Daisy Chains

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  But Morrison shook his head. “Not a copycat. But perhaps not pointless journeys either. I have a feeling he might have an apprentice.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” said Rita. “You really find people who want to learn those sorts of skills?”

  “Sadly yes.” Morrison slumped into the other chair at the same desk. “A few years back when someone advertised for a willing victim because he wanted to eat someone and become a cannibal – there were two volunteers.”

  “We have three possibilities, then,” Rita said, hands tightly clenched. “All these murders are by Sullivan, trying to trick us. Or secondly, he has a willing apprentice. Or thirdly, there’s a sick copycat.”

  “Or four,” smiled Morrison with exhausted resignation, “there’s a completely different monster popped up, whose chosen method just happens to be similar.” He paused, leaned forwards again and added, “Actually, there’s five. For instance, like father, like daughter. Could Tracy be following in the footsteps?”

  “Is the world so vile?” Rita mumbled.

  “Of course it is,” Morrison answered. “Why else did you choose to join the force, and then make an even more idiotic choice and join homicide?”

  “I really didn’t ever expect to see you again,” said Ruby. “But I’m delighted. Up from Cornwall again? You should get a job here.”

  Brad bent, patting the puppy which slavered over his fingers. Straining against the lead, it climbed Brad’s chest as though hoping to sit on his shoulder. He sniggered. “What’s its name?”

  “Um – Brad,” Ruby blushed slightly. “You see, it was after I met you and was going back home when I found this poor little scrap abandoned in a cardboard box. I took it to the vet but he didn’t want it, so I thought, oh bugger, I’d better do the nice thing myself. No name came to mind. I hate those dogs called Doggie-Do, or Blackie or something, so I‘d only just been talking to you, so I thought of Brad. Brad Pitt, of course.”

  A long explanation, but the boy waited politely with a somewhat cynical smile. “I’d better buy you a coffee and cake, then,” he said.

  “With outdoor seating, or they won’t let Brad in,” Ruby said. “I mean the dog. Not you.”

  “There’s probably places that wouldn’t let me in either,” the boy grinned.

  The two Brads appeared to enjoy each other’s company, but the elder Brad did not stay quite as long as he had on the previous occasion. “I expect you have a train to catch,” decided Ruby, paying the bill.

  “No, I’m getting a lift from my brother this time,” Brad said. His smile had a little charismatic twitch. “And I should pay since I invited you.” Those long slim legs wore only scraggy jeans, and the shoulders were so narrow, they didn’t protrude from his T-shirt. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry now. Got important things to do, as it happens.” He smiled again and the corner of his mouth reasserted the twitch. The smile was his nicest piece of clothing.

  “Pooh,” said Ruby. “I like paying. I hope to meet up again soon.” Although the boy did not confirm a future visit to Cheltenham, nor did he deny it. Ruby watched him go and toddled off to the bus stop. He looked back once and waved. Nice long fingers, she thought. Creative. Even artistic.

  She had expected Sylvia and Harry to be home to greet her since they had been gone longer than expected, but they were not. Instead, Ruby went outside, sat on a slightly damp bench, and taught the puppy to fetch the ball she threw, even though he had chewed it to such an extent that it no longer bounced.

  Amy sat beside her, and Percival followed and also sat, though left a large gap between himself and the women. He then unfolded his copy of the local news. Amy patted Ruby’s arm. “We went for a nice little drive,” Amy informed Ruby. She waved at the racing puppy. “Dear little thing. First pet anyone’s brought here, you know. It used to be considered naughty.”

  “Lavender didn’t allow pets?”

  “I don’t know if it was her.” Amy chewed her lip. “But when Percy and I bought our apartment here, they said no.”

  Percival looked over the top of his newspaper. “Because you asked if you could keep bats, my dear.”

  “Cats, Percy dear. Not bats. Cats.”

  “I imagine they have bats in the belfry now anyway,” Percival grumbled.

  With critical determination, Amy pointed up to the small dome aloft the Rochester Manor house roof. “That’s not a belfry, Percy dear. We don’t have any bells except that little electric thing on the front door.”

  Percival sighed. Then he sat up with a sudden attentive frown. “When were Harry and Sylvia due back? There’s been a most unexpected accident on the train just outside Nottingham. They think it was caused by a bomb.”

  “Bloody hell,” squeaked Ruby.”

  “Sylvia would never throw a bomb,” Amy dismissed the news. “It’s not her sort of thing.”

  The explosion echoed like an angry demon while slowly, as though with reluctance, the first four train carriages clattered from their rails and tumbled sideways onto the bank. The second carriage had been blasted and there was a gaping and jagged hole in the metal roof. Inside two passengers lay unconscious, and a small girl was screaming. A man, limping and bleeding, ran to the child and clutched her, asking if she was hurt. She was too frightened to reply. The man looked around. There was wet scarlet blood splatter over the blue padded seats. The child stopped screaming, but someone else was crying. Several people staggered to their shaking legs, and one of these was Harry. He grabbed the top of the seats, holding himself steady. Then with a gasp he sank to his knees again and reached out.

  “My love, are you hurt?”

  “A little,” Sylvia murmured. “Not sure I can get up. Perhaps just a broken leg. Or just a twisted ankle. Nothing too bad, dearest. I don’t think I’m bleeding. But I think you are.”

  “A grazed wrist,” he told her, gently probing her left leg, which was the only one visible. “Virtually nothing. Which leg?”

  “The other one,” she said, trying to smile. “It’s bent under me. Sort of stuck. Not moving.”

  Harry was already gabbling into his phone. “Someone else must have phoned already, but I need an ambulance for my wife. Sylvia Joyce. I’m Henry Joyce. Yes, it’s the train accident, the same one. OK, I’ll wait. Please don’t be long. Other people need ambulances too.” Then the police. “It was an explosion. There was a footbridge over the line. Something must have been thrown. It hit the carriage behind, but we all came off the rails.” He was still holding Sylvia’s hand. “They seem to know all about it. Every available ambulance and police car is on its way.”

  Sylvia had fainted and heard nothing. Harry did not dare examine her further. Suddenly remembering Tracy, he rummaged behind broken seats and collapsed tables, kicked at shattered glass and began to call her name. A very small grunt answered. “Here.” On her hands and knees, the girl crawled from the debris. “Me.” Blood was pouring from her forehead.

  Rushing over, Harry helped her to a neat pile of cushions ripped from their seats. “How are you?” he demanded. “What hurts?”

  “Everything,” Tracy mumbled, then changed her mind. “Nothing. Just – shock. Maybe a heart attack. How’s Sylvia?”

  “Maybe a broken leg. Are you sure you’re OK? You’re bleeding a lot.”

  “I hit my head. It feels smashed in, but obviously it isn’t.”

  “Stay here,” he patted the cushions. “I’ll see if anyone else needs help.” He hobbled across to another woman who lay nearby, her eyes tight shut. He whispered, “Are you alright?” But she also made no answer.

  Carriages, bent, split and battered, lay stretched out over the bank. Another carriage had rolled back onto the tracks and there was a smell of hot oil, grease, blood and steaming metal. Bodies appeared from smashed glass and from tunnels of gouged iron and ripped cushioning. Heads, hair matted in blood, peered out as shaking fingers crept from the broken holes. Some who had already made it into fresh air and safety, were running desperately, shouting and crying,
searching for their friends and families.

  Where Sylvia, Harry and Tracy had travelled, the carriage lay on its side. Both that side and the roof were now buckled and broken. Harry couldn’t see what had happened to the carriage immediately behind his own. He didn’t know where the small bomb had actually exploded. Stumbling around the carriage where he and Sylvia had sat,, Harry found that in spite of the blood and panic, the fear and the pain, there was more damage to the structure than to the people. Only two women appeared to be badly injured, and one of these was Sylvia.

  The noises increased with shouting, falling metal, dislodged seats tumbling from the walls, and the spit of burning metal. Then the noises increased further as he heard the sirens. From distant to blaringly loud, blocked out all other sound. Then other sirens, different, interweaving. Ambulance sirens merged with police sirens, then blended with the urgency of fire engines. Blasts of relief. The staggering promise of aid. Help of all kinds. Harry could see since one wall of windows was flat on the ground and the other, partially smashed, showed only the sky. Then the bright blue sky darkened. Police clambered across the broken frames, kicked themselves through the broken openings, and landed heavily inside. The ambulance men and the racing groups of paramedics managed to open one battered door, and leapt in. Outside the firemen could be seen heaving and calling. The stench of oil, scorching, and above all of fear, seemed monstrous. They had already righted one carriage which seemed to now be empty. The noise was frantic and surrounded the clash and bang of running men. Bodies were winched out. From his own carriage, Harry watched Sylvia lifted by the paramedics, and carefully laid in the large sling which he had helped pull down from above.

  She was awake now. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “She’s alright,” called one of the paramedics.

  Harry looked around for Tracy. She’d gone. A policeman patted Harry’s shoulder, “A broken ankle,” he told Harry, shouting over the roaring and blasting. “Maybe concussion. But no signs of internal injury. Not like that other poor woman.”

  “She’s dead isn’t she?”

  The policeman nodded. “Do you know her?”

  “No.” But Harry felt like crying too. “How do I get out? I want to go in the ambulance with my wife.”

  “Hang on,” the policeman said. “I’ll get you out in a minute. Just checking the door’s safe.”

  “And the young girl? I know her. We were together.”

  “Hospital. Another one. Just casualty. She’ll be sent home after a couple of stitches.”

  The ambulance had gone by the time Harry stood in fresh air, staggering on the slippery grass bank, then toppling backwards. He sat in the dirt, elbows on his knees, and sobbed. Other ambulances roared away. The police and fire engines stayed. Harry could see the footbridge above. No one stood there. Harry pointed and gulped. “That’s where the bomb came from.”

  One policeman turned immediately. “Did you see it thrown?”

  “No.” He hadn’t. “It didn’t even hit my carriage. But I know it came from above.”

  “Here,” said the cop, walking over. “I’ll take you to the hospital, same as your wife. But perhaps you’ll answer some questions on the way.”

  “I don’t know much,” but Harry scrambled up.

  “Anything is more than nothing,” said the cop, leading Harry to a dark blue van. Harry climbed in the passenger front seat but felt uncomfortably as though he was being arrested. “So what did you see?”

  “It was what I heard first. And the sound came from above. Then the train started to collapse. It didn’t stop. It just swerved, and we all fell as if it was upside down. But the actual bomb hit the roof of the carriage immediately behind me. Does that help?”

  “I expect we’ll discover all that for ourselves,” said the policeman. “But it’s a great start. I need your name and address. I’ll contact you in a few days.”

  “I’ll be back in Little Woppington-on-Torr with my wife,” Harry mumbled, “as long as she’s alright.”

  “Where the devil’s that?”

  They had arrived outside a large white painted hospital, ambulances screeching and nurses, doctors and police all rushing through every available entrance. “Gloucestershire,” said Harry in a hurry and scrambled from the van. “I’ll find my wife now. Thanks.” The words trailed off. He ran through the swing door, nearly tripped, and stopped a doctor to ask for directions.

  Sylvia had not yet been seen, but she was sitting, fully dressed, on a portable bed looking slightly doped but awake, Harry grabbed the metal bedhead. “How are you? What have the doctors said?”

  “One said Rest here, madam. I’ll be back as soon as possible. No more.” She wriggled, trying to sit up a little, and winced. “It’s just my ankle. No big deal. Harry – people died. I’m fine. Others aren’t. There was a baby with a black eye. It wasn’t even crying. It looked absolutely dazed. Poor little mite.”

  Harry sat beside her on the edge of the mattress. “Did you get any idea of what actually happened? How it happened?”

  “The explosion,” Sylvia sighed. “Something fell on us. I really don’t know. I felt myself sliding through space. A horrible feeling, Weird and sickening. But I was lucky. I honestly don’t know anything else.”

  Once transferred into a small ward, four beds all occupied, the doctors began to filter in, pulling curtains around each bed and asking questions. Eventually Sylvia’s curtains were pulled open again. Your wife isn’t too badly hurt, Mr Joyce,” said one white coated and moustached man, fiddling with something in his pocket. “She has a nasty fracture to her right ankle, but that will be easily treated. But she also appears to be suffering from mild concussion. We’ll be keeping her here for two or three days.”

  “Can I stay?”

  The doctor shook his head apologetically. “We have no private wards available at present, I’m afraid. Too many casualties. But there’s a small motel just outside the station, not far from here. Walking distance, I’d say.”

  “Can I ask,” asked Harry, “about the others? I mean the accident? Are there lots of – I mean, death – badly hurt?”

  The doctor shook his head again. “There’s very little clear yet, Mr Joyce. Only two deceased, I believe, but quite a number of nasty injuries. Your wife certainly isn’t one of the worst.”

  Harry watched him leave and went back to Sylvia. “Three days here,” he told her quietly. “Then I’m hiring a taxi to take us all the way back home in comfort.”

  “The girl?”

  “We’ll take Tracy with us if she’s fine and drop her off at the pub on the way.”

  “And have a very stiff drink while we’re there.”

  “Six drinks. Seven each.”

  Managing to smile, Sylvia then winced again. “It bloody hurts. But I’m all shaky too. Goodness, I haven’t felt so horribly frightened since you disappeared into Sullivan’s hut.” She thought a minute. “No that was much worse. But when one minute you’re sitting on a nice comfy padded seat looking out of the window, and the next second there’s explosions and smoke and your nice comfy seat is rolling over and over and you’re lying upside down with a broken ankle, well, it’s bloody scary.”

  Leaning over to hug her, Harry whispered. “I love you to bits, Sylvikins. Get better quick, and I’ll look after you forever.”

  “Oh, my love.” She seemed to relax, slumping back, but added, “I can see a week of horrible nightmares stretching ahead, and crashes every time I close my eyes.”

  Chapter Ten

  A week later after the corpse he had enjoyed so much was chucked over into the grounds of Rochester Manor, Lionel remained peacefully, content. Even when his games had become almost regular, and the shed he called his own contained every implement he could possibly imagine, he had never felt quite so serene. His crotch, which usually jabbed at him in constant fury, now felt at peace. He lay back on the narrow bed, His head did not thump, and his hands didn’t itch. He could wriggle his toes without discomfort. Olga was still nowhe
re in sight.

  There was no car available, but this no longer bothered Lionel. Picking up girls wanting lifts, some hitchhiking, others out too late at night, was the method he had always found easiest. Yet the last girl had practically invited herself into his eager arms. He’d got a bottle of wine out of it as well. That was all gone now, but he’d enjoyed it at the time. But the thrill of the last ten days had been something far more important. The game had banished hunger, diabolical pain, misery, self-pity, thirst, and Olga.

  Previous delights had centred around screw-drivers, different knives, hammers, nails and axes amongst other playthings. In fact, he missed his favourite knife. But although he no longer had the use of such a variety of tools, he had two knives, a small axe, and a gun he was busy working out how to use. He had shot this last girl in the arse and had thoroughly enjoyed the reaction. He thought he’d managed pretty well. She had died a little too quickly, just two days after capture, but he had continued to enjoy himself without hindrance. Some pieces were still around. He’d stewed the kidneys and that had been a real blessing for he’d not eaten in three days. Water from the creek, a little red wine, some wild thyme, and then boiled for roughly half an hour. Then when he’d got rid of the rest of the body parts, just chucking them over the big stone wall where the two stupid creeping busybodies Harry and his ugly wife lived. He’d enjoyed that too. There had been a crow watching. “Here, crappy Nevermore, Evermore bird. Watch this. Want to scavenge some juicy scraps? Go on. You’re welcome, Blackie. Fill your guts.”

  It had been around midnight, not that he had a watch, but the moon was high, just a wisp of silver behind the clouds, but high up there. Watching him too. “Bugger off, nosey,” he told the gleam of pearly patient light.

  Then he’d stomped the long climb home. The cottage was deep into the valley bordered by one extremely steep hill, almost an escarpment, and on the other side by the creek before the countryside rose again into forested hills. It was a good place to remain unseen. But what he blessed most was the old hoard of sweet memories. And now he had the assurance that his pleasures were not over yet.