The Society Of Dirty Hearts (28 page)

There was a screech of rending metal and breaking glass as the car slammed into the gate. The air bag blew out, hitting Julian in the face. He sat dazed for a moment, trying to catch his breath, before clambering out of the car. The front wheels were off the ground, resting on the gate, which had buckled, collapsing a section of the fence. The sound of barking reached him from somewhere near the house, faint, but getting louder. He quickly retrieved the mantrap and pulled its teeth apart. He tore the bandage off his ankle and carefully placed it on the pressure pad. Then he got back into the car and ducked down. After a minute or so the dog appeared. The instant it put its nose to the bandage, the steel jaws snapped together, biting into its flanks. The dog jumped about five feet into the air, letting out a high pitched yelp. It staggered around briefly before collapsing. Julian took out his knife and warily approached it. It was obvious at once that it was fatally wounded. Its muzzle was flecked with froth and its breathing was laboured. Blood oozed out from around the steel teeth buried in its flesh. It rolled its eyes at Julian as if begging to be put out of its misery. There was no time for hesitation. He stabbed it several times, shuddering as the blade grated between its ribs. When he was sure it was dead, grimacing with each footfall, he ran towards the house.

Julian wasn’t surprised to see his dad’s car beside the Merc, but even so his heart constricted with anxiety. There was a metal bin with smoke rising from it outside the house. He slowed to an abrupt stop. A deep blackness seemed to emanate from the house’s windows. He felt it almost like a physical force holding him back. Sweat wormed its way down his face as, step by faltering step, like a child learning to walk, he pushed through the invisible barrier. Glancing in the bin, he saw the burning remnants of some white sheets – most likely, the blood-stained sheets, although it was impossible to tell for sure. The knife held in front of him, he reached for the front door. It wasn’t locked. He half expected to find himself faced by the chauffeur – his arrival could hardly have gone unnoticed – but the hallway was empty.

There was a door to the right and left of the stairs. Moving quickly now, Julian opened the right-hand door. It led into a living-room – sofa, armchairs, television, coffee-table, deep-pile rug. Everything as you might expect from a living-room, except the furniture looked new and unused, giving it a curiously sterile, unlived in feel, like a shop window display. The door to the left led to a dining-room – six chairs around a dining-table set as if for an elaborate meal. A fine sheen of dust lay over the table, plates and cutlery. Julian would hardly have been surprised to see mannequins occupying the chairs in poses of eating, drinking and talking. “All of it a fucking lie,” he muttered.

Suddenly, the muffled sound of voices yelling came from upstairs. For maybe ten seconds, Julian stood tense and motionless, vainly trying to make out what was being said, until an agonised shriek impelled him to action. As he sprinted upstairs, there was the sound of breaking glass, followed by a thud. Then silence descended over the house.

The first thing Julian saw when he reached the room was the chauffeur. He was on the floor, facedown, his head through the two-way mirror, which lay in jagged shards all around him. A thick, dark stream of blood flowed from his throat to form a slick around the toppled video-camera. His eyes bulged like marbles and his mouth gaped as mutely as ever, saliva foaming at its corners. His huge hands clawed spasmodically at the carpet. The next thing he saw was Mr X, knelt with his back to him, clutching a large triangular splinter of glass in both hands. Mr X’s breath came in rapid, hoarse clicks as he plunged the splinter downwards again and again. Finally, Julian saw his dad. He was laid on his back, arms flung wide, shirt torn open from neck to waist, chest tarred with blood, like some kind of sacrificial offering. With each plunge of the splinter, his head gave a little jerk.

“No!” cried Julian, charging across the room, white-faced and white-knuckled with intent.

Mr X jerked his head around, the same leering grin twisting his face out of shape. The grin disappeared as Julian buried the knife halfway to the hilt in his back. With a piercing scream, he toppled forward across Julian’s dad. Julian dragged him aside. He squirmed like a skewered worm, scream after scream curdling the air as he groped at the knife’s hilt. The horrific noise barely registered on Julian’s mind. His attention was focused on his dad. Blood welled from gashes like obscenely yawning mouths in his chest and stomach, pooling in the hollows of his body. His eyes were closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing. Frantically, Julian felt for a pulse. He couldn’t find one. He tried to give mouth-to-mouth, not sure if he was doing it right, but not knowing what else to do. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth. It was blood. He doubled up, retching. Tears blurring his vision, he pressed his hands against the wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was like trying to hold back a burst dam. “Open your eyes, Dad. Live!” he cried, as if he could summon him back from the dead by the force of his will. But he didn’t possess his Grandma Alice’s power. His voice broke. He hung his head.

Gradually, Julian became aware of a grotesque gurgling. Mr X lay motionless on his belly, head twisted awkwardly towards him. His eyes were dull and glassy, his face pale as chalk. Blood ran from his lips, which he’d chewed to a pulp in his agony. His mouth worked slowly, forming barely audible words. Julian leant in close to hear what he was saying.

“Call an…ambulance,” Mr X croaked, blowing putrid little gasps of air in Julian’s face. When Julian glared incredulous hatred at him, he continued, “I didn’t want…to hurt your…father. He attacked-” He broke off, choking wetly. After a moment, trembling with the effort, he lifted his left arm a fraction to display a deep gash on his wrist.

“Where’s Eleanor?”

“Who?”

“Eleanor Hill. What have you done to her?”

“Nothing…Would never touch a girl like…her. Only nobodies nobody much will miss.” Mr X sucked in a tight, rasping breath, before continuing, “Besides, why would I need to when I’ve already got…you…where I want you?”

In a rush of relief and rage, Julian instinctively accepted these words as genuine. He’d never really believed Mr X would go near Eleanor, he realised with a sharp pang in his chest. He’d just needed an excuse to go after his dad, and try and save him from harm. He’d failed in that, though, like he’d failed to save Mia. He reached a trembling hand towards the knife, hissing, “Mia isn’t a nobody, she’s my sister. Where is she?”

Eyes bulging, Mr X gave a low moan as Julian’s fingers brushed the hilt. “Ambulance.”

“Not unless you tell me where Mia is?”

“Your film. If I…die…” Mr X’s eyes rolled as if he might lose consciousness, before refocusing on Julian. He forced his next words out in a gasp. “Your film will be sent to your mother, the newspapers, the police. And everything you love will be taken from you.”

“Who’ll do the sending if you’re dead?”

“Mr X.”

Julian’s face crumpled into lines of confusion. “But you’re Mr X.”

“No I’m…not.”

“Who the fuck are you then?”

“I’m nobody.”

Julian stared at the injured man as if trying to pierce his thoughts. “You’re lying.”

A repulsive sound that might’ve been laughter bubbled out of Mr X’s throat. “Am I?”

Julian grabbed the knife’s hilt, wiggled it, felt the blade scrape bone. “You’re going to tell me the truth,” he said grimly, as Mr X twitched and screamed, “about Mia, about yourself, about all of it, or I’m going to kill you.”

“Kill me and you kill yourself,” Mr X screeched, before his eyes rolled upward and he passed out. For a few seconds, his breathing continued to gurgle like a drain, then he fell silent. Julian felt for a pulse, and found it, weak and thready. Half-a-minute passed. Mr X’s eyes flickered open and looked at Julian with an expression of approval, even pride. He spoke quite clearly, as if buoyed by his feelings. “You’ve got even more potential than I thought.”

“Fuck you,” retorted Julian. He glanced warningly at the knife. “The truth.”

“Don’t be foolish. There’s no such thing as truth – at least, not the kind you’re after. There’s only perception. Now call me a fucking ambulance.”

Julian looked again at the shelves of videotapes and DVDs. His mind spoke in two voices.
Your whole life, everything you hope for, everything you love will be lost
, said one.
Your whole life, everything you say, everything you hear will be a lie
, said the other. There was a phone on the bottom shelf beside a video and DVD player. With these thoughts weighing on his breath like lead, he reached for it. “Good boy, I knew you’d see sense,” said Mr X.
 

Again, Mike Hill picked up on the first ring. “Have you found her?”

“No, but I don’t think you need worry, Mr Hill,” said Julian. “I think she’s okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was right, he wouldn’t dare go near her.”

“Who wouldn’t dare go near her?”

“What are you doing, Julian?” said Mr X.

“I’m proving you wrong. There is such a thing as truth. And I’m going to show you it.”

“Fool!” Mr X spat the word and a mouthful of blood into Julian’s face. “Stupid spoilt, rich-” He choked off into a croak. Veins popping on his throat and forehead, he forced out a hoarse whisper, “You’re finished. You might as well jump off the bridge.”

Julian wiped the back of his hand across his face. “Better that than live the life you’re offering.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Mike.

“Nobody. There’s something I need to show you.”

“For Christ’s sake! What’s going on, Julian?”

“I can’t explain over the phone, you need to come here and see it for yourself.”

“I can’t. Eleanor might return while I’m gone.”

“Leave a note. She knows how to contact you if she needs to. Trust me, you don’t want to miss this. It might be the biggest story you ever come across.”

“Where are you?”

Julian explained where he was.

“But that’s in the middle of the forest. What are you doing there?”

“I’m at a house.”

“I didn’t think anybody lived out there.”

“They don’t, not anymore. No more questions. Are you coming?”

Mike was silent a moment, doubt and unease vying with his professional curiosity. Curiosity won out. “Okay, Julian.”

Julian hung up and looked at Mr X, his hands slowly clenching and unclenching. He looked at his dad. Blood billowed like a dark red storm cloud around the corpse. His hands clenched harder and faster. Pale to his lips, he jerked his gaze back to Mr X. 

Mr X’s pupils shrank with fear in their dirty-brown irises. Then he caught hold of himself, and his nostrils flared. “Go on. Do it. Do it!” His voice was defiant, almost goading.

As if someone had struck his elbow, Julian’s hand shot towards the knife’s hilt, but stopped just short of it. For several seconds, it wavered back and forth as if caught between two opposing forces. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he snatched it back. Mr X’s leering, contemptuous grin returned as Julian rose and approached the shelves. Names and dates were written on the spines of the videotapes and DVDs, which were seemingly arranged in no particular order. He searched fruitlessly for his disc and any discs dating to the day of Mia’s disappearance. “You won’t find your disc,” said Mr X, guessing in part what he was looking for. “And even if you did, it wouldn’t do you any good. I told you, it’s just a copy.”

“I think you’re lying. There was no time to make copies.”

“Maybe you’re right, but even if I am lying you still can’t leave me alive. Not unless you want that reporter to find out what’s behind your mask.”

“I’m not afraid of showing people the truth of myself.”

Mr X gurgled with harsh laughter, blowing bloody bubbles. “Who’s lying now?”

“I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I agree. All of us here do,” Mr X said softly, and with what seemed genuine sympathy, as if they were surrounded by phantoms with which he and Julian shared an intimate, sorrowful kinship. “We accept you for what you are, but no one else will. You’ll be an outcast, worse than dead. Is that really what you want?”

“I…” Julian’s voice faltered.

“It’s still not too late, Julian. Ring Mike Hill, stop him from coming here.”

“The truth...” Julian swayed as if he might fall over. “I’m going to show you…”

“How are you going to show me the truth?” Mr X’s voice grew stronger, as if feeding on Julian’s weakness. “By killing me? By destroying yourself? That’s not the truth, Julian, that’s just a different kind of lie.”

Julian clutched the shelves for support, his eyes moving back and forth along them. Most of the names were unfamiliar. Some he seemed to vaguely recognise. Two were all too familiar. The first of these didn’t surprise him. After everything Mr X had said, he’d guessed he’d find Tom Benson’s name. The second caused his breathing to stop momentarily. “Michael Ridgway,” he murmured. “The A1 Murderer.”

“One of our more illustrious members,” boasted Mr X.

Julian looked at him as if he doubted his sanity. “He was a serial killer.”

“No, merely a serial abductor. To my knowledge, Michael only ever killed one girl. The rest he sold to us. Funny thing is, the police charged him with the murders of all the girls except the one he actually killed.”

“Susan Carter.”

“Once again, you’ve impressed me, Julian. How did you know that?”

“My grandma tried to help her parents find her body.”

Mr X nearly choked on a bubble of mocking laughter. “Ah yes, of course, your psychic granny.”

“So Susan Carter and all those other girls died here.”

“I’ll let you find out for yourself what happened to them.” Mr X rolled his eyes at the shelves. “They’re all up there somewhere.”

A sudden thought struck Julian, shaking his certainty that Eleanor was alive and unmolested. “You said you never go near girls like Susan Carter.”

“I didn’t tell Michael to take Susan. He took her on an impulse, because he saw her and wanted her. I was angry. But I couldn’t stay angry with him for long. He was such a nice man.”