Rapture Falls (9 page)

The unknowing sheep ran before and around him, hurrying in their lives, eager to move and to grab, to gain and to lose, he had thought himself a wolf amongst these creatures, the realisation that he was only a
sheep of a different nature
bit hard against his ego.

A woman caught his eye as
she strutted toward him, an aroma of arrogance and confidence radiated from her in waves, she looked in her late twenty’s slim and athletic
,
dressed with an assurance in a power suit that
hugged at all the right curves, h
er heels clicked and clacked on the pavement floor. Her footsteps slowed, Baine looked up with annoyance, the last thing he wanted right now was any company regardless of how hot the company was, the woman’s expensive shopping bag purchases swung alongside her strut
, the bag’s swing slowed as she approached, in spite of himself Baine w
atched her smooth toned legs dra
w near.

Suddenly Baine realised that everything and everyone had slowed, pedestrians were now walking in slow motion and getting slower, pumping legs and hurrying feet were now wading through quicksand, the maddening pulsating throb of the neon shop signs had now become a low pitched constant drone. Baine stood, all of his self indulgent thoughts had dimmed his senses
and left him vulnerable, everything around him had now come to a complete stop, the artificial illuminations of the shop fronts danced in the frozen drizzle. A sudden movement threw Baine back out of his head and into the moment, a flash of light flew to his side, Baine spun to his right but
his outstretched had passed through
thin air, suddenly he felt a blow coming but was
shocked to find that he could not
move fast enough. A force exploded in his back, he staggered forward and barely avoided sinking to his knees, he
span around
to face his assailant but
again saw nothing.
T
he
same blurring force then detonated on the left side of his
ribs, this time he did sink to the fl
oor as t
he air was painfully forced out of his lungs and he g
ro
ped for a breath. T
he flash of movement again
came from
behind him, immediately a blow struck the right hand side of his face and he fell on his back to the floor
,
the coppery taste of blood beginning
to run into his throat.

Baine rolled over to a kneeling position and tried to stand, what felt like a knee caught him squarely on the jaw lifting him up for an instant before
a force on his chest sent him
crashing him down
hard
once again, the motionless world swam before his eyes as he fought to stay conscious. The flashing light finally slowed
and
before
his
glazed eyes,
a tall
thin man emerged from the glow,
he stood over Baine’s
prone
horizontal position,

“You’re him
?”
, the mans voice was highly pitched and scratchy, “You’re Baine?, I must say my man you’re a real disappointment, what a letdown” the
thin
man glided over shaking his head with
exaggerated
regret.

The figure was around five feet tall, a skinny skeleton of a man whose features were old and wrinkled, his whole body seemed to be in perpetual motion, his limbs and features were ghosting, a second version of himself, a pale grey photocopy of every movement shadowing the solid forms actions. The man looked in his sixties, encased in brown slacks, a ratty brown jumper and a filthy looking raincoat, dirty grey hair hung lank and wild around his face.

The man
dropped into a sitting position across Baines chest
,
his arms folded across his reedy chest,

“You know I can’t believe that I thought this would be difficult, brother you are some let down
”, the man leant forward to look into
his fallen adversaries
face,

“When they told me that…” the
thin
man tried to talk but somehow the words would not come out, mainly thanks to the fact that Baine’s right hand was now firmly clamped across his throat. Baine stood taking the thin man with him, anger and indignation caused spittle to fly from the thin mans mouth as Baine exerted pressure on his grip, he pulled the tin man in close,

“Son, did you ever pick the wrong day to pull this shit”
,
Baine
growled.

T
he
Nephilim
began to squirm with startling speed, he became a blur of light, Baine felt his grip loosening as the man whirled and
vibrated
with increasing acceleration. Baine made a
snap
decision, with one fluid movement he released the thin mans throat and passed his arm over the mans left shoulder, he snaked to the right crooking the thin mans head in his armpit
and
bending him backwards, he now held the head in a reverse headlock, Baine sank downwards
with the
Nephilim
,
his left knee hit the floor and his right knee drove into the thin mans spine w
hilst at the same time flexing his bicep into the mans
throat and pulling his head down snapping the thin mans neck in an instant.
Baine released a dissipating light into the evening air, the world snapped back into its movement, he found himself crouched upon the wet pavement the damp seeping into his left knee, he stood and straightened, he crac
ked his neck and began to smile,
warming to his future
after all
.

             
McCullum sat tired and heavy, the last
twenty four hours weighed deeply on his shoulders, the fruitless search had baulked him at every turn, he had found himself banging against an impenetrable wall. He had tried every angle that he could think of, the name Baine did not appear on any records, not a single arrest sheet, caution form, court document or
upon
any other paper trail within the police filling system. The phone number had originated from a pay as you go mobile
that he was informed was no longer in service,
with no way to trace the
phone McCullum had ground to a complete full stop. The death of DC Thomas was well on the way to being pronounced a suicide, the murders of Sinclair and his two thugs were being investigated in not exactly the most rigorous fashion, common consensus seemed to be that they only got what they deserved and the police had been spared the cost of an inevitable prosecution. McCullum did not in any way care about the deaths of three scumbags but he did care about the integrity of his profession and as corny as it might seem he held his warrant card as a beacon of light in a crappy world.
He had been met with only indifference and apathy as he tried to mount an effective investigation and DCI Jones had only smirked at his efforts as if the very idea of tracking down the killers of three men from questionable backgrounds was a non-starter from the get go. In his short time here McCullum had already learnt the painful lesson of this particular system and the harder he had fought against it the harder his job had become to be an effective officer.

So here he sat in his own time, the cold autumn day was already in retreat, the skies colours had wrestled valiantly against the tug of dusk but had now retired gracefully.
Snow Drop Drive
was a pleasant sounding name that was matched by the picturesque setting of the small Cul-De-Sac, well kept
detached houses
with neatly mowed lawns and well kept drives
lined the homely street. The immaculate streetlamps flowed on it a well rehearsed movement that swept along the road revealing its darker corners. McCullum sat amidst the warmth of his car eager to leave this suburban crook and not for the cold summit that lay ahead at number 23.
He placed his hand reluctantly on the door latch the cool metal felt slick under his sweaty fingers, he closed his eyes to steel himself against the evening’s fun and games, with a final short sharp exhaling breath he opened the door and stepped out into the evening.

He had parked a few doors down from number 23
knowing
that the odds were against his being able to merely pull up and step straight out, he knew that he would need a while to harden his emotion for what lay ahead. The gate pulled open reluctantly with a harsh scrape that seemed to be amplified amongst the quiet calm, as he approached the front door he released himself with every step, leaving behind Brendon and slipping over his DI McCullum coat, he reached out and pressed the doorbell, the happily enthusiastic chime rang out outwardly mocking the situation. Slow footsteps approached the front door, the obscured frosted glass silhouette raised a sluggish hand to open the door, a small middle aged woman’s
broken hearted
face stared blankly out at him, McCullum spoke, “
Mrs.
Thomas, my name is DI Brendon McCullum, I knew your son”, DC Arwel Thomas’s mother moved aside and granted him entry to her home and to her grief.

The house was sour plain and simple, the despair and sorrow was palpable, McCullum followed in the woman’s footsteps as she led him into the living room. The entrance hallway was lined with framed photographs of DC Thomas, a mothers pride signified with symbols of pleasure in her son’s life journey through the captured images. Photos of a young Childs happy smiling face radiating simple pleasures wearing various childhood uniforms through to graduation pictures of a young adult still holding a rare sense of optimism despite the police uniform. Despite being twenty six Arwel had still been living at home and his presence still floated throughout the house, from his large pairs of shoes cluttering the hallway to his coats that dwarfed his mothers on a narrow coat rack that now hung limply on the wall. From his file McCullum had ascertained that Arwel had lost his father nearly ten years ago to a heart attack, another example of a hard working hard living man whose body clock had worn out prematurely
leaving a bewildered
family behind. From asking around the station McCullum had picked up that Arwel was a conscientious officer often derided for a lack of eagerness in partaking of the customary alcohol fuelled recreations, needless to say that McCullum instantly identified with this. Many of the young
detective’s
colleagues had expressed opinions that ranged from friendly to somewhat hostile, from intelligent and capable to a bit of a mummy’s boy and a
“
shirt lifter
”
.

The ghost of a mother had led him through to the lounge and ushered him to a sofa, the room was carefully decorated with striped peach wallpaper with the obligatory dado rail slashing across the centre of the wall, the carpets were
beige
and fairly old but well kept, a small television sat apologetically in the corner of the room, the room was dominated by a large Welsh dresser on the back wall that towered imposingly. McCullum sat into the green plush sofa,
Mrs.
Thomas sat wringing a well worn and used
handkerchief
in her small birdlike hands, she raised her heavy head and looked expectantly at McCullum, her wet and red rimmed eyes searched his for answers and meaning.
McCullum steeled himself and began,