Approaching Zero

by R. T Broughton

  “Who is this?”

  “The skull daisy,” Kathy mouthed.

  “Ah, Miss Smith. I love it when a plan comes together. How is your evening, dear? I had planned to send my guy to your house tonight, but it seems that enough people hate you already for you to be unsafe in your own bed. Most convenient. And now I’ve got you both together. I don’t think I would be overstating events to say that this has gone better than I ever could have imagined. Fancy you arresting the last woman you slept with!”

  Before either could answer, he added, “Yes, it’s a wonder isn’t it. How does the man in the radio box know these things? Well, I know everything.”

  “What do you want, you sick fuck?” Spinoza asked.

  “Well, a little respect wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, and a bit of company. On a night like this a man needs company, don’t you agree?” He actually paused to wait for an answer and sounded a little disappointed when he had to continue without one. “Of course, I’ve already started without you. It is a cold, cold night and a man needs someone with whom to snuggle.”

  When the line was silent, Spinoza looked urgently to Kathy who was shaking her head. “Suri!” she suddenly panicked.

  “Suri’s with my lot,” Spinoza told her. “They would still be there.”

  “She was asleep. I told them not to disturb her. She was so upset. She’s been through so much.”

  “They wouldn’t have…” He wanted to say that they wouldn’t have left her and that she would be okay, but the words strayed as he analysed the situation and weighed up the probability of someone slipping in and snatching the young girl from her bed.

  “Guess again!” the voice told them, the delight bubbling on the surface of every single word.

  Spinoza and Kathy gravely looked to each other again and were about to discuss things further when the sound of screaming invaded the car.

  “Can you name that tune in one?” the deranged voice asked and then the screams took over.

  “Kathy, get me the fuck out of here!”

  Spinoza looked to Kathy one last time and could just see in the light from the street lamps that what colour she had left was dissolving.

  “It’s Brady,” she said. “He’s got Brady.”

  “I’m at the old clay house. I’m having an exhibition and you’re both invited. Tell no one and bring no one and your little playmate here might just live to tell the tale, but probably not. This is about to get interesting.”

  Chapter 24

  Spinoza jammed the car into first gear and spun off quicker than was safe, throwing Kathy against the door beside her, her handcuffed hands useless for support. And still the rain was relentless, hammering down on the car as if it knew that tonight was the night.

  “You’ll kill us before we get there!” Kathy called out and before she could say more, her body was thrown against the seat in front of her and car horns screamed out in the road. Spinoza had hit something.

  “You okay?” he asked and then fiercely spun the wheel and they were off again, slower this time, but still too fast for the visibility.

  “Slow down!” Kathy appealed again, now practically on her side.

  “We don’t know what this psychopath is capable of. Actually,” Spinoza corrected himself, “we know exactly what he’s capable of.”

  Kathy managed to grip the seatbelt fastener behind her and finally stay upright.

  “You know the old clay house?” Spinoza asked.

  “I know of it.”

  “It was a factory really. Been closed many years now—we pick up the odd junkie dossing there. They used to hand-make all sorts of pots and plates. Guess it’s all done by machines now.”

  Kathy was barely listening, repeating, “Please be okay, please be okay,” over and over again.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes,” Spinoza assured her. “Just sit tight.” And again the car skidded around a corner, barely missing the cars parked there for the night.

  Kathy stared at the drenched window again, trying to calm herself, but her body had clicked into a new gear that she had no idea she possessed. It was as if her head had filled with liquid and she couldn’t quite hear or see properly anymore. And as fast as the car was actually going, the motion felt slow, as if they were travelling through a flicker-pad of the town rather than the real thing. She thought she might be sick, but there was nothing left to come out of her. She thought she might cry, but similarly, the wells were dry. All she could do was stare and hope that Spinoza got them there in one piece.

  After what felt like hours, but was only four minutes, the car screeched to its final halt and Spinoza had the door open before the engine was off.

  “Stay here!” he told Kathy.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Didn’t you hear him? He wanted both of us here, Spinoza. Come and let me out of these cuffs.”

  “Kathy, I really–”

  “Let me out, Spinoza!”

  The door opened beside Kathy and Spinoza reached behind for the cuffs. Kathy leaned forward and her hands were finally freed. She didn’t even bother to grip and rub the wrists. She was out of the car as soon as she was free. And together with Spinoza, she was running through the rain to the entrance of the old clay house.

  The clay house was situated on an industrial patch on the edge of town that buyers had consistently viewed over the years before dismissing. It stood under the shade of various imposing, Victorian factories and workhouses with windows blown out or boarded up. The clay house itself was an apologetic little structure compared to its neighbors, standing only two floors tall with wooden doors more commonly seen on a farmhouse. The windows here were also boarded up and there were no signs of life, so Spinoza and Kathy darted to the front door.

  “God, look at this.”

  Kathy leaned in to what was clearly a daisy nailed to the door, but on further inspection she could see that it was a fragment of bone holding it in place. Spinoza raised his fist to knock on the wooden door, but Kathy reached out to stop him. Instead, she silently reached out to turn the rusting, bulbous handle. It budged heavily in her hand and the door edged slowly forward. Spinoza and Kathy cautiously entered and forced the heavy door shut behind them. The silence after standing in the violent storm rang in their ears and they shook themselves free of as much water as possible as they looked around the ancient, candlelit space. They both wanted to charge forward and find this maniac, but they were aware that they were in his territory now and would have to take it slowly. They would have to play by his rules and the first part of the game was to find him.

  The clay house actually looked much bigger inside, but was disappointingly gutted so that none of the original charm remained. As a sightseer, one might trace their fingers across the markings on the walls to get a sense of where the workstations would have been and where the massive kiln would have resided. Nothing remained but the earthy aroma of clay and sweat and Kathy and Spinoza had no interest in any of it anyway. The empty space that faced them gave them no idea whatsoever of what they should do next.

  Spinoza silently indicated that he was going to split off to the left to investigate the shapes cast by the tea-lights dotted around the floor, while Kathy naturally veered to the other side of the room. The light was just bright enough for outlines to form—an old, stowaway nut and bolt here, a piece of broken pot there. And then Kathy saw something that she knew had been left there for them.

  “Spinoza!” she whispered and the DCI appeared at her side to see the daisy at her feet. Looking off into the distance, they could see more—a trail, a daisy chain. They slowly and carefully followed it, all the time feeling that eyes were upon them, laughing at them for playing the game so well and delivering themselves to their own fate so willingly, but they had no choice. Brady was everything.

  “Here!” said Kathy and another candlelit outline came into view at the end of the trail: a heavy looking trapdoor with a massive, rusty ring handle. Spinoza applied himself to the job with rigour,
pulling at the handle with everything he had, and only managed to raise the door by a few inches. It was only when Kathy helped him, dragging at the handle with him, both of them groaning deeply with the strain, that they managed to open it, revealing a darkness that forced both of them to pause. The lightning sent flares outside once again and Kathy and Spinoza silently asked of each other, eye to eye, if they were up to it. With no words spoken and a grim resolve pasted to his face, Spinoza switched on the light on his mobile and shone it down the shaft. They could clearly see the ground and the ladder leading down to it, so they exchanged another silent agreement and Spinoza began to climb down. Kathy followed behind and could see nothing but the thin beam of Spinoza’s phone showing up snatches of old brickwork.

  “This way,” Spinoza told her.

  “How do you know?”

  “Look down.”

  Spinoza shone the torch to the ground and Kathy could see that the trail had not only continued, but there was now a carpet of daisies ahead of them leading the way.

  “Stay close,” Spinoza told her and they slowly began to move through the cold and breezy walkway, which seemed to lead to indefinite nothingness. Kathy was aware as they walked that there was no way of knowing which building they were now under. Was there anyone else alive who actually knew these tunnels existed? The thought chilled her, but she filled her head with Brady to keep her strong. Brady would have powered down these tunnels for her, in her combats with a flamethrower and a belt full of grenades. All she had to do was keep calm, follow the route and… and… then she had no idea, but whatever it was she would do it.

  After they had walked for some minutes, a reddish glow was forming in the tunnel ahead of them.

  “I should have called for backup,” Spinoza said.

  “With that nutcase in your radio.”

  “I could have used my mobile.”

  “Bit late for that now.”

  The red light was glowing brighter with every step they took and Spinoza no longer needed the phone to lead the way. He double checked what he already knew—that he wouldn’t be able to get a signal down there—and placed it back in his pocket. When they reached the end of the tunnel, they were greeted by the source of the light—a cheery neon sign that wouldn’t look out of place on the top of an American dinner. It simply said Bones.

  “Get the feeling we’re in the right place.”

  Kathy didn’t answer.

  “You ready?”

  Spinoza reached out his hand to this new handle, but a noise in the distance made him jump. Someone was in one of the buildings above them—maybe the clay house, maybe one of the other old buildings. There was no way of knowing.

  “All sorts of shit-kickers hang out in these places,” Spinoza reassured her and finally opened the door. Neither of them was expecting what lay beyond—not least the music that hit them as they entered the sprawling chamber. It was music to be sick to, spinning uncontrollably on a carousel—Wurlitzer music that tasted of popcorn and candy floss but sounded tinny and misplaced in the dimly lit urban cave.

  “What the hell is this place?” Kathy asked, her mouth wide open as she took in the view around her, which was some kind of shrine or homage to the fairground. Carousel horses of all colours were suspended in animation along the wall, accompanied by enormous illuminated fairground letters, art canvases, hundreds of canvases, and signage. Kathy could also swear that she could see a pair of dodgems in the back of the display. Rag dolls were strewn around the room, lying across the horses and on the floor beside them in disturbing heaps as if they had been involved in horrific accidents.

  “This is…”

  Kathy looked to Spinoza, but he didn’t have the words to finish off the sentence. “I know,” she said as they further explored the scene, which got weirder and weirder with each new feature they observed—a life-size toy soldier with his head missing; plastic animals positioned to perform unspeakable acts on each other; a candy floss maker full of dolls’ heads, a mess of hair and plastic. And still the eerie, sickly music continued, working through a repertoire of old folk songs.

  “Look,” Kathy said and pointed to the ground. The trail was back and leading them around the corner.

  “Right, let’s get moving. We need–” Spinoza began, but what they needed would forever go unspoken as he was forced to stop speaking. Kathy turned to him to see the source of his sudden silence and found him looking down at his hand on his chest. Blood was spurting through his fingers and dribbling onto the daisies beneath him. They hadn’t even heard a gunshot.

  “It’s okay,” Kathy told him and helped him onto the ground. His eyes were bulging and his teeth grinding together, desperately trying to hold onto the little life left inside of him. “Just hold on,” Kathy said, but the panic in her voice was evident. She took off her top, leaving her in only a white vest, and began to tear it into shreds. She managed to move his hands from the wound and could see that it was oozing scarily. “I’m going to bundle this up,” she said and pushed as much of the fabric onto the gunshot as possible. She then tied a length around him to keep it in place, causing him to wince with the pain, but he didn’t look as if he had the energy to express the extent of the agony he must have been feeling. Kathy knelt beside him and said, “I’m so sorry, Spinoza.”

  Spinoza took a deep breath and tried to speak, but couldn’t. He tried again and managed to say, “My name’s Chris,” then his eyes drooped and he was no longer conscious. Kathy felt for a pulse and could feel one there, but only faintly.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated and then was on her feet again. “So this is what you do is it, you coward?!” she shouted and her voice echoed around the space. “Couldn’t man-up and take us on!” she screamed and then the fear hit her and she threw herself against the wall. She had Brady to think of. She couldn’t make herself an easy target. However, as she dared herself back onto the trail, she knew she could have been shot anytime if he had wanted it. She was alive because he wanted her alive and she would have to progress knowing that every step she took could be her last.

  As she turned the corner, the light changed again and a toxic yellow was emanating through the brick hallway, which was also cluttered with canvases leaning against walls and other art supplies in pots and plastic boxes. Walking further along, deeper into this maze, the music behind her became faint and then all was silent again but for the sound of her heavy breathing and the words that she was muttering to herself, willing herself forward, although she couldn’t keep her body from trembling and her heart had all but exploded out of her chest. Finally she turned another corner and was in another chamber of sorts. This one was much smaller and contained a sloping arts table covered in notes and sketches, which were also dotted on the walls and floor. The room also contained canvases in the process of becoming paintings, mostly nudes, and smelt toxic somehow, bleachy. It was a smell that caught in the throat. A thick, velvet, blood-coloured curtain was draped over one whole wall of the studio and Kathy was in no hurry to find out what lay behind so she walked around and her attention was drawn eventually to an enormous glass cabinet, spanning almost the full length of the adjacent wall. What she saw there were tiny, ivory sculptures, about fifty of them, each a child in various positions of play: swinging on a swing, kicking a ball, dancing energetically, sleeping in an ivory bed. They were incredibly life-like miniatures, so intricate and detailed, beautiful even, but their position behind the glass—imprisoned for all time—started a familiar tightening in Kathy’s stomach.

  “So what do you think?” A low, deep voice said behind her and she snapped around to see a man standing in the doorway. She had no idea what she had been expecting—a costume of some sort perhaps, after all of the fairground weirdness in the room before? Some kind of monster? Makeup? A terrifying smile that spread out over his whole face while he spoke the most terrifying words? Fangs? Fur? Inhuman height or weight or an ominous limp or facial tick? She had no idea who was behind any of this, but if she had to paint a
picture of the man who had orchestrated eleven abductions—nine murders—he would not look like the man in front of her. He was just, well, normal. He had two arms, two legs, and was dressed in dungarees that were splashed with paint—at least she hoped it was paint. His eyes told no stories of the evil beyond and his arms hung at his sides as if they had caused no harm in their entire existence. The only quirk to him was the beard that had become so fashionable with young people of late—a full Victorian strongman beard. It was soft and well looked after and made him look softer if anything. His brown hair was also well looked after and he just looked like an average guy, well-spoken, but average—average weight and average height. He was younger than Kathy had imagined, somewhere in his mid-twenties, but there was nothing about the sight of him that caused her alarm other than his presence itself.

  “You like those?”

  Kathy looked back to the display of children. “This is what it’s all been about, hasn’t it?”

  “You’re too clever for me, my dear.” The man held his hands up in front of him.

  “Where’s Brady? What have you done with her?”

  “All in good time,” he said softly and Kathy took in the full length of him once again.

  “Who are you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, but if you need a name we can go with Joe.”

  “Joe, why have you done this?” Kathy surprised herself by how freely she was able to talk to him.

  “You’ve seen my past work, Kathy. Three years I spent putting together the fairground exhibition, painting, creating installations, making a comment on life the way I saw it. But nobody wants a vision of life, Kathy. No one wants art anymore.”

  Kathy wanted to answer this but she didn’t know where to begin.

  “Have you got any idea how much one of these sculptures sells for, Kathy?”

  Kathy shook her head and looked back to the cabinet.

  “I sold one last week for one point five million pounds. I know!” he continued, taking in her shocked expression. “Sculptures of children made from the bones of murdered children. Of course it’s not something I can take to Christies, but the world has an undercurrent that I’m only just starting to understand, Kathy, transporting trinkets and information, money and the bones of dead children.”