by Tania Carver
‘We’ll see. I’ll give him a call.’
Phil detached himself from the side of the bridge. Looked at Don. ‘I’ve got to go. Marina’ll pop round for Josephina in a while, yeah?’
He went back to his car.
Head like a badly tuned radio.
39
Darkness had fallen. And cold with it: the air catching the breath unexpectedly after a warm day. And with the cold, fog. Drifting, swirling, rendering the world in dark, Impressionistic hues.
But the Gardener didn’t notice any of that. He didn’t care. He was out of the cave. That was all that mattered.
He stood by the gates, staring upwards. Breath a cloud of steam, his personal fog machine.
Out again. That stupid weak fool Paul. The Gardener laughed. He loved the man really. Paul had saved his life. Stepped in at a time when it was all falling apart. Showed him there was a different way. A better way. A purer way. And he would always be grateful to him for that. Always.
But he was a fool. And a soft-headed, soft-hearted one too. He had hope. Even now. Even after everything that had happened. And that was why he would never win. He would put the Gardener in the cave. Yes. But he would let him out again. Always.
Yes. Always.
The Gardener nodded to himself. Eyes never leaving the house before him.
Big. Old. Lights on in lots of rooms. Making it look inviting. Warm. Big gravel drive curving round before it. Grounds at the side. Grass. Trees. Deer in the trees. He had seen them. They had seen him too. Run from him. Scared.
Good. They should be.
He had received the call. Been told what to do.
He hated being told what to do. Hated it. Especially with what had happened today. The sacrifice house gone. The boy taken. How had that been allowed to happen? Didn’t they know how important it was? To him? To them? All of them?
They had said they did. And that they would make everything all right. Get the boy back. Use the other sacrifice house. They had better, he had told them. They had to.
Or it would be their turn next.
They knew that. But first they wanted him to do something for them. And for himself too.
They had told him what it was.
And he had smiled.
He would have done it anyway if they had asked. Enjoyed it. But he didn’t tell them that. Made them bargain. Give him what he wanted. Needed. It was only right.
And they would keep their promises.
As he would keep his.
He looked up at the building once more. Saw what it once had been. Heard the voices of ghosts, glimpsed them all around. Then saw it for what it had become. And the voices stilled. Now there was … nothing.
He moved towards it. Knew the secret way in. Knew everything about the place.
Pulled his hood on. Felt his breath against the inside. A truer skin than his own flesh.
Felt inside his pocket for the blade.
Smiled inside the hood.
Like God had kept his promise to Abraham, he would make sure they kept their promise to him.
And he would enjoy it while he did it.
40
He took a sip of his drink. Rolled it round his mouth. Good. Fine. Smiled. Took another one. Settled back in his chair. Relaxed.
They’d never find him here. Here of all places. Never think to look.
Not that they were looking for him.
Nah. Everything was fine.
Or it would be.
Bit of a misunderstanding, that was all. Just like he’d told them. Needed the money for the deal to go through. No problem. It would all be sorted out soon. Because no matter what the filth had found – or thought they’d found, because they didn’t have a clue yet – it could all go away with money. Just like the old days. Bung a bit here and there, a few favours, pay for some blind eyes, that was it. Bish, bosh, and free to go about your business. Didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Especially now. Not with—
‘Robin?’ A voice from the bathroom. He’d almost forgotten she was there.
‘Yeah?’
‘I am nearly ready.’
‘Can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. Bet you look spectacular.’
She should. Money he’d paid for her. And she’d better be spectacular an’ all. Because East Europeans were always the best. Had a reputation to keep up.
Another mouthful of whisky. God, that was smooth. Just slipped down like silk on fire. No after-burn at all.
He smiled, gave a small laugh to himself. Robin. A little joke he played with himself. His nom de plume. His alias. Robin Banks. Still made him laugh to think of it. Irony and all that.
He put the whisky on a side table, stretched out in the seat, hands behind his head. Ankles crossed. He looked down his body. Bespoke Savile Row suit. Hand-made Italian leather shoes. Silk socks. Shirts from Jermyn Street. If you’re going to do it, do it properly.
He sighed. He’d fronted it round the table, stuck it out when their questions had got a bit too close. Tried to play it down, look relaxed. But he needed that deal to go through. Desperately. Things had reached the end the way they were, no question. But it would take a bit of vision to move on to the next step. And vision, unlike cash, was one thing he had plenty of.
But there was still that niggling doubt, that feeling that it was all a house of cards that could come crashing down any second.
He brushed all that away. Didn’t need doubts. Never had them, never had need of them; too old to start entertaining them now.
But still …
He sighed. ‘You ready in there yet?’
‘Nearly … ’
‘Well hurry up. Any longer an’ I’ll have had too much to drink. An’ if that happens, that’s your fuckin’ tip gone, darlin’.’
He heard an angry slamming of cosmetics from behind the closed door. He smiled. Good. Get ’em angry. Fire ’em up. He liked it when they had a bit of spirit to them. Made it more memorable.
And made his job easier, if he was honest. At his age, that was a relief.
‘Now come on. I’m takin’ my little blue pill. Don’t wanna waste it.’
He slipped the pill into his mouth, swallowed it down with a shot of whisky. Hoped he’d timed it right. One time, he’d got it all wrong. Barely able to get hard when the bird was there, walking around like a fucking flagpole all the next day.
He put the glass back on the table. Noticed it was empty. Picked up the phone, called room service. Asked for another bottle.
Sat back. Waited.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Blimey, that was quick.’
He levered himself out of the chair, legs stiff, crossed the room. Opened the door.
‘Must be some kind of record,’ he started to say. ‘I only just—’
And stopped.
‘Oh no. Oh no … ’
He had seen who it was.
And what he held in his hand.
‘Oh no … not you, no … ’
The figure advanced into the room. Slammed the door behind him.
‘Look, I’m sorry, right … ’ He backed away from the intruder. ‘I didn’t know you were still … in there … ’
The figure kept advancing towards him. He could hear that broken, ragged breathing, smell that rotted, loamy smell. Hadn’t encountered either for years. The memory made him shiver.
‘Come on, not me … I mean, not me … ’
The figure kept advancing. He was pushed against the far wall.
This is it, he thought. This is the end. Unless I do something. Unless I find some way of fighting back.
He reached across to the table, found the empty whisky bottle. Picked it up by the neck, swung it at his assailant.
Who ducked. The bottle missed his head, glanced off his shoulder. A grunt, a huff, but nothing else. Still advancing.
And then he felt his erection starting. Thanks a fuckin’ bunch, he thought. What perfect timing. He pulled at his crotch, trying futilely to rearrange
himself.
If his assailant noticed, he didn’t show it. Just swung the blade up above his head.
‘No … no … ’
Brought it down.
Hack.
And again.
Hack.
And again.
Hack.
Until soon all that was left of him was his erection.
The figure turned, left.
Not noticing the muffled screams and sobs coming from the bathroom.
Dissolving away into the night.
41
Marina heard the door, opened her eyes. Checked the clock. Blinking green numerals told her it was nearly half one. Phil coming home.
She hadn’t slept.
The call had come earlier. Marina had picked Josephina up from Eileen, brought her home. She had felt something strange about Eileen’s mood, a diffidence, a reserve. A fear, even. But hadn’t felt it was quite her place to ask if there was anything wrong.
So home after that, feeding the baby, playing with her, putting her to bed. Then starting on her report of the cellar. And that was when the phone had rung. Phil.
‘Listen,’ he had said, voice sounding remarkably like Eileen’s, ‘I’m going to be late.’
Marina didn’t know why, but she had expected this kind of call. Something to keep him out. Something to keep him away from her.
‘OK.’
She heard the hum of atmospherics coming down the phone line. A swirling silence between them.
‘There’s … there’s been a murder. Out at the Halstead Manor Hotel. Nasty one too.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of the guests. Carved up. Really badly. It’s … I’m there now.’
‘Right. So … what time will you be home?’
‘Late. I can’t see … ’ A sigh. ‘Late. This is a bad one.’
More atmospherics.
‘Well I’ll … will you have eaten?’
‘I’ll grab something on the way. Don’t worry. About me.’
Silence then, as she bit back what she wanted to say. The atmospherics, the swirling, came from her inside her own head this time.
I do worry, she wanted to say. Especially now. Since you’ve pulled so far away from me so suddenly. I should worry. I do worry.
‘OK.’ All she could manage.
More silence. The phone line. His and hers.
‘I’ll not wait up for you, then.’
‘Best not to.’
Silence. Rising to deafening.
‘OK. See you later,’ said Marina. ‘Or not.’
They said their goodbyes. Hung up on each other. Marina put the phone down, looked round the living room.
They were really starting to make it theirs. It had been painted, furniture moved in. Old stuff discarded, new stuff chosen together. No longer living out of boxes, they’d arranged and shelved their books and CDs, integrating them all together. Marina had joked that Phil would want everything placed alphabetically. He had laughed and replied no. Let’s arrange them as if they’re at a dinner party.
‘Put books together by writers we think would get on. Same with CDs. A kind of thematic consistency.’ He had smiled at her as he said the words, gently teasing, the kind of thing she would say to him.
And that was how they had arranged things. Spent the best part of a day doing it.
And at the end she had loved him even more.
But that was then. This was a new Phil. A closed, cold Phil. A keeper of secrets. A non-communicator. She wasn’t used to this. She was throwing herself out there, at him, and he was ignoring her. Pretending she wasn’t there. It unnerved her, unsettled her.
Scared her.
And now here he was, coming in.
She heard him climbing the stairs, quietly. Heard the door to Josephina’s room open, knew he was checking in on her. Then the door of their bedroom opened.
What to do? Pretend to be asleep, or talk to him?
She lay on her side, away from him, as she always did.
She heard him undressing, using the bathroom. Felt him get into bed next to her. Expected to feel his body up against her, arm round her waist, the way they always slept.
Felt nothing.
She wanted to move, turn to him, ask what was wrong, where he was.
But didn’t. Just stayed where she was. And she knew why. Not because she was scared of asking the question.
Just of hearing the answer.
So she lay there, awake. Pretending to be asleep. And knew that Phil was doing exactly the same.
And the night dragged on.
PART TWO
AUTUMN FALLS
42
Phil tried to move. Couldn’t.
Something round his neck restraining him, holding him back. His fingers went to it. Found cold, rusted metal. Sharp edges digging in. Tightly clamped, just enough space to breathe.
He tugged. Felt his throat constrict.
Put his hands behind his head, his neck, looking for something – anything – that could give him purchase. Found only rusted chain. Heard the clanking in his ears, the weight of it in his hands as he pulled. Pulled again.
Nothing. It wouldn’t budge.
His heart was hammering, chest beginning to ache. Like the other, more familiar metal band was wrapping itself round him, tightening, tightening …
He gasped, tried to hold down the pain, keep breathing …
Keep breathing …
Hands behind his head, he pulled the chain once more. Hard as he could. Felt nothing but the coldness of metal in his hands. Dead. Heavy. Unyielding. Felt his chest burning.
His eyes closed. Hot tears forming behind his eyelids.
Heard himself shout out:
No … no … let me … let me go, let me go …
No sound emerged. Shouting only in his head.
Please …
Nothing. Just his inner screams, inner pain.
He dropped the chain, opened his eyes. And saw what was before him.
And when he knew where he was, his heart thumped harder, chest ached fiercer.
He was in the cage. The cage of bones.
No …
Screamed, at the top of his lungs.
Silent.
Hands outstretched now, clamped tight round the bone bars. Pulling hard, harder …
He could feel the age in them, the smoothness. And the strength. Nothing gave. The cage held firm. He pulled again, pushed, rattled back and forth.
Nothing.
Another scream.
Another silence.
And then, at the far end of the cellar, a shadow amongst shadows, he saw someone. A figure moving closer. Slowly, slowly closer. Weak light glinting off metal. A sickle held in an outstretched fist. Moving slowly, rotating. Backwards … forwards …
Backwards … forwards …
Swinging slowly.
No … no … please no …
Silence. Impenetrable. Deafening.
Something else about the figure. A reason for its slow motion. It was dragging one leg. Throwing it out, limping painfully on it. But coming steadily forward.
Slowly … inexorably.
Phil’s hands went into overdrive. Pulling at the chain. Pulling at the bars.
Nothing. And nothing.
He stopped. Exhausted. And saw the face of the advancing figure.
Screamed again.
There was no face. Just sacking. Tatters. A rough scarecrow’s head, sewn crudely together to resemble a man’s. Slash for a mouth, but nothing for eyes. Just darkness. Two black holes.
Phil screamed once more.
He saw the rest of the figure now. Tattered from head to foot. Sacking. Hessian. Crudely stitched and sewn together. Patched. Filthy. A leather apron tied at the front. Old and dark-stained.
The sickle was raised. The moon blade shivering in the pale, weak light.
The tattered face loomed close, right up to the bars. Phil saw the eyes. Nothing there. Just deep, dark, empty black holes.<
br />
The blade glittered.
Was brought back.
Phil screamed.
The blade was brought down.
Phil screamed again, sobbing now.
Again. Again. Again.
Screaming, sobbing.
Silence.
‘Phil … Phil … ’
His heart was pounding, his chest burning. He couldn’t suck in enough air. His lungs didn’t feel big enough. Sweat covered his body, hot and prickly.
‘Phil … ’
He opened his eyes. Saw Marina’s anxious face, her eyes staring into his.
‘What … what … happened?’ His voice. He had found his voice.
‘You had a nightmare.’ Marina’s hand on his arm, rubbing slowly, her skin cool and soothing against his own, uncomfortably hot.
‘Nightmare … nightmare … ’ Gasping out words, gulping in air, struggling to sit up.
‘Just a nightmare. That’s all.’ Her hand stroking him. The feel of it reassuring. ‘Come on. Don’t talk. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’
Phil turned his head, looked to where Marina was. The room was dark. But he could see her. The shape of her head. Her eyes. Her beautiful eyes shining out of the darkness.
‘Nightmare,’ he gasped.
‘That’s right.’ The stroke of her hand soothing, comforting. The closeness of her, their intimacy, reaching him. Calming him. ‘A nightmare. Come on.’
She pulled his body down to the bed once more. He felt her arms encircle his chest, her head on his shoulder. Legs pressed against his. A living, breathing cage of bones. Enfolding him. Protecting him.
‘Just a nightmare, that’s all.’
He nodded. She settled down with him. From the rhythm of her breathing and the weight of her arm, he could tell that she was soon asleep. He lay there awake. Staring ahead. Looking into the darkness. Wary for any shadows within shadows.
A nightmare. Just a nightmare.
Except it wasn’t. Phil knew that. He could feel it. He didn’t know how, but he could feel it.
No. Not just a nightmare.
It was so much worse than that.
43
Mickey sat in his chair, leaning back, toying with his pen, watching the rest of the team enter for the morning briefing. Bought-in large cappuccino resting beside him – four shots of espresso zinging him up to the hilt.