The Sacrifice

by Donna Collins

  “Never.” Pope loosened his tie.

  “That’s good. It would be a shame if that loose tongue of yours blabbered something it shouldn’t.”

  Pope put the glass on the small, round side table and pushed himself up out of the chair, taking a while to steady his balance. “Good luck, Davis. After tonight, we probably won’t see each other again.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Pope unbuttoned the top of his shirt and loosened his tie further. He glanced at the near-empty glass of sherry, a sudden look of fear in his eyes. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing. You did it yourself by thinking you could trust me.”

  Pope clutched his chest and staggered to the door.

  Davis replaced the poker, and took hold of the silver tray again. “I’ll see you to your car.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Billy shivered.

  Since he’d turned off the engine, it hadn’t taken long for the heat inside his car to disperse. He rubbed his hand over the windscreen, wiping away enough condensation to see the house he’d followed Eliza’s mystery man back to. Twenty minutes earlier, the top right-hand room had lit up and Billy watched the man smoke part of a cigarette. A limousine had pulled up outside, stayed long enough for Billy to note the number plate, and then driven away again. Then, three and a half minutes ago, the room light had gone out. Now, Billy counted down his imaginary timer, waiting for the man to re-emerge from the front door.

  He didn’t.

  Billy waited. If the man was still inside, whatever he was doing, he was doing it in the dark. Billy flipped open his phone and hit 1: his speed dial for the station. Immediately, the pre-recorded communication asked him to leave yet another message. As he’d already left five asking George to run a number-plate check on the Aston, he just hung up. He had a bad feeling about this whole night. Eliza’s delusional state when he’d found her mumbling of vanishing men, and giving no reasonable explanation as to how her house had been wrecked other than she’d done it herself, had led him to believe she was nuts. He felt guilty as hell for that now.

  Eliza’s mystery man was real.

  What did all this mean? Billy had no freaking idea. But too much time had now passed. He grabbed a torch from the back seat, opened the door, and got out of his car. An unusual veil of mist had replaced the rain, and the lack of moonlight meant visibility had become much more difficult. Lampposts lined the pavement, each one orbed by a golden glow, and the desolate street showed no sign of life. Dampness suffocated the evening air, and Billy wished he was anywhere but here. He took a deep breath and gripped the rubber handle of the torch tighter. Never in his entire lifetime had he seen Eliza ‘lose it.’ Doubting her had been an error on his part, and one he was determined to put right. He zipped up his jacket, and switched on the torch. The fog brightened under the beam and completely hampered what little vision he had left. Heck, he didn’t need the torch out here anyway. He turned it off and, with one last check up and down the street, closed the car door and headed towards the house.

  Every step echoed on the tarmac, and the garden path wasn’t any better. Gravel crunched beneath his boots, and dew from the overgrown grass brushed against his trousers, soaking his skin. Mail bulged from the metal post box screwed to the front porch and Billy pulled some envelopes free to find a name. Every letter was addressed, ‘To the occupant.’ Having hit a brick wall and being no closer to uncovering who Eliza’s mystery guy was, Billy shoved the letters back in the box and scanned the street one last time. A loose brick wobbled beneath the house step and tested his balance. The house was worse than a bloody minefield.

  At this point, Billy knew he was going to enter the house. The question was, how? He had no warrant or probable cause. If he broke in and found the guy upstairs asleep, he was going to have a hard time proving any lie he told. He pressed the doorbell, but heard nothing. Judging by the state of the house, Billy assumed the bell hadn’t worked in years, so instead he tapped his knuckles against the door. Softly at first, then a little louder, each strike magnified by the stillness in the air. Net curtains hung in the window and blocked his view inside, and no matter how hard he knocked, the house remained in darkness with little sign of life.

  Billy checked his watch. It had just gone ten. If this guy had left the house already, then where in the hell had he gone? He glanced towards the Aston that remained parked in the driveway. The man had to still be inside the house, and Billy needed a decent excuse to go in.

  He tried the door handle; to his amazement, it opened. Still, he hung back, the re-ignited torch beam separating the darkened hallway into two halves. Few items hid in the shadows: a side table, newspapers, pizza boxes, all barely visible even under the torchlight. Whoever he was, this man looked to be one hell of a slob. A baseball cap, a different colour from the one Billy had seen him wearing earlier, hung from one of the coat hooks near the door, a leather belt hanging from another. Everything appeared quiet and normal, just as Billy would expect when nobody was home.

  He crossed the threshold, his hand close beside his Taser. “Police. Is anybody home?” he said, deciding to blame his intrusion on a suspected burglary. When there was no reply, he took another step forward. The grandfather clock at the end of the hall ticked away endlessly. The torchlight found it. Of course, in a house this messy, it seemed only right that the time was incorrect. Billy lifted his elbow towards the light switch, and pressed.

  The room brightened, the bulb popped, and the hallway plunged back into darkness. Under the light of the torch, the lightshade swung back and forth, its once-clean floral material now mustard coloured from cigarette smoke. Inside, burned soot blackened the bulb. Billy tried the second switch – the porch light. Nothing. The blown bulb must have tripped the fuse.

  “Great.” He waited, unsure whether to continue.

  The man wasn’t here, of that Billy was certain, and he wanted to get back to Eliza at the hospital. But what would he say when she woke and asked if he’d found the man? ‘By some miracle I ran into him outside your house and followed him home, but then I left’?

  The small kitchen housed a large table and not much else. It took Billy less than twenty seconds to clear the area and move on, less to examine the two mismatched chairs, beanbag, and television in the sparse living room. Thirteen uncarpeted stairs led to the first-floor landing. Billy didn’t bother with the lights. Adrenaline still rushed his veins from the blown bulb, and he didn’t need or want any more surprises.

  Four rooms completed the upstairs. Two bedrooms looked out over the front of the house. The bathroom and the toilet, split from one another by a thin wall, both viewed the rear of the property. From the top of the stairs, Billy saw the narrow toilet was empty, as was the toilet roll holder. He turned his attention towards the bathroom beside it. The endless drip, drip, drip against porcelain echoed in the otherwise silent space around him. The torch beam searched the room. Dried water stained the cabinet mirror, and toothpaste smeared the sink. Behind the door, clothes overflowed the wicker basket, and wet towels dirtied the floor. A grey shower curtain stretched the length of the bath, hiding the area behind it. Billy gripped the torch tighter and reached for the end of the fabric. If this had been a horror film, he’d have deemed what he was about to do as idiotic.

  Taking a deep breath, he whipped the curtain back.

  Water droplets fell in unison from the showerhead and splashed into the bath. Mouldy grout surrounded grey tiles, and a blackened loofah hung from the lime-scaled tap. Billy let go of the curtain and almost laughed aloud at his own idiocy. Two bedrooms to go, then he could return to the hospital knowing he’d searched all he could. In the morning, he’d up his investigation, and then think about bringing Eliza up to date.

  He entered the bedroom, where the stale stench of cigarettes hung in the air. And what in the hell was that other smell? Chinese? Billy tried the light, but of course it didn’t work. The torch shone across the crappy
furniture until it found the back wall. The bedroom was as sparse as the rest of the house.

  On the bedside table was an empty bottle of vodka. Lower, and just catching his eye, the beam touched beneath the unmade bed, the saggy mattress far too big for the shrunken sheet stretched across it. Billy knelt to get a better look. A foil carton crumpled beneath his knee, and he directed the light towards it. Dried noodles, now crushed into powder, and remnants of whatever the hell sauce that had once been, soiled his trousers.

  Billy pushed the tray away and, gripping the torch beneath his chin, reached under the bed and pulled out a scrunched-up piece of paper. He unfolded it. Scrawled in black biro was an address. Billy paused, brow furrowed. His father’s address. Why the hell did this guy have his father’s address? Had he been watching Eliza? Billy peered further under the bed and saw the white shirt, torn and bloodstained.

  Damn it. Eliza had been telling him the truth.

  Outside, a car engine roared to life. Billy ran to the window and saw the Aston Martin reverse out of the driveway and speed off down the road.

  Damn. He hurried to the stairs. His mobile phone started to vibrate against his leg and he reached into his pocket. The caller hung up just as Billy answered. Billy cursed and redialled.

  George answered. “Where the hell are you? A Jag’s crashed off Old Brewer’s Road. Get your backside over here now.”

  Shit. “Okay, I’m on my way.” Billy hung up. He glanced at the shirt. This was going with him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A familiar sound resonated in Eliza’s thoughts: Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Her tired eyes flickered but barely opened. In the darkness beside her, a green line repeatedly jumped the width of a small screen.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Behind it, tilted blinds blocked out the majority of hallway light, and with her eyes now starting to ache, she closed them again. Dryness scratched the back of her throat, and she mustered what little saliva she could and swallowed. When she opened her eyes again, the blurred objects appeared a little clearer. The starched pillowcase pressed against her cheek, its stiffness in dire need of some fabric softener, and she rolled onto her back, igniting the dull ache in the base of her neck.

  Outside, a car engine revved. Headlights penetrated the fabric blinds and danced across the far wall, laying bare a lamp hanging above her, a plastic bead that dangled from a static cord, and some paint, which had scratched away from the wall beside the door. She was in the same hospital room as the night before.

  The car engine stopped, and the light inside the room went out. The lamp disappeared behind the gloom, and apart from the low bleep of the heart monitor, the room fell silent.

  Something moved in the corner of the room. Eliza rushed to find the lamp’s cord but pain cramped her stomach and restricted her from reaching it. She winced, and doubled over. Short, sharp breaths flowed through dry, parted lips, and the beep on the monitor quickened. When she pushed back the blanket and glanced down through the neck of her hospital gown, she saw a square piece of gauze taped just above her navel. The soreness slowly calmed, and this time when she reached for the cord, it was in a more gradual and controlled manner. Fingertips brushed the plastic bead, and the cord swayed backwards. The beep’s momentum quickened and Eliza yanked the monitor’s clip from her finger, at last having total silence. She shifted to sit up. The bead swung towards her and she grabbed it, immediately lighting up the room.

  Apart from the uncomfortable armchair the hospital insisted every room should have, the area was as it should be.

  Eliza lay back against the pillow, but she couldn’t relax. Either she had just seen the Shadow, or she was losing her mind. Whichever, she wouldn’t sleep again tonight. She pushed back the blankets and slid her legs out of bed. Someone passed in the hallway, their silhouette behind the closed blinds slow and undisciplined. They stopped inches from Eliza’s door, and although Eliza expected it to be a nurse on her rounds, nobody came in. After a brief pause, the figure shuffled onwards, and the door to the adjoining room could be heard opening and then closing shut. The mattress squeaked, and Eliza changed her assumption to that of the old lady with the bad varicose veins returning from yet another toilet visit.

  Eliza stood, her toes curling against the cold floor, and her hideous open-backed gown doing nothing to cover her modesty. She found her jeans and T-shirt folded across the back of the chair, but her trainers were nowhere to be seen, giving further victory to the cold floor when she started to dress.

  Bruised skin and patched wounds hurt with the slightest movement, and if the wall clock was anything to go by, it took her a full seven minutes to get dressed and a further ten while she searched for her mobile phone, certain she must have left it behind the day before. She needed to get out of this room, and she needed to call Billy to come and get her, but no matter how hard she searched, her phone was nowhere to be found. Determined not to spend the rest of the night laid up like some invalid, she opened the door and headed to the nurse’s station.

  The endless trill of a telephone could be heard long before Eliza reached the vacant desk. Normally she would have obliged and answered it, but tonight she just wanted to call Billy to come and collect her. Instead, she waited patiently for its eternal ringing to finish, and then started to dial Billy’s number.

  079… She paused. So reliant was she on her mobile’s pre-stored numbers that she had no clue as to the rest of the digits. She replaced the phone and let out a defeated sigh. She didn’t want to stay the night in hospital, but she also didn’t want to make her own way home after it had ended so badly for her the night before.

  Tiredness no longer consumed her, and only a light fuzziness behind her eyes reminded her of the drugs she must have been given. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, but as she glanced up and down the empty corridor, it didn’t look as though she would get any conversation either. Where the hell was everybody? Even with the latest hospital cutbacks, the night-shift skeleton staff usually still managed to spread themselves around enough to be seen.

  A door opened down the corridor; the room next to hers, and Eliza expected to see the old lady with the varicose veins head out on yet another toilet run. The hospital had supplied her with a bedpan a week ago but she’d refused to use it, waving her cane at the newly appointed orderly and scaring him half to death. Eliza couldn’t blame her, though. Women just didn’t have the same point, aim, and shoot capacity that men had.

  To Eliza’s surprise, it was her motorbike crash patient, Jason Devlin, who tottered through the door. Although a fair distance separated them, Eliza saw enough of him to trigger her heartrate to quicken. The handsome if not slightly bruised face she’d witnessed the evening before had gone. Now, shaded areas hollowed out his cheeks, and darkened eyes emphasised just how ashen his skin tone had become.

  He shouldn’t be here. He should have been discharged today, and Eliza called out to him.

  Jason stared aimlessly towards her, his gaze unmoving. His arms hung straight against his sides as though weighed down with bricks. His crinkled and creased hospital gown hung loose around his shoulders, and claret-coloured goo stained his mouth and chin. He turned from her, seemingly uninterested, and began to stagger towards the fire exit. The gown’s tie was undone, and the bareness of his white bottom could have been mistaken as comical on any other night. The cast, which had earlier supported his broken leg, had disappeared, and a small piece of card attached to his toe dragged along the floor behind him with each unsteady step he took. He continued to trudge away from her. His legs shook under his weight and his knee popped from its socket. His leg folded outward, and he tumbled sideways.

  Eliza gasped and reached for her own knee, rubbing away the discomfort she felt for the man before her. Jason wobbled back on his heel, and glanced down at the protruding bone. Slowly, he slapped the side of his leg. His knee cracked, and the shin jerked straight. Eliza swallowed the saliva stuck at the back of her throat, and gl
anced down to where her own knee hid protected beneath her trousers, perfectly unhurt, yet still aching. When she looked up, Jason was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Billy arrived just in time to see George, his sergeant, bite into a cheese and coleslaw bap.

  George clocked him, and frowned. “It’s about time. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Flat tyre. What happened here?”

  “Car accident. Looks like the driver took the bend too quick.” A dollop of mayo slopped from the side of George’s mouth and landed on his chin. As he spoke, it slowly slid towards his dimple. “Divers had to dig the bumper out of the mud.”

  George took another bite, and noticed Billy staring. “Wabs s’mabba?”

  Tiny spots of mayonnaise hit Billy in the face. “On your chin…”

  George felt under his lip, knocking the blob of mayo onto his shirt. “Shit.” He flapped open his handkerchief and wiped his face.

  The yellow tow truck at the side of the river shuddered, and the winch ground to a halt. Suspended two feet above the water hung a black Jaguar, a waterfall of murky river pouring through the door joins. The winch rotated further, and the car slowly swung across to the bank, spilling water onto the grass until emergency workers had it settled on the churned mud. A fireman tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. He shouted something to a colleague and a second fireman appeared with a large metal-cutting device. Boys and their toys, Billy thought as the cutter roared to life, its thunderous sound resonating into a scream when the blade touched the metal shell and sliced into the top of the roof. Sparks exploded in every direction, and for a brief moment Billy thought back to his boarding school days, and the time he and a group of friends let off a Catherine Wheel in the gymnasium. He’d coped hell for that and had nearly been expelled – until his father stepped in, waving his cheque book about.