by Matt Hilton
“One thing I learned from all this. The question as to whether Cash can hurt me when I’m inside myself? Can’t be possible. I’m suffering no ill effect from having a rock slammed into my skull. Not even a headache.”
Broom let out a long sigh. “Did he actually hit you, though? Or did you come out of it before the rock struck you?”
My face crumpled. “I can’t remember. I just remember him rushing at me, the stone lifted in his hand.”
“Then I shook you,” Broom said. “I could see the terror in your face. I shook you and you sat bolt-upright in the bed, knocking the drink I’d brought you out of my hand.”
Touching my head, I probed for any tender spots. “Maybe I did snap out of it just before he hit me.”
“Lucky that you did,” Broom said. “I suspect that Cash can hurt you when you’re in the metaphysical state. You can’t allow him to roam free through your memories. Never again. Who knows what could’ve happened if I hadn’t brought you out in time?”
But therein lay the problem. If I was going to make some good of my astonishing abilities, how could I if it made me vulnerable to my brother’s influence? How could I not use my power to find a missing child, even if it could mean damaging myself, or even inviting my own death? It was akin to courting the devil to perform miracles.
There was only one answer.
“It’s a chance I’m going to have to take, Broom.”
Go ahead, Cash. Do your worst.
FORTYTHREE
Trowhaem
Could things get any worse?
Harry Bishop didn’t think so. But he also feared that he was wrong.
Police drafted over from the mainland had brought with them a contingent of Crime Scene Investigators. They had lifted and sifted like the true professionals that they were. Lifted the skinned body from the grave that is, then sifted through the debris for vital clues. But they had missed something. His eye for archaeology told him.
That was why he was standing by the empty grave alongside Inspector Marsh and a CID sergeant whose name he’d missed. He pointed at the bed of stones that the unidentified corpse had been lain on top of. “Trust me, Inspector,” he said. “Those stones are not the usual feature I’d expect to see in a Viking grave. Plus, although the upper dimensions of the grave are correct, it is too shallow. If the original occupant was laid to rest at that depth, scavenging dogs and crows would have unearthed him in no time.”
Inspector Marsh’s eyes had a demonic caste to them as he turned to the professor. A result of the sulphurous glow cast from the lights the CSI team had installed while they worked. Marsh’s black hair was greasy with perspiration and his clothing was rumpled and smeared with dirt. He was having a bad day. Possibly the worst of his professional life. “You’re telling me that you think there’s something else in there?”
Bishop nodded.
“Couldn’t the stones have been placed there to cover the original burial?” the sergeant asked.
“Perhaps,” the professor acquiesced, “but it’s not something I’ve ever seen before. And believe me; I’ve excavated many, many Viking gravesites in my time.”
Not to be outdone, Inspector Marsh said, “You’re the expert in this field, Professor Bishop, but what experience have you in crime scene examination?”
“None whatsoever,” Bishop said. “But I’m telling you…your people have missed something.” He pushed by the inspector and dropped down into the shallow pit. “Here, I’ll show you.”
Inspector Marsh jerked forward, as if to drag the professor back from the hole. However, it was like Bishop had already pointed out, the CSI team were finished there. The crime scene was no longer a protected space. Now it was just an ancient burial place: Bishop’s jurisdiction.
Marsh waved him on.
Bishop crouched down, a trowel appearing from his coat pocket. He tapped at the layer of stones. “See here. These stones are from this site, but not an original feature of the grave as I said. See how some of them are lighter on one side than the other; they are the surfaces of stones that have been open to the elements. I suspect that these stones have been removed from one of the nearby pathways we previously excavated, then placed here on top of something before the corpse was laid in the grave.”
He prised one of the stones loose. “See, the underside of this stone is lighter than the top. It’s obvious to my eye that - until recently - this stone lay the other way up.”
Inspector Marsh frowned. He’d seen enough episodes of Time Team on television to argue with an expert. He glanced at the CID sergeant. “Colin, can you sort this for us? Maybe we’d better have CSI back here.”
DS Colin Ross shrugged. “They’re spread out pretty thinly as it is, boss.”
“Shout them up, anyway. It can’t do any harm to take a second look.” He looked down at Bishop who was digging at a second stone. “You can come on up now, Professor Bishop. You’ve convinced me.”
Bishop ignored him, lifting aside the second stone. He placed it on the edge of the grave, before turning back for a third. Marsh grunted. “Professor! Can you please stop what you’re doin? I’m bringing a team back to do a more thorough search. If there’s anything in there as you say, I’d rather it was not disturbed until it is fully catalogued.”
Bishop swung his large head up to stare at the inspector. His eyes were demonic without the aid of the overhead lights. “There is something else in here, Inspector Marsh.” He held open his hand.
Marsh had to squint to make out what the professor was showing him. “What is it?”
Bishop stood up, reaching forward. Instinctively, Marsh opened his hand to accept whatever it was the professor offered him. Then, trying hard not to recoil in revulsion, he stared down on the small item he now cupped in his palm. “Oh, dear Lord.”
DS Colin Ross leaned in. He couldn’t help stepping back, making a strangled shout of dismay.
In the inspector’s cupped palm lay a severed finger.
The fingernail was chipped, but it was slim and elegant. Not the finger of the man that they’d already exhumed. This nail was delicately painted. Baby pink. The finger was that of a young woman.
“Get CSI over here right now!”
FORTYFOUR
The road to Trowhaem
On the journey back to Trowhaem, Shelly tried not to think about what had happened back at Paul Broom’s cottage. Impossible task as it was. She couldn’t get the sight of the monstrosity that had crouched on the bonnet of the squad car out of her mind. Nor could she deny how close they had all come to death if Carter Bailey hadn’t intervened. She owed that man. He’d saved Bob, and for that she was truly grateful, but she could not yet shake the misgiving that he was somehow involved in all this. The only thing was how?
If Professor Hale hadn’t been in the car with them, she’d have talked it over with Bob. But how could she badmouth Bailey with Janet sitting in the back seat? You’re not the only with an eye for the obvious, Professor Hale. Janet Hale was in love with Bailey. Janet would argue against her suspicion that he was more than what he seemed, clouding her theory that he knew more about this whole maddening case than he was letting on.
Bob was driving.
The constable sneaked the occasional glance Shelly’s way. When he thought she wasn’t looking. Shelly sat with her hands in her lap. Was that where his eyes kept straying? She glanced down and realised the object of his perusal wasn’t her finely shaped thighs but the fingernail of the thumb that she picked at. Blood flecked her nail and there was a shred of flesh curling from her raw cuticle. Faintly embarrassed she rolled her hand into a fist, concealing the incriminating evidence of her worried mind.
“How are you faring up?” Bob asked.
I’m a police sergeant, she thought. We have a civilian passenger in here with us. What kind of question is that to ask of your supervisor at a time like this? I’m fine. Thank you very much. “I’m okay…” she said tremulously.
Bob gave a cough deep in the back of hi
s throat.
“I could kill a cigarette,” Shelly admitted. To hell with being a sergeant and keeping up the professional appearance. The image of her dying mother flickered across her vision. Sorry, Mum!
From the back seat, Janet’s sob was suddenly very loud and intrusive. Shelly turned quickly to look at her.
“I’m sorry,” Janet said hurriedly. She placed her hands over her face. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“It’s okay, Janet. You have every right to cry,” Shelly said.
“You’ve had one hell of a night,” Bob offered.
Janet sobbed again. Then tears were rolling down her face. She couldn’t wipe them away quickly enough. Shelly reached around, leaning through the gap in the seats. She placed a hand gently on Janet’s forearm. “Let the tears come. It’ll do you good,” she said, wishing she were allowed to do the same.
“I don’t know why I’m like this,” Janet wept. “I’ve survived where maybe I shouldn’t have. It’s just that…other people have died. And it’s all because of me.”
“It’s not your fault,” Shelly reassured her. She turned fully so that she was kneeling on the seat, both hands now outstretched to the professor. Janet leaned into her, and very un-police-sergeant-like Shelly hugged Janet to her shoulder, patting her hair soothingly.
Bob’s eyebrows did a little rise-and-fall but he didn’t comment. He kept his eyes on the road.
Muffled against Shelly’s shoulder, Janet said, “It’s all because of me. All these people have died because…”
“Hush now. It’s not your fault. Whoever this maniac is, it isn’t your fault that he’s fixated on you.”
“No, Shelly. You’re wrong. I’ve been thinking; it is my fault.”
“How could it be?” Shelly said in the soothing tones of a mother cradling a child.
“Because -”
But that was all she managed.
Bob’s bark of alarm cut her off.
Shelly loosed her, and Janet rocked backwards into her seat. Shelly scrambled round, eyes scanning for what had alarmed Bob.
“What’s wrong?” Shelly asked.
Bob’s face was twisted with effort as he sawed at the steering wheel.
Shelly snatched her gaze to a point beyond Bob. In the same instant as she saw the blazing headlights she realised that all of Bob’s efforts at steering them clear were to no avail. Then there was the horrific collision as a vehicle rammed them from the side. The police car was walloped off its wheels, Bob tilting over her as the car was both lifted and propelled through space.
Then everything was in absurd slow motion. Shelly had no conscious understanding of what was happening, but she felt every infinitely small detail of the collision as the car began to roll. In her vision, exploding windows were like sugar glass tinkling through the air. The seat beneath her rocked and rolled. She had undone her seatbelt so that she could reach back to comfort Janet, so nothing held her from scrunching up against the roof, her head pressed nigh on down to her knees. Then she was flailing loose and uncoordinated, arms going one way, legs the other. Her chin smacked a doorpost. Then she was pressing the other way, almost smothered by the musty warmth of Bob’s body travelling in the other direction. Some one screamed…maybe it was she.
It seemed like an age.
The car continued to roll, and all Shelly could do was go with it. The forces working on her threatened to pulp her in one second then rip her apart in the next, but all she could do was allow herself to ride out the worst of the collision whilst fighting against the urge to pass out.
When the car finally stopped rolling, Shelly wasn’t aware. Her brain continued to spin and whirl so that she thought the torment would never stop. Neither would the shriek in her ears stop. It was a throaty howl of terror that would not curtail.
Then the screaming stopped.
She’d lost the battle.
Against her will, she passed out.
It was a small slice of total blackness. Then…
…Head ringing, she blinked awake. Where am I? Am I still alive? she wondered. Am I dead? Is this what death is like?
Is this heaven or am I in hell?
It sure smells like hell…
The smell of petrol fumes invaded her senses.
Painfully she twisted around. She was lying against the ceiling of the car, one arm jammed beneath her body. Looking up, she saw Bob’s limp shape dangling next to her. Caught in his belt, he was still in the driver’s seat. Only he was upside down like some huge bat.
Beyond him, there was a belch of smoke, and noxious fumes trickled through the smashed windscreen.
I’m right here on Earth, she told herself, but we’ll all be in hell if we don’t get out of this car.
It was an immense struggle, but she managed to force her way round so that she was close to Bob. Upside down, his face wasn’t recognisable. It was loose, flaccid, and unnatural. She reached out a hand and touched him. Are you dead, Bob? Please…don’t let you be dead.
Bob moaned.
“Bob? Bob! We have to get out of here now!”
The constable’s eyelids flickered.
Shelly shook him. Bob moaned again, but this time it was in response to pain.
“I’m sorry, Bob, but we have to get out.”
She reached for him again and this time Bob’s hand moved and intercepted hers. “I’m okay, Shelly. Just…unh…give me a second or two…”
Filled with momentary relief, Shelly reached for and touched his cheek, gently tracing the lines with the back of her knuckles. “Are you hurt?”
“Feels like I’ve just been in a car wreck,” Bob said, then hissed with the pain his chuckle brought. “I’m all right, I think. You’d think I’d ken if I was badly hurt, wouldn’t you?”
Beyond him was a deflated white sack.
“I think the airbag saved you a lot of injury,” Shelly said.
“Aye,” Bob agreed. “Everything but my nose. I think I’ve broken it. How about you, Sarge? You okay?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“What about Professor Hale?”
“I haven’t checked yet,” said Shelly, twisting so she could look behind her. The rear of the car was in darkness. No sign of Janet lying against the ceiling. Was she caught between the seats? Shelly reached with groping fingers. Nothing. A feeling of dread rose up in Shelly, pinching her throat in an iron grip. “Oh, my God, Bob. I think Janet was thrown from the car as it rolled.”
They’d both been saved from the worst of the collision by the shell of the vehicle. If Janet had been flung out a window as the car rolled, there was no telling the horrific injuries she could have sustained. Put bluntly the worst-case scenario wasn’t necessarily death.
“Get out the car, Sarge,” Bob said. “Look for her. She might need immediate help.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll get out soon enough.” Said he who was hanging upside down, both legs caught in a vice of mangled pedals and twisted steering wheel.
“I have to see to you first,” Shelly said.
“No. See to Janet.”
Shelly turned back to him and saw immediately the reason he wanted her out of the car. Flames were licking from the upside down engine of the car, snaking along the edge of the crumpled bonnet.
“Bob, unclip your belt. I’ll help you.”
“Get out, Shelly. Leave me, just get out.”
“No,” she cried, pushing up close to him. “Help me get you loose, Bob. I can get you out.”
Bob shook his head feebly. He looked directly into her eyes. In this twisted perspective, he looked twenty years younger. “Leave me, Shelly. Save yourself.”
Shelly wasn’t having it. “No. No way. Help me unclip you, Bob.”
Bob sighed. “I can’t, Shelly. I think both my arms are broken. My legs are trapped, too. There’s just no way…”
“No. I’m getting you out.” Shelly began to cry. “I’m not leaving you to die.”
“You have t
o save yourself.”
There was a small noise. A subdued whump! But Shelly knew what it signified. The petrol had caught.
“I’m going to unclip you, Bob,” she said. “You’ll probably fall but there’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Do you think it might hurt?” Bob asked, his humour out of place but equally welcome.
Smoke belched inside the compartment. Bob coughed. Shelly’s eyes began to stream at the poisonous fumes boiling around them.
“Get out,” Bob said again. But Shelly ignored him. Reaching up, she pressed at the safety release on his seatbelt. Nothing happened. She pressed again. Harder. Then again, more and more frantic.
“Your weight is jamming your belt,” she cried. Then she was pressing again with as little success as before.
With some effort Bob reached back over his shoulder. His fingers fluttered across her face. “Shelly. Please. Leave me. Save yourself.”
“No,” she snapped. “No way, you big stubborn ox. I’m not leaving you and that’s that. What kind of sergeant would I be if I left you to burn to death?”
Bob coughed and Shelly could have sworn that he was laughing. Surely he wasn’t laughing at her? That would be simply insane. But - madness or not - it was also galvanising. She pressed at the safety clip with all her might, and then tugged down on the seat belt. Then Bob was an avalanche of loose limbs and stocky body as he tumbled down on top of her.
It was a struggle to back out of the window, but with a lot of squirming and knocking of elbows on exposed metal, she managed. Then, limping on a swollen ankle, she made her way around the rear of the car, hands on the upturned chassis to steady her, until she was at the driver’s side.
Flames were writhing from the bonnet, thick gouts of smoke belching into the night. Shelly could still smell petrol, and she realised that the tank had taken a pounding and was spilling fuel onto the ground. The earlier ignition must have been a secondary spillage. Any second now the fire would meet the pouring petrol and they would go up in a pall of flame.