Tania Carver - Cage of Bones

Mickey didn’t know what to say. Thought he wasn’t expected to say anything, just listen.

‘And you know who did it?’

‘Who?’

‘That slag back at the hotel. Her.’

Mickey said nothing. He could guess where this was going.

‘And she’s going to get away with it. Claim self-defence.’

‘Was it?’ asked Mickey. ‘Self-defence?’

Clemens sighed. Shook his head. Blew more smoke. ‘Didn’t expect you to understand. Met your boss. See where you get it from now. Be trying to turn you into a Guardian reader too.’

Mickey hadn’t taken to Clemens. Too quick to anger, too fast with his tongue. Looking for a fight. Not good traits to have in someone who was supposed to be watching your back. He would have to be aware of that.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t rise to it.

The two men kept looking across the water, not speaking, each in their own world.

Others came out of the van to join them.

Then Fennell arrived, putting his phone away.

‘Your boss said you were looking forward to doing some proper police work again,’ he said to Mickey. ‘Bit of thief-taking.’

Mickey gave a grim smile. ‘Beats paperwork, I suppose.’

‘Certainly does.’ Fennell looked at his watch. ‘Time to get organised.’

Phil tried to stand. Slowly, unsure of how much space there was between his body and the ceiling of the cave. Not much. Not enough for him to stand fully upright.

He checked himself out. No severe pains anywhere, nothing that indicated twisted ankles or broken bones. Just soreness resulting from the speed of the descent and the abruptness of the landing. He would hurt tomorrow.

If he could get out again.

He swung the torch around. The chamber he was in seemed to be a naturally occurring space that had been hollowed out further. Some of the rock looked smooth, age-worn; some looked hacked at, hewn.

He turned round slowly. Played the torch in front of him.

Someone lived down here.

A bed frame of twisted, heavy branches held a mattress made from hessian sacking, straw and leaves spilling from loose seams. Some old blankets, holed and mildewed, had been thrown on to it. The whole thing stank.

He looked more closely at the bed, trained his torch on it. There was what looked like another bed next to it, in the shadows. At the foot of it a small broken table. Probably liberated from the hotel’s bins, thought Phil. He shone the torch beam on the other bed. And recoiled as if he had been hit.

Laid out there were the remains of a mummified corpse. Clothing rotted away, skin like dusty old leather. Bones sticking through. But preserved, reverentially. Either side of it were candles.

Pulling his eyes away from the bed, he studied the small table. It had been painted with the same symbols as on the walls of the cellar at East Hill. The calendar. On it were several items, like the contents of someone’s pockets but decades old, laid out as if they were offerings on an altar. Phil moved in closer to look. A cigarette lighter. Some beads. A watch, the leather strap all eaten away. A wallet.

He reached forward and, fearful that it might crumble to dust in his hands, slowly opened the wallet.

There was still money in there. Single pound notes. Ten-pound notes. Fives. All decades old. A library card, long out of date. He screwed up his eyes, tried to make out the name. Did so.

Paul Clunn.

‘Oh my God… ’

Then: a noise. Echoing.

Phil turned, swinging the torch, catching his head on the low ceiling. He rubbed at it. Kept looking round. Listening. All he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears.

He tried to blink the pain away, listen.

Nothing. No more sound. He shone the torch on the walls once more, this time noticing that the same design had been painted there. Old, the paint fading away to darkness.

It wasn’t Paul who lived down here. Phil was sure of that. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Paul.

The Gardener? Was it him?

He checked the entranceway he had come down. Looked for footholds. The rock was smooth, worn. The space just big enough for his body to pass through. He tried to climb up it. Couldn’t get a grip. Slid back down again.

He looked round once more. Panic was beginning to set in. Phil hated confined spaces. Had always suffered from claustrophobia. Being underground just made it worse.

He tried once more to pull himself up the shaft. Thrust his elbows out, forced his body to move behind him. The space wasn’t wide enough. He tried again.

And his elbows jammed against the sides. He couldn’t move.

His breathing increased. He felt himself start to panic. He didn’t want to stay here, stuck. He didn’t know how long it would take Marina to return with the rope. There was only one thing for him to do.

He relaxed his arms. Felt able to move once more. Wriggled his body down the tunnel until he collapsed on to the floor, back in the same place he had started from.

He stood up as far as he could go. Looked around again. Whoever lived down here must have another way out, he reasoned. The entrance was only one way. He knelt down on the floor, played the beam of the torch round the base of the walls. Looking for cracks, other tunnels, anything.

There were a few. Most of them just looked like fissures, cracks in the rock. Not big enough to climb inside, just tapering away to nothing. But there was one that seemed to widen out into a tunnel. It was small, cramped. But big enough to get inside, pull himself along with his elbows. And push himself backwards if he had to.

Probably.

He heard the noise again. Echoing round the rock. It sounded like a cry.

Of pain. Of fear.

Was it an animal? Or a human? And more importantly, was it coming from the tunnel he was preparing to go down?

He had to find out.

He knelt down, stuck the torch between his teeth and, flattening down on to his stomach, pushed himself into the small space.

He remembered a similar situation a couple of years ago. He remembered what was waiting for him at the end of that tunnel. Felt his breathing increase at the memory, tried to control it. Save his energy for movement.

Then, not knowing whether he was going towards the sound or away from it, whether what was up ahead was worse than what he was leaving, he began to edge his way along.

The child was still shivering. Good. The Gardener liked that.

No he didn’t. He loved that.

Made him even more excited. Made the anticipation all the sweeter.

The child gripped the bars of the cage. Pulling on them, rattling them, trying to escape. No good. Too well made.

He laughed at the boy. It ended up as a cough.

Deep, racking, bent double while the painful, angry barks came from his body, gasping for breath as his lungs, his chest burned.

Eventually the coughing fit subsided. He had something in his mouth. Lifting the hood up, he spat on the ground. Looked at it. Black-dark and glistening.

Blood.

The cough had weakened him. It was getting worse. Taking more out of him. Putting his body through more pain. Each spasm taking longer to recover from.

He pulled the hood back in place, looked down at the altar. His tools were laid out in their usual precise manner. Candles lit now on either side. He drew strength just from seeing them. Stood up straight. Looked at the boy.

Smiled. No laughing this time.

‘Soon… soon… ’ He picked up the sharpened trowel. Played the candlelight off its gleaming blade. Sent mirror flashes of light on to the boy, who flinched each time the light caught him. That gave him an idea.

The Gardener smiled again. This was a good game. He angled the blade, caught the light, flashed it at the boy, who recoiled every time, moved away to a different spot in the cage. The Gardener giggled, changed the position of the blade, tried to catch the boy again. The boy whimpered, moved once more.