by SJI Holliday
‘Thanks for last night,’ Callum says.
Davie laughs. ‘Some men might take that the wrong way,’ he says. He pours the egg mix into a frying pan. The smell of eggs frying in butter makes his mouth water.
‘Ah, you know what I mean. It’s not that I’ve got doubts about Lorna. Not really. It just seems to be happening so fast. Her mother asking about table decorations and floral chair-backs. That’s what set me off. What the hell’s a floral chair-back anyway? Why do we need to cover up the chairs? I don’t get it. I think you’re right, though. The wedding is just a day out. Lorna and her mother can deal with that. I’ll do the rest of it. The being-a-husband bit – I reckon I can just about manage that. Anyway, cheers. I appreciate it. I needed someone to talk to, and I knew you were the one. You’ve known both of us for long enough.’
Davie flips the eggs. Scrapes the crispy bits from the bottom of the pan. ‘Yet I didn’t even notice you’d got together. Some detective I am, eh?’
‘Do you think that’s what you’re going to do? Stick with CID? I don’t fancy it myself, but I don’t know what we’re going to do if they close the station. Lorna said an email came in yesterday. There’s a meeting planned for next month to discuss it. I reckon that’ll be our marching orders . . . relocate or take a package. And I can’t imagine it being much of a package. Not with the cuts and the way things are now.’
Davie is about to reply and tell him about his plans, but their chat is interrupted by Davie’s phone ringing. He takes the pan off the heat, checks the caller display. Malkie. He thinks about not answering. Having his breakfast first. He can’t do it. He has to tell him that he still hasn’t spoken to Marie. He’s going to suggest they go round to see her together. A bit later, though. Let her sleep off the party hangover.
‘Morning,’ he says. ‘What’s fresh?’ He’s not expecting anything major. They’ve already planned to go to the shows the next day. The woman in hospital is recovering. The hospital is being cooperative about Graeme Woodley. It’s only a matter of time before he turns up.
‘Something’s happened. I need you to keep quiet. Keep calm. Go round to Marie’s. Now. Keep it low-key. Call me when you get there. Don’t let her go anywhere. I think she knows where Woodley is.’
Davie’s stomach flips. ‘What’s happened, Malkie?’ He stares longingly at the pan of eggs. Callum is already buttering toast. Davie has a feeling he’s not going to get anything to eat after all.
‘Just find Marie. Then call me. I’ll need you to come round to Willow Walk.’
A spike of dread pierces him. ‘Willow Walk? What number?’
He already knows what the answer will be.
‘Twenty-three,’ Malkie says. He hangs up.
Davie tries to fight the panic. That’s Ian’s house. Where they had the party last night. Ian had texted him in the afternoon, asking him if he was going. Davie said he’d make it along if he could, knowing he probably wouldn’t bother. Shit! What has happened? Ian and Anne are his closest friends. He’s no idea how he’d cope if anything bad happened to them.
‘Callum, I have to go out. Finish your breakfast. Make yourself at home. I’ll call you at the station later.’
‘What’s happened? You’re as white as a sheet. Can I—’
‘Just stay here. Please. I’ll call you later.’
He leaves him with the scrambled eggs on toast. His appetite has vanished. His stomach is churning. He has a very bad feeling about this.
Marie is not in. Or at least she’s not answering the door. Davie walks round the back to her kitchen window. It’s pulled shut. Underneath it, there’s a black bucket. Something else. A pile of Lego bricks. Something has been built and smashed on the ground. Lego. What was it with the Lego? The woman in the hospital . . . Shit.
He texts Malkie: ‘No sign of Marie. I think Woodley has been here.’
He gets back on the scooter and floors it around to Willow Walk. He’s not alone. The street has been sealed off with crime-scene tape. Several vehicles are parked in the middle of the road. Police cars. Two ambulances. A white van. There is an eerie silence. Why is no one out on the street? He parks the bike. Scans the windows of the houses on both sides. Sees faces, staring out. He lifts the tape and walks into the street.
‘Sorry, you can’t come in here.’ It’s a uniformed officer that he doesn’t know. Someone from another station. Why wasn’t he called?
‘DI Reid sent for me,’ he says. ‘Sergeant Gray.’
‘Right. OK. Go through.’
Davie walks along the pavement. As he gets closer to Ian’s house, the churning in his stomach gets worse, giving him sharp cramps. The back doors of the ambulances are open. He can hear the faint sounds of sobbing. He watches as crime-scene investigators clad in white protective suits slip in and out of the front door. Silent. Solemn.
‘Where’s Malkie?’ he asks one of them. She’s carrying something in a plastic bag. Looks like a shoe. The plastic bag is smeared with blood.
‘Inside,’ she says. ‘You’ll need to get suited up if you’re going in.’
Davie is numb. Feels like he is in a trance. He walks to the CSI van, finds a box of suits and shoe covers in the back. Pulls them on over his clothes. He has never done this before, but his instincts have kicked in. He knows what to do. He sees Ian and Anne’s camper. The doors are open. No one inside.
He walks into the house.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he says. He has no more words.
The place is a scene from a horror film. Pools of blood. Smears. Spatters across the chairs and the couch. There are remnants of the party still around, but the CSIs are quietly and diligently putting everything into evidence bags.
Malkie walks out from the kitchen.
‘What happened? Is anyone . . .’ Davie doesn’t know what to say. He takes a deep breath, ignores the smell. Tries to short-circuit his brain into action.
‘Six have been taken to the Infirmary. Four were dead at the scene, two clinging on, but I don’t hold out much hope. Couple of witnesses out there in the ambulances. Not very helpful so far. Seems that the whole lot of them were pissed up and high as kites. They were passed out in various places. Didn’t hear what went on in the living room, but they can hazard a guess. Someone went kamikaze with a kitchen knife. It must’ve been utter carnage in here a few hours ago.’
‘Why didn’t you call me earlier? Who called it in?’
Malkie pauses. Considers his reply. ‘Your friend Anne. Her and Ian slept in their camper. Said the party was out of hand. They left them all to it.’
Christ, Davie thinks. Why didn’t you call me, Ian?
‘Where are they now?’
‘Been taken to the hospital. Both in shock. They’ll be OK, though. As for the rest of these poor buggers . . . this is one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. This is going to rock the whole community.’
‘Why did you ask me to find Marie?’ His stomach has tied itself into a knot. He can barely get the words out.
‘It’s not her we need, Davie. It’s Woodley. He was here last night. She was introducing him to everyone. She was hammered, apparently. Caused a bit of a scene. One of the witnesses said she and Woodley had a screaming row, but she doesn’t know what happened after that. We don’t know when she left. No sign of Woodley, but he can’t have gone far. Not in the state he’s in.’
‘What do you mean? What state is he in?’
‘Well, it’s only a guess. But I think he might be the one who carved the place up. Something happened with him and his sister. Tipped him over the edge. We’re searching for him now. Wondered if you might have any insights. Local places he might hide out.’
‘He’s not local, though, is he? He won’t know anywhere in the town any better than you do.’ He pauses. Tries to think. Is there anywhere to hide up by the Track? Probably not.
‘No derelict buildings or anything around, then?’ Malkie asks.
The thought smacks him on the side of the face. What Laura said. She’d been
rambling on, and he’d meant to ask her, but then they’d been talking about the shows . . . ‘Jesus. Yes. Marchmont Lodge. It’s an old children’s home. Not quite derelict, but it’s a place where people hang out. Lots of rooms, plenty of dark nooks and crannies. It’s meant to be getting developed soon. The new owners have managed to scare away the usual druggie inhabitants, but the kids are still hanging out down there. Someone mentioned to me the other day that they thought there might be someone in there.’
‘Right. Let’s go. Mike, Simon – get the details from Davie. We’re going to check out this place. Get Louise. If you find Woodley, be careful – he is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Take him in if you can, but if there is any problem whatsoever, do not take any risks. We have specialists for this kind of thing. I don’t want any heroes. The main thing is to locate him. Try not to spook him. We need him in one piece.’
Davie watches as the officers disperse. Sees the expressions on their faces. Excitement. Determination. Despite the worry swirling in his stomach, despite the danger his friends are in, he wants to be part of this. His mind is made up.
‘What can I do?’ he says.
‘We need to find Marie, Davie. That’s the best thing you can do to help right now.’
Davie feels ice run down his spine. What if she was still in the flat? He’d assumed she had left. But what if she was inside? What if she was hurt?
Or worse.
37
Marie fumbles with the lock. The walk back from the party was fuzz and noise. Luckily it was early enough that no one was about. What time did she leave? She pushes the door open and walks into the welcoming coolness of her flat. She checks the time on the kitchen clock: 5.30 a.m. Even at this time, the sun is threatening to make it a sweltering day. Anne’s house will be heating up. The stink of the party giving way to something else, something much worse.
Marie isn’t stupid.
Despite her clouded vision she could see that the people who were slumped around the sitting room weren’t just comatose from a night that got out of hand. And it did get out of hand.
She knows that now.
She has a vague memory of Anne grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her, saying, ‘Why Marie, why didn’t you tell me?’ When, though? And tell her about what? About Graeme? That he exists? Or what he did to her all those years ago? What he’s doing to her now, back in her life? Manipulating her again, controlling her. Making her think that what he wanted to do with her – to her – wasn’t completely abhorrent. But what the fuck happened? Graeme wasn’t one of the bodies slumped in Anne’s sitting room in a pool of dark, congealing blood.
He’s disappeared – again. Only this time he can’t hope to get away with it. Maybe he’s seen sense, killed himself before the police turn up. She doubts it.
He’s not brave enough for that.
Marie plugs her phone into the charger. It’s not totally out of life, but hanging by a thread. The burst of power revives it and a series of beeps shows that she’s got missed calls, messages. Anne, ten minutes ago: ‘Where are you, please call me!’ Anne. Not dead then. Marie realises that something has changed within herself. Nothing will ever be the same again. Forget Anne. Forget Davie. She wonders if Anne has been in the house, called the police. She wonders if they’ve found Graeme already.
No.
She can sense him. He’s still out there. He’s scared. He’s vulnerable. If there was an electric chair in this country, he’d be next in line. He’s fucked. Marie is fucked. She has to find him. She goes through to the bathroom, splashes water on her face. Rubs at her eyes before sticking in a new set of contact lenses.
She doesn’t look at herself. Doesn’t want to see what she’s become.
In the kitchen, the empty slot in the knife block where the carving knife should be glares at her accusingly.
* * *
Graeme was always a creature of habit. He told Marie where he’d been before he turned up at her flat – the old children’s home. He’d seen her when she’d walked past that day. He was up in one of the top-floor rooms, watching her, waiting. He’s in there now. Stupid fucker.
Marie drags a broken milk crate in front of the broken ground-floor window that she knows is the entrance. She places a hand on the ledge, flips herself inside. The room is dimmed, shadowed. It smells of stale beer and teenage sex. She thinks of Laura, fumbling with that boy. Getting hurt. Wanting him back. Stupid girl. Marie was just like her once. Except she wasn’t. Because any chance she’d had at innocence, at finding herself with a nice boy, had been crushed by Graeme, with his twisted games, his heavy hands and feet. Her body ruined by his vicious revenge. If he couldn’t have her, no one could. Marie was lucky, if lucky is the right word. She didn’t die. The doctors managed to patch her up inside, as best they could. But she’ll never bear children. She hasn’t enjoyed sex since. Her body feels dead to her from the navel down. It’s a mental thing. She knows that. But that thing with Sam . . . she’d almost felt like a different person. Like she was floating above herself, looking down. Maybe it’s because she knew there were no strings with Sam. No need to think about it. Just feel it . . .
She listens as the floorboards creak above her. If she gets rid of Graeme once and for all, does she get to have her life back? Too late for that. It’s revenge now. Pure and simple. She walks across discarded crisp packets, kicks empty drink cans out of the way. She looks down at her sandals and realises that they are crusted with something dark, sticky. Blood. She is complicit now. The police will see her footsteps in Anne’s house. She wonders if Anne will move out now that her dream house has been tainted like this. She ascends the stairs, slowly, carefully. They are old stone and several are crumbling at the edges.
‘Graeme? Where are you?’ she calls out in a sing-song voice. This game is over now, one way or another. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are . . .’ She walks along the dark corridor in the direction of a faint muted light that leaks from the room at the end. The door has been kicked in, hangs half off its hinges. She hears movement inside. Whimpering. She imagines him in there, crying, rocking. Blood dripping onto the floor. Drip, drip.
She takes a deep breath. Ten . . . nine . . . pushes the door open. He is there, but he is barely human. She recoils at the sight. His curled figure, jerking, humming sadly, whimpering. He’s coated with blood. He is blood. It splatters his face, like freckles. Covers his hands, like fresh paint. His clothes are saturated. His hair sticks to his scalp. His eyes are fixed, unfocused.
Marie is jolted into reality. It is much, much worse than she imagined. What did he do to those people? Are they all dead? She can see them, slumped and sprawled. Strewn across the living room. Discarded. They were the last ones standing when she went to bed. The last few stragglers who were too off their faces to remember that they didn’t live there. Her heart starts hammering. She should call Davie. She can’t deal with this now. Not now. Not when she realises what it is he has done.
What she has done.
She crouches down next to her brother and takes his hand. It’s warm, sticky. She swallows back bile. ‘It was only meant to be you, Graeme,’ she whispers. Tears fall. ‘None of this . . . this wasn’t meant to happen . . .’
‘They were coming for me,’ he says. His voice is barely a rasp.
‘Who?’
‘The zombies. They were coming for me.’
‘What zombies? What are you talking about?’
‘They came for me, came at me. I didn’t have a choice.’
Light glints off the blade of the knife. He is holding it loosely, dangling it from his grip. If he lets it fall, she will be faster than him. She will get to it before he does. She edges closer to him.
‘You killed them, Graeme.’ She chokes back a sob. ‘But they weren’t zombies. They were people at the party. You know that, right? You had an episode. It’s my fault. I put stuff in your drink. I thought you’d just . . . fall asleep. Not wake up.’ She pauses. Swallows. ‘You were supposed to di
e, Graeme. Just you.’
Graeme lifts his head, stares at her. His eyes shine. He blinks.
‘You’re the same as me, Marie.’
‘What do you mean?’
He’s more alert. His hand grips the knife more tightly and he shuffles back in his seat, putting distance between them. ‘You. Me. I always told you . . .’ He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘You’re a monster too.’
Marie lunges at him, but he is too fast. Had he been bluffing? Luring her in? He jumps up and the seat falls back behind him. He holds the knife out in front of him, waves it at her.
‘Don’t come any closer.’
Marie takes a step back, her heart is racing. She thought she was prepared for this, but she isn’t. He overpowered her once before. How could she have been so stupid? Coming here, confronting him on her own.
‘Give me the knife.’
‘Why? So you can try and kill me again, Marie? You didn’t do very well the first time.’
‘No. No.’ She slides down the wall. She drops her head into her hands. Starts sobbing. Pushes her shoes off her feet. ‘It’s over, Graeme. Please. Just put down the knife.’
‘You’re not giving up, are you?’
She hears the confusion in his voice. Hears the sound of sirens in the distance.
‘They’re coming for you, Graeme,’ she says, looking him straight in the eye. He stares back. There is only darkness. ‘Do us all a favour.’ She stands up slowly, edges towards the door. ‘Kill yourself, Graeme. What choice do you have? They’ll lock you up again . . . and this time you’ll never get out.’
‘So what?’ he says. ‘I’m not supposed to be out now, am I? I should thank you for the little holiday. It’s been fun. Anyway, I don’t think you’ll be getting off lightly either, sweet Marie. They’re probably knocking on your door right now.’
‘Let them,’ she says. ‘I don’t care any more. I realised today – and, Jesus, it’s taken me a long time – I don’t love you, Graeme. I don’t even like you. In fact, I despise you.’
Graeme picks up the knife, holds it to his throat. His hand is shaking. ‘Say . . . Say you don’t mean it.’