THE SOUL FIXER (A psychological thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘You don’t care, do you, Douglas? This is all a perverted game to you. You enjoy it too much.’ Alex turned, strode away determinedly.

  Douglas steadied the gun. ‘Stop right there, Alex! I mean it.’

  Alex bent his head against the wind and made for the horse and trap.

  Helen looked at Douglas. He blinked away the rain. Then fixed his brother in his sights. And for a moment he was back there, back in the Falklands, and the dark figure before him had a gun and was pointing it at him. It was either him or me, he thought. Him or me. Pull the trigger. If you don’t, you’re dead…

  The gun exploded, one barrel then the other in quick succession. Alex stumbled and fell to the ground.

  ‘No!’ screamed Hector, running from the shed. ‘What are you doing?’

  Douglas held up a hand and his son stopped in his tracks. ‘You stay where you are!’ he growled, cracking open the shotgun and putting in two more fresh charges. He snapped it closed again.

  ‘You’ve shot Uncle Alex!’ he cried, his eyes wide with horror. ‘You’ve shot him!’ He looked out across the yard; Alex’s form was moving, trying to rise.

  Douglas strode out towards his brother, his boots splashing in puddles, the rain dashing hard against his coat. The sky grumbled.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Hector wailed.

  Douglas spun round. ‘Get inside!’ he said. He swung the gun so it pointed at his son. ‘Do you want me to use this on you, too? Get him inside, Helen!’

  She went to him, grabbed the youth by the shoulders and forced him back towards the house. ‘What’s he going to do?’ he asked pathetically. ‘Uncle Alex needs help. He’s wounded.’

  Douglas stood over the stricken man. Alex raised his head. He was almost on his knees, but the pain was preventing him from rising further. He groaned.

  ‘You snivelling little coward,’ Douglas said. ‘You always were the weak one, Alex.’

  He aimed the gun, cocked it.

  ‘I should have reported you when I had the chance,’ Alex gasped, sinking down again. ‘I should never have listened to you…’

  ‘That’s family ties for you,’ he said.

  He pulled the trigger and thunder crashed around the hills.

  * * * *

  17

  One of Many

  Rose MacDonald rang the office to let them know where she was going and who she was meeting. She sighed, tossed the mobile onto the passenger seat amid a pile of paper. Her entire car was gradually resembling an untidy office. And in many ways, it was her office.

  What a shit job, she thought. Working for a small-time estate agent. No, scratch that, the job wasn’t shit, but the management was. She couldn’t wait to be shut of that slimy scumbag with the wandering hands who passed himself off as her manager, and that prim, look-down-her-nose-at-you bitch of a woman he called his PA. He didn’t need a PA, and Rose suspected the title was a cover up for a clandestine relationship, though why a woman like her could possibly sink so low as to see a guy like him was beyond her comprehension. Some people just haven’t got taste, she thought, gunning the engine. Anyhow, it won’t be long, she thought, and I can kiss them all goodbye forever.

  That would give her such satisfaction. Giving him hell before she stormed out of his office. Telling that bitch of a PA where she could get work done on that puffy little face of hers to make it look at least half human, to help rescue her from looking like the pig she was.

  But there again, Rose knew she would never do that. Because it would only draw attention to herself and she didn’t want that. It pained her to think she’d never be able to have it out with them, bask in that smug glow of satisfaction it would have given her. No, one day she’d be there, the next she wouldn’t. She’d resign quietly, melt away to take up her new life.

  She had her eye on a couple of nice houses. Not quite in the country but not quite in the town either. Detached, in a desirable rustic location, as they call it in the trade, close to all the amenities. She’d finally be able to get shut of Darren, too. As a gym instructor he was fine, but as a human being? What an absolute bore! But he’d served his purpose, in more ways than one.

  Rose MacDonald checked her watch. She wondered whether she might have time to snatch another bite out of her ham and cheese sandwich that lay beside her phone on the seat, but decided not; she’d be late and they hated it when people complained they’d been held up. She really looked forward to the time when lunch was more than stuffing bits of processed food into her mouth in-between breathing.

  The place was an old farmhouse, in need of renovation. She’d shown prospective buyers around it before but never with any success. She didn’t hold out much hope this time either, she thought as she negotiated the long track to the house. Lovely views, though, she mused; surrounded by fields, pretty little baa-lambs and fluffy-tailed, hoppity-hoppy rabbits. Some people go a bundle on that kind of thing, but are usually disappointed by the reality of a truly rural location. A guy at the council told once her he’d received complaints from Londoners who’d moved into the local area; complained about mud on the roads from tractors and noisy starlings gathering in trees. Can you cut the trees down, one of them said?

  There was a car parked outside the door. A small blue Renault. She sighed. That didn’t smack of anyone with money, and you needed money to renovate this place. She knew it was going to be a waste of her time. When she parked her car beside the Renault she sent a text to the office with the car’s registration details. Just another precaution they’d insisted on. A man got out to greet her. She put the mobile down on the passenger seat, thought about satisfying her hunger with a quick bite from the sandwich, but ever the professional she opened the car door and stepped smartly out.

  The man was tall, slender, neatly cut blonde hair and wearing a broad, warm smile. His suit looked sharp and expensive, she thought. She reached out to shake his hand. ‘Mr Lomas?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right. Christopher Lomas.’ He looked at her name badge. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rose,’ he said. His grip was firm but friendly.

  ‘Rose MacDonald,’ she said. ‘So, you’re interested in the old farmhouse, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ he said.

  She scanned the notes, though in truth she remembered most of the details from previous visits. ‘Built in 1805 it was a working farm until two years ago.’

  ‘It’s been so very hard for farmers, don’t you think?’ he said, looking up at the bedroom windows.

  ‘The recession…’ she said.

  ‘There again, it’s been hard for so many people.’

  ‘Shall we take a look around the outside first?’ she said. She indicated with her hand.

  ‘That sounds great,’ he said, his hands behind his back as he followed her.

  ‘There are a number of useful outbuildings and sheds that have marvellous conversion potential. Planning consent has already been given for business use; holiday lets, perhaps.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, nodding. ‘What is the extent of the land that belongs to the house?’ he asked, pointing loosely to the fields.

  She indicated the field boundaries and explained the acreage. She could smell his aftershave. Thought the way the light fell on his blonde hair was rather attractive. ‘Plenty of potential,’ she said.

  He looked at her, smiled again. ‘Oh yes, plenty of potential. Can we take a look inside now? There’s only so many dirty sheds you can show an interest in.’

  She laughed. ‘Of course. This will take serious money to get it back on its feet,’ she admitted, ‘but when it’s done it will be worth three times as much as it is now.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ he said, stopping before the door. ‘I like what I see so far, Rose.’

  She regarded him thoughtfully, taking out the keys. Had his eyes lingered on her a fraction longer than they should have? But she must have imagined it, because he started to finger the weathered door, taking more of an interest in the peeling paint. She glanced back to the car
. Her phone was still on the car seat. She thought about going back for it; she’d broken a golden rule by not having it with her always.

  ‘My grandfather was a farmer,’ he explained, dragging her attention to him again. ‘I’m a city boy, but the pull of your roots are strong, don’t you think?’ He grinned.

  His handsome face was so disarming, she thought, so sweet, that she found herself almost giggling like a schoolgirl and put the key in the lock. They entered the dusty old kitchen.

  ‘I’m afraid the décor is late ‘70s, early ‘80s, and didn’t move much beyond that. It’s what we call rather tired.’

  ‘I should say!’ he agreed. ‘Hard to believe people live like this, in this day and age.’

  ‘No money to spend on the luxuries of life, no time to enjoy them even if they had them. They used the place to eat and sleep in, little else.’

  She led him through the empty rooms, explaining where walls could be brought down to make rooms bigger, where an extension could be built, a number of other details he found very interesting. He cracked a joke or two, which made her laugh. He had a deceptively easy way with him, she thought, starting to enjoy the meeting.

  ‘The bedrooms?’ he asked when they came to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Four sizeable ones, potential for five if you put up a partition wall.’ She led the way, telling him to be careful as the stairs were rotten in places.

  ‘Are you married, Rose?’ he asked as they stood in one of the bedrooms.

  She blinked. ‘That’s hardly appropriate, Mr Lomas,’ she said firmly.

  He apologised. ‘Sorry, it must have seemed very forward of me. I notice you aren’t wearing a ring, that’s all.’

  She instinctively glanced down to her finger. ‘That’s not what we’re here for, Mr Lomas. Shall we continue?’

  ‘Is there anyone in Rose MacDonald’s life?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Perhaps you have seen enough. We’ll call it a day, shall we?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Rose. I’m just curious, that’s all.’ His face fell sorrowful. ‘Sorry, I’m rambling again. My wife left me, you see. Attractive woman, like you.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said, steeling.

  ‘Do I strike you as the kind of man who is unattractive?’

  ‘No, course not.’

  ‘I have a sense of humour, don’t I?’

  She looked beyond him, to the bedroom door. ‘Very much so. I think we ought to leave now, Mr Lomas.’

  ‘I wonder what it is that makes people have affairs, cheat on their partners…’

  She searched his eyes but could not fathom what was going on behind them. ‘My husband did the same to me…’ she admitted, and immediately regretted parting with the private information.

  Then he laughed, held up his hands. ‘God, I’m so sorry! You must think me quite peculiar! I’m trying to move on,’ he said, his hand indicating the room. ‘That’s what I’m doing here, to be honest. Trying to move on, new place, new start. You know how it is…’

  She nodded uncertainly, but found her fears dissipating on staring into that almost childlike face. ‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

  ‘The bathroom,’ he said, his hands planted behind his back again in businesslike fashion. ‘On with the show, eh?’

  She led him down a dingy corridor, shoved open a door. The bathroom was poky and basic to say the least.

  ‘Pink,’ he said, surveying the sink and bath. ‘I suppose it was fashionable at some point.’

  ‘It will all need ripping out and starting over,’ she said.

  ‘Running water?’

  ‘Oh yes, plenty of that,’ she said, going to the bath and turning on the tap. It gurgled and spluttered and spat out brown liquid. ‘Sort of…’ she said, giving a shrug.

  ‘That’ll do fine,’ he said, going to the bath and putting in the plug. He turned on both taps.

  ‘Electric immersion heater,’ she explained, looking down at her notes. The water churned up the dust and muck that had gathered in the bottom of the bath. ‘That would be expensive these days, with prices for electricity shooting up. Maybe you ought to consider other heating options. The place has electric storage heaters, too. Mind you, the options are all as expensive as each other with not much to choose between them.’

  He studied the foaming water as the bath began to fill. ‘Yes, I’ll consider all that.’

  She glanced up at him. ‘Have you seen everything, Mr Lomas?’ she asked. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yes. How ready are you to die, Rose?’

  The words didn’t register at first, and by the time they did and her body was preparing itself to fly from the room he had her by the throat and strangled her scream before it had time to form. She struggled and kicked, but he pushed her back against the bath. She lost her footing and fell backwards into it, her arms splashing in the rising water, her eyes saucer-wide with terror. He held her there, the water rising to her cheek. Her tongue thrust out from between her red lips, her body shaking violently, her hands grasping at his fingers, clawing him, drawing blood that tainted the water with flecks of red that disappeared in the dirty, churning water. It rose swiftly, pumped out swiftly by the old taps, reached her mouth and began to fill it. But by this time she was passing out, her eyes glazed. He relaxed his grip on her, but he pressed down hard enough to keep her head on the bottom of the bath. The water crept over her blank eyes, over her nose, till her face was submerged completely. When he released her she remained there, the gushing water swirling her hair so that it waved like dark weeds in a stream. Bubbles drifted from her nose and mouth. Rose MacDonald was dead.

  He stood up, shook his hands dry. Examined the scratches she’d put there. ‘It’s not quite right for me,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Too much work needs doing to it.’

  He went outside, locked the door and went to the Renault. She’d been easier to deal with than Anthony Collier, that’s for sure. He’d taken a long time to die. Maybe he was getting better at this, he thought to himself. With practice.

  He didn’t get into the Renault. Instead he left it where it was and went back up the track. Parked in a gateway, hidden from view, he found and entered another car. The Renault was a hire vehicle. They’d never be able to trace it to him. He had so many different names anyhow. Christopher Lomas was just one of a number, he thought, smiling to himself as he put the key in the ignition.

  Sylvester Copeland was another.

  * * * *

  18

  A Foolish Thing to Do

  Douglas MacLeod eyed his son, who was sitting sullen and silent at the table, a knife and fork held in his hands, but his breakfast hardly touched.

  ‘What’s with the sour face?’ his father rumbled. ‘Eat the breakfast that Helen’s made for you.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he replied without lifting his eyes.

  Douglas grabbed the plate, which caused Hector to snap back in alarm. He threw the plate against the wall where it shattered into pieces, the food leaving a greasy trail down the wall. Helen came dashing into the room from the kitchen.

  ‘Douglas!’ she said, her stare fierce. She looked from the man to the youth.

  ‘You shot Uncle Alex…’ Hector said quietly, his hands, still holding the knife and fork, trembling. ‘You killed him.’

  ‘It was only a matter of time,’ he said, stabbing a thick piece of bacon and shoving it into his mouth. He chewed noisily. ‘He couldn’t be trusted.’ He fixed his gaze on his son. ‘Can you be trusted, Hector?’ He swallowed the meat. ‘Answer me, you blubbering fool!’

  ‘Why?’ he said, his eyes beginning to fill. ‘Why Uncle Alex?’

  He pointed his knife. ‘Don’t mention him again! You hear me? Never mention him again.’

  ‘He was your brother…’

  The man jumped from his chair, knocking it over, and grabbed Hector by the shoulder, bundling him backwards off his chair to the floor. Douglas placed the knife a
gainst the youth’s exposed throat. ‘If you can’t keep quiet then don’t think I won’t do the same to you!’

  ‘Douglas! Leave the boy be!’ Helen cried. She backed off when Douglas turned the knife on her. ‘You’ve been drinking again. I told you to leave off the drink.’

  He rose to his feet, kicked Hector with the side of his boot and lifted his chair, setting about his meal again. ‘Don’t think you can tell me what to do, Helen. Don’t ever think that.’ He punctured his egg and watched the yolk run out onto his plate. ‘We’ll have them over here tonight. The pair of them. I’m finished with these games. We get Annabel to get as much out of them as we can, but that’s it; they have to go. I want this finished with.’

  ‘I don’t know, Douglas; we have to take this slowly,’ she said. ‘Like we did with the rest.’

  ‘Fuck the rest!’ he fired, pieces of egg flying out with a sprinkling of spittle. ‘Are you getting cold feet, too?’ he accused. ‘Like Alex?’

  ‘No,’ she said, glancing at Hector who was rising unsteadily to his feet and rubbing his side where his father’s boot had made contact. ‘Hector, take the Carmichaels their breakfast. Tell them to be prepared, as we’ll be having them over to the house tonight.’

  ‘No,’ he said with wavering defiance. ‘I’ll not be involved in it.’

  Douglas got off his seat, reached up to the fireplace and took down one of the two shotguns. He calmly cracked it open and took out two cartridges from a box on the mantle. Helen watched him uncertainly. The man snapped it shut and then lifted the barrels so that they were but a foot away from Hector’s head. The youth flinched.

  ‘What are you doing, Douglas?’ said Helen. ‘Put the bloody gun down!’

  ‘If you don’t do as you’re told, Hector, then I’ll blow your fucking brains out and decorate the wall behind you.’ He licked his lips, as if daring his son to backchat, his finger tightening on the trigger. ‘You’re as much a part of this as anyone, Hector. Are you forgetting that? Jesus, you’ll be put behind bars for the rest of your miserable little life if the Carmichaels get off this island. You really want that?’