The Sister(5)

Saliva flew as it snapped at him. He felt the heat of its breath on his face as vicious jaws snatched at empty air, driven back by a mighty kick. It was his dad! His father scooped him up in his arms; a group of men managed to keep the dog contained. The shell, it’s magic! It brought my dad to save me.

The tramping of heavy boots sent loose stones skittering, clattering across the hard-packed surface between the rocks nearby and abruptly stopped. There wasn’t a sound in the air, apart from his heart beating heavily in his ears, and his ragged breathing. Bruce fought to control it. In ... out ... in ... out.

He heard the rasp of a match and three quick sucking sounds. A waft of cigarette smoke drifted into his nostrils, the urge to cough was hard to suppress – he did it inwardly, without opening his lips. His small body jerked with each attempt to keep the sound inside. The tiniest gasp escaped.

A spent matchstick dropped out of the air and on the ground next to him.





The boy shut his eyes tight, mouthing a silent prayer.

‘Your God doesn’t scare me, kid!’

At that, the boy produced a seashell from his pocket and held it out at arm’s length, eyes closed, holding it blindly in front of him like a talisman to ward off evil.

‘What’s that, huh? You’re gonna need more than that, kid!’ The killer was about to snatch it out of his hand, when he heard shouts; men calling out, there were at least two or three of them, and they were getting closer.

‘Bruce! Can you hear us? Bruce!’

‘Mother of shit!’ he cursed under his breath, eyes burning into the boy. ‘Listen to me, kid, today’s your lucky day, but if you tell anyone what you saw ... I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you all ... your mum, your dad ... all of you. Have you got that, Bruce?’

He nodded, terrified.

The killer turned sharply, rushing back to where the girl lay, scooping her up again and checking to ensure no trace of her remained.

His arm clamped her body down on to his shoulder as he carried her out of sight.

Hidden by dense vegetation, the killer worked faster than he’d have liked, wrapping the arms and legs of the weighted suit around her. He knotted them together. The voices were getting too close for comfort. He gathered her up and heaved the human parcel into the pond, throwing the rucksack and flower bouquet in after her. The bag filled with water and sank. The poem she’d written in memory of her boyfriend, floated up to the surface and unfurled, the blue ink blurring as the paper soaked through: an epitaph for a missing person, penned by another, who would remain undiscovered for a long time.

On the bank, he found one of her boots. Frantically he looked for the other one - he was sure he’d picked up both, he knew he had. He jammed a large stone into the boot he was holding and lobbed it into the dense water. His search for the missing one failed. It has to be somewhere in this long grass!

With time running out, the killer gritted his teeth and spat a curse at the kid and the men who'd rescued him. The boiler suit containing the stone ballast was only half tied to her body. He wasn’t worried about that, it was secure enough, but the boot was a trace of her and if anyone came looking and if they found it...

He watched the younger man examine the kid’s head where he’d banged it, pulling his hair back to look deep into the hairline. Apparently satisfied there was no serious injury, he’d playfully cuffed at his ear.

The old man remained squatting and spoke to the boy, who nodded. Slowly, he stood and moved away from the others, staring beyond the edge of the woods.





The killer knew the old man couldn’t see him crouched in the shady darkness behind the bushes, but he seemed to stare exactly in his direction. Had the kid told him? He backed away silently, deeper into the shadows. The stench of sulphur was thick in his nostrils, and drifted on a slight wind that had picked up, spinning the dry leaves in small whirlwind circles. The breeze swept particles across the dusty surface and carried on up the slope, before subsiding at the feet of the men and boy, exhausted. Drops of rain began to fall.





Bruce’s grandfather turned in the direction of the rattling leaves and stood with narrowed eyes focused on the darkness beyond the tree line, further down the hill.

Something was in the shadows.

His hackles rose, sharpening his senses. A cocktail he’d last tasted during the Second World War on his lips again. The flavour was familiar. It was the taste of fear.

His memories carried him back to the horror; you never forget how it feels.

He’d fought in three wars and survived them all; he was more attuned to minute changes in the atmosphere and unnatural silences than his compatriots, and possessed a burning desire to remain alive. He smelled the scents of fear and death as they lingered in the sulphurous air, and hanging alongside, was the faint whiff of cigarette smoke.

With his focus concentrated on the tree line, he walked slowly backwards, afraid if he turned, something would hurtle out without warning and take them all. Only when he had joined the others, did he turn round again. Spreading his arms symbolically, they came under his protection, and he shepherded them away. ‘Come on, we'd better go.’





Chapter 6



The killer calculated that from the direction of their retreat up the hill, wherever they'd come from, they wouldn’t have hiked all the way in with a kid that age in tow, meaning they couldn’t have parked anywhere near where he’d left his vehicle.