Killing the Beasts (38 page)

'Oh no, oh please God no,' prayed Jon, calling his home number, suddenly remembering that Alice got the train into Manchester, too.

After five rings it clicked on to the answerphone, but Jon was sprinting out of the front door before the message even started.

The weak November sun had now sunk from sight and fireworks screeched and screamed up into the darkening sky. He raced along Fog Lane, shouting pedestrians out of his way. In the recreation ground kids whooped and cheered as they let off strings of bangers. He careered on to Kingsway knowing that, from there, his house was only minutes away. A solid line of slow-moving cars stretched off in both directions and he leaped into the path of the nearest vehicle, arms raised up. As it went into an emergency stop he clearly heard the driver yell, 'You fucking dickhead!'

He darted into the next lane, barely registering the crunch of shunting cars behind him. On to Lane End and he raced along, knowing that as soon as he saw Heaton Moor Golf Course on his left, his own road was just ahead.

Tom checked the entry form and saw that he was on the correct street. He placed the briefcase at his feet, removed the bag of powder from his pocket and took a large pinch. Then he flexed his shoulders, took a breath in and looked at the number on the nearest house. He carried on along the road, then turned up a driveway. As he stood on the front doorstep, he looked down at the entry form again, thinking that the surname was vaguely familiar. But with all the whispering in his head, he couldn't concentrate on trying to dredge up where he'd seen or heard it before. He rang the bell.

There was a burning in his throat and he could feel his knees going numb as the heels of his shoes pounded on the pavement. He got to the end of his road and charged up to his house. The front door was shut and the sitting room light was on. He slowed to a halt, trying to catch his breath and calm himself. His hands were shaking as he pulled the keys from his pocket and they jingled slightly before he found the lock. The door opened. Silence. He needed to take in air, but didn't dare breathe because of the sound it would make. In a couple of strides he was at the living room door.

Alice lay on the floor, stretched out in front of the gas fire, Punch shivering on the rug next to her.

Wide-eyed and now able to gasp for breath, Jon said, 'Are you all right?'

Alice looked at him like he was mad. 'Yes. Why shouldn't I be?'

'What are you doing?' He stepped fully into the room and looked around.

'Trying to calm your dog. Firework night, remember? Bangs, whistles, explosions. What the hell are you doing?'

Jon swallowed hard and took in a lungful of air. 'You wouldn't believe it.' He let out a sudden nervous laugh and then went back to the front door to push it shut, saying over his shoulder as he did so, 'I honestly thought you were in serious trouble. I mean serious trouble.'

Tom watched as a wavery figure approached the frosted glass. A female's form. The door opened up.

'Good evening, 'Tom smiled. ‘Miss Ellie Spicer?'

He hung his jacket on the banister and paused in the living room doorway to wipe the sweat off his forehead and check again that she really was OK. Shaking his head in relief, he said, 'Oh God, that was horrible,' before carrying along the corridor to the kitchen.

With Punch slinking miserably along behind her, Alice followed him. 'Jon Spicer, will you just tell me what the hell you are on about?'

Jon yanked his shirt off and wiped himself down with it. 'I'll explain later. I've got to get back to Tom's house.'

'Tom's house? What's going on?'

Jon reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a rugby shirt. 'These murders. I hate to say this, but it looks like it was Tom Benwell.'

'Tom? The guy you used to play rugby with? But why? Why would he be killing people?' Not wanting to give Alice a glimpse of the insanity he'd just witnessed, Jon could only shake his head in reply. 'I don't know, but I've just come from his house. There's stuff there that... stuff there which is pretty conclusive.'

'What stuff?'

'Things. Things he used to select his victims. Listen, I've got to get back. I'll phone to get a car sent over here. Don't open the door to anyone who isn't in a uniform.' He pulled the rugby shirt on as a crackle of fireworks went off.

'Jon!' Alice said sharply, causing Punch to cower at his feet. 'You're not bursting in here with eyes popping out of your head, telling me a friend of yours could be killing people, then buggering off again. What do you mean by things to select his victims? Am I in danger?'

Jon looked towards the front door. 'OK, you picked up some gum in a promotion at Piccadilly station a few weeks back?'

She nodded in reply.

'And you filled out one of the competition entry forms?'

'Yes, 'Alice whispered, eyes going wide.

'That's what he's using to select his victims – everything he needs is on the bloody entry...' Alice was looking sick. Jon stepped towards her. 'Hey, don't worry. You're not in any danger now.'

The fingertips of one hand had gone up to her trembling lips. 'Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I didn't put my name on the form.' She grabbed him by the arm, started pushing him down the hall. 'Your sister. I thought she deserved the chance of a nice holiday.'

Jon was trying to turn around. 'Ellie's name and address are on the form?'

Tears were in Alice's eyes.

Jon shouted, 'Phone her!' He grabbed the keys to the spare car and roared off down the street.

The pops and crackles came thick and fast, sending flashes of multicoloured lights through the curtains.

'You sure I can't ring my friend, Alice?' asked Ellie, happily chewing away on the stick of gum. 'It's her writing on the entry form. She'll be so chuffed to find out. In fact, I'll take her with me. God, this is so exciting!' Tom smiled. 'It would be better if we confirm everything is in order first.'

'Oh right, my passport. Hang on, it's in here somewhere.'

As she started rummaging around in a set of drawers in the corner of the room, the phone started ringing outside in the hallway. Ellie stopped searching and straightened up, raising a hand to her forehead. 'Wow! I've come over all dizzy! I'll just get—'

Tom interrupted her. 'Please – if we could just confirm everything's in order first. I wouldn't want you to spill the good news to anyone before we're sure you can claim the prize.'

Ellie looked at him, then shrugged. 'OK. 'She turned back to the open drawer as the answerphone took the call. 'Here you go,' she said, handing him the passport.

'That's great,' said Tom, clearing his throat. 'Could I ask for a cup of tea before we get started?' 'Good idea!' said Ellie. 'I'd like one too; I feel a bit wobbly. How do you take it?' 'Milk and two sugars, thanks.' She disappeared down the corridor to the kitchen. Tom sat quite still, whispering replies to the voices.

Jon skidded to a halt and jumped from the car, leaving its door hanging open as he charged up his sister's path. It had started raining and drops bounced off his head as he moaned, 'Keys.' He realized Ellie's spare set was still in the kitchen drawer back at his place. He hammered with his fist, then crouched down and shouted her name through the letterbox.

There was no reply, but he could see her coat and handbag in the hallway. Taking a step back, he flexed his knees once then, fixing his eyes on the section of wood immediately below the key hole, he brought the heel of his shoe crashing against the door. Wood splintered and, slamming his shoulder against it, he fell through into her house. Forgetting all his training, Jon blundered onwards, down the corridor and in to the front room.

Ellie lay on the floor, arms out at her sides, eyes rolled up into her head. His momentum had carried him several steps across the carpet, and Jon began to turn, knowing he had exposed himself to an attack from behind. Something crashed onto the back of his neck. Purple flooded his vision and he dropped to his knees, the jarring impact snapping his head to the side and sending a wave of pins and needles shooting up his spine. He felt himself falling to the side, but was unable to raise his hands to cushion the fall.

Tom turned the glue gun round in his hands so the solid metal plunger faced outwards. The voices screamed their encouragement and he raised the implement high in to the air, ready to smash it down onto the man's skull with all his strength. But then he saw the large number seven on his back. Slowly, his eyes moved up to the man's face.

Kill him!

Tom remained still, his lips barely moving. 'But it's Jon. I know this man. He's wearing your number. What should I do? He's wearing your number.'

The colour began to melt away from Jon's vision and he found himself kneeling with his upper body half slumped forward on the sofa. Looking down, Ellie's face was inches from his. He watched as she breathed slowly out. Then he heard Tom plead behind him, 'But he's wearing your number. I cannot.'

Footsteps suddenly ran from the room and out of the house. Using the arm of the sofa, Jon got unsteadily to his feet. There was barely any feeling in his legs and, as he took his first tottering steps, he wasn't sure if his knees would buckle. But his legs held firm, growing stronger each time he felt a foot connect with the floor. By the time he reached the front door, he could feel the adrenaline pumping right down to his toes. He jogged down Ellie's path. A rocket exploded in the sky above him and, through the sheets of rain, he was just able to see a figure running round the corner at the end of the street. Jon exploded on to the pavement, sprinting the first sixty metres without taking a breath. He reached the end of the road and looked up to see the silhouette cutting towards the A6.

'Tom!' he yelled at the top of his voice.

Tom glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon closing on him fast. He cried out for guidance and was told to run for the main road. Reaching the pavement, he looked to his side. Down the road an eighteen-ton Argos lorry trundled towards him. He knew that its thirty-foot-long container would be packed with every type of household item imaginable. Enough merchandise to meet demand at the Manchester store for less than a week.

Tom strode purposefully across the lanes and into the vehicle's path. Raising the palms of his hands outwards, he closed his eyes and commanded the vehicle to halt. He felt the power of the Masters coursing down his arms and imagined the light that must be crackling from his fingertips.

At the kerb, Jon could only watch as the driver stamped on his brakes. Rain pouring off the vehicle's mudflaps suddenly flew forward on a diagonal trajectory under the vehicle's huge tyres. The lorry began to slide over the wet road surface. The first thing to connect with Tom's outstretched hands was the grille below the cab. As both arms were driven out of his shoulder sockets, a moving wall of metal slammed into his face and chest. Like some grotesque mascot pinioned to the vehicle, he was carried back for over forty feet, straight past Jon, before the vehicle slowed enough to let him slip down.

As his head slammed against the tarmac, Tom's right eye opened a fraction, allowing him to see an infinite galaxy of brilliant stars. An instant later, the first tyre rolled directly over his head.

'Oh my God!' someone screamed.

A couple of people were jogging uncertainly to the motionless lorry, the driver already on his mobile phone.

Jon bent over his knees for a moment, breathing heavily after his sprint. Ellie. He must get back to her. He straightened up, turned and began walking back to her house, his pace quickening as a desire to distance himself from Tom's mangled corpse combined with concern for his sister. As he neared her house, he could see a woman approaching in the opposite direction. Alice. He held up an arm and she stopped running. 'Jon! What's happened? Where's Ellie?'

'In here. We'll need an ambulance. She's been drugged. 'He took her hand and led her towards the open front door.

'Is it safe? Where's Tom?'

'Tom's gone.' The sight of Ellie on the carpet caused Jon to fall to his knees. He slid a hand under her head, lifted it up and pressed his cheek against hers. In the hallway he could hear Alice on the phone, demanding an ambulance. He hugged her close, rocking back and forth as if he was comforting a baby. After a few moments he felt Alice's arms curling round his head and the tears suddenly came.

Author's note

To chart Tom's descent into madness, I described symptoms that accompany various types of mental illness. The most notorious of these is probably the auditory hallucinations that many schizophrenics experience.

However, I wouldn't like any reader to make the mistake of believing schizophrenics are likely to be driven to murder by the voices they hear. (Sadly, they're far more likely to hurt themselves.) If any readers are wondering who is most likely to murder them, look to your family. Statistically, you're far, far more likely to be killed by a relative than a stranger suffering from schizophrenia.

For a very readable and illuminating description of schizophrenia, I recommend,
Schizophrenia: A very short introduction
, by Christopher Frith and Eve Johnstone.

The significance of seven obviously plays a pivotal part in the story. There is enough material about its repeated and mysterious occurrences throughout history to fill several books (and swathes of my references were wisely cut by my editor for the sake of pace!). Although the internet does provide a rich source of material on seven, much of my information, including Tom's belief in The Masters, is based unashamedly on a theory put forward by Geoffrey Ashe in
The Ancient Wisdom
.

Acknowledgements

This novel would never have seen the light of day without the faith shown by Gregory & Company and the expertise of Jane Wood at Orion. Huge thanks must also go to, in no order of preference:

Dr Allan Jamieson for providing me with so much information on forensics and toxicology
Aidan O'Rourke, whose photographs of Manchester allowed me to describe so much of the city during the Commonwealth Games
Simon Roberts for showing me around a Vutek 5300
Paul Rourke for explaining the outdoor advertising market to me
Dr Ian Collyer for describing the process of suffocation
Claire and Paul for letting me look at their holiday snaps from the Seychelles!