by Sam Millar
When Shaw didn’t answer, it put Benson on a war footing. “It’s okay, you hiding away down here, not having to trek through all the shit out there, in the real world. The rest of us are doing our best to locate Jack’s son. What the fuck are you doing, Shaw? Playing the mad scientist?”
Sighing, Shaw stood, and then walked a couple of feet to the trolleys. A few seconds later, he gently removed the covering sheets, exposing fully the bodies beneath. It was a tender, delicate movement and Benson understood immediately that no matter how much death or how many bodies this grumpy old bastard had witnessed, he still retained a modicum of respect for the dead.
“Come closer,” said Shaw. “They won’t bite. I promise.”
“I’m fine, where I am,” said Benson.
“You’ll not be able to see anything from that distance. I want to show you something, up close and personal.”
Reluctantly, Benson moved his feet in front of each other, until he stood perilously close to the two bodies. For one horrible, heart-stopping moment, he had a vision, a vision that the bodies were his and Jack’s, sprawled out in some godforsaken landfill, a banquet for rats and insects. Finally, able to summon a few words, he asked, “Well? What is it?”
Shaw stared directly into Benson’s eyes. “Post mortems are a slow process owing to the necessity for thoroughness. One mistake by me and the killer’s mistake will never be discovered. Would you prefer the killer to escape justice because of your lack of patience? You think I don’t care about Jack’s son? Of course I damn well do. But unlike you, I can’t afford the luxury of being so irritatingly transparent.”
“I … well,” mumbled Benson, caught off-guard by Shaw’s outburst.
“For your information, both bodies were dumped, semi-buried within close proximity of each other—though at different times. The condition of this particular body”—Shaw pointed at the smaller of the two, with his index finger—“tells me that this was the first to be buried. Most of the skin is gone—caused by the elements and forest dwellers. Once the warmer weather arrived, the ice began to melt, pushing the bodies closer to the main stretch of water, allowing the fish to nibble and feast.”
“Fish? The ones in Alexander Lake?”
“Where else?”
Benson felt his stomach heave. Just a few weeks ago, he had done some late-night ice fishing, catching at least ten well-fed fish. The subsequent days saw him devour all ten. It made him wonder if more than fish had entered his mouth.
“Fish can be quite carnivorous when the occasion arises,” stated Shaw.
“Can we stop talking about fish?” asked Benson, believing he saw a ghost of a smile appear on Shaw’s lips.
“Very well, but let me show you something before you throw up all over my floor.”
Skilfully, Shaw dropped an object into a cleaning cloth. Little twists of his wrists and he appeared happy with the results, removing most of the darkened layer from the item.
“What is it?” asked Benson, slightly weary.
“Hold out your hand,” commanded Shaw, a teacher about to administer the cane to a naughty pupil.
Obediently but reluctantly, Benson complied, stretching out his massive hand while Shaw deposited something in it. The item felt strangely cold, yet warm and bizarrely disconcerting.
“What the hell is—?” Before he could say the last word, Benson knew exactly what is was; believed beyond a doubt the identity of its owner stretched out before him. His stomach did a little flip-flap and suddenly all of Jack’s words were coming back to him, clear as crystal, making him feel foolish and angry that he hadn’t known their relevance until it was too late. Far too late, he feared.
I shouldn’t be long, John … Long John …
Like a charging rhino, Benson ran through the doors, and up the first two flights of stairs, leaving a bewildered Shaw staring at the flapping doors.
Benson had never been fit, and over the last few years had piled on pounds of extra fat, lying to himself that, once retirement came, he would have plenty of time to get into shape.
He reached the third flight of stairs, out of breath, feeling dizzy, sweating like cheese. His heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest, sending tiny bolts of electricity up his left arm. He rested his back against a wall, desperately trying to obtain an intake of air, managing only to slither down the wall, unceremoniously, on to his large arse, as he felt his face redden and swell like a red balloon being given too much air.
Get up, you fat waste of space. Do something right for a change. Stop fucking moaning …
Sucking in beautiful air, Benson willed himself to stand and crash through the barrier of pain like a whale surfacing from the sea. Within seconds, he had slammed through the doors of Wilson’s office, startling the superintendent.
“What the hell! What do you think you’re doing, barging in like this, Benson?” asked Wilson, quickly regaining his composure, shuffling papers at the desk.
“It’s Jack, Superintendent. He’s in danger.” Benson sucked in the stale, smoky air. “I believe he’s gone to the Grazier place. He thinks … he thinks his son is there, held by Jeremiah Grazier and Joe Harris, our main suspects in the—”
“I warned Calvert to keep his nose out of police work. I also warned you about getting involved with him.”
“Yes, yes, I know, you do a lot of warning. Right now, Superintendent, I couldn’t give a monkey’s tit about your warnings. I need permission to get a chopper into the air immediately.”
Momentarily taken aback, Wilson simply stared at Benson.
“I would be very careful of how you speak to me, Detective Benson. Your retirement is coming very—”
“The chopper. Now.”
Wilson fluffed himself up like a peacock.
“There will be no chopper. Not now; not ever. Calvert can stew in his own mess. Now, I advise you to turn—”
Leaning over the desk, Benson forced his face in towards Wilson’s. “If anything should happen to Jack Calvert, I will hold you personally responsible, you desk-eating piece of cowardly shit. I’m going to make sure every newspaper in the country knows that you had a vendetta against him because you were envious of his courage, while you for the last twenty years hid behind a desk, brown-nosing your way up the fucking ladder. Now, do I get that chopper or not?”
“Get out! You’re finished here, just like your friend! I’ll make sure that both you and—”
Benson slammed the door, shaking wood and glass, before making his way towards the front exit.
“Sir?” a young voice called after Benson, trailing behind him.
Benson ignored it until its owner caught up with him, tapping his back.
“What?” snarled Benson.
“I’m … I’m Johnson, sir. You saved me from being dismissed from the force, last week.”
“Johnson? Oh, Starsky. Where’s your shadow, Hutch?”
“Taylor, sir. He’s been given traffic duty for two months.”
“Rightly so. Next time, neither of you will be so fucking lucky. Anyway, nice chatting. Now, if you don’t fucking mind, I’m in a hurry.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing the … conversation you had with Superintendent Wilson, sir.”
“Couldn’t you? Worth the watching, aren’t you? Well?”
“I think … I think I can be of assistance to you, sir.”
“What? You be of assistance to me? What are you mumbling about? Spit it out, lad.”
“Fly, sir. I know how to fly.”
For the first time in days—weeks, possibly—Harry Benson smiled. It was a fatherly smile.
“I always said you young cops could teach us old dogs a few tricks. Let’s go, lad.”
Less than ten minutes later, Benson and Johnson were airborne, though the older cop was wondering what he had walked into, feeling the chopper jerk a few times in midair.
“Are you sure you know how to fly this thing, Johnson?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been taking flying lessons, in a
light aircraft.”
“A light … for fuck’s sake … just keep your eyes on the road—or whatever it is you’re supposed to keep them on up here.”
The chopper narrowly avoided hitting the roof of a nearby factory, before panning away from the city entirely. A few minutes later, it eventually steadied—as did Benson.
“You know, you’re going to be in the shit with Superintendent Wilson, taking me to the air, lad, going against his orders?”
“No, sir. I didn’t hear Superintendent Wilson’s orders. I was just obeying yours.”
Benson smiled. “Crafty sort of bastard, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Forty
“Ultimate horror often paralyses memory in a merciful way.”
H.P. Lovecraft, The Rats in the Walls
“INEVER KNEW my parents, having spent most of my life in an orphanage. Orphanage? Another euphemism. Prison, a more truthful word,” said Judith, so softly that Jack could barely make out the words. “The man in charge of that particular hellhole was called Albert Miles. Or, as the children in his custody called him, Mister Spittle.” Judith’s lip curled slightly, as if she were smelling sour milk. “Not a day passed that we didn’t endure some sort of abuse—mainly sexual, from the respected Mister Spittle.” She reached her hand into the cage and, like a magician, produced another rabbit. “Mister Spittle was just beautifully handsome in an almost delicate way, the kind of man you could almost call pretty, a gentleman to his friends and loving family. Oh, how he loved that family.” A muscle in her pale face flitted for a moment. Her eyelids drooped half shut while her eyes went flat. She gripped the rabbit, tighter. “I can still see him, every night, undoing his belt buckle, allowing his greasy trousers to slide down his bony legs.” The rabbit dangled, twitching violently on invisible strings. She opened its stomach, making it suffer horribly while it squirmed in her hand. It stopped once she slit its throat.
Judith stared at Jack, challengingly, almost daring him to say a word. Something was happening to her eyes. They were becoming clearer, as if a curtain had been removed. They were morphing into someone else’s.
The eyes. Where have I seen them? In the wedding photos in Harris’s cottage, yes; but some place else. Think …
“Do you know why we called him Mister Spittle? He had to spit on his hand to smooth his entry into our arses, did Mister Spittle. Sometimes, when he was drunk, he didn’t even bother to try and wet our arses, always taking us from behind, like a purse-snatcher.”
The eyes. Think, you stupid bastard. Think …
“Mister Spittle bred rabbits as a hobby, donating them to the ‘Save the Orphans Organisation’.” An eerie-sounding laugh jumped from Judith’s throat. “Every Saturday night, he put on a show for some of the selected children in the orphanage, forcing them to watch rabbits fuck one another. He called me his little rabbit, did Mister Spittle—his sweet little rabbit whose sweating skin resembled stardust. Said he would teach me how to fuck like one.” Dropping the dead rabbit at her feet, Judith reached for another. “‘There is nothing so sweet as a child of pliant age,’ he would whisper into my ear, as he forced his cock into me, from behind, pulling on my ears like a bunny rabbit.”
The eyes. Oh, dear lord …
Now he remembered. Jack tried desperately to stop the blood rising in his head. It was throbbing, uncontrollably, like the warning of a volcano about to erupt. “You … you’re the little boy, in the photographs … the little boy with the tortured eyes.”
Chapter Forty-One
“… one must have the courage to dare.”
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment
JOHNSON HOVERED THE chopper near the edge of the Graziers’ land, instructed by Benson to do so.
“Little point in reducing the element of surprise, Johnson. I’m sure the Graziers have heard us, anyway,” said Benson, scanning the vastness of the land with his binoculars. But what if there is no surprise? What if I’m wrong? What if Jack isn’t here—never was?
The chopper slumped suddenly like a slate falling from a roof.
“Easy, lad,” growled Benson, grabbing the passenger seat tightly while his stomach parked somewhere in his throat. “This isn’t a bloody video game.”
“Sorry, sir. I was only trying to get the chopper to—”
“There!” yelled Benson, relief pouring through. “Down there, to the left. That’s Jack’s car. I’d know that piece of junk anywhere. Even from up here, it’s a bloody eyesore.”
The car had been left stranded, beside a hill, hiding itself close to the battered pathway leading directly on to the Graziers’ land.
“Oh yes.” Benson smiled, picturing Jack, binoculars in hand, taking the advantage afforded him by the hill’s height. “You sneaky old bastard, Jack.”
“Should I go in first, sir, once we land? I topped the performance league at the Academy’s shooting competition.”
“Did you indeed? Well, these aren’t cardboard cut-outs that we’re after, lad. These bastards can shoot back. No, you just follow my instructions. No heroics. Play this right, and we’ll both be tucked in our beds, tonight, safe and sound. Everything by the book. Understand?”
“Anything you say, sir,” said Johnson.
“By the bloody book,” reiterated Benson.
Chapter Forty-Two
“We come out of the dark and go into the dark again …”
Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
JUDITH DID NOT acknowledge Jack’s statement about the photos, simply continued talking. “Night after night, Mister Spittle would force himself on the little rabbit. The little rabbit couldn’t breathe. Would no one help? Do they hate the little rabbit that much? Please. Someone, somewhere, help. But no one ever listened—especially Mister Spittle’s loving wife and children. Even God shut his eyes when it suited. Oh, the little rabbit learned a lot in that fucking hellhole.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of what you and the rest of the children must have gone—”
“Talking. Talking fucking talking! You are correct: you could never imagine the horror, Mister Talking Policeman. How can you imagine having your cock and balls pulled so hard, that they are damaged beyond repair, useless, like a eunuch’s and that only a sex change can save you? Perhaps if I cut off your cock and balls, then you could begin to imagine?”
Jack grimaced.
Shaking her head, Judith continued. “How can you begin to imagine what it’s like to be raped at will by an upstanding and respected member of the community, day in and day out, thinking it’s all your fault, that you must have done some terrible thing in the life before and that this is God’s punishment for it? No, you can never imagine.”
A couple of rabbits whispered in the darkness. The old freezer hummed. It sounded like it was ready to give up the ghost. It sounded like it was whispering, also.
“You are right. One hundred per cent,” said Jack. “I only hope that the perpetrator was arrested, and finally brought to justice. I believe people like that need to be put away for a very long time, never to be allowed to commit their evil acts again. I truly do.”
Judith looked beyond Jack when she spoke, her eyes glazed, as if looking at a film being shown on the opposite wall.
“Justice? There is no such animal, Mister Truly Do.”
“There are other conduits, Judith. The proper authorities—”
“So, it’s Judith, now, Mister Calvert?” Judith smirked. “Trying the Stockholm syndrome? Don’t waste your time. Are you familiar with the work of Artemisia Gentileschi, her rape?”
Jack nodded, slightly. “Yes.”
“Then you know what happened to Artemisia when she brought the charge to the proper authorities?” hissed Judith, disdainfully. “The so-called trial was a painful public humiliation for Artemisia. During the proceedings, she underwent vaginal examination and torture with thumbscrews, to establish the veracity of her evidence. She was accused of being unchaste when she met Tassi,
and also of promiscuity. But even the male-dominated court had no other choice once the mountain of evidence was produced and came tumbling down on top of them. Tassi was found guilty. He was given the choice of five years’ hard labour or exile from Rome. He opted for the latter, but was back in Rome within four months. Was that justice?”
“No, of course not.”
“The heroines of Artemisia’s art are powerful women exacting revenge on male evildoers. Do you recall what Judith did to the Assyrians’ military general, Holofernes, once she had seduced him in the tent?”
A stone of fear moved in Jack’s stomach, sliding downwards like acid. He could feel hot blotches blooming on his neck. He wanted badly to scratch the blotches, dig his nails deep into them.
“Yes, I know the story.”
“When I met Mister Spittle, deliberately, years later, in a downtown bar, he didn’t recognise me in my new body, even though he more than anyone had contributed to my sex change.” Judith smiled bitterly. “His wife had left him—belatedly—and he was nothing more than a lonely old perv. Do you know, he still kept all the photos of me and the other unfortunates, wrapped in tiny shoe boxes, just like the prisoners we were, all those years ago?” Sweat and snot pooled over Judith’s upper lip. She did not attempt to wipe it.
The noise in the shed, for Jack, was suddenly becoming unbearable. The rabbits were screaming louder, smelling the blood of their butchered comrades. They sounded like a million children in orphanages, screaming for help. Help that would never come. The freezer, seemingly not to be outdone, hummed even louder, like a dentist’s drill in Jack’s teeth.
“I took Mister Spittle back here, to my house, and made him strip, filling his head with all manner of sexual perversion. He confided in me that he couldn’t have normal sex, but I reassured him that after that night, he would never have to worry about that again.” Judith was breathing heavily, as if performing a seance, or a bizarre exorcism. “I bent him over the bed, fondling his cock, getting him as hard as the steel rod in my other hand. His arse resisted for a while and I had to use my finger, initially, just to start the wonderful journey. That did the trick. He loved that little part, I think, just between you and me, but little did he know that soon he would have more than a little finger poking in there. I was even generous in my use of spittle before I rammed the steel rod home, watching his spine straighten with the pain.” She was breathing heavier now, her bare breasts swelling abnormally. “I should have had a camera, just for old times’ sake, for posterity, when the coldness of the cut-throat touched his hot sac, startling him even further. Then I whispered in his ear how his skin glistened like stardust—I will never forget the look on his face at those words, or the sound he made staring at his balls on the floor, as he grasped, too late, that the coincidence of our meeting was not chance, but an inevitable consequence of a desire for revenge.”