’
Phil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘And that’s how you justify it, is it? How many have you killed, Dicky?’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘How many? You’ve been doing this for years, haven’t you?’
‘Needed to. To keep the Garden flourishing… ’
‘For years. And you’ve never been stopped, never been caught.’
‘No.’ The Gardener shook his head. A smile played on his lips. ‘I grew my own.’
Anger rose within Phil. ‘For sacrifice? You had children bred to kill?’
‘The Garden has to survive. You don’t understand… ’
‘Oh I understand that bit. I understand why you think you were doing it. But it wasn’t just that, was it?’ Phil grabbed the bars of the cage. Knuckles white. ‘You do it because you enjoy it.’
Another smile from the Gardener. Eyes wet and glittering and insane. ‘You’ve got to enjoy your work… ’
His words hit Phil almost physically. Like he had been punched in the stomach, the head. He thought of the calendar, the solstices and equinoxes marked. A sacrifice for each one. Four a year. And all those years…
He couldn’t come up with a number. Didn’t want to come up with a number.
All those bodies, those unmarked children’s graves…
While he was distracted, the Gardener made a grab for the hood. Phil noticed what he was doing in time, jumped back.
‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Get back.’
‘Make me… ’ The blade shining in the light.
Phil picked up the hood, held it above his head. Began to pull it down. The Gardener saw what he was doing.
‘No… no… you can’t… can’t wear it… only… only me… ’
‘You killed your own son,’ said Phil, the hood on top of his head. ‘Adam Weaver. So don’t give me that bullshit about the Garden. You killed your own son.’
‘No! He was Richard Shaw’s son. Long ago. But not any more. He wanted the Garden ended. They told me. He had to be stopped. No son.’
‘So you killed him.’ Phil pulled the hood down further.
‘No!’
The Gardener jumped forward again. Phil wasn’t so fast this time. The Gardener made a grab for the hood, slashing through the bars with his blade. He caught Phil on the back of the hand. Phil let go of the hood. The Gardener grabbed it before it could fall to the floor. Scuttled away from the cage. Pulled it over his head once more.
Phil looked down at his hand. Blood was pouring out. He had to do something. Quickly.
‘The boy,’ said the Gardener, pointing his blade at Finn. ‘Now. It’s time.’ He swung the blade at Phil. ‘You, afterwards.’
Phil thought desperately. He located the spot in the bars that he had cracked with his twisting. Grabbed hold of it again. Tried to ignore the pain in his hand, his body. Twisted. Kept twisting.
It cracked once more. Louder this time.
‘No… ’
The Gardener turned, moved towards him.
Phil stared at him, watching him advancing. Saw his nightmare made real. Saw his past, his haunted childhood before him. Looked down at Finn. Knew that it could have been him there. If Don and Eileen hadn’t saved him. He could have been one of the dead children. Unknown in life, lying in an unmarked grave.
He thought of his own daughter. Of Josephina.
He looked at Finn once more. He had to do something.
For the boy.
For himself.
For the past and the future.
He lifted his leg, aimed a kick at the weakened bar. It cracked. Again. It cracked further. Again. The whole thing was splintering now.
The Gardener tried to push himself against the bars, stick his blade into the space Phil had created. Phil grabbed his wrist, twisted. The Gardener screamed, held on to the blade. Another twist. The blade dropped.
With his other hand, Phil punched the Gardener. The air knocked out of him, the man staggered back. Phil picked up the blade, forced himself through the gap he had made.
The Gardener had recovered, stood before him by the altar.
‘You’re going to die,’ he shouted from beneath the hood.
Phil saw the curved, razor-sharp shape of a sickle in his hand.
The Gardener ran towards him, arm raised, screaming.
125
The van sped towards the gates. The driver changed up, increased speed.
Mickey, along with the rest of the team, braced himself for impact.
Bull bars connected with metal. The van bumped from the impact. The driver put his foot down, kept going. The gates gave. The team cheered, Mickey included.
They were in.
The other two vans followed.
The first van came to a halt before the warehouse’s closed doors. The second one drove round the back; the third stayed just inside the gates, blocking any exit.
The men piled out. Ran towards the warehouse. Dim light came from the windows at the front and sides, seeping round the blinds. There was a normal-sized door by the side of the main entrance. The enforcer was brought out of the van; a heavily gloved officer took up position. Brought it back. Forward. Again. Again.
The lock broke, the frame splintered.
They were in.
Mickey ran in with them. Inside was a wide strip-lit area. On either side were rows and rows of shelves rising high to the ceiling, going back deep into shadow. Filled with all manner of appliances, consumer electricals, household items, sports equipment. All compartmentalised and catalogued. It screamed ‘legit’. Perfect cover.
The two trucks sat in the main area. In front of them was the green 4x4. A couple of leather-jacketed, mulleted, heavy-set men were opening the doors on the back of the containers. Out stepped young women, some no more than children, blinking and squinting into the artificial light. Dressed in filthy clothes, some in rags. All thin, pale.
Mickey paused, stared.
The girls screamed when they saw the police, ran back inside.
The two men had pulled out their weapons, but they soon realised they were outnumbered. They slowly put their hands in the air.
Clemens stepped forward. Grabbed the nearest heavy, smashed the butt of his gun into his face. The man grunted, staggered back, hands to his face, blood fountaining from where his nose had suddenly split. Clemens followed him, did it again. The man went down, whimpering.
Clemens turned to the other man, who held his hands out before him, backed away.
‘Stop it… ’ Fennell was staring at Clemens. He backed off, panting for breath, chewing his lip, smiling.
Mickey looked round. Couldn’t see Balchunas or Fenton.
Fennell was shouting orders.
‘Fan out, find the ringleaders. Don’t let them get away.’
The team did so. Officers running down the aisles, all round the shelves.
Mickey joined them. He glimpsed a shadow flitting from one side of a row to the other, at the far end of the
