P
aul had left him in the cave. Stuck in as far as he could push him. Tried to push everything in after him. Stopper him up. He hoped he would never come out.
Right at the far end, the black, dank far end. With the crying and the sobbing and the wailing of the lost souls. With the hideous dirt-encrusted earth creatures. The back of the cave. Away from the light. As far away from the light as he could get.
It was Paul’s turn to be out. To put his face to the light. Close his eyes. Breathe in the air. Remind himself of what was important. That he could still live like this. That he could still live with his face to the sun if he wanted to. Close his eyes. Breathe. Relax. He still could. He just had to believe in it enough.
Not be dragged back. Into the cave again.
Into the dark.
He closed his eyes. Sat on the floor. Back in place. His sacred space. His special place. He tried to relax. Couldn’t.
Because of the noise out there. The people. What were they doing? Rushing round, talking in loud voices, their cars screeching, their voices coming through the air. Talk. Talking, talking. Always talking. Not saying anything. Like radio static. Just noise. Horrible noise. Giving him a headache.
And then he had seen the boy.
Dragged out of the sacrifice house. Kicking, screaming. Pulling, pushing. Crying.
And Paul had hid his face in his hands. Put his arms round his head, over his ears. Blocking out the sound. The noise of the boy. The crying boy.
‘No … no … ’
Because that wasn’t what it was about. Never had been. Never. No … Not that. He had tried to stop that. Tried to …
And look where it had got him.
The boy had kept screaming.
Paul sang to himself, chanted words, rocking back and forward, warding off the noise, keeping the bad spirits away. Songs from the old days. The happy days. Good-times songs. Community songs. Together songs.
But it didn’t work. He still heard the boy’s cries. Imagined his tears. Felt his fear.
Eventually the noise stopped. The boy stopped screaming. Or stopped screaming outside. Just the blue suits and their noise left.
He dared to watch. Gave a small peek. Saw them going into the sacrifice house.
Knew what they were going to find.
Ducked back down again, heart pounding.
Knew what they were going to find. Knew …
And knew something else too. They would keep looking. Come to his house next. Find him. And then … And then …
He couldn’t have that. Not that. No.
So he curled up, small as he could. Back to a child, back in the womb.
Back when he was happy.
Curled up. And hoped they wouldn’t find him.
At least he wasn’t in the cave.
That was something.
‘R
ight,’ said Phil. ‘Plan of action.’
He wanted to go above ground, feel sunlight on his skin, breathe in clean air. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He turned to Mickey. ‘What did we get from the guy who called it in?’
Mickey checked his notes. ‘Two of them. Demolition team. House was going to be turned into a housing estate. They’ve both been taken to hospital. Kid who got bitten needed some attention. Kept going on about old comics. Shock, probably.’
Phil frowned. ‘Comics?’
‘House of Secrets and House of Mystery,’ said Mickey, not needing to look at his notes. ‘Two brothers who keep killing each other. With a graveyard between them.’
‘Right. We need … ’
Phil trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the cage. The deliberate horror transfixing him. The cage, the flowers, the symbols on the wall, the altar-like bench … Arc-lit, the cellar held a palpable sense of anticipation, a stage set waiting for actors, unaware that the performance is cancelled. His gut churned in repulsion. But there was something else, some other feeling it invoked within him. Fascination. The workmanship, the craft, the dedication … the cage was a beautiful piece of work.
He moved closer, wanting to feel the worn bone beneath his fingers. To touch it, explore it, caress it even. But to simultaneously run as far and as fast as he could from it. He kept staring, riveted, head spinning in wonder, stomach churning in revulsion. Acting on something he couldn’t explain or identify within him, he reached out a latex-gloved hand.
‘Boss?’
Phil blinked. Mickey’s voice called him back.
‘Look. You’ll want to see this.’
A uniform was pointing to a corner, shining his flashlight on it. Phil and Mickey stepped closer. Hidden behind a bunch of flowers were gardening tools. A trowel, a small hand fork and a scythe.
‘Oh God,’ said Phil.
Mickey peered in closer. ‘Have they been sharpened?’
The tools were old, well-worn. Phil checked the edges. They were silver bright. Razored sharp. They reflected the beam of the flashlight, glinting round the cellar.
‘Get Forensics to examine them,’ Phil said. ‘That brown staining? I reckon it’s blood.’
‘You think he’s done this before?’ said Mickey.
‘Looks that way,’ Phil said. He turned. Away from the tools, the flowers, the cage. ‘Right. A plan. We need a plan.’ He could still feel the cage’s presence behind him. Like a pair of unblinking eyes boring into him, giving him the mental equivalent of an itch between his shoulder blades, something he couldn’t identify and reach, couldn’t satisfy …
‘Are the Birdies here yet?’ Phil asked.
‘Should be up top,’ said Mickey.
‘Let’s go then.’
He gave one last look at the cage. Tried to see it as what it was. A hideous, horrific prison. He looked at its floor. In the corner was a bucket, the stench coming off it in waves indicating that it had been the boy’s toilet. Beside that were two old plastic bowls. Both filthy and scarred, one with the traces of something inside it, smeared round the rim. Bones sticking out of it, smaller ones than those of the cage. Food. The other contained some dark, brackish water.
Phil wished his partner were there. Marina Esposito, police psychologist. They had worked on several cases together, where their professional relationship had developed into something more intimate. But that wasn’t why he wanted her now. She would be able to help with the investigation, track down the perpetrator. Help him work out why someone had done this. And that, he hoped, would make it much easier to turn that ‘why’ into a ‘who’.
He kept staring at the cage. It stirred something within him, something he couldn’t name or identify. Like a memory remaining annoyingly out of reach. But not good. He knew that much.
He thought harder. It was coming to him, reaching through the fog of his memory like a ghost from a horror film …
Then he felt it. That familiar tightening round his chest. Like his heart was being squeezed by an iron fist. And he knew he had to get upstairs as quickly as possible.
He ran ahead of Mickey, exited the house. Out into the open air. The daylight, the sunshine he had craved. He didn’t even feel it.
Phil stood against the side of the building, waiting for the feeling to subside. Why? he thought. Why now? Nothing had happened; he hadn’t done anything to exert himself. Why here? Why now?
He took a deep breath. Waited a few seconds. His panic attacks had become much less frequent recently. He put that down to his newly settled home life with Marina and their daughter Josephina. His job hadn’t got any easier, less distressing or less involving. But now he had people he loved and who loved him. And a happy home to go to at the end of the working day. That was as much as he had ever asked for and more than he ever thought he would get.
Because Phil had never believed in long-term happiness. His own upbringing – children’s homes and foster homes, fear and violence – had put paid to that. He wasn’t taking anything for granted and didn’t know how long this would last, but he was enjoying it. Every nerve-racking second. If this was happiness, then it was the happiness of the tightrope walker managing to keep his balance.
He opened his eyes. Mickey was standing before him, concern on his features.
‘Boss? You OK?’
Phil took a deep breath, another. Waited until he trusted himself to speak.
‘I’m fine, Mickey, fine.’ He put the panic attack to the back of his mind, along with the cage and the niggling, unreachable thoughts it had triggered. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’
D
onna felt an insistent prodding in her shoulder. She ignored it, turned over, hoping it would stop.
It didn’t.
‘Donna … ’
The prodding again. More insistent this time, harder. The voice saying her name louder. ‘Donna … ’
Donna opened her eyes. Closed them again. ‘Just a few more minutes, Ben. Let Auntie Donna sleep.’ Christ, listen to her. Auntie Donna. Must be desperate.
She closed her eyes, hoped he would do as he was told. Knew he wouldn’t.
‘’M hungry … ’
Anger coursed through Donna Warren’s body. Her first response was to lash out with a fist, smack this kid square in the face, remind him that life wasn’t fucking fair and that just because he was hungry didn’t mean he was going to get fed. Who did he think she was? His mother, for Christ’s sake?
She closed her eyes tight, knowing at the same time that he wasn’t going to be fooled by that.
Her arm snaked slowly out from under her, patted the other side of the bed. ‘Where’s your mother?’ Donna’s voice sounded slurred, like an old-school VHS tape at the wrong speed.
But Ben understood. ‘Don’ know … Get up. ’M hungry … ’
Donna sighed. No good. She would have to get up. The anger subsided. Poor little bastard. Wasn’t his fault his mother hadn’t come home last night. No, but when she did turn up, Donna would be so fucking angry with her … Leaving her alone with her kid like that. Saying she wouldn’t be long.
She swung out of bed, planted her feet on the floor. The cold penetrated her numbness. She gave a small shiver. Her head spun. Too much booze the night before. Cider and vodka cocktails. Home-made. With blackcurrant. Had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially with Bench and Tommer turning up, supplying the weed and the charlie. Faith should have been there. Didn’t know what she had missed. And she could have helped sort them both out, instead of getting all secretive on her and going out. As it was, Donna did the two of them herself. The drugs and booze needed paying for. Fair’s fair. She didn’t mind. Much.
She looked at Ben, standing there in his washed-out Spider-Man pyjamas, knowing he wasn’t the first kid to have worn them. ‘All right … ’ She pulled her dressing gown around her. ‘I’m comin’ … ’
By the time she made her way downstairs, bones creaking like a woman at least ten, if not twenty, years older than the thirty-two she was, Ben was already down there. He’d probably been through the kitchen cupboards, seen what was there, helped himself, even. And he still wanted her to cook for him. Little bastard.
She stopped in the living room, looked at the mess from the previous night. Just like them. Turn up, trash the house, piss off. But she couldn’t complain. She had helped them do it. And the place wasn’t exactly tidy to begin with.
She reached the kitchen, looked in the fridge, found some bacon.
‘You wanna bacon sandwich?’
Sitting at the table expectantly, Ben’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah … ’
‘Well make me one an’ all.’
Ben frowned as Donna laughed at her own joke. ‘Put the kettle on. D’you know how to do that?’
He nodded, took the kettle to the sink, filled it with water, crossed back to the counter, flicked the switch.
‘Good lad.’
He smiled, enjoying the praise.
Donna put the pan on the gas, started to cook the bacon.
‘Some Coke in the fridge. Get yourself some.’
Ben did. Donna went back to cooking. He wasn’t a bad kid. She had known worse. She had
been
worse. But he still wasn’t her responsibility. And she would let Faith know in no uncertain fucking terms as soon as she bothered to turn up.
She served up the bacon sandwiches, slathering margarine and ketchup on Ben’s white bread first. He wolfed his down. Donna lit a fag to accompany hers. Rubbed her eyes.
‘You got to go to school today?’ she said to the boy.
He shrugged, nodded. ‘S’posed to.’
Christ, what an upheaval. Donna’s head was ringing. The sandwich and the fag hadn’t helped. ‘Well you’ve got a day off today.’
Ben smiled.
Sooner Faith came back, sooner she could go back to bed. Once she’d given her a bollocking, of course. Made sure she knew she owed Donna for this.
She sipped her tea, dragged smoke deep within her lungs. Started to feel human again.
Unaware that Faith wouldn’t be coming back.
Unaware of the large black car sitting outside her house.
Waiting.
‘S
o … let me get this straight. He was found in a cage?’
DC Anni Hepburn stared straight at the bed, nodded.
‘Of bones?’
Anni nodded again.
Marina Esposito looked at the woman speaking, gauging her response to the words. Hoping it tallied with her own.
‘My God … ’
It did.
The child was lying on the bed before them. An undernourished, skeletal frame, his closed eyes black-rimmed, haunted-looking. He carried an ingrained residue of filth in his skin and hair. His already pale skin was bone-white where a patch on his arm had been swabbed clean and a feeding drip inserted. His broken fingers had been temporarily splinted and set. He was sleeping, heavily sedated, in the private hospital room. The lights had been taken right down so as not to sear his eyes when he woke up. The machines and monitors provided the only illumination.
Beyond formal questions of process and procedure, Marina didn’t know what to think. Didn’t want to allow herself to conjecture. So she stuck with formality.
‘Dr Ubha.’
The doctor drew herself away from the child in front of her. Marina could tell this was already out of the woman’s frame of reference.
‘What’s been done for the boy so far?’
Dr Ubha seemed relieved to receive questions she could answer. ‘The first thing we did was to stabilise the patient. Checked his height and weight. Treated his cuts and abrasions. Set his broken fingers. Then we took samples.’
‘Samples?’
‘Blood, hair, fingernail scrapings.’ She swallowed, eyes flicking back to the boy in the bed. ‘Anal. We should have the results later today or tomorrow.’
‘What’s your first opinion?’ said Anni.
Dr Ubha shrugged. ‘Impossible to say at the moment. I need to get a full blood count, check for markers of infection, nutritional deficiencies … he needs a bone density scan, his hips, his joints … ’ She sighed. ‘His teeth are in terrible shape. He must be in a lot of pain.’
‘Apparently he bit one of the demolition team,’ said Anni.
Dr Ubha raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s a wonder his teeth didn’t fall out.’
‘Anything for us to go on?’ asked Anni.
Dr Ubha shook her head once more. ‘Nothing much beyond what you see before you. He’s been in that cage, or something like it, for quite a while. It’s a long time since he’s seen daylight, had decent food, anything like that. We’ll have to wait until he comes round to see how socialised he is. My guess is, not too much. There is something, though. Something odd.’
‘You mean odder?’ said Anni.
‘Yes. Right. I see what you mean.’ Dr Ubha pointed to where his feet were under the covers. ‘There was something on the sole of his right foot. We thought it was a scar at first, but when I looked at it more closely, it seemed to have been deliberately made.’
‘Deliberately scarred?’ said Marina.
Dr Ubha nodded. ‘Looks that way. Like a … brand.’
‘A brand?’ said Anni. ‘Like you’d do with cattle?’
Dr Ubha said nothing. Shook her head. ‘Never seen anything like this before.’
Marina looked at the child in the bed. Her hand went to her stomach as she thought of her own. She had vowed never to get pregnant. The tough upbringing she had endured plus the horrors she saw on a regular basis as part of her job all reminded her that bringing a child into the world – the world she worked in – was one of the stupidest, most selfish things a person could do. And then she found herself pregnant. It was unplanned, unwanted. And to make matters worse, the father wasn’t her partner; it was Phil Brennan. Everything about it had been wrong. But now, nearly two years on, things were different. Her life had changed for the better. Phil was now her partner. Their daughter was nearly one. And it took something like the sight of the boy in the bed to remind her that while bringing a child into the world might not be the most stupid, selfish thing imaginable, it was one of the most terrifying.
The gloom of the room was getting to her. ‘Shall we step outside?’