by Greg Krojac
“I stayed as quiet as I could, quiet as a mouse, pushing Mary behind me to protect her, and we hid behind our old wooden bed. We tried to remain unnoticed but you spotted us and hauled the bed away from us. The door was broken but you weren’t afraid of anyone seeing you; after all, you were the overseer and were untouchable. I shouted and pleaded with you to get out, to leave us alone, I begged you to let my daughter leave, whilst you did whatever you wanted to do to me. But you blocked the doorway with the wardrobe.
“You grinned that sickly, disgusting grin of yours, dragged me to my feet, and then punched me full in the face, and I crumpled to the floor. You unbuckled your belt, allowing your trousers to drop to the floor and, despite all the whiskey that you’d thrown down your throat, you still managed to get a hard-on.
“I called to Mary to hide in another room but you told her that if she did so you would kill us both. I told her to close her eyes and cover her ears but you repeated the same threat. And then, and then you climbed on top of me, clawing at my dress and undergarments with your fat stubby fingers, ripping them off and exposing my womanhood. You raped me, you bastard. You raped me in front of my little girl. And that’s why you must die. That’s why you must die. Not because you raped me – I could have lived with that - but because you raped me in front of my six-year-old daughter, destroying her innocence in one fell swoop.”
Simon stopped fidgeting with the knife and grasped its hilt.
“What goes around, comes around, Grimes!”
The boy stood up and drove the blade deep into his mother’s abdomen. He twisted the knife to the right and then back to the left, drawing it free, blood dripping off its blade. Hannah grimaced with the sudden pain. Again, he drove the knife home, this time just below the ribcage. A third lunge buried the blade in Hannah’s abdomen again, and the fourth and final attack was a slicing motion that opened Hannah’s throat, leaving a gaping wound, dripping crimson, as if a macabre smile had been painted onto her neck
***
Simon let the knife fall to the floor and went upstairs to his bedroom, where he opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh pair of Y-fronts. He casually changed into the clean underwear, putting his used underpants into the laundry basket on the upstairs landing just as he would have done on any other day, even though there was no one to wash them now. He put his jeans back on, tucking his shirt into his jeans before refastening the blue and red snake belt and walking over to his train set, where he picked up the Princess Victoria locomotive and put the model train into his pocket.
He left the bedroom, not bothering to close the door, and stopped at the top of the stairs. He paused for a couple of seconds and then lifted his leg over the bannister and slid down to the bottom of the stairs. Dismounting from the bannister he looked towards the upstairs landing. He smiled and spoke aloud to himself.
“Why not? Who’s going to stop me?”
He jogged back upstairs and climbed back onto the bannister, sliding down again, this time letting out a ‘whoop’ as if he were a cowboy on a bucking bronco. He dismounted the bannister and turned towards the front door.
***
He pulled the door open and stepped outside. There wasn’t much traffic, it being Christmas Eve, but the house was situated on the main road and he knew that there would still be some cars, trucks, and buses passing his house. Not everyone was at home with their families yet. He took a few paces forward and stood by the kerb, looking to his right, watching the oncoming vehicles. A grey Ford Anglia and a black Austin Morris 1100 drove past. Simon was very good at recognizing cars thanks to the Observers book of Automobiles that his father had given him last Christmas. He also had an Observers book of birds, but it was much easier to car-watch than bird-watch. Especially when you lived on the main road. A light-blue Triumph Herald convertible approached with its roof down. The couple inside must have been crazy; Simon could feel the cold evening air trying to cut through him. He tried in vain to blow smoke rings from his breath as it left his mouth, just like his dad had been able to do when smoking a cigarette. He heard a louder engine. That was more like it. This was almost certainly a lorry. He took a better look and could see that the headlights were set too high and too far apart to be those of a car. As the vehicle got closer he could make out the shape of a dumper-truck. He sang quietly to himself.
“The Chocky Bar Kid is the cool kid on the block,
And he loves it when mum says ‘it’s Chocky o’clock’,
The best-tasting chocolate,
Always has one in his pocket,
What time is it?
It’s Chocky o’clock!.”
He made a few silent calculations and then, at the perfect moment, he shouted as loud as he could
“IT’S CHOCKY O’CLOCK!!”
The impact was inevitable as Simon walked calmly into the path of the diesel-powered monster. His head smashed against the front of the vehicle before being forced to follow his body as it was dragged underneath the truck, the weight of the nearside wheels crushing his small form as they passed over him. The driver braked hard, pulling back on the steering wheel as if that would somehow help stop the vehicle and avoid what had just happened. After what seemed an eternity the truck slithered to a halt and stood there, motionless, apparently untouched except for some blood that was dripping down over the sky blue bonnet and a small portion of Simon’s scalp that had become lodged in a space between the bumper and the cab of the vehicle.
CHAPTER TWO
12:30 TUESDAY 26 JUNE 1990
Almost twenty-five years had passed since the unexplained deaths of Hannah Jones and her son Simon had hit the national news headlines. Psychologists were interviewed at the time to try to uncover the reasons why a young boy might have murdered his own mother, and especially in such a barbaric way. There were a lot of theories. Perhaps Hannah was abusing the boy and he suddenly cracked, killing her to stop his own suffering; but the manner of the murder seemed far too premeditated for it to have been a sudden emotional response. Perhaps the boy was on drugs, but that would have shown up during the post-mortem. And how would the boy have got hold of drugs in the first place? He was only ten years old. Perhaps Simon was possessed by the Devil, but only the very religious subscribed to that particular theory. The only thing for certain was that nobody was certain.
***
Seated on a bench halfway between Clarence Pier and the D-Day museum on Southsea seafront, Aaron Hunt watched as the Isle of Wight ferry made its way across the Solent to Cowes. It was a clear day and he could easily see the passenger hovercraft as it started its journey in the opposite direction. When it arrived in Southsea it would park noisily alongside Clarence Pier but, at this distance, its engine couldn’t be heard. Two minutes earlier he’d watched a P&O cross-channel ferry pass from left to right in front of him and enter Portsmouth harbour.
He opened his backpack and took out his sandwich box. The contents were never a surprise; he was a single man and had to make his own packed lunch. If he’d wanted to surprise himself he could have perhaps made three days’ worth of sandwiches, wrapped them in tinfoil and then shuffled them. But Aaron was a very methodical man, a research scientist. Some may have thought him strange, not because he was a very methodical man, but because of his field of research - he was one of the most senior researchers in the field of reincarnation. He’d had a fascination with the subject for as long as he could remember. He didn’t believe that when we die we just cease to exist, but he certainly didn’t believe in the premise of Heaven either. Nor Hell for that matter. The only possible explanation that held any credence with him was that our souls, our life energy, continue on in another body. But he never forgot that he was a scientist either; he needed proof, and he would not rest until he had it.
It was such a beautiful sunny day that it seemed to make his tuna spread sandwiches taste even better. In his lunchbox, waiting to be eaten, were an apple, a banana, and a pot of natural yoghurt, along with a metal teaspoon – he wouldn’t use a plast
ic spoon on the grounds that he didn’t want to clutter the environment with unnecessary litter.
A slightly overweight man, probably in his mid-twenties, with a shock of unkempt red hair and wearing jeans and a dark brown leather bomber jacket over a white T-shirt, sat down on the bench beside him. He had a couple of day’s beard growth and his teeth looked like they hadn’t seen a toothbrush for a week. The briefcase he was carrying looked a little out of place bearing in mind how casually he was dressed.
“Beautiful day isn’t it?” the young man commented.
Aaron looked at him. He would have preferred to have been left alone on the bench to eat his lunch in peace but this was a public open space so he could hardly complain about sharing the bench.
“Pardon?”
“I said it’s a beautiful day, isn’t it Aaron?”
“Sorry? Do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think so. You’d have remembered if we’d had met before.”
“Excuse me, how do you know my name?”
“I don’t only know your name, Aaron, I know what you do for a living too. I’m actually a big fan of yours.”
Aaron was confused. A research scientist investigating reincarnation was definitely not the type of person who could expect to have a fan base.
“Look, I need to know how you know who I am and why you’re here, on this bench, bothering me whilst I’m trying to enjoy my lunch in peace.”
“I’m here to help you, Aaron.”
“How? With what?”
“With your research of course.”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are, but I’m doing perfectly well on my own, thank you very much. I certainly don’t need help from a stranger who accosted me in the park.”
“Ah… but you do need my help. I can help you prove reincarnation exists.”
“I`m one of the six leading researchers in my field, in the world, so why do you think I would need your help?”
Aaron took a couple of angry bites of his sandwich. This fellow sitting next to him didn’t appear threatening in any way, but he was very irritating. The stranger wasn’t to be deterred.
“That you are, Aaron. That you are. But – let’s be honest – you’re not getting anywhere with your research, are you? Your research strategy isn’t especially fruitful. And your five colleagues aren’t doing much better. That’s why our people are talking with them too.”
Aaron continued eating his sandwich, his ire at this intrusion inadvertently causing him to spit a few crumbs onto the ground.
“Your people? Who exactly are your people?”
The stranger ignored the question and continued with his appraisal of Aaron’s scientific methodology.
“Now, so far all your research has been based upon finding people who claim to have lived a past life or lives and interviewing them, trying to corroborate their stories by checking them against old records where available. You know as well as I do that these aren’t strictly speaking experiments and, at best, provide anecdotal evidence. They don’t really prove a thing and I know how you scientists like to have conclusive proof. Is your car near here?”
Aaron found himself automatically responding to the question about his car when he’d much rather have defended his research.
“Um…yes. It’s parked near the museum.”
He took the banana and apple from the sandwich box. In spite of his irritation, he found himself offering the stranger one of the fruits, all the while hoping that he’d refuse.
“Would you like one?”
“No thanks, Aaron.”
Aaron didn’t want to admit it – not even to himself – but his research was stagnating. Maybe he should at least listen to what this guy had to say.
“Look, you know my name but I don’t know yours. Who are you?”
The stranger shook his head.
“You don’t need to know my name. Not yet anyway.”
“If I’m going to be working with you, I want to know your name.”
“I didn’t say we’d be working together Aaron, I simply said that I’d provide conclusive proof of the existence of reincarnation. But, if it makes you feel better, if it’s so important to you, you can call me Jake. Jake Griffiths.”
“OK, Jake. Should I be pleased to meet you?”
“Oh, you should be very, very pleased to meet me. Now, if I may, I have a few questions for you. I do need to ask them so I can feel happy with providing you with the truth.”
“What truth?”
“All in good time. You’ll see. Question one. Do you have any plans to abandon your research in the future?”
“No.”
“How old are you?”
“If you know all about me already, you’ll know I’m thirty-five.”
“Are you in good health? Do you have regular health check-ups?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but… yes, I’m in good health and yes, and I have regular checkups.”
“Good.”
“Is that it?”
“Yes, just those three questions.”
“That was actually four questions.”
“Was it? Never mind. Who’s counting.”
“OK. You have your answers. Now what?”
Jake gestured to his jacket pocket where a bulge could definitely be seen.
“In my jacket pocket, I have a 9mm pistol trained on you. All you have to do is do as I say and nobody will get hurt.”
Now Aaron was worried. This had come out of the blue. The situation had suddenly gone from a conversation about his research to what appeared to be a mugging. He’d noticed the bulge in Jake’s jacket earlier but had assumed it was something perfectly harmless like a book or something.
“How do I know you’re not lying to me?”
“About what? The proof or the gun?”
“Both.”
The stranger looked around to check that nobody was watching and drew a 9mm pistol halfway out of its hiding place so that Aaron could see it. He quickly put it back in his pocket.
“The proof you’ll get later.”
“So, why the gun?”
“Just to make sure that you’ll come with me.”
Aaron didn’t see that he had any choice but to cooperate. Jake put on a pair of gloves, all the time being careful to keep the gun trained on the scientist.
“Let’s go and fetch your car.”
Aaron put the lid on his sandwich box, securing it with a thick elastic band. The yoghurt would have to wait. Even though this was turning into a very odd afternoon, something told him he’d still be around to eat his yoghurt later. He dropped the box into his backpack, tightened the drawstring, and stood up. Together they walked towards Aaron’s car, which was parked a little further along the seafront. When they arrived at the white Ford Fiesta, Aaron held his keys up, as if offering them to Jake.
“Am I driving?” Aaron asked.
“One of us has to. I don’t have a licence, and I also have the gun to worry about, so I think you’d better drive, don’t you?”
“Where are we going?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. All you have to do is drive.”
“Look, I know the south of England pretty well, so there’s no need to give me directions. Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Do you know Maidenhead Thicket?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s where we’re going.”
***
After a drive that seemed longer than the hour and forty minutes that it actually was, the car pulled into a gravel car park alongside Maidenhead Thicket.
“What now?”
“We get out. Together. Slowly. You won’t need your backpack. We’re going to take a little walk.”
Jake guided Aaron along a trail for a short distance and then they left the official path and headed into dense undergrowth. He handed the scientist a bandana and ordered him to blindfold himself. Aaron felt as if he was being led to his ow
n execution.
“Is this really necessary?” asked Aaron.
“Afraid so.”
They continued deeper into the undergrowth for about ten minutes, with Jake making several left and right turns so that Aaron wouldn’t be able to mentally record the route. Suddenly, he stopped.
“OK. We’re here. Put your hands behind your back please.”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure you don’t run off, that’s why.”
Jake took a length of cord from his briefcase and tied Aaron’s hands behind his back and bound his legs together in such a way that they were shackled, but still allowed some movement.
“I’ll take the blindfold off now, Aaron.”
Aaron blinked in the fresh sunshine and waited a few seconds for his eyes to become used to the brightness again.
“Is all this really necessary?”
“I can’t take any chances. And I need both hands to do what I’m going to do now.”
Aaron was still alive, so that was a good sign. And now his curiosity was piqued. He wanted to find out how whatever they were there for would help him with his research. Although still wary of the fact that Jake had a gun, he wouldn’t make a run for it unless absolutely necessary.
“Where are we?”
“Where we need to be. That’s all you need to know.”
Jake pulled back some thick spiky foliage, his hand protected by the gloves he was still wearing and scooped away about six inches of loose earth to reveal a large concrete square set into the soil. It was painted to merge in with the colour of the surrounding flora.
“A lot of forethought has gone into this operation, Aaron. You’ll appreciate it when you know why.”
In the middle of the concrete square was a thick metal door, sealed shut with four combination locks. Jake turned to Aaron.
“Yes. They’re combination locks. But not ones that you’d buy at a B&Q. These little beauties add up to a combination of forty-eight numbers. Oh, and there’s a specific order in which you have to turn the dials.