by Ben Cheetham
Harlan gave him a steady, reassuring look. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I promise. Do you believe me?”
Jamie didn’t nod – his trust in adults had been destroyed too completely for that – but he stopped shaking his head.
Harlan handed Jamie his torch, then returned to the cave. The Prophet’s colour had improved, but he still hadn’t regained consciousness. Taking out his knife, Harlan crouched to slap him. “Wake up!” The Prophet’s eyelids flickered. Harlan hit him again hard enough to split his lip. As the Prophet’s eyes popped wide, Harlan pressed the knife against his throat. “Where’s Ethan Reed?”
“Wha…Who?” the Prophet said, groggily.
“Don’t give me that. You know who the fuck I’m talking–” Harlan broke off as, out of the side of his eye, he glimpsed the Prophet pulling something out of his jacket pocket – something that caught the light with a glimmer. He moved his arm to block the Prophet’s thrust, but he wasn’t fast enough. He felt the knife blade grind against his hipbone as it went in. There was an intense sensation of pressure, more like he’d been hit with a hammer than stabbed. He slashed at the Prophet’s hand, opening a bone-deep gash across the back of it. The Prophet jerked the blade free and made another thrust. It bit nothing more substantial than air, as Harlan flung himself sideways. Scrambling upright, the Prophet lurched after Harlan, but the chain whipped his foot from under him. Nostrils flaring like an enraged bull, he sprang back upright and stood at the full extent of the chain, knife held ready to strike.
Harlan faced him, teeth gritted, hand clutched to his side. He could feel blood seeping warmly through his clothes. A dull throbbing ache was spreading outwards from the wound. He looked at the Prophet’s knife. It had a tide-mark about halfway up its five or six inch blade. Deep enough to have pierced internal organs. Why the fuck didn’t you search all his pockets? he thought with bitter self-contempt. How could you make such a fucking rookie mistake? The pain was fast intensifying, growing hotter. Soon, experience told him, it would feel like boiling fat was being pumped into the wound. He’d been stabbed once before back when he was a uniformed copper, just a flesh wound, but the pain had quickly become almost unbearable, making him shake uncontrollably. He knew he had to move fast, try and make it back to his car before that stage of shock overtook him. But his desperate desire to find out where Ethan was held him in place. He glanced around for something he could use to knock the knife out of the Prophet’s hand. His gaze fixed on the deckchair. Wincing, he picked it up.
“Come on then!” snarled the Prophet, echoing Robert Reed’s last words.
When Harlan heard that, he knew. If he attempted to tackle the Prophet, one of them was going to die. Either way, that wouldn’t help Ethan. But if it was himself, the Prophet might have time to break free and recapture Jamie. No matter what, he couldn’t allow that to happen. Better to call in the police, let them deal with him. Besides, the Prophet was already facing life in prison. So, unlike Jones, he had nothing to gain by hiding the truth.
Holding the chair up like a shield, in case the Prophet threw the knife at him, Harlan backed out of the cave. Once he was inside the tunnel, he dropped the chair, and limped to the boy. It felt like there was a nail lodged in the wound, pushing deeper into his hipbone with every step. A look of relief came into Jamie’s eyes when he saw Harlan. But the anxiety returned to them as Harlan pulled up his sweatshirt. The wound was about two inches long, its clean edges yawning apart to a width of about half an inch. Dark red blood seeped steadily from it. Already his left trouser leg was soaked down to the knee. He pulled off his sweatshirt and cut it into two strips. One he folded into a thick pad and pressed against the wound. The other he tied tightly over the pad.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Harlan said to Jamie, taking back the torch.
Moving as fast as he could bear to, Harlan made his way back along the tunnel. When he came to the T-junction, he paused, shining his torch into the left-hand tunnel. “Ethan!” he shouted. His voice echoed back at him, but there was no other response. Still, he hesitated to continue, wondering if he had the strength to check out the tunnel. The tremors in his legs and the waves of dizziness crashing over him told him he didn’t. Jamie tugged at his hand, urging him to take the tunnel that led to the first cave. Heaving a painful sigh, Harlan allowed himself to be pulled along. Clearly knowing the way out, Jamie moved ahead of Harlan, pausing every few paces to glance back, his eyes shining like saucers in the torchlight. Harlan’s left leg dragged ever more heavily. Several times he staggered and almost fell. But when they reached the cave, and his nostrils caught the stench of the corpse, some hidden reserve of strength welled up inside him. Picking up his pace, he waved Jamie onwards. Beyond the cave, a cool draught of night air blew in from the tunnel’s entrance, soothing his feverishly hot face. He gulped down lungfuls of it.
When they reached the hole, Jamie scrambled out of it as if the Devil was nipping at his heels. Harlan dragged himself up after him and grasped the trapdoor. As he strained to lift it, pain exploded like a grenade in his hip. His grip on the metal sheet started to slip, but Jamie rushed forward to help. Between them, they managed to flip it shut. Harlan locked the padlock and fell breathless on the ground. He lay on his back, shivering like grass in the wind. Above him, the stars swam in and out of focus. After a moment, fighting nausea, he struggled to his feet and looked at the encircling trees. It was only then that the realisation hit him that he was lost. Without the Prophet’s guidance, he had little or no chance of finding his way to the caravan. He was going to have to go back down into the tunnels, tackle the Prophet and force him to lead them there. It was either that or risk wandering in circles in the woods until he fell unconscious from the pain or loss of blood. Heart heavy as a lump of lead, he looked at the trapdoor. Jamie tugged at his arm again. “Do you know the way to the caravan?” Harlan asked him hopefully.
Jamie nodded. Briefly closing his eyes with relief, Harlan handed him the torch and gestured for him to lead the way. They clambered up the grassy bank and entered the deeper darkness beneath the leaf canopy. Occasionally, Jamie paused, shining the torch this way and that, before continuing onwards. Even though the night was cool, sweat poured off Harlan. At shortening intervals, he was forced to lean, panting, against a tree and wring out the makeshift bandage like a wet dishcloth. The blood leaking from him was no longer blood it was molten lava, scorching its way down his leg and squelching in his shoe. Every step now was pure agony. He stared at his feet, thinking, one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving. Keep moving or die.
After about twenty minutes, although it seemed more like twenty hours to Harlan, they emerged into the clearing to the left of the caravan. The car was only a couple of hundred yards up the dirt track, but it might as well have been a hundred miles away. As Harlan tried to move, the world went blurry with the pain. For a moment he stood swaying on the edge of unconsciousness. Then he saw Jamie’s face. The boy was staring at the caravan as if transfixed, mouth working mutely, tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight pulled Harlan back from the brink. His gaze moved beyond the boy to the Landrover. He took the Prophet’s keys out of his pocket. There was an ignition key amongst the bunch. There was a risk that in using the Landrover he would contaminate physical evidence, but he didn’t see any other choice. Jamie blinked as Harlan tapped his shoulder and pointed to the vehicle.
With Jamie supporting Harlan by the elbow as best he could, they moved torturously slowly towards the Landrover. The key fitted. Harlan hauled himself behind the wheel, groaning with relief as he took his weight off his injured hip. He glanced at the backseat while Jamie ran around to the front passenger door. There was a pharmacy prescription bag sealed with a label on it. He picked it up and read the label. ‘Mary Webster. 1831 Wilmslow Road, Parrs Wood, Manchester’. A faint ripple of surprise passed through him. He’d assumed the Prophet would out of practical and psychologi
cal necessity be a loner, but that obviously wasn’t the case. Who was Mary Webster? he wondered. The Prophet’s wife? His partner in crime? Was he one half of a murderous duo cast in the mould of Brady and Hindley? It was possible, of course, but unlikely. More probably it was his mother. Whoever she was, she was in for a big shock when the police came to batter down her door and tear her home apart. She’d be in for an even bigger shock, one she’d likely never recover from, when she learnt what they were searching for. And so the trail of devastated lives would continue on and on with no apparent end.
Exhaling a burning breath, Harlan reversed onto the track and slammed the gear-stick into first. Even cushioned by the four-by-four’s suspension, every bump in the dirt was like a twist of a torturer’s rack, squeezing more nausea up from the pit of his stomach. Halfway to the main road, he braked, threw open his door and vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. He’d eaten little other than doughnuts for days. Finally, they made it to the road. Harlan checked his phone. There was a signal. He called Jim.
“What is it?” his ex-partner asked brusquely. “Things are kind of crazy here right–”
“I’ve got him,” interrupted Harlan, his voice was low and hoarse with agonised exhaustion.
“Got who? Are you alright? You sound terrible.”
“The guy who snatched Jack Holland. I found Jamie Sutton as well. He’s alive.”
There was a moment of silence, as if Jim was struggling to take in what he’d heard. Then he said, “Where are you?”
As Harlan described as best he could where they were, he examined the blood soaked makeshift bandage. “And send an ambulance. I’ve been…” His voice slurred off. Without him even realising it, his eyes slid shut and his head nodded. Suddenly he was with Tom at the park, pushing him on a swing. Tom was laughing, kicking his feet high, his thick brown hair blowing in the wind. A perfectly happy scene, but something about it made Harlan uneasy. More than that, it made him angry. So angry he wanted to scream and claw at it, tear it to shreds.
“Harlan, are you still there? Talk to me?”
Jim’s voice jerked Harlan away from Tom. With difficulty, he lifted his head. “Hurry, Jim.”
“Someone’s already on the way. Don’t hang up, Harlan. Stay on the line with me until they get there.”
“I’ll try.” Harlan seemed to hear his own voice from a distance. He leant his head against the window. The pain wasn’t so bad anymore. He knew that probably wasn’t a good sign.
“We’ve got a helicopter up. Can you see it?”
Harlan rolled his eyes glassily at the sky. “No.”
“Keep looking. Tell me when you do.”
Harlan gazed up at the stars. His eyes drifted as he wondered dimly about how Jamie knew the path through the woods. The answer seemed obvious. The boy had been moved from the cave to the caravan enough times that he could find his way between the two even in the dark. But for what purpose? From Jamie’s reaction to the caravan, the answer to that also seemed chillingly obvious.
He looked at Jamie. The boy was sat hunched down, hands clasped in his lap. Even after everything that’d just happened, he met Harlan’s gaze warily. “Did that man, the one from the cave, take you to see someone else at the caravan?” Harlan hated to ask the question, but he had to know.
Jamie nodded.
“Was it a man?”
Jamie shrugged.
“Were you blindfolded?”
Tears shimmered in Jamie’s eyes as he shook his head.
“Did the person wear a mask?”
Another nod.
“Did…did…” Harlan stumbled over his words. The world was turning grey at the fringes. Merciful blackness beckoned. Just one or two more questions, he told himself, then you can let go. “Did this person take photos of you?”
Jamie shook his head and gestured in the air. Harlan wrinkled his brow, not understanding. Then realisation hit him. “They drew you.”
Jamie nodded. The tears finally spilled over.
“It’s okay,” said Harlan, barely murmuring the words. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
But it wasn’t going to be okay. Never. Ever. Harlan returned his gaze to the stars. One was brighter than the others. It hadn’t been there before. He watched it moving nearer. He heard a distant sound. Whump, whump, whump, like a pounding heart. Then his eyelids slammed down and it felt like when Kane hit him with the bat, only this time he was falling into warm, dark water.
Chapter 16
Harlan remembered being stretchered to the ambulance, flashing lights, the wail of the siren. He remembered being wheeled into the hospital, a nurse cutting away his clothes, doctors crowding around talking about blood loss and X-rays, shining lights in his eyes. He remembered a voice. “Harlan, can you hear me?” it’d asked. “Blink if you can.” He’d blinked. Another – or was it the same? – voice had said something about exploratory surgery. He even remembered being lifted onto the operating table. But all of it was hazy and remote as a dream. And the whole time, one train of thought kept running through in his brain: I need to talk to Eve. I need to hear her voice. I need her to be here. I need her. I need her...
The next thing Harlan remembered was waking up to find himself lying in a hospital bed in a single room, hooked up to an oxygen mask, an IV bag and a cardiac monitor. A female doctor was stood at the end of his bed, reading his medical notes. Her face blurred in and out before his drug-clouded eyes. He felt floaty, disconnected. Noticing he was awake, the doctor asked, “Mr Miller, how do you feel? Any pain?”
“None,” Harlan croaked through the mask. “No bullshit, Doc, how am I doing?”
“You’re doing fine. There was a perforation to your small intestine that required stitching. But otherwise you’ve been very lucky. The knife missed your femoral artery by millimetres. If it had hit it, you’d have bled to death.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Not long. You came out of surgery about an hour ago.”
Where’s Jamie? Harlan meant to ask the question out loud, but his mind was already slipping away from him, drifting back into unconsciousness. Sometime later, it might’ve been hours or only minutes, a familiar voice reached through the ether and pulled him into wakefulness. He cracked his eyelids open and squinted up at Jim’s grizzled face. The oxygen mask and cardiac monitor were gone, but the IV remained. There was a faint throbbing in his lower abdomen. His mouth was drier than sand. He gestured to a jug of water and Jim poured him a cup. After sipping from it, he asked, “Where’s Jamie?”
“On another ward, being treated for shock, malnutrition and Christ knows what else. Poor little bugger.”
“Has he spoken yet?”
“Just a few words. Enough to let us know what you did for him.”
“So you found that son-of-a-bitch I left chained up in the caves.”
Jim nodded. “How did you find your way down there?”
Harlan gave Jim the story from arriving at the caravan to rescuing Jamie – he figured Jones would’ve filled the police in on the earlier events. Then he asked, “What about Jones?”
“We found him too. Or rather, we heard him kicking and shouting from the boot of your car. He’s in hospital as well.” Jim’s lips thinned into a smile, although his eyes were troubled. “You crazy bastard. Do you have any idea of the shit storm you’ve brought down on me and the whole department?”
Harlan couldn’t have cared less about that. There was only one thing he really cared about right then. “Have you found Ethan?”
“Not yet. We’re still searching the caves. Apparently there’s mile after mile of them underneath the woods.”
“What about bodies? Have you found any more besides the one in the first cave?”
“So you saw that, did you?”
Harlan gave a slight nod.
A cleft appeared between Jim’s eyebrows. “Pretty fucking gruesome, eh. Why the hell would he keep it there?”
“I guess he got some kind of kick out of it
.”
“Yeah, that’s what our psychologists said, except they used the word necrophilia.” The cleft deepened. “You know me, Harlan. I’ve seen plenty in my time. Nothing much gets to me, but this…I just can’t seem to wrap my head around it.” Jim heaved a sigh. “Anyway, the answer to your question is no. But if there are any more down there the dogs will sniff them out.”
“What do you know about the body?”
“Forensics are still working on that. All I can tell you right now is it’s a male, aged eight or nine, and he’s been dead for a good few years.”
“And what about the Prophet?”
“Who?”
“The Prophet. That’s Jones’s nickname for the fucker who knifed me. Is he talking?”
“Richard Nash. That’s his actual name. He’s a real case. A forty-year old Geordie serial sex offender with a drug habit.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Whatever he can get his hands on – speed, coke, heroin, prescription drugs. And no, he’s not talking. In fact, he’s not said a fucking word since we brought him in. We’re working on the bastard day and night.”
“What does his rap-sheet look like?”
“Like every parent’s worst nightmare. It starts when he was just a kid himself. Only days before his sixteenth birthday, he lured an eight-year old boy out of a garden in Newcastle with the promise of ice-cream. The boy was later found semi-conscious on a nearby disused railway line. There was bruising on his throat and traces of semen on his clothing. Nash had strangled him half to death and masturbated over him. Several people had seen Nash walking with the boy, so he was soon identified and arrested. He was charged with ABH and indecent assault. But some idiot judge swallowed a psychiatrist’s opinion that the assault was out of character and reduced the charges to lewd conduct.”
“Lewd conduct,” Harlan said incredulously. “Why not just give him a slap on the wrist and send him on his way?”
“That’s pretty much what happened. Nash was given a two-year suspended borstal sentence. As soon as it was over, he headed south to London and got a job as a labourer. He found lodgings with a family with three children, one of whom was a nine-year old boy. You don’t have to be a genius to work out what happened next. When the boy’s parents learned that Nash was molesting him, they called the police. And when Nash’s room was searched, they found a huge stash of child pornography magazines, videos and photos he’d taken himself. Turns out Nash liked nothing better than to go to Brighton on his days off and covertly photograph kids on the beach. This time he was sent down. He did a two-year stretch.”