by Ryan Casey
EYE SNATCHER
The Fourth Brian McDone Mystery
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Ryan Casey
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Eye Snatcher is the fourth book in the Brian McDone series.
If you'd like to read the first books, visit here:
Dying Eyes
Buried Slaughter
Nameless Kill
ONE
Sam Betts never liked walking the dog when it was too late at night, but Mummy told him to toughen up. Told him not to be soft.
He walked down the country lane that he lived on, his Yorkshire Terrier, Clara, tugging him along like she always did. The sun was low as it settled over the mountains in the distance. The road was quiet, just like it always was. Sam didn’t like busy roads either. Always felt funny when he was playing outside his friends’ houses and all the busy trucks were driving by.
Sam took in a deep breath of the freezing cold air and blew it out, pretending the steam was from a cigarette. He was eleven, so he didn’t smoke cigarettes. Some of the older boys Jack and Henry hung around with smoked cigarettes and told him he could smoke them too, but he never wanted to. Mummy told him cigarettes killed Grandad, and he couldn’t think why anyone would want to do anything that might kill them. He had his ear pierced anyway, so that made the older boys like him more. Made him seem cooler.
He gripped tight hold of Clara’s lead as she yanked him further down the road and towards the farm track. The sun was getting lower. Sam was hungry too—he could still taste the Dairy Milk chocolate bar from his school lunch and it just made him even hungrier.
But he just had to wait when Mummy had visitors around. He just had to be patient, she told him.
He started to cross the road when he saw a car turn out of Brabiner Lane and zoom around the corner. He stepped back. Pulled Clara back, almost fell over in the process.
The man behind the windscreen stuck his middle finger up.
Sam put his head down and crossed the road, cursing Clara under his breath.
He wasn’t sure where his fear of cars came from. Probably living in the countryside so long. But he hadn’t always lived in the countryside. When he was younger, he’d moved about a lot. His mum split up with his dad and they moved to a horrible little house with a woman next door who stank of wee. And then his mum met another man called Stan who was horrible to him, but he had a nice house so he was okay for that.
But he’d never liked cars. Never liked traffic. Never liked busy places.
“Come on, Clara.”
He yanked Clara along and stepped onto the farm track. Fields surrounded him on either side. Big massive white cows and little calves on the field to the left of him, surrounded by a tiny electric wire that no way could keep them in. The field stunk—stunk of poo and something dead. Mummy used to say she loved that smell. The smell of the countryside. A healthy smell, she said.
Sam couldn’t understand why anyone could find a smell as horrible as that healthy.
He pulled Clara along as she stopped in the middle of the farm track.
“Stupid dog,” Sam said. She always stopped here for some reason. Stopped and panted. Probably because she was old.
And although Sam said she was stupid, he loved her really. She was his best friend.
She kept him company when Mummy was with another man.
Sam walked down the farm track. Got to the bottom of it, turned left to walk down the public dirt track that nobody ever went down but him. He liked to pretend he was in the jungle down there, all overgrown and muddy.
As he looked down it, he saw the sky was darkening. He’d have to be quick. He didn’t want to get stuck out here in the dark.
Clara stopped again. He turned to her. Pulled her. “Come on.”
And then he saw the man at the top of the farm track.
He was dressed in black, from what Sam could see from here. Sam thought it was strange that someone was coming down this track because no one ever came down this track unless they were the farmer or a dog walker. But this man wasn’t a farmer and he didn’t have a dog with him.
He was on his own. Walking fast.
He tugged Clara some more. “Come on! Get a move on.”
Sam picked up his pace as he walked in front of the farm. Got a stronger whiff of poo as he walked past the cows, all staring out of the barn.
He kept his head down as he walked past them. Didn’t want to look them in the eyes. He’d done that once when he was younger and they’d chased him and he’d still not got over it.
He looked back over his shoulder as he reached the bottom of the farm entrance, reached the bottom of the dirt track.
The man was still walking down the farm track. About halfway down now. But he was getting harder to see. In the darkness, he was getting harder to see.
“You alright, kiddo?”
The voice to his right made him jump. He looked and saw that it was the farmer. He was balding but had a bit of short dark hair. Sam didn’t know his name, but he always had a friendly face, a friendly smile. He was wearing a red jumper, dirty black combat trousers and wellies up to his knees. He was wiping something off his hands.
Sam nodded fast. He nodded fast and pulled Clara along, cheeks going hot.
He knew he wanted to say something to the farmer about the man coming down the track, but he felt silly for it. What was he supposed to say? “Who’s that man walking down your track?” No. That was silly. That was stupid.
He tugged Clara along and kept on walking as the farmer disappeared into the barn.
Sam started walking faster as he moved into the overgrown dirt track. He heard birds singing loud, heard cars zooming down the nearby motorway. He usually let Clara off her lead down here, but he wanted to get back fast. He’d cut through the field opposite his house. Run across it with Clara, where it was all open.
He’d be fine.
He walked across the mud and the stones of the dirt track, his heart pounding as the sun got more orange and closer to the horizon, closer to the fields that the sheep were in. He didn’t want to be stuck out here in the dark. He didn’t want to be stuck out here in the dark with that man who was…
He looked over his shoulder.
A huge weight lifted off his shoulders.
The man who’d walked down the farm track was going in the opposite way to Sam.
Sam couldn’t help but smile. Couldn’t help but smile and laugh. He was being silly all along. Silly to think that man was following him. He probably just lived at one of the big houses in the middle of nowhere. Or he was probably just out for a walk like people did, even though Sam found just walking boring.
He reached down, unclipped Clara from her lead, and let her zoom off down the dirt track.
Because it was getting dark, Sam ran after her. He felt the stones kicking up under his feet, felt mud splash up on his legs. He felt the breeze brush against his face, imagined he was smoking and cool but without the nasty things that real cigarettes did. He imagined Sally from school laughing at his jokes, holding his hand, kissing him.
And then he bumped into something and he heard Clara growling.
He stopped. Looked down. Realised that the thing he’d bumped into was in fact Clara.
She was staring straight ahead. Straight ahead into the darkened
, overgrown pathway. Staring into where the path dipped.
“What’s up, girl?”
She kept on growling. Teeth poked out.
As the breeze brushed against the grass verge at the side of the dirt track and the birds sang loud, Sam got a horrible feeling like he was being watched or followed. He looked back over his shoulder. Couldn’t see the man. The man was gone. And then he looked ahead into the darkened dip and he kind of wished the man was there after all.
He thought about turning back. About going back down the dirt track. But then he realised he was being silly. He was so close to the field. So close to home.
Hopefully, Mummy was done with the man now. Hopefully, he’d be able to get home and have some tea.
He took a deep breath to get rid of the butterflies and started walking.
Clara stayed put. Kept growling.
“What is it, girl? Come on, you stupid thing.”
She barked with her little yap. Kicked her hind leg back.
Sam sighed. Stomped over to her, reached down and clipped her on her lead.
“If you’re gonna be like that I’ll drag you along. Stupid…”
When he looked up at the hedges, he saw what Clara was barking at.
Who she was barking at.
The lead dropped from Sam’s hand and Clara fled back down the dirt track, back towards the farm, back up the farm track as darkness fell.
No one heard Sam’s cry.
TWO
Seventeen years on the job and a phone call about a dead kid still made Detective Inspector Brian McDone’s stomach turn.
He pulled up outside the abandoned grounds of the old Whittingham Hospital. Rain blasted down on the windscreen, which was just bloody typical of Preston and just bloody typical of a crime scene. Brian had gulped down a coffee before heading out to investigate the scene, but he was regretting it already.
The kids stood by the overgrown entrance to the abandoned old hospital. Teenagers with long hair and black hoodies with heavy metal band names on. They looked pale. Sick to the bone.
“Can’t sit around here all day,” Detective Sergeant Brad Richards said.
“Well, feel free to take the lead,” Brian said. “Crime scene to investigate. Hardly see you raring to get out of your seat.”
Brad had that puffed look to his face. A redness to his cheeks, like he could never quite tell when Brian was being serious or joking. He was a serious guy, really, with an odd sense of humour. Wore a black leather jacket no matter the weather. Jet black hair and glassy grey eyes. He’d worked a few cases with Brian over the last few years, and he was one of the few cops Brian didn’t actually mind.
Which said a lot. A hell of a lot.
Brian grabbed the handle. Heard the rain get heavier, smelled the earthiness outside as he opened the door and hovered a foot over the squelchy muddy ground.
“Could at least have brought some wellies,” Brian said.
“Least you don’t spend much money on your shoes. Might just take my Doc Martens off and go barefoot.”
“I’d pay to see that,” Brian said.
He climbed out of Brad’s black Honda, pulled up his thin hood and stepped out into the rain.
Brian looked over at the abandoned old hospital as it was pelted with rain. Out of control ivy clawed up the sides of the crumbled red brick walls. He’d been here before loads of times. Scrotes like the kids standing outside were always in here at night, sneaking around and camping. Place was a shithole. Fallen to pieces. So there was always somebody getting drunk in here, tripping over and breaking an ankle.
It didn’t even have a proper roof over it, not since it’d closed thirty years ago on the grounds of ill-treatment of its residents. One of the pioneering hospitals in its day.
Which meant it was akin to a torture chamber in today’s modern terms.
Brian and Brad stepped through the thick, sloppy mud towards the three teenagers outside the hospital. One of them had hair longer than any woman Brian had ever seen, wearing geeky thin glasses. He was puking onto the ground while a skinhead with his hood up patted his back. Another guy—muscular and with one of those massive circular earrings that Brian would grill his son Davey if he ever got—was standing by the side and half-smiling at Brian.
“Don’t you just love dealing with kids,” Brian said.
“Thought you were tuned in with the younger generation?” Brad said.
“I’m not sure I’m tuned in with any bloody generation, not anymore. Not with some of the shite they listen to. Can always judge a person’s IQ by how much death metal they listen to.”
“Always struck me as a bit of a rocker yourself.”
“There’s a difference between a rocker and a moron. Now come on. Let’s get this over with.”
The guy throwing up lifted his head when he saw Brian and Brad approaching. He looked at them, opened his spotty mouth to speak, then puked up all over again in the grass.
“Sorry,” the guy above him said. “Just—in there it’s… it’s—”
“Which one of you gents called us?” Brian asked.
The muscular guy lifted a shaky arm. Nodded his head. “I did.”
Brian and Brad walked right past the puker and his friend, the smell of sick mixing with the earthy smell of the early October rain.
“What’s your name?”
The muscular guy took a few shaky breaths. Rubbed his bulky forearms. He was trying his best to look as masculine and unaffected as possible, but Brian could see him breaking already. “Dan. Dan Smalls.”
“And where’s the kid?”
Dan flinched. Long-haired guy hurled some more.
“He’s… he’s up the stairs. First—first set of stairs. Then go left and… and over the hole and he’s…”
He stopped. Turned away.
“Thanks,” Brian said. He looked at Brad. Nodded. “We’ll go take a look. Stay here for now, Dan.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Dan called, as Brad and Brian walked through the cobweb-covered doorway to the abandoned old hospital. “We… we was just fooling. Just—just chillin’ and lookin’ around. You know?”
Brad smiled widely. “Oh, we know. We know. Just don’t go anywhere. Or we’ll mention the weed poking out of your pocket.”
Brad turned around and led the way through the door, Brian following him, as Dan fumbled about with the cannabis in his pocket.
The interior of the hospital was as you’d expect from an abandoned place: stunk of damp, plants working their way up the graffiti covered once-white walls. Constant linger of pot in the air as rain trickled down onto the broken tiles.
“How do you do that?” Brian asked, as he stepped in front of Brad and made his way towards the stairway, the bannisters crumbled away and cracks all over the steps.
“Do what?” Brad asked.
“The weed,” Brian said. “Not to flatter you or anything, but… how the shit do you see things like that?”
Brad’s smile twitched up as they reached the bottom of the staircase. He shrugged. “I just, I dunno. Always been good at spotting the little things. Good detective brain, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Brad said. “Explains that bloody big head of yours anyway.”
Brian couldn’t deny Brad’s technical expertise. He really was a fantastic cop. He’d proven that on the Avenham girl case last summer. He saw things—obsessed over the little details that nobody else would see.
And sure, Brad might suffer from chronic depression and be recovering from alcoholism and a broken relationship, but weren’t all cops? It was the police officer cliché for a bloody good reason.
Brian stepped onto the first of the steps. Felt the tile slipping away under his foot, almost tumbled onto his chubby arse.
“Watch yourself there, Gramps,” Brad said, stepping ahead of Brian. “Want me to grab you a zimmer? Should be one lying around here somewhere.”
Brian ignored Brad’s dickish remark and steadied himself. He walked up the slippery st
eps, feeling a bit dizzy the further up he got. There were used condoms and needles all over the place. Graffiti on the walls—“I DIED HERE,” weird shit like that written to try and freak people out.
But the creepiest things weren’t the falsities. They were the ancient normalities of the place. The little crumpled scraps of paper clinging to old notice boards from when this hospital was actually operational. The ward signs that clung to the decaying ceiling for dear life.
Brian couldn’t help but feel a little fluttery inside at the creepiness of this place.
They reached the top of the stairs. Looked left and right.
“Which way did that grease ball say?” Brad asked.
Brian saw the hole in the ground on the left. Saw the black door, ajar at the opposite side of it.
“Over the hole,” Brian said. “Running jump?”
“You can get stuffed,” Brad said.
They walked around the hole. Pushed their backs up against the walls as they stepped around the sides of it. Brian tried not to look down through the fallen-through floor as he moved. In the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a red stain on the solid floor below, but maybe he was just imagining it.
Although someone probably had fallen down there at some point in time.
Somebody a lot slimmer and lighter than him.
Shit. Just focus. One step at a time.
Brian reached the other side of the hole before Brad. As he did, he got a nasty whiff. A whiff that made his coffee regurgitate in his throat.
“Shit,” Brian said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Armani aftershave Hannah had bought him as a “get well” present after his heart attack last year. He sprayed a few blotches of it onto a snotty old tissue and stuffed it against his nose, making his head spin in the process. “That smell never gets easier.”
“Thought your sense of smell deteriorated when you got ol… oh, shit. That is bad.” Brad coughed. Spat down the gaping hole in the middle of the floor.
“Shoulda brought your own aftershave,” Brian said, as he made his way to the ajar door. The closer he got, the more the smell of decay worked through the tissue. He’d never bloody wear this aftershave again. Associated it with death too much. Reminded him of when he rented a house with a few girls back when he was a young lad. He’d keep a bottle of aftershave in there to spray whenever he’d done a shit. Masked the bathroom of any evidence.