Spawn (15 page)

3. All possible hiding places searched.

Randall sat forward in his chair. If the escaped prisoner
was
in or around Exham then where the hell was he hiding? He reached for a green file and opened it. It was a psychiatric report on Harvey, something which the Inspector had read before but now scanned yet again in an effort to glean some insight into the man he was hunting.

Harvey was dangerous – there was no doubt about that – but, as far as he could tell, the man was no idiot. A number of tests had been carried out on him by the prison psychiatrist. The results showed that he was prone to bouts of manic depression. His IQ was below average, his faculties not quite spot on but he wasn’t crazy. That was what made him more dangerous, thought Randall. Harvey was unpredictable.

Randall shut the file and closed his eyes for a moment. So far no one had been harmed and the Inspector was becoming more and more convinced that the prisoner was nowhere near the town. Nevertheless, somewhere, nagging at the back of his mind was the conviction that eventually he would meet Paul Harvey face to face and it was a prospect he did not relish.

Lynn Tyler hauled herself out of bed, wincing slightly at the pain from her abdomen. She straightened up and the pain receded. The doctors had told her to expect a little discomfort after the abortion and, after all, she had only been home for a week. She stood up and looked down at her pale body, noticing how her stomach had begun to fill out. She was surprised at this, expecting that it would flatten after the operation. She drew in a breath and held it, pulling in her belly for a moment. It didn’t flop forward when she exhaled, the skin remained taut across her pelvis and stomach and she ran both hands over it. It felt hot, as if she had been standing next to a radiator and Lynn pressed the tight skin cautiously, puzzled by its feel. There was no pain, just the peculiar sensation of heat. She sat down on the edge of the bed once more, one leg hooked beneath her, both hands still pressed to her belly. She lay back, letting her hands slip to her sides and, gradually, the burning seemed to disappear. When she replaced her hands she felt only the familiar coolness of her skin. She gazed at the ceiling, tracing the many cracks, her thoughts rerunning the events of the last couple of weeks, as if she were rewinding a piece of cine-film – with each frame a memory.

She thought of how happy she’d been when she first discovered she was pregnant but of her fear at telling Chris. And how well that fear had been founded. She could still remember that morning he walked out on her, the morning she had decided to have the abortion.

As she lay there, a feeling of bitterness swept through her. Not only had she lost Chris, the one man she had ever loved, she had also lost the child she wanted. She had been forced out of necessity to have the abortion, knowing she would never be able to bring up a child alone.

The tears came suddenly and unexpectedly and she rolled onto her stomach in an effort to stifle them in the pillow. She wanted to forget him, tell him to fuck off, that she didn’t need him. She wanted to yell it in his face. Tell him that there were plenty more men around. Her mind was in a turmoil and, as she rolled back onto her side, the tears dripped onto the sheets and soaked into the material. She wiped them away, smearing her mascara, wincing slightly when she felt the peculiar burning sensation return, the skin stretching across her stomach and pelvis until it seemed it would tear.

She gasped at the stab of pain below her navel.

But, as quickly as it had come, it vanished and, tentatively, Lynn Tyler got to her feet, her hands gently stroking her belly.

There was no more discomfort.

She crossed to the wardrobe and began to dress.

Harold leant on the edge of the sink and gazed at the pale, ghost-like image which stared back at him from the minor. There were deep, dark pits beneath both his eyes, his eyelids looked crusted and heavy and, when he exhaled, it came out as a deep sigh. There was no one else in the hospital toilet to see him and, for that, Harold was thankful.

God, how the day had dragged. It seemed more like eight years not eight hours since he’d started work. He’d been in on time and had done his best to disguise the fact that he felt so wretched. The three vicious cuts on his chest ached beneath the plaster and his joints seemed to groan in protest every time he moved.

His efforts to disguise how he
felt
might have been successful but there was no hiding his appearance. He looked, in the tradition of that time-honoured phrase, like death warmed up. He’d only eaten a small lunch and a couple of chocolate biscuits and even they had made him feel sick. His stomach rebelled at each new intrusion and, at one point, he had thought he was going to vomit.

He pulled the plug in the sink and shuffled over to the towel-roll, tugging hard on it to find a clean piece. Then he dried his face and, hands, took one last look at his drawn visage and walked out into the corridor.

The wall clock opposite him showed 7.30 p.m. He still had another two hours before he was finished for the day. Harold sighed, thankful, at least, that it was time for a break. He made his way to the lifts and found an empty one. He punched the five button and leant back against the rear wall as the car rose swiftly. He would have preferred to have spent his break alone but Winston Greaves had insisted that he come to the office so that the two of them could talk. As the lift reached five and the doors slid open, Harold decided that talk was the last thing he needed but, nevertheless, he had to keep up appearances as best he could. As he walked towards the door of Greaves’s office he felt his legs go weak and, for long seconds, he thought he was going to faint. Thankful that no one was around, he stood still for a moment, supporting himself against a wall. His head was spinning, the floor swimming before him. That ever-present pulse of pain at the back of his neck had now developed into a series of hammer blows to his skull and, once again, he fought back the urge to be sick. Sucking in deep breaths of stale, antiseptic air, he walked on.

Greaves had the kettle on when Harold entered the small office. The coloured porter looked up and smiled and Harold managed a thin grin in return. He sat down heavily, leaning back in the plastic chair. Greaves eyed him appraisingly. He too noticed the pallor, the milkiness of Harold’s unscarred skin. The dark rings beneath his eyes looked as if they had been made by soot. The one good eye was bloodshot, the glass one sparkled with its customary unsettling brilliance. It looked all the more incongruous set against the drawn quality of the rest of his face.

Greaves waited for the kettle to boil then made the tea, handing Harold a mug. He watched as his companion struggled to remove the tea bag, scalding his fingers in the hot liquid. Greaves handed him a spoon and Harold finally succeeded in lifting the tiny bag out. He dropped it into a nearby ashtray and sat gazing down into his mug.

“Are you all right, Harold?” asked Greaves, sitting down opposite him.

“Yes.”

The answer came a little too quickly, full of mock assurance.

“You look a bit under the weather,” Greaves told him. Actually, Harold, he thought, you look half-dead.

“I’m OK,” Harold told him, sipping at his tea.

“The job isn’t getting you down is it?” Greaves asked. “I mean, I know it can be depressing sometimes.”

Harold ran a hand through his hair again.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he confessed.

“That’s not the first time is it? Why don’t you ask one of the doctors for some sleeping pills?”

Harold shook his head.

“I’ll be all right. I’ve just got a bit of a headache.”

“There’s nothing worrying you is there?”

Harold looked up.

“Why?” His voice was heavy with suspicion, perhaps a little over-cautious.

Greaves caught the inflection.

“I just asked,” he said, smiling, trying to sound calm.

When Harold raised his mug to drink again, his hands were shaking, something which did not go unnoticed by his companion. Greaves regarded him warily over the rim of his own mug. Harold certainly looked rough, he thought, and he was unusually jumpy. Still, if he hadn’t had any sleep. . .

He sat up as Harold swayed uncertainly in the chair.

The coloured porter was on his feet in an instant, moving around the desk towards his companion. Harold put one hand to his head and leant forward, taking the weight on his other elbow.

“Harold,” said Greaves.

The older man waved him back.

“I’ll be all right,” he said. “I just felt faint.”

Harold was shaking all over and a fine film of perspiration had greased his skin. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air and gradually straightened up but Greaves remained where he was.

“I think it might be best if you went back to your hut for half an hour or so, just for a lay down,” the coloured porter said. “And while you’re there, get something to eat. That’s half of your trouble, you don’t eat enough.” He put out a hand which Harold grasped, allowing himself to be helped up.

“Come on,” said Greaves. “I’ll help you.”

Together, the two of them made their way to the lift, descending to the ground floor. They headed for the main entrance without Harold speaking a solitary word. He stopped twice, worried that he was going to pass out but Greaves supported him. The senior porter suggested they see a doctor but Harold resisted the offer with a determination bordering on panic. So, slowly, they made their way out of the main building and towards the stretch of grass which led to Harold’s hut. As they drew closer, perhaps a hundred yards from the flimsy structure, the older man pulled away and stood, swaying uncertainly, his good eye looking as glazed as the false one.

“I’m all right now,” he said.

Greaves looked puzzled.

“I’ll just see you inside,” he said. “Make sure –”

Harold cut him short.

“No.”

There was a note of near pleading in the word and Greaves wrinkled his brow.

“Don’t come inside,” said Harold, then he managed a weak smile. “I’m OK. Really.”

Greaves did not move but he remained unconvinced.

“I’ll be back on the ward at quarter past eight,” Harold promised, nodding vigorously. “Quarter past eight.”

He turned and headed for the hut, tottering drunkenly until he finally reached the hut. Greaves watched him through the darkness his eyes fixed to the small dwelling, waiting for the light to be put on inside. The hut remained in darkness. The coloured porter stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he should go and check on Harold anyway.

He began walking towards the hut.

Less than ten yards further on, he slowed his pace then finally stopped. No, he told himself, Harold must be allowed some privacy and, after all, he had promised to be back at work in less than forty-five minutes. Greaves stood a moment longer, his eyes riveted to the hut. Still no light came on. The senior porter sucked in a deep breath then turned and headed back towards the main entrance. His mind was full of unanswered questions the main one being, why would Harold not let him inside the hut? What was he hiding? Greaves administered a mental rebuke for himself. Harold probably had nothing to hide. He was probably just ashamed of the fact that the hut was a bit of a shambles. Nevertheless, as he reached the main entrance to the hospital, Greaves looked round once more, expecting to see a light coming from the hut and he was mildly disturbed when he saw nothing.

His curiosity was aroused and, as he made his way back up to his office, he became more and more convinced that Harold was hiding something. Perhaps he’d been stealing? Greaves swiftly dismissed that particular notion. For one thing there was nothing worth nicking in the hospital and, secondly, Harold probably wouldn’t have the intelligence to pass for a thief. It was probably a quite innocent reason, Greaves told himself as he reached his office. He sat down and sipped his tea which was now stone cold. He put the kettle on to make a fresh cup, glancing at his watch.

It was 7.46. Harold would be back in half an hour.

Greaves waited for the kettle to boil.

Harold stood in the darkness, his back to the door of the hut, his eyes closed. He finally crept across to the window and, squinting out, he could see Greaves as he stood and watched and then finally turned and left. Harold had breathed an audible sigh of relief at that point. He didn’t reach for the light switch but moved furtively in the gloom, making his way into the kitchen. He stood staring at the cupboard door for long seconds, the cupboard beneath the sink with its sliding door. With a shaking hand he reached out to open it then swiftly withdrew, the breath catching in his throat. The cuts on his chest began to throb and he took a step backward.

The hissing began.

He placed both hands to his temples as his headache seemed to intensify, the voices fluttering inside his mind like dialogue from a half remembered dream.

He moved towards the door.

Harold knelt and opened it, sliding the cupboard opening back an inch at a time, recoiling from the rancid odour of mildew and something stronger. Something more pungent and cloying. The stench of decay. It wafted out of the cupboard in an almost visible cloud making Harold cough.

He had covered the three foetuses with the blanket and now he could see their dark shapes moving slowly beneath the material.

Words came into his head, words which he had heard before. Mutterings and commands which he knew he must obey and which, now, he found himself wanting to obey.

The kitchen knife was still lying beside the sink, its blade dull with rust and dried blood and Harold’s groping hands closed around the handle. He swallowed hard, listening to the words which whirled around inside his head, making him dizzy. His ears were buzzing and he was finding it difficult to focus on the three writhing shapes beneath the blanket but, finally, the feeling diminished somewhat and he reached for the loose corner of the material, pulling it back to expose the trio of creatures beneath.