by J. D. Weston
But it was enough to spark hope.
Maybe he could escape? Maybe he still had a chance? His bag. Shaun remembered he had a multi-tool in the top pocket. It had been a gift from his mum and he'd never used it.
He felt around with his feet for the bag's soft material. Had he dropped it? Had his assailant taken it? Was it sat on the seat in the front beside him as he drove?
His foot touched something soft.
It felt like his bag.
Shaun pushed himself flat on the floor and shuffled across to it. Elation set in followed closely by desire.
He found the multi-tool.
From memory, he knew that the fold-out blade was on one side with a little groove for his thumbnail to pull at. He fumbled with it and finally felt the blade release stiffly from its folded position.
A few awkward moments later, the tool was in his hand with the blade turned inwards, and he began to cut the tape.
The van slowed and took a long sweeping bend. Shaun steadied himself. His heart began to race. Hope was winning the race of emotions in his mind, but the van's movements meant the driver might be close to where wherever it was they were heading.
He didn't have long.
His breath felt hot and sour in the bag, and his breathing quickened, multiplying the heat and the foulness of his own adrenaline-fueled breath. The angle he was cutting at made applying pressure on the blade difficult, but he developed a slow rhythm and felt like he was making progress.
The van turned again, this time the opposite way, sending Shaun rolling onto his front. He outstretched his arms and took the brunt of the landing on his elbows. The blade was perilously close to his neck.
In an instant, his mind flashed with old memories of suicide. Dreams he'd had. The things he'd considered.
Death took a step forward.
Shaun pushed himself to his knees.
But not yet.
He resumed cutting at the tape with added vigour. Soon, he felt the blade break through the final strand of his restraints, and he pulled his wrists apart feeling the cool air on his skin. He set the multi-tool down and immediately tore the remains of tape away then frantically began to pull at the bag on his head.
It was tied at the back of his neck.
His breathing quickened once more, and he was thrown off balance as the van turned, more sharply this time. It began to slow.
He couldn't figure out the knot. He couldn't find the loose end to pull.
The van slowed further and felt like it had turned into a driveway as the tyres found noisy gravel, and the slow crunching of stones began.
Shaun fumbled for the tool. He couldn't lose that. He cut a hole by his mouth and sucked in the cool air then cut the bag across his face and pulled it over his head as if removing a hood.
The back of the van was pitch dark, and his eyes adjusted merely to the new shade of black.
The sound of gravel had finished, but the van continued to roll forward over bumpy ground. There was a small incline then the sound of a wheel driving over a stick.
He tried to picture the scene for his escape.
The back of the van had two doors, the side and the rear. He edged closer to the back doors and fumbled for the door release. Perhaps he could run. The van was moving slowly enough; he could easily jump out. He could be gone before the driver knew.
The door was locked.
Which door would the driver open? The side door was on the opposite side of the driver seat. So maybe he'd just walk to the back and open the rear door? But maybe he'd walk around the front of the van and open the side door?
The van stopped.
Shaun stood crouched and ready to pounce.
The engine turned off.
Shaun listened but heard only the sound of his own breathing and the regular beating of his heart.
The driver opened the door and slammed it closed.
Shaun half stood, poised between the two doors, and held the blade ready to slash out at whoever opened the van.
He heard footsteps outside. But which way?
A stream of saliva leaked from his mouth like a salivating animal.
This was survival.
But no door opened.
The footsteps disappeared.
Shaun stood trembling in the darkness for what seemed like an eternity.
Then, out of nowhere, he heard the rush of petrol being ignited.
16
Dark Reality
Harris slowed the car as the camper in front eased to the side of the road. Its brake lights cast hues of red onto the underside of the canopy of trees, formed by the forest that reached across the road as if it were somehow trying to reclaim the space.
"Easy now, George," said Harris quietly. "I'll stay in the car, and you talk to the driver. Get him out of the vehicle."
"But what if-"
"I'll be covering you from here. Nothing's going to happen," said Harris, as he racked a round into the handgun.
"This isn't turning out to be a fun night for me, is it?" said George, as he reached for the door handle.
The interior light flashed on brightly, and Harris squinted through the windscreen to keep an eye on the camper.
George climbed out of the car, closed the door and the interior light slowly dimmed, returning Harris to darkness. He watched as George took a wide path around to the driver's door, then saw him ask the driver to step out.
Suddenly, the rear window sprang open and the muzzle of a high calibre rifle shot out. Within moments, it had fired a round, and Harris felt the car drop as the front left tyre burst. Before Harris could react, the rifle aimed at him.
The camper began to indicate then pulled out onto the road again and drove away casually.
"Shit, shit, shit," said Harris. He thumped his hand on the steering wheel and tossed the handgun into the back of the car.
George had dropped to the ground when he heard the gunshot and now sat up in the middle of the road looking confused. Harris climbed out and surveyed the damage.
"What the hell just happened there?" said George.
"Did you get a good look at the driver?" asked Harris.
"Male, IC1. Small frame, gaunt face, glasses, messy brown hair, I think. He looked almost nerdy. Who took the shot?"
"There was a woman in the back of the camper," replied Harris.
"The one from Rettendon?"
"Can't be sure, George," said Harris. "I was concentrating on the rifle she aimed at me."
"She aimed at you? Shall we get uniforms to stop them? They can't get too far."
Harris thought about it. "No, wait," he said. "They're going somewhere local. Get that wheel changed. They won't be going far."
George dropped his arms to his sides and shook his head, then walked to the back of the car to get the tools and the spare wheel. Harris joined, and took the jack from him.
"Do you know where we are, George?" asked Harris.
"Yeah, this is Waltham Abbey," said George.
"No, I mean, do you know where we are?"
George looked puzzled. "Waltham Abbey, sir," he replied. "Essex?"
Harris had found the car's jacking point and was winding the jack handle to lift the vehicle. "What's that way?" he asked, nodding west, back towards the direction they had come.
"London, sir," replied George.
"In particular, what part of London?"
"East London I guess, sir."
Harris stopped winding and looked up at George, who was pulling the spare wheel from the boot.
"Okay, I'll spell it out for you, George," said Harris. "We're in Essex. East London is a spit away. But not only are we in Essex, we're literally inside Epping Forest." He motioned at the trees around them.
George's eyes widened. "The murders, sir."
"The magnetic board in my office, George," continued Harris. "Think about it. That camper didn't just turn around and go back to the motorway, did it?"
"No, sir."
"They headed that way,
and the black van on the motorway, George, it wasn't in the fast lane, was it?"
"No, sir, it was in the slow lane, as if it was going to take the next exit," said George, suddenly seeing where Harris was going.
"We're close, George."
"But where?" asked George. "I mean, it's a big old place, Essex."
"All the murders so far have taken place in the victim's homes, or somewhere quiet like a forest, right?"
"Right. Apart from Rettendon, that one was out in the open," said George.
Harris cracked the last wheel nut with the tyre brace and began to spin the tool in his hands. "But," he said, as he removed the last nut, "it was still a quiet place, beside a forest."
"Yeah," said George, "and there's no saying he didn't do the killing in the forest and carry the body to where we found him."
"Right," said Harris. "Your man, the driver, was he short?"
"Short, sir?" said George, as he took the damaged wheel off Harris and rolled the new one to him.
"In height, George, was he tall or short?"
"Short, sir," replied George. "Well, not tall anyway."
"And slight, you say. He was small framed?"
"Yes, looked like he'd break if the wind blew too hard, sir."
"Did he look like the man who flattened the grass beside the Rettendon murder?"
George pictured the image in his head for a moment. "No, sir, but-"
"That means there's a few of them in on this," said Harris, as he span the wheel brace and secured the spare tyre in place. He stood, tossed the brace to the floor and wiped his hands on a cloth that George offered.
"They're covering for each other. They're covering each other's tracks. They're creating alibis. It's not one man doing this, it's a bloody team, George."
"You think the bigger man was in the back van?"
"That's exactly what I think," said Harris, nodding for George to pick up the old tyre and put it in the boot.
"But we don't know where, sir. We still don't know where they're going to be."
"They like seclusion, George. They like to take their time. They're re-enacting the killings, perfecting them, every detail improved."
"Every detail, sir?"
"Every detail," said Harris. "The photos, George. The stakes that he carved to pin his victim to the ground."
"What about them?"
"Think of the photos of the first time. The stakes were handmade, but they were amateur. The second time around, George, the stakes were perfectly smooth, as if someone had taken the time to-"
"I'm with you," said George. "He wanted to make it better than before."
"He wanted it perfect, George."
"And Noah Finn," continued Harris, "the first time he did it, the body sat there for so long that nobody could even tell what had happened until it was examined."
"But this time he made sure we would find it straight away."
Harris' mind wandered and pictured the image of the boiled man, where Shaun Tyson had been found.
"The boiled man, the last of the old murders," he said.
"What about him?" asked George.
"Where was he found? Where was Tyson found?"
"I think it was in the basement of some big house."
"Can you be more specific?"
George opened the car door and reached for his notes and files. He flicked through until he found the printout.
"Theydon Bois, sir."
"The boiled man, George, that's the next death. And what better place to re-enact the scene than the original location? The place where Shaun Tyson was spared the first time around."
"They're going to boil him," said George.
Harris slammed the boot of the car.
"Not if we can help it, George."
"Go, go, go, Reg," shouted Melody, as soon as she saw the tyre explode.
She aimed at the driver as a warning not to try to follow them. Once they were far enough away, she collected the spent round that was ejected from the rifle and ducked below the camper's rear window in case return shots were fired.
"How's that right foot of yours, Reg?" she asked.
"Erm, fine," replied Reg, turning to see her making her way up the aisle.
"Well stick it to the floor," she said. "We've got a murder to stop."
"And where exactly is it we're going? We lost Harvey, remember?"
"There's only one place he can go," she said thoughtfully. She glanced across at Reg's face and saw his expression turn to dismay.
"Not?"
"The same place he took Shaun before, Reg," said Melody. "It's the only place he'll get the privacy he needs. The place is special to him somehow."
"He needs privacy?" asked Reg.
"And time."
"To prepare?" asked Reg.
Melody gave him a look.
"He's going to boil him, isn't he?" said Reg.
"Not if we can stop him, Reg."
"What happens if they call it in?"
"Who? The boys in blue back there?" asked Melody. "They won't be calling anything in. The force is full of wanna-be heroes like that. They stumble onto something like this and see the potential glory. Greed and a step up the ladder are far too attractive for them to consider sharing the reward with a bunch of uniformed police."
"Ordinarily I'd agree, Melody," said Reg. "But we're not talking about stopping a mugging or a car theft. This is Harvey Stone we're talking about."
"They don't know that, Reg, do they?" she replied. "As far as they're concerned they're onto a madman on a killing spree. What could be better than bringing him in single-handed and nailing him for the recent murders, and dragging up the past with all the historical stuff?"
"But Frank wiped his slate clean. They can't nail him for those now, surely?"
"Either way, Reg, it's not going to be a fun time for Harvey. He's already looking at five life sentences back to back, six if we don't get there in time."
Reg was silent for a while, and Melody stared out of the window at the passing trees.
"Thanks, Reg," she said.
"Thanks for what?" he replied.
"For staying and helping. For being a friend. I'm not sure I could do this alone."
Reg forced a smile. "You have a plan yet?"
"I need to talk to him," said Melody. "I need to get to him before he finishes Shaun Tyson. If he kills Shaun, he'll be gone again, and that'll be the last I see of him."
"Maybe that's for the best, Melody," said Reg. "Maybe letting him finish what he started will really be the end of all this."
"I'd love to believe that." Melody held back the tears. "But I got so close to him Reg. He was normal; or rather, I thought he was. Things were great. I just didn't see this coming. Sure, I knew about his past, but we all did, right? We saw the change in him. We saw the good in him. I just can't believe that this evil was suppressed inside him for all this time."
"Are you sure you even want to see him again?" asked Reg. "I mean, knowing what you know now."
"I'm one of the few people he won't kill, Reg," said Melody. "I owe it to myself to close this off before he either goes missing or is killed himself."
"You think he'll die for this?"
"He won't go to prison, Reg. I think we both know that much."
"Yeah but he wouldn't-"
"Kill himself?" finished Melody. "No, he'd never do that. But he'd die fighting." She turned away and wiped a small tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. "Of that I'm certain."
17
The Eyes of the Beast
Only the crackle of a nearby fire could be heard outside the van. Shaun remained poised to jump out of whichever door opened first.
His ears were now attuned to the sounds around himself and the van. The darkness had dulled his vision and heightened his audible sensitivity, the crack of a branch or snapping of a stick, the sounds of something heavy being dragged across the rough ground.
A man panting from exertion.
Shaun tried to rem
ember what the other man had looked like, all those years ago. He remembered the night well, seeing a man boiled alive and knowing that he was next in line had left an indelible mark on Shaun's memory. He remembered the eyes most of all.
The eyes of the beast.
They had been cold eyes, hard and emotionless, and given the chance, Shaun could probably draw them. They were like no other eyes he'd ever seen.
A vision of the beast that had tied him to the wooden beam and forced him and the other man to reveal their dirty secrets ran across Shaun's mind. Death had hung in the air and seemed to take a step closer with every word Shaun had said during his confession. He'd tried to prolong the story, to keep death at bay, but the story had eventually ended.
Shaun had then been forced to listen with horror as the man who lay beside him had recounted a night long ago when he'd raped the beast's sister. It hadn't been just him, there'd been others. But he'd confessed, and he'd paid the price.
Shaun saw the man in his mind's eye, dragging wood to the fire outside, preparing Shaun's death.
Harvey. That had been his name, thought Shaun. He hadn't thought of the name for a long time, and now it came back, clear as day. The boiled man had begged and cried. He'd used the name, and the beast had responded.
Hannah had been his sister.
The memories flooded back, and he began to relive the night. The beast had been cruel and cold, but he'd shown that he had a heart. He'd left Shaun alone. He'd heard Shaun's story. So why now? Why not kill him then when it was all set up? If Harvey had murdered Shaun back then, the misery of the past three years would never have happened. Shaun's mum might have recovered from her grief, and he would now just be a memory.
Maybe he'd even be missed.
Another pair of eyes stared at Shaun through his darkened mind, white and lifeless, yet rolling in their sockets, desperately searching for light. The boiling water had cooked them like eggs. The searing heat of the ancient bathtub had melted the skin of the man's arms to the copper. His flesh had peeled away in gloopy chunks as he'd frantically dabbed at his ruined eyes.