by Peter Laws
Matt and Perry shared their first ever chuckle together. The man had a great, infectious laugh, once you found it.
‘There’s one other thing.’ Matt looked across at Nupa. ‘How about I test the clients beforehand?’
Kissell frowned. ‘Test?’
‘They could come to the university and I run some experiments. It might help them consider more rational explanations for their condition.’
Perry wasn’t laughing any more. ‘How on earth do you prove something like that in a lab?’
‘You test the supernatural claims. The aversion to religious symbols for example. I have some ideas.’
Kissell leant forward, elbows on his knees. ‘I sincerely hope you don’t want to make these people look stupid, do you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Because they don’t deserve that.’
‘I know they don’t. But they deserve evidence for an alternative explanation.’
Nupa was nodding. ‘You know what? I like that. I think that could work …’
Kissell and Perry shared an uneasy glance.
‘Anyway … almost there.’ She slapped her notepad shut just as the van started heading down a leafy road. Matt saw some tall wind turbines over the tops of the trees. And just like that, his cruel mind dragged one of his dead faithfuls out of his subconscious. It often happened like that, in a split second, with no build-up. Somewhere in the crunch of gears, he could hear the sound of a teenage boy bursting open in the grille of a fast-moving train. He closed his eyes and willed his loyal ghosts away.
Focus.
It was just after six, and the light was slowly dying. Just physics with its cosmic syringe, carefully extracting the warm colours of day and dutifully reinjecting the world with the cold, grey promise of night. And set against that fading sky was a large block of orange and cream bricks.
Whitemoor Prison.
He watched its lines slice the sky. The architect must have had no desire to emulate the old Victorian prisons of old, built to scare and intimidate folks out of crime. Yet equally, this was no contemporary statement of progressive incarceration either. These bricks and angles weren’t built to inspire. Whitemoor just hovered in the midway space where functionality was God, which was fine by Matt. It was a category ‘A’ facility, after all, housing five hundred of the most dangerous murderers, rapists and terrorists in Britain. If ever you wanted a building to be fully functional, it was this one. Their convoy of cars pulled into the car park and they all climbed out. They joined the gang of camera operators and sound technicians gathering on the tarmac. This felt like a school outing, and there was a conflicted part of Matt that found this undoubtedly quite fun. But then the chatter died down and the double entrance doors were pushed open. A thick-thighed lady came striding out, hips the size of watermelons. The strained hem of her light blue, ill-fitting trouser suit looked dangerously close to an epic rupture.
She said she was Patricia Bryant, and after a happy hello, she insisted that external shots would only be permitted for the next ten minutes. There could be absolutely no filming inside until they reached the DSPD unit. She said that was the Dangerous Severe Personality Disorder Unit, which sounded just about right for a chap like Tom Riley. Perry shook his head at the injustice of it. ‘It’s not a personality disorder,’ he whispered to Kissell. ‘He needs a church.’
In security (a laborious yet near-giggly moment), everyone had to pull off their belts and shoes and raise their arms for a pat down. Then they all spent twenty minutes sitting in the waiting room, while the tech guys prepped the DSPD. As they waited, Matt spotted a plaque on the wall that said this place was opened in 1991 by that dazzling celeb: Norma Major, the wife of ex-Prime Minister John.
Eventually, the governor popped her head in and guided them all through a series of sterile and not particularly well-lit corridors. By the time they reached the unit doors, this felt less like a school trip, and more like a descent into a grim, depressing abyss. Tom Riley had torn his wife’s hair and tongue out. That was repellent enough. But the idea that he had almost killed a woman with his teeth, while still in custody, was an ever-present force. He saw the arms of the others. Riley may have been locked away and unseen right now, but the thought of him was still tugging up goosebumps.
‘Okay,’ Bryant said. ‘Are you all ready?’
‘A minute.’ Kissell placed a palm against the door. Then he turned and started shaking out his arms and then his legs. Stretching his neck muscle on a tilt. Nothing like cranking up the spiritual mojo before a face-down with Baal-Berith.
Several cameras were filming this, from various angles. The theme from Rocky could work here.
Bernie finally stopped curling his fingers in and out, and then he said, ‘I’m ready. Lead the way.’
Bryant opened up. They filed inside.
Matt was close enough to hear Nupa throw a hasty whisper to the camera guys. ‘Do not stop filming. Do you understand me? No matter what happens, you keep filming until I tell you to stop.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Matt could tell right away that the secure psychiatric unit did not normally look like this. For a start, there was a mass of seats and tables stacked against the back wall, hidden from the gaze of the cameras. Yet in the middle of the room was a single, sturdy chair, empty for now. Two long and open leather straps hung from its arms. Above that chair the ceiling was studded with fluorescent tubes, but none of them were on. Spotlights threw light instead, casting shadows all the way to the back, where Matt saw the mysterious door from which Tom was set to come.
It could have been an exorcism. It could have been an execution. Whatever it was the room looked … staged. What it didn’t look like was a normal prison visit, and that ticked Matt off. He looked across at Governor Bryant and Nupa, who was whispering to Ethan crouching on the floor. He was flicking on a few extra moody spotlights. With his hands in his pockets, Matt strolled over and said, ‘Hey, Nupa. When do you start piping in “Tubular Bells”?’
‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘I thought this show was going to be natural. You said fly-on-the-wall.’
Governor Bryant sighed and looked Matt up and down, ‘You’re the sceptic, right?’
‘And proud of it.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard of you, Mr Hunter. And that book of yours.’
Nupa saw Matt’s mouth open and broke in. ‘Matt, listen … we cleared the room because we need the space for the cameras to move freely around Riley but to not get too close. We can’t have our guys tripping over tables and knocking down chairs.’
‘And all these moody spotlights?’
Bryant laughed at him. ‘There’s no use in filming stuff if you can’t see it on screen.’
‘Yeah?’ Matt cocked an eyebrow. ‘One of those bulbs is green.’
She blinked, slowly, ‘And?’
Matt frowned. ‘Why are you even letting this happen, anyway?’
‘Because we have a wide and holistic rehabilitation programme at—’
‘Exorcism, though?’
Nupa’s hand went up. ‘Please, we need to start.’ She checked her watch, then stuck a thumb up at Bryant.
Systems Ready. Load vile killer into torpedo bay one.
The governor nodded back and threw a half-lidded glare at Matt. He waved at her.
A few tense minutes ticked by, and most eyes fell on the far door. Suzy, however, had her lens trained on Matt. Hmmm. This constant lens stuff really made you organise your armpit scratches and nostril tugs. Heaven help him if he ever got an itchy arse cheek.
The mysterious far door looked—
The handle started to move.
Somebody sucked a breath in.
The handle was down and the door was slowly opening. Oh come on, Matt thought, when he heard the coffin-creak of the hinges. Did they deliberately un-oil this thing? Was the plan for the demon killer of Cheddington to come a’creepin’ out from total blackness, like he had up Claire Perry’s path? Or would he be wh
eeled out Lecter-style on a trolley with a flurry of flapping bats? Spotlights slowly started to rise, and they picked up two bare, bandaged feet on the floor. The toes pulsed and quivered. And then the lights picked up the legs and midriff and then the torso of the figure attached, slowly materialising as the dimmer went up.
And there was the man of the moment. Tom Riley in da house, in a grey prison-issue jumpsuit. The air felt instantly thinner. Two burly-looking male nurses guided him in, his face hidden under that straggled mop of long black hair he had, though Matt could see some sort of dressing across his forehead. That must have been from when he’d nutted the desk, just before he bit down on Pamela’s throat. Matt’s mind started painting the pictures of what the moment must have looked like. He shook his head so the growing lines of such an image vanished, like a shake of his old Etch A Sketch.
Tom’s bare feet scraped along the floor in a haphazard, uncertain stagger. On one stride, an overlong toenail scraped along the light grey tiles. Matt felt his stomach fully quiver at that. The exposed heels of Tom’s feet must have been very dry too because they made a noticeable hiss as they slid along the floor. Both wrists were trapped in handcuffs, but the fingers were wriggling and twitching with a life of their own. They were very weird, those twitches. It was like he was wearing two flesh-coloured rubber gloves, generously filled with cockroaches.
The whole time, Tom’s shaggy head hung down.
The two nurses set Tom into the chair, and one of the camera guys swung around the side to get a good profile angle, but not too close. Not in biting distance, anyway. It turned out that the straps weren’t for his wrists, but for his legs and chest. The male nurses dragged them into position. One held Tom’s head back tight, while the other buckled him in. Wise move. There was no mouth guard or muzzle, which seemed deeply unwise, all things considered – until he realised that a mute Tom wouldn’t be much cop on camera. Half the shock of The Exorcist movie was all that crazy demon dialogue. He wondered if Nupa had specifically asked for his mouth to be free. You could hear multiple spinal cords relax when the nurses finally stepped back, then Nupa hooked a thumb at them both to get out of shot. The two men went to wait by the side wall, arms folded.
For a moment, there was just Tom, bathed in the lights, with his head bowed, and Matt noticed how his skinny, bony body cast a huge and bent monster shadow across the back wall. His hair hung down at the sides, like the dangling ears of a lanky rabbit in silhouette.
Focus.
This’d make a cracking poster, this. A spooky thumbnail to stop folks flicking through the warren of Netflix recommendations. But then a voice spoke out, in a strange, guttural whisper.
Tom said, ‘Helloooo …’
Perry spoke first, ‘Hello, Tom. It’s good to see—’
‘Hello, Matthew.’
Nupa’s eyes flicked to him. Everybody’s did.
‘Matthew,’ Tom said. ‘Mr Hunter. I see you.’
Nupa mouthed, Answer him!
Matt took an awkward step forward. ‘Well … that’s not that impressive, Tom. I’m standing right here after all.’
‘I’m glad you came, Matthew. But do you know why I brought you here?’
‘You didn’t bring me here. It was my choice.’
Tom let out a low, rolling chuckle. ‘Okaaaaaay. I like your house, Matt. I like your bathroom very much.’
‘Okaaayyy.’ Matt looked across at Nupa. She was putting a finger up to a frustrated-looking Kissell, asking him to keep quiet. She turned back to Matt and urged him on.
‘So, um …’ Matt said. ‘Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘How about Justine Riley?’
‘Oooo.’ He sounded like he’d just been offered cake. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Well, for starters … did you kill her?’
He snorted with laughter.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘Course I killed her.’
‘And the police officer. The woman …’
‘Mmmmmm. Delicious.’
‘Why did you do that to her?’
‘Why?’ He started chuckling. ‘Because it makes my cock stiff, how about that?’
Perry, who had already been chewing his nails, stopped dead in shock.
Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a very cliché thing for a demon to say.’
‘Is it now?’
‘Yeah, it is. I’ve seen a hundred horror movies where demons say that sort of stuff. You know what I think?’
‘Go on.’
‘You think you need to say that sort of thing, so you say it, because you think that’s what demons talk like. But you don’t. And by the way, it doesn’t shock me if that’s your intention.’
‘I’d like to shock you, very much.’
‘Well swearing and groaning isn’t going to do it.’
‘Then how about this, silly? I killed Justine because killin’ gives me a nice feeling right in my little tummy …’ Tom’s voice dropped low. ‘And I bit that lady because her baby told me to bite her. Her baby’s in hell and her baby hates her.’
Matt waited. ‘Tell me the real, actual reason you killed Justine Riley.’
‘You want the real reason I tore her tentacle out of her mouth and stuffed it into mine? Ooo …’ He paused at that, and under the hanging hair they could hear the frantic sound of Tom’s unseen mouth licking and lapping. ‘I did it for you. It was all for you.’
Matt waited for a moment. ‘No you didn’t. You don’t even know me.’
‘Gosh, Matthew … you need to wake up.’ His shoulders, which had been rocking with quiet laughter, stopped suddenly. ‘I did it just so this would happen. So that I could be near you, properly, in the flesh. To hold your hand, remember?’ His fingers and toes started to spasm again. ‘I’ve killed sooooo many people on my way to you. And now you can smell me, and I can smell you. Oh, I could sing.’
‘I’d prefer if you didn’t. So, who else have you killed?’
‘Golly, where do I start? I’ve drowned little girls and I’ve stabbed young men and I’ve strung up bitches and melted their tits off, ha. I’ve stabbed old ladies right in the scalp and took their words away, but hey …’ Tom must have seen the look in Matt’s face. His eyes flashed. ‘Oooo, Matt. You don’t look well, all of a sudden? Where’s that smirk of yours gone, now? Why don’t you make a joke, you handsome devil?’
Matt wondered how Tom could see him, since that shaggy head of his was still down. Those eyes of his must have rolled up, somewhere beneath that hair, painfully straining and staring in the sockets.
‘Cat got your tongue, Matt?’ That chuckle of his. Like an engine, idling.
‘I don’t believe the things you say.’
‘No? But I’ve signed a million, billion papers. I’ve cast a lot of souls into hell. That’s how I met her little babba. But every now and then I come up from the ground and I climb out of my little box, and I help fellas like you find their way back down. And that really fills my little tummy up—’
‘That’s enough.’ Kissell stepped forward, doctor’s bag in hand.
Tom groaned. ‘Go away, please. This is a private con—’
It was just as Kissell unzipped the bag. That’s when it happened. And it was immediate.
The slightest crackle of the zip and then …
Tom’s jaw clicked loudly open, and from the hole came an instant, ear-stabbing scream.
Everybody winced at the sheer volume, especially the sound guy, who dragged the headphones from his head like each can had shot a needle into his skull. Then Tom’s head was suddenly up. His chin had been pointed to the ground this entire time, but now it flipped positions. It strained and pushed to the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bulging and his nostrils flaring like a horse.
Matt could sense the cameras stepping into action.
‘Jesus’ blood hasn’t failed you yet!’ Kissell shouted over Tom’s screams. ‘Jesus’ blood will not fail! We’re coming for you, Tom.’
; Tom yanked his head from left to right, left to right, wailing out the most hideous sounding squeals. He was an animal, he was a slaughterhouse pig. Everyone was taken aback by it. Even the governor, even Suzy. Even Matt, to be honest, who joined everybody else in pressing fingers into his ears. Matt felt someone shove into him. It was Ethan, staggering backwards. He’d already been on the verge of pissing his white jeans before they walked in. Now he backed against the mountain of chairs near the wall, with a forearm across his mouth.
Still, the rage went on.
Kissell, a few feet from Tom, pulled the rest of his weapons from his bag. A bright, red leather Bible. He started waving it in time with Tom’s wild head movements. A snake charmer, swinging left and right, busting out Stevie Wonder shapes. Matt could see the Internet memes forming already, after this was broadcast. Someone adding a beat to this, and pitch-shifting the screams into a jolly, toe-tapping funk track.
Then Kissell shouted, ‘Out! I tell you get out!’
A long thread of spittle burst from Tom’s mouth in a tall arch. He saw Nupa check the cameraman: You’re getting all this, right? He’d never seen her look more content.
‘In the power and authority of Jesus, I command you. Tell me your name.’
‘You know my name,’ Tom screamed.
‘Tell me your name!’
‘You know my name.’
‘Tell me your name!’
‘Ask Matthew my name.’
Suzy’s camera lens lunged up to Matt.
Kissell yelled, ‘What is your name?’
Tom started laughing, horribly, weeping, horribly, ‘Matthew … old friend … tell him my name.’
Matt shouted, ‘Your name is Tom Riley! You are the chef of the Cross Keys pub in Cheddington, who makes an amazing shepherd’s pie. And we are here to help you, Tom. Just not like this. Now cut this shit out!’
Kissell threw a tight-lipped glare at Matt and he stomped forward, closer to Tom than was permitted.
The governor stood bolt upright. ‘Whoa there,’ she shouted, ‘step back, Father.’ She nodded at the nurses on standby to rush in, but he ignored them.
‘What is your name?’ Kissell shoved the Bible directly against Tom’s forehead.