The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  I had enough food and money stashed in my small backpack to last about a week. This was my time, my chance to escape, start a new life.

  A cigarette butt, with a coating of dark red lipstick, came whizzing my way. I ducked back behind the van.

  ‘Come on, Sally. Ten minutes, tops.’

  I called on God.

  God answered. ‘You’re worse than a rutting stag, Ted Gribble. I told you, I’ve got work to do. I’m helping Aunt Mary mend clothes. I told her I’d only be a minute.’

  ‘Give us a kiss.’

  ‘Go on, then. Just a peck, mind.’

  I prayed he would get to stick his tongue down her throat, choke the old bat, and have to resuscitate her. I took my chance, moved around the back of the van, and hopped inside. I buried myself beneath the canvas sacks holding the dirty laundry.

  By the time Ted had finished with Mrs. Clarke, I was pretty well concealed. He closed the back doors and locked them. Phase one over. I had a strange tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was out. Free.

  I don’t know how long we travelled for before Ted stopped the van. It seemed like hours, but I’d long since learned time was a strange thing; it moved at different speeds depending on what you were doing. School time ran like a backward snail; adventure time ran like a greyhound. This was somewhere in-between.

  The doors opened, flooding the back of the van with lights. I held my breath, expecting Ted to spot something wrong at any minute. Perhaps a shoe poking out, or a finger. But, he didn’t. I heard another woman’s voice, younger than Mrs. Clarke’s. ‘You’re early.’

  Ted slipped into his easy patter. ‘Rosie, darling, looking like a peach as always.’

  Rosie might have looked like a peach, but she sounded as sour as a grapefruit. ‘You can pack that nonsense up, Ted Gribble. You’d better come in and wait. The laundry isn’t ready yet.’

  Ted didn’t offer her a good time in the back of his van. ‘A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, I’m parched.’

  ‘You can have a glass of water.’ And with that, they went inside.

  I lost one of my shoes as I scrambled free of the sacks. Cursing, I untangled the laces from the sack cord. I was on backward snail time again. I jumped out of the van. The place looked like a guest house, much smaller than Woodside. I legged it out of there as fast as my legs could carry me, took a snap decision to turn right at the end of the gravel driveway, and then sprinted about two hundred yards along the road.

  I stopped at a bus stop, and pretended to tie my laces. I needed to calm down. People would notice me if I kept running up the street like a kid possessed. They’d think I’d robbed somewhere, or worse. The last thing I needed right now was to get nabbed and end up at the local nick.

  I sat down in the bus shelter and looked along the road. I’d spent so much time planning my escape in the laundry van, I hadn’t stopped to think about where I might actually end up, or what would happen when the food and the money ran out.

  Maybe I could go to Rachel’s. She might offer to put me up for a couple of nights. And I’d see Oxo again.

  You could take Oxo with you.

  This idea excited me. Made me imagine walking along rivers towards London; me and my faithful dog, camping out beneath the stars, best buddies off to make a new life in the capital. As with most bright ideas, reality soon turned it black. I’d have to constantly think about him. Feed him. Take care of him.

  A red, double-decker bus pulled up at the stop. I got ready to run in case anyone connected to Woodside got off. The way my luck had a habit of running out, it wouldn’t have surprised me to see Carver get off the bus. Fortunately, he didn’t, just an old lady, and a middle-aged man helping her down the step.

  I needed to find somewhere to bed down for the night. I stood up and walked towards a signpost. Maybe it would give me some idea of where I was. It didn’t. Feelham Town Centre 1 mile. It might as well have said Rome. There was a pub on one side of the road and a hat shop on the other. I saw several other shops in the distance, but I didn’t want to risk going right into the town so soon after running away from Woodside.

  I took a snap decision and turned left at the pub. It would turn out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. St Leonard’s lane was a narrow, cobbled street, with terraced houses on one side, and a high stone wall on the other. Near the end of the lane, I saw a beautiful stone church, and a small wooden bridge leading down to a marina.

  Several boats were moored alongside the river. One looked about to disintegrate and float away like driftwood. I walked down to the jetty and sat by the river, legs dangling over the side. I slipped my backpack off and dug out some dried biscuits and a bottle of orange pilfered from Woodside. Army ration biscuits. Disgusting. Like eating tree bark. Not that I ever had!

  I was tempted to kick off my shoes and jump in the river, feel the cold water against my skin, even though it looked filthy enough to poison fish. My reflection swirled in the water. I know it sounds odd, but at that moment, I was jealous of that reflection. It was as if it was another me, but one who didn’t have a headful of bad memories to carry around.

  It was nearly six years since my mother had been murdered. Four years since Liam had died. I’d pretty much managed to stay out of trouble at Woodside since Carver had murdered him. Well, I say trouble, what I really mean is trouble of my own making. I’d seen plenty of trouble of their making. Beatings, rapes, abuse, and starvation punishments.

  Many people visited Woodside. Important people. Mostly, they seemed more interested in the younger kids. I heard they would sometimes release younger kids into Bluebell Woods and hunt them with air rifles. I never saw this happen, but I knew for a fact kids were passed around like pieces of meat, and thrown out like pieces of rubbish.

  On a brighter note, McCree met a nasty end. It was common knowledge he used to visit a well-known politician for sex. He used to like bragging about it when he’d had a drink. Claimed the guy looked after him. Wined and dined him at the top restaurants in Oxford, took him to the theatre, the works. But McCree was in the senior block one night, cribbing on about how this bigwig made him do unnatural stuff. Disgusting stuff. One of the older kids asked him to elaborate.

  ‘He likes to strangle me.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  McCree had turned pasty just talking about it. ‘I don’t know. Fucking weirdo gets off on it. The other night, I passed out. He had me tied to a bed, and he throttled me with his bare hands. And then, boom, it all went black.’

  I don’t think anyone shed any tears for McCree that night. I know I didn’t. I went to bed and prayed to all the Gods, in all the Heavens, this politician creep would finish McCree off. A week later, for the first time in my life, my prayers were answered. McCree vanished, never to return. Of course, I’ll never know for sure what happened to him, but I can take a bloody good guess. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  I sat by the jetty, lost in thought, until the sun faded. The sky turned to ribbons of pinks and purples. I walked back the way I’d come. I briefly considered dossing down on the old boat, but it would be just my luck that the owner would find me and turn me in to the police.

  I opted instead to kip in the doorway at the back of the church. I used my backpack as a pillow and bedded down for the night with cool July air on my face.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I opened my eyes to a chorus of birdsong in the trees overhanging the churchyard, and a middle-aged man, with a swatch of grey curly hair standing over me. He was dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a matching tweed jacket. At first, I thought he was a tramp, and I’d nicked his spot.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I sat up and pulled my backpack close.

  He smiled. His green eyes danced in the morning sunlight. ‘You don’t look very comfortable.’

  I wasn’t. In more ways than one. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘Ah, nowhe
re. I know it well. Right next to somewhere, isn’t it?’

  ‘Huh?’ My back was stiff, and one of my ears was burning.

  ‘Is this nowhere far from here?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’m Paul. Paul Brady.’

  I wasn’t going to tell him who I was, not unless he took me to a torture chamber and forced it out of me.

  ‘I’m the Vicar of St Leonard’s Church.’

  Good for you. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Are you homeless?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You look a little thin, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ I wanted to tell him he’d look a bit thin, if he’d lived at Woodside for the past six years. Every single kid in that place looked thinner than a broom handle. I couldn’t remember one kid who appeared anywhere near healthy.

  ‘Tell me to mind my own business, if you like, but you’re welcome to come back to the vicarage and have a bath and a meal… if you want.’

  I was about to resort to my stock answer, when my stomach growled, as if to say, don’t you dare turn down a free meal. But, what was the catch? Was he another pervert? Was he going to turn me in to the cops? I’d been taught not to trust adults. From my father to Kraft, the message had always been clear: trust no one.

  ‘No strings.’

  ‘Why would you want to feed me?’

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Because it’s my duty, son.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘We live in wicked times. Someone has to watch out for the unfortunate ones. Even if they are heading for nowhere.’

  I wanted to believe him. My tired and aching body wanted to believe him. My growling stomach already believed him.

  ‘I run a summer camp at the end of the month. Nothing fancy, just a week away with tents and burnt sausages. Out of tune guitar. We take a mini bus out to Caulston Hill. You’d be more than welcome to come along, meet a few young people.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Your choice. Have you got a name?’

  I hesitated. Should I tell him? Go home with him? My mind didn’t seem capable of making such big decisions. No one had asked me what I had wanted to do since my mother.

  He laughed. A throaty laugh that seemed warm and comforting. ‘You can make a name up, if you prefer.’

  With all the lies I’d told, Pinocchio sprang to mind.

  ‘What about James Dean?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A famous actor. One lad who comes to camp calls himself Charles Bronson. He’s another actor, by the way.’

  I felt my resistance slipping. I was starting to feel as if I’d known Paul Brady all my life. ‘My name’s Michael.’

  ‘Does the horse have a cart?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Do you have a surname?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Michael it is, then.’ He offered me his hand and pulled me up. I asked him how far Feelham was from Oxford.

  ‘About twelve miles. Are you from Oxford?’

  ‘No.’

  He didn’t look as if he believed that. ‘Have you been to Feelham before, Michael?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s nice here. We have the river, the town, nice walks. It’s not too busy. A good balance. So, what will it be?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘A place called nowhere, or back to my humble abode for a wash and a bit of scran?’

  ‘Scran?’

  He smiled. ‘Food.’

  I was done resisting. ‘Okay. But, I can’t stop. I’ve got to—’

  ‘Get to nowhere. You said.’

  I followed Paul Brady around the church and into St Leonard’s Lane. He stopped at a terraced house, right next to the church. ‘Here we are, then, home sweet home.’

  I looked at the white rendered building. It looked no bigger than a doll’s house. I was expecting a huge, rambling country house. ‘Is this the vicarage?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, Michael, this is the vicarage.’

  ‘But, it’s—’

  ‘Small?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what size house you live in, Michael. The mind is always free to travel beyond the boundaries.’ He unlocked the door and invited me into his home.

  I stepped inside, and promised myself I’d be out of there quicker than you could say God, if he so much as looked at me the wrong way. I followed him along a narrow hallway, and into the front room. The bare cream walls and black beams were striking. The skirting and doorframes were also painted black. His worn grey sofa looked about as old as the house.

  He invited me to sit down. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘How about toast and marmalade? I’ve got lime and orange.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘Orange.’

  He disappeared through a doorway. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  The sofa felt great after the hard ground outside the church. Soft enough to sink right into. There was a beautiful, oak mantelpiece above the fire, and a gold-framed mirror above that. On the wall leading to the kitchen, a large wooden cross. The bare floorboards had been stained dark-oak. A mahogany coffee table sat in front of the sofa. A matching bookcase, chock-full of books, took up the entire wall opposite the fireplace.

  Paul returned about ten minutes later, with a tray of tea. He put it on the coffee table, and then hurried back to the kitchen to fetch the toast. I tried not to gulp my food. Give it time to get down the hatch and meet your stomach, as my mother used to say when I was still her little love-bug.

  Paul sat next to me and spread butter on his toast. Real butter, not that foul-tasting margarine they served up at Woodside. He ate about half a slice, and then poured the tea. He offered milk and sugar.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘How many sugars?’

  I had a choice? ‘Three, please.’

  He smiled. ‘You look as if you could do with it.’

  We finished out tea and toast in silence – apart from my rumbling stomach, which was doing its best to embarrass me. Paul turned to me, a serious look on his face. I thought, Oh, Christ, here we go. He’s going to do something stupid, like put his hand on my leg, then I’ll have to thump him and leg it.

  ‘I know it’s none of my business, Michael, and I don’t want you to feel you have to talk, but I can see you’ve had a hard time of it. I want you to know if you feel like talking, God gave me big enough ears to listen.’

  Something wrapped itself around my heart and gave it a little squeeze. ‘Okay.’

  ‘The bathroom’s at the top of the stairs, second door on the right. Make sure you don’t run too much cold water; the hot water tank’s smaller than my congregation.’

  ‘I can have a bath?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course you can. And you can use some of my deodorant if you want to. There’s a dressing gown hanging on the back of my bedroom door. That’s the room right next to the bathroom. You can wear that until I get back. I’ll nip along to Mrs. Wiggins, see if she’s got any clothes that will fit you. She’s in charge of the jumble sales. We get some pretty good stuff donated, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’d offer you some of my clothes, but I’m afraid I’m rather more rounded than you. I’ll be about an hour. I’ve got to make a few calls.’

  ‘Calls?’

  He must have seen the worry in my eyes. ‘Don’t fret, Michael. I’m only visiting parishioners. I won’t get you into trouble. That’s the last thing I’d ever do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No need to thank me, lad. I understand what it’s like to be young and have the whole world stacked against you. I’ll see you later.’

  I waited for the front door to bang shut, and leaned back on the sofa. I thought how miraculous it was that the laundry van h
ad dropped me in Feelham, and how I’d chosen to walk in the direction I had from that bus stop. It was almost as if someone was watching over me, guiding me.

  God?

  I wasn’t ready to believe that. Not yet. But, seeing as I’d ended up at Paul Brady’s house, it did make me wonder.

  The bath was amazing. I spent ages relaxing, lying back, and sinking my head under the water, for once not having to worry about someone attacking me. Pure bliss.

  I put my dirty pants and vest back on after the bath. I walked to Paul’s bedroom, and took the dressing gown off the hook and put it on, fastening it around the middle with the cord. It was a patchwork of light and dark green checks. Scratchy against my skin, but it made such a nice change to be clean.

  Now what did I do? Go back down to the front room? Wait up here? What if someone knocked on the door? My Woodside paranoia crept in. I walked over to the window, and peered through the heavy, brown curtains. The window looked out onto St Leonard’s Lane. An elderly woman walked past, pulling a shopping trolley behind her. She was actually wearing a coat. In this heat. It was already hot in the bedroom, and not yet nine o’clock in the morning, according to Paul’s alarm clock.

  His double bed was neatly made, with a white cotton sheet folded down over a thin blue blanket. There was a bible near the clock, a pen resting on top of the bible, and a glass half-filled with what looked like water. I wanted to throw myself on top of that bed, stretch out and rest my aching limbs. Just for ten minutes. Experience what it was like to lay on a proper bed, instead of those bloody awful things at Woodside with their busted springs and piss-stained mattresses.

  I hit a compromise and sat on the end of the bed. The mattress creaked beneath my weight. Part of me still didn’t trust Paul. I hadn’t met one adult since my mother had died, apart from Rachel, who didn’t want to either beat me up or abuse me.

  We’d studied Victorian times in history. How the kids were sent up chimneys, beaten, treated like shit, sent to the workhouses. We were constantly reminded by the teachers how lucky we were not to live in such times, but nothing had really changed. The abusers. The bent coppers. The sadistic pigs. All still running the show.