Ferocity

by Stephen Laws

  “So he’s your brother. So what?”

  “So if you fuck with me now on this, I guarantee you won’t be getting on that North Sea boat.”

  “Maybe we don’t need that boat. Maybe me and Crip can just . . .”

  “Take those suitcases now, leave me here? Maybe try to sell the stuff somewhere else? Who do you know can get you the money I promised you for this job? Nobody, that’s who. What contacts you got? None. So you can spend the rest of your life just selling it on street corners, a few quid here a few quid there—maybe until somebody rips you off, or the law catches up with you. My way and you’ll be rich in a week. Everything you’ve ever wanted. Your way is no way at all. How about you, Crip? Who do you trust to make you lots of money?”

  “I trust you, Tully. But I don’t want Pasco mad at me.”

  “You’re not mad at Crip anymore, are you, Pasco?”

  “Tully . . .” Angered and frustrated, Pasco turned from Drew—glared at Tully—then walked in a circle, rubbing a hand furiously through his hair. “Tully, look . . . look . . . Come on, man. I need to screw!”

  “Go somewhere and give yourself a hand job,” Tully said calmly, holding out his hand. “Get it all out of your system. Calm yourself down. But first—give me the gun.”

  Pasco looked up in fury at Drew, then at the group on and around the sofa.

  With a sound of anger and disgust, he slapped the gun into Tully’s hand. Swiping up the tequila bottle from the floor, he wrenched off the top and drank long and deep.

  And then the lights went out.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  “We interrupt this program with a severe-weather warning. Gale-force winds and gusts of up seventy miles per hour—sixty knots—are already being experienced in the Northeast and are expected to worsen within the next few hours. The towns of Nicolham, Stamford and Osford have already suffered storm damage—and there are reports of damage, power disruption and failure to the villages and hamlets in the outlying areas. An emergency centre has been established at Marsham, and Westerley residents are advised to stay in their homes, take necessary precautions and not to travel if it can be at all avoided . . .”

  THIRTY EIGHT

  “Vic! The mooring rope’s loose!”

  Vic Tully choked on the vodka bottle, spraying alcohol down the front of his fisherman’s jacket. Harry Caulder, well on the way to oblivion with his own bottle, had crashed through the front door of the concrete shithouse that served as base of operations for this pier—and had brought the storm in with him. He fought with the door, slammed it shut and blundered to the window as Vic tossed the bottle aside and staggered to join him.

  Harry shaded his eyes to peer through the glass, but the reflection of the interior light bulb made it impossible to see anything properly in the storm blur beyond. Cursing, Vic swatted at the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. Now it was possible to see the foam turmoil of the sea beyond the pier, the gigantic black chasm of the sky; the half dozen moored and anchored boats rising and falling, slamming against the fortified pier stanchions—and the single forty-foot boat that had lost its stern mooring rope and was pitching in the foam, now rising on the swell and crashing hard against the pier with a sound like cracking thunder.

  “You tied that boat up, you idiot!” Vic yelled, seizing Harry by his lapels and throwing him backwards across the room.

  “I did, I did!” yelled Harry in return, arms pinwheeling as he regained his balance. “Tied it up tight, Vic! Fore, aft and anchored like always. Honest!”

  Vic’s fists bunched up as he strode toward him.

  “I told you what would happen if you screwed up, Harry.”

  “The storm’s not my fault!” gibbered Harry, who had been on the receiving end of Vic’s temper before and had no wish to repeat the experience. “Your brother not being here isn’t my fault either . . .”

  Vic paused, muscles in his jaw working.

  “Look, Vic, even if he was here, you wouldn’t be going out in that. No way could you take the boat out in that.”

  “That boat smashes up—I’m gonna smash you up. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’ll fix it!” blubbered Harry. “Leave it to me—I’ll fix it!”

  Harry hastily hunted in the piles of tackle and debris up against the rear wall, found a coil of heavy-duty rope and hoisted it over his shoulder. When he grinned back at Vic, it was the expression of a frightened animal. In the next moment, the storm had erupted into the building again as Harry blundered back out into the night, heaving the heavy door shut behind him again. Vic watched the blur of his figure run staggering past the windows, watched him hanging on to the pier rail as he fought against the wind hand-over-hand to reach the boat.

  Cursing, Vic strode to where he had dropped the vodka bottle. It was empty. He kicked it hard across the room, moved to the bunk cabinet and yanked out another. With the skill of a seasoned drinker, he held the bottle up high—head tipped back, and opened his gullet when he poured. A quarter of the contents went straight into his stomach before he drew breath again.

  Everything had gone wrong tonight.

  His brother had promised him big money for the trip—money that he badly needed. None of the long- range forecasts had suggested that a storm front was going to hit as badly as this one. There had been some warnings, but nothing that would have prevented them making the journey. The bastards! And his brother—the bastard. Where was he? The only luck he’d had that night was the fact that every other boat owner here had done the sensible thing—they’d tied up and headed for safety inland. So there was only Vic and Harry here tonight—and no one to ask awkward questions about Vic’s brother and the two men with him. Except, of course—that his bastard brother and his pals hadn’t shown up.

  Vic made his way back to the window, rubbed at a pane—and stared out into the darkness. Harry had reached the forty-footer, was trying to lasso the stern rail with his rope—like he was some cowboy or something—but was missing every time as he staggered against the storm wind. The stern of the boat swung hard against the pier on a swell, and the impact in the boardwalk underfoot knocked Harry to his knees. Frantically, he threw one end of the rope up onto the aft rail—but the stern swung away from the pier again and the rope slithered off and into the water. Soaked, hair flying, Harry began hauling the rope back in again.

  “You bloody idiot!” Vic yelled.

  He drank again, slammed the bottle down so hard on the table that it cracked—and headed for the door.

  The lash of the storm wind on his face blurred his vision. Salt spray soaked him as he clattered down the pier, hanging on to the rail. It was impossible to see where the sea ended and the ebony black sky began. As the storm raged in his face, Vic raged right back at it—blundering ahead toward the pathetic figure pitifully throwing the rope out to the boat, and pitifully missing every time. When Harry went down on his knees again, exhausted—Vic screamed obscenities at him, but his voice was swallowed by the storm. Vic reached him, saw him kneeling with his head sagging and with water pluming down across his head and running from his nose and chin. When he feebly groped with the rope again, Vic planted a foot on his shoulder and kicked him back. Harry flopped to his side, mouth working like a fish.

  “Gimme that!”

  Vic seized the rope, spooled it through huge fists until he had reached the improvised loop at the end of it and staggered forward—just as the stern came into the pier again. It smacked hard against the supports, but Vic’s legs remained planted and firm in the impact. As the stern began to rise in the swell, and before it could swing out and away from the pier again, Vic threw the coiled rope—and the loop dropped neatly around a near-side rail end. Vic flipped and coiled the rope around a nearby capstan and prepared to brace his foot on it, hanging on to the rope. That rope would pull tight on the capstan, the boat would be tethered—and then Vic would pull more rope in around the capstan as it came back in on the swell again to the pier. Three more of those manoeuvers
and he would be able to tie it off hard to the pier, and the boat would be moored securely again.

  But Harry, afraid of Vic’s anger, blundered to Vic on all fours—trying to help by grabbing a loose coil of the rope—and Vic’s foot came down, not on the capstan, but on Harry’s scrawny legs. Vic fell forward, losing his grip on the rope and throwing out his hands to brace his fall as the boat came back into the pier again with a shivering crash. The rope slithered from the capstan, the impact throwing an off-balance Vic across Harry’s body.

  The boat swung out from the pier again and the rope looped Vic’s waist and Harry’s legs, dragging them over the side of the pier. Harry dropped clear of the rope and fell screaming, but grabbed Vic’s ankle in the tumbling fall. Vic’s left hand instinctively caught the edge of the pier, the rope still around his waist—and both men dangled and kicked in the foaming spray against the side of the pier.

  The stern of the boat came rushing back in again.

  When it surged out and away from the pier, the bloodied meat dropped into the water below.

  The stains on the pier wall washed away almost instantly.

  Forty minutes later, the stern of the forty-footer was ruptured.

  Within the hour, it lay three-quarters submerged and rolling in angry water on the harbour bottom.

  THIRTY NINE

  “Now what?”

  Pasco slammed the tequila bottle down so hard on the side table that a plume of alcohol shot up from the spout in a wet spiral over his hands. Crip gave a hoarse cry—like a child suddenly locked in the dark, and Rynne clung so tight to Cath’s neck that it hurt them both.

  “It’s the storm,” Drew said tightly.

  “The same thing happened where we were.” Only Faye’s voice appeared calm. “The lights went out there, too.”

  In the darkness it seemed that the storm raging outside had a new ferocity, the sounds of its rampage in the night now somehow amplified.

  We’re in a cage, thought Cath. Oh God, we’re in a cage.

  “You got a torch?” asked Tully.

  “Second cabinet in the kitchen there,” Drew replied.

  “Candles?”

  “There are candles and a storm lamp in the cellar.”

  “Pasco. Get the torch.”

  “Let Crip get it.”

  “Get the torch!”

  Pasco swung angrily out of his chair again, strode across the room to the kitchen and yanked open the first kitchen cabinet. He began to rummage, bottles and cartons falling from the shelves to the floor.

  “The second cabinet,” Drew said.

  Pasco slammed the cabinet door so hard that it flew open again. More bottles and packages clattered to the kitchen shelf and floor. In the second cabinet, he found what he was looking for and switched it on. A spear of light stabbed through the darkness.

  “Now what?” he snapped, flashing the beam from person to person.

  “Get that fucking light out of my face,” snapped Tully. “And now use your brain.” He gestured at Drew with the gun. “Take him down. Get the candles and the lamp. Or do you want to sit in the dark?”

  Pasco flashed the light over Drew, as if he wanted it to cause him physical pain.

  “Come on then, move it!”

  Shielding his eyes, Drew rose and made his way to the kitchen.

  The cellar.

  The Big Cat and its cub.

  This time, they’d be discovered—and everything that had been running through his head since Crip’s failure to see them in the cage would be resolved.

  “Come on. Hurry up.”

  Pasco shoved him hard by the shoulder when Drew came level. Drew staggered in the doorway, looked down into the pitch darkness, then back at Pasco.

  “What are you waiting for?” Pasco hit him hard on the shoulder again. Drew gripped the doorframe and tried to keep his voice steady.

  “The light? Or do you want me to break my neck on those stairs in the dark?”

  “Stop fucking griping and just get down those stairs. I’ll give you light.”

  Drew turned, and started down the stairs—blind in the dark.

  Pasco stood at the top of the stairs, now shining the light around the cellar as Drew carefully descended. The beam lanced across the workbenches and table tops, the stained walls and the ceiling. He looked briefly at the storm doors, still locked and still rattling in the storm wind.

  So that means they’re still in here. They didn’t escape outside. And if they’re not in the cage, then they’re hiding in the dark somewhere. I’ve got to say something. I’ve got to tell him—or that pissed-off male is going to come out from where it’s hiding and tear me to pieces . . .

  “Afraid of the dark?” Pasco called, shining the light onto Drew as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His shadow loomed gigantically before him. Drew turned, shaded his eyes, and now he could see the edge of the cage nearest to the stairwell. He could barely see the bars, but only complete darkness in the cage itself.

  “Look, there’s something you should . . .”

  And then Drew stopped.

  The cage door was not open. It was still closed.

  He could see the hasp and the iron bolt at the side of the cage.

  The heavy-duty bolt had not been pulled open—it was still shot fully into place, and with the L-shaped end securely down and firm in its hasp.

  Nothing had come out of that cage.

  But all he could see beyond the faint outlines of the bars was utter darkness.

  And there were no sounds from within.

  My God. What is happening here?

  “There’s something I should what?”

  “There’s something you should know. I’ve got money. Lots of it. You take me with you tomorrow, and I’ll take you to where it is. Draw it all out of the account. You can have it all. You just have to leave the others here. Not hurt them.”

  “How very kind. Know how much that stuff in the suitcases is going to get us? A bloody sight more than a farmer’s savings. You just go and get those candles and that lamp.”

  Drew turned, his gigantic shadow turning with him to dominate the cellar.

  “Where are they?”

  “The old chest of drawers. Over there, to the left.”

  “Off you go, then. Don’t break a leg in the dark, lover boy. You’ll end up like Tully. Two broken legs. Two pains in the arse.”

  Drew walked on ahead.

  How can they still be in there if Crip didn’t see them?

  His words to Cath: “There’s something—I don’t know what—but there was something going on. Some kind of camouflage effect that I just couldn’t work out. I couldn’t see it properly, Cath!”

  Drew reached the chest of drawers, picked up the storm lantern and shook it. The lantern was almost full of paraffin. He held it up into the air, then stooped to open one of the drawers.

  “Lover boy?”

  Drew froze.

  “There better not be anything else in that drawer other than candles.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a knife or an axe—maybe even a shotgun. Something you might use when you want rabbit pie?”

  “Only candles.”

  “You better be sure.”

  “With the others up there—and Tully with a gun?”

  “Go on then.”

  Drew pulled out the drawer. When he stood and turned so that Pasco could shine the light on him again, he held up his hands in the air; lantern in one, candles in the other.

  “Bang,” said Drew.

  “Very funny. Now get back here.”

  Drew walked forward, flinching at the light in his face—now holding up a forearm across his eyes as he moved; and squinting ahead as he drew nearer to the cage. Only blackness behind the bars, hiding whatever was still in there. And there was the bolt, firmly in its hasp.

  Drew reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Pasco continued to shine the light straight into his eyes.

  Drew put a first foot on
the bottom stair, and froze as—

  Something growled from the darkness of the cage. It was a low and guttural grumbling—a sound he knew only too well.

  And then, from above and beyond the house came a rumbling growl of thunder. The landslide shudder of noise drowned the sound from within the cage, now exploding into a full detonation that made the walls of the cellar shiver.

  “Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Pasco, flinching at the sound so that his torch beam swung all over the cellar. “What kind of bloody storm is this?”

  Drew glanced back at the cage, and saw nothing.

  “Come up!” snapped Pasco.

  As the detonation of thunder dissolved into the distance like a disappearing wave of sound, Drew ascended.

  There was no further sound from the cage.

  At the top of the stairs, Pasco shoved him ahead into the living room and slammed the door. Drew staggered to a halt, clutching the lamp and candles.

  “You hear that thunder, Tully?” Pasco asked.

  “I’m not deaf,” replied Tully in the darkness.

  “This is some wild kind of storm,” Pasco continued. “Your brother better come good on this boat, Tully. I’ve put up with a whole boatload of shit from you tonight as it is.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  Drew winced inwardly. Too much had been said by these men, too much information given away and now too freely to bode well for what lay in store. He looked at the other three on the sofa. Faye was still sitting stiff backed and watching, Rynne still clutching tight to Cath, whose face was spectral and white in the darkness. He knew that Cath was thinking the same thing.

  “Bring that lamp and those candles here,” Tully said.

  Drew brought them to him, standing to watch as Tully painfully rummaged in his pocket. Each movement was causing him intense pain. Eventually, he held something up to Drew in the darkness. Drew took it from him—a box of matches. Drew stuffed the candles under his armpit, rested the lamp on the sofa armrest and fumbled to open the box. He began to strike the matches—one after the other.