by Tiana Carver
Up close, the Gardener’s mask looked terrifying. It was the absence of humanity, of features to talk to. Like a horror-film scarecrow come to life. Probably why he had done it in the first place, thought Phil.
Phil was determined not to be scared, intimidated by the figure before him. After all, he had seen him without his mask, talked to him, even.
If his guess was right.
‘I assume,’ he said, his voice louder and more confident than he felt, ‘that the mummy on the bed back there is Paul Clunn?’
The Gardener stopped moving. Put his head on one side, listening. Phil kept talking.
‘His body. I found it back there. Was he your first? Is that when you decided you liked it?’
The Gardener remained still, said nothing.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Phil, voice still loud. ‘Lost for words? Not like you.’
‘You don’t know me …’ The voice coming from underneath the hood was low, growling. Like he was perpetually trying to clear his throat and failing.
‘Oh yes I do,’ said Phil. ‘I do.’
‘Who … I’m …’
‘The Gardener, yeah, I know that. But that’s just the hood, isn’t it? That’s just your mask. You put that on and you’re him. Take it off, and you’re—’
The Gardener stepped forward, raised his hand. The blade clutched in his fist gleamed.
Phil jumped back. His heart was racing, pounding in his chest. He had been close to death before, but this was different. This was a death he had dreamed about. A death foretold. This was something he had to stop. No matter how terrified he was.
And he was very scared indeed.
Not just because of the maniac holding the knife. But because of what he represented. He was a nightmare. He had power over Phil.
And Phil had to stop that.
‘You going to cut me now, is that it?’ he said, hoping his voice didn’t display the shake in his body. ‘That the way you deal with everything?’
The Gardener grunted, slashed the air in front of the cage. On the floor beside him, Phil heard Finn flinch, whimper.
‘Very good,’ said Phil, mock-applauding. ‘Very good. That all you can do?’
The Gardener stepped right up to the bars. ‘I can kill you …’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil, aiming for nonchalance, hoping his voice could carry it off, ‘but where’s the fun in that? Tell you what, let’s have a little chat first. Yeah?’
And before the Gardener could reply, he reached his hand through the bars and pulled the hood off his head.
The Gardener drew back, shocked. And Phil stared at him.
Paul. The tramp.
But younger-looking. Mad, wild eyes.
And angry.
With a scream, he flung himself at the bars, blade outstretched.
122
The warehouse doors clanked into life, began rolling down.
‘Wait for it …’ Fennell was staring at them.
Along with everyone else.
‘Right,’ he said into his mic, ‘into positions, first wave. Disable CCTV.’
As Mickey watched from the van, two armed officers moved to either side of the main gates, reached up, cut the wires on the CCTV cameras.
‘Good.’
The warehouse doors kept closing.
Mickey looked over at Clemens. He was staring at the warehouse but seeing past it.
The warehouse doors closed. Fennell turned to the team.
‘Ready? Go, go, go …’
Adrenalin pumping, the driver switched on the motor, turned the engine over. Full beams. The other vans did likewise. Turned towards the gates.
Aimed straight for them.
123
‘Just stand up,’ said Glass. ‘Slowly.’
Marina, her back to him still, started to straighten up.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think I’d find you here, Dr Esposito. The last person, in fact. Where’s your boyfriend?’
Marina nodded towards the mouth of the cave. ‘Down there.’
Glass laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ said Marina. ‘Really.’
‘Well I don’t reckon much for his chances, then.’ Glass laughed. Stopped suddenly. ‘No,’ he said, more to himself than her, ‘he might get the collar. No, I can’t let …’
Marina straightened up fully. Turned. Glass hadn’t noticed the handful of dirt, gravel and stones she had picked up. But he did when she flung it in his eyes.
He screamed, hands going to his face.
‘Bitch!’
With his eyes closed and still holding the gun, he tried to find her.
‘Come here …’
Marina looked round quickly, assessing her options. If she ran, he would find her. No matter how much she had slowed him down, he would catch her. She wasn’t good in the woods, in the rain, in the dark.
That left only one option.
She looked straight ahead and, not giving herself enough time to think, jumped straight down the opening into the cave.
124
The Gardener lunged for Phil, blade out.
Phil knew he had to do something, tried a gamble. He stepped back. Held up the hood. ‘Careful. You don’t want this damaged, do you?’
The Gardener stopped. Stared at him. Eyes glowing with a deep, dark hatred. ‘Give me that.’
‘What, this?’ Phil had thought the hood would be important to him. He held it higher up and further back. ‘You want this?’
‘Give it to me!’ The Gardener screaming, madness and rage in his voice. ‘Give it to me …’ He broke down into a coughing fit.
Phil watched him. He didn’t look well. It seemed like it was only madness and hatred that was keeping him going.
‘Let me out of here,’ said Phil, his voice as calm and reasonable as he could make it, ‘and we’ll talk.’
Coughing was his only answer. The Gardener bent double, back heaving.
Eventually he straightened up. There was blood round his mouth. He ignored it, simply wiping it away on his sleeve. Stared at Phil.
‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘Give me my face back …’
‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Talk first. Mask later.’
The Gardener continued to stare, mouth open, breathing heavily, wheezing like a Tardis. Bloodied strings of saliva crisscrossed his lips, oscillated with each breath.
‘I know who you are,’ said Phil.
The Gardener said nothing.
‘Richard Shaw, right? Tricky Dicky Shaw. Psychotic ex-gangster.’
The Gardener cocked his head on one side, frowned, as if remembering a song he hadn’t heard in years.
‘Well you might not be a gangster, but you’re still psychotic. What happened?’
‘Richard Shaw … is dead …’
‘No,’ said Phil. ‘Paul Clunn is dead.’
‘No …’ The Gardener shook his head. ‘Richard Shaw … no longer exists.’
‘Neither does Paul Clunn. I’ve seen the body.’
‘Paul was the best man I ever met. He … he saved my life …’
‘And that’s how you repaid him.’
No …’ His head shaking more violently now. ‘No … When Richard Shaw came here, came to the Garden, he was … destroyed. He needed help. Rebuilding. He was seeking the truth. And he found it. Paul showed him.’
‘And you killed him.’
Another shake of the head. ‘No. No. No. Wrong. All wrong.’
‘What happened, then?’
‘Took his soul. He lives.’ He hit his chest. Winced in pain, coughed. ‘In here. Keep him in the cave. In here.’
‘Of course. The cave. It’s inside you.’
‘He saved my life. Was a … a visionary. Made me an artist. And he was … he was … dying. Cancer. We tried to save him. Gave him drugs, chanted … But no. Nothing. That was why he did the Garden. He knew. Knew he was dying. Wanted to … to … make a difference …’
The Gardener’s eyes were shining. Lost to th
e present. Phil waited, knew there would be more.
‘He spoke to me alone. Asked me to … to … to kill him. To pass him over, he said. Be one with the earth. The Garden was in good hands, he said. The Elders … So I did. I made sure he didn’t suffer. Did what he wanted. And I cried. Killing him. And then …’ He turned his head upwards. Phil saw tears in his eyes. ‘Then here he was … in me …’
Phil had no idea whether what the Gardener was telling him was true. He didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of there and take Finn with him.
‘Paul … was the greatest man who ever lived. He showed Richard. Shaw what he could become. Opened the light that shone inside him. Turned him into … me. The Gardener.’
‘How?’
‘Told me I had to look out for the Garden. Tend it. Whatever happened, I had to tend the Garden.’
‘And this is your idea of tending the Garden. Killing the people in it.’
Another shake of the head, but more to himself this time. Like he was explaining it to himself. ‘No … no … you don’t understand. I had to. Sacrifice. There had to be … sacrifice. To the earth. The seasons. For the Garden to grow.’
‘So you sacrificed children all this time. You killed children.’ Phil couldn’t keep the anger and disgust from his voice. He looked down at Finn, saw the boy huddled shivering in the corner. Eyes wide, staring. Face wet from crying.
‘No,’ said the Gardener, ‘they’re passing over. Not killed. Just passing over.’
‘Where?’
‘The earth. Part of life itself. The glorious cycle. Paul went first. He knew. Made it right for the rest to follow …’
Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘And that’s how you justify it, is it? How many have you killed, Dicky?’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘How many? You’ve been doing this for years, haven’t you?’
‘Needed to. To keep the Garden flourishing …’
‘For years. And you’ve never been stopped, never been caught.’
‘No.’ The Gardener shook his head. A smile played on his lips. ‘I grew my own.’
Anger rose within Phil. ‘For sacrifice? You had children bred to kill?’
‘The Garden has to survive. You don’t understand …’
‘Oh I understand that bit. I understand why you think you were doing it. But it wasn’t just that, was it?’ Phil grabbed the bars of the cage. Knuckles white. ‘You do it because you enjoy it.’
Another smile from the Gardener. Eyes wet and glittering and insane. ‘You’ve got to enjoy your work …’
His words hit Phil almost physically. Like he had been punched in the stomach, the head. He thought of the calendar, the solstices and equinoxes marked. A sacrifice for each one. Four a year. And all those years …
He couldn’t come up with a number. Didn’t want to come up with a number.
All those bodies, those unmarked children’s graves …
While he was distracted, the Gardener made a grab for the hood. Phil noticed what he was doing in time, jumped back.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Get back.’
‘Make me …’ The blade shining in the light.
Phil picked up the hood, held it above his head. Began to pull it down. The Gardener saw what he was doing.
‘No … no … you can’t … can’t wear it … only … only me …’
‘You killed your own son,’ said Phil, the hood on top of his head. ‘Adam Weaver. So don’t give me that bullshit about the Garden. You killed your own son.’
‘No! He was Richard Shaw’s son. Long ago. But not any more. He wanted the Garden ended. They told me. He had to be stopped. No son.’
‘So you killed him.’ Phil pulled the hood down further.
‘No!’
The Gardener jumped forward again. Phil wasn’t so fast this time. The Gardener made a grab for the hood, slashing through the bars with his blade. He caught Phil on the back of the hand. Phil let go of the hood. The Gardener grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. Scuttled away from the cage. Pulled it over his head once more.
Phil looked down at his hand. Blood was pouring out. He had to do something. Quickly.
‘The boy,’ said the Gardener, pointing his blade at Finn. ‘Now. It’s time.’ He swung the blade at Phil. ‘You, afterwards.’
Phil thought desperately. He located the spot in the bars that he had cracked with his twisting. Grabbed hold of it again. Tried to ignore the pain in his hand, his body. Twisted. Kept twisting.
It cracked once more. Louder this time.
‘No …’
The Gardener turned, moved towards him.
Phil stared at him, watching him advancing. Saw his nightmare made real. Saw his past, his haunted childhood before him. Looked down at Finn. Knew that it could have been him there. If Don and Eileen hadn’t saved him. He could have been one of the dead children. Unknown in life, lying in an unmarked grave.
He thought of his own daughter. Of Josephina.
He looked at Finn once more. He had to do something.
For the boy.
For himself.
For the past and the future.
He lifted his leg, aimed a kick at the weakened bar. It cracked. Again. It cracked further. Again. The whole thing was splintering now.
The Gardener tried to push himself against the bars, stick his blade into the space Phil had created. Phil grabbed his wrist, twisted. The Gardener screamed, held on to the blade. Another twist. The blade dropped.
With his other hand, Phil punched the Gardener. The air knocked out of him, the man staggered back. Phil picked up the blade, forced himself through the gap he had made.
The Gardener had recovered, stood before him by the altar.
‘You’re going to die,’ he shouted from beneath the hood.
Phil saw the curved, razor-sharp shape of a sickle in his hand.
The Gardener ran towards him, arm raised, screaming.
125
The van sped towards the gates. The driver changed up, increased speed.
Mickey, along with the rest of the team, braced himself for impact.
Bull bars connected with metal. The van bumped from the impact. The driver put his foot down, kept going. The gates gave. The team cheered, Mickey included.
They were in.
The other two vans followed.
The first van came to a halt before the warehouse’s closed doors. The second one drove round the back; the third stayed just inside the gates, blocking any exit.
The men piled out. Ran towards the warehouse. Dim light came from the windows at the front and sides, seeping round the blinds. There was a normal-sized door by the side of the main entrance. The enforcer was brought out of the van; a heavily gloved officer took up position. Brought it back. Forward. Again. Again.
The lock broke, the frame splintered.
They were in.
Mickey ran in with them. Inside was a wide strip-lit area. On either side were rows and rows of shelves rising high to the ceiling, going back deep into shadow. Filled with all manner of appliances, consumer electricals, household items, sports equipment. All compartmentalised and catalogued. It screamed ‘legit’. Perfect cover.
The two trucks sat in the main area. In front of them was the green 4x4. A couple of leather-jacketed, mulleted, heavy-set men were opening the doors on the back of the containers. Out stepped young women, some no more than children, blinking and squinting into the artificial light. Dressed in filthy clothes, some in rags. All thin, pale.
Mickey paused, stared.
The girls screamed when they saw the police, ran back inside.
The two men had pulled out their weapons, but they soon realised they were outnumbered. They slowly put their hands in the air.
Clemens stepped forward. Grabbed the nearest heavy, smashed the butt of his gun into his face. The man grunted, staggered back, hands to his face, blood fountaining from where his nose had suddenly split. Clemens fo
llowed him, did it again. The man went down, whimpering.
Clemens turned to the other man, who held his hands out before him, backed away.
‘Stop it …’ Fennell was staring at Clemens. He backed off, panting for breath, chewing his lip, smiling.
Mickey looked round. Couldn’t see Balchunas or Fenton.
Fennell was shouting orders.
‘Fan out, find the ringleaders. Don’t let them get away.’
The team did so. Officers running down the aisles, all round the shelves.
Mickey joined them. He glimpsed a shadow flitting from one side of a row to the other, at the far end of the warehouse. Ran down after it. Reached the end of the row. Looked round the corner.
Nothing.
Checked along to his left, his right. His left once more.
Saw the shadow again.
Ran towards it.
As he approached the end of the next row, squinting against the gloom, he didn’t see the cricket bat being swung towards him until it was almost too late.
He managed to twist his body out of the way of the shot, letting it connect with his shoulder rather than his head, the intended target. He let out a gasp of pain, grabbed where he had been injured. Dropped his gun.
The bat came at him again.
He opened his eyes just in time to see it coming, managed to scramble out of the way. Then turned to see who his attacker was.
Balchunas. Eyes wide with fear and desperation. Panic and anger. Not good combinations.
‘Get back … let me … let me go … bastard … you bastard
He swung again.
This time Mickey was ready for him. He waited until the bat had been swung and was out of the way. Then grabbed Balchunas’ arm, pulled it backwards. Balchunas screamed. Mickey kept pulling. Balchunas dropped the bat; Mickey forced his arm behind his back.
As he did so, he felt the Lithuanian being pulled away from him.
‘I’ve got him.’
Mickey turned. Clemens was standing next to him, twisting Balchunas’ other arm. The Lithuanian tried to drop to his knees, whimpered.
‘Please, no … no … stop … please …’