Forever and Ever

By Anthony Hulse

Following a car accident, Lucy Kinsella wakens after five years in a coma. She experiences terrifying hallucinations, and with the help of a psychologist, she discovers she actually lived the lives of the spirits who visit her. A series of child abductions in the area of Whitby, Scarborough and North Yorkshire results in a gruesome cannibalistic discovery. A nationwide manhunt follows, as the suspect flees. Attempting to unravel the mystery of Lucy’s ghostly visitors, a team of ghost hunters conduct an experiment at the eerie setting of St Mary’s graveyard, perched on the cliffs above the resort of Whitby. The frightening events that follow unlock but part of this enigma. Lucy meets James Meredith, a man who when under hypnosis also seemed to remember past lives. Together, the couple discover something so incredible and coincidental, or is it fate? Could they be somehow involved with what is happening to the children of North Yorkshire? A spine-chilling thriller with a terrifying finale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291717556

Book preview

Forever and Ever

Forever and Ever

Anthony Hulse

Copyright.

ISBN: 978-1-291-71755-6

Copyright@Anthony Hulse2015

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the author, except for the quotations in a review.

Cover image: Murder victims @ iStock

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to Stefan Papadaki, a young man I had the pleasure to call a friend. I will forever retain memories of your kindness, wit, generosity, and compassion.

RIP, my friend.

Yamas!

Prologue

Lucy hugged her Mickey Mouse doll and yawned when the fatigue set in. Her heavy lids drooped, concealing her dark eyes, the constant motion of the car rocking her to sleep. She looked across at her older brother, Tommy, who rested his head on her lap, the jet lag taking effect.

An above average intelligent child; Lucy Kinsella’s confidence and chirpy manner seemed more fitting for someone much older than her twelve years. Her mother teased her often, calling her a proper little madam, as her persistent quest of knowledge never failed to amaze her. Their two-week holiday in Florida had ended, and Lucy, although she had thoroughly enjoyed the trip to Disney World, yearned to return to her studies.

The loud patter of the rain on the windscreen interrupted her struggle with exhaustion and she dropped her doll, waking her complaining brother when she reached down to retrieve it.

Daddy, how long before we’re home?

Go to sleep, Lucy. I’ll wake you when we’re there.

Where are we?

Approaching Manchester. Go to sleep or you’ll wake your mother.

Lucy fell into a slumber, and the sudden movement of her head falling onto her chest caused her to drop Mickey Mouse once more. She fell to her knees and groped for her doll, as the car veered aggressively to the right. The impact of the collision with the barrier catapulted her mother and father through the windscreen, and Lucy screamed frantically. The car capsized and skidded along the motorway, the sparks illuminating the early morning black sky.

Lucy sobbed when she saw the blood oozing from the forehead of her motionless brother. A prolonged silence followed, as the stench of petrol filled the interior of the car, and then blackness, when another car collided with them.

Numerous vehicles skidded to a halt, allowing the drivers to view the carnage. For Philip and Emily Kinsella there appeared hope, as they lay like floppy rag dolls, their bodies protruding from the ravaged windscreen. The rain pounded the motorway, cleansing the road of its carnage.

Mickey Mouse lay on the petrol soaked motorway intact, his trip from paradise to hell concluded.     

Chapter One

Charlotte Crawley drove into the car park and lit her fourth cigarette of the morning. She scowled, seeing someone had stolen her parking space yet again. As usual, the green Jaguar parked in her spot.

Dr bloody Lonsdale. Just because you have a Jag it doesn’t mean you own the place, moaned Charlotte, finding a space inconveniently farther away from the entrance hall to St Anne's hospital in Whitby.

Whitby is a popular seaside resort and fishing port on the north east coast of England, some thirty kilometres north of Scarborough. Made famous by the author, ‘Bram Stoker’, he featured the idyllic town as the destination for the shipwrecked Count Dracula.   

Charlotte Crawley, at thirty-four years of age, experienced her mid-life crisis, and felt so unattractive. With her blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and her hourglass figure, she still managed to turn the head of many a hot-blooded male.

Darren, her husband, said it was all in her mind; stating she was as pretty and sexy as the day they married. Charlotte peered through her mirror and inspected her eyes for bags, which were not there. She cleaned her spectacles and stubbed out her cigarette, before applying the mouth freshener.

Charlotte hated the odour of hospitals, even though she had been a nurse for almost ten years. She offered her greetings to the staff and made her way to the Brain Trauma Unit, peering down to her ample bust to ensure her breasts had not mysteriously drooped during the night.

Good morning, sweet Charlotte, offered a short, bald man, attired in a white coat.

Don’t you good morning me, Lonsdale. You’re parked in my place again.

He sniffed the air. What is that fabulous aroma? My dear, you do know how to please a man.

First of all, I’m not your dear, and secondly; what man are you referring to Lonsdale? If you were the last man on earth, I would contemplate a bloody sex change.

I love it when you talk dirty to me.

She shook her head. Is there any change?

With Lucy, you mean? Come on, nurse, you know as well as I do that she’ll never recover. It’s been five years since she was brought here. You know my views on this case.

Patient! Lucy is a patient, not a case, and yes, I do know your views. Thank God there are still some humanitarians among us who have not given up hope.

Lonsdale scowled. Listen to me. If she happens to wake up by some miracle, she will be no more than a cabbage. She has severe brain damage and her chances of recovery are zero.

Fuck you, Lonsdale! Charlotte barged past him and marched down the long corridor until she came to the Intensive Care Unit. She peered through the glass door to see an elderly man sitting beside Lucy, his hands clasped together in prayer. The white haired man rose up when he noticed Charlotte.

Nurse Crawley, I was just speaking to Lucy.

Good morning, Bob. How about a cuppa?

A cuppa will be fine, thank you.

She smiled at the old man, thanking God for his existence. He was the only surviving relative of Lucy; the only one who cared for her, anyway. He had visited her every day since her admittance into St Anne's. Because of this frail, old man, Lucy had been allowed to continue functioning on the ventilator. The upper echelon of St Anne’s had related to Bob time and time again there was no chance for Lucy, and beseeched him to give them permission to turn off the respirator, but his stubbornness and anticipation of her waking up denied them. 

Charlotte once overheard a conversation between Dr Lonsdale and Dr Kelly, discussing what would happen when Lucy’s grandfather eventually died, which judging from his demeanour would not be too far into the foreseeable future. The intense argument that followed could have resulted in her losing her job, but her ominous ranting about going to the press procured her career.

Charlotte returned with the tea and looked down on the helpless figure of Lucy. She brushed her long black hair and talked to her as she did so.

Do you really think Lucy can hear you, Sister? asked Bob.

It’s important, Bob that we continue to help her acquire her senses by stimulating her. She will welcome our touch or the music playing on the radio. Speaking of the senses, I think you need your diaper changing young lady.

Charlotte completed the operation she had grown accustomed to, as she rolled the girl on her back, careful not to disturb the various tubes that fed her and allowed her to breathe. What Charlotte would do for just a flicker of an eyelid or a movement of a finger or toe. Ever since that fateful morning five years ago, Charlotte had nursed her, and a bond had formed between them; one she hoped would be mutual.

She had watched her grow from a skinny child into a pretty woman, and sometimes cried, as she tried to comprehend this poor girl missing out on her adolescence. How she aspired to see those dark eyes and see that perfect mouth form a smile. How she wished.

Chapter Two

The lone figure watched from the shade of the large oak tree, his sunglasses concealing his staring eyes. The objects of his attention were the group of young schoolchildren, hastily escorted through the zoo in Flamingoland. The North Yorkshire theme park usually bustled with activity in the summer, and today was no exception.

The stranger in the blue baseball cap sucked on his iced lolly, his eyes never deviating from the inquisitive children, who pointed at the lions feeding on steaks of meat. The two teachers, both female, had difficulty keeping the children together, and looked flustered as they shouted for the youngsters to move on.

They approached the elephant compound, the poos, from the ten-year olds audible when the stench of the beasts reached their nostrils. The man in the baseball cap followed behind slowly, not letting the children leave his sight.

One of the boys pointed towards the performing sea lions and ran towards the pen; several of his school friends sprinting after him, ignorant of the teacher’s pleas. One young boy did not run towards the sea lions and instead headed over towards the monkeys. The stranger stood behind the boy and made monkey noises, gesturing to the chimpanzees as he mimicked their walk, much to the amusement of his young admirer.

You’re not a monkey.

I am so, answered the man.

No you’re not.

Am!

Not!

Am!

Well, if you’re a monkey, why aren't you in the cage with the others?

Because it’s my day off and I’m going to go on the bumper cars today.

I wish I could go on the bumper cars.

The man looked behind to see the teachers doing a head count.

Come on then. I’ll treat you to a ride.

I’m not allowed, said the boy, picking his nose and looking towards the sea lion pen.

Aw, come on. We’ll be back before you know it.

The boy smiled and the stranger held his hand and led him away. The passing crowd suspected nothing when they passed by the funfair.

The bumper cars are that way.

Yes, but I have to fetch something from my van first... You do like sweets I hope.

Sweets! What kind?

Liquorice and jelly beans, toffees and fudge. You name it and I have it.

The man looked around and opened the side doors to his van.

Go and help yourself.

The young boy hesitated. I don’t know. My mum told me never to talk to strangers.

I’m not a stranger. I’m monkey man.

Do you have any Turkish Delight?

Why don’t you take a look, said the man, wiping his brow as the hot sun beat down on them.

The temptation proved too much for Ian Barton. He climbed into the van in search of his bounty. The doors slammed shut and Ian’s abductor hurried to the driver’s seat and started up the engine, checking his mirrors to ensure he had not been seen. He put the van into gear and left Flamingoland, the loud music from his radio drowning out the frantic screams of the child.  

******

Sally Crawley sighed and rolled her eyes, catching her parents kissing in front of the television.

Yuk, I could puke.

Now, young lady, I thought you had homework to do? You have your exams coming up shortly.

Finished it.

Where do you think you’re going? asked Charlotte, her eyes inspecting the length of her daughter’s skirt, or the lack of it.

To Holly’s.

Remember to be in before ten 'o'clock.

Mum, I’m sixteen years old.

Fifteen!

Sixteen in two weeks.

Do as your mother says, winked Darren, pretending to be the dominant father.

Charlotte was protective of her only daughter; over protective thought Darren. He usually allowed her some leeway, only for his spouse to berate him, claiming he spoilt her.

See you later.

And don’t slam th...

Darren shrugged his shoulders. Sally is certainly growing up. She’ll be as big as you soon.

Charlotte looked down to her chest and sighed. Do you think I’m losing my figure, Darren?

He swallowed a mouthful of beer. What? Of course not. What’s with you, nowadays? Look at me. I’ve lost most of my hair and I have a pot belly, but you don’t hear me moan, do you? It’s just a fact of life, luv. We all grow old at some time or other.

I’m not old! I’m approaching bloody forty, and so are you, in case you haven’t noticed, she complained, lighting a cigarette.

Christ, girl, you’re only thirty-five.

Four! See, you don’t even know how old I am.

They watched the weather forecast before she broke the silence. Do you still fancy me then?

What sort of a question is that?

Well, do you?

Of course I do.

Prove it.

What, now?

Why not?

Because the news is on in a minute… After the news.

There, you see…you don’t fancy me.

The news flash of ten-year old Ian Barton’s disappearance interrupted their bickering.

Charlotte sighed. Oh shit. What his parents must be going through. See, that’s another reason why we should be stricter with Sally. There are some real weirdo’s around nowadays.

Sally can take care of herself, honey. She’s a big girl now.

The ringing of the telephone startled them. Hello, said Darren. It’s for you, luv.

He watched curiously, as Charlotte took the call. He recognised the voice of one of the doctors from St Anne’s. He so hoped it had nothing to do with Lucy. It would break her heart. He became used to his wife bringing her work home every evening, and after much prompting, she persuaded him to meet Lucy. He had felt uncomfortable when speaking to the young girl, but Charlotte assured him she could hear him. He had definitely noticed a change in his wife since the day of Lucy’s admittance into the ward. He would often hear her cry during the night, and even heard the odd prayer offered. Once when they argued, something they seemed to do with more frequency nowadays, he had stupidly commented that Charlotte thought more of Lucy than her own daughter, unaware Sally had heard every word.

Charlotte dropped the receiver and the colour left her face.

What is it luv?

It...It’s Bob. He’s had a heart attack. He... He’s dead. 

******

Charlotte’s hands shook as she struggled to hold her coffee cup. The rumours were rife after the death of Lucy’s grandfather, and they did not make pleasant news to her ears.

Cheer up, Charlotte, nothings decided yet, offered the plump nurse with the red hair.

Donna, you know and I know what Bob’s death means. That bastard Lonsdale has been smirking all morning.

They wouldn’t dare take Lucy off the ventilator; not with the public outcry it would cause.

I hope you’re right.

They watched when an elderly doctor with dishevelled white hair and spectacles perched on the end of his nose entered the canteen and walked towards them.

Do you mind if I join you girls?

They shook their heads in unison. Dr Mortimer pulled up a seat.

I’m sorry to hear about Bob.

What will happen to Lucy now, Doctor?

The red-faced doctor blew on his coffee. He had been with the hospital since it opened, and was one of the finest neurological surgeons in the country. We’re not all like Lonsdale and Kelly, Charlotte. I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to help Lucy. Nowadays though, it’s all about bloody politics. As far as some of my colleagues are concerned, Lucy is taking up valuable bed space.

What have you heard, Doctor? quizzed Charlotte.

He looked down and continued. Lucy’s case will be reviewed at the end of the month. Of course, they’ll have to go through all the red tape and such procedure, but it doesn’t look good.

They can’t just murder her!

That’s a bit strong, Charlotte. In their eyes she’s clinically dead.

But, she’s not. Her brain waves are still active.

Charlotte, my dear, how many times has she had Cardiopulmonary resuscitation?

Three times.

Exactly. I’m afraid she may be beyond recall. We managed to drain the fluid from her brain to reduce the swelling, and to be quite honest, if she were ever to make a recovery, she would have done so by now.

So what are you saying? Murder her?

Good god, girl, keep your voice down. You know my stance on that. If I had my way, none of the machines would be turned off, unless the family insisted. Of course there is always hope, but Lucy I’m afraid has gone. She is lost to us, and the sooner you come to terms with this the better it will be.

What if I adopt her?

Dr Mortimer chuckled softly. My dear girl, to adopt Lucy you would have to have her consent, and I think that is rather unlikely, don’t you?  

Then, what can I do?

Don’t fight them. They have powerful law representation, and would eat you alive. Pray my child; pray she makes a recovery or shows some response. He swallowed his coffee and left the two nurses with their thoughts. If praying was the only way, then so be it.

Chapter Three

The fresh breeze off the North Sea cooled his sweat-riddled face, as he sat on the cliff-top, his legs dangling over the edge. The solitary figure sat alone in his thoughts, tossing the scraps of meat and bones towards the sea and watching the greedy, squawking seagulls swooping to catch the remains of the corpse.

He heard an aircraft overhead and lay back on the sparse turf, removing his sunglasses when the scorching sun disappeared behind a cloud. He stretched out his arms and hummed loudly, imitating the noise of the aeroplane, which eventually faded from view. After discarding his scraps, he ambled slowly towards the desolate chalets that had once fulfilled so many dreams of the holidaymakers, but now stood like a ghost town in a wilderness.

After checking the surroundings for intruders, he entered the chalet and grimaced at the stale odour; a mixture of urine and cooked flesh. He reached into a pan and selected a bone to nibble on, before he turned on his portable television. He closed his eyes and sucked on the bone contently, his free hand fondling his erection. He inserted the videotape in the recorder and sat back on his bed, ignoring the bloody covers.

The haunting picture showed the image of a frightened boy, gagged and tethered on the bed, his abductor standing over him. He rubbed himself more vigorously, as the boy cowered, before the knife cut across his throat rapidly, the crimson fluid running from his pale neck.

The picture jumped to a scene in the kitchen, the table covered in polythene. The perspiration ran down his face when he viewed the sawing of the limbs, his hand now working frantically down below. Dropping the bone onto the bare floor, he laid back and groaned with pleasure. He screamed aloud after satisfying himself, and fell into a deep slumber.

He woke up some two hours later, the sky darkening and threatening rain, as he peered through the window. He carried the bed sheets outside, along with the boy’s clothing, and set fire to them, before getting on his hands and knees to scrub the floor. He gloated over his work, hands on hips, and admired the cleanliness, like an artist would take pride in a painting.

He carried the pans to a nearby old disused well, and tossed the remaining remnants of Ian Barton into the blackness. After retrieving his camcorder, television, and VCR, he loaded them into his van. He drove away from the inhabited holiday camp, stimulated by his deed. It was his first time, and he felt excitement like he had never felt before.

He brought his van to a halt and exited the vehicle, falling to his knees. He belched loudly and vomited violently, the spittle hanging from his mouth. The killer laughed boisterously, before wiping his lips Next time he would cook the flesh thoroughly.    

******

One week passed since Bob had died, and Charlotte as usual sat beside Lucy. She beat the blocks of wood together close to the girl’s ears, watching for a response that never came, before rubbing ice cubes on her face.

They’ll not hurt you, Lucy, I promise. When you wake up, you can come and live with me. You’ll love Darren and Sally. She’s a little younger than you are, but I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.

The tears filled up in her eyes, as she continued. Do you know, Lucy; I often wonder what you are like. No, I mean, what do you sound like? I realise you come from a middle class background and know you’re intelligent, but what would you say if you woke up? Five years. Five years have gone so quickly and you have been deprived of your childhood. How would you adapt to discovering that you’re no longer a child, but a beautiful lady?

Charlotte continued to rub the ice on her