Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  More pain.

  The realisation slowly began to creep over him.

  ‘I had a feeling you would want to know what has been going on between myself and your husband,’ she read aloud.

  Hacket exhaled deeply, wanting to say something but knowing that whatever words he found they would be inadequate.

  ‘I do not care what you think of me,’ Sue continued, reading from the crumpled letter. ‘But I felt you had a right to know what has been happening between us.’

  ‘Sue…’

  She interrupted him.

  ‘I do not like being used,’ she read, her eyes still riveted to the paper. Then, finally, she looked at him. ‘Who is she?’

  He knew that it was pointless to lie.

  At least clear one part of your conscience, eh?

  ‘Her name’s Nikki Reeves,’ he said, quietly. ‘She works at the school.’

  It was said. There was no turning back now.

  ‘You had an affair with her?’ Sue said and it was a statement rather than a question. ‘How long did it last?’

  ‘Three months.’

  He watched as she sat down on the edge of the bed, the letter still held in her hand. She had her back to him as if to look at him caused her disgust. He wouldn’t have blamed her if disgust was the emotion she was feeling but he guessed it was more painful than that.

  ‘Is it over now?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you?’

  ‘Is it over?’

  ‘Yes. I finished it a couple of days ago.’

  She looked at him finally, a bitter smile on her lips.

  ‘All those meetings at school you went to, you were really with her.’ Her eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘You never brought her here did you?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘And where did your little liaisons take place, John?’ she asked with something bordering on contempt. ‘In the back of the car? In an empty classroom or office?’

  ‘Sue, for Christ’s sake it wasn’t as sordid as that. She has a flat…’

  ‘Oh, her own place, how convenient. Somewhere to wash away the dirt afterwards.’ The last sentence was barbed and it cut deep. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-two. Is that really important?’

  ‘I thought teachers were meant to have flings with pubescent pupils, nymphomaniac sixth-formers. Still, you always liked to do things differently didn’t you, John. Why someone so young? Re-affirming your attractiveness now you’re reaching the dreaded thirtieth birthday?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Me? You’re the one who had a bloody affair with a secretary at your school, John. I would have thought that qualified as ridiculous, wouldn’t you?’ She glared at him, her eyes moist.

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Sue,’ he said, irritably. ‘I know it was wrong and I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation I feel pretty bloody lousy about it as well.’

  ‘It isn’t any consolation,’ she snapped.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence until Sue spoke again. ‘Why, John? At least tell me that,’ she said, quietly.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. Whatever explanation I give you is going to sound inadequate, pointless.’ He sucked in a deep breath. ‘I can’t explain it.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ she demanded.

  ‘I can’t,’ he replied with equal anger, trying not to raise his voice but frustrated in the knowledge that whatever she said she was right. What he had done was indefensible. ‘Look, I’m not proud of what I did. It just happened.’

  ‘Affairs don’t just happen,’ she chided. ‘What was the attraction anyway? Is she pretty? Got a nice figure? Is she good in bed? Not that you’d have known that until you got her back to her flat though, would you? Well come on, tell me, I’m curious. Did this pretty young thing just fall into your arms?’

  He shook his head but didn’t answer.

  ‘Tell me,’ she snarled, vehemently. ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confessed.

  ‘And good in bed?’

  ‘Sue, for God’s sake…’

  ‘Is she good? Come on, I’m curious, I told you. Is she good in bed?’

  He smiled humourlessly.

  ‘What do you want me to do, rate her one to ten?’

  ‘Just tell me if she was good,’ Sue snarled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, almost inaudibly. ‘It was only ever a physical thing. I didn’t feel anything for her. I never stopped loving you, Sue.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be grateful, John? You’ll be telling me next that I should understand why you did it. Well, perhaps I ought to try and understand. Tell me why, make me understand.’

  ‘Since your father’s been ill…’

  ‘Don’t blame it on my father, you bastard.’

  ‘Let me finish,’ he snapped, waiting until she was looking at him once again. ‘Since he’s been ill you’ve been obsessed with him; with what he’s got. You’ve been distant. Perhaps I felt neglected, I know it sounds like a fucking lame excuse but it’s all I can think of.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, John,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘I should have realised you weren’t getting enough attention, it’s practically my fault you had this affair. It sounds as if I forced you into it.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.’

  ‘You’re saying that you couldn’t have what you wanted from me so you picked up some little tart and fucked her,’ Sue spat the words.

  ‘She’s not a tart.’

  ‘Why are you defending her, John? I thought you said it was only a physical thing. If you wanted sex that badly you might as well have found a whore, paid for it. I do apologise for having other things on my mind, if only you’d let me know how you were suffering perhaps I could have fitted you in a couple of nights a week.’

  ‘Now you are being ridiculous.’

  ‘What the hell do you expect?’ she yelled at him. ‘Rational conversation? On the day my daughter is buried I find out my husband’s been having an affair.’ He saw her expression darken, her eyes narrow. Hacket could almost see the thoughts forming inside her mind. That final piece of deduction which would damn him forever. ‘You were with her the night Lisa was killed weren’t you?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Weren’t you?’ she hissed.

  He nodded.

  ‘I can’t get that out of my mind,’ Hacket whispered. ‘The thought that if I’d been here it probably wouldn’t have happened. You don’t have any idea what that’s doing to me, Sue.’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s doing to you,’ she said, coldly. ‘You killed our daughter.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he snapped.

  ‘You didn’t hold the knife but you’re as responsible for her death as the man who killed her. Our daughter died for the sake of your bloody affair.’

  She lashed out at him, wildly, madly, the suddenness of the attack taking him by surprise. Her nails raked his cheek, drawing blood. Hacket tried to grab her wrists, seeing now that tears were coursing down her checks. She struck at him again but he caught her arm and held it, getting a good grip on the other wrist too. She struggled frantically to be free of his restraining hands, wanting also to be away from the touch of his skin against hers. It was as if he were something loathsome.

  ‘Let go of me,’ she shouted, glaring at him. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  He released her and she pulled away, moving from the bed, almost falling as she reached the door. Hacket swung himself out of bed and moved towards her but she held up a hand to ward him off.

  ‘Don’t you come near me,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t.’

  He hesitated, knowing that whatever words or actions he chose were useless. The two of them remained frozen, like the still frame of a film, then, finally, Hacket took a step back. A gesture of defeat.

  ‘Sue, please,’ he said. ‘Don’t shut me out. Not now. We need each other.’

  She almost la
ughed.

  ‘Do we? Why do you need me? You can go back to your whore can’t you?’ She glanced at him a second longer then turned and left the bedroom.

  He thought about following her as he heard her footfalls on the stairs but he knew it was useless. Instead, he spun round and, with a roar of rage and frustration, he brought his fist down with stunning force on the dressing table. Bottles of perfume and items of make-up toppled over with the impact. Hacket gripped the top of the dressing table, gazing at his own pale reflection in the mirror.

  The face that looked back at him was despair personified.

  Seventeen

  The barking of the dog woke him.

  In the stillness of the night it seemed to echo inside the room, inside his head and he sat up in bed immediately, glancing to one side, squinting at the clock.

  1.46 a.m.

  Brian Devlin thought about snapping on the bedside light but hesitated. He rubbed his eyes, the barking of the dog still reverberating through the darkness. The animal could be anywhere on the farm, perhaps even in one of the fields, noise carried a long way in the stillness of such a late hour.

  Devlin hauled himself out of bed and padded across to the window which overlooked the main farmyard.

  The porch light which burned offered little by way of penetrative glow and Devlin could see no further than the land rover which was parked just outside his back door. Again he thought about putting on a light, but again he hesitated, reaching instead for the torch which stood on the floor beside the bed.

  Then he slid a hand beneath the bed and pulled out the Franchi over-under shotgun. He broke the weapon, thumbed in two cartridges from the box in the bedside cabinet then moved quickly towards the stairs, the torch gripped in one hand, the shotgun cradled over the crook of his other arm.

  At the back door he paused to step into his boots, pulling his dressing gown more tightly around him. It was cold and he cursed as his bare feet were enveloped by the freezing wellingtons.

  Outside, the dog continued to bark.

  Devlin unlocked the back door and slipped out into the night.

  He stood still for a moment, squinting into the gloom, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness, then he headed off in the direction of the barking Alsatian.

  Devlin was sure the sound was coming from the rear of the barn. From the chicken coop. He’d lost nearly a dozen chickens to foxes over the last month or so. This time he’d catch the bastard, blow it to pieces. The woods which grew so thickly on the eastern side of his land were perfect breeding ground for foxes and he had already searched part of them in an effort to track down the vermin, but so far with no success.

  Other farmers, on the western side of Hinkston, had reported no such losses of poultry and that, in itself, irritated Devlin. He’d been running the farm for the past twenty years, ever since his twentieth birthday, he didn’t have the resources that the farmers on the other side of the town had. His was a small concern built up over the years first by his father and now by himself. The farm was a consuming passion. So much so that his ex-wife had found it impossible to accept that the farm and farm business would always take precedence. Perhaps, Devlin had thought when she’d left him, she didn’t like taking second place to a sty full of saddle-backs. He smiled at the recollection. Of how she had tried to play the farmer’s wife, milking the cows, even mucking out the pigs but, after a year or so the novelty value had worn off and she’d seen it for what it really was. Bloody hard work. Devlin worked a sixteen-hour day sometimes to keep the farm ticking over. There was no time for a social life. It had been almost inevitable that the marriage should break up. There had been no children though, and consequently no complications. She was only too happy to leave and he was quite content to carry on devoting all his time to the farm. If he had one regret, it was that they had been childless. The thought that, after his death, there would be no one to run the farm bothered him. But, he mused, when he was six feet under he wouldn’t be worrying about anything anyway, would he?

  Right now, all that worried him was the barking Alsatian. He steadied the shotgun in his other hand, ready to drop the torch and fire should he see a fox, but as he drew closer to the barn and the chicken coop beyond a thought occurred to him. Surely the dog’s insistent barking would have frightened the would-be predator away by now? Why was he animal still so agitated?

  The barking stopped suddenly and Devlin found himself enveloped in the silence. He paused for a moment, waiting for the Alsatian to begin again.

  It didn’t.

  The silence persisted.

  Maybe frightened the bloody fox off, Devlin thought, chased it away and now it’s going back to get some sleep which is what he himself ought to be doing. He was supposed to be up again in less than five hours.

  Nevertheless, he advanced towards the barn noticing that one of the doors was slightly open. He muttered to himself and moved towards it.

  He was almost there when he tripped over something. Cursing to himself he flicked on the torch, shining it over the ground around him.

  The beam picked out the dead Alsatian.

  Devlin frowned as he looked at the animal, leaning closer.

  From the angle of its head he guessed that its neck had been broken. Its tongue lolled from one side of its mouth and he saw that blood was spreading in a wide pool around its head, spilling from its bottom jaw. The dog’s mouth looked as if it had been forced apart, its bottom jaw almost torn off. Devlin prodded it with the toe of his boot, spinning round when he heard a rustling sound from inside the barn.

  He was seized by a deep anger. Whoever had done this to his dog was probably still inside.

  ‘Right, you bastard,’ he hissed under his breath and blundered into the barn, shining the torch all around. Up to the second storey where hay and straw were kept. The light bounced off the row of tools which were lined up against one wall. The rakes, the spades, the cultivators, the spades and the pitchforks.

  Nothing moved.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds to come out,’ he shouted, hearing a slight creak from above him.

  There was someone up on the second storey.

  It was accessible only by a ladder which led up through a trapdoor and it was towards this ladder which Devlin now moved, anger at the killing of his dog overriding all other emotions. Whoever was up there was going to pay, one way or another he thought as he reached the ladder.

  He paused, one foot on the bottom rung. Then he jammed the torch into the waistband of his dressing gown and gripped the shotgun in his free hand.

  He began to climb.

  ‘You’re on private property,’ he called as he ascended. ‘What I do to you is my business. You’re on my land.’

  He was half-way up by now.

  ‘You didn’t have to kill my dog, you bastard.’

  Devlin slowed down as he reached the trapdoor, pushing against it hard. It flew back and crashed to the floor with a bang that reverberated throughout the barn.

  ‘I’ll give you one more chance to come out,’ he called, pulling himself through the narrow entrance. ‘You can’t get past me; this is the only way out.’

  Silence.

  ‘I’ve got a shotgun,’ he called.

  Nothing.

  Devlin took a couple of paces towards where he thought he’d first heard the sound, holding the shotgun in one hand, playing the torch beam ahead of him, over the bales of hay and straw which were stacked like over-sized house bricks.

  There were plenty of places to hide, he thought.

  The beams creaked beneath his feet as he walked, stopping every few paces to shine the torch behind him, checking that the intruder hadn’t tried to slip out through the trapdoor.

  Below, the barn door banged shut.

  Devlin spun round, running back to the trap door, peering through.

  The door swung open again then crashed shut once more and he realized that it was the wind which had caused the movement.

  He straightened up a
nd continued with his search of the loft area.

  Had his ears been playing tricks on him, he wondered? The loft seemed to be empty. No one hiding behind the bales. No sign of any disturbance. The barn appeared to be empty. Devlin shone the torch back and forth over the upper level once more then shook his head and turned, heading back towards the ladder.

  He laid the torch and the shotgun on the rim of the trap door as he lowered himself onto the ladder.

  The barn door creaked open again and remained open.

  Devlin jammed the torch back into one of the pockets of his dressing gown and, holding the shotgun in one hand climbed down carefully.

  He stood at the bottom of the ladder, listening.

  Only silence greeted him.

  Puzzled and a little disappointed, Devlin made for the door, closing it behind him. He turned, his torch shining ahead of him.

  The body of the dog was gone.

  There was just a puddle of crimson to show where it had been laying. The dead animal had vanished as if in to thin air.

  Devlin sucked in an angry breath.

  This had gone too far. If someone was pissing about with him then he didn’t find it very funny. He stormed off back across the farmyard towards the house.

  Behind him, the barn door opened a fraction.

  Devlin pushed open the back door and stormed in, snapping on lights now, putting down the shotgun and cursing to himself.

  The figure was standing in the kitchen

  Devlin opened his mouth to say something but no words would come. He reached back for the shotgun but it was too late.

  The figure lunged forward, driving the pitchfork before it like a bayonet.

  The twin steel prongs punctured Devlin’s chest, one of them skewering his heart, the other ripping through a lung, bursting it like a fleshy balloon. Blood erupted from the wounds, spraying the kitchen, and the farmer was propelled backwards with incredible force, driven by the sheer strength of the thrust.

  He crashed back against the wall, blood spattering the plaster and leaving a red smear as he slid down to the ground, still transfixed by the pitchfork. He tried to scream but his throat was full of blood and, as he tried to move he could hear the air hissing through his ruptured lung, could feel the cold breeze gushing through the hideous rent. While, all the time, blood from his punctured heart fountained into the air as if expelled from a high-pressure hose.