by Lex Sinclair
When he had a small pile of dust and cobwebs, he scooped it up into a dustpan, which he poured into a black plastic bin-bag. After that, he cleared the window of more clingy cobwebs and dust, put the sweeping brush down, crossed the room to the bucket of soapy water, picked it up, took out the soaking yellow sponge and slapped it onto the pane of the glass. By the time he’d finished cleaning the rectangle window; sprayed the room with air-freshener and swept up dust from the joists and walls, the attic looked like an entirely different room. The haunted, deserted ambience gone.
Once he’d put the black plastic bin-bag outside, mopped the floor using the soapy water in the bucket and put everything away, Joe carried a fluffy red rolled up rug under one arm and a director’s chair under the other up the stepladder into the attic. He unfolded the chair and put it directly in front of the picture window, placing the rug in front where he rested his feet and looked outside at everything from his vantage point. From where he was positioned, Joe could see the whole street and the crescent of Drumma Mountain two miles away. He could also see cars and lorries shooting by on the M4, which looked like a tiny, yet realistic model set. He wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a giant child bringing his untied shoe down as hard as he could on the bridge, laughing aloud as it crashed onto the long stretch of road, vehicles braking, swerving, and doing their utmost to avoid the inevitable wreckage.
Staring down on Willet Close, Joe imagined this is what it must be like to be God. To see everything... without being seen.
An hour later, Joe brought a portable radio; a paperback autobiography of one of his opponents, who was now the reigning middleweight champion of the world, and also a bottle of diet lemonade and a large bag of Doritos. Then he got comfortable and begun watching his street below for any activity.
At 1:34p.m. Martha Claren, at number 5, came outside and watched Homer dart onto the front lawn, cock his leg up and empty his bladder, then run down his side of the street jumping over paving stones and pot plants into his neighbours front lawns, too. Then he would turn around and sprint back to his owner, who was shaking her head at him, pretending to be annoyed with him, unable to repress her smile, though.
Twenty minutes of playing and running about, chasing a miniature football, Martha called Homer inside, closing the door behind them.
At 2:03p.m., Hugh Green emerged from his house, lit a cigarette on his way down the street, ambling at a casual pace, exhaling blue smoke, which rapidly dissipated in the frosty air.
2:34p.m., a red-haired woman with freckles cycled into the street with a shopping bag hanging from her handlebars. She brought the bike to a halt at house number 8, disappearing into the narrow alleyway towards the back of her house. That had to be Sherri Douglas, the second-hand bookstore clerk Hugh had told him about, briefly.
Then at 2:47p.m. Joe sat up in his director’s chair, leaned forward so his face was almost touching the double-paned glass, and stared with keen interest at the young woman heading down the street, brushing the loose strands of her long black hair out of her eyes.
God, she was beautiful, he thought.
He racked his brains to recall if Hugh had mentioned anything about this woman, who emerged from house number 4, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember if he had or not. He would, however, do what he could to make her acquaintance in the very near future.
As the lady with the curvy figure rounded the corner out of sight, Joe felt a pang of guilt at watching his neighbours going about their daily business, while he was concealed. He had to be careful he didn’t become voyeuristic. One thing could lead to another, and before you knew where you were at, you were spying on someone getting undressed or mating with their lover.
He wouldn’t like it if someone was constantly watching him.
In spite of knowing what he was doing was immoral, Joe made no attempt to get up from his chair. Instead he remained seated, taking swigs of the diet lemonade and stuffing his face with Doritos.
Approximately an hour after he’d first laid eyes on the beautiful woman leaving the street, she returned holding a young girl’s hand. Her daughter, maybe.
Joe leant back in his chair. His heart sunk, even though he told himself that nothing was ever going to happen between him and his neighbour, simply because he’d become instantly attracted by her. The young girl was beaming, grinning from ear to ear. She had long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Seeing this beautiful woman and her adorable kid walking home made Joe think what might have happened had he and Jenna-Marie been blissfully happy and had had a child of their own.
But according to his ex-wife, all he cared about was his boxing career. When she’d said that to him on that fateful day, it cut through him like a knife through warm butter. It wasn’t true. Of course, he cared about his career. He didn’t want to lose to a fighter whom he could beat all because he was stressed out. But that didn’t mean when the time came to hang his gloves up, he didn’t want to start a family.
Now, it seemed, he didn’t have a choice.
Joe Camber would never have an offspring to love and care for; a child who could’ve lived a life of luxury, which he’d never had, until now. Something far more meaningful than any illustrious boxing career.
***
The sky purpled and the temperature plummeted as the diminishing sun slinked beneath the horizon. According to the weather report in South Wales, once darkness invaded the sky and evening turned into night there was a chance of snow.
Inspector Sark watched plumes of his breath dissipating in the air in front of him as he rubbed his frozen hands together to generate some warmth. He and his partner, Reeves had just visited Cathy’s parents to give them the earth-shattering news that their daughter and son-in-law had died.
Cathy’s father had opted to identify them, after both investigators delicately explained to him that she was scarcely recognisable. There was no really need for a relative to come down to the morgue and do such a thing, Sark thought, because crime scene investigators had come across Paul Sheldon’s wallet - still wadded with cash and credit cards - under a haystack in the barn where they were discovered. But the rules and regulations of the law stood, no matter what the condition on the unfortunate victim. Also, Cathy’s father was adamant that he see his daughter’s body, to be absolutely certain.
Sark tossed Reeves the car keys and got in the passenger side. He was too weak and tired to drive after the day he’d been through. He sunk into the seat, fastened his seat belt and closed his weary red-rimmed eyes. Reeves started the Ford Focus, turned the heater on, and then indicated prior to pulling out onto the main road, joining the rest of the rush-hour traffic on their way home, too.
They drove in silence for a good ten minutes. There wasn’t really anything to say. Both men were deeply depressed and pissed off, due to the fact that there was some homicidal maniac - or maniacs - wandering the streets, killing good people in the most ghastly of ways, and they were the ones who then had to give the news to the grieving relatives, whom quite literally crumbled before them.
Sark gazed out the passenger window, watching as specks of snow drifted down from the crystal clear night sky, a map of jewels.
‘No witnesses. No evidence. Absolutely nothing to give us any hindsight,’ Sark muttered, not taking his eyes off the winter flurry.
‘Not yet,’ Reeves answered, doing his utmost to remain optimistic. Yet, he was in the same frame of mind as his partner. At the crime scenes there had been nothing to give them any leads, no matter how remote they were. And, now they were both thinking the same thing: had all the residents of Thorburn Close whom had been kidnapped, also died? If the maniacal murderers had brutally killed Cathy and Paul Sheldon, without reason, what was to stop them killing the other missing persons’, too?
Contemplating such horrid thoughts made Reeves contort his face. He shook his head, as if the ideas he’d had were merely cli
nging to the roots of his hair; then focused on his driving before he ended up crashing the vehicle, not concentrating.
Reeves brought the Ford to a halt outside his partner’s house on Winifred Road, yanked the handbrake on, took his feet off the pedals.
Sark unfastened his seat belt. Then he looked at Reeves with eyes struggling to stay open.
‘I’ll pick you up in the morning, okay?’
Sark snorted derisive laughter. ‘Yeah, whatever... Or maybe you’d be better if you just didn’t bother. After digging all that fuckin’ paperwork up about those residents, where’ve we got ourselves? Huh? Nowhere, that’s where. Two dead bodies. Ribcages snapped like fuckin’ twigs; hearts ripped out of their chest, and unravelled skin crumpled in a heap like tarpaulin.’ Sark shook his head and forced a smile. ‘Yeah, you pick me up tomorrow, ‘cause I can’t wait for what the new day will bring. Who knows... perhaps tomorrow we’ll find all the other residents dead for the flies to eat.’
‘Come on, man. Don’t be a defeatist. It’s not our fault.’
Sark nodded. ‘No, it’s not our fault. But you try telling Cathy and Paul’s grieving relatives at the funerals that we tried our best, regardless of not getting any results. You’ll be lucky if they only break your nose.’
‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do, except hope and pray that these fuckers will slip-up soon. Which they will. You taught me that, remember?’
‘In the meantime, we’ve got to wait for someone else to die.’
‘Unless something else turns up,’ Reeves countered.
Sark patted his partner’s shoulder. ‘You’re a good detective. And a good friend. I’m sorry if I’m acting such an arsehole. It’s just I wish I didn’t have to stand by and watch some innocent person fall to pieces, hearing that someone very close and dear to them has been murdered to satisfy some psycho’s desires. No one wants to be the bearer of bad news. And yet, I know what those people are thinking when we arrive on their doorstep and ask if we can come to talk to them. you can see it on their faces. We may as well be the Grim Reaper.’
‘Have a nice hot bath - that’s what I’m gonna do. Have something warm to eat, watch some TV and go straight to bed. Just do anything that will take your mind off today. Wake up tomorrow with a clear head. Start afresh.’
Sark opened the door, slammed it shut. Then he waved as Reeves drove off into the night, unaware that would be the last time he’d see his friend and partner alive.
***
Reeves parked the car outside his luxurious two-bedroom flat in Seven Sisters. It was a lot colder in the countryside. Already the ground had frosted. The flakes of snow were falling much heavier and due to the ground being dry, it was sticking. And when it snowed up in the mountainside, it was nigh on impossible to go anywhere by foot, let alone by car.
He locked the front door behind him and pressed the four-digit code into the alarm. Then he flicked the hallway light on, hung his coat up, pulled his woolly gloves off and left them by his shoes.
Reeves padded into the kitchen, flicked the switch, opened the refrigerator, took out a microwave meal from the freezer compartment and cooked it for nine minutes. While he waited for his dinner to be nuked, he walked into the bedroom and got out of his grey suit and into his tracksuit bottoms and a Nike jumper.
Had Reeves not relied on the lights in the hallway and the kitchen to see what he was doing and hit the switch for the bedroom light he would have seen the four hooded figures standing next to each other in the furthest corner, almost invisible in the gloom.
Together they moved forwards, without making the slightest of sounds and seized Reeves by the collar of his jumper just as he whirled around to see them, his face a mask of alarm.
Less than nine minutes later the microwave beeped three times, signalling that the steaming, cheese and tomato pizza was ready to be served.
In the bedroom, four hooded figures stood in a circle over the body, drained of fluids. The ribs snapped, discarded pieces strewn on the carpet. The heart beating its last beat in the hands of the leader of the group. The flesh on his face now a healthy hue of life, a curved leer of blood-red teeth dripping liquid onto his wet lips, running down his chin.
His tongue was a serpent, not letting any of crimson mess leaking out of his thirsty mouth escape him.
He handed one of the acolytes Reeves’ heart, and watched him sink his teeth into it covetously, slurping the goodness, the life inside, until the heart was nothing but an empty, useless valve. The acolyte dropped the lifeless organ to the carpet and shook with revitalised energy rushing through his skeleton form, magically sheathing his bones in a moist layer, giving the impression of a decomposing cadaver returning to life.
The leader of the acolytes rose to his feet, taking the hands of the two nearest figures next to him, rejoining their exclusive circle of resurrection, and together, in complete unison, each and every one of them sent their spiritual strength to the centre of the circle. A brilliant radiance emanated from the cavity in Reeves’ chest and illuminated their grotesque countenances in pale yellow light. The blinding light spawned tendrils of vapour which drifted through the acolytes facial orifices, giving them a spiritual force far greater than anyone on the planet... far greater than anything mortal.
Gradually the light dimmed and was then sucked back into Reeves, as though he were the one who’d been giving the energy off in the first place. When all the light faded from the cosy bedroom was absent of the four hooded figures, only the pallid, shrivelled form sprawled out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling with wide, unblinking eyes.
Reeves would never get to taste the delicious cheese and tomato, still waiting for him in the microwave.
***
At the same time Reeves was being savagely killed in his flat in Seven Sisters, Sherri Douglas was wiping the lens of her wire-framed spectacles clear of smears, caused by her very own fingerprints.
Sherri Douglas was fifty-five, although she looked a good ten years younger according to her cordial neighbours and friends down at the public library. It was a very nice compliment to receive; however, Sherri wasn’t like most women, who were apparently on a never-ending quest to keep themselves looking any older than twenty-one; stocking their cupboards with all the anti-wrinkle and other cosmetics from Boots in the town centre. Instead, Sherri preferred to keep herself feeling young by going for long walks and doing hobbies she adored, such as reading. After all, having worked in WHSmith’s bookstore as a clerk for twelve years prior to the library; it was a part of her lifestyle. Yet even when she was younger, Sherri had been a bookworm. All her other friends spent their youths going out every weekend to clubs and pubs, dancing, getting drunk, having their ears perforated with the deafening music blaring out of the speakers until the early hours of the morning. Not Sherri, though. Sure, she tried it a couple of times. But after the first occasion, she’d only said yes to be polite with her friends. Then she’d start making excuses, faking a tummy bug, just so they’d go without her. Instead she’d spend her evenings either doing her college work or reading a good book with a steaming mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace.
Her spectacles cleaned, Sherri put them back on, opened her leather-bound tome titled Historical Welsh Tales of the Macabre and Mysterious. She discovered this old book wedged on top of the rows of other books in the bottom section on its side at the back, coated in cob-webs. The spine of the book had been turned the other way, as if someone had done it on purpose to conceal the title. When she’d tucked it under her arm along with a Shirley Jackson book and handed them over to Susan, the librarian, Sherri saw her friend’s face flush. Then when Susan scanned the books, Sherri noticed her hands were trembling. Sherri had asked what was wrong. But, of course, Susan pretended she didn’t know what Sherri was talking about. So Sherri said nothing more, picked her books up once they’d been stamped when her shift was finished
and exited the library to her car.
She riffled through the yellow, tobacco-stained pages, scanning the depictions, until she came across a story with the town Neath in it.
Good God!
There were some old black and white photographs of the town many years ago. It looked much different back in the early nineties, due to the fact that there weren’t half as many buildings erected, and the only way to see where in the town the picture had been taken was by looking at the familiar landscape.
There was a wide black and white photograph of the River Neath. Behind it was an embankment, then an empty flat area of land. Sherri gaped at the picture, not realising she was doing it. Because what she was looking at was the area of land that had since been built on where she now sat at this very moment.
Underneath the picture, small print stretched across the page.
This was the scene of many brutal killings and the burial grounds at the turn of the century.
Sherri couldn’t avert her gaze even if her life depended on it right then. She was quite literally transfixed at the photo, which showed nothing sinister of the sort. Perhaps the slayings of many victims she didn’t know, nor the reason why, was a fictitious yarn told to a generation of children at bedtimes, who would otherwise cross the river to the barrens where it was too dangerous to play, she thought.
Not even her mind sounded convinced with that lame excuse, she’d made up on the spot in order to not think about the alternatives.
At long last, she snapped out of reverie and stared at the top of the page where the supposedly true account of the events that unfolded on the land she currently sat began.
A part of her mind screamed at her to close the book now before it captivated her and she was unable to put it down. Yet the other part of her conscience cunningly reminded her that it was, after all, only a book. All she would be doing was reading. It wasn’t as if she’d be sucked into the photograph and be buried in the ground beneath her with the other rotting corpses. Sherri also knew that by now the library would have closed. She had possession of this tome for the whole weekend. There was no way she could not start reading it at some point between now and Monday morning. That’d be like locking an alcoholic up in an off-licence store all weekend and telling him not to drink any of the liquor.