by Ray Clark
“Never!” Jacqueline’s eyes went wide, mouth agape with schoolgirl naiveté.
“They’re playing games with us. They’re obviously up to something.”
“Sounds like it. Especially as my aunt let me answer the door and hasn’t come through.”
Her expression softened. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“You, too. But right now, I’m curious. I’d like to know everything about their little liaison.”
“So would I.”
As they entered the kitchen, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. Anei warmed to Gardener immediately, and the two of them fell into a leisurely conversation. Future plans were made for another, more organized meeting.
Chapter Forty-seven
Frank Myers gripped the sides of his aged armchair and heaved himself upwards, narrowly missing the TV when his arthritic knees gave way under his enormous bulk. On the screen, a naked teenage girl performed oral sex on a partially clothed Father Christmas. In the background, another teenager waited her turn. Myers groaned as he raised himself to his feet, and shuffled over to the window. His knee cracked again. He doubled over, pausing while the pain subsided.
He was aware the problem was self-inflicted – a mixture of old age and excess weight. Sixty-one years old and twenty-four stones wasn’t a good basis for a healthy life. He’d been told to lose weight more than once. Who cares? It was his life. He would do as he pleased. He wasn’t having any pompous, self-opinionated, overpaid doctor telling him what he was and wasn’t going to do.
Myers gingerly straightened up. He continued over to the window, carefully nudged the filthy net curtain to one side in case any sudden movement caused it to disintegrate. Washing and cleaning was women’s work. It didn’t matter to him whether the place was clean or not. There were better things to do in life. Outside, the snow had started to settle. Large white flakes hit the window before dissolving into tiny beads of water.
Myers stared down from his second floor flat, evaluating the wasteland. Two local hooligans strolled past, unaware they were being watched. The row of terraced houses opposite him stood hidden in the darkened recesses of the few working sodium-coloured streetlights. Most of the homes were derelict, some of them boarded up. The rest resembled the aftermath of a war: broken windows, missing roof tiles, piles of bricks, rubble piled in heaps in the small front gardens.
The scene was a gloomy reminder to Myers that his life and the neighbourhood had much in common. They were both bombed out, with no one left to care. Anyone who had any sense didn’t live here. They had long since moved, been driven out or had died. That left the remainder, the degenerates with whom he had to live.
Myers had lived here long enough to realize that if the yobs didn’t flush him out tonight, they would eventually. What a screwed-up neighbourhood Beechtown is. Pimps, whores, muggers, thieves. An endless list of low-life dregs, all competing to gain the coveted title, King of the Shit Pile.
Myers glanced at his watch, irritated. “Where the fucking hell is that Chinese?” He’d give them another five minutes, then phone and put a rocket up their arses. He’d ordered it over an hour ago. “A man could starve to death.”
Myers suddenly heard a screeching of brakes followed by the blaring of a car horn.
Peeking through the net, he saw the local joyriders at it again. Some poor bastard’ll receive an early Christmas present in the morning when he goes searching for his car. Engine revving, exhaust smoking and wheels screeching, the joyriders cleared out.
Myers turned away from the window. The disc had moved on. The teenage girls were now sitting astride the Santa, one on his waist, the other on his face. Myers snatched up the phone, dialled a number.
It was answered on the second ring. “Golden Lotus!”
“Where’s me fucking supper?”
“I’m sorry,” replied the female voice.
“You fucking will be! I ordered it over an hour ago.”
“What name?”
“Myers! I’m bleeding starving.”
“Very sorry, Mr Myers. Weather bad, not be long now.”
“I should bloody well think so. I dare say you’ll be knocking summat off for being late?”
“Very sorry, Mr Myers, be there soon.”
Myers replaced the receiver, irritated by their pathetic excuses. “It wasn’t snowing when I ordered it.” Back at the window, a peaceful solitude had presided over the street.
Myers returned to the middle of the room, slumped into the chair. A layer of dust sprayed outwards like a cloud of blowflies.
God, could it be any worse? It was all Summers’ fault. The sly bastard. If the man paid half decent money, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in.
Living in Beechtown was not Myers’ ideal position in life. No money, no car, no wife. The job he had wasn’t worth writing home about. Playing Santa Claus to a bunch of snotty nosed kids for a pittance.
Who the fuck did Summers think he was, anyway? What right does he have to dictate to me what I can and can’t do? Or how much I’ll work for?
But Myers knew exactly what right. He’d known for some time. He knew the hold Summers had over all of them. Thornwell and Plum had finally paid the price. He wondered if Summers had been responsible for their deaths.
Well, if he thinks he’s calling the shots anymore, he’s got another think coming. Fuck Summers! I’m not waiting around in this dump any longer for him to come and sort me out.
Myers had tried phoning Harry Clayton, but he hadn’t returned from his holiday.
You never know with Clayton. He’s as sly as the rest of the bastards. Maybe it’s him. Maybe Summers is using Clayton to sort out the rest of us. Come tomorrow morning, I’m out of here. Fuck the landlord, he can whistle for his rent. Fuck Summers, he knows what he can do with his underpaid jobs. From now on, it’s Frank Myers that counts. To hell with the rest of the world.
The sound of a car engine outside startled him from his thoughts. Once again, Myers heaved himself out of the chair, puffing and panting, grimacing from the pains in his knees as he hobbled toward the window. With a quick glance, he noticed the car had been parked half on the pavement.
“About fucking time.” Myers watched, impatiently. “Well, come on then, what are you doing?”
He noticed Jenny Price walk past the car. Bleeding whore! Aye, it were your bastard mate as done for me. Myers paused his thoughts, irritated by his hunger. “For fuck’s sake, will you hurry up?”
Jenny Price disappeared from view. Myers’ thoughts turned to her mate. Carol summat-or-other. What did it matter now? The bitch had died last year. AIDS.
Too much whoring around, I shouldn’t wonder. Before she’d died, she’d turned tricks for Myers. She was dirty, and it had cost him, but he had loved it at the time. Wasn’t so happy now.
Despite the low volume from the TV, he could hear the orgasmic groans, reminding him the tape was still playing. As he turned from the window, he noticed the driver’s door opening. He walked over and stopped the DVD, then returned to the window. The street was deserted. It was still snowing. A trail of footprints led to the front door of the flats.
Downstairs, Myers could hear the deliveryman taking the stairs, one at a time, slowly and deliberately. Chinky bastard! I’ll teach you to take your time. Myers reached the door as the knock came. He unlocked it, opening quickly, hoping to surprise his visitor with a mouthful of abuse before refusing to pay.
It all happened in the time it took him to blink.
Myers staggered backward, caught off-balance by the speed of the assault. “What the fuck have you done?” His eyes roamed down across his body to the source of the pain. It wasn’t really hurting, more of an irritation. Then he saw it. “A needle… fucking stabbed me!”
Something was wrong. He was slowing down. He tried to direct his right arm to remove the syringe, but it wouldn’t co-operate. Myers was suddenly aware that his body was traveling in a different direction. Backward. He was falling. His eyes finall
y came to rest on the ceiling.
His attacker came into view, staring down at him.
Myers lay on the floor, trying to rationalize what was happening to his body. His breathing was erratic. He could see. He could hear. But he couldn’t feel anything. His whole body was paralyzed. He couldn’t move a muscle.
He heard movements around his flat. Then the door closed. Realization dawned on him.
He was trapped! Unable to talk, move, or defend himself. Whoever had stabbed him with the syringe – filled him full of whatever – he was now at their mercy. His attacker appeared suddenly, dressed in black jeans, a jacket, and a balaclava with eyeholes.
“Hello, Frank.”
Myers didn’t recognize the voice. It certainly wasn’t Harry Clayton. The build was too small. From what he could see and hear, it was no one familiar. But it had to be someone who knew him. Otherwise, how did they know his name? It had to be someone they all knew. And if it wasn’t Clayton, there could only be one other suspect. Summers.
“I expect you’re wondering who I am. What I’m doing here, what this is all about. All will be revealed, Frank.”
Myers was frustrated. Why the hell couldn’t it have been tomorrow? He’d have been out of here by then.
“The stage you’re at now, you’re probably wondering what was in the syringe.” His attacker paused. “Well, even if you’re not, I’ll tell you. It’s called curare, Frank. I won’t bore you with detail. It’s a muscle relaxant, which is why you’re paralyzed. Exactly the correct amount, of course. Too much and I’d have killed you. I don’t want you to die too quickly. Or pain-free. Not after what you did to me.
“I do believe you’re thinking about it, now, Frank. You’re wondering who I am, what you’ve done to me. Perhaps you should also be thinking... when?”
He was surprised when his assailant’s next move was to straddle his body and sit on his fat belly. “Cosy this, isn’t it, Frank? Are you as comfortable as I am? I do hope so. Not hurting you, am I? Oh, silly me. You can’t talk, can you? Bet you’d like to.”
Myers’ temper flared.
When it wears off, you’d better be fucking quick, or you’re dead. No one fucks with me and gets away with it! Apart from Carol whatshername, of course!
“I bet there’s a few things you’d like to say to me. It’s the perfect opportunity, really, now we’re on our own. Not like that night all those years ago. The last time we met.”
Myers wondered where his Chinese takeaway was, realizing that the longer the situation went on, the more chance they had of being disturbed. He saw his attacker checking the time.
“I’ve almost outstayed my welcome, Frank, so let’s get down to business.”
Myers saw another syringe appear. It was held aloft, and a small amount of clear liquid was pumped out. He became aware of an obnoxious, vile odour.
“Awful smell, isn’t it, Frank? I think it rather suits you, myself. You, disgusting piece of filth. Have you any idea how long I’ve waited for this day?”
Myers wanted to scream with frustration. Whatever it was, he wanted to beg forgiveness, say he was sorry, even though he couldn’t remember what his attacker was talking about.
“You all thought you were so superior, didn’t you, Frank? You took advantage and played the numbers game. Four of you, one of me. Remember that night, do you? I was like you are now. Trapped. I couldn’t go anywhere. Couldn’t fight back.” His attacker paused. “So, how does it feel, Frank? Alone? Isolated? Frightened? I know them all well. I’ve lived them all so many times since. Well, here’s a small thought to hang on to. How you’re feeling now is far better than you’re going to feel in a few minutes.”
His assailant gazed at the syringe with emotionless eyes, giving nothing away.
Myers realized he wasn’t ready to die. He’d always considered himself hardened to the world and the people in it. That he could face up to anything. If truth be known, he’d never really suspected that AIDS would kill him. He’d blocked it out. But now, in the final stages, he was frightened. He’d bargain anything he had.
“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to inject your jugular vein with the contents of this syringe. You should just about be coming out of the paralysis now. As you come round, you’ll feel a sudden surge of adrenaline and your heart will pump much faster, which is perfect for this stuff. The faster it gets round, the quicker it can do the damage. It’s going to hurt, Frank. In fact, it’ll kill you!”
Myers felt the difference almost immediately as his attacker injected him with the second syringe. The paralysis subsided, only to be replaced by something new. The temperature of the room changed. Maybe it was only him. He wasn’t sure. He could feel his pulse racing. He was almost having palpitations. Myers was on fire. His whole body racked with pain.
“We’re nearly there, aren’t we, Frank? I think it’s time you knew.”
His assailant pulled off the hood. Myers finally came face to face with his killer. Plum’s killer. Thornwell’s. His eyes widened with disbelief.
“Quite a shock, isn’t it? Bet you thought you’d never see me again.”
Myers forced out an agonizing scream. He started to gulp air, struggling to inhale as much as possible. His throat was blocked. He was choking. As he started to convulse, his breathing problems were soon outweighed by further pain. Searing red-hot needles pricked his skin from the inside. His whole body was under an immense amount of pressure, reaching the point where he thought it was likely to burst. Although Myers could see, his vision was fast becoming impaired by a series of coloured lights.
He screamed and continued screaming until he could no longer hear himself, as the engulfing pain destroyed all his senses.
Chapter Forty-eight
Pete Nash climbed the stairs two at a time. The manager at The Lotus had freaked out on the phone, saying the cost of the meal would come out of his wages, and so would that of any other meals he was late with tonight. At the time he hadn’t cared. He had been stretched out across the back seat, engine running, heaters on, receiving a blowjob from Katie Crawford. She was nothing to look at, had no personality, and didn’t care how she earned her money. His wife didn’t like oral sex, or any sex for that matter, which meant he had to pay for most of what he wanted.
At the top of the second landing, Pete Nash stopped, knocking loudly. Then he heard the screaming. It sounded like someone was being tortured. He’d heard about the gangs in Leeds, the drug barons. They were mean bastards.
The screams on the other side of the door continued. Nash was frightened but decided to knock again. He shouted as well. And fidgeted, wondering whether or not to leave the takeaway on the step. He didn’t need the agro. He was late enough. If the guy on the other side of the door was being tortured, he probably deserved it.
Then the door opened. A black blur leapt out, crashing into him. He was aware of the Chinese takeaway hitting the wall to his right, the black blur jumping down the stairs to his left.
The force of the assault unbalanced Nash. He crashed into the banister rail, going over in slow motion.
On his way down, Nash passed the person dressed in black. His own screams equalled those he’d heard upstairs. As he plummeted, his outstretched right arm hit the first-floor banister and snapped. He continued to bounce into obstacles, but it wasn’t enough to stop him altogether.
As he hit the concrete floor at the bottom, his neck snapped.
In his dying moments, he was aware of someone walking past him.
He remembered he’d left the car engine running. The Chinese family wouldn’t be pleased.
Chapter Forty-nine
Gardener carefully negotiated the path leading to the front door. The overnight snowfall had transformed into a dirty grey slush. On either side of the walkway, the small garden had the finest display of weeds he had ever seen, overpopulated by fast-food cartons, carrier bags, and used condoms. Reilly followed close behind, with Briggs in tow, his hands clasped to his mouth, mumbling
about the cold.
Before Gardener entered the house, he turned, scanning the neighbourhood. He saw squad cars, ambulances, police officers, and a near-derelict house with scenes of crime tape. The one noticeable point over and above everything else was the fact that no one cared enough to even pry.
A young mum with a baby in a buggy scurried past the gate. She never even turned.
Further down the street, three young boys played football, shouting at each other, paying little attention to the authorities. Life continued as though he and his team were invisible. An everyday occurrence.
“Are we going in, then?” said Briggs, irritably.
A body lay where it had fallen, engorged blue lips on ashen skin, lifeless eyes staring vacantly into space. Two constables shielded the body. One was PC Benson.
“What have you found out?” asked Gardener, peering up the staircase.
“According to his wallet, his name’s Pete Nash. I can’t tell you anything else about him at the moment, sir. We’re running him through the system. We’ve had a call from a Chinese takeaway, The Golden Lotus. It seems he’s a delivery driver for them. Went missing last night. The car’s not in the lot outside.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
Reilly ascended the first three stairs. “Any witnesses?” asked the Irishman.
“No, sir.”
Gardener glanced at the ceiling, disappointed. “Who found the bodies?”
“The landlord. He came to collect the rent arrears from Frank Myers. After finding Nash, he went upstairs and found the door to Myers’ flat was open. He’s still up there.” Benson paused. “Looks like Nash fell from the top floor.”
“Okay.” Gardener pulled out his mobile and phoned Fitz, requesting his presence, and the undertaker. The procession of officers climbed the staircase to Myers’ flat. For Gardener, it was simply a repeat of the two weeks previous, but with a different address. The house was equally as run down as the Rawston place, but Myers appeared to have been the building’s sole tenant. He sidestepped the remains of the Chinese takeaway, intermingled with what he took to be the landlord’s vomit. Combined with the smell from inside the flat, it was enough to upset the most cast-iron of constitutions.