The Ghost (23 page)

On cue, he coughed up something primal – a belly-deep rasp. There was an impatience to the sound which startled Cook.

“Why did you do it? Why didn't you come to get me out? Remember what that girl said – what had I done to hurt you?”

“You were different. As different as it was possible to be. And we were kids, and kids are cruel. They have to be. It's how they deflect and free themselves from all that control and belittlement – all that spite and
structure
. Remember the world back then? Teachers who could hit us with bits of wood – fucking mark us for life. It was too dangerous to speak up or stand up or stand out when the adults had such a license to keep us quiet, keep us down, keep us in the dark.
Teachers
– who taught us that physical abuse was just the way of the world. All of that – all the violence it spawned. We weren't trying to hurt you. We were trying to stop everyone else hurting you.”

John Ray smiled, exposing bloodied teeth. “It's almost endearing, how much control you think you had then – and still think you have, now. It's always been my comfort, accepting how little control we have over anything. Because of how I am – how I was – I gave up on conventional happiness before I could walk. You're not a plotter or a director, Dorian. You're a walk-on. Like I said – I don't matter, you don't matter, this doesn't matter. The world will just shrug and keep on turning – long after we've gone. Once you abandon the silly selfishness of ‘personal fulfilment', you can zoom right out and embrace insignificance. If you squeeze tight enough, it's almost spiritual. I didn't scheme a way towards achieving justice – revenge as a way of restoring some kind of karmic balance. It was animalistic – I had no control, no free will. It's what I've always been used to, and you should start to get used to it, too. However you got me here, I don't see why you should see any success in it – your grand whitewash. Redemption by disavowal.”

His eyes were frosting over. Cook flinched at the scraping breaths. “What's it like, John?”

“What?”

“Dying.”

“It's okay. You'll like it.”

With a ruinous extended wheeze, Ray rose up from the armchair. He tried to lunge for Cook, but fell forward, emptied of energy. Cook scrambled over the back of the sofa and pulled the yellow-and-black M26 Taser from his inside pocket. He aimed with both hands, pointing the weapon at his near-helpless assailant.

Ray dropped to his knees and raised his head. “What are you trying to do? Finish me off or shock me back to life?”

He crawled back onto the armchair, sighed, and closed his unseeing eyes.

The world turned.

John Ray died.

The world turned.

Cook kept the Taser raised. He stood there, stiff and solemn, scanning for signs of life. After a few minutes, the reverie broke and he dared to divert his gaze to an ugly clock on the wall above the television. It was just past 3am. He slid the Taser back into his pocket and stepped forward, avoiding the puddle of blood coiling across the carpet from Ray's legs. He picked up the lump-hammer from the floor, retrieved his phone from the sofa, tore away one of the curtains and backed out of the room, aiming light at his shoes to check he wasn't trailing anything. At the hall, he covered the body with the curtain. He turned right into the kitchen, opened the door of the utility room and pulled the light-cord. The door beneath the ceiling-slope was still padlocked. He lifted the lock and twisted it round, so it jutted out horizontally. Cook had anticipated a protracted session of swatting and swearing, but the lump-hammer crushed the clasp after two strikes and the lock fell to the floor with a clatter. Behind the door, Eleanor shrieked.

“Who's there? Who's that?”

Cook held the latch. A simple lift and shift and the door would open – outwards.

“You can't look at me!” he shouted.

“I can't see! I've got a blindfold on! He ties me up for the night. Please! Don't leave me again! Help me! I don't care who you are.”

Cook leaned his shoulder into the door and unhooked the latch. He opened a gap of around an inch and peeked through, recoiling at the sulphurous stench. Eleanor Finch lay naked and foetal on a rotting mattress, ankles bound with tape, wrists rope-tied in front, black blindfold tightly knotted. She was trembling – convulsing with cold and terror. As the utility room light passed over her, she spoke – shrill but steady. It was the voice of someone with an urge to make themselves understood quickly.

“I can't. I can't take the blindfold off. I managed it once. He didn't feed me for two days. Don't hurt me!”

It sounded more like a command than a plea.

“I won't.”

Cook crouched and began to unravel the rope. Eleanor clamped her palms together, reducing the tension in the knots. He realised that he was now God-like – in complete control. He could stop, stand, walk out, close the door and drive away, and she would die – here in the dark.

“I'm going to untie your hands,” said Cook. “Then, you'll stay here for fifteen more minutes. Count to one-thousand. Then you should leave, by the back door. Don't take the blindfold off until I've gone. Did you hear me? Do you understand?”

She nodded, whispered yes.

“Don't leave until you've counted to one-thousand. Don't go down the hall or look in the sitting-room.”

“Why?”

“Just leave. Go. Don't look back. Don't even think of looking back. It won't be good.”

The ropes fell away, revealing livid red grooves, scored in spirals down both forearms. Eleanor massaged her wrists together, groaning with pain and relief.

“Why are you wearing gloves?”

Cook ignored this and turned his back. He stooped and headed for the door.

“Thank you,” said Eleanor, turning her face in his direction, tilting her head up to see him, sightlessly.

And he looked back and saw the scar – the scar at the base of her chin.

A really nasty cut.

His mind scurried back to the day with Inspector Ramshaw and Constable Whitcombe. Ramshaw saying something about her officially changing her name.

She had some kind of crush on me.

Cook squatted down and leaned in for a closer look at the scar. It was absolutely the one – carved in like an emphasis, tracing the curve of her chin. He wanted to say it (“Rebecca?”) but of course he could not. Instead, he removed one of the gloves and, for once, he was the one reaching out. He groped for Rebecca Goldstraw's hand, squeezed once, skin on skin, saw her smile, and left her there, counting out loud. He eased through the back door, into the muggy morning, unstrapped the spy-camera and walked to his car. He was not the good guy, but the bad guys were gone, the girl was safe and he had not been turned into a pillar of salt.

This story has been a long time in the making, and I'm grateful to the friends and family who supported me through its telling.

From the decades, my love and applause to Keith Groom, whose classroom beard-shaving taught me the pleasures of creative expression.

And to my immense, unimpeachable grandmother – so long, and thanks for all the chips and beans.

Andrew Lowe

London, 2015

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