by Ryan Casey
He couldn’t look away from the canal.
The two big lumps.
Like dolls.
Life-sized Ken and Barbie.
Like …
It was at that moment that the truth dawned on young Calvin. The curtains of reality folded back and the harsh truth stared him in the face.
Because these weren’t Ken and Barbie.
They weren’t dolls.
They were people.
And they weren’t just sleeping. They weren’t just floating.
They were dead.
Calvin was so focused, so fixated on them, that he didn’t see the loose brick right by the tunnel entrance.
And even when he hit it, even when he went flying over the front of his handlebars, he didn’t process what was happening to him, not properly.
Because all that he could see were the two dead bodies.
The man.
The woman.
Naked, like Daddy and that woman who wasn’t mummy had been.
White as Halloween ghosts.
Holes where their eyes should be.
Ears sliced away.
Deep cuts all over their skin.
Eight
Brian had never been a frequent visitor to Preston Prison in his many years as a police officer.
But being in here waiting to visit a prisoner was always a distorting experience.
He stared over at the doorway where she’d walk through. Twiddled his thumbs, then put them back on the greasy white table, forgetting the rules of etiquette in this place. All around him, the mumble of conversation between prisoners and their loved ones, their solicitors, their … well. Their people like Brian. Friends, he supposed.
Because everyone needed somebody.
Everyone needed hope.
Rain continued to pound against the frosted windows at the side of the visitation room. It was frigging boiling in here, though. Heating up full notch in the middle of June. Sure, it was hardly tropical outside, but it wasn’t exactly winter either. The fallacy of the rain. Bit of grey sky and on goes the heating. Gotta love fellow Brits and their inexplicable masochistic love for the “stormy day”, regardless of how much they might try denying it.
He glanced down at his watch. Five past twelve. She should be here now. He shouldn’t be waiting much longer. He only had an hour’s lunch break and he wanted to make his Wednesday afternoon visits as subtle and as fleeting as possible to avoid any conversation at work. Which was weird, in a way. Because there was nothing to be ashamed of. Nobody could knock his reasons for being here. But after what DCI Marlow said about behaving himself, well, it got him thinking. Any wrong step and boom—there goes the retirement funds he deserved.
Tread lightly. That’s what he had to do.
He glanced around at the guards and he swore he saw them looking at him like they knew exactly who he was.
When he looked away, looked back at the doorway, he saw her.
Samantha Carter—former Detective Inspector Carter—looked different every time he saw her. She was wearing the same black cardigan and navy trousers she always wore these days, although they seemed to be getting baggier every time he visited. When she looked at Brian, saw him sitting there, her eyes sparkled. They contrasted her chocolate brown hair, which had gone flat and lifeless. The mole above her top lip looked like a blot on her pale skin. Her lips quivered like they always did.
Brian stood up and half-smiled back at Carter as the guard escorted her to the table. Wasn’t sure why he stood, just something he’d always done. Wasn’t even sure if he was meant to. Not like he was attending a funeral or anything like that.
When Carter sat, Brian sat too.
“Still visiting then?” she asked.
Brian leaned forward as Carter glanced around the visiting room, head lowered, eyes not quite meeting Brian’s. “Course I am. How you holding up?”
Carter sniggered. She leaned back a little. Looked Brian in his eyes now. “Food’s still shit. People are still shit. But hey. Prison’s prison. I made my bed so now I’ll lie in it.”
Brian shook his head. He still couldn’t get his head around the injustice of Samantha Carter’s arrest. She’d come to help him arrest the Eye Snatcher. Only after finding DS Brad Richards—a damned good cop—murdered by the assailant, she’d flipped. Stabbed him in his back and his neck. Pursued her own sense of justice for that evil cunt’s crimes.
And now here she was, nine years in Preston Prison, no hope of a reduction of sentence, just waiting for the years to tick by.
“How’s work?” Carter asked.
“Work’s shit.”
“As per usual.”
“Yep.”
“And family? Hannah and Sam?”
“Yeah, they’re … they’re good. Sam still likes—”
“Puking on you?”
“How did you …”
She pointed at the top left of his black coat. “I know a puke stain when I see one.”
Brian looked down. Saw a light outline where Sam must’ve stealth-puked at some point. “Little bugger,” Brian said. “Swear he’s like a vomit tap that only ever turns when I go near.”
Samantha laughed, and didn’t say anything in return.
The visits always followed this pattern. A few pleasantries followed by an awkward silence. And he knew what the awkward silence was about. Samantha knew it too. The elephant in the room that floated above them, blocking out the sun.
The words Brian was dying to utter.
You shouldn’t have killed him.
You should’ve just left him to the justice system.
“Weather’s shit,” Samantha said.
“Right? Pity I don’t like going away. Would be a decent excuse to get away from all—”
“Say it. If it helps. Just get it off your chest. I know you’re dying to.”
He looked back into Samantha’s eyes and a lump built up in his throat. “You … you know where I stand. On what you did.”
“I killed the man who murdered Brad. I killed the man who murdered children. I don’t have any guilt about that.”
“But if you’d just left him to—”
“To the justice system? Right. That’s always your answer, isn’t it?”
“It’s a way that works pretty well.”
“Just like you left Luke Delforth to the justice system?”
Brian went to speak, but he couldn’t. The words blocked up in his throat.
Samantha smiled. “It’s okay. We all know what happened with Luke. Just you managed to deal with him in sneakier circumstances that I dealt with Adrian.”
“I think there’s a difference between self-defence and murder.”
“But is there?” Carter said. “Is there really that much of a difference? Did you feel guilt when you rammed that blade into Luke Delforth’s skull? How about Scott? Did you feel guilty when the old cabin collapsed on him? Hmm? Or did you feel a sense of justice? Like—like karma had done its work. Like the right thing had been done.”
“I’m not in a position to talk about either of those cases.”
“Justice isn’t some idea that’s decided by corrupt governments and police officers trying to hit targets, Brian. Justice is something much bigger than that. Much greater. I hope you don’t come to realise that one day. Or you’ll be in here with me.”
Brian stayed silent. Looked back at the rain as it powered against the windows.
“Think about all the women in here for stabbing their abusive fucks of husbands. Think of the hell they went through before picking up a hammer and smashing it through their beloved’s heads. You’re telling me their husbands deserved to just get away with their abuse? That there’s enough justice in just holding your hands up and saying, ‘Don’t worry, hun. I won’t fucking kick the shit out of you again?’ Bullshit. Bullshit.”
They were both silent for a good five minutes or more. Brian watched as the colour that had returned to Samantha’s face drifted away slowly. As the pale pastine
ss that came with the territory in this place made its unwavering return.
“Are you gonna be okay in here?” Brian asked.
Samantha wiped the corner of her right eye. She smiled at Brian, and Brian saw a glimmer of her beauty. “I’ll have to be. I did what I did. I stand by what I did.”
They spoke some more. Small talk. Nothing as heavy as the opening of the conversation.
But all the time, the knowledge of the elephant in the room lingered over everything.
Samantha didn’t regret what she’d done. Even though it’d ruined her career. Destroyed her life.
The guard came over. “Come on. Time’s up now.”
She took Samantha by the arm and helped her up. Brian stood, again, and watched as she walked away.
“I don’t regret what I did,” Samantha said, looking back at Brian. “Killing Adrian. It was the right thing to do. The just thing to do.”
A few people turned around. Another few people gasped. Brian felt his cheeks heating up.
“Only thing I regret is not stabbing that prick more,” Samantha shouted, as the guard dragged her back into the prison. “For what he did to Brad. For what he did to …”
And then, as the rain pounded against the windows and the voices mumbled around Brian, her voice faded away.
Samantha was gone.
Nine
January 28, 1995
Alistair Crowley had been beaten so badly he could barely remember how he ended up in this shitty mess.
The room he was in was pretty dark. Or maybe that was just ’cause he’d been beaten. Hell, he should know. He’d been in enough scraps in his lifetime. Came with the territory of boozing. One of the downsides, some of the lads at Garrison said. Well, not in his opinion. The scraps were part of the fun. The fight was part of the thrill.
But this was different.
Something about it was just different.
He tried to open his mouth but it was tied shut. He could taste sweat and blood building up inside his mouth. He was naked, covered in sweat, his wrists and ankles bound to the wooden chair he sat on.
On the floor below him, he could just about make out some dirty tiles. Tiles that were once white, but never again.
He could see something else on the tiles, too. Like ink flooding out of a fountain pen.
Blood.
His blood.
He lifted his head a little but doing so fucking wrecked. He’d taken some beatings, he knew that. Couldn’t remember why or who or even how he’d got here. Damn, the proof was in the other taste in his mouth. The booze. The booze he’d need to throw up any moment, but the booze he couldn’t vom ’cause of the tape around his mouth.
He blinked a few times. Squinted. Tried to get a sense of where he was. Maybe it was the pub cellar. He’d been locked in there a few times for a laugh. Ha-fucking-ha, lads. He’d find a way to get his own back. He’d find a way to prank them—whether it was Marty or Alex or Chris, he’d find a way.
But the more he looked around this dimly lit room, the more he realised it wasn’t the pub cellar. No, it wasn’t a cellar at all. There were windows. Massive windows either side of him. Only they were completely coated with tape. Duct tape. A few tiny cracks forming and letting the slightest of light inside.
He heard buzzing. Thought it was his head at first—his damned buzzing head. Always was bad when he’d had a drink. That same buzzing noise made him want to beat Trish whenever he got home. ’Cause she said something that had to go fuckin’ grind his gears like, “don’t leave your laundry on the floor,” or “don’t leave the remote in the kitchen”.
Fucking bitch needed putting in her place every once in a while.
Just to stop the buzzing, you know.
Only reason.
No other reason.
He didn’t enjoy beating his ugly cunt of a wife.
Not really.
But no. This buzzing wasn’t in his head. This buzzing came from flies. Bluebottles. Loads of ’em.
Alistair tried to shout but nothing came out; nothing but a strained mumble. And all that mumble did was echo around this box room. He didn’t want to look weak in case all this was some kinda sick joke. But wait. No. Something …
Before he’d got here.
Someone hitting him over the head.
Something in the back of a van.
“In the light of the sun, I give thee to the moon.”
Those words. Those bullshit rambling words. Some reason they meant something to him. Had someone said them to him?
And why did they scare him?
Why did something inexplicable, something intangible as a vague memory of a few bullshit words scare him so fucking much?
It was then that he heard the tile crack behind him.
He felt a cold shiver creep up the back of his neck. ’Cause he thought he was alone in here. Swore he was alone in here.
But no.
There was someone in here with him.
Someone behind him.
He tried to turn his neck but he couldn’t. Too stiff. And the way he was tied up prevented him from turning properly.
He heard the tiles crack again.
Footsteps.
Footsteps behind him.
He figured at that point he had a few choices. Either put up with whatever prank was going on—if it was a prank—so he still looked the tough guy, the tough guy he’d been all his life, the tough guy his fucker of an adoptive dad told him he never could be when he lashed him with a belt every fucking night.
Or he could shake. Try to break free.
At first, as the sweat dripped down his forehead and into his eyes, he kept his nerve. Held his cool. Gimme whatever you’ve got, joker. Alistair ain’t scared of a thing. It’ll take more than a beating and a tying up to properly scare me.
And then he felt something.
Something slither underneath him.
Something cold move down his lower back.
Touch his anus.
And then he realised exactly what it was. Exactly what it fucking was.
Fingers.
Lubed up fingers.
He tried to shake and scream but the fingers kept on rubbing his asshole, rubbing it through—shit, there must be a hole in the seat or something.
He felt the cold lube as the fingers sneaked further into his ass, which fucking itched and ached all the time as it was.
And then he felt something stretch open his ass and he shouted, shouted as hard as he could. ’Cause this went beyond a joke. This was fucking queer shit. Fucking homo shit. He’d fucking kill whoever did this to him. Fucking kick their cunting head into a pulp—
And then he felt something else sneak inside his asshole.
Something warmer.
Something …
Fuck.
Something throbbing.
Alistair knew exactly what it was. He knew exactly what was happening to him when he felt the heavy breathing on his shoulder. Smelled the decay of bad breath.
But he couldn’t scream as this … this whoever it was violated him.
He couldn’t shout.
He was too busy focusing on the person standing at the door.
Standing at the door with hairdressers’ scissors in one hand, a small metal briefcase in the other.
“You called us, Brother Crowley,” the person by the door said. “You failed to promote yourself to Level Ten. Don’t you ever forget that.”
They walked over to him as he continued to be violated from behind, as he understood in a flood of horrifying information exactly what was happening to him. The shit he’d turned his back on years ago. The shit he thought he was safe from. Fuck. No. Not him. This couldn’t be happening to him. This couldn’t—
“And now you face the greatest honour of all,” the person in front of him said.
They put the briefcase to one side.
Grabbed Alistair’s inch-long grey hair.
Pulled it. Hard.
And then they brought the sci
ssors to it and they chopped.
All the time, Alistair shook.
All the time, Alistair tried to break free.
But he couldn’t break free.
He couldn’t break free because he understood what was happening to him.
And as his hair dropped down into his face, he understood exactly what was going to happen to him next.
The person backed away.
Opened the briefcase.
Pulled out a sharp razor blade.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” the person said, moving the blade closer to Alistair’s face as Alistair shook, struggled, screamed. “This will be agony. As you are already well aware.”
They stopped.
Stared at Alistair for a moment.
And then they rammed the blade into his right eye.
Ten
Brian stared at the time in the corner of his flickering computer screen and wondered if he’d ever really escape this hell.
Five to five. Which meant he had thirty-five minutes left on the job today. But the time seemed to be dragging even more as his retirement crept up. In a way, it pissed him off. Just typical that the slowest years of his life would be the ones where he’s too old to do anything with them.
But in another way, Brian was grateful. Because a part of him didn’t want to retire. Retiring meant he was old. Really fucking old.
He didn’t want to be old.
He didn’t want to enter the twilight of his life.
He didn’t want to—
“Brian!”
Brian spun around at the sound of DCI Marlow’s voice. Realised he was mid-yawn, made sure to get rid of it right away. “Sorry. I was just—”
“Don’t care what you were doing. Got something for you from our lovely duty officer and our CSOs. Two bodies found down by the canal at Ashton. Near Crackhead Tunnel. Looks like maybe there’s foul play involved. Either that or the kids who reported in have got mad imaginations. Wouldn’t put it past ’em. Or the CSOs, for that matter.”
Brian pictured some kind of drug related scrap going on down there. Something infinitely disinteresting, with all due respect to the victims. And Marlow was right—Community Support Officers did have a tendency to overreact. Faux police, that’s all they were. Civilians who couldn’t quite make it to police level. Okay, okay, he might’ve taken on the role of a CSO back when things got too heavy for him, but best to blot that part of history from memory. “Sorry. I’m off at half-five. Got dinner with Han. I can’t—”