Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Rhys stares into Andrews’s beady eyes. He sees only his own reflection.

  ‘Nothing,’ Andrews sighs. ‘Nothing other than having to watch all of this work go to waste. I have come so far, got so near.’ The anger flames in Andrews so instantly, Rhys can almost feel its heat. ‘You can’t stop me, you know that, don’t you? You can’t take him from me. You can’t stop me from getting what I want.’

  ‘You look pretty stopped to me.’ Andrews hasn’t heard him.

  ‘… The same as you can’t stop him.’

  ‘Can’t stop who?’

  ‘Him.’ Andrews jerks his head back, tries to look round to the small window set high in the wall. He’s not talking about the policemen who smoke their cigarettes in the bin graveyard. He shakes his head, exasperated. A child who’s saying something the grown-ups can’t quite understand. Something the grown-ups won’t apply themselves to understand.

  ‘Oh, you mean the big bad Nosferatu?’ Rhys shivers, mocking. Laughs directly in Andrews’s face. Andrews is the punchline in this appalling joke, Rhys makes it clear as crystal. Andrews swivels the conversation in another direction, a moth flitting from light to light.

  ‘So, as I was saying, I had my moment of enlightenment, should we choose to call it that…’ Rhys holds up a hand.

  ‘I don’t want to hear another word you have to say.’

  ‘You can’t stop me talking.’

  ‘Want to bet?’ Rhys steps in close.

  ‘I have a witness.’ Andrews looks to the female Constable.

  ‘I’ll be in the corridor, sir,’ she says. She nods to Rhys, steps out of the room.

  ‘It’s not like you could claim self defence.’ A smile plays at the corner of Andrews’s mouth; he rattles the handcuffs. Rhys grinds his teeth, takes a step back.

  ‘As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, when I awoke in the morning my theory seemed no less viable. After all this time, I had the answer. I was not so foolish as to believe others would see the obvious. People are very stupid after all. I started to put my case together. At the crux, no one human would be able to remove so much blood, so completely and so without a trace.’ Rhys wants to walk away. Knows he can’t. Can’t leave Andrews unattended. He turns his back. Stares out into the corridor. Could he stand out there with the female Constable, apologise for not asking her name, make inane conversation until Quinn returns with the doctor?

  ‘Think about what I am saying Rhys.’ Rhys snorts, shakes his head. ‘Thousands of people believe in dark arts and demons.’ This means nothing. Millions of people believe in God. No one is about to start hunting him down as a prime suspect for murder. Actually, bad example.

  ‘The issue is our minds, your mind, has been narrowed,’ Andrews continues. ‘We are so corrupted by science that we cannot believe in anything outside our own comprehension. For centuries, people believed in witches and werewolves, Nosferatu and demons, and what they believed in must’ve been based on some kind of evidence and that evidence can be no different now just because we don’t believe in it.’ The words bounce around Rhys. Blah, blah, blah.

  ‘Wrong.’ Rhys pivots, holds his eye. ‘Science makes us understand why things like that are impossible, unbelievable. Created out of the dribbling matter of minds not all that far removed from… well, yours.’

  ‘No!’ Andrews shouts, adamant. The crazy always are. ‘That is what modern day society would lead you to believe. It’s amazing how confined man is by his hidden agenda of right and wrong, truth and lies, mad and sane. These are not conclusions you reach yourself. This is not your freewill. This is ingrained into you from birth by the society in which you live, as it was into your parents and their parents before them. I know what everyone thinks of me, Rhys, or what they soon will. I am crazy; something somewhere in my grey matter has gone “pop”. This is not the case. I have never seen so clearly or been as sure of anything in my life. It all makes sense.’ Andrews stops suddenly, a far away look in his eye. His chest heaves with exertion.

  Rhys steps close again. He wants to tap Andrews on the side of the head. Tap to see if his brain rattles.

  ‘Have you heard yourself?’ Andrews draws breath. Rhys places a silencing finger on Andrews’s ice-cold lips. For the briefest moment, he wonders if when he removes his finger, his skin still be stuck to Andrews’s lip. A fused ice burn? ‘Shhhh. I mean have you really listened to what you are saying? Sever all the psychological bullshit and you are implying these people are being tortured and killed by… a vampire?’

  ‘Of course.’ Andrews’s voice is soft. ‘Of course.’ He sighs heavily. ‘There is no implication in what I am saying. It’s television isn’t it, and books? The whole teen romance thing. It makes us forget what we are actually dealing with. It makes us complacent. It makes us forget what they really are. Who was it that said the biggest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn’t exist? Same principle.’

  Andrews sniffs. Coughs.

  ‘You’ve seen her face, Rhys.’ The musty smell of citrus. The pinpricks of fear. ‘You’ve seen the look on their faces. A face. You only have to see it once.’ The cold rush of air. He has seen it once. Andrews has seen it countless times. ‘The scream never goes, you know. The face is stuck like that. How is that possible? You think some Twilight teenager does that? There is no happy ending here, Rhys. Surely you, of all people, know that by now?’

  The pain is there again, across his forehead. He’s too hot, it’s this room, it’s way too warm. He feels suddenly like he’s floating. Like the whole room, reality, is tunnelling far away, leaving him alone in the heavy weight of darkness. Rhys pulls at his tie. Cathy Reynolds twisted face slams suddenly close. Her eyes open and she screams, blood showers Rhys’s face. Rhys jerks back from Andrews, who rises – a knowing smile on his lips. The taste of rust on the back of Rhys’s tongue.

  ‘Are you okay, Sergeant?’ Rhys takes another step back. Shakes his head. Shakes his head again to clear his vision. Behind him he senses someone in the doorway.

  ‘It’s easier to believe in these fantasies, isn’t it? Easier than accepting the things that human beings can do to each other?’ Rhys’s voice feels like it’s not his own. ‘This terrible evil? Evil that drains women of blood, takes it with them for some reason we don’t want to think about, it’s human, Andrews, and… ’ And that’s all? And nothing more? Those words would be nowhere near enough.

  ‘No.’

  ‘After everything you must have seen.’ Rhys shakes his head, slowly this time. The room becomes a solid reality around him.

  ‘No!’

  Enough time wasted. Rhys turns towards the door. He needs fresh air. To feel the cool rain against his skin. The female Constable whose name he hasn’t asked stands there, the front of her uniform stiff with Andrews’s blood.

  ‘Hi,’ says Rhys. ‘I’m Rhys Morgan.’

  ‘Hi,’ Rhys shakes her bloodstained hand. ‘Constable Robertson. Are you okay?’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Rhys turns back to Andrews, ‘I’m sorry, sorry for you and the families whose time you’ve wasted.’

  ‘No!’ Andrews shouts. ‘You must listen to me. He will come to you. He has told me.’

  ‘You’ve met this “creature” you talk about?’ Rhys finger quotes the words, why is he even continuing this conversation?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how has he told you anything? Do you know what the first signs of madness are? Hearing voices. Seeing things.’ Rhys raises his palms.

  ‘I don’t need to meet him for him to tell me, for me to know. Why won’t you listen? Why is it so hard to understand? I need to see him. When he finds you, I need you to bring him to me. You must listen to me. You must, I must, just… ’ Andrews starts to pace in the small space. ‘You will all see. You will know I am right and by then it will be too late. I know the things he will do!’ He shouts now, shouts to those down the corridor, those who cannot hear. ‘The things he will do to your family.�
�� His eyes swivel to Rhys. ‘Oh, you will believe me as he violates your wife, as he flays your children, as… ’

  Rhys is on Andrews before he is even fully aware of it, hands pushing against Andrews’s ribs, sending him back hard against the wall.

  ‘What did you say?’ Andrews lets out a snort. It tries to become a laugh but seems to catch somewhere deep in his chest. Rhys can feel the vibration under his palms. Andrews pulls for air. The wheezing sound is full of pain. Panic flares across Andrews’s face. Air can’t get back in. Andrews tries to move his hands to his chest but can’t. There is a deafening moment of silence broken by a wet, bubbling sound. Black blood seeps to the corners of Andrews’s mouth. His eyes bulge in terror. The edges of his lips start to turn blue.

  Then the coughing starts. Deep and soul shaking.

  Large globules of blood project across Rhys’s face.

  ‘I need some help in here!’ Rhys shouts over his shoulder. His words bounce along the corridor as Andrews’s feet slip from under him.

  11.

  The sky is dark. The clouds hang low and heavy. They never tire of raining. They just pause to give false hope.

  Quinn has given Rhys little instruction. This is how things are set to be. In the aftermath of Andrews’s collapse in the cells, Rhys is instructed to ‘collect anything that looks like it may be relevant to the case that the mad bastard has squirrelled away at his house’.

  Quinn’s loud words echoed along the celled corridor.

  Andrews had recovered enough to try and laugh as he overheard, it was a wet, rattling sound. Quinn swore a lot, shouted about proper procedure, pushed his face close to Andrews. Quinn had no care for this deranged lunatic. What he cared about was the mess the case was in. The mess the cell was in. The mess his goddamn finger was in. He didn’t care about Andrews’s mental or physical well-being. Care was not the word he used.

  Paramedics pushed Quinn aside with disgust. They didn’t care for his tone. They saw a sick man, who had been handcuffed and looked to be covered in self-inflicted bites and cuts, bites and cuts inflicted while in police care. They saw stories of police incompetency. They didn’t understand, didn’t want to. They fed Andrews pure oxygen. All the while, Andrews kept trying to laugh, laugh at that private joke. A joke that was anything but funny.

  Sweat stuck Rhys’s shirt to his back. He used his shirtsleeve to wipe Andrews’s bloody saliva from his face. He pulled on his coat. It was still wet. He didn’t care. He was happy to be free of the chaos.

  Rhys looks up at Andrews’s house. The clouds release a second wave of rain. The grass of the small front garden is overgrown. Crisp packets and chip wrappers gather at the edges, dropped off by the drunks and the wind, collected by no one. The street is the kind of street where no one rises much before the pubs open. Andrews was a Detective Inspector, he could have moved. He should have moved.

  Andrews is only fifty-eight as his world implodes. As Rhys steps into the house, he realises the event has been a long time in coming.

  The entrance hall is half the size it should be due to the towering stacks of newspapers and magazines packed floor to ceiling. The magazines are largely factual: nature, science and geography. They are grouped together by title. Some are in date order; others grouped by subject. They span in some instances decades, depending on whether they are a weekly or monthly release. As the dates near the present they become more jumbled, less loved. Editions are missing and upside down. Rhys runs his hand down a stack. They’re damp. As is the next stack. And the next. The dozens of newspaper stacks that tunnel off into the house are dry, but the magazines are ruined. They slowly turn to pulp as the ceiling extends its dark, wet fingers down the wall and through their heart.

  Constable Robertson follows Rhys into the entrance hall. Momentarily, all natural light is gone. Panic grabs at Rhys’s throat. He’s drowning. The air is thick and wet. Constable Robertson moves and Rhys is released. He lets out a gasp. Robertson raises an eyebrow, squeezes past. The rain on her uniform makes her smell like a wet dog. Robertson turns and speaks.

  ‘Shame eh?’ She looks at the jumbled stacks. ‘Bathtub overflowed. He left it running when he was called out on a case lead.’ It could almost be sad.

  Rhys follows Robertson further into the gloom.

  A twisted, upside down face greets Rhys as he steps into the room. Under all the blood she may have green eyes, Rhys cannot be sure. One thing he is sure of is she is young. And dead. His eyes travel quickly right but the next image offers little consolation.

  The victim’s photos line the wall where the fireplace would have been. Large A4 prints staring blankly into nowhere. Crime scene photos, not holiday snaps. The line starts with Claudia Rose and ends with a large black question mark drawn on the wall.

  Rhys stands in a space most people would describe as a room that would better suit being a skip. A threadbare sofa faces the prints. Either side of the sofa are stacks of brown manila files. Hundreds of handwritten and typed documents mingling with hundreds of books. They spill like a cancerous growth out into the room.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ is all Rhys can think of to say.

  The sofa and coffee table are the only visible furniture. There must be other items as the books, magazines and paper bulge up and down. The room is dark. The strong smell of damp prevails. It is a cave. A cave inhabited by a strange, book-stealing creature. A creature that lives in both its own filth and mind.

  The curtains across the large window are drawn. Drawn and nailed down all the way round. Crude six-inch nails hammered into place. Small lamps bathe the room in dark rather than light. Stacked and piled together in random order, the books seem themselves to be made out of a dark matter that greedily sucks up what little light there is.

  Rhys picks up a book, an encyclopaedia of dark arts. The next is a history of the Nosferatu in England. Then historical figures and dark magic. The next, lords and wealthy estates hiding Nosferatu for generations. Popular demon misconceptions follow and so the list goes on, getting more and more ridiculous. Watching him from the wall are the photographs. The photographs of the dead. Those who have been tortured and bled to death in their own homes to end up here.

  The ball of rage and ridiculousness catches Rhys unawares. It explodes from his stomach. He clenches his teeth to prevent its escape. He grips the encyclopaedia in his hand until his knuckles grow white. It’s better than hurling it across the room.

  From the doorway Constable Robertson coughs. She’s not clearing her throat. Rhys looks to her. Her eyes show him she thinks the same. How do they know what within this room is real? What is already in the system? What could be a lead and what a monumental waste of time?

  ‘Fingers crossed it should be easy to tell.’ Robertson’s words are barely audible.

  Rhys’s words are blunt. He doesn’t care.

  ‘Get all of this boxed up and back to the station. What a bloody waste of time.’ He throws the book hard against the wall and is gone before it thumps onto the carpet.

  12.

  In the darkness, the vile little boy is all alone. His body is broken and tears run lines across his skin. Their laughter, her laughter, rings in his ears even when there is silence. The cold and the dark soak into his core.

  Initially the raw, bloody food makes him want to be sick. It claws at his stomach that fights to reject it. Over time, however, it becomes the norm. A point of stability. Calm and soothing in the chaos. It replaces the love she is unwilling to give. Now it is soft and comforting in his belly. A blanket to keep him warm in the cold and dark. He feels whole. This is strange at first but soon he grows to understand and accept. To anticipate and wait. He is very good at waiting.

  The thing with little boys is they grow into big boys. In the darkness one day they are not so small. They don’t need light to grow, or even love. Just time. Time to think and change and develop. They develop into what they have been made, or what they deserve to be. They don’t even have to be that old before this change, as the naugh
ty, vile boy discovers. He is barely a teenager when he is big enough for the world he lives in to start to look and feel very small indeed.

  The vile young man sharpens the knife one last time. He holds its razor edge up to the bathroom window and watches it glint in the moonlight. On the old dairy stool beside the bath is the shrieking voice. A grey tingle to her mottled skin, a thin sheen of grease to her dirty underwear. The cord he has bound her ankles and wrists with is nearly as sharp as the knife. The angry red grooves start to weep and bleed.

  How she tries to shriek as he marks the line on her throat with a biro. He doesn’t really need to but does it all the same. The shriek must have caused her lips to bleed beneath the tape. At one point it seems she is being sick. He isn’t sure until it comes out of her nose. He tears off the tape to be sure she stays alive, watches as she gasps and gulps at the stale oxygen.

  She looks up at him now, her crow eyes pleading. Can those be tears that pour from her stony heart?

  ‘It was all him. Honestly. It was all him, boy.’ Even now she can’t bring herself to say his name. ‘Why would I ever want to hurt you?’ she lies. The bile affects her vocal chords. ‘If I didn’t do it he would have left us and then where would we have been?’ On and on she rattles, deaf ears her only receptor. Blame, blame, blame. Not once does she say sorry. Not once does she say she was wrong. Not once does she say he is enough, that he is the only one she has ever wanted, that she should have put him first. Not that it would have made a difference. Not now. He expects to feel anger, pure rage at this moment. Instead he feels a strange sense of calm as he inspects her.