Night is Watching

by Lucy Cameron

  ‘He is now.’ The car door slams. Gravel sprays. They’re gone. Rhys watches until the tail-lights disappear from view.

  The old cottage behind Rhys grumbles, then vomits Detective Inspector Pat Quinn out of its putrid mouth. He looks smug. The paper hood is pulled tight around his red face.

  ‘So, I think we’ve found something.’ Quinn shoves a greasy photo frame in a large evidence bag under Rhys’s nose. In the frame is a photo of a smiling boy and girl. The boy looks about six. The girl younger. The style of kids’ clothes tells Rhys the photo is at least a decade old. ‘We know what happened to one of them.’

  Rhys does not.

  ‘Now all we need to do is find out what happened to the other.’

  23.

  Rhys doesn’t believe he’s ever met a man who can drink a pint as quickly as Pat Quinn.

  The boy serving behind the bar doesn’t look old enough to drink beer let alone sell it. This near a police station it’s more likely to be an issue of Rhys’s age than the boys.

  The Travellers’ Rest is underground. A concrete staircase leads down from the street into the square basement. Booths run around the edge walls. An even lower sunken dance floor sits in the centre. It’s late. The music’s loud. The clientele less than salubrious.

  Quinn’s talking. Quinn is always talking. He tells his tale like a campfire horror story. His audience sit, eager to hear. All that’s missing are the marshmallows.

  ‘From what Winters said,’ a round of boos and hisses from the King’s Mill collective, ‘the bones have been there for a very long time and by bones that’s exactly what I mean. Just Bones. No clothes. No flesh.’ Quinn pauses for effect. Takes a long drink of beer.

  ‘How come no one noticed sooner, that these people were missing, if they’ve been there that long?’ Constable Robertson asks the question to no one in particular. Some around the table study their drinks, some shift slightly in their chairs.

  ‘The cottage is miles out in the country, not the kind of place you’d go unless you were invited.’ The words are weak, and slurred. Rhys looks at his own empty glass, how much has he had to drink?

  ‘I thought the local kids played up there?’

  ‘There’s a difference between playing inside and going out.’ No, hang on. ‘I mean there’s a difference between playing outside and going in.’ Rhys pushes the empty glass across the table, tilts his head towards Robertson. It’s odd seeing people in their normal clothes, the ones they wear when not in uniform. Constable Robertson suits pink, he wonders if he should tell her?

  ‘Wouldn’t there have been a smell?’ asks Constable Chantelle Watts.

  ‘Yeah, but….’ Davies finishes the sentence with a shrug.

  ‘They’ll get the teeth matched against dental records, see if these poor souls are the cottage owners.’ Quinn drains the dregs of his pint. ‘I think we should be in no doubt. This is the same killer. These are his first victims.’ It is a bold statement. More than likely true.

  ‘How do you know that, Inspector?’ Watts twists to face Quinn as she speaks. ‘There is no doubt for several reasons.’ Quinn goes to jab the table with his heavily strapped forefinger. After a moment’s contemplation he uses the other hand. ‘Firstly, we have two sets of bones, one male, one female.’ A jab of the finger, or was that two fingers? Rhys closes one eye to try and get a better focus. ‘Secondly, the male set shows signs of the kind of torture we are currently finding inflicted on our male victims. Less torture so we can look at this poor bugger as bridging the gap from cats to humans in our killer’s development.’ Quinn clatters his empty glass onto the table. Watts grimaces. Quinn’s finger jabs the table, Rhys thinks of the vole lying in the top of his rubbish bin.

  ‘Thirdly, the position on the female body, in this case, remains. And of course, the meathook.’

  The sound of drinks being gulped.

  ‘I wonder where he’s been all this time?’ Watts winds a finger in her hair as she speaks. ‘Could he have been killing all of these years?

  ‘Or she,’ says Davies. ‘Let’s not be sexist about it.’ Robertson shakes her head.

  ‘These bones give us more questions than answers. Questions are good. Questions start to create a bridge that will stretch across the gap to the answers.’ Quinn is proud of this analogy. The gin makes Rhys think it isn’t all that bad either.

  Has anyone mentioned the kids in the photograph? He can’t ask. He’ll look like a dick if they have. Come on brain. Focus. Shit. Too much gin…

  ‘Your round, Morgan.’ Quinn’s voice. One more, for the road. One more won’t do any harm. It’s good to get to know the team, more than good, it’s important. Rhys levers himself out of the booth. Funny, he’s never noticed the way the floor tilts slightly before.

  One more leads to one more. Rhys has had way too many to drive. He calls Anna. She doesn’t say much other that she’ll be there in ten minutes. Rhys knows the conversation in the car will start with how angry Anna is. Angry at having to leave Louise looking after Harry. Angry at him for being drunk. Angry at the whole goddamn world.

  Rhys hiccups. His mind swims. Swims in gin and images and words on the hundreds of pieces of paper he has had to organise and file. Claudia Rose’s twisted face. Eddie no hands. Ancient demon carvings. Cathy’s naked body. Street maps, not enough blood, books covered in human skin. Meathooks, no witnesses, the smell of blood, tear-stained faces, a pile of bones, Quinn’s sweat, Andrews’s screams, the smell of orchids, the sky alive with lightning strobes and the creature with the fire-blond hair.

  The world spins in a carousel of colour as Rhys climbs the stairs from the basement.

  The cool night air calms the prickle on his skin. He takes deep breaths, waits for Anna. Steadies himself on the wall. Suddenly he becomes aware of how tired he is. How much his body aches. He yawns loudly.

  Car headlights flash up the wall. Anna draws up.

  ‘You know how much I hate leaving Louise at this time…’ And so on and on… Then the descent into silence. Goddamn deafening silence. Rhys knows it’s a bad idea to speak but the words tumble out before he can stop them. Anything is better than the silence.

  ‘I’m sorry. Tough day. Quinn offered…’ He says the words slowly, they don’t sound slurred.

  ‘Oh, and you couldn’t say no?’

  ‘You know how it is.’ Shit.

  ‘No actually, I don’t.’ Her jaw tenses. She drifts a little further away. Their relationship has become a strange tug of war. Rope at full stretch. Neither of them want to win, or let go. Not yet. He yawns. Not something to start thinking about after a long day and a lot of gin. He should have called a taxi. Calling Anna was a bad idea. Anna tuts. It appears the yawn was a bad idea too.

  They approach the house. Anna slows. A car travels the other way. It crosses a speed bump Rhys doesn’t remember being there. Its headlights flash in his eyes. Straight away there is another car. Blinding him, distorting his vision. Black. Then white. Then black again.

  He brings his arm up to shield his eyes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Where is all the traffic coming from? He turns his head away from the lights. Looks past Anna, out across the cul-de-sac.

  And there he is.

  The world slows once more. Rhys’s heart freezes, his blood turns to ice. The creature is unmistakable. His clothes are the same as at the hospital. The creature turns. Holds Rhys’s eyes with his piercing blue gaze. He’s smiling.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Rhys’s voice is loud in the confined space.

  ‘What?’ Anna turns the car onto their drive.

  ‘That’s him.’ Rhys points past Anna’s confused expression to the old witch’s house. ‘From the hospital?’ Her face is blank. ‘Forget it.’ No time for this. Has he told her about the man in the hospital? He can’t remember. Has he even told her about the dreams? Rhys is out of the car and hammering across the cul-de-sac to his new neighbour’s door before Anna pulls on the handbrake.

  No escape this time, you bastar
d.

  Anna sighs heavily. She watches Rhys in the rear view mirror. He darts across the road – steady on his feet considering how much he’s drunk, how much the car stinks of booze. She sits, not sure what she’s watching. He heads straight for what the kids refer to as the old witch’s house. The house of their new neighbours. What on earth’s going on? She saw no one. Has no idea what he’s babbling about. Why has he been at the hospital? Has someone been hurt?

  He tears up the front path. Starts fiercely banging on the front door. She should go over, she should stop him. Her hands grip the steering wheel so tight her knuckles go white. She wants to swear. Or scream. Or both.

  A very handsome, but very old, gentleman answers the door. Rhys shouts in his face. For god’s sake, he’s trying to barge into his home. He’s patting his pockets the way he always does when he’s looking for his police identification to prove a useless point. Anna sighs heavily, closes her eyes and counts to ten. She gets out of the car, slams the door hard enough to wake the dead.

  ‘Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.’ Rhys’s words reach her. ‘I saw him come in here with my own eyes. Why the hell are you lying?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, but as I have said, no one has entered the house in the last few hours, never mind the last few minutes.’ Anna reaches them. Looks up at the elderly gentleman’s defined features. Still there to admire after decades. She’s impressed at his strength. He barricades the doorway. Strong against Rhys’s onslaught.

  ‘And as I have said, this is important police business. Either go and get him or let me in.’

  ‘I am afraid neither of those things are going to happen.’

  ‘I can come back with a warrant.’

  ‘Rhys!’ Her words are strong. This is more than enough. Rhys ignores her.

  ‘I’ll arrest you for police obstruction.’

  ‘Then so be it.’ The gentleman holds Rhys’s stare. He is calm, cool, collected. He turns slowly to Anna. ‘Does he belong to you?’ There’s no malice. A straightforward question. His arm still across the doorway. Access denied. Rhys turns and paces on the loose gravel path.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’ Anna hears the footsteps stop. Feels his eyes bore into her. She doesn’t take her gaze from the elderly gentleman. She doesn’t want to. ‘Hello. I’m Anna, this is my husband Rhys. We live across the street.’ She turns to gesture towards their house. Rhys stares at her open mouthed.

  ‘Arthur.’ The gentleman outstretches his hand. Anna shakes it. Surprised again by his strength. Arthur extends his hand to Rhys. Rhys doesn’t move.

  ‘I can only apologise for my husband. He has had an incredibly stressful day and a few too many gin and tonics.’ She laughs. A nervous sound. ‘So anyway, we’ll head home now and leave you in peace. Won’t we, Rhys? We don’t want to make a scene.’ She reaches out for Rhys. Expects him to protest but he is strangely calm. ‘And when he has had some rest, if he still feels the need, Rhys can come back and talk to you rationally.’ She smiles. A light across the street comes on. A curtain twitches. ‘Or perhaps apologise?’ Anna realises her voice is pleading. To Rhys. To Arthur.

  ‘That will be fine, but my answer will still be the same.’

  ‘Don’t think I won’t come back.’ Rhys’s voice slurs. Anna looks at the floor. ‘So you can tell your mate, whoever he is, that hiding in there won’t do him any good because I will find him. I don’t know what his game is but it won’t work.’ Anna smiles weakly.

  ‘Goodnight then.’ Arthur shuts the carved oak door. Several bolts slide. Rhys sways slightly, turns his full attention on Anna.

  ‘Thanks for that. For making me look like a right dick.’

  ‘I think you managed to do that all by yourself. What the hell is wrong with you? These are our neighbours. We have to live here.’

  ‘I’m not a child. Stop speaking to me like one.’

  ‘Then stop acting like one.’

  ‘Screw you. You’re supposed to be on my side.’ He shoots her a look she has never seen before, not in him. Her heart freezes. Her stomach drops. Is that hatred in his eyes? Something is different, something is very different. Chalk it up next to the other things that are just not quite the same. He shakes his head in disgust. Turns and weaves away across the street.

  She stands there alone on a stranger’s lawn. Swallows the hard lump in her throat. Slowly follows Rhys back across the street.

  Behind her, deep within the house, she could swear she hears someone laugh.

  24.

  The creature’s eyes stare down at him. Once again they fall. He feels the creature’s hands clasp him. They pirouette into nothing.

  ‘Ask.’ The creature whispers, again and again and again. The man has no idea what to ask for. His head spins. Which way is up? Which way is down? The creature’s breath is cold against his cheek. He is near and he is far. The man is afraid and at peace. He wants to laugh, to clap his hands like a child, but this may madden the creature and he doesn’t want to be left alone in the dark.

  ‘Ask.’ The creature’s brow furrows then straightens. Light eyebrows. Dark lashes. Crystal-blue eyes. The image crashes from close to far. Intimate to reaching. Soft focus to startling clarity. He is the creature, the man from the hospital, the man from across the street, all rolled into one. One and the same in every detail.

  The man tries to speak but has no words. He stretches out his hand towards the creature’s face. He is just out of reach even though the creature holds the man’s arms tight as they spiral into nothing. The man’s words stick in his throat. His mind has already forgotten them. He feels the laughter rising. The creature’s eyes suppress it. He hears the questions whisper again. Then they are lost.

  ‘Ask!’ The creature is angry now. ‘Or be prepared to die.’ Its voice rises. The man still has no idea what to ask for. He does not want the creature to be mad. So many questions. Questions that dance physically in the space between them, then disappear into the darkness.

  What is the question again?

  The man shakes his head. Once. Involuntary, almost a jerk. He is not sure it is. A no? A negative? A refusal to ask for something unknown.

  Rage explodes from the creature like nothing the man has ever seen before. A physical ripple from its heart to its fingertips. Up its neck and across its face. The creature lets out a deafening roar that shifts the nothingness around them. Vibrates in the confined yet endless space.

  In this moment its mouth is torn wide. The man stops breathing. It is the picture from the book? The glistening incisors from somewhere far away. Another time. Another life. The man feels the ice enamel slice his skin, although the creature is nowhere near.

  Instantly the creature is gone. It propels backwards into the black. Its white skin becomes a distant pinprick. Then nothing.

  Now the man really is afraid. The wind rushes louder than ever before. He has no idea which way is up or down, just that he is falling in the pitch blackness.

  There is an almighty crash. It takes a second for the man to realise it is the sound of his body impacting with a hard flat surface. Or maybe there was no sound at all? In panic, he tries to draw back in the breath that has been punched from his body but cannot. He is warm and cold. His eyes move from side to side.

  Is this surface wet?

  Like punching shatterproof glass, the cracks pause for a moment then gradually start to crackle out to the extremities. Bone after bone, and now he is too late to try and move his fingertips. Through all of this, he knows the pain will come with burning glory and it does not disappoint. If he could he would screw his eyes up tight, he would open his mouth and scream. Instead he lies and waits for an even darker pitch of black to come.

  25.

  The house stinks of crispy beef. Pam doesn’t care. It’s nice to have a break from cooking. Shame she had to knock on death’s door to get it. Plus it’s not like it’s a total break. Not like she is getting the complete and utter rest the doctor ordered as she left the hospital. She was still the one wh
o had to call the takeaway order through. She’ll be the one who puts all the containers in the bin. She’ll cook tomorrow. Not that Will would be bothered if they ate takeaways every night of the week.

  Pam is enjoying being home. Possibly even enjoying the sound of Will snoring in his chair across the room. It amuses her that a few days away seem to make home all the more bearable. Is that how Will has found it all these years? Being away from her made being with her bearable?

  What an odd concept.

  Maybe she’ll start planning little trips away, just for her. The local library advertises coach trips on their noticeboard. Or there’s bound to be something on the internet. Something to the coast would be nice, for a night or two. She’s never been away on her own. Could it be as liberating as she imagines or lonely and frightening? She looks at Will. A thin line of dribble snakes its way down his chin. She settles on liberating.

  Her stomach groans but she reaches for another prawn cracker anyway. They are so moreish. They must put something in them so you keep picking even when you’re full. She wipes the grease off her fingers. Now, where is the iPad? Upstairs on the bedside table no doubt. Will would have left it there. He spends all night watching reruns of game shows. She considers waking him to go and fetch it, but after the amount of food she’s eaten, she could probably do with the exercise.

  He watches her move around the front room. The image is clear as day. Plenty of background light. Why do people never shut their curtains when they turn the lights on? Don’t they ever wonder who might be outside watching?

  She shuffles towards the window. Sucks something off her fingers. Desire and repulsion fill him in equal measure. He wants to move closer, press his face against the glass. Touch her. Smell her. Taste her. It is nearly time.

  She pulls one of the curtains closed. The husband can still be seen, for a moment longer. Bloated and asleep. Same chair night after night. His fat fingers twitch even as he sleeps. Ready to do her bidding when she calls. Pathetic and wonderful wrapped up in one.

  The fat on her upper arm wobbles as she pulls the curtain tight.