Philip Brennan 02 - The Creeper

by Tania Carver

  ‘Then . . . what?’

  ‘The building. The Dock Transit building.’

  ‘What about it?’

  If things got too bad, too out of hand. There was a plan in place.’

  ‘What kind of plan?’

  ‘Remember what he did to the boat?’ Then, just in case Marina didn’t get the picture, he gestured, his fingers exploding slowly in the air, like a gently opening flower.

  ‘Boom . . .’

  Marina ran out of the room as fast as she could go.

  107

  Phil reached the bottom of the steps. It hadn’t been easy. There were times he had had to steady himself with both hands to stop himself from either going over the side or tumbling down the metal staircase. But he had managed it.

  At the bottom he looked round. Pulled at the cuffs tying his hands together. Searching for something sharp enough to cut through.

  Wind was blowing through the gaps in the rusted corrugated sheet metal walls. That gave Phil an idea. He crossed over to one wall, going slowly in the dark, watching his footing, until he came to the outer wall and, putting his back to it, felt along for a gap.

  There were plenty. He eventually found one at waist height with a rusted, jagged edge.

  Perfect.

  He found the sharpest point, put his wrists over it, worked the plastic up and down as hard and as fast as he could.

  His arms ached, shoulders burnt with the exertion, chest heaved. But eventually it started to give. Encouraged by that, he rubbed all the harder, ignoring the growing pain until he could feel it coming and started to pull. It stretched and sharpened, digging in as it got thinner and eventually came apart. He was free.

  He fell to his knees, gasping, rubbing his wrists.

  Looked around, searching for any sign of the Creeper or Suzanne.

  None.

  He set off into the shadows, listening, watching, hoping his eyes would soon be acclimatised.

  Hoping he wasn’t too late.

  The Creeper felt the thrill of the hunt coursing through him. This was what it was about. Never mind all that is she/isn’t she Rani, this was the real thing. What he lived for.

  Stalking, hunting down, trapping his prey. He loved it. Came truly alive then.

  This was when he remembered his father, could honour the man’s memory. Even if he had run away and left him.

  Not that he blamed him. Not with those bitches in the house.

  He thought of all those holidays camping in the woods, tracking an animal, hunting it down and killing it. That, his father had told him, is what a real man does. How a real man lives.

  The Creeper couldn’t have agreed more.

  Then there was the other stuff, the things that happened afterwards . . . he didn’t like them so much. In fact he hated them. The pain, the hurt, being made to do things with his body he didn’t want to do.

  At first, anyway. Eventually he got to tolerate it. Expect it, even.

  Because it came along with his father’s words, words he had taken to heart, always lived by: ‘Women are whores, son. All of them. And you’ve got to treat them like that. Every one.’

  And he had.

  And he did. The snake within him uncoiling, ready to strike.

  He scanned the area. Saw nothing, no movement at all.

  Then his eyes fell on the boxes in the corner. The trough of water beside them, the blocks before them. There. Quick, fleeting. Just a movement.

  He smiled. He had her.

  Kept looking. There she was again, thinking she was hiding but showing herself at the far end of one of the boxes, beside the water.

  This was so easy. In fact he wished it could be more of a challenge, more of a struggle. But it didn’t matter. A hunt was a hunt.

  He moved in slowly, stealthily.

  He was going to enjoy this.

  At first, Suzanne was terrified. Full-on terror: heart hammering, legs wobbling, teeth chattering. Repeating the same thing to herself as she ran: ‘Oh God, I’m going to die . . . oh God, I’m going to die . . . oh God, I’m going to die . . .’ Over and over in her head, her own personal mantra.

  And then she reached the boxes. Saw Julie’s body lying in the water.

  ‘Oh God . . .’ Whispered, under her breath, but no less heartfelt. No less urgent.

  He was after her. Somewhere, in the dark, he was there. Coming for her. To kill her. Or . . .

  Worse.

  She stood still at the water, looked down at the other woman’s body. Still breathing heavily, still gripped by fear. And then something happened. A kind of serenity descended on her. All the things she had been through these past few days, the things she had witnessed, the things she’d been through and, most horrific of all, the things that had been done to her . . . It all tumbled out of her mind.

  So she stood there, looking down at the once-electrified water and the body of someone who could have been her friend, at the box that had imprisoned her, robbed her of hope, left her welcoming death, and she found such a clarity of thought within her, a stillness. And that stillness gave her the ability to think. And, more importantly, to plan.

  To make sure she didn’t die after all. But lived.

  Because that was what she wanted more than anything else in the world now. To live. To hope.

  And she knew what she had to do.

  She looked down at the water once more, no longer panicked, and thought that the old Suzanne, the one of a month, even a week ago, wouldn’t believe what she was about to do next. But the new Suzanne, the one who not only wanted to live but also to punish the person who had hurt her so much, robbed her of hope, could understand it perfectly.

  She knew he was coming.

  She got to work.

  108

  This is easy, thought the Creeper. Too easy. No skill required.

  He could see her from where he was, her head poking out from in between the two boxes. Beside the water trough. Thinking he couldn’t see her. Thinking the dark would hide her.

  Wrong.

  Even allowing for his damaged body he could still hunt. He crept up slowly, scanning the area through his goggles, using all his surveillance and tracking skills. Making himself silent. Invisible.

  A deadly, moving shadow.

  He reached the water trough. Smiled to himself. She was still there, crouched and unmoving between the boxes. Probably frozen with terror, he thought, made immobile by the thought of him, of what he would do with her.

  And so she should be.

  Because, freed of thinking of her as Rani, as the woman he loved, he could do what he liked.

  And there was so much he would like to do with her. She wouldn’t go easily, or quickly, and he would enjoy every moment. All the anger and uncertainty he’d been through the last few days, here was his chance to just have fun.

  He unsheathed his knife, kept the blade covered. Didn’t want her to see the razor-sharp metal glinting in what light there was. Didn’t want her to feel it on her until it was too late.

  He moved forward, deciding which side to approach from. The far side, next to the generator by the wall. Yes. That would maximise the biggest shock for her. Scare her the most.

  He advanced.

  Faces danced before his eyes. Women. His mother. His sister. Whores, all of them. Any woman he had ever met in his life. Whores.

  Rani.

  The serpent twisted, writhed.

  Especially Rani. The way she avoided him, laughed at him, even. Then spurned him. That had made him angry. Brought it all back to the surface again. Whores. All of them.

  So he had taken her. She had struggled, tried to fight him off, but it was no good. He was stronger than her. His hunger to have her greater than her hunger to get away.

  And he had her. Any way he wanted.

  Afterwards, he had cried, feeling guilty, hating himself. Then came the anger. At her for leading him on, at himself for the self-loathing.

  And then came the fire.

  And the r
ebirth.

  He smiled. Nearer to this one now. Nearly on her . . .

  He edged round the corner of the box, crouching, moving stealthily, in his mind’s eye a panther. A sleek, remorseless killer.

  She was just in front of him, lying full length on the ground, head round the corner, expecting him to come at her from the front.

  He nearly laughed. She was in for a surprise . . .

  He crept up right behind her, knife in hand, arm outstretched . . .

  Then stopped. Something wasn’t right.

  The woman on the ground, she was . . .

  ‘Bastard!’

  Pain, sharp, on the back of his head. His knees buckled, his hands went to the source of the pain. He fell to the floor, dropping the knife.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Again, another dose of pain, bigger this time. He felt his skull crack, heard it in his head, tearing open.

  He tried to turn. Saw the woman from upstairs, the one who had been Rani, standing behind him with one of the breeze blocks used to jam the doors of the boxes closed.

  She had tricked him.

  The whore had tricked him. Him.

  Anger welled. He screamed, tried to get up.

  She brought the block down again, hitting him in the face this time. He felt something break, hot liquid squirt in his eyes.

  His hands went to his eyes, wiped them. Opened them.

  Just in time to see what she was doing next.

  She held the two cables from the water trough, hooked up to the generator. They were fizzing and sparking where drops of water hit the exposed ends. Holding them by their insulated sides, she thrust them towards him.

  ‘Die, fucking die, you bastard . . .’

  She held them to his chest as the current coursed through him.

  He tried but couldn’t pull away, couldn’t get his hands up to stop her, to rip the cables away. The current was too powerful.

  She held them there, his chest sparking and arcing, his body vibrating and shaking.

  He looked at her face. Saw Rani, grinning. Not as she had appeared to him in the other bodies but as she was first. Grinning, watching him die. Vengeful and happy.

  He reached out for her but it was too late. She was gone.

  And then so was he.

  109

  ‘Right,’ shouted Wade, ‘you know your places . . .’ Mickey watched as the armed response unit surrounded the Dock Transit building. He and Anni had come straight out when the circus was mobilised. Wade’s team had barely had time to get changed from their last assignment. They were all in place, just awaiting Sergeant Wade’s order to move in. His arm was raised.

  ‘We’ll wait until they’ve gone in,’ said Anni, fastening the straps of her vest, ‘then we follow, yeah?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Mickey, doing the same. ‘We just—’ His phone rang. He shook his head in irritation. ‘Probably my mother.’

  ‘Answer it,’ said Anni. ‘Might be important. Might be the boss.’

  He checked the display. The station. He answered it.

  ‘Mickey? Marina. Is that you?’

  ‘Yeah, Marina.’ He looked at Anni, rolled his eyes. ‘Look, we’re a bit busy at the moment. We’re on the quay, just about to—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’ She cut him off. ‘Listen. This is important. Has anyone gone in yet?’

  ‘They’re just about to.’

  ‘Then tell them to stand down. Now. Do it . . .’

  ‘I can’t just—’

  ‘Turner says the whole building is wired. Just like the boat. If they go in they’ll be killed . . .’

  Mickey took the phone away from his ear. Anni saw the look of urgency on his face.

  ‘Sergeant Wade,’ he shouted. ‘Get your team to—’

  Too late. The front of the building exploded into a wall of flame.

  110

  Phil heard the screams, saw the lights. Went running over to the boxes.

  He never made it.

  At that moment the far wall of the building burst into flames.

  He was blown on to his back, overwhelmed by the blast, the heat. Once he got his breath back he pulled himself up to his elbows, squinted ahead.

  It was as if daylight, violent and flaming, had been brought into the night-time. The front of the building was ablaze, the flames spreading.

  No way out.

  Phil looked round, saw Suzanne Perry staggering over by the right side of the building, pulling herself slowly along the wall.

  ‘Suzanne . . .’

  She heard him, saw him, crossed over to him. Slowly, as if in a daze.

  Has she been hit? he wondered. He ran towards her.

  ‘You OK?’

  She nodded, her face devoid of expression, mouth open.

  ‘You sure?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Where’s . . .’ He pointed towards the boxes.

  ‘He’s . . . gone . . .’

  Shock, thought Phil. That’s what it was. He needed to get her out of there. Both of them needed to get out of there.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can’t go out that way, let’s look for somewhere at the back.’

  He put his arm round her, turning her away from the flames, the boxes. Numbly, she let him guide her.

  They made it back to the metal stairway leading up to the gantry. Phil looked up. Fiona Welch had come round, was staring down at him, her face a mask of pure hatred.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Phil shouted. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘Fuck you, copper . . .’

  She turned and ran along the gantry, away from him.

  There was another explosion behind them. Phil turned.

  ‘Christ, the whole building must be wired . . .’ He looked round. If the front was wired, would the back be? He couldn’t take the chance. Seeing no other alternative, he started up the stairs.

  ‘Come on, Suzanne, up here . . .’

  With his arm around her, they made their way back up the gantry. By the time they had reached the top, Suzanne seemed to be more aware of what was going on. Phil didn’t feel like he had to hold on to her all the time.

  ‘You OK?’ he said. ‘Can you make it along here?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Come on, then . . .’

  Fiona Welch had run away in the opposite direction to them. They had no alternative but to follow. Phil and Suzanne ran along the gantry, dodging the swinging metal chains. At the far end of the walkway he could see the night sky. He tried to get his bearings.

  They were facing the side of the building with the crane on it. It was a huge metal frame with a crane mechanism that moved along the heavy metal horizontal bar at the top, controlled by an operative in a cabin on the ground. There was a maintenance opening from the gantry on to the top of the horizontal bar. He doubted that had been rigged to explode. If they could get out there, edge their way along, they could climb down the other side, away from the flames.

  He was sure Fiona Welch had had the same idea.

  ‘This way . . .’

  He pulled Suzanne along towards the opening.

  They reached it. He looked round. No sign of Fiona Welch.

  She must have already gone ahead, he thought. Got away. She wouldn’t get far.

  ‘Come on . . .’

  He opened the door, stepped out. The metal was rusted, not too wide. And a long way down. Might be better to sit on it, edge their way along that rather than run. That was a sure way to fall.

  Phil swallowed hard. Felt his legs begin to shake, vibrate. He had a huge fear of heights. Always had a panic attack whenever he was up high. Someone had once told him that it wasn’t the heights he feared but what he would do when he was up there. What he wanted to do. He had laughed at that, said his friend was talking rubbish, but it had played on his mind ever since. And now that he was up high and unsafe once more, it came back to him.

  But this time he had an answer.

  He wanted to get down safely. Because he had a w
ife and daughter waiting for him.

  He corrected himself. Partner and daughter. Had he really just said wife to himself?

  Really?

  He didn’t have time to think about that now. And he certainly didn’t have time for a panic attack. He looked back at the doorway, ready to tell Suzanne to sit down, pull herself along, but the words never left his mouth.

  Fiona Welch was standing there. He could see the body of Suzanne lying behind her, on the gantry inside.

  ‘Have you killed her?’ he shouted.

  She shrugged. ‘What do you care?’

  She stepped outside, on to the beam. Phil tried to move backwards, away from her. He felt himself slip, his foot go over the edge. His body lose its balance.

  Oh my God, he thought. I’m going to fall.

  I’m going to die.

  111

  ‘Look up there,’ shouted Anni. ‘It’s the boss . . .’

  Mickey followed her arm. Saw Phil Brennan standing on the top beam of the crane mechanism. ‘What’s he . . .’

  ‘No . . . he’s going to fall . . .’

  Phil brought his foot round. Placed it securely on the beam. Steadied himself. He didn’t fall. His breathing was heavy, chest heaving.

  And then he felt it. The tightening bands round his ribcage, squeezing, tightening . . .

  No. Not now. Ignore it. Not now . . .

  Fiona Welch smiled at him. ‘One push. That’s all it takes . . .’

  ‘Give it up, Fiona,’ he shouted. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Look down there. That’s my team. They’ve got this place surrounded. You can’t get away.’

  She laughed. ‘One push. And you’ll be seeing your team sooner than you think . . .’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Fiona. You’ve got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Apart from the history books. I’m going to be famous, Phil Brennan. You’re not. You’re just going to be the latest in my list of victims.’ She laughed. ‘So I suppose you’ll be famous, too, in a way. Isn’t that exciting?’

  The wind was getting up. If it got too strong the argument would be meaningless. They would both go. And there was the pain in his chest . . .