Relics (17 page)

She was still asleep an hour later when Clare pushed open the bedroom door and looked in.

The girl stood gazing almost mesmerized at her mother for a full five minutes, her eyes wide and staring. Then she turned and walked slowly back to her own room.

However, she did not sleep again that night.

Dew lay over the ground like a gossamer sheet and dripped from the roadside bushes like liquid crystal. Spiders’ webs looked as if they’d been constructed from spun glass as they glistened in the first rays of dawn light.

Mick Ferguson lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it, coughing throatily before propelling a lump of mucus into the field behind him. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket and leant against the wooden fence behind him, his eyes darting up and down the road which led into Longfield, although he doubted there would be much traffic about at such an unholy hour of the morning. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was not yet six-thirty a.m. He’d already been waiting for fifteen minutes, freezing his balls off. Another five minutes and he was bloody well going.

Now he saw the figure striding purposefully towards him, apparently oblivious to the early morning chill.

Ferguson waited until the newcomer was within three or four yards of him, then hawked loudly and spat into the roadside grass.

‘About fucking time,’ he said. ‘I’ve been standing here like a right prick for the last twenty minutes.’

‘It’s not my fault you got here early,’ Henry Dexter told him, regarding the other man with ill-disguised contempt.

‘Have you got the money?’

‘If you’ve got the stuff.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got it. You must have used quite a bit at your little
party
last night,’ Ferguson said, sarcastically. ‘You’ll have to invite me sometime.’

Dexter didn’t answer. He followed the other man over to the van which was parked by a clump of leafless trees. Ferguson unlocked it and reached inside, pulling out two small bags. He held the heroin before Dexter.

‘Two hundred a bag,’ he announced.

‘That’s fifty more than last time,’ Dexter protested.

‘Where else are you going to get it?’ Ferguson snapped. ‘Now either pay up or piss off. I’m the one who runs the fucking risks. I’m the one who takes the chances. I have to pay the dealers I get it from. When they put their prices up, so do I.’ He chuckled. ‘Just put it down to inflation.’

Dexter hesitated a moment then dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of notes. He counted out four hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes and pocketed the remainder, taking the heroin from Ferguson.

‘How pure is it?’ he asked, brandishing one of the bags before him.

Ferguson shrugged.

‘I got it from a different dealer this time. I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll just have to take a chance.’

Dexter slipped the bags into his pocket.

‘What do you care, anyway?’ Ferguson asked. ‘You don’t use it yourself, do you? You only give it to the kids.’

‘That’s my business, Ferguson, I’ve told you before.’

‘I know that. It makes no difference to me what you do with it. But when the builders get around to flattening that wood where you hold your little parties, what are you going to do then? It looks like you might have to find something else to occupy your time.’ He chuckled.

‘I don’t know why you think it’s so funny. If I stop holding the ceremonies then those who attend will go elsewhere. You’ll lose business as well. It’s in both our interests to see that the wood stays untouched.’

The two men locked stares for a moment, then Dexter turned and walked away.

Ferguson stood by the van for a moment longer, watching him disappear around a bend in the road, before he started the engine, jammed the vehicle into gear and drove back into Longfield.

The light burning in the sitting room was a welcoming sight to John Kirkland as he swung his Metro into the short drive alongside his house. He clambered out of the vehicle and opened the garage door, making a mental note to oil the hinges as he heard them squealing. Then he walked back to the car, got in and drove into the dark garage.

The dashboard clock showed 8:22 p.m.

Kirkland switched off the engine and sat in the gloomy silence, stretching in his seat, feeling the stiffness in the muscles.

Christ, what a day he’d had. Checking every single piece of machinery at the building site to ensure that there were no more accidents like those of the previous day. He and Frank King had been over every one of the vehicles with a fine-tooth comb but had found nothing out of the ordinary. No electrical or mechanical faults of any kind. Just as they had found nothing wrong with the bulldozer the day before to account for it starting up and tearing Bob Richardson’s hand off.

They had found no apparent fault with the handbrake of the Scania, either, but it had still managed to roll down that incline and crush Mike Spencer to death.

Kirkland rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and exhaled wearily. He was thankful that he hadn’t been the one chosen to tell Spencer’s wife what had happened. The constable who’d turned up at the scene of the accident had taken it upon himself to perform the task. All part of the job, thought Kirkland, clambering out of the car. He locked it and made his way to the door which led into the kitchen.

His stomach rumbled loudly as the smell of food reached him.

He winced for a moment as he stepped into the well-lit kitchen, the fluorescents presenting a glaring contrast to the darkness of the garage. As his eyes became accustomed to the brightness he noticed a couple of saucepans simmering on the stove. Steam was rising in a white cloud from the bubbling pans, creating a film of condensation on the windows and walls.

On the worktop close by there was a half-finished glass of orange juice.

Kirkland frowned and turned down the heat under the saucepans.

‘Jaqui,’ he called, wondering if his wife was on the phone in the hall. Yes, he decided that must be the answer. Why else would she leave the kitchen unattended so long while the meal was cooking?

He wandered through to the sitting room, glancing at the television set. The sound was turned right down, but as he approached the hall he could hear no voices. No phone conversation.

‘Jaqui,’ he called again.

No answer.

Only the low murmurings from the television set.

A thought struck him. One which should have been so obvious.

One which sent him bounding up the stairs two at a time.

He found her in the bedroom.

She was lying on her back, one arm resting across her forehead, her skin as white as milk.

Kirkland crossed to her, taking one of her hands in his, feeling the clamminess of her skin.

‘Jaqui,’ he whispered, watching as her eyes flickered open. ‘Are you all right, love?’

She managed a smile, then nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘I felt faint,’ she said, answering his unasked question. She reached for the packet of Dextrosol tablets on the bedside table and popped one into her mouth. In moments Kirkland saw some of the colour coming back into her cheeks. She sat up and kissed him lightly on the lips.

Jaqui Kirkland had been diabetic every since she was nine, and in the twenty years since that discovery she had been forced to inject herself with insulin twice every day. The problem had been well under control until she became pregnant. Now, six months after discovering that she was carrying a child, she had undergone a series of hypoglycaemic attacks due to the fluctuation of her blood sugar level. The doctors had warned her that the level would rise because of the pregnancy but none had told her of the discomfort she would experience when the level dropped. However, the Dextrosol seemed to work for her and so far she had only been admitted to hospital once in those six months. Only occasionally did she succumb to the full fury of an attack.

‘I left the saucepans on,’ she said apologetically.

Kirkland brushed a strand of dark hair from her face.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our own Turkish bath in the kitchen but there’s no harm done.

They both giggled.

‘I’m all right now, John,’ she assured him, trying to swing her legs off the bed, but he restrained her.

‘Stay here,’ Kirkland instructed. ‘You rest for a while. I’ll see to the dinner.’

‘I’m all right, honestly.’

‘Don’t argue with me, woman,’ he said with mock sternness. ‘Don’t you dare move off this bed until I get back. I’ve got to go and shut the garage door anyway.’

She nodded and squeezed his hand as he got to his feet, turning towards the bedroom door. He made his way down the stairs, through the sitting room and into the kitchen. The steam had not yet dissipated, so Kirkland opened two of the kitchen windows, watching for a moment as the condensation was sucked out into the dark night.

He fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key which would lock the garage door, then stepped into the gloom, closing the kitchen door behind him.

There was a light switch close to his left hand and he flicked it on.

Nothing happened.

The garage remained in darkness.

He muttered something about having to change the bulb, then walked cautiously towards the door which was still letting in some faint light from the streetlamps outside. He cracked his shin on the frame of a baby’s pushchair, an early present from Jaqui’s parents. Cursing the object, he rubbed his leg and hobbled the remaining few feet to the garage door. Once there he reached up and pulled it down, plunging the garage into impenetrable blackness. There was another light switch nearby and he tried that one too.

For a split second the bulb flickered.

In that instant of twilight Kirkland saw a dark shape close by his car.

He stood still, his heart suddenly beating faster.

The light flickered once more, then went out.

Kirkland snapped the switch up and down frantically, and again the bulb burst into brief life.

The dark shape was gone.

He let out a long sigh and made his way back across the garage, careful to avoid the pushchair this time. He found himself putting out a hand to prevent himself tumbling over any other obstacle that might be blocking his path.

Close by him, something moved.

Kirkland spun round, trying to see in the gloom, screwing his eyes up in an effort to penetrate the darkness that surrounded him.

He heard a metallic scraping sound, then a loud crash, the sound amplified by the silence inside the garage.

For a moment he leant back against the car, his heart pounding. He fumbled in his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on, holding it high above him.

He breathed an audible sigh of relief when he saw the rake lying a few feet away. It had been that which he’d dislodged, and its handle had struck some other garden tools which leaned against one wall and had toppled them like over-sized skittles.

Kirkland closed the fighter, plunging himself back into the gloom. He was now almost to the door which led through to the kitchen.

Strong hands closed suddenly round his throat, jerking upward so powerfully that he was momentarily lifted off his feet.

Eyes bulging in their sockets, blind in the blackness, he could only flail his arms uselessly against his invisible attacker.

Kirkland grunted helplessly as the incredibly powerful hands lifted him fully off the ground before hurling him towards the car.

He hit the vehicle with a sickening thud which jarred him from head to foot and made stars dance before his eyes. He opened his mouth to shout for help, but the pressure on his windpipe had been so great that he could produce only a strangled wheeze.

Head spinning, he tried to rise, clawing his way up the side of the car.

He was upright when he heard the arc of the rake.

The prongs caught him in the side of the face, splintering his cheekbone with the force of their impact. Two of the sharp points pierced his left eye and now he found voice for a scream of agony as blood spilled down his cheek, mingling with the spurts of vitreous fluid from his torn eye.

He crashed to the floor, already beginning to lose consciousness, but before merciful oblivion could claim him he felt fingers tearing at his other eye.

Sharp nails digging into the socket, gouging beneath the sensitive orb, shredding skin and muscle in the process.

Kirkland raised a hand and pushed against the garage door. A thin shaft of light suddenly illuminated his attacker.

Jaqui Kirkland heard the scream.

She hauled herself upright, her heart pounding wildly, a sudden uncontrollable fear spreading through her.

She swung herself off the bed and scuttled towards the stairs, slowing her pace slightly as she reached them for fear of falling.

As she made her way down she spoke her husband’s name over and over again. Reaching the hall, she ran through the sitting room with its television that still whispered and into the kitchen.

From the garage there was an almighty crash.

Jaqui hesitated for what seemed an eternity at the door which led to the garage. Finally, with one last surge of courage, she threw the door back, hearing it crash against the garage wall.

Light from the kitchen spilled into the blackness beyond, illuminating the scene before her.

For long seconds she stood upright, her eyes riveted to the ragged bundle which lay by the car. Then, with a moan, she sagged against the door frame, her stomach churning, her lips fluttering soundlessly.

John Kirkland lay like some bloodied, broken mannequin in the centre of a spreading pool of blood. Some of the crimson liquid had sprayed up the side of the car. Great thick smears of it covered the walls. He lay on his side, his stomach gaping open to reveal the slippery lengths of intestine which had been pulled from his belly.

His head, one side of which had been pulverized by the blow from the rake, was twisted around at an impossible angle, the empty eye sockets fixing Jaqui in a sightless stare. Clogged with congealing gore, they reminded her of ink wells filled with bright crimson.