‘I don’t like it when I get called into your school to meet your headmaster. It interrupts my day and draws attention to me, so I’m going to say this once and once only and I hope it’s clear, if you don’t stop misbehaving at school I will hurt you with my cigarettes again. Do you understand me?’
The pain he felt when she held him down and stubbed her cigarettes into his armpits was fresh in his memory and he mumbled, ‘Yes,’ but the question was rhetorical. She continued, ‘If you tell anyone about my friends or talk to anyone about what happens when you stay over at Uncle Derek’s I’ll hurt you worse than you can imagine. I’ll take the kitchen scissors to your little cock and balls and I’ll cut them off,’ she said. ‘Do you know what will happen then?’
He looked out of the window and shrugged painfully upset.
‘If you don’t bleed to death, you’ll end up having to sit down when you pee; just like a little girl. Do you want to pee like a girl for the rest of your life? Do you?’
He whispered his reply. ‘No.’
‘Imagine how badly they’d tease you if I snipped your stupid little cock off,’ she said and snatched between his legs, pinching him hard. He yelped and tried to move away but she held him tightly, cackling with laughter and digging her nails in.
He cried all the way home. She told him to stop but he couldn’t help it so his mother turned the stereo up and drowned out the noise of his misery with the music of Barbra Streisand.
The weekend rolled around as it always did and his mother took him to Uncle Derek’s house, she dropped him off and left almost immediately without saying goodbye. The boy saw Uncle Derek give her some money before she went, her friends often gave her money too and he wondered what she spent it on. The Headmaster had once asked him what his mother did for a living and he said he didn’t know but she had lots of friends that helped her out. He was glad the Headmaster didn’t mention it when they were in his office.
Uncle Derek always seemed very tall to the boy. He was skinny too; his hips protruded from his skin and his veins stuck out all over his body like turquoise spaghetti. He tended to ignore the boy until dusk and then made a game out of taking their clothes off while he played music on a small cassette player and sang along with the songs, trying to encourage the boy to join in.
‘Sing and dance with me,’ he said holding the player above his head and twirling his naked body around the room. The boy watched him dance and thrust himself in the boy’s direction. Uncle Derek sang and grunted and moaned in time to the music and the boy thought how it sounded like the noises that echoed from his mother’s bedroom when her friends came over.
Uncle Derek knelt down in front of the boy; his body was slick with sweat and he pointed a long finger into the boy’s face. He shouted over the thin sound of the cassette player, ‘Do you think I’m sexy?’ but before the boy could say anything he stood up, grabbed the boy’s hand and led him into the centre of the room so they could dance together.
When the music ended and they were tired from dancing Uncle Derek took him into the bathroom. It always happened in the bathroom and afterwards his jaw always hurt and he was usually sick into the toilet while Uncle Derek filled the bath with cold water.
That night he bled from behind, some of it went on the floor and that made Uncle Derek angry. He threw the boy into the bath and he could feel Uncle Derek’s fist gripping his hair with such force it made his scalp stretch and rip. He struggled to catch his breath as his face splashed in and out of the water, he coughed and gasped, trying to breathe only when his face was clear of the suffocating liquid but it was impossible.
Uncle Derek held his head under the water and forced the soap bar into his mouth, he felt it slide over his tongue and scrape against his teeth leaving behind waxy, foul tasting chunks in his mouth. The boy gagged and coughed and all the air left his lungs. He instinctively drew a breath and suddenly his chest became cold and heavy.
He was face down and vaguely aware that the stinging he felt in his behind had dulled. At first all he could see was the blurry white of the bathtub and then he saw the lights. They came in dreamy colourful bursts, how many he didn’t know, but then something else drifted into view; he saw faces swirling in front of him; three, four, five. Just faces floating in the blurred nothingness; they glowed with their own light and they were beautiful, just like angels should be. They smiled and their eyes shimmered with a kindness he had never seen before, shining with such love and understanding he was suddenly no longer afraid. He wanted to ask them if they were angels and whether they could help him but he had no voice with which to ask and so all he could do was stare. His skin had become numb and all pain was gone. He felt detached, as if he wasn’t part of himself anymore and all he wanted was to be one with the angels in the water.
As he watched them shifting in the white void they began to change. Shadows moved across their faces and in an instant their skin ceased to be clear and ethereal. The shadows seemed to grip and pull at them, tightening their skin, stretching it back, creating cheeks of hollowed grey and eyes that sank blackly into their skulls. Their heads tilted back and their mouths opened in unison, creating five black-lipped circles of impenetrable darkness like entrances to the deep, dark fluid depths of hell.
He panicked and felt like he should be screaming but his lungs were heavy and he couldn’t inhale, it was terrifying to him but the moment was short lived and the feeling of panic passed, letting him go as quickly as it took him. It had been just one final moment of horror before a sensation of peace washed over him and as it did the colourful lights began to fade as though they had become shrouded in mist and the hideous faces floated smoothly towards him. Closer and closer they came with their mouths open and he no longer felt afraid of them, he understood their power and their glory and he knew he wanted to be with them, to be one of them.
Their eyes began to dance with hypnotic flashes of colour that burst in front of the backdrop that was the darkness of their empty, haunting skulls. They drifted close enough to kiss him and he became completely calm as the lights in their eyes dimmed and all became dark.
He was alone on the floor when he woke up. His first thoughts were not of the pain he felt in his chest, not of the hideous taste in his mouth but of the glorious dark angels he had seen in the hazy mistiness of the bath water. He was disappointed to find he was awake, tossed back into the world he knew. Back with his mother and with Uncle Derek. He wished he could be with the dark angels again; have them take him back to the place where he felt no pain and where the nothingness of being numb was so comfortable.
He could hear Uncle Derek on the phone downstairs, he was shouting, he sounded angry but also scared and the boy knew it was time to leave. He rolled onto all fours and then, using the edge of the bath as leverage managed to stand up. His head was light and his limbs felt weak but he pushed on. He opened the bathroom door quickly and quietly, sprinted across the landing, down the stairs and out of the front door. What a sight he must have been; a naked seven-year-old boy running down the street, his girly blonde hair knotted and tangled and still damp. Watery blood painted the inside of his legs. But no tears; he never cried. Not once. And he would never cry again.
The first person to find him was a large black woman with a colourful bandana on her head. She picked him from the floor and held him to her breast. He could remember her huge brown eyes and pock marked skin and she smelt sugary sweet like honey.
His mother fumbled with the lock on her front door and spewed slurred curses at the keyhole. The Ghost walked towards her and the more she fumbled the more he worried about his timing but then the door suddenly opened and she stumbled into the flat. He adjusted his pace and crossed the remaining distance in a bound. He pushed her into the room and closed the door behind them before she knew what was going on. She turned on him but the drugs and alcohol had compromised her judgement and he easily shoved her away. She felt greasy to the touch and the sensation disgusted him. He was sure he could detect the sickly
scent of seamen on her breath.
Her bedsit was a vile cesspit of unwashed plates, empty vodka bottles and yellowed drug paraphernalia. It smelt of stale smoke and used vegetable oil. There was a grubby mattress in one corner and two burst armchairs sat miserably in front of a portable TV.
He told her to sit down with authority in his voice and she did as she was told without protest or argument. He watched her for a time and she looked back from beneath the droopy lid of her one good eye while the other remained clouded and static. To look at her repulsed him, but he couldn’t look away, and as he analysed her face the memories of his childhood flooded back; the taste, the smell and the sensation of abuse replayed in every cell of his body and he felt vomit rise in his throat. He could tell she didn’t recognise him, she had no idea he was her son, the boy she sold for sex all those years ago just so she could buy booze, drugs and shoes. She looked him up and down and said quietly, ‘What do you want?’
He made no reply, the silence in the room absorbed them and eventually her eyes began to close as she drifted off. It had been a busy night and she was too intoxicated and too over-the-hill to be concerned that a stranger was in the room with her.
‘I have a gift for you,’ he said loudly, breaking the silence. Her eyes snapped open but she remained bewildered.
‘What?’ she croaked.
‘I said, have a gift for you.’
Her head lolled back and she shrugged, she slid her tongue over her bottom lip and opened her mouth revealing crooked brown teeth and a lumpy, white tongue. She was expecting him to drop his trousers. ‘Look,’ he said. She drew focus on his hands. He held a syringe in one hand and a small clear bag of brown powder in the other.
‘Ah.’ She moaned dreamily when she saw the drugs and slid a hand over her cheap stonewashed jeans and up between her legs. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she slurred.
‘Just keep being you.’ He knelt down beside her and handed her a piece of rubber cord and she dutifully tied it around her arm while he cooked the heroin in a spoon and loaded the syringe. She gave him a dopy satisfied smile when he slid the needle into her scabby arm and pressed the plunger, shooting the contents into her vein. He moved her disgusting fingers from the rubber cord but kept the tension there, not yet allowing the fatal dose of high-grade heroin to enter her bloodstream.
‘Do you recognise me?’
She looked confused at first but then something flashed in her good eye and the Ghost knew it was recognition.
‘There it is. You see me now, don’t you mother?’
As soon as she began to mouth his name he relaxed the rubber cord for a brief second and then tightened it again. It was enough of a shot to quieten her voice. She tensed up and shuddered, then relaxed into the chair stoned and weak.
‘Would you like to know about my life since we last saw each other?’ he said.
She stared at him silently with the vacant expression of a doll.
‘I didn’t think so,’ he said, ‘but I’ll tell you anyway. My foster parents tried to protect me by keeping my childhood in the past; it was as if my life with you never really happened, it was as if it had simply been a nightmare. They were kind people and could only imagine the things you subjected me to. The things you did to me left me hollow inside and now I don’t feel anything but hate. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’
She looked as if she wanted to say something so he put his free hand around her throat and squeezed it gently. ‘It was rhetorical. Just listen to me,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel anything but hate.’ The pressure he exerted tightened the skin around her face, thinning her lips and turning them downwards. He caught a glimpse of her wet tongue as she drooled over his gloved hand and onto his wrist. The sensation as it ran over his skin turned his stomach and filled him with such revulsion he had to suppress the urge to snap her neck. There was more he wanted to say to her, it didn’t really matter whether her junk soaked brain could understand what he was saying, he just wanted her to hear it.
He continued, ‘I pieced together snippets of information about my past whenever I could,’ he said, ‘and over the years kept a careful watch on the news and eavesdropped all those tell-tale exchanges between my foster parents, I’m sure you can imagine, the secretive ones held in hushed whispers; the things they wanted to keep from me.
‘You and Uncle Derek were quite the tabloid sensation from the moment you were arrested, I’m sure you remember.
‘I enjoyed reading about your misfortunes in prison; did you ever get revenge on the inmate that threw the mug of chip fat into your face? I’m sure you did, it cost you your eye after all.
‘How did you feel when you heard Uncle Derek had been stabbed to death? I read somewhere that the attacker didn’t mean to kill him; he only wanted to teach him a lesson but he was clumsy and accidentally nicked the femoral artery. Apparently he knelt on Uncle Derek’s throat and stabbed him repeatedly in the groin and thighs with a sharpened spoon handle. Now that’s a man after my own heart if there ever was one.
‘My first thought when I heard the news was that it was too quick. I spent many hours fantasising about killing him and each and every time, he went slowly. I also have to admit that the news left me conflicted; the knowledge that he had died was reason to celebrate but it was soured because the opportunity for revenge was gone.’ He sighed. ‘It’s frustrating knowing that I will never get the chance to torture my rapist. But still, I have you don’t I mother?’
He let go of her throat and her head tipped back against the chair. She looked like she was going to pass out so he grabbed her cheeks and shook her face. ‘Wake up!’ He slapped her, making her blink and shake her head and then, there it was; she was suddenly back in the room with him and as soon as he saw that moment of clarity in her remaining eye he released the rubber cord. The overdose of heroin flooded her system, burning its way through her veins and arteries. Her lips lost their formation and another strand of stinking silver drool dripped from her gummy mouth. She arched her back and emptied her lungs with a noisy sigh. He watched her until there was nothing left and then, even though he had been wearing gloves, he wiped clean everything he had touched and slipped out of the flat and into the night.
9
Simone flicked through the channels on the TV until she found what she was waiting for and as she was watching Martin entered the room behind her. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
She replied but didn’t bother to look around. ‘Police press conference.’
Sky news was in full Breaking News mode. Jackson and West were sitting at a desk in front of a huge blue backdrop that displayed the ‘Cambridgeshire Constabulary’ logo, a large picture of Victoria Redman at her most innocent and pretty and an enormous telephone number. Jackson had just introduced West and was now giving the reason for the press conference and the background of the investigation. He confirmed that the identity of the discovered body was indeed Victoria Redman.
Martin sat down just as Jackson passed the conference over to West who began by giving his condolences to Victoria Redman’s family while flashes and the sound of camera shutters filled the quiet between sentences.
‘Fame at last,’ he said.
She ignored him and they watched together in silence until Martin said, ‘Smokey’s loving it isn’t he?’
She sighed at his comment and felt the familiar feeling of frustration and anger surge through her veins. ‘A young girl is dead Martin. I saw the body.’
‘Still, I bet he’s always wanted his face on the telly. I’ll guarantee he’s taping it to watch later on.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘At least he’s still got his hair,’ he said. ‘Bastard’s not even going grey.’ It seemed like an attempt to lighten the atmosphere between them and prevent yet another argument but the comment about West’s appearance made her realise that it was the first time Martin had seen Nathan since he left all those years ago.
There was a muffled question from the press.
West replied by saying, ‘Mr Stevens has been released from custody and is no longer part of the ongoing investigation.’
There were a couple of dull thumps as a microphone was adjusted and it became easier to hear the questions from the press.
‘How was she killed?’ a woman asked.
‘Victoria Redman was stabbed to death.’
‘Was she sexually assaulted?’
‘No. Victoria was not sexually assaulted before she was murdered.’
Martin said, ‘Why does he keep repeating her name?’
‘To humanise her, we need people understand she was a person that lived not just a photograph in a newspaper. If people see her as a human being they may be more willing to come forward with information. Or it may even guilt the killer into giving himself up.’
‘Detective West,’ a man called out. ‘Was there a signature?
West missed the question either by accident or design so the man spoke louder. ‘Detective! Was there a signature?’
West located him amongst the crowd. ‘Who are you?’
‘Shaun Franco, the Daily Mail.’
‘No Mr Franco, there wasn’t a signature; this is real life, not a Hollywood movie.’
There was a light ripple of laughter in the room which was instantly silenced when Franco said, ‘What about the carving in her back?’
Simone was stunned at the comment and said, ‘What the…’ to herself in a low murmur.
‘Whoa,’ said Martin, thumping into the back of his chair and clapping his hands. ‘Smokey wasn’t expecting that.’
West cleared his throat and stared daggers at the reporter. ‘It appears you have restricted information Mr Franco.’
Franco tried to repeat the question. ‘What about the carving in her…’
West cut him off. ‘Do not open your mouth again Mr Franco. It is normal procedure to keep certain details confidential. We use it as a way of determining accuracy when interviewing suspects and preventing copycat killers,’ he said. ‘If you jeopardise any part of this investigation, I shall have you arrested do you understand me?’ Franco was about to answer but West silenced him before he had chance. ‘Nod, don’t speak,’ he said. ‘I told you not to open your mouth again.’ West stared at him for an uncomfortable length of time until Jackson broke the silence and used the distraction to close the conference. ‘We need witnesses to come forward,’ he said. ‘There are people out there who know the person who murdered Victoria Redman. They need to be vigilant and if they suspect someone could be capable of committing such a heinous crime they need to trust their instincts. Where was that person last weekend? Does that person have knowledge of the area, the woods in particular?
Nothing but Meat: A dark, heart-stopping British crime thriller Page 9