Relics

by Shaun Hutson

At twenty-nine, Penny was only a year younger than Sarah and her round face and the fact that she wore almost no make-up would have allowed anyone who didn’t know her to take her for five or six years younger. She was the opposite in almost every way to her companion. Sarah was tall and slender, while Penny, although slim, was more rounded and scarcely five feet tall. She had been a teacher at one of Longfield’s largest schools for the past five years.

  Two years longer than she and Sarah had been lovers.

  It had seemed so natural. They had always been close. They’d attended the same schools, belonged to the same small circle of friends and as time had passed, their friendship had blossomed almost inevitably into love of a kind neither had ever felt with a man.

  There was a tenderness about their relationship which Penny had never been able to attain with her husband.

  The marriage had lasted only ten months. He’d walked out on her after arriving home early one afternoon to discover Penny and Sarah locked in each other’s arms. Neither of the women had attempted an explanation. It was hardly necessary. He’d packed his bags there and then, leaving Penny the house and everything in it. She hadn’t heard from him since that day.

  There had been no attempt on the part of either woman to hide the nature of their relationship. They still had to put up with the occasional snide remark or sly look when they were out together, but as Sarah had said on numerous occasions, small towns breed small minds and Longfield was no exception.

  Penny had been asked to leave her last job, supervising a play-group, as a result of the rumours and innuendo, but other than that, they had encountered little trouble and she had settled easily into her post as teacher.

  She leant her head against one of Sarah’s soothing hands, allowing her silky hair to flow over it, enjoying the sensations which were beginning to course through her body. Sarah moved closer, pressing herself up against the back of the chair, a familiar warmth beginning to manifest itself within her lower body. She moved to the side of the chair, sighing with anticipation as she felt Penny’s left hand brush against her exposed thighs. The short house-coat she wore barely covered her buttocks and she tensed as she felt her lover’s gentle fingers gliding over her flesh. Sarah kept up the massage, gradually slipping one hand around to caress Penny’s throat and begin removing the blouse from hers shoulders.

  ‘Take a shower with me,’ she said, softly.

  Penny smiled and nodded.

  The figure moved quickly but sure-footedly through the darkness, towards the house.

  It had seen the silhouettes of the two women against the curtains and now it darted furtively but purposefully towards the window at the side of the building. It was masked from the house next door by a high privet hedge and the night closed around it like a welcoming ally.

  It stood before the French windows.

  Waiting.

  Water splattered noisily from the bulbous head of the shower-spray and Sarah reached forward to adjust the temperature. The room was filled with steam which billowed like thick white mist, covering the mirror and tiles with a thin film of condensation.

  Both women stood beneath the spray, enjoying the feel of the warm jet of water on their skin, laughing as they soaped each other lovingly, paying particular attention to each other’s breasts.

  Inside the glass cubicle they embraced, hearing only each other’s voices and the constant noise of running water which masked all other sounds.

  Even the noise of breaking glass from downstairs.

  The figure drove its hand through the glass of the French windows and strode inside, overturning chairs in its path. It stood in the centre of the room, becoming annoyed by the bright light from the lamp on the table before it.

  One powerful swipe sent the lamp hurtling against the wall, where it shattered.

  The figure turned towards the door which led into the hall and wrenched it open. The sound of splashing water reached its ears:

  It paused for a moment, then began to climb the stairs.

  Sarah Potter closed her eyes and allowed the water to spurt over her face, forming rivulets which coursed down her neck and ran between her breasts. She felt Penny’s soft touch on the back of her neck and sighed contentedly, turning to face her lover.

  She opened her eyes to look at Penny, and it was then that she saw the dark figure outside the shower cubicle.

  Through the frosted glass it looked hideously distorted, but Sarah was able to make out the semblance of a shape, like some kind of grotesquely hewn statue.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  One side of the cubicle exploded inwards, huge jagged shards of glass erupting into the shower itself.

  Penny shrieked as a particularly long shard sliced open her forearm. Blood spurted from the wound, spilling onto the white tiles of the shower, while other fragments cut her feet as she tried to move away from the terrifying intrusion.

  Sarah pressed herself into a corner, her eyes bulging wide in horror, and screamed again as she felt a vice-like grip fasten around her left wrist. Bones crumbled under the powerful clamp and she felt searing pain lance up her arm. A second later she was flung effortlessly from the cubicle, as easily as if she had been a rag doll. She skidded helplessly across the slippery floor, knowing in that brief instant that she could not stop herself hitting the mirror on the opposite wall.

  She struck it with devastating force, her head snapping forward, powering into the glass, splintering it.

  The impact sent her reeling back and she went down in an untidy heap, blood pouring from a vicious gash just below her hair-line. Fragments of the broken mirror rained down on her, slicing her naked body, lacerating her face, arms and chest. She lay unconscious, oblivious now to the screams of her lover.

  Penny tried to run, nursing her cut arm, but the figure merely gripped her by the throat, lifting her off her feet for several seconds before slamming her back against the cubicle wall. As she slumped forward again the figure took a firm hold on her hair and forced her face towards the shower-spray.

  Penny felt the hot water spattering her skin and it was only that which kept her conscious. She struggled but her assailant was far too powerful to be thwarted.

  As she opened her mouth to scream, the attacker pushed her head forward.

  Penny’s mouth closed over the bulbous head of the shower-spray. Her body bucked madly, but her head was held firm by the vice-like hand. She felt the water gushing down her throat; felt her stomach contract as it filled up. Her body twisted insanely. She gagged violently as the spray touched the back of her throat and the vomit rose, only to be swept back down by the torrent of water.

  Penny felt herself blacking out but not before she saw her assailant’s hand, grasp the temperature control of the shower and turn it to hot.

  Blistering, scalding water filled her mouth and throat and she was enveloped in unbelievable agony as the searing cascade gushed through her:

  Her lips and tongue were transformed into little more than massive blisters which finally burst in a welter of pus and blood that ran down her chin to mingle with the crimson stains already splattering the shower tiles.

  For interminable seconds Penny suffered this excruciating pain, and then her attacker, still using just one hand, slammed her viciously forward.

  Such was the force of the movement that the shower-spray itself first gouged through the back of her throat, then burst from the base of her skull. Large fragments of bone broke away and torrents of blood gushed from the hole, washing over her shoulders and back.

  She sagged against the wall, arms dangling limply at her sides, held upright by the water conduit which protruded a good six inches from the back of her head.

  The figure turned away from her for a moment and moved towards Sarah.

  The bathroom was transformed into a dripping slaughterhouse and steam swirled around the room, closing about the figure and its victims like a white shroud.

  Forty-Four

  Wallace sucked heavily on hi
s cigarette, before stubbing it out in the ashtray. From his office window he could see a good deal of Longfield. If only, he thought, he could see an answer to the questions which now tormented him. He took a deep breath of the cool fresh air in an effort to clear his head.

  Who had murdered Stuart Lawrence, John Kirkland and now Sarah Potter and the woman they knew to be her lover?

  Was it the same person who had kidnapped little Jonathan Ashton?

  What kind of person was it who had impaled Penny Allen’s head on a shower spray? Who had ripped Sarah Potter’s eyes from their sockets? Who had flayed almost every inch of flesh from both bodies using a piece of broken mirror?

  Who had gutted them both completely, pulling their intestines from the riven torsos, and then used the slippery, steaming lengths to fashion a crude letter A on the bathroom floor. And, in the bath itself, a bloodied N?

  Wallace exhaled deeply and reached for another cigarette. How come nobody ever saw or heard anything? In every case, the killer had forced entry to the homes of his victims, and the extent of the mutilations seemed to indicate that he spent at least thirty minutes, if not longer, on each corpse. Wallace knew from previous experience that people avoided getting involved in police affairs wherever possible, but even so, someone at some time must have seen events taking place before or after the killings which looked odd. This time a neighbour had heard something but had assumed that it was kids messing about, throwing stones at the windows of the house where the two women were. By the time he got around to phoning the police it was too late.

  The inspector blew out a long stream of blue smoke and watched it disperse in the air.

  Four murders and a kidnapping.

  ‘The quiet little town of Longfield,’ he murmured humourlessly, but his thoughts were cut short as he heard raised voices in the corridor outside his office.

  He spun round as the door crashed open.

  James Cutler strode into the room, his eyes fixed on the inspector. Wallace caught a glimpse of Sergeant Dayton trying to pull the land developer back.

  ‘You’re supposed to knock first,’ said Wallace, unimpressed by the anger which contorted the older man’s face into a twisted mask.

  ‘I tried to stop him, guv,’ Dayton said. ‘I warned him.’

  ‘You incompetent bastard, Wallace’ Cutler said, pulling away from the sergeant.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ snarled Dayton, gripping the land developer by the arm and twisting.

  Cutler hissed in pain but Wallace shook his head.

  ‘Leave him, Bill. Otherwise we’ll have Mr Cutler crying police brutality.’ The inspector motioned for Dayton to leave the room. Looking a little perplexed, the sergeant did so, closing the door behind him.

  Cutler brushed the sleeve of his jacket and glared at Wallace.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ he snapped.

  ‘Telepathy isn’t one of my talents,’ Wallace told him.

  ‘Another of my employees was butchered last night. When the hell are you going to find the murderer?’

  ‘It isn’t as simple as you seem to think, Cutler,’ the inspector said, trying to keep his temper. ‘There aren’t many leads.’

  ‘Then find some,’ Cutler said. ‘God knows who’ll be next. It could be me. I initiated this building project. If the killer has a grudge against me and my workers then it’s only a matter of time before he comes after me.’

  ‘That had occurred to me, too. I know you’re a likely target. So is everyone who works for you, but I simply haven’t got the manpower to give all of you protection if that’s what You’re driving at.’

  ‘Then call in some help, for Christ’s sake,’ the land developer shouted, anger and fear colouring his tone. ‘Do your superiors know how you’re handling this case? Perhaps it’s time they did.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Wallace said, his own anger now boiling up.

  Cutler didn’t answer; he merely glared at the policeman.

  ‘If the building project is the cause of these killings then call it off, at least temporarily,’ Wallace suggested.

  ‘No. My men are working to schedules.’ the older man said. ‘To call a halt would mean losing hundreds of thousands of pounds.’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, Cutler. You’ll have to decide what price you put on your own life. If there’s any way you could stop the project . . .’

  ‘Not a chance!’ The land developer turned and headed for the office door, then glared back at the detective. ‘I’m telling you Wallace, I want results. Fast!’

  ‘Get out, Cutler,’ Wallace said, watching wearily as the other man pushed open the door and strode out, almost colliding with Dayton in the process.

  The sergeant hesitated for a moment, then walked in.

  Wallace sat down and ground out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk.

  ‘What is it, Bill?’ he said, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

  Dayton approached the desk slowly, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘I just took this message, guv,’ he said, quietly. ‘Her name’s Julie Craig. She’s five years old.’

  ‘I’m not with you,’ Wallace said, frowning.

  Dayton sighed and handed over the piece of paper.

  ‘Another kid’s been taken.’

  Forty-Five

  As Frank King watched, thick white wisps of steam rose from the tar trailer, a cylindrical tank about six feet long which carried the molten fluid. The tarmac-laying crew were careful to keep a safe distance from the blistering black mess as it spilled over the ground, covering an area which would eventually form part of a car park servicing the leisure centre.

  The smells of tar and diesel fumes were strong in the air but the foreman seemed oblivious to the odours as he surveyed the building site like some kind of nineteenth-century general inspecting a battlefield.

  He shuddered involuntarily as a powerful gust of wind swept past him. He’d be pleased when this bloody project was over and done with. King turned and headed towards the Portakabin, glancing up at the rain-heavy clouds above.

  In the cab of the JCB, David Holmes was also watching the sky, but his attention was drawn to his watch as the alarm went off, telling him that it was one o’clock. Lunch-time, he thought with relief. It was freezing in the cab of the JCB. He couldn’t wait to reach the relative warmth of the Portakabin. Holmes worked the controls of the machine expertly, guiding the great metal arm around, swinging it in a wide arc before it thudded down into the earth, ploughing deep, scooping up a mound of the dark soil. The arm rose again and Holmes manoeuvred it around so that the load could be dropped into the back of the lorry which stood alongside, its engine idling. He watched as the dirt cascaded from the bucket.

  The machine’s giant arm swung back into position and Holmes locked it there, twisting the key in the machine’s ignition to cut off the power. The JCB stood silent and motionless in the chill wind which was sweeping over the building site.

  Holmes checked once more that the vehicle was securely locked up. Then, using one of the caterpillar tracks as a step, he lowered himself to the ground.

  There seemed to be fewer men working on the site today, he thought, pausing to extract a cigarette packet and matches from his pockets. He knew that because of the accidents of a few days ago and now the news filtering through of Cutler’s employees being murdered, a number of men had simply refused to work on the project anymore. But Holmes was not one to be frightened easily. Besides, he needed the money. The blokes who’d chucked it in must be mad or well off, he hadn’t figured out which yet.

  A gust of wind blew out the match as he tried to light his cigarette. He struck another match but the wind blew it out, too.

  The gusts seemed to increase suddenly in ferocity, drowning out the creak of the JCB’s metal arm.

  As Holmes struggled with a third match the great machine seemed to move an inch or two, its massive bulk like some lumbering metallic dinosaur.
/>   The metal arm came free.

  Even above the roar of the wind, Holmes finally heard the rush of air as the heavy bucket came hurtling towards him as if to scoop him up.

  He did not hear it in time.

  The metal edge hit him just above the waist, shearing through muscle and bone effortlessly. Slicing his body in two.

  Blood and intestines erupted from the severed torso which was sent pinwheeling across the ground, spraying crimson in all directions. Fragments of pulverized spinal column mingled with a trail of viscera. Like a decapitated farmyard chicken, Holmes’ lower half staggered a few yards, as if searching for the other half, then buckled and fell to the ground, blood still fountaining madly from the torn arteries. The torso, blood now running from the dead man’s nose and mouth, finally came to a halt on its torn base. As the blood poured out in a wide pool around it, the body looked as if it had been buried up to the waist in a thick gore.

  The bucket of the JCB swung slowly back and forth, gobbets of flesh and streamers of crimson dripping from it.

  The cigarette which Holmes had been trying to light was still stuck firmly between his cold lips. Blood had soaked into the filter like ink into blotting paper.

  Forty-Six

  The classroom was large, holding somewhere in the region of thirty children. From that considerable group, a steady babble of excited chatter rose.

  Clare Nichols seemed oblivious to any extraneous sound as she carefully considered the set of coloured crayons before her. So many colours to choose from. Where should she begin her drawing? Beside her, Amanda Fraser, Clare’s best friend (at least for the past week she had been), was already busy on her own drawing. As were most of the children in the room.

  Clare tapped her bottom lip with the blue crayon and decided to start with the sky, so she scribbled a blue border along the top of her paper, glancing up as Miss Tickle moved from desk to desk inspecting the work of the others.

  Clare giggled. She always did when she thought of Miss Tickle. Not just her name, but those funny red tights which she always wore. It looked as if someone had painted her legs the colour of a letter box, Clare thought, reaching for the yellow crayon. She gripped it firmly, and just beneath the rim of blue she drew a large yellow sun, remembering to add spoke-like rays around it. It was going to be a nice sunny day in her drawing, she’d decided. Not like it was outside.