The Mayfly: The chilling thriller that will get under your skin

by James Hazel

  ‘No,’ Ruck agreed.

  She sat down, crossed one leg over the other. Ruck turned back to his eggs, but they were looking unappetising all of a sudden. He shifted his weight in the chair and drank from the cup of tea on the table, although it was stone cold. Nazis were one thing, but women were a different species. He thought about saying something but a sensible remark or observation eluded him temporarily. In the end, he settled for a question. ‘How is your accommodation?’

  ‘Fine,’ she reported. ‘A little cold at night but I found that the linen was clean. They did a good job of making us comfortable, although to what end I am not sure.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Why are you drinking cold tea?’

  Ruck glanced over at the cup. It was freezing outside and not much warmer in the farmhouse kitchen despite the brilliance of the sunshine. Nonetheless, there was no steam wafting from the cup. Very well observed, Miss Miller.

  ‘Isn’t it an American habit?’ he asked. ‘To take drinks that are traditionally served hot and drink them cold?’

  This brought a smile to Eva’s lips, which transformed her face. She was the personification of elegance and class but there was something behind her green eyes. Something unsettling. He took another sip of the tea.

  After a while she said, ‘They told me, Colonel, when they assigned me here, that I was not to ask any questions about . . . what we’re doing. They told me about you, also. They said I shouldn’t burden you with my curiosity.’

  ‘Then do not.’

  Eva nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I believe a further interview commences in an hour.’

  She left the room. Ruck looked about – the kitchen seemed a lot duller without her.

  *

  Ruck made his way across the courtyard to the barn where Schneider was ready for him. He’d made the doctor wait a while and ordered the men to make sure he was tied to the chair as uncomfortably as possible; not because he took any particular pleasure from seeing the Nazi in pain but because it might help him open up a bit, if only because he wanted to be put back in his cell.

  He had intended to call London and ask them to send another scribe but something had stopped him. It seemed like an extravagance – demanding a replacement because . . . why? Because Eva unnerved him? It was ridiculous.

  He was within reach of the barn door when he realised he had left his pen back in the makeshift office they had installed for him above the kitchen. Cursing under his breath, he turned around and marched back to the farmhouse. As he crossed the courtyard, he saw the outline of Fitzgerald’s gangly figure lurking in the kitchen doorway and a mist of cigarette smoke swirling upwards before being swept away in the breeze.

  He waited until the cigarette was tossed on to the cobbles and Fitzgerald had retreated inside. The man grated on Ruck; the last thing he wanted was to hear him whining again. Fortunately, by the time Ruck reached the kitchen, he was gone.

  Ruck climbed the stairs silently. He had registered each creaky floorboard of the farmhouse on the first day so he could move around more or less unheard. It was an unnecessary precaution – the farmhouse’s location was secret and heavily guarded – but Ruck’s default disposition was to be cautious. Years of patrolling the corridors of the Cage had conditioned him to assume the worst.

  When he reached the office door, he found it ajar. He stopped, listened; his hand involuntarily moved to where his pistol nestled in its holster. He could have heard a noise on the other side of the door, but he wasn’t sure.

  Cautiously, he pushed the door open and peered in.

  Eva was standing in the middle of the room, hands behind her back. She didn’t look shocked or concerned at being caught. Her expression was neutral as she stared at him. Just waiting.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Ruck demanded. He pulled the door closed behind him and folded his arms.

  ‘I need typewriter ribbon.’

  Ruck glanced over her shoulder at his desk, quickly scanning the surface. Everything seemed in place. Drawers as they were, the middle one slightly open.

  Typewriter ribbon.

  ‘There’s some in the store. Across the courtyard.’ Ruck nodded to the window behind the desk.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, without turning around to look.

  He took a step towards her. She stood still, hands still wedged behind her back, obediently. It infuriated him. Her compliance was a facade – he saw straight through her, past the feigned pout, red lips and curves to her eyes, wherein lay the undeniable spark of intelligence.

  Far too much curiosity for a scribe.

  ‘You’re young, for a colonel,’ she remarked.

  ‘And you’re very forward for a scribe.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She was watching him with a clinical interest so intimate it made his skin crawl. ‘I meant no offence, but you don’t . . . I’m not sure. You don’t seem like the type of person who enjoys interrogation.’

  ‘We all do what we need to for our country,’ Ruck countered, although with little conviction. She was out of line and he should point that out, but he didn’t. Maybe she had a point.

  She stepped towards him, close enough that he could smell her. It had been a long time since he had smelt a woman. He stiffened, trying not to react to her closeness or her overfamiliarity, but something stirred in the pit of his stomach – a sudden awareness of his vulnerability, the feeling that somehow she had managed to open his head and see straight through to his thoughts, his private space. She could see everything, he was certain of it; every intimate notion, every illegitimate desire.

  ‘Stop it,’ he demanded, turning away from her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This. We have work to do.’

  She put her hand out, her intention clear. It would have been so easy for him, to take her hand and lead her . . . where? Towards the desk? The floor? Flustered, he pulled himself together, opened the door and ushered her out, locking it behind him.

  As she went down the stairs she called up after him, her voice as smooth as silk: ‘I’m sorry, Colonel Ruck. But we can’t escape who we are, can we?’

  12

  Priest went home early. There didn’t seem much to be gained from sitting around in the office watching his inbox flash up more messages warning him it was full.

  He had thrown a ready-meal into the microwave and waited while the plate revolved. It was like watching his problems slowly cooking. The end result was not encouraging: it looked like a cross between dog food and the dry stuff that astronauts kept in silver packages, but it stopped him from passing out.

  He fed the fish and then smoked a cigarette outside on the roof garden. He had thought that the nicotine might dull the sense of sickening dread festering inside him but it just gave him another headache. He went back inside and gave a bottle of beer languishing at the back of the fridge brief consideration but in the end rejected it in favour of a cup of Earl Grey tea. He took this to the lounge and collapsed into an armchair next to the fish tank. What the hell am I going to do next? One of the lionfish drifted down to look at him enquiringly. Priest stared back.

  ‘You’re no fucking help.’

  The doorbell buzzed.

  Priest retrieved the Glock and tucked it into the back of his belt. He clicked a button on the intercom. The image was grainy but unmistakable.

  ‘You know where I live?’ he said, after opening the door.

  ‘Yes. I do,’ replied Jessica Ellinder.

  She offered him no explanation – just walked past him and stood expectantly in his kitchen.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied after a short pause. ‘Black coffee.’

  There was a percolator in the corner, although Priest rarely used it. He subtly ran a J-cloth round the rim to remove the dust before filling it.

  A strange silence lingered while he made the coffee. Priest found it uncomfortable but Jessica didn�
��t seem concerned. Eventually, he handed her a mug, which she carefully examined. Shit. She isn’t a mug person. Should have gone with a cup and saucer.

  ‘You’re wondering why I’m here,’ she observed.

  ‘I’m wondering many things right now,’ said Priest. ‘But let’s start with that one.’

  ‘I’m here to prevent a travesty.’

  Priest raised an eyebrow. ‘Okay.’

  ‘You’ve already decided not to take my father’s commission. I’m here to persuade you to change your mind.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not taking the job?’

  ‘You didn’t say yes,’ said Jessica.

  ‘I didn’t say no, either,’ he pointed out.

  ‘More tellingly, you didn’t say yes.’

  ‘Were you legally trained?’

  Jessica snorted, blew across the top of the coffee and took a gulp. It must have been very hot, but she didn’t seem fazed. Priest was coming around to the idea that it was going to be a long night. He changed his mind about the beer and salvaged it from the fridge. By the time he’d turned back, she was in the lounge.

  ‘Pterois,’ she called through. He found her gazing into the fish tank. ‘Lionfish. Or to some, the devil firefish.’ She moved her hand across the fish tank from one end to the other. The fish didn’t seem interested.

  By way of explanation he said, ‘I stepped on one in Gordon’s Bay when I was twelve. Nearly killed me.’

  ‘South Africa,’ she confirmed.

  Priest nodded, impressed. ‘Family holiday.’

  ‘So now you have three of them, incarcerated in a glass cage in your living room. You’ve mastered your fear. The hunted becomes the captor. Congratulations.’

  Priest shrugged. ‘I just like the colours.’

  Jessica turned to him and fixed him with a fierce stare. It was the first time she had looked at him directly.

  ‘I get the feeling,’ he said, ‘that your father wants me to take this job. But that is not what you want.’

  ‘What my father wants is what I want.’

  ‘No, no. I don’t think so.’ He paused. ‘Did you see what they did to your brother? Whoever they are.’ Priest waited for her to reply. He wanted to gauge her reaction. Something about the way Miles Ellinder had been killed troubled him, beyond its extreme cruelty.

  She seemed to give her answer some thought before she said, ‘It hardly matters. In six months, Mr Priest, maybe less, my father will be gone. The cancer is in his blood. It was agony just to come and see you this morning. He is obsessed with knowing the truth and why we had to lose Miles . . . in that way. Personally, Miles has given us nothing but unimaginable suffering since he could first hold a crack pipe. What happened to him was only what he deserved. But for six months, I can play my father’s game. I owe him that much. He thinks you’re important. Ergo, so do I.’

  Priest had thought about offering her a biscuit, but the moment seemed to have past. His beer tasted funny. A quick glance at the label told him it was four months out of date. He took another small swig and placed the bottle on the table, near the fish.

  She hasn’t seen any photographs, nor has her father, who said the details were recounted to him. By McEwen, presumably. Priest dismissed the thought as irrelevant. In his experience, most people wanted to see the body, not the crime-scene shots. They must really have cared very little about him.

  He was conscious that Jessica was watching him cautiously, as if he might suddenly sprout wings and lay an egg at her feet. He took a few steps towards her and she took one back. He leant around her. He could smell her perfume. It was nice, mellow and light, although he didn’t recognise it. She was stylishly dressed in an autumn-coloured coat, long and elegant, and a simple blouse, open at the top revealing a patch of beautiful white skin.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Jessica demanded.

  He flicked a switch behind her. There was a whirring noise and the curtains opened to reveal a damp, foggy, metropolitan afternoon. He went to the middle of the window and stared out at London.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘There is no need,’ she replied, although her tone suggested otherwise. ‘I have no regrets about Miles. He won’t be missed, except by my mother, perhaps.’

  He stopped her. ‘About your father, I mean.’

  When Jessica didn’t reply, he turned and looked at her. She wasn’t the only one with a searching gaze.

  ‘You said you were here to prevent a travesty. How had you planned on achieving this?’

  ‘For a start, I know you’ve lied to both my father, McEwen and me about not ever meeting my brother.’

  Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Priest found himself wrong-footed.

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I know he visited you recently. Maybe even the night before his death. Maybe you were one of the last people to see him alive.’ She told him what she knew matter-of-factly, without any suggestion of accusation.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Because he told me,’ she said. ‘Or at least, he told me he was going to see you. We had a brief discussion, over the telephone. We were angry, both of us. I was angry at him for disappearing and not giving a shit that our father is dying, and he was angry because I had managed to find him. His final words were that he intended to go and see a priest. I thought he meant to confess. Now, knowing that your business card was found on him, I don’t think he meant a priest. I think he meant Priest.’

  ‘He was Catholic?’

  ‘Good grief, no.’

  ‘But you never told your father about this conversation,’ he guessed.

  ‘No.’

  Priest smiled. ‘Then that makes us both very naughty.’

  She folded her arms, not sharing the joke. Priest noticed a light rash had spread across her chest – her stress seeping through her skin. Priest wondered how much of Jessica Ellinder was an act.

  ‘This isn’t a game, Mr Priest. Why did Miles come to see you?’

  Now it certainly was an accusation. Priest chewed it over. The pretence didn’t seem to be serving any further purpose and there was something about the way she stood in his lounge, watching him reproachfully without ever making eye contact. She wasn’t going to leave until she had the truth.

  ‘He was looking for something,’ Priest conceded eventually. ‘Something that he believed I had. A flash drive, a USB stick. Containing, presumably, computer data. He didn’t elaborate on what the data was.’

  She looked thoughtful. He had expected her to make a fuss about his having kept this information from her earlier that morning, but she seemed surprisingly unperturbed.

  ‘Why did he believe you had this data?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Agitated. I think it was when he strapped me to a chair and put a drill to my eye that I worked out that he was a little on edge.’

  Priest had expected that this might provoke a reaction but he was disappointed. Instead, she made for the door.

  ‘Thank you for the coffee,’ she said.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll rethink your position regarding my father’s offer?’

  ‘I’ll think it through, Miss Ellinder, but I’m really not sure I can take it.’

  ‘I think otherwise, Mr Priest,’ she said, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor. ‘You’re in far too deep now, and you need our help as much as we need yours.’

  13

  The security guard’s face was familiar but Priest couldn’t put a name to it. He wanted to say Karl or Conrad, or Percy. It probably didn’t matter. The guy never spoke anyway and Priest had stopped trying to get anything other than a curt smile out of him months ago.

  Karl, Conrad or Percy watched as Priest deposited his phone and wallet in a transparent locker and pocketed the key. No such contraband was allowed past the security checkpoint. Priest was led through a heavy metal door, which was shut unceremoniou
sly behind him. For a moment, it was just him and the grim guard in a cupboard-sized, airless room until the sound of a click and another heavy door swung open into the main hospital complex.

  It was another world on this side of the door – a quiet wilderness. The sense of threat enveloped him. The air seemed different somehow, stale and heavy. He had heard the wardens call it the ‘ Twilight Zone’. He could see why. The visitor’s room was situated in a block on the other side of a yard interspersed with patches of grass and dirt – small allotments for the inmates to grow vegetables.

  At the door to the block Priest was greeted with a firm handshake.

  ‘Dr Wheatcroft,’ Priest said warmly.

  ‘Mr Priest. Nice to see you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  For a man who spent his days caring for serial killers, rapists and lunatics, Wheatcroft projected extraordinary calm.

  ‘How’s he been, Doc?’

  Wheatcroft sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was the sort of hair that no amount of ruffling could dislodge.

  ‘Not too bad. Not too bad. A little more distracted this week. He’s missed a number of sessions, too. He claims he finds mingling with the other patients stultifying.’

  ‘Back to his old self again,’ Priest remarked.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Progress is slow but not immeasurable. No doubt your visit will perk him up.’ Wheatcroft touched Priest’s arm and stepped aside to allow him through.

  *

  Dr William Priest wore the expression of a man captivated by some baffling thought. Two male nurses led him through to the table where Priest stood waiting and sat him down. Priest sat opposite his older brother on a plastic chair. The family resemblance was unmistakable – the same thick, mousy-brown hair and glassy-blue eyes. But five years as a patient at Fen Marsh Secure Hospital had taken the shine off William Priest’s striking features. There were dark circles around his eyes. His skin was ashen white. Priest felt that every time he visited, he saw a little more of his brother’s humanity ebb away.

  ‘My brother,’ said William, barely looking at Priest. ‘How reassuring for you to visit me.’