Speaker 1: I'd been after that damn thrush for a week. I
saw it once, skimming alone near the canal. It was
a nervous thing, with a chest like it had been
sprinkled with pepper. It was nothing flashy, but that glimpse
left me wanting more. I think it was the fact
it wasn't meant to be here. It was definitely, of course,
it probably caught the wrong goss somewhere south and ended
up where it shouldn't have. I hadn't seen one in
this area before, not in all the years I've been
coming out here bird watching, so I kept coming back
every morning. I put boots on before the town woke up,
shoved my scope in my bag as well as some
snacks and a thermus of tea, and followed the same
muddy tracks through the trees. There's a battered old notice
board nailed up near the canal shelter, faded from years
of sun and frost. I never meant to make it
happy of checking it, but lately I couldn't help myself.
It used to be the usual mess of dog walker ads,
but now it was littered with missing persons posters. I
often glanced at it on the way in But on
Monday I spotted Gareth with his uniform jacket half buttoned
up and radio clipped to his shoulder, leaning over it
with a stable gun. All right, you old sod, Gareth said,
glancing sideways without turning fully around. Morning to you too,
I said, grinning. He snorted back again, you trying to
court that bird or marry it? If it starts letting back,
I'll let you know. I stepped up beside him. Who've
we got to day? He tapped the edge of the
top sheet. It was a woman in the mid twenties.
The print out looked like it had been taken off Facebook.
Below her was a boy about eight or nine. From
the lock of him. Both this week, Gareth said, he's
been building real slow. One here, one there. Woman and
little heads always look similar, but they never related. We're
meant to keep it on the hushburn. Come on, it
feels like someone's picking them out on purpose, he rubbed
to the back of his neck. Problem is this sodd
ale to go off on? I didn't know what to
say to that. Instead I gave a quiet hum and
watched him press the paper flat with a side of
his hand. I see you've got a busy morning. A
few more of these the stick up around town, then
back to the station to pretend I know what I'm
doing for hours, Maybe sneak a cuppa if the phone
stops ringing long enough, living the dream, I said. Gareth
hofed and laughed through his nose and stood stepped back.
He squinted at the board, making sure it all lined up,
then gave me a serious look. If you see anything
strange out there, you let me know, just me, but
you already knew I was a bit off. He gave
a dry laugh, then moved on and watched them go,
then turn back to the trees. The woods out here
go on longer than most people reckon. From the main trail.
It all looks neat and groomed near the couple of
picnic benches and the odd wooden sign pointing out butterflies
or fungus. But you only have to take a few
steps off the path and it all folds in on itself.
It all becomes a slow, thick mess of hawthorn, older
and nettles. You can't avoid. Where I'd seen the thrust
last was off to the left, well past the cut
of the canal and into the sort of tangle that'd
make most people turn around, But I'd grown up out
here when I was little. These woods were my patch,
way before mobile phones and the estate got bigger. I
used to spend hours getting lost on purpose. Me and
a couple of mates built a half rotten den out
there once, proper deep where the brambles got thick. We
nicked a couple of planks from a skip and a
bit of tarp we weren't meant to have back then.
It felt like a bloody fortress. I don't go in
as far these days, but that thrush wasn't going to
hang about on the edge trail, not after a week
of me stomping through. If I wanted another lock, I'd
have to push deeper. It was just past noon when
I took myself lower between a couple of twisted hazels
and a rotted out log that must have been down
for years. Bracken came up to my knees and spot
a nasty invasive plant that looked like it was slowly
infecting the entire woodland. Then I heard a clink like
metal on metal. It wasn't loud, but it cut clean
through the trees, and I started to ponder what it
could be. Maybe someone flight it out here, though here'd
it take some effort, though I wouldn't put it past
a few of the scruffs that lived near my end
of town. Either way, you don't usually hear that sort
of thing that deep in. I stayed crouched and listened.
It kept coming clink, clink, sometimes on its own, sometimes
in twos or three. Each one seemed to come from
a different spot, first to my right, then behind me,
then dead ahead. It gave me a jolt, scared me
enough to stiffen me up a bit. I stayed where
I was, listening hard. Then it came again, clink. I
slowly lifted myself just enough to see over the log.
It took me a second to find it, but there,
perched on a low stump, was a missile thrush. I
watched as it tilted its head and opened its beak
to make that same metal clink, perfect and crisp. It
threw me a bit. Sure missile thrushes will copy the
odd sound, but they're not known for it like some others.
And even if they were, why that noise out here
in the thick of the woods. There's nothing metal for miles.
We must have learned it near by, heard it enough
to copy it back. Like that, it shifted once more,
then took off His wings caught the lights as it
darted between branches and dipped through a narrow lion of alder.
I followed carefully. The ground here was knotted with roots
and soft underfoot, spongy in some places where the moss
was thickest. I kept low, stepping where the ferns bent,
smoothly moving around the trees. Brambles caught at my jacket.
Occasionally I'd lose sight of the thing, but hear it again, clink, clink,
always just ahead. I couldn't help but admire it, even
with everything else going on. It moved with that sharp,
nervous grace mistle thrushes have. The patterning across its chest
looked darker in the shade, almost oily, and its eyes
flickered back at me now and then, like it knew
I was behind it. I'd watched the birds my whole life,
but something about this one held me. If he had
left again then dropped out of sight, I pressed forward,
pushing through a wall of damp rush, and there it was,
sat atop a rusted metal roof, wings tucked in head
turning slowly. The building looked more like an old shed.
It was narrow, sunken slightly into the slope, edges softened
with age and dirt. Tarbs had been thrown over the
top and weighed down with camou netting, but they started
to rot and curl back. The thing looked forgotten, as
if it hadn't seen proper use in years. The door
at the front was heavy duty, bolted shut. A padlock
hung from the frame. Rust crusted deep into the mechanism.
Then I heard it again, clink, but the bird didn't move.
It stayed still on the roof, feathers flat, eyes fixed
somewhere behind me. The sound hadn't come from it this time, clink, clink, clink,
this time more sporadic. I edged closer, careful not to
snap any branches under foot. A smell something like bleach
hung in the air. The noise persisted. I circled around
to the far side, where one of the lower panels
had walked out of the frame, a gap maybe a
foot wide. I dropped to my knees, brushed the bracken aside,
and pushed myself through. Inside. It was hotter than I expected.
It felt wrong straight away. The air hit the back
of my throat in a way that made me want
to spit, and there wasn't much light, so I pulled
out my emergency torch. The floor was concrete and sloped slightly.
At the far end was six cages, welded straight into
the ground proper thick steel. Each one had been lived in,
no question about it. Blankets pressed flat from use, bits
of paper, and string, trays with hairs in them, kid's clothes.
One had a muslin cloth baby sized. Another had what
looked like make up, just the stub of a lipstick
and a broken comb. None of it matched, None of
it made sense. The last cage had a little boy
in it. He couldn't have been more than seven. He
was curled up in the far corner under a blanket,
blinking slow, like he'd just woken up. His face was
gorn to but clean. He looked looked after in the
way a pet might be. No marks I could see.
Then A notices the strip of faded cloth pulled tight
around the back of his head and knotted hard enough
to leave a mark. A gag. Once he got a
good look at me, he started moving quick and panicked,
trying to talk through the gag, pointing to the lock,
then to the floor. The cage was bolted shut. I
rattled it gently, but it didn't budge. I'm gonna get
you out, all right, I said, trying to keep my
voice steady. Just hang on. I got up and started
checking the room. There was a grimy, indented surgical table
in the corner, with one leg braced on bricks. On
it was a scalpel, a boning knife, thin and stained
tweezers blackened at the tips, and a jar of cloudy
liquid that looked like it was meant to clean them,
though it hadn't been touched in a while. Most of
the metal had what appeared to be dried blood crusted
in the grooves. Seeing the tools turn my stomach a bit.
I kept looking at them, trying to convince myself they
were just old junk and that the blood was rust.
But I couldn't. Not With the boy behind me, I
stepped over a length of pipe and crossed to the
far wall. The freezer chest was low to the ground
and held shut with a thick rubber strap. A mess
of jumper cables fed out the back, still hugged into
the terminals of a car battery. It buzzed faintly when
I touched the lid inside, but plastic tubs stacked tight
about half a freezer full, and each was labeled. The
top one read Shannon scalp, Benjamin lower, left arm, Shannon teeth.
Even through the frost, I could tell they were real.
I slammed the freezer shut and held the lid down
for a few moments. Then I pulled out my phone
and started snapping. Flash lit up the space as I
took pictures of the freezer, tools and cages. I felt
clumsy doing it, my hands slick with sweat, but it
had to be done. I'd make sure to delete them later.
I opened maps, dropped a pin where I stood, and
fired it straight off to the Gareth found something in
the woods bad sent my location. Get here quick and
don't come alone. I turned looking for the key and
spotted two Mannikins tucked into the shadows near the back wall,
one adult sized, one child. Pinned above them on the
wall were diagrams, polaroids of the same woman and little boy,
scrap paper with rough sketches, measurements, and a shopping list
of different body parts. Then I heard a lock shift.
At first I thought the boy had been able to
free himself, but as I turned, the sudden flush of
light flash banged me. The shape in the doorway stood stiff,
its head tilted to its left shoulder, like they were
melted into each other. I squinted to see more, but
the light from outside made it difficult. All I could
see was the bulk of him, broaded through the chest,
with one arm hanging longer than the other. He stepped
in and I raised my torch slightly. You don't want
to do this, I said. My voice came out quiet
and pathetic. He kept moving. The shape of him came
into view. He was burned with twisted but healed skin.
He was big. He lunged with both weight and power.
I stumbled back, caught off guard, and slammed sideways into
the metal frame of one of the cages. The torch
clattered to the floor, spinning light strobing around the room.
He came at me again, arms wide, trying to grab hold.
I dug sideways and shoved my shoulder into his ribs.
He grunted and swung one arm to the side of
my head. I shoved back, using both hands, pushing him
off balance toward the table. He knocked it, sent talls scattering,
but stayed upright. He came at me again, clumsy but fast,
leading with his shoulder. I grabbed a bit of pipe
or rod and brought it up between us. It slowed
him and gave me just enough room to back pedal
and breathe. Everything in me wanted to run, but I
knew I couldn't leave the boy alone. He charged again, faster,
this time, slamming me back into the cages. My shoulder
cracked the bars and sens a jol down my arm.
I swung the pipe and clipped the side of his head.
He roared, voice all torn up and broken. Get away
from them, their mine, my Shannon, my benjy. He grabbed
a handful of my jacket and yanked me forward. I twisted,
kicked hard, and landed somewhere near his shin. He didn't
go down, but he gave me just enough space to
wrench free. My ear was still ringing from the earlier blow,
and sick the rock behind my eye now as something
had split. He kept coming. Every breath he tuck sounded
like it hurt, wet and uneven, full of rattling heat.
The barns had wrecked his face, but there was still
strength in him, more than I had. He was desperate,
and desperate men don't stop easy. I tripped trying to
dodge his next swing, landed hard on my back, ribs flaring,
slipped on the pipe, and it skidded out of reach.
He loomed above mouth, working like he was trying to
say more, but all that came out was a dry,
bubbling rasp. His boot pressed into my leg, pinning me.
I tried to twist to roll clear, but his weight
kept me pinned. My ear was still ringing, and now
my ribs were burning. I couldn't catch my breath. The
pressure on my leg grew sharper harder. He was trying
to crush me. The door slammed open behind him. Down,
Get the hell down. The man didn't flinch. He kept going.
There was a crack of Gareth's bat and slamming down.
The figure reeled back a step. I kicked out hard
and caught him just above the knee. He staggered sideways.
I said, get on the ground. Gareth didn't start, got
behind him fast and brought the baton down again. This
time across the shoulders. The man dropped. There was a grunt,
and then Gareth was on him, pinning him, coughing his
wrists tight behind his back. The figure flinched but didn't
drop got him. Gareth barked, you're right. I nodded, caught
my breath and sweat stung my eyes. I dragged myself upright,
ribs aching and used the cages to hold myself up.
We need bolt cutters, I said, voice. Horse now back
up arrived quickly. They helped pin improperly and hauled him out,
kicking and spluttering like an animal, while another stayed behind
to free the boy. Gareth helped me walk back through
the trees, mostly acting as a support over the rough terrain.
Parramed were waiting near the path. They took me in,
sat me down, gave me something for the pain, then
carted me off to A and E to check for
concussion and whatever else i'd rattled loose. I gave two
full statements that day, then another two later in the week.
I had to repeat some of it more times than
I felt like. A few days later, Gareth swung by
my place with a flask and some imported cigars. We
sat in the garden out back, just like we used
to when we were younger. Eventually he said, ugly bugger,
wasn't he? Yeah, I muttered. Gareth nodded, staring into his flask.
Didn't even know he was still around. Thought he'd left
years back. He used to live on the fringe near
the old paper mill. His wife and kid died in
a house fire. Poor Bugis didn't make it out. He
did he always that big, I asked. Gareth hoffed, Yeah,
he's a big lad. Worked in salvage. I think he
used to see him down by the skippins holding stuff
no one else would touch. After the fire, something just snapped.
We thought he moved off. I took a sip of
my drink in that shed. Those women and boys. He
was storing certain parts, Yeah, Gareth muttered. He wasn't just
storing them, he was trying to put them back together,
bit by bit. We both went quiet. After a while.
Gareth cleared his throat. It's sick, but in his head
he thought he was fixing something, putting his family right now,
fixing that, I said, not what he did. Gareth gave
a slow nod. Nah, there's no coming back from there.
Did you find that bird you were looking for.