Sorrow Bound

by David Mark

  Maria had tuned herself out. She reckons she knows who the policeman is. Reckons that the man arrested at the scene is either her brother, having given a false age, or some mate he met inside. She can’t think about that. Can’t open that door in her head. There are too many screaming ghosts inside.

  No, all she can do is this.

  She can do what somebody should have done years ago.

  The boss of the care home had been friendly. Had told her they tended to use agency staff but would be delighted to take on somebody with her experience and obviously caring demeanor. Told Maria she could see her fitting right in and that they had one particular patient who would be delighted to hear about her fondness for the arts and interest in poetry. The boss had apologized for the smell and told her the septic tank had just been emptied a couple of days ago. It would be years before it would need to be done again, she reckoned. Could she start straightaway?

  Maria steps out of her car. She’s still dressed in her smart interview clothes. She locks the car and crosses the quiet country road. She throws one leg over the low stone wall and painfully climbs over and into a small copse of trees. Then she heads to the back of the building.

  She pulls out the swipe card she had stolen from the receptionist and lets herself in, as quietly as she can. The facility is in half darkness, with only a couple of bulbs in the corridor providing any illumination. She crosses to his door. Turns the handle and steps inside.

  Sebastien Hoyer-Wood is on his back. His eyes are shut and he’s sleeping soundly. Maria would like to look at him for a while. Would like to enjoy the physical humiliation and degradation he has endured since their last meeting. But it’s not important.

  He wakes as she pulls him from the bed. He isn’t heavy. Weighs less than a child. He begins to thrash, and a low, whinnying sound emerges from his slack mouth, but Maria clamps her hand on his lower jaw. It feels as if he is trying to bite her, so she sticks a thumb on his windpipe, then silently carries him from the room, down the corridor and into the night.

  Maria’s footsteps sound loud on the leaves and gravel, but nobody comes running. Through the trees she can see moonlight bouncing off standing water.

  She follows her nose.

  Lays Hoyer-Wood down on the cold ground.

  She has no torch or phone, so has to find the lid of the septic tank by touch alone. She feels around amid rotting leaves and damp moss, sharp stones and mud. Feels two plastic handles. Puts her back into it, and pulls.

  The smell hits her. The tank may have been emptied but it still stinks of accumulated gases and shit. She looks down into the darkness. Almost vomits at the stench. Sees a stagnant pool of brown, scummy liquid, about a foot above the bottom of the tank.

  Without a word, Maria turns her head back to Hoyer-Wood.

  He seems to understand. Tries to get away. Tries to stand. Tries to scream.

  She doesn’t give him the chance.

  “Not today, Sebastien,” she says quietly. “But someday. I want you to keep the thought of this moment in your head tomorrow when I’m introduced to you. I’m your new nurse, Seb. I’ve got myself a contract and living accommodations, and I’m going to be here at your beck and call for as long as I can stand it. And believe me, Sebastien, we are going to have some fun.”

  Maria closes the cover over the fetid blackness and turns back to Hoyer-Wood. She picks leaves from his pajama top and smiles into his terrified eyes. “They said there was no way to punish you. They said that letting you live as you are is punishment enough. Let’s see if they were right, eh?”

  Maria scoops Sebastien up and carries him back toward his room. As she lays him back in his bed, she feels his body trembling like a frightened puppy.

  “See you tomorrow,” she says, and switches off the light.

  As she slips out of the room and into the cool of the night, a shaft of moonlight spears through from the hazy clouds. She looks at her hands. They are covered in dirt and leaves and filth that makes her want to gag.

  She has never felt as clean.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Much as I’d like to portray the artistic image of a lone poet striving in solitary anguish against the odds, a lot of people go into creating a book worth buying. In my case, I’m grateful beyond words to the sage advice and boundless enthusiasm of my friends at Blue Rider. David, Phoebe, and Eliza, if you can handle the temperatures, there will always be a guest bedroom awaiting you in England.

  For general support and making my life tolerable, I need to thank my family. My two peculiar children, George and Elora, remain constant sources of joy, inspiration, bafflement, and cups of tea. My partner, Nikki, fills in the gaps in my soul and remains my reason for breathing in after breathing out. Truly, I love you with all that I am and with all that I am going to be. Of the old codgers who spawned me, Mam and Dad deserve a mention, though obviously not by name . . . As for friends, I owe a great deal to the bearded marauder Rob, whose patient proofreading and words of tactful restraint are always appreciated. Babs and Dave Watson are people who everybody should have in their lives. The Hodsons of Caistor will forever have a place in my heart (and not just for being as wonderfully odd as my own brood), as will the many bar staff who kept me supplied with whiskey during creative frustrations. To the teenage children who have turned my house into some sort of Dickensian foundling home, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you to put your shoes away and not leave glasses on the floor. Jess, Elise, and especially Sophia, you are wonderful people who will become magnificent adults if you survive spending your formative years under my influence. I must also thank the many fellow crime writers who have welcomed me into their midst. Stav, Steve, Peter, Mari, Tom, John, Mark, and especially Val, you mean a great deal to me and are truly decent chaps and chapesses. Special thanks go, as always, to Oli Munson, agent and friend.

  I’d like to express my gratitude to the burglars who ransacked my house during the writing of this book. You really helped me dream up a whole new raft of gruesome deaths.

  Finally, thanks to you, dear reader. I’d feel a right fool if nobody gave a damn about McAvoy and me. Hope you stick around.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Mark’s Sorrow Bound is the third novel in the DS Aector McAvoy series. He lives in Yorkshire.