The Recipient

by Dean Mayes

  She winced, reminding herself of the fiery conflagration that had been plastered all over the news bulletins, reporting Josephine Catea’s accident. Saskia’s face also appeared from the depths of her nightmare.

  They were images that had taunted her for so long, that had made her life a living hell. If there were a chance that she could stop them—a chance that she could extinguish them once and for all—she knew had to take it.

  She had to free herself.

  Casey opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  Across the street, the laneway she’d noted from the satellite image was separated from the property by a tall, corrugated iron fence. From her angle of approach, the lane disappeared into the darkness. Casey hurried across the street and scooted into the shadows. Grabbing her phone from inside the bag, she activated its flashlight and held it inwards so the beam played over her stomach.

  The sound of a dog barking nearby startled her and she peered down the cobbled path. At the end of the lane she could see an orange glow, similar to the street lamp at the front.

  Stepping out from the shadows, she made her way along the front of the property.

  The brush fence stood roughly seven feet tall. Casey could not see any gaps in it that would allow her to see through into the property. Looking down by her feet, she noticed tall clumps of grass, weeds and thistles pushing through the bottom of the fence. Signs of neglect?

  Continuing along the fence, she came to the pair of gates that were constructed in an identical fashion to the fence. As she cast the light over them, she noted a pair of square holes in the structure, positioned side by side. Her eyes widened as she bent down to see if she could see through. It was then that she noticed a thick chain snaking through the gaps that was secured on the inside by a sizeable padlock. In the darkness, she could just make out the silhouette of the house from the light pollution of the city behind it. There were no lights coming from inside.

  No signs of life at all.

  She turned and headed back along the street to the laneway where she stopped and shone the light down into the gloom. The lane ran the entire depth of the property, a good one hundred and fifty feet. At the end, where it was lit, there appeared to be another lane running along the back.

  Slipping into the darkness, Casey flanked the fence and emerged at the rear. She quickly scanned both right and left, seeing several garages backing out into the lane.

  Casey inspected the rear fence of Number 5. Like the other fences, this one was a tall, corrugated iron structure. There was a single gate at the very corner from where she had emerged, while further along she noted a large roller door for the garage. She went to it and tested it, though she knew it would be locked.

  Returning to the corner beside the laneway, Casey shone her light on the single gate. This gate too was secured by a thick chain and padlock.

  I’m not going to get past this.

  Directing her beam up, Casey saw that the top of the fence was clear.

  Looking around her, Casey searched for something to stand on. She spied a large, lone wheelie bin further down the lane. She went to it, taking a hold of its handle and grunting as she attempted to move it. It would not budge.

  Grabbing it in both hands and recruiting as much strength into her arms as she could muster, she tipped it at an angle, then pulled. Its stubby wheels yielded to her grasp and the bin finally moved. The contents inside it rattled noisily as she hefted it across the cobblestone and she winced as she tried to move it as gently as she could. The dog nearby responded to the tinkling glass inside the bin with ferocious barks.

  Casey cursed to herself.

  Finally, she wielded the bin into position, then scanned the laneway urgently. The dog continued to bark, however, after a minute or so, it went silent. No one came out to inspect the commotion.

  Cautiously, Casey climbed onto the bin and balanced herself, before gripping the top of the gate and looking over.

  The rear of the property, like the front, was similarly shrouded in darkness. As she directed her smartphone’s light into the yard, Casey saw an overgrown lawn that stood at least three to four feet high. There were garden beds that had long been neglected and rubbish was strewn everywhere. A single red brick path snaked into a courtyard.

  As she played the light beam over the house, Casey gasped when she saw a light beam shining back at her. Panicking, she ducked down out of view, shoving her phone against her body.

  “Shit,” she hissed, afraid to look up for a long moment. Eventually, she risked a quick glance over the top of the gate and saw nothing but darkness.

  Puzzled, Casey lifted her light and shone it into the property again, the beam playing over a series of tall, glass window panels that formed an observatory at the rear of the house, much like the sunroom at her parents’ home.

  A wash of relief came over her.

  “My own bloody light.”

  Shaking her head, Casey looked to where the garage stood. A large pile of junk was stacked against it: timbers, old garden tools and what appeared to be car wheels whose rubber tyres had perished. For a moment, she was reminded of her warehouse.

  If she were still doubting that the house was empty, the scene here convinced her that, more than likely, it was.

  Shining the light down at the ground inside the gate, she saw that it was clear enough for her to climb over and drop down safely.

  Clutching the phone between her teeth, Casey grabbed the gate and pushed off from the bin, swinging her left leg over the frame, followed by her right. With a final push, she vaulted down onto the path.

  Appraising the garage, she spied a window constructed of three panes beside a door. Skipping through the minefield of debris and rubbish, she approached it and raised her phone’s flashlight.

  A thick layer of grime coated the glass panes. Reaching out, Casey pulled her sleeve over her hand and carefully rubbed out a porthole, removing as much of it as she could before peering inside.

  Though her view was significantly impaired by dust on the inside of the glass, she could see a similar collection of junk. Playing the beam over the interior, her eye was drawn to an object occupying the centre. Covered in what appeared to be a large canvas tarpaulin, it was definitely a large object. She traced her tongue along the outer edge of her bottom lip thoughtfully.

  What is that?

  Her pulse quickened. The heart pounded and she grabbed the material of her shirt over her chest.

  Stepping back, Casey appraised the door beside the window which was blocked by rusted garden implements, a pair of old shovels, pick axes and a sledgehammer. Moving them aside, Casey tested the handle.

  She screwed up her face. Of course it’s locked.

  Locking her eyes on the rusted sledgehammer beside her, she bent down and grabbed it. Immediately beside it she found the tattered remnants of an old potato sack. Considering the window panes, then the material on the ground, she grabbed it and shook it, ensuring there were no spiders lurking inside the folds of the material. She wrapped a portion of it around the end of the hammer, hoping the material would muffle the sound of the steel hitting the glass panes.

  Cringing as she held her fist up, she turned side on, angling her head away from the window.

  Here goes nothing…

  She struck the bottom pane, shattering it on her first try. Flinching as shards fell on the ground before her, she jumped clear. The noise of the smashing glass caused the nearby dog to bark furiously and Casey hissed. It continued on for almost a minute until a male voice cut through the night.

  “For Christ’s sake, shut up!”

  The dog fell silent. Casey waited for several seconds then, satisfied that she was safe, she moved in to inspect her handiwork.

  Unwrapping the potato sack from the hammer, she wound it around her forearm before reaching slowly through the open window and angling her arm around to the inside of the door. Casey gingerly touched the inner mechanism of the door handle. Though the metal felt so
lid, the bar and latch assembly itself moved loosely in her grip until she felt the locking mechanism prevent it from turning any further. If she could pry the door open with something, Casey felt sure the locking mechanism would bend and possibly collapse.

  Looking down at the rusted tools on ground, Casey’s eyes fell across a thick, rusted crowbar. Picking it up, she quickly assessed it, then wedged it in between the door frame and the door itself.

  Satisfied that it was in the best position, Casey steadied her grip on the crowbar and pulled back on it as hard as she could.

  At first nothing happened. Cursing silently, she adjusted her stance and tried again, putting as much power into her wrist and hand as she could.

  Interminable moments passed.

  The crowbar finally levered outwards, widening the gap in the door further. The latch inside groaned in protest, the rusted metal yielding under pressure until it bent inwards completely. The door frame also whined on its hinges until something popped and clattered noisily to the floor inside.

  The door swung open and Casey stumbled back, dropping the crowbar. She blinked into the darkness beyond. Collecting herself, she opened it further and it creaked on its rusted hinges.

  Casey slipped inside and was confronted by yet another pile of junk separating her from the tarpaulin-covered object in the centre of the garage. Shining the light around her in order to avoid tripping, she stepped forward until she was close enough to the canvas that she could kneel down before it.

  Setting the phone down on an old cabinet behind her, she angled the beam over the tarpaulin. The shape underneath it was definitely automobile-sized.

  Acid crept up the back of her throat and singed her tongue.

  She took a hold of the bottom edge of the tarpaulin in her grip, squeezed her eyes shut then lifted the canvas.

  Low-slung headlights, angling in towards the centre.

  A grille that swept down over the front, encompassing the registration plate.

  Four interlocking rings of polished chrome.

  There was no mistaking it.

  Casey stood up and staggered back.

  She blinked hard in the fractured light.

  Steadying herself, she stepped down the right hand side of the Audi S5, taking the tarpaulin with her, peeling it back from the navy blue surface of the car until she had uncovered it completely.

  Images from the nightmare flickered before her eyes as she dropped the canvas to floor then returned to the front of the car and stood before it.

  Saskia’s face…

  The assailant…

  Beams from the headlights, piercing the darkness…

  Casey read the license plate: W-ZC-23S.

  She was numb. Tears stung her cheeks. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

  This was it. The car that had plagued her dreams. The car that Lionel had found almost by accident. The car that had carried Saskia Andrutsiv to her death on Lasterby Road.

  Looking down, Casey noted the right headlamp was cracked and glass was missing. There was also a slight depression in the body just underneath the bottom edge of the headlight.

  Casey touched her hand to the cold surface. She shivered, wondering if this was where the car had struck Saskia, the final blow that had sealed her fate and Casey’s.

  Her hand shook. Her emotions spun. First grief and deep sadness, then a surging, white hot anger.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  The house beckoned, coaxing her.

  Would there be answers inside? The final pieces of this whole tragic puzzle?

  Turning on her heel, she stepped back to the door of the garage, pausing to retrieve the crowbar that lay on the concrete floor. She gripped it tightly, her knuckles turning white as she marched across the overgrown lawn towards the house.

  Caution had left her now. In its place was an iron will.

  Dropping down onto the patio, she scanned the glass observatory, identifying a pair of double doors in the gloom. Aiming the light at them, she choked up on the crowbar then shoved it full force into the crack between the two doors, splintering the timber frame as she wrenched it to one side. There was a loud crack as the locking mechanism protested but quickly yielded and broke away from the frame. One of the glass panes cracked under pressure. The doors swung inwards.

  Casey lowered her arm, maintaining her grip on the crowbar as she listened for signs of life.

  Satisfied that there were none, Casey stepped into the darkness.

  She had failed to notice that, on the door frame, a small, green LED began to flash silently.

  Casey moved deeper into the house. Like the yard, it seemed that this place had become little more than a storage facility. Through the sunroom from which she’d entered, Casey found herself in a living/dining room. Like the car, much of the furniture had been covered with sheets. The air was stale and tinged with the odour of rodent urine.

  Beyond a hallway entrance, Casey stopped to run her finger along an exposed side table, tracing a line through a layer of dust. Particles were swept up into the air where they danced in the beam of the smartphone light.

  A number of photo frames stood on this side table. Casey bent down to inspect them. One showed a portrait of a couple, roughly the same age as Casey’s parents, posing together. The man appeared European, possibly Italian. Dressed in a shirt and tie, he bore a warm smile as he held the hand of his partner: an attractive, stately woman with cropped hair and angular features. Casey’s eyes lingered on her face. She thought she saw something familiar. Eventually, she drifted across the accompanying photos. The same couple appeared in several more frames, this time posing with two children—a boy and a girl. Again, Casey saw something familiar in the subjects there, but she couldn’t determine what it was. Leaning in, her eyes drifted over the faces of the children. The boy had shock of ebony curls framing a button nose and a beaming smile. The girl beside him, with long, black hair tied back from her face, bore a pensive expression as she clutched the hand of the woman who held her lovingly close.

  Casey squinted in the half light, her eyes gravitating towards the boy in one of the pictures.

  Who is that?

  A shard of glass from the broken sunroom door suddenly dropped and smashed on the floor behind her, causing Casey to jump. She wheeled around, blinking furiously, expecting the worst, but no one appeared to be there.

  Turning away from the photo frames she looked ahead, noting the front door of the house at the end of the hall and a staircase on her left. Approaching the stairs, Casey cast the light through doorways on both sides of her: one that led into a bedroom, another to a sitting room. Like the living area, the furniture that occupied them was covered.

  At the foot of the stairs, she cast the light up into the gloom, hesitating, cocking her head, listening for any signs of life. All she could hear was her own breathing.

  Gripping the crowbar tighter, she ascended as quietly as she could up the stairs, pausing at the top and sweeping the beam left and right.

  To her right, at the end of the hall, a door was slightly ajar. She headed towards it, angling the light’s beam downwards. On her right was another open door and, as she regarded it, she stopped. Her nostrils twitched as a fragrance touched them—a fragrance that seemed familiar.

  Resting the crowbar on the door, she nudged it and peered around it into the darkness beyond. It was a master bedroom whose window looked out onto the front garden. Slipping inside, Casey noted a king-sized bed. It had been made up with sheets and a quilt.

  The bedding had been kicked back as though someone had risen from it but had neglected to make it. Casey lowered the crowbar to the floor and ran her hand across the rumpled bed. The sheets were creased as though someone had been sleeping in it.

  The fragrance she’d caught earlier was stronger here. It was coming from the bed. Casey racked her brain trying to place it. It was definitely masculine, an aftershave perhaps. She couldn’t put her finger on where she’d encountered it before.


  Looking up and around, Casey noted a wardrobe, and a table and chair with a man’s suit jacket draped over it. Unlike the covered furniture elsewhere in the house, these were completely uncovered, yet not dusty.

  Her skin prickled.

  Someone has been here. And recently.

  She backed out of the room and focused on the door at the end of the hall. Fingers of tension crept up her spine, bringing with them a sense of urgency.

  Approaching the door, she pushed it open and directed the light into the room.

  And gasped.

  The room was a home office, a study—and it had been thoroughly trashed.

  There was a desk that sat before a large window. Its drawers had been removed and up-ended. An accompanying chair lay on its side before it. To her left, Casey saw a large bookcase whose entire collection had been dumped in a large pile on the floor. A filing cabinet beside that had been similarly trashed. Its drawers were hanging precariously; papers and folders spilled from them.

  Setting the crowbar down, Casey stepped over the mess and shone the light at the desk.

  Several folders from the filing cabinet had been set down here and were laid open as if someone had been reading them. Underneath one of these folders, Casey spied the edge of a newspaper and she lifted it out from underneath.

  An entire portion of the front page had been cut from it. She examined the date on the masthead. It was the edition from two days ago. Playing the light across the desk before her, Casey searched around until she looked up at the window. The missing front page had been taped to the glass. Her eyes fell across the fiery wreck of a burning car and her stomach plunged.

  Josephine Catea’s car.

  Placing the light down, Casey returned to the file folders on the desk. The contents of the papers inside were incomprehensible to her at first but, as she picked up a sheet from one of them and began reading its contents, Casey began to recognise terms on the page. Blood results, physical examination, immunisation profile.

  She frowned.

  She picked up another sheet from an adjacent folder and scanned its contents, seeing similar terminology contained within it.