Relics (23 page)

From where he stood he could see the light in the kitchen of the house, nearly a hundred feet up the garden.

He could see a figure silhouetted against the lowered blinds, but apart from that, he saw nothing.

Just the darkness.

He stepped back inside the hut and closed the door.

Linda King lit the gas under the kettle, then dropped a tea bag into her husband’s mug.

‘Ian, take your Dad his tea when it’s ready,’ she called and received a belligerent affirmative from her son, who had just been hit twice by Imperial tie-fighters.

She flicked off the light and returned to the sitting room.

The scratching on the roof of the hut continued, and Frank King made a mental note to cut away the bare branches of the overhanging trees when he got a moment. The noise was irritating him.

He looked up sharply when he heard the door being rattled once more in its frame.

This time he stepped back because the movement was not caused by the wind. The powerful gusts had ceased for the time being, yet still the door of the hut rattled and shook as if it were going to explode from its hinges.

King felt ever more penetrating cold wrapping itself around him and he backed off, eyes fixed on the door, fear now gripping him tightly. It was as if all rationality and reason had left him, only his fear remained.

He stood with his back to the window, waiting for the door to open.

Waiting.

He snatched up a hammer from the workbench and hefted it before him.

If there was someone out there then the bastard would not catch him unawares.

The wind shrieked loudly. A cry of the damned which pounded shrilly in his ears.

He gripped the hammer more tightly and watched the door, which rattled furiously again.

He waited.

The window behind him exploded inwards with an earsplitting crash.

Glass sprayed into the hut, cutting the back of his neck and grazing his scalp. Before he could turn, hands had closed around his throat and were pulling him backwards.

He struck at them with the hammer but to no avail. The vice-like grip only tightened and King grunted as he was slammed back against the wall with bone-numbing force. He dropped the hammer and clutched feebly at the hands which were throttling him. His eyes bulged in their sockets and he gasped for air as the clawed fingers dug deep into the flesh of his throat.

White-hot agony lanced through him as he felt his larynx splinter under the pressure. It finally collapsed and he heaved as blood filled his mouth and ran down his throat.

His attacker now released one hand and grabbed King by the hair, spinning him round, tugging his head down towards the jagged glass which poked up in uneven peaks from the window frame.

Stars danced before his eyes and he fought in vain to prevent what was about to happen.

The powerful hands were forcing his neck onto the glass.

King tried to scream but his shattered larynx would produce only a liquid croak which caused fresh blood to spill over his lips.

With his last reserves of strength fading rapidly, he still fought to free himself, but it was useless.

Six inches away from the glass, and he could feel incredibly cold air rushing through the broken window, bringing with it a nauseating stench which reminded him of rotting meat.

Five inches.

His attacker was exerting even more pressure in an attempt to force King down.

Four inches.

The desperate man felt his knees going weak, realized that he was losing the strength to resist.

Three inches.

As he tried to scream again an agonizing pain filled his head and neck and he tasted blood, warm and coppery in his throat.

Two inches.

The longest points of glass were actually brushing the bruised flesh of his neck.

One inch.

Frank King knew he was finished.

The hands of his attacker thrust his head down, dragging it back and forth across the jagged glass, allowing the short lethal splinters to act as a rasp. The razor-sharp slivers sliced easily through the flesh and muscle of King’s neck, severing veins and arteries, carving a path through the flesh as the sawing action was speeded up.

Blood erupted from the torn neck in great jets which splattered the floor and walls of the hut, spraying from the sliced blood vessels like water from a fountain.

King’s body began to spasm uncontrollably as his assailant continued to rake his throat back and forth over the glass until it seemed his head would be severed. Then, suddenly, the hands hurled King back, blood sprayed out in a wide arc as he fell, his body crashing onto the desk he had made with so much care.

He hit the floor with a thud, the massive gash in his throat opening and closing like the gills of a fish, blood still spurting from it.

King was unconscious, close to death, as his attacker entered the workshop.

The figure hauled itself in through the broken window and dropped to the floor, standing over King’s prostrate form for long seconds, oblivious to the stench inside the small structure and the thick slicks of crimson which were splattered everywhere.

It knelt beside the corpse and began its work.

As she heard the shrill whistle of the kettle, Linda King got to her feet, peering for a moment longer at the jigsaw before her, then at the piece she held in her hand. As the kettle continued to squeal she muttered something to herself and put the piece back on the table.

She patted Ian on the head as she passed and he grunted. The momentary disturbance caused him to sustain slight damage to his X-wing fighter as a neutron blast from one of the walkers caught him unawares.

Linda switched off the kettle and poured boiling water onto the tea bag in Frank’s mug, stirring it around briefly.

‘Ian,’ she called, peering through the blinds towards the hut at the bottom of the garden. `Take this tea down to your Dad, will you, please?’

No answer.

‘Ian. Did you hear me?’ she repeated, puzzled by what she saw from her vantage point in the kitchen.

The light in the workshop went out and then came back on again, twice in rapid succession. She wondered if the wind was affecting the power lines. But if that was the case, why were the lights in the house all right?

She watched as the light went on and off once more, then finally came back on and stayed that way.

‘Ian,’ she called again. This time the boy appeared in the doorway.

‘Why can’t Simon take it?’ he asked irritably. ‘I was on my highest score ever.’

She seemed unimpressed and handed the boy the steaming mug of tea.

‘I asked
you
,’ she said. ‘And tell your Dad to hurry up or I’ll lock him out for the night.’ She chuckled and opened the back door for her son.

The boy braced himself against a particularly strong gust of wind, then set off down the path towards the hut where his father was working. As he drew closer, Ian felt the flesh on his arms rising into goose-pimples. He slowed his pace somewhat, looking around him in the gloom.

‘Dad,’ he called, but his voice was snatched away by the wind.

He reached the door and knocked twice, calling to his father again.

No answer.

Ian pushed on the door, surprised when it wouldn’t open. His dad never usually locked it. He put more force behind it, almost spilling the tea in the process.

It moved slightly, and as it did, a noxious stench filled his nostrils, drifting from inside the hut.

The boy recoiled momentarily, then began pushing again, harder this time, now ignoring the cold wind which whistled around him.

‘Dad,’ he called, his voice catching slightly. ‘Open the door.’

The wooden partition suddenly gave, as if a weight on the other side had been removed, and Ian found himself stumbling inside, enveloped by the obscene smell which he’d first noticed outside.

He stood transfixed, his body shaking uncontrollably, as he took in the scene of carnage before him. And saw what had once been his father.

He dropped the tea, the brown liquid mingling with the thick red fluid which seemed to be everywhere inside the hut. On the walls, on the floor, even on the ceiling.

Ian gulped down huge lungfuls of the foul air, his eyes darting back and forth, to his dead father, then to the broken window, then to the blood.

He turned and tried to run, but felt as if someone had injected his legs with lead.

It was like standing in a slaughterhouse. His head was swimming, his stomach contracting violently, threatening to empty its contents onto the floor with the spilled tea and the congealing blood. Finally he found the strength to run, a strength born of horror.

Horror made absolute by the sight of what lay on his father’s workbench.

The wind had, to some small extent, helped to dispel the vile stench of blood and excrement from the workshop. Even so, the odour still hung like an invisible pall, causing Wallace to cough every time he inhaled too deeply.

The inspector reached for his cigarettes and stuck one in his mouth. He patted his pockets, looking for a light. One of the ambulancemen standing close by came to his rescue and lit the cigarette for him. The inspector nodded his appreciation and sucked in the smoke gratefully, his eyes scanning the scene of slaughter before him.

Frank King lay on his side, his head twisted back savagely, the muscles severed as far as the spinal column. The killer could hardly have been more thorough if a chainsaw had been used. The head was practically severed.

The face, rent by numerous deep gashes from the broken glass, was lacerated particularly badly around the nose and cheeks.

The eyes had been ripped from their sockets.

King’s shirt was open to reveal the horrendous injuries inflicted on his torso. A massive wound running from neck to navel had been opened up, and the torn edges of the stomach wrenched back to allow the killer access to the intestines. Several thick lengths lay scattered around the hut, now stiffened and covered in caked gore.

Most of the flesh had been flayed from the body with a blood-stained chisel which lay close to the corpse. But the thing which drew Wallace’s closest attention was the object lying on the dead man’s workbench.

Two thick lengths of entrail had been used to fashion a reeking letter A.

‘I hope this bastard isn’t working his way through the alphabet,’ said Sergeant Dayton, who held a handkerchief to his face to prevent the worst of the smell from penetrating.

‘If he is, then he’s dyslexic,’ Wallace said sardonically. ‘He started with M.’

‘Can we move the body now, Doctor?’ the ambulance-man asked, looking down at Dr Ryan, who was still hunched over the dead man.

He nodded and got to his feet, careful not to step in any of the puddles of sticky crimson gore which were splattered all around.

‘Did you speak to the boy?’ he asked.

‘The poor little bastard can’t say a word,’ said Wallace. ‘All he does is grunt.’

‘Traumatic shock syndrome,’ Ryan informed the policeman.

‘Your brilliant insight does surprise me, Doctor,’ Wallace said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. He caught the anger in Ryan’s eyes and apologized. ‘Could you let me have the autopsy report as soon as possible? I know it hardly seems worth it but . . . this other business . . . about the hearts.’

‘You mean you want to know if King was frightened to death, too?’ said Ryan. ‘I doubt it. I think he died from massive loss of blood from the wounds in the throat, but I’ll check.’

‘Died of fright?’ said Dayton, looking puzzled. ‘You mean that’s what happened to the others?’

Wallace nodded.

‘But not a word to anyone else, Bill. If that reaches the papers then we’ll all be cleaning shit off the walls because it’s going to hit the fan faster than any of us can imagine.’ He took a long drag on his Rothmans.

‘
Frightened
to death,’ the sergeant repeated. ‘What the hell happened to them? What did they see before they were cut up?’

Wallace shook his head.

‘You tell me,’ he said, cryptically. ‘But if it was that bad, I’m not so sure I
want
to know who killed them.’

Clare Nichols swung herself out of bed, perspiration soaking through her nightdress. She padded slowly to the bedroom window and peered out into the night, the image of the dream still strong in her mind. She gazed out at the street lamp on the other side of the road, its sodium glare casting cold light around it.

She stood there for a long time, peering into the gloom as if searching for something which she knew was there but which she could not see.

Not yet.

But it was coming.

Coming soon.

It was nine o’clock the next morning when Wallace swung the Sierra into the street which led to Longfield police station. He braked, allowing a couple of children to cross the road. The sight of them sparked thoughts of the two children who were missing. As far as he knew there had been no further word on either, despite the efforts of his men to find them. Both killer and kidnapper – if they were not one individual – were managing to keep an annoyingly low profile for a town the size of Longfield, Wallace thought.

He brought the Sierra to a halt in the police station car park, then clambered out and strode across the tarmac towards the main building.

As he walked in, Sergeant Bill Dayton looked up and nodded feebly. Wallace frowned.

‘You’ve got a visitor, guv,’ he said.

‘Who is it?’ Wallace wanted to know. ‘Oh Christ, not Cutler again . . .’

‘The Chief Inspector,’ Dayton told him. ‘He’s in your office.’

Wallace nodded and walked on, his forehead wrinkled in surprise, and also irritation. What the hell did his superior want, dropping in like this? As he reached the door of his office he paused, wondering whether to knock or not. He hesitated a moment longer, then knocked once and walked in without waiting for an invitation.

Chief Inspector Gordon Macready looked up at the sudden intrusion, his cold grey eyes fixing Wallace in an unflinching stare. The inspector thought that his superior’s features appeared to have been modelled from wax. His expression did not change as he looked up at Wallace.