Bedlam (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

He felt calmer once he’d escaped the confines of the station. Perhaps the snow was helping.
All that white, pure stuff covering up the mess beneath. It wouldn’t do much for the crime scene, although by now all the evidence that was needed had been collected or photographed, and all that remained was tattered police tape flapping in the breeze.

McNeil parked at the far end of the viaduct and stepped over the tape. Some genius on the council had come up with the idea of designating the disused monolith as a nature trail, one of those meandering footpaths from somewhere to nowhere. Trouble was, nature had taken exception to the decision and clawed its way back. The track was overgrown. Beneath the snow lay rusted metal and broken glass. The wind blew straight at him from across the valley, harsh and unrelenting. There was a decent view if you looked straight ahead. Looking down wasn’t recommended, unless you had a head for heights and were considered mentally sound.

As McNeil had struck out on both counts, he viewed from a distance, assessing the spot where Nell, according to her account, had stepped out. The forensics had shown no evidence of her ever being there, no fibres, footprints or DNA, and it seemed ridiculous in the extreme that she could have survived such a fall. Nevertheless, he focused on the iron railing where he imagined she had stood, toes over the edge, arms spread wide.

He could see her.

Pale flesh illuminated by moonlight, hair swept to one side by the breeze, head tipped gently as if enjoying a caress. He exhaled slowly, afraid to shatter the illusion, aware of the tension in her muscles as she attempted to retain her pose. He reluctantly stepped closer, treading carefully, each step in the virgin snow drawing him closer to the edge. And then he was next to her. Not daring to look or to touch, he felt her presence in the same way he felt Kit, living, breathing, a mere hair’s breadth away. He laid his hands on the rail, felt the snow melt beneath his fingers and peered down.

Below there was nothing but space, a terrible void filled with tunnelling snow drawing him down to Bedlam’s open maw. He gripped the railing tightly, fearful that he might succumb to the lure and take that step himself. There was a strange finality about the place, as if it were the end of something and the beginning was elsewhere, with a leap of faith required to connect the two. He glanced at the iron strut to his right where her hand should be gripping tightly, yet instead she balanced like a gymnast on the high beam, arms outstretched. His eyes were inexplicably drawn upwards, tempted by her nearness and her need.
Naked flesh. Violet eyes. Silver knife … and then nothing but swirling snow and the imaginings of a worn out mind.

Had she really jumped? He doubted it, but he knew others had in the past, and the air was thick with memory and regret. He felt it all around him, closing in, wrapping him up in a blanket of freezing fog. He exhaled and watched as his breath swirled for a moment before dissipating in the frigid atmosphere.

He reached for the strut, closed his hand firmly around the icy metal and hauled himself up, standing where she had stood, wavering as she had done, resisting the urge to step further. He took an icy breath and looked down, not at what lay two hundred feet below him - he avoided that determinedly. The lure was great and he lacked the willpower necessary to resist. Instead, he focused on the ledge beneath the walkway and the rusted beams where the ropes had been fastened. Two one-hundred-and-eighty-foot coils of nylon cable now lay in the evidence room at the station, while suppliers were contacted and purchasers were identified and crossed off the list. McNeil knew from the crime scene photos exactly where the rope had been knotted, where the killer had crouched as he’d secured one end of the macabre puppetry. He leaned out further as he angled for a better look. There was no snow on the ledge, protected as it was from the biting wind by a skirt of Victorian embellishment. Closing his eyes briefly, he tried to re-visualise Nell’s image, her pale hand outstretched, the silver knife held between frozen fingers.

There was blood on the blade. One solitary red bead hung from the tip. McNeil watched, mesmerised, as it released its tenuous hold and dropped through frozen air. He held his breath, scared that the slightest exhalation would disturb the image and
subvert its natural course. As the blood splashed soundlessly against the frozen metal, the knife followed, bouncing against the iron work, falling to rest in a niche created between two grotesque iron gargoyles. The creatures curled their hideous lips at him.

He felt Nell’s smile against his cheek. Not a caress, but a jibe as she taunted him onwards.

He ignored the drop and the panic which was building exponentially, and lowered himself over the railing. He crouched, knees bent, one hand gripping tightly to one of the many horizontal tension rods that laced the substructure. The rusted metal bit into his skin and he absorbed the pain, sucking desperate breaths through gritted teeth, willing his heart to slow down. His fear wasn’t of falling but of letting go. He tightened his hold. When he was steady he reached out further, twisting his body out over the void, fumbling blindly amongst a hundred years or more of bird shit and debris. As his hand finally closed around the smooth blade, he let out the breath he’d been holding, and relief flooded through him.

He hauled himself back. Adrenalin alone carried him over the railing and deposited him in a heap in the snow. He forced his clenched hand to relax, to give up its treasure, and when his fingers unfurled, the blade lay sharp and gleaming. A trace of fresh blood etched a fine line across his palm. He raised his hand and sucked the wound clean.

He couldn’t explain it, didn’t even try, but knew that he was one step closer to working it out.

The snow intensified until it was difficult to see the ends of the viaduct. He narrowed his eyes, squinting against the visual disturbance, and as he turned his gaze toward where he had left his car, he saw someone standing there watching him.

Holding the knife carefully between finger and thumb, he pulled himself up, uncertain whether it was a figure or merely a trick of the light, a shadow caused by refracting snow and beleaguered sunlight, or someone with an interest in what he was doing. His first instinct to approach was tempered by hesitation, unsure if his mind was simply summoning more ghosts to haunt him.

“Kit?” he whispered.

She was there waiting for him, head bent against the driving snow. He saw her clearly. Not in his mind’s eye, but out there in the here and now, dusted with snow. One hand on the car, the other raised, outstretched, as she beckoned him. He heard her call to him, not the whispered breaths in his head that he’d learned to live with, but clear and strong, as if she stood alongside him, and when she lifted her head, the smile she sent his way was sweet and beautiful and real.

His heart lurched and he began to run. Slipping and stumbling in the fresh snow, his co-ordination, his balance all awry. He dragged in a desperate lungful of cold air barbed with icy shards and tried to shout, to call her name again to ensure there was no mistake, that she knew he had seen her, that she was safe, but the words froze in his throat.  She lifted her face to the snow, a curtain of frosted hair slipping stiffly to reveal her face once more. Despite the distance he could see her features clearly, too clearly. Translucent skin dusted white with snow, lips blue with the cold. The microscopic detail jarred his consciousness, acerbically searing his sweet remembered image. He closed his eyes briefly to reset the picture, recklessly ignoring the doubt that mingled with reason and diluted hope. He didn’t care: she was back and that was all his mind could register.

When he reopened his eyes, the space she had occupied was empty. The voice, no longer sweet, crowded his head, mocking him with soft laughter as it wrapped around him, tangling his thoughts, infusing him with despair.  He dropped to his knees, anger and frustration warring with his own weakness.

“What do you want?” he yelled into the emptiness. “What are you trying to tell me?”

There was no answer, no noise but for the disorientating acoustics. The wind squealed at him, an impudent child chasing between the iron struts and railings, throwing snow around as it taunted him.

He rose unsteadily and dusted the snow from his clothes with shaking hands.
Ghosts and ghouls. Mather was right. He needed a drink, something to set him up for round three with Nell. He settled reluctantly for another one of the good doctor’s pills.

Grateful to be out of the biting wind, he slid into the car and popped open the glove compartment, rifling blindly amongst the mess until he pulled out an evidence bag. He dropped in the blade and sealed it up. His own prints could easily be eliminated, and if he were lucky there might be traces left on the smooth surface for forensics to play with. It would gain him some badly needed brownie points, though he wondered how he’d explain to Dennis how he’d known where the knife would be.

He started the engine, and the car puttered and stalled before flickering half-heartedly back to life. Desperate now to be away from this place of dislocated memories, he slammed a hand on the steering wheel with frustration. The engine whined, the tyres slid and the car fishtailed before gaining purchase. Outside on the passenger door, etched carefully within a thin coating of drifted snow, one word stood out alone and unread.

JoJo
x.

Chapter Twenty

It’s a fact I’ve pondered often, this need for man to win the game, to be the victor in all things. Jacob is no different in this respect, though he would baulk at the idea of being categorised with the pack. He considers that he is a breed apart, superior in all things. It seems, however, that he has met a worthy opponent in Joe McNeil. His performance today proves that with certainty. He has overcome the immediate challenge in perhaps unorthodox fashion, and I await Jacob’s response with trepidation and a certain relish.

It will be swift and it will be bloody.

His first move is subtle as he dons his many guises and beguiles the staff. When I wake, he is at my bedside. He fills the room with his presence, sucking out the oxygen and replacing it with pure evil. I slow my breathing. I can outlast this party trick.

“Dearest, Nell.” His voice strokes my skin and I armour myself discreetly. “What shall I do with you, my dear?”

He prowls the room in idle retrospection, trailing his hand across cold tile and colder glass, sampling the starched sheets between finger and thumb, but it is simply a ruse. While he casts a disinterested gaze to the bland furnishings and limited technology, his mind is working, calculating, processing, and when finally he pulls up a chair and sits, I know that already his retribution is decided.

“Is this how you show your gratitude?” he asks.

I hold my tongue, avert my gaze and avoid the confrontation for as long as is reasonable. I cannot afford to let fear overpower me. And I do fear him, as only one who has similarly suffered could know.

He laughs, that low rumble that only I can hear, and I realise now that he intends something heinous. I can only guess at his intention.

“Where is your protector, Nell, your knight who will vanquish the beast on your behalf? I do not see him.” He leans forward, clasps long tapered fingers together and taps them thoughtfully on his chin. “I fear you may yet be betrayed. Your noble knight holds the colours of another. You have a rival for his affections and he is fierce in her protection. It will take considerable pressure to corrupt his chosen course. And therein lies the problem, dear Nell. For, as you know, my want is greater than yours, and I must have him … at any cost.”

I lift my head and meet his eye. He is a vessel filled with hate and it takes all my considerable willpower to hold his gaze.

“Have you eaten, my dear?” he asks. “You look so pale.”

He reaches across and grasps my chin so hard that my lip is crushed against my teeth and I taste blood on my tongue. My eyes roll back in my head. I stifle a moan.

He smirks. “There, there, my dear. Fear not, Jacob is here.” He loosens his iron grip, angling my face this way and that as he studies my composure and seeks to undo it. I long to wrench myself from his grasp, but as his hold softens, my body betrays me and I lean into his caress.

“I will not listen,” I hiss, but my feeble words merely fuel his assault and he trails his fingers softly across my skin, down my neck, lingering in the shallow depression of my collar bone and the valley of my breasts. When I struggle to suppress my gasp at his touch, he follows a trail to my wrist and the serpents welcome him. He tightens his grip until white hot pain shoots up my arm and the serpents sink their fangs into my flesh.

“You believe you are strong but you are not. You believe you are clever and I grant you that. You are devious and growing more cunning by the day, but you will never outwit me. No one can."

“Joe McNeil is like no other. He will see through your tricks and false words.”

“Is that a challenge? Do you offer him up freely?”

“He is not mine to offer.”

“Not yet. But you wish it so, do you not? Do you savour his scent and long for his touch? Do you lust after him in place of me?”

I pull back my hand, but only because he allows it. His gaze travels my thinly clothed body. He could remove my gown in an instant. He could have me remove it just as easily. He could in fact do anything he chooses, and through necessity and self-
preservation I would agree, but instead he merely smiles indulgently and my belly churns with even greater dread. I know that smile. It is the precursor to another game.

“I have done everything you asked,” I reply mutinously, and indeed I have already bowed to his demands numerous times. In my head I excuse my actions, but somewhere deep inside there is a small secret place where I covet remorse and regret. I am reprehensible, a stain on humanity, yet he is the grand director of this elaborate spectacle and must ultimately take the bow
… or the fall.

“
Everything?
I think not, Nell. There is still work to be done. Do not imagine that I will forgo the prize I seek.”

“You are wrong. He is not who you believe him to be.”

He puffs himself up indignantly. I risk his wrath by contradicting his order, his vision of how things will resolve. I must temper my rebellion lest I provoke him beyond control.

“No, Nell. You are the one who does not understand. You have confused the hunted with the hunter. He is prey and cannot save you, no matter how much you may desire it.”

Joe McNeil is the only one who can save me. I know it, and Jacob knows it, which is exactly why he poses such a threat, and why Jacob seeks to discredit my hope.

“You have chosen a protector with many flaws, dear Nell. I fear that he will be easy to subvert. He has weaknesses, addictions. Why, even now he leans upon countless crutches to
see him through the day. He is obsessed with one lost girl. Do you imagine he has room in his life for two?”

“I did not choose him,” I mutter.

“Then who do you think sent him to you?”

I stay silent as his smile taunts me.

“Do as I ask and I will uphold my end of our bargain. Fail me, and there will be dire consequences.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a scalpel. It glints as he plays it between his fingers back and forth, as if he were practising some elaborate piano exercise.

“Very well,” he says finally, “I am ready for the next step. Are you?”