Shadowy Places. (Part 1)

Something made Michael Ryan different, but the trouble was that no one including himself could explain what that something was. He had spent his childhood years shifting between one foster home and the next, and no one seemed to have any explanation why. It was not that he was particularly troublesome to his foster parents; on the contrary, he was painfully shy and withdrawn. He had overheard more than one foster parent remark that Michael was so quiet, you would not know he was in the room. However, this did not stop foster family after foster family from discarding him. He would just start to settle in when he would be told to pack his bags; he could almost rattle off the excuses verbatim for a finish. “Sorry Michael it is nothing that you did, I am sure that some family will be delighted to have you in their home. It’s just that something has come up and we can’t have you here at this time.” But he knew that those words were hollow because on more than one occasion he had passed his replacement at the front door. In the end, he did not even bother to unpack when he went to the next foster home, he would keep his meager belongings in the battered suitcase the orphanage had provided.

In between placements, Michael would end up back at the orphanage; the huge rambling limestone building was where he felt most content. Back there he had his room, albeit just a small cell with a narrow cot and a roughhewn tallboy where he kept his books. The nuns that ran the institution never bothered him; his meals were brought to his room, and an ancient old priest came every day for a couple of hours to tutor him. While the other orphans slept in large dormitories and ate in the huge dining hall, Michael led a solitary life and he liked to think that he was a modern-day Edmond Dantes. If the truth was known Michael preferred his own company, because even back then he knew he was different. While the others kicked a ball in the yard, Michael spent time in the big chapel attached to the building.

He would spend hours studying the images in the stained glass windows or reading the bible. There was something of the otherworldly imagery of the chapel, and the religious writings, that appealed to him. It was all mysterious and that was how he felt inside, mysterious. Michael could not put it in words, but he somehow felt outside the world that surrounded him. He once even asked the old priest whether he might become a priest like him, the strange look the priest gave him prevented him from pursuing the topic. Another topic that appeared to make the old priest uncomfortable was when Michael asked him about his real parents. The old priest had immediately grown sullen when Michael broached the subject, and Michael had a feeling that he had somehow offended the priest. Eventually, the old priest resumed the lesson as if he had not heard the question, and Michael was too frightened to repeat it. However, as he was leaving the old priest paused and turned to him. “Michael sometimes it is more important to concentrate on where we are going in life rather than where we came from. Our origins are sometimes better off being left forgotten.” The old priest’s words just served to lay another layer of mystery over who he was.

Michael’s life after the orphanage followed much the same pattern as his childhood years; he drifted from place to place and job to job never feeling he belonged anywhere. His life was divided between meaningless jobs, and aimless wandering. Just like the foster homes of his earlier years, he would find himself losing jobs for no particular reason. “You’re a good worker Michael and we have no problem with your behavior, it’s just that due to unforeseen circumstances we have to let you go.” In the beginning, he would experience anger but in the end, he just learned to accept it, just like he did when he was a child. The one thing that remained a constant in Michael was the yearning to learn where he came from, and who he was. Michael learned that certain jobs were more suited to him, jobs where he had little or no contact with others. So Michael became a nocturnal creature, he worked the graveyard shifts that few others wanted. He also found that for the first time in his life, that he could stay in a job under his terms to some extent. The jobs that always seemed plentiful were night-watchmen, and this became his mode of earning a living.

The beam from the torch reflected from the sheets of driving rain doing little to expel the inky blackness beyond its limited reach, the chances of finding anyone outdoors on such a night were slim. His first instinct was that someone had thrown a bundle of old clothes over the chain-link fence, the clothes lay in a disheveled heap, soaking wet and mud-spattered. It was only as he drew nearer he noticed the hole in the fence, and what looked like a trail from the hole leading to the rags on the ground as if something had crawled or been dragged. Nervous now, Michael turned a full circle aiming his torch into the shadows, but nothing untoward came into sight in the limited range of the beam. Before approaching the rags, he turned the torch beam to the partially completed shell of the building. The pale dry concrete floor reflected the torch beam in all directions, filling the cavernous space with dancing shadows. It was impossible to see whether anyone was hiding in these shadows, but the fact that no wet footprints were visible led him to believe the building was empty. He approached the wet clothes, and as he did so the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

His first instinct was to prod the bundle of wet clothes with his foot, but instead, he bent and pulled back the edge of a threadbare coat. The figure was painfully thin and curled into a fetal position, and his first thought was it was a malnourished child. The long lank hair looked silver in the torchlight, and he thought it must be a girl. Without really knowing what he was doing he took off his glove and felt for a pulse, even though he had never had any training in this kind of thing. The absurdity of what he was doing finally galvanized him into picking the child up; he hardly registered the weight in his arms. Making his way back to the hut, a sudden feeling came over him. Michael had an irrational urge to dump the child back where he found her; a voice screamed in the back of his mind that no good would come of this. The very thought of abandoning a malnourished child to die from exposure to the elements brought a wave of nausea over him, yet unconsciously his hands began to ease their grip on the wet bundle. He hoisted the bundle higher in his arms and tightened his grip once more, and he felt the slight figure squirm in its cocoon of wet clothes.

The closer to the sanctuary of the Hut he came, the heavier the bundle became. The rational part of his mind told him it was because the clothes were getting more rain-sodden, but a different part of his mind pleaded with him to discard the thing he carried. For some reason, the old priest’s words came back to him, the part where he advised Michael to forget his past. As he reached the hut he heard a strange crackling sound and a sweet pungent aroma filled the air, before his mind could make any sense of this, a bolt of lightning the likes of which he had never seen before, split the air. It traveled in a downward slant just missing the security hut, before striking the steel of the scaffolding poles. A shower of sparks erupted like a million small stars and the metal glowed white-hot, and when the light show faded he was left with glowing spots dancing in his vision. A faint rumbling sound grew in intensity until it felt as if the very ground beneath his feet was undulating, but above the sound of the thunder, he heard a high-pitched sound. This high-pitched sound was coming from the thing he carried in his arms, and for one irrational moment, he thought it sounded like laughter. If it was laughter then it belonged in the most secure wards of a psychiatric institution.

The interior of the hut felt like an oven in comparison to the temperature outside, he laid the wet bundle on the bare floorboards in front of the glowing gas heater. It was as if he had suddenly been relieved of a great burden, and he collapsed exhausted into the chair behind the small desk. Outside the storm raged on and appeared to be gaining moment, but in his mind, he wondered whether he would be better off outside, rather than trapped here in the small hut with whatever was wrapped in the wet rags. A strange feeling of trepidation was building inside him, and he tried hard to convince himself that he was being irrational. Steam had begun to rise from the wet clothes surrounding the child, and once again the child began to squirm. Michael told himself that the child needed help, but for some reason, the thought of unwrapping that bundle of old clothes terrified him.

Leaning over the wet bundle he could see now that it was a coat, it was old and covered in brown muck. But he could also see that it was finely crafted and embroidered with gold thread, something about the garment hinted at a bygone era, as if it did not belong in the here and now. With a great mental effort he grasped the edge of the coat and turned it back, the child lay curled with the back of its head facing him. He leaned closer and the odor hit him causing his breath to catch in the back of his throat, it was a strange smell almost sulfurous. Holding his breath he opened the wet coat further, the child’s spine was outlined against the material of a once-white silk dress. But like the coat, it was faded with a yellowish tint and it too looked as if it belonged to times long gone. It did not take a specialist to see the child was suffering from some deformity. Instead of a natural curve, the spine had exaggeratedly curved to the left. He had seen this before when he was at the orphanage. Scoliosis was the term he had heard the nuns refer to the condition. The pitiful sight brought a feeling of guilt over him, to think that he had been afraid to look upon a child such as this. He laid his hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, feeling the bone beneath the thin layer of flesh. “Are you alright little girl?” He asked her softly, and she shifted beneath his hand.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt it, just a split second before the thing moved. That feeling that you are somehow in imminent danger, he turned away preparing to flee. But the speed of the child thing was terrifying, one moment it was lying lifeless in its shroud of wet clothes, and the next it was clinging to his back. Razor-like fingernails clawed at his face searching out his eyes, and needle-like teeth sank into his shoulder. But for the heavy collar of his wet coat, he was sure those teeth would have torn the flesh from the bone, as they sought out his throat. The hut was silent but for his rapid panicky breathing, the thing clawing at him made no sound. He could smell its rancid breath as it continued to gnaw at the material guarding his throat. “Act now or you will die here.” For some reason, the voice in his head did not sound like it belonged to him, and he wondered whether he was having some kind of psychotic episode. The will to survive finally gave him the strength to haul that thing from his back, it flew across the room and he felt a flap of skin tearing on his face as it desperately tried to hold on with its filthy nails.

As quickly as it hit the floor it was back on its feet, for the first time he was face to face with the thing. It had no more resemblance to a child than a piece of coal resembled a diamond. The long lank hair was thin and the ill-formed skull could be seen through it, but it was the features that horrified him most. The face was that of an ancient crone and pure malevolence shone from its dark eyes, the bared teeth were yellowish points and blood ran from its mouth dripping from the pointed chin. He could feel its hatred like heat radiating from a furnace, there was no mistaking the fact that the abomination before him meant to kill him. The thing moved crab-like until it was between him and the only exit from the hut, cutting off any chance of escaping. Michael glanced furtively about him in search of something to defend himself, seeing his rising panic the creature cackled softly. “It is futile Michael; it was always just a matter of time before we found you. Your whore mother reneged on her sworn commitment, but I am here to put things right.” Her voice had the quality of fingernails being drawn across a blackboard, and it chilled him to the marrow.

Michael glimpsed to his left trying to determine whether the small window was an option for escape, the act of looking at the window took all of a fraction of a second. But it was more than enough time for his enemy, the creature collided with his chest knocking him off balance; it had crossed the room in a heartbeat. The razor-like talons that were her fingernails, dug into his windpipe with a vice-like grip. Her rancid breath made his stomach lurch, as she leaned forward staring into his eyes. The malevolence in those dark eyes was the nearest to pure evil he had ever witnessed. His first instinct was to grab her bony wrists, his airways were blocked and he needed to release her grip. But the strength in those skeletal arms was unnatural, the breath trapped in his lungs felt like molten lava. His vision began to blur and darkness appeared in his peripheral vision, the sound of his heartbeat inside his head was deafening. He was just losing consciousness when he heard it, the hollow sound like a coconut being struck with a hammer. The grip on his throat fell away, but by that stage, the darkness was carrying him away.

The sound of muffled voices woke him from a dreamless sleep, he was in a dimly lit room and the gown he wore told him it was a hospital bed he lay on. The door to the room opened and light flooded in from the hallway, the nurse stood in the doorway, and behind her stood a sour-looking man in a crumpled suit. “Ah! Mr. Ryan, I am glad to see that you are awake; the detective here would like a quick word with you. Only a quick word now mind you, you need to rest up, you have taken quite a beating.” Michael felt the last bit was more as a warning to the cop than for his benefit. The bored-looking cop flashed his badge too briefly for Michael to even get a look at it, and without even introducing himself began to ask questions. Michael stuck to the mantra that he could not remember anything after returning to the hut from his patrol, and the cop seemed disinterested at best. There was no hint that the detective had any clue as to what took place, other than Michael was assaulted and found unconscious by the work crew in the morning. Nothing he asked hinted towards any strangeness taking place, and it was clear to Michael that the cop had no interest in pursuing any particular line of inquiry. In the end, the bored policeman gave his verdict, it was junkies breaking in to steal anything they could find of value, case closed as far as he was concerned.

 “A couple of days on intravenous antibiotics and you will be ready to go home. Human fingernails and teeth are breeding grounds for infection”. Was the cheerful verdict of the ward sister, as she poured over his chart? So once again Michael was left alone to contemplate the mystery that was his life, a mystery that was growing darker by the day. The words that creature had uttered concerning his mother, made him believe that something very dark lay in his past. Michael spent the next couple of days pouring over his memories, and the next couple of nights in troubled sleep tormented by dark dreams. By the time he left the hospital, he was determined to find out where he had come from. He was always an outsider so now he wanted to know why, and he knew exactly where he would start his search. The moment he was discharged he headed straight for the orphanage, in the hope that something in his file would point towards his origins.

The building he once thought of as his refuge had fallen into neglect, the fragrance of furnisher polish and wax candles were replaced by the smell of dampness. The lobby area had been emptied of most of the religious effigies, and a small prefabricated office had been set up in the corner. The bored-looking young woman behind the desk was dressed in street clothes, and by the brightly polished nails, he did not think she was a member of any religious order. “Excuse me?” His words came out in a hoarse whisper, whatever the demonic thing had done to his throat; he could now only communicate in whispers. The doctor that had discharged him had the cheerful prognosis that his voice might return in the future. The woman continued to leaf through a magazine ignoring him, he attempted to speak louder with no success, so he tapped with his knuckles on the countertop. The woman closed the magazine and treated him to an angry scowl. As it turned out it was all a waste of time, the orphanage had closed five years earlier and all records had been transferred to someplace she did not know where. She told him that a small section of the building now housed a retirement home for nuns. “The ones waiting to die.” She added with a malicious smirk.

Dejected Michael left the building and followed the high wall of the grounds until he came to a locked wrought iron gate, from here he could see the Chapel where he had spent so much time. Without any records he had no chance whatsoever of learning anything about how he came to be here, it was as if someone had put the lid on his coffin and firmly nailed it down. At that particular moment he felt more of an outsider than he ever had, his past was a blank and he had no future to look forward to. Something came over him and before he realized he had scaled the gate, and was walking across the lawn to the chapel. To his surprise, the door to the chapel swung open on well-oiled hinges, the interior had not changed since he was here last. The brass Votive candle stand even had candles lighting at the side of the altar, the scent of incense and candle wax made him feel nostalgic.

 Michael made his way to the seat where he liked to sit and stared up at the image on the stained glass window. It was the image that he had spent most of his time studying as a child. The image depicted Christ casting out demons, and for some reason, it had always garnered his interest. “Michael, is that you Michael?” The voice was so low that for a moment he thought he had imagined it. He turned to find a stooped figure wearing a nun’s habit, staring at him through the gloom. “It is you Michael; I always believed that one day you would come back, you had so many questions that were never answered.” The ancient figure shuffled over to the pew in front of him and sat down, and even when she turned to face him he had no recognition of this old woman. “You will not remember me Michael, but when you came to the orphanage first, I looked after you. It was I that picked your name, when you were just five or six you had so many questions, but alas I did not have the answers for you. I was sent away to another parish and only returned here to wait out my last years. But I have never forgotten the little boy with the raven hair, and I always thought we would meet again.”

Michael did not stop until he was back out on the narrow street beyond the high wall, only then did he turn to look back. The diminutive figure of sister Agnus remained standing where he had left her at the chapel door, the old woman still had no answers for him but she did have a gift. In his pocket he carried the faded envelope she had given him, inside was an unsigned letter, asking after the baby the writer had sent to the orphanage thirty-one years before. It was a woman’s neat handwriting, but it carried neither a signature nor a return address. But at least he now knew that someone had remembered him, even if it was for only a while. However, far more important than the brief note was the faded envelope itself. In the top right-hand corner of that envelope was a postmark. It was faded and barely legible but he would study that postmark until he discovered where it had been posted, perhaps it would be there that he might find answers.    

The Collector (Part 1) The Death of a Thief.

At first, he held his breath until it felt as if his lungs would burst; now he just breathed as quietly as possible. The stench of urine and vomit made his head feel light, but he was too scared to move. He had no idea how long he had been hiding in the dark alleyway behind the dumpster, but it seemed like hours. Part of his mind told James he was just being paranoid, but another part told him there was someone following him. Perhaps it was just a coincidence the big guy in the long coat had left the pub at the same time as him, and perhaps the guy just happened to live in the same area as him. But James had already been warned, pay up or take the consequences.

Lately, he had concluded that he would be better off, to be like some of the other students. Why couldn’t he have the normal vices, like drink or drugs? James’s addiction was not as obvious as some, he liked to gamble. Nothing he had ever tried, gave him a high like it. Those final hundred yards of a horse race, when you are still in the race, and your heart is pounding. It was a continuous roller coaster of euphoric highs and devastating lows, but the upshot of it all was he owed almost two grand to an illegal bookie. Barry Murphy was not the kind of guy to get on the wrong side of; even the dogs in the street knew that if you owed Murphy money you paid it. Murphy had some very unsavory characters on his payroll, and he used them to make sure all debts were settled.

It was the rain that finally galvanized him to break cover, it came down in a deluge and the temperature plummeted. If he stayed crouched behind the steel structure much longer he would die of exposure, so cautiously he crept from his hiding place. James stopped in the center of the dark alleyway, holding his breath he listened for any tell-tale noises but the place was silent. Breathing a sigh of relief he started towards the high street, he was almost at the entrance of the alleyway when he caught a movement in the shadows. Before he had a chance to react, a fist like a rock smashed into his chin and his knees buckled. A few well-placed kicks had him drifting towards unconsciousness, but then the big man bent over and snapped the baby finger of his right hand like a twig. The searing pain brought him around like a bucket of cold water.

James started to scream before a big calloused hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off the scream. A face like a gorilla appeared out of the darkness and did not stop until it was almost touching his. “Murphy wants his money by the end of the month, or else it won’t be your little finger that gets broken next time. Do you understand me?” James tried to nod but the giant hand had a hold of his face in a vice-like grip, in the end, he just blinked rapidly in the hope the big man understood the gesture. Finally, the pressure over his mouth was released, the hand was removed from his face and he could breathe again. For an instant he felt a sense of relief that it was over, his attacker had begun to turn away from him. Then there was a sudden movement and the boot collided with force, the last thing he remembered thinking was that he had just lost any chance of becoming a father.

James stood shivering as he waited for the shower to heat up, he had a bruise on his chin, his hand throbbed painfully, and his balls felt the size of melons. The hot water cascading over his bruised body brought him some relief, but his mind was in turmoil. There was no way he could get that kind of money by the end of the month, and his long-suffering parents had made it clear no more bailouts were coming from them. Sean his flatmate was just as broke as him, and all his other friends had been tapped out a long time ago. Murphy wanted his money by the end of the month, which left James a little over two weeks to put it together. His summer job at the museum paid a pittance and was only designed as a way to earn credits for his college course. When he finally got to sleep that night, his dreams were haunted by images of his limbs being broken.

He was just on his way out to work when he spotted the flyer on the mat behind the front door. It had a black background with red writing on it.  He was just about to roll it in a ball and dump it when something caught his eye. “Top rates paid for antiques and collectibles.” A desperate plan was formulating in his mind as he looked at the flyer. James worked in a basement room at the museum cataloging items that had remained unseen for years; if a few small items went missing he was sure it would never be noticed. There were hundreds of crates of items that were donated to the museum, and a good portion of those items had yet to be recorded. The thought of being caught thieving terrified him, but not as much as having his knee caps broken. He folded the flyer and put it in his wallet, before heading for the payphone on the corner.

The ringing sound at the other end was going unanswered and he was just about to hang up, even when the call was picked up, he was hesitant. James had a bad feeling that he was about to cross some invisible line, a line that once crossed there would be no going back. “Hello” The voice on the other end of the line had a strange quality to it, and for a moment he felt as if the owner of the voice was next to him. The urge to hang up was strong, but the memory of the beating was still fresh in his mind. He pushed the button and the coins dropped into the box, he had not rehearsed what he would say so he just blurted it out. There was an extended silence before the voice replied. “I have a preference for wartime collectibles, especially Nazi-era items. I particularly like official historical documents.” Do you have some for sale?” James was pretty sure he had seen crates of items that originated in German around that era, so he agreed to contact the collector again.

The basement was gloomy and dusty, most of the regular staff avoided coming down here. James was left to his own devices most of the time, with no particular agenda to follow. He would open the dusty old crates, and list the contents along with the origin of the items. Sometimes the crates contained lists of the contents, but a lot of the time they were inaccurate. No one would ever miss a few small items from the vast stack of crates. At least that was what he was trying to convince himself, as he searched through the huge room. James finally found what he was looking for at the far end of the room, behind a large support pillar. Several wooden crates were donated by the family of a deceased army bigwig, two of the crates were marked Berlin 1945. James’s heart was racing and his stomach felt sick as he levered the lid from the crate, on more than one occasion he thought of abandoning the plan. But he kept repeating a mantra in his head. “Just this one time”.

The second crate he opened contained files of documents, but his delight was short-lived. They were all in German and without a translation he could not read what they were about. The thought of risking stealing them, only to find out they were worthless did not appeal to him. In the end, he selected a small stack that had the Nazi eagle on the top of the page, he promised himself that either way this was all he was willing to take. Later that evening, he placed the papers down the front of his jeans, before heading for the exit. He had never been so scared in his life; he slowed down passing the security guard at the desk, fully expecting to be challenged. But nobody even glanced in his direction. By the time he got home his legs were so weak, he collapsed on the sofa. He spent the next couple of hours waiting for a knock on the door from the cops.

The windows of the small building were so grimy it was impossible to see inside; the place looked like it had been abandoned for years.  A faded weather-beaten sign above the door declared that at some stage the building housed an antique shop. Situated in a tiny side street, the shop was surrounded by a warren of narrow forgotten streets. James checked the piece of paper he had written the address on, to make sure he was at the right place. The rain had started early this morning and had grown heavier by the evening. The street was deserted and eerily quiet and James regretted ever becoming involved in this. Composing himself, he turned the handle and was more than a little surprised when the door opened. The gloomy room was lined with glass cases covered in a thick veneer of dust; the only illumination came from a lamp behind the counter at the far end of the room. The tinkle of the brass bell above the door seemed to echo in the empty room.

It was the smell that first drew James’s attention; it was a mixture of strong tobacco with an underlying smell of something deeply corrupted. James turned towards the source of the stench and his breath caught in his throat, there was the sound of someone inhaling deeply and the glow of a cigarette end flared. Whoever was in the room stood in the shadows, and it took moments for James’s eyes to adjust to the deeper shadow. The silhouette of a man of small stature came into focus, the cigarette flared again and he had the briefest glimpse of the man’s features. “Did you bring the documents?” The words were almost whispered, and the rattling in the man’s chest signified a lifelong smoker. James held the papers aloft with a trembling hand, something about the unseen stranger terrified him. “Take them over and leave them on the counter.” The voice had a slight accent and the unmistakeable tone of authority, here was a man who was used to being obeyed.

James left the documents on the counter and stepped back, he must have blinked because suddenly the small man was standing next to him. Up close the underlying stench was not masked by the smell of the tobacco, it was the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. The man’s breathing sounded as if his lungs were filled with fluid, and his complexion had the waxy quality of a corpse. He was around five feet tall and wore an old-fashioned dark trench coat. A black wide-brimmed hat kept most of his features in shadow, and he wore old-style round wire-framed spectacles. His appearance reminded James of a caricature of a pervert, but there was an unmissable sense of deep menace about the man. A disturbing thought flashed across James’s mind, that this man would kill him in a heartbeat. The stranger picked up one of the documents and studied it, all the while nodding his head as if pleased with what he was looking at. He carefully went through each document meticulously; he ignored James as if he was not even there.

“Excellent! These are something I might be interested in. However, they are incomplete. I believe that the old General had the full set of these documents.”  The stranger turned and for the first time since James had entered the building, the small man stared him straight in the face. The man’s cheeks were scarred with pockmarks, and his teeth were stained brown from tobacco when he spoke. But the most striking feature of the man was those small beady eyes behind the spectacle lenses. They bored into James and they had the hypnotic quality of a snake’s eyes, a cold feeling came over James as he realized that there was something otherworldly about the man. James reached for the documents his only thought now was to be gone from this man’s company; he would return the papers in the morning and forget about the whole thing. The atmosphere in the room suddenly shifted, and it felt as if he was standing in a deep freeze. The small man moved in a blur of speed, and his hand grasped James’s wrist with crushing force.

“I will pay you the sum of one thousand pounds for these, bring what remains of this set of documents, and I will pay you an additional two thousand pounds.”  The menace in the man’s voice was unmistakable, this was not an offer; it was an order. As if to emphasize the thinly veiled threat, the hand holding his wrist tightened until James thought the bones would break. The small man leaned closer to James until his face was inches from his, his breath was rancid with a mixture of decay, tobacco smoke, and the coppery smell of blood. “Do not let me down on this; I never take kindly to being disappointed.” Just as quickly as he had been grabbed, the vice-like grip was released. As if by magic a brown envelope appeared on the counter next to the documents, it was open and James could see the stack of twenty-pound notes inside. “Take your money”. James reached out with a trembling hand and took the envelope when he looked back at the counter the documents were gone and he was alone.

James sat on the couch staring at the envelope containing the money; he had not even counted it. He had a bad feeling about all this; something told him that he had jumped from the frying pan and into the fire. He was well aware that Barry Murphy would have no qualms in having his legs broke, but he was equally aware that the small strange man would kill him in a heartbeat. There was something unnatural about the creepy little man, he seemed to be able to move from one place to the next by disappearing and reappearing somewhere else. There was something else the small man said that bothered him but he could not remember, the man frightened him so much that he could not think straight. Then it finally came to him, the man had mentioned something about the old general. How did he know that the documents were from a collection donated by the family of the late General Howard Spencer? It was as if the small man had singled him out because of where he worked, but if this was true, how did he know these things about James.

The arched ceiling of the subterranean room was once white lime mortar, but now it was a yellowish-brown. Years of tobacco smoke had stained it this color. The flickering candlelight cast a shadow of the man hunched over the desk, which made him look monstrous as if giving a would-be observer a glimpse of the man’s true character. Edgar Hues was the name he was presently going under, but he had used so many aliases over his long life, that he could scarcely remember his given name. Edgar was a collector of particular items, things that possessed great powers. It was his blessing and his curse that he was put on this earth to gather such items, once an item was in his possession it would never again fall into human hands. What he sought at this time was a sword that had been forged when the fallen angels had walked the earth, and he would stop at nothing until it was in his possession. He lit another of the strong black tobacco cigarettes and turned his attention to documents he had just purchased. The last known sighting of the weapon he sought had been in German at the end of the war, and these documents would lead him to what he desired.

Edgar was overcome by a fit of coughing, and the document he held was sprayed with fine drops of blood. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket Edgar wiped his lips; the white cloth came away stained crimson. Any mere mortal would have succumbed to cancer eating away at his lungs, a long time ago. But to Edgar, it was just a minor inconvenience. He had long since learned to live with the excruciating pain of his condition, he had sinned greatly and his penance was a long life. He would continue his task in a body that slowly decade until he had atoned for his sins, and he had a feeling it would be for a great many years yet. Edgar placed the documents to one side, and his mind turned to James. He had already looked deep into the young man’s soul; he was a gambler and a thief. Once he brought the rest of the documents, Edgar had decided that he would put an end to James’s sinning. Not only was Edgar a collector, but he was also a judge, jury, and executioner to a great many souls over the centuries. Sometimes he tried to remember all those he had slain, but their numbers were legion.

James walked slowly as he approached the security desk, the documents stuffed down his jeans chaffed against the top of his thighs. Since he had come in this morning he had convinced himself that he would be caught in the act, and the thought of this made him nauseous. But just like the last time the guard behind the desk ignored him, it was all too good to be true. He had just reached the lobby when the security guard called his name; he turned to face the guard with a growing feeling of dread. “Your paper James.” The man held this morning’s paper aloft, it was only then he remembered lending the paper to the guard at break time.

 By the time he had turned the corner outside, the bile from his stomach exploded on to the pavement. James leaned against a wall until the feeling of nausea passed, and he swore to himself that this was the last time he would steal anything. If the small man offered him a million quid, he would just tell him to fuck off. However, by the time he got to his front door, James’s thoughts had turned towards the money he would get for the stolen documents.

The moment he opened the door, his instincts told him that something was wrong. The atmosphere in the apartment just did not feel right; he had only taken a couple of steps inside when the smell hit him. That all too familiar stench of stale tobacco and decaying flesh, his heart sank when he realized the creepy little man had been to his home. Turning on his heels he was almost at the door when his unwanted visitor spoke. “I have your money here James. Did you bring the documents?” The urge to bolt from the apartment and keep running was strong, but a part of his mind told him he could never outrun this man. This man would find him no matter where he went, another realization hit him that just confirmed the thought. The man had called him by name and knew where he lived; James could not remember telling him either of these things. Turning again James walked into the sitting room with a growing sense of dread, the curtains had been drawn and the room was almost dark. A faint clicking sound came from the corner and the standing lamp lit up, the small man was seated in the armchair.

James took the documents from inside his jeans and left them on the coffee table, noticing there was an envelope on the table containing money. Anger flared briefly in him when he realized that the arrogant little man had known that James would carry out his instructions. “Bring them here to me James I want to study them.” The statement was made in a matter of fact way, but once again it was an order and not a request. James stood morosely in the middle of the room, while the small perused the documents. Finally, he closed the file with a smug grin on his face and turned his attention to James. “Excellent, James our transaction is complete.” He lit one of those foul-smelling cigarettes and gestured towards the envelope containing the money. “Count your money and I will be on my way.” James lifted the envelope with a trembling hand and began to count. Suddenly he sensed the man standing directly behind him, but before he could turn the antique stiletto blade pierced his flesh. The blade entered at an upward angle behind his right ear, it continued its journey until it pierced his brain.

James crumpled to the floor without as much as a sigh, the money in his hand falling about him like some strange offering. Edgar Hues replaced the knife in the custom made scabbard beneath his coat, and stood contemplating the body lying at his feet. Back in the distant past, he might have felt some emotion at the Killing of one so young, but there had been so many deaths at his hands that it no longer registered in his mind. In the beginning, his human emotions had troubled him greatly, but in the intervening decades, he ceased to experience any emotions. Edgar had evolved to become something that was both less than human and at the same time more than human. Edgar gathered the documents and secreted them beneath his coat; it never even entered his mind to retrieve the money from the floor. Money was nothing more than a tool for him, everything he ever needed was supplied to him. Over his long time on this earth, he had accumulated vast wealth, but it meant nothing to him. Edgar walked casually from the apartment, in the corridor he brushed past Sean and he was on the first landing before he heard Sean scream.

Murder at Devils Abbey part 7.

All through the meal, she could feel his eyes boring into her, but not in the way she was used to men looking at her. There was a time not too long ago, when she would have no compunction at using his obvious interest to her advantage, but lately, she was having serious doubts about her career choice. Besides for some reason she could not quite fathom, the interest he was showing did not feel as if it was sexual. If she was honest she would have to say his eyes on her felt creepy, from the corner of her eye she stole a glance at him. The expression on his face was of that of a hungry man staring at a juicy steak, perhaps it was sexual she thought, but it left her cold. Finally, the meal came to an end; she gathered her coat and bag and headed for the exit. It had been a mistake coming here in the first place, she had intended going straight home after the funeral but for some reason, she thought Hurley might be here. This thought brought a flush to her face; she only realized later that she was becoming besotted with Kevin Hurley. God knows why? After all, he was not exactly the catch of the day, he drank too much and she had heard all about his womanizing. The fact that there was every chance he would eventually be fired from the job, should have warned her off, but there was something about him that attracted her to him. Even now, thinking about him gave her a tingling feeling.

The lobby was deserted as most of the mourners had left the dining room, and gone straight to the bar. Shelia hurried to the door relieved that she was saved the bother of making small talk with anyone; she paused to put her coat on before reaching for the door handle. The hand that gripped her elbow came out of nowhere, and her heart skipped a beat. “Wait up, Ms Flannigan; surely you weren’t planning to leave before toasting the memory of your colleague”. Turning slowly she was confronted by the man that had been staring at her during the meal, Superintendent Joseph Quirke had a quizzical smile on his face that never quite reached his icy blue eyes. Shelia treated the superintendent to what she hoped was a friendly smile, all the time she wracked her brain to find an excuse for her early departure. “Come and have a drink with me, I have been meaning to have a chat with you for a while now. I like to keep abreast with how my staff is getting on.” Quirke all but dragged her to the bar by the elbow and led her to a quiet alcove away from the crowd, Shelia watched him walk to the bar with a rising feeling of unease.

Anyone that approached the alcove to engage the superintendent in chat was discouraged by a stern look from the man’s cold blue eyes. Shelia gulped from the wine glass and willed her mind to relax; there was something extremely intimidating about the company she found herself in. Quirke droned on about the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of Ian Crowley, but all the while his eyes scanned the room. It was almost as if he was trying to determine whether anyone was watching them, he asked a few polite questions about how the job was going for her, but, when she answered he did not seem to be listening, and cut her off mid-sentence on more than one occasion to change the subject. After a bit the conversation dwindled out altogether to be replaced by an awkward silence, Shelia made a point of looking at her watch to give the impression that she needed to be somewhere but he ignored it. Finishing her drink she excused herself and went to the bathroom, she needed to think of an excuse to get away from this man. When she returned a fresh drink was waiting for her, and Quirke seemed more relaxed and was smiling.

A peal of high-pitched laughter echoed in her head, and it took a moment to realize that it was she that was laughing. For the life of her, she could not remember what was so funny, and this fact only caused her to laugh even more. A small voice of reason in the fog that seemed to have taken over her brain, pleaded with her to be quiet, reminding her that they were attending a funeral reception. “Are you alright Ms Flannigan, you seemed to have gone very pale?” A voice drifted to her from somewhere close, but she was finding it hard to focus and the room was tilting. A face suddenly came into focus, a handsome man with the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen. “Perhaps I better get you home; it has been a trying few days for us all.” A strong arm went around her waist and helped her to her feet, just as well because the floor was tilting and she felt unsteady in her high heels. The next thing she remembered was being placed in the passenger seat of a car, her skirt rode up past her stocking tops exposing the pale flesh of her thighs. But, the handsome man was a perfect gentleman, and he tugged her skirt back down to preserve her modesty. “Why thank you, sir,” she said, or at least that was what she intended to say, but she could not be sure that the words came out. She felt a hand brush against her breast, and the last thing she heard was the click of the safety belt locking in place. A part of her wondered whether Hurley was driving her someplace, perhaps he was taking her home to ravish her; Shelia smiled at this thought before slipping into unconsciousness. Quirke looked across at her but his expression held no smile.

The afterglow from the lightning danced in his eyes and it took a while for his night vision to return, getting out of the car he walked to the big wrought iron gates. The effects of the whiskey he had consumed earlier were waning now, and Hurley was having serious doubts. How was he going to explain why he was trespassing on the property of one of the country’s most senior judges? What he was intending to do was ridiculous, he had come here to confront a high court judge on the suspicion of being a Satanist and murderer, and all on hearsay from a priest that liked to spike his tea with whiskey. All this would achieve was to finally get him sacked from the job, and more than likely prosecuted. What he was avoiding thinking about was the real reason he came here, and it was far more than confronting Alexander Hartman. Kevin Hurley had come here emboldened by whiskey, to put an end to what Hartman and his cohorts were doing, and he had every intention of doing so outside the law. However, his mind was not about to let him ignore this fact any longer, the reality was that these people could only be dealt with outside the law, and his career was as good as over anyway.

Hurley returned to the car and drove it further down the road; he found an overgrown forestry road and parked the car. He was just approaching the gate when the lights of an oncoming car caused him to hide in the shadows, the car came to a stop at the gates and a figure wearing a hooded coat got out and pressed the buzzer. He just made it through the gap in the closing gates as the tail lights of the car disappeared around a bend in the driveway. Now that he was inside the grounds the anxiety began to build, but he pushed it from his mind and headed in the direction of the big house. He moved into the tree line, being careful to keep next to the road as the storm intensified, but for some reason, he kept having to stop to reorient.  One moment he could reach out his foot and touch the road, and the next he was stumbling around searching for that same road. It did not take long until he was lost with no idea which way he was going, it was ridiculous because it was a small wooded area yet it felt as if was in a vast forest. But even worse than the disorientation was the feeling that he was not alone in the trees, on more than one occasion when the lightning lit up the trees, he was sure he saw figures moving in his peripheral vision. This stand of trees was quickly becoming a fearful place for him, there was a bad atmosphere in the place and the storm was not helping.

Time had lost all meaning, and Hurley had to keep reminding himself where he was, and why he was even here. It was the most surreal experience he could remember having, that was apart from the experience at the ruined church, which had led him to almost killing himself in a car wreck. He staggered through the wooded area desperately trying to cling to some notion that he was still in the real world, it was as if he had somehow crossed an invisible line into a different dimension. The small part of his mind that was still capable of logic thinking, tried hard to convince him that what he was experiencing was not real. But the fear he was experiencing felt all too real, even though his mind did its best to convince him that the fear was unfounded. The visions that had manifested themselves in his peripheral vision suddenly began to make their presence felt in other sensory fields. Lisping voices whispered among the leafless trees, he could not make out what they said but he knew they were speaking about him. A skeletal hand reached out and raked bony fingers across his face, the cold sensation of rain running down his face was joined now by the warmer blood from his damaged cheek. A low whimpering sound reached his ears, and it took him moments to realize that sound was coming from him. A sheet of lightning lit up the trees and the skeletal hand was illuminated, however, it was nothing more than a low hanging branch.

A wave of relief washed over him but it was short-lived, the voices began again and their insidious whispering burrowed into his brain. He needed to get out of these woods before he lost all touch with his sanity; he had visions of being found dead from hypothermia among the trees. Hurley took off running blindly through the darkness, things reaching out and snatching at his clothes and flaying the skin from any exposed flesh. He fell and got up to continue running only to fall once again, he was exhausted now but he kept moving forward. The whispering voices threatened to make his brain explode, and he was in full panic mode now. A figure appeared directly in his path and he screamed, veering away he trundled on with eerie laughter following behind.  More half-seen apparitions closed in on him and he changed course time and time again, his legs began to feel like rubber and his heart pounded in his chest. Tears joined the rain and blood that flowed freely down his face, and he half expected his overworked heart to fail him. Something caught his eye and he turned, a faint twinkling of lights could be seen through the trees. Summoning every last ounce of energy he drove himself on towards the lights, something gripped at his foot and he fell, he kicked back against it and crawled forward. Suddenly he was in the open on grass; he lay prostrate on the soaking earth, exhausted but relieved to have left the woods behind him.

The cold began to leave him and numbness had set in, he was not sure how long he had been lying there. Part of his mind pleaded with him to get up, but he was so sleepy he just wanted to close his eye and drift off. Concentration was difficult and his mind seemed to have gone into slow motion, perhaps if he slept for a while longer it would clear his head. “Get up Hurley, please get up. You are not sleepy you are dying, you are experiencing advanced hypothermia. Get up or you will die here!” The urgent voice roused him and he lifted his head, it was a woman’s voice but he could see no one near him. With an enormous effort, he dragged himself upright and began to stagger towards the lights. With every passing moment, his mind began to slowly clear, and by the time he drew near the big house, he remembered why he was here. He made it as far as the back yard of the house and rested against the wall, he was thinking much clearer now and realized he needed to get in out of the elements if had any hope of surviving this. When he finally reached the back door he was elated to find that the lock had been damaged, he let himself in and found himself in a pantry.

Tingling sensations in his extremities were quickly followed by stabbing pain as his circulation began working once more; he was cold again and shivering, the sound of his chattering teeth seemed frighteningly loud. Hurley knew his priority was to get out of these wet clothes, but the thought of wandering naked about this rambling old house just served to make him feel even more vulnerable. The house itself was deathly silent, the lack of any sound making the atmosphere feel oppressive and intimidating. He moved through the dark pantry trying to be as quiet as possible, a part of his mind reminding him that the house was so large and sprawling that a gala ball could be taking place somewhere in the big building. Hurley searched the adjoining rooms until he stumbled on a linen storage area; he peeled the wet clothes from his body and vigorously dried himself. Then he took a bedsheet and fashioned a toga of sorts, which he secured at the waist with his belt. Creeping into the main body of the house, he stealthily moved from room to room, but the house appeared deserted. He was just about to climb the stairs when he thought he heard muffled voices coming from above.

The sound of descending footsteps reached his ears, and he shrank back into the shadowy area beneath the staircase. Hurley moved silently backwards until his back met the wall, from here he would at least have a view of the area of the floor immediately surrounding the staircase. Moments later two men appeared and headed for the front door, it was impossible to tell who they were in the poor light with their backs facing him. The men exited the building leaving the door ajar, outside the storm continued to rage. What seemed a long time later they came back in, their breathing laboured as they struggled under the weight of a third person. Just as they entered a flash of light illuminated the reception hall, the light was reflected from a large mirror hanging on the wall. Hurley’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Shelia Flannigan hanging limply between the two men. One of whom he immediately recognised, Superintendent Quirke, supported Shelia on one side, while the other man Hurley did not recognise supported her limp figure on the other side. Something was said that he did not hear, and Quirke took the burden while the other man returned to lock the door. From where he stood the unconscious girl appeared to hold tight to Quirke in a parody of an intimate dance. The other man returned and between them, they carried or dragged her upstairs, it was a long and arduous task and they stopped frequently to catch their breaths.

Hands grasped at her clothing urgently undressing her, but there was nothing seductive in the act. Somewhere far off she heard the sound of material ripping; she was disappointed now as this was not how she imagined it. She wanted to tell Hurley to stop being so impatient, she wanted to scold him for his lack of finesse. But her throat would not form the words, she willed herself to open her eyes but they felt like lead and she only managed to flicker her eyelids, the words she wanted to say came out as a groan. “She is coming around, and it is too soon.” Shelia had a vague feeling the voice was familiar, but she neither grasped the meaning of the words or the identity of the speaker. Fear began to creep into her now and she redoubled her efforts to open her eyes, the lids eased up a fraction and vague shapes of people came into her vision. Something was wrong here, she knew now that Hurley was not present. She tried to sit up but all she managed was a weak spasm of her body, it was as if her spine was damaged. “Help me” In her mind, Shelia had screamed the words, but in reality, they came out as hoarse whisper no louder than the rustling of dead leaves. Someone said something she could not catch, and a sharp pain like a bee sting on her neck sent her tumbling again into the darkness. Shelia’s eyes closed again and a solitary teardrop ran down her pale cheek.

Hurley waited for quite a while before moving to the stairs, he had no clue what he could do, but he knew she was in danger. Standing at the foot of the stairs he contemplated finding a telephone and ringing the police, but how would he explain this. He must surely look like a madman, dressed in a sheet and covered in blood and dirt. He bore a vague resemblance of the man that had died on the cross; they would never take his word against that of a judge and a high ranking police officer. Another thing that tormented his mind was the fact that Shelia may be in their company through choice. Perhaps she just had a little too much to drink and they were taking her to sleep it off, after all, he knew nothing about her private life. Finally, he found the courage to go upstairs, he needed to find her and try and get some answers from her. The first floor was deserted too, and he eventually found the stairs leading to the top of the house. At the end of a short corridor, he heard the voices coming from behind a closed door, now that he was this close, Hurley’s courage once more began to desert him. He stood frozen in the spot until he heard the sound of someone trying to climb the stairs stealthily. He found a door and squeezed himself into the narrow closet.

McCluskey slumped against the wall his breathing shallow and ragged; the pain was threatening to plunge him into unconsciousness. Rivulets of clammy sweat ran freely down his face, and the shotgun felt like a ton weight in his hand. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he had the terrible sensation he was about to vomit, he closed his eyes and willed it to pass, and it slowly dissipated. He felt as weak as a kitten but happy he had made it this far. The muffled voices at the end of the short corridor told him the end was near, forcing himself to make one last effort he moved awkwardly towards the closed door, the pump-action shotgun clutched to his chest. He reached the door and knocked softly, the voices inside went silent and he knocked again. After what seemed an eternity the door slowly opened and a face peeked through the gap, the sound of the shotgun in the narrow corridor was deafening. Bishop Edmund Carey did not have a chance to speak, the blast took his head from his shoulders, his body fell backwards opening the door inwards. The area directly inside the door had taken on the appearance of an abattoir slaughter hall. The silence that descended after that made McCluskey wondered whether the blast had deafened him.

Hurley had no sooner thrown open the door when the second blast echoed around the narrow hallway, without even stopping to think he ran headlong through the open door only to trip over the headless corpse. Lying on the ground he looked around in disbelief, the entire front section of the room was awash with crimson. Alexander Hartman lay on the floor, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The centre of the judge’s chest was now just one big gaping wound, McCluskey stood swaying in the centre of the floor, surrounded by a pentagram and strange symbols. He never even looked in Hurley’s direction; his whole concentration was turned towards the man standing by the altar. Quirke stood over the prone naked body of Shelia Flannigan, in his hand he held a ceremonial dagger, and his eyes were firmly locked on the barrel of the shotgun McCluskey was trying to level on him. Hurley’s stomach lurched at the sight of Shelia’s lifeless body; the alabaster skin was stained with crimson. Quirke stood stock still like a deer in the headlights, his eyes darting between the gunman and the naked woman.

The flickering candles behind Quirke gave the impression his head was swaying like a cobra, it was obvious from his expression that he was trying to formulate a plan. Finally, he spoke his words faltering at first, but once he saw McCluskey halted his advance he became emboldened. “Take it easy McCluskey; we can come to some arrangement here. Now that Hartman and Carey are out of the way, we can lead the order. I can handle this so that we come out of it as heroes. This can all work out in our favour, we will be hailed as the people who solved the case.” McCluskey’s resolve appeared to falter now, and it looked as if Quirke had convinced him. Slowly he lowered the shotgun and Quirke took this as his chance to approach him, Hurley took this opportunity to try and get to his feet. McCluskey swivelled and the gun was suddenly pointed squarely at Hurley, Quirke made his move and rushed McCluskey. Just as he raised the ceremonial knife, Quirke’s foot slipped on the bloody floorboards, he stumbled giving McCluskey the advantage.  The shotgun roared again and Quirke was lifted bodily off the floor, he crashed against the altar spilling burning candles to roll about the floor.

Hurley was on his feet without realizing it, and he hurled himself at the man with the gun. He cannoned into McCluskey and they both went down hard, but Hurley was quicker to his feet. He made directly for the gun that had fallen from McCluskey’s hand, however, the other man was on him before he could turn the gun on him. Hurley was panicking now and he swung the gun like a club, the heavy stock connected with McCluskey’s head. A sickening crack sounded and McCluskey’s head hung at an awkward angle, the man toppled to the floor and lay still. Weariness washed over him and he wanted to sit down, but the crackling sound and the smell of smoke alerted him to another danger. He approached the naked girl and was surprised to find tears streaming down his face; he hesitantly lowered his ear to her chest and detected a heartbeat. He pulled her from the altar and all but dragged her downstairs, by the time he got her to the car the top floor of the big house was ablaze.

The small office was accessible by rickety wooden stairs; layers of dust remained on the higher shelves. The fly spotted window looked out on a narrow side street and the top floor of a pawn shop building. It was situated in a part of town that had long since seen better days, but the rent was affordable and included the tiny apartment above the office. Hurley sat facing the window and sipped from the large whiskey, he stared out onto the narrow side street but his mind’s eye showed a different vista. He could not get the image out of his mind of the girl; he often thought it was a mistake going to see her in that institution. The once pretty features were strangely blank now, he had held her hands and stared into her eyes, but he saw no sign of recognition. The doctor told him it was impossible to say how Shelia’s recovery would progress, and he promised he would return soon, but that had been months ago. His muse was interrupted by the jangling ring of the phone; he picked it up and answered. “Hello, Hurley investigations, how can I help you?”   

Murder at Devils Abbey part 6.

The leaden skies and heavy drizzle made the morning seem dark and dismal, a casual observer might be forgiven for thinking it was approaching evening time instead of eleven am. Uniformed officers had taken up position on either end of the narrow street diverting traffic to an alternative route, in the doorway of the church an anxious-looking altar boy maintained watch, his gaze firmly fixed on the end of the street. When he glimpsed the hearse approaching he hurried inside and moments later the solemn sound of the funeral bell echoed in the silence, the altar boy reappeared followed by a priest. The hearse came into view flanked by police on motorcycles, the hearse pulled over to the kerbside and the outriders continued up the street until they disappeared from view. Ian Crowley was been given a hero’s funeral, a huddle of press photographers moved forward and a myriad of flashbulbs lit up the scene. The photographers quickly moved their attention from the dead to the living, as they jostled each other to get in position to photograph the grieving widow, as she climbed out of the limousine directly behind the hearse. The harsh light of the flashbulbs highlighted the deathly pale of the woman’s complexion, made all the more noticeably by the black mourning clothes. The unfortunate woman stood frozen on the spot, a look of confusion and fear evident on her pale face, her red-rimmed eyes wide with shock. A ripple through the crowd of mourners ended with two burly men stepping forward, and intervening by shepherding her away from the paparazzi. As the rear of the hearse was opened the mourners surged forward and the photographers were pushed further away, eventually, they turned their attention to the crowd, searching for further photo opportunities.

Hurley scanned the crowd and noticed among the dignitaries there was more than the widow with tear-stained faces; it appeared that several of Crowley’s girlfriends had turned up. Hurley scanned the crowd until he caught a glimpse of Shelia Flannigan; she was towards the back of the throng. For a moment he contemplated joining her but thought better of it. It would not exactly help her career if she was seen to be too friendly with him. Instead, he remained in the car until the coffin and mourners had all filed into the church, even then he chose to slip into the side aisle and stood in the shadows at the back. Ian Crowley’s long-suffering wife was being comforted by a man in his sixties, who Hurley presumed was her father. While four rows of seats behind her, another woman sat weeping, the woman whose bed Crowley had just left before being murdered. He wondered how many more women in the crowd had shared their bed with the late inspector; the priest cleared his throat and began the ceremony. Hurley suddenly lost interest in the crowd and concentrated on the priest, it took him a moment to realize what had drawn his attention to the holy man. He listened intently to the man for a few moments, and this confirmed what he had first thought. He had heard that voice before, coming from behind a twisted elder tree at the ruined church.

The morning had gone from bad to worse; the persistent drizzle had turned into sleety rain, and a bitter easterly breeze had picked up. From where he stood sheltering beneath an ancient yew tree, all Hurley could see of the burial was a sea of black umbrellas. Disjointed words from the priest’s eulogy were snatched by the breeze and carried to Hurley, not enough that he might make any sense of what was being said, but the tone of the priest’s words seemed somehow disingenuous. The crowd huddled at the graveside shifted uncomfortably as the breeze strengthened, driving sleet into their faces. The priest began to speak faster and it obvious to Hurley that the man was anxious to get out of the miserable weather conditions. He finished speaking and gave the final blessing, then stopping only briefly to offer a few words of comfort to the widow, he hurried from the cemetery. Hurley watched the priest’s progress, and when he reached the gate Hurley walked unhurriedly after him. Hurley reached the road just in time to see which direction the priest drove off in, and he walked briskly to his car and followed the holy man.

Hurley knew that there was a meal being laid on at a local hotel for the mourners, but it seemed the priest had no desire for the company. He drove directly to the parochial house, which was situated in grounds a little outside town; Hurley parked outside the entrance gate and waited for the priest to settle in before walking to the door and ringing the doorbell. The stern-faced woman that answered the door eyed him suspiciously when he asked to see the priest. He could tell she was contemplating lying to him, but the parked car that the priest had just exited, would immediately alert him to a lie if she said he was not in. Eventually, she turned on her heels and went in search of the priest, leaving Hurley standing on the doorstep getting even wetter than he already was. Only a few moments passed before the holy man appeared, if he was surprised to see Hurley at his door, he managed to hide it well. “Come in Mr. Hurley, I had an idea you would be wanting to speak with me sooner or later”. The priest led Hurley to his study where a fire was blazing in the grate; the heat in the room was a welcome change from the conditions outside.

How long he had been in this hell hole he could not say, one moment he would open his eyes and it would be light, the next it would feel as if he just blinked and it was pitch dark. Whenever he tried to move the intense pain would send him spiraling into a black pit, the part of his mind that remained rational tried to get him to understand that he was slipping in and out of consciousness. In his rare lucid moments, he would try and piece together the events that had brought him to this, but he was exhausted and it was hard to concentrate. Whenever he drifted off into one of those deep sleeps, he would have the most terrifying dreams. Even when he was awake he fancied that he heard things moving outside the dank spot where he lay, he was constantly cold and his throat was parched. A terrifying screeching sound awoke him from a deep sleep, and it was daylight, however, the light was always subdued here. The screech broke the silence again and his heart almost stopped, he lifted his head and the sudden movement caused the screeching raven to take flight. McCluskey was still weak but his mind felt clearer, gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain he dragged himself into a sitting position. He closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to remain conscious until the pain had receded, and when it passed he took his first real look at his surroundings.

He was in what appeared to be a long-abandoned outbuilding, thick vegetation and branches obscured the opened windows blocking most of the light. Even the doorway was almost completely obscured by the undergrowth. The roof had fallen in from one side and he was beneath the part the still clung stubbornly to the sidewall, he had no idea how he came to be here, he only knew he was in pain. A quick exploration of his left leg soon revealed the source of the pain, at least the source of the most intense pain. A long shard of slate had sliced the side of his calf open and was lodged behind his kneecap, his forehead had a jagged gash that ran over both eyes and his torso felt as if a horse had trod all over it. It hurt him to breath and he guessed he had also damaged his ribs, he was tired again and he felt like going back to sleep, but a voice screamed in his head that if he did, he would die here.

 Concentrating as hard as he could, he struggled to remember how he had come to be here until he began to piece together snatches of memory. Once his mind began to work it came flooding back to him, he had been in the woods and something was chasing him. He remembered falling and crawling on his hands and knees, then he was dropping and everything went blank. Every time he attempted to dislodge the shard of slate from his knee, the pain was so intense that he feared he would pass out again. In the end, he tore the lining from his jacket and bound the leg, leaving the offending slate still embedded in his flesh. It took him what seemed like forever but he managed to crawl outside, he was in a long-abandoned slate quarry. A vertical line of broken foliage led from the rim of the quarry fifteen feet above, it was the trail left by him when he fell; he must have crawled into the hut before passing out. An hour later and after a lot of pain McCluskey was on his feet, using a branch from a fallen tree as a crutch he slowly made his way out of the quarry. Thirty minutes later he was out of the wood on the manicured lawn behind the big house, and fifteen minutes after that he had gained access to the scullery by forcing the back door.

The big house was deserted and silent as a grave, the staff was off, which meant that Alexander Hartman was out of town. McCluskey was fully aware that by now the police would be searching for him, a doctor or hospital was out of the question. He decided he would rest up here for a while, and when Hartman got back he would finish what he had already started. Most of the rooms in the rambling old house had not been used since Hartman had inherited the place, apart from the ground floor and his bedroom, Hartman used only one other room. It was a huge area at the top level where he held ceremonies, so all McCluskey had to do was avoid these places. The brandy he had consumed served to dull some of the pain, but removing the slate from his flesh was still agonizing, and by the time he had dressed the wound he was drained. He made his way to the east wing of the house and found a bedroom that looked like it had not been used for years, locking the door he lay on the bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The Georgian house stood at the end of a quiet cul- de- sac, nothing on the outside of the building gave any hint that it was anything other than a private dwelling. However if one would spend enough time observing the building, it would be noticeable that well-dressed men could be seen coming and going from the house throughout the day. Evenings appeared to be particularly busy, however, the people entering and leaving the building did so quietly and discreetly. The house was home to one of the most prestigious private gentlemen’s clubs in Dublin, here the people who wielded the real power in the country met to discuss their affairs over fine food and expensive brandy. Alexander Hartman sat in a corner of the library, his face hidden by the pages of the paper he appeared to be reading. However he had no interest in the newsprint before him, it was his way of discouraging any of the other handful of people in the room, from trying to engage him in conversation. His mind was taken up with other matters that were unfolding further down the country. A discreet cough caused him to lower the paper to find a man in a butler outfit standing before him; he held a silver tray on which a telephone was placed.

The employee of the club placed the phone on the side table and plugged the cord into a socket on the wall, Hartman waited until the man had left the room before picking up the receiver; a brief crackle of static was followed by the voice of the receptionist. “One moment Mr. Hartman while I connect your call” The conversation was brief and to the point, it was not exactly what he would have hoped to hear, but at least it was not bad news. McCluskey’s car had been found at the bottom of a ravine, his body had not been recovered yet however the source was confident it would be only a matter of time. Hartman would have preferred to receive confirmation of McCluskey’s demise, but this information would have to do. Once the call finished, Hartman put through calls to a few people. Now that he would be returning home the following day, he wanted to organize a meeting; it was time he took the order in a new direction. Hartman had grown weary of some of the members, and now that Crowley and McCluskey were out of the way it was an opportunity to reform the order. This line of thought left him feeling exhilarated, he lit a cigar and savored his Remy Martin. He was looking forward to returning to his little fiefdom.

Hurley sat silently listening to the priest’s monologue, if he closed his eyes it would have been easy to convince himself he was listening to some late-night show on the radio. The soughing of the wind, and the tapping of the rain against the windowpane, only serving to make the situation more surreal. A part of his mind wished it was no more than another horror story being narrated by a paid actor, but the somber expression and the tone of the priest’s voice left no doubt that the man was not taking this tale lightly. Hurley could see that recounting the tale was an ordeal for the man; it was a secret the priest had lived with for quite a while, a secret that had weighed heavily on him. In the beginning, Hurley felt disdain and anger for the priest, but now it was beginning to become apparent the man was caught between a rock and a hard place. He had come to learn of the activities of the Satanists via the confessional box, which in itself precluded him from telling the full story. But to give the man his dues the priest had made several anonymous reports to the police, but as time went on he learned the extent of power wielded by the Order. They had a hand in every aspect of society including the Police, Judiciary, and even his organization, so in the end, he had done his best to forget about the Order and went back to ministering to his flock.

The stern-faced woman entered the room without knocking; she had a tray with cups and a pot of tea. The priest halted mid-sentence and his gaze fell to his lap. “Is everything alright with you, father?” She asked the priest, while looking daggers at Hurley, the priest looked up at her with a forced smile and assured her everything was okay. By the look on her face as she left, Hurley felt she was not convinced by the priest’s answer. Sighing heavily the priest busied himself pouring tea, after which he took a bottle of whiskey from behind his chair and added a generous measure to both cups. They both sipped the laced tea in silence, the priest staring at a point somewhere high on the wall behind Hurley’s chair. Eventually, he resumed talking. “You see, Mr. Hurley the Order has tentacles reaching into every aspect of society, and I firmly believe that they go right to the top. When you started investigating first, I foolishly believed that perhaps at last someone could find justice for their victims. But I have had time to reflect on the matter since; people in the higher echelons of this, such as Alexander Hartman are beyond the law. It is my advice to you, forget about the skeleton at the abbey and forget about this place. Walk away and don’t look back, there is nothing at the end of this but your doom.”

He stopped outside the door to pull the brim of his fedora further over his forehead, the story he had just listened to had left him with a depressing feeling of hopelessness. Deep in his heart, he realized that the priest’s advice was sound, he had been in the force long enough to know that the law applied to most, but not to all. The hairs at the back of his neck began to rise, and he had the feeling he was being watched, Hurley swiveled his head just in time to see the stern-faced housekeeper step back from the window. The priest had been dead right he needed to walk away from this place, but he had no intention of doing so until he warned Shelia Flannigan just exactly how deep this went. He walked to the car and sat behind the wheel, but instead of driving off he lit a cigarette and stared out at the rain. Several cigarettes later he still could not see a way to deal with this, every way he weighed up the situation Hartman and his cohorts held all the cards. The feeling of hopelessness he felt directly after leaving the priest had intensified, and now it had grown to encompass not only the crime but his life in general. Hurley had spent his entire adult life in law enforcement, and what did he have to show for it? He had an ex-wife who would not shed a tear at his graveside that was if she even turned up for the funeral, an unhealthy dependency on alcohol and work colleges that were at best indifferent towards him.

The sudden onset of self-analysis had a sobering effect on him, but he could not deny the conclusions. Hurley’s life was a mess and the light at the end of the tunnel had long since been extinguished, and now he suddenly realized that walking away suggested he would have somewhere to go to. But there was no denying that this was the end of the road for him, he was over forty years of age and no prospects either in his job or future. It was the road to Damascus moment in Kevin Hurley’s miserable life, the time for saving his skin was past now. His normal reaction in situations where he felt threatened was to go into self-preservation mode, but there was only one satisfactory outcome for this, and it would be one that would not fare well for him. It felt almost liberating that for once in his life he knew exactly what he needed to do, but first, he wanted to have a chat with Shelia Flannigan. He paused to examine his feeling towards her; there was no denying that she was an extremely desirable woman. But it was more than just a physical attraction, and he realized that she was the first person to treat him like a human being in a very long time.

This was off-season for the hotel and the majority of cars parked in front of the hotel belonged to mourners attending the funeral reception. From where he sat Hurley had a good view of the cars, but there was no sign of Flannigan’s car. Then again he thought she may have traveled as a passenger with someone else, he contemplated going inside to look for her but decided against it. With what he was planning to do, Shelia would be better off not seen in public with him. He was in a bind now that he had failed at the first hurdle; he was convinced that he would find her here. Then again it might be better that he was alone; he needed time to think about this. A couple of hours and several large whiskeys later, Hurley put pen to paper and wrote a letter explaining everything to Shelia Flannigan. Bolstered by the comforting glow of the whiskey, he decided that tonight was as good a night as any to confront the man at the center of all this. He armed himself with an Asp baton and a Taser, which was all the armament available to him, and got in the car. It was dark by the time he got to Shelia’s apartment, it appeared that she was not at home and he slipped the letter under the door.

Hurley cursed his sense of direction, all of these country roads surrounding the city looked the same, especially in the dark. Not for the first time since setting out, he wished Shelia was driving. Twice since leaving town he had taken the wrong turn, ending up in farmyards. To make matters worse a storm had made its way in off the Atlantic, high winds and driving rain combined with thunder and lightning to make conditions miserable, and visibility was extremely poor. He was reduced to driving at a snail’s pace as debris from the surrounding trees bounced off the windscreen; any enthusiasm for the task had been all but soaked out of him by now. He had been foolish to even attempt this fool’s errand; the folly of his thinking was becoming clearer by the minute to him. He decided that once he got onto the main road he would head back to town, his self-recriminations were suddenly interrupted when a huge tree branch crashed onto the road ahead of him. The fact he was traveling so slow was the only reason he could bring the car to a stop before crashing into the branch, he got out and approached the branch blocking the road. His heart sank when he realized it would take a chainsaw to clear the road; walking back to the car he spotted the narrow lane on his left. It was just a little wider than the car, but it might be a better option than trying to reverse until he found a place to turn the car. The lane brought him out onto another minor road, and directly in front of him was the entrance to what he believed was a big house. A flash of lightning illuminated a faded sign on the pier. “Réalta na Maidine” The Morning Star in Gaelic, he had found Alexander Hartman’s house.

Murder at Devils Abbey part 5.

There comes a time in everyone’s life when the thing they feared most becomes unavoidable, and he had known this for several years now. However, to be sitting there with the proof of this grasped tightly in his trembling hand had an almost surreal feeling to it. Mind you he had no one to blame but himself, right from the beginning he had felt that he did not belong in the company of these people. But that was neither here nor there now, he had involved himself in heinous crimes and he was caught like a fly in a spider’s web. He did not need to wrack his brains to know where it all went wrong, they had given him what they consider a simple task and he had failed to carry it out. All he had to do was put the body in the boot of his car and take it for disposal, but he had chickened out. The fear had overwhelmed him, he had convinced himself that he would be stopped on the road, and the body of the murdered woman would be discovered in his vehicle. They had an ingenious method of disposing of their victims; one of the members was the owner of pet food factories. The bodies were placed in the gigantic industrial processors, and domestic pets all over the country ate the evidence.

Against his will, McCluskey’s mind dragged him back to that fateful night, and a cold feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He had relived that night so many times in his head that he could practically smell the vegetation, and feel the cool breeze on his skin. The debauchery had fizzled out and most of the participants had donned their ordinary clothes, and driven back to whatever passed for their normal lives. Whatever narcotic or psychotic episode that had taken hold of him was beginning to wear off, and he could clearly remember the cold night air on his naked body as he stood staring in disbelief at the body of the red-haired girl. It was only when Crowley laid a hand on his naked shoulder did he realize he was not alone in the ruins, Crowley threw a tarpaulin and a claw hammer, on the ground by the altar on which the girl lay spread angled, she was nailed to an X made up of rough beams. “Pull the nails and wrap her in the tarpaulin, you don’t want her blood getting in the boot of the car. I’ll help you to get her to the car, drive straight to the factory you will be expected”.

The wooden frame on which the girl was fixed was dismantled and placed in the back of a van, Crowley climbed in the passenger seat and the van drove off. It was only when he was alone staring at the macabre bundle in the boot of his car that the fear and doubts crept into his head, what if the corpse was discovered in his car before he could get rid of it. He had dragged the dead girl wrapped in the tarpaulin back down to the wooded area; there he had dug a shallow grave using the back of the claw hammer and his bare hands. It took him hours and even when he was driving home, he knew it had been a huge mistake. They contacted him the following morning, once he had not turned up at the factory that night, the order was immediately informed. After the initial outburst of anger and show of disappointment on their behalf, they had softened. They told him they would see to moving the body, they even told him not to worry about it. Shortly after that, he had received the photos in the mail, the moment that skeleton had resurfaced he realized what they had in mind for him.

It was obvious to him that the newspaper article had been dictated to the reporter, it was nothing less than a press release. McCluskey could even picture Crowley emphasizing the way he wanted the article written, he had watched the same man manipulated the press on several occasions to further his nefarious agendas. McCluskey knew that the jig was up for him, he would never see the inside of a courtroom; that would be too risky for the hierarchy of the order. McCluskey was already penciled in for suicide, this could be voluntary, or they would lend a hand. He had outlived his usefulness to them and now it was time to pay his dues, he could imagine the headlines “The second suspect in Devils Abbey murder case, commits suicide.” All wrapped up in a nice neat bow, Flannigan, and Hurley would be forced out and everything would go back to normal. Hurley had started digging his own grave a long time ago, with a disciplinary record like his; it would child’s play to give him the bum’s rush. Shelia Flannigan was on probation and the superintendent would ensure she would not go any further.

McCluskey threw the paper in the corner of the room; the fear that had decimated him for years was gone now. The fear had caught up with him now and turned into seething anger, he was resigned now that it was the end of the road for him. But he was going to go out under his terms; he retrieved a bottle of vodka from the freezer and filled a glass, but instead of knocking it back like normal, he sipped it as he formulated a plan. By the time he had mulled over the situation in his mind, a strange mixture of emotions had settled over him. Even the intense anger and hatred he felt for these people had been pushed to the back of his mind, in its place was a weird acceptance of his situation, combined with a giddy sort of anticipation for what he intended to do. When everything including hope is taken from a man, then he is capable of things that he might never have even anticipated, in the normal run of events. It was crystal clear to McCluskey that the long-awaited retribution for his sins was now at hand, but it was also clear to him that others were every bit deserving of punishment as he was. With a calmness that surprised even him, he set about preparing for his swan song. He could picture a far more pleasing headline than the order had in mind for this ending.

His hand brushed the cold metal of the strongbox, just at it had done so many times before, but this time he just shoved it one side and groped around until his fingers felt the oil-soaked rag. He brought it to the desk and carefully unwrapped it, the dull sheen of the metal and the shape of the handcrafted Luger never failed to mesmerize him. It had been part of a cache of weapons recovered that had been stolen from a collector, the moment he had set eyes on it he had fallen in love with the weapon. By the time the weapons were recovered several had already been sold off, so no one even missed the German pistol. He had seen a copy of the document of provenance for the gun; it had been manufactured in 1943 and had been owned by a Waffen SS officer. This was part of the attraction, to know it had been used in war. He had no doubt it had spilled innocent blood, and it only seemed fitting that it would now spill the blood of the guilty. McCluskey removed the magazine from the grip and carefully loaded the eight 9mm rounds, for the first time in a very long while he felt content.

The sensation of suffocating awoken him gasping, he had been dreaming about being submerged in water struggling to get his head above the surface. Now that he was awake he still struggled to breathe, something was covering his nose and mouth. A gossamer substance like a spider’s web, his hand automatically went up and brushed the offending material from his face. It took him another while to figure out where he was, he was in bed and the thing that almost suffocated him was the long hair of the woman lying naked beside him. Crowley glanced at his watch and groaned, it was nine-thirty in the morning and he had not made it home last night. He was going to have to invent some plausible excuse for his wife again, she would pretend she believed it, but he would see the hurt in her eyes. He should have left the bitch years ago, but the house and everything in it had come from her parents, hell, even the car he drove was paid for by her old man. He despised that woman, in the beginning, he wanted to leave her, but she would not divorce him on religious grounds. Her father had bribed him to stay by building them a house and showering them with gifts, and to be honest he did not want to cut himself off from those bribes.

He dressed hastily and as quietly as possible, he did not fancy having the inevitable conversation with the naked woman in the bed. Lately, she was beginning to get on his nerves as well; the silly bitch had gotten it into her head that they were going to be a couple. As if he was going to get out of one suffocating relationship, and just to fall into another. Crowley paused buttoning up his shirt and studied the woman in the bed, she was fifteen years his junior. His eyes traced the contours of her body lingering on her large firm breast, before meandering their way down to her carefully manicured genital area. It was a pity really because he liked her; well at least he liked her availability. She was insatiable in bed and nothing was too depraved for her, but the circles he moved in had plenty of depraved women available to him with no strings attached. He finished dressing and slipped out of the small neat apartment, the woman was still in an exhausted sleep after her efforts of the previous night. Outside the front door, he paused to light a cigarette and turned his mind to what he was going to tell his wife.

He allowed himself a fleeting smile when he saw Crowley exit the apartment; it had been child’s play to track him down. When he went to Crowley’s house and the car wasn’t there, he had come directly here. Crowley had a weakness where he liked to boast about who he was sleeping with, and what they got up to. So McCluskey had a choice of several addresses about the city. But Crowley had spent so much time lately boasting on how the big-breasted girl from records liked to do the dirty stuff; he had opted to come here first. The street was quiet and Crowley had parked his car in a deserted alleyway, McCluskey watched him walk to the car and followed him. McCluskey stood a few feet behind as he watched Crowley fidgeting with the door, the inspector finally got the keys in and unlocked the car. McCluskey waited until he had opened the door and then he softly called his name, Crowley wheeled around and a look of confusion crossed his features. Even after the 9mm bullet entered his left eye and took most of the back of his head away, Crowley never lost that look of confusion. McCluskey spent a few moments staring down at the body, he was expecting a rush of emotion but his mind remained calm, almost indifferent to the bloody deed.

McCluskey was almost at the car when he heard the woman screaming, he looked back to see the pretty woman kneeling by Crowley’s body. The thin dressing gown she had hastily thrown on flapped in the breeze, beneath it her naked body looked as if it was fashioned from alabaster. She got to her feet and turned in his direction, she held her arms out, treating him to a full-frontal view her glorious nakedness. She truly was a stunning lady and he was transfixed by the sight, then her features twisted and she began to wail again like a banshee. Suddenly she reminded him of something he had seen in the shadows during one of the ceremonies, he shuddered and turned to head to the car. He had traveled less than a mile when the sound of sirens broke the morning quietness, minutes later he was passed by a patrol car followed by an ambulance. The only thing he could think of was how strangely calm he felt after years of anxiety. He took the left turn at the edge of town that would lead him to the big house, and for the first time in a very long time, he was not frightened of going there.

Shelia Flannigan paced up and down the bedroom floor dragging heavily on a cigarette; now and again she stopped and tapped her toe against the floorboards. Hurley could hardly concentrate on the newspaper article as he could feel her eyes on him; the fact that he was naked under the thin sheet did not help. “That fucker Crowley is up to something, I would not trust that slimy bastard as far as I could throw him by the bollocks. That pervert is setting us up for a fall; I mean it is obvious he is turning the spotlight on the station.” Hurley tuned her out and struggled to make sense of what was going on, Crowley was up to something there was no doubt about that, but he did not believe it was just about making them look bad. He handed her back the newspaper and swung his legs out of bed, if he thought she would leave the room or turn her back he was mistaken, Shelia just continued ranting about Crowley as he stood naked trying to put his pants on. It was only when he walked past her to the bathroom; that she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. By the time he had showered, she had coffee brewed and toast prepared.

Hurley waited in the car outside the police station; Shelia had gone in on a pretext she had left something in her desk. It was their only way to gauge what reaction if any the newspaper article had provoked in the office, he hoped no one wanted to know why she was there on her day off. Hurley watched the comings and goings at the front door of the station, for some reason the building was a hive of activity this morning. Perhaps the newspaper article had stirred up some kind of hornets’ nest, and when he saw the superintendent arrive and hurry inside he knew there was something major going on. When Shelia appeared at the door he could see even from a distance that she was rattled, her usual pale complexion was a deathly pale now. When she got behind the wheel she just sat there staring out the window, he had to put his hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Even then she just stared blankly at him for a long while; he lit a cigarette and handed it to her. Eventually, the blankness faded from her eyes, and she took a few deep breaths as if composing her thoughts. “Crowley is dead, gunned down in the street this morning. McCluskey is missing and a man fitting his description was witnessed leaving the scene.” Silence followed her statement as he could not think of anything to say, so they both sat staring as the activity at the entrance to the station intensified.

The barrister for the prosecution waffled on in his normal emotive language, while the jury sat staring at him, their faces a mixture of concentration and confusion. Hartman had been bored of the whole circus since shortly after the trial began, he sneaked a glance at the clock and stifled a yawn. He decided that once the man had finished his waffling, he would adjourn the court for lunch. Alexander Hartman had little or no interest what the public perceived as the justice system, the job was just a means to an end for him. In his opinion the ordinary masses deserved only the justice he and his ilk decided on, the people outside the order were in his mind little more than chattel. The pompous man below him finally finished his attempt to nail his point into the minds of the jury, and Hartman called time on the session. He had not even managed to disrobe when the clerk came knocking on the chamber door, Hartman took the note from the man’s hand and closed the door in his face, the moment he read the note he knew something was amiss. The superintendent had left a message asking him to contact him as a matter of urgency.

Hartman listened to the conversation without once speaking, when the man on the other end of the line finished talking, he hung up the phone without as much as a goodbye. To Hartman, even those in the inner circles of the order were little more than servants in his eyes. The only thing that had bothered him about the news he had just received, was the fact that he would have to dally in the city longer than he cared for. Other than that the situation could not have worked out any better, he had been meaning to clean house for a while now concerning the membership of the order. He intended that their particular branch of the order would become the most prestigious in the country. Before much longer, he wanted to be recognized as the most powerful practitioner of the black arts in the country, and to do this he needed people of a high caliber around him. The order had grown stale and needed new blood; he smiled to himself at this thought. People like Ian Crowley had become only so much baggage, and McCluskey was never anything more than a pawn. Well, he would be rid of both of these before long, and then he would work on ridding himself of some others. Alexander Hartman was well aware that McCluskey would go to the big house looking for him, and that he thought, with another smile would be the end of that. Hartman had long since prepared the house for such advents; it was well guarded by some extremely aggressive entities.

McCluskey parked by the big wrought iron gates, and his mind took him back to the last time he had been here. The ugly scrape on the side of the otherwise immaculate car was mute testimony to his state of mind on that night. The memory of his humiliation at urinating in his pants brought an intense flash of hatred to his mind for the owner of the big house. But curiously the emotion quickly evaporated, and his mind returned to the peculiar state of calmness he had been experiencing since deciding on this course of action. The house and grounds were surrounded by a high stone wall, and the top of the big gates was lined with spikes. Attempting to scale either the wall or gates might result in a nasty injury, and the last thing he wanted was to be unable to carry out his plan due to injury. Eventually, he started the car and drove slowly down the narrow lane that skirted the land; ten minutes later he found an area of the wall that needed repair. A section of the top of the wall had collapsed, and the resulting rubble made a convenient ramp for him to climb. McCluskey lit a cigarette and his mind wandered back to what his life might have been, but by the time he had finished the smoke, his mind had returned to the present. He turned the car towards the fall off on the other side of the lane, and once he had retrieved the bag from the boot, he released the handbrake and pushed the car over the drop off into a wooded gorge.

Once he was through the breach in the wall he was in another world, the dense woodland surrounding the house had an eerie feel to it. Before reading the article in the newspaper, McCluskey would never have even dreamed of entering these woods. A brief image flashed across his mind of the creature he had glimpsed on the night he had scraped the car, but he quickly pushed it from his mind. It did not matter what happened to him now, but he wanted to stay alive until he had dealt with Justice Alexander Hartman. He hit out in what he believed to be the general direction of the big house, but the woods seemed to be bigger than he thought. It was almost as if the wood itself was trying to ensnare him, hidden roots tripped him up and he fell. Low hanging branches snatched at his face taking flaps of skin from his cheeks, clumps of ferns disguised brambles that tore long furrows in his legs, blood ran down these furrows and pooled in his shoes. Before long he was exhausted and disorientated, and then the skies darkened and the deluge of rain arrived. For the first time since leaving the house this morning, the sense of calm determination began to desert him and he was afraid.

His breathing was ragged and his body felt drained of all energy, he had no idea how long he had been stumbling around in the dense woodland. It seemed like days ago since he had taken the Luger pistol from its hiding place beneath the floorboards, he broke through some thick undergrowth, and for the umpteenth time, he found himself in the same clearing beneath the gnarled old oak tree. Exhausted he sat beneath the creepy old tree and rested his back against the scarred trunk, all the bravado had deserted him now and the tears came thick and fast. It had been getting progressively darker, and he was not sure whether it was from the storm clouds or the passage of time. He glimpsed at his wrist before remembering he had lost his wristwatch, the strap had snagged on a branch and broken. An unnatural weariness washed over him and he closed his eyes, I will just rest here for a moment he thought and then move on. McCluskey awoke sometime later and it was dark, and he immediately felt that he was not alone in the woods. He got to his feet with the panic rising inside and blindly ran, he was gone several yards before he realized he had left the bag behind, and the pistol was no longer in his belt. He thought about going back, but he could hear things moving behind him. McCluskey tripped and fell and instead of getting up, he continued on his hands and knees, for the first time that day he realized that he wanted to live.

Murder at Devils Abbey part 2.

The road ahead of him faded in and out of focus, the rain on the windscreen only adding to the optical illusion; he knew there was something wrong but his mind could make no sense of it. He was driving on a country road, yet he had no recollection of how he had come to be there. The high hedgerow on his left kept veering out onto the road, and he had to continuously swerve to avoid it. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision, but this only served to instigate a pounding headache. Hurley felt as if he was drunk but could not remember having taken a drink, and to add to the complications a wave of tiredness settled over him. Suddenly his eyelids felt heavy and it was a herculean task to keep them open, nausea crept over him and it took every bit of self-control to keep from vomiting. His eyelids drooped and the scene in front of him narrowed, it was as if he was looking at the world through a letterbox.

He blinked and when he managed to open his eyes again the hedgerow was right in front of him, his sluggish reflexes let him down and he crashed straight through the hedgerow. The impact jolted him forward and the steering wheel smacked hard against his chest bone, the front of the car mounted the embankment and for a moment he was looking at the leaden skies. Vomit erupted from his mouth and the vision of the sky was obliterated, as the contents of his stomach smeared the windscreen. The bonnet of the car dipped suddenly and the wheels met the solid ground, the impact causing the car to list sideways and go into a roll. The steep incline helped the car’s momentum, and suddenly it was rolling, roof over chassis downhill at speed. His body was thrown about like a rag doll when the car finally came to a halt in a shallow stream; the abrupt stop propelled him halfway out of the broken windscreen. Hurley had taken quite a bit of damage, but by then he was mercifully unconscious and felt no pain.

“Kevin, Kevin can you hear me?” The soft voice drifted a great distance through the darkness; it had a concerned quality to it, which somehow gave him the will to drag himself from the darkness. He had been standing on the shore of a vast lake, the dark waters lapping at his feet and rising by the moment. Above him the skies had the ominous color of a purple bruise, he had never felt as alone, and he knew that if remained here much longer the dark waters would swallow him. “Kevin, wake up Kevin” He recognized that the voice calling him was all that prevented him from being lost forever, with every ounce of will power he dragged himself away from that dark lake and towards the soft voice. When he finally managed to open his eyes and focus, a blonde woman appeared in his vision, he said something to her and she laughed softly. “No Kevin! You really must have taken a bang on the head, I could never be mistaken for an angel, unless by someone with a head injury”. Shelia Flannigan smiled at him with a concerned look on her face and laughed softly again.

Two days after waking in a hospital bed to find Shelia Flannigan leaning over him, Hurley could just about sit up and hold a conversation. He was sore all over and a constant dull headache throbbed behind his eyes, whatever medication they were giving him made him drowsy and he slept at the drop of a hat. In between the bouts of drug-induced slumber he had begun to piece together fragments of what had occurred, he had gone to the ruined church and somehow fallen over and banged his head. He then must have tried to drive himself back and crashed the car; Shelia had told him that a local farmer had found him at the bottom of a steep field, more dead than alive. By the end of the week, he was feeling better and stir crazy had set in, the constant beep of the monitor beside the bed was like torture. Once he could get around on his feet, Hurley insisted on signing himself out.

He had sustained a concussion, three cracked ribs, minor cuts, and extensive bruising of his upper body, by the end of the following week the headache had disappeared, the cuts and bruises were healing well, but his ribs were still extremely tender. Shelia Flannigan spent more time around at his flat then she did at her place, but he had to admit that without her care, he would have been in real trouble. She did his grocery shopping, tidied the flat, and did his laundry, but most of all she kept him company during those long days convalescing. At one stage he found himself thinking that if he had met a woman like her before this, his life might have been different. But then again he thought the same about other women over the years, and there had been so many. But as his mother always said, he was too feckless to hold down a relationship. His ex-wife had screamed at him as he walked out the door, that he was a coward who was afraid of responsibility. He was almost completely recovered before Shelia broached the subject of the case, and even then she was slightly tipsy as they sat sharing a bottle of whisky and he had to ask.

Shelia hesitated when he asked her how the case of the dead girl had been progressing, he could almost see her mind working as she chose the right words. Before she answered she poured herself another large whisky and downed half of it in one gulp, but when she started to speak the words came out in a flood. “The morning that you had the crash, I was in early and the sergeant called me into the office. I no sooner had my arse in the chair when we were joined by Inspector Corrigan, they grilled me about what progress if any we were making. But they seemed more interested in how you were conducting the investigation, they told me that you were a womanizing drunk that did not know how to follow orders, and they told me that you weren’t to be trusted.” She paused to take a sip of her whisky, and he thought he saw a tear glisten in her eye. “They told me that they didn’t expect you to bring in a result in the case, and to be honest that idea seemed to please them. I was told to keep tabs on all your progress and report back to the sergeant, if I wasn’t willing to do this then I would be back in uniform or on the dole before I knew it. There is something very strange going on here Kevin, they don’t want this solved and you are to be the scapegoat”. Silence fell and they both sipped their drinks, each lost in their thoughts.

The man sitting opposite him did not make the slightest attempt to hide his dislike of Hurley; in his hand, he held the brief statement Kevin Hurley had made regarding the crash. The statement was bare bones and the details sketchy, but it was honest in so much as the details were as much as he remembered. He could tell McCluskey would have been happy to interrogate him further, but the fact that he had sustained a head injury in the accident or through the fall at the old church, cautioned the sergeant against pressurizing Hurley into adding further detail. It was obvious to anyone that cared to look, that McCluskey was straining to keep his anger in check. However, when Hurley handed him the cert declaring he was fit for work again, the anger briefly bubbled to the surface. “In my opinion Hurley, you were never fit for work, especially as a police officer”. Refusing to take the bait Hurley just stared back at him, as if he was unaware of the outburst. This caused the other man’s already high color to shift to a disturbing puce, and the hand holding the statement trembled noticeably.

A slight feeling of triumph played in Hurley’s mind at the obvious discomfort in McCluskey, however, it was short-lived. Reaching into the top drawer of his desk McCluskey withdrew a thick manila folder, and placed it before him on the desk, a sneer playing around the corners of his mouth. “I have been reviewing your service records Hurley, and if I am honest they don’t make for pleasant reading. Your discipline records are abysmal and your attitude leaves a lot to be desired”. It was McCluskey’s turn to look triumphant now, as he read through the various disciplinary reports that Hurley had accumulated over the years. “It seems that you have a problem with the drink Hurley and a total disregard for authority. I find myself wondering whether the drink might have been a contributing factor, in that little RCA that you were involved in. I have been having a few words with the superintendent, and we both agree that since you have accumulated quite a bit of annual leave that it is a good time to take a month or so off, to sort yourself out.” McCluskey returned the paperwork to the drawer and swiveled his chair to stare out the window. This was his way of ending the meeting in an undignified manner, a final insult to Hurley. Kevin had just reached the door when McCluskey spoke again, without even bothering to turn his chair. “Perhaps what you need to do most while on leave is to reflect on whether you are even fit for this job.”

The Well Bar was almost empty, a handful of old stagers scattered here and there sipping pints in silence. He could easily have avoided their company by taking a seat at the corner of the bar, but he craved total solitude at this time, so opted to do his drinking in the snug. This tiny area was a throwback to a bygone age, a little room that could seat no more than three people. A hatch with a sliding door on the wall provided for access to the bartender who served the drink through the hatch, it was where the women drank in the old days. A woman drinking in the bar with the men would be considered a scandal, so most pubs provided a snug back in those days. It was dimly lit with a plain wooded table and a cushioned bench against the wall for seating. Hurley sat in the snug lost in thought about his latest predicament; his only interaction with the outside world was to order another pint of Guinness and a glass of whiskey through the hatch when the need arose. Once the drink had worked its magic and dulled the anger, he began to wonder whether McCluskey was right. Maybe he should just call a halt to this charade he had been living; maybe he was never cut out to be a cop in the first place.

The drink had done its job and by the time he got home he was feeling comfortable numb, a pleasant velvety fog had smothered the anger and frustration in his mind. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, but he had been in worse states over the years. The morning would bring a much different outlook, but he tried not to dwell on this. The effects of the drink disappeared as if by magic when he discovered the door on his apartment was on the latch, his heart began to beat at a rapid rate, and his muscles tensed like springs. The adrenaline coursing through his system took over, and without even thinking he burst through the door preparing for a confrontation. It was only when he saw her curled up asleep on the couch, that he remembered he had given Flannigan a spare key to his place. She was out to the world and never even heard his dramatic entrance, a half-empty bottle of wine stood beside an empty glass on the floor next to her head.

Rather than disturb the sleeping woman, Hurley sat in the armchair and took in the glorious sight of her stockinged legs. Before long his eyes felt heavy and he too drifted off to sleep, a sleep disturbed by dreams of ancient sacrificial rites and the screams of a dying woman. When he awoke again it was to the mouth-watering smell of frying bacon, for a moment he thought he had drifted off to sleep in some café or other. Hurley moped up the last of the egg yolk from his plate with a slice of buttered bread; he was somewhat surprised that he had enjoyed the fry up. Normally after a feed of drink, the last thing on his mind was food, but his body had needed sustenance other than a liquid diet. Shelia Flannigan had eaten in silence, and he was too engrossed in his food to notice the expression on her face. But once he finished eating he sat back and lit a cigarette, when he looked across the kitchen table at her, he realized she was deep in thought. “What’s on your mind Flannigan, you look like you just discovered that you are nobody’s child?” This brought a fleeting smile to her face.

She leaned across the table to take a light for her cigarette, and her eyes locked on to his. Those hazel eyes appeared fathomless and seemed to be looking beyond his flesh and bone persona, and deep into the very essence of who Hurley was. He wanted to break the connection but he felt hypnotized by that bottomless gaze, it was Shelia that finally broke the connection, she took a deep drag from her cigarette and sat back before exhaling a cloud of smoke that completely concealed her face. Hurley felt as if he had just been released from a trance, he now realized that the whole situation was taking on an otherworldly feel to it. A brief image flashed across his mind of hooded figures and agonizing screams. The thick fog of cigarette smoke hanging between them gave her words a disembodied quality; it was as if she was speaking from the end of a long tunnel. For a moment he felt as if she was not even in the room with him, a ghostly voice from another dimension. The smoke drifted towards the yellowing ceiling, and the illusion was shattered but he was left feeling that he had somehow experienced something almost paranormal.

“I was called into the office again, and they told me that you had applied for leave. They also hinted that there was every chance that you might decide to call it quits on the force; they have me following ludicrous leads that came in from anonymous sources. I am following my tail in ever-decreasing circles, this case will never see a result and it is how they want it to go. If you decide to get out, I will be the one that gets thrown under the bus.” Her voice trailed off and yet again she exhaled a screen of smoke between them, he knew instinctively that she was revaluating her trust in him. The establishment had reverted to their ace card once again, divide and conquer. They had just managed to sow the seeds of doubt in her mind, while he was not there to defend himself. Once the smokescreen dissipated, they were left staring at one another across the table. Inside he felt anger and a large amount of disappointment; he had to suppress the urge to react angrily to her supposition that he had left her high and dry. But in the end, he just settled with telling her the true version of what had taken place.

Shelia listened to his explanation and he could see the tension easing from her, a look of relief settled on her pretty features. She took another cigarette from the packet on the table, this time she was careful to blow the smoke away from the table. Shelia studied him in silence for what seemed a very long time, then as if making up her mind she got up and walked to the hall and returned with her handbag. She took a sheaf of papers from the bag and left them on the table in front of him, he could see that they were fresh copies of older documents. She sat opposite him again in silence and waited for him to begin reading the contents of the copies, for some reason he had the urge to hand them back without reading the contents. The words of his ex-wife echoed in the back of his mind, maybe he was a coward that was afraid of responsibility. It would be so much easier to walk away from everything, find a job in security or private investigation. However, one look at the tension on her face changed his mind, it was time he thought of more than himself.

The documents were copies of letters sent to the superintendent by a former detective, drawing the superintendent’s attention to the fact that he had suspicions that Satanists were operating in the area. The letters started in a formal informational manner, but a progression could be followed in the contents of subsequent letters, the wording became increasingly strong and words like human trafficking and child abduction began to creep in. The last couple of letters clearly illustrated that the man writing them was under increasing mental stress, none of the letters had a reply attached and they abruptly halted in August 1955. Just shy of ten years from where they were now, the detective’s name was Frank Corbett. “I was digging through old files in the basement, to see if there was any mention of other unexplained killings in the area over the years. I came across these in an old unmarked box of miscellaneous files, I made some inquires with old John Connors; he is due to retire next year and has been around here for years. He told me that Corbett still lives in the area, in a remote glen about eight miles from here. Mind you he seemed a bit nervous after passing on this information, and he quickly added that Corbett was a bit gone in the head and had become a recluse”.

If he thought the roads leading to the murder scene had been difficult to maneuver, then the journey in search of Corbett’s home was worse. Shelia had used her day off to drive him here, should any of her superiors find out that she was conduction an off the books investigation, especially involving Hurley, she would be back handing out traffic tickets in a heartbeat. However, Shelia was aware that she now had a target on her back concerning this case, a case that the Hierarchy did not want solving, but they would still require an offering to appease the public and she would be it. Hurley watched the countryside as they drove; he had long since given up on trying to make any sense of their progress. Shelia turned up roads that were nothing more than tracks, and quite often it appeared as if they were doubling back on themselves. Eventually, she shouted “bingo”; they had made it into a long narrow glen. A whitewashed cottage could be seen on the side of the hill about a mile away. “If Connors was correct that should be Corbett’s cottage.” She said with more of a hopeful tone than any commitment.

The lane leading up to the cottage was no more than a dirt track; the rain had washed most of the soil from the track and sharp rocks pocked out of the ground at odd angles. They would have to go the rest of the way by Shank’s mare, by the time they reached the front gate of the property they were both breathing heavily. They stopped to catch their breath and the car below looked like a child’s toy, Hurley thought to himself that you would have to be mentally unstable to live up here. The cottage was freshly whitewashed and the galvanized iron roof looked like it had recently had a fresh coat of red oxide paint, the small gate opened easily on well-oiled hinges. The front garden was taken up with rose beds; all in all, it looked well kept. The front door was divided into two enabling the top half to be opened separately; there was no knocker so he used his knuckles. Three times he rapped on the door until his knuckles smarted, but it was to no avail. It looked as if they had journeyed up here, only to find Corbett was not home.

Shelia had wandered around the back of the cottage while he tried to look through the front window, but the windows had not been cleaned in a while on the inside, and all he could make out was blurred shadows. “Kevin, Kevin, come here quickly”. Shelia’s voice came from the gable end, and the tone of the voice told him she was alarmed by something she had found. Shelia was standing stock still staring straight ahead; it took him a moment to notice the man standing behind her. But when he did, he immediately saw the pump-action shotgun being held against the back of her head. He attempted to speak but his mouth had gone as dry as a saltbox, the man with the gun took a step backward where he could cover the two of them. “What are ye two doing trespassing on my land; don’t you know that it can be dangerous to come into someone’s home uninvited?”  The man’s dark eyes were alert and the tone of his voice was calm, Hurley knew that he would have no trouble pulling that trigger.

Hurley finally found his voice. “We did not intend to trespass, we came here looking for Detective Corbett, and we need his help with a cold case”. The man scoffed at the word detective, but Hurley thought he had the man’s attention. “It was a young woman that was found at Devils Abbey, she had been in the ground for several years”. Suddenly the air seemed to have been let out of him and the gun barrel turned towards the ground, but something crossed the man’s face and he lifted the gun a bit and growled. “Did McCluskey send you” When Hurley told him that the sergeant didn’t even know they were here, the gun dropped to his side. “You better come inside; it is a strange story I have to tell. I apologize for the gun, but I have to be careful and my advice to both of you, ye better start being very careful also. They have more or less forgotten about me, at least since they convinced everyone that I was mad”. He turned abruptly and walked towards the rear of the house, stopping only to gesture with his head that they should follow him.

Frank Corbett surprised Hurley; he had been expecting an older man. Or a man of at least retirement age, but Corbett looked young and strong but if he had left the force ten years ago as a detective he would be at least mid-fifties by now. The inside of the cottage was tidy as a pin and extremely homely; Corbett offered them a seat at the rustic kitchen table before disappearing into an adjoining room. Shortly after he reappeared with a bottle of whiskey and took three glasses from the kitchen dresser, he poured three good measures without even asking whether they wanted a drink. As if reading his thoughts, Corbett said. “You may not want a drink now but by the time I have finished you probably will need one”. He turned to Shelia and apologized once again that he frightened her with the gun episode, but he explained that he had been living in fear for the past ten years. Corbett took a seat at the head of the table and sipped his drink, while he stared into the distance. This went on for quite a while as the retired detective studied the ghosts of the past as if to verify the authenticity of the story he was about to relate.

Before he had anything to say Corbett wanted all the details of the case they were working on, he sat in perfect silence while Hurley outlined the scant details they had. He made a point of leaving out the bit about him being forced to take leave or the fact that they believed that their superiors seemed to want this situation to go unsolved. When he finished speaking Corbett took out a pipe and meticulously topped it up with tobacco from a leather pouch, he sighed with satisfaction once he had the pipe going and the pleasant aroma of the tobacco wafted about the kitchen. “Would I be safe in saying the boss men are less than anxious about getting a result on this case? And would I also be correct in saying that they are being less than helpful and maybe even obstructive when it comes to manpower and resources?” Shelia immediately glanced in Hurley’s direction, and he shrugged and told Corbett the whole story warts and all. When he had finished telling the unabridged version to Corbett, the former detective nodded and said “It looks as if history is repeating itself, I always knew that sooner or later the evil would raise its ugly head again. These parts have a dark history going back a very long time, and that old church has always been the center of that darkness”.

Corbett rose from his chair and once again disappeared from the room, only to reappear a while later with a dusty old journal. “They destroyed whatever files I had put together, right after they almost destroyed me. They can get to a person in ways you would not believe, all this Satan worship and witchcraft you here about is very real, people are quick to dismiss these people as fantasists or eccentric lunatics. But I for one have experienced exactly what they are capable; they can harness powers that are extremely detrimental to anyone that crosses them. I have been visited night after night by things not of this world, things that have driven me to the brink of insanity. When I tried to tell people I was branded as mentally ill, and that is exactly what they wanted”. The old journal contained notes he had written that would be illegible to anyone but himself, but from them, he filled them in on what he believed was going on. Corbett had been the kind of cop that was accepted by most people in the community; he made friends easily and was quick to help the locals. It was through this relationship in the community he began to hear the rumors, of dark goings-on that involved important people. At first, he was willing to dismiss the whole thing as folklore; legends handed down in rural settings to make an interesting fireside tale. But stories of butchered animals, and strange comings and goings at the old church in the dark hours, piqued his interest.

It began to be a bit of a hobby for him collecting the stories, a harmless side-line to while away the winter evenings. That was until a retired solicitor knocked on his door late one autumn evening, he had a different story to tell. The old man swore that he had witnessed not only animal sacrifice but human sacrifice, he made mention of people of standing in the community that had blood on their hands, and he also told him that he was in fear for his life. When asked where these human sacrifices were obtained from, all he would say was to take a long hard look at the local religious institutions. The old man would say no more until Corbett could assure him he would remain anonymous and free from prosecution, the whole thing seemed farfetched to Corbett but he agreed to look into the solicitor’s requests. Corbett had spent the next two days trying to decide whether the whole thing was credible; when the solicitor perished in a mysterious house fire, Corbett began writing letters to the Inspector.

Corbett fell into silence and took to staring into the distance, and Hurley watched him while he tried to make up his mind as to whether the former detective was mentally ill. He could tell by the look on Shelia’s face, that she too was finding the whole thing hard to believe; perhaps listening to all those stories of dark deeds had affected an already fragile mind. He could easily see how the lines between folklore and reality could blur for a mind that was somehow compromised, he was sorry now that he had even come here. Shelia tipped his leg beneath the table with her foot and gestured with her head that they should leave. They were almost at the back door before Corbett even noticed they were leaving. “You won’t find your girl in any missing person’s files; take a look at the local orphanages and industrial schools. Odds on, she came from one of those places, but I wouldn’t be expecting too much cooperation if I was ye”. He fell silent again and resumed staring into space. They descended the treacherous lane to the car in silence, both lost in their thoughts. Neither of them looked back at the cottage, if they had they might have seen the figure on the side of the hill watching them through binoculars.    

Puppet Masters. Part 4. The strings that bind.

The warm sticky feeling of the blood spatters on his face should have revolted him, yet he could not prevent himself from flicking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, and capturing one of the claret drops on the tip of it. He savored the coppery taste in his mouth as if it were the last morsel of a particularly fine meal; a part of his mind rebelled against this unnatural craving and screamed in protest. Yet worse was to follow, as hard as he tried to prevent it, the hand holding the blade moved inexorable closer to his salivating mouth, the claret liquid that covered the steel also contained small pieces of meat. The horror of what he was about to do hit him like a train now and a scream bubbled to his lips from somewhere deep inside him. The sound that uttered through his blood-stained lips was even more disturbing than the primeval scream he had expected, it was guttural growl that grew in intensity and threatened to push him over the edge into the darkness of insanity. Somewhere in his unhinged mind a small frightened voice pleaded for this madness to end, pleaded and cried like a child separated from its mother.

The sound of a voice crying and pleading awoken him from the hell he was forced to endure, he was not surprised to find himself weeping like a child. The dream had been so horrifyingly realistic that Costello for one terrifying moment could taste blood in his mouth, the image from the dream where he was about to lick that gory blade, flashed vividly in his mind’s eye. He immediately reached for the door handle and pulled it hard, all the while fighting against his gag reflexes. The door of the car was scarcely open when the contents of his stomach erupted on to the sidewalk, he had not eaten anything substantial in the last couple of days and the vomit consisted of stale whiskey and bile that burned his throat. None the less he continued to retch until his sides ached and the tears streamed down his face when it finally past he barely had the strength to sit upright in the car, and the view of the street through the windscreen was blurry and out of focus. Costello could feel it now he was fast approaching the limits of his physical and mental strength, if he did not get a handle on this pretty soon, he was heading for meltdown.

The clock on the dashboard read twelve-fifteen a.m. but Casey’s car was still parked outside the station house, as was the fancy motor belonging to the assistant police commissioner. Several times over the past couple of hours, Costello had contemplated walking into Casey’s office and demanding to know what exactly was going on. But the feeling that he was already stitched up for at least one murder, cautioned against him demanding answers without any proof as to his right to ask the questions. He had driven here to the station directly after leaving Catherine Boyce’s apartment; he had some vague intention of cornering Casey and confronting him with his suspicions. But just as he arrived he saw both men enter the building together, and the voice of caution in his mind told him to wait until he managed to get Casey on his own. Apart from whatever time he spent dozing and caught up in that horrifying dream, the rest of his time was spent watching and waiting to see if either man left.

What exactly he hoped to get from confronting his superior officer he really did not know, but desperation makes people do desperate things. Costello vaguely wondered whether when he looked back on all this, if he would regret not running from the whole situation. Thirty minutes later both men exited the rear of the building to the car park, Murray held an animated discussion with Casey who appeared to be almost cowering in the man’s presence. Eventually, Murray just turned on his heels and stormed off towards his car, before stopping just as he was about to get inside. He turned and pointed his finger in Casey’s direction and uttered another monologue, the other man just nodded meekly before hanging his head. It was plain to see that Murray was not happy with Casey for some reason, and it looked for all the world as if he was threatening his subordinate. For some reason this gave Costello a faint glimmer of hope, perhaps if he could make an ally of Casey, he just might still get out of this unscathed.

Murray had left about fifteen minutes and Casey still stood in the one spot, staring in the direction the assistant police commissioner had driven. His body language, even from this distance made him look like a desperate man; a man who suddenly looked up to find the world caving in around him. Costello was still unsure how he should proceed with this, his mind had formed a picture of what he believed was going on, but it was a splintered picture that made little or no sense when exposed in the bright light of logic. He could imagine Casey’s reaction when confronted by Costello’s suspicions, perhaps he would laugh at the absurdity of them, but one thing for certain was the fact that Costello would end up in an interview room. He had breached enough regulations in the recent past to see him at least lose his job, and more than likely end up on criminal charges ranging anywhere from perverting the course of justice, up to and including first-degree homicide.

Costello began to fret even more at his latest train of thought, it was clear to him now that even putting his head in the door of the station would be a bad idea. He watched Casey climb into his vehicle, when he drove off Costello followed him. What exactly he intended to do he was not sure, all he knew was he needed to confront Casey but as far from the police station as possible. A mile or so into the journey Casey pulled off the street into the car park of an all-night liquor store, he went in and reappeared moments later carrying a brown paper bag containing what Costello presumed to be bottles. Casey hesitated before getting in the car and looked furtively about as if he felt he was being observed, his gaze moved in the direction of where Costello was parked watching him, and for one horrible moment, it felt as if Casey was staring directly at him. A sigh of relief escaped him when Casey got behind the wheel and moved off; Costello followed him more cautiously this time.

Casey turned into a leafy street in an area of town that Costello was not familiar with; the houses here all had their own gardens and driveways. This was not the kind of place you would expect a man on Casey’s salary to be living; these were the type of houses in the area of town that would attract bank managers and company executives. Up ahead the blinking light of Casey’s indicator brought Costello back to the present, the house was on the far end of the street next to a green belt with mature trees covering it. Costello parked by the sidewalk a hundred yards back and watched Casey’s car disappear into the driveway. A myriad of questions ran through his mind now, who else lived with Casey, how would Casey react if he were to call to the door, and the most important question, what do I say to him. The indecision was causing paralysis in him now, and he found himself swigging on the whiskey flask without any memory of taking it from the glove compartment. The fiery liquid eventually calmed his racing mind, and he came to a decision, it was now or never.

The house was even more impressive up close, and the grounds appeared to be maintained by professional gardeners. He really knew nothing about Casey’s financial situation, but a halfwit would realize that his police salary would not stretch to cover this. A light burned in the window of a downstairs room, while the rest of the house remained in darkness. Costello was emboldened now by the whiskey, and he walked straight to the front door and rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately on to an unlit hallway, Costello had the distinct impression Casey had been standing waiting to answer the bell. Something about the whole situation quickly dispelled any false courage he had gained from the alcohol, and Costello was suddenly very nervous again. The unearthly silence that hung in the air was broken by the sound of footsteps retreating from the door down the hallway, and a door was opened flooding the darkness with weak light.

Costello was paralyzed on the doorstep now, and the adrenaline flooding his system with a fight or flight urge, made him feel giddy and even more unsure of himself. “Come in Costello I have been expecting you, I am only surprised it took you this long to get here”. Casey’s disembodied voice drifted ominously to him from the room that was the source of the light, Costello’s legs moved without bidding and he walked inside as if in a trance. Casey sat in a winged back chair by the side of an elaborate marble fireplace, his legs crossed; he held a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. In stark contrast to how he looked in the car park a while ago, Casey looked relaxed and a faint smile played across his lips. Nothing about the man pointed to anything other than someone who was glad a friend had turned up to have a chat, a benevolent uncle that was glad to see his favorite nephew. The whole thing seemed almost surreal and Costello quickly shifted from being nervous, to be absolutely terrified.  

“Sit down and relax Costello you look like you have just seen a ghost, I am sure we can work everything out with a frank conversation”. Casey gestured to the seat opposite him, a glass of whiskey stood on a side table by the empty chair. It was almost as if the meeting had been pre-arranged and Costello had been running a little late, everything seemed prepared for his presence even down to the glass of whiskey and a clean ashtray. “Sit down Kevin, relax have a sip of whiskey, light a cigarette, you seem tense, we will explain everything to you in due course. In the meantime try not to be so uptight, it is bad for your health”. The faint smile on Casey’s face had morphed into a smirk now, and he checked his wristwatch as if he was expecting a call. As if on cue, Costello heard the front door open and footsteps approaching down the hallway, it came as little surprise to him when assistant police commissioner Murray walked into the room. Murray nodded in Casey’s direction before walking to the drinks cabinet and taking a crystal glass that he filled with whiskey, all the time he ignored Costello as if he was not even there.

Once Murray had taken the first sip of whiskey he again nodded to Casey, only then did he turn to treat Costello to a withering stare. Casey took a deep swallow from his glass and cleared his throat before beginning to speak. “Kevin you seem to have landed yourself in a bit of bother here, dare I say you have backed yourself into a very narrow corner. Now how you extract yourself from this is entirely up to yourself, we are quite willing to throw you a lifeline here, but like most things in life there are conditions attached to this lifeline.” Casey paused and took a deep drag from his cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke in Costello’s direction while he allowed his words to sink in. “You see, Kevin your partner fulfilled certain tasks on our behalf before he was unfortunately murdered”. Costello was about to rebuke this statement until an evil look from Murray silenced him. “As I was saying, Kevin, Jack Conan handled some very important and delicate work on our behalf, and now we must replace him. This is where your chance comes in, if you are willing to take over those tasks in a diligent manner, then everything that has occurred in the past few days gets forgotten.”

A boiling hot rage erupted from deep inside Costello when he realized what they were asking him to do, he was almost to his feet when Murray moved with incredible speed. A hand like a steel vice clamped on his throat and lifted him from the floor before slamming him back into the chair, he could not breathe and was on the point of passing out before the hand was removed. The man’s strength was unnatural and later when he looked back; Costello could have sworn the man’s eyes glowed red with fury. While he gasped to regain his breath Casey sat calmly sipping his drink and waiting for him to recover, Murray had somehow managed to return to his former position in the blink of an eye. “I don’t think you are quite grasping the seriousness of your position Kevin”. Casey said calmly before handing him a manila envelope containing photographs. With trembling hand, Costello opened the envelope and looked through the photographs.

The first photographs he looked at were of him sitting in the car with the hooker, others showed him staring out the window of Conan’s apartment at his partner’s mangled body, while even more showed him fleeing the scene. The last set was of him standing naked in the window of Catherine Boyce’s apartment and more that showed him arriving and leaving her apartment when she was already dead. “Oh! By the way, Kevin just as another point of interest, that prostitute you entertained with coffee in your car, met a very grisly end that very night”. The absolute and utter hopelessness of his situation finally hit him, the photographs slipped from his limp fingers and he hung his head and cried for a very long time. Costello wept like a man who had lost everything he had ever loved, for in one way this job was all he had ever loved.

The young girl stood out like a sore thumb, while everyone one else hurried to someplace or other they needed to be. She stood frightened and disorientated in the center of the busy railway station, her few sparse belongings clutched tightly in her fist in a canvas shoulder bag. He watched the terrified teenager for a while to see if anyone approached her, but the busy people passed her by as if she was invisible. A, part of him wanted to turn on his heels and leave the runaway to whatever fate awaited her, but he already knew what fate awaited the pretty girl. It was too late for the girl and it was already far too late for him, he had walked the dark path that offered no return. He put on his most concerned look as he approached her, he could see she was getting ready to flee as he approached, but when he flashed the badge she stopped. Later in the car, she babbled on and on, about making a new life in the city for herself, he just turned up the radio and tuned his mind out.

Costello led the girl to the big limousine with the blackout windows, she had gone silent now and the nervousness had returned. He turned to her and gave what he believed was a reassuring smile; he knew by the way her body went rigid that she was not reassured. In the end he just shoved her into the back seat and closed the door, he heard the locking mechanism engage. He walked back to his car without as much as a backward glance; he had learned at the beginning that the only way to survive was to shut out all emotions. Now he had a better insight into what had made his ex-partner Jack Conan, such a bitter and disagreeable man. Costello stopped at the liquor store and bought a bottle of Jameson, he had gone through a quarter of it by the time he pulled over the car. The rest he kept for his special place, the place where he knew it would all end someday.

 Costello sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop parapet; the breeze up here was enough to rock him slightly backward. The view of the pavement far below was blurred and faded in and out of focus, the whiskey had left free of all fears now. “It is a long way down Kevin, but it only takes seconds, a brief instant of pain and it is all over”. Costello raised the bottle to his mouth and swigged deeply, before turning his head in the direction of the lisping voice. “If you keep swigging from the bottle you might not even have to jump, you are swaying already”. In the beginning the vision of Conan sitting here long side him, with his strange distorted head, really disturbed Costello, but that was only in the beginning. Now he almost welcomed the spectral figure, which came here time and time again to mock him. He turned from the street below and climbed back onto the roof, he was not ready to end his misery yet. “Next time Kevin, perhaps you will do it next time, remember one jump and your puppet strings break.” Costello left the roof with the strange lisping laughter of Conan ringing in his ears.

Puppet Masters. Part 2. One Less Puppet.

His mind fled those awful visions that haunted his dreams and his first emotion when awakening was one of welcome relief. Relief from the terrifying visions of mutilated bodies, and the ominous silhouette of a crooked man that followed him in the shadows. But his relief quickly fled to be replaced by a different kind of fear, that awful feeling of having no idea where he was or how he had gotten here. Costello lifted his head from the pillow and the pounding headache hit him immediately, the room he was in, faded in and out of focus but he sensed it was an unfamiliar place. The effort of swinging his legs onto the floor and sitting on the side of the bed brought with it a new and unwelcome feeling, as a wave of nausea washed over him. The heavy drapes kept all but the slightest illumination from the room, his full bladder took precedent and he stumbled about the room in search of a bathroom.

The door from the bedroom led to a narrow hallway at the end of which another open door led to the bathroom, the stream of urine splashed loudly in the toilet bowl and seemed to go on forever, but the relief was tangible. Standing there naked in a strange bathroom brought on a feeling of vulnerability that grew in intensity by the second, his mind was racing now as he desperately tried to piece together last night’s movements. Costello stood waiting for the sink to fill and studied his reflection in the overhead mirror; his face was deathly pale beneath the salt and pepper stubble that covered his cheeks. In stark contrast, his eyes were surrounded by dark circles and the whites of his eyes were covered in red broken veins. He submerged his head in the cold water and held his breath for as long as he could; when he surfaced again it was to the sound of another stream of urine. The woman with the short blonde hair sitting on the toilet laughed softly to herself at his shocked expression. For one moment his heart skipped a beat as he remembered being in the car with the blonde hooker, but this woman looked nothing like the working girl he had spoken to last night.

The woman finished her business and brazenly stood before him, naked as the day she had come into this world, a smile played on the corners of her full lips as she contemplated his obvious embarrassment with the situation. Then she winked at him seductively and headed back towards the bedroom, he found himself momentarily mesmerized by the sway of her full hips as she walked down the hallway. By the time he got back to the room she had opened the drapes and the light of the grey morning, seemed to exaggerate his nakedness and he felt his face flush with embarrassment. All the while he dressed he felt her eyes on him; he could not remember having felt this awkward in a long time. Once he had finished dressing he glanced in her direction, the amused expression had left her face now and she gazed at him with a melancholy look on her face. “Catherine is my name, Catherine Boyce, and I don’t make a habit of bringing back strange men to my home. But I suppose things happen in our lives that are out of the ordinary, and last night was one of those things. Take care of yourself Costello and perhaps we will bump into each other again”. Catherine Boyce fell silent and her eyes shut as if she had drifted into sleep, he took this as his cue to leave.

Outside the morning was grey and oppressive and he felt it somehow matched his mood, he hated when he had these blackouts and they had started to become a common occurrence lately. He found the car parked a little further up the street on the opposite side, when he fumbled in his pocket for the key he found a small piece of folded paper, it was a phone number with the name Catherine above it. He opened the door of the car and tossed the piece of paper on the back seat, the driver’s seat had been moved forward and he had to readjust it before he got in. A vision flashed across his mind of the girl called Catherine moving the seat so she could reach the pedals; he knew then that last night’s events would come back to him bit by bit as was the usual case when he had been on a bender. In one way he was slightly relieved that the blonde girl could witness the missing hours.

The hand that held the key trembled just enough to make it difficult for him to place the key in the ignition, the headache had intensified too and he felt jittery. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice pleaded against what he was about to do. But he ignored it, he was feeling rough and he needed to be somewhere, so Costello reached across and took the flask of Irish whiskey from the glove compartment. His stomach rebelled immediately when the first swig of whiskey burned its way down, but he forced himself to keep it down. After the third swallow, he began to feel almost human again, a part of him wanted to keep going until he finished the flask. However, he mustered what will power he had, and capped the bottle before returning it to the glove compartment. His mind felt clearer now and he tried to remember where he needed to be, and then it dawned on him. Costello turned the car and headed across town to the mortuary, he hoped Hobbs would have more information on the dead girl.

Costello began to feel jittery again as he followed the man down the sterile-looking corridor, this place always made him feel like this but the hangover made it much worse. Hobbs walked ahead of him humming tunelessly under his breath and if it were anyone other than old Hobbs; Costello did not think he would be able to go through with this. But the old examiner had a matter of fact way in going about his business, which brought a certain calmness and dignity to the whole thing. Hobbs paused at the doors leading to the examination room as if he suddenly forgot why he was here, but Costello realized this was for his benefit. He was giving Costello a little time to compose himself before entering, then with a reassuring nod, he led him inside. The room was deathly silent except for the soft hum coming from the bank of overhead fluorescent lights; it was cold, sterile and impersonal.

 Off the three stainless steel examination tables only one was occupied, the sheet covering the occupant made the body look child-sized. Hobbs walked across and picked up a clipboard containing notes, and turned and beckoned Kevin Costello to come nearer. He pulled back the sheet covering the body and suddenly he was in official mode before Costello could even take in what he was looking at, Hobbs was giving a running commentary. “The subject is a female in her late teens; she appears to be well-nourished. There is no sign of sexual assault, and she is in fact technically a virgin. The contents of her stomach point to her last meal being a pasta and meat dish, what organs remain, show nothing remarkable. The cause of death, in my opinion, is loss of blood, ligature marks on her ankles point to her being suspended upside down while the blood was drained through a laceration of the artery in the neck. The skin of the facial area was removed post mortem, and the spine and heart are also absent.”

Costello could not drag his eyes from the waxen figure on the steel table; it was as if he was alone with the deceased girl and somehow connected to her. The utter horror of the situation left him cold, yet he felt as if she cried out for him to bear witness to the atrocity that was visited upon her. “Costello! Kevin are you alright.” It took Hobbs shaking him by the shoulder before he dragged himself back from that place he found himself in. “Are you alright Costello, I thought for a moment I had lost you, let’s get out of here we can discuss the rest of this in my office”. It was the act of Hobbs pulling the sheet back over the body that finally broke the spell, but he found himself walking robotically behind Hobbs as he left the room. It was only when they were seated in the office that he finally felt in touch with reality again, he looked up to find the examiner looking at him with a concerned expression on his face.

The silence in the room dragged out and Costello had the weird feeling that Hobbs was somehow accessing his state of mind. Finally, the medical officer began to speak. “We are still awaiting toxicology reports, but I am sure of the cause of death. This has all the hallmarks of ritualistic killing, the poor girl would not have died quickly. Her makeup was applied to make her look like a streetwalker, but in my opinion, this was done to muddy the waters. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide their tracks on this one, but he is not your common or garden killer. This is all too precise and planned out”. Costello was at the door before Hobbs spoke again. “The next time you drop by, I will show you the results of heavy drinking on the human liver” Costello did not bother to reply; instead he waved back at the man and kept going.

Back at the station, there was no sign of Conan and anyone he asked could not remember seeing him in two days or more, now that Costello thought about it, apart from the crime scene last night Conan’s movements were a bit of a mystery for a while now. He had not paid much attention up to this, because Jack Conan was a master of finding what sounded like plausible explanations for not attending briefings etc. Now that he thought about it Costello had a gut feeling Conan had been AWOL for a while, and when he checked the signing in book he discovered his partner had not been officially at work in over a week. He was about to ask the desk sergeant if someone had forgotten to mark down vacation time for Jack Conan. But something told him not to bring anyone’s attention to Conan’s absence, at least not just yet. Something in his mind was niggling him about this, but he could not put his finger on it.

The narrow alley and plot of waste ground looked far less intimidating in daylight, but the place still had a depressing feel about it. They had just finished the search of the area when he got there, Costello approached the guy in charge and inquired whether anything significant had turned up. “Just like I told your partner not fifteen minutes ago, apart from a number of used condoms and syringes we turned up nothing that looks like it will help in the investigation”. It took a moment for the significance of the man’s words to sink in, then that niggle in his head suddenly made sense. Conan had not signed in on the job in over a week, yet he was at the crime scene before Costello last night and again this morning His behavior last night was not what Costello would have expected from the man, it was almost as if had suffered a personal loss. Something in the man’s behavior was not sitting right with Costello, and he decided it might be time to track down his partner for a chat.

He started the engine with the intention of visiting some of Conan’s usual haunts, but before he even got a chance to put it in gear the radio squawked into life. Mabel the dispatcher’s bored tones told him he was required back at the station when he asked if she knew why he could picture her shrugging her shoulders with that bored expression she always wore. After a long pause, her irreverent answer ended the conversation. “How the hell am I supposed to know what the old man wants you for”? Was the curt reply in her nasal voice. A nervous feeling came over him now, as he wondered what the hell lay ahead of him. Costello made a quick stop off at the drug store, where he bought some Tylenol for the dull ache in his head and some peppermint mouth spray to mask the smell of stale booze on his breath. By the time he made it back to the station house, a deep sense of foreboding had settled over him.

Lieutenant John Casey was one of the few men left in the precinct that had made it to his position by working his way up the ranks, the last of a dying breed that had actually worked the coal face before getting an office. He was sitting behind the desk with his chair turned to the window when Costello knocked on the glass of the door, he gestured for Costello to enter without even swiveling his chair back towards the door. Costello stood in the middle of the floor feeling awkward and with growing trepidation, from the moment he had turned up at the crime scene last night he had a bad feeling about this whole affair. Eventually, Casey swiveled his chair to face him, in his hand he held a file and Costello immediately recognized Hobbs handwriting on the cover. He threw the file on the desk in front of him and gestured to Costello to take a seat, all the while he seemed to be carefully studying Costello’s demeanor.

“This girl that was murdered last night, I have a bad feeling about this one. Something tells me it is not going to be an isolated occurrence, I want you to clear your desk and work solely on this one, give any open cases you have to the rookie detectives. Not only that, but I want you to report your progress directly to me, and I mean any thought or hunches, I want to know everything you even think about this one.” Casey fell silent again and a faraway look came into his eyes, it was as if some thought had suddenly distracted him. Costello waited for him to resume but the silence just grew. Eventually, it became oppressive in the small office and Costello cleared his throat and asked about whether Conan would be working with him on this. The question seemed to halt Casey’s muse and he looked at Costello as if he had just asked him whether Unicorns were real. Something about his boss’s reaction sent a cold shiver down his spine, and he was reminded of the feeling that had come over him in the alley the previous night.

“Conan is out of town for a few days, gone to visit a sick relative upstate. That means you carry the can for this one, and I want to know your every movement on this. As a matter of fact, I want to know your whereabouts at all times, if you take a break to go have a shit, I want to know about it.” Casey’s answer left Costello with a sinking feeling in his gut, and he studied the older man and wondered whether he actually believed Conan was out of town. But Casey was too long in the tooth to be easily read by his expressions, and for some reason, Costello felt like he had been chosen as the sacrificial lamb. Casey turned his chair again towards the window effectively ending the meeting, Costello was almost through the door when the man spoke again. “You look rough Costello, you better make sure you get enough sleep in your own bed to stay sharp for this one.” This cryptic statement intensified his feeling of foreboding, and his mind suddenly jumped to Catherine Boyce.

Sitting in the car Costello smoked one cigarette after another as he tried to get his head around this, when he began to question whether he had imagined talking to Conan last night, he had an overwhelming urge to reach for the whiskey flask. However deep down inside he knew that everything depended on him having his wits about him for this, something about this whole thing was rotten to the core. His gut feeling told him that one false step would see him take a big fall on this one, but he was still no closer to getting a handle on the politics of this. That little analytic voice in the back of his mind kept going back to the appearance and disappearance of Conan, and a sinking feeling in his stomach told him that the missing hours and waking in Catherine Boyce’s bed cold have some great significance yet. Cursing to himself he started the car and drove off in search of the illusive Conan.

Costello was just about to call it a night when he saw the car approaching, he had been sitting outside Conan’s apartment for hours. Hours of solitary thoughts had only served to fill his head with the terrifying scenarios, each one worse than the next and every one of them ending badly for him. He had spent the daylight hours searching every bar he knew that Conan frequented; he had even put pressure on some of the hookers that Conan bullied into sleeping with him. But it had all been a waste of time; nobody remembered seeing him for days. So, in the end, he had driven here to the apartment block where Conan lived, he was just about done when the car came down the street. The beat-up old Chevy weaved over and back erratically across the street, before coming to a stop by bumping into the wall outside the apartment block. Conan practically fell out of the car before steadying himself, and then he staggered towards the building with a crooked gait.

“A crooked gait for a crooked man” The voice in his head left him with a giddy feeling, as a piece of the jigsaw seemed to fall into place. Costello waited for what seemed a very long time before the light came on in Conan’s apartment on the fourth floor, then he left the car and headed up to confront his partner.  The door of the apartment was ajar but the interior was in darkness now, he wondered why Conan had switched off the light again. He hesitated on the threshold wondering what he was facing into in the darkened room, he had an inclination to draw his gun but before he could Conan’s voice called from the darkened room. “Come in Costello, I knew you would turn up here sooner or later. I guess I owe some kind of explanation”. Conan’s words were slurred and there was a certain resignation in his tone, and Costello had the feeling that Conan was at the end of his tether. The door hinges made a slight creaking sound as it swung open, and the center of the room was illuminated by the light from the hallway, leaving the rest of the room in darkness.

The sound of curtains being drawn brought Costello’s attention to the far side of the room; Conan was silhouette against the window in the weak moonlight. He made a movement and the chilly breeze that entered the room told Costello he had opened the window. His eyes had adapted to the low light conditions now, and he had a clear look at his partner. Conan had a haunted expression on his face and looked for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car. He looked disheveled and the stink of stale booze carried on the breeze to Costello, Conan looked as if he had trouble staying upright and he really did look like a crooked man. Conan reached in his jacket pocket and Costello’s heart skipped a beat, but all that appeared in his hand was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The flame from the lighter illuminated more details of his partner’s face and Costello realized that Conan was already dead but was yet to lie down. He had that expression on his face of a man who knew he had reached the end of the line.

Costello caught the cigarette pack and lighter that Conan threw to him, he took a cigarette and sparked it up. Costello made to cross the room to return the cigarettes and lighter, but Conan immediately held up his hand in a halt gesture. “Keep them, Costello, I am giving up smoking, and I won’t need a lighter where I am going.” The ironic laughter that followed his comment carried not a hint of humor. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to put me in the frame, and I guess I helped you as much as possible. You see that girl was never supposed to surface again, but I made the mistake of being nosy. To tell the truth Costello I had just grown weary and I wanted out, I thought at the start I could continue to do this and walk away into the sunset when my time came. But guess what Costello even evil bastards like me, sometimes get a twinge of conscious” Conan took a drag on the cigarette and Costello was shocked to see the tears pouring down his cheeks, there was something terribly disturbing about this sight.

“I guess I was the perfect candidate always in trouble and with little chance of ever seeing my pension, so they told me if I played ball I would sail through until retirement. It was a piece of cake for a guy with a badge to pick up the runaways at the train station, frightened little girls all alone in the big city. I mean to say if they couldn’t trust a cop, then who could they trust? So I would pick them up and hand them over, then I would climb into the bottle and forget about them until the next one. I was just about getting through it until they started having me dispose of packages, packages wrapped in plastic and the shape of bodies. She was the only one I ever opened and something snapped inside of me, so I painted her up like a hooker and left her on the waste ground. Maybe the family will come looking for her and she will be buried near her home”. Conan took an unsteady step backward and sat on the window sill, it was as if someone had just let all the air out of him.

“You see Costello we are all just puppets, and the men who pull the strings are very high up. They are sick deranged bastards and they worship a different god to us, I mean, you saw for yourself what they did to that girl. She is just one of many over the years, it was happening ever before I was drawn into it. Do yourself a favor Costello turn in that badge and get as far from this place as possible, but then again I fear it may already be too late for you”. He paused again to finish the cigarette, before pitching the butt over his shoulder and out the window. “We are all just puppets Costello, you and I, even the blonde you shagged last night. What was her name? Oh yeah, Catherine.” Before Costello could react to this latest bombshell, Conan got unsteadily to his feet and either staggered or threw himself backward through the open window. Costello had only moved a couple of steps in the direction of the window when he heard the dull thud from the street four floors below. 

The Crooked Man. Part 1 of Puppet Masters.

The first thing that struck him was that all too familiar smell of violent death, his mind immediately took him back to another place and a different time. He was young back then and it left an indelible mark on his psyche, but like most things in life, familiarity breeds contempt. The young uniformed officer that staggered from the shadows had an unhealthy pallor; the tell-tale smell of vomit was strong on the man. Costello vaguely wondered if his reactions had been much different back then, but in the intervening years, he had seen more carnage than most people would ever see in life. If it was possible for anyone to be immune to such things, then he was that person.

The narrow alleyway dog-legged to the left and widened out into an area of waste ground, the yellow strip of crime scene tape vibrated in the wind with the sound of a colony of bats leaving a cave. The uniformed cop standing guard looked like he was due to retire any day now; he had that bored and indifferent appearance, that only those who had experienced the evil that men were capable of on a daily basis, could muster in such circumstances. Kevin Costello paused watching the small group gathered twenty yards away, around what he presumed to be the victim; a sudden urge came over him to turn around and head to the nearest bar. Weariness had suddenly flooded his mind, and in a moment of strange clarity, he realized that this case would be his last.

The strange thoughts had a disturbing effect on him, and he shivered involuntarily as if an ice-cold hand had caressed his spine. Where had these peculiar feelings originated and why now? Costello’s mind tried to fathom out his reactions. Feeling the sudden onslaught of anxiety, he took the cigarette package from his pocket and lit a smoke before offering the old cop one. When the uniform asked for a light, Costello was shocked to see the hand he held the match in begin to tremble. As if sensing Costello’s troubled mood the older cop looked him straight in the face for the first time. “It’s a bad one alright, the worst I’ve seen in thirty-five years. Do yourself a favor son, and get off these streets. Look for a nice handy desk job, these streets are hell and the devil runs the show”.

The old cop turned his head and gazed in the opposite direction to the crime scene, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth smoldered down to the butt. Costello wondered what was going through the man’s mind and what visions played in his mind’s eye. The older man was standing less than three feet from Costello, yet his mind had taken him to a place and time very distant from where they stood. Something about this whole thing felt surreal to Costello, and for the second time in a few minutes, he felt the urge to leave here for the comforting numbness of the whiskey bottle. Costello crushed the cigarette butt beneath his heel, before lifting the strip of tape and walking under it.

“Detective” The sudden sound from the cop startled him; he turned to see the old cop gesturing towards the ground. “Watch your step, the rookie left his lunch somewhere over near the corpse”. Before he got a chance to thank him, the man had turned his back to him; once again the old copper was lost in the darkness of his memories. The flashbulb lit up the area just ahead of him, and for a split second, the grimy brickwork of the walls became home to monstrous shadows. “Jesus Christ, this fucking city is turning into a fucking lunatic asylum, with deranged fucking butchers running about the place.” The wind carried the profanity to Costello’s ears, and he immediately recognized the voice of his partner Jack Conan.

Conan like the old uniform standing guard by the crime scene tape was just ticking off the days until his retirement. He was gruff ill-humored and downright lazy, as far as Costello was aware Jack Conan hated everybody and everything he came across in life. However circumstances had thrown them together, and to be honest, Costello had never cared much for any of his partners anyway. In a lot of ways working with Conan suited him down to the ground; Conan did not like working and preferred to sit back and criticize the efforts of those who did. But at least that left Costello to take the initiative, so most of the time he went about investigations solo, while Conan whiled away his time with one hooker or another that he could pressurize into giving him a freebie.

The crime scene photographer finished up his part in the pantomime and walked past Costello as if he was invisible. The photographer was a small hard-faced Asian guy who never seemed to show any emotion whatsoever, no matter how gruesome his subject matter. Conan watched the small man leave with a hateful expression. “Have a good night Wang” he called loudly after him even though Li was the man’s name, as Costello approached him he heard him mutter under his breath. “Fucking Japanese prick” even though Conan was fully aware that Li was third-generation Chinese American. None of this surprised Costello because it was pretty much how his partner dealt with most people, but for some unknown reason tonight he had a strong urge to punch Conan in the throat.

Everything about this night seemed to jangle his nerves; normally he managed to shut out Conan’s bigoted behavior. He needed to get a grip on his emotions or things would end badly for them both, so he willed his mind to get into work mode. He turned to Conan and asked him to bring him up to speed; it was only when he looked closely at his partner’s face that something struck him. Conan looked even edgier than he felt; the indifferent expression on the man’s face could not hide the expression in his normally deadpan eyes. Whatever had happened here had really disturbed Conan, and not only that, by the look in those eyes he was terrified. “Some lunatic butchered a hooker” his voice broke before he could go on, and he had to stop and clear his throat. If Costello did not know the man better, he would have sworn Conan was holding back tears.

Conan finally composed himself enough to continue. “He cut her bad Costello; she looks like something from an abattoir. Only for the body, you could not even tell it was a girl, the fucking freak took her face with him”. Conan fell silent again and Costello waited for him to continue, but the coroner arrived in the meantime and Conan looked relieved that he didn’t have to say any more about it. Costello followed the medical examiner in the direction of the victim but stopped a few feet back to give him room to work. Up close like this, the smell of death was overpowering, it was a strange acrid smell. A mixture of the coppery smell of spilled blood, human waste and the hot smell of offal. It assaulted the senses and caused a stinging sensation in his nostrils, a wave of nausea washed over him and he thought he might vomit, but it passed off quickly.

Once the medical examiner had finished, he nodded in Costello’s direction. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as he approached the scene of carnage. He viewed the body by the light of a small torch held by the examiner, for some strange reason the scene was so horrible it felt unreal. It was as if he was viewing a prop from a Horror B movie, the girl had been flattened out as if her spine had been removed. She looked for all the world like a butterflied chicken carcass, and just like Conan had said the perpetrator had peeled her face off. The torch moved to take in the area directly surrounding the dead girl, there were no body parts to be seen, so once again Conan had been correct, the killer had taken her face with him.

Costello looked inquiringly at Jake Hobbs and the old medic just shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you a fucking thing until we get her back to the lab; nothing about this one is ordinary. There are two things I can hazard a guess about, the first being this was not the place of death, and the second one is I would not think she died of natural causes. Other than that, come and see me in the morning, and we can have a closer look. Now if it is all the same to the city police force, I am getting out of here, that wind is freezing my balls off”. Hobbs gave him a wry smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, before setting off humming tunelessly under his breath. To be honest, he could not blame the medic for wanting to be gone from this place, it was cold alright but something other than the stiff northerly breeze was contributing to the cold atmosphere.

Costello watched them load the body bag in the coroner’s van and once they had driven away, he went in search of Jack Conan, but as per usual when it was time to do some leg work, Conan had done a disappearing act. The old uniformed cop just gave him a blank look when he inquired as to whether he saw Conan leave, so in the end, he thought it better to get on with things by himself. A part of him hoped that Jack Conan had disappeared from the face of the earth, in a lot of ways that scenario would make Costello’s life a loss less complicated. A quick chat with the two uniformed cops, proved less than helpful just as he thought it might. The call reporting the body was made anonymously and the dispatcher could not even say whether the caller was male or female. The young cop who smelled of puke was the first to see the body, and neither saw another living soul anywhere near the scene.

The girls huddled in small groups in doorways trying to keep warm, considering the scanty clothes they wore, there was little chance they would find much warmth out here tonight. Every now and again a car would slowly cruise down the street, and some of the girls would break from the huddles braving the biting wind. Trying their best to look sexy and inviting they would stand with a provocative posture until the would-be punters cruised past. Then hurriedly return to the warmth of their huddled colleges, business seemed slow tonight and the few cars that did pass appeared to be merely window shopping. Costello watched the pitiful sight and the prophetic words of the old cop came back to him, there was a certain truth in those words, the streets of this city really could be hell.

Costello watched the working girls plying their trade, in the hope he could isolate one by herself. His idea was a girl on her own might be more willing to talk, none of them wanted to appear too cooperative to the cops in front of her friends. The area surrounding the waste ground where the body was found was a maze of streets where homeless people congregated, and hookers, pimps, and drug dealers plied their trade. These were the kind of people that doing their civic duty by helping the cops would not be top of their list of priorities. Normally it would be the uniformed officers who would be sent to canvass the area, but the sight of a uniform on these streets would immediately send all the locals scurrying for shelter. So even though his shift had finished hours ago, he continued to sit here waiting for his chance to have a word with one of the girls.

As the night dragged on the biting wind had intensified dragging the temperatures even lower, and to add to the misery of the girls the wind now drove sleety rain ahead of it. The radio played softly in the background, as he watched some of the girls give up the ghost and make their way home from the sodden streets. The program played the top billboard hits of the day, and Tab Hunter cheerfully belted out “Young Love”. Costello wondered if the butchered girl had ever known young love, or for that matter if the freezing girls on the sidewalk knew anything about young love. He lit a Lucky Strike and looked at the clock on the dashboard, it was creeping towards midnight now and the last of the streetwalkers began to disburse. He started the engine and followed a blond girl, who had moved off in the opposite direction to the rest of the girls.

Costello followed her for two blocks before pulling alongside the pavement where she was walking, it was dark here as the street light was not working, which was not unusual for this area of the city. Public amenities in this place were not a priority for city hall, and it would not have surprised him to learn the light had been broken for a long time now. He leaned across and rolled down the passenger side window, he could hear the distinct tap, tap of her high heels above the moaning of the wind as she approached. The tapping sound stopped as she hesitated before drawing level with the car, he knew she was nervous now that she had not the safety of her companions. Looking out for each other was a big priority for the girls who worked the streets; even so, a large number of them disappeared without a trace every year.

The sound of heels on the pavement began again but they were slower now and more cautious, the girl approached hesitantly trying hard to make out who was in the dark interior of the car. Her features were just a pale blur in the darkness of the wet street, but he could see by her demeanor she was frightened. Costello reached over head and put on the light, before leaning across so she had a good view of his face. She stared at him for quite a while before she began to relax; Costello had been told by a number of women over the years that he was handsome. But he guessed as long as he did not look like a total monster, this would be good enough for the girl on the pavement. Eventually, the girl approached the open window; the clothes she wore were skimpy and wet through. She crossed her arms as if in the hope this would generate some warmth, and she leaned her head in the window.

It was hard to put an age on her but he guessed she was no older than her mid-twenties, once upon a time she could have been described as extremely pretty if not beautiful. But the years working the streets had taken a toll on her prettiness, she was still good looking but there was a hardness to her features now. Costello had seen this look a thousand times before in people of her profession, it was as if her face had begun to turn to stone and there was a faraway look in her eyes. “Are you looking for a good time mister, cause for a few bucks I can take you to heaven”. She treated him to what he presumed she thought to be a seductive smile, but that smile never quite managed to reach those sad eyes. “Get in girl, I just want to talk. At least it is dry and warm in here”. She quickly dropped any pretense of a smiley happy girl and began to turn away. “Get in girl and I will pay you for your time” Costello waved the twenty-dollar bill at her, and she shrugged her shoulders and climbed in.

The short skirt she wore rode high on her thighs, and before she yanked it back down Costello caught a glimpse of the needle tracks on her thigh above her stocking top. “What’s your name girl”? But she would not even answer this until he handed over the twenty bucks; he guessed she had been ripped off too many times before. Costello drove to the parking lot of an all-night café when he returned with the coffee and sandwich he was mildly surprised to see Anna was still in the car. He had been half expecting her to do a runner with his money, but he also knew if he jumped straight into asking questions he would be wasting his time. He watched her greedily wolf down the chicken sandwich and when she was finished she licked the Mayo off her fingers, there was something childlike in her actions, and he was once again reminded of the comment about these streets being hell.

Anna bummed a cigarette from him and inhaled deeply before expelling the smoke with a sigh of satisfaction, and then she sipped the coffee while staring him in the face. Costello felt as if she was trying to see beyond his eyes and into his soul, whatever she saw there she slowly began to relax and some of the hardness left her face. Just for an instant he saw her in a different light; he could easily imagine her in a prom dress posing with her proud Middle American parents. But if she ever did then it was in another life, he wondered if her Mom and Dad still stared out the window of her home hoping she would return. Did they still hold out hope every time the phone rang, that it was their Anna and she was coming home? As if she had read his mind she laughed sadly before adding. “What you see is what you get mister; I am a hooker, nothing more or nothing less. Now tell me what you want to know, twenty bucks don’t buy you an all-nighter”.

Anna’s reaction was not what he expected when he asked her whether she had seen or heard anything strange on the streets lately. Her laughter was just a little too contrived, and her answer that everything on these streets was strange, sounded just a little too glib. But it was that sudden look of fear in her eyes that caught his attention most, and the sudden darting motion of those eyes as if looking to see if they were being observed. Anna was halfway through the second cigarette and a prolonged bout of silence when he realized that she was contemplating whether or not to tell him something she considered important. He had just told her why he was looking for information when she clammed up, now he was desperately trying to think of something to say to get her talking. But to his surprise, she turned to him and blurted it out, and something in her voice told him she was telling what she believed to be the truth.

“Look mister I knew from the first instant that you were a cop, news travels quickly on the streets. We had all heard about the butchered girl, even before you parked across the street watching us. No one is going to take the risk of talking to you, there are rumors spreading like wildfire that something dark and unholy is going on. That poor girl you found is not the first and you can be certain she will not be the last, but here is the kicker, one of your lot is rumored to be involved. I am not saying he held the blade, but it is said he provides the girls. Another thing that you might find interesting is your murdered girl was not a hooker, she was dumped here to throw you off the scent”. As abruptly as she started talking she fell silent again before he had a chance to react she had opened the door and stepped out of the car. She was moving away from the car when she stopped and turned back. “Look for the crooked man, and you will find your killer”.

Costello watched her walk across the parking lot; she looked even smaller and more vulnerable. Her head darted from side to side constantly as she walked; it was as if she was expecting to be set upon at any moment. He had a bad feeling that this particular girl would not live to old age, for a moment his mind took him back to a different time when he watched another blond girl walk away from him. There had been a lot of girls since then, far too many to remember, a lot of them had been blonde but none of them like the girl he had just remembered now. When he looked again the parking lot was empty, the blonde had disappeared into the shadows, and he vaguely wondered what monsters awaited her in the dark. Costello suddenly wondered why he felt so melancholy tonight, but he could not quite put his finger on a reason. He switched on the engine and drove to Murphy’s Bar and the promise of a cure from his melancholy in a whiskey bottle.

Episode 16 of Beyond Darkness, A Night of Rain

The screeching of the tires on the wet asphalt sounded impossibly loud, and everything seemed to go into slow motion. A voice somewhere in his head screamed at him to turn the wheel, but his arms appeared to be locked in position, his knuckles snow white from the death like grip on the wheel. The small figure standing on the road in front of him seemed to move closer and closer, even though the rational part of his mind told him that it was the car that was moving closer to the child. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact, but at the last moment his arms moved and the car drifted sideways away from the child.

The car came to a stop after what seemed like an age since he had hit the brakes, when he opened his eyes he was staring at a deserted road. At least the small area directly in front of the headlights was deserted; the rest of the road lay hidden behind the thick curtain of driving rain. Kirby took a couple of deep breaths and waited for the pounding in his chest to subside, his heart felt as if it was about to burst out of his chest. Deep breaths and exhale slowly, a small voice in his head coached him until his heart rate returned to something resembling normal.

Now that the original shock was wearing off, a myriad of questions and recriminations exploded in his mind. What the hell was a child doing on their own, on a deserted road on a night like this? Come to think of it, what had brought him out here on a night like this? It had begun to worry him of late that, he found himself driving miles from home with little or no idea what had brought him there. At the back of his mind he felt it would only be a matter of time before he was involved in a car accident, driving needed concentration especially in weather like this.

The episode with the fortune teller had been playing a constant loop in his head lately, so it was little wonder to him that he had not been concentrating on his driving. Well a long threatening had come at last; he had just come within inches of killing a child because his mind was not on his driving. The child! With all his analysing of the situation, he had forgotten the child. He grabbed the torchlight from the glove compartment and got out into the driving rain, thirty minutes later he got back in the car soaked to the skin.

Kirby had searched the roadside either side of the car for a hundred yards or more, but failed to find any sign that there even had been a child. Sitting behind the wheel now in his soaking clothes, he tried to conjure up the image of the child in his mind. But it was as if her memory had been erased from his mind, the only image he could remember of a child was the spectral figure of the girl that showed up now and again in his home. But even she had been absent for quite a while now, he was just reaching for the ignition key when the impact occurred.

Kirby was propelled backwards at first into the seat, and then his body jerked forwards at great speed. His forehead collided with the steering wheel and a flash of purple light exploded inside his head, moments later his mind plunged into darkness. The darkness welled up and moulded itself around him like a shroud, unseen hands reached bony fingers out and dragged him further into the abyss. He was in free fall now, and sinking impossibly deep into the black void. Then the girls voice whispered in his ear, “Grab my hand Kirby, don’t go any further”. Her small cold hand reached out and arrested his fall.

The room was in semi darkness when he woke, the only light came from a low wattage bulb in the bedside lamp. His head felt as if it was too heavy for his body, and he found it almost impossible to lift from the pillow. When he did manage to lift it the room swam out of focus and a wave of nausea swept over him, he dropped his head back on the pillow and he felt as if had dropped it on a concrete block. His head was throbbing now fit to burst, it came as a relief when he drifted back into the darkness again. It was a blessing, at least there in the darkness of unconsciousness, the pain dulled to a distant memory.

Kirby’s mind had sought refuge from the pain in a world of darkness, physical pain was absent from this place, but it was replaced by another type of anguish. An anguish that has been haunting him for a long time, it was the anguish that only the truly lonely feel. That awful feeling that comes from the fear that you will never truly belong, that you will never be really part of this world. There in the darkness he felt himself drift even further towards a different realm, and with every ounce of strength he could muster, Kirby called out to be saved.

The watcher sat silently in the shadows of the corner of the room, observing the unconscious man, when he cried out in anguish the watcher felt pleasure. It would have been child’s play to cross the room and choke the life from the injured man; the thought brought a tingling of anticipated pleasure to him. However that pleasure would have to wait, the watcher would savour the act of killing Mr Kirby, but first there were obligations to be fulfilled. The people, who employed his services, had been very specific in their instructions. He had earned a hard won reputation as a person who carried out his client’s instructions to the letter, and he had no intention of tarnishing this reputation now.

Crossing the room the small thin man leaned over the prone figure, and placed his face only inches from the unconscious man’s battered features. A casual observer would be forgiven for believing that this was the action of a man concerned for the wellbeing of a wounded friend. However, the faint smirk that played on his thin lips and the icy stare in his eyes, would tell a different story altogether. The expression on the watchers face clearly showed that he enjoyed watching the suffering of others. Cedric Hynes enjoyed inflicting death and suffering, and it was made all the sweeter when he was paid to do it.

The small man placed his cold hand on the swollen and bruised forehead of Kirby, closing his eyes he willed his mind to picture the pain, which the injury was inflicting on the man. But just as quickly he removed his hand and stepped backwards, a strange vision had entered his head and it was far from pleasant. It was as if he had been suddenly drawn into a world of darkness, a world where the line between the living and the dead no longer existed. Hynes was not a man that scared easily, but something about the injured man was not natural. Turning on his heels he left the bedside, suddenly he wanted this task over with. The sooner he could extract the information from Kirby and kill him the better, but in the meantime he found himself nervous of being in Kirby’s presence.

The distinguished looking gentleman made a sound deep in the back of his throat, and his grip on the newspaper tightened. The article that held his attention made for disturbing reading, according to the author of this particular piece, the old order was in decline. Meaningful change was the new catch phrase that was on everyone’s lips, a seismic shift was taking place in the political landscape. This correspondence view’s in themselves did not overly concern him; however a number of articles had appeared lately in other publications concerning things that could really muddy the water for the old order.

Philip Brightman the third discarded the newspaper, and filled a large brandy from the crystal decanter on his desk. He swivelled his chair and turned his attention to the darkness outside the window of his study, ever since he had learned that the man called Kirby had escaped the explosion in his office, Brightman had a bad feeling that it would be only a matter of time before Kirby came back to haunt them. The last thing they needed in this political climate was incriminating material surfacing; Kirby might just be the man to provide that incriminating evidence.

The ringing of the phone interrupted his muse and he had a mind to ignore it, but whoever was calling was persistent. Brightman picked up the receiver with the intention of abusing the caller; however he immediately recognised Hynes’s voice. He listened to the small man with a growing sense of relief; the killer had fulfilled the first part of his contract. Kirby was a problem that would soon disappear, however Hynes now needed to persuade the soon to be departed Kirby, to divulge the whereabouts of certain photographs and address books.

 Philip Brightman hung up the phone and took a sip of the Brandy, and lit a fat Cuban cigar. His doctor would be non-too pleased about this, but he felt a little celebration was in order. Once Hynes provided the information regarding the incriminating evidence, he would be a much happier man. That would leave just one loose end to deal with, and a lot of powerful people would sleep better at night. He was looking forward to killing Hynes himself; he detested the little weasel of a man. Philip Brightman may have been a well respect congressman, but he also had a penchant for killing.

Cedric Hynes sat for quite a while with the phone still in his hand, even though Brightman had ended the call abruptly. A deep raging anger was bubbling inside him; he hated the feeling of not being in control of his emotions. Only when he manged to push the anger deep into the darkest recesses of his mind, did he trust himself to move and replace the handset on the phone. Hynes had survived in his particular profession because he had a hidden talent, he could project his mind into other people’s heads. It was how he had made Kirby believe he was about to mow down a child with his car, it was also how he had learned of Brightman’s intentions towards him.

However nothing much had changed with regard to his task, except that once he had the information extracted from Kirby, he would use it to blackmail Brightman and his cohorts. Once he had extracted sufficient funds from Brightman, Hynes would make sure Brightman died a very slow and painful death. Then Cedric Hynes would fade from the face of the earth, he had long ago made plans for a situation such as this. The one thing that bothered him more than his employer’s treachery was the fact that something about the man in the next room was unfathomable to him. There was darkness about Kirby that troubled him, Hynes had long ago embraced the fact that there were realms outside the normal, but Kirby was the first person he had come in contact with that appeared to exist in more than one.

Kirby awoken again to the sound of an urgent voice in his ear, this time the pain in his head had dulled to a bearable degree. The spectral figure of the girl stood by the side of his bed, she was imploring him to get up and leave this place. The small cold hand reached out and grabbed his; he was amazed at her strength as she pulled him to a sitting position. Her lips moved and her voice sounded in his head, “You have to get out of here Kirby, there is an evil man here and he means to kill you”. Kirby was just about to ask her to explain when he felt another presence in the room, turning from the ghostly child he spotted the small thin man standing in the doorway. Something about the insignificant looking little man left a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Ah! Mr Kirby I am delighted to see that you decided to join me in the land of the living, I have been waiting patiently to have an urgent little chat with you”. The small man smiled broadly and the gold tooth in his upper jaw glinted duly in the low light, the smile never registered in his cold blue eyes. Kirby estimated the man to be five feet tall at most and roughly a hundred pounds, but there was a menacing aura about the man. He was dressed in a tweed suit in the fashion of a country squire; his crisp white shirt was open at the neck revealing a scarlet scarf.

One moment the small man was standing on the far side of the room, and the next he was beside the bed. It was if he disappeared from one place and reappeared in another, up close the diminutive figure was even more intimidating. It felt to Kirby as if he was in close proximity to a venomous snake, the small man tilted his head to the side, and those icy blue eyes glinted. He stared intensely into Kirby’s eyes, and suddenly his expression changed and he took a step backwards. A small hand shot out and clamped around Kirby’s throat with a vice like grip, his airways was shut off and he faded once more into the blackness.

Kirby’s features began to take on the hue of a purple bruise, and his eyes bulged against the closed lids. Cedric Hynes felt a surge of euphoria as he watched his victim move closer to the next realm, but the small voice of reason grew louder in his mind until he eventually loosed his grip on Kirby’s throat. Suddenly the assassin felt drained and confused, what he had just done was totally out of character for him. Had he killed Kirby there and then it would have been totally counterproductive, in fact it would have been suicidal both professionally and figuratively.  But it bothered him even more when he realised the reason behind his action, he had acted in this way because something about Kirby left him frightened and confused.

Cedrick Hynes turned on his heels and left the room, and Kirby inhaled deeply. His throat burned with the intake of air and his temples throbbed, had the small man retained his grip on Kirby’s throat for even an instance longer Kirby felt as if he would have died. Kirby continued to lay there with his eyes closed breathing deeply, until he was sure that his would be killer was not lurking nearby. It took every ounce of will power he could muster but he finally made it to his feet, even then he would have collapsed to the ground but for that small cold hand that reached out and steadied him.

Kirby stood stock still holding the icy hand of a long dead child, and he felt a strange power surge through her hand and into him. Within a short period of time the effects of his injuries seemed to disappear, and for the first time since he woke he felt as if he was going to live. A brief tug on his hand, and her voice sounded in his head. “He is in the study at the end of the hallway, he is frightened Kirby but he is also very dangerous. Believe nothing you see when you are near him.” The spectral figure of the child released her grip on his hand, and Kirby followed her out of the room.

 Cedric Hynes sat in the winged back chair, his hand steepled in front of him and his eyes closed. He allowed his mind to drift far beyond the room into a place of memories; here in his library of death he kept images of all of those he had killed. Here in this place he felt at peace, here he could rejuvenate himself and focus his mind to any task. The man called Kirby had brought out something in him that he never realised was there, for the first time in his life he was afraid and confused. In a moment of clarity he finally saw what he needed to do, he would just go in the room and kill Kirby then he would find Brightman and murder that double crossing bastard.

A smile spread across the little killers face, he would dispose of these two problems and disappear. He would start up again in another country; a killer of Cedric Hynes’s calibre would always be in high demand. He opened his eyes and the smile faded quickly from his face, he felt their presence even before they entered the room. But the question was who were they? He was sure he was alone in the house with Kirby, the problem now was the fact he felt another presence. The small ghostly child entered the room and he felt a shiver in the pit of his stomach, he knew immediately she was not of this world. It was this instant of hesitation that stole the initiative from him; he was a split second too late in reaching for the gun on the side table.

Hynes fingers just brushed the handle of the gun when Kirby launched himself, the impact of the larger man’s weight drove the air out of his lungs but he managed to grab the gun. However Kirby’s hand grasped the wrist of the hand holding the gun and now it became a tug of war, Hynes was startled by the strength of Kirby. He had not been expecting this, considering the fact that only minutes ago he had almost strangled the life from Kirby. Cedric Hynes concentrated his mind and projected it into the mind of Kirby, here he latched onto every frightening memory he could find, and dragged them to the forefront of Kirby’s consciousness.

Kirby was suddenly accosted by fearful disjointed images; frightening visions came and went in his peripheral vision. The small man trapped beneath him suddenly smiled coldly as he began to gain the upper hand, the gun they wrestled for slowly began to turn barrel first in Kirby’s direction. “Ignore what he is making you see Kirby; he is playing tricks with your mind.” The voice of the ghostly child sounded close to his ear as a small cold hand joined the affray, the sneer on Hynes’s face vanished only to be replaced by a look of terror. Kirby felt the flash burn through his shirt as the gun fired, the bullet entered the small man’s throat and the hot sticky blood sprayed Kirby.

Kirby could feel the blood spatter against his ear as he tried to understand the gurgling words of the dying man. Hynes was fading fast now and he kept trying to repeat the same word over and over again, even after he became silent Kirby leaned over him willing him to say it one more time. Kirby was getting angry now and he lifted the small man by shirt front and shook him, he desperately needed to know what this had all been about. “Brightman, he kept saying the word Brightman.” Kirby released the dead man and turned in the direction of the speaker; the child ghost reached out and led him from that place with her small cold hand.

Senator Philip Brightman smiled for the press photographers, in one hand he held the gold plated scissors, while his other hand rested on the shoulder of a young girl. The little girl too stared in the direction of the myriad of photographer’s cameras but she did not smile, her hand trembled as she reached out to help him cut the ceremonial ribbon. The group of waiting dignitaries rushed forward once the ribbon was cut, each one eager to be associated with the new child care facility. The small frightened orphan girl was forgotten about and pushed aside, by those eager to shake the senator’s hand in a photo opportunity. Kirby watched from the car window for a while longer, eventually he turned to the ghostly passenger. The child ghost nodded once and Kirby drove away, the image of Brightman was burned into his memory.