Flesh and Blood (18 page)

I looked into the mirror. This was reality. I could be sure of that now.

There was a creaking sound.

“Don’t move!”

“You stay right where you are.”

Slowly, I turned my head. A police officer was standing with one hand holding the door ajar, the other held out towards me, fingers wide.

“S’OK,” he said. “Take it easy.” He unhooked the radio from his lapel and spoke into it. “I’ve got him, male toilets, adjacent to coffee shop.”

He never took his eyes off me. I barely moved a muscle.

“S’OK, mate,” he said. “You get your shirt and your coat back on, eh? Leave the knife right there by the sink. Come with me, and we’ll get those nasty cuts seen to, right?”

I could tell one thing: he was scared of me.

That single thought set alarm bells ringing in my head. This guy was in his forties or fifties, he must have seen it all a hundred times before, and yet he was reacting to me – a pale, shivering, apparently
self-harming teenager – as if I was a dangerous villain who might pull out a shotgun and blast him apart at any moment.

Who did he think I was? What did he think I’d done?

“C’mon, mate, you come with me. Leave the knife; that’s it. Have you got anything else with you? Any other weapons?”

“No,” I said.

He nodded. “Put your shirt on, yes?”

As I pulled my arms back into the sleeves, wincing as my shoulder moved, he reached over and took my rolled-up coat. He felt inside it and around the lining, keeping his gaze firmly on me. Once he was satisfied that there was nothing concealed in the coat, he handed it to me and I put it on.

“You follow me now, OK? Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

There was only one way in or out of the washroom. There were no windows. It was pointless to try fighting him or dodging past him – he was twice my size and ready for trouble. I tried to remember if police officers carried pepper sprays.

I took a few steps towards him. He took hold of
my arm and led me out into the supermarket. “OK, nothing to worry about. Off we go.”

I expected to see a line of horrified faces, late-night shoppers all gawping at the stab-vested cop boldly arresting the scraggy teen lowlife. But apart from one or two gawping but keeping their distance, everything was pretty much as normal. The scraggy teen lowlife situation was being handled very quietly.

The alarm bells in my head were getting louder. Where had the shop’s security guard gone? Wouldn’t someone being arrested be a bright spot in an otherwise dull shift?

“Am I being arrested?” I said. Not that I knew much about police work, but weren’t they supposed to go through the ‘arresting you on suspicion of…’ stuff? The cop didn’t answer me. His grip on my arm tightened a little, and his pace quickened.

“Am I being arrested here?” I repeated. “Who called you?”

“Don’t you worry, son, we’ll get that nasty wound seen to, eh?”

My heart was racing. He’s just a cop rounding up a stray, right? That supermarket employee – he called the police and told them there was a loony
in the toilets, right? A routine thing. No arrests, no bother, just take the kid away, have a word, send him home, inform his parents. Right?

I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t drugged. This was the real world, I knew that for certain. The dispenser was safely tucked into my pocket, it wouldn’t be fooling me any more.

A cold sensation of dread grew inside me. I was tired and dazed.

“It’s
them
, isn’t it?” I muttered. I almost felt like laughing, cackling like a maniac. “They knew I’d turn up somewhere. And they sent you to get me. What did they tell you? Am I an escaped psychiatric patient, is that it? I bet that’s it.”

This was reality, but I’d forgotten: reality was whatever the Greenhills said it was. Truth was whatever they told people.

I actually began to giggle.

The cop was getting irritated. He squeezed my arm tightly. We’d reached the supermarket’s entrance lobby now. A wall of freezing-cold air washed around me.

Outside, it had started to rain. Big, slow drops, quickly filling all the dips in the car park. Street lights
glittered on wet surfaces. A guy in a high-visibility jacket pushed a long train of empty, clanking trolleys.

The cop marched me over to a police car parked some distance away, close to the road and the slope that dipped down to the underpass. There was a hefty, unmarked BMW next to it. As we approached, a second officer got out of the patrol car and a figure in a tan raincoat got out of the BMW. As I got closer, I saw that it was Leonard Greenhill.

Two cops, and the
chief constable
. What’s wrong with this picture? I giggled again. Hysteria.

“Are we going to the hospital?” I said.

None of them spoke. The second cop was carrying something that looked like handcuffs. He was burly and saturnine, much younger than the first one. As the headlights of traffic on the roundabout swung past, I caught glimpses of two more figures in the back of the BMW. A man and a woman, I thought.

The rain was starting to intensify. The second cop rolled up to me.

“Pull up the right leg of your jeans, please, sir.”

“Sorry?”

“Pull up the right leg of your jeans, please, sir.”

It wasn’t handcuffs he was carrying, it was an
electronic tag. For a moment or two, I struggled and kicked, but I quickly realized there was no way I’d avoid it. He crouched down and clicked the thick grey loop round my ankle.

As soon as the tag was on, the first cop led me to the police car. Leonard Greenhill watched me impassively. I wanted to stare back at him, my face filled with defiance and anger, but somehow I couldn’t meet his gaze. I was exhausted and defeated. The pain in my shoulder throbbed and screeched.

The first cop ushered me on to the back seat, cradling the top of my head as I got in. He slapped the door shut beside me. The police car was warm, quiet and roomy. A couple of red LEDs flicked and ticked on the dashboard. Rain pattered in waves against the windscreen. There was a faint smell of pine.

I expected the two cops to get in and drive me away immediately, but they both went round to the other side of the BMW and started talking to the chief constable. All I could see of the other two figures in the BMW were vague shapes in the gloom.

I pulled up my trouser leg. The tag felt loose but heavy, obviously made to withstand a lot of misuse. There was a slightly thicker section to one side of it,
where a tiny green light shone.

There was no escape now. They could track me wherever I went.

No way out. I struggled to stop my heart sinking into an abyss.

Maybe, if the two cops were going to drive me away, I could explain things to them on the way. I could show them my evidence. I might be able to persuade them to protect me, instead of throwing me to the Greenhills? They’d believe that their boss was part of a family of homicidal maniacs, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they?

I half laughed, half sobbed. Yeah. Of course they would. I was an escaped psychiatric patient, remember? It’s not like I’d be paranoid, or make anything up now, would I?

The cops and Leonard Greenhill were still talking. What
about
, for God’s sake?

Anger began to swell up through me.

I still had the evidence. Enough to expose the truth. I still had to get it to someone I could trust, to tell the world in a way that couldn’t be discredited, or ignored, or deleted.

That much hadn’t changed.

The change was the tag round my ankle. What I no longer had was time. I was minutes from having the evidence taken away from me forever. As soon as we got to a police station, or even a hospital, I’d be searched.

They could track me, they could find me anywhere. My only hope was to outrun them.

They’d made my capture low-key. The absolute minimum fuss needed to make it look authentic, official.

I could use that against them.

They were out there, and I was in here alone. The cars were parked barely ten metres from the slope that went down into the underpass. The rain was getting heavier, and therefore noisier. It was dark. If I could get out of the police car without being seen, then I could surely make it to the far side of the roundabout. They might not even bother chasing me straight away, not now they had me tagged. They might think they had time to scoop me up whenever they liked. They didn’t even know I had the notebook, and nobody had seen me keep the drug dispenser.

It was all a question of finding a safe home for my
evidence. There’d be no point hiding it, burying it or something, because when they caught me it’d be lost for good. But, with whatever head start I could get on them…

If I could get to someone I could entrust my evidence to… If I could just get to a phone…

I might only have minutes
, I thought.
But minutes were better than nothing
.

This would be my last chance.

If I didn’t take it, everything would count for nothing and the Greenhills would carry on, hiding in their house of blood forever. Once they caught me, I’d be dead. There was no doubt whatsoever.

All this flashed through my mind in a split second.

I clicked open the police car door beside me. The sound of the rain suddenly increased, and drips spattered along my side.

The cops were facing away from me blocking Leonard Greenhill’s view of the police car.

Keeping low, I slipped out into the rain, opening the door only enough to allow me to squeeze through. I shut the door gently. They’d have to look inside now to see I was gone.

Crouching, I turned and ran for the underpass, my
heart pounding. I expected to hear shouts behind me at any moment, but none came. As I reached the slope, I threw myself down, out of sight, and looked back.

The ice-cold rain was dropping in sheets now. Already, I was almost soaked. Despite the street lights, and the bright rectangle of the supermarket, the police car and the BMW were barely visible behind the downpour. If I could hardly see them, they wouldn’t be able to see me either.

Without hesitating, I pelted down the slope and through the underpass. My footsteps echoed against the concrete walls. I paused at the far end and glanced back, then I ran out into the rain again, back along the road into Elton Gardens.

Headlights kept rearing up behind me. Every time, my heart skipped a beat, anticipating flashing blue lights and the whoop of a siren. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. I could feel the tag on my ankle with every step. Rain ran through my hair and down my face.

Soon, I was back at the line of shops. The off-licence was closed now, and the lights in the chippie were being switched off.

Possible plans of action were cascading through my mind. I still had the money. A bus or a train might not be a good idea; I’d be effectively trapped – they could simply wait for me at the other end. Unless I got off at some random point. And go where?

No, a taxi would be better. More flexible, more routes to follow, fast and unpredictable. I could head into London, exactly as I’d planned before. I could get to the real VoiceTalk, or something similar. The taxi driver might know something nearer.

Would I have time? Would Leonard Greenhill risk involving more police, who’d cut off whatever route I took?

I ran for the station. Some of the street lights were out and in my panic, in the rain and the darkness, I soon realized I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. Now they knew where I was, but I didn’t! Fighting back a tide of despair, I stopped to get my bearings.

I was on a short, narrow road, bordered on one side by bungalows with ugly concrete fascias, and on the other side by the plain brick walls of houses in the neighbouring street. There was a faded wooden ‘No Ball Games’ sign screwed to a wall. One of the two
working lamp posts had a bedraggled photocopy stuck to it, showing a picture of a dog beneath the words, ‘Missing – please help’ handwritten in thick marker pen.

I spun on my heels. Which way? I turned and went back the way I’d come. I’d see somewhere I recognized soon, I thought. I had to keep my head down, to keep the rain out of my eyes. I almost ran into her.

Emma.

I let out a cry of fright. She was less than three metres from me. For long seconds, I was frozen.

She smiled at me. A broad, reptilian grin of delight. Her eyes were wide, alight, shocking. Her face was wet with rain, her hair tied back.

“I told you to be a good boy.”

She reached into her raincoat. She took out a medical scalpel, and held it delicately in her long fingers.

Panic took over. I almost fell over, my legs all but buckled beneath me. I ran along the street, then stopped and turned. She was walking towards me, in no hurry at all.

I stumbled over to the nearest of the bungalows. A light was on, behind curtains. I jabbed at the bell, heard it chime.

She was closer.

“Hello!” I yelled. “Help! Help me!”

I banged on the door and hit the bell again.

I waited only a second or two more. Nobody was answering. I scrambled around a pair of wheelie bins and went next door. More lights inside. I pounded the door with my fist.

“Hello! Help me! Please open up! Please!”

The lights went out. I tottered backwards.

She was closer.

I ran on down the street, the rain lashing and
hissing. More lights in a bungalow further on. Someone had to answer. Someone had to listen. This time, I pulled at the letterbox.

“Hello? Is anyone there? This is an emergency! Please come to the door!”

I waited. I didn’t dare look behind me.

“Open up!” I yelled. I slapped at the door’s frosted glass. “Listen to me! I’m begging you! Open the door!”

A light came on right behind the door. A shape appeared in the hallway beyond, rippled by the glass.

“Piss off, you bloody drunk!”

The light switched off again.

Emma was ten metres away.

“Fire! Fiiiiiire!” The words burned my throat. They were lost, in the roar of the rain, washed away.

Emma was five metres away.

I ran on blindly into the darkness beyond the yellowish glow of the last street light. Down a narrow alleyway, with tall wooden fences to either side, emerging into another street.

I can outrun her. Lose her. That’s what I can do
, I thought.

In my panic, the tag on my ankle was almost forgotten. I wasn’t thinking straight. She knew
exactly where I was. There was no escape.

At the end of this second street, I suddenly knew where I was. This was close to the point at which Elton Gardens bordered the park.

In moments, I was standing on the long path that edged the park’s huge, open lawns. Light from the lamp posts along the path was filled with vertical lines of rain. The sky was low and pitch-black, and it was difficult to make out anything further than twenty metres past the glow of the lamps.

Off somewhere to the left, the river, the green footbridge and the path up to Maybrick Road. I wouldn’t go that way, too much chance of running into the rest of the Greenhills. Too close to home.

I dashed off across the lawns, plunging into the shadows, my feet squelching on the sodden grass. Unable to see much, I toppled over twice, sprawling forward painfully, palms thrust out and sliding along the mud. I staggered to my feet, suddenly conscious of how soaked to the skin I was, how cold and out of breath.

Dragging myself on, I reached a tightly packed group of trees that clustered close to the children’s swings and climbing frames. Leaning against a
trunk, in the shelter of the overhead branches, I shook some of the water off myself and took a few deep breaths. My eyes were getting accustomed to the dark. I could see outlines of more trees in the distance, and the faint, rain-scattered glow of the town. I could just about make out the brow of the hill on Maybrick Road. Below that snaked the river, which would now be slowly swelling with the pouring rain.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement beside me!

With a low, blood-chilling cry, Emma kicked out and knocked me flying. I tumbled on to my back. She was on top of me before I knew what was happening.

We grappled fiercely. I was stronger than her, but with the scalpel gripped tightly in her hand, it was all I could do to stop her slashing me across the face. Her expression was gleeful and alive with spiteful pleasure.

With a heave, I managed to push her to one side. I scrambled to find my feet before she could lunge at me again.

“Like the tracker?” she cried. “Another of my ideas. Good, isn’t it?” She dangled her smartphone at me. “Pinpoints you to within two metres. C’mon, boy, let’s race for your life.”

Her delight at taunting me only made me angry. With a yell of fury, I flew at her, grasping for the smartphone. She snatched it out of my reach and, with my attention on the phone, swung the blade of the scalpel at my chest.

There was a burst of pain, and a dark patch began to spread on the front of my shirt. I leaped aside, crying out like the wounded prey I’d become.

Emma almost skipped with enjoyment. She was getting ready to pounce again.

Mindlessly, I turned and fled. Outside the shelter of the trees, the rain began to pummel me once more. The thud of my footsteps turned sharper as I left the grass and crossed the tarmac of the play area. I skirted the swings and the slide, running in any direction that would take me away…

But I’d never shake her off. I was prey now.

My only choice was to kill her before she killed me. It was me or her, wasn’t it?

I slowed down. By now, I was close to the river. The high-pitched slamming of the rain was mingling with the low gurgle of the sluggish waters. I stood on the foot-worn track that followed the curve of the river bank.

I was out in the open, the river behind me. There was no way she could approach me unseen.

I waited, feeling icy rainfall trickle at my neck. My heartbeat thumped in my ears.

She was only a vague outline at first. Walking steadily, her hips swaying.

She’d put the scalpel away. She held something that looked like a small cleaver, or an axe. With a shudder, I recognized it from the display of operating tools in the basement’s glass cabinets.

I stood my ground. Her pace quickened.

I shook with nerves, with cold, with terror. Her pace quickened again.

Without a sound, she raised the cleaver to one side and ran at me. As she bore down, I grabbed at her arms and her momentum threw us over.

Emma was back on her feet before me. She aimed a hard kick at my side as I scrambled on all fours, and I rolled over in agony. Suddenly catching a dull reflection on metal, I flinched to one side and the cleaver buried itself in the grass beside my head.

I hooked my foot round her leg and pulled sharply. She toppled back, but again she was quicker than me. As I raced towards her, she punched me square
across the jaw. I spun, dazed.

By the time I’d regained my senses, she’d retrieved the cleaver. I jumped back, and back again, as she slashed it through the air in front of me. Her face was still a horrible mask of joy.

As she swung the blade again, I lunged. I barrelled into her, knocking her off her feet, and pinned her to the grass.

She clawed at my face. I tried to ignore the pain, but it distracted me long enough to allow her to thud her knee into my stomach. Winded, I almost let her go, but managed to keep a grip on the lapels of her raincoat. She twisted, pulling us both over. We rolled, struggling to strike at each other, the rain lashing into her face, then mine.

She pulled a hand free, and aimed a sharp blow at the cut in my chest. The stab of pain made me scream. Stars flashed in my eyes. The next thing I knew, she was astride me, raising the cleaver in one hand, high above her head.

My hand shot out to grab her wrist. The cleaver shook as she wriggled to free it. I was gradually forcing her arm round, until she’d have to drop the weapon. Suddenly, she snatched the cleaver with her
other hand and brought it down on top of me.

The only thing I had time to do was raise my arm in defence. The cleaver bit through the sleeve of my coat and deep into my arm. I howled.

The agony goaded me into fury. I pulled the cleaver out, a spurt of blood following it, and flung it over my head. I heard it splash into the river. Before Emma could react, I had both my hands round her throat.

I squeezed. I wanted to kill her. I
had
to kill her. For everything she’d done, everything her family had done. See how they liked it!

I felt the flesh of her throat tighten. Her face reddened, her eyes bulged. Gradually, her expression changed from glee to fear, from murderous triumph to despair.

But if I killed her, because I could, because I wanted to, I’d be like
them
.

Horrified, I flung her aside. She sprawled on the wet grass, rain beating at her back, coughing and spluttering. Furiously, she pulled out her phone, tapped at it a couple of times, and stuffed it back into her raincoat. She rubbed at her neck.

“I won’t kill,” I said. “I won’t become one of you.”

I thought about which way I should run. She was already standing up, swaying slightly.

“Weakling,” she said.

She kicked me in the side of the head.

I didn’t black out but my head swam wildly. Then I was aware of voices.

“Where’s my antique amputation knife?” Byron Greenhill.

A pause. “He threw it in the river.” Emma.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! You promised me you’d look after it.”

“That can come out of your allowance, young lady.” Caroline Greenhill.

“That’s not fair!”

“It’s perfectly fair. If you can’t look after things, you must pay for them.”

“Can we get out of this rain? I’ll catch my death.” Ken Greenhill.

I looked up, still feeling unsteady. They were in a semicircle behind me, umbrellas raised. The four of them.

Byron Greenhill stooped down. He spoke to me as if I was five years old. “Well, you’ve given us quite a little adventure, haven’t you, hmm? Can you stand?
Can you walk?”

I didn’t have the strength to answer. I crawled up on to my knees.

Byron grasped me under one arm, Caroline the other. I was frogmarched along, sometimes walking for myself, sometimes being hauled upright.

“You see, you didn’t need me,” grumbled Ken Greenhill. “I could have stayed warm, at home.”

“Objection noted,” said Byron wearily.

We crossed the green metal footbridge, the river thundering beneath our feet. We walked up the hill, and back into Priory Mews. The rain continued to belt down relentlessly. I felt water inside my boots.

My head was clearing and the reality of what they were doing suddenly scorched into my head like a burst of lava. I began to struggle. Byron and Caroline tightened their grip.

“Shall I take his feet?” said Emma.

“No, darling, we’re nearly there,” said Byron. “Mummy’s got a syringe if he gets uppity.”

We were approaching the Priory. Panic began to overtake me again.

I stared across the road, to the houses. There were people standing in the windows of all three. The
Giffords, the Daltons. My parents. They waved at me. All of them.

I screamed out. I thrashed. I became a dead weight, kicking and yelling.

“Mum!” I screamed out. “Muuuum! Dad! Don’t let them take me! Don’t let them take me! Please! Please! Mum!”

They waved. Goodbye, Sam. Then they were out of sight. I was dragged along the gravel driveway of the Priory, up the steps, into the house. I thrashed and howled. The front door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the night, and the rain, and the sound of my voice.