by Chris Simms
But Jon had won a place at the local grammar school and ended up playing the game's other code – Rugby Union. More popular down south, the version was associated with England's posh schools. His dad would never let him forget it, continually making jokes about the southern softies who only played Union because they couldn't take the knocks that went with League. Jon often suspected the reasons why he played with such determined ferocity on the rugby pitch was to disprove his father's jibes. It took until his mid-twenties before he realised that had probably been his dad's plan all along.
He got changed into his running gear and popped his head back into the front room. 'Mum, you staying for some food?'
'No, your father will be expecting his. I'll get off in a minute.'
'Let him cook his own.'
She gave him a look. 'Your father couldn't boil a bloody egg.' He could if you ever let him in your kitchen, Jon thought, giving her a kiss goodbye.
A few minutes later he reached the playing fields of Heaton school where he let the dog off the lead, watching as he raced off into the dusk, following the scent of something. Probably rabbits that had colonised the edge of the golf course.
Jon stuck to the perimeter of the playing fields, using the light from the streetlamps that had just flickered into life. As he made his way round he was aware of the occasional ragged form flittering in the air above his head. Bats. They swooped and darted in pursuit of the flying insects attracted by the streetlights' glow.
When Jon reached the edge of the golf course Punch reappeared out of the gloom ahead, tongue hanging from his mouth. They completed their normal run and were home half an hour later.
After he'd showered and eaten, Jon sat next to Alice on the sofa. The telly was on low but both of them seemed to spend more time gazing at Holly as she lay on the brightly coloured floor mat. Jon found it amazing how such a tiny thing could exert such a powerful pull on their eyes. Gravity itself had shifted and the centre of the universe was now in the middle of their front room.
'I can't believe what's happening over there.'
Jon looked at his wife, realising that something on the telly had attracted her attention. He glanced at the screen where a government minister of some description was denouncing the barbaric acts being committed by terrorists in Iraq.
'They're decapitating hostages. Why?'
Jon tipped his head back against the sofa and sighed. How to explain the motivation behind an act like that?
'What sort of people are they?'
He rubbed at his temples, not wanting to get into it. 'I'm not making excuses, but not every Iraqi believes they're being liberated, Alice. Those terrorists are freedom fighters in many Iraqis' minds. We've invaded their country don't forget.'
Alice shifted to look at him. 'That's what I don't understand. They said the Iraqis would welcome our troops by throwing flowers into the path of their tanks. They said we'd win their hearts and minds through our civilised approach. What's civilised about those shock and awe tactics? Firing thousands of missiles into a crowded city in just two nights.'
He could hear the tension rising in her voice as she went on.
'There was a photo, Jon. An Iraqi boy being carried into a hospital by his dad. The top of his head was missing. It was just a baby for Christ's sake.' She waved a hand at the TV. 'If we're killing their babies how will that make them feel?'
Grainy footage of men with faces covered behind red- checked scarves now filled the screen.
'They're going to execute another hostage tomorrow if our troops don't withdraw. How can human beings be so cruel to each other?'
Seeing the tears in her eyes, Jon reached for the remote and switched channels. 'Ali, don't watch if it upsets you so much.'
'What, and pretend it's not happening? That's not any sort of answer.'
'I didn't mean that. Just, I don't know. Try not to dwell on it, that's all.'
She wiped the tears away. 'I suppose you're right. It's just so bloody tragic.'
Jon leaned his forehead against her temple. 'You're tired, babe. Why don't you get some sleep? I'll do the next feed.'
'You sure?' She glanced at Holly who was still fast asleep. 'It'll probably be around midnight.'
'Yeah, no problem. I'll see you later.'
Alice slid off the sofa and crawled over to the baby, then lowered her head and kissed her forehead. She stood up and stepped towards the door.
'Where's mine?' asked Jon, looking up at her expectantly.
'There was a time when you'd never go to bed without kissing me first.'
'Oh, sorry. Forgot about you,' she replied, bending forward. As their lips touched, he thought how he, too, had slipped down in the pecking order of her affection. As she straightened up his eyes skimmed over her. The sleepless nights were beginning to show on her face. Nothing too dramatic, more just a subtle loss of her previous healthy glow. It seemed to have affected her hair too, drying it out and robbing it of its lustre.
'Hey, have you booked that appointment at Melvyn's salon?' Alice's hand went to her fringe and she brushed it back from her eyes. 'Why, do I look like I've been out scaring crows?' He smiled. 'Course not. It would be nice, that's all. Besides, you haven't seen that lot since Holly was born.'
'I don't know. I still feel all fat.'
He watched as her hand now went to her stomach, fingers probing through the baggy jumper at the fold of flesh pregnancy had left her with. 'Come off it Ali, you look fine. That little bit of weight will soon disappear, especially with breastfeeding. I think you should book an appointment. My treat don't forget.'
'What about Holly?'
'Take her with you. Jesus, they'll love it.'
Her smile wasn't natural. 'OK, I'll think about it.'
Once she'd gone Punch crept into the room, cautiously skirting the baby and settling down in the corner where he could look at Jon, who flicked through the channels, stopping when he saw An American Werewolf in London starting on Channel Five.
'Hey Punch, this is a class film,' he said, crossing his legs. He watched the opening credits. Shot after shot of bleak and forbidding moors, their upper slopes shrouded in low cloud. His mind went to what had recently happened on Saddleworth Moor and the film took on a new poignancy.
The two young American backpackers clambered from the rear of the sheep truck and made their way into the isolated village, experiencing a frosty reception from the flat cap-wearing locals in the pub called The Slaughtered Lamb.
'Typical bloody Yorkshiremen,' muttered Jon, wondering exactly where the film had been shot.
Unwelcome in the village, the Americans headed back out across the moor. When the bloodcurdling howl pierced the darkness, Punch's ears pricked up and he looked around.
'It's only the telly, boy,' Jon chuckled, realising his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy.
The beast attacked seconds later, tearing one tourist to shreds and slashing the cheek of the other before the locals gunned it down. The survivor then awoke in a London hospital, but it wasn't long before he started dreaming of forests and racing through the trees in pursuit of deer.
As Jon continued to watch he could feel sleep creeping up on him also. He sat upright, determined not to nod off before Jenny Agutter's shower scene with Van Morrison singing that it was a marvellous night for a moon dance in the background.
Moments later the scent of pine began filling the air around him and he looked up at the dense canopy of branches above his own head. Dots of sunlight shone down, speckling the carpet of pine needles at his feet. He had a rucksack on his back and was walking fast, a sense of urgency spurring him on. Each footstep created a soft crackle in the silent wood. He wondered why he was hurrying when a branch snapped somewhere off to his side.
'Oh no,' he groaned, breaking into a jog, guessing what the dream would lead to.
He weaved between the tree trunks, rough bark catching on his clothes as a sickening fear rose in his throat. A keening cry suddenly cut through the forest. It was a d
esolate and terrible sound, the noise a creature makes when it needs food.
The terror that now flooded him was clammy and cold. It was a terror that came from the knowledge that what hunted him could not be reasoned with. It possessed no compassion because it was not human. It was a primeval force, merciless in its savagery.
Jon blundered onwards, now able to hear his pursuer as it raced through the trees behind. As hard as he tried, Jon couldn't break into a sprint. His legs were heavy and sluggish, despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The creature was closing in, its call getting louder and more insistent.
Desperately Jon tried to drag himself out of the dream, his sweaty back tingling with the anticipation of the claws that he knew were about to puncture his flesh. In the nick of time his eyes snapped open and he found himself staring at the television. The film had ended but the shrill noise still filled the room. He looked down and saw Holly wriggling on her mat, face red and mouth open. Punch was lying next to her, gently licking the top of her head, trying to offer some comfort.
Disoriented, Jon slowly stood. 'It's OK,' he said to both of them. He bent down and picked Holly up before stumbling into the kitchen to get a bottle.
Six
It was late by the time Peterson got to the car park at Daisy Nook. To his annoyance, he'd fallen asleep in front of the box, waking up well past midnight, an erection jutting out from his jeans. Time to get that sorted he decided, reaching for his car keys.
As his headlights illuminated the parking area, Peterson frowned. It was tiny, or perhaps intimate was a better word. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Shit, the only ones likely to be out this late on a weekday night were people like him – the desperate, who didn't need to bother getting up the next day for work. And the sad fact was, all too often those ones weren't that bothered about personal hygiene either. What had the guy on the forum said? Ten o'clock onwards, Peterson thought.
He swung his car round and reversed into a corner, headlights facing outwards so he could signal any arrivals. Turning his lights off, he left the engine idling and reclined his seat slightly, leaning the back of his skull against the headrest. Darkness was all around, thick and heavy, pressing in on the windows. He liked the dark, the way it aroused people's more basic desires. How many acts that would cause outrage if performed during the day, safely took place under the cover of night?
With his eyes half shut and a hand massaging his groin, he watched for the telltale sign of any approaching headlights. The minutes ticked slowly by. From somewhere nearby an owl hooted, the call both forlorn and inquisitive. Is there anybody else out there, it seemed to say.
Peterson was beginning to wonder the same thing. He lowered a window to let in some air. A single light twinkled far across the fields and a sheep bleated. What if I'm in the wrong car park, he suddenly wondered. There could be another one on the other side of the park. I didn't think to check the map properly. A sudden image of a busy car park flashed across his mind, men clambering from one vehicle to another, perhaps a young chicken who would come over to Peterson's car...
With the thought that he was missing out tormenting him, Peterson turned off his engine and opened the door. The interior light came on and he squinted at the sudden brightness. After climbing out and shutting the door behind him, he tried to examine the tarmac itself, looking for signs of recent activity. Wedged-up tissues, discarded condoms, empty bottles of pop- pers.
But the light inside his car had messed up his ability to see. The darkness swam with unnatural reds and oranges, blinking reviving a burning comet-shaped ball from where he'd glanced at the bulb itself.
Car keys dangling from his fingers, he slowly made his way across to the other side. Something was on the ground. He crouched down and patted the tarmac, fingers making contact with an empty packet of cigarettes. Looking up, he could see that the thick undergrowth separating the car park from the fields beyond was now only a few feet away. Bulky white forms seemed to float there. Sheep, slowly making their way from the field's edge. There was a strange smell in the air, sharp and musty. Cheap aftershave? He heard a sound close by and slowly stood. Was it a cough? His night vision was beginning to return, the swirls of colour fading to reveal his surroundings in a monochromatic grey.
He sensed more than saw something near the tree. 'Hello?' Peterson said, heart quickening with the thrill of someone else being there. 'There's no reason to be afraid.'
He peered at the area below the branches, trying to detect forms in the dark shadows lurking there. Then he stepped closer, holding a hand out. 'Please, I think we're looking for the same thing. There's no need to be shy.'
Was that the shape of something crouching at the base of the trunk? Something denser, blacker than the shadows around it? Peterson leaned forwards. That smell again. Not aftershave. More the tang of something unwashed.
With a sudden snarl, an inky mass shot upwards and outwards. Frozen to the spot, Peterson felt his eyes instinctively widen, allowing a fraction more light on to his retina. Pointed ears, a muzzle, something swinging towards his face. The impact caught him on the side of the neck, raking downwards across his throat. He wasn't aware of stepping backwards, or even falling, but now he was on his back, the black form moving in a blur above him as his torso rocked with fresh blows. Feebly, he lifted a hand to defend himself. His fingers made contact with thick, coarse fur before his hand was knocked away. Now there was liquid flying around, landing on his face, getting in his eyes. Rain? No, the droplets were shooting upwards, out of him. When he tried to shout only a bubbling rasp escaped.
Then the thing was gone. Coldness took its place, emanating down in waves from the star filled sky above. He tried to breathe in, immediately choking as a thick warmth flooded into his lungs. He tried to cough the liquid back out, unaware that most of the muscles in his neck now lay in tatters on the ground about his head.
SEVEN
The coffee machine squeezed a final dribble out into Jon's cup and he turned round to head for his office.
Halfway to the door he realised he'd forgotten to stop in the car park for a cigarette. He came to a halt, one hand sliding the packet of ten Silk Cut out of his coat. But then his eyes strayed to his office door.
He'd been turning over in his mind the development with Derek Peterson since waking up and now he was itching to get to his computer. Sod the cigarette, he decided. I should chuck the things in the bloody bin, he thought, but instead he pushed the packet back into his pocket. Just in case the morning turned sour.
A few of the fraud team were already in and he gave a general wave in their direction, not waiting for any response. As his computer booted up he reflected on the case again. Since Derek Peterson was the victim, the attacker was still out there. If only he could trace the person who had called 999 a lot more of what actually took place in the car park would be revealed.
Jon typed Peterson's details into the computer then reached for the coffee cup, blowing air across the surface of the liquid as he scanned the man's record.
Gross indecency in 1993. Lost his job at the Silverdale facility for young offenders. He'd been placed on the sex offenders' register after that and it looked like his employment record had taken a turn for the worse. In fact, Jon wondered, thinking about the state of the man's house, he probably hadn't worked since.
He looked at the personal details section. Prior to enrolling as a mature student at Salford Polytechnic in 1988, Peterson had worked as a finance officer for the council. The course he'd signed up for lasted one year. Health and Social Welfare. Jon shook his head. About five hours a week and an automatic pass for anyone who turned up for over half the lectures. That had obviously been enough to get him a job as a care assistant at the young offenders' facility. Classic behaviour of a paedophile; secreting himself into a position of trust that brought him into contact with youngsters.
He leaned back, allowing his mind to construct a possible scenario for the incident. Peterson worked in the care home from 1989 to
his arrest in 1993. Four years with vulnerable teenagers. Peterson appeared to have been singled out by his attacker. Could there be some sort of a connection to the period Peterson spent at the Silverdale facility?
Jon made a mental note to pay the place a visit. He took a tentative sip of coffee. Still too bloody hot. What about Peterson himself ? He didn't like the fact a policeman had come knocking on his door. No surprise in that neighbourhood. Jon contemplated turning up in a patrol car with a uniform. Would a bit of pressure make the bastard cooperate or would it make him clam up even more?
His phone went. 'DI Spicer.'
'Jon, it's Sergeant Innes in the radio control room.'
'Morning, Graham. What can I do you for?'
'You're currently logged on to the record of one Derek
Peterson.'
Jon's eyes went to his computer screen. Anyone else accessing a person's police record was alerted to the fact if another officer was also logged on. 'I am.'
'Is he of especial interest to you?'
'He is.' He leant forward. This is going to be interesting.
'Then you might like to know that his body's just been discovered in a car park by a lake at Daisy Nook Country Park.' Bloody hell. The place mentioned on that dogging web site.
'Where's that?'
'Just off junction twenty-two of the M60. Out near Oldham.' Jon pictured the geography of Manchester. Oldham was on the north-east edge of the city, not far from where Peterson was attacked the other night. 'OK, what's the score?'
'A fisherman found his body at first light. Little more than an hour ago.'
'And is the scene secure?'
'Yes. Uniforms have taped it off and I've called out the major incident wagon.'
'Who else have you let know?'
'No one. I was thinking of putting a call in to McCloughlin. His syndicate is down for the next runner.'
'Don't.' Jon realised the word had come out with a little too much force. 'Peterson is central to a case I'm on. I'll let DCI Summerby know and see how he wants to play it.'