Fear Of Broken Glass: The Elements: Prologue

by Mark, David

  Priority four: Fatman, him Ash called Chivers she recalled was still crawling for the door. In his hands was the painting wrapped in a blanket, clutched under one arm like a child. She walked over, ripped it out of his hands and moved to one side as she heard a voice.

  ‘Here,’ the English was sayin’.

  She looked down at the bundle and shrugged, throwing it to the side, the man scrambling after it, pausing to make a quick examination of the lady before shaking his head. She registered the crunch of tires on gravel, a small fire growing from where one or two candles had set light to the scattered brochures from a stand, the brochures on fire lighting a tapestry on the wall.

  Movement: To her surprise, the rifleman was still alive. She just shot him three times and once in the head. He raised a handgun in a trembling hand just above the floor and trained it in the direction of the only person he could sight on, being the trained English agent who had shot the first of the four bullets already inside his body. Except, English Agent saw him first. His reactions were quick, raising his gun, kneeling, aiming and firing in a perfectly controlled fashion, sending a fifth bullet in his direction. It entered him through the right eye socket and exited through the back of his head at close range in a spray of blood, brain and bone. In that moment the rifleman looked at her a last time, his damned look turning to stone.

  She turned on the English, who stood, uncertain, the bundle at the floor. She checked her course of action, ready to jump to the side but the Englishman didn’t react, sending her a brief nod of recognition as he lowered his weapon and rose to a stand. The immediate dangers dealt with, Fabian made a last assessment before running across to kick at the flames coming from the candles on the ground. Instead of putting it out, it had the opposite effect, fanning the flames, a line of fire already moving up the sides of the burning tapestry. Then Conrad Baron was running towards her, beating the flames with nothing more than his jacket to put it out, but to no avail. Soon the whole tapestry was alight, fire spreading.

  ‘Who, who the hell are you?’ He said in desperation as he kicked again and again.

  Fabian didn’t answer, stepping away, seeing the cause was already lost. She looked at the agent, lost in desperation. She looked over at the female police officer without pity or emotion, her head laying in the middle of a pool of blood. If she wasn’t dead she would be soon. She looked across at the man who had to be Sebastian Chivers sprawled on his side with one leg bent awkwardly behind the other in more blood that seemed to be seeping from a wound to his stomach. Stomach wounds were the bad ones; too many tubes.

  He was lying face down but still conscious. If he hurt he made no show of it. That surprised her. They made eye contact. He looked away, as if she wasn’t there at all. She looked to the other police officer, the Swedish one. He was alive, holding his shoulder, fingers already matted in his own blood with hurt written all over his pretty face: A fat man wounded in the gut, another in the shoulder, a lady down and out with a hit to the head. The two assailants down and out. And she thought yesterday be a bad day.

  Stepping back, Fabian thought briefly of the other dead body, the old man in the house. He be already dead before she saw them two men come out of the woods. She glanced to the entrance door to where Bok be waitin’ somewhere out there. Too many questions. Too much shit. She looked around seeing another door, at the back. She glanced across and the three men alive a-wonderin’ then turned to walk slowly deeper into the church. The agent stopped to retrieve that bundle, leaving the fire be.

  Her job had been to find the Pastor. The Pastor was dead.

  She turned away, making for a smaller door set in the dark recesses of the side aisle. Knowing her job was done, she exited the scene as lithely as she entered it without having uttered a word – and with three rounds still left in the magazine.

  Chapter 22

  REVELATION

  Othin spake:

  ‘Much have I fared, much have I found,

  Much have I received from the gods:

  What spake Othin himself, in the ears of his son,

  Ere in the bale-fire he burned?’

  Stanza 54, Vafthruthnismol

  The Ballad of Vafthruthnir

  Alvar Bok was uneasy, driving through the fine mist of early morning rain in a battered, seventies-style silver Cortina.

  Fabian had failed to show up. He wondered what could have happened, anxiety mounting as he entered the Æsahult car park. He turned the wheel looking left, then right, eyes alert, scanning the church, drawn towards the pastor’s house.

  Something was wrong.

  He sensed it instantly, the threat of danger. He noticed it in the form of the empty black Citroën, in the front door to the Pastor’s house slightly ajar. From the silhouette of the church and the smoke escaping in a thin stream, swaying delicately, untouched by any wind. Bok knew it wasn’t good. He swung the car in an arc, parking further away from the other vehicle, behind the wide girth of an old oak. Only then did he see the tongue of flames, lighting the church from within. He reached for a pair of gloves nestled in the tray in front of the gear lever. As he did so he turned to look at Ulrika behind him. She was looking out of the back window, fear planted in those pretty features. The girl and the boy seemed to have gown an attachment to each other, even in situations like this.

  ‘Both of you stay in the car. Whatever happens, do not get out until I tell you to. The keys are in the ignition. Keep your head down until I get back.’

  Placing the gloves in his trouser pocket he leaned forwards, opening his glove compartment, removing an oiled handgun and two magazines. He placed one of the pre-loaded magazines in the handle, snapping it in place. He glanced across at Ash, who merely looked at it with mild curiosity. With a nod, he got out and placed the gun into the belt of his trousers, letting his heavy woolen jumper fall back into place. He reached down for his coat under the seat, hauling it on, a drizzle falling evenly across the open ground of the car park then left them, heading for the open door of the Pastor’s house at a trot.

  Ash watched Bok disappear inside the house from the passenger seat of the car. It seemed to fade into the paling sky that marked the beginning of a new day. The impression didn’t last long, Ash’s attention drawn to the sound of something crackling. He realized it was fire on wood, burning wood and turned to the church expecting to engage himself in a futile attempt at putting out the growing fire within. He never made it that far, interrupted by a figure emerging out of chaos.

  Conrad stumbled rather than walked out of the doorway to the church. Under his arm was a bundle wrapped in a blanket.

  The Hangman.

  ‘It’s Conrad...’ Ash looked at Ulrika, then back at Conrad who looked off-guard, his expression altering; surprise – recognition. Alarm.

  Ash opened the door of Bok’s car, getting out.

  ‘No, Ash. He told us to stay. What are doing?’

  Ash bent down and looked at the concern in Ulrika’s eyes through the open door. ‘Stay here. It looks like the bastard’s got the painting. Just stay here.’ He closed the door and turned and walked towards Conrad and the church.

  ‘What happened?’ Ash shouted out, striding forwards. ‘You were supposed to be in Denmark by now.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Conrad raised his hand, but in an unthreatening way.

  Ash noticed blood coated his fingers, like red diesel.

  ‘You can’t go in there,’ he said, looking around with a face white and expressionless, as if looking for someone, confusion showing in those usually so measured dark eyes.

  This was a different man. ‘What happened?’ Ash turned to look across at the Pastor’s house, then back again and took a tentative step forwards. There was nobody. He turned and glanced towards the church from where he had come. Within, a pall of smoke hung suspended above the floor, hearing then the crackle of fire.

  ‘We have to leave here. We have to leave. Where’s Daniel?’ Conrad was looking at his car.

  ‘The
re’s a fire... Daniel’s here too?’ Ash walked across to look inside the church, seeing the flames coming from somewhere in the aisles.

  Conrad stepped out towards Ash to block him, wearing an ugly expression. ‘I said, you can’t go in there.’

  He glanced in through the open door, seeing something, someone on the floor, taking another five, six paces forward. Conrad stopped in front of him, holding out his hand to prevent him continuing. Ash saw the unmistakable figure of a body on the floor in bloodstained clothes: Sebastian Chivers. He could still feel the bump from where he had hit him and turned on Conrad. ‘What have you done?’ The anger in his voice surprised him.

  Conrad raised his hand in a gesture of conciliation, then looked across at Ulrika sitting in the back of Bok’s car. ‘Why is she here? How did you find her?’ He frowned, turning on Ash, ‘Whose car is that? I told you to get the hell out of here... why are you here?’

  Ash didn’t answer him.

  ‘Where’s Justin?’ Conrad pressed. ‘Where’s Ulrika’s car?’

  But Ash was beyond all that; the pass, the rain, the image of Justin’s head. ‘We never made it out.’ He recalled Conrad’s bid to get away, the first car to leave. He never waited for them. ‘Did you know what was going down? Did you?’

  Conrad looked across to the Pastor’s house. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You used me. You used Justin too. You used us.’ Ash felt his fingers curling into a fist, involuntarily, placing one foot in front of the other, tension tightening his muscles, jaw clenching.

  Conrad looked at him, for a moment confused, ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘We’re with the storekeeper, Alvar Bok’

  ‘Bok?’ the little color in his face left him, glancing across at the Pastor’s house. ‘No, not Bok... don’t believe anything he says. You don’t know who he is...’

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything.’ Ash said, voice hard, making a threatening move towards him. ‘But you seem to know him.’ His eyes darting to the bundle under his arm. ‘I see you have the Hangman... Chivers stole it from me.’ His eyes darted back to the church. ‘Is he dead?’

  With trepidation, Conrad retreated. When he was far enough away he placed the bundled painting on the ground, casting a glance towards Bok’s car, eyes steady and calculating.

  ‘Chivers is dead inside, isn’t he?’ Ash shouted, walking forwards again, eyes flashing.

  ‘Stop where you are Ash. All hell has broken loose today. Bok isn’t who you think he is. This is out of control...’

  ‘What about Almquist? Did you have anything to do with that?’ Ash spat.

  ‘I had nothing to do with it!’ He shook his head. ‘Almquist buried his own investigation. It’s time to go home Ash.’

  What about yesterday? The day Almquist was shot in his car, the day Justin was shot getting out of a car. The day... ‘Justin died for that fucking painting! Did you have something to do with the Pass?’

  ‘Pass?’ Conrad seemed to lose his composure. ‘Justin is... dead?’

  Ash leaned forwards, the threat of violence in his eyes, voice rising. ‘Yes, Justin is dead. I was there.’ He stopped uncertainly, looking, weighing. Looking for a sign, anything to give him release. He took another step forwards.

  Conrad lowered his voice, looking down at the ground. ‘I need some space here for a minute...’ he turned to glance back inside the church, flames spreading.

  Removing his eyes from the painting Ash closed the distance between them. ‘Why the hell do you have the painting? Chivers took it. He’s dead, isn’t he? You took it from him.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’ Conrad shifted his position, placing his right foot behind his left, dropping his weight closer to the ground, imperceptibly and took a small step to the side.

  ‘He took it from me!’ He came at Conrad hard, dropping his head, foot-splashes in a puddle, crashing into him so he knocked him off balance.

  In a moment Conrad regained composure, swinging around with his leg, kicking high as he leaned over to one side in perfect balance, his foot connecting with Ash’s back. The impact sent him stumbling forwards. Ash stood up, angry, determined. He feinted left, coming at Conrad from the right.

  Conrad shifted his position again at the same moment as Ash tried to land a punch. He whipped around expertly, dropping one side of his body as he brought his leg up again, high and around, his foot connecting with the side of Ash’s face.

  He felt the blow to his mouth. It stunned him, feeling his lip break as he spun to the side, tasting blood. He shook his head to clear his vision and collected himself feeling blood flowing out of the side of his mouth. It came unexpected: the rage, the frustration of not being able to even get close. Of being vulnerable. He ran forwards, to one side, then the next, landing a punch to Conrad’s head. Except, Conrad’s head wasn’t there. Conrad ducked and twisted to the side, timing an elbow into Ash’s back perfectly, sending him off-balance, the blow sending him stumbling down onto the cold, wet earth.

  ‘Now leave it and back off!’ Conrad shouted, poised and ready again.

  Ash knelt on the wet ground, head low, mouth hanging open in a grimace of frustration and rage, eyes looking up from beneath long, dark wet hair. ‘Never...’ he stood up, slowly, then stepping towards Conrad, crouched forward, hands clenched, and moved forward in determined strides without ducking or running. Before he came within striking distance, Conrad pirouetted, body low, swinging his leg. Kick boxing, the words came to him as he felt the sole of Conrad’s heel connect under the edge of his nose: the sickening, grinding sound of cartilage against bone. Conrad was fucking kick boxer.

  Ash’s hands went to his face, blood spilling between his fingers, eyes blazing. He couldn’t even get close...

  ‘Calm down, think... just back OFF!’ Conrad panted, adopting a more relaxed position, his side turned to Ash.

  The soft sound of thousands of water droplets caressing the air. The soft crackle of flame. Moving sideways, Ash concentrated on keeping Conrad’s eyes fixed on his, ignoring the Hangman left on the ground, wrapped in the blanket, willing himself not to look at it, just to keep him from thinking about it. ‘You bastard,’ Ash spat out his blood in Conrad’s direction.

  Conrad was still poised, ready.

  ‘You fucking BASTARD!’ Ash walked forwards again, the pain in his head irrelevant; unwavering, resolute, anger coursing through his veins as hot as a forge, beyond concern for his face or his nose. As long as he could close the distance. As long as he could get inside Conrad’s defensive radius and smash his miserable, stinking face in.

  Conrad turned in time to parry the sudden blows raining upon him. He stumbled backwards, losing his composure for a moment, concern showing in his eyes. Then two hands were moving, stepping from side to side in easy, practiced movements, the movements of someone who had trained in combat. In the same fluid movement, dropping down on one knee, he delivered a powerful blow to Ash’s stomach before rising, hopping back, ready for another attack.

  The speed and power in the blow surprised him. Winded, Ash collapsed to the ground a second time, fighting for breath, blood running out of his mouth and nose and onto the ground in thick, sticky fingers.

  ‘Stop it!’ Ulrika shouted, running forwards.

  Conrad rose, standing in the rain, poised and prepared for more.

  ‘Justin is dead, none of this is going to help ANYTHING,’ she screamed.

  Ash was past stopping. He stood up, clutching his stomach, blood still leaking from his nose, head hanging heavily now, breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked around at Ulrika, standing, her hands on each side of her face, looking at him with aghast, frantic eyes. He didn’t care, using the momentary distraction to run at Conrad again. Then something quick and hard slammed into the back of his knee, forcing him down on one leg. Something harder smashed into the side of his head, stunning him in an instant. His vision turned black, a long extended tone filling his ears as another scream faded into a thought that he might pass out. Someth
ing smashed into the other side of his head and he found himself kneeling in a pink pool of rain and blood, too beaten to offer Conrad any more resistance. The anger still raw within him. He looked up, panting, blinded by the rain, to the sound of smashing glass. He looked over to a nave window, high above the ground, shattering in the heat of the rising fire within, flames escaping into the cold, damp rain-laden air. That was when Daniel came running out of the gloom of the graveyard behind the church, the look of someone who had witnessed more than they could prepare themselves for. He opened his mouth, about to say something to him, to ask for help, but Daniel had already turned and was moving towards the entrance of the church, looking within, disappearing from view before he even had a moment to say anything to Ash at all.

  Inside the church Sebastian Chivers woke to the smell of hell. It filled his lungs, stung his eyes, tore at the back of throat. The air was full of it, if any air was left worth breathing. But the smell was nothing compared to the rising tide of heat. It was relentless, pressing him to the floor, forcing him to lay in his own mess, the wound unbearable.

  He lay facing the doorway, yet still some distance away. The smoke was too much and he buried his head in his arms, coughing violently.

  His body screamed in so much pain now, he knew not from where it came, something deeper and darker lingering, the smell of... flesh. He noticed how the flames rose upwards, up the length of tapestries, like rivers of liquified fire. Beyond, two figures lay outstretched. He knew they were dead: burning flesh. The thought was obliterated by the pain that shot up his side, his shirt heating up, his own blood pasting it irretrievably to his body. He could even hear it – the hiss of blood burning, that blood left behind from where he had crawled across the floorboards. He tried to shut it all out, in vain, the flames giving off more and more heat, impenetrable, growing more savage by the second.