The Sensitives

  The Sensitives

  by Rick Wood

  © Copyright Rick Wood 2017

  With thanks to my Street Team for your feedback in the editing process.

  Copy-edited by LeeAnn at FirstEditing.com

  Cover design by James at GoOnWrite.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  All characters in this book are fictional. Any similarity to any real person is entirely coincidental.

  For Sophie

  With all my love

  1

  You never expect a sweet, darling little girl to be the source of a man’s deepest fear.

  Yet all Detective Inspector Jason Lyle could get from his colleague was gibberish. Eccentrically formed, incoherent, insubstantial gibberish.

  “She – she – her eyes… her eyes…”

  “For Christ’s sake, pull yourself together,” Jason demanded, rolling his eyes and folding his arms.

  “You don’t know,” retorted the constable. “You weren’t there…” He threw his arms around his body, shaking in a frenzied huddle, his bloodshot eyes staring wide-eyed at a vacant corner of the room.

  With an exasperated sigh, Jason nodded at the nearest officer and the constable was led away, leaving Jason alone in his office.

  Sitting back in his grand, leather office chair, he picked up a mug and sniffed it. It smelt like coffee. He needed coffee.

  He took a sip.

  He almost retched as he spat it back out. He hated cold coffee. It was all he ever seemed to find around his office – cold bloody coffee. Where was that constable who said he was bringing Jack a decent, hot cup of coffee?

  Probably blubbering with the other pathetic excuse for a police officer, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Is that what passes the training nowadays?

  Jason cast his wizened, cynical eyes upon a photo frame at the edge of his desk. His wife and his daughter stood, proudly smiling back at him, and he considered his sweet daughter’s face. Nine years old, the same age as the girl who had mortified his officer into a blubbering mess. His daughter’s face was so innocent, full of such impenetrable virtue. How could a girl, like his daughter, ever be considered as volatile as they were making this witness out to be?

  “Fuck it,” he coughed, springing out of his chair and dropping the remnants of his stale coffee mug into a full waste paper basket leant haphazardly against his desk.

  If this girl was really that bad, he was going to have to see it for himself. If an officer couldn’t take a simple statement of a child without turning into a pathetic wreck, then it would be up to him to take the responsibility.

  Bloody amateurs.

  He threw off his jacket, loosened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves as he trooped toward the interrogation room. People tried to say hello as he passed, but he ignored every one of them. He didn’t need pointless, going-nowhere conversations – once he had had tunnel vision, he didn’t care about the chitchat some boring idiot wanted to start with him.

  He reached the interrogation room, turned the handle, and was taken aback to find it locked. He shuffled the handle again, checking he wasn’t mistaken.

  “Oi!” he shouted, expecting someone to hear and come to his beck and call.

  As he had hoped, Gus pointed his head out of a nearby kitchen, pieces of yumyum hanging off his fat cheek.

  “What’s up, Jason?” Gus inquired, his overweight belly sickening Jason at the sight of what constitutes a police officer nowadays.

  “Why the bloody hell is that door locked?” Jason commanded.

  “That’s where we’re keeping that Kaylee Kemple girl, boss,” Gus replied dumbly, staring back with thick, inquisitive eyes.

  “Yes, I know that,” Jason spat through seething teeth. “Why is it locked?”

  “Have you met her?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Then you wouldn’t understand.”

  Jason did all he could to contain his rage. His fists clenched, his fingers flexed, his eyes narrowed. His chest throbbed with his accelerating heartbeat and he found his body unconsciously leaning aggressively toward Gus.

  “What the fuck wouldn’t I understand?” Jason spoke in a hostile but quiet voice – trying adamantly to remain professional and contain his incessant fury. “It is a little girl. What the hell is wrong with you people?”

  “Honestly, Inspector, you haven’t met her.”

  “Well then open the door, I would like to.”

  Despite the obvious intensity of Jason’s anger, the throbbing veins on his perspiring forehead, and the bloodshot fever of his eyes – Gus wobbled.

  Gus did not want to endure Jason’s wrath; no one did. Jason’s anger was legendary. But at the same time, he did not want to have to face what was behind that door.

  “Gus,” Jason began again, slowly, furiously. “I’m going to ask you one final time. Open. The fucking. Door.”

  Gus’ arms shook, his whole body seizing in fear. Taking the keys off his belt, he presented them to Jason, who took them reluctantly.

  “Here,” Gus offered. “Take them. But please wait for me to go back in the kitchen.”

  Gus scuttled away like a pathetic little beetle, slamming the kitchen door behind him.

  “Fucking charlatan,” Jason muttered, placing the key in the lock.

  He had barely reached the first rotation of the key before he froze. A murmur reverberated against the door, vibrating with a croaky breath. A low-pitched rumble that sounded like the deep laughter of an old, demented man echoed from within.

  Was that the girl?

  Fuck’s sake, Jason, don’t let it go to your head. It’s a nine-year-old.

  Ignoring his instinct, he turned the key and opened the door, entering the room and shutting himself in.

  He regretted his lack of trepidation instantly. His whole body shuddered. His breath was visible in the air – it was the middle of summer, but this room was like the Antarctic.

  Two blond pigtails outlined the head of the girl. She sat completely stationary, facing the opposite wall, humming a quietly chaotic low-pitched tune – a repetitive, incessant tuneless song. Jason didn’t know why, but this song sent chills firing up and down his spine.

  “Kaylee, my name is Detective Inspector Jack Lyle,” he introduced himself. “Mind if I speak to you?”

  The humming ended.

  Intense, unbearable silence screamed from the back of the girl’s head.

  “I’m sorry, Kaylee’s not here right now,” she answered. “Can I take a message?”

  2

  Tewkesbury. The place that always flooded, was full of old people, and where everyone knew everyone else.

  Except for Oscar.

  No one knew Oscar. Except for his mum, his dad, and his cat.

  And, very briefly, those people he served on the checkout in Morrison’s, though his interaction with these strangers was usually short, often involving a grunt for a greeting and a snarl for goodbye.

  Oscar hated working on the checkouts, but he couldn’t be arsed to stay in school. He had counted down the weeks until the end of year eleven when he could leave; meaning no more work, no more homework, and no more having to deal with annoying teachers. He could just sit around on his arse all day doing nothing. It was a dream come true.

  Then he reached eighteen, and his parents charged him rent.

  This was where he ended up. Stuck behind the checkout in Morrison’s. With eight hours to go. And a lot of customers that he had to pretend to care about.

  “Murgh,” grunted a man as he placed his Stella Artois on the belt, handed Oscar a crumpled five-pound note, and plodded back to his miserable life.

  However miserable the man’s life was, Oscar envie
d it. The guy had a four-pack of beer and didn’t need to sit there serving miserable farts for the next seven hours fifty-eight minutes.

  Oscar was aware that he didn’t have the kind, welcoming face that would encourage someone to engage in conversation with him. And if someone did try to engage him in conversation, he would find it the most tedious few minutes of his day. He really hated small talk; any acknowledgement of another human being a “murgh” was immensely tedious. A fully formed “hello” was the extreme limit of the interaction he was comfortable with.

  Yet, some people still tried. Why? Why couldn’t they just go through their life leaving him the hell alone?

  Oscar was a thin, scrawny young man. Lazy and unmotivated, but too lazy to really care that he was unmotivated. He spent most of his time between being moaned at by his parents for doing nothing with his life, playing FIFA, being moaned at by his parents for not washing up, going to counselling, collecting his anxiety medication, being moaned at by his parents for not caring about the fact he was having to take anxiety medication, then being moaned at that he’s not caring about the fact that he’s being moaned at.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so lazy. I’ve numbed my brain with pills.

  His parents would claim it was his Xbox that deadened him – but it was the pills.

  Or it could be his Xbox.

  Who gives a shit, really?

  “Hello, dearie,” smiled an old lady as she placed a bunch of bananas, some paracetamol, and a jar of coffee on the belt. Before Oscar could get too irritated by the fact that this old lady had forced two fully formed two-syllable words upon him, he noticed her placing her debit card into the machine and entering her pin number before Oscar had even scanned her items.

  “No, you’ve got to wait,” Oscar told her.

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “I need to put your things through first.”

  “Yes, you put them through, dear.”

  “Now you need to enter your pin.”

  “I need to do what?”

  “Enter your pin.”

  “But I already have.”

  “No, you need to enter it again.”

  “But then you’d charge me twice!”

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucking heeeeeeeeeeeeeeell.

  “No. It did not go through because it wasn’t ready. I need you to do it now.”

  “Oh, okay then.”

  “Yes, I need you to do it now.”

  “Oh, is it ready now?”

  “Yes, it is ready.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’ve already done it once.”

  “Please put your pin in.”

  I’m going to shoot myself.

  “Now you need to press enter.”

  “Do what, dear?”

  “Press enter.”

  “Oh, where’s that?”

  “In the bottom right.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, that’s the clear button, you’ve just cleared it. Now you need to enter your pin again.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to enter your pin again.”

  “But I’ve already done it twice.”

  Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhh!!

  “Tell you what; why don’t we just use contactless?”

  He grabbed the woman’s card, held it against the machine, and handed it back to her, beaming a huge fake smile toward her confused face.

  Seven hours fifty-six minutes to go.

  Oscar sat back in his chair – a plastic chair falling to pieces and digging into his back, which was surely against union regulations – if there was a union for dead-end supermarket workers, that is.

  He ran his hands through his greasy, unkempt hair.

  Was this what his life had in store for him?

  Eighteen years old. He was supposed to be in the prime of his life.

  Across the supermarket, some guy with a lip piercing, shorts, and a woolly hat on, put his arms around his girlfriend. His girlfriend was stunning – long, blond hair, curvy waist, succulent arse. Oscar couldn’t help but stare – but mostly at the guy. Why on earth had a woman like this chosen a man like that?

  I mean, the guy was wearing shorts and a woolly hat. Which one is it? Was it hot or cold?

  Unsure why it was making him angry, he found his arms shaking and his legs wobbling. This bloke infuriated him. Not just because he dressed like an inept idiot – but because he had managed to bag himself a gorgeous girl.

  No girl ever looked Oscar’s way.

  Ever.

  The more and more he glared at this man, the more he felt his anger raging, intensifying, multiplying, as the man packed his cereal, his condoms, and his Coke, picking his plastic bag up in his hand and taking it away and – BANG!

  The man fell to the floor, a bloody hole sent straight through his body, falling to his knees, clutching his chest. His girlfriend wept over him, desperately clinging onto him, screaming for dear life.

  Oscar glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone else was reacting, and looked back, then–

  They were fine.

  The guy and his girlfriend were absolutely fine.

  Everyone carried on like nothing had happened.

  What the hell?

  The guy placed his sleazy arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, giving her a disgusting open-mouth kiss that looked like he was a frog trying to eat a tadpole.

  But he was alive. Perfectly well.

  No one else reacted. No one else had seen anything.

  Oscar clambered into his pocket for his anxiety medication. He withdrew it, popping out four pills, shoving them in his mouth and swallowing without the need for water.

  “Oi, mate, pay attention!”

  Oscar’s head shot around. An irritable old man was waiting for his shopping to be scanned.

  Willing his heavy breathing to subside and his alert mind to calm down, Oscar picked up a loaf of bread and beeped it through.

  It was just his overactive imagination.

  This was why he took the pills.

  Seven hours fifty-two minutes to go.

  3

  “We were… reluctant” – began the well-dressed lawyer, pulling a face as if he was chewing something disgusting – “to hire you. I mean, what you do… I don’t, particularly, believe in it.”

  April sighed, chewing her gum with an open mouth just to irritate this toffy, privately educated, stuck-up-his-own-arse, insufferable man. Sure, April liked to dye her hair purple. Sure, she had more tattoos and piercings than this man was comfortable with. And sure, she worked in the paranormal investigating business, something perhaps not given much integrity by the educated elite – it didn’t mean this pompous arse got to talk to her so condescendingly.

  “But, our client,” the lawyer continued, “he, er… he insisted on it. If it were up to me–”

  “Looks like it ain’t up to you, though, don’t it?” April responded, forcing a smarmy, insincere smile to her lips. Yes, it was childish to stoop to his level of condescension – but it felt good to get one over on him.

  “We’re aren’t particularly interested in your opinion, I’m afraid,” Julian pointed out, so stern and diplomatic. “Where is Henry?”

  “Just through those doors.”

  “Lovely,” Julian confirmed. “Thank you.”

  Julian made his way through the double doors first, followed by April – who made sure to give the lawyer a huge, fury-provoking grin.

  “What a prick,” April observed as she and Julian walked toward the bench where their client sat.

  “You need to stay more detached, April,” Julian replied. “I know the guy’s a prick, but we still need to be professional.”

  As they approached Henry, April was taken aback by how normal he looked. Despite his hands being in handcuffs and being adorned in prison wear, he looked like the average father. A mixture of brown and grey hair, stubble on his chin, and a Sensitive frown on his kind face. Henry looked wounded, as if the events were distressing h
im immensely – something April had no doubt they were.

  “Mr Kemple, it’s good to meet you,” Julian greeted him, always professional.

  “Thank you,” Henry replied, raising from his seat in respect. “I would shake your hand, but it’s a little difficult.”

  “Not to worry.” Julian smiled as they sat down, April taking a seat beside Julian.

  “And please, call me Henry.”

  April couldn’t help but admire how good Julian was with people. He was a gifted exorcist and an accomplished demonologist, there was no doubt about that. And the way he’d taken her off the street when she was younger and taught her to hone her powers, moulding her into the strong, nineteen-year-old woman she had become, was nothing short of heroic. He had a natural air of confidence about him that didn’t come off as smug, but as warm and inviting. Perhaps this came from him being almost ten years older than she; and maybe April would learn that patience in time.

  “My name is Julian, and this is April. The first question is probably the most obvious one, but I’ll ask it anyway,” began Julian. “How are you, Henry?”

  “Well…” Henry shook his head, looking to his feet. He fought off tears, his face scrunching as he visibly willed himself not to break. “Not good.”

  “Yes, I can imagine. It’s pretty horrific circumstances.”

  “I just… I can’t believe I’m here.”

  “I imagine it must be devastating.”

  Henry forced an absent nod as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning, Henry?”

  “My daughter, Kaylee… She’s only ninyears-old. We’ve always been so close, best friends, even. I took her to parks, zoos, did everything a good dad does. Then one day, she just…”

  He trailed off again, forcing tears away.

  “Take your time,” Julian reassured him.

  “She just changed. Became nothing short of sadistic. Started doing all these nasty things.”

  “When did she start doing these things?”

  “Three, four months ago.”