by Wes Markin
She glanced at Joe Shaw a few times, but fortunately, his attention seemed to be on the road; she didn’t want him to notice the fact that she wasn’t drinking. She didn’t wish to offend the man who had come to her aid.
They were crossing over the River Avon; in the distance, she could see Salisbury Cathedral wielding Britain’s tallest spire. Her mind wandered, briefly, to happier times, long ago, and wedding photos at the front of that cathedral on a summer’s day.
‘Don’t drink it if you don’t want it,’ Joe said.
So, he had noticed.
‘Just feeling a little bit sick; I’ve never really experienced being confronted like that before.’
‘Well, hopefully you won’t again. And by going to the police, we’ll make sure he doesn’t do it to anyone else either.’
They turned off a roundabout onto New Bridge Road. Traffic thickened around them. Joe increased the speed of the windscreen wipers to fend off the building snowfall.
‘Are you from around here?’
‘Yes,’ Joe said, ‘Salisbury, born and bred.’
At the next roundabout, he indicated right.
‘Sorry, Joe, the police station is up ahead.’
‘Shit … sorry, Gillian, you’re right. It’s on Bourne Hill—’
The van jerked as Joe was forced to evade a car racing around them on the roundabout. Gillian took a deep breath. She looked at him. He was still staring dead ahead.
‘Idiot thinks he owns the road,’ she said.
He didn’t reply; maybe, he was angry, but his facial expression certainly didn’t suggest so.
‘I’ll turn at the next roundabout, get us back on track,’ Joe said. ‘Sorry.’
As they made their way down Southampton road, she thought back through the last ten minutes, considered everything he said, and acknowledged that he had sounded too sincere since the first moment. Maybe she should just give a thank you and get dropped off at Tesco up ahead?
She turned to glance at the plywood that separated her from what was in the back and imagined the dogs locked in there during the day, scratching at the corners, hunting for light and air. She then glanced into the wing mirror and took note of the blank side of the van. Joe said he worked for a kennels, so shouldn’t the name of the company be written on the side?
With her heart racing, she reached out for the handle on the door, to prepare for an escape if necessary.
She gulped. The handle had been removed.
He cleared the roundabout and headed back down the other side of Southampton road.
Joe glanced at her, smiling. She held her knees, so as not to betray her shaking hands. She looked down and saw that her knuckles resembled old bones bursting through newly-excavated earth.
‘Are you okay?’ he said.
The scripted nature of his words was now more evident than ever. She suddenly felt part of a great plan, one she was desperate to be away from.
He gestured down at the can in her hands. ‘Are you not drinking?’
‘The truth is - I don’t like fizzy drinks.’
‘It’ll make you feel better.’
She pretended to drink it. He smiled; his smile looked as if it was painted on, like a clown’s.
‘Only two minutes until we get there,’ he said.
There was a thumping sound from the back of the van. Her hand jumped to her mouth, but it was too late to hide her gasp. He stared at her when he should have been looking at the road. ‘Something must have fallen over.’
‘What?’
He didn’t answer and a few moments later she heard the thumping sound again. ‘What is that?’
Again, he didn’t reply. Her father had always told her that she was the master of every situation she found herself in. Empty words when she considered her last two years battling severe depression after Geoff’s death. Her eyes darted around the van for a solution; eventually, they stopped on the handle for the window. She started to wind it but the window didn’t move.
‘Let me out—'
He swerved left onto a narrow path off the main road, forcing her whole body down and further towards him; the tires screeched, and she was sure she smelled burning. She was then flung left when the van straightened, and her head bounced off the window.
‘Stop the car, or so help me, I’ll—'
He punched the accelerator and she was forced back in the seat. Feeling disorientated, she shook her head and then noticed the thumping sound from the back starting up again. It sounded like a giant walking towards her.
She glanced at the sign for Churchill Gardens pushed back into the shadows, desperate not to be found. He veered left to enter a small darkened car park. She clenched her left fist, preparing to introduce this wanker to the left hook her father had always been so proud of.
Joe stopped the van sharply just after the entrance to the park, forcing her to reach out and brace herself against the dashboard.
She turned to strike, but then froze. He had tucked his long black hair behind his left ear, revealing an earlobe hanging free by a thread of flesh no wider than a toothpick; the upper part of his ear was a twisted mess of welts and scars. He held a strange knife in one hand.
‘Drink the lemonade,’ he said.
Yorke and Gardner discussed the possibility of Billy Shine being Jessica’s murderer on the way to his mother’s, but how could he be? It sounded like he’d been down in Brighton, murdering a young prostitute? Unless, he’d come back early, and Lacey was, in fact, the murderer of the prostitute. Yet, it really didn’t sound like her MO.
They knew their best course of action was to find Billy, and find him fast.
At the epicentre of a huge council estate, Yorke found himself on familiar territory. As he approached via a rubble-strewn path, he passed a discarded porcelain bathtub broken clean in two. His own childhood had been a long and winding ordeal. Granted, it had been punctuated by occasional moments of happiness, which had been necessary because they had served to remind Yorke that life was, in fact, worth living. This had become the inspiration he needed to break out and find a richer and fuller life away from it all.
It was just a shame that no one else in his family had found this same inspiration.
Hillary Shine answered the door so quickly, it was as if she’d been standing just behind it, waiting for someone.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Thought it’d be someone else.’
‘Billy?’ Gardner said.
‘What makes you say that?’ She said and flashed a row of neglected teeth.
Yorke showed his badge. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Yorke, Mrs Shine. Can we come in for a moment please?’
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t.’
‘And why is that?’ Gardner said.
‘And who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Gardner, miss.’
Hillary smiled again. ‘It’s been a long time since I had any of you lot round here.’
‘We just need to ask you a few questions, Mrs Shine … we won’t take up too much of your time.’ Yorke said.
‘Back when Bernard was alive, you lot used to come around here and beat the shit out of him. Regularly.’
‘I know nothing about that,’ Yorke said, ‘and I’m sorry if that’s true. You can be assured that neither I, nor my colleague, do things that way.’
She led them through into the living room which was, ironically, not a place fit for the living. The room was bare and strewn with rubbish. Unbelievably, a brand new 50-inch television hummed in the corner. Yorke and Gardner sat on a sagging sofa and declined Hillary’s offer of tea.
‘Can you tell us when you last saw your son, Billy?’ Yorke flipped open his notebook.
‘He visited at Christmas, of course. Brought me that.’ She gestured at the television. ‘Before you ask me if I stole it!’
Yorke wondered if Billy himself had stolen it.
‘And do you know where he has been staying and what he’s been doing?’
‘He’s been
in Brighton, working for a building company down there. Labouring. Made something of himself my boy,’ she said. ‘Got some money … and now he’s got himself a fiancé.’
‘Fiancé?’ Gardner said.
A guilty look spread out over Hillary’s face; clearly this had been a slip of the tongue. ‘Yeah, he told me over Christmas – said he was in love.’ She was obviously lying now; she was no longer looking at them.
‘And have you met her?’ Yorke said.
‘No, not yet. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? I do.’
‘Mrs Shine, your son is involved with a situation in Brighton, and we believe that he may have come back up here to Tidworth?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t know anything about that.’
She plucked a cigarette from a packet on the arm of her sofa. Using a lighter, she lit it and took a huge inhalation.
Yorke looked at Gardner; then, back at Hillary, who blew out a huge cloud of smoke.
‘Is your son interested in sea creatures?’ Yorke said.
Hillary stared with wide eyes. ‘Is that a question?
‘Yes.’
‘Not that I know of – why?’
Yorke sensed she was telling the truth this time.
‘Mrs Shine,’ Yorke said, ‘I think your son, Billy, is in danger. I don’t really know why yet, I’ll be honest with you, but I do know that he is. Believe me when I tell you that if you know where he is, it is in your best interests to tell us.’
Hillary smiled and pointed at her lips. ‘Read these. I don’t know. He’s still in Brighton as far as I’m concerned.’
Gardner pulled a photo of Lacey Ray out of her pocket and handed it to Hillary. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’
No response.
‘Well, if you do, I’d start talking now because this woman is dangerous. Very dangerous. And I believe she wants to hurt your son.’
Hillary Shine’s eyes widened and then she began to talk.
Without taking his eyes off her, Joe clicked open the door behind him, and the van lights burst into life.
Gillian had never seen anything like the knife in his hand. The wooden shaft had been carved into the shape of a man, wearing a headdress, kneeling over and gripping the dark-grey blade. The blade itself bore a menacing face in profile; a huge eye on each side with two rows of white teeth.
‘Drink it,’ he said again.
She looked around her, but the carpark was empty, and the light from the adjacent road struggled to find its way through the large bushes lining the gardens.
‘No.’ Gillian had once seen a film in which a killer drugged his victim and then buried her alive; she’d rather die right now than face that possibility.
‘You are strong-willed,’ Joe said. With his free hand, he tucked his hair behind his mutilated ear again and she winced.
‘What happened to your ear?’
No reply.
She felt a lump in her throat but didn’t want to succumb to fear. ‘What do you want from me?’
Joe didn’t reply again. He just kept his eyes fixed on her, holding the strange weapon. She considered lunging, but if he was quick, she would fail, and the outcome didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Are you going to hurt me?’
‘That is how you and others will view it, but in time, viewpoints can, and will, change.’
Since he’d stopped the car, the snow had intensified, and now the windscreen was completely obscured. She prayed to God that someone would come into the carpark, but wouldn’t they just think the van was abandoned if they weren’t able to see into it? She felt tears prodding the corners of her eyes.
If only there was a handle on this fucking door; if only it was possible to reach behind and open it—
As if the bastard had heard her thoughts, he reached behind himself to open his own door and edge out, showcasing the peculiar knife to warn her against making any sudden movements.
The deaths of all those she’d loved had been very sudden and she’d not seen them coming. But there was no problem seeing hers coming. She could hear it too, working its way around the front of the van …
Slithering towards her.
She wrenched off her seat belt and dived for the open driver’s door. Belly first, she scurried over the seats. She heard the door crack open behind her, felt a sudden rush of wind, and shouted when she felt the grip on her ankle. ‘No!’
She was dragged backwards and the seats beneath her seem to disappear; then, the world around her blurred and the air was smacked from her body—
‘Stand up.’
She’d only just realised she’d hit the floor. She wanted to plead for a moment but there was not enough air inside her body.
‘Stand up now, Gillian, or I will slide this blade into the back of your neck.’
After finally managing to suck in some air, she said, ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘There isn’t time for discussion, stand up and go around to the back of the van.’
‘I won’t until you tell me why.’
‘I promise you, Gillian, if you do not get up before I count to three, I will cut you up into pieces. Please know that I am serious.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘One … two …’
‘Okay!’ And, as she rose to her feet, something occurred to her. Something that made her want to collapse to the floor again in despair. ‘Was it you? Did you kill Jessica Brookes?’
‘To the back of the van,’ Joe said.
She was now shaking all over, and she now needed to take her chances with the knife and use the skills her father had taught her. If he was Jessica’s killer, and soon to be her killer, she had to act now. The snow fell like shards of glass, slicing the air, and stinging her face. She almost slipped twice.
Then an idea came to her. She stopped dead, and the tip of the blade bit into her back. ‘My husband. He will know I’m not home. He’s bound to have called the police by now. He’s—’
‘He’s dead, Gillian, has been for years.’
She swallowed hard. The psycho knew her. This was planned.
‘That’s why I’m here. You are a slave to your sadness, Gillian, and I offer you release from the pills and despair.’
Pills? ‘How much do you know about me?’
‘I know very little. I’m merely a Tlenamacac. And you Gillian, you are simply a slave.’
‘You are insane, Joe. This is the 21st century. How am I a slave?’
‘To He whose slaves we are, we are all slaves. Here, now, is the opportunity to be part of something good. If you knew everything, you would not be hesitant. Now, continue.’
She remained still, remembering the thumping sound from before. She definitely did not want to know what was in the back of the van.
‘Continue or I will sever your spine, and you will never run again.’
Not only was it more confirmation that he knew her, but it was a warning with impact. Great impact. Paralysis was her greatest fear. Death was a preferable option.
Not that she was about to let that happen.
She rounded the side of the van and finished up facing the back door. Clenching her fists, she prepared herself despite the blade pressed against the bottom of her spine.
‘Open it.’
Her nails sank into the palms of her hands. He worked the tip of the blade against her; it was starting to really hurt. She wondered if he’d already drawn blood.
After reaching for the handle, she forced back a desperate need to vomit.
‘Now!’ He pushed harder. She winced.
She closed her eyes, opened the door and thought of her father’s flawed advice that she could control any situation. She wasn’t in control of any situation. Hadn’t been for years. A mixture of tears and melted snow ran down her cheeks.
When she opened her eyes, she saw it was dark inside the van. It also smelled strongly of seawater. She could make out the silhouette of someone with long hair hunched over in a chair against the far-left
corner where the plywood board had been erected; the person was still stamping their foot. Continuously.
‘Who is that?’ Gillian said, squinting. She could still feel the knife digging into her spine as the sound became almost deafening. Thump-thump.
‘There’s an icebox in front of you. Take off the lid.’
A box sat on the van floor to the right; he had looped a rope through its handle and secured it to a rail running along the walls. With trembling hands, she snapped back the clasps on the box and reached over to take the lid off the icebox, but then drew back. Thump-thump.
‘There is no need to be afraid.’
She lifted the lid and put it to one side; the stench of seawater strengthened, but she couldn’t see anything, because in the dark, the water was as black as this monster’s soul. Thump-thump.
‘Put your hand in the water.’
Fuck, was there no end to this madness?
‘Why?’ she said, wishing he would relax the knife chewing into her spine.
‘Do as I say, Gillian, there is no need to be afraid.’
What the hell was in the box? A piranha? Acid?
‘No!’ she yanked her hand away. Joe grabbed her wrist from behind and forced it back over the box. She tried to wrench it free but he had the better of her and he plunged her hand into the lukewarm water. The water splashed up and around the box as she tried to tear her hand free, but he shoved himself hard into her back, squashing the top of her knees against the floor of the van.
The thumping was loud and continuous like a marching army. She struggled against his weight, but she was pinned firmly—
Something moved against her hand. Thump-thump.
She screamed until he released her. Thump-thump-thump-thump. . .
He backed away from her so quickly that she almost fell. Stumbling back, she examined her hand, almost surprised that it was still there.
‘It’s done. And now I offer you the flowery death—’
‘Fuck off!’ She turned and slammed her left hook into the psycho’s nose. She’d never hit anyone so hard and the cracking sound was surprising, but it didn’t deter her from drawing her fist back for a second strike. It wasn’t necessary. Joe had already started his slide backwards on the snow, and he plunged, leaving Gillian to do what she did best of all.
