Senseless

by Ed James

  Terry stared at him, almost pleading. Then he shook his head with a snort and set off down the ramp.

  David shut the door and locked it.

  Sally raced over and pounded his arm. ‘David!’

  He let out a hollow breath. ‘It’s just a joke.’

  ‘This isn’t funny! You heard what he said!’

  ‘It’s just a joke.’ David took the key out of the lock and walked away.

  Sally followed, her fists pounding his back.

  A thump on the door from inside. Then another. ‘Let me out!’

  Sally ran over. ‘It’s okay, Terry.’ She tried the handle. ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Nooooo!’ A loud moan roared out. Then a scream. ‘Let me out, you fuckers!’ Terry’s fists pounded the wood, harder and harder.

  Nate was in a different sort of hysterics, his face screwed up tight. Mel struggled to keep a straight face as she took another toke of the joint.

  ‘David, for fuck’s sake, you’ve taken this way, way too far!’ Sally tried to slap David again but he caught her hand. And held it. ‘Let me go!’

  He complied. ‘Sorry, it’s just a joke.’

  ‘No, it fucking isn’t. You heard him. Now, give me the key.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ He held up the key, ready to give it back to her.

  ‘HOOOOYYY!’ A loud voice tore out, rattling around the area. ‘YOU BASTARDS! GET AWAY FROM THERE!’ A wild-looking man raced over from a truck idling by the entrance. Big thick beard, long hair, checked shirt and jeans tucked into muddy boots. ‘This is my bastard property and you’re trespassing! Clear off!’

  ‘Sir, my boyfriend’s down there and—’

  ‘You’re smoking them drugs here?’ The yokel snarled at them, nostrils twitching. ‘I’ll call your bastard parents and the police!’

  Nate walked over, hands up. ‘It’s cool, mate. We thought this was a public space and we’ll just leave as soon as—’

  ‘Stop it, you little bastard.’ He grabbed the joint out of Mel’s hand. ‘Smoking this filth here?’

  The guy backed off, then charged over to his truck. A dog started barking. Maybe even a couple of them. He reached into the back and pulled out a big fuck-off shotgun. ‘I have a way with trespassers.’

  Even Sally ran, brushing past the raving owner.

  Nobody told him that Terry was still in the bunker.

  Forty-one

  David pounded through the wood, snapping broken twigs, nettles stinging his hands. Lungs burning, gasping for breath, his coat feeling like it weighed several tons. He stopped and looked back. Mel and Sally ran alongside each other. Nate was last, his face a deep purple. In the distance, lights glowed in the scrapyard. The dogs were barking, the sound carrying all this way.

  Terry was still down there and, no matter how much of a prick David thought he was, he didn’t deserve that. Nobody did.

  Mel and Sally reached him, their faces like thunder. Then lightning flashed behind them, like their emotions controlled the weather. Seconds later rain poured down, thick and heavy.

  Nate stopped just behind, then threw up onto his shoes.

  ‘You stupid arseholes.’ Sally charged over to David and dug her finger into his chest. ‘You’re such a selfish dickhead.’

  ‘Come on, this isn’t—’

  ‘Shut up!’ She pushed him hard and his back hit a tree. ‘Have you still got the key?’

  David opened his hand and the rusty brass caught the light.

  ‘Right, well you and your fucking arsehole mate there are going back to let Terry out.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be here.’ Nate stopped and pulled his coat over his head. Didn’t make much difference – his long hair was plastered down with sweat and rain. ‘Let’s just tell them we let him go and he ran off.’

  ‘No way Sally’s going to buy that.’ David peered across the country lane heading back into town, almost flooded in the rain, trying to spot the building. ‘Shit.’

  The scrapyard owner laughed at something. Another couple of vans were parked next to his, blocking the gate, and two of his mates stood there with shotguns and their own packs of dogs.

  David walked over to the fence and tried to spot a way in. ‘What the hell do we do?’

  ‘We just leave it. Got to, mate. They’ve got guns.’

  ‘We should call the cops. Get them to free Terry.’

  ‘Yeah, and they’ll grass us up.’ Nate looked hard at him. ‘Mate, Mel and I are going to Oxford in October. No way am I giving that up.’

  ‘This isn’t right, Nate. We need to get him out of there.’

  ‘You got a plan?’

  ‘They’ve not got the key and they’ll get bored, right? I mean, eventually. Then we can get him out of there.’

  ‘Are you saying we wait here overnight?’

  David shrugged. ‘I don’t see any other option, do you?’

  ‘Right. Stay here. I’ll get something to keep the rain off.’

  A nudge in the arm woke David. ‘Not sleeping!’

  ‘You are, mate.’ Nate yawned as he sucked on the joint. ‘Jesus, this is harsh.’

  David blinked away his tiredness. They were lying in a ditch a few hundred yards from the scrapyard, their umbrellas sodden and the mat soaked through. The darkness was receding, the sun climbing up into the sky, burning through the morning rain, still pouring down. So much for August. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nope.’ Nate handed over the joint. ‘Here.’

  ‘How can you smoke at a time like this?’

  ‘One, it’s keeping me awake. Two, it’s keeping me from freaking out about what the hell is happening here. I can’t lose my place at Hertford, mate. Dad’s been banging on at me since I was five to get into Oxford. He’ll kick me out!’

  David took a long drag and let the drug work its magic. He stood up and squinted over. The other two vans started up and drove off with a honk each, slightly out of time. ‘Nate, look.’

  ‘What?’

  The owner walked over to his truck and hopped in, following them off down the road.

  ‘Come on, then.’ David led him off, taking it slow, trying to blink away the tiredness, and stopped.

  A giant padlock was tied to the gate.

  David shook it but it was a forlorn hope.

  Through the fence, six huge dogs patrolled the grounds. Dobermans or Rottweilers. Massive snarling beasts, and they still had their balls.

  David knocked on the door and brushed his hair flat as he waited. The number of times he’d imagined doing this, but not under these circumstances. Under this pressure.

  The door opened and Sally’s mother looked out, her half-moon glasses dangling from her neck. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Hi, Mrs Burford, is Sally in?’

  ‘Sally?’ She frowned. ‘Well, it’s a bit early, but in you come.’ She held the door open for him to enter, then looked up the stairs. ‘Sally! You’ve got a guest!’ She smiled at David. ‘Sally will be but a moment.’

  David stood in the hallway, checking out the family portraits. A very stiff family, formal and almost Victorian. And that shot Mr Foster had taken of them all jumping on the last day of school, where Nate missed the cue and was caught on the ground.

  Footsteps pounded down the staircase from above, then stopped. ‘Oh.’ Sally skipped down the rest of the steps and grabbed a hold of his sleeve, dragging him outside into the heavy downpour. ‘Where is he?’

  David couldn’t bring himself to look at her. His mouth was dry despite the rain and he was exhausted from sleeping rough, his adrenaline replaced by hash fatigue.

  ‘Oh my god, you just left him in there, didn’t you?’

  ‘You’ve got to understand!’ David looked at her, pleading, but he just felt guilty. ‘The gate’s padlocked and there are—’

  ‘You’re a selfish prick. I should tell your parents.’

  ‘Sally . . .’

  ‘You’re such a dickhead. You and Nate. Forget your parents, I’ll let the police do that.’
/>   ‘If the cops . . .’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh I know, it’ll jeopardise your university places. Pair of spoilt brats.’

  ‘We . . .’ She was right. David took a deep breath. ‘I’ll find a way in.’

  ‘You better.’

  David yawned as he pedalled hard, leading Nate down the road towards the scrapyard. Monday morning, still pitch black but at least the rain had stopped. And they were trapped in this impossible dilemma of their own making.

  What David wouldn’t give to go back to Friday night and not trap Terry in there.

  He slowed to a halt and got off the bike. Didn’t look like anything had changed. His dad’s binoculars dangled around his neck. He put them to his eyes and scanned the scrapyard.

  Nate walked towards him, pushing his bike. He dumped his sports bag on the ground. ‘You got anything?’

  David handed him the binoculars. ‘Those snarling mutts are still there.’

  ‘Shit.’ Nate tugged at his hair, staring over at the scrapyard prison. ‘What are we going to do, mate?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ David genuinely didn’t. It was Monday. He had to work in that bloody factory for eight hours and he hadn’t slept since Thursday and Sally was going to the cops and—

  ‘Dave.’ Nate nudged him and handed over the binoculars. ‘Check that.’

  David put them to his eyes. Through the wire mesh, the scrapyard owner got into his van and drove off. David scanned the area again. No sign of the dogs. ‘Holy shit, Batman, we’re in!’

  The owner stopped by the gate and redid the padlock, then they hid low as the van trundled down the lane, accompanied by a cacophony of barking dogs.

  ‘Come on.’ Nate reached into his bag and produced a pair of bolt-cutters. ‘My old man will go spare if I lose these.’ He jogged over to the gate and snapped the padlock. ‘Help me.’

  It took both of them to open the gate, an almighty screech tearing out into the dawn gloom.

  David scanned around in case anyone had heard them. No sign of it, at least. He led Nate, still struggling with his heavy bolt-cutters, and shot over to the building. The front door was still locked, so he slotted the key in. And it turned. One last look round and they opened the door.

  No sign of anyone, save Terry.

  ‘What if the owner has found him and taken him away? Like in Deliverance or Scum . . . but worse?’

  ‘Forget that. Let’s search the place. Okay?’

  ‘Right. Right.’ Nate clicked on his dad’s torch and it lit up the entire room. Their favourite smoking room seemed a lot scarier now, even with torchlight.

  David headed over to the ramp and peered down, but his shadow blocked out the light. He started down and it seemed to get darker with each step.

  Nate’s light scanned around the room, but no sign of Terry.

  David’s foot splashed in a puddle. He grabbed the light off Nate and shone it around. The entire basement was flooded and he was up to his ankles in silty water.

  And still no sign of Terry.

  Just the three cells, the doors all shut.

  David waded over to them and tried the middle door. It opened.

  Terry lay in a ball, sobbing and moaning. He looked up at them and shut his eyes.

  Forty-two

  [Corcoran, 19:05]

  ‘By the time we helped Terry out, the kid had been in the dark for over sixty hours.’ David stared at Corcoran, his guilty eyes glazed over and not entirely from the wine. ‘He was exhausted, dehydrated, starving, cramped, cold, alone, soaking, terrified.’ He ran a hand down his face. ‘The worst part was his silence. Never said a word.’

  ‘You . . .’ Lesley had broken free of Thompson, rage burning in her eyes, fists raised and ready to strike. ‘You . . .’

  ‘It was a joke.’ David had his arms raised, ready to block another barrage of punches from his wife. ‘Just a joke.’ His voice was a whimper.

  Corcoran played it through and it all fit together.

  Starvation.

  Exhaustion.

  Solitude.

  ‘Nate and I . . . We said sorry to Terry, begged him not to say anything to the school or police or his parents . . . but he didn’t even seem to hear us. He just followed us out and . . . man, the kid was just . . . empty. No other way to describe it.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Sally didn’t forgive us, but she didn’t report us either. Probably figured she was complicit. She ran, rather than getting that yokel to let him out.’

  ‘What happened to Terry?’

  David shrugged. ‘Never really saw him again.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Occasionally, he’d be spotted in town. Seemed to be drinking heavily with the wrong sorts. Bikers, skinhead football hooligans, you name it . . . Sometimes just on his own, staggering around town with a bag full of strong cider bottles.’

  ‘Nobody who stayed in touch?’

  ‘Only Sally was ever really in touch with him.’ David shook his head. ‘But I honestly haven’t thought much about him since I left town for university.’

  ‘You sick bastard!’ Lesley held out a hand like she was going to slap him. ‘He’s taken our daughter and it’s all your fault!’ After a moment she let her arm go. ‘I can’t believe you.’ She rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘I’ll get hold of Sally Norton.’ Thompson stabbed her finger on her phone screen as she left the room.

  Palmer narrowed her eyes. ‘This bunker would be the ideal holding place. The ideal prison. What do you know about it?’

  ‘Other side of town, in the grounds of a scrapyard. It’s inside the town now, of course. Nate reckoned the place was a POW camp in the war. Bunch of freaky cages downstairs, which made me believe him.’

  ‘We need to find Terry.’ Corcoran had his phone out, dialling. He stared at David. ‘Where did you say this bunker is?’

  [19:16]

  Still holding his phone, Corcoran got in the car and hit the ignition button. ‘Pete, can you really not find a Terry Beane?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Sortwell sighed down the line. ‘And you getting angry isn’t going to help. Might make me hang up on you.’

  The dashboard woke up and Corcoran stabbed the scrapyard postcode into the satnav. Pretty much a straight line. He put his seatbelt on, swapping his phone to his right hand halfway through. Bloody thing wasn’t pairing with the dashboard. ‘Have you tried Terence?’

  ‘Obviously . . .’ Sortwell sighed again. ‘Mate, I’ve been doing this as long as you have. There are just way too many. Do you have a middle name or anything to narrow it down? His age, maybe?’

  ‘Afraid not. That’s all we have. Terry Beane. Terence Beane. Look, dig into it and call me when you find him. I don’t care if he’s in Timbuktu or Outer Mongolia, I just need you to find him for me, okay?’

  ‘I’ll try. Oh, just got a text. Sergeant Broadribb has found the owner of that place and she’s heading over there.’

  ‘That was quick.’ Corcoran stuck the car in reverse.

  Something thunked off the passenger window.

  Palmer stood there, face like thunder. She jabbed a finger at him.

  Corcoran put it in park and wound down the passenger window. ‘I can get someone to—’

  ‘You’re not leaving here without me, Aidan.’

  ‘Seriously, Marie.’

  She shook her head. ‘Where are you going?’

  He let out a breath. ‘I’m going to check out that old scrapyard. Turns out it’s still standing. Sold off for development, but no work’s started yet.’

  She tore open the door and sat in the passenger seat, wrapped the belt around her purple coat, dumped her bag in the footwell. ‘Well, I’m coming with you.’

  He looked over, but there was no arguing with her. ‘Okay, but just stay in the car? Take your notes. Whatever. You’re a civilian and I need you to stay out of danger. Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  He put the ca
r back in reverse and eased back a touch, then swung out onto the street. A few curtains twitched as they rumbled past suburban homes. No doubt about it, there was something going on inside the Crossleys’. Usually the rumours were ten times worse than the truth, but in this case . . .

  ‘Talk to me, Aidan.’

  He glanced at her as he pulled up at the junction. ‘This is . . .’ He felt it in his chest, the tightness, the stress, the pressure. ‘You’ve been talking about your worst fear come to life . . . This is mine. It’s so obvious now. How the hell did we not know?’

  ‘You don’t think I’m asking myself the same questions? I’ve got one job and that’s building a profile. And it was completely wrong.’

  ‘It’s not your job to find the guy, though.’ Corcoran pulled off from the junction, merging into the lane the satnav told him, less than a mile to go. ‘That’s on me.’

  ‘It’s on both of us.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe you’re right. You can have half the blame.’

  She shook her head. ‘What are you planning to do at this scrapyard?’

  Corcoran hadn’t thought that far ahead. His brain was only occupied with immediate tasks. He needed to zoom out, think about it strategically. But where the hell had strategic thinking got them? Nowhere.

  He pulled up behind a long line of traffic queuing outside a supermarket. ‘Ideally, getting a lead on Terry Beane.’

  ‘He’s taking his teenage trauma out on the children of the people who did that to him. Reflecting his torture on their children. Possibly even been watching them, enjoying their torment. The news conferences where Sarah’s parents and Howard’s father sat next to DI Thompson . . . Feeding off their torment like a psychic vampire.’

  ‘A psychic vampire?’

  ‘It’s a psychological term, Aidan. Instead of blood, they feed on anguish and sorrow.’

  Corcoran sat there, the engine idling. Not far from here, Terry Beane had Dawn Crossley. ‘Sod this.’ He flicked the siren on and pulled out into the oncoming lane, getting a clear run on the road. ‘Makes me wonder who the bad guys are sometimes.’

  ‘The world is nothing but grey, Aidan. And that’s my whole point.’

  ‘You think I see things as black and white?’