Death in the Black Wood, Oliver Davies [short story to read TXT] 📗

kept his voice to a whisper. Was Jimmy awake in his own cell, behind that other door? Was he listening? We didn’t know. It was better to be cautious.

I did as Shay asked. My cousin’s arm moved in a blur, the heel of his hand striking deeply into the neck below the angle of the jaw. The vagus nerve regulated both the heartbeat and the breathing. This was not a technique that anyone ever used against another person in practise. You trained for that move on a dummy, and only ever on a dummy. This time Shay delivered a lethal blow. Brain death would be almost instantaneous.

“What’s the official story?” I asked him quietly as we removed the ropes.

“The truth, mainly. The taser wore off more quickly than he expected and I struck at his neck. I didn’t realise I’d hit him hard enough to kill him but that won’t surprise anyone after what I’ve been through. Plus he’d shot me full of acid again so I was hallucinating at the time too.”

“You’re going to give yourself another dose, then?” I followed him out and put the ropes back in the pile on the shelf. We moved as quietly as we could, still whispering.

“Half of what he gave me before should be enough for the blood tests. He gave me way too much. You know, he’s got just about everything in that cabinet, even Clozapine, but that’s the only pill bottle in there that hasn’t been opened. His Alter wouldn’t let him take antipsychotics.” He was screwing his little tool set together to take the taser apart again to restore it to its former condition. “I’ll lose the shirt again later. I want them to see some of the burns. It will help us sell our version of events and so will my behaviour. You managed to coax me into my jacket and trainers after you got here, alright? Right now, you take Uncle Danny’s car home. I’ll call you again in a little while and then you drive back here in your own car. I’ll wipe all records of the earlier call later. Actually, can you pick up my phone and the drones on your way home? They’re not far away.” He told me where to find them. “Bring my phone and its card with you when you come back here please. If you take me out to sit in the car, I can wipe those records while we’re in there, before anyone gets a look at O’Hara’s phone. I’ll bring these things in my pockets and leave them in the car too.” The torc and armband.

“And Jimmy?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we get him out of here now?”

He gave me an unhappy little look.

“He’s safe, that will have to be enough for a little while longer. I don’t like it either, but we have to watch our backs here, Cuz. Legally, we just conspired to commit murder.”

I couldn’t argue with that. It was true, technically. In reality, a sick, dangerous animal had been offered an instant and humane release.

The real crime would have been to let Brady O’Hara live.

Epilogue

Bernard Anderson finished reading the final report on the Black Wood killer, Brady O’Hara, and closed the folder. He preferred to read printed copies of lengthy documents when he could. He looked across his desk at the silently waiting figure of James McKinnon, who’d been occupying himself by dunking biscuits into his tea and eating them for the past ten minutes.

It had been almost two weeks since the Friday when their suspect had died in that cellar in Balloch. Jimmy Stewart, he knew, was currently receiving psychiatric support and would be, for some months. The boy had been deeply traumatised and would need time to recover from his ordeal. He was jumpy and suffering from recurring nightmares, but that was only to be expected at this stage. Give him time and the psychological scars would fade, even if they never completely vanished. Things could certainly have gone a lot worse for the poor child.

“I’m sorry about making you wait, James,” he apologised. “I’d have finished reading before you arrived if I hadn’t been interrupted.” McKinnon just nodded understandingly. He knew what it was like running a busy office. “It looks like everything ties up neatly.” Anderson picked up his own mug and took a last swallow of lukewarm tea. “The pathologist’s report backs up Shay’s version of events.”

“Aye, why wouldn’t it?” James McKinnon had no intention of rising to the bait.

Anderson just smiled at him. If his friend harboured any suspicions about what had really happened in that cellar that day, James would be one of the last people on earth to air them. It wasn’t just because of his grandson either. Detective Sergeant Jackie Gibson had worked under McKinnon for a long time. Just the thought of what that poor woman had suffered was enough to make anyone feel sick to their stomach, let alone those who had known her well.

Brady O’Hara had died as the consequence of a single blow delivered by a superbly trained but temporarily deranged man who was trying to incapacitate a very real and deadly threat not only to himself but also to a defenceless child. At the time, Shay was not only drugged, dehydrated, and in a weakened condition, he had also been repeatedly shocked by both a taser gun and a cattle coaxer over a period lasting for over fifty hours. That was a recognised form of torture, inflicting severe pain, and he was lucky that one of those hammering shocks hadn’t stopped his heart and killed him.

That the blow to O’Hara had proved fatal might be considered by some to be unfortunate, but it was not a crime.

It was possible, Anderson knew, that the Keane boys had simply told nothing but the truth. Their statements were entirely plausible. Shay had supplied them with over three hours of recorded testimony. Whole chunks of that were word-for-word playbacks of conversations he’d heard Brady