the end of his pen.
‘What’s the point?’ she wanted to know.
‘The point is, that you’re looking at a twenty year stretch for murder, that’s what the point is.’
‘Perhaps I should plead insanity,’ she said, cryptically.
‘Looking at some of the things that are in this statement you’d probably get away with it too,’ snorted Barton.
‘Why can’t you understand?’ Kelly rasped. ‘Blake had the ability to reach people on a massive scale. For him, this TV show provided the ultimate
opportunity to display his ability to control the minds of those watching, to summon their evil sides. From the amount of reports you’ve been getting, it looks as if he succeeded.’
it’s coincidence,’ said Barton, although he sounded none too convinced.
‘No, Inspector,’ Kelly sighed, it isn’t coincidence and, so far, the reports have been restricted to a small area of London. That show was networked, nationwide.’
‘So you’re telling me there are people carving each other up from one end of Britain to the other?’
‘Anyone who saw that programme is at risk,’ Kelly said.
‘That’s bollocks,’ snapped Barton, getting to his feet. He left the statement lying on the table in front of her. ‘You read that over again, I’ll be back in a while, perhaps you’ll have some more convincing answers for me then.’ He closed the door behind him. Kelly heard the key turn in the lock.
She slumped back in her chair, eyes closed. Where the hell was Joubert? It had been over an hour since she’d phoned him. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. The hands which had held the gun. Kelly found that she was quivering.
She remembered reaching into her handbag for the pistol but, after that, her mind was a blank. Nothing remaining with any clarity until the point when she was grabbed by the security guard. She wondered if Toni Landers, Roger Carr, Gerald Braddock and Jim O’Neil had felt the same way after committing their crimes.
She glanced at her statement, aware of how ridiculous the whole affair must appear to someone like Barton.
Alone in that small room she felt a crushing sense of desolation.
Blake had released a wave of insanity which was now unstoppable.
Glasgow
9.23 p.m.
The shrill whistling of the kettle sounded like a siren inside the small flat.
Young Gordon Mackay got slowly to his feet and wandered through from the sitting room, glancing back at the television as he did so.
‘Turn it off, Gordon,’ shouted his younger sister, Claire, it’ll wake the baby up.’
He nodded wearily and switched off the screaming kettle.
“Why couldn’t you do it?’ he asked Claire who was sitting at the kitchen table with three or four books spread out in front of her.
‘Because I’m doing my homework,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, all you’ve been doing all night is sitting in front of the television.’
‘Fuck you,’ grunted Gordon, pouring hot water on to the tea bag in his mug. He stirred it around then scooped the bag out and dropped it into the waste-disposal unit of the sink. As he flicked it on it rumbled into life, the vicious blades churning noisily as they swallowed the solitary tea-bag. That was one of the perks of baby-sitting, Gordon thought. Normally his mother wouldn’t let him near this lethal device but, when she and his father left him to mind the other three kids, it was like a new toy to him. He took some withered flowers from a vase on the window sill and watched as they were gobbled up by the hungry mouth of the machine.
“Mum said you weren’t to use that,’ Claire bleated.
Gordon ignored her, feeding more refuse into the gaping hole.
Claire got to her feet and crossed to the sink.
‘Turn it off, Gordon,’ she said, angrily.
He ignored her.
Claire reached across him for the button which controlled the machine.
Gordon grabbed her arm tightly.
‘Let go,’ she shouted, striking him with her free hand, trying to pull away.
As he turned to look at her, his eyes were glazed, as if he didn’t see her at all. Claire was suddenly afraid.
With a strength that belied his size, Gordon wrenched her towards the sink, guiding her hand towards the churning blades of the waste-disposal unit.
Claire began to scream as her finger tips actually brushed the cold steel of the sink bottom. She clenched her hand into a fist but it only served to prolong the moment for precious seconds.
Gordon thrust her hand into the machine, forcing her arm in as far as the wrist.
Blood spurted up from the razor sharp blades, spewing up crimson fountains as the limb was first lacerated then crushed. He heard the noise of splintering bone as her arm was dragged deeper into the yawning hole, the skin being ripped away as far as the elbow. The stainless steel sink flooded with thick red fluid and, as Claire’s shrieks of agony grew shrill, the noise of the machine seemed to be deafening. Her hand was torn off and she fell back, blood spurting from the shredded stump that was her arm. Gordon looked down at her, at the pulped flesh and muscle and the spreading puddle of crimson which formed around the mutilated appendage.
He didn’t realize that bone was so white. It gleamed amidst the crimson mess, fragments of it floating on the red puddle.
The sound of the waste-disposal unit filled his ears.
Southampton
9.46.
The garage door opened with a distressing creak and Doug Jenkins peered from beneath the bonnet of his car to see who had come in. He saw the door close and the sound of footsteps echoed throughout the garage as Bruce Murray approached the old Ford Anglia.
‘Sorry, Doug,’ Murray said. ‘That all night spares place doesn’t carry the parts for a car as old as this. I rang them before I came over.’
Jenkins cursed under his breath.
‘Why the hell don’t you buy a new car?’ Murray wanted to know. ‘This one’s twenty years old at least.’
‘I’ve had this since I was eighteen,’ Jenkins protested. ‘I’ve got a soft spot for it.’
‘The best spot for it would be the bloody junk yard,’ Murray chuckled as he stepped forward to inspect the engine. ‘Have you been working on it all night?’
‘No, only for the past hour or so, I’ve been watching TV.’
Jenkins stepped back, wiping his hands on an oil-covered rag. He shuddered, despite the warmth inside the garage.
‘Pass me that wrench will you, Doug?’ said Murray, holding out a hand.
His companion selected one from the dozens which hung on the wall and passed it to Murray. The wall was like something from a hardware store. Hammers, spanners, saws, wrenches, hatchets and even a small chainsaw were hung neatly from nails, all of them in the correct order. Doug Jenkins was nothing if not methodical. He rubbed his eyes with a dirty hand, leaving a dark smudge on his face. The cold seemed to be intensifying.
i heard there was some trouble on TV earlier,’ said Murray, his back to his friend. ‘Somebody got shot in full view of the camera or something. Did you see it?’
Silence.
‘Doug, I said did you see it?’ he repeated.
Murray straightened up and turned to face his companion.
‘Are you going deaf, I …’
The sentence trailed away as Murray’s jaw dropped open, his eyes bulging wide in terror. A sound like a revving motorbike filled the garage.
‘Oh Jesus,’ Murray gasped.
