by China, Max
With little time left to prepare, she phoned work and reported in sick. She never told anyone she was going.
The rucksack contained offerings to nourish and guide his spirit. As she was a part-time florist, she'd also taken along scissors and string, and she made up a wild flower bouquet as she sauntered along. She would build a rocky shrine and then place lit candles inside, with joss sticks, food and a poem she'd written for him. When today was over, she would return to Hong Kong. There she would learn to live without him, but she would remember him most especially on this day, every year into the future.
Three years together, gone . . . just like that. Her throat tightened at the thought.
Over to her right at the bottom of the hill, a scattering of trees marked the edge of a densely wooded area.
Eager to get into the woods and out of the sun's direct heat, she quickly crossed a field of swaying ferns.
At the margins of the wood beyond the canopy, dappled light dropped through the leaves, making a patchwork of sunshine and shade on the ground beneath. It looked so cool and appealing that she wandered in deeper.
So peaceful and quiet, only the occasional buzz of a fly and the gentle gurgling of a brook broke the silence. She approached the water's edge. In the curve of a long looping bend, there was a place where the banks flattened, making an expanse of pebbles like a small beach.
Her new Doc Martens were the most comfortable trekking boots she'd ever worn, but they made her feet hot, so she removed them, along with her socks. She couldn't wait to dip her toes in the cold water and crunched unsteadily towards it, holding the footwear by its laces. With stones digging painfully into her bare soles, she skipped and jerkily tiptoed to get the stream quicker.
Nearer the water, where larger, smooth grey boulders sat in the margins, she stepped in something slimy; the mud below oozed, blackening her foot as it sank into it, releasing a sulphurous odour. She found a rock with a flattish top, hitched her dress up, sat down and dangling her bare feet in the cool stream, rinsed the black sludge from between her toes. She decided to put the boots back on, before crossing the shale again.
The sound of gravel crunching behind made her jump. Heart thumping wild and afraid, chest tight, she spun around sharply. Nothing there!
She sighed with relief. Turned, and then froze.
A stranger stood before her, the rank odour of his sweat and stale cigarette smoke assailing her nostrils.
His eyes made his intentions clear.
Chapter 5
He didn't give her a chance to scream. Clamping her mouth with a powerful hand, he fastened the other at the base of her skull, pressing against it hard. The force of his grip made her eyes bulge, filling them with fear.
Afterwards, he smoked a cigarette, thinking about the girl he'd just met.
If she'd come by tomorrow, she would have missed him; it was his last Saturday; he'd finished the demolition contract he was working on, and he was pleased about that. Never stay too long in one place.
He couldn't explain it, but he had just known there would be one more. Things happen in threes. Was he really to blame if the Devil sent them his way?
He'd already committed the girl to his memory. Blessed with photographic recall, everything stayed in his head. He never took trophies from the women he killed, and although he left nothing behind, he had taken something from a man two weeks earlier. It didn't matter; he could have found it left behind on the beach, or at a jumble sale. How would they find you, if you told no one, and left no trace? They'd have to catch you in the act.
He took a long last draw on the butt of his cigarette and then flicked it into the water.
At the edge, she waited for him.
Stooping, he picked the body up in one smooth, effortless movement, and heaved her over his shoulder, he then squatted to gather her possessions with his free hand. Now he was ready to take her beyond and into the woods. Her lifeless arms trailed limply down his back.
A scraping of pebbles close behind stopped him dead.
What the . . . !?
The man dropped her roughly to the ground, turning and looking in the direction of the sound in one fluid movement.
A small boy had slipped over on the rocks. Stunned, he lay still for a moment before rolling over onto his feet and scurrying for cover.
Not quick enough, kid . . . I've seen you! You've given me no choice, but to get rid of you. This is going to be easy. With his last victim's body left unattended out in the open, the last thing he needed was a chase.
"Comin' to getcha," the killer mumbled and started towards him.
Bruce hurried, scraping across the shale until he reached the cover of the low scrub that grew in patches along the bank. After fifty yards, the bushes ran into a huge boulder - a dead end. He had to make a choice, run, or gamble on staying put. He was in two minds, and one of them didn't seem like the mind of a seven-year-old. An inner voice told him to stay still. The urge to move gnawed at his legs, making them twitchy. His ragged breathing deprived him of oxygen, and left him close to panic. He wondered if his parents or grandfather would find him in time.
He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Stay put!
Where are you, Dad? He remembered taking the car for repairs with his father one Saturday morning. The mechanic wore the same style of clothes the man looking for him now was wearing; a garage suit covered in grease, black where it should have been blue. The garage man kept a guard dog, which escaped while Bruce played in the storage area behind the workshop. Freed from its cage, the enraged animal attacked a group of people who'd called in to view cars. In the chaos and confusion that followed, it evaded capture, and then it saw Bruce. The dog advanced on him, emitting a low growl; it seemed wary of him. The boy closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. His hand closing over his seashell, he pulled it from his pocket and held it out for protection. Where are you, Dad?
Saliva flew as it snapped at him. He felt the heat of its breath on his face as vicious jaws snatched at empty air, driven back by a mighty kick. It was his dad! His father scooped him up in his arms; a group of men managed to keep the dog contained. The shell, it's magic! It brought my dad to save me.
The tramping of heavy boots sent loose stones skittering, clattering across the hard-packed surface between the rocks nearby and then abruptly stopped. There wasn't a sound in the air, apart from his heart beating heavily in his ears, and his ragged breathing. Bruce fought to control it. In . . . out . . . in . . . out.
He heard the rasp of a match and three quick sucking sounds. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted into his nostrils, the urge to cough was insuppressible – he did it inwardly, without opening his lips. His small body jerked with each attempt to keep the sound inside. The tiniest gasp escaped.
A spent matchstick dropped out of the air and onto the ground next to him.
The boy shut his eyes tight, mouthing a silent prayer.
"Your God doesn't scare me, kid!"
At that the boy produced a seashell from his pocket, and held it out at arms length, eyes closed, holding it blindly in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.
"What's that, huh? You're gonna need more than that, kid!" The killer was about to snatch it out of his hand, when he heard voices. Men calling out! At least two or three of them. They were getting closer.
"Bruce! Can you hear us? Bruce!"
Mother of shit! he cursed under his breath, eyes burning into the boy. "Listen to me, kid, today's your lucky day, but if you tell anyone what you saw . . . I'll find you, and I'll kill you all, your mum, your dad . . . all of you. Have you got that, Bruce?"
He nodded, terrified.
The killer turned about sharply, rushing back to where she lay, he scooped her up again. Despite his haste, he checked the ground carefully to ensure no trace of her remained.
His powerful arm clamped her body down onto his shoulder, and he carried her out of sight.
Hidden by the dense vegetation, the killer worked fast, fa
ster than he would have liked, wrapping the arms and legs of the weighted suit around her, he knotted them together. The voices were getting too close for comfort. He gathered her up and heaved the human parcel into the pond, throwing the rucksack and flower bouquet in after her. The bag filled with water, and then sank. The poem she'd written in memory of her boyfriend, floated up to the surface and unfurled, the blue ink blurring as the paper soaked through: an epitaph for a missing person, penned by another, whom herself would remain undiscovered for a long time.
On the bank, he found only one of her boots. Frantically looking for the other one, he mentally backtracked - he was sure he'd picked up both - he knew he had. He jammed a large stone into the boot he was holding, and then lobbed it into the dense water. His search for the missing one failed. It has to be somewhere in this long grass!
With no more time to look, the killer gritted his teeth and spat a curse at the kid and the men who'd rescued him. The boiler suit containing the stone ballast was only half tied to her body. He wasn't worried about that, it was secure enough, but the boot was a trace of her, and if anyone came looking and if they found it . . . It would confirm that she'd been there.
From where he was watching, he saw the younger of the two men examine the kid's head where he'd banged it, pulling his hair back to look deep into the hairline. Apparently satisfied there was no serious injury, he'd playfully cuffed at his ear.
The old man remained squatting and spoke to the boy, who nodded. Slowly, he stood and moved away from the others, staring beyond the edge of the woods.
The killer knew he couldn't see him crouched in the shady darkness behind the bushes, but he seemed to stare exactly in his direction. Had the kid told him? He backed away silently, deeper into the shadows. The stench of sulphur was thick in his nostrils, and drifted on a slight wind that had picked up, spinning the dry leaves in small whirlwind circles. The breeze swept particles across the dusty surface and carried on up the slope, before subsiding at the feet of the men and boy, exhausted. A few drops of rain began to fall.
Bruce's grandfather turned in the direction of the rattling leaves and stood with narrowed eyes focused on the darkness beyond the treeline, further down the hill.
Something was in the shadows.
His old hackles rose, sharpening his senses. A cocktail he'd last tasted during the Second World War on his lips again. The flavour was familiar. It was the taste of fear.
His memories carried him back to the horror once more. You never forget how it feels.
He'd fought in three wars and survived them all; he was more attuned to minute changes in the atmosphere and unnatural silences than his compatriots, and in possession of a burning desire to remain alive, he smelled the scents of fear and death as they lingered in the sulphurous air, and hanging alongside, was the faint whiff of cigarette smoke.
With his focus concentrated on the treeline, he walked slowly backwards, afraid that if he turned his back something would hurtle out without warning, and take them all. Only when he rejoined the others, did he turn round again. Spreading his arms symbolically, they came under his protection, and he shepherded them away. "Come on, we'd better go."
Chapter 6
The killer calculated that from the direction of their retreat up the hill, wherever they'd come from, they wouldn't have hiked all the way in with a kid that age in tow, meaning they couldn't have parked anywhere near where he'd left his vehicle.
The rain picked up. Heavy droplets crashed through the leaves, spotting his back, dotting the ground around him. He fished his cigarettes from a pocket outside his overalls, took one and lit it, and then not wanting the packet to get wet, he replaced them deeper inside his clothes. When he'd finished smoking, he packed up his gear and headed off to retrieve his car from the rusted tin agricultural shed where he'd been sleeping for days. It cost nothing, and apart from that, the big advantage over staying in contractors' digs, was he didn't have to talk to anyone. He didn't like people.
The barn was at the end of a potholed dirt track, and now disused. Aside from him, no one had been there for years.
He heaved open the door. It thundered noisily on its runners. Four hundred yards away, a flock of crows flew up from their roost in the trees. Was it me that disturbed them . . .? Or is someone else over there? No time to look now.
Getting into the car, he started the engine and turned up the track. The car rode more like a camel as it bumped and rolled on its suspension. The wipers smeared across the screen before finally cutting through the accumulated grime. After ten minutes, he was relieved to turn onto the smooth tarmac of a country byway.
After a short distance, he turned out onto the main road. Deep in thought, he didn't notice the white and green Lotus Cortina hurtling up behind him. It swung out at the last possible moment, overtaking him on a bend, horn blasting as it roared by. That idiot is going to kill someone driving like that! Outraged, something inside him flipped, and flooring the accelerator, he gave chase, flashing his headlights at the car in front.
The young man slowed.
The killer caught up close enough to see his eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. With crew cut hair shorn off at the sides, the shape of the man's head annoyed him. His palm smacked down hard onto his hooter, holding it down continuously, as if doing so would make it louder.
He aimed a two-finger gesture into the rear-view mirror, and to reinforce the message, stuck his right fist out the window and rotated it up and down before accelerating away into the distance.
A few minutes later, a set of unmanned roadworks came into view, reducing traffic to a single file. The lights turned red, and cars immediately started streaming through from the opposite direction, blocking the reduced lane.
The Cortina rolled to a stop. With no place to go, he adjusted the mirror nervously, watching as the battered car rattled in to a halt behind him. In his head, an imaginary scene unfolded. The driver behind gets out and approaches him. He jumps out of his car . . . What are you after man? Do you want some of this, eh? Yeah? Well, hold on to that then! The man goes down from a single punch, and he kicks him around in the pouring rain . . . Then just as he'd imagined, the man got out. He watched in horror, the fantasy evaporating when he saw the size of the figure approaching in his mirror. His elbow pushed the door lock down. He'd lost his nerve.
The man stopped by his window. All he could see looking out from the driver's seat were the man's hips and mid torso. The distinctive brass buckle on the leather belt caught his attention. It depicted a skull and cross bones and its empty eye sockets had been picked out in blood red paint.
How can you take someone who wears a buckle like that seriously? It was all a show! Who does this guy think he is – a bloody Hells Angel?
'Angel' tried the door handle. An entirely different perspective dawned on the man in the car. He's trying to get at me!
'Angels' face suddenly appeared, pressing hard against the window, contorted, one eyeball almost touching the glass. The crazed eye locked onto him. Tilted as if pushed by a Rhino, the car leaned over. Cortina man shrank into his seat, compelled by fear into looking straight ahead as the big man's lips parted, releasing a shout so loud, it hurt his ears even though the windows and doors were shut. "OPEN IT!"
Turning in his seat, he looked at the white foamy spit as it mixed with rain on his window. Outraged at this blemish, he shook his head defiantly. New found defiance held his rising apprehension in check. His mouth felt dry. At least he was safe in his car.
Abruptly, 'Angel' stood upright and leaned his hip against the door.
From out of sight above the roofline of the car, the voice had become calm, the contrast to the moment before welcomed. "You really should be careful who you stick your fingers up at, you know," he said. At this point, he was giving him a chance.
Cortina man tilted his face and pressed it against the window, to try to see him better. He should have just put a hand up and mouthed sorry through the window, from the saf
ety of the car, but he didn't; the sight of the spit on his window combined with his fear, making him erratic. He heard himself say, "Oh yeah, why's that then?" For the second time in as many minutes, he knew what would happen next. He cursed his stupidity.
The response came not in words, but in a swift and decisive action without concern for personal injury. A single punch exploded straight through the glass of the window, driving rough cubes of it deep into his face, as the fist connected.
The last thing he heard, because it trailed him into unconsciousness, was 'Angel's' reply.
"Why? Because, my finger-happy friend, next time I'll kill you!"
'Angel' marched quickly back to his own car, climbing in just as the lights turned green. Flooring the accelerator, spinning the wheels, he headed off down the wet road, narrowly missing the stationary vehicle.
Police found the driver of the Cortina slumped in his seat two hours later. In hospital, when he'd recovered sufficiently for police to interview him, he was unable to recall what had happened.
Despite an appeal for witnesses, no one came forward.
Chapter 7
Southern Ireland.
Miles away across the sea at Celtic Deep, a thirteen-year-old girl, hovered between light and darkness. The fever that had burned her up for the past two days had at last broken. She opened her eyes, the light though dim, stung them as she blinked to focus. Her mother smiled at her; the relief clearly visible on her face. As she reached to turn the flannel on her forehead, she thought Vera's eyes looked greener than usual. Such a pretty girl . . .
"Praise God, you've come back to us . . ."
Vera simply looked at her and said, "It isn't safe outside."
"What's not safe, Vera? You're here, safe with us. There's no need to worry about anything."