The Winter Man

by Perry Bhandal

  ‘Ow, ow, Fallon, take it easy, man...,’ Billy swayed, trying to shake his head clear.

  He looked down at his leg, blood was pooling on the ground around his foot. He lifted his trouser leg up and saw a piece of skin and meat was missing from it. The bullet must have left Tony’s jaw at an angle and hit his calf.

  ‘UP, you useless bastard.’ Fallon hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Billy, get your shit together.’ Billy’s dazed eyes focused on the sergeant and he nodded. Fallon scrabbled in his leather blouson pocket and pulled out a square of paper. He unfolded it and held it up to Billy’s nose.

  ‘Here, take this.’ Billy gingerly took the piece of paper from Fallon and started snorting the white powder into his nose.

  Fallon popped the trunk of the car and pulled out a pump action shotgun for himself and threw Billy another. Billy caught the gun but missed the shells thrown after it. They scattered on the ground.

  ‘Pick ‘em up, get ‘em loaded.’

  Fallon pumped the shells into the gun and placed the remainder in his pockets.

  He walked past the kneeling Billy, and pointed to the alley that Blake had taken. ‘In there.’ Billy looked up in time to see Fallon drop to the ground as the sound of a gunshot reverberated in the air. Billy just knelt where he was, trying to keep dripping blood out of his eyes as he struggled to load the shotgun.

  ‘Motherfucker,’ mouthed Fallon as he picked himself off the floor.

  ‘What’s the plan boss?’ muttered Billy.

  Fallon knew this place well. A maze of stinking alleyways between abandoned buildings. A number of kids had got lost in these over the years and the place had been cordoned off and the exitways blocked leaving the alley the only way in and out.

  ‘We waiting for him to come out?’ asked Billy as if following his train of thought.

  Fallon pointed the shotgun at him. ‘No, we go in. You take point.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll be right behind you...now get moving.’

  Billy gulped and stood up. He held the shotgun in one hand and pumped it, loading the first shell in, and ducked round into the alleyway.

  Fallon ducked in behind him.

  The two of them moved along the corridor, covering one another at each corner and doorway they came to. The sun began to sink low in the sky, the shadows growing longer and deeper. It was getting harder and harder to see.

  Fallon watched Billy flatten himself against the wall, straighter now the speed had hit his system dulling the pain of his injuries. He jerked his head round and snapped it back almost immediately. Then he did it again. This time he took a longer look. All clear. He slipped around the corner and Fallon took his place at the edge. He repeated the same motions as Billy. He saw him slowly making his way forward in a low crouch. It was easy to forget that he used to be a soldier and quite a good one by all accounts. That was until he started shooting up his own stock. Now Billy was one of the many expendables that Fallon had on his books. He allowed them to peddle their drugs, turned a blind eye to the robberies and occasional assaults and rapes. In turn they provided him with an inexhaustible supply of disposable bodies, people that no-one would miss if one day they just ceased to be.

  Another two shots echoed down the alleyway in quick succession. These were really close. Fallon dipped his head around the alleyway and saw Billy crouched down in a ready stance, the shotgun stock held tight against his shoulder. Slowly Billy lifted his head up and turned back to look at Fallon. Even from here Fallon could see how pale he looked. His eyes tracked down to the wound on his leg. Blood was still flowing from it freely. The speed he had given him wouldn’t keep him going for much longer, not with that kind of blood loss. They had to up the pace here. There was no telling how long these fucking corridors went on for. Fallon took a look around the alley as Billy edged towards the next corner. There was so much shit piled up on either side, most of it unrecognisable, decayed and congealed over the years into a yellow brown mush occasionally punctuated by an upturned plastic crate, broken metal canteen chairs, bits of rusted pipe and burnt-out barrels. Along the centre ran an almost continuous pool of black stagnant, oily water. Fallon had come to this bleak place a number of times before; this was where problems were solved. He shivered involuntarily at what else may be buried under the mounds of putrefied debris.

  He watched Billy move round another corner. They repeated the same drill for two more turns, then Billy stopped at the third. He turned to Fallon and beckoned him forward.

  Fallon brought the shotgun up and held it steady, aimed at Billy’s head and sidled down the wall towards him. For all he knew there was someone just around the corner from him, with a gun held to his head. He wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Fallon gestured to Billy to come away from the wall. He looked confused and very pale, but did as he was told and stood away with his shotgun held down, swaying slightly.

  Tight against the wall, Fallon zipped his head round the corner. Nothing, just an open steel door leading into the building, its rusted bolts shattered by gunshots.

  Fallon placed his finger on his lips. Billy nodded, understanding. He pointed towards his eyes with two fingers and then pointed at Billy and then to the door. Billy wasn’t stupid, it was pitch black past that door. Anyone inside would see him as bright as day even in this low light. Billy hesitated and was about to say something, but stopped when Fallon turned and pointed the shotgun at him, his jaw set, finger white on the trigger. He gestured for Billy to get moving. So that was the choice, either get blown in two by Fallon or shot by Blake.

  Billy brought the shotgun up and ran across to the wall flush with the door. Hugging the sides he edged towards the open door and the blackness within hoping that Blake had done what he would have and got lost in the building, looking for a way out of this place.

  He reached the jamb. Bracing himself, he took a sharp intake of breath and then twisted about as fast as he could and stepped round and to the side, trying to present as small a profile as possible. His heart was racing, blood pounding in his brain, making his hearing useless. Slowly the shapes began to resolve themselves around him as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A corridor led into an impenetrable blackness. He could make out a gantry and a pitted vaulted ceiling that let in light here and there. The impression was of a huge space. He slowed his breathing and listened hard for any sounds. Nothing.

  Billy stepped back into the alleyway. Fallon was covering him from just around the corner. He shrugged.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Fallon sagged visibly as Billy limped over to him.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Fallon, he’s gone.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  Fallon’s mind whirled furiously. Had he underestimated Blake that badly? It nagged at the sergeant; something wasn’t quite right here. Fallon ducked his head inside the door.

  ‘Did you see where he went?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you see where he went?’

  ‘Nah, it’s pitch black in there.’

  The nagging turned into a warning.

  Billy watched Fallon’s eyes go wide and then they weren’t there anymore. He stumbled backwards as he dropped to his knees, most of the top of his head missing. He fell back onto his haunches and then just toppled forward until what was left of his head hit the ground like he was praying to Billy.

  Billy lunged for his shotgun as the pile of filth erupted and another shot echoed off the walls, the bullet punching him in the shoulder and spinning him around. Blake, dripping with oily slime, advanced towards him, a cuff on each wrist, the links between them shot through, as Billy made another desperate attempt to reach the shotgun.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  Billy moved anyway and Blake shot his hand off. Billy gazed at his spurting stump for a few moments before he fainted. Blake walked over and pumped two more shots, point blank, into his head.

  Blake sank to the floor…tired, spent, exhausted. He needed to continu
e moving but his aching muscles refused to obey. Blake’s eyes settled on the rubbish strewn filth before him. He tried to look away but the muscles in his eyes protested. He dared not close them for he was scared he would not get up again. He shivered as the last of the sun slipped from view and darkness descended.

  CHAPTER 15

  burning loose ends...car in the lake...motel...healing...packages...

  He woke in darkness. He could barely see across to the other side of the alleyway. Blake struggled up, ignoring protesting joints and muscles, which wanted to continue laying in the filth. He still had a lot to do.

  Modern technology had created many new ways of tracking people. Fallon’s phone would put him here. Blake kicked over the now-stiff, praying corpse. He pulled the phone out of its belt holster and pressed a key. The display lit up. No signal here. He pulled the battery and broke the sim card in half. He rifled through the rest of his pockets. A small maglite, he switched it on.

  He checked Billy, repeating the same with his phone.

  He retraced his steps and tackled the grisly task of doing the same to the mangled Tony, having to push his hand through the blood-soaked wetness of his jacket to get to his mobile phone.

  Blake found tools and a bigger torch in the back of Fallon’s car along with jerry cans of fuel.

  He walked the hundred yards down past the cars onto a crossroads. To his left was the silver Mercedes parked fifty feet away.

  The sergeant hadn’t known how close he had been to Chicken Jack’s money.

  He made his way back into the alleyway where he had first been just that morning. He picked his way gingerly down it and only flicked on the torch when he was a couple of turns in.

  Chicken Jack lay exactly where he had left him, except for the rats busily devouring his face. He let them get on with it, Chicken’s mobile lay ruined in one of the ubiquitous pools of rankness.

  Placing the torch end in his mouth and ignoring the rats Blake lifted Chicken’s body by its armpits and dragged it out. It was stiff and surprisingly heavy. The rats followed the corpse as he dragged it, nibbling where they could. Some just rode him…carnivorous cruisers.

  He blipped the Mercedes and popped the trunk. Inside were two large holdalls. Blake unzipped the first one. It contained an assortment of small arms and ammunition, a pump action shotgun and what was unmistakably a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.

  The other bag was stuffed with the money. It was a big bag. Blake shut the trunk.

  Kicking off the rats he hoisted Chicken’s body into the back of the Mercedes. Rigor mortis had made it hard and unbending.

  Blake drove the Mercedes back to the mangled remains of Fallon’s car and parked alongside. The sky above him had lightened into a deep red. Morning was approaching. Blake pulled Chicken’s body out and dragged it over to Fallon’s car. The rear door had been thrown open in the crash. Blake heaved Chicken into the back.

  Billy was next, he dragged him back and placed him in the passenger seat.

  Fallon’s bulk took longer. He placed him by the open door of the driver’s seat. He did not have the strength to lift him in.

  Tony, he saved for last. Marshalling his meagre strength, he pulled and heaved until he had Tony’s massive form on the ground. He wiped as much of the blood and gore out of the driver’s area and then tried the engine. It sputtered and stalled twice before finally kicking in. He got in and drove it a short distance away.

  Standing back, he surveyed the scene he had created. He looked down at himself. His clothing was tattered and ruined as was most of the others except Fallon’s.

  Blake removed his shoes, trousers and jacket. They were enough to get him by.

  He hauled the jerry cans out. He emptied them onto the wreckage, the bodies and the Mercedes.

  Without ceremony he took a shotgun out of the bag, loaded it and pulled the trigger. The wreckage detonated with a colossal boom covering everything in flame instantly.

  He watched the men that had tried to kill him burn for a while. A column of thick oily smoke rose high into the bloodshot morning sky.

  His car was a mess from where it had hit the wall, the chassis twisted and much of the bodywork hanging off on one side, but it looked as if it would be driveable for a few miles at least.

  The engine stuttered and caught. He backed up, turned and drove away, every part of the bodywork rattling ominously. He felt no more pain as he stared at the road ahead, the darkness inside him taking over, propelling him forward.

  The car crawled out of the city and was safely into the countryside before steam started to escape from the engine through the gaps in the twisted bonnet, drifting up over the windscreen. Blake turned off the main road onto a dirt track and kept his foot on the pedal as he felt the car losing power beneath him, willing it to keep going over the ruts and bumps up the gentle incline. The temperature gauge was rising fast.

  He checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror. The eyes that stared back looked different, as if something was missing in him. No. That wasn’t it exactly. Something had lessened. There had been a catharsis. Killing Chicken Jack and the others had given him pause and now the pain he had grown used to seemed to impinge less. He realised it had been even weaker when he had actually been amongst them. The throbbing ache in his heart had gone, replaced by an emptiness, a nihilistic intermission in which he felt nothing and was only now beginning to return, swallowing that impermanent void. For a moment it threatened to overwhelm him like a tidal wave, filling him too quickly, washing him away. Then the darkness shifted.

  Was this really the way to heal a wound he had no means of bandaging? Could this truly be the way to assuage the hatred he felt for himself, the powerlessness, the toothlessness, trampled underneath the bodies of bad men? Perhaps, after all, he was dead too. In all the ways that make a man he was dead. He was loveless, friendless, alone and adrift, cut free of the strings that bound him to the world and those in it. He could curl up and die now and it would be of no consequence, save perhaps for the protestations of the dark one inside him. Or he could kill, and in killing live once more. Yes, he would kill, he would live. He felt a shifting inside him, a coiling. Something was comfortable with this decision and had lain its head down to sleep for a while.

  There was still a glimmer of low light on the horizon, illuminating the landscape like a theatrical set as the sun appeared.

  He reached the crest of the hill and looked down across an expanse of open countryside to a small lake about a hundred metres below. The car gave a final shudder and came to a sighing halt, the steam rising now in a thick cloud, obscuring his view.

  Stepping out he pulled on his overcoat. He opened the trunk and lifted out the holdalls with the weapons and money.

  Placing them on the ground he leant back across the driving seat, released the handbrake and started to push the car. It moved slowly at first and then began to pick up speed. By the time it reached the bottom of the hill it was travelling on its own with barely any help from him beyond running beside it, holding the wheel steady in order to keep it on course. Ten yards from the edge of the water, he straightened up and let go. The car continued on its way alone. He turned and walked back up the hill, hearing the splash behind him. Glancing back, he saw it sinking slowly as darkness finally engulfed the valley. He picked up the bags and jogged back down the track to the main road.

  The neon lights blinked on and off. It was supposed to say Chalky’s but the ‘l’ had given up. Blake headed towards the gloomily-lit reception area. Someone was asleep at the desk. Blake rang the bell. The young man jerked awake and then fumbled out of sight whatever porn he had been viewing.

  ‘Summink I can do for you, fella?’ he asked, irritated at being woken.

  ‘I need a room.’

  ‘25, room only, 30 includes breakfast and a paper.’

  Blake counted out 25 and held it out.

  ‘Room only it is,’ he said.

  ‘Check In’s at 2 o’clock,’ he checked his watch,
‘this afternoon by the way.’

  He looked impressed with himself.

  ‘I need it now.’

  ‘Then that’s another 25, sir.’

  Blake counted the money out.

  ‘Muchos Gracias, amigo.’

  He leaned back and pulled a set of keys off the wall and slid them across the counter.

  ‘Down the walkway, second room on the left.’

  The room was basic: bed, bathroom, television, telephone. He dumped the bags and switched the television on.

  He opened the local directory and found a place that delivered breakfast. While he waited, he took a shower. When the delivery came, he paid and sat at the small dining table and watched the morning news programming, looking for any signs that his night’s work had been discovered.

  The morning news came and went. He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He placed the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside his door, showered and then dropped into the bed, unconscious as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  The low afternoon sun did its best to try and work its way through the grimy head high windows, just enough got through to bathe the motel room in a weak, yellow glow. Blake, awake, sat naked on the edge of the bed and stared at the dust making Brownian motion in the stifling air.

  He traced his finger along the four cuts in his forearm. At some point he had taken a knife to himself and made the incisions. He couldn’t actually remember the exact point he had done it during the two weeks he had spent here. On the news the killing of the sergeant had been the big story. Apparently mown down whilst making a drugs bust, he still managed to take three down with him before he died. Images of Tony, Billy and Chicken Jack identified the three. Sergeant John Fallon would be posthumously honoured. There was no mention of anyone else or an ongoing investigation.

  Then that story died, eclipsed by the avalanche of chaos and disorder triggered by the automatic release of Chicken Jack’s insurance.

  He flicked off the television. On the small dining table was a mountain of cash. Seven hundred and thirty thousand in total. Underneath and covering most of the room’s floor were the guns and ammunition packs.