“Saturday, we’ll leave early. Pack an overnight bag just in case we need to stay. And Julie…” he paused.
“Cyril?”
“I love you!” He hung up before she could reply. For the first time since receiving the letter, he suddenly felt so much easier, a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Turning, he slipped down the passageway and as he walked down Robert Street his hand touched the envelope that he now kept permanently with him. It was the only link he had to his youth. He was determined from now on to always search for the white paper and not the odd black spot. He removed his phone again and dialled Julie for the second time.
“I love you too,” she said before he could speak. “Leaving a girl after such sweet talk is not acceptable.” She giggled.
“I was heading home but I need to eat and have a chat. Fancy Italian? L’Albero Delle Noci?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, you know what to order for me.”
Cyril waited. The room was small and busy but he had been shown to a quiet table. He had placed his order while Marco fretted about when Miss Julie would arrive. Checking his watch, Cyril reassured him that she would be there at any moment and as if by magic, she entered the restaurant. Marco made an immediate move with all his flamboyance and kissed her, mumbling a string of compliments in Italian before bringing her to Cyril’s table.
He kissed her. “Can’t compete with the suave Italian devil, I’m afraid.”
“So you’ve decided.” She sipped her wine as the meal was brought to them.
“Risotto, always risotto!” Marco turned breaking into song.
The hair dye, the mesh trays and the gloves were put into a small box before the lid was taped shut. Tonight it would be dumped in a litterbin, one of many that were spread around The Stray. Night, under the security of the dark, was the only feasible time to move. The daylight hours were a time for resting and planning for the final act of correction. Besides, the cellar offered little differentiation between night and day. The temperatures seemed to remain relatively constant and the natural light was marginal during the day. Having the only key ensured security and so the lights were left on constantly; it had become the norm and now nobody took any notice, after all, they were not paying for the wasted electricity, the landlord was.
There was one small cross left on the shelf to which the fishing line and bag were already attached. There was no number, a deliberate omission. However, there was a large cross, made from rough lengths of timber. The cross-lap cuts had been carefully fashioned in both pieces. Strong adhesive was squeezed from the tube trapped within the mastic gun until a stream of grey snakes covered the timber. With care this was offered to a vertical chalk line that had been marked on the wall and as much force as possible applied. Within half an hour a strong enough bond would have formed to allow the same procedure to be done to the patibulum. This would be offered to the cross-lap cut made in the vertical and the crucifixion cross would be assembled. The work was now near enough complete. Once the cross was fixed and the glue set there was nothing more that could be done. Hill moved towards the cupboard, removed a tin of rice pudding, snapped back the ring-pull on the top before eating the contents cold and directly from the can. He stared at the hammer and the horseshoe nails that sat on the workbench.
All was nearly ready. There was no time to rest. It would not take them long to discover that he had disappeared. On his last nocturnal trip he had seen the local paper and read that they had found the girl’s body. He had heard the many feet in the girl’s flat above him as he had worked in the cellar. He had one more visit to the pyramid, one more instruction of correction and his job would be done. God had called and he would be relieved to be free. All of this, all of his past would be crossed out, wiped clean. He would be reborn. Collecting a number of photographs, he nailed them to the cross, a history… his story… her story; the horseshoe nails' sharp tips drove well into the timber. The hammer and the remaining nails were wrapped in an old towel and slid into the shoulder bag.
From the shelf he took a bottle containing Nitric acid. From the drawer he then brought out a Jif lemon; the inside had been lined with a thin layer of beeswax as an additional, secure coating. Acid will not eat through wax. Slowly, using a thin funnel, the plastic, yellow lemon was filled to about two-thirds. It was the only weapon he would carry, the only deterrent, should things not go according to plan. The bottle was returned to the shelf and the Jif container secreted in the shoulder bag.
He stripped before moving to the sink. Picking up the shaving foam and a razor, within five minutes the stubble on his head had disappeared. The arms, the legs, the pubic bone, the eyebrows were all shaved. He towel-dried his skin, dabbing at the more tender areas of naked flesh before standing in front of the mirror. Mr Hill indeed! A laugh broke from the parted lips as he whispered, “Welcome back, Tracy. I’ve missed you.” She then quoted the message that she had given to Baker to hand to the police. “I’ve not gone anywhere. I’ve just stopped walking these streets, a shadow of my former self… maybe… you just don’t see… do you?”
Tracy Phillips stood in front of the mirror, her breasts exposed, her body totally shaved of hair. She slipped on the woollen tunic, tied the rope belt loosely around her waist and knelt before the cross.
“I hear you. The time is close. I shall be with you soon, Gideon, very soon.”
She stood and walked to the cross and placed her lips on the centre of the patibulum. “This is how the harlot will rest.” She took a long, last look at the photographs.
Turning, she removed the gown, stuffing it into a tote bag before dressing in jeans, a thick shirt and a hooded top. She slipped out into the darkness. A hand flicked the switch to put the cellar in darkness for the first time that she could remember. She had no idea why but she just felt as though she were being guided on the final path of her journey. She adjusted both shoulder bags ready for what was her last journey as Gideon, her final correction. The anticipation of standing by the pyramid grave filled her with a frisson of excitement.
“So you’re not a Yorkshireman after all!”
“No, but I’ve spent more of my life here in Harrogate than any other part of the country and have adapted and adopted many of the traits your men hold so dear. When was the last time you saw my wallet? Have you brought your purse? See, I’m a fast learner.” Cyril felt the urge to reveal to her some of his past.
“Nantwich, Cheshire. It was a beautiful market town surrounded by wonderful countryside but close enough to Liverpool and Manchester. Like Harrogate, it was a town known for its salt spas.” He paused and Julie could see him drift off as if the spools of an old projector were being rewound, taking him back through the years.
“Everything was perfect up until that day, but you know that.”
“So why do you want to return to a place that brought you such emotional trauma? You’ve to have a clear reason, Cyril, and it can't be a decision you take for reasons of selfish guilt. You cannot return to appease your conscience, your trip has to be honest and meaningful.”
There was a long pause. Julie deliberately did not reach across for his hand that was extended and flat on the table. She allowed the developing silence to grow, and even though it might make Cyril uncomfortable, she felt that this was a critical moment. If he were to waver then she knew that he was not ready to return to his past and she would tell him so. She was aware that he was still emotionally scarred by Liz’s death and this could open old wounds.
He looked up and smiled as if he had replayed enough. “There will never be a time when I’ll forget and try to accept the true hurt his philandering caused my mother, but I do realise that there always comes a moment to forgive, and if ever there was an appropriate one, then this is it. After some of the recent events I’ve seen and experienced in this job of mine, a job that brings me close to families that appear normal from the outside but are nothing but a sham, I have to take stock. This position I hold may have been borne by those early trauma
s. I feel, on reflection, that I’ve been lucky to know the strong love and bond of a mother and father. Yes, they may have had a disparate relationship, but I was loved and in some ways cherished. I have a love of music and art gifted by my mother and a strong work ethic from my father…”
Julie saw his facial expression change and knew what was coming.
“... and a dread of commitment within relationships, a dread of having children of my own for fear of hurting them.”
She saw the distant look appear again but then a smile broke across his face. He studied her and she could see the honesty expressed and wondered what he was about to say.
“I might be one hell of a mixed up human being right now but I couldn’t be in a happier place. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You’d never catch a Yorkshireman do that in public. You’ve had a narrow escape meeting me, Julie Pritchett, and don’t you forget it!”
Marco came over to their table. “I see the risotto was not to your liking, you've left a grain of rice there!” His stubby finger pointed to the offending article. “I'll tell the chef.” He winked and cleared away the two bowls. “You two love birds need coffees, yes?” he enquired. “Yes, two coffees for two love birds.”
35
Rupert and Graham Baker stood at the front desk of Harrogate police station. Neither was in the mood to communicate with the other. Both were angry but each had a different reason for their ire. The duty officer listened carefully as Rupert explained the reason for their visit before he put in a call. Brian Smirthwaite answered.
“Take them to the Reception room, it’s less intimidating and I’ll be down in five.” He turned to his computer and brought up the necessary file on Graham Baker and quickly read it. “Our man who handed in the newspaper.” He moved to Shakti’s desk and retrieved her file before going to meet them.
Graham sat watched by his son. He was obviously suffering both physically and emotionally.
“After this we’ll go to A&E. You need medical help,” Rupert said.
Brian Smirthwaite entered and introduced himself. He slipped a Dictaphone on the table between them. “For the record.” He smiled. “Now how can we help?”
Rupert explained the situation regarding his father and put the empty blister pack on the table along with the packs of Amitriptyline. “He tells us that these have been given to him by a stranger whom he meets near The Stray close to Montpellier Hill.”
Smirthwaite picked them up and read the labels. “One minute.” He stood, left and went to the front desk. He handed them to the Desk Sergeant. “Get me the duty doctor and ask him about these. From what I can see, this old guy's going cold turkey.”
He returned to the room. “Now, Mr Baker, what’s this all about?” He could initially sense a certain reluctance but then he opened up.
“A few years ago I had an accident at work, damaged my spine and I needed three operations. It meant that I couldn’t work. My wife had this idea that I should exaggerate the discomfort that it brought me in the hope of receiving greater compensation. Money was a little tight after years of supporting my son through his studies. My wife has never worked. The doctors gave me painkilling injections and then tablets. After a while they told me that they were going to reduce the strength and the dosage to prevent my becoming reliant on the medication. They also said that the pain was more likely psychological. It’s all about funding, about budgets not about people and the correct care. All these people flooding into the country going on benefits and receiving immediate health care, that’s what they should bloody well stop, not my medication!” He paused. “May I have some water?”
Brian stood, went to the water dispenser and brought back a paper cup.
“Thank you. Where was I?”
“Tablets, Mr Baker. The doctor refused to give you them.”
“He’d give me paracetamol and that was it. Anyway, I usually sit on a bench by Montpellier Hill and on this occasion there was this chap sitting there. I plonked myself down and started reading my book. It can be very warm even in winter, when the sun’s out you’re protected from the wind. It was then that he addressed me. He said that he’d seen me on a few occasions walking as I do with these two sticks. I told him about my symptoms. He told me that he suffered from acute pain and that he took these tablets that he got from the Internet. Best he’d ever taken for relieving pain, said he was now pain-free. He gave me two packs, twenty tablets and told me to take them three times a day. He was right, within a day I was much better. I could walk without the sticks a bit, too.”
The duty officer came in and handed Brian a note detailing the tablets.
“So which tablets were these, Mr Baker?”
“Xanax.”
Brian nodded. “How long have you been taking 3mg three times a day?”
“For a few weeks. Sam, the man who gave me them, said that I might need to up that on occasion. I have to admit that I've doubled the dose. Seem to get the shakes when I don’t and get rather cross with the world.”
“You mentioned to my duty officer that you did errands for this chap. What kind of errands?”
“I was asked to leave a packet or a rolled up paper at a set place and at a set time. It was no problem because I wasn’t sleeping too well so it was easy for me to be up early. I’d then find a packet left for me at a different location. I sometimes saw the person who was dropping my stuff. A scruffy sod, girl I think, although in some light you couldn’t be sure. Had a tattoo, here.” He pointed to a spot on his face. “Funny, I had a feeling that the same person collected what I’d dropped off. If that were the case I can’t see why we didn’t just use one place.”
An alarm bell rang in Brian’s head as he immediately thought of Angie Rhodes.
Rupert sat, growing increasingly concerned.
Brian checked his notes. “You handed in a newspaper that you found on a bench. Was this the same bench where you would meet Sam?”
Baker nodded.
“Mr Baker, did Sam give you the paper?”
There was a pause.
“Mr Baker?”
He nodded. “Promised me two extra packs if I handed it in to a copper and said I'd found it on the bench.”
“Can you describe Sam?”
Baker was sweating heavily and his hands were shaking.
Rupert interjected. “He told me that he had no facial hair, no eyebrows. He said that there was something strange about him but not disconcerting. He always seemed to be smiling, that’s what Dad said.”
They both looked at Graham who now appeared ashen-faced.
“I’ve asked a doctor to call. We need to take some blood samples to see just what your father’s been given. What about the other tablets?”
“He’d been giving those to Mum. He’d crush them and add them to the wine she enjoyed with her evening meal. Made her sleep. Something Mum never used to do was sleep in in the morning. When we were kids she’d be up at six, winter and summer. This explains why recently she’s been in bed till nine!”
“So these were never meant for him?”
“No, he told Sam that it was impossible for him to leave the house early with Mum there and he advised giving her these. I’ve checked and I believe they've been used in nursing homes as a sedative. Certainly worked with Mum.”
Graham suddenly stood. “Think I’m going to be si”—”
He leaned forward and vomited. Brian just managed to grab the file and the Dictaphone as the projected liquid spewed across the coffee table.
The taxi dropped Tracy Phillips off at Ripon Market Place. She tipped the driver, adjusted the woollen cap, threw the bags over her shoulders, and walked towards the Obelisk, where a small crowd had gathered. The Hornblower, standing by one corner, resplendent in his tri-cornered hat and holding what appeared to be a large ox horn decorated with polished copper, was regaling the group of spectators with the history behind the tradition of setting the watch. As he blew the first, long blast, two youths on what appeared to be excuses
for motorbikes decided to rev their machines; their low power was compensated with noisy exhausts. It was then that Tracy heard the voice; even above the horn and the wail of the bikes it was clear. Tracy turned. She walked slowly towards them and stood about a metre away. She said nothing. For a moment she stared at them. Neither wore a helmet.
Many in the crowd had turned round as the bikes, leaning on side-stands, were revved but soon returned their attention to the Hornblower who had also ignored the distraction.
“Switch them off, please!” She stared at the larger of the two youths. “I’ve just been commanded to help you correct your ways. Please, you are being weak and selfish, turn them off!”
“Fuck right off! Who the fuck are you to tell us? Commanded my arse.” His fist turned the throttle and a banshee-like scream emerged from the exhaust at the same time as Tracy’s hand withdrew the plastic Jif lemon from her pocket.
“I’ve been commanded to tell you that you must stop or your selfish act and sheer foolishness will be corrected. That is the last time.” The noise made it impossible for him to hear, he just saw her lips moving and laughed.
“Fuck off, you shit. We do what we fucking well want…”
She moved closer and held out her arm as if it were a gun before squeezing the container very hard. A thin, almost invisible stream of nitric acid targeted the youth’s laughing eyes. For a moment the laughter remained to be quickly replaced by an uncontrolled, contorted gurn. His hand quickly released the throttle and one engine was quiet as both his hands were brought up to the burning pain that now filled his eyes. Tracy turned to the second youth. “Please, or I shall melt your eyes also.”
The noise suddenly stopped apart from the screams from the youth who was now on the floor holding his face. The third long blast from the Hornblower was sufficient to drown out the youth’s cries. The other boy went to his friend’s aid whilst fumbling with his mobile phone. Tracy moved to the two bikes, removed the keys rendering them silent, and walked away. She dropped them into the first available road drain she saw. “If only they’d seen the wisdom in my words. Now one may never see again.”
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