by Mark White
A strange sense of foreboding hung in the morning air; a sense of impending evil that would not be kept at bay any longer.
Chapter 2
7.30am: Brian Jennings woke with a start; his eyes frantically darting from side to side until his brain eventually registered where he was. Panic quickly changed to pain as he tried to straighten his neck, which for the past hour had been slumped awkwardly against his chest as he sat dozing in his chair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so badly: he’d be lucky if he’d managed two or three hours all night.
He stood up with a heavy sigh; placing his hands on his hips and arching his back in a concerted effort to stretch himself back into life. It had been a long, uncomfortable night, and his only consolation was that in an hour or so he would be able to hand over to Cara and go home to a hot bath and a soft bed. He limped towards the kitchen, his left leg refusing to wake up, and filled the kettle with water. Opening the cupboard door, he pulled out a bag of croissants that were slightly on the wrong side of fresh, and took a plate from the draining board by the sink. He peered into the fridge, cursing the empty shelf that normally held a bottle of milk – he would have to use that UHT crap that Cara put in her equally crap instant coffee. He shook his head in resignation at his misfortune – today had not started well.
Taking out a tray from the shelf below the cutlery drawer, he filled it with his poor excuse for a breakfast and returned to his desk, stopping on the way to switch on the radio for the morning headlines. It was a busy news day; the focus being almost exclusively on the snow, which appeared to be causing chaos right across the Northeast. A number of accidents had been reported on the roads: there’d been a twelve car pile-up somewhere along the Newcastle city bypass – no casualties but a young couple had been taken to the Freeman Hospital, where their condition was described as serious but stable. A car-transporter from Germany had overturned after skidding into the side of a bridge on the A1 dual carriageway, spilling its load of BMWs across the road and killing the driver.
The list went on: road closures, more accidents, advice not to travel unless the journey was absolutely necessary; all delivered in the typically over-zealous tone that the media loved to use whenever snow fell across the British Isles. On hearing the news, Jennings felt slightly better for his own predicament – he’d spent five years as a traffic officer and understood the pressure that his colleagues in that particular department would be under; working round the clock to help incompetent and hysterical motorists, most of whom should never have been out on the damn road in the first place. He knew one thing: he didn’t have to look outside to know how heavily the snow had fallen overnight in Shepherd’s Cross. If the news was reporting mayhem on the main arterial routes around the towns and cities, it went without saying that it would be ten times worse across the higher ground of the North Pennines. There’d be no getting in or out of this place without the help of the farmers. And they’d be too busy tending to their own needs for some time yet.
Jennings took a sip of his insipid-tasting tea and grimaced. He had intended to drink at least a couple of cups before heading downstairs to deal with the Carter boys, but there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance of him managing to neck even half a cup of the sterile piss he was holding. Besides, he was more than happy to let the two brothers stew in their cell for a while longer, especially after the trouble they’d given him through the night.
They’d been so full of beer when he’d arrested them that he’d been almost certain that they would have snored their way through the whole night without so much as a whisper. And that had certainly proven to be the case, for the first few hours at least. It was not long after midnight that the shouting started; after finally managing to fall asleep, he’d been dragged back to consciousness with the sound of screaming and cries for help. Believing there to be some kind of major crisis, he’d rushed downstairs into the basement, only to find the two frightened brothers cowering together in the corner of their cell. When he’d asked them what the hell they thought they were playing at, Jed had whimpered that they’d seen a dark, hooded figure standing on the other side of their cell; dressed like a monk in a black habit. They hadn’t been able to make out his face, but they’d seen his hands – long, crooked fingers with sharp nails, clasped together in-front of his waist. At first, the figure had just stood there silently for what must have been a good five minutes. Then, without saying a word, he’d lifted his right hand to neck-height, and with an extended finger, he’d traced the nail from shoulder to shoulder across his throat, and then pointed with the same finger to each of the boys in turn. He was going to kill them, Lee had said. They had to get out of there, before he got to them. Please, please would he let them go? They weren’t making it up, said Jed, honest to God they weren’t!
Jennings had searched the basement and found nothing; no evidence to suggest that there was even the smallest grain of truth to their claims. He’d told them that in future they should consider laying off the wacky-backy; that you could never be sure what kind of shit the dealers mix in with it to bulk it up. As expected, he’d been met with over-enthusiastic protestations of innocence – how they never touched anything other than booze. But he hadn’t believed them. He’d told them that he didn’t give a shit what kind of crap they chose to shove down their throats; a few hours ago they’d brutally kicked the stuffing out of some innocent kid in-front of a packed room of people, including his poor girlfriend. From where he was standing, they deserved everything that was coming their way. He only hoped that the Woodsman kid would have the courage to press charges. They deserved to be punished for what they did, he had told them. They needed to learn their lesson.
He’d left the Carter boys and returned upstairs. As he did so, he’d noticed a sharp breeze coming through the basement window – a window that he couldn’t remember ever being open in his eight years in post. He’d closed it; ensuring that the clasp that held it in place was firmly secured. Must have been that bloody cleaner, he had reasoned, making a mental note to pull her up on it next time he saw her.
As he went back up the stairs and closed the door, he had prayed for no further outbursts until at least seven o’clock that morning. Unfortunately, his prayers were not answered: he had been called downstairs to calm them down on two further occasions. Both times they had cited the same reason for their shouting – a dark figure standing at their cell, making threatening gestures towards them. And on both occasions he’d found nothing or nobody there to convince him that they were telling the truth.
The third and final time he’d been called to help them, around four o’clock if he remembered correctly, he’d refused to respond to their shouts for help; leaving them alone in the hope that they would cry themselves to sleep, like two overgrown babies tired of constantly demanding attention from their exhausted mother. Fortunately for Jennings, the strategy worked – eventually the noises in the basement grew weaker and weaker until they disappeared altogether; peace and quiet finally winning the day.
Therefore, as Jennings placed his disappointing cup of tea onto the table and prepared himself to go downstairs and introduce the Carter boys to their hangovers, he could perhaps be forgiven for his unsympathetic indifference to the fate that lay in store for them at the hands of their father, or to the criminal charges, which he didn’t for one minute believe would make the slightest difference to their future conduct.
Accompanied by the dulcet tones of the Mamas and Papas as they sang ‘California Dreaming’ from the radio, Jennings placed the bag of croissants and two bottles of water on to his tray and walked over to the door leading to the basement. They would need something to soak up the alcohol, and if stale bread was good enough for his breakfast, it would certainly be good enough for theirs. They could be spared the torture of sampling the tea, however: he didn’t have the heart to force them to drink that shit.
Balancing the breakfast tray in one hand, he opened the basement door. It swung open and clunked against the wal
l, and he immediately felt the cold air rising up the steps to greet him. He descended the steps with caution; partly to avoid spilling the contents of the tray, and partly because of the inadequate job that the basement’s single light-bulb was doing in illuminating the stairway. As he neared the bottom step, he was struck by the stillness below; at the very least he was expecting to be met by the sound of snoring teenagers.
Upon reaching the basement floor, the first sight he was met with was the small window to his left – it had swung completely open, revealing layers of ice and snow frozen to the three iron bars that blocked any chance of escape to the outside world. Despite being almost eight o’clock in the morning, it was still dark outside; the sun refusing to show its face from under the blankets. Although the wind had died down, cold air crept between the bars and into the room, sending a shiver down his spine. He placed the tray on to the floor and went to close the window. He stared at the clasp and raised his eyebrows: he could have sworn that he had fixed it firmly in place. He closed the window and slid the hook into its clasp; checking twice to make sure it went in securely.
‘Wakey wakey, rise and shine!’ he shouted, bending down to retrieve the tray from the floor. ‘How are the heads this morning, lads?’ The way in which the room was designed prevented him from actually seeing into the cell until he reached it – it was situated at the far end of the narrow basement running along the side wall. Nevertheless, Jennings sensed that something was amiss; considering the racket they’d made during the night, he was surprised that they had now decided to completely shut up shop. ‘What’s the matter, lads?’ he asked, reaching the cell. ‘Cat got your tong…Jesus Christ!’
The tray crashed to the ground; its contents spilling everywhere. Jennings paid it no attention – his eyes were fixed on the scene inside the cell. Jed Carter was lying on the floor, a pool of dark red blood surrounding his head. The right side of his face had caved inwards, his eye all but severed from its socket; mashed into a pulp and partially concealed by his blood-soaked, matted fringe. A greyish, jelly-like substance, which Jennings presumed could only be brain tissue, protruded from his broken skull like foam poking through a torn leather seat, causing Jennings to turn away and retch violently over the discarded croissants. Composing himself, he returned his focus to the body. Three of the fingers on his right hand were bent unnaturally backwards, severely bruised and purple in colour. There was no movement, and Jennings could tell from the boy’s motionless chest that he wasn’t breathing, although he had already guessed that he was dead from the extent of the injuries to the poor lad’s skull.
One of the metal legs from the bed was lying approximately three feet away from Jed’s head: one of its ends was covered in a mixture of clotted blood, tangled hair and skin; offering an obvious clue as to the cause of his battered face. But Jennings didn’t spend very long looking at him; his eyes were drawn to the dangling feet of Jed’s older brother, Lee, who was hanging directly in front of him; his leather belt strapped around his twisted neck and attached to the upper bars of the doorway to the cell. Jennings could smell the urine that had soaked Lee’s trousers as he strangled to death – the final surrender of bodily functions as it gave up its struggle to survive. The boy’s head was tilted to side, the pain evident from the desperate expression on his swollen face. His lifeless eyes stared directly at Jennings, as if to ask why he hadn’t responded to their cries for help – why he had buried his head in the sand when they had begged him to set them free. Why he had left them alone to die under his supervision, whilst he just sat upstairs, abandoning them to their fate below.
Jennings retreated until his back struck the opposite wall to the cell. He slumped to the floor; trying to take in the gruesome sight before him. He failed to hold back the vomit as he felt himself retching for the second time, moving his hand from the floor just in time to avoid the hot, stinking liquid as it gushed from his mouth. When his stomach was finally empty, he sat upright and gasped for air; tears streaming from his eyes.
On my watch, for Christ’s sake! He’d only left them for two or three hours - surely he could be forgiven for that? After all, like the story of ‘The boy who cried wolf,’ they had called his bluff all night, until he had finally become so angry and exhausted that he’d refused to listen to their shouting any longer. That’s when it must have happened. What must have happened? He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Think, man, think. Use your head – work it out.
He opened his eyes and became a Policeman again, weighing up the pros and cons of all of the various explanations that he thought could be plausible. Nobody had done it to them, he could be sure of that. The cell was locked, and although the basement window was open, there was no way anyone would have been able to climb through the bars unless they happened to be less than six inches wide. And there was no way anyone could have crept into the locked Station, taken his keys from his side, opened the cell and killed the Carter brothers, only to return and silently slip away unseen into the night. No way. There was only one rational explanation: Lee had unscrewed a leg from the bed, and in a drunken fit of rage caused by only God knows what, had proceeded to beat his younger brother’s head to a pulp; only to have finally come to his senses when it was too late to undo the damage. Then, having realised the seriousness of his actions, he’d untied his belt and hung himself from the cell’s bars.
What a fucking mess, Jennings thought. How the fuck do I deal with this one? He’d need to call Dr Barratt for a start. And phone it in to headquarters. After that, he’d need to get his arse up to Moorland Farm to inform the boy’s father, Mick, that two of his sons were dead because he’d decided to bang them up in a cell for the night. That was unlikely to be an easy conversation. Then, when all that was done, there’d be questions for him to answer over the coming days – hundreds of them, and God knows what disciplinary path his superiors may choose to drag him down. And the village – the effect it would have on the people here would be horrendous; his reputation would be in tatters. Shit; he’d be lucky if he’d be able to show his face around here ever again.
Jennings sighed heavily and looked at the dead brothers, his mind still trying its hardest to register the scene before him. He knew he had to stand up, brush himself down and start sorting this mess out. But he didn’t have the strength to get up; he wasn’t able to do anything but sit there and think about how it had happened; how he had let it happen. As he felt the inevitable guilt beginning to consume him, he wished more than anything else in the world that he could turn back the clock a few hours and come to the aid of the boys when they’d pleaded for his help. He would sell his soul to Satan for the chance to do that.
He pulled his knees into his chest, placed his hands over his eyes, and began to weep. For their sake – and for his own.
Chapter 3
8.15am: ‘I hope you’re respectable?’ asked Cara, knocking on Bronwyn’s bedroom door and opening it without waiting for a reply. She’d stayed up to look after her friend until the early hours of the morning; worried about leaving her alone until she was sure that she was sound asleep. After Bronwyn had fainted, she’d remained unconscious on the bathroom floor for almost three minutes. Cara had been on the verge of phoning Dr Barratt when Bronwyn eventually opened her eyes and asked where she was. A relieved Cara had helped her to her feet and assisted her as they gingerly made their way to the bedroom next door, where, with a considerable amount of effort, she had succeeded in helping her into her nightie and into bed. Cara had sat with her for the next few hours, comforting her as she drifted uneasily into and out of consciousness, as if she were in the midst of a repetitive nightmare that kept jolting her awake at its petrifying climax. Bronwyn hardly spoke all night, at least nothing that was particularly coherent, and Cara had resisted the temptation to encourage her to do so. There would be plenty of time for questions when she was feeling better in the morning.
As Cara made her way into the room, she was met by the welcome sight of Bronwyn smiling at her as she
yawned and stretched her way into the new day. ‘Morning officer,’ she said, trying but failing to stifle another yawn. ‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter past eight. You’ve been in bed for over twelve hours. I wouldn’t have woken you, but I need to head off to work in a few minutes and wanted to make sure you were alright before I left. I’d make the most of your lie-in, if I were you. I know I bloody well would if I had the chance. Here, sit up, I’ve made you some breakfast. I hope you’re hungry?’
‘Starving,’ replied Bronwyn. ‘I could eat a scabby horse. It’s very kind of you, Cara – I really don’t deserve it after the way I behaved last night. I’m so glad you came over…I’m sorry I wasn’t much fun to be with. To be honest, I don’t know what the heck came over me.’
Cara plumped up Bronwyn’s pillows and poured her some tea. ‘Well, I was going to ask if you can remember anything about what happened. Do you want to talk about it? It’s fine with me if you’d rather not right now.’
‘No, no. It’s okay,’ she replied. ‘I don’t mind. I’m not sure if there’s that much to say, really. All I remember is that I had just finished having a bath, when I heard a knock at the door. I ran downstairs to answer it, thinking it was you, only to find there was nobody there. When I came back upstairs, the hallway light went out and I heard crying coming from the bathroom. God knows why, but I went to take a look – I couldn’t help myself. When I got there, there was this girl, all beaten up with scars and wounds all over her body. She was…she was…’ Bronwyn began to cry; the painful memory of seeing the poor girl too much for her to bare.
Cara moved to her friend’s side and put an arm around her. ‘Sssshhh. It doesn’t matter, Bronwyn. You don’t need to talk about it now. Perhaps it might be better if you get some more rest first.’