Somewhere…
As the last site was searched, Kinsey hauled me out of the car. She threw me against a wall and pulled a gun on me. 'This is your last chance, Carter,' she whispered close. 'Where the fuck is he?'
I could only shake my head, slowly.
The feeling was cold stone.
It was gone eleven when we got to the police station. On the way we'd called at Breakheart's dingy little flat. There were cops posted there, as though standing guard over the ramshackle stack of equipment perched on the desk. It was from here that the murderer had made his intrusion into the Monastery's dark, digital heart. I was this close to the carrier's nest, and yet I still couldn't feel anything, like Dugg had never been here, not at all. A sense of loss came over me like a heavy cloud; hopelessness, failure, anger at having failed, fear. Fear for the kids.
In the station, cops were hanging around, stalled, drinking thick black coffee as they waited for a call-out, hoped against being called. A call that would mean that the bad thing had happened. And the big clock on the wall crept towards midnight, victim of a thousand stares. There were some sad balloons strung up, and a drooping happy new year! banner. Nobody said anything to me, nobody would even look at me. If only the clock would reach for twelve early, maybe then the murderer wouldn't strike, following the established pattern.
'How do you know it was him?' I asked, to anyone.
Kinsey was working the drinks machine. 'What?'
'Breakheart. Could've been anyone breaking in.'
'Left his marker, didn't he.'
'What, a greetings card?'
'Yeah. Fixed on all the screens it was, animated, with the severed heart spinning around.'
'Could've been anyone, leaving the message. It was in all the papers-'
'The message… you wanna know what the message was?'
I nodded.
'Happy New Year, Douglas.' Kinsey laughed cold and I don't blame her.
'That's my middle name. John Douglas Carter. That's why he chose me? For the name? Stole me, I mean. Stole my…'
'He tried others. All prisoners called Douglas. Didn't work. They fought back.'
'Oh.'
Dugg always was a sucker slave. Any good master would do.
'Just find this Douglas,' I said. 'Find all the kids called Douglas, their parents, warn them…'
Kinsey was looking at me in disgust, shaking her head.
'But how will he do it?' I asked. 'Breakheart. I mean, murder somebody now. How can he? Perhaps he can't. Perhaps…'
'This is so comforting, Carter. It really is.'
'No, listen. It's not his sex, is it? His was killed, turned off. It's mine. I've never been into hurting people, never into kids. Not ever. He's just a body, a shell. The desire's not in him, it's in the shadow.'
'Shadow?'
'The sex, the gnome.' I had stood up now, excited. 'Dugg's a masochist, not a sadist. What's Breakheart going to use? Perhaps he can't. Perhaps he can't do anything!'
Kinsey crunched her coffee cup into a ball.
'Well, he's out there. He's searching for something.'
We fell back into silence then. One of the cops, Kinsey's partner, got up and ripped down the happy new year! banner. I went to the Gents, washed my face, stared at myself in the broken mirror, rubbed at the back of my neck. Somebody stood behind me, a dark shape in one of the open cubicles.
It took a few seconds to realize that both my hands were still resting on the faucets. My neck was still being touched.
Close.
I turned: the shadow turned with me.
Copcar, rollercoaster, streets laced with dancers, slick with vomit, kissing couples. Kinsey beside me, holding on. Me with the eyes shut, me with my hands clenched tight, sweating, cold. Hot inside, with the strongest feeling ever felt. This was him, this was Dugg, but stronger, more powerful, somehow darker, more in control. Doing the wanting. Turned inside out, not wanting the doing.
Doing the wanting.
Close. It was close to the station.
Street lamps flashing, music pounding, all the clocks of Manchester ticking, ticking. Eleven twenty-five. Honking the horn to part the crowd that knew nothing of the darkness that lay within them, waiting, hiding, prowling the moments, the laughter and the flashbulbs and the drunken sprees.
I had a map of the city in my head, following a black spot that crept along the streets, twisting and twisted. Hair bristle. With Kinsey broadcasting the constant changes of our whereabouts over the radio. It was strong, the black mirror in my head, like Dugg was broadcasting as well, calling me, fighting back. SOS. Distress signal. Find me, help me, retrieve me. Stop me.
Stop me.
Doing the wanting.
Somewhere the shadow and a crooked somewhere, almost lost, fading out, with me directing the driver until the shadow darkened again, the tingle like broken glass, coming into focus, sharp head-blinding focus.
'Here!'
Copcar, rollercoaster deadstop, engine panting, tyre screech. Breathe out, at last. Dust settle, slow rain, radio squawk. Out. Me, the cops, other cops. Not thinking any more, just following. Listening. Dugg, calling, calling… but so many people. Banks of the Irwell, the river. Pathway crowded, brass band music from the other side, clear.
Clock: 11.47.
Running, pushing people away. The cops behind me, some ahead already, making way, ordering people aside. Good. Clear run. Boats on the river, partying. Rave music, mixing in. But where, where now? A man and woman, distraught, shouting. 'Douglas! Little Douglas? Where?' The woman screaming and then crying to see the police, so many police. 'Please God…'
All this in a blur as…
Shadow, pitch black. Don't leave me! Find me! Crowd thinning out, gone. A fence, broken. Muddy ground behind some shops, half-built shops, can't remember. Kinsey beside me, gun out, breathing sharp. Climbing through, hair on barbed wire. Figures, ahead. Two. A man, a young boy. Boy on the
ground, clothes torn, please God__the man scrabbling about
near some waste bins, desperate, wailing he was.
Coming in close. Kinsey checking the boy. Alive, OK. She stood up, got the gun tight on the man in the shadows. 'Breakheart!'
He comes up from the darkness, turns, shocked. No, scared. No, empty. Empty sack. His face, his eyes, drawn wide, nothing behind them. Alone. He comes forward, slowly, midnight chimes from Albert Square and over the river and great cheers on the air, flash of fireworks, exploding. Breakheart's face ghosted, gaudy orange and yellow as he stumbles in the mud, the rain, 'Can't find him… lost him… can't find him… please…'
Cops all over him then, but I was moving to the wastebins. A movement there, rustle of paper, plastic sheeting. A flap of binbag. Crackle. Closer, shadow dark. Somewhere… two glints from beneath a pile of rubbish; two dark, purple eyes. Jewelled, they were, and bright with fear.
'Dugg?' Gently said, so as not to…
The shape moves, slowly first, and then rushes out of hiding, running towards me. I open out my arms, wide to receive. A voice behind, 'Don't! Don't shoot!' Kinsey's voice, but then the firing of a gun, heavy blast, burning. Burning inside me, the pain, as the shadow jerks back, pounded deep into the metal side of a bin.
'Nailed him!' A cop voice, male, edged with shock.
It slides to the ground, this lump of stuff that somebody threw out one sad day. I walk slowly towards it, hardly breathing. Kinsey at my side, 'Carter, I tried to stop him… Jesus!'
I kneel down, stroke the thing's head, his small, broken misshapen body. The eyes are open, but barely so. 'You did it, Dugg,' I say. 'You stopped him.'
The eyes, the beautiful twin-jewelled eyes, slowly close.
The shadow inside me lightens, lightens to a cloud of scent that drifts away, finally, to nothingness.
CALL OF THE WEIRD