Sacrifice (Sulham Close Part 1) Read online

  Sacrifice

  By

  Lisa C Hinsley

  First published in 2014 by Lisa C Hinsley

  Copyright © Lisa C Hinsley All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Jeffrey Kosh. For more information visit

  http://jeffreykosh.wix.com/jeffreykoshgraphics

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  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 is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Lisa C Hinsley

  Novels:

  That Elusive Cure

  Plague

  The Ultimate Choice

  My Demon

  Coombe’s Wood

  Short stories:

  A Peculiar Collection

  For Mike.

  Pete rubs his hands together and waits for midnight. Neil tightens the noose around his neck and jumps from a stool. Kellie collapses to her knees, making the sign of the cross, even though God no longer listens. Sean and Amelia hold each other and wait for the screams. Harold pins Eloise to the kitchen floor as she shrieks her warnings. And so another August passes.

  The residents of Sulham Close are cursed. Each year they must provide a sacrifice or suffer the wrath of a goblin-like creature called the ellyllon. Pete finds the victims, vagrants, junkies. People no one will miss.

  He lures homeless Mark to Sulham Close with promises of getting him off drugs and giving him an education, installs him in the sacrifice cottage and leaves him to his fate. But Mark has a secret, a girlfriend Pete didn’t see. Heavily pregnant Louisa arrives late in the evening. Unsure whether to believe Pete or clear the house out of valuables, they decide to go exploring. They find a noose and then a man in a tub full of blood, one hand hanging by a sliver of skin at the wrist.

  Nothing is worth getting caught up in a murder, so the pair make a run for it, but the gates are locked and there’s no way out of the close. Time has nearly run out. There are noises coming from a cupboard in the cottage and as midnight arrives, the handle turns from the inside…

  Sacrifice

  Chapter 1

  August 31st

  On the day he was kidnapped, Mark started out by rolling a cigarette.

  Mark had first noticed the lad three days earlier while minding his own business and playing Stairway to Heaven, carefully chosen for cash-strapped mums. The women flooded Broad Street dragging their kids in and out of shops. Mark strummed for their pity, but money was thin. Everyone was moaning about the credit crunch. They should try sleeping on the street, he thought. He stretched his back, and not for the first time wondered if he was getting too old for this.

  The over-wide grin was what first made Mark notice him. The lad wore this great smirk – like a painted on caricature of happiness. Each time he appeared, he wore the same khaki shorts teamed with hiking boots and a different t-shirt. Was he planning on a ramble next? Nah, he was too young for that. He’d be more of a scout leader type.

  On Thursday, he’d worn a FCUK shirt. His hair had a tousled yet styled look. The type of color that should have been brown but too much time outside had bleached the tips dirty blonde. Women checked him out as they passed. But the lad’s gaze was stuck on Mark and his guitar playing. Why had he come back to watch for three days straight? Freak.

  Mark dragged on his cigarette, idly strumming the strings and nodding at people as they passed by. He’d had a fairly good day and pocketed over fifteen pounds, but he needed £30 to catch a night at the bed and breakfast for him and his girl, Louisa. He plucked at the strings, lost in his thoughts. Somehow he needed to figure out how to take care of her better, get her into the warm. But another night on the streets loomed as the shoppers thinned. At least he had enough coins for a bag of reduced pasties from Sainsbury’s before they closed, maybe some sausage rolls if they had some left, and definitely a new tin of Golden Virginia and a bottle of Strongbow.

  The lad glanced at his watch. Mark didn’t need one. After many years living rough, he told the time by the sun and shadows. Besides, the streets were emptying as four o’clock drew near. Bollocks to Sunday shop hours. His watcher stretched, and straightened from the slouched back, knees spread, position he’d maintained all day. Good. The lad was going to leave. Bloody freaky stalker boy, he thought. Good riddance.

  But then the unexpected happened – the lad stood up, shoved his hands deep in his pockets, and strolled across the cobbles towards Mark.

  “Hi,” he said and stopped by the open guitar case.

  “Wotcha.” Mark squinted up at him.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Sure thing, mate.” Mark took another drag on his rollup.

  “Do you like living on the street?” The lad squatted so they were on the same level and indicated at the words scrawled on the piece of cardboard beside the guitar case. It read, ‘Please help, homeless.’

  “Course I bloody don’t. What kind of fucked up question is that?” Mark glanced up and down the street. Maybe he’d bought some buddies along for a game of abuse the homeless guy. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  “You’re absolutely right. I’m so sorry. I haven’t done this before.” His face flushed. “Mind if I sit down?”

  Mark sucked on his rollup. “Suppose.”

  “Cheers.” The lad sat cross-legged on the pavement and gazed up at the passing people. “The street looks different from down here.”

  “You get used to the angle.”

  “I’m Pete Jones.” The lad extended a hand. Mark stared for a moment, at the clean manicured nails and soft skin, then at the lad. “Don’t worry. Sorry. I’m a bit nervous.” Pete lowered his arm with a couple of jerky movements, as if he still half-expected Mark to reach out.

  Mark stayed silent. This guy was a loon.

  “My mother used to do the talking. But she died and now I have to.” Pete locked his arms around his knees and stared at the ground. Then the inane grin returned.

  Mark raised his eyebrows, pinched the last of the cigarette between his lips and inhaled. He flicked it into the streets just as the end singed his fingertips.

  “She selected someone. One person – to help. Each year. Get them clean.” Pete tapped a silent drumbeat on his knees. “She cured people.”

  “Why?” Mark picked up his guitar and placed it in its case, the coins jingling in the bottom.

  Pete extended one arm, and held it out in front of Mark. “I was a junky. See the marks?”

  Mark nodded. Dark grey scars dotted the skin.

  “Mum cured me.” Pete withdrew his arm.

  “What’s the cure?” Mark popped open his tin and shook the last meagre scraps of tobacco into the corner.

  “You making another?”

  “Why? Want one?”

  “Cheers,” Pete said. “The cure? Good old fashioned cold turkey, a counselor and eventually, you’ll get enrolled in college.”

  “Me?” Mark passed the first rollup to Pete.

  “Yes, you. I’ve picked you.” Pete grinned.

  “Ha. That’s a funny one, mate. How much is this going to cost me?” Mark sealed the rollup, flicking his lighter for Pete before lighting his own. “I haven’t
got any real money, just a handful of coins to my name.” He gave his guitar case a gentle shake. Maybe he could make something out of this. The boy didn’t look as if he was rolling in money, but he didn’t look exactly homeless, either. He’d keep the talk going.

  “Nothing, and you get to live in a cottage for as long as your rehabilitation takes.”

  “Nothing’s free.” He looked at Pete with narrowed eyes. “Listen, who exactly is running this show, anyway?”

  “We are, my twin brother Neil and me.”

  “Just you and your brother?”

  Pete dragged on his rollup. “We get help from the neighbors. They’ve been supportive of the project since Mum died.”

  “That’s very kind of them.”

  “Did you know a guy called Billy? Has dark brown hair and a hooked nose. Claimed to be Italian, but we knew he wasn’t.”

  “Billy? Yeah. Disappeared last year. I figured he’d OD’d on something.”

  “Nope. We got him clean. He’s got his own flat now, studying part-time to be a chippy, and we got him an apprenticeship with a local builder. Look, I’ll show you the photo he sent me.” Pete took a handful of items from his pocket and began shuffling through them.

  Mark gaped as he caught sight of the wallet. It was bursting with bank notes. There was more money stuffed inside than Mark had ever seen in one place.

  “I can’t seem to find it…” Pete checked the wallet, flipping through the notes. “Sorry, must have left it at home.”

  He grinned at Mark and shoved his wallet back in his pocket. Mark followed its journey with his eyes. If this geezer had that much money on him, then what might he keep at home? His thoughts wandered back to Louisa. Even a part of that bundle would keep them warm for a few months. With her being the way she was, that might be long enough for the council to house them properly… Mark gave the lad a smile and waited for him to speak.

  “Anyway, we cured Billy.”

  “How come he never came by and said?”

  “That’s the deal. You have to sever all contact with everyone you know. This is a fresh start. A new life. Your old ways end today.”

  The lad’s smirk returned.

  “I’m not so sure…” He thinks life bloody changes? What a load of rubbish. Mark leaned back. The street was emptying. Four had come and gone, and he’d probably lost a few quid because of this joker. Sainsbury’s would be closed now. His stomach rumbled. Shit and fuck.

  “We will fix you.”

  Mark stood and picked up the old blanket he’d been sitting on. “Sorry, mate. This all sounds a bit too religious cult for me.” He folded the blanket and tied it to the bottom of his rucksack.

  “Do you want to die a junkie?” Pete stood up to face Mark. “Is this what you want for your life?”

  Mark swayed a little. He was hungry. And thirsty. He could have had a bottle of Strongbow by now, pay Cliff a visit and score some green to take the edge off the shakes. “I’m not a junkie. I’m a drunk.”

  “The difference is…?”

  “I don’t touch the strong shit,” Mark said then added, “Maybe a little dope now and then, but that’s all.”

  Pete laughed. “Come back with me, sleep on my offer. We’re not bad or strange. We want to help people, the way my mum did. So you’re not a proper ‘junkie’. You still need drying out.” Pete leaned in closer. “You can call Billy. He’ll tell you everything about us, the detox, even the courses we’ll be putting you on.”

  “Yeah?” He’d sleep in a warm bed, perhaps after a long bath. And he’d have a hot dinner. His mouth watered. “Just one night, all right?”

  “Certainly. And afterwards, if you want to come back here, you’re free to return to your drunken ways.”

  Pete had taken on the look of a confident salesman. There must be a catch. There’s always a catch.

  Mark thought of Louisa. What would she do without him? Hopefully he could get a message to her, and Cliff would put her up for the night. She’d want him to take this opportunity, but not for the reasons he was thinking of. She’d insist he go. He supposed he owed it to her. “Can I let one person know where I’m going?”

  “Normally we don’t allow that. That’s one of the things my mum insisted on.” Pete rubbed at his chin, scratching at non-existent stubble. “But I could make an exception for you. I like you.”

  “One night…?” Mark peered over Pete’s shoulder. At the entrance to Sainsbury’s, a young woman with a screaming toddler in a pram was shouting at a security man.

  “I just want milk for the baby!”

  Pete tilted his head. “My car’s this way.”

  They climbed up the concrete stairs that led to the car park, entering on the second floor. Pete strode purposefully to a large, black BMW. Reflective tint darkened the windows to charcoal grey. Like politicians and gangsters drove. Mark could almost imagine the glass being bulletproof. Pete held out his keys and pressed a button. The car unlocked and blinked its lights. He hopped in and slammed the door, and the car’s engine started with a roar. Pete must have waited all of half a second before triggering the motor on the passenger window. The glass buzzed down, and Mark leaned over and peered inside. Pete had his seat angled way back so he needed to extend his arms all the way to curl his fingers around the top of the leather steering wheel.

  “You coming?”

  “I guess.”

  “Dump your gear on the backseat.” The passenger window slid closed.

  Mark glanced about the car park, still half-expecting to get jumped by Pete’s mates. The horn blasted, echoing round the concrete walls. Mark started at the sound, and without thinking yanked open the rear door. He un-shouldered his rucksack and carefully placed it and his guitar case on the seat.

  “Don’t worry about the upholstery. Leather’s supposed to get scuffed. “Looks better that way.” Pete revved the engine.

  “Thanks.” Mark climbed in the front passenger seat. “Where we going, anyway?”

  Pete threw the car into reverse. “Sulham. Little village on the other side of Reading. You know it?”

  “Used to have a mate out that way, near Pangbourne, isn’t it?”

  “You got it. Maybe you’ll be able to meet up with him at some point. After you’ve settled in.”

  “Doesn’t your dad find all this a bit odd?” Mark asked as Pete drove out of Reading.

  “All of what?”

  “Bringing my type back to your home and all.” Mark paused. “The junkies and drunks. What does your dad make of it?”

  “He’s well past caring.”

  “Excuse me?” His stomach rolled with hunger. Soon, the hunger would turn to nausea, and he’d lose most of his first meal to the cramps. He thought of Louisa and hoped she’d managed to get somewhere warm for the night.

  “Forgive me for being obtuse. I shall explain. He’s dead. Kicked the bucket years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that. You must have been a kid or something when he passed away.”

  “Sixteen.”

  Mark stared at his driver. “But you can’t be much older now, how could it be years ago?”

  “Ha!” Pete turned the stereo on and pounded on the wheel to an Eminem track. “Feels like bloody years. The man was a tyrant. Besides, mum died not so long ago. Maybe that’s why it feels like dad’s been dead for so long.” Pete drummed the beat. “Anyway, I’m not so young. I’ll be twenty next birthday.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said. “Cursed with a young face.”

  Pete didn’t slow as he raced the car through Purley and out the other side. They were into the countryside now. The houses were sparse and fields swept down the valley to the right. Woods climbed the hill to the left. Pete threw on the indicator and at the last second jammed on the brakes and skidded into the small lane that led towards Sulham. The tires screeched on the tarmac.

  Now woods crowded both sides of the road. A brook ran along on the left. Pete slowed as he took the car over a smal
l humped bridge, and the brook moved to the right.

  The BMW bumped over a pothole, and Pete turned again, this time onto an almost invisible track. He drove along the edge of a field, and up towards a large wood that sat on the top of the hill.

  “Sulham Woods,” Pete said. The track swept away to the side, following the line of the trees. “Not far now.”

  He steered the car into the woods, veering towards an imposing red brick wall with wrought iron gates that stood out of place, stealing a chunk of the woods. As Pete accelerated through the open gates, Mark spotted glass shards cemented onto the top of the wall. They really didn’t want anyone getting in. A different thought crossed his mind accompanied by a chill– what if it was to keep people from leaving? Stop being so bloody stupid, he thought, and checked out the surroundings. Three red brick farm buildings lined the right side of a paved driveway. At the end, a tiny cottage and a large whitewashed house completed what Mark decided must be an old farmyard.

  “That’s my place,” Pete said, pointing to the end of the yard. “Sulham Farm. You’ll be in the cottage next door. It’s only got one bedroom, but the rooms are pretty big.”

  “What, all mine?” Mark stared. “But I still don’t get why you want to help me.”

  “Thank my mum. This is her legacy.” Pete pulled into a gravel driveway and stopped in front of Sulham Farm. “Shall I take all that?” He pointed to Mark’s stuff on the backseat.

  “Do you think I’ve got some something illegal hidden away?” Mark said. “If you’re worried, you’re welcome to search it.”

  “Oh no, it’s nothing like that. It’s because I’ve got a secret.” He touched the side of his nose and grinned widely. “I’d like to throw your bag away – if you don’t want it any longer, of course. And that’s because I should have mentioned something else. I guessed your size. The wardrobe’s full.”

  Mark stared at Pete. “Why would you do that?”

  “We just want to help. Honestly, you should start believing.”

  “Okay… fine. But if you don’t mind I need to get a couple of personal things out. I don’t have to get rid of the guitar, do I?”

  “Don’t have to get rid of anything you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter to me.”