by R. G. Oram
Much Needed Rain
R. G. Oram
Copyright © 2017 R. G. Oram
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
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ISBN 978 1788030 847
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
To Cyril
I bet the garden’s beautiful
Evil hides in plain sight
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
The Final Epilogue
Message to Law Enforcement Agencies
Message to Los Angeles
Acknowledgments
Prologue
C – R – E – A – K!
Her unconsciousness interrupted, a faint but familiar sound breaking her sleeping cycle.
She sat bolt upright. Eyes wide open, unblinking. Individual sounds reaching her ears – impossible to ignore. Her tight chest constricting its own breathing space. Neck and spine erect, in line, hugging the bed’s headboard, pushing it back as far as it would go. Consciously aware of her surroundings, immersed in forgotten light. Though she could still put a name to each shape in the room, they took a different form at night. Her eyes and ears investigated, anxiously seeking the source of her awakening.
C – R – E – A – K!
Again it came, eyes being of little value, her ears located it. The solid bedroom door separated her from the source of the disturbance.
Recognising the sound was that of a different door – the living room closet. In the other room, not the closet which stood in front of her bed. What trained her ears onto the source was the moaning it made; whenever it opened or closed its arthritic hinges groaned from resisted movement.
Then her ears picked up another sound, this one being exceptionally close, it had a rhythm too. Her heart beat increased dramatically, she breathed profusely and a surging blood flow coerced her body into involuntary trembling.
The cause of this, a sudden realisation; for the closet door to make that sound a person must be present – its worn age had made it stubborn to gentle handling; additional force was needed to get the door of the closet to open.
Somebody was in her apartment.
Another presence! Fear gripped her like a vice. Sitting in her bed, her back pressing against the headboard, she could not move. The existence of this uninvited one seemed to have an invisible hold over her; bound her to where she sat. Her shoulders sunk, her arms and hands hid under the covers. The only sign she still had feet was a small mound at the end of the bed. She tried to lift her knees to try and escape from the bed but somehow there seemed to be no supporting bones or willing muscles to assist her.
Even though her body felt paralysed she could still use her sense of hearing; listening for any other disturbance, yet finding difficulty with her task. The ferocious beat of her heart denied her the freedom to distinguish internal from external sounds – the heart overtaking her perception of reality.
Suddenly and without warning, more sounds echoed. Close, making it easier for her to identify them. A rasping, as furniture drawers were roughly opened, scraping and scratching without respect for the cabinet-maker’s craftsmanship,
She looked at the table next to her bed. Her phone lay on it. Slowly she reached out and clutched it, hoping not to bounce a spring’s twang beneath her. It was off, she was about to turn it on when another realisation struck her – the silence. Even if she flicked the switch at the side of it to turn the silent on, it would still vibrate when it powered up.
How loud was the vibration’s sound? She asked herself.
Too frightened to even move her legs under the covers, in case the rubbing of her skin against the bedding produced a noise, she tried to think how loud her phone’s start-up was. She listened to the silence, while imagining the sound of her phone. Would they hear it?
She imagined a classroom, when everybody had their heads down at the test paper, somebody had forgotten to turn their phone off and the mini motoring tone broke the soundless equilibrium, the teacher gets up from their desk at the other end of the room, walks to the noise offender and holds out their hand.
If she turned it on the sound could easily reveal her. Whoever was inside her apartment may hear the start-up sound and ignore the spoils outside and compromise with her instead. Her thumb hovered above the ‘On’ button as she tried to fight her instincts and press it down.
The fear of being found defeated her need for help. Tentatively, she replaced the phone on the table.
During her anguish about survival, the noise from outside seemed to have stopped. The tumultuous beat of her heart had not slackened, but now they were the only sound. She craved for a sound, any sound – silence brought its own kind of terror, not knowing what could happen next. At least with the noises she could judge the creator’s location. Now she stared into a blackened void.
She didn’t know how long she’d stayed sitting in her bed. All she did was watch the shut bedroom door and believe if she stared at it for long enough it would stay that way.
The gripping, incapacitating hold on her began to ebb slowly away. First, she gently shifted away her bed covers. Then car
efully and silently, she placed her feet on the bedroom’s floor. Her nightwear consisted of just a bra and panties and now that attire left her feeling unguarded and vulnerable. Trembling, she crept anxiously forward, inching up to the bedroom door, the anxiety bathing her body in sheets of cold and tacky sweat.
Still not a sound, even when she put her ear to the door. Decisively she put her hand on the door handle. Despite having pressed it down many times before, now she was intoxicated with fear, realising that a misplaced finger could signal her presence. Even though her teeth chattered, she tightened her fingers and with a quick downward flick of her wrist to free the lock, drew her arm backwards to open the door.
The open doorway revealed countless shapes – some with distinctive similarities to parts of a human body, a number of places offering hidden refuge. Staying within the confines of her doorway as if it somehow protected her, she watched for any motion from the objects concealed in the darkness.
They all knew her and she knew them: tables, chairs, drawers, shelves; so many potential hiding places.
There was a crack of light, only a square inch if it was even that. It came from the street lights outside, printing an abnormal shade of white onto her apartment floor.
She looked straight ahead of her, at the door that guarded entry to the apartment. Barely visible, except for the painted walls around it which obliquely advertised the rectangular alcove.
‘Where are you?!’ her trembling lips fought not to say. Her neck nearly rigid, it struggled to move her head. Even rotating one degree resulted in more shaking; with each further turn it felt like her skull and vertebrae would detach.
A place she had called her home and sanctuary now symbolised terror and despair. All it seemed to take was an uninvited visitor, unwelcome in her imaginary haven; one single alteration, breaking through the haven’s spell.
She couldn’t stop thinking about what they could look like, why were they here, what were they capable of?
Again she didn’t know, having no psychical foresight of what may come next.
She wanted to it be like before.
When she was taking the bus to work, notepad at the ready, just in case something inspirational caught her eye. Covertly watching the morning workers, like herself, as they all commuted to work. The bus stopped for her, she got off and immediately tasted the smog of downtown. The sun pierced her eyes as it stealthily crept around the corner.
Take me back, she commanded the unresponsive person in her thoughts.
The darkness returned. No uttering or crashes had intruded for some time. Inanimate objects dutifully expressed their inertia. A return to reality, pressed inward and mildly upward to the cheekbones, the corners of her mouth advertised her relieved state of mind. She realised it must have been a dream and only now, she woke up in her doorway. Spinning on the balls of her feet and allowing her toes to stretch out on the floor she padded quietly back into her bedroom.
It was a dream! she thought.
She returned to the bedroom, her mind relieved. Then she experienced a roar of breathing. Each breath exhaled felt like it was being forced up, out of deep chambers. It formed an invisible cloud, the hot air caressing her face.
Her pounding heart, the first sign of reality returning.
‘Hahaha!’ laughter transcended the air.
Flight, running around the surrounding, domestic debris, she sprinted to the exit, leaving her phone in the bedroom, once she was outside she’d look for help next door.
The door a fraction away, the lock still secured, a turn, that’s all it needed. Nearly ripping the doorknob from the wood as she gripped it savagely, it yielded quickly to her hand. Then, an unexpected feeling of metallic coldness touched the back of her head.
Hands suddenly caged over her eyes. Her vision of the door faded, as her face was covered by the converging fingers. Her grip on the knob slackened. Her hand fell back passively, her arm hung limp. Her lips trembled and her breathing hollowed.
Chapter 1
‘Evening.’ No words came in reply. The word faded into the room’s air. Seated at the other end of the table, a dark shadow with fleshy cheeks, eyes hidden behind the light-reflecting spectacles, a tie loosened showing the separated top button, jacket hung on the chair’s back, and sitting perpendicular to the ceiling with his arm’s intimately crossed.
The light shining above gave the room’s white painted wall a powerful rebound to both pairs of eyes.
The speaker sat himself on the other chair in the room, now only a table obstructed the two men. He put his jacket on his chair too. Having no tie, the open necked collar crawled away from the neck. He watched the heavy breather on the other side of the table. Not allowing the body to betray its discomfort; straight and upright in the chair – giving the impression of confidence; a possible sign of innocence.
‘You all right?’ again the speaker tried to eradicate the stubborn silence. The mouth remained closed at the other end.
‘My name’s David – if you were at all curious,’ the speaker said. David Lewelyn waited for any form of response from the attempted rapport. Lips did not move and the face remained impassively calm.
‘So tell me how long have you been with the FBI?’
The fingers in the man’s hands tickled the crossed arms. Then he looked down at the table.
‘Give or take twenty years,’ the conversation becoming two sided.
‘Long time. How’s it been?’
It looked like a shrug was all Lewelyn would get until, the man made eye contact.
‘It’s been good. Teaches you a lot of new things,’ he said, being reluctant and brief but starting to cooperate, his shoulders weren’t so sharp and close to the ears now.
‘What made you want to join?’
No prepared answer, Lewelyn was surprised he hadn’t been asked this before.
‘Honestly I don’t know. I just sort of wanted to help people. Have the chance to do something different,’ he said, the body relaxing but the face – expressionless.
Lewelyn gave an agreeing smile, ‘I considered applying once, decided not to in the end. Never been very good at following orders – my teachers would attest to that. Went into the private sector instead, started my own business. You make a lot of money as an agent?’
There! Stiffened like a corpse when Lewelyn mentioned the word ‘money’. He heard some tapping as well, somewhere in the room. No response came.
‘I never asked earlier, are you married?’ A nod came in reply, ‘Have any kids?’ No nod this time. Lewelyn heard the tapping again – a quicker pace this time. ‘How many?’ Pounding feet.
‘Paul – is one of them is sick?’
His eyes closed, they tried to stay shut, the eyebrows and cheeks pressed heavily together, wanting to hide away from the memory and sink into the blind abyss.
‘You sold that information because you needed the money?’
The eyes were clenched, a trembling head drop signalled acknowledgement. Lewelyn looked at himself and the others in the two-way mirror and got up from his chair.
They called me as I was about to finish for the day. Gave me no explanation, just: ‘You’re needed at Wilshire.’ Didn’t give me a chance to ask.
I took a cab and dressed as appropriately as I could.
When I get there I’m told to get answers from the guy in the other room. I ask what he’s been accused of.
Giving away confidential Bureau secrets to known enemies they told me.
My first assumption before going in was a simple disgruntled employee of the Government, who thought they deserved to be rewarded for everything they’ve done for their country and didn’t think they should be punished because it’s the Bureau’s fault for not appreciating them– that was my first thought, then I talked to him.
I couldn’t judge him because I had no right to. At least that’s wha
t I always tell myself when I’ve found out what they’ve done.
Soon as I finished and left the room they asked me how I knew and I told them:
‘His feet. When I started mentioning money and family he started tapping them on the floor.’
Then I was asked how I knew his feet were tapping, because there was a table between me and the guy. I ignored their sceptical looks.
‘His shoulders – they were shaking. When you’re in a sitting position and you tap your feet on the floor the shoulders start moving too. He kept his face clean of emotion until the end but forgot to hide the rest of him. It’ll show on the video his feet got nervous when I started asking him about his personal life.’
No more scepticism registered. No surprise either, only disappointment. I’d confirmed what had been said earlier. The guy had already been interviewed by other Bureau men; I confirmed what they already knew.
His daughter was sick and he needed money. The old hand of temptation coming and in a state of despair he shook it. At first it seems so simple. A small set of words shared to a not so law-abiding person. Believing the words weren’t sharp at the edges.
Only after do you understand the consequences – when a group of bodies with FBI SWAT Team badges on their uniforms, full of holes and wide open accusing eyes, after an attempted home breach, known only by a handful of fellow agents, do you feel the hand of betrayal turning your organs into ash.
Now they have to accept that they didn’t know him as well as they thought. No matter how prestigious or well lead an organisation is, it’ll always be brought down the same way – by its people.
I saw some coffee drinking on my way out, taking as many full gulps as the throat would allow. The hands of the agents demanded attention by the touching of hair or rubbing at the backs of necks. The supervisor was making a speech but the ears didn’t listen as most of the eyes were looking down at their shoes.
A great body of night plagued the diner’s exterior. Through the open glass you saw the dark lifeless presence enveloping California – a new light where darkness owned everything. The dark mass manoeuvred inside; projecting its essence on the table’s condiments – clinging to their bases.