by Michael Kerr
Having seen the look in Hugh Parfitt’s eyes, Jim fully perceived the depth of madness that lurked behind them in his warped and disassembling psyche.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LEO leaned back against the whitewashed wall at the top of the shadow-filled stairwell. He was as prepared as he could be, and although nervous, actually felt confident. There was no way that Parfitt would be expecting a sixteen-stone man to plough into him as he opened the door. And as Laura had proved earlier, the element of surprise was a powerful foe to contend with.
In a strange way, Leo felt more alive at that moment than he had done in years. The present danger had given rise to a chemical reaction within him that he thought had dried up, crystallised and blown away long ago; no longer within him to trigger the tightness he now felt cramping his stomach, or initiate the false sense of regained youth that seemed to permeate though his muscles with a warm, burning sensation of tense readiness, obviously due to an adrenaline rush.
It was almost five years since Leo’s wife had died. Soon afterwards he had taken early retirement from the force. Sheila had been his rock; the foundation upon which he had built his life. She had brought order to chaos, and had always been there for him, supportive and yet independent; his true love and best friend.
It had been septicaemia that had so suddenly and unexpectedly taken Sheila from him. She had undergone relatively minor surgery; a knee replacement, and should have been out of hospital in forty-eight hours, but instead, had died, drugged to ease the pain, robbing him of even a chance to tell her how very much he loved her, and say good-bye.
He had entered the dark and desperate world of grief; a bitter place that left him languishing in accursed resentment of life and the cruel lottery that it had proved itself to be. Turning his back on the faith he had shared with Sheila, he disclaimed the concept of a higher, all-seeing power, choosing to perceive existence analogously with the wild order of nature, where only the fittest survive at the expense of the weak, infirm and aged, which they decimate with impunity, until in turn they become victim of the same age-old and endless process. The struggle for life over death seemed a hollow, meaningless and empty pursuance to Leo. Bad enough to be born only to die; but to be aware of the inevitability of such an ephemeral reality was, to him, an extortionate price to pay for the supposed higher intellect that a freak of evolution had bestowed upon his species. As the composer Hector Berlioz had said― ‘Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils’.
For six weeks after Sheila’s death, Leo had for the most part sat alone and disconsolate in the small bungalow that had been home for the duration of their marriage. He had felt himself fading away, as a growing emptiness replaced the spark of life that was bleeding unseen from his mind and body. He contemplated suicide, but chose to live, on his own terms; a solitary existence. He eventually regrouped, handed in his papers and left the force, to almost immediately open the agency, so that he would have a reason to climb out of bed each morning and face another day. With time, the involvement with hapless or troubled clients proved a distraction from his own despondency, allowing him to function on a level that became at least tolerable.
The bungalow had become a neglected, dust-layered mausoleum that he frequented less and less. Most nights, he slept on the sofa in the small room next to his office, visiting the house only once or twice a week, to try and feel closer to Sheila, causing himself renewed pain as he opened wardrobes and drawers, to touch and look at the clothes, jewellery and other personal effects that she had worn or used or enjoyed possessing. They gave him no solace, and yet he could not bring himself to bag up the material residue of her life in bin-liners and dispose of it piecemeal to Oxfam or the tip. That was a final undertaking that he had postponed and shirked away from, as he had with his beloved wife’s ashes, which still reposed in a rosewood casket atop her piano in the lounge, where they had spent so much of their life together. Sheila had loved Whitby, and the sea, which she had viewed as an eternal living entity encompassing and reflecting all human moods, from composed tranquillity to mindless rage. Its tides and flow never ceased to fascinate her, and the lunar forces that affected it were a mystery which both enthralled and excited her. Leo had intended to scatter the cremated dust, that was her mortal remains, over the cliffs that they had walked along hand in hand so many times in the past; to release her into the bracing salt air that she had so enjoyed and been invigorated by. They had spoken of buying a stone-built, sea-facing cottage in the area when he retired, but that dream never came to pass.
Now, standing on the cellar steps, he determined to fulfil what was the duty of the living. If he survived this day, he would clean and clear the house, then – on what would have been Sheila’s fifty-sixth birthday in two weeks time – make the trip to Whitby and metaphorically free her from all earthly constraint. He now felt ready to let go; believed that she was with him, watching over him, and waiting for him along the road a ways.
Laura re-entered the kitchen, paused to listen, but heard no sound. She took a towel from the rail behind the door to wipe the rain and straw from her face and hands, before walking out into the short hall and stopping in front of the metal door, dropping the towel to the floor as she reached it, to stand, her hand on the top bolt, fearful that Hugh would suddenly appear and once more incarcerate her below ground, or just stab or shoot her to death where she stood.
Easing the bolt back, Laura subsequently squatted to release the second, sucking breath through clenched teeth as it scraped noisily, metal on metal, worse than fingernails raking a slate blackboard.
Leo smashed the tabletop into the door as he heard the bottom bolt slip free from its bracket. He lunged forward, eager to take advantage and negate the threat of the man who he believed was about to enter the cellar.
Laura staggered back on her heels as the door knocked her off balance. She fell to the floor winded, then looked up to see the detective glaring wide-eyed over the top of the table he was holding.
“Laura?” Leo said, frowning, surprised.
“Y...yes,” she replied, her voice a gruff whisper.
“The other woman?”
“I’ve not seen her.”
“OK, Let’s get the hell out of here,” Leo said, throwing his makeshift shield aside to crash end over end down the cellar steps as he reached down with his hand outstretched to pull the bedraggled looking woman to her feet.
Standing, Laura turned and ran, back outside, heading for the barn with Leo following. Once inside it, her intention was to hide in the deep straw again, but Leo put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her in mid stride.
“Up there,” he said, pointing to a wide wooden ladder that was fixed to the timber wall and led up to an open hatch that gave access to a loft that ran the entire length of one side of the building, twenty feet above their heads.
Laura went first, as Leo watched the doors, sure that a shotgun wielding maniac would appear, intent on blowing them both to kingdom come. He waited until Laura was two thirds of the way up, then climbed after her, his wet, leather-soled shoes slipping on the smooth rungs as he moved too quickly, feeling vulnerable with his back to the entrance. Looking up, he momentarily stopped, his sore eyes forgotten as they fixed on the sensual sight of Laura’s buttocks and the wedge of hair and tantalising glimpse of pink flesh among dark curls, which redirected his attention away from possible danger. Blood rushed to his face with the embarrassment and shame that he felt for not averting his eyes from her lush nether regions, which were visible under the nightdress she wore.
They nestled into the stale, old straw, both trying to suppress sneezes initiated by the bone-dry particles that had been disturbed and were floating in the air around them, to be seen as a spiralling cloud of motes in the pale shaft of light that pierced the skylight in the roof and formed a grey column, illuminating the block of concrete below it.
“What are you doing here?” Laura asked Leo as they sat with their backs against the wall
at the rear of the loft.
“I came with Jim Elliott,” he said.
The skin on Laura’s neck and scalp prickled. She again heard the gunshots blasting through her mind, now more significant, knowing that Jim must have been the target, and by his absence, convinced that he had been killed as he tried to rescue her.
“I’m so sorry,” Leo said, reading her expression. “Parfitt must have got the drop on him. The bastard had a shotgun. I heard it go off.”
“It was fired twice before you came,” Laura said woodenly, her eyes brimming with tears as she sank into a well of grief that was bottomless and soul destroying.
Leo said, “There was another copper here. He followed Parfitt out to the farm, and he’s missing as well.”
“But what if Jim is still alive?” Laura whispered, not believing it could be true, but grasping at the remote strand of hope she needed to give her the will to function. “He may just be wounded and need help.”
Leo shook his head. “That’s wishful thinking, Laura. What do you want to do? Go back in there and get blown away?”
“I came back for you. I have to go back for Jim. I have to know that I tried. Can’t you see that?”
“No. My phone is in the glove compartment of my car. Let’s try and get to the main road and call for help.”
Laura shook her head. “That’s as risky as going into the house. We could be caught out in the open. He’ll expect me to run, not to go back. He’s probably outside now, searching for me.”
Leo sighed. He could see that her mind was made up. Shit! He had no choice but to accompany her, even though he thought it would probably turn out to be the most stupid decision he had ever made. With no further discussion he went to the ladder and began to climb down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AT the same time as Laura and Leo had run from the house, Hugh had got to his feet and limped past the open cellar door and into the kitchen.
Gone! The Yank must have let her out before going upstairs. But she was lost out there, probably hiding nearby. He had not heard a car drive away. He would have to find her, or he was finished. His eyes locked on to the selection of knives; their dark ebony handles protruding from slots in the large wooden block that stood on the counter next to the bread bin. He withdrew a long, thin-bladed boning-knife, immediately feeling stronger, as though a power radiated through the haft that he now gripped so tightly in his hand. It was as if Elliott had ceased to exist. His mind was blotting out all but a single line of thought at a time. He walked out into the slanting, driving deluge slowly, mechanically, no longer feeling pain from his wounds, and with the blood diluted with rain and being washed from his body he made his way to the front of the house, and then stopped to look about him, determining where he would seek refuge in Laura’s position.
The barn doors were not closed to. There was a vertical black line of shadow; a gap between them. His mouth pulled up to the side in a crooked grin. The stupid bitch had thought to hide in his personal abattoir, unaware that it was his alter of sacrifice, or that the ground it encompassed was filled with so many of his past victims. She had brought him nothing but trouble. Her living even long enough to be butchered at Cox’s place was no longer a consideration. He would find her, tie her to the block, staple her fucking mouth shut, and cut her throat. After that, her dead body would be bagged-up and transported to Cox’s house, where he would stage a macabre scene of murder and suicide. Later, he would attend the scene again, when the corpses were discovered. He would be there in an official capacity, to act suitably shocked and mortified at the atrocities committed on his boss.
Opening the right-hand barn door just wide enough to allow him to slip through, Hugh immediately moved to the side of it, into the shadows, to stand for a few seconds and give his eyes time to adjust to the low light.
Now disentangled from what had been Hugh’s mother, Jim scrambled over the top of the bed and reached down to pick up the knife that Parfitt had attacked him with. The gas gun was not in sight, and he denied himself a few extra seconds to search for it, shuffling back across the bed, to step down to the floor and hear a sharp snap as he inadvertently put his foot through a brittle ribcage. He jerked back, and then returned his attention to what his clearing mind appreciated might be the ace in the hole.
Looking along the gloomy length of the skirting board, he saw the two false eyes, three feet apart, staring out into the room. The thumb, index and ring fingers of his right hand were numb; the result of the deep laceration that gaped open and streamed with blood, forcing him to put the knife on the floor while he retrieved the glass orbs with his left hand and forced them back into the sunken sockets. Then, with the match stick corpse under his right arm, he retrieved the knife and set off in search of Hugh.
Who the fuck is that? Hugh thought, watching the burly figure step down to the ground from the hayloft’s ladder, with Laura above him, carefully descending it a rung at a time.
Leo denied himself a repeat viewing of Laura’s attractive bare bottom, turning away from the vista of firm flesh, just in time to see the naked figure of a man running across the barn towards him. And as he raised his arms in defence he knew that he was too late. The glowering face, maniacal staring eyes, and the blur of shining steel were too close to allow for any evasive action.
The blade arced upwards, to enter his abdomen, sliding smoothly to the hilt. Leo gasped as a sharp, paralysing pain made him double over. Had he not known better, he would have believed that the cramping, crippling agony in his torso was the result of a sudden, massive heart attack.
Hugh put his right hand around the man’s neck, to pull him forward as if greeting an old friend, to then twist and wrench the weapon in all directions to cause as much internal damage as possible. He worked the blade, – as his victim jerked and tried to pull away – only withdrawing it as the other man sank to his knees and ceased to struggle.
Hugh looked up to where Laura clung to the ladder. The shuddering, moaning, dying figure at his feet was already dismissed from his mind. He stepped over it and advanced.
Leo tasted warm blood in his mouth, coughed once and sprayed the air with crimson droplets. He knew that he was dying; could feel a coldness creeping through him that he recognised as being a withdrawal of blood from his extremities; a last ditch attempt by his body to protect the major organs and preserve their functions. Lying on his back, he was surprised that instead of experiencing fear, a spiritual revelation, or the vision of a benign figure calling to him, hand outstretched to lead him into a tunnel of scintillating white light, or whatever the hereafter might be, he found himself once more looking at Laura’s bottom as she hung high above him. It was a truly delectable sight under the clinging hem of her Mickey Mouse nightdress.
Laura climbed back up, too fast, losing her footing and almost falling into the arms of what was no less than waiting death. She somehow held on to the smooth rung, and with muscles stretched and burning, hauled herself back up into the loft, throwing the hatch down and searching in the straw for a catch or bolt to secure it. There was no fastening, or any object she could see to employ and weight it down to keep him out. With no alternative, she knelt on the trapdoor, hoping that her own soaking wet body on the hatch would be enough to keep him at bay. Unable to foresee any escape now, she felt trapped, vulnerable, and very alone.
As Hugh climbed the ladder with the blood-coated knife gripped between his teeth, a scene from his favourite childhood book popped into his mind: Treasure Island, and Israel Hands climbing the rigging of the Hispaniola, intent on murdering Jim Hawkins, who quaked above him in the crosstrees.
With neck and shoulder tight to the underside of the trap, he pushed upwards, straining every muscle, groaning with the effort, but driven by sheer determination and a flood of adrenaline that had surged through him as he ran across the barn to gut the man at the bottom of the ladder. The wood creaked and raised an inch, then two. Above, Laura felt herself being lifted and knew that her weight was not nearly
enough to hold him back, as she began to slide down the rapidly increasing incline.
“You’re going to die, boss,” Hugh mumbled as the trap flipped back, dislodging Laura from it, to dump her in the straw on all fours.
She was between the devil and the deep blue sea, or more aptly, separated from the ground so far below her by a devil in human form. She snatched a glance over the edge of the loft. If she leapt down to escape Hugh, then in all likelihood she would break her ankles or sustain some other injury that would render her unable to move. Better to just throw herself at him now, before he could climb the last couple of rungs and step on to what was in essence a boarded balcony. If they fell to earth together, then with a lot of luck, he may break her fall, and hopefully his neck, or choke on the blade of the knife that was clenched between his teeth, dripping Leo’s blood on to his chin, chest and stomach.
In the instant before she threw herself forward in a final attempt to survive, a voice split the near silence.
“Hey, shithead, look who I’ve got,” Jim shouted, entering the barn, looking up and seeing how close Hugh was to reaching Laura.
Hugh stopped, turned his attention to Jim and let the trapdoor drop back into place as he lowered himself part way down the ladder.