by Thomas Emson
Holt shook his head. “He wouldn’t have been the only one, Jake. There’s dozens of dealers here every night. We wouldn’t be here without them. Turn a blind eye, mate.”
“Turn a blind eye, then this happens.”
Holt looked at him. Lawton saw anger in the man’s expression. Holt said, “We don’t know if it’s drugs. We don’t know if it’s something they took here. They could be from the same party, a bunch of freaks who took some concoction before coming out. We don’t know, Jake, so don’t go spreading stories.”
Holt tossed the fag aside and started to walk away. Lawton grabbed his arm and forced him back against the car. Fear bleached Holt’s face.
Lawton leaned into Holt’s and said, “I don’t spread stories, Nathan, I try to stop them spreading. We’re fucked here, pal. This place is closed until further notice, and unless someone comes up with answers, you, me, the Fuads, we’re going to be pulled apart by the cops.”
He jolted Holt against the car, then walked away.
It was a ninety-minute trip on the night bus to get home, and all the way he was ringing Jenna’s phone, and it was ringing out.
Sitting in his kitchen, sipping his coffee, he checked the time on his Nokia: 5.22 a.m. He gave it one more try, finding her name in the phone’s directory. He pressed the call button, listened and waited.
Nothing.
He put the phone down and cursed. His guts churned and a finger of fear crept up his spine.
Something was wrong, he knew it.
Jenna was dead, or close to death.
He finished his coffee, took the mug to the sink and rinsed it out.
He filled it with water and drank it down, then filled it again.
The bottle of Jack Daniels drew his gaze. He stared at the bottle and thought about opening it and finishing it, and then heading down to the Tesco Express for another. It was what he always did, so why break the habit of a –?
Fuck it, he thought.
Grabbing his keys and the Nokia off the table, he started for the door. He’d find her, or if he couldn’t find Jenna, he’d find Lithgow.
That blowjob had something to do with this; Lawton could smell it.
The phone trilled. His heart leapt. He answered it, saying, “Jenna?”
Silence at the other end, then a whimper.
“Jenna?” he said again.
“You bastard,” said a man’s voice, “you absolute bastard. You killed my baby.”
Chapter 6
QUESTIONS.
Soho, London – 5.54 a.m., February 7
CHRISTINE Murray, forty-four, a bloodhound with blonde curls, said, “How many dead?”
Superintendent Phil Birch sneered and, checking his red clipboard, said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would, Phil, I really would. I’ve heard fifty, is fifty confirmed?”
Birch’s face stretched into an expression of surprise and he said, “Who told you that?”
“I can’t say, but I’ll print it.”
He scowled. “Print it, then.”
“Okay, so I’m wrong. How many, Phil?”
“Can’t say, Christine.”
She shrugged. “Well it’s mass murder, however many it is. And you’ve got a drugs war on your hands.”
“A drugs war? How the hell do you make that out? There’s no war and no mass murder. You’re sniffing a story that’s not there. Don’t write any of that, Christine, I’m bloody warning you.”
“It’s drugs, isn’t it? They died of an overdose.” She looked at her notebook. “Frothing at the mouth – that’s what one of your over-eager PCs told me.”
Birch’s face went red. “Who was it?”
“I can’t say, but I’ll print it.”
“Oh, you’re a bitch.”
“I know, Phil, I know.”
“How did you get through the cordon, anyway?”
She raised her eyebrows, and blew out her cheeks. “Cordon? I didn’t see a cordon.”
She glanced towards the club. Ambulances and police cars choked the street. Their flashing lights threw a glare up into the sky. Paramedics streamed in and out of Religion. It was almost 6.00 a.m., and the clubbers had gone.
“What was going on here?” she said.
Birch said, “Wednesday’s goth night. The vampires come out. It’s organized by” – he checked his clipboard – “The Academy of London Vampyres, but attracts goths of all kinds. Perhaps you’d like to go and harass them?”
“Perhaps I will. Anything to do with them, you think? Vampires? Some bizarre ritual gone wrong?”
“They weren’t all vampires.”
“Oh, that’s a comfort.”
“Some – most, actually – were goths. And not all goths are vampires, but all vampires are goths – that’s what one of them, a goth, told me when I asked him if he drank blood.”
Adrenalin flushed Murray’s heart. “Drank blood?”
“Yes. They – the vampires – some of them drink blood. They’re sanguine vampires.”
“Blood poisoning? Is that what killed them?”
He sneered at her again. “Screws up your drugs war, Christine. Anyway, it’s possible – but it wouldn’t kill them straight off. Septicaemia takes time.”
Murray furrowed her brow. “They drink blood? Is that legal?”
The detective shrugged. “If it’s consensual. What can you do? It’s a bloody shame, but we live in a free country.”
“How do they –?”
“I don’t know and don’t bloody quote me – and this is a crime scene, so get lost.” He wheeled around and strode towards the club, a red ribbon fluttering from the clamp that held a notepad to his clipboard.
Murray stared down into Old Compton Street. Dozens dead – that’s what her source had said. Her heart raced at the thought, and despite the chill, she felt clammy. This was mass murder, no matter what Birch said.
But who killed them?
A rogue drug dealer?
Some bizarre ritual gone wrong?
That was the story she wanted:
Weird goings-on in Soho. Blood-drinkers spread poison.
The paper would love it.
Murray thought how strange the world was, and she felt a tug of fear at her heart: David and Michael, still young, still to reach the age where they could be exposed to stuff like this.
She shuddered, thinking about them at home. What was the best way to protect them?
Richard thought she should be at home, or at least in a job where she could work regular hours. He’d raged at her when the phone buzzed at 3.00 a.m., one of her police contacts tipping her off that something had “kicked off in Soho – dozens dead – drugs”.
They’d had the usual argument as she left the house half-an-hour later, and her bones chilled when she walked out of the door and stared up the stairs.
David and Michael huddled together at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down David’s face.
“Go to bed, babies,” she tried to say, but her voice cracked.
Murray, seeing her son’s faces, bit her lip.
Maybe Richard was right. Maybe twenty-five years of this was enough for anyone.
A man in a blue suit came out of the club and lit a cigarette. He headed up the road and Murray, casting thoughts of home aside, dashed after him.
“Excuse me?” she said, “excuse me?”
And he stopped and turned.
“Christine Murray,” she said, offering a hand, “freelancer working for the Daily Mail. Could I ask who you –?”
He turned away from her, drawing on his cigarette.
“Please, sir,” she said, trotting down the road after him towards the police cordon, “please give me a moment.”
He turned again and canted his head to one side.
“Thank you,” she said, “I’m sorry. Do you work at –?”
“You’re going to have a picture of me. I saw the photographers flash away. And someone’ll recognize me, no doubt. So, for the r
ecord, I’m Nathan Holt. Manager of Religion.”
“You have a drugs problem here, Mr. Holt?”
He stiffened and colour flushed his cheeks. “You’ve got a bloody cheek.”
“They say that about me, yes.”
He stared at her for a moment. And then he said, “We have a very aggressive anti-drugs policy.”
“So was it drugs that killed those people tonight?”
“I’m not a pathologist.”
“Do you have a problem with ecstasy? Do you tolerate it, Mr. Holt?”
“Do you know how many people die from taking ecstasy? About ten a year.”
“And that’s all right, is it, Mr. Holt?”
He scowled. “No more ‘all right’ than the thousands who die from the effects of smoking.”
“You should be careful, then.”
“Excuse me?”
“The smoking,” she said, gesturing at the fag between his fingers.
He smirked at her and said, “I’ve got to be going. I have to tell the owners that their club is closed until further notice.”
“I suppose you’re not going to have much dancing if there are dead people in your club. Who are the owners?”
He shook his head and turned, flicking his cigarette away. Murray watched him stride down the street.
* * *
Lithgow shat himself. He shivered, fear like a tight band around his chest.
He’d watched Jenna stumble towards the stairs, enjoyed her arse in that tight little skirt, then she’d fucking collapsed against the wall.
He was about to go help her – fucking honest, your honour – but selfpreservation took hold. Self-preservation and a scream from behind him.
He turned and saw a guy – a guy he’d sold a pill to moments before he’d given one to Jenna – topple over the barrier and fall twenty feet into the moshpit.
Another shriek at the chill-out room’s bar, and Lithgow turned. A girl – oh, shit, he’d sold to her, too – crumpled to the floor, coughing – coughing – coughing out blood.
Move away, Fraser, he told himself, move away, nothing to see.
A guy with purple hair fashioned into a cockerel’s comb helped Jenna to her feet. Her skin looked blanched, and blood bubbled at her lips.
The cockerel soothed her, helped her to a chair, sat her down. But Jenna jerked and choked and sprayed blood over the samaritan who still tried his best despite being spattered.
Lithgow sneaked through the crowd. His bladder turned icy. More goths were going down, their bodies jolting like someone was shooting electricity through them.
Lithgow tried to look cool, and he managed it despite the sweat pouring from his hair, down his back, despite the pulse thundering in his head, making him dizzy.
He weaved through the throng on the dancefloor, panic clutching at his heart as he saw more and more – all of them his customers – collapsing, frothing at the mouth, dying.
Okay, this is bad, he thought. Be cool, boy, be cool.
He made his way into the reception area. A doorman tended to a convulsing girl near the cloakroom, the cloakroom attendant saying, “Shit, shit, they’re dying, there’s people dying everywhere,” and someone else saying, “Ring 999 – we need ambulances here, now.”
Focusing on the street outside, Lithgow walked out of Religion. He waited for someone to shout at him and say, “Come back here, you’re going nowhere.”
But no one said a thing.
He listened to the screams behind him, and then stepped out into the rain. He walked, picking up his pace, hands in pockets looking as cool as he could – and he could look cool, could Fraser. Even when he was shitting himself.
He weaved through the crowds on Old Compton Street. He strolled past Lab, the cocktail bar where the barmen thought they were Tom Cruise. It was packed. He could pop in; disappear in the crowd.
He looked behind him. Night dwellers choked the street. No one followed him. He was okay, and slowed his pace.
In Charing Cross Road, he hailed a cab and said where he lived in Fulham. He kept cool, jabbering with the cabbie, laughing at the racist shit the guy spouted.
He threw forty quid at the driver, got inside the flat.
And then the panic burst out of him.
Shaking and sweating, he locked himself in the bog and sat on the loo.
With the lights out, he waited in the dark for – for what? What was he waiting for? A knock at the door? The cops coming to arrest him? His life totally fucked, totally over. Sent to jail for killing loads of goths.
He should’ve thought.
The guy, tall and powerful with a scar streaking the left side of his face, had given him the drugs for free.
“A sample,” he said with a hint, maybe, of a Russian accent. “You get it for free, and you charge what you want – keep the money. There’s more if you want. Lots more.”
They were free. What was he supposed to do? Couldn’t turn down free drugs, could he? This was capitalism, man. He had to make a profit.
The free market demanded it.
Nothing Lithgow sold before had killed anyone – well, not to his knowledge. And not so many, anyway. Fuck, they dropped like flies, didn’t they.
He was thirsty. He got off the loo, switched on the light, and went to the sink. Turning on the tap, he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
His hair was crazy, like a mad professor’s. He looked pale and scared.
He poured himself a glass of water, drank it.
Lithgow thought for a moment. And then he took the jewelled box out of his pocket. He opened it and went to the toilet. He tipped the box over the loo.
Pills spilled towards the lip of the box.
Lithgow looked at the pills and thought.
Was this the right thing to do? Well, yes, but when did he ever do the right thing?
Profit, he thought – got to make a profit.
He levelled the box and rummaged through the pills. These might not be the ones responsible. Those goths, they might have taken something else. And Jenna – Jenna might well have had some kind of condition.
He shook his head and shut the box.
They can’t pin it on me, he thought. And if they do, Dad’ll sort them out.
They wouldn’t dare accuse me. Not after the last time. After they fucked up and had to apologize, Dad terrorizing them.
“It’ll be okay,” he said. “Stay cool, Fraize. Stay cool and it’ll go away.
Go to work, act like nothing’s happened.”
He gave the box a shake, and the pills rattled – and it almost sounded like they were cheering him on, celebrating his decision to hold on to them.
Chapter 7
SOLDIER UNDER SIEGE.
Soho – 10.24 a.m.
“NO SLEEP for the wicked,” said Cal Milo as Lawton trudged up the steps into Religion.
“I never do,” said Lawton, “but it’s nice to see you looking like the walking dead, Cal.”
Milo fiddled with wires spilling from a security panel at the front entrance. He grinned, and spite sparkled in his eyes. He said, “You look like dead man walking, Lawton.”
Lawton faltered, stared up at Milo. “What d’you mean?”
The big man put his hands up in surrender, said, “Mean nothing, mate. Just saying. You look like shit, I look like shit, some of us are in the shit.”
Lawton, his blood getting hot, stepped forward. “Say what’s on your mind, Milo.”
Milo’s smile disappeared. “Or what, grunt?”
“Sorry, forgot. You haven’t got anything in your mind, have you, lump.”
“Piss off out of my face, Lawton.”
“Or what, pondlife?”
Milo took the bait. He let go of the wires. He swung his oak-like arm around, trying to swat Lawton’s head off his shoulders. Lawton raised his guard, hands resting on the top of his head, elbows flared. He blocked Milo’s attack with his left forearm, and shot up his right elbow to crack Milo under the chin.
&nbs
p; The big man grunted, and his legs buckled. He teetered, Lawton grabbing Milo’s arms to prevent him from tumbling down the steps and injuring himself. With Milo finding his feet, Lawton stepped back.
Milo cradled his chin, saying, “What – the – what – did – uh – uh –?”
“You’ll be all right, Milo,” said Lawton. “Just don’t think too much.”
And he turned, walked into the club.
A police constable greeted him, saying, “You are?”
“Jake Lawton. I’ve been told to pay Detective Superintendent Phil Birch a visit.”
He’d already said this to the copper standing guard at the barricade at the bottom of the street. He was getting tired of it. The PC indicated with his chin that Lawton should go upstairs. “CCTV unit,” said the policeman.
He trudged upstairs, thinking about the call he got a few hours earlier. It was Jenna’s dad.
You absolute bastard. You killed my baby.
Lawton’s blood had frozen, taking Mark McCall’s sobs as confirmation that she was dead.
“Mark, are you sure?”
“I’ve just had to I.D. her dead body, you bastard, and it’s all down to you, you and your fucking drug culture.”
“My drug culture?”
“Those clubs, all that weird perverse stuff that goes on down there.”
“I’m a doorman, Mark – I try to stop drugs getting in.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Jake, I know what goes on. I’m an ex-copper, so don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, son. Doormen, dealers, you all work together.”
Lawton felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
He’d known McCall for years, and McCall never liked him much.
Jenna’s dad had left the force, disillusioned with all the red tape – “You can’t give a yob a good kicking these days without having to fill in five forms beforehand, and another three after.”
McCall hadn’t been pleased when Lawton joined up, either. His daughter’s teenaged boyfriend roaming the world, gallivanting and living it up, didn’t strike McCall as a good idea. But he was glad when Lawton split with Jenna soon after, didn’t care that his daughter was heartbroken. He thought Jenna would be better off without the likes of Jake Lawton: “The Army’s full of layabouts, full of scum who’d be in prison if they’d not joined up. England’s going down the gutter, lad, down the fucking gutter.”