He knocked back some more whisky.
“Who do you owe?” asked Harry.
“B-bad people... drugs people. Fucking thousands! I can’t pay.”
A middle-aged man who was part of the group of onlookers spoke:
“Officer, you’re going to have to get him off the tracks. There’s a train to Brighton on its way any minute.”
Harry nodded, and checked his watch. The back-up car still wasn’t here. It was no good negotiating; Dylan was far too drunk to reason with. He would have to use his force to wrench the man away from danger. Harry opened the gates. The little group held its breath.
Harry stepped across the tracks to where Dylan was sitting: he looked pathetic; and reeked of booze.
“Come on mate, come with me, and we’ll sort it out.”
“Go away”
“Come on, get up” said Harry.
“Fuck off” Dylan slurred.
Harry grabbed Dylan’s left wrist and gave a firm tug:
“Stop messing about and get up now!
Dylan pulled his arm away and threw a punch at Harry with his other hand, dropping his whisky bottle in the process. His swing was way off target.
“Why don’t you fuck off, pig, and leave me here? Let me die in fucking peace!” – Dylan’s face was contorted now: his eyes slits of rage.
Harry walked around to Dylan’s other side and kicked the whisky bottle clear of the tracks. He then launched himself quickly at Dylan’s back and put his arms around his waist, pulling him up onto his knees: Dylan was taller and heavier-built than Harry, but the element of surprise allowed Harry to almost drag him up into a standing position. Dylan let go a roar of angst and frustration. Harry was dimly aware of gasps from the railway gates as the two men struggled.
Harry still had his arms around Dylan, who was wriggling like a fish, swearing and shouting. Harry tried to drag him off the tracks, but looked down and noticed that Dylan was jamming his shoes down into the stones and firmly underneath the rails.
Harry used his own feet to try and prise Dylan’s out of his foothold, but his suede boots were hardly up to the job. He glanced over at the road: where the fuck was the back-up car? Two more police officers were all he’d need to overpower Dylan, whereas at the moment the two men were wrestling themselves into a stalemate.
From somewhere at the side of the track Harry was aware of a slight clicking sound, and some more gasps from his audience.
“Oh dear God” said someone.
Harry looked round and saw what had made the clicking noise: it was the red light-bulb jumping into life. The siren followed it: wailing urgently while the light flashed bright red in the darkening night sky.
Wa-waa, wa-waa, wa-waa, wa-waa!
“Get out of the way!” someone yelled.
Dylan remembered the article in the Tarnsey Star now: its headline had read twenty seconds from death: and in it a local councillor had complained about the lack of time between the siren starting and the trains arriving. It was funny the things you thought of...
Twenty seconds.
Harry summoned up all his strength and pulled Dylan’s body towards him, but his feet were still tucked tightly under the rails: he tried another tactic: adjusting himself so he and Dylan were face to face before pushing him backwards.
Fifteen seconds
Wa-waa, wa-waa...
Dylan stumbled slightly and one foot came clear of the track. He slid it backwards through the stones to get a hold on the other rail
Ten seconds.
Dylan looked into Harry’s eyes; there was an odd smile on his face and the smell of whisky hung strong on his breath:
“I didn’t do it, you know?” he said.
Harry twisted his body round and made a last, superhuman effort to drag Dylan off the tracks, but he was too strong. Harry tried again.
“Noooo!” shouted a woman from the side of the gates.
Further along the tracks a dark rolling shape appeared: its eye-like headlights getting bigger and bigger. It suddenly let out a blare of its horn, but was clearly unable to slow down.
Five seconds.
Dylan was almost off the tracks now: straddling the left-hand rail with Harry tugging at his waist. There were screams coming from somewhere at the track’s edge, but Harry wasn’t aware of anything external now: just this narrow strip of dark railway and the rumbling of the train’s wheels he could now hear – and almost feel - clearly.
Harry looked up and saw the yellow-painted front of the engine cab: the staring eyes of the driver. He tried to throw himself clear, but Dylan was now desperately gripping his wrists for support: the two men were nearly clear of the tracks: standing right on the edge of the left hand rail.
One second.
The scream of the horn and the screech of the brakes rang hellishly across the night.
Harry threw his weight away from the approaching train and Dylan started to stumble away with him, but it wasn’t quite enough. The very edge of the cab thumped into the two entwined men and sent them flying into the hedgerow at the side of the track.
There was a scream of horror from the crowd at the track edge, and a diminishing rumble as the train rolled away from them, slowing gradually in the distance,
And then there was silence.
Forty-two
(Somewhere)
Sometimes the world seemed to be shrinking, but it was still big enough to hide in; as long as you knew how to do it. Sarah did. She had been planning her escape for years, meticulously and patiently: ever since her first day at high school: ever since the first bus journey when Maggie Dickens had torn her sketchbook open and her world apart.
Sarah hadn’t only been planning her escape:
She’d been planning revenge.
On that same day Maggie had unwittingly sealed her fate, as securely as the lid of her coffin.
Sarah, or Janie, as her friends now knew her, lay back contentedly on her bed as the city sunlight streamed through her slanted attic window. She looked at the picture in her hands: it was one from her childhood, from primary school; one she had drawn under the shade of that big tree back in what now seemed like another lifetime, while Anna Keating had read her science books beside her.
It was a picture from a rare moment of childhood happiness, and one that hadn’t been destroyed by Maggie Dickens.
It was amateurish, but infused with enough childhood enthusiasm to excuse its naivety. It showed a medieval castle: its turrets guarded by knights, a portcullis over its entrance and two flags bearing its colours fluttering in the wind.
Sarah thought about something her grandfather used to say, when he was still alive. It was an old saying, and went something like this:
The cleverest warrior is not the one who bursts into the enemy’s castle with a burning torch. Nor is it the one who creeps in at night, lights the touch paper and runs. The cleverest warrior is the one who inspires the enemy to build their own fire; and convinces someone else to light it for him.
Forty-three
After leaving the hospital, DS Nick Crane had one of those brainwaves that he thought were starting to elude him in his old-age. He didn’t drive back to the police station, but turned his car towards the Selchester road.
When he arrived at Selchester Athletic football club he showed his police badge to the caretaker and was led to the locker room. The caretaker showed him which locker belonged to Dylan Hansen, and used his skeleton key to open the door, before stepping back to let Nick Crane look inside.
The smell of sweat was pungent. Crane pulled out an old, dirty football shirt, a towel and a spare pair of boots. He saw the carrier bag at the back of the locker and took it out as well. Inside he could feel a shoe. He opened the bag and looked at the shoe:
It was a red Converse trainer.
Forty-four
Roy Lichfield’s farm wasn’t exactly a major operation, but it kept him busier than any 63-year-old really ought to be. It was a few minutes past seven and he’d alr
eady spent the best part of an hour milking his cattle for the first time today, and was now heading back to the house for a well-deserved breakfast. The sun was already shining brightly through a cloudless sky, and it looked like being another glorious August day.
Alright for some; Roy thought, but for him it only made his back-aching day’s work seem a lot harder: by the middle of the day he’d be sweating like one of his own pigs.
Roy was now passing the chicken sheds. There’d already be a good lot of eggs in there to gather up later.
Breakfast first though.
Lichfield Farm was basically the farm house, a few fields and a bunch of ramshackle out-buildings dotted around it: a barn, the cattle and chicken sheds and the big corrugated-iron shed which housed all his farming equipment.
At one side of the farmhouse was the ‘graveyard’, a field of overgrown grass and towering weeds which were gradually wrapping themselves around the things Roy Lichfield no longer needed: broken machinery, old tractor wheels, the rotting shell of the battered Volkswagen Beetle he used to drive around in, redundant fridges and freezers, unwanted furniture.
The local council had occasionally been on at Roy to clear the graveyard. They told him it was an eyesore: an ugly stain on the countryside spoiling the views of incoming tourists as they sped past his farm on the main railway line.
Well, the bloody council could jolly well shove it. What did they know about modern farming?
Sod all.
Roy was passing the graveyard now: it did look a mess, but he had better things to do than clear it up. The job would take at least a couple of days, and Roy just didn’t have that kind of time to spare. Didn’t they know that a farmer’s hours of work were from dawn to dusk, 365 days a year?
He didn’t get five weeks’ holiday a year, plus weekends, like those ruddy suits up at the council.
Roy looked away from the graveyard at Jacko. His sheepdog was barking excitedly and running around in circles, each time swaying closer and closer to the graveyard.
“Here boy” said Roy, but now Jacko was off: haring through the long grass of the field; circling around the old husks of machinery. Roy couldn’t see the dog anymore: he could just hear the barking.
He followed it, grumpily, his stomach angrily demanding breakfast.
Roy followed Jacko’s noise and soon located his dog. He was up on his front legs scratching and sniffing at something: Roy waded closer through the long grass, and noticed that Jacko was barking at an old abandoned fridge-freezer which was almost completely submerged in the grass.
“Ruff, ruff, ruff!”
“Come on Jacko, here...”
“Ruff!”
Roy used to store surplus milk in this fridge, when it used to work. It was an old model with a latch on the front. Roy knelt wearily and snapped the latch open. Jacko was going crazy now: barking and sniffing like a lunatic. Roy wrenched the fridge door open.
Having worked on a farm his entire life, Roy was more than used to bad smells. So much so he almost didn’t notice the dour odour of the cattle shed or the sharp stench that lingered after muck-spreading. But this was different: opening the fridge was like opening a door to the very bowels of hell. Still though, Roy didn’t retch: his cast-iron stomach took over as he focused on the sight inside the fridge:
The dead girl’s eyes stared glassily into nothingness and her curly blonde hair framed her face wildly. The morning sun shone on her face and she looked both strangely peaceful and oddly content: but the livid red marks that circled her neck told a different story...
Forty-five
The Tarnsey Star – special Thursday evening edition:
Body found in missing girl probe
Police searching for missing local teenager Millie Blunden were this morning called to a local farm where a body fitting the girl’s description was discovered. Police are still awaiting formal identification of the body, but sources within the force believe it is highly likely to be that of the missing hairdresser (18) of Bramble Gardens who has not been seen since Friday night.
The shocking discovery follows an incident last night in which missing local man Dylan Hansen was hit by a train at the Farnbourne railway crossing just outside the town. Hansen, who was wanted by police in connection with Millie Blunden’s disappearance and the recent murder of teenager Caroline Cox, is currently in a critical condition in Selchester Hospital, where he remains under police guard.
A policeman was also struck by the train in the incident which involved the 22.22 service to Brighton being delayed for several hours. Inspector Harry Wollers (28) was taken to Selchester Hospital where he also remains in a critical condition.
More details to follow.
Adam Jacks – Tarnsey Star Newsdesk
Forty-six
(Anna)
“So, is it really all over, do you think?” I asked.
Adam nestled his head closer to my neck and I felt his hair touch my skin.
“Seems like it” he said. “Bit of a disappointment really, I’ll have to go back to reporting on boring things like village fetes and lost cats.”
“You could always come and work in Brighton, I’m sure there’s a lot more crime there to keep you busy.”
I had meant it as a joke, but the comment hung awkwardly in the air between us.
Since the night of our first kiss neither of us had mentioned the fact that my stay in Tarnsey was only a temporary one. We’d both avoided any talk of the future as if it might in some way taint the pleasures of the present.
“I guess so” said Adam after a while, then he fell silent again.
We were lying on the grass at the top of Tardown Head on that sunny Thursday evening. I had met Adam after he finished work and we had just finished a picnic dinner overlooking the sea. We now lay side by side on the rug enjoying the warmth of the sun on our faces, but Adam was still silent.
I tried to change the subject:
“Something still seems weird about all this though: I mean, why Dylan? What was his motive?”
“Who knows? By all accounts he’s unable to say. He’s in a coma up at the hospital, and it’s touch and go whether he’ll ever wake up from it.”
“God! But why those victims? Why kill Maggie, Callie and Millie? Everyone knows they were the three girls who tormented Sarah Dee. Was it just a coincidence? Do you think he’s just some crazed serial killer?”
“I don’t know, but I have heard that the police have found some pretty damning evidence that links Dylan to the crimes. They won’t say what it is, but everyone at the Star is confident they’ve got the right man.”
“But where does Sarah come into it?”
Adam lifted his head up and rested it on his folded arm. He fixed me with one of his serious looks:
“Maybe she doesn’t at all. But maybe, just maybe, Sarah and Dylan had some sort of thing together: some secret, unlikely relationship that nobody knew about. Maybe Sarah ran away from home because she couldn’t stand the bullying from those girls, and told Dylan she couldn’t see him anymore. Perhaps Dylan was so distraught at losing the love of his life that he vowed revenge; vowed never to rest until Maggie, Callie and Millie had all paid in blood for the evil things they’d done. Maybe he hunted them down one by one: killed Maggie first and made it look like Sarah had done it; killed Callie next and made it look like suicide, and then run out of ideas for Millie so just strangled her and shoved her in a fridge? Maybe Dylan was acting out of love? Love makes people do strange things. Maybe that’s how Sarah comes into it.”
I looked at Adam and noticed how animated he’d become whilst outlining his theory. No wonder he was a journalist, I remember thinking. This was what made him click: crimes and their motives, and why people act the way they do. He looked passionate and intense. Then his face cracked into a smile:
“Or maybe Dylan just doesn’t like women very much!”
I smiled too. I was glad the nasty events in Tarnsey seemed to be over. It meant I could see more of Adam, f
or a start. But on another level - whether the whole thing was anything to do with her or not – the deaths of her tormentors had brought the subject of Sarah Dee back into the everyday part of my mind, and had stirred up those old familiar feelings of guilt.
Why hadn’t I helped her?
“It’s all my fault, you know” I said suddenly. The urge to share had taken even me by surprise.
“What is?” asked Adam.
“Everything” I replied. “The fact that those three girls are dead, and Dylan and that policeman are in hospital.”
“Don’t be silly” said Adam, “how can it be your fault.”
I paused for a moment and thought about what I’d said.
“You’re right, it is silly. Stupid. But it doesn’t stop me thinking about it sometimes.”
“Thinking about what?” asked Adam, now sitting up.
“She was my best friend, once.”
“Sarah?” asked Adam.
“Yes. In primary school, and we went into high school together as friends, but the moment Maggie Dickens started picking on her, I abandoned our friendship.”
“Why?” asked Adam.
“I guess I just didn’t want to be bullied as well. I’d seen the way Maggie treated Sarah; it was barbaric, inhuman. It terrified me. She terrified me. It sounds silly now, but often I try to think back to how I felt as an eleven-year-old kid: starting at a big new building surrounded by new faces. I just wanted to hide away in the crowd and not be noticed. Being friends with Sarah was bound to get me noticed.”
“No... I do understand that” said Adam slowly.
“Sometimes I feel... sometimes...” my voice started to crack slightly and I felt a hard lump form in my throat... “Sometimes I think that if Sarah only had a friend, just one friend, then school would have been that little bit easier for her. She wouldn’t have been singled out so much. She would have had someone to lean on. I could have been that friend.”
Sarah Dee Was Here Page 10