh, I remember the young policeman collecting samples.’
‘Yes.’
‘Martha, make our guest a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Mother. The bush kind or the bag kind?’
‘Detective?’ Stella said.
‘I don’t want a drink. Are you listening to what I’m saying here?’
‘The bush kind, can’t you see our detective is a man of culture?’
The young girl, wearing a parka far too big for her, disappeared back into the farmhouse.
Stella freed an arm from beneath the blanket and pointed a bony finger at a familiar chair in the shadows. ‘Please, take a seat’.
He took the remaining three stairs to look closely at the chair. He recognised it instantly and shivered. ‘Whose chair is that?’
‘Thomas Ray’s.’
For a moment, he didn’t see the chair in the present moment, but rather in the past when he was pinning Harry to the ground metres from his dead wife; he remembered glancing up through an open front door at this hooped-shaped monstrosity rocking in the wind. ‘How could you?’
‘Because it’s a Ray chair. Because they’re very comfortable.’
He glared back at the old woman. ‘What have you got yourselves mixed up in?’
‘Please take a seat, Detective. We have to wait for someone first.’
Of course, you don’t know, do you? How could you? With a bullet, Lacey Ray has already ended your little game.
‘Are you talking about Lewis Ray, Mrs Morris?’
She tensed in the chair.
‘Or Phil Holmes?’
Her eyes darted from side to side. ‘His name is Lewis.’
‘Did you really think that the dirt was all we had to go on? Give us some credit Mrs Morris.’
He noticed she was dribbling. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the blanket, averting her eyes from Yorke’s. ‘No matter, Lewis won’t care. He always wanted you to see his work when he was finished anyway.’
‘He’s dead, Mrs Morris.’
She paused, clearly stunned by what he’d said.
‘I’ve just come from where it happened.’
She bolted upright in her chair, surprising him, and he took a quick step back. Her blanket fell away, revealing satin clothing. She gripped a sparkling jewel swinging from her neck. ‘Lies.’
‘His second cousin, Lacey Ray shot him. They were having an affair. Did you know about her?’
‘Of course I did, you stupid man,’ she said with dribble bubbling at the corners of her mouth. ‘He was bringing her here too.’
‘I can assure you that neither of them are coming now, which makes all this your problem, and yours alone. So, no more of this, save yourself a lot of trouble and take me to Paul and his family.’
‘If you’re telling me what to do Detective, you really shouldn’t have come alone.’
‘Others are coming.’
‘Martha, where is the damned tea?’ She threw the blanket to the floor. ‘You have no idea what that man did for us.’
Yorke noticed tears glistening on her wrinkled skin. He raised his voice. ‘Tell me where they are!’
‘Martha!’
Her daughter appeared at the door, holding a sawn-off shotgun in his direction. Shock bolted through his insides. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m just doing what Mother tells me to do.’
‘Martha, shut up,’ Stella said.
‘Lewis is dead and more officers are on their way. Do you really want to make this worse than it already is, for you and your mother?’
‘Don’t listen to him, and if I tell you to, shoot him,’ Stella said.
Yorke held his hands out in disbelief. ‘Come on, she’s what ... twelve? You’d let her kill a policeman and ruin her life?’ He watched the shotgun shake in the girl’s hands. ‘Can you even use that?’
‘Lewis taught me. I don’t like it though; it hurts my shoulders.’
‘You heard her,’ Stella said. ‘She can do it, if I ask her to.’
‘And have you ever killed anyone, young lady?’
‘No―’
‘And I’m sure you don’t want to. And right now, I’m worried about you using it accidently. Put the gun down, Martha, and tell me where Paul and his family are. This has gone on long enough already.’
Stella said, ‘Keep the gun on him. But, you are right, Detective, it has gone on long enough. I’ll take you to them.’
Feeling more positive about the whole situation, Jake made himself a gin and tonic and collapsed onto the sofa.
He took a mouthful of the bitter drink and then smiled. By the end of their conversation, Sheila had been making continuous eye contact and had laughed two or three times. A promise had also been made that she’d at least consider coming back the next day. He was confident that a phone call in the morning could make that possibility a reality.
Channel-hopping brought him no possibility of entertainment, so he took his mobile out to surf the internet. Voicemail messages. He remembered the calls from Topham and Yorke that he’d not answered.
Without bothering to listen to the messages, he called back Yorke first, but after a minute or so was also sent through to voicemail.
‘Hi, sir, returning your call from earlier. Been with Sheila. Went well―’
He could hear someone rustling about at his front door; then, he heard the clunk of the key being slipped in the lock.
‘Someone at the door, she’s either forgot something, or finally succumbed to the Pettman charm! Speak later.’
As he rose to his feet, he heard the front door opening and someone step into the hallway.
‘Sheila?’ he said, expecting her to burst through the hallway door.
No reply. The hallway door remained closed.
Funny, he thought, walking over to open it.
Yorke’s phone rang. He plucked it out of his pocket. “Jake Pettman” glowed on the screen. Recalling the danger his friend could be in, he started to lift the phone to his ear.
‘Don’t answer it,’ Stella said from behind him.
Yorke turned and looked at the young girl leading him along at gunpoint. Her hands trembled and he suspected Martha was more likely to discharge that gun accidently than follow her mother’s orders and kill him in cold blood. ‘This is already over, Lewis is dead, what’s the point?’
‘Maybe he’s right, mother.’
Stella glared at her daughter. ‘And think what will happen if he’s lying and Lewis is still alive. What do you think he will do to us if we let this man go? If we let them go.’
Martha creased her brow as she thought about this for a moment. ‘Please don’t answer your phone, sir.’
Yorke lowered his mobile. With Topham minutes away, it wasn’t worth the risk. Jake could wait. One of the others would have warned him about Lacey by now.
He held the phone out in front of him as a sign of submission, before sliding it gently back into his pocket. Then, he turned and trudged onward.
Closer to the corrugated-metal barn, he could hear hoarse grunting and flurries of movement coming from within. Pigs...
The thought of Phil Holmes wearing that horrendous mask sent a shiver down his spine. At the door, a sudden banging sound from within made him flinch. ‘What’s going on in there?’
The old woman rolled up alongside him. The padlock was at just the right height for her to open, and she buried a key into it. He half-expected her spindly hand to break when she turned the key. But, in much the same way the speed and agility with which she moved did not match her waif-life appearance, neither did her strength.
The padlock fell to the ground with a thump, and she moved backwards to assume her position again beside her daughter, who was still looking dangerously under-confident with the gun.
‘They’re inside,’ Stella said.
When he opened the door, there wa
s a scuffle and another loud banging noise.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Stella said. ‘The pigs are just hungry. They always are.’
Hurry up, Mark, he thought.
Inside, the barn was lit by a solitary bulb hanging from the centre of the roof. His eyes were immediately drawn to two figures lying on the floor to the far right. ‘Paul?’
‘Yes!’
‘Who’s that with you?’
‘My mum. Who are you?’
‘I’m a policeman. Where’s your Dad?’ He jogged across the barn.
There was no reply. To his left was a large enclosure. The central door shook.
Paul sat up. Gaunt, dirty with tangled hair, he was barely recognisable from the photographs. His mother’s head was in his lap; her eyes were half-closed.
‘Is she okay?’
‘They gave her the same thing they gave me. Makes you groggy. Are you here to get us out?’
‘Yes. Your dad?’
Paul looked down, rubbed tears from his eyes, and then pointed to the enclosure. Yorke looked at it again and heard a loud, penetrating grunt that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Yorke watched Sarah sit herself upright. For a moment, her half-open glassy eyes moved back and forth over her visitors before finally settling on the girl with the sawn-off shotgun. ‘So young,’ she said in a weak voice.
Yorke turned back to see the peculiar pair of kidnappers directly behind him. He noticed that the child looked as malnourished as Paul, and sadness shone in her eyes. In the light, it was obvious that the gun was far too heavy for her; he hoped gravity might just come to their aid. He said, ‘It’s time for this to end. What’s happening here is wrong.’
Martha opened her mouth to speak, but Stella got their first. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
The wooden door in the centre of the enclosure shook again.
‘I don’t know how long we have,’ Paul said. ‘I think that door is on a timer.’
Yorke glared at Stella. ‘What’s in there?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’re out of time.’ She twirled her withered hand in the air. ‘Martha, let’s go.’
