by Marc Horn
I’m shown into a small room divided in half by a piece of glass. The door I pass through has a panelled sheet of reinforced glass in the middle. A burly nurse waits outside, watching me through the panel. Cassandra sits the other side of the huge piece of glass, which contains a small, mesh-like, plastic device for talking into. She looks tired, older, worried. I’ve never seen so many lines on her face.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m all right. You look like shit.’
‘There’s a lot on my mind. Have you read the articles?’
‘Yeah. Seems like I’m responsible for a lot of clear ups.’
‘Your father was asked to trace him,’ she says, looking away from me. She feels safe in here. She can say what she wants. I can’t get to her − the glass is thick. I wouldn’t do that anyway.
‘My dad?’
‘Yes. He was the best in his field. The police knew he could trace anyone. Kilbride had killed all those children, and the police couldn’t find him. Kilbride was too good. He gave them no leads to follow.’
She’s talking fast, clear, her eyes constantly flitting over to the guard, as if she’s concerned that he can hear.
‘How do you know that?’
‘I hadn’t finished – outside the factory. I had more to say, but your attention was elsewhere.’
‘Yeah, that’s cos I was hearing a load of bullshit.’
She swallows, looking drained. ‘Well, you make up your own mind, but only once I’ve told you everything. You can’t form an opinion based on half a story.’ I stare at her, my expression neutral. She takes a deep breath. ‘Your father refused. He wouldn’t get involved. He felt it was too dangerous.’
I feel myself begin to boil. Slagging off my father, suggesting he’s a coward? How fucking dare she!
‘He did the right thing,’ she continues. ‘He wasn’t armed, he had no protection, no back up. He wasn’t in that line of business. He located missing people, not criminals. That was a job for the police.’ I hold her gaze. ‘He cared for you more than his job.’ Her blue eyes delve into mine. I work hard to stay detached. ‘The police officers were incensed and made his refusal public. They tried to discredit your father, but he was strong and stood up to them. They would say he was sticking up two fingers to every loving parent in the country, while he would say that it wasn’t his job to find a killer, and that they were inept.’
‘You got anything to back this up?’
‘Your mother could tell you, or you could read this...’
She holds up another newspaper article for me to see. It’s printed on an A4 page, accessed through online archives like the others. My father’s name stands out. Scanning the article quickly, it seems to substantiate her claims. She puts it back in her bag. She can’t pass anything to me right now. I’m intrigued, engrossed. ‘Go on.’
‘The police took the law into their own hands. They had your father killed in the belief that his son – you − would inherit his talents and put them to their use.’
‘It’s bollocks!’ I hiss. ‘I could have done anything. I could’ve joined the army.’
‘They believed your father’s death and the injustices of my father’s sentence would inspire you to fight crime.’
‘Then they were fucking lucky.’
‘No, they engineered it. There was a police officer who talked to you while you were growing up–’
‘Burton? … PC Burton?’
‘I don’t know his name. But think about it. How many times should you have been arrested for fighting?’
I think about it. She’s right. The bitch is actually right. I got in a lot of fights. Won every fucking one of them, too. And I caused some serious injuries. But every time I got away with it. Burton would have a word in my ear, sometimes give me a slap, but he squared almost all of it up. Almost all. ‘I have been arrested. A couple of times.’
‘And what happened?’
‘They cautioned me for ABH.’
‘Not a verbal warning? An official caution?’
‘Yeah.’
Her head tilts slightly to the left as she looks directly at me. ‘Do they let officers join the job who have cautions?’
I realise I’m gawking at her. Burton never said it would affect me. He told me to put in the application. They never mentioned it, not even in interview. She doesn’t expect an answer, I can tell.
‘He was your mentor. He made sure you joined. And in the end, it all worked out for them. You became an exceptional police officer. You caught Kilbride. And then you turned mad... At least they think that’s when you turned mad. Anyway, that meant no one would believe any truth you unearthed.’ She sniffs and gulps. ‘But there was a problem.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘In the eighties, Kilbride was my father’s business partner.’ My jaw drops. ‘You-you must understand that my father knew nothing about that side of him. It was sickening for both of us when we found out last month–’
‘Yeah, well, you’ve got over that sort of thing before, haven’t you?’
She sighs, declining to be drawn in. ‘Once Kilbride’s identity was proven, they − the police officers responsible for your father’s death − knew that Kilbride knew of the ‘super cop’ plan. Because he waited for you. He targeted children on your ground.’
I rub my face. ‘He waited thirty years for me? Un-fucking-likely. He had a taste for blood. He wouldn’t have stopped.’
‘I don’t know what he did in the meantime. After my father was arrested, he disappeared. We have never seen him since. But what matters now is that we’re all in danger. They know that my father told Kilbride about the ‘super cop’ plan. So they believe that anyone close to my father could know, too. You and me having a relationship will convince them that we both know, too. It means they will kill us.’
‘They can fucking try to kill me!’
‘Razors, they’ve already killed you. What you say now will mean nothing to anyone who matters. Did you ever believe a mental patient when you were a cop? Do you listen to them now?’
‘No.’
‘Exactly. And there are people following me, I know there are. Only you can help me.’
I laugh. ‘Me? You know what I think! And I can’t do fuck all right now.’
‘I helped you, Razors. Now I need your help. We have to escape. We have to go somewhere safe.’
There is desperation in her features. She’s trembling. You know when someone’s laid it all down on the table? ‘How have you helped me?’
She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘They’re wrong about your madness… I mean, when it set in. Remember when we were outside the factory? I told you I wasn’t the source of your trauma. I wasn’t given an opportunity to explain that statement.’ She blinks away a tear. ‘Razors, your madness set in before you killed Kilbride.’
‘Oh. You know exactly when I lost it, do you? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Yes.’
I place my hands behind my head, sit back and snort. ‘And when the fuck was that?’
‘Monday the twenty-ninth of July.’
I shrug and shake my head. ‘Doesn’t ring any of my bells.’
She closes her eyes for a second and then stares directly at me. ‘It’s the day you murdered Ethan Kent, the missing boy.’
I frown, sit up straight, lean forward. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? Jumont got charged with that.’
‘You confessed to it,’ she says.
I shake my head, incredulous. ‘This is-this is fucking crazy. You’re crazy. Jumont did it − they found his prints everywhere. Why the fuck would I have confessed to it? Where? Where did I do that? And who to?’
She lifts a book out of her bag. Not all the way out, just enough so that I can see the corner. She’s careful not to attract the nurse’s attention. ‘It’s the first entry,’ she explains, as I stare at my journal.
32
I sit in the meeting room. Think. There’s so much racing around in my head. I’m sitting in front of one of the
long walls. There are a few patients about. All of them are sitting away from me, minding their own business, except for the black woman of course. She sits in the corner watching me as always, her hands loosely fisted on her knees, her back bent forwards and slightly lop sided, her wizened, brown eyes searing into mine like lasers.
Apparently, I murdered Kent. Cassandra would have me believe that. It’s written in my journal, she’d said. I wanted more from her, but she told me she had to leave. If I wanted to hear more, I’d have to find her. She gave me an address and said she wouldn’t come here again.
Is it worth analysing? It will lead to conjecture, which is dangerous. But can I really be expected not to try to make sense of this? I know that Kent burgled me. I didn’t report it. That suggests that I dealt with it ‘in house’ i.e. myself. That’s not a good thing, not a good thing at all. But no, I’ve never gone too far, certainly not that far. I’m not a murderer. The Poet was a self-defence thing – I was protecting the two girls. Besides, that piss flap couldn’t be a victim, no matter what was done to him. Some would say, myself included, that Kent’s death was deserved. He didn’t kill anyone, but he ruined many lives. Burglary is a hideous crime. People discuss it openly as if it’s no different to a petty crime, but only because it’s so common. Each victim will react in their own way, but many will be scarred for life. For these people, the piss flap steals more than just tangible goods, he steals their minds, exchanging them for something paranoid, restless and forever in fear. These people won’t sleep at night, will live next to a phone with 999 pre-dialled and ready to call, and will turn their TVs and stereos right down so they can listen out for the faintest sounds. Any sound, often animals outside, will trigger hysteria and the police will be called. All we can do when we turn up is check the place out and reassure. The victim’s fear will return once we’ve gone. Shivering, broken, nervous wrecks − that’s what these thieving pieces of shit have caused. You’re supposed to get fourteen years for burglary. In practise it’s a few months for the first offence and only a few more for the second. A couple of months of inconvenience against a lifetime of fear. That seem fair to you? I mean, you really think these scumbags deserve the chance to be rehabilitated? They get a second chance, while the victim suffers through no fault of their own. Fucking right, Kent deserves to be dead.
But that would make me a murderer, unless I acted in self-defence. You can use reasonable force to protect your property, but unless I honestly believed my life was in danger, the force I apparently used was somewhat excessive. Kent wouldn’t have threatened me. He was a wimp. He wouldn’t try it on with anyone. He targeted unoccupied homes. He must’ve thought mine was empty. The truth is I’ve wiped it out of my mind. I don’t know what happened. Though I can relive The Poet’s death in minute detail, the revelation about Kent prompts nothing, no recollection. Why is that? Was I not there? How then would I have known that it was him who burgled me? Kent’s MO is to climb through open windows or reach through letterboxes for the keys. I live on the fifth floor – no chance of access via the windows. And he would never have fished out the keys from inside unless I was there, as when I’m out I obviously take them with me. I had to have been there. And he was reported missing around that time, around the time he broke in.
And what about PC Burton? At the time, I thought nothing of it. He tried to recruit all the kids. Aside from boosting numbers, it meant that the kids would steer clear of crime in the hope of becoming a copper. He was the local bobby, a character, but now that I think about it, he was biased towards me. I was favoured; he spent more of his time with me.
I rewind to the playground, a scorching hot day. The kids’ voices so excited and relentless that no words could be deciphered. PC Burton, having just given us a talk, sought me out and took me to a shady, quiet spot behind a wooden hut used for Miss Pine’s class.
‘How you feeling, Kane?’
I sat down, crossed my legs, pulled a stem of grass from the field and slowly tied it into knots.
He took a deep breath, sat down beside me, crossed his legs too and did the same thing with his own blade of grass.
‘I know it hurts, boy. God I know how much it hurts.’ He reached out and gripped my shoulder. Just enough to make his presence felt. ‘But he wouldn’t want this. Your dad. He wouldn’t want you to suffer like this. He’d want you to enjoy life, to go out there and make him proud.’
I looked up at him, my eyes squinting at the bright, blue sky behind him.
‘You’ve got so much to look forward to, Kane. I know you have. You’re a bright kid and you’ve got a bright future ahead of you. Your dad was a very gifted man. You’ve got those gifts, too. You could do what I do when you’re older. You could help so many people. It would make your dad really proud.’ He scrunched up his face and looked up at the sun. He looked like Nev from Auf Wiedersehen Pet, the bloke played by Kevin Whately. He pointed a tanned index finger skyward. ‘He’s only up there, boy – Heaven. He ain’t far away. You’ll see him again. Until then you’ve got a life to live.’ He met my eyes. ‘This ain’t what your dad would’ve wanted. He wouldn’t have wanted you to react like this. Course you’re gonna hurt, course you are. Everyone hurts when something like this happens, no matter how old you are. But your dad up there will be hurting too, cos he can see you down here, suffering like this.’
A tear formed in my eye and then tickled my cheek. PC Burton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it away. After the tear, came my voice.
I stare at the wall opposite me. I need to get out of here. I need to see Cassandra, find out what else she knows, what else I wrote in my journal. I carried that with me everywhere. When I arrived here, it was no longer on me. At the factory, after I was zapped, she must have taken it somehow. Rather helpful of her, that, if what she’s said is true. Because if it had gone into anyone else’s hands I’d be done for murder.
It’s easy to break out of here. Fuck me, after all the years of policing this patch, I know all too well how easy it is to get out of here. Once one of these zoomers escapes we have to complete a misper report. This is no quick deal. It involves speaking to staff, taking descriptions and details of all the zoomer’s possible contacts and then visiting every one of them in the hope of locating the cretin. It’s hours of work, just because the staff here are blasé about public safety. Hell, these freaks are getting out and harming people. Many of them are criminals; some have committed violent burglaries. Civil-rights bullshit means everyone adopts the touchy-feely approach and disagrees with locking these people up like animals. So they’re all ‘free-range’ patients, allowed to wander around at will. The formal patients who pose the least threat are allowed conditional leave, the only condition being that they return at a certain time. When these patients head out of the building, the doors are unlocked for them, and low and behold, a dangerous patient will seize the opportunity and run out too! Wicked, isn’t it? Fare dodgers will pull the same trick at the turnstiles at tube stations. Someone sticks their ticket in the reader, the turnstile rotates and as they pass through, some piece of shit behind them will run through too before the turnstile locks.
I’ve already sussed out who’s allowed this leave and who’s not. There’s one guy, his mind cabbaged from cannabis, who departs the building for a public dribble every afternoon. He wears a big, dopey grin on his face, his green eyes lost and distant. He’s my decoy.
This particular guy’s sitting in the meeting room, his head bobbling from side to side as if it’s floating in water. Won’t be long before his pea-sized brain remembers that he takes a walk around this time.
‘They gonna catch yer.’
Rather than walk past me to her corner, the black lady sits down beside me.
‘What you on about, love?’
‘Me name’s Ilda.’ She pronounces this ‘ill der’.
‘Ilda?’
‘That be right.’
This time she doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are fixed on the dope-smoking zoomer
opposite. She’s a scrawny old bag, with wiry, greying hair and rough skin with black spots dotted on it like acne. She speaks with a thick, broken, Jamaican accent.
‘I’m Razors.’
‘I know what yer name is and why yer ’ere.’ She nods at the grinning idiot opposite. ‘Yer gonna use ’im, ain’t yer? Yer gonna use him to get out. But yer’ll be back.’
‘Well, you know, if you don’t keep your mouth shut I won’t be going anywhere.’
She turns and faces me, her brown eyes, in fact her black eyes, making me uncomfortable. ‘Don’t you give me any a yer lip, boy!’ She extends a leathery finger towards me in a stabbing motion. ‘Yer wasting yer time with that woman. She ain’t gonna do you no good.’
I frown. ‘How d’you know about Cassandra?’
‘I know all things, boy. Just like you.’
The grinning zoomer gets up, a line of saliva connecting his chin to his t-shirt. I watch him waddle out the room and then get up myself. Ilda wraps her fingers around my arm.
‘You were meant to come to me, boy. I’ll be waiting ’ere for yer. You go and do yer time wasting.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, whipping my arm free. ‘Great to meet you.’ I follow the zoomer out the room. Successfully exit ward four undetected. We descend the stairs and approach the reception. I squeeze through the main entrance too. This time the guards see me. They give chase, but I’m way too fast. I suck in the outdoors air as I snake into the residential streets.
33
It’s easy to hide things when the only threat of discovering them comes from humans. Humans are lazy. We say that sliced bread is the best thing. I mean, doesn’t that say it all? Getting up off our arses and cutting up a loaf is a real inconvenience. I check the coast is clear and then climb over the fence and barbed wire that encloses the golf course. I keep low on the rough and speedily make my way to the lake. Unseen, I dive into the lake and swim to the island. The island is about fifty square metres, densely populated by trees. And birds unfortunately. It’s a two-minute swim for me to get there.