Out.
Out, out, OUT!
If I don’t get out, I’m done.
I really didn’t think this through, but there wasn’t time. The dead woman’s grinning skull flashes in my mind and I don’t have time to wait for them to figure out I’m the wrong man. I didn’t steal from Reverend Mara and I don’t deserve to be locked in a pit with a load of rotting corpses.
The stairs come to an end and I’m back in the warehouse. Empty windows hiss rain. I stop. I have to. My lungs are crushed. I cling to the rail and scan the huge space. Empty, but there’s a door on the far side. It’s too far. I wouldn’t make it halfway before the guards put a bullet in me. The rail shakes as they rush up, shouting to one another in a foreign language.
I spot boxes in the corner behind the stairs. The guards will assume I ran for the door. Why wouldn’t I? I’d be an idiot not to. If I’ve learnt anything, though, it’s that sometimes the only way to outsmart someone is to do something stupid.
I rush for the corner and squeeze between the wooden boxes. One of them’s covered with a tarp, which I draw over my head.
The guards burst into the warehouse. I watch beneath the tarp, not blinking, not breathing. If they check my corner, I’ll be back in the pit in minutes, and who knows what they’ll do to me as punishment. I could end up with an eye like Reverend Mara’s. Maybe two.
The guards scan the area, then charge for the door, disappearing through it.
Quiet returns.
I sag against the nearest box.
My heartbeat slows and I’m able to think about what just happened without wanting to laugh like a maniac. Skinny had a makeshift dagger at my throat. My stomach rolls. Is he dead? He was damn near it anyway.
I realise the longer I spend hidden, the more time the guards have to sweep the area and close in on me. Within the hour, the warehouse will be crawling with them and then I really won’t be able to escape.
Silencing the spider in my mind, which urges me to stay hidden, I draw the tarp aside and crawl out.
No guards. Nothing.
It’s dark and wet beyond the busted windows and I’m grateful. There’s no way I’d make it further than the car park in daylight. I have no idea which part of the warehouse I’m in, though. It looks different to Mara’s neon-blushed boudoir.
I climb onto the boxes and peer out of a window.
The countryside’s quiet under a crescent moon. The clouds have cleared and it’s a starry evening. Lights bead the horizon. London? Or some far-flung suburb? It doesn’t matter, as long as there’s a working phone.
I examine the window, which is smashed like the others. It’s a drop to the outside, but one more bruise won’t hurt. Besides, the more beat up I am, the more Julian will believe my crazy story when I get back.
When. Not if.
I grip the frame and heave myself up, teetering on the ledge. Fresh air snarls my hair and I spot a figure below.
Shit.
This place is like a Korean prison. Those things are impossible to escape. If I can’t get out through the window, I’ll have to find another way. That means heading deeper into the warehouse. Great.
Hopping down, I scan the floor for something to use as a weapon and settle on a bent pipe. Better than nothing. I go to a door and listen, then head into another cavernous space. Skirting along the walls, I wonder what Tank Girl would do. Something kick-ass with a sassy pay-off.
I freeze.
Somebody’s coming. Only one somebody, going by the echoing footsteps. The footsteps stop and I press myself into a door frame. Where’d the guy go?
The door opens behind me and a hand clamps over my mouth. The stench of cigarettes cooks my nostrils.
‘Looky, looky,’ Nicotine Man jeers in my ear. ‘Somebody’s broken their parole.’
CHAPTER TEN
The only thing worse than not escaping is almost escaping. I’m so close to getting away from this place I want to scream. Instead, I drive my elbows back and try to squirm free, but he punches me in the kidneys and I can’t breathe.
‘She’s got fight, that’s good,’ Nicotine Man rasps.
His voice sends shivers through me and I’m so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of struggling. All I want to do is lie down–
That’s what she did. The grinning corpse lay down, probably just for a moment–
Defiance sparks inside me and I screw up the last scrap of energy I have left. I grab Nicotine Man’s arm, the one he’s got over my shoulder, and use my hip to spin him. He yells in surprise and his back crunches against the floor.
I’m free.
As he counts the tweety birds, I seize the pipe, which I dropped when his stinking fingers dug into me. I heft it, feeling the weight and clutching it like a baseball bat.
‘Stay back,’ I warn, my mouth dry, like I’ve been shovelling dirt into it.
He runs his tongue over his lip. He must’ve bitten it. Good, it’ll match the busted nose, which he’s stuck a plaster over.
‘Girl, you wanna run? You run. Nowhere you can hide I won’t find you.’
The steely glimmer in his eyes gives me chills.
‘Come any closer and I’ll bust that thing off your face for good.’
‘My my, got your panties in a twist.’ Nicotine Man’s lounging against the wall now. A lazy jungle cat waiting for a moment to strike. I notice a bunch of keys attached to a loop in his jeans.
His van.
If I get the keys…
I swing the pipe. It crunches into the side of his head and he almost topples over. He quickly regains his balance and now his eyes are raging. He hurls himself at me and I don’t have time to get out of the way.
The ground tilts and comes up to crack against the back of my skull.
I see every star in the universe. They swirl in front of me and when they pop and clear, Nicotine Man’s rubbery mask of a face is pressing close to mine.
‘Time we got you back in that pit,’ he snarls, clasping my wrists.
The pain of him squeezing the rope burns jolts me to. I thrash against the floor, digging my heels in.
‘Just – making – it – difficult – for – yourself,’ Nicotine Man grunts, but I barely hear him.
Then he’s got me by the throat.
‘STOP!’ He sprays spit in my face. ‘Just like your goddamn mother.’
I stop thrashing, but he doesn’t stop squeezing. I see the rage whirling in his eyes. Did everybody meet my mother but me? He’s so angry he won’t stop. He’s going to crush my windpipe and then he’s going to smoke a cigarette over my corpse.
Nicotine Man looks up suddenly. Has he heard something? The pressure at my throat lessens and I gasp a breath. Then, using the last of my strength, I bury my fist in his face. He makes an ‘oof’ sound, the way he did when I hit him earlier. I never get sick of that sound. I hit him again and grab the pipe, swinging it at him, bludgeoning the side of his head and he collapses on top of me. His sweaty cheek slides against mine and I grit my teeth, heaving him off me and struggling to my feet.
He’s out cold.
A sound like creaking metal. I turn towards it and spot a spindly figure on the other side of the space.
Skinny. Blood’s smeared across his face and his baggy T-shirt. He looks as knackered as I feel.
My gaze snaps immediately to his hands. They’re empty. No rusty nail-dagger.
‘Get the hell away from me,’ I wheeze. It hurts to swallow, like I’m trying to gulp down the nail Skinny had pressed to my throat.
He ignores me, taking a step forward.
‘Stay back!’ I shout, then wince.
‘You’re welcome,’ Skinny says.
‘For what?’ I sit up. I thought I ached before. My body feels like it’s been put through a spin cycle. There’s not a single spot that doesn’t throb or ache or spike with pain.
‘Got us out.’
‘I got me out,’ I snap. Nicotine Man isn’t moving. I crouch by him and roll him over; a smelly sack of pota
toes.
‘You wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for me,’ Skinny says.
‘Just keep back.’ I fumble with the keys at Nicotine Man’s belt. I keep expecting him to jerk into life. He’s still breathing, as far as I can tell. Assuming I didn’t cause any permanent brain damage – or more brain damage than this guy already had – we don’t have much time.
‘What you doing?’ Skinny asks.
I yank the keys free and get to my feet, limping a few steps before steadying myself against the wall. For a moment I feel delirious, as if I’m not really here. I swear I see Frances smiling at me and I don’t know where I am, but I’m not here in the warehouse. I blink and Frances is gone.
‘You got a ride?’ Skinny asks, snapping me back to the present.
‘No passengers.’
Straightening, I begin to make my way back through the warehouse, hoping I’m headed in a direction that leads to the van.
‘Play fair!’
‘This isn’t a game!’ I wince again, rubbing my throat.
‘Jesus, you want them to hear?’ Skinny’s eyes are big as bottle caps. ‘Look, just get me back to the city. That’s all. Please.’
I realise he’s right. The prank he pulled in the pit was idiotic, but it got us out. Would he have slashed my throat? Desperate people have done crazier things. If he thought it would get him out, would he have killed me? I still don’t know what he did to piss off Reverend Mara. But if I leave him here, I’m condemning him to death, and then I’m no better.
Maybe I can save somebody for once.
‘Fine. Just hurry.’ Hesitantly, I add: ‘You first.’
He traipses over to a doorless rectangle in the wall and I can tell he’s badly hurt. He clutches his side and his movements are jolting, every step seeming to cause him pain. Sympathy tugs at me, but I’m aching enough myself without thinking of ways to make his life easier.
We go through the door frame into a garage. Black SUVs line up and Nicotine Man’s ride must be here somewhere. But I don’t see it anywhere.
I keep Skinny in my sight as we make our way between the cars. I listen out for Nicotine Man or his comrades, but it’s quiet as the grave – or the pit – with only the shushing trees outside making a sound.
Skinny’s stopped at the garage doors, which are open. Through them, I glimpse shapes moving across the tarmac. The place is swarming with guards.
Where are Nicotine Man’s wheels?
I stop by Skinny and scan the area outside the warehouse. Then I spot it. The van’s parked on the other side of the stretch of tarmac, by the trees. There’s no cover between here and there, though. If we make a run for it, we’ll be easy targets.
Skinny’s probably thinking the same thing. He flashes a look at me and I remember him pressing the nail-dagger to my throat. The meaty stink of his breath. Would he give me up? Trade me in?
Whoever Reverend Mara is, I get the feeling he doesn’t do trades.
‘I’ll distract them.’ His expression is uncertain. ‘You’ll trust me then, right? I’ll distract them, you get the van and pick me up. Then we get the fuck outta here.’
‘You’re crazier than I thought.’
‘Only option,’ Skinny says. He’s still gripping his side, like he’s stopping his guts from spilling out. This time, the sympathy’s like stabbing glass. I can’t let him do that. They’ll shoot him on sight and I’ll have to add another person to the list of people I’ve killed over the years.
At least one of us will get away. I hate myself for thinking it. He dies, it’s on me, and I’ve lost count of how many people have died because they got too close to me.
Skinny seems to give up on me handing him permission. Before I can stop him, he slips awkwardly out of the garage doors.
‘Hey! Ninja assassins! You want me?’
The guards spin towards him. There’s shouting and the sound of boots on tarmac and, in an instant, they’re after him. Skinny darts to the left, towards the dirt track that must lead out of this hellhole.
All eyes are on him.
I’m already panting, psyching myself up to run.
‘Don’t get shot,’ I tell myself. ‘Don’t even think about getting shot.’
I hurtle forward, squeezing the keys in my hand until it hurts. It’s impossible to be quiet when you’re in that much pain and my panting echoes all around me.
A few of the guards swivel in my direction. Prickly heat causes me to start sweating again. Sparks spit up from the tarmac. They’re shooting at me. They’re goddamn shooting at me.
The van bobs up and down as I race towards it.
Something whistles past my ear and I try to ignore it. It’s nothing. Definitely not a bullet. Definitely nowhere near my head.
I hurl myself at the van and the sound of boots is louder as the guards charge for me.
Psssewww ! Psssewww !
Angry little hornets buzz through the air. Some of them hit the van with a tinny pop, but I’m already at the driver’s door and wrenching it open. I clamber inside, slamming and locking it.
The keys shake in my hands and I shove one into the ignition. The rumble of the engine revving is sweet music to my ears.
Beside me, the window shatters and a gloved hand roves in.
I throw the van into reverse and rocket backwards, ignoring the thumps and bumps as guards get in the way.
‘Screw you,’ I say through clenched teeth.
There are guards everywhere. The van rocks as it’s riddled with bullets. I shift into second gear and rev towards the dirt track Skinny was heading for, though he’s either dead or captured by now. He can’t be anything else.
But then I’m racing down the dirt track and I see a pale white shape, like a rag attached to a flagpole, and it’s Skinny running. I reach over and throw the passenger door open. Skinny’s wincing face appears and he struggles, can’t lift his leg to get into the van.
I lean over the seat to grab his hand.
And I hear the bullet.
A second later, blood’s all over the door and Skinny sags, dropping heavily onto the grass.
My face is wet with something warm and the sound of the bullet echoes around the cab, or maybe just in my ears.
It went straight through the side of his head.
Another bullet cracks against the van and I snap to, slamming the passenger door and pumping the engine. Then I’m racing down the track again, racing ahead with the sound of bullets receding into the distance.
Article from Crystal Visions magazine
The curse of Celene Cross
Britain’s most famous mob assassin terrorised London for over a decade and, on the fifth anniversary of Celene Cross’s death, Crystal Visions speaks to a reformed occult priest who reveals her disturbing legacy…
By FIONA WALLACE
She’s renowned as one of the world’s most violent criminals, having savagely murdered an estimated 150 people during her decade-long reign of terror, but horrifying new details about the depraved life of notorious mob assassin Celene Cross are still coming to light.
A cold-hearted killer whose legend thrives on the lack of hard facts about her life, Celene spent a year in Holloway Prison as a young woman after savagely blinding a man in a pub brawl. And while many details of her upbringing remain unconfirmed, it’s clear she went on to work for a number of London’s most dangerous gangsters.
On the fifth anniversary of Celene’s death – her body was dragged from the Thames in 1998 – Crystal Visions spoke to reformed occultist Dominic Waters, who experienced Celene’s demented behaviour first-hand.
‘I’ve never met anybody so cold,’ says Dominic, who encountered Celene through satanic cult The Divine Order. ‘There were some nasty people involved in the Order, but Celene scared everybody. She’d mark her territory by stringing up skinned cats and nobody ever saw her sleeping. I was terrified of her.’
As a dark priest for The Divine Order, Waters led many of the cult’s most disturbing practices during the 198
0s. The Order, which is thought to have disbanded following the mysterious death of founder Takehiko Kobayashi, first attracted Celene in the late ’80s.
Already rumoured to be working for Kobayashi, a renowned mobster, Celene was seemingly drawn to the cult’s sordid rituals, which included satanic worship and animal sacrifice.
‘She came to one of our meetings,’ Dominic recalls. ‘She knew Takehiko Kobayashi and stayed in the back as he talked. I remember her eyes. They were like a shark’s. Dark and blank. I should have left then.’
Within a week, Celene had moved into the Order’s squat, a building in a secret location Dominic is unable to reveal. ‘It was a dive,’ he says. ‘The water was filthy and there were rats. As soon as Celene moved in, she began terrorising the other members. I tried to stay away from her, but it was impossible.
‘One night I found her with a knife to her belly. She was pregnant but wanted to get rid of the baby. She pinned me to the wall and said she’d cut my throat if I told anybody. I still don’t know why she didn’t kill me.’
Things worsened for Dominic when Celene’s behaviour grew even more erratic. ‘A few months later, she was a mess,’ he says. ‘She ranted about the people she’d killed and how she was going to hell. She seemed to have grown a conscience. I told her about a ritual that could purge her of her past misdeeds – by transferring her bad karma into her unborn baby.’
Dominic continues: ‘When she went into labour, we performed the ceremony. There was lamb’s blood and candles. After the baby was born, Celene disappeared. The next thing I heard, she’d been dragged out of the Thames. I was relieved. She couldn’t inflict any more pain.’
Dominic – who stresses he’s a reformed occultist and now works at an animal sanctuary – claims to have no information on the whereabouts of Celene’s child.
‘I’m so ashamed of what we did,’ he says. ‘I just hope wherever Celene’s daughter is, she’s happy.’
The legend of Celene Cross continues to grow by the day – and has eclipsed even the sick crimes she committed. Unconfirmed reports had her working for select MPs, taking out their competitors, while one tabloid informant claimed she was responsible for the death of Tupac Shakur.
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