by Chris Simms
He dragged deeply on his cigarette again, regret bringing his spirits down. If only Pete had held it together the band would be ready to go. Up, up and away. Straight to the stars. Instead, here he was, scrabbling around, lining up a pre-recorded play list he and Padmore couldn’t deviate from once up on stage. Maybe a break halfway through, he thought. Give his voice a bit of a rest, have some banter with the crowd, spit some fake blood over a few of them. What a bunch of twats he had to perform to.
The knocking brought him instantly to his feet. Ed. At fucking last. He ground the cigarette out, hurried to the front door and pulled it open. ‘Did you get—’
Henry Robson was standing on his front step.
‘You are so fucking busted,’ Daniel said. ‘Wait ’til I contact the police with this.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out his camera phone.
‘Where is my son?’
‘Haven’t a clue. Now say cheese you mad bastard.’
As he started to raise his arm Robson smashed a fist directly into his face.
Chapter 26
There were birds singing outside the window. It must be day. She opened her eyes and saw a patch of bright sky through the window. Not singing, chirruping. She recognised their comical noises. Those little fat ones. Not much more than a ball of brown feathers and two stick legs. Finches? No, not finches. What were their names? The word came to her and Skye smiled. Sparrows.
She remembered them in the hedgerows when she was a little girl, their animated discussions breaking into angry squabbles. They seemed to tumble down through the branches, half flying, half falling, but all the while keeping up their high-pitched chorus.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside and her smile disappeared. He was coming back. Her head lolled forward and she looked down at her naked body. The punctures had stopped bleeding. When he’d pricked her with the needle-like implement, he seemed deaf to her words. How she’d begged him to stop. With the book held before him, he’d studied the text then, muttering to himself, examined her body as a vet might study an animal. He no longer thought of her as a person and she knew that made her death all the more certain.
The door scraped open and she licked her cracked lips. ‘My name is Skye Booth. I’m twenty-seven years old. My mum is called Stella, my dad is called Clive. They live in the Cotswolds, on a farm. An organic farm. They make cheese and yoghurt.’
He walked past her and put his book on the table. Next to it he placed a large pair of pliers. The sight of them caused her to retch again, but her stomach was now completely empty.
Carry on. You must carry on. She dragged in breath. ‘Can you hear those birds? They’re sparrows. When I was a little girl we had them on our farm. They’d bath in the dusty bits in the courtyard, where the cows’ hooves had made a dip in the dry mud. When it was summer—’
‘Silence.’ He turned round, hood covering his bowed head. She tried to swallow. ‘We used to get house martins too, building their nests of mud under the eaves of our roof. Or were they swallows? Do you know the difference?’
His silence was terrifying.
‘They fly from Africa, my mum said. Morocco, all the way across Spain. Have you been to Spain? Not the Costa del Sol, the proper Spain.’
His shoulders moved, dropping slightly. A softening of his posture.
‘Seville, Granada, Salamanca, Barcelona? Have you seen the
Sagrada Famglia? A beautiful—’
He whipped an open hand across her face. She felt her neck crack and the taste of blood flooded her mouth.
‘Temptress! Your attempts at seduction fill me with disgust. You are no better than the succubi, sent to torment me in the night.’ He turned on his heel and lifted the pliers from the table.
‘Now I will have the name of that coven member.’ The curved points of metal made a snicking sound as he approached. ‘Or shall I begin tearing the flesh from your corrupt bones?’
Skye tried to shy backwards, but the chair she was tied to wouldn’t budge. ‘Please. For God’s sake, please.’
‘God? You appeal to my God for help? Let him help you then. Admit your sins. Tell me the name.’
She felt the metal beginning to pinch the skin of her breast.
‘Stop. I’ll tell you. Just stop!’
He leaned down and tilted his head. ‘Her name?’
Peter Robson turned from the Psychic Academy’s locked doors and sat down on the top step. Closed? Until Monday? He took the bag of mushrooms Arkell had given him out of his pocket. There weren’t many left. Reaching a thumb and forefinger inside, he extracted a tangled pinch and popped it in his mouth.
The dusty taste conjured images of the grave. The lining of his mother’s coffin.
He leaned to the side and banged his head against the wall, slowly but firmly. The pain made the memories of her go away. Pain was good. Sliding the bag of mushrooms back in his coat, he took out his Zippo. The flint sparked and a flame appeared from nowhere, like a genie out of a bottle.
He lifted a hand and passed his palm over the wavering sliver of yellow, just a tingling caress to start off with.
‘What are you doing?’
Two men, on the landing behind him. He hadn’t heard them coming down the stairs. Peter jammed the lighter in his pocket and hurried down to the ground floor. Outside the sun glared down. The hugeness of it was overwhelming, a bright, cruel ball that sent waves of heat crashing over his head. He cut across the road, heading for the shadows on the other side.
The shade led him towards the city centre and he emerged on to Market Street, just by Debenhams. A tram rocked past on its rails, the shriek of its wheels giving off streams of black needles. They filled the air about his head and he waved them away with both hands.
Next came music from the open entrance of HMV. People are strange, a man sang, notes undulating wildly up and down. In front of him was a cart. The man beside it had a small plastic gun with a hoop at its end. The thing whirred and a glistening sausage welled up out of it. He flicked his wrist and the balloon detached itself, quivering for a moment in mid air. Abruptly it vanished.
Peter stood transfixed as the man made another appear. This one hummed slightly as it led him across the cobbles, its sides bowing slightly as the air shifted. He tried to touch it, but it had drifted too high.
Shoppers moved out of his way, forming a tunnel that made it easier to follow the balloon. He wondered where it might be taking him but it disappeared outside Music Zone. The song playing inside had hurt it. A woman, wailing. No words, just sharp sounds. He knew the track. Padmore liked to play it. Pink
Floyd. The pain in her voice was mounting. Oh God, be quiet. He put his hands over his ears and hurried towards a side road. Her scream felt like an octopus about his head. Everyone still stepped aside, even though the balloon was no longer there.
He turned a corner and a metal monster blocked the road in front of him. It was squatting on a mound of rubble, caterpillar tracks rocking as its massive jaws bit at the side of the building. Whole sections of brick were falling away, exposing twisted lengths of metal. The creature’s head rotated to the side so it could clamp on the struts and tear them off too.
Only a thin fence was caging the thing in, not enough to contain it. Peter looked around, but everyone was just walking by, talking on mobile phones, chewing on sandwiches. The man selling the Evening Chronicle shouted out a headline, oblivious to the fact a monster was ripping central Manchester apart.
There was a person standing next to the beast, easily within range of its terrible jaws. Maybe the owner. He was wearing an orange bib and yellow helmet. Perhaps the creature was scared of such colours, like giant squid are attracted to them. That’s why so many survivors of torpedoed ships were never found during the war. The man held a hose at waist level, playing a jet of water over the building’s open wounds, drenching the crumbling brick and mortar. He moved the arc of liquid across the monster’s head, then switched it back to the building.
Peter stared
at the drips cascading from its iron teeth and he wondered if this was the beginning of the end. Judgement Day. Had those who were to be chosen by God already gone? These crowds of shoppers, were they like him: damned? He looked around. Surely there should be other creatures? Colossal ones, spewing fire, ripping whole tower blocks from their foundations, tracks wider than a motorway.
He backed round the corner, into the sunlight that filled the street. It’s not real, he said to himself. No one is running, everyone is calm. The monster’s not really there. But he could hear girders groaning and the taste of destruction was on his tongue. He needed darkness and quiet. Pulling the hood of his coat over his head, he set off for the Cathedral.
Chapter 27
The living scarecrows were by the Cathedral again, sitting on the top steps, showing the backs of their hands as they sucked on cigarettes clutched in their fingertips. Why do they always smoke like that, Jon wondered. The door to the Booth Centre was shut.
‘One second,’ Jon said to Rick, walking past the Cathedral’s side entrance to where they were gathered. ‘Dave about?’
A few glanced over their shoulders, took in his suit and turned away.
‘Is Dave about?’ Jon said again.
Baseball Cap flicked his cigarette down the steps. ‘Away to fuck, policeman.’
Jon looked at the bloke’s scrawny neck, saw the grime caught in the creases of his skin.
Rick appeared at his side. ‘Boss?’
‘Come on.’ Jon turned round and headed back to the Cathedral’s side entrance. His phone rang. Carmel’s name was on the screen. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning, Jon. How’s things?’
How’s things? My lungs ache from bloody cigarettes, I’ve got a sister who wants to become a witch, I’ve got a brother . . . He closed the train of thought down. ‘Mustn’t grumble. How did it go with the fan club for Satan’s Inferno?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. A few remembered him from the gigs, but I don’t think they were being honest. Now it’s common knowledge it was his body in the church at Fairfield, he was suddenly everyone’s best mate. However, none of them could even agree what he looked like.’
‘Nobody said they’d seen him going backstage?’
‘One or two of the girls reckoned they had. Again, they were more interested in getting their names mentioned in the feature.’
‘You took their details though?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you email them to me?’
‘Okay.’ She dragged out the word. ‘What about the victim from Alderley Edge?’
Alderley Edge? Jon almost laughed, Carmel, you’re so far off the pace. ‘Still trying to contact a family member.’
‘So we can’t do a swap quite yet then; the fans’ names I’ve got for the victim’s ID.’
You merciless bitch, Jon thought, deciding the Luke Stevens line of enquiry could wait. ‘You’re all heart Carmel. I’ll call you.’ He snapped the phone shut.
Inside the Cathedral, a middle-aged man sat on his own, staring mournfully towards the altar, fingers linked across his lip. Jon’s eyes lingered on his bald head and wondered what had drawn him to that red chair. A dead wife? A child claimed by drugs? A loss of direction in life? It certainly didn’t look like he was there giving thanks for anything good.
Rick led the way across the top of the nave. Following behind, Jon looked at the stone walls on their left. The ancient surfaces were pockmarked and scarred, like cliffs pounded by a merciless sea. His partner paused to direct a nod towards the Regimental Chapel at the altar end of the aisle. Behind the wood balustrades separating it from the main part of the Cathedral a lone figure sat, strands of black hair hanging over his shoulders.
‘Bingo,’ Jon whispered.
Rick pointed to the opposite side of the building. ‘I’ll go round the choir stalls and approach the chapel from the far end.’
‘I’ll wait at the corner until you appear.’ Jon moved silently across the black and white tiles, keeping several stacks of shoulder high chairs between him and the person they were closing in on. He reached the last pillar before the chapel itself and stood behind it, eyes on the far end of the Cathedral. A few seconds later Rick appeared and raised a thumb.
Jon stepped into the chapel, his attention drawn again to the angry glow of the stained-glass window at its end. The person was sitting in the front row of chairs, head bobbing up and down. The movement had the repetitive insistence of the tormented. Jon walked halfway up the aisle and gave a gentle cough. ‘Peter Robson?’
The person looked sharply to his left, but not far enough round to actually see Jon. He then tilted his head to the vault above, as if the voice could have come from up there.
Keeping his voice low, Jon spoke again. ‘Peter? My name’s
Jon.’
Peter scrabbled to his feet and whirled round, arms out at his sides in readiness to run. Jon raised his hands in a placatory gesture. Shit, look at the bloke’s eyes. Bloodshot, with big black pupils. Windows on a tortured soul. He opened his mouth, then paused. How best to speak to the guy? ‘Be cool Peter. There’s no need to be frightened.’
Peter started edging towards the balustrades and suddenly Jon realised he might be able to squeeze between the gaps. Rick appeared on the other side. ‘Calm down Peter, we want to help.’ He jumped at Rick’s voice, then raked a strand of greasy hair from his face. Jon started forward again and he bolted down the side of the chapel, just making it past Jon’s grasping fingers.
Shit! He batted a chair out of the way and gave chase.
Peter raced to the last row of seats and hurdled a couple of ropes, army coat flapping like the wings of a bat. Rick was parallel to him, sprinting down the central aisle of the nave. Jon cleared the ropes, realising Rick was blocking the way out of the side entrance. Peter realised it too and cut away to his right. Bollocks, there were doors on that side too.
Jon reached them just behind Peter, shouldering them apart, then crashing through the next set beyond. Peter was in a stone porch that was fenced off by ornate iron gates. He made it up them, but the spikes at the top prevented him from climbing over. Jon grabbed a muddy army boot and pulled the man back down. ‘Peter, give up mate, you’re not going anywhere.’
Robson tried to crawl for the doors leading back into the Cathedral, one hand batting at the air as if warding off a phantom.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Jon muttered. ‘What are you doing?’
He reached Rick’s legs and tried to burrow between them, all the while babbling in some strange language.
‘Cuffs?’ Rick asked.
‘Peter?’ Jon leaned down. ‘Peter, we’re taking you somewhere safe. Do you understand?’
He shrank back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.
‘Nah,’ Jon said. ‘We don’t need cuffs.’ He hauled the lad to his feet, recoiling at the stench of body odour. Then, keeping a firm grip on his arms, guided him back through the doors.
The man in the main part of the church watched aghast as they walked Robson over to the side exit. Halfway across Peter started to moan, a desolate sound that echoed round the Cathedral walls. They left the building and started across the grass, his cries of distress growing steadily louder.
The scarecrows were soon on their feet, sunken eyes gleaming. Baseball Cap started up the chorus. ‘Leave him alone you fucking pigs.’
‘Yeah, you fuckers. He’s done nothing.’
‘Police State! Police State!’
‘Filth.’
Jon directed Peter on to the flagstone path, but the addicts cut across the grass to get in the way. Robson stumbled on an uneven edge and Jon had to wrestle to keep him upright.
‘See that?’ Baseball Cap said, blocking their way. ‘Couldn’t even wait ’til they got him in a cell.’
Jon curled his forefinger in, making a sharp point of the knuckle. He shot his hand outward, catching the man in the solar plexus. Baseball Cap’s mouth and eyes were wide open as he fell on
to his back. Jon knew the pain would be excruciating. He surveyed the rest of them. ‘There’s room in our car for one more, if any of you fancy a visit to the station.’
They all kept an arm’s length away.
*
Robson was in an interview room less than an hour later. The body search at the custody desk had shown up a handful of change, a brass lighter, a packet of Mayfair cigarettes and the remains of a bag of dried mushrooms.
‘These why you’re in this state?’ The custody sergeant had asked, dangling them before Robson’s unfocused eyes. Eventually he’d given a lopsided grin and the sergeant had glanced uneasily at Jon. ‘Not sure he’s up to being interviewed. I’d be surprised if he knows what his name is, let alone able to sign over these possessions to us.’
But Robson managed an illegible scrawl and was whisked away for fingerprinting. While he was being processed, the office manager had phoned down from the incident room – Forensics had been over the car jack recovered from Robson’s tunnel beneath the railway tracks. Glass fragments from the first two churches had been lifted from it, but that was all. Immediately Jon had bagged up the German army coat Robson had been wearing in the Cathedral and marked it as highest priority. They needed to know if Pete had been with Luke at the third and fourth churches to burn down.
Now Pete was in front of Jon, the interview table between them. Wondering how to get started, Jon said, ‘Peter, for the tape, would you confirm that you have forgone the option of having a solicitor present?’
Robson kept his arms curled round his ribs, his hands lost in the folds of the white custody suit, head hanging limply forward.
‘The suspect just nodded his head,’ Jon announced, ignoring
Rick’s shocked glance.