by Will Carver
She jumps up, placing her glass on a coaster, and wipes her bottom lip with her middle finger, then dashes over to pick up the phone.
‘Oh, hi. Is everything … OK … right … no, no, that’s fine, don’t worry about it.’ Her expression alters and the tension that has been in her shoulders since I arrived collapses with her deflation. ‘Look, it can’t be helped … yeah, no worries. All right, then. Thanks. Bye.’ She drops the phone back on the receiver and puffs out a sigh.
‘Oh well, looks like it’s just the two of us tonight. I’ve got enough food and drink for the entire building.’ A laugh creeps out but it is more in resignation than anything else. She walks back to the table, knocks back all of her wine and says, ‘Top up?’ I still have half a glass remaining but I nod in support.
Someone more cynical might suggest that this was an elaborate ruse to get me into her apartment on my own, offer me free-flowing alcohol and delicious home-cooked food, then manipulate me into some kind of sexual scenario that is impossible to back away from.
We nibble on the snacks she has lovingly prepared for everyone who couldn’t be bothered to make the same amount of effort that Gail has, and we drink. Three bottles of red between us and some shorts of an Ouzo-type drink a Lebanese client gave to her as a thank you. I don’t even realise that we are no longer talking across the table; that Gail is next to me on the sofa, her knees bent and feet tucked up. It simply feels comfortable. Familiar, even.
After my second glass of what looks like aniseed-scented flour water, I compartmentalise my wife’s existence. After the third, I cannot hear the Lord’s judgement.
We don’t get to a fourth.
Somehow, a playful caress of my thigh or chest manages to stick. A kiss follows and all the talking desists. Soon after, she is straddling me on her sofa. Not in an overly aggressive way or to show me that she is the sexually dominant one. It manages to be graceful, sensual. We just kiss like this for a short while, not like animals, not in a depraved or manic way; it is soft, like lovers, like partners.
I have only been with one other woman since my wife left and I was using her to help me move on.
I put my arms around her and sit forward, eventually rising to a standing position with her gripping my waist with her legs. Not forcefully, not squeezing me, they just hold me, hug me, and we continue to kiss. She weighs very little so I can support most of her weight in my hands. One is pressed against the middle of her back, the other hooks under her rear.
And I start to walk.
At first moving around the chair and then out of the living space towards the bedroom. I’ve never been here before but I know where it is. We have the same flat. She just has an office where I will hold my prisoner.
I lay her softly onto the mattress; now she can feel the extent of my arousal as I rest myself on top of her delicate frame. I kiss down her body, over the hills of her breasts and across the plains of her stomach. With my hands I start to lift the bottom of her dress to reveal her skin. (She is wearing underwear.) I look between her legs and know that if I continue with this, there will be no turning back tonight.
This will lead further.
A moment of pleasure for a lifetime of guilt.
Once again, I find myself at a crossroads.
Imbolc
February 2009
January
THERE CANNOT BE a third victim.
This vision must hold the answers.
I am expecting to feel the same way that I did after the intuition concerning the whereabouts of the Totty Fahey death. Somehow I knew where it would be. Somehow I just understood what The Two were trying to tell me, cutting through their usually cryptic manner. The guilt of unknowingly allowing that to occur has been consistently ebbing away at my conscience since the candle went out.
And he did not fall.
I won’t let that happen again.
But the vision of The Two, the snake, the milk, creeps up on me. I’m not even asleep when they decide to visit. Things are changing. They come to me in my waking hours while I stare out of a window at a police van, the siren sounding, the light rotating. And now I learn that they can be interrupted, that I can be snapped out of the situation by extraneous sources. On this occasion, it is Paulson returning to his desk, shouting for my attention from the other side of the room as he stealthily removes a packet of cigarettes and a member’s card to an exclusive club from his locked drawer.
I fob him off, saying, ‘I won’t be much longer anyway. Might just take these home.’ And I wave the wad of paper he printed off about salt circles and Pagan worship and Wiccan rituals and the eight Sabbats and I don’t intend to read any tonight because all I can think about is getting back into that pitch-black dusty room and finding out what comes after the milk and where the snake went and why The Two have been reduced to a pile of clothes and where the next crime will take place.
I should have brought Alison Aeslin in earlier.
Talitha may still be alive.
I may never have reached Ostara to find Graham White on his knees in the cathedral. Laura Noviss would have made it across the heath.
I stop off at a pharmacy on the way home and pick up some pills to help me sleep. One bottle is traditional medicine, the other is homeopathic; I don’t know which is best. Luckily the pharmacy is located within a supermarket, so I also pick up a Merlot and Shiraz and pay for it all at the same till. The pharmacist gives me a look but still serves me.
I open both bottles as soon as I get in, and walk with one in each hand to the journal room, the pills rattling against the sides of their plastic containers inside my pocket as I move. This is either brave or idiotic.
Surely no more imprudent than sleeping the night on a bench at a crime scene or ignoring the clear warning of an imminent murder. Somehow I’m feeling much better. I’m emerging at the other side. I place the two tubs of pills on the floor next to my wine. This is not progress. This is not climbing out of the rut.
These are the times that I need Cathy.
I need my sister back.
The journals are piled around the room in no particular order. Sometimes it is more helpful to read through in a non-linear manner. I take a random selection of twelve and lay them out on the floor, three to my right running the length of my thigh and the same on the floor to the left. The remaining six rest on my legs, the spines bending backwards down my thighs and shins, the pages draping either side of my legs. A smorgasbord of Mother’s doodles, thoughts, pictures and rants.
A random insight into the mind of a confused seer.
Below my left foot, Mother’s handwriting says: ‘The police are embarrassed. Help is drying up. Only Detective Lamont will listen.’
I take one homeopathic pill and a swig of Shiraz. I don’t want to go in too hard.
Lamont? I can’t remember his name from Cathy’s case files.
This has to be investigated further.
I try to think of the last time I really looked at the paperwork that lives in my top drawer and I am filled with an instant, debilitating sorrow.
I glance at the homeopathic pills.
And take a mouthful of Shiraz.
The first entry in the journal on the floor to my left reads: ‘I see how he is with Jan now. He won’t speak to him. He blames him. It is our fault, though, we lost her.’ I quickly turn the page to avoid any further mention of my father’s feelings towards me, but the next page has an exquisite portrait of Cathy, drawn by Mother in blue Biro pen, using an accomplished cross-hatching technique I never knew she was capable of.
She looks just like I remember her. Those tiny circular cheeks. The unfathomably natural curl to her hair. The mouth that was almost always smiling.
I throw the tub of herbal sleeping remedy across the room, bouncing it against the closed door, and reach for the hard stuff. The real drugs. I squeeze the pot tightly in my hand while examining the portrait again, swallowing some Shiraz. I look at her eyes on the page and feel like she is watching me no
t protect her again.
Squeezing tighter.
Two more glugs.
I shut that journal.
And launch the second tub of sleeping pills across the floor. This is not what Cathy would want to see. I should not be forcing myself to sleep, trying to find these spectres in my mind. I should be awake. Alert. Aroused. Searching out the real clues. The mistakes made by the killer.
On top of a box of journals, a foil-covered plastic sleeve houses four of my regular caffeine pills. I need to not waste time with idle rest. I take two washed down with my quaffable red.
On my thighs, the messages are in deep contrast. My left thigh displays another picture, this time a stick man with a large circular body. The skill level is the polar opposite of the incredibly life-like depiction of Cathy; it’s as though a child has drawn it. I look at the date on the front of the journal and it is one year after the Cathy portrait.
‘I called for January and Cathy to come down for dinner today,’ the pad on my right knee says. ‘Only Jan came down, of course. How did I forget she was missing, even for a second? What kind of a mother am I? Where is she, Fat Man. Stop your trickery.’
I remember this day. I recall entering the kitchen annoyed that she had dared to mention my sister’s name. I recollect the anger and hatred I had for my mother as I stomped down the stairs, a dislike that evaporated as soon as I entered the room to find her broken down at her sink.
I understand now, Mother. I do it all the time with Audrey.
The next two pills fall down my throat with ease as does the remainder of the first bottle of wine.
This is what I wanted.
Time.
I do not sleep.
I do not dream.
I do not complete my vision, finding the answers to stop Celeste before she reaches Talitha Palladino. Because it wasn’t a half-vision at the station earlier. That was everything I needed.
Totty Fahey snapped me out of my period of self-loathing and pity. Cathy helped by pushing me out of the dark well of my own despair. Talitha’s death makes her available to stretch out a hand and pull me over the top, back onto the right track.
Talitha
DON’T WORRY, DAD.
Don’t worry, Mum.
I can’t feel the fire.
I can’t feel anything now.
The sound of the short-dicked duo speaking on the box across from where I stand and the mirth they evoke in their spectators has diminished. The last thing I was aware of was the sound of the woman aiming her words at where I knelt. Apparently I am awash with a glow and tonight will be made pure.
I suppose that is true.
I am dead.
And on fire.
The dot of light I think is heaven is nothing of the sort and soon turns to black as my body steadily topples forward from a slain kneeling position, the wind beating against my back causing me to lose my dead balance. As I lunge forward, unnoticed, crowds still chortling at infantile toilet humour, I knock the soapbox which nudges the cauldron Celeste left behind and dislodges the candles into my hair as I lie facedown in the dirt.
My hair singes and clumps together in the heat, eventually burning my head and face then setting fire to my clothing.
Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t hurt.
Dad, you knew this day was coming.
Nobody notices because I’m not making a noise. I’m not screaming for aid or trying to roll frantically along the floor to put myself out. I’m gone. So laugh at your dick jokes, bore yourself with Nietzscheisms, enjoy your coffee cup hand warmers. I’m not complaining. I exist only in memory.
And that will fade.
My awareness has fully disintegrated by the time January David arrives at the scene. I am non-being. I am nothingness. But that doesn’t matter. There is no need for a witness in this case at all. Everything is laid out for you to solve.
Don’t worry, Mum. Don’t worry, Dad. The killer will be brought to justice in one way or another. I’m not in pain or stuck between two worlds.
I just outstayed my welcome.
It was too late for me to be saved.
January
TALITHA PALLADINO IS the third victim. This time ritualistically burned.
Paulson and I hardly talk on the journey back to the house from Hyde Park Corner. I am trying to decrypt the image of The Two that only I witnessed. Paulson feels tested by my actions and is trying his best to stick with me, to support me. Murphy will clearly inform his puppet-master of the latest progress in the case, with particular emphasis on my state of mind. He will do what he has to in order to succeed. I can’t believe he wants to take over the case, though. He’s too lazy for that.
‘You want me to come in, Jan?’ Paulson asks genuinely.
‘I’ll be fine. Thanks. I think I will just go through those notes you printed off on the rituals.’ He knows not to push this any further, although he wants to. I’m not going to do anything other than work a way out of this slump I have allowed myself to drop into so effortlessly; it has to be alone. I shut my passenger door, and Paulson reverses out.
The smell from Audrey’s old office takes me straight back to Speaker’s Corner. But first, I allow the cold water from the tap in the kitchen to run all over the back of my neck and head once more. Revitalising me. Hydration through osmosis.
I down one pint of water and fill the glass again, taking it with me into the living room where Paulson’s printouts lie in wait.
We already knew about the significance of the salt circles after researching them from the first two murders. The killer feels protected inside, as though they are untouchable while they complete the intricacies of the ritual.
Paulson has found lists of prayers and rituals that occasionally contradict one another. Some background on Paganism and Wicca and the spiritual aspect of this faith. There seems to be some opposition from the more established religions, which might hint at a reason for Lily and Totty being found near churches.
The most interesting things are the dates of the eight Wiccan Sabbats. Samhain, 31 October, was the date that Lily Kane was killed. Yule, 21 December, corresponds with Totty’s demise. And tonight, 1 February, is Imbolc, and we have just scraped another victim from the dirt. According to this calendar, the next date falls in March. They call it Ostara. It falls on the twenty-first.
I know the date of the next murder but, maybe more importantly, I know that The Two will visit me on the twentieth. I can plan for their appearance.
I drink half the water in my glass, cleansing myself. I look down the list of Sabbats again. If there are eight, we are almost halfway through. Mabon is the last. We cannot allow this to get that far. It’s my fault we even got to the third Sabbat.
I feel revived, lucid, energised.
I type one of the printed web addresses into my computer, which leads me on a trail of discovery, ending in the contact details of a practising Wiccan.
Alison Aeslin.
She will be important to this case.
She will be important to me.
Yule
December 2008
January
FOR THE FIRST time ever, I wake up and I do not have to decipher my intuition. I understand the signs and the hidden messages that have consistently left me baffled.
I think I’m cracking it.
I think I can save Totty; there will be no second victim.
But I am still dazed.
The flames that bowed down in my direction were indicating another outdoor murder. This is the same winter wind that will blow away some of the clues at the real crime scene. But it is not until I am lifted high above the ensuing mayhem below that the location of Trafalgar Square registers.
I am atop Nelson’s Column.
The circles of fire below represent the four plinths.
The lines that appear form the crossroads that the killer requires to complete their ritual.
The point at which these lines bisect each other is the location of the culling; the spot w
here the old man Totty Fahey will die.
I could prevent this from becoming another serial killing spree. I could take the team to Trafalgar Square, wait for the killer to arrive and seize them before any more blood is shed. The difficulty would be explaining how I know where someone is going to be murdered before it happens. I can only trust Paulson, I think.
Before I do that, I have to learn to trust myself. I can’t be sure that I am right.
This entire case is about balance and that is exactly what I need to find. A line I can walk between the tangible and the esoteric.
It is well documented within the station that I have used my ability before, but people rarely talk about it. They tell themselves that I have a heightened sense of intuition; they discuss with each other how I always get the job done by any means available. But it is too embarrassing to the force as a whole to admit that this is real despite the hundreds of instances that exist on file of the police using so-called psychics on certain cases throughout history. I’ve never claimed to be a psychic.
I don’t appear to have moved in my sleep; my fingers are still lightly draped around a half-empty tumbler. As I yawn in another morning, my jaw cracks, my routine headache creeps up on me and I’m aware that I really need to brush my teeth. But first, I grip the tumbler a little harder and knock back what is left, swilling it around and pushing it through the gaps in my teeth like an extra-strong mouthwash.
I tell myself that Cathy would be so disappointed.
I convince myself that Audrey had a reason to do what she did.
I know in myself that I should snap out of this lull; this cesspit of self-pity; but the truth is that I don’t think I want to. I need to go through this fully. I need this pain and guilt and constant sorrow.
I need this hurt.
Maybe this is how I function.
Maybe this is why I do not believe it is Trafalgar Square, it’s too early in the case; I don’t have full confidence in myself yet. I don’t believe I can save Totty Fahey. Because I have no conviction. I’m going to let this turn into another high-profile case with media coverage and pressure from my superiors. Because it would be more embarrassing to get it wrong.