by Marc Horn
I pull myself up onto the dirt and spring to my feet. The nestling birds start and make a racket. Jeez, I should be a familiar face by now. I reach the middle of the island and climb the oak tree. It’s not an easy climb − it’s not one of these trees with handy branches every couple of feet. To climb this tree I have to jump as high as I can a couple of times, grab onto a branch and haul myself up by my fingers. Most people wouldn’t attempt it. Three quarters of the way up I climb around to the other side of the tree and locate my envelope. I unwind the tape from the branch, open the envelope and take out a grand in twenties. Then I reattach the envelope to the branch, lower myself down the tree, swim backstroke across the lake to keep the money dry, and leave the course undetected.
The sun soon dries my clothes, and it isn’t long before I’m in Guildford, knocking on Cassandra’s hotel room door. She lets me in and locks the door behind me.
‘Nice disguise,’ she says.
After retrieving some of my money I visited a charity shop and bought a new outfit, cap and sunglasses. ‘They’ll have everyone looking for me.’
We both sit on the double bed. She holds my journal in front of her. ‘Razors, I took this to save you.’
‘Let me read what I wrote.’
She hands me the journal. ‘It’s on the first page.’
I lean in close and read the entry dated 29/07/2013. It’s definitely my handwriting, definitely my journal.
‘Ethan Kent broke into my flat. He knocked first to see if anyone was in. I was taking a shit, so I ignored whoever it was. He used an unwound, metal coat hanger with a hook on the end, stuck it through the letterbox, lifted my keys off the carpet and guided them back through the slot. Aware of what was going on, I snipped off my log, pulled up my shorts as he turned the locks, and then I waited for him. When he turned the corner and saw me he tried to run. I grabbed hold of him before he could leave. I smacked him in the face so hard I must have broken his jaw. I fucking hate burglars. And Kent was prolific. I’d been about to erect a framed picture of R2D2 before needing a dump, so a hammer, a couple of nails and picture hooks were laying on my carpet. I thought about nicking him and calling it in, honestly I did, but red mist took over. I picked up the hammer and cracked open his skull.’
I look through the net curtain. The hazy sunshine’s partially blocked by a tall building.
‘Quite horrific, isn’t it?’ Cassandra says calmly. I say nothing. ‘That was what the tapping sound was in your flat. You hid him in your cupboard, gagged and tied up. He was still alive.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘It’s in there,’ she says, nodding towards my journal.
I close it and place it on the bed. ‘What about Jumont? His prints were all over the fucker. On the hammer, everywhere!’
‘I can’t explain that part, Razors. But I’ve known that you killed him for almost two months–’
You knew?’ I turn and look at her. ‘And you kept it quiet? Cos you’re a fucking psycho!’
‘You killed him, Razors, not me. I owed you that much. I saved your life.’
I laugh. ‘Ah right, so you did rain on me after all. The prophecy was fulfilled!’
‘Not just by keeping quiet about what you did. That’s why I tried to stop you incriminating yourself through your journal. You were going to destroy yourself. And that’s why I took the journal after you were incapacitated at the factory.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘I ran in as soon as you were immobilised, pretending I was concerned about you. None of the officers saw me take it.’
I shake my head and take deep breaths. ‘Why would I be so fucking stupid?’
‘Killing him?’
‘No, fuck killing him, he shouldn’t have broken into my fucking flat. I mean writing it all down. How amateurish. How fucking dumb!’
‘I can tell you why you did it.’ She puts her arm around me. ‘You’re not a murderer, Razors. It’s not in your nature. You’re a police officer, the best the service have, and you pride yourself on that. Ethan pushed you too far. You lost your mind. And you never recovered it. To you, after killing him, it meant you were no different to the people you arrest. You were no longer a great cop. Writing a journal was a way of coping, of rationalising what happened. You created a theory that everything was happening for a reason, that it was all meant to happen to help you find some huge answer. That’s why you imagined that everything existed because of you.’
‘You’re saying it’s all made up? My universe? It’s all therapy for me?’
Her fingers massage my bicep. ‘Yes.’
‘And why did you want me to stop incriminating myself?’
‘Because you would lose your job if they found out. For you, that would mean losing your life, even before you were imprisoned.’
‘More like if I lost my job, there’d be nothing to stop me killing your old man.’ Her face flushes a little. ‘That’s one of the reasons, if you are actually Goater’s daughter–’
‘Oh my God. Why would I lie about that?’
‘To distract me, Cassandra, to distract me from the actual truth. The actual meaning of existence.’
She gets up, fumbles around in her handbag. Then she hands me her birth certificate. ‘Happy now?’
The certificate states she is Goater’s daughter. I smile. ‘Hardly difficult to procure, not in my world.’
‘What more do you need to see?’ she asks, exasperated. ‘I’ve also shown you articles and told you things that are beyond coincidence. We don’t have time for your cynicism. We’re in serious danger. They will kill us. When you’re captured they’ll place you in the most secure foundation they can. As for me, I’ll be murdered.’
‘So they get what they want from me? I nick loads of scum and The Poet, and the thanks I get is dismissal and a house full of loons?’
‘Did you expect more? Knowing the way they function? They had your father murdered! They don’t care about right and wrong. Everything’s an experiment to them.’
‘So what about Burton, the copper who talked me into joining? Where’s he and what’s he done?’
‘I don’t know. My father never gave me names. He wasn’t told that much.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m leaving.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And what about me?’
I glance at her pitiful face. ‘You’re more than capable of entertaining yourself.’
‘Razors!’ she pleads. ‘They’ll kill me! You owe me! I could have turned you in. I could have given them this journal!’
I snatch it out of her hands. ‘But you didn’t. And now I’m going to rip those pages out.’
‘How selfish of you! I saved you from becoming a public hate figure! I saved your reputation. I knew how important it was to you. The public would not have forgiven you for murdering Ethan, no matter how respected you were. You owe me for that! You owe me!’
‘Your dad started all this,’ I hiss, ‘and I’m finishing it.’ I slam the door behind me.
*****
Mental disorder – that’s their diagnosis. More specifically, I have a psychopathic disorder which results in abnormally aggressive and seriously irresponsible conduct. I was detained for treatment under section 3 of the Mental Health Act 1983. That means they can keep me in for treatment for up to six months.
There’ll be a nationwide manhunt for me. I’m a compulsory patient absent without leave from hospital. I’m considered a very dangerous one too. They’ll have everyone out looking for me. That means I can’t go back to my flat nor any of my old haunts. It also means I can’t use any of my cards. They’ll be monitoring all of them...
You could say this is my last opportunity to work things out. Once I’m back in there, they’ll make it as difficult as they possibly can for me to escape. And after six months of drugs in me I won’t be the same.
I have inherited my father’s tracking skills. I can find anyone
I want. In most cases a criminal will see a copper first, but it never worked that way with me. I just knew where they were, all the time. I knew where they’d go and what they’d do. That’s why the crimes I investigated always got resolved.
So now I’m going to find Clinton Goater. It seems the logical thing to do. Cassandra’s in on this My Universe theory of mine, but she’s trying damn hard to keep me away from Goater. It might be bullshit, but I want to talk to that piss flap anyway. He killed my old man. I kept away for so long, because I’d be the obvious suspect should he come to any harm. Now, they’re trying to destroy me anyway. Whatever I do, I’ll still be pumped full of drugs. I won’t be able to have them over for much longer.
I keep my head low as I pass through Guildford town. No one will recognise me. Except for Cassandra of course. She knows how I’m dressed. But she won’t spot me first. It’s time for me to follow her. Course she’s gonna go to him − she thinks I’m going to kill him.
She boards a train at Guildford. Sitting several seats away, she’s unaware of me. After changing at Reading and deboarding in Swindon, we finally end up in Bibury, in the Cotswolds.
Peculiarly, my hell bell’s been ringing since I left her hotel. It’s not clear, more of a distant sound really, but it’s there, warning me of something. I’ve remained on guard, but nothing threatening has materialised. I’ve reasoned that it must be warning me of what is about to come.
Bibury’s a picturesque, tiny, cosy village with a river, marshes and very old houses. It makes my blood boil to think of him here, in this beautiful place. Goater doesn’t deserve this in his life. Cassandra veers off from the river as it meanders away from the main street, and makes her way along a deserted alley. At the end of the alley she opens a gate leading to a rugged, peaceful graveyard positioned next to an ancient church. Moments later, I too enter the graveyard. To my right, a mourner is crouched beside a grave, his head between his legs. I pay him no mind until he lifts his head towards me and croaks, ‘My son...’
34
He’s in his fifties, white, with rugged, worn skin and piercing blue eyes. His hair’s greying, untidy, and down to his shoulders. He’s medium to large build, over six feet tall. He waits for my response.
I walk up to him and crouch down in front of him. I look at the decrepit headstone. It’s dated from the eighteenth century. Its inscription bears the name ‘Robert Shaw’.
‘Someone you know?’ I ask, avoiding his stare.
‘One of our ancestors.’ He’s well spoken, with a London accent.
‘That’s a long time to grieve for someone.’
‘I’m not grieving; I’m paying my respects. You and me wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.’
I nod, my eyes rooted on the undulating grass. ‘So what’s with the surname then?’
He exhales loudly. ‘Back then, some people picked their own surname. Vice was adopted by his son.’
In my peripheral vision I see him nod towards the deceased. ‘I wonder what Rob thought about that.’
‘He was relieved. Christopher, his son, was a violent man. He’d served time in prison for brawling in public houses. Robert disowned him.’
‘So that’s where I got it from.’
He clears his throat. It’s magnified in this silent place. ‘We’ve got a fierce history, us Vices. But it stopped with me.’ He tries to catch my eye, but I’m looking away.
‘Well, I’m afraid I’ve relaunched the trend.’
He puts his hand on my shoulder. It tenses me, fills me with anger. ‘That’s because of what they’ve done, son. They stole your life.’
‘And yours, too, incidentally,’ I respond, ironically. I face him and he looks away.
‘I didn’t die, Kane,’ he has the audacity to say. ‘I was taken to hospital. When my wounds healed I ran away. I had to, they were going to kill me.’
I shake my head and smile. This is funny. This is so fucking funny. ‘So I didn’t watch you die? That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it? The court case, the papers and the rest of it – all bollocks?’
‘You know how special you are, Kane. You’ve fabricated so much. But now, you’re learning the truth. Now you’re in control and the answers are in front of you.’
I remain calm, because I know this is going to end how I want it to. ‘So I unnecessarily put myself through all that pain?’
‘Yes, son. You saw me get stabbed, but I didn’t die. I went into hiding. Afterwards, your own coping mechanism took over. It helped you accept my absence.’
‘Yeah? Is that right? Sounds like you’ve thought about this long and hard.’
‘Son, I’ve thought about you every day since–’
I meet his eyes. ‘I’ve thought about you every day since, too. And I’ll tell you something about me you probably didn’t know. When I see a face, I can rewind or fast forward it in time. So, I know what it would’ve looked like, say thirty years ago, and what it will look like in thirty years.’ His eyes glaze over and he adjusts position slightly. ‘So you look exactly like I knew you would. And you know what? I don’t need any more proof cos I can see her in your eyes.’
‘See who, Kane?’
‘Cassandra, piss flap.’
He frowns. ‘Cassandra? Who’s Cassandra? I’ve honestly never heard of her.’
My whole body is turned towards him. ‘Back then you looked ashamed, I remember that. When you met my eyes I could see yours were full of pity for me. The same piercing, blue eyes that I see now were begging me for forgiveness. But you were beyond that. Nothing, not time or anything, could earn you that.’ My fingers tense.
‘Kane,’ he pleads, ‘I’m your father. You’re sick, son, that’s why your acting this way. This world you’ve designed is cracking at its foundations. You’re distorting the truth. I’m your father, I swear it.’ A bead of sweat glistens between the strands of hair on his forehead.
‘D’you know where the worst crimes occur?’ I hiss.
‘I beg your pardon? What? I don’t understand.’
‘In the mind... The worst crimes occur in the mind. But now, Goater, you piece of shit, you’re gonna see one brought to life.’
And then his head crashes against the tombstone. But the collision has not caused the ensuing blood spillage. I turn.
‘Sorry to spoil your plans.’ Ten metres away, Cliff points his pistol at me. ‘How you doing, Supercop?’
I slowly rise. So this was what my hell bell was warning me about. I didn’t entertain the possibility that I was being followed. I focused too much on tailing Cassandra and remaining invisible to her. ‘I got in a lot of trouble for carrying one of them. They’ll have you in for possession of a prohibited weapon.’
He smirks. ‘It’s not prohibited.’
‘Nah,’ I shake my head. ‘Any firearm with a barrel length less than thirty centimetres is prohibited.’
‘I’ve got a special licence.’
‘Oh, is that right? For what purpose?’
‘To keep things sweet.’
He’s wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He’s keeping his distance because he knows what I can do. ‘Yeah, taking out the murderer’s a good move.’
‘Goater had a big mouth. He told too many people.’
I glance at Goater. Interesting death position. He’s on all fours, his holey head against the headstone keeping him balanced. I turn back. ‘So now it’s down to you to kill all of them?’
‘The ones that matter.’
‘Does that include me?’
He laughs. ‘Course not! Your word’s worth nothing now, you fucked up son of a bitch! I’m gonna take you back where you belong, alive but not intact. You’re still gonna suffer for what you did to me.’
He lowers the gun, takes aim at my leg. And then the round is fired, the silencer muffling the blast. But the round does not penetrate my leg, it penetrates Cliff’s head. He collapses onto the ground. His weapon gets there first. Cassandra steps out of the bushes, her head dropped, her weapon hanging by
her hip.
‘Now I don’t care what you think,’ she says vacantly. I can tell what’s coming and I’m quick to react. I get there less than a second before her own pistol finds her head. She fires, but I’ve already made my move and the round travels wide. I disarm her, tucking her weapon in my joggers.
‘This is fucked up shit!’ I cry.
She slumps to the floor. ‘Now… now are you happy, Razors? Now that my father is dead? Now are we even?’ Tears trickle down her cheeks. ‘I cared about you. I tried to help you. Yes, I wanted to save my father’s life too, but who wouldn’t?’
I don’t know what to think right now. I need time to think. ‘He shouldn’t have done it, Cassandra. He should have done the fucking time he deserved. He was a selfish piece of shit and he deserves to be dead.’
‘So does it make everything better for you? Do you feel victorious? Go and gloat then!’ She grits her teeth. ‘Go and cut him up into pieces if it will make you feel better!’
I rub my face in my hands. ‘Now we’re certainly in danger. We have to get out of here.’
‘You do what you want. I don’t care anymore. Nothing matters.’
‘Yeah, well, fuck what you think. You’re coming with me. Wait there.’
I take her weapon from my joggers and use a tissue to wipe off the prints. Then I run up to Goater and contaminate it with his prints. I leave it beside his corpse, then return to Cassandra, take hold of her arm and head off.
A shootout in sleepy Bibury. A most unlikely scenario. Ultimately, the police will never fall for the ‘duel to the death’ scenario on display, but it’ll take an expert to prove where the shots were fired from. That will buy us enough time to get out of here.
35
I have to grip her arm and pull her forward to keep her moving. I want to think about the developments, but I can’t, not now. I have to concentrate on our getaway.
‘Hold my hand,’ I demand as we exit the other end of the churchyard. She obliges, but her grip is weak. ‘It’s done, Cassandra. He’s dead. And so will you be unless you fight.’