Bedlam (17 page)

I’m sorry
… I’m sorry …

His chest was tight, his head pounded. Fear irrigated his system with every beat of his heart. He raised a shaking hand and wiped away tears and saliva with his sleeve. Eventually he lifted his head. Nell crouched alongside him, one hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

McNeil blinked. Confusion slowed his reactions as he pushed her aside and hauled himself back to his feet. “What’s happening to me?” he stammered.

Nell stepped back as he steadied himself like a drunk, swaying, frantically seeking a point of reference, something immoveable in a world of shifting images and altered reality. He fixed his gaze on the one working lamppost at the end of the lane, its solitary beam providing a halo of muted light, a beacon obscured by driving snow.

“If you want this to end, you must go back to the beginning.”

“The beginning?”
His palm tingled. He remembered her first touch. The tingling worked its way up his arm and he gripped his shoulder as the sensation turned to pain and his muscle contracted in response.

“You know how to resolve this,” she continued. “You’ve simply forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“How this all began.”

“And how do I remember?”

“You have the means to see things more clearly.”

McNeil reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle prescribed by Dr Richardson. The capsules rattled like live things trying to escape.

“Is this what you mean? Is he part of this?” He raised his hand, his first impulse to throw the meds as far as he could.

“You need to remember,” Nell cautioned. “Memories are weapons in the liminal war.”

“Memories?
Repressed or implanted?”

“Only you know the truth.”

That was the whole problem. He didn’t know the truth. He shook his head wearily and looked away, aware that she watched him carefully, waiting to help or waiting to pounce. He focused on the driving snow, and the silence between them grew.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” he asked eventually.

“Because if you are to come to terms with what you did, the truth must be learned, not told.”

A muffled noise at the far end of the alley reluctantly drew his attention and he raised a hand to silence her. Hooded figures moved like a feral pack, crossing through the weak beam of light in the direction of the warehouse gates. He squinted
and counted three scaling the metalwork. The heavy chains rattled dully as they climbed. As they released their hold and thudded to the ground inside the compound, he spotted a fourth who paused for a moment before reaching out and hauling himself up nimbly. As he swung over the pinnacle of the gate, his hood slipped, his green hair suddenly illuminated by the yellow light.

McNeil turned back to Nell. “Last chance, Nell.” He stepped closer, ducked his head and whispered hoarsely. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry … I can’t.”

“Right.
Get back in the car,” he hissed. “Lock the doors and stay there until I get back.”

Nell reached out and caught at his sleeve “Where are you going?”

“To do what I should have done all along. To look for real evidence.”

“You’re making a mistake. You need to stay with me.”

“No. My mistake was thinking that I needed you at all. I never needed you. I’ll find the connection, and I’ll find Kit, and I’ll do it my way.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

They must be kids
, he decided, if agility was any measure of age. He was barely thirty and as fit as the next guy, yet as he followed them over the gate, his muscles screamed at him and he heaved with the exertion. Then again, he couldn’t recall when he’d last slept or eaten or done any of the usual prerequisites for maintaining life, things that had ceased to register importance since first laying eyes on Nell. 

He dropped heavily to the ground, rose with a grunt and peered into the darkened compound. There was no noise to indicate which way the youths had gone but fresh scuffs in the snow pointed the way. He pulled out his phone, switched it to silent,
then cautiously tracked the footprints to a door barricaded ineffectually with a corrugated iron sheet. The metal was bent out of shape, allowing access through a narrow gap. McNeil sucked in a breath and squeezed his way through.

The warehouse was a redundant mausoleum, a reminder of the glory days when Bedlam had been wealthy and the adjacent streets housed workers who’d kept the alleys clean and free from vermin. Now, along with its neighbours, decay oozed from the building like a bad smell. There was nothing to recommend the site to developers and no money to regenerate. All those with an eye to a profit were snapping up real estate in the
suburbs while the arteries that fed the ischaemic heart of Bedlam were clogged with apathy and discontent.

Distant voices drew McNeil further into the darkness and he followed the sound as it reverberated along corridors that reeked of damp and urine. He wondered at that as he tried for shallow breaths, how dilapidated buildings always stank of waste, as if it was a necessary component in the process of decay. Old buildings, old people - both stinking of piss. There was a moral there somewhere but his brain could only concentrate on one thing, the tattoo.

He had to know what it meant.

Because he had one, too.

Using his phone as an inadequate torch, he swept the graffiti-daubed corridor, stepping carefully over debris and crap, by-passing ancillary offices with no more than a cursory glance. Metal filing cabinets lay upended, desks smashed, anything of value long since removed. McNeil recalled many emergency calls to this neighbourhood, arson mainly, and this old building had suffered its fair share. The main roof had gone at the last call out, but only after it had been stripped of slate and lead. Vultures had pretty much picked the bones clean - recycling, Bedlam style. Now awaiting demolition, it was meant to be locked up tight for safety’s sake. In reality, just like the underbelly of the viaduct, it was a haven for the feral and lawless.

He pushed heavily against a door at the end of the corridor, wincing as it creaked on rusted hinges. Everything was wet and cold. He paused to wipe his hand dry on his coat and cocked his head cautiously to listen, but the raised voices ahead, laughing and jeering, more than covered any noise he made. He stepped into a cavernous space and stopped abruptly.

Above his head a giant ribcage of blackened beams allowed the snow to enter the space from a heavy, laden sky. At the far end, high up and dead centre in the surviving brick gable, a circular fan light, as wide as he was tall, allowed weak moonlight access through the broken louvres. The fragmented beam projected onto the centre of the warehouse floor where a fire blazed, fed by charred timbers. A ring of youths huddled around the pool of light, hoods raised, shoulders stooped. Clearly intoxicated, they passed drinks and smokes between them, whooping and jeering at something in the centre of the ring. McNeil fully expected an illegal dog fight and braced himself for beasts scarred physically and mentally, bred solely for destruction and the entertainment of the ignorant.

Pocketing his phone he moved closer, keeping to the shadows, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dappled light. The iron posts that supported the remains of the roof were thick with graffiti - the usual tag names, blasphemy and profanity - but as he looked more intently he realised that the words formed artwork and each pillar actually depicted horrific images
of slaughter and torture. On one, a grotesque man lay twisted, his belly split open in a hideous smile. The next showed the head of another exploded by gunfire. The red paint sprayed halfway up the height of the post and pooled on the ground beneath his feet. He lifted his foot gingerly. The paint was dry, the image old.

As he approached the inner circle, the raucous noise increased. Fighting had broken out between two of the youths who scrabbled like rabid dogs as a loaded syringe skittered across the wet concrete in McNeil’s direction. He ducked behind a pillar and held his breath. Weed, the kid with green hair, passed within feet of him, whooping loudly as he bent unsteadily and retrieved the drugs.

McNeil pressed his face against the cold iron pillar and exhaled slowly. His head began to swim, the images and the pungent odour of menace and decay contributing to his light-headedness. When he pulled his cheek away from the metalwork his stomach contracted with a jolt.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he looked up and realised he’d been resting against an image of Popeye hanging by his open throat; on the adjacent pillar,
Jaimsey, complete with blood splatter and vacant expression.

He’d been the one to suggest that the murder of the vagrants was unconnected to the attack on Nell, but if that were really true, it would by default also be unconnected to Kit’s
disappearance, and he didn’t want that. In his head they were all connected - they had to be - or he’d be back at square one with just a jumble of incoherent dreams, thoughts and suspicions. He’d been led here for a reason, and although unclear of the ultimate motivation, he accepted it as a necessary step in some purposeful game. He knew he needed to speak to Weed, but if the youths had been witnesses to what happened at the viaduct, then they weren’t going to stand around politely answering his questions.

He pulled out his phone and punched out Dennis’ number. “Come on,” he urged impatiently. Dennis and the boys could round up the whole litter of miscreants, interrogate them to their heart’s content and he would grab Weed on the rebound. A night in custody might loosen his tongue about the tattoo.

He raised his head when the shouting turned to chanting and the youths all looked up in unison. McNeil followed their gaze in horror. More hooded figures scuttled like rats along the remaining roof trusses. Ahead of them, balancing precariously, arms tied behind his back, a man was being prodded and taunted. When they reached a spot above the flames, a final lunge with a stick caused the man to topple.

His fall was broken by the rope around his neck.

The body jerked. The feet kicked violently. McNeil heard rhythmic thudding in his head despite the fact that the boots kicked impotently in thin air.

“Huh?” Dennis’ grunt came harsh and heavy in his ear. “This had better be good. It’s the middle of the fucking night.”

“Dennis - Tavistock Road - the old Spillers warehouse.” McNeil’s words came out in a short staccato burst.
Kids, bloody kids!
He couldn’t believe his eyes. “I think I have the little fuckers who did for Popeye and Jaimsey. Get some back-up down here pronto.”

“What?”

“They’ve just strung up another one.” McNeil inched forward. He heard heavy breathing in one ear as Dennis struggled awake; in the other he heard the anarchic cry of the mob.

“Where are you?”

“Inside the warehouse. It’s like something out of a horror movie. There’s at least ten of them that I can see, maybe more. Crack-heads in hoodies, drink, drugs and fucking mayhem.”

“I’m on it.” Dennis was suddenly
transformed, sleep cast aside, DI Todd reporting for duty. “Joey, keep out of sight. Wait for backup. Do not under any circumstances intercede. Do you hear me?”

“I’m going to have to do something, Dennis. There’s a chance this one might still be alive.”

He doubted it. He was sure he’d heard his neck snap but he couldn’t just leave him. He couldn’t hide in the shadows while a man was murdered in front of him.

He thought of Nell and all her secrets waiting in the car. He thought of Kit, just waiting for him - somewhere. Then his gaze swung back to the man at the end of the rope. He’d seen him before, that very morning, on the front cover of the Bedlam ‘Herald’. John Bales, the water bailiff stared back at him with bulging eyes.

“Armed police!” yelled McNeil. “You’re surrounded. Stop what you’re doing. Now!” He was already running, the phone pressed to his ear. He wasn’t armed and they weren’t surrounded, nevertheless the kids began to scatter, and Bales, at the end of the rope, twitched as if electricity were passing through him.

“Joey.
Joey!
Wait for bloody backup!”

McNeil kept running. Even when the youths were no longer in front but had scattered sideways and behind him, he ignored the obvious danger and made for the man at the end of the rope. He stopped when his feet were kicked out from under him and he hit the ground with a thud. His chin hit the concrete. Air expelled in a rush from his lungs and the knowledge that he’d made a reckless mistake was confirmed when he felt a heavy weight on his back.

“What we got here?” The voice, barely broken, grated in his ear and spittle sprayed his cheek.

McNeil twisted, struggled to his knees and tried to dislodge his attacker, but he clung like a limpet and another joined in, adding his weight.

“We caught us a copper.” The grunt was accompanied by drunken laughter. “Play time, lads.”

“Fetch another rope,” squealed a younger voice.

The sound of running feet indicated the return of the pack. Many rough hands hauled him up, forced his arms violently behind his back, and he was frog marched to the arena.

Above, John Bales had stopped kicking. His eyes were closed, his face blue with asphyxia. Flames licked at the soles of his feet.

McNeil lurched forward, heart pounding, muscles bunched, a final attempt to make a difference, but the collective weight of the mob held him back.

“Cut him down, for God’s sake,” he yelled desperately. “The whole place is surrounded. Cut him down while you can. Don’t make this any worse than it needs to be.”

He was answered by manic, drug-fuelled laughter as another length of timber was thrown onto the fire. Sparks erupted, catching hold of Bales’ trousers. McNeil struggled impotently, but when a redundant can of spray paint was also hurled into the flames, all he could do was turn his head away and hope for a speedy end, both for Bales and himself.

The first blow to his belly was an ineffectual punch from an immature fist, the stick poked tentatively at a captive animal, macabre curiosity or a litmus test. He gasped more through surprise than pain. Then the second blow, from a larger attacker, harder, with more intent, landed at his temple. His head snapped back, sharp white light fragmented his vision and his knees buckled. He slumped and felt a boot at his kidneys, another at his shin. He clutched his phone tightly and tried to curl into a ball, but his tormentors prevented him, stamping at his limbs, kicking at his vulnerable belly, whooping at his grunts of pain. Someone grabbed at his hair and slammed his cheek against the concrete, back and forth. Pain exploded into his temple, his head was hauled back and he felt rough fibres scrape his face as a rope was forced around his neck. He gagged at the stricture.

“String ‘m up.”

“Slit the fucker’s throat.”

“Wait!” The word struggled for life and exploded desperately. The last gasp, the long shot, and when miraculously the pressure at his throat eased, McNeil heaved in a lungful of rancid air. “Don’t do this …”

“
Don’t do this. Don’t do this
,” they mimicked him, yanking the rope tighter.

“You’re … making a … mistake,” rasped sounds barely intelligible, and McNeil’s eyes screwed tight with the effort.

“No, the mistake is yours.”

The deep growl cut through the chaos and stopped the pack in their tracks, like a child’s game of statues. Fists raised, boots in mid kick, his assailants all turned toward their alpha, and McNeil raised his head and tried to do the same.

He was dragged back to his feet and held upright by the mob as his knees buckled and muscles failed. Vicious fingers nipped at his skin, yanked his hair, twisted tight at his clothes and at the rope around his neck. He dragged his eyes open and tried hard to focus on the man standing before him, not a kid in a hoodie but a man tall enough and broad enough to block the beam of light and cast a shadow that enveloped McNeil like a shroud.

“I warned you.”

Like the first notes in a long-forgotten song, the voice taunted his memory.
I warned you. I told you what would happen. This is all your fault.

He dragged in a desperate breath as shattered ribs joined the mob in further torture, stabbing from the inside. He felt terror bubble up and force its way past the stricture at his larynx. It exited as a feeble yelp, but in his head it was a howl of pain and fear and anger.

“I … I’m sorry …” McNeil didn’t recognize his own voice. It came out grated, disconnected, and his mind followed suit. Voices, real and imagined, jostled for supremacy. He swung dangerously between realities.

“Sorry isn’t good enough. It’s far too late for that.”

McNeil’s chin dropped to his chest, and blood and saliva drooled onto his shirt. He tried to concentrate but his head spun, and consciousness crept stealthily away. He hung over the abyss, suspended by a single tenuous thread - a siren. It taunted him with its haunting faraway sound.