Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  The meeting broke up.

  81

  Rose was terrified.

  She lay on her back, on the filthy floor of some falling apart boat, eyes wide open, not daring to move or even to breathe. Like an animal freezing before a predator, hoping that if she stayed still long enough she would be ignored.

  His hands were on her. His breath in her ear, raw, ragged grunts. His hands getting faster, moving quickly over her body, roughly tugging at her clothes . . .

  She closed her eyes, trying to expel the vision of his face from her mind, take herself to somewhere she could think. Tried to make some sense of what had happened to her and how best to deal with it, thought back to how she had ended up in this situation.

  She hadn’t seen him coming. That much was obvious. If she had, she would have been prepared. And then seeing what happened to Ben, watching him collapse like that. Was he dead? Oh God . . . All that blood, so much blood . . .

  And now this. She had lain there, terrified, while he spoke to her. At least, she assumed that was what he was doing. She could barely make out any of his words. But that was no surprise. His mouth - his face - was ruined. She had studied him in close up all the time he was ‘talking’ to her. Clearly not Mark Turner. This man had suffered. His face was smooth in parts, pitted and wrinkled in others. Sometimes dead white, sometimes pink and red.

  Burns, Rose thought. Bad ones.

  As he moved closer she could see veins and arteries below the surface. They looked like fiery little red lines, networked, red hot pipes ready to burst and burn and spray at any moment.

  His eyebrows were gone, as was half of his mouth. His teeth were pulled back in a perpetual, grimacing snarl. No wonder she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She understood why he wore the woollen cap, too. When he took it off his head had the same kind of smooth and uneven look as his face. What hair there was left had been razored down to nothing, leaving him looking like an angry, red skull.

  He reminded her of a character in one of her little brother’s comics that he used to read. Ghost Rider, a demon biker with a flaming skull. He had terrified her then.

  This one terrified her now.

  And then that voice . . . deep, raw and wasted, all breath and pain, but with attempts at precision and diction. Like a horror-film zombie trying to articulate enough to get a job in a call centre.

  He grunted loudly. She opened her eyes.

  And wished she hadn’t.

  He was on top of her now, pulling at her jeans, trying to get his lumpen, misshapen hand down the front. Grunting even more, his other hand pulling at the waist of his army trousers.

  Oh God . . .

  She closed her eyes tight shut once more, lay completely still, hands by her side, legs as rigid as possible.

  And then she felt something. Her handbag.

  Still on her shoulder from when she had been grabbed, it had been tight to her body when she had been wrapped in the rug and was with her now. And in the front pocket . . .

  Oh please, please, let it be there . . . please God, let it still be there . . .

  It was.

  Rose couldn’t believe her luck. She almost shouted out aloud, punched the air, even. But she did neither. Just lay there as if nothing had happened, nothing had changed. But it had.

  She had found her pepper spray.

  Keeping her breathing as shallow as she could so as not to alarm Ghost Rider. Although the way he was twisting and grunting in his efforts to remove her jeans, she thought he would be beyond noticing any changes in her breathing.

  She tried to disconnect from what was happening to the rest of her body, just concentrate on what her fingers were doing. Touching the can of spray, finding the front, fitting her fingers round the container, getting her grip in the right place, readying herself to shoot . . .

  She brought her arm up as far as it would go. Held the can right in his face.

  Sprayed.

  The effect was immediate. As the pepper hit him in the eyes, he reared back off her, hands going to eyes, clawing at them. She took advantage straight away, pushing herself off the floor, making for the stairs, the exit.

  But he was quick. Even half-blinded he knew the boat better than her. His hand clamped round her ankle, pulled. His grip was too strong. Rose’s leg was pulled out from under her.

  She fell to the floor, landing awkwardly, feeling something pop in her left knee.

  She screamed, tried to rise once more.

  Too late. He was on her.

  Still clutching the can of spray, she brought her hand up but he was ready, knocking it out of her hand. She heard it land uselessly, somewhere on the far side of the boat, in the mess and shadows.

  She tried to rise again. Felt pain arc from her knee all the way up her leg.

  She gasped.

  Saw his malevolent, red skull in her face once more. Eyes streaming.

  Heard him scream in pain and rage.

  Glimpsed his fist coming towards her face.

  Felt nothing.

  82

  Suzanne still hadn’t moved. Had barely breathed.

  She lay there, eyes wide, staring, straining to hear anything, something that would give her a clue as to what had happened to Julie. Just a scream and then silence. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew it wasn’t good.

  She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate, the better to hear.

  Nothing.

  She let out a breath. After the scream she had tried calling but received no response. She had tried again. Nothing. Eventually she accepted the fact. Something bad had happened to Julie and she wouldn’t be talking again.

  The easiest thing would have been to give in to panic. Scream, shout, pound the sides of the box, kick out . . . and it was so easy . . . she had felt it build inside her, a volcanic eruption of emotion looking for an outlet, a screaming, shaking outlet, but she had managed to stop it. Keep it dormant, keep it down. It would get her nowhere. Accomplish nothing.

  She had to think. Work out what happened to Julie. Make sure it didn’t happen to her.

  Suzanne controlled her breathing once more, kept her mind focused. Thought back to what Julie had said, what she was doing.

  I’ve got the bottom of the box open. I don’t think they closed it properly when they let us out. It’s a bit . . . bit tight, but . . . if I can just . . . wriggle down . . .

  Then tearing and creaking . . .

  Then silence.

  Then she was out and laughing then . . .

  The screaming. Long and hard.

  Suzanne shook her head, shaking loose the image that had stuck there. The darkness just made her imagination worse. Seeing something so horrible, no true, real-life scene could ever match it.

  Or at least she hoped not.

  She focused. The box, the tearing and creaking . . . that was the noise it made when opened. And Julie had said their captors mustn’t have closed it properly.

  Think, think, process . . .

  What about her trip out of the box? Her toilet break? Anything to be gleaned from that?

  She retraced it in her mind once more. The door had opened, she’d been given the hood to wear. Nothing there. What about the feel of things when she was out? The sounds?

  The first thing she had experienced had been water up to her ankles. What could that tell her? It was still. And there was no smell. Not tidal, then. Not on the seafront, then.

  The water had ended and she had stepped out. So a small amount of water. A pool, maybe? Ditch? Concrete underneath. A trough of some kind? But why?

  Leave it. On to the next part. She had been guided over a cold concrete floor. Hard and dirty, with small, sharp bits sticking in her wet feet as she went.

  Was there anything about the walk itself . . .

  Nothing. Except . . .

  That sound. Like a humming or churning. Power lines, pylons . . . or a generator.

  A shudder ran through Suzanne, jack-knifing her body with its suddennes
s.

  She knew what had happened to Julie now. And it didn’t make her feel any better.

  A generator. And a trough of water. And a scream from Julie as soon as she wriggled out of the box.

  Booby-trapped. Even if they managed to escape the box itself they couldn’t escape from where they actually were. The water must be too wide to cross. And electrified.

  Suzanne sighed.

  Felt more alone and abandoned, more hopeless than ever.

  83

  Mickey was following the Nemo. Out of King Edward Quay and on to Haven Road. Over the roundabout and down the Colne Causeway. Heading towards the Magic Roundabout.

  At first he had thought it was just a nickname, a less than affectionate term everyone used. He was surprised to learn that was its official name too. He was less surprised to learn that the rest of Colchester despised it as much as he did.

  It comprised one main roundabout with several mini ones orbiting it, plus a lot of irritated motorists. And that was where the Nemo was headed.

  Mickey thought he had managed to shadow the van without being seen so far but he was winging it on his own. Following was a delicate operation, usually carried out in tandem with at least one, possibly two other vehicles. That was how he was used to doing at. On his own he was just improvising.

  And the Magic Roundabout could be where his luck ran out.

  He was two cars behind and no other unmarked cars had come to join him yet. So he had to be careful. Too close and he would give himself away, too far back and he would lose him. He watched, waiting for him to indicate.

  Right. Mickey did the same.

  The Nemo pulled out. Mickey tried not to be too impatient with the car in front, concentrate on not losing the Nemo, keeping it in visual contact all the time. The car in front went left. Mickey went right.

  The Nemo was just in front of him.

  Mickey allowed himself a small smile. Kept his eyes on it.

  Right at the next mini roundabout. Mickey did the same.

  And off down St Andrews Avenue, signalling and moving over to the right.

  Mickey kept smiling. He knew where the Nemo was headed.

  He thought about getting back on the radio, giving his location and where he thought they were going but, since his car was directly behind the Nemo on the dual carriageway, he didn’t want to do anything that could be seen in the wing mirror, something that might tip the driver off, make him suspicious.

  Off to the right down Brightlingsea Road.

  Yes. Mickey knew where he was going.

  The university.

  He had heard on the radio that the house in Greenstead Road had belonged to Fiona Welch and her boyfriend. This confirmed that they were involved in this.

  The Nemo turned into the grounds of the university, then into the car park. Mickey followed. The Nemo parked. Mickey drove round until he found a space nearby. He found one in the next row, facing the van. He watched, the engine running.

  The driver was definitely male, thin. The wool hat was removed revealing longish, unkempt hair. Typical student, Mickey thought.

  The driver shucked out of his army jacket leaving a sloganed T-shirt beneath. It looked like he was pulling something down over his hips. Getting rid of his army trousers too, Mickey reckoned. He got out of the van, leaned back in, grabbed a canvas bag from behind the seat, slung it across his body. Ready for class.

  Mickey smiled. Mark Turner. He knew it. And there was virtually nothing on him. This would be easy, he thought.

  Turner set off in the direction of the campus. Mickey got out of the car and, at a discreet distance, followed.

  Essex University campus was a textbook design in sixties neo-brutalist modernism, with each subsequent architectural feature either an accompaniment or an apology to the original. It was laid out as a series of squares and quadrants with concrete steps and walkways joining them. Turner walked towards the main quadrant through the car park, going past the gym and down the steps, trees on either side. Mickey followed him easily.

  He should have radioed for back-up but, again, he didn’t want to risk losing him or letting him see the radio. Instead, Mickey opened his phone, called Anni. She answered immediately.

  ‘It’s Turner,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘University. He’s just got out the van, walking towards the campus. I’m on foot. Looks like he’s trying to behave as normally as possible.’

  ‘Give himself an alibi, more like.’

  ‘Anyway, back-up would be appreciated.’

  Turner didn’t look back, which was helpful as most of the people Mickey’s age were much less formally dressed. Turner didn’t seem hurried or stressed, just walking along casually. Either that, thought Mickey, or he was affecting to look casual just in case anyone was watching him. Which meant he really was nervous.

  Which meant . . .

  Turner turned round. Saw Mickey. It was clear from his reaction that he didn’t know who Mickey was but certainly knew what he was.

  Turner ran.

  Mickey, no longer needing to pretend any more, cut his call short, gave chase.

  Along a concrete walkway, the Student’s Union bar on one side, opening out to a main quadrant. Windows all round and, in the floors above, coffee shops and a general store on the ground.

  Turner ran to the right, up a flight of stairs, under overhanging buildings. Knocking students, teachers and administrators alike out of the way. A cluster of smokers in one corner jumped as Turner came barrelling towards them.

  Mickey ran at full pelt, his chest burning, legs pumping. He tried to match Turner for speed, knowing how difficult it would be to slow down and stop if Turner took an unexpected route.

  Turner ran into the nearest building, up a small flight of stairs, down a corridor, Mickey right behind him. Students jumped out of the way when they saw the pair of them coming.

  Turner slammed open a set of double doors, took the stairs before him two at a time. Mickey still chased. At the top of the stairs he went through another set of doors, then left down another corridor. Through another set of doors and into the main cafeteria.

  People turned, initially puzzled but then rooted to the spot with fear as the two men came their way. Turner took advantage of the situation, grabbing a pile of trays as he passed, throwing them behind him. They scattered and clattered, fanning out and hitting Mickey in the legs. He did his best to jump over them, not lose speed, not let them slow him down.

  Turner hit the double doors at the other end of the cafeteria, slamming them open, knocking the people before him out of the way. Mickey didn’t give up.

  Down another flight of stairs, out on to the upper quadrant. Then left and away, past the library, heading towards the lake.

  It seemed like Turner had no real idea where he was going, his only thought to get away. Mickey didn’t know where the lake route led to but, if it was outside the campus, Turner could escape. He powered on, finding extra strength from somewhere, pushing himself as fast as he could go.

  He was gaining on Turner . . .

  Faster, faster, pushing harder and harder . . .

  Stretching out, almost able to touch him . . .

  Turner risking a glance over his shoulder, seeing how close his pursuer was.

  Then, looking forward again, Turner missed his footing, hit a pothole in the grass, stumbled.

  And Mickey was on to him. Rugby tackling him to the ground, both his hands on Turner’s back, pushing him into the earth.

  ‘Get off, let go . . . bastard . . .’

  Turner struggled, tried to kick, to punch. But Mickey, adrenalin ascendant, ignored him. He twisted the student’s arm up his back until he cried out in pain. Then twisted it further.

  ‘Get off me . . . bastard . . .’ Another cry of pain to accompany it.

  Mickey didn’t care. Fed on that pain. Ate it up. Smiled. There would be time for the full reading of Turner’s rights soon enough. But there was something else he had
to say now. Something more important.

  He laughed. ‘You’re nicked, my son.’

  And there was Mickey triumphant. His old self back again.

  84

  The Creeper looked down at Rani lying there still, eyes closed.

  And then she spoke to him.

  Is that you? Are you there?

  The Creeper frowned, confused. How could Rani be talking to him if she was lying there, right in front of him?

  ‘Rani . . .?’

  Yes. It’s me. She sounded impatient. Hurried. Come on . . .

  ‘But you’re . . . you’re there, on the floor . . . with your, your eyes closed . . .’

  Never mind about that now.

  He was genuinely confused. ‘But how . . .’

  Never mind.

  What was wrong with her? Was she upset with him? Because of what he had done? ‘Have I . . . have I done something wrong? I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I’m sorry . . . I should have, should have . . .’

  I don’t have time for that now.

  He had to tell her, make himself understood. Plead, if he needed to. ‘But you did a bad thing to me first. I only hit you after that, you made me do it . . .’

  Stop it.

  ‘I wouldn’t have done it otherwise . . .’

  Stop it! Now shut up and listen.

  ‘But . . .’

  Listen. She took a deep breath, stopped talking. He listened. I’m not mad at you. You did . . . It doesn’t matter what you did to me.

  He smiled. Felt relief wash through him. ‘Thank you . . .’

  Don’t interrupt. I don’t care about that now. You have to listen to me. You need to be prepared.

  ‘I am prepared . . .’

  Good. Listen closely. You need to get out of there. And you need to make it so that no one can follow you. Understand?

  He frowned, confused once more. ‘No . . . what, what d’you mean?’

  There are people coming for you.

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  I told you. Listen. Closely. Right? Good. You need to get out of where you are now. Quickly. Now we discussed this, remember? What you had to do if something like this happened?