The Reckoning on Cane Hill: A Novel (11 page)

‘But you must see that you’re not dead.’ I gestured around the room. ‘You’re in a hospital. You’re flesh and blood, not a ghost. Someone died in that crash, but it wasn’t you. I mean, how do
you
make sense of it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘People don’t come back from the dead.’ I almost added,
I wish they did, but they don’t
, but then I thought of Lise again, and I remembered the look on Paul Carlisle’s face yesterday. ‘And that’s where we have to start from. Something happened to you that night, and something’s been happening to you ever since, but you certainly didn’t die.’

She considered that.

‘So what do
you
think happened to me?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ I admitted. ‘I think it’s possible that someone’s worked very hard to convince you that you died in that accident, and that over time, with everything you’ve been through, you’ve come to believe it’s true.’

Again she was silent for a moment. I leaned forward.

‘Let’s forget about the actual accident for now. You told me you lost consciousness afterwards. Can you remember what happened next?’

‘Yes.’

‘But?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

I spoke as gently as I could.

‘I know you don’t. I don’t know for sure, but I think a lot of very bad things have happened to you over the last two years, and I understand how difficult it must be to think about them. But it’s important, Charlie. Unless you talk to me, there’s no way for us to work out where you’ve been.’ I leaned back. ‘You were on the embankment. You lost consciousness. What happened when you woke up again? Where were you?’

Charlie looked at me for a long moment, her scarred face blank. Then she seemed to gather strength from inside herself.

‘Hell,’ she said simply. ‘I woke up in Hell.’

*

Hell
.

It wasn’t, of course – not literally – but as she told me her story, it seemed as good a word as any for the place she described. When she had woken properly after the crash, she told me, she’d found herself in a small room: a cell, effectively. The walls were fashioned out of stone and mud, and the air was damp and clammy. Despite a cooler current that drifted through occasionally, the heat was oppressive. The silence was profound, punctuated only by occasional dripping in the distance, like water dropping into a pool somewhere deep underground, the sound echoing.

‘There was light,’ she said, ‘but not much. The door was metal, and it had a hatch in it – a letter box that had been cut out at eye level. Like you see in prison on the TV, except this one was always open. I could look out.’

Not that there was anything to see when she did. It was a thin corridor of some kind, with another stone wall opposite the door. It was illuminated by dim lights in dirty plastic cases, strung along the wall. They were always on.

‘There was a television too,’ she said.

‘A television?’

‘Yes. Just a small screen, embedded in one of the walls. There was no control, though – no buttons or anything. It would just come on suddenly, bright and loud, like something snarling at me from the side of the room.’

‘And what did it show?’

‘The news sometimes. And ... other things. Things I didn’t like to look at. Videos of horrible things. Not the sort of things they’d ever show on normal television.’

She looked awkward, as though she didn’t want to talk about what she’d seen, what had been shown to her. Which was fine; from what she’d said, I could imagine. And in my head, taking her story at face value for now, I was beginning to work my way down a checklist. Isolation. Sensory deprivation. Visual and audial disruption. They were the kinds of things that Eileen
had mentioned earlier as key components of mind control and brainwashing.

Of course, another obvious one was torture.

‘You told me someone cut your face,’ I said.

She didn’t reply, and I had to prompt her.

‘Your scars, Charlie. You said someone did that to you. Who was it?’

‘I don’t want to talk about him.’

A man, then. Hardly unexpected, but it was something.

‘Was it the same man who was speaking to you in the ambulance the other day?’

‘No, no.’ She looked horrified at the idea. ‘The man in the ambulance was gentle, kind. Not like ... the one who did the cutting.’

‘Can you describe him, Charlie? The one who wasn’t kind?’

She shook her head.

‘It’s important,’ I said.

‘I can’t.’

The way she said it was final, and propped up in bed now, she looked exhausted. I knew I was going to have to wind the interview up soon and allow her to rest.

But I was also trying to run everything she’d told me through the filter that Eileen had suggested. What was real and what was fantasy here? It was entirely possible that someone really had held Charlie Matheson captive, and that they had tortured her, brainwashed her. I knew from experience that such men existed. But then the type of man who would do that didn’t normally let his victims go. And what to make of the story about the ambulance, and the other man – the kind one – who had been talking to her?

Where had she been held?

‘How long were you in the ambulance for?’ I said. ‘Before you woke up on the field?’

‘I don’t know. I was asleep.’

‘But the man was there, you said. The kind man who was telling you things. You must have been awake for some of it.’

‘I was drifting. It’s hard to remember.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. ‘And I need to. I know that I need to.’

‘Were you hungry or thirsty?’ I said. ‘Did you need the toilet?’

She shook her head, her eyes still closed.

‘I ate a meal before we left – sandwiches and an apple. I don’t remember much after that. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty when I woke up. I’m guessing it was an hour or two. I don’t know, but that feels right.’

‘Okay.’

Again, it was something, I supposed, but not much. A couple of hours’ driving meant she could have been held a hundred miles or more away, which was a hell of a search perimeter. A lot of basements. But it was obvious from her expression that we were done for now.

I stood up.

‘Thank you, Charlie. You get some rest and I’ll see what I can find out.’

‘Mercy,’ she said.

Her voice was urgent enough to make me pause in the doorway and look back at her. Her eyes were open now, and she was staring at me with something close to relief.

‘Mercy?’ I said.

‘That’s part of what the man was telling me in the ambulance. I remember now. That’s what I need. I think he wanted me to ask for mercy.’

I took it in.

‘He was going to hurt you?’

‘No, not him.’ She shook her head, as though it made even less sense to her than it did to me. ‘He wanted me to ask
you
for mercy.’

Merritt

God’s work

‘There’s nowhere else for them to go,’ Jennifer Buckle told him. ‘It’s no surprise what happens out there on the streets. And so what we do here, as much as we can, is give them a safe space.’

A safe space
. He could have laughed: as if there were any such thing. But instead Merritt nodded politely, listening as Jennifer continued to talk about the drop-in centre she ran. It was a place where children could come, she explained. Where they knew they’d be listened to. Where they’d be treated as people, not just a problem for society to overlook. Merritt did his best to pretend that he was the slightest bit interested in what she had to say.

Jennifer was middle-aged, with curly hair that was greying slightly, and she was dressed plainly: a dark floral dress. On the street, most people would have passed her without a second glance. This place too, probably.

Merritt looked around the office as she carried on talking. Due to the scrupulous research he had undertaken, he knew that Jennifer Buckle had dedicated the last two decades of her life to helping others, and that while the surroundings here might be drab and shabby, it was still one of the last volunteer-based youth drop-in centres left in this part of the city. He also knew that she ran the place at the expense not only of her time
but, frequently, her own personal finances. The centre had faced closure a number of times in the last two years alone. Each time Jennifer had dug deep and kept it alive.

‘A lot of them have such difficult home lives.’ She was still talking about the children. ‘They have problems I find hard to imagine. I was very lucky, in that I came from a loving home.’

Merritt smiled and nodded again, as though he had come from a loving home too. In truth, he could barely remember it. There had been a lot of water under that bridge.

‘They’re good kids deep down.’ Jennifer smiled fondly. ‘And you know what? They behave themselves here. They
know
to. Oh, there can be difficulties, of course, but we treat them with respect, and most of them appreciate that. They’re not used to it, the respect and discipline, but they repay it.’

‘I completely understand.’ Actually, Merritt did like that. Respect and discipline were things he found easier to relate to. ‘It must be demanding, though?’

Jennifer looked more serious now. ‘It is. Very demanding. We have a handful of volunteers, and they work very hard. But ask any of them and they’ll tell you – exactly the same as I’ll tell you – that there’s nothing more worthwhile.’

‘Of course.’ It was a spiel he was hearing – a pitch – and while understandable from her point of view, it wasn’t necessary. He leaned forward. ‘On behalf of my employers, may I ask you a somewhat personal question, Ms Buckle?’

‘You may.’

‘Are you a religious woman?’

She stared back at him for a moment, obviously considering what the right thing to say would be, in terms of what he might want to hear. He wondered what she thought of him. He probably looked a lot harder than she’d been expecting. While he was dressed professionally, in a neat black suit, he knew he still carried the bearing of the soldier he’d once been. At fifty, his body remained bulky and powerful, and he kept his grey hair buzz-cut short. His eyes, he knew, could be intimidating: a cold, clear shade of blue that expressed either hate or nothing. He
waited for her answer, attempting to convey the latter, hoping that she would opt for honesty. He was pleased when she did.

‘I am not, Mr Merritt, no.’

‘That’s fine. Neither am I.’ He chose his next words carefully. ‘With my employers, the situation is more complex. But fundamentally, they believe that people need to work for their own salvation – and for the salvation of others. That is why they’re interested in you and the good work you do here. You don’t do it for reward. You do it because it’s right.’

‘Thank you.’

‘They’ll be pleased to hear that. But before we talk, I was wondering whether you might show me around?’

The tour was tedious but necessary, because what potential benefactor wouldn’t inspect the premises? There had to be at least an illusion of normality to proceedings. Merritt suppressed the yawns as Jennifer Buckle showed him the recreation room, with its battered pool tables and dartboards, the kitchen where they cooked basic food for the children at discounted prices, and then the small courtyard out back with a basketball ring nailed to the wall at a slight angle, the net ragged and dirty.

Tedious.

Merritt’s work often provided a stark contrast to his early years. He missed it sometimes – the thrill of it. The challenge. He’d seen combat early and repeatedly, while little more than a boy. Killing men had never bothered him, and the threat of being killed in return hadn’t frightened him. As an independent contractor in his thirties, the mercenaries he ended up working alongside would remark upon his coolness, even when he was shot in the abdomen and nearly died. That injury had forced him out of the company, and he’d found even less salubrious ways of making money afterwards. He would probably have continued to do so if an older officer hadn’t approached him with an ultimately more intriguing proposition.

Merritt was a capable man. He had contacts. He was trustworthy and discreet.
And without scruples
, the officer had
added at the time. If he might be interested, the man knew of work available. It was a unique position. Nothing hardcore: a civilian post in many ways, but one in which his skills and discretion would be called for, and that lack of scruples even more so. A family were in need of community liaison work, research, and somewhat unusual security services. They required a dependable individual who could recruit similar men when necessary, and who could gather detailed information without notice. Privacy would be paramount. The money offered was excellent, and it was unlikely he’d ever be shot at again.

While it was true that Merritt hadn’t been particularly scared of the latter, the position had nevertheless appealed. And over the years, the work had turned out to suit him very well indeed. The money was better than promised, and he had come to enjoy moving in circles that a normal man would shy away from: meeting contacts, learning secrets, and making connections that even the police had proved unable to form. And no, he hadn’t been shot at although he had, of course, killed. On occasion, the work even brought a few unique stresses and challenges that kept life interesting. If it meant dealing with these moments of tedium, then so be it.

At the end of the tour, they returned to Jennifer’s office, Merritt content now with what he’d seen. It was all make-do: threadbare and on its last legs, and impossible for the volunteers to keep on top of. While Jennifer was clearly a woman who refused to give up, Merritt knew that things were coming to an end for her too. He had researched both her and the centre very carefully before reporting to his employers. Donations and funding here were at an all-time low, and the centre faced closure for real this time. The children who relied on this place for somewhere safe to come would soon arrive at its doors and find them closed.

Merritt sat down.

‘I would like to make you an offer,’ he said.

There were pens and papers on her desk. He reached across
and wrote down a figure, then moved the paper over for her to see. Her face paled in shock.