Out of Reach Read online

  “Can you see, Mr Schaefer? Can you see how beautiful he makes us?”

  Schaefer was daunted by the task ahead of him, but stepped forward to undertake it with grim determination.

  *

  The atrium was filled with the sounds of men crying and groaning with the pain of their injuries, but as the few who were conscious struggled to their feet to deal with the aftermath of Schaefer’s assault, a horrific noise filled the building. Obsidian’s screams echoed around the place, and half-a-dozen acolytes who were able, slowly climbed the steps towards the top floor, drawn by the intense mix of pain and perverse pleasure in their master’s howls. Bruised, battered and bleeding, the men gathered outside Obsidian’s chamber and listened to the terrible sounds coming from within. These men were free of concern; they had heard similar sounds before. Most of their faces betrayed a perverse fascination with what was going on behind the closed double doors.

  *

  Schaefer had worked on Obsidian for the most brutal fifteen minutes of his life. He’d sliced off the tips of his fingers on his right hand, removed three whole digits from the left. When that had no effect, Schaefer cut into his thigh, then took off two toes from his left foot. The sword didn’t seem to have any effect, so Schaefer resorted to old fashioned beating, and pummelled the man with his fists, battering every inch of his body. Still Obsidian did nothing but scream, and Schaefer could not help but feel the sick bastard was getting some sort of twisted satisfaction from the experience. The bloody mess at Schaefer’s feet would take months to heal, but it still yielded no secrets. Schaefer burned with frustration and rage. He kicked Obsidian in the ribs, and heard the sound of them cracking.

  “Tell me what you know!” Schaefer yelled. “Where’s my daughter?”

  The butchered pulp that had once been Obsidian’s face turned towards Schaefer, and the gaping maw of a mouth opened into a broad, gap-toothed smile. Schaefer’s blood boiled, and he punched the grotesque man square in the face, spraying blood everywhere and knocking Obsidian down.

  Remember this.

  The words cut through Schaefer’s anger and his shoulders sagged with a sudden sense of failure. He had failed to remember the one important thing he had instructed himself not to forget. And now, with the man directly responsible for Amber’s abduction at his feet, Schaefer could not extract her location. Obsidian rolled onto his back and smiled up at Schaefer. His nose was spread across his face, one eye was bleeding and his jaw and cheekbone had been broken. And yet he would still say nothing. Schaefer raged.

  Remember this.

  The words came to taunt him whenever his emotions got the better of him, but Schaefer wasn’t interested in any past memory; he was focused on the future. This broken man stood between him and Amber. Schaefer picked up the samurai sword and stood over Obsidian. This evil man had taken his daughter. If he wouldn’t give up his secrets, he was of no further use. He deserved to be punished. Schaefer raised the sword, ready to plant it in Obsidian’s heart. He had never murdered someone before, but this sick, twisted hunk of meat deserved to be carved into tiny pieces. A small part of Schaefer railed against the thought; you’ll lose your prime suspect. If Obsidian wouldn’t give up the truth under the strength of this interrogation, he never would. Schaefer could turn his attention to the men he’d fought on his way up and see if any of them were weaker than their master. Schaefer felt a sudden wave of clarity; he would rid the world of a great evil and punish the man who had taken his daughter. He would kill Obsidian. Schaefer was just about to plunge the blade into Obsidian’s chest when something in the man’s good eye stopped him. Schaefer recognised the look of longing. Obsidian wanted him to do this. Schaefer realised that the big man, who was obviously capable of enduring tremendous pain, had never once raised his hands to defend himself. Obsidian had allowed Schaefer to torture him, and now he wanted Schaefer to murder him. Schaefer tested his theory by allowing the sword to clatter to the floor, and sure enough disappointment showed on Obsidian’s mashed face.

  “Kill me,” Obsidian rasped. “Finish it.”

  Schaefer stepped away. It was the first time the man had spoken since he’d started working on him. Schaefer looked at his hands and felt sickness swell in his stomach. He was covered in blood and would never forget the horror of what he had done that night. Whatever morality he’d once had died when he entered Obsidian’s chamber. Schaefer felt ill, nauseated by the darkness that had pervaded his life. He backed towards the door.

  “You cannot run from this,” Obsidian said, rolling onto his side. “This is your world, Mr Schaefer. There is nowhere else to go.”

  “Where’s my daughter?” Schaefer cried. His mind raced with terrible thoughts of the ugly things these people may have done to her. “What have you done with her?”

  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” Obsidian spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. “You’re too perfect to ruin. Too beautiful, Mr Schaefer.”

  “I’m going to find her!” Schaefer yelled.

  “Maybe you will,” Obsidian laughed. “But it will be too late. By then you will be complete.”

  Schaefer raced across the room and, with all his force, kicked Obsidian in the gut.

  “Tell me what you know!” Schaefer yelled as the man at his feet lost consciousness. Schaefer slapped his face to revive him, and Obsidian coughed up gobs of blood all over the floor.

  “Tell me what you know!” Schaefer repeated.

  “I don’t know where your daughter is,” Obsidian’s voice was weak and distorted. “You can either kill me. Or you can leave.”

  Schaefer’s whole body burned with frustration. He wanted to kill this man, cleave him in two. But something told Schaefer that he would be playing into Obsidian’s hands. Feeling every inch a failure, and utterly defeated by Obsidian’s power to endure, Schaefer backed towards the doors. He picked up the MAC-10 and stepped out.

  *

  Schaefer was surprised to see six men standing outside. He waved the gun menacingly, but they made no attempt to move towards him. He circled around them, crossed the landing, and hurried down the stairs. As he picked his way over their unconscious colleagues, Schaefer looked up to see the men walk slowly into Obsidian’s chamber. Schaefer dropped the machine-pistol in the marble lobby, and stepped through the large double doors. As he walked away, the building loomed behind Schaefer and made him feel small and insignificant. He hurried around the corner and, once he was out of sight, started running. He ran until his lungs were fit to burst and found himself at the other end Hilldown Road. Exhausted, Schaefer collapsed against a garden wall, and, as the adrenalin left his system, broke down in tears.

  He tried to tell himself that he would be able to bring Obsidian to justice with good old-fashioned detective work. That he could surveil the evil man, tap his phones, follow him and eventually learn his daughter’s whereabouts. You’re being hunted by police, a corrosive inner voice told him. Your best police contact has been killed. You’ve alienated everyone you’ve ever worked with and you’ve assaulted and kidnapped a client. You had her kidnapper at your feet and you couldn’t get him to tell you anything. You’re a loser. A failure that deserves nothing more than the gutter. Sit here and cry you hopeless fuck up.

  “I’m going to find her!” Schaefer yelled at the world. “I’m going to find her!”

  Schaefer pulled himself to his feet and set off towards the car. He could sense that he was starting to fray at the seams and needed something to steady his nerves.

  *

  Schaefer was forced to acknowledge that he seemed somewhat out of place. Every head turned to stare at him as he entered the Royal Inn on the Park. Shocked eyes took in his blood-soaked clothes, his wounds and his raw, mashed fists. Tilly hurried around the counter.

  “What the fuck!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

  “Dark rum,” Schaefer replied, but Tilly wasn’t interested in taking his order. Instead, she hustled him through the bar, into the staff area, and towa
rds the back stairs.

  “Dark rum,” Schaefer said, turning to give her a full view of the congealed blood on his face. Tilly recoiled, and backed away.

  “Sort yourself out, Schaefer,” she said as she stepped into the bar. “You’re a fucking mess.”

  Schaefer heard her offer a few words of explanation to the punters. He wasn’t interested in anything she had to say or anything they thought. All he needed was something to help him think straight, figure out a way to turn the situation to his advantage. He climbed up the stairs. For some reason his legs were heavy and tired. His arms ached and his body felt it had been run through a mill. Schaefer caught sight of himself in an antique mirror that ran along the upstairs corridor. He looked filthy, but he’d worry about cleaning himself up later. His priority was to get his brain working and for that he needed high volume alcohol. Schaefer entered the Great Room and spotted the discarded half-full bottle of rum on the floor by the Chesterfield. He picked it up, uncorked it and drained it in a single, extended swig. His arm fell to his side and the bottle dropped out of his hand, smashing against the floor. The last thing he heard was the sound of approaching footsteps, and an unfamiliar ringing. As he toppled over, Schaefer caught sight of Tilly hurrying into the room and thought that maybe she’d had a change of heart. Something – a phone – was vibrating in his pocket, but he couldn’t answer it. To his dismay, Schaefer realised he couldn’t do anything much. Despite his best efforts, as Tilly crouched beside him with a concerned look on her face, Schaefer’s eyes rolled back, and he fell into darkness.

  THIRTY ONE

  Flame. Heat. The flickering light of a forge at night. A man works at an anvil bashing hot metal into the shape of a sword. Screams fill the air. Now I’m outside, I’m the man. Wield the sword to stave off an attack. Many men on horseback. Swords. Armour. The village is in chaos. A blow. Darkness. The cold chill of morning. Something over me. A roof. The remains of someone’s home. Stand. Search among the bodies. There, near my home. Family. Loss. Grief. A pain beyond all.

  Years pass. Vengeance. Bloodshed. A quest. Beyond revenge. Twisted belief. Mountains. A dark castle. A throne room. A beautiful queen. Prostrate at her feet, a plea for knowledge. A black promise. Consummation of a pact. A bedchamber full of depraved lust.

  A library. Many books. Old, some written in blood. Knowledge.

  A dungeon. Stone walls. A granite slab. A man on the slab. I become the man. Victim. Terror. A beautiful queen and a twisted old man stand beside me. I scream. Torture. Suffering. A dagger. Two dragons twisted around the handle. Death approaches. Lightning. Power. The transfer. I’m gone. Trapped. Eternal suffering.

  The victim stands, but I am not him. A smile. Satisfaction. A new beginning.

  THIRTY TWO

  Warm. Clean. Soft. Pleasant sensations. All unfamiliar. All welcome. Schaefer opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by white. White sheets. Luxurious pillows covered in white linen that was now flecked with blood. White wallpaper with a rose pattern. Dappled sunlight was suppressed by a pair of heavily lined white curtains. Schaefer realised someone had brought him to Ellen Ovitz’s house. He was in the white guestroom on the third floor. His entire body ached and cried out for him to remain in the snug cocoon of the freshly starched sheets, but he ignored it and got to his feet. He was naked and had been washed. His wounds had been cleaned and bandaged. Schaefer looked around for his clothes, but they were nowhere to be seen. Instead he found an old Issey Miyake suit, shirt and a pair of Jones shoes that were all roughly his size. He dressed slowly, feeling his way around the most tender, raw parts of his body.

  Schaefer heard indistinct voices as he stepped out of the room. As he descended, he surveyed the framed family photos that lined the staircase walls. Faded childhood images of Ellen and her husband Michael with their families. A holiday by the beach. A group photograph in the grounds of a country house. A formal studio picture. All lies. Historical phantasms of a past that never was. The smiles on their frozen faces suggested happiness, but Schaefer knew they were fleeting physical expressions delivered on the photographer’s instruction. One had to look to the eyes for the truth. Michael’s seemed light and untroubled, perhaps a symptom of his privileged upbringing. In Ellen’s eyes Schaefer saw the heavy sadness that came with her long-held belief that she was different. The weight of the gift that she considered both a blessing and a curse. We pursue happiness, Schaefer thought, but we only succeed in capturing the illusion. But even so, Schaefer envied Ellen her phantasms. Even if – when – when he found Amber, there would be a tremendous gap in their wall of illusion. They would never have these pictures. They would never have these moments.

  “Let’s give him another hour,” Schaefer heard Ellen say, as he reached the bottom step. She, and whoever was with her, stopped talking when they heard his footsteps crossing the hallway. He entered the dining room to find Sally and Ellen at the table, and Bernice fussing in the kitchen behind them. Sally’s face was a swollen red and purple. She looked at Schaefer and then quickly looked away. Ellen shook her head slowly as though she was studying an errant child.

  “I see you found Michael’s clothes,” Ellen said. “They suit you. Bernice, I think Mr Schaefer will have a tea.”

  Bernice nodded and quickly got to work.

  Schaefer looked at Sally and Ellen and wondered how he could explain. They would never understand. His world was not theirs. It was the kind of place they would never experience, not even in their most fevered imaginings.

  “Sally and I have had a good chat, Thomas. I’ve explained why we needed to see her, and why you were so – shall we say – forceful,” Ellen said. “I’ve also assured Sally that there is no way you would have been involved in the murder of a policeman. Is there, Thomas?”

  “No way. I was set up,” Schaefer nodded.

  “What about last night?” Sally asked. “How did you…”

  Ellen cut Sally off, “When we collected you from the pub, you were in quite a state. We thought it might have been a bar fight, but the barmaid said there’d been no trouble.”

  “I went to see the man who killed Edward Lomas,” Schaefer admitted.

  “Sally cleaned you up,” Ellen continued. “She found a number of wounds.”

  “He wasn’t alone. There was some trouble,” Schaefer replied. He nodded towards Sally, “Thanks. Thanks for doing that.”

  There was an awkward silence. It was broken by Bernice, who entered carrying Schaefer’s tea. She placed it on the table in front of him.

  “This will help you feel better,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Schaefer responded stiffly.

  More silence. Ellen looked at Schaefer, studying him with piercing eyes. Sally tried to look at him but kept averting her gaze.

  “Sally, my darling,” Ellen said at last, “Would you be a dear and go to my consulting room to fetch my handbag?”

  Sally looked at Bernice, Ellen’s paid help, but Schaefer could see that she didn’t have the will to refuse. Or perhaps she accepted that Ellen needed to talk to Schaefer in private.

  “Sure,” she said, before standing up and leaving the room.

  Ellen waited until Sally was well out of earshot.

  “I could be wrong,” she said in a whisper, “But from what I’ve sensed, that girl has as much of a gift as this teacup. She is not the messenger Edward Lomas spoke of.”

  “I need help, Ellen,” Schaefer said suddenly. “I’m convinced the man who killed Lomas took Amber. I had him in my hands, and I couldn’t make him talk.”

  Ellen’s face puckered into a frown of disapproval.

  “Your world is becoming bleak, Thomas,” she said. “I fear your quest will end badly. You’re set on a course of self-destruction and you don’t seem to care who gets hurt in the process.”

  “This man is evil,” Schaefer protested.

  “And by associating with him, do you become more good, or more evil?” Ellen asked pointedly.

  “I need your help,” Schaefer
pleaded, his voice cracking at the memory of the horrors of the previous night.

  Ellen relented. She concentrated on Schaefer, as he silently hoped that he had been wrong and that Ellen’s gift was real.

  “That’s interesting,” Ellen said hesitantly. “The veil is lifting. The darkness around you is clearing. I’m being permitted to see – what – something. There’s something there.”

  Ellen closed her eyes and frowned. Whatever she sought was just out of her reach. She pushed harder, and Schaefer saw relief on her face as she firmly clasped the image in her mind.

  “I see a place of great knowledge. Lost souls waiting for answers. I see a great book. A man of learning,” Ellen relayed.

  “Mathers,” Schaefer interjected.

  “Who is he?” Ellen asked.

  “He owns an occult bookshop,” Schaefer replied. “I’ve known him for years.”

  “He’s the messenger, Thomas. He’s the one Edward Lomas spoke of,” Ellen said. “But this Mathers has missed something. Something you can help him with.”

  “What?” Schaefer asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ellen replied, trying to feel her way around the problem. “But it is important.”

  Schaefer turned to leave and bumped into Sally, who was returning with Ellen’s bag. They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” Schaefer said.

  “It’s okay,” Sally reassured him. “Just find my daughter.”