by Ryan Casey
Ritual
Ryan Casey
Contents
Bonus Content
Previous Brian McDone Books
RITUAL
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
22. Twenty-Two
23. Twenty-Three
24. Twenty-Four
25. Twenty-Five
26. Twenty-Six
27. Twenty-Seven
28. Twenty-Eight
29. Twenty-Nine
30. Thirty
31. Thirty-One
32. Thirty-Two
33. Thirty-Three
34. Thirty-Four
35. Thirty-Five
36. Thirty-Six
37. Thirty-Seven
38. Thirty-Eight
39. Thirty-Nine
40. Forty
41. Forty-One
42. Forty-Two
43. Forty-Three
44. Forty-Four
45. Forty-Five
46. Forty-Six
47. Forty-Seven
48. Forty-Eight
49. Forty-Nine
50. Fifty
51. Fifty-One
52. Fifty-Two
53. Fifty-Three
54. Fifty-Four
55. Fifty-Five
56. Fifty-Six
Want More McDone?
About the Author
About This Book
Copyright
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Ritual is the fifth book in the Brian McDone series.
If you’d like to read the first books, visit here:
Dying Eyes
Buried Slaughter
Nameless Kill
Eye Snatcher
RITUAL
One
Harry Galbraith did his damnedest not to make eye contact with anyone as he sat in the waiting room of The Christie Hospital.
At fifty-three years old, Harry had never been a big mingler, if that was the word. Small talk just wasn’t his thing. Didn’t matter whether he was sat in the chair at the hairdressers, attending a Preston North End match on his own—something he’d been forced into doing as all his friends had long ago moved out of town—or doing what he was doing right now: sitting in a hospital waiting room. He didn’t like the falsehood that small talk brought with it. The fakery of feigning interest in some other person’s life even if you didn’t have the slightest bit of curiosity.
Really, small talk was just for boasters. For over-proud people who had a lot to say about the world, about their life, their achievements.
Not that Harry didn’t have things to be proud of. Just he was more humble about them these days. More cautious in boasting.
He had plenty of good reasons to be cautious in boasting. Didn’t want to shake the wasps’ nest of karma any more than he already had.
He listened to the clicking of a doctor’s shoes on the shiny, tiled floor. There was a slight mumble of chatter about the waiting room. A whisper, as those waiting for the dreaded results—or waiting to go into the room where they dished out the chemo—engaged with one another over their shared experiences of cancer, their shared understanding. Just like they did on films. I understand. Those two words that every cancer patient or spouse or relative of someone with cancer uttered. I understand what you’re going through.
Maybe so. Maybe fucking so.
But that didn’t make Harry feel any better.
He looked at his watch. Silver Rolex that Carly got him as a fiftieth present. He insisted she shouldn’t spend money on him, but she reassured him it was a special day and he worked hard so he deserved a treat. Besides, it made Harry feel kind of good. If being in a relationship with someone twenty years your junior was a recipe for anything, it was immense paranoia and a fear that they were going to run off with every Tom, Dick and Harry they might happen to chat to.
But this watch. This expensive Rolex. It said something to Harry. It said, “I’m willing to spend a shitload of money on you. I love you.”
Or maybe she was just trying to prove a point.
Maybe she was playing him at his own game.
Shit. How bad a man was he for having these thoughts? How awful did he have to be to contemplate his girlfriend might betray him? A woman who’d never let him down, who’d stood by him even when things got shitty, even when he got a pay cut at work, even when he struggled to contribute his fair share of the rent?
Wasn’t that Carly couldn’t afford the rent. She worked as a top lawyer in Liverpool. Miss Mahone, a woman nobody would mess with. Didn’t harm her to have a pair of rich parents either, but Harry didn’t mention that to her, not anymore. Caused a couple of arguments back in the day. And arguments weren’t what he needed right now—hell, they weren’t what Carly needed.
Best not to argue with your thirty-three-year-old partner.
Especially when she’d recently been diagnosed with breast cancer.
Harry lifted his head. Chanced a glance at the brown metal door that led through to the chemotherapy room. He could go in there and sit with Carly if she wanted. But she insisted she didn’t want him in there. It hurt him at first; made him feel rejected. But she insisted it was all because everyone had their own way of dealing with problems. She didn’t like the fuss of other people. Made things seem more serious than they actually were.
Unfortunately for Carly, her breast cancer was quite serious. She failed to mention that part.
It started six months ago; six months ago that seemed to whizz by in retrospect. Started when the pair of them were making love in the shower. Harry found a lump on her right breast. Being the optimist she was, Carly booked an appointment with her doctor right away. They’d read all the websites, all the leaflets, after all. 80% of breast lumps weren’t cancerous. She wasn’t one of the 20%.
But of course, somebody had to be a part of that 20%. Someone had to make up those harsh statistics; keep the balance in order.
And as they went from doctor’s surgery to hospital for an MRI scan, then another MRI scan followed by surgery to remove the growing tumour, it became clearer and clearer that Carly was, in fact, one of that 20%.
And now here she was, in for a round of chemotherapy. To clear up the remnants of the cancer once and for all.
As always, Carly was optimistic. Smiled and rolled her eyes when she read the results letter. But it was when Harry caught her alone that he saw a crack in her front. When he caught her sitting alone on the bed just staring out the window, not a glimmer of emotion on her face. Or when he caught her up late at night researching weird stuff. Stuff he didn’t understand. Stuff he couldn’t get his head around.
But stuff that “made her feel better”.
So he let her just keep on researching.
They were going away for the weekend anyway. Driving back towards Preston and camping around Beacon Fell. Wild camping, sure, technically illegal, but nobody up there was gonna stop them once they were in the trees. It excited Harry
. Excited him because it took him back to his youth. Cheap cider and dodgy joints and awful sloppy blowjobs.
Pure bliss.
The door creaked open.
Carly stepped out.
A nurse in blue was beside her, but Harry didn’t properly make out her face, not really. All he saw was Carly. Tall. Dark haired. Pale. Shit, he forgot how pale she was. How gaunt the cancer had made her.
And soon it would take her hair away. Soon it would have her on all fours heaving into the toilet. He’d warned her. Warned her that going away was a bad idea.
But she’d insisted she wanted this.
Insisted it was right. For both of them.
So he’d agreed.
He stood up. Smiled at Carly as she walked towards him. “How’d it go?”
A few people glanced up at Harry as Carly walked towards Harry and kissed him, and Harry knew exactly what they were thinking. He was her dad. She was his daughter.
Well, unlucky, fatso in the green jumper. She’s my girlfriend.
And soon, she’ll be even more.
Carly looked right into Harry’s eyes. Wide infectious smile. Little freckle on her chin that somehow added to her beauty. He didn’t deserve her. She was way too bloody good for him.
But shit. He wasn’t complaining.
“It was alright,” she said. “Met a nice woman called Sue. She’s been back here with three bouts of cancer.”
“With all due respect for Sue, I really do hope you don’t have to see too much of her.”
Carly smirked. “Missing me already?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
They walked towards the exit of the Christie, hand in hand. Harry caught a whiff of cigarette smoke from patients and spouses drifting in through the door. How ironic that people should smoke outside a cancer hospital. How damned cruel did life have to be to you to tip you over the edge, to make you give up once and for all?
“Hope you’ve been doing your homework on how to get that tent up,” Carly said, as the pair of them walked through the puddle-laden car park towards the Jeep. Shitty weather for the start of June. Thirteen fucking degrees. But hell. It made the tent effect even nicer. Sound of rain on the top of it would be calming.
“I’ll find a way,” Harry said, opening the passenger door and ushering Carly in. “Even if it takes ’til breakfast, I’ll find a way.”
Carly laughed as she climbed into the car and at that moment, Harry saw a flicker of her old beauty. The beauty that the cancer was stripping away from her, piece by piece. The inner gorgeousness that reared itself through her pale, exhausted body just once every now and then.
He closed the door and took a deep breath of the cool early summer air.
Walked around the back of the Jeep towards the driver’s door.
Reached inside his pocket just to check the ring was still in there.
It was.
Thank God it was.
He opened the door.
Saw that glimmer of beauty in Carly’s eyes again.
The beauty that was going to make Harry propose to her. That was going to unite them as man and wife, no matter what the cancer did, no matter what else it tried to take away from both of them.
He was going to propose, and they were going to fight through this.
Together.
“Seat belts on. Departing Saturn in three—”
“You’ll make a good dad,” Carly said.
Harry felt a warmth inside. He smiled back at her. “And you’ll make a good mum,” he said.
He stared into her eyes a few moments longer.
Then he faced the windscreen.
Put his foot on the gas.
Left the car park.
Nothing was coming between Harry and Carly.
Nothing was coming between their marriage.
Their child.
If cancer couldn’t kill one thing, it was love itself.
It took Harry and Carly fifty minutes to reach the quiet, rear road to Beacon Fell.
They didn’t see the watcher from afar.
Two
“Where the bloody hell’s his nappies?”
“Where they always are!” Hannah shouted. “And don’t go swearing in front of our son.”
Brian McDone fumbled around under the stairs for Sam’s nappies. Behind him, in one of three-billion cots Hannah insisted they kept around the house, one-year-old Sam screamed. He reeked of shit. Not only that, but he’d sent projectile vomit all over Brian’s grey fleece—a fleece that he was actually pretty fond of, which was just bloody typical.
“Oh, ‘bloody’s’ barely a swear word these days,” he said, as he struggled around under the stairs to find Sam’s new nappies. “Nope. Nothing under here. Are you sure they’re—”
“On the top shelf above the freezer!” Hannah shouted.
Brian lifted his head. “I looked there three blood … three times already and …”
“And if you look a bit closer you’ll find the bloody things!”
Hannah’s voice scratched at Brian’s mind.
Sam’s screams got louder, more pronounced.
The smell of shit and the taste of sick loomed large in the air.
“They aren’t here,” Brian said. “They aren’t … oh, wait.”
He reached for the pack of Pampers sat on top of the freezer under the stairs. He pulled a fresh one out, keeping his voice down. He didn’t want Hannah to come in here with that “I told you frigging well so” look on her face. So if she asked, he’d just tell her they were behind the freezer, fallen behind there, something like that.
He turned around with a clean nappy in hand and faced his shit-caked son.
He walked over to him and changed his nappy. He tried not to look at the mess below him, to feel the turd squelching between his fingers. Fifty-four years of age and changing a one-year-old son’s nappy. He was way too old for this. Way too bloody old. He’d said never again after Davey, and yet here he was.
But when he looked down into Sam’s eyes ... when he saw those same twinkling blue eyes that Davey had when he was a baby—eyes that must’ve come from Brian—he couldn’t help but smile. He had no regrets. None at all.
“There you go, kiddo,” he said, clipping the new nappy on. Sam continued to shake and wail. Always did seem to kick up a fuss when his mum wasn’t around. Awkward little git. He’d have to put a change to that. He couldn’t have another mummy’s boy on his hands.
“You find them?” Hannah asked. She walked through into the kitchen area, her dark hair all nice and curled, red lipstick making her plump lips even more damned delicious. She looked right at Sam and walked over to him, widened her smile and reached into her cot, blew a raspberry. “Did my little soldier sicky on Daddy?” she said, as she lifted Sam out of his cot. He stopped wailing straight away. “He can tell y’know?”
“Tell what?”
“That you don’t like changing his soiled nappies.”
Brian looked down at the warm bag of shite in his right hand and felt a desperate urge to get to a rubbish bin asap. “Does anyone like changing soiled nappies?”
Sam caught a glance of his dad and started crying again.
Hannah raised her eyebrows. “See. He heard you. Nothing wrong with your poo-poo is there, soldier? Nothing wrong with your poo-poo. Yes, Daddy being grumpy. Daddy being a grumpy old git.”
“How is git any less of a swear word than—”
“Ssh!” Hannah said. “No swear words.”
Brian sighed. He really needed to get past Hannah and get to the bin, wash his hands clean off this muck, as well as his grey fleece. “Gonna have to write down a list of words I can and can’t say in the presence of our highly impressionable one-year-old son.”
“Hey, it’s you who has to live with it if our son’s first word is ‘scrote.’”
“I can’t say ‘scrote’?”
Hannah narrowed her eyes. She walked up to Brian and squeezed his cheeks, a teasing look on her face. “
Go on. Get yourself cleaned up then we can head out.”
So we can head out.
Brian tried to smile.
He walked over to the rubbish bin and tossed the nappy, then washed his hands under scalding hot water. “Where was it you wanted to go again?”
“The park,” Hannah said, bobbing Sam up and down in her arms. “Haslam. It’ll be good for him.”
“I dunno,” Brian said. “He seems kind of … ill.”
“You seem ‘kind of’ full of excuses.”
“I’m just thinking about other people, that’s all. Nobody wants to be stuck around a wailing kid.”
Hannah put Sam down on the kitchen table and started to dress him. “It’s alright. He won’t be wailing if you hold back.”
Brian tutted. He knew Hannah was only joking, but there was a hint of truth to what she was saying. Sam just didn’t seem to like his dad all that much. Han told him he was looking into it too deeply. That he was just being paranoid. But hell, any man would be paranoid if they’d done the things he’d done, been through the things he had.
“You have to stop feeling guilt,” Hannah said.
Her voice drifted from nowhere. He looked at her. Saw her looking right into his eyes with sincerity, with care.
“I don’t feel guilty about—”
“Sam’s your son. You’re his dad. You’ve got to stop feeling guilty about what happened in the past. What happened with Davey. That’s gone. You have another chance now. Another chance to be a dad. But you’re gonna have to quit being a grumpy old shrub first.” She hit him playfully with Sam’s blue hoodie.
Brian smiled. It was all he could do in situations like these. Because he knew Hannah could see right through him. He knew she could tell when he was feeling the weight of the past bearing down on his present, manipulating his future. She could tell he felt solely responsible for his teen son not wanting an iota to do with him. And hell, that’s because he was responsible. The loss of his son was his doing. It was his fault for wrapping a rope around his own neck for his kid to see all those years ago. It was his fault that his son ended up dangling over an acid bath when his colleague went batshit, and his fault that his son had to find him lying in a hospital bed after suffering a heart attack all through his own inquisitive stupidity.