The Sister (3 page)

He heard the rasp of a match and three quick sucking sounds. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted into his nostrils, the urge to cough was insuppressible – he did it inwardly, without opening his lips. His small body jerked with each attempt to keep the sound inside. The tiniest gasp escaped.

A spent matchstick dropped out of the air and onto the ground next to him.

The boy shut his eyes tight, mouthing a silent prayer.

"Your God doesn't scare me, kid!"

At that the boy produced a seashell from his pocket, and held it out at arms length, eyes closed, holding it blindly in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.

"What's that, huh? You're gonna need more than that, kid!" The killer was about to snatch it out of his hand, when
he heard voices.
Men calling out! At least two or three of them.
They were getting closer.

"Bruce! Can you hear us? Bruce!"

Mother of shit!
he cursed under his breath, eyes burning into the boy. "Listen to me, kid, today's your lucky day, but if you tell anyone what you saw . . . I'll find you, and I'll kill you all, your mum, your dad . . . all of you. Have you got that,
Bruce?
"

He nodded, terrified.

The killer turned about sharply, rushing back to where she lay, he scooped her up again. Despite his haste, he checked the ground carefully to ensure no trace of her remained.

His powerful arm clamped her body down onto his shoulder, and he carried her out of sight.

Hidden by the dense vegetation, the killer worked fast, faster than he would have liked, wrapping the arms and legs of the weighted suit around her, he knotted them together. The voices were getting too close for comfort. He gathered her up and heaved the human parcel into the pond, throwing the rucksack and flower bouquet in after her. The bag filled with water, and then sank. The poem she'd written in memory of her boyfriend, floated up to the surface and unfurled, the blue ink blurring as the paper soaked through: an epitaph for a missing person, penned by another, whom herself would remain undiscovered for a long time.

On the bank, he found only one of her boots. Frantically looking for the other one, he mentally backtracked - he was sure he'd picked up both - he
knew
he had. He jammed a large stone into the boot he was holding, and then lobbed it into the dense water. His search for the missing one failed.
It has to be somewhere in this long grass!

With no more time to look, the killer gritted his teeth and spat a curse at the kid and the men who'd rescued him. The boiler suit containing the stone ballast was only half tied to her body. He wasn't worried about that, it was secure enough, but the boot was a trace of her, and if anyone came looking and if they
found
it . . . It would confirm that she'd been there.

From where he was watching, he saw the younger of the two men examine the kid's head where he'd banged it, pulling his hair back to look deep into the hairline. Apparently satisfied there was no serious injury, he'd playfully cuffed at his ear.

The old man remained squatting and spoke to the boy, who nodded. Slowly, he stood and moved away from the others, staring beyond the edge of the woods.

The killer knew he couldn't see him crouched in the shady darkness behind the bushes, but he seemed to stare exactly in his direction.
Had the kid told him?
He backed away silently, deeper into the shadows. The stench of sulphur was thick in his nostrils, and drifted on a slight wind that had picked up, spinning the dry leaves in small whirlwind circles. The breeze swept particles across the dusty surface and carried on up the slope, before subsiding at the feet of the men and boy, exhausted. A few drops of rain began to fall.

Bruce's grandfather turned in the direction of the rattling leaves and stood with narrowed eyes focused on the darkness beyond the treeline, further down the hill.

Something was in the shadows.

His old hackles rose, sharpening his senses. A cocktail he'd last tasted during the Second World War on his lips again. The flavour was familiar. It was the taste of fear.

His memories carried him back to the horror once more. You never forget how it feels.

He'd fought in three wars and survived them all; he was more attuned to minute changes in the atmosphere and unnatural silences than his compatriots, and in possession of a burning desire to remain alive, he smelled the scents of fear and death as they lingered in the sulphurous air, and hanging alongside, was the faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

With his focus concentrated on the treeline, he walked slowly backwards, afraid that if he turned his back something would hurtle out without warning, and take them all. Only when he rejoined the others, did he turn round again. Spreading his arms symbolically, they came under his protection, and he shepherded them away. "Come on, we'd better go."

Chapter 6

The killer calculated that from the direction of their retreat up the hill, wherever they'd come from, they wouldn't have hiked all the way in with a kid that age in tow, meaning they couldn't have parked anywhere near where he'd left his vehicle.

The rain picked up. Heavy droplets crashed through the leaves, spotting his back, dotting the ground around him. He fished his cigarettes from a pocket outside his overalls, took one and lit it, and then not wanting the packet to get wet, he replaced them deeper inside his clothes. When he'd finished smoking, he packed up his gear and headed off to retrieve his car from the rusted tin agricultural shed where he'd been sleeping for days. It cost nothing, and apart from that, the big advantage over staying in contractors' digs, was he didn't have to talk to anyone. He didn't like people.

The barn was at the end of a potholed dirt track, and now disused. Aside from him, no one had been there for years.

He heaved open the door. It thundered noisily on its runners. Four hundred yards away, a flock of crows flew up from their roost in the trees.
Was it me that disturbed them
. . .? O
r is someone else over there?
No time to look now.

Getting into the car, he started the engine and turned up the track. The car rode more like a camel as it bumped and rolled on its suspension. The wipers smeared across the screen before finally cutting through the accumulated grime. After ten minutes, he was relieved to turn onto the smooth tarmac of a country byway.

After a short distance, he turned out onto the main road. Deep in thought, he didn't notice the white and green Lotus Cortina hurtling up behind him. It swung out at the last possible moment, overtaking him on a bend, horn blasting as it roared by.
That idiot is going to kill someone driving like that!
Outraged, something inside him flipped, and flooring the accelerator, he gave chase, flashing his headlights at the car in front.

The young man slowed.

The killer caught up close enough to see his eyes looking back at him in the rear-view mirror. With crew cut hair shorn off at the sides, the shape of the man's head annoyed him. His palm smacked down hard onto his hooter, holding it down continuously, as if doing so would make it louder.

He aimed a two-finger gesture into the rear-view mirror, and to reinforce the message, stuck his right fist out the window and rotated it up and down before accelerating away into the distance.

A few minutes later, a set of unmanned roadworks came into view, reducing traffic to a single file. The lights turned red, and cars immediately started streaming through from the opposite direction, blocking the reduced lane.

The Cortina rolled to a stop. With no place to go, he adjusted the mirror nervously, watching as the battered car rattled in to a halt behind him. In his head, an imaginary scene unfolded.
The driver behind gets out and approaches him. He jumps out of his car . . . What are you after man? Do you want some of this, eh? Yeah? Well, hold on to that then! The man goes down from a single punch, and he kicks him around in the pouring rain . . .
Then just as he'd imagined, the man got out. He watched in horror, the fantasy evaporating when he saw the size of the figure approaching in his mirror. His elbow pushed the door lock down. He'd lost his nerve.

The man stopped by his window. All he could see looking out from the driver's seat were the man's hips and mid torso. The distinctive brass buckle on the leather belt caught his attention. It depicted a skull and cross bones and its empty eye sockets had been picked out in blood red paint.

How can you take someone who wears a buckle like that seriously? It was all a show!
Who does this guy think he is – a bloody Hells Angel?

'Angel' tried the door handle. An entirely different perspective dawned on the man in the car.
He's trying to get at me!

'Angels' face suddenly appeared, pressing hard against the window, contorted, one eyeball almost touching the glass. The crazed eye locked onto him. Tilted as if pushed by a Rhino, the car leaned over. Cortina man shrank into his seat, compelled by fear into looking straight ahead as the big man's lips parted, releasing a shout so loud, it hurt his ears even though the windows and doors were shut. "OPEN IT!"

Turning in his seat, he looked at the white foamy spit as it mixed with rain on his window. Outraged at this blemish, he shook his head defiantly. New found defiance held his rising apprehension in check. His mouth felt dry. At least he was safe in his car.

Abruptly, 'Angel' stood upright and leaned his hip against the door.

From out of sight above the roofline of the car, the voice had become calm, the contrast to the moment before welcomed. "You really should be careful who you stick your fingers up at, you know," he said. At this point, he was giving him a chance.

Cortina man tilted his face and pressed it against the window, to try to see him better. He should have just put a hand up and mouthed
sorry
through the window, from the safety of the car,
but he didn't; the sight of the spit on his window combined with his fear, making him erratic. He heard himself say, "Oh yeah, why's that then?" For the second time in as many minutes, he
knew
what would happen next. He cursed his stupidity.

The response came not in words, but in a swift and decisive action without concern for personal injury. A single punch exploded straight through the glass of the window, driving rough cubes of it deep into his face, as the fist connected.

The last thing he heard, because it trailed him into unconsciousness, was 'Angel's' reply.

"Why? Because, my finger-happy friend, next time I'll kill you!"

'Angel' marched quickly back to his own car, climbing in just as the lights turned green. Flooring the accelerator, spinning the wheels, he headed off down the wet road, narrowly missing the stationary vehicle.

Police found the driver of the Cortina slumped in his seat two hours later. In hospital, when he'd recovered sufficiently for police to interview him, he was unable to recall what had happened.

Despite an appeal for witnesses, no one came forward.

Chapter 7

Southern Ireland
.

Miles away across the sea at Celtic Deep, a thirteen-year-old girl, hovered between light and darkness. The fever that had burned her up for the past two days had at last broken. She opened her eyes, the light though dim, stung them as she blinked to focus. Her mother smiled at her; the relief clearly visible on her face. As she reached to turn the flannel on her forehead, she thought Vera's eyes looked greener than usual.
Such a pretty girl . . .

"Praise God, you've come back to us . . ."

Vera simply looked at her and said, "It isn't safe outside."

"What's not safe, Vera? You're here, safe with us. There's no need to worry about anything."

"Yes there is, Ma, I
saw
. There's a man . . ." Vera turned her head on the pillow, cutting eye contact, staring with consternation at a point beyond the wall. Her mother's questions faded from her consciousness, as she closed her eyes once more.

Vera became moody and withdrawn, sleeping for hours during the day, then wandering restlessly in the night.

The doctor advised Mrs Flynn to keep her off school for two weeks. Her convalescence took longer than that. A pale and sickly child, Vera had been the only one in the family to have ginger hair. Her mother thanked the Lord it was the colour of bright copper, and not orange, but even so, at times other children taunted her mercilessly. Vera refused to leave the house, even when she'd recovered, and she would not say why.

Finally, her mother lost patience with her reluctance to venture out, so one Sunday morning; she dragged her out of bed and announced she was taking her to Mass. Despite her protests, Vera dressed, but when the time came to leave, she would not go. Her mother hauled her outside, screaming and kicking all the way to the church. Once inside, she lapsed into a strange silence. They sat at the back in the only available pair of seats together. Vera shivered, her teeth chattering noisily. She made a grrrr-ing sound as she shook. Concerned, her mother looked across at her, half thinking she was faking something to get out of the service. Suddenly, Vera's leg spasmed, and her foot struck the pew in front with a dull thud.