Song Of The Psychopath

by Mark Tilbury

  Tommy didn’t have the words to express his disgust at how the boys had been treated. So far, he’d only experienced minor sexual deviants, one of whom had been satisfied to watch him walk naked around the room while controlling Tommy with a dog collar and lead.

  ‘If The Master ever tells you you’re going to Clancy’s house,’ Seven said, ‘do anything you can to get away. I promise you, death would be better than getting trapped in the clutches of that sadistic wanker.’

  Tommy stood and walked to the pool table. Picked up a yellow ball and hurled it at the wall. When he turned round, the two boys were gone.

  ‘What can you see, Tommy?’ Marks said, his voice seemingly coming from one of the pool table pockets.

  ‘Six and Seven,’ he mumbled. ‘Six and Seven have gone.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Kids in the Recreation Room.’

  ‘Do they have proper names?’

  ‘No. Everyone here’s just got a number.’

  ‘And you’re Number Nine, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Can you describe the Recreation Room?’

  Tommy looked around him, but the lights had dimmed considerably. Nothing but grey shapeless blobs in a grey shapeless room.

  ‘Can you see anyone else?’ Marks asked.

  In serious danger of spewing, Tommy said, ‘I want to leave now.’

  ‘Okay. Go back to the steps and walk to the top. I’ll be with you all the way.’

  Tommy slowly returned to the safety of the lounge, head filled with images of Six and Seven, particularly Seven and the scar around his navel.

  Dr Marks smiled at him. ‘Welcome back, Tommy.’

  ‘How long was I gone?’

  ‘About twenty minutes,’ Marks said. ‘But you didn’t respond to me for about ten of those.’

  Tommy sat forward and massaged his temples. ‘Christ, my head hurts.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Danielle said. ‘Get your bearings.’

  Marks typed something onto his laptop. ‘Do you remember anything about Number Six and Number Seven prior to meeting them just now?’

  ‘Tommy shook his head. ‘It’s weird. It’s as if I did when I was with them, but as soon as I left the room and came back up the steps, everything went blank again.’

  ‘Did you talk to them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  Tommy shivered. ‘Bad shit. Really bad shit. Number Seven told me about some bloke called Clancy. He burned his belly button with a cigar and nearly drowned him in a Jacuzzi.’

  Marks nodded. ‘Does the name Clancy mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not really. Seven said he was a politician.’

  Marks seemed thoughtful for a moment. ‘Not Sir Bernard Clancy?’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Danielle asked.

  ‘He used to be the health secretary a long while back. An odious man who appeared to be contradicting all his advice on health. Built like a rhino and always puffing on a cigar.’

  ‘Sounds about right,’ Danielle said. ‘Politicians are all hypocrites. One rule for them and one rule for the rest of us.’

  Marks turned his attention back to Tommy. ‘So, you don’t recall anything about this Clancy?’

  ‘No.’

  Marks typed onto his laptop again. ‘I’ve brought up a picture of him on Google images. Do you want to take a look and see if you recognise him?’

  Tommy ambled to the table. Gawped at a rotund man in a dark-blue suit standing on some steps outside a town hall, fat cigar clamped in his mouth.

  ‘Anything?’ Marks prompted.

  Tommy willed his brain to work, but the headache behind his eyes was getting worse. Clancy’s picture swam in and out of focus. A few people scattered around Clancy moved, as if the politician was frozen in time and they were still going about their business.’

  ‘Tommy?’

  A car pulled up in front of the steps. A large, black shiny car. The driver got out and held the door open. A thickset guy with a shaved head. The collar of his white shirt digging into the soft flesh of his neck.

  Tommy recognised him straight away. It was the chain-smoking driver with a liking for heavy metal music. He watched Clancy exchange a few words with him before squeezing his bulky frame into the back of the car.

  The driver closed the rear door and climbed in behind the wheel. Lit a cigarette. As he was about to pull away from the kerb, he looked directly at Tommy and waved.

  Tommy fell forward onto the table, his head landing on the keypad. He wasn’t aware of Danielle and Dr Marks helping him onto the sofa. He was temporarily lost in the dark sanctuary of unconsciousness.

  For now.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three a.m., Dave Hemmings walked into the now spotless basement. There was no sign of the grisly scene that had greeted him a few days ago. The bed had been remade with fresh sheets and a new duvet, and the blood on the floor had been cleaned up with bleach.

  Dave wasn’t a believer in fate or omens, but he did rely on gut instinct to guide him through dodgy times. And today, Dave’s considerable gut was telling him to get the fuck out of Thorndike House and relocate on the Costa del Sol. Somewhere he could land and get his bearings until he found a more suitable location. Preferably in the Spanish countryside away from prying eyes and inquisitive minds.

  He’d also decided to have a year off. Live on the proceeds of his haul from the safe. Eat well, drink well, and smoke well. Anticipation, that wonderful precursor to disappointment, was driving him on.

  Duggan was becoming more and more irrational with each passing day. Punishing the boys for no other reason than because he could. He was also drinking more than it was safe to when you were carrying a head full of secrets. Twice, on previous evenings, he’d heard him thumping the keys on his Steinway, slurring words as he warbled tuneless renditions of unfathomable songs.

  As far as Dave was concerned, it was only a matter of time before the cops were crawling all over Thorndike House. Then the shit would really hit the wind farm, and he was determined not to be around to see it.

  Dave took a woollen hat from his pocket and put it over the security camera. The first phase of Operation Liberty complete. Now it was just a matter of stuffing his holdall with as much loot as possible and heading for Dover to catch the ferry. He’d be long gone before Duggan could say I am The Master.

  That was another thing: The egotistical swine was so bloated with his own self-importance, he couldn’t see what was really going on around him. The king of the castle had built his palace on sand. Everyone hated him except for Bella, and she was nothing but an arse-licking whore.

  Dave had briefly considered letting the boys go. Releasing them from their holding cells like chickens from a battery house. But good sense had reliably informed him those same boys were likely to tell tales on him.

  He removed the painting of Duggan’s grandfather from the wall and placed it carefully on the floor. Gramps was sporting a beard, but he still maintained the familiar Duggan look that confirmed the family tree was sown from satanic seeds.

  He turned his attention to the digital safe, pressed in the code, and opened the door to reveal a two-foot-square metal box containing things that would give most people nightmares.

  Taking a lock of hair that had once belonged to Number Two, he stuffed it in his pocket. A nice piece of physical evidence to later photograph and send to The Master. There were also several watches taken from other boys who were no longer in residence wrapped in soiled underpants. There was even an eye removed from the original Number One preserved in pickling vinegar in a jar.

  Dave gawped at the orb with a sense of trepidation. It was as if the eye was staring at him and accusing him of crimes against humanity. Dave had liked Number One. He’d been quiet, compliant, and easy to deal with, even when he’d come back from Clancy’s one time sporting a black eye and ligature marks around his neck.

  Dave considered taking the jar contai
ning the eye but decided it might be something that would haunt his dreams and interfere with his life in Spain. Best to let sleeping eyes lie.

  He grabbed several bundles of fifty-pound notes and dropped them into the holdall. He had no idea how much was there, but it had to run into thousands.

  Next, he packed the holdall with a dozen bags of diamonds, six chunky gold chains, two Rolex watches, a diamond tiara, countless pairs of gold earrings that had presumably once belonged to Duggan’s mother, and a book of priceless stamps capable of making a dealer drool.

  Straightening up, Dave took a last look around the basement. Although the place held some pretty horrific memories, there had been some good times there as well. Particularly when The Master had allowed him to take two women down there and do untold things with them. There was no greater joy than being left at will to play out every fantasy imaginable.

  Okay, so he’d had to kill them afterwards, and dispose of their bodies in the grounds of Thorndike House, but it was no use indulging yourself if you didn’t like cleaning up after. A small price to pay for a whole lot of fun.

  Dave zipped up the bag and placed it on the steps. He retrieved his hat from camera watch and headed off for a blind date with destiny. No more cold English winters for him. He was sick of spending the long winter months shivering his tits off and ferrying kids all over the place for little more reward than an occasional pat on the head for being a good dogsbody.

  ***

  After three brandies and half a bottle of wine had failed to induce sleep, Duggan had gone to the kitchen to give a hot milky drink a try. One of his mother’s remedies that sometimes worked, sometimes didn’t. A lot like his mother really.

  He caught sight of himself in a large oak mirror hanging on the wall. It was going to take a long Mediterranean cruise and a lot of work in a beauty parlour to restore his face to its former glory. Perhaps even grow a beard to add an air of distinction to his handsome features.

  He poured half a pint of milk in a pan and set it to boil. Sitting at the large oak table, he ran a hand through his tangled hair. Natural sleep would probably return once this unholy mess with the boy was sorted out, but at the moment it seemed like a pinprick of light in a long dark tunnel.

  He poured the milk into a mug and sat back at the table. Something moved in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head round to see his tablet whirring into life. He watched in disbelief as Dave Hemmings walked up the basement steps, decked in a black coat and sporting a black woollen hat. The oaf was carrying a holdall and looking behind him as if expecting to be pursued.

  Duggan sprang into action. He switched off the light, hurried into the hallway, grabbed a baseball bat from inside the front door, and waited for his driver to appear. It was clear to him, even in his sleepless, befuddled state, Hemmings was up to no good. No good at all. It was usually as much as the lazy sod could do to get up in the morning in time for his duties.

  Duggan lifted the bat. Hemmings’ heavy footsteps clomped across the kitchen, the beam of a torch arcing through the darkness. The driver coughed and stepped through the doorway. A long wheezy rattle that sounded like wind blowing through a drain.

  Duggan struck as Hemmings stepped into the hallway. He slammed the bat down on top of the traitor’s skull. The force splintered bone and sent Hemmings crashing to the floor.

  Duggan whacked him again, this time on the back of the neck as his victim tried to crawl away. And another one for luck. Dave sprawled face-first near the grandfather clock. The final blow caught him in the middle of the back and extinguished any lingering resistance.

  Duggan rested the bat against the clock and kicked Hemmings twice in the side to make sure he wasn’t feigning unconsciousness. Then he went back into the kitchen and called Bella on her mobile.

  Bella didn’t seem too pleased to be roused from her pit at this ungodly hour, and who could blame her; a girl needed her beauty sleep. But she joined him in the kitchen ten minutes later, long blonde hair looking like a nest of male serpents doing battle over a female.

  ‘You’ve seen the mess in the hall, I trust?’ Duggan said, sipping at a glass of brandy.

  Bella nodded. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I caught him on camera leaving the basement.’

  ‘What the hell was he doing down there?’

  ‘Judging by the holdall he was carrying, stealing.’

  ‘Stealing what?’

  Duggan considered telling her about the safe hidden behind Granddad Alexander’s portrait but thought better of it. Hemmings was living proof you couldn’t trust anyone. ‘I don’t know yet, but we’ll soon find out when we see what’s in the bag.’

  With Hemmings’ haul laid out on the floor beside the thief, Duggan glared at the prostrate body and considered smashing his head to a pulp. But that would be too good. Too quick. Hemmings deserved a far more excruciating death. Preferably one that would take days to accomplish.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Bella said. ‘Where the hell did he get that lot from?’

  ‘He obviously found my hidey-hole.’

  ‘In the basement?’

  ‘Never mind that for now, we need to get him into the body shop.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Bella, as much as I love you, can you please refrain from asking too many questions. I haven’t the time nor the patience to indulge you right now.’

  ‘I always knew he was bent,’ Bella said. ‘Could tell from the first time I clapped eyes on him.’

  ‘Well, I wish I’d shared your insight. I’m too soft for my own good sometimes.’

  They carried Hemmings to a room situated next to the lounge. It had once served as his father’s study; a place where deals were done and the pound was king. But it now housed a sunbed and a running machine. He had plans next year to relocate the equipment to the west extension and build a fully fitted gym with an indoor swimming pool.

  Bella and Duggan manoeuvred the dead weight onto the sunbed.

  Duggan, wheezing like Hemmings on a cold morning, said, ‘Wait here and keep an eye on him. I’m gonna fetch something from the kitchen.’

  Bella yawned and nodded.

  He returned several moments later with a bottle of cooking oil and a pair of handcuffs. ‘Right, let’s strip him and cuff him to the bed.’

  Getting Hemmings undressed was a lot harder than it sounded. For starters, the lump weighed about as much as a car. Then the zip on his jeans jammed. To add to their problems, the swine kept moaning and threatening to come back to life.

  Although Duggan had no fear of his driver, he was aware he’d lose if it came to a straight fight. He’d employed him for that very reason after discovering him working the door at a seedy nightclub.

  ‘You ought to give him another whack,’ Bella suggested as the driver mumbled something about Spain.

  Duggan finally managed to pull the coat over Hemmings’ head. ‘No. I want him alive for this.’

  ‘Has he ever been alive?’ Bella said. ‘He’s always looked dead to me.’

  Duggan nodded. ‘Tell me about it. Go to the kitchen and get some scissors. We’ll have to cut his jeans off.’

  ‘Or stab him in the belly and let the hot air outta him.’

  Duggan smiled. ‘Don’t tempt me, Bella. Don’t bloody tempt me.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the driver was naked, coated in cooking oil, and handcuffed to a rail at the top of the bed.

  ‘God, he’s ugly,’ Bella announced. ‘Bet he hasn’t seen his dick in ages.’

  Duggan grinned. ‘Why would he want to see something he never uses?’

  ‘True. Bet he uses a nappy ’cos Mamma never bothered to potty train him.’

  Duggan set the sunbed to maximum heat. ‘I think I’ll cut off his willy when he’s dead. Keep it as a souvenir to remind me what a limp dick he was.’

  ‘Is that what all the other stuff is with the money and the diamonds?’

  He nodded. ‘Keepsakes to keep me warm on a cold winter’s night.’

 
‘Do you want me to record the wanker on my phone tomorrow?’

  ‘That’s a grand idea. Right, I’m going to bed to get some shuteye. I suggest you do the same. We’ve got a busy day ahead.’

  Bella wrapped her arms around him. Hugged him and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodnight, Master.’

  He stroked her hair. ‘Goodnight. Sleep tight. Mind the bedbugs don’t bite.’

  Bella laughed. ‘I will.’

  Duggan took one last look at the naked sun king. He trudged upstairs in a slightly better mood. There were tough times ahead, but at least eliminating Hemmings would lighten the load. The man was clearly untrustworthy and a threat to security.

  He walked into the master bedroom. ‘Sweet dreams, David. Sweet dreams.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jordan visited the day after Dave Hemmings had been cooked to a crisp on the sunbed. His friend sat on a chair by the window tugging nervously on his tee-shirt. ‘You’re looking better than the last time I saw you.’

  Tommy knew he was only being nice, because the bathroom mirror told a completely different story. His reflection had appeared about fifty years old, and that was being generous.

  Jordan noticed Tommy was wearing the watch. ‘Have you listened to any of the music yet?’

  ‘No. To be honest, I’ve been pretty much out of it for the last week. They upped my meds.’

  ‘Had any more flashbacks?’

  ‘Not really,’ Tommy lied, not wanting to share his previous experience with Dr Marks. ‘Just a few nightmares.’

  ‘Do you wanna listen to some music now?’

  Tommy didn’t, but not wanting to upset his well-meaning friend, he said, ‘Okay. But I’ve gotta warn you, it won’t do nothing.’

  Jordan asked for the watch, tapped several keys, and treated Tommy to a song that meant absolutely nothing to him. Someone You Loved by Lewis Capaldi. A song designed to make even the hardiest of souls tear up.

  As the song finished, Jordan said, ‘That used to be your favourite song.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You used to play it to death on your phone.’