by Jacqui Rose
‘You don’t think?’
‘No. There’s a girl raped and with her head bashed in, probably going to die. Father Ryan attacked too. A man of the cloth. People round here, they’re a bit old-fashioned. Forget the bloody summer of love, forget peace, forget the fact the death penalty was abolished seven years ago. In fact, strike that last bit. It’s because the death penalty was abolished that they’re out there now. They don’t want Tolly getting away with this.’
Tolly shook his head and wondered about saying something. Not that it would do him any good, Hanning and Finn weren’t in the mood to listen. At the farm they’d cuffed him to the big iron gate, and Sergeant Hanning, Father Ryan and the driver of the Landrover had taken the girl away. Finn had remained. Tolly had told him the truth over and over, but Finn had ignored him. He’d gone into the house and when he came out he was carrying a bundle of Tolly’s magazines. He dumped them at Tolly’s feet.
‘Not good enough for you, was it?’ Finn said. ‘So you had to go looking for the real thing. If you ask me they should have castrated you the first time around.’
Finn had stood on the other side of the farmyard after that, making friends with Jess until Sergeant Hanning had returned a couple of hours later.
‘She’s in the cottage hospital,’ he said to Finn as he climbed out of the Landrover. ‘Doctor didn’t think there was much point in sending her down to Exeter. Not with her head the way it is.’
Hanning had come over to Tolly then and punched him in the stomach. Tolly had collapsed, feeling his weight come on to the handcuffs, the metal cutting into his wrists. He screamed out in pain. Hanning laughed and spat on him before undoing the cuffs and shoving him to the ground. Finn came over and landed a couple of kicks and then they were heaving him into the back of the Landrover for the ride back to Chagford.
Once at the station Tolly had tried again.
‘Explain to the judge,’ Hanning had said. ‘Or to a solicitor if you can find one sick enough to represent you.’
It was when Hanning had tried to phone Exeter to call for a van to come and take Tolly away that he’d discovered the line had been cut.
Hanning and Finn had talked in whispers for a bit after that and then they’d locked the front door of the station. When the mob had arrived they’d huddled together again and Hanning had nodded.
‘If it gets that bad, then yes,’ Tolly had heard him say.
There was a splintering of glass as something came through the window and landed on the floor. Tolly could see it was a piece of paper wrapped around half a brick. Finn went over and picked it up. He showed the paper to Hanning.
Hanning shook his head and looked over at Tolly.
‘They’ve given us five minutes, lad,’ he said. ‘After that they’re going to burn us out. To be honest I’m not going to be hurting myself trying to save your skin. Family, see? Wife. Kids. Got to live round here. Suffer the consequences.’
Tolly nodded, thinking this was his penance, not the life he’d been leading on the moor.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Tolly said again, his voice not much more than a whisper. ‘Not this time.’
‘Best save your words for God now. If he’ll listen. Right, let’s be having you. Before they torch this place and we all go to hell.’
Hanning waved at Finn and the younger man went into the cell and pulled Tolly to his feet. Tolly struggled to balance with his hands cuffed behind his back, but Finn pushed him forwards, out of the cell and across to the front door. Hanning was reaching for the bolts top and bottom and then used a set of keys to unlock the two deadlocks. The door swung open and at once there was a cheer from the people out in the street. The crowd surged towards the door, their faces exuding venom, spittle and hatred.
The sky had darkened, heavy black clouds looming over the moor, but on the far side of the street the graceful curve of a Victorian lamppost stood silhouetted against a patch of brighter sky. Hanging from the lamppost was a length of rope, a noose at its end.
*
Jane clicked on the screen to minimise the document. Then she checked her email, hoping for something to distract her. Normally she was religious in keeping the outside world removed from her writing. During the day she didn’t answer phone calls and only glanced at her emails to see if there was anything which couldn’t wait for a response. Right now she’d welcome some sort of intrusion, an interruption, an intervention.
She went downstairs and made herself another cup of coffee and then returned and stood in front of the window.
The beach was fast disappearing beneath the now incoming tide and the waves frothed ever higher up the sand, wiping away the tracks the rescue vehicles had made. Out to sea, dark clouds rushed landward, each successive squall seeming to bring heavier rain. Out beyond the breaking waves, the huge rollers rode in upon a slower, but more powerful swell. Echoes of the deep Atlantic Ocean.
Jane was about to turn from the window when she spotted something far in the distant. A huge breaking wave perhaps. Whatever it was, it was white.
White.
She reached for the binoculars which hung to the right of the window and lifted them to her eyes. Now she could see the sea tumbling over itself on the horizon and there, beyond the squalls in a patch of bright sun, the white sails of a yacht. The little boat was hard on the wind, heading west, trying to make for some unseen haven. Although the storm seemed to be getting worse there was no doubt in Jane’s mind that the yacht would make port.
She lowered the binoculars and returned to her desk.
*
Hands grabbed Tolly and pulled him into the street. A punch caught him on the chin and then another in the stomach. He felt himself pushed along by the mob as it swept him towards the lamppost. Two men stood waiting, one of them holding out the noose. To one side. Father Ryan stood, a grimace on his lips. As Tolly approached he held up the wooden cross he wore on a chain around his neck. He muttered something in Latin. The madness of the crowd seemed to subside for a moment, as if they respected the priest. A lone voice called from somewhere.
‘Father?’
Father Ryan looked at Tolly. Surely, Tolly thought, a priest couldn’t let this happen unopposed.
‘Please,’ Tolly said.
‘No,’ Father Ryan said. ‘An eye for an eye.’
A huge cheer went up and Tolly was shoved forwards. One of the men threw the rope over Tolly’s head and tightened the noose. Tolly closed his eyes, thinking that even Michael Caine couldn’t get out of this one.
Then he felt a speck of water on his face. Then another and another. He opened his eyes.
Rain began to fall, huge drops seeming to come down at first in slow motion, but then faster and faster. A cascade, almost like a waterfall, tumbled from the sky, as if somebody was above them pouring bucket after bucket earthward.
The mood in the crowd blackened even more.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ someone said. A murmur of ascent rang out and the mob pressed closer. The free end of the rope was passed out into the crowd and then somebody yelled, ‘Heave!’
‘Stop!’ The voice was high-pitched, belonging to a youngster.
The crowd turned as one and parted to allow the new arrival through.
She stumbled forwards, the white of her dress billowing in the wind. To one side a nurse held her arm, providing support, but all the while shaking her head.
The girl reached Tolly and smiled.
‘He didn’t do it,’ she said. There was silence for a moment, just the sound of the rain hammering the ground. Then she turned towards Father Ryan. ‘He did!’
‘Nonsense!’ Voices in the crowd rang out. ‘Father Ryan, the priest? The girl’s had a bang on the head, she’s not thinking right. It was the pervert. Hang him!’
‘Wait a moment.’ It was Sergeant Hanning. Pushing through the crowd himself. ‘Hear her out.’
‘The cross.’ The girl pointed at the priest. ‘There.’
The large wooden cross Father Ryan h
ad held up earlier hung around his neck on a chain. The priest lowered his head and took it in his hand.
Then the girl reached up and grabbed the top of her dress around the neck. She jerked the wispy material ripping it down the middle and exposing her breasts. A gasp went up from the crowd. Right between the girl’s breasts there was a red mark, an impression where something had been pushed hard into her flesh. The mark was in the shape of a cross.
There was a roar from the crowd and hands grabbed the noose from Tolly’s neck. He was flung to one side and stumbled over into the gutter. People trampled over him to get to the priest and Tolly edged away, pushing himself along with his feet, his face scraping the surface of the road.
‘Here, lad.’ It was Hanning. He reached behind Tolly and released the handcuffs. ‘Let’s get you back inside the station and brew you up a cup of tea. Then we’ll take a statement.’
Tolly nodded as the Sergeant helped him to his feet and across the street, dodging people heading in the opposite direction.
‘The priest?’ Tolly said. ‘Can’t you do anything?’
Hanning turned to look back and Tolly followed his gaze.
Inch by inch Father Ryan was getting ever closer to God, ascending to heaven as he was hauled up to the top of the lamppost, the rope fast about his neck.
‘Fuck him,’ Hanning said.
*
The story was done. Jane saved a backup copy and then shut the computer down. All-in-all an incredible day’s work. She couldn’t remember ever having written anything so fast. The sight of the body in the waves must have triggered something; brought forth a stream of ideas. Whether the good folk of the Devon Writers and Artists Association would think much of the piece though she was unsure.
A yap as she came down the stairs into the kitchen reminded her that Benny could do with another walk. The morning one had been curtailed by events on the beach. As she put on her waterproof, Benny whirled around, bouncing up and down, eager to be out and about.
By now the weather had begun to clear. The wind was stronger, but the patches of sunlight she had seen far out to sea had arrived at the coast. As she strolled along near the tide line, the rain came down again, but a few minutes later it stopped and the sun shone. Benny snapped at the foam, picked up every bit of flotsam and barked at the seagulls swooping in over the waves. The dog was quite, quite mad, Jane thought. But then, what was that saying about dogs and their owners?
At the end of the beach Jane turned back. Now the wind was in her face. For no reason at all she let out a whoop of delight and began to run. Benny barked and then came after her, shooting past and then spinning round and round. After half a minute Jane stopped, out of puff. She bent and put her arms around the dog and then straightened and walked back towards her house.
At the end of the beach the lights blazed out from the IRB station. The doors to the slipway were closed, so there wasn’t a launch taking place. Probably they were cleaning up the boat or maybe it was practice night for new recruits. Jane decided to pop her head round the door to say ‘hello’.
She reached the station and tied Benny to a railing outside. She went over to the door to the boat store and opened it. Liam Garfield stood over near the boat chatting to a couple of others, the three of them still in their yellow drysuits. To the other side of the hanger the black bodybag lay on the floor. Two people stood over it. They were both wearing white coveralls, the type you saw on the TV in a detective series.
Jane stepped in and let the door swing shut. Garfield looked up. He held out an arm as Jane moved closer, his manner coming over all formal.
‘Better not, miss. It’s not a pretty sight.’
Too late.
‘Oh God!’ Jane raised a hand to her mouth, gagging at what she saw. The black bodybag was open. The fact that the body inside was naked was bad enough and the way the flesh sagged doubly so. But it was the sight of the rope which was the most shocking. The thick brown hemp had been tied in a noose around the man’s neck.
And here’s an exclusive extract from Mark’s new novel,
Bad Blood
Prologue
The pain always came when Ricky Budgeon least expected it. Right now a wave swept from within and hit him between the eyes like a needle pushing hard into the bridge of his nose. He put his hands up and gripped his scalp, pulling and clawing at the burning sensation which spread across his forehead to his temples. The last attack had had him writhing on the floor, but this time the jabbing ceased after a few seconds and he merely needed to steady himself. He moved his hands from his head, clasped them tight around the cool metal bar of the gate, and stared across the field into the night.
A scan had showed nothing but the old scarring, afterwards the doctor muttering reassuring words about migraine and mentioning therapy, maybe acupuncture.
Crap.
The idiots must have missed whatever was in there, whatever was causing him such misery. Some sort of mutation of the cells, a cancer or a tumour, the latter growing fat on bad memories, enmity and bitterness.
When the doctor disagreed with his self-diagnosis and said surgery was out of the question he’d thought of taking a drill to his own skull, imagined placing the bit against his head and pressing the trigger. The whine of the motor would come first, followed by agony as the drill ripped into the skin and bone. Then the spinning metal would seek out the tumour and chew it to a pulp. The pain would be gone forever. He had even gone so far as to go to his workshop and set up the equipment. With the drill in its stand all he had to do was press the switch, put his head beneath the bit and pull down on the lever. Eventually though he had decided against it. Whatever the thing inside there was frightened him, but it motivated him too. Remove the pain and what would drive him forwards?
Budgeon stood in the darkness, gulping air and then biting his lip until he tasted blood. The throbbing in his head subsided and ebbed away. He bent and picked up his fag, a half-smoked roll-up dropped as the agony had come on. Drawing on the cigarette he looked out again and took in the landscape spread out before him, the vista which had quickened his heart and brought the misery sweeping in.
Close at hand, the hedges and trees appeared black against the sky. In a nearby field, the occasional sheep bleated, and from a copse off to his right the hoot of an owl rang out. But beyond the empty countryside lay the city, a corona of brightness where a thousand glittering lights promised excitement and danger, their individual pinpricks of heat coalescing like a mass of stars at the centre of a distant galaxy. Moving outward from the core white dots crawled between avenues of static orange: cars heading for the soft radiance of the suburbs and home.
A twinge in his forehead caused him to screw his eyes shut.
Home.
He opened his eyes again and took another drag from the roll-up, pinching the end between the tips of his thumb and forefinger so he could extract every last piece of worth without burning himself. The way he had smoked in prison.
Years ago, before he had gone down, he’d had friends in the city. Friends who’d grown up on the same street as him. As kids they’d pinched sweets from the same shop and sworn at the same old ladies whose flowerbeds they trampled across. Later on, as young men, they’d thrown bricks at the same police cars, shared the same prison cells and sworn vengeance on the same enemies. They’d been like brothers, the three of them. Blood brothers.
Those days seemed so long ago now. As if someone else had lived the time for him.
Budgeon took a final drag from his fag and then dropped the butt to the floor, stamping the orange glow into the mud.
Everything had been fine until she came along.
Why did it always come down to a woman? Almost biblical. Garden of fucking Eden and all that shit.
In the end, he had been the lucky one, sliding around on silk sheets, relishing how sweet she tasted, promising her everything. But afterwards, as they shared a cigarette, he realised things weren’t going to be the same. Not with the others wanting
her too. Even among friends you couldn’t reconcile a contradiction like that.
He shook his head and took one last look at the distant lights before moving back to the van and clambering in. The thin, pale man in the driver’s seat grunted and asked him a question. Was he ready to go?
Was he? Peering down on the city and reminiscing about his childhood, thinking about the group of them as little boys without a care in the world, had made him reconsider for a moment. Now, as the warmth of the van slipped around him, he felt cocooned and cut off from everything but those memories. He could easily get misty-eyed again. Half a lifetime later perhaps it was time to forgive and forget, move on.
An ache flickered across his brow.
No, life didn’t reward that kind of thinking. He’d gone soft over the girl and when his guard had been down he’d been betrayed. There were rules, unwritten maybe, but rules all the same. If you broke them you paid and some debts took more than money to settle.
Much more.
Of course he was ready to go. And the sooner they got the show on the road, the better.
Chapter 1
Nr Bovisand, Plymouth. Sunday 13th January. 4.05 pm
The noise carried through to Savage in the kitchen. Laughter. Samantha and Jamie’s high-pitched squeals layered over her husband’s voice as he sang an inane song in a mock Swedish accent. The cause of the frivolity was Stefan, the family’s unofficial au pair, who had just returned from his home country laden with chocolates for the kids and two matching sets of stupid-looking knitted gloves and hats for Savage and Pete. Pete had shoved the hat down on his head, pointed out the window at the daffodils in the garden, and teased Stefan about being a little late with the winter gear. Stefan responded in kind, putting on a thick West Country drawl, muttering something about pilchards.
Savage had retreated to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, thinking Pete was right about the change of season. Mid-January, Christmas not much more than a few weeks ago, and already the east side of their garden a swath of gold, ochre and lemon. Other changes too: Pete returning from deployment at the back-end of November after nearly nine months away.