by Thomas Emson
“I’m not sure I can, sir. I can’t be a coward.”
Jordan said, “For the sake of humankind. For your family. Your children and your children’s children.”
“I don’t understand – I – ”
“This loot,” said Jordan, slapping the sack strapped to his saddle, “must get out of Mesopotamia. It must reach Britain and be destroyed.
Destroyed or hidden away.”
“I – I don’t – ”
“Those vessels we took last night, what they contain will destroy humanity, Wilson. Do you understand me?”
Wilson didn’t, but he nodded.
The order came to retreat. It echoed through the darkness. Jordan spurred his horse and, as he trotted away, turned to look at Wilson.
“Do you understand, Wilson? Keep an eye on them. If I die, you must take them back to Britain” – his voice diminished, and he faded into the night – “or we are doomed, Wilson.”
Chapter 14
PILLS.
4.50 p.m., February 7, 2008
“DIDN’T know you were in to this kind of stuff,” said Hammond, swigging at a bloody mary.
Lawton said, “My dealer got cold feet after this business at Religion. Keeping a low profile.” He supped his pint and hoped he was a good liar.
Hammond nodded. “I had a chat with an old friend of yours, today.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Christine Murray. Reporter.”
Lawton felt his face heat up, and he said, “What did she want?”
“Your head on a plate, sounds like. Asked if you were into drugs, I said I didn’t know. She told me all about that stuff in Iraq. I kind of remember the story – you know, there were so many – but I never knew it was you. Live and learn.”
“Murray’s rabid,” said Lawton. “She gets a bone, she won’t let go. I won’t bore you with the truth, but what she told you was a lie.”
Hammond shrugged. “Don’t care. Truth, lies – don’t care.”
Lawton said, “So, this stuff.”
“You want this stuff? The stuff that killed those people?”
“We don’t know if it killed them yet.”
“Something did. Twenty-eight.” He shook his head. “Never known that before. Where would we be if we didn’t have drugs, eh? The whole entertainment industry would shut down. But if we get this happening again – it’s beer and bowls for us, Jake.”
The pub was a goth spot south of the river. Thursday afternoon and it was packed, the sub-culture convalescing after last night’s tragedy.
Lawton, walking in, got stared at – he was the only one not wearing make-up, platform shoes, and leather gear. He could smell the sweat, smell the paint, and smell the booze. He ordered a pint and waited at the bar, scanning his surroundings. He listened to conversations and they were talking about the dead at Religion.
“Don’t worry,” said one, “they’re vampires, they don’t die.”
He’d supped half his pint when he noticed Hammond shove through the crowd. His cockerel-style hair was tied back in a ponytail.
His eyes were lined black, his lips a dark blue. He wore a long coat and a pair of knee-high Doc Martens. Lawton caught Hammond’s eye, and when Hammond saw him there was a flash of fear in his eyes before he gave Lawton a fake smile.
“So who’s the guy?” said Lawton. “Can I get some stuff?”
“What d’you want? I don’t know about the pills Fraser – ” and he stopped, picking up his drink, slugging it down. Tomato juice drizzled from between his lips. He looked like he’d drunk blood.
Lawton said, “What were you going to say?”
“Sorry, mate. Frog in the throat.” He coughed.
Lawton wanted to grab him by the collar, flatten his face against the bar and force Fraser Lithgow’s name from between those painted lips.
He clenched his fists and said, “You said you didn’t know about the pills, and then you said Fraser’s name. Come on, Steve.”
Hammond said, “No, no, I didn’t say that. Not that. Fraser? I thought Fraser was banned, anyway. And I barely know him. I – ” His eyes darted around the pub. “I got to go, mate.”
Lawton slammed his hand down on Hammond arm. Hammond looked down at the hand and then up at Lawton’s eyes.
Lawton said, “I just need some stuff, you know. Tell me about the pills.”
“All I know is they’re called Skarlet – with a ‘K’. That’s what the guy who had them said.”
“And where do I get some?”
Hammond shook his head. “Can’t see you getting any, now. If they’ve killed someone, they’ll be got rid of. Any batches left, the producer, the dealer will just flush them down the toilet. I can – can get you something else. If you’re serious.”
Lawton glared at him. “I’m very serious,” he said.
* * *
Dr. Afdal Haddad, shuffling along the cellar’s flagstone floor, carried the jar over to the table.
His legs hurt, and he bared his teeth against the pain. Nadia said, “Get an assistant,” but he couldn’t trust anyone else – not even her and Ion. This was his life’s work. He began it alone; he’d finish it alone.
He unplugged the plastic stopper from the jar. He took a metal jug and scooped some pills out of the washing-up bowl on the table.
He poured the pills into the jar. He scooped up another jug-full, and transferred that batch into the jar. He put the stopper back into the jar.
He picked up the jar, cradling it between his hands. The ancient clay felt rough on his palms. He shuffled across the cellar, his legs aching.
He reached up and placed the jar next to two identical containers on the shelf, and then made his way back to the table.
He sighed and slumped into his wheelchair. He took deep breaths, and the smell of ammonia, which is a curse of methamphetamine production, filled his nostrils. He should’ve got used to the smell by now, but it still made him cringe. He reached into his pocket for the bottle of Aramis aftershave and squirted some into the air.
He waited for Nadia to come and get him.
Chapter 15
HEIRLOOMS.
Five miles North of Brasov, Romania – 10 a.m., November 13, 1983
NADIA Friniuc, fifteen and sold as a whore by her father, darted across the yard towards the barn.
“Come on, Ion, come on,” she said to her twelve-year-old brother.
The boy panted behind her as they ran.
The cold winters gripped tightly. Food was scarce in the rural areas.
You had to fight for survival. You had to sacrifice or you’d starve. But Nadia would rather go without food than see this happen to Ion.
Men had been coming from Brasov to buy her body since she’d been twelve. Papa said it was the only way, and Mama cried as she washed and prettied Nadia for the buyers.
The first year, she cried all the time. But then she got used to it and by now it was okay for her; she’d learned to bear what was happening.
And the men liked her, too. They didn’t slap her and spit at her like they did when it all started. They were reverent, even, thanking domnişoară
Nadia for the things she did to them. They praised her exuberance, her skills.
But she still hated them. And what she did disgusted her. But the repulsion was invigorating and addictive.
The vileness thrilled her.
But last month during dinner, Papa said they needed more money.
And his eyes moved across to Ion, beautiful Ion with his dark, dangerous eyes that sang to Nadia in a way that a brother’s eyes shouldn’t.
That morning, the men had arrived in a truck. Two bears, their breath billowing white in the cold morning. Papa greeted them. He bowed like a serf before lords. But they weren’t lords. They were Ceaucescu puppets – local councilmen serving themselves and the regime.
They’d come for Ion.
Nadia shoved open the barn door and yanked Ion into the darkness.
She slammed the door shut
. She led Ion up into the haystack and they huddled into a corner. She pulled him tight into her, and she never wanted to be apart from him.
Papa yelled Ion’s name from outside and then said, “Unde este Ion?” to Mama – Where is Ion?
Ion said, “What do they want, Nadia?”
“They want to hurt you, Ion.”
He tensed in her arms, and she hugged him tighter. Her breasts pressed against him. She smelled his neck. She let her long dark hair fall over his face. She’d never let them have him, never let him be spoiled by anyone – anyone – except her.
Shouts filtered into the barn from outside. Mama and Papa calling for Ion and Nadia. They knew that she’d hidden her brother. She’d seen Papa leer at her. She’d seen his narrow, suspicious eyes on her when she stroked Ion’s hair at the dinner table, when she kissed Ion’s face before bed.
Ion said, “Why do they want to hurt me, Nadia?”
She said, “Mama and Papa, they – they want to sell you to these men.”
He gasped and tried to pull away. But she wouldn’t let go. “Nadia, Nadia, no. Why? Why would –?”
“For food, Ion, for food and fuel. They” – she leaned away, looking at him – “they sell me and the men take me. They’ve sold me since I was your age.”
His brow creased. “Sell – I don’t understand.”
“To have my body. To fuck me.”
He stared at her, and she knew he understood. “And – and” – his voice rasped – “and they want me for that?”
“I won’t let them,” she said and whipped a knife out from her coat pocket, “I’ll kill them before they hurt you, Ion. I will kill them all.”
He started to cry and she hugged him, feeling his body tremble against her. She pushed him down in the hay, gazing down at his tearstained face. “You’re my beautiful brother,” she said. She bent her face to his and she kissed him on the mouth. “They only buy beauty, Ion,” she said, tears welling in her eyes, now. “Forgive me, forgive me.”
She cut Ion’s face, from eye to jaw line. Blood spouted from the wound. The boy struggled in her arms, screaming. Nadia held him tight, his blood spraying over her face, warm and coppery.
The door burst open and the sun poured in.
Papa stormed in, shouting Nadia’s name, calling her a bitch.
Ion’s wails alerted Papa to their hideaway, and he came bounding into the haystack, shouting and cursing.
Nadia begged him not to sell Ion, not to hurt him.
Papa said, “You little whore, what have you done to his face?” The blood coloured the hay.
Papa grabbed her by the hair, dragged her off Ion. She screamed, “Nu, nu, nu – ” – No, no, no –
Two men came into the barn and they laughed.
Papa said, “You want her, too, you want this little bitch for trying to hide?”
One of the men said, “Not today, Friniuc. We’ll take your boy, bring him back tonight.”
Nadia screamed, tried to scratch at Papa. But he held her by the hair, pressing her into the hay. He pulled Ion away from her. The boy’s face was masked in blood.
“Take him,” he said to the men, his eyes fixed on Nadia, desperation in them. “Take him now, hurry.”
One of the men hauled Ion away and held him by the arm saying, “Look at his face – he’s been cut. He’s bleeding like a fucking pig. He’s no use like this.”
Papa went to them and said, “A cheaper price then. Offer me a cheaper price. Anything. We need the money or we’ll starve. Please.”
“Not for – ”
A gun fired three times.
Nadia jerked with each shot.
The men who came for Ion fell. Blood dampened their coats.
A thin figure wearing a trilby stood at the door in the sun’s glare. He pointed the gun at Papa but looked over at Nadia and Ion.
He asked them in Romanian, “Are you all right?” but Nadia barely understood him because his accent was like glue.
She said, “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend. I’ve come to stop this. Do you know who you are?”
Nadia didn’t understand what he meant. Then he turned to Papa and said, “I’ve come for your heirlooms.”
* * *
Papa, in the house twenty minutes later, said, “You’ll buy them?”
The stranger glared at Papa. “You’d sell them?”
Papa shrugged, rubbing his hands together. “If – if you’d like to pay for them.”
The stranger said, “You’re a terrible man.”
“Don’t judge me. I’ve sold my children before I sold these old rags.”
He cast a hand over what was scattered on the table. “I’ve been true, I’ve been a good brother.”
The stranger looked over at Nadia and said to her, “Do you know Vlad the Impaler?”
“Yes,” said Nadia. “Prince Vlad Tepes of the family Dracul.”
“Castle Bran – Dracula’s castle – near here,” said the stranger, and then: “Transylvania. So many myths. Such nonsense written.” He asked Nadia, “What have they told you about Vlad?”
“He was a Wallachian voivode,” said Nadia. “He impaled Turks on poles to protect his kingdom.”
The stranger said, “The writer Bram Stoker took Vlad as his inspiration for his fictional vampire, Dracula.” He shook his head and tutted, saying, “Vlad Tepes was no vampire. Vlad Tepes was a vampire killer. The impaled Turks were not Turks. They were – ”
He trailed off and breathed deeply.
Nadia saw sadness in his expression.
And then the stranger said, “They were vampires.”
Chapter 16
NOT SUCH A SUPER GRASS.
5.15 p.m., February 7, 2008
“SO he deals, does he?” said Superintendent Phil Birch, tapping his clipboard against the desk in the interview room.
Lithgow watched the ribbon that was tied to the clipboard flutter and said, “Yeah, totally, big time. He’s Mr. Big. Number One. The Mastermind.”
Birch narrowed his eyes behind the gold-framed glasses and said, “Not exaggerating are you, Fraser? I’ve known small-timers like you exaggerate before. You get your rocks off on being involved, don’t you.”
Lithgow said, “Me? No way. I tell the truth, now, Mr. Birch. I learned my lesson. You got to be careful or guys like Jake Lawton’ll set you up. Luckily my dad came to the rescue, saw through the set-up.” He shook his head. “I’m straight and narrow, Superintendent, straight and narrow.
I work in a bank, after all.”
“Oh, yes. Of course you do. Silly me,” said Birch and looked at his clipboard. “Nice little flat you’ve got over there in Fulham.”
“Yeah, it’s all right.”
“Aren’t they expensive, flats in Fulham? The bank must pay you well.”
“I save. That’s what you get working at a bank, you get taught, and encouraged, to save. And – yeah, okay – my dad helped out with the deposit, but so what?”
“So what, indeed.”
Lithgow looked into Birch’s eyes, willing the copper to believe his story. He’d had enough of Lawton, and decided to set him up. He had a little plan, and this was Part One. Birch seemed to like the idea of Lawton as a dealer. Fraser thought he’d have more trouble convincing the detective.
“I don’t know,” said Fraser, “what it is with Lawton? He’s like, maybe, guilty after his girlfriend died – ”
Birch raised his eyebrows and said, “Girlfriend died?”
“Yeah, Jenna McCall – ”
“McCall, McCall,” Birch was saying as he ran a pen down the list clipped to his clipboard. “Oh, here we are – Jenna McCall, twentynine, assistant manager in a clothes shop in New Cross.”
“That’s right,” said Lithgow. “She got drugs off him, you see.”
“Yes, I do see,” said Birch, scratching his chin.
“And, man, that stuff in Iraq – him killing that totally innocent man –”
“Yes, you’re righ
t, Fraser.”
“Totally innocent,” said Lithgow. “That must’ve fucked Lawton up.
I feel sorry for him, I really do.”
“I know you do,” said Birch, cocking his head to one side. “You look genuinely remorseful.”
“Most doormen are clean, you know,” said Lithgow. “But some, like Lawton, well they need the extra cash so turn a blind eye to dealers.”
“You seem to know a lot.”
“Bet you know a lot about murder, Mr. Birch, but it doesn’t mean you’re a murderer, does it.”
Birch smiled and said, “Did you know any of the victims?”
He thought for a second, then put on a sad face. “Well, to be truthful, Superintendent Birch – and I want to be – Jenna McCall.”
Birch’s face lit up and he said, “Oh. Same – ”
Lithgow nodded and said, “I dated her for a while after Lawton, and he was really pissed off, you know. He was furious when she split with him. They went way back, apparently. Before he was in the Army, even.”
“That’s interesting,” said Birch. “A love triangle.” He leaned back in his chair and fanned his face with the clipboard. Strands of hair wafted on his balding head. “You’ve been very helpful, Fraser. I’d like to thank you for coming in.”
“That’s okay, Mr. Birch. I know that with me being arrested – falsely arrested – in the past, I know that some people might point the finger at me. So I wanted to, you know, clear the air. Cards on the table.”
“Good cards, Fraser. Top hand.”
Lithgow smiled and nodded, and said, “So, am I – would you say that – um – I’m in the clear?”
Chapter 17
TAKING THE POISON.
THE headline on the website read, Doorman at death club tried to buy pills night after 28 died in drugs horror.
Lawton felt a fire in his chest, and he clenched his fists. He’d sat down with his laptop to see what the press was saying about Religion.
And this is was what they were saying – that he’d tried to buy drugs the following night.