Nothing but Meat: A dark, heart-stopping British crime thriller Page 24

  She could she a hazy glow in the distant depths of the tunnel and she called out. ‘Sylvia!’ The words left her lips and she instantly regretted it. What if it was some kind of trap? What if she had just given herself away? She looked around for a weapon – there was nothing but useless splinters, crushed stone and few twisted nails.

  ‘Yes! Who is that? Oh God help me.’ The reply confirmed to Simone that it was definitely Sylvia and hearing it was like being rescued from a burning building – she no longer had to fight alone; she had an ally.

  Suddenly she saw movement in her peripheral vision and turned to face it and he was on her in a flash. He had appeared from somewhere unseen, she saw a terrible distorted face and flowing rags, the glint of a knife and then the candle went out.

  Simone threw a couple of punches, she was sure she felt one of them connect with his chin and he backed away from her just as she lashed out again. Her blows missed and swiping her fists into the air threw her off balance.

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said in a hissing whisper from the shadows and then he came at her again from an unexpected angle and slammed her back into the wall.

  Simone knew she had been stabbed in the stomach because of the force of the blow not because it hurt how she imagined being stabbed would hurt. It was like being punched. Like when Martin used his fists on her but this was deeper and more penetrating. She lashed out in the darkness at the silhouette before her but the knife went into her again. Then she was on the ground and trying to protect herself with her arms but the blade sliced easily into her forearms and hands and she felt it scrape against bone and everything became slick with warm, slippery blood. He grabbed a handful her hair and dragged her, open and bleeding towards the warm glow that spilled into the tunnel. Her buttocks and legs scraped over the stones, the splinters and the grit on the floor tore into her as all strength drained from her being. She looked at her body and her feet as they bounced limply on the ends of her legs; her once white skin was now shimmering black in the half-light. That’s my blood, she thought, there’s buckets of the stuff – I think I’m going to die.

  The hand released her and she hit the ground like a stack of wet clothes, her head crunched against the floor and the impact made everything go dark. She slowly blinked clarity back into her vision and looked down at her body. She was twisted in a gory heap of open flesh and wetness that flickered black and gold in the candlelight.

  I’m just a piece of meat, she thought before she slipped away. Nothing but meat.

  30

  The phone on West’s desk rang and he snatched it from its cradle.

  ‘West.’

  ‘It’s Jung, what church were you at today?’

  ‘The St Peter and Paul Church of England.’

  ‘Get a team to that church and hit it with a wreaking ball. I’m five minutes from the station, be outside when I get there.’

  West was ready when Jung slammed to a stop with a screech of hot brakes. The windows were down and Jung shouted, ‘Get in.’

  Jung could see fractures in West’s usual cool, calm exterior, he was clearly frantic, it was written all over his face and his eyes were filled with pain.

  ‘Did you organise a task force to go to the church?’

  ‘We’re going in mob-handed,’ said West. ‘Do you think Simone is still there?’

  ‘Yes I do, did you speak to Stevens?’ he said.

  West started flicking the lid of a Zippo lighter open and closed. Jung drove quickly but calmly and tried to imbue a calming influence onto West. ‘I have a name,’ said West. ‘Victor James, also known as Sickman, he was the one who attacked Stevens. Stevens managed to tell me that Victor James wanted to know what he told us when we brought him in for questioning. His unusual level of interest made Stevens suspicious and gave him away. When Stevens realised Victor James had probably killed Victoria Redman it was too late, James attacked him in the street. A passing car forced him to flee before he got the chance to finish the job but he probably assumed he had done enough to silence Stevens. He murdered Caroline before she worked out who had done it. He also knew she was pregnant – the knife in the stomach wasn’t coincidence.’

  ‘Victor James is on the list,’ said Jung. ‘They worked together at The Shelter.’

  ‘Victoria Redman must have caught his eye there.’

  ‘And he wanted more than just to film her getting screwed by Stevens.’

  West nodded. ‘So what’s the deal with the church?’ he said.

  ‘Run through what happened while you were there.’

  West kept flicking the damn lighter while he spoke; click, ting, snap. ‘It was just after the funeral. Simone told me Stevens was awake so I told her to go back to the station, she said she’d get a cab and that was the last time I saw her. No one knew she was missing until I started asking around for her.’

  ‘She’s still there, I’m sure of it,’ said Jung.

  ‘She left though. I saw her leave.’

  ‘I’ll wager you were mistaken.’

  ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘Victor James is also the groundskeeper for The St Peter and Paul Church of England which, incidentally backs onto Bishop’s Thorpe Wood.’

  31

  Simone was losing consciousness and tried weakly to press against the wound in her stomach. Her intestines bulged in slippery coils from the open flesh of her stomach and she couldn’t understand why they slid between her fingers so easily when she applied pressure to hold them back until she held her hands in the front of her face and saw that the attack had left most of her fingers attached only by tatters of skin and tendon. Before she passed out she heard someone say, ‘Oh my God!’ and when she looked she saw Sylvia Croucher lying on the floor. She was side-on from Simone’s viewpoint, she was naked and ropes tied her arms by her side and ankles together. Her head was turned in Simone’s direction and she was looking at her with wild, desperate eyes while pulling helplessly at the restraints that bound her.

  Simone felt weak, her head lolled drunkenly onto her chest but she managed to lift it for long enough to make eye contact with Sylvia and whisper, ‘Sorry,’ before passing out.

  It was the sound of Sylvia wailing and sobbing and the killer shouting that drew Simone back from oblivion. Her head was heavy; too heavy to move so when she opened her eyes that tiny movement was the only one she made.

  ‘Shut up!’ A voice said.

  She ran her eyes over her damaged body. She was sitting in the dusty blood stained floor and by her thigh she saw something in the mess. Something small, ordinarily it would have been insignificant but to Simone it could make all the difference. It was a rusty spike about six inches long, flat edged and tapered into a sharp point. She picked it from the ground with her right hand with as much subtlety as she could muster. Her little finger was missing but her thumb and other three fingers were okay. Her left hand was ruined and useless to her, it was gummed to her torn stomach with congealed blood and she couldn’t have pulled it free even if she wanted to.

  Simone lifted her head and looked towards Sylvia. The killer was bent over her and was now naked except for the freakish hood he wore. He was pushing the knife into her forehead and screaming at her with pure fury. ‘Stop fucking crying or I will cut you. I’ll cut your fucking face off!’ He stood upright and Simone saw he was erect.

  He turned to her and saw her blinking in the half-light. ‘It’s alive,’ he said. ‘Good. I want you both side by side.’

  He came over to her and grabbed a handful of hair, dragged her across the floor and dropped her down next to Sylvia. Simone nearly passed out again as the blood flowed evermore from her body.

  They lay side by side desperately looking into each other’s eyes while he paced around them. When he stopped he leant forward and grabbed Simone’s chin.

  ‘I want you to see this,’ he said to Sylvia and quickly slid the blade of the knife up over Simone’s right temple, across her forehead and down. Simone felt the sharp line of pain as the b
lade opened her skin and she knew he was going to cut her face off. He stood up straight again and addressed Sylvia. ‘Keep watching you fucker,’ he said. ‘You’re next.’

  Whatever small amount of strength remained turned to panic and Simone mustered every ounce she had to drive the rusty spike deep into his naked genitals. The force of the blow tore through his testicular sack and beyond. The delicate skin opened and the contents immediately spilled down his thighs and onto the back of Simone’s hand. His scream was so high pitched it sounded inhuman as it filled the room. He tried to stab Simone in the face but only managed to drop the knife to the ground before collapsing onto his knees. The ‘O’ shaped mouth of the mask he wore suited the sound of shock and pain that was coming from it. He stayed still for a moment and then fell onto his back clutching his genitals.

  ‘Cut me free,’ said Sylvia.

  Simone was already ahead of her, she immediately began cutting into Sylvia’s bindings with the knife. It didn’t take long and when Sylvia was free she sat up and cradled Simone.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ She made to stand up. ‘Come on we have to get out of here.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Simone said, ‘I’m dying Sylvia. You have to go for help. Go now.’

  ‘But he’s still alive.’

  Simone knew her only chance of survival was to send Sylvia for help. She symbolically clutched the antique knife to her breast as if proving to Sylvia it would be okay to leave her. ‘Go now Sylvia,’ she said. ‘Hurry.’

  And Sylvia did, Simone watched her leave and then looked to the killer who lay motionless on the floor. Even if only for a split second, Simone had seen the damage she had done to him, not only had she ruptured his testicular sack, the spike had torn into the root of his penis, almost ripping it free and when he reeled back he had taken the spike with him lodged in his abdomen. She just hoped the damage she had inflicted was enough to keep him in a state of disability until help arrived.

  Simone was struggling to remain conscious but she couldn’t allow herself to pass out with him alive and so close to her. She considered killing him – she had reason to. He was a psychopathic maniac and killing him would ensure her survival, assuming she lived long enough for help to arrive.

  He was breathing rapidly, the mouth-hole of the mask flicked back and forth over his lips as he gasped for breath.

  She spoke to him. ‘If you want to live, stay down.’ His breathing hesitated for a second and then continued. He was bleeding out and they both knew it. She tried to convince herself that if he made a move for her she would go for the throat but deep down she knew that the effort it took to take him down was more than her body could take and if she tried to make another movement; especially a sudden defensive one, it would probably be the last thing she ever did. She was close to the edge; she just had to hang on a little longer. Help would be here soon. It had to be.

  32

  ‘If you want to live stay down,’ she said.

  His panting breath was making it hot and damp and difficult to breathe behind the mask. He clutched between his legs not daring to move and cursed himself for getting into this situation. The pain was incredible and he could feel whatever it was she used to attack him with was still lodged inside him.

  If you want to live stay down.

  The wounds she inflicted weren’t fatal but he couldn’t move, there was no escape; the police would be here soon and it was time to accept that this was the end of the road.

  The idea of spending the rest of his life behind bars brought back memories of his mother and Uncle Derek and the things they did to him. He thought how his mother would threaten him with castration if he didn’t do as she said and it had become one of the things he dreaded most. Now this woman next to him had done exactly that and it was as if it was always going to happen. Had the dark angels orchestrated it? He could tell she had damaged him beyond repair and he would love to finish her off but surely she didn’t have long left.

  He had should never have taken her too, he should have been content with the one he already had but he had become overconfident, it was one of the things he had always tried to avoid, as he knew it could easily lead to his downfall. And now it had, a rash split second decision had got the better of him.

  He never expected her to put up any kind of fight after he had hunted and attacked her but she had been full of surprises. He had been right when he thought she would be a fighter and she had fought harder than he ever could have imagined. She had taken him down and he never saw it coming.

  Had he failed the dark angels? He didn’t think so, they were constantly on his mind and everything he did was almost as much for them as it was for him; even the mask he wore was a homage to them.

  He had made mistakes; he knew he should never have allowed the black girl to get the better of him, but he refused to believe the dark angels would subject him to his greatest fear and desert him; leaving him bleeding on the floor and awaiting capture. Surely this wasn’t the case, not after all he had done for them.

  Once captured the truth would come out and he suddenly felt an emotion that had eluded him his entire life: guilt. The only people that had ever been kind to him were his foster parents, and they only wanted to look after him and love him.

  What would they think when they found out who he really was and what he had done?

  They still lived in the same house – got a new dog too, the old one was on its last legs even when he was a kid.

  He had followed them many times on their evening forays in the woods, Rupert and June James, their dog Chester and their blanket. They let him watch. Did they know it was him? He very much doubted it, he was careful to always keep his face covered. He had given her his most prized possession as a way of thanking them for saving him from the home for fucked up kids, looking after him and protecting him. He slipped Angela Baily’s tooth into June’s jacket pocket when they weren’t looking. Had she understood the value of the gift? He hoped so.

  When he left home he never went back and never contacted them again, he had his own agenda and now that was soon to be even more newsworthy than his mother’s story.

  If he could tell them anything he would want to let them know that it wasn’t their fault, they did the best they could with what they had. He was broken beyond repair well before they brought him into their lives.

  He doubted anyone would understand the things he had done; only he knew what it was like to be a god.

  The copper had untied the other one; Sylvia, and sent her to fetch help. It would be over soon but he knew he could spend many a long hour reliving what he had done and the sensation of feeling like a god as he watched them cry before taking their final breath. When he saw them at the church and chose who would be next, their lives were in his hands as the emotion literally poured from them. Such power he had; no wonder he felt like a god.

  On the day he chose Sylvia he watched them grieve. The tears ran rivers and into damp tissues they flowed. Some caught his eye but none excited him. A fat girl sobbing, trying to cover her eyes, how old was she, eighteen, twenty? Who had she lost brother, sister, father, friend?

  When he saw the tall, middle-aged woman whose elegance radiated from the crowd he knew he wanted her. People gathered around her giving kind words and comfort, and while they made their touching gestures of friendship and love he looked at her legs and how they were wrapped in thin black tights, her shoes were conservative but what of the treasures they held. He noticed her slender fingers and painted nails as she dabbed her sore eyes and the familiar feelings of rage built inside him. He wanted to see her naked, he wanted to see her without skin.

  He had the power to get what he wanted.

  He followed her from the churchyard to the wake, it was a small affair at a local pub and he waited outside until people began to leave. When she came out she was among the last to go, he watched the final hugs as the closest to her said goodbye and caught her name: ‘Goodbye Sylvia.’

  He whispered it to him
self. ‘Sylvia.’

  He followed her home and watched her enter the silent house, the door snapped shut behind her. She was so alone now.

  He had all the information he needed; all that remained was to study her routine and to pay her a visit in the dead of night.

  He looked at the earthy ceiling of the labyrinth. The mask was damp with the moisture from his sweat and breath and it clung to his face like a death shroud. It was the end of the road. The authorities would be here soon.

  The dark angels would be waiting for him when he died, he was sure of it, just as he was sure he had done enough in their honour for them to accept him as one of their own. It was what he had always wanted; to be with them, to be one of them, for the dark angels to hold him in their arms and swallow his soul.

  But he needed to die and only one person could help him now.

  33

  Simone lay on the floor and tried to stay awake but she was so cold and so tired it was becoming impossible. The man beside her whispered, ‘Kill me,’ between desperate gasps and she would have loved to have obliged but it was he who had killed her and she was slipping away.

  She heard him move beside her, he grunted with the effort and began to drag himself across the floor. She hoped he was just trying to escape because she knew she wouldn’t be able to do anything if he was coming for her; if she moved to protect herself she would die.

  He moved again and she had to know what he was doing so she tried to turn her head towards him but it was so heavy, it felt like a cannon ball on a neck of watery muscle.

  She could hear his breathing getting louder; closer, and could tell he wasn’t trying to escape, he was edging towards her. She was so tired and knew she couldn’t hang on much longer but somehow managed to move her head just enough to see where he was.