Girl:Broken

by S Williams

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? Yes please, Grant.’

  Before Joseph could say anything else, Grant swiped his pad. Blurred silent images appeared on the Smart Board.

  ‘Very hi-tech,’ he muttered, but then fell silent as the images came into focus. It was footage of the house in the photograph, filmed from a moving vehicle, part of which was in the shot. Joseph guessed it was from a camcorder, with a magnetic tape. The colours were washed out and grainy, the image unsteady, leading Joseph to believe that whoever was doing the filming was also doing the driving.

  ‘Damson Cottage,’ Slane explained. ‘An abandoned four-bedroomed property in the Surrey countryside that was squatted, from nineteen ninety until nineteen ninety-five, by a family cell of The Fishermen; as far as we know the last national cult in Britain to-date, Al Qaeda and QAnon notwithstanding.’

  Slane paused to allow the film to play for a moment, then continued. ‘This was taken in the late summer of their first year.’ The film continued, staying focused on the house as the car was driven slowly down the road. Joseph thought it must have been shot by someone used to working undercover. There was no slow-down as the cottage was passed; just a constant speed from the opening shot as the house came into view, to the end-frame as the property became obscured by a bend in the lane. ‘In the five years they were in residence, we believe the family tortured nine children, aged between eight and thirteen.’

  Joseph could feel the air deaden around him, like the past was stealing it. The drive-by was replaced by another film, this time of a walled garden. It was still summer: the heat of the day practically leaping out of the frame. The grass was straw-coloured and there was a large inflatable pool set up, the type with rigid sides, like a miniature swimming pool. A hosepipe snaked from out of shot and into the pool. In the foreground was a man in swimming boxers and a sodden T-shirt, presumably from having been in the pool. Joseph immediately recognised him as the man in the photograph. Joseph glanced across at the name beneath the photographs.

  ‘Walter.’ The name came out as a whisper.

  ‘Walter Cummings.’ Slane nodded. ‘Not one of the founder members of The Fishermen, but once recruited, one of the most active. Head-father of the family at Damson Cottage. This footage was found in the wreckage after the explosion.’

  ‘The suicide-pact,’ said Joseph. Nobody answered him.

  Walter was gurning at the camera, giving a thumbs up. It seemed, thus far, like a million other home movies from the period. Then he turned slightly away from the camera and shouted something.

  ‘How come there’s no sound?’ Joseph asked.

  ‘The Fishermen never recorded audio,’ said Collins.

  ‘That’s right.’ Joseph nodded, remembering. ‘They believed they owned all the voices of their victims.’

  Presumably responding to the shout, a child climbed out of the pool. Because of the raised edge of the structure, Joseph had not realised she was there. She must have been right up against the near side.

  Hiding, Joseph thought.

  The child could not have been older than ten. She was wearing a bikini. Joseph could see a scar on her shoulder and a tattoo on her hip when she turned. Although the camera was too far away he knew what it was. His mouth felt dry.

  It was a mermaid.

  ‘The families used to brand the children, to show which house they were made in. That’s what The Fishermen called what they did. The making. Like a cake.’ Slane’s voice was empty, professional. No inflection of emotion. On the screen Walter Cummings put his arm around the girl, his finger stroking her chest just below her neck. To Joseph it looked like the girl was trying not to cry. Cummings looked down at the girl and her face seemed to blur for a moment, before rearranging itself into a smile more heartbreaking than anything Joseph had ever seen.

  ‘Once they were made they used to tattoo them. To show that they had made the change.’

  ‘The mermaid,’ said Joseph quietly. ‘To show they were more than human.’

  ‘Exactly. They also used to brand them.’

  ‘What’s the name of the girl? She’s not the one in the photograph.’

  ‘Her Fishermen name was Gemma. After the family blew themselves up she made it all the way to twenty before she killed herself.’

  The camera stayed on Gemma’s face for a moment, then blacked out.

  ‘Which quite effectively rules her out,’ said Collins.

  Joseph stayed looking at the screen, the image of the child still playing on the retina of his mind’s eye, then he came to and looked at the police officer.

  ‘Rules her out of what?’

  ‘The murder of Walter Cummings. No loss whatsoever to the world but an absolute nightmare for us, seeing as he was meant to be dead already.’ Collins stared at the professor as if he personally was responsible. ‘Blown up and catalogued and cremated.’

  Before Joseph could answer, his mobile phone rang, car-crashing into the tense silence.

  ‘Excuse me, I’m so sorry but it might be my son, Mark. Do you mind?’ Joseph raised his eyebrows and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. Without waiting for an answer he pressed the green button to accept the call and placed the device against his ear.

  ‘Good morning. Professor Skinner speaking; may I help you? Ah, Hilda, how are you?’ Joseph listened and nodded. When he saw the quizzical look on Slane’s face he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, it’s my secretary, I won’t be a minute.’

  Slane nodded and walked away, pulling out her own phone and tapping in a number. Collins went to stand in front of the Smart Board. Joseph removed his hand and placed it in his pocket. ‘Very well, thank you. The students seemed to enjoy it at any rate. Actually, rather excitingly, I’ve been picked up by the police!’ Joseph smiled at Slane, who was staring at him. ‘No, nothing like that; they just want my opinion on something. In a professional capacity.’ He paused while the person on the other end of the phone spoke. Joseph raised a finger. ‘Yes. I understand, and you’re right. He is.’

  Joseph mouthed ‘client’ and shrugged apologetically. Then: ‘Hang on, I’ll ask.’ He pulled the phone away from his ear and said, ‘Excuse me, but which one of you is in charge? Is it you, Inspector Slane?’ He looked inquiringly at her.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Collins. Joseph turned to him and smiled. ‘Ah, of course. All it is, Mr Collins, is,’ Joseph paused. ‘It is Mr Collins, isn’t it? There was no title on the identification you showed me. Just David Collins.’ Joseph looked over at Slane. ‘Sorry, yours didn’t even have a first name.’

  Slane smiled and Collins scowled.

  ‘Just Mr,’ he said.

  ‘Good. What it is, Mr Collins, is that Hilda is wondering where to send the bill to.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Collins looked incredulous.

  ‘The bill. For my time. It is usually a flat daily rate, but if it looks like it might be something pertaining to my work perhaps we could sort something out?’ Joseph smiled at him expectantly. Collins looked like he was attempting to crush his own teeth.

  ‘You need to end the phone call, professor; we can sort out your fee later. Right now you are helping with a live enquiry.’

  ‘Oh, yes of course. Apologies.’ Joseph turned away slightly. ‘I’ll keep a track of my hours. Hopefully no more than five. What? Yes, I won’t forget. Noon. It’s written in my diary. Okay. You have to go now, Hilda, I’m busy. I’ll see you later.’ Joseph finished the phone call and looked at his device. ‘Sorry about that. If Hilda doesn’t check up on me she thinks I’d forget my own head. By the way,’ he held up his phone, ‘I don’t suppose anyone has got a charger, have they? The battery is almost empty.’

  ‘For that? I’d have thought it would have run on steam.’ Slane put her own phone away and looked at his mobile. She grimaced sympathetically. ‘No, sorry, and I doubt you’d find one to fit that these days.’

  Joseph tutted. ‘I left mine at home. The charger. I wasn’t expecting�
��’ He gestured at the room. ‘Never mind.’ He turned back to the board; to the picture of Damson Cottage and the two photographs. He leaned forward. ‘And it is definitely him? The man who was murdered?’

  Joseph didn’t really need to ask. The resemblance was obvious, now he knew.

  ‘Without a shadow of a doubt,’ said Slane, wiping her hand through her hair. ‘Grant, can you cue up Walter’s sheet? Thanks.’

  Joseph shrugged. ‘So, what, he escaped from the bomb? Faked his death somehow. I’m sure this sort of thing happens. Explosions are messy. You just have to assume whoever is supposed to be in there is in there. Then he kept his head down. Moved around. As long as he kept below the radar then you’d never know. Homeless. Living in squats. You can see how it could happen.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Slane. ‘It could be done. Half the people on the streets are hiding from some past or other. And you’re right, Joseph, he was living on the street. From the state of him, had been for some time. Or in a flophouse. And yes, he could have escaped the blast. God knows the police at that time were not always the most thorough at crossing all the Ts. If it looks like it all fits then why make trouble? But we believe there is much more to it than that. Grant?’

  On the Smart Board, an image popped up.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Joseph. The image was of Cummings slumped in a doorway. His eyes were open and staring blindly, and a large gash had been cut into his throat. ‘That’s horrible!’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Slane. ‘This was taken shortly after he had been found by an office cleaner.’

  ‘Is there really any need for me to see this?’

  ‘Apologies. Can you see what has been placed over his head?’

  Joseph took a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Earphones?’

  ‘Yes. Standard fare. It was what they were attached to that was so interesting.’

  Joseph saw that the wire from the headphones trailed down to a pocket in his filthy coat. The picture was replaced by another.

  ‘They were attached to this.’

  The new image showed Cummings, still dead, staring, and covered in his own blood, but now the device that had been in his pocket had been removed and placed on the ground, in the concrete doorway by the body. Next to it was a ruler for size identification and a police identity tag. Joseph squinted.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘That is a Sony Walkman circa 1994. You can tell by the top loading.’ The screen went blank again.

  Joseph shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I follow. What has this got to d–’

  A new image appeared, silencing him. It was Cummings, but young again. He was in the living room of a building, presumably Damson Cottage. There was a fire behind him, with flames bouncing shadows onto the walls. Cummings was on his knees and smiling. There was a paper banner over the hearth, saying ‘Happy Birthday’. The person he was smiling at was out of shot. He had one hand hidden behind his back and with the other he was beckoning the unseen person forward. A young girl stepped into the shot.

  ‘We only knew this girl by her number.’ Slane was speaking in her professional voice again. Neutral and flat, pure information with no inflection. From behind his back, Cummings brought a box wrapped in shiny paper. A present. The girl smiled with delight and began ripping the paper off.

  ‘They all had numbers of course, as well as a house name – one given by The Fishermen – but we never found out her birth name. This is her fourth birthday. We believe that the person filming is Heather Tayler; the house mother.’

  The girl unwrapped the present and took it out of its box. It was a Sony Walkman. She laughed with delight and the man slipped the headphones over her ears. He then pressed a button on the Walkman; Joseph guessed it was the play button because the girl immediately looked amazed. She put her hands to the headphones, pressing them more tightly against her ears. The man smiled and gently turned her around, so she was sideways on to the camera.

  Joseph’s brow furrowed. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘All the houses had one. We think it was one of their methods. Although it’s not the original machine – that was found in the debris after the explosion – it is exactly the same make and model. Inside was a tape of the Culture Club song, “Do You Really Want To Hurt Me?”’

  Joseph nodded.

  ‘And as that was the only tape we found, we’re guessing it was the only one they ever gave.’ The man got up and walked to the fire. As he leant down Joseph noticed that there was what looked like a poker protruding from it. The man, Cummings, removed it. Joseph now saw that it wasn’t a poker.

  ‘No,’ whispered Joseph.

  ‘The same song that was playing to the corpse of Walter Cummings.’

  The thing that Cummings had removed from the fire was not a poker. It was a branding iron. He held it high and walked back to the girl. She was oblivious, still with her hands clutched to her ears. Cummings lifted the back of her T-shirt and firmly pressed the red-hot end of the firebrand into her flesh.

  ‘No!’ Joseph’s voice was a horrified whisper.

  ‘The same one that was playing on a phone found in a woman’s flat in Leeds.’

  The effect on the child was immediate. The little girl’s hands flew out sideways and she screamed. Even with no audio, Joseph could hear her scream.

  ‘A phone that incidentally also had a picture of Walter’s tattoo on it.’

  ‘Turn it off,’ Joseph said.

  The man, Cummings, pulled the burning metal off the girl’s flesh and tossed it toward the fireplace. Then he took the girl’s hands and pressed them over her ears, grinding the headphones against her skull.

  ‘We believe that Cummings was the one who branded them all. Went round all The Fishermen houses. Which means that the person who killed him knew what went on in Damson Cottage, and all the other cottages. The cottages where everyone was blown up and no one survived.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Joseph, bile flooding his mouth and, thankfully, tears blurring his eyes. ‘Turn it off. I don’t want to see anymore.’

  16

  23rd October

  ‘Here you go, ladies. Please: enjoy!’ The impressively lined face of the vendor beamed at them, bowing slightly. Jay and Daisy were handed glass cups of steaming mint tea, served from a large metal teapot that had probably sat on the hotplate in the tiny food station since the beginning of time. They thanked him, crossed the narrow passage of Crown Street, and sat on the side steps of the Corn Exchange. The tea was from Caravanserai; an African traveller’s café, and free for anyone who wanted or needed one. Daisy stared at the elephant statue that sat above the café, giving the building a surreal feel. From the window of a small seating area above the culinary activity, the sounds of someone playing a djembe drifted into the morning.

  Daisy sipped her tea.

  ‘What do you think it’s called?’ she said, pulling a mint leaf out of her mouth and rolling it gently between her fingers.

  ‘What do I think what’s called?’ said Jay, finishing off rolling a cigarette and placing it in her mouth. From out of her waistcoat pocket she pulled a brass Zippo lighter and fired it up. The smoke she blew out into the air appeared blue in the sunlight.

  ‘The big silver urn. The pot he poured the tea out of. It’s got to have some special name, don’t you think? Some kind of ceremonial translation. Like the vessel-that-eases-travellers’-woes, or something.’

  Jay stared at her, incredulous. ‘Fuck knows. Anyhow that’s not important right now, is it, Daisy? What with everything else that’s going on.’

  Daisy flinched at the anger in her voice, and Jay immediately felt guilty. When she’d finally gone back into the flat to check if Daisy was all right she’d found her fully dressed and showered, just sitting on the floor of the living room. Not doing anything. Just… staring. Like she was empty. Frankly, it had scared the hell out of her.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound angry; I’m just worried for you. The phone’s useless by the way.’


  At the mention of the phone, Daisy’s body stiffened. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break it.’

  ‘Good. So we’re both sorry. Look, you’ve had a shock. Somebody’s invaded your space and fucked you up. I get it. But with the phone T-boned against the wall – good throw, by the way – there’s no chance of skimming any data off it.’

  Daisy looked at her, lost. Jay wanted to reach over and hug her, but she didn’t. She felt like if she did that she’d infect her. Infect her with her lies and deceit. And Daisy didn’t deserve that. She’d clearly already been through so much. Inspector Slane hadn’t given Jay the details, but what she had let slip was enough for her to know the woman must be broken, and no amount of half-baked therapy sessions were going to fix it.

  ‘Phones are like libraries,’ she explained. ‘All the information is there if you know the indexing. If the phone was intact there would have been a chance I could have traced where the picture came from. Who sent it.’

  ‘From your contacts in the police.’

  Jay grimaced. ‘Yes. Even though I’m suspended, some of them still talk to me.’

  ‘Why did you get suspended? You never told me.’

  Jay took a moment to answer. She knew she was on dangerous ground. When they’d first met she’d told Daisy that she’d been put on probation, but given no real detail. She’d hinted that there were things in her past that she had been unable to process. Things she hadn’t been able to share through the official channels. She’d needed an ‘in’ with the woman, and that had seemed to do the trick. Gave them a basis to make a bond.

  She pushed smoke out of her nose. ‘Breaking my superior officer’s jaw had been a bit of a problem.’

  ‘Why? What did he do?’ Daisy stared at her, a look of amazement on her face.

  Jay sighed. ‘He called me a prick-tease, but that wasn’t why I hit him. He was just the final straw on a very weak back. I told you I used to get stick when I was young, yeah?’

  Daisy nodded.

  ‘For hardly ever being at school because my mum was a new-age activist. For my skin, because no one could stick a label on it. For my sexuality, because it never fitted into one of their boxes. And finally for my anger, because kicking against the system was all that made sense to me.’