‘Good to see you the other day. Often wondered where you are, what you’re doing.’ So far, so good, but Mark still intends treading carefully.
‘I’m in Bristol these days. Assistant manager for a building supplies company. You?’
‘Down in Taunton right now.’
Close by, then. ‘Working?’
‘On and off.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Casual jobs, scaffolding, labouring, whatever’s going. Sometimes round here; other times I’ve been sent to Southampton, Plymouth, wherever the work is.’
Mark cuts to the chase.
‘Didn’t get a chance to talk at the vigil. We should get together sometime, chat, catch up. Better than just talking on the phone.’ His words are casual, masking his true intent, but he can hardly blurt out the questions he needs to ask without some preamble.
A throaty laugh sounds in his ear. ‘Oh, yeah. That’ll be good. Really good.’
‘When are you available?’
‘Not working right now. I’m free pretty much anytime. Can’t do tomorrow, though.’
‘Day after?’ Mark holds his breath. Wednesday. He’ll call in sick to work again. They need to meet as soon as possible. Before Tony Jackson comes for him. Mark’s banking on Adam being equally curious about the two of them hooking up again.
‘Meet you where it happened. Moretonhampstead. Twelve o’clock.’
Mark’s instinct is to say no. Both of them there, where they’re expressly banned from going - it’s a bad idea, he thinks. Far better to find somewhere neutral, anonymous, discreet. Then he reconsiders. Adam, back where he killed Abby Morgan - if anything is going to reveal his true nature, it’ll be standing on the spot where he battered and stabbed her. If he’s the same cruel son of a bitch, he won’t be able to help showing it. If - a big if - he’s changed for the better, the significance of the place will flush it out in the open. Besides, meeting up on Wednesday is exactly what he had in mind anyway. Best not to risk pissing Adam off by quibbling about the venue. Even after fourteen years, he still feels unable to defy him.
‘OK.’ Details arranged, he’s keen to end the call. ‘I’ll see you Wednesday, Adam.’
‘Carl.’ Another laugh. ‘New name, new identity and all that. Well, you know the drill. What name are you going by these days? Always thought Joshua sounded the sort of name a queer would have. Not turned out a shirt-lifter, have you? I hate faggots.’
‘Mark. Mark Slater.’ He chooses to ignore the homophobic comments. They don’t surprise him, though.
‘See you Wednesday, Mark Slater. Twelve o’clock. Don’t be late.’ The line goes dead. Typical of Adam, thinks Mark. Always needing to control, to be the one who sets the agenda. Some things don’t change.
Two days later, Mark’s back in Moretonhampstead. At the scene of Abby Morgan’s death, where he’s waiting for Adam Campbell. A hint of drizzle hangs in the air. Wind that bites through his clothing gusts across the field. He hugs his arms across his chest to keep out the cold, whilst glancing at his watch. Despite telling Mark to be on time, the other man’s already ten minutes late. Of course, he’s coming over from Taunton; there might be heavy traffic or something, but somehow Mark doubts it. It’s all part of Adam’s need for control again. Keep Mark waiting, put him on the defensive, get him off-balance.
When Mark remembers the anti-gay remarks of the night before, the scornful, mocking tone in which they were delivered, he’s not hopeful anything’s changed with Adam. If he’s still the same arrogant, vicious individual he’s always been, Mark thinks, he’ll end their reunion early, head back to whatever awaits him in Bristol, and delete Adam’s number from his phone. No way does he want to be under the other man’s control ever again. He’s here for answers, not to rekindle their unbalanced and dangerous connection.
Mark stamps his feet, blowing on his fingers to keep warm as he waits. He turns around, facing the lane leading from the town, and a jolt runs through him as he spots Adam walking towards him. At last, although he’s now fifteen minutes late.
Adam strides up to him, a grin on his face.
‘Hello, mate. Long time no see.’ He hooks his thumbs into the belt threaded through his jeans, legs apart. The classic male intimidation posture, stating:
I’m higher up the ranks than you are, and don’t you forget it.
So blatant that Mark almost laughs, before he remembers such tactics where Adam’s concerned are unwise. Very. The effect of eyeballing the man properly, up close and personal, for the first time in fourteen years is electric. Adam’s every bit as intimidating now as he’s ever been, due to the sheer size of the man. Not just height-wise, although he’s easily six feet four. Rather, it’s the tree trunk neck, the beefy arms, the barrel chest. Coupled with the leader of the pack stance, it’s a powerful combination that packs a punch of apprehension into Mark’s gut.
He reminds himself the fact Adam’s physically imposing doesn’t mean he’s still a killer at heart. He’ll give the other man the benefit of the doubt, at least for now.
Mark finds his mouth has gone dry. ‘Hi, Adam,’ he manages.
‘Good to catch up, Joshua.’
‘Mark. New identity, remember. Fresh start and all that.’
Adam’s mouth twitches into a sneer. ‘Fuck that. You’re Joshua Barker to me. Like I’m Adam to you, but Carl to everyone else.’
‘Did you pick that name?’
‘Carl Duffy. Yeah.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a packet of Marlboros, and flips open the top. ‘Want one?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘Nah. Don’t smoke.’ He’s transported back fourteen years to the coughing, the spluttering, his futile attempts to impress Adam.
‘You always were a wuss.’ Adam lights a cigarette, drawing deeply on it. ‘Anyway. My name. Got asked whether I wanted to choose it. Figured something like Ian Brady or John Christie wouldn’t go down too well.’
Mark recognises the name Ian Brady but isn’t sure about John Christie. He hopes to God that this is the other man’s idea of a sick joke. Adam’s always been twisted, sure, but wanting to name himself after famous killers? Sheesh. He picked Mark Slater because of its blandness, its ability to blend in. Nothing memorable, nothing unusual.
Adam’s laugh is contemptuous. ‘Jeez, look at your fucking face. As if they’d release me with a name like either of those. Too well known. No, I had to play the good guy, act repentant, keep the parole board sweet.’
‘So where did you get Carl Duffy from?’
Another long drag on the cigarette. ‘Carl I borrowed from that character in the film
The Cell
. Carl Stargher, the one who liked to drown women. Fucking weird story, but what the hell. Duffy – British killer from way back. Common enough name, though. Told them I’d picked it at random from the phone book. The tossers didn’t twig.’ He grinds his cigarette butt into the ground, immediately lighting up a second one. ‘You kept your nose out of trouble since you got out?’
‘Pretty much. Apart from going to the vigil.’ Mark seizes his chance. ‘Been wanting to know something. Why did you go, Adam? What did you get out of being there?’
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘I asked first.’ Christ Almighty. They’ve been talking all of two minutes and already they’ve reverted to childish behaviour. Not the way men of twenty-five should talk. Not that he feels a man, standing here beside Adam Campbell. They’re both eleven again, and the old dread of the other boy has returned full force. This is someone who names himself after killers in some weird kind of tribute, after all. The odds are growing Adam’s a leopard whose spots haven’t changed, unless they’ve darkened, become even more menacing.
‘Bet you anything I went for the same reason you did.’ Adam steps right up to Mark, invading his personal space. He’s so close Mark gets a full-on blast of his ashtray breath.
‘Am I right?’
Mark’s unsure what he’s being asked here. He keeps quiet.
Adam takes silence as agreement. ‘Yeah. Thought so. Deep down, you’re not so very different to me, in spite of this act you put on, making out you’re so moral. You went there for the same reason I did.’
‘Which is?’
‘Don’t jerk me around. To get a kick out of it, of course.’
Mark’s too sickened to respond. Chalk one up for his instincts, he thinks. This man hasn’t changed; never will. Same leopard, same spots.
‘Hearing that bitch, the brat’s mother, whining on about how we should be behind bars, how she misses her precious kid, all that crap.’ Adam’s laugh is deep, genuine, coming straight from his heart. He’s revelling in Michelle Morgan’s pain, Mark realises. ‘The daughter, too. So fucking miserable. Face like a slapped arse. Quite a looker, though. Needs a good hard shag, I’d say. Given half the chance, I’d shove my dick up her.’
The insult to Rachel strikes Mark as particularly repulsive, not that he can claim to have acted well himself where she’s concerned. Holy shit, can he endure much more of this? He’s unsure how to extricate himself, though. Antagonising Adam Campbell isn’t a smart move; he’d bet a truckload of money the man still carries a knife on him.
‘Don’t tell me it wasn’t the same for you.’ Adam moves even closer. Something warped and twisted still lies behind his dark eyes, Mark notes. He’s intimidated beyond words, but daren’t show it by inching backwards.
‘Answer me, you wuss. Tell me you got off on it too.’
As Mark gropes for a response, Adam moves swiftly behind him, sliding his hand into his pocket and Mark realises, in one sickening second of awareness, what’s coming. The blade kisses the side of his neck at the same time as the other man’s forearm pulls backwards on him, exposing his throat. Adam’s cigarette is clamped between his lips, its heat close to Mark’s cheek. Tobacco-laden breath slithers over his flesh, sending a shudder of repulsion right down to his toes.
Adam’s laugh, deep and throaty, sounds against Mark’s neck. The knife presses down a little harder, although not enough to cut the skin. Mark realises Adam won’t follow through. No, he’s getting off on the power trip he’s created; slicing his former sidekick’s throat would spoil Adam’s fun.
‘Say it, you dumb dickhead. You enjoyed being there, didn’t you? Knowing the Morgan bitch had no idea the two boys who sliced up her precious daughter were there as men, laughing at her.’
Mark’s struggling to breathe. Play the game, he reminds himself. A lie now and he’ll save himself a boatload of trouble. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Thought so.’ Triumph dominates Adam’s words. ‘You got off on seeing me kill the brat, too, didn’t you? Admit it. We had fun, right?’
Mark’s incapable of speech. Images of the blood, the rake, the unbuckled shoe crowd into his brain; sounds of the screams, both from Abby Morgan and himself, accompany them.
He nods, but it seems enough. Adam flicks the knife shut, replaces it in his pocket and steps away from Mark. Power trip completed.
‘Abby Morgan. My finest moment. The first cut is the sweetest.’ Adam laughs. ‘Nothing I’ve done since getting out of jail has even come close.’
Mark feels sick. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Mind your own fucking business. Yeah, the two of us sure had fun with our Pretty Princess, didn’t we?’
Mark nods again, hating having to do so.
‘Did it too quickly, though. Should have taken longer, spun the party out a lot more.’ Adam stamps out his cigarette, his foot hitting the ground hard, and Mark thinks of how easily he snuffed out Abby Morgan’s life. ‘Shame I never got to keep the souvenir I took, either.’
The green hippopotamus. The bloodied soft toy that got them convicted. Mark pictures Abby’s blood staining the plush fabric a muddy brown. For him, the toy represents everything abhorrent about her death. Whereas to Adam it’s a keepsake, symbolising every blow, every scream, all he relishes about killing a small child. Adam’s altered all right. The transition from boy to man has hardened his fledgling propensity for cruelty, honed it, set it in stone. This is a man born to hurt, to kill. Other people are talented at sport, art, music; Adam Campbell’s abilities centre on pain, fear, death. What was it he came out with a minute or so ago?
Nothing I’ve done since getting out of jail has even come close.
Shit. Did Abby Morgan start a chain of killing that stretches through the years to the present day? Have there been other victims?
Mark finds his voice. ‘You asked me whether I’ve played it straight since prison. The answer’s yes. What about you?’
Adam laughs. ‘Well, listen to the wuss. Keen to get all the details, aren’t you?’
‘Have you?’
‘Think I’ll keep quiet about that for now. Would be easy enough, though, wouldn’t it?’
Mark shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. You’re the expert.’
‘Too right. You always were too chicken to get your own hands dirty. You wanna hear how to have some fun?’
Mark wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans. He’s talking to one sick bastard here. He nods.
‘Best way? Go to a big city, doesn’t matter which. Never the same one twice, though. Check out the red light areas. Target some drug-addled whore who nobody gives a shit about anyway. A new hunting ground each time, different way of doing it, enough of a gap between doing the bitches - who’s going to join the dots?’ He’s so close, and Mark stares at the man’s dilated pupils, thinking:
he gets off on this, he really does, the sick bastard.
‘We can talk about this stuff, you and me, Joshua mate. Can’t do that with anyone else. Not the sort of thing you can drop into conversations, know what I mean?’
Mark loathes the jocular tone, being called ‘mate’. Is Adam so determined to rewrite history? Has he forgotten how, aged eleven, he had to coerce Joshua Barker into smoking, how he pinned him down by the throat that time in the park? They’ve never been mates, not in the true sense; it’s always been a relationship based on power and pecking order. Does Adam really believe Mark shared whatever sick fun he himself got out of attending the vigil?
Perhaps not. Adam’s no dimwit. Is his actual purpose here to bait Mark, get off on his old power games, force him into saying he enjoyed what happened? Does he relish the fact Mark’s sickened to his core by what he’s hearing?
No. Mark realises his first hypothesis is closer to the truth. Right now Adam needs Mark, and not simply to dominate him. He’s supplied the clue himself.
We can talk about these things, you and me.
All these years, Adam’s been itching to discuss murdering Abby Morgan, about wanting to kill again, because he can’t, not in everyday life. Mark’s plugging a hole for him simply by listening. To get parole, Adam will have had to play the remorse card, and since then he’ll have been living under his new identity, having to conceal who and what he really is. He’ll have found that hard going. No wonder he’s been so keen to meet up again. It’s not just about re-establishing control over his old sidekick. Adam needs to vent.