Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

A sturdy, middle-aged woman with short red hair and angry eyes stood in the glow of the oven.

  “Well, spit it out, boy,” she said, thrusting a hand on her hip. “You were sneaking off again, weren’t you? Off to wherever it is you go at night.”

  Rooted to the floor, Cal stared at the woman.

  “How many times has Jacob told you?” she said, stabbing a finger at him. “But still off you go, thinking we don’t know about it. Thinking we’re stupid. Don’t you care about us no more? Is that it?”

  Cal shook his head, lowered his eyes to the floor.

  The woman let out a heavy sigh. “You probably think old Cynthia here is a walkover, don’t you? Easy to pull the wool over her eyes. But I know you go out every night, Cal. I know sometimes you wait until Jacob is . . . busy with other matters. But no more. If you leave tonight, I’ll have no choice but to tell him when he comes back. You know what will happen then.” Her face softened, but there was fear in her eyes. “Haven’t you been through enough without making it worse for yourself? Without making it worse for all of us?”

  Cal stood, frozen on the spot, his chest growing tight around his lungs.

  The woman held out a hand. “Come away from the door, boy. There ain’t nothing and no one left for you on the other side. Your place is here with us, with the Dawn Children.” She waggled her finger, coaxing him toward her like a nervous animal. “Come on. Come and help old Cynthia fold the laundry. You’ll thank me for it when Jacob gets back.”

  One foot in front of the other, Cal stepped away from the door.

  “That’s it. That’s my boy. Set the younger ones a good example by doing the right thing.”

  Cal felt her hand wrap around his, a little too tightly. He kept his face blank as she led him from the kitchen and through the shadows of the hall, but at the centre of his chest a fire was burning. He was struggling to keep it contained.

  THE STREETS WERE EMPTY and dark. Carrie took her usual route onto Cove Road and past Grady Spencer’s house, this time without stopping, until she crested the hill. As she walked, she threw furtive glances over her shoulder, hoping to see a shadowy figure dart behind a parked car or melt into darkness. But she saw no one.

  The rain was icy against her face. Her hands were numb despite the gloves she wore. Above, the night sky was heavy with clouds that blotted out the stars, masking Briar Wood in impenetrable darkness.

  Carrie ground to a halt, an invisible wall preventing her from going any further. But she had to keep going. She had to know if he was here, waiting for her.

  Swallowing down fear, she stepped onto the path that led to Desperation Point. Darkness wrapped around her, pulling her into the wood. She walked slowly, keeping her step light and soft, her breathing quiet and shallow. She cocked her head, trying to hear above the pattering of rain on branches. There were no other sounds, just the rain and her sodden footfalls.

  The familiar beam of the old lighthouse cut through the trees. Carrie’s eyes darted in all directions, hoping for a glimpse of her son. But if Cal was here, he was well hidden.

  Carrie walked on, rain washing away hope. She reached the tree line and slid to a halt. The lighthouse was up ahead, a bright needle pointing to the heavens. The cliff edge lay just beyond.

  “Cal?” Her voice was a whisper. She turned back to the wood and tried again, this time louder. “Cal, are you here?”

  The rain answered her in drips and drops. Behind her, the sea crashed against rocks.

  “If you’re here, come out. Come home with me. We can put things right. Please, Cal, I’m begging you!”

  She waited and listened. The lighthouse beam swung through the trees, illuminating branches.

  Aaron Black had lied to her. He’d poisoned her with hope.

  But he seemed so earnest. So convincing. What a fool I am!

  Shivering, she glanced over her shoulder toward the cliff edge.

  Perhaps Dylan was right. Perhaps the only way to make it stop, to make it all go away, was to keep her eyes forward.

  To never look back.

  Carrie turned her head and stared into the blackness of Briar Wood. Could she do that? Could she give up on hope?

  She stood, eyes searching the darkness, feet pinned to the ground, feeling like a butterfly trapped inside an airtight jar.

  Could she give up on her son?

  17

  FRANCES CURNOW’S HOME was in Penwartha, a tiny hamlet of brick houses flanked by rolling farmland, two miles south of Porth an Jowl. In summer, Aaron imagined the place would be green and leafy; the epitome of idyllic country living. But now it was all grey hues and splattered with mud, the emptiness of the surrounding fields almost suffocating.

  “Are you from the papers, then?” Frances asked.

  They stood in an enclosed yard behind the house, Aaron hanging back at the gate as Frances scattered food pellets on the ground from a bucket and a horde of clucking hens swarmed around her feet. Frances was in her mid-thirties, tall and slim, and not at all how Aaron had imagined her when they’d spoken on the phone.

  “Er, no,” he said, spying a large red hen advancing toward him. “I’m writing a book.”

  Frances watched with amusement as he scuttled away from the curious bird. “A book, eh? About Satanists?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I see. And you want to know what happened to Aunt Bessie?”

  Aaron raised an eyebrow.

  “Our goat,” the woman explained, as she threw out another handful of feed. “Don’t look at me, the girls named her.”

  Aaron nodded, his eyes fixed on the marauding hens. “Yes. Aunt Bessie.”

  “Right, well, you best come in, then.”

  The kitchen was clean and modern. Aaron sat at a large oak table feeling grateful they were now inside and warming up, while Frances set about making coffee. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  It was a text message from Nat: DINNER AT ROSE’S, 6 PM TONIGHT. SHE WANTS TO MEET YOU. BE THERE OR THE DEAL’S OFF.

  Aaron smiled as he texted her back. Since arriving in Cornwall, his diet had consisted of junk food and hotel snacks. Some home-cooked goodness was just what his body needed. Besides, he was curious to meet the woman who had lived next door to Grady Spencer all those years, blissfully unaware of the horrors transpiring in his basement.

  Frances Curnow handed him a steaming mug of coffee and sat down. Aaron activated a digital voice recorder and placed it at the centre of the table. The interview began.

  “I still can’t believe it happened,” the woman said, staring curiously at the recorder. “I mean, one day she was here, the next. . .”

  Aaron watched her shudder.

  “What happened to it? I mean, to Aunt Bessie?”

  “The girls found her. I wished to God it had been me. Poor Kelly hasn’t slept since. She’s my youngest. Her sister’s Leila.”

  She nodded to a framed photograph hanging on the wall, in which two young girls, the eldest no older than eight or nine, sat on bright red bicycles, their smiles bright as summer.

  “Anyway, it was their job to feed Aunt Bessie each morning before school. She wasn’t supposed to be a pet, I thought keeping a goat would be a greener way to keep the lawn short, plus I always wanted to try my hand at making cheese. But the girls loved that daft old goat, treated her as one of the family. Which made what happened that much worse.”

  Aaron waited as Frances drew in a breath, her eyes reflecting the horror of that morning.

  “It was a blood bath. They didn’t just kill her. There were pieces of her all over the lawn. My first thought was an animal had done it, a stray dog or something. But then I found poor Bessie’s head.”

  “Where was it?”

  Frances exhaled. The tips of her fingers turned white against the coffee mug. “It was inside the front basket of Kelly’s bike. Someone had put it there, deliberately, as if they wanted to make sure she’d be the first person to find it.”

  Aaron swallowed, forcing the grotesqu
e image from his mind. “Who do you think did it?”

  “The police suspected teenagers, but you can see where we live—there are six, maybe seven houses here, and my girls are the only children around. Besides, I don’t think teenagers these days make a habit of wandering the countryside, mutilating animals, do you?” She paused to rub her eyes. “And of course, the papers talked about Satanists. Devil worshippers making blood sacrifices.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “I know there have been other attacks. Horses found with their bellies slit open or their throats cut. But what happened to Aunt Bessie feels different.”

  Aaron leaned forward. “Different, how?”

  Frances was quiet for a long while, haunted eyes staring into space. Then she said, “Because of the violence. If you’d seen what was done to her . . . it was as if whoever killed her was filled with pure rage. As if they couldn’t stop until there was nothing left to rip apart.”

  AS AARON DROVE ALONG winding country roads, he replayed the recording of Frances Curnow’s interview. Her final words echoed in his mind.

  Without knowing it, she’d confirmed what Aaron believed to be Cal Anderson’s state of mind: a maelstrom of pure rage. He had seen it in the boy’s eyes that night, two white hot flames blazing in the dark. It had terrified him. The savagery Frances had described, even more so. The attack on Aunt Bessie had been brutal enough, but the head in the basket was an elevated level of cruelty.

  Why had these poor girls been targeted for such a heinous, brutal attack? What had they done to deserve it?

  Because they were loved, Aaron thought. They were punished for being loved. He wondered if his next destination would reveal a similar pattern.

  Glebe Farm was a short drive from Penwartha, and about a mile and a half southeast of Porth an Jowl. The farm was cold and wet, the yard a dirty stretch of concrete littered with old machinery and bordered by outbuildings and a granite farmhouse that was slowly falling into ruin.

  Closing the car door, Aaron shouldered his bag and slipped his voice recorder into his pocket. He grimaced as farmyard smells assaulted his senses.

  He was unsure about turning up unannounced, but the farmer, a man named Ross Quick, hadn’t responded to any of Aaron’s calls or messages. Any other person would have taken it as a sign that Quick wanted to be left alone, but Aaron’s curiosity was piqued—the attack on his farm was not only the most recent but also the most vicious.

  Crossing the yard, he headed for the farm house and knocked on the door. He recoiled, wiping his knuckles against his jacket. Everything out here was covered in a glistening sheen of filth.

  He waited, growing colder with each passing second. He knocked again. When there was still no answer, he wandered over to some farm equipment rusting in the corner and took a few pictures with his camera, then turned and pointed the lens at the dilapidated house. He couldn’t imagine being a farmer, especially one like Ross Quick, who, according to the news story, lived alone. What a sad isolated life, Aaron thought, as he stared at the windows of the house.

  Ross Quick was either hiding or elsewhere. It was possible he was out in the fields, but unlikely—the farmer had nothing left to farm. Circling the house, Aaron soon located the fields; barren stretches of earth sloping over a slight hill.

  A barn stood off to the right. It was the old-fashioned kind, constructed from wood, with small windows high up near the roof, and a large pair of doors slick with mud. There was no padlock. Instinctively, Aaron glanced over his shoulder, then grabbed one of the looped handles and pulled. The door swung open a few inches.

  The sharp odour of blood and death hung in the air, like the echo of a scream. Checking he was alone, Aaron pushed the door open further and stepped inside

  The barn was empty. Empty except for the dark stains and splatters that covered much of the floor.

  They were dry now, almost black in colour. Scraps of blood-soaked straw and wool lay scattered in between.

  The sight was unnerving. The stench overpowering.

  Stepping further inside, Aaron lifted his camera and took pictures. The flash went off like lightning strikes, illuminating the bloodstained floor and the arterial splashes on the support beams, rafters, and walls. Aaron stared in grim awe. A hundred sheep, the news story had said. All butchered.

  A noise pulled him from his thoughts. A low growl that made his blood run cold.

  Turning slowly, he saw a black and white sheepdog, its head lowered and its lips peeled back, revealing glistening fangs. Next to the animal, was a middle-aged man who looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his unshaven face pulled into an angry glare. In the man’s arms was a shotgun. It was pointed at Aaron’s chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the man said. “This is private property.”

  He raised the gun a little. By his side, the dog’s growl grew louder. Aaron lifted his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back. “I tried the house but no one was there.”

  “And that made it okay for you to sneak around my farm, did it? To take pictures of things that ain’t none of your business.”

  Ross Quick stepped forward, tightening his grip on the shotgun. The dog barked once, then whimpered as the farmer yelled at it to be silent.

  “I have a mind to ask you to hand over that camera,” he said.

  Aaron glanced into the yard beyond, calculating his chances of escape. Even with just a few metres between them, he could smell the wreak of alcohol. A sober man with a shotgun was dangerous enough, but a drunk man was deadly.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, taking another step back. “I tried calling. When I couldn’t get hold of you I thought I’d take a chance and come out here to talk face to face.”

  Ross Quick glared at him, his eyes glinting dangerously.

  “This don’t look much like talk to me” he said. “This looks like snooping where you don’t belong. I thought you newspapers were done with me. I gave you your interviews. Didn’t get a penny for my time, neither.”

  For a second, the farmer’s shoulders sagged and the gun lowered an inch. Then he tightened his grip on the weapon and pointed the barrel at Aaron’s chest once more.

  Aaron’s mind raced. He didn’t want to die today, especially not in this blood-soaked barn.

  “I’m not with the newspapers,” he said, keeping his hands raised.

  “Then who are you? What do you want?”

  “My name is Aaron Black. I wanted to ask you about the attack on your livestock.”

  Ross wrinkled his brow. The tip of the shotgun lowered, now pointing at Aaron’s stomach.

  “You from the police? Because I already spoke to them, too.”

  Aaron shook his head.

  “Well you ain’t from the insurance company. Those bastards won’t give me a penny, all because I missed a couple of payments. I begged them. They didn’t give two shits.”

  Aaron’s eyes were fixed on the barrel of the gun, watching it sway from left to right, in time with the man’s inebriated movements. He suddenly understood the man’s frustration. Ross Quick hadn’t just lost the sheep; he’d lost the farm, his livelihood. Everything. And right now, that made him even more dangerous.

  Especially when he learned that Aaron was just another writer trying to make a living from other people’s misery.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have come here. But what happened to you is terrible. And not just to you. Someone is going around killing animals and destroying people’s livelihoods. I want to find out who. I want to stop them from doing it again.”

  It wasn’t exactly the truth. It wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

  “You didn’t see anyone that night? Didn’t hear anything?” Aaron asked.

  The farmer shook his head. He lowered the gun a few inches. Beside him, the dog sat on its haunches, its eyes fixed on Aaron.

  “I was sleeping,” Ross said. “I’d had a bit to drink. Meg’s barking woke me up. By the time
I got to the barn, the sheep were already dead. Not just dead. Whoever killed them tore them apart. Lined parts of them up like dominoes.”

  “They killed all of them?”

  “Every last one. I never seen such violence in all my days.”

  There it was again. Violence. Rage.

  “You think it was Satanists like the papers say?”

  Ross nodded. “Who else could it be? Perverted bastards. If I ever find them, I’ll kill them with my bare hands.”

  He lowered the gun, letting it swing limply at his side. Relief surged through Aaron’s body like a tranquiliser.

  “It ain’t right, destroying a man’s livelihood like that.” The farmer’s voice trembled. “I got nothing now. The bank’s taking the farm back. I won’t even have a roof over my head.” Beside him, the dog looked up and whined. Ross smiled sadly. “You’re right, girl. I suppose I still got you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said. He genuinely was. Across from him, Ross stood like a marionette with its strings cut. “I should go. I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

  The farmer didn’t look up. “Plenty of time to waste now.”

  Daylight was already fading as Aaron drove away from Glebe Farm and along the road that would take him back to Porth an Jowl.

  He was now more convinced than ever that Cal was responsible for the deaths of both Aunt Bessie the goat and Ross Quick’s flock of sheep. Not only had the attacks occurred just a couple of miles outside of Porth an Jowl, but the similarities between the attacks were undeniable. In both cases, the animals had been subjected to horrible torture and mutilation. In both cases, parts of the animals had been laid out in deliberate fashion, for no other discernible reason than to taunt their owners.

  Just like Margaret Telford’s dog.

  What kind of horrors had Cal Anderson been subjected to that he was now so poisoned by hate? Aaron could only imagine.

  He was certain of one thing, though: wherever this path of investigation led him, he would need to look over his shoulder at every turn.

  Because if Cal Anderson was capable of ripping apart an entire flock of sheep, what could he do to a lone, unarmed man?