Chapter Eight

He can hear the birds fluttering overhead, cawing to each other, flapping their wings with insidious intent. There are very few other sounds; perhaps it’s the garbled words from bystanders that properly catch his ear. The breeze whistles past the exposed side of his face, carrying with it whispers of this and that. He tries to budge himself, full body locked in this squeeze, unable to move even his bruised fingers. Using his eyes, he tries to concentrate on the gaps in the mangled metal, using the bright sunlight to his advantage. By forcing his eyes as high as they will go, he manages to spot something reassuring: there is a bloodied lock of blonde hair right above him, slinking out from within a sandwich of solid metal. There is nothing more - no pink flesh, no forgiving smile - perhaps this is the last he’ll see of her.

BANG!

He shudders as something heavy jolts his tomb.

BANG!

The structure shudders again, still not freeing any of his crushed limbs. He moves his tongue inside his mouth, tasting cold and dirty metal. He fumbles around more, feeling for his bottom teeth and jaw. They’re not there - just the iron-laced taste of his own blood.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Stu jumps from his chair. He stands for a moment, dazed, checking the clock and realising that he’d fallen into a waking nightmare for a few minutes. He feels his brow, noticing that it’s much colder than normal.

BANG BANG BANG!

Walking to the rumbling front door, he checks the spy hole and recognises the local postman. “Morning.” He mumbles, swinging the door open.

“Morning!” the postman cheerily replies. He hands him a bunch of letters and a parcel the size of a shoebox. “Bye!” he chirps, scooting off down the hall. Stu checks them over then tosses the envelopes onto the side cabinet, letting them pile upon his other unopened mail. Tearing open the package and box within, he admires the bold new trainers before him. They’re the exact same pair as before, gleaming like new.

Walking back into the living room, he hears his phone vibrating on the table and quickly grabs it. “Hi.” He answers, listening to the response. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there.”

***

Strong winds whip around Stu, hands burrowed into his pockets as he stands firm amidst the coiling gale. Blue and white police tape flickers up and down behind him, pulled and tugged by the tickling wind. His eyes flinch with each new gust, shutting the doors to prevent small flickers of dirt and dust from blinding him.

Stu is dressed much smarter than usual, the crisp pale blue shirt a soft backdrop to the deep, blood-red tie that slides into a ribbed black jacket buttoned once at the waist. The matching trousers are long and hang over his polished shoes, the bottoms repeatedly curling in the chilly gusts of wind.

He stands patiently on this deserted wasteland not far from St. Sepulchre’s Cemetery, a Police car off to his left with lights still spinning, two Police officers quietly conversing alongside. In the far distance, near to the entrance of this muddy plain stands a blonde figure, watching; waiting. He knows she’s there, no need to engage.

The large white tent in front of him billows in the wind, sides ruffled and beaten. Then the opening slips into a gap, a suited arm prising the gateway open for him to enter. Stu quickly scoots himself in, freeing his hands and rubbing them intently as he leaves the cold breeze behind.

“Awful weather for this time of year.” A man clad in a white boiler suit mutters as he passes Stu, his voice muffled behind his dust mask. “It should be sunny out there.” he muses, exiting the tent as soon as Stu is inside.

“Stu.” Merrick nods as their eyes meet. “No clean jeans today?” Stu ignores the DI’s dry wit, but notices the same woman from the last crime scene. She doesn’t burn a hole in him this time.

“Hello again.” Stu nods at Merrick. “Too soon after the last one if you ask me. What do we have?”

“As you know, second one this week: pretty much the same injuries as the one from Tuesday.” His deep, brutish tone calls, underlined by the howling whistle of the wind. Stu strokes his chin with one hand, slipping the other into his trouser pocket as he examines the scene.

The girl is lying on her back in a muddy pool, one hand placed on her pelvis, the other at her side. Her clothes have been disturbed, washed-out jeans buttoned but for the top one. Her exposed stomach is scratched and cracked, ankles similar with her footwear absent. Her neck and chest are daubed with crusty blood, mandible jaw completely missing. Dangling split skin is tickled by the soothing breeze, dancing to some silent beat. Half of her cranium, from earlobe to crest, is reduced to ash.

“Do you know anything about her?” Stu questions, watching Merrick snap open his notepad with a flick of the wrist.

“Orlena Braddock. Thirty-four. Lived at Burnham Street in the south. As you can see this lady is blonde, whereas our previous vic was raven-haired.”

Stu studies her injuries a little more before asking his next question. “What was the first victim called?”

Merrick checks back through his notes. “Nicole Simmons. She was Twenty-two. We’ve still got her boyfriend in for questioning, as his story was a little suspect. Might need to let him go now.” Merrick grumbles, returning the pad to this shirt pocket. Stu crouches down at the edge of the makeshift grave, running his eyes over her lower body to look for any clues. He thinks for a moment, wondering why he doesn’t find her injuries ghastly to gaze upon.

His mind reverberates with the screams from a fateful day not too long ago. Merrick was pinned against the wall by the feral beast, stomach slashed and pissing blood. He remembers seeing the DI’s guts eager to spill from his belly. Stu had been bordering on unconsciousness, his body torn, tattered and bruised. The two women they had been trying to protect were dismembered and long dead, their naked corpses flayed for all to see. One of them had her mandible torn off, but for what reason he can’t remember. Even now he can visualise the cold fear emblazoned across Merrick’s face, already accepting that this was the end of his story.

“I can’t think of anything like this that I’ve encountered in the past. Sorry - it’s a completely new trick.” he replies, looking up at Merrick, fully aware that he has no recollection of the Trumstrab incident. “The facial injury is extremely brutal.” Stu notes, running his finger through the air in line with her wounds. “This could have just been ripped off by the killer’s hands, rather than with the right tools. I’m not indicating that it’s anything supernatural until I have further evidence.” Merrick curiously looks on, Dawson continuing to listen intently. Stu then gets up, stroking his chin again. “Let me know if you dig anything up on any suspects, and I’ll do a little more research.” Stu pats him on the shoulder, motioning to leave.

“No problem.” replies Merrick, watching Stu slip out through the small opening. He looks over at Dawson, expecting a comment.

“What is it with that guy?” she asks. Merrick looks back at her, expecting another question by widening his eyes at her. “Why do we need him?”

Merrick chuckles to himself. “You’ll find out, eventually.”

***

Mike stretches as he rolls over in bed, reaching out for Sera to offer a morning cuddle. He shuffles over to her, kissing her shoulder and snuggling close. She doesn’t move, unusually, so Mike opens his eyes to the bright sun cascading through the thin curtains. He jumps at the sight of her, surprised by her staring eyes transfixed on the ceiling. Her brow is sweaty and lips dry.

“Babe?” he asks, stroking her cheek. She quickly stirs, blinking repeatedly and looking over at him.

“Mmm, morning gorgeous.” She smiles, nuzzling up to him.

“Are you alright?”

“Of course I am, why?” she answers, startled that her pillow is overly moist.

“You had your eyes open, you look pale - I can’t remember the last time you slept like that.”

Sera ponders, presuming she stopped sleeping that way many years ago. “I was having a dream about the figments. This time they were in a mirror.”

Mike looks puzzled. “Figments?”

“You know, the broken people I used to see when I was a child.” She replies, trying to brush it away. Mike had already remembered just before she reaffirmed.

“Ah, yea. I hated hearing about those. Gave me the real creeps.” Sera smiles lovingly, unperturbed by his honesty. She rolls over to cuddle him tightly. “Sorry!” he realises, sheepishly. “Besides, didn’t your meds stop those nightmares?”

Sera pauses longingly. “Maybe I need to get the dosage checked. Don’t worry though, I know you meant well.” She smiles and kisses him on the lips, trying again to clear her mind, just like she used to all those years ago.

***

Jenny puffs and grunts, toned legs sliding in tandem to her thrusting arm movements as the whirring cross trainer sweeps back and forth. Sweat beads down her reddened cheeks, long hair tied into a high pony tail to keep any stray strands from sticking to her flushed skin.

It has been one day shy of a week since Erica’s alleged suicide. There are still so many unanswered questions that the Police have been stubborn to answer. An unsatisfying verdict that she took her own life was completely out of character - especially for someone always keen to make the best out of situations and never let anything get her down. Erica’s family are in pieces and their anger at the lack of answers is insurmountable. Jenny’s foolhardy plan to deliver answers to them was impromptu, but most importantly a clear mistake the moment she heard the words in her own voice.

Jenny’s wounds from that incident have also healed, turning out to be just slight blemishes. Her skin broke out in a full rash that mostly rescinded by the next afternoon. She has no recollection of that day, not even the last conversation they had.

She starts to feel the tension stiffening her arms and thighs, slowing her drive. Jenny pushes herself harder, tightening her grip on the rubber handles to swing quicker and faster. Now the pain really starts to show, invading her tiring arms like a sudden plague. She slows dramatically, legs giving up, her mind trying to push harder than her body can fathom.

She just doesn’t want to give up, evading the notion of numbing pain to push on. Instantly her arms slacken and she relents, collapsing onto the apparatus, biting her lip firmly and trying not to cry. She grimaces, shedding a sequence of rolling tears, quickly eliminating them all and dropping her weary legs to the hard floor.

Hunching over and trying to regain her breath, she looks up to see if anyone else could have witnessed her sudden meltdown. Dabbing her sweating face with the soft towel, she notices one guy - pounding away at a whirring treadmill in the far corner. She presses her face to soak up some more sweat, then grabs her drained bottle of water and makes a move.

As she nears the only other person here, she notices his toned physique and firm behind. Eyeing him up, she glances over at his reflection, noticing that he is already eyeing her back. She smiles unexpectedly upon realising its Stu.

“Hey you.” he grins, continuing to power his way through his run.

“How’s it going?” she asks, her fraught mind now soothed by thoughts of him.

“I’m getting there.” he smiles, effortlessly increasing his pace as the treadmill intensifies his routine. “You?” Jenny looks to one side, trying to think of a decent excuse. “What’s the matter?” he instantly queries.

“Oh, it’s nothing much. Honest.” She mumbles. Stu continues to pound his feet on the whirring belt, seemingly uninterested in cutting his run short. Jenny thinks it over, then just blurts it out. “Remember my friend Erica? Well it was her funeral today. She, er, she died unexpectedly last weekend.” She skirts, partly glad to have said it. Stu knows it was her funeral, he watched from a distance. “What is it with having a funeral on a Friday anyway?” she adds rhetorically, looking away.

“I remember her.” Stu acknowledges quickly, deciding not to inform her of his whereabouts at the same time. “I had heard something about it, but I didn’t realise it was the Erica you knew. Are you okay?” he asks, hardly out of breath. Jenny looks forlorn as he thinks back to the service.

“How did you find out?” she queries.

“Occasionally I work with a DI as a case consultant. I heard about a suicide, but not the details.” he replies, continuing to run hard and showing no sign of giving up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you knew the victim, sorry, I mean Erica.”

“Oh...” she pauses, remembering her current contempt for the Police.

“How was it? The funeral, I mean.”

“It was OK.” Jenny mutters. “Listen, are you doing anything tonight? It’d be really good to go out for something to eat, just to fill the time and take my mind off things. I could do with it.” She uncomfortably smiles, eager to hear a positive response. All this death is in danger of consuming her, regressing her back to younger days of overwhelming loneliness. The emotions from that period kept her isolated and far away from everyone, even her parents and closest friends.

“Yeh, that sounds really good.” he answers, increasing his pace more. Her mind skips with relief, whilst her exterior struggles to convey it. Finally she notices that Stu hasn’t even broken into a sweat yet.

“You’re really fit.”

“Why, thank you.” Stu replies with a smile.

Jenny gasps as her brain whirrs back into play, trying to keep her fragile mind from exploding. “No... Sorry... I mean... damn!”

“It’s okay.” Stu comforts. “I know what you meant. I’ve been doing this for a long time so I’m pretty much used to running ‘til I get bored.” He smiles at her through the mirror. Jenny smiles back, wanting to lubricate her parched throat but spotting the problem. “Do you want me to pick you up?” he asks.

Jenny fails to reply, her eyes now locked on his posterior. “Sorry?”

“Shall I pick you up, or would you rather we met in town?” Stu grins.

“Oh yes, sorry. I’ll meet you in town if that’s OK. I’ll be there anyway as I said I’d meet up with Aimee for a quick drink. How does...” she mulls it over in her head first. “...eight sound?” Stu nods approvingly.

“Whereabouts?” he asks.

“Depends where you’re planning on taking me...” Jenny smirks.

Stu chuckles and grins back at her. “Eight outside Diablo’s then. I might take you in there, but then again...” Stu winks at her, his heavy gait thumping the treadmill.

“See you later then!” Jenny enthuses, sauntering off and looking back once, then again before she leaves the room. Upon hitting the changing rooms, she scrambles around for her phone and calls Aimee.

“Hey, honey.” a sombre voice crackles from the earpiece. She audibly sniffs before sighing for an extended period. “How are you?”

“I still hurt, God I’m pissed off about it all. I ended up taking my frustration out at the gym. I just wish I knew what happened to her...” Jenny sighs.

Aimee sniffs once again. “I know Jen, I know. It’d be nice to get some answers from somewhere.”

“How are you holding up?” Jenny asks.

Aimee pauses before answering, loudly blowing her nose into a tissue. “Not good. Matt’s not answering his phone so I’m at home by myself. It’s really difficult being alone at a time like this.” She sniffles.

“I know, I’ll come over once I’ve showered. We can reminisce before we go for that drink tonight.” Jenny responds, smiling a little. “I’m sure Matt is just tied up with work.”

“Of course he is, he’s been working a lot of overtime recently.” Aimee weeps. “Did you just phone up to check on me then?”

Jenny smirks a little. “Partly - I just bumped into that guy from the club last week. He wants to take me out to dinner to take my mind off things. I thought it was something nice after the horrible week we’ve been through.” Jenny answers. “I just hope no-one else is going to... you know.”

“Was his name Stu?” Aimee snivels, her voice starting to flake. “As long as you still have time for that drink with me, that’s good. Where are you guys heading to?” she asks, trying to sound a little more enthused.

“Diablo’s.” Jenny replies, her voice perking up. “Anyway, I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

“Sure.” Aimee replies, sniffing once more. “Try not to be too long.”