Spawn (17 page)

Logan glanced at the white-washed cottages as he walked. Each one had its own drive and there was hardly one which did not boast two cars. These private dwellings stood out in marked contrast to the estate on which he lived. It lay a mere few hundred yards down the lane and the staid uniformity of the council houses offered a marked contrast to the gleaming individuality of these expensive properties. Perhaps Sally was right, he thought, it would be nice to live in a place like that. He was contemplating that thought when something moved away to his right.

He glanced round, slowing down only slightly, squinting into the blackness in an attempt to see what had made the sound. He heard a shuffling, scratching noise and, a moment later, a hedgehog scuttled out from beneath one of the hedges and trundled across the lane. Logan smiled to himself as he watched it disappear into one of the gardens opposite. A few yards further on another of the tiny creatures was splattered across the road. Cars sometimes drove down the lane and, obviously, this one had squashed the unfortunate hedgehog. It had been there a long time for, even in the gloom, Logan could see that its flattened remains were stiff, giving it the appearance of a spiky frisbee. He smiled at his analogy and walked on.

There was a farmhouse on the right. Painted black, it was almost invisible in the darkness but, from inside, he could hear the barking of a dog. The bloody thing had gone for him a couple of times in the past and he passed by hurriedly despite the fact that the animal was safely penned in the building. He walked another few yards and came to a rotting wooden stile. Beside it a bent and battered sign declared:

FOOTPATH

The so-called footpath led across a field and came out right opposite his own house. He decided to risk the many cow-pats which littered the field and cross it in an effort to get home quicker. He put his foot on the bottom plank of the stile and hoisted himself up. It creaked ominously under his weight and for a second he thought it was going to collapse but, as nimbly as possible, he swung himself over and landed with a loud plop in the mud on the other side.

“Sod it,” he said, aloud, scraping some of the glutinous muck off on the bottom plank. That done, he set off across the field.

The light from the lane diminished to a point where his only guide was the odd light burning in the houses which backed on to the field. It was virtually impossible to see more than fifteen or twenty feet ahead. The crispness of the night air made the smells around him seem all the more prominent and he winced at the strong odour of cow dung. The ground was soft despite the frost and he almost slipped over twice, the second time shooting out a hand to grasp the fence which ran alongside him. He yelped in pain as his groping fingers closed over some barbed wire. Logan stopped dead, fumbling in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief, dabbing at the small cuts and muttering irritably to himself. He reached into his coat pocket for his fags and lit one up, puffing at it for a second before moving on.

The field was separated from the nearest house by a double row of trees, the ground in between each one thick with underbrush. Gorse and blackberry bushes grew in rampant abundance, in many places reaching shoulder height. There was a powerful smell of rotted vegetation in the air and Logan muttered to himself as he walked.

A twig snapped close by and, instinctively, he stepped back, the noise sounding thunderous in the stillness of the night.

His foot sank into something soft and he realized that it wasn’t mud.

“Bloody cows,” he groaned, shaking his foot.

However, his complaints were cut short when he heard another sound – the low rustling of bushes being parted. Logan squinted into the thick underbrush but he could see nothing. There was a moment’s silence then the sound came again, closer this time.

A fox perhaps? Probably another hedgehog.

He swallowed hard and walked on, quickening his step for reasons he himself was not sure of. The other stile which marked the far end of the footpath was less than a hundred yards away and Logan could see the light from a nearby house beckoning him. His feet made squelching sounds in the mud and, as he walked, he glanced towards the trees nearby.

There was a loud scratching sound in the bushes less than two feet from him and he opened his mouth, allowing a small gasp to escape his lips. A sibilant rasping sounded so loud in the stillness and, at last, Logan broke into a run. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the light ahead of him but it seemed to be a million miles away.

Beside him, the snapping of twigs seemed to grow to deafening proportions and he realized with horror that whatever was in the bushes was keeping pace with him.

His mind sought an explanation. It wanted to find a logical answer but all he could think of was getting to that bloody stile and clambering out of the field.

It was fifty yards away and he was still running, the bushes actually moving beside him now, some pushed over by his invisible companion. He could not bring himself to look for fear of what he might see.

Thirty yards.

The light ahead gleamed brighter and Logan found renewed strength in his legs as, beside him, he heard a low whining sound.

His breath was rasping in his lungs, his mouth dry.

Ten yards and he could see that stile. It was broken in two places and for that he was grateful, because it meant he wouldn’t have to waste time clambering over it.

Five yards.

He almost fell, slipping in another cow-pat. His arms pinwheeled wildly for a moment but he retained his balance. The perspiration was now heavy on his face, his breath harsh and almost painful. His legs ached from running and he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

There was a loud screech and a snapping of wood to his right, so close it seemed that it was coming from inside his own head. Something burst from the under-bush and flew at him. He tried to scream but couldn’t find the breath. He went down, face first into the mud, rolling over quickly, his eyes bulging and terror winding icy tendrils around his throat.

The cat which had leapt out of the bushes at him was already scampering off into the darkness, a mouse held firmly in its jaws.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped, wiping his face and dragging himself to his feet. For long seconds he stood there, trying to regain his composure. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a second before exhaling in an audible sigh of relief. His clothes were splattered with mud and cow dung and he tried to brush it off with his hands. What the hell would Sally say about this? He suddenly found that he could smile and, as he watched the cat loping off across the field, he began to laugh.

“Bloody idiot,” he said to himself and, still chuckling, he clambered over the stile.

The dark shape which loomed behind him seemed to grow from the blackness itself. Where gloom and night air had swirled around, there was suddenly something tangible.

Ian Logan thought he had heard a gust of wind but what he did hear,
all
he heard, was the arc of metal as the weapon descended. The scream was locked in his throat. His eyes bulged wildly as he saw something metallic glinting above him. The dark outline of. . .

Before he had time to discern the shape, his throat was slashed open.

Darkness became eternal night.

Despite the fact that the sun was shining, there was a harsh chill in the air and Randall shivered involuntarily as he stepped out of the Panda car. He yawned and rubbed a hand across his face. Behind him, the radio crackled and Constable Higgins reached for it; Randall didn’t hear what he said because he was already making his way up the small incline that led to the footpath. A piece of rope had been tied across the entrance to the footpath and another uniformed constable stood there. The Inspector recognized him as Chris Fowler, the youngest man on the force. Yet to reach his twenty-sixth birthday, the constable looked fresh-faced and alert and seemed to remind Randall of his own weariness.

“Morning, sir,” said Fowler.

Randall smiled thinly. The youngster was still nervous, only having been on the force for six months and he was still somewhat in awe of his superior. The Inspector patted the younger man on the shoulder as he passed. He swung his leg over the piece of rope and started up the narrow path. There were houses on either side of it, both separated from it by high hedges and a welter of rampant wild plants which seemed still to be flourishing despite the onset of the cold weather. Clumps of stinging nettles grew thickly on either side, spilling over onto and into the cracks in the broken concrete in places. Long fingers of blackberry bush clutched at the policeman’s jacket as he passed. Muttering irritably to himself, Randall tugged the jacket free and walked on. The heady aroma of wet grass and damp wood filled his nostrils and he reached for a cigarette, lighting it hurriedly as if trying to dispel the fresh natural odour of the countryside. He sucked hard on the filter and walked on.

Ahead of him, tall trees were dotted with black clumps which signalled the presence of crows’ nests. Most of them were abandoned by the look of it just one solitary bird hovered in the crisp blue sky, as if casting an eye over the proceedings beneath it. Randall glanced at the houses on either side of the path. They were all simple red-brick buildings, with neatly kept gardens and suitably gleaming windows. Nothing seemed out of place on the estate, for every building appeared similarly immaculate.

Opposite him at the moment, in the house across the street, Sally Logan was being comforted by her mother while a perplexed police-woman tried to make some sense out of her hysterical blubberings.

Yes, everything was in its place on the estate. Even the corpse in the field just ahead.

Randall clambered over the wooden stile at the end of the footpath and eased himself down, trying to avoid the glutinous pools of mud. There was a powerful smell of rancid muck and, Randall suspected, cow shit. His suspicions were well founded when he nearly stepped in a pat. He glanced around, at the trees and undergrowth which ran alongside the barbed wire fence marking the boundaries of the field to his right. To his left ran another fence which separated the back gardens of nearby houses from the expanse of field and, straight ahead, he saw a group of three men standing around a blanketed shape. All three turned to face him as he drew nearer.

Two were on his force, Constable Roy Charlton and Sergeant Norman Willis. The third man looked like a midget placed beside the two burly policemen. He nodded a greeting to Randall and the Inspector returned the gesture. Dr Richard Higham stepped back from the shape at his feet and took off his glasses, polishing them enthusiastically with the monogrammed handkerchief he took from his trouser pocket. Randall exhaled deeply, looking down at the grey blanket. All around it, the mud was stained a deep rust colour, the dried blood mingling with the thick, oozing slime. The Inspector sucked hard on his cigarette and blew the smoke out in a long thin stream.

“What have we got?” he asked, his question addressed to no one in particular, his gaze riveted to the shapeless form at his feet. A hand protruded from beneath the blanket, the fingers curled and rigored.

Sergeant Willis handed the inspector a wallet and watched as his superior flipped it open. It contained about twenty pounds, mostly in pound notes, an Access card which bore the embossed name Ian J Logan and a couple of small photos. The photos showed a young woman, the man’s wife Randall reasoned, and the other had her smiling out at the camera, a dark-haired man beside her. Randall held the photo before him and then looked down at the shape beneath the blanket.

“We haven’t been able to make positive identification yet, guv,” said Willis. “But we’re pretty sure it’s him.”

Randall looked puzzled and handed the wallet back to his sergeant.’

“What’s the problem with identification then?” Randall wanted to know. He looked at Higham who knelt down and took hold of one corner of the blanket. “The bloke under there is the one in the picture, isn’t it?” He took a final drag on his fag.

“You tell me,” said the doctor and pulled the material away to expose the corpse.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” murmured Randall, quickly clenching his teeth together, fighting to control the somersaults which his stomach was performing.

Willis lowered his head, Charlton looked away. Only Higham glanced first at Randall and then at the corpse.

The head was missing.

Randall wiped a hand across his face and sucked in several lungfuls of air. His stomach was still churning and he could almost feel the colour drain from his cheeks. Yet, somehow, he managed to keep his gaze fixed on the decapitated body. Blood was caked thickly all down the front of Logan’s coat and for many yards around the body. The dark stains were everywhere. Randall felt a bead of perspiration burst onto his forehead as he studied the hacked and torn stump of the neck, a portion of spinal cord visible through the pulped mess. The head had been severed very close to the shoulders and apparently with some difficulty because there were a dozen or more other equally savage gashes at the base of the neck and even on the shoulders themselves. At first sight however, the damage seemed to be confined to that particular area, the blood which covered the body having come from the severed veins and arteries of the neck rather than from any wounds in the torso.

“Put it back,” said Randall, motioning to the blanket and Higham duly obliged. The Inspector reached for his cigarettes and hurriedly lit another.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Willis told him. “They’ll take the body to the hospital.”

“How long has he been dead?” asked Randall, looking at the doctor.

“It’s difficult to say without the benefit of a thorough post-mortem,” Higham told him. “The pathologist at Fairvale will be able to tell you that more precisely than I can.”

“Try guessing,” said Randall, taking a puff on his cigarette.