The sun had begun to dominate the clouds, most of the remaining mist burned away. With no clear path around Anthony, she glanced passively over her shoulder. Where the arroyo ended, the jungle began. There was no easy way out.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ he warned. ‘Don’t you understand? This is where you belong.’
She said nothing.
One more step.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he assured her. ‘But I will. You can’t escape this, Abigail. This moment was destined to happen, it was inevitable. You run now, you ruin everything.’
He stepped up to her, brushed a wistful hand through her hair. ‘I’ve waited so long for this moment,’ he said softly.
She winced at his touch, tears forming in her eyes.
‘That day in your flat…you were unafraid. Now is no different, Abigail, you don’t need to fear me. Nobody can hurt you, they never could.’
Her throat was arid, no words would form. She wanted to hate this man, this murderer, but his tenuous grip on sanity dominated her, enthralled her. The black admission sitting deep within her subconscious taunted her, an admission she dared not say aloud for fear of it becoming more real. The words hung there like an advancing cancer, a stain, yet it pushed against her mind’s forefront unwilling to be buried: Anthony made her feel safe.
Sensing her vulnerability he took her in his arms, her tears flowing freely. She nestled against his shoulder, his protective embrace encapsulating her, his heartbeat thumping rhythmically against her chest.
‘What’s your real name?’ she muttered tearfully.
‘Julian,’ he replied quietly. ‘Julian Faulkner.’
‘Julian?’ She felt his head move against hers. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Before he had time to question the apology, she jammed James’s penknife into Anthony's side. She stepped away as he lurched backwards in a trickle of blood, his eyes brimming with disbelief.
‘What have you done?’ he spat, reaching for the knife’s hilt. ‘Abigail, what have you done?’
‘You’re insane, Julian. And you’re wrong, I do get to say that to you. I didn't ask you to watch out for me, to stalk me, spy on me. You say you're my everything, but you're nothing to me...nothing!'
‘You can’t do this to me!’ He gripped the hilt and tore the knife from his side in a spray of scarlet. He stumbled backwards steadying himself on a decaying tree, the knife held up bloodily like an object of fascination.
Dismayed, Abbey began to back away.
‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ he blurted. ‘You’ve spoiled everything. You’re no better than them.’
Waiting to hear no more she turned and fled into the jungle, putting the valley and the raging Julian at her back.
Legs a blur beneath her, she ran as fast as the jungle’s density would allow. She could hear no sounds of pursuit, no thumping footsteps in her wake. But she was not stupid. Julian...Anthony, whatever his name was, would be coming.
59
London, 1992
The focal point of the dimly lit holding room was the prisoner sitting on the far side of the cell’s only table, half of his face bathed ominously in shadow, his expression biased to neither malice nor friendly, just indifference.
Facing the man in custody was Nicolas York and Dr Alistair Woodrow, a specialist from Bristol who had been brought in to document a professional evaluation. He was considered to be amongst the top three psychiatrists in the country. His opinion was vital to the investigation and to any court proceedings that might ensue. Behind the one-way glass, Mason and Graham were standing in morbid silence watching the scene unfold.
‘So,’ York began quietly, his arms folded, ‘what do we call you?’
The subject’s face didn’t alter, much like the expression of the robotic child with the gutted rabbit. ‘It’s up to you. We can continue to call you Jonathan Wheeler, or would you prefer Julian Faulkner?’
After Jason McCullick had shown York the photographs of Arthur Faulkner standing morosely with his son, there had been zero doubt that the broad character had been Jonathan Wheeler, their very own audio technician. As he was taken into custody he hadn’t fought, hadn’t even protested, merely allowed himself to be taken away in restraints.
‘I went to see your dad yesterday, Julian,’ York revealed. Faulkner’s eyelids fluttered. ‘Wow…I mean there’s fucked up and there’s fucked up, but your dad, he is fucked up!’
Beneath the table Woodrow nudged his leg.
‘I sat there asking him a few questions, you know, just chewing the fat, and he was about as responsive as, well…you! The difference is he was high on meds. Dribbling down his front, jabbering on like an idiot. The man was an embarrassment, you should’ve seen it. I felt sorry for him.’
Faulkner’s face darkened, becoming distracted.
‘Bet he wasn’t always like that. Nah. He was a veteran, a tough bastard, wasn’t he? If he could see himself now, pissing his pants, not able to wipe his own arse, man would be ashamed of himse –’
‘You talk too much,’ said Faulkner, his tone low and firm.
There was a moment of tense silence, followed by the drumming of Faulkner’s fingers tapping on the table.
‘Actually,’ York corrected, ‘you don’t talk enough.’
‘How’s the wound?’ Faulkner asked. There was no mocking tone to his voice; it seemed like a genuine question.
‘The one from the knife you jammed in my back?’
Faulkner turned his head slowly sideways. ‘I like that knife.’
‘How?’ York asked calmly. ‘You mean for hunting animals in the woods up in Lincolnshire? Or cutting out girl’s hearts because you like the taste?’
Faulkner’s eyes glazed over.
‘That’s right, Julian. I made a house call yesterday to the home you grew up in. Beautiful area out there, lovely countryside. Wasn’t much left of the house, though. You saw to that, didn’t you?’
Faulkner stared.
‘Why, Julian? Why did you try and burn down the house?’
‘If you
