“Did you think of me at all? Did you know I’d be in there the whole weekend? Did I cross your mind over those three nights? And if I did, how did you feel? Did it amuse you to think of me trapped in that stockroom? I had no food, no water, no toilet - Much like you are now, sitting there with your trousers full of shit. I had to go in jars. Can you imagine the horrors that preyed on my mind? I lost track of time. I didn’t know what day it was. I convinced myself it was half term and school would be closed for a week. I was convinced I was going to die in that cupboard.
“I was delirious with hunger and thirst and fear. I just about stopped myself from eating paint - not to keep me alive but to bring an end to that miserable existence. You made my life a living hell - do you know that?
“The time passed. They found me dehydrated and catatonic. An ambulance was summoned. I never set foot in that school again. I think Miss Rose - poor, sweet Miss Rose - got into trouble about the keys. Another victim of your puerile pranks.
“I was going to cut my wrists and let the blood drain out of me and make one of those abstract pictures Miss Rose was always raving about. I think they’re Pollocks. But again, I stopped myself. Why?
“One word: I wanted revenge!
“And that’s what you’m here for, Keith, my old mate, my old tormentor. But lest you think I’m picking on you, I’ve a couple of old friends I want to reunite you with. Just you wait there, sitting pretty. Or should that be ‘sitting shitty’? Or even ‘shitting pretty’? Ha! You can take your pick. I’ll be back in a tick.”
***
Dickon breezed from Keith’s cellar, feeling extra light in his loafers. A great weight had been lifted just telling Daley all of that. And there was more to come. But before he fetched the visual aids he needed for the next episode of the story, he popped into another compartment to have a natter with that nice detective Davey Brough.
“Coo-ee! I’m ever so sorry, David,” Dickon’s lower lip curled inwards. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“Untie me at once!” said Brough, although his words were muffled by the gag between his teeth.
“Sorry, pet?” Dickon loosened the strap. Brough panted, gulping in the musty air.
“Where am I?”
“You’m in the cellar, chicken.”
“In the pub? I thought it’d be bigger.”
“I’ve been making some improvements.” Dickon’s eyes flickered. Brough noticed a trowel and mortarboard in a corner.
“You’re a bricklayer?”
“It’s a hobby.”
“Great... Are you going to untie me now?”
“Um...well...”
“You hit me!”
“It’s all a bit embarrassing; I thought you were somebody else.”
“A burglar?”
Dickon looked pained. “Um, not exactly. I’m on a website, you see. He4Me - do you know it?”
“I can’t say I do, no.”
“Well, it caters to a rather specialist market, you see. I was expecting a visitor. For a bit of role play. And a touch of light bondage. Oh, don’t worry - that ball gag you’re wearing is brand new.”
Brough felt sick. In fact, he almost gagged.
“Well, as you can see, I’m not your gentleman caller, so you can let me go now.”
“Oops! Yes, of course. And again, I’m ever so sorry, chick.”
“Mistaken identity,” said Brough. “We’ll say no more about it. I’d tap the side of my nose if I had a hand free.”
“You’m a gentleman. Your Jason’s very lucky.”
“Hmm,” said Brough. “Now, if you could untie me...”
“Of course.” Dickon was about to put his trusty craft knife to work on the cable ties keeping the copper’s hands fastened behind his back when a thought occurred to him.
“Hang about,” he directed the blade towards Brough’s cheek. “You haven’t told me what the bloody blue fuck you was doing breaking into my pub.”
***
“I’ve run you a nice bath, love,” Jerry declared as he entered the living room. The duvet Miller had been dozing under was on the floor. The sofa was devoid of detectives. “Mel?”
Jerry was puzzled. Perhaps she’d gone to the bog? No, I’ve just been in the bathroom; I think I would have noticed. Then where the hell...
He caught her in the hallway, fully dressed and about to leave. He pushed the door shut and stood in front of it.
“Where’d you think you’m going?” he barked.
“Out!” said Miller. “Get out of my way. Please, Jerry!”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Jerry took hold of the sleeve of her raincoat.
“Get off! You’re obstructing police business.”
“Official police business, is it?”
“Get off me!”
“You’re not well, Mel. You’ve never been iller, Miller.”
“You’re not funny. Don’t make me knee you in the bollocks.”
“Police brutality!”
“Jerry, please!” She beat her fists against his chest but only weakly. Seconds later, she was sobbing against his collarbone and he was holding her tight.
“It’s the middle of the night, Mel.” He planted a kiss on the crown of her head.
“It’s that pub, I’m sure of it,” she wiped her nose on his shirt.
“It’ll be shut now,” he pointed out, making an effort to ignore the snot.
“Crime doesn’t stick to opening hours,” Miller countered.
“And now you’m talking like a bad film. C’m’on. Into the bath. Perhaps you’ll be up to it in the morning.”
He steered her towards the bathroom. She put up no resistance.
“Tell you what,” he kissed her neck. “While you’m having a good soak, why don’t I pop down there? If it looks like there’s anything dodgy going on, you can phone your workmates, can’t you?”
“To the pub? You’re going to the pub?”
“It’s shut, remember. I’ll just take a stroll.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to. I’m not going to get any peace, am I, until your mind is at rest?”
“Ah, selfish reasons!”
He pushed her through the bathroom door. “You’ll have that water cold. I won’t be long.”
He pulled the door shut and reached for his overcoat.
I love you, Melanie Miller, he thought. But didn’t say.
***
Keith yelped like a trodden-on puppy when the door opened wide.
“Hello,” said Dickon. He grunted and strained to bring in a bulky object, and then another. He sang Roll Out The Barrel and chuckled. “Ta-dah!” he presented two large kegs like a magician’s assistant.
“I’m not thirsty,” Keith lied.
Dickon clapped. “A sense of humour even in adversity. Perhaps you’m not the craven coward I always thought you were. But these,” he patted the tops of the barrels, “aren’t for drinking, Keithy-baby. Don’t you want to know what’s in them? Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
“Not particularly,” said Keith, but his heart was racing.
“Prepare yourself; it’ll probably stink like hell - but you should be used to that, sitting there with shit in your pants.”
He prised off the lid of one of the barrels, recoiling as the stench of rotting meat and the sharp tang of chemicals hit him. “Pee-yew!” He flapped his hand in front of his nose. He opened the second barrel. Keith’s eyes were watering from the smell. He strained his neck, trying to see what was in the foul-smelling containers.
“Oops, silly me! My big reveal has no impact if you can’t see the fucking things.”
He pushed one barrel over. Pink and grey goop spilled out. Keith began to cough and splutter from the fumes. Dickon pushed the second barrel over. Some of the contents splashed on Keith’s trousers. The lumps in this liquid were larger - Keith gagged in horror - were recognisable as parts of bones. The crown of a skull was clearly distinguishable. A row of teeth in a jawbone confirmed Keith’s initial supposition to be correct: these were human remains.
“Of course,” Dickon giggled, “They’ve probably changed quite a bit since last you saw them.”
Keith tried to look away but he couldn’t. Was that dark smudge bobbing in a bubble what was left of an eyeball?
“Who - who are they?”
“Oh, Keith,” Dickon pouted. “Can’t you guess?” He waited but Keith didn’t respond. “These are your old friends from school. Thing One and Thing Two, remember? The three of you used to make my life hell every-fucking-day. You can’t have forgotten!”
Keith’s head was spinning. A kaleidoscope of thoughts clamoured for his attention, every one of them making him want to scream.
“Oh,” he said at last. His mutilated mouth twisted in a grimace. “Oh, fuck.”
***
Daley and his mates found other fish to pick on. With Kenny Dickens no longer at the school, they sought out the weak and the vulnerable, and transferred their bullying to another crop of lame ducks and life’s losers. Kenny Dickens was soon forgotten and the years passed.
One August morning, Daley was slinking home from school. He’d been to collect his exam results and although he hadn’t been expecting anything near the very beginning of the alphabet, he had hoped to be surprised with a couple of Cs among the Ds and Es. No such luck - but then, how lucky you are is not what the public examinations are designed to measure.
His henchmen had cottoned on to the business of actually knuckling down and studying long ago, distancing themselves from Daley, deliberately or otherwise. He’d left them in the school hall, celebrating with the teachers. Someone suggested they should all go for pizza and Daley just had to get out of there. He’d sloped off with never a goodbye or a backward glance.
Fuck re-sits! He wasn’t going to set foot in that shit hole again. He’d get a job or try his luck at Dedley Technical College or somewhere.
With his fists thrust deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket, he strode with a determined expression, ready to face the music that would be played on his head and torso by his stepfather as soon as his results - or lack thereof - became known.
Might as well get it over with, he reasoned. The longer he left it, the worse it would be; it was reasoning of this nature that informed the way Daley dealt with his own victims, teasing out the agony of anticipation for as long as he could so that when he finally clobbered them, it almost came as a blessed relief.
He took his customary shortcut through the narrow alley that led to his side of the estate, taking care to avoid the dog shit that was liberally distributed along the length of the path. His impromptu game of hopscotch was brought to a sudden and unexpected end when someone jumped him from a wall. Daley toppled under the weight of his assailant, finding himself pinned to the ground, dog shit and all. Winded, Daley struggled and squirmed. The attacker wasn’t all that heavy but the blade he was holding against Daley’s cheek commanded his attention. Daley vaguely recognised it as the kind they used to use in Art lessons. The attacker’s knees squeezed Daley’s neck. Daley choked, trying to see past the knife and identify the mugger. How dare anybody try to mug me? Anger swelled in him. His chest rose as though to unseat the bastard.
“Go on, then!” Daley spat. “You fucking coward!”
The attacker, masked in a hood, sunglasses and a scarf, tilted his head to one side.
“Fucking coward!” Daley repeated. He made an effort to get up but the blade was in his mouth. Daley tried to turn away. The knife sawed through his cheek. Daley screamed. Blood gargled in his throat. The knife stabbed at his face. It stabbed through his other cheek and worked its way to the corner of his mouth. Again and again the attacker struck, jabbing and stabbing. Daley’s bottom lip was almost off. It hung fat and wet like a red slug, exposing his lower teeth.
And then it stopped. The attacker was gone. Daley lay still, aware of retreating footsteps. He coughed out a bubble of blood and with his hands cupping the ruins of his face, headed for home.
***
Keith was sobbing. At first his eyes had streamed from the stench of the spilled chemicals and the putrefying pieces of his former classmates, but now his body was wracked with genuine grief and fear.
“Let me go,” he pleaded but Dickon was concentrating on something else. “Please! Let me - wh- what are you doing?” Although Keith had a good idea.
Dickon glanced up from the mortar he was mixing on a board. “Oh, you’ll see. I picked up a lot of skills during my travels. For a kid who didn’t finish school properly, I know a lot of stuff. And bricklaying’s one of the less unusual ones. Learned this on a building site in Zante. Met a lovely bloke called Angelos, taught me the trade, gave me hod.”
Dickon brayed with laughter. He placed brick after brick in a line alongside Keith. “I’m sure you and your mates, now you’re reunited, will enjoy spending the rest of eternity together.”
“You’re insane!”
“Just think of it as a never-ending weekend in a store cupboard.”
“Please!” Keith screeched as Dickon stacked the bricks higher. “I have a wife! A family!”
Dickon’s trowel paused but he did not look at Keith. “So, you lied. You lied on your online profile.” Dickon made it sound like this was the worst of Keith Daley’s crimes.
“So did you! Your name’s not even Dickon.” A terrible realisation dawned. “You knew! You knew all along it was me! You tricked me! You lured me here under false pretences!”
“Why did you come? Bit of bum-fun behind your wife’s back? You make me sick. Perhaps you think it’s not cheating on her if it’s with a bloke. You disgust me.”
The bricklaying resumed.
“Look,” Keith spoke quickly, all too aware that the wall curving around him was growing closer to the ceiling by the minute. “I was going to tell her - when I’d found the right man - I thought you - Look - we got along all right in the chat room, didn’t we?”
“I was leading you on, you twat.” Dickon carried on building.
“I’m sorry!” Keith screamed. “I really am. For everything I did to you. I really am truly sorry. Let me make it up to you. I have money.”
“I have a pub,” Dickon shrugged. “It’s a gay gold mine. You can’t buy your way out of this.”
“I am so - so - sorry...”
“Let me guess: your bullying of me was just your way of fighting off your own latent homosexuality.”
“Er...”
“Pop psychology bollocks. There’s no excuse for what you did to me and now you must pay.”
“Bricking me up in here won’t help you compartmentalise your memories, you know. Burying me in your cellar won’t bury me in your head, you know. I’ll be dead but not forgotten.”
“Dead?” Dickon’s nose wrinkled at the apparent cuteness of the idea. “Oh no, Mr Daley; I expect you to live.”