Ritual

by Ryan Casey

  “He’s a miracle baby,” the nurse said, hands in her pockets. “Few scratches on his legs and a couple of minor burns, but nothing a few bandages won’t heal in time.”

  Brian gripped Sam tight. Kissed his soft hair. Smelled the top of his head—that sweetness he had, that scent that would stay with him forever. “And Hannah?” Brian asked, managing to speak through his relieved tears. “His mum?”

  The nurse’s smile turned a little. “She’s … she’s not in quite as good condition. Severe burns to her arms and legs. She’s … she’s not in a good way, Mr McDone. But we’re doing what we can for her.”

  Brian felt sickness build up from within. Memories of being trapped in Luther’s room when he started that fire, of Cassy Emerson rushing in to save him and being swallowed by the flames.

  The agony he’d felt in his legs as the flames engulfed him.

  Agony he wanted to take away from Hannah, absorb for himself.

  The nurse put a hand on Brian’s shoulder as Sam blubbered and chatted to himself like everything was all normal. “You need to understand. That … that Hannah isn’t ever going to be the same again after this. Whatever happens from now on, things are going to change, Mr McDone. If she does make it, that is.”

  Brian bobbed Sam up and down. More tears poured from his raw eyes. He nodded. He nodded like he understood, but he couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t accept that this was it for Hannah. Couldn’t give up on her. “You’ll do your best for her.”

  “Absolutely,” the nurse said. “We’ll let you know when she’s okay to visit. Just … not now. I don’t think it’d be a good idea.”

  Brian nodded. He nodded and he held Sam tight as the nurse turned and walked away. He thought about Hannah. Thought about her battling away in that bed, fighting for her life. And he pictured himself a few years back. In this situation right now, he’d have given up. Swallowed his hope. Drowned in fear.

  Instead, he was filled with optimism.

  With positivity.

  “Mummy’s gonna be okay,” Brian said, kissing Sam’s soft cheek. “She’s gonna be all better soon, big man.”

  Hope and optimism that Hannah had instilled in Brian.

  The will to fight, no matter what, in the face of anything.

  “You’re a man of morals. That’s your problem. But it’s not a bad problem to have.”

  As Brian remembered Hannah’s words, and then the words that Lilian Chalmers said to him—the thinly veiled threats she’d made—Brian’s perspective shifted. He couldn’t give up on the case. If anything, he had to push himself even harder to uncover the truth. Because that’s what Hannah would want. He was a man of morals, yes. It was his problem, yes.

  But like she’d said, it wasn’t a bad problem to have.

  “Come on, boyo,” Brian said, walking down the aisle away from critical care. “Let’s get you out of this place.”

  He walked away from critical care and pulled his phone out of his pocket. No real family he could stay with. No real friends.

  But as he walked away, Sam in his arms, he didn’t feel scared. He didn’t feel afraid or threatened.

  He felt determined.

  Determined to prove who was behind the recent murders.

  Determined to uncover the truth.

  And he wasn’t going to give up. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

  Because Hannah wouldn’t want him to give up.

  And he was her fighter.

  She was his rock.

  He was going to avenge her. One way or another, he was going to bring her and Sam justice.

  No matter what it took.

  Forty-One

  Brian saw the way his colleagues looked at him as he staggered into work the following day.

  He heard the keyboards stop tapping. Saw jaws slackening. Heard the muffled whispers. And somehow it felt vaguely familiar. It took him back to when he used to walk in with sleep in his eyes stinking of booze. The looks he used to get. The whispers he used to garner.

  Except this was different.

  He knew nobody expected him to turn up today.

  Not the day after what’d happened to his house.

  After what had happened to Hannah while Sam was in there.

  But he had a duty to look out for his family. And that involved being straight with Marlow. Telling him exactly what he thought was going on here.

  Even if it cost him his job.

  DC Arif swirled around in his chair and frowned at Brian as he walked past his desks, down the corridor in the centre of the offices towards Marlow’s room.

  “Brian, I … You alright, man? Didn’t think we’d see you.”

  Brian didn’t respond in words to Arif. He just nodded. He needed to stay focused. Didn’t have time to get sidetracked, not anymore.

  He needed to tell Marlow what Joe Kershaw told him. The man with the sun on his fingers. And he needed to tell him everything. About what George Andrews had told him. About the similarities between the old murders and the new ones. About the Children of the Light burning down his house when he dug too deep. About the cover-ups.

  He had to tell Marlow the truth.

  If it cost him his job, so be it.

  If it cost him his life …

  He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Brian felt a hand grab his arm as he hurtled towards Marlow’s office. Turned, saw it was Finch. Except he didn’t have that smug look on his face that he so often had these days. No, he looked concerned. Concerned for Brian.

  “I … Just a heads up,” Finch said. “Not sure you wanna go in there right now.”

  Brian patted Finch on his shoulder. “Got to do stuff we don’t like doing every now and then.”

  He turned away from Finch.

  Grabbed the handle to Marlow’s door.

  Pushed it open.

  When he saw who was inside the room, Brian understood right away why his colleagues had been trying to warn him.

  Sitting at Finch’s desk directly opposite him was Chief Constable Jerry Matthews. Dark curly hair, big beefy hands and bulky arms. Looked young beyond his fifty-something years, something Brian wished he could say for himself. He reeked of cheap aftershave, so strong that Brian could taste it in the air.

  “McDone,” Marlow said, managing to look furious without sounding it. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I had to,” Brian said, heart picking up. “Can I have a word?”

  Marlow’s eyes bolted across the table to Jerry. Jerry looked at Marlow, then back at Brian, scanning him from head to toe. He took a few moments before something resembling a smile cracked across his face, then he cleared his throat and stood.

  “Sorry to hear about your missus, Detective,” Jerry said, patting Brian on his arm as he walked past him, bathing him in that ghastly aftershave.

  Brian didn’t say a word. Just held his ground and nodded. He knew Jerry Matthews didn’t like him. He’d been a dick back when Brian had his issues a few years back. Saving grace for Brian was that Jerry was on temporary leave when the time came round for Brian to return. Might not be working with the police right now if it wasn’t for that stroke of luck.

  Or bad luck. Depending on perspective.

  “This better be good, Brian,” Marlow said, lifting his white coffee cup to his lips and sipping it back.

  Brian stuck his fingernails into his palms. He wasn’t sure where to start. He was so tired after staying up all night. So drained. He’d ended up dropping Sam off at one of Hannah’s old friends, Jordanna, for the night. She’d offered to fix Brian up with a sofa for the night, but he’d insisted he couldn’t. He had to go back to the hospital. He had to be by Hannah’s side.

  He couldn’t leave her.

  Not for anything but the justice she’d want him to pursue.

  “It’s—it’s about time we were honest,” Brian said, mouth dry. “With each other.”

  “I think that’s probably a good idea,” Marlow said.

  “This—this case.”
>
  “The case we resolved? The case involving Joe Kershaw and—”

  “Joe Kershaw didn’t fucking kill Carly Mahone or Harry Galbraith,” Brian shouted. Surprised himself just how mad he sounded. “He didn’t kill Jodie Kestrel either. And don’t bullshit me. Don’t for one minute bullshit me and pretend you don’t know what’s going on here.”

  Marlow didn’t reply straight away. He just narrowed his tired old eyes. Stared across the desk at Brian. “That’s quite an accusation to be making.”

  “The Children of the Light. I don’t know how much you know about them but I have to assume it’s more than you’re letting on.”

  “Again, quite an accusation.”

  “I spoke with George Andrews,” Brian said.

  Right then, just for a moment, Brian thought he saw something in Marlow’s steely eyes. A flicker of recognition. And then it was gone, almost as quickly as it’d been there. “Who?”

  “Former detective George Andrews.”

  “I don’t know any former—”

  “He gave me documents. Documents he was nearly murdered for. Julia Patricks murdered in 1974. Alistair Crowley in 1995. Both killed by this … this cult called the Children of the Light. The same people who’re killing again today. Twenty and a half years after Alistair’s death. The same people who—”

  “And you have proof of this?” Marlow asked.

  Brian nodded. “I’ve got the papers. I’ve seen the …”

  Then the realisation dawned on him. The truth surrounded him.

  “You’ve got the papers, have you?” Marlow asked.

  Fuck. The papers. The documents George Andrews had given him. Lost in the fire. Ashes. Everything he needed to bring the Children of the Light down, up in flames.

  Marlow stood up. His chair squeaked as he did. Started walking around the desk towards Brian. “You know, you look tired, McDone. You’ve been through a load of shit. Serious shit. I’m worried about you. So too is Jerry Matthews.”

  “Charming.”

  “We’re having serious thoughts about your ability to continue in this position,” Marlow said.

  Brian felt the fires of rage burning inside. But he didn’t lash out at Marlow. Instead, he found himself smiling. Found his smile stretching across his face. A little laugh creeping out.

  Marlow frowned. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

  “The hair. Alison West. Y’know when George Andrews first told me about police involvement, I didn’t believe him.”

  “Again,” Marlow said, voice getting harder, sterner. “Very fine line you’re treading on–”

  “Fuck the line,” Brian shouted. Flecks of spit covered Marlow’s face. “Fuck all of it. ’Cause I’m not playing games anymore. I can see what’s happening here. Anyone with half a fucking brain cell can see what’s happening here. Just no one has the balls to do a thing about it. Well tough. Because I do. I fucking do.”

  “Brian—”

  “I’m not going to let the people who burned down my house with my wife and son inside bully me to silence. I’m not going to fucking sit around and do nothing just because I’m afraid of losing a bit of money. I’m not doing it anymore. And neither are you. Neither is anyone in here.”

  “Brian, please—”

  Brian batted Marlow’s hand away like it was nothing more than an annoying fly. “Joe Kershaw. He told me about a man. A man with the sun on his fingers. What does that mean? Does that add up to any evidence? Do you—”

  “Joe Kershaw told you this?”

  Brian nodded. He sensed he might actually be getting somewhere. “Yes. Yes, he did. He told me he was set up. That the man with the sun on his fingers made him trash Harry and Carly’s bathroom like he did. He told me he was paid off. He was manipulated. He was—”

  “McDone, Joe Kershaw didn’t tell you a thing,” Marlow said.

  Brian shook his head. “He did. Last night. I went to the hospital to see him and—”

  “Joe Kershaw didn’t tell you a bloody thing because he died at six p.m. yesterday evening. Get a grip, Brian. Kershaw never regained consciousness.”

  Forty-Two

  Brian walked out of DCI Marlow’s office without saying another word.

  He couldn’t. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. He couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Only that Marlow had told him Joe Kershaw was dead.

  No. Not just that.

  Marlow had told him Joe Kershaw died at 6 p.m. yesterday evening.

  That wasn’t possible. Because Brian had spoken to Joe Kershaw well after 6 p.m. yesterday evening.

  He looked around the office, his focus dull and distorted. He needed Annie. Annie told him Joe Kershaw was alive. She’d been at work when word slipped down the grapevine that he was awake.

  Except she worked nights last night so she wasn’t here yet.

  Brian was alone.

  “You okay, Brian?”

  Arif. Arif looking right at him. Frowning. Except his voice just drifted over Brian’s head. The words slipped out of his reach. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.

  Only now, he was certain that members of the police were covering up for the Children of the Light.

  Now he was positive that there was a cover-up. That George Andrews had been telling the truth. The complete truth.

  And now, he was positive that DCI Marlow knew exactly what was going on.

  Brian walked silently to the middle of the office. He remembered Marlow’s words. The words about his loss of sanity. About letting go. He was pushing him out. He was using Brian’s dogged determination to unearth the truth about the Children of the Light to throw him away from the police force.

  And who knew what he’d do when Brian was out of the way? How hard would it be to have him strung up with booze on his breath and cuts on his wrists? How hard would it be to make him look insane—just like they wanted him to look all along—after all?

  But no. He couldn’t give up on what he believed in. He couldn’t just walk away.

  He had to try something.

  “The case,” Brian said, his voice a little rusty as he addressed the crowd of officers sat at their desks and staring past their computers. “The Mahone, Galbraith and Kestrel killings. It’s …” His heart almost skipped a beat. “I know you think it’s over and I want to think it’s over too. But it’s not. It’s really not.”

  The sound of Marlow’s door creaking open. But fuck him. He wasn’t stopping Brian. Not now.

  “I … I was contacted by an old detective. George Andrews. He … he told me about a cult.”

  “That’ll be enough, McDone,” Marlow said.

  “A cult called the Children of the Light,” Brian said.

  Just saying the words aloud was a relief. Offering the burden to other officers. Getting the truth off his chest; planting the seed into the minds of those who may just be moral enough to do some necessary digging.

  “The Children of the Light are a murderous cult who have operated since the seventies. Perhaps long before then. They’ve operated with the knowledge of the police.”

  “McDone, I won’t ask you again.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Brian said, turning around and facing Marlow. He stared into his eyes. Saw them watering. “Why are you so afraid of the truth?”

  Marlow opened his mouth as if he was going to respond. Then he closed it. Glanced around at the rest of the office, red in the face.

  Brian looked back at everyone. “Julia Patricks, 1974. Alistair Crowley, 1995. Do some research. Do some research and you’ll discover how they were killed. Blood drained. Tips of the ears snipped off. Raped multiple times with exceptional force. And hair snipped away from the backs of their heads. Just like Carly Mahone. Just like Jodie Kestrel.”

  A few of the officers turned away from Brian. Shook their heads. Muttered under their breaths.

  But a few of them looked on. Like they knew. Or at least, they were interested. Like something within them had been awoken;
something inside them was screaming out. An awareness of corruption. A deep-set knowledge that something was wrong. And Brian just had to hope that small voice inside them that told them to stand in line and do as they were told fought back and won over the stronger voice.

  He just had to hope people believed in what he was saying.

  “I told you I met with a former detective,” Brian said. “He gave me evidence of the church. River Edge Methodist Church. I went there—”

  “McDone,” Marlow said, putting a hand on Brian’s arm.

  Brian knocked it away. “I went there and I met a woman called Lilian Chalmers. She threatened my family. I went to speak with Joe Kershaw—because in spite of the bullshit about him dying at six p.m. last night, I can tell you right now he woke up. He woke up and spoke to me. Spoke to me about …”

  Brian felt his phone vibrating. And although he was deep in trying to convince his fellow officers that he wasn’t fucking insane, his protective instincts over Hannah kicked in. Maybe it was the hospital. Maybe she’d got worse. Maybe—

  No. Just answer the phone. Just answer the fucking phone and don’t speculate.

  He lifted the phone to his ear. Didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Bri … Brian …”

  It wasn’t Hannah.

  It was a man.

  A man who sounded vaguely familiar.

  Gasping. Struggling for air.

  “Birch Road,” the voice said. “Fifty … fifty-nine. They got me. They fuckin’ got me.”

  A cold shiver swarmed Brian’s body. Who it was clicked in a harrowing instant.

  George Andrews.

  Former detective George Andrews.

  He was in trouble.

  He was—

  Before Brian could enable loudspeaker, the phone went dead.

  He looked up at the office. Looked at everyone staring at him. Staring in silence.

  “Everything okay with Hannah?” Marlow asked.

  But Brian didn’t respond.

  Instead, he ran through the office.

  Ran towards the door.

  Because George Andrews was in trouble. And George Andrews couldn’t die. Because he was the only person who knew the truth.