Last Rites

by Neil White

Carson looked around to his men and asked, ‘Did you all see it?’

  They all nodded back, laughing among themselves. ‘Very lovey-dovey,’ someone shouted. ‘Lots of kissing and hugging.’

  ‘Laura would never believe you,’ I said.

  ‘Not on the surface,’ Carson replied, ‘but the doubt would always be there, chipping away at her.’

  I wiped my mouth again. I could feel it swelling. ‘Do you do this a lot? Take people for evening rides?’ I asked.

  ‘There's a body and so we need a result,’ replied Carson.

  I shook my head. They were clichés. ‘There are rules,’ I said.

  ‘There are killers,’ he responded, ‘and a lot of nasty people out there. I want to lock them up. Go speak to Luke's parents and make the complaint, and then see how much sympathy you get.’

  I didn't answer that.

  ‘My father was a policeman,’ I said.

  The detectives looked at each other in a silent conference. I could make out the slightest shakes of the head, the odd raised eyebrow, and then Carson spoke again.

  ‘What's your point?’

  ‘He was a good man, an honest man, and he would not have done this.’

  Carson grinned. ‘So he stayed in uniform,’ he said mockingly, and when he realised my silence meant that he was right, he said, ‘You can go now, Mr Garrett. We're done with you here.’

  I nodded towards the car. ‘Who's driving?’

  The driver of the car who had brought me up there waved the keys in my face. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘You, however, can walk,’ and he pointed along the dark woodland track. ‘The country air will be good for you.’

  And then I watched them as they climbed back into their cars. The engines started with a roar, and then spat gravel at me as they drove off. When they had gone out of view, it was silent. I looked back down towards Blackley. It looked a long way, but I patted my back pocket and felt the pieces of paper in there. The letters. At last, the story was starting to write itself. What Carson didn't realise was that he had just earned himself a starring role.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  I was trying to write the story in my head as I walked, my pace fast to keep out the cold, when for the second time that evening I heard a car slow down alongside me. But as I looked, I saw a familiar charcoal-grey Golf. It was Laura.

  I leaned into the car. ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  She glared back at me. ‘Get in or keep walking.’ She almost spat the words at me.

  I climbed in, and she had slammed the car into gear even before I had the door closed. She turned it around in the road and tore up the verge on the opposite side.

  I looked in the back and saw Bobby. He was in his pyjamas, wrapped up in a dressing gown and holding a hot-water bottle.

  When I looked back towards Laura, I realised why she was angry.

  ‘Look, I'm grateful, but you didn't have to come out for me,’ I said. ‘I would have called a taxi as soon as I could get a signal on my phone.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘Not now, Jack.’

  ‘Why not now? I didn't ask for this to happen.’

  ‘But it did,’ she hissed. She checked in her rear-view mirror, and I knew that she was looking at Bobby.

  ‘I've got the Court Welfare Officer coming tomorrow, to see if I'm a suitable mother,’ she said quietly, although I could still hear the anger in her voice. ‘They'll speak to Bobby. What if he says that he was taken for a ride in his pyjamas because you were left on the moors? It makes me look bad.’

  ‘I thought it was “we” and “us”?’ I said.

  Laura looked towards me quickly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said the Court Welfare Officer was coming to see you, to see if you're a suitable mother. They're coming to see all of us, to see if we're a suitable family. It's not just about you.’

  Laura didn't answer that.

  We drove in silence for a while, the lights of Blackley getting nearer. As we started down the hill that led down to the viaduct, Bobby asked, ‘Did you get lost in the woods, Jack?’

  I didn't know how to answer that. No, I thought of saying, a car full of policemen kidnapped me and dumped me in the middle of nowhere, but I realised that maybe Bobby was too young to get cynical.

  ‘I was with a friend,’ I said, ‘but my car broke down.’

  ‘Where's your friend?’

  ‘He lives in the other direction.’

  Bobby seemed satisfied with that, and turned to look out of the window.

  I glanced at Laura. ‘How did you know where I was?’ I asked.

  ‘I got a call from someone at the station. They were laughing about it, how they left you up there. I was told where you would be, so I came looking for you.’

  I thought of Bobby. And the Court Welfare visit.

  ‘You could have stayed at home,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ she replied, calmer now, ‘but as you said, the Court Welfare Officer is coming for a family visit. It's not much good if you're dead from hypothermia, or knocked down at the side of one of these unlit roads.’

  Laura's hand was on the gearstick. I placed my hand over hers, just for a second, and gave a squeeze.

  Laura looked down at it, and then back out of the windscreen. She softened. ‘I'm sorry you were treated like that,’ she said, and then a smile broke through. ‘Don't read too much into it. I checked your life insurance before I came out, and I wasn't sure I'd get paid out.’

  I laughed at that.

  We went under the viaduct and started to drive through Blackley's centre, past a line of takeaways, the Saturday night flashpoints.

  ‘C'mon,’ she said. ‘You can tell me all about your adventure when we get home.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Sarah had a few moments' rest, the bed soft beneath her, some comfort after the hardness of the floor. Mercifully, the speakers had fallen silent, and she used the blanket to blot out the lights.

  The fear passed as the drugs subsided. She suspected LSD, but it was only a guess. She had never tried it, but she'd heard The Beatles, all those ‘marmalade skies’. The soup had been mushroom soup. Had it been that?

  She tensed when she heard a noise above her, and then soft steps, steadily descending. She'd been without the heartbeats from the speakers for a few minutes now, and instead her ears strained for the slightest sound from outside. There was never anything. Just silence. So when she heard something, it had to mean a visit. She flinched when the door slid open with a bang.

  She could smell the food before she saw it, and it scared her. She remembered the last time she'd eaten. She had tipped the previous lot of food away, fearful of the same thing happening, but now hunger gnawed at her. She had got through what happened last time. Maybe she would again. The food smelled good and she needed to be strong.

  Her hands gripped the edge of the blanket. She could rush him, wrap the blanket around his neck, pull hard, use all of her weight. And use her anger. She could do just enough to get out of that door. She didn't care if she killed him. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to hear him beg for mercy, wanted to rip off his hood and look into his eyes as surprise crossed to fear and then to a realisation that he had lost.

  Sarah knew that she would have to get used to the routines so she could work out when to strike. Then she thought about the food, because if there was food then it couldn't be her time yet.

  Sarah lay perfectly still, listening to the sounds, and finally heard the footsteps come into the room. One step, two steps, three steps, and then a pause. The tray went onto the floor, and then he let out a breath as he straightened himself.

  Then there was nothing. Sarah knew he was watching her. She lay still, all quiet, just the sounds of his breaths filling the room. What was he doing?

  ‘Who do you trust?’ he asked, the voice deep and muffled.

  Sarah turned around. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The food or your body? You want it, but you are scared. Overcome your fe
ars. I have.’

  ‘And what fears have you had to overcome?’ Sarah replied angrily.

  ‘It doesn't matter what the fears are. It is the inability to overcome them that holds you back. You live your life scared, most people do. Worried about money, about death, about doing something wrong, being found out.’

  ‘And don't those things worry you?’

  ‘Do I seem worried?’ When Sarah didn't respond, he shook his head. ‘Of course I'm not scared. That's why I'm different to you.’

  ‘Aren't you scared of being found out?’

  He laughed. ‘We're back to consequences, Sarah. That is all that stops you from being like me. That's why men fight in wars. They can kill without consequence. If you can shake off your fear, then you become free.’

  ‘And that makes you a better person than me?’ she asked scornfully.

  ‘I am a better person than you. I see things, Sarah, see them the way they ought to be. I could show you the way. No more restrictions. No more fear. Think of all your fantasies, and reach for them.’

  ‘I just want out of here.’

  ‘That's good, Sarah. Reach for that. No fear.’

  And then he turned around and left the room. Sarah was alone once more, the slam of the steel bolt the only sound.

  She looked over at the food. It was on a tray, against the wall, the same place as last time. He was showing a habit, a weakness. He had turned his back on her to place it there.

  Sarah got out of bed and went to the door. From there, she walked to the tray. She did it in three paces. So that's the routine. Three paces, and then a pause as he puts the tray on the floor, his back to her.

  She was getting an idea. But first, she needed strength.

  She looked at the food. Fresh bread, bacon, eggs, water. The bread looked edible, drug-free, and the eggs and bacon looked divine. It must be hard to lace that. Perhaps if she ate that and avoided the water?

  But she needed water.

  The thought of the food took over. She wanted it now, more than anything.

  Sarah felt her stomach. It ached. He was right, in one way. To defeat him, she had to get over her fear. If the food was drugged, she would suffer again, but she would suffer more if she didn't eat.

  She broke off a piece of bread and examined it. It looked just like bread should. She nibbled it. It tasted fine. She took a bite, chewing slowly, carefully. She groaned. It tasted good. And Sarah knew that if she was going to make it out of there, she had to be strong.

  She sat down and devoured the food. When she had finished, she looked at the water. It seemed fresh. It looked just like water. She sniffed it and couldn't smell anything.

  She took a deep breath, put the cup to her lips, and drank the water quickly. She sighed when she finished and let out a small laugh. It felt good not to be thirsty.

  She stood up and began to pace around the room, which was echoing now with the noise of her feet in the dirt, beating a time, walking off the days.

  She felt stronger. She was going to make it out. She knew it now, and as she got near the door, she kicked it and then laughed at the noise, the dull thud. She hit it again, this time with her fist. It made her feel better, so she pounded at the door, grimacing with the effort. When she stopped, panting, Sarah smiled.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We drove along the lane to our house, the lights of Turners Fold blocked out at times by trees as we climbed up the hill. Bobby was dozing in the backseat.

  As we got nearer, I saw someone there. It was a petite woman in a large coat and a woolly hat, blowing into her hands. I couldn't see a car.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Laura.

  I looked closer, unsure, but then her face was caught in the sweep of the headlights and I recognised her.

  ‘That's Katie Gray,’ I said, surprised. ‘Sarah Goode's lodger.’

  I saw Laura's eyes narrow. ‘How did she find out where you lived?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not from me. Only my number is on my business card.’

  I stepped out of the car and walked towards her. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She was about to come towards me, but as Laura got out of the car, Bobby in her arms, she stopped herself.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I rang around for your address. You're quite well-known in Turners Fold.’

  I paused at that. I couldn't remember telling her I lived near Turners Fold.

  ‘I'm frightened, Jack,’ she said, her voice quiet. She stopped talking when Laura went past her, heading upstairs. I saw that Bobby hadn't stirred.

  ‘Why, what's wrong?’

  Katie looked around, watched where Laura had gone, and then reached into her pocket. I watched her hand as she pulled out something white.

  ‘I'd just got back,’ she said, sounding strained.

  I was curious now, less concerned with how Katie had found out where I lived. Something had happened – the light from the house showed the red rims under her eyes. She'd obviously been crying, and she looked like she was about to start again.

  ‘It's okay,’ I said, touching her lightly on the arm to reassure her. ‘What's wrong? What's happened?’

  She wiped her eyes and took a huge breath, appeared to steady herself.

  ‘I'd just got back,’ she continued. ‘After you'd gone, I needed some things, and so I went to the shop. When I got back, I found this posted through my door,’ and with that she held up the folded piece of paper she had pulled from her pocket.

  ‘What is it?’

  Katie took a deep breath and wiped her eyes again.

  ‘It's another letter from Sarah,’ she said.

  I looked at the piece of paper, and then back to her. My hand went to my pocket, just to check that I still had my copies of the first two. ‘Hand-posted?’ I asked.

  Katie nodded slowly and then held it out to me.

  I took it from her carefully. I didn't want to open it, but I wanted it in my possession. I turned the piece of paper in my hand. It was cheap ruled-line paper, the sort that would be found in any high-street stationer's. Difficult to trace.

  ‘How long were you out for?’ I asked.

  She thought about the answer, and replied, ‘Not long. Half an hour.’

  ‘Have you asked around the neighbours? You know, did they see who delivered it? Did they hear anything?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘I just came here when I saw it.’

  I paused for a moment, worried about Laura's reaction, but when I thought of the letter I knew I wanted to know more. I pushed open the door. ‘You'd better come in.’

  Rod lifted the cup to his mouth, the coffee from his flask making the windscreen mist over.

  He had found a spot on an old farm track that gave him a view of Abigail's cottage, the grey block of stone now just a shadow, broken only by the soft red glow of her windows. He had been watching for over an hour and nothing had happened.

  He reached down for a sandwich, roast chicken, made by his wife, who worried that he might starve if he went more than a couple of hours without food. As he took a bite, his radio fizzed at him with news of someone staring into windows in one of the villages further along. And there was a new alert for diesel thieves. Another normal night.

  Rod didn't respond to any of the messages. He had settled in for a long evening. He would wait until midnight, and if there was no movement, he would go home.

  It had been quiet so far. He folded the tin foil over his sandwiches and put his cup back on his flask. His vigil still had a couple of hours to run.

  As he looked back through the window, he saw some movement. Wasn't that always the way? As soon as he stopped looking, something happened.

  He lifted his binoculars again. Abigail's front door was open. Then he saw something at the front of the house, a shadow moving along the path. He put the binoculars down and tried to get a better view, so he could track where the shadow was going. Then he realised that the shadow was heading straight for him.
<
br />   He flicked on the headlights and then sighed. It was Abigail, and as she reached him, he saw she was holding a blanket.

  ‘If you're going to watch me,’ she said, pushing it towards him, ‘stay warm,’ and then she turned round to hobble back to her cottage.

  Rod looked at the blanket, and then at Abigail disappearing back into the shadows. He laughed to himself and then started his engine. He knew he wouldn't see anything else that night.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Laura came downstairs just as Katie followed me into the house. Laura looked angry at first, and I knew she was wondering what Katie was doing there, annoyed with me as Katie was a witness, but she softened when she saw that Katie had been crying.

  ‘I'll make a drink,’ said Laura.

  I pointed towards the settee. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ I said, and then went to join Laura in the kitchen.

  As I got there, Laura whispered, ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘It looks like Sarah Goode has sent another letter,’ I said, and I held up the piece of paper.

  Laura looked at the paper, and then at me. Her eyes widened. ‘You've got something there from a murder suspect. You can't keep it.’

  I nodded. ‘I know. It looks like I'm going to have to meet up with my friends from the murder squad again.’

  Laura's jaw clenched. Then she looked at the piece of paper. ‘What about forensics?’ she asked.

  ‘That's why I haven't opened it,’ and I showed Laura that I was holding it by one corner. ‘Have you got something to open it with?’

  Laura paused for a moment.

  ‘I need to see what it says,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Wait there,’ she said, and left the kitchen, returning with some small steel eyebrow tweezers.

  I went back into the living room, Laura behind me. I put the piece of paper on the small table. Laura put a hot chocolate next to it for Katie.

  Katie smiled her thanks, and then wrapped her hands around the cup. She must have been outside for some time because she looked cold.

  I opened the piece of paper on some tin foil, to catch anything that might fall out, and spread it out, my fingers using the tweezers delicately. I felt a flutter of excitement, or was it nerves, knowing that I could be on the verge of a good story after months of jotting down court tales. Katie didn't seem to share my excitement. She looked vulnerable, hurt, lonely.