The Night Hunter (29 page)

‘Indeed.’ She gives me a well done smile; she’ll be patting my head soon. ‘Your cells multiplied at a normal rate and his did not. As you put it, you absorbed him. But some of his cells remain and have now started to multiply; they’re producing testosterone and that is causing you the problems.’ She is very pretty, she is lovely. We both have sallow skin and big brown eyes; we both have strong features. She reminds me of how I used to be. She looks at her clipboard. ‘It’s the presence of these cells that is giving you the acne, the muscle bulk, the hair growth. But you know all that.’ Her fine fingers touch her smooth jawline, where I know my own has too much dark, downy hair. ‘The treatment isn’t difficult; we have you on a hormone drip as you can’t be trusted with oral meds.’

‘What about this?’ I pat my head.

‘You had a slight concussion. More worrying is the damage to your cardiac muscle, but once the testosterone and adrenaline are down to normal levels it will cease to be under so much pressure. And keep away from stress, no more running round hills.’ She glances at her clipboard again. ‘You need to get some rest now. I’ll see you on my rounds tomorrow. We’ll talk through your options then.’

She slides out of the room and takes her soft-soled little pal with her.

I
t feels strange to be lying in Sophie’s bed back at Mum’s house. I’ve been in hospital for nearly a month and I am supposed to be better. The shiny doctor thinks that what I need now is more time with my family. She is off her head. It’s three in the morning, I am still not sleeping.

The game might have changed but it is not over.

I have to keep my eye on Grant, he is not in a good place. Mum and Rod go round on tiptoes. Their story is that Sophie has run away because she needed to be free of Grant. But her liberation has been my incarceration. What Sophie suffered at the hands of our brother is unclear but the police have their hands tied, there is no complaining witness, just a missing person. Costello agrees with Rod, Grant needs treatment more than anything else. Mum, Rod and I, we are all trying to deal with it.

I wish Billy was here, he would have a plan, even if that plan was making it up as he went along.

I hear a familiar noise – Rod going to the loo, no doubt. He doesn’t sleep well either. But the horror of the past few weeks is slowly winding down. I do regret Mark’s death, but he gave me no option. If I was put in that situation again, I would do the same thing. It’s not him I am losing sleep over. Lorna has been laid to rest. Gillian’s family has been reunited. Magda, still beautiful and enigmatic, had been found living in London, alive and well. Some PR guru has signed her up; her looks and her story are a titillating combination. The blonde in the drawer was talking; she was a Norwegian student called Carla Holmen and her family had flown over from Trondheim to be with her. She had asked to see me before she left hospital. No hurry there, she will take a long time to heal.

Nobody knows anything about Katrine, the Girl on the Hill. Somewhere there might be a sister looking for her. I think that disturbs me more than anything, because I am back at square one. I still don’t know where my sister is.

The creeping round the house goes on. Whoever it is, they’re going along the landing to my old room, the one that is now an office. I think I hear them go down the stairs but I hear no noises from the kitchen.

I get up and glance out over our back garden and into Eric’s. The first light is tingling on the horizon and I can see his garden is getting overgrown now. When Eric was down here working away, building fountains and water clocks, those women were going through hell locked up in the dark, terrified that he would return. Terrified that he would not. They were alone, naked, waiting for food and water, grateful for any little morsel that came their way.

Yet Sophie was here in the family home, enduring some hell of her own.

I look over the bottom of the garden, wondering what will happen to it now that Eric has gone. The house is up for sale. The lower flower beds are crowded with growth, the water in the ornamental pool is shimmering in the darkness. The four upper flower beds are symmetrical – almost. I notice that one of them is almost bald, bare earth. Did Eric have other plans for it? The last time I recall it was as lush as the others. But when did I last look out of this window?

Four flower beds.

One devoid of growth.

I see a movement in the lower end of the garden, bloody Grant again. He has sneaked out the side door; he’s doing his weird sleepwalking thing again.

I watch as he walks into the middle of the lawn, naked. I expect him to sit down and cry as he usually does, but he keeps moving, walking in his strange way – arms at his side, his legs moving with a languid drift as if he is not on the ground at all. I lean my forehead against the glass to watch. He climbs over the gate into Eric’s garden and is hidden from view by the wall before he reappears at the flower beds up at the ornamental pool. I get an uneasy feeling about what he is about to do.

But still I watch him.

This is like watching a train wreck.

He walks to the side of the water with the grace of an angel. He is quite beautiful in the moonlight. Standing between the two marble pillars, his body becomes a perfect sculpture, and the moonlight catches the fine features of his face. He steps into the water, then kneels down and looks up to the sky. Clasping his hands in prayer, he leans forward until he is lying face down in the water. He stays very still, floating with his arms out now in supplication.

I start to count. By a slow count of thirty he has not shifted.

By a slow count of sixty I am beside him.

I step into the cold water, in my bare feet. There is no reaction.

I think my brother is dead, that he has given himself the peace that he desires. I reach out to touch his shoulder; my wee brother’s skin is cold and wet to my touch. Then, suddenly, his shoulders rise towards me as he straightens his arms; the power takes me by surprise as he punches himself free of the water. He stares at me. We are inches apart.

It seems like a good time to ask. ‘So, how did you kill Sophie?’

His voice is clear, clearer than I have heard it in ages. ‘I think you mean, why did I kill Sophie?’

‘No, I mean how? You have no justification for it.’

His eyes flick to the raised flower bed, then my wee brother is back, his intelligence is sharp in those blue eyes. ‘She rejected me. It was always just her and you, fuck’s sake. Never looked at me. So I snapped her.’ He clicks his fingers.

I try to process what he has said, where he looked.

‘I really hate you,’ he says in good humour. ‘And I really loved her. But she had to die. Why are you still here, you sad, ugly fuck? Why did you not just move out and leave us alone? That’s what we wanted. That’s what Sophie wanted. Why did you not stay in your flat? Out of our lives?’ I don’t see his fist come up, but I feel the pain in my chin as something fractures, my teeth rattle and I taste blood. I try to spin round but he learned from the same book I did and catches my ankle, flipping me on to the wall of the pond. I feel a blow on the back of my head, and the stars dance. My mouth and nose fill with grass as I am hauled backwards, then I feel my knees scrape concrete. He is dragging me into the pond. I put my arms down to stop my face going under, bracing myself against the silt at the bottom of the water. Then his foot is between my shoulder blades.

He stamps down hard.

He is standing on me, with his full weight.

I am pinned down, my face is on the bottom of the pond, my cheek against the plastic lining. I try not to breathe in the silt. The small plants jag at my eyes as I struggle to get my arms free to push myself up, but Grant just presses harder.

My pulse pounds in my ears; I try to get my adrenaline, try to fight, but there is nothing. My eyes are ready to burst, my throat burns, my lungs explode. I trickle air out the corner of my mouth; it bubbles lightly through the murky water, weaving through the fronds of the plants in a pretty dance. My next breath will be my last.

I try one more time, dragging every bit of energy together. My body does not respond. No ice in my veins, nothing.

Then I let go.

I feel myself drift, my face is skewered into the bottom of the pond, a pull on my hair, my face slammed back into the silt as Grant’s foot stamps the back of my head. I feel the cartilage in my nose give. The pressure eases, I twist my neck and think I see a shadow fall over me. The darkness is complete.

Then I am sick, relentlessly sick. In the grass. Lying. Solid ground.

Rod stands up. He was either checking Grant’s pulse or holding his head under water. Either way my brother is not moving, just floating.

I know Rod heard.

I know that Sophie is here.

Rod tries to hold me back as I crawl across the grass. ‘She is here.’ His grasp releases me.
I am slipping in the grass, blood in my eyes, blinding me, but I know.

I climb up to the raised flower bed, devoid of flowers – things cannot grow where a body has been buried. My bare hands scrabble about in the earth, Rod’s hands join mine. Then he stops me, pointing to a sliver of silver catching the moonlight. Sophie’s locket.

Rod collapses beside me. ‘She never left, she never got away …’ He is crying now, his arm round my shoulder.

As I cradle his head I lie back and look at the heavens. White fluffy clouds race across the indigo sky but I feel no wind on my face, the night air is warm and still. And peaceful.

In the hushed garden, the words float into my head. I hear them, I can hear Sophie’s voice.

Must your light like mine be hidden,

Your young life like mine be wasted,

Undone in mine undoing,

And ruin’d in my ruin …

I
t’s nearly midnight, the deep chill in the air bites into my bones. Icy stillness hangs all round me. I am a living statue amongst the other statues that are already grey and cold. The trees of Eric’s garden are now bare; skeletal twigs stretch out into the night, birdless, lifeless.

The death of night, the endless sleep. This is my routine now that I have Sophie back.

I sit down, pulling my jacket under my thighs, resting my feet on the wall of the raised garden opposite. The bricks are peppered by diamonds foretelling an early frost. Autumn has already bowed out, winter is now centre stage.

I settle myself, wrapping my fingers round my mug of strong hot coffee. It is the one coffee I am allowed in a day and I savour every sip. In the dark I can make out the heap of rubbish near the back door of the house. Drawers, doors, and the old Belfast sink, which is now full of frozen rainwater and rotting leaves. Eric Mason’s kitchen will be in a skip tomorrow.

I am alone here. Mum and Rod are away cruising somewhere hot while I sort out the builders. I’m not sure how Mum felt when I suggested selling our house to buy Eric’s. I’m sure the neighbours thought it odd, buying the house where your only son drowned in the garden. But Rod told the guy across the road that it was a sound economic decision. Eric’s house was run down and cheap because nobody wants a house that belonged to a serial killer. Rod’s own interest was the big garden. Mum said that Grant had loved this garden. She didn’t want other people living where her only son had died.

I never realized what a good liar my mum can be.

They agree now that Eric’s house already seems like home. This garden is the right place to be. Good for reflection, contemplation and conversation.

I usually come out here at night. I started the habit when I was trying to make sense of it all. Just as I had felt Lorna guiding me on the hill, I feel Sophie talking to me as I sit here.

I now know that my brother killed my sister the minute she walked out the door, hiding her up in the long grass in Eric’s garden. It was Grant who drove her car to the reservoir and then ran back across the fields. It was Grant who forgot to adjust the car seat back to where it was.

My brother had a full hour to find a hole in Eric’s garden, easy in a garden full of ongoing landscaping. As the minutes slipped by, Sophie was later and later and Mum began to cry, Rod paced the floor. Grant pretended to go out to look for her and came back dirty from digging my sister’s grave, sweating from digging the hole that hid her.

I know all this now. But we have Sophie back with us, nobody is taking her away. Mum has stopped drinking. Losing Grant and finding Sophie have both eased her troubled mind. It has eased mine. I know that Sophie can hear me now, talking about my day.

‘We had the lunch today, Soph, it was awful,’ I say, my breath billowing into the steam from the coffee. ‘I thought it was Mary who wanted to meet me but when she walked through the door, there were two other women with her. Guess who?’

I sip my coffee. ‘Vera was there. Dressed up and looking ten years younger. The other one I only knew by the double plait in the hair. The hairstyle you nicked although you’d never admit it. But it was Magda, or Mags as she calls herself. She was kind of in disguise. She’s keeping out of the way of the press until the price is right. I read you that bit from the
Mirror
last week, didn’t I? Cow!’ I sniff; the night air is making my nose run. ‘Then it got difficult. Mary gave me an awkward hug, Vera tried to do the same, but Mags just summoned the waiters to pull the seats out for us.’

There is no comment. I sip my coffee again.

‘I read it all wrong, Sophie. They were celebrating. Mags ordered champagne. They were celebrating Mags being free of Eric, Vera being free of Alex, Mary for being with Eddie. She says the fiscal is throwing the book at Parnell. I hope it’s a big book, hope it kills him.’ I pause. ‘But Mary kept giving me funny looks. That lunch was not her idea. I’m not sure she has forgiven me for dragging her back. And you know, Sophie, I’m not sure I care.

‘But good God, they wanted all the details, the horror of the tunnels under the hill. But I didn’t tell them anything. Mags doesn’t need any more fodder for her tabloid exclusive. Exclusives? Can that be plural?’ Sophie remains quiet on the subject. ‘She wants to interview me for more details for a book deal she’s been offered. She had approached Costello, who told her where to go.’ I smirk. ‘Mags is a pain. I think I preferred the porcelain version with Eric doing her voice. At least he got a word in.’

I look at our own statue at the top of the flower bed; Rose, we call her. She too is being dusted with frost as she holds her harp, looking over her shoulder like someone might nick it.

‘What I never realized is that Mary and Mags have known each other for ages. Why did I not see that? We’d never have known if it wasn’t for that copy of
Catch-22
. I thought we were good at secrets, but Mary beats us hands down. You’d have rumbled her straight away.’

I sigh.

‘I asked Mary about Charlie. All she managed was “he’s well but he’s …” before Vera starts on about her Charles. The half-brothers are in competition already. Vera will get some money out of this, won’t she? You’d know about the legal side of it. I was zoning out when Mary slips her palm on mine and passes me this wee card, secretly. Like I say, good at secrets.’ I pull the card from my pocket. ‘It’s a drawing of me in a white coat wearing a miner’s hat. I have a huge head and a hairy face. This is what Charlie the Coco Pops kid thinks a doctor looks like.’ I show it to Sophie before folding it up.

‘But they never mentioned Lorna, Katrine, or Gilly or Carla. They are too wrapped up in themselves. What kind of celebration of life is it that forgets the dead, or celebration of freedom that forgets the incarcerated? And the missing. They never mentioned you. Never mentioned Billy. Never mentioned what he did for them, what he gave …’

Sophie seems to contemplate this.

‘What did Rossetti say …
Pleasure past and anguish past, Is it death or is it life?
It’s all past. I said I needed to go to the loo, took my jacket and left. I sat in the car outside and wished I was meeting Billy for chips and cheesy sauce. I wish you had met him, you would have hated him.’ We share a giggle.

It is starting to rain now. The garden comes alive with pitter-pat noises, and the surface of the pond starts to dance in an echo of the Goblin Market. I can’t help but shiver when I think about the pond, the water, the noise of my nose breaking, my cheekbones shattering. I lift the mug to warm my face. But the injuries, the bruises, the water in my lungs made Costello’s job easy. Not that she was totally convinced about the self-defence, less convinced when she later spotted Sophie’s silver locket round my neck. She doesn’t miss much but I get the feeling she didn’t push as hard as she could have. Those cold grey eyes of hers see the bigger picture.

I kick the wall with my toe as if I’m shaking a bed to wake a sleeping friend. In this case it is a flower bed. Rod has reseeded it, some flowers that might bloom in the early spring.

Might.

I sip at my coffee. ‘If Mags and Vera are the alternative then I’m glad I am as I am. But why did they never mention you, Soph? Not even once?’

The silence intensifies, as if she’s thinking about it. The rain is streaming down my face, joining the tears. The surface of the coffee is spotting with raindrops.

A vulpine cough breaks the silence. In the night air it sounds like somebody stifling a laugh. I smile at Sophie, glad we are here, close by, still together. Glad that she never left. Glad that she never got away.

Then joining hands to little hands

Would bid them cling together,

‘For there is no friend like a sister,

In calm or stormy weather …’