Past Darkness (18 page)

E
arly next morning, Karl strode through the doors of the Parole Board headquarters, calmly but with a storm-warning brewing in his eyes. Walking up to the empty counter, he spotted a middle-aged man at a desk working at a computer.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me who’s in charge?’ Karl called to him.

The man’s eyes went from keyboard to Karl. He wore a look of hostile disdain, as if looking at a newly released prisoner. After a few deliberate seconds, he got up from behind the computer and walked to the counter. On his shirt was a nametag: Peter McCabe.

‘Who’s asking?’

Karl pulled out a business card. Placed it on the counter. McCabe barely glanced at the card.

‘The name’s Karl Kane.’

‘Have you an appointment?’

‘No, Peter. I’m sorry, I don’t. But what I do have is a very good friend, sitting outside in my car. He happens to be a brilliant criminal lawyer, and he wants to know why you have released Walter Arnold, a notorious rapist and murderer of children.’

Peter looked as if he had just soiled his pants, and not with soil.

‘I…I…I’m not really in charge, per se. That…that would be Mister Hamilton.’

Karl pointed at a blue door.

‘For your sake, when I ask you where’s Mister Hamilton, you better say he’s behind that blue door with the Head Office sign on it. Where’s Mister Hamilton, Peter?’

Peter quickly did a Judas, pointing accusingly. ‘He’s behind that blue door with the Head Office sign on it.’

Karl double-stepped over to the door. Opened it without knocking. Entered, slamming the door loudly behind him.

In his late forties, shirt-and-tie man Hamilton sat at a large mahogany desk, feet naked, beheading lethal-looking dirty toenails with a pair of ancient nail-clippers. His face registered both confusion and shock at seeing Karl. He quickly removed socks and toenail shrapnel from the top of the desk, doing his best to hide the horrid filthy feet.

Karl walked up to the desk, brought his face close to Hamilton’s.

‘You’re Hamilton, I take it?’

‘Who…? What are you doing, walking in here unannounced? Who…who gave you permission?’

‘Julia Kane, Ann Mullan and Leona Fredrick, to name a few.’

‘What on Earth are you talking about?’

‘Why did you authorise the release of child murderer and rapist Walter Arnold?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Karl Kane.’

‘Well, Mister Kane, I don’t know what this is all about, but I’ll give you two seconds to get out of my office and the building, otherwise I’ll call the police.’

Karl reached over and grabbed the phone’s receiver. Offered it to Hamilton.

‘Here you go. I need all the publicity I can get for tonight’s news. Arnold raped and murdered my mother, not that you give a damn, of course. So go ahead. Make the call. Let’s see what your bosses think when they see the public’s reaction to my arrest.’

Hamilton looked at the large hand strangling the receiver. Then up to Karl, who looked like he’d rather be strangling Hamilton.

‘I’m…I’m sorry, Mister Kane. I didn’t realise who you were, or your circumstances. What exactly is it you want?’

‘I want justice, Mister Hamilton. Can you give it to me?’

‘How?’

‘Why was I not informed of the scumbag’s release? It was a part of the court agreement.’

Hamilton gave life to his computer. The screen brightened. His fingers began dancing on the keyboard.

‘Here we are. According to this, your family
was
informed, last year, just before Arnold was due to be released.’

‘Bollocks! That’s a load of shite. Let me see where it says that.’

Hamilton swivelled the computer monitor, so that Karl could see the official letter from the Parole Board. Karl read the letter quickly, going to the name the letter had been sent to.

‘Fuck! I don’t believe this…’

‘I’m sorry, Mister Kane, but it’s all there in black and white. As you can see, we did comply with the court agreement,’ said a clearly relieved Mister Hamilton.

‘The letter was sent to my father, Cornelius.’

‘That’s right. Head of the family, as required by law.’

‘If you dickheads had done your homework, you’d have discovered that address is the address of a nursing home on the outskirts of the city. My father suffers from Alzheimer’s. How the hell would you have expected him to read, never mind
understand
, a complex letter like this?’

Hamilton remained silent.

‘Can you give me a copy?’

‘Certainly. Of course…’ Hamilton hit the ‘print’ button on
the screen, and practically jumped out of his seat, running to the printer at the other end of the room.

Karl watched the printer tonguing the letter out. His stomach began heaving. He wanted to throw up.

‘I…I’m really sorry about this terrible mix-up, Mister Kane.’

‘You don’t get off that easy. Damn you all to Hell,’ Karl said with forced calmness, turning his back on Hamilton and walking out the door.

‘A
ny mail addressed to my father, Elaine, how is it dealt with?’ Karl sat across from Elaine Trimble in her office. Elaine, in her forties and General Manager of the care home where Cornelius Kane resided, looked every bit the head nurse she had once been, a no-nonsense, kick-you-in-the-balls-if-you-mess-with-me-mister sort of woman.

‘In all his years living here, Cornelius has read all his own mail, Karl. That’s his right. Quite adamant when it comes to his privacy. He says it keeps “nosey bastards” like me from knowing his affairs.’ Elaine smiled. As did Karl.

‘What if an important letter arrives, one he may not fully comprehend? What happens then?’

‘Actually, we’ve been seeking legal advice on that very question for all our residents. We’ve had a few incidents that could have been avoided if we’d had permission to check certain residents’ mail. We could have saved them a lot of bother
down the road. It’s very thin ice. Our residents’ dignity is our number one concern, and we have to be careful not to leave ourselves open to lawsuits concerning abuse of trust or invasion of privacy.’

‘Do you think Cornelius would have understood any correspondence he received, say, about a year or so ago?’

‘A year ago?’ Elaine paused to think back. ‘Most definitely. Even up to last month, he had no problems reading his mail.’

‘Last month…? How do you know?’

‘Because I remember the card you sent him on his birthday, with the cheque inside for almost two hundred pounds, and a letter. He was able to tell me everything you wrote, word for word.’

‘Does he talk to you much, or to any member of staff?’

‘Well, I like to do the rounds each time I’m on duty, see how the residents are doing. Cornelius, as you know yourself, is a man of very few words. He’s cordial, most of the time… but sometimes…well, he has his moods. I think he fears the Alzheimer’s. It’s making him angry, frustrating him. We’ve had numerous consultations with him, trying to ease his concerns, but it’s hard to say if he’s blocking out our advice.’

‘Would there be any particular staff member he gets on with better than others?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. He gets on fine with all the staff, when he’s in a good mood. Why do you ask?’

‘Just thinking, he may have confided certain things to them.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘Oh, nothing specific…’

‘I can ask around if you like?’

‘No, it’s okay.’ Karl stood to leave. ‘Thanks, Elaine. You’ve been a great help.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want some coffee before you go in to see Cornelius? You look tired. A caffeine boost might help.’

‘No, you’re okay. I’ll probably make some in his room for the both of us.’

Karl exited, following the snaking corridor all the way to the end, before making a left in the direction of the residents’ rooms.

At door 5B, Karl stopped, took a deep breath, rapped, and then entered the room without being invited to do so.

Cornelius Kane was standing, looking out the window. He was tall, but now a desiccated husk of a man, whose only flesh was prominent on the neck in small, saggy accordions of skin.

‘Okay, Dad? How’s things?’

A Radio Four play filled the room with mellow accents. Cornelius had yet to direct his attention towards Karl.

‘What’s the play?’ Karl asked, removing bars of chocolates and cigarettes from a grocery bag and spilling them on to the bare table. ‘Sounds like an Agatha Christie.
The Mousetrap?
’

Cornelius regarded Karl as if seeing a stranger, then set his eyes suspiciously on the goodies spread out across the table.

‘What’s the trick, Mister? What’re you selling? Whatever it is, I’m not buying.’

‘No tricks, Dad. I just thought you’d like some of your favourites.’

‘You don’t look like you’re from the Salvation Army, and you sure as hell don’t look like Santa Claus.’

Karl laughed. ‘You got that right, Dad. It’s me, Karl.’

‘Karl? Who the hell’s Karl?’

The question hit Karl hard, but he tried to disguise any emotion.

‘How’ve they been treating you?’

‘You a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Then mind your own damn business, Mister. Hand me one of those bars of chocolate.’

Karl picked up one of the Mars bars from the table, and handed it over.

Cornelius studied the wrapper. ‘How did you know I only eat Mars bars?’

Karl smiled. ‘A guess.’

‘A damn good guess, if you ask me. Just who the hell
are
you?’

‘I’m your son. Karl. Don’t you remember, Dad?’

‘You’re sick. I’m not your da, and stop calling me it.’

‘Okay. Cornelius. How’s that?’

‘How the hell do you know my name? What’s your game? Are you after my money?’

‘No…Cornelius,’ Karl said, struggling to master his emotions. This giant of a man, once filled with humour and incisive intelligence, was now reduced to the bare bones of his former self, fumbling over rudimentary communications. ‘I need to ask you some questions.’

‘I knew it the minute you walked into the room, that crafty grin on your ugly gob! You’re from the tax people, aren’t you? Here to take more money from me. Well, I can tell you now, you’ll get none of my money. No, sir!’

Cornelius was becoming visibly agitated. He began to pace up and down the small room.

‘Please, Dad – Cornelius. Don’t upset yourself. I’m not here to take your money. Just to ask a few questions.’ Karl pulled an envelope from the inside of his coat. ‘This is a copy of a letter sent to you by the Parole Board over a year ago. Can you remember receiving the original letter?’

‘None of your damn business what I read and what I don’t.’

‘The letter concerns the release of Walter Arnold. You remember him, the monster who murdered your wife and left your son for dead?’

‘I don’t have a wife or son. Hand me those cigarettes.’

‘Not until you answer my questions.’

‘You cheeky bastard!’ Cornelius pushed Karl away from him, and made an attempt to grab the cigarettes from the table.

Karl gripped Cornelius’ hand, hating himself. ‘I want answers. Arnold murdered two little girls as well. Remember?
Ann Mullin and Leona Fredrick. Both aged eight. Raped, then murdered.’

‘Give me my cigarettes, you bastard!’

Karl gripped the frail hand tighter. ‘Why didn’t you contact me, and tell me Arnold had been released? He’s been out a whole year. Do you realise what he might have done in that year?’

‘Bastard! Nurse! Help! Help!’

‘I’m not bloody leaving until I get an answer, so shout all you want. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Nuuuuuuuurse!’

‘I know you weren’t at sea the night Mum was murdered. You were staying with Martha Johnson, your lover. Weren’t you?’

Cornelius looked as if a dagger had been jammed under his chin. He stood stock-still, in shock, before regaining his composure.

‘You…you murdered her, not me. Not me…’

‘Arnold murdered Mum. Not me. Not you. It wasn’t your fault. All this guilt. You’ve got to talk about it, Dad, before it–’

‘Get out of here! Get the hell ouuuuuuut!’

The door opened. Brian, a burly male nurse, ran towards Karl and Cornelius.

‘Cornelius! What on Earth’s going on?’

‘This bastard’s attacking me! Tried to steal my cigarettes and my Mars bars, because I didn’t let him have one.’

‘No one’s attacking you, Dad. Calm the hell down, and answer my question.’

Struggling, Brian finally managed to shoehorn himself between Karl and Cornelius.

‘Please, Mister Kane,’ Brian said, looking at Karl. ‘I’m sorry, but I must ask you to leave. Can’t you see you’re upsetting your father?’

‘What the hell are you blabbering about, you nitwit?’ Cornelius shouted. ‘
I’m
Mister Kane. Not that scallywag. And I’m not his father! I don’t even know him! Get the police. Have him arrested. He assaulted me!’

‘You can blame yourself all you want for Mum’s murder, Dad, all those years ago, but you can’t close yourself out from the present.’

‘
Please
, Mister Kane,’ Brian pleaded with Karl. ‘I don’t want to push the panic button and have you escorted out by other staff members.’

Karl shoved Brian out of the way. ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving.’ He stopped and pointed a finger at Cornelius. ‘I’ll be back, Dad. One way or another, you’re going to answer the questions I should have asked a long time ago. I
will
get answers.’

S
carman pulled back the bolt to the girls’ room, opened the door and walked in. He stood, not saying a word, his breath steaming in clouds.

Dorothy sat huddled on the mattress, head down deep in her chest, legs pulled up tight against her chin, eyes tightly closed. Porcelain, barely breathing, praying silently, asking a deaf god to forgive all her sins. She would never sin again if only he let her go home.

In contrast, Tara stood defiantly in the middle of the floor, legs akimbo, arms resting on her hips. She seemed to have made herself larger than her tiny frame actually was.

Scarman walked beyond her, over to the window. He slowly studied it, running a callused hand along the frame and bars, as if checking for dust. Or something else. He bent on one knee, and held that position for the longest time before standing and heading back towards the door.

‘Someone has been leaving this room, and going downstairs,’
he stated in a matter-of-fact voice, bland and flat as a mortuary slab. ‘I had a…visitor staying with me. Someone paid him a visit, yesterday, and made him unwelcome.
Very
unwelcome. I don’t tolerate rudeness, especially rudeness directed against my guests.’

It was the first time Dorothy had heard him speak. It made her skin feel as if stinging nettles had been inserted underneath. She prayed he didn’t notice her shuddering.

‘It cannot go unpunished,’ he continued in his stoic monotone, glancing from Dorothy to Tara and back. ‘Well, which of you is leaving the room? More importantly, how?’

Neither girl spoke. Nor moved.

‘Perhaps both of you? Very well, if that’s the case…’ He lifted Dorothy by the scruff of her neck, before grabbing her ankle and inverting her. ‘You’ll do for now, little Dorothy.’

‘
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
!
’ Dorothy flayed about, kicking out with her free leg.

Scarman held her at arm’s length, fumbling to insert a key into the ankle’s manacle. He was finding it difficult.

‘Leave her alone, you filthy bastard!’ shouted Tara, leaping at Scarman, her fingernails aimed at his smirking face.

With a backhand, Scarman sent her careering to the ground, like a fly being swatted.

‘I’ll come back for you, after I’ve enjoyed your little friend.’

‘
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
!
’ Dorothy continued kicking and screaming. ‘
Don’t let him take me, Tara!
’

‘Leave her alone. Take me. Take me…’ said Tara, rubbing the side of her bruised face. ‘It’s me you really want, anyway.’

‘I’ve already had you, little whore. I can take you any time I wish.’

‘No…no, you haven’t, not the real me. I fought you the last time. This time…this time I’ll not struggle. I’ll do things for you, things you can only imagine.’ Tara smiled. Angelic. Her eyes shone. ‘Little girl things…things you dream of…wet things…I’ll be your good little girl. No-one else can do it like me…you
know
that.’

Scarman stood as if in a daze. Dorothy stopped her struggling and watched his mutilated face. The sweet, melodic sound of Tara’s teasing tongue held him in its spell, hypnotising him. He couldn’t resist her Pied Piper voice. Gently, almost in slow motion, he lowered Dorothy back on to the mattress.

‘If you resist, I’ll come back and cut her throat.’

He walked over to unlock Tara’s manacle, and only then, too late, did he notice what she was hiding behind her back. The chain seamed itself against her thigh, its manacle free from her ankle, dangling. He looked at it in amazement. Then at Tara.

‘
Fuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
!
’ Tara put every ounce of fury and hatred into swinging the leash, catching him under the chin, knocking him back against the far wall. She swung and hit him again, this time across the back of the head, and he crumpled onto his knees, dazed and confused.

Removing the razor from the waistband of her jeans, Tara aimed wildly at Scarman’s face, slicing off an ear and part of his cheek.

‘
Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
!
’ Scarman screamed, as Tara raced through the open door, along the landing and down the stairs, leaping them two and three at a time.

On the last flight of stairs, she lost her footing and tumbled, violently banging her head off the wooden banister. Momentarily dazed, she tried to stand, but her ankle felt wrong.
Shit!

Battling the pain, she moved towards the front door. The three bolts were firmly in place. She pulled the bottom and middle bolts across from their niches, and then balanced on tippy-toes, stretching to reach the final bolt at the top. Her fingertips touched it; she was tantalisingly close, but it was no use.

‘C’mon! You can do it!’
she hissed through gritted teeth, attempting to stand on the bottom bolt. Despite her best try, she could not gain a proper grip.
‘Fuck! Think!’

Turning, she scampered down the hallway, half-running, half-limping, adrenalin dulling the pain in her ankle. She leapt over the soiled mattresses and other debris littering her pathway.

She stopped outside a room. Entered. Butler’s body was still there, pinned in the chair, stiff and unloved, eyes staring out at eternity. The body was in the early stages of bloating. It looked
like a giant marshmallow melted at the fire. The sickening, cloying death-stench was everywhere, overpowering.

Tara retched. Removed the razor from her waistband, and began hacking through the leather straps holding the body. Suddenly, the body lurched forward, its dead weight released. A loud, suppressed belch emitted from the throat, directly into Tara’s face.

‘Disgusting dog,’
said Tara, kicking the body violently over, before grabbing the chair and running down the hallway.

A bloodied Scarman stood unsteadily, like a drunk overloaded with cheap booze. He brought his hand gingerly around the side of his head to where the ear had once been. Thick, meaty blood attached itself to his hand, as he tried to stem the flow. The hurting he was feeling was beyond pain, but he contained and controlled it, his eyes narrowing, focussing his hate.

He looked down at the floor. The ear nestled in a beard of blood, like a slice of bread in a bowl of tomato soup. It seemed to grin up at him.

‘Little bitch! I’ll fucking kill you!’ he screamed, staggering out the door and giving chase. He couldn’t see clearly, swaying from side to side as he ran down the stairs. On the second floor, he too lost his balance. But unlike Tara, he did not tumble to the relative safely of the bottom of the stairs.
Instead, he went crashing through the wooden banisters, crash-landing his face, ribs and lower body.

‘
Arggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg
!
’

The last thing he remembered was staring at a chair, toppled over in the hallway, and the front door wide open, allowing a gust of wind to enter and mock him.

Tara was gone and there was nothing he could do.