by Glen Johnson
That’s life.
That’s death.
The world is slowly getting worse. The words the conductor said went through my mind. Do you think He’s in control of things down here? Do you think God would let the world get into this state?
Would God let it happen, I found myself thinking?
The train story continued, flashing back every now and then to the scene. Stating it was now Live. The scene alight with powerful halogen spotlights.
Many fire fighters continued to crawl over and around the wreckage, still looking for survivors or peoples remains. Countless ambulances and fire engines and police cars littered the field, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and movement – a barrage against the senses.
I walked around the room. Could it be coincidence that a policeman had been savagely attacked in the location I dreamed? I knew I was clutching at straws, knew I had something to do with what happened. Had he, my now unwanted visitor, done this for me? Like his twisted idea of bringing the animated cadaver of my dead nephew to me – as he called it – a gift.
I snapped back to the television when the reporter started on the second story.
“…Happened in a famous local area known as Hay-Tor Rock, merely quarter of a mile away from another attack that accrued earlier in the same evening, which we covered on last nights news. It’s the leading officer who was in charge of the crime scene who was killed.”
It was Kemp, even though he hadn’t mentioned his name yet, I just knew it. Women would call it their sixth scene – a woman’s intuition. I call it common sense.
“…Officer Kemp apparently returned to the area later that same evening. Nobody knows why he returned. But it seems the same animal attacked officer Kemp in the same manner it killed two young lovers earlier that same evening.”
My heart was racing. An area was taped off by yellow police tape. A police car was smashed up against a leaning wall, the door kicked open from the inside. I knew the layout of the scene all to well. The scene even looked black and white like my dream, because of the fading light. A few hints of colour could be seen. A hint of red splattered over the car door and on the top of the short wall.
“…Statements by the local police are sketchy, but it’s believed that something was in the back of officer Kemp’s car and had somehow broken loose. Would officer Kemp have tried to incarcerate the animal in his own car? Then try and drive it to a location where he could get help?
“But right now police are keeping tight lipped about what happened. It’s believed that while trying to incarcerate the animal, officer Kemp’s car struck a wandering sheep…”
My legs felt weak, even though I was sat back on the edge of the bed. My hands clenching clumps of the bed sheets, twisting them, venting my uneasiness.
The screen now flicked back to the studio, where three zoologists sat arguing about what the creature could be.
The first was dressed like a geography teacher, in a tweed jacket and brown chequered shirt, with a brush-over of epic proportions, he stated that in 2005 a man had blocked a young lion in a small car park not far from the same area, and waited in his car while he called the police on his mobile, they arrived on scene with a trained animal specialist that proceed to tranquilize the lion.
The second, who had the most lavish beard I had ever seen, agreed with the first, and then continued to talk about the mysterious Moorland Beast, which has been reportedly seen by hundreds of locals and visitors. He ranted on about paw prints and a discovered puma skull.
The third, a stick thin, older woman, stated that in 1976 the Government introduced the Dangerous Wild Animal Act, making it mandatory to need a specialist licence to hold dangerous and exotic animals.
She said they were given three choices: First, get the licence and improve the facilities they were kept in, at great expense. Second, give their pet to a zoo or authorized keeper of such animals. Or third, have them put down.
She stated that many owners gave their pets to zoos or wildlife parks. But soon the establishments were inundated with animals, and they couldn’t cope with the numbers. Some had to be put down. So, a minority of owners, who couldn’t afford the expense, or couldn’t stand to see their pet put down, set them free to fend for themselves. And crazily enough, she said, while flinging her hands in the air, because of a loophole in the law, it wasn’t illegal to release a big cat into the wild until 1981, five years after the law was passed.
Their ranting was getting on my nerves. I lay on my back, closed my eyes and tried to see my dream once again. But nothing appeared on my inner eye. I was confused and trying to work out what was happening, when the presenter went on to his third main story – about me.
Truth be told, all three stories were about me in someway or other.
“…Local police in the same area as the horrific attacks are also looking for international best selling author Jacob Thomas Cain.”
A picture of me appeared on the whole screen. It was the same I had used on the sleeve of my last book. The presenter continued talking, while my photo continued to fill the screen.
“…Who emigrated from America to England. Police arrived at his home earlier today with an arrest warrant in his name. Upon being approached, Cain jumped back into his all-terrain vehicle and sped off backwards up his long driveway. Eluding police by shouting he had a gun. Cain tricked police by leaving his car parked across the lane.
“Believing Cain was armed and in the vehicle, police couldn’t approach until Armed Support arrived on the scene. In the meantime Cain had fled the area.”
The television now showed my farmhouse. Police crawling all around it. White tents perched on my front lawn, and powerful halogen lights were set up for the onset of evening. It then flicked to night time, stating in the corner that it was Live.
Masses of police cars and trucks were littered all the way down the driveway. Tape kept the reporters at bay. But there seemed to be far too many police around for a simple arrest warrant. They had obviously found the bodies.
“…A police spokesperson said that upon searching the grounds for evidence, they located freshly excavated areas around the house. So far eleven bodies have been recovered…”
I sat in horrified silence. I knew they would find seven, but eleven? Where had the other four come from?
“…It seems horror writer; Cain, a recluse and quiet friendly person – as some off his neighbours stated – seemed to be living a double life. It’s the first case of serial killings the area has seen.”
I was half expecting them to mention The Moors Murders. Where a murdering duo, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, had murdered many children. I can’t remember the exact number, but I remember the case well. It was back in 1965. It was memorable because they just missed the death penalty because the Abolition of the Death Penalty had come in to play a mere four weeks before they were convicted. It was also the first recorded case in British history where a woman had been in a killing partnership, involving serial sex murders of children. The public couldn’t comprehend that a woman could do such things. Although it was classed as the Moors Murders, it wasn’t from the moors my home rested on, rather on some moors up in Saddleworth, seven miles from Manchester.
The voice of the reporter brought me back to the moment at hand.
“…So far police refuse to say why they approached Cain with an arrest warrant. Not stating what had tipped them off. Only stating that it’s part of an on going investigation.”
The screen then changed to show a compilation of photos, a collection of different people from all walks of life.
“…The family members of the missing people, Peter Wallace Blackburn, Cathy Sarah McNain, young James Andrew Clark, Mary Ann Catsworth, Kate Flowers, Joe Oliver Ford and Louise Joan Carmen, wait to hear whether any of the excavated bodies are of their loved ones.”
Strange how they mentioned their names in order of appearance. I suppose it made sense, being the order they disappeared in.
Kate Flowers and
Joe Oliver Ford must have been the two bodies strewn across my doorstep when I awoke from my drunken binge. I could identify Flowers because she hadn’t been too badly chewed around the face. Green eyes I noticed. The photo of the man I didn’t recognize, but it must be that of Ford, but his face was too mutilated to match him to the photo. And Louise Carmen, who was mentioned last, must have been the young woman whose guts I had to scoop up. But that’s only seven bodies, they mentioned eleven?
The reporter continued on about my presumed whereabouts. Also stating I was possibly armed and dangerous and must not be approached. A reward for information as to my whereabouts was also mentioned. But what was most unsettling was, because I was American by nationality the FBI had offered its support and technical help in my capture. Shit! I could keep running from the local Bobbies, but not from the FBI. I would have to be more careful.
The next interview was with that of my book agent, and close friend, Laura Kaufmann. She stood looking into the powerful halogen bulbs, as reporters were jostling her outside her London, Mayfair office. I didn’t want to see what she had to say. And I felt sorry for her that she had to be dragged into all of this.
I switched off the television and just sat staring at the blank screen. What was I to do? My face was now plastered all over the television.
Shit, the FBI. Unlike the local police, a Fucking Bunch of Idiots, the FBI was not.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
I was startled when the door was hammered on. I jump to my feet, while trying to pull on my underwear. The door continued to shake on its hinges, while my brain was shouting a hundred and one things at once. Would I still have time to jump out the window and leg it across the car park? Had they found me already? What had tipped them off, the receptionist?
I fumbled with the curtains, trying to work out how to open the window. Shit. Only one catch worked, the other was seized up.
With just my pants on I leant against the door, looking through the spy hole.
The person had their back to me, looking down the corridor. My heart felt like it was going to beat free of my chest. Surely more than one person would be sent to arrest me?
Then the man turned around. His eyes gave him away, before I even noticed the cigarette hanging from his blue lips.
20
Sex, Lies and Covenants
I stood looking through the spy-hole. Anger welling up. But I tried to calm down. Look at what happened last time I stood up to him, and tried to question him. And at least it wasn’t the police, so I didn’t have to try and break the window and climb out with just my pants on.
He seemed to be standing on one leg, resting the other, making him lean slightly to one side. Smoke kept billowing against the spy-hole. He knew I was stood just behind the door. His eyes were locked on mine through the hazy cloud of smoke.
He raised his hand once again, but instead of knocking on the door he used his thumb to cover the spy-hole.
Shit. What now?
I wanted nothing more to do with him. Dead bodies were being dug from my garden. Countless people dead or injured on the train. Even though these thoughts went through my mind, I knew I had to open the door. It was inevitable. Like a rising tide pushing against a flimsy barrier, eventually it would give.
Maybe I could write his book in prison?
I gripped the handle and wrenched the door open.
He stood grinning like a Cheshire cat. How I hated that smile, right down to my very core.
Then I realized why he was smiling so broadly. I was dressed in only my bright green and white underwear, that had Marvin the Martian’s angry face splashed across the front, and an old couple was walking up the hallway towards their room. I quickly stood back, more worried about them recognizing me than being embarrassed.
I hurried across the room and pulled on the tracksuit. Also pulling the Homer Simpson socks on, it reminded me of the dead child.
The door shut with a click, as he made his way towards the only chair the room held.
I refused to look at him for a moment, putting all my concentration into simply pulling on a pair of socks – which were a little tight, causing pain in my toes.
“Nice underwear,” he said with a slight lisp.
I wanted to scream in his smiling face, that it’s entirely his fault that I was in this predicament. But I kept myself in check, biting my tongue instead. I started to count to ten inside my head.
“I know, I know,” he whispered. “All my fault,” he said as if reading my mind, which he was. “I do have my moments, I admit.”
That was it. I was only human; I could only take so much.
“MOMENTS!” I screamed, jumping to my feet, covering the gap between us. With me looking comical in my baggy tracksuit, waving my arms.
This time no hidden power held me back, I was right before him. He was looking up at me; no smile now distorted his twisted face.
The face of a middle-aged man, which was riddled with old pockmarks, disfiguring his complexion. I would’ve hated to have had his acme at school. Possibly, at an attempt to hide the pockmarks, every conceivable part of his face was riddled with piercing, at least ten in each ear, including a stretch tube which had a hole the size of a fifty pence piece. Three through his bottom lip, which most probably gave him the lisp. Through his nose, including the bridge, and even across his cheekbones. It looked like a shrapnel bomb had exploded in his face. He was also dressed in an old wrinkled dark blue tight fitting suit. It looked like he was mourning his own death, because his trousers were at half-mast, revealing brown scuffed shoes and mismatched socks. His wrinkled suit sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, displaying tattoos that completely covered every inch of flesh from above his wrists. Even down over the backs of his hands. And over his knuckles, on four fingers on each hand it spelt: VIDI VICI, which I believe is Latin for, I Saw, I Conquered. Even a Maori Warrior would have been impressed.
I went slack. What good would it do to hit this body? Would he even feel the pain? I turned my back on him, walking back over to finish putting on my clothes.
“How you make me suffer,” I whispered.
“Ah yes, suffering.” His voice became bland as if reading from some unseen source. “The experience undergone by a person when enduring distress or pain. The suffering may be mental, emotional or physical. Many things can cause suffering; for example, the result of war or greed, adverse hereditary factors, accident or illness, even natural disasters. Things said or done by others or the knowledge of impending calamity, even ones own foolishness. Possibly–” he said looking at the end of his glowing cigarette “– even a train disaster.”
My back tensed, I wasn’t going to give into his baiting.
“So you’re also a walking dictionary, are you?”
He simply gave a rattling laugh that turned into a coughing fit.
I turned to look at him. Blood was running from one of his ears, soaking his blue dirty shirt collar. I either didn’t notice it before, or the laughing and coughing had caused the blood to run forth. Both his eyes – I now noticed – were also bloodshot, and had a glassy look to them – more than normal.
It reminded me of something I had once read. It was believed, even up until the nineteenth century, that when a person dies, the last thing they see is captured on the surface of their eyes. Even to the point, that in one of the Jack the Ripper cases, of 1888, one of his victims had her eyes checked, in case they could ascertain the identity of Nemo, which is Latin for Mr. Nobody, one of the many names, Jack the Ripper gave himself.
I sat on the edge of the bed. He sat in the green bucket chair, one leg crossed over the other; smoke pouring out his nostrils like a smoke stack. It was a non-smoking room, for all he cared. So there was no ashtray, it was simply deposited on the burgundy coloured carpet. A carpet that clashed violently with the chartreuse coloured curtains.
He closed his eyes for a second, before opening them and staring at me with his red-clouded vision.
“Israel I think I g
ot to?” he started to say, but I cut him off.
“I have no tape recorder or writing implements,” I stated, letting him deduce the rest. I was clutching at straws. I didn’t want to hear anymore of his story.
“Trust me, when I say you don’t need them. You will find my words will burn into your very being. Word for word, sentence for sentence. The time will come when you wish you could expunge it from your mind. But you will never find such peace.”
How true those words were. Even now, many years later, every word, every movement he ever made is burned into my memory as if done by a white-hot branding iron.
He continued the story, as if we were still sat beside my fireplace and nothing had happened in-between.