THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  Slowly Blake became aware of the sound of feet moving on the gravel behind him. He turned around.

  ‘I don’t mean to intrude. I just wondered if you were okay?’

  The voice belonged to a vicar. A large man in his sixties dressed in a black suit, well-worn brown brogues and a dog collar around a thick neck. Blake tried to compose himself and wiped his eyes with the arm of his coat.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m okay, thank you.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb,’ said the clergyman.

  As Blake studied the man, he noticed he was trying to conceal a lit cigarette behind his back.

  ‘Terrible habit, I know,’ said the vicar, realising he had been clocked. ‘Throwback to my army days, I’m afraid. Tried to give it up for Lent. Do you partake?’ the vicar asked, offering Blake a cigarette from a packet he had quickly produced from his jacket.

  ‘No, thank you. I gave up years ago,’ said Blake.

  ‘Good for you. Good for you.’

  The vicar took a drag and returned the cigarette to a position behind his back.

  ‘Do you mind me asking if the deceased was family?’

  ‘My wife,’ said Blake.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

  For an awkward moment, the two men stared at Nomsa’s gravestone in silence. Finally, the vicar cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t recognise you. I’ve just joined the parish. Are you a member of the congregation here?’

  Blake shook his head, trying not to look at the clergyman’s face.

  ‘No, I’m afraid my church-going days are over.’

  ‘I see. But you are welcome. Our doors are always open.’

  Blake nodded and then said, ‘Would you mind if I ask you a question?’

  ‘Fire away,’ said the pastor, staring down his nose.

  ‘You said you were in the army?’

  ‘Thirty-two years all told. Twenty-two as a Royal Marine and ten as a military chaplain.’

  ‘You saw action?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the vicar.

  Blake’s eyes beckoned him to continue.

  ‘Bosnia, Kosovo, Sierra Leone and Iraq. All the hot spots.’

  ‘You were a chaplain on the front line?’ said Blake quizzically. ‘You carried a gun?’

  The vicar retrieved the cigarette from behind his back and gave it a long drag.

  ‘Oh no, chaplains aren’t permitted to carry weapons.’

  ‘But you were on the front line?’

  ‘Yes, my friend. When soldiers see a churchman willing to risk his life and go into battle with them, side by side in the trenches, then they see that God hasn’t abandoned them. Anyway, it’s nothing new. The Israelites brought their priests into battle too, thousands of years ago.’

  ‘But you think force can be justified for the right reason?’ asked Blake.

  ‘It’s not an easy question. Depends on the reason,’ replied the clergyman, flicking ash onto the gravel path. ‘The thing I know for sure is that there is evil in the world, and it needs to be confronted.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Blake said slowly. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take that cigarette now.’

  ‘Don’t want to be a bad influence,’ said the vicar through a lopsided smile. He offered Blake the packet of cigarettes. Blake took one and leaned forward for the clergyman to light it.

  As Blake drew the smoke deep into his lungs, he noticed the cat sitting proudly further up the gravel path, the body of a dead bird in its paws.

  Chapter 9

  Thursday 19 March

  The Snakeheads arrived on the main stage of the Koko Club in complete darkness, although small red lights shone out from the Marshall speaker stacks. The audience sensed the band’s arrival and surged forward like an ocean swell. The band’s frontman looked out into the swirling blackness. With the toe of his combat boot, he tapped a switch on his guitar’s overdrive foot pedal and waited. From high on the balcony, a single spotlight cut through the darkness, bleaching the singer’s white skin in its beam.

  ‘You fuckers ready to rock and roll?’ the frontman snarled into the void.

  A riff blasted from his guitar, and the crowd convulsed as though being jacked into the electrical mains. Still in darkness, the Snakeheads’ drummer counted in the rest of the band with his drumsticks raised high above his head. On the four count, he brought the sticks down hard onto the edge of the high hat and started spitting out a ferocious beat like a machine gun. The crowd shook with the urgency of the rhythm, while the stage lights pulsed on and off in rapid succession. The strobing light caught a plastic beer cup stuttering along its trajectory towards the stage. After landing just in front of the singer’s microphone, it detonated in an eruption of froth. Without interrupting his frenzied strumming, the singer kicked the empty plastic cup back into the audience to a roar of approval. His eyes were alight with menace. He screamed the opening words of the song, looking like a crazed animal ready to attack.

  The sizeable doorman at Camden’s Koko Club didn’t know what to make of the man standing in front of him. He didn’t look like the usual punter at a Snakeheads gig. Instead of the standard black leather and battered denim, this man was wearing a suit, and he was leaning on a soaked umbrella. With an eyebrow raised, the doorman looked him up and down.

  ‘Hand,’ the doorman grunted, slightly annoyed that someone would be arriving so late to the gig and distracting him from his crossword puzzle.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Blake.

  ‘Hand stamp. You ain’t getting in without a hand stamp.’ The doorman was now on his feet, a layer of thick stomach fat wobbling in mid-air behind a straining Rolling Stones t-shirt. With a slightly miffed expression, he nodded over to the ticket counter at one end of the foyer.

  ‘Right,’ conceded Blake, who walked past the tables of Snakeheads merchandise towards the ticket counter.

  After reassembling the pages of his newspaper fluttering in the arc of the fan next to his seat, the doorman returned his attention to the crossword puzzle: Four across. 7 letters. Caesar’s crossing caused certain war?

  Blake pushed his way through the sea of black leather. He strained his eyes upwards. Eight Ball’s office was directly above the stage, set off a long corridor leading from the venue’s large balcony. Blake knew where the staircase was. He had been to the Koko before, but always in daylight. Now the light was harsh and pulsing in time to a deafening drumbeat. Towards the side of the stage the crowd thinned out, and within minutes, he was standing face-to-face with the door to Eight Ball’s office.

  The door was a custom job. It had to be, as it served multiple purposes. First there was the sound-proofing. The typical concert downstairs would peak at 120 decibels, close to the threshold that caused pain to the human ear. The core of the door, a multi-layered sandwich of dense hardwood bordered with rubber acoustic seals, muffled sound from either direction.

  Its second job was security. At a weekend, the office safe could hold bar takings in excess of five figures. The door needed to be secure enough to withstand a sustained attack by a couple of determined hard cases. The five millimetres of galvanised steel plate that encased the door and its frame did the job.

  The whole design was very heavy at just shy of 160 kilos. It was hung on five enclosed specialist hinges and would only open if the twelve-point locking mechanism was released from the doorframe.

  The door design also served well for Eight Ball’s other lines of business, the main one being drugs. Initially Jamaican skunk, then speed imported from the south-west of Mexico, and finally Colombian cocaine. The margins were good, but managing a distribution network could present challenges. Things could get very unpredictable indeed. And an unpredictable supply chain was bad for business. More to the point, it was bad for Eight Ball’s health. The missing thumb on his left hand was testament to that.

>   Slowly, he realised that his business model was flawed. Eight Ball was a student of the capitalist economics of supply and demand. Selling product was old economics. He needed to embrace the new economic reality of the service industry. He knew a lot of people. People who needed things and people who could supply those things. He became a facilitator, bringing buyers and sellers together. He didn’t touch the product but merely opened doors.

  Some jobs were difficult, but he always found a way: gun importers, fences, getaway drivers, bent locksmiths, underground importers, plastic surgeons who left no records, military equipment suppliers, lawyers with questionable moral codes, airport luggage handlers, CCTV camera operators, forgers of all types, GPs with open prescription pads, accountants, working girls providing exotic services, prison guards who could keep quiet. All could be suppliers of his services; all could be consumers of his services. That was the beauty of the new business model; a kind of self-sustaining perpetual motion machine. Introduction fees were paid upfront and were non-refundable. He only dealt with professionals who knew their trade. Eight Ball’s introductions came with his personal seal of approval.

  Blake’s fist banged loudly on the steel door. He waited and looked down at his feet. His shoes were filthy, the toes worn down to the leather. He banged again. No answer. This time he started kicking at the base of the door.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ A muffled voice became audible from behind the sheet of metal.

  Finally, there were the sounds of bolts being drawn, and the door opened inwards by a few inches. Eight Ball stood in the gap, eyes scanning up and down. Even through the small opening, Blake could see his expression drop.

  The door closed swiftly, but instead of locking in place it flew open again. Quickly, Eight Ball grabbed out for the handle but instead found empty air, the edge of the door missing his head by an inch. It slammed into the inside wall and secured itself onto a magnetic fire-door holder fixed to the skirting board. At the same time, Blake’s umbrella fell to the floor with a clatter, its once-straight body now a contorted ‘V’ shape forged by the impact of the door. Blake’s reactions had been sharp, but his umbrella was dead.

  Eight Ball stood in the doorway, his grim expression revealing his anger at Blake’s unexpected visit. He ran his fingers through his tangled dreadlocks and moved from side to side, as if performing some kind of rain dance.

  ‘You got some balls turning up here. I guess you haven’t come to see the Snakeheads?’ Eight Ball said sarcastically.

  Blake shook his head and clocked the cluster of small dark needle marks running up the man’s forearm.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  Without acknowledging the comment, Blake stepped through the doorway into the office. Eight Ball unclipped the door from the fire holder and followed Blake inside, his face tightening with every step. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind him.

  The decor of Eight Ball’s shabby office had an over-the-top Asian influence. Lots of cheap wood and rickety bamboo furniture held together with fraying rope. Two large colourful plastic plants stood on either side of the large rattan desk. One was elevated off the ground by a squat bar stool; the other was a foot higher on top of a mid-sized safe.

  ‘I need some information,’ said Blake.

  Before Eight Ball fell into the leather chair, Blake had tossed a photograph onto the desk of a police mug shot.

  ‘Tarek Vinka. You know him?’

  A dark expression fell over Eight Ball’s face. He scratched at the thick stubble under his chin and looked at Blake.

  ‘You know him?’ Blake repeated.

  Eight Ball shrugged.

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Blake. ‘Assassinated in a crowded restaurant in Soho. Shot through the head with a sniper’s rifle.’ He raised his arm showing Eight Ball the freshly applied inky door stamp on the back of his hand. ‘When he was shot, Vinka had a Koko Club door stamp on his wrist. I don’t believe he came to the club to listen to the music. I think he came to the club to see you.’ Blake’s icy stare drilled into Eight Ball’s head.

  ‘Look, I’ve told DCI Milton everything.’ Eight Ball took a handful of matted locks from the back of his head, squeezed them and then let them fall once again around his shoulders.

  ‘Why did Vinka come to see you? What did he want?’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  Blake’s jaw line tightened, ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Blake’s foot kicked out at the desk, sending a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels crashing to the floor.

  ‘What the hell—’ Eight Ball’s brooding eyes narrowed at his uninvited guest. ‘Look, you gotta calm down and show some respect or you gonna regret it.’

  ‘Calm down?’ Blake bit down on his lip. ‘My wife is dead and my daughter can’t breathe without a machine.’ Blake checked himself for a moment and then continued. ‘And all because of the book that Vinka was carrying that night.’ His face was now black as a storm cloud.

  ‘Book? I don’t know about any book.’

  ‘But you know about Vinka, don’t you? Who was he working for?’

  ‘I tell you, you got some damn nerve turning up here unannounced,’ said Eight Ball, shaking his head.

  Again Blake’s foot kicked out. This time the whole desk moved a couple of inches backwards and jabbed its edge into Eight Ball’s stomach.

  ‘Look, you piece of shit, you need to start showing some manners,’ sneered the club manager. Before he finished speaking, he had opened the desk drawer with his right hand and grabbed hold of the heavy and angular object lying inside. He stood up, kicked his chair to one side, and pointed the clawed end of a hammer in Blake’s direction.

  ‘You piece of shit, get out of my office before I rip you up!’

  Eight Ball launched forward, the head of the hammer poking Blake hard in the chest. Blake stumbled backwards. A second later Eight Ball had him pinned to the wall, a hand around his throat and the claw of the hammer grinding into the flesh of his cheek. He could feel Eight Ball snorting against his skin like a rabid dog. Blake’s cheek was leaking blood.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here! If I see you in this club again, you’re going to end up the same way as your wife.’

  What the hell did he say? Blake gasped. A white-hot rage blazed across his brain. His knee powered upwards. Contact was instant, and so was the effect. A gut-wrenching ache detonated around Eight Ball’s crotch, sending searing lines of pain to every corner of his body. His chest seized hard and he fell to his knees. The hammer dropped to the floor with a thud. Blake staggered crab-like for a few steps against the wall until he could pick it up.

  ‘My wife? What do you know about my wife?’ His face was wild.

  Eight Ball moaned with pain.

  Now standing over Eight Ball, Blake reached down, grabbed his attacker’s right wrist and yanked him closer to the desk. Then he slammed Eight Ball’s hand flat down on the desk, his full body weight bearing down.

  Blake raised the hammer. ‘Four fingers, one thumb. If you don’t tell me, you’re going to lose them all.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ spat Eight Ball. ‘You … you have no idea. No idea … who you are dealing with.’

  ‘Last chance.’ Blake’s arm extended to full reach, the hammer just missing the ceiling’s strip lighting. ‘Vinka, who is he?’

  Eight Ball’s hand was shaking. Seconds later, so was his whole body.

  ‘Okay, okay, He’s a heavyweight … Serbian or Croatian … something like that.’

  ‘What else?’

  Blake relaxed his arm, bringing the head of the hammer onto the back of Eight Ball’s hand. He twisted it hard.

  ‘Ahhh, fuck, okay, okay!’ Eight Ball gasped for breath. ‘Ex-army. They’re all ex-army, okay.’

  ‘What do you mean? How many?’

  ‘There were three of the
m,’ he panted. ‘I only met Vinka. He was the equipment man.’

  ‘Want did he want?’

  ‘A passport. He wanted a French passport.’ Eight Ball struggled to catch his breath. ‘I know a woman who can steal them from foreign students,’ he gasped.

  ‘What was the name on the passport?’ shouted Blake.

  Blake twisted the hammer again, and the claw tore at the back of the man’s hand. ‘Pineau. François Pineau, that was the name,’ squealed Eight Ball.

  ‘Who was Vinka working for?’

  Eight Ball’s face grimaced as Blake twisted the hammer again.

  ‘The Drak …’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The Drakon. The Drakon.’ Eight Ball clenched his eyes shut.

  ‘Who?’

  He shook his head. ‘No one knows who the Drakon is. Vinka never knew, I’m sure of that. Just rumours.’

  Eight Ball spat a large ball of phlegm onto the carpet.

  ‘They work through dead drops. There’s always a middleman. No one deals directly with the Drakon. They’re always one person removed.’ He paused. In a flash, his free arm punched sideways under the desk. His outstretched fingers just reached the alarm button taped to the underside before Blake hauled him back.

  ‘Now, you’re fucked!’ A strained smile flashed across Eight Ball’s face. ‘I’ve just triggered the alarm. You’ve got seconds, then security will be all over this place. You’re well and truly fucked.’

  Blake’s eyes travelled fast around Eight Ball’s face.

  The Snakeheads’ bass player strutted across the stage like a defiant matador, his fingers dancing effortlessly across the fretboard. Aiming the neck of his bass directly towards the centre of the crowd, he pretended to spray bullets into the heaving mob. Abruptly, he changed direction and began to jump from side to side. After a blistering drum solo, the stage was once more plunged into complete darkness.