Buried Angels

by Patricia Gibney

  ‘Where were you?’ He stared through cloudy vision, shocked at his own anger and surprised to find her at his feet on the floor. ‘Answer me.’

  She was lying there like a pathetic animal. He put out a toe and poked her. She moaned like a half-strangled cat. At least he hadn’t killed her. Not yet, anyway. He had to get ownership of the house before he could do any real damage, and even then, he would have to be careful. His thoughts shocked him. Was it the alcohol? Or his deep-seated jealousy?

  When she stirred and stretched out of the foetal position, he inhaled deeply and sat down on the nearest chair, watching her scrabbling around in the deep pile of the carpet.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ she groaned.

  ‘Nothing is wrong with me. It’s you. Always you.’

  ‘I did nothing.’ She struggled to sit up and leaned against the door.

  ‘Ha! You disgust me. Do you know that? You’ve been lying to me.’

  ‘I could say the same about you.’

  He leapt from the chair, lashing out with his bare hands, striking her on the cheek. He watched as redness spread like a watermark across her skin.

  She laughed, incensing him further. He hit her again, this time in the stomach, so hard she fell and cracked the back of her head against the corner of the small table. But she kept on laughing. The hysterical cacophony bored right through his skull, striking up a brass band in his brain cells, crashing them into each other until all he could see before him was black and white spots.

  ‘Dad! Dad! What are you at? Stop it, please … Dad!’

  Ruby was on her knees, shielding her mother from another blow. Kevin looked down at his hands, surprised to see blood streaked on the knuckles.

  ‘Dad, what’s got into you?’ Ruby was cradling her mother’s body, her white T-shirt stained red.

  Kevin tried to clear his sight, but things were melding into each other. He shook his head, frantically trying to see through the fog that had possessed him.

  His daughter had witnessed it all.

  He could see clearly now. Could see what Ruby could see. And it was not good enough. He’d spent so long establishing himself as the head of the house; he was not about to let that evaporate because his wife had gone out somewhere without telling him.

  ‘I will look after your mother,’ he said. ‘Go back to bed.’ His authoritative voice had returned.

  Ruby looked at him dubiously. ‘I’m not so sure, Dad. Why did you hit her?’

  ‘It’s between your mother and me. Now go back to bed. She’ll be fine.’

  When his daughter didn’t move, Kevin stood up and brandished his fist in her face. ‘Go! Now. I’ll have things back to normal before you know it.’

  Fear was written like graffiti across her face. Eventually she released her mother from her grip and left the room.

  Marianne was breathing. Heavy and hard. Good. Kevin undressed and stuffed his clothing which was dotted with blood stains into the washing machine, then switched it on. He filled a basin with hot water, got a J-cloth, and returned to the living room where his wife lay sobbing, her laughter dissolved at last.

  Naked, he began to wash the carpet clean. Marianne could wait. After all, she’d left him waiting without a word of her whereabouts. She deserved to lie in her own blood.

  Lisa sat in the dark of her kitchen. The only light was from the moon in the sky outside.

  A cry came from upstairs.

  She started. Was it one of the children?

  Or was it Charlie?

  He’d had awful nightmares in recent weeks. He’d woken up bathed in sweat, and the look in his eyes had stopped her from asking him questions.

  The kitchen door opened. A head appeared around the side of it.

  ‘I had a nightmare.’ Jack stood in his pyjama bottoms, his little chest bare and his hair stuck to his head as if he’d just stepped out of the shower. Tonight he looked so much younger than eleven. ‘Dad is shouting in his sleep too. What’s going on?’

  ‘Come here and sit with me.’ Lisa moved from the table to the two-seater couch that faced the patio doors. She patted the cushion. ‘Come on, Jack.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mam.’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid of whoever put the body on the railway. I’m afraid for me and Gavin. I don’t think we’re safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I can protect you. I’m like Catwoman or one of those superheroes you love.’

  She had hoped to make her son laugh, but tears dropped from his eyes, running down his cheeks and onto his hands, which were clutched on his lap. She touched his chin and turned him to face her, and her heart broke into little pieces when she saw the panic in his eyes. She decided not to tell him that Tamara had rung around half past nine wondering if Gavin was with him.

  ‘You don’t even look like a Catwoman,’ he said eventually.

  She laughed softly, the sound easing the air around them, as though a heavy veil had been lifted.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I look more like Buzz Lightyear since I had Maggie. Maybe I need to start walking. I could walk with you and Gavin when you get your drone back. Would you like that?’

  ‘That’s a bit gross, Mam, to be honest.’ He stopped crying at last.

  ‘Bet if Tamara wanted to walk with you, you wouldn’t say no.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Think I’d take you over her any day.’

  ‘Have you seen her Instagram?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Thought you told your dad you hadn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t want him grilling me even more.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be in a better mood tomorrow. He’s just worried about you, that’s all.’

  Jack twisted uneasily. ‘I don’t think he’s worried about me. I think there’s something else going on.’

  Lisa felt a hard lump find its roots in the centre of her chest. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you said earlier. About blood tests and stuff. That he might have cancer. Dad is dying, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, no—’

  ‘Don’t lie, Mam. I’m not stupid. He hasn’t been to work in weeks. He’s lost weight. He’s really sick, isn’t he?’

  Lisa sighed. She couldn’t lie to her son any longer. Not about this.

  ‘Jack, your dad is sick, but we don’t know how sick yet. He’s seen loads of doctors, but then there was a problem with his health insurance. It’s sorted now, though, and he’s going to have treatment. He’ll be fine.’ She wasn’t at all sure that Charlie would be fine. There were too many anomalies in his life at the moment.

  ‘Why is he so angry all the time?’ Jack said.

  ‘It’s just … life in general. He feels hard done by.’

  ‘Why? He has us.’

  ‘I know. You’re too young to understand.’

  ‘I want to understand.’

  ‘I’m tired, Jack, and you have school tomorrow. You need to sleep.’

  ‘Gavin isn’t going to school tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s on the television with his mother in the morning.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake … Sorry, Jack. You didn’t hear that.’

  He laughed, and his eyes crinkled. ‘Like I never heard you and Dad swear before.’

  ‘Where did you hear about the television?’

  ‘Instagram, as usual. Gavin didn’t even tell me. I’m mad at him about that, so I’m not going to speak to him ever.’

  Lisa smiled. Two minutes earlier he’d been worried about Gavin, and now he was mad at him. Then she recalled Tamara’s phone call. She hadn’t called since, so Gavin must be tucked up in bed asleep.

  ‘Go to bed now.’ She hugged her son tightly and feathered his hair with a kiss. ‘And have a shower in the morning. Your hair is stuck to your head.’

  ‘Okay, goodnight.’

  She watched him leave. ‘Jack, don’t be worrying. Everything will be fine.’

  He stopped at the door. ‘I hope so.’

&nbs
p; She sat on the little couch for a long time. She watched the moon in the sky and the twinkling stars and listened to the wildlife outside. How much longer? she wondered. How much longer can we go on like this?

  She only moved when she heard Maggie cry in her cot.

  *

  Twenty years earlier

  He brought me back through the fields with him. Wordlessly.

  I cried, of course I did. I was only fourteen, after all.

  The house he brought me to looked nothing like ours used to look. Before the blood. Before that night …

  I shivered. I felt hands take my shoulders. Cold hands. Not warm and soft like my mother’s used to be. Before that night …

  ‘The child can sleep in the box room. You can sleep on the couch.’ Her voice was gruff. Not warm or motherly.

  I wanted to tell her. This woman who looked nothing like my mother. I wanted to tell her the truth. Before I forgot it. Before it went all mushy like the other memories. There was something important I had to say. But I couldn’t get the words from my throat to my tongue and out of my mouth.

  ‘The child stays with me,’ he said. ‘Throw us down some blankets.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you covered in blood?’ Then she saw my feet. ‘Good God. What happened to you, child? I’ll have to get a basin of water and you can soak your feet.’

  At last. A little warmth. Not that I’d been used to much warmth in my life, but it was the closest anyone had got to caring for me recently.

  ‘Get the basin and I’ll wash him.’ He kept his hand on my shoulder. My bones ached under the intense pressure of his fingers.

  He didn’t want me out of his sight. Was he afraid of what I might tell? Of what I would say about what had gone on in our house tonight? Or was it last night? Or another night altogether? I’d lost all concept of time and place. I felt myself drifting. Floating on a bed of nails. I shook myself and flushed the images from my brain. They were too bloody. Too noisy. The screams. I remembered the screams of my sisters as they tried to escape. But there was no escape for them, from that house.

  I glanced down at my bare feet and saw the blisters pulsing in the blood and the dirt. How long had I been running for? How long could I keep running from the truth?

  When she left the basin of lukewarm water and a dirty tea towel, she whispered something into his ear, and he nodded and pressed his hand tighter into my shoulder.

  Then she walked out the door and we were alone.

  ‘I will do my best for you,’ he said, ‘but you can never, ever tell anyone what happened. We will have to stay here for a while until I figure out what we’re going to do. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘Answer me.’

  I hadn’t said the word I thought I’d said. I tried again, but I was mute. He slapped me hard across the cheek. Then again. Harder still. But his violence only added to my silence. I couldn’t speak.

  ‘You can act dumb all you like, and maybe that will help us. But if I hear you’ve been talking to anyone, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’

  Not trusting that the words would come, I nodded. Vigorously. Somehow I knew that was the answer he wanted, and I knew that was what would keep me alive. For how long, was anyone’s guess.

  Forty-Seven

  Wednesday

  The early-morning sunlight glinted off the shards of glass and mirrors, throwing sparkling stars against the walls of the open concrete pit.

  Lottie stood at the top of the recycling pit and stared down at the little body sprawled there, limbs askew. Her eyes watered, and she had to sink to her haunches to gather her wits. Hard to tell from up here how he had died. But she knew he was dead, and she was waiting for forensics before climbing down among the detritus to carry out any further investigation.

  Turning to Kirby, she said, ‘This is awful. What the hell is going on?’

  Kirby swallowed and shook his head slowly. ‘Ah shite, that’s Gavin Robinson. Is someone trying to get rid of witnesses?’

  ‘Witnesses? There were no witnesses to any of the crimes. The frozen torso and the skull are historic murders. Try again.’

  ‘Both of our current victims found the remains associated with the old crimes. It’s the only connection I can see straight off.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. But I’ve no idea why they needed to be killed.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Kirby said, and paced a small circle while patting his shirt pocket, stained brown from cigars, as if to ensure himself that he could soon escape for a smoke.

  ‘Where’s the man who found him? What’s his name again?’

  ‘Brandon Carthy. He’s in the office getting a sugary cup of tea.’

  ‘Is he the recycling centre manager?’

  ‘It’s his job to open up every morning except Saturdays. And it’s closed on Sundays.’

  ‘Who else was here at the time?’

  ‘Just Carthy. The rest of the staff don’t start until eight. They’re all corralled in the office now.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Who’s conducting the interviews?’

  ‘Lynch and McKeown.’

  ‘Right. Where the bloody hell is McGlynn?’

  ‘Probably up to his lugs at the sites where we found the skull and the frozen body.’

  ‘Well, this body isn’t frozen. Shit, Kirby, he’s decomposing in front of our eyes in this heat.’ She viciously pinched the side of her leg through her jeans to remind herself to remain detached.

  ‘Want me to buzz him again?’ Kirby said.

  ‘Do that.’

  The urge to climb down into the dirt and hold Gavin’s little body was overwhelming, so Lottie turned away. No point in disturbing what might help them later. She rolled up her sleeves in the morning heat. She had thought her long-sleeved T-shirt would help keep her cool today in the office. But she’d been sitting at her desk for barely five minutes when the call came in about the body. She discovered then that the night crew had been dealing with Gavin Robinson’s disappearance, but no one had seen fit to contact her last night when his mother reported it.

  She could barely control her anger as she walked around the top of the pit, taking in her surroundings. The wall, the fence, the railings. She set uniforms to work searching the perimeter for clues. Something that would help them identify whoever had dumped Gavin’s body in the pit.

  The sound of an engine and brakes screeching caused her to look around.

  ‘Do you think I’ve nothing else to be doing?’ Jim McGlynn stomped round his car and opened the boot. He pulled on his forensic clothing and took out his heavy equipment case.

  ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? A child, is it? Where’s the body?’

  ‘Down there,’ Lottie said, pointing into the pit of glass and mirrors.

  While officers hastily erected a tent over the pit, two SOCOs went down a ladder and McGlynn climbed down gingerly after them.

  ‘This is just what I hate,’ he grumbled as his assistant held the ladder.

  ‘What do you hate?’ Lottie said. She’d suited up, and the material adhered to her arms and neck like sticky tape.

  ‘Bodies in inaccessible locations. Agh! Shit.’ He’d stepped on a shard of glass, but his rubber boots held fast. ‘It’ll be a nightmare preserving this scene.’

  ‘Any sign of blood?’ She was ready to descend the ladder after McGlynn.

  ‘Will you give me a chance?’ He gritted his teeth.

  She wished Boyd was here to put a firm hand on her arm, to force her to keep her words secure in her mouth and prevent her from getting into a shouting match with McGlynn. To keep her from crying.

  ‘Don’t come down yet. I need to assess everything,’ he said.

  She stood to one side while he gave orders to his team. It was another fifteen
minutes before he allowed her to join him.

  ‘Okay, what have we got?’ she said.

  ‘Do you know the deceased?’

  ‘He’s Gavin Robinson. One of the boys who discovered the torso.’

  ‘Right. Right. No sign of any blood, so it’s safe to say he was dumped here after being killed.’

  ‘Should there be blood?’ Lottie stared at the young boy dressed in his red Manchester United football jersey and black jeans. His feet were shod in white Nike runners. No socks. By design, or had he dressed quickly? She wished the night team had called her so that she could be armed with more information and not feel like she was drowning in a pool of the unknown.

  ‘Look at this.’ McGlynn carefully moved the victim’s head to one side and pulled down the neck of the jersey.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Lottie said.

  ‘Knife wound to his upper back.’ McGlynn said. ‘Deep, too. He bled a lot.’ He scanned the area around the body. ‘Not here, though. As I already said, he was killed at a different location.’

  ‘Could the blood have seeped down between all the glass?’

  ‘Could have, but it hasn’t,’ McGlynn said indignantly. He didn’t like anyone questioning his conclusions, as Lottie had found out on more than one occasion. He added, ‘Have you called the state pathologist?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tore at her hair under her hood, her gloved fingers snagging on the straggly strands and making her scalp screech in protest. She’d called the pathologist when she’d first seen the boy lying in his bed of glass, though she’d prayed it had been an accident. McGlynn’s confirmation added to her growing stress levels. She wiped her forehead, and her gloved fingers almost bonded to her head like glue.

  McGlynn was now in full operation mode. ‘Gerry, keep that camera rolling. Don’t miss anything. Bob, the video. Is it on? Jesus, lad, you know what you have to do.’

  Lottie ignored his orders and carefully inserted her hands into the front pockets of the boy’s trousers. Nothing. Not even loose change. She felt her way to the back pockets. Nothing in the first one. From the second, she pulled out a thin school ID card.