The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller Read online

  ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘I want you to tell the truth.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Do you seriously expect a court to believe you have no recollection of your despicable crime?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘Next time I visit you, we can go for a little walk in the garden. It’s lovely this time of year. Lots of pretty flowers. Do you like flowers?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Becky’s mother puts fresh flowers on her daughter’s grave every Sunday, without fail. Said she goes there every day to talk to her. Terrible thing for a mother to have to do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know jack shit, Tate. Have you ever had to put flowers on your daughter’s grave?’

  ‘I haven’t got a daughter… have I?’

  Carver grinned and touched the tip of his nose with his index finger. ‘That’s for me to know.’

  I tried to shut my mind off. Tell myself he was just messing with my head. But, now he’d planted the seed, I was powerless to stop it growing.

  ‘So, what do you say, Michael? Want to go for a walk next time?’

  ‘I can’t walk.’

  Carver nodded towards the wheelchair sitting idle against the wall. ‘Don’t be so pedantic. I meant in the wheelchair. I don’t mind pushing. My treat.’

  ‘I don’t want to go outside.’

  ‘Fresh air might do you good. Help to jog that memory of yours.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Never try, never know. That’s what my mother used to say to my old man. Lazy bastard never listened. Conducted most of his life from an armchair unless he went to the boozer to warm up his fists. I’d call that a waste of life, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We’ll go for a nice walk amongst the rhododendrons.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Michael William Tate, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of

  the murder of Becky Marie Coombs You do not have to say anything, but anything

  you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. Do you understand the charge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be back to see you soon.’

  I watched him leave the room, my upper body alive with goosebumps.

  Chapter Two

  I pinched the skin on my forearm hard enough to draw blood. This had to be a dream, right? People like Carver didn’t exist in the real world. He had to be a figment of my imagination. I tried to process his words, but it was like trying to fashion a cow from minced beef.

  ‘Twenty-one stab wounds. Do you see a link, Michael? One for every year that poor girl was alive. So much hate. So much rage. You fucking, sadistic, little twat.’

  I shivered, in spite of the stifling room. I tried to swallow. My throat felt as dry as burnt toast. Had Carver really put his hand on my leg? Slid it up towards my groin? Touched my testicles?

  ‘Becky.’ I spoke the name aloud, hoping it might jog a memory. Perhaps one that wasn’t covered in blood. It didn’t. It just brought to mind an image of that awful photograph in all its gory detail. Red-streaked hair fanning out, one sightless eye staring at the ceiling.

  I wanted to convince myself I wasn’t capable of such an atrocity, but the truth was simple: I didn’t know who I was, much less what I was capable of. I closed my eyes and begged my mind to remember something.

  Blank. And then a flash. Scattered beer cans. A man’s giant hand crushing one and tossing it onto an old pine table. An overflowing ashtray. A moustache. A strong chin, peppered with dark stubble. Then, it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared. I tried to rewind, capture the image again, but it was lost.

  ‘Shit.’ I opened my eyes. A name flashed across my mind. Billy? Perhaps. I wasn’t sure. I wanted my mum. Wanted her so badly. Which was strange, considering I didn’t have the faintest idea who she was. I smelled a faint whiff of perfume.

  Did I even have any family? I’d been awake for three days now, and Carver had been my only visitor. One doctor had told me my memory might come back in time, but not to expect anything. Expectation led to disappointment, or words to that effect. I should be grateful I could still form ‘new’ memories.

  Like Carver’s visit.

  The doctor had asked me a lot of questions. Who was the Prime Minister? What was the capital of England? Stuff like that. I didn’t have a clue until he told me. I wasn’t even aware I was in England. The John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford, to be precise.

  I was also informed it was 1976, England was experiencing one of the worst droughts on record, and I would probably spend the rest of my life pissing into a bag. Just when I didn’t think things could get any worse, Detective Inspector Carver had turned up with his sickening revelations.

  I stared at the wall. At the wheelchair pushed against it.

  Your chariot awaits.

  I had a sudden longing to walk on grass. Barefoot. Dew beneath my feet. Something real. But, that was now impossible.

  No more than you deserve.

  I had no argument with that. Anyone who murdered their girlfriend with a kitchen knife deserved all they got. And more. But Carver? It was as if he got some kind of sick pleasure out of touching me. Mocking me. A detective inspector. A representative of the law. Not a…

  Pervert?

  I closed my eyes and relived the moment when he’d touched me. That lopsided grin. The glistening eyes. The eyes of an animal. Predatory, alert, mocking.

  After a while, I drifted off into a restless sleep. I dreamed about Carver, only he was a surgeon, standing over me in an operating theatre. I kept trying to tell him I was still awake, but he just grinned at me, scalpel gleaming under the arc lamps.

  ‘We need to cut away the dead wood, Mikey.’

  ‘Nurse.’ The word had all the strength and conviction of a soap bubble.

  I called out again. Louder.

  Carver kissed the blade of the scalpel which was now the exact shape of his mouth.

  This time I screamed for all I was worth.

  And then I heard a woman’s voice, firm and efficient. ‘Michael?’

  I opened my eyes to see Nurse Emily frowning at me. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You were yelling at the top of your lungs.’

  ‘Carver?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Had a dream?’

  I let out a deep sigh and nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’s probably the morphine. You’ll settle down as soon as you come off it. I’ll fetch you a fresh jug of water.’

  Would that be the same morphine which had caused the real Carver to grab my balls and threaten to castrate me? Perhaps the brain injury was also affecting my sanity.

  Emily returned a few minutes later with fresh water. She poured some into a glass and handed it to me. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes to change your catheter.’

  I gulped the water without pausing for breath. I put down the glass and leaned back against my pillows. Just a stupid dream.

  A nightmare to end all nightmares, more like.

  I stared at the wall. It looked different somehow. And then I realised. There was an emergency door with a silver release bar. The words, Emergency – Push to Open, written in faint, red lettering above the bar.

  Was I dreaming again? I looked around the room. Everything else was as it should be. The wheelchair, the oxygen cylinder, the bed sheet, the knackered fan, the jug and glass on the bedside locker.

  I told myself not to be dumb. The door couldn’t be there. It was my mind playing tricks, making stuff up. I caught a whiff of perfume, faint and lingering, which triggered a memory: a coarse, black and white checked skirt, its rough fabric rubbing against my cheek. Abrasive, yet reassuring.

  The word “Emergency” appeared to be dripping.

  Like blood?

  I looked at the ceiling, then back at the door. Stil
l there.

  I’ll take the boy tonight.

  A voice I thought I recognised. A woman’s. Rasping, as if she had a bad cold. My attention was suddenly abducted by the bolt on the door as it slid open, crunching inside its rusty barrel.

  ‘Can’t be happening,’ I told myself. ‘It’s just the morphine.’

  Lock the bastard out. The woman’s voice again. Harsh and abrupt. It can’t be good for the boy, seeing all that stuff.

  The bolt stopped moving. I waited for the door to open. For the Devil himself to step into the room and claim me for his own. Take me straight to hell.

  I caught another whiff of perfume. Sweet and sickly.

  Sometimes it’s better when Mikey’s with me.

  Another woman’s voice, softer, which seemed to wrap itself around my heart and squeeze.

  Emily came back into the room. ‘What’s wrong, Michael? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I looked from Emily to the door and then back again. ‘I—’

  ‘Why are you sucking your thumb?’

  ‘Huh?’ I looked down and noticed my thumb was indeed plugged into my mouth. I yanked it out.

  She changed my catheter. ‘My mother reckons it pulls your teeth out of line.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Sucking your thumb.’

  I sniffed the air, trying to detect if Emily was wearing perfume. Nothing. Just a faint odour of disinfectant. ‘Do you know what I’m supposed to have done?’

  Emily looked away. ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘You know I can’t remember a thing?’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about that, Michael. I’m here to care for you. For what it’s worth, I believe someone is innocent until they’re proven guilty in a court of law.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She fitted a fresh bag. ‘Just stating a fact.’

  I looked at the newly formed emergency door. ‘Can morphine give me hallucinations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I pointed at the door. ‘I’m not really seeing that, right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a door there. An emergency door. It’s got red writing on it.’

  She looked at the wall. ‘There’s no door there, Michael.’

  ‘But, I can see it as clearly as I can see you.’

  Emily straightened up and walked over to the door. ‘Where?’

  ‘Right next to the wheelchair.’

  ‘There’s nothing here.’

  ‘But, how come I can see it?’

  She shook her head and then ran her hand over the door. Over the metal bar. The rusty bolt. ‘There’s nothing here.’

  I sank back against my pillows and closed my eyes. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re sucking your thumb again.’

  Chapter Three

  I slept for the rest of the day, occasionally waking up to rummage through the debris of my dreams for clues to my previous existence. Nothing. I now had a new nurse. Sharon. Not as nice as Emily. Maybe because she was on the graveyard shift, or just because she wasn’t as good as Emily at hiding her true feelings. I didn’t blame her either way; I was hardly going to elicit sympathy after what I’d done.

  The emergency door had still been there when I’d eaten my hearty supper of dried-up fish, lumpy mash and peas. Still there when Sharon had given me my evening medication. And still there now. The lights had been turned off at ten, leaving a small shaft of light from the corridor to encroach on the darkened room. I could make out the edges of the door, along with the metal bar. But how?

  I wished with all my heart I could get up off that bed and touch it for myself. Run my hands over the wall. Whoever said seeing was believing hadn’t spent a day in this bloody room at the mercy of a deranged detective and an imaginary door.

  It would be a long night. Apart from sleeping for most of the day, my mind was whirring like a child’s spinning top. I could hear the distant chatter of the nurses at the night station. I imagined they were talking about me, condemning me, and hoping I rotted in hell for what I’d done. Perhaps even harbouring a secret wish to spike my medication and kill me.

  I twisted my neck to one side and felt a satisfactory crack. My back was as stiff as a board. Emily had told me they would hoist me out of bed soon and put me in the wheelchair. Take me for a walk in the garden. I couldn’t wait. A change of scene would be wonderful. So long as Carver wasn’t escorting me.

  Mikey?

  My heart stopped. I held my breath and listened. Nothing. Just my heart thumping in my ears. And then, a loud click, followed by a creak.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  What happened next shattered all rational thought. The wheelchair crept across the room towards the bed. The rubber tyres screeched on the tiled floor. I watched in disbelief as it moved alongside the bed. I heard the click of the brake being applied.

  Oh, Christ, this couldn’t be happening. ‘Who is this?’

  I reached out and touched the arm of the wheelchair. Real. I raised my hand to my mouth and bit down. Hard. I looked at the emergency door, in case someone (Carver) had sneaked inside.

  Through a door that isn’t even there?

  Shit, shit, shit.

  No answer. The bed sheet moved to one side, revealing my useless legs, and the catheter strapped to my right thigh. I lashed out and hit thin air. I tried to call out, but the words stuck in my throat. A hand grabbed mine. I tried to wrestle it back, but even though the hand was small, the grip was too powerful. Sweat dribbled into my eyes. I was lifted into a sitting position. I felt hands underneath my armpits, helping me off the bed, and into the wheelchair, effortless, as if there was no gravity. I watched my feet being lifted onto the footrests. Then, the wheelchair moved slowly across the room towards the emergency door.

  The brake was applied. The bar securing the emergency door was pressed down. I held my breath as the door creaked open. I waited for a sudden rush of fresh air, but there was no change in the atmosphere. It was actually quieter, if that was at all possible.

  I was wheeled through the door into suffocating blackness. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  No answer. I heard the emergency door close. We walked, wheeled, floated, or whatever the hell it was, for ages, on and on through the rolling darkness. I had no perception of time or distance in this unending blackness; just a cold creeping certainty I was heading somewhere, and that somewhere was going to eat me alive.

  The dark seemed to leak into my brain. Something brushed against my face. I imagined a spider, huge and hairy, teeth dripping venom. It was as if my eyes had been plucked from their sockets. The air felt thicker, colder, almost tangible.

  Stand up straight, you shitty little runt. A man’s voice, somewhere to my left. I tried to look beyond the darkness, but it was impossible.

  Do you think anyone gives a shit about you?

  Perhaps I was dead. Hadn’t survived jumping off the flats at all. This was my final journey. Those destined for heaven went through a tunnel of light to meet Jesus; those bound for hell went through a pitch-black tunnel in a wheelchair to meet the Devil.

  I want every inch of that floor licked clean with your tongue.

  The wheelchair stopped. It spun left and continued on its journey. This had to be a dream. A sick fantasy conjured up by my overwrought mind. Up in the distance, I saw a pinprick of light. As we (whoever we were) drew closer to the source of the light, the wheelchair stopped. A hand took mine again. Small and warm.

  A surge of energy passed through me, calming my breathing. ‘Where are we?’

  Come on, Mikey. Get the coal in before he gets home. A woman’s voice, soft and reassuring, but laced with panic.

  I caught a sudden whiff of fried onions. Sizzling in the pan with chopped liver. The thought of it made me salivate. A woman’s hand flashed in front of my eyes, chipped red nail polish and a plain wedding band.

  There’s a shilling for the fair, if you’re a
good boy. You can go to Aunt Jean’s after school.

  I liked the idea of that. Hot dogs, with tomato ketchup and mustard. Toffee apples waiting to destroy fillings. Helter-skelter rides and the dodgems. The Ghost Train. Hook-a-duck. Cool stuff. A kids’ paradise. But, I wasn’t a kid, I was a grown man – murderer – on the scariest ride of his life. This beat the ghost train hands down.

  The brake released, and we moved forward again. On and on through the rolling darkness towards that tiny speck of light. By the time we emerged onto a dimly lit street of terraced houses, I was convinced I was dead. Had to be. It would explain everything. Carver, the emergency door, the invisible pusher.

  Rain swirled in the streetlights. Odd, considering not one drop fell onto me. No wind on my face either. I sat in the street, facing a house with a number “19” hand-painted on the bare wooden door. Three stone steps with a black handrail led up to the front door. The garden was overgrown with weeds. A small brick wall stopped the jungle from spilling out onto the street.

  ‘Where is this?’

  As usual, my question went unanswered. A curtain moved to one side in the front room window. I saw the shadowy shape of someone looking along the street. The curtain dropped back into place and the shape vanished from view.

  Something crashed. A metal dustbin lid. A man’s voice. Singing. Sort of. Danny Boy, the words slurred and mashed together. I watched him lurch along the street. A big man, over six feet tall, broad, shoulder-length brown hair pasted to his face by the rain. The same rain which wasn’t even touching me.

  As he staggered closer, I realised he was heading straight for me. He would walk right into me. He stopped a few yards away and leaned against a wall. Danny Boy petered out into a few dry croaks as he fumbled in his denim jacket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He took a few attempts to get one lit. Then, he lurched towards me.

  I closed my eyes and braced myself for the inevitable collision. But, it didn’t happen. He walked straight through me. Like a ghost, you might say. Or, perhaps, I was the ghost. Either way, I didn’t feel a thing.