by Mark Ayre
“Yes,” said Amira, though it was pointless. In the first few seconds of their first meeting, she’d shown her admiration. Always a mistake.
When they arrived at the warehouse, Richard left Amira in the car. Everything he’d needed had been in her bag. He went inside to check the setup. There wasn’t much because not much was required. Two minutes after he’d left, he returned.
“That’s a neat room you got at the back. Did you have that commissioned special?”
“I did,” said Amira. “That’s why I couldn’t have given you a penny, even if it was money you wanted.”
For a minute, Richard sat in silence. Amira tried not to guess what would happen next.
“You should take heart,” Richard said. “You might have failed to escape, but your friend still gets what she wants. She’ll be free of her demon.”
On that note, they departed the industrial estate of her rented warehouse.
“You know, I was genuine in my deal,” he went on, as they drove. “If you’d cooperated, I would have worked with you. You could have stood at my side as I saved your friend. In the aftermath, with a demon in my soul, I might have killed you, your friend, and anyone else present, but you had a chance. Whatever the case, you would have seen the gratitude in Mercury’s eyes when she was free.”
A police car swung by. It was gone before Amira could consider trying to get the officers’ attention.
“Now you have to die before I’ve given Mercury the good news. Isn’t that sad?”
For over six hours, Amira had struggled with the cords in which Richard had bound her. They neared their journey’s end. Now was the time to slip free.
Being cocky and believing herself invincible, Amira saw her life as a movie. No matter how bleak the situation, she stopped the bomb with a second to go.
Except, the ties were no looser, had slipped not one millimetre. Her chances of escape had crashed to zero. She hadn’t a weapon, nor a plan. Even if there were a chance to strike, Richard wouldn’t underestimate her twice.
In short, Amira was finished.
For forty minutes, Richard drove. The sky was black. Night had rolled while Amira looked the other way. Lying on the seat, with no light as guide, Amira had no idea where they were.
Richard stopped the car.
In the quiet left behind when the engine died, Richard sighed.
“You know, I don’t want to do this.”
“Oh good, we’re on the same page.”
He chuckled and opened the door. Amira heard him clomp to the boot and swing it open. Then he was pulling open the door against which Amira had pressed her feet. As the car’s light made her visible, Richard gave a fatherly smile which belied what he was about to do.
“Come on,” he said.
She couldn’t come on without assistance. Kindly, Richard dragged her towards him then carried her as a husband carries his new bride over the threshold.
He had stopped against a fence which split road from field. Opposite the street, a line of trees bordered the grass. On the other two sides, homes and fencing. It was council property. The kind of place that has a fireworks display every year. Every weekend couples walked dogs, and kids played sports. Occasionally, maniacs killed their prey and dumped the body.
There was no lighting but the light of the streetlamps. The further they travelled from the road, the darker it got. They did not go far.
Richard placed Amira to the ground with the care of a tender child handling a bird with a broken wing. From behind his back, he withdrew something which, even in the dark, she could tell was a bat. Presumably the one from the bar.
The tender child was revealed as a psychopath, intent on ripping free what remained of the bird’s wings. In both hands, he gripped the bat.
“I thought you were going to kill me,” she said.
“I am.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t take the piss. Where’s your gun?”
“Guns are hard to get hold of.”
“You’re a farmer,” she cried.
In the dark, she saw his shoulders lift and fall. His hands twisted on the bat. Unable to stop herself, she began to imagine what it might be like when he started swinging.
“A knife then?”
“Sorry,” he said.
He lifted the bat.
“Are you sure I can’t interest you in that blow job?”
The bat high, Richard paused. After a second, he laughed. Shook his head. Lowered his arms.
“You’re funny,” he said. “You know, I meant what I said, I don’t want to kill you. If there was any other way.”
“There’s always another way.”
“Not this time.”
Once more, he raised the bat.
All out of jokes, she could only watch as he brought it fast towards her head.
Thirty-Four
Unlike the guest rooms at Chez Michaels, the limo had a mini bar from which one could enjoy a surprising variety of drinks. The journey was short. No fridge had the capacity of alcohol to quieten the accusatory voice, which whispered whispered whispered to Liz.
Murderer.
In defiance of the knowledge that no amount of booze would cure her guilt, Liz drank gin and tonic after gin and tonic as they progressed towards their destination.
“You have quite the stomach for alcohol, don’t you?”
The procession which had left Harvey’s home comprised only two vehicles. The limo led the way. A crack and tireless team had overnight transformed the lorry which followed into a hospital on wheels. It carried Harvey, two doctors and the driver. They were the best-paid doctors and driver in the country. Lavished with phenomenal sums to do their jobs and not ask questions.
Another driver operated the limo. Beyond the bulletproof glass separator sat Liz, Olivia and Trey.
Victor would have travelled with Harvey. Though he was no longer available, Harvey had chosen not to replace his favourite man. There was no one in the world he trusted a quarter as much.
“I thought you might want a drink as well, Trey,” Olivia continued, squeezing her son’s knee. “I’ve never killed a man, but I understand guilt can be a problem. With Victor’s demise so fresh in your mind, I thought you might need the soothing embrace of a shot or more.”
Trey had spoken alone with his father, while Olivia prepared for their journey. Liz did not know if father or son had told her, but it was a mistake. She couldn’t fathom why Olivia was along for the ride. Perhaps she saw demise in her husband’s future and wanted to be sure she witnessed the moment his fortune became hers. Certainly, she could not understand the risk to her life if the ritual came off, and Trey was unable to kill her husband. If Trey slipped, and Harvey, full of Heidi, killed Olivia before Trey killed Heidi, Liz could make peace with that.
“For a lot of things, I feel a tonne of guilt,” said Trey. “Victor deserved his fate. For him, I feel nothing.”
Olivia smirked at Norton. “How do you feel about this?” she asked. “You may be recovering, but I think you were a police officer for a long time. My son’s a murderer. Is that okay with you?”
“You want him arrested?”
“Of course not. I’m just interested in your point of view.”
“It was self-defence. Your darling husband sent that animal to kill Trey. Tell me, did you know what he had planned?”
“I had no idea,” said Olivia without skipping a beat. “If I’d have known, I’d have stopped him.”
“No,” said Trey. “You wouldn’t.”
The comment surprised Olivia. Her head snapped to her son, but he was looking out the window. Despite speaking, he seemed uninterested in the conversation.
“You can’t believe that,” said Olivia.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I may not know you well—It isn’t like you were around when I was growing up—I know enough. To stand up to my father is to risk that precious inheritance. That, to you, means more than I ever could. Don’t worry about admit
ting it. I’m not looking for confirmation.”
“I wouldn’t admit it because it’s not true.”
“I’m not looking for denial, either.”
A frosty silence fell across the car. Both women looked to Trey. Liz neither knew nor cared what Olivia was thinking. Instead, she worried about him. Wondered how her actions could have so fundamentally changed him. Despite his numerous wrong turns, the deaths that might not have happened if not for him, he had seemed sweet, somehow innocent.
Liz wasn’t innocent. Like Tom, in her mind, Victor kept dying. Again and again. He was scum, evil, none of that mattered. He was human, and Liz had murdered him.
She looked at her hands; hands that shoved a man’s head into boiling water. He wasn’t attacking her. She had saved Trey’s life, but that didn’t make it self-defence. If she had the strength to submerge him, she might have had the strength to knock him unconscious. That wouldn’t have solved the problem of Harvey wanting to kill Trey, but at least Liz wouldn’t have shredded her humanity.
Fraught with danger as it was, Liz was well-aware the path ahead might end abruptly with her demise. She worried she would die before she had completed the mission to free Mercury. If she succeeded, though, and a climactic battled followed, might that not be the perfect time to go? The heroes end.
In Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight, one of the characters claims, “You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”
That was Liz. Already, she saw herself twisting, changing. How long before she killed again? Another baddie, she had no doubt, but maybe less awful than Victor and maybe after less provocation. That was the way it went; she’d seen it time and again when she was still an officer of the law.
Freeing Mercury was her chance to die a hero. If she passed that milestone unharmed, she would slide towards villainy.
Could she let that happen?
Tormented by these thoughts; along with memories of the demises of Victor and Tom, Liz almost wished Olivia would speak again.
For the rest of the journey, no one spoke.
By the time they pulled into the warehouse lot, the sun was well in the sky. The day had begun in earnest. Stepping from the car, Liz’s head throbbed and throbbed. A can of beer slid from the car and rattled on the ground.
“Hangover already?” asked Olivia. “Impressive.”
The door to one of the central units opened. A handsome man bearing a smile came into the parking area. He had appeared from the warehouse in which Liz expected to find Amira and Mercury.
“Morning all,” he said. “You must be the Amira party.”
“Who’s Amira?” asked Olivia. “And who are you?”
“Shut up,” said Liz resisting the urge to throttle Trey’s mother. “We’re here for Amira,” she confirmed. “You must be Richard?”
Amira had texted to verify receipt of the ritual. Their warehouse meet they had pre-arranged. Amira confirmed the time. Later, she texted to say Richard Unwin, from whom she had gained the valuable information, had followed from his homestead and begged to be involved in the demon-killing. She had been reluctant but unable to shake him. Showing her classic distrust, she warned Liz to be wary.
“Indeed,” he said. “Your girls are right through there.” He pointed into the warehouse, then to the lorry. “I guess the man of the hour is in here?”
As he headed to the back of the hospital on wheels, Liz pinched Trey’s elbow and pointed through the warehouse door.
“Check they’re there, will you?”
Ignoring Olivia, she followed Richard to the back of the lorry. He’d opened the door in the shutter and hopped in. Inside, he was bent over Harvey. It was immediately obvious someone had turned off most of the medical equipment. Liz did not need more than one guess on who.
“I’m afraid the old boy’s dead,” said Richard tutting. “Can’t say of what. I’m not a doctor.”
“These two were,” Liz said, gesturing to the white-coated man and woman on the lorry floor. “Looks like they’ve died of slit-throat-by-a-maniac disease. Not sure. I’m not a doctor.”
A clang indicated Olivia’s arrival. Liz twisted to see the woman’s greedy eyes upon her deceased husband.
“That’s the inheritance sorted,” she said.
Richard laughed. “I’ve missed so much in isolation. Seeing women like you two, Mercury, Amira; fills me with regret. Doesn’t matter. The past is in the past.”
“Where are Amira and Mercury?”
“Forget about Amira,” said Richard, waving a hand. “She doesn’t matter. Mercury does.”
He came across the lorry with some speed. Olivia, seeing the dead doctors, hopped back. Liz held her ground, allowing Richard to brush past. At the lorry exit, he paused and swung back.
“What are you girls waiting for?” he said. “We’ve a demon to extract.”
Thirty-Five
Amira woke to learn that the afterlife was almost identical to the spot on which she had died except it was day instead of night and a dog was licking her face. As the latter of these differences was immeasurably worse than having a maniac pummel her with a bat, she supposed she was in hell. No surprise there.
Groggy at first, Amira soon found the strength to shove the dog’s snout away and sit. A folded slip of paper slid from her chest. The dog barked, and someone jogged towards them.
“You’re awake, wonderful. Didn’t want to find a body on my day off.”
Slip of paper clasped between her fingers, Amira forced herself to stand even as her throbbing head implored her to remain landscape. In the light, she made out more of the field than she could have in the dark. Towards the line of trees, a large tarpaulin sat before a sign announcing some party had reserved the space for the day. Amira wasn’t aware you could rent public fields. Perhaps she could get one for her thirty-fifth birthday.
At her heels, the dog gave an inoffensive bark and jumped. It was small. It’s bound barely cleared her waist.
“Oi, come here, boy, come on.”
The man who had been so pleased she wasn’t dead on his day off tugged the dog away and smiled. He was in his sixties with a round, kind face. His hair was grey, his stomach round. He wore beige trousers and a thick green zip-up jumper.
“Quincy Abram,” he said, sticking out a hand. “How’s that head? Looks like you’ve taken a mighty bump there.”
“Amira,” she said, shaking his hand and rubbing the spot. “And yes. Well, more given than taken.”
“Thought as much. You see who did it?”
“No,” Amira lied, unfolding the paper.
“In any case, we should get you to the station.”
“You’re okay,” said Amira. “But thank you.”
Amira had no idea Richard had brought a pen from the North. He must have. On the paper, he had written a few lines in neat hand.
Unconscious on the first blow. Where’s the fun in that? Couldn’t bring myself to finish you. Thought, instead, I’d make you my first devotee once I’ve got my demon. I’ll be seeing you. Richard.
“What’s that?” asked the man.
“Nothing,” she said, scrunching the paper and shoving it into her jeans. “You’re a police officer?”
“Indeed,” he said, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“You didn’t want to find a body on your day off. If finding bodies is something you do on a day on, you’re either police or a professional jogger. No offence, but you don’t look like a jogger.”
“Ha, none at all taken,” said Quincy, patting his stomach. His dog barked with a level of joy only canines can manage. “It is my day off, but I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want you thinking I’m going bitter as I near retirement. Come on. I’ll take you.”
Amira looked at the sky. Realised several hours had passed since Richard had left. He had been forty minutes from the warehouse but had to find Mercury and convince her to follow. Still, by now, she could reasonably expect him to be done. She might alread
y be too late.
In any case, she had to try.
“You have a car near here?” she asked of Quincy.
“I do.”
“It’s a lot to ask, but I need a lift. Not the police station. Somewhere I need to be like, hours ago.”
“Where?”
She gave the address, baffling the detective.
“That’s an industrial estate,” he said. “Why would you want to go there.”
She opened her mouth to go the ‘my friend’s in danger’ route but stopped. He was a police officer and had already shown himself keen to acquire a statement about her attack. If he believed a crime was taking place, or about to take place, he’d never do what she wanted.
“I can’t tell you, but I’m desperate,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable giving me a lift, say so now. I’ll find another way.”
For several seconds, Quincy considered. With a sigh, he pointed across the field through the line of trees.
“My car’s this way. Come on.”
Until they were driving, Amira in the front, the ludicrously well-behaved dog sitting quietly in the back, Quincy refrained from probing. As they left the field where Amira had almost lost her life, he glanced her way.
“Someone you know is in trouble, I suppose?”
Amira looked at Quincy but said nothing.
“Just a hunch,” he continued. “After all, why not say why you need the lift? Either you’re planning to commit a crime or someone you know is involved in one. Maybe committing it. More likely on the receiving end. You don’t have to tell me.”
Amira held her counsel. This man was smiling and friendly, but so was Richard. As were the demons inside their human hosts. Amira had never trusted people. Recent events had done nothing to alter her way of thinking.
“If you believe I’ll take you to the police station, you’re wrong,” said Quincy. “I’m a man of the law, but I understand there are situations when you would prefer not to involve us boys in blue. I worry about you, though.”
“Because I’m a weak and feeble woman?”