by Lucy Cameron
Slowly he licks his lips.
She’s right. There on the bedside table is the iPad, its battery completely flat. Will’s grubby fingerprints all over the expensive leather case. What will be quicker? To plug it in and wait for it to charge or try to get the main computer working? If she plugs in the iPad can she still use it while it is charging? She’s never tried that. She always plugs it in overnight to ensure it is fully charged. Plug it in and see is probably the best option. Their computer is about twenty years old and can take any time between two minutes and two hours to boot up and connect to the internet. There’s no rush. She’s just excited to get looking at trips. She can feel change in the air.
He checks his watch. It’s time.
The blood pounds through his veins. Demands his attention. Demands to be heard. It chatters away. Always. It gets angrier and angrier until he can’t bear it. It demands appeasement. It must have his full attention or it will burst out through his skin.
‘You have my full attention,’ he mutters, soothing.
He’s on fire. All the juices in his body start to boil. The boil will become the rage and the rage cannot be contained. The rage is always just beyond control. He wants to scream but that can wait. Soon the chatter will be less, will be appeased. Peace again. Comfort again. Love again.
He smiles. The smile becomes a giggle.
He swings open the gate.
The doorbell rings. Pam looks at her watch. It’s late. They aren’t expecting anyone. Her mind runs back through the takeaway order: one crispy beef, one sweet and sour pork, egg fried rice, chips, prawn crackers and some of those deep fried chicken balls Will likes. The bread they added themselves once Will got back from the Spar. They had had everything. Had she given the delivery boy the right money? Had he given her the right change?
The bell rings again.
Could it be one of their girls? Doubtful. The eldest, Sally, has been over and won’t be back until tomorrow evening.
‘Will, can you get that?’ No answer. She didn’t expect one. Will is already deep asleep.
Pam heads to the top of the stairs, iPad held tight. The charger is beside the sofa ready and waiting. It has taken so many discussions to get Will to leave it plugged in there. That way she’ll know where it is. They’ll both know where it is without having to search the place. Simple logic escapes that man.
The shadow behind the bubbled glass in the front door looks a little like the takeaway delivery boy. The change on the small tabletop beside the door is correct. Odd.
Her hand flicks the catch open.
‘Hello,’ says the young man. He is not the delivery boy although his cap is the same colour blue. ‘Really sorry to disturb you but you’ll never believe what’s happened.’ There’s something off about him. Something she can’t place. He continues. ‘Not only have I been stupid enough to leave the interior light on in my car and run the battery flat, but my phone is dead too.’ He waves a mobile at her, its face black. He laughs. Something not quite right about the laugh. She can’t see a car over his shoulder. Does she know him from somewhere? He looks familiar. ‘I couldn’t be cheeky and ask to use your phone, could I?’ He has a backpack on. Odd. Why hasn’t he left it in the car?
‘Of course.’ Pam turns towards the handset, in its cradle, next to the takeaway change.
It is the sound more than anything that stands out. The crack of the catch against the wall as he pushes himself into the hall behind her. He is so fast. So very fast. The door is shut. His arm around her throat before she’s even drawn breath. Before her hand is even halfway to the phone.
‘Shhhhhh,’ he whispers, his breath warm on her ear. He needn’t worry. All the words, all the sounds, are jammed in her throat buried deep within the crook of his elbow. ‘As it turns out I’m not that stupid, but you are.’
Then she feels it. The pressure as he tightens his arm around her throat. She gags, tries to wriggle free, brings her hands up to pull at the arm that feels like it’s made of stone. Her nails scrabble against his skin. He uses his other hand to pull one of her arms down. He leans back, lifts her body until her toes are the only things left touching the carpet. Oh my god. Oh my god. Panic and adrenaline surge through her body. She tries to call to Will. Tell him to wake up. To move. All that comes out is a gurgling croaking sound. She feels her eyes start to roll. What did they teach her in that self-defence class, why is her mind so blank? Oh god. Oh Will. Oh…
They really are that stupid. It’s the classic line from all the films. They must watch enough telly. He likes the line for that reason. He picked it for that reason. The psycho behind the shower curtain. The classic ‘Let the bad man into your home’ line. They fall for it time after time after time. If they said no, he would just walk away. Possibly walk away. Possibly not. Actually no, definitely not. As soon as they open the door they are, as they say in the trade, fucked.
He enjoys how their eyes try to place him. Wonder why he is at their door. Where they know him from. They really should pay more attention.
He looks down at her lifeless body. She’ll be heavy to lift. He should have made her walk herself to the kitchen before he knocked her out. Damn it. He could wait for her to come round? Move herself. Knock her out again.
No.
Too much waiting. The chatter can’t wait. Luckily there’s a fat sod asleep in a chair in the front room, a fat sod that looks like he could do with a workout.
He closes his eyes. Breathes deeply. Their words taunt in his head.
‘You poor little vile boy. Look, you’ve gone and done it all wrong. Can’t even get this right.’ He bites his tongue to stop himself screaming ‘shut up.’
‘Why would anyone love you?’ The voice starts to shriek. ‘Why the hell would anyone even like you? You’re pathetic. I can’t even bear to look at you. You disgust me. You make my sick.’
‘Pardon?’ he turns his head towards the front room.
‘You really are a vile little boy,’ the fat man shrieks from the chair. His eyes are black beads in his pasty face. ‘You repulse me, you really do.’
Eyes ablaze, the young man yanks the hammer from his backpack.
The iPad crunches under foot as he steps towards the front room.
He’ll show the fat man the meaning of the word repulsion.
He watches her for a long time. She stops moving quicker than the others. Her body pulsed like a fish out of water. It was mesmerising. It didn’t last long.
The beautiful Pam. Beauty in its loosest sense of course. They are all beautiful in their own special ways. Will thought she was beautiful right up to the end. He really begged for her life. Touching, after all those years. He wonders: if she had been able, would Pam have done the same for Will? Love is always a little one sided, isn’t it? She had all the power. That’s why he picked her. Picked them.
He would say it is a shame, but it really isn’t.
The blood is appeased, for now. Quiet in his veins. She’s calmed him. Loved him. The chatter is quiet. The silence is golden.
He watches her for a long time, even now she is still. Makes sure he logs every detail. The dimples of her skin. The colour of her hair. Her perfect, varnished nails. He doesn’t take trinkets, items of clothing. There is no drawer stuffed with knickers back at his place. No. He takes what he needs another way.
It is time. It is over.
He blows her a tender kiss, turns off the light and leaves her alone in the dark.
26.
Rhys is tired and drunk. Sleep is unavoidable.
The dreams tear him awake. Haunted. Terrified. Sweating and alone in the dark. The coffee is hot and bitter. Not enough sugar. Painkillers for the dull ache in his head as the gin wears off.
Anna’s face is burnt onto his brain. That look of complete distain, horror, as they stood on the damp grass hours earlier. She thinks he’s making it up. The nightmares. The creature. She couldn’t make her lack of support any clearer. Isn’t she supposed to be there for him no matter what? She made him look li
ke a fool.
That needle once again deep in his skin.
There’s no doubt in his mind. He saw the creature, the man, he’s only a man, go into that house. Anna helped him elude Rhys once again. They should get together, have a good laugh.
He wills her to wake up, to come through and see what he’s doing. He dares her to ask why he’s not asleep. He’ll whisper cruelly in her face that it’s all her fault. If she’d helped him speak to the man, get an explanation; he could be sleeping soundly now.
Instead he paces. Paces around like… like this… too afraid to go back to sleep. Going without sleep makes you crazy. He’ll whisper this too. He’s seen that on the telly. He’ll go crazy and it’ll be her fault.
Except she doesn’t come.
He pushes the button of the laptop harder than needed. Eases the bedroom door closed. He pulls over his sister’s comfy wicker chair. Flicks on the soft lamp.
It’s not the case that brings him to this point. He wants to make sure that is understood. Is on record.
It’s the nightmare. The nightmare and the man at the hospital – the man across the street. Anna can rant on about the stress of work causing the nightmares until hell freezes over. Blame the alcohol. Drop all the not-so subtle hints she likes. There is more to it. He knows it. He can’t quite place it. Not yet.
How does a person from your dreams end up being real?
He laughs. It’s ridiculous.
How does a person from your waking life travel through your subconscious to your dreams?
Equally obscure.
Yet here he is. At three a.m. with a cold cup of coffee. In a room his sister was last seen in twenty-two years ago.
Tears prickle at the edge of his eyes. The mocking laugh becomes fire in his throat.
His fingers move quickly. The internet gives nothing up easily. ‘How to make your dreams come true, twenty steps to happiness.’ Not what he is looking for. He changes his search title. His eyes move quickly, but carefully.
The Middle Ages. Dreams are seen as evil. Images of temptation sent to man from the Devil. As man sleeps the Devil fills his mind with harmful ideas.
Rhys swallows. Could the creature be the Devil? Are these his first steps towards being a minion for the damned?
‘Jesus Christ, Morgan.’ He chastises out loud. Talk about melodrama.
Is there an echo in the room?
The Greeks and Romans. They believed dreams were direct messages from the gods. Good, that’s more like it. Or the dead. Shit. That dreams could predict the future.
Rhys is cold. The heating is on high. He’s never had cause to think of gods or devils. His parents were far from religious. As for messages from the dead? He glances up at the faded Polaroid of his sister and her friends and waits for that sick feeling in the base of his stomach to come. It doesn’t disappoint.
His fingers slide across the keys. His eyeballs scratch like they are full of sand. He needs to make more coffee. Find more sugar. Lots more sugar.
Lucid dreaming. Interesting. This theory is that the dreamer controls their dreams through imagination.
This could be possible? The night before they visited the hospital he hadn’t slept well. Could he have drifted off and had in fact been in a dream state when he saw the creature in the corridor?
His heartbeat quickens.
And in the car. He was tired. Drunk. Is his imagination capable of playing such tricks? Is he putting himself inside some kind of perpetual cycle that will result in some kind of continuous lucid dream?
Shit.
He’s too hot now. The room is too hot. He rises. Goes to the window. Stares at his reflection in the black glass. He chased the creature in the hospital. You can’t run and still be asleep, can you? He saw him again through the swing doors. That was real. The conversation with the nurses was real. He was awake. He was in a goddamn hospital. If he were asleep they would have been able to tell. Would have said something.
The relief cools his skin.
The questions are still unanswered. At least he’s not losing his mind.
People from dreams entering reality. This leads only to dozens of nutcase sites. Teenagers believing they are being stalked by spirits. People hiding in rooms, afraid and running out of food. He hopes they are pranksters. Knows enough of the world to fear otherwise.
The search has shown nothing. It’s embarrassing.
But it’s more than the dream leaking into reality.
It’s the image in his head. The image in the book. It’s the teeth. The creature’s teeth.
The Nosferatu. Except they don’t exist? Right?
For fuck’s sake. Rhys slams shut the laptop lid.
This is Andrews’s fault. His words have bled into Rhys’s subconscious. Messed with the confusion that is already there. He shouldn’t have let him talk in the cells. He should have walked away. It would have been insignificant in the scheme of things. It really is that simple. He shouldn’t have brought that box of books home from the station. Rhys looks at it now, hunched in the corner of the room. It stares straight back, goading.
Cold metal needles sear into Rhys’s throat. He gasps. Fingers to neck. He rubs until the pain passes. Sweat prickles on his skin.
Something in the house creaks. He jumps. This is ridiculous. He’s either going to swear or shower. He settles on both.
His feet pad along the landing. The word ‘devil’ playing heavily on his mind.
27.
Anna is furious. Too much time lying awake in the dark. Too much time to think.
Why is Rhys so damn selfish? Does he ever think about anyone else? By anyone else she means her… their children. He has plenty of time to think about people he’ll never know. Bad people. Dead people. Imaginary people.
Anna is up and dusts furiously. The physical task does little to help. She throws the duster to the floor. Stomps to the kitchen.
Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
She would love to stay out late, drink gin and tonic. Not worry about the children. Know some mug will pick her up. She would love to drunkenly charge around the neighbourhood, shout the odds. Know nothing truly awful will happen. A sensible do-gooder will be there to smooth things over.
But she can’t, can she. She is always the sensible one. He gets to be out there, take risks. Have fun. Do whatever the hell he pleases.
What about her?
Does he spare a thought for her at home? Her desire for sensible, adult conversation? There are only so many times she can bear Louise telling her she ‘doesn’t get it’ and Harry asking if he can make magic potions, before she wants to scream.
Harry.
They need to talk about Harry. If Rhys can bother to slip it into his busy social schedule.
Why are other people so much more important to her husband than his own family? Why are their needs more important than hers? Good old Anna. She’ll be here when the case closes. Pick up the pieces. Always has.
Always will?
Anna sighs. Is she being irrational? Unfair? No she bloody isn’t. Rhys upset her last night. Hurt her. Go Rhys. Well done. Mission accomplished. It was the way he looked at her, cut her to the bone. So cold. So much hate. He won’t have realised he was doing it. It was the booze. The late hour.
It doesn’t hurt any less.
She fills the kitchen sink with bleach. Snaps on rubber gloves. Digs around for the scrubbing brush. The bristles move back and forth across the draining board. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Anna made a fuss about Rhys’s move to murder. It’s beyond his control but so what? She wanted to matter. Wanted him to pick her. She is lonely, fed up of being lonely. Things should be so different.
Anna shouts at Rhys more than she should. Her feelings of neglect turning to anger. She behaves like a petulant child. Throws things back in his face. Bins his dinner. Deadlocks the door. She doesn’t feel guilty. If it’s his right to choose this career path, it’s hers to be true to her reactions. There are hundreds of routes he cou
ld take within the police force, why choose the one he has to travel alone?
Anna sighs. These thoughts are pointless. It will make no difference.
Is she the issue? She has too much time on her hands. The kids need her less and less. Her mind turns over the idea of work. A job after all these years. A paid job. She isn’t sure what she fancies. Or more truthfully what she can do. Who will want her? It’s a conversation to have with Rhys. A conversation that slips further away by the minute. She’s this upset already. He’s only been on the case for hours. There’s a long way to go yet. Mind you, the sink looks good as new.
‘What are you doing?’ Rhys’s flat voice breaks her thoughts.
‘What does it look like?’
‘It’s seven a.m.’
‘So?’ No mention of last night. No apology. Unbelievable. She wants to scream. Shout. Punch. She doesn’t. She looks at him. Swallows hard. He can apologise first this time.
‘I have to go.’ He leans forward to kiss her. She pulls back. He smells of soap and the aftershave she bought him for his birthday. She knows he hasn’t slept because she hasn’t. He was up with his ‘other woman’. Jenny. Into the shower not long before she rose. As if she wouldn’t know he’s been up all night with her, rather than in bed with his wife. His skin is scrubbed and pink.
‘I have to get the kids up.’ She turns away. Stares at her reflection in the sink. Does not turn around until she hears the front door close behind him.
28.
‘So what do we actually know so far?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘That’s a bit unfair.’
‘Well it’s true, considering how many of them are dead.’
‘But we know a hell of a lot more than we knew yesterday.’
‘Sure. But tell me this, does any of that point to anybody, I mean a physical person, that could actually be responsible?’
‘Well no, but – ’
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please, this is not a social club. Quinn draws them to order. ‘As you will all be aware, there are many strands starting to emerge within this investigation. They need to be looked into.
‘First, we have the possible link to the hospital,’ a nod in Rhys’s direction, ‘which Davies has been following up.’ Davies sticks his hand in the air. Waves. Heads turn to see where he is.