SMOKE

 

I shoved a piece of peanut butter toast into my mouth and left to catch the tube. It was a greasy London morning.

I had to interview the butcher. He had information on a suspect.

The prison was brick built it smelt of pain and sickness.                                    

They took me to the meeting room. Bluestone had killed for money and then for pleasure. The firms didn’t want him anymore. He was too wild to be of any use. He knew the language of blood and butchery better than he knew English.

            He held himself as if he were free. The walls of the prison had no effect on him. He could not be broken. The guards feared him. They didn’t like it when he was out of his reinforced solitary cell.                                                                                                     

    He smiled through the shatter-proof glass.

The bald scarred head was hideous. He’d been clubbed, bottled, kicked and thrown around. He smiled at the guards revealing three rotten fangs.

It was his prison, there wasn’t a firm brave enough to challenge him.                                  

Men like Bluestone were valued once. They led barbarians into battle. Wild bloodlust was valued by the kings of old. They were used for prize fights and they sent them off to conquer new lands. They transcended history. Every era had a Bluestone.             

There is no sword play left for them to do.

He stared at me. I couldn’t look him in the eye. He knew I was infected with the same fear as the prison guards. He could smell it on me like a wild dog.

            ‘What do you want? I’m a busy man,’ said Bluestone. ‘If you think I’ll grass, you can think on.’

            ‘Markus Black has started killing again. You knew him didn’t you?’ I said.  I didn’t want to be there any longer than I had to, I cut straight to the point.

            ‘What do you want me to do about it? You’re the police, you find him. Like I said, I’ve got stuff to do. I have a wall to stare at. Your cutting into my time.’

            ‘We thought you might be able to help us locate him.’

            ‘Why would I do that? Do you know what Black will do to me if he finds out I helped you?’

            ‘Your safe inside the prison. How could he possibly get to you in solitary?’

            ‘Nowhere is safe, Black is not of this world, Walls mean nothing to him. He moves through them like a ghost. He has started killing again you say. He never stopped. He’s bored most likely and has left a trail for you to follow. You and all who chase him are in danger.’

            I felt the twinge run along my arms and back. Bluestone’s outburst seemed more like a beacon, like he willed Black to hunt me.

            ‘How did you know him?’

            ‘What is in it for me. Why should I tell you anything? I am afraid of no man, but Black is not a man, I will not bring him to my door. The last place he would look for me is here.’

            ‘Then here is where you’ll stay.’ I regretted the words as they left my lips.

            ‘You think I stay here because I have to?’

            ‘You have been sentenced to life in prison.’

Bluestone began to laugh, as he did so his fangs popped out of his mouth. Yellow bits of grated cheese. My hands shook.

            ‘Aha, you think I’m stuck here. I can leave anytime I want.’

He looked me in the eyes, this time I couldn’t look away. He clenched his fists. The reinforced glass began to crack, only slightly in the bottom corner. I ducked under the desk, and the glass shattered over me.                                                                             

Bluestone ripped off his hand cuffs as if they were made of dough. He leapt over and put his face right into mine.

            ‘I’m here because I choose to be, I can leave anytime.’

The guards rushed in. Bluestone stood up, turned his back to them, and let them cuff him. The guard’s hand shook so much he could barely click the new cuffs on.

            ‘Hurry up, I got a wall to stare at.’

 

They led him away. He turned and winked at me. I have never felt anything like it. He could have killed me. Why he chose to stay locked up was his business.                              

He warned me to drop the search for Black. But It was my job. To stop the search was to disobey an order. If Black was what Bluestone said he was, then he was perilous. I had to check myself. Had I hallucinated Bluestone shatter the reinforced glass and break his steel handcuffs?

I picked up a piece of the glass. I gripped it until it cut my palm. It was not a dream. The glass cut my hand. I put it in my pocket as evidence. The only thing I had learned from Bluestone, was that a man with unimaginable power, feared Markus Black.  

 

 

 

2

My search led me to the last officer to see Markus Black. We met up in her chaotic office inside the station. The officer’s name was Sally. Her eyes changed from warmth to fear as “Markus Black” left my lips. Sally didn’t want to talk.

            ‘I told everything thing in my statement. I’m sure you’ve read it.’

            ‘I’ve read it. But as you know he has started killing again. I would like to get as much help as I can. Please,’ I said

            ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told what happened that night.’

            ‘There would have been a time when I would agree with you, but after what I saw in Green Briar prison, I am open to everything.’

            ‘What did you see?’ said Sally.

            ‘I saw the true nature of Bluestone. I saw what he was capable of. And it was unlike anything I have ever seen.’

I had to trust her. If I wanted her trust me. ‘He cracked the reinforced glass with his mind,’ I said

Sally went pale, she knew I was telling the truth. She nodded. ‘What happened the night Markus disappeared?’ I asked.

            ‘We were chasing Black across the city. Ten cars, one of which I was driving. As he raced along the overpass we cut him off. He had nowhere to go. The cars drove in a circle and the armed police took aim. It was Markus Black.’

            ‘How did you know it was Black.’

            ‘I was close enough to see his face. He knew we had him. If he fought us, they would open fire. I had my tazer ready. But I was in no hurry to cuff him. He sat in his car. He ignored the order to get out and put his hands up. The officers with the guns were waiting for the order to fire.

 The radios went dead. All sound stopped. My phone signal cut out. The street lights went out. The city was silent. We had a visual. We could see Black’s car; he would run into us if he tried to flee.

I felt heavy. Like a lungful of gas and air. When the lights came back on. Markus Black had vanished. All that remained was smoke. Thick black plastic smoke, Inside the car, drifting into the night.’

            I looked into Sally’s eyes. They were still. She told me what she saw, no lies.

            ‘You don’t believe me do you?’ she said.

            ‘I believe you. But it does nothing for my nerves. He turned to smoke and disappeared. That murdering bastard is out there and if ten cars failed to bring him in. How the hell am I going to get him?’

            ‘No one else believed me. Not even the other officers.’

            ‘Well how the do they explain his escape.’

            ‘They said he shot his way out. But he didn’t, he turned to smoke.’

            ‘Do you know what Bluestone said, he told me to stop the search for Black. He said It would lead to my death. I haven’t told anyone this, but I am starting to believe him.’

            ‘It was a warning. I haven’t been on patrol since that night. I can’t handle the thought of another encounter with Black.’

             ‘My job isn’t worth my life. The people are scared. And now the police are scared.’

            ‘Walk away from it detective, it’s not worth it.’

            ‘Your right Sally. But there is a part of me that doesn’t want to give in to the fear that flows beneath my skin. We are supposed to be the good guys. We are supposed to protect the people from monsters like him. This power. It can’t be shot at, can’t be handcuffed, can’t be locked away in a cell. We have nothing to stop it. Will you help me Sally?’

            ‘I…can’t I have a family.’

            ‘So do I. I ask because I can trust you. You have seen something and it was something you couldn’t explain. Together we can catch him. You’ll be transferred to the next level. You’ll get a detective’s badge.’

            ‘Is a badge worth my life?’

            ‘No. But think about it. If you change your mind. You know how to find me.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

3

Sally never got back to me. I had to carry on alone.                                                             

The weeks after Bluestone displayed his true nature were slow. I wandered through streets where Black had killed. They were poor. Nothing but fast food dens and mice filled apartments. 

The people who ran the chicken shops charged so little, they acted as a welfare for the poor who dwelt there.                                                                                      

Everyone I spoke to turned away when I mentioned Black. The trail was cold. He had vanished. His crimes were shrouded. All his victims were men. Rich men.                                    

He had put fear into the privileged parts of the city. But the mystery was why the same rich men had been found on the poorest streets.                                                 

I would get nothing from the people.                                                                       

  The last man he killed was a career climbing corporate investor. I rang his former secretary. She didn’t want to talk to me. I had to use the lie that got people not accustomed to the law to open their mouths. “If you refuse to help the police in their inquiries, it can be viewed as obstructing the law. I can bring you into the station if you like.”                                       

It worked. Jaz met me in the foyer of international oil. We sat in the open glass waiting lounge.

            ‘What was Alexander like to work for? don’t hold back,’ I said.

            ‘He was like all bankers, two sided, business and pleasure. I knew what was required of me and I fulfilled my duties. I was shocked to hear he’d been murdered. He was meticulous when it came to pleasure. I never knew him to visit the places where the escorts came from. He had the money to pay for the escorts to come to him.’

She was candid from the start. As if she held resentment to her former employer. I was lucky.

            ‘Escorts?’

            ‘Detective don’t be naïve. What do you think these men do with the millions they make? The don’t sit around playing board games. They pay for every conceivable fetish money can buy. Alexander was no different.’

            ‘Can you think of any reason why he would visit Barnaby road?’

            ‘No, he despised the poor. He would rather pay for a helicopter, than take a diversion through Barnaby Road.’

That was interesting. My suspicions were confirmed. The victim was taken to his final resting place.

            ‘Did he have enemies?’

            ‘What kind of question is that? He was a hedge fund banker. What you really mean is: why do I think he was murdered? And the answer is he was hated. The things he asked the escorts to do grew ever more degrading. The expensive ones refused to do what he asked of them, so he had to look to the poor. The women of Barnaby road were so destitute they did what was asked of them. The more he delved into his own depravity the more sadistic he became. The women of Barnaby street were happy to hear of his death. I didn’t shed a tear.’

The more Jaz went on, the more I began to despise Alexander. It wasn’t my place to judge the conduct of the victim. All I had to do was catch the killer.

            ‘That will be all. Thank you for time.’

            ‘I would stop your search for Black.’

            ‘What do you mean?’

            ‘The men he preys on were believed to be untouchable. If he gets wind you are chasing him. What makes you think he won’t do away with you?’

            ‘Excuse me do you have any information on Black?’

            ‘No, but I have access to the news, those men, were anonymous, until they were found dead. A man that can put fear into the fearless is dangerous. That’s just my observation, goodbye detective.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

4

I was no closer to catching Black. He really had vanished in a cloud of smoke.                

I chased up people who knew the victims and they all had one thing in common. They had secret lives that involved prostitutes.                                                                    

Had Black killed them to avenge the working women? Women who sold themselves and disappeared. They were prostitutes, the most vulnerable people in the world.  They only took a missing prostitute seriously if they found a body.                                    

No body, no need to waste resources looking for a killer. The more I studied Black’s victims, the more I believed he was driven by some extreme political philosophy.                 

He targeted the men who lived at the top of the city, the men who used it, drained it, and left it when they needed sunshine, palm trees, and ski slopes.                               

The victims’ families had employed private detectives to mirror the police in their search for Black.

I had a hunch Black may have been an organization. A group of political extremists may have been working together to put terror in the hearts of the rich.                          

The longer the case went on, the more people were employed to track him down. I was given officers, funds, even use of restricted records. Everything seemed to lead to nothing. The smoke slipped through my fingers.

            I often wondered why they were so sure Black was the murderer. Could he really reach these powerful men? I didn’t get much sleep. Every day I got  leads, people to follow up, records to look up, things to write up. And the more I uncovered the deeper I sunk into uncertainty.                                                                                                                        

If Black was responsible he left no trail. Each victim was found next to a letter matching Black’s handwriting and signed M. Black. I poured over each letter. They were clearly written by the same person. But was it Black? Or was it someone claiming to be Black? The letters were Cryptic, short and unnerving.  The first read:

           

Here Lies Oscar Penance,

I had to teach him the meaning of life. He refused to see things my way. He wept for his mother before the end. He told me I could have all of his money if I let him live. He paid with his life.

M. Black

 

Whoever wrote the letters was sick. They served no purpose other than to inform the reader of how the act of murder was as easy as combing your hair.

            All the records on Black showed he was highly intelligent, detached, and from one of the poorest families in the country. His poverty and his intellect were merged together like a two headed snake. A horrible combination, to have a brilliant mind, and to realize that it will never be able to accomplish anything, in a world of armored gates and tweed gatekeepers. He knew he was locked out.

Murder was his way of settling a score. Many people possess great minds and lead unfulfilled lives, its rare they turn to murder. The deeper I delved into his files the stranger he became to me.                                                                                                                   

In his youth, he walked the land like a pilgrim. He slept rough and travelled from city to town. The police picked him up, and he was charged with vagrancy. His record had no history of violent crime.

The victims were killed with precision. A bullet to the back of the head and he never missed.                                                                                                                         

I read on and found a turning point in the life of Markus Black.                               

He wandered to the top of the country then headed south. He stumbled into the doorway of the weird sect of the time blood cult.                                                                  

There he found kindred spirits. He spent years with the cult, climbing the ranks. The cult was persecuted for it was found they were sacrificing animals. Nothing was proved, but when the police clamped down on them Black disappeared.                                         

The cult still operated off the coast of Scotland. I sent my team to track them down. All they found were the cinders of a house burnt to the ground.

            As the weeks jumped by. I was forced to call a meeting.                                         

I invited all the private detectives, in the hope we could pool our resources and track him down. Of the seven private detectives hired, four had been found dead, two had refused to continue, and the final one was considered mentally unstable, he had been taken to a psychiatric ward. He was my only lead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5

I entered the walls of the Victorian mental hospital without prejudice. It could happen to anyone; the world could drive anyone to madness.                                                               

Still, I felt happy I was visiting and not a patient. The chief of police called a favor from the senior hospital governor, it was illegal to interview psychiatric patients who were suffering from acute psychosis, if they were deemed to be in danger of themselves and others. The governor and my chief had gone to the same school together.                                            

I was given the opportunity to interview the Private detective. His name was Charley Scrub. He had no history of mental illness.                                                                                 

After he tracked Black’s whereabouts, he became ill. I was allowed to question him in private away from staff. It was a special case. Black was killing rich white men, rules were bent.                                                                                                                                 

He sat on the stale sofa. The room smelt of bleach and pain. His hair had grown over his ears. His face was pale as milk.

            ‘I know who you are, you’re Detective Ortner? Am I right?’

            ‘Correct,’ I said.

            ‘I know why you’re here, you want my notes, you want information on Markus Black.’

He seemed calm. The file said he was psychotic, but he conducted himself as if he was sane. All of a sudden he turned.

            ‘You won’t get anything out of me fucker. I told them, I told them, I told them.’

He burst into tears ‘I told them.’

            ‘What did you tell them?’ I said.

            ‘I saw him. And he let me live. He could have killed me. Like he killed the others, but he let me live. He let me live. He could have killed me and he let me live. I will not say another word.’

            ‘He let you live. But look where you are Charlie.’

Charlie swallowed his tears.

            ‘I know where I am.’

            ‘Where are you Charlie?’

            ‘I saw him, I saw Markus Black, he looked me in the eyes and I thought I was dead. When I opened my eyes to smoke. Choking black smoke. I lay there for days without food or water. Then I tried to jump. But they caught me. He is real and he knows who you are. He will find you, and he will decide if you live or die. He knows who you are, where you live, where your family live. He could have you destroyed an hour from now. For some reason he keeps you alive. My guess is he knows how useless you are. You could work this case for the next twenty years and be no closer to catching him...He stole my mind.

 He will find you and when he does. He will consume you like smoke. You cannot escape. He is unstoppable. He is god. He will not stop. Give up.’

 

I began to sweat. Charlie turned from pale white to red, to purple. He burst into flames and then the screaming began.                                                                                   

He screamed in agony. The staff rushed in and covered him in blankets. They took him away. The room smelt of burning flesh. I walked out.                                                  

The fear I felt in the prison returned. My line between reality and fantasy took another hammering. Charlie’s curse was fire, unwanted, excruciating, and out of control.

6

I handed in my notice. I couldn’t get Charlie’s screaming out of my head. When I asked the staff at the hospital what had happened they said Charlie had a panic attack.                        

There was no mention of burns.

I was raised a Christian, and grew into an atheist. I had no reason to believe in god. My childhood fears returned.

           

The murders stopped when I walked away from ten years of police service.

The case remained open.

It was someone else’s problem now.

 I returned home to my wife. She hadn’t seen me for more than an hour a day while I worked the case. I had gained weight. Eating myself to sleep. Stress eating to deal with the pressure of failure, and the fear of success. The children were happy.

They were fed and washed, and they had cartoons to watch. They did not want.

           The priority was money. I needed to find a job that paid as much as a senior detective. The bills needed to be paid.

            The night I told Kirsty I had quit my job. She just looked at me. She said nothing. She didn’t cry, she didn’t argue. The silence told me all I needed to know. I had left her alone to for months, and now there was no money. She knew me well enough to know that I had no plans for another job.                                                                                        

I wanted to tell her why. I wanted to tell her about the man who shattered glass with his mind, the man who set himself on fire with fear, and the killer who turned to smoke. I echoed her silence.                                                                                                   

I opened the bottle of rum we kept in the top cupboard. And I drowned the feeling of uselessness. When the feeling of helplessness began to rise, I drowned that too. Kirsty watched me destroy myself. And then left with the kids to go stay with her mother.             

A few months later. The divorce letters came through the letter box. They landed on a pile of unopened mail. The house turned into a dark bottle ridden pit. The mortgage was paid. But the bills weren’t. The electric and gas were cut off. It was cold. 

I didn’t notice much.                                                                                                                                       The search for Markus Black had ruined my life. I began to feel as if death would have been easier than losing everything that meant something. I was a coward who walked away his duty.                                                                                                                      

I turned on the T.V. I watched cooking programs. The news came on with its over dramatic intro music.

            ‘Markus Black strikes again. The body of the former chancellor of the exchequer was found on Bar Moor. A bullet hole in the back of the head, next to a note signed M. Black.’

I spat the rum out of my mouth. I had to finish the case. I knew where I would find Markus Black. I left my hovel for the inescapable exposure of the moors.

 

 

 

 

 

7

On the train into the north I remembered a childhood holiday. My father’s family booked a holiday cottage in a remote valley in the Yorkshire dales. The bricks were irregular cuts of dark sandstone; the roof was thick slate. To the left of the cottage streams ran down pastures to a river. To the right and to the north, three large fells looked down on us, above the fells were the desolate moors.

            The weather was unseasonal, we had bright sunshine for the first part of the week. It went like most family holidays; we ate, we went places, we ate, we sat around in the evening playing cards.                                                                                                            

On the second to last day, a thick mist came down from the moors. The sky clouded over and it was gloomy. The sunlight refused to break out.                                                                       

  I went walking with my father to get some air. We found our way by following the track, we could barely see three meters in front or behind us. We decided to turn back as there was nothing to look at but thick mist and sodden ground.

            A man came out of the mist. He was dressed in wax leather. He had an open shotgun over his shoulder. A local farmer. We spooked him. He didn’t expect to see anyone out in the mist.

            ‘Snot Saafe to be out int mist,’ said the farmer.

My father was frightened; he was a coward. Men with guns frightened him.

            ‘Aye,’ said my father in the thickest Yorkshire accent he could muster.

            ‘Sum thins cum doe-wun from moor. Lock your door tonight.’

I felt the fear infect me. And we turned and trotted back to the cottage. We didn’t discuss the words of the farmer. I didn’t want to think about what had come down from the moors.

            ‘He was just trying to scare you,’ said my father. But I didn’t believe my father. I felt he was just saying it to make himself feel better. I saw a fear in the eyes of that farmer that was real, and he had no reason to scare us, I believed it was advice, a warning that to roam around after dark in the mist from the moors was dangerous.                                     

Even if there was nothing but mist. There were pot holes, sink holes, rocky becks, barbed wire tangles, and miles of nothing. To venture on the moors in the mist was a bad idea. What had the farmer meant? I envisaged some foul creature hungry and looking for prey. Sheep went missing all the time. Maybe that was what they were for. Maybe they let sheep roam the moors to feed the beasts that dwelt there. It began to make sense. I looked outside.

            The grey light had gone and all I saw was dense black darkness. The mist was even thicker now.

The rest of my family were sat in front of the T.V. That’s the sad thing, you go on holiday and you end up watching the T.V. It’s a dummy for the masses. Watch a bit of something go to bed with an empty mind.                                                                                    

I was in no mood for sleeping. Not now I knew something sinister had crept down from the moors. My ears were listening to the night. Every little whistle or crackle from the darkness formed shapes in my mind. A creeping pale creature similar to a human but with sharp teeth and wide dead eyes. Something that had caught our scent and was waiting in the darkness outside the house. A living smoke that could choke and degrade you and lure you up onto the fells and beyond.                                                                                

Every time a pipe creaked my heart rate picked up. Every time silence was broken from a scurrying outside I went paler.                                                                           

The family were watching Leonardo DiCaprio as the young Romeo. They were discussing Shakespeare as if they were oxford dons. I was the only one freaking out at the prospect of a strange creature invading our house in search of meat. Still what use would it have done to warn them. They were all cowards. They would have been no use. My father was the only one who could have done anything and he was scared. He was in the living room pretending he hadn’t seen the farmer with the shotgun. It was here I realized I was alone with my fears. No one was going to help me. I would have to go into the living room and watch Romeo and Juliet and pretend the fears of the mist were gone.

 

In the morning we went walking. The sun burned the mist away. I saw a red trail of blood smeared up the hill, it ran up to the fells.

            ‘What’s that?’ I said to my father.

            ‘Must have been a fox.’

I didn’t believe him, and he didn’t believe himself.  After that holiday I vowed never to go back to the moors.

 

I woke from my memory. I had booked myself into a country inn on the edge of Bar moor.

 

 

8

I had come to the end of my search.

Somewhere in the desolate darkness of Bar moor Markus Black waited for me.

I had no illusions of catching him. My reasons for seeking him out were drowned in pride. I wanted to die knowing I had seen the man who had ruined my life. I had no fear. I accepted that to look into the eyes of the smoke would be the end of me. I would not return to the world in madness with a gift I didn’t ask for.

            The inn was moldy looking. The damp of the hills had soaked into it. A small fire burned in the snug. A shepherd sat by the fire, his wet boots steaming. The owners name was Twiddy. A name that conjured up convivial merriment.                                    

Twiddy was grim and monosyllabic. He gave me the room above the snug. The fire below kept the damp from consuming my room. The rest of the rooms were chill and uninhabitable. Twiddy slept in the snug.

Twiddy didn’t ask why I had come to the end of the road.                                                   

The Inn sat on the point on the map where the line stopped, where the tarmac stopped and the sheep track began. The road ended.

 I slept the first night. The sound of the wind was soothing. I had come from the chaos of the city. There was peace at the edge of the moor. No sirens, no motorbikes, no screaming, no howling drunks.

            After eggs and bacon. I made plans to climb up to the moors. Twiddy saw the gloom in my eyes.

            ‘Where you off to?’

            ‘I’m heading to Bar Moor.’

            ‘You’ll get a chill. Take this coat. You’ll need it.’

He handed me a fur lined sheepskin jacket.

            ‘Bring it back lad.’

I nodded and left. The sun barely shone through the thick sludge clouds. I wandered past sheep and wizened trees. Rolls of rusted barbed wire. Over styles and on to the red brown heather of the moor.                                                                                                                       

The wind came to steal the warmth. Then the rain came to dampen the last of my spirits. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I was driven by a force out of my control.          

The moor was deserted but I felt as if I was being watched. The further I walked the stronger the feeling became. I took no map. My compass was my instinct. It guided me up to a crag. I got to high ground. I scanned the moor. I saw a wisp of smoke. It was Black, it had to be Black. The sun was going down. I had to reach the smoke before the light went. I bounded off across the rocks and heather. The smoke was fading with the light. When the light went I followed the smell. A plastic smoke. The kind of smoke you can’t escape.

            A glowing light shone from the rocks. A shelter from the merciless wind. Down into the rocks I went. And there he was beside the fire. Markus black, the fearsome, the murderer, the man who turned to smoke.

            ‘Sit down detective.’

 

 

 

 

9

My body washed with adrenaline. The feeling you get when you’re about to drop your morality and fight like a wild dog.

            ‘There is no need to fight detective, sit down. Am I how you imagined I’d be?’

I nodded unable to speak.

            ‘It took you a long time to find me. I knew you would. I knew my last victim would bring you to me. I had to bring you to a place where we would not be disturbed. No one lingers on the moor. It is something you cross. Something you admire and contemplate, those who dwelt here were conquered long ago.

I was sad to hear how you left the police, and how your wife left you. It wasn’t my intention to ruin you as completely as I did. I wanted to instill fear into the police. You feared for your life, and in your cowardice, you lost everything. I watched your wife, you had a lucky escape, she is a sexless woman.’

Something he said turned my blood to steam.

            ‘You didn’t know my wife,’ I said.

            ‘That’s it detective, get angry, where was that passion when you shirked your responsibility?  You left the force with a killer on the loose. Everything you worked for was washed away like words in the sand. Why did you come here?’

            ‘I had to see you. I had to know that you were real.’ I said with the whisper of a mouse.

            ‘Am I real, how do you know I am real. I could be a hallucination. I know you have seen things you daren’t speak of. What did you think of my last conquest?’

            ‘You murdered a Politian, what next a king? You have proved you can reach anyone you wish. Why do you kill them Markus?’

            ‘I don’t have to tell you anything. You are alone on Bar Moor with the most feared man in England. I could end you at any moment. You are much dumber than you look, why do you think I killed them?’

I looked at him across the dying fire.

            ‘I think you killed them to expose them. You’re just another killer. A monster that needs to be put in prison.’     

Markus Black turned into smoke. I lunged for him and clutched at air. I roared into the night as the rain fell and put out the fire. I was in the middle of the moor at midnight. The darkness pushed down on me. He slipped through my fingers as dense black smoke.