by Dan Waddell
One night I heard him leave. I climbed from my window to the street below. The fog was thick, blanketing the city, muffling its sounds. I simply listened and followed his soft wolf-like tread. I shadowed him all the way until he grabbed some poor soul staggering back from a night of drink. I heard a muffled cry and then watched him fall. My father turned, I ducked away, then he made his way back home.
I failed to get back before he did. The next morning he asked where I was. I concocted a tale of meeting a friend, though I knew it would earn me a beating. He only stopped when my mother begged him to. I lay on my bed on my front, weeping as my mother tended the wounds to my back and backside from the strap, praying to whichever God for the peelers to come and take him away. But they never came.
From that day he sank further into insanity. He made us pray four times a day. He beat me incessantly. Then came the night. He urged us to follow him down to the cellar. Each night since, I remember the damp smell, the cold floor, then the noise… my mother gurgling, spluttering, choking on her own blood. He grabbed me and plunged the knife into my neck, eyes wide as saucers and brimming with mania. I remember nothing else.
I was struck dumb from then on, forever to keep the dark secret quiet in my heart. Until now. Until this day when I end my own wretched life. I carry that man’s blood. With me it ends. It is my fervent dying hope that those who proceed can live without this stain on their souls.
Heather folded the letter back up. ‘You said he doesn’t come by very often these days,’ she said.
Liza shook her head. ‘Once or twice a year. Not quite sure what he’s up to. He hasn’t written one of his books in a while; he usually brings me a copy, but hasn’t done for at least a year. While he wrote them he seemed OK. I think he thought the world would listen – it didn’t. But the last time I saw him, he said he was working on another project.’
‘Do you know what he does, where he goes, any friends?’
‘Not these days. He used to spend a lot of time around the site of the house.’
‘The house?’
‘On Pamber Street. Segar Kellogg’s house.’
When Foster surfaced, he couldn’t speak. His mouth gaped helplessly wide, wedged open to its furthest extremity, as if stuck at the midpoint of a yawn. He tried to bring both tiers together but his jaw felt locked in place. From the bottom of his field of vision, he could just make out a metal plate on his top lip. He took a few desperate breaths through his wide-open mouth, the air rushing in gulps, drying his throat in an instant. There was a fleeting moment of panic when it felt as if his throat would seize and he would not be able to breathe.
By inhaling through his nostrils he managed to regain control. Not my teeth, he thought. With his tongue he flicked at the top and bottom rows, only able to reach the latter. They were covered by what felt like a strip of rubber. Some contraption had prised open his mouth.
‘Unfortunately, I won’t be able to take any more questions from the floor,’ he heard his killer’s voice say, ‘the floor now being unable to ask any questions.’
Foster struggled against his restraints like a wounded, cornered beast, instinct and preservation kicking in once more, damning the pain each minor movement caused.
This wasn’t how he thought it was going to end. Not like this. A heart attack one night, maybe. Or some bullet from a suspect they had forced into a corner. All of these he had considered when lying in bed, or mulling over a glass of red. But not being tortured by a fucking maniac. If he had a gun and the use of his hands, he would have no hesitation in blowing his own brains out.
‘The item you are wearing is called, rather bluntly, a mouth opener. I’ve adapted it a bit, but it’s used in sadomasochistic circles in pursuit of helpless degradation and absolute control. God bless the Internet.’
He leaned in closer; Foster could feel his warm breath on his face.
‘You can’t see, but there are two screws here.’
The contraption moved. The screws were at either side of his mouth.
‘If I turn them clockwise they bring the two metal plates that are covering your upper and lower sets of teeth closer together.’
Foster felt the contraption loosen and his jawbone relax with an ache.
‘But if I turn anticlockwise…’
He felt the screws turn. The gap between the top and bottom of his jaw became wider once more.
‘If I keep screwing like this, then eventually your jawbone will break – very slowly.’
He continued to turn, thread by thread. Foster felt the strain on his jaw as it was pushed back to the position it was when he woke up. The skin at the side of his lips had split. Breathing was a struggle once more. Foster felt himself fading, unable to get the air he needed because the widening of his mouth tightened his neck and constricted the airway.
The fight was leaving him, his thoughts starting to drift…
The barbiturates had come from the street. A drug dealer, who passed them information from time to time, said he would get hold of them for the right price. Three days later they met in a car park and he was handed the vial.
‘You sure you know what you’re doing here?’ the dealer had asked. ‘My mate says that’s some heavy shit.’
Foster reassured him. Did not tell him it was for his own father.
That night his father wanted to do it. His affairs had been put in order, nothing was left undone. They sat at the kitchen table as the night fell and drank a bottle of Château Montrose 1964. Rain had decimated the crop that year, but the Montrose was picked before the storms came, a true rarity. His father had long been saving it.
He drank it in a state of reverie. Before he took the first sip, he stared long and hard at the beautiful red hue, then buried his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply. A look of contentment was written across his face. When he took a sip, so did Foster. The wine was like liquid velvet, the acidity correct, the tannins gentle and mellow. It was the silkiest wine he had ever tasted. His father savoured each drop like it was nectar of the finest fruit.
When he finished the glass, he stood up. Not even allowing himself more than one glass in the last few minutes of his life.
‘Don’t do it, Dad,’ Foster said, voice breaking.
‘This life holds little more for me,’ his father said. ‘The cancer will kill me in a year. It will eat and eat away at me. I would rather retain some control and choose the time of my leaving.’
‘What changed, Dad? You were so full of fight.’
His father held up his hand to quieten him. ‘Don’t give me the first degree,’ he said slowly. ‘Euthanasia means “easy death” and I want it to be that way. Respect my decision. There are some fights you can’t win and there are some fights you don’t want to win. Now you can leave if you want. I’ll understand. You’re implicated enough as it is.’ As he stood up, he looked at Foster. ‘One day you’ll understand.’
His father went upstairs. Foster followed, not quite believing this was happening.
In his room, his father plumped up some pillows and lay down. Next to the bed on a table was the vial. Foster climbed on to the bed; tears stung his cheeks. Helplessness. There was nothing he could do. Fear. This man had always been there.
Nothing was said. They hugged. His father told him he loved him and was proud of him. Foster, breaking down, returned the gesture.
His father edged backwards on his throne of pillows. Then he picked up the vial, turned the top and emptied seven white pills into the palm of his hand. He looked at Foster, smiled, eyes wet. Then he threw the pills into his mouth and took a hefty swig of water.
‘Now, this may hurt.’ The killer was back, his voice dragging Foster from the brink.
He started to turn the screws.
Heather’s car slammed to a halt on Bramley Road. On the way, as they careered through the narrow, streetlit warren of Notting Dale, she had phoned through for an armed response team to assist them. Then she turned to Nigel.
‘Foster will keep hims
elf alive as long as possible,’ she muttered, her jaw firm.
Her faith in him appeared unshakable. Nigel was desperate to believe her. It was only a half-hour from midnight.
They jumped out, Nigel clutching an Ordnance Survey map from 1893 and a small torch. He marched forwards, checking their position against the map, trying to work out where Pamber Street might have been. Above them the Westway, which carved through the area like a concrete river, pulsated with evening traffic. They walked along a short road leading down to an underground car park, Heather and the team following Nigel’s steps.
Nigel could see as he passed a series of five-a-side football pitches that Pamber Street was no more, one of the streets razed when the overhead motorway was built. The map told him that Pamber Street had lain north of the Westway. With his finger he traced the angle of the road and looked up at one of the characterless brick blocks of flats that studded the area. He veered towards one. In the distance he heard a van pull up at speed. He turned to see it disgorge a troop of armed response officers. More should be on their way.
‘Keep going,’ Heather gasped. ‘Find the flat.’
Nigel headed straight for a block that appeared to stand on the same patch of ground as Pamber Street. Few of the flats were illuminated. There was the thud of footsteps on the ground as the armed team caught them up. Nigel and Heather reached the entrance and made for the stairs.
‘Where now?’ Heather asked breathlessly.
‘Number 12,’ Nigel said, bounding up the stairs. The number of Segar Kellogg’s shop. Instinct told him his descendant would have picked a flat of the same number. They reached the second level and made their way across the corridor linking the flats. The armed team was now alongside them. Nigel stopped outside number 12. No one said a word. Nigel stepped back. His eyes glanced to his right, where he could see lights and vehicles descending on the area from all sides. Then they met Heather’s. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, expectation. He felt his heart beat firm and insistent against his ribcage, as if attempting to force its way out.
The team of four men took up their positions, strapping on pairs of night-vision goggles. The flat was silent, no light from within. On the silent count of three, one officer battered the door and it fell with a sonorous thump. The others poured through shouting. Heather followed them, and Nigel’s curiosity ushered him through in her slipstream.
The men marched around the flat screaming warnings. Nigel, his eyes not yet accustomed to the light, braced himself for the sound of a gun. Nothing came. The small living room was empty. The single bedroom, too. They burst through into the kitchen: nothing. The air was fusty, sweet-smelling. In the darkness he heard Heather’s voice.
‘Are you sure it was number 12?’ she screamed, her tone accusatory.
‘Yes,’ he whispered hoarsely.
He was certain. He felt himself shrink visibly. Another group of officers appeared in the doorway. One of them flicked a light switch, lighting the room, making Nigel squint.
In the middle of the small, spartan sitting room was a large, white fridge-freezer; the only item in there save a wooden chair. Nigel and Heather looked at each other. One of the ART pulled the fridge door open. Empty but for half a carton of milk. He pulled the first drawer of the freezer open. Nothing. Then the second. Immediately he stepped back. Heather moved in, Nigel at her shoulder. He could see a bed of ice stained watery-red. On it lay a pair of hands and what appeared to be a wig, though a flap of blue-black skin betrayed its true origin.
Darbyshire’s hands, MacDougall’s scalp. They had the right place.
‘Too late,’ Heather drawled numbly.
The ringing in Foster’s ears was incessant. It drowned out everything: the voice of his potential killer, the quickening beat of his heart, even his own pathetically shallow breaths. Speaking was too much effort. The pain in his body from his many wounds had drifted away. Indeed, he could not feel his body at all. The only sensation was the ringing. Suddenly it stopped. He felt light, ready to float free. Peace and contentment flowed through him.
Then he felt the bed beneath him once more, as if slammed back into his body, aware immediately of the agony from his suppurating leg and shattered collarbone in particular. He opened his eyes and gasped: the pain from his ripped jaw shot through his entire body, yet he was incapable of emitting anything other than a low moan in protest.
For those few seconds he wanted to be calm and peaceful once more, away from his wracked, fragmented body and the smell of old cardboard.
‘Thought you’d done a Graham Ellis and jumped the gun,’ he heard Hogg say.
The voice was nearby. What was he doing now?
Foster could sense a presence to his left.
‘Not long now,’ Hogg added. ‘Then it’ll all be over.’
Foster had no more fight. He closed his eyes, seeking the soothing balm of unconsciousness. There came the first stab of pain on the thumb knuckle of his right hand. A thin piercing stroke with a knife. He knew at once what it was.
The number 1.
Nigel stumbled out of the flat, needing air, the image of the severed body parts repeating in his mind. Policemen poured past him as he made his way down the stairs, mingling with a trail of confused residents forced grudgingly from their flats a few minutes before midnight, many in their night-clothes. Nigel did not know what to do with himself. Foster was certain to be dead; the killer had won.
He turned and glanced back at the functional brick building, ignoring the chaos around him. Two centuries ago, under a similarly brooding night sky, at the same hour, Esau Hogg had followed his father and watched him slaughter an innocent man. A few days later, within fifty yards of where Nigel now stood, Esau’s father had ushered his family to the basement beneath the shop, and butchered them.
The basement, he thought.
His eyes were attracted to a sign to one side of the block, black on white in giant lettering: ‘STORE MORE’. A road wound down underneath the council block, ended by a black garage door. Some sort of self-storage facility. Using the torch, he checked the 1893 map, folded and bundled into his coat pocket. Then he looked back at the block of flats. The road on the 1893 map was at a different angle from the other streets that branched off the main road. Tracing it with his finger, Pamber Street seemed to follow the contour of the road leading down to the underground storage unit. He ran towards it. Outside the entrance was a security guard.
‘Is anyone in there?’ Nigel asked, gesturing with his finger at the door.
‘No,’ the guard said. ‘There’s only me on duty. What’s going on here?’ He gestured to the melee around the block of flats.
‘Police work.’
The security guard raised his eyebrows. ‘You police?’
Nigel decided to lie. He nodded imperceptibly. ‘I need to get in there,’ he said, indicating the entrance behind the guard. ‘It’s important,’ he added.
The security guard weighed up his decision.
‘Once you’ve let me in, you need to go and find Detective Sergeant Heather Jenkins and tell her to meet me in here,’ Nigel continued with as much authority as he could muster, not wanting to give him time to think about it too much.
The gleam in Nigel’s eyes, his desperation, appeared to sway the security guard. He turned back and unlocked the door, letting Nigel in.
‘Where’s unit 12?’
‘First floor down. Take the lift.’ He disappeared into an office for a few seconds, returning with a set of bolt cutters. ‘Only the customers have keys. You’ll need these.’
The security guard turned and left. Nigel headed down into the storage area, turning right from the brightly lit parking bay through a giant set of double doors, towards a lift.
‘Nigel!’ a voice hissed from behind. It was Heather, out of breath from exertion. She had followed him out of the flat, caught him up. ‘Where are you going?’
He told her about the family being murdered in the cellar, and how he had re-examined the map.
She looked at him coolly. ‘I just passed the security guard. He’s adamant there’s no one in the entire complex.’
Nigel shrugged. ‘There might be something in there that can help us.’
Heather glanced at the bolt cutters, the glimmer of a smile on her lips. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘Playing the cop opens a few doors. Literally.’
Heather unholstered her radio and spoke, giving her position and asking for back-up. ‘Come on,’ she said.
The pair ran to the lift, went down a floor, alighting on a long corridor that stretched for about a hundred yards. The walls on either side were white steel, broken at regular intervals by bright yellow steel doors. The only silence was the gentle hum of the air ventilation system. Nigel walked down the hall, to a point where the doors were less tightly spaced, indicating bigger storage units. He turned and gestured to the last door on the left. No number on it. They stopped outside, looking at each other. Still only the distant hum of circulating air.
‘It’s not locked,’ Heather said.
All the others they had passed had been.
Nigel looked at her. The bolt cutters he had were no use now, but he felt his grip tighten on the shaft. Heather reached down and grasped the metal door handle. Slowly, without making a sound, she pushed it down and pulled. The door opened.
‘Bloody hell,’ she said simply.
There was a wall of boxes blocking the doorway like bricks.
From beyond came a noise, the sound of something being knocked over. Followed, Nigel thought, by a low moan.
Heather flashed him a look, eyes wide. ‘He’s in there,’ she hissed. She looked behind her, along the corridor. No sign of back-up.
Nigel looked at the wall of boxes blocking their path. Without another thought, he took a short run and pitched himself headlong. He met a box square on, felt it give on impact and the whole edifice shift. A searing pain went through his shoulder. The top rows of boxes came down with him as he burst through the makeshift barrier.