Leaving the body at the open door with the porch light illuminating the scene George made his way back down the drive and followed the road home. He was ready for his supper.
Chapter Two
George had something of a spring in his step as he opened his front door. He felt almost light headed and jolly. He hadn’t felt like this in years he thought to himself as he almost bounced into the living room and took off his overcoat. Gazing back at him from the television, the newscaster was smiling. “A most excellent job George, most excellent. And you look well I might add.”
“Well, yes it was easier than I thought it would be though the woman helped of course by…” George tried to reply before he was interrupted. “Yes of course it was easy my friend, you are a natural. I have another one for you. I think you’re going to like this. Do sit down and relax though. You’ve had a busy evening.”
The newscaster went back to reading the news and even mentioned the police and ambulance had turned up at the home of the Lady Mayoress who had apparently fallen at her front door. Cause of death at the moment was unknown but it was believed she had heart problems. George listened as he prepared himself a pile of corned beef sandwiches and a mug of tea. This killing business certainly worked up an appetite.
George returned to his chair in front of the television with his plate of sandwiches and his cup of tea.
“This chap here George is contemptible. He has made a fortune selling drugs to our impressionable youth.” The newsreader said as a photograph of a local celebrity came up on the screen. “Quite a well-known celebrity with all his millions from his seedy night club ventures. Or so people think. What they don’t know is that he peddles cocaine to the poor saps that visit his clubs. Young people have died because of him George. Cut down in their youth because of this scum bag. The police won’t touch him of course. Far too precious. This is a job for us George. Are you up to the task?”
“Well, I’ve only just got home. I’ve barely eaten yet” George replied. The newscaster laughed. “No not now of course. Eat, relax, and enjoy the glory of your first killing. This one is for much later tonight. His club doesn’t close until the early hours.”
George worked his way through the mountain of sandwiches and wandered into the bathroom to run a nice hot bath. He felt he deserved it. As he lay in the bathtub he could picture the terrified face of the Lady Mayoress as she collapsed to the floor. It brought a big smile to his face.
With a fluffy towel wrapped around his podgy waist, George sat himself again in front of the TV.
“He always arrives at one in the morning. He always uses the fire escape at the back so he doesn’t have to face anybody hassling him for a free entry at the main door. Plus he gets a lot of young women seeking him out back there to get a fix. If he likes the look of them he’ll take them into his private room. No need to tell you what happens then. He’s a monster. We need to remove him George. You can do this. I know you can.” The newscaster continued now that George was back in front of the screen.
“But I’m not exactly a young girl am I? I don’t think he’d be fooled even on a dark fire escape.” George replied with a rueful chuckle.
“No, you just wait behind the garbage bins and follow him up the stairs. There won’t be anyone else there tonight. Just him, and of course you. Strike from behind and strike hard. He’ll never know what hit him. Now get dressed it is midnight.”
George got dressed and with the hammer stowed in his overcoat pocket he made his way into town. He pulled his flat cap down well over his eyes as he approached the large night club. At the front of the club a handful of teenagers were hassling the doormen to let them in. Arguing for I.D the doormen weren’t letting anyone past without it. The arguing and heckling continued as George made his way past and around to the rear of the building.
Sure enough, as the newscaster had said, there was a corner with two large commercial bins just set back from the old, rickety fire escape. George slid behind them and waited.
Bartrum Jones arrived just before one o clock as forecast. He was dressed in a long camel hair coat covering his expensive, handmade suit. His tipped black boots clattered against the metalwork of the steps on the fire escape. Long grey hair cascaded down the back of his jacket in a ponytail. This of course didn’t convince anyone that he wasn’t almost totally bald on top, though none of his staff or acquaintances would ever dare mention it. George slid out from behind the bins and pulled the hammer from his overcoat pocket. He strode urgently after Bartrum Jones onto the staircase.
Jones whipped around as he was halfway up the wobbly staircase and saw George. His eyes flared in terror as he saw the hammer in George’s hand.
”Who the hell are you man?” Jones snarled. “Got a bad fix? See my lawyer and if I nailed your daughter last week, that’s tough shit too.”
George took another step towards him and Jones raised one of his expensively clad feet towards him. As he did so, the other man’s hand slid on the handrail. Jones grabbed hard on the rail and it shook under his firm grasp almost enough to shake George from the stairs.
As George recovered his balance and prepared to advance in spite of the flailing foot, the section Bartrum Jones was gripping gave way. The old metal framework gave way at the rusted joint with a loud crack and he swung out with it over the concrete yard below. He stared in terror at George as his hand slid off the metalwork and he plunged to the ground below. The one leg he had in the air flipped him over in an almost somersault as his head impacted on the concrete below making a loud splat.
George stepped down gingerly from the staircase and stood over the twitching body of Bartrum Jones. Blood seeped freely from a large gash in the side of the nightclub owners head and eventually he stopped twitching, stopped breathing and as is the way of situations like this, he stopped living too.
George, certain that someone would have heard the commotion made a speedy exit from the yard and out onto the street. Remembering he had the hammer clenched tight in his hand he quickly dropped it into his pocket and pulled down his cap. He was almost skipping as he made his way past the front of the club and back on the road home. The doormen at the front were still arguing with the teenagers that had tried to get in without an I.D and didn’t seem to have noticed the noise around the back. George was confident and feeling a slow warm glow overcome him as he strode back to his house.
He’d rather liked the thump the body had made as it impacted on the concrete below. There was something satisfying about that sound.
“Two in one day. That is something of an achievement and it is noted George. You are, without a doubt, a natural.” The newscaster said as George set himself down in his little living room.
“Well, yes I suppose I am’” George replied. He was quite elated with his successful first day of his new job but it was incredibly tiring. As he gazed at the screen he could hear the voice of the newsreader in the distance and slowly fading as George slipped into a deep sleep.
When George awoke, early the next morning, he was startled to feel refreshed and alert. Since his attack all those years ago he had dreaded the mornings. He was used to waking up after a long night of tossing and turning with nightmares. He would ache in every conceivable part of his body and would have absolutely no interest in facing a new day save watching the television. Today was different. Today he felt alive, which was more than could be said for those two people last night he chortled to himself. Today he would go to the newsagents and buy the morning papers.
Returning home with an armful of newspapers he sat himself down at the small dining table with a mug of tea, to read. He knew what he was looking for and was delighted to find a picture of Bartrum Jones on page one of the “Daily Rally.”
The headline was loaded with shock and sadness at the death of the great philanthropist with pictures of Jones meeting royalty and holding a small child in an African village.
George was a touch deflated the Lady Mayoress didn’t do better than page three and ev
en then got little more than an acknowledgement that she had even existed.
He patiently cut out all the clippings and pinned them all on the kitchen wall. He stood back and felt proud. Proud and quite smug. The press hadn’t reported any of the criminal activities of the two. That of course was something for George and the newscaster to know obviously and not the common folk.
Chapter Three
“No time to rest on your laurels George, we have work to do. Do you go to church? No I don’t suppose you do.” The newscaster said as George was admiring his handiwork in the kitchen. George walked back into the living room and sat down in his armchair.
“No I was never a churchgoer. I always found it rather hypocritical and I of course always tried to be a good upstanding member of the community anyway.”
“Indeed you are and I would agree there is a touch of hypocrisy about this whole religion business. A lot of hypocrisy actually, which is why our next task is so important.”
“It is?” George asked.
“Yes it is. Have you ever heard of Father Manuel Spencer? He is the priest at the church of St. Mildred’s down the road.”
“No, I don’t think I have. If I was ever going to go to a church it wouldn’t be a Catholic one. They do have some strange ways them types.”
“Strange indeed and the hypocrisy is rife with Father Spencer.” The newscaster said. “Later this evening he will be on a flight to Ireland where he will be meeting his friend, the Bishop. From there he flies to the United States. Do you know why George?”
“I have no idea” George replied.
“In the United States he will take on a small church and also a large off-shore bank account. Between the good Father and the Bishop they have embezzled millions from the poor parishioners of Manchester. All those good kind people giving over their hard earned wages in the hopes of a place in heaven. Stolen. It makes my blood boil George, I don’t know about you.” The newscaster replied.
“I see.” George replied. “And obviously you want me to deal with him.”
“Of course. This will be easy. Today is Sunday. After the service and the congregation have left, he likes to have the place to himself and sit alone in his office at the back of the chapel. He enjoys a few glasses of the finest cognac as he sits, adding up his accounts on the internet. He will be all alone from three in the afternoon for about an hour before he leaves to get his flight to Dublin. Simply knock on the office door and go in. Take your trusty hammer and save these poor people a fortune.“ The newscaster said. “Three pm George. Don’t be late.”
George wasn’t late. At five minutes to three he was walking up the drive of the church to the large front door. It was a double door and one half had been left open. George glanced around the churchyard. It was quiet. He hadn’t been here for maybe ten years when he had attended the funeral of a work colleague who had suffered a heart attack while writing out a parking ticket. Died doing what he loved George always thought. A trooper to the end.
George made his way into the large alcove at the entrance to the church. He noticed the charity collection box on a table near the door and wondered how much of the donations ever went to where they were intended. He moved in through the wide, solid doors and was soon within the church itself. High above him he noted the large arched beams carrying the vaulted roof, supported on stone pillars and decorated in detailed gold leaf.
Moving down the aisle of the church he saw the small door at the rear of the ornate alter. He continued towards it sliding his hand into his overcoat pocket. He smiled as he felt the comforting solidity of the hammer shaft in his hand. As he reached for the handle of the door to the priest’s office it sprang open and the priest stood before him. Father Spencer was in a hurry and almost ran straight into George as he emerged. The father shuffled to one side and the pair of them began a gentleman’s excuse me as they both shifted from foot to foot.
George was drawing the hammer from his pocket as the priest pushed him firmly to one side and stepped past him into the aisle.
“Terribly sorry my son but I am in something of a hurry. Got a plane to catch you know? My secretary should be here shortly if you’d like to leave a message. Very sorry, must dash.” Father Spencer blurted out moving away from George and not really noticing the hammer in George’s hand.
Confused, George took a large swing with the hammer, at the back of the exiting priest, but Father Spencer was already three paces ahead and not looking back. He had a large suitcase in one hand and was clutching a handful of papers in the other. His flight tickets and passport George guessed as he hurried after the priest to the main door.
George was not in the best of condition for a drawn out chase but continued his pursuit as they emerged into the church yard and the drive to the main road. The priest turned for a moment and saw George a short distance behind him, scowling, breathing heavy and with the hammer high in the air. A bout of panic and realization hit Father Spencer as he crashed into the gate. His spectacles flew off his head and he spun almost 360 degrees into the road now almost blind without his glasses. So blind he could no longer see George gaining ground on him. Nor could he see the taxi he stepped in front of as the driver slammed on the brakes and steered to avoid him.
The taxi of course was the one that would be picking up the good Father to take him to the airport. As the priest spiraled high into the air before crashing down onto the finely polished front of the taxi, his last thoughts as his head hit the windscreen was how the driver was always punctual. His body sprawled and twitched for some minutes before coming to a restful stop. His head almost severed as it gazed at the terrified taxi driver.
George stood in silence and shock at the spectacle before him. He slid the hammer quietly into his pocket and tried to control his breathing. He stepped over the suitcase the priest had dropped and slowly made his way down the road home. The sirens were already wailing past him as he strolled past his once a week diner. No time for celebrating with a burger today he thought. Time to get home and get the old tired feet up. Running wasn’t his thing at all. Father Spencer had been tall, fit, and good looking, but almost blind without his glasses. Such was the cruelty of nature and the benefit of George. He arrived home and set himself down in his chair. He clicked on the television to be greeted by the newscaster. The newscaster was smiling.
“Another fine success George. You look tired. Treat yourself to a long hot soak today. I think you’ve earned it.” The newscaster said.
“Yes, I believe I have. A job well done though, if I do say so myself.” George replied.
“So explain to me how this all works. Who exactly are you that you have all this information on the bad guys? I don’t think even MI5 are that clever, to know people so well?”
“We are known as the Legion George. We know everything about everyone. You are becoming something of a celebrity with us. Your success is echoing far and wide these last few days.” The news reporter said. “You may of course call me Legion. As I represent the many.”
“Hmm, Legion. That name rings a bell. I’m not the religious type as you know but I’m sure that name has come up somewhere.” George replied.
“You are wise not to be taken in by the dogmas of others George. Now don’t worry over it. Tomorrow is another day and another task. This one is very important. I think you will enjoy it. Now take that soak in the bath. We will talk soon.”
* * *
Monday morning saw George leap out of bed and rush to the kitchen to prepare himself a breakfast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually bounced out of bed feeling so pain-free and energized. But he was starving. Breakfast usually didn’t get entertained until well after midday. That would be when the aches and pains would ease and George would begin to feel the hunger pangs overriding the stomach ulcers.
This morning he felt an omelet was in order. A big one. Four eggs, tomato, cheese and some diced up Spam he’d found in the cupboard. A large dollop of mayonnaise stirred in and he felt this was wo
rthy of a TV show of its own.
“Good morning George! Glad to see you slept well. You seem to have worked up an appetite.” Legion said from the TV.
“Yes I feel wonderful, thank you. Do excuse me while I eat. Oh and good morning to you too Legion.” George replied.
“Today, we take out a scourge of the people. A parasite. A politician. There are few parasites worse than a politician George as we saw with our Lady Mayoress. Give these people a bit of power and their greed becomes endless.” Legion said.
“I totally agree.” George replied. “I’ve never been too interested in politics. They all sound like lying criminals to me. They say all the right things to get elected then screw us every chance they get.”
“The same the whole world over George. They despise the poor for needing assistance as they feed off as much assistance as they can scrounge on their 'Allowances'. They are the lowest of all humanity.”
“So who is this one?” George asked through mouthfuls of omelet.
“Our target today is Sir Humphrey Pendlington-Smythe. He and his family before him have been feeding off the taxpayers' teat for four hundred years. A family business of politics and greed. But it seems his table can never be full enough with just the money he steals from the public as a politician. He is paid by companies to push through planning applications. Applications that would be rejected out of hand ordinarily. Plans for fracking rights, building rights and gobbling up green land rights. This man will and has signed them all if the price is right. But only this week he agreed to cut spending on the disabled. Wasteful scroungers we can’t afford, he believes. He has to go George. He has to go today.” Legion growled through the TV set.
“I completely agree. The man sounds an utter bastard. I knew they would be targeting my money again. I can barely eat as it is. How do we get at this scumbag?” George asked angrily.
Thriller: Horror: Serial Killer (Mystery Suspense Thrillers) (Haunted Paranormal Short Story) Page 2