White Is the Coldest Colour

by John Nicholl

  He toyed with the idea of allowing the driver to continue his journey, but he was still at the stage of his career when exercising his legal authority remained something of a novelty. He flicked on the blue lights, and signalled to overtake without giving the matter any further thought.

  As the police car pulled alongside the van, both Galbraith and Davies were frantically pulling off their surgical gloves and tearing at their paper overalls. Galbraith had just thrown his over the back of the seat into the rear, when Harris parked the police car directly in front of the van.

  Galbraith braked hard, pulled up next to the curb, retrieved the syringe, attached the needle and rapidly prepared the injection. ‘If the pleb goes anywhere near the back of the van, get out and keep him talking. Distract him and leave the rest to me. Do not fuck this up for me, Gary. Any slip-ups, and death will be the least of your worries.’

  Davies was nodding yes, but his eyes were screaming no. He meant it. The maniac meant it. Perhaps being arrested wasn’t such a bad option in the circumstances. At least it would be over. He’d be alive. Maybe he could warn the pig in some way? That would go down well in court. But hold on, what if Galbraith still managed to stick him with the needle?

  Harris turned off the engine, put his cap on, and approached the van’s driver’s side door, just as the doctor was winding his window down to receive him.

  ‘Evening, Constable, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Name, please?’

  The doctor replied, ‘Wayne Fisher,’ without turning his head to face the officer.

  ‘What’s the purpose of your journey, Mr Fisher?’

  ‘That’s not really your business, is it Constable?’

  ‘Driver’s licence, insurance and MOT certificate, please.’

  Galbraith tightened his grip on the steering wheel. ‘I keep my documents at home.’

  ‘Control room to PC 143, come in, please.’

  The young constable took a step forward, leant against the van, and placed his head partially through the open window. ‘I need to speak to my control room, please stay in the van.’

  ‘PC 143 to base, go ahead please.’

  ‘The registered keeper is a Wayne Fisher. He’s known, but not currently wanted. The van is not reported stolen. I repeat, not reported stolen.’

  Harris placed the radio back in the top pocket of his navy tunic, and took out a pen and a small beige booklet of forms. ‘I’m going to issue you with a HORT1, Mr Fisher. It requires you to produce your documents at a police station of your choice within five days. Failing to produce them within that timescale is an offence under the Road Traffic Act.’

  The doctor took the newly completed form from the officer’s outstretched hand. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, Constable?’

  ‘You can go on your way. But don’t forget those documents.’

  Galbraith and his quivering collaborator sat in stunned silence as they watched the young officer drive away. The doctor concluded that fate had intervened to enable him to continue his important work. Davies, in contrast, was conflicted. Part of him was relieved, but on the other hand, a cell may have been preferable to an ongoing relationship with the doctor.

  Galbraith drove on and parked directly outside his impressive three-storey home. The convenience seemed to outweigh any potential risk, given the early hour and the police car’s recent departure.

  Davies pulled Anthony’s unconscious body from the rear of the van by his feet, lifted him onto one shoulder, walked up the granite steps, and waited by the front door, while the doctor scrambled into the back of the van collecting the gloves, pieces of overall and everything else they’d taken with them. Galbraith lowered himself onto the road with the bag in one hand and the front door key in the other.

  Cynthia Galbraith had been awoken by the commotion, and was peering out from behind her bedroom curtains, as Galbraith unlocked the front door, enabling Davies to carry Anthony into the Georgian house. Wasn’t that a boy the man was carrying? Why would they be bringing a child into the house? Perhaps he’d been involved in an accident. She really should go downstairs to help, shouldn’t she? No, if he was hurt, he was in good hands. And her husband certainly wouldn’t welcome her interference.

  Cynthia returned to bed and lay perfectly still, listening intently for any clues that may explain why a young boy, with short cropped hair and wearing pyjamas, had been carried into her house by a man she didn’t know in the early hours of the morning. Her confusion intensified still further when she heard the unmistakable sound of the Welsh dresser being pushed aside in the kitchen. Was the boy something to do with her husband’s work? Surely he must be. What other explanation was there?

  She lay there, unable to sleep, and began to sob quietly into her pillow, muffling the sound and trying to ignore the increasingly insidious thoughts invading her mind.

  Galbraith was in a jubilant mood as he skipped down the concrete steps and into his spacious white-tiled basement. Davies followed, a lot less enthusiastically, with the doctor’s constant encouragement ringing in his ears, ‘Come on, come on, man. Bring him in. Bring the little bastard in. Throw him to the floor.’

  Davies followed instructions and paced the floor, anxiously awaiting his next command. Galbraith stripped off his bloodstained garments and discarded them by the sink. Once satisfied, he refocused on Anthony, who was breathing shallowly, but hadn’t moved an inch. The doctor administered a second dose of the sedative drug to ensure that his captive didn’t wake prematurely, and kicked him hard in the ribs to confirm he remained unconscious. Anthony’s entire body visibly shook with the force of the blow, but he didn’t respond.

  Galbraith casually tossed the syringe to the floor and instructed Davies to put it in the sports bag along with his soiled clothing for subsequent disposal. Davies sought reassurance with fawning respect born of fear while clearing up, and hoped the doctor wouldn’t decide he too formed part of the evidence requiring destruction.

  Davies was worrying unnecessarily, at least for the moment. Doctor Galbraith had concluded that despite his limitations, Davies had his uses. The protocol established following the previous captive’s death, required a good deal of physical effort. Why not make continued use of the moron?

  Within twenty minutes, Anthony’s senseless body hung from the same steel shackles that had once secured the cellar’s previous victim. As Galbraith set up Anthony’s feeding tube, he became acutely aware that he was totally exhausted after the night’s labours. He badly needed sleep.

  Galbraith turned to Davies with a look of sincere regret. ‘I’m sorry to say that the boy is going to have to wait until tomorrow. He’s going to need time to come around from the anaesthetic. What use is an unconscious child, eh? What do you say, old man? No use at all. He should be wide awake by morning. You can come over at eleven, when I’ve had some time to entertain our guest alone. I’m sure you won’t deny me that particular pleasure. You’ll have your opportunity, don’t concern yourself in that regard. We’re in this together, Gary.’ He paused, looking at Anthony, admiring his work, and then suddenly looked away. ‘We still have essential tasks to address before you go home, old man. Bring the bag.’

  As Davies followed the doctor out of the cellar and into the comparative normality of the family kitchen, he was struggling with the violent severity of his new master’s crimes, as Sherwood had before him. Having a bit of fun was one thing, but things had gone too far. Should he say something? It wasn’t too late, was it? The boy was still alive, after all. He hadn’t seen anything. How could he? Surely they could let him go and get away with it.

  He paused, pondering whether or not to act on his misgivings. But hang on a minute, he had to be cautious. How would the doctor react if he suggested freeing the boy, after all his efforts? He’d very probably go absolutely berserk.

  Davies shook his head thoughtfully. It really wasn’t worth the risk. He put Anthony’s situation out of his mind and focused on drinking the hot, sweet instant c
offee and eating the warm buttered toast the doctor had provided.

  Galbraith suddenly slammed down his empty coffee cup with a bang that shattered the pervasive silence. ‘It’s time to get back to work.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  The doctor strode towards the double-glazed double door that led from the kitchen to the conservatory and garden beyond. ‘Right, Gary, my boy, bring that bag. I’ll fetch some paraffin and matches.’

  Davies followed Galbraith into the shadowy, walled garden at the rear of the property, glad that the night was finally close to an end. The doctor checked his watch and concluded that it was still early enough to burn the evidence of their crimes without the undue risk of curtain-twitching prying eyes looking on quizzically from other nearby dwellings. He told Davies to empty the bag into a large, battered metal refuse bin located in one corner of an immaculate manicured lawn out of sight of other adjacent houses, and poured half the bottle of accelerant over the contents. He struck a match and threw it into the bin, causing flames to instantly burst into seemingly enthusiastic life. He picked up the sports bag, fed it to the fire, and watched, mesmerised, for several minutes as the flames leapt and danced, before finally reducing to an intense orange glow that fed acrid black smoke into the early morning air.

  Galbraith turned away from the spectacle, suddenly aware that Davies was still standing close behind him. ‘You’ll no doubt be glad to hear that we’re done for tonight. You can get on home. I’ll contact you again if and when I need you. Await my call. Oh, and one last thing. Make certain, absolutely certain, that you put all your clothes in the washing machine as soon as you arrive home. You fucking stink, man! Burn the shoes. Now go. Do you hear me? Go.’

  ‘I thought you said I should come over in the morning?’

  ‘Are you experiencing hearing problems? I’ve just said I’ll contact you if and when I need you. I do not appreciate having to repeat myself.’

  Gary Davies nodded his confused agreement. He looked quizzically and asked, ‘What about the glass cutter?’

  ‘Leave it to me. I want you gone. And make damn sure you’re not seen as you leave.’

  As Davies walked away, the doctor jolted him back by the right shoulder. ‘Keep tonight’s events entirely secret. Do you hear me, man? Secret! Remember, you are as guilty as I am.’ He prodded him aggressively in the chest. ‘If you ever bring the police to my door, you will pay an extremely heavy price. That I can guarantee you.’

  Davies hurried back through the now familiar house, and checked the street with nervous darting eyes in the style of a young child following the Green Cross Code for the first time. All was quiet. No one stirred. The outside world seemed oblivious to his existence.

  Once alone, Galbraith hurried directly to his bedroom and set his alarm for 10:00 a.m. before getting into bed. Sleep was a necessary inconvenience interrupting his work, but essential if he were to perform at his very best.

  As he drifted off, he pictured himself burying the glass cutter under a favoured rose bush, and gleefully anticipated waking Anthony from his chemically induced slumber.

  Galbraith was awoken by the shrill tone of his alarm clock on Sunday 9 February, and leapt from bed with the energy and exuberance of a much younger man. He salivated at the thought of what the day would bring. It was going to be an important day. A momentous day! Soon he’d introduce the boy to his new home.

  He visited the bathroom, forwent his regular physical exercise routine, pulled on some casual clothes and rushed down to the cellar, keenly anticipating what would inevitably follow.

  The doctor entered the cellar brimming with enthusiasm, and approached Anthony, fully expecting to savour the terror in his eyes. But instead, he stopped and stared at his captive. He should be awake. Why wasn’t he awake? Why the hell wasn’t he awake?

  Galbraith slapped Anthony hard in the face, but nothing, not a flicker of life. He rushed to the sink, filled a mug with bitterly cold water, and hurled it in the boy’s face. ‘Wake up, you little bastard. Wake the fuck up!’

  The doctor grasped at his head as the cymbals in his mind became crashing, ear-splitting explosions of sound that he momentarily feared may shatter his skull. Why wasn’t he awake? He should be awake!

  Galbraith began to weep and a steady stream of salty tears ran down his face. It was suffering that most excited him. What use was an insentient child?

  He shook his head violently, desperately attempting to silence the reverberating pounding pressure hammering every inch of his brain. Focus, man, focus, no need to panic. No need to panic. It was too soon for that.

  He collected his thoughts, and approached the wall-mounted glass-fronted medical cabinet at the far side of the room. He returned to his victim’s side, and hurriedly administered an opioid antagonist. It should do the job. Surely it would do the job.

  He fell to his knees. It wasn’t working. It had never failed before. Why the hell wasn’t it working?

  Galbraith slumped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, and curled up in a ball with his hands clutched tightly over his ears. He began screaming, louder and louder, until his throat ached. It was the lowest point of his life.

  29

  Never again! She’d said it before, but this time she meant it. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe. There was an unpleasant lingering acidic taste of last night’s vomit in her mouth, and her throat felt as if she’d drunk a barbed-wire cocktail. It was like having the flu, but self-inflicted. One thing was certain. She’d get no sympathy from her mother if and when she spotted the telltale signs of a very heavy night.

  Siân Mailer tried the side door, hoping to sneak into the cottage undetected and lock herself in the downstairs bathroom for a quick shower, before retreating to her teenage bedroom to sleep off her hangover. It was locked. Why was it locked? Her mum usually opened it first thing to let the cat out.

  She made her way back around to the front of the cottage, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight piercing the grey clouds, and knocked reticently on the door. No reply. What a stroke of luck; her mum must have gone out.

  Siân bent down stiffly to search for the house key under the black rubber doormat. It wasn’t there. That was strange. Mum usually left a key these days.

  She pushed the door hard with the palm of one hand, fully expecting it to remain shut, but instead it flew open.

  Siân paused momentarily before entering the hall, and wondered if her mother would suddenly appear from one direction or another with a predictably disapproving expression on her face. Siân shouted, ‘Mum,’ at the top of her voice, but received no reply. It looked as if she had the house to herself. Why not make the most of it? Maybe a shower would make her feel a little better. It couldn’t make her feel any worse—that was certain.

  She headed for the downstairs bathroom, stopping briefly in the kitchen to switch on the radio and swallow two dispersible aspirins en route. Siân was singing along to a melodic Culture Club hit as she opened the bathroom door, but she was suddenly silenced when she saw the windowless frame. Her initial surprise quickly turned to concern, and then to fear.

  Siân hurried through all the other downstairs rooms, calling repeatedly for her mother and brother. Where were they? Where on earth were they? Why had she stayed out? She shouldn’t have stayed out.

  She stood in the hall staring at the stairs, then at the front door, and then at the stairs again. Should she go up? What would she find? What if there was someone up there? She had to find her family.

  Siân paused time and time again as she ascended the stairs, but she eventually reached the top. She slowly crossed the landing, ignoring the stench of excrement, and pushed open the bathroom door with a trembling hand. Empty. Don’t run, Siân. Don’t run.

  She steadied herself, and slowly approached her mother’s bedroom. As she looked through the open door she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. Siân’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor holding her head in both hands, as she realised that the bloody
mess she was witnessing was her mother’s face. She pulled herself to her feet, spat out a mouthful of bile, and blew her nose onto the carpet, before forcing herself to walk across the room, one small step at a time, to her mother’s side. Don’t be dead, Mum. Please don’t be dead.

  Siân studied her mother’s obliterated features and feared the worst. Her entire face was swollen, badly bruised and caked in dark congealed blood. Her nose was severely fractured, with a startlingly white bone breaking the skin. The area directly below her left eye was depressed, crater-like, due to a shattered cheek bone. Her bottom lip was torn and hanging onto her chin, and three of her front teeth were lying on the multicoloured carpet next to the bed. Molly was virtually unrecognisable as the woman she knew. Please don’t be dead, Mum. Please God, don’t let her be dead. I’ll never stay out again if you let her live. Please let her live.

  Siân leant close to her mother’s face with warm tears streaming down her pretty face. She placed her right hand ever so tenderly on her mother’s left shoulder, and gently shook her. ‘Mum! Mum! Wake up, Mum. Please wake up.’

  Siân wiped away her tears. Her mother’s chest was moving. It was, wasn’t it? Yes, it was definitely moving. She was breathing. Mum was breathing. Thank you, God. She was breathing.

  Molly groaned softly, causing bubbles of crimson blood and pink saliva to emanate from her misshapen mouth, but she was physically incapable of speech. She was barely conscious, but she fought to communicate. Molly’s mouth moved, but no words materialised. Inside her head she was screaming, Anthony!