Last Rites (3 page)

Panting from its exertions and wanting only to be back in its basket now, the cat turned and prepared to haul itself wearily through the hedge.

The hand that grabbed it gripped hard just behind its head, lifting the cat into the air, jamming it into the stinking confines of a hessian sack. The cat barely had time to swipe at its attacker before it was pushed into the blackness, hissing and spitting.

It tried to wriggle free of the sack but the top was hastily twisted shut.The cat struggled even more violently because it detected scents it didn’t like.The rubber odour of the thick glove that had grasped it and another that caused its hackles to rise.

The smell of blood.

4

North London

Mason guessed that the nurse was in her late twenties. She had dishwater-blonde hair fixed in a bun beneath her white cap and a light blue plastic overall covering her white uniform. She was reading his chart as she stood at the bottom of his hospital bed, chewing distractedly on the end of a Bic. She glanced at her watch then scribbled something on the chart before replacing it and glancing at him. She smiled when she saw that his eyes were open.

‘Hello,’ she said, softly, her smile widening. She took a couple of steps towards him and reached for his right wrist, pressing two fingers against it as she felt for a pulse. She glanced down at her watch again, checking his heartbeat. She nodded to herself then ran her gaze appraisingly over him.

‘I won’t ask how you’re feeling,’ she continued, the smile still in place. ‘Pretty sore I should think.’

‘I’ve felt better,’ Mason croaked, his throat dry. The words sounded thin and reedy, as if they were spoken by a man being throttled. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. The nurse pushed a beaker of water towards him and steadied the straw while he drank a couple of mouthfuls.

He nodded as best he could when he’d finished and she replaced the beaker on the bedside table. Mason moved his eyes slowly, taking in the details of his surroundings. He was in a room on his own, apart from the nurse. The walls were the colour of eggshells, some of the paint peeling around the door that led in and out of the room. It was very quiet. Both inside the room and beyond.

‘Where am I?’ Mason asked, wincing as he tried to move his right arm and felt pain lancing up the limb from the elbow. There was a drip in the crook of the arm, held in place by several pieces of tape. Mason looked at the tube there and saw a droplet of clear fluid trickle down from one of the plastic bags suspended above him.

‘St Luke’s Hospital, Camden Town,’ she told him. ‘It was the nearest A and E to where you were attacked.’

‘Attacked,’ he repeated, quietly.

‘Can you remember anything about it?’ the nurse enquired.

‘Not much.’

‘It’ll come back to you. You’re lucky to be alive considering the extent of your injuries.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Eight days,’ she said, flatly. ‘You’ve been in a coma for six of them.’

Mason felt a chill run the length of his bruised spine.

‘Six days,’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. What did they do to me?’

The nurse was about to answer when the door behind her opened and Mason saw a dark-haired man with greying temples enter. He looked at Mason then at the nurse.

‘Mr Mason’s just woken up, Doctor Parry,’ she informed the newcomer.

‘Thank you, nurse. That’s good.’ The doctor smiled. ‘We were wondering how long you were going to keep us waiting, Mr Mason.’ He pulled a penlight from the top pocket of his white coat and advanced towards Mason, aiming the thin beam at his grey eyes. Mason winced but the doctor persisted, inspecting both eyes closely.

‘You’re a lucky man,’ the doctor murmured.

‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ Mason offered. ‘Since when was six days in a coma lucky?’

‘You could have died,’ the doctor murmured. ‘Given the two options I’d say that qualified as lucky, wouldn’t you?’ He switched off the penlight and stepped back slightly.

‘What kind of injuries have I got?’ Mason asked.

‘Do you want the full list?’ Parry enquired.

‘No,’ Mason decided. ‘I can live without it.’

‘The worst damage was to your skull and your neck,’ the doctor told him. He pointed with one long index finger. ‘Needless to say there were countless cuts and abrasions, some worse than others. It could have been much worse though.’

‘Who found me?’ Mason wanted to know.

‘Apparently, a car drove down the street where you were being attacked,’ Parry informed him.‘Your attackers ran off. The driver of the car called an ambulance. I’m sure the police will give you a much more detailed account if that’s what you want. They’ll be back when they know you’re lucid.’

‘Is there going to be any long-term damage, Doctor?’ Mason enquired.

‘Apart from some scars, no,’ Parry assured him. ‘We’ll monitor you closely in the next couple of days but, with any luck, you should be fit enough to get out of bed by the end of the week.’

‘Why can’t I move my neck?’ Mason wanted to know.

‘Because of the brace that’s holding it steady,’ Parry informed him. ‘That’ll be coming off soon. We just need to run a few tests on you. Otherwise, you can devote your time to resting.’

‘Resting? I’ve been in a coma for six days. I’d rather get up and walk about.’

‘All in good time, Mr Mason.’ Parry smiled, turning towards the door. He swept out without another word.

The nurse moved forward and helped Mason as he struggled to sit up.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she asked.

‘I’d love a cup of tea,’ he told her, smiling. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she told him, heading towards the door.

‘While you’re at it,’ he called after her, ‘I could murder a cigarette.’

‘I’ll be back with the tea,’ she told him.

The door slid shut behind her. The silence descended once more. Mason closed his eyes.

5

Walston, Buckinghamshire

The hand that pulled the cat from the sack gripped the animal tightly at the back of the neck.

Disorientated by so long in the stuffy, dark confines of the sack, the cat hissed as it was pulled free, attempting to scratch the person that held it, anxious to be free of the clutching grip. However, once it was free of the hessian, it merely hung there limply for a moment, its tail flicking lazily. Then it seemed to recover its anger and struck out at its captor.

The one who held it ensured that the cat was at arm’s length, minimising any chance of being scratched by its claws. The overweight feline hissed but the sound was one of fear as much as of defiance. The smell of blood was still strong in its nostrils and the hand holding it felt it buck angrily in a vain attempt to escape.

Quite clearly the cat was in no position to free itself from the vice-like grip but the one who held it also knew that speed was of the essence if the required tasks were to be completed.

Still holding the cat by the scruff of the neck, the other hand now reached to one side, fingers closing over the secateurs. The cat writhed more frantically for a moment, perhaps seeing the dull light glint on the blades of the cutters. If it had known what was coming next, it would have redoubled its efforts.

The twin blades were driven forward piercing the swollen stomach and ripping upwards, gutting the animal, exposing its intestines and allowing them to spill from the rent like the tentacles of some blood-drenched octopus. Still the animal struggled, even when an ungloved hand pushed through the crimson cavity of its opened chest and gripped its heart.

The organ was pulled free with relative ease, obstructed only by some muscle and ligament around the pulsing prize. At last the cat’s movements became weaker and, as its mouth lolled open, the secateurs cut effortlessly through its tongue, slicing the pink sliver free. It fell into the dust close to the puddle of blood that now surrounded the feline’s form.

Whispered words filled the silence. Words of encouragement and delight.The cat’s body twitched involuntarily.

Flaying it would be relatively easy now. Cutting into the skin then peeling it away from the flesh and muscles. First, the still gleaming eyes must be taken. Gouged and extricated from their sockets and, if possible, kept intact.

The hand wielding the secateurs began to cut once more.

6

North London

Mason was having trouble keeping track of time. Despite his desire to be up and about, he found that he kept drifting off to sleep almost without realising it.The nurse had told him it was something to do with his body needing to heal itself and he accepted that. He was relieved when they removed the drip from his arm and presented him with something more substantial than saline solution and glucose. There wasn’t much taste to the food they brought him but it was better than liquid, Mason mused.

His body felt stiff rather than painful now and that was something else he was grateful for.With each passing hour, it seemed that his joints and limbs became more supple. He had less and less need for painkillers, sometimes even refusing them when they were offered just to prove to himself that he was indeed getting better. Mason told himself it was nothing to do with being heroic. Heroism had never been a strong point in his character but he felt more convinced of his own returning health and strength when he could beat off a headache or backache just by riding out the discomfort.

Boredom was the biggest adversary. Confined to bed for twenty-four hours a day, he looked at the floor of the room longingly, wanting so badly to haul himself from between the sheets and plant his feet on the tiles beneath. Surely it couldn’t hurt, could it? A steady, careful shuffle from one side of the room to the other. Where was the harm in that?

Mason pulled the sheets back, glancing towards the door of the room in the process. He didn’t want one of the nurses walking in and catching him.

(Catching you. What’s the problem? You’re going to walk across the room, not piss in the corridor.)

They might decide to delay his eventual escape from the confines of the bed as a punishment.

And what if you fall?

Mason hesitated.

What if you bang your head or snap another bone? You’ll be in here even longer.

He sucked in a deep breath, his eyes still fixed on the floor. Come on. All you have to do is swing your legs out of bed, plant your feet on the tiles and walk. How hard is that going to be?

Mason flexed his toes and tensed his leg muscles, ready to complete the task. He pushed himself up on one heavily strapped elbow and swallowed hard.

Go on. Get up.

The nurse had told him he’d been in a coma for six days, that was scarcely enough time for muscle wastage to set in, was it? It wasn’t as if he was going to put one foot down, lower his weight upon it then collapse due to the lack of strength in his calves and thighs. Mason edged a little closer to the edge of the bed, pushing the sheets a little further. He glanced down at his legs and saw several bruises and small cuts on the ankles and above but nothing too bad. Nothing to prevent the simple task of getting out of bed.

He sat up, his feet pressed lightly against the tiles beneath. His head was aching slightly but he ignored the discomfort, more intent on standing up and walking. He balled his hands into fists and prepared to push himself upright.

Come on. Do it now. Even if your legs give out, the worst that will happen is that you’ll fall backwards onto the bed. If that happens you can pull yourself back under the covers and no one will ever know you fucked it up. Go on.

He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes and shuffled forward to the edge of the bed, preparing to stand up.

Mason never noticed that the door of his room had opened. Only when the woman who paused there finally walked in and spoke did he snap his head around in her direction.

‘They said you were resting,’ she told him, quietly, closing the door behind her.

Mason looked impassively at the woman for a moment then eased himself backwards a little more.

Only as she took a couple of steps towards the bed did he smile and lie back against his pillows.

‘Hello, Natalie,’ he breathed. ‘Have a seat.’ He indicated the brown plastic chair close to his bed.

His wife kissed him lightly on the lips then sat down.

Realisation

The underground walkway was becoming narrower.

As the spade clanged against the stonework yet again, the man was sure that the subterranean passage was now much more confined and restricted than it had been when he’d first entered it. Almost without him realising, the tunnel had telescoped until he now found that he had to take every step hunched over. His neck and his back ached from the effort and he was finding it more difficult to breathe. Despite the chill that infected the tunnels, he was sweating too.

He shone the torch ahead, wondering if the tunnel was simply going to end in two or three hundred yards. Would it grow so narrow that it finally closed completely? He wondered what the reason was for this. Something above ground that had necessitated this constriction possibly. Perhaps when the tunnel had been dug it had been unavoidable. He pressed on, hoping that the space would open out again soon. He felt even more claustrophobic now. As if the walls themselves were closing around him like a brick fist, determined to crush the life from him. The smell inside the tunnel was far more intense as well. The stink of dampness and decay had been eclipsed by a more pungent and stomach-churning odour that caused him to gag. He paused, trying to breathe through his mouth instead but the foul air made his throat and chest sore.

He shone the torch upwards and saw that the ceiling of the passage was glistening. Frowning, he swept the beam back and forth over the gleaming brickwork there, convinced now that what coated the roof of the passage wasn’t just water.