JOHN FINNIE (35y), JULY 2022, 09.16

John sat in his wheelchair. Ever since his altercation with the psychiatrist, he had decided it would be better all-round if he had limited contact with people. Samantha had protested of course, and so had Mam and Dad, but John had guessed that something may be wrong; his head was full of bad thoughts. He had watched the footage of him attacking the psychiatrist over and over. He paused the recording at the point when he said the word Grimsol, his snarling face twisted with hatred.

Why? And what the hell did that mean? Why had he attacked the man?

It confused him to the point of madness and so he launched the screen off his lap onto the floor in a fit of rage. Cleaners came in straight away and cleaned up the broken gadget. John stared out of the window, not acknowledging their existence. He also noticed that he got the shakes if he didn't get a regular shot of morphine, with a grimace.

'Nice one John,' he said out loud. 'You're a violent drunk with a substance dependence. What a total fuck up I've become, in just a few months. Would I have been better if I'd reverted back to a drooling vegetable?' He wheeled over to the window and looked at the view outside. The sunny day was getting warmer, John closed his eyes and enjoyed its warmth, then from nowhere the blinds closed. John opened his eyes and looked down. The remote for the blinds lay in his left hand.

'Why would I do that?'

He opened the blinds again and closed his eyes. Again the blinds closed. This was it; he was going bloody mad. He opened the blinds once again and tossed the remote on the bed. He looked down at his left hand again. 'Close them now fucker,' he said and closed his eyes to enjoy the sun on his face once more.

(35y) JULY 2022, 20.11

It was dark when he opened his eyes again, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on his lap. His head was fuzz, as if he had been drinking, and the remote for the blinds lay smashed on the floor. Five cigarette stubs also lay dead in the ashtray, and smoke still hung heavy in the air.

'What the fuck?' he slurred as he looked around.

John looked at his watch. 'I don't understand,' he said. 'I was enjoying the sun a minute ago. Now it's night-time. Did I pass out?' He looked at the bottle. 'Nah, unconscious people don't drink whiskey and smoke. When did I start smoking?' He shrugged and poured himself another drink.

'You're a fucking looney John, a junkie alcoholic cripple looney.' He raised his cup as he looked at his reflection. 'Here's to you, you crazy old bastard!' And knocked it back in one go.

MARTY, JULY 2022, 07.56

Another long day awaited Marty. How many times had he gone over the evidence for the case? He'd lost count. His superiors said this case was his main priority. Having been hand-picked meant he still excelled as a Detective Inspector, but the workload was immense. He craved to be back in firearms, he enjoyed the banter, having other people to bounce off. His main thought remained the same, if he cracked this case people would be saved. Even better, kids would be saved. The Collector had to be stopped, and to top it all, the two previous top detectives who'd handled this case had committed suicide. Jack Parnell, his mentor, had shown Marty every trick of the trade, but it hadn't been enough to save him. He was found hanged in the woods four years ago--it had devastated Marty.

The photos of all the missing girls he'd pinned on a board four years ago, the day after Jack's death. The first had been a girl named Abigail Brown in an old sepia-coloured photo. It had taken him quite a while to get them pinned on, with a map showing their last known location and red string connecting them. Marty stood back and viewed the board; it gave him no satisfaction at all. Especially since three had gone missing since he had taken over the case. He stared, as he had done for years, at the board with girls' faces on. He recognised every single one of them now. Where are you, you son of a bitch?

The phone on his desk trilled a ring, and he jumped. The screen flashed "external call" but the picture he recognised--one of his sergeants, so he answered.

'Marty speaking.'

'Yeah, Hi Marty it's Bob. Are you sitting down, Boss?'

Marty shook his head, even though he was on the phone. 'No, why?

There was a short pause, and then Bob spoke. 'We've found something strange Boss; you need to see it. I'm not too sure what it is.'

Marty sat on the edge of the desk. 'You'd better not be joking Bob.'

'I'm serious Boss, this one is genuine. I think it's a kind of torture room. Come down to the old steel works on Bainbridge Road, I'll meet you there.'

'Bring a torch Boss,' Bob added.

'Give me thirty minutes.' Marty pressed the off button and set the phone down. Grabbing his coat, he rushed from the office, giving his board one more look as he always did, then switching off the light. As he turned, the Chief inspector stood in front of him.

Marty smiled. 'Hello Sir, do you want something? I was just heading out.'

The Chief smiled and patted him on the shoulder. 'No, no Marty my boy. Just showing young Paul here around the station. He's my new P.A.'

Marty switched his coat to the other arm and put his hand out. 'Good to meet you mate, you'll enjoy it here. The boss is top notch.'

Paul shook Marty's hand; the coldness was unexpected.

'Geeze,' said Marty, 'keeping your hands in a freezer, mate?' He gave Paul a warm smile which wasn't returned. The man gave Marty a stare that sent shivers up his spine, then gave a small cruel smile of his own.

The Chief broke the silence. 'I read in the paper that your old school friend woke up after a seventeen-year coma. Isn't that just remarkable.'

Marty took a step back, all the while checking out the Chief's strange new P.A. 'Err, yeah, Boss. Remarkable.'

'You must be thrilled,' said the Chief.

'Yeah, I guess so. He has a long road ahead of him--still can't walk. He has, however, regained his speech, so that's a bonus.'

Paul took a step forward. 'What does he remember?' As he removed his glasses, Marty noticed his eyes...mesmerising...With a shake of his head he regained his composure. 'I'm sorry. What do you mean?'

Paul looked about in a shifty way. 'I only meant that sometimes people remember things, I read it once I think.'

'Ah...okay, not a lot,' he said to Paul, then turned to the Chief. 'Look Boss, sorry to cut and run. I have to meet someone. He put on his jacket as he walked down the corridor and as he moved to open the door he stopped, turned back towards his office. Paul and the Chief stood staring him down, they hadn't moved at all. Marty shrugged and walked out to his car.

It took no time to drive to the old works, and Bob stood waiting at the entrance with a security guard. Marty got out of the car and made his way over.

'Evening mate, what you got for me.' They shook hands.

'The security guard here was doing his rounds earlier this morning and saw a door open, he went and checked it out and...well.... you have to see it with your own eyes Marty.'

Bob walked off, along with the security guard, Marty fished around in his glove compartment. An old police torch and a new L.E.D type were right at the back. He passed the new one to his friend and kept the bigger police issue one for himself. He pulled his collar up and followed.

'So,' said the guard, 'I was doin' me rounds, when I saw this door was open. Bloody strange I thought, because it was locked last time I went past. Bloody kids, I tell you what. My job would be so much easier if parents kept their bloody ki--'

Marty put his hand up. 'Please Sir; just show me what you found.'

The guard put his head down, shame faced. 'Yeah, course. Follow me.'

As they walked into the old substation electrical wires and old bits of generators lay strewn all over the floor. A constant drip could be heard from a way off, and the musty smell of damp was cloying. The dust in the place floated around in the light of their beams as they tramped forwards.

'I was standing here,' said the guard. 'With me torch, when the biggest blood rat came running out. Well I nearly shit myself, massive it was and....'

Marty put his hand up again. 'Please, Sir. It's been a long day, a really long day. Could you get to the point?'

The guard shuffled around. 'Well, I went stumbling back and fell through the wall here.' He shone his torch into a hole in the wall. 'Which is strange.' The guard said as he scratched his head. 'Cause when I looked at the plans, this room doesn't exist.'

Marty looked through the hole, then stepped into the room on the other side. He poked his head out. 'Has anyone been in?'

'No Sir. The guard didn't go in, and I looked from outside.'

Marty shone the light around; there was a ramshackle bed with no mattress which had rusty implement's placed on top of it. Strewn around lay bits of metal piping. He was careful not to disturb anything as he walked around. A set of chains hung from the ceiling, finished off with a big steel hoop.

He fished through his pockets and pulled out some surgical gloves. Marty placed the torch on the bed while he put them on and then picked up some of the items from the bed. He shone the torch along the first item he picked up. A butcher's knife, he had seen enough of these in his time in the force, they were the reason every copper now wore stab vests. As he looked closer, he could see the tip was discoloured.

'I think we have a blood sample here Bob.' Go back to the car and get all the evidence bags from the boot.'

'Yessir,' said Bob as he made his way outside.

Marty put the implement down exactly where he found it. He looked around the room, with his eyes resting on the big metal hoop. He shone the torch on the inside; there were scratch marks on the metal, as if something had rubbed up and down on it. He shone the torch on the floor below the hoop; again, scuff marks from shoes--perhaps there'd been some sort of struggle. Torture. Bending down so he could get a better look, he shone the light closer to the floor.

'Someone was here,' he said in a low voice, more to himself than anyone else. 'Someone was strung up by that hoop. I'm bloody sure of it.'

He stood up, hit his head on the hoop. 'Ouch!' He rubbed his head, and in doing so knocked a clock off the wall.

'Stupid clumsy bastard,' he said. He shone the light around to the wall, he would have to find out exactly where the clock had been hanging, for forensics.

His eyes for some reason felt drawn to the clock at his feet; it had stopped at twelve o'clock, and thick dust covered the case. It reminded him of one that had hung in his home when he was a kid. He picked it up from the sides, and turned it around to find out how it was hooked to the wall. There was an envelope taped to the back of the clock.

He knew he should wait for forensics, but he couldn't help himself. He ripped open the top of the envelope and removed the contents. His knees almost buckled at what he saw, there were two photographs. One was the room as it had been, a torture chamber all set up. The other was of a frightened girl chained from the roof and gagged. He knew the girl; he had seen her face almost every day for the last seven years, he had also heard the tape. Her name was Bethany Alders; she was number ten.

AUGUST 2022, 08.15

Two days later Marty sat outside John's house. He drummed his fingers on the dash as he listened to a news report on the radio. Forensics had gone through the room inch by meticulous inch and the only thing they found of any worth were the photos and the knife. No other fingerprints, no other DNA, nothing. Whoever The Collector was, he was ultra-careful and knew what he was doing.

Unfortunately the knife turned out to be a dead duck, the blood matched the girls, and nothing else. He had listened to the tapes, ever since he started on the case; he had been privy to hearing them. And seeing the girl trussed up like that, the fear in her eyes knowing what would happen made him think of Charlie. The Finnies had more or less adopted Marty when John remained in his coma. He would come around most days with Samantha and Jess and talk to John, sometimes Charlie would sit with him, sometimes she would hold his hand. As the years passed he watched her grow, came to her birthday parties and sorted out the first boy that broke her heart. Charlie was as much Marty's sister as John's. With a renewed fire in his belly he determined to damn well knock some sense into his stupid friend.

#

Marty walked straight in. He hadn't bothered to knock since age sixteen. Only John's mam stayed in, and as soon as Marty shut the door he heard her shout.

'I'm in the front room Marty, come on in.'

Marty walked in and saw Diane on the sofa. 'Want a cup of tea honey?' she said.

'No ta Di, I am after speaking to John if that is okay?' He replied.

A shadow seemed to cross her face. 'He's not in a receptive mood these days Marty, he even shuns us. John locks himself away in the dark all day. He still screams at night, did you know about the screams?' she said.

Marty sighed. 'Yeah, Samantha told me. He's a troubled soul Di, but what can we expect?'

'My boy back,' she answered.

He walked over to her and gave her a hug. 'I expected my friend back,' he whispered.

'Go on up,' she said. 'But don't expect much conversation though. All he seems to do is swear, drink and give himself excess doses of morphine.' Her voice cracked at the end.

Marty stood up. 'Where's Sam?' he asked.

'She quit two days ago, she couldn't take any more.'

Marty took a deep breath and walked upstairs. He opened the door to John's room the stale B.O, booze, cigarettes, and farts assaulted his nose. Marty got the usual opening statement from his former friend.

'What the fuck do you want?' John sat in his wheelchair with his back to the door.

'It's me,' Marty replied.

'Oh, hello me. Fuck off and shut the door behind you.'

Marty shut the door and walked up to John. 'You look worse than shit John.'

'You,' John said, 'are on the wrong side of the fucking door. Listen carefully you idiot. Fuck...off.' He gave Marty the finger.

Marty pulled the wheelchair around to face him.

John looked up furious that someone would not obey him. 'How fucking dare you touch--' The slap from Marty rattled John's teeth.

John looked up, stunned from the slap. Marty could already see the red mark on John's cheek.

'You pal, have deserved that for a while,' Marty said.

John regained his composure and shouted again. 'Don't you fuc--' The second slap was harder and a definite welt was appearing on his face.

Marty grimaced as he leant forward towards John. 'I have got a bag full of slaps for you, and I don't mind using them all today. You feeling me, you spoiled little brat?'

John retorted quick. 'I'll sue you for every penny you ha--' The third slap echoed around the bare room and John cried.

'Now.' Marty picked up a sweat stained sheet from John's bed and placed it on his lap. 'We are going out. We're going to pay our respects to Charlie. We're going to buy some flowers and you are putting them on her memorial, do you understand?'

John nodded as tears streaked down his reddening cheek. 'Good man.' Marty kicked the break off the wheelchair and took him out of the room for the first time in months.

'How do we get you downstairs?' Marty asked as he reached the top.

'You fuc--' John looked up at Marty and shrank down in his chair. 'No lifts were put in; I guess no one really thought I would pull through.'

Without a word Marty knelt down in front of John, gripped his arm, and hefted him onto his shoulders into a fireman's carry.

'What the fuck are you doing Marty?' John shouted as they moved down the stairs.

Marty stopped mid step. 'Swear again, and I will throw you down, do you understand?' Marty took his silence as a yes.

He reached the car and unceremoniously dumped John in the passenger seat, then went back to retrieve the chair. On his way back out he shouted to John's mam. 'Were going out Di, won't be long.' He rushed to the car collapsed the wheelchair and threw it in the boot. He could see Di at the door as he made his way down the long pebbled drive. Marty punched in the code for the gates and made his way to Charlie's memorial, he knew the way like the back of his hand.

© Steve Ford and Joy Cronjé 2018