by Paul Kane
But that had been back then, and Elaine did think her little sister had grown up a bit in the intervening years; it wasn’t as if Steph could just go off cavorting now that she had that job at the solicitor’s. Maybe Elaine had been wrong about her learning from past mistakes, though?
Probably an older bloke again, she’d said to herself when she couldn’t get hold of Steph. And that dippy mate of hers, Rachael, had been no use. On the couple of occasions Elaine had tried to call her up, her mobile had been off and her mother had been on the landline telling her in no uncertain terms that Rachael was to be left alone.
What in Heaven’s name Mike had seen in that cow was beyond Elaine. Wished sometimes that she hadn’t let Steph talk her into introducing the pair, especially when Elaine had always had a thing for Mike herself—not that he’d ever noticed. But then he’d dropped off the face of the Earth as well, was even missing DJ-ing gigs. Probably for the best given that the heart of the city was a war zone these days.
So just where was everyone? Elaine had been thinking, as her phone went off and she was told about her sister: one mystery solved at least. She’d been spotted by some local boys, wandering along the train tracks out of town—clothes torn, scratches on her face, her neck, and hair a complete mess. The authorities had been called, but she’d kicked off apparently when they tried to take her in, started screaming and shouting and had to be sedated. The ‘Jane Doe’, as they called women they couldn’t identify, was taken to a psychiatric facility where she was assessed and kept in for observation. Her rantings didn’t make much sense, something about being attacked and getting away—but they hadn’t been able to get much more out of her than that.
Until today, when she’d given them her name at least, and via that name they’d found Elaine, who had rushed to the facility to see her sister.
“You may find her current state a bit of shock,” one of the nurses had warned her. That had turned out to be something of an understatement.
Steph had been strapped to a bed by the wrists, doped up to the gills because of another incident where she’d bitten an orderly bringing her lunch. She was just about coherent enough to mutter the odd word, but—again—what she was saying made not a jot of sense to Elaine, who’d been given permission to hold her hand.
“Mon ... monster ...” she kept repeating, only reinforcing in Elaine’s mind that it must have been a guy who did this: a proper, proper animal. Something had happened to her baby sister, something so terrifying it had bent her mind. “Mon ... monster in the ... mir-rir-ror ...”
“I ... I don’t understand,” Elaine told her, stroking the girl’s hair, the tears coming freely. Her sister had never been afraid of made-up creatures, not even when the pair of them were small. In fact it had always been Steph telling her big sister that they weren’t real. Maybe if she’d believed in them more she wouldn’t have been so trusting of the real life shits out there. “Who did this to you, Steph love? You can tell me.”
“M-Monster,” she managed to snarl, jerking her head up—fighting those drugs.
“A man?” Elaine pressed, but her sister shook her head.
“Mon ... Monster ...”
It was obviously too soon to be pressing her on this, Elaine could see that. But then her sister said something else, whispered it so low that Elaine thought she’d misheard the first time. “Do ... do you really w-want to know who did this?” Then Steph had repeated the name, fear in her eyes.
“Rach ... Rachael,” she’d said, nodding. “It ... it was Rachael!”
Elaine had pulled back, gaping at her sister—still not understanding this answer.
An answer that did very little to put her mind at rest.
* * *
It was really kind of a miracle. The whole ward—the whole hospital—was talking about it.
Nurse Bishop had seen some unexplained things in her time, especially when she used to work the Casualty department—things that would have made Doctor House go, “What the fuck?”—but this took the cake.
She’d been on duty when it happened, relegated to changing bedpans after that incident the other day: the chewing out she’d received from Staff Nurse Henstridge still ringing in her ears (at one point she thought the woman was going to just sit on her and be done with it, flatten Nurse Bishop like a pancake). Okay, maybe she shouldn’t have let those two people in to see Miss Brindle, but the couple seemed genuine enough and she was usually pretty good at reading folk. Seemed so desperate to see her, what with that poor old woman on her last legs and everything.
Except now she wasn’t, was she? That was the thing, the miracle that had occurred. Miss Brindle had come around and asked, in a throaty voice, for a drink of water—which Nurse Bishop had been more than happy to provide, beaming as she brought it back for her. The doctors had been summoned and an examination had taken place. Turned out that Miss Brindle’s wounds were responding to treatment, “Healing nicely,” as that handsome Doctor Platt put it; “Healing extraordinarily well,” was what the usually more cynical Doctor Kaur said. So well, in fact, that later in the day she was sitting up in bed and eating. No more drips for Matilda Brindle, no sir!
She had also asked to speak to the police, who’d been sent for immediately. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Nurse Bishop had asked the lady with the kind face, who’d smiled back at her and nodded.
Nurse Bishop hadn’t been able to hear all that Miss Brindle ... Tilly, as she’d insisted on being called ... had told the authorities. But after making their notes and telling her to rest and get well soon, the policemen had emerged from that room with baffled expressions on their faces, rubbing their chins.
But she had heard one thing: a name, someone who seemed to be involved in what had happened to Tilly.
Someone called Rachael Daniels ... And now the whole Ward—the whole hospital—was talking about it.
* * *
Peel had been at the station when the pieces started coming together. Right place at the right time.
When Rachael Daniels’ name started cropping up. First in association with an assault on one of her friends, who was even now undergoing psychiatric treatment in a hospital not that far out of town. Then in relation to Miss Matilda Brindle, who’d been attacked during that business the previous weekend—when Rachael Daniels had definitely been present.
(In both cases, however, the rumour was that the witnesses were unreliable in that they kept calling Miss Daniels a monster, said it was wearing her face or some such nonsense.)
The final straw had come when a body had been discovered at Miss Daniels’ flat, which was still being identified but looked to be her mother. Same wounds in every case; the same kind of wounds they’d seen in that nightclub the previous evening. Someone was still trawling through the CCTV footage of the club, but now they were specifically looking for one person to see if she was there:
Rachael Daniels.
Peel had seen and heard about all of this, and pulled his sergeant to one side to mention the appearance of the ‘Animal Control’ man at the scene of crime last night. “Remember, he was asking questions about Rachael Daniels? Maybe they’re connected in some way?”
Sergeant Moss nodded. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
Peel had shrugged, then lied: “I didn’t think it had anything to do with anything until now.”
Moss had nodded once more, and suggested that they go and see Harris the facial composition guy so they could put together a picture of the bloke. They then ran this through the systems, at which point his likeness was flagged in various crimes nationwide. Some of them were even linked to the guy with the shotgun in the CCTV footage, who they’d identified as an ex-military nutjob called Craddock.
“Bloody hell!” Moss had exclaimed.
Next he’d marched Peel off to see the Senior Investigating Officer, Turlough, who�
�d been behind his desk—face so red he looked like he was going to have a heart attack at any moment.
The man had listened as they’d told him what they’d found, a grin spreading across his face as they did so. “I’ll make sure this guy’s picture is circulated along with our main suspect, who seems to have disappeared.” Turlough had also shaken their hands and promised that if they got a shout on this one, Peel and Moss would be the first to know—and had a place in the response unit if they wanted it.
By the time they stepped back outside the office, Peel was grinning too. “There you go,” Moss said to him, clapping Peel on the shoulder. “The big time, son! I always told you those flights of fancy would get you somewhere.”
Peel had ignored the comment, his smile growing and growing.
Right place at the right time, he’d said to himself.
Right place at the right time.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It wasn’t much, but it would do for now. A place to lick their wounds, to think about what to do next.
Hunter opened the door to the motel room—a chalet on a stretch separated from the bulk of the complex—depositing the bag just inside. Rachael followed him in and he closed the door behind her, casting a quick glance in both directions. Neither of them had said anything much on the drive out of town, the drive up country roads away from the population centres. Each lost in their own personal tragedies, probably wondering how they’d come to be on the road with someone who—up until a couple of days before—they’d never even met.
They’d probably be looking for them now, the authorities; looking for Rachael definitely. And once they found those bodies out in the warehouse, connected the people there with whatever CCTV footage they had of the nightclub massacre ...
Hunter was conscious of the fact he was leaving one of those bastards behind there in the city, but he’d be able to do little to capture or kill it anyway if he got arrested. His first—his only—thought after seeing the warehouse had been to get Rachael the hell away from there. Get her somewhere that was actually safe.
He’d covered their tracks as best he could, paid cash for this room which they’d only be using for one night, but he hadn’t really thought much beyond that. The future was an unknown quantity right now, but what was so unusual about that? It had been ever since—
“I ... is it okay if I use the bathroom?” asked Rachael, and he’d told her of course. He’d noticed a few vending machines dotted around the place, should probably see about getting them something to eat and drink anyway. Hunter hadn’t thought about it until now, but he was hungry. Not really surprising as he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, since leaving the team back at the warehouse that ...
He shook his head. Needed to focus! Not think about what he couldn’t change, not think about the wanton death—just use it. Use the anger to ground himself, to aim himself at their target. He’d done it before, detaching himself, working alone against the enemy. Only now there was something, someone else to consider:
Rachael.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t get attached to those he ended up travelling—working—with. They’d known the score, knew how dangerous this life was and what the stakes were. He could tell himself that, but of course it hadn’t really panned out; he’d felt as much kinship with them as he had anybody else in his life—their shared loss and experiences creating a bond that nobody else would be able to understand.
Now they were gone. All of them.
But as much as he’d felt for his team-mates, it was nothing compared to what he felt for Rachael—and that made absolutely no sense to him. What he should have done was drop her off at the nearest police station, where he knew she’d be looked after. She was just an added burden in a fight, surely? Someone else to keep an eye on.
Was it that he didn’t feel she’d truly be safe with the cops? In spite of the fact no creature he’d ever known had wandered into a place like that; just too risky, even with their chameleon-like abilities. Or was it that he really did feel that he needed her, that—like her mother—she was a born fighter? A born survivor, sadly unlike her mum.
Or was it just that he needed her close?
Hunter foraged, gathering what he could from those vending machines: bags of crisps (a couple of which he ate on the spot himself, next to the machine); chocolate and energy bars (they’d probably need the latter before this was all over); cans of fizzy drink (when all he really wanted to do was get good and loaded on Jack). As he let himself back in, he heard the distinctive sound of a shower, so he scattered his spoils across what he’d decided would be Rachael’s bed—furthest from the door—like some kind of offering to the motel gods.
Then he dragged his bag onto the other bed, his bed, and started to rummage through it: examining his other spoils. The spoils of war; his instruments of war. It was what Craddock had always called this, a war. If it was, then they were rapidly losing it. They’d taken a massive hit at any rate.
Hunter sifted through the various handguns, a couple of rifles, some grenades ... finally taking out his axe and holding it in both hands. Feeling the weight of it, glad to be reunited with his one constant companion since the very start of this struggle. It had been with him on every mission—some in hotel rooms similar to this one. It had never failed him. Couldn’t die.
His reverie was broken by a beeping sound coming from the bag. Coming from the piece of equipment Zoë had been working on when she was slaughtered in the warehouse office. Hunter had bundled it in the bag out of loyalty to her really, not that he had a clue how the damned thing worked. Didn’t work half the time, according to her. He picked it up now though, more to silence it than anything—placing his axe down at the side of him. The device was going crazy, a bright red dot flashing on the screen. A bright red dot that—
The bathroom door suddenly opened and made him start. Hunter looked up and saw Rachael standing there, light spilling out and surrounding her. She looked like an angel for a moment, a being of pure light. Then she stepped through, and he could see she’d wrapped a large towel around herself; was drying her wet hair with another, smaller one, head cocked to one side.
“I’m ... I’m sorry, I just needed to ... I dunno, get myself clean, if that makes sense?”
It did. He’d done it himself quite often after coming away from a ‘battlefield’. But it didn’t matter how hard you scrubbed, you’d never be able to wash away the pictures from your mind. And he felt sorry for Rachael then, knowing that. Having to realise that: the memories never went away, they were like scabs you kept picking at and picking at and—
“What was that noise?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. “That beeping?”
Hunter held up the machine as if that would be explanation enough. “Something that ... It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me,” said Rachael, making her way across the room and continuing to towel her hair.
“Just some contraption my friend Zoë was working on before—” He stopped, caught himself, and bit back the saltwater that was threatening to come again. “She was always tinkering with something.”
Rachael nodded sombrely as he switched it off, put it down on the floor. “You two were close?” she asked. “No, wait—don’t answer that. I didn’t mean to ...”
“It’s okay. Yeah, we were ... She saw me as a kind of father figure, I think,” Hunter added; he didn’t know why he needed to quantify their relationship, but he did. “I guess I sort of adopted her when her brother was killed. Murdered.”
“Brother ...” Rachael repeated, and got a strange faraway look in her eye like she was remembering something.
“You have a brother?” he asked.
“Hmm? Oh no. Only child,” said Rachael with a small sigh. He couldn’t tell if it was because she’d wanted siblings or was thinking about her mum, how protective she’d been because there had only be
en Rachael. He noticed that she’d caught sight of the weapons in the bag, and the axe beside him. “You’re not with the police at all, are you?”
Hunter gave a shrug. “Not technically. What gave it away?”
That caused the corners of Rachael’s mouth to rise ever so slightly—and he liked the fact he’d almost made her smile. Wanted to do it more, but now wasn’t the time nor the place. “Is that what you did with the rest of your ... people? Adopted them?” she asked.
“Well, maybe not Craddock,” Hunter replied, without saying anything more. “But Duncan, yes, I suppose so. They were both with me that Friday night when we first met. Good guys.” His eyes swept the floor and when he looked up again he saw her watching him, studying him. “What?”
“You’ve lost people, haven’t you?”
He frowned. “We’ve all lost people, Rachael.”
“I mean, before. I ... I can tell.”
Hunter’s frown deepened, and he shook his head.
“Tom, please. I need to know.”
He needed to tell her, that was the thing. Shouldn’t be thinking about them at all, didn’t want to. Not here, not now. But Hunter found his mouth opening and everything spilling out. “My wife and son. He ... he was only three.”
Rachael’s hand was at her mouth, regretting the fact she’d pressed him now. “Oh God. I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I was very young.” He almost said closer to your age, yet held back the words. Hunter was all too aware of the gap between them in that department right then. “But something like that. It makes you grow up quick, y’know?”
Makes you want to go out there and get revenge on every single one of those fucking freaks, as well, he thought to himself.
“I do,” she told him.
“Ever since, I’ve been doing my best to ... to stop what happened to me happening to other people.” He looked her in the eye. “I don’t always succeed.” When Rachael said nothing, Hunter nodded over to the food and drink on her bed. “You should eat. Then get some rest.”