Like a kid on Christmas morning, Graham pushed the tape into the video recorder and hit the play button. Then he sat back rubbing his hands together. ‘Okay, Mr York, let’s see what delectable material you brought us.’
Slipping out of his jacket, he joined Graham on the carpet and watched as the film began rolling. With the remote, Graham fast-forwarded past his homemade title and set the controller on the floor.
Slowly fading in, the TV screen filled with the silent black and white image of a young boy sitting at a wooden breakfast table, bowl of cereal in front of him. He looked to be around four years old, the smooth skin of childhood surrounding a perfectly infantile grin. York recognised the kitchen; he’d been standing in it earlier that day.
‘Who do you think that is?’ Graham asked.
York leaned in a little, examining the screen closely.
‘Nick?’
‘I think that’s Julian Faulkner.’
‘Julian Faulkner?’ Graham said aghast. ‘The owner of our murder weapon, Julian Faulkner?’
York leaned in further as the child’s grin disappeared. Something was happening off-camera to upset him. From somewhere off to the side, a dishcloth was thrown onto the table. After a wandering scan of the kitchen, the child’s eyes filled with uncertainty and tears. Then he picked up the dishcloth and wiped up the splashes of milk from around his cereal bowl.
‘Why do I feel like you’re not being totally honest with me about Lincolnshire, Nick?’
Picking up the remote controller, York hit pause, very aware that Graham was his one remaining ally. ‘You’re right, Will. I haven’t told you everything.’
‘Well that’s charming. I give you the information, I give you the location and the lead, I convert the film reels, and you’re telling me I don’t even know the half of it? Jesus, man!’
‘I wanted to tell you on the phone, but I couldn’t risk putting the temptation into your head. For my entire journey back to London I’d be wondering if you’d gone to Mason with it, and right now, the info I have is enough to bury somebody, someone who is living the perfect lie. But if word got out I had information, this guy could disappear, and I just couldn’t allow that to happen.’
Graham glanced at the carpet. ‘You still should’ve told me, Nick, I thought we were a team.’
Looking at Graham’s face, he could see what it meant to him to think he was part of York’s personal team. ‘Will, you have to understand, we’re not fucking about here. Are you sure you want in on this? There’s no going back once we expose this person. We’ll be facing the rap for illegal investigation and it’ll be impossible to keep you out of it. The Faulkner info didn’t fall into my lap and Mason’ll put it together quickly, you can count on that.’
Graham took the remote from him and set the tape rolling again. ‘Nick,' he said quietly. 'I'm in, alright.’
Back on the screen the TV faded into another scene. York recognised the backyard of the Faulkner home, far less dilapidated than it was today. Slightly older now, maybe seven or eight, the same boy was standing where the assault course now was, holding up the carcass of a dead rabbit. In his other hand was the definitive outline of a long-bladed knife and around his feet laid the gory entrails of the animal. There was no pride in the boy’s face, just blankness, a darkness. Dropping the hollowed-out shell of the rabbit onto the pile of insides, the young boy turned robotically and headed back into the woods, knife in hand.’
‘Where’s he going?’
‘To kill some more prey,’ York said softly. ‘Probably being fed instructions from behind the camera.’
‘Did you see the kid’s face?’ Graham murmured. ‘His eyes looked empty.’
For the third time the scene faded out and then back in almost instantaneously. The camera was focused on the same area of garden, only this time the assault course had been constructed. Scaling the cargo net was the boy covered from head to toe in sludge. His foot entangled in the netting, he fell backwards and plummeted downwards, landing flush on his back. He looked hurt. From the side of the shot, a man entered the scene carrying with him the confident stride of Arthur Faulkner. With vicious force he grabbed the cowering boy by the hair and dragged him to the start of the course, shoving him brutally into the pit of mud. It looked like the boy was being forced to do it until he got it right.
York found himself praying that the boy would make it across this time, but when he failed in the cargo nets for the second time Arthur Faulkner reappeared, almost running to the boy, maniacally eager to reprimand. The frail frame of Julian's eight year old body was lifted from the ground and took the full force of a slap from his father’s open palm, before being tossed like a sack of potatoes to the ground. Climbing back to his feet, the stonily resolute boy held in the tears. Keeping a firm grip on the back of the boy’s shirt, Arthur Faulkner beckoned to somebody off-camera. As the mysterious third person walked into view York sat up rigidly, his eyes glued to the screen. ‘Oh no,’ he murmured.
‘What?’ said Graham, eyes wide. ‘Who’s that?’
Walking to Arthur Faulkner was a second boy, this one wearing shorts and a crisp white shirt buttoned up to the top. He was dirt-free, as though he’d been spared the assault course. Aside from the blatant difference in cleanliness, he appeared to be identical to the first boy in almost every way.
‘There are two of them, Will,’ York whispered.
For the first time all night Graham
