Firmament

By Lawrence Clarke

Two girls murdered, two grieving fathers and one stranger who comes to the men offering a method of undetectable revenge.

Mr Raine guides the men through the executions of the perpetrator and his lawyer after a hung jury sees the murderer freed on bail. Others involved in the conspiracy are also dealt with in the same way during the blood letting.
It is only later that the fathers, Chambers and Osolo, discover Mr Raine carries a power older than time and is actually hunting his nemesis by using the grieving men to draw the other into the open.
This is a story encompassing possession, the frailty of mankind, the power which exists beyond that which our puny minds can imagine and the eventual truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503501669

Lawrence Clarke

Lawrence Clarke was born and raised in Northern Ireland. A former British Merchant Marine, he is a freelance architectural AutoCAD designer in Australia. Lawrence Clarke’s short stories have appeared in Australian magazines and he has three novels published.

Book preview

Prologue

I decided to begin writing this journal, concerning my memories of a dangerous, sad and stressful time in my life because, a few weeks ago, I saw something about which I had been warned. Many years have passed since that time, so much so that I had all but forgotten about the sign; and then I saw it on a London street. I stared at the man wearing it and he looked back at me. That cursed thing made the person smile malevolently because it knew I had recognised the mark. The man walked on, shoulders squared, and he looked impressive in the superbly tailored uniform of a colonel in His Majesty’s Armed Forces.

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Dutch Elm disease had all but killed off the trees in that part of the woods. Dark, sodden branches, and fingers off branches, reached up, warped and sullen, to point accusingly at the low grey sky. It was mid to late Winter but the half-dead, deciduous Elms in the secluded area of high woods, overlooking the common, would grow no foliage in Spring.

Snow was falling during my visit, covering the piece of ground above where the children had been entombed, even though their mutilated bodies were transported from another place; that being the location where their young lives had been extinguished. I visit the location, between two of the dying Elms, as often as I am able, and not the cemetery rose garden where a fancy plaque is stuck in the clay beside a bush, under which my only child’s ashes reside in a decorative pot. Each item signifies little more than an afterthought to me because, although the flesh is no more, I feel the possession of her gentle spirit easing my sadness during the time I stand among the dying trees.

When I occupy the exact spot where they were found, I do not think solely of the dead children. A range of negative thoughts and emotions passes through my mind. Typically, on that miserable day, I was thinking that homo sapiens were a species destined for oblivion, and it wouldn’t take a giant rock from outer space to do the job. We are perfectly capable of doing the job for ourselves, thank you, God. We are violent towards one another, greedy, cruel and, above all, self destructive. We profit from each others misery, we profit from hunting other species to extinction, we profit from raping the land and we profit from killing our own. People, mainly those who are healthy, safe, material minded and warm on a night when frost covers the ground, have the gall to say and write such trash as, ‘but we also have beauty, kindness and love for one another’. To you who make supercilious statements such as that, I say, wait until you become a victim or have a loved one dealt with in the way my daughter was or are at the epicentre of some other tragedy; then I seriously doubt you would spout your magnanimous bullshit. Experience has taught me that evil is a genuine, undefeatable entity.

The girls were buried deep, on top of one another, and the burial site had been cleverly camouflaged with loam and dead leaves. It would never have been located if an old man’s Retriever had not wandered off the path into the undergrowth to relieve itself and returned with a bright yellow penny purse in its mouth. An enterprising youngster finding the purse may have taken the small amount of coin it carried and tossed the empty vessel back among the bushes but the pensioner, thank the Lord, noted the name inside and took it to a police station on his next jaunt into town. The purse was listed among missing items the two girls were known to have been carrying and wearing on the day they dropped off the map. It took two weeks of searching before the grave was located some 100 feet away from the walkers bitumen path circumnavigating the woods. Hamad and I agreed that, when all the fuss was over, the place should remain unmarked and nature be allowed to take its course. I thought it was almost fitting that the trees in the immediate area were dead or dying.

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Two days after the girls disappeared, the Osolo boy had escaped in the dark and was found unconscious, beside the main entry to his school, the following morning. He had been severely tortured, sexually abused and traumatized. He was hospitalized and it took a few more days to stabilize his condition before he was able to remember where he’d been; a greenhouse somewhere on the Fallon estate. As soon as he gave them an approximate location, the police swooped but, after three glasshouses and various sheds had been thoroughly searched, nothing was found to suggest the children had ever been there and, when the case was passed from missing persons to the murder squad at New Scotland Yard, Inspector Jennifer Bullin re-interviewed Ormond Fallon. He denied everything but Bullin saw guilt in his rolling eyeballs. She noted during the interview that the obese man had bandaids wrapped around two fingers and as they were leaving, the detective asked, Cut your fingers, Mr Fallon? He claimed to have done it on the blades of a pair of shears while trimming some bushes but Bullin found it hard to believe he would get off his ‘fat ass’ for long enough to tend garden.

Once outside, she said to her partner, We’ll come back with a court order to collect DNA once we find the bodies. In her heart, at the time, she knew they had him because of the young boy’s escape but it was his word against Fallon’s and the house and grounds were completely clear (something which truly amazed her and her team). Then the boy disappeared and, later, the matching blood evidence went missing and the laboratory computerised record was deleted. Back-up files had been tampered with, corrupted or changed.

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There was a time in the months after my sweet baby’s death, I burned with a fervent desire for revenge and, almost on cue, an avenging angel entered my life. He was the one who told Hamad and me about the detective’s investigation and we never thought to question at the time how he would know her movements and words so intimately. He would change our lives irreversibly.

I can almost feel my daughter’s slim arms around me when I stand in that shadowed place. Thank you, daddy, for killing the man who took me away from my life. I know now, you and Mr Osolo had help, I hear her say, but we can’t ever speak his true name. I am not that far gone, yet. I was imagining her voice, naturally, but I was seeking vindication. The help had come from the stranger who called himself Mr Raine. The thing that occupied Raine has flown somewhere far away, perhaps by now, inside another poor soul, to find someone else needing peace of mind; to show them how to kill. I could tell them, they will find no tranquillity in the act.

That man with the steel-coloured eyes, if he was still a man, told us that evil was not simply a twisted thought process, rather it was a palpable, living entity, something like a viral cancer, and its tentacles had spread all across the world since long before man became a reasoning being. He said a few scientists guessed there was something negative, invisible and undetectable throughout all of the universe, and it was not good stuff; in fact they named the whole Dark Matter, and earthly evil was just one branch of the black thing. The problem on Earth, he maintained, was that homo sapiens didn’t know of its existence and consequently, could not take steps to deal with it, if indeed there were any steps that could be taken.

There were men, supposedly of God, who in centuries long past, he went on, had burned good people at the stake, hung the innocent for menial crimes and tortured pure women to death for no other reason than heresy or, at the worst, adultery; never willing to admit that the real evil dwelt, and was controlled, within their own beings. True evil, according to Mr Raine, involved the laying to waste of existence, and the only way to cut out the cancer, so to speak, was like for like. Modern western laws favour those whose minds have been poisoned, and consequently, punishments are weak. There are only two methods to remove the blight and one is to take the life of the individual who harbours it, he had said. He told us, on the last night we met with him, when our memory of events had long returned, we were never to write anything about the incidents, or talk with anyone, other than each other, concerning what the three of us did together. If we did any of those things, we, not he, would spend the rest of our lives behind bars in a mental health facility. That was before the shit hit the fan. I have recorded a lot of it now, regardless of his warning. I felt compelled to do it; perhaps for my daughter’s sake, or even by her spirit.

I went into the woods today because it was Liesell’s birthday. She would have been 26 years old.

I am an ordinary man again, involved once more in the ordinariness of my humdrum life, but for a long time Hamad and I carried out his bidding while under the spell of that strange individual. The slow dying woods will, as always, be very still and quiet, just as we have been, Hamad and I, for the past 10 years.

Chapter 1

Ormond Fallon the fourth, an inheritor of ‘old money’, lots and lots of ill and legally earned sterling, avoided a guilty of murder verdict; in fact, he was almost acquitted. The jury count was split right down the middle, six guilty and six not guilty votes. The not guilty votes were cast because a few incongruities arose throughout the course of the trial where facts became non-facts, evidence became inevident (which was a word coined by the defence lawyer), and not because those jurors who voted that way believed Fallon to be innocent. In fact, the accused’s whole demeanour was one of disdain. While the courtroom drama played out around him, the mid-thirties man passed the time doodling on a pad supplied by his defence lawyer. Everyone knew he was guilty, from the judge, to the jury, to the defence, and the prosecution knew better than anyone, but Lyall Newton, the defence barrister, had multiple stacks of untraceable banknotes in his floor safe at home that spoke loudly, and said Fallon was still innocent until a unanimous verdict was handed down. Newton, and his unknown cohort, made sure that evidence was tampered with, or went missing, and by the time money had been spread near and far, it had cost him 20 per cent of the original bribe. It mattered not. He was still £1,600,000 to the good and, in stiff economic times, the lawyer felt he was worth every penny, over and above his legal fees.

Fallon had been charged with the abduction, rape and murder of two 16 year old teenagers, both of them girls. The evidence appeared to be irrefutable but, after the trial date had been set, strange things happened. The star witness, a 14 year old boy, who had escaped from Fallon’s clutches, went missing while a round-the-clock watch was being kept on his home. Fallon could not be charged with that abduction since he was in protective custody at the time. And, following a search of the boy’s room, a crack pipe and a bag of cocaine were discovered under his mattress.

Immediately after the disappearance of the young, dark-skinned boy, Salmud Osolo, Newton requested that the DNA evidence used to convict his client be re-tested. A week before the trial, the result came back from the laboratory, and it was devastating news for all concerned in the Crown offices and at Scotland Yard. It was not a match. But it had been. The original first-printed paperwork said it and the lab technician who carried out the tests swore that the DNA samples had somehow been switched, and the computer record altered, even though it was password protected. All laboratory staff were questioned to the point of exhaustion but nothing appeared out of order and suspicion remained on the technician, especially when he refused to take a lie-detector test. That was his right under the law and he maintained his refusal was out of fear because he was of a highly nervous disposition and his heart rate would increase. Two days after refusing the test, he was killed in a hit and run while he stood on the pavement outside a country pub, waiting for a cab. His wife was seriously injured.

Jennifer Bullin, in her outspoken way, termed the whole investigation ‘a complete fuck-up’, but she was incorrect. The investigation had been thorough and professional.

The trial went ahead on the strength of Salmud Osolo’s written statement, which increasingly seemed like a post-mortem affidavit, and a lot of circumstantial evidence; but, by that time, the Crown Prosecutor, Brindley Davies, knew they were pushing shit uphill with a sharp-pointed stick. In fact, Davies got the best result he could hope for, in the circumstances; a hung jury rather than a ‘not guilty’ verdict. He was wrong as well.

While waiting on the date for a retrial, Fallon was freed after surrendering his passport. He, also, thought it was as good a result as he could’ve hoped for. He was also wrong, in a way.

Chapter 2

Lyall Newton owned an impressive, six bedroom Mock Tudor house on two acres of land in the Hampshire countryside. The property straddled the invisible line between The New Forest and The Test Valley. Newton liked the sea but didn’t love it so, rather that live near the Hampshire coast, he chose somewhere more northerly but still in the county. He could drive his new Mercedes a few miles south if he wanted to look at the sea. The property was ringed by a high limestone wall, tree-mounted cameras and in-ground electronic sensors.

A week after the hung jury trial, Newton had the cameras running and monitoring his entire estate, the ground sensors were on and Fallon was a guest for the weekend. He did not like his dinner guest but he liked the sizable bribe and felt, if he was eventually successful in having the man acquitted altogether, there was more in the offing. He had every intention of raising the topic after dinner.

The two men sat facing each other, dining at one end of a large table. The table service was solid silver and the a la carte meal had been prepared by Newton’s home help earlier in the day. Fallon, fat beyond that which made for a long life, had black, widow-peaked hair and brown, pig-sized irises which darted around their sockets. Newton avoided, where he could, the pinball machine orbs. He used that description because that was what came to mind every time he was in the man’s company, and happened to be trapped into eye contact. Fallon was 37 years old, very tall, at nearly two metres, with large hands and feet which would have made a clown jealous. Newton, after many interviews with the killer, formed the opinion that the freakish, rich boy had murdered more than twice.

Fallon’s family had owned wineries in Italy, France, Australia and California. There had been substantial holdings in various pharmaceutical production companies and the Fallon Enterprise Group were still major players on the stock market. Ormond’s brother, a normal sized, super intelligent whiz, had controlled the company until he and his crew were caught in storm tossed waves and lost during a yacht race across the Irish Sea. When he was placed at the head of the board, Ormond announced that he was selling all his family stock, options and the family owned holdings. He walked away, leaving the remainder of the organization in the hands of the board. He left with the best part of five billion pounds, enabling him to indulge his darkest fantasies.

How is your salmon, Ormond? Newton cared not one iota about Ormond’s opinion on the cuisine but, at all times, the stacks of bank notes drove his joviality and conversation.

Ormond swallowed then answered in an effeminately-toned voice. Too much butter. Too much tarragon. Undercooked. I prefer skin-off. Tell me about what you have planned as our next move.

My next move, you obese prick. Patience, Ormond, patience. For now, your future is in the hands of the gods and a few incompetent detectives. The untainted constabulary have to come up with something new to persuade the judge that a fresh trial is warranted. If the prosecution were to be granted a retrial date and the same circumstantial evidence was presented, it’s a fair bet, we’d get the same result. The prosecution will have to be sure that they have been supplied with new facts, which will be nigh on impossible, especially after poor Mr Hamish was the victim of a hit and run. I have a couple of things in the melting pot and they will further hamper any progress, but it will cost more to cover all eventualities.

Fallon scowled. Fuck’s sake, Lyall, I paid your exorbitant fee, £2,000,000 as bail and I gave you a £2,000,000 cash gift. I wager, you still have a large slice of that tucked away somewhere in this palace.

I’m putting my neck on the line every time I settle a bribe. A lot of that cash has been paid out to various sources. Your fortune is counted in billions, Ormond. What you’re paying me is piss money to you, but it’s piss money that will save you being sentenced to life without parole. Your choice.

Fallon dropped his cutlery onto his plate. I can’t eat anymore of this shit. A good sized steak and creamed potatoes would’ve been preferable. I hope your whiskey is top shelf, otherwise you get fuck all from me. His nasal laugh resembled a pig snorting through the swill in its trough.

Its good quality, as befits an innocent man. You are innocent, Ormond, aren’t you?

Fallon looked at his lawyer suspiciously. Are you taping this, Lyall?

Don’t be so bloody stupid. I’m as guilty as sin in this whole matter. You didn’t answer the question?

Did you invite me down here to cross-examine me all over again. Don’t ask me anymore stupid questions. Where’s the whiskey?

In my study. The two men rose from the table at the same time. And asking questions, whether stupid or smart is a part of my nature, Ormond. And asking questions is also part of my job description. And I was doing that job when your nursemaid was changing your blanket-sized shitty nappies. And I didn’t cross-examine you. The prosecution lawyer did that. Fallon scowled.

They left the room, walked along a passage, into a marble tiled foyer. They rounded the main staircase and, a few metres further, entered through an open door into the study. It was a large room where three walls were lined with books of every size and kind; mainly law volumes, commentaries and biographies. The furniture, apart from book shelves, consisted of an oversized desk, a comfortable work chair, a coffee table and a Chesterfield. Behind the desk, a small paned, large window gave a view of the floodlit lawn.

Fallon flopped down on the settee and a whoosh of air escaped through his blubbery lips. The security guard, who followed the two men into the room 30 seconds later, looked beyond retirement age. Newton guessed it was a case of the firm hiring cheap labour when he had shown up and said he was there to manage the consuls and switching of the external detection equipment. The old man entered the study at the point where Newton was lifting a bottle and two glasses from a shelf behind the cocktail bar. Behind him came two more men wearing gloves, dressed in one piece hooded boiler suits and wearing shoe covers. Each one was armed with a handgun. Newton had every intention of sitting behind his desk when he had served Fallon with whisky and a cigar, but the security man closed the curtains and took the seat before a word was spoken. The room had been enveloped in a silent, sullen atmosphere where not one of the five men spoke. The newcomers, although hooded, had made no attempt to hide their faces but Ormond Fallon did not realise the significance. Lyall Newton did, but he was too petrified to comment.

Chapter 3

The security guard, occupying the seat of power, finally broke the silence. My name is Mr Raine and if you haven’t recognised their faces then, for expedience sake, I will address my companions as Mr X and Mr Y. Let me, immediately, allay any fears you may be harbouring, that we mean to torture and mutilate you. I give you my word, there will be none of that vengeful hanky-panky where it concerns the two, possibly three, murdered youngsters. Raine’s statement did not lighten the atmosphere. "And, we have no questions for you concerning your association with the law since we know, with a surety, you are guilty of rape, extreme cruelty and murder, Mr Fallon." He turned his grey eyes, without head movement, and