Hunting Abigail: Fight or Flight? For Abigail, it's both!

by Jeremy Costello

*

  Swirling shapes buffeted her as the mist grew denser. She held her hands out and stepped cautiously, ghostly spectres of Anthony betraying her vision. The sun had not yet cut a path into the fog, stationary clouds tactlessly blocking the day’s renewed heat. All around her the jungle was alive with newfound noise, snapping twigs and raindrops succumbing to gravity, her own mind matching the cacophony with a gross collage of images featuring James and Edward, Edward and James.

  Her heart was burning with guilt, a sadness lingering there to know that she had deceived her wedding vows, had deceived her husband’s trust.

  What had she become? How was it that such an intense circumstance could alter one’s perception so irreparably? She felt like a gutter-dog, a bitch. A bad wife.

  Edward was her life, but she couldn’t imagine what the newspapers were saying. If he was reading them, reading into them, then she was already dead, and he was already mourning. Had he cancelled her magazine subscriptions, had he halved the milk delivery? Were his friends recommending he move on?

  She guessed she must’ve been half an hour into the pursuit by now, any sign of Anthony non-existent. There was nothing marked in the undergrowth to suggest he’d been there, no footprints, no dense puddles of tar seeping from his persona. She tried calling his name, but only birds seemed interested in responding. She began to wonder if the fog had misled her.

  She tried his name again, the silence offering verification that she was lost. She guessed she was near the north of the island somewhere. She imagined Jerry Benton calling for her from somewhere nearby, his trapped skeleton scratching at the wall of his injury-laden cell. Lost in the fantasy, she stepped cautiously into a small valley she’d never seen before, desperate trees clinging to its broad flanks, dried out bed as if belonging to a dormant arroyo. The mist cut a perfect shape to fit the crafted landscape, settling amorphously into the valley.

  She pressed deeper, the gorge slowly narrowing with each muffled footstep, until she drew to an unprecedented stop. Something was wrong here, she could feel it. A coppery hue lingered on the air like a persistent fly, the subtly intermittent stench of something unnatural dominating the morning. She took another tentative step forwards and the recoiling sight emerged from the mist. Covering her mouth, she held in her scream. Strung up in the trees were the motionless figures of Elaine and Sol, their shirtfronts dappled with blood.

  ‘I knew you’d come,’ said an unfamiliar voice at her back.

  Startled, she turned quickly, her throat catching. ‘You…’ she whispered.

  The world fell silent.

  ‘I’m glad you came alone.’

  56

  London, 1992

  Just when he thought no one at Will Graham’s house was going to pick up, the phone was answered by Ross, Will’s nine year old boy.

  After a few short scuffled noises, Will Graham commandeered the phone and asked who was speaking.

  ‘Will,’ said York quietly into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Nick.’

  ‘Nick!’ cried Graham. 'Don’t ask me how but Mason’s found out what you’re doing. She’s after your blood, man.’

  ‘She can have it, it’s stone cold. Besides, I’m done up here.’

  ‘What did you find? Please tell me you got something, Braddock’s arrogance is really pissing me off.’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint. Didn’t find a thing. The house is just a shell now, what’s left of it anyway. It’s been stripped out by travellers by the looks of things.’

  Graham’s muted sign echoed down the line. ‘Bollocks! Sorry, Nick, I really thought we were on to something.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  ‘So what now?’ asked Graham.

  ‘I’m just about to hit the road, should be back around eleven. You have any plans for an early night?’

  ‘If I did, I get the feeling they’re about to be cancelled.’

  ‘They are,’ he said. ‘Stay up until I get there, okay?’

  After a short pause, Graham asked the question York expected him to, his voice tainted with scepticism. ‘What’s going on, Nick?’

  ‘Nothing major,’ he assured him. ‘I found a few reels of old cine film at the house. You still any good at transferring them to VHS?’

  ‘Does a horse piss where she pleases?’ chirped Graham excitedly. ‘What kind of film is it? Are we talking 8mm, the old Super-Eight stuff?’

  ‘Will, the reason I’m on the phone to you is because I know nothing about it. You want to take a look, or what?’

  ‘I’ll wait up,’ said Graham and hung up.

  Arthur Faulkner’s carer, Jason McCullick, eyed York from behind his desk. ‘Why’d you not tell him?’

  ‘Same reason the Garden of Paradise shouldn’t’ve had a forbidden fruit tree,’ York explained. ‘Too much fucking temptation!’

  57

  The further south York pushed, the worse the weather got. By Milton Keynes there was a sprinkle of moisture in the air dappling the windscreen. By the time he reached Dagenham in east London, the heavens were fully open, the rain battering down in torrents.

  Will Graham’s house was a semi-detached set back from the road, the contrast of the two adjoining homes astounding. Graham was always going on about his neighbours being reprobates, an unruly bunch that was up until all hours in the morning, the front of their house a state. He could see what Graham was talking about. The front garden was overgrown, a rusty pedal bike rotting against the back fence. A couple of the soffits were hanging from their moorings and paint was flaking away from the overhang. The only thing missing was a burnt-out Ford Cortina up on blocks.

  The time was eleven-twenty. Box under one arm he darted down Graham’s driveway and pounded on the door, thin capillaries of rainwater sneaking under his collar and down his back.

  Graham came to the door rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes. ‘You’re erm…late,’ he yawned.

  ‘Is the kettle on?’ said York pushing his way in.

  ‘Come in, make yourself at home,’ Graham sighed.

  Placing the box on the kitchen table, York flipped off his hat and ran a hand through his oily hair. Graham followed him through and began making tea.

  ‘Is this it?’ Graham asked fumbling in the box. Plucking out one of the reels Graham held it up to the light. ‘Oh, this is the old Super-Eight stuff alright. I loved this format as a kid, used to make home movies on it. Made one once of this lad, he had this infection –’

  ‘You’re able to convert it?’ York cut in.

  The forensics man narrowed his eyes. ‘You know who you’re talking to, right? I’m the Super-Eight master.’

  York crossed the kitchen and finished making the tea. ‘Where’s Ross?’

  Graham looked up. ‘Where do you suppose he is at half-past eleven on a Friday night, Nick? I couldn’t stay awake, let alone him.’

  ‘You got him all weekend?’

  ‘Until Sunday afternoon.’

  For over a year Graham had been in a legal battle with his ex-wife over the custody of their son. She was an alcoholic. Will was losing regardless.

  ‘So listen,’ Graham said, ‘this is going to take some time. Have a brew, get some zeds, whatever you need to do. I’ll see if I can get this finished before the Pit Bull finds out you’re here and hangs me in the second noose along.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ York muttered examining his mug. ‘Don’t fret about it, you’re on my side.’

  ‘You know who’s in the first noose, don't you?’

  ‘I’ll never tell her you gave me that info, Will. You know that.’

  ‘Of course I know that! But she’s a shrewd one, that woman. Every single time she puts two and two together she comes out at four. I’d find it only courteous if she could be wrong once in a while.’

  For Graham’s benefit, York smiled. By his account, keeping Newport on the case made Mason’s decision-making score less than impressive. ‘So how long will this take?’

  Graham blew air out through pursed lips. �
�Depends on the quality of the reels. Three hours minimum.’

  ‘Then I’m going to take a quick trip out. I’ll be back by two.’

  ‘Where could you possibly need to go at this time of night? It’s coming down in buckets out there.’

  ‘Need to go and see a dog about a man.’

  Before Graham could protest further York was gone, his tea untouched.

  *

  Mere streets away, York contemplated leaving the keys in the ignition and driving away. He also contemplated pocketing them and knocking on the red door across the road, its front room lights spilling out though the cheap pink curtains and onto the rain-swept street.

  The longer he sat still, the more conceivable his intentions became. Holding his hand out in front of him, palm facing away, he tried to control the shaking. The burning desire in his gut inflamed threefold, pouring out of him in fat globules of sweat. He threw open the car door and stepped out into the drizzle.

  He hammered on the red door and waited, the rain sluicing through him. He could hear some fumbling inside and finally the door opened a crack, Tank Henderson’s huge squashed face poking through the gap. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he muttered, taking off the security chain and opening the door wider. A handful of seconds ticked by, York standing fast and staring ahead, the implications of his being there making his heart stammer. He pictured Charles Kilroy's disappointed eyes, but in the face of it, the doctor's Methadone was no substitute for the real thing.

  ‘Yorkster,’ Tank grumbled, ‘Haven't seen you for a while, I thought you'd kicked it. You coming in or what? Rain’s getting on the carpet.’

  Swallowing hard, fists curled, York stepped inside.

  ‘Nice hat, dude,’ said Tank, and clicked the red door shut.

  *

  ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ said Graham excitedly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you so we can run this bad boy!’

  In Graham’s hand was a plain VHS tape. He’d written something on the front in white marker but York didn’t catch what it said.

  ‘I managed to fit all the reels onto one tape. I almost played it too, but I decided you’d have my balls for a beanbag if I did.’

  The digital clock on the wall read three-oh-two. ‘Told you, I had to see a man about a dog.’

  ‘Dog about a man,’ Graham corrected.

  York raised his eyebrows.

  ‘When you left, you said you were going to see a dog about a man.’

  ‘That too.’

  Graham’s living room was small but incredibly kempt. York took a seat in the armchair almost afraid to touch anything. It looked like no one ever went in there.

  Like a kid on Christmas morning, Graham pushed the tape into the video recorder and hit the play button. Then he sat back rubbing his hands together. ‘Okay, Mr York, let’s see what delectable material you brought us.’

  Slipping out of his jacket, he joined Graham on the carpet and watched as the film began rolling. With the remote, Graham fast-forwarded past his homemade title and set the controller on the floor.

  Slowly fading in, the TV screen filled with the silent black and white image of a young boy sitting at a wooden breakfast table, bowl of cereal in front of him. He looked to be around four years old, the smooth skin of childhood surrounding a perfectly infantile grin. York recognised the kitchen; he’d been standing in it earlier that day.

  ‘Who do you think that is?’ Graham asked.

  York leaned in a little, examining the screen closely.

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘I think that’s Julian Faulkner.’

  ‘Julian Faulkner?’ Graham said aghast. ‘The owner of our murder weapon, Julian Faulkner?’

  York leaned in further as the child’s grin disappeared. Something was happening off-camera to upset him. From somewhere off to the side, a dishcloth was thrown onto the table. After a wandering scan of the kitchen, the child’s eyes filled with uncertainty and tears. Then he picked up the dishcloth and wiped up the splashes of milk from around his cereal bowl.

  ‘Why do I feel like you’re not being totally honest with me about Lincolnshire, Nick?’

  Picking up the remote controller, York hit pause, very aware that Graham was his one remaining ally. ‘You’re right, Will. I haven’t told you everything.’

  ‘Well that’s charming. I give you the information, I give you the location and the lead, I convert the film reels, and you’re telling me I don’t even know the half of it? Jesus, man!’

  ‘I wanted to tell you on the phone, but I couldn’t risk putting the temptation into your head. For my entire journey back to London I’d be wondering if you’d gone to Mason with it, and right now, the info I have is enough to bury somebody, someone who is living the perfect lie. But if word got out I had information, this guy could disappear, and I just couldn’t allow that to happen.’

  Graham glanced at the carpet. ‘You still should’ve told me, Nick, I thought we were a team.’

  Looking at Graham’s face, he could see what it meant to him to think he was part of York’s personal team. ‘Will, you have to understand, we’re not fucking about here. Are you sure you want in on this? There’s no going back once we expose this person. We’ll be facing the rap for illegal investigation and it’ll be impossible to keep you out of it. The Faulkner info didn’t fall into my lap and Mason’ll put it together quickly, you can count on that.’

  Graham took the remote from him and set the tape rolling again. ‘Nick,' he said quietly. 'I'm in, alright.’

  Back on the screen the TV faded into another scene. York recognised the backyard of the Faulkner home, far less dilapidated than it was today. Slightly older now, maybe seven or eight, the same boy was standing where the assault course now was, holding up the carcass of a dead rabbit. In his other hand was the definitive outline of a long-bladed knife and around his feet laid the gory entrails of the animal. There was no pride in the boy’s face, just blankness, a darkness. Dropping the hollowed-out shell of the rabbit onto the pile of insides, the young boy turned robotically and headed back into the woods, knife in hand.’

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘To kill some more prey,’ York said softly. ‘Probably being fed instructions from behind the camera.’

  ‘Did you see the kid’s face?’ Graham murmured. ‘His eyes looked empty.’

  For the third time the scene faded out and then back in almost instantaneously. The camera was focused on the same area of garden, only this time the assault course had been constructed. Scaling the cargo net was the boy covered from head to toe in sludge. His foot entangled in the netting, he fell backwards and plummeted downwards, landing flush on his back. He looked hurt. From the side of the shot, a man entered the scene carrying with him the confident stride of Arthur Faulkner. With vicious force he grabbed the cowering boy by the hair and dragged him to the start of the course, shoving him brutally into the pit of mud. It looked like the boy was being forced to do it until he got it right.

  York found himself praying that the boy would make it across this time, but when he failed in the cargo nets for the second time Arthur Faulkner reappeared, almost running to the boy, maniacally eager to reprimand. The frail frame of Julian's eight year old body was lifted from the ground and took the full force of a slap from his father’s open palm, before being tossed like a sack of potatoes to the ground. Climbing back to his feet, the stonily resolute boy held in the tears. Keeping a firm grip on the back of the boy’s shirt, Arthur Faulkner beckoned to somebody off-camera. As the mysterious third person walked into view York sat up rigidly, his eyes glued to the screen. ‘Oh no,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’ said Graham, eyes wide. ‘Who’s that?’

  Walking to Arthur Faulkner was a second boy, this one wearing shorts and a crisp white shirt buttoned up to the top. He was dirt-free, as though he’d been spared the assault course. Aside from the blatant difference in cleanliness, he appeared to be identical to the first boy in almost every way.

  ‘There
are two of them, Will,’ York whispered.

  For the first time all night Graham was speechless.

  ‘This changes everything. Remember when you said the teeth marks in the hearts were slightly different? It wasn’t the same man wearing a mouth guard, it was two different men.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ Graham said softly.

  ‘And what is that?’ York hit pause. ‘Does the second kid’s face look dirty, or is that a shadow?’

  Graham leant in. ‘I don’t think that’s mud, Nick, or a shadow. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a birthmark.’

  58

  The Indian Ocean, 2011

  ‘All this time,’ Abbey murmured. ‘It was you.’

  Emerging from the mist Anthony’s marked face appeared as if in a dream, his left cheek smudged with blood. He glided towards her, his unsmiling demeanour gone, replaced by the confident grin of a man in total control.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Abigail.’ The Deep South American brogue had vanished, traded in for nobleman English, and for the first time, Abbey became aware of her malfunctioning legs.

  ‘Since the first time I saw you, hiding in the corner of that dark room, watching me, I reserved a special place for you in my heart. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this day. It’s our greatest moment, our greatest achievement.’

  ‘I…I don’t understand,’ Abbey whispered, her voice cracking. ‘They sent you to Broadmoor. You’re supposed to be rotting in a cell.’

  Anthony's left eye twitched as if trying to recall the existence of any such ordeal. ‘It destroyed me when I was locked away, because I couldn't be near you, Abigail. But I knew one day we would be reunited. I have watched you your entire life. I was there on your first day of secondary school, I was there in Edinburgh when you graduated, I was there at your wedding, your honeymoon in Cuba.’

  Goosebumps rose on her arms as she listened intently to Anthony as he gave an accurate account of her life. ‘You’re making no sense, Anthony. If you were in Broadmoor, how could you have been there on all those occasions?’