The Ghost of Stormer Hill Craig

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 Contents

Dedication
The Ghost of Stormer Hill
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
EPILOGUE
Author note
About the author
Please review this book!
For all NHS staff. Thanks for keeping Britain great.
The Ghost of Stormer Hill

Craig Wallwork
 Copyright
Underbelly Books

Copyright @ 2022 by Craig Wallwork All rights reserved, including

the rights to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way
of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise
circulated without the author's prior consent in any form of binding
or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Cover photo by Mohammed Nohassi & Sivani B.

 CHAPTER 1

In the winter of 1983, in Lavenham, Suffolk, the Blackwood house

was quiet. All the lights were off, and most of the family inside were
sleeping. Herbert Blackwood was twelve years old in the February of
that year. Tall, handsome, but at times cursed with a temper he later
claimed was his only true inheritance left by his father, Herbert had
awoken that night with one intention—to scare his little brother,
Bean. Had he left his brother sleeping, maybe all the murders would
have never happened. The Hangman’s name would have never crept
into conversation, women would have never feared being alone, and
for many, life would have remained normal. But Herbert did awaken
Bean, and from that moment on, the world grew a lot darker.
“Bean,” Herbert whispered.
The name had stuck with the boy after his mother returned
home from the hospital in 1977 with a grainy ultrasound photo of
him in gestation. Herbert took one look, and recalling his breakfast
that morning of baked beans, drew the comparison to the foetus
immediately. Irrespective of his development in the womb, or how
tall Bean grew once he entered the world, the name stuck.
“Bean,” Herbert repeated.
The boy displayed his back.
“I’m tired,” Bean said.
Herbert leaned in close to his brother's ear. “You wake the hell
up or I'll beat the living shit out of you.”
Bean turned, unveiling cornflower blue eyes, and an expression
caught somewhere between confusion and irritation.
“What?” he asked, cotton-mouthed.
Herbert’s breath warmed his brother's face.
 “The dead are waiting for you.”

Dignity Funeral Home was a brick-built building residing on the

grounds of the family home. The business had been with the
Blackwoods for over three generations. Their father Frank told the
boys it would be theirs to run one day, but watching him leave at all
hours to drive that black van to either the hospital in Bury St
Edmunds, or the retirement home in Washmere Green, did not instil
enthusiasm towards their inheritance. Death was a taxing business,
more so for the living. It had darkened the skin around their father's
eyes, and imbued him with an ill temper and weakness for whisky.
The boys had no interest in ending up the same way. But the
mystery of what those bodies looked like roused curiosity, especially
in Bean. He had asked many times to assist his father in preparing
the bodies—to either hand him the tools used to embalm, or turn on
the aspirator to flush the blood from their veins—but his father
always declined his requests. The justification was very simple—the
embalming room was a place for those who had reached life's end,
not for those with so much of it left within. Stopping Bean from
entering the room, where inside the dead lay in perpetual sleep,
became a vital reflection of the boy's daily life. Now Herbert, his
brother five years his senior, had awoken him to make real all that
he considered necessary—to see if they could awaken the dead from
their slumber.
Herbert led Bean by his pyjama sleeve quietly out to the
landing. The groans from loose floorboards brought them to a stop
on at least two occasions, their worry being that the noise would
rouse their parents, bringing their midnight adventure to an untimely
end. Even the ceramic floor tiles in the hall seemed colder that night,
chilling Bean’s skin until it goosed his flesh and caused him to hug
himself. Herbert suggested they change into their boots. The ground
would be even colder outside and less sympathetic. And as Bean
watched his brother tie his laces, he asked what would happen if
their father was to find them out so late.
“A beating, but you don’t need to worry about that.”
“Why?” Bean whispered.
 “He’s out.”
“Where?”
“Doesn't matter.”
“What if he comes back?” asked Bean.
Herbert paused from tying the laces. “If you keep on yapping,
you'll wake Mum and you won't get to see shit. Do you trust me?”
Bean nodded.
“Then stop asking stupid questions.”
Bean’s breath touched the cold February air and turned white as
cotton. He ran with Herbert, away from the house, the gravel on the
drive intensifying their hurried step. He looked back only once to
make sure his mother wasn't watching from the bedroom window.
Gloom hung from beneath the house’s eves like treacle dripping
from a spoon, and ivy on its south face fluttered in the wind with the
same agitation as a thousand moths slamming into a light bulb.
“Come on,” said Herbert. “We don't have much time.”
The funeral home was similar in design to a Monopoly house. It
had a large window at the front with the words, Blackwood’s.
Traditional Funerals and Memorial Stonemasons, in gold vinyl.
Beyond the pane were steel urns, black granite gravestones, and
framed letters of recommendation from grieving families, ink
smudged from tears surrendered while writing. The boys ran to the
back. Herbert pointed at two tyre marks etched out in the gravel
nearest a large garage door.
“Dad got a call from a house in Rooksey Green about an hour
ago,” Herbert said, his words visible in the cold air. “I heard him
telling Mum.”
“Someone die?” Bean asked.
“That makes two tonight.”
Bean looked at the doors.
“There's one inside?”
“You scared?”
“No,” Bean said, trying to control the shivers lest his brother
misread them as fear.
“What if they're all mangled up?” asked Herbert, smiling. “What
if a car crushed their face and their eyes have popped out of their
skull? What if they're burnt and their skin is as black as liquorice?”
Bean's expression didn't falter.
“Maybe you're more scared than me,” he said.
Herbert smiled and opened the tradesman door. Before
entering, he stopped on the divide.
“Final chance, Bean. You coming in or not?”
He boy figured Herbert would have calculated the distance
between their home and Rooksey Green. There would be enough
time to see the dead person and get back to their bedrooms
undetected. Bean also knew that even if their father came back
unexpectedly, Herbert would ensure all blame fell on him. There was
the possibility of a beating in the offing but that was commonplace.
Frank had a standing in the community as a reliable and courteous
gentleman, but Bean knew that there was nothing gentle about that
man. He had felt his father’s hand across his face at least three
times for transgressions that ranged from dropping a glass tumbler,
to speaking too loud at the dinner table. The smell of formaldehyde
lingered on his cheek long after the redness had dissipated. Bean
would often smell it on his brother too, but somewhere else;
somewhere hidden behind clothes. Their mother, Margaret, did
nothing much to protect her children. Most of the time she was
three sheets to the wind. She drank to veil her eyes toward the
horror that existed in her life. With their father busy embalming, and
their mother as distant as one could be without leaving, Herbert
became the only person Bean could depend on. He was a good
brother. The best a young boy could have. So, when he extended his
hand, the boy took it without worry or reservation.
They found themselves in a large storage area. Iron shelving
fixed to exposed walls held boxes of arterial, cavity, and co-injection
chemicals, alongside dyes to make skin look rosier and more flesh-
like, post-mortem. There were tubs of creams, rolls of tape, and
various adhesives to help seal shut lips and eyelids. Stacked on the
floor, making navigation for the boys difficult in the poor lighting,
were boxes of dental formers and eye caps, skull clamps, dignity
sheets, and disposable nappies. Hung above surgical wellies were
face guards, and large white cloaks, the things that their father wore
to stop those chemicals from killing him. It was fleeting, but Bean
paused before those masks and contemplated the effect a small hole
would have on their father's health. How long would it be before the
chemicals got him—a month, a week, days?
Beyond the storage room was the chapel. Its magnolia walls,
bouquets of fake pastel blue hydrangeas and pink roses, and rows of
foldable chairs all facing a casket stand finished in pine, made this
room the most inviting. To repress the smell of damp due to poor
drainage under the building, their father permitted Bean to fill small
wicker baskets with lavender and chamomile pot-pourri. If he was in
exceptionally good spirits, the job of pressing play on the tape
machine became Bean’s duty too. The sound of pan pipe muzak,
employed to instil a sense of comfort to the lamenting widows,
orphaned children, and wailing siblings sat with their departed,
became the anthems of his youth, and the sobbing of strangers, his
lullaby. But the room of real interest to Bean and Herbert that night
was not in the chapel, the reception, or the storeroom.
The embalming room accommodated two stainless steel tables
with rubber neck chokes, and a length of white Formica cupboards
that housed the various apparatuses used to embalm. Fluorescent
lighting gave even the healthiest skin a sallow tinge. Its tiled walls
and floor amplified the quietest of voices, and the temperature never
got above seventeen degrees Celsius. There were no windows, so
when the boys entered it was pitch black. Bean’s nostrils flared as
they took in the perfume of death and chemicals. Fluorescent
lighting strips blinked erratically, revealing the room in short little
bursts. Bean’s eyes gravitated to the two steel tables. In the flash of
light, he saw only a white sheet, and the topography of a body lying
beneath. Then a moment of complete darkness. The two would be
forever married in his mind. When the lights settled, revealing the
entire room, Herbert approached the table. Stopping a few inches
from the body, he gazed at it as if observing the tomb of an ancient
pharaoh. Neatly laid out on a trolly beside the table were the tools of
his father’s work—forceps, syringes, and a steel rod that looked like
a long poker used to stoke a fire.
“That's the trocar,” said Herbert.
 “What's it used for?”
“Dad sticks it in through the belly button, right down deep, until
he reaches all the guts and goo. Then he drains it all out.”
“Does not,” Bean replied, eyes narrowing with doubt.
“Does too. He told me so.”
Bean looked down at the body beneath the white sheet. It was
a woman, old to him, probably in her mid-forties. Hair of ash blonde,
features small and clustered together as if the centre of her face was
quicksand slowly dragging each down into her skull. Her skin had a
yellowish tinge that faded out to areas of grey and purple around
her neck and shoulders. She had all the appearance of a person
moulded from earwax and clay. She was not human to Bean, but
something else; something different. Because of this, he was not
scared, nor did he feel any resonance of compassion.
“Do you think she's been dead long?” Bean asked.
Herbert leaned in a little, scratching his chin as if appraising an
oil leak in a car.
“Hard to tell,” he said. “We can check.”
“How?”
“Dad said that the first thing he has to do is massage all the
flesh and crack the joints.”
“Why?”
“Cos of rigor.”
“What's rigor?”
“That's what gets into a person when they die. Stiffens them up
like a board. If she's fresh, then she'll be bendy. Why don't you try?”
Bean hesitated.
“She isn't gonna hurt you, Bean.”
Herbert lifted the edge of the sheet to reveal a mottled grey and
purple arm, and a spider's web of greenish veins beneath her hands.
It would be easy for a person to reflect upon what these hands had
done over their lifetime, from cradling a baby in the night, to wiping
tears born from grief and pain. But Bean only saw a lump of flesh
and bone that did not belong in his world.
“Go ahead, Bean, see if you can wake her.”
“What if she's got a disease?”
 “Dad wouldn't leave her out like this if she was a danger. He’d
burn her to ashes, and those ashes buried deep in the ground.”
Bean placed his hand on the woman’s wrist. The skin was cool
and dry to the touch, and as he applied a little pressure, he felt
resistance from her flesh.
“She's tough, like when Mum burns the steak,” he said, letting
go.
The disappointment was evident on Herbert’s face. “You're such
a sissy, Bean.”
“Am not.”
“I took the risk of a beating just so you could see a dead body,
and this is how you repay me?”
“I'm not a sissy, Herb.”
“Then show me. Wake her up.”
The woman was bigger than his mother. Not fat exactly, but
plump and wider in the hips than most. He could see this from the
way the sheet fell upon her frame.
“Jesus Christ, Bean, it'll be dawn soon.”
Bean's eyes fell to the trolley. He recalled what his brother had
said about the poker.
“I'm no sissy,” he said.
Bean grabbed the edge of the sheet, and pulled it away to
reveal the landscape of the woman's remains. Her breasts were
ample, the nipples flat, almost inverted. A large mole resided under
the horseshoe of her right breast. Bean’s eyes travelled south, along
the sternum to the abdomen. He paused, transfixed on the stomach
where silver and purple stretch marks traversed the skin, the centre
punctuated with a dark hole. Before Herbert could say another word,
before he could tease him more, or curtail his hands from touching
the woman, Bean grabbed the trocar from the trolley, gripped the
handle tight, and thrust it deep into that dark hole. A sound like an
egg crushed under a boot filled the room as the tip of the trocar
broke through the skin and hardened muscle.
“Bean!”
The boy did not listen. A surge of power came upon him, raising
his heart rate and widening his eyes. The steel rod travelled deeper
into the stomach, releasing a stench that caused Herbert to shield
his mouth.
“Jesus, she stinks!” he said.
But Bean did not relent. He wanted to show his brother he was
worthy of waking up that night; of the risk taken in sneaking out
from the house to the funeral home. He wanted his brother to know
that he was no sissy. Under the harsh lighting above the table, the
angelic face that so many of his parents’ friends doted on, developed
a blank expression that robbed him of beauty. He stabbed at the
stomach like he was murdering the woman. Up and down the trocar
went, his laboured breathing lost under the squelching of
decomposing flesh. The opening widened to reveal blue-green
innards, and muscles so grey they looked like week-old pork chops.
Had Herbert looked up for a moment he would have seen his little
brother's transformation. He would have noted the blankness in his
eyes, and the blood rushing to his cheeks. Had Herbert had the will
to stop the bile rising in his throat, he would have seen the smile
cutting into his baby brother's face.
 CHAPTER 2

The road leading to the small cottage was wide enough for one
vehicle. To tackle the slow incline, DCI Darren Healey slipped down
to third gear. The roar of the car's engine attracted the attention of a
young girl riding a grey horse around a small paddock in the
distance. When the asphalt finally gave way to cobbles, he felt every
tooth in his head and the fullness of his bladder. The car vibrated for
another ten metres toward the crest of the hill. Healey pulled up
behind a red Nissan parked and looked over to the last cottage on
the row. Its walls were black, as if the architect had dipped each of
its stone bricks in ink. There was a modest front garden filled with
evergreens and empty terracotta pots. Small windows revealed
nothing of the rooms beyond. It was, like the other two cottages in
the row, understated and well-matched for the person staying there;
someone many would never notice in a room, nor understand their
true value. Healey locked the car and approached the door. He
barely had time to straighten out the creases in his trousers before
the front door opened. Standing there, filling the frame, was Lisa
Summers.
She guided Healey through the vestibule to a small living room.
A ginger cat lay curled up on a tan leather couch, licking its paw.
“That's Baker,” Lisa said. “He's not so good around strangers, so
I wouldn't stroke him.”
Healey assessed the cat with indifference. He was a dog man
seven days a week. Dogs were loyal, obedient, and empathetic,
whereas cats were self-seeking and heartless. Healey had been to
enough home deaths to bolster this belief. They did not mourn or
lament, nor did they flee to the grave of their owners and lie in rain
before the headstone. In death, a cat saw their owner as a meal.
And with hunger slaked, they’d sleep it all off until the next feed.
Fuck that cat, Healey thought as he looked at Baker, wondering
if one day it would take a bite out of Lisa Summers, too.
He glanced around the room. Wooden shelves fixed to the
recesses of a chimney breast hammocked in the middle due to the
weight of Stephen King paperbacks, and crime novels. Healey noted
Alex Palmer did not feature on the spine of either book.
Understandable. He also observed an arrangement of photos nailed
to the walls, some showing Lisa with a man he did not recognise.
She appeared happy, in love.
“You have a lovely home,” he said, releasing how quiet he had
been.
Lisa exposed her teeth. “There may be no room to swing Baker,
but it'll do.”
A deep, resonating voice from a TV in the room’s corner drew
Healey’s attention. A news broadcast showed the current Prime
Minister gesticulating widely in the Houses of Parliament about
reform and some other shit that riled up the backbenches. Ticker
tape ran beneath the image like a thousand ants articulating the
significance of the next general election, and the possibility of
Labour overthrowing the Conservatives. There was also mention of a
drop in the PM's popularity following heavy cuts in the public sector.
Lisa moved quickly to an armchair and pressed mute on the remote.
“You don't need to turn it off for my benefit,” Healey said.
“I was just catching up,” she replied.
Healey tilted his head toward the TV. “You think he'll serve
another term?”
“It's not looking good. That said, the other guy isn't any better. I
struggle sometimes understanding what separates the two parties
these days. It used to be Labour looked out for the common person,
while the Conservatives looked after the middle class. Now they're
just two cheeks of the same arse.”
Healey joined her in smiling. He could see why Tom Nolan found
her attractive—milky skin and auburn hair, kind eyes and a practised
sense of gentleness that comes natural to some. In the three
months since they had admitted Tom Nolan to hospital after DC
Jennifer Morrison stabbed him, the dark rings that shadowed Lisa's
eyes were barely discernible now, and what buoyancy she displayed
was, Healey assumed, the product of love. She was certainly very
different to the woman who approached him for Nolan's telephone
number. Back then she was fragile and had the same desperate
hope in her eyes he saw in Nolan's.
“How's Tom?” Healey asked.
Lisa glanced over her shoulder to a set of doors.
“He's not getting out much,” she said, turning back. “I've
suggested going for walks but he complains about the pain in his
foot. He spends most of his days now in the conservatory, reading or
watching TV. But it's better he's here with me where I can keep an
eye on him.”
“And the injuries?” he asked, wondering how the hell anyone
can get over being crucified and stabbed all in the space of a couple
of weeks.
“Pre-operative physiotherapy went well on his hands. It helped
reduce post-rehabilitation. He's still wearing protective bracing, but
the splints are off and the tendons are healing well. He's at rehab
once a week. They've got him doing progressive wrist and finger
strengthening. That, combined with the soft tissue massage, has
shown a vast improvement.”
“And the foot?”
“The bulky Jones splint came off a couple of weeks back. He
now wears a CAM boot. They've put him on a weight bearing
program. Things would be easier all round if he dropped a few
pounds. I said I'd do the diet too, mostly so I'm not here eating
chicken wings while he's munching on lettuce leaves.”
Had he known Lisa well enough, or felt sure she would not take
his comment the wrong way, Healey would have complimented her
on how well she looked. But sometimes a well-aimed compliment
can be misconstrued as an insult. Saying a person looked well today
meant they looked like shit the day before. Or sometimes, you just
come across as trying too hard to inspire self-assurance. Being
married for nearly thirty years meant he knew a woman does not
necessarily require a man to validate her beauty. She can do that on
her own. They just need to know they are loved, and that was not
his job to do.
“Can I get you a drink?” Lisa asked.
“Coffee would be great. Black, no sugar.”
She nodded and looked briefly to the ceiling as if reflecting on
something.
“Tom’s a little different from maybe how you remember him,”
she said. “What happened in the waterworks, it’s left its mark, and
I’m not talking about the scars.”
Healey nodded.
“Tom said it’s not customary for a senior officer to do home
visits.”
She was right. This was the job of Nolan's supervisor, Rebecca
King. He'd tasked King accordingly—to check in on Nolan weekly,
and report back to him if she felt he was slipping. It wasn't about
getting him back to work. He figured that everything Nolan had seen
in Stormer Hill the previous year, and what happened with Lonnie
Jackson and Alex Palmer, he figured it was enough to break the
toughest marine. Healey didn't want to see Nolan end up in a
straightjacket waiting for some big Indian guy to put a pillow over
his face. That's why he personally visited the hospital and put
through all the paperwork to Occupational Health, along with
counselling recommendations with the onsite physician. Healey also
recommended Nolan attend Harrogate's police treatment centre that
provides care to all serving and retired officers with physical and
psychological injuries. If nothing else, he could get a daily back rub
and sweat some of that fear out of him in one of the many steam
rooms. But from what he could gather from King, Nolan was taking it
slow. He had refused counselling and the trip to Harrogate,
articulating that he was happy under the care of the hospital.
“DS King has a lot on her plate at the moment,” Healey said to
Lisa. “I figured I could take up some of that slack. Besides, I’m
drowning in paperwork at the office. Some time away from the desk
is good for the body, and the mind.”
“We appreciate it, Mr Healey.”
 “I've told you before, it's Darren.”
Lisa nodded and ran her palms down the flanks of her summer
dress. He registered an awkwardness in her face.
“What is it?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “I was hoping you might do me a
favour?”
“I'll try.”
“I don't want Tom getting upset, if you know what I mean?”
“No shop talk. Got it. Anything else?”
“He has nightmares. Wakes up screaming sometimes, sopping
wet. I've tried to get him to see someone, a professional, but he just
says he'll deal with it his own way.”
“Cops are stubborn bastards, for sure. I'll speak to him. See if I
can get through that stupid skull of his.”
Healey gave a quick wink to underpin that he meant nothing by
the remark.
“I appreciate it. I'll go get that coffee.”
“Lisa,” Healey said, stopping her from leaving the room. “These
nightmares... Does Tom ever mention what they're about?”
Lisa Summers dropped her head, hands clenched tight,
shoulders hunched.
“The dolls,” she said, the words cold and flat. “They chase him
every night with hammers and nails. And when he can't run no
more, they pin him down. Every damn night those dolls crucify him,
and he can feel it. He feels those nails being driven into his hands
and feet.”
 CHAPTER 3

Tom Nolan was sitting in a wicker chair in the conservatory. A small

stool elevated his right foot. What looked like a plastic ski-boot
protected it. A soft support bandage sheathed his hands just below
the wrist, and up to the fingers. There were no signs of stubble, and
the parting in his hair was as neat as a line of cocaine. He wore a
freshly ironed T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms free of stains. Lisa
Summers may not be winning each battle but she was successful in
the ones that mattered right now.
“I got a call from the Terminator,” Healey said. “He wants his
foot back.”
Nolan turned and nodded wearily, as if he had heard the joke a
thousand times.
“Good to see you, Boss,” he said, shifting his weight a little in
the chair.
“You're not on the clock, Tom. It's Darren.”
He gravitated to a two-seater facing Nolan.
“You look well,” he said. “Lisa was just telling me she's signed
you up for the London Marathon next year.”
“It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest,” he said, his face
splitting into a slight smile, though not enough to expose his teeth.
Healey took a moment to gaze out to a narrow garden fringed
with borders. It was early October, and though flowers were nearing
their end, it was still very warm for that time of year, allowing many
a stay of execution. Leaves clung to the branches from where they
were born, their skins untouched by the yellows and oranges of
autumn. And as Healey felt the warmth of the room flush his cheeks,
it felt like the beginning of summer all over again. If only it was. He
would go back and lead on the Doll Maker case and not leave it to
that Judas, Henry Bradbury. At least that bastard was dead. A few
days before his trial began, the screws found him bled out on his
bed in the holding prison. The coward had bitten through his own
wrists. Healey had to live with many mistakes over his career, but
putting his trust in Henry Bradbury and Jennifer Morrison was the
one he regretted most. Had he been more involved maybe that
summer would have played out differently, and maybe, just maybe,
Tom Nolan would not be bearing both the physical and emotional
scars he did now.
“This is a nice spot,” Healey remarked. “You landed on your
feet.”
Healey clenched his teeth, realising the poor choice of phrase.
Fortunately, Nolan didn't bat an eye.
“It's a nice house,” Nolan replied. “But Lisa's been thinking of
selling up for a while now. It holds too many memories.”
Healey recalled the photos on the wall.
“I didn’t realise Lisa was a widow.”
Nolan nodded. “Brain tumour. About five years back. She's not
had it easy.”
“She seems happy now.”
“She's doing what she loves best… caring for people.”
“I think you’re more than a patient, Tom.”
Nolan looked up as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I didn't mean it like that. Mark, her husband, he made sure she
had a little money when he passed. Life insurance paid off the
mortgage, and she had enough left to afford a degree in nursing.
There's no solace in losing someone but I think his final gift was to
allow her to help others. She's an incredible person, and an even
better nurse. I'm indebted to that man, as I think most people are
who she’s cared for.”
A set of door hinges creaked and Lisa arrived holding a cup of
steaming coffee. She smiled as she entered. Healey now saw in her
face all the hours she sat beside her husband's hospital bed; the
tears shed and the strength it takes to rise from that melancholy and
become a stronger person. He admired her in that instant and
wanted to thank her for being a flicker of light in a sinful world.
Putting down the cup on a small wooden table, she turned to
Nolan. “I didn't know if you wanted one.”
“I'm fine,” he replied.
Lisa placed her hand on his shoulder, leaned in, and kissed his
cheek. She then surveyed the room with the eye of a mother making
sure her children would be safe in her absence.
“I'll be next door if anyone needs me.”
And with that, Lisa Summers left Healey and Nolan alone.
A bloated book on Greek mythology rested next to Healey’s
cup.
“Didn't have you down as a historian, Tom.”
“I foolishly told Lisa how I liked the story of the Minotaur. Turns
out she had this book on her shelf.”
“She seems well read, that much I picked up from the bookshelf
in the living room.”
“There's more in the attic. Classic literature, crime, thrillers. I
told her she'd make a great detective, the way her mind works.”
“Maybe we should recruit her. God knows I need some decent
people out there.”
The way it came across sounded like Healey was desperate to
get Nolan to return to work, so changed the subject quickly.
“So, why the Greeks?” Healey asked.
Nolan chewed on this for a second. “I just like the stories.”
“Never really understood it all myself.”
“What do you mean?” Nolan asked.
“Well, for one, their gods were flawed. Infidelity, impulsiveness,
anger, rage, weren’t they the common vices of the Titans and
Olympians?”
Nolan nodded. “I guess it's easier to excuse the bad things we
see if something imperfect created the world.”
Healey knew Nolan was a churchgoer. He'd garnered that much
when they had to stage Nolan's funeral to capture Alex Palmer.
Reverend Karen Kenny spoke highly of him and his commitment to
the local parish where he lived. But hearing him now, it was like
listening to someone who had lost their faith.
“Where are you up to in the book?”
“The story of Prometheus.”
“Wasn't he the guy who pushed the boulder up the hill?”
“That's Sisyphus. Prometheus was the one Zeus instructed to
create humankind. Like you say, the gods were flawed. Zeus was
vain and wanted something to worship him. That was supposed to
be our only job, not robbing banks, and beating up old ladies.”
“Zeus was the main honcho, right?”
“Right,” Nolan said.
Healey picked up the book and began flicking through the
pages. It smelt of libraries and things that were old and neglected. It
was heavy too, but then, a complete history of death and
destruction in his hands would weigh heavily. As Healey admired the
renderings of attractive women in long white robes, and bearded
men holding lightning rods and tridents, Nolan continued to speak.
“The thing with Prometheus was he cared more for man than he
did for Zeus, or any of the Olympians.”
“Why's that?” Healey asked while staring at a black and white
illustration of Cronus devouring his children.
“Zeus had condemned most of Prometheus's family to Tartarus
following the war between the Titans and the Olympians.
Prometheus and his brother, Epimetheus, were spared because they
didn't fight. They served under the Olympians and became more like
handymen. Lackeys. Prometheus made the humans as per Zeus’s
instruction, fashioning them from clay, and making them stand
upright. But he also gifted them with fire. That pissed Zeus right off
because fire meant that man could challenge him. They could fight
back and not be subservient. In a fit of rage, Zeus devised a very
cruel punishment.”
“He made him do his tax returns?”
Nolan smirked, but it was probably out of respect for the rank
than anything genuine.
“He chained Prometheus to a rock and had an eagle eat away
his liver, only for it to regenerate the next day. Prometheus's fate
was to live in perpetual torture, day after day, all because he cared
for people.”
Healey put the book back down. Nolan wasn’t just talking about
Prometheus. Healey had seen the effects of PTSD on serving
officers. Some had gone off long term and retired early on medical
grounds. Others found themselves on restricted duties, doing the
best they could. One detective described it to him like floating out at
sea. The shoreline was always in sight, but no matter how hard they
paddled, a weight pressed down on their shoulders. The harder they
tried to get back to land, the more they sank. Sometimes they hid
their condition well. Sometimes they didn't. But they all changed.
Just like Nolan.
“Lisa tells me your injuries are healing well.”
Nolan looked down at his hands. “They think I may always have
a little weakness in the fingers. Probably a limp, too.”
“And what are you doing about your other injuries?”
Nolan looked confused.
“Those we can't see,” Healey clarified.
“Has Lisa said something?”
“She's concerned, Tom.”
Nolan’s tone hardened. “I'm fine. Once I'm done with physio, I'll
be ready to return to work.”
“I'm not here to balance the shift rotas. You're more than
welcome to return once you're able. But as your senior officer I have
a duty of care to you. I need to make sure that when you do return,
you're fit and well, not just physically. You understand?”
“I'm not crazy.”
“Never said you were. You're probably the second person in
history to survive a crucifixion. That shit sticks. Now, I'm no expert
on the matter, but I figure no number of Greek Gods, or watching
repeats of Frasier, is going to help you deal with what you've been
through. DS King said you've refused to see a counsellor. I think you
should reconsider.”
Nolan remained mute. Face impassive. Healey sensed if he kept
pushing things, he may just blow. It was a low ball, but he figured
maybe he could use Lisa as a fulcrum.
 “You've got a great girl in there, Tom,” he said. “I know you've
been through a lot of pain but I bet she's felt her own watching you
these past three months. Don't put her through anymore.”
“I just need a distraction,” Nolan said.
Healey leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
Nolan looked up; eyes polished with desperation. He lingered
for a moment on Healey and then sighed heavily. “Nothing. I'll
contact Occupational Health in the morning. See about arranging a
meeting with a counsellor.”
There is a long-standing presumption between officers that any
admission of weakness, or fragility, is a dent in their amour. Nolan
was still new to the Major Incident Team, and though he had an
outstanding reputation, and was a celebrity in West Yorkshire Police
Force having been involved in their two most high-profile cases since
the Yorkshire Ripper, he wouldn't want anyone knowing too much
about what was going on in his head, least of all his superior. Healey
backed off.
Patting Nolan's knee, he said, “I'm sure Lisa will appreciate it.”
Healey drank a little of the coffee and lifted himself out of the
chair.
“I'll let DS King know we've spoken,” he said. “But if you need
anything, you get in touch with me directly. I can push things
through quicker.”
Nolan nodded, and thanked him.
“And maybe lay off reading about the Greeks,” Healey said,
glancing toward the book. “Not everyone needs to suffer all their
lives, Tom, regardless of what they did to help others.”
Healey left the room and found Lisa Summers on the couch,
stroking Baker.
Don’t show Baker too much love, Lisa. One day he’ll eat your
eyes out of their sockets.
The news was still playing. A reporter stood before the
parliament building, their commentary mid-flow and focused on the
PM's pending visit to Moscow to meet the Russian President.
“I've got to get back to the office,” he said, “but I wanted to
thank you for the coffee.”
 She walked Healey to the door.
Outside, he paused at the bottom of the three stone steps.
“He's going to be okay, Lisa.” He handed her a small card with his
name and work number on it. “If you need anything, ring me.”
Lisa took it and thanked him. As he drove away over the cobbled
road, bones shaking and eyes rattling in their sockets, he felt a
greater pain in his stomach; one that was not there when he
entered the small cottage but that had grown since leaving it—
regret. And it came because he lied to Lisa Summers, the bright light
in a sinful world.
 CHAPTER 4

A low, aggressive moan came from the attic. It beat like an

industrial piston before progressing into a growl. Then sounds that
accompany sex, rage, and murder. A single bulb hung down by a
length of flex from the ridge board, its sallow light settling on a
man's naked body. Bean was nearing fifty-five press-ups in as many
seconds. The landscape of his back flexed and undulated with every
move. When he reached sixty, he returned to his feet. He moved to
a steel bar secured to a wooden underpurlin. Dust within the mineral
wool battened to the sloping rafters drifted to the floorboards like
snow as he lifted his chin high over the steel. He then lowered
himself slowly, the strain on his muscles engorging veins along his
skin. He did this thirty times in measured concession before lowering
himself gently to the floorboards. A full-length mirror drilled into the
exposed brick reflected his bronzed and smooth form. Bean turned
his body to the left and flexed his arm, courting a sheet of light to
arrange itself over large shoulders. Shadows draped from the deltoid
like bats in a cave, and a vein as thick as kettle cord twitched along
the bicep to the crease of the elbow. As he pulled at his nipple with
his right hand, his left teased the soft flat patch of skin just below
his naval.
“Do you like me?” Bean asked his reflection in a whisper. “I like
you. Don't be shy. Sit here, next to me.”
He smiled at his reflection—a smile capable of breaking hearts.
Bean walked the old Blackwood house naked, spine straight as a
telegraph pole. The living room curtains were open, but the house
was far enough from the main road that no one could see in. Not
that it mattered. Some days, he wished for a young woman to come
searching out an address close by, and see him, stripped and flaccid.
But only the postman, a small grey-haired man with thick glasses,
ever came down the driveway. The only room whose curtains
remained closed belonged to the small study that was once his
father’s. It had a fireplace and a large mantle carved from stone.
Bean had disposed of his father's oak bookcase, filing cabinets, and
the antique bureau, many years back. Only a leather armchair and
cast-iron safe remained of his father's chattels. The safe once held
deeds to the house, contracts, and other legal documentation
pertaining to the funeral home, but after his older brother gained
probate of the will, they handed the documents over to the family
building society. The safe had only one item within it now. Bean
turned the dial clockwise, and then counter clockwise, until he heard
the snap from the pin releasing. He opened the door, reached inside,
and pulled out a plastic doll mask.
Bean reclined in the armchair and fixed the mask over his face.
Breath beat upon the plastic. Condensation collected around his lips.
He liked that smell. It reminded him of the crucified police officer in
Yorkshire. It was the smell of liberty—of living without guilt or
remorse. It was the smell of the Brethren.
Bean grabbed the TV remote from a small wooden table and
pressed play. A naked stomach, framed by blue hospital sheets,
appeared on the TV screen. The lighting was cold and flat, rendering
the patient’s skin white as marble. Surgeon’s hands painted the
dome of the stomach with cotton soaked in povidone-iodine,
transforming the pallid complexion to a crème brûlée colour. Bean
mimicked the person speaking off camera.
“The first process will be to cut the posterior rectus sheath,”
Bean said, his words soft and muffled against the mask.
The surgeon's hand came into view again. They pointed at the
stomach. Bean spoke in time with the narration.
“The gathering of the soft tissue from the external oblique
fascia will allow for scoring, which is lateral to the linea semilunaris.
Every effort should be made to accomplish fascial closure after
debridement of any attenuated, scarred, or nonviable musculofascial
tissue. If there is any weakened tissue, it will compromise the
abdominal wall, leading to stress, and possible hernia recurrence.”
A scalpel ran downward through the apricot skin, revealing the
tissue beneath. Many hands now came into view to assist with the
procedure. Some were employed to clamp the flesh with steel
retractors and towel clips, while another applied the suction tube to
abstract the first spill of blood bubbling up from the fascia. The
surgeon worked quickly to cauterise vessels with an electrosurgical
unit pencil.
“Too much tension can cause cheese wiring of the sutures
through the fascia...”
As muscles split, causing the wound to open like a vulva, Bean
stroked himself. The surgeon's hand reached deep into the
abdominal cavity, causing a squelching sound like when a boot is
extracted from mud. Bean paused the footage at the point the
surgeon's bloodied hands withdrew. This was when the wound was
at its largest. He lingered on all the varying shades of red and pink
found in the muscles and tissue that held the abdomen together. His
eyes widened to take in the display of human flesh, the parts hidden
but beautiful and complex. This was what he chased—the internal
architecture of the human form. This was his pornography. When
Bean pressed play again, and the footage of the abdominal wall
reconstruction continued, his breathing behind the mask turned
heavy. He closed his eyes as the orgasm consumed his body, and
even then, the scrambled egg texture of fatty tissue beneath the
skin, and deep red of cleaved muscle, lingered in his mind. When he
opened his eyes again, Bean then wiped himself clean with the
tissues from the table, showered, and dressed for work.
Two hours later, he arrived at the Greenbooth hospital in
Colchester. Bean was one of eighteen plastic surgery consultants
that day, in a department with a strong reputation for the provision
of care for patients needing breast reconstruction, hand surgery,
sarcoma reconstruction, ear reconstruction, and abdominal wall
reconstruction. As the locum, he had only one scheduled operation—
a small bowel resection on a woman in her mid-fifties. He checked
her weight on the admission papers and found she was just shy of
twelve stone. He imagined her to be wide-hipped, with a bloated
stomach the colour of marzipan. He imagined what she would look
like inside—the splitting of fatty tissue, the tearing of muscle—and
as he did, he felt a swell of happiness run through him. He was such
a lucky and privileged man.
 CHAPTER 5

If there was an annual award for best lie in a serious relationship,

Nolan had qualified with ease. A staged phone call with realistic
pauses and common parlance, and a calendar with relevant dates
marked in pen, were just two things he had manufactured to
convince Lisa he’d arranged a counselling session at West Yorkshire's
Occupational Health department. When she offered to drive him to
that first appointment, he made a point of saying that his leg may be
compromised but he could still dial a taxi. Forestalling any details
relating to his first treatment, Nolan added that the first session
would only be a fact-finding mission to understand his condition,
from which they would offer a suitable course of bespoke therapy.
All of this seemed to placate Lisa but it left Nolan weighed down
with guilt. He didn't enjoy lying to her. This was his first betrayal of
her trust, and it didn't sit easy. But the thought of regurgitating to
some shrink all that happened since Sarah Cook went missing in
Stormer Hill over a year ago, and the subsequent encounters with
that cult called the Brethren, was a much more frightening concept
than lying to the only person he loved in the world. If there was
another way, Nolan would have opted for it. But the truth was, no
amount of CBT, NLP, or TLC could temper the fears he held. The
Brethren had rendered the tragic events of Stormer Hill into scar
tissue that ran deep into his skin and soul. Whenever he placed on a
sock, or washed his hands, these simple acts reminded him of the
Dolls. Whenever he heard a clink of glasses meeting in celebration,
he would hear the hammer tapping the nail into his flesh. A mask at
Halloween had all the influence to chill his skin and leave his knees
shaking. These emotions were indelible, just like his scars.
 The problem now was what to do with his time. It was too risky
to remain at Lisa's house. She might return from work unexpectedly,
or a neighbour might see him in the conservatory and mention it in
passing. He considered attending the Picture House in Hebden
Bridge, where matinees of classic movies were frequent. But if he
forgot to dispose of the ticket stub, or worse, someone they both
knew saw him there, he’d have to come clean. There was only one
place he felt safe, somewhere no one could question him. He would
return home to 33 Spring Terrace, in Stormer Hill, the village where
all his nightmares began.

The taxi driver offered to walk Nolan to his front door but he
declined, saying he needed the practice. The Cam boot waded
through a pile of letters that had accumulated behind the front door
in his absence. There were brown envelopes portending to money
owed for outstanding bills, and the rest were circulars. A notable
smell of damp hung in the air, the kind that takes up residency when
the real tenants are gone. It was cold too, as if the house had grown
indifferent toward him. He entered the living room and glanced at
the wall that had once been home to all the evidence amassed
during the Doll Maker case, and the missing children of Stormer Hill.
Stripped back to the wallpaper, it looked small and empty. Like him,
it was waiting for something to happen—to have purpose. Sitting in
his armchair, wondering how best to fill the two hours before he
could return to Lisa's house, Nolan turned on the TV. A show where
people bought antiques and sold them at auction did not provide any
distraction from his internal musings. The pangs of hunger called out
to him. He checked the fridge but Lisa had cleared it out. Resigned
to reading correspondence, Nolan retrieved the letters from the hall
and returned to his armchair. He shuffled through the mail quickly,
stopping only at a white envelope with his address handwritten on it
in blue ink. It prompted him to recall the time Lonnie Jackson, the
serial killer known as the Doll Maker, sent him a letter that led him to
the body of the librarian, Angela Kowal. But Lonnie was dead, killed
by DC Jennifer Morrison at her home. Unless she was writing from
the grave, this wasn't from her. He checked the back for a return
address but there was none. Weighing it in his bandaged hand, he
surmised that what lay inside was concise and limited to a page at
the very most. That didn’t mean the words committed hadn't the
potential to unsettle his mind. Nolan considered flushing it down the
toilet, or burning it in the fire pit outside before it had the power to
influence him. But there was a voice in his head reminding him that
the contents of the letter may well be the distraction he needed.
Nolan ran his hand over his head in contemplation, fingers finding
the depression meted out by DCI Henry Bradbury's hammer. Like the
scars on his hands and foot, the wound was another reminder of
where he needed to go, where neither light nor good subsist, but a
room inhabited by a man sat before an empty wall, lost and
desperate to be of use again to the world.
 CHAPTER 6

The Kingfisher Leisure Centre in Sudbury accommodated adults

only from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. every Saturday. It was for speed
swimmers to get their laps in, and the elderly to drift like frogs
through the ice blue water without unruly children splashing them. It
was a golden hour where being mocked for having disfigurements,
skin grafts, birthmarks, or those concerned about their weight, was
unlikely. For this reason, Kingfisher was a sweet shop to Bean; a
place where he could openly peruse the human form without worry.
It helped that he was a good swimmer too, splitting his time
between the fast lanes, and the shared area of the main swimming
pool where elderly ladies often smiled as he passed, and men who
enjoyed the late-night take-away looked on with envy.
He had been swimming for about forty minutes when a woman
entered the pool. She wore a full body swimsuit the colour of
aubergine. Red hair fell upon the palest of shoulders. Brown freckles
pebble-dashed her arms. In profile, her stomach bulged from her
torso like the dome of the Taj Mahal. She descended into the water
via the steps, the move slow and steady as if the temperature was
too cold for her skin. She took a small elastic band from her wrist
and tied her hair back, revealing the underside of her arms which
were as white as the belly of a pig. Bean navigated through the
waters until he reached the deepest end, at which point he turned
and changed from front crawl to breaststroke just so he could
observe the woman without waves hindering his sight. As they swam
passed each other, Bean made a point of not looking. He did not
wish to make eye contact yet. He would do this on the second or
third pass. It would be a furtive first glance, disguised as a person
aware of their surroundings, one mindful of others. But by the sixth
passing he would make eye contact for longer, maybe offering her a
smile in the guise of a good-natured greeting from one swimmer to
the other. He would then wait at the opposite end until she turned.
That's when he would raise himself up from the water and reveal his
form to her. And this he did. And as expected, the woman's eyes fell
upon him with fascination.
The next time Bean saw the woman, she was in the car park.
He had crouched before his Audi A6, sports bag dropped
haphazardly on the road blocking everyone's exit, including hers.
Muttering loudly, he awaited her voice like a fisherman awaits the
call of a Siren.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
Bean detected a European lilt.
Bean pointed to a large scrape and dent along the wheel arch.
“Some idiot backed out and caught my car. The lousy bastard didn’t
even leave a letter of apology.”
The woman's expression shadowed with compassion.
“Maybe the CCTV caught them,” she said.
The only camera was on the side of the building and covered
about 80% of the car park. There was a monitor in the reception
area detailing all the blind spots. Bean had made sure he parked his
vehicle in one of them. The conversation he was having now was
also beyond the camera's range. No cars had entered the area since
the woman arrived, meaning there were no witnesses. Bean
returned his attention to her hands and checked for an engagement
or wedding ring. None.
“Knowing my luck, the damn thing will be broken,” he said. She
remained silent. “It was very nice of you to come over.” he quickly
added. “After something like this happens, it's refreshing to know
there are still considerate people in the world.”
She shifted her weight. He liked that she felt uncomfortable
around compliments. They were unfamiliar to her. He’d use that
against her. A slight breeze played with strands of her damp hair.
The long thin dress she wore poured down the contours of her wide
hips like cream down the side of a strawberry. Bean imagined the
edge of a blade cutting through flesh, white as pork fat. He imagined
his hands soaked in her blood.
“I actually stopped because your bag is blocking the road.”
He apologised and retrieved his sports bag. When he turned,
the woman was staring at the damage to his car. He wondered for a
moment if she could see something he missed; some little detail that
gave away his deception. It was unlikely. The damage looked as
fresh as the day Bean manufactured it when he scraped it along the
wall of the funeral home. He'd also gone over the area that morning
with wire wool to remove any rust that may have built up. The red
paint and dent in the wheel arch only added to the impression of a
collision. But Bean didn't like that she was questioning his work.
“I’ll have to go through my insurance,” he said. “It’ll raise my
premiums but there’s not a chance in hell I can afford to get it fixed
on my own.”
The stress he placed on the last word implied he was without a
partner.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
Her eyes struggled to gaze on him for too long, as if she had
dwelled all her life in a cave and he was the first shaft of sunlight
she had seen.
“I'm sure it'll be fine,” he replied. “The wheels don't look
damaged.”
“You’re taking it well, given the circumstances.”
“Damage is done. There’s not much else I can do. I’m not going
to expend more energy on someone who doesn’t deserve my time.
Life is too short.”
“That’s a very healthy attitude. I don’t think I could be that
forgiving.”
“You strike me as a good person. I’m sure you would.”
She recoiled from this, her body shrinking into itself.
“That was wrong for me to assume. I don’t know anything
about you. For all I know, you could be a vegan.”
She smiled. Luck was shining on him.
“I’m a pescatarian, actually,” she said.
“They’re the worst.”
 “How’s that?” she asked.
He leaned in theatrically, using his hand to partition his mouth.
“All those baby peskies killed every year just so you can sit on the
fence. At least the vegans have morals.”
Her laugh was a lullaby.
Bean aped the manner of a shy teenage boy asking the popular
girl to a prom. “I hope you don't mind me asking...”
He trailed off, awkwardly. Lowering his eyes to the ground, he
scuffed the toe of his shoe into the asphalt, and when he looked up,
fixed his blue eyes upon her. Her lips parted as she swallowed, face
warming as blood rushed to it.
“If you have the time, would you join me for a coffee?” he
asked.
The woman hooked a strand of damp hair over her ear, and said
with the tone of a person quite surprised, “Where do you have in
mind?”
 CHAPTER 7

Her name was Sofie Eichmüller. Twenty-nine years old. Born in the
town of Kreuzberg, just outside of Berlin, Sofie moved to England
with her mother, Charlotte, and British stepfather, John, when she
was five. Save for a pharyngeal constriction on some vowels, what
accent she had adopted from her short-lived life in Germany had
little resonance now in her voice. Her beauty was modest. Without
mascara, her eyelashes were the same shade as hay bales, and her
iris a pale green found in the flesh of grapes. Her teeth were slightly
misaligned but not enough to warrant a brace. She wore no
jewellery, and there were no holes visible for earrings. The last
concert she went to was Florence and the Machine. Her favourite
author was Anne Rice. She had a BSc Honours in Midwifery from the
University of Suffolk, and when Bean mentioned that he too worked
at a hospital as locum surgeon, Sofie's demeanour changed from
that of a woman who was waiting for him to pull the rug, to one
awaiting the twang of Cupid's bow.
In the small cafe close to the Kingfisher municipal pool, where
patrons raised their voices over the sound of steamed milk and the
tilling in of money, Bean was the perfect stranger. He referred to
himself as Ricky Cottingham, the only child of two deceased parents.
He lived alone and rarely had time to meet women because of his
work. His dialogue was always charming and never insensitive. He
listened to every word Sofie said and always kept eye contact. If she
enquired more about him, Bean was open about his life as a surgeon
and that his interests were many and varied. He revealed enough to
not sound invasive, but reserved to the point he was still a mystery.
He proffered jokes about the common issues within the medical
practice and joined her in laughter whenever a suitable moment
presented itself. When the coffee ran dry, and those seeking an early
lunch came in search of spare tables, Bean tentatively requested her
phone number, and without reflection, Sofie tendered it. As they
walked out on that bright October day, Bean thanked her once again
for the kindness she had shown him, and for being such good
company.
“You know, I heard a slight knocking sound as I drove here,” he
said.
Sofie waited on his every word like a love-struck teenager.
“If it's not too much of an inconvenience, would you mind
following me to my house? It's not far from here. Lavenham. I'm just
concerned in case the wheel comes off.”
“You speaking metaphorically about us, or your car?”
It seemed out of character for Sofie to be so bold, so he replied
only with a smile. Ensnaring women, especially those as timid as a
rabbit, meant holding back a little. Bean knew that if he played it too
strong, Sofie would run off and he would have wasted valuable time.
“I'm sorry,” he said, humbly. “It's weird, right? I mean, we
hardly know each other, and here I am asking you for help. Don't
worry about it.”
Reserve shadowed Sofie's face. He knew then he had her.
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just things like this don’t happen to
me.”
“Someone buying a good person coffee? Well, that’s very sad if
we live in a world where kindness cannot be rewarded.”
She appeared disappointed. “Is that how you see it? The last
hour or so was my reward for being a good person?”
“I asked for your number, didn’t I?”
“I don’t need charity, Ricky. You can just be honest with me. If
you have no intention of ringing me, that’s fine. I’m a big girl, and
you’re not the first, nor will you be the last, to string me along.”
Redness bled into her neck, like marks left by a murderer’s
hands.
Bean raised his right hand, tucking in his little finger under the
thumb. “I’m legally bound by the scout code to never tell a lie. That
would directly violate the code.”
“You were in the scouts?”
“You’re picturing me now in khaki shorts, aren’t you?”
Sofie smiled again, the redness dissipating into her milky skin.
“The house is less than fifteen minutes away,” he said, putting
down his hand. “I can show you the old family business.”
“The funeral home?” she asked.
Bean had dropped this into conversation earlier when Sofie
asked what pulled him toward seeking a career in medicine.
Her dress rippled in the breeze, mouth relaxing into a smile.
“Promise me you won't run any red lights,” she said.
They arrived at the old Victorian house twelve minutes later.

A few relics from the business remained in the reception area.

The old beech wood desk was still in situ where his mother had
sometimes greeted lamenting families, or where his father would
adjust his voice to a softer pitch as he advised on the services he
could offer. The leather couch, speakers mounted to the walls, and
pots filled with fake flowers, their petals and leaves now thick with
grey dust, were all present too, as was a strong smell of damp.
“No matter how much air freshener I pump into this room, I can
never quite rid it of that smell,” he told Sofie as he guided her
through two large white doors to the chapel.
There was nothing in this room. He’d long since stacked away
all the chairs and cut up the coffin support for firewood.
“I had grand designs to convert this into a house,” Bean said.
“The space would make a great living area, don’t you think?”
Sofie grabbed at something on her face.
“Cobwebs,” Bean said. “It could do with a woman’s touch.”
“It's very impressive,” she replied, wiping her face clean.
“The room I want to show you,” Bean said, “the one I think
you'll be most interested in, is at the back of the building. It's where
I first got my taste for what I do.”
“Is there a lady's room I could use?” Sofie asked.
This was an inconvenience. Bean didn't want Sofie to be alone
in the building. The only toilet was in the reception area, which was
closer to the front entrance. It had a window too, which he had
nailed shut, but if determined enough, she could smash the pane. If
he told her there was no toilet in the building, she may want to go
into the main house. That was out of bounds. He never brought
women there. That was his domain, his kingdom. The thought of
another person walking around, looking at the vestiges of his youth,
was akin to treachery. The house was his and no one else's.
“It's in the reception,” he said. “First door on the right. I'll wait
here.”
She thanked him and headed through the double doors. Bean
listened to the song of the building—the familiar creaking of the
floor, the distant rumble of passing cars. He heard the dull thud of
the toilet door closing, the sound much lighter than that of the front
entrance door. Resonating through the adjacent wall was the rattle
from the toilet roll holder as it revolved in its bracket. The cistern
drained and refilled, then the groans from pipes as taps turned.
When Sofie did not return straight away, Bean considered rushing
into the reception area and breaking her neck. He mimicked the
shape with his hands, two crescents facing each other. He imagined
the warmth of her skin against them; the dull sound of bone
cracking. But when the doors to the chapel opened again moments
later, and Sofie appeared, he quickly lowered his hands and smiled.
“Miss me?” she said.
“I did,” he replied.
Sofie approached. “You're very charming, Mr Cottingham.”
“It's not a line, Sofie,” he replied. “I feel quite overwhelmed in
your presence.”
He registered unease in her expression.
“What is it?” he asked.
She paused before replying.
“I still feel like this is a cruel joke. I mean, look at me, and look
at you.”
Bean approached and placed his hands just below her ears. He
anticipated his grip tightening, the reddening of her cheeks as blood
flushed them, and the horror in her eyes as she realised how close
to the truth she was—that a man like him could never love her. But
his grip was tender, eyes compassionate. He leaned in and kissed
her lips, her mouth parting to accept his tongue. When he pulled
away, her eyes remained closed, lids flickering like fledgling wings
striving to fly.
“I'm deadly serious,” he said.
Taking her hand once again, Bean walked her to the embalming
room.
Fluorescent tubes blinked erratically before settling, just as they
had done that night when he was seven. The aspirator was the only
piece of apparatus on show, the tubing now yellowed with age. He
had stored all his father’s tools away for fear they may cause alarm if
left on view. Bean walked to one end of the steel table, and Sofie
waited at the opposite, arms hugging her body.
“It's cold in here,” she said.
“The dead prefer the cold.”
Sofie looked around the room as if inspecting it for structural
damage.
“So, this is where your father spent most of his time?” she
asked.
Bean nodded. “He made sure that those who had passed away
looked like they did when they were alive.” He smiled warmly and
added, “You know, I used to think my father was a vampire. He
worked mostly at night, bringing in the dead and extracting their
blood, making them look human again. It's funny, isn't it?”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Eighteen. He and my mother were both in a car accident. The
autopsy report revealed high levels of alcohol in my mother's blood.
She must have lost control.”
“I'm so sorry, Ricky.”
She walked over and held his hand.
“I wanted to follow in my father's footsteps,” Bean said, voice
sincere and low. “I wanted to make a difference somehow.”
“Did you carry on with the business?” Sofie asked.
“I considered it, but I wanted to make my mark on the living,
not the dead. That’s why I enrolled in medical school, specialising in
surgery.”
 Bean looked down for a moment, playing at being humble. Sofie
lifted his chin.
“I'm sure your parents would be very proud of you.”
They kissed again, Sofie instigating it this time. It was
passionate. Her hands explored the landscape of his back, fingers
running along the valley of his spine. Bean reciprocated and
squeezed her flanks, her soft flesh yielding to his touch. He noted
her breath becoming heavier, tongue working harder in his mouth.
Lowering himself a little, he lifted the hem of her dress over her
thighs and moved his fingers under the elastic of her underwear.
Sofie moaned as their bodies entwined. Bean matched her
breathing, and as their hands grew restless and more animated, he
turned Sofie away from him. From behind, he felt her breasts, and
she threw her head back, resting it upon his shoulder. Bean kissed
her neck, the perfume of her skin, a mix of chemicals from the
swimming pool and his own saliva. He then pushed her to the table.
As if anticipating the next move, Sofie bent over, hands splayed
upon the steel. Bean grabbed Sofie's arms and brought her back
upright. She turned a little to see his expression, perhaps to register
any distaste towards her shamelessness. Taking his dominant arm,
he pulled her closer to his body, and positioning his forearm against
her neck, applied pressure, but not too much to scare. Sofie moaned
a little, presumably accepting the move as something kinky.
Adjusting his other arm on the back of her head to stabilise his grip,
Bean looped his hand under his other forearm and exerted pressure
on the windpipe. At first, Sofie did not struggle, but as the seconds
went by and the pressure increased, Bean felt her body turn rigid.
Her heels rose to take the strain off her neck. Her moaning abated in
exchange for strained and fragmented breathing.
She could only squeeze one word through her narrow mouth.
“Ric...Ricky.”
Her hands tried to prise his grip from her neck. She clawed at
his skin. Bean was thankful her fingernails were short. Nevertheless,
he would scrub his flesh and scrape away any residue of himself that
may have become trapped under her fingernails. Seven seconds
elapsed before he felt her body slacken. Her breathing slowed, her
grip upon his forearm weak. Bean shifted his head to the side of her
face so he could see when her eyelids dropped. Her breath, soured
by fear, turned shallow. A single tear ran down her cheek. Ten
seconds later, those pale green eyes fell back into her skull, and
Sofie, the only child of Charlotte Eichmüller, fell asleep.

She awoke with hands and feet strapped to the steel table;
mouth gagged with hessian. Bean had removed her dress, along
with her underwear. A large blue sheet covered her body, save for a
cut out square that exposed her stomach and fringe of pubic hair.
Sofie did not scream straight away. She reserved this for when Bean
entered the room dressed in a plastic boiler suit, hands cloaked in
surgical gloves, face hidden behind a doll's mask. The gag absorbed
the sound as tears ran down her face.
“Welcome back, Sofie,” Bean said.
Vowels married to each struggle as she writhed and pulled
against the binding. The first woman had similarly struggled. A
young girl, he recalled, barely out of her teens. Plump like a
marshmallow. He didn’t ask for her name, or how the Brethren
found her. Bean was just excited to offer his services. She screamed
too, like a wild animal, but they, like Sofie, were not strong enough
to break free from the binds.
Bean pulled back a length of cloth on a small table to reveal his
father's instruments. Their polished clinical form invited Sofie to whip
from side to side. Bean's gloved finger ran along the full length of a
scalpel, its blade glinting under the harsh lights.
“I'll begin by making an incision along the abdominal wall from
the umbilicus toward the pubis.” His voice was flat and cold in
keeping with the room. Scoring the air above her stomach with the
blade, he added, “Then I'll cut along the fascia to the peritoneum,
after which I'll be able to reach the intestines.”
Sofie's eyelids reeled back, nostrils dilated and leaking. She
shook her head, pleading for her life in muffled sobs.
“I estimate you’ll lose around 800 millilitres of blood, give or
take. Without a general anaesthesia you’ll reach vasovagal syncope
within a couple of minutes. This is when your blood pressure and
heart rate drops, and with reduced blood flow to your brain, you’ll
lose consciousness.”
Bean gently pressed his fingers on the soft flesh of her
stomach.
“Before you black out forever, you’ll experience pain beyond that
of any human being. I want you to know this because I don’t want
to lie anymore.” He leaned close to her face, whispering. “You are
special, Sofie. The world will remember you. This is my promise.”
Before Sofie could act upon his words, the scalpel ran deep into
her skin, moving horizontally at an angle from below her navel to the
start of her pubic hair. A gravelly, throatier sound quickly replaced a
high-pitched shriek. Bean repeated the scoring again, fashioning an
inverted V shape into her stomach. He watched blood seep up from
the lines like a prospector casting his eyes on the first spill of oil
from the earth. He dropped the scalpel on the metal table with a
clang, and placing his fingers at the apex where both cuts met, he
tore back the skin as easy as splitting orange peel. Sofie's back
arched, toes spasmed. A new and desperate cry was born that
articulated her pain. Bean worked fast with his hands, rummaging
around her innards like a vagrant in a trashcan. His breath beat fast
against the mask, his eyes wide and alive as they fell upon shades of
reds, yellows, and the white of membrane. His practised knowledge
of the internal workings of a human body was such that just before
Sofie passed away, she was able to see Bean raise his hands aloft,
and within them, her large intestine glistening in the light above her.
Holding the spoils of his work, Bean looked more like an Aztec priest
offering a gift to the gods.
The last words given to her were those she had yearned to hear
all her life. In her dying moments, as her blood dripped from Bean’s
hands, and the cold air from the room invaded the empty cavity of
her open stomach, she drifted to the next life knowing she was truly
beautiful.
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