by Matt Drabble
The woman spoke, “You will wait Sam, you will wait until I allow you to venture”
Sam flicked his tongue out and licked the running blood from his face with an eager maniacal grin pinching his face; he closed his eyes to savor both the blood and the pain brought from the strike. “Whatever you say Lucy”, he words spoke, but his eyes merely whispered “For now”.
DI McCullum sat sunk within the pubs sagging sofa, it was around 5pm, he sat an island amongst his companions, the last place that he felt like being was drinking in a bar surrounded by men and women who seemed to feel that all of life’s solutions could be found at the bottom of a lager glass. They had begun the afternoon session by toasting the young DC’s memory but this had soon degenerated into a cacophony of homophobic references to the detective’s choice of exit door. The morning had hazily swept by McCullum as the police machinery had spluttered into motion, officers carried out their functions in connection with their fallen comrade, burying their emotions beneath a paperwork barrier. As the last person to speak to DC Thomas, McCullum had been subsequently grilled by his immediate superior DCI Rhys Jones, a barrel-chested barrel-bellied red faced man in his mid fifties. Jones had made what seemed to McCullum as a genuine attempt at sincerity in his questioning, but his lack of intelligence and technique merely left McCullum with an even lower opinion of his superior and genuine concern for his affectability. Next up was a meeting with Superintendent David Irving, a ramrod straight officer that ran the Cardiff office, faced with the abilities of many of his peers McCullum had the utmost respect for his commanding officer and held him in very high regard. Several times already in his short Cardiff career McCullum had been taken aside by his CO to have the benefits explained to him of the socialising aspects of the team and the unfortunate alcohol fueled nature of such events. McCullum despised the stereotypical boozing nights out, he had no wish to bond with men and women that he had nothing more than distain for, he felt anchored by their lack of intellectual abilities as far as the detecting side of their profession was concerned and worried that eventually he would be dragged into their malaise. And yet here he sat, amid the stale tobacco and barely concealed vomit smell, the neon flashing of inane fruit and quiz machines and the depressing mutterings of his workmates, desperately wishing that he could melt away un-detected. He continuously toyed with the small white business card that lay dormant in his pocket, he had scooped up the card from its resting place upon the office floor whilst others ghoulishly gawped from the window at the remains of their friend scattered across the pavement below. Mysteriously to himself he had yet to decide whether or not to mention the card or the young DC’s final words to him to DCI Jones or even to Chief Inspector Irving, the name and the phone number along with the strewn Beck’s file held answers to questions that McCullum was only just beginning to fathom and he was not sure that he could trust anyone in his department for help or discretion, it was not that he suspected anyone of nefarious intentions, just that they could only balls an investigation up and grind it to a halt.
Eventually the gathering, such as it was, began to thin, McCullum had played his part of fitting in well enough now to satisfy the most members of the team, they had just begun to allay their stares of suspicion, McCullum was by no means accepted yet, but at least he was on the road. He was slipping toward the door when DCI Jones slapped him a little too vigorously to be accidental on the shoulder, he breathed sodden whisky fumes into McCullum’s face.
“Well now tight arse, you look a little too sober for my liking Bach”, the DCI stood a little too close for McCullum’s taste, the invasion of personal space most definitely deliberate. “Still think that we’re not good enough for you?, nobodies pulled that stick out you’re arse yet?” the portly man chuckled at his own wit, McCullum used up the majority of his self control in not pushing the DCI’s face through the nearest window.
“Not me boss, I could drink any of you fuckers under the table, no mistake” McCullum added a slight slur and with comic timing to rival Chaplain carefully fell over a small low table making sure to send every drink flying. The pub roared with boorish delight as McCullum lay soaked on the floor inwardly hating himself, not just for the act but for the justification he tried to convince himself of. The alcohol fueled brain of DCI Jones struggled to process the events and McCullum found himself waiting an age for the inevitable laughter from the fat man, eventually it came loud guffaws that struck cruel blows at McCullums self esteem. Finally the DCI helped him to his feet with shoulder slaps that now appeared at least to be genuine, even this victory was of small consolation to McCullum.
“That was priceless son, priceless”, Jones roared, “You’ll never live that down”.
McCullum left the bar on a wave of good natured ribbing and cat calls, he made sure to stagger as he exited into the cold evenings embrace resulting in more calls to “Be Careful” and “Watch his step”.
He took a deep breath on the outside and tried to slowly release the urge to charge back into the pub and just start swinging career be damned, he slowed his heart rate to around normal and headed for the station to retrieve his car, a little drink driving could only add to his image as one of the lads. He once again took out the small business card and turned it over in his hands, the cool paper rustled beneath his fingers, he stood and weighed his options, the incident with DCI Jones had only convinced him further of the mans incompetence. Jones would most definitely be a hindrance, it was already obvious that DC Thomas’ suicide would be swept under the carpet as a recruitment embarrassment and if McCullum went above DCI Jones’ head to Chief Inspector Irving he no doubt invoke the wrath of the one man that he actually had respect for, Irving, despite Jones’ obvious faults was a stickler for the book and ignoring the chain of command for what seemed at the minute like a relatively small matter of a pissing contest between two senior detectives was not a good idea. McCullum decided there and then to take the suicide onto his own broad shoulders and follow it wherever it may lead him, he placed the card securely into the back of his wallet and headed home to change and to begin.
CHAPTER IV
LED BY THE NOSE
“The harvest is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.”
Matthew 13:39
The dull early evening was lit by the brash neon glow of the cities shop fronts, some closed for business at this hour, others enticing the cities inhabitants with various recreations. Queen Street was the pedestrianised centre of the city, the businesses engulfed the paved reservoir that lay between them as they rose high on both sides, a dense materialistic vacuum. Baine sat wearily upon a wet bench as the late shoppers hurried by, their existence now seemed irrelevant and their prized bagged clutchings ridiculous. His one dimensional world had been soiled, he had been content with his direction and purpose, now he felt used and cheap. In a game where he had thought himself atop the food chain, he had now been shown that he was merely a pawn on someone else’s board.
The unknowing sheep ran before and around him, hurrying in their lives, eager to move and to grab, to gain and to lose, he had thought himself a wolf amongst these creatures, the realisation that he was only a sheep of a different nature bit hard against his ego.
A woman caught his eye as she strutted toward him, an aroma of arrogance and confidence radiated from her in waves, she looked in her late twenty’s slim and athletic, dressed with an assurance in a power suit that hugged at all the right curves, her heels clicked and clacked on the pavement floor. Her footsteps slowed, Baine looked up with annoyance, the last thing he wanted right now was any company regardless of how hot the company was, the woman’s expensive shopping bag purchases swung alongside her strut, the bag’s swing slowed as she approached, in spite of himself Baine watched her smooth toned legs draw near.
Suddenly Baine realised that everything and everyone had slowed, pedestrians were now walking in slow motion and getting slower, pumping legs and hurrying feet were now wading through quicksand, the maddening pul
sating throb of the neon shop signs had now become a low pitched constant drone. Baine stood, all of his self indulgent thoughts had dimmed his senses and left him vulnerable, everything around him had now come to a complete stop, the artificial illuminations of the shop fronts danced in the frozen drizzle. A sudden movement threw Baine back out of his head and into the moment, a flash of light flew to his side, Baine spun to his right but his outstretched had passed through thin air, suddenly he felt a blow coming but was shocked to find that he could not move fast enough. A force exploded in his back, he staggered forward and barely avoided sinking to his knees, he span around to face his assailant but again saw nothing. The same blurring force then detonated on the left side of his ribs, this time he did sink to the floor as the air was painfully forced out of his lungs and he groped for a breath. The flash of movement again came from behind him, immediately a blow struck the right hand side of his face and he fell on his back to the floor, the coppery taste of blood beginning to run into his throat.
Baine rolled over to a kneeling position and tried to stand, what felt like a knee caught him squarely on the jaw lifting him up for an instant before a force on his chest sent him crashing him down hard once again, the motionless world swam before his eyes as he fought to stay conscious. The flashing light finally slowed and before his glazed eyes, a tall thin man emerged from the glow, he stood over Baine’s prone horizontal position,
“You’re him?”, the mans voice was highly pitched and scratchy, “You’re Baine?, I must say my man you’re a real disappointment, what a letdown” the thin man glided over shaking his head with exaggerated regret.
The figure was around five feet tall, a skinny skeleton of a man whose features were old and wrinkled, his whole body seemed to be in perpetual motion, his limbs and features were ghosting, a second version of himself, a pale grey photocopy of every movement shadowing the solid forms actions. The man looked in his sixties, encased in brown slacks, a ratty brown jumper and a filthy looking raincoat, dirty grey hair hung lank and wild around his face.
The man dropped into a sitting position across Baines chest, his arms folded across his reedy chest,
“You know I can’t believe that I thought this would be difficult, brother you are some let down”, the man leant forward to look into his fallen adversaries face,
“When they told me that…” the thin man tried to talk but somehow the words would not come out, mainly thanks to the fact that Baine’s right hand was now firmly clamped across his throat. Baine stood taking the thin man with him, anger and indignation caused spittle to fly from the thin mans mouth as Baine exerted pressure on his grip, he pulled the tin man in close,
“Son, did you ever pick the wrong day to pull this shit”, Baine growled.
The Nephilim began to squirm with startling speed, he became a blur of light, Baine felt his grip loosening as the man whirled and vibrated with increasing acceleration. Baine made a snap decision, with one fluid movement he released the thin mans throat and passed his arm over the mans left shoulder, he snaked to the right crooking the thin mans head in his armpit and bending him backwards, he now held the head in a reverse headlock, Baine sank downwards with the Nephilim, his left knee hit the floor and his right knee drove into the thin mans spine whilst at the same time flexing his bicep into the mans throat and pulling his head down snapping the thin mans neck in an instant. Baine released a dissipating light into the evening air, the world snapped back into its movement, he found himself crouched upon the wet pavement the damp seeping into his left knee, he stood and straightened, he cracked his neck and began to smile, warming to his future after all.
McCullum sat tired and heavy, the last twenty four hours weighed deeply on his shoulders, the fruitless search had baulked him at every turn, he had found himself banging against an impenetrable wall. He had tried every angle that he could think of, the name Baine did not appear on any records, not a single arrest sheet, caution form, court document or upon any other paper trail within the police filling system. The phone number had originated from a pay as you go mobile that he was informed was no longer in service, with no way to trace the phone McCullum had ground to a complete full stop. The death of DC Thomas was well on the way to being pronounced a suicide, the murders of Sinclair and his two thugs were being investigated in not exactly the most rigorous fashion, common consensus seemed to be that they only got what they deserved and the police had been spared the cost of an inevitable prosecution. McCullum did not in any way care about the deaths of three scumbags but he did care about the integrity of his profession and as corny as it might seem he held his warrant card as a beacon of light in a crappy world. He had been met with only indifference and apathy as he tried to mount an effective investigation and DCI Jones had only smirked at his efforts as if the very idea of tracking down the killers of three men from questionable backgrounds was a non-starter from the get go. In his short time here McCullum had already learnt the painful lesson of this particular system and the harder he had fought against it the harder his job had become to be an effective officer.
So here he sat in his own time, the cold autumn day was already in retreat, the skies colours had wrestled valiantly against the tug of dusk but had now retired gracefully. Snow Drop Drive was a pleasant sounding name that was matched by the picturesque setting of the small Cul-De-Sac, well kept detached houses with neatly mowed lawns and well kept drives lined the homely street. The immaculate streetlamps flowed on it a well rehearsed movement that swept along the road revealing its darker corners. McCullum sat amidst the warmth of his car eager to leave this suburban crook and not for the cold summit that lay ahead at number 23. He placed his hand reluctantly on the door latch the cool metal felt slick under his sweaty fingers, he closed his eyes to steel himself against the evening’s fun and games, with a final short sharp exhaling breath he opened the door and stepped out into the evening.
He had parked a few doors down from number 23 knowing that the odds were against his being able to merely pull up and step straight out, he knew that he would need a while to harden his emotion for what lay ahead. The gate pulled open reluctantly with a harsh scrape that seemed to be amplified amongst the quiet calm, as he approached the front door he released himself with every step, leaving behind Brendon and slipping over his DI McCullum coat, he reached out and pressed the doorbell, the happily enthusiastic chime rang out outwardly mocking the situation. Slow footsteps approached the front door, the obscured frosted glass silhouette raised a sluggish hand to open the door, a small middle aged woman’s broken hearted face stared blankly out at him, McCullum spoke, “Mrs. Thomas, my name is DI Brendon McCullum, I knew your son”, DC Arwel Thomas’s mother moved aside and granted him entry to her home and to her grief.
The house was sour plain and simple, the despair and sorrow was palpable, McCullum followed in the woman’s footsteps as she led him into the living room. The entrance hallway was lined with framed photographs of DC Thomas, a mothers pride signified with symbols of pleasure in her son’s life journey through the captured images. Photos of a young Childs happy smiling face radiating simple pleasures wearing various childhood uniforms through to graduation pictures of a young adult still holding a rare sense of optimism despite the police uniform. Despite being twenty six Arwel had still been living at home and his presence still floated throughout the house, from his large pairs of shoes cluttering the hallway to his coats that dwarfed his mothers on a narrow coat rack that now hung limply on the wall. From his file McCullum had ascertained that Arwel had lost his father nearly ten years ago to a heart attack, another example of a hard working hard living man whose body clock had worn out prematurely leaving a bewildered family behind. From asking around the station McCullum had picked up that Arwel was a conscientious officer often derided for a lack of eagerness in partaking of the customary alcohol fuelled recreations, needless to say that McCullum instantly identified with this. Many of the young detective’s colleagues had expressed opinions that ranged from
friendly to somewhat hostile, from intelligent and capable to a bit of a mummy’s boy and a “shirt lifter”.
The ghost of a mother had led him through to the lounge and ushered him to a sofa, the room was carefully decorated with striped peach wallpaper with the obligatory dado rail slashing across the centre of the wall, the carpets were beige and fairly old but well kept, a small television sat apologetically in the corner of the room, the room was dominated by a large Welsh dresser on the back wall that towered imposingly. McCullum sat into the green plush sofa, Mrs. Thomas sat wringing a well worn and used handkerchief in her small birdlike hands, she raised her heavy head and looked expectantly at McCullum, her wet and red rimmed eyes searched his for answers and meaning. McCullum steeled himself and began,
“Mrs. Thomas I know that no words can ever be appropriate in situations like this, I can only say how sorry I am for your loss”, he explored her face to make sure that he was registering through what must have been a doctor’s administered chemical stupor.
“I know that this must be an impossible time for you, I can only offer one thing and that is to find answers”.
At this her face twitched in recognition for the first time a flicker of comprehension, she spoke.
“Did you know my Arwel?” her voice was strained but strong.
“Not as well as I would have liked I’m afraid, I am fairly new to the area, but your son was held in the highest esteem by everyone that I have spoken to”.
“Yes he was”, she answered immediately, it was a statement that held no opportunity for debate or contradiction. “He was always such a good boy” she continued, “After his father passed Arwel stayed with me, he liked to take care of me, he could have had his pick of any of the young women of the parish, but he knew his place and his obligations”, McCullum followed her eyes to yet another photograph of a smiling Arwel Thomas that hung from the wall, her eyes moistened once more.