by Karl Hill
Bring it on. Bring it fucking on.
Nathan squeezed the trigger. The rifle clicked. No crack of the gunshot. No recoil. Nothing happened.
Misfire!
Nathan lifted his head, looked at Black, the shock in Nathan’s eyes easy to read. Shock turning straight to terror.
Black reacted swiftly. He lunged forward, into the cockpit, bringing his full weight onto Nathan. They both fell backwards, cannoning into Grant, who was pushed to one side, the wheel of the boat turning sharply, all three men toppling onto the seating as the boat cut to a new direction.
Black jabbed his elbow hard into Nathan’s face, nose breaking with an audible snap. Nathan emitted a squeal of pain. Grant was quick and lithe. He regained his feet, found a compartment in the dashboard, and produced a small calibre .38 revolver. He turned to fire at Black. Black was on him, grabbing Grant’s gun wrist, forcing it up into the air, the shot firing harmlessly into the sky. Nathan remained sprawled on the seat, dazed, blood streaming from each nostril.
Grant headbutted Black. Black kept his grip on Grant’s wrist, but the blow disoriented him. Grant battered the side of Black’s face with his free hand, all his boxing training coming to the fore. Black swivelled to one side in an effort to avoid the punches, and in so doing, Grant was able to bring the gun down. Black still held on, both hands on Grant’s wrist. The gun wavered back and forth, as both men fought for control. Black kneed Grant in the groin. Grant gave a low groan, his finger involuntarily jerking the trigger. Another gunshot. The top of Nathan’s head erupted in a sudden spurt of blood and brain.
Grant released a savage, gut-wrenching howl. For a second, his body relaxed. Black seized his chance. He slammed Grant’s hand down on a side railing. The gun fell free, dropping into the water. He brought his arm up in a brutal uppercut, catching Grant under the chin. Grant’s head snapped up. He staggered back onto the dashboard. Black loomed in, inflicting two jabbing punches, both connecting. He launched a right hook – Grant blocked and struck back, catching Black in the eye. Black felt he’d been struck by a sledgehammer. Grant pulled a knife from a leather sheath attached to his trouser belt. A hunting knife. Wide blade, razor-sharp edge.
He waved the knife from side to side. He suddenly thrust forward. The boat heaved. Black tried to catch Grant’s wrist but had to keep hold of the railing to avoid being ditched overboard. The knife pierced his jacket, penetrating his body, below the left side of his ribcage. No instant pain. It felt like a soft punch. Grant rounded on him, stabbing down on his neck. Black blocked with a forearm, but already he could feel the warm ooze of blood flowing. Grant used his other arm to land a heavy punch on his wound. Black reeled back, tripping on Nathan’s dead body, which had rolled onto the floor of the cockpit.
Grant towered over Black, knife in one hand, lips curled back, teeth bared like an animal, eyes shining with madness. “I’m going to cut your fucking heart out!”
Then the world turned inside out, and the sky crashed into the earth, and Black slipped into darkness.
73
I’ll never pause again, never stand still,
Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
Henry VI
William Shakespeare
The sound came first. Jarringly loud. A heavy drone, constant. Like an insect was buzzing in his head. It filled Black’s ears, his brain. His universe. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. Every fibre of his body ached. His brain felt like it was going to explode.
I’m dead, he thought. But he was too sore to be dead. Unless there was pain after death. He tried to move, but his body resisted. The sound persisted, too intrusive to allow him to slip into unconsciousness. Gradually, his senses returned. He opened one eye. The world wavered. He was on his back, looking at the sky. It was dark, but the clouds had cleared, and he saw a million twinkling dots.
His side burnt like hell. He remembered. He’d been stabbed. By Grant. Black felt the side of his jacket. It was wet and sticky with blood.
He turned his head, towards the direction of the sound. There, ten yards away, was the speedboat. It was lying half in, half out the water, the front smashed against a pile of massive boulders. It’s run aground, thought Black. Collided full tilt into rock, at speed. There was little left of it. A wrecked burning hulk, barely recognisable as the sleek speedboat before, flames licking the night sky. Around him, peppering the ground, shards of fibreglass, twisted metal, chunks of wood. The only section intact was the tail end of the stern, and the propeller. It was the propeller making the sound, still spinning at full power, spitting and churning up water.
He must have been flung from the wreckage. He was on soft sand. He raised himself up on one elbow. He was on a narrow strip of shoreline. Beyond was the gloom of the loch. He squinted round. Behind, more darkness. He tried to take a deep breath, but the act was painful. He suspected he had broken ribs. And he knew he was leaking blood. If he didn’t get help soon, his blood would drain out, and he would die.
A thought crept into his mind. Where was Grant? A shadow flickered. A figure rose up from the wreckage, a silhouette against the flames. It came stumbling towards him. Black tried to focus, concentrate, but the world kept moving. The figure reached him, looked down, regarding Black for several seconds, as if contemplating. It was Grant, face slick with blood from a deep gash in his head, ski jacket ripped. In the red and orange glare of the burning boat, and on that lonely beach, he cut a nightmarish figure.
Behind him, the low drone of the propeller, the blades ploughing up water.
“Why don’t you just fucking die, Black.” Grant dropped, suddenly straddling Black, knees pinning his shoulders onto the ground.
Black tried to resist, but Grant’s body was too heavy. It was like trying to shift concrete.
“No one fucks with me,” mumbled Grant. “No one.” With heavy, slow fists, he pulverised Black, hard and unremitting, concentrating on his face – nose, teeth, cheeks, eyes.
Black was slipping away. Into the darkness. Oblivion. If the blows didn’t kill him, the knife wound would.
One single dismal thought consumed his mind like a dark cloud – he was going to die, and Grant would win. His wife and daughter murdered, him dead, and Grant victorious.
Fuck this! His two arms were still free. He groped in the sand, searching for anything. There! A lump of metal, the size of a fist. Black grabbed it. Summoning up what little energy remained, he swung his arm up and round, striking Grant with force. Grant grunted, rolled off, clutching his head. Black began to crawl away on his stomach, in no particular direction. He saw something lying on the sand close to him and shuffled his way towards it.
If he could reach what he thought it was, the odds became considerably more favourable.
He heard movement behind him.
“You can’t get away, Black!”
He heard the scrape of feet dragging across the sand, as Grant staggered towards him. He felt two hands on the back of his shoulders, as he was hauled up and flipped over.
Black gave a ghastly smile. “Time to see the light.”
Grant stared slack-jawed at the snub barrel of a flare gun. He turned to get away. Too late. Black fired. The space between Black and Grant was suddenly ablaze. Grant reeled back, clawing at his face. His screams rang out across the loch, high and shrill. He weaved across the beach, towards the boat, scraping at the flames on his skin. He sank to his knees, as if in prayer, pulling the remains of his jacket up and over his head, rocking back and forth, his screams diminished to low moans, barely audible above the drone of the propeller.
Somehow, Black got up. His head pounded, his cracked ribs sent spasms of pain with each breath. He was losing blood fast, and he was burning up. The world was spinning. Still, he found his feet, and made his slow way over to Grant.
Grant knelt before him, hidden under his jacket. Black ripped it off. The face which looked up was no longer recognisable as Peter Gran
t. It was no longer a face, in any conventional sense – it had melted into a canvas of colour; black burnt flesh; white bone where skin had dripped away; patches of red smooth skull where hair had once been; an empty eye socket.
He mumbled something. “Help me.”
“One more thing to do,” said Black.
With some effort, he gripped Grant under each arm, hauled him up, dragged him along the sand, to the rear end of the boat. To the propellers. Grant offered little resistance. He spoke, his lips worked, but the words were incoherent.
Black pulled him into the freezing water, and forced him on his knees, a foot away from the spinning propeller, the blades a blur of movement as they furrowed through the water, soaking them both. Black welcomed the cold, soothing the burning agony of his body. He leant down and whispered in Grant’s ear.
“Compliments of Jennifer and Merryn.”
He placed the crook of his arm under Grant’s chin, his other hand on the back of his head. He pushed forward. Grant tried to lean back, fighting against the pressure. But his effort was weak. Black pushed him, inch by inch, closer to the blades.
Grant struggled. Black pushed on.
The top of Grant’s head brushed the propeller blades. Blood and bone and brain scattered up into the air. Grant shrieked. Black pushed on. The blades sheared through his skull, slicing piece after piece. Black kept pushing. The shrieking stopped. Black released him and allowed Grant’s body to drift away into the darkness of the loch.
Black sat down in the water. The pain had almost disappeared, now a distant sensation, a vague fuzzy numbness. A bonus, he thought.
He stretched back and floated on the still loch waters. He wondered if perhaps he should let go and join Grant on that dark journey. He was so tired. Weary down to the core of his bones. To his soul.
The water no longer felt cold. He was taking a warm bath. He looked again up at the sky. The stars remained constant, while men beneath them battled and died and then repeated the same thing, again and again, endlessly.
He remembered the blood moon, how it glistened red in the sky when the whole saga began.
Then he remembered something else. Something important.
There was one more thing to do.
Adam Black somehow struggled to his feet and made his way to the shore.
74
One year later
The Rue des Martyrs. A street in Paris. Not as grand as some, but quaint and whimsical, lively and colourful. Filled to the brim with coffee shops and patisseries; jewellery shops offering handcrafted designs. Bistros and bookshops; glossy red buildings advertising cabaret; eccentric little restaurants; butchers and bakers selling local produce under brightly-coloured awnings. Buskers played music, from Chopin to Led Zeppelin. Tables and chairs lined the pavements where people sat and chatted and smoked, or sat alone, reading a newspaper or a book. Or just sat, absorbing the colour, the energy, the buzz. It was summer, and the Paris streets were hot. The Rue des Martyrs was busy and bustling.
At a table in the shade sat one such man, alone. He wasn’t reading. He seemed to be doing nothing in particular, other than enjoying watching the passing crowd, a small cup of espresso on the glass-topped table in front of him. A man easily forgettable. Nondescript, pale, almost sallow, bland features. Balding. Wearing dark flannels, dark jacket, white shirt, open at the collar. Innocent and unassuming. A man who blended in.
He took a sip of his coffee, gazing round at the other people sitting near him. One individual caught his attention. A man sitting at a corner table, at the opposite end of the café, alone like himself. A vague hint of recollection teased his mind. A prick of uneasiness disturbed him. He ignored it and took another sip. He looked again. The man was staring at him. Unnervingly so. Insultingly so, he thought. A hard-looking individual, dark-haired, chisel-featured, square-jawed. The man was drinking a similar cup of espresso, which he raised, nodding at him.
How could he know this man? It didn’t seem likely. Suddenly he felt ill at ease. His agitation intensified when the man rose from his seat with his coffee cup and saucer in hand, weaved his way through the maze of furniture, to stand at the other side of his table.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. But intrigued.
“I’m just about to go, actually.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The man sat. He was big, possibly six-two, well-muscled, and moved with the innate sureness of an athlete.
“We’ve never met,” said this man. “But I know you.”
“Really? I can’t recall.”
“Possibly not. You might remember my family better.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“You visited them once. At my house. You murdered them. You shot them both in the head. You killed my wife Jennifer in the kitchen. Then you killed Merryn, who was four years old, as she was watching television. Then you left. I think I’ve got that right.”
He listened. Suddenly the gloss and excitement of the busy street vanished. He sat, still, unmoving. He licked his lips, trying to conceal his nervousness.
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“I don’t think so, Joshua. When it comes to hunting scumbags, I’m rarely wrong. And I’ve tracked you down to this café. You’re a hard man to find. But I’ve been watching you for some time now. And here we are.”
Joshua swallowed, composed himself. He was not a man to be taken by surprise. But here he was.
“I’m afraid you have a fanciful imagination,” he said. “Perhaps you should seek medical advice, my friend. If you don’t be careful, I’ll shout for a gendarme.”
“Please, be my guest. We would have an interesting conversation.”
“I’m sorry but I think you have… how shall I say… an overactive imagination.”
“Perhaps. But I’m going to kill you, regardless.”
It was time to go, Joshua decided. Now. He stood, dropping some coins on the table. “I wish you luck in your endeavours. But I really think you need help. What did you say your name was?”
“My name? Adam Black. Don’t forget it.”
THE END
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