Читать книгу Creatures of the Chase - Yusuf - L. M. Ollie - Страница 9

Try as he might Yakinchuk couldn’t sleep. The bedroom seemed to confine him, pressing down on him. The air felt as if most of the oxygen had been taken out of it. He couldn’t breathe properly. He sat up gulping for breath like a diver breaking free at the surface. What is wrong with you?

In a near panic he switched on the light beside the bed and stared at the open suitcase; the clothes neatly folded inside. ‘I must pack a suit,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘I will need a suit. She will expect to see me dressed just like …’ What is wrong with you?

He made his way downstairs hoping that a cup of hot chocolate would help. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he noticed the folder; the police report which proclaimed for the whole world to hear, the accidental death of Sarah Winthrope Churchill – a lie, a lie.

Inside the folder, the pages left by Maggie O’Shea. He had forgotten all about them; about her brother and sister and what happened to them all those years ago. He pulled the folder towards him with the tips of his fingers, opened it and reached inside. The kettle began to boil but he ignored it as he stared down at the pages.

If you are going to read that Vic, you are going to need something stronger than a cup of hot chocolate.

Victor poured himself another glass of scotch then retreated to the porch again. He sat at the top of the stairs leading down to the garden, resting his back against a support post. For a few minutes he gazed into the night, sipping his drink and listening to the far-off sound of a world that ought to be asleep, but wasn’t. Slowly, almost tentatively he unfolded the pages and began to read.

JULY, 1939

Drover O'Neill was one of seven children. He was suppose to be the last but there was one more boy after him before his mother said enough and left late one night when Drover was still too young to remember. His father carried on as best he could but it was difficult to keep one’s head up in such a tight-knit community, overly fond as it was of snide comments and non-too-subtle innuendos. Truth was Cathy O'Neill's defection not only broke the family apart, but her husband's heart. If she had thought more about it and him, she might have considered the harm that she did.

Drover failed to achieve anything like academic excellence so he left school at sixteen to pursue a career in nothing in particular, whiling away his time fishing when there might be something to catch and the occasional, half-hearted attempts at snaring rabbits. It was his father who managed to secure a job for him at Kenny's garage. Warned that he had best shape up or ship out, Drover knuckled under and soon discovered that he had a knack for not only repairing diseased automobiles but making sure that healthier ones remained roadworthy. In time he achieved his mechanics licence and overnight he had a future. All that changed on the fourteenth of July, 1939.

Drover didn’t want to look into Charles Michael Develin's eyes but he knew he had to if his story was to be believed and Drover wanted desperately to be believed. In fact, his whole future depended on it, so he braced himself and returned Develin's steady gaze while all the while his bowels danced.

‘Sunday, you said,’ Develin intoned, his voice pitched low and even, without a trace of emotion which surprised the hell out of Drover … considering.

‘Yes sir.’

‘And tell me Drover, what where you doing there?’ Develin's pale blue eyes raked Drover over but good.

‘Ah … I like to go up to the Devil's Trough sometimes to think sir, and well … I guess I was finished and was on my way back when I saw them.’

‘And who and what did you see?’

Drover cleared his throat. ‘Doctor Bryan … the younger one and …’ He hesitated, suddenly uncertain if any of this was a good idea after all. He swallowed hard. ‘and Mrs. Develin sir.’ Develin's stare remained unwavering as he encouraged Drover to continue. ‘Ah … Doctor Bryan was tuppin' her real good sir and ah … well, she ah … she seemed to be enjoying herself, sir.’

Develin looked beyond Drover to where his bodyguard Martin O’Gorman stood, listening. ‘Perhaps Mr. O'Neill you might care to show us where, exactly.’ Develin rose from the chair behind his desk.

Instinctively Drover rose too and turned awkwardly on knees none too steady all of a sudden.

He was ushered into Develin's Rolls-Royce by the bodyguard. Moments later the car rounded the circular drive with O’Gorman at the wheel and Charles Develin sitting beside Drover, seemingly relaxed despite everything.

Half way to the Devil's Trough, Drover made his bid, sensing that the time would never be better than right now. ‘Mr. Develin, ah … I was hoping that maybe, ah …’ He cleared his throat. ‘It's Sally, sir; Sally Morrison. Her father has, um …’ Drover paused to lick his lips and steady his nerves.

Develin sighed. ‘What is it you are trying to say, Drover?’

‘Well sir, I was hoping maybe you could have a word with Sally's dad, Mr. Develin. I think she likes me a lot but, well … it's her dad that's the problem so I thought maybe …’ He shrugged.

‘I see. Well, let's work on this little problem first, shall we?’ Develin turned towards the window, ending the conversation abruptly.

‘Yes sir.’

The Rolls barely managed to make its way up the track leading to where Drover said he had seen Doctor Bryan's car that fateful day. As the ground levelled into a small clearing, O’Gorman swung the vehicle through a gentle arc before coming to a halt just short of a stand of fir trees.

‘Just here sir,’ Drover said, as he walked towards the trees. He stood and waited for Develin, all the while absentmindedly rubbing the palms of both hands along the sides of his woollen pants, trying to rid himself of the sticky residue of perspiration. To suggest that Drover was suddenly uncomfortable would be understating the issue considerably. ‘The car was parked there, sir.’ He nodded to a spot twenty feet away.

Develin moved forward to inspect the area. Six large fir trees clustered together, their branches overlapping, forming a natural bower; at their base, a soft bed of needles; warm and dry. Develin gestured to O’Gorman who began to search the area.

‘Tell me, Drover,’ Develin said as he turned towards the boy, ‘have you told anyone of this?’

‘No sir!’

‘Not even your sister, Maureen?’

Drover swallowed hard as Develin's eyes bored into him. ‘No sir.’

‘Strange,’ Develin mused, ‘you are both so close, or so I have been told.’

‘I, ah … I haven't told a soul sir.’

‘Good.’ Develin turned just in time to see O’Gorman straighten. He had found something and whatever it was, it rested now in the palm of his hand.

Drover stood stock still and watched at Develin quickly joined O’Gorman before taking possession of whatever it was. Perhaps it was Drover's imagination but he could almost discern a slight stiffening of Develin's posture as he slipped the item into the pocket of his jacket. Slowly he turned and, inexplicably, he smiled.

‘Right, I think we are finished here gentlemen. Perhaps Drover, on our way back to Cavendish Hall, you might care to tell me a little more about your future plans, specifically as they relate to Sally Morrison.’

Drover beamed. ‘Yes sir.’

The triumphant smile on Drover's face wavered not one iota as he turned on his heel and headed for the car. He got perhaps six feet before Develin shot him through the back of the head.

As Develin lowered the pistol, he turned to O’Gorman. ‘Bury this little bastard deep Martin.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘When you are finished, find Maureen O'Neill and bring her to me.’

O’Gorman nodded as he moved towards the boot of the car to retrieve all the tools necessary to not only dig a grave, but conceal it … forever.

*****

Maureen O'Neill was alone, preparing potatoes for the evening meal when O’Gorman arrived. Her sister Mary returned home two hours later to find a colander full of half-peeled potatoes and an overdone roast of lamb in the oven. Of Maureen there was no trace.

Confined in an underground room eight feet square, containing a bed, a basin and a toilet, Maureen spent the first twenty-four hours of her capture in total darkness. It would be wonderful to think that after that each time the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the room, she would be happy but, the truth was that the light brought Charles Develin and Charles Develin brought with him a well-honed brand of sadism which must be seen to be appreciated. Maureen saw lots.

After a month without fresh air, decent food, sunshine and freedom, Maureen's delicate beauty began to fade along with her reason. On the eve of her twenty-first birthday, she was totally, irrecoverably insane.

She was returned to her family in much the same manner in which she left. They tried everything they could do to bring her around but finally the O’Neill family had to face the truth. Judged catatonic, Maureen was removed to a private mental hospital south of Cork.

Occasionally Charles Develin would visit her and although the staff were never certain if she could hear him, he would talk to her sometimes for hours. Unfortunately usually after such a visit Maureen seemed to regress, so not all of the nurses were keen on allowing Mr. Develin unlimited visiting rights although there was really nothing they could do since it was Mr. Develin who was paying all the bills.

Maureen O’Neill died suddenly and alone, sometime during the night, almost two years to the day after she first met Charles Develin.

*****

‘God’s breath,’ Yakinchuk whispered as he folded the pages. He took a deep swallow of his scotch then leaned back, resting his head against the post. ‘Richard Develin was bad enough but the father; he must have been a monster. Like father, like son; what did the curse say?’

Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him.

Yakinchuk drained his glass then thought of another one. Sure as heck, sleep was now out of the question.

Go for it Vic; you’re going to need all the Dutch courage you can muster so you might as well start practicing now.