by Paul A. Rice
Ken leaned forward, saying: ‘Let’s go!’
With its sweet engine purring softly, the Spear slipped away into the dripping dawn light. The only sound was a slight crushing of gravel beneath the tyres as it turned left and headed for the woods. They left not a trace of their presence.
Jane looked across at Mike, eyebrows raised in query.
‘No worries, it all went to plan – well done!’ he said, in confirmation of her unasked question.
Without any need for further talk, she took them back to the wood, back to Peters’ abhorrent place, the place where he kept his secrets, his Rights.
Within ten minutes they had arrived in the wood. Tiny beads of moisture began to settle on the windscreen as they rolled into the darkened cave of its ghostly interior. Jane quickly swished them away with the wipers. The mist was much thicker now, draping itself like some ghostly veil across the dripping branches of the trees, its white fingers reaching down into the very heart of the place. The dampness of its presence released the odours long-hidden within the ancient wood’s ever-rotting, yet ever-growing, soul. It was a fitting place for such a secretive monster to meet his maker.
After rolling to a stop in the pre-determined place, the two men exited the Spear and walked around to the rear. Having waited for the boot lid to rise, they reached inside and removed the various items needed for the unpleasant task ahead. Then they turned back to Peters, dragging him roughly from the boot and dumping him on the ground, before removing his tightly-wrapped plastic sheet.
They prepared him in such a way that his secret would be no more, the awful truth of who he was and what he had done would be revealed for all to see. Yanking him into a sitting position, they propped him up and tied the thick rope around his neck. The loose end was expertly looped over the bough of a tall chestnut tree that rose above them, the old tree had borne silent witness to all of his actions beforehand and it would, ironically, become his judge and executioner, too.
Ken stepped over to the car and spoke to Jane. ‘Take the car to the end of these trees, face it the other way and keep an eye on the Scanner will you, love?’ he said. Ken wasn’t really worried too much about any intruders, but did need an excuse to keep Jane from seeing what he and Mike had to do next. With a nod, he shut the door and turned to the task at hand. The Spear rolled away and, with a slight flash of brake lights, came to a halt near the edge of the wood.
Ken grunted as he carried Peters in a fireman’s lift to the top of the now erect step-ladder. Mike steadied the ladder and took up the slack on the rope as he climbed. Ken held their victim’s body up until the rope took over the task, eventually leaving Peters sagging but upright, the tension in the rope preventing him from falling, but only just. The stricken man’s arms flopped by his side, swinging like an unattended puppet. As he sagged ten feet above the ground, Peters was already starting to choke.
The rope was tied to a nearby fence post and then securely looped around a second. The friction gained by being wrapped around the bough of the tree would prevent it from slipping, but they made doubly sure. Peters stared down in abject horror as Ken and Mike prepared their deadly apparatus. The rope, which cut into his throat, prevented any sound from escaping his writhing lips as his horrified eyes looked down at them. They never acknowledged him in the slightest and were extremely efficient in their actions, wasting not a single movement.
At last they were done, if Peters was expecting some kind of a sermon, or a last wish, perhaps, then he was sadly mistaken. Stepping back from the ladder, Ken looked up at him, shook his head in a gesture of chastisement, and then kicked the ladder away.
Peters plummeted into the abyss, neck dislocating with a sickening crunch. The fall never killed him outright, and unluckily for him, he spent his final moments being strangulated by his own weight. The spattering sound of his own piss was the only eulogy he received, the release of his bladder allowing a long stream of yellow fluid to run freely from the bottom of his trouser legs.
Reaching into the plastic bag, Mike, who had been looking away for the final act, extracted a thick roll of garden string and the galoshes. Slipping the over-boots on, he reached up and proceeded to tie one end of the string to the dying man’s wrist, he turned and followed the dreadful route to the children’s horrific, hidden resting place. As he walked he let the string roll out behind him, finally laying it in a circle around the small plot their killer had chosen for the children’s burial place. Taking a twig, he pegged the end of the string into the earth above their tombs. Mike reached into the bag once more and pulled out the pieces of clothing their killer had kept as trophies. He scattered them within the circle of string, grimacing as the cleanliness of their innocence stood accusingly in the darkness of the wood.
Rising to his feet, he stood with head bowed for a few seconds.
‘Sorry we weren’t here before,’ he said. ‘We didn’t know about any of this… I’m so sorry, there wasn’t any need for you to be hurt, but I’m afraid that the world is filled with Darkness. You can sleep now.’ He paused to gather himself, before whispering: ‘It’s over; you can rest-in-peace now. Susan will be fine, just fine, don’t you worry…’ With tears in his eyes, Mike turned away and walked back to where his partner waited in the mist.
Ken had already placed the shovel, which he’d retrieved from the hidden pipe, by the side of the fallen step-ladder. Mike carried out their penultimate act and slid the galoshes off his feet before placing them beneath the still-twitching training shoes hanging above. The last thing they did was to scatter a handful of photographs, ones their victim had kept in his secret drawer back at the cottage, onto the unfeeling ground below his dangling corpse. Every single one of them landed face up. Their dreadful story too painful to tell, a picture paints a thousand words. The children would be found and their parents would get to know the truth.
After all, it was their Right to know.
Without a word, the two men gathered the plastic sheeting and then checked to see if they had left anything else behind. Satisfied, they turned and walked towards the car. Once again their passing left not one trace, even the gravel underfoot seemed willing to protect their identity.
Climbing into the Spear, Ken said, ‘Let’s go home and get a brew, shall we?’
There were no other words required. Jane engaged drive, floored the throttle and they sat back as the BMW surged forward with an urgent growl. As they left the village, the ‘Mission Complete’ signal slid onto the screen. Mike touched the panel and then waited for the Shrink Down button to appear.
‘Everybody ready?’ he asked.
Hearing no dissent from the others, Mike pushed the button.
16
Goodbye, Mister Peters
Part Two.
It was Susan who alerted the teachers to the caretaker’s absence. The little girl had been around to his hut with the cakes she had taken from her mother’s ‘treats only’ tin. Mum hadn’t been looking, and besides, Mr Peters had said she mustn’t tell. ‘If we are going to become friends, then we will need to have some secrets, won’t we Susie, my angel?’ he’d whispered. He had stroked her head and promised her an adventure, one that only his ‘special friends’ would be able to have. ‘But we must be careful, or else everyone else will want to come,’ he’d said, as he touched her arm. ‘Then it won’t be an adventure, will it, and you won’t be a special friend, will you?’ He’d smiled down at her and she had smiled back.
Susan wanted an adventure, she hadn’t had any since Daddy had gone – she missed him and his adventures, terribly. Daddy’s adventures were just the best! Once, they’d spent the whole weekend in a tent at the bottom of the garden, and she’d been allowed to eat Heinz Beans for every meal, just like it said on the telly. Then they’d played hide-and-seek at night. That had been so much fun, well, until Mummy decided that she was scared and shouted at Daddy for going ‘Wooooo’ from behind the rose bushes – Susan had laughed and laughed. Mum had gotten all crotchety and gone inside. Al
though, she couldn’t have been too cross because she had soon came back out to the tent with some hot chocolate for Susan. Then Mummy and Daddy sat and drank dirty beer all night long, Mummy had ended up running around the garden with a flower pot on her head. Mummy was really funny when she drank dirty beer.
Susan wondered how long it was going to be before her father came back from work. He’d been away for weeks and weeks. ‘That stupid work – stupid Army, why can’t he come home?’ she thought, looking up at the door with the ‘Caretaker’ sign neatly painted in red on its varnished face. ‘And Mr Peters isn’t here, and he said he would be, he was always here, even when he had the door locked, he was here.’ Sometimes she had heard him humming inside, sometimes it sounded like he was moaning, but not in a sad way, he sounded sort of happy. ‘Mr Peters was always such a happy man!’
She turned away from the door and ran towards the main building, tiny grey skirt flicking and bouncing as she raced across the sports pitch. Susan almost flew across the tarmac, long blonde hair flying out behind her as she ran like the wind into the main entrance of the school. Once there, she went and told the duty teacher that the Caretaker wasn’t in his hut, and even though she had bought the cakes he had asked for, she still couldn’t find him. Susan knew it was supposed to be a secret. ‘But what must I do with the cakes he asked me to bring?’ she asked, looking up at the teacher, wide blue eyes beaming.
The teacher’s face registered the reality. Peters had been interviewed several times, but he’d always made sure that his ducks were in line; no-one had ever seen him so much as near the kids who had gone missing previously – the thoughts slammed into the woman.
‘But, Susie! My God, if she had been tricked then, well… goodness knows!’ Terrible realisation dawned upon her. ‘The child was the brightest pupil we have ever had the pleasure of teaching… Oh Lord!’ Scooping Susan into her caring arms, she turned and strode towards the Head Master’s office.
At approximately the same time, Gladstone Police Station received a telephone call from the local Forestry Commission. Apparently there was some kind of a problem in Windy Woods…
17
Not so Sweet
Part One.
They received a message on the Communicator three days later. In the message, George said they should take a break for a few days and that he would inform them of any new missions if and when they arose. Hearing the news, Mike had decided to head off for London to see his latest girlfriend.
‘I’ll be surprised if she’s still talking to me,’ he said, with a wicked grin. ‘I haven’t answered her calls for nearly a week now…’ Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, Mike headed for the door where Ken and Jane waited for him.
‘Yeah, well, you can hardly tell her what you’ve been doing, can you? “Hold the line, love, I’ve just gotta use the Shrink Down”… Can you imagine it?’ Ken said, winking at Mike as he opened the door.
Together they stepped out into the bright sunshine, which had been gracing the Highlands for more than two days now. Its warmth bolstered their spirits and helped to dispel some of the gloom that seemed to have settled upon them. Ken fully expected George to have had a hand in the improved weather conditions, too. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if ‘that lot up there’ didn’t control a whole lot more than they owned up to.
And so, after some fond farewells, they had seen Mike off, standing and listening to the howling reverberations of the Porsche’s engine echoing off the hills as Mike raced away. ‘He’s a mad bastard!’ Ken said, putting his arm around Jane and turning back into the house.
***
Two weeks later he received a text from the Australian. ‘Be with you tomorrow,’ it said, ‘and put the kettle on!’ Mike had returned to the lodge the next day, rolling onto the drive at about three in the afternoon. They heard the Porsche’s engine ticking and pinging with heat as they wandered across to help him with his bags.
Ken laughed. ‘Still taking part in the ‘safe driver of the year’ award, I see, eh Mikey?’ he said, nodding at the car.
Mike smiled and handed him his bag. ‘Just shaddup and show me to my room, bellboy!’ he said, jovially. He looked a lot happier and his demeanour immediately rubbed off on the other two. Grabbing his things, they all went inside with a spring in their step; it was good to have him back.
Jane didn’t hesitate in quizzing Mike about his lady-friend down in London. ‘How’s she coping with you being away, did you make your excuses for not keeping in touch?’ she asked, giving him a knowing look, which proved to be well-founded, as was usual.
Mike shook his head sheepishly. ‘Ah, I didn’t have to, when I arrived back home, the flat was empty,’ he said, ‘so…well, I guess that’s another one who’s flown the coop!’ He laughed and then said: ‘All is not lost, however – I went down South and saw Carol, it’s been a while and we had lots to catch up on!’ He winked at Jane and then pretended to cringe in anticipation of the berating he knew would be delivered.
Jane gladly obliged him. ‘Honestly, Mikey,’ she said, ‘one of these days you will make a commitment to some poor girl! You can’t just keep leaving people in your wake, you know!’ It was their standing joke and the argument continued as they made their way into the sitting room.
An hour later, sitting crouched around Mike’s machine, they learned the details of George’s next little task. After Mike had flicked the lid open and tapped in a set of numbers, the Communicator, with its usual glow of green lights, had summoned their master to appear once more. After taking a brief moment to ask if they had enjoyed their break, George started his latest tale.
‘There is a child, one who will be taken by a man, but not in the way Peters took the others. No, this child will be taken by the substances that a certain person sells, this man is responsible for the deaths and misery of many people, young and old, willing and unwilling alike,’ he said, glancing at his audience. After a pause, he continued, saying: ‘He has changed some of them forever, and it has come to our attention that he will shortly have influence over this particular child, an influence we cannot allow to perpetuate!’ George fiddled with something on his desk.
The face of a young boy floated onto the Communicator’s ghostly screen.
The child sat before a bank of computer screens. As they watched his fingers flashing across the keyboards, like a demented organ-player, the onlookers also saw the ‘Bad News’ information box, glowing in menace beneath his figure.
‘Phillip John Rogers, future Ultra Physicist – At twenty three years of age he will single-handedly develop the world’s first Reactive Synapse Computer. His design will reshape the way in which the entire globe operates. Rogers’ future work is of crucial importance to the advancement of Hydro-Technologies.’
The screen flashed once, and before them they now saw PJ Rogers in a future he was not currently destined to have. The tall, bespectacled young man stood before a row of shining metal objects, they were obviously machines of some sort, computers perhaps, but like none Ken and his fellow onlookers had ever seen. A huge screen hovered above the bank of machines, it flashed and shimmered as a stream of technical diagrams pulsed and twisted across its face.
Three dimensional objects, which seemingly formed themselves, whirled onto the screen. Numbers and letters flashed incessantly across the display. One by one, each piece of information flashed with the word ‘Complete’ before sliding into the ever-growing line of similar equations that lay in perfect symmetry on the left side of the floating screen. Instantly, another line of data would be fed into the calculations.
Phillip Rogers stood before the screen with a remote control in his hand. Any time there was a pause from the machine, he would immediately flash the remote at the screen, and then, using the laser, he would drag the numbers and lines into the correct place. He seemed to be able to calculate faster than the machine.
‘And you think I have the ‘Magic’, huh? Jesus Christ, look at this kid!’ Mike breathed out in awe.
PJ’s actions were indeed mesmerising, he looked like a conductor in full flow, almost as though he was dancing, the numbers and symbols of his electronic orchestra skipping effortlessly through their immaculate symphony. The tiny earpiece he was wearing glowed in rhythm to his hand movements. It looked as though whatever he was thinking was being instantly transmitted to the machine via the remote control device held in his waving hand.
By any standards, it was an impressive sight. However, the little digital box glowing on the screen beneath his flowing figure totally ruined the moment.
‘Breaking News’ Bad News…
‘Phillip John Rogers. Aged eleven-years; enticed by one Steven O’Hara and introduced to addictive substances. Rogers will be using Crack Cocaine by age fifteen and will die from a drug induced heart attack at seventeen years and three months of age.’
The scene changed once again – this time they were shown Steven O’Hara, in all his glory. A long list of names rolled under the images of O’Hara and his friends, names of people who had become customers of the blond-headed dealer. There were a lot of them, too, probably in their hundreds, Ken guessed. Their names were interspersed with several scenes of the police and also numerous funeral corteges, the distraught faces of relatives appearing briefly on some TV show or another. All the time the grinning face of the skinny blond man would be shown as he and his friends went about their daily business.
‘They have a lot of guns, these bastards, don’t they?’ Mike said, as they watched O’Hara shoving a machine-pistol into the bottom of a cupboard.
‘Yeah, I reckon so, that’s a bloody MAC-10, isn’t it? I just can’t believe these idiots have access to gear like that!’ Ken said, and shook his head, looking across at Jane in disbelief.
Finally, the briefing, as it were, came to an end. All of the information began its transfer onto the disc, and whilst they waited, George summed up. ‘So, there you have it,’ he said, ‘a rather nasty little man, I would say. Fortunately for us, his wellbeing is of no concern whatsoever, but his influence over young Master Rogers is of critical importance. We cannot allow Mr O’Hara to influence this young man, not at all!’ They nodded in agreement.