The Darkness of Bones Page 7

  Be there, son. Please. For me.

  “Adrian!” shouted Jack, as the wood began tearing and rusted nails went popping in the darkened air. “Are you in there, Adrian? It’s me. Dad. C’mon, son. Answer me. Don’t do this.” The crowbar wasn’t working effectively enough, and he tossed it to the snowy ground, preferring to rip at the aging wood with his bare hands.

  Be there … be there …

  At last, with one great pull, a small entrance was created and Jack wasted no time plunging through, ripping his clothes and skin, the beam from the torch sending rats scurrying for cover.

  Through the crevices in the wooden planks came cool, dry air, smelling of darkness. And emptiness.

  Jack checked the place twice, hoping for traces—anything to indicate Adrian’s presence. Nothing.

  Rushing outside to the car, he hit the speed dial on his mobile. Perhaps Adrian had returned home? He listened to the monotonous sound, picturing the phone in the house ringing, willing Adrian to be there, to pick it up. Adrian could call him all the murdering drunken bastards of the day. Anything you want to call me, just be there …

  Instead, he got his own detached voice, saying to leave a name and number. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

  “Hello? Adrian? Are you there, son? Pick up the phone … please …” Quickly, he dialled another number, hoping that Benson would be at his desk.

  Kicking the car into reverse, Jack slammed the accelerator, sending the car screaming forward, blundering into the darkness, almost hitting a tree before discovering his headlights were off.

  Shaken, he willed himself steady. “Go on, kill yourself, as well …”

  Cautiously steering the car on to the main road, he backtracked over his own tyre prints. He didn’t know why, but he was heading in the direction of Barton’s Forest.

  Ahead but barely discernable in the blinding whiteness, the snout of the white car eased into Adrian’s view. It was pale and initially he thought it a ghost. It resembled a metal pig feeding nervously at a trough as it gingerly ploughed through the snow, creating liquorice tracks in its wake.

  Although the forest was dark, there was a yellowish glow to the snow as the car’s headlights skidded off the surface, landing a few feet from where he hunched, tired, hungry and shivering.

  “A spotlight? Police …?” That was it. His father had called them, sent out a search party. There was relief at being found, although he was still angry with his father; still felt a simmering hatred. Yet all he wanted at this particular moment was to be in from the cold, given some hot soup and sent to bed.

  Trying to move, Adrian moaned with pain. His joints had frozen to the marrow. He felt more snow rushing against his skin, almost abrasive in its force. It quickly cocooned him, and this time the sensation was wholly different. It terrified him.

  “Here … over here …” he croaked. He tried to raise his hand, but it refused to budge.

  Listening, he could hear the dull sound of boots crunching on snow as a figure of a man approached.

  “Dad …?”

  The man bent down and stared into Adrian’s face, as if studying an exotic insect. It was weird the way the man angled his face to get a better look.

  “I’ve blankets in the car,” said the man, easing Adrian up. “What are you doing in the forest in this weather? You could’ve died, right here in the snow. Do your parents know you’re out in this?”

  The man looked familiar, even with the snow stinging Adrian’s eyes. He had met him before, but couldn’t quite remember where or when. Not too long ago, perhaps?

  “What’s your name?” asked the man, helping Adrian into the car.

  “Adri … Adrian,” said Adrian, his teeth shattering loudly.

  “Soon have you warm, Adrian. The heater will have you moving again. Don’t you worry. It’ll soon warm your bones.”

  Only now did Adrian notice the slab of linoleum stretched out in the back of the car, a shovel resting neatly on top like a rifle of a fallen solider.

  Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembered where he had seen the strange-looking man before. “I remember … I remember where I saw you,” he mumbled. The heater was on full blast, but barely making a dent in his skin.

  “You do?” said the man, looking confused as he checked his rear-view mirror.

  “Yes … my barber’s had been closed … a death … you cut my hair, terribly … you shouted at me to close the door … keep the heat in … I remember … you gave me a sweet …”

  Ever so casually, the man produced a loaded syringe and pierced the tender part of Adrian’s neck.

  “What was … why … why did you do that? What … was …?” Adrian’s hand crawled to his neck.

  “Medicine. It’ll help you fight the cold. At the moment, I’ve got a little bit of work to do. Just close your eyes, and sleep. Soon, I’ll have you home.”

  “What … what’s your … name?” asked Adrian, his eyes becoming heavier.

  “I’m your friend. Jeremiah.”

  Adrian felt his body go limp, boneless. His head was drifting into space. “Jeremiah? Like the bullfrog?”

  Jeremiah looked puzzled.

  “Bullfrog? No. The prophet …”

  Suddenly, Jack saw the car heading towards his own, pinballing the snow, sending large wings of slush into the air.

  Swerving sharply to the right, hoping to avoid the oncoming car, Jack slammed down on the brakes.

  Too late. He felt the harsh impact as the other vehicle slammed the side of his car, forcing him into a wall of snow.

  Dazed and slightly bloodied, Jack slithered from the car to inspect the damage. His tail light was gone, smashed like an eggshell. “Idiot,” he mumbled, as the tail-lights of the other car faded into the mouth of darkness.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You are going to the woman? Do not forget the whip.”

  Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

  ADRIAN’S HEAD WAS throbbing. He had never touched alcohol but was certain that this was what his father meant by a hangover. Rubbing his eyelids, he crumbled the hardened crust cemented to them. It took a while for his eyes to adjust and even when they did, his surroundings were obscure.

  “Where am I?” he whispered, touching his head cautiously. He tried to ease himself up, but felt lethargic, as if all the bones in his body had been removed. Fortunately, the warmth was creeping slowly up his body, winning against the cold.

  To his embarrassment, he was naked, barely covered by a coarse blanket stinging his skin. Breathe easy. That’s right. Don’t panic. It’s the hospital. That’s all. The doctor or nurse will be here in a minute. Do not panic.

  Somewhere to his right, Adrian could hear sounds. They were creepy, like crying babies, muffled and hurt. The sounds filled him with the shits. Was he in a ward—some sort of children’s hospital?

  “Anyone there?” he whispered.

  A few seconds later, a woman appeared magically from the shadows, like a magician. Her long fingers held a cigarette, and its glow, to a degree, exposed her face. The shadows veiled the remainder of her face, but she seemed to be studying him, just like the man had done, in the forest.

  “Is … is this the hospital? Are … are you a nurse? Can you tell me where I am, please?”

  She ignored him, allowing the cigarette to tumble from her fingers, before crushing it with her foot—a foot bare of sock or shoe.

  “How … how long have I been here?” Adrian’s words trailed when he noticed the item her fingers now gripped: a cut-throat razor, wet and terrifying. Blood clung to it with a thickness of jam.

  It was now frighteningly plain to him that he was in hospital, after all—a hospital for the insane. This woman was one of the patients. She looked insane. Did she intend to kill him?

  “Who … who are you? Where is the man, the one who found me, the one who called himself a prophet? Do you know him?”

  There was a pane of frozen silence. The woman was studying him, like a cat w
ithin reach of a bird.

  When she eventually spoke, it caused the hairs on Adrian’s neck to prickle.

  “A prophet?” Pulling a smile across her mouth, she whispered. “No. But I do know the devil, and he can make your eyes bleed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “… it was the season of Darkness … it was the winter of despair …”

  Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

  JACK’S EXPERIENCE HAD taught him that the first twelve hours—not twenty-four as in the movies—were the most critical in terms of finding and returning a missing person. And with that fearful knowledge, he pushed his way through the doors of the police station.

  A few of the old hands greeted him as he made his way down the corridor towards Benson’s office.

  The door was ajar and Jack could hear Benson’s loud voice bellowing.

  “I need the report right now, Claude. You were supposed to—” Benson stopped talking for a moment. “Listen, I don’t need your sarcastic remarks at this time of—” Benson hit a button on the phone’s cradle, tapping it a few times before glancing up at Jack. “That cantankerous old bastard, Shaw, hung up on me. I hate him.”

  “No, you don’t. You admire his pig-headedness.”

  Benson mumbled. “Coffee? There’s some in the pot. Almost fresh.”

  “No, thanks; I’m caffeined out. Have you heard anything yet? Did you put out the Child Rescue Alert, as I asked?”

  Benson appeared uncomfortable. “Jack, I’m as concerned as you, but you know the procedure and the four key criteria for activating such an extreme measure. The only one we have is that Adrian is under sixteen.”

  “Wrong. Number two: a senior police officer—you—feels that serious harm or death may occur; number three: the child has been kidnapped; and four: the case has sufficient descriptive details of the missing child to justify launching the alert. Besides, as you and I both know, the four criteria are all subjective. So what’s keeping you?”

  Benson shook his head. “Wilson would overrule any such order. He thinks Adrian is a runaway.”

  “Fuck Wilson and anyone else willing to stand with him.” Jack’s jaws tightened. “Adrian is not a runaway, Harry. This is my son—your godson—we’re talking about. Don’t give me the official spin. Okay? I’m not in the mood for it.”

  “You know as well as I do that teens leave for a variety of reasons, including trouble at school, problems at home. At this stage of the game, we can’t consider a more complex and sinister explanation.”

  “You can activate the alert when it is feared that the abducted child is in imminent danger of serious harm or death.”

  “Abducted?” Benson swivelled on his chair, and picked up a pen from the table. His eyes narrowed, slightly. “That’s a bit extreme. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “I need you to put out that alert,” reiterated Jack, ignoring Benson’s question.

  Shaking his head, Benson replied, “I know what must be going through your head, at the minute, but—”

  “How the hell can you know what I’m going through? I’m telling you Adrian is not a runaway. Understand? I need that bulletin released now. Every second you waste talking shite takes him further away.”

  “Calm down. Okay? Have you had any arguments with him lately?”

  “Will you just do this? Yes or no?” asked Jack.

  Weariness crept on to Benson’s face. “I’ll alert all personnel, for now, instructing them to be on the lookout. But until we hear something more, that’s as far as it goes. No Child Rescue Alert. Understand?”

  “For now,” replied Jack, the edge in his voice calming slightly.

  “Good. Now it’s your turn to give. You still haven’t answered my question. Did you and Adrian have an argument lately? Did you mention whatshername to him? The more we know, the clearer the picture becomes. You know that more than anyone.”

  Jack looked beyond Benson’s shoulders. Stationed on the wall was a framed photo: a grinning Benson and Jack, fishing tackle sandwiched between them.

  “Sarah. Her name is Sarah, and if you must know, Adrian walked in on us.”

  “Walked in …? You mean, in the sack?” asked Benson.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Have you considered that Adrian probably thinks Sarah is trying to take the place of Linda?”

  “Yes. Of course I have. And while you sit here and do your interpretation of a psychiatrist instead of a cop, Adrian is going further down the disappearing tunnel.”

  “Look, Jack, I’m already on thin ice with Wilson. Even alerting personnel could see me up for insubordination. Once the old hunger hits Adrian, he’ll come back. Didn’t he do that shit before, a couple of years ago?”

  “Harry …” Jack looked uncertain. “I told Adrian the truth about the crash.”

  All blood drained from Benson’s face as he quickly rose to close the door.

  “Are you fucking serious?” Benson leaned his massive frame against the door.

  “I had no other choice.” Jack released air from his mouth. “I couldn’t live a lie any longer, not with Adrian.”

  “I put my job on the line to cover up for you. This is how you repay me? Are you for fucking real or what?” The blood was returning quite rapidly to Benson’s skin. It had a purplish hue to it.

  “I know you did, and, under the same circumstances, I would have done the same for you. But it was wrong. I should have had the balls to admit what I did, but I was a coward, and a coward’s suit doesn’t rest well on me.”

  “You should have thought about that before you got behind the wheel, Jack, over the limit; before you got me involved to cover your arse. I could lose my pension, all my retirement benefits—not forgetting that bastard Wilson hanging me by the balls, possibly jail.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that. I know all about the consequences of human mistakes. I’ve beaten myself up ever since Linda’s death. She didn’t even want to get in the car, but I told her not to worry, it was less than a quarter of a mile to home.” Jack shook his head. “I’ve got to get Adrian back, Harry. It’s killing me, every second not knowing where he is. I know Adrian. He wouldn’t run off—not like this.”

  Benson closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he reopened them, he looked tired.

  “Jack, you no longer know Adrian.” Benson moved from the door. “You just told him that you killed his mother. God! C’mon, man! Adrian’s angry right now, and he’s going to make you pay—big time. He’s going to make you sweat.”

  “Sweat? I’ve been sweating blood, Harry. There’s nothing left to sweat—”

  Without warning, the door opened, revealing an angry-looking man, large cigar trapped between his teeth. Years of overeating had made the man’s ripened face run amok. There was too much flesh to help counter-balance the bloated mouth. It made his chins huge, watery and weak.

  “Just what the hell are you doing in my headquarters, Calvert?” seethed Superintendent William Wilson, the cigar dancing in his mouth.

  “Just visiting,” replied Jack, trying to control his disdain and temper.

  “You’ve no right to be here. Your glory days are long gone, Mister Calvert. My advice to you is to leave, immediately. Unless, of course, you would like to see the inside of a cell—”

  Lunging at Wilson, Jack caught him tightly by the throat.

  “You piece of shit. The day you’re able to put me in a cell, is the day I stop breathing,” he hissed, desperately trying to squeeze the lit cigar into Wilson’s large mouth. Only the quick interception of Benson prevented it from travelling down Wilson’s large throat.

  “Get out now, while you have the chance!” roared Wilson, spitting out lumps of tobacco. “I’m going to be watching you, Mister Calvert! Make no mistake about it. One more slip. That’s all. Then you’re mine …”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

  �
��How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

  “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

  Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  “ADRIAN,” SHE SAID, rolling his name around in her mouth as if she liked the taste of it. “You’re the beautiful boy at the lake. I saw you, wandering about, lost. You saw me. Didn’t you?”

  “I …” His mind flashed back to all those days ago, when he had almost died in the stinking icy water. “I thought you … I thought you were my mother. But she’s dead.”

  Touching his face, Judith said, “You poor boy. How long has your mother been dead?”

  “Almost a year.” Adrian looked away from her gaze. “My father killed her. He wanted to be with someone else.”

  “Killed? How?” Judith’s eyes glistened, slightly.

  “He was driving a car. He told me someone else had killed her, a drunk from out of town. He blamed him, covered it all up … just to be with another woman.”

  Judith shook her head. “That is terrible. Did he beat you, leaving your skin bruised as damaged fruit? Is that why you ran away?”

  “Beat me? No … no, he never touched me.”

  “Perhaps he did—perhaps you were not aware of his touches. It can easily happen.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Adrian was becoming confused by the questioning.

  “It’s okay. We can share our secrets later.” She combed his hair back with her fingers, making it stand up in black spikes.

  “I have no secrets,” insisted Adrian.

  “We all have secrets,” Judith, replied, smiling.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Two days. You were very sick with a fever. You could have caught pneumonia, all alone in the snow. No one cared. But I do. If you want, I can send you home, right now. Is that what you want?”

  Hesitating, Adrian mumbled, “I … I don’t know.”