by Simon King
Walter’s eventual concoction proved to be so popular with the locals that within a few months, word had spread far and wide about the amazing cider that was being produced in the area. Eventually, a permanent market was erected where people would come searching for goods all week long. More and more stalls were opening up as the popularity of the market gathered strength. The stalls were more of a “roof with no sides” kind of design and everyone realised very quickly that they would only serve as a temporary solution. Finally, it was decided that a hotel, named The Railway Hotel because of the train tracks that ran past the site, would be built to provide lodgings for visitors and, it proved to be the first official building ever to be constructed in the field. More businesses, including a storefront for Walter’s Cider, quickly emerged and within ten short years, a brand-new town was born, named Cider Hill, after its most popular beverage.
But as with any fine story, an ending must follow, and tragedy would strike in the early 1880s. Walter, never one to pass on performing his own duties, had been transporting a wagon load of Cider to his storefront. His foreman, Will Tucker, had offered to take the wagon himself, but Walter refused, instead giving his longest serving employee the day off. His kindness and generosity had been legendary. Folklore has it that, one morning in November, this was about 1870, Walter had been making a delivery to his store when he came upon a lady sitting in the middle of the track. She had been taking her own wagonload of produce into the town when her horse was spooked, bolted, and subsequently broke a leg as well as damaging the wagon beyond repair. The lady, Mrs. Norma Purcell, was a widow, her husband having passed a few years before. Walter, of course, helped the lady into his wagon and took her straight to the Doctor. She had suffered some bruising, a broken wrist and quite a bump to the head. Imagine her surprise, when not a day later, Walter and Thelma delivered a brand-new wagon, together with a fine animal to pull it. Mrs. Purcell had been in tears, overcome with joy and relief. This was the generosity with which his legend grew.
Anyway, it had been along the very same track, now 12 years later, that Walter had found himself, guiding his horses along about 5 miles from town. They say that it was a snake that probably spooked the horses. But unlike Mrs. Purcell, who had been thrown clear of her wagon, the horses pulled in the same direction with such a sudden fright that the wagon, including all 60 cases of cider, flipped and rolled, wedging itself against a large gum tree that flanked the track. Walter simply hung on too long and ended up beneath the wagon, his skull crushed between the wagon and the giant tree.
He was found by Will Tucker later that afternoon as he was returning from town. They say Will wept openly as he brought his employer’s body into the doctor’s cottage. Walter was buried in a closed coffin the very next day, on a plot he and Thelma had picked out only the year before, down by the creek that flowed through their property. He still lays there to this day, a small memorial park surrounding it, set up in his honour.
Thelma eventually sold the farm and headed back to England a widow, childless and forever heartbroken. The farm was eventually broken up into several pieces, the hill purchased by the Victorian Government, around 100 acres in total. The prison had been built in the 1920s to house the state’s worst criminals, eventually including Harry Lightman. Crab Apple became notorious for harsh criminals and harsher guards, with one in particular, Arthur Dhurrin, famous for breaking fingers with a night-stick he lovingly called Mr. Knuckles. But that’s another story entirely and one I may share at some future time.
Chapter 3: Meeting the Devil, Part 2.
1.
It was nearly 9 o’clock by the time Steph pulled the car into the parking lot of the Crab Apple Hill prison, its high concrete walls looming off to one side, barbed wire skirting the top of them in great bushels of twisted metal. There were no guard towers on each corner like the traditional jails as Crab Apple was substantially smaller. Rather, the prison had an inner wall and an outer wall. Each wall had a walkway built on top of it, with one armed guard patrolling between the perimeter walls and two guards patrolling atop each wall. There was no protection from the elements and each guard was expected to complete a four-hour shift without break whether rain, hail or shine. I could see one of the guards now, standing atop the outer perimeter, a rifle slung over his shoulder and staring at us. As I opened my door to climb out of the car, I felt as if the air itself had taken on a thicker, more condensed form. I suddenly found it more difficult to breathe, my heartbeat now pulsing in my temples.
“You OK there Jim?” I looked at her and offered a weak smile that felt fake. Steph’s look told me she recognized my smile for what it was; raw fear. I was about to come face to face with the man responsible for at least fourteen, if not sixteen, murders of the most savage kind. A man that would have so much hatred for me that I was positive he would tear my throat out if given the smallest opportunity.
“I’m good,” I said, but doubted my words as soon as they were out. Somehow, since I had received the first phone call from Steph, this moment had been playing in the back of my mind. This point in time where I would have to confront him, and do what had been the subject of so many nightmares; endless nights of waking in a cold sweat with my pillow drenched, throat sore from either crying, screaming or both. I had to face the devil, and once again, look him in the eye.
2.
I walked towards the bluestone steps that led to the little side door that flanked the big iron gate, very little enthusiasm in my step. The inner wall was visible through the railings, the huge gate standing nearly 20 feet high. There was a guard standing just inside, watching us approach. He was frowning at me, turned his attention to the woman walking beside me and smiled.
“Officer Connor, what a pleasure,” he said in a surprisingly jovial tone.
“Hey, Jack. How you been?”
“Good, good. Haven’t seen you at the meetings lately?” His eyes were so smitten with her that I doubted he knew I was there.
“Busy with work. You know how it is,” she said casually. “This is Jim Lawson, here to see the warden. Is he in?” Steph had a tone about her that I definitely hadn’t heard before. If I had to put a name to it, I would have called it flirting and doing a fine job of it. The guard was leaning against the gate for support, almost swooning over her.
“Yeah, he’s in alright. And in a fine mood. People have been ringin him all day, askin if he’s keepin Lucifer locked up. Really sure you want to see him?” He gave me the briefest up and down, saw nothing of interest, then refocused his attention on his prize. “You plannin on comin back to the club soon?”
“Have to see him. Police business, you understand. And yes, I will return soon. Just been busy. Wanna let us in?”
“Oh, of course, sorry. One sec.” He disappeared from view as a jingling of keys and a rattle of something bumped against the smaller door. Finally, the door swung inwards revealing the guard standing with a huge grin almost eclipsing the rest of his face. He waved us through and for a moment it looked as though he was going to lean forward enough to try and kiss Steph as she walked by him. He pulled himself up at the last second, colour flushing his cheeks. Steph didn’t hesitate, walking briskly toward the huge gate that served as the only entrance through the inner wall. Even sunlight struggled to reach between the walls, the space only a few feet wide. They say the walls reach more than 30 feet beneath the rocky ground, with tunnelling impossible except by modern machinery and a whole lot of time.
As I heard Jack re-bolt the door behind us, there was a loud metallic grinding, sounding like a rusty beast as the gate began to open. It slowly revealed four men standing on the path inside; 3 guards with heavy calibre rifles held in front of their chests ready to fire, and a man in a suit. The suit had an expression of grim death on his face. He stepped forward, looked at us with contempt in his eyes, then beckoned us to follow him without uttering a single word. Steph looked at me, raised her eyebrows and followed Warden Thomas toward the main building standing before us.
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“What club?” I asked as we walked.
“Ball room dancing. And never mention it again,” she whispered back.
3.
It was a dark and poorly lit hallway, with no windows; a single light globe trying to illuminate the passage. The air was thick with the smell of some sort of decay, like wet leaves. I tried not to breathe as we walked to whatever room we were being taken to. It wasn’t a bad smell as such, but rather the smell of bad. I could hear muffled groaning from a room somewhere further into the building, and insane laughter from another further still.
The warden stopped next to a door, turned and paused for a moment, waving us inside. He gave a quick nod to one of the armed guards that had tailed us and then followed us inside, closing the door behind him. It appeared to be an interview room with a table and 3 chairs, a small barred window sitting high on the far wall. There were two lamps fixed to the ceiling, light emanating so bright that I was unable to look directly at them. I was thinking that a doctor would be able to perform surgery in this room as I sat in one of the chairs. Steph sat next to me, leaving the one chair on the other side of the desk for the warden. He didn’t sit in it, plopping his butt on top of the desk, one foot left firmly on the concrete floor. He was tall, even taller than me, close to six eight at a guess. He had an intimidation about him that didn’t need introducing.
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on out there, folks, but I can tell you that I have had everyone from the groundskeeper to the God damn premier of this great state on the phone asking me whether Lucifer is locked up. The public is exactly a bee’s fart from panic and some fucking psycho thinks he’s the Devil. Do you people even have the slightest clue about who might be doing this?”
“We are doin-” Steph started, but he didn’t stop.
“Because I sure as hell am not going to be the target of everybody’s finger pointing when the proverbial hits the fan. No Siree.”
“Mr. Thomas,” I began, trying to sound sincere, “we are here to speak with Harry Lightman. If that’s OK with you, Sir?” The room fell silent for a long time, Thomas only looking at me with eyes that appeared to blaze with anger. Steph shuffled in her seat a little and his attention was drawn to her.
“Do you think he knows? Who the killer is, I mean?” I wasn’t sure whom he was asking but decided to answer, anyway.
“We don’t know what to think right now. What I do know is that the killer is making no mistakes and the only person who can shed light on it at this point in time is Harry Lightman.” The warden sat for a moment longer, then nodded slightly.
“Phillips!” he barked at the door, his voice projecting around the room with such a boom, that my ears flinched. There was a shuffle out in the hallway and then the door opened, the guard popping his head in.
“Sir?”
“Bring Lightman.”
“Yes, Sir,” the guard said and closed the door, his footsteps clapping down the hall.
“You have our full cooperation. Whatever you need. Just get whoever is doing this so we can go back to doing what we do here. All the excitement isn’t good for the good order of this prison.” He didn’t wait for a response, standing then walking out of the room without so much as a glance back. When he was gone, I turned to Steph.
“Certainly, a warm chap.” She ignored my comment.
“You sure you want me to stay?” I wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to stay, but I figured now that she was here, she may as well listen in.
“Do you want to stay? I really don’t mi-” but that was when the door opened and I heard the unmistakable tinkle of chains. I felt a chill race up my spine and could have sworn that the temperature in the room dropped at least ten degrees. I didn’t need to turn around to know that he had entered the room, feeling evil in the air. His footsteps sounded heavy, his prison boot-heels dragging on the tiled floor in slow, laboured scuffs. His footsteps stopped next to my chair and I felt his eyes burning into the back of my head. Steph’s eyes were looking at him over my shoulder, into the face of Lucifer. His footsteps resumed, Lightman walking around the back of the table. The guard padlocked his wrist chains to the metal loop that was welded into the top of the metal desk. I was still looking at Steph as I heard the padlock click loudly into place, then watched as the guard walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The room fell silent except for the heavy and laboured breathing, coming from the man seated opposite us. I turned my head and found the eyes of the beast from my nightmares, staring back at me, a grin across his face.
4.
“Hello, Doctor Lawson.” His voice sounded hollow, raspy; the tone thick with sickness. He had not aged well over the past two decades, his face a map of wrinkles and scars, mementos from altercations with either guards or inmates. His hair, short and ragged, had turned peppery, not far from almost completely white. He had also bulked up. He may have been wiry when he first came to Crab Apple, but he had grown into quite a beefy man. But it was his eyes that chilled me. His eyes still had the youth of a twenty-year-old man about them. And they were smiling.
“Hello, Harry.” I had played this moment out in my mind hundreds of times over the past twenty years, maybe even thousands. The things I wanted to say to him, the conversations we would have, the things I could discover. But now that I was sitting here, the two of us sitting eye to eye, my brain betrayed my mouth by withholding every question I had ever contemplated asking. It was as if my brain didn’t want to accept that the moment had finally arrived.
“I hear the killer… has started… again.” His breathing sounded as if it had taken control of his body and was withholding the air from it, only allowing the barest amount through. He didn’t have the breath necessary for an entire sentence, so had to speak in bits and pieces.
“What do you mean the killer?” I asked. Harry had always maintained his innocence for years, adamant there had been someone else at the farm that night.
“Come on, Doc… you know exactly… what I mean. I was… just at the… wrong place at… the wrong… time.”
“You know, we aren’t here to discuss your guilt or innocence, Harry. A court made that decision twenty years ago. We’re here for any information you can offer us in relation to the new killings. You’ve heard of the new killings, haven’t you, Harry?” I said with a “yes you do” tone.
“Do you really… believe that, a… killer as sophisticated… as Lucifer, would simply… let himself be caught, the… way you caught me? He outsmarted you, James.” His tone had shifted to one of defiance and a touch of anger.
“It’s either Doctor Lawson or Jim, Harry. Not James. Only my mother ever called me James.”
“You deny the… name given to you by your… mother, James?”
“We aren’t here to talk about my mother either. Do you know anything about these new killings, Harry?” I began to doubt whether we would get anything solid from him, beginning to feel like he was playing me. I was about to repeat the question when Steph suddenly spoke up.
“We just want to stop whoever is out there, hurting the women of this town, Harry. If you know anything, please.” His eyes turned on her, seemed to look directly through her, then closed. He appeared to be meditating, or sleeping, I couldn’t work out which, but for a moment, I thought he was just going to ignore her. Then, to my total shock, he began to speak.
“There was… a man who… visited me… a few years ago. He… told me he… was a reporter… for a newspaper… in Sydney. I don’t… remember which, exactly. But… he returned a number… of times, asking me… all sorts of questions. He… told me he was… doing a piece on innocent… prisoners, people that had… been locked… up for lengthy sentences… even death sentences. He believed… my innocence and wrote a very… in-depth piece… about my story. What was his… name, again? Hank? Frank?” His forehead frowned, the deep lines growing, shadows running across his white face. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, coughed slightly, then continued. “He even let me… read t
he completed… article before he… submitted it to his… boss. Strange, very… strange.”
“What was strange, Harry?” Steph asked him, leaning forward in her chair. He opened his eyes and looked at her, his eyes looking tired, his breathing now heavier and more laboured.
“I never ended up… seeing the… finished article… in any paper, nor… did I ever… see him again.” He wheezed a couple of times, the sound drilling deep into his chest.
“What was written in the finished article? Did it read like a legitimate reporter’s article?” He nodded.
“It read… exactly, like some… thing straight out… of the Daily Gossip. It was… good. It… gave me… hope. Hope that… finally, I might be… able to get… someone to… listen.”
“What did this person look like, Harry?” Steph asked, now sitting forward in her seat, her interest peaked considerably.
“He was… maybe 40ish… small, clean shaven. He… had a bent… nose, kinda like… the ones boxers… have sometimes. Maybe… it had been… broken or something. He… was very well… spoken, educated.” Harry stopped, coughed into his hand, the gravel sounding considerable in his chest. When he pulled his hand away, I could see blood on his palm.