Threadbare Read online

  “You’re going to be filthy, look at your trousers!”

  Owen brushed a hand down his thigh. “I’ll sort that when I find the ring.”

  “Where did you say you saw it fall?”

  “It struck my shoe and then just … well … vanished. I’m sure it shot under here.”

  Hannah ran her hand around the cushion of the chair until her fingers felt the metal’s contrasting cold. It was the ring.

  “It’s here, on the chair.” She held it out. “It’s here.”

  Owen looked up. “Give it to me, Déagol,” he whispered, changing his voice to give a more sinister edge as he sat up dusting himself off.

  Hannah frowned but stepped back as she held out her hand to help him up, not that her petite size would help. Owen’s build and strength would probably pull her over.

  “It’s not your birthday!” she answered, using the script she recalled from the film they had recently watched, as she handed him the ring. “You really need to take a lot more care. Leave it in the box and the box in your pocket.” She held out the ring.

  Owen took the ring bringing it close to his face before mumbling, “My precious,” mimicking the film character before staring down at Hannah and then returning the ring to the box. “Frightened myself to bloody death, imagine if I’d lost it, Cyril would strangle me! Thank you.”

  “Well?”

  “I found this fifty pence and this.” He held up the wrapped sweet.

  Hannah hung her head before pointing her hands to her clothing, her face growing red, more out of frustration than anger. “I neither care about the money nor the sweet. How do I look, for goodness sake? And if he doesn’t strangle you by the end of today, I might.”

  Owen pulled a face realising he had been thoughtless. “Lovely, sorry, lovely, yes. Is it new?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Bloody men!” She checked her watch and then moved to the window. The taxi was waiting.

  “Give us all strength!” she mumbled, turning back to Owen who was perched on the arm of the chair, his head down. “Owen?”

  “I was just thinking about Cyril.” He looked across at her. “I don’t think I know anyone else who has such inner strength and personal commitment in everything he does. Being divorced from his family for so long because of the courage of his conviction must have helped him become the person he is; the same strength and fortitude his mother had when she knowingly handed over her husband and then her son to her best friend, Wendy, knowing she was soon to die.”

  Hannah moved across and put her hands to each side of his face. “I know, I’ve talked to Julie about it. His mum and Wendy are truly remarkable women.”

  “I don’t know whether I’ll keep it together when they play The Lark Ascending. It’s the strings and the thought of …” He did not finish. The sound of the taxi’s horn interrupted him. “That’s why her wedding gift is so right. It’s as if it were meant to be.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Cyril’s mother had played the piece of music to Cyril as a child and he had requested it be played during the ceremony.

  Owen smiled. “Yes, fine. I’ll be fine and to think he asked me to be his best man, Hannah. Imagine, best man!”

  “Remember how special you are in all of this.”

  ***

  Cyril was already standing outside the door of The Boar’s Head, Ripley. He watched as a wisp of white vapour from his electronic cigarette played briefly in the warm air before vanishing like a dawn ghost without trace. It was as if it were exorcising the memories and the internal angst that had tormented him since that day, the day he saw his father with another woman. Finding her to be his mother’s best friend, Wendy, brought confusion and uncertainty to his young mind. Only later did he realise that it was his mother’s plan to ensure he grew up with a mother and a woman who would love and cherish both him and her husband. However, even the best intentions go astray, and as far as Cyril was concerned, the action had brought trauma and fear, especially where forming relationships with members of the opposite sex was concerned.

  He smiled inwardly as a robin landed onto one of the wooden benches just to his side and began to sing. Not the lark I was expecting but you’ll do, he said to himself. He inhaled again and allowed the white vapour to leave his lips. It curled before forming a small yet almost perfect ring; it seemed so apposite, a sign and he naturally looked towards the heavens.

  Wendy had nipped to the toilet; she seemed so nervous. He looked across at the church. Its ancient grey stone was the colour of elephant skin and equally as rough and it was nestled nonchalantly behind trees, the strength of its tower dominating the surrounding area. There was something special about Ripley; the quiet, the history, the birdsong. Positioned a few miles from Harrogate, church and castle offered the perfect wedding venue.

  His peaceful reflection was disturbed as Owen’s taxi turned off the road onto the cobblestones bringing a deep, rhythmic rumble. Cyril could see Owen’s hand waving from the open window and he wondered just what sartorial elegance would greet him. Surely Hannah would have ensured that his shoes were clean, that he had a handkerchief and a new tie. At that moment Wendy appeared. Other cars began to muster and fill the car park. Cyril turned to his stepmother and smiled.

  “Here we go, but before we do, I just want to say …” He paused as his hand went to his pocket, “I want to say thank you for a mother’s love.” He took out a box and held it on the palm of his outstretched hand before opening it. Wendy looked at the diamond and sapphire white gold bracelet before lifting her gaze to Cyril. She could not hide her surprise.

  “I thought it would match your outfit and your eyes.” He smiled.

  Wendy paused before looking back at the jewellery. “My eyes aren’t blue, Cyril, surely you know …”

  Cyril put a finger to her lips. “The happy tears we will both shed will be the matching diamonds.”

  He winked at her. They both laughed. Cyril wrapped it round her wrist and then he kissed her.

  “Morning.” Owen’s eagerness and enthusiasm were tangible. He touched Cyril’s elbow. “Morning, Wendy. Well how are we both doing? Legs of jelly and stomachs a bag of bees?” Owen asked as he lifted his hand and slapped Cyril on the back before smiling at Wendy. “You’ve met Hannah.”

  Wendy smiled at Hannah.

  “Come on, sir. We should go in.”

  “Cyril, Owen. Sir will do from tomorrow but for today, it’s Cyril.”

  Owen could not recall a time when he had ever referred to his boss as Cyril. It had never been suggested and never presumed. Even when they had a pint together the one-sided formality remained. He felt a warm glow of emotion well up inside his huge frame as he wrestled the word to his lips. “Er … Cyril, sir ... we should go in.”

  Chapter Four

  There was little sound but the lights from the several different glass tanks created unusual patterns across the walls and ceiling. Some tanks were covered, their own internal light, set to a timer, brought the change of the day. The strip light, mounted centrally within the room, was off and the blackout curtain closed permanently blanking the small window. In an upstairs room the radio was on and the shipping forecast could be heard. Forties, Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Dogger – south or south west four, five decreasing three at times. Showers decreasing – good occasionally moderate. Apart from that and the occasional movement from one of the tanks, there was nothing. Even the outside traffic did not seem to penetrate. The room remained like this permanently, as if cocooned. Only in the morning things changed but the familiar smell remained. It was unusual, but not unpleasant.

  The peace was broken as the door swung wide allowing a dagger of light to stab the darkness, silhouetting a figure in the open doorway. A hand found the switch resulting in the fluorescent tube spluttering into life with the occasional click and quickly illuminating every corner of the room. Carrying a highsided tray, the figure went to each vivarium in turn, made a selection from the tray and after lifting the lid or
the cloth cover and lid, dropped in the item. Later, water bowls would be changed but initially, food was the requirement. Removing her thick gloves, she checked her watch. It was five thirty in the morning. The shop would not open for another three hours. She would, as usual, go back to bed.

  ***

  The call had come into control at eight. The early morning carer had arrived at the house late; traffic had been at a standstill on Forest Road in Knaresborough, making it impossible for her to meet her appointed time. Nothing had been moving down Forest Moor Road. She was told that the police were investigating a fatal traffic accident and from what she could make out, it involved a young woman cyclist. Barbara had moved her car to the side of the road allowing the emergency vehicles through before being directed towards a diversion.

  On arrival at her client’s home, everything appeared normal. Retrieving the key from the safe mounted on the wall she had entered the compact bungalow. George would almost certainly be in bed. She moved through to the kitchen to make him a pot of tea and prepare the table for breakfast. The daily routine was the same: wash the few dishes from his evening meal, prepare his breakfast, usually cereal and toast and marmalade, then straighten the living room before nipping along to his bedroom to help him shower and dress. She checked her watch against the cooker’s clock; she had skipped some of her routine as time was now against her.

  Even though she had done this for the past four months, she failed to notice the subtle changes. The kitchen door was ajar, normally it would be closed, the curtains in the living room were not drawn, the glass that held his usual nightcap was not on the coffee table by the armchair and if she had looked, certain tablets in his daily medical box remained. Had she noticed any of these things, she might have been suspicious but the morning delay meant she had to work quickly.

  It is never easy finding a client dead. It would not be the first time and she knew that it would not be the last, it was the nature of the job. You can’t work with eggs without finding the odd one broken in the box, she had been told during her training and it had made her giggle before the gravity of the statement hit home. The thought of being alone in a house with a body, to be the first to find a corpse made her shudder. However, she quickly looked on the positive side of the job and tried to keep the cracked egg analogy separate from her daily work. After her first experience she seemed to grow a second skin and be able to detach the person from the lifeless body.

  It depended too on the person. Somehow this was different and therefore difficult. She was fond of George and she knew that he liked her. He was kind and considerate, not like some. He often showed his gratitude by way of offering small gifts; the odd fiver now and then. It was usually in an envelope with the words ‘Thank you’ in spidery font. She always made a note in her private diary when this happened adding the date. She had also asked the others in the group if they too received similar gifts and it appeared that George was grateful for all the help he received.

  She found him, sitting on the toilet, his pyjamas lodged around his calves, his head slightly to the right. The red line running from each nostril, the left seemingly stronger than the right before reaching the edge of his slightly gaping mouth, was shocking. The fresh blood still shone. It was then that she saw the twitch, the movement that caused her heart to bounce in her chest and for her to step back, an audible gasp escaping from her mouth.

  “George?” Her voice was wavering and desperate, she moved closer to the old man. It was then, even in the dim light of the confined space, that she noticed the swelling to his right foot, it appeared blistered and bleeding, positioned just below the bottom of his pyjama leg. “George!” Leaning forward she touched the flaccid arm that hung to his side; the pale skin was old and wrinkled like translucent dried parchment but it was warm. She moved closer, noticing that one eye was partially open yet the other closed. Moving her right hand to the side of his head she gently moved it to the vertical and his lips moved, releasing a gurgle followed by what appeared to be a mix of blood and vomit.

  Without hesitation she turned and ran back to the kitchen, picked up her phone and dialled the emergency services.

  “Ambulance, please hurry …” She went through the questions trying to keep calm. Had George been dead on her arrival she would have taken it in her stride as she knew the procedure, but to see him like this, neither one thing nor the other, brought with it a degree of panic. The room seemed unnaturally quiet as she settled herself. She knew she should have remained with George but she could not stay within the confines of the toilet. The amalgamated stench of vomit and faeces was too strong. She would keep the door open and listen for any further movement.

  “Tea, Barbara, that’s what you need, tea,” she said out loud as if trying to reassure herself that she had done all that she could. Her hand was shaking as she brought the mobile phone down and placed it on the table. She knew that she could do nothing for George. “You’re a carer not a nurse. You’ve done all you can.” Checking her watch, she expected to hear a siren within minutes.

  The small teapot was still where she had placed it and the kettle was full. She flicked the switch and sat at the kitchen table, the plastic floral covering cold and sticky to the touch. She stared at the phone. She needed to call her supervisor to advise her that she might not get to her next appointment. The day was rapidly going from bad to worse. It was then that she heard it, like water on a hot plate – surely the kettle had not splashed water onto the cooker and if it had, the cooker should not be on. She stood quickly to check and felt something under her foot; it was then that she felt the pain in her right calf.

  Immediately she moved her hand down to the site of the discomfort only to feel the same agonising pain strike her hand. Straightening, she brought her clenched fist near her face. She screamed as she saw what had caused the pain. Two growing jewel-like beads of blood swelled, bursting and running to the end of her index finger and falling together before splashing in unison onto the linoleum tiles. What started as drops became a single stream. Barbara moved to the worksurface and grabbed the kitchen roll, swiftly wrapping the absorbent paper round the wound before pulling her hand close to her chest. Slowly, to her dismay, the wet blood began to bloom through the flowery patterned paper. Suddenly she felt her temperature rise but it was the pain in her calf that seemed to focus her mind as she squeezed her wrapped hand more tightly with more of the roll. It was then the nausea came, suddenly in waves and her head began to spin. Steadying herself she managed to sit and lean her upper body on the table. She heard the kettle switch off but darkness was quickly closing down her senses.

  The sound of a distant siren played somewhere in her head and seemed to enhance the severe pain that she felt ravage her entire body; everything seemed to throb with the fast beat of her heart and she allowed herself to succumb to the darkness that brought some relief. She neither sensed nor saw the figure standing in the hallway who mimicked in a whisper the sound of a siren. The intruder watched as Barbara slipped into unconsciousness. Now was the time to move, collect what had caused the damage as carefully as possible and put it in a small sack. A quick check ensured that there was not a thread of evidence to bear fruit for Forensics, apart, that is, from two casualties. Moving quickly to the shed he lifted the lid of the metal box and removed what he needed before adding a thick thread from a plastic bag and allowing the snake to fall in. The lid was closed leaving a small gap and the latch partially locked. He was done and soon he would be gone. He could hear the sound of a siren. There was no more time.

  ***

  The first responder’s Skoda Octavia parked behind Barbara’s car. Within minutes, Peter Holgate had pulled a large, medical bag from the boot of the estate vehicle. The blue strobe lights continued to flash, reflecting from the yellow strips that ran around the lower legs of his trousers. As he dashed up the path his extended hand banged on the door. He noticed that the key safe was open to the left of the entrance and the key was in the door. Turning it, he immediatel
y tried the door. It opened. It was then that he saw Barbara, her upper body spread across the table. Blood flowed from her nostrils and the corner of her mouth. He also saw the kitchen roll, now almost totally red, tucked under her right breast. The report he had received was for an elderly male not a female and Pete’s inner alarm sounded as he assessed the patient. There was a pulse and he detected that she was trying to move and speak. He signalled for her to remain still and stay just as she was before he investigated the other rooms in search of the original patient.

  Seeing George and the similarity of their symptoms immediately alerted him. The attack by the nerve agent Novichok in Salisbury came immediately to mind and he called Control. He could clearly see that the victims had vomited, they were both showing signs of a distressed mental state. He smelled the air. From what he remembered from the training that had been put into place soon after the nerve agent attack, another key symptom was involuntary faecal incontinence but there was clearly no sign of that or at least not currently and not that he could detect. With the victim within the confines of the toilet it was to be expected and it was this that brought the uncertainty.

  He called Control. “Just be aware. I’m going to monitor the patients but we could be dealing with an unknown hazardous substance. Operation Plus Five, I say again Operation Plus Five as a preliminary precaution. I’ve been present,” he looked at his watch, “four minutes. Still feeling fine. I’ve activated my bodycam so you can monitor the room, patients and my condition.”

  The person receiving the call in Control repeated his instruction. “Operation Plus Five is now activated. Stay where you are and monitor the patients. We can see that your bodycam is live.”

  Operation Plus Five would bring the North Yorkshire Hazardous Area Response Team (HART) who, whilst co-ordinating with the resilience and specialist team, would organise the safe extraction of the victims before checking the site and identifying the reason for the patients’ condition. If the first responder failed to show signs similar to those first victims whilst being in close proximity to the two casualties, the scenario might not be as serious as was first thought. However, a moderate exclusion zone would be brought into play and any neighbours immediately checked and quarantined.