Spawn Read online

  Constable Bill Higgins stepped on the brake, simultaneously easing the Panda to one side of the road, its nearside wheels actually mounting the footpath at the side of the tarmac. The lorry swept past, its tail flap rattling loudly and Higgins watched it in the rear view mirror, half expecting to see it spill its load behind it. He swung the car back in lane and drove on.

  Beside him, in the passenger seat, his superior gazed out of the side window, watching as the trees sped past. The window was open to allow some cool air into the stifling confines of the car. Despite the slight chill, the refreshing breeze was welcomed by both men. The Panda’s heater was on the blink, jammed at maximum output it transformed the vehicle into some kind of mobile sauna.

  Inspector Lou Randall fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for a packet of Rothmans and lit one, the wind blowing smoke back into his face. He coughed and waved a hand in front of him. A stronger smell reached his nostrils through the bluish haze of fumes and he winced as he realized that it was manure.

  “Why does the countryside always smell like a shithouse?” he said, blowing out a disapproving breath.

  “What is it about fresh air that you hate so much, guv?” asked the driver, grinning.

  “I wouldn’t call that fresh air.”

  Randall had been born and brought up in London, always used to its cramped confines. To the steady crush of buildings and people around him. He felt strangely exposed in the countryside, as if light and space were somehow alien to him. Apart from holidays when he was a kid, he’d never been out of London longer than two weeks at a time. He remembered how his parents always took him to the Lake District when he was a nipper, and how much he hated water too. Large expanses of it always put the fear of Christ into him even though he was a good swimmer. The strange brooding silence which seemed to hang over the lakes always disturbed him just as now the perpetual solitude of endless fields brought back that youthful unease. Randall was thirty-six, stocky and heavily muscled. He usually put himself through a routine of exercises three or four times a week to keep in shape. Not that much happened in Exham to compel sudden strenuous physical activity though. In his sixteen months as head of the small force, he’d dealt with nothing more serious than a couple of rape cases.

  He slumped in the seat, the plastic hot against his back, puffing on his fag, his blue eyes scanning the endless tracts of arable land. He ran a hand through his brown hair and exhaled deeply. The clock on the dashboard showed 8.09 a.m. and Randall yawned. He hadn’t slept too well the previous night and his eyes felt as if someone had sewed the lids together. He took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt out of the window. Grunting, he straightened up in the passenger seat. He reached over onto the back seat and picked up a manila file, which he flipped open. Inside was a report and, clipped to that, another sheet of paper which bore the signature of the county coroner. Randall yawned again and ran his eyes over the typewritten report which he’d already looked at half a dozen times that morning.

  “Paul Harvey,” he read aloud. “Age twenty-nine. Detained Cornford Maximum Security Prison, June 1979. No previous prison record.” He closed the file, drumming on it agitatedly. “Convicted of two murders, sentenced to life.”

  “I can still remember when he was arrested,” said Higgins, some of the colour draining from his normally ruddy complexion. “It took four of us to hold the bastard down long enough to cuff him. He was a bloody maniac.”

  Randall raised an eyebrow.

  “The reports seem to agree with you,” he said. “It must have been quite a shaker for a little place like Exham.”

  “It was,” Higgins confirmed.

  “The killings were random. There was never any motive established,” said the Inspector, reflectively.

  “What exactly did he do to them?” Higgins wanted to know. “We never did find out for sure.”

  Randall opened the file again.

  “Both victims were dismembered,” he read. “Apparently there was so little of them left that identification was almost impossible. Fond of the old carving knife our Harvey,” he added, sardonically.

  “Most of the bits were never even found.”

  “Oh Jesus,” murmured Higgins.

  “And now he’s out again,” said Randall, flatly. “He escaped at five o’clock this morning.”

  The two men continued their journey in silence. Higgins swung the Panda off the main road and down a narrower off-shoot flanked on both sides by trees. Through the windscreen both men could make out the gaunt edifice of Cornford prison. It was built of red brick, discoloured with the ravages of time and the elements. The high wall which surrounded it was similarly scarred, a row of iron spikes and barbed wire running along the top. Two huge black-painted doors barred their way as the constable brought the Panda to a halt.

  Randall straightened his tie, cursing when one of the buttons popped off. Higgins grinned.

  “Get your wife to sew it. . .”

  The smile and the sentence trailed off and the constable coloured as he felt Randall’s eyes on him.

  “Sorry, guv,” he said, softly.

  Randall found the button and dropped it into his pocket. Then, clambering out of the car he said:

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  Higgins nodded and watched as his superior walked across the tarmac towards the towering black gates. On his way he passed a blue sign which proclaimed in large white letters:

  HER-MAJESTY’S PRISON: CORNFORD

  There was an old mini parked outside the gates, its side panels rotting, the white paint peeling away to reveal the rust beneath. The decaying metal was the colour of dried blood and the peeling paint reminded the Inspector of a picked scab.

  He reached the huge gates and banged on a small door set into the right hand one. After a few seconds a panel slid open and a face appeared.

  Randall showed his ID and the panel closed. A moment later the door opened and the policeman stepped through to find himself in the courtyard of the prison. A uniformed warder showed him the main entrance of the building and Randall set off across the vast expanse of wet tarmac.

  To his left a group of prisoners, dressed in their familiar dark blue overalls, were standing or shuffling idly about while two warders stood chatting. One or two heads turned as he made his way towards the huge main building which was still wreathed in the early morning mist, the grey fog drifting round it like some kind of ethereal shroud.

  The Governor’s office was enormous, fully thirty feet long and perhaps twenty wide. A huge oak table stood in the centre, an oval shaped antique which sparkled brightly. The legacy of many years polishing. It had nine chairs around it and, suppressing a smile, Randall wondered where King Arthur and his knights had got to. The thought quickly vanished however.

  The walls were a sky blue colour dull with the dust of the years, as with most of the paintwork in the prison it seemed. The ceiling rose high above him, three large banks of fluorescents set into it – the only concession to progress. The rest of the room seemed forty years out of date. Large windows looked out onto the West Wing of the prison, the office itself separated from the prisoners’ quarters by a high stone wall and a large expanse of well-kept lawn. The carpet on the floor was so threadbare that Randall’s footsteps echoed as he walked towards the desk at the far end of the office. As he approached, Governor George Stokes rose to greet him.

  The two men introduced themselves, a sign on Stokes’s desk adding a silently corroborative affirmation that he was indeed Governor. He was well into his sixties, his hair almost white, even the wisps that curled from his wide nostrils. But his handshake was strong, belying his years. He was tall, ungainly. Dressed in a two piece brown suit, the trousers of which were an inch too short, he looked like some kind of be-spectacled stick insect.

  Stokes introduced the other man in the room as Doctor Kevin Hayes. He was, or had been up until his escape, Harvey’s psychiatrist. A short, nervous looking man in his fifties, he was prodding on
e ear with the blunt end of a pin.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called you, Randall?” said Stokes, clasping his hands before him and leaning on his blotter.

  “It had crossed my mind,” said the Inspector.

  “We have reason to believe that Harvey will return to Exham,” Stokes told him. “We thought you should be forewarned.” The older man plucked at the end of his nose. “If there’s anything we can do to help you, ask.”

  “Well, for one thing, I’d like to know why he was having psychiatric treatment,” the Inspector said. “From what I’ve read about the case there was never any hint of mental disturbance.”

  “During the last six months,” said Hayes, “Harvey had become very introverted. He brooded. He’d always been a loner but he seemed to become more hostile towards the other prisoners. He got into fights frequently.”

  “We had him in solitary most of the time,” Stokes interjected. “As much for the safety of the other men as anything else.”

  “How dangerous is he?” Randall wanted to know.

  Hayes stroked his chin thoughtfully.

  “It’s difficult to say,” he said, evasively.

  “Could he kill again?” Randall demanded. “Would he kill again?”

  The psychiatrist exchanged a brief glance with Stokes then looked at Randall.

  “It’s possible,” he said, almost reluctantly.

  “How the hell did he manage to get out of here in the first place?” Randall snapped; just a little too forcefully.

  “That, Randall, is not your concern,” rasped Stokes. “Catching him again is all that matters. That’s your job I suggest you set about doing it.” The two men locked stares for long seconds and the Inspector could see the anger in the older man’s eyes. The escape had hurt his pride, it might, Randall reasoned, cost him his job. He probably had every right to be angry. But there was fear there too.

  Randall got to his feet.

  Randall didn’t speak much on the way back to Exham, his mind was too full of thoughts and questions, one in particular nagging at him.

  Where and when would Paul Harvey turn up?

  Three

  Paul Harvey stumbled and fell, crashing heavily against a nearby tree. He lay still on the damp moss for long seconds, sucking in painful breaths, each of which seemed to sear his lungs. His calves and thighs were stiff, as if someone had clamped a vice on each leg and was slowly turning the screw. He dragged himself upright, using a low branch for support. Panting like a bloodhound, he leant against the tree and massaged the top of his legs. He licked a furred, tumefied tongue over his cracked lips. It felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth with cotton wool. He stood still for a moment longer then blundered on through the small wood.

  He walked awkwardly, like a drunkard and was forced to use the trees and bushes to hold him up. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running. Four, five hours. Perhaps more. He wasn’t sure of anything except the gnawing pain in his legs and the burning in his belly. He must have food, that much he did know. The prison was a good six miles behind him now and he afforded himself a smile as he continued his haphazard course through the woods.

  A bird twittered overhead and he spun round, taken aback by this sudden sound. He raised a hand as if trying to pluck it from its perch. When that failed he attempted to shout at it but no sound would come. His throat was like parchment. He slumped against another tree, head bowed, ears alert for the slightest movement. They would be after him by now but they would not catch him. Not this time.

  He cocked an ear expectantly but heard nothing, just the ever-present sound of the birds and. . .

  A twig snapped close by and he froze, pressing himself closer to the trunk of the elm, trying to become a part of it.

  As he watched, a small boy, no more than twelve years old, pushed his way through the bushes and picked up a football. With the object safely retrieved, he scrambled back towards the clearing beyond where two of his companions waited. Harvey could see the other children now. He relaxed slightly and moved forward with surprising agility for a man of his size. He was well over six feet two, weighing around fourteen stone. His hair was black, closely cropped and shining. Pupils like chips of emerald glittered amidst whites criss-crossed by bulging red veins.

  He moved closer to the edge of the woods, keeping low, well away from the children playing beyond. There were three of them he could see, all engrossed in their game. Harvey parted a bush to peer out at them. His large fingers twitched spasmodically but a look of bewilderment crossed his face when he saw them stop kicking the orange ball around and cross to a large plastic bag which lay behind one of the make-shift goal posts.

  They took out some sandwiches and began eating.

  Harvey put a hand to his stomach as it rumbled loudly!

  He watched the three of them eating.

  The time would come.

  He watched and waited.

  Graham Phelps stuffed the remains of the ham sandwich into his mouth and chewed noisily.

  “Let’s have a drink,” he said, motioning towards one of the two thermos flasks.

  Colin Fulton dutifully poured him a cup of steaming hot chocolate which he swigged, burning his tongue.

  “Fucking hell,” he gasped. “That’s hot.”

  Colin and his younger brother, Miles, both chuckled.

  Graham, on the other hand, didn’t see the joke.

  “What’s so fucking funny?” he demanded, angrily.

  He swore a lot. His father and his elder brothers did it too. His eldest brother had been in Borstal for six months and Graham hero-worshipped him, as he did his father. Both of them would think nothing of smacking a woman in the teeth too, if the need arose. They were really hard. Graham’s mind contained a simple equation because he was somewhat simple minded:

  Swearing and hitting women = manliness.

  As easy as that.

  Now he rounded on Miles again. The twelve-year-old, three years younger than Graham and Colin, was an ideal target.

  “I said, what’s so fucking funny?” he persisted.

  “You, burning your mouth,” Miles told him. “You shouldn’t be such a pig.”

  “Fuck off,” rasped Graham and got to his feet, kicking the ball about, dribbling it close to the brothers, bouncing it off Miles’s legs every so often. They finally took the hint and got wearily to their feet, dropping the remnants of half-eaten sandwiches back into the plastic Tesco bag.

  Paul Harvey kept perfectly still amongst the trees and bushes, his breath now slowed to a rasping hiss. He watched the three boys kicking the ball about and a twisted grin spread across his face.

  Graham decided to show off his shooting ability and lashed a shot in the direction of the makeshift goal but a gust of wind caught the ball and it went flying wide, hurtling into the trees beyond. Graham planted his hands on his hips and looked at his companion.

  “Well, go and get the fucking thing,” he shouted, watching as Miles sloped off in the direction of the trees.

  Paul Harvey saw him coming.

  Miles pushed his way into the bushes and onward until he was surrounded by trees. For the first time that morning he noticed just how quiet it was inside the copse. His feet hardly made a sound as he walked over the carpet of moss, glancing around in his search for the ball. It obviously must have gone further than usual. Even its bright orange colour seemed invisible in the maze of greens and browns which made up the small wood. He stepped up onto a fallen, rotting tree stump, hoping to get a better view. At his feet a large spider had succeeded in trapping a fly in its web and, for a moment, Miles watched the hairy horror devouring its prey. He shuddered and moved away, his eyes still scanning the copse for the lost ball. He stepped into some stinging nettles and yelped in pain as one of them found its way to the exposed area between his sock top and the turn-up of his jeans. He rubbed the painful spot and wandered further into the wood. Where the hell was that ball?

  He stood still, hands on his hips,
squinting in the dull light. Mist still hung low on the floor of the copse, like a blanket of dry ice, it covered his feet as he walked. Droplets of moisture hung like shimmering crystal from the few leaves which remained on the trees. They reminded Miles of cold tears.

  Something caught his eye.

  He smiled. It was the ball, about ten yards away, stuck in the top of a stunted bush. He hurried towards it, suddenly aware of the unearthly silence which seemed to have closed around him like some kind of invisible velvet glove. He shivered and scurried forward to retrieve the ball, tugging it loose from the grasping branches of the bush.

  Something moved close behind him, a soft footfall on the carpet of moss. He spun round, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.

  A sudden light breeze sprang up, whipping the mist into thin spirals.

  Miles started back towards the openness of the rec, away from the stifling confines of the copse. He clutched the ball to his chest, ignoring the mud which was staining his jumper. The odour of damp wood and moss was almost asphyxiating, as palpable as the gossamer wisps of fog which swirled around him.

  Something cold touched his arm and he gasped, dropping the ball, spinning round, ready to run.

  It was a low branch.

  As he bent to pick up the ball, Miles could see that his hands were shaking. He straightened up, a thin film of perspiration on his forehead. And it was at that moment he felt the hand grip his shoulder.

  This time he screamed, trying to pull away but the hand held him back and he heard raucous laughter ringing in his ears.

  “All right, don’t shit yourself,” said a familiar voice and Miles finally found the courage to turn. He saw Graham Phelps standing there, his hand gripping Miles’s shoulder. “Just thought I’d give you a bit of a fright.” He laughed again, pushing Miles towards the clearing ahead of them.