seven

When Jemma’s dad had gone to live all those miles away, he’d left a couple of boxes behind in the cupboard under the stairs. The boxes were never collected. And Jemma’s mum eventually put them out for the Save the Children shop in Parr Street. But, in the weeks that the boxes remained, Jemma used to sidle in among the mops and broken racquets, and sneak a look through them.

It was a load of old junk really - golf balls, a tin of keys, a battery charger, a stack of old motoring magazines - but somehow Jemma found herself repeatedly drawn to the boxes. She’d sit in the gloom, turn on her dad’s old torch and sift through the bric-a-brac - partly out of curiosity, and partly to remind herself of him, that rubbery, oily smell of dad stuff.

Crumpled at the bottom of the boxes she found some of the true life crime books that her dad had obsessively devoured - sometimes 2 or 3 a week - like some cannibalistic serial killer.

At first, she’d been fascinated by the books - shivering as she flicked through the macabre stories of psychopaths and gangland villains. But then - like her dad - she started to became obsessed by them. She didn’t want to read them, but she couldn’t help herself.

There was one particular book that began to haunt her. It was called The Hobby Murders about Ronnie Berkinshaw, an unemployed factory worker (aka the kitchen killer), who’d used an assortment of domestic appliances to torture his teenage victims before strangling them with flex and dumping them in local lay-bys. The detectives were perplexed by what seemed like totally motiveless crimes. There was no obvious sexual element to the murders. And at first they thought there be some feud between rival teenage gangs. But as the bodies began to pile up (all with the same bizarre burn marks and abrasions) the police realised it had to be the work of a single deranged killer. Even when the police finally charged Ronnie Berkinshaw (having previously questioned and released him on three separate occasions), they still couldn’t fathom his motives. He claimed he’d done it simply out of boredom as a hobby - collecting corpses the way other people collect Denby dinnerware. It made no sense to Jemma.

The story began to haunt her - in class, on the bus, in the bath, in her dreams - she went over and over the tiny details in her head - the names and the ages of the victims, the times and dates they’d been kidnapped from parks and quiet lanes or lured into Ronnie’s nondescript semi.

The grainy photos of blood-stained food mixers, charred utensils and rewired toasters were burned into her memory, along with the shadowy image of a dismembered body stacked neatly in Ronnie’s garden shed beside paint brushes and bottles and pots of screws, all in tidy lines (he realised the police were closing in on him and was preparing to dispose of his last victim - twelve-year-old Angela Jackson - in some more secretive way).

Again and again, Jemma would replace ‘The Hobby Murders’ at the bottom of the box and bury it beneath all her dad’s junk. And again and again she felt compelled to empty the box and read the book one last time.

It wasn’t the gory details she found most disturbing, it was the creepy little things - like a copy of a receipt from Ronnie’s local corner shop. It was for a pack of three amp fuses, a Cornish pasty, a crème caramel and a single bottle of Newcastle Brown ale. The time on the receipt was about 5.52pm. It was two hours after his fourth victim (a 14-year-old boy named Jacob Riordan) was seen in the street outside Ronnie’s house, and about an hour and a half before a car like Ronnie’s was seen driving close to where the body was found a week later.

The author surmised that the victim must have been alive at the time, and that Ronnie (having blown a fuse in one of his home-made instruments of torture) had popped out for a replacement, some light refreshment and a beer with which to ‘toast’ Jacob’s impending demise.

She read the section about the receipt over and over, as if the words would magically change. As if Ronnie Berkinshaw would suddenly become a kindly uncle and (instead of inflicting ten pages of deadly torture in minute forensic detail) would take Jacob for pizza and a bowling trip before returning him unharmed to his parents.

But, of course, the words never did change. And Jemma was greatly relieved when her mum finally put those boxes out for the jumble.

As Jemma took the hand and heart from the back of the sideboard, unwrapped them and placed them on the kitchen table next to the wooden face, she felt the same jittery, sickly feeling she’d felt when retrieving that book from beneath the stairs. Only it was a thousand times worse. It were as if she’d entered the pages of one those true crime stories, become a victim in waiting, a pawn in some pyscho’s sick-minded game.

She examined the face more closely. It was a perfect replica - the shape of her eye, the curve of her cheek, the fall of her fringe all perfectly captured. She could almost feel warm breath flowing in through those wooden nostrils and out through wooden lips. It was a wooden twin. She couldn’t help herself. She lifted the hollowed face and wore it for a moment like a mask, breathing in the salty, earwiggy odour of the rotting inner wood.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the switched-off charcoal of the TV screen. The reflection was dull and distorted, but still made her heart jump with a jolt of pure fear - not like roller coaster fear or horror film fear, but the real horror she’d felt for a microsecond before the impact with that bridge. The knowledge that she was about to die - the knowledge that she was a split second away from that endless coffin-black darkness.

Movie makers sometimes tried to duplicate that feeling - slow motion footage of eyes widening in horror as a CGI bullet spins towards the temple. But no film, no still image - not even those real life executions - the firing squads and electric chairs in her dad’s books - got close to that feeling. Those images, those words, were but decaying echoes, distilled and diluted a million fold - Vimto to vodka. This was neat fear - tearing out her throat as she gulped it down.

Was it also supposed to be her hand she wondered? The slender fingers were a pretty close match. And was it supposed to be her heart? She gazed down at the twisted wooden trinity on the table. Who the hell would do such a thing? What for? And why her? Just like the hobby murders, it seemed such a completely motiveless, pleasureless, pointless act.

The three carvings must have taken someone - whoever he was - hours and hours. She knew there were strange people out there. Even in these sleepy seaside villages (especially in these sleepy seaside villages). So she could imagine some sicko might want to randomly spook her. But why go to such lengths? Why so much detail? Jemma just didn’t get it.

Jemma didn’t want to keep the wooden face to herself. But she couldn’t bear to share her eerie discovery. She didn’t want to go out. But she couldn’t stay in forever. A couple from Leamington were in Lavender Spray. And a Canadian woman - Virginia Templebaum - was staying in one of the flats for a fortnight, while tracing her Cymllynion forebears. Jemma had promised to clean it the next morning, and (like Ronnie Berkinshaw) there were a few things she needed from the shop.

After a restless night, Jemma shuffled her way quickly to the flats, collar up, hair pushed into a cap - peering over her shoulder every few seconds. On the way back to the chalet, she stopped off at the Londis for essentials - Lil-lets, bread, milk, Cadbury’s High Lights and a four pack of Cymllynion Country Yoghurts (rhubarb, hazlenut, wild plum and hedgerow berry).

Jemma stayed in for the rest of the day and stayed up most of the night watching crap TV. She slept in and was still in bed when the phone rang. It rang about thirty times before she managed to prise herself out of the duvet and creak down stairs.

“Hi mum,” she said.

“Everything all right darling?”

“Why? Shouldn’t it be?”

“You sound tired. You’re not over doing it again are you? I can easily ask Valerie to take over for a couple of weeks. She’s always offering.”

I bet she is, thought Jemma. Valerie Jones (Coastal Cleaning Services) had a monopoly on most of the harbourside holiday homes. But there was no way that jumped-up Mrs Mop was taking over what little work she had.

“It’s OK - it’s just the time of year,” said Jemma, “and it’s that time.”

“Well we don’t want you coming down with flu again. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in the cottage hospital.”

“I’m fine mum, honestly.” Yea, absolutely fine, she wanted to add, aside from the madman who keeps leaving lifelike carvings on the beach for me! But how would she even start to explain? They’d think she’d conjured up the face herself somehow and cart her off to Passmoor Manor with all the other brain-injured nutters.

“How was Mrs Templebaum yesterday?” her mum asked.

“She wasn’t in,” said Jemma.

“She wasn’t in?” echoed her mum. “What time did you get there? I promised her the flat would be finished by ten.”

“I was there shortly after nine.”

“Are you sure?” asked her mum.

“Of course I’m sure. She probably went out for a coffee.”

“A coffee?” her mum retorted, as if Jemma had suggested Mrs Templebaum had gone out for a session of nude paintballing.

“The Harbour Café opens at eight,” said Jemma patiently. “Maybe she went there for breakfast. Or maybe she just wanted to be out of my way. It’s not very nice standing there while someone cleans up around you. It’s like room service. They don’t clean the loo while you’re taking a shower.”

“Well, so long as you did a thorough job.”

“As usual, yes.”

“Well, I better go now. Peter’s taking me to Penlyn today - we’re replacing the curtains in Juniper Cottage.”

The cottage was their latest renovation / buy-to-rent project.

“Oh, has Peter finished replacing the window frames all ready?” said Jemma.

“Oh, Jemma. You know he’s hardly started. But the curtains will all need altering. There’s always plenty to do.”

“Well, I can always help out, if you need an extra hand,” offered Jemma. She was sure Peter wouldn’t mind having her around. Her mother tutted. “You just concentrate on getting those flats clean.”

“They are clean,” said Jemma. Her mother didn’t reply. “Anyway, I better let you get off and get your curtains. I’ll speak to you later.”

“OK dear. Don’t over do it.”

“I won’t!” Jemma pulled a face at the phone.

“Bye darling.”

“Yea, bye mum.”

Jemma sighed. Stupid woman, she thought, and decided to console herself with an all-day breakfast at the harbour café.

It was almost Midday by the time Jemma left the café. The tide was coming in and she went over to the harbour wall to watch the waves. Close to the wall, a message had been written on the sand. She absent-mindedly read it.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please don’t stop walking.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and for Jemma to realise that the message might be for her.

You’re imagining things she told herself. It’s probably some holidaying couple who’ve argued over lasagne in the Laughing Cavalier. The message was probably meant to say ‘don’t stop talking’. Probably the boyfriend stormed out and booked into another B&B. And in the morning though better of it. But the word ‘walking’ definitely started with a large W, carved deep into the sand. You wouldn’t do that by mistake. And why scrape a message as the tide is coming in? Why not just make an apologetic phone call and buy flowers. That’s what she’d do if she were a man. None of it made any sense.

As Jemma watched the tide nibble and slurp at the words, she began to think she’d somehow made them appear - just by being close to the sand. Maybe she’d made the other objects appear. Maybe her battered brain waves had inadvertently tuned into a ancient life-force and through a strange alchemy had turned sand into wood. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to remove those wooden icons. Maybe they were destined for the ocean. And maybe by taking them and planting them in her sideboard she’d disturbed some natural balance between the wood, the sand and the sea.

But in that case, a malevolent pagan spirit would hardly use it’s powers to inscribe a rather feeble apology on the sand. The message would surely be more ominous in tone - Cast my hand and my heart to the sea, before you are devoured by the ocean.

Maybe that’s what she was supposed to do. Maybe if she wrapped the hand, the heart and the face in a tea towel and threw them into the water as the tide turned, they would be carried out to sea. And there would be no more wooden objects. No more messages. It was worth a try.

Jemma scrambled up the rocks with the wooden objects knotted up in the tea towel. She drew back her hand to fling them into the waves, when she was startled by a sudden voice.

“The tide’s a bit high for a picnic.”

Jemma looked over her shoulder, and almost slipped into the water, as she saw Cindy smirking at her from the thin strip of beach.

“What are you trying to do?” asked Cindy. “Kill yourself or something?”

Jemma limped back from the rocks, sheepishly clutching her chequered cloth parcel.

“Christ, sorry!” said Cindy. “You weren’t really going to, were you?” She pointed to the wrapped carvings. “That’s not rocks in there is it? You know, to weigh you down and all.”

“Nothing so simple,” muttered Jemma.

She sat down on the sand a little way back from the water’s edge. Cindy looked slightly puzzled, but obligingly settled down beside her.

Jemma undid the knots in the cloth and tipped the hand, the heart and the face onto the sand.

Cindy picked up the hand. “Freaky,” she said. “Where did you get this from?”

“I found it on the beach a few days ago,” said Jemma, “then the heart and then this.” She picked up the face and passed it to Cindy.

“My God!” said Cindy. “That’s fucking amazing. Who did this for you?”

“I don’t know,” said Jemma. “It just appeared on the sand.”

“It can’t have just appeared,” said Cindy.

“Well, it did,” said Jemma. “One moment nothing there. The next moment my face sticking up out of the beach.”

“Wow!” said Cindy, tracing her fingers over the wooden fringe and then looking up to compare the carving with Jemma’s hairline. “That’d do my fucking head in.”

“It is,” said Jemma. “I was just going to chuck them all into the sea.”

“Wow, they’re just amazing.” said Cindy.

“You certainly can’t fault the carving,” said Jemma wryly.

“You must have an admirer,” said Cindy, her eyes bright with excitement, “leaving you these gifts.”

“I’m worried it’s more of a deranged stalker.” Jemma paused. “I was thinking of going to the police.”

“Shit a brick,” exclaimed Cindy. “It could be one of them mad killers.”

“That’s what I was beginning to think,” said Jemma.

“You want to be careful,” said Cindy. “If he thinks you’re messing him about!”

Jemma looked indignant. “I didn’t ask for any of this mental shit.”

“I know. But you know what I mean. If this mad geezer thinks you’ve spurned his affections, he could turn a bit funny.”

“That’s very helpful,” snapped Jemma.

“I’m only saying...”

Jemma put her hand on Cindy’s arm. “I’m sorry. All this - I just don’t know what to do.” Her voice crumbled away as she dissolved into tears.

“Oh come here,” said Cindy and wrapped Jemma’s head in her arms. “I ain’t going to let any mad bastard get near you.”

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes listening to the sea receding as Cindy gently rocked Jemma in her arms. After a bit, Jemma sat up and stared at the sea, arms wrapped around her knees.

Cindy tugged at tufts of marram grass. “So do you have any idea who might be leaving these for you?”

“Well, I thought at first it might be Mark - you know, my ex.”

Cindy nodded as she wrapped the thick grass stalks between her fingers. “He went a bit strange,” you said.

Jemma nodded. “He did. But, I haven’t seen him for years. And, besides, he’s no sculptor. There is supposed to be some kind of woodworkers’ club in the village. But, apparently, it’s mostly retired guys making wooden bowls - nothing like this.” She picked up the heart.

“Mental,” said Cindy. “It’s like when we had to dissect a sheep’s heart in biology.”

“Nice,” said Jemma.

Cindy shrugged, She took the heart from Jemma and turned it in her hands.

“Like a magnet, isn’t it.” said Jemma. “You can’t stop looking at it.”

As if to disprove her, Cindy placed the heart carefully back on the chequered cloth. “Well, whoever made it certainly knows about anatomy.”

“Like a surgeon, or a medical student, maybe,” suggested Jemma.

“Yea, like Jack the Ripper,” said Cindy.

“Thanks,” said Jemma.

Cindy looked her in the eye. “So you’ve got absolutely no clue at all who might be behind this?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

“Yea?”

“When I found the face I did think I saw someone disappearing up the coast path. I mean, I didn’t get a proper look at him. But I’m sure there was someone. I gave the guy a right mouthful. I was really screaming at him. ‘Why are you doing this to me? You crazy bastard!’ He must have heard me.”

“What, so he came back?” asked Cindy shuddering.

“No, he just disappeared. But - I know this is going to sound silly - this morning I went for an all day breakfast in the harbour café...”

“And he was in there?”

“No. I don’t even know what he looks like. But when I came out there was a message on the sand!”

“Shit, what did it say?”

“Something like, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, keep on walking’. But, I’m not even sure it was for me.”

“Could be,” said Cindy. She moved the grass stalks more quickly through her fingers as she pondered the information. Then her face suddenly lit up. “Hey! Why don’t you leave him a message back.”

“I don’t want to encourage the guy. Like you said, he’s probably a nutcase. Plus I don’t know even know the message was for me.”

“Yea, but what if it was? We could trap him,” said Cindy

“Oh come on - this isn’t an episode of CSI.”

“No listen. You could write him a message back arranging to meet him and...”

“I’m not sure about that.”

Cindy was suddenly right in Jemma’s face, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Listen. We arrange to meet him in the harbour café, right, at a certain time. Then...”

Jemma shook her head. “It’s just crazy. I wish I’d never said anything now!” Her tone softened slightly. “Look it’s really nice that you’re trying to help. But I just want to leave it for now OK?”

Cindy paused. “OK,” she said. “But don’t chuck that stuff.” She pointed to the carving. “We might need them as evidence.”

The next afternoon Jemma was snoozing in her comfy blue cardigan when she was startled by a sudden pounding on the door.

What now? she thought, struggling to straighten up in the armchair as her back went into spasm. She wrapped the oversized cardigan around herself, pushed her fringe over her forehead and hobbled to the door, irritation overriding any fear.

“Who is it?”

“Quick! Open up! It’s me.” Cindy was stood there red faced and breathless. “Come on!” She virtually dragged Jemma down the Parade to the harbour wall.

“Look,” she said. “He’s replied!”

On the sand was scrawled ‘2 P.M. Tuesday. Harbour Café’ in giant letters.

“Your work I take it?” said Jemma. “I did tell you not to.”

“But look,” said Cindy. “Look at the sticks.”

The letters O and K were laid out in pieces of driftwood.

“You didn’t do that bit then?” asked Jemma.

“No,” said Cindy. “Don’t you see? It’s him.”

“It could have been anyone,” said Jemma. “Probably one of your friends from the Dolphin.”

Cindy shook her head. “It’s definitely him. Look how neat the letters are - it’s like they’ve been printed down there.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was just like you said. I was watching the beach all the time from the window. I turned away for half a second. When I looked back, the words had just appeared. It was well spooky.”

“It’s probably just someone playing around,” said Jemma dismissively. “We don’t even know the first message was for me.”

“But it might be,” hissed Cindy. “That’s the point. You can find out who he is now.”

“No way,” said Jemma shaking her head and tightening her giant cardigan

“Come on,” said Cindy. “I’ll come with you.”

“This isn’t a game,” said Jemma.

Cindy was undeterred. “Look, all you have to do is get there a bit late. Have a look in through the window, then do a runner - well, you know what I mean. Then you can tell the police who you think it is.”

“It’s madness,” said Jemma. “There’s no way on God’s earth you’re going to get me anywhere near that café on Tuesday.”

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Flesh and Wood is © Copyright Roger Frederick 2005-2009 All Rights Reserved