Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Hacket,’ he said, gripping her hand.

  She felt so cold.

  ‘Where is she?’ Sue demanded, her face drained of colour, her eyes searching Spencer’s face imploringly for an answer.

  ‘She’s upstairs,’ he told her then, quickly added, ‘we’ve been trying to reach your husband…’

  ‘I must see her,’ she blurted. ‘You must let me see her. Please.’ She got to her feet and tried to push past Spencer who, once again acted as a human barrier.

  ‘Let me pass,’ she shouted. ‘I have to go to her.’ Spencer pushed the kitchen door shut behind him, penning her inside the room with him.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ he said. ‘Your daughter is dead.’

  Sue suddenly froze then, with a final despairing moan, she did pass out.

  Nine

  By the time Hacket arrived home there was just one police car parked outside the house. He gave it only a cursory glance as he walked towards the front door, fumbling for his keys, remembering he’d left them in his other jacket. He rang the doorbell and waited, blowing on his hands in an effort to warm them.

  The door was opened by Spencer.

  Hacket looked aghast at the policeman, standing on the doorstep even when he was ushered inside.

  Across the road a curtain moved as the family opposite tried to see what was happening.

  ‘Mr John Hacket?’ Spencer asked.

  The teacher nodded, finally finding the will to step over the threshold. The front door was closed behind him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said, falteringly.

  Spencer introduced himself.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why are you here?’

  Hacket found himself manoeuvred into the kitchen where another plain-clothes man waited. The second man introduced himself as Detective Inspector Madden. He was older than his subordinate by five years, his hair greying at the temples, a stark contrast to his jet black moustache and eyebrows which knitted over his nose giving him the appearance of a perpetual frown. However, there was a warmth in his voice that seemed almost incongruous to his appearance. He asked Hacket to sit down and the teacher obeyed, finding a mug of tea pushed towards him.

  ‘Will someone tell me what the hell is going on?’ he said, irritably ‘Has there been an accident? My wife, is it my wife?’

  ‘Your wife is with your next-door neighbours,’ Madden told him, softly. ‘She’s been sedated, she’s sleeping now.’

  ‘Sedated? What the fuck are you talking about? What’s happening?’ His breath was coming in gasps now, his eyes darting back and forth between the two policemen.

  ‘Your house was broken into tonight,’ said Madden, his voice low and even. ‘We found two bodies when we arrived. One we believe was a girl named Caroline Fearns, the other we think was your daughter. They’re dead, Mr Hacket, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Dead.’ The word, the very act of speaking it seemed to drain all the anger and irritation from Hacket. His head bowed slightly. He tried to swallow but it felt as if his throat had filled with sand. When he spoke the word again it came out as a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Madden repeated.

  Hacket clasped his hands together before him on the table, his gaze directed at the cup of steaming tea. He chewed on one knuckle for a moment, the silence enveloping him.

  Both policemen looked at each other, then at the teacher, who finally managed to croak another word.

  ‘When?’

  We think between seven and eight this evening,’ he was told.

  Hacket gritted his teeth.

  ‘Oh God,’ he murmured, feeling sick, wondering if he was going to be able to control himself. He closed his eyes, squeezing the lids together until white stars danced before him. Between seven and eight. While he was with Nikki.

  He rubbed his face with both hands, still fighting to control his nausea. His mouth opened soundlessly but no words would come. He wanted to say so much, wanted to know so much but he could not speak. Only one word finally escaped.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, pathetically. ‘Why were they killed?’ The question had an almost child-like innocence to it.

  Madden seemed embarrassed by the question.

  ‘It looks as if someone broke in with the intention of robbing the house,’ he said. ‘When they found your daughter and the young girl they…’ He allowed the words to fade away.

  ‘How was it done?’ said Hacket, an unnerving steeliness in his tone, despite the fact that he could not bring himself to look directly at either of the policemen.

  ‘I don’t think you need to know that yet, Mr Hacket,’ Madden said.

  ‘I asked how it was done,’ he snarled, glaring at the DI. ‘I have a right to know.’

  Madden hesitated.

  ‘With a knife,’ he said, quietly.

  Hacket nodded quickly, his gaze dropping once more.

  In the resultant silence, the ticking of the wall clock sounded thunderous.

  It was Spencer who finally coughed somewhat theatrically, looked at his superior then spoke.

  ‘Mr Hacket, I’m afraid that your daughter will have to be formally identified.’

  Hacket let out a painful breath. ‘Oh Christ,’ he murmured.

  ‘It has to be done within twenty-four hours if possible,’ Spencer continued almost apologetically.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Hacket said, his words almost inaudible. ‘Please don’t tell my wife. I don’t want her to see Lisa like that.’

  Spencer nodded.

  ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning about eleven.’

  ‘Would you like one of my men to stay outside the house tonight, Mr Hacket?’ Madden asked. ‘It’d be no trouble.’

  Hacket shook his head and, once more, the three of them endured what felt like an interminable silence finally broken by Madden.

  ‘We’re going to have to ask you to leave the house too, Mr Hacket, until the forensic boys have finished. Is there somewhere you can stay? It’ll only be for a day or two.’

  Hacket nodded blankly.

  ‘Just let me see it,’ he murmured.

  Madden looked puzzled.

  ‘Where it happened,’ the teacher said. ‘I have to see.’

  ‘Why torture yourself?’

  He turned on Madden.

  ‘I have to see.’

  The policeman nodded, watching as Hacket walked out of the kitchen and through into the sitting room.

  The sitting room had been wrecked.

  The furniture had been overturned, ornaments smashed, television and video broken, but it was not the wanton destruction which shocked Hacket - it was the spots of blood on the carpet, so delicately covered with pieces of plastic sheeting. He pulled one of the armchairs upright and flopped down lifelessly in it, gazing around the room, his eyes bulging wide, looking but seeing nothing. He sat there as the minutes ticked by, surrounded by silence. Alone with his thoughts. Then, slowly, he hauled himself to his feet and walked towards the hall, pulling the sitting room door closed behind him.

  He hesitated again at the bottom of the stairs, as if the climb were too much for him or he feared what he might find at the top but then, gripping the bannister, he began to ascend.

  He faltered again when he reached the landing, looking at the four doors which confronted him.

  The door to Lisa’s room was now firmly shut, but it was towards that one which he advanced, his hand shaking as it rested on the handle.

  Hacket turned it and walked in.

  More plastic sheeting.

  More blood.

  Especially on the bed.

  He felt a tear form in the corner of one eye and roll slowly down his cheek. As he turned to step back out of the room his foot brushed against something and he looked down to see that it was one of his daughter’s toys. Hacket stopped and picked up the teddy bear, holding it before him for a second before setting it on top of a chest of drawers. Again his gaze was drawn to the bed.

  So much blood.<
br />
  He felt more tears dribbling down his cheeks as he stared at the place where she had been killed.

  How much pain had she suffered?

  Had she screamed?

  He clenched his fists together, each question burning its way into his mind like a branding iron.

  How long had it taken her to die?

  Does it matter? he asked himself. All that matters is that she’s dead.

  Perhaps if you’d been here…

  The thought stuck in his mind like a splinter in flesh. He turned and closed the door behind him, wiping the tears away with one hand, sucking in deep breaths.

  * * *

  He undressed swiftly and slid into bed beside her, feeling the warmth of her body against him. She murmured something in her sleep and he gently placed one arm around her neck, wanting to hold her more tightly. Wanting her to hold him.

  She woke up suddenly, as if from a nightmare then, immediately, she saw him and Hacket could see that her face was unbearably pale and drawn. Even in the darkness he could see the moisture on her cheeks.

  ‘John,’ she whispered, her voice cracking and now he held her tightly, more tightly than he could ever remember. An embrace more intense than any born of love. She looked so vulnerable. And he felt her tears on his chest as he held her, his own grief swelling and rising once more.

  ‘If only we’d been here,’ she whimpered. ‘If I hadn’t been at the hospital and you hadn’t been at that meeting she’d still be alive.’

  Hacket nodded.

  ‘We can’t blame ourselves, Sue,’ he said but the lie bit deep and he finally lost control. Hacket could, and did, blame himself. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he gasped and they both seemed to melt into one another, united in grief.

  September 10, 1940

  The voices outside the room grew louder.

  One he recognised, the other he had not heard before.

  Garbled, angry words then the door swung open as he rose.

  ‘I tried to stop him, George,’ said Lawrenson’s wife, Margaret, looking helplessly at her husband who merely smiled and nodded at her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, eyeing the other newcomer with suspicion. ‘You can leave us.’

  She hesitated a moment then closed the door behind her.

  The veneer of civility which Lawrenson had managed to retain dropped sharply.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘How dare you burst into my home like this?’

  The man who faced him was tall but powerfully built, the thick material of his uniform unable to conceal the muscles beneath. He had a long face with pinched features and his cheeks looked hollow, giving him an undernourished look which was quite incongruous when set against the rest of his physique. He strode across to Lawrenson’s desk, a steely look in his eye and, even as the doctor noticed the man’s rank, he introduced himself, albeit perfunctorily.

  ‘Major David Catlin,’ he announced, stiffly. ‘Intelligence.’

  Lawrenson didn’t offer him a seat but Catlin sat down anyway.

  ‘And to what do I owe this intrusion?’ Lawrenson wanted to know.

  ‘I’m here on official business, from the Home Office. It’s about project Genesis.’

  Lawrenson shot him a wary glance.

  ‘Your work on the project is to stop as of now,’ said Catlin, his eyes never leaving the doctor.

  ‘Why?’ Lawrenson demanded. ‘The work has been going well, I’ve made great strides. Is someone else being put in charge?’

  Catlin shook his head.

  ‘The whole project is being shut down,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t do that. You mustn’t do that, I’m close to finding an answer. There are certain things which need perfecting, I know…’

  The Major cut him short.

  ‘The project is to cease immediately, Doctor,’ he snapped. ‘And I can understand why.’

  ‘The Army, the Home Office, everyone was behind me at the beginning,’ Lawrenson protested.

  ‘That was until we saw the results,’ Catlin said, quietly. ‘Lawrenson, listen to me, if the public found out what this work involved there would be massive outcry. No one would stand for it, especially if the press got hold of it. Can you imagine the repercussions if a newspaper managed to get some photos of your work?’ He shook his head. ‘Work. God, I don’t even know if that’s the right word for it.’

  ‘The Government encouraged me to perfect Genesis,’ Lawrenson insisted, leaning on his desk and glaring at the officer. ‘They funded me while I was researching.’

  ‘That funding is also to be withdrawn,’ Catlin informed him.

  ‘Then I’ll carry on alone.’

  ‘Lawrenson, I didn’t come forty miles to advise you to stop work on Genesis, I’m ordering you.’

  The doctor smiled thinly.

  ‘I’m not in your army Major, you can’t give me orders,’ he said.

  The officer got to his feet.

  ‘You are to stop work immediately, do you understand?’

  ‘I’ve only been working under laboratory conditions for a month, less than that. You can’t judge the results as early as this. It’s unfair.’

  ‘And what you’re doing is inhuman,’ snapped Catlin.

  The two men regarded one another angrily for a moment then Lawrenson seemed to relax. He moved away from his desk towards the window which overlooked his spacious back garden. In the splendour and peacefulness of the countryside it was difficult to believe there was a war on, that, forty miles away in London, people would soon be preparing themselves for the Luftwaffe’s nightly onslaught.

  ‘What is more inhuman, Major,’ Lawrenson began. ‘The work that I’m involved in, work that could help mankind, or the senseless slaughter of millions in this bloody war we’re fighting?’

  ‘Very philosophical, Doctor but I didn’t come here to discuss the rights and wrongs of war.’

  Lawrenson turned and looked at the soldier.

  ‘I will not stop my work, Major,’ he said, flatly.

  ‘Is it that you cannot or will not see why Genesis must stop now?’ the officer asked.

  ‘When I first began work on the project everyone backed me. I was hailed as a saviour.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘And now, I’m to suffer the same fate as the first saviour, metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘Even you must realise the risks,’ Catlin said. ‘If details of your work were discovered there’s no telling what would happen. That is why you must stop.’

  Lawrenson shook his head.

  ‘Tell the Home Office, tell your superiors, tell the Prime Minister himself that I will continue my work.’

  Catlin shrugged.

  ‘Then I can’t be responsible for what may happen.’

  Lawrenson heard the iciness in the soldier’s voice.

  ‘Are you threatening me, Catlin?’ he snapped.

  The Major turned and headed for the door, pursued by Lawrenson.

  The officer strode towards the front door, past Margaret Lawrenson, who had emerged from one of the rooms leading off from the large hallway.

  Lawrenson caught up with him as he reached the front door.

  ‘Tell them to go to hell,’ he roared as the soldier walked briskly across the gravel towards his waiting car. The driver started the engine and the officer slid into the passenger seat.

  ‘You keep away from here, Catlin,’ Lawrenson shouted as the car pulled away.

  As he watched it disappear down the short driveway towards the road he wondered who the man in the back seat was.

  The man who stared at him so intently.

  Ten

  Christ he needed a cigarette.

  Hacket fumbled in his pocket for the fifth time and then glanced across the small waiting room at the sign which proclaimed, in large, red letters, ‘NO SMOKING’.

  Had it not been for the circumstances he may have found the irony somewhat amusing. Cigarette smoke was hardly likely to damage the residents of this particular building.

  He sat outside
the morgue, eyes straying to the door through which, minutes earlier, DS Spencer had disappeared. It felt as if he’d been gone for hours. Hacket felt utterly alone despite, or because of, the smallness of the waiting room. It was painted a dull, passionless grey. Even the plastic chairs which lined the wall were grey. The lino was grey. The only thing that wasn’t grey was the NO SMOKING sign which he glanced at again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  Outside he heard an ambulance siren and wondered, briefly, where it was going. To an accident? A road smash?

  A murder?

  Hacket tired of sitting and got to his feet, pacing steadily back and forth in the small room. There weren’t any magazines to look at to pass the time, no three-year-old copies of Readers Digest or Woman’s Own. For some absurd reason a joke sidled into his mind. A joke about a doctor’s waiting room. Two men talking, one said I was at the doctor’s lately, I read one of the newspapers there. Terrible about the Titanic isn’t it?

  Terrible.

  Hacket fumbled for his cigarettes once more and, this time he ignored the sign and lit up, sucking deeply on the Dunhill. He blew out a stream of grey smoke which perfectly matched the colour of the walls.

  He found, when he took the cigarette from his mouth, that his hand was shaking. Neither he nor Sue had slept much the previous night. She was at the house now, still sedated. A neighbour was sitting with her. Hacket wouldn’t have wanted her here with him, he wasn’t even sure how he was going to stand up to seeing his daughter laid out on a slab. For fleeting seconds he wondered if the Fearns family had identified Caroline yet. Had they felt like he felt now? Had they stood in this same waiting room wondering, fearing what they were going to see?

  The thought faded, merging into thousands of others which seemed to be whirling around in his head. And yet despite all the apparent activity inside his mind there was a peculiar emptiness. A numbness. He sat down again and almost reached out to touch the chair beside him to reassure himself it was actually there. He was a million miles away, his mind sifting through details with a swiftness that created a vacuum. He took another drag on the cigarette then stubbed it out beneath his foot.