The young man hunched down beside a thick holly bush and forced the bag inside, swearing as the spikes on the leaves scratched his skin. Then, he shot another furtive glance around and left the clearing.
His curiosity was piqued. He gave it a few minutes and then stepped out from behind the tree. Scooting over to the bush, he pulled the bag from inside.
The moon was bright and high in the sky now and lit the clearing with the dull black light that night time gives. He drew the zip down on the backpack and pulled the sides open.
Inside was five large packages, wrapped in plastic and parcel tape. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what was inside. Drugs. Either heroin or cocaine.
His lips curled in distaste. He occasionally used sedatives to control his Angels, but drugs in general were horrible. He’d once known a lad who’d snorted that much coke that his nasal passages collapsed. And another, years and years ago, when he’d been on a ship in the navy, thinking he might enjoy that, who’d injected heroin. He’d died. Horrid stuff.
Wondering what he should do with the stash, he sat back on his haunches.
He was concentrating so hard, he didn’t hear Alan Brown come back to the clearing. Not until he was right next to him, anyway.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing with that?’
He glanced to the side, making eye contact. The young man was terrified – his eyes darted left to right as he stared back, trying to look hard.
‘Don’t pay me no heed, lad. What’s in this bag is none of my beeswax. Here.’
He stood slowly, holding the bag out towards Alan.
He could see the lad was desperate, knew how much trouble he’d be in if the bag was lost. He also knew Alan had seen his face. He knew Alan had recognised him, too; it was written all over his face. And that just wouldn’t do.
Alan reached out for the bag, and he took his opportunity, swinging it round hard and catching the young man on the side of the head, causing him to fall to the ground with a thud. He kicked him hard to the abdomen. The big boys obviously didn’t teach self-defence to young dealers.
He dropped the bag, pulled the knife he always kept in his pocket from its sheath, and before Alan even knew what was going on, he drew the sharpened blade straight across the young man’s neck.
The look of shock in Alan’s eyes as his hands grasped at his neck, slithering in the blood now falling steadily down his chest, was sublime. He almost wished he’d had a video camera – it wasn’t the first time he’d killed to protect himself, but it was easily the best. The rush he felt came up from his toes, his whole body tingled with the satisfaction that spread through his veins.
He stood and watched as Alan bled out – not because the blood-loss interested him but more because he needed to be sure he was dead. The red liquid soaked the ground surrounding Alan, thick and dark in the moonlight.
When he was sure the young man was dead, he picked up a handful of moss and cleaned his knife, putting back in its sheath and into his pocket. Then, he grabbed the bag and stashed it inside one of the hollow trees in the clearing. No one knew it was there. There was no reason to suspect anyone else would come looking for it. Besides, the drugs were better off the streets, deep inside a tree, than him putting them in a bin somewhere that they could be found.
What the hell am I supposed to do with Alan now? I can’t leave him here. This is where my Angels live.
Thinking hard, he remembered he had a piece of tarpaulin in the back of the car. It would take him about twenty minutes to walk there and back. He checked his watch, knowing that farmers started early in the morning, even in winter. The lad would be missed before he could do anything about it. Would the farmer venture onto the land belonging to the stables? Did he know what his son was up to?
He had no choice. Turning quickly, he strode to the back lane where he’d parked his car.
* * *
13th December, 0620 hours – abandoned school near Durham.
Cheryl’s alter-ego woke up to a pounding headache. It felt as though someone had a pneumatic drill working through her very skull. She groaned and put her hand up to her head, pressing hard on her temples. What was the last thing she remembered?
That stupid box. What a cockwomble. Thinking I couldn’t handle a stupid rat. I can handle anything.
She smiled into the darkness, she could hear Cheryl screaming in her head, wanting control back. Not gunna happen. This one’s all on me. I’ll get us out of this.
Feeling around the darkness, she realised he’d left her where she’d fallen. She was still in the furnace room, though the temperature was dropping with the furnace being off.
The pounding in her head was persistent and wouldn’t go. She groaned with the sheer pressure of it. Dragging herself up the table to a standing position was hard. Dizziness came in waves, and she felt her stomach churn with the effort.
Turning her head slightly, she threw up her gut’s meagre contents.
The table was bare apart from a bottle of water and a plate with what felt like a couple of pork pies. She grimaced. Yuck – she’d never liked the gelatinous pork with thick pastry. She grabbed the water, though, and gulped it down, her thirst not abating even as she finished the bottle.
She wiped the dribbles from her chin, trying to take deep breaths and force the pain in her head away. She was stronger than Cheryl, she knew it. I can do this, if the pain would just ease for a moment, I’ll find us a way out.
The tears that ran down her cheeks were unexpected, though. She hated crying, not like Cheryl, who cried all the time. Angrily, she swiped at her cheeks. She was shivering uncontrollably but felt hot at the same time.
You’re ill.
She shook her head hard. Anything she could cope with – any pain, any discomfort. Apart from illness. It made her weaker than crying did. Making the decision to retreat for the sake of her own sanity, she allowed Cheryl to return from the recesses of her mind.
‘I hate you,’ sobbed Cheryl, the tears so angrily wiped from her cheeks now running free. ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone. Just go away and never come back.’
You pathetic piece of crap. Who put their hand in that bloody box with the rats? Me, that’s who. The same as every time you get yourself into shit, it’s always me who drags you out. You’d have ended up getting us both killed. And now, you say you hate me. Well, fine, you think you can do this on your own then do it. Fucking DO IT!
And with that, Cheryl’s mind fell silent. It felt weird – not hearing anything tumbling around up there. She concentrated hard, but still, silence reined.
She shivered again, her teeth clattering against each other loudly. Another wave of dizziness passed over her, and this time, she succumbed to it, collapsing to the floor in a heap. Her breathing sounded ragged, the rattling in her chest like chains against a wall. Whatever was going on inside there, it wouldn’t be easing on its own any time soon.
* * *
13th December, 0835 hours – Jackson’s residence
Jackson loved mornings like this. He wasn’t due at work until 12pm and had managed a sneaky lie in. Normally, he woke with the birds, but today, he’d only been up for five whole minutes. So little time that, as yet, he wasn’t even technically ‘up’. He stretched under the striped black and white duvet. It was his favourite. Reminded him of the Magpies – the only football team worth caring about. He’d been ribbed constantly at Sunderland for liking the opposition, but he took it good naturedly. Besides, he was giving some ribbing back himself now with how bad the black cats had been playing.
He could feel the chill in the air outside of the bed clothes – it reminded him of camping. When he was a kid, he and Kevin had forever been nicking off with the tent. There was something about being wrapped up cosy and warm but feeling the cold air tickle your cheeks that made him very happy. It had been years since he’d just gone off and gone camping. The last time he’d gone, the farmer had let him camp in the field with his horses. They’d been o
verly curious of the tent and had ended up pulling it down around him. And as he panicked and fought to get out of the door, they’d been stood with smiles on their faces. He was sure they’d done it on purpose. But they were horses. Horses weren’t that clever, were they?
Maybe you should ask TJ…
Her face filled his mind, those brown curly tendrils that framed her face perfectly. The small peak at the tip of her nose. Her full lips that just begged to be kissed…
What the hell are you thinking? She’s a victim of crime. You’d end up in all kinds of hot water going there.
‘Would I, though? It’s not like I don’t know her outside of her being a victim. She’s really nice. We met at the Christmas party before she was ever a victim,’ he muttered the words under his breath, but his thoughts continued.
You walked away at the Christmas party. If you were going to speak to her, you should have done it then.
‘Oh, piss off.’
You could speak to her at the afternoon tea, though. She said she’d be there…
He pulled the duvet off and stood, smiling, thankful he was wearing pyjamas, and grabbed his dressing gown off the hook on the door.
Heating on first, then coffee.
Clicking the kettle on, he powered up the DAB radio he kept in the kitchen. Guns N’ Roses’ ‘November Rain’ filled the kitchen and he found himself singing along as he put coffee and a couple of sugars into his favourite mug. It was chipped at the top and had ‘World’s Best CSI’ on the side in faded lettering. It had been his Secret Santa gift from work a few years back. That and a few guitar picks in varying densities. No matter how he tried to keep himself to himself, the team were good. They knew each other really well, and the gifts they all got every year just proved that point.
He poured the hot water into his cup as the song was coming to an end.
When loud banging came from his front door, he jumped and sprayed the hot water all over the counter and on top of the hand that had been resting on the counter. ‘Ow, shit.’
He put the kettle down and turned the cold tap on, flinging his hand underneath, cursing again as the water stung. The banging from the door sounded again, and he muttered under his breath as he made his way over.
Expecting it to be the postman or something, he flung the door open with a grin that was more of a grimace than a smile.
‘I’ve been trying to call you for two days. Where do you get off not answering me, or worse, telling me to naff off?’
Jackson breathed out slowly, trying to stay calm, and failing. ‘Nicki. I should have known. I’m speaking to one of my colleagues later. This has got to stop. Go away and leave me alone. I can’t be any clearer than that.’
He closed the door hard, intending for it to slam, but it was stopped by her foot.
‘Let me in. We can talk, sort this little squabble out.’
‘There’s nothing to sort out. Move your foot.’
‘I’m not moving my foot ’til you let me in.’
Jackson felt his temper rise. ‘Nicki, fuck off. I’m so sick of this shit. Get the message and back the fuck off. You’ll be hearing from one of the cops today. Enough’s enough.’
He pushed the door harder, hoping that the pain in her foot would make her pull back. The last thing he needed was for one of his neighbours to call 999 and report a domestic at his address. Nicki swore as the door pressed hard against the bones in her foot and eventually pulled it back.
The door closed with a heavy click, and Jackson set the latch in place.
He actually felt guilty for making her move her foot that way, but he didn’t know any other way he could have done it. He’d never willingly hurt any woman, but if she’d gotten inside, he’d never have got her to leave.
He was definitely going to speak to one of the inspectors when he got to work and see if they couldn’t issue her with a harassment warning.
Jackson accidentally brushed the hand he’d spilt water on against the door frame, and he paused as pain shot through the back of it. Glancing down, he saw it was angry and red. The skin hadn’t split or blistered, but he’d definitely scalded it. He held it under running water for a few more minutes before drying it and popping a dressing over. It wouldn’t bode well with aluminium powder and goodness knew what else settling on it when he went to work later.
* * *
13th November, 1635 hours – abandoned school near Durham
He stood over her, watching intently in case she was faking. He wouldn’t put it past her. He wouldn’t put it past any of them.
But she stayed still, her hand flopped over her face. Her breathing was ragged and her face was flushed yet covered in a sheen of sweat.
Damn it. She’s ill. Leaning down, he shook her shoulders hard and stepped back, waiting for a response.
None came. Whatever was afflicting her, it was more than just a common cold. He wondered if she had pneumonia – his mum had had it, not long before she’d died in hospital wired up to a ton of machines. Her body couldn’t cope, they’d said. Her heart gave out under the stress of the illness. She had looked like this before she’d gone to hospital, though. And her chest had rattled as loudly.
He picked up her hand, feeling her pulse flutter against his fingers weakly. It wasn’t strong, like it should be.
‘For goodness’ sake. What do I do with you now? You can’t finish tasks like this. I think the kindest thing to do would be to put you out of your misery.’
He nodded his head, knowing it was the right thing to do. He could get another Angel, maybe after the Christmas festivities were over – or before, if he was lucky. He hated Christmas. So much so that a wave of anger washed over him. Christmas, for him, had always been a crap time. His dad had run off with another woman, when he was young, on Christmas Eve. His mum had been too busy wailing like a banshee for him to even open the meagre presents underneath the fake Christmas tree. He’d found out later that his dad had nicked all the ones of any value to give to the son of his new fancy woman. The presents left behind had been the reason for him failing to believe in Santa Claus anymore at the grand old age of six.
He still remembered to that day what those gifts were. He’d had four to open. One was a stationery set with Thomas the Tank Engine on; he’d grown out of Thomas years before, but his dad hadn’t realised that when he’d spent a few quid in the pound shop. The second gift was a plastic cup and plate with a painted monkey on – the kind you get a baby when they’re just weaning onto adult food. A scarf in red and pink – plainly made for girls, and a pair of socks that were three sizes too big. His mum hadn’t cared enough to even make a Christmas dinner – he’d ended up with beans on toast.
After that year, she hadn’t bothered with the season at all. He remembered painstakingly making a card the year after. His mum had barely even looked at it, throwing it straight in the bin when she thought he wasn’t watching. Then, his dad had returned, and nothing ever improved from there. If anything, it got even worse. He knew from a young age that Christmas was something for other people. He made no effort at all after that.
Switching his attention to the task at hand, he focussed on her face. Mucky now, streaks down her cheeks where her tears had run rivers through the dirt and grime. She wasn’t as pretty as his other Angels. Her cheekbones were pronounced but more because she was skinny. He had been feeding her, so this had been prior to her coming to stay with him. Her eyes were sunken, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked almost skeletal. She had patches of dried blood over her face from him having to be firm with her, but the largest patch on her head wasn’t him. He knelt down beside her, now confident she wouldn’t be waking any time soon, and leaned forward to get a better look.
He could hear the rattle in her chest, feel the flutter of shaky breath against his cheek, her teeth chatter as she shivered.
He placed his fingers across her temple, taking in the ridged injury, and wondered how she’d come to do it. It had scabbed now but looked rough and uneven
. She groaned softly under his touch.
Maybe he should have installed CCTV into the little sleeping room, too. He’d have seen then how she’d come by it. Her whole forehead was black and blue. He shouldn’t care, he knew that. But he liked his Angels displaying only the marks he’d left.
He sighed again deeply. It was a real shame. He’d wanted to see more of the woman she’d become when faced with the rats. Now that woman made him hot. That ‘couldn’t give a toss’ attitude wasn’t one he often came across.
Almost tenderly, he trailed his finger down her cheek, then fastened his hands around her throat and squeezed. She didn’t come to enough to fight him, barely even strong enough to gasp for breath as he kept even that from her. Within a couple of minutes, her lips were blue, and he knew she’d gone.
She hadn’t been a good girl, though – she didn’t deserve to be with his Angels. And besides, the ground really was too hard for him to dig up now. He wrapped her in the tarpaulin he’d carried her in on and carried her out to his car. Dumping her in the boot, he smiled as she landed awkwardly on top of the corpse that had once been Alan Brown. He drove to his home, knowing he’d have to go out later that night when the normal folks were fast asleep in their beds.
He’d lived in the county long enough to know a few perfect spots – spots that weren’t often frequented even in the summer months, let alone in the dead of winter.
He pulled into his street and frowned at the houses with flickering Christmas lights. Why did they always have to put those horrid garish things up every year? After pulling onto his drive, he exited the vehicle and set the car alarm. Somewhere in the distance, a soft voice floated on the wind, about the herald angels singing, and he took it as a sign he’d made the right decision. She was definitely not, and never would be, one of his Angels.
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14th December, 0725 hours – Rainbow Riding Stables
Under The Woods: a heart-stopping police thriller (The Forensic Files Book 4) Page 10