Acid Lullaby (11 page)

‘Let me go and we’ll talk about it.’

‘No. Let’s talk now, buddy boy. All those mind-numbing hours I spent in here while you poked at my mind and wondered how to spend my daddy’s money. I explained my incarnation to you and you just sat there nodding and disbelieving. I thought that you might have the vision. I thought you might be the sage of the gods. You couldn’t diagnose a headache. You did write down lots of things though. Now it’s time to deliver. What did they say?’

‘If you are a God, you’d already know.’

‘You had no clue about me, did you? I bet you sat there writing sexy little notes to Rowena while you were supposed to be helping me.’ He leaned in closer and whispered politely in Jack’s ear. ‘By the way, I’m planning to copulate with her once you’re out the way.’

Max exploded into a high-pitched giggle. His saliva spat across Harvey’s face. Jack struggled frantically to free his hands.

‘I wrote that you had a drug problem,’ said Jack, desperately playing for time.

‘Brilliant!’ Max spluttered through his hysterics. He bent down and opened one of his cool-boxes. ‘What extraordinary insight. I know about the drugs. I told you about the drugs. Daddy didn’t really get value for money with you did he, Jack?’

‘You think that you are becoming some kind of god. You have the same recurring delusional fantasy.’

‘Delusional? Hmmm. That’s better. Keep going!’ said Max as he continued to rummage in his cool-box.

‘You’re like a scratched record. You keep replaying the same loop in your mind. You have to break the cycle.’

‘You still don’t accept the notion that I have entered an alternative plane of consciousness: that I have unlocked the memory of my former divinity and translated it into certain knowledge.’

‘No, I don’t. Your father told me you had a drug problem. He told me you had lost your job after some psychological episode last summer. He believed it stemmed from the loss of your mother when you were a child.’

Max withdrew a clean syringe from the box, one of the twenty he had taken from the pockets of Ian Stark. He also withdrew a medicine bottle that was half-filled with dark cloudy liquid. He opened the bottle and drew its contents carefully into the syringe.

‘What the hell is that?’ Jack asked, suddenly terrified.

‘If you truly understood me, Jack, you’d already know,’ Fallon observed, pleased with himself.

‘Max, stop this now.’

Fallon was staring at the syringe, mesmerized. ‘It’s interesting that you called it a drugs problem, Jack. Drugs aren’t necessarily the problem. They can be the solution. You prescribe drugs to help people, right? Your sad little patients with manias and neuroses.’

‘That’s completely different.’

‘Did you know that in many ancient cultures, tribal leaders used drugs as part of religious services?’

‘Max, we’ve been through all this. Let me go and I’ll promise to help you.’

‘The theory is that the drugs activated a certain part of the worshipper’s brain. This allowed them to transcend the mundane limits of the imagination, unlock the memories of our former existences and even behold the face of God. Guess what, Jack?’ Fallon held the loaded syringe in front of Harvey’s terrified eyes. ‘Your flight is ready to depart.’

Fallon held Harvey’s head steady and injected the contents of the syringe into the psychiatrist’s neck.

‘Welcome to mass, Dr Harvey. Only a benign God would allow you to take this journey. Only a generous God would let you see his face. Don’t be afraid. I will be your guide on your journey to the godhead.’

Half an hour later, as Harvey began to spasm violently on the table, Fallon reached into his cool-box again. This time he removed the power saw he had found in a shed behind his house. Placing the saw on a table, Fallon began to whisper into Harvey’s ear. Prompted and petrified, Harvey’s mind washed in and out of consciousness. Unguarded, unable to filter Fallon’s suggestions from reality, Harvey began to live the nightmare. And he started to scream.

1st May

The bungalow was neatly arranged and smelt vaguely of lavender. There were lines of photo frames organized on the main mantelpiece. Many contained black-and-white photos, some of men in uniform.

PC Sauerwine sat on the edge of Mary Colson’s two-seater sofa. The sitting room was becoming familiar to him now. This was, after all, his third visit in two weeks. His mates at the station thought he was gold-digging, trying to muscle in on the old lady’s inheritance. That was harsh, he told himself. Mary was a frightened old age pensioner and part of his job was reassurance. Besides, she cooked a mean egg on toast.

‘You spoil me, Mrs Colson,’ he called out to the kitchen.

There was no reply. Sauerwine knew that she was slightly deaf, that she watched his lips closely when he spoke. He unclipped his radio and called in.

‘Seven-eight-one in attendance at seventeen Beaumont Gardens. Clear in ten minutes.’

‘Control to seven-eight-one acknowledged. Make sure you look under the mattress,’ squawked the control centre derisively.

Bastards.

‘That thing makes a right racket,’ said Mary Colson as she shuffled in carrying Sauerwine’s breakfast.

Two
eggs
sunny
side
up.
Slightly
overcooked
today
but
no
matter.

‘You spoil me, Mrs Colson,’ he repeated, hoping she hadn’t heard the details of the radio message.

‘Rubbish,’ Mary said as she placed the tray on Sauerwine’s lap, ‘no one else looks out for me.’

‘You’ve got your carer.’

‘She doesn’t care about me. Just her filling her fat stomach.’

‘Well, with treatment like this, Mrs Colson, I might have to move in with you.’

Mary laughed out loud. ‘Whatever would the neighbours think?’ She sat painfully in her favourite armchair.

‘That you’d got yourself a handsome man in uniform,’ Sauerwine quipped, then panicked for a second as he remembered the black-and-white memories on the mantelpiece.

Mary smiled softly. ‘It’s a nice uniform,’ she said.

Sauerwine ploughed into his eggs on toast.

‘So,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘these yobs who woke you up. What were they up to this time?’

‘There were four of them. Gypsies,’ Mary pointed out of the front window, ‘gadding about like idiots setting off fireworks. Four in the morning. Bloody cheek.’

‘I doubt they were gypsies, Mrs C, not in this neighbourhood.’

‘They looked like gypsies,’ she insisted.

‘Caravans and campfires?’

‘Don’t you be cheeky. I know what I saw.’

‘Did they wake you up, then?’ Sauerwine asked sympathetically.

‘I was awake.’ Mary reached for a bottle of pills that sat on the coffee table. ‘They’re for my Parkinson’s. They make me pee all night.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Sauerwine suppressed a smile.

‘And they give me funny dreams.’

‘Involving dashing young policemen?’

‘You are a naughty boy,’ said Mary. ‘No. They give me nightmares if you must know.’

‘What kind of stuff?’ Sauerwine sipped his cup of tea wondering what eighty-eight-year-old women had nightmares about.

Mary looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘You know about me, don’t you?’

‘Know what?’

‘About my abilities.’

Sauerwine frowned for a second then he remembered
something that one of his colleagues had told him about Mary.

‘Oh yeah!’ he remembered. ‘You read fortunes and things.’

Mary looked a little hurt. ‘It’s more complicated than that. I used to do séances.’

‘Like a medium?’

‘Yes. I stopped after I made an old man scream.’

‘How?’

‘I told him his dead wife was watching us through the kitchen window.’

Sauerwine choked on his tea in amusement.

‘It’s not funny,’ Mary rebuked. ‘She was.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs C.’ Sauerwine coughed to clear his throat. ‘So what’s all this got to do with your nightmares?’

‘I’m not sure. It scares me, though.’

‘It?’

‘It’s the same nightmare.’

‘Tell me.’

Quietly, Mary Colson described what she called the ‘dream of the dog-man.’

‘Spooky,’ Sauerwine conceded. He was beginning to get the picture. A frightened old lady has recurring nightmare, calls handsome young copper for reassurance. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mrs C. Dreams are dreams. They don’t come true. It’s like all that astrology crap. Everyday the newspaper promises me that something big is about to happen, that I’m about to meet someone special, that my life is going to change. I’m still here though. Plodding along like a carthorse. I don’t see how Mars and Jupiter will help me win the lottery.’

‘This is an important week astrologically as it happens,’ Mary sniffed. ‘I was reading about it: five planets of the solar system come into alignment.’

‘Let me guess. The end of the world?’

‘I hope not. It’s supposed to be good for fertility.’

‘Sadly that’s not a big issue for me at the moment, Mrs C. The future Mrs Sauerwine has yet to make herself known.’

Mary seemed distracted by something and was staring into the space behind Sauerwine.

‘Not in my experience,’ Sauerwine continued. ‘I used to dream of playing for Arsenal and look at me …’

‘Do you know anyone called Christine or Christy?’ Mary asked suddenly, cutting across him.

‘I’m sorry?’

Mary frowned into the space. She seemed to be looking for something, sorting through the white noise in her head. ‘Christine or Christy,’ she whispered, ‘one of the voices.’

Sauerwine felt very uncomfortable. The boys at the station would have a field day if they found out about this. Suddenly his radio squawked. It made him jump.

‘Control to mobile. Fire brigade request assistance. Twenty-two Moorsfield. Possible fatality. Officers in transit.’

‘They don’t like the radio,’ said Mary admonishingly, ‘or mobile phones.’

Sauerwine stood quickly and drained the last drops of his tea. Moorsfield was only five minutes away. ‘Gotta go, Mrs C. Duty calls.’

Mary wasn’t listening. ‘She’s gone now. She had a message for you.’

‘For me?’

‘She’s very proud of you.’

‘You take care now,’ Sauerwine called back as he opened the front door, ‘thank you for my breakfast!’

Mary picked up a puzzle book. Sometimes it helped to blot out the whispering.

Sauerwine jogged down the front steps to his squad car. He knew Moorsfield well enough: smart, upper-middle-class housing. He rehearsed the route in his head as he started the engine and pulled away.
‘Out
of
Beaumont
Gardens,
left
onto
Wallis
Avenue
down
to
Morton’s
roundabout,
straight
over
then
left
at
the
lights
…’

At the junction of Beaumont Gardens and Wallis Avenue, Sauerwine slammed on his brakes and looked back at the square bungalow with its sad, scrap of grass and white net curtains. His own grandmother had died five years previously. Her maiden name had been Hannah Christian.

The call had come through at 7.45a.m. That was the way with Alison Dexter, Underwood had thought at the time, not 7.44 or 7.46. Their conversation had been brief and unsettling. Underwood had dressed rapidly and driven like a maniac to 22 Moorsfield; Jack Harvey’s home address. He arrived seconds behind PC Sauerwine’s squad car.

The house seemed pretty much intact and any flames had been extinguished. However, a dense black cloud of smoke hung over the street and, as he approached, Underwood could see serious flame damage to the Harveys’ front door and extension. His stomach curled into a tight knot of anxiety. Two fire engines were parked at the front of the house. Instinctively, Underwood headed for the squad car parked behind the fire trucks.

Dexter saw him coming and waved him through the blue ‘Police Line’ tape that had sealed off the entrance to the Harvey’s driveway.

‘Hello, Dex,’ he said, happy for a second to be caught once again in her green-eyed gaze.

‘Good to see you, Guv.’ She didn’t have time to correct her error – Underwood wasn’t ‘Guv’ anymore. ‘I wish it could have been under happier circumstances.’

‘Any more inside?’ Underwood already sensed the worse.

‘Wife wasn’t. Staying with a friend. She’s on her way over.’ Dexter hesitated. ‘She says Jack was there last night.’

‘He was,’ Underwood nodded, ‘he called me. Left a message.’

‘I’m sorry. Fire boys say there’s a body in the office. Sir, there’s some weird shit going on here.’

She was interrupted by a shout from the front of the house. A fireman was gesturing them over. Dexter ducked under the cordon. Underwood hesitated.

‘Chief Super called me at home last night. They are putting you back on light duties, sir.’

‘Stop calling me that, Dex,’ Underwood retorted.

Dexter looked at him, half-frustrated and half-pitying. ‘I’d appreciate your help,’ she said simply.

‘I’m not sure this constitutes “light duties”.’

Dexter had run out of patience. ‘Let’s go.’ She approached the fireman who had called them over. Underwood followed a step or two behind.

‘What’s the story?’ Dexter asked.

‘It’s safe to go in,’ the fireman wiped sweat away from his face with the cuff of his jacket, ‘but be careful. The office is the first door off the hallway on the right. It’s burned to buggery but what you need to see is in there.’

‘Understood.’ Dexter thought for a moment. ‘Any idea yet on when the fire started?’

The fireman shrugged. ‘We got the call at five thirty-eight. An hour, forty minutes before that maybe. It definitely started in the office, though. Have a chat with our boss man when you get out. I’ll let him know.’

‘Thanks.’ Dexter pushed past him into the gloomy hallway. Water dripped from the walls. Steam and smoke hung in the air clagging her throat. She caught another sudden and sickening smell of burnt meat. Underwood retched suddenly.

The office was a desecration. The floor was covered with charred remains of Harvey’s box files and patient records. Underwood wondered if his own neuroses and nightmares had been incinerated with everyone else’s. He tried not to look at the blackened mess in the centre of the room that used to be Jack Harvey. Dexter approached the body carefully. ‘We need the SOCOs in here now.’

Underwood nodded but remained at the door.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Dexter suddenly.

‘What is it?’ Underwood still couldn’t bring himself to focus on the burnt lump that had once been his friend.

Dexter paused and tried to understand what her eyes were telling her. She crouched carefully and looked at Harvey’s hands, still tied together under the table. She stood and turned to face Underwood. ‘The head’s missing,’ she said through dry lips.

At last, Underwood forced himself to look at the body. He was transfixed in shock and morbid revulsion.

‘Someone tied him up, John.’ Dexter continued trying to figure the situation out for herself. ‘Someone has tied him up and cut his head off.’

‘Get a proper forensic team in here now,’ said Underwood, already halfway out of the room.

Dexter looked back at the body. The morning sun was shining through the heat-shattered window frame. Something caught her eye. Something glinted amongst the ash and rubbish on the floor next to the burned table and its hideous cargo. She looked more closely. There were three ten-pence coins neatly aligned on the floor. She resisted the urge to pick them up.

Underwood stood at the front of the house trying to rationalize what he had just seen. Something was gnawing at him. Something other than the loss of his friend and the terrible scene he had just witnessed. He felt as if he was missing something obvious, or that something obvious was missing.

‘No one goes in there,’ he said as Dexter rejoined him, ‘except our people.’

‘Absolutely.’ Dexter considered the faces of the nearest group of uniformed officers. She needed a face she could rely on. ‘Sauerwine! Get your arse over here.’

PC Sauerwine broke off his conversation with one of the firemen and hurried over to join them.

‘Stay by the door,’ instructed Dexter. ‘No one is allowed in except the SOCOs from now on.’

‘Yes, sir. I mean ma’am.’ Sauerwine seemed agitated. ‘Is it true that the body has no head?’

‘Bad news travels fast,’ Underwood observed darkly.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Sauerwine as he turned to face Underwood, ‘the fireman told me.’

‘Keep it to yourself,’ Dexter ordered the constable.

‘Of course. Ma’am, this is going to sound strange. Could I possibly see the body?’

‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’ Dexter was starting to regret calling Sauerwine over.

‘I’ve had a weird morning, ma’am. It might be important.’

Dexter exchanged a glance with Underwood who shrugged.

‘All right,’ she said, ‘stick your head around the door if you must but don’t go into the office. Only the SOCOs go in there. What you see stays with you,’ Dexter warned. ‘Jack Harvey was one of us and he was a gent. I don’t want to hear any bullshit jokes about the poor bastard at the station. If I do, I will have your bollocks rattling in my desk drawer.’

‘I understand.’ Sauerwine started for the door.

Dexter put her hand on Underwood’s shoulder. ‘You okay?’

‘A bit freaked.’

Dexter hunted for the right words. ‘John, what’s left in there, that isn’t Jack. Jack’s gone. What’s left behind doesn’t mean shit.’

Underwood smiled faintly. He appreciated the effort. ‘You’ve got things to do, Dex. I’ll stay out of the way.’

‘I’d appreciate any suggestions.’

Underwood watched her go. Dexter the dynamo was already throwing off sparks. He had missed her energy. He wondered if she was right. Whether what had been left behind really did lack any meaning. Do we cease to have meaning as soon as our heart stops beating? That seemed too simplistic. That made the matter merely an issue of timing and emphasis. Maybe we cease to have meaning the second we are born. That was simply another point on the same timeline.