Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-four

Outside The Cotswold Cottage

A city had grown up around the cottage, beyond the perimeter of the Victorian wall, in the once open fields. Silent shapes bowed low beneath the rotor blades that circled slowly over head. There were those with eyes that could see in the dark, tracing the frames of the windows through infra-red lenses, accurate barrels lining up their sights with the seventeenth century leaded lights.

Becky watched the figures moving from her cramped seat in the high domed craft. She prayed with all her heart that she had not heard the gunshot. Alan held her as close as he could without crushing her bones. They sat alone in the small cabin of the helicopter, directly opposite the gateway, flanked by the six other craft, three on either side. Becky shivered with fear and fatigue and cold. The distant nausea rolled toward her once more, her fingers fluttering like butterflies against each other.

With the killing of the lights there were only haloes hovering, and the scurrying shapes. Seconds would pass before the soft familiar mass of the cottage would retake its place in the landscape. Barnes had insisted that they remain in the helicopter until he was fully versed with the situation, until locations were identified, heat sources located. Alan brushed Becky’s forehead with a healing kiss. She sighed and burrowed her face in his neck.

Inside The Cotswold Cottage

His body ached and burned and cried out for Lenny’s soothing hand. He could no longer wait. The drug. Just two hits left now. He looked at the child. Her eyes were shut. He needed the reference point of her deep reminiscent eyes. There were rabbits tunnelling in the snow. He was sure he could hear them. He wanted to be hard. He wanted a boy. He wanted the bear hug. He wanted Fred. A rush of babbling voices turned his head.

“Did it hurt?”

“What?”

“That.”

“DON’T TOUCH! Not yet.”

“Sorry.”

“I told you. Just don’t.”

“I wouldn’t have recognised you. Not with that ‘tasche.”

“I would have known you anywhere.”

“Oh, how?”

You fucking bastard. How could I forget you. Those fucking eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. I never forget a face.”

“It was good, wasn’t it?

“What?”

“You know, just now.”

“Yes. It was good.”

“Did it hurt?”

“What?”

“The road. You were pulled a long way.”

“What do you think?”

“How many stitches?”

“Count them. Go on. I know you want to know. Count them with your tongue.”

“I might only get half way.”

“Yes, you might.”

The bastard is going to do it. The snivelling little shit.

“What if I lose.”

“Control?”

“No. I might lose count.”

“Just start counting. Ah, gently.”

“One, two, three, four.”

“Do you remember when they built The Library?”

“What, they fires we used to have?”

“Careful, the old accent’s showing.”

The counting ceased.

“You’d like that. Me being all like a yokel. I reckons you misses all of that. Down Bluebell Wood, in the shed, back home in the country.”

“Shut up.”

“Twennyone, twennytwo, twennyfree.”

“Stop. The tongue. Come up here.”

A chance meeting. That was all it had been. An impulse. An urge. A dank viaduct in Lewisham under the wheels of the tube, dangerous thrills, violent streets and cropped enemies. ‘Have you got a light?’ So corny. The voice. Nothing. The eyes in the lighter flare. God! Fred. No, Lenny! Down. To hell. Down. Go on. Down. Such sweet release as the Doc Martens studs echoed from the alleys. It had been the Porsche then. They had hopped and skipped to escape the razors, had made it to the metal doors, had left the boots skidding on the slick pavement. They headed toward the Orton play in the basement theatre near Hyde Park Corner.

“You’ll like this.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Well, you’ll like this then.”

“Stop. Someone’ll see.”

“So what, let them.”

“Careful, I’m almost there.”

“So am I.”

The small beginnings of the plan were already forming by the time the first act was over. Time. Time was not a problem. The intimacy of the intertwined past comforted one of them, tantalised the other. The final page was already written, now there was just the meat and gristle of the slow march to death row.

“Have you ever been to Scotland?”

“I’ve never been farther north than Blackpool.”

“Would you like to go”

“When?”

“Now.”

Was there a pause for thought? He didn’t think so.

“Yeah. great.”

He gave him speed at a service station. Driving through the night would have been difficult without it. Something like sleep had come for the passenger. He lay with his head in the driver’s lap, the teeth of the open zip pressing gently into his cheek, a miniature impression of the scar - a transient red indentation that would disappear with a cat lick in the Gents at Low Hesket Services.

“Why don’t you let me drive for a bit?”

“Have you ever driven a Porsche?”

“No.”

“Go back to sleep then.”

The border came with the passing of noon. Lenny woke up in the lowlands.

“Hey, listen. I’m sorry about what we did. You know, the shed and all of that.”

“I’ve forgotten about it all. Besides, you enjoyed counting the stitches, didn’t you?” 

Outside

Barnes, Wheeler and an older man in a thick padded anorak stood below the medical helicopter. Barnes held a radio telephone to his ear, listening for news. A shadow passed briefly across the kitchen window, there was the sound of shattering glass, and then the cottage seemed to lie in darkness. Barnes could hear the crying through the small earpiece.

“Oh, bloody hell, who do I have here?”

“Hope, sir.” a voice crackled out.

“How close are you?”

“Pretty close, sir. Ten foot from the back door.”

“Is that the child I can hear?”

“Sir?”

“That whimpering noise.”

Silence. Then;

“Yes, sir.”

“At least she’s still alive. Keep the line open, Hope.”

“Yessir!”

Barnes turned to Wheeler.

“Do we still have contact with Stonehouse?”

“Afraid not, sir. We lost contact below the dip.”

“Right, we’re on our own then.”

Barnes turned to Tarrant, the Operations Officer.

“What do you recommend?”

“I’m not sure. I think we might still be able to talk him out.”

“How the hell do we handle that?”

“Well, one of us could talk to him, or, if the situation allows, we could involve the mother.”

“Is that wise?”

“It might soften the edge.”

“She’s in a bit of a state, chief.” said Wheeler.

“I’m worried about his motives, to be honest.” said Barnes.

“What do you mean?” asked Tarrant.

“Well, I had a call from a colleague in Holland in connection with a murder inquiry.”

“The father?”

The earpiece crackled into life.

“Hope, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Well, it might be nothing, sir, but the crying has stopped.”

“Oh Jesus!”

As they watched, a light came on in the first bedroom of the cottage. The small square of the window threw a bright beam across the bows of the middle helicopter. The open connecting doorway allowed light into the bathroom, filling the bottles with glowing oils and essences, casting a stained-glass image upon the snow in the garden.

Inside

“I want my Mummy, please Mister, I want my Mummy.”

“No, we’re going to play a little game.”

“I want my Mummy, I want my Mummy.”

The faint voice carried across the snow, dying at the edge of the wall. The barrels of the twelve high-powered rifles twitched toward the window, finding their direction like divining rods, small infrared sight windows lined up with the spaces between the stones.

Trim lit two squat white candles that stood on the Spartan dressing table, their light reflecting in a framed print of the infant Moses, floating among the bulrushes. He extinguished the main light, throwing the room into shadowy contrasts, turning his pallid face into a death mask.

“I don’t like this game.”

Sarah whimpered, wriggling free of the cords and slipping from the bed. He didn’t hear her. He pulled back his hand, ready for the angry sweeping blow.

“Damn you, you little shit! You fucking animal! Come on, beg Daddy for the stuff.”

He missed her, grazing instead his knuckles on the roughcast wall. The words were indistinct, but now they cleared the iced wall and bounced around the Perspex dome.

Outside

“Oh, god, what’s happening in there. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to do something.”

“Becky.”

But Alan could not stop her from breaking free and sliding the airlock open. The blast of cold air hit her warm skin, but she did not falter. The steps were already coated with snow, and in her haste she misplaced her foot on the bottom tread, scraping the back of her heel painfully as she sank to the ground.

“Mrs. Farthing!” said Barnes with surprise.

“I can’t stand waiting anymore.”

Barnes looked up at Alan who stood in the open hatch, waiting to drop to earth. Alan gave him a look of utter despair.

“I was just coming to tell you. We are doing everything that we can.”

Barnes noticed that she was leaning to one side. “Here, let me help you. Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing. I caught my heel.”

Alan was at her side, his arm around her once more.

“I can hear shouting from the house. Horrible sounds.”

“We have everything under control, Mrs. Farthing.” Barnes lied.

“How are things in there?” Alan whispered.” Have you sighted her yet?”

“Upstairs. We’ve heard her too. She’s alive at least.”

The words blew far away from Becky so that she could not hear. The faint sound of a bullhorn drifted with the whirling wind, worrying into her consciousness.

“What are they doing?”

“Trying to get Trim to communicate and end it quickly.”

But the sound did not carry as far as the bedroom cell. There would be no response. Trim had begun his game.

Wheeler came running over to them.

“It’s no good, chief. There’s no response.”

Barnes spoke into his mouthpiece.

“Hope. Hope, can you hear me?”

“Sir?” came the crackled reply.

“Did you get that message just now.”

“Only through the phones, not here. You can’t hear anything. Too much wind.”

“Okay. Keep the line open. Can you see anything?”

“Nothing, sir.”

The amplified messages continued for a moment, beating hard against the vociferous wind.

“Completely surrounded. Hands above your head. Armed officers.”

“BECKY, NO!” Alan shouted.

But she could not hear him. She had broken free of his arms and was stumbling forward into the head wind, her blanket flapping behind her, tearing loose and falling, coming to rest just beneath the gate. And she stood in a rainbow of light that fell from the shelves of bottles in the bathroom window.

“SARAH, SARAH!”

Inside

Sarah had been lifted back up onto the bed. She did not resist. Trim breathed his foul breath over her face as he re-tied the cords. There was little strength in his fingers as the knots began unravelling as soon as they were completed. The disease had spread, tightening its own knots and bonds with a death-like grip. Trim pulled at his clothes, removing his sweat-drenched shirt like a lizard’s skin. He peeled the sodden trousers from his legs, pulling at his taut socks, revealing the scar that deepened in the low light, shadows wounding him more.

“LOOK WHAT YOUR PRECIOUS FUCKING FATHER DID TO ME! LOOK AT IT, GODDAM YOU, LOOK!”

He ripped the rags of his jock strap loose and stood before her, hard, crippled, naked.

Sarah screwed her eyes tight and would not see, would not look, would not listen.

“Inspector Barnes, come in. Did you hear that?” Hope crackled.

“YES, YES I HEARD.” he shouted into the mouthpiece.

“Orders, sir? said the disembodied voice.

“Hold your fire. Everyone, hold your fire. The mother is in the garden.”

“We have to go in, we have to.” Tarrant said calmly.

“Bloody hell, I think you’re right. I think we better do it sharpish,” Barnes said quietly.

Alan too had broken ranks and he fought against the wind to reach Becky. She fell like a dead weight into his arms. She might have been a feather when they had made love, floating above him, moaning softly in the besieged hotel. Now she had turned to lead.

As he began to lead her back toward the semi-circle of helicopters, he heard the horrific oaths ring out across the still snow.

“WATCH ME BITCH. OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES AND WATCH ME. THIS IS FOR YOU! SOMETHING TO REMEMBER ME BY! THIS IS FOR YOU. THIS IS FOR FRED AND LENNY. AND THIS IS FOR ME!”

Sarah watched with horror as Trim pointed the gun and slowly pulled the trigger.

Everyone heard the scream. It riveted them to all to the spot. Then the sound of gunshot echoed across the night, freeing them. And then there was a brief instant of silence. Pure, unsullied silence.  Alan and Becky turned unbelieving toward the window. There were no more rainbows. The light was gone. Becky opened her mouth to call something, but nothing came.

Hope was the first to enter the cottage, smashing the back door open with his heavy boot. Others followed, armed men, Barnes, Wheeler, Tarrant. They burst in at the front door, grinding compact discs under their snow-covered boots. The tread of the stairs creaked beneath their accumulative weight, rifles ready, hearts beating wildly.

“Oh, fucking hell!”

The room, the walls, the bed, and Sarah, were awash with blood. Her body lay limp across the bloodied quilt, the cords saving her from falling. Hope left Sarah to the others. He moved quickly to the bathroom, following the noise, skidding upon the oily surface of the black tile. The floor was strewn with mosaics of every imaginable colour, the mingled essences blending together into a gaudy concoction of sickly aromas. The large window had shattered under the impact of the falling body. Hope caught himself in the window frame as the wall of light rose up again blinding him temporarily. The others could see. They looked on in horror as Hope wavered, arms outstretched, a stained-glass apostle in the ragged hole that had been the window. They could see the naked corpse, chest down in the bloody stain of snow under the window. The ghastly headless corpse that would never move again, its tainted blood running away deep into the limestone crust.

There were teeth embedded in the seventeenth-century beams, small shards of precious ivory that might never be found. Blood that trickled into the glass-encrusted bath and into the drains. There was bone and brain tissue and lumps of hair. There was the broad wash of light that brought every detail into sharp focus, turning the cottage into a stage set of flats and trap doors. There was an audience that looked on in disbelief.

  Alan held his ground, holding his love with weakening arms. Barnes had gone. They had all gone. Racing off toward the house, toward the shattering glass, the splintering bone, the spiralling soul. He was alone. Alone with a woman he suddenly did not know. A woman he might be wise to abandon. Alone with a woman he would always love.

“Becky?”

“Alan, please take me there. Please.” she moaned faintly.

Alan struggled against the whirling snow, against a wind that still whittled away at the skeletal rotors and hedgerows. Wheeler met them at the edge of the wall.

“Don’t go in, please.”

“I must.” Becky pleaded.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you.”

“The child?” Alan whispered.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know”

Wheeler had seen the carnage within the walls. Whatever the woman must eventually accept, these were things better never seen.

“Go back to the chopper and wait!” Wheeler told them.

“Come on, man, you can’t do this.” Alan protested.

“Go back, or I’ll have you taken back.”

Alan caught the urgency in his voice and turned without further argument to lead Becky back toward the wall of light. They passed through and stood behind the screen like two displaced souls.

“I love you.” he whispered.

It was all that he could think of to say.

Suddenly the light parted like a curtain. Barnes stood a few yards away from them, holding something wrapped in a bloody quilt. He walked slowly toward them, holding the bundle out to Becky.

“Mummy?”

“OH MY GOD, MY BABY!”

And when Alan looked at Barnes, he could see bright tears in the corners of his eyes.