Chapter Six

No longer did Tim Harris have a clear understanding of what was real and what festered inside his imagination. But since when did he ever do what he should? Lately his whole life was filled with things he should or shouldn’t have done. He shouldn’t have had that last drink. He shouldn’t have left Ronnie to her own devices. Not while all this was going on. But he did. And now he was living with the consequences.

His eyes sprung open. He checked next to him on the bed. She wasn’t there. Didn’t come home. Was she even supposed to? Was she really his? Ever? He honestly could not remember. But what was clear as the cold light of day was that the unwanted images of sexual suffering and torture, which floated in his unconscious mind, had leapt from his dreams and were with him every second of his waking day.

Some days were better than others, like he could almost control it. But it was the evenings that were worse. Lately that’s when the urge to fuck appeared, and when it did nothing would sate his animalistic appetite except for coming. Whether it be by his own hand, up a whore’s cunt, or in the mouth of a stranger through a hole in the wall, it didn’t matter. When night fell the thirst came, so did he - inside the nearest handy victim.

Tim pulled a face, angry of even being able to think in that way. Something incomprehensible was happening to him and it was happening more often. A darkness he fought hard to control. Yet the first time the change gripped him it was so quick he hardly realised what happened until it was too late. Was it too late to get his old self back? He hoped to god it wasn’t. But he needed answers and he wasn’t going to get them wasting away lying in bed.

He thought of Ronnie and how from the first day they’d met she’d opened up her soul and told him all about her need to find out what had happened to her parents. What started out as him assisting her in some light research lead to the discovery that there was a lot more going on than at first appeared.

Along the way they’d met another man, Charles Leamington, who had a great deal of knowledge with regard to the help they sought. One thing led to another and the three of them became a tightly knit research team, all with one common goal: to decipher the mysteries of the unexplainable world around them, of which most people went happily through the course of their lives totally unaware.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? After a day at the library where they both worked they were supposed to meet up with Charles to report back to him, with an update of the progress of their latest case. Tim expected Ronnie back by now. Damn it! She could be in trouble and all because of him.

He punched the snooze button, temporarily killing the alarm. The clock said 5:05am. Early. He used to hate the mornings. Not any more.

Fuck! How was he supposed to admit he’d drunk too much and let Ronnie go it alone? Since discovering new leads she wanted to dive in straight away. Shoot first and ask questions later. Like she always did. And with good reason too. He, on the other hand, wanted to talk with Charles - to bring him up to speed. Do things the right way. Safety first. One could never be too careful with the unscrupulous types they dealt with. But no, he had to let it get all out of control, didn’t he? Instead of calmly discussing the situation the stress of what they’d gotten into started to show. The stress of walking around at work feeling like he had the word freak stamped on his forehead didn’t help either. Did anyone suspect?

Anyway, Ronnie stormed out on her own, and he turned to the bottle.

Or was it the other way round?

He couldn’t remember.

His head throbbed.

‘Why did you run?’

Everyone knew how pigheaded and stubborn Ronnie could be - one of many ways she reminded him of himself - but as the one person she confided in and really talked to, he had no excuse. He should never have let things between them go as far as they did.

The alarm blared again. Tim grunted, shut it up with his fist and climbed out of bed. First he needed to freshen up so he could think straight. No good barging in without sorting out what he was going to say. He’d only end up making the whole situation worse. So far nothing implied foul play. More than likely he was letting his imagination put obstacles in his way. There had to be a simple explanation for Ronnie’s absence. One not connected to this case at all. Most probably he’d call her mobile and find she spent the night at work. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d discover her asleep on her desk, being the workaholic she was.

Naked he padded out of the bedroom into the bathroom and switched on the shower. Instant heat and steam filled the room.

He thought of their current case, they’d been discussing last night. A seemingly normal middle-class family in their home town of Cambridge had gone out on a killing spree last week. Not together, but individually, and what made it absolutely ridiculous to believe was every member of the Marshall family had killed someone on the same day. The mother, Philippa, a housewife and regular charity fund-raiser, murdered a neighbour’s sleeping child while babysitting for a friend who was out shopping for groceries. At the same time her accountant husband, Adam, was committing an armed robbery at a cash and carry a few miles away. He killed a shopkeeper with a sawn-off shotgun. Earlier, Callum, their fourteen-year-old son knifed another kid in the street while on his paper round, with fatal consequences. Finally, his little sister for some reason poisoned a teacher with rat poison. The reason she gave was the same reason the rest of the family gave. She said a demon made her do it. When the police came to her school and arrested her, little Clara was wearing a red and white gingham dress, with matching ribbons tying up her bunches. She was six years old.

Tim grabbed the shampoo, spurted a dollop into his hand and lathered up his short brown hair. He turned his back to the shower and let the power of the water massage his aching head and shoulders. He wished he could wash away his troubles as easily as the suds.

What he needed was a plan. To the general public the Marshall killings didn’t make sense. All sorts of stories were circulating of some sort of evil illness sweeping England, and although they were not strictly true, or based on any evidence or reliable source, both Ronnie and Tim knew different. Among a few selective Institute members. The truth about what was really going on wasn’t that far from the bizarre stories spreading, although that element of truth must never be allowed to become public knowledge. Neither should the fact that this so-called disease had spread a lot further than the tiny isle of Britain. Pandemic proportions. The world was rife with evil constantly being covered up by those already in the know. The best way for all involved, thought Tim. Especially now the full horror had arrived on his doorstep.

Tim turned, allowing the water to cascade down his muscled chest. Who would believe an ancient evil which once resided in the mythical Magic Box of Destiny had been released into the world? He could hardly believe it himself, yet it’s what they were meant to meet Charles for and discuss with him, before moving on to the next stage of their plan where these creatures were concerned.

Yesterday, when Tim typed up the information he was going to hand in to Charles it read more like a fantasy story than the fact-based report it was. Something he noticed more often these days, but struggled to accept. On his report he quoted some vital research information they gleaned from a few pages ripped out from an archaic book of some sort. Copy attached.

According to their research they’d stumbled across something big. Until the Marshall murders neither Tim nor Ronnie had realised quite how big. But the telltale signs - the creepy glint in their eyes, the flash of red just before they strike - are plain to see by the trained eye. Unlike the evil force they expel that hides inside the bodies of humans and feeds off their greed and envy as a source of power, the evil they cause is clear for all to see. To know more about what they were dealing with helped, but as yet they still did not have a clue how to stop them.

Tim towelled off and got dressed. He went downstairs, picked up his mobile phone from the top of the bread bin, where he always kept it overnight. He speed-dialled Ronnie’s mobile. It rang, for what seemed like ages, and then switched over to answering machine. He left an awkward message and then hung up. He checked the kitchen clock. 6:00am. Before he started to panic he needed to check the Institute, but their switchboard wouldn’t operate for another couple of hours. So if he wanted to make sure Ronnie was safe he was going to have to go and find out in person. He hoped he could keep his cool and not get into another fighting match with her.

Suddenly an image in his head shot into full view and startled him. He’d slapped Ronnie? Hard. He hadn’t meant to hit her. In fact he couldn’t really remember doing it, how it happened, or if it was a dream. But that image in his head shook him up. There was no other explanation, other than it must have happened for him to remember part of it. He sighed and shook his head sadly. Never before and never again would he stoop so low. How would she ever forgive him? He promised he’d never let anything happen to her. Despite the danger all around them, as long as they had each other they could survive all the monsters they came across. And looking in the hallway mirror at his own reflection, he wondered what sort of monster Ronnie saw in him now.

Picking up his car keys Tim noticed the empty bottle on the kitchen sink. Determined to put right the wrong he had caused he threw his keys on the kitchen table, raced through the house and gathered all the bottles of whiskey he had hidden from Ronnie. Twelve bottles in total, with varying amounts still left inside each one. Was his life really so bad that he couldn’t face it without using alcohol as a security blanket? For a twenty-nine-year-old he was acting more like a spoilt child than he had realised. It had to stop. The last thing he wanted to do was lose Ronnie. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to contend with already. Not after their newfound discovery.

With a deep breath Tim looked at the bottles on the kitchen sink. Before he could hesitate and change his mind he unscrewed the lids and poured the dark golden liquid down the plughole. Usually wasting it like this would have driven him to despair, but like being driven to drink by the nightmares that surrounded them on a daily basis, this had to stop. However hard it might be, he would not let the evil win.

Strangely, the distinctive smell of alcohol made him feel sick more than anything. Maybe the drink had served a purpose, but this sort of dependency went no further. From now on he would not allow another sip of alcohol to pass his lips, and he would prove to Ronnie he could be the friend she deserved. He vowed to apologise and make things right. All he had to do was find her first.

In many ways he hoped she had just stayed out of his hair until he cooled down, and was planning to return to him when he was sober, because the other option was too painful for him to contemplate.

He gathered the bottles and took them outside and dumped them in his recycling box. Heading for the car he thought of Ronnie and wished her safe. Ronnie Weaver, the only person who could heal him. The girl he’d let slip through his fingers because he couldn’t hold his drink. The girl, who by now, as much as he tried to convince himself he’d find her at work, would be sharing another man’s bed, in a completely different world of which he had no idea how to get to. But somehow he would. Somehow he had to.