It was an agreement that had worked extremely well for Finch as it allowed him to indulge his rather more tawdry interests without being observed or disturbed.
Even though for much of his life he had served in the army and had worked ever since as a soldier of fortune, Finch was very much a loner who preferred to be by himself than surrounded by others.
He did, however, belong to several extremist organisations and would regularly turn out for marches and rallies. If for some reason those events happened to turn ugly, thanks to the unwarranted intervention of police or protesters, then Finch would always be at the forefront of any fighting as he liked nothing more than a good scrap.
Indeed, he positively thrived on violence and enjoyed killing which made him such an efficient and ruthless soldier. As for who paid his wages, it mattered very little.
Yet when he was not fighting in some far flung war zone or spouting racial hatred on a bully boy crusade purporting to be an organised march, Finch was happiest at home in his cottage deep in Pemberton Woods.
If the cottage gave the appearance of being rundown on the outside, then the inside did nothing to dispel the notion.
It was dirty and cluttered with large patches of damp staining peeling wallpaper that was years old. The mismatched furniture was threadbare as were the carpets which had worn through to the cord in places. Around the walls in the living room several flags and banners hung that Finch had taken on various marches; National Front and White Power, alongside the obligatory red flag with a white circle containing a black swastika - as was the must for all white supremacists.
On top of a tatty mahogany sideboard were a variety of photographs in frames featuring Finch with some of his soldier buddies taken on various campaigns; amongst them were images of him with Merton and McCullough, all dressed in army uniform.
A reasonably new television sat in the corner where, a moment earlier, a highly illegal hardcore porn movie had been playing on the screen. It had featured an underage schoolgirl being violently molested by a gang of grown men and was amongst Finch’s all time favourites.
A stack of other such ‘under-the-counter’ video tapes were piled on top of the V.C.R. beneath the T.V. set.
Finch had been watching the movie avidly; his eyes wide with rapt delight, his grubby, grease stained jeans pulled down to his knees as he vigorously masturbated to the sight of the young girl’s extreme distress.
His bare legs had been pleasantly warmed by the fire blazing in the hearth as he then ejaculated copiously into a mess of bunched up tissue with a groan of utter satisfaction.
For a minute or two afterwards, he sat there in a spent glow, still content to keep the video running even though his excitement was expended, too engrossed by the young girl’s predicament to switch it off.
However, he reluctantly forced himself to do so, knowing he could resume his viewing pleasure later.
For now, though, he had worked up an appetite and it was time to make some lunch.
He threw the tissues into the fire then stood, pulled up his jeans and tightened them around his narrow waist with a thick, leather belt.
Finch, at forty-two, kept himself in good shape and was naturally slim and wiry with every sinew, every muscle clearly defined. He had quick, blue, watery eyes and a large, hooked nose with a straggly ginger moustache sprouting bushily beneath. His red hair was long and greasy and tied in a loose pony tail at the back of his head with an elastic band.
Along with the grubby jeans he wore an old sweatshirt with a motif on the front that had long-since faded and a pair of battered sheepskin slippers with the backs trodden down. In them, he scuffed his way through to the untidy kitchen and set about making his lunch, completely ignoring the stack of dirty dishes that sat untouched on the drainer.
A few minutes later, he walked back to the living room holding a cracked dinner plate containing two thick corned beef sandwiches, a packet of ready salted crisps, a large chunk of Double Gloucester and three pickled onions.
His mouth watering with anticipation, Finch was just about to sit back down in his armchair and tuck into his lunch when he heard a blood-curdling scream coming from outside.
Immediately knowing it to be the result of one of his gin traps, he flung the plate down on the chair and rushed to the window whereupon he saw a large, burly man fall to the ground on the outer perimeter of the property.
Finch smiled widely.
What was destined to be a fairly mundane afternoon had suddenly become a whole lot more promising.
***
The cold air was freezing Vas’ breath in a billow of icy mist as he hissed with pain through clenched teeth. He was laying in a soft bed of undergrowth; his ankle gripped by the iron bite of the trap, unable to free himself from its hungry jaws no matter how much he tried.
He knew that there was no way anyone inside the cottage could have failed to hear his screams and acutely aware that he was now in terrible danger.
Even so, he had forcibly quelled his cries of anguish, hoping that by some miracle he had not given himself away. But already he could hear movement from the cottage; a door opening and the sound of footsteps approaching. What a fool he had been.
A moment later there was a rustle of leaves being disturbed nearby and Vas craned his neck to get a look at whoever was coming at him from behind, knowing it could only be one man; Roger Finch.
“Well, well, well,” said a weasly voice. “What kind of creature have we caught ourselves here?”
“Please! It’s just a mistake,” Vas blurted, trying to bluff his way through. “I got lost in the woods, that’s all. I was out for a walk and—”
“Oh, it’s a mistake alright,” said Finch suddenly looming large over Vas, his beady eyes appraising him like those of a vulture sizing up a rotting carcass. “This is private property and you’re trespassing.”
“I didn’t mean to, Mr. Finch. I had no idea - if you could just release me and let me call an ambulance then I’ll be—”
“You know me?” Queried Finch, before sniffing loudly to prevent his beak-like nose from running, although a damp residue of mucus still lingered around the edges of his large nostrils.
“What? No, of course not,” Vas denied, “how could I?”
“Exactly what I was thinking. Yet you just called me ‘Mr. Finch’.”
“No - no I didn’t!” Vas objected, realising his fateful error too late and knowing Finch to be correct. But he had no choice other than to keep up the pretence. “I mean, why would I? You must have misheard.”
“You know what?” Finch smiled amiably, his big, yellow teeth visible for the first time under the thick, ginger moustache, “you might well be right.”
Vas allowed himself a silent sigh of relief before Finch spoke again.
“But I think not,” he said, as he produced a flick knife from his pocket and sprung the blade. “I tell you what though - you and me are gonna have ourselves some fun until I find out the truth of it.”
With that, he raised up one of his muddy boots, the laces untied due to being shoved on in haste, and stomped down hard on Vas’ head, sending his world instantly to black.
Chapter Eighteen
After decorating the Christmas tree, the air had been buzzing with a sexual tension that both Miri and Sam felt, each aware that their time together was coming to an end.
Indeed, Sam had been purposely trying to avoid these moments of togetherness, frightened of the intimacy and easy familiarity that had grown between them, knowing where it might lead should either of them allow it.
Furthermore, it was why, on the eve of what Sam hoped to be their final exploratory trip into Pemberton Woods, he had specifically asked Miriam to invite Vas to dinner.
Sam knew that Vas’ jovial presence would prevent him from being alone with Miri in the tiny bedsit - and her large, inviting bed - on what was other
wise certain to be a intensely charged night.
Yet they had not been able to contact Vas, so it was now just the two of them and Sam’s resolve was crumbling.
It was not so much the fact that Miriam looked so stunning or her scent was so enticing, but more that she was naturally so tender, so caring, and it seemed like forever since he had felt the simple joy of such things.
He had been involved in a sexual relationship with the skinhead girl, Flea, but that had been anything but tender. On the contrary, Flea had been extremely aggressive during sex - and had wanted Sam to be equally so in return. Furthermore, her body had been hard and muscular and her very nature was one of being constantly angry at the world.
Guilty as it made Sam feel, his relationship with Flea had been purely as a means to imbed himself within the skinhead community, nothing more. For him there had been very little in the way of physical attraction, the sex merely a necessity of circumstance with no emotion involved, except for the one driving him ever onwards in pursuit of the men he sought.
His feelings for Miriam, however, could not have been more different. But it was so much more than just sexual desire, although that was most definitely a part of it.
Yet it was more that they shared something between them, something that just naturally drew them together, made them closer, as if they knew what the other was thinking without even asking.
And Sam had concluded that ‘something’ was Claudette.
She held a piece of them both. They had both loved her, albeit in different ways, but the loss they felt by her passing had left them similarly bereft and equally lost, even though their reactions to it had been dramatically different.
Sam had taken up a bloody vendetta which would not end until the men who had killed her were dead, whereas Miri had thrown herself into her work, lost herself in the pursuit of a career, allowing no time for any sort of social or romantic attachments.
Other than Vas, who was a good and reliable friend to them both, Sam and Miri only really had each other and if the past had taught them anything, it was that happiness could be incredibly fleeting. Furthermore, if they had a chance to grasp it, no matter how temporarily, then they should make an effort to do so.
Miri had silently come to this conclusion over the last few days. Sam, on the other hand, was just coming around to the idea. But as he looked at Miriam across the coffee table, sitting opposite her on the floor, as they ate their Chinese takeaway, the notion was definitely starting to appeal.
She was wearing her long, dark hair up, but only loosely so the occasional strand fell around her delicate ears and long, graceful neck.
Aside for a touch of mascara and a smear of lip gloss to enhance her natural beauty she was otherwise make-up free. Yet whenever she laughed her green eyes lit up to give her face a dazzling radiance which Sam found utterly breathtaking.
Her pretty blue floral dress had buttons running all the way up the front but had been left open enough at the neck to show just a hint of enticing décolletage.
However, her legs and feet were bare for what was just an informal, very casual dinner between two good friends.
But, in truth, both knew it to be so much more than that.
Conversation was unusually stilted over dinner; the meal almost inconsequential as the pair of them toyed with it on their plates, not hungry for food but for each other as their eyes met repeatedly.
Sam, too, was barefoot, but contrary to how he appeared to Miriam a few weeks earlier, he now looked the picture of health. Indeed, complimenting his natural tan, he wore a white open neck shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, and a pair of faded Levis which fitted just the way they should - a fact which Miri had not failed to notice.
Nevertheless, with a nicely scruffy growth of beard and an inch-long mop of newly sprouted mousey hair, he gave the impression of being completely relaxed.
Yet inside his passion was burning.
Sam placed his chopsticks aside and wiped his mouth with a napkin, a pile of food still on his plate.
“Not hungry?” Miri asked, her voice suddenly husky.
“No, guess not,” Sam replied. “Nor you?” He said, remarking at the leftovers on her plate.
“Not really,” she said, giving him a little smile. “It was nice, just too much, I think.”
“Yeah. Funny though, I was starving earlier.”
“Never mind, we can maybe have it warmed up tomorrow. Here, let me take it.” With that, Miri reached over and took his plate then stood and walked over to the small kitchen area just a few feet away.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Sam said, jumping to his feet and hurrying after her.
However, Miri placed the plates down on the drainer and turned to protest, about to say she would take care of the dishes later. But as she span around, she crashed into Sam who was now directly in front of her.
Almost knocked off her feet, she placed her hands on his chest to steady herself whilst he instinctively wrapped his arms protectively around her waist.
For a moment they just stood there innocently; him holding her in his arms for no other reason than to help.
But then she looked up at him with her deeply alluring eyes and suddenly, as the green of hers locked onto the clear blue of his, he was lost.
With the thrill of anticipation she lifted her chin, parting her lips expectantly and as Sam gazed down at her beautiful face he could resist no more.
He leaned down and kissed her hard, her warm mouth welcoming and eager to comply, passion erupting as their tongues became hotly entwined.
Instantly they were feeding off each other, hungry and frenzied like vampires, clawing at each others clothes, buttons popping and material ripping as Sam hoisted her off her feet and carried her hurriedly to the bed.
Throwing her down, he ripped open her dress, the remaining buttons pinging off in all directions, as he relished the delicious sight of her glorious body.
In response, Miri’s hands tore at the buttons of his fly, desperate to release him so that she might at last satiate the aching need surging within her.
A moment later, suddenly free of constraint and unable to wait a second longer, they were making love; hot, passionate and frantic as if their very lives depended on it, Miri crying out with sheer delight as wave after wave of unbridled pleasure rattled through her.
However, after the initial crescendo of release that inevitably followed, Sam and Miri took things much slower, deliberately taking time to appreciate the intimacy of the moment they had been given, for neither knew if they would be granted another.
They made love many times over the wonderful hours that followed; her body writhing rhythmically with his in a carnal dance of desire which lasted long into the night.
Yet what gave Sam the most pleasure was the tenderness of Miri’s touch and the simple gift of gentleness which she so readily bestowed upon him, as it was this, most humble of things, which had been severely lacking in his life for much too long.
***
When at last Sam drifted off, Miri lay beside him in a spent daze of complete satisfaction, studying him as he slept.
Just ten short weeks earlier, he had appeared before her, his skinhead persona utterly terrifying and his badly wounded body covered in blood.
Now, however, he was fully healed and his hair had grown back so that he now resembled something of his old self.
Yet in his student days, less than two years earlier, before the whole world went to hell, Sam had been in reasonably good shape. Indeed, he had possessed something of an athletic build and had always been naturally slim.
Now though, he was supremely fit; every muscle clearly defined and not an ounce of spare fat anywhere. As Miri’s index finger lightly traced his rock hard abs and moved up to his carved pectorals, she could hardly believe the transformation his physique had undergone. Such was the difference,
it was as if he had entered a cocoon as an average man and emerged a Greek god.
What is more, when her hand drifted back to tenderly caress the solid curve of Sam’s impressive bicep, her sleepy eyes fell upon the tattoo which, together the one on the opposite arm, also highlighted his complete metamorphosis.
Indeed, there was no way the Sam Beresford of old would ever have even considered tattoos - or become a skinhead for that matter.
The more she evaluated his transformation, the more she thought it staggering and suddenly she was filled with a deep sense of concern by the extremes he had gone to in order to find Merton and McCullough.
Yet what frightened her more was the lengths he might yet be willing to go to in his quest to find the others.
It was all incredibly worrying. Because if the last few hours had taught Miri anything, it was that she was head over heels in love with Sam. She could no longer be in any doubt.
What is more, before exhaustion finally took over and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she realised that there was a very real possibility that after tomorrow she might lose him forever.
And the thought of it scared her to death.
***
They awoke in each other’s arms to the sound of the telephone ringing.
Slowly, Miri unravelled herself from Sam’s embrace and climbed out of bed, noticing with a wry smile the small pile of hastily discarded clothes laying on the floor.
She picked up Sam’s shirt and crossed the bedsit naked to the phone which sat next to the Christmas tree by the window.
“Hello?” She said, snatching up the receiver as she slipped on the oversized shirt, her voice groggy from sleep.
“Hello, Miriam? Is that you?” Said a voice on the line.
“Oui, yes. It is me,” she replied, absently doing up the shirt buttons. “Who’s this?”
“Hi Miriam. It’s Simon - Vasily’s flat mate. Sorry to bother you.”
“Oh, hi Simon. That’s alright. Are you okay?” She asked, a little perplexed as to why he should be calling as she only really knew him in passing.
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