The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  Slipping into the car park of a unit half-way up the road the men quickly exited their car, each holding a semi-automatic rifle. Both men pulled black balaclavas over their heads before the driver pulled out a handheld electronic device.

  A schematic of the building appeared on screen and the men rapidly processed the location of the building’s entry points. There were two entrances, one on the far right of the building, the other on the left side, virtually opposite. The schematic had been overlaid with a real-time infra-red satellite image of the building. Inside the boundaries of the warehouse four red, moving markers indicated their targets were all present.

  “You take the left entrance, I’ll take the right,” the driver whispered, pointing at the building as they approached.

  Reaching the perimeter of the warehouse’s car park the two men separated. Before they got more than ten yards apart the night sky was lit up as a searing fireball erupted from the warehouse sending them sprawling to the ground.

  Concrete and metal debris cascaded all around the car park as the two men rolled over to protect themselves from the blast. An orange and grey plume of smoke rose from where the warehouse had once been, gently rising up into the sky as the fire raged below.

  Scrabbling on their knees the two men took cover behind a low brick wall, pushing their backs against the protective barrier as a second smaller explosion tore through what was remaining of the warehouse’s aluminum structure.

  “You OK?” the driver said, wiping away some of the debris from the black combat gear he was wearing.

  “Yeah, I think so,” his partner replied, casting a look at the inferno raging behind them. “What the fuck happened?”

  “Beats me,” the driver replied. “The boss isn’t going to be happy though. He doesn’t like deviation from the plan. Not that it matters. No-one could have survived that.”

  Slipping his hand into his trouser pocket the driver pulled out his mobile phone and dialed the number he needed.

  “Is it done?” a clipped, familiar voice asked when the call was answered.

  “Yes sir, Mr Tate, the job’s complete. The warehouse has been destroyed…No, there are no survivors.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Michael Robertson woke in the familiar room. A room that had been his cell for 18 months.

  He knew he’d be free soon. Free to return to the life he’d once had.

  Their words, not his.

  Sitting up on the narrow uncomfortable bed he ran his fingers through his untidy dark brown hair before shaking his head in an attempt to purge the nightmare from his thoughts. It was the same nightmare he had every night - the moment he found Colette’s mutilated body in their bed.

  The duvet was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The sheets were stained crimson, barely a spot of white remaining. Colette was bound to the bed, her wrists fastened to the bedstead, her ankles taped together. Bloodied duct tape was pulled over Colette’s mouth, and what looked like a piece of rubber tubing was hanging limply from her swollen lips.

  Every morning he’d wake up, a cold sweat enveloping him, his heart racing until the images faded for another day.

  What a joke. How can I ever return to the life I had.

  His wife had been brutally butchered in the most horrific way imaginable. And if that hadn’t been bad enough it had been quickly followed by Clare’s disappearance, and the discovery of their cat, Harry, in the back garden, bludgeoned to death. On the night it all happened the mother of one of Clare’s friends was supposed to have picked his daughter up from her ballet rehearsal, an extra session her teacher had organised ahead of the performance at the weekend.

  Michael’s expression became more serious, a frown creasing his forehead, before he exhaled loudly, letting go of the anger that was slowly building. At the time all he could think of was that if the teacher hadn’t organised the extra rehearsal then Clare wouldn’t have been there, and she wouldn’t have been taken. Maybe then she would’ve still been alive.

  But he knew this was a false hope. If she hadn’t been at the rehearsal she would’ve been at home with Colette, and an even more unspeakable crime might have been committed against her. As it was, the police had discovered her body in a shallow grave in woodland not far from their home three days later. She’d been strangled. There’d been no sexual assault or mutilations, and that was one small thing to be thankful for he’d finally convinced himself. It had probably been quick, a fate that had been denied to Colette.

  Since her murder he’d discovered that the mother of Clare’s friend who’d been due to collect her the night she disappeared had received a phone call from a man claiming to be him, telling her he would collect his daughter. It was the reason why no-one had raised the alarm at the time, and why he hadn’t found out she was missing until after he’d discovered Colette’s body in their bedroom.

  But now was the time to return home, to what had been their family home. And two years on he knew he was lucky he still had a house to return to. The mortgage company’s patience had run out eventually. Their Life Assurance policy hadn’t been quite as comprehensive as he’d thought in the event of one their deaths. He’d only discovered a few months earlier that both sets of parents had agreed to continue paying his mortgage until he recovered and was back on his feet again. He doubted they would’ve thought it would be over two years before he returned home. But he was grateful for their help nonetheless.

  Scowling, he clenched his fists as his muscles began to ache once more from the tension, his anger welling up again. There was nothing for him to return to except violent memories.

  If the staff and counsellors at the care home called that freedom then they could damn well keep it.

  Why hadn’t they just let him die, just released him from the torture of constantly reliving what he’d seen in their bedroom?

  Why when they’d been pumping him full of sedatives and anti-depressants in his darkest hours hadn’t someone injected him with something that would have taken away the pain forever?

  Why hadn’t the monster who’d killed Colette and Clare taken him as well?

  As thoughts of all the things they’d taken threatened to overwhelm him he slapped himself sharply across his left cheek. If the staff at the care home saw him like this they might reconsider their decision to discharge him.

  Despite all the memories he would face, the thought of spending any more time here filled him with even greater dread. The whole atmosphere smothered him. It had done so from day one. The clinical white rooms and corridors, devoid of any personal objects or colour, and the bars on the windows to prevent the jumpers from escaping whatever trauma they’d experienced, only confirmed he hadn’t been able to cope.

  But who would have coped if they’d seen what I saw in our bedroom?

  He clenched his eyes shut for a few lingering moments as the bloody images faded.

  I’m better now. That’s why I’m going home.

  When he’d finished dressing there was knock on his door and Martin entered the small, austere room. A single bed occupied one end, with the clean lines of a Belfast sink directly opposite. A saggy and faded, but deceptively comfortable tweed armchair was on one side of the bed next to a tall, but narrow pine wardrobe. Other than that there were no ornaments, personal mementos, photographs or pictures on the wall. Just the magnolia decor suffocating the warmth from the room. And at times it had felt as if this non-descript cell was sucking the very life from Michael.

  But I’m better now. That’s why I’m going home.

  “Morning, Michael. All set for your big day?” he said cheerfully.

  Michael grunted in acknowledgement as his toothbrush entered his mouth.

  Martin was a few years older than himself. Forty-three he remembered him once saying. For all the time he’d spent in the care home Martin had been his counsellor. At first, they’d spoken about anything but what had happened. He’d talked about his own job in insurance, and then about Colette’s in computing and web technolo
gies. Details of how they’d first met, what had attracted him to her, their wedding, and the birth of Clare had helped fill the hours as he’d continually, successfully, dodged the real issues.

  And for months he pushed what had happened, what he’d seen in their bedroom, to the back of his mind, to the very edges of his thoughts. His denial had been stubborn and he hadn’t spoken about it.

  Until one day. He wasn’t sure what had been so special about that particular Tuesday.

  It was when he’d been ready, Martin had said.

  The memories finally came flooding forward and he blurted everything out in one torrential stream of consciousness. At first, it lifted a great weight from his mind and he’d believed he was coping with it. But within a few weeks the black edges of his violent memories began to return to every waking moment.

  Martin had spent hour after hour for months working with him, helping him so far. But he always said the final step on the road to recovery couldn’t be taken by a counsellor. It was up to him to stay on this ‘lost road’, as he put it, or seek out and find the way home.

  He sighed inwardly, hoping this time he was on the right road.

  “I’m ready,” he replied, gesturing to the suitcase sitting in the corner of the small white room.

  Martin smiled reassuringly. He had one of those faces that always seemed calm, on the brink of a warm smile, and never obviously troubled by anything. His tone was quiet, soothing, sometimes to the point of being soporific he’d found. The closest comparison he could make was the contented feeling that someone who’d found religion had, and how their faith seemed to have lifted their worries away.

  They’d never discussed religion, so he didn’t know if this assumption had any truth in it, or whether his demeanour was just something you learnt when you trained to be a counsellor. It didn’t really matter. Martin had been his crutch, his support since he’d come to the care home. And without him he would probably still have been drugged up to the eyeballs on sedatives and on suicide watch. He had a lot to thank him for.

  “How have you been sleeping? Any recurrence of your nightmare?” Martin asked, glancing at the packed suitcase.

  Michael turned away from his counsellor, supping some water from the sink as he pondered his response.

  Since it had happened he’d barely slept at all, instead counting each hour as they slowly passed through the night, every night. And when he could finally stay awake no longer, he never seemed to grab more than half an hour’s sleep in any one go. Insomnia had become one of his new friends since he’d lost Colette and Clare.

  For the short time he did manage to sleep it was always the same - his recurring nightmare. Each night he rediscovered Colette, tied to their bed, butchered virtually beyond recognition, her blood staining everything around her.

  In his daily sessions with Martin he’d always talked about the dreams, of some new detail he’d noticed about the scene, and his waking belief that he was hallucinating the whole ordeal and that Colette would be there beside him when he woke.

  But she never is.

  It was only after months of the same conversation and recollections with Martin that he’d realised he was never going to be discharged whilst his nightmare persisted. Each day Martin noted it down, and that was putting him even further away from release.

  In the end he’d begun lying, telling Martin the nightmare was becoming less vivid, less frequent. And sure enough when it ‘stopped’ all together, they began talking about him going home.

  “I’ve been sleeping fine,” he lied. “I haven’t had the nightmare for months. I’d have told you if I had.”

  Martin nodded, smiling continually.

  “I’m glad,” he said warmly, his gaze turning to the door. “Are you ready?”

  Michael nodded, his heart thumping heavily at his deception as he reached for his case, his resolve never to return to this room as strong as ever.

  “Let’s go,” he replied firmly.

  Reaching the bottom of the grand staircase curling up the middle of the care home Michael saw his parents shuffling nervously in the foyer. They’d promised to pick him up and take him home.

  Michael’s father, a man close to retirement, held out his hand and wore a thin smile. Despite the bravado of the handshake he knew the smile was as brittle as snow. The strain his parents felt wasn’t far beneath the surface, despite the reassuring expressions.

  Embracing his mother he looked into her aging face that was trying so hard to look strong, a forced smile cracking her pale foundation.

  Three of the staff who’d looked after him during his stay shuffled behind his parents, all wearing cheerful smiles.

  They must have got their training, or religion, from the same place as Martin he mused, smiling politely back. The four of them were the only people in the home he’d ever felt close too.

  The rest of the staff were just sadists, enjoying the little bits of power they had. Little Hitlers who relished forcing pills down reluctant patients’ throats. Revelling in the pain and suffering their very presence reinforced.

  It was only Martin, and the three other carers, Danny, Kate and Elizabeth, who he cared for in this pseudo prison.

  Danny, a young athletic black man who always seemed to be working out, winked at Michael.

  “We’re going to miss you, mate.”

  They would be the only ones he thought bitterly as a surly male nurse walked by, dealing a familiar glare in his direction.

  He couldn’t blame him really. He hadn’t been a model patient. In fact, he’d been downright objectionable at times. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d resisted his medication, hurling it across the room, demanding to be let of his virtual cell. In the end they’d grown tired of his antics, forcibly restraining him before pumping his arm full of an anti-depressive cocktail. And despite slipping away into semi-unconsciousness as the drugs had taken effect he’d never really escaped from his own personal hell. It was always there, lurking at the back of his mind.

  If the male nurse had seen what he’d seen, what he’d witnessed in their bedroom, he’d have understood why he’d behaved as he did.

  With some effort he held back the bloody images of the past and turned back to his parents. Now wasn’t the time for reflection.

  He beamed a false smile. Now was the time to go home.

  The light bulb was still missing. Two years on and no-one had replaced it Michael thought, reaching his front door again.

  Turning back to the car where his parents were sitting quietly he smiled weakly in their direction. They’d offered to come in with him but he’d declined, telling them he needed to return home on his own.

  The truth of it was he just wanted to be on his own. It was going to be hard enough returning to the scene of Colette’s death as it was. Trying to make ‘small talk’ with his parents as well was something he could do without for the time being. At first they’d tried to argue the point, but had relented when he’d promised to ring them in a few days.

  From the car his mother and father both waved back supportively as the vehicle pulled away, leaving him alone on his front step. Martin’s words rang in his ears. And he knew he was right.

  “The next step can only be taken by you.”

  Closing the front door behind him the hallway was just as he remembered it. The narrow hall table was where it always was. A few recent letters were stacked neatly on the surface.

  Just as Colette used to do.

  Exhaling loudly he was aware of an unfamiliar smell hanging heavily in the air. For a few brief moments his heart began to pound in his ears, propelling him back to that night. Closing his eyes he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. The smell was lavender. It wasn’t surprising he thought with a smile, it was his mother’s favourite scent. Doubtless she’d littered his house with various lavender air fresheners and pot pourri. It was just like being a child again he thought fondly.

  But in amongst the heavy smell of lavender he was sure he coul
d detect the slightest odour of disinfectant. The one remaining sign of what had happened in their house.

  Moving out of the hall he turned into the lounge. All of the furniture was neatly covered in dust sheets and, as his parents had explained, the whole of the house had been redecorated.

  New carpets. New wallpaper. And new furniture.

  Although they’d never come out and said it, they’d hoped by stripping out everything that had previously been in the house they could erase everything that had happened there. It was a kind idea Michael thought, surveying the covered furniture.

  If only it were that simple.

  Feeling his apprehension rise, he retreated out of the lounge, heading for the stairs and for their bedroom. The sooner he got it over with the better. Then, maybe, he could begin to get on with his life again.

  Reaching the top of the stairs his breathing became more rapid as he stared at their bedroom door which was closed. Just as it had been the last time he’d come home.

  With his heart pounding in his ears Michael reached for the door handle, turning it slowly. For a few long seconds he just stood in the doorway, eyes clenched shut, unable to move.

  Just open your eyes and do it. She’s gone. They’re both gone.

  Like the rest of the house, the bedroom had been completely redecorated. A small cream bowl of pot pourri was on the window sill, filling the room with the scent of lavender. The colour of the bowl matched the walls and carpet which were now inoffensively bland.

  Looking at the bed Michael fought back the tears, remembering the horrific scene he’d discovered in their bedroom previously.

  Admonishing himself for dredging up the past, Martin’s words echoed through his mind.

  “Remember the good times with Colette. Remember the beautiful woman you fell in love with.”

  Sitting on the side of the bed he slid open a bedside drawer. A wooden picture frame was face down, and he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for it.

  The three of them were on a sandy beach in the Bahamas. Clare was smiling and laughing as she buried Daddy further into the sand. Colette was standing behind them in her bikini, her dark brown hair blowing in the warm, gentle breeze. The most radiant woman on the beach.