Out of Reach Read online

  “I need to know who they are,” Schaefer said, standing firm as Baker drew toe-to-toe with him.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Baker asked with growing incredulity. “After what you’ve just done?”

  “I need to know who they were,” Schaefer said as he took the crumpled, rotted plastic bag he’d found by the side of the road out of his pocket. He unwrapped it to reveal two bloody index fingers inside.

  “Are those…” Baker trailed off, dismayed. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Schaefer replied. “I caught them. One of them killed the other, and then turned the gun on himself.”

  “You didn’t kill them?” Baker sought confirmation.

  “They’re no use to me dead, Paul,” Schaefer protested. “These men had something to do with Amber’s disappearance. I know it.”

  Baker looked at his brother, who shook his head slowly.

  “This is it, Schaefer,” Baker said. “I do this, and we’re through. I don’t need this shit in my life.”

  Schaefer nodded. Another door closed. The circle of his life becoming ever smaller. His attempts to stay afloat becoming ever more desperate. He placed the rumpled carrier bag on Baker’s desk, and backed out of the room. Baker went to check his brother’s head.

  “I’m sorry,” Schaefer said quietly.

  Baker turned and looked at him coldly.

  There was nothing more to be said, so Schaefer left. As he walked down the stairs he heard Billy observe to his older brother, “Fucking nutjob!”

  “Tell me about it,” Baker replied. “Does this hurt?”

  Whatever Baker was doing must have been painful, because Schaefer heard Billy yowl and then exclaim, “Fuck, Paul! I don’t need you mashing my skull as well!”

  Well and truly alone, Schaefer opened the heavy metal door and stepped into the night.

  TWENTY FOUR

  Remember this.

  Schaefer woke with a start. His cold cheek was firmly pressed against the cold glass of the night bus window. He had been dreaming of a different time, another life that he felt was his, but which he could never reach. Remember this. There was great sorrow in the words, but Schaefer could not tell whether it was the sadness of something forgotten, or whether there was suffering in whatever it was he failed to remember. Remember this. Schaefer pushed his palm against his forehead and pressed hard. Frustration, anger at himself, sorrow. He strained to remember, but no matter how hard he pushed, there was nothing there.

  “Fucking mentalist.”

  The whispered words caught Schaefer by surprise. He looked around the crowded upper deck for their source. Night workers travelling home after performing their nocturnal role in keeping London running, drunk students on their way back from one of the city’s many Monday ‘two drinks for the price of one’ clubs nights. And then there was him; an investigator. Drunk. A father hunting for his missing girl. Lunatic. A military man. Fucking mentalist.

  “You don’t know me!” Schaefer yelled at fellow passengers. “You just don’t!”

  A couple of people rolled their eyes. Two young men near the front of the bus whispered to one another and broke into jeering smiles. Everyone else was well trained in the London art of avoiding eye contact with strangers. Expert in the art of pretending nothing had happened. Schaefer wondered why he couldn’t pretend nothing had happened. Be like Sarah and the rest of the world, and move on.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” Schaefer informed his fellow passengers.

  He looked out of the window and registered his surroundings.

  “I didn’t ask for this,” Schaefer repeated to himself, as he stood and pressed the button that alerted the driver of his desire to get off.

  *

  The rain felt good. Cleansing. Schaefer staggered away from the bus, his legs finding the form once again. He had ridden around on three night buses, drifting in and out of sleep, while he worked out what to do next. On the second bus he had realised that there was only one person who could help him. Schaefer checked his watch; quarter to five. Early, but an acceptable time to call in an emergency. He stepped through fast forming puddles and walked towards the large double-fronted Victorian house that loomed ahead of him.

  Schaefer pounded on the front door for some time before he heard a window open above him.

  “Who’s there?” Ellen Ovitz asked from above him.

  Schaefer stepped back and looked up.

  “Thomas? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” Schaefer replied. “I need help.”

  *

  The tea smelt good. Lady Grey with a slice of lemon. Schaefer could smell it from the large dining room that adjoined the galley kitchen. He sat alone at the long oak table. A relic of a time when the house had been alive with people. Ellen had often talked of her life before her husband, Michael, had passed away. The two of them had been active socialites, with self-admittedly tenuous connections to the lower echelons of minor royalty. Ellen’s social form was strongest in the arts. She said there was something about creative people that drew them to psychics, and counselled many artists, filmmakers and musicians. Long ago, her huge house had buzzed with lively parties populated by London’s boldest and brightest. Now, there was just work, Ellen’s desire to celebrate had passed away with her husband. Schaefer looked at the oil painting of the distinguished man that watched him from the far wall. A member of England’s landed gentry, Michael had scandalised his family by marrying a divorced psychic. Ellen never talked about her first husband, but Schaefer had always sensed a dark secret.

  Schaefer was surrounded by the legacy of Ellen’s marriage into an old English family. A huge oak sideboard that dominated the room, an antique mahogany armoire, and chairs that looked like they dated back to the Norman Conquest. Every surface was covered with small antiques and bric-a-brac that had some financial or sentimental value. The only surface that was relatively free of expensive clutter was the expansive table. A pair of laden fruit bowls resided at the far end, nearest Michael’s portrait. In the centre was a large glass vase that was crowded with fragrant, oriental lilies. Hanging on the wall, between the two French doors that opened onto Ellen’s lush garden, was an unusual sixteenth century ceramic clock formed in the shape of a shooting star. Schaefer found its loud ticking soothing; there was something reassuring about the definite way it marked the passing of each moment.

  “Things always look better over a cup of tea,” Ellen said as she shuffled to the table. She handed a Schaefer a large fine bone china mug, and placed her own on a silver coaster, as she took her place at the head of the table. She managed to look regal in spite of the midnight hair and shabby pink dressing gown.

  “I told you not to take the offer, Thomas,” Ellen observed sadly. “I told you not to take it.”

  The words were said in the tone of a mother sad that her child had touched a hot kettle despite warnings not too. Empathy and concern, rather than chiding, which made Schaefer feel even worse.

  “I knew Edward Lomas by reputation,” Ellen continued. “He was said to be a very powerful man. His passing is a great loss to the world.”

  “He said you could help me.”

  “I tried,” Ellen countered softly. “I tried. You said terrible things to me, Thomas. Do you remember?”

  Schaefer nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Schaefer said. “This is so alien to me. I’m a practical man.”

  “Are you religious, Thomas?”

  “Not anymore,” Schaefer replied.

  “Some people believe the Bible is no more than a fairy tale,” Ellen explained. “I believe it is an accurate history of the times. Throughout the Bible, God speaks to man. Think about that for a moment. If God spoke in the past, why do we not expect him to speak now? Do you think that God has stopped talking? Or that man has stopped listening?”

  Ellen paused and took a sip of her tea. She winced, and put the cup down.

  “Still too hot,” she obse
rved. “What you call alien was regarded as normal for thousands of years. People tried to connect with something better than themselves to nourish their spirits. The few of us who still seek such nourishment can develop sight beyond sight. We can see the truth. Beyond fear, beyond distortion, beyond anger. We can see the truth in all its simple beauty.”

  “Lomas said the man who sent me to find him was evil,” Schaefer said, as he considered Ellen’s words.

  “There is another path,” Ellen replied quietly. “Some say that it is easier, but it is not one that I could face.”

  Ellen pushed her chair back and stood up to reach across the table. She pulled one of the long-stemmed lilies from the vase and placed it in front of her.

  “This flower here is me,” Ellen said, pointing to one of the blooms on the stem. “And this one is you. We are connected. In my world I seek to use this connection to better understand you. To nurture you. To help you. Working through many more connections, on a much larger connection, and by communing with that which is and which is not, I can use my gift to hear echoes of the future.”

  Ellen stared at the stem, and Schaefer followed her eyes, which blazed with an intensity he had never seen. The change was almost imperceptible at first, but it quickly became apparent that the flowers on the stem were wilting at an unnatural pace. The stem itself was withering away.

  “How are you doing that?” Schaefer asked incredulously.

  “There are those who do not seek to understand,” Ellen replied, her concentration never wavering. “By turning to darkness, they corrupt themselves. But there is freedom in that corruption; they can spread it. Darkness is merely the absence of light. Light takes energy. It requires positive existence. Darkness is simply absence.”

  The tips of the desiccated petals were now turning black, but still Ellen continued to inflict ugly transformation on the flower.

  “Instead of understanding, these people seek to control. They use fear and violence to bend the world to their lies. The darker they become, the more fear they can create. The more fear they create, the more power they wield. That is evil.”

  Ellen relaxed, and sat back down in her chair. The flower in front of her was blackened and dead.

  “How did you do that?” Schaefer asked.

  “The gift, Thomas. Or rather a savage distortion of it,” Ellen said, as she took a sip of her tea. “Or did you think you’d been wasting your time coming to see a charlatan? What I said before stands true; you must forget about your daughter and choose a different path. Only by doing so can you save yourself.”

  Schaefer bridled at the suggestion. Already his mind was trying to find ways to rationalise what he had just seen in an effort to resist the spiritual implications. The flower might have been a prop that Ellen kept in case she needed to demonstrate her power. There might be a heater built into the table. When she touched it, she could have covered it with a strong acid or alkaline. There were plenty of possibilities that were more plausible than what she proposed.

  “I need answers, not sermons,” Schaefer said testily. He stood up and stepped away from the table.

  “This isn’t like ordering ice cream, Thomas,” Ellen said with more than a hint of exasperation. “You’re asking me to see the unseeable. It is difficult and it does not always come in a form we would like. I simply know that you must give up.”

  Schaefer recoiled at the suggestion. The search for Amber defined him. What kind of man could he be if he let his daughter slip away?

  “The violence you experienced yesterday. The bloodshed? The murder? These are just a taste of the evil that will befall you if you continue on your path,” Ellen warned.

  “You’re asking me to give up!” Schaefer railed against the idea.

  “I’m asking you to take a leap of faith,” Ellen countered softly.

  Schaefer cracked a wry smile. This woman didn’t understand him. She didn’t understand what he was going through. No one could.

  “I lost my faith a long time ago,” Schaefer said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Thanks for the tea.”

  Schaefer turned and steamed out, leaving a disappointed Ellen in his wake.

  “I haven’t done this right,” she called out to him. “Give me another chance! Thomas! Please listen! You stubborn man!”

  *

  The front door closed behind him with a satisfying finality. The rain had stopped and the soft glow in the sky hinted at the oncoming dawn and the promise of a new day. Schaefer walked away from Ellen’s house more determined than ever. Sometimes it took enmity to be reminded of one’s true purpose. In that respect, his visit had been a success. The self-pitying, confused mess of a man who had entered her house died inside it. The man who emerged was strong enough to take on the world and win. Schaefer promised himself that when he and Amber were reunited, they would return to visit Ellen Ovitz and prove to her that everything she believed was wrong.

  TWENTY FIVE

  The first trains were running by the time Schaefer reached Dulwich station. The carriage was sparsely populated; a few well-to-do lawyers and stockbrokers trying to conceal their wealth under heavy, plain coats. One or two of them tried to sneak surreptitious glances, but Schaefer was aware they were looking at him, and let them know it. He stared back with hard indignation that told them he had just as much right to be on this train as them. One of the men got up and moved to another carriage. The second sidled along the bench seat, until he was out of Schaefer’s sight. Masters of the universe? Cowards to a man. As the train bounced and rocked its way into London, Schaefer caught himself nodding off, waking with a start every minute or so, his head snapping back from a wild loll. Eventually, fatigue took hold and carried him away.

  To the dream. A dark castle. Stone under foot. Worn. Ancient. Flicker of light ahead. A corridor lined with statues of the long dead. The knowledge of darkness ahead. But a compulsion to approach. Something hard and cold in the hand. A knife? No. Heavier. Look down. The long blade catches the light. A broadsword. Razor sharp. A liveried tunic. A mail shirt. A warrior. A quest. Vengeance. Closer to the light now. An archway. A throne room. Tapestries. Paintings. Treasures of a rich kingdom. The throne glorious gold and red. But empty. No king. Step forward. Dread. Clasp the sword firmly. Step forward. A flicker in the corner. Movement behind the throne. Shadows coalesce. Terror. Hold strong. Shadows and darkness form around the throne. Swirling death. Step forward. Darkness congeals into a shape. A figure. A Spectre. Tall. Long muscular arms. Talons. Pure, faceless evil. Step forward. A black sword materialises. The Spectre strikes out. Fight. The broadsword rises. The sound of clashing blades rings out. The Spectre attacks. Fast. Furious. The swords dance. Too slow. You’re human, nothing more. Too slow. The broadsword is too late to a parry, and is knocked from his hand. Skid. Clatter. The Spectre strikes out with an ethereal fist and he feels the chill force of the blow. Flying. Fast. The smash of bone against stone. Hard. Head wet with blood. Darkness closing in. Hold strong. Fight. Reach for the broadsword. Clasp the hilt. Hold strong. Spin. Toss the sword to the strong hand. Fight. Furious exchange of blows. An opening. A thrust. The searing pain of a sword plunged into the heart of evil. An inhuman scream. Darkness destroyed. Victory. Vengeance. Hold strong.

  Schaefer woke to find the carriage empty and the train at a standstill in London Bridge Station. He rubbed his face and got to his feet. Dreams. Messages. Voices. The only thing that mattered was the action of flesh. Never look for meaning in the dreams of a mind that can be deceived. Schaefer left the train and headed for Kennington.

  *

  Drunks. Skanks. Deadbeats. The detritus of humanity shuffling past on a daily basis. It had to harden a heart. Schaefer considered the uniformed police officer behind the counter in the lobby of Kennington Police Station and wondered just how warped she had become. Was the smile and sympathetic look that she gave the parents of a missing kid simply for show? Deep down, everyone has something to hide. Everyone is guilty. The lobby was business with the usual mix
of people coming to report crimes mingling with those who probably perpetrated them. Schaefer shuffled about impatiently. He had been told that his inquiry was being dealt with.

  The security door opened and a young plainclothes officer emerged from the heart of the station. He approached the counter and the warped young officer singled Schaefer out for him. Plainclothes stepped forward.

  “Mr Schaefer,” Plainclothes began. “I’ve asked around. Nobody’s seen Detective Noel for a couple of days. He phoned in sick.”

  “I need to find someone he introduced me to,” Schaefer responded. “Someone from the security services. It’s urgent.”

  Schaefer could tell by the greenhorn’s expression that he doubted the veracity of Schaefer’s words, but he was too much of a civilised human to articulate his scepticism.

  “Are you a friend of his?” was all he asked.

  “Kind of,” Schaefer replied hesitantly. “We’ve worked together.”

  “If you give me your name, I can try to get a message to him,” Plainclothes offered.

  Schaefer shook his head slowly.

  “No. Thanks. It’s better if I talk to him directly.”

  “Can I at least take your name?” Plainclothes persisted. Schaefer could tell from the tone that this conversation was no longer about human interest; it was motivated by the possibility that Schaefer posed a threat.

  “You’re alright,” Schaefer said, as he backed away. “I’ll catch up with him myself.”

  He turned and stepped through the automatic doors, into the grey South London air.

  *

  Bethnal Green Road. It had been real once. Dirty, shady, and crooked, but real. All that had been lost to the tidal wave of gentrification that had swept east of Hoxton. Frothy swells that carried chain pubs, fast food joints, and bookies had washed away any character and left the sediment of modern capitalism in their place. Even the down and dirty off-licence that the local kids relied on to sell them booze. In its place, at the foot of Noel’s apartment block, was a very convenient, completely soulless Tesco Metro. Schaefer had checked Noel out about four years ago, when they worked their first case together. With no way to gauge the strength or reach of a cult, Schaefer had to carry out his own background checks of everyone he worked with to ensure they weren’t compromised by any untoward affiliations. Noel’s block was a huge, sprawling building that dominated the north side of Bethnal Green Road, near the tube station. Cityview House. It was in the city, but for most of the flats there wasn’t much of a view. It was encircled by old warehouses that had been converted into pokey flats for young professionals brimming with dreams of making their mark on London.