Caught in the Web

by Emmy Ellis

  “True.” Shaw drank. The beer was ice-cold, and condensation from the outside of the glass dripped over his fingers. A droplet plopped onto his trousers, and he shivered. “Something for the subconscious to ponder overnight.”

  It was his signal for work to end and leisure time to begin. He switched his mind off, able to do so now he had as much information as he was going to get this evening. It could all wait until tomorrow.

  “Yes,” Burgess said. “That’ll do. Got to cut off at some point, haven’t we.”

  Shaw wondered whether that was just lip service. Burgess switching off didn’t happen often.

  Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts.

  Marla finished her wine. “Well, seeing as we’re all having such a scintillating time sitting in silence—I may as well do that at home, no offence. Besides, the characters in that book are calling to me. I left them in the bedroom and I’m dying to get back. Learn some tips.” She laughed and rose. “See you when I see you. Woof woof!” She winked at Burgess and walked off, laughing.

  What the fuck was that all about? Woof woof?

  Shaw opened his mouth to speak.

  Burgess held up one hand. “Don’t even ask. Do we stay here and switch to Coke because I’m driving, or shall we pick up a takeaway and go to my place?”

  “Takeaway sounds good.” Shaw finished his pint.

  “Chinese, Indian, or something else?” Burgess stood and put his glass on the table beside Marla’s, froth clinging to the inside.

  “Whatever you like.” Shaw got up and took his glass to the bar. Knowing Burgess, he’d get the Xbox out and they’d have a late night.

  Looks like I’ll be kipping on his sofa then.

  Chapter Nine

  He stood in the darkness of the tunnel at one end, observing the others a few feet away. They were a motley crew, their clothes dirty and wrinkled, although they weren’t rags. A shopping trolley pilfered from Sainsbury’s stood beside the bunch of bodies, filled with all manner of shit that must have been collected on their travels. He imagined pushing it around all day, adding to it bit by bit, the rain of earlier soaking most of the contents. Did they share the responsibility for the bloody thing?

  A fire had been lit, and flames danced, throwing light and shadow over the people’s drawn-up legs as they sat on the ground against the tunnel wall. Was the temperature enough to warm, or did the cold air snatch any comfort away before it had a chance to reach them? It troubled him, people living like this, and troubled him even more that he had made friends with one of them only to—

  No. No sympathy allowed. It was something that had to be done. For his peace of mind. He couldn’t go on living this way, out of sorts and unsettled. But then the unsettled feeling had been warded off somewhat when he’d come up with his recent plan. Her and The Man had filled his mind before they’d stopped being in his life, but their removal from this world had given him a measure of peace. Unfortunately, though, that peace hadn’t lasted longer than sixteen years, and the only way he could think of restoring it was to go through it all over again. Finding her substitute. Finding The Man’s.

  The Man Point Two was over there with the other tramps, laughing his head off, even though he clearly had nothing to laugh about, being homeless and all that. But maybe The Man Point Two had read some of those Facebook memes at some point in his former life and had chosen this path, shunning the rat race and following what his heart dictated. Maybe the responsibilities of normal living hadn’t been for him and he’d left it all behind, a willing participant in the life of a nomad. No roots. No ties except those he created.

  It was a sad affair all the same.

  There were four of them, all men, and for a moment he wondered if The Man Point Two would remember him. Of course he would. He always had before. An offer of a McDonald’s, a cup of coffee from Starbucks, or a prepacked sandwich from the supermarket tended to make the homeless remember who had given such glorious bounty to them. A starving stomach didn’t forget, even if a weary mind did.

  He recalled the promise he’d made to The Man Point Two last time. The temptation of a shower, some clean clothes, and sleeping in a proper bed. The Man Point Two had been eager, nodding, smiling. Was he someone’s husband? Did he have children? Anyone at all who missed him? Would his death bring closure to any family members who may have been wondering all this time where their beloved had gone?

  So there could be something good to come out of this, the possible closure for many, as well as the peace of mind for himself—that new stretch of a few years ahead where he’d know her and The Man were gone and couldn’t hurt him again. Would it last as long this time, that feeling of freedom? He hoped so. Doing what he’d done so far had been a strange yet wonderful experience. It went against the grain in some respects—Gran had taught him to be kind and forgiving—but in others he was just doing to them what they’d done to him. An eye for an eye.

  They’d stolen his life, so he’d stolen theirs.

  The first time, with her and The Man, he’d gained much satisfaction seeing the life drain out of them, the light going from their eyes, the sneers on their lips turning static, permanent until the funeral parlour had changed them into the serene smiles of death. Gran had been upset at the loss of her daughter, of course she had, but he’d imagined that there must have been some sense of relief for the old lady. To no longer have the hassle she brought. The hate she directed at Gran. To know her child was at peace—or so Gran had hoped—but he rather hoped she was in Hell, burning, burning, burning, The Man with her, embraced by the very Devil who had embraced them in life, guiding them to mistreat her child.

  Perhaps they were guiding him now, scorching embers at their feet, urging him to do what he was doing without really protecting himself from being captured. His beard. His number plate on show. His lack of care in being seen. Although that wasn’t true. He’d cut the wires of the alley and street CCTV—but only because he didn’t want to get caught before he’d finished the whole job. If he didn’t get rid of The Man Point Two now Anita was dead, he’d only have half the inner peace.

  Whatever, the die had been cast, the game was in play. He was moving his pieces around the board and he’d come out the winner. He would pass Go and not end up in jail. No, hopefully never that, but if he did? No matter. Perhaps he could move away, leaving the constant reminders behind. Perhaps he should have done that the first time around.

  The tramps chatted, one of them tugging a damp-topped pizza box from the trolley and handing slices around. They’d struck lucky then, some kind stranger buying them a meal. And wasn’t it funny how they were sharing it, the one who had originally been given it not attempting to hoard it for himself. How kind.

  The Man Point Two might not be lured away with the promise of food tonight. That could put a spanner in the works. Should he approach him now, before he took a bite? Or would he still be hungry and follow him anyway?

  Leaving it to Fate, he leant his head back against the tunnel wall and closed his eyes, deliberately bringing The Man to mind. He didn’t like doing it usually, but in this instance, as he had with Anita Jane Curtis, it would help him to focus, to remember why he was doing this. To banish any guilt he had experienced when he’d looked at Anita as they’d stood in her kitchen, telling himself that her sacrifice would be worth it.

  And it had been.

  So, The Man. He’d think about him, and the courage to continue would come.

  “I have something for you,” The Man said.

  Wary of him, he didn’t get up from the table in the kitchen to see what The Man held in his hands. One covered the other, creating a box of sorts. A flesh-and-bone gift box containing something he wouldn’t want. Something nasty.

  It always was.

  “Come here and get it then, you ungrateful bastard.”

  He had no choice but to obey or face the consequences. Since The Man had married her, he had become more obnoxious, more controlling, taking it upon himself to dish out smack
s and beatings like Gran dished out kind words. With the pair of them hurting him, her and The Man, life had become unbearable. That wasn’t the whole truth, though. He was bearing it, after a fashion, going inside his head and creating a scenario where his parents were as kind as Gran and loved him to distraction. The idea of that got him smiling, and he clung on to the scenes in his mind if things got too much.

  He approached The Man, fear turning his legs weak, and stood in front of him, staring down at the hand box. Thick hairs covered the knuckles, and the word ‘fuck’ had been tattooed there. That was a naughty word, one he wasn’t allowed to say, but she said it all the time.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she told The Man. ‘Fuck me harder.’

  He didn’t understand, but those words were always followed by loud bangs from their bedroom, squeaks, and this weird moaning that sounded like she was in pain. The Man always grunted, shouted other naughty words at her—‘cunt’ and ‘bitch’—and she’d laugh, laugh so hard that she couldn’t have been in pain after all.

  “Are you ready?” The Man asked.

  He wasn’t, no way was he ready, but he dared not say otherwise. He nodded and took a peek up at The Man, who glared at him with that gleam in his eyes, the one he got when he was about to do something horrible.

  Bracing himself for nothing being in the hand box except for a slap or two, he lowered his gaze back to the hairy knuckles, the letters that were an odd shade of turquoise, and blurred, as though the edges were bleeding.

  “One, two…three!” The Man lifted the top hand.

  Something flew out. It smacked into his ten-year-old face, batting at him, as if it were confused as to why its flight had been halted. Wings, there were brownish-grey wings that flapped, the sound they created burrowing into his ears, growing in volume, similar to the noise of a helicopter’s rotors.

  Thwap-thwap-thwap.

  He didn’t scream—must stay quiet, must stay quiet—and held his arms by his sides, curling his hands into fists while the thing continued its maddening attack on his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

  A scream brewed inside him, and he wanted to let it out, he really did, but it had to remain hidden. Tears burned, his stomach knotted, and he needed to pee. He couldn’t do that either—no way.

  The Man laughed and laughed. Threw his head back and showed the fillings in his top back teeth. Better to concentrate on those filthy things than what was directly in front of his face. Better to stand and take it.

  The thing slapped into him again, and perhaps the momentum of hitting his cheek propelled it off and away—away from him, thank God—where it flew past The Man towards the light coming through the glass in the top of the kitchen door and carried on its mad dance there instead.

  “Did you like that?” The Man asked.

  He nodded. “Yes. Thank you for my present.”

  “More than welcome. Now piss off out of my sight.” The Man wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks and said something like, “Oh, so fucking funny!” then walked to the kettle to switch it on.

  Turning away from The Man, he walked slowly up the stairs, still feeling the terrifying flutter of those wings and that fat, hairy body touching his skin. He shuddered; The Man had chosen that gift to scare him. Those things frightened him, same as spiders did. But not the ones on his quilt.

  They hugged him now, whispering that The Man was cruel and one day something would happen to him, something that meant he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again. Taking comfort from that was the only option. The only thing that could keep him going through this waking nightmare that was called his life.

  He opened his eyes. The Man Point Two was now just like The Man, the same straggly hair, similar shaped eyes, and once, when they’d met up, The Man Point Two had laughed, revealing almost identical fillings.

  It was time.

  He approached the four men, who by now had finished their pizza and were clearly preparing for sleep, one of them passing blankets along until they all had one. How could they sleep beneath the dampness? How did they manage to get any sleep at all?

  Don’t think about that.

  He didn’t. Instead, he approached them and stared down at The Man Point Two.

  “Oh, hello, mate,” The Man Point Two said. “I thought it was you over there but I didn’t like to bother you.

  Kind of him. “I’m here to make that promise a reality. You know, give you the things I said I would.”

  “What, the bed? The shower?”

  “Yes. Ready for it?” He smiled.

  “Fuck, yes.” The Man Point Two got up, gave his blanket to one of the others, and grinned.

  The front teeth weren’t quite the same as The Man’s, but that was all right. They would have to do. This was as close to the real thing as he was going to get, and he should know, he’d searched for a replica for long enough.

  He led the way, The Man Point Two shuffling by his side—annoying because the original The Man had walked with cocky assurance that told the world that no one could best him. Maybe he could tell himself that The Man Point Two was tired and that was why he scurried along in that way. Yes, that was what the problem was. He was tired. Maybe he’d fucked her for too long and his legs were sore from standing behind her in the kitchen, pumping into her again and again until she’d called him a brutal bastard and that she loved him so much. Loved his cock so much.

  That had been a Movie Night. That was what The Man had called it. ‘You sit there and watch the real-life movie. Shame you don’t have any popcorn.’

  Out of the tunnel now, he guided The Man Point Two down a track that led to the canal. He’d do it there, where he’d done it before. In the exact same spot. Otherwise, the wellbeing he’d get afterwards might not be the same. Anita Jane Curtis had been put in the same place as her—or as identical as he’d been able to get it anyway.

  He wondered, when The Man Point Two was discovered, how long it would take the police to put two and two together. To sift through the past and realise that another woman had died in that alley years before and another bloke had died by the canal.

  It wasn’t his concern.

  What is?

  The Tupperware box and the syringe in his inside coat pocket.

  And sending The Man to Hell again.

  Chapter Ten

  Turned out the local Indian had been shut for whatever reason, a handwritten sign on the door saying Closed Until Further Notice. Burgess had picked up Chinese instead, and once back at his place after a fight through slow-moving traffic that had built up because of someone coming off their pushbike in the middle of the road, they’d eaten rice-based meals along with a side of ribs and a portion of mini spring rolls shared between them.

  The dishwasher had been stacked, the plastic Chinese containers stowed away in the recycle bin, the kitchen left tidy, worktops sprayed with disinfectant, just how Burgess liked it. Now in the living room, they sat side by side on the sofa, the brown leather warming Burgess’ arse and back, one of the dark-turquoise scatter cushions propping up his elbow. His chocolate-coloured curtains closed out the night, hanging in perfect pleats— and they had to be perfect. Burgess and Shaw had taken off their shoes, which Burgess had stored in the hallway cupboard, and order was maintained despite Burgess having a guest.

  “Standards,” his mother had always said. “You have to have standards.”

  It was a bit dodgy drinking wine, considering they might be called back to work at any time should something else kick off and Emerson needed extra hands on deck, but there it was, a bottle of white on the polished mahogany coffee table, and two glasses, coasters beneath all three. They’d only sipped a little, and Burgess intended to stick to just the one glass, seeing as he’d had a beer in The Pig.

  The alcohol he’d already consumed thrummed through him, somewhat soaked up by the meal but still giving a warm and pleasant buzz. It relaxed him, being here with Shaw like this, the pair of them in mates mode, reminding him of other nights his partner had nipped round after work
and they’d shared some takeaway or other while thrashing out details of cases—the only times Burgess allowed mess, the individual file papers scattered on the table, the floor, and the sofa beside them.

  God, they’d been doing that for years, and Burgess couldn’t really remember a time he hadn’t worked with Shaw or had him in his life. That tended to happen, didn’t it? People got so used to someone and how their lives segued into certain patterns. Comfort and contentment took over to the degree that it obliterated all that had gone before it, as though it had never existed. Yet Burgess’ life prior to Shaw did exist somewhere in his mind, it just wasn’t something he cared to think about anymore if he could help it.

  The past that he denied—too painful to dredge up in its entirety—was normally driven away by his need to bring justice to his world, to the worlds of others, but especially to himself and his mother. The fact of whether he would ever manage the latter was hiding in the future somewhere, but he’d keep going until some measure of a more solid form of peace was obtained.

  There was a form of peace now, though, in this moment, and there was peace every so often in his day-to-day life, but only small pockets of it. Then Burgess reminded himself why he existed, what he was here for. Then the drive inside him exploded, that harmony scarpering, and work and all the angst that went with it was his go-to time-filler, his memory eraser.

  If he focused on crimes and cases, he didn’t have to focus on the bad recollections—or acknowledge them with more than an absent-minded nod anyway. And although he’d locked them away for the most part, slivers still sneaked out intermittently, giving him a poke in the heart. Couldn’t be helped, he supposed. Sounds and smells and sights had a habit of triggering unexpected images in his head, and reminiscence pounced, its main aim to seize him by the throat with its bastard lump of emotion and try to force him to concede once and for all.