by Lucy Cameron
He’s alone. Anna makes that quite clear.
He’ll have to be careful what he says to her now, what he lets her see. She’s working against him. Everything he does is to keep her safe yet she still refuses to understand. He has told her that over and over again. Still she refuses to see it. He’s so angry he could scream.
He has to let the anger go for now. He can deal with the betrayal, the lack of trust and belief later. When they’re safe. He’s not sure he can forgive her but will always love her.
The laptop whirls to life. He digs around in the papers on the floor. The answer has to be here somewhere.
What a fucking unbelievable day.
Did they really sit there and as good as accuse him of murder? Do they really think he’s capable of that? It’s like a punch to the stomach. The disbelief on Quinn’s face. The cold stare from Jenkins. Rhys has never so much as raised his hand to a woman. The very suggestion is insane. And they have the gall to insinuate he’s the mad one. It will be all round the station by now. Pigeonholed with Andrews.
Andrews.
Where the hell is Andrews? Why didn’t he remember to ask? Isn’t the station supposed to be keeping an eye on him? You would think so, all things considered.
Rhys stops. Sits on the edge of the bed. This is very serious indeed. He could be arrested. Go on trial. End up in jail. What will happen to his family if he isn’t here? Would Kier take second best?
Rhys gets up, paces.
Will Kier give him an alibi? Unlikely. Who will they believe? A discredited police officer or a lying hotshot surgeon? Rhys will be branded a murderer. His head is about to explode. An irony indeed that being questioned about involvement in a murder is the least of his worries.
Murder.
The word sits in his stomach like a rock. A copy of Kier’s photo stares up at him from the floor.
Murder.
The thought opens up in front of him. Why hasn’t he had it before? It’s so obvious. He could laugh, except it isn’t funny. If he’s going to be accused it may as well be for a murder he’s actually committed.
So simple.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Why didn’t he think of it sooner? A stake through the heart. Isn’t that what he read? All he needs do is ram a stake through Kier Finnegan’s black heart. He can make a stake. Easy. No, wait. Too cumbersome, too hard to conceal. What he really needs is a knife. A nice, big, sharp knife. He knows exactly where there is one. Where there are many.
The attic ladder slides down easily. His hand is on the box in minutes. Anna’s father collected knives from all over the world. Rhys was surprised at the size and scale you could walk into a shop and buy without question. Anna’s parents downsized, her father passed them on to Anna and Rhys, something for Harry when he grows up. They are kept in the attic for safety, of both the knives and Harry. Rhys’s hands are sweating. He wipes them on his shirt.
Look at all the knives. A dozen or more. Looking at them makes him feel strong and safe. He settles on a six-inch flick-knife. It feels solid in his hand. Easy to carry in his pocket, poised for when the moment comes. Kier will be so surprised as he feels the cold steel push into his heart. Rhys will stare into his eyes the whole time. Rhys looks at the knives some more, selects a second one, a large hunting knife. Two knives. Better to be safe than sorry.
Kier will burst into flames or dissolve into a pile of dust. If that doesn’t happen, Rhys will gladly walk into the police station and confess. It won’t take them long to figure out who Kier really is, once they have his corpse in the morgue. It won’t take long for them to realise the killings have stopped and Rhys was right, Andrews was right and they really should have listened. They really should’ve bloody listened.
57.
Anna watches Rhys for a long time before he realises she’s there. He’s left the door to Jenny’s room open. He sits at the desk, intently studies whatever it is he’s looking at on the laptop. The wine has helped calm Anna down – at least she thought it had. The room is a tip. When did he bring all this stuff home? Where did it even come from? Books on dark arts. Books on things she doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to know are here. She’d come upstairs intent on telling him this was his last chance, last chance to listen, to hear sense. Has that chance long sailed? She needs to be strong, take control. For Rhys. For herself. She steps into the room.
‘You know I don’t like anyone else in this room.’ Rhys’s fingers scurry across the laptop keys.
‘And you know I don’t like it when I fall out with my husband.’ She perches on the edge of the bed, why does she always have to be the appeaser? When did they slide into these roles? ‘Please, Rhys, can we talk without falling out. I want to help you. I want you to see that all of this is madness.’ He turns and looks at her. Shakes his head sadly. Something like a knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
‘Did you know that in most European countries blue eyes are the sign of the Devil?’ Anna can’t bear to look at him ‘And that most Nosferatu survive hidden for centuries within families of extreme wealth and power.’ He stands. Flaps some sheets of paper in her face. They move too fast for her to see. ‘That’s how they–’
He freezes. Spins to look out of the window. Sees something she can’t.
‘He’s there! He’s fucking out there! This is it! Now is the time!’ His voice is loud, frantic. Then he’s gone. Feet pound the stairs. The front door slams.
Anna looks out of the window. The street is silent. Nothing.
She runs down the stairs. What the hell is he doing now? She can’t cope, has no idea what to do. She should’ve made the call. Why hadn’t she made the call? Why has the station allowed him to come home?
Her hand reaches the front door knob and pulls. The front door doesn’t budge. She pulls and strains at the handle. Kicks the door the same way she had chastised Harry for. Rhys has bloody locked it from the outside. She turns to the table, empties the key bowl. Nothing other than loose change and a key for the shed.
‘Where are my fucking keys?’
She runs through to the kitchen, the back door. Locked. Key removed. She runs back to the front door, pulls at it some more, like somehow something will be different, somehow it will open.
He’s left her no choice.
‘This is your own fault, Rhys Morgan!’ she bellows into the wood. ‘Your fault, not mine.’
58.
Rhys can see his breath – it races ahead of him in a little cloud. His eyes dart, look for the movement he saw. Behind him Anna thumps the door. She’ll understand in time. It’s for her own safety. She’ll try and stop him. Refuse to understand.
There! The movement is further down the street. Away from his house. Away from Kier’s house. Behind one of the trees planted to give ambience to the street. Trees that crack the road and burrow into house foundations.
Rhys approaches slowly. His fingers come away from the flick knife in his pocket. It won’t be Kier creeping down the street looking back at his own house in the darkness. Disappointing, he was ready for the moment. Now it’ll have to wait. He’s a police officer, however. It’s his duty to discover who scuttled from outside Kier’s house. Who pulled his attention, brought him out. The figure tries to blend into the shadow of the tree, tries, but not hard enough.
‘Andrews?’ The narrow face stares out at him from under the thick hood.
‘You.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Rhys’s mind races. This is a good thing. No, this is a great thing. Andrews has come to his street. He’s heard what’s happened. Sought Rhys out. Come to form an alliance. This is very good indeed. They can combine information, discuss a plan of action. A wave of relief washes over Rhys. Andrews can back him up with Anna. Two of them saying the same thing will prove what Rhys says is true. Two of them can’t be mad together. Rhys smiles.
‘What am I doing here?’ says Andrews. ‘What am I doing here? A more pertinent question would be what are you doing here?’
‘Sorry? I
live here, over there.’ Rhys points down the street. His house glows in the dark.
‘How very convenient for you.’ Andrews’s spit lands on Rhys. ‘How very bloody convenient.’ Rhys’s smile fades. Rhys follows Andrews’s eye line right to Kier’s front door.
‘That’s him,’ says Rhys. ‘Kier Finnegan. He’s the one you talked about isn’t he? He’s the one responsible.’
‘I know that,’ says Andrews. Pain fleets across his face. ‘I know and I told you. I told you and this is how you repay me.’ Rhys’s brow furrows.
‘That’s why you are here, isn’t it? So we can join forces? So we can prove what he is, what he’s done? So we can beat him?’
‘“Join forces”, have you heard yourself? What do you think this is, some kind of playground game? I’m sure you’ve read the books, think you have all the answers in your clever little academic head, think you are better than me.’
‘What? No I don’t… Look… what…?’
‘You aren’t, not for one moment. You think you can destroy him, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You think he will let you do that.’ Andrews laughs. ‘Why would you want to do that, Rhys? Why would you want to destroy him when he offers you so much?’ Andrews’s laugh morphs into a cough. A hard sound. He spits blood onto the pavement. His eyes turn on Rhys, bore into him, full of fury.
‘He was mine. I told you that. I made it very clear. I was the one who cracked the case. I was the one who discovered the truth behind the murders, me. Not you. Me.’ Rhys nods, dumbstruck. ‘All I had to do was locate him then you come along, meddling, taking everything away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Rhys is. But not for that reason.
‘Not sorry enough. In spite of you, I’ve tracked him down. And here you are again, getting in the way.’ Andrews’s face is flat. ‘Destroy him.’ Andrews’s head shakes. ‘I don’t want to destroy him. I want to join him.’
‘What? That’s… I don’t understand.’
‘I find that odd. You of all people should understand clearly. You’ve read the books, but more than that, you believe.’ Andrews is short of breath. ‘You believe in the innate power they have, he has, that they can offer us.’ Andrews’s gaze turns back to Kier’s house. ‘I am ready, so ready and yes I will admit, in need. Dying. Petrified.
‘Do you know what he did, Kier? He laughed. He laughed at me. He came this far from my face.’ Andrews gestures with his fingers, ‘And laughed. He said I was pathetic. I didn’t deserve the gift he has to offer. I begged him then. I told him I truly believed. That I would serve him without question for the rest of time. That I needed him to help me. That I was afraid. This angered him. He told me he had found someone better than I could ever hope to be. He told me he found you.’ Andrews turns back to Rhys. His eyes blaze. ‘You. You who has mocked me. You who refused to believe. You who deny him. You are the one he chose.’
The floor falters beneath Rhys’s feet. How has Andrews got it so wrong?
‘But I do, I believe now, this, what he has said to you is proof of what he is, what he has done. Come with me, help me, together we can beat him.’
‘You. With your happy family and friends, your youth. Why do you need anything from him? How can you take that from me?’
‘I don’t want any of this. He won’t listen.’
‘If it wasn’t for you, I would have everything I ever wanted.’ His eyes fix on Rhys. ‘If you were out of the way, things would be different.’ Rhys’s mind whirls.
‘Is it you?’ Rhys shouts, then lowers his voice, doesn’t want to wake the whole street, ‘is it you trying to set me up?’ Andrews looks confused, but recovers quickly.
‘Don’t flatter yourself any more than you already have.’
Rhys sees the glint of the knife blade in Andrews’s hand. Rhys’s head turns. He’s too close to the tree, can’t move fast enough. He thinks of his own weapon. Knows he won’t reach it in time. Which pocket is it in again? He screws shut his eyes, wonders if anyone will believe him after he’s dead and how many people will come to his funeral. He wonders how long Anna will grieve and who she will eventually re-marry. He hopes Kier will leave them all alone if he’s dead. He hopes Anna wouldn’t move in case Jenny comes home but knows she will and that makes him sad. He draws a breath, anticipates the knife’s cold blade.
It never comes.
Cautiously, Rhys opens one eye. A thin line of blood runs from the corner of Andrews’s mouth, like dribble but far too dark. The knife drops from Andrews’s fingers, lands with a dull thud on the grass. Andrews’s eyes bulge. His lips part. His eyes drop down. Rhys follows his gaze. They both stare at the tip of the large hunting knife sticking from Andrews’s chest, a knife jammed in his back, straight through his heart. The blade’s tip is so close to Rhys it’s nicked the front of his shirt. Andrews opens his mouth to speak. Shuts it again. The solid tree trunk is tight against Rhys’s back. Andrews’s fingers slowly rise and touch the tip of the knife blade.
‘I have to look after my investment.’ Kier’s voice is loud in the night. His face appears over Andrews’s shoulder. The other man’s body slumps back against him with a grunt.
‘Fuck,’ says Rhys. Kier blanches.
‘As eloquent as ever. A “thank you” will suffice.’ Kier turns his face to Andrews, sniffs his skin. ‘Looks like you owe me.’ He turns back to Rhys.
‘What have you done?’ Rhys whispers.
‘He would have killed you, Rhys. I’ve saved your life. You could at least pretend to be grateful.’
‘He was only here because of you, because of what you are. We were both only here because of you. You didn’t need to… there was no need to do – ’
‘Because of what you are.’ Kier mimics. ‘Because you are a nasty old Nosferatu.’ He turns on Rhys. ‘You were both here because of yourselves but flattery will get you everywhere. Never underestimate the human ego, Rhys.’ Kier is too close. Andrews’s body is wedged between them. ‘Now, if you will excuse me.’ Kier nods towards Andrews. ‘He’s already colder than I’d like.’
Kier throws back his head, reveals his incisors. The movement contorts his face beyond human recognition. He tilts Andrews’s neck away from him and lunges, turning them both away from Rhys. They are still too close. The image of the twisted face is too close. Rhys hears the piercing of the skin, the suck of blood.
He screams and runs as hard and fast as he can.
From the bushes someone watches the men fight. Did the word Nosferatu catch the air? He hears one of the men scream so loud he could awake Satan himself. The man in the bushes giggles until his eyes water. Suddenly he doesn’t feel so crazy after all.
59.
The front door slams. Anna jumps, stands. Angry. Ready for confrontation. Rhys is wild, sweating. He rants at full pelt, shakes and paces in front of her.
‘He was out there. He did it. He killed Andrews. He killed him right there in front of me. He killed Andrews, right in front of me, with a hunting knife straight through his heart. It was at the tree, over at the tree. Andrews was going to kill me, lock the doors, phone the police, quickly phone the police, phone the army, phone anyone, get them out there now.’
‘What have you done?’
‘What have I done? What have I fucking done? Jesus. Phone Elsie tell her to lock the door, tell her not to answer it under any circumstances, it’s not safe. God I wish they were all here, we were all here together, that way I would know we were all safe. Pass me the phone, I need to call her, them. Why are you just standing looking at me like that? He’s out there. Call the police.’ He’s ashen, green around the edges. He paces the hallway, points wildly, goes to the front door. ‘I’ll go and get them, the kids, Elsie, except he’s still out there.’
‘Here.’ She offers him a large gin. ‘Have this. It’ll calm you down.’ He downs it.
‘Did you hear what I said? Where’s the phone? Andrews, Kier killed him, stabbed him through the heart.’ Rhys brings his hands up to his chest. ‘He was this close to
me.’ He steps in close to Anna. ‘They both were. I could smell it. I could smell the death. I could see it, the life leaving his body.’ Anna notices the tremble in his fingers. ‘Stop standing staring at me. Call the police. Where’s the phone? I’ll do it myself.’ He turns wildly on the spot, head jerking from side to side, not seeming to notice the phone. She picks it up. He paces the hall.
‘Hello? Police please…’ She walks into the kitchen. Easier to lie to the dial tone if she doesn’t have to look at him.
‘Tell them there’s been a murder.’ Rhys shouts from the hall. Anna hears the sound of him sliding the chain across the front door. ‘And I know who did it, oh yes, I know.’
Anna mutters instructions into the handset. Rhys paces and shouts.
Anna concludes the call, stands in the hall and waits.
Rhys paces. Stands. Paces. Rants. Paces. Stands. Shouts about how the police are taking too long.
‘You’ll have to believe me now.’ Eventually he turns his words on her. ‘When the police get here. You’ll have to believe me when you see his body.’ Rhys is close once more. ‘When you see what the monster has done.’
Rhys steps back.
‘Shit. When you see what he’s, what did he… oh god… what the…’ He staggers against the banisters.
Finally.
‘I don’t feel… shit.’ Everything from the shelf in the hallway tumbles to the floor as he stumbles into it. ‘What have you done?’ He looks at her then. The saddest look she’s ever seen. The shelf comes away from the wall as he crashes to the floor. Anna winces, hopes he hasn’t hurt himself, hopes he’ll understand when he wakes up.
The sleep will do him good. He looks pathetic, crumpled on the floor. How is she going to move him? She hadn’t really thought it through, just panicked at the authority in Divisional Superintendent Wallace’s voice. She feels sad it was so easy. A handful of sleeping tablets in the gin.
What has he done out there?
She shivers.