by Shaun Hutson
“You do live alone though?” she asked.
His smile faded somewhat. He nodded and sipped at his wine.
“Yeah, I have done for the last five years,” he told her.
He returned to his food, aware that her eyes were upon him.
“I was married. I had a little girl: Lisa. She was two when it happened.” He chewed his food slowly, finally sitting back in his chair, running the tip of his index finger around the rim of his glass. Maggie watched him silently.
“My wife, Fiona,” he began, “she asked me to drive her and Lisa to her mother’s. Well, I was just about to set off when I got a call through, could I come down to the station? They’d hauled a suspect in, wanted me to talk to him. I forget what it was about. Anyway, I told her that she’d have to drive herself, that the case was important.” He sipped his wine, the voice which he heard sounded alien, distant, as if it didn’t belong to him and he realized that he was speaking about the event for the first time since it had happened all those years ago. It seemed like an eternity.
“She’d only passed her test a few weeks earlier.” He smiled thinly. “I remember how pleased she was when she did pass. But she didn’t fancy driving at night, that was why she asked me to take her and Lisa.” He paused again. “A lorry hit the car. Big bastard it was, sixteen wheeler. It took the fire brigade four hours to cut them loose from the wreckage. Of course they were both dead by that time anyway.” He took a long swallow from his glass.
“Oh God, I’m song, Lou,” she said.
He nodded.
“If I’d have been driving, it probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“You can’t know that,” she said.
“Sometimes I wish I’d have died with them,” he confessed.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” she said.
He smiled, humourlessly.
“People used to say that to me all the time after it happened. All except Fiona’s mother who seemed to agree that it was my fault. She hasn’t spoken to me since the day it happened.”
There was a long silence finally broken by Randall.
“Well, things are getting a bit morbid, aren’t they? Shall we change the subject?”
He suggested they clear the table, offering to help with the washing up. They carried the plates into the kitchen where she washed and he dried. They talked unceasingly, as if each had finally found some kind of confessor. Someone to whom their life’s secrets could be revealed without the risk of scorn or judgement. And, in their openness they discovered just how desolate and empty their lives really were, but the discovery of that fact seemed only to pull them closer until, by midnight when they moved back into the sitting room with a cup of coffee each, they felt as if they’d known one another all their lives.
Randall sat down on the sofa, Maggie kicked off her shoes and sat beside him on the floor, legs tucked beneath her. She rested her coffee cup on the cushion next to him and ran a hand through her hair.
Randall watched her, realizing that he wanted her badly. Maggie felt a similar yearning but there was something nagging at the back of her mind. Something which she had not experienced with the other men she’d known. She wanted him, that much she knew but, for some unknown reason, she was afraid of rejection. She knew that he felt something for her, even if it was only physical, but she could not shake the feeling that she would be betraying the memory of his wife and child if she gave herself up to her feelings. But those feelings were powerful and, even as she sat talking to him, she felt compelled to take his heavy hand in hers, gently stroking the back, tracing the outline of his thick veins, stirring the hair which grew thickly on his hand and wrist.
Randall too was thinking about Fiona, wondering if he should be sitting here with this very attractive young woman wanting so badly to feel his body pressing against hers, to feel her hands on him and his on her. He had lost more than his family when Fiona and Lisa had been killed, he had lost a part of himself. The part that once knew happiness, compassion and optimism, but, in Maggie, maybe he had found someone who might help him to rediscover what he had lost. He gazed down at her as she bent forward to kiss the back of his hand and he could not resist the urge to lay one hand on the back of her neck, kneading the flesh there with his strong fingers. She felt so soft, so pliant and a tingle ran through him. You only met her this morning, he told himself, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were together and it seemed so right. As if they belonged with one another. He felt a single tear burst from his eye corner. There was fear there too. It had been so long. So long since he’d allowed himself to share any feelings he wondered if, when the time came, he would be able to.
Maggie climbed up onto the sofa beside him. She brushed the tear from his cheek with her index finger but she did not speak.
She thought of all those men before. Was this one going to be different? Could she actually find someone to love? She felt his arms pull her closer and she rested her head on his shoulder. For long seconds they remained still then she twisted around to face him and, tenderly at first, leant forward and kissed him on the lips. Randall responded and suddenly their kisses were deep and probing, making them both shudder. Almost reluctantly, Maggie broke away, her eyes wide, searching his.
“Does it bother you that I’ve been to bed with men in the past just because I wanted to?” she asked.
“Why should it?” he said. “It’s your business, Maggie and, besides, the past doesn’t matter.”
“I think I’ve been very naive,” she confessed. “I was confusing want with need. I wanted physical relationships but I needed something more.”
Randall slid his arm around her, shuddering as he felt her hand touch his thigh.
“Do you always get philosophical at this time of night?” he asked, smiling.
“It depends on who I’m with,” she said, grinning. “You’re a good listener.”
They lay down together on the floor and made love in the heat from the fire.
For long seconds afterwards, both of them gasped and shuddered with the intensity of their passion. Coupled together and breathless, they held each other tightly.
She bit his shoulder, drawing the skin between her teeth for brief moments until, when she withdrew her head, there was a small red mark there.
“Ouch,” he said and nipped her ear lobe.
Maggie laughed, one hand stroking his hair, her finger finally tracing the outline of his eyebrows and, above those, the deep furrows which creased his fore-head. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. She seemed fascinated by his hard face with its many lines and creases, each of which she seemed to follow with her nail.
“You must worry a lot,” she said.
He looked vague.
“Wrinkles,” she said, kissing him gently on the end of his nose. He frowned and she giggled.
“Do you know it takes forty-five facial muscles to frown but only fifteen to smile?” she asked.
“Thank you, doctor,” he said, gripping her soft hand in his. “I don’t usually have much to smile about.”
She nodded, her expression softening.
“Will I still be smiling tomorrow, Maggie?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“This,” he said. “Was this just another one night stand?”
She kissed him softly on the lips.
“I hope not,” she whispered.
“The lonely doctor and the cynical, embittered copper eh?” he said and, for a moment, she thought she heard a note of sarcasm in his voice. “Sounds like a perfect match.”
She smiled as his tone lightened somewhat. He reached up and pulled her to him, holding her tightly. They gazed into each other’s eyes, he, once more captivated by those glittering blue jewels with which she stared back at him.
“Would it surprise you to know that you are the first woman I’ve had since Fiona died?” he said.
Maggie looked a little shocked.
“Lou, I’m sorry if I’ve mad
e you feel guilty. I. . .”
He put a finger to her lips to silence her.
“I suppose I can’t live in the past forever,” he said softly. “Nothing is going to bring her or Lisa back. I’ve got my memories and I’m grateful for them. I loved Fiona more than I thought it was possible to love anyone, and even more so when Lisa was born. When they were killed, something inside me died with them.” He paused, swallowed hard and she could see his eyes misting over.
“Don’t talk about it,” she said, stroking his face.
“No, it’s all right,” he reassured her. “For the first time since it happened, I want to talk about it. For five years it’s been bottled up. Because, until now there’s been no one who I wanted to tell.”
Maggie felt something stirring deep inside her. A feeling almost of pity for Randall.
Her voice took on a reflective tone.
“You know, all these years I’ve been calling myself liberated,” she said, bitterly, “when all I’ve really been is a slag.”
“Don’t say that,” he said.
She shook her head.
“It’s true. I can’t remember how many men I’ve had or maybe I’ve been fooling myself there too. Perhaps they’ve been having me.” She kissed him on the cheek. “And do you know what I’ve missed more than anything?”
He shook his head.
“Kids,” she told him. “I’ve always loved kids but my bloody career came first where they were concerned too. Maybe that’s why I work with kids. I’m a frustrated mother. Parent by proxy.” She smiled humourlessly. “What I wouldn’t give for my own child. . .” She allowed the sentence to trail off.
“I think that’s enough soul-searching for one night, don’t you?” said Randall, touching her face. He pulled her close to him once again and kissed her. She responded fiercely for a moment then broke away and got to her feet. For precious seconds, she stood, naked, before him and Randall gazed almost wonderingly at the smooth outlines of her glowing body.
“Let’s go to bed,” she said, flicking off the light.
Once in bed they found their passions roused once again and this time they were joined with an abandoned intensity.
Finally, exhausted, they fell asleep, clutching one another feeling that a shared demon was in the process of being exorcised.
PART THREE
.. Evil, what is evil? There is only one evil,
to deny life.”
– D. H. Lawrence
“. . . And after the fire a still small voice. . .”
– Kings 19:12
Thirty-Seven
Harold was shaking, his entire body racked by uncontrollable shudders. He knelt over the three foetuses and tentatively reached out a hand to touch the one closest to him. Its skin felt soft and puffy, like the swollen flesh on a blister. It moved only slightly as his probing fingers pressed against its chest. The creature made a low gurgling sound and Harold recoiled slightly as some yellowish fluid oozed slowly from one corner of its mouth. The foetus had its eyes closed, the thin membranes of skin scarcely concealing the dark pits beneath.
Close by, the other two creatures dragged themselves towards it, black eyes shining malevolently. Harold looked round, heard the sounds as they approached, shook his head as if to dispel the sibilant hissing within. The voices gradually took on a sharp clarity. It was like the static clearing from a radio transmitter. First there would be just rasping sounds then the words would come through.
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Harold, gazing down at the barely moving foetus before him. The thing lay completely motionless by this time, just its thin lips fluttering, the thick pus-like liquid dripping from its mouth.
“Please tell me,” Harold said, almost pleadingly.
Hissing, more loudly now.
Harold shook his head.
“No.”
They were more insistent.
“What should I do?”
Commands, which he knew must be obeyed.
Harold looked at the ailing foetus and then at its stronger companions. He hesitated for a moment realizing what must be done. But, his reluctance was momentary. He got to his feet and crossed the room to the blanket where he himself slept. Beneath the rolled up coat which passed as a pillow lay the kitchen knife. Harold picked it up, glancing at the dull blade for a second before hurrying back to the trio of creatures. He could feel a slight gnawing pain at the back of his neck and, when he knelt beside the first foetus again, he found that the other two were glaring at him. They fixed him in that formidable stare, watching as he rolled up one sleeve exposing a forearm already criss-crossed with purple scabs and welts. Taking the knife in his right hand, he extended his left arm, flexing his fingers until the veins stood out. He swallowed hard, the razor sharp blade hovering over his own flesh.
Harold drew the knife swiftly across his arm, wincing in pain as the cold metal cut easily through his skin, opening the bulging veins. Blood spurted from the wound and Harold gripped the top of his left arm, dropping the blade beside him. The gash seemed to bum for long seconds and his arm felt as if it were going numb but he fought back the nausea and slowly lowered the slashed appendage, allowing the red liquid to run down. It oozed over his hand and dripped from his fingers and Harold carefully dangled the limb above the mouth of the dying foetus, watching as the blood formed red droplets on his fingertips before falling into the open mouth of the creature. Its lips moved slightly but some of the blood splashed onto its face and chest. It made a low mewling sound as it tried to swallow the blood which was mingling with the yellowish secretion already pumping from its mouth. Harold was shaking, the pain now consuming his entire arm. He held the limb steady, watching as the crimson fluid dripped onto the foetus. A swollen tongue lapped at it hungrily. Harold reached out to touch it with his free hand.
“I did as you said,” he croaked, looking at the other two creatures. God, they were much larger now, he thought, and he recoiled slightly, whimpering. He gripped the rent in his arm, his fingers brushing against the hardened skin of the freshly healed scabs elsewhere on his forearm. Blood from the most recent cut was seeping through his fingers.
The voices were chattering once more, accusatory this time.
“I didn’t kill Gordon,” Harold gasped. I didn’t kill my brother.”
The voices grew louder until finally, Harold shrieked. It was a cry which came from deep within him. As he looked down at the foetus, it seemed to metamorphosise, its shape changing, its features altering until it was his baby brother lying beside him. After all those years, Gordon was here in this dank, dark place. Harold began to sob uncontrollably as he reached out to pick up the small body. It felt so soft and jellied, as if his rough fingers would go right through the skin, but he lifted it nonetheless, holding the body to his chest, gazing into its face.
“Gordon,” he whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks.
The accusations were there once again, whispered words of contempt from inside his head.
“I didn’t kill him,” he screamed. “It was an accident.” Harold lifted its head, feeling how slack the neck was. Its chest was moving but only slightly and he could no longer hear the rasping, guttural breathing. Harold bent forward to kiss the thin lips and, as he did so, the face seemed, in his mind’s eye, to alter shape again until it was no longer his baby brother he held but the familiar form of the bloated foetus. He found his lips pressed to cold, wet flesh. He felt and tasted the blood, his blood. The pus stuck to his lips in oozing gobs and Harold shrieked once more, trying to wipe the vile substance from his mouth. He fell backwards, the body of the creature falling from his arms. Harold gagged as the obscene mixture of blood and pus clogged on his tongue. He rolled onto his side and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.
When the spasms had finally passed, he hauled himself up on one elbow, his head spinning. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and gazed down at the dying foetus, the bitter aftertaste of his vomit still strong in his mouth.
/> “Oh God,” he murmured.
He felt weak, barely able to support himself as he tried to stand. He managed it with effort, reaching for a filthy handkerchief which he pulled from his trouser pocket. He pressed it to the wound on his arm and held it firmly until the worst of the bleeding had stopped.
“I’ll always do my best,” he gasped, looking down at the foetal monstrosities. “I promise.”
Harold took a step backwards. In the darkness of the room he almost stumbled over some of the other debris. The floor was smeared with excrement and dried blood. It smelt like an open sewer. The pungent odour of decaying, putrescent flesh was also noticeable. He dropped to his knees, exhausted by his sleepless night and also by the mental strain which he had been under for so long. He lay on the blanket but he dare not sleep. If he did, the dreams would come and he could not stand that. How he wished he had the tablets they used to give him, with those he never dreamed. There were no spectres waiting in his subconscious then, nothing to crawl out during sleeping hours to torment his mind. But the dreams had returned now. So vividly at times that it was almost impossible to separate imagination from reality. He glanced across at the foetuses and shivered, pulling the blanket tighter around him.
The voices, now that little bit quieter, still hissed inside his head.
Thirty-Eight
Maggie Ford washed her hands quickly and dried them on the sterilized towel before pulling on the surgical gloves. With her hair pinned up beneath her white cap she made her way hurriedly into the operating room where the unconscious body of a young woman lay on the table. Around her stood nurses and the anaesthetist who was checking his equipment. He already had his mask on and Maggie followed suit a moment later, crossing to her patient.
“What have we got?” said Maggie, looking down at the young woman whose smock had been opened to reveal her body. Her pubic hair had been hurriedly shaved and the area looked raw and angry but it was the blood seeping from the woman’s vagina which disturbed Maggie most of all. There was a prominent bulge around the left hand side of the patient’s abdomen, the skin shining beneath the lights of the operating theatre. It looked as if it were being stretched from inside.