by Wes Markin
The young woman slammed the knife down into Werrell’s face.
The nervous chatter from the students above turned to silence.
Gardner’s eyes widened, she took a deep breath, adrenaline whipped through her body and she started to run.
The woman struggled, but managed, to free the knife from Werrell’s face; it had entered her left cheek and burst out through the right.
‘POLICE!’
The gap was closing, but the woman was unconcerned. She drew the knife back and plunged it into Werrell’s face again and again.
‘JESUS, STOP!’ Gardner said.
Around her, silence turned to screams. The students above had started to move in droves. The staff on the stairs were running back up the stairs to try and calm them. One teacher had reached the bottom of the stairs. She was sprinting over to Gardner.
Gardner was close enough to hear the woman’s ragged breathing as she drove the blade in and out of the kneeling principal’s face. She threw an arm out to grab the woman’s wrist.
And missed.
The woman swivelled, their eyes met, and then the knife came again.
‘Shit!’ Gardner felt the burn in the palm of her left hand. Her eyes flew to the damage. The blade had gone right through her hand. ‘What the—’
The bitch drew the blade out. Gardner screamed in pain and clutched her mangled hand.
The woman pounced, the knife raised again, but Gardner was quick, and she turned around her assailant, clutched the wrist of her free hand, and pulled her arm behind her in a solid arc.
Gardner gritted her teeth through the agony of making this manoeuvre, but all she could see was her child Annabelle, motherless and sad, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.
The woman was still waving the knife in front of her, frenzied and uncaring. Several metres away, the teacher, who had not fled back up the stairs with the other members of staff, stood, uncertain of her next move.
‘Back away,’ Gardner told her. ‘You don’t want to get too close.’
The woman refused to submit. She tugged and raged in Gardner’s grip.
Gardner felt something on her leg and glanced down.
Werrell had looped her arms around Gardner’s leg. The principal was trembling in a pool of her own blood. Her face was a red mask. The dark lines, and folds of skin demonstrated how extensively she’d been cut. ‘Help me.’ Her whole face seemed to open as she spoke. ‘Help me.’
Gardner tried to shake her leg free. ‘Let go!’
Werrell’s grip tightened. ‘Help me.’
‘I am doing, let go!’
Gardner saw white, felt hot pain, and heard her nose splinter. The woman had seized on the moment of distraction, thrown her head backwards, and broken Gardner’s nose.
And now the bitch was free again.
Instinctively, Gardner’s hands flew to her nose. She took a quick step back, and readied herself for the woman again, but things moved quickly in the dizzy haze. The woman turned, the knife flashed, and Gardner felt extreme pressure on her chest. She looked up to see the teacher who she’d told to stand back, holding her mouth in shock. Then, she looked down at the blade buried in her chest.
Refusing to accept that she was beaten, especially with this dangerous creature on the loose, Gardner used the last of her strength to punch the woman as hard as she could in the face. The woman flew backwards, relinquishing her grip on the knife, which still protruded from Gardner’s chest, and fell into the arms of the teacher. The teacher wasted no time in getting the exhausted woman into a headlock, dragging her to the ground, and climbing onto her back to pin her still.
In the haze, Gardner watched other people run in the fray to assist. Then, she started to cough up blood.
Yorke was no longer whispering and was pointing at Harry’s face, who sat barely a metre away. ‘If you had an ounce of integrity left in you, an ounce, then you would give me the address of that murderer right now.’
‘And then what would you do, Mike?’
‘What the bloody hell do you think I would do? My duty.’
‘Arrest him? You’ll have to prove who he is first. He’s changed his identity.’
‘Then we’ll prove it.’
‘And in the meantime, he catches wind and runs? No, my way is cleaner.’
‘My way is the right way.’
‘It might be, Mike, but I’m not giving you the choice.’
‘I don’t believe you, not for a second. If I take you in, you’ll give me the address rather than let him get away. I know you … you forget that.’
‘Look at me.’ Harry opened his arms to present himself. ‘I’m not the man you knew. Can you really take that gamble?’
Yorke’s phone rang. He saw that it was Topham.
He pointed at Harry again and said, ‘Don’t move or I’ll put an APW out on you.’
Yorke went outside to answer the call, and what he heard over that phoneline was pestilence. A pestilence that burned deep into his soul. A pestilence that Yorke knew, as he steadied his trembling body against a wall, would scar him forever. No amount of time, healing, or even memory loss, would ever numb this moment. It would be with him for the rest of his days.
After the call ended, he charged back into The Wyndham Arms.
He towered over Harry, wiping tears from his eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ Harry said, starting to rise.
‘Stay in your seat,’ Yorke said.
Harry obeyed.
‘Just make me one promise. Just one. You owe me that much.’
‘Of course,’ Harry said.
Yorke took a deep breath; it was all he could do to stop himself from crumbling.
‘Do not do anything until you speak to me again.’
‘When will that be?’
‘Later today.’
‘Okay, you have my word.’
Yorke wiped more tears away. ‘And leave your sodding phone on.’
With that, he turned and exited the pub to seek out the pestilence.
11
SUSIE LONG LEANED, sweaty and half-naked, over a mutilated and decomposing corpse, working the corkscrew on the Swiss Army Knife into the lock on her plastic coffin. She was inches away from the dead man’s blistering face. Every breath she took, rebounded back, carrying a sweet, yet foul smell, which made her gag, but she ceaselessly worked the Swiss Army Knife into the lock, because she wanted, with all her heart, to live.
And she had only two choices.
Get free and survive or stay here and die.
Severance always found the movement into hypnosis gentle because the Conduit used soft words and serene visualisations. However, the end destination was always turbulent.
In fairness, it was difficult for the Conduit to manipulate the visualisations because Severance could no longer speak, and writing in this meditative state was tedious, and often ineffective. So, the Conduit made do with his detailed notes and Severance’s physical responses to guide him.
‘Is she still not listening to you?’ The Conduit said.
Severance shook his head.
‘Christian, tell her everything again, all of it, from start to finish. Even if she continues to stare at you with that disinterested expression, tell her.’
Severance leaned forward in his chair and told his vice-principal, Mrs Werrell, again. Her gaze remained watery; in fact, her expression didn’t even change when he referred to that first moment Marcus made him feel special – made him realise that he wasn’t a nobody anymore. That his interests in sixties music was a real passion to have; that a fascination with Charles Dickens and reading wasn’t an anomaly; and that a dislike of football wasn’t a reason for concern.
To Severance, it felt good to be able to speak again, even if the response was anything but pleasing.
Severance looked up at Mrs Werrell with eyes full of tears – tears she could clearly fucking see, heartless bitch – and said, ‘And then he made me do these things, which I knew, were wrong, but
…’
At this point, her eyes would move away from him. Was she embarrassed by what she’d heard?
‘Have you told her about the moment he said he loved you?’ The Conduit said from outside the visualisation.
Severance told her and she flinched.
‘He said it more than once,’ he said.
‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Werrell said. ‘Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense!’
The conduit spoke in Severance’s visualisation again. ‘And after she tells you it is nonsense, I want you to fight against your natural instinct to cry, to clam up, to say nothing else and walk away, broken. This time needs to be different.’
Severance nodded.
In the visualisation, Severance leaned forward, pointing. ‘It is not nonsense! And you listen to me, you old witch. You have a duty of care to me. You told me that whatever I disclose to you here, now, had to be reported. That is what I’ve done, so you will report it!’
‘I will do nothing of the sort,’ Werrell said. ‘Mr Long is a decent man. An honourable man. I’ve heard about your recent outbursts towards him—’
‘Because he’s a liar!’
‘No, it is because you cannot control your behaviour, and someone has called you out on this. And this is how you respond? With slanderous comments?’
‘I’ll take it to someone else.’
‘You do that – if anyone wants to report this vile poison, let it be on their heads!’
‘I’ll report you for ignoring—’
‘Your word against mine. Did you really think this was a place to air your grievances? To pollute the air with your poison?’
‘Now, calm.’ The Conduit spoke into the dream again. ‘Draw back. Freeze. You have altered the outcome of the meeting. You did not internalise the frustration, and the pain, over Werrell’s betrayal – you’ve accepted her betrayal for what it was – her own failing. And by voicing that, you have shared your frustrations.’
Severance nodded.
‘But I understand,’ the Conduit said, ‘that this isn’t enough. It can never be enough to mitigate the pain she has brought you, so I want you to displace.’
So, Severance placed Werrell on her knees and made her scream. Her face was chopped up and she mumbled incomprehensibly because her tongue had been destroyed by the blade.
‘This is more than a visualisation, Christian. This is a reality. Chloe has succeeded. It has been reported on the news. So, you can come back now, feeling even more whole, feeling healed, because you have succeeded in releasing your affliction, and pain. You have shared and displaced.’
The Conduit drew him back gently with more serene visualisations and soft words. And when Severance emerged, he kept his eyes closed, and drew in long, deep breaths through his nose, revelling in the pleasure and paradise this relief brought.
Only minutes later, while bathing in a warm contentment, his phone rang. He opened his eyes and looked at the Conduit, an older man, who was large and strong. The Conduit played with his long white moustache and then nodded. Severance took the call.
And after the call, Severance closed his eyes again, and sighed, because that feeling of euphoria returned. Ten times stronger than before.
The person on that call had been his contact in prison. It was confirmed. Marcus Long had severed, and disposed of, his own tongue.
He sat upright in his chair. Susie Long didn’t need to be a burden any more.
‘I have to go now,’ the Conduit said. ‘I can’t be late. Keeping up appearances, and all that.’
Severance’s saviour rose, loomed over him for a moment, placed a hand on his shoulder and then headed for the front door.
After the Conduit had closed the door behind him, Severance rose to his feet.
It was time to rid himself of the burden.
The building ahead wasn’t a monstrosity, but it still felt overwhelming. He steadied himself against a bollard and closed his eyes. He tried to gather his thoughts and end the sudden instability. It was no use. The last twenty minutes were a blur. He could barely remember driving here, and he had no idea where he’d left his car.
Time and time again his attention returned to the moment when Topham delivered the news, or at least attempted to. ‘Someone came … Werrell … stabbed … but, sir, Emma … God, sir, Emma too …’
Focus, Yorke thought. Right now, focus, like everything depends on it … because it does. Everything and everyone is depending on you. So bloody well
‘Focus,’ he said out loud.
A young lady, pushing a patient in a wheelchair, paused in her journey to ask him if he was okay.
‘Yes.’ Although he was anything but, and would certainly not appear so, hunched over and hyperventilating. ‘It’s just hot, I’ll be fine when I get in.’
‘Well, let me help—’
‘No, no, ma’am, thank you all the same.’ Yorke straightened himself up. ‘It’s not me that needs the help, other people do. And you are busy. Thank you for your kindness, but I’m ready to go in now.’
When he arrived inside the hospital reception, Jake intercepted him. Yorke took him tightly by the upper arm and his friend gripped him by shoulder. Yorke took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘Emma?’
‘She’s still fighting. In surgery.’
Yorke exhaled but didn’t dare to feel any relief yet.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that Jake’s face was puffy and red. He envied him this ability to expel the raging turmoil inside.
‘The knife punctured a lung, but they got to her in time.’
‘Are the doctors confident, Jake?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them personally. Barry is here, but I would give him a few more minutes before asking him.’
Yorke rubbed his forehead. Shit. Poor man. ‘And Anabelle? Please don’t tell me that Anabelle is here…’
‘No, Mike. She’s at pre-school.’
‘Good. Okay.’ Yorke rubbed his forehead again. ‘You have the assailant in custody. Werrell is also in surgery?’
‘Yes, and she’ll survive. Her injuries are life-changing … but she will survive.’
‘What else do I need to know?’
‘Well, there is something—’
‘DCI Yorke?’ It was a familiar voice. A voice that could in equal parts both soothe and intimidate. And could both crush and rebuild you. Superintendent Joan Madden.
‘Ma’am.’ Yorke turned.
Joan was a tall woman, strong and agile, testament to a life of extreme exercise. She wore a tailored suit, and her hair was pulled tightly back, and sharpened into a hard knot.
‘How are you feeling, Michael?’ Madden said.
‘Okay,’ Yorke lied.
‘Compromised?’
‘I’m not sure I understand, Ma’am.’
‘Take a walk with me, Michael. DS Pettman, will you please excuse us?’
‘Of course,’ Jake said.
Outside, in the hospital garden, the skyline shimmered. Madden peeled off her suit top. She had a short-sleeved shirt on underneath, and she exposed lean, sinewy arms. They sat on a bench. Yorke tried desperately to control his breathing. Hearing that Gardner was alive had calmed him somewhat, but his body was still drowning in adrenaline, and he could feel his innards twisting and turning. He needed to prove to Madden that he was not compromised. If he didn’t, finding Christian Severance, and ending this would fall at someone else’s feet.
‘Michael,’ Madden said, ‘did you meet with Harry Butler earlier today?’
The whole world tilted. Yorke looked down. He closed his eyes – how did she know?
‘Michael?’
He opened his mouth to speak, perfectly prepared to tell her he had seen Harry, as she obviously knew, but he couldn’t speak, he was simply too disorientated by the line of questioning.
‘I think the world of you Michael, so I’ll ask you again—’
‘Yes, I did.’ He felt relief at finally letting the words out.
‘Why?’
And now what? Have Harry arrested? Call him out on his threat to die with the truth of William Proud’s location?
He answered as honestly as he could without taking that risk. ‘The usual, ma’am. To apologise and to tell me he doesn’t have long left – he’s dying of cancer.’
‘Anything else?’
How much did they know? Had the conversation been overheard? Had Harry been wearing a wire? Was Yorke being stitched up? And why would anyone want to do that to him?
His mind could wade through this tarry stew of questions all day, but he had to call it. He took a gamble. ‘Not really.’
‘Anything about William Proud?’
She knew the subject of Harry and Yorke’s conversation then – what the hell was going on here?
‘Yes, of course, as always. He promised to find Proud before … before he dies. I brushed it off – this is all usual from Harry.’
‘How would you feel if I told you that we think Harry may actually have found Proud?’
Yorke rubbed sweat from his forehead. ‘Surprised? Harry’s at death’s door.’
‘Listen carefully, Michael, to what I am about to tell you. And think very wisely about your next move. Harry has been calling in old favours from some of our colleagues. We’ve had to suspend two officers over the last couple of days.’
‘Who?’
‘Not relevant to you just now, Michael, but we do believe that Harry has been able to locate William Proud.’
She allowed him time to respond. He had to be very careful here. If Yorke admitted that Harry had confessed his intention to commit murder, his neck would be on the line. But, in a way, he liked what he was hearing. If Harry had used information from these officers to locate Proud, they could repeat the process. Harry no longer had ownership of the truth. The location of Proud would not die with him. ‘So, do we have Proud’s location?’
‘The two officers in question have not been very forthcoming with this leaked information since we suspended them. They want to use it as an olive branch to save their jobs.’