The Repenting Serpent

by Wes Markin

  The memory was of a biology teacher at secondary school telling his class that the heart has its own group of cells which generates electric current, so the heart can beat independently of the brain.

  As he left to meet Jake, he couldn’t help but consider the question that the twisted events had thrown up: could Jessica have looked up at her killer while he held her still-beating heart in his hands?

  Outside Karen Firth’s room, Yorke looked at Brookes, desperately hoping his eyes would not betray the sickening details he knew about Jessica’s demise.

  ‘What was it all for?’ Brookes said.

  ‘What?’ Yorke said.

  ‘Our lives. All that we’ve done.’

  ‘We’ve helped people. We, you, made a difference.’

  ‘The only thing that is different is my life. I’ve ruined it. She left me because I was spending more hours with you than her.’

  Yorke looked down, suddenly feeling ashamed. Beside him, a nurse pushed an elderly man past him in a wheelchair. Regression was in full swing; the man was now the size of a young boy and almost curled into the foetal position. The man’s eyes flicked open as he passed Yorke. They were glazed over but they still acknowledged him; Yorke could sense his plea for freedom.

  The door opened, and Dr Reiner presented himself. His pinstripe suit shone through the white cotton of his gown. He was heavily suntanned, and Yorke’s mind wandered to DI Mark Topham - another man whose appearance meant everything.

  Brookes had warned Yorke that he was unlikely to get much from Karen Firth regarding her daughter. He hadn’t been wrong. In fact, he wouldn’t be getting anything.

  White and still, she could have been a sculpture carved from ice. He watched Brookes take her hand, probably to confirm it was warm and she was still alive. He kissed her hand. ‘Hello Karen.’

  There was no movement from her, but Yorke could hear her shallow breathing. It was a familiar clicking, rather like a dripping tap. He thought back to his own mother’s death, when her body, ravaged by years of drug abuse, had finally succumbed in a hospital bed. He’d held her hand for two days. Two whole days. He’d been the only one left. Her other sons had long since abandoned her, and her daughter had been murdered several years before.

  Yorke reached out to put his hand on Brookes’ shoulder. ‘You don’t need me here.’

  Brookes glanced back. ‘No, stay … please?’

  Yorke nodded. He could see in Brookes’ eyes that he had no intention of sharing the news of Jessica’s death with her mother. What would be the point anyway? If Karen did regain consciousness, why would you subject her to such a tale? Despite this, Brookes would feel guilty at holding back; in much the same way, Yorke currently felt guilty about holding back on him the nature of Jessica’s death.

  ‘Hello, Detective Brookes.’

  They both turned to see another white-suited doctor. This one cared far less for his appearance than Dr Reiner. He had long, limp black hair and a monobrow which stood firm and strong. He stepped forward and shook Brookes’ hand; then, he turned and shook Yorke’s. He introduced himself.

  ‘My name is Dr Raymond Page. I’m from the hospital, DCI Yorke. Iain and I are already acquainted. I am conducting a trial on a new drug combination for Alzheimer’s. Consequently, today’s occurrences have been particularly intriguing.’

  Other than Brookes and Yorke, no one in the room would know anything about Jessica’s death yet. The press had simply announced the death of a middle-aged woman. Yorke had a good relationship with the press, and they had agreed to wait until early evening to name Jessica to the world. It seemed the facility did not even know that Brookes was divorced; maybe, Jessica had never got around to informing them.

  ‘I don’t know a great deal about it, yet. All I know is that she became rather active?’ Brookes said.

  ‘Active is an understatement.’ Dr Reiner came up alongside them, stinging Yorke’s nostrils with his excessive aftershave. ‘The reason we contacted you, and not your wife Jessica, is due to the sensitive nature of what was said.’

  ‘I can be quite sensitive too, you know,’ Brookes said.

  Yorke forced back a smile.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Reiner said, ‘but I just felt it would be more devastating for her daughter rather than her son-in-law.’

  Yorke took a step back, considering the ridiculous nature of the conversation.

  Dr Page walked around the group of men to the side of the bed and looked down on Karen. He was a tall man.

  ‘Yesterday, we took her to the hospital to review her medicine and give her a PET scan. You know, or at least your wife knows, that we have been very successful in slowing the deterioration down. However, there is no doubt that she is in the advanced stages of the affliction now and what happened earlier, shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘Okay,’ Brookes said, ‘so what exactly did happen?’

  ‘She asked for you by name,’ Reiner said. ‘She had a warning for you.’

  ‘A warning?’ Brookes said, widening his eyes. ‘A little late for warnings, don’t you think?’

  The doctors looked confused; Yorke put his hand on Brookes’ shoulder to gently remind him not to reveal too much.

  Reiner said, ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘What was the warning?’ Brookes said.

  Reiner slipped his hand into his white coat pocket, withdrew a small notebook and read from it. ‘She said that you were in danger, and that a jaguar waits in the trees. That it was disgusting, covered in blood with flesh hanging from its teeth.’

  Yorke watched Brookes’ expression morph into one of incredulity as Reiner blushed some more over his ridiculous words.

  ‘Finally, she said that his mirror sees inside all of us.’

  Brookes grunted and showed Yorke his bewildered expression. ‘And that’s why I’m here because of the ramblings of this sick lady?’

  ‘No,’ Page said, stepping forward and laying a hand on Brookes’ arm. ‘It was what happened before too, Detective Brookes. She was awake and active, throwing a tantrum, gripping Dr Reiner’s arm so tightly he couldn’t get it free. And this was after she was sedated. Her pressure ulcer is worsening, and she only has days left to live. Her behaviour was completely out of the ordinary. Almost unnatural.’

  Yorke looked down at Karen. An IV tube snaked out of her arm, keeping her hydrated in her final hours.

  ‘She always was a tough one,’ Brookes said.

  ‘She hasn’t spoken in months,’ Page continued, ‘yet, today, she held a conversation. I can only conclude that the drug trials have had a significant impact and we wish to continue them.’

  ‘Well, you have permission, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, sort of … she gave her permission years ago to conduct trials while she was alive …’

  It took a moment for it to dawn on Brookes what was being asked here.

  ‘We would like to ask permission to study the body after she passes. She will be treated with dignity and the body returned as soon as the study is complete—’

  ‘Now I see why you wanted the son-in-law and not the daughter!’ Brookes said. He looked at Yorke. ‘They want my mothers-in-law’s body for medical research – it’s not every day you get a request like that!’

  Yorke nodded and looked down. This wasn’t his business.

  ‘It could help so many more people in the future,’ Page said.

  Brookes sighed. ‘Well, what can I say to that?’

  ‘She will be treated with the upmost dignity. Can you please talk to your wife this evening and, if she consents, return tomorrow to complete the appropriate documentation?’

  Brookes nodded.

  Later today, Yorke realised, when the name of the victim hit the news, these doctors would be dumbstruck. He wondered if they would still contact Brookes to press him for the forms in the morning.

  On the way out, Yorke said to Brookes, ‘You handled that well.’

  ‘Really? I just nodded and accepted it. All I care
about right now is getting Ewan out of town.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Which should be happening right about now.’

  Outside, in the corridor, Yorke noticed the withered elderly man in the wheelchair from earlier. He was pushed against the wall and staring intently at Yorke. He looked like he was trying to say something, so Yorke moved closer, but the man was simply murmuring.

  A nurse approached and took the handles of the wheelchair. Ryan Marshall was written across the badge. ‘It’s inhumane,’ Marshall said.

  Yorke looked up at him. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘He should have passed a long time ago.’

  Yorke looked down at the old man, feeling dreadful about the nurse’s words.

  ‘He can’t hear. He’s one of Dr Page’s patients.’

  ‘The drug trials?’ Yorke said.

  ‘Yes,’ Marshall turned the wheelchair. ‘They just go on and on.’

  Yorke’s phone rang. ‘Jake?’

  ‘Sir, Robert Preston’s parents own a holiday home in Avebury.’

  ‘Text me the address.’

  ‘If I leave now, we can rendezvous there? It’s just under an hour.’

  ‘Yep, see you there.’

  He put his hand on Brooke’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got to dash.’

  ‘The pervert that photographed Jessica?’

  ‘I’ll phone you later; check your son got off okay.’

  With Freddy still curled around one arm, Ewan looked out of the motorhome window. His eyes were sore from crying and rather foggy, but a quick rub cleared his vision. He looked over at the patch of Beech trees, which were twisted and frozen into white skeletal shapes.

  He continued to stroke Freddy’s bronze skin which was patterned with red diamonds. Its one and a half metre body adjusted itself so its head was resting on the back of his hand; its forked tongue flicked in and out with approval. Ewan considered for a moment that the cold feel of a reptile confirmed that it was alive and well; while the opposite remained true of humans.

  He felt tears prick the corner of his eyes again.

  It was a clear, cloudless day so he could see into the woodland. Despite it being only a small patch of trees, it looked large at this short distance. As he stared, he noticed movement. Directly opposite the motorhome, about ten metres away, he was certain he saw something flicker behind the trees. Maybe it was a fox or some other kind of animal?

  Behind him, he heard the bread burst free from the toaster; its charred smell filling the air. Riley always burnt it. He smiled though. He was so glad he was here, and the FLO, Bryan, too. Especially when he felt so lonely and nervous.

  He stroked Freddy again. He remembered how his mother had rustled around in her handbag for her car keys one morning, only for her hand to settle on this cold reptilian back. It had been a loud scream.

  Sunday night, Dad’s night, had immediately become Dad and Freddy’s night.

  And that posed an interesting question. What now? Dad and Freddy’s night forever?

  He guessed so. I mean, what else was there for him?

  He saw the flicker of movement again and then turned from the window.

  3

  ROBERT PRESTON WAS grateful for an end to the trembling in his hands so that he could put a glass to his lips without spilling its contents down his front.

  He was also grateful that he was now able to hold the photographs that so calmed him.

  He looked down on the other photographs scattered out on the table; all of them were young and beautiful. There was Sandra Evans, a waitress in an Avebury café, who he had snapped preparing a cappuccino; Becky Fullerton, stretching several rows in front of him at a Yoga class; Marie Pemberton, the fishmonger in Salisbury, who was descaling a seabass with such skill.

  He stroked their faces, pressed the photographs against his cheek, moved them around into different collages. It all helped.

  But it didn’t solve the problem. Because every time he blinked, he saw the twisted butcher with his hands in Jessica’s chest.

  Jessica Brookes had been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t bear to have her photograph out on the table right now. Couldn’t bear to see her smiling at parent’s evening, knowing that she would never smile again. He’d left it in his hotel room and, when the police finally found him, which he knew they would, then they were welcome to it as evidence.

  He stood up and stretched out, listening to his back cracking. His spine was s-shaped. It was part of a catalogue of evidence that he was physically unattractive. Premature balding, halitosis, body odor, boils on his fucking back; he felt he could be forgiven for thinking life rarely gave him a break.

  But he had been given one break, hadn’t he? Yvonne? She’d loved him, given him children, accepted his faults (all but one), and he’d blown it. Completely.

  The office drawer. Why had he left the photographs in the office fucking drawer?

  And now his life was ruined, because the police would find him, and they would think that he’d killed her.

  The kitchen door blew open and a blast of cold air raced in. The photographs, dozens of them, rose into the air and showered down like confetti. He scurried to the door to close it and slammed on a deadbolt. He then darted over to the pile of photographs on the floor, dropped to his knees and began gathering. So many photographs. So many moments. A cascade of memories that he never wished to lose …

  He felt something on the back of his neck. His hand flew there as if to swat a fly.

  Nothing.

  He stood up, clutching the printed memories and turned around.

  Nothing. He took a deep breath.

  On edge, he thought. But who wouldn’t be after last night? He forced the photographs into his pocket and went through into the living room; there, more photographs awaited him on the coffee table. He had so many moments to pore over, to cherish and remember. They would offer him sanctuary as he sat on the sofa and the afternoon slipped away.

  However, the photographs were no longer on the coffee table.

  The gust of wind through the kitchen? Had it somehow found its way in, blown his collection to the floor? He rounded the coffee table, kneeled and thrust his hand underneath the television cabinet. He felt around in the dust, but only managed to drag out some old coins.

  Then he felt something on the back of his neck again; and, this time, he could hear breathing too. He rose to his feet and saw the reflection of a man in the TV screen.

  As he turned, slowly, to see who was behind him on the other side of the coffee table, Preston clutched his nose against a sudden horrendous stench.

  The man was tall and wore a long black coat that drowned his feet, and his dark hair glistened like seaweed washed up on the shore.

  The man stooped, and Preston thought of a snake hidden in reeds, poised to attack. His tiny eyeballs were cold and unmoving.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The serpent reeled up. Fast. Too fast to see. The pain in Preston’s head was the only evidence that it had come at all.

  It had been only moments since Ewan had seen movement amongst the Beech trees, so when there was a hard knock at the motorhome door, he flinched. He took a step back while Freddy retreated partway up his arm. Riley and Bryan assembled in front of the door.

  ‘Yes,’ Kelly called.

  ‘It’s Greg Brookes.’

  ‘Grandad,’ Ewan said, bursting between his two bodyguards and yanking open the motorhome door. Greg stood there in a grey trilby and a fading black suit. They embraced.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ewan,’ Greg said. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Minutes later, Greg was on the sofa, drinking tea provided by Kelly. He was cupping the back of Ewan’s head and looking him in the eyes. ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘When you were having trouble with those boys at school, what did I tell you to do?’

  ‘Tell the teacher.’

  ‘And what happened to the problem?’

  ‘It
went away,’ Ewan said.

  ‘And the running?’

  ‘I kept trying, like you said, and I won … but—’

  ‘So do you trust me?’

  ‘You know I do, but I think Dad needs me.’

  ‘Your dad needs to know you’re safe. At least until everything is cleared up. He wants you far from here. With me. Now go and get your stuff together and we’ll stop for ice cream on the way.’

  ‘It’s the middle of winter, Grandad!’

  ‘So, it’s in season then! Go and get your bags.’

  Robert Preston could see Jessica’s killer hovering less than a metre over him, cocking his head slowly from side to side, examining him. Preston gagged at the stench of sulphur, and almost swallowed the material which the man had stuffed into his mouth.

  The intruder’s face was paler than a dead man’s and only an occasional flicker in his stony eyes betrayed the fact that they were organic. His long hair was unwashed, and some flecks of dandruff broke loose, swirled in the shaft of light that speared through the living room window, and sprinkled on Preston’s face.

  ‘Shouting offends me, Robert. I will take the cloth out if you promise not to shout.’

  Preston nodded. He entertained a fleeting idea of putting his hands around the creature’s throat as he pulled the rag free, but then realized that his hands and legs were tied. The bastard must have done it while the world was spinning.

  ‘I have a wife and daughter.’ Tears filled Preston’s eyes.

  ‘I know, they are very beautiful,’ the killer said, drying Preston’s tears with the rag. ‘Do your wife and daughter know you were standing outside Jessica Brookes’ house last night?’

  Preston closed his eyes and willed the scene before him to be a hallucination that would evaporate as quickly as it had come into being, but when he opened them, the monster was still there.

  ‘And the night before that, I saw you inside her house, Robert,’ the killer continued.

  ‘Because I loved her.’