Fan Fiction
Splatterhouse - Dark Horizons
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Chapter 4: Unknown Road
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He had turned and run, stumbling through the classroom
without looking where he was going, with no real intention other than
to get away from that awful sensation in his head. He felt horribly vulnerable,
as though someone had stripped him naked and tied him to a rack, prepared
for some horrible form of torture.
By the time he caught his breath and
realised what he was doing, he was at the far end of the school playground,
near the shrubbery where the smokers in the Sixth Form would hide for
a sly cigarette at lunch break. On a whim, he decided to skip his class
and clambered through the branches to the small spot where the ground
was clear, the soil trodden to a sort of hardened concrete- like texture.
Cigarette butts littered the floor,
and there was an unpleasant smell, like an unwashed urinal. He wrinkled
his nose and sat down anyway, glad to have somewhere he could be alone.
He had wiped his hand clean and offered
it to Hardy, who had shaken it after a seconds hesitation. And then...
...then it had felt like someone had
opened his head with a chisel and climbed inside to join him. For a horrible
moment he was seeing through his own eyes and through Hardy's, the juxtaposition
of perspectives disorienting and oddly sickening. Then he had felt the
shock going through Hardy's body, at the same time as his mouth formed
an 'o' of horror, and then the teacher had dragged his hand away. Whatever
it was between them had broken, leaving David feeling weak and drained,
as if he'd just been kicked in the stomach. And he had turned and run
away.
He stared into the distance, not really
thinking about anything, just recovering from the nauseous feeling which
had threatened to overwhelm him a few minutes previously, until a shadow
fell across his face.
"Get lost, short stuff."
David looked up into the face of a
boy maybe four years older than him, a face pockmarked by acne and twisted
into an expression of distaste which accentuated its ugliness. It was
Michael Healey, undisputed king of the fifth form and all realms below
it, and a couple of his lackeys following behind. They probably wanted
a quiet smoke.
"Leave me alone, Michael."
David was almost as surprised to find
himself saying the words as Michael was to hear them, and instantly regretted
doing so. Such insolence was not tolerated in Michael's kingdom, and was
usually punished by a public beating, which the teachers were strangely
reluctant to interfere with.
"Why you cheeky little bleeder. Fuck off, now,
or you'll be eating through a tube for the next month."
David kept his mouth shut, knowing
not to provoke his oppresor too much. He didn't move, staying stubbornly
silent where he sat. Michael waited a couple of seconds, then kicked him
viciously in the ribs. His two followers cackled nastily, then fell silent
at David's lack of reaction.
"I said, fuck off. What bit don't you understand?"
Unable to help himself, David looked
up and spoke.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak retard."
His eyes widened as he realised what
he had just said, at the same time as Michael's eyes narrowed. The two
boys behind him looked at each other, and as one the three of them gave
chase, as David broke into a run, panic running through him.
He was still feeling sick from whatever
had happened in Hardy's classroom, but there was no time to think about
that now, not unless he wanted a beating from Michael and his minions.
Sprinting across the football pitch, he aimed for the school hall, were
there would probably be a drama class or something going on. The only
thing that would stop Michael was the presence of a teacher - even some
of the Sixth formers were afraid of him. They would definitely not be
reliable defence against him.
He reached the hall and opened the door frantically, slamming
it behind him and dashed through the foyer into the main hall. The bemused
faces of one of the younger classes looked up at him - probably a primary
drama class. But there was no teacher there.
He pointed at a child randomly.
"You - where's your teacher?"
The child said nothing, looking at him sullenly. Desperate,
he rolled his eyes and ran to the end of the hall, pushing the emergency
exit door open just as Michael and his cronies burst in the front door.
He heard a yell behind him and tried hopelessly to run faster. Everything
seemed to be going wrong for him today...
* * *
After my last session with Marcus Contino, I seemed to
retreat into the same catatonic state I'd been in for much of my time
in Belmont. I was kept under heavy sedation and was straight-jacketed
any time I was in a room with any other occupants. From what I could gather,
Contino hadn't documented his little habit of using me as a guinea pig
for new medicines, which counted against me when an internal investigation
was carried out into his death. Since I was in Belmont as a result of
being deemed criminally insane, the conclusion of that report was that
Contino's death was due to negligence on both his and the staff's behalf,
as I was regularly allowed into Contino's office for my sessions without
the straightjacket on.
The main finding, of course, was the one that shocked
the national press, leading to the headlines resurrecting the story of
the West Mansion killings, which some pundit had christened the Splatterhouse.
It emerged during the course of the investigation that Marcus Contino
did not in fact possess several of the qualifications used in order to
obtain his job, and that he was in fact completely unqualified to deal
with mentally ill patients. His appointment was apparently a favour by
someone known to Contino in the Belmont Human Resources department.
The finding and subsequent headlines led to a media frenzy
on the issue of facilities for care of the mentally ill, as far as I'm
aware, and reactions were numerous and varied. Some people wanted me to
get the chair, others wanted gene research to try and pinpoint those who
were genetically subceptible to such reactions [never worrying about this
tacit endorsement of eugenics], and others argued that the main problem
was in fact corruption and nepotism. In the meantime, I was left to rot
in a straightjacket, and probably would have spent the rest of my days
like that if it weren't for James Turner.
The inquiry asked him to give a professional opinion of
my state of mental health, since he was the only person to have treated
me other than Contino. Turner immediately noticed that I was exhibiting
classic symptoms of a chemically-induced flashback, and after asking some
off-the-record questions around Belmont, he was able to work out exactly
what concoction of medication I had been prescribed.
When this happened, he was horrified at what Contino had
been doing, and had Contino not already been dead, he would have spent
a very long time in jail for what he had done.
It's funny, in an odd way. I know that it was me who did
it - well, I've been told that, anyway. But it still hasn't sunk in that
I killed Marcus Contino. Well, superficially. I would argue personally
that his own actions trigerred his demise, but I was still the vehicle
for it. My hands stoved his head in with his desk lamp. I was found, gibbering,
overalls spattered with blood and grey matter, in his office.
But it still doesn't register that it was me.
I'm not a murderer.
Anyway, James Turner presented his findings to the inquiry
board, and their conclusion included a strong suggestion that I be placed
once again under Turner's supervision. Apparently, I smiled when they
told me that - the first response that anyone had gotten from me since
the day Contino died.
* * *
Manthey was not having a good day.
He had woken up late, after sleeping badly, to find that
local hoodlums had slashed his tires, and was a couple of hours late for
work. To top it off, when his superior had finished chewing him out for
his tardiness, he checked his mail, only to find a letter from his wife's
lawyer telling him that her alimony payments were to increase.
Then, just when he'd thought he was going to die of an
embolism or some similarly horrible fate, Dempsey had walked into the
office, a big happy grin on his face, and spoken.
"Oh. There you are."
Manthey growled, eyes narrowing. On days like this, his
assistant was unbearable.
"I'm warning you now, Dempsey, today is not
shaping up to be a good day. If you persist in being cheerful at me, I
will have no option but to tear your spine from your body and use it as
the world's most inefficient yet satisfying fly-swatter."
Dempsey grinned crookedly.
"I got just the thing to make your day, then.
What's got your panties in a twist?"
"The Bitch had her minion tell me she wants
to bleed yet more money from me, I had my tires slashed, and I didn't
sleep last night. But that's enough of that. What good news do you have
for me?"
"Well, as you no doubt recall, the boss has
told us we aren't to go anywhere near West Mansion until we have concrete
reasons for doing so. I made the case that the damn house should have
been knocked down, but he ignored me."
Manthey nodded, moving his hands in a skip-forward-to-the-bit-I-
don't-know way.
"Well, upon checking some of the papers recently,
I found out something interesting. There have been disturbances reported
in Belmont, and can you guess which house they happen to revolve around?"
said Dempsey as he passed over a file. As Manthey leafed through it, he
continued speaking.
"West Mansion is fairly out of the way, so
there's no neighbours to complain about noise or stuff like that. But
the lake near the forest on the east side of the house is a pretty popular
haunt with the Belmont kids in summer. Doesn't sound like much, but then-"he
broke off and indicated the file, "you find a series of complaints
from parents in Belmont."
Manthey was flicking through the file, a bemused expression
on his face.
"These complaints are about...something in
the lake? Wha-"he started, but Dempsey cut across him.
"Something in the lake, yes. Seems several
of the kids came home after a day's fishing and swimming with fairly deep
cuts on their legs. The kids had said something about eels, but then one
of them went into some sort of shock, and the doctors found that there
was some kind of venom in the kid's bloodstream, and traces of it around
the wounds."
Dempsey caught Manthey's eye and paused for a second.
"Whatever venom it was, it wasn't anything
the doctor recognized. He couldn't find anything about it in his notes,
even after consulting a couple of specialists."
"That's well and good, Dempsey. But that doesn't
give us grounds to go poking around West Mansion - besides, if it's something
to do with animals loose in that lake, surely that's the EPA's jurisdiction."
Dempsey grinned again.
"So far, it is. But there's more. The EPA was
indeed consulted, and after doing the most cursory of checks in the lake,
they said there was no particular risk and that the kid's attack was unfortunate.
Rather more than just unfortunate, given that he died a couple of days
later, but anyway. The family are outraged, and given the EPA's verdict
on the lake, the police have concluded that whatever it was that had attacked
the kid must have been artificially introduced to the lake. So they've
started asking questions. And now we get to the interesting stuff."
Manthey walked to his desk and sat down to peruse the
notes in the file while Dempsey spoke.
"The police obviously had to speak to the kids
who were there on the day of the attack, and a curious fact emerged. It
seems the kids were well used to hearing quite a bustle of activity around
West Mansion. Most times they went out to the lake there were cars either
coming or going. The kids never went too near the house, though, because
they weren't sure if they were allowed there."
Manthey snorted. "Considering what happened in that
house, you'd think the parents would have known better than to let them
go up there without supervision. Jesus."
Dempsey shrugged.
"Well, Rick Taylor is incarcerated now, remember?
Anyway, the most interesting aspect of things is about to emerge. On this
day when the kids were swimming in the lake and got attacked, there were
cars there. A kid by the name of Jonathan Doran saw that his friends were
hurt and ran to the house, to see if he could get help. But when he got
there, he says he saw people carrying, and I quote, 'wrapped-up bodies'
into the house."
Manthey looked at Dempsey; a long, slow stare. After a
second, Dempsey looked away.
"Yeah, I know. Sounds a bit bullshitty. But
that whole file's just the material related to what happened in Belmont
in the last month - copies of relevant police records, cuttings from papers,
official statements, a copy of the report from the EPA and so on. I think
we can use this to change the boss's mind."
"How?" asked Manthey, looking sidelong
at his partner.
"We take the angle that the EPA isn't aware
of the finer details of the Rick Taylor case. We play up the part played
by that mysterious chemical which is supposed to have triggered Taylor's
psychotic episodes, and suggest that maybe it's had some bizarre effect
on local wildlife. We can offer our help in pacifying the people of Belmont
by undertaking a joint investigation with the EPA into West Mansion."
Manthey grinned, nodding.
"You've got a slick style, kid."
* * *
He'd spent the rest of the afternoon hiding up on top
of the bike sheds, sweating with terror, waiting to be found and beaten.
But somehow, Michael and his minions didn't find him, and eventually they
disappeared to torment some other unfortunate.
This didn't stop David from remaining in his hiding place
until the bell for the end of the school day rang.
The pain in his head had receded somewhat but he still
felt faintly nauseaus when he thought of that moment when he had felt
like he was looking out of Hardy's eyes.
As if his mind had become detached from his body.
He shook his head vigorously, as if to shift the thought,
and then set off on the walk home. His mind was on fire, wondering if
the day's incident was in any way connected to the weird recurring dream
about the illogical castle, when suddenly the sun was blotted out by three
shadows in front of him.
"Hello again, short stuff."
David swallowed, nervously. There were no teachers around,
nobody to stop him being beaten halfway into a coma. And he had evaded
them earlier, which would only have stoked their anger.
"Well? Cat got your tongue?"
David merely shook his head, miserably. He knew what was
coming but saw no reason to make it worse for himself.
"It's good to see you're learning some manners.
In fact, I was just saying to Ben earlier, some manners'd do you good."
The three of them moved closer, forming a crude ring around
him.
"We're gonna teach you a lesson, you little
shit."
"They'll need dental records to identify you
when we're done, and they'll have to look hard to find your teeth an'
all, hur hur."
"We've got all the time in the world for you,
short stuff."
All the while they were moving closer, slowly, taunting
him, waiting for him to react, waiting for that signal to commence. But
he kept his calm, knowing that he would suffer anyway, but trying desperately
to stave off the time when the beating would begin.
He had been looking at the floor since he had realised
the three of them were there, not daring look them in the eye in case
it was taken as an act of defiance. But now they were so close, he had
no option but to look up into the crazed, wide-open eyes of Michael.
Who spat in his face.
David flinched, but only slightly. As his friends laughed,
Michael reached out, laughing as well, to smear his spittle over David's
face, and suddenly froze. His eyes, already opened wide, bulged out of
his head, making him look slightly like a frog. A faint hiss escaped his
suddenly constricted throat.
David, meanwhile, had blanched, eyes half-lidded suddenly,
a strange slackness making him slouch somewhat, although not enough to
dislodge Michael's hand from his forehead.
Slowly, David's hands rose from his sides and pulled Michael's
hand from his forehead. When they did, his eyes opened wide, and his jaw
dropped.
"Why'd you let him get away with it?"
Michael recoiled as if he'd been stung. He turned and
was violently sick into the side of the road. David didn't move, just
repeated his question.
"What did you just do to me, you little freak?"
"He beats you," said David quietly, in
a wondering tone. "Every night, he thrashes you with your grandad's
belt."
"What?" Michael's voice was suddenly low,
fearful. His eyes narrowed, moved from side to side furtively. His two
cronies looked at him in confusion.
"Every night, he beats you, usually until you
bleed. But it's worse on the nights when he comes home drunk. Then he-"
But before he could finish the sentence, Michael screamed
and threw a savage punch that sent David flying several feet, to land
unconscious on his back. The punch signalled the start of one of the most
brutal beatings Michael's gang had ever dealt out. It would also be the
last.
He was found a couple of hours later by a passing police-car,
who took him straight to hospital. He was still unconscious, and was moved
straight into Intensive Care.
* * *
Excerpt from James Turner's preliminary report on Richard
Taylor, patient #6504:
"Patient appears to be in a catatonic state.
The balance of his mind is undoubtedly disturbed - patient shows signs
of exposure to a variety of experimental-stage medications, presumably
prescribed by Dr. Contino. Signs of chemically-induced hallucinations
and perhaps flashbacks also present.
It is difficult to gauge the patient's grip on reality
as the patient has not spoken since the incident of May 26th. From previous
experience with the patient, I estimate that it will be three to six months
before the patient shows any visible signs of improvement. Even these
figures are optimistic and depend heavily on the patient's psyche having
remained intact through the years of treatment at the hands of Marcus
Contino."
Excerpt from Turner's private notes:
====================================
"Contino seems to have blown any chance Taylor
had of recovering. The mixture of drugs he was taking must've made a vanful
of hippies on acid look like a wet sunday afternoon. I'll be amazed if
he's not insane.
Contino's death doesn't give me much hope. Although of
course, it could well have been a bad reaction to the mixture of drugs.
Contino's notes mention something vague about dreams.
Taylor seems to have been having nightmares. Notes from the session on
the 16th mention nightmares - perhaps Contino's death was a result of
Taylor having a flashback as he described his nightmare?
Poor bastard.
His wife in a hospital hooked up to life support, his
kid relocated to God alone knows where, countless deaths blamed on him,
and he's given to Contino to be cured. I wouldn't wish that fate on anyone.
I wonder what really went on back then. We never got to
the bottom of it, just some cock-and-bull story about a hallucinogenic
chemical. I'm certain that Taylor is the key, but how to get into his
mind? He's not ready to talk, won't be for a long time, by the look of
it.
I've watched him, these last couple of days, sitting in
his cell. I don't think he's noticed the observation windows. If he has,
he doesn't seem to care about them.
He sits, staring at the floor, and fidgets with his hands,
trying to do something to his thumb. It's as if he's autistic. He just
sits, for hours, lips moving silently, shaping the words 'Jennifer' and
'David' alternately, and he fidgets.
I saw him yesterday with a piece of paper. One of the
nurses had left a copy of his medication record in his cell. He picked
it up, and then I realised what he was doing when he was fidgeting.
He was trying to give himself papercuts.
By the time we got in there, there was blood all over
his pants. But he still stared vacantly at the floor, unaware of what
he'd just done to himself.
This is not going to be an easy case."
* * *
He awoke with a shudder. His body was filled with pain;
it hurt him when he tried to get up. Wincing, he lay back down.
The room was too dark for his liking, but he was in too
much pain to move about enough to turn the light on. The bed he lay on
was hard and uncomfortable, the ceiling unfamiliar. The walls were bare
and unfriendly, although he could scarcely make them out in the gloom.
A throbbing pain in his head made him wince again. It
seemed to be behind his temples, a pulsating insistent ache that made
even thinking an unpleasant experience. He closed his eyes and was unnerved
to notice that he could barely notice the difference.
The pain in his head subsided momentarily, to be replaced
by a sense of nausea and a memory of a juxtaposition of perspectives that,
whilst familiar, seemed alien in a terrifying way, as if he was remembering
someone else's thoughts. There was a face in his memory, a face that was
somehow two faces superimposed on each other, the features melding together
as if they were liquid, insubstantial.
After a few seconds the image faded, to be replaced by
the juddering pain once more. It obliterated the world and everything
in it, until there was only his mind and the pain, melded together like
a perverse yin-yang.
Eventually, the aching receded again, this time giving
way to a sense of terror that was instantly recognisable. It was accompanied
by a fleeting glimpse of the mask that had been at the centre of so many
of his dreams, the mask flying from that strange Escherian castle. Innumerable
monstrosities poured from the castle, swarming towards him, almost upon
him, before the image again faded to a merciful darkness.
The pain rose again, hammering insistently in his ears
like a drumbeat for the damned, flashes of dark red keeping time behind
his eyes. He screwed up his eyelids and gritted his teeth, but the agony
did not recede. It seemed to swell and grow, feeling unbearable each time
and yet still growing more and more, until his head felt like it would
burst from the pressure, and then it faded again.
This time, the feeling was anger, futile and hopeless.
Years of anger and resentment boiling up inside him, to the point of spilling
over but not quite there, just about kept in check by a black fear that
came from that little voice in the back of his head that knew about the
bad side of people. Anger building up like water behind a dam.
The pain hit him like a fist, as he remembered being bent
over his father's knee, trousers round his ankles and tears streaming
down his face, unable to control himself, the crack of the belt and the
unbearable bolt of pain, the cycle repeated for aeons, the pain filling
his eyes with a crimson tint. When he looked up into his father's eyes,
he saw there only a grey look of uninterest, but he felt rage and hatred
welling up inside him.
He had barely recovered from the shock of looking at a
stranger's face and thinking of him as his father, when, as the memory
subsided, another one loomed-
"NOOOO! STOP, PLEASE! DADDY, PLEASE STOP! DON'T!"
David jerked up, screaming, and then screamed again, this
time because he had almost dislodged the drip plugged into his elbow.
Blinking, he looked around him, at the circle of concerned faces. He took
in the drip, and as he did so he seemed to remember the pain, and winced.
"Wh-what happened?"
A babble of voices answered him.
"You were found on the road, beaten up. You're
in Intensive Care. You've been out for nearly twenty four hours now. We
were starting to get really worried, you know."
"David, I've been so worried!"
"Can you remember what happened to you, son?"
"What made you scream, just before you woke
up?" a voice cut across the rest, its tone icy and unpleasant.
David opened his mouth to answer, and noticed that the
speaker was a doctor taking notes on a clipboard. Not liking the look
in his eyes, David hesitated, then spoke.
"I don't know. I guess I must have been having
a nightmare. What's going on?"
"As the nurse said, son, you were found almost
dead on the side of the road. You're in a terrible way, but they reckon
you'll pull through - it was waking up out of the coma they were worried
about," replied his mother, on the verge of tears.
"Coma?!" asked David, incredulously.
"Who did this to you?" the doctor with
the clipboard interjected.
"I don't remember anything," replied David,
trying to fix the man with a disdainful look. He didn't trust him, and
until he had more of an idea what was happening, he wasn't about to say
anything.
"Mum, has anything happened with anyone at
school? Anything, I dunno, weird?"
Catching the undertone, his mother looked puzzled.
"Nothing-that I can think of," she said,
slowly, glancing at her husband to see if he understood the cryptic question.
"What year is it, David?" asked the doctor
with the clipboard.
"2002, duh," came the reply.
"And who's the Prime Minister?"
"Tony Blair."
"Ok...what's your address, please?"
"42, Crescent Drive, Banbury, Oxfordshire."
"Thank you," said the doctor, making a
note on his clipboard,"that's very interesting indeed."
"What is?"
"Well, between your answers just now and previous
tests, you show no signs of concussion or brain damage, and yet your memory
has been affected enough for you not to remember what happened. Unless
for some reason you just don't want to tell us what happened," said
the doctor, looking significantly at David's parents.
"Are you saying my Dad did this? You must be
mental! As if," exploded David, wincing as he tried to sit up.
"Well, we know you did badly in History class
again, and according to your teacher you seemed very concerned about this.
Maybe your parents were... upset at you for your results?" asked
the doctor in a greasy tone.
"Well, maybe your head's up your arse, you
pompous prick," spat David. Everyone in the room had to hide a grin,
except the doctor, who looked extremely affronted.
"If that's your attitude, young man, then I
really don't-" he started, but David cut him off.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. But
before we talk more, I need someone to check something. There's a boy
I'm at school with," he spoke carefully now, trying not to let anything
reveal itself in his tone,"and I think he might be in trouble, maybe
even in danger. I want to know if he's alright."
"In danger? From the same person who did this
to you?" asked the doctor.
"Err...sort of, yes. I think so, anyway. I
have an idea of what happened, but I need to check on this boy before
I can be sure. His name's Michael Healey. I'm not sure where he lives,
but the school will have his address. It's really important."
"Who is this boy? Is he a friend?"
"Kind of. He's a couple of years up from me..."
David said, awkwardly. That seemed to be enough - the doctor and the nurse
moved to leave the room, talking in low voices, and his parents chatted
idly to him, relieved that he was alright.
In the privacy of his head, David thought to himself about
the last thing he had seen in his dream. The whole thing had been awful,
but that final juxtaposition of perceptions, two sets of intentions set
horribly against each other, ready for some sort of battle...just thinking
of it was making him shiver, goosebumps crawling on his skin.
* * *
Excerpt from the Times newspaper, dated June 23rd, 2002:
=======================================================
"The sleepy town of Banbury in Oxfordshire
was rocked last night by the horrific deaths of two of its in habitants.
Police are treating the deaths as suspicious, but only preliminary details
of their investigation have been released.
Yesterday evening, police entered the home of the Healey
family to be confronted with a scene described by all officers concerned
as 'utterly horrific'. Terence Healey (47) and his son, Michael, were
both found dead.
Terence had been shot at close range with a shotgun. His
son was found in the bath, in water which turned out to be almost 50%
bleach. Several layers of skin had been entirely removed from the boy's
body - even the eyelids. And yet, according to police, there are indications
that the boy was willingly in the bath, and seems to have scrubbed himself
all over. He went into shock and died.
A shotgun was found on the premises, and is believed to
belong to Mr. Healey, although he is not licensed for its possession.
Police have not issued any descriptions of suspects, but a statement regarding
the case is expected in the next couple of days."
Excerpt from Superintendent Crabbe's statement, June 25th,
2002: ===============================================================
"As you know, a shotgun was found on the premises.
Mr Healey did not possess a licence for such a gun, but fingerprint analysis
shows that the gun has prints from both Mr Healey and his son, which leads
us to believe that the case is actually a murder-suicide.
We have been led to this conclusion not just by the presence
of Michael's prints on the gun. Having extensively tested the house, we
found no presence of any unidentified fingerprints. Details of the way
in which Mr Healey was shot suggest that his killer was someone he knew,
and our forensic scientists have established that Michael died several
hours after his father. It is inconceivable that Michael could be in the
house and not hear the detonation of both barrels of a double-barrelled
shotgun being fired. It is our considered opinion that Michael was mentally
ill, most probably suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder.
As this conclusion suggests, the case is now closed, but
the matter is far from dealt with. Serious questions must be asked as
to why Michael's condition was not noticed, either by teachers, doctors,
or social workers, especially given that he lived in a single-parent family."
Excerpt from Opinions Page, The Daily Telegraph, June
26th, 2002: ================================================================
"So, in the wake of this tragic and horrific
case, questions must be asked, as Superintendent Crabbe of Banbury Police
Department. These questions will mostly be aimed at the organisation and
structure of the social services, the level of interaction between these
and teachers, and whether perhaps compulsory psychometric tests should
be implemented in schools.
One cannot help but feel, however, that we are set to
follow the same mistakes that have been made in post-Columbine America.
As a nation we appear desperate to find some factor which we can account
for and prevent a re-occurence of such horrific incidents.
If we really want to prevent the incident happening again,
we have to ask more questions than just this one. We need to ask why Mr
Healey had a loaded shotgun in the house. Where he got it from. Why Michael
was able to get at it so easily. More disturbingly, we must also ask why
it was not until Michael missed registration at school the next morning
that something was noticed to be amiss, why the detonation of a shotgun
did not attract attention.
We must ask the government whether the burgeoning problem
of gun crime in the so-called 'gangsta-garage' scene in London reflects
an increase in the availability of firearms to those who have no legitimate
cause to possess them.
Ultimately, though, we must ask ourselves why this really
happened."
* * *
Even though he'd been expecting it, the news of what had
happened in the Healey house still shocked David profoundly. He couldn't
help but wonder what had pushed Michael over the edge, to make him take
such drastic action.
The people in the hospital kept asking him questions about
it, about why he had insisted the police go to Michael's house. He had
stuck to his story that Michael had seemed preoccupied the last time he'd
seen him, and hoped the police would not find out Michael's reputation
in the school.
His parents, on the other hand, had known instantly that
something was amiss when David mentioned Michael. They were sensible enough
not to mention it until they were alone, but he had known he would not
be able to lie to them.
"It was that boy, wasn't it. The one who the
police found."
David nodded, unable to look his father in the eye.
"Why didn't you say, son?"
"Why do you think, dad? I- I had this feeling
something bad was going to happen to him, I don't know why. Him and his
mates, they jumped me after school and I imagine they did a number on
me, if I ended up in here. I had this nightmare where his dad was thrashing
him really badly, and it just... seemed so real. And now it turns out
he's shot his dad and died in a bath full of bleach, so I think the best
thing I can do is try and not be connected to it," David said, trying
carefully not to go into any detail about his 'nightmare'.
"Well...I suppose it's not going to happen
again. After all, the poor lad must've had troubles of his own if things
ended like this. And you're right - it makes no sense to get you in trouble
for it."
David's father sighed. It had not been an easy couple
days for anyone. The town was full of reporters, trying to uncover the
dark side of life in Banbury. He had already had five lengthy phone calls
asking him if he kept guns in his house and pestering him about his perception
of his son's mental health, so he was rather on edge about David having
nightmares.
"Dad. It's nothing to worry about. Just...a
weird nightmare. Just one of those things, ok? Don't get wound up about
it," David said, anxiously hoping his father would let the subject
drop.
"Ok, son. But, while I'm here...the nurse spoke
to me, and, uh," he paused, not really knowing how to carry on,"they
said that they, um, found some strange cuts on your hands...?" he
trailed off.
David's blood ran cold. He hadn't thought of what would
happen if his parents found the cuts on his hands, but obviously the doctors
would have noticed. He groaned inwardly. All those letters for his parents
about the school psychologist, the ones he had never given them, as well
as the notes from the nurse....he'd be in deep trouble now, no doubt.
"Papercuts," he answered, his voice hollow.
"Oh. Right. Only...the nurse seemed to...think
that...you might have, sort of, done them...deliberately, maybe?"
came the question. It was clear from the tone of his voice that David's
father was dreading the answer.
David found himself unable to speak. He simply hung his
head.
"Oh, David...David," his father started.
There was no reproach in his voice, only a strange sadness. "Why
didn't you tell us? You know you can always talk to us, don't you?"
His father sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand and stroking it.
David looked up at him, the wide sad eyes, and felt, with
horror, the strange sensation he had felt with Hardy, of two perspectives
melding, but this time it was accompanied by that strange feeling he had
felt when Michael had touched him, when he had seen inside Michael's head
to the horrible secrets lodged within.
He just about managed to prevent himself from vomiting
when he found he was looking at himself through his father's eyes, when
something struck him like an icecube down the back of his neck.
His father's mind was almost crazed with fear. It was
amazing he'd remained in the room, in fact, given how scared he was.
And he was scared of David.
Not of him, per se; scared that David shared whatever
problems Michael had had, that had driven him to kill his father. The
nurse, evidently under pressure from her superiors in light of Michael's
death, had made a point of reinforcing her explanation of what problems
self-harm could be a symptom of. To the extent that a father was now scared
to be in the same room as his son.
"D-David?" his father asked, voice quavering
as he blinked and tried to get rid of the feeling that there was someone
else in his head. David, meanwhile, had risen with some difficulty from
the bed, plucked the drip from his arm, and was staggering out of the
room.
"David? Where are you going?" called out
his father, behind him.
David didn't bother answering. He felt betrayed and scared,
anger thudding through his veins and numbing out the pain for just long
enough to reach the corridor. Then a wave of agony rolled through him,
making him feel like someone had walloped him on the head with a lump
hammer, and he fell, heavily, to the floor, unconscious by the time he
landed.
* * *
Dempsey and Manthey had contacted the EPA and set up a
joint investigation with relative ease, considering the paperwork usually
involved in inter-agency work. They arranged to meet with Matthews, their
EPA contact, in Massachussets, and head up to West Mansion together on
a preliminary visit, more for reconnaisance and planning than any serious
investigative work.
They were greeted by a tall, broad-shouldered fellow,
around six foot two, and with a physique to match. He wore loose-fitting
jeans and a sports jacket, along with shades, and had the air of a playboy
rather than a government agent.
"Carl, Edgar. Pleased to meet you."
"Hi there...Dan, was it? Pleased to meet you
too. Say, you wanna grab some lunch before we head out? The drive down
must've been pretty long, and we've come straight from the office."
"Sounds good to me. We can discuss the details
over lunch before we head out, get a bit of a plan made."
They went to a nearby deli, and ended up unable to discuss
work over lunch, since they were all eating large subs and at least two
of them had their mouths full at any one time. They talked briefly over
coffee, before deciding that they might as well travel out before starting
serious work.
It came as some surprise to Dempsey and Manthey when,
two miles before the usual turn-off into West Mansion, Matthews turned
off onto a dusty dirt-track, his car bouncing along the uneven surface.
They reluctantly followed him, wondering if he just didn't know the area,
but after a few minutes of uncomfortable driving they realised that he
was heading directly for the lake, by-passing the need to go anywhere
near the house.
After several more minutes of bouncing and muffled cursing
from Manthey, they pulled up, perhaps half a mile from the pier in the
lake, which was in turn another three quarters of a mile from the house
itself. Even from this distance, it still exuded a strange menace.
Dempsey and Manthey got out of the car, wandering over
to where Matthews was waiting for them.
"Why the bumpy route out?" asked Manthey,
grumpily.
"Well, you've seen the reports. The kid, Doran,
says he saw people out at the house. I figured if we were going to do
it properly we shouldn't alert them to our presence. See, what you probably
don't know is, the EPA has hidden cameras placed around all bodies of
water above a certain size. Luckily for us, West Lake is above such size
requirements, and so there are cameras around here somewhere."
"Now, due to the incompetence of my predecessor,
their precise location hasn't been documented. This is why the previous
investigation didn't bother with them. But I think we should look for
them; they might throw up some interesting evidence to back up the kid's
claim."
Manthey didn't reply. He was looking around him with a
strange expression on his face. After a few seconds, Matthews spoke again.
"Uh, Carl? Are you OK?"
Manthey shook his head, as if to clear it, then answered.
"Uh, yeah. It's just...my partner was killed
here."
There was something about the way he said it, an odd inflexion
on the word 'partner', that made Dempsey glance at him sidelong. Manthey
noticed, and the look on Dempsey's face worried him.
"But that's in the past," he carried on,
brusquely. "Let's go find those cameras."
The three of them set off into the forest, Matthews consulting
a map he had brought with him. It was half an hour before they found the
first one, hidden in an old tree-stump. After that, they took nearly three
hours to find the next two, and decided that they would check the footage
from the three cameras so far found, as visibility was dropping rapidly
in any case.
The trio returned to the hotel where Matthews was staying.
He had some computer equipment set up, with video gear connected into
it. Sheepishly he explained that it wasn't all set up yet and that it
would take him a few minutes to make sure everything was working before
they would be able to examine the footage on the tapes. While he busied
himself with this, Dempsey took the opportunity to speak to Manthey, who
was chain-smoking and looking very nervous.
"I've worked out your secret, Carl," he
murmured.
"What?" Manthey gasped, dropping his cigarette.
"I know why you hate Rick Taylor so much,"
replied Dempsey.
"Not this again," Manthey tried to growl,
but his heart wasn't in it.
"You and Loker were partners in every sense
of the word, weren't you? That was why your wife divorced you. Not because
you were infertile, but because you were having an affair with another
man."
"Yes! OK! Fine!"
The outburst took Dempsey somewhat by surprise, and he
took a step back. Manthey seemed not to notice, his nervous complexion
turning increasingly grey. He went silent for a few seconds, and when
he spoke again, it was in husky tones.
"He was my lover, yes. Given the attitudes
of the higher echelons, I think you can understand why it never came out
in the court case. And now I'm here again, at the place where he was critically
injured by a maniac having a psychotic reaction of some sort. The same
place where said maniac also put me in a wheelchair for almost two years
and incidentally rendered me infertile. So maybe you could see your way
clear to getting out of my face," said Manthey, voice low and eyes
bright, trying to hold back tears.
"I...uh....I didn't..."
Dempsey stuttered, utterly unprepared for his partner's
words. As he trailed off, Matthews' voice filled the silence, uncertainty
mingled with dread as he spoke.
"Uh, guys, I think you should see this..."
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