A Death Displaced (33 page)

Who cares?

His master’s ex-love was probably long
long
dead.

Now here was what he’d been searching for: a plain piece of paper with ‘Ryan’s password & security details’ scribbled on it lazily. With these details and the key, he could finally access the safety deposit box. When Aldrich first ‘employed’ Ryan, they had made a deal. It was the one and only time his master had used his mind ability on him. Aldrich gave him two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, and had him go to the bank and put it in a safety deposit box. Afterwards, he’d wiped his memory of the required security details and took the key.

The arrangement was that when Aldrich released him from service, he could have the money. On top of that, he was paid a basic monthly wage to survive and to avoid suspicion (and to keep Ryan in his place). That wage would continue to be paid until the funds ran dry; even with his master dead. Aldrich had bank accounts set up in various different names, and who knows how much wealth? Sometimes Ryan thought he knew Aldrich well, then other times he wondered if Aldrich had other employees, maybe businesses set up all around the world. He rarely saw his master do anything while he was around; he seemed a hermit, mourning the past, and obsessed with an imaginary god.

‘Pfftt, Moloch.’ He shook his head, snivelled.

Being immortal and having the ability to control minds had made Aldrich an expert when it came to handling money, money laundering, and the likes.

As far as Kim knew, Ryan was a support worker for vulnerable adults; the strange shift patterns, and the fact that he was often seen out and about shopping for Aldrich made it believable. It took constant and clever lies though. She didn’t like that he was secretive about his bank accounts at first, but eventually she let it slide. As long as the bills got paid.

And as far as the English government could tell, Ryan was employed as a personal carer for Tomas Dolores Otero. He didn’t know and didn’t care if Tomas was ever a real person or just one of Aldrich’s aliases. As long as there were no hiccups with his future pay.

‘
TWOOOO HUUUUUNDRED AAAND FIIIFTY THOUUSAAAAND POUUNDS! AHAHA!
’ he shouted to the extent his hoarse voice let him. ‘
Finally,
FINALLY!
’

Then he stopped, unsure if he actually felt excited or not. Most people liked money, correct? This was the reaction he was meant to have, he supposed.

Ten years ago he would have felt differently.

‘Hmmppphh.’ He grumbled.

Kim would be ecstatic. He just needed to come up with a lie about how he got the money. He’d figure something out; lying was second-nature by now.

 He rolled up the key for the safety deposit box into the paper with the password and security details on, then firmly pushed them into his pocket. Only the teeth, the string bag, and the apparent love letter were left in the trinket box.

He returned to the entry hall, mopped up the urine and blood, and scrubbed the stains that wouldn’t lift, but he left the destroyed ornaments and the broken cabinet where they were.

After treating himself to a shower, he sprayed down his clothes to freshen them up, and then slipped them back on. He couldn’t go home to Kim smelling of blood, excrement, and dirt.

He’d parked his silver Peugeot 206 on the gravel out the front. He headed home to Etherby, to Kim.

*

‘We haven’t had sex like that in a
long time
,’ said Kim, panting.

Ryan forced a smile as they collapsed beside each other on the bed. He didn’t offer her an explanation. Instead, he stretched over to grab the trousers he’d flung off and onto the floor. He reached inside one of the pockets to pull a certain something out. ‘Kim, I love you. Will you marry me?’ He emulated the way people proposed in films: tone, significant pauses, stresses on the right words. The ring he presented was the antique he’d taken from Aldrich’s trinket box. In proposing, he’d expected to feel something, but he didn’t.

The expression on Kim’s face … he recognised it to be elation, delight? He analysed it as a good reaction. Had she waited long for this moment? Her eyes had swirly tears in them.

‘Yes, Ryan! This is the best night of my life. Eeeeeeeee!’ She released one of her excited squeals. He liked her squeals; he only wished that more things thrilled him so much.

She stared quizzically but admiringly at the ring. ‘It’s not my usual style,’ she laughed appreciatively, ‘but it
is
beautiful. It looks really old … and expensive.’ It sounded more a question than a comment.

‘Family heirloom,’ he muttered the first lie that slinked into his head.

*

On Tuesday at Grendel Manor, he revelled in more destruction. This was fun; at least he thought so, wasn’t sure if he felt so. He did it with gloves on this time, after wiping down the items he’d destroyed before.

The manor was covered with his fingerprints and DNA, and he would get around to that, but not now though.

Clay tablets, intricate jewellery, paintings, statues of beasts, story-depicting vases, plates, bowls, worn weapons: all vandalised to varying degrees.

No one would come to Grendel Manor; nobody ever did. Aldrich had always sent people away, memories erased, so now visitors were rare. Stories of the manor circulated, but the way it was hidden in its own valley allowed it to fall back into the easily neglected shadows of the public’s eye and mind.

When he was bored of devastating priceless artefacts, he went to one of the bathrooms, left the door open, and stood facing the toilet. He masturbated with the glove on; now
this
was a pleasure he understood. It tickled him that he could do it with the door wide open. Aldrich had
no say
over his actions anymore.

Afterwards, he scrubbed the bathroom down.

The night before, he’d told Kim not to share with anyone that they were engaged yet. He still needed to come up with an adequate lie for his coming into money. Kim was desperate to tell Juliet, but Ryan had made clear that he wanted to wait until he had some ‘time off work’ before they started spreading the news. Maybe even wait longer than that.

He strolled around the wrecked manor and soaked up a twisted sense of power. Then he headed home.

*

The next day, he thoroughly cleaned Grendel Manor.

He took his time, wiping every handle, all surfaces, and each door and window until he was confident no fingerprints remained. Hands were gloved again, his body covered; he even wore a simple dust mask over his mouth, and tightened his hood up to keep his hair and flaky scalp to himself.

The body was in the fridge still, hopefully not too rotted and malodorous; Ryan hadn’t yet come up with the perfect, skin-tingling way of disposing of the corpse.

He decided to go home and sleep on it.

*

Thursday came. The moment he awoke, an idea struck him.

The first few hours of the morning flittered away; he allowed them to, as he fooled about with Kim until she reluctantly plodded off to work. She did part time hours at Ethereal Cuts, a hair salon, and Ryan assumed the use of the word ‘ethereal’ in the name was some kind of weak play on the name of the town: Etherby. Or maybe it was a reference to the witchy past of Lansin Island. Or both.

Sometimes he overanalysed; most times he didn’t even care for the matter he was analysing.

He took a few cans of petrol from the garage. As Kim didn’t drive, she wouldn’t notice. He discreetly placed the cans into the boot of his Peugeot 206 and then drove to Grendel Manor.

A filing cabinet in a capacious office room held records on many different families and people. Ryan had compiled the data over the years, but right now he looked for a specific address belonging to one person. After keeping tabs on the Crystan family for so long, he knew the most appropriate one of the boys to address the letter to would be Nicolas Jack Crystan; Nick lived alone and would hopefully open the envelope with no one around.

He began to write in one messy block of scribbles:

Nicolas,

I’m writing this so that you might understand what I’m about to do, and if I somehow get arrested, then I want someone else to have this knowledge. I’ve worked for Aldrich for over ten years and have had to put up with him talking about the past. All the time. Most the time I ignored him because he didn’t make sense or because I had no idea what he was going on about. There was one story I couldn’t ignore though. He told me that in the 16
^th
century he was living in Germany at the time. While he was there, some imaginary god he believed in had ordered him to come to Lansin Island. I don’t believe this god exists … Moluk? (Don’t know how it’s spelt, never asked.) Anyway, his orders were to come to Lansin Island and use his mind-ability to kill a group of witches that lived on the island. I always thought the history never added up. How did the people that lived here become so paranoid that they built 30 stone platforms and burnt almost 150 people, when there were only about 800 people living on the island anyway? No trials? And why stone platforms? Why go through so much effort? It was Aldrich who put it in their minds, selecting people with the most influence, and then leaving them to spread fear. Maybe Aldrich was behind other witch burnings across Europe too? He used to take me to The Burning Grounds at night sometimes. He used his trick to get access to the grounds, got what he needed from people that work there. He had a key for a staff entrance and he knew the security codes for the cameras. He liked to go there and reminisce. To remember what it was like to watch thirty people at a time burn alive. You can take this letter in any way you like, but it’s what Aldrich told me, and I think he did kill all those people. I’ve cleared up all the evidence of you ever being at the manor. This letter should be the only evidence of your connection to Aldrich that is left, so I suggest you dispose of it. I have nothing more to say, apart from thank you again to you and your brothers for freeing me from him.

Ryan.

He slipped the letter inside an envelope with Nicolas Crystan’s address on the front, and then fixed a stamp in the corner before walking out to his car and putting it in the glove compartment. He also placed a key in there.

Over the next long hours, he scoured the manor for as many flammable substances as he could find. There were extra cans of petrol stored for him, which was handy. Halfway through gathering, he took a quick side mission and grabbed a large bed sheet, then placed it on top of the fridge that held Aldrich’s corpse. Then he returned to the previous task.  

Once he had an adequate collection of substances, he waited. And waited. When it was ten o’clock in the evening, he began. He started with the bathrooms and sprayed deodorant over every surface and into every crevice and nook. When the deodorant was depleted, he used shaving cream, flour, alcohol, moving on to the other rooms of the manor. Some he’d never been in before because Aldrich had never unlocked them for him, so he didn’t care if they survived or not. He poured petrol into the toilets and didn’t flush. He was clever in his approach, doing it in an order so he wouldn’t have to back-track and walk over petrol or flour on the floor.

In the entry hall, he made certain the area he’d urinated on was soaked in flammable substances. And then in the office, he emptied the contents of the filing cabinet onto the floor and doused them in furniture polish.

Done, apart from for the side room of the kitchen, where the fridge and the corpse were. When he opened the refrigerator, the smell crept up to his nose steadily. It wasn’t as dire as he’d expected, though the wrapped body had new stains: sticky brown, red and purple, gloopy black, yellow. He spread the bed sheet that he’d picked out earlier onto the floor and then toppled the chest refrigerator over with enough force to vomit the body out. The corpse went splat on top of the blanket, with a drift of stench.

He spritzed Dead-Aldrich with air freshener, and then repeated the Christmas-cracker process, wrapping and tying the body up tightly, ready for manoeuvring. He dragged the giant white Christmas-cracker out the back door, around the side of the manor and to his car. As he hauled it along, his body ached; the same muscles he’d exerted on Monday evening began to protest. He forced the corpse into the boot with
a lot
of difficulty; obviously the vehicle had not been designed with transporting a dead body in mind.

In his car, he’d already placed thick rope and chunks of fire-wood.

The sky was clear outside and the night was dark with only hazy light from the full moon. His clothes stank, so he stripped naked, threw his old attire through an open window into the manor, and then changed into fresh garments he’d brought with him.

He circled the manor, lighting matches and dropping them through key points: the front door, the back, and as many windows as possible. Each time, the air thwumped, biting back with hungry flames. The fire spread faster than he ever imagined it would. A shiver of childish excitement ran over him: a sick pleasure, a thrill, like the boyish gratification of tearing off the legs of a spider, one by one.

He ran to the car, a safe distance from the thunderous, crackling structure. Small explosions went off inside, like little pocket-blasts. They were loud but not deafening, though the noises were definitely growing in intensity.

It began to smell of heavy smoke. The nearest house was over two miles away, and the way the hills created a valley-like effect would hopefully stop anyone from noticing the blaze for a while. The explosions echoed, but if they were heard they would probably be passed off as fireworks.

Grendel Manor was a bulky stone golem with blazing window-eyes of fire. It spewed black toxic breath from its gaping mouths while its rocky organs creaked and moaned under the pressure of fiery heart-burn.

Ryan, anxious for his next move, scrambled into his car and drove up the steep private road. In his rear-view mirror, the orange glow was blinding, but it shrunk as he zoomed away.