Cage of Bones

by Tiana Carver

  ‘I’ll, er … go and see if I’m needed upstairs.’ The cage made Mickey visibly uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s a ritual,’ said Phil.

  Mickey didn’t move. Waited for what Phil would say next.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ He gestured round. ‘All this. Deliberately set up for a ritual.’

  ‘The murder of that kid?’

  ‘I’d put money on it. And we’ve stopped it. Taken the would-be victim away, averted a death.’

  ‘Good for us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Phil. He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Good for us. Question is, what does this guy do next?’

  Mickey said nothing.

  ‘I think we’re going to need some help on this one …’

  5

  ‘Come in. Sit down.’ Marina Esposito smiled. It wasn’t returned.

  The woman across from her sat. The desk in Marina’s office was pushed back against the far wall. She had tried to make the room in the Southway police station as warm and characterful as possible: prints on the walls, easy chairs, rug on the floor. Not a luxury, thought Marina, but a necessity. No one ever came to see her because they were happy.

  ‘So …’ She looked down at the file before her. She knew the woman’s name. Probably knew more about her than she realised. ‘How are you, Rose?’

  Detective Sergeant Rose Martin gave a brisk smile. ‘Fine.’

  ‘You feel ready to return to work?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ She closed her eyes, rolled her neck round on her shoulders. Marina heard a faint clicking noise. ‘Been off too long. Starting to go mad watching daytime TV.’

  ‘Diagnosis Murder’ll do that to anyone.’

  Marina knew just how long Rose had been off. She herself had been involved in the same case, five months previously. The Creeper, so christened by the media, was a murderous predator. He had kidnapped Rose, tied her up and subjected her to sexual torture. She had tried to escape, but it was only after the intervention of Phil Brennan that she was actually freed.

  Rose had been under Phil’s command. But Marina knew he hadn’t wanted her, chosen her or even liked her. He had found her manipulative, devious and problematically aggressive. In the course of the Creeper investigation, Rose Martin had instigated an affair with his boss, the previous DCI, in order to further her career. He had been completely besotted with her. The decisions he had made at her request had resulted in his near-fatal stabbing, and he was subsequently invalided out of the force. Even worse, from Phil’s perspective, recklessly endangering the lives of the team in the process.

  But everything had been neatly brushed over. Spun out simplistically to give the media its heroes and villains. Phil the hero. Rose Martin the brave but tragic heroine. The Creeper the villain. DCI Ben Fenwick the unfortunate casualty.

  Marina was professional enough not to take her partner’s word for things, to judge for herself. But she had been there. She knew the whole messy truth. And she had agreed with him about Rose Martin.

  But she put all that to one side, remained impartial. Did her job.

  Rose looked good, Marina had to admit. Tall, her dark hair curled and styled, she wore a blue two-piece suit, jacket and pencil skirt, spike heels and a cream silk blouse. Power-dressed, thought Marina. A strong physical presence in the room. Ready for a fight. But also rested, recuperated and rehabilitated. Ready to return to work.

  On Marina’s recommendation.

  Marina looked down at the file before her once more. Moved a heavy strand of hair that had fallen across her face back over her ear. She was slightly smaller than Rose Martin and dressed completely differently, but she didn’t allow the other woman’s strong presence to intimidate her. Marina, with her long, dark, wavy hair and Italian features, favoured lace and velvet, full peasant skirts and diaphanous blouses, cowboy boots and scarves. She knew she was often portrayed as a caricature, exactly what some on the force expected a psychologist to be like, but she didn’t care. Even played up to it sometimes, enjoyed it. Just because she worked for the police didn’t mean she had to think and dress like them. And besides, her record spoke for itself.

  ‘Right,’ she said, nodding, ‘been off too long. And what have you been doing with your time? Besides watching Dick Van Dyke?’

  ‘Worked out.’ Rose Martin kept eye contact. ‘Kept fit. Active. Anything to stave off the boredom. I’m itching to get back.’

  ‘Itching.’ Marina nodded once more.

  ‘Look,’ said Rose, irritation creeping into her voice, the shield of her features slipping. ‘I got over … what happened fairly quickly. Dealt with it. Months ago. I’ve been ready to return to work for ages.’

  ‘You realise that when – or if – you do return, it may not be back on the front line?’

  Rose bristled at the suggestion. ‘There’s no reason why not.’

  ‘I’m just advising you. Be aware of the possibilities.’

  ‘But I’m ready to go back. I can feel it. Look, before all this, I’d taken the inspector’s exam and passed. I was waiting for promotion. If they knew what was good for them, I’d be back straight away as a DI. I should be. I’ve spoken to DCI Glass and he agrees with me.’

  Interesting, thought Marina. DCI Glass was Ben Fenwick’s replacement. She wondered in how many ways.

  She nodded once more, said nothing. Rose Martin’s attitude was typical of a lot of officers she saw. They felt they could handle themselves. Reached a point where they found their convalescence too constricting, where they knew they were ready for the challenge of the job, raring to go once more. And if any problems came up, if they had flashbacks, they could always rely on their old inner strength to pull them through.

  Even in the comparatively short time that Marina had been doing the job, she had seen too many of them try that, only to crash and burn. Their inner strength had deserted them at the first opportunity. They had crumpled, folded. Been back at square one.

  She leaned forward in her armchair. ‘Look, Rose. I don’t want to seem negative, but it’s easy to think you can just walk back into work like nothing’s happened and pick up where you left off.’

  Rose leaned forward too. ‘I know myself. I know how I feel. I know when I’m damaged and when I’m good. And I’m good now.’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Never is, is it?’ Rose gave a harsh laugh. Nodded. ‘This is about Phil Brennan, isn’t it? I know what he thinks of me. And if anyone’s blocking me coming back, it’ll be him.’

  Marina sighed. Didn’t bother to hide it. ‘I’m a psychologist, Rose. Bound by the oaths of the medical profession. Do you really want me to add “paranoid delusions” to your file?’

  Rose Martin sat back, stared at Marina.

  Marina leaned forward once more. ‘Look, Rose. Over the last five months, you’ve refused to talk to me. Ignored all attempts to let me help you.’

  ‘Because I didn’t need help. I’ve coped on my own.’

  ‘So you say. You wouldn’t even attend the anger-management course I recommended.’

  Rose Martin’s eyes flashed at the words. ‘I didn’t need your help,’ she repeated.

  Marina sighed. ‘I just wanted to say, I know how you feel.’

  Rose snorted once more. ‘Is this the bit where you try to be my friend? Tell me you’re the only person who understands me?’

  Marina looked at the notes in her lap, deciding. She looked up again. ‘No, it’s not, Rose.’ Steel in her voice hiding a battened-down anger at the other woman’s manner. ‘This is the bit where I put professionalism aside for a while and deviate from the script. Forget that I’m a psychologist and you’re a police officer. Where we talk as one human being to another.’

  Rose said nothing.

  ‘I do know what you’re going through, Rose. Because the same thing happened to me. It was before your time here, but the circumstances were very similar. If you don’t believe me, check it out.’

  Marina paused, tried not to let the memories overwhelm her. Sh
e continued.

  ‘And I did what you did. I thought I could cope. Just get on with things again, live my life like nothing had happened. I tried. And I couldn’t.’ She bit back the emotion in her voice.

  The shield slipped. Rose frowned, interested. ‘What happened?’

  Marina shrugged. ‘I coped. Eventually. Took a while. Longer than I thought it would. Longer than I felt it should have done. It wasn’t easy. But I got there. In time.’

  The two women sat in silence together. Then Rose’s phone rang.

  She answered it, even though Marina had started to speak, to tell her it should have been switched off. Marina watched the other woman’s face. It changed from initial hostility to polite interest. A smile then split her features as she listened. She took a notebook and pen from her bag, wrote something down. Hung up. Turned to Marina.

  ‘That was DCI Glass. He has a case he needs me to work on.’

  Marina nodded, noting her words. Needs. ‘Right. When would this be?’

  ‘Straight away. Shortage of staff. He thinks I’m ready.’

  ‘Does he?’

  Another smile from Rose Martin. Triumphant. Adrenalised.

  Marina shrugged. ‘You’d better go, then.’

  ‘Don’t you have to write a report on me?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem a lot of point now, does there?’

  Rose left the room.

  Marina shook her head, clearing Rose Martin out of it. She checked when her next appointment was, looked at her watch. Thought about what she’d be having for lunch. Wondered what her daughter Josephina was getting up to with her grandparents. Then her phone rang.

  She answered. DC Anni Hepburn.

  ‘You busy?’ Then, before she could answer, ‘You want a distraction?’

  Marina leaned forward. ‘What’s up?’

  Anni’s voice became hesitant. ‘I’m at the hospital. The General. And I could do with a bit of help …’

  6

  Paul had left him in the cave. Stuck in as far as he could push him. Tried to push everything in after him. Stopper him up. He hoped he would never come out.

  Right at the far end, the black, dank far end. With the crying and the sobbing and the wailing of the lost souls. With the hideous dirt-encrusted earth creatures. The back of the cave. Away from the light. As far away from the light as he could get.

  It was Paul’s turn to be out. To put his face to the light. Close his eyes. Breathe in the air. Remind himself of what was important. That he could still live like this. That he could still live with his face to the sun if he wanted to. Close his eyes. Breathe. Relax. He still could. He just had to believe in it enough.

  Not be dragged back. Into the cave again.

  Into the dark.

  He closed his eyes. Sat on the floor. Back in place. His sacred space. His special place. He tried to relax. Couldn’t.

  Because of the noise out there. The people. What were they doing? Rushing round, talking in loud voices, their cars screeching, their voices coming through the air. Talk. Talking, talking. Always talking. Not saying anything. Like radio static. Just noise. Horrible noise. Giving him a headache.

  And then he had seen the boy.

  Dragged out of the sacrifice house. Kicking, screaming. Pulling, pushing. Crying.

  And Paul had hid his face in his hands. Put his arms round his head, over his ears. Blocking out the sound. The noise of the boy. The crying boy.

  ‘No … no …’

  Because that wasn’t what it was about. Never had been. Never. No … Not that. He had tried to stop that. Tried to …

  And look where it had got him.

  The boy had kept screaming.

  Paul sang to himself, chanted words, rocking back and forward, warding off the noise, keeping the bad spirits away. Songs from the old days. The happy days. Good-times songs. Community songs. Together songs.

  But it didn’t work. He still heard the boy’s cries. Imagined his tears. Felt his fear.

  Eventually the noise stopped. The boy stopped screaming. Or stopped screaming outside. Just the blue suits and their noise left.

  He dared to watch. Gave a small peek. Saw them going into the sacrifice house.

  Knew what they were going to find.

  Ducked back down again, heart pounding.

  Knew what they were going to find. Knew …

  And knew something else too. They would keep looking. Come to his house next. Find him. And then … And then …

  He couldn’t have that. Not that. No.

  So he curled up, small as he could. Back to a child, back in the womb.

  Back when he was happy.

  Curled up. And hoped they wouldn’t find him.

  At least he wasn’t in the cave.

  That was something.

  7

  ‘Right,’ said Phil. ‘Plan of action.’

  He wanted to go above ground, feel sunlight on his skin, breathe in clean air. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

  He turned to Mickey. ‘What did we get from the guy who called it in?’

  Mickey checked his notes. ‘Two of them. Demolition team. House was going to be turned into a housing estate. They’ve both been taken to hospital. Kid who got bitten needed some attention. Kept going on about old comics. Shock, probably.’

  Phil frowned. ‘Comics?’

  ‘House of Secrets and House of Mystery,’ said Mickey, not needing to look at his notes. ‘Two brothers who keep killing each other. With a graveyard between them.’

  ‘Right. We need …’

  Phil trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the cage. The deliberate horror transfixing him. The cage, the flowers, the symbols on the wall, the altar-like bench … Arc-lit, the cellar held a palpable sense of anticipation, a stage set waiting for actors, unaware that the performance is cancelled. His gut churned in repulsion. But there was something else, some other feeling it invoked within him. Fascination. The workmanship, the craft, the dedication … the cage was a beautiful piece of work.

  He moved closer, wanting to feel the worn bone beneath his fingers. To touch it, explore it, caress it even. But to simultaneously run as far and as fast as he could from it. He kept staring, riveted, head spinning in wonder, stomach churning in revulsion. Acting on something he couldn’t explain or identify within him, he reached out a latex-gloved hand.

  ‘Boss?’

  Phil blinked. Mickey’s voice called him back.

  ‘Look. You’ll want to see this.’

  A uniform was pointing to a corner, shining his flashlight on it. Phil and Mickey stepped closer. Hidden behind a bunch of flowers were gardening tools. A trowel, a small hand fork and a scythe.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Phil.

  Mickey peered in closer. ‘Have they been sharpened?’

  The tools were old, well-worn. Phil checked the edges. They were silver bright. Razored sharp. They reflected the beam of the flashlight, glinting round the cellar.

  ‘Get Forensics to examine them,’ Phil said. ‘That brown staining? I reckon it’s blood.’

  ‘You think he’s done this before?’ said Mickey.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Phil said. He turned. Away from the tools, the flowers, the cage. ‘Right. A plan. We need a plan.’ He could still feel the cage’s presence behind him. Like a pair of unblinking eyes boring into him, giving him the mental equivalent of an itch between his shoulder blades, something he couldn’t identify and reach, couldn’t satisfy …

  ‘Are the Birdies here yet?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Should be up top,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  He gave one last look at the cage. Tried to see it as what it was. A hideous, horrific prison. He looked at its floor. In the corner was a bucket, the stench coming off it in waves indicating that it had been the boy’s toilet. Beside that were two old plastic bowls. Both filthy and scarred, one with the traces of something inside it, smeared round the rim. Bones sticking out of it, smaller ones than those of the cage. Food. The other contained some
dark, brackish water.

  Phil wished his partner were there. Marina Esposito, police psychologist. They had worked on several cases together, where their professional relationship had developed into something more intimate. But that wasn’t why he wanted her now. She would be able to help with the investigation, track down the perpetrator. Help him work out why someone had done this. And that, he hoped, would make it much easier to turn that ‘why’ into a ‘who’.

  He kept staring at the cage. It stirred something within him, something he couldn’t name or identify. Like a memory remaining annoyingly out of reach. But not good. He knew that much.

  He thought harder. It was coming to him, reaching through the fog of his memory like a ghost from a horror film …

  Then he felt it. That familiar tightening round his chest. Like his heart was being squeezed by an iron fist. And he knew he had to get upstairs as quickly as possible.

  He ran ahead of Mickey, exited the house. Out into the open air. The daylight, the sunshine he had craved. He didn’t even feel it.

  Phil stood against the side of the building, waiting for the feeling to subside. Why? he thought. Why now? Nothing had happened; he hadn’t done anything to exert himself. Why here? Why now?

  He took a deep breath. Waited a few seconds. His panic attacks had become much less frequent recently. He put that down to his newly settled home life with Marina and their daughter Josephina. His job hadn’t got any easier, less distressing or less involving. But now he had people he loved and who loved him. And a happy home to go to at the end of the working day. That was as much as he had ever asked for and more than he ever thought he would get.

  Because Phil had never believed in long-term happiness. His own upbringing – children’s homes and foster homes, fear and violence – had put paid to that. He wasn’t taking anything for granted and didn’t know how long this would last, but he was enjoying it. Every nerve-racking second. If this was happiness, then it was the happiness of the tightrope walker managing to keep his balance.

  He opened his eyes. Mickey was standing before him, concern on his features.