by Mark Tilbury
John Carver was eventually charged with the murders of Becky, Paul, Donald Osbourne, and Liam. Of the fifteen other bodies recovered from the playing field at Woodside, there was little or no evidence to tie him or anyone else directly to the murders. They found bone fragments on Carver’s truncheon belonging to Liam, and a dozen notches carved into the wood, believed to be markings relating to other killings.
The fingerprint found on Liam’s glasses, along with Carver’s taped confession, were enough to seal his fate for my best friend’s murder. Evidence relating to Sergeant Osbourne’s murder was found on Carver’s car. Fingerprints found at Paul’s house, and at my flat, also served to bring charges against him for the murders of Paul and Becky, respectively.
The macabre photo album of his victims was shown to the jury. One woman had to leave the room. Most of the others were visibly shaken. The judge ordered a short break after that.
I felt many emotions watching Carver in the dock. Revulsion. Anger. Hatred. Joy he was finally getting to pay for some of his crimes. But, then, the case took an unexpected turn. Carver agreed to give evidence against the staff at Woodside, most notably Kraft, Reader, and Malloy.
I don’t know if he managed to cut some sort of deal, or if he decided the rats could all sink on the ship with him, but Carver sang like a bird. He blew the lid off the whole thing. The abuse. The satanic rituals. The provision of children to paedophiles. Murder. Everything. It was such a sweet moment watching Kraft in the dock; the same man who’d condemned Liam to death in his kangaroo court in the boiler room. Kraft and Malloy both got life, Reader, fifteen years, and several of the other less prominent offenders, sentences ranging from one to five years.
The Judge summed Carver up perfectly. ‘You are one of the most despicable men I’ve had the misfortune to come across. You have not only betrayed the trust of the state, you have betrayed the trust of innocent children, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross your path. I have no hesitation in passing a sentence of life imprisonment. It is my recommendation you shall serve a minimum term of thirty years before being eligible for parole. Take the prisoner down.’
I watched him being led away from the dock by two uniformed policemen. He stared straight ahead, not one flicker of emotion in those pale blue eyes on that gloomy, overcast February morning.
Me, Jimmy and Emily headed off in Jimmy’s car to Feelham Cemetery after the trial. Although I had some degree of feeling back in my legs, I still couldn’t walk, or put any weight on them. I was being pushed really hard in rehab, bordering on torture at times, but, as yet, my legs were about as useful as chicken wings.
Jimmy and Lucy had kindly offered to put me up indefinitely. I can’t begin to express my gratitude to both of them. I truly believe in fate. My going to work at the George Hotel was no happy accident. Me and Jimmy were destined to meet. To finally bring Carver and his cronies to justice.
Emily asked how I was feeling.
‘Glad it’s over.’
Jimmy looked at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Did you see Carver’s face when the Judge addressed him? Looked as if a vampire had drained his blood.’
‘I hope he suffers every single minute he’s inside. I hope they make his life a fucking misery.’
Emily squeezed my hand. ‘At least he can’t hurt anyone else now. None of them can.’
I couldn’t help wondering how many more Krafts and Carvers were still out there preying on defenceless kids. We pulled up outside Feelham Cemetery. Jimmy got the folding wheelchair out of the boot. They helped me out of the car, and into the seat. The physical world was nowhere near as graceful as my spiritual encounters in the hospital.
Emily retrieved a bunch of chrysanthemums from the passenger seat and handed them to me. The gravel pathway leading to the cemetery was mined with potholes. A fine drizzle fell across the graveyard like mist.
We walked to the last row of graves and stopped at Becky’s. It was marked by a simple wooden cross, with her name engraved on a small brass plaque. As soon as I had time, I would choose a proper headstone.
‘Do you want to be alone?’ Jimmy asked.
‘Give me ten minutes.’
Emily reached down and touched my arm.
I couldn’t believe Becky was lying in that cold wet earth. Twenty-one forever. The girl who had given my life meaning. I remembered the first time I’d seen her at Paul’s house, making sandwiches, and smiling like sunshine. I felt blessed to have known her for the short time I did. She’d taught me so much about self-belief and working hard.
I wished Liam was here to express my feelings in a poem. Put every beat of my heart into words. I looked at that grave, wanting to tell her how she’d saved my life, how my heart had been ripped in two by what Carver had done to her. Done to all of us. That I’d swap places with her in a heartbeat.
The picture of Becky on Brighton Pier now sat in a frame on the sideboard in Jimmy’s flat. I would sometimes stare at that picture, willing it to move, come to life, take me back to before everything had gone so wrong. For weeks, nothing happened. Not even a flicker. But, I’d stopped, and picked that picture up on the way to court this morning. Held it close. I swear she looked right at me and smiled. As if to say, don’t worry, it’s almost over.
I rested the flowers in my lap and prepared to wheel myself closer to the grave. The wheelchair suddenly bucked and lurched as if engaging in a non-existent gear. At first, I thought it was the wind, but there was only a gentle breeze. And then, the wheelchair moved along the edge of the grave. Slowly, wheels sticking in the mud.
I looked behind me. Nothing. I heard the brake snap on. ‘Liam?’
No answer. Invisible hands took the flowers out of my lap. Every hair on my body stood on end as they drifted slowly through the air. I watched, open-mouthed, as they were lowered to the grave. Taken one at a time from their wrapper and laid in front of the wooden cross to spell out two words: Sweet Dreams.
‘We got them, Liam,’ I said, through my tears. ‘We got the bastards.’
There was a slight pause, and then, the wheelchair tipped back and bumped down on the muddy ground.
We got them, Mikey. We got them good.
Epilogue
It has now been over forty years since the events at Woodside Children’s Home. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, you might say. John Carver committed suicide six months after the trial. For what it’s worth, he hanged himself with a bedsheet. Part of me was pleased, part of me disappointed he wouldn’t spend the rest of his life suffering in his cell, thinking about what he’d done.
Kraft died in prison five years later from a heart attack, and Malloy ten years after that from pancreatic cancer. Reader served twelve years and was released from prison in 1998. He hit a tree in his car two months after his release, and died a week later from his injuries. Apparently, he said he’d swerved to miss a hitchhiker standing in the middle of the road. A hitchhiker, with a rucksack on his back, and a mop of frizzy hair. The police believed Reader was suffering from the aftereffects of his head smashing through the windscreen. Talking a load of mumbo-jumbo. Hallucinating.
I couldn’t possibly comment!
After months of intensive rehabilitation, I walked again with sticks. No great distance, and I still relied on my wheelchair quite a bit, but at least I was mobile again, and able to lead a purposeful life.
Emily and I were married five years after the trial. No big fuss or fanfare, just a simple registry office wedding, with Jimmy as my best man and Lucy as a witness. We’ve remained good friends with them until this day.
We bought a small bungalow on the outskirts of Oxford, and have been blessed with two children, Martin and Keith. Martin’s an engineer, and Keith is a chief petty officer in the Royal Navy. I retired last year after a career in social work. My job brought me into contact with abused kids. I can only say I did my level best to make sure I listened to every single one of them, and acted upon all I could.
I still have Liam’s book
of poems. It is my most cherished possession. I read it occasionally. Flick through those yellowed pages with their faded words. I draw a lot of comfort from knowing Liam wasn’t really killed by Carver. That was just his physical body. His spirit is forever free, soaring high above the mess and confusion of this world.
The flowers, which mysteriously glided out of my hands and onto the grave, stayed fresh for over two months. No water. No vase. Still spelling the words, Sweet Dreams. The greatest work of art I’ve ever seen.
I don’t fear death anymore. For me, it’s not final; it’s simply the beginning of something better. Something more beautiful. The proof lies in that hospital room, past the emergency door, with its messages, and beyond the abattoir of dreams.
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Thanks for reading The Abattoir of Dreams. We hope you enjoyed it as much as we did. Please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads to help others find and enjoy this book too.
Bloodhound Books specialise in crime and thriller fiction. We regularly have special offers including free and discounted eBooks. To be the first to hear about these special offers, why not join our mailing list here? We won’t send you more then two emails per month and we’ll never pass your details on to anybody else.
Readers who enjoyed The Abattoir of Dreams will also enjoy:
Dark Minds – A collection of crime and thriller short stories for charity.
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Forgotten – Heleyne Hammersley’s best-selling thriller
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Only the Dead – Malcolm Hollingdrake’s best-selling and explosive crime thriller
Amazon UK – Amazon US
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to:
All at bloodhound Books, especially Betsy, Fred, Clare, Joy and Helen
Maxine Groves, for beta reading the book and her invaluable support
Cassie, for just about everything! From social media to helping with the blog. Amazing!
Maggie James, for all her help and support throughout the year, and for beta reading the book
Heather Osborne, for editing the first draft and giving encouragement
Tracy Fenton, and all the members of TBC for their support
Mel Comley for her valued friendship and support