Wolf

by Mo Hayder

  Now he’s here. Beginning the end.

  Honig stands in front of him. His face is flushed and hot. He pulls off his filthy sweatshirt, throws it on the floor and sits at the table, his filth-covered hands limp and forgotten at his sides. He stares and stares and stares.

  ‘What,’ Ian says, ‘are you staring at?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You,’ he says woodenly. ‘You grew up here. That’s why Havilland chose you for this.’

  Ian nods. ‘Correct.’

  ‘And Minnet Kable? He was …?’

  Ian takes a long sip of his wine. He places the glass down very carefully – in exactly the place it was sitting before, the same slight circular stain in the wood of the table. Then he wipes his hands carefully on his napkin.

  ‘I haven’t been very lucky in my life in general, but with Minnet Kable I was …’ He opens his hands. ‘What can I say? What were the odds? If you read the reports you’d be amazed how slack the investigation was. Two teenagers? In a lovers’ lane? There was more stray DNA in those woods than there would be on the floor of a brothel. The cops were floundering. Kable was … a miracle. A serial confessor, yes, but a miracle for me.’

  Honig shakes his head very very slowly. ‘A serial confessor?’

  Ian nods. For fifteen years he has hidden behind this unexpected magical occurrence. That someone would walk into a police station and confess to a crime he didn’t commit, that’s not unheard of, but that the authorities would believe him? That it could get to court and result in a conviction? Miracle is the only word for it. Kable was going down anyway for a string of other offences and wanted to get into the mental health system rather than the penal system, so he claimed the murders of Hugo and Sophie as his own. They were clearly committed by a maniac, after all. Ian chooses to think of Kable’s conviction as a sign from the Almighty, the universe, and every spirit guide known to man, that he is protected by the divine. He is above the law.

  ‘I know, I know. Amazing but true.’ He gives an embarrassed smile and clears his throat. ‘I’m sorry – you’re right. It was wrong of me not to have told you sooner.’

  Honig has complete and utter disbelief in his eyes. Ian can’t help but marvel at the man’s pain – his pure agony to be in the presence of such evil. As if Ian is toxic, while Honig is on the other side of the glass, in the land of the brave and the good. Clean and white and incorruptible. With his ‘Noo Joisy’ wife and her strawberries-and-cream tunic. Bubblegum Mania in his pocket like a sacred string of rosary beads. He’s got some neck, Honig, with this presumption that his right to shock is unique – after all the things he said about sadism, cruelty, torture. He still believes he’s different. Still imagines he’s the only one who has to work to gain the love of his woman. Not so. Not so.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’ Honig turns his hands over and over, examining the matter clinging to them as if he’s only just noticed. The electric light overhead reflects dully off the bald top of his head. He pulls from his pocket a plastic pouch of antiseptic wipes, peels away the protective tab and tugs out a handful. Begins to wipe his palms.

  Ian extends a finger, reaches over and prods him on the top of his scalp.

  Honig jerks his head up, his eyes wild.

  ‘What? What?’

  ‘Stop doing that. Stop it.’ Ian opens his palm. ‘Give me the wipe. Stop doing that and concentrate on what’s happening.’

  Honig’s eyes flick from side to side. He’s assessing his options. But he passes Ian the wipe and slumps down, his hands limp on the table – as if he’s disowning them.

  ‘Please don’t overreact,’ Ian says.

  ‘But why? Why the hell are you here? How did you … you know. All this?’

  ‘The money’s nice. A bonus – a great bonus, but my real prize is …’ He jerks his head towards the ceiling. ‘Up there. The Anchor-Ferrers. They’re what I really want.’

  Honig’s mouth droops as that sinks in. Ian wants to laugh out loud. This man, this fake, who is such a show off, such a dick and a bragger – it’s completely sailed past him that the whole thing, the information about Oliver’s proposed book being passed to Gauntlet, it’s all been set up. Ian’s jockeying into position, everything, every day, every hour, every second, has danced around his need to get in here and torture the Anchor-Ferrers.

  ‘What the hell did they do?’ Honig asks. His voice is shaky and low. ‘What did they do to you?’

  Ian laughs. He rolls his head back. Moves it around on his neck until it clicks. Lets his gaze go up to the ceiling. ‘Or, more important, why don’t you ask what the hell I’m going to do to them?’

  Scissors in the Peppermint Room

  MATILDA IS BACK in herself. There is no longer a hole where her head should be and the gap where her heart was is now packed fat with determination. She has spent the last ten minutes pulling apart the stitching of one of her canvas gardening shoes. Now she holds the tongue of the shoe in her fingertips and strains to edge it under the skirting board where the bra wire is lodged. She misses the first time, so she shifts her position to give herself a better angle. Takes a deep breath and gives another try, reaching further this time. There’s a fractional sound of metal catching on wood, then the wire pings out from its place.

  She snatches it up and stares at it in her hand. Unbelievable and wonderful. She gets back on her knees and twists herself, rotating her ankle in the cuff so she is facing the section of board Ollie nailed up all those years ago. This time her fat, dull fingers don’t matter. She has the wire, which slides into the gap with such ease it’s almost laughable. Within seconds she’s got purchase and then, just like that, the board pops off in her hand, jerking her backwards.

  She lies there for a few moments, her breath whistling in her chest, staring at the cobwebby treasure trove behind the board. She can’t quite believe it’s been so easy – and that there is so much in here. Thank God Oliver was angry that day. He didn’t move a thing, oblivious to the squeals and pleas of the children, he just sealed everything in. Like relics in a museum, it’s all here. Pencils and pens, a protractor and … she can hardly believe it … the plastic red handles of scissors. There are scissors too.

  She reaches through the cobwebs, pulls out the scissors and studies them feverishly. They are rusty and small, but still better than she could have hoped. She could maybe remove the rust with the bra wire if she’s clever enough. For the first time in four days, she allows herself to feel optimism.

  She is prepared to die – quite prepared – but perhaps now there is a chance she can take at least one of the men with her.

  Bubblegum Mania

  IAN THE GEEK’S drunkenness is heavy and medieval in its nature. It is gone midnight but he insists Honig sits at the table and they talk ‘like civilized people’. Honig finds it hard to speak. He is still struggling to take it all in, his heart hasn’t stopped pounding. But he sits, and tries to engage in conversation, while his brain processes the new information.

  Opposite him sits a monster. A man who can happily make decorations with another human being’s insides. Honig still hasn’t decided why, though over and over he’s asked: What’s the vendetta about? Why this anger? Each time the expressionless answer has been, Because I hate them. Don’t ask again.

  So Honig has to fill in the spaces himself. He imagines Ian the Geek joined the Legion knowing it was a safe place he could hide in case Minnet Kable changed his story. Did he anticipate Gauntlet would have a conflict with Anchor-Ferrers? Or was that a happy accident? The discovery of Oliver’s autobiography via the phone virus? Was that really picked up on routine surveillance? Or was it all too convenient? It is possible Ian the Geek himself flagged up its existence to Gauntlet.

  In this new light it makes sense that Ian the Geek squirmed so violently that day in the New York office. Resurrecting the Wolf killings hadn’t been part of his plan; it must have seemed very dangerous to him to go along with that masquerade. But he
adapted, incorporated the orders into the job. If he’s adaptable enough to do that without much more than a twenty-second argument with Havilland, then he’s very capable indeed. Very capable.

  ‘So.’ Ian the Geek opens another bottle of wine and pours another glass. ‘It’ll be morning soon. What are our plans?’

  Honig doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘OK, I’ll tell you. Between you and me, I think we’re running out of time.’ Ian the Geek lowers his chin and moves his eyes meaningfully towards the driveway where they had the conversation with the cops. ‘I think we’re in the final straight, old man. Now, your job is to tell Havilland whatever you want to save your hide. I will never see him again anyway – he will never find me. I am invisible.’ He puts down his napkin. Leans back in the chair, his ape-like hands folded over his stomach. ‘That’s my position. How about you?’

  Honig gives a small acknowledging nod. His face is on fire. He thinks of his wife at home. It’s early evening in the USA and she will be eating ice cream in the Baskin Robbins next to the beauty parlour. Her favourite flavour is ‘America’s Birthday Cake’. Ian the Geek could track her down. He’s the sort who would. There’s an old Japanese saying: ‘The bamboo survives because it bends, it stands not rigid where it will break, but flexes.’ By being the bamboo Honig will continue to live. He will return to Virginia and sit in that mall with his wife and they will eat America’s Birthday Cake ice cream. He is going to pretend indifference to Ian the Geek’s behaviour. When he’s got away from here he will throw himself at the mercy of Havilland. He will be honest. He will tell him the truth from start to finish. He will return Havilland’s money. He would rather be poor than be part of this any longer.

  ‘Ian …’ He clears his throat. ‘It seems to me we can’t win. Anchor-Ferrers has given away our identity – we’re screwed. We won’t get the money, we won’t get peace. That makes us both on the run.’ He scrapes back the chair. ‘So it’s time for me to go now. Leave you to it.’

  ‘Uh.’ Ian the Geek stops him by simply raising his wine glass. He shakes his head. ‘No. That won’t work. I need the car, so you can’t have that. And it’s a four-hour walk to the nearest train station.’

  ‘Four hours is fine – I’m happy to walk four hours. I’ll get my stuff and be gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to walk so far. It’s bad for your feet. You will wait for me. We drive out of here.’ He puts both palms together, fingers extended in an arrow shape – pointing to the driveway. ‘OK? You will wait until I’ve finished. We drive out of here together.’

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘Yes. Finished what I came here for. Do what I’ve wanted to do for years.’

  Honig sinks weakly back into the chair.

  The bamboo bends, so it doesn’t break. Bends so it doesn’t break. His heart races. America’s Birthday Cake. Bubblegum Mania …

  Eventually, painfully, he speaks: ‘OK. I’ll wait. But I don’t want to know any of the details.’

  ‘And I know you’ll understand if I ask you to wait somewhere secure.’

  ‘When will it happen?’

  Ian the Geek looks at his watch, his lips move noiselessly, his right hand is moving through the air like a clock hand, suggesting he’s trying to work out how long each act will take. ‘I’m going to sleep now so I’m fresh. I’ll start in about four hours’ time. And it’ll take me two hours – possibly three. You might want to take a book in case you get bored.’

  Light Rays

  THE CLOUDS CLING to the Mendip Hills like sluggish wraiths. Periodically a crack of lightning illuminates the landscape, throwing all the trees and hillsides into startling sudden relief – an X-ray landscape, no place to hide.

  Caffery lies face down on the bed, still dressed, only his shirt unbuttoned. He’s asleep, but one leg dangles near the floor. Habit from years of being on call in a London murder squad. Always ready for the phone message that would tip him out of bed, out on to the cold, beer-smelling streets of Lewisham. Out to the scene of the most recent killing. In those days it wasn’t the illegal guns coming in with the Caribbean gangs that claimed the most victims; in those days the most common weapon was a pub stool or a beer glass. Those are a faraway land, those days. Tinged in pink and gold, with the faint smell of cigarettes and petrol leaving oily rainbow stains at the edges.

  On the bed now he twitches slightly, half raising a hand as if to rub his face. He’s dreaming. In his dream, orange rays criss-cross the sky. The lights are coming from people when they speak – their words translated into long orange beams which radiate through the air and bounce off anything they encounter. Think like me, think like me, they whisper. Think … The rays finger the heavens, find the surfaces of distant planets. They bounce back to the Earth. Lasers. In the dream he wants to follow them – to find their source. To find the light man.

  The perspective of the dream changes abruptly. Now he’s suspended above the globe, witnessing the continents jutting out into the thrashing sea. Seeing clearly the sum of all the human chatter, like a mist rising up from the surface of the planet. He sees a light and knows, instinctively, he has no choice but to follow it. He’s hurtling towards it – fast, too fast. It begins to blind him and his hands come up to shield his eyes from the light. He can make out details: a figure standing at the source of the light. A man, sunburned and lean as leather, dark tangled hair. He’s standing next to a fire, his face is turned upwards, watching Jack coming out of the sky at him. He looks neither surprised, nor alarmed. His face breaks into a knowing smile.

  Caffery is nearly on him, his hands out to throttle him, when he wakes, jerking upright on the bed, breathing hard.

  It takes almost a minute for his heart to stop banging. For reality to come back down to him and for him to realize there’s nothing in this room to defend himself from, that whatever’s produced the adrenalin rush isn’t an external physical entity but something he’s conjured from dreamland. The computer is still on, Bear is blinking sleepily at him from the end of the bed, and out of the window the sky is already showing the first signs of dawn.

  He takes a long, deep breath. Presses his hands into his sides and drops his legs off the side of the bed, bent over, his head lowered. Staring at his feet – still in his shoes.

  It takes him a long time to get his breathing steady. Then he looks up.

  ‘Come on,’ he tells Bear. ‘Let’s go find the old bastard.’

  The Chrysler

  HONIG CAN’T BELIEVE this. Ian the Geek has gone casually to the camp bed, dropped on to it, and fallen asleep. Fully dressed, he is snoring loudly. His complacency, his blind arrogance, is incredible.

  For a long time, sitting at the table, his hands resting in front of him, Honig watches Ian. If he is capable of what he did to those teenagers on the Donkey Pitch all those years ago, then what does that mean for the Anchor-Ferrers? Honig’s guess is that he will make the living members of the family watch the first two killings; somehow he thinks it will be Matilda who is killed first. Then Lucia. He can’t imagine what Ian the Geek has planned for her, but he’s sure Oliver will be forced to watch it all before he dies. Oliver is Ian the Geek’s ultimate target, and he has no brakes or sense of the taboo. He’ll probably make the family do things to each other before they die. After all, he will have the time and the leisure.

  Honig bends down silently. He unlaces his shoes, prises them off and pushes them under the table. He waits a moment or two, but Ian the Geek continues to snore so Honig stands and crosses the room, his back straight. He finds his bag with his passport and wallet. He closes his hand over the Chrysler keys that lie on the kitchen table. Turns to see if he’s been heard.

  Ian the Geek sleeps on.

  Moving as quietly as a cat, Honig pads to the hallway, hesitates, then walks silently to the front door, lifts the latch as silently as he can. He opens the door a crack. It makes a low creaking groan which seems to echo up the stairs and around the huge panelled h
all.

  Honig takes a long, shaky breath through his nose. Holds it. There is a pause in Ian the Geek’s snoring, but it is momentary – he settles back to his steady rhythm. Honig breathes out. It’s incredible how fast his heart is beating.

  He’s not going to risk opening the door further, so he slides himself through the gap he has already made. He goes to the Chrysler and unlocks it – not by using the remote but the key in the door lock. Mercifully it’s not the type of alarm system that bleeps to acknowledge being switched off – instead the indicators flash on and off silently, the light bathing the walls of The Turrets orange.

  He reaches inside and switches off the interior light. Tongue between his teeth, he turns and looks back at the house. Silent.

  Ian the Geek is still asleep.

  The Peppermint Room

  MATILDA IS IN her usual place on the floor between the fireplace and the window. She is exhausted – her neck aches and her hands are almost bleeding. Miraculously she has managed to sharpen the scissors a little, but neither they nor the bra wire will release the handcuffs. Tears of frustration pour down her face. She wants Oliver. She wants him so badly it’s like a taste in her mouth or a pain in her belly.

  The front door opens. A sly but distinctive creak. She jerks her head up and stares in the direction of the hall. She hasn’t seen the men since lunchtime, though she’s been able to hear them coming and going from Oliver’s room, opening and closing doors. Twice today they have left the house in a car, but each time they’ve come back. They’ve been talking and cooking downstairs all evening. They stopped talking a while ago; she thought they must have fallen asleep, but now it seems not.