One Last Prayer for the Rays

by Wes Markin

  ‘I believe so, sir. Is your son, Phil Holmes, here?’

  Roy flinched. ‘No, why?’

  ‘It would be better if I could come in and talk.’

  Roy’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Please, sir, if it’s not too much trouble, I really could do with talking to you.’

  ‘Eileen, my wife, is ill.’

  ‘I understand; I’ll try and be quick.’

  Several strands of shiny-black hair had fallen loosely over his forehead; he swept them back as he made space for Yorke to get in.

  As he entered, a blast of hot air hit him and he heard the sizzle and pop of a log fire. Behind him, Roy closed the security gate.

  The lounge he entered was small, but snug. Beside the fire was a plastic Christmas tree, and besides that, on the sofa, underneath a tapestry of a family toiling away in the fields, sat Eileen Holmes. It was clear she’d not aged as well as her husband; the greyness of her hair seemed to have spread to her skin. She knitted with quivering hands. She’d not stood up as Yorke came into the room and was yet to acknowledge his presence. Faced with a sick woman, the situation had grown more sensitive, so Yorke needed to be even more careful when discussing their son.

  Roy sat down beside his wife on the sofa and put his hand on her lap. She continued knitting. Eileen looked weak and Yorke was surprised by how loud the knitting needles clicked. It was as if she was putting absolutely everything she had left into the blue and white scarf on her lap. A parting gift for someone, perhaps?

  ‘Please sit down,’ Roy said.

  He perched on a wooden-backed chair opposite the sofa, which creaked, and wobbled, despite him not being particularly heavy.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Holmes, I’m sorry to disturb you and your husband, but we believe your son, Phil, may be able to help us regarding a very serious matter. As you may already know, a young boy was kidnapped from the Salisbury Cathedral School two days ago.’ Yorke looked at Eileen Holmes. She didn’t lift her eyes, so instead he directed his stare back at Roy.

  Roy nodded. ‘Of course, our son has told us and we have read the papers. Have you tried Phil at work?’

  Yorke nodded.

  ‘Then we can’t help you,’ Roy said. ‘We’ve no idea where he could be. He’s been staying out a lot recently, so we assumed he had a new girlfriend, but he’s always been very quiet about these matters.’

  ‘But you must ask? After all, he’s your son?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s so guarded, and it’s never been wise to press these things.’

  Yorke quickly surveyed the room. There were three graduation pictures of a younger Phil Holmes. He was more waif-like in his younger years, and had obviously spent some time in the gym, just like Jake had done.

  The skinny boy complex really made for a big man.

  ‘Manchester University,’ Roy said, obviously noticing him looking at the pictures. ‘And he had to work hard to get there too. Not like all his middle-class friends who headed off to University in their parents’ Mercedes as soon as they turned eighteen.’

  ‘Are you angry about something, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘I’m not angry, I just want you to hurry up and get to the point of why you’re here. Do you suspect our son?’

  ‘We have evidence which suggests your son could be involved in the kidnapping of Paul Ray.’

  ‘Nonsense! He’d never do that, and I know my son well enough.’

  ‘Yet, if you knew your son well enough, you would know where he is. Plus you’ve already suggested that he is quiet and guarded.’

  ‘What evidence do you have?’

  ‘I’ll get to that in the moment. Has your son ever mentioned Lacey Ray to you?’

  And then Eileen stopped knitting.

  Yorke stared at her, but she didn’t raise her eyes to meet his. He flicked his eyes back to Roy, whose cheeks had reddened.

  ‘No,’ Roy said.

  The fire cackled. Yorke saw sap rising from a split log.

  His phone rang and he saw that it was Topham.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Yorke said. ‘May I use the kitchen?’

  Roy nodded, but looked away with a scowl on his face.

  In the kitchen, he answered the phone. ‘Sir, bad news.’

  ‘Go on, Mark.’

  ‘Bryan Kelly fell asleep, and now Sarah Ray’s gone too.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. How incompetent can one man be?’

  ‘Bryan said he was drugged. Where are you at?’

  Yorke told him and then said, ‘Whatever you do, find Sarah Ray.’

  He headed back into the lounge, his brain churning.

  Three Rays missing; only one left, Lacey Ray.

  And the reaction of this elderly couple when they’d heard that name had been like the plunging of pressure before the coming of a storm. He didn’t bother sitting. ‘Mr and Mrs Holmes, I need you to tell me what you know about the Rays.’

  There was a moment of silence. Roy looked at Eileen, who continued to knit.‘Lives depend on this, Mr Holmes; three lives.’

  Roy scowled and said, ‘Joe Ray owns the shop in town. A ladies’ man, so the rumours go. His wife is rarely seen out.’

  ‘And Lacey Ray?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Roy looked away and Eileen stared at the scarf which hung loosely from her lap. Silence descended.

  Yorke broke it, raising his voice slightly. ‘I suspect that your son is involved in these abductions. If you don’t start helping us, and this manhunt gets out of hand, your son could be in danger. Help us find him before it’s too late. I want to help all concerned.’

  Roy glared at Yorke. ‘We really don’t―’

  ‘Enough,’ Eileen said. Her voice was croaky, but she managed some volume.

  Both Yorke and Roy stared at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘This has gone on ... long enough.’

  She rose to her feet, clutching her hip. She took a cane leaning against an old TV and hobbled around the corner. Roy shook his head. ‘She’s really sick and you had to go and dredge up the past.’

  When she returned she was holding a small wooden box. She eased herself back down, wincing. After taking a deep breath, she opened the box and pulled out a photograph which she handed to Yorke. The photo was of a neglected young boy about two years old. His clothes were ragged and his thin face was almost as grey as the sick woman in front of him.

  ‘Lewis Ray,’ Eileen said.

  Yorke shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of a Lewis―’

  ‘You won’t have done,’ Roy said, running both his hands back over his gelled hair. ‘Because the day after that photo was taken, he became Phillip Holmes, our son.’

  ****

  Squealing swine startled Joe from his daze and he tightened his hold on Paul.

  ‘Do you think the pigs are dangerous, Dad?’

  Joe ran his fingers over his son’s cracked lips. ‘No, they’re just pigs. And you’re thirsty, young man.’

  He watched Paul run his tongue over his dry lips, leaving slime, but no significant moisture. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘I’m going to have another look round the barn for a way out.’

  ‘We’ve both checked already, many times, we’re stuck here.’

  He knew his son was right, but tried to remain positive. ‘We must have missed something. Most barns are like a small armoury. Spades, pitchforks, scythes―’

  ‘I’m so scared, Dad.’

  ‘I know,’ Joe said, looking up at the air slits in the gables, wishing he could join the bright-eyed birds and bats up there with his only son.

  Everything around him rustled. And not just chafing pigs either. Were there rats too perhaps? Something else to feast on their bones if the unthinkable happened?

  I’m going to kill this bastard for what he’s done to you, Paul.

  ‘Do you love mum?’

  Startled again, Joe looked down into his son’s wide eyes. ‘Of course I do! Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘The other woman.’

  He sighe
d. ‘A mistake, son,’ he said, thinking, there have been too many mistakes. ‘I wish I could take it back.’ All of them. There was a sting on his face; looking up, he could see snowflakes wafting in through the gaps.

  The pigs squealed loudly and started to pound again. His eyes widened, and when he looked at the front door it seemed to pulse like the heart of a vile animal.

  ‘Dad―’

  The door burst open. Cold air from outside rushed over his face. The sound of the terrified pigs faded into insignificance as the broad-shouldered man who had brought them here strolled into the barn with his sawn-off shotgun over one shoulder.

  ‘Please Lewis,’ Joe said. ‘Anything you want, anything, I will get it for you.’

  ‘You’ve changed your mind then,’ Lewis said, stopping several metres in front of the pair.

  ‘I don’t understand, I tried to pay that ransom―’

  ‘I’m not talking about that. I meant years ago, when I came to you, to your shop, for help, when I was desperate.’

  ‘I don’t know what―’

  ‘I was dying then. At least I looked as if I was; skinnier, paler, thinning hair. I told you I was a Ray, told you that we were related.’

  Joe gulped. His throat stung. He remembered. ‘You asked for money.’

  Lewis nodded and brought the shotgun down from his shoulder and aimed it at the pair huddled together on the floor. Paul tightened his grip on Joe. ‘Dad ...’

  ‘Listen!’ Joe said, holding up the palm of one hand to try and pacify him. ‘How was I to know if you were telling the truth? Anyone else would have had the same reaction!’

  ‘You told me I was a drug addict. I was sick and confused. I expected you to listen. I told you I needed money for a psychiatrist, not heroin.’

  ‘If you were sick, the doctors should have helped you. You wouldn’t have needed money―’

  ‘Help? The drugs made it worse. Six sessions with someone who didn’t understand. When I did see someone privately, someone who helped me, I ran out of money and I came to you. Do you not remember me telling you that I was so afraid to fall asleep, I had to burn myself to stay awake?’ He rolled back a sleeve, but it was too dark for Joe to see the burn marks he was obviously trying to show him.

  ‘Dad, is it true?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know if he was being honest―’

  ‘It was the same dream, the same fear. Every single night.’ It was the first time Joe had heard Lewis raising his voice. He could feel his son shaking in his arms. His twelve-year-old boy. How would it change him? How would he recover if they got out alive?

  ‘The cost of being a Ray,’ Lewis said, calmness working its way back into his voice again.

  ‘It’s wrong to blame me,’ Joe said. ‘There was no proof.’

  ‘For such a small amount of money,’ Lewis said, kneeling before him, training the sawn-off shotgun at his head. ‘And yet you’ve always had what you’ve wanted, haven’t you?’

  Paul said, ‘You’re a liar! You said you were my friend. You even let me call you by your middle name. You said only those closest to you were allowed to call your Lewis.’

  ‘Yes, Paul, you’re right, I lied. Lewis was my name, before I was given the name Phil.’

  ‘Please, let us go, I’ll do anything,’ Joe said, still holding the palm of his hand out towards the shotgun.

  ‘What could you possibly do? I realised, a long time ago, that me, you, our family are a problem. A massive problem.’

  ‘You’re not making sense,’ Joe said. ‘If you’re family, let us help you, you don’t have to suffer.’

  ‘I don’t need help. I know now that I was never really sick. It was responsibility I felt. Towards a duty I am close to fulfilling.’

  ‘Duty?’

  ‘Stand up, Joe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just stand up.’

  ‘And let you kill me?’

  ‘If you don’t stand up, I’ll kill both of you.’

  ‘No, Dad,’ Paul said, tightening his grip on Joe.

  Tears filled Joe’s eyes. ‘I can’t―’

  ‘Your decision,’ Lewis said, readying the shotgun.

  ‘No, no, wait! I’ll stand up. Paul, let me go.’

  ‘I can’t Dad.’

  ‘Let me go, now.’

  Paul released him and Joe stood up.

  ‘What’s he going to do to you?’ Paul said.

  ‘Walk out the door,’ Lewis said, taking a large step back, allowing Joe enough room to get past.

  Tears were streaming down Paul’s face. ‘Please ...’ he said, reaching out to grab his father, but he’d already moved out of reach. Pigs beat the sides of the barn whilst Lewis led Joe to the exit. When the burly man was less than a metre from the door, Paul sprung to his feet and ran out in front of them, ‘Please, Lewis, I know you don’t want to do this; it couldn’t have all been lies―’

  Lewis swung; Paul folded into a crumpled heap on the floor.

  ‘Paul!’ Joe turned back, but Lewis jammed the shotgun into his chest. ‘Unless you want it to happen in front of him, get out the door.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Outside, in the biting cold, Lewis threw the padlock on the floor in front of him. ‘Lock it, and hand me the key. I will test it, Joe, and if you try and leave it open, Paul will hear you die.’

  Crying, Joe padlocked the door and handed the key to Lewis.

  ‘Please, you can do whatever you want to me, just don’t hurt my son.’

  He gestured to a barn in the distance with the shotgun. ‘That’s where we’re going.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The talking stops now, Joe. I’m prepared to use this before we get there.’

  ****

  After five minutes of trekking through the snow at gunpoint, Joe’s wet feet started to burn. Around him was white emptiness; shouting would be futile, but running could be a possibility. But if he ran, and he wasn’t gunned down, or caught, what would Lewis do then?

  He thought of his son on the receiving end of this man’s fury. Running was not an option. All he could do was fight.

  At the door to a corrugated iron shed, Lewis said, ‘Turn around and take this key.’ Joe took the key, and after opening the padlock, he spun and launched it as hard as he could and charged. The padlock sailed over Lewis’ shoulder. Growling, the towering man struck Joe across the head with his shotgun.

  ****

  When Joe woke, his throbbing head was pointing towards the ground, and his legs were being gripped tightly. Bobbing up and down, disorientated, it took him a moment to realise that the bastard had him over his shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Lewis didn’t answer. Joe continued to bob up and down like an empty backpack.

  ‘You are going to rest. Like Thomas rests. Like we will all rest.’

  ‘Not my son,’ he said, bashing his fist off the small of Lewis’ back, but he was too groggy to put enough force into it. He tried wriggling, but Lewis just tightened his grip on his legs.

  They stopped at a concrete wall with a ladder running up it. He could hear pigs grunting again. But these sounded different than the ones in the other barn. Calmer, but more menacing.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘The end.’

  He saw the ground beneath him move further away as Lewis climbed the ladder. ‘If I’d known, if you’d shown me proof, I would have helped you, I really would―’

  ‘Your rejection was for the best.’

  He felt himself being flung and air rushing up around him. Then, there was a sickening crack, followed by agony across his chest.

  Face down with his tongue pressed against cold concrete, he groaned.

  ‘Getting a pig to eat a dead human is easy,’ Lewis said from somewhere far above him. ‘But getting them to eat a live one requires a certain species and a lot of training.’

  Around him, Joe heard shuffling.

  ‘I’ve had a lot of time to teach my European wild boars to
appreciate their food.’

  The shuffling became louder. He felt the side of his body being prodded and heard a panting sound in one ear.

  With his eyes still closed, he rolled onto his back; agonising pain raced through his side and his mouth filled with fluid. There was panting at either side of him, and something moist and cold rubbed against his right cheek.

  He gritted his teeth and used what remained of his energy to sit up. Then, he opened his eyes.

  Half a metre away, a large boar stared at him. Knotted clumps of grey hair rose off its back like tumours. Its wet tusks glimmered.

  Terrified, Joe bared his teeth and screamed in the boar’s face.

  It started to back off. ‘That’s it, get the fuck away.’

  Behind him, he heard another animal shuffling around. The retreating boar stopped and continued its stare; its eyes were black and tiny.

  ‘Go on, get away!’

  Pain soared through his right bicep. He glanced to his side. The beast behind him had taken hold of his flesh and was tugging.

  Displaying its twisted and broken teeth, the staring boar started to advance. Joe kicked out weakly, but the beast easily dodged to the side. It twisted its head and bit deep into his calf.

  He glared up at Lewis. ‘Please, don’t do―’

  Jolted back by his bicep, Joe’s head smacked the concrete. Above him, the creatures closed in.

  ‘Help ...’

  One of the boars bared its jagged teeth and darted for his face.

  ****

  With a flurry of snow, the day finally disappeared into night. Sarah Ray had been standing in the car park for what seemed like ages.

  There were few vehicles parked here, and there were no streetlights offering a friendly glow. She paced the car park, unsure of what to do in the darkness.

  The lights of a parked Nissan pick-up truck flared into life. It reversed from its spot and turned to face in Sarah’s direction with lights like burning eyes.

  Unable to move, Sarah chewed at her bottom lip as the truck approached and its eyes flared.

  Crossing her arms tightly against her chest, she stepped forward as the truck pulled up alongside her.

  The passenger door opened. ‘Paul?’ she said.