01-Killing the Beasts

by Chris Simms

  The man walked back down the driveway, the forefinger of one gloved hand lightly tracing the length of the vehicle as he did so.

  Back in the car the driver looked at him. 'Hey Sly, not like you to come back empty-handed.'

  Sly shot him a sour look. 'I'll get them next time,' he murmured.

  They drove on towards Altrincham, coming off the M56 at junction six, moving along Altrincham Road and ignoring the first houses they passed: the driveways were too long and the gates too high. Instead they headed towards the centre of the village, searching for houses that directly bordered the road with driveways only fractionally longer than the cars parked on them. Soon after passing the fire station they spotted a black BMW A5 parked outside a 1930s semi-detached house. The men glanced at each other and the driver pulled over in the first available space.

  Sly got out and went to the house, automatically noting the absence of a burglar alarm. Seconds later the letterbox was pushed open and the torch shone through the gap. Immediately it revealed an art deco lamp on a small shelf just inside the doorway. Holding up the globe-shaped lampshade was a coppery green female nude and from the outstretched fingers of her free hand hung a set of car keys.

  'Bingo,' he whispered, hanging his flap of thick material through the letterbox. Next he fed the garden cane through, angling the hook at the end upwards towards the lamp. Breathing in deeply, he made an effort to steady his hand, then, focusing on the keyring itself, he expertly threaded the hook through it. Gripping the implement as tightly as he could, he joggled the thin length of wood up and down until the keys were dislodged from the statue's fingers. Their weight transferred to the hook and the cane bent slightly, but he was ready for that. He slid everything out, the keys brushing silently against the flap of soft material.

  He turned the torch off, placed it at his feet, then grasped the set of keys and slipped them off the end of the garden cane. After extracting the flap of cloth, he turned his attention to his prize. On the fob was a photo of a young boy, the sort given to grandparents. The key to the BMW was obvious enough, as was the key to the front door itself. Thinking about the lamp in the hallway, he walked to the end of the drive and held up a thumb. The Ford's engine started up and the car pulled quietly away.

  Knowing he wasn't meant to take anything else from the houses, he returned to the front door and slid the key into the lock. The door opened with hardly a sound. Stepping into the hall, he looked at the collection of photos of the same young boy crowding the little windowsill to the side of the door. Definitely a grandparent's house, he decided. Reaching round the back of the lamp, he found its cord with his fingers and traced it back to the plug in the wall. Just as he pulled it out he heard a footstep on the landing above. He froze, head bowed. A faint pull of breath came from the top of the stairs. Perhaps it was the absence of a male voice telling him to get out, but he somehow knew that it was a woman. All the advantage was his. She was up there, disoriented with sleep, in her nightclothes, probably alone and without a phone.

  He pulled a Stanley knife from his coat pocket, held it against one of the photos and slowly dragged it down the glass. A thin rasping noise filled the silent house.

  He heard a sharper intake of breath and then a wavering voice said, 'Leave this house immediately. I'm calling the police.'

  From the dark hallway below her Sly leered, 'And how will you do that, Grandma? You won't be able to speak if I come up there and kill you.'

  She let out a gasp of fright and he heard bare feet running away from the top of the stairs. A door slammed shut and a key turned in a lock.

  He climbed halfway up the stairs and announced in a menacingly low voice, 'If this key doesn't work for that Beemer out there, I'm coming back inside for you.'

  Then, laughing to himself, he slid the blade back into the stubby handle and returned the knife to his pocket. After wrapping the cord round the figure, he walked calmly from the house, held the key fob towards the vehicle and pressed the button. The vehicle's security system beeped as all the doors simultaneously unlocked. Minutes later he was driving back towards the motorway, heading towards the Russian's garage on the industrial estate in Belle Vue. After the car had been dropped off, its registration plates would be changed and documents prepared for the agent to ship it out to the Russian's contacts in Moscow.

  Chapter 4

  May 2002

  At times the sky merged seamlessly with the ocean below and it felt like they'd been hanging in a bubble of blue for hours. Looking up, the only thing Tom could find to provide a reference point against the all-enveloping colour was the sun stabbing down above him.

  Eventually the angle of their approach changed and, as their descent began, he was able to look through the tiny Perspex window and watch the shadow of the plane racing over the surface of the motionless sea. Soon the pilot announced that the Seychelles were now visible to those on the right-hand side of the aircraft. Charlotte immediately leaned across him for a look as Tom said with a note of apprehension, 'Well, let's make the most of this. It's the last time I'll be coming up for air until August.'

  After clearing the tiny customs hall at Victoria International airport on Mahé, they transferred to a worryingly small eight seater Air Seychelles plane for their onward flight to Praslin Island. They touched down minutes later on a small runway constructed of crudely interlocking slabs of white concrete. Standing next to the plane, waiting for their luggage to be unloaded as if from a bus, Tom could feel powerful waves of heat bouncing up from the ground: it felt like someone was holding a hairdryer under his chin. Once their bags had been placed on a small cart, they were led across to the low building by the edge of the runway. Standing inside the open doorway was a slightly built man in a light cotton suit.

  'Mr and Mrs Benwell, I am Daniel Gedeon from Coco de Mer Resort. Welcome to Praslin.'

  They shook hands, walked through the small terminal building and out onto the road. An old Mercedes taxi stood waiting for them, its boot already open. The porter from the airport placed their luggage inside and they were just about to climb into the back when Tom spotted the ox standing on the other side of the road. Across its neck was a roughly hewn yolk, carved from bulky sections of timber. Attached to the other end was a cart with two rows of sideways-facing seats under a pale blue canopy.

  'Daniel,' said Tom. 'Can we go in that instead?'

  Daniel looked confused. 'It will take you twenty minutes to get to the resort in that.'

  Tom shrugged. 'We're on holiday. Who cares about time?'

  He winked at Charlotte, who giggled and said, 'You're bloody mad.'

  Daniel smiled. 'I'll go ahead with your baggage. 'He strode across the road and spoke quietly with the driver in a language that resembled French then handed over some crumpled rupee notes. 'OK, I will see you at the resort. Enjoy your ride.'

  The driver goaded the beast into a slow amble, while Tom and Charlotte sat back on the wooden seats to enjoy the scenery. Passing a cluster of palm trees, Charlotte squeaked with disgust: hanging from their lower fronds was a mass of interlocking webs. Dotted around were hand-sized spiders, swaying gently in the breeze.

  'Oh, how gross. Do you reckon those things are poisonous?'

  Tom leaned forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed to the webs. 'Dangereuse?'

  'Non,' the man said with a languid shake of his head. 'Ils peuvent piquer,' he jabbed at the back of his hand to indicate it being stung, 'comme un abeille.'

  'OK, merci, 'Tom replied, sitting back. 'They can sting like a bee.'

  At the resort Daniel led them across the lawns to a bungalow, which lay behind a straggly cluster of palm trees, the veranda leading directly down on to the thick white sand of the beach.

  'Oh my God,' whispered Charlotte. As soon as Daniel had gone they tore open their suitcases and yanked out swimming costumes. Charlotte darted into the bedroom while Tom just stripped off where he stood. Seconds later, Charlotte re-emerged in a bright orange, low-cut number. Tom
eyed the perfect profile of her breasts as she raced for the door, then raised his eyes upwards in thanks that she was his. He pulled on his swimming shorts, pausing for a moment at the desk and checking the wall behind for an extra phone socket for his laptop's modem. Then he too ran from the bungalow. The sand was bleached white and so powdery it squeaked every time his feet connected with it. Charlotte was standing motionless in the shallows, the water boiling around her knees as the recently collapsed wave was sucked back out to sea in a mass of hissing bubbles. He drew level with her and wordlessly she pointed across the water.

  Over a backdrop of purple islands rising from the horizon, a distant flock of seabirds was crossing the sky. The slow flap of their wings caused shimmering sunlight to glance off their white underfeathers, making them glint and flash like a shoal of fish in a hazy sea.

  'It's so beautiful,' she murmured dreamily, as he curled an arm around her waist.

  Half an hour later, dripping wet from their swim, they staggered across the sand, hanging on to each other, bouts of breathless laughter making them unsteady on their feet. Back in the bungalow, neither said a word. Instead they made straight for the bedroom, leaving damp, sandy footprints on the tiled floor behind them.

  Shrugging the shoulder straps of her swimming costume off, Charlotte unrolled it down to her waist and lay back on the white sheets. Tom gazed down for an instant before climbing on to the bed. Staying on his knees, he leaned over her, swept wet tendrils of hair to the side and began kissing her damp neck. The draft from the ceiling fan above made him aware of the droplets of seawater still clinging to his back as he brushed his lips across her breasts, tasting the salt water on her skin, licking where it had pooled in the hollow of her navel, working his way further downwards before slipping her swimming costume off completely.

  The next morning they were just finishing off two tropical fruit salads in the huge timber-framed resort restaurant when Daniel wandered over and asked if they would like to book a 'Discover Scuba-diving' course.

  'The Seychelles have some of the finest reefs in the world,' he proudly announced. 'I can recommend it as the thing to do during your stay. Our diving instructor, Sean, is from Cairns in Australia. He says what we have here is equal to anything you'll see on the Great Barrier Reef.'

  Tom looked at Charlotte uncertainly – he'd never so much as snorkelled before. 'Can we?' she asked.

  Tom sat back. 'Why not?'

  'Excellent. I will let Sean know,' replied Daniel. 'When would you like to start?'

  'Let's not rush anything. Tomorrow, after lunch?' said Tom.

  After breakfast the next day Tom said with a sigh, 'Well, I suppose I'd better check back with the office and make sure everything hasn't collapsed.' They walked back to the bungalow and he plugged in the laptop and modem. Once the machine had booted up he tried to go online, but a window soon informed him that it could not make a connection. 'Shit!' swore Tom as the screen popped up for the second time.

  'What's wrong?' Charlotte called through from the kitchen.

  'No bloody internet connection.' Angrily Tom unplugged the laptop and put it back in the carry case. 'It'd better not be something wrong with the computer.'

  In the resort's office he was able to link up to the internet without problems. 'So it's the socket in the bungalow,' said Tom. 'Can you get it fixed immediately?'

  Daniel made a call, spoke briefly in the French dialect before looking mildly sheepish. 'An engineer can come out from Mahé in two days' time,' he told Tom.

  'Can we move bungalows, then? I stipulated that office facilities were essential when I made my booking. 'Tom was irritated at how, even in such idyllic surroundings, his businesslike tone had reappeared so easily.

  Daniel's embarrassment deepened. 'Your bungalow was a last-minute cancellation. All the others have been booked for months. But we can clear a desk for you here – you can make use of all our facilities until the problem is resolved.'

  Tom looked around the cramped room, catching the eye of the receptionist, who looked like her entire future happiness depended on him saying yes. 'OK, it will have to do.'

  Eagerly they cleared the desk in the corner and he sat down. As soon as he connected to his mailbox a message marked 'Urgent' appeared at the top. 'Lorzo's gone into receivership. Please call asap. Ges.'

  Tom stared at the screen, totally stunned. The printers were their sole supplier of building wrap posters and were midway through at least half a dozen jobs. He couldn't believe they'd gone bust.

  'Everything OK?' asked Daniel, nodding his head as if that could influence the answer.

  Tom looked up at him. 'I'll need to make a phone call. Could I have some privacy, please?'

  Daniel waved the girl from the room and closed the door behind him.

  'Ges, tell me that's a joke,' said Tom into his mobile, knowing it wasn't.

  At the other end of the line Ges said, 'Sorry, Tom. We heard yesterday. Anthony's buggered off back to Italy. His son's left here to pick up the pieces.'

  'How could they go belly up? They were raking it in from our business alone, surely?'

  'Everything was leased. They were so heavily into the bank you wouldn't believe it. You know how costs have come down now everything's gone digital; they were doing our stuff for next to no profit. Anyway, they missed too many payments and the bean counters decided enough was enough.'

  'I don't believe it. Erection dates are due for at least three of those fucking building wraps. Email me the contracts. I'll have to see how much liability rests with us if we miss the deadlines.'

  Tom opened the top drawer of the desk, vainly hoping a packet of paracetamol might be inside.

  When Charlotte knocked on the door at 2.30 Tom had to blink several times to adjust from the view on his laptop screen to his real-life surroundings.

  'Tom, you've been in here for hours! It's our diving lesson now. Do you need some lunch first?'

  Tom nearly burst out in hysterical laughter; his appetite had completely vanished. Instead he looked at his watch, deciding that nothing major was likely to occur in the next couple of hours. 'No,' he said, attempting a smile. 'Let's go for it. 'Plugging his mobile into the charger, he locked down his laptop and stood up.

  'Problems in the office?' asked Charlotte breezily as they walked across the foyer.

  'Yeah, a few hiccups.'

  As they approached the small hut by the swimming pool they could see a figure lounging in a hammock off to the side, one brown leg dangling above the grass. As they got nearer the well-toned torso of a young man, face hidden beneath a straw hat, was revealed to them.

  'Are you Sean?' asked Charlotte.

  The hat was removed and a handsome face appeared, all sparkling blue eyes and white teeth. Sean eased himself from the hammock and held out a hand. 'Charlotte and Tom, yeah?' he asked in an easygoing Australian accent.

  'That's us,' answered Charlotte, smiling.

  'Cool,' he said, looking up at the sky. 'I thought we could cover the theory bit today – about two hours' worth – and do the pool bit tomorrow. Sound good?'

  Thinking that he had to get back to events in Manchester, Tom quickly agreed, 'Yes, that's fine.' Hearing his own uptight tone, he looked at Charlotte and added more gently, 'No point in rushing anything, is there?'

  Charlotte shrugged her shoulders in passive agreement.

  'No worries,' answered Sean. 'Let's sit in the shade out here. I'll get the flipcharts. You guys want a Coke or anything?'

  The theory consisted of going over the basics of how the equipment worked, including the instruments on the tank and the rubber mouthpiece, known as the regulator. Finally he explained how an actual dive was conducted, pointing out that he would be divemaster and they would be each other's dive buddy. Tom found his attention kept wandering back to the office as he ran over in his mind how they would reschedule their printing jobs now Lorzo's had ceased trading.

  The end of the afternoon and early evening was spent exchanging emails and t
he odd phone call with Ges and the London office. It was 10 p. m. in the Seychelles and 6 p. m. in England when Tom finally conceded they would have to call it a day and resume tomorrow.

  In their bungalow he threw off his shirt and lay back on the bed, mind still racing. A light caress took him by surprise and he looked down to see Charlotte's fingers drawing a lazy circle across his stomach. Instead of instant stirrings of desire, all he felt was irritation at her touch. He turned away and, as her hand fell on to the mattress, he mumbled that the flight had finally caught up with him.

  *

  The phone began to blast out tinny music. Sly paused, the carapace of a live cricket held between one finger and thumb. At the bottom of the vivarium the tarantula's eight eyes fixed on the waving legs of the insect above and its own legs shuffled slightly in readiness for the coming meal.

  When Sly saw whose name was glowing on the display screen, he dropped the cricket to its death, slid the hood back over the vivarium and picked up the phone.

  'Hey Dan, where are yous?' Manchester accent almost pushing the words through his nose.

  'Outside the building, man. You ready?'

  He looked round the interior of his brand new Urban Living flat, eyes settling on the ornately carved wooden box sitting on the arm of the reclining chair that was positioned directly in front of the widescreen TV. 'Fancy coming in for a smoke or a toot before we get started?'

  'Nah, man, it'll be light in a few more hours. Let's get going.'

  Sly sighed and looked at his watch. 'OK.' Crouching down, he watched with pride as the spider crept stealthily towards the chirruping cricket, bunched legs rising and lowering as if controlled by a puppeteer's strings. Grinning, he stood up and put on a Helly Hansen jacket, then positioned a Burberry baseball cap over his ginger hair. After grabbing his little kit off the peg in the hall, he opened up the industrial-style metal door and stepped out onto the decking that bordered the feng shui courtyard shared by the flats in the renovated mill.