by Ann Evans
“It really hurts,” Lucy groaned, almost crying now.
“Hold on,” Julia whispered, getting to her feet, finding that every muscle in her body screamed out in pain. “I’ll organise us a loo.” A quick look round had her deciding the far corner of the attic would suffice.
“Hold my hand, sweetheart, and be careful only to stand on the beams. The floor might not be strong enough to support us.”
They carefully made their way to the far corner of the room, where some old newspapers were about to find a new role in life.
Each step was taken with utmost precision, making sure nothing creaked or cracked. Nothing must happen now to alert Vincent. She knew in her heart he wouldn’t think twice about killing her and Lucy, if he had to. Nash, too, probably.
“I feel horrible,” Lucy complained, as they relived themselves on the old newspapers.
“It can’t be helped, love. Besides, no one lives here,” Julia whispered back.
Stepping away from the makeshift toilet, Julia peeped out through the little window. It was obvious this was an attic window positioned in the roof, because she could see the steeply sloping roof below them. They were such a long way up, four stories high. It was an amazing and terrifying view; she could see for miles. There was farmland and forest, a church spire in the distance. She tried to get her bearings, wracked her brains to think where this four-storey derelict house could be. Surely, she would have driven past this at some time, or other.
Way down, in the drive – or what had once been a drive, before becoming overgrown with brambles, was another car parked beside her Mini. For a second, her hopes soared. Had someone come to rescue them? The police? No, she knew what it was. They’d stolen another car, one that worked. She prayed they would make their getaway soon.
Her eyes drifted off into the distance again. Beyond the treetops was farmland. She could see a farmhouse, and sheep grazing in the fields.
It all appeared so peaceful, so calm. Her thoughts drifted to those long lazy days when she, Lucy, and Ian would go walking in the countryside. They had their favourite places. This time of year, they loved walking through the woods, eyes peeled for squirrels, taking a few branches of red-berried holly to decorate the mantelpiece at Christmas. They would walk along the canal tow-path, with its ducks and moor hens, and Lucy would run on ahead through the tunnel, shouting back at them, so she could hear her voice echo. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when life was good.
She rested her forehead against the windowpane, unable to stop the sudden rush of tears. She was trying hard not to sob out loud, and to be strong, for Lucy’s sake. It would be over soon. Those two downstairs would leave before long, and she and Lucy would be free.
“Mummy, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m alright,” Julia murmured, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
Lucy was up on her feet, “Are you frightened? Are they going to come back and hurt us?”
“Of course not,” Julia said softly, as Lucy came towards her. “Be careful love, watch where you’re stepping…”
Before Julia could reach out to her daughter, Lucy’s foot slipped off the beam. There was a sickening crack of plaster, as the child’s foot broke through the floor.
Her scream was out, before Julia could stop her.
CHAPTER 23
Vincent’s eyes shot open. His heart was banging inside his chest. The kid. That had been the kid's scream, unless it was a bird, or some creature outside being ripped apart by a fox. Or it was a dream. But, it might have been the kid, still alive.
He lay perfectly still, listening. The house was silent now, like it was holding its breath. He couldn't take the risk. He pulled on his trousers and shoes. It had been a scream; he wasn’t one to imagine things. It had come from somewhere above – the top of the house. Cursing to himself, he realised he hadn't searched everywhere last night. The kid was alive. What about the woman? Her, too, probably.
Teeth gritted he stormed out of his room, slamming his foot against Nash’s bedroom door, sending it crashing back against the wall, making enough noise to wake the dead.
Nash lay sprawled on his mattress, shivering. His skin was the colour of cold porridge. Vincent grabbed him by his denim jacket, and dragged the shaking skinny little runt to his knees. His eyes half opened, bleak hopeless eyes.
“You didn’t do it, did you?” He shook him, finding no resistance. It was like shaking a rag doll, and all the hate and resentment for putting up with his ugly mush all this time consumed him.
Vincent hit him hard across his scarred face, with the back of his hand. Spittle sprayed out of Nash’s mouth. “Why didn’t you? Huh? Why?”
Saliva continued to dribble from the corner of Nash’s mouth. His words were vague, barely audible. “They’re dead… told you… buried…”
Vincent’s face contorted with fury. “They’d better be, or you’re gonna be buried out there, dead or alive.” He slammed him viciously onto his back, and stormed out of the room.
The stairs swayed, as he ran down them, and, for a second, he stopped, and clutched at the wall, thinking they were about to go. They groaned, but stayed put. He took the last stairs more cautiously. Outside, it was bitterly cold despite a winter sun. He broke into a run, leaping the brambles, cursing as his coat caught and snagged.
He searched around, trying to work out where he’d seen the mound of earth last night. He could hardly believe his own stupidity for actually believing the little runt. He should have known. He should never have trusted him.
It wasn’t difficult to find the grave again. The betraying little bastard may as well have marked it with a cross and flowers.
Working feverishly, he began tearing the sticks and bracken aside, finding soft loose earth below. Without a shovel, he used his hands, scooping out handfuls of mud and worms. Then, he felt something – material, a damp woollen blanket. His stomach churned, doubts crowding him. Nash could have done them in after all.
Then, what was the scream? He didn't believe in ghosts. It had been the kid; he was positive. He'd heard enough of her high-pitched shrieks to last a lifetime. But, now, he felt uncomfortable as his fingertips touched the blanket that the kid had been wrapped in. He didn’t want to see their mangled corpses. But he had to be sure. He pulled at it, and felt the weight of something wrapped inside it. He tugged harder. Stones and mud came tumbling out.
Throwing back his head, Vincent roared with blinding rage. And then, with his fury taking over, he stumbled back to the house, murder in his heart. He ran up the stairs three at a time, ignoring the sounds of cracking wood.
Nash was struggling to get off the mattress when Vincent lunged at him, fists and feet flaying, finding their target with brutal accuracy. Nash curled himself into a ball, his good arm trying to fend off the crippling blows.
“Why? Why didn’t you finish them off? Why?”
Cowering, Nash mumbled, “Don’t kill kids. Not little kids.”
“You do, when they’re witnesses,” Vincent snarled, landing another kick into the small of Nash's spine.
“Not kids,” Nash uttered, as Vincent stood over him, waiting for an explanation. “Had a brother once, baby brother.”
Vincent threw back his head in disgust. “Spare me the hearts and flowers.”
Nash’s bloodied face looked pathetically up at him. “Nobody gave a damn about me, except him. He loved me. He was two, I was thirteen. Giving him a bath, weren’t I. Someone knocked the door, so I went downstairs for a minute… only a minute. Came back, and he was dead. Drowned.” His drooped eyes met Vincent’s. “You don’t kill little kids. Never want to see another dead kid again, as long as I live.”
“Well, that ain’t going to be for much longer,” Vincent growled. “And the woman? Don’t tell me, you used to have a mother…”
“She was kind,” Nash slurred. “Only two people have looked at me without wanting to puke, since me face got sliced up – you and her.”
“You stupi
d, dumb idiot! She cares about you as much as I do. And you know how much that is? Zilch! Zero. Truth is, Nash, you turn my stomach. You always have. Only I put up with you, because I thought you would be useful to have around. But, you’re not. You’re an ugly waste of space. So, I’m gonna do your job for you, and I’m gonna hand the corpses to you when I’ve done, kid and all.”
“Vince, no!” Nash whined, struggling to get to his feet, as Vincent strode out into the hallway. “They won’t tell…”
Ignoring him, Vincent went up to the third floor, taking his time, opening doors, and searching properly, looking in cupboards, under piles of junk. Anywhere they might be hiding.
There was no sign in any of the upstairs rooms. He stood for a moment, looking up at the tiny attic trapdoor in the ceiling. Could they have squeezed up there?
If they were desperate enough, he realised.
He fetched a chair from a bedroom, his fury abating. A sadistic hatred for them all now running through his veins.
Standing on the chair, stretching up he could reach the trapdoor. He pushed upwards. It lifted a fraction, but there was a weight over it – something heavy, possibly even the woman sitting on it.
He was going to need something else to stand on so he could get his shoulder to it. He searched around. In the front bedroom, there was a wooden storage crate. Turned on its side, with the chair on top, he’d be able to reach. But, scrutinising the ceiling further along, he spotted something else. A hole.
A cold, calculating smile spread across his face. Walking back to stand directly under the trapdoor on the landing, he began to sing. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
He listened. He could almost hear their terrified breathing. He could imagine them clinging on to each other, trying not to make a sound. He stood on the chair again, and pressed upwards. Again, the trapdoor gave a little, before it was snapped hard down. They were pressing down on it.
He liked this game. It made him want to sing again. “Come out, come out wherever you are. Vincent’s coming to get you…”
CHAPTER 24
Nash couldn’t tell what hurt the most, his body from the dog bite and the kicking, or knowing Vince had been pretending all this time, and he was as repulsed by the sight of him as the rest of the human race. He’d put on an act, making out he wasn’t sickened by his appearance, and pretending they were mates. And all that time, it had been a big fat lie. He concluded both hurt equally—the deceit and the beating.
Well, Vince Webb was gonna be sorry. The smarmy bastard was forgetting who he was dealing with. Nash rolled onto his knees, reached for his cosh lying on the floor where he'd left it last night as he'd tried to sleep. It felt heavier than usual – unless he was getting weaker. He slipped it back inside his jacket, into the deep pocket he'd adapted years ago, next to the Stanley knife. It weighed him down, as he hauled himself to his feet.
His legs were like lead weights, not wanting to budge. But he had to move, he had to. He dragged himself to the door; sweat pouring out of him. He could hear Vince up on the next landing, singing. Well, he wouldn’t be singing for much longer. But, before he saw to him, there was something else that needed seeing to. He reached the stairs, but instead of going up a flight to where Vince was, Nash crept downstairs, barely making a sound. It wouldn't take a minute – what he had to do. He felt for his Stanley knife, and staggered outside.
He was close to exhaustion, when he returned a few minutes later. He hoped Vince hadn't reached the woman and kid yet. They were decent—they were. Bloody shame they'd got tangled up in all this. They didn't deserve it.
He needed to get up those stairs. There was still time; he could hear Vince still singing, goading them, frightening the shit out of them.
Drawing the cosh out of his jacket, he climbed the stairs, but it was too heavy to carry in one hand. He was weakening. Vaguely, he wondered if he was dying, like the woman had warned all along. His hatred for Vince deepened. He must have seen it coming, and he hadn't given a shit.
He put the cosh back inside his jacket, and concentrated on lifting one foot after the other. The stairs groaned under his weight, but the sound and movement didn't cause Vince to come searching; he was too intent on his manic chanting.
Looking upwards through blurred eyes, the stairs seemed to reach upwards forever, like a mountain, stretching to some far-off point. Hatred forced him on. Vince Webb was gonna pay. If it took every last ounce of strength, he’d make the lying bastard wish he’d never set eyes on him.
He struggled on, half on his knees, crawling, holding back the grunts of pain. He had to be quiet. But, each stair took its toll, until he couldn't tell whether it was his head swaying and rolling, or the staircase about to give way and collapse.
Nearing the top of the second flight, Nash raised his eyes to see Vince had his back to him. He was standing on a chair, underneath a hole in the ceiling, singing his stupid song. Reaching the top stair, Nash hauled himself from his belly to his feet, and gripped the cosh. He took two unsteady steps towards the man he had stupidly thought was his friend, hoisted the weapon, and then, brought it slamming down onto the back of Vince’s knees. With a shriek of agony, he buckled instantly, and fell sprawling across the landing, moaning in pain, chair legs tangling with limbs.
Nash slumped back against the wall, breathing hard, trying to find some reserves of strength. You didn’t leave a wild animal wounded, so it could come back and kill you. You moved in first.
He lunged again, metal bar raised, but Vince kicked out, knocking Nash’s feet from under him. Vince was on him in a moment, punching and gouging. Nash fought back, lashing out wildly with his cosh, but his aim missed its target every time, and each blow took its toll on Nash's energies. They rolled towards the top of the stairs, then, Vince was standing, his face twisted with rage. Nash had always thought Vince was a great looking bloke. He had envied his appearance, however, now, he looked as ugly as he did, and Nash envied nothing.
Nash was dragged to his feet, and then, Vince struck him a vicious punch to his throat. He felt his airway seal, felt his lungs scream out for oxygen, felt his eyes bulge. As he gasped for breath, his head was yanked backwards, until he was looking into Vince’s blotched and ragged face.
With no breath to draw on, Nash felt himself falling backwards. Everything was spinning, there was a gurgling sound coming from somewhere close by. Maybe it was him, he couldn't tell. Then, noise was all around him—a cracking, splintering, groaning sound. The sound of the staircase, as it finally parted with the wall.
Shock registered on Vince's face, as he jerked backwards.
Nash reached out, desperately clawing at thin air, as the stairs fell away. The sensation was strange, like he was floating. Vince was getting further away – up above him now. He was floating in slow motion; he could see every trace of astonishment on Vince’s face, as he floated so very slowly away from him.
There was time to think. He hoped the kid would be okay, and the woman. She'd plucked glass splinters from his brow. She'd said sorry when he'd yelped. He hoped they'd be alright, but he didn't think they would be, not now. Then, that thought faded, as the distance between him and Vince increased. He could see an aeroplane, waiting to take him to the Californian sunshine. It began taxiing along the runway, and he wanted to shout, tell it to wait.
But, as the floor rushed up to crush the final breath from his lungs, he saw the plane climbing into the blue sky, leaving him lying there to die among the rubble.
CHAPTER 25
Beads of perspiration glistened on Ian Logan’s top lip. This was insane. He hadn’t done old Benjamin in. Why the hell would he? He liked the old fella, but trying to get through to these thick coppers was like beating your head against a brick wall. They wouldn’t listen; they’d made up their minds. God almighty, O'Ryan had even asked if he could take a DNA sample. “Just to eliminate you from our enquiries,” he'd said, with that arrogant look on his face.
Of course he'd
agreed. How could he refuse? But, this was all getting ridiculous. He was their scapegoat. It would make their job nice and easy, if they pinned the blame on him.
He dressed slowly, having persuaded them to at least allow him to get some clothes on. They were downstairs, nosing about, no doubt, and seeing what else they could pin on him.
Buttoning his shirt, and pulling on a sweater, he crossed to the window, and saw the hordes of police in the street, some milling around old Benjamin’s garden. The house was all taped off, along with half the street. Poor old devil, Ian thought to himself. Who the hell had done it, and half-killed the dog to boot? There were some callous bastards about.
He spotted a uniformed police officer heading towards his front door. Cursing softly, he went downstairs to see what this one wanted.
“Could I have a word with the Chief Inspector, please, sir?”
“Wait there. I’ll get him,” Ian answered, not about to have another copper in his house. Two was more than enough. “Inspector O’Ryan, you’re wanted outside,” he said, going into the lounge, where sure enough they were looking through his sideboard drawers. “And from now on, I don't want you touching anything, unless you have a search warrant. And that's not because I'm hiding anything; it's because I object to police harassment.”
O’Ryan did no more than raise one eyebrow, as he walked past him to the front door. Ian glared after him, running his fingers raggedly through his hair. The two officers talked quietly on the doorstep. He couldn't make out what they were saying. He hoped to God they weren't concocting something else to try and blame him for. He turned his back on them, and went through to the kitchen. Coppers, or no coppers, he was going to have some breakfast.
Fat splattered, as he threw two rashers of bacon into a pan. His kitchen was a mess; Julia was going to have a fit when she came home. The hollow feeling in his chest worsened – if she came home.
Grimes stood in the doorway, with a hungry look on his face. Ian tried to ignore it, and failed.