by Luca Veste
Goldie shivered as a cold breeze snuck under the wooden door that he could just about make out. Just the ridge at the top, if he really tried looking down. Otherwise it was just strip light, which burned into his eyes if he looked at it too long. Lighting up his face even when his eyes were closed.
‘We call this a rack, but it’s not like the old racks they had hundreds of years ago. Those ones … Jesus. You wouldn’t believe the pain they could inflict. They’d tie you down and stretch you out, tightening the ropes and making your bones dislocate and break. Destroying your limbs. Tearing them right out.’
Goldie started shaking … as much as he could, anyway. He tried again to move, but it didn’t matter. He could move a finger – maybe two – but not much more than that.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to stretch you out or anything like that. No. This is purely about instant pain and punishment. But also … hopefully … redemption. I don’t want to destroy you. I want you to get better, understand?’
Goldie opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the gag which was shoved in his mouth as he opened it. His vision was obscured by a thick piece of sock-like material being placed around his eyes.
‘Good. Then we’ll begin.’
Goldie tensed as he heard the flick of a lighter. Clenched his eyes tight and tried to block out the pain.
Burning on his chest. Fuck, his chest was on fire. He tried to see, but the harsh light overhead stopped him. Screwing his eyes shut, he thought of home, of his streets, of anywhere but there.
He tried screaming, but the gag inside his mouth turned it into a mumble in the darkness.
Some sort of vice was attached to his head. Goldie felt it tightening, the bones of his skull being forced together, screaming in agony as he thought of his head exploding. Alpha seemed to know the limits though.
It wasn’t his first time, Goldie thought at one point. Oh fucking shit – it wasn’t his first time.
The needles were the worst. That’s what he guessed they were. Sharp, piercing pain in the skin between his fingers and toes. A bang as he imagined the thin pieces of metal being hammered through, then more agony as they were removed and covered.
He cried behind the covering over his eyes. Goldie hadn’t shed tears in as long as he could remember, always believing nothing could break him.
He was wrong.
After a while, the torture stopped and the numbness which had crept over him disappeared, bringing fresh waves of nausea as the pain kicked in once more.
‘That’s probably enough, Alpha … don’t you think?’
The voice came from further away, but even in the agony-induced state Goldie was in, he could hear the fear behind it.
‘Not nearly enough for this piece of shit.’
‘Okay … it’s just, well … we’re not really equipped for putting him right if you go too far.’
Goldie listened, barely able to match the words being spoken to a real conversation.
‘Would that be so bad?’
‘Of course it would. We’re not here for … for that. Are we?’
Goldie heard a sigh.
‘It’ll do for now, I guess. What do you think, Mr Gold?’
Goldie tried to nod his head, but it screamed in response as he tried to move it. Alpha tutted and removed the blindfold from his eyes.
‘Good. Well, Omega here will clean you up and have you back in the Dorm in no time at all. I hope we won’t have to do this again anytime soon. I trust you’ll behave yourself from now on?’
Goldie tried blinking, but the strip light above him refused to allow him respite from the pain as it burned into his eyes. He kept his eyes partially closed as he squinted above him, Alpha’s covered face looming into view.
‘I think we have an understanding now, don’t we? We’re not messing around here. You will be taught how to behave. It’s a shame your parents have failed so badly in this area and that we have to resort to such extreme measures, but it takes time and punishment, you see? Probably not now, no, but soon. Soon you’ll all see.’
The dark face moved away then returned, closer this time. Whispering into his ear.
‘The next time, I take a finger. Then we can really start to see what you’re made of.’
He moved away again and a few seconds passed before another masked face replaced him. Goldie wanted to believe he saw pity in the eyes of this one, but he didn’t know the difference any more.
He didn’t know anything.
7
The first day was winding down, the light fading outside in the early May evening. Murphy and Rossi crossed the incident room, heading back towards their office. There’d be a short meeting before they left for the day, but other than the list of names they’d accrued, there wasn’t much else they could do. Overtime was currently a dirty word in the station, and unless the DCI suddenly got pressure from above, Murphy couldn’t imagine they’d change that for a single victim. Especially when he knew what most minds in the hive would be thinking.
Some scally kid had got what was coming to him.
It still troubled Murphy. Any death still had that effect on him. Sometimes he wondered if he had been born in the wrong era. It seemed to Murphy that there were more victims than ever that supposedly deserved their fates, in a growing number of people’s opinions. Even if they were only a few years on from being nothing but kids. Not having a clue what the reality of their actions could eventually lead to.
Murphy had been there. Growing up on a council estate in South Liverpool, the line between making something of your life and screwing it up was thin. Sometimes even blurred.
Murphy took out his phone as they reached their office, the silence he’d been hoping for denied due to DC Harris sitting behind the desk speaking into his mobile, his back to them. He turned as they entered, redness creeping up his neck. Private call then, Murphy thought.
‘I’ll call you back,’ Harris whispered into the phone, which made little difference considering the size of the office. ‘I don’t know when, I’ll just ring in a bit, okay?’ He stabbed at the phone, slamming it down on the desk with more force than Murphy thought he’d intended.
‘You all right?’ Rossi said, taking her jacket off and placing it over her chair. Murphy was already taking his phone out of his pocket.
‘Yeah, just … doesn’t matter. Boring shite.’
Rossi went to reply but stopped herself as Murphy shot her a look. Domestics. Best not to get involved. Murphy went back to texting.
Body this morning. Won’t be late though. Bit knackered, so can I just pick up an Indian?
Murphy hesitated before pressing send. He hoped Sarah would understand that he wasn’t taking her out, but he could never tell how she’d respond. In many ways they were still treading on eggshells with each other. Learning how to be with one another after they’d spent the best part of a year apart, following the death of his parents and all that had brought with it.
‘Just send it,’ Rossi said, interrupting his thoughts. ‘She’ll understand.’
Murphy smirked. And they say women’s intuition doesn’t exist. ‘Supposed to be taking her out,’ Murphy said, phone still in hand, the screen darkening. ‘Forgot to book a table though, so now I’ve got a perfect excuse.’
‘She’ll be fine. Take her tomorrow or next week. All the time in the world,’ Rossi replied.
Muttering came from Harris’s direction, accompanied by a loud sigh.
‘What’s up with you?’ Murphy said, sending the text as he spoke.
‘Nothing,’ Harris replied. ‘Just, you know, they’re not always as understanding as that.’
Murphy shared a smile with Rossi. ‘I’m sure it’ll work itself out. Don’t let it get to you.’
Harris shrugged in response. Three of them in the office and Murphy realised his relationship was probably the most secure. A strange feeling, given what had happened the previous couple of years.
He was mentally admonishing himself for allowing a cr
ack to appear in the veneer of stability. Allowing work to affect things. He couldn’t let that happen again.
His phone buzzed on the desk in front of him.
Glad you said that. I’m knackered. Get home in time for 8 out of 10 Cats.
Murphy allowed himself a small smile before checking the time. Almost six p.m. Just enough time for a conversation he was dreading.
‘Where’s he been? That’s what I want to know. Where’s he fucking been for over six months, while you all sat on your arses doing nothing?’
Sally Hughes spat the last question out directly at Murphy, as if he’d been involved in the whole thing. He remained stoic, eager to allow Sally to get her initial anger out so they could move forward. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out, Sally. It’ll help us if you could tell us a few things though, okay?’
‘Oh, you want to hear all about it now, don’t you? When it doesn’t matter any more. Fucking useless, the lot of you.’
Murphy moved the box of tissues she’d been using to dab her tears away, just in case she decided to chuck that at him, which, going by the whitening of her knuckles on the table between them, could occur at any second. ‘Give us a chance to prove we’re not useless, okay, Sally?’
She sat back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact with him to bury her head in her hands, tears springing forth once more. ‘God, what happened? Are you going to find out what happened to him?’ Sally said, raising her head and facing Rossi this time.
‘That’s what we want to do, Sally,’ Rossi replied. ‘That’s why we need your help.’
‘Okay. Ask me anything. I’m not gonna lie to you.’
Unlike usually, Murphy thought, before giving himself an internal slap.
‘Right,’ Rossi said, reading the first question off the list they’d prepared before going into the room. ‘Dean went missing in the early hours of 6 October. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The evening before. He was going out with mates and he came in to say bye. About half six, I think, because Hollyoaks was about to start.’
‘And did he seem okay … anything different about him?’
Murphy watched her as she thought back. Memory is a stranger; it plays tricks on you. He knew they might learn more from the original report, but having scan-read it earlier, he wasn’t holding out much hope. Some uniform had taken it without going into much detail. Even the follow-ups from higher-ups had been perfunctory at best.
‘Maybe a bit quieter, but nothing really. It was a Friday, so I knew he’d be in late, if at all. He was nearly eighteen, so I couldn’t really say anything. Not that he cared at sixteen or fifteen, for that matter. Always had his own mind, Dean. He’s … what’s the word … stubborn. That’s it. Always was. Does things his own way and woe betide anyone who tries to stop him.’
‘Did he say where he was going that night?’
‘Out. That’s what he always said. I knew he’d be drinking, of course. Maybe more, who knows with kids these days? But he always let me know if he was staying over at a mate’s or something. Send me a text in the early hours, just to stop me worrying. When I woke up the next morning and didn’t have anything from him, I knew something was wrong. Our Jason – that’s my youngest one, just turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago – went looking for him on the Saturday afternoon but couldn’t find him.’
‘Where did he look?’ Murphy said, easing into the conversation.
‘Couple of lads he knew that hung around with Dean,’ Sally continued, taking a lighter out of her hoodie pocket. ‘I’m guessing I can’t smoke in here?’
Murphy shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have a break soon.’
‘I rang you lot Saturday night. We found out more than youse did though.’
‘I’ve got some of it here,’ Murphy replied, flipping back a couple of sheets of the report. ‘He was last seen by a Steven Waites at around three a.m. Said he left him in West Derby Cemetery with “some bird I can’t remember the name of”.’
A whisper of a smile played on Sally’s lips before being lost with a knock of the lighter in her hand on the table. ‘We found out who that was. Some slut from up the road. Amanda Williams. Sixteen, she was. Glad I have boys, I’ll tell you that.’
‘And …’
‘She was pissed. Last thing she remembers was throwing up behind some grave and then her dad pulling her into the house. Reckons Dean must have took her home.’
Murphy found the part of the missing person’s report which referred to this.
Took girlfriend home.
Murphy shook his head at the lack of investigation. He knew it was down to time, resources and all that bullshit. The oft-quoted statistic relating to missing persons. Quarter of a million a year. Most turning back up again quickly. Still, a bit of effort might have saved at least one life.
‘And that was it,’ Sally continued. ‘No one saw him again. We tried getting in the papers and that, but they weren’t interested. Eighteen-year-old lad with his history … they couldn’t care less. Just assumed he’d done something wrong and got what was coming to him. We stuck posters up and that, but when we got the letter in January, we kind of stopped and just waited around.’
Murphy looked towards Rossi, who looked back at him, mirroring his own reaction. Flicked through the report to make sure he hadn’t missed something, came up with nothing.
‘What letter?’
8
Murphy wrote on the board under the details of Dean Hughes’s murder case. Adding the new information they’d gleaned that day, his last act before going home.
He was going to be late.
Someone had sent Sally Hughes a message. An envelope dropping through the letter box one January morning. No stamp or address on the front. Just one word.
Mum
Inside, a short note which explained how he was fine and was getting help with his problems. He’d be back soon, when he was better and ready to make something of his life. Not in her son’s handwriting, but typed out.
She’d assumed he was at some kind of religious thing. Actually felt okay about it. Two words in her son’s handwriting … Mum and Dean. And a few kisses, she’d said. Murphy shook his head at the naivety of it all. Someone sends you a message saying your son is somewhere you have no idea of until he’s better. It was ridiculous. And all she had to show it was actually written by her son were two words in his handwriting.
He guessed what the real reason was behind her supposed giving up. Apathy. It was a neat little explanation for everything. Meant she didn’t have to worry any more.
Murphy slammed the marker pen back in the shelf at the bottom of the board. Looked at his watch and decided to make a move.
It was becoming a ritual for Rossi to do this. Every time there was a death, suspicious circumstances or not, she went to her parents’ house. She’d thought she would have grown out of it once she’d gone through the process a few times, but the draw was still there.
Rossi’s parents lived near the scene from earlier that morning in West Derby. Only a few minutes away really. She drove past the church – saw a couple of uniforms standing outside the entrance, keeping away any ghouls who wanted to have a poke around, but other than that, things had quietened down now. Only twelve hours on, and already people’s attention was being drawn elsewhere.
She was putting off the inevitable. The questions, the judgements. Willing to go through it all, as usual. The lure of her mama’s food was a much more appetising thought, but she knew it came at a price.
She parked up her car, turned off the engine but left the radio playing some bland pop song which she couldn’t help but enjoy. Rossi switched off the radio with a turn of her key and got out the car. She’d managed to get a parking spot, which was becoming more and more difficult these days. It was a mid-terrace house in a quiet road which seemed to contain every different type of house you could find. Opposite, four detached bungalows; further down, semi-detached housing; to either side, terraced h
ouses which seemed to run the length of the street.
She rang the bell, a snippet of Greensleeves emanating from within.
‘Bambina! Entare, entare. What is all this talk today? What is happening here in our beautiful city? You look hungry. Hai mangiato? Never mind. You eat now.’
Laura was still standing on the doorstep, waiting for her mother to finish. It was always the same. Isabella Rossi – Mama – didn’t believe in easing into conversations.
‘I’m fine, Mama, bene,’ Rossi said, finally being allowed to step into the house and taking her jacket off. ‘I wanted to make sure you were both okay, that’s all.’
Mama Rossi stood, her arms folded. ‘You check on us? We check on you! That is how it is. Now go through. Sit with Papa and I’ll bring food. Go. Sit.’
Rossi did as she was told, moving through into the living room where her father was sitting in his usual chair, waiting for her to brush his cheek with a kiss before lighting a cigarette.
‘Come stai?’ Alessandro Rossi said, fiddling the cigarette between his fingers before flicking his Zippo and inhaling the smoke.
‘I’m fine, Papa. You heard about what happened at the church?’
‘Of course.’
‘Looks like a bad one already.’
‘How young?’
‘Just turned eighteen,’ Rossi replied, moving back as her mama entered the room and placed a cup of tea in front of her, before hustling back out.
‘Terrible, terrible business. The whole city is changing. You should really be doing something about that,’ Mama Rossi said from the kitchen.
‘I’ll get right on that, Mama,’ Rossi replied, earning a smirk from her father.
‘He was eighteen. So an adult really, but still …’ Rossi said, lifting the china cup her mother always served tea in. Remembering why she never drank the stuff unless she was home. Not that it had been her home in a long time.