The Dying Place

Shouts, cries, as he struggled free, the hood over his face keeping him in darkness.

‘Stop the van.’

The same voice as before, still calm, still low.

Goldie tried to stand, but the van pulling to a stop made him rock forward, off balance.

‘I told you to relax.’

Goldie spun, but wasn’t quick enough. His hands caught in mid-air as he tried to remove his hood. Strong grip on his wrist. Starting to twist.

Explosion in the side of his head as something smacked against it.

Then, as he fell to the floor, he wished for the complete darkness of unconsciousness – not just the vision of it. As the punches landed, the kicks and boots flew into his stomach, his ribs cracking one by one.

That tight grip on his wrist. Still there. Twisting, turning.

He cried out behind the duct tape sealing his mouth. No use.

The crack as his wrist snapped.

‘That’s enough. All of you.’

The blows stopped as he lay on the floor of the van, trying to hold his body together. Coughing up God knows what behind his gag. Trying not to choke. Trying to breathe, every intake of air through his nostrils not enough.

It somehow got darker behind the hood as his head lolled backwards.

The last thing he remembered was the voice again.

‘Start it up. Let’s get to the farm. Now.’

PART ONE (#ulink_d116ea68-73cd-5c9e-bcaf-625ebb90d4a2)

Take the coward vermin to the nearest safari park. Shatter one of its knees. Hamstring the maimed leg, then kick the disease out of a van in the middle of the lion enclosure. No cat can resist a limping, bleeding thing. Film it and show it daily at prime time for a month. I’d pay good money to watch this show happen live. It wants to live like an animal? Let the subhuman abortion die like one.

I suppose when a judge says something is ‘wicked’ he presumes the accused will wilt under the ‘tirade’. They may see the ugly side of life, but they simply do not understand it. Well, something that cowardly piece of rubbish would understand is a rope – or better still, piano wire. So what is wrong with visiting upon him the horror that family have gone through, doubtless are going through? Come on PC crowd, how are you going to side with this one?

**** **** and his type are not human. They are far, far beneath human. They are parasites who cause nothing but misery for real humans. People like this should be sterilised so their poisonous DNA is knocked out of the gene pool. What is it about these nasty folk who just roam around being vile? What can they possibly contribute to society other than destruction and misery?

Top-rated online comments from news story of teenage murderer

1 (#ulink_66f5e5b1-ad77-5899-a2ce-1f3caf5bd61f)

More sleep. Just a little bit more …

Detective Inspector David Murphy hit the snooze button on the alarm for the third time, silencing the noise which had cut through his drift into deeper sleep once again. He refused to open his eyes, knowing the early morning light would pierce the curtains and give him an instant headache.

A voice came from beside him.

‘What time is it?’

He grunted in reply, already knowing he wasn’t going to float away into slumber now. A few late nights and early starts and he was struggling. Age catching up with him. Closing in on forty faster than he’d expected.

‘You need to get up. You’ll be late for work.’

Murphy yawned and turned over to face Sarah, away from the window. Risked opening one eye, the room still brighter than he’d guessed. ‘Do I have to?’

Sarah sat up, taking his half of the duvet cover with her and exposing his chest to the cold of the early morning.

‘Yes,’ she replied, shucking off the cover and pulling on her dressing gown. ‘Now get up and get dressed. There’s a fresh shirt and trousers in the wardrobe.’

‘Five more minutes.’

‘No, now. Stop acting like a teenager and get your arse in gear. I’ve got work as well, you know.’

‘Fine,’ Murphy replied, opening his other eye and squinting against the light. ‘But can you at least stick some coffee on before you start getting ready? I tried using that frigging maker thing yesterday and almost lobbed it through the window.’

‘Okay. But you have to read the instructions at some point.’

Murphy snorted and sloped through to the bathroom. Turned the shower on and lifted the toilet seat, the shower tuning out the noise from downstairs as Sarah fussed in the kitchen.

He needed a lie-in. Twelve or so hours of unbroken sleep – now that would be nice.

It wasn’t even work causing his tiredness. Nothing major had come through CID in the previous few months. Everyone at the station was trying to look busy so they weren’t moved to a busier division in Liverpool. All too scared to use the ‘Q---T’ word. It was just slow or calm. Never the ‘Q’ word. That was just an invitation for someone to shit on your doorstep. A few fraud cases, assaults in the city centre and the usual small-fry crap that was the day-to-day of their lives in North Liverpool. Nothing juicy.

Murphy buttoned up his shirt and opened the curtains to the early May morning. Rain. Not chucking it down, just the drizzle that served as a constant reminder you were in the north of England.

The peace in work was a good thing, he thought. Just over a year on from the case which had almost cost him his life, he should have been grateful for the tranquillity of boring cases and endless paperwork. At least he wasn’t lying at the bottom of a concrete staircase in a pitch-black cellar, a psychopath looming over him.

He had to look at the positives.

Murphy left the bedroom, stepping over paint-splattered sheets, paint tins and the stepladders which festooned the landing.

The cause of his late nights.

He’d gone into decorating overdrive, determined to have something to do in his spare time. Started with the dining room, which hadn’t seen a paintbrush since they’d bought the house a few years earlier. Now he was back living there, reunited with his wife after a year apart following his parents’ death, it was time to make the house look decent. Sarah was often busy in the evenings with lesson planning and marking due to her teaching commitments, so he would have otherwise just been staring at the TV, and he’d done enough of that when he lived on his own.

Sarah had started teaching just as they got married. Her past put behind her, a successful degree course, and a clean CRB check was all she needed. That, and a large amount of luck, given her ability to never actually be arrested for any of the stupid stuff she’d done in the past. Murphy had never expected that last bit to hold.

Murphy entered the kitchen just as Sarah was pouring out a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Cheers, wife. Need this.’ He brushed her cheek with his lips as she slipped past him.

‘I’ve only got half an hour to get ready now, husband. Work out how to use the thing yourself, okay? Or we’re going back to Nescafé.’ She stopped at the doorway. ‘Oh, and remember you promised we’d go out tonight.’

Friday already. The week slipping past without him noticing. ‘Of course. I’ve booked a table.’

She stared at him for a few seconds, those blue eyes studying his expression. ‘No you haven’t. But you will do, right? Tear yourself away from your paintbrush, Michelangelo, and treat your wife.’

Murphy sighed and nodded. ‘No problem.’