by Kevin Brooks
I shut the door behind me, took out a penlight, and looked around. The kitchen was very small and very cramped, neither overly clean nor excessively dirty. There was a stained porcelain sink with a warped wooden draining board, old cupboards, a rust-flecked boiler, a formica-topped table scattered with empty KFC boxes. I paused for a moment, listening to the silence, then I moved down a narrow hallway and went into the front room. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. As I swept the penlight around, I saw a room that didn’t belong to anyone. It was a room that had been furnished from Argos: bland pictures on the walls, a thin carpet, a cheap two-seater settee and matching cheap armchair. The dining table and shelves were flat-packed white plastic wood, and the ornaments were straight from the ornaments page of the catalogue: lamp, vase, clock, a porcelain figurine of a doe-eyed child. A cut-price music system was stacked against the wall and a widescreen television loomed large on the floor.
There was nothing of Ray Bishop in here.
It was no more than the simulation of a room.
I left the room and headed upstairs.
Halfway up, a samurai sword was hanging from a cord on the stairway wall. At first, I thought it was just another ornament from the Argos catalogue, but when I paused on the stairs and looked closer, I realised that it was all too real. The blade – 24 inches of slightly curved, razor-sharp steel – even showed some signs of use. It was nicked here and there, the cracked edges beginning to rust, and several parts of the blade were discoloured with dark-brown stains. I stood there for a few seconds, gazing at the sword, trying to ignore the simmering fear in my guts … then I went on up the stairs.
There was a small landing, a bathroom, an empty box room, and a surprisingly large main bedroom. And when I opened the bedroom door and stepped inside, I knew straight away that this was where Ray Bishop lived. Up here … this was his home. I didn’t even need to see it, I could sense it, feel it – a brutal vitality that sapped the air from my lungs.
I closed the door behind me and shone the penlight around. The walls were black, the paint seemingly applied with no care at all. It looked as if someone had simply rushed round the room, slapping on paint until the walls were more black than white. The only window, facing the street, was covered with a single heavy black curtain. There was no bed, just a blanket on the floor. The blanket was surrounded by a mess of scattered objects: syringes, phials, tissues, a spoon, a carton of milk, crackers, soda bread, yoghurt, cheese, nuts …
‘Christ,’ I whispered, stepping cautiously around the mess and sweeping the penlight around the room again.
The entire place was lined with wall-to-wall shelves stacked with all manner of extraordinary things: ropes and wires and chains, small wooden boxes, metal boxes, plastic boxes, cardboard boxes, baskets, tins, box files, piles of papers, pornographic magazines, newspapers, books, photographs, DVDs, knives, belts, axes, straps, tubes, packets of pills, small glass bottles …
It was like a nightmare haberdashery.
As I moved round the room looking at these things, my heart was beating hard, sucking the air from my throat, and I could feel the race of adrenalin imploring me to get out – go, right now, get out of here, get OUT!
But I couldn’t leave yet.
I had to keep looking.
I didn’t know what I was looking for … I was just looking.
It wasn’t pleasant. The pornographic DVDs and magazines were sick with dull-eyed people doing fucking awful things … unnatural things, things that had nothing to do with sex, just violence. In the corner of the room, there was a small desk tented with a khaki blanket, and beneath the blanket was a computer screen, scanner, and printer. The monitor surround was painted black. I couldn’t bear to go anywhere near it. I scanned the shelves again, looking at tongs, clips, dolls, masks, protein powder, clubs, execution stills, a leather-bound black bible … and right in the middle of all this madness, I came across a black-and-white photograph in a cheap cardboard frame. As far as I could tell, it was the only framed photograph in the whole room. It showed two teenage boys standing in front of a large grey house. They were both dark-haired, both pale-skinned, both unsmiling, both dressed in V-neck jumpers. I picked up the photograph and looked closer. In a granite block over the door of the house, I could just make out the words PIN HALL. I looked at the two boys again, quite certain now that I was looking at Mick and Ray Bishop. Mick was slightly taller than Ray, and although he was only a year older than his brother – about fifteen at the time of the picture, I guessed – it was clear that he was the dominant one. Standing just in front of his brother, his body tensed, staring hard at the camera … it was almost as if he was guarding him from the unseen eyes of the future, the eyes on the other side of the camera, the eyes of people like me.
As I turned my attention to the image of Ray in the photograph, I realised that the look on his fourteen-year-old face was almost identical to the expression I’d seen earlier that evening, when Mick had been scolding him about something outside the pub. The disdain, the emptiness, the lack of emotion …
It was unnerving.
I put the photograph back on the shelf and carried on looking. There were lots of books: Spinoza, Voltaire, Unamuno, Genius, Skinned, Leviathan, How We Die, The Fabric of Reality, Killing for Company, Varieties of Religious Experience, The Character of Physical Law, Infinity and the Mind, Three Steps to Hell. There were strange little ornaments: painted skulls, tiny skeletons, disturbing sculptures. There were things in jars: dead insects, pickled mice, embryos, divining bones … all kinds of untouchable and unknowable things. They held a silence and a sense of aged stillness that reminded me of exhibits in a small-town museum … but this was a museum that no one was meant to visit, a museum of a twisted mind. These exhibits were not meant to be seen.
After what seemed like an hour or so, but was probably closer to twenty minutes, I came across a small wooden chest hidden away at the back of a wardrobe. At first, I didn’t understand why I felt drawn to it, why it felt different to all the other objects in the room … but after crouching down in front of the wardrobe and thinking about it for a while, I slowly realised that – unlike everything else – the wooden chest wasn’t on display.
It was hidden away.
Out of sight.
I paused for a moment, wondering what that could mean … then I reached in, lifted out the chest, and opened it up.
It was filled with what, at first sight, seemed like nothing much at all, just a haphazard collection of random objects … bits of nothing: a shoe, a hair band, a broken watch, a pink cardigan, some rings, bracelets, a purse …
And a necklace …
A silver half-moon on a silver chain.
Anna Gerrish’s necklace.
I don’t know how long I sat there, crouched on the floor of that sickening room, staring into that box of gruesome souvenirs … and that’s what they were, I realised. Souvenirs. This man – Ray Bishop, Charles Raymond Kemper, Joel R Pickton … whatever he wanted to call himself – this man had killed Anna Gerrish. He’d picked her up in his car, overpowered her, stabbed her, killed her, he’d discarded her body at the side of the road … and he’d taken her necklace. As a souvenir. To remind him of what he’d done.
As I looked down into the box, I wanted to be wrong. I didn’t want to believe that all those bits of nothing weren’t bits of nothing at all, that they were bits of people, girls, women … all of whom were probably dead.
Killed.
Murdered.
‘Fuck,’ I heard myself say.
There were so many of them …
Did Mick Bishop know? I wondered. Did he know that his brother was a serial killer? Or was he only aware that Ray had killed Anna Gerrish? I took a pen from my pocket and cautiously lifted the silver necklace from the box. It was proof, I knew that. Proof that Ray Bishop had killed Anna Gerrish. But what could I do with it? Who could I trust with it?
I was still asking myself these questions when I heard a car pulling up outsi
de.
I froze for a moment and listened hard. I heard the engine stop … then nothing for a few seconds … and then the sound of a car door opening and someone getting out. I knew it couldn’t be Ray Bishop, because Cal would have called to warn me if he was coming back, but still …
I had to make sure.
Dropping the necklace into my pocket, I quickly got to my feet, went over to the window and pulled back the edge of the heavy black curtain. For a second or two, I tried to convince myself that the car parked outside the house wasn’t a white Toyota Yaris, and that the man heading up the path below wasn’t Ray Bishop … but I knew I was only wasting my time.
‘Shit,’ I said, as I heard him putting his key in the door.
The first thought that raced through my head was – what the hell was Cal doing, letting Ray Bishop come back without letting me know? But as I heard the front door opening, I quickly realised that there were more pressing things to think about. Ray Bishop was downstairs. Ray Bishop killed people. And any moment now, he’d be coming up here.
I heard the front door closing.
I wondered, briefly, if there was any chance at all that I could reason with him. I imagined him downstairs, standing in the hallway, perfectly still, sensing the presence of a stranger in his house.
No, he wasn’t a man to be reasoned with.
I heard a cautious footstep on the stairs.
He killed people.
Another step, more confident now …
I pulled back the heavy black curtain and yanked at the window, trying to open it. But it wouldn’t move. The frame was painted shut. I paused for a moment, listening again. He was coming up the stairs now, moving quite slowly, but I knew that I only had seconds to get out. I rushed over to one of the shelves, grabbed a bone-handled sheath knife, and hurried back to the window. Tearing away the curtain, I started hacking at the frame, trying to slice through the age-old paint, but it was too thick, too hard … it was like trying to cut through superglue.
‘Fuck it,’ I hissed, starting to panic now.
I could hear Bishop on the landing outside.
I dropped the knife, looked around, and saw a heavy glass jar on a shelf to my right. It was a gallon jar, filled to the brim with some kind of creamy-grey ash, and I was just stepping over to the shelf and picking it up when the bedroom door swung open and there was Ray Bishop, standing in the doorway, brandishing the samurai sword in his hand.
He was smiling.
I barely even looked at him. I just went over to the window, heaved the jar through the glass, and with the deafening crash still resounding round the room, I quickly scrambled out through the broken pane. As I heard Ray Bishop lunging after me, I let myself drop from the window, keeping hold of the sill, and at the same time I swung my body to the left, reaching out with my feet for a drainpipe that I vaguely remembered seeing and desperately hoped was there. But my feet felt nothing. No drainpipe, no foothold, just a sheer brick wall. And I had no time at all now. Ray Bishop was at the window, his head poking out, the sword in his hand, his eyes staring coldly into mine.
‘Hello, John,’ he said, still smiling.
I met his gaze for only a moment, then I closed my eyes, braced myself, and let go of the windowsill.
I don’t remember falling. All I can remember is letting go of the sill, and then – almost immediately – a shuddering impact as I hit the ground. A sharp pain shot up my right leg, and as I rolled over and got to my knees, sucking in air, the pain rose up into my stomach, making me feel nauseous and faint. I was shivering, shaking, sweating in the cold night air … I wanted to lie back down in the dirt, curl up into a ball, and cry.
But the face at the window had gone now.
Bishop was on his way down.
I had to keep moving.
I forced myself to get up, forced myself to take a step … and the pain ripped through me again. But my leg held. It hurt like hell, but it wasn’t going to kill me. The only thing that was going to kill me was the man who, right now, was opening the front door and coming after me with a samurai sword in his hand.
I took a breath, braced myself again, and started running.
Down the path, out the gate, along the road …
I didn’t look back to see if Bishop was coming after me. I didn’t have to – I could hear him. He was running, not with any great speed or energy, but then I wasn’t moving all that fast myself. I kept going, not knowing where I was going, just going. Across the road, round a corner into another street, and then – before Bishop turned the corner – I skipped clumsily over a low hedge into the front garden of a bungalow and ducked round the back of the house and into the back garden. As I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and rest my leg, I heard Bishop’s footsteps entering the street. I kept still, trying not to breathe too loudly, and listened. The footsteps stopped for a moment – and I imagined Bishop standing still, gazing down the street, wondering where I’d gone … and then I heard him start running again. Along the pavement, towards the bungalow, his footsteps getting louder all the time … and then, at last, I heard them pass by and disappear down the street. I carried on listening for a while, just in case he decided to double back, but after a minute or two I was pretty sure that he’d gone.
There was no telling when he might come back though.
I looked around to see where I was. In the low light of the moon I could see that it was a fairly large garden, mostly laid out to lawn, with decorative wooden fences on either side. The lawn was split in two by a concrete path that led all the way down to another wooden fence at the far end of the garden, and in the middle of this fence was a gate. I had no idea what was on the other side of the gate, but it was a gate – it had to lead somewhere. And somewhere was all I needed.
I set off down the path – half running, half hobbling – trying not to make any noise, still listening out all the time for any sign of Ray Bishop … but I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t allow myself to wonder where he was now, or what he was doing, I just kept my eyes on the path and concentrated on getting to the gate. By the time I got there, and discovered to my relief that it wasn’t locked, my leg was hurting badly and I desperately wanted to stop for a moment … just for a moment or two, to rest, to catch my breath, to think about things … but I knew that I couldn’t.
This was no time for thinking.
I just had to keep going.
I opened the gate and stepped through into a narrow dirt track. There were fenced gardens on either side of the track, and although I couldn’t see much further than ten yards or so in each direction, I guessed that if I followed the track to the right it would bring me back out on to Long Road, and if I went the other way …
I didn’t know where I’d end up if I went the other way. All I knew was that I didn’t want to go back to Long Road.
I went the other way.
*
About fifteen minutes later, after winding my way through a maze of back lanes and pathways, I finally emerged into an unknown side street that led me down to a busy roundabout at the north end of town, next to the old railway station. Long Road, I guessed, was about a mile away to the east, and so – I hoped – was Ray Bishop.
I made my way over to a bus stop, sat down on a bench, and lit a cigarette.
I looked at my watch.
It was nine o’clock.
The night was cold, my leg was numb …
I pulled out my mobile and called Cal.
There was no answer, no voicemail message, no nothing. The phone just rang. I tried another of his numbers, and then another, but the result was the same – no reply. And when I called his ‘special’ number, the one for the mobile that was totally anonymous and completely untraceable, and again got no answer, that’s when I really started to worry. Cal always answered his mobile, wherever he was and whatever he was doing. And if you couldn’t get him on one of his numbers, he was always available on another.
Always.
Without fail.
>
Unable to think of anything else, I started calling all the numbers again. I wasn’t really expecting anything to happen, so when the second number I called was answered almost immediately, and an unfamiliar female voice said ‘Hello?’, I just assumed that I’d made a mistake and misdialled.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I think I’ve got the wrong number.’
‘Don’t hang up,’ the voice said quickly. ‘My name’s Lisa Webster, I’m a paramedic, I need to know who the owner of this phone is.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a paramedic,’ she repeated, speaking more calmly now. ‘I need to know the name of the person you’re calling.’
‘What’s going on?’ I said, still confused. ‘Has something happened to Cal? Is he all right?’
‘Who’s Cal?’
‘Cal Franks –’
‘Is he a young man, in his late twenties?’
‘Yes, what’s happened –?’
‘Does Cal drive a black Mondeo?’
‘Yes –’
‘And could you tell me who you are, please?’
‘John Craine –’
‘John Craine?’
‘Yeah, I’m Cal’s uncle …’ I took a breath. ‘Could you please tell me what’s happened to him?’
‘Where are you, John?’
‘Why do you want to –?’
‘Are you in Hey?’
‘Yes –’
‘All right, listen. A man in his late twenties was attacked earlier this evening. He’s been brought into Hey General Hospital, but as yet we haven’t been able to confirm his identity. There was nothing in his pockets to tell us who he is, but this is his phone – one of three he was carrying – and he was found beside a black Ford Mondeo, so it’s very possible that he’s your nephew.’