Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  Vas was blinking, trying to hold back the tears as fear filled his belly, the thought of dying there in that hovel in the woods worse than anything he could imagine.

  “Now I’m sure you would prefer the quicker option, as would I if I were in your position. And I will grant you that. But first I need to know why you are here?”

  Vas started shaking his head again, determined not to divulge anything no matter how much Finch hurt him, knowing that doing so would surely endanger the lives of Sam and Miriam. Yet the fear of what he might have to endure was already starting to rot away at him.

  “Don’t worry,” Finch said. “You don’t have to decide yet. You’ve got all night to think upon it - but in the morning I’m going to ask you for an answer and my advice would be to have one ready. Because if not, I promise, you are going to die a very slow and painful death.”

  He stared at Vas for a moment longer to make sure that his threat was clearly understood, then shrugged his shoulders and said, “But now it’s tea time, so I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

  With that he set about making himself a meal, completely ignoring Vas as before.

  By the time the meal was cooked - liver, onions and chips - Vas’ stomach was rumbling loudly, but there was no food for him. Finch simply took his tray and retired to the living room once more to continue watching television, leaving Vas alone in the kitchen tied to the chair.

  The situation remained that way as daytime turned to night but blood loss from the gash in Vas’ forehead and the concussion he was still feeling from the force of Finch’s boot crashing down upon his skull soon began to take its toll.

  Consequently, sitting there, bound, gagged, in nothing but underwear, in an unheated kitchen with his feet resting on the icy tiles, Vas’ chin finally slumped to his chest and his body started to shiver uncontrollably with a combination of cold and shock.

  By the time Finch turned off the television it was almost midnight and after dumping his tray down on the kitchen table with yet another dirty plate for the pile, he switched off the lights and went up to bed without so much as another word.

  Meanwhile, his prisoner shivered alone and cold in the darkness, Finch’s warning about him dying a ‘slow and painful death’ repeating over and over again in his mind.

  Indeed, as Vas slowly drifted into unconsciousness, his future looked very bleak indeed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Finch usually liked to be up early but had treated himself to an extra hour in bed in an effort to relish the day ahead, anxious not to spoil the delicious anticipation of the sport he had planned.

  Nonetheless, unable to delay any longer, he finally arose just after nine and climbed out of bed naked except for the thick socks he had slept in.

  His body was white and lean, although surprisingly fit for a man living in such squalor.

  Yet even though Finch had long since eschewed the tight disciplines and polished standards of military life, he did like to stay in shape. Indeed, he regularly worked out with an old set of weights that he kept in one of the outbuildings. During the summer months he would often go on long hikes, too, purposely maintaining his fitness levels just in case his services should be required as a soldier for hire.

  There would be no such exercise this morning, however, as there were far more stimulating matters to attend to.

  Once out of bed, he pulled on the same pair of soiled Y-fronts that he had taken off the night before, then shrugged on a pair of jeans and a thick jumper which he found crumpled on the stained carpet.

  When fully dressed, he crossed the landing to the bathroom where he bent over the sink and pressed a finger to the side of his nose. He then blew sharply out of the opposing nostril to jettison a stream of thick, green snot into the grubby hand basin before repeating the procedure on the other side.

  After giving the basin a cursory rinse with tap water, Finch picked up his toothbrush and lathered it with paste. His teeth were like large yellow slabs and the cracks between them stained dark brown from years of smoking roll-ups. Nevertheless, he gave them a quick scrub, spat the residue in the sink and tossed the brush back into the dirty glass he kept it in.

  Finally ready for the day, Finch clomped down the stairs and wandered into the kitchen where he found Vas still slumped in the wooden carver.

  Beneath the chair there was now a pool of piss which had mingled with the blood of yesterday, however the ankle wound appeared to have stopped bleeding for the present, as had the gash on his forehead. Even so, dried blood was caked down much of Vas’ face and body, all of which had oozed from the nasty head wound.

  Vas looked almost blue with cold and for a moment Finch thought his prisoner might have died in the night, denying him the exquisite torture he had been anticipating. Upon closer inspection, however, Finch was relieved to see the steady rise and fall of Vasily’s chest, proving that he was still very much alive.

  Thrilled by this discovery, Finch strode through to the living room and tossed a couple of sturdy logs onto the smouldering embers of the fire in the hearth. Then, using a brass poker, he jabbed at the logs until a flicker of flame lapped at the edges of the dry wood.

  When satisfied the fire had caught, he rested the poker next to the hearth and marched back out to the kitchen. There, he pushed his stockinged feet into a pair of gumboots which had been left beneath the coat pegs by the back door and pulled on a weather-worn wax jacket.

  Finally, after tugging an old tweed cap onto his greasy head, he went to his gun cabinet and lifted out his 12-bore shotgun that he used for hunting. Grabbing a handful of cartridges from the open box at the bottom, his eyes fell upon his trusty flick knife which was also kept in there.

  Seeing his favourite weapon, he smiled with pleasure, keenly anticipating the thrill of using it later.

  However, before he could enjoy some ‘quality’ time with his prisoner, he had to go and check on his snares to see what he had managed to catch overnight. With luck, he might have bagged himself a nice fresh rabbit for lunch. Indeed, that being the case, he could skin it and put it in the pot to boil whilst he had a little fun with his uninvited guest.

  So, with just the briefest look back at Vas, who was still unconscious, Finch left the cottage via the back door. There was no need for locks out there, so deep in the woods, as people knew better than to disturb him, so he just left the door ajar, ready for his return. He then trudged off towards the woods with his shotgun broken over his arm for safety, knowing that when he got back he would have the remainder of the day to do exactly as he pleased.

  As he disappeared into the surrounding tree line, Finch placed the first of the day’s many roll-ups between his lips and lit it up. He then thought of his prisoner once more and smiled at the tantalising prospect of what he had in store for him.

  ***

  As dark rain clouds gathered overhead, Sam crept ever closer to the property, aware that at any moment he could be seen. His first instinct was to approach through the brush, away from the track but, after a couple of paces in, he noticed a rather nasty looking iron trap concealed within the undergrowth so thought better of it. He glanced once more at the blood trail that led from the boundary to the cottage itself and it occurred to him, with horror, that Vas may have inadvertently trodden on such a device.

  Either way, Sam decided that the track was the more prudent way to approach even though the risk of being seen was much greater.

  Eventually, however, as the first sporadic raindrops began to fall, he reached the perimeter of the hard-packed turning circle.

  But as he emerged from the surrounding trees, there was no cover left available to him, except for the Land Rover some yards away across open ground. Yet, with no other choice, Sam took a deep breath and made a dash for it, half-expecting to hear a shot or, at the very least, an angry voice cry out. But he heard nothing and reached the safety of the Land Rover without inciden
t.

  From there it was only a few more feet to the cottage. So, steeling himself once more, he darted across the short divide and flattened himself against the outer wall between the weather beaten front door and the nearest of the two ground floor windows.

  He stayed put for a moment, waiting for anything which might indicate he had been observed. But, again, nothing.

  After a moment’s more hesitation, Sam slithered along to the window and risked a quick glance inside. He spied an untidy living room with a shabby settee and armchair facing a lit fireplace. On the back wall hung a couple of racist banners and a Nazi flag, much like those he had seen at the 617 Club. In the foreground there was a television stand with a pile of video tapes stacked beneath but there was no sign of life.

  Sam then sidled back to the window on the far side of the front door, being careful not to make a sound as he quickly edged past the door itself.

  Upon reaching the window, and again staying tight against the wall, he risked another peek. The glass was filthy and thick with condensation and at first all Sam could see was a pile of dirty crockery on the drainer immediately beyond, in what was obviously the kitchen.

  He tore his gaze away with frustration. Yet he had to be sure, so after a couple of beats he chanced a second look.

  This time he tried to peer over the dishes and into the kitchen itself.

  Which was when he saw Vas.

  The sight of him slumped half-naked in the chair; bound and gagged and covered in blood sent a chill of dread down Sam’s spine.

  Shocked by what he saw before him, he stared aghast, not quite able to believe it. His friend had obviously endured much and Sam feared that he might even be dead.

  Yet amidst the fear and the sorrow boiled a terrible anger.

  Suddenly he was furious, his rage fuelled by the dreadful things Finch had done - first to Claudette and now to Vas - and all Sam could think about was killing the man responsible.

  To this end, he frantically searched the room in a bid to find his target but other than Vas, the kitchen appeared to be deserted.

  However, on the far side of the room, Sam’s eyes fell upon the back door. What is more, a narrow crack of light was clearly visible down the whole of one side showing it to be unlatched.

  Sam knew this could be a trap and that Finch could well be lying in wait for him somewhere out of view, but he was angry and Vasily was in trouble and there was no way he was going to wait another second before trying to help.

  Quickly, he secured the binoculars inside his jacket and fastened the zip to keep them safe before scurrying around to the back door just a moment before the heavens opened.

  Rain was suddenly pouring down but Sam was oblivious, his mind set on the task in hand as he pulled the Damascus Bowie from his belt. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he kicked the door open and flung himself inside.

  Sam landed as light as a cat, the knife held ready and his stance braced for combat, expecting an attack at any moment. But none came.

  He swiftly scanned the immediate area to be sure Finch was not lurking somewhere unseen, ready to jump him, but again it appeared to be clear. Sam was well aware that Finch could be upstairs, where he had not checked, but circumstances did not allow it. His priority was to save Vas and time was of the essence.

  He darted over to where his best friend was slumped, appalled by the terrible sight of him, sitting there covered in blood with the flesh around his ankle violently chewed as if bitten by a shark. Yet Sam did not dwell on the horrible injury as he hurriedly felt for a pulse.

  Upon feeling the throb in Vas’ wrist Sam’s relief was immense. Quickly he set about unbuckling the leather straps of the grotesque looking gag; casting it aside the moment it fell free. With the P.V.C. ball finally removed from his mouth, Vas involuntarily gasped for air, his subconscious suddenly aware that he could now breathe without restriction.

  Heartened by this response, Sam tapped his friend lightly on the cheek to try and revive him fully.

  “Hey, Vas, it’s me,” he whispered. “I’ve come to take you home.” As he spoke, he severed the ties around his friend’s wrists with the Damascus Bowie, then bent and cut those around his ankles. However, as he disturbed the tie around the injured limb, the pain of it caused Vas to stir.

  “Uuuh,” he moaned.

  “Hey, buddy - it’s me,” Sam said again. “I’ve come to get you, I’m gonna take you home, alright?”

  “Sam?” Vas said, lifting his head with some effort and forcing his eyes open. “Is that you?”

  “Sure is, pal. C’mon, let’s get you dressed, we gotta get outta here, quick.”

  Sam had already spotted the heavy overcoat, sweatshirt and dark blue Levis belonging to his friend folded over the chair opposite and he grabbed them as he spoke. He then set about pulling the sweatshirt carefully over Vas’ head, trying not to touch the bloody gash in his forehead. The jeans, though, were more problematic and Sam took his knife and slit the right leg of the denim all the way up to the knee so that he could better ease it over the damaged ankle.

  However, he needed both hands free so shoved the knife into his coat pocket, out of the way but within easy grasp.

  “Finch is here,” Vas muttered, flinching in agony as Sam dragged one of the brand new wellington boots out from under the opposite chair and pushed it onto his uninjured foot. “I found him for you,” he said, wincing again, as Sam then pulled him up off the chair, being careful not to disturb his chewed limb.

  “I know you did, buddy.” Sam replied, hoisting up his friend’s jeans and quickly fastening them before draping the overcoat around him for warmth.

  “You did great,” he added, putting Vas’ arm around his shoulders to support him. “But now we gotta move before he finds us.”

  “Too late for that, Sunshine!” A voice barked behind him.

  Sam instantly dropped Vas back into the chair and span, reaching for his pocket and the knife within, but as he turned, Finch spoke again.

  “Careful, matey, or I’ll blow your head clean off your fuckin’ shoulders!” With that, he snapped the breach of the shotgun shut and pointed both barrels directly at Sam.

  It was useless. Sam did not have a chance and knew Finch could blast a hole in him before he had even covered two paces. With no other choice, he froze on the spot and raised both arms in surrender.

  “Good decision,” said Finch with a smile, the 12-bore still raised and ready.

  Sam glared at him, scowling with hatred and frustration. Even though soaking wet from the sudden rain storm, Finch had not changed at all since he had last seen him; he had the same sneering face, the same straggly moustache and the same depraved arrogance. Indeed, he was undoubtedly the same man who had stabbed him in the ribs over two years earlier and the one who had carved a swastika across Claudette’s naked breasts as she hung dead from that tree in the glade.

  Sam felt his gorge rise as the image of his murdered fiancé appeared in his mind for the millionth time, yet his eyes did not leave Finch. Never in his life had he wanted to kill somebody more; his whole body pulsating with rage as the two of them faced each other.

  But Finch had him cold and he smiled with glee as he stood there in his wax jacket and gumboots; two dead rabbits hanging from the hooks on his belt, under his coat, their lifeless front legs dangling down below his knees.

  As he regarded Sam, he cocked his head with curiosity, raindrops dripping from his flat cap. “I know you, don’t I boy?” He said.

  “Yes. You know me, you bastard,” seethed Sam.

  Finch grinned triumphantly. “Thought so. But hold on, don’t tell me - give me a second - it’ll come to me.”

  He made a show of it; enjoying his moment in the spotlight as he trawled through his memory. Then a glimmer of realisation registered on his face. “Ah!” He said. “I’ve got it. The beard threw me for sec, but y
ou’re the boyfriend, aren’t you - of that pretty little black bitch we strung up?”

  Sam was very nearly exploding with anger. “I am,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Look at you!” Finch declared gleefully, “All grown up and looking a whole lot better than when I last saw you - which, if I remember rightly, was pretty much dead.”

  “Yeah, well, surprise.” Replied Sam flatly.

  “That’s right,” said Finch, ignoring the sarcasm. “I remember reading in the paper that you’d survived. It was strange cos I could’ve sworn you were a goner. But good for you - you’re obviously made of stronger stuff than I gave you credit for.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “S’pose you’ve come to ‘make me pay’ - is that it?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “S’pose you were the one who did for Merton and McCullough too - am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “Well, I have to say, I did wonder if their deaths might have been down to something like that. Never guessed it would be you though, not in a million years if I’m honest. But bravo - those lads were a pair of mean fuckers - hard as they come - and I should know cos I’m the one who trained ‘em.”

  “They didn’t cause me too much trouble,” Sam snarled. “And neither will you.”

  Finch laughed with delight. “Is that so? Well, I think you’ll find that I’m the one holding the shotgun, Sunshine - and I don’t intend putting it down either - so you might want to re-evaluate the situation somewhat. Cos from where I’m standing, you and your chubby little friend here are as good as dead.”

  Sam did not reply as the fact was undeniable. But he stayed focussed, kept his eyes on Finch, trying to find some weakness - something which might yet turn the situation in his favour. However, he had to admit, it did not look hopeful.