by James Hazel
‘How have you been, Wills?’
Their eyes met as William considered this; then he reached out, his hand finding Priest’s face. Obviously alarmed, one of the attendants leapt forward, grabbed William’s arm and held the back of his neck. It happened so quickly that Priest hadn’t even had time to move.
‘Wait!’ Priest demanded. The attendant stopped, looked at Priest and released his hold. William seemed oblivious to the intervention. ‘Let him be.’
‘You cut yourself shaving, brother,’ William observed, gently running his finger under the tiny scratch on Priest’s jaw. ‘Two days ago and you haven’t shaved since. What has caused you to abandon your morning ritual?’
Priest nodded at the attendant, who withdrew, exchanging an uneasy glance with his colleague.
‘A rough few days,’ Priest said, by way of explanation.
‘How exhilarating the outside world must be.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘Parts of it.’ William’s head was cocked to the side like a curious wren. ‘Something troubles you, brother. Something more than a rough few days.’
‘Because I haven’t shaved?’
‘Because your eyes betray you.’
Priest sighed heavily. ‘You were always the best at reading people, Wills.’
William gave a triumphant coo. ‘Indeed! And this visit is two days earlier than our planned rendezvous. There are bags under your eyes. That is the second day you have worn that shirt. You smell of coffee, which you only drink in rare instances when there is no Earl Grey tea available, so either you have run out – which is not likely – or you left in a hurry this morning and needed to procure a caffeine fix on the go. You chose that jacket in a hurry, too.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Your pen – the expensive fountain pen our sister bought you for your thirty-second birthday – is absent from the inside pocket,’ announced William. ‘I noticed as you moved the chair back to sit down. You carry that pen everywhere, meaning that it has been left in the pocket of whatever jacket you wore last week. Unusually, you omitted to transfer it over to this suit, which suggests a carelessness created not by your fatigue, because that would have ultimately ended with you remembering to correct the error later, but by the haste with which you prepared this morning.’
‘And the fact that we’re meeting two days earlier than usual is significant because . . .?’
‘Simple. Two days ago, something traumatic happened to you and you are about to embark on something of a campaign to remedy some breakage or discover some secret, so you’re getting our engagement out of the way before you drop out of circulation for a short while.’
Priest noticed the smaller of the two attendants shift his weight from one foot to the other. Behind him, the red light on a CCTV camera stood out against the gleaming white walls.
‘Now you,’ prompted William excitedly.
Priest sighed again; he found the game tedious but they had played it since they were old enough to talk. He examined William up and down, then glanced beyond him at the nurse who had been shuffling his feet. ‘That guy there is new. His name is Harry Clarke and he recently acquired a new cat, probably from a rescue home. He has no children, although he’s recently divorced. He plays golf regularly but probably not very well and he’s type 1 diabetic.’
Priest looked across at the nurse. The man’s mouth was open in astonishment. Eventually he nodded his head and turned to look at his colleague for some sort of explanation.
William turned and gave the nurse the same curt inspection. ‘Bravo, Charles. All fairly elementary, though. Let me see. He’s new because you’ve never seen him before. The new cat because of the scratches on his arm, which you saw when he intervened just now, much too deep for a juvenile feline. That also explains no children, or it would have been more likely to have been a kitten. Adult cat so probably from a home rather than a pet store. Divorced because of the faint mark around the index finger, the wedding ring having only been recently discarded. Golf because one hand is slightly less tanned than the other, the hand upon which the glove would be worn, and not very good because the mere fact that you can see the difference suggests he wears the glove a lot and of course that would only be the case when taking a shot. The more shots one is taking, the poorer the player. Type 1 diabetic was a stretch but there’s a chain around his neck. The nurses here aren’t allowed jewellery unless it’s for some good reason, such as the pendant a diabetic might wear with instructions in case he falls into a coma. But how did you get the name?’
Priest shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s on his name badge.’
‘Ah, exemplary.’ William clapped enthusiastically. ‘So clever of you, brother.’
The change was quick – a frightening thing to witness for the first time but something Priest was used to. Five years of visiting once a month had desensitised him to William’s sudden changes of mood. So when William placed his hands on the edge of the table and leant forward conspiratorially, whispering words in a voice that had descended almost an entire octave, Priest didn’t even flinch.
‘I’m on to him, brother. The Director. He observes me at night. He thinks I am slumbering but it is an illusion. I have avoided REM sleep for months so that I am alert for his nocturnal visits. He believes he has subdued me but he has underestimated his lab rat’s conviction.’
Priest sighed inwardly. It pained him to hear his brother’s delusions. ‘The Director’ was William’s pet name for Dr Wheatcroft. He harboured the fantasy that Wheatcroft was somehow responsible for his madness and that he spent his time testing his creation.
‘Dr Wheatcroft is a good man –’
‘Do not utter his name!’ William seethed. ‘He’s probing me, Charles. Trying to push me to the brink of my mental limits. He’s trying to make me kill again!’
‘They’re dreams, Wills. Just silly dreams.’
‘Do not make the mistake of assuming my incarceration in this institution means that I cannot tell the difference between apparition and reality.’ William was working himself up and the two attendants shuffled forward a few feet, ready to put a quick end to any trouble. Priest didn’t move a muscle.
‘I have deficiencies, Charles,’ William went on. ‘A malfunction of the brain. But it is not organic. It was a seed planted there by the Director. A seed that he now waters. He’s seeing if he can push me to the edge again.’
The older of the two nurses put a hand on William’s shoulder. Visiting time was over. ‘Come on, William. Let’s not keep your brother.’
‘He’ll come for me eventually, Charles! You’ll see!’
‘Come on, William,’ said the attendant.
Priest watched with sadness as they took William by the arms. Five years ago William Priest would have thrown the two men off like sacks of potatoes. Now, dishevelled and confused, he was easily subdued.
‘See you next month, Wills,’ Priest said quietly.
‘He is a great manipulator, Charles. We must not let him win!’
The two nurses picked William up. He barely struggled as they carried him to the door.
‘I haven’t finished!’ he protested. ‘Charles must know the truth. Let me say one final word.’
The older nurse raised an eyebrow at Priest, who nodded. They stopped at the door and allowed William enough movement to turn his head to face Priest.
‘In 1971, Soviet scientists discovered a field of natural gas in Turkmenistan. Fearing it was poisonous, they decided to burn off the gas. They lit it, thinking it would burn out in a few days. Forty years on, it is still burning. The locals call it the Door to Hell – a great pit of fire in the desert. The mind is like that pit, Charles. Set it alight . . . and it burns. And burns. And burns.’
14
William was right. Priest had called in on his monthly visit early to get it over with. The encounter had stirred a familiar cocktail of emotions – guilt, sadness, disgust. Guilt because he didn’t go often enough and because
Sarah didn’t go at all. Sadness because he loved his brother. His brother – not the serial killer, William Priest, the feral creature his brother had become. And disgust. With himself. For letting him down.
He’d googled the Door to Hell on the way to the office just to see if it was real – it was.
Maureen raised an eyebrow as he walked past; it seemed his recent behaviour hadn’t gone unnoticed. She had gone heavy on the foundation this morning and wore a deep red lipstick that didn’t suit her. In fact, it wouldn’t have suited anyone. Priest decided he couldn’t slip past her another time. She was too much of a perceptive old bat.
‘Good morning,’ he offered, slowing but not quite stopping.
‘Remind me,’ she grunted, ‘it’s Mr Priest, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Your generous employer.’
‘Hm, right.’
He smiled as he neared the stairs but, glancing down at his arms, noticed that his jacket sleeve had ridden up and the angry burn mark shone out like a beacon across his wrist. Hastily, he pulled his sleeve down but he knew she would have seen.
Maureen sighed. ‘You know, Charlie, you’re going to have to sort yourself out.’
Priest stopped for a moment, the words lingering in the air, then carried on up the stairs.
*
Vincent Okoro presented himself in Priest’s office wearing a cream suit that had been measured so perfectly it fitted like a second skin. There were fewer items of jewellery about his person today and Priest could only identify one modestly sized diamond earring.
‘A hearing later?’ Priest asked.
‘Oral application for permission to appeal,’ Okoro explained. He took the seat opposite Priest as usual.
‘Your application?’
‘My opponent’s.’
‘Any chance?’
‘None. He’s a simpleton. But his client’s pissed I beat his arse.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Enough chit-chat. What’s the latest? Anyone try to kill you last night?’
Priest mentioned Jessica Ellinder’s visit. Okoro nodded thoughtfully but didn’t interrupt. When Priest had finished, he handed over a letter.
‘This was couriered over this morning,’ Okoro said. ‘I signed for you. Looks important. Better open it.’
As Priest studied the envelope the door opened and Georgie came in. Her hair was tied back again in a ponytail. She wore a black, knee-length suit skirt and a jacket with a deep red lining. The thick-rimmed glasses would have looked hideous on any other face but they somehow suited Georgie Someday.
‘Hi,’ she said, motioning in a sort of wave. ‘I was just wondering . . .’
‘What I want you to do next?’ finished Priest.
‘Yes!’
Priest clicked his tongue. ‘I want you to look into the use of impalement as an execution method. Religious and social significance, history, conceptual meaning – that sort of thing.’
‘I did that already,’ Georgie said. She cleared her throat. ‘Impalement is most commonly associated with the fifteenth-century Romanian tyrant, Vlad the Impaler. You might know him better as Dracula.’
‘Dracula? As in, Bram Stoker?’ asked Okoro.
‘Yes, Stoker’s Dracula was based on a real person whose favourite method of execution was impalement. I read a lot of Gothic horror,’ she added.
‘Pretty unpleasant way to die,’ said Priest.
‘Yes, Vlad was one of the most brutal dictators in history. He would sit by firelight eating and drinking while his impaled enemies writhed in agony around him. He favoured the spike penetrating the anus or, in the case of women, vagina.’
‘As opposed to . . .?’ Priest found himself cringing not so much at Georgie’s description as at the enthusiasm with which she was delivering it.
‘Hanging the victim upside down and inserting the spike down the throat, of course,’ said Georgie, brightly. ‘It kills quicker.’
Priest nodded. ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?’
Georgie continued, apparently oblivious. ‘So I guess there are two reasons why impalement might be used to kill someone. First, it’s a very painful and degrading way to die. Second, it’s associated with a man who took great enjoyment from torture and death.’
‘He got a kick out of it?’ asked Okoro.
‘According to most sources. Especially women. He would mutilate their sexual organs and force mothers to eat their own babies. He really wasn’t very nice.’
Priest swallowed hard. If he had been given the chance, he would have gladly put his fist through Miles Ellinder’s face. But it was difficult to conceive the level of sadistic evil necessary to commit the atrocities Georgie had described.
Priest looked back down at the envelope in his hand. It was unmarked, no frank or stamp. One word was inscribed in pen on an otherwise blank white envelope.
Priest.
‘Who delivered this?’ he asked Okoro.
‘Fastlink. They’re a private courier.’
Priest held the envelope for a few more moments before tearing it open and pulling out a letter written by hand on thick, cream paper. He read it. Read it again. Then looked up at the other two.
‘This letter is from the Attorney General,’ he told them.
‘As in . . .?’ said Okoro, slowly.
‘Yes. Sir Philip Wren. My godfather.’
15
Hayley Wren slumped down heavily in front of the vanity mirror and examined her tired face. There were bags under her eyes and her skin looked blotchy and dry. She grimaced.
She considered the small array of products in front of her, stacked up neatly along the dressing table. Most of them were gifts from her mother – perfumes and creams endorsed by celebrities she had never heard of, that sort of thing. All part of her parents’ futile attempts to encourage her to join the real world.
Get your head out of the clouds, Hayley.
Her father’s voice rang in her ears. But how could she ever live up to his expectations? She was the daughter of the great Philip Wren, Attorney General. The lawyer’s lawyer. She had enrolled on a law degree, as he had directed, but had never made it past freshers’ week. That was almost eighteen years ago. In three years’ time she would be forty, and she had nothing to celebrate except for two unfinished graphic novels and a job in a charity shop.
And that was it. Her whole life summed up in one pathetic incident, when she had walked away from full-time education. A life full of ‘not quites’. The girl who was not quite pretty, not quite clever, not quite the same as the rest. Not quite what Daddy wanted. Not quite male enough, maybe. Her father had been particularly short with her the last time they had spoken. He had urged her to come home. Perhaps he wanted to have another go at trying to prise her away from Jesus. He hated her involvement with the Creation Church but she didn’t care. She had finally found something tangible in the Reverend Matthew’s little gathering. Something she could hold on to.
Which was why she had found herself drawn to Reverend Matthew’s counsel like a magnet when, the week before, an envelope had dropped on her doormat. There was no note inside, no letter, no address, just her name inscribed on the envelope. Somebody walked right up to my door and fed it through my letterbox. She shuddered just thinking about it.
When she had tipped the contents out on to her bed she had nearly been sick.
Within an hour of opening it, she was sitting, shaking, at the table in the back room of the community hall where services were shared with line-dancing classes and AA meetings.
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Reverend Matthews had asked. He was kind and gentle but the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d put his hand over hers – he’d been just as troubled as she was.
She had shaken her head. She had no idea why anyone would send her . . . that.
‘Leave the envelope with me,’ he had advised, and she had gratefully thrust it across the table at him.
Hayley had tried to forget about
the envelope but she hadn’t been able to. She had thrown away the bedding on which its contents had fallen – it felt defiled, unclean. But the image still haunted her and, worse, the dreadful misgiving that that last conversation she had had with her father and the envelope were somehow connected.
Perhaps I should have gone home when he told me to.
She ran a brush through her hair and stared at the mirror. Behind her, she saw her room, everything neat and tidy as always.
Except something felt different.
She slowed the gentle tug of the brush and examined the reflection in the mirror further. Nothing seemed out of place. But there was something not quite right.
It was the door to the hallway.
It had been open, but it was now closing, hinges groaning slightly with the motion. By itself.
She felt her blood freeze instantly.
Oh, Jesus, be with me now.
In front of the door stood a man, arms held stiffly at his sides, face hidden behind a white hood through which all she could see were two dark eyes watching her.
16
‘Your godfather is the Attorney General?’ Georgie looked excited.
‘Philip Wren was a family friend,’ Priest explained. ‘He and my father went back a long way. Old boys’ network. That sort of thing.’
Lunches at the Wrens had always been a tedious affair. Priest had never really taken to Philip Wren. He was one of those overconfident men who had every right to be overconfident. Sarah had once referred to him as a ‘vile, self-indulgent pig’. To his face, too. William had been indifferent about him.
The Attorney General’s wife, Terri, was a small, delicate creature – the opposite of her husband. They had one daughter, Hayley, who was even more introverted than her mother. Priest was a year in to his fourth decade. He thought Hayley might be a few years younger than he was, but she was one of those people who always seemed to stay the same age; she had never crawled out of her early twenties. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Sarah had never had much time for her – but then again, Sarah was a tomboy and had spent her youth in bare feet climbing trees. Hayley had spent her youth reading in her room. It was obvious that Hayley wasn’t what her father had wished for, which was hardly her fault.