Bloodstorm
Page 12
The flat was clinically empty. No plants. No pictures. No obstacles. Nothing physically tangible to associate with the human touch; a virtual prison within a prison. What little furnishings there were in the house appeared incidental and mismatched.
Spots on the pristine linoleum caught Karl’s eye. He bent, investigating them. Round. They were the size and shape of fish eyes. Blood? Rust?
From a kitchen drawer, he quickly removed a knife, using it to cut a ghostly teardrop from the linoleum, before encasing it inside a piece of kitchen roll.
Further on, vestiges of shit imprinted with faded shoeprints discoloured the hallway floor. Karl followed them, in reverse, out into the yard. The small enclosure was covered in dog turds encrusted with late-February flies. Watered blood stretched lazily to an open gutter. The line of blood was like a child’s crayon drawing.
In a corner of the yard, deep lines ran perfectly across a flattened piece of dog shit. Karl bent and studied the lines. Shoe tracks.
“You walked on Paisley’s shit and blood, whoever the fuck you were, trailed it in from the yard.” The dog shit with all its answers left nothing but questions in Karl’s head.
Quickly turning, he headed back in to the house, knowing time wasn’t on his side. Standing in the hallway again, he wondered if he had missed something? He glanced at the sink in the open kitchen. His throat was parched. I’m dying of thirst, he thought to himself, before quickly correcting that jinx of a thought to a simple, I’m thirsty.
After all the thought of water, he finally decided to postpone drinking in the house. Just didn’t feel right. Like robbing the dead.
Without further ado, he quickly moved towards the room he had been dreading. The bedroom. A more substantial door awaited him at the bedroom.
The door, ajar, made him feel quite anxious. He opened the door further, with the toe of his shoe. The full room came suddenly into view like a silent photo without depth or shadow.
Even from the awkward angle where he stood, Karl could see thick blobs of greasy blood staining the bed’s underbelly region. The blood spoor had run its course, finally congealing into an unruly mess, before forming a barrier against the far wall. Its unnatural colour added to the growing surrealism of the moment. It made Karl feel strangely melancholy.
Bending, he scrutinised beneath the bed, regretting it when a plum-size cockroach ran straight across his startled face, the insect’s legs sticky with gooey red.
“Dirty bastard! Filthy stinking bastard …” He hated to admit it, but the insect’s sudden appearance unnerved him, further. Particles of flesh and bone were visible on the carpet. One of the particles of flesh looked like a piece of earlobe. It gave Karl the shits. He wondered why there were two distinct patterns of blood-trail? One under the bed; the other closer to the door. What the hell is that all about? The blood beneath the bed was rich black, sombre. Dead. The other trail had more of an oily-sheen richness to it. Alive.
A survivor’s?
Easing up from the floor, he scanned the room, hoping to find what he originally came here for in the first place. The cupboard surrendered precious little; ditto the wardrobe with two cardboard boxes and a metal container. A wall mirror in the far corner of the room caught his reflection. His face – bone-white and bloodless – stared back at him in disbelief. Something was tugging at his mind. Something eerily unsettling. He needed to get away from this nightmare, soon. Not soon. Now.
On the brink of defeat, Karl turned to leave, and by sheer fluke spotted the tiny whiteness poking like a shirttail from the back of the wheelchair. He touched the wheelchair, gingerly, imagining he could still feel the heat of Chris’s body on the seat. Quickly, he eased the ream of pages from the wheelchair’s hidden back compartment.
In a cupboard to his right, he found an empty plastic Tesco bag; placed the pages inside.
Outside the bedroom, he quickly eased the door shut, suddenly realising that he was – despite his prior sanctimonious thoughts – robbing the dead.
About to make his way to the front door, Karl suddenly found the entire hallway to be filled with shadows. Was someone outside, looking in through the frosted glass of the front door?
Shit!
Someone was testing the handle. The door did a little rattle. The rusted sound of the letterbox being pushed open went straight to Karl’s gut. He could see fingers poking through. Someone looking straight at him?
Oh fuck …
With adrenalin pumping, Karl quickly ran for the back door, knowing that someone would in all probability be waiting for him to rush into open arms, capturing him. He could hear wood and glass crunching as the front door went, smashed in with force. Someone was shouting. His name?
Oh fuck!
Had someone told Karl that he would be capable of scaling a ten-foot wall in a matter of seconds, he would have pissed himself laughing. Jumping into his car, he wasn’t laughing. But the pissing couldn’t be ruled out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday, 25 February
‘There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast.’
Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
SEAN HARRISON’S FATHER had taught him how to hunt; taught him the gentle squeeze of finger on metal, its power and strength. What he hadn’t taught him was the gun’s mule of a kickback when he landed three feet away, on his arse, his shoulder feeling like it had been torn from his body. ‘Only experience can teach you that,’ laughed his father, lifting him out of the muck.
Only experience …
Now years later on a dismal Sunday morning, Sean watched his own son, Robert, prepare for the baptism of fire, could see eagerness mixing with nerves in the young boy’s face, pictured himself all those decades ago, nine years old.
Both father and son were kitted out in serious camouflage, as if entering a bad war-torn zone rather than good-hunting territory. Stencilled on the front of Sean’s camouflage jacket was the legend: The Buck Stops Here!
“Will it hurt, Da?” whispered Robert, anxiety edging his tiny voice. The rifle held tight against the young boy’s chest dwarfed him.
For a moment, Sean considered his son’s words. “Not you. The pig, perhaps, but only if we don’t get it with one clean shot. We have to get it with one shot. Otherwise, we create problems for ourselves. Understand?”
Robert nodded dutifully, swallowing hard, his tiny Adam’s apple protruding from his thin neck like a robin’s egg.
To Sean’s right, the river coiled out in a great black ribbon of silence, slick as oil. Fluted ripples alone disturbed its perfection. Trees threw charcoal shadows across its edge. Further up, the river cleaved the hunting area in two, all the while hugging a stretch of ground where carcasses of rusted household goods were infested with the rotten stench of animal dung from the nearby zoo. Along the river at night, weird things were said to happen. Strange sounds. Strange smells. Packs of wild dogs going crazy …
Originally, the river had no name, becoming a dumping ground for household goods and dead animals. Then a local poet christened it Apothetae. It wasn’t until later in life that Sean understood the river’s apt name.
Sean and Robert began moving further into the forest with absolute silence of motion, the bright afternoon sun dulling directly behind them. A stiff breeze helped disperse the scent of dead fish, and muddy grass descended into thick carpets of slush along the embankment.
Abruptly, Sean heard something rustling through the blankets of bushes and drooping leaves. Craftily behind them, from the undergrowth, came a sound, low and quiet. The sound grew and fell and then grew again, like someone blowing on an empty bottle. The hairs on Sean’s neck nibbled like tiny fish.
“It’s okay. I think it’s just a dog,” said Sean, reassuringly. There was no immediate response from Robert, whose startled face resembled a mask.
A few seconds later, Robert whispered, “Da … it’s watching …”
“What …?” With a jump, Sean’s eyes captured something i
n the far belly of the forest, holding it in breathless interest. An almost indiscernible movement – distinguishable only by its textured shape – helped Sean to focus. The wild boar’s eyes were coal. Piercing. Probing.
How long have you been watching us? wondered Sean.
“It’s smirking at us, Da.”
“Don’t be silly, Robert. All boars look like that.” You are smirking. The smirk made Sean feel like an interloper.
The boar’s tusks were buckled into some sort of devilish curve. It remained motionless. Watching. For some inexplicable reason, its intentional stillness spooked Sean.
Fish popped for air, breaking the eerie silence.
“Easy, Robert … easy …” Sean could feel his scalp tingle, every hair on his body crack with static. The tension in his neck was trafficking to his spine, forcing all muscles to harden like dry clay.
“What … what do you want me to do, Da?” asked Robert, his voice uncertain, anxious.
Sean licked dry lips. “Slowly bring the rifle up. That’s good. Nice and easy. No need to hurry …”
The black in the boar’s eyes was rimmed with bloodshot. The colour gave Sean the willies.
There is something terribly wrong about the boar, its size, demeanour, its smirking defiance. It seems to be toying with us. Then, just as quickly as it surfaced, the eerie creature vanished.
“It’s gone, Da,” said Robert, relief in his tiny voice. “Hasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Sean smiled falsely. “But just let’s be vigilant. We’ll move across the river, go downstream for a while. Then we can – “His words were abruptly stolen by a sound jolting through his bones and muscles. The sound was silence. Not even a bird. He realised, ominously, that the beast had halted somewhere in the forest, listening for their movement.
Are you smelling us, sniffing us out? Bastard … where the hell are you …?
Without warning, the boar lurched, muscles propelling it forward at an incredible pace.
Taken unaware, Sean fumbled like an amateur for his rifle, the safety catch on.
Damn!
The pig had picked him out. Kill the most dangerous first; destroy what remains.
Fumbling, Sean finally managed to click the safety off, and aimed from his waist, feeling the collision as the pig hit him, grinning and grunting. His finger never reached the trigger. The beast’s impact was like a freight train.
“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
* * *
“Da! Da!” sobbed Robert, shaking the motionless body of his father.
Dazed, Sean managed to shake the swampy mist from his head. His one-time ruddy face was the colour of cambric. “Robert …? Are … are you okay? How long was I out …?”
“I … I got it, Da! I got it …”
“What? God …” Rugged at Sean’s feet, the boar stared up at him, its black eyes dull, its mouth no longer smirking. “You … you did it … you did it, Robert! My god … you did it …”
Pushing himself slowly up from the ground, Sean’s body felt like it had just received a good kicking. He hugged Robert. “I’m sorry, Son. I should never have brought you here.”
“I killed it, Da! My first pig. I killed it!”
“And what a pig to kill!” Sean quickly wiped snot and blood from his own nose; tears from Robert’s face. “Now, I need you to gather some kindling. I’m going to gut this beast, here where we stand. Little point dragging its shit and piss home with us, is there?”
“But … don’t you want me to gut it? You said last night I would have to do it.”
Sean smiled. It hurt. “I’ll do this one for you. You’ve earned it. Big time. Go on now, but be careful. Listen out for any sounds.”
Robert exhaled stale air. The relief was evident on his small face as he ran to gather wood.
Deep down, Sean knew he shouldn’t be taking it personally, but he couldn’t help his feelings. The boar was quietly breathing. Defiance had returned to its eyes.
“Normally, I would put you out of your misery, Mister Boar, with one good slice across your throat.” Sean produced a serrated knife, catching his reflection in it, not liking what he saw. “But I want you to suffer.” He placed the knife’s point directly beneath the boar’s throat, and cut slowly, deliberately.
Mating wood pigeons scattered from a tree, startling him, angering his blood further.
“Scream, why don’t you? Scream and I’ll do it quickly.”
The creature only stared at him, uttering not a sound.
“Scream, you bastard, the way you made me scream in front of my son. Scream!” In a frenzy of knife cuts, Sean was splattered almost instantly with the boar’s blood. “Scream, damn you … damn you …”
Seconds go. Minutes came. Fury spent.
Exhausted, Sean watched the contents spill from the boar’s gut like a bloody slot machine at Vegas. He remembered how he had once found an entire wasps’ nest in the stomach of a pig – with some of the wasps still struggling for survival in the bloody mess.
Kneeling closer, he inspected the first item released from the boar’s gut, using his knife to separate it from the slippery intestines. The carcass of a dead bird was in the bloody soup du jour. Mostly vegetation and spongy plant life made up the rest of the menu: roots, berries and tomatoes. A wild turnip, savagely chewed, added flavour.
“You could have given those so-called celebrity cooks on TV a run for their money, Mister Boar,” smiled Sean, nerves and relief hitting home. Then, just as suddenly as the smile appeared, it collapsed.
The boar was suddenly smirking, defiantly once again, its eyes laughing. The animal’s eyes were in sharp contrast to the turnip’s bloody eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tuesday, 27 February (Afternoon)
‘If you’ve got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out!’
Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad
TWO DAYS LATER, Karl entered Tom Hicks’s office. The forensic pathologist seems lost in his own world of the dead, standing over a metal table. Chunks of meat were stationed on top like a butcher’s window.
The stench in the room was intimidating. Even textures that wouldn’t normally ingest a smell were overwhelmingly cloying. Karl’s imagination began sculpturing things he would much rather avoid.
Reluctantly, he edged forward, masking his weariness.
“I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that is one ugly corpse, Tom.”
Without glancing at Karl, Hicks said: “A pig. A wild boar of some description.”
“I didn’t know you did animals?”
“Usually, I don’t. This one was shot two days ago, by some hunters. A father and son team. When the father attempted to gut it, he got more than he bargained for.”
With a nod, Tom indicated the bloody incomplete sphere resting on the other table.
Cautiously stepping back, away from the war zone, Karl asked, “That’s not what I think it is?”
“A badly deteriorated, chewed head?”
“Yes …”
“Wrong. It’s a badly deteriorated half-chewed head,” corrected Tom. “Along with two hands and a left foot.”
“What happened? Did the pig break into a graveyard, devour the dead?”
Tom shook his head. “Doubtful. No graveyards within a three-mile radius of the hunting area. Early stages yet, but I suspect that I will find that these fellows have all met a violent death.”
Karl’s expression furrowed. “Fellows?”
“The hands. They don’t match. Both have been surgically removed.”
Karl’s stomach was suddenly a bucket of rats.
“I hope we’re not experiencing some weird bastard doing a Burke and Hare, out there, Tom.”
“Nothing surprises me, any more. People have stopped becoming people.”
“The hands belong to males? Definitely?”
“Going by their size, the hair on the fingers, etcetera, I’m ninety-nine percent certain. I’ll add the other one percent on in a couple of hours.”
“I’m working on it. Haven’t had time to give it much thought. My assistant didn’t show up, this morning. Sick, he claims. Doesn’t know the true meaning of being sick. The dead are lining up in here to be inspected, and he complains about his nose running. Out partying no doubt. I’ll have a word or two with him when he gets back.”
“Take a break for a few minutes. You look beat. Would you like a coffee?” asked Karl, helpfully.
“Coffee pot isn’t working. Needs a fuse, or something. That assistant is useless – when he decides to show up.”
“I’ll nip up to the cafeteria. Won’t be a minute. What do you want to eat with it?”
“Huh! I never get food from that place, and if you take my advice, you’ll not, either.” Tom sighed. “A blonde hair and a pubic hair were found …”
Karl made a face. “That’s absolutely disgusting. I’ve always said the way they prepare food up there leaves a lot to be desired. Why don’t they just wear hairnets and pubic nets?”
“Stop messing about,” said Tom, obviously annoyed. “Both hairs were found at the scene of the murder of Kerr.”
“I knew in my piss this morning that this was going to be a very productive day. I was hoping –”
“Unfortunately …”
“I hate it when you do that.”
“… the pubic hair lacks a follicle or root, unfortunately. I seriously doubt that it contains enough DNA to make any sort of pertinent match.”
“I knew it. Just when you think you’re getting a break –”
“However …”
“However …?”
“Para-phenylenediamine and tetrahydro-6-nitroquinoxaline.”
Karl provided a startled face. “Really? Are you certain?”