[Vampire Babylon 01] - Skarlet (2009)

by Thomas Emson

  “Hammond,” he said through his teeth, “Hammond, you bastard, I’ll rip your head off,” and he grabbed the phone and dialled.

  “Associated Newspapers,” said the voice, and Lawton said, “Christine Murray.”

  She answered, and he recognized her voice and, without introducing himself, he said, “Steve Hammond been gossiping about me?”

  “Mr. Lawton,” she said. “I tried to ring you for a comment.”

  “I’ll sue you,” he said, but knew he wouldn’t.

  She knew it, too, and she said that he wouldn’t.

  He felt the anger fade and said, “What have I done to you?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “It’s not what you’ve done to me. This isn’t a vendetta, Mr. Lawton. I’m doing my job.”

  “Bollocks. I didn’t speak to you, didn’t give you an interview when that video got released, and since then you’ve been sniffing around me like a dog sniffing shit.”

  “I’m not after you,” she said. “I’m just after the story. Now, I’ll tell you who is after you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. He looked at the bottle of Jim Beam. He said, “You tell me, then.”

  “The police.”

  “Oh, yeah – that’s new. Hats off to you, Christine. On the fucking ball.”

  “And they say that an ex of yours died at Religion.”

  Lawton sat up. “They know I was with her?”

  “Can you confirm that you and Jenna – Jenna McCall – were an item?”

  Lawton said nothing.

  Murray said, “And I’m also led to believe that a gentleman named Fraser Lithgow dated Jenna after you broke up with her – and that you tried to frame Mr. Lithgow for taking drugs into Religion a few months ago.”

  “I will fucking frame him when I see him. I’ll make a pretty picture of his face.”

  “You’re very aggressive, Mr. Lawton,” she said.

  “I’m very pissed off, Mrs. Murray,” he said.

  “Were you angry when Mr. Lithgow started to see Jenna?”

  “Are you writing this down?”

  Murray didn’t say anything.

  He said, “Don’t write it down and I’ll tell you.”

  She said, “All right.”

  Lawton took a breath. He looked at the clock on the laptop’s screen.

  It said 6.30 p.m. And then he said, “I was in Iraq. Jenna and me, we’d not been serious for years. But I still cared for her. We’d known each other since we were kids. I wasn’t worried that she was dating Lithgow, but I didn’t like him. He’s a snake. But I became worried when I caught him trying to smuggle tabs into Religion.”

  “Charges were dropped. He didn’t have anything on him, he says.”

  “Fraser says a lot of things. Most of them come out of the back end of a male cow. He had twenty pills tucked into his shoe. That’s the truth.”

  “But he was cleared of any suspicion.”

  Lawton said, “He had twenty pills – in his shoe – going into Religion. His dad, a flash harry QC, got him off.”

  “So you didn’t set him up as revenge for him getting off with Jenna?”

  Lawton blew air out his cheeks. “Doesn’t matter what I say, does it. You’ve got me in your sights, and you don’t give a shit. You know what? I’ve been here before – ”

  “I know – ”

  “ – and it doesn’t matter what other people think, as long as I know the truth. I’ve got no one, Christine – no mum, no dad, no family – so I can take the poison and spit it out. It doesn’t hurt me, because I know it’s lies. I did not set up Lithgow. I had nothing to do with those deaths at Religion. And Basra? I’ll tell you about Basra, Christine. I’ll tell you, I’m taking you there one day and introducing you to some families, some mums and dads and kids, and you can ask them what happened that day. And you know why you’ll be able to ask them, Christine? You’ll be able to ask them because I took a fucking decision.”

  And he slammed down the phone.

  His nostrils flared. His eyes were wide and stayed open for a long time without blinking. He didn’t move. And when he did blink, and then move, he reached for the bottle of Jim Beam.

  But a knock at the door stopped his hand.

  And then a voice outside his flat said, “Police. Open up, Mr. Lawton.”

  Chapter 18

  HAVE FAITH.

  NATHAN Holt, gazing out across the Thames, said into the phone, “I’m very concerned that we’ll be shut for weeks. We’re going to lose money, a lot of money – and I won’t be able to pay the salaries.”

  “Nathan, Nathan,” said the voice on the end of the phone, “it’ll be fine.”

  “George, I’m not comfortable with any of this. They arrested Jake Lawton an hour ago. I had some reporter on the phone asking me for a comment.”

  “Please don’t concern yourself,” said George Fuad.

  “Guilt’s chewing me up, George. He’s a good guy, Jake; he didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know it’s a shame, but this business in Iraq, you know. We had no idea when you hired him that he’d murdered a civilian out there. And how many more? Come on, Nathan. We don’t want anything to do with that illegal war, do we? And we can’t have murderers on our staff.”

  “It seems – it’s wrong, that’s all.”

  “I know it’s a rotten thing to have to do. I know it’s taking advantage, maybe, of these tragic deaths – but it’s an opportunity for us to get rid of Lawton.”

  “He’s a fall guy, isn’t he,” said Holt. “A Lee Harvey Oswald.

  Something else is going on here.”

  Fuad said, “What’s going on here is a disaster for Religion. Twentyeight customers died of a probable drugs overdose. How did those drugs get into the club? Do you want to take responsibility, Nathan? Ultimately, of course, you should. We should, too, Charles and I. But we have to have a sacrifice, a scapegoat. And Jake Lawton, war criminal, killer of innocent men, will do.”

  A silence fell. Nathan’s mind reeled. He sweated, despite the wind that sliced in through the open window of his fourth-floor flat.

  “Is everything all right, now, Nathan?”

  It wasn’t, but he nodded. “Yes, George, of course. I’m just, you know, apprehensive, that’s all. I feel bad – ”

  “Of course you do, of course. You’re a good man, Nathan. A fantastic manager. You’ve run a great club for us. And in the meantime, you’ll be taken care of. All right?”

  “If you say.”

  “I do say, Nathan.”

  They said goodnight, and Nathan put the phone down. He went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water. He drank the water and then had another and then another.

  He went into the living room, walked over to the window to shut it.

  Night made London grey. The Thames shimmered. Sightseers strolled along the South Bank. They were wrapped against the chill.

  Holt thought about what George Fuad told him:

  You’ll be taken care of.

  He hoped that didn’t mean he was going to lose his job at Religion when the club re-opened.

  You’ll be taken care of.

  It sounded ominous, that was all.

  The Fuads, sixties hippies who got rich selling cars in Thatcher’s free-for-all Britain, bought the club in 1995. They took a few years to salvage it, forging Religion out of dust and rubble.

  “That’s how most religions are created,” George Fuad said at the time.

  They’d hired Holt to run the club and retreated to sunnier climes.

  The brothers had homes in Monte Carlo, London, and the Caribbean.

  They’d only visited the club two or three times in the past five years.

  But that was fine by Holt. He could do it his way, and his way had been established during more than ten years of running nights and clubs in London and the south-east.

  He was good at what he did, and the diversity of Religion’s output drew a lot of attention. Time Out loved the club, thelondonpaper hailed Monday
’s The Weekend’s Coming night a hit, and specialist publications loved Wednesday’s goth night.

  And the club’s slogan, Get Religion, pissed off the Christians.

  No better way to get publicity than to commit blasphemy.

  Holt was born to run clubs. And now that Religion was closed, and he was staring out of his window on a Thursday night, he felt lost.

  He tried to ring the Fuads again. He wanted to know if they were hassling the cops to let them re-open Religion. Shutting the club for a week would be all right. But two, even three, weeks, and it would be a nightmare.

  The Fuads weren’t answering.

  He tossed the phone of the sofa, and puffed air out of his cheeks.

  Jesus, he would’ve died of boredom if he didn’t have this job. What would he do with himself every Friday and Saturday? Every Tuesday, every Wednesday, and every Thursday? He’d got Mondays down to a tee: his night on the town; and Sundays meant a drive down to Kent where his mum lived.

  But what about nights like this?

  The buzzer went. A spark of excitement ignited in Holt, and he strode over to the intercom.

  “Yeah, hi?”

  “Hi, good evening, Mr. Holt,” said the voice, male and with a hint of an accent. “Mr. Fuad, Mr. George Fuad, has sent me to you.”

  Holt furrowed his brow.

  Sent me to you?

  That’s a funny way to put it, he thought.

  He wasn’t about to buzz the guy up. Holt put safety first. He said, “Could you tell me what it’s about, specifically?”

  “Specifically?” said the voice, like he was trying the word out.

  “Yes. Why has Mr. Fuad sent you?”

  The man said, “To give you an offer of work while Religion is closed for business.”

  “A job?”

  “Yes.” The man sounded impatient. “A job for you. In – in Barbados, where they live.”

  Holt said, “I’ve just put the phone down on Mr. Fuad – he didn’t mention anything about – ”

  “I know he called you, he just called me. And he said he’d look after you. Did he say that?”

  Holt looked towards the ceiling.

  What had George said?

  And in the meantime we will look after you.

  Holt buzzed the stranger in.

  Two minutes later came a knock on the door.

  Holt opened the door. He saw the scar on the man’s face and then the knife in the man’s hand.

  Chapter 19

  THE PLAN, PART TWO.

  “LAWTON’S been arrested,” said Lithgow. “About bloody time that fucking war criminal got his dues. And you know what? It’s me who’s burying him.”

  Hammond rolled the joint. “He asked me about pills earlier today. Said his dealer had gone AWOL.”

  Lithgow said, “Lawton asked you for pills?”

  “Yeah. Wanted to know where you got Skarlet.”

  Lithgow’s nerves tightened. “Did you tell him?”

  Hammond stopped rolling and glared at Lithgow. “What d’you take me for, you prat?”

  “Okay,” said Lithgow, “what did you tell him?”

  “Hardly anything.”

  “Hardly anything?”

  “Yeah, hardly anything,” said Hammond and went back to rolling the joint, and then said, “But I did ring this journo who bought me a steak. And she wrote a story and it went on her rag’s website. About Lawton asking for drugs the night after all those people died. It only took an hour to get from the horse’s mouth to the stable – they’re quick, these journalists.”

  “Oh, fucking glorious,” said Lithgow. “I like that, I do,” and he laughed.

  They were in Lithgow’s flat in Fulham, feet up on the coffee table, empty cans on the floor, and the odour of an Indian takeaway drenching the air.

  Lithgow’s laughter drifted away, and he chewed his lip. Hammond eyed him and said, “What’re you thinking, Fraize?”

  “I’m thinking,” said Lithgow, “if Lawton wants the drugs so badly we should give him some – which is Part Two of my plan to crucify that bastard for trying to nail me.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Lithgow stood up, grabbed the jewelled box off the shelf. He sat down, opened the box on the coffee table and said, “I got these.”

  Hammond said, “Jeez – fucking ‘K’. ‘K’ for killer, man.”

  Hammond lit the rolley. He sucked the drug into his lungs.

  Lithgow watched his mate’s eyes roll up in his head. He screwed up his face, thinking. He didn’t know what to do. Should he take these to Lawton’s flat, get him nailed for possession, or keep this batch – just in case?

  “Just in case,” he said, not realizing he was talking.

  “In case what?” said Hammond, slurring already.

  “In case,” said Lithgow, taking the spliff, “it turns out that these pills had nothing to do with those people dying. In case I’d be throwing away gold.”

  Lithgow smoked the joint. The drug washed into him and his legs went weak.

  Chapter 20

  NIGHT RETREAT.

  The road to Al Hillah, Mesopotamia – 9.20 p.m., July 24, 1920

  VEHICLES dashed out of the darkness and scattered the troops.

  Wilson, sweat pouring down his back and from his hair, panted as the dust filled his throat.

  His gaze flitted about. Officers on horseback zigzagged, racing back and forth as if they were lost. Troops on foot sprinted for cover. Dust rose in clouds, causing chaos and panic.

  Shouts and screams filled the night. The squeal of brakes put Wilson’s teeth on edge as vehicles jerked and bumped along the dirt track they called a road in this forsaken country.

  Tribesmen broke from the night and Wilson said, “Bloody hell, bloody hell,” as they hacked at foot soldiers and transport animals.

  Creatures bayed and men shrieked.

  Gunfire crackled and hoofs thundered.

  Wilson’s head snapped from side to side. He gripped his rifle, his hands sweating, the sweat pouring down the gun’s varnished stock.

  He froze, his nerves tightened.

  A tribesman, fury burning in his eyes, his mouth wide in a screech of rage, charged at Wilson. The hostile whipped his knife about his head, moonlight splintering off the blade.

  Wilson raised his gun, but the weapon slipped out of his wet hands.

  He cursed, and his innards felt as if they would melt. He squatted to pick up the gun. The Arab screeched and bore down on him.

  A gunshot deafened Wilson. The Arab toppled off his horse and crashed to the ground, sending up a belch of dust. The hostile arched his back, blood spouting from a wound in his chest. A horseman charged from the darkness. Wilson stared at the rider, the horseman’s Webley pistol held out, smoke pluming from the barrel.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Wilson?” said Lieutenant Jordan, stopping his horse, jabbing his pistol at the young soldier. “Get a bloody move on, man. Remember what I told you. You need to be getting back to Hillah with me – and if I don’t make it – ”

  Jordan flinched, and gawped with shock. He opened his mouth and a gasp hissed from his throat. He grimaced and pressed his hand to his ribs.

  “The bastards,” he said, “the damn, heathen bastards,” and he pulled his hand away. Blood drizzled from his palm and a dark wet patch spread over his jacket. “They’ve bloody shot me, Wilson, the bloody Arabs have shot me – come – come on, man – grab that – that mount.”

  Jordan wheeled his horse around and galloped away. Wilson clambered on the Arab’s horse. He dug his heels into the animal’s flank and it shot off after Jordan.

  Horsemen sped from the darkness and hacked at the troops. Jordan fired randomly with his Webley. Wilson, clenching the rifle under his armpit, did the same, targeting hostiles as they attacked the retreating troops.

  He caught up with Jordan. The road twisted and turned through scrub. All around them, it seemed, there was fighting. The air smelled of cordite.


  After only a couple of minutes, Jordan’s horse slowed, and the lieutenant sagged in the saddle.

  Wilson pulled up his horse and dismounted. He ran to the lieutenant and caught him as he toppled from the saddle. Jordan grunted. Blood soaked Wilson’s hands. He eased the officer from the horse and laid him on the ground.

  Jordan licked his lips, the tip of his tongue flickering over his lips. His face blanched and his eyes dulled. He opened his mouth and croaked.

  “Sir,” said Wilson, “sir, don’t die, sir.” Wilson shuddered, the fear flushing through him. “You can’t leave me here, sir. I don’t – I don’t know what to do.”

  Jordan gripped his wrist, and his nails dug into Wilson’s skin. Wilson cringed. The lieutenant, his voice a whisper, said, “Get – Hillah – take – take – them – destroy – d-destroy – ”

  Jordan stiffened and arched his back. He opened his mouth and blood trickled down his chin. He let out a gasp and his body wilted.

  Wilson stared at the lieutenant’s dead eyes and felt lost and hopeless.

  He whimpered and rocked back and forth.

  Shouts jerked him out of his depression. Hoofs hammered the earth, making the ground shake. He turned. A cloud of dust rose around the tribesmen as they charged towards him. A half-dozen, knives brandished and hate screwing up their faces, raced down the road.

  Cold fear filled Wilson’s chest. He leapt to his feet and dashed to Jordan’s horse. He jammed his foot in the stirrup. The horse wheeled and neighed. Its head jerked back and forth. Wilson hopped around.

  The hostiles closed.

  “Jesus in heaven,” he said, his voice shaking.

  The horse spun, Wilson’s foot caught in the stirrup.

  The noise of the insurgents’ approach deafened him. Their shouts shrilled in his ears. They would hack him to death in a minute; they would cut him into pieces and leave his remains to be carrion in this hell.

  He screamed. The horse wheeled. He hopped, he sprang, he swung his leg over the saddle. He yelled.

  The hostiles circled him.

  They bayed for his blood.

  Their knives chopped at the night.