Fragmented Evil

by Craig Wrightson

  The lift announced its arrival with a ping and the door silently slid open, revealing no lift, just darkness. With his mobile phone pressed firmly against his ear and his head bent low in concentration, Jamie stepped unsuspectingly into the void. His stomach instantly leapt to his throat as he plummeted down the exposed lift shaft. He barely had time to scream before his body crashed to the floor below.

  Bruised and battered, Jamie lay curled on the floor. The pain was agonising; he was close to losing consciousness. He lay for a split second, waiting for the stars to stop dancing in front of his eyes before he slowly pulled himself up to a half-sitting position. Looking down he could see his right leg was twisted and bone was protruding from his shin. He grimaced in both shock and pain.

  #

  Concentrating on the task in hand, Ryan hadn’t heard the short scream or resulting thud and had worked away tirelessly hoping to finally put a smile on Harry’s face. Now, with the job complete on the three lifts, he removed the screwdriver and walked away to seek his boss out, pressing the call button on all three lifts as he passed, summoning them to the ground floor.

  #

  Taking a deep breath to slow his racing heart, Jamie acknowledged that things could have been a lot worse. He wasn’t dead just yet. He was just about to call for help when he heard a clanking sound above. He looked up, his bowels almost emptying as he saw that the lift was now descending at pace. He knew it was futile, but still, he screamed.

  It would be a further three hours before Jamie’s mashed body was discovered and another two days before his body was eventually identified.

  Chapter 5

  Frankie Allan rose late and lay in is bed in his luxurious apartment located in St Peter’s Basin on the outskirts of Newcastle, sitting snuggly on the banks of the River Tyne. He pointed a remote control at the window and pressed a button. The curtains opened automatically, allowing blueish rays of light to bounce into the room, reflected from the flowing water outside. He felt jaded this morning, in no rush at all to get up and get cracking. He had been doing a lot of running around lately and felt things were slowly but surely catching up with him. He had been at the top of his game now for almost five years, and his ventures, both legal and non-legal, ran themselves, but still, he liked to keep his hand in, and was constantly on the lookout for new opportunities.

  Eventually, he climbed from his bed and looked out from the huge panoramic window that had cost him thousands to install but which in return had offered him outstanding views of the river below. The rain had stopped overnight and the clouds had blown away, leaving the blue morning sky empty. There was very little wind and all seemed calm.

  Remembering the wad of cash that had been dropped off the night before, Frankie made his mind up. He called his number two and asked him to cover his appointments for the day. He was going to have a well-earned day off. With his cover sorted, he made his way to the shower and got dressed for the day ahead, whistling away to himself as he did so.

  Frankie had a quick breakfast of toast and coffee and made another call. Excited giggling came through from the other end of the line, arrangements were made, and Frankie hung up, smiling.

  After selecting two bottles of chilled champagne from his fridge, he left his apartment, picking up a small wad of notes from his table, including the twenty-pound note, which he placed into his wallet without counting. He walked the short distance to the small marina where he stepped aboard his pride and joy: a thirty-foot sports cruiser called ‘The Canny Lass’.

  He had purchased the boat many years before at a knocked-down price and had since spent many hours sailing off the North Sea waters and on the River Tyne, either entertaining or conducting shady business deals, safe in the knowledge that he couldn’t be seen or heard. He placed the bottles into the small fridge he had had installed as part of his upgrade and looked around the boat, checking that everything was in order.

  After five minutes, he untethered the mooring and eased the boat out into the quiet waters. Once safely positioned he opened up the 190-horsepower twin D3 engine that he had used to great effect when conducting his many nefarious dealings offshore, and directed the ‘The Canny Lass’ to the centre of Newcastle. The boat raced through the waters at close to thirty knots. Frankie flung his face back, happy for the spray of the water and the rushing wind to blow free his cobwebs. Turning the final corner that would direct him under the famous Millennium Bridge, he once again felt fresh, a champion, a man at the top of his game. He eased back on the throttle as the landing station came into view on the Newcastle side of the Tyne and pulled up just short of a pontoon allowing his boat to glide into place.

  Tying the boat up, he stepped onto dry land and whistled. Above, on the street, he heard the clicking of high heels and giggling. Two heads popped over the parapet, both blonde with immaculate make-up; they waved down at him, smiling. He gave them the thumbs up and they walked to the steps that offered access below via a steel ladder that was bolted secure to the stone wall of the Quayside. Both girls clutched overnight bags and wore fastened jackets that went down to their bare knees. Halfway down the steps the leading girl, Anya, opened her jacket and flashed at Frankie, exposing her firm body, clad in the skimpiest white bra and thong, showcasing her perfect tanned skin and false breasts to perfection. Before her friend, Elena, could do the same, Frankie gulped and shouted out.

  ‘Now, now, you naughty little minxes, enough of that. There will be time for all that carry on soon.’

  He held out his hand and helped Anya and Elena on board, kissing both girls affectionately on the cheek. He had used their services many times in the past, either separately or as a duo, and had struck up a good relationship with them both. They were escorts, high-class from Eastern Europe, but they knew if they treated Frankie well, they would be well paid and be guaranteed a good time, which was a rare treat for somebody in their line of business.

  The plan was to slowly set sail to the mouth of the Tyne after he had collected the girls. Once safely anchored at a discreet distance offshore, they would crack open some bubbly, share some cocaine, of which he had an ample supply, and get down to some serious naughty business. Before darkness, they would up anchor and return to the marina and then to his apartment where they could continue the party late into the night.

  Anya and Elena took their positions on the yacht, sitting comfortably in the leather chairs, crossing their toned legs seductively with a cheeky grin.

  Frankie smiled, satisfied he had made the right call and eased the ‘The Canny Lass’ slowly out into the centre of the river. After a final check that everything was in working order, he opened up his wallet and took out a large bag of white powder. He swung it tantalisingly in front of the girls.

  ‘Now, how about some of Columbia’s finest before we set off?’ Frankie asked, already knowing their answer.

  The girls nodded and turned to face each other, where much to Frankie’s delight, they started kissing passionately, keen to get the party started.

  Frankie could feel himself stiffen and poured a line of cocaine out onto the cockpit for his own benefit. He selected the twenty-pound note and rolled it up tightly before snorting the line in one fluid motion. He felt it bite into his brain and his nose tingled. He went over to sort the girls out next; they had now finished kissing and were patiently waiting their turn.

  HMS Example, a grey, Archer-class patrol vessel from the Royal Naval Reserve Unit, HMS Calliope, located further upriver, sailed past at speed, off on its way to conduct exercises in the North Sea.

  A succession of waves generated from its wake struck the side of the ‘The Canny Lass’, causing it to rock. Stooped, with the cocaine and twenty-pound note in his hand, Frankie lost his balance and found himself reaching into emptiness as he toppled overboard into the river.

  He surfaced five metres in front of the yacht, drenched, and raised his hand above his head to signal to the girls for assistance. In a panic, they accidentally knocked into
the drive handle. ‘The Canny Lass’ unexpectedly surged forwards and the bow of the yacht struck Frankie violently in the head, fracturing his skull on impact.

  They watched, frozen to the spot as Frankie’s head peeled open, exposing his brain. Blood and gore dripped down his face, then his eyes simply closed, and he slipped under the surface into oblivion.

  Anya and Elena both screamed hysterically as the body finally disappeared from view, waving their arms emphatically in the hope of summoning help from passers-by on the shore.

  The twenty-pound note fluttered in the breeze before it was caught and swept up into the air, before finally coming to rest on the bustling street of the Quayside, where it lay in waiting for its next journey into the unknown to begin.

  The End

  Tortured Souls

  Knowledge forbidden?

  Suspicious, reasonless.

  Why should their Lord Envy them that?

  Can it be sin to know?

  Can it be death?

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter 1

  St Mary’s – Stannington, Northumberland – 1913

  He had no idea why they had come for him. To return him back to his room, deliver yet another beating or to finally put him out of his misery.

  The days had blended into nights; time no longer held any meaning. Had he been in this cell for days, weeks or months? Did he even care?

  Thomas Arkle had long ago given up longing to be back in his own tiny room which struggled to contain him comfortably but had at least allowed him a comfortable sleep every night on his worn mattress, the frayed blanket barely keeping him warm during the winter months.

  He grimaced through chapped lips, caked in blood and dust as he was roughly propped up into a standing position. The weakened muscles in his legs had given way days ago, and he had since been hanging, suspended from chains, whose manacles had bitten tightly into his wrists, exposing the skin and inviting sores.

  The orderlies stepped back to get their breath. Even though he was severely malnourished through years of neglect, Thomas Arkle was still solid, standing at over six-foot four inches tall. His broad and rugged shoulders were testament to the man-mountain he once was before his incarceration.

  His body was awash with a sheen of perspiration, and his shabby grey hospital gown was saturated with damp patches.

  The senior of the two orderlies withdrew a hypodermic needle from his jacket pocket. He depressed the plunger with a look of evil satisfaction on his face, expelling the small bubbles from inside.

  Without a word, he stepped forwards and drove the needle deep into Thomas’ chest.

  As his eyes became heavy and began to close, Thomas wondered where it had all gone wrong.

  #

  Thomas Arkle had been only nineteen when he had returned back home to Newcastle from South Africa where for the last year he had been fighting as part of the British Army in the Second Boer War; an unexpected war that Britain was unprepared for. The war unsurprisingly had been triggered by the discovery of gold and diamonds.

  As a raw recruit, unaccustomed to the horror of war, Thomas had taken part in the British Empire’s scorched-earth policy adopted to combat the Boer fighters who had reverted to guerrilla warfare. The fighting around the prosperous Witwatersrand Gold Mines had been relentless and brutal. Thomas had been forced to grow into a man overnight as atrocities were committed by both sides.

  The British Empire had targeted innocent Boer farmers and their families, burning them out of their farms and homesteads, destroying crops and slaughtering precious livestock before herding them into cramped and diseased concentrations camps. For a young man, this was huge for him to comprehend. To Thomas, it was nothing short of mindless and unnecessary murder.

  He had been one of the first to enter the mining city of Kimberley after the seven thousand strong army of Boer invaders had been driven back after a seven-week siege. The fallen lay amongst the rubble and ruins. Neglected bodies became bloated in the sun; clouds of black flies had heartedly feasted on the ripened flesh. The constant shelling had not discriminated. Everywhere Thomas looked he saw the bodies of men, women and children, young and old, soldier and civilian. The unmistakable smell of death clung to his skin. Despite his best efforts to scrub it away, the smell would stay with him throughout his entire time in South Africa.

  Fighting a barbaric war, thousands of miles away in a strange land, against an enemy he could not see, greatly affected Thomas Arkle and he had returned home a changed man.

  Back home, Thomas had shunned family and friends, choosing to live in an old farmhouse with his young wife who he had married just before he had been sent off to war. When they had married, they were in love, with a future of happiness planned together. Neither of them was prepared for the change in the returning Thomas’ mind and personality. His wife, though saddened and supportive of her husband, had originally thought the symptoms would disappear within a few weeks, a month at most. How wrong she had been.

  Some days Thomas would be fine. Full of energy and buoyant, content to spend the day toiling away in the fields. Other days would not be so good. His wife would find him sitting in a darkened room for hours on end, staring blankly into space and silently crying, unaware of her presence. Occasionally she would find him lying in the fields outside, banging his fists into the ground in anger and frustration.

  As the months turned to years, Thomas’ mental wellbeing deteriorated. He struggled to work the farm, and his wife was forced to seek work in order to bring in what small money she could to help them survive. Thomas suffered regular flashbacks and nightmares, where he was forced to play out the horrific scenes he had witnessed during the war all over again.

  Thomas had woken one night from a particularly horrific nightmare to find his wife lying in bed next to him with her eyes wide open and her neck broken. He had been distraught and had cried like a baby for two days until the local police had entered the house. Upon finding him curled up on the bed next to his deceased wife, gently stroking her hair, they had arrested him on the spot. Thomas had withdrawn into himself even further, refusing to talk and had not uttered a single word since that eventful day.

  Charged with murder, the judge, who was no stranger to lunatics, had swiftly imposed the heaviest sentence available – life imprisonment – and had further committed Thomas to a lunatic asylum for psychiatric evaluation and treatment.

  Judged to be a troublemaker due to his reluctance to speak, Thomas had been shipped from asylum to asylum around the country until St Mary’s had opened its doors in 1910. Thomas had been a patient here since the first few months of opening, after the courts had ruled his own local council should be responsible for the costs of his care.

  #

  A bucket of ice-cold water thrown over his comatose body shocked Thomas awake.

  Coming round, he noticed that while he had been unconscious, a thick leather chest restraint had been fixed around his torso, further restricting his movement. His mouth was bone dry, partly due to the effects of the drug they had administered and also because he had not been given any food or drink for the last twenty-four hours. He licked his parched lips as his vision slowly came into focus.

  The two orderlies had returned, this time with a steel medical trolley laden with various instruments of the like Thomas had not seen before. Stood by their side, arms folded across his chest, was Dr Adams, the chief medical officer and surgeon at St Mary’s Lunatic Asylum.

  Thomas had been under his custody since his arrival at the asylum and was well versed to his cruelty and lack of compassion. Dr Adams pursued his obsession to become a leading figure in the field of mental illness with a blinding passion. His methods were often unproven or untrialled, performed without anaesthetic or sanitation. Inmates claimed that it was better to die than to find yourself under the custody of Dr Adams.

  Dr Adams leant in close and quickly checked Thomas’ blood pressure and pulse. Satisfied, he smiled
and stepped back.

  ‘Hello, again, Thomas. Do you know why you are here?’

  Head bent low, Thomas nodded.

  He had reacted badly during a session of electric shock treatment that he had undergone earlier. Breaking free from the leather bonds, he had wrapped his huge hands around the bony neck of the assisting nurse. The orderlies had tried in vain to intervene, crashing their rubber coshes down onto his body with as much force as they could muster. He had eventually weakened and released his grip, but by this time the nurse was limp in his hands, her face tinged blue.

  They had beaten him non-stop as they carted him off to the special treatment room housed deep down in the bowels of the basement. Rumour had been rife between the inmates of the asylum with talk of the special treatment room. No one had confessed to having been taken there, but the non-stop screaming some nights and the occasional troublesome inmate disappearing without trace, made Thomas understand that his time down here was going to be anything but pleasant.

  No words forthcoming, Dr Adams continued as if he was speaking to a naughty child.

  ‘What are we going to do with you? No sign of remorse after all of these years with us and you still hide behind your silence. Your lack of any admission of guilt makes it difficult for us to treat you.’

  Dr Adams walked to the trolley and started closely examining the instruments with interest.

  ‘Your recent relapse and the unforgivable killing of an innocent nurse has brought your time here at St Mary's to an end. Redemption and cure are no longer in our power, or in our best interests.’

  Standing tall, Dr Adams gripped a small drill in his hand.

  ‘Decisions have been made above, and you have been transferred into my custody. I don’t know how much time we will have together, but whatever we achieve will be of great medical importance, finally allowing something good to come from your evil, short existence on this earth.’