The Two

by Will Carver

  Murphy finally pulls his weight, unearthing the fourth tin in a plant pot overlooking the corner of St George’s Road and Lambeth Road, just outside the entrance to the cathedral where Graham White was found gutted on Ostara back in March.

  Paulson then sniffs out the tin in the Hampstead woods and one in the flowerbed of Soho Square to complete our set.

  Despite the success of our wild tin chase, time has crept along at an alarming pace and, while rejoicing at our collection of pictures and tins and thirty-pence total, a man named Aldous has been killed on the Embankment. I get the call as we head back to the station.

  This is the killer’s seventh victim.

  There are only eight Sabbats.

  Mabon is the last. It is in September, seven weeks from today. That is how long we have to put everything together: the rituals, the locations, the victims, the tins, the pictures.

  We have so much to go on now but there is only one more death planned.

  Mabon marks the end.

  In order to crack this, I need to work backwards. From the time before Litha, when everything changed.

  I must work from Beltane, back through Ostara, Imbolc, Yule and the misfortune of the old man, Totty Fahey.

  Back to Samhain.

  Backwards.

  To the very beginning.

  Beltane

  May 2009

  Celeste

  TONIGHT, AT THE Hampstead Beltane celebrations, I feel him.

  I know he is watching me.

  I can’t see him, but I know he is there.

  We are linked.

  We have always been linked.

  It isn’t until Litha that I will finally see V’s face. The moment that I turn around to the doorway of the flat as Brooke Derry, tied to a giant wheel, swings over a smoking pile of hay next to my sacred circle. Just before he wraps his giant hand around my throat, breaking my barrier of protection.

  But that is seven weeks away.

  I have not been caught yet.

  Tonight, I run because I am frightened. Naively I think that my salt circle can protect me, but something on this night tells me it will not. I run. At times it feels so fast that both my feet are off the ground. The heat from the bonfire burns the right-hand side of my face as I dart past, dodging those who fornicate on the warm earth or fondle in the grass or writhe on laid-out blankets.

  I remain at a sprint until the sense of warmth on my back has disappeared. I am far enough from the fire. Far enough from the carnal desire that reverberates through all those who celebrate on the heath.

  Far enough from V.

  Nobody sees me but him.

  At the moment I feel safe, once I am sure I have not been followed, I turn around. The flicker of each flame gives the bonfire the appearance that it is living. The glow that it radiates seems to slow down everything around it. The speed that each flame dances across the burning mound of kindle is mimicked by the horned men who drape themselves in fur and emanate an animalistic sexual charge, drawing in the attention of prospective partners. I watch intently as the beautifully debauched individuals carousel around the central point, moving like liquid. Yet, far in the background, in the darkness of the undergrowth, one small flame remains still, but visible. To the left, a shadow emerges.

  I take a quick step forward but manage to check myself.

  I knew someone was watching.

  Is this the first witness?

  It creeps towards the solitary candle cautiously, looking around just as I had only moments ago. It walks like a ghoul, knees bent, bouncing steadily, its fingers gradually reaching out ahead of itself, aiming directly for the girl I left.

  Always in darkness.

  A menacing silhouette.

  I am in the light.

  Unseen.

  Without realising, I am standing on tiptoes. My chin is leading me closer and closer to the action. On this night of heightened emotion, I am drawn to the danger of the situation, the unknown.

  The grotesque figure comes to a stop and I imitate its movement.

  I am the light reflection.

  Its head turns horrifyingly slowly. I watch the contours of the shaded figure alter as it turns towards where I stand.

  And I freeze.

  He cannot see me; the fire is too bright. But I do not know this.

  In the light I am invisible; in the darkness he is clear.

  I see his aura glow just as his head snaps into a position aimed in my direction and I flee. In haste I drop my bag, taking four steps to halt my momentum before I return. My mind is racing, telling myself that he saw me, he saw what I did and pretty soon he will see the dead girl that I left behind.

  Adrenalin courses through me, thrusting me forwards, filling my muscles with fear that will eventually manifest itself into a sensual pleasure.

  Although I did not see his face, I felt him. And it is the exact sensation I will feel again as I turn to that doorway on the night of Litha.

  That must be why I recognise him.

  I know him.

  January

  ALISON AESLIN WAITS in my lounge while I shower upstairs in the en-suite I used to share with Audrey. It’s early, Paulson is heading to the office where Murphy has already arrived; I make the water colder than I usually like to wake me up, keep me alert.

  Hampstead Heath makes sense for a location based on my vision of The Two and type of celebration that goes with the Beltane Sabbat. I have immersed myself in under standing these Wiccan rituals since finding Graham White in the cathedral at the end of March. Nothing says outdoor sexual relations more than the heath. From our research and after talking repeatedly with Alison, the Beltane festival seems to revolve around fertility and sensuality.

  This must be where the killer will strike next.

  I return to the lounge clean and shaven, dressed in my work suit. Alison looks me up and down approvingly. For someone who rushed over here in the unsociable hours of twilight, she looks very appealing herself.

  ‘Thanks so much for your help,’ I say, trying to urge her out of the door.

  ‘Oh, no. It was all you. I just threw some stones at a map.’ She laughs and shakes her hair flirtatiously.

  ‘You were here, and that counts for a lot,’ I reassure her.

  She smiles and stands up from the sofa. Standing opposite me she seems smaller than usual. Petite. Sexily coy. A moment of silence ensues which could lead down two different paths.

  ‘I really need to get to the station,’ I mutter.

  There will be other opportunities for detours.

  I arrive there after Paulson. Murphy was the first in.

  I walk straight over to the wall, which contains the crime scene photographs and the list of names and dates that I replicated in my living room only hours ago.

  And I explain.

  I tell them that I think the vicinity of the hospitals and the houses of worship nearby are a pattern. That they are involved in some way, whether the victim visited them or they were killed in or near one. It spans across every scene. The killer is preying on the weak and infirm. I tell them that the implements used appear to, for the most part, correspond directly with some kind of Pagan or Wiccan ritual, and that these have been warped into something that is not used for good. Most of the rituals seem to have a positive agenda, whether for healing or welcoming new life or high-yielding crops or the advent of a new season. They have been twisted to bring about death and chaos.

  Paulson and Murphy are both perched on the edge of a desk, nodding along to every plausibility.

  ‘Murph, I want you to talk with the team on CCTV. Get them to collect anything from the hospitals, grab records too, see if there is any correlation between visitors, nurses, doctors. Paulson, we need the same for any holy building in the vicinities.’

  ‘I’ve been here for hours looking into the Satanism thing, but it’s all a bit messy and there’s too much missing,’ Murphy adds. ‘You’re right, Jan. This all just sounds like it fits.’ I’m pleasantly surp
rised by his tone.

  Then I say, ‘And I think I know where it will happen tonight.’

  Paulson sits forward on his perch so quickly that he almost falls out of his chair; his shoes slipping on the carpet in an effort to stop himself. Murphy, of course, does the opposite, sitting back resignedly and into his usual persona, no doubt secretly delighted that I am still showing some signs of my ‘madness’. His puppet-master will be delighted to hear of this.

  ‘And how do you know?’ he swaggers.

  Of course, I could tell him that The Two visited while I slept, and that I had a sense I was outside. I could tell him that I noticed a pattern while our expert, Alison Aeslin, threw a handful of stones at a map I have in my living room, which has an identical set-up to the room he is rolling his eyes in right now. But that is what he is expecting. It’s what he wants. Something juicier to report.

  I don’t give him that.

  I explain about the Beltane rituals that I have looked into, I tell them both about the fire and the sex and the horned masks. I talk about the altars and the earth and the outside world. And some more about fertility.

  The Satanic elements pique his interest again.

  I mention a church and the Royal Free Hospital, tapping my finger animatedly against their positions on the map. I talk of a spot between both of them and of outdoor sex. And Paulson guesses, ‘Hampstead Heath.’

  And I say, ‘Exactly.’

  *

  I finally locate the fifth victim in the wooded area beyond one of the few Beltane bonfires that burns brightly this evening. Laura Noviss. Died on her knees. We are so much closer now, though, and it proves that my rationale is accurate, even if the timing is still slightly off. We are not called to the scene this time, we find it. Maybe next time we can stop it.

  I feel something on the heath. Perhaps I’m getting carried away with the reading I have done, or maybe there is something to putting faith into the natural world. We can see it exist, we watch it grow and evolve. I may even be attuned to the celebrations in some way. But that is not what I feel.

  I’m being watched.

  V is here. So far the only witness, the only one who can identify Celeste Varrick.

  He could tell us what he saw.

  But he wants a different kind of justice.

  He wants her for himself.

  Ostara

  March 2009

  January

  AT ST GEORGE’S CATHEDRAL, where Graham White completed his journey to death moments ago, I start to remember what it is like to be Detective Inspector January David; to use nothing other than instinct and clear thought to deconstruct a crime scene. This is what normal used to feel like before normal was sullen, introverted and inebriated. This is somewhere close to the person I was before Audrey left.

  I will be even closer to saving the victim by the time we reach Beltane.

  ‘That was great to watch, Jan.’ Paulson smiles at me as we talk outside the church doors, him smoking a quick cigarette, neither of us noticing the person only a few metres away pushing a small tin into a plant pot. A tin that contains a picture of a man, a lock of hair, some dirt and a silver coin. Neither of us noticing the completion of the ritual.

  My eyes are fixed on Alison who looks wonderfully ethereal through the haze of smoke that Paulson exhales.

  Murphy is still inside.

  He continues, ‘I think you put him in his place.’

  ‘I’m just bored of the copycat theory. It’s so easy. It’s so lazy,’ I reply as Paulson blows smoke back over his shoulder, checking that Murphy is still out of earshot.

  ‘Well, you certainly laid that theory to rest.’ He gives me a knowing look.

  ‘Look, what matters is that we are on to whoever is doing this now.’ The killer walks behind us, out the front gate, crossing the road towards the Imperial War Museum, and disappears. ‘We’ll be waiting next time.’

  Paulson nods, inhaling the last of his cigarette before flicking it spiralling into the gutter.

  It’s the first time I have felt proud in six months, I can see that I am instilling confidence in Paulson too, reminding him of my prowess as an investigator not only as a seer.

  And then Murphy joins us.

  ‘There’re still people inside the church, but the scene is blocked off, they won’t be able to see anything.’ Murphy steps outside, letting go of the door, which slams shut. He screws his eyes up as if to say oops. Paulson moves slightly to the left, allowing Murphy into our conversation.

  Alison remains silent, listening.

  ‘Jan, that was pretty weird in there,’ opens Murphy. ‘I mean, what is this all about?’

  ‘The guy was cut open in a church. Each of the crime scenes on this case feels like that. All the crimes are deeply sinister, what did you expect?’ deliberately speaking to him like he were a child. ‘A darkness links these victims.’

  ‘I agree completely that this is not a copycat killing.’ Paulson and I look at each other, unsuccessfully disguising our surprise. ‘I’m just not sure about the Pagan thing, though.’ He doesn’t even acknowledge Alison’s expertise in this area. ‘Maybe the Satanic angle fits …’ He drops off, waiting for some kind of response.

  I tell him that the rituals fit with Wiccan rituals and that the dates that the murders have occurred all fall on traditional Wiccan Sabbats. Alison nods. I tell Murphy that nothing so far has suggested Buddhism, Hinduism or Satanism, but it might be an idea for him to look into this area because Paulson and I have been focused on the evidence from the three crime scenes.

  His response: ‘Well, maybe it’s something we’re not seeing.’

  Everything is a battle.

  He is just waiting for my mistake.

  V

  GRAHAM WHITE IS dead, never making it back to the hospital to meet his sister for their consultation, and Celeste is still free, able to roam the capital, still working out the next person she wants to save. Tonight, I am nervously attending a drink across the hall with my neighbour, Gail, and some of her friends I have never met. It won’t be until tomorrow morning, when the paper arrives, that I will know all of the details of this latest crime; that I will be angered by Celeste’s persistence.

  So tonight is about enjoyment, if I can force aside my anxiety.

  I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a date or merely a friendly gesture. Perhaps she never really expected me to say yes and I am not even welcome. She doesn’t seem false, though. I think I have a decent gauge on her. But this is the first time in a long while that I have been out with a woman.

  I haven’t dated since my wife left; I hadn’t dated anyone before her.

  In some ways it is exciting, but I also feel that I am somehow cheating on her.

  I shave, as I guess one should for such an occasion, ensuring my face is smooth and there is a perfectly straight line down either side of my goatee. I wear a shirt because she mentioned wine; if it had been beer then maybe a smart T-shirt would have sufficed.

  I have a bottle of something red from Chile in my right hand, and I knock lightly on the door with my left.

  ‘Sam. Hi. Glad you could make it.’ Her teeth are perfectly straight; they look whitened, and even her eyes seem brighter. She is wearing a black dress that is short but not slutty; it certainly holds her in the right places, though. I feel slightly underdressed.

  Then she says, ‘You look great,’ and it puts me at ease.

  ‘You too,’ I reciprocate, and hand her the bottle.

  Gail’s flat is almost the mirror image of mine. Her bedroom is tucked away behind the back wall of the living room, but her kitchen bleeds into the living room in a far trendier and more seamless, open-plan way, and the space I have been slowly transforming into a holding cell is actually her home office. She also has more than just a sofa in her living room, too.

  But I am the only one here.

  ‘I must look pretty keen,’ I half joke, nervously.

  ‘Sorry?’ She lights a candle on her coffee table
, finishing her room decoration that I must have just interrupted.

  ‘Only that I am the first one here,’ I try to clarify.

  ‘Oh.’ She laughs. ‘My two friends were supposed to be here already but called to say they are delayed a bit. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute. Take a seat.’ She motions towards the cream leather sofa. ‘Do you want red or white?’

  ‘Er, I like red but if you’ve already opened a white …’

  ‘No. No. Red is good. Just wait there.’ She trots over to the kitchen area, where a bottle of red wine is already open, having been left to breathe a while. I watch her buttocks sway from side to side as she moves in her figure-hugging dress; there is no visible underwear line. She pours me a very large glass to get me started.

  She is visibly preoccupied with ensuring everything is perfect; all the components of her abode help to create the ambience she insists on. The music is at a volume level low enough to speak over yet still appreciate and it isn’t lyrics heavy, because that can interfere too. I keep the conversation going to show that I am at ease and enjoying myself. She flits between counting breadsticks, opening the oven door to check on food and pacing without any real agenda. I keep the conversation about her because my rather simple existence would probably come across as somewhat uneventful.

  I’d rather not talk about me.

  I don’t want to discuss Sammael Abbadon.

  ‘How many more are you expecting?’

  ‘Just a couple. There were another two from work but they dropped out during the week.’ She finally allows herself to sit down and takes two dainty sips of her own huge glass. I follow suit with a gulp.

  ‘So, Sam, good day?’ she asks, finally relaxing enough for a two-way conversation.

  ‘Oh, you know, same old. Went for a run—’ The phone starts to ring and cuts me off, which is lucky because I don’t know how to finish that sentence.