Twisted

by Robin Roughley

  In his mind's eye, Steve grinned at him, 'Come in mate, the water's lovely.'

  'Hey what the hell do you think you're doing!'

  Shaun turned; he could see the old man standing on the bank, a golden retriever attached to a tartan lead sat patiently by his side.

  'Come on son, you don't want to be doing that!' The pensioner waved at him, his right arm flapping up and down in distress.

  Shaun could hear the concern in his voice; see his weather-beaten face crinkled with worry.

  With a sigh, he waded back to the bank, the clay pulled at his feet, trying to drag him back, trying to claim him.

  'Are you all right, boy?'

  Shaun picked up the rucksack from the bank and swung it over his shoulder, 'Fine.'

  'It's a bit cold to be taking a swim,' the man smiled tentatively, trying to lighten the mood, his white dentures at odds with his walnut-like face.

  'Is it?'

  'I know things can look bad at times, boy, but that's never the answer,' he nodded towards the water; the dog looked up at its master and began to pant.

  'You're right,' Shaun said and then set off walking.

  'Maybe you should try and get some help, son!'

  Shaun didn't bother with a reply, it seemed lately he couldn't do anything right, still there were other days and other ways to get out of this mess.

  Pembroke Avenue, that had been the address of the girl he'd saved, maybe he should go and see her, perhaps she could give him a reason to carry on living. Adjusting the pack, he trudged along the path, the old man watched as he moved out of sight, his face etched with concern.

  64

  Lasser had been wrong, Platt Bridge had only one curry house still doing business the other two stood empty. Plywood boards covered the windows, festooned with fliers and graffiti.

  They were standing outside the Punjabi Palace. Bannister looked up at the window above the shop, the glass filthy, tatty lace curtains drawn closed.

  'Right, come on,' he walked down the side of the takeaway, nose crinkling as he detected the odour of discarded food. Lasser followed close behind, the dark grey sky promising more heavy rain and misery.

  The alley led to a small courtyard, three large grey bins had been pushed up to one wall. Despite the cold, Lasser could see a few flies crawling sluggishly around the metal lids. The fire escape rose up to a black door, the paint curling in long ragged strips.

  Bannister grabbed the handrail and began to climb, his shoes ringing out on the metal steps. When they reached the top, he hammered on the door and waited, the first spots of rain began to fall, and Lasser grimaced as the stench from the bins wafted up.

  Bannister grunted and slammed the palm of his hand against the door. 'Open the door, it's the police!'

  Lasser checked his watch and wondered if Medea had decided enough was enough, perhaps she'd packed her bag and was already back at her flat. When Bannister slammed his foot against the door, Lasser reached out and grabbed his arm.

  'Hang on, are you sure that's wise?'

  Bannister threw him a bitter smile. 'Come on Lasser, where's your sense of adventure?' he lashed out again, the casing splintered, one more and the door slammed inwards. Lasser threw a quick glance down into the alleyway and then followed Bannister inside; he sniffed and grimaced as the stink of sweaty feet and spices drifted across the room. The place looked like something off Secret Hoarder, every inch of available space was covered with crap, old newspapers, and free TV mags, along with the obligatory empty curry trays.

  'Looks like the cleaner should be sacked,' Bannister quipped before crossing the room. A tiny hallway lead to an equally tiny kitchen, the sink littered with filthy plates and cups.

  Lasser pushed open the bedroom door and the then stood back as the stink of corruption billowed out.

  'Christ' he hissed, wafting a hand. 'It smells as if something's died in here.'

  Bannister appeared at his shoulder and sniffed before brushing past and stepping into the room, the floor was covered with piles of clothes. Bending down Bannister picked up a lacy bra and then tossed it into a corner.

  'How the hell do people live like this?' he grunted.

  Lasser shrugged and tiptoed his way across the room towards an old wardrobe. 'Kim and Aggie would have a field day in here.'

  'Who the hell are Kim and Aggie?

  'Come on, don't tell me you've never watched it?'

  'It might surprise you to learn that I have better things to do with my time that sitting in front of the television watching crap.'

  Lasser grabbed the handle of the wardrobe door. 'I bet you watch BBC four and listen to Classic FM.'

  'I…'

  When the body fell from the narrow space, Lasser leapt back in shock, his feet became entangled, and he fell backwards into a mound of musty clothing. The naked carcass landed on top of him. For a couple of seconds, they looked like lovers entwined, then Lasser cried out, arms and legs thrashing as he fought his way free.

  'Fuck!' he scampered to his feet his skin crawling, sweat broke out all over his body.

  Bannister looked down at the corpse and grimaced. 'Well, I have to say, Lasser, I don't fancy yours much.'

  Lasser threw his boss a poisonous look.

  It was hard to tell how long she'd been dead, the skin stretched over the bones was gossamer thin, the woman's hair had fallen out in clumps.

  Bannister already had his phone out, his eyes flicking around the room as if taking an inventory. Then he pulled it from his ear and gave it a shake, 'Typical, no sodding signal,' heading towards the door, he kept shaking the mobile as if this would somehow miraculously help the connection. Lasser watched him go before turning back to the body; the woman had landed on her side, rigid like a shop store manikin. Leaning down he could see the thin gash that ran across her neck the grey skin dry and puckered. The rest of her body was a mass of old bruises; her eyes had disappeared leaving two dark holes. When he saw the maggots crawling in the depths he stood up and went to the window. Yanking it open, Lasser stuck his head through the gap and took a deep breath, the stink of spices filled the air.

  65

  Erin looked out of the bedroom window, watching as the rain turned the back garden into a swamp. She felt on the verge of collapse, she'd spent the night sitting in bed staring into space, it had been the longest night of her life. Every time she closed her eyes, Graham had been waiting to torment her, face like shredded offal, teeth clamped in a rictus grin of agony that would remain with her forever.

  She tried to recall the image of the man who had attacked them but her brain rebelled against the notion. When she heard the floorboard creak, Erin spun around her eyes wide in fright. Sarah smiled tentatively from the doorway. 'Did you manage to get any sleep?'

  'I don't know if I'll ever sleep again.'

  Sarah crossed the room to stand by her side. Outside the rain intensified, rivulets of water raced down the windowpane.

  'Are the police still here?' Erin asked.

  'Mm, downstairs, the one called Rawlins is working his way through the biscuits and the woman's speaking to someone about a changeover.'

  Erin placed her fingertips against the glass and then lifted them away watching as the heat evaporated, the fingerprint stain shrinking until it vanished completely.

  Suddenly she felt Sarah tense.

  'Look,' she hissed.

  Erin peered through the window; the back of the house was green belt, a field of stubble leading away to dense woodland. The solitary figure was crossing the open space heading towards the trees.

  'It's him.' Sarah gasped.

  The two words made Erin shudder, stepping closer to the window, she tried to focus, but the rain blurred the view.

  'Sarah…'

  'I remember the jacket.'

  Erin looked at her friend; she could see the rapt look in her eyes, her white teeth nibbling at her bottom lip in excitement. Suddenly, Erin felt cold anger swell inside. She was attempting to come to terms with the f
act that her husband had been slaughtered and all Sarah seemed concerned about was finding her mystery man.

  'Look, Sarah, I can't deal with this…'

  'It's him,' Sarah spun away from the window and dashed across the room.

  Erin felt an urge to chase after her, grab her, and yell that this was all her fault. If she hadn't got pissed, if she had more control, more self-respect then none of this would have happened. Graham would still be alive and she wouldn't be feeling the enormous weight of guilt that was pressing around her heart. She looked back through the window, the man was continuing towards the woods. Erin could just about make out the camouflaged jacket and the rucksack slung over his shoulders.

  The sound of raised voices floated up the stairs, and then she heard the back door slam. Sarah ran onto the lawn, struggling her way into a waterproof jacket, her dark hair lashing around her face. Erin watched as Cathy Harper grabbed her by the arm and tried to pull her back. Sarah snatched herself free, her face twisted in a snarl. Erin suddenly felt sick, had Graham been right, had he been trying to protect her after all? The thought turned her stomach, at the hospital Graham had told Lasser that Erin would back Sarah to the hilt no matter what she did. Was that the truth, a kind of blind loyalty or had Sarah used it as an excuse to drive a wedge between her and her husband? Erin swallowed and took a hesitant step closer to the window. Sarah was heading for the gate at the bottom of the garden, the Harper woman in pursuit. It was as if she were watching a parody of her relationship with Sarah acted out on the soggy lawn. Sarah rushing headlong into another disaster while dragging an innocent along for the ride. The night of the attack, she'd left the pub without giving Erin a second thought. The reality slammed into her, she might easily have been the one who'd been dragged down the alley, and it was only an accident of timing that had saved her. Her mind played out the distressing scenario, roles reversed, she could almost feel the weight of the attacker bearing down on her, forcing her to her knees with the dull blade quivering against her throat. She heard herself scream out as Sarah staggered past the entrance to the alleyway, she screamed again and Sarah kept on walking, too pissed to care.

  Down on the lawn, Cathy was trying to talk to Sarah, arms open wide as she tried to coax her back to the house. Then Erin gasped in shock as Sarah lunged forward, planted her hands against Cathy's chest, and pushed. The police officer scuttled back, her arms windmilling for balance, her feet shot from beneath her and she fell backwards, sending a spray of water into the air as she hit the ground. Erin watched in disgust as Sarah yanked open the gate and dashed into the field. When Erin looked up the field was empty, the man had disappeared.

  66

  It took the best part of twenty minutes to find the house, fighting his way through a seemingly endless barrier of brambles and weeds. Robert remembered the building had been cold and dark, the stink of wet earth and old cat shit had been the overriding smell. The passage of time had done little to change the stink of the place. Half of the roof had caved in, and the front door had rotted away to nothing, the windows black maws in the sagging walls.

  Now he sat in the corner of the desolate room and counted the tablets, he'd managed to cram thirty narrow oblong boxes into the lining of the long jacket and he smiled when he saw them all stacked up on the bare earth floor. They would keep him going for weeks, months if he was careful. Yanking the money from his pocket, he brought it up to his nose and inhaled the odour of well-used banknotes. It was almost as if he could detect the faint whiff of frying onions and burgers, his stomach rumbled and he grimaced as the hunger pangs began to gnaw at his innards.

  When he'd finished with the bitch, he'd have enough cash to move away from the area, he could see himself travelling from one nameless town to the next. Stay for a few days or weeks, have some fun, and then move on. It felt strange to have a career path mapped out, his grin widened. His old teachers had said he would never amount too much, yeah well, look at me now!

  67

  As soon as Lasser saw the empty drive he felt his stomach plummet, Medea's car had gone. Parking up, he climbed out and slid his key into the front door, the silence filled him with a kind of inevitable despair. It felt like an empty house, as if he were no more than a squatter, he stuck his head into the lounge and then made his way to the kitchen, the anguish growing with every step. When he saw the envelope propped against the kettle, he came to a halt, his shoulders sagged, his mind sinking into a familiar mire of self-recrimination and loathing. He needed to get out of this job; it ruined everything, sucked any thread of enjoyment from life, and left you feeling hollow and worthless. Crossing the room, Lasser picked the envelope up and tore it open.

  'I forgot there's an open day at the school today, so I've had to go in for a few hours. I tried ringing but your battery must have died. Sausage and bacon in the oven, it just needs heating, try and get some rest. See you later.'

  She'd even put a couple of crosses against her name. Lasser gripped the kitchen sink and drew in a deep breath, letting it out as a shuddering sigh. It felt like a reprieve but one that couldn't last. Eventually, Medea, would wise up and realise that a life with him amounted to no life at all. She was twenty-eight and gorgeous. Lasser knew if he didn't do something drastic then she would walk and he'd be back to sitting in front of the television watching nothing but shit and drinking cheap beer to kill the pain.

  Opening the oven door, he lifted out the plate wrapped in tin foil and slid the contents into the flip top bin before dropping the plate into the sink.

  By the time they'd left the flat, they had the name of the girl. Cherry Collins had lived above the shop for over eighteen months. They'd contacted the owner of the takeaway who'd told them that he rarely saw the girl, the housing benefit people paid the rent and as far as he was concerned that was the end of the matter.

  Bannister had told Lasser to get home and grab a few hours' sleep, he was meant to meet him back at the hospital by three when hopefully, Shannon would have some answers for them. Though as far as Lasser was concerned it was a waste of time, they knew the killer's name, now all they had to do was find the bastard.

  Opening the fridge, he eyed the cans of lager, his hand strayed towards them, and then he grunted and grabbed the carton of apple juice before slamming the door. Taking a long gulp, he pulled out his phone and rummaged in the drawer for the charger. As soon as he plugged it in, the voicemail message flashed and buzzed. Pressing a couple of buttons, he took another drink from the carton while he waited for the connection.

  'Lasser, it's me,' Bannister sounded knackered, his voice frayed with tension. 'We've managed to track down Flynn's shrink. I'm on my way to your place so make sure you're ready.'

  As if on cue, he heard the dull bleating of a car horn. Sighing, Lasser dropped the empty carton into the bin and headed for the front door, so much for grabbing a few hours' rest.

  Bannister tossed the pack of cigarettes at Lasser. 'Light me one will you?'

  Sliding two free, he sparked up before handing one over. Bannister's eyes were red rimmed, like an alcoholic after a heavy session. His hair sticking up on top, his cheeks covered with stubble, he looked a bloody mess.

  'So where are we going?'

  'Wrightington Hospital. Apparently, Flynn spent six months in the nut house before being unleashed into the community.'

  Lasser raised an eyebrow, 'Nut house?'

  'Come on Lasser, I'm too shagged to be politically correct.'

  'Why was he in there in the first place?'

  'That's what we're going to find out.'

  Bannister took the long way around, skirting the town centre in an effort to avoid the Saturday morning traffic.

  'You know something; I'm getting pissed off with this job.'

  Lasser looked at his boss in surprise.

  'I'm trying to build a relationship with Suzanne and Kelly, but how can I do that when I spend every waking hour out of the house?'

  'How is Kelly?'

  'She still hates me,'
he grumbled.

  Lasser looked out of the window and stifled a yawn. It was hardly surprising, late last year Kelly had discovered that Bannister was her biological father and by anyone's standards that was a hard cross to bear.

  'Why don't you get out and do something else?'

  Bannister flicked ash out of the window. 'I could ask you the same question.'

  'Come on it's not the same. You could get a job serving on some poxy board for a few hours a week; you don't need to be doing this.'

  'Perhaps we're both just selfish bastards, have you ever thought of that?'

  'Speak for yourself.'

  Bannister indicated and turned right down a narrow country lane. 'Come on, I mean, how you managed to get a girl like Medea in the first place is a total mystery…'

  'We're OK.'

  Bannister raised an eyebrow. 'Are you sure about that?'

  'Look, she says she has no problem with the job…'

  'That's what they all say at first, but we can't expect them to put their lives on hold while we get on with ours.'

  'But that's just it, what sort of life is it? I mean, take Flynn, so far he's killed four people, and when we do catch him, he won't give a toss. It'll be back to some mental institution where he'll have all the mind-bending drugs he wants.'

  Bannister grunted. 'You're a cynical bastard.'

  'It's the truth and you know it.'

  Flicking on the wipers Bannister tossed the cigarette out of the window. 'Suzanne's talking about emigrating.'