A Taste for Malice (42 page)

But something tells me to keep going.

There’s a breeze on the back of my neck, something’s pushing me on and I can’t ignore it.

There. Right there among the undergrowth I can see the faint line of a path. The word path may be an exaggeration, but there is definitely an impression of some sort on the earth. It stretches in an almost straight line through the woods and up the slope at the far end.

I step out of the light of the main path and into the dark and hush of the woods. It’s a few degrees colder in here, the heat and light of the day being held back by the foliage higher up. I shiver, move faster, thinking I should have brought a jacket.

The path takes a slight curve and follows the slope upwards. I walk for what must be five or ten minutes. Apart from my breathing and the noise as I crush the leaves and twigs caught underfoot, I am in a world of silence. No breeze. No birdsong. Nothing.

There’s a low dry-stone wall in front of me. Why would a wall would be built here in the middle of a wood? Was it a boundary of some sort? Whatever its purpose; it is a sign of habitation. I walk faster and climb over a section of the wall that has long ago collapsed in on itself.

On the other side of the wall the path continues onwards and upwards. The ground evens out and the slope begins a downwards slide that is much more gentle than the way up.

I hear a noise. Sounds like a scream. High in the trees a large bird calls out, claps its wings and then flies off to a different perch. I still my breathing. I was just imagining things.

Then it sounds again. And again.

I start running in the direction of the noise. That was no wounded beast of the woods. That was the noise of a child in pain.

The trees thin out into a clearing. Along one side runs the rest of the wall I climbed over earlier and just beyond that sits a low roofed, squat, white house. From here I can make out a green door and small windows on either side. The house must have two rooms at the most.

The screaming has stopped. I’m not sure if that is a good sign or not. I clear the wall and approach the house from the side so that whoever is inside can’t see me.

I reach the window. The glass is filthy, streaked with bird droppings, dust and rain. On the other side my view is obstructed by a net curtain. I wipe some of the dirt off the window with my hand, trying to get a better look and what I see then sends a chill through me.

I can see the still, vertical form of a small boy in the centre of the room. His head is at the same height as mine and twisted to the side. He has no clothes on his bottom half. His feet are also bare and tied together. They are dangling in mid air.

I don’t think twice. I take a step to the right and shoulder in the door. The hinges and the wood are old and rotting and give easily.

The room is dark, the only light provided by the window and the open door. The only furniture in the room is a wooden table and four crudely crafted wooden chairs. I reach the boy. He has a noose around his neck. His face is covered in what looks like burn marks. Small, circular burn marks as if they had been done with a cigarette. In the seconds it takes to reach him I can see that the same burns are on and around his small genitals.

The boy’s face is pale, his eyes closed and his lips blue. But he is still warm. I drag a chair over and stand on it. I hold his small body up and take the weight off his neck. Looking up I see that the rope is attached to a light fitting. Hopefully, like the door this is in a rotten state as well.

How long has he been like this? Will I be able to get air into his lungs before his brain is damaged by the lack of oxygen.

With one arm round Ben, I give the flex of the light fitting a hard tug. Nothing. Another tug. It remains solid.

I look around the room for something sharp. I can see nothing but shadows. The spaces the light touches are as bare as the walls of a crypt.

There’s another room. Might be a kitchen. Might be something sharp there.

What about Shearer? Did she vanish as soon as she heard me?

Just then I hear a noise from my right. Excellent, Alessandra and Dave must have arrived. I turn round.

‘Quick, give me a hand.’

But it’s no-one I know. The shape of the woman in front of me is small and slight. Her hair all but covers her eyes, but not enough for me to miss the look of hatred that is aimed at me.

‘No you don’t, you bastard.’ She runs at me. I can see something short and sharp glint in her hand.

My options are to protect myself or continue to take the pressure off Ben’s neck. In the seconds it takes for Shearer to reach me I make my choice and turn. All I can do is offer her my back as a target.

Her blade punches me in the right buttock.

‘Fuck,’ I let out a scream.

She’s coming at me again. I lash out with my right leg. I hit something. She grunts and then comes back at me. I’ve got to get Ben off this rope. I pull at the electric flex again. There’s a slight shift. Shearer’s on me again. I can’t take much more of this knife. I feel the knife enter the front of my thigh. I turn in agony. She strikes again. This time in my lower back.

‘Fuck!’ I scream. ‘You bitch.’

My first choice was either to protect Ben or myself. If this continues I will have saved no one. I’ve got to stop her before she finishes us both. My trouser legs, back and front are soaked in my blood. I’ve no idea how much I’ve lost but my legs are wobbling. My arms need a rest.

The only weapons I have are my feet and my knees. Time to gamble. She has to get close enough for it to work and I have to take the risk of another knife wound. I balance on the chair to gather some strength, amazed that it hasn’t toppled already.

As if she smells my weakness she stops and smiles. And then takes a step closer. Just a little closer, I pray and pretend to close my eyes and rest my head on Ben’s chest, which is completely still. Ben. Poor Ben, I’ve got to save you. I don’t bother speaking. We are beyond words. I’ve got to hope against hope that Ben is still in there somewhere and he knows I am here fighting to help him.

Shearer has no fear of me. She looks up at me with all the interest of a customer at a zoo. I can’t hurt her, she’s thinking. I can’t stop her either. She has a mission and by god she’ll complete it.

I look at Ben and try to judge his state. I can’t feel for a pulse. I don’t have time. The rope at the back of his neck isn’t completely tight. There is some space. Perhaps there’s hope.

Shearer edges in as casual as someone at Tesco might consider the purchase of an own brand of tomatoes. She lifts her arm up; the blade is dark with my blood and aimed at me. She brings it down. Fast.

I twist violently to the side, using the flex as my point of anchor. She misses and her momentum brings her closer to me. Then in one motion, I take my hand off Ben’s chest, place both on the flex, grip as tightly as I can and pull up. As I do so I bring my right knee up with as much force as I can manage.

My knee connects with her chin. Her head shoots back. But I can’t see much more as my full weight on the flex has ripped the connection from the ceiling.

I hit the floor. On the way down my back hits the chair and my wounded buttock hits the ground. Ben lands on top of me.

Just then Dave and Alessandra burst in the door, closely followed by Liam and Billy.

‘You okay, boss,’ asks Alessandra, her face white.

‘Don’t worry about me. Ben. Needs CPR.’

As it turned out, Liam and Billy did get their fifteen minutes of fame on the telly. I watched it from my hospital bed.

Still wearing their football tops, they proudly told the world how they had directed the first policeman to the wee house where the mad woman was torturing the wee boy. Then how they waited for the man and woman police detectives and showed them where I had disappeared into the woods.

Then how they watched the policewoman save the wee boy’s life and the policeman put his handcuffs on the mad woman. Even though she was unconscious, she was still pure scary, they opined. A line that was repeated in every newspaper in the country.

Visitors, I’ve had a few, but then again, not too few to mention.

Alessandra was the first. She kissed me on the cheek as she left.

‘That nurse with the moustache,’ she grinned. ‘She’s got her eye on you.’

‘Fuck off, Rossi,’ was my sweet reply.

Jim Hilton also made an appearance. He stood by the bed with his arms crossed.

‘Can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘Can’t take my eyes off Ben for any longer than …’

His face was long and shadowed with guilt, relief and worry about what the future might bring. His war wasn’t over yet. He still had a wife to nurse and win over. And a son to love and protect in a manner that will give him a safe yet free childhood.

How do you convince the child that the bogeyman won’t come and get him, when the bogeywoman already did?

‘Just wanted to thank you …’ His face twisted with emotion. His eyes were wet, but he wouldn’t allow the tears of gratitude to flow. Strange how with everything he had gone through that he would still care about a public display.

‘I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us, DI McBain. I’ll make sure Ben knows and maybe one day he’ll follow in your footsteps.’

‘Oh for fuckssake, don’t say that. Look at the state of me, man.’ We both laughed.

We shook hands and he left.

I try to sleep. An image of Jim Hilton with his son, Ben keeps imposing itself on my mind. For all his recent trials I envy him. He has his son.

I wonder where Theresa is right now. If she has had the baby yet? If she will ever tell me the truth.

Do I deserve the truth?

I drift in and out of sleep until I feel a presence hovering over me. I am dazed with fatigue, my eyes unfocussed. It is a man’s face; thin and sharp with threat. His voice is frighteningly familiar.

‘It’s not over yet, McBain.’ I feel his breath on my ear as he speaks. ‘It would be too easy to do anything now…’

‘What?’ I sit up, propelled with fright.

‘Well, Ray,’ says Chief Superintendent Harrison. He’s standing over at the door. As usual he looks as if he has just walked out of a shop window. ‘Been in the wars again?’

I look over his shoulder. ‘Did you see anyone just leave there?’ He swivels, following my line of sight.

‘Nope. You were totally on your own.’

‘You sure?’ I ask, voice tight with panic.

‘Ray, I realise that you’ve had some stress recently, but you need to calm down.’ He walks towards me and pats my shoulder. I slump back on to the pillows fighting to keep my eyes open. I am so tired.

Harrison sits in the chair beside me and crosses one well-tailored leg over the other, displaying a leather brogue so shiny it could double as a disco ball.

‘Anyway, Ray. We have other more pressing things to discuss …’ his face is severe. Fuck. What is he going to say? Acid churns in my stomach. I can’t lose my job, it’s all I have. It’s the only thing I can do.

‘Sir, I know I was out of line. I know I was supposed to stay by the desk, but a wee boy was in…’

‘Ray, for chrissake shut up, man. I hate to see someone begging.’

‘But, sir …’

‘No buts, DI McBain …’

Here we go. He always gives me my full title before he goes for the jugular.

‘…you’re a credit to the force. A bona-fide hero.’ He slaps my thigh. The good one, thankfully. ‘The news papers love you. You saved a child, man.’ His face wide with glee. The men under him perform well, he looks good. The men under him save the life of a photogenic child of four, he looks like a future Chief Constable.

‘So don’t worry, Ray. In fact I’m sure there will be a commendation in line for you after this. We’ll just forget the small fact that you were on forced desk duty and concentrate on the dogged fashion in which you hunted down a maniac.’

I am weak with relief. I seriously thought I’d done it this time. That the brass would think this was the last straw. See me, I’m a great judge of events. Not. Harrison then looks over at the door. He raises his eyebrows in an approving manner.

‘Looks like you have another visitor, Ray.’ He stands up. ‘We’ll see you when you’re fit. And the first thing you’re doing when you return is a refresher on Officer Safety Training.’ He wags a finger at me.

He leaves. Maggie enters.

‘This is getting to be a habit,’ she says.

‘You look good.’

‘You look like shit,’ she laughs. Then, soberly. ‘What am I going to do with you, Ray McBain?’ Relief has lined her eyes with the beginning of tears.

‘Ignore the scars and the fact that I’m crap in bed and return to being my best pal?’

Her laughter in reply is the best medicine. We look at each other. Tentative. Knowing that the worst is over. Her eyes are shiny, her smile curved with warmth. We are still friends.

I have a thought.

‘Does everyone know that I got stabbed in the arse?’

She laughs, loud and unrestrained and rubs her hands together.

‘Ray,’ she grins. ‘The whole world knows.’

A big thank you to readers, bloggers, reviewers, booksellers and all the social networkers (you know who you are) for helping to make
Blood Tears
a success. Thanks also to everyone at Five Leaves and to Derek Fyfe and John Hazlett for guidance in police matters. Any errors are all mine. Special mention must also go to my first readers on this book, Sheila Templeton and Alison Craig. Who knew those targeted Monday night sessions at The Coffee Club would end up here?

A Taste for Malice

by Michael J Malone

Published in 2013 in paperback and ebook formats

by Five Leaves Publications, PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW

www.fiveleaves.co.uk

© Michael J. Malone, 2013

ISBN: 978-1-907869-90-7

Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England