by Wes Markin
He’d been tortured. Enthusiastically so. With his torch, Yorke traced deep cuts. He looked like an old chopping board. Gluey gulfs glimmered where his nipples used to be. The end of his penis had been attacked with some kind of rudimentary saw and it looked like a floret of cauliflower.
He ran his torch over the pulpy gash in his neck; the flaps of skin looked like the lips of a smiling fish. He shone the light into those familiar, hollow eyes.
Thomas Ray.
Death had surely come before today which meant Thomas Ray had not rented a van or been spotted by Sapphire’s CCTV.
Something on Ray’s leg caught his eye. He homed in with the torch and saw a black and white photo attached to his leg with a drawing pin. He leaned closer. It showed several generations of Rays assembled in front of a pig pen on this very farm.
A girl, wearing a head torch, stepped into the barn. ‘Hello?’
From his position at the far side, Paul could tell she was young.
She turned the head torch on him. He shielded his eyes with his quivering hand.
‘There you are,’ she said.
‘Who are you? Why am I here?’ His throat still stung, and his voice crackled. ‘I’m locked in here with pigs.’
‘Turn on the light.’
‘Why am I here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why are you here then?’
‘I’m here to feed you.’
He switched on the lamp as she came nearer. She wore a long jacket and grey wellingtons. Drab, brown hair covered most of her pale face. In one hand, she held a dog bowl; in the other, a long yellow cattle prod. She must have been about the same age as him, but something about the expression on her face and the look in her eyes made her seem younger somehow.
Paul rose to his feet. The young girl stopped, took a step back and pointed at him with the cackling end of the prod. ‘Mother says I have to be careful.’ Her voice was really slow; she had a strong Wiltshire accent. ‘She said, if he gets up, hurt him.’
Paul stared at the blue spark trembling between the two ends of the fork and knelt back down with his hands in front of him as a gesture of surrender.
‘I don’t want to hurt you, I’ve never hurt anyone before.’ She knelt down and placed the dog bowl on the floor. ‘Look at this!’ She suddenly smiled. ‘You’re going to love it! Roast potatoes. Hmmmm. I’ve even brought some of Mother’s yummy apple sauce. She only ever gives me this when I’ve been a good girl.’ She stretched her words out for an agonising length of time, and the vacant expression on her face was unchanged. He could only imagine some of the abuse she would get at school; students had been alienated as “retards” for much less.
‘I don’t understand what’s happening.’ He could feel himself welling up again. ‘Where’s Lewis? What have you done with him?’
‘Lewis has gone out.’
‘I don’t believe you, he’s my friend, he wouldn’t just leave me here with all these pigs everywhere.’
‘They won’t hurt you,’ she said, looking over in the direction where the grunting animals were.
‘Where’s he gone?’ He wiped away tears with the back of his hand.
‘I don’t know.’
‘He told me he didn’t have a daughter. Are you his daughter?’
‘No, I’m Martha. Lewis is Mother’s friend.’
‘Who’s your mother?’
She put a finger to her lips. ‘Shush! She’ll kill me if I tell you.’
Martha brushed knotted hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ears; Paul noticed that she was pretty.
‘All I can do is feed you and I never fed a person before. Only thing I ever fed was my hamster. Lewis said not to give you any of the good food, he said you were only allowed the pig food, but I got you some good food here anyway. You know, he can be so mean sometimes. But he did say you’ve done bad things.’
‘He wouldn’t say that. This is all a mistake.’
‘No mistake. He can be a really mean man if you’ve done bad things.’
‘You should know that if I call him Lewis, then I must be his friend. He only lets those close to him call him by his middle name.’
Martha stared at him blankly.
‘You’ve got to help me!’ He was unable to to keep the frustration out of his voice.
‘I can’t―’
‘But I’ve done nothing wrong.’ He rose, holding his hands out in the air. ‘Nothing at all, help me, please, I beg―’
The fear and panic he was feeling must have been contagious; her eyes narrowed, her knuckles glowed white and the cattle prod darted towards him. ‘Sit back down!’
With the spark hovering an inch from his face, he stumbled back, banging his back against the wooden slats. When she flew in again, there was nowhere to run and the spark must have come to within a centimetre. He closed his eyes, lost control of his bladder and felt the top of his legs go warm.
Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, he waited for the pain. But when nothing happened, he opened them to see she’d backed off.
‘Mother said this would happen. She said you’d want to do bad things to good girls. That’s why I shouldn’t have come here.’
‘You’ve got to let me go home.’ He clutched the back of his head, and slid down the wall. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The girl turned and marched away.
‘No, don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone in here―’
The door slammed and the padlock clanked as it was reattached. Managing to crawl forward, he took up the dog bowl and threw it across the barn; then he listened to the pigs scurrying towards the spilled food, squealing in delight.
5
LACEY RAY STARED out over Southampton waterfront from her hotel window; the boats in the distance looked like dying stars. She glanced at her watch and saw that she didn’t have much time left. So, she dimmed the lights, put her music player into its docking station, turned ‘Sounds of the Forests Volume 4’ up loud, sat on the floor in the lotus position, closed her eyes, took several slow, deep breaths, and transported herself into the Blue Room.
She wandered around, marvelling at how deep she’d taken herself tonight ― the walls were the darkest shade of blue she’d ever seen and the coldness was almost unbearable.
Apart from the colour and the temperature, the Blue Room took on the same shape and organisation of the place in which she currently meditated. She ran a hand over one of the oak posts on the grand bed, caught a glimpse of her naked body in the television screen and paused. It was a shame she had things to do, she could happily stare at her perfect figure for hours.
There was a knock at the Blue Room door.
Ah, Brian, come in and bring your fat, swollen hands this way.
She was always glad that time did not work in the same way in the Blue Room as it did in reality. That she could skip the sex with a man that disgusted her. In her reality, she would have to suffer it, but she had established coping mechanisms for that already.
She fast-forwarded until afterwards, where she lay tangled in sweaty sheets on the four-poster bed. Beside her, Brian snored.
Always wanting to do it without a condom. No matter what I say to you ... no matter how many times I tell you no.
She touched the bruise on her shoulder; in the Blue Room, the pain felt just as real, if not worse.
She looked over at the sleeping obese brute.
I can feel your rabid discharge bubbling inside me.
She bared her teeth.
Lacey took herself outside of the Blue Room and her meditation. She switched the mood music off and, from the minibar, whipped up a vodka tonic, which she drank in three mouthfuls.
She double-checked her handbag; everything was there, ready.
Right on schedule, there was a knock at the door.
She opened it and saw Brian Lawrence in a large blue suit; sweat patches crept out from his armpits.
‘I like your suit.’
Brian grinned; sweat sh
one on his brow. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ve always had a thing for blue.’
Brian stepped in and Lacey closed the door behind him, smiling.
Following the sex, she touched the bruise on her shoulder – it was the other shoulder from the one he’d hit her on in the Blue Room. It didn’t matter. It meant the same thing.
She let him sleep for a short while before rummaging in her handbag at the foot of the bed for the handcuffs, gag and rope. Then, she convinced him to get into a wooden chair by the dressing table. They always look so excited at this point, she thought, as she cuffed his hands behind the back of the chair, slipped the gag over his head and wedged it into his mouth.
With a sharp tug, she tightened the gag; he moaned, pleasurably. Using the rope, she secured his ankles to the legs of the chair.
From her handbag, she withdrew her secateurs, and watched his expression morph into one of confusion. Then, she stationed herself behind the chair. He forced his head back to look up at her; his wide, jaundiced eyes full of confusion.
‘Many people think that blue is an emotional colour. A sad colour. What do you think, Brian?’
She ran her long fingernails down his bulbous cheeks; his fat mouth quivered.
‘Don’t try and speak, Brian, the gag won’t let you; I know it’s my fault because I asked a question, but let’s keep it to a nod or a shake, okay?’
He nodded. Fear crept into his eyes.
‘Do you feel sad for what you’ve done?’
He nodded.
‘You’re not just telling me what I want to hear now Brian, are you?’
His face went pale and he shook his head, frantically. She stroked his cheeks with the tip of the secateurs, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Stop it, Brian. It’s too late to cry. Too late to plead like those who pleaded with you.’
He started to writhe in the chair; she tucked the secateurs under one arm, put her hands on his shoulders and pressed down to steady him.
‘Look at it like this, Brian, the Chinese use blue light to soothe illnesses and treat pain, so maybe you should do the same. Use it to heal your disease. Your hatred for women. Don’t deny it. I saw it in your eyes. I’m very good at spotting it in people’s eyes.’
As he twisted, straining his ankles against the chair legs, scraping his wrists against the cuffs, the chair squeaked and threatened to collapse under his massive weight.
‘Brian, relax. It’s no good, blue means forever. Yes, like the sky, like me, I am forever.’
She knelt down and snipped a finger off. The gag swallowed a deep, long moan. The chair trembled.
‘Welcome to the Blue Room Brian. It’s a humble place, but a place of judgement nonetheless ...’
With each snip he writhed harder until, eventually, he slumped forward in the chair.
She returned to the handbag. ‘The heat and redness of blood brings disharmony, but it is a fleeting change. Necessary change. When the constancy of the blue and cold returns, the world will be better for it.’
She leaned over his back. Unable to hear her heartbeat loud and clear like she could in the Blue Room, she was content to listen to steel clinking bone as she thrust the penknife in over and over again.
Afterwards, having cleaned all traces of herself from the room and changed back into her disguise, she answered a call on her mobile phone from her sister-in-law, Sarah.
‘We thought you should know,’ Sarah said.
Lacey smiled. I haven’t spoken to my nephew in over five years, why would you think I want to know anything about him now?
Nevertheless, it was important to keep up the pretence. ‘Thanks, I’ll be right there.’
She was on her way to her home city of Salisbury anyway to meet up with Jacques Louvre for a new passport and a new identity. Tonight, she’d reached victim number three and it was time to move on. To Nice in France. She’d overstayed her welcome in the UK.
After saying her farewells, she slipped the mobile phone back into her bag.
She looked at the bathroom in which Brian Lawrence, or what remained of him, waited to be discovered. With her family suddenly on the radar, it had not been the best time to commit a murder. Still, she felt no regret. She was incapable of doing so.
An oval shaped British Rail guard eyed Lacey Ray up and down; he had the hungriest eyes she’d ever seen.
A gust of cold wind raced across the platform as the train tunnelled through the snow toward them. She fastened the top button of her cream, knee-length coat, an expensive gift from one of her richer clients and patted the pocket, checking that her souvenirs from this evening’s exploits were still inside.
The train thundered up to the platform, and screeched to a halt. She stood back for a moment, making eye-contact with the guard. She raised a suggestive eyebrow at him. Why not? Give him a thrill he’s never had before!
When the train door opened, she strolled on board; her black high-heeled alligator boots, an eight thousand pound gift to herself after a solid month of work, clicked on the floor.
She glanced back and saw that her admirer had found a new target for his obsessive stare.
Men are so shallow, she thought as the doors closed behind her. She looked down at her bulging coat pocket. Isn’t that right, Brian?
She found a seat by an old man doused in vinegary cologne. As she took off her coat and scarf, she noticed him stroking the creases out of an antique suit which he’d probably got married in over fifty years ago. She sat down and laid the coat and scarf across her lap.
‘Evening miss,’ the old man said. His smile was crowded with gleaming false teeth.
‘Je ne parle pas anglais,’ Lacey said, shrugging.
He creased his brow. ‘Bonjour! If you need help with anything, you tell me.’ He was speaking slowly and making ridiculous hand gestures.
‘Je ne parle pas anglais,’ she said again, and turned away from him. He’d get the message.
As the train rumbled toward Salisbury, she ran her hand over the bulge in the coat pocket, admiring her blue painted nails as she did so ― not a mark on them, despite this evening’s hard work.
Chewing her bottom lip, she relived the pinging noise the penknife made when it had clipped Brian Lawrence’s spinal column over and over again. She stopped when she caught the old man looking at her with lust in his expression.
She closed her eyes for a moment as the motion of the train soothed her, but was careful not to fall asleep. Salisbury was only about half an hour away.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw the old man leaning towards her, pointing at her lap. ‘Excuse me there, miss, but I think you’re bleeding.’
She opened her eyes and looked down. A large red stain was opening up on the pocket of her expensive coat. Shit.
With the ruined garment gathered up in her arms, she stood up, dropped the scarf onto the seat, and marched down the aisle.
She bypassed a deodorant spraying teenage girl, who could offer herself to Clearasil as a human guinea pig and receive a blank cheque. She caught a lungful of the aerosol and coughed in the girl’s face; then, she went into the vacant dome shaped bathroom.
She pressed the close button, and the curved door slid shut with a whoosh. She hit the lock button which flared green. There was loud clunk.
The train company must have burned its entire budget on the impressive toilet doors, because inside it was grim. A blob of phlegm floated in a half-filled tiny stainless steel sink; the dryer was hanging off the wall and the toilet seat had a huge crack in it.
She emptied the sink and then plucked the sandwich bag out of the coat and held it in front of her. The bag had split because there was too much in it. Gluttony had ruined her beautiful coat. She scooped out the souvenir she wanted to keep and dropped it into the sink. With a sigh, she shook out the rest of the bag’s contents into the toilet bowl. Then, she turned on the tap and rinsed the blood from his wedding ring. She dried it on her coat, pocketed it in her
dark jeans and then flushed the toilet.
As she waited for the toilet to clear, she opened the window and dropped the split plastic bag out onto the tracks. When she looked back at the toilet, she saw three persistent fingers still bobbing up and down in the water. She smiled.
She was forced to wait another minute for the cistern to fill, before trying again. Two more fingers disappeared. To a septic tank? She wasn’t sure, she’d read somewhere that some trains still flushed out onto the track.
Frustrated with the final bobbing finger, and not wanting to wait for the tank to fill again, she scooped it out, wrapped it in a piece of toilet paper, opened the small window and threw it out.
She closed the window and wiped her fingerprints from it with a handful of toilet paper; she then ran it over everything she’d touched, including the door buttons.
Shielding her fingertips with another piece of tissue, she punched the open button. The girl with zits was waiting to go in. Lacey stared at her; the girl looked away.
Back at her seat, the old man said, ‘Are you okay, miss?’
She turned to him. ‘Je ne comprends pas.’ She pointed at her nose and mimed blood coming out.
‘Ahhh.’
A few minutes later, the old man dozed off, and Lacey unfolded her coat. She would be able to position her scarf over the stain when she was back out in the cold.
A good thing really, because her erect nipples, pointing through her blouse, would have sent the next British Rail guard wild.
For the second time in less than ten years, Thomas Ray’s farm was a major crime scene.
Yorke stood at the blue and white taped line where Willows had been given the essential, if not onerous, task of recording names in the scene log. Lights had already been set up inside, and a violent violet glow sprayed from the slats, as if some kind of secret scientific experiment was going on inside.
Divisional Surgeon Patricia Wileman emerged from the barn and headed toward Yorke with a disgusted look on her face.