The Fall of Winter

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Tom, in the bedroom next to hers.

  Tom, singing.

  She turned on her bedside lamp.

  The heating turned off at night, and the sweat that prickled on Debbie's skin became cold immediately. She shivered, pushed back the heavy eiderdown, and walked to her door, putting on her mother's towelling dressing gown. It still smelled of her face cream.

  She stood by her door for a minute, listening. It was Tom's voice—who else could it be?—but it wasn't. The confidence, the lack of any stumbling, the lilting phrasing, it all sounded like someone else.

  My staff has murdered giants, my bag a long knife carries

  For to cut mince pies from children's thighs, with which to feed the fairies

  Debbie had taken all the right courses at work, stayed up to date with sensitivity issues around mental illness. But the relish in which the unseen singer rolled the words around his mouth, the glee, the occasional giggle, between lines about taking a knife to children, all of this made Debbie shake, her entire body prickling with goosebumps.

  She crossed the landing, putting her hand on Tom's bedroom door. She remembered the famous description of Lord Byron. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know. She had a feeling the singer was all three.

  Debbie took a long breath, held it for a count of five, then released it. She twisted the handle and stepped inside.

  The light from her room spilled through the open door. Tom had his back to her. He danced as he sang, swaying from side to side. In between lines, he giggled.

  When he stopped singing, he did it in the middle of a line. Debbie put her hands over her mouth to stop herself gasping. There was a palpable presence in the room, unlike anything she had ever experienced. Her mind stuttered between unease—something was terribly wrong here—and the kind of primal fear the first humans felt when they came face-to-face with a sabre-toothed tiger.

  This creature was a predator. Did that make her the prey?

  He spoke without turning.

  "You should think carefully about what you're doing, Debbie. Very carefully indeed."

  His speaking voice was unfamiliar. If she had been listening on tape, she would have never attributed it to Tom. There was intelligence, an easy eloquence free of the limitations Tom Lewis struggled with. The words weren't overtly threatening, but the room was full of poison, redolent with menace. She had never felt in such danger in all her life. Never.

  "He needs me, Debbie. Without me, there is no Tom. I am his alpha and omega, his sun and rain, his daily bread."

  The head of the silhouetted figure tilted to the side, and—for a couple of panic-stricken seconds—Debbie thought he would turn and look at her. Don't turn around. Please don't turn around. A voice in her head said she needed to be rational about this. He wasn't some monster, he was Tom Lewis. But that voice was a whisper, and any power it might have was sucked away by the creature itself.

  Please don't turn around.

  "I know you think you're helping, but you're not. He can't survive on his own, with his half-life, half-lived. Poor mad Tom. Poor, poor, mad Tom. You can't make him better, Debbie. He'll never be better, poor Tom."

  He turned then, just a little. Enough for one eye to be visible, and the curl of a smile on his lips. Debbie made a noise she didn't know she was capable of making - an awful, low, trembling moan of terror.

  He laughed again. There wasn't a hint of sanity in the sound.

  "Don't worry, Debbie Capelli, I won't hurt you. The Boy could never hurt you. You've been good to Tom. The only one. But you need to leave him alone now. Can you do that for me, Debbie?"

  The silence was only broken by her own rapid gasps of breath.

  To her amazement, Debbie found she could speak. "Who are you?"

  "I'm Bedlam Boy."

  Then he faced her. Debbie screwed her eyes shut like a child watching a scary film, turned her back and blundered out of the room.

  She put a chair against her bedroom door and stared at it until she heard Tom go downstairs at dawn. Half an hour later, his footsteps returned, and she listened to him get closer, stopping outside her door.

  "Mm, Debbie? Are you aw- w- wake? I, mm, I made tea for you."

  "Thank you, Tom. Can you leave it outside the door? I'll be down in a minute." Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears, but Tom didn't notice, and she heard him clump away.

  After five minutes, she stood up, limbs aching, removed the chair, and opened the door. A mug of tea on a tray, a snowdrop from the garden in a saucer. She took them both into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and cried.

  Tom didn't show any sign of remembering the night before, and, as the day went on, it faded like a vivid dream. But it had happened. Debbie only had to look at the marks on her palms where her nails had dug into them.

  She wondered if she should call a psychologist, discuss what she had witnessed. Debbie had dealt with schizophrenic people, either as the perpetrators or, more often, victims of crime. But she had never heard of anything like this. The man in Tom's bedroom last night (and she had to force herself to think of it as a man) was utterly unlike Tom. Not just his voice, level of intelligence, and manner. Even his body. Tom moved like a small, frightened child trapped in an ungainly frame. The thing… Bedlam Boy… filled that frame and, impossibly, expanded it. Debbie swore the creature she had seen was taller and broader than Tom.

  No. She wouldn't consult a professional yet. Anyone she spoke to would want to meet Tom. Once Tom had given his statement, she'd get him some help. If, that was, she could fight the urge to get as far away from Tom Lewis as possible.

  There was only one hint during the day that Tom knew what had happened. He fell asleep on the sofa while she read to him. Debbie stayed where she was, sitting by the three-bar fire, wondering if she'd done the right thing bringing him here. Exhaustion caught up with her, and she slumped into an uneasy sleep. When she woke up, sticky-mouthed and disorientated, Tom was kneeling in front of her, his eyes wet with tears.

  "Debbie? Are you, mm, are you okay?" He spoke with such childlike sincerity that Debbie found herself crying, too. Tom held her hand. She didn't recoil. She wasn't afraid of Tom.

  "Tonight," he said. "Mm, after d-dinner. I'll, mm, tell you. About that, that, mm, night. I'll, mm, tell you."

  She squeezed his hand. "Are you sure, Tom?"

  "Sure."

  Ten minutes after Tom left for his run along the beach, someone knocked on the back door.

  It was the first time anyone had knocked since she'd arrived, and Debbie jumped at the sound. It was dusk. She looked out of the back window, but the angle was too acute. She couldn't make out who was there.

  No one knew she was in Pakefield. She ignored the knock. Then it came again, followed by a male voice.

  "Hello? Is there anyone there? I need to use a phone. I don't have any signal."

  Debbie said nothing.

  "I saw a light on. Please. A man has collapsed on the beach. I need to call an ambulance. He was out running. He might have had a heart attack. Is there anyone in? It's an emergency."

  Debbie ran to the back door, threw back the bolt, and opened it.

  "What does he look like?" she said, then stopped. The man on her doorstep might have been a policeman. Tall, well-built, fit, and he carried himself with a focused, heightened readiness. But police officers in Britain didn't carry guns. Only the armed response units. And ARU didn't use silenced sub-machine guns.

  The man shot her in the leg, pushed her backwards, and walked into the house, closing the door behind him.

  7

  Part Two

  Winter wasn't a man to celebrate early, but he'd brought a bottle of champagne up to his hotel room after lunch, pouring himself a glass while waiting for updates from Phillips. He plugged the laptop into the ethernet, the sixty-five inch television acting as a second monitor. He would enjoy the show in high definition on the big screen.

  The island of St Thomas was four hours behind the UK. When Winter's phone buzzed, he pict
ured the east coast of England, dark and cold.

  Arrived at the beach, weather fine. The B&B is perfect. Will call you after the show. P.

  Communications relying on riddles and codewords was a habit Phillips evidently found impossible to break. Winter wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed by it. Under the circumstances, and with the afternoon's entertainment in store, he opted for the former.

  Phillips was one of Strickland's contacts. Winter had used him once before, when a Russian oligarch made noises about taking over the UK's most successful criminal enterprises in the same way some of his peers scooped up Premier League football clubs. When the Russian started muscling in on his patch, Winter called Phillips. He and his team parachuted into a country club thirty miles out of St Petersburg, killed the businessman, his bodyguards, his entourage, and his family, and left on a container ship out of Primorsk before the bodies were cold.

  If you needed untraceable mercenaries to do your dirty work, Phillips was your man. Strickland spoke highly of him, and Strickland never praised anyone. Then again, Strickland had been the best, until he met Tom Lewis. Winter contacted the mercenary through a convoluted series of emails, texts, and codeword-heavy phone calls, setting up the operation for this afternoon.

  The B&B meant the house in Pakefield. DI Capelli's file had been in Winter's hands fourteen hours after leaving Jürgen dead in the trees by the M1 services. Her parents were listed as next-of-kin, although the sergeant who provided the file confirmed they were dead. By the time confirmation of a white Fiat 500 parked outside the Pakefield address arrived, Winter was in the Caribbean.

  A few hours trawling online realtors and he'd made an offer on a Caribbean property, available in a month. Beachfront, private land, secluded. He planned to lie low for a few years, catch up on some reading. Then, perhaps, some light plastic surgery, and a change of scene. He'd put aside enough ready money for this contingency, and the rich, powerful individuals he was blackmailing had received details of where to send their reasonable quarterly payments. The amounts he demanded wouldn't hurt them financially, although he imagined it would sting their pride.

  His sponsors had much to lose. Money, reputation, political power. They couldn't afford the exposure.

  Tom Lewis, in his seaside hideaway with DI Capelli, thought Rhoda's confession and recording gave him leverage over Winter. But Winter no longer existed. A new identity, a new country, and a new life. If Lewis felt safe, he was wrong. He was about to find out just how wrong.

  While he waited for the paperwork on his beach property, Winter checked in at the best of the St Thomas hotels aimed at the super-rich, where discretion was assured for those who could afford it. The concierge knew that Winter expected a female guest later, and a hundred dollar tip meant he would escort her to his room.

  The sex-trafficking trade was basic in the Virgin Islands. Winter smiled at the inherent pun. He sniffed a business opportunity, but the old hunger had gone. He'd got out at the right time. A shame about the circumstances.

  Winter's guest wasn't a local. She was flying in from the US mainland. Although his sexual tastes were fairly vanilla, he considered himself somewhat of a connoisseur of paid companions. Twenty-four hours of this young lady's time cost twenty-thousand dollars, but why drink cheap beer out of a dirty glass when you can afford the finest wine?

  Winter owed himself a release. His emergency retirement plan had gone off without a hitch, but such a swift exit brought its own stresses. He'd been out of Britain before the police forensic team finished their first sweep of the Elstree house. It still felt like running away. A remnant of pride didn't want him to be perceived as beaten, leaving with his tail between his legs. Watching Lewis die would help give Winter closure. Afterwards, he would take his time beating up a prostitute who looked like a super model. He intended to get his money's worth before screwing her.

  Winter drew the curtains against the Caribbean sun, sipped the champagne, and sat back on the Emperor-size bed. The buzz had little to do with drinking in the afternoon. This was personal, he admitted. Robert Winter wanted Tom Lewis dead, for his own satisfaction. A great leader made decisions unencumbered by likes or dislikes and rarely kept a grudge. It was bad for business. But Winter had retired. And weren't retired people supposed to pursue their hobbies and have fun?

  The television flickered into life. Phillips and his team were broadcasting live via a satellite phone. It had cost Winter extra to watch. Two million extra. He hoped it would be worth it.

  The screen divided into four squares showing jerky black and white images from the cameras on each team member's shoulder.

  He topped up his glass and settled down to watch.

  Chapter Eight

  Tom had run to get fit before, but he didn't remember when, or where. He had a memory of running uphill in the rain, scrambling over rocks, his body alive with pain, muscles burning. Falling, getting up, falling again, his sleeve torn, and his arm slick with blood. No matter how many times he fell, he always got up. Always.

  Now, his body craved the exercise, and he loved the openness and wildness of the beach. Tom had holidayed at the seaside as a small child. Buckets and spades, rock pools, greasy sun cream, and the satisfaction of peeling dead skin from burned shoulders. This was different. The pebbles grated and crunched underfoot as he jogged parallel to the perpetual sea.

  The water shone through dark, metallic greys to burnished bronze as the sun dipped itself in other seas on other horizons. Darkness fell. Seabirds wheeled and shrieked, wings spread, making constant adjustments to pin themselves unnaturally against the sky. Others settled on rocks and watched him pass.

  His breaths found a natural rhythm with his long, easy strides. He looked into the distance, seeing nothing in particular.

  As he followed the line between sea and land, he was neither Tom nor the Boy. He wouldn't describe himself as happy, exactly. More that certain constants were absent. No fear, worries, nerves, embarrassment, or shyness. No plans. Not haunted by blood and fire. The darkness wasn't drawing around him. No anger. If happiness meant the absence of all these things then, yes, he supposed he was happy.

  He ran south towards Kessingland, turning after twenty-five minutes. It got dark fast here. He slowed to a walk for the last half-mile before Pakefield.

  Tom stopped before the house came into view. He looked out at the sea, respectful of its unimaginable power. It waited there whether he was asleep or awake. Always moving, throwing itself against the land, withdrawing, then throwing itself back. For hours. For days, weeks, months, years. Forever.

  The cliffs were eroding here. Debbie pointed them out the first day, told him to stay clear. In places, he saw tubing, pipes sticking out of gouges in the cliffs, laid bare by sea and storm.

  Nothing could resist the sea.

  Tom stared out. He stared as it got darker. He stared until a noise made him stagger forward on the stones, blinking, wondering who was screaming, finding out it was him.

  "Come on! Come onnnnnnnn! Come onnnnnnnn! Coward, mm, cowaaaaard!"

  With the onset of darkness, his dream of the night before washed over him with the tide, and he knew it was no dream. Bedlam Boy had scared Debbie. Terrified her. She had believed he would hurt her.

  He screamed at the waves, as if they might stop splashing the shingle, and leave forever.

  Drained, he headed back up the beach, feet slipping on the shifting stones. Whatever his mother had been, whatever his parents concealed from him, all the truths he only half-understood, none of it had to shape him. He could be like David Copperfield. He mouthed the first words of that book. When Debbie read them to him, he had felt, for the first time in his life, that someone he had never met, someone long dead—a man called Charles Dickens—saw him, understood him. He'd asked her to read them again.

  Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

  Was it too late for Tom to be the hero o
f his own life?

  Near the top of the worn stone steps leading to the cliff path, Tom stopped. He sat on the concrete and listened. Other than the beat of waves on shore, there was no sound. Nothing at all.

  Debbie cooked dinner at the same time every day, and the radio always played while she prepared their food. She liked music from the eighties. She said it was the best music ever. Tom didn't want to be rude, so he said nothing.

  No radio this evening. No Duran Duran, Nik Kershaw, Prince, or Grandmaster Flash.

  Tom took his phone from his pocket, checked for the usual message. Debbie texted when dinner was nearly ready. Spag Bol in ten. Stew tonight, putting the dumplings in now. I feel lazy, fancy a takeaway? No messages, and no missed calls. The wind was coming from the north west. Tom breathed in. No cooking smells.

  Something was wrong.

  He crawled up the last few steps and, instead of coming out onto the cliff path, edged up behind the low wall. Inch by inch, he leaned out. When he could see the rear of the house, the gate, the hedge, and the back door beyond, he stopped moving.

  Tom was still for twelve minutes. Then a figure in the shadows moved.

  At first, he thought it was the Boy, and he was filled with a dull anger. Then he saw a stranger, bearded, in dark clothes, carrying a gun.

  Where was Debbie?

  A voice whispered in his ear, a voice only Tom heard.

  "What's up? Changed your mind about me, have you? Poor, mad Tom. Do you, mm, do you, mm, want, mm, my help, Tom? Do you?"

  Tom blinked away a tear.

  "You gonna cry, Tom? Is that what you're going to do, poor baby? Have a cry while they torture your friend?"

  No. No. I can, mm, help her. I will h-help her.

  "You will? You? Mad, Tom? You're going to find the nasty men and beat them all up, are you? Going to rescue Debbie?"

  Yes. I, mm, I am.