Killing the Beasts (34 page)

The special litter-busting teams in their red jackets had also ceased to exist, so the sweet wrappers, discarded free newspapers, polystyrene cups and cigarette ends had begun to accumulate, forming a layer of rubbish that was pushed to and fro by the wind, shifting restlessly over the immovable spots peppering the paving slabs. Tom stalked through the debris, looking around him as the people emerged from shops, full bags hanging from their arms. Their lifestyle was, he realized, the one that had beguiled Charlotte, clouded her judgement as to what really mattered in life. He watched them as they took a break from their shopping to sit at pavement cafes and drink coffee, eat pastries or muffins and browse through glossy in-store magazines, always contemplating their next purchase.

Then they would get up, leaving dirty cups and crumb-covered saucers. A light wind blew crinkled napkins and empty sugar sachets on to the street as they strode off, credit cards ready, futilely trying to stave off their feelings of emptiness by purchasing more and more useless things.

Chapter 23

4 November 2002

Head still pounding from last night's booze, Jon watched Sly through the interview room's one-way mirror. His posture of boredom had long been replaced by one of tense agitation. He leaned forward on the plastic chair, arms wrapped tightly round his stomach, rocking backwards and forwards. Half turning to the mirrored window, he repeated yet again, 'You're not fitting me up with those murders. You're fucking not!'

'What do you think?' McCloughlin asked Jon and the other officers gathered in the shadows beyond.

Bodies shifted in the narrow room. 'Guilty as sin,' said a voice that curled with disgust. 'Look at him; he's sweating like a pig in an abattoir.'

'There's certainly enough to charge him,' observed someone else. 'Especially with the fibres at two of the murder scenes matching the suit from his flat.'

'DI Spicer?' McCloughlin demanded.

Turning the extra strong mint over in his mouth, Jon hesitated, aware that the men around him were of senior rank. Despite all the evidence, there were doubts in his head that he couldn't ignore. 'I agree that we've got enough to charge him, but I'm not totally convinced yet.'

'You bloody arrested him,' McCloughlin growled.

Jon suppressed the urge to apologise. 'I think we've got a member – possibly the leader – of the car theft gang. His prints match partials we've lifted from the letterboxes of sixteen properties where car keys have been hooked out of the hallway. But why has he suddenly started killing people?'

There was silence all around.

'OK, 'McCloughlin said. 'We've had him for almost twenty-four hours. I've already requested an extension of another twelve. Then I'll apply for a warrant of further detention – so we have him for another three and a half days if we need. In the meantime, let's keep turning things over. Something's got to give soon. DI Spicer, you can return him to the cells.'

Leaving Jon, they all filed back up the stairs. Walking into the incident room, McCloughlin called over to the office manager. 'Any progress on where our suspect got all those packs of chewing gum?'

'The manufacturers confirm it was a limited edition that was produced specifically for a Commonwealth Games promotion. However the agency that was handling the promotion – a place called It's A Wrap – closed their Manchester branch down last month. We've been on to their head office in London and they're getting back to us with more details as soon as possible.'

Chapter 24

October 2002

Tom now spent the majority of his waking hours at his computer, the bag of powder next to the mouse. Though his sense of reality was becoming increasingly blurred, one part of his mind remained clearly focused: the part concerned with researching the number seven.

The obsession was taking him throughout history, bouncing him between cultures, religions and faiths. He had noted down how the Lord's Prayer is divided into seven lines, how there were seven days of creation and seven days for Noah to load the ark. Bezalel made a lampstand with seven lamps for the tabernacle, Joshua's army marched around Jericho on seven successive days with seven priests blowing seven trumpets. In the book of Revelation he counted no less than fifty-four occurrences of the number, including seven churches, seven candlesticks, seven spirits, seven thunders, a seven-headed dragon, a seven-headed beast and seven vials of wrath.

And his scouring of the subject didn't focus solely on Christianity. He found mentions of the number in Judaism when it spoke of the seven supreme angels and seven continents; and Islam, which mentions seven heavens, seven hells and seven seas. He read about how devotees walk around Kaaba at Mecca seven times. The tantric system holds that humans have seven chakras, Buddhism analyses human life as an evolution through seven cycles. He found the number repeatedly cropped up in the Rig Veda, the first Hindu sacred book thought to be three thousand years old.

There could be no doubt the number played a huge part in man's ordering of the world. What Tom couldn't work out was why such massive importance had been attached to it. Something must have happened long ago which had led people to regard the number as so significant. What had occurred? After a fortnight of surfing, he stumbled across a document that provided an explanation. The writer of the document believed that, far back in the mists of time, seven Masters descended from the heavens and imparted their wisdom to select groups of people across the earth. Their visit explained why so many early societies boasted such an astonishingly advanced knowledge of things like astronomy and maths. He stated that structures such as Stonehenge, the pyramids and Easter Island are all lunar observatories, their construction and planning requiring levels of calculation and engineering far beyond anything else the people of those societies possessed.

The writer went on to say that, because this knowledge was passed on only in part, and usually by word of mouth, it slowly fragmented, pieces of it emerging at various points in history. He pointed out how many major western thinkers believed their insights were the result of picking up on these fragments of long-lost philosophy. Even Isaac Newton stated that he was only 'rediscovering what the sages of antiquity knew'.

This is it, thought Tom. This is why seven is so important. The Masters numbered seven: that's why seven has come to be treated with such enormous importance.

One night he had taken a pinch of the powder and was resting from his research. The street lamp outside his house flickered and winked, sending brief bursts of light across his windowsill. Tom stared, intrigued by the flashes. At first they'd seemed totally random but the more he looked, the more he suspected there was a pattern, a code being directed at him. He rose to his feet and wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, walked out of his front door and down his driveway. He stood beneath the lamppost listening to the phosphorescent tube buzz and plink as the light went on and off. In the brief moments of darkness Tom could see the sky above; it was the colour of a bruised apricot, ruined by the light emanating from the city.

Then, as he stood looking up at it, the lamp went out completely. Though Tom's eyes remained fixed on the lamp above him, he sensed something closing in on him, something surrounding him. He looked down and realized what had enveloped him from all sides: darkness. He turned towards his house and saw that the entire street was plunged in blackness. Wandering to the end of the road, bare feet connecting with the cool pavement, he couldn't see a light in any direction. Standing there, he became aware of the natural light shining down from above and he looked up at a sky that sparkled with the same intensity as in the Seychelles.

Arching his head back in wonder, his eyes settled once again on The Plough. And as he counted all seven stars making up the constellation, the collection of voices boomed down from the sky above.

Tom! Tom! Tom!

He fell to his knees, hands clamped over his ears. But the voices carried on with undiminished clarity, repeating his name again and again. He ran back down the street and into his house, slamming the door shut. The voices followed him, and he crumpled on to the sofa, pulling a pillow up to his face and squeezing his eyes tightly shut in fear.

When Tom awoke the next day, he was still cowering under the cushion. He crept back to his computer. The power was now working again so he turned it on and altered his search to 'the significance of the plough'. Another twenty-nine thousand hits came up.

Ignoring the sites that spoke about the plough as a tool of cultivation, Tom focused on the quasi-religious, pagan sites. On these he read about how the constellation of seven stars has been called many things by many societies throughout history.

The Wagon, The Dipper, Arthur's Wain. Greek mythology described it as Ursa Major or the great bear. For the Egyptians it was the astral shape of their god, Seth. The Mexicans believed it to be the foot of Tezcatlipoca. To the Lapps it is the bow of a hunter, to the Sioux a bier. The Siberian Kirghiz legend calls it the seven watchmen. In Hinduism it is known as Saptarshi, or the seven rishis – semi divine sages and sources of all sublunary wisdom. Tom knew they were all wrong. The Plough was the seven Masters, hanging in the night sky, keeping a watch on Earth. And now they had chosen him as their prophet. They had told him how, for centuries, they had looked down as man had strayed further and further from their teachings. The wisdom they had imparted had evolved along false lines and greed had corrupted the people of Earth, tricking them into living lives of decadence and excess. His own wife and baby had been lost forever to it. Now, they had announced, was the time to act. Through him their words would be relayed and people would see the error of their ways. Through his teachings the evils of wanton consumption would be cast aside. A new Golden Age would be ushered in – one where people lived simple, happy lives. Their obsession with shopping would be cured. Superstores, hypermarkets, arcades and shopping centres – those temples built to pursue the activity would be razed to the ground.

With the realization that they had chosen him to spread their word, Tom began to weep. And his tears were born of fear: fear at what they would ask him to do.

In the front room he found his Sennheiser headphones, the type that clamped right over the ears. In the kitchen he searched through the drawers for foil, eventually finding the roll and tearing off great squares. Then he proceeded to wrap layer upon layer over each earpiece. By wearing the headphones at all times he intended to stop the Masters beaming their voices into his head.

Now that he had no job, Creepy George spent a lot of time parked outside Sixteen Moorfield Road. At night he could see the flicker of the computer monitor in the front room, but it was only ever Tom in the house. She had disappeared.

In frustration he started scouring the city centre. Guessing the types of places she'd visit, he wandered up and down King Street, glancing in the windows of Diesel, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY and Armani.

At lunchtime he'd switch his search to nice restaurants: Zinc, Stock, Lime, Croma. Then, one day, he glimpsed her going into Selfridges. He broke into an ungainly trot, making it through the doors thirty metres behind her.

She took the escalator down to the food hall and went across to the sushi bar in the corner. A man was already there and she took the seat next to him. As they kissed the bile rose in George's throat.

They ordered fresh fruit juices, then, for the next half an hour, plucked morsels from the conveyor belt. Eventually the man flicked his credit card on to the counter.

At the top of the escalator they kissed again and parted company. George followed her around Harvey Nichols for an hour, then trailed her across to Quay Street where she slipped into an expensive-looking health centre. Hesitating at the doors, George began to read the notices in the window.

State-of-the-art, fully air-conditioned gymnasium, swimming pool and spa, aerobics studio with classes in yoga, pilates and boxercise, spinning studio, beauty salon and relaxation room.

George stared at the photos of women in their leotards, determined expressions on their faces. He liked best the picture of the lady lying on a bed in the beauty salon. Her hair was tied up in a towel and her eyes were closed. Then he saw the notice inviting anyone in for a free tour and day pass. He walked into the reception area, its shiny wooden floors and halogen spotlights dazzling him. 'Hello, I would like a look around, if I may.'

The young lady kept her face bright and welcoming. 'Of course, sir. I'll just give one of our assistants a call.'

When the man appeared he had a glow of vitality that George knew contrasted all too obviously with his own pale face. As he was led around, George scanned each room for her. The pool was virtually empty, the aerobics studio deserted. At the gym he saw her, wearing a crop top and shorts, lifting a pair of pink plastic dumbbells up and down. He wanted to stand and drink in the sight of her, wanted the man's irritating prattle to stop. But after a cursory look at the remaining facilities, he was shown back down to reception.

'I'd like to apply for membership, please,' he said to the receptionist.

Taking the form and a brochure, he sat down in the cafe area and grudgingly ordered a cup of coffee. He took as long as he could to read the brochure, then pored over the small print about membership terms and conditions. Eventually he heard footsteps and she came down the stairs, blonde ponytail bouncing with each step. George looked down and, out of the corner of his eye, watched as she went over to the notice board and trailed a finger over the group exercise timetables.

'Jules,' she called over to the receptionist. 'Could you book me in for your pilates class?'

'Sure, which one?'

'Oh, at seven o'clock on Thursday nights, please.'

George scrawled the information down on the back of his brochure.