Stephen Booth - The Dead Place

Cooper stood up with some difficulty, trying not to show too much discomfort. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think Freddy Robertson would consider a star student to be the person who took in every precious word and echoed his own views most faithfully.’

‘Yes, you’re right, Ben. I bet he liked Vernon because he was easy to influence. Faithful is a good word. And loyal, too — like a dog.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, he’d kept the professor’s secrets for a long time. He stayed loyal, even when Robertson himself started to worry that Vernon would crack and give him away.’

Cooper frowned. ‘Is that the way you read it?’

‘What do you mean, Ben?’

‘I think the loyalty was the other way round. Vernon thought he was doing Robertson a great service by obtaining a real body for him. It was meant to be a special gift, the way a cat brings its kill into the house for its owner.’

‘Are you talking about Audrey Steele?’

‘Yes, of course. The theft of her body was nothing to do with Richard Slack — it was Vernon’s idea. But Robertson rejected his offering. It was a step too far for the professor — it brought death a little bit too close. Perhaps he was completely horrified by the idea.’

‘So he was nothing but talk, after all.’

‘But he didn’t give Vernon away, did he?’ said Cooper. ‘That’s what I meant about loyalty.’

‘How do you know all this, Ben?’

He slid a plastic evidence bag across the kitchen table. It contained an exercise book with a red cover, the pages well thumbed and loose. The outside of the bag was stained with a streak of blood. Cooper realized the blood was probably his own.

‘It’s Vernon’s journal,’ he said. ‘This is what his grandfather found when he started to get worried about Vernon’s behaviour and searched the house. You don’t need to read much of it to realize why the old man reacted the way he did. He was witnessing the destruction of everything he’d built up. Not only the business, but his family, too. And the cause of it was the one thing that he thought he had left — his grandson.’

‘A journal? You mean like a diary?’

‘Take a look,’ said Cooper. ‘Read it.’

Fry accepted the journal with the expression of someone who’d just been handed a ticking bomb. She opened it near the back, as if she hoped to avoid the worst.

MY JOURNAL OF THE DEAD, PHASE SIX

On the day I was born, my bones were soft. So soft thatyou’d hardly have heard them break. Perhaps, if you’dlistened carefully, you might have caught the gentlecrunch of a forearm as it fractured, or the crack of mythigh bone splintering. But they’d hardly have beenaudible, I’m sure. Not above the sound of my screams .

Now, my bones are older and stronger. If I live longenough, they might twist and become brittle, until theywon’t support my body any more. But deep down, themarks of my childhood would still be there — the tracksof fracture lines, the signs of incomplete healing. They’reinvisible now, except to an X-ray machine. Invisible,except in the jagged lines of pain etched in my memory.My bones will never forget, until the day I die .

There’s magic in our bones. They produce our redblood cells, trillions of them surging through our bodies.I think the magic must lie in the marrow, that pale,mysterious jelly. If only I could suck out enough of it,my blood might be stronger, and my bones might heal .

Yet every time I think about blood or pain, I get asensation along the nerves in the backs of my calves, aninvoluntary cringing, a sudden discomfort like the bloodwithdrawing from my veins, like shallow water draggingover sharp stones. What kind of direct connectionis there between my brain and the muscles in my legs?It’s one of those peculiarities of the body, a secret thatno pathologist will ever bring to light with his knife .

But soon he’ll be gone, the man who made me likethis. When the last shreds of his flesh are stripped away,his grip on my life will be broken. Finally, his spiritwill separate from his body, prised away like a deadsnail sucked from its shell, like sewage pumped from aseptic tank. His voice will fall silent in my head, thepain of his presence will stop, and the nightmares willbe over. No more of those endless memories of beatings,the feel of his neck in my hands, a neck soaked withsweat as he lies helpless and bleeding — but I can’t, can’tbring myself to kill him .

Just one more day. And then I can be like everyoneelse. It takes just one more day .

And this will be a real killing. The final, completeand perfect destruction. By tonight, he’ll be gone for ever.Gone from the dead place .

Fry thought the journal had finished. She turned the page at what seemed to be the last entry. But on the other side, there was a final scrawl — two lines in hastily printed capitals:

IT WAS ALL A LIE. HE’S STILL HERE IN MY HEAD. WHO ELSE DO I HAVE TO KILL TO GET RID OF THIS THING INSIDE ME?

‘There’s an earlier entry that looks identical to one of the phone calls,’ said Fry, when she’d finished reading.

Cooper nodded. ‘Some of it is borrowed from Professor Robertson. Notes from when Vernon was his student, perhaps? He seems to have taken in every word as gospel. But the professor could be very persuasive. Mesmerizing almost.’

Fry slid the journal back into its plastic bag and took off her gloves.

‘And what about the human remains at Fox House Farm, Ben?’

‘I think that’ll turn out to be Vernon’s father.’

‘Richard Slack? You think Vernon stole the body of his own father?’

‘It would have been easier to achieve than with Audrey Steele,’ said Cooper. ‘Especially as Richard was due to be buried rather than cremated. There were people already complicit by then.’

‘But why?’

‘It would make sense, if Vernon took on board some of the ideas that Freddy Robertson was teaching him — the practice of excarnation, the sarcophagus and the charnel house. He left a body in “the dead place” to be sure that all the flesh had gone from the bones.’

‘And he was going back at intervals to check on progress?’

‘He wanted to be sure that his father’s spirit had gone. He was afraid it would linger unless the bones were completely clean and dry. That’s what Robertson had told him, you see.’

‘And when the bones were finally clean — ’

‘Vernon thought he’d be free. Free of the nightmares, free of the memory of his father. He seems to have believed that his father was still in his head somehow. Well, you’ve read it, Diane. He expresses it clearly enough himself in his journal.’

‘So perhaps when he called, he knew he was getting close: “Soon there will be a killing.” He might not have been talking about his own death at all.’

Cooper sat back, suddenly weary. ‘Vernon must have hated his father very much. It appears his father abused him badly as a small child. Vernon bore the pain in his bones all his life. I noticed him moving stiffly, but thought it was a recent beating. It wasn’t — it was a very old one. A series of vicious beatings, dating back to infancy.’

‘Richard Slack was worth more as meat for the worms than he ever was alive.’

‘Yes, you might say that.’

‘And if his father was still alive, no doubt he’d turn up at the child’s funeral and send flowers,’ said Fry distantly.

Cooper stared at her.

‘Diane, are you all right?’ he said.

Fry seemed to shake herself out of some reverie. ‘Fine. Look, I understand now what Vernon meant about the dead place being in other people’s hearts,’ she said. ‘But there had to be a physical place too, didn’t there?’