One Last Prayer for the Rays

by Wes Markin

  Buried beneath him, she struggled to take in air. When her head flopped to the left, she saw that he’d surprised her with the docking-station remote which she’d left on the bed.

  You stupid woman! The bastard must have swiped it as he was getting up.

  She turned and looked up at the hideous man and spat as hard as she could, catching him underneath his chin. His fist came crashing down.

  There was a wild moment of stars and confusion before she opened her eyes. He was smiling.

  I’ve fucked up.

  ‘Try not to blame yourself too much for what’s about to happen,’ he said, adjusting his position so he was kneeling on top of her chest. ‘I came here to kill you anyway.’

  ****

  There wasn’t a streetlight in sight. Around Paul, shadowy shapes swelled, and in every movement, he imagined crazy men vying for his life and the widening eyes of hungry animals. Crunching through the snow, with his face and feet stinging from the cold, willed on by thoughts of his mother, he ignored the exhaustion which came from lack of food and sleep, and made his way onward to the farmhouse.

  In the light coming from the windows, he was able to see the ground he was walking on. He could also see the old rocking chair on the porch, and the spindles that resembled the prone fingers of a strange monster, ready to strike. As he climbed the stairs, he imagined the toothless hag rocking there whilst contemplating how best to skin her poor victims.

  I should be finding the closest road and screaming at the top of my lungs until someone stops to help.

  Cattle prod in hand, he tried the front door. It was unlocked. Inside, he could smell cooked meat. He closed the door carefully behind him, so as not to alert Stella, who, according to Martha, was now sleeping.

  Yet what if Lewis was here? In one of the rooms?

  But what choice did he have? He’d already lost one parent to this family, he couldn’t lose another.

  From outside, the light had looked bright, but inside, it seemed to be sucking the colour from everything around him. Ahead, were a set of stairs which disappeared into a pool of darkness.

  Beside the steps were two doors. He slowly opened the second door and bright light stung his eyes. Squinting, he observed a kitchen which would be more at home in a busy restaurant than a farmhouse. Around a stainless-steel oven were white-tiled work surfaces and various pots, pans and utensils hanging from the walls. Despite an extractor fan humming in the corner, the smell of meat remained strong.

  On his way towards a rack of knives, something clattered hard against the window and he stopped dead. He felt his heart thrashing in his chest, but remained rooted to the spot, despite wanting to run.

  The second clatter was followed by a scraping sound which made him wince, but fortunately shook him from paralysis – he began to back off towards the door.

  When it happened a third time, he stopped and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the wind, forcing the talons of a monstrous tree over the glass.

  Composing himself, he continued his journey to the rack beside the sink. Chef’s knives. His parents had a similar set which they kept sharp. He hoped the owners of this set were just as proud. He ditched the cattle prod, drew the largest knife, turned from the rack, and grimaced at a sink half-filled with the insides of an animal, its eyes floating in the mess like large-mutated frogspawn.

  There was a bang as the front door crashed open and a blast of cold air whistled through the house into the kitchen. The thrashing in his chest began again.

  Did I not close the front door properly? Or has someone just come in?

  He crept back to the entrance to the kitchen and pressed himself flat against the wall beside it, just in time to hear the front door banging shut.

  It wasn’t warm, but he sweated; with the back of his free hand, he smeared moisture across his brow. Scared, he glanced down at the knife in his hand for confidence.

  There were two voices at the front door and he leaned closer to hear who they were and what was being said, but the noise of the outside wind made this impossible. Eventually, the talking stopped. The front door was opened again – he felt the blast of cold air on his face this time as well as hearing it – and then, it was shut. He looked at the back door.

  Tempting ... but my mother is here.

  He turned back and lunged out of the open kitchen door, holding the knife in front of him.

  Stella’s waxy head was slumped back and her wispy hair dripped over the support of her grey wheelchair. A wrinkled arm hung limply over one side, and the knuckles of a withered hand lay against one of the chair’s three wheels.

  He waited. She didn’t move.

  Could she be deaf?

  He moved forward until he was a couple of metres behind her, readying the knife―

  Her arm jolted into life and her hand clamped the wheel. The chair started to turn, creaking louder than the cursing wind outside. He kept the knife out in front of him.

  Stella was dressed in white satin with a bright-sparkling jewel clamped around her neck; it reminded him of a film he’d seen in which the corpse of an old woman was dressed by a funeral home. Her toothless mouth spread wide into a smile.

  His whole body was shaking, but he concentrated on making himself heard, loud and clear. ‘Where’s my Mum?’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  He stepped forward and held the tip of the blade inches from her face. ‘I’ll kill you, I swear. Just tell me where my mum is, I want to go home.’

  She smiled. ‘Like I always say to Martha, you can’t always have what you want.’

  ‘Where is she?’ he said, moving the blade even closer to her face.

  ‘Would you really hurt a harmless old woman?’

  ‘You hurt my dad, and he meant no one any harm.’

  ‘That wasn’t me, but I can see you’re serious, so ...’ She coughed. Once her throat was clear, she pointed to the door. ‘I’ll take you to your mother.’

  Before he’d had chance to reply, she’d turned the wheelchair, and was moving towards the front door. Despite her appearance, her hands were strong and steady on the wheels.

  ‘Will you help a crippled lady through the door?’ She allowed him space beside her.

  He opened it and she wheeled herself out. Knowing that Lewis must be close, Paul moved close alongside her, so, if necessary, he could pin the knife to her throat.

  She clattered over loose-wooden slats to the far side of the porch and trundled down a ramp.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  She didn’t reply, and swooped right, taking him in a different direction to the old barn where he’d spent the last few days. Wondering if she was concealing some kind of motor in her chair, he quickened his pace to keep up.

  The snow was driving down fast and he had to keep his head tilted forward slightly to avoid being blinded. In the distance, he could hear dogs barking. On any other day they would have unnerved him, but he knew there were far worse things to fear right now.

  When he sighted another large barn, he wondered if this was where his dad had been taken, and tears filled his eyes again. ‘How could you let him do this to us?’

  She stopped the wheelchair dead and turned to face him. He tightened his hold on the knife whilst she gripped the jewel tied around her neck.

  ‘Listen, you little shit stain, when we met him, we were a mess.’ Veins were sliding over the whites of her eyes like bloody worms. ‘Why should I care about you and your family? No-one ever cared about me and Martha. Not until Lewis ... My husband and my daughter, Martha’s real mother, dead. What gives you the right to judge me?’ She pointed with a gnarled finger at the corrugated-iron barn, barely thirty metres ahead. ‘We’re almost there, that’s where your mother is.’

  They continued, and when they reached the barn door, it was pulled open from the inside by Martha – no doubt it had been her talking to Stella outside the kitchen earlier. Holding her hand to the back of her head, where Paul had hit her before, she stepped t
o one side and looked to the floor, ashamed.

  ‘Your mother is inside,’ Stella said.

  ‘You’ll lock me in.’

  ‘Take Martha with you then.’

  He approached Martha and lifted up the knife.

  ‘You hurt my head,’ Martha said.

  ‘Take me to my mum.’

  ‘I brought you food, I helped you―’

  ‘Take me now.’

  Martha led the way into the barn. It was bigger than the other one and there was a second separate section built towards the back which rose about eight feet off the floor and had a wooden door in the centre. He could hear shuffling sounds coming from the enclosure. Simon and Colin, the wild boars. This was where Lewis had brought his father. Sick rose from his stomach into his throat.

  At the side of the barn, his mother was lying down. She was still, and facing the wall.

  ‘Mum?’ He ran towards her, dragging Martha by her arm. ‘Mum?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Martha said.

  ‘Stand over there!’ He pointed at the corrugated wall. She obeyed.

  He lowered himself to the floor and cradled his mother’s head in his arms. She was limp and he put his hand to her chest to feel for her heart. ‘Mum?’

  Everything disappeared in an explosion of white light. He slumped forward and rolled onto his back. Through his swimming vision, he could see Stella looking down on him from her chair, holding a rock in her hand.

  ‘Did you think I would let you get away with hitting my daughter?’

  Desperate for the knife he’d dropped, he ran his fingers over the ground, but Stella swung the rock again. ‘And that’s for making everything harder than it had to be.’

  His head felt like it was on fire.

  ‘Martha, come on,’ Stella said.

  ‘But mother―’

  ‘Remember when we met him? Remember when we were starving to death?’

  Martha didn’t reply.

  ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  Paul could feel the sick that had risen into his throat seep out the corner of his mouth.

  He forced himself up into a sitting position. Martha, half-way to the exit, was looking back over her shoulder and caught his eyes. She stopped.

  ‘Now, Martha,’ Stella said.

  ‘Coming Mother.’ She broke eye contact and followed her mother out of the door.

  Paul leaned over and touched his mother’s face. Still warm. He heard the thud of the corrugated-iron door shut and then the clunk of the lock.

  ‘Paul ...’

  ‘Mum.’ He pulled her up into his lap, where he’d also held Dad only hours ago. He leaned over and kissed her head, and tasted his own blood as it ran down from his head into his mouth.

  The grunting sound started again. Deeper and louder than in the other barn. He wiped away the blood running into his eyes and turned to look at the enclosure.

  The wooden door in the centre was shaking.

  19

  YORKE CONTACTED THE current officers in charge of collecting dirt samples and instructed them to narrow their search to the area immediately around Lankton carpark. He then took a phone call from Topham. ‘Boss, I have the CCTV footage from the carpark. Digital this time, so I’ll e-mail you a copy straight over.’

  ‘Summary?’

  ‘At four forty-one, Sarah Ray got into a white transit van―’

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘Covered up.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He kicked a bin over by the desk he was pacing around.

  ‘The van drove off. I’m sorry, boss. SOCOs are looking through Bryan’s car, but they’ll not find anything. The driver didn’t get out of the van. We didn’t get a look at them.’

  He hung up and stormed out of the station. In the carpark, he lit his first cigarette in years. He took a long, greedy puff. Following the first initial rush, it felt like he’d never stopped.

  Rule number one: never promise. Never fucking promise.

  Not only had he failed to get their son back, but he’d failed to keep them safe too.

  His gut feeling: they were all dead, murdered by an abused, possibly schizophrenic, bitter relative. The one that was cast aside like rubbish, forced to endure psychological torment, whilst the others prospered.

  His conclusion: he, Mike Yorke, was on the verge of failure.

  Headlights blinded him as he finished his cigarette.

  Great, all I need.

  Harry emerged from his car and came towards him.

  ‘I’ve still got uniforms sitting on my house, and shadowing me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So, I’m not in the clear yet?’

  ‘No, but we are pursuing other angles.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That’s all I can say.’

  ‘I know it’s down to you that I haven’t been charged. Thanks.’

  ‘Harry, do not thank me. It wasn’t a favour. It wasn’t even the fact that I believed you, because I didn’t. It’s because I knew you weren’t capable.’

  Harry flinched.

  ‘Try and take that as a compliment – it’s a good thing not to be a killer.’

  He looked down. ‘Probably. Not that I haven’t thought about it though.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s natural.’

  Harry sighed. ‘Can I have a cig?’

  Yorke handed him one; he lit it and took a deep puff. ‘There’s not a night go by I don’t think about what I did. I’m sorry―’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘I owe you more―’

  Yorke widened his eyes and raised his voice. ‘I said, not now.’

  Yorke’s phone rang. He turned his back to Harry, ‘Emma?’

  ‘Sir, a receptionist in the White Hart Hotel has recognised the image of Lacey Ray we sent out; she’s convinced she checked-in over an hour ago.’

  Yorke could feel his heart bashing against his ribs.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Gardner continued, ‘I already have some officers on the scene too―’

  ‘I’ll meet you there.’

  ****

  DI Emma Gardner, cruised into the White Hart hotel car park in a Mazda that had seen more owners than a paperback copy of the Da Vinci Code. As much as Yorke hated Mazda cars, it did suit her. Both gave a false impression. The Mazda looked expensive without being expensive; while Gardner looked bubbly, despite harbouring a cold ruthlessness that allowed her to do the job that she did.

  For once, however, she didn’t look bubbly as she strolled over to Yorke; she just looked cold. ‘It’s fucking freezing.’

  He’d never heard her swear before and was taken aback. He locked the door of his car. ‘Update me’

  ‘Officers are in there now, identifying her. If it’s Lacey, they’ll arrest her.’

  The front door of the hotel burst open. Yorke swung towards it, shielding his eyes and squinting. Someone was in the shadows, gasping for air. Together, they ran over, taking care not to slip on the ice and snow.

  PC Tom Bridlington was stabilising himself against the wall. All the colour had drained from his face.

  ‘You okay?’ Yorke said.

  Bridlington held up a hand to ask for more time and then lowered into a squat, taking deep breaths.

  Yorke looked at Gardner, who glanced back at him and nodded.

  It was clear that someone else was dead.

  ****

  For his second cigarette in as many years – and both within the last hour ‒ Yorke found a tree under which to shelter, but with the building wind, he worked his way through half a box of matches to get it lit.

  He finished the cigarette quickly; his addiction was flourishing again. As he stubbed it out, he wondered how he’d ever found the strength to give up in the first place.

  Looking for a place, the Major Incident Vehicle circled the car park like a caged animal with cabin fever. Like spectators at the zoo, media reporters closed in, popping bulbs and thrusting micro
phones over the barrier of blue and white tape as if they were treats for the sick animal.

  A bearded reporter smiled at Yorke and tried to wave him over. Yorke considered waving back at him with his index finger, but knew that wouldn’t flatter him on the front page of the local paper tomorrow. Price, the Public Relations Officer, would be here to deal with this vulture and his associates in due course.

  He watched Gardner fend off a few reporters. He’d been in once, but he’d given the SOCOs some space to get settled. Now, it was time to go back in and take another look.

  After crunching through the snow, he followed Gardner through the front door, and passed a vending machine which had been shaken too many times and now leaned far enough to one side to become a health and safety issue. He was led up some stairs, around a corner, nearly colliding with the taped line the investigators had strung out. One SOCO was flat on his back beside the open door at the end of the corridor whilst another dusted down a wall. He caught the eye of another SOCO, a fresh-faced girl straight out of university and nodded his approval. Securing a crime scene was a heavy task these days; over fifty unsettled people ― most of them guests at a wedding held here earlier ― had been evacuated from the hotel and were currently being found alternative sleeping arrangements by the staff.

  Gardner handed him another bagged-up white suit – the one he was wearing was wet with snow. He took it off and checked the top button of his polo shirt was done up ― an unbreakable habit he had developed at crime scenes to stop the cold getting to his neck.

  After removing the white suit from the bag, he negotiated his way into it in the same way he did every time, without any grace. Gardner smiled. She’d already torn off her last one and put on her new one as easily as if it had been a pair of socks. They both slipped on latex gloves and disposable overshoes, and paced past the SOCOs into the room.

  The windows were open, and the curtains billowed; Yorke felt the cold bite. Wielding a camera, ‘The Elf’, Lance Reynolds, the Scientific Support Officer managing the SOCOS, darted round the scene, snapping shots from different angles. Yorke frowned when he danced to the foot of the bed, dropped to his knees, took three quick photos, before springing back to his feet like a gymnast. He’d heard Jake quipping once that the only cameramen that enjoyed their job as much as Lance Reynolds worked on porn sets.