by Andrew Lowe
Sawyer walked back to the chair and sat down. ‘Then what?’
‘I shouted. And the… thing’s head jerked up, saw me, and started to run towards me. I jumped back and forced my way out through the hole in the fence, then ran through the woods.’
Sawyer frowned. ‘Did you not—’
Sutton jerked his head up and glared at Sawyer. ‘No! No, I didn’t. I didn’t help him. I didn’t tell anyone. I was too scared for myself. Getting into trouble.’
‘You could have helped him. You could have saved him.’
He shook his head. ‘No way. You didn’t see this thing, Mr Robbins… Jake. I don’t know how I managed to get away. It was like I was paralysed, by fear. But something got my legs moving, thank God.’
‘And you never reported it? Went back to check? Told Darren’s family?’
‘No, mate. I didn’t. I… Look. I was high, see? When it happened. I was so fucking gone I couldn’t tell if what I saw was real or not. Fucked me up for months afterwards. Years. The dreams, memories. And, I guess, the guilt. For not saving him.’ He shuddered. ‘Only smack takes that shit away.’
They were quiet for a moment, each in his own private hell.
Sutton broke the silence. ‘Look. I’m… sorry. For Darren’s mum. But is this really the kind of answer she’s looking for? Isn’t it just going to make it worse for her?’
Sawyer snapped out of his reverie and stood up again. ‘It’s not really an answer, is it, Stuart? We know what happened to Darren. But we still don’t know where he is.’
47
Sawyer slid his forearms through the struts of the wooden man dummy; thrusting, parrying. He pushed down on the obstacles with his cupped palms, shifting his bodyweight, simulating blocking and grappling, mirroring the praying mantis fighting motions witnessed by the originator of the Wing Chun style.
He put on his sparring gloves and sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders rising and falling. The Loveless album finished, and flipped back to the beginning. At the four opening drumbeats of the first track, ‘Only Shallow’, Sawyer sprang to his feet and laid into the heavy bag, pummelling hard with wide hook punches, jabs, combinations. As the track faded, he fell back onto the bed, slick with sweat, and listened, as his thoughts reformed around his plans for the evening.
He switched off the music, showered and dressed, slipping on a Kevlar vest over a black T-shirt. Old jeans, hoodie, walking boots.
In the sitting room, he opened the wrap he had lifted from Sutton and laid it out on the coffee table. The heroin was grainy, impure, far removed from its source. If he was lucky, it would have been cut with baking soda, starch, powdered milk. If he was unlucky, the original supplier might have slipped in a potentially dangerous impurity, like fentanyl. Maybe even a dash of rat poison.
He took a wrap of tinfoil from a kitchen drawer and cut off two handkerchief-sized sheets, then burned each of them over a lit gas hob, killing any chemicals on the foil. He sat on the sofa and rolled one sheet around a pen to form a long, tight tube.
After folding the second sheet in half twice, Sawyer then opened it out, creating a criss-cross of grooves. He lit a candle, pinched the corner of the sheet and tipped out some of the powder, running the foil backwards and forwards over the candle flame, taking care to melt the heroin and not burn it. He kept the flame beneath the melted bead as it trickled along the groove, tilting the foil to keep the heroin on track around the criss-cross pattern.
Sawyer leaned in and sucked the white smoke up through the tube, inhaling it deep into his lungs, holding it, then releasing slowly. He stared up at the ceiling, and sank back into the sofa.
The rush seeped over him; a fever of euphoria. His skin prickled and flushed, and his legs and arms grew leaden and distant. He heard a loud laugh, and looked around for the source, then realised it had been his own voice, his own private joy.
He had only used a small amount of powder, but the after-effects of the high clung to him for a couple of hours. He lay in a stupor, wallowing in a state of temporary insulation, incapable of summoning concern or care for external matters.
The clank of the cat-flap stirred him, and he rose to his feet, unsteady. He fed Bruce, disposed of the foil and hid the remaining heroin behind a loose brick around the side of the house.
It was late—11:30pm—but he called Shepherd. The phone rang and rang, without going to voicemail.
Sawyer’s mouth was dry, his lips cracked. He drank a full pint of Diet Coke and stood over the sink, breathing slow and steady. He took a pair of hair clippers from the bedside drawer and adjusted the length attachment to Number 2 then stood before the bathroom mirror and ran the clippers in long, continuous sweeps from the front to the back of his hairline.
He swept up the dark patches of hair and stood at the front door, rolling and cracking his shoulder muscles.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Time to go.
48
Sawyer drove at speed through the narrow, unlit roads, with the Mini’s lights on full beam, ignoring the angry flashes of oncoming cars. More Suicide: ‘Dream Baby Dream’, ‘Frankie Teardrop’. Mesmeric beats, squalls of guitar: always shifting and changing, hijacking his attention, diverting and distracting.
The neurosurgeon’s words rose up. ‘We give our very best… Sometimes it isn’t enough… We can’t save everyone.’
Sawyer parked near Parwich village, at the south-eastern tip of the National Park, in the same lay-by occupied by Pittman’s Subaru almost ten years earlier. He headed up the steep dirt track, navigating by the light of his phone, keeping the brightness low and always trained on the ground directly in front of his feet.
The road curved, and he glanced up at the pale half-moon before ducking into the trees. The walking track he’d taken with Pittman was now overgrown, but he kept moving until he caught sight of the security light at the abattoir’s main fence some distance ahead.
A rustling sound from somewhere behind.
Sawyer stopped, frozen in place. He waited for a few seconds, but heard nothing more, and pressed on.
The sturdy gate still stood at the entrance to the private road, with the same KEEP OUT sign. He paused for a while, listening again, then headed forward into a final patch of dense woodland, before emerging into the clearing.
The main abattoir building sat in the centre of the large patch of open ground. Most of the upper windows had been smashed, and those at the lower level were boarded over.
Sawyer turned off his phone light and approached the main building. The covered passageway was cracked and blighted, but the connecting structure seemed robust.
He crossed a patch of fallen leaves, taking care to make each step silent. The barbed-wire fence surrounding the main building showed no sign of breaches, and Sawyer pressed on, heading for the barn-sized outbuilding at the far edge of the grounds.
The stone surface of the brickwork was tainted by patches of grey mould, and a rim of spindly vegetation had colonised the lower section of the outer walls.
Sawyer checked the door; the old padlock had long been replaced by a sturdy external bolt, and he cursed himself for not bringing cutters.
He headed over to the passageway and pushed his face up against the small window, now almost completely opaque with grime. As before, he could only make out the vague shapes of shelves and fittings in the connecting passage.
He took out his phone and activated the light, hoping to get a clearer look inside.
A hint of movement in the window, caught by his phone light. Something over his shoulder. He turned, and lowered himself into a side-on fighting stance, ready to spring back and increase the distance between himself and any potential attacker.
A tall, bulky figure loomed up and barrelled into Sawyer, pushing him back into the door with tremendous force, causing him to drop his phone.
A small blunt object dug into his side.
A bright flare of blue light, like a lightning spark, transformed the clearing into an
over-exposed flash photograph for a millisecond.
Crackling, static.
Sawyer roared in pain, as a paralysing cramp gripped his muscles, holding him rigid, then releasing him. He fell to his knees and toppled forward, face-first into the leaves.
49
‘Who are you?’
The question carried a weary tone. At first, Sawyer thought that it wasn’t addressed to him. Had he even heard it at all?
He opened his eyes to the dim interior of the barn; a faint glow from the main building security lighting filtered in through the tiny skylight.
‘Who are you?’
The question again. A deep, impassive voice, drifting over from the dark corner of the barn, by the closed door. A figure lurked there, crouched over a table, working on something.
Sawyer recognised the place, but not the voice.
He pulled himself upright, against the wall. A solid metal clasp surrounded each ankle, and his wrists were secured by a metal cuff. The ankle clasps were connected to a thick chain, fixed to a metal plate embedded in the stone wall. His head throbbed from the electric shock.
A scraping sound from the table near to the figure. Metal, stone. Sharpening.
Sawyer squinted, trying to adjust to the dark. ‘Health and safety. Ombudsman. I need to speak to your line manager.’
The figure paused, then resumed work. ‘I’ve seen you before. A long time ago.’
Sawyer rubbed at his forehead with both hands. The wrist cuff was so tight he could barely separate his palms. ‘I was here with a colleague.’
‘Police?’
‘He died too quickly, didn’t he?’
The figure paused again. ‘What?’
‘Your dad. You’ve always felt he got off lightly. You hated him. But he never suffered, like he made you all suffer. You, your mum, your brother.’
The figure paused for longer this time, then resumed work. Long scrapes of metal grinding across stone. Sparks flashed around the table, and Sawyer caught a momentary glimpse of the figure’s outline, sitting in a chair, hunched over a workbench.
Sawyer shuffled further upright, squinting harder, trying to discern more detail. ‘That’s why you torture. You never got to do that to him. You hit him with the pan, and turned out his lights instantly. It was his final indignity. Denying you the satisfaction of watching him suffer.’
The figure stood and walked over to Sawyer, looking down on him. The moonlight shone through the roof window, picking out the oversized head, the horns. His arm hung at his side, and he held a knife with a long, tapering blade.
‘You want to take off the mask, don’t you, Scott?’
Scott Walton reached out to a shelf on the wall behind Sawyer and lit a candle. He crouched down, just out of Sawyer’s reach. He wore a shabby brown jacket, with the upper two-thirds of his face covered by a black enamel mask, moulded to resemble the top half of a bull’s head. Two large eyeholes, a broad snout, with flared nostrils modified for breathing. Two long, hooked white horns sprouted from the top of the mask. Walton’s mouth and neck was exposed beneath the snout: dark stubble, bulging neck muscles.
Walton glared out through the eyeholes, studying Sawyer. He moved the pointed tip of the knife blade close to Sawyer’s chest and applied slight pressure, pushing inward. He withdrew the blade and stood upright. ‘You’re wearing a stab vest. But if you’re police, why would you come alone?’
‘I don’t abuse animals. So I hoped you’d give me a pass.’
Walton turned and walked back to the bench. ‘I can’t let you go. I’m sorry.’
Sawyer nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Why would you think I’d want to take off the mask? What do you mean?’
‘I think you want to stop. You want it to be over. Something made you stop before, didn’t it?’
Walton walked back to Sawyer. He leaned over and dug the blunt object into his side.
Another flash of blue light. Sawyer’s muscles spasmed, and a wave of agony rolled through him. He cried out, as loud as he could, hoping to stay conscious this time.
The sound of his shout pulled him back to his dream. The beach. His mother wading out.
‘Who are you?’ said Walton.
Sawyer said nothing. He took slow, deep breaths, riding the pain, willing it to subside.
Walton shocked him again, holding the object against him longer this time. Sawyer writhed and roared. His vision fuzzed over, and he came close to blacking out. He dug his nails into his palm, jolting himself alert, trying to distract from the pain in his limbs.
Walton stepped back, watching Sawyer as he fought for breath, for consciousness. ‘Who are you?’
Sawyer spat to the side. ‘I met Gary. Gary Holloway. Remember him, Scott? You worked with him here.’
Walton dipped his head, held up the device. Grey plastic, tubular, with two metal prongs at the far end. ‘This is an electric cattle prod. We used them to stun animals. The voltage isn’t too high, but a prolonged shock can knock you out, and repeated shocks run the risk of damaging your heart. I got the knife from Duncan Hardwick. He used it for filleting fish. I used it to make the initial incisions, and I switched to a serrated slicing knife to open the wounds deep enough for me to peel off his skin.’
Sawyer steadied his breathing. ‘A proxy. For your father. Like the others.’
Walton squatted down. ‘Abusers. Bullies. Killers. The world is brighter without them. You will not be able to break free. I remember you picked the lock here. Those clasps are beyond that.’ He leaned in closer, almost within reach. ‘Tell me who you are, and I’ll make your death quick and painless. I have an old captive bolt pistol in my bench. Non-penetrating. I’ll apply it to your forehead. You will be instantly concussed. Then I’ll slit your throat, deep and clean. By the time you’re aware of what’s happening, you’ll be gone.’
‘It’s a tempting offer. And what if I don’t tell you who I am?’
‘I’ll soften your skin with boiling water, and you can watch as I peel it away. It will be an unbelievably painful and stressful death.’
Walton dropped his head again. Sawyer looked around the floor, trying to focus in the candlelight. The chain fitting was strong and immovable, and his shackles were practically medieval, with no practical option to break them open.
‘What about the boy, Scott? His name was Darren. Was he an abuser? A bully? A killer?’
Walton raised his head slightly, the tips of the horns pointing directly at Sawyer. His eyes shifted behind the mask. ‘Boy?’
Sawyer nodded, wincing away the pain in his side. ‘He was here, exploring. Seven years ago. With a mate, who ran away. Whatever happened to him, whatever you did to him, it made you stop for a while, didn’t it? Until Hardwick.’
Walton sprang to his feet and fell on Sawyer, striking him with a heavy punch to the jaw. Sawyer saw it coming and managed to jerk his head away, dampening the worst of its power, but it was a sickening confirmation of Walton’s strength, and he followed it by jabbing the prod into Sawyer’s side again, this time holding it for several seconds while Sawyer bared his teeth and bellowed with pain.
Walton pulled away and steadied himself on the shelf behind.
Sawyer gasped for air, leaning into the pain, grinding his teeth. His heart fluttered and raced. ‘What happened to Darren, Scott?’ He spat to the side again: hot bile.
Walton kept his back to Sawyer, head lowered.
‘If you’re going to kill me, then I have a last request. Please let Darren’s mother know happened to him. Give her some way of restarting her life. You’ve become an expert in inflicting pain on the guilty, as you see them. Give an innocent woman some peace.’
Walton walked towards the locked doors which linked to the connecting passage. He turned to Sawyer, his features buried in the gloom, his outline surreal and bestial.
‘I had someone here.’ Walton dropped his head, fell silent, his shoulders rising and falling.
Sawyer’s head throbbed. ‘Darren?’<
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Walton looked up. ‘My old boss. Sherratt. He ran this place. A fucking animal Auschwitz.’
‘That’s not a view that will find many sympathisers in court.’
Walton nodded. ‘We justify it by viewing the animals as separate and distant, in service to our needs. Food, farming, clothing, sport.’
‘Scott. What did Darren see?’
Walton paused, turned away. ‘I’d had Sherratt here for some time. I took him up to the old bleeding rooms for a while, to work on him in a place he used to control. One night, I heard voices and went up to one of the high floors to look down on the woods. Two lads came through. One ran ahead of the other. By the time I’d got down there, he’d seen Sherratt. He was still alive, but I’d peeled his face, his arms. The boy cried out and I clubbed him. The other one saw me but got away.’
Sawyer twisted to face Walton. ‘What happened to Darren, Scott? Where is he?’
Walton walked back over to the shelf behind Sawyer. ‘He’s out in the woods somewhere, with the others. I killed him that night. Quickly. He never came round. There was no suffering.’
Sawyer closed his eyes.
His mother, with a sad smile, in the back seat of the car.
‘You’re too focused on what might be under the layers, lurking in the darkness.’
He opened his eyes. ‘And there I was, thinking the gap might have been something to do with you being emotionally affected.’
‘What?’
‘But it was because you thought the other boy would start an investigation, wasn’t it? So you laid low for a while, soothed yourself by working for animal charities. But when nobody came—’
‘I read about that cunt, Hardwick, and his chicken farm. Millions of chickens die every year in those places. They separate day-old male chicks because they can’t lay eggs and so have no use to the intensive farming industry. They gather them up into massive bags and they tip them into a maceration machine. An industrial grinder. In some places, they gas them.’