by Wes Markin
Yorke and Gardner looked in the front of the van, and in the rear. It was empty. He looked up at the old barn ahead. ‘I’m assuming they’re in that large barn.’
‘Okay … armed response will be about seven minutes,’ Jake said.
‘We won’t be waiting that long,’ Yorke said.
‘Be careful, sir.’
‘We will.’
He hung up on Jake. He noticed Gardner was looking in the icebox with her torch.
‘Anything?’ Yorke said.
‘His dead sea creature. There’s also blood everywhere. Someone has been injured. Iain? God forbid, Ewan? He’s only twelve for pity’s sake.’
‘I’ve no idea, but let’s just hope it’s only an injury. Come on, we have to get in there.’
With their torches scraping a tunnel of light in the darkness before them, they charged towards the glowing barn.
The blood snaked towards the barn; they ran on either side of it, leaving it undisturbed. The trail took them directly to the window where they could see inside the barn.
And Yorke struggled to stop himself from gasping.
Lock, surrounded by statues of his deities, was hunched over Ewan. He’d already opened his chest and was reaching into a black duffel bag for something.
To cut with? thought Yorke. Please, God, don’t let it be something to cut with.
Yorke’s eyes swung to Brookes, who lay at the bottom of the steps; there was a pathway of blood behind him where he’d clearly dragged himself as far as he could before losing consciousness. Sitting in a wheelchair beside Brookes was an elderly lady who Yorke concluded was Gillian’s mother, Michelle Miller. She was conscious but wore a glazed expression.
Gardner grabbed Yorke’s hand, tearing him from his observations, and dragging him towards the open door.
Gardner was first through the door, but Yorke was the one who declared their arrival. ‘Police! Terrence. It’s over. Step away from Ewan.’
Lock plucked something out of the bag. The sharp object glinted as it reflected the fire burning in the hearth in the corner.
A scalpel.
‘Armed response is approaching, Terrence. If you do not put the weapon down, and step away, you will be shot.’
Lock leaned closer to Ewan.
Yorke looked into Gardner’s widening eyes. She was looking over at Brookes’ prone form at the bottom of the steps. Yorke grasped her arm to help her resist the impulse to charge for her colleague. ‘No, Emma. Not yet. It’ll spook him.’
Yorke looked at Lock again. ‘This is your last warning, Terrence. I’m telling you to put that down and step away …’
Lock had already moved into Ewan’s chest with the scalpel. Yorke couldn’t charge and stop him. He was too far away, and a sudden movement could easily end Ewan’s life.
He released Gardner’s arm, gestured Brookes with a nod of his head. ‘Slowly, Emma.’
She nodded back.
Yorke took a small step towards the stairs. ‘Terrence, listen, I know what you saw, when you were younger. I know why you are doing this.’
Yorke saw Lock hesitate for a moment, considering something, before continuing.
Yorke took another small step. ‘I know why you have your mother here, watching.’
Lock paused again, but then shook his head, and tensed his arms to begin cutting.
Stronger then, thought Yorke. I’ll go in stronger.
‘Why didn’t you go and help her?’
Lock pulled his hands back. ‘I couldn’t!’ His voice echoed around the barn.
Yorke took a deep breath and continued shuffling forwards. ‘You were fourteen years old, you could have—’
‘Be quiet!’ Lock lifted his head from his work and stared at Yorke.
Yorke stopped. Their eyes locked. ‘You watched your mother die, Terrence. Someone who brought you into this world, loved you, held you and you sat there, and you watched her die.’
Lock stood up. His eyes were so wide he could have torn all the muscles in his face. ‘Shut up!’
Yorke showed him the palms of his hands. ‘Listen, Terrence, it’s not too late. Your mother wouldn’t want this. This is not the way to ask for her forgiveness.’
‘And how would you know?’ Lock’s face was twitching. ‘You are one of them. None of you understand—’
A hideous loud moan tore through the barn. Ewan’s back arched as if he was trying to squeeze the metal retractor from his chest. He smashed his head from side to side as froth spewed from the corners of his mouth and his eyes rolled back.
Lock looked down at his victim. He seemed to be refocusing and his trembling subsided. He started to kneel again.
Ewan stopped convulsing and Lock began to reach inside his chest again with scalpel.
Yorke had made it to the first step, but he was too far. He was going to be too late. He’d failed …
There was a loud series of thuds from where Brookes was. Lock froze again and looked up in the direction of Michelle and Brookes. Yorke looked and saw that Gardner was almost beside them now. He also saw that Michelle was stamping her foot; in much the same way that she must have done on the night that Lock almost took her daughter,
She opened her mouth. ‘Stoooooop!’
Yorke looked back and saw that Lock’s eyes were wide and unflinching as they looked at the woman whom he considered his mother.
‘Stop!’ This time Michelle’s use of the word was short and sharp.
Lock looked down at Ewan and then up at Michelle again. He pulled his hands from Ewan’s chest again and said, ‘But mother, I’m doing this for you—'
There was a loud bang and Lock seized his throat in both hands; the scalpel slipped from his grip and clattered against the top step. He stood up as blood squirted out from the cracks between his fingers. Still looking confused, and unable to take his eyes from Michelle Miller, he reached out to her with one of his bloody hands. There he lingered on the sixth step, until he couldn’t stand any longer, and then he plunged. His bones cracked as he bounced from one unforgiving step to the next before his head finally burst on the bottom one, half a metre from Brookes.
Yorke turned to watch Lock’s twitching form grow still underneath the snake-embraced urn, and then looked up at Gardner, who was holding the gun.
Epilogue
‘YOU’RE THE FOURTH nanny we’ve interviewed, Zofia,’ Jane Young said, ‘since Julia just upped and left. No notice given.’
‘Well, that is not good,’ Zofia said in her strong Polish accent. ‘You can see from my references that I won’t do that.’
‘Yes.’ Jane paused to sip her tea. ‘Well, as you can imagine, Simon is keen to avoid any more drama. He’s a busy man. I need to be available at his every beck and call; social function here, quick holiday with clients there. We need this to be one hundred percent.’
‘I will take good care of Tobias,’ Zofia said, wondering if gangsters such as Simon Young really used expressions such as social functions.
‘Good. And the accommodation is to your needs?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are satisfied with the package?’
Well the last girl wasn’t, thought Zofia, it cost me next to nothing to pay her to take off!
‘It’s very nice,’ Zofia said.
‘Well,’ Jane said. ‘Obviously, we have to wait on the final checks to come through, and this other reference, but I’ve seen enough to be honest. And I think Tobias will love you. I also think Simon will be over the moon.’
You make him sound like a gentleman, Zofia thought, do you know he’s been pimping out girls across Brighton?
‘Can I take you out back to meet him now? He’s in the garden with my father. Have you got the time?’
‘Yes,’ Zofia said.
Outside, in the garden, Zofia was handed the two-year boy with chestnut hair. ‘Adorable.’
‘Most of the time,’ Jane said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to contact my husband to tell him we’ve got someone pe
rfect.’
Zofia smiled. Would that be the husband who showed no remorse after Loretta Marks, one of his employees, was beaten to death with a jade ashtray?
‘I’ll leave you with Derek, my father,’ Jane said.
Jane disappeared into the house and Grandad approached. He was a smartly dressed man with a well-oiled side parting. Zofia could tell that his eyes were lingering on her far too long. Well, let him, Zofia thought. After today, he won’t get another chance. Tobias, who clung to her side, reached up and stroked her face. He likes me already.
‘Poland is a beautiful country,’ Grandad said. ’I used to visit regularly with my late wife.’
Zofia noticed him emphasising the word late. Do you really think you are in with a shot? Zofia thought. Well, at least she could use this to her advantage. She started to cough.
Grandad stepped forward and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you okay, dear?’
‘Sorry. I’ve had this cough for a while.’
‘Glass of water?’
‘Thank you so much.’
Grandad disappeared into the house. Zofia looked around the huge garden. It wouldn’t be a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon if she was going to stay. Which she wasn’t.
She walked to the bush at the far side of the garden and then turned back to look at the huge house. Tobias was still stroking her face and had added a delightful little giggle to the process.
Zofia smiled. ‘I’m surprised that they’ve not lost you already in that palace.’
She paused for a moment longer. This all felt too easy. Part of her wondered if it would be more interesting if she just waited a few moments longer for someone to emerge before she ran?
She looked at his handsome little face. No, you’re a mother, now. Time to grow up. Be responsible.
Zofia wriggled between the bush and found the part of the fence that she’d been loosening from the outside over the previous few nights.
Seconds later, she was running to her car, parked around the corner, clutching Tobias.
As she fastened him into his baby seat, she heard Jane screaming from the garden.
While driving away, Zofia looked in the rear-view mirror at Tobias, who was starting to look a little concerned now.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart,’ she said, dropping the fake polish accent. ‘Mummy will look after you. We are going to be very close, you and I.’
Lacey smiled in the mirror and was happy when Tobias smiled back.
‘Ever so close.’
It had been a harsh winter, and not just because of the weather. While the gales and snowfall had ravished Wiltshire, death and loss had paid a visit to Yorke and his colleagues, and now, as they walked through the graveyard, they were all thankful for a warm breeze, and some time for quiet reflection.
‘I always liked graveyards,’ Gardner said.
Jake looked at her sideways as they walked. ‘Why?’
‘The colours, mainly.’
And she was right, thought Yorke, as he looked around at the beautiful flowers, each with different shapes, sizes and patterns.
‘Well, I don’t agree,’ Jake said. ‘I always put on extra layers when I come to a graveyard. There’s a cold here that chills your bones, rather than your flesh.’
‘You’ve always been one of the cheeriest people I know,’ Yorke said, smiling.
Yorke kept his reflections to himself. As usual, they included his first real girlfriend, Charlotte – someone who had captured his heart and never really let it go. And his sister, taken so young, and in such an unforgivable fashion. These reflections ensured the world remained unfamiliar to Yorke. But he remained positive. Cast into an ocean of pain you would be left uncertain over which way to swim; if you didn’t drown, willingly or unwillingly, you would eventually sight land, step onto it, and hopefully conquer it.
It seems the birds had taken the opportunity to exploit the quiet of the graveyard, and they embraced a wholesome tune for a moment, before Gardner placed the flowers on DS Iain Brookes’ gravestone.
‘Miss you, buddy.’ Jake laid his hand on the top of the gravestone.
‘Likewise.’ Gardner released the flowers and stood back up.
They both turned and looked at Yorke.
‘What you did for your son, Iain, took courage. And I hope that where you are resting now,’ he looked at the adjacent gravestone inscribed Jessica Brookes, ‘gives you some peace.’
Every time Emma Gardner had looked at her husband since the night of the shooting, she’d thanked her lucky stars that she had him. And now, as they sat together, with Annabelle pinned between them, watching the bedtime story on CBeebies, she thanked her lucky stars once again.
Later, while Annabelle slept, she said the same thing to her husband that she’d said every night since. ‘I just wish we’d gotten there sooner.’
Then, like every other night since, he’d hugged her, and reassured her that she’d saved a life that night. The life of a little boy.
And that made her the most heroic person that he’d ever known.
‘Come back to bed,’ Sheila said.
Jake turned from the window. ‘Sorry, I just, you know, couldn’t sleep.’
‘I understand.’ Sheila lifted the blanket up.
He climbed in and embraced her.
‘Wonder if Frank will sleep through tonight?’ Jake said.
‘Well, if he doesn’t, you let me handle it.’ Sheila kissed him on his forehead. ‘You need some sleep.’
‘Thanks.’ He kissed her back.
‘And try not to worry, it’s been months since you heard from her.’
Easier said than done, Jake thought and closed his eyes.
When Yorke went into Ewan’s room to say goodnight to him, he moved the boy’s hand away from his chest.
‘But it itches,’ Ewan said.
‘If you scratch it, then it will take longer to heal.’
Ten inches of scar tissue had recorded the events of that night on Ewan. Yorke often wondered if it was pointless to hope that the scar would be the only long-term damage he suffered.
On the other hand, he thought, is it not better to keep on hoping even when things are hopeless?
He kissed the boy he was in the process of adopting. ‘Goodnight, Ewan.’
‘Goodnight, Uncle Mike.’
He thought again of the ocean he felt lost in and his uncertainty over which way to swim. It was his responsibility to find a way out because other people depended on him.
After climbing into bed, he apologised to Patricia for being late back from work and then held her close.
‘I’ve got some news,’ she said.
‘What?’
She leaned back, took his hand and placed it gently on her stomach.
That night, Yorke dreamed about a clear day, a warm breeze and the birds singing a wholesome tune. And, in this dream, Yorke and his family ventured forth to conquer new lands together.
Acknowledgments
A huge shout-out must first go to Jake Lynn for his relentless encouragement and fantastic understanding of the industry. It is down to him that this sequel came quickly and was not lost for years in the land of procrastination. Thanks again to Debbie at The Cover Collection, who knows how to create an unforgettable image!
Thank you to all my Beta Readers who took the time to read early drafts and offer valuable feedback. Huge appreciation goes to Jenny Cook for that much-needed, ruthless final edit. Thank you also to my wonderful wife Jo, and my mother, Janet, who continue to offer support during the most tiring parts of the process. Also, thank you to my lovely little people, B & H, who never fail to make me smile and have earned themselves a book dedication!
Lastly, thank you to every reader, and every wonderful blogger, who has spent their valuable time with my fiction. I hope I have offered you some entertainment, and would love to do so again in the near future…
The Silence of Severance
For Marjorie
11:02 a.m.
> HANDSOME, HE THOUGHT as he looked in the mirror.
Or so he’d always been told. First, by his mother, and then by the many men, and women, he’d shared himself with over the years.
‘Dashing like Robert Pattinson,’ a previous lover had said.
But that was long ago, he thought, drawing a horizontal line under his nose in the reflection, and separating his face into two halves.
Top and bottom … before and after … then and now … handsome and ugly.
He leaned in and pressed his forehead against the cold glass.
You shouldn’t be doing this. Not now. The time of acceptance has long passed. Dwelling can be compelling but depressing.
Dwelling can be compelling but depressing, he repeated in his mind.
Then, he lifted his head from the glass, and looked at his face again.
You’ve worked so hard to heal and you’ve found some satisfaction. You should be proud of what you have achieved.
He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost time. An important day lay ahead. An important time. He wondered if he would ever return to this mirror. After all, anything could go wrong from this point on.
Before he left, he turned to look at the room.
He could see: the damp on the walls; the rust on the old bikes with bent wheels; the flies jigging around the spluttering light bulb; the shit-stained rat holes; and the young woman sealed in the plastic coffin at his feet.
St Agatha’s church, Salisbury. 1:05 p.m.
THROUGH THE STAINED-GLASS window, the light was diced and then blended, forming a simmering stew of colour around Marie Holt. As they turned to face the aisle, she looked at her father.
He smiled and said, ‘I love you.’
She smiled back and repeated his words.
‘Shall we?’ He said, offering his arm.
Despite the wedding music, Marie could hear her father’s cane banging against the stone flags. She didn’t mind it. He’d used it for as long as she could remember, and she associated it with a calm and reassuring presence that had nurtured her into the woman she now was.
