He ran into the empty, silent street, looking frantically in both directions, standing in the middle of the road, desperately searching for a clue as to which direction to run in. ‘Samuel,’ he shouted into the night. But the night didn’t answer, the only sound the distant rumble of the city traffic. ‘Samuel,’ he shouted again, allowing the boy’s name to tail off slowly, eventually fading and dying into the night, a collapsing echo reverberating off the house fronts. ‘Samuel.’ Even louder this time, some lights beginning to flicker on in the windows of the other houses as the freezing air flooding his empty chest felt like toxic fumes. Again he span in the road, unsure which way to run, tears of frustration, anger and fear blurring his vision, the light from the street lamps star-bursting in his eyes, until his instinct told him that to do something was better than doing nothing, and he ran, he ran along the street, unwittingly heading in the same direction as Douglas Allen had, his naked feet hitting the road surface hard as he sprinted, ignoring the pain in his body, not even feeling it as he ran past the basement entrance where Allen cowered, and where his boy grew weaker and weaker, struggling to breathe through the hand clamped over his tiny mouth, his once wide brown eyes now only half-open as the pounding of his father’s naked feet grew fainter and fainter, like his own breathing and heartbeat, until neither could be heard any more.
Once he finally turned into the street where his home was Allen turned off the headlights and coasted until he found a space close to his own front door. He was physically and mentally exhausted. The incident earlier and the constant need to watch for and avoid police patrols and roadblocks had drained him, but his guides had eventually seen him home safely. Although how much longer he could carry out his work living where he did he began to wonder. His dream of moving to the country might have to be moved forward. The patrols and roadblocks would surely only get worse – especially after tonight.
He checked the road ahead and behind before hauling himself from his car, quietly closing the door before again searching for signs of life in the eerily silent street. He moved to the rear passenger door only when he was satisfied he was unobserved, opening it soundlessly and peering in at the tiny figure of Samuel Hargrave lying still and silent under an old, tartan blanket, just the hair on top of his head visible. Allen leaned into the back of the car and gently rocked the little figure, but the boy didn’t stir or make a single sound.
‘Samuel,’ he whispered, but the boy didn’t move. ‘Sam,’ he tried again, but the boy didn’t respond. A terrible feeling of dread began to sweep through Allen’s own body – a feeling he hadn’t had since two years ago when he’d finally had to accept that he was losing his beloved wife and that he’d be for ever alone. At least that’s what he’d thought at the time, before the voices had begun – the comforting voices that offered him guidance. But now the voices had fallen silent. He swallowed hard to keep his throat from closing as the grief swelled, his lips beginning to tremble as he tried to pretend the unthinkable hadn’t happened. He reached into the back seat and wrapped the lifeless little figure tightly in the blanket before pulling the boy through the doorway as gently as he could. He cradled the bundle to his chest, carrying it like a mother would a new-born baby, fighting back tears as he closed the car door with his foot and headed stealthily along the street holding the bundle ever tighter as he whispered comfortingly. ‘Let’s get you inside, Sam – out of the cold.’
Allen hurried to his front door and fumbled in his jacket pocket for the house keys, managing to keep hold of the boy’s dead weight as he turned the locks and eased the door open. The sudden sound of the alarm-activated warning pushed panic into his chest as he stumbled into the darkness and found the keypad, entering the numbers carefully, terrified of making a mistake and shattering the silence of the night, bringing unwanted attention crashing down on him. Finally he pressed ‘enter’ and silenced the high-pitched warning. He stood motionless, barely breathing as he listened to the sounds from inside his own house, for the children who should be sleeping two floors above him. At last he allowed himself to exhale and closed the front door, locking it top and bottom. The weight of the boy still pressed to his torso began to tell, his knees creaking as he carried him across the main downstairs area that remained in almost complete darkness to a room at the back of the house that he used as an office. He closed the door before laying the boy on the small desk and turning on the old lamp that stood next to where the boy’s head was, his hair still poking from the top of the blanket.
Awkwardly he began to unwrap the boy, his heart thundering with fear, but also with hope that he may yet be mistaken, that the boy might just be resting, rocked to sleep by the motion of the car. With increasing horror he realized the nightmare was coming true. The boy’s body felt increasingly stiff and inflexible, his joints unwilling to do what they did so easily when he was alive. Finally he was free from the tartan blanket, lying in his blue pyjamas covered in prints of every dinosaur imaginable, one arm trapped under his back and his half open brown eyes still resonating with the lingering trace of life – not a bruise or mark on his tiny body, yet broken beyond repair all the same. Allen covered his mouth to quell his gasps of horror, staggering backwards away from the realization of what he’d done as the tears flowed unhindered from his eyes and down his ruddy cheeks.
He tried to move, but couldn’t – frozen where he stood staring at the lifeless boy he’d thought he was saving from uncaring parents and an uncaring world. But now the boy was gone and by his hand − and who would understand it was an accident? They’d call him a monster, in those vile newspapers he saw but never read – on those lascivious news programmes he never watched. But he knew what they would start saying about him now – the lies they would tell. They’d call him a child murderer, a killer of children, a beast to be hunted down and slaughtered. There would be no let-up. The police patrols and roadblocks would be increased. They’d already visited all the houses and shops in the street, speaking to all the occupants and owners, even to him, but next they’d want to come inside and look around – their desperation would demand it. He needed to know what to do – he needed the voices, his guides, to tell him what to do, but still they remained silent, leaving him alone and afraid.
The pain in his head was only matched by the pain in his chest, a tightening and crushing that left him short of breath and dizzy, dropping him to his knees, his head in one hand while the other clutched and clawed at his chest, as if he was trying to rip out his own heart. ‘Help me,’ he whispered as he fell forwards. ‘Help me.’ He felt darkness and oblivion begin to drown him, the pounding in his head making his body want to escape into unconsciousness, but he fought against it, knowing that this was when the voices of his guides usually came, when the pain was as its worst, when he thought he could bear no more, when he thought he might have to surrender to the doctors’ wishes and take the drugs they’d told him he must. That was when the voices came, and so they did now, quietly at first, but growing louder, comforting and reassuring, telling him he wasn’t alone, giving him the strength to resist and accept the pain, guiding him to his feet and back towards the body of Samuel lying on his desk.
He wiped away his tears and stood next to the boy, crossing himself with the sign of a crucifix as he gathered his thoughts and listened to the voices’ instructions. He nodded his head gently in approval and understanding, quietly speaking the words of the twenty-third psalm as he began to prepare the boy, untwisting his tiny arm from under his body and stroking his hair as neatly as he could with his hand:
The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.
He maketh me lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I shall fear no evil: For thou art with me:
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil:
My cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the House of the Lord for ever.
He stretched the boy out carefully on his back. straightened out his blue pyjamas and closed his eyes fully, still listening to the voices as he opened the desk drawer and took out an antique wooden box and turned the small, ornate key to unlock it. Inside he could see the precious things that had belonged to his wife, things she had no one to pass on to: her engagement ring and wedding ring, a cameo brooch and other jewellery, although there was little of it. He brushed his fingers over the items lovingly until they rested on what he was looking for – the small silver crucifix with a tiny Christ sacrificed upon it. He lifted it from the box before speaking softly and quietly. ‘Are you sure – are you sure he needs it?’ He nodded his head slightly as he listened to the voice. ‘I know,’ he answered. ‘I know you’ll guide him to green pastures. I know you’ll lead him to still waters.’ He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand and pressed the crucifix into the boy’s hand, crossing his arms over his still chest as his eyes fell upon the special thing he’d brought for the boy – the precious thing that had remained trapped in the blanket throughout. Allen pressed the palms of his hands across his eyes to stop the tears from returning, the sight of the thing so special to the boy almost overwhelming him – the thing he’d used to convince the boy he was a friend not a threat. He waited for the crushing sadness to ease before reaching for the special thing, lifting it from its resting place and tucking it under the boy’s folded arms. He carefully wrapped the blanket once more around Samuel Hargrave, but this time left his face showing, as if he didn’t want to suffocate him. Once the boy was prepared as well as he could be, Allen once again sank to his knees, this time not in pain, but to pray, not just for Samuel Hargrave, but for himself:
‘Our Father who art in Heaven …’
Rush hour was beginning as Sean approached the Swain’s Lane entrance to Highgate Cemetery, only a short walk away from where Bailey Fellowes had been taken from her own home. Whoever was taking these children had been successfully avoiding the random roadblocks and stop-checks the police had been conducting in the area. Or maybe he hadn’t – maybe he’d been stopped, but allowed to go on his way. Sean pulled up behind the two marked and the two unmarked police cars parked across the entrance and took a few seconds before stepping out into the cold morning air, too preoccupied to register the chill. He took a long look around before heading to the lone uniform who guarded the taped off entrance – a young-looking constable who seemed more nervous than the usual, as if he was aware the scene would be of more interest to the world and its media than most, uncomfortable with being left alone to keep the journalists and TV crews at bay when they eventually arrived.
Sean showed the young constable his warrant card and ducked under the blue-and-white tape flapping in the breeze before speaking. ‘DI Corrigan. Special Investigations. Where’s the body?’
The constable cleared his throat before replying. ‘If you just follow the path, sir, around to the left about seventy metres in you’ll find the other detectives.’
Sean looked him up and down before indicating the two marked vehicles. ‘Where are your colleagues?’ he asked.
‘Stationed at the other entrances to the cemetery, sir. Just in case.’
Sean nodded. ‘OK. Good. Now call up your Control and have them get these marked cars out of the way – they’re attracting too much attention.’
‘Of course,’ the constable nodded and immediately reached for his personal radio. Sean headed along the path to the scene of the body drop, the tranquillity of his surroundings allowing the chill to finally take hold of his consciousness as he pulled his thin raincoat tight to try and capture what warmth he could. He walked through the trees and past the gravestones, some modest, others huge testaments to the dead who lay below them. Donnelly had only told him the bare minimum over the phone, ever fearful of eavesdropping journalists and bloggers, and now Sean’s lack of knowledge of the scene was allowing his imagination to run wild at what he might be about to see. Certainly Donnelly had sounded more disturbed than he was used to hearing, and it took a lot to knock him from his stride. Finally, with equal trepidation and relief he saw Donnelly and two other figures wrapped in raincoats up ahead, all standing quietly. It did not bode well. He noticed all three detectives stiffen as he grew near.
‘Gentlemen,’ Donnelly introduced him. ‘This is DI Sean Corrigan.’ Sean just nodded.
‘DS Simon Rogers,’ the older, greyer detective offered, holding out his hand. Sean accepted it briefly before turning to the other detective and his already outstretched hand.
‘DC Martin McInerney, guv’nor.’ Again Sean just nodded.
‘Is it one of the missing children?’ Sean asked.
‘No,’ Donnelly answered, his lips thinner and paler than usual. ‘It’s a boy, about four or five years old, but it’s not George Bridgeman.’
‘We’re aware of your investigation into the missing children,’ Rogers told him. ‘Figured given the age of the victim and the location, you’d want to take a look.’
Sean looked over Rogers’s shoulder at the rolled up tartan blanket lying on a shallow, grey slab of stone, the grave marked with a simple headstone that was too far away for Sean to be able to read. ‘Yeah,’ he answered remorsefully, ‘I need to take a look.’
He walked between the two detectives and stepped slowly and carefully towards the rolled-up blanket, not speaking, examining the floor to avoid accidentally stepping on any potential evidence – a footprint or discarded food wrapper, a snagged clump of human hair or fabric − but he saw none.