Tyrell swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his legs shaking. Despite the open air, the night, this was just like being back inside, facing down some bully on his spur.
‘I’m … I’m … There’s a girl in there. A little girl. Crying.’
‘She’s no business of yours.’
‘She’s … she’s crying … ’
‘She’s fine.’
‘The woman at the table, she said she would feed her to the dogs … ’
Jiminy Cricket tried to laugh, put on an American accent once more, screeched, ‘Now get back in there and don’t come back until you’ve got a toddler!’ The accent dropped. His eyes flared. ‘Go back to the caravan.’
Tyrell’s shaking increased. Not from fear this time, but anger. He felt the wood in his hand. This wasn’t like facing down a bully. His weapon made the difference.
‘You wanna piece o’ me? That it?’ The American accent returned, this time a ridiculous gangster parody. He spread his arms wide and smiled. ‘Give it your best shot.’
Tyrell pulled his arm back, ready to swing it forward.
‘But do that, and I’ll fuckin’ have you.’ His voice, down and dark, told Tyrell he would. And he would enjoy it too.
Tyrell looked between the window and his companion. Looked at the log in his hand. Saw how his arm was shaking. Looked back to Jiminy Cricket. Who smiled. ‘Drop it,’ he said, like he was speaking to one of the backyard dogs.
Realising he had no alternative, Tyrell complied.
‘Good. Now go back to your caravan. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
As though he was following an order from a wing officer, he did as he was told.
The caravan was slightly warmer than the night outside. He sat down on the bed. He saw the door being shut, heard the key being turned.
His first night of freedom, and he was locked up again.
23
Jeff Hibbert sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He kept replaying the visit from that policewoman over and over in his mind, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake.
Sitting like this was the only way he could get any respite from the pain, the only position he could sleep in. Like the Elephant Man, his wife had said, shortly before she left him.
Helen Hibbert had been a bitch. He knew that. It was why he had married her. She would try to outdo all the other women they knew, flirt with their men, lead them on, even shag a couple. All with Jeff’s blessing. Because it had turned him on. She’d even let him watch sometimes. The other wives had hated it. Hated them. Or feared them. And that had been the real thrill.
Jeff and Helen had had what they liked to think of as an unconventional, uninhibited marriage. Unique, different. And they didn’t care who got in their way. It had been fun, but Helen had eventually tired of it. Then she had turned on Jeff, and that hadn’t been so much fun.
The lung cancer had hit at the worst possible time. He had just lost his job and with it their lifestyle. He had plans how to get it back, oh yes, plans that would make them a shitload of money. Because Jeff knew where the bodies were buried. And where bodies that should have been buried were still walking around. But the lung cancer stopped that and Helen got tired of waiting. Started flirting with other men again. Younger men. Fitter men. Men who didn’t cough up blood. Who knew how to treat a woman. In front of her crippled husband, if necessary. And Jeff stopped finding it all so funny.
‘I don’t know what’ll hurt you more,’ Helen had said one morning after the latest pick-up had been dispatched. ‘Me leaving or me staying.’
So she had moved in with the latest one, leaving Jeff alone to die.
And all those dirty, filthy secrets that were going to make him rich, he could do nothing with. They would benefit someone, though. His co-conspirators, ex-partners. And Jeff hated that. Hated it. In fact, it was the hate that would kill him. But not yet. Because for now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Still, he thought, at least they won’t benefit Helen. That’s something.
What a waste. All that planning, the hours he’d put into it. A waste. He reached out his hand, felt the edge of his laptop under the bed. It was all on there. What had been done, the cover-ups, the plans he had made to get even, to make him rich, everything. All there. Safe.
And all fucking useless to him now.
He pulled his hand back up, stared again at the ceiling. Chest wheezing as he breathed in and out, lungs like needle-laced bagpipes. That policewoman.
Stuart Milton. Very fucking clever. Or so they thought. But dangerous. Almost giving themselves away.
He knew why that name had been given. And his address. It was a warning. We know where you live. Couldn’t have been clearer if they’d trailed the message from the back end of a plane in the air along the seafront. And we can get you any time.
Yeah, yeah. Whatever. If the cancer doesn’t get me first.
He tried to sleep. His eyes had barely closed when he heard the noise from downstairs.
His eyes snapped open.
He heard the noise again. Someone was entering the house.
Jeff Hibbert’s heart began to pound, adding to the pain in his chest.
They’ve come for me, he thought. That’s it. They’ve come for me.
As he struggled painfully to rise and leave his bed, common sense kicked in. Helen. That was who it was. Brought some bloke back to gloat. Bitch. He relaxed back against the built-up pillows. He would ignore her. Pretend to be asleep. Not care what she did. That would show her.
Something smashed. Then something else.
That wasn’t Helen.
Hibbert sat up again, ignoring the pain this time. He swung his legs out of bed as quickly as he could. His heart was pounding once more, fear driving adrenalin round his system. Numbing him slightly, temporarily, giving him the strength he needed to move. He reached out, made a grab for his dressing gown from the back of the door. Couldn’t hold it, dropped it.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, trying to be quiet. Definitely not Helen.
He knelt down to pick up the dressing gown, but couldn’t get his fingers to work. They brushed the edge of the laptop. Pushed it further in. No one was getting that. No one.
The footsteps stopped outside his door. Hibbert held his breath. The door opened.
Hibbert’s eyes travelled up the huge legs of the visitor, took in the muscled torso, the thick arms. The head, hair cropped, angled down at him. Eyes blank.
It was like Frankenstein’s monster had arrived.
‘Get out … ’ Hibbert didn’t have the breath to make the words carry, the strength to make them mean anything.
The intruder looked at him.
‘I know … who you are,’ Hibbert said. ‘I know … what you want … ’
The intruder reached out an arm, picked Hibbert up off the bedroom floor. The pain was excruciating. Hibbert cried out, tried to grab the arm, get it to put him down. It was like arguing with a concrete post. And the same colour. He looked at the skin of the intruder. Grey. Like concrete. Like a dead man.
Hibbert knew who this was. And with that realisation came another: I’m going to die.
Now.
He laughed. It sounded as broken as the rest of him. ‘You … you can’t kill me. I’m … already dead … ’
‘Yes. But a dead man with something to tell me. To give me.’ The voice matched his skin. Hard. Dead.
‘I don’t … don’t … ’
The Golem cut him off. ‘Where is it?’
Hibbert tried to laugh, to stonewall, but his eyes betrayed him. They glanced down to the side of the bed. The Golem caught the look.
‘Get it.’