A Room Full of Killers. Michael Wood

The driver kept gazing at him through the rear-view mirror. His look was sharp and scared. What did he think Ryan was going to do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who looked twelve, not Hannibal Lecter.

      The driver and the front seat passenger didn’t speak much. The odd banal comment on the amount of traffic and how dark it had become, but that was it. They would probably save their conversation for the journey back when it would be just the two of them. Ryan could guess what the main topic of conversation would be – him.

      Ryan let out a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding and closed his eyes. The first image that came to mind was the look on his mother’s face the first time he saw her after their world had been torn apart. She didn’t look like his mum anymore. Gone were the bright blue eyes, the cheery smile, and the dimples – replaced with a look of horror, fear, and loathing. She had brought a monster into the world. She had given birth to evil and stood back while her son destroyed lives.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he looked up at her. ‘I’m really sorry.’ It was baseless but it was all he could think of.

      Belinda Asher didn’t reply. She couldn’t reply. She was using every ounce of energy to keep herself standing. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably. She was freezing cold, yet sweat was pouring from every pore. Her mouth was dry as she looked at her only son’s face. Her eyes were full of tears that refused to fall.

      ‘Mum. I’m really sorry. Where’s Dad? Is he coming?’

      ‘I want to go.’ The words fell out of her mouth to the female detective who was holding her up. No words were exchanged. The detective slowly turned her around and led her across the room.

      Ryan was crying. ‘Mum, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. Mum, please. I’m so sorry.’

      At the door, Belinda Asher turned around and a heavy shroud of silence fell over them all. Somewhere, a clock was ticking, high-heeled shoes were clacking down a corridor, planets were formed, stars died and, all the while, mother and son were locked in a battle of immense will-power.

      ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said. ‘I have no idea who you are.’

      Ryan opened his eyes and stared out of the car window. A tear fell which he didn’t wipe away. He had never cried as much as he had in the past few months. At first, he was embarrassed by his tears. Now, he didn’t care who saw.

      Why was he crying? For the pain and emotional distress that he had caused his family; for the life he had lost; for his victims? He no longer knew. All he did know was that he had ruined the lives of so many people, including his own, and, for that, he felt incredibly sad.

      The car pulled into a service station. The fat one in the front passenger seat struggled to get out. Ryan watched as he waddled to the toilets then into the small kiosk shop.

      ‘Are we nearly there?’ Ryan asked, looking at the reflection of the driver in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t get a reply. Ryan was the enemy. He was not to be engaged with.

      The fat one tested the suspension as he eased himself back into the car. ‘I needed that. Red Bull might give you wings but it goes straight through me. I bought you a Twix. They didn’t have any granola.’

      ‘Not much bloody difference, is there?’

      ‘If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’

      ‘And listen to you moan about being borderline diabetic? No, thank you.’

      Ryan wasn’t acknowledged. He wasn’t asked if he wanted anything from the shop, or if he needed the toilet. To them he was a tumour – difficult to ignore and impossible to forget.

      Three hours and forty minutes after they left Norwich they arrived at their destination in Sheffield. Off a main road and down a long bone-shaking track, they came to a set of electronic gates with razor wire on the top.

      The driver lowered his window and leaned out. He pressed the call button on the intercom, and the small screen above lit up. The face of a man loomed out at them in black and white.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘We have Ryan Asher with us.’

      ‘Drive up to the second set of gates and turn off your engine.’

      The screen went blank, and the gates slowly opened. They drove through and stopped when they reached a second set of gates. The first set closed behind them. They were trapped in a small rectangle with high fencing on all four sides and barbed wire tightly coiled along the top. Nothing happened.

      ‘What’s going on?’ the driver whispered to his colleague.

      ‘We’re being filmed and photographed from every conceivable angle.’

      After a few long minutes of silence, the second set of gates opened. Norris turned on the engine and continued driving along the pothole-lined track until they reached the entrance to the imposing nineteenth-century building.

      Ryan remained in the back of the car as it pulled up. The driver opened the door and looked at the frightened teenager.

      ‘Out you get.’

      As Ryan was led out of the car he looked up at the terrifying building casting long shadows from the full moon directly above it. He was mesmerized by the imposing façade; the massive bay windows; the severe leaded panes of glasses. It was something out of a classic Hammer Horror film.

      The front door opened and a large barrel of a man waddled down the steps. A yellow glow from the lighting behind enveloped him.

      ‘Ryan Asher?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Welcome to Starling House.’

       TWO

      DCI Matilda Darke’s morning routine had changed beyond all recognition over the past month. The alarm clock was set for six o’clock, though she was usually awake and up before it sounded. She no longer dragged herself out of bed; she threw back the duvet and hopped out.

      She headed for the conservatory where a newly acquired treadmill waited for her. She plugged her iPod into it – a little bit of David Bowie to start the day – and began a five kilometre jog. Matilda had only been doing this routine for a few weeks but she was sure her thighs and calves were getting tighter. Her bum certainly felt firmer and, maybe she was kidding herself, but her black jacket didn’t seem as figure-hugging. It would be a long time before she could wear the size ten Armani suit hiding away in her wardrobe but she was getting there – slowly.

      It had been the idea of her friend, Adele Kean, to get in shape. Maybe it would make her feel better, not just physically, but mentally too – give her something else to focus on rather than grieving for her late husband, James. Adele was a member of Virgin Active and managed to drag Matilda along with her. However, fifteen minutes into her first session and Matilda knew a gym was most definitely not for her.

      She looked at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror and didn’t like the wreck staring back at her. The whole open-plan gym felt like a zoo; preening and presenting body-beautifuls – not so much working out as auditioning for God only knew what. The stains some people left on the equipment reminded Matilda of animals scent-marking their territory. The selfie-obsessives would never welcome Matilda into their den with her neurosis and baggy sweaters – not that she wanted them to.

      So she treated herself to a treadmill and a couple of kettlebells and turned the conservatory into a make-shift gym. She wasn’t sure James would approve, the conservatory was his pride and joy, but as long as Matilda was well and functioning normally he would be looking down on her and smiling, especially that time when she caught her headphone wire on the treadmill handles and fell off.

      The five kilometre jog took her thirty-two minutes. She was desperate to get it under thirty and promised herself she would jog at