Her face was a battered, bloody mass of pulped and spongy flesh. Pieces of her shattered left cheekbone protruded from the mess; white and gleaming as though they had been polished up. A trophy on a mantel piece.
Bite marks covered her thighs, her naval and breasts, while another chunk of flesh had been torn roughly from her neck — near her throat — releasing the river of blood that had cascaded over her young, tight body, coursing its way over her cooling skin as gravity dictated.
Now it dripped, like a leaky tap, from her flapping foot as she hung lifelessly in the air. Dripping in the silence before the crowd.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
‘Oh my — ’ was all that Christine could manage before the silence was pierced by the heart-wrenching sound of sorrow that sprang from the blonde who had opened the door.
Stacey’s sister.
She moaned and howled as all around them the crowd broke to murmurs and mutterings that quickly became shrieks and shouts and exclamations of terror and panic.
Unable to support herself, the sister slid towards the ground. Prior rushed forward, catching her as she fell. She twisted in his arms, hysterical and howling still. She seemed unaware that the noise was in fact her own as she looked around her blindly, seeing no one; searching for her sister.
‘Get everyone out of here.’ Prior shouted to the officers, as he pressed the girl’s head to his chest and pulled the door closed.
The maintenance officers, under Davies’ guidance, began to usher the passengers through the corridor as even more spilled from their rooms to catch a glimpse of the great commotion. Prior lifted the blonde’s head and tried to look into her eyes.
She still didn’t see him.
‘Davies!’ he shouted, pulling her close to him once more. She wrapped her arms around him, sobbing and pleading nonsensically. ‘Marc!’
Davies swam through the crowd, clawing his way back towards Prior and Christine in time to see the girl in Prior’s arms vomit a vibrant blue emulsion down the front of his dark uniform. Prior didn’t flinch, though his face creased in revulsion as his own stomach heaved. ‘Guv’?’
‘Get her up to medical.’ he said, easing the girl back from his now lubricated torso; the alcoholic vomit mixing with the wool of his ribbed, black jumper. He tugged at the high neck feeling suddenly very claustrophobic and unwell himself. ‘Don’t leave her side. If you do move, let me know.’
Davies nodded, unclipping one of the half dozen two-way radios he had attached to his belt.
Exchanging the radio for the girl he wrapped his arm around her cautiously, trying to keep as much distance between himself and her as possible.
As he turned to lead the distressed blonde from the scene, Prior called him back. ‘Give me another radio. For Christine.’ Davies unhooked the two-way and chucked it at his superior. ‘Keep in touch. And get someone down here with a camera.’
‘Yes, sir.’ he said, disappearing down the corridor.
Alone now, Christine stared at Prior. He handed her the radio that he was certain had been nowhere near the human bile. ‘Are you ok?’ he asked.
She nodded slowly.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I’m fine.’ she snapped off. She paused, regaining some modicum of control before attempting to smile at Prior, apologising silently, once more. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t even him she was angry with. ‘I’m not the one wearing my enzymes on the outside.’ she said.
Humour. The classic defence mechanism.
Prior snorted a short laugh, looking down at his chest. The stench of bile and alcohol scorched his nostrils. He swallowed hard and choked back a cough. ‘To be fair, they’re not my enzymes.’
‘And is that supposed to make it better or worse?’
‘Oh,’ he gagged, ‘it’s much worse.’
With another brief smile and a long sigh, he pulled out the overriding master cardkey that he always carried with him. Sliding it through the reader on the door he glanced at Christine, waiting for the confirmation that she was certain she wanted to do this.
The small affirming nod came without hesitation.
Prior opened the wooden door and together they stepped inside.
18:51
Saturday 14th May, 2011
After the strange run-in with Mike, Shona made had her way towards the Grande Central.
She would have gone up onto the open deck — she had wanted to and desperately needed to feel the fresh air on her face — but, the weather had suddenly turned; a dark and stormy night had descended seemingly from nowhere. Thunder and lightning and torrential shite pouring from the sky!
Besides, she felt safer somehow in the midst of the jostling crowd.
She was supposed to have met with Kelly for dinner in here nearly an hour earlier. She had been a little late with everything that had gone on. But, she hadn’t been that late.
She had been more than prepared to apologise and divulge the unnerving tale and the reason for her tardiness. She had looked forward to indulging in a quiet drink — or three — and much more besides, with the rock-star-hot artist who looked more like the lead singer in some sexy, emo-punk band than a professor and tutor at some stuffy university.
But there had been no sign of Kelly when she arrived.
There was still no sign of Kelly.
Shona huffed, pressing through the crowd, back towards the bar. ‘Jimmy,’ she called, catching the attention of the white-haired, white-stubbled man serving there, ‘you couldn’t rustle me up a stiff Americano could you?’ she said, winking as he nodded, ‘Cheers honey. Oh, and I mean cocktail, not the coffee!’
The older man smiled; pleased with the attention he was receiving from the Latino-looking beauty. He quickly set about completing her order, ignoring the customer in front of him.
Shona continued to squeeze and squirm through the sea of people and eventually settled onto the padded bar-stool near to the Christmas-faced man she had called Jimmy. She pulled a straw from the polished wooden dispenser and began chewing on the black plastic.
In the darkened restaurant, lit only by torches and mobile phone screens — which had been rendered as little more than glorified torches themselves — along with the pointless low-level emergency lighting strips that ran along the floor, Shona absently peeled the label from a stray beer bottle as she contemplated the evening she had had in mind.
She considered the mystery of the sudden loss of power only as an after-thought; rating it not too highly on her list of personal priorities. Certainly it came after the strange encounter she had had with Mike and was far from significant when taking into account the missed encounters she had hoped to have with Kelly.
‘Ah well,’ she sighed, ‘Your loss, Kelly Livingstone.’
As her drink arrived she raised it high, toasting the air before her. Then, parting her full and glistening lips, she allowed the delights of the liquor to pass and wet her eager taste-buds.
‘Your loss.’
In the darkness he watched her. In the darkness he waited.
Unknown. Unseen.
The low-level lighting and throng of thirsty passengers obscuring him; allowing him the luxury of a comfy seat and a delightful view to boot.
He stared at her; at her strong thighs and her soft lips, imagining those lips pressed against his, wondering what they would taste like now.
He hadn’t been close enough to hear what she had ordered, but it didn’t matter. He would give anything to be that glass tumbler; her warm, sensual lips wrapping around him. Her soft, slender hands caressing him.
Or the liquid. He would gladly be the liquid itself.
He smiled at the thought of sliding over those parted cherry lips to trip on the tongue and then be inside her mouth as she savoured all of him.
He suddenly ached with wanting her; the denim of his trousers stretching tight across his crotch. And not for the first time that day.
‘Patience.’ he whispered. ‘Patience.’
19:15
<
br /> Saturday 14th May, 2011
The hands of the junior security officer shook as he tried to photograph the scene.
Prior sighed, thinking, He shouldn’t be doing this.
He felt Christine’s hand on his arm. ‘None of you signed up for this.’
It was as though she could read his mind.
He shook his head, agreeing with her. ‘And you,’ he said after a moment, staring into the distance somewhere between the body of Stacey Atkins and his own thoughts, ‘I’m sure this is the last thing you needed at the moment.’
Christine shot him a look, her intense gaze snapping him suddenly from his trance. He met her dark, chocolate stare with one of equal, unmoveable determination. There was an intensity there; a fire burning behind the glass of her eyes.
And he knew the cause.
He longed to question her about the night that Thomas Butler had escaped custody. The night that he had tracked this strong and brilliant Criminal Psychologist and followed her to her sister’s house.
Prior’s was not a morbid curiosity. He was not merely fishing to bite at a juicy tit-bit of lurid detail from the living memory of the traumatised woman by his side.
He had read the papers, seen the news reports and tutted time and again at the senselessness of it all; the mistakes of the Cheshire West Police force; the violent tortures inflicted upon Christine and her sister; the death of Janet Kane; the insensitivity of the media who — even now — continued to hound her.
No wonder she was so quick to throw up her guard.
In a strange way he felt like he knew her. And yet he knew —
absolutely — that he did not. He knew nothing of her in the living flesh; only the words that he had read.
But, he had felt for her — even then — reading of her plight and her suffering.
And then he had come to meet her. And she was no longer a picture in a newspaper; a distant character of media print that might exist somewhere. She was real. Human.
She was soft and warm and attractive; living, breathing, tangible and here on this ship. His ship.
She was strong and secretive and yet she was so very fragile; the cracks of that fragility threatening to break at the smallest tap.
That was when she threw up her protective, concrete walls.
From the moment he had first heard her speak at the dinner table with Captain Andrews and Dr Matthews and the rest of them he had known that he felt something for her. Something strong.
The desire to protect.
He had wanted to protect her even then; though it wasn’t his place do so. To shield her from the onslaught of questions and judgements; from his crewmates and his commanders sat at the table; from the relentless world of media that he knew had been harassing her constantly since the original trial.
From the whole world.
Knowing her a little better now, it was clear to Prior that Christine Kane would not accept the offer of such protection lightly. She was a very proud woman; independent and determined. And he couldn’t help but admire her, though he doubted he would ever be able to voice this high regard without Dr Kane misunderstanding the intent of the sentiment.
Without her believing it to be some misguided placation routed solely in a sense of sympathy for her inflicted circumstances and enforced condition of disability.
Yes, the attractive ex-profiler was quick to take offence.
But he understood why.
He wasn’t certain whether it was simply some psychotic reaction to losing Rachel so suddenly or something else entirely, but the desire to protect Christine had gripped him with an astonishing and redoubled intensity ever since he had spotted her outside the medical bay supporting Miss Livingstone earlier.
She was just incredible.
Prior realised that Christine was still watching him and met her eyes as she opened her mouth to speak. The fair-haired officer, still photographing, the scene interrupted before she could begin.
‘Sir, I think you should take a look at this.’
He was standing close to the still-mounted body of the girl, Stacey Atkins, and leaning in to the right-hand side of her. He clicked the digital box in his hand and the flash — once more — illuminated the room with several bursts of silver-white light that left Prior momentarily blinded.
‘What’ve you found?’ he asked, moving closer.
‘Look here, Sir. Along her ribs. I didn’t notice it at first . . . I only saw it with the flash.’
Prior brought the torch shining up onto Stacey’s limp and battered body. There was so much more bruising than he had first realised; the harsh white-blue light revealing the extent of her suffering; disclosing the unspoken record of all that had occurred.
He shook his head involuntarily, feeling Christine fall-in at his side.
There was something comforting in her being there, knowing that she was seeing this too and — as odd as it sounded — simply knowing that she too would be cataloguing the information as he was; building up a sequence of events in the seemingly cold and detached manner they had each been trained to.
They were a pair; she and he. Born through their previous experience. And now they were sharing, comparing; working together.
An invaluable collective of living knowledge.
Yes, as awful and as selfish as it may have been, he was glad to have her there.
‘You’ve worked crime scenes before?’ he questioned, already knowing the answer. It seemed the politest way to break the stifling silence.
Christine nodded as the light from the torch continued to crawl over the now cold flesh of Stacey’s body, exposing more and more of the secret tale that had concluded with her being strung up crucifixion-style; the tangled, taffeta-drape angel-wings billowing from her arms in a gruesome display of creativity that seemed to mock the scene itself.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
Prior focused the light steadily onto the area. It was the same patch that the young officer had just pointed out. They stared at a series of roughly cut scratches that had been carved into the skin above Stacey’s ribs.
He frowned suddenly as he realised they weren’t just random scores meant to torture the poor girl. They were words.
‘Not . . . My . . . Type.’ he whispered, reading.
‘Looks like they were carved post-mortem.’ Christine said. ‘The body hasn’t tried to heal itself.’
He nodded thoughtfully.
Out of the corner of his eye Prior saw Collins stooping near the bed. The young man was struggling to bag something; dry-wretching as his awkwardly angled, latex-gloved hand trembled. He seemed to be trying to pick up a small, blood-soaked piece of material and deposit it into a clear plastic bag as quickly as possible.
‘What’ve you got there, Collins?’ he asked.
‘Looks like underwear.’ the flame-haired officer said, struggling from the floor, trying not to disturb anything else, ‘I don’t think they’ve been worn from the way they were folded. But they’re covered in blood.’
‘Let me see.’
Standing, Collins made his way to Prior, handing him the plastic evidence bag.
‘Do you know what it reminds me of?’ he said, staring intently at the garment. He didn’t wait for a cue, ‘It reminds me of a rag I used to have for waxing and polishing the first car I ever bought. I was so damn proud of that car.’ he continued, almost smiling as he gave himself over to the strength of the memory, ‘I used to polish it up every weekend. Regardless of whether it needed it. Look at the fold,’ he said, holding the bagged garment up in the torch light, ‘You can see where it’s been sat around his finger, as he . . . worked.’
With a steady hand that made the movement seem strangely and disturbingly elegant, Prior shifted the focus of the torch so that the stream of light now fell silently on what remained of the left quadrant of Stacey’s face. On the horridly white cheekbone protruding through the pink gelatine blend of muscle and flesh.
‘He was proud of this.’ s
aid Christine, a small tremble in her voice.
Prior nodded and returned the bag to Collins. ‘You sound worried.’ he said, ‘But, they say pride comes before a fall. Maybe he’s slipped up here. Left something behind that’ll lead us to him.’
Christine shook her head, ‘It’s not that. And in any case, I don’t think he’s worried about being caught. If this is the same person who took out the engineering crew, who managed to bring the ship to a total standstill and disabled all communications with the outside world . . . they already know they have nothing to fear. They know they’re in control and, yes, they took pride in creating this . . . display. And that makes me wonder whether this isn’t the first time they’ve done something like this. I mean, this level of brutality isn’t just something that happens; it’s something that you work up to. And, as awful as it sounds, I don’t think he’s anywhere near finished.’
‘What makes you — ’
Prior was interrupted as the two-way, now attached to his belt, crackled with static.
‘Davies to Prior.’
‘I’m here.’ Prior answered, holding in the call button on the side of the radio, ‘Go ahead.’
‘Guv’, I think you should come back up to medical.’ Davies said, his voice crackling over the channel, ‘We’ve . . . .’ he paused, ‘Well . . . we’ve found Dr Cunningham.’
Found.
Prior exchanged an ominous look with Christine and in the dark of room fifteen-thirty-four, he silently conceded that her bleak and undesirable forecast may just have been correct.
19:15
Saturday 14th May, 2011
Leigh’s head throbbed with a fury.
He turned over on the bed, eyes still pressed tightly shut against the pain of the kettle drums being pounded in a relentless rhythm under his skull. He groaned as he leaned a little too heavily on the leg that Gary Blakely had caught.
Bastard.
He had been a tough one, that Blakely. Deceiving, really.
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