Luke Delaney - The Keeper

‘Tuesday — Jesus Christ,’ Sean said to himself, ‘he’s dressing as a postman. That’s how he gets the doors open, he dresses like a fucking postman.’ The images played in his mind like a short film, the faceless man walking along Louise Russell’s street, dressed in a postal uniform, Royal Mail bag over his shoulder, calm and relaxed, knowing exactly what he was doing, every so often casually walking to other front doors and dropping junk mail through letter boxes. The perfect urban disguise.

Levy chased the images away. ‘What are you talking about, Inspector?’

‘Nothing. I have to go.’ He turned his back on Levy and pulled the front door open, leaving without another word, oblivious to Levy shaking his head in disapproval as he closed his front door. As he walked to his car he talked to the faceless man whose features were beginning to appear more distinct: ‘I can feel you now, my friend. We’ll be seeing each other soon.’

The car bumped wildly as Thomas Keller drove too quickly over the uneven surface of his driveway, rocking him violently in his seat. Hearing the loud banging from the boot as his precious cargo was tossed around, he frowned with concern. He didn’t want her damaged. He needed her pristine if she was to be everything he wanted her to be.

By the time the car slid to a halt outside his ramshackle breezeblock cottage it was gone 5 p.m. Darkness would be closing in within another hour or two. Wanting to make sure everything was ready before night descended, he grabbed the keys from the ignition and jumped from his old Ford Mondeo, tripping and stumbling as he hurried to the front door.

Ignoring the squalor and filth, he ran through the house to the tiny spare bedroom, just big enough for a single bed — not that there was one. The room was in semi-darkness, its one window facing north, away from the sinking sun. He kicked aside piles of boxes and worn, tattered clothes until he uncovered what he was after: an old, thin, stained single mattress that was folded in two but sprang open as the weight was removed from on top of it. Taking hold of the mattress as best he could, he tried to shift it. But it was heavier than he’d remembered and he struggled to haul it through the confined space, cursing himself for not having moved it earlier. He’d planned everything so meticulously, weeks and weeks of making sure there would be no mistakes, yet somehow he’d failed to ensure things would be ready for her once he got her home.

Next time, he vowed to himself, he would be better prepared. The admission that there would be more, that his chosen one was already damned, was a paradox his consciousness did not dwell on.

He dragged the mattress from the room and along the narrow hallway, trying to suppress the anger and frustration welling within him as he battled with the inanimate foe. Passing through the narrow entrance to the kitchen, he scraped his knuckles on the door frame and let out a scream of pain. Throwing the mattress to the floor, he sucked on the blood that trickled through his broken skin. Then, as if trying to exorcise the rage from his body, he gave vent to his fury, stamping on the mattress and yelling abuse. Instead of receding, his anger grew; he tugged open a kitchen drawer and snatched a knife from inside, dropping to his knees on the offending mattress and plunging the blade deep into the foam, over and over again until fatigue weighed down his thin arms and calmed his frantic mind.

As his self-control gradually returned he loosened his grip on the knife and let it fall to the floor. He knocked it away, not looking as it slid across the old linoleum surface, his focus now on the damage to the mattress. There were two or three dozen stab marks, mostly in the centre, but fortunately it was made of foam and would still serve its purpose. Thomas crouched over it, waiting for his breathing to slow, feeling the sweat running down his back grow cold, making him shiver as it reached the base of his spine. He sniffed loose mucus from his nose and stood, then he took hold of the mattress once more and hauled it outside.

As he dragged it past his car he could hear knocking coming from the boot, reminding him of the need to be quick — the boot wasn’t air-tight, but she couldn’t survive in there indefinitely. But despite his efforts the journey across his courtyard took for ever, the mattress snagging on every obstacle, forcing him to wrestle it this way and that to get it loose. Eventually he reached the cellar door and undid the padlock, pulled the door open and threw the mattress down the stairs. The one already down there was moving around in her cage, no doubt startled by the noisy arrival of her soon-to-be companion’s makeshift bed. He descended the stairs slowly, brushing dust from his postman’s uniform, feeling physically and mentally exhausted, but at the same time exuberant at having achieved what he set out to.

When he reached the bottom step he saw her cowering in the far corner of her cage, the duvet wrapped around her for protection as much as warmth. As he approached, she tried to retreat further, but there was nowhere for her to go. Producing another key from his trouser pocket, he unlocked her cage door and swung it slowly open, crouching down to peer in, but averting his eyes from her face, as if she were a Medusa with the power to turn him to stone merely by looking at him.

‘Give me the quilt,’ he demanded. She neither said nor did anything. ‘Give me the fucking quilt,’ he repeated, shouting now, but still avoiding her gaze.

His anger made her jump. Her face distorting in readiness for the tears that welled from her emerald green eyes, she unpeeled the duvet and pushed it towards him with her feet, her legs kicking it away quickly as if it were an intruding rat or spider. He grabbed it by the corner and pulled it off her and out of the cage in one movement, slamming the door shut and re-securing the padlock before moving to the other cage, dragging both the mattress and duvet with him. Stooping to pass through the entrance, he hauled the bedding inside, taking care to straighten out the mattress and lay the duvet on top of it so he could wrap her inside once she was in her safe place.

Happy with the arrangement, he left the cage and walked as quickly as his exhausted body would allow back to the car, looking up to the sky to ensure he still had plenty of daylight to play with, giving himself a few seconds to gather his composure before meeting her properly after all this time. When he was ready, he leaned into the front of the car and removed the bottle of chloroform and pad of material from his bag, stuffing them both into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled the lever that unlocked the boot and stepped away from the car. Breathing deeply, as if preparing himself to receive some life-changing news, he walked the few steps to the back of the car, coiled his fingers under the boot latch and pressed. The cover popped open, slowly and quietly rising with a pneumatic hiss.

Deborah Thomson blinked fast and hard against the punishing light that swarmed into the boot. She tried to speak, to call out for help or mercy, but her incoherent cries were prevented from escaping by the thick black tape fastened across her mouth. Before her eyes could adjust the light began to recede again and she felt a presence above her, the outline of someone leaning in. Despite the chill of fear running through her, she kicked her legs, trying to find purchase, her feet scraping and scuffing the interior surface of the boot.

The shape came closer and closer, her vision improving quickly, enabling her to make out the shape of a head and shoulders. More detail soon followed: his unkempt brown hair, strands of which had stuck to a forehead slick with a sheen of sweat; his crooked stained teeth glistened in the faint light; the writhing sinews of his thin arms, hands and neck, all latticed with swollen blood vessels. She saw his lips open and close and realized he was speaking, his words seeming to reach her seconds after he’d spoken them.