Fifty Two Weeks of Murder

by Owen Nichols

  “What is it you say? Walk tall, stand strong, isn’t it? Lucy was a fighter, I’ll give her that.” An icy chill of fear rippled down her spine at his words. She’d only ever said that to Aaron. Buckland saw her look and gave a triumphant smile. “The advantage, Miss Anders, of being on the committee that set up this wonderful taskforce is that I know where everyone lives.” He looked at her with hooded eyes and raised his hands, the noise of the steel chains through the hoop suddenly loud in the room.

  “Please remember Miss Anders, that I have a higher purpose,” he said, aping his blog in a mocking tone. “When you do what I do, you become more than an individual with an ideology. You become an entity. And as an entity, I, no, we, are legion.”

  Anders shoved her chair back with such force that it clattered off the wall behind her, aghast as he spoke, a snarl spearing his smile. “The Devil wants his share Miss Anders. We’re here to collect on his behalf.” She tore from the room, Buckland’s cackling following her as she left, and took out her phone. Dialling Aaron as she moved, she cursed when there was no reply. The phone rang ominously. Aaron was proud of his phone. It never left his side.

  “Jesse?” she said out loud.

  “On it,” came his voice through her earpiece. “Barry is hooking you up with an exit strategy. Got you a bike.” She gave him Aaron’s number.

  “Keep trying,” she said, sprinting through the Hub. Abi and Helen give her anxious looks as she passed and grabbed some Aviators from her desk as she headed for the parking lot. Careening down the corridor, she saw Barry, Duncan and Jesse by the entrance. The barricade was down, thick metal doors barring the way. Barry was struggling into a vest, his broken collarbone making the task difficult. She also saw Ben trying to fit himself into a vest and helmet that was clearly too big for him. Anders shook her head.

  “Don’t do this Ben,” she said. He gave her a lopsided grin as he buckled the straps to his helmet.

  “You may be the only person I’ve met smarter than me, but I’ll be damned if you’re braver.” Anders hugged him briefly, unable to speak.

  “Over here,” called Jesse and pointed to a police motorbike resting against a large truck. The top of the vehicle had a hose attached and a large tank filled with water below it. Jesse was settling into the seat behind the hose as Duncan switched on the engine.

  Anders sprinted to the bike and gunned the engine. Barry approached and handed her a Glock. She looked at his bandaged arm.

  “You don’t need to do this,” she said and he smiled at her.

  “Would you do this for me?” he asked. They both knew the answer and she was glad that the Aviators hid her emotions. He gave the signal and the metal doors started to rise, a cacophony of noise reaching them as the chaos from the riots outside poured through. Jesse gave Anders the thumbs up as Barry picked up a riot shield with his good arm and trotted alongside Duncan’s door as he drove the van out, Ben strutting alongside Barry and shielding his weaker side. He looked tiny and petrified, but held his chin high, shouting a battle cry that was soon lost to the noise.

  Within moments, a stream of people started to enter the parking lot, gleefully seeing a way in to claim their reward or kill Buckland. Either reason didn’t matter to Anders as they swarmed in. Jesse turned the hose on and sprayed the crowd, knocking them from their feet with the force of the jet. A few tried to duck under the spray and were bashed aside by Barry as he protected Duncan who drove forward, Ben using the huge shield he carried with purpose. Together, they cleared a path out from the building, but the streets were overflowing with a mass of seething humanity.

  The van was quickly swamped and the hose could only push so many back. Anders spied a gap in the crowd as Jesse sprayed them and spurred the bike forward, the vehicle responding to her touch with a snarl. The bike roared through the crowd. A few men tried to knock her off but were thrown back by the hose. She burst from the rioters and found herself on the street. Looking in the mirror, she saw the van overrun by the hateful mob and prayed for their safety, guilt at leaving them behind tormenting her.

  She pushed the bike hard, leaning in to the corners and hitting the bridge, Parliament blazing behind her as she sped to Richmond, her arm starting to bleed again with every turn of the handle. Panic gripped her and she forced it down, pushing the bike beyond its limits. She wore no helmet, relying on the shades to protect her eyes, hair whipping around her as she passed through red lights and swerved around abandoned cars. The slightest knock and she’d be instantly killed at the speed she was travelling.

  In her ear, the headpiece sprang to life, barely audible in the wind.

  “It’s Helen,” came the voice. “I’m trying to call Aaron for you, but I’m not getting through. There’s no patrol cars nearby either. I’m sorry.”

  “Are they ok? Back at the station?” she yelled, the wind snatching her voice away.

  Anders wove through some burnt out cars and an explosion from a petrol station nearly knocked her from the bike. She didn’t hear the reply and a static in her ear told her she’d lost contact with Helen. She was engulfed in a tide of despair, fear clawing at her. She knew the look Buckland had given her in the room. It was the look of a hunter catching his prey, the look of the spiteful practising cruelty. She pushed the bike harder again, not caring for her own safety. Around her she saw looting and destruction on a scale not seen since the Blitz, but she ignored the wanton damage.

  A short while later, but what seemed like hours to Anders, she arrived at her block of flats and skidded to a halt, leaping from the bike and reaching for the Glock she’d tucked into her belt. It wasn’t there, having fallen off during the ride. Hoping she wouldn’t need it, she rammed her way through the front door and hurtled up the stairs. At the top, she slammed open the stairwell door to find them in the hallway.

  Lawrence Buckland and Lady Margaret stood by the lift, waiting for it to arrive. Anders had moments to take it in. She saw the surprise on their faces, saw the bag Margaret was holding, a bloody sickle poking out from it, saw the spots of blood that freckled their clothing, saw the gun in Lawrence’s hand.

  Saw the door to her flat at the end of the corridor.

  It was ajar, the lock broken and splintered.

  In his shock at seeing Anders, Lawrence wasted precious seconds before raising his gun. Anders wasted no time. She sprinted towards Lawrence, a look of surprise on his face as he saw her coming. He managed to raise his weapon in time to fire one shot, the bullet piercing her shoulder, white hot pain tearing through her swifter than lightening. Rage drove her on and she moved to within lovers touch.

  She reached out, grabbed the gun and, with the other hand, slammed his elbow up, cartilage snapping as the joint was smashed the wrong way. He dropped the gun and she caught it, firing her reply, the sound concussive in the narrow corridor.

  Lawrence screamed shrilly as the bullet took out his kneecap, the bone shattering in an explosion of pain. The second bullet removed his manhood and he mewed simperingly as he tried to crawl away. A third bullet shattered his spine at the waist.

  Lady Margaret, shocked at the speed of the violence, dropped her bag, grabbing the sickle at the same time. With consummate ease, Anders took it from her as she spun around Margaret, one arm taking her neck, the other holding the sickle to her stomach.

  “Please,” whimpered Lady Margaret. Anders had stared into the darkness for a long time. She knew it intimately. Her light shone in the dark to protect those in need. A different light shone now. Righteousness. In his madness, Jonathan Sanders had seen it in her and now Lady Margaret saw it as Anders pulled the blade across her torso, the cold steel opening her stomach and spilling her intestines to the floor. She screamed in pain as Anders tossed her aside.

  The brutal violence had taken mere seconds.

  Anders dropped the blade and walked to the door at the end of the corridor, ignoring the screams that followed her. Blood poured from the wound in Anders’ shoulder and her rib had certainly snapped in the expl
osive movement. She felt the two pieces rub against each other painfully. Stitches torn, the wound in her arm bled freely and her vision swam, the world suffused with numbing cinders of agony. Anders ignored the pain, the fatigue and her failing body. She was consumed with dread. She knew what she would find beyond that door and hesitated, unsure whether she would survive what she would see.

  Steeling herself, she pushed the door open with a trembling, blood soaked hand and entered the flat.

  Moments later, cries of grief filled the hall as Anders was torn apart by loss of the most desecrating kind.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is a long, solitary process, but you can’t do it alone. Without Emma, Josh and Wilson, there would be no book. Emma for driving me on to be better, Josh for making me prove that I could do this and Wilson for listening to all of my crazy ideas, even though he didn’t have a choice. You are my family and I love you without reserve or measure.

  I’d like to thank those who read the manuscript and didn’t judge me too harshly or get worried about my state of mind. Lauren, Brooke, Fiona and, of course, Patrick, whose brutal honesty made the book immeasurably better.

  A special mention to John as well. His enthusiasm forced me to try harder at making it something that I could be proud of.

  For my Spanish lessons, Caroline, Kimberly, thank you. For red penning the work, a thank you to Didier. My jokes are terrible, so I relied on Sophie to help me out with her Top Ten Jokes.

  Finally, a shout out to Louise. You know why. Have at ‘em girl.

  About the author

  Owen lives in London with his wife, son and retriever. Originally from Wales, he moved to London for a short stay fourteen years ago. He works in a school in Wimbledon as Head of Science. He's often found on Wimbledon common walking the dog and plotting his next book, the retriever being a good listener to his more outlandish ideas.

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  @ojnichols1

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  o.bd@hotmail.co.uk

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  www.owennichols.co.uk

  for interviews, latest news and more!

  Don’t miss the terrifying story behind Anders’ ordeal at the hands of The Washington Whipper.

  This short story is available exclusively on Kindle