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.
7
‘Right,’ 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.
