Spawn (23 page)

“Take them back,” said Calvin, waving Diane away.

“What is it, Mick?” she demanded.

“Take them back to the car,” he shouted and the vehemence in his voice startled her. She turned and led the two children back across the field towards the shelter of the Audi.

Calvin watched them, waiting until he saw them reach the vehicle before returning his attention to what he had found. He bent, squatting on his haunches, peering at the rain-sodden earth. The grass had been dug over in an area he guessed measuring about twelve feet by six. The mud was sticky and oozing, like reeking gravy and, through this thin film of muck, he could see a face. It was the face of a baby although the definition was questionable. The head, uncovered by the torrential rain, was bulbous with two large growths over the holes where the eyes should have been. In the black pits of sockets worms writhed, one of them disappearing into the open mouth of the putrescing body and it was all Calvin could do to stop himself from vomiting. One rotted, mottled arm protruded from the earth nearby, the fingers stubby, two of them missing. Close to that an entire tiny corpse had been uncovered by the elements. What remained of it had been gnawed in places, maybe by rats or a badger. The stomach had been torn open to reveal a seething mess of mouldering viscera. The stench rising from the grave was overpowering and Calvin took a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his nose, his head swimming. He counted at least half a dozen pieces of human debris and one complete corpse. What lay deeper he could only guess at. He stood up, swaying slightly, the realization that he was indeed standing beside some kind of grave, sweeping over him as surely as the choking stench which wafted from it on invisible clouds. He stood there for long seconds, his eyes fixed on the worm-eaten, ravaged body of one of the foetuses then, as he saw one of the slimy creatures wriggle from a hole in the corpse’s stomach like some kind of animated umbilical cord, he finally lost control and vomited violently.

Diane, watching from the back seat of the car, where she was doing her best to comfort the two boys, saw her husband tottering drunkenly back across the field. He finally reached the wooden fence and swung himself over it, supporting himself against the Audi before pulling the driver’s side door open. He flopped heavily into the seat and sat motionless, gazing ahead. Diane could hear his laboured breathing.

“We’ve got to report this,” he said, falteringly, reaching for the ignition key and turning it.

“What did you find, Mick?” she demanded. “For God’s sake tell me.”

He lowered his head momentarily.

“There’s . . . something buried.” He coughed and, for a moment, thought he was going to be sick again. He gritted his teeth and the feeling diminished somewhat. “Something . . . embryos. There’s a grave in that field.” He sucked in a deep breath. “We’ve got to report it, now.”

He started the car, swung it round and headed back towards Fairvale’s main entrance.

Within an hour he had made a full report to a senior doctor and, thirty minutes later, Mick Calvin led that same doctor and three porters, Harold Pierce amongst them, to the spot where he’d found the grave. And there, under the watchful eyes of both men, five aborted foetuses were uncovered. The bodies were put into a sack and carried back to the hospital where they were disposed of in the usual way. Cast into the mouth of the furnace as they should have been weeks before.

Harold watched as the tiny bodies were born away for disposal his body shaking.

The voices inside his head had begun to chatter once more.

Harold sat nervously in the outer office, his hands clasped on his knees. The room was large, a white-walled enclosure which he shared with just three leather chairs and a secretary who sat across from him hammering away at the keys of an old Imperial type-writer. The constant clacking sounded like dozens of tiny explosions. The secretary herself was a woman in her forties, a plump lady with greying hair swept back from a face coated with far too much make-up. It seemed to shine beneath the banks of fluorescents set into the ceiling. There was a mug on her desk with a slogan written on it in large red letters. Harold wondered if it was her name as he saw the word June on it. She glanced up at him every now and then and when she did, he would self-consciously touch the scarred side of his face as if trying to shield it from her gaze. She smiled at him warmly and he returned the gesture sheepishly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat which made a sound like someone breaking wind, as is the wont of leather chairs. Harold tried to sit still but it was a difficult task. He glanced up at the wall clock above the secretary’s head. It showed 4.26 p.m. Below it was a painting which Harold could not make out. It was just squares, all painted different colours, forming no pattern or shape. Not unlike the paintings Harold himself had done in occupational therapy.

The memory of those days seemed so distant now. Then he had felt as if he belonged at the hospital. He had friends and, more importantly, he was not burdened with responsibility as he was now. It seemed like a million years ago. Now he sat in the outer office, waiting, remembering back to just a few hours ago when he had helped to disinter the foetuses which he had spent so much care saving in the first place. Saving was the word to describe his actions but now he feared that they would punish him for it. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to rest against the wall. Immediately, the buzzing in his ears became the rasping voices which he had come to know so well.

Harold sat up, his eyelids jerking open. He looked around, as if expecting to see someone sitting next to him but then he realized that the voices were inside his head.

He swallowed hard.

There was a loud bleep and a green light flared on the console beside the secretary. She flipped a switch and Harold heard her say something into the inter-com. When she’d finished speaking she looked up at Harold, smiled and told him to go in. He nodded, got to his feet and made for the varnished door to his right. It bore a nameplate:

Dr Kenneth McManus, R.C.S.

Harold knocked and received the instruction to enter. He walked in to find Brian Cayton in there as well as McManus who was shielded behind a huge mahogany desk. He motioned for Harold to sit down and brief pleasantries were exchanged. McManus was a big man, tall but muscular with sunken cheeks and lustrous black hair which was brushed back, accentuating the widow’s peak he had. His eyes were set close together, rather like fog lamps on the front of a car, only these particular lights glowed with a pale grey hue as Harold found himself pinned beneath their gaze.

“Pierce, isn’t it,” said McManus, smiling thinly.

Harold nodded.

“How long have you been with us?”

“Two months, sir,” said Harold, lowering his head, slightly. “Perhaps a bit longer.”

“And you were entrusted with the disposal of aborted foetuses on a number of occasions during this time. Correct?” The words had a harsh, almost accusatory ring to them.

Harold nodded.

“Did you in fact complete the disposal procedure?” McManus wanted to know.

“I did as I was told, sir,” Harold insisted, a slight pain gnawing at the back of his neck.

McManus nodded in the direction of Cayton who was sitting to Harold’s left.

“Mr Cayton tells me that you tried to prevent him from disposing of a dead foetus,” said the doctor. “Is this true?”

“I didn’t feel well that day,” Harold said, blankly, his one good eye staring right through McManus. He appeared to be in a dazed condition, his mouth forming words which his mind had not formulated.

“How many other times have you tried to interfere with the disposal procedure?”

“I haven’t done . . . I didn’t try to stop anyone else.” The words were coming slowly, monosyllabically. As if each one were an effort. Something not unnoticed by either the doctor or Cayton.

“Are you all right, Pierce?” asked McManus.

“Yes, sir,” Harold insisted.

Doctor and porter exchanged puzzled looks.

“Did
you
bury those bodies in the field, Pierce?” McManus wanted to know.

Harold hesitated, closing his eyes for a moment.

He shook his head.

“Why do the children have to be burned?” he asked, looking straight at the doctor with a stare which made the other man recoil.

McManus sucked in a troubled breath.

“Could you wait outside for a while please, Pierce?” he said, watching as the porter got unsteadily to his feet and walked to the door, closing it gently behind him.

“Pierce was the only one who could have prevented the disposal of the five foetuses we found in the field. Correct?” said McManus.

Cayton nodded.

“Yes, sir, but God knows how he did it,” the porter confessed.

“I think it’s more to the point,
why
he did it? Although his past would go some way to explaining that I suppose.” The doctor exhaled deeply. “I don’t see that we have any alternative other than to dismiss him. It’s unfortunate but I’m just grateful the papers didn’t find out about it.”

“Wasn’t there a similar case in Germany a few years ago?” said Cayton. “Only there, they’d been making soap out of the remains.”

McManus raised one eyebrow.

“He lives on the grounds doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Cayton told him. “In that old hut.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’ll have to leave there too.”

“What if he’s got nowhere to go, sir?”

“That’s not our problem, Cayton. The man is obviously unbalanced in some way. He’ll probably end up back in an institution. Probably the best place for him. I just don’t want him in
my
hospital.” The doctor was already reaching for a switch on the console before him. He flipped it up.

“Send Pierce back in will you, please,” he said, settling back in his chair, hands clasped across his lap.

Harold re-entered and sat down, listening unconcernedly as McManus explained that he was to lose his job. It wasn’t until the doctor mentioned leaving the hut that the older porter showed any trace of reaction. His one good eye seemed to bulge momentarily but the moment passed and he sat in silence as the reasons for his dismissal were reeled off. But Harold wasn’t listening to McManus, his attention was focused on the voices which spoke to him from within. The doctor finally finished and leant forward in his chair, glancing first at Cayton and then at Harold.

“I’m sorry things turned out like this, Pierce,” he said. “I realize your problems. Perhaps you would be better off. . .” he was struggling to find the words, rummaging amidst the welter of bluntness for a few morsels of tact. “It might be best if you returned to the institution. I can contact doctor Vincent, I’m sure, if you have nowhere else to go, he would understand.”

“Thank you,” said Harold, blankly, absently touching the scarred side of his face. It felt dry beneath his fingers.

“Do you have somewhere to go, Harold?” asked Cayton.

“Yes.” The word came out almost angrily. “I have somewhere to go.” He got to his feet, a new found strength filling him. “I have somewhere to go.”

A hissing, sibilant command sounded so loud inside his head that he almost winced but he turned and walked towards the door, moving as if each step were an effort.

“Goodbye,” he said and left them.

It was a long time before either McManus or Cayton spoke.

As Harold stepped into the lift he looked straight through Maggie Ford. She smiled at him but the gesture provoked no response. His one good eye looked as glassy as the false one, his skin was the colour of rancid butter.

“Harold.” Maggie put out her hand to touch his shoulder.

He looked at her again, some of the mistiness vanishing from that blank stare. He touched his face and swallowed hard.

“Harold, are you all right?” she asked him, as the lift doors slid shut.

He opened his mouth to speak, his lips fluttering noiselessly.

The words inside his head became warnings.

Harold looked squarely at Maggie, his brow furrowing slightly. She released her grip on his shoulder, much as someone would let go of a dog when they’d just discovered it was liable to bite them at any minute. The doctor regarded Harold warily, somewhat relieved when his expression changed to its customary calm blankness.

“I’m leaving here,” he said, softly.

Maggie looked puzzled.

“Leaving? Why?”

“They told me to leave. Because of the children.”

“What children, Harold?” she demanded. “And who asked you to leave?”

“Doctor McManus told me to leave.” He gazed at her with that seething vehemence once more, his face darkening.

“They kill the children,” he hissed.

Maggie was almost relieved when the lift reached its appointed floor and she could step out and away from Harold. She glanced back at him, watching as the doors slid shut on his disfigured visage. She waited a moment then took the stairs up to the fourth floor and Doctor McManus’s office.

Maggie didn’t rime how long she was in the senior consultant’s office but she guessed later that it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. She tried to persuade her superior that Harold was in a bad way both physically and mentally.

“He’s ill,” she insisted. “He should be taken into care, not thrown out onto the streets.”

McManus was unimpressed.

“He committed a breach of hospital regulations,” the older man said. “He’s lucky he’s not being prosecuted never mind dismissed.”

When she asked what he meant, he explained about the foetuses, the grave in the field, how Harold had hidden the bodies and then interred them in secret rather than incinerating them.

“Oh God,” murmured Maggie.

“
Now
do you understand why he has to go?” said McManus, irritably. “The man’s disturbed. I should never have taken him on in the first place.”

“Well then that’s all the more reason to take him into care,” Maggie insisted.

“He needs psychiatric help, not medical help.”

She told him about the cuts on Harold’s body but McManus was obviously tiring of the conversation and it showed in the sharp edge which his words acquired.