by Conrad Jones
‘Who are your friends?’ I kept my eyes on the two men not sure which one to shoot first if it kicked off. Joseph walked between the men with his hands up and his eyes on the floor. He looked embarrassed and annoyed as he followed their orders and knelt. ‘I don’t think they’re Niners so I have to guess that they’re with the police. You’ve grassed me up, haven’t you?’
‘Put the shotgun down and come from behind the vehicle,’ the second man growled. He had a smooth-shaven head and blond eyebrows. He was the size of a small bungalow. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
‘How does get fucked sound?’ I grinned like a lunatic. They thought I was mad and maybe I was. ‘Does that idiot think I’m going to put my gun down, Joey?’
‘The nutcase is a comedian too, eh, Joey?’ Flattop sneered. ‘You never said that he was a funny guy.’
‘Why turn me in?’
‘I haven’t turned you in.’ Joseph shook his head.
‘Who the fuck are Johnny Concrete and Charlie Bigspuds?’ I asked.
‘They’re mercenaries.’ Joseph looked up. ‘They’re a couple of greedy mercs.’
‘Fucking brilliant,’ I whispered to myself. I recognised them from the photograph of the boat. They’d been in the background. ‘Friends of yours though, obviously?’
‘We did a few tours together in the green and we’ve done a few private missions since we left,’ flattop smiled thinly. ‘They’re pretty lucrative, you know. Anyway, Joey here asked me to ping a mobile didn’t you, Joey?’
‘And?’ I decided flattop was in charge, so I pointed the Mossberg at his chest. I had more chance of hitting him if I aimed at his core.
‘I always like to know whose phone I’m tracing,’ he said matter of factly. ‘You know, just in case they’re someone who might have enough money not to be found. Turns out Lord Penrith is willing to pay shitloads not to have his number traced, and even more if we deliver you to him.’
‘Sorry, Conrad,’ Joseph said genuinely. ‘I knew something was wrong when they replied to my email. I didn’t want to walk straight into a trap, so I went to find out what was going on. This is all about money.’
‘Very touching, but I’ve heard enough of this shit,’ the bungalow said angrily, ‘now put the fucking shotgun down and come from behind the Jeep.’
‘Are they a bit thick?’ I asked Joseph. He smiled and nodded. ‘They’re really are empty heads, aren’t they?’
‘You’d better watch your mouth, sunshine.’ Bungalow blushed red as he spoke. ‘Your smart mouth will get you killed.’
‘You did say I was a cheeky bastard, Joseph.’
‘You are,’ Joseph agreed.
‘Shut the fuck up, right now.’ Bungalow was incensed. ‘Put that fucking gun down now.’
‘He is verging on retarded, isn’t he?’ I laughed and readied myself. My legs were shaking, and I tried to melt into the metal. ‘Watch my lips, you ginger twat. I’m not putting the gun down.’
‘Five seconds and then I’m going to shoot you.’
‘You can’t count to five, fucking retard,’ I goaded him further. His face was almost purple. ‘Anyway, I’m behind three tons of Jeep with a Mossberg pointing at your bum-chum here. What’re the chances of you shooting me in the head?’
‘Much better than you think, you psycho.’ Flattop narrowed one eye taking aim. ‘We’ve been following your little episode and to be honest, we’ve been impressed but don’t overestimate your abilities. I can shoot you between the eyes any time I want to.’
‘That would put an end to my troubles.’ I nodded. I felt sweat running down my forehead. ‘No point in me shooting you in the head though, eh? There’s fuck all between your ears except fresh air, stupid twat.’
‘Listen to me very carefully,’ he said angrily. I was winding them up to boiling point. ‘Our client wanted you alive, but he said that if we had no choice, then we take your body to him, anyway. So, for the last time, put the gun down and walk around the vehicle with your hands up.’
‘No.’
‘Do it now.’
‘Get fucked.’
‘Last chance.’
‘That’s why I think you’re thick as pig shit, you see,’ I said. They both looked set to explode. ‘If you were going to shoot me, then you would have done it already. Lord Paedophile or whatever his name is wants me alive, doesn’t he?’
Joseph nodded his head silently. His smile widened. Flattop stepped behind Joseph and pushed his pistol against his temple. ‘Put the shotgun down now or I’ll blow his fucking brains all over this garage.’
‘Thick, you’re going to shoot him anyway otherwise he’ll come after you and you can’t risk that.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Or what?’
‘One more time and I don’t care how much money is involved. Put the gun down and we’ll let Joseph live. We could cut you in on the deal, Joey?’
‘I don’t work with snakes.’
‘Snakes are far more intelligent. At least they know which end is their head, and which end is their arse, oh and they have a backbone, which is something you could use.’ Something flickered in flattop’s eyes. He was at his limit. I looked at Joseph’s eyes and they told me what to do.
‘Last chance. You come with us and Joey lives.’
‘Do you think we’re as stupid as you?’ I shook my head and squeezed the trigger. All hell erupted.
I aimed high with the first shot. Joseph grabbed flattop’s gun arm and I saw a chunk of flesh blown from the face of the mercenary. Shots exploded and in the confined space, they were deafening. The urge to curl up behind the Jeep was almost irresistible, but I knew that if I did, they would pin me down and I’d either be shot or have to give up. The only choice was to return fire. I felt the Mossberg kick three times. Nine-millimetre bullets whistled past my head and I could hear them ricochet off the walls behind me. A bullet pierced the bonnet eighteen inches to my left and at the same time Bungalow’s knee erupted in a shower of blood and bone. A second blast hit him in the shoulder and knocked him sideways. He continued firing the nine blindly, as he spun. The Mossberg clicked empty, but I had no time to reload. I dropped her on the bonnet and grabbed the Glock from my belt. I aimed and fired. The windows of the Jaguar shattered into a million pieces. Power tools which hung on the wall exploded into shards of metal and plastic and the unrecognisable screams of the injured and dying were almost lost in the deafening gunfire.
CHAPTER 36
When the Glock clicked empty, I let the air out of my lungs. Sweat was stinging my eyes and I wiped them with the back of my hand. The smell of gunpowder and spent munitions filled the air. There was an eerie silence although the ringing in my ears was deafening. I grabbed the Mossberg and reloaded, leaving the Glock on the bonnet of the Jeep. Edging around the vehicle I surveyed the aftermath. Bungalow was sitting up against the Jaguar. His chest moved almost imperceptibly, and it was saturated with blood. His eyes had rolled back into his head. His hands were empty, but I couldn’t see his gun.
Flattop was face down; his body sprawled on top of Joseph. A flap of skin hung from his cheek and the top of his ear was missing. There was blood pooling beneath them, but I couldn’t distinguish who it belonged to. I kicked his leg but didn’t get any response.
‘Joseph,’ I shouted. I grabbed flattop’s ankle and dragged his body to one side. There was a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. His eyes had the glaze of a dead fish. They stared at me accusingly. Joseph groaned and opened his eyes. His hands were covering a wound to his abdomen. Blood was running between his fingers. ‘You’re shot.’
‘Thanks for that, Einstein,’ he moaned.
‘Is it bad?’
Joseph pulled up his sweatshirt to reveal a Kevlar vest beneath. There was a flattened slug embedded in the chest and a deep L shaped cut below the navel. ‘A bullet hit my belt buckle. There’s a field kit in the first cupboard along from the fridge. Can you get it?’ he sounded short of breath.
‘Good job you had that vest on,’ I pointed to the slug. ‘You must have realised there would be trouble.’
‘I had a hunch, but I thought that once I’d explained who these people are that they would come around.’
‘You should have taken the Glock.’
‘I didn’t intend on shooting them. I’m bleeding here.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I need that kit. I’ll get patched up and then we need to leave.’
‘Two minutes,’ I said running for the stairs. The door was locked. ‘What’s the code?’
‘Three, five, seven, nine,’ he called breathlessly.
I had a feeling that he’d broken a few ribs. If he had, then he would be virtually useless for a week. I punched in the digits and the door clicked open. Taking the stairs two at a time, I bolted up to the living area. Inside the first cupboard was an olive-green rucksack. Behind it, the shelves were symmetrically stacked with crepe bandages, rolls of Elastoplasts and large gauze pads. I looked inside the rucksack and there appeared to be a selection of each already packed. I was about to pick up the bag when the gunshots started over again. There were two shots followed by four more. I had no idea who was shooting at who, but I had to assume that Bungalow wasn’t dead. The gunfire died down replaced with the same deafening silence as before.
I ran to the stairs and cleared the top flight. I reached the landing and crouched against the wall. The door to the garage had closed behind me. If I hesitated, Joseph could bleed to death but what if he’d been shot again? What if Bungalow was alive and had his gun? If I stepped blindly into the garage, then Bungalow would get a free shot at me. I heard a thump on the other side of the door; then a dragging, sliding sound.
‘Joseph.’ I called.
Nothing.
‘Joseph.’
Nothing. Then a shuffling sound. I was torn. Joseph could be bleeding to death on the other side of the door unable to answer me. The alternative was that Bungalow was alive. ‘Joseph, knock on the door if you’re there.’
Knock, knock.
‘Are you shot again?’
Knock, knock.
‘Is Johnny Concrete dead?’
Knock, knock.
‘How many packs of cigars did you buy me?’
Silence. I thought it could be him.
‘Three or four, Joseph?’
Knock, knock, knock. Then I heard someone punching numbers into the lock. Joseph had shouted the code to me. Bungalow would have heard it.
‘Nice try but I don’t smoke cigars.’ I shouted and ran back up the stairs. I assessed my predicament. The Mossberg was loaded with three shells. I had no ammunition on this side of the door. Everything that I needed was in the garage, so I couldn’t jump from the balcony and run away. The police would pick me up in hours. Bungalow was badly wounded but determined to get to me.
‘We’ll see who the retard is when I get hold of you, you little prick.’ The door was open, and he was in the stairwell. I knew that his knee was shattered so climbing the stairs would be a long and painfully slow process.
I grabbed the settee and dragged it towards the top of the stairs. I used it to block the staircase and then knelt and peeped over the banister. He was slumped against the wall, crawling on all fours one stair at a time. He looked up and raised the gun. I pulled away as a nine-millimetre bullet hit the wooden rail, splintering it into a dozen pieces. A three-inch shard pierced the soft skin behind my ear. I swore under my breath and pulled it out. Blood trickled from the puncture wound forming a red stream down my neck. When it reached my shoulder, the stream split into two, running down my chest and my back. I decided not to look over the banister again.
I couldn’t get a clear shot at him on the bottom flight and I didn’t want to use my shells until necessary. If he reached the living room, then I would retreat to the kitchen area and use the granite breakfast island as cover. I could hear his breathing on the lower staircase. It was laboured and his progress was slow. I looked around for inspiration. Glass. I ran and lifted the top from the glass coffee table. Heaving it onto my shoulder, I turned and walked to the stairwell. I took a deep breath and tossed it over the banister.
There was a second of silence then it clattered off the wall. There was a dong sound like a bell. It resounded off the slate walls and for a moment; I thought the toughened glass was going to remain intact. Then it hit the stairs and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. It sounded like marbles hitting a tiled floor.
‘You little bastard.’
‘Crawl over that, retard,’ I shouted in response. Three shots rang out from the stairwell. The bullets ripped into the ceiling blasting huge chunks of wood away from the beams. I ran to the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors one at a time. The mug cupboard was full. I grabbed a tray and stacked as many as I could on it and then ran back to the banister. One by one I pelted the stairwell wall with them. I could hear Bungalow gasping for air. Encouraged by his protestations, I repeatedly ran back to the kitchen and emptied the cupboards. The glass cupboard was crammed. I tossed three trays full of wine glasses, pint glasses, tumblers, and flutes before starting on the plates. By the time I’d run out of breakables, the landing had three inches of sharp fragments covering it. Sweat ran from every pore of my body. The waterproofs were not conducive to keeping dry on the inside when the body was put under extreme exertion.
‘You, scrawny little shit.’ Bungalow screamed. ‘I’m going to gut you, you bastard.’
‘We’ll see.’ I said coldly. ‘Unless you can stand up and walk, you’ll be cut to ribbons before you cross the landing.’
I thought about setting fire to the stairwell, but I had to keep them intact. I had to get to the garage. There were crunching noises and muffled curses coming from the stairs. He sounded closer now. I guessed he was on the landing. The television was still running the news and when I glanced at it, a commercial break gave me another idea. I ran to the kitchen and pulled four large saucepans from the cupboards. Filling them with scorching hot water from the tap, I emptied a kilo of granulated sugar into each and lifted them onto the stove. I lit the four rings beneath them and then poured the contents of three bottles of sunflower cooking oil into the mixture. I filled the kettle and switched that on too. The crunching noises were slowly making progress across the landing. He would be at the bottom of the top flight in a few minutes. I poured every sticky substance that I could find into the pans. Ketchup, milk, butter, mayonnaise, chilli sauce, brown sauce, honey, and then I emptied the bleach from the cleaning cupboard into the mix.
Within minutes, I had four pans of scalding goo. I grabbed some oven gloves and picked up the heaviest vessel with two hands. The burning liquid threatened to slop all over me, and I slowed my steps as I approached the stairwell. Bungalow was still moving. From the sound of his breathing, I guessed where he was in relevance to the banister; I took a deep breath and tipped the concoction over the top. I missed his head, but the bulk of the liquid soaked his shoulder and right arm. The liquid struck and there was a momentary delay before his nerve endings registered the napalm-like substance. The oil and sugar made it cling to the skin and burned deeply. He wailed like a banshee and flailed about trying to escape the pain. ‘You fucking bastard.’ he screamed. The rest of his words were undecipherable; nothing but an incoherent stream of abuse.
As much as I could have watched him bouncing off the walls all day, I ran back and picked up the second largest pan. He must have anticipated my movements. As I neared the banister, three shots blasted the rail to smithereens. I tossed the pan and the liquid into the stairwell blindly.
‘Bastard.’ The abuse was high-pitched, more like a squeal than a shout. I glanced over quickly and a bullet whistled past me and ricocheted off the ceiling. The left-hand side of his face was red raw. He tried to wipe the burning liquid from his face with his hands, but the sticky substance stuck to the flesh of his fingers instead. He staggered backwards and flopped onto his back. Sharp fragments of pot and glass pierced his skin
and he wriggled and flipped like a dying fish on the deck of a boat. The gun lay discarded in the glass. ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’
I turned and ran for a third time, retrieving the third pan. This time I had time to take aim, the gun wasn’t a threat any longer. I poured the contents onto his upturned face, stifling his screams to a low gurgling sound. He clawed at his eyes and face, desperately trying to escape the pain. Shards of glass were now stuck to his hands and instead of relieving his agony by wiping his skin he ripped the scalded flesh away from the muscle below. He dug his heels into the floor and pushed himself backwards, trying to reach the end of the landing and the safety of the lower flight of stairs. It spurred me to get the job finished and I sprinted to the stove and picked up the last pan.
When I returned to the banister, Bungalow had made it a few yards, but his legs were just visible, and they were still. There was a trail of blood stretching along the landing where he had slid over the broken glass. The gun was in the same place. I’d made the mistake of thinking that he was dead once today, I didn’t want to make it again. I tipped the last batch over him. His body from the waist down was saturated in the burning liquid. He didn’t flinch. I sat with my back against the settee and fumbled with shaking fingers for my cigarettes. The menthol smoke calmed my nerves and I smoked it without pausing for a proper breath. Looking through the windows, I could see that the light was fading. It was time to go before it was too late, but I had to see if Joseph was alive or dead first.
CHAPTER 37
There had been no sound from the stairwell for a while. I picked up the kit bag and slung it over my shoulder. I didn’t have the energy to move the settee, so I climbed over it. I kept the Mossberg aimed at the dead man and nervously retrieved his gun. Another Glock to add to the collection and after the events of the previous week, I couldn’t have enough. I trudged through the sticky liquid which was congealing on the floor. Glass fragments had adhered to my boots as I crunched along the landing. The body literally blocked the gap at the top of the first flight. His face was deformed by huge yellow blisters that had bubbled up on every piece of exposed flesh. His eyes were no longer distinguishable, giving his face a hideous appearance. I stepped over him and sighed with relief that I could get on with the daunting task I had before me.