Angels Bleed (Fallen Angels Book 1) (20 page)

4:45 pm

‘Sir,’ shouted Reynolds excitedly across the MIU room, turning in his seat to face Strange, who was updating notes on the whiteboard.  ‘We have decrypted one of the video feeds.’

Strange turned from the board and came up behind Reynolds, placing his hands on his shoulders as he did.  ‘Great work Steven.  Now, what does that mean for us?’ he asked.

‘Well, first off, we will be able to see where the video is being streamed to.’  Reynolds answered, frantically tapping on the keyboard in front of him.  ‘The IP is 10.203.56.123 which is registered to,’ he continued, bringing up another webpage and launching Whois.net.  ‘The First C…Church of The Latter Day Saints, C…Clareville, Wyoming.’  He finished, the initial excitement ebbing from his tone. 

‘I take it that’s not good news?’  Strange asked, picking up on the tone.

‘Not brilliant Sir.  But not bad.  It just means that they have hacked another c…computer and are using it as a video relay.  It doesn’t give us a smoking gun as to where the images are really being viewed from.  I would guess, now I know the address, I will be able to get to the image via any standard web browser.’  Reynolds answered, putting the address into Internet Explorer. 

‘There you go.’  Reynolds said, as an image of the Drawing Room and the inside of the crate appeared on the screen in front of him.  ‘Now, what we might be able to see in the packet information, are any c…control c…commands being sent to the c…camera.’ he finished, opening up a screen of hexadecimal coding down one side, with plain text interpretation on the other.

‘What could we use that for?’  Strange asked, inquisitively.

‘Well Sir, if the c…camera is movable, we might be able to reposition it to show who is in the c…crate.  There!’ he pronounced, the excitement back in his voice once again as he pointed to a nondescript piece of text on the screen.  ‘Now, if I append this bit of c…code to the end of the web address URL like this,’ he continued, carrying out the action as he talked.  ‘The c…camera should move to the left.’

On the screen in front of them, the image started to move, showing more of the forearm of the crate’s occupant.

‘Steven, you are a genius.’  Strange said with enthusiasm, squeezing Reynolds shoulders and shaking them with an obvious excitement.  He moved to the side of Reynolds and sat down in a seat next to him, getting a closer view of the screen.  ‘Now, can you move it up to where the head should be?’

‘I should be able to Sir, the last instruction was to move it ten c…centimetres to the left.  I think if we move it another fifty c…centimetres, we should be roughly where the head should be.’  Reynolds answered, changing a figure at the end of the URL and pressing enter again.

‘Excellent.’  Strange said, smiling as the image started to pan further up the arm. 

‘It looks like they are wearing a T-Shirt.’  Strange commented as a ring of material appeared around the scrawny, still, bicep of the occupant.

The camera panned still further, exposing the shoulders and neck of the occupant.

‘Definitely a V neck t-shirt.  The thin neck and arms and hairless smooth skin suggest to me that they are young.’  Strange added, tracing the movement of the camera with his finger as more of the occupant came into view.

The head slowly started to appear from the left of the screen, first a chin, then thin, slightly parted lips, and a slight button nose.  Strange’s finger stopped moving on the screen at the same moment the occupants closed, lash-less eyes came into view.  His own eyes opened wide in surprise, his body moving back involuntarily with a startled shock.  ‘Jesus H fucking Christ.’ he blasphemed, mouth agape in astonishment, his body prone for a moment.

‘What is it Sir?’ asked Reynolds, concerned.  ‘Do you recognise who it is?’

‘Leigh!’ he shouted, standing up quickly and awkwardly, banging his leg as he turned back to the table where she was sitting.  ‘Get John on the phone.’ he ordered abruptly.  ‘Get John on the phone now!’

4:55 pm

Sarah walked up to one of the easels and ran her fingers over the black painting sitting on it.  Momentarily, they started to trace out a line, a form in the darkness.

‘It’s not utter nothingness.’ she said quietly, taking a step back from the easel and looking around to Saul, beckoning him.  ‘Come and look.’

Saul was still fuming, his fists clenched as he came along side Sarah.  ‘It’s nothing Sarah, the emptiness of forever.’

‘Not quite.’ she said, taking his hand and teasing out a finger, raising it and running it over the painting in front of them.  ‘Do you feel that?’ she asked.

It was Saul’s turn to look bemused now as his finger traced the same journey Sarah’s had moments earlier.

‘Do you feel the indentation?  Take a step back.’  Sarah instructed, taking the step with him.  ‘Look at it. Can you see it in the nothing, the original outline of your sketch?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I can.’ Saul replied, all the anger leaving his countenance instantly, to be replaced by a wistful, tentative grin.  ‘He’s got his bum in the air, kicking his legs and wriggling his arms.  He’s lying on your chest having Tummy Time.’  His eyes were filling with tears as he replayed the image to Sarah.  She still held his hand and walked him around to the next easel.

‘And this one?’ she asked.

‘You are sitting on the floor against his cot, your knees pulled up and Jacob is lying against your knees, his feet tickling your stomach.  You are doing ‘Round and round the garden’ on his stomach and he is smiling.  My god is he smiling.’  His voice broke on the last words as a sob escaped with them, a solitary tear tricking down his cheek.

Sarah squeezed his hand tightly, reached up and kissed away the tear.  ‘I am pleased you got angry.’ she said.  ‘I had a horrendous feeling you had given up on him.’

He was still looking at the outline in the darkness of the picture in front of him and shook his head.  ‘I may have given up on us, but I will never give up on Jacob.  I don’t want to kill him.  I just want us to think about what we would do if we knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was suffering.  Some days.  Most days,’ he corrected.  ‘When I feel his emptiness, I struggle so, so much.  I just feel so inadequate, so powerless to help him.  I am sorry that I even thought about it.  It’s not what I want for him.  I want to try and help find some kind of way for him to…just be a little boy.’

‘I know you do.’ she said softly, joining him in silence for a moment, taking in the image.

‘Did I tell you that we are trying controlled dilation now?’ she asked, after the brief contemplative silence.

‘No.  What does that mean?  Sounds like a birthing technique.’ he asked inquisitively.

Sarah smiled.  ‘No, it’s an optical technique.  Jacob’s eyes react to light normally, which suggests the iris dilator muscles are working.  If you train these muscles, you can control their contraction.  Rob is trying to teach Jacob how to do it.’

‘How is he training him?’  Saul asked.

‘Just talking to him, over and over again, suggesting the things Jacob needs to do to control the movement.  It’s something to do with using the parasympathetic rather than the sympathetic or enteric nervous systems, which are the ones that don’t work in Jacob.’

‘Shit.’ she added, before Saul had a chance to respond further.  ‘I have something to tell you, and not because I am trying to make you jealous, but because I, for one, believed in our promise.  I made a pass at Rob last night.’ she said with a pained look of embarrassment on her face.

‘I don’t think I have any right to judge you for that, after what I have done.’  Saul answered sadly.  ‘Do you like him?’

‘I like him, but I don’t know how I feel about him.  My emotions have been erratic for a long time now.  You know that.  From the day Jacob was born.  You’re right, I feel guilty.’ she said, lifting the nearly empty wine bottle she still held in her left hand to her mouth and taking a sip.  She offered it to Saul, who accepted on this occasion, taking a swig himself.

‘Allie is my barometer to normality.  She grounds me.  She asked me earlier to consider if I thought you jumped or were pushed, figuratively speaking, into having an affair.’  Sarah continued, sadness injected into the inflection.

‘Sarah.’ Saul interjected, turning to face her as he spoke. ‘Me having an affair is not your doing.  It is my doing.’

‘No John, listen, please.  You have to know that I understand.  I am mightily pissed off that you didn’t tell me, but I do understand.’ she raised a hand, the one with the taggie tied to the fingers, and stroked his cheek with it.  She cast her forlorn gaze between Saul and the Taggie as she spoke.  ‘There are things that happened in my past, things I don’t think I will ever come to terms with.  They still haunt me now and they have always cast a shadow over you and I.  They cast an even longer shadow over Jacob.  It’s why I will always feel guilty, no matter what.’

‘Now it’s me who doesn’t understand.  Why are you being so understanding?’

‘Oh John, you silly bugger.  It’s because, despite all the fucking shit you are putting me through, despite not liking you much at the moment, I still love you.  It’s because I want you to be happy.  I know I can’t give you that.  I know I have already pushed you away from my broken heart.  It’s a relief.  I don’t have to pretend anymore, I can drop the pretence of the dutiful wife.  I can focus on Jacob.  There is no point in making either of us suffer any more.  I am happy to get divorced.  I am happy that you have found someone else and I am happy that you are in love.  Are you in love?’ 

‘I am.’

She smiled a huge wide grin, tears flowing from her eyes as she leant forward and kissed him fully on the lips, pressing hard and firm for second after second, until she parted, smiling once more.  ‘That’s what I want for you.’

She took a step back from him, letting her hand slide out of his, playing with the taggie as she did, casting a wistful look around the room at the hidden images of Jacob in the darkness of Saul’s creativity.

‘Shit,’ she announced.  ‘What time is it?’ she asked, her eyes suddenly animated and alarmed.

Saul took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the clock.  ‘It’s 5:30.  What time are you due to pick Jacob up?’

‘Right about now.’ she said, scrambling in her dressing gown pocket for her own phone.  She found it, quickly flicked to the hospice number and called it.

Saul looked at his own phone again, noticing the twenty one missed calls and fifteen voicemail massages.  He dialled the voicemail while Sarah was on the phone.

‘Hi Amy, it’s Sarah here.  Really sorry, but I’m going to be about twenty minutes late picking Jacob up.  I’ve got until six, right?’  Sarah began.

Saul started listening to his first voicemail.  ‘John, it’s Strange.  I need you to call me back urgently.  We know who the person in the crate is. I don’t know how to tell you this,’ the message started.  Saul was distracted as he listened, Sarah suddenly raising her voice.

‘What do you mean he’s not there? He was dropped off last night.  Dr Adams dropped him off last night.’ she said, her face full of concern as she looked at Saul.

‘So I am just going to have to call it straight.’ continued Strange on the voicemail.  ‘It’s Jacob.  The person in the crate is Jacob.’

5:45 pm

Rebecca slowly, sleepily began to open her eyes.  Through a drowsy fug she started to focus on the soft plump pillow her head was resting in, breathing in the crisp aroma of freshly laundered cotton.  She stretched out, the floral cotton quilt covering her shifting topology moving, but still cocooning her in comfort.  She raised her torso up on her elbows, peeking out over the cover of the quilt to take in the room she was in.

It was a bedroom.  Her waking eyes started a slow scan of her surroundings.  There was a small bedside table to her left, a glass of sparkling water and some headache tablets sitting on its surface.  On the wall behind it was a long, low dressing table, with a large mirror in the middle.  On top of the dressing table were baskets with numerous bottles and tops of cosmetic containers sticking out of them.  There were three dummy heads, different colour wigs sitting on each.  On the wall opposite where she was lying there was the closed door of the room and beside that a white, rattan chair.  Dr Hanlon was sitting in it, smiling at her.  She gave a dozy smile back, her eyes still scanning.  Above his head was a Cezanne painting, ‘Nature Morte’, with a Compotier, Pitcher and different fruits laying on a table covered in a white table cloth.  On the wall to her right, against which the bed was resting, was another large mirror reflecting the room, giving it an added sense of depth.

‘This is unexpected.’  Rebecca said, her gaze returning to Dr Hanlon. 

‘Well, you did say you would love to go to sleep in a nice clean bed, and I am nothing if not obliging.  How are you feeling?’

‘A little fuzzy, my head is pounding.’

‘That’s the sedative wearing off.  There are some tablets on the side.  Take them.’

Rebecca leaned over and picked the tablets up, and popped one after the other in her mouth, sipping the water to wash them down.

‘Where are we?’ she enquired.

‘Take a look.’  Dr Hanlon said, gesturing with both hands to the windows behind the head of the bed.  Rebecca swung her legs over the bed side.  She looked down at the cotton pyjamas she was wearing.  ‘Pretty.  Much nicer than the ones in hospital.  Less of a draft up the back.’ she said, standing and pulling the closed flowery curtains open. 

‘Newcastle?’ she queried, taking in the wide stretch of water that was the River Tyne visible outside the window.  The Millennium Bridge was directly in her line of sight, with the large span of the Tyne Bridge just to the right.  Over the top of that bridge, the sun was slowly setting, painting the thin streaks of clouds that intermittently tram lined the deep blue sky a pale pink.

‘It thought we were in Broadmoor, what are we doing here?’ she questioned, turning from the window and taking in the contents on top of the dressing table.

‘Well, that would be another little lie I told you.  We were never in Broadmoor.  We are here for you to recuperate.’  Dr Hanlon answered.

Rebecca was looking down at something on the dresser top.  There was a long kitchen knife lying there, beside which was a small, tightly wrapped piece of toilet paper.  She picked the toilet paper up and unwrapped it, exposing the rusting screw contained within.

Holding it out in front of her, she addressed Dr Hanlon curtly.  ‘Did you take this out?’

‘I did.  Now, before you get all stressed, that is all I did.  It’s dangerous to have a rusty object like that inside you.  I did bathe you too, and dress you, but I did not touch you in any way inappropriate while doing those things.  I did what was necessary to make you comfortable.  So, could you please throw the screw in the bin? If you are intent on killing yourself, please use the knife.’

Rebecca smiled at him with a bemused, lopsided half grin.  She threw the screw into a waste bin under the dresser, then pulled out a seat next to it and sat down, still looking at Dr Hanlon.  ‘I take it you aren’t really a Doctor working for Broadmoor?’

‘I am a Doctor, but no, I don’t work for Broadmoor.’

‘So why am I here?’ she asked, turning her legs under the dresser and looking at her reflection in the mirror.  Dr Hanlon had cleaned and dressed all the cuts and abrasion on her face, arms and legs.  While her skin was still ravaged with scars, it looked a lot less grotesque than when she had seen it for the first time earlier.

‘To be guided along the path of redemption?’  Dr Hanlon posed with mirth.

Rebecca opened and closed her mouth, watching the stub of her tongue moving.  In the reflection, she caught sight of the back of her head from the mirror behind and saw the intermittent clumps of what hair was left.  She picked up a brown short bob wig off one of the heads in front of her and positioned it on her head. 

‘I think I told you Doc, I am beyond redemption.  No one can change what has happened.  Not you, not the almighty, not anyone.’  Rebecca answered, fiddling with the wig until it was in a position she was comfortable with. 

‘That supposes what you think you have done, is in fact what you actually did.  I know it wasn’t.  It’s time for you to face up to that truth.’

‘What do you think?’ she asked as she turned to him, running her fingers through the fine strands of the wig.

‘You look beautiful.’  Dr Hanlon answered, smiling.

‘Your Irish charm won’t work on me Doc, I look more human, but hardly beautiful.’ she lowered her eyes to the bandages he had dressed her wrists in.  She circled a thumb and forefinger of one hand over the bandage of the other and gently squeezed, a tinge of pain evident in her expression.  She looked up at Dr Hanlon once more, picked up the knife and rested the sharp blade against the dressing on her wrist.

‘I could demand that you tell me who you are.’ she said, rocking the knife gently to and fro, with just enough pressure to splice threads on the bandage.

‘You could, but psychological blackmail won’t work on me.  If you slit your wrists, I will just sit here and let you bleed to death, if that is really what you choose to do.’ he said simply, crossing his legs as he responded.

Rebecca continued slicing the bandage, staring intently at him.  ‘I believe you would too.’ she said, then put the knife down on the side.

‘I won’t interfere with your free will.  I will just ensure that you know where that has been manipulated beyond the bounds of your freedom.  After that, it’s down to you.’

‘Okay.  Let’s see if we can find the truth then.’ she said, wearing a nervous smile.

‘Tell me about the night Michael died?’ asked Dr Hanlon.

Rebecca turned back to the mirror and started to look into the baskets of make up on the table, pulling out tubes, bottles and jars as she started to talk.

‘It was New Year’s Eve.  I had been on shift that day and finished at about three in the afternoon.  I didn’t know if I was going to see Madame Evangeline that evening, I hadn’t had any messages from her.  I knew that I wasn’t going to see Michael that night.  He had already told me he was going to be out at a party.  So at that point I was contemplating either a quiet night in, or a trip on my own to somewhere like Labia’s.  I got my first text message on the bus going home.’

‘’Tonight, I want you to fulfil one of my fantasies.’ it read.  The second I read it, my heart began to palpitate.  Firstly because I was going to see her and secondly because it was going to be an evening of intrigue.  What fantasy of hers would we be exploring, what games would we be playing to entice and excite.  All the way home I willed another text message to arrive, to give me even an inkling of what was in store.  Nothing.  So I went home, tingling with anticipation, and started my ritual.’

Rebecca had opened a tub of foundation and was applying it to her face as she talked, covering up the visible scars, softening her harsh complexion. 

‘I bathed, a long luxurious soak where I relaxed into day dreams of what my night time reality might be.  I stroked myself, letting the soft sensuousness of the bubbles and the warm rivulets of water caress my body.  As I was drying, another text arrived.  ‘Wear your black leather cat suit, your thigh length patent boots and your cat mask.  Nothing on at all under the suit.  Red, long hair tonight and bring your whip.’  I smiled, an enormous childish grin and did a little foot dance of excitement standing half wet and naked on the bathroom floor.’

‘I continued my ritual, applying false nails to my fingers, painting them and my toes a deep, deep purple, impressing small diamond beads into the varnish.  I would always get ready naked.  I enjoying the freedom of the air flowing over my body as I moved around my bedroom, sitting down at my dressing table to apply my makeup.’ she said, applying a thick black eye liner.

‘The next text arrived and it took me by surprise.  ‘Look in your letterbox.  Be there at eight.  Go inside and mingle.’  I went and looked as directed and found an invitation to a Masquerade Ball at a club called ‘Delectable’.  I had been there before.  I was surprised because we didn’t generally meet until much later.  I finished my makeup, walking around the room for a minute or so to let it all dry.  I had a full wall of mirrored wardrobes in my bedroom, one quarter with my normal clothes in and the rest with my evening wear.  I opened the wardrobe and took out the outfit, placing it on the bed in the order I would put it on.  I got dressed, enjoying the feel of the cold leather on my naked flesh as I did, putting on the cat mask, which sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine.  That left only one more thing to put on, which I always left until last.  I took the long red wig off a stand of a dozen different wigs, and put it on my head, positioning it and clipping it tight to my real hair.  I was ready.  I felt like a goddess as I took in my reflection in the mirrors.’

Rebecca took the top off a cherry red lipstick and painted her lips with it, padding and pouting into the mirror in front of her as she finished.  She turned to Dr Hanlon and smiled.  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.  You could hardly see any of the scars or lesions on her face, the foundation virtually covering them all.  There was a little blusher on her cheeks, giving life to her still thin face and her eyes were shadowed with a subtle pastel lime, accentuating her emerald eyes.  Her lips looked voluptuous.

‘Well, now I’m not being a charmer.  You do look beautiful.  The face of an Angel.’ 

She smiled, observing her countenance in the mirror once more.  ‘A fallen Angel, perhaps.’

‘I caught a taxi to the venue and arrived there a few minutes early.  The streets outside the club were already busy with revellers, early shouts of ‘Happy New Year’ ringing out all around.  It was a club I had been to before, just off the main street.  I knocked on the nondescript door, which opened, and handed my invitation to the doorman who let me in.  Surprisingly for so early in the evening the bar area was already full of people in their masquerade outfits.  It wasn’t a hard core sex club so there weren’t people making out in front of everyone and the initial atmosphere was more cordial that carnal, with a string quartet in one corner, playing soft, gentle classical music. There was plenty of flesh on show and a lot of seductive stroking and caressing taking place however.  I walked through the crowd, enjoying the subtle anonymity my mask bestowed, feeling sassy and sexy.  As I passed people, I stroked my wandering hand over a buttock here, a bare shoulder there, staring in what I thought was a passionate way at the ladies I was caressing.  They all smiled back at me, before returning to whatever conversations they were involved in.  I arrived at the bar and ordered a wine, checking my phone as I was waiting.  No more texts.  So I mingled.  I spent time with a beautiful woman in a red shimmering cape over a skin tight black latex dress, Little Red Riding Hood.  Although this Red Riding Hood had her nipples poking through holes in the latex.  She wanted me to whip her but settled for a conversation and a deep, passionate kiss on each of her nipples.  She dropped a pill into my wine and smiled as I left her to mingle some more.  As I sashayed through the ever growing crowd, my phone bleeped.  A text.  It said ‘A Dominatrix with a whip should have a slave.  By the band is a Gimp.  He is your bitch.  Treat him that way.’  I looked through the crowd toward the string quartet and saw him, all in black, head to foot, standing motionless, head facing forward, not moving an inch.  The only area of him that wasn’t black was the hole around his crotch, exposing his flaccid penis and dangling bollocks.  He was shaved bare down below.  I approached him and, wrapping the end of my whip around the base of his penis, pulling it tight, I leant into his ear and whispered. ‘Tonight you are mine, bitch, and you will do whatever the hell I want.  Understood?’  He nodded slowly.  ‘Good.’  I said, grabbing his reins and tying them and the whip together, wrapping their ends around my hand.  I tugged hard, pulling the bit in his mouth and his bits down below forcefully, causing him to stagger slightly as we walked back into the crowd, mingling.  I had no idea.  No idea whatsoever that my Gimp for the night was my son, Michael.’