The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  It detailed Stephen’s celebrated local sport’s heroism and confirmed he’d always behaved like a true gentlemen in the company of the ‘source.’ To make sure the reader got the full picture, Diane’s struggle with mental health was paraded for a few paragraphs along with Carys being described as weird. It even mentioned her alien abduction! Whoever helped the journalist with their testimony knew her.

  The story was peppered with enough ‘allegedly’s’ and ‘according to our source’s’ to protect the writer from any libel claims.

  Carys stood in shock. She hoped the story hadn’t been on the television news as well. If it had, her mum, dad and Stella must have kept it from her.

  “There’s that stupid bitch!” Carys heard the shriek from across the street. Whirling to face them, she recognised one of the girls who’d been with Stephen in the ‘Green Man’ on Friday night. The girl was marching aggressively towards her, flanked by a skinny emo and another much larger androgyne.

  The familiar one walked straight up to her and shoved her. Catching her off balance, Carys tumbled to the floor.

  “What have you done with Stephen, you weird Welsh cow?!”

  Pushing herself up from the floor, Carys screamed back with a furious frown, “What are you on about? Your precious Stephen tried to rape me!” She brushed grit imbedded palms on her T-shirt and stood her ground.

  “In your dreams, you frigid freak!” the girl screeched at her. “He didn’t even fancy you. He told me. He was only trying to be nice to you because he’s a nice guy, and he knows no-one likes you.”

  “And this is how you repay him!” the much larger girl growled. “Telling your little lies.” She took her turn shoving Carys too, catapulting her straight to the floor again. Staring up at the leering girls, their eyes glared at her, full of hatred.

  “You gonna tell us where he is? Or does Sharron have beat it out of you?”

  There had been times when Carys would have taken a pounding. Her low self-esteem made her believe she deserved it. Today though, with the injustice of her accusations and the leery lads in the park, this proved the final straw. She refused to take an unfair hammering lying down.

  Still sat on the floor, propped on her arms behind her, she half-listened to the continuing jeers from the girls but her expression had changed. Her eyes no longer saw. They had the glassy look anyone encountering Diane in one of her episodes would have recognised instantly.

  She took the jeering and prods from the three girl’s feet in considered endurance until the pot of fury within her boiled to such a pressure, explosive force became inevitable. With one terrifying leap from the floor, combined with a scream of unimaginable ferocity “Diawwl!!” she floored the girl she recognised and her skinny sidekick with an arm to each of their respective throats.

  As they lay spluttering for breath on the pavement, the larger girl, Carys now knew to be Sharron, reluctantly made a grab for her. The confidence she’d felt due to her superior size waned in the strength of Carys’s effervescent fury.

  Her feeble flailing matched poorly against Carys’s swiftness. Snatching her hair, she yanked her face with incredible speed and force towards her knee which she drove with equal vigour to meet it. The resultant collision left Sharron’s previously fairly unpleasant features, a bloody, toothless mess.

  “Fucking leave me alone. All of you!” Carys screamed.

  Neglecting Stella’s list, she ambled back in a daze, entered the house undetected, and went straight to bed. Heaving the covers over her head, she sobbed into her pillow, falling into a teary, snotty, self-preserving sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The consequences

  of violent action

  Carys slept for hours. She didn’t hear the knocking at the front door, or the ringing of the doorbell. Diane and Stella were worried. They’d last seen a fragile looking Carys shuffling into town on errands, and hadn’t realised she was even back.

  She was eighteen and capable, so they both felt a pang of guilt at their concern. But the very nature of why Diane returned from Wales to be here, justified it. Loud knocking and ringing of the doorbell, and the presence of a uniformed officer looming in Stella’s doorway inquiring after the object of their anguish, deepened their concern.

  “Good evening madam,” the policeman began.

  “Oh, my god. What’s happened?” The officer raised two placatory palms.

  “I’m PC Webb. This is my colleague, WPC Gardener,” he nodded towards a small birdlike woman who Diane had failed to notice. “May we come in, please? We’d like to speak to a ‘Carys Ellis?’ of this address,” he said with an Australian questioning intonation.

  Diane stuttered slightly, but invited them in with a mumbled “of course,” before remembering Carys wasn’t home. “She isn’t here, I’m afraid”, she said, her mind bolting to the worst conclusion. Stella, acting on instinct had already made her way upstairs to check Carys’s room. Upon finding her sleeping, she woke her and informed her of the visitors.

  Carys, by this stage, had little recollection of her violent outburst in the town and came downstairs smiling happily. It came back to her when PC Webb spoke.

  “Carys Ellis?” He inquired, and she nodded. “I am arresting you for the assault of Sharron Wilding, Jennifer Mitchell and Denise Brown. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Of course she understood. She had no option but to accompany the two constables to the police station; the last place she wanted to be. The police declined Diane and Stella a lift alongside their daughter and friend, and encouraged them to stay behind.

  “You’re welcome to visit after Carys’s interview, but I warn you, it might take a while.”

  Carys was duly booked into the custody suit of Royston Police Station. Cringing with embarrassment at the thought of her father learning about her incarceration at the hands of his former colleagues, a tear streaked her cheek and she stared at nothing.

  Cooperating fully with requests to remove jewellery and valuables (she considered it the least she could do) she was led quietly to her cell. “You will be questioned presently. Do you have a lawyer, or would you like us to provide one for you? Free of charge.”

  “My dad must know some good ones. Can I call him?” Carys asked with a sheepish smile.

  “We’ll arrange for that shortly,” the officer assured and proceeded to close the cell door, locking her in.

  The finality of the slamming steel echoed through Carys’s troubled head. A lump in her throat grew, and she let out a silent sob. Concealing what she saw as her pathetic weakness, she hid her face behind sweating palms. “Who are you hiding from? You’re the only one here,” she spat the comment to herself.

  Why? Why had she done it? She was her mother’s daughter, wasn’t she? The realisation held as much fear for Carys as anything the police could contrive. She’d attacked them from no-where. And why didn’t she remember? If so little of what had happened just a few hours ago was lost to her, what more was she capable of?

  A flash of sudden clarity saw her forcing her forearm into the girls’ jugulars. She realised with a shudder, she could have killed them! She had no choice but to admit it was possible she might have dealt Stephen an outraged fatal blow to his jugular, did she?

  Her failing memory frustrated her. The large girl this afternoon she’d thrown around as though she were a doll. Enraged Carys was stronger than she dared to contemplate.

  The magnitude of her thoughts were becoming just too much. When a WPC opened the door to escort her to make her telephone call, she gasped. Carys sat on the floor, rocking back and fore, arms wrapped round her knees in a fashion which would fit in nicely with her mother’s co-patients at the various mental health facilities she’d inhabited over the years.

  The police officer coughed, peering at Carys from a safe distance across the cell. “
You can make your phone call now, Carys.”

  She looked up at the voice and shook herself into action. Hauling her exhausted body to standing, using the bench-cum-bed, she followed the policewoman through to a secure area outside the cells, away from the front desk.

  There, stood a telephone with a cowl around it for the illusion of privacy. Chained to the wall was a telephone directory and a yellow pages. Both of which were much thinner than they had been in years gone by, but would probably yield a firm of solicitors for those requiring their services.

  Carys panicked realising she didn’t remember her parents new phone number. She wasn’t to be allowed a second phone call, so she phoned Stella’s and blurted instructions as soon as she heard her mum’s voice.

  “I’m gonna need a solicitor, Mum. They haven’t questioned me yet, but I’ve asked if I can have legal representation. They can’t question me until I have a lawyer present,”

  “I’ve been trying to reach your dad since your arrest. No joy yet. I’ll have to keep phoning.”

  Platitudes of ‘Keep your chin up,’ were countered with reassurances from Carys she’d be fine, until the allotted phone time was up.

  The police lady led her back to the cell to await her interview. She waited and waited, shuffling in her seat; standing facing the door, then the window; counting the painted bricks on the wall, until another officer popped in to say that due to the lateness of the hour, and still having not secured legal representation, she would be questioned tomorrow instead.

  A kind night-shift policeman offered her buttered toast and hot tea. She hadn’t been aware of her hunger, but gobbled greedily the savoury treat. After the sweet milky cup of tea she was left to rest. Sleep eluded her the entire night. But once the sun peeped its first light through the high barred window, she at last dropped off.

  Three hours sleep felt like mere minutes to Carys when she jolted awake. “What ridiculous time is this?” she squeezed from her mouth, pasty and slothful. It was, in fact, a rather reasonable eight-thirty.

  “Get yourself up. We’re ready to question you now,” a policeman Carys hadn’t seen before instructed her through the peephole in the door.

  She got up as hastily as her groggy morning stiffness permitted. As she followed the officer to the interview room she shook her head vigorously in her effort to lose her grogginess. Being alert was crucial.

  They arrived at a door which the officer knocked before entering. Inside the room sat a serious looking grey-suited man of around thirty-five. He was tall and thin with ash blonde hair. Glancing at Carys as they walked in, he attempted to get up, but by the time he had moved his briefcase and papers, and pushed his chair back, Carys was already across the room.

  As the policeman introduced him as her duty solicitor, Mr Bright, he’d managed to stand only half way. Hunched, he greeted Carys over spectacles perched on his long, slightly red nose and sat down whilst wafting his arm in invitation for her to take the chair opposite.

  “Miss Ellis?” She confirmed with a nod as he reached his hand across the desk and shook hers. “Damien Bright. I’m the duty solicitor appointed by the station. I work completely independently and I’m very experienced, so you’re in safe hands,” he gushed, trying to convince himself more than Carys.

  “I thought my dad was going to find someone for me. Someone he trusted.”

  “I understand he’s been somewhat difficult to track down,” Mr Bright informed Carys. “I’m sure everything’s fine, but the police are wanting to press on with their enquiries.”

  Carys didn’t attempt to hide her disappointment.

  “I have worked with PC Ellis a number of times. A very diligent police officer.” Reassured, Carys consented they should get on.

  “Quite,” Mr Bright concurred. “Now then. You know why you’ve been arrested, yes?” Carys nodded.

  “And what is your position?” To answer Carys’s confused expression, he further explained, “Did you do it?”

  Carys thought this was a stupid question and wondered at just what level of knowledge this man was operating.

  “It would be pointless to deny it. I’m sure they can back each other up, and I must’ve left pathological evidence.”

  “Quite,” he agreed again. It was beginning to grate. “Are there any…” he looked meaningfully into her eyes, “extenuating, or mitigating circumstances?”

  “What sort of mitigating circumstances?”

  Mr Bright sat up straight and inhaled a deep breath.

  “Well,” he started to explain, “I don’t think self-defence will wash. Not with the injuries the three of them sustained and the complete lack of injury to yourself…” he coughed before continuing. “I er… understand there might be a history of mental health issues in your family?”

  He didn’t bother asking if he was correct. His information was from an impeccable source. Carys reluctantly granted that if the police wanted to charge her for assault, her family history should be taken into consideration. She was sure they’d want to give her a break, what with her father’s respected career, but she had to help them to help her.

  The door opened after a while and a police Detective Inspector walked in along with her female sergeant. They introduced themselves, made a show of recording the interview and began their grilling.

  “I am Detective Inspector Jackson”, a presentable but haggard looking woman in her mid-forties, Carys estimated, began. She had a redness to her face and hands that belied her vice of cigarettes. That and the smell of stagnant tar on her pungent breath.

  “Also present is Detective Sergeant Cooper,” she said before indicating to Carys and her legal representation to speak their respective names,

  “Mr Bright, attorney.”

  “Carys Ellis.”

  They questioned her whereabouts, and she gave a statement detailing what little she could remember of the incident. Details eluded her, but she grudgingly accepted the police version of events. It made sense.

  Whilst signing, she paused, keen to make sure they knew it wasn’t her usual character, and to perpetuate the possibility of a mental health plea.

  She would soon regret it.

  “With your difficulty in remembering your violent behaviour of just a day ago; would it not be fair to say your recollection of Friday night’s events might be equally elusive to your poor memory?”

  Carys gasped sharply. She’d taken only surreptitious breaths throughout the interview until now, filtering the air through the corner of tight lips. The idea of inhaling fully the bitterness slowly filling the room, circulating putridly from her accuser’s mouth, made her want to vomit.

  Mr Bright leaned in and suggested quietly that she didn’t have to answer that. Carys wasn’t sure if she replied, or if she somehow indicated with gesticulations that she concurred. Everything was becoming such a blur.

  Detective Inspector Jackson’s next words were enough to render Carys stricken.

  “I am further arresting you on suspicion of the murder of one Stephen Holmes. You do not have to say anything…”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A turn up

  for the books

  After Carys’s shock, she was again left to take counsel with Mr Bright.

  “So you’re not sure if DC Jackson is correct in her accusation?” he asked.

  “I told you. I don’t remember doing anything to Stephen. I don’t remember not doing anything either. I don’t remember!” Carys was losing patience.

  She had yet to be charged. The evidence stacked against her was circumstantial. The police took the step of arresting her in connection with Stephen because they were genuinely concerned for what else she might do. Two possible serious crimes within a few days meant they’d had to take action.

  Investigation into Stephen’s disappearance persisted relentlessly. The severity of his injuries, as established from the blood stains in the field were inconclusive. He could have lost that amount and still be alive, but he could also easily have died.
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  With no sign of him obtaining medical treatment from any hospitals, it pointed to the latter. But the police were acutely aware that a rapist on the run may have sought alternative care.

  There were plenty of dodgy doctors willing to supply their skills to criminals unwilling to put their head above the ground to receive the help they needed; for a price. But Stephen was a clean-cut boy. He’d never been in trouble before and it seemed unlikely he’d have those sort of contacts.

  The scientific evidence: Carys’s fingerprints, threads from clothing and various other signs were present. If nothing in Carys’s favour turned up before they were forced to either release her or charge her, they made it clear to Mr Bright: they planned on charging. For her own security, and the public’s safety!

  They believed her excuse that she was suffering from poor mental health, but they couldn’t risk her getting into even more trouble. If they did end up charging her, she would have to be remanded in custody without bail.

  Having been escorted back to her cell, to remain until a decision was taken (at least the next thirty six hours), Carys tucked her knees to her chest, lay on the bed and stared unblinkingly at the wall. This was bad.

  Days passed and Carys was charged, as promised, with the assault of the girls, and for the murder of Stephen Holmes. The cell she was already sick of, her home for the foreseeable future.

  Suggestions of moving her to cells in Cambridge left her cold. Carys didn’t care. She was losing the struggle to maintain her sanity. During the long, sleepless nights, she’d become convinced she must have killed him and was just waiting for the bad news to be confirmed.

  If ever she did fall asleep, she woke screaming, shouting not about Stephen, but of alien monsters coming to take her away.

  Diane, too, was struggling to hold on to her equilibrium. She sat, as she had for days, motionless on Stella’s couch, news from one channel, then the next, blaring from the old boxy television. With Stella’s cable, it was a twenty-four-hour a day assault.