by Ryan Casey
Wasn’t he?
In front of him there was a man. He had a blue cap on his head, a black hoodie with the hood up over the cap. He was wearing black everything—black waterproof trousers, black shoes that looked like they were covered in a shiny plastic film.
Black gloves. Rubber gloves.
“I…I need to get past,” David said. He tried to step to the left of the guy, but the man held his arm out, blocking his path. At first, David thought that perhaps he was just a weirdo, but now he knew the truth; he couldn’t help but feel he’d been dropped into a very dangerous position.
He had an idea why this man was here.
And who he was.
“I know who you are,” David said, his entire body shaking. He felt a damp patch growing in his jeans, and even though his brain acknowledged that he was pissing himself, he couldn’t stop. “I…I know what you’ve—what you’ve done. What you’re planning to do. I know now. It makes sense. But you can’t. It’s all in the past. It’s all…It’s all history. Why are you so—”
In a split second, the hooded man clutched David’s neck very tightly and pushed him back against his door. He’d have gagged if he could’ve, but the man held him so tight that he couldn’t get anything out, not even a breath, or a scream.
The man lifted his head. For the first time, David saw his face properly. Scarred. Glassy grey eyes.
“If nobody punished sinners for their past actions, then the world would spiral out of control.”
David coughed. Wheezed. His head grew heavy. The vein in his temple bulged. He felt like he was going to burst.
But no. He couldn’t. Somebody needed to know. If nobody found out, then the killer would get away with it. They’d get away with it forever. Cody Ballenthine’s theory had been correct. Brian’s suspicions had been correct. He had to know. He had to.
“I’m truly sorry for what I’m about to do to you,” the man said. He had a genuine look of remorse on his face. “I admire your persistence. Your dedication to your profession. It really goes a long way further than most. But it’s not time yet. Not just yet. There are still lessons to be taught. Sorry.” He reached into his back pocket with his free hand, and pulled out a short, sharp blade. “Sometimes tough decisions have to be made.”
Before David could even acknowledge what was about to happen, the blade was already pressed up against his neck, slicing across it. He dropped to his knees and landed flat on his face as warm fluid seeped from his neck. He still couldn’t breathe, even though the man had let go, but now it was because of the waterfall of red fluid blocking his windpipe, seeping out onto the dark brown carpet below.
His vision grew fuzzy. He turned onto his side, struggling and struggling for breath. He wasn’t in pain. There was something so peculiar about it. He had a sense of what was going to happen to him, lying here in front of his flat, waiting to greet his wife and his unborn child. But he was completely at peace with it.
Then the man in the black clothing came into view again. He muttered something that David couldn’t understand. It sounded like an apology. He wasn’t sure.
As the man in black grew blurrier and blurrier and David’s vision started to darken, he thought about Brian; about Cody Ballenthine’s email and what it meant. He thought about it all and felt a tear roll down his face.
He knew. He was the only one who knew.
But it didn’t matter anymore. It’d all be over soon.
He closed his eyes and was surrounded in complete darkness. A freezing chill came over his entire body, but he couldn’t place his hands or feet or legs or anything.
He wasn’t even dead yet and already he felt completely and utterly alone.
Chapter Twenty Seven
Brian hopped down the stairs with a spring in his step. He whistled as he walked past the door, the usual stack of papers nowhere in sight. A buzz ran through his body—a buzz that made him want to grin, regardless of the stand-off with Darren Anderson, regardless of Stephen Molfer’s shooting, regardless of the whole sorry case and everything that surrounded it.
Today, his fiancé and he were going to celebrate their engagement with a couple of her friends, and they were going to enjoy every minute of it.
Hannah was already up in the kitchen with a coffee in hand. Her hair looked shiny. She must’ve washed it again after last night’s action because when they’d finished with one another they were far from clean. She smiled at him as he stepped into the kitchen, a healthy flush in her cheeks. She was wearing her black blazer over a white top, and a pair of tight blue jeans. She looked good. Really good. He was so lucky.
“Up bright and early, aren’t you?” Brian said.
“Well, thought I should make a start on the plans for tonight. I’ve called your mate Mike and a few of the girls. You’ll get on with their husbands, I just know it.”
Brian bit into a red apple that was lying on the counter beside his phone, which he’d left on charge last night. He cringed as the bitter taste danced on his tongue. The apple was brown inside.
“They’re a bunch of cynical, world-weary bastards, just like you. So you should get on just fine.”
Brian tossed the apple straight into the bin. “Yeah. I’ll try my best.” He was always wary of meeting new people. Always suspicious of their motives. But hell—they were going to be here to celebrate Hannah’s and his engagement. Sure, the women would judge him, but that didn’t matter. The time for effective judgement were the first few mates’ gatherings. The engagement party was a way of offering a royal “fuck you, we’re getting married anyway” to all the cynics.
Something that Brian was entirely in his comfort zone with.
“So we’ve got Mary and Pete from Blackpool Daily, Sammy from college, the parents, of course…anyone you can think of? Don’t want them thinking you’re a complete recluse.”
Brian considered a few people in his head. The first person that came to mind was DS Carter, but he’d barely known her a month so it seemed weird inviting her to his engagement party. Stephen Molfer? Well, he was shacked up in hospital. Besides, it still seemed just too strange even contemplating inviting him to such a personal event. The only person that came to mind was Scott, his PCSO buddy.
“I’ll get in touch with Scott. He doesn’t drink or do parties, really.”
Hannah grabbed her handbag then kissed him on the cheek. “Sounds like a perfect match for you then.”
“And where are you off to?”
Hannah waved her purse at Brian. “Off to grab a few bits and bobs. We could ask our guests to feast on mouldy apples and stale bread, but I figured it’d be slightly more reasonable to get a few drinks and nibbles in. Might give a better impression of ourselves, eh?”
“A fake impression, perhaps.”
“We’re all fakers at heart, aren’t we? I won’t be too long anyway. Don’t…y’know. Go running off anywhere.”
“I’ll try my best to keep myself shackled down.”
She blew him a kiss before heading out of the kitchen and out of the front door.
Brian laughed and shook his head. He was so lucky. She was perfect for him, she really was. She shared his cynical sense of humour, a slightly more positive spin on things. She was fun to be around, and good with other people—the yin to his yang, in that respect. He was pleased she was getting out of the house again, showing confidence. Like she’d said last night, the pair of them were about to start a whole new chapter. Positivity was the key to that.
Jesus. He’d softened with age.
He grabbed his phone to give Scott a call and see whether he fancied popping round for a drink. He’d left his phone charging overnight and hadn’t had the chance to check it—not that anyone texted him these days, anyway.
To his surprise, there were six missed calls, and all of them were from David Wallson.
The first thought that came to mind was that he should probably ask David round tonight too, even if it was ju
st for a quick drink. Sure, David had got him buried in the shitstorm that was the Pendle Hill and Longridge Fell massacre case. But he’d also helped him; aided him, and therefore aided the investigation. Besides, he was still promising to clear Brian’s name of any guilt in the old Nicola Watson case. He understandably never used to care for David, but now, he’d shown his true colours, and in truth, they weren’t too bad.
But then he realised how strange it was that he’d been getting calls from David Wallson. A couple of them were yesterday afternoon, when he’d got in from work and fast commenced his “activities” with Hannah. But the majority of them were around eleven p.m., all within a few minutes of one another. It seemed strange. Very strange. Maybe David had found out that Darren Anderson was the one responsible for the killings, and wanted a slightly less-than-official insight from Brian. Selling stories, at the end of the day. He was still a journalist, after all.
Yet still, something seemed strange, looking at those four calls in particular around the eleven p.m. mark. Brian sensed an urgency about them. A frustration.
He’d give David a call and see what it was he’d wanted, anyway. He still wasn’t totally sure whether he was going to invite him to the engagement party yet or not, so he’d call Scott first and see what he said about his invite.
He scrolled down to Scott’s name and dialled. He sat on the edge of his kitchen counter as he waited, tapping his fingers against the black marble surface. He felt a little tingly in his stomach. He wasn’t used to asking friends to social events, not anymore. It felt unfamiliar to him. Alien, even.
Eventually, the call went to answerphone. Brian cancelled the call before the beep of voicemail kicked in, avoiding any potential awkwardness. Maybe he wouldn’t even get the opportunity to make that invite after all.
He scrolled back up to David’s name. “Dickhead Dave” he used to have it in as. Funny how things changed with time. First him, then Stephen. Was this case some sort of moral lesson for him? Don’t judge a book by his cover, or some crap like that?
He hit David’s name and brought the phone to his ear without mulling over whether to invite him or not any further. Screw what the police might think, or what anyone might think for that matter. David Wallson was a cock, but he was a cock who’d really wanted the best for Brian in the end. Perhaps it was all self-interest really, but he sensed at least a small part of it was genuine.
Again, he waited, and waited, as the phone rang and rang, but like Scott’s phone, David went straight to answerphone, too.
“Bloody ‘ell,” Brian muttered. Maybe they were avoiding him. Maybe they sensed they’d get some sort of invite and were intentionally trying to avoid any contact with him. He’d read their supposed “friendships” wrong. So wrong.
Brian tossed his phone to one side. Maybe he was just destined to remain the miserable antisocial bugger in the corner at social gatherings. But it didn’t matter, not really. He had Hannah. He had his son. And providing DI Marlow didn’t get him kicked out of the PCSO role altogether, he had a steady, stable job. It was no dream career, not like the high ranks of the police he’d always imagined he’d one day be a part of, but it did the trick. Kept him busy and put food on the table.
He looked at his watch. Just past eleven a.m. Hannah would probably be gone an hour or so. He looked over at his phone again. Spotted that the notifications of the missed calls were still present in a little red bubble beside the “Phone” icon. David Wallson had really wanted to get in touch. For some reason, he really wanted to get in contact with him.
Was he forever going to be that miserable antisocial git, or was he going to do something about it?
“Fuck it,” Brian mumbled, as he grabbed his phone and stuffed it in his pocket. The bus would be outside soon. He could catch the 88A and be at David’s in fifteen minutes, then catch it right back again and be home before Hannah even had the chance to leave the clothes section of the supermarket.
He wandered outside and up to the end of the road. It was a bright, chilly day. A woman jogged along in a pink Nike hoodie, black gloves wrapped around her hands. Brian could see her breath coming out of her mouth as she huffed and puffed. A cold day, but a pleasant day.
Bloody hell. He really was getting old and frumpy as fuck.
After waiting a few minutes for the bus and then hopping on, he got a seat right by the front, which you were supposed to give up for old people if they got on. But this bus was barely ever busy, so he took his chances. There were just two people towards the back of the bus—an older man, and a teenager from the nearby college, with a long fringe and over-loud headphones in his ears. Dead to the world, he was.
The journey was event-free. He jumped off the bus without any interruptions or pleas to move from old fogies and wandered down Chapel Street towards Winkley Square, where David Wallson’s first-floor flat was. Winkley Square was a haven for work and play, lined with upmarket bars and legal firms. People in suits wandered past, phones glued to their ears, as well-dressed women sat in the green park area in the centre, tucking into their early lunch.
Brian walked around the black-painted metal fence and up to the tall door at the front of David Wallson’s flat building. There were four floors here, and David apparently had the first floor to himself at the moment, so Brian pressed the button to the first floor and waited for an answer.
He waited and waited and waited, but still, nothing. The longer he waited there, the more wary he became that perhaps David was working today.
He pressed the doorbell again, and the large black-painted front door creaked open. Brian brushed himself down and cleared his throat, forcing a smile.
An old man stood at the door. He was short—about five foot six—and had greying hair and a fluffy beard. “You rang the bell?” he said.
“Erm, yeah. I’m here to see David. No problem if he’s—”
“Just head upstairs,” the old man said, further opening the door and stepping to one side. “Never hears his bell, that lad. Always me who ends up opening it for him.
Brian stepped inside the echoey reception area. “Um, thanks,” Brian said, as the door slammed shut behind him.
“Stairs just there on the right,” the old man said, pointing at a staircase. The building smelled like fresh paint, and was very light and airy. The floor was a tiled white. It reminded Brian of an old library, only much less dusty and remarkably less boring. Classical paintings lined the walls. Hardly the place Brian imagined David Wallson to live.
As the old man stumbled off to his room on the left, muttering under his breath, Brian made his way up the stairs. Despite the reception area being light, the staircase was dark, even though there was a yellowing light just above the top step. The stairs were carpeted in a dark brown colour too, which hardly helped the light.
Brian smiled again. Took a few breaths. He wondered where David was, and what it was he really wanted to tell him. But he’d be there soon. He’d be able to find out within a matter of minutes. They’d laugh about it some time in the future.
He hoped.
Brian turned the top step and onto the first-floor corridor. A large brown door was at the end. He walked up to it. It was still dark, and there was a mugginess about the place. It seemed to get less pleasant the further he moved. Like Dante’s descent into Hell.
Brian knocked on the brown door and waited. He couldn’t hear anything inside. No sound from a television, no hum of music or clatter of footsteps. If David really was hiding from him, he was doing a damn good job.
Brian knocked again. “It’s just Brian. Thought I’d pop by to see how…”
His speech trailed off. At first, he thought he must just be dreaming or something. He’d had a bad feeling that something might happen, like David ignoring him, but nothing sinister. He’d put that option to the back of his mind; suffocated that possibility.
He leaned down and took a closer look at the silver handle of David Wallson’s door.
There wer
e three bloody prints on it. Like fingerprints. It was as Brian focused on those prints that he noticed there was a darkness in the carpet, too, and a trail of darkness on the door.
The sort of darkness blood created.
Brian reached for the handle, covering his hand with his sleeve. He’d call the police. Call the police and get them down here. Maybe something bad had happened to David. Maybe he’d had an accident.
As he lowered the handle, he was surprised to find the door click and edge forward.
It was unlocked.
The silence of the place was deafening but for the static of the television, stuck on blue screen.
When he saw what was inside, he realised that this wouldn’t be a normal engagement party day after all.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Brian stood completely still in the doorway of David Wallson’s apartment room. He knew immediately why David hadn’t been answering his phone.
The blinds were turned up, blocking out the majority of autumn sun bar a few lone rays, which shone over a leather sofa. The blue screen of the television cast a blue hue over the place. On the floor, beside the sofa, three Budweiser bottles sat, one of them half-finished, left to stagnate.
On the sofa, David Wallson lay on his side. Blood had trickled down the edge of the white leather sofa, drying on the wooden floorboards below. A fluffy cream rug in the middle of the room was covered with spots of more deep red stains.
Brian couldn’t feel his legs. His first instinct was to call the police. And yet, he found himself stepping further into the apartment room. He knew something must’ve been wrong for David not to answer. He knew something was amiss.
But he never suspected this. David Wallson, murdered.
And he knew it must’ve had something to do with the Pendle Hill and Longridge Fell killings. He knew it must’ve been related to Marie’s death, Darren Anderson’s despair. Harold Harvey II.