Buried Slaughter (32 page)

Jimmy landed with a splash in the stream below. His hands went flying into the freezing cold water, the hard stones underneath stinging them as water splashed up onto his face. He winced, then rubbed his hands against his white t-shirt. His hands were red in the middle. But he was tough. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t going to cry. He was going to get this ball.

He looked to his left. He could see the ball was down the stream, but it had stopped. It was bobbing against something. Great. Now he wouldn’t even have to chase it far. He’d stopped it with his magical powers. Another reason for the boys and the girls to love him, as they laughed and shouted on the park above.

Wiping the muddy-tasting water from his lips, Jimmy paddled down the stream. The water only went up to his ankles. He could see the ball getting closer to him as he moved. The water was freezing, though. So cold on his feet that he could hardly feel them. But so nice. He wasn’t sweating anymore. His cheeks weren’t hot and his head wasn’t sticky. He was okay.

He got even closer to the blue ball, his mum still shouting behind him, and he got a whiff of something really nasty. It was so nasty that he stopped walking. He stumbled a bit to either side. It smelled worse than the smell in the school toilets that the other kids said was him that time when it wasn’t. Much worse than that. So bad that it was making his stomach rumble. So bad that it made him feel dizzy whenever he thought of his runny ice cream, his soggy cone.

He held his breath even though this made him feel a bit dizzier. He could do this. Even though he was shaking, he could do it. He just had to be brave. He stepped closer to the blue ball, still bobbing up and down as the stream tried to carry it along, trickling against the rocks like the music Mummy used to listen to when she was sad. He got closer. He was so close now.

But the closer Jimmy got, the worse the smell got. And he could hear something else, too. Something different to the laughing on the park and the stream against the rocks. He could hear a buzzing sound. Like a million bees were all coming his way. Poo. He hated bees. He hated bees. Maybe they were what smelled. Maybe they were…

It was at that exact moment that Little Jimmy Cox saw what the buzzing sound was.

It wasn’t bees.

There were flies. Big, black flies, loads of them, all swarming around the blue ball as it bobbed up and down.

Why did they want the ball? They couldn’t have the ball. The ball was his trophy. The kids on the park were going to love him for taking it to them.

“Jimmy! Come here right this second.”

Then he saw there were little yellow things in the water around the ball too. Maggots, all drifting down the stream. He thought this was sad at first. Sad because they were drowning, and there was nothing they could do without little arms or legs. He wanted to help them. Save the maggots, save the ball. Maybe then the flies would let him keep the ball if he saved their children.

But then he saw something else. Something he hadn’t been able to understand at first. The thing that the ball was bobbing against, he wasn’t sure what it was, but now he saw this white material. This white bandage with little red bits on.

And then, tied beneath the white bandages, he saw hands.

And feet.

Pale hands. Pale feet.

He stumbled back. Back away from the ball. Back towards his mummy’s angry voice and her splashing feet.

But it wasn’t the hands or the feet that made him scream louder than he’d screamed in his entire short life.

It was the monster’s head that he saw poking out of the water.

The antlers. The white fur, like a dog’s. The pink hat, like Chloë’s at school.

It was the monster’s head‌—‌the monster’s eyes‌—‌that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.

Chapter One

The more shitheads Detective Inspector Brian McDone dealt with, the more he longed for that fateful day in five years’ time when he could finally retire forever.

He stared at his fellow officers as they wrapped their cuffs around the wrists of Andy Briscutt and escorted him towards the police van. Andy Briscutt was just like all the other drug dealing scumbags around Preston these days‌—‌a skinny, weedy little scrote. Not the sort that used to deal back in the day. None of the class of dealers of old‌—‌the Mitchells, the Woodbridges. No. It was all grey trackie bottoms and scummy hoodies these days. Which was surprising considering how much cash they must be making.

Brian turned and looked at the red-brick housing estate just outside of Preston city centre that Andy Briscutt resided in. Scruffsville, that’s what it was. Prams were upturned outside. Punctured footballs rested in the uncut gardens‌—‌if they could be called gardens. He watched as his fellow officers walked in and out of the place, seizing whatever evidence of cannabis growth they could. He tensed his jaw. Why had he ever rejoined the police? Especially at the age he’d rejoined. He was getting on a bit. But he supposed a free Detective Inspector post was just too alluring after all.

He took in a deep breath of the car-fuel-stinking air and started walking towards the chatter inside Andy Briscutt’s house. As he walked, Brian found himself huffing and puffing, wiping sweat from his head. It was a bloody boiling day today. Always did seem to be May that Preston was graced with the rarity that was good weather. One month, maybe six weeks if they were lucky, then back to the banal grimness of a near eternal winter.

Otherwise, life was alright really. Been worse.

As Brian reached the door, the taste of salty sweat covering his lips, he noticed DS Brad Richards crouched outside tying his shoelace.

“You got anything for me, Brad?” Brian asked, raising his voice to make Brad jump.

Brad didn’t jump. Never did. He rose slowly to his feet and turned around to face Brian. His eyes were wide. His dark, curly hair was wild, uncombed and seemingly unwashed, too. He had a glassy glaze. His shirt looked like it had a few yellow marks on, like it hadn’t been washed in quite some time.

“Only one of Preston’s biggest weed dealers,” Brad said, scratching his head and sending a cloud of dandruff rising above it. He yawned into his hand and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. “Should disrupt business for a short while.”

Brian nodded. “Good job,” he said. He started to turn around, the heat from the glaring late afternoon sun burning against his balding scalp. If he got home quick enough, he’d be able to have Sunday roast with Hannah. Maybe a bit of lovemaking too to cap a hard week off, sort of thing. He imagined it already. Imagined the sweet smell of her skin, the taste of her lips…‌fuck. Better stop fantasising at a crime scene. Not a good idea. Someone might start psychologically profiling him or some crap like that.

“Anyway, you’re lucky,” Brad said, dodging out of the way at the last possible moment as some officers scuttled out of Andy Briscutt’s house. “Last Sunday before your holiday. Don’t know why you’re looking so morbid.”

Brian smiled. He’d booked a holiday away in Malaga with Hannah from next Saturday to the following Saturday. An unofficial honeymoon, of sorts. They hadn’t got married, but they’d committed to one another. Besides, what good did marriage do other than raise the stakes of sabotage? Hannah had been the one to suggest not getting married.

Didn’t take much convincing from Brian. Commitment was commitment. Didn’t need any artificial vows to prove their love.

She kept her engagement ring though. Damn it. He’d been hoping to get the cash back.

Brian and Brad walked back out of the yard of the housing estate and towards the sound of the cars on the main road. “You gonna be alright without me around to babysit you?”

Brad shook his head. “Probably get Preston completely cleaned up without you to stick yourself under my fucking feet.”

Brian kept his eyes on Brad as they walked away from the housing estate. Looked at the way Brad stared at the floor with his empty, distant eyes. Noticed the shaking in his hand. And he smelled it on him, too. The drink. The hard alcohol. He smelled it on him and that made him taste it in his mouth. Made him remember his run-in with depression.

He knew the signs because he’d spent months covering them up himself.

Brian didn’t say anything to Brad, though. He knew he had shit going on at home, supposedly. And he was a bloody good officer. Reminded him of himself in a way. Only younger. And probably more good-looking.

Okay.
Almost
as good-looking.

“I’ll write you a postcard. Anyway, I’ve got another week yet. Not getting rid of me that easily.”

Brad didn’t really respond to these words of as they walked back towards Brian’s blue Honda Jazz. He often didn’t say anything. Just gave the faintest of smiles, then nodded. Made it harder for Brian to talk to him. But fuck‌—‌would this kid even want a Detective Inspector giving him life advice? He thought back to when he was down. When he was struggling. Would he have wanted DI-Fucking-Price to give him depression advice?

The hairs on his arms stood up. His cheeks warmed up. Price. Definitely frigging not.

Brian nodded at DS Carter and DC Porter as he reached for the handle of the car door. Brad got in the passenger side, Brian plonked himself down behind the wheel.

“Sure you don’t want me to drive?” Brad asked, as Brian fumbled with the keys in the ignition. “Just, y’know. Being old enough to be a fucking granddad and all that. Don’t old people have like, a twenty-mile-an-hour max speed?”

Brian glared at Brad, who stared distantly out of the window, as if his words of banter were nothing more than rehearsed lines.

“I’ll kick you out of this pissing car at a twenty-mile-an-hour
minimum
speed if you don’t watch your lip, mate.” He turned the key and started up the engine. “Where you want dropping off? Oh, my bad. Another few hours left on your shift. Feel for you.”

Brad scooped one of Brian’s Haim CDs out from the glovebox and examined it with his nose crinkled, like it was toxic waste. “Thought I heard a rumour you had a good taste in music?”

“
Thirty
-mile-an-hour minimum speed,” Brian said, raising his voice as he exited onto the A6 and headed back towards the station. “You can knock me all you like, but you don’t go knocking my music taste.”

Brad smiled at this. Made a change.

The pair didn’t say much as they got closer to Preston Police Station. Brad never had said much since Brian had started mentoring him for eventual promotion to the DI role. He’d only come in to Preston a year or so back, from over the Pennines somewhere.

But he’d always had that look about him. That glassy look in his eyes. That detachment‌—‌not a shred of sentimentality about him. Didn’t talk about his personal life. Didn’t talk about much unless asked or prompted. All made for a damn good officer. But, as Brian knew too well, it made for a damn unhappy officer, too.

Brian indicated left and pulled onto the car park of Preston Police Station, cursing at a car as it flew past honking its horn.

“Bloody bastard,” Brian muttered under his breath. He could feel his cheeks warming up. Feel the tightness in his chest.

Oh shit. Not this again. Not this.

He pulled up in one of the parking spaces. He could feel himself getting warmer. Smell the mintiness from the air freshener, which was making it even worse. He just wanted to get out of this car. Get out into the fresh air. Get out into the‌—‌

“You alright?”

Brian swung around. Brad was looking right at him, eyebrows furrowed.

Brian clenched hold of the steering wheel with his sweaty hands as the tightness in his chest receded, his face cooling down. “Yeah. I’m alright. What’s up with you?” He gulped. Gulped and took in a deep, shaky breath.

Brad just looked at him. Looked at him with a face that didn’t buy any of what Brian had just said about being alright, but he didn’t pry for any further information. It was unspoken code, really. Brian didn’t press him about why he turned up late bleary-eyed and stinking of vodka, Brad didn’t press Brian about the tight chest.

Nobody did. Nobody saw. Nobody knew but him.

“Well, don’t have too good an early finish,” Brad said, opening the door and letting a cool breeze from outside sneak in through the door. “And spare a thought for me sat behind my desk surrounded by morons when you’ve got your feet up.”

Brian forced a smile and nodded as convincingly as he could. “Of course. Always do spare a thought.”

“Laters,” Brad said, walking off.

Brian watched as Brad walked up the concrete steps towards the glass, automatic doors of the police station. He watched as he disappeared. He kept on watching. Kept watching as more people scuttered past. As two decent looking blondes jogged past wearing tight clothes and oozing sweat.

He ignored the taste of metal in his mouth. The sweet smell in his nostrils that always came with the tightness.

After the taste and smell had receded, he started up the car again and let out a sigh. He was done for the week. He’d done his final Sunday before his holiday. Soon, he’d get to relax. ‘Cause that’s all the tightness was. Just needed to chill, that was all. He was getting on. He was in his fifties, for Christ’s sakes. He was too old to be fucking around involving himself in drug raids on a Sunday afternoon.

Malaga. The beach. iPod headphones in ears. Warm sun on his skin. Cold glass of Coke in hand. That’s what he needed. All he needed.

As he indicated to turn back out of the police station car park and onto the busy road, he heard something behind him. Shouting.

“Brian! Wait!”

He looked around. He recognised the voice. He’d heard it really recently, actually.

Of course he had. It was Brad.

Detective Sergeant Brad Richards was doing something Brian didn’t often see him doing‌—‌he was running. Running down the concrete steps of the police station. Running towards the car.

His eyes weren’t glassy. They were focused. Focused on Brian. Intense. Like Brian had never seen them before.

Brian rolled down his window and prepared for some shitty prank or another.

“Hate to be a dick, mate, but time with Hannah comes before time with you. No offence‌—‌”