by Wes Markin
Despite the place being deserted, there was a meaty aroma that seemed remarkably fresh. This peculiarity forced Paul to consider the atrocities that must have occurred in this kitchen a century ago.
As a child, it had been terrifying to hear the story from another boy. He had introduced it with a question which had only one aim – to bully him. ‘Do you know what your great-great-grandad did?’
His parents, and the parents of others, would often dismiss this story as Wiltshire folklore. Their children’s minds were vulnerable, after all, and needed protecting. When Paul did eventually find out that it was true and that the records of this event existed, he’d lain awake all night, scribbling other words the bully had used that first time. Over and over again.
He ate children … he ate children … he ate children ...
The bullying had worsened before it had improved. Paul had earned the nickname Hanzel due to the references to cannibalism in that classic tale. He’d had his schoolbag filled with dogfood and the children had laughed at him for bringing a ‘minced baby’ to school with him. Kids could be cruel. These had been for a long time.
Of course, it had all come to an end, when he was twelve and he’d almost died. He’d been kidnapped, and his father, murdered. After returning to school, the bullies had rounded on him and Paul kicked the living shit out of two of them.
That had been the end of that.
Paul often considered this moment of triumph with a smile across his face. But not this time. Not while he was in a farmhouse passed down from murderer to murderer, breathing in rank odours, and lugging litres of petrol around with him.
At the kitchen door, Paul put the plastic fuel can down for a moment, to catch his breath, and wipe the sweat from his brow with his T-shirt. It was a cold night but lugging this weight over that farmyard had taken its toll.
It was only now that he realised that he was shaking and his stomach was turning over. He was terrified, but who wouldn’t be?
He needed to get this done quickly.
He left the petrol can at the kitchen door and moved into the hallway. The most important thing to do now was check that there was no one here. The last thing he wanted to do was burn the place down with a potential squatter sleeping upstairs.
The check didn’t take long. The house was smaller than it’d looked on the outside. He was also careful to call out warnings before going into any room to avoid being ambushed by someone.
The first part of his warning was very honest. ‘I’m about to burn this house down.’
The second part, less so. ‘I’m not going to come in to check and I’m just about to strike a match.’
When no one emerged, he went in. Paul may have been a Ray, but he wasn’t like any of the other Rays. Life may have been cheap to them. It wasn’t, and never would be, to him.
This was where the legacy of the Rays truly ended.
Here. Tonight.
Then, he would change his name. He was sixteen now. The law would allow him that mercy.
He knew exactly where he wanted to start the fire. He returned to the living room. Here a stuffed Dachshund whiled away its time on a white rug.
He unscrewed the can and emptied petrol all over the Dachshund. He held his breath and moved back quickly as he poured; he knew the fumes would attack his eyes otherwise. The petrol gushed out over the floor and the walls as he weaved backwards through the hallway. Some splashed on his shoes and trousers, but he wasn’t worried. He’d be some distance away before the flames went up. He manoeuvred carefully around the kitchen so he could hit the cupboards, the drawers and all the work surfaces without doubling back on himself. Finally, he was outside with petrol to spare.
He pulled a Zippo lighter out of his pocket and read the engraving: Happy Birthday Joe!
‘For you Dad,’ Paul said and lit the Zippo. He threw it into the kitchen and listened to it clatter against the ground. The sound of the ignition was soft but, considering the silence, significant. The flames rose quickly. Surprised by the speed, Paul turned to run.
There was a man standing there in overalls. There was a loose white sack over his face. It wasn’t tied on, but eyeholes had been cut out so he could see. He held a mallet in his hand.
Paul was already mid-sprint, so suddenly turning back again caused him to lose his footing. He fell to his knees. He noticed a black bird sitting on the ground in front of him. Then, he heard and felt the thud in the back of his head, and everything disappeared.
1918
THE RAVEN FOUND another tree from which to watch. Close enough to see but not to be seen. The bird was still heavy from its late-night feast and it didn’t want to add a frantic escape to its agenda. It so desperately wanted to watch. This was its favourite kind of show. One which involved death.
The soldiers had been quick in their ambush of Reginald Ray. Now the beating they gave the old farmer as they marched him across his farmyard was swift and brutal. Their hatred for this man burned. Other men may have moved slowly to savour the experience; let the farmer feel each blow and then suffer for a short time before landing the next one.
But no. These men were soldiers and they behaved as such. They were trained to move quickly and efficiently to get the job done. Enjoyment would be a distraction. So, they pounded him as they moved at pace.
The screams from both Reginald and Gladys were thick and desperate. Screams were punctuated occasionally by a soldier’s war-cry. ‘You are going to burn in hell tonight for what you’ve done.’
Sometimes, one soldier would warn another. ‘Not the face. Don’t hit him in the face. It’ll come off all over you.’
Eventually, the screams subsided, and to the raven, it looked as if they were now simply dragging a corpse.
Only when they reached the tree did Reginald indicate that he was still alive. ‘I’ve spent a long time in Hell already.’
‘Well then, you won’t mind staying there permanently,’ said the leader, William, as he seized Reginald under his armpits and hoisted him up. ‘Turn and face me.’
Reginald complied. William looked him up and down. His buttoned cotton pyjamas were grass-stained and muddy. ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Your face—’
‘—looks like a piece of rotten fruit?’ Reginald smiled, causing the largest sores on his cheeks to crack open, exposing the glistening soft tissue beneath.
‘Yes,’ William said and spat on the floor.
Reginald’s hair was thinning peculiarly. It was as if someone had seized handfuls of it and torn it out, exposing patches of his scalp, which was also blistered and weeping. ‘As I said, I’ve spent a long time in hell already,’ he paused to lift his hand and point at the soldiers. ‘I never experienced the youthful wonders that you did. Do you remember when you had the pick of the girls? When you could touch and feel all those bodies?’ He touched his puffy top lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Inside and out?’
‘You’re an animal,’ William said.
At this point, Gladys, who was down on her knees several metres behind William and her husband, burst into tears again.
Reginald continued, ‘Do you remember? Remember all that fuckity-fuck, fuckity-fuck? Well, I remember what I was doing in my youth.’ He turned his finger back to point into his mouth. ‘I was watching my teeth tumble out into the trough as I loaded the swill.’ He then held up his hand. ‘I watched my nails turn to the colour of shit.’ He pulled at the sores on his cheeks. ‘And I watched my face turn to rotten fruit. So, you want to talk about me going to Hell this night, soldier? Don’t make me laugh. I was already there when all of you were fuckity-fuck, fuckity-fuck, fuckity-fuck!’
‘It’s a special day for me Reginald,’ William said, gripping the farmer’s shoulder. ‘Today, my only son would have been fifteen.’ He slammed his fist into his stomach. The old man crumpled to his knees, gasping for air.
Moments later, the breathlessness became an insidious laugh. He looked up with a toothless grin. ‘No fuckity-fuck for him then!’
>
William kicked him hard in the face. It lifted him partially off the ground before sending him onto his back. William descended with his fists flying. It took three of his companions to restrain him. ‘Let’s do this properly, William,’ Gav hissed in his ear, ‘he’s just trying to win whatever he thinks is left to win. Now’s the time to end it.’
William pulled away and turned his back on Reginald. He looked down at Gladys. She was no longer being restrained. There was no need. Listening to her husband talking this way had broken her.
As the other soldiers prepared Reginald for his execution, William knelt and said, ‘How could you allow this? You must have known?’
Gladys looked up at him with a red face. ‘He took me.’
‘What?’ William creased his face. ‘I don’t—’
‘He took me when I was five.’
William widened his eyes. ‘From where?’
‘From the orphanage.’
‘My God, when you were five? What the hell did he do to you?’
‘Nothing … at first. He treated me like a daughter, and I helped him with his illness.’ She was crying hard, so she had to pause to get control of her voice. ‘He treated me well. Until I was twelve. Until we had Andrew.’
William flinched.
She continued. ‘And then he changed. All he cared about was Andrew, and later, Dorothy. I was his nurse then. Nothing more. To spit and shout at as his illness grew worse.’
Gladys was already speaking about him as if he was gone. Did she want the same thing that the soldiers did? An end to the madness?
William lifted her head by her chin and looked into her eyes. ‘Did you know? Did you know what he was doing?’
‘Unlike that man, I believe in God, sir, and I will swear to you on the lives of my children, I knew nothing.’
Reginald called out from behind William. ‘She’s telling the truth, soldier. She ate them … enjoyed every mouthful, but she knew nothing.’
William turned. The noose was around Reginald’s neck. Gav held him up by his legs. The old farmer didn’t struggle. The rope had been thrown over the gnarled branch and then tied around the base of the tree.
‘Why Reginald?’ William said, taking steps towards the condemned man. ‘Why did you do this to us? To our children?’
‘The answer is simple really,’ Reginald said. ‘Their youth, their freshness, their health. I wanted it inside me.’
David vomited. Douglas cried, ‘Jesus.’
‘Why?’ William said.
Reginald smiled. ‘To make me better.’
‘It doesn’t look like it worked.’
‘Eventually. I could feel the newness inside … building, growing.’
‘Before you die, Reginald, can you tell us if our children suffered?’
Reginald paused before answering. ‘No. Some questions are best left unanswered.’
‘So you would deny us even that?’
‘I would—’
‘Monstrous fucking beast,’ Gav said and released Reginald’s legs.
There was no drop. They didn’t want his death to be instant. Stop the flow of life had been the plan. Let him feel it leave him.
The raven chanced another two trees to get a better view.
It watched six soldiers in a semi-circle around the old tree. No more vomiting, or crying, just stony-faced appreciation of a demon being sent back to Hell. Even the wife, Gladys, had risen to her feet to bid farewell to the man who’d stolen her innocence.
Reginald Ray gripped at the noose around his neck, following an instinctive reaction to tear away the object cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen. The raven had flown near this man on many occasions. There seemed to be more peace in those eyes than ever before. Even when the capillaries in them began to burst.
After several minutes, Reginald Ray hung limply with his tongue protruding.
The soldiers took it in turns to spit on the body and then turned from it. They hoisted Gladys to her feet and told her that she would be spared on two conditions. The first was that she left Reginald Ray to the animals for a few days before he was cut down. The second that she was a good parent to those children.
Once they were some distance away, the raven flew over to the hanged man. It landed on his shoulder. It could feel the murderer’s heart still beating. This didn’t deter the raven. It really couldn’t help itself.
It fed on the tongue of Reginald Ray.
2015
THE BACK OF his head throbbed.
The last thing Paul remembered looking at had been a black bird and, behind that, a burning farmhouse. Now, he was looking into a flame again, but this time, it was smaller, and less aggressive.
A candle.
He became aware of a deep, unwavering groan. Then his surroundings began to take shape. Candles were suspended in bulky silver candelabras which lined a long table. There was someone perched across from him and someone sitting to his right, at the head of the table.
His vision was swirling too much for him to focus on these figures and they were little more than ink blots on pale surroundings.
Memory flew to the man with the white sack on his head … the slits for his eyes … the mallet in his hand. His heart suddenly beating faster, he tried to stand up. Then, realising his legs were chained, he swayed on his feet, and felt his blood freeze.
‘Stay seated, please.’ The words were hissed, rather than spoken.
Paul disobeyed the order, despite knowing his options were limited. He couldn’t run. The chains would bring him to his knees.
Shit … shit … not again … Jesus, not again!
The moaning continued. His surroundings became clearer. There were bowls dotted around the table. Some contained bread, others fruit. There were sliced meats, and bowls of stew. It was a spacious room with a Victorian feel. There was a grandfather clock swimming out of the shadows, and some Victorian paintings. It was, in fact, a watercolour of a family gathered around a small stream on a beautiful summer’s day, which brought his vision to full clarity.
And how, God, he wished it hadn’t.
The moaning young man opposite him was disfigured. Identifying how exactly in the limited light offered by the candles were hard, but he didn’t appear to have any lips, eyelids or ears.
Paul took a deep breath through his nose as the world swayed around him again. ‘What’s happening? Where—’
He stopped when he saw the elderly man at the head of the table. He also looked disfigured, but in a different way. His face looked sore. Patches of it looked scabby. He was thin and haggard, and there were many bald spots on his head. He was spooning stew into his mouth.
Paul tried again to step away, forgetting his legs were chained. The chains rattled and he stopped.
‘You won’t get far,’ the elderly man said.
The young man opposite him, who appeared to have been doctored in some way, raised a hand to point at him …
Except, there was no hand, just a bandaged stump.
The young man didn’t speak and continued to groan.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Paul said.
The elderly man swallowed his food. ‘Ah nothing, ignore him. I had him over for dinner, and I don’t think this is what he expected. He hasn’t even touched his food.’
The young man had a plate of sliced meat in front of him.
‘Let me out of here,’ Paul said. ‘You don’t understand. This can’t be happening. Not again … don’t you understand? Do you know who I am?’
‘No, who are you, young man?’
‘I’m Paul Ray.’
The man put down his spoon. It clattered in his bowl. ‘Well … fuckity-fuck, Paul Ray! What were the chances of that? So, pleased to finally meet you.’ He jumped to his feet and came around the table with his arms open to embrace him. ‘I’m Reginald Ray.’
1
IN HIS BATHROOM mirror, Michael Yorke examined the lines around his eyes. He ran his hand over his beard. Would shaving it off give him a
sudden burst of youth?
Probably not. He was forty-four. Besides, when had he ever really cared that much about his appearance anyway?
No, the beard stayed, despite the white patches; there was something about it that was comforting.
Yorke sighed. Not only was he aging at the speed of light, but in the space of less than two years, he had become a married father-of-two and that came with significant pressure.
When he’d been a Detective Chief Inspector with the Wiltshire police, the pressure had been immense. At times, intolerable. But fatherhood was a completely different planet. A different dimension even.
Beatrice Yorke, now nine months old, had not made a settled start to her life. She’d overcome her premature arrival easily enough, only to return home with colic, which had made her existence, as well as the existence of her parents, quite traumatic. Bouncing through every available concoction, both traditional and scientific, and all equally ineffective, had been costly, and exhausting. Eventually, the Yorke family had conceded defeat; they were never going to sleep again.
And then it suddenly stopped! Two months ago. But no sooner had they dared to accept the relief on offer than a problem with the other child began.
Yorke looked down at his adopted son Ewan’s mobile phone screen and read the anonymous message again.
The thirteen-year-old boy was carrying one hell of a burden.
The message said: Hey orphan.
DS Jake Pettman tried his best to get into bed with his wife, Sheila, without waking her, but failed miserably. As he so often did.
‘You seen the time?’ Sheila said, keeping her back to him.
‘I’m sorry. It’s this new case. The missing farmer’s boy.’
He reached out to stroke her shoulder. She was wearing his favourite light blue nightie. The one that always excited him. But he was well and truly satisfied this evening. As he’d been most evenings this month.
‘If I didn’t know how shit your job was, I’d probably start suspecting you were having an affair,’ Sheila said.