Death Day

by Shaun Hutson

  Mackenzie lay still again.

  'You all right?' said Lambert, helping the doctor to his feet.

  Kirby coughed again and shook his head. His face was flushed and he rubbed his chest painfully. Only after a minute or so did he find the breath to speak.

  'Tom, I want him strapped down before I continue the examination.' He groaned, 'Christ, the bastard nearly broke a rib.' Kirby sucked in air, finding the effort painful but gradually it passed and he retrieved his pen fight. Davies and Bell, meantime, had entered and were binding Mackenzie to the bed with thick rope. The Inspector checked that the bonds were secure and looked at Kirby.

  'Pull his eyelids up,' instructed the doctor, watching as Lambert moved to the head of the bed. He leant over and gently drew back Mackenzie's thick lids, exposing the red spheres beneath. Kirby, keeping his distance, directed the pen fight at them.

  Mackenzie roared again and tried to lunge forward but the ropes held him down. Lambert exerted an iron grip on his head giving time for Kirby to get a decent look. Mackenzie's screams of enraged pain echoed around the small cell, nearly deafening the two men. Kirby leaned closer, smelling the fetid breath in his face and nearly wincing away from it. But he kept the beam focused on the red eyes until he was satisfied. Then he flicked it off and Mackenzie's body went limp. The room, silent now, was disturbed only by his guttural breathing.

  Kirby shook his head. 'Like I said, I would think it's something to do with the blood vessels in the eye. Possibly a disturbance of the cornea.'

  'Would that explain his sensitivity to light?' asked Lambert.

  'Not really. If it is corneal haemorrhage then there'd be no sight at all; he wouldn't even have been able to see the light.'

  'What do you recommend?' Lambert wanted to know.

  Kirby shrugged. 'Leave him for now. I'll come back in the morning and take another look. But Tom, I'd leave those ropes on.'

  Lambert nodded and both men walked out, the Inspector being careful to lock the cell behind them. He posted Davies outside, telling the constable to let them know if there was any sign of movement from Mackenzie.

  The Inspector looked at his watch. It was ten forty-three. It had been some morning.

  'Fancy a drink?' he asked and Kirby nodded.

  * * *

  The snug bar of 'The Blacksmith' was empty when they walked in. The grate, where a coal fire burned at night, was empty. Just a cold black hole and the room itself was chilly but neither of them noticed. Lambert bought the drinks and returned to the table.

  'Cheers,' he said, downing a large mouthful of scotch.

  Kirby returned the compliment and sipped delicately at his half of lager.

  'You realize this is unethical,' said the doctor, smiling.

  'What?'

  'A doctor and a police Inspector drinking on duty.'

  Both men laughed.

  'Sod the ethics, John,' said Lambert. 'Right now, I need this.' He took another swig and cradled the glass between his hands.

  'I wonder what the local paper would make of this?' pondered Kirby.

  Lambert grunted. 'They've got enough to keep them going at the moment without wondering whether you and I are drinking.' He paused for a moment. 'Three murders. Jesus. In a town this size.'

  'Just be thankful you've got the killer.'

  'I am, don't get me wrong. But there're things about this case that don't add up. And more than that, I've got a missing person on my hands too. Gordon Reece has…' struggled for the word, '… disappeared. I went to talk to him about his wife's death this morning and there was no sign of him. The neighbours haven't seen or heard him about since yesterday morning and I found this in the living room of the house.' He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the handkerchief. Unwrapping it carefully he revealed the bloodstained lump of glass.

  'Three murders, the victims mutilated, and the husband of the third victim has disappeared without trace. Can you tell me what the hell is going on in this town?' He drained his glass and slammed it down on the table.

  'I don't see your problem, Tom,' said Kirby, 'you've got the killer. The missing man probably just left town, couldn't face the questioning or whatever. It's probably quite simple.'

  Lambert exhaled deeply, his eyes riveted to the lump of blood-stained glass lying on the table in front of him.

  * * *

  Four fifty P.M. and the purple hues of approaching night were beginning to colour the skies above Medworth. Dusk hovered expectantly, a portent of the dark hours to come. It was the time when working people began to count the minutes to signal the end of the day's labours. A cold breeze had sprung up during late afternoon and there was a promise of frost for the coming night.

  Tom Lambert shivered a little in his office and stared down at the solid gold medallion lying on his blotter. He prodded it with the end of a pencil, reading over and over again the strange inscription on it and around its edges. He had scribbled the words down on the edge of his blotter and he determined to look up their meanings when he got home. Debbie might even know. She knew a little Latin. He looked at the pencilled words:

  MORTIS DIEI

  Below it, the symbols which ran around the edging of the medallion:

  UTCON (scratch mark)

  XER (scratch)

  ERATICXE (two scratches)

  SIUTROM (scratch) A.

  Lambert shook his head. The second set of words didn't even look like Latin.

  He'd found the medallion quite by accident that afternoon. Returning from the pub about one, he had gone to deposit the chunk of blood stained glass from Reece's house in the safe where items of evidence were kept. He'd noticed the jewel box which had belonged to June Mackenzie and asked Hayes what it was. The sergeant had explained how they had found the box in the bedroom of the first victim and, upon opening it, Lambert had discovered the medallion.

  Now he sat with it before him, wondering how on earth a man like Mackenzie had come to possess an object so obviously valuable. The policeman couldn't begin to guess at the age of the thing but, from the weighty of it and the thickness of the chain which supported it, he could at least ponder over its value. It was as he looked closely at it that he noticed the gossamerlike strands clinging to the links of the chain. He bent closer and pulled one free. It felt coarse as he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. There was more attached to the other links and something else.

  It looked like dried mud.

  Lambert exhaled deeply. Perhaps a forensic test would establish exactly where the gold circlet had originated. He pulled a few of the coarse strands free and scraped some mud away with the tip of his pen knife. Then he reached into his desk drawer and took out a tiny plastic bag. Into this, he carefully pushed the fibres and mud. He sealed it with a piece of cellotape and left it on his desk, reminding himself to ring Kirby before he went home, perhaps even run the stuff around to the doctor himself.

  Once more he looked down at the medallion, the inscriptions causing his forehead to crease as he tried to make sense of them.

  MORTIS DIEI

  The words had been engraved across the centre of the circlet but the other inscription…

  Running around the outside of the medallion, he wasn't sure where the words began and where they ended. He determined to take it home that night, let Debbie take a look at it. The thought of her made him look up at the clock. He smiled when he saw the time and realized that he would set off soon. He was looking forward to getting home. It had been a long day. Every day seemed to be a long one just lately and he told himself it was just a matter of getting back into the swing of things. There was nodiing more he could do at the station that night. Mackenzie was still flat out in his cell, tied securely by the ropes. Davies was outside the cell just in case there was any sign of movement from him. The constable had orders to contact Dr Kirby immediately if there was any change.

  Lambert pulled another plastic bag from his drawer and slid the medallion into it, then he popped the little package into the
pocket of his jacket.

  He got to his feet and crossed to the window of his office. Night had descended now, casting its black shadow over the land. Lambert could see the lights of houses in the town twinkling like a thousand stars. The police station was about a mile out of town, built on a hillside which looked over Medworth like a guardian. Far below him, the town lay spread.

  Lambert yawned.

  The door of his office flew open, slammed against the wall and rocked on its hinges, the impact nearly breaking the frosted glass in it.

  Davies stood there panting. 'It's Mackenzie, sir, he's going crazy.'

  Lambert dashed past the constable, heading for the cell, aware now of the noise coming from the end of the corridor. Hayes emerged from the duty room and joined the other two men as they reached the cell door. Lambert eased back the sliding flap of the peephole and drew in a quick breath.

  Mackenzie had broken his bonds and was throwing himself against the walls frenziedly, every now and then turning towards the open peephole and fixing Lambert in a stare from those blazing red eyes. The Inspector felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. Then Mackenzie spun around and hurled himself at the small window at the far end of the celi. It was about half way up the wall. No more than a foot square, it was set at a height which would have made a man of average size stretch to reach it. Wire mesh covered the bars which firmly blocked the narrow opening.

  As Lambert watched, Mackenzie leapt at the window, tearing away the wire mesh as if it had been fish netting. Then he fastened his powerful hands around the bars and pulled, roaring in frustration when they wouldn't budge. The darkness outside called him and he would stop at nothing to reach it. Realizing that he could not move the bars, he turned his attention to the cell door. He slammed into it, pressing his face to the peephole and for a split second Lambert found himself staring into those empty crimson eyes. There was nothing there. No emotion registered in them. Nothing. Just the glazed red of two enormous blood blisters. The rage and hatred was registered on Mackenzie's face, the lips drawn back to reveal the yellowed teeth, saliva spattering the room as he spun about in a frenzy.

  'How long has he been like this?' Lambert asked Davies, who was white with fear and thankful that a twelve inch thick steel door separated him from the maniac inside.

  'A couple of minutes,' he answered, 'as soon as it got dark, he started.'

  Lambert looked at Hayes but the sergeant looked blank.

  'Get Kirby down here fast,' snapped the Inspector, watching as Hayes scutded off.

  Peering once more into the cell, Lambert said, 'Why isn't the light on in there?' He looked up at the hundred watt bulb, unshaded, in the ceiling of the cell.

  'I was just going to do it when I looked in and saw what was going on,' explained Davies.

  Lambert stroked his chin thoughtfully, remembering how violently Mackenzie had reacted to light that morning.

  'Turn it on,' he said.

  Davies flicked a switch and the cell was suddenly bathed in cold white light.

  Mackenzie screamed and raised his hands, snatching at the light bulb, trying simultaneously to shield his eyes and to reach the blinding object. His head throbbed as he tried to shield himself from the glare and he backed into a corner like a dog who knows he's about to be beaten. As Lambert watched, Mackenzie slumped to his knees, bowed his head and covered it with his arms. He was growling, the sounds gurgling in his throat. The Inspector watched amazed as Mackenzie slowly raised himself up again, one arm shielding his eyes, and staggered towards the light. Then, with a howl of rage, he leapt and smashed a fist into the bulb, shattering it and ripping the flesh from his knuckles. He seemed not to notice the pain, relieved only that the room was, once more, in darkness. Blood dripped from his lacerated hand but he grunted and raised a dripping fist defiantly towards the peephole.

  Lambert slammed it shut and exhaled deeply.

  'Jesus,' he breathed, softly.

  'What do we do, sir?' said Davies, listening to the sounds coming from inside the cell.

  Lambert had no answer for him. He pushed past the constable and headed for his office. Davies squinted through the peephole just in time to see Mackenzie tear the wash basin from its position on the wall. He lifted it above his head and flung it to the ground where it shattered. Large chunks of porcelain flew about the room like white shrapnel. Water from the ruptured pipes jetted into the cell spattering Mackenzie, but he ignored it, turning once more to the tiny window and gripping the bars in a frenzied effort to tear them free.

  Davies closed the flap. He swallowed hard and sat down outside the cell, the noises of destruction from inside ringing in his ears.

  * * *

  While he was waiting for Kirby to arrive, Lambert phoned home to tell Debbie that he'd be late, but he got no answer. She couldn't be home yet, he reasoned. He slammed the receiver down and said to no one in particular, 'Where the hell is Kirby?'

  Hayes emerged from the duty room carrying a steaming mug of coffee. He handed it to Lambert who smiled.

  'I could do with something stronger, Vic.'

  The sergeant grinned and pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his tunic. He unscrewed the cap and poured a small measure of brown liquid into the Inspector's mug. Then he repeated the procedure with his own.

  'Purely medicinal, sir,' he said.

  Lambert smiled broadly and drank a couple of mouthfuls.

  From down the corridor they could still hear the frightful noises coming from Mackenzie's cell.

  'He's mad,' said Hayes, flatly.

  'I hope so,' said Lambert, enigmatically. 'I really do hope so.'

  Hayes looked puzzled.

  The door leading from the annexe opened and both men looked up. It was only constables Ferman and Jenkins arriving for night duty.

  'What's all the noise?' asked Ferman.

  'Never mind that,' snapped Hayes. 'Just get on with your job.'

  Ferman raised two fingers as he walked past, making sure that he was behind Hayes when he did it. The two men disappeared into the duty room.

  Kirby walked in, his black bag clutched firmly in his hand. He nodded curtly.

  'About fucking time,' snapped Lambert, impatiently. He hurried out from behind the enquiry counter and led the doctor down towards the cell.

  'My receptionist told me you called,' explained Kirby. 'I'd been out on an emergency.'

  'Well, we've got an emergency here, right now,' growled Lambert.

  Kirby caught him by the arm. 'Look, Tom, my responsibilities are to my patients. I'm a G.P. first and foremost, a bloody police doctor second. Understand?'

  The Inspector held his gaze for a moment. 'Listen to that,' he said, inclining his head towards the cell.

  Kirby heard the sounds of pandemonium and frowned. He followed Lambert to the cell door and peered through the peephole. Mackenzie was hanging from the bars with his talonlike hands, blood from his injured limb pouring down his arm.

  'He broke the light bulb,' explained Lambert, 'the light drives him crazy. It seems to cause him pain.'

  'How long has he been like this?' asked Kirby, not taking his eyes from the hole.

  'Since it got dark,' said the Inspector, flatly. 'What can you do?'

  Kirby let the flap slide back into position, covering the hole. 'Nothing. If I give him a shot of something there's no guarantee it'll knock him out. That's assuming I can get close enough to administer it in the first place.'

  'There must be something you can give him,' snapped Lambert.

  'I've just told you,' said Kirby, his tone rising slightly. 'I've got Thorazine in here, but there's no way of knowing if it'll work and I, for one, don't intend going in there with him like that.'

  The two men stood silently for a moment, looking at one another. Then Kirby said, more gently, 'Just leave him. I'll look at him in the morning. If he's calmed down.'

  'And if he hasn't?'

  The doctor peered through the peephole again, 'This will hold him won't it?' He ba
nged on the metal door.

  Lambert nodded, 'Yeah.' There was a note of tired resignation in his voice.

  'I suggest we both go home, Tom. If anything more happens during the night…' The sentence trailed off and he shrugged.

  Lambert touched the metal door gendy, listening to the bellowing and crashing coming from inside.

  'I just hope it does hold him,' he said, quietly.

  * * *

  Lambert lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the wind whispered quietly past the windows. A low, almost soothing whoosh, which occasionally grew in power and rattled the glass in its frame, as if reminding people of its power. But, at the moment, it hissed softly past the dark opening.

  The clock on the bedside table ticked its insistent rhythm, sounding louder than usual in the stillness of the night. The luminous hands showed that it was after three in the morning.

  Lambert exhaled and closed his eyes. Images and thoughts sped through his mind with dizzying speed.

  Mackenzie. The disappearance of Gordon Reece. The medallion.

  The medallion.

  He had shown it to Debbie earlier on and she had confirmed his own suspicions that the inscriptions were, indeed, Latin. Well, the central one at any rate. The gibberish around the rim of the circlet foxed her too. She said that she would try to find out what the inscriptions meant. There were reference books in the library which might tell them. He had dismissed the idea, telling her that there was probably no significance in it anyway. But something nagged at the back of his mind. Something unseen which had plunged teeth of doubt into his mind and had held on as surely as a stoat holds a rabbit.

  He sat up, trying not to disturb Debbie. She was asleep beside him, her breathing low and contented. As regular as the ticking of the clock.

  Every minute he expected the phone to ring. To hear Hayes telling him that Mackenzie had broken out. Lambert dismissed the thought. That was impossible. The cell door was a foot thick, the bars of the windows embedded two feet into the concrete. He couldn't possibly get out. Lambert swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and brought his knees up, resting his head on them.