Bandwidth

by N Cooke, N S Cooke

Genres: Ghost; Occult & Supernatural; Supernatural suspense; Paranormal

Synopsis

Inspired to rediscover his roots and family history, computer programmer Michael, soon learns that the past is sometimes best left undisturbed: lurking in the history of his bloodline is a twisted killer, Devlin Mallard. A man dispatched from this earth in 1929 at the end of a hangman’s noose. In the 21st Century, spirits have moved on from Ouija boards and séances. The dead now travel by broadband – hidden in the Bandwidth. They inhabit the chat rooms, plying their trade online, ever hungry for contact with the living. Now freed from the darkness and roaming cyberspace, this ghost is hell-bent on exacting revenge and unleashing mayhem. Fighting for his life, and that of his family, Michael joins forces with murder investigator, Detective Sergeant Woods, and rides a roller-coaster of global killings to the final confrontation. He must face his demon and return Devlin Mallard to the darkness.

Release date: August 6, 2013

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 440

Sample

Chapter One

Devlin



Cockington 1929



Our deeds determine us,
as much as we determine our deeds.



George Eliot 1819-1880





Killing was in his blood – you might say he was born a killer. Either he had inherited a killer gene from some long-forgotten Mallard ancestor or he was missing that tiny brain-cell which prevents humans from hurting their own fellow species. Fox-hunting took him only part way to the satisfaction of his carnal needs – leaving a vacancy to be filled.

‘You, boy! Control that BLOODY DOG! Whip it or I’ll ruddy whip you!’ Devlin gave the young lad, the ‘whipper-in’, a stare that backed up his threat.

The lad went to work, whip in hand, with a nervous enthusiasm. He transferred his master’s malice to the dogs. The boy kept one eye on the beasts that yelped and jumped to escape the lash and the other on his master, half expecting to feel his boot. It would not be the first time. Blows by the boot, fists, whip, hot water, or any other object or substance Devlin Mallard could lay hands on, to inflict punishment on the lad, were common. That was just the way it was.

Devlin flipped open the cover of his silver hunter-case pocket watch. It was almost time to get this hunt under way, five minutes to two in the afternoon.

Now there’s a veneer of respectability about most in society that grants a modicum of self-control. If circumstances, or other people, push the right buttons, that veneer may disappear, leaving only behaviour driven by instinct, emotion and desire. Devlin had no such veneer or control. He had a sense of wicked humour, punctuated and laced with evil intent towards others. He did as he pleased. A man short on compassion, understanding, cooperation, or any other redeeming quality. In a word, he was plain nasty. The sort of man who, if he were not constrained by the mere detail of the law, would kick to death the paper boy for delivering a slightly soiled or creased newspaper.

In his younger days, he was fit and shapely, kept trim by running alongside the hounds, breaking horses and mucking out. But a promotion to Master of Hounds for the Cockington Estate, after the untimely death of his predecessor to flu, complicated by a well-placed pillow to the face, had elevated Devlin in status. Now, he was the Master, in the employ of Lord Abingdon. Since then, the trappings of position, with a middle-aged diet of excess port, beer and meat had left him with a paunch. But he was still not unattractive. He was a tall man with dark wavy hair and an over-groomed handlebar moustache. With cold, steel-blue eyes used to good effect, he was intimidating. In short, he was the Alpha Male in this village, the leader of the pack, and he wanted everyone to know it.

He loved it – the hunt! He had a thirst. A thirst for the kill. For blood. That was Devlin Mallard’s calling in life … and death.

But his path would lead him to darker employment. He had yet to reach his potential for depravity. He was a psychopathic killer in the making. Difficult to live with at the best of times, he was feared by all who knew him and none more so than his long-suffering wife, Miriam. It was 1929 and the term ‘domestic violence’ had yet to be coined. Not that it mattered to Devlin; the right to beat one’s wife was still enshrined within the perceived ‘law of property’. Often, when he had finished hunt business or sated himself at the inn, he would stagger home to Mead Cottage, and abuse her before passing out drunk. After all, she was his. His property to do with as he pleased.

The clock struck two on this cold, crisp, January afternoon. There was not a cloud in the sky and the hunt had assembled outside the Drum Inn. The inn, Devlin’s second home, his first being the kennels, with his dogs, a short walk through the village.

Horsemen sipped port at the steps to the inn, surrounded by servants and dogs. They were there for a posthumous and ceremonial photograph, organised by Lord Abingdon. Vicky, the barmaid at the inn, served and mingled amongst the crowd.

She had not gone unnoticed. Devlin had been lusting after her for a while now. He watched her from the steps, as she moved elegantly through the crowd, tray in hand. A light gust of wind caught her long, silky, ash blonde hair just right and for a moment he could see veiled sunlight through her locks. Devlin smiled. He liked what he saw – an hourglass-shaped, busty figure, squeezed into a tight-fitting dress with a white petticoat blouse. Her pale skin, soft and smooth, poured over features that were pleasing to the eye – Devlin’s eye.

Vicky glided over to him, offering up her delights, a tray laden with port.

‘Drink, Mr Devlin?’ she smiled, her full rosy lips complementing the sparkle of her large, dark eyes.

Devlin was captivated by her beauty. He had hardly heard her words, such was his distraction and, for a moment, they were alone in his universe. He took a silver goblet from her hand and raised it to his mouth. His eyes never left hers as he drank the fluid down. Then, he lowered the cup and wiped a trickle from his chin, with the back of his hand.

‘I’ll be in tonight – for more.’ He smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. ‘I trust you’ll be in to keep my tankard topped up?’ His tone was unusually soft.

‘Of course, sir.’ She smiled, embarrassed, as she took the cup and stepped away before turning into the crowd.

Devlin’s eyes shamelessly followed her shapely buttocks as she moved away and slipped into the sea of red jackets. He took a moment to ponder his chances with her, pretty slim he reckoned. Then, his attention was drawn by a voice calling out above the background noise. It was the photographer, dressed in black, complete with top hat and black cloth blanket.

‘Can … can we all start to gather in, please!’ The photographer, his assistant at his side, began to fuss, signalling all the members of the hunt to fall in before his tripod. But the crowd wasn’t listening.

‘Photograph!’ Devlin boomed.

The ‘Whippers-in’ immediately answered his call and began to push the pack together. The huntsmen, astride their horses, in turn, closed ranks into the intended frame. Men who had been engaged in relaxed social conversation now posed upright and wooden, ready to be photographed. There was not a single smile amongst the lot. The photograph was an event and novelty in itself, particularly in this part of the world. Accordingly, a hush settled over the members of the hunt, watching with interest, as the photographer readied his equipment.

Lord Abingdon, an older gentleman dressed to the nines in his hunting threads, sat astride his steed at the heart of the crowd. His long, white handlebar moustache had been especially cut and groomed for the occasion. The hounds yelped and nuzzled each other around him.

Devlin, on foot and minus his jacket, held the reins of his chestnut-coloured mare. His coat – he didn’t have his coat!

‘Wait!’ he shouted.

The photographer came out from under his black cloth blanket.

Devlin, frustrated, searched the crowd for his wife, Miriam. She should have been at his side with his jacket and not wandering off playing silly buggers. He spotted her sitting over by the Mill House and shouted at her.

‘Woman! Where’s my bloody coat?’

Miriam sat bolt upright at the sound of his bark. She was by the waterwheel with their sons, Nicholas and Stuart, his jacket neatly folded in her hands. Devlin would not have noticed but she looked a picture bathed in winter sunshine. She could hold a candle to any woman, even the barmaid at the inn. Twenty-four years of age with long dark auburn hair and slender form, a proud addition to any man’s arm, the perfect homemaker – the perfect partner. Only the years alongside this man, Devlin Mallard, had taken its toll on her nerves and self-esteem.

‘Woman!’ he yelled again.

His sudden snap had yanked her from her daydream. Her flinch caused the jacket to fall upon muddied ground at her feet.

No … Oh no!

She quickly gathered it up and checked it for stains. With her breathing accelerated, sickness filled her stomach. She glanced in her husband’s direction. Had he seen?

Devlin’s facial expression said it all. He had seen.

‘MIRIAM!’ he scowled. ‘Bloody woman.’

Others in the crowd noticed. Heads turned, particularly the womenfolk. This was a small village and secrets were hard to keep. Everyone knew his temper and many had suffered it at one time or other.

Miriam came running with the boys, carrying the scarlet jacket.

‘Give it here!’ Devlin snatched it from her.

He pulled the fabric of the jacket taut, exposing the weave to the light. His eyes squinted. This was not satisfactory. His face entertained a disapproving expression that deepened, as if to store up further anger. That anger could be unleashed now, or when the mood took him. He ground his teeth. There was a problem – a blemish to the right cuff. This would not do. This would not do at all.

He looked at her – and his stare spoke volumes.

‘I will deal with you later.’

Miriam gulped. She feared those words above all others. ‘Deal’, from the Devlin Mallard Thesaurus of Wife Abuse, meant ‘beat’ – if she was lucky.

She could not make eye contact. That would only further enrage him. He would take it as a challenge to his twisted authority – his overwhelming ability to control her and strike fear when it best suited. ‘Control’ was another good word. That was the core value that defined and underpinned their marriage: Devlin’s control over his wife – his property. Control of her movements, people she could see, or with whom she could speak, even down to the food she ate. When he was not at home, she was forbidden even access to the pantry, except to cook for him, so that he could arrive home to a hot meal.

Miriam looked to the floor, waiting to be dismissed, or for him to turn and walk away. He did neither. Devlin had not finished yet.

Her primary role in life was to look after his needs. One of these right now, this instant, was to have his hunting attire cleaned, pressed and presented to him, ready to wear. Today, a photographic record would be made of the hunt, at considerable expense, and his coat was in less than perfect order. Devlin gritted his teeth. She would get a beating for this. By God, he would not spare the rod.

Miriam had been with him long enough to know that this was a beating offence. To be honest – most things were. Spilt tea … beating. Slightly cold dinner … beating. For causing excessive noise in the house, the two boys would get beaten, then she would get it for not keeping them quiet. Particularly if he had been sitting in his leather chair reading the Hunting Times. That paper not delivered on time by the newspaper boy? Beating for the boy and her. Devlin was a bastard! No, maybe that’s a harsh thing to say. He had a sensitive and caring side, too. He didn’t like to punch her in the face, as he found facial bruising and missing teeth a most disagreeable quality in a wife! Stomach blows were his preferred medicine – the bruises would be concealed by the petticoat, you see.

Things had been worse when she was pregnant with the boys. He would delight in threatening to punch and kick her to the womb, playing on her maternal instincts and fears for her unborn child. It was a miracle she had managed to carry both Nicholas and Stuart. She had perhaps done them no favour in bearing them to such a father – although their conception had hardly been consensual.

‘Take your places, please,’ repeated the photographer.

Devlin donned his jacket and dismissed her with a flick of his head. He led his horse towards the centre of the hunt.

‘Gentlemen, look this way, please!’ The photographer beckoned.

Devlin puffed his chest out and placed himself in the foreground of the composition, having pushed others aside. He held the bridle to his chestnut steed, surrounded by his beloved hounds and fellow riders. Then, he stared right into the lens of the camera, intent on imparting his importance to whoever would view this photograph in the future.

The photographer draped his black cloth blanket over his head as the assistant held aloft the flash. The crowd collectively froze in a proper and austere posture. The lens cap was removed and the magnesium flash triggered. Poof! Smoke rose above the photographer’s head as the scene was imprinted upon the film plate. A collective and amazed ‘whoo’ rose from the crowd, while the hounds barked and yelped.

Devlin was keen to get a photograph for his study and had already had words with the photographer. He’d show it proudly to all he entertained and might even have a second made and placed above the bar at the inn.

But for now – the hunt. He placed a foot in a stirrup and in a single motion swung himself round and up onto his steed. The horse’s muscles flexed and rippled in the sunlight. He gestured to the lad to release the lead hound. Nodding to key huntsmen, they responded with the sound of their cornets, whipping the dogs into a further frenzy of yelps and barks. Then they began to make their way down on to Cockington Lane, the rush of adrenaline flowing freely. The dogs were eager to latch on to a fox, chase it down, and rip it limb from limb.

‘Yah!’ Devlin, astride his steed, kicked his heals into her girth. The hunt was on!

They had made their way up the valley and out of Cockington, picking up a vixen’s scent. The hunt travelled through rolling green Devon countryside all the way to Marldon. Across fields and woods, through valleys and winding brooks, the horses’ hooves dug deep into the red, clay soil.

But now they’d had their fill. The horses were tired, their collars dripping white with salt sweat. The fox had been cornered by the hounds in a shallow hole, and the terriers had flushed it out into their jaws. Now, with their white muzzles stained red with blood, the dogs made their way back up the lane to the Drum Inn.

Exhausted from the ride, the huntsmen were hot and had built up a thirst for ale, wine and porter. Devlin, at the head in the dying light of the winter sun, dismounted. He handed his reins to the stable lad, and led the procession into the inn, flinging open the door before him.

‘Ale!’ he barked, hanging his jacket on the hook by the door. His armpits were soaked in sweat, his cuffs and collar stained a grubby brown.

Vicky the barmaid went to work. She and the landlord were quickly overrun with thirsty drinkers. Devlin, leading the rabble, was first to be served. She held his silver tankard at the ready, glistening clean and polished with her own spit.

‘The usual?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I’ve got a thirst that ale alone can’t quench.’ He winked, leaning on the bar, foot up on the kicker, ‘But I’ll start with the usual.’

Vicky, accustomed to his advances and humour, turned to fill the tankard, selectively ignoring his comment.

His eyes followed her to the pump. Her white petticoat blouse, worn off the shoulder, displayed her ample bosom and completed the picture – the pulling of the perfect pint. Devlin smiled in contentment. This was a good day – which was now complete. Well, almost.

The clock advanced and intoxicating liquor flowed. Buoyed and exhilarated by the hunt, Devlin buzzed. Ale had stripped away any remaining inhibitions. Now, supping their pints in front of a fire, riding boots cast aside, the huntsmen exchanged their tall stories of the day: two-foot high clipped hedges had been jumped by horses at ten feet, over razor-sharp hawthorn. Some had leapt great gushing rivers that had actually been but a puddle. The stories grew grander with every pint guzzled. Dartmoor ponies had been galloped at speeds that would have won the Grand National, and a beast of a fox, able to decimate entire flocks, had been slain. The hunt had been glorious.

Now, with the hour late, as each had drunk their fill the bar emptied one by one. The landlord retired upstairs leaving Vicky to close up and wipe down the counters. Outside, it was pitch black, and in the bar the grandfather clock chimed eleven.

Devlin looked at his silver pocket watch. He had lost track of how many pints he’d downed, and of the hours he had passed, in the company of his drinking partners. But he was not drunk, for he had drunk himself sober. Now, in the subdued light of the bar, he sat alone – alone with Vicky.

The last of the candles flickered in a draught. It managed to cling to light, while the others had long since burned down and extinguished. The room was now illuminated, for the most part, by the warm glow of the fire. Shadows danced around the walls pushed on by its licking flame.

Devlin looked into his tankard and swirled the liquid around. Notions swirled in his mind: dark ideas. He looked up, snapped from his thoughts by the sound of two clashing tankards. Vicky, behind the bar, was clearing away the dirty glasses and plates. He looked on, intoxicated by her youth and lithe body, as she went about her work.

Devlin Mallard knocked his head back and poured the remaining ale down his gullet.

‘Another!’ he held out his tankard and upturned it, gesturing for her to oblige him with a refill. A trickle of ale ran from his vessel splashing the table.

Vicky looked at the clock. The hour was late.

‘Come on! One for the road.’

She came out from behind the bar, rag in hand, and wiped the spill. With her chest inadvertently close to his face, she passed a cloth over the table. Devlin inhaled her scent as she nervously collected up the tankard.

Master Devlin had an intensity that made her uneasy, with his long stares and over-familiar remarks. It was fine when others were there, but this was the first time she had found herself alone with him. She had heard stories: stories of his advances to other women – advances that had been improper. It was not pleasant to be alone with him at this hour – it wasn’t right. She moved quickly away.

Devlin studied her as she went over to the bar to draw him some fresh ale. She pulled the handle to her chest but drew only froth and air. She tried again – nothing. The barrel was empty.

Secretly, she was pleased. Now maybe he would go and she could lock the door behind him.

‘It’s empty, sir,’ she said in her softly spoken and slightly nervous young voice. ‘I’m sorry. There’ll be more tomorrow.’

But Devlin was having none of it.

‘I’m thirsty now – not tomorrow.’ He was used to getting what he wanted. He’d ordered a pint and a pint he would get!

Vicky had neither the confidence nor the courage to argue with him. Besides, it was easier to give him his last drink and then, perhaps, he would go.

‘I’ll have to go down and change the barrel.’

Devlin dipped his head in acknowledgement. He checked his silver pocket watch for the time and then returned it to his breast pocket.

‘Good girl. Don’t keep me waiting too long.’ He grinned. It was a look that was not comforting, friendly or encouraging. It was alarming.

Vicky collected the last candle that flickered in the bar, and turned for the cellar. The shadows shifted and followed.

Devlin’s eyes and thoughts followed her too. Then, it happened. The moment that changed everything. The moment that in the final analysis would send Devlin Mallard hurtling towards his destiny. A notion popped into his mind. And it was not a good one. His expression subtly shifted. He moistened his lips with his tongue, as he left his seat and boots to join her.

‘Let me hold the candle so you can see,’ he said matter-of-factly, his tone entirely innocent and virtuous. A halo would not have looked out of place above his head.

Vicky smiled nervously. Despite her reservations, she passed him the candle and led the way down.

Behind, he followed into the wine cellar, intent on having his way with her. With each step they descended into the darkness, his gaze studied the line of her pale neck in the soft light. He held the candle closer to savour every detail of her beauty. The way in which she wore her hair up from her neck pleased him. It urged him to travel further down this decisive route into the darkness.

At the cellar landing, the candlelight flickered, creating an air of intimacy. They were alone. They were isolated. Behind them the cellar door creaked and swung shut, pushed to by a draught.

Vicky anxiously looked back up towards the door. Her path was blocked.

‘It’s just the wind.’ Devlin smiled, exposing his yellow teeth.

She turned away and moved over to the barrels. Devlin followed. He set the candle down onto a shelf above the pumps and moved in closer to her back. She could feel his breath from behind, brushing against her neck and hair.

Vicky’s pulse quickened. He was close. Too close, in a way that was improper. But she said nothing, hoping she had mistaken his actions. If she spoke now perhaps he would take it the wrong way. It may trigger a reaction. No, she would quickly change the barrel, then they would go up – and everything would be fine.

A hand covered her mouth. The barmaid’s heart stopped, her eyes bulged. The hand smelt of ale and tobacco – it smothered her.

‘Sshhhh, my sweet thing. I know you want it.’

His breath was warm and alcoholic. She couldn’t escape it. With his mouth close to her right ear, she could feel his cheek pressed to her earlobe. His smell grew stronger, it was overpowering.

Any lingering doubt as to his intent was now dispelled, as she struggled to scream. But there was no breath to draw, through his clamped fingers. Vicky’s body tensed in sheer fear, like an animal caught in the coils of a snake. She had to get away. She struggled but he clamped down harder, pulling her to him in a violent jerk.

‘Come here!’ His teeth were now gritted tight with aggression. ‘You’ve been thinking the same thing. Don’t deny it!’

Vicky’s eyes were almost bursting. With her back pressed firmly to his chest, she was unable to see his face. If she had, she would have seen his yellow teeth and furrowed brow, the outward indicators of his overwhelming intention to dominate her.

Injure her or not, it mattered little to him. He would have his way. He would not have her night after night standing at the bar enticing him, without allowing the collection of his prize. Who did she think she was? No one made a fool out of Devlin Mallard!

He spun her round so that she faced him. Their eyes met, and she looked into his cold, blue stare.

If Vicky had been in any prior doubt as to his intent, she now had a moment of absolute clarity. There was no mistaking what the outcome would be, if she could not escape. His eyes were murderous – without mercy.

She began to fight with every ounce she could muster, but she was no match for him. He flung her to the dry dirt floor, raising dust as she hit home. Winded, she struggled to draw breath, sucking in the dusty stale air of the cellar floor. He followed her down.

Devlin sat astride, his full weight pinning her to the ground.

‘Don’t struggle, my dear, you might bruise,’ his voice was insanely in control.

She didn’t listen. Pity.

Instead, she clawed at his shirt with her one free hand. Her attempts at creaming were relentless. Perhaps the landlord would hear her, or if she struggled and fought hard enough, Devlin would give up.

He did not. His face was a focused snarl, increasing his grip tighter and tighter.

‘Shut up!’ He pressed his hand to her mouth again, stifling and muting her.

With her free hand, she swiped and struck his chest. She clawed at the fabric of his shirt, tearing it. His silver pocket watch fell from his breast pocket, dropping unnoticed to floor. She writhed and rolled over onto it.

Devlin’s father had given him that watch. He was never without it. A large, silver pocket watch on a chain. It was one of the few things he had received from his father. That, and regular beatings, which never did him any harm!

But Devlin was too focused on his quarry to notice the watch was lost. It now lay on the dirt floor beneath her. With bared teeth his muscles went into overdrive, overpowering her like a rag doll. His adrenaline flowed freely. He had become an animal.

With one hand to her throat, the other squeezed, crushed, and pinned her right palm to the dirt. His weight was over her, as his knee thrust into her stomach. She could not move. A rib cracked from the force, piercing her lung. Frantic, he released her hand and tore the blouse, exposing her corset. It was tightly bound – an over-engineered affair.

‘What the …?’

He couldn’t believe it. Perhaps a knife to cut it off, he thought. But he had no knife with him.

Frustrated, Devlin changed tack, grabbing a handful of material around her pelvis. He ripped it clear. Then, like a man possessed, he yanked down his breeches. As she writhed and bucked beneath him, fighting for her life, he went to work.

Vicky didn’t give up. She struggled, clawing at the hand pressed to her mouth. But its grip was too tight. Like a large sink plunger, it formed an almost air-tight seal to her lips and nose. Life began to slip from her as short bursts of compressed breath were squeezed through his fingers.

‘Be still,’ he whispered in an insanely gentle yet merciless tone.

She pulled frantically, but could not dislodge his hand. Her nails dug into it, grazing and drawing blood. Then the barmaid struck upwards towards his face, finding the neck area. But ale and adrenaline dulled any pain he might have felt.

‘You ungrateful little tart!’

Still his hand pushed down over her face. Each failed attempt to draw breath sucked the skin in closer, creating an ever-tighter seal of her fate.

They say it takes twenty-six seconds of suffocation before a person slips into unconsciousness. For Vicky, it seemed like twenty-six hours. Her mind worked feverishly living in milliseconds the reality of impending doom. Everything slowed for her … she knew what was coming – what her fate was to be. It would end here on this cellar floor, finished by him. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She had her own dreams, her own aspirations. She had hoped to travel to Exeter this coming summer to gain domestic employment, perhaps within one of the rich households, close to the cathedral, owned by a banker or a lawyer. Maybe even find a suitor, and fall in love.

As she looked up into those cold, steel-blue eyes, her dreams slipped away. Those eyes, they had an intense focus, like a skilled tradesman or blacksmith, working away on a difficult and challenging piece of work, completely engrossed in creating something to be proud of – a masterpiece.

Vicky slipped out of consciousness, her peripheral vision blurring a deep red, funnelling up towards those eyes. She could no longer see the detail of his skin, as the shadows began to draw in – closer and closer.

The maid’s eyes bulged, capillaries ruptured. Her vision faded to monochrome then black. She was in the Darkness. Yet she could still hear his accelerated breath, as he violated her enthusiastically.

Devlin had built up quite a sweat and thirst. Shame he had not let her change the barrel first! Now his arms ached with lactic acid, as he looked down at the body beneath him.

Limp, empty of spirit and soul, she was dead. Lifeless, staring into oblivion without focal point or horizon, her perspective could no longer be seen through earthly eyes, but instead, from elsewhere in the room.

Behind her killer – behind Devlin Mallard – a new shadow stirred and shifted. Free of its vessel of flesh and bone, it was able to move and dance on the light. Devlin did not notice or perceive it. Then, that new presence, the consciousness that could see him and the corpse at his feet, left for the Darkness. She was gone.

Devlin was alone in the cellar.

‘Now what?’ he said to himself.

His impromptu pre-event planning had stopped short at stage one: have sex. He clearly had not thought this far ahead. Devlin looked at the corpse.

Hmm … what to do?

He needed to sort this mess out – and quickly. He could not allow the landlord to discover her body here. Questions would be asked.

Chop her up and feed her to the dogs? That ought to do it. But still, a bit messy. A lot of effort, he thought. ‘Bloody women!’ he hissed and cursed her.

He looked down at himself. His shirt and breeches were ruined too, covered in the red clay dirt from the cellar floor. In a way, he was angry with himself for being so careless. But then again, it was really her fault for enticing him.

‘And did I make a fuss?!’ His loose grip on reality, right and wrong, had finally collapsed. He kicked the body for being so inconsiderate – it rocked like a sack of spuds; beneath it, the watch, unnoticed.

‘Bitch!’

He gave her another kick for good measure and then pulled up his pants.

Just leave her here? He contemplated.

No, he had to move the body. The light of the candle flickered, the wax was burning down. There wasn’t much time; he would soon be plunged into darkness.

Devlin froze. There was a sound. Above him floorboards flexed and creaked as someone moved about in the bar. He held his breath and looked up. Cracks of new light between the floorboards shifted and disappeared, as they crossed the room with a lantern.

Devlin licked his fingertips, and snuffed his candle out, plunging himself into darkness. He waited in silence and listened.

‘Vicky?’ It was the landlord’s voice, distant and muffled. There was the rattle of a door – the main entrance to the bar.

‘Bloody girl! She’s left the door unloc