Stench

by AB Morgan

  ‘You can’t stay here. Move. Move, Anna. Run for cover. Run. Run. Run’

  Anna staggered as she jogged towards her goal - the static caravans at the rear of the compound. It was only as she paused for breath again did she notice how thirsty she had become. This convinced her that Damien was indeed testing her survival abilities. Against the factory unit she spied a standpipe and headed there to quench her painful thirst, but she didn’t make it. In her way was the bullmastiff belonging to Mad Leo Fewtrell, dragging his chain. He didn’t growl or bark, instead he stood staring at her, tipping his head to one side as if questioning her. ‘Hello boy,’ Anna said not taking her eyes from his, not flinching, not turning. She held her hands out for him to sniff.

  * * *

  ‘Forgot about him, didn’t you? Very sloppy. Stand your ground. You’re in charge.’

  ‘Piss off for a minute, Damien, I need to think.’

  The dog lay down again having decided that Anna, her smell familiar to him as a source of food, was not a threat. She watched him as she took gulps of cold water from the tap. The dusty dog followed her with his gaze. His chain prevented him from physically accompanying her to the first of the large pale green and cream caravans, so he was obliged to keep a lookout from a distance as she tried the door. It pulled opened without resistance. Inside was a level of disorder and litter that Anna had not thought possible. Sleeping bags lay on top of filthy clothes, ashtrays were overflowing with old roll-up cigarette ends, empty beer cans strewn about the place as if a bin had never existed. Anna screwed up her face at the rank, mouldy fug that lingered and swirled towards her nostrils as she stepped beyond the threshold.

  ‘Well? What are you standing there for? Anna, stay on target. Get the evidence and get out. You’ll be sorry if you don’t. You have to save the others.

  ‘Accommodation fit for a tramp,’ Anna whispered as she took her mobile phone from her pocket and began to take a few pictures of the scene around her. She reacted instantly to the noise of the ringtone, and as the phone vibrated it leapt from her hands and landed noisily amongst the beer cans. She panicked. Scrabbling around on the sticky grime-blackened lino of the caravan, she retrieved the mobile and ended the call without bothering to look closely at the screen. Her shaking fingers struggled to move the small metal mute button into place, but once this was completed she could breathe again, all the time glancing back at the door or towards the window where a grey film of dust obscured her view of the yard outside. Anna could still make out the shaggy silhouette of the dog that hadn’t moved from his position. His ears were pricked in her direction. ‘Good old Scooby,’ she muttered.

  ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’

  Anna ducked her head in response to the discordant shouting of her husband.

  ‘Move now. Get to the next target area. Do it. Don’t just stand there.’

  She grabbed the handle, jerked the door towards her and found to her horror that it was stuck fast. She pulled again frantically trying to loosen it. Only when she rattled against it with her shoulder did it budge. The door flew open, catapulting Anna onto the dirt, feet away from the dog that had taken up a four-legged stance in surprise at the sight. ‘Yes, Damien, I know I’m an effing idiot,’ Anna said as she crawled towards the second static caravan to repeat the exercise. She managed not to wipe her eyes even though she could feel the dust starting to irritate. Oil in the eye would have caused her considerable problems and she needed to be able to see in order to take photos of what she had found. She took a shot from the outside before entering the second caravan. Inside was much the same as the first.

  Leaving the place in the filthy state that she had found it, she inched her way across to a neglected factory unit where she could hear the muffled sound of throbbing rock music being played some distance away. Painfully slowly, she slid back a metal entrance door just wide enough to see inside.

  The first thing she noticed was a noxious-smelling steam arising from an enormous open tank standing about four feet off the ground, a rough planked gantry ran around two sides. There was brown staining dripped and running down the walls of the blue tank onto the floor and over every tool, metal bar, and plastic container that lay strewn about the place. Anna also noticed a hum of electricity but could not determine the purpose of the equipment she had found. However, having caught sight of an old battered radio cassette player, she had identified the source of the rhythmical base and drum beats overlaid by the frantic guitar sound and the singer pleading ‘you’ve got to run for cover ...’

  She froze. There from behind the far side of the tank were two legs, clad in blue overall trouser material, and wearing black work boots. One leg was bent and resting against the side of a metal rectifier giving balance to its owner who was lying on his back. ‘The Killers and Run for Cover,’ announced the radio. This was a message not to be ignored. Anna removed her head from the gap she had created and she bolted before she heard or registered the “kerrang” of metal tool against metal fixture and a stream of foul language spewing forth from the other end of the man in the factory unit.

  * * *

  ‘You’re too late. They’ve killed that one. He must be the next person due in the tank. It’s full of acid you know. That’s what they do with the boys they kidnap. The Killers. That’s why no one’s ever found the bodies. Hide. You’ve got to run for cover. Make yourself scarce, hole up and call the police. Don’t wait for the rest of the evidence. Do it now. Send them what you’ve got. They have to believe you.’

  Anna’s desperate need to find a hiding place resulted in her dashing across the compound, kicking up dust as she ran towards the outbuildings beside the main house and tucked right of the entrance gates. Alerted to a problem, the dog began to bark. His alarm boomed out, sending vibrations through the air and gaining a response from the man who had been lying inside the factory unit moments earlier.

  ‘What’s the matter, Chopper? Someone about that shouldn’t be, boy?’ As Anna glanced back from the recessed doorway to a brick-built coal barn and wood store, the man in blue overalls was leaning over the dog and trying to unclip the restraining chain attached to the collar by a karabiner.

  ‘Hold still, Chopper, you stupid mutt.’

  Once unleashed, the hound bounded silently across the scrapyard to where Anna was cowering, unseen. She held her breath once more and held out her palm. ‘Good boy.’ Chopper, wagged his tail in greeting, licked her fingers and sniffed the doorway briefly before cocking his leg and then retreating to his kennel outside the front door of the main house.

  ‘You cheeky bugger!’ the man in blue overalls shouted as Chopper lapped loudly from a metal water-bowl before settling down in the shade on a scruffy grey blanket. ‘You’re supposed to be on guard, not having a kip.’ He turned and went back inside the unit, leaving the sliding door half open. ‘Bark if you need me. Stupid dog.’

  Anna didn’t think Chopper was at all stupid. She felt safer knowing he was nearby, protecting her until she could get a response from the police. She would stay where she was. The hefty door to the brick barn had been stubborn enough to push open as it scraped across the quarry tiles of the barn floor, but once she had squeezed through the opening it was proving somewhat harder to drag back into place without making too much of a noise.

  The latch was substantial, as was the bolt on the outside. Once the door was back in place within its frame Anna took advantage of a hole in the rotten wood to fiddle with the bolt and work it into its usual locked position. Her slight fingers ached with the effort but after toiling for over twenty minutes she achieved her aim.

  She had shut herself in.

  Enough dingy light made its way through the cracks in the door for her to make out her surroundings. Most illumination came through a chequered pattern of brickwork the size of a window. Alternate bricks were missing to allow for airflow into the outbuilding. Anna put her face against this to peer out from one of the spaces. She could see the front right-hand side of the Fewtrells’ house an
d had partial view of the yard leading up to the factory unit where she had a glimpse of the doorway. Most importantly she could still see where Chopper lay next to his kennel.

  Perching herself on a cross section of tree trunk, her mobile phone confirmed the time; seven fifty-seven pm. Anna steadied herself before compiling an email to the police, detailing her findings. She planned to phone them as soon as this was sent. As she typed she became aware of a roaring sound filling her ears followed by a low metallic reverberation of the entrance gates being pulled back. Having leapt up, she flattened herself against the wall to look out through one of the square apertures. ‘Shit. I can’t see properly.’ Anna could hear the vehicles but only caught a momentary sight of them as they pulled in. Two pickup trucks headed her way and one parked within a few feet of the wall behind which she stood, watching and listening.

  ‘I ’ope you ’ad more bleedin’ luck than what I did,’ a woman’s croaking voice announced. Carmel Fewtrell, cigarette wedged in the side of her mouth, was heading from a large Mercedes car towards her neo-Georgian mobile home. She approached the perimeter wall and the ostentatious pair of eagles that sat atop the pillars either side of an open gateway. Chopper had made his way to see her for a fuss. ‘Who let you off your chain? That soppy-date Frank I s’pose.’ Chopper accepted the rub of his head and sloped back to his kennel as Leo approached.

  ‘Yeah, all sorted. Filled six cans. Did over the kid in the garage at Lensham. Gave him a cheque.’

  ‘What bloody cheque? You don’t ’ave the cheque book.’

  ‘No, but the old dear we’re working for this week does. Well, she did ’ave. Stupid biddy should’ve looked after it a bit better. She did us a favour though and got cash like we asked her to, so she’s not short of a bob …’

  The conversation continued as the two made their way into their pretentious home and shut the door behind them. Anna shuddered as she spied Leo holding a shotgun nonchalantly in his right hand, swinging it as he traipsed after his wife.

  Anna had been following him nearly every day for weeks and yet each time she caught sight of him she had the same reaction. Nausea. He had begun to feature in her fitful dreams, like Satan himself; half man - half beast.

  Meanwhile, the noise level in the yard increased as at least eight men disgorged from the vans and trucks. Anna could hear the banter as the gravelly voices merged together in a dark intimidating chorus.

  ‘You’ll need a bolthole. Find one. Make a dugout. You can’t get out now you’ll have to hunker down, Fruitcake. Stay safe. Stay invisible.’

  Anna realised that Damien was right. Who else could she trust?

  Determined to stay well hidden, she explored the piles of logs and timber planks that were taking up two thirds of the floor and reached within feet of the top of the walls. The roof sloped upwards from the door, making a lean-to against the rear wall that formed the boundary with the property next door. Rory Norton’s cottage.

  18

  Rory Steps Back into his Past

  Ribble’s garage was open early, as usual, to catch the morning commuter trade looking to fill up with fuel before setting off into the towns. Rory needed to top up Donna’s petrol tank in anticipation of the day’s lessons, so standing with the nozzle held firmly in place he watched carefully to avoid over-spilling. He barely noticed Barney approaching him until two enormous work boots appeared on the ground the other side of his bike. He looked up at Barney’s quizzical moon-shaped face when he spoke.

  ‘You not sleeping?’ Barney asked. ‘You look like shit, mate. Well done for last night, by the way, I doubt she’d have made it without you.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything other than to call you.’

  ‘It’s a good job you did, pal. She’d still be lying on the carpet in her hallway, probably dead by now, if you hadn’t.’ Barney shook his head. ‘Poor old Brenda, Anna must have given her a fair shove to do that much damage to her bonce. The ambulance crew reckon she might have fractured her hip as well, so goodness only knows how long she’ll be in hospital. Anyway, I wanted to ask you a favour. I tried to phone Anna to let her know that Brenda is in hospital but she’s not answering her phone. I got the number from Brenda’s neighbour Doddery Duncan.’ Rory looked askance at Barney who carried on with the explanation. ‘You must have seen him in The Valiant, sitting in the bay window, reading his paper with a dew drop of snot dripping into his beer from his enormous nose.’

  ‘Oh, is that him? The one Rob calls Mozam … because of his beak. It took me ages to get that joke. I didn’t know he was Brenda’s neighbour. He was the one at the window when I visited there yesterday.’

  ‘That’s the fella.’

  Rory took the fuel nozzle from the tank of his bike and placed it carefully back in its holder against the side of the pump. He and Barney then strolled together into the shop where Rory placed his bike helmet down on the counter top. Barney made his way to the till on the other side and rang the total in. Taking the notes proffered by Rory he continued, ‘… so when you do see her you can you tell Anna that, as far as I know, the police want to question her but not to worry too much. I’m sure Brenda won’t press charges.’

  ‘If Anna turns up, as I suspect she will, I’ll tell her. But it would be easier if the police did haul her in for questioning, then they could ask for an assessment of her mental state and the girl could get some help. She was in a dreadful state yesterday, rolling around under hedges like a commando or something. I can’t believe the GP did nothing.’

  ‘What else can we do?’

  Rory looked doubtful. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll chase up a few old colleagues and see what we can put together.’

  ‘Old colleagues?’

  Rory turned to leave, cutting off from any explanation. ‘Long story. I’ll phone you.’

  As he rode into the Ride-Right premises Rory was deliberating possible scenarios. On one hand he hoped that Anna would arrive as predicted and he could therefore see for himself how she was doing. On the other hand he hoped the police had already detained her. Either way he couldn’t cut off from her. She needed help. Soon.

  After toying with his phone, he pressed the key on his list of contacts to reconnect him with his past life. He had never deleted the number when he could easily have done so a thousand times. As the phone made a series of melodic dialling sounds, his nerves twitched, sending warnings to his adrenal glands, which in turn gave rise to feelings of tension, apprehension and the return of the guilt that had nearly consumed him more than three years earlier. He assumed that he would be able to leave a simple answerphone message and that, with any luck, a faceless administrator would phone him back later and decline to help on the grounds of patient confidentiality. He sat upright in his chair when he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Keith Grayson speaking. Early Intervention.’

  Rory hesitated before steeling himself to speak.

  ‘Hello, Keith.’

  ‘Rory? Is that you?’

  Hearing the surprise in his old friend’s words, he had a vivid picture of him sitting at his office desk staring in disbelief at the phone. ‘Yes. It’s me. I’m sorry to call so early in the day, I wasn’t−’

  ‘Sorry? The only thing you should be sorry about is not staying in touch. Where the hell have you been? You disappeared off the face of the earth. I tried Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and all that crap. I even phoned your mother but she said you’d sworn her to secrecy about your contact details. Christ, it’s good to hear your voice.’

  Rory wiped a rogue tear from his left eye and held back before daring to speak again. Even so, his voice crackled when he did. ‘I couldn’t face anyone, not after what happened. I’d prefer not to talk about it, Keith, if you don’t mind. Too painful, mate. Simply too painful …’

  ‘No, sure, I understand. What’s brought this on? Your sudden need to get in touch.’

  ‘Does the name Anna Chamberlain ring any bells?’

  ‘Are you taking the piss? Yes it rings enormous Big
Ben type bells, and what’s more she phoned here a couple of days ago leaving a message asking to speak to Sara urgently. Sorry, Rory, I had to mention her name. You can’t expect me to hold a whole conversation without at least using her name.’

  Rory had to place his left hand on the desktop to steady himself; he stared at his wedding ring. He hadn’t heard his wife’s name spoken for so long that he thought the emotions would be dulled by now. How wrong he was. His chest tightened and his throat closed up preventing him from speaking.

  ‘Rory? Are you still there?’ In response Rory could only manage a hummed confirmation, allowing Keith to continue. ‘Anna Chamberlain phoned here to ask for help, saying it was urgent. Rachel phoned her back but had to leave a message telling her to access her local services or go to the GP. What has this got to do with you now?’

  It took a while for Rory to explain how he had retrained as a motorcycle instructor and moved to take up a job in Lower Marton. Keith listened to his old friend, allowing him time to relate the facts and recover his composure. ‘So by sheer chance you ended up living and working a matter of miles away from where Anna Chamberlain moved to after she left us? What are the chances of that?’

  ‘Slim, but not impossible. I may have seen her around locally but I didn’t recognise her until she came to begin her lessons. Even then I wasn’t certain it was her. The last time I’d seen her she looked like a demented banshee and I’m hardly likely to forget that day. Ever.’

  ‘I take it she’s relapsing then?’

  ‘Correct. I’m asking for your advice, Keith. It’s sticky at this end.’

  ‘Why? Has she recognised you?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t a clue. She’s really psychotic though. My mate Steve and I managed to set her up, forcing her to see her GP who must have been blind, deaf and stupid not to recognise how ill that girl has become. She didn’t do a thing, just gave her a note to say she was fit to learn to ride a motorbike. Now that is mad. I know you can refuse to tell me, but was she referred to local services here?’