Splintered

by Laura J Harris

  But, Vince wasn’t here.

  He’d forgotten just how much he enjoyed it all.

  How much more he could do? How far could he go? How creative could he be now that he was alone? Now that no one could throw restraint upon him.

  Ah, Murder. It was the most dangerous and seductive of all his favourite drugs; it was the quiet stranger he had missed for so long. And taking this man’s life — this pathetic puke of a medical man — was like the welcoming home of an old friend.

  A friend who’d been subdued for far too long.

  Chapter Two

  08:01

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  ‘Throw down your weapons!’

  Jonathan Prior shouted over the clamour of bullets that ricocheted off the metal beams and breezeblock surrounding him. The deafening boom of discharged shotguns and semi-automatics was accompanied by the distinctive, ringing pop of at least twelve pistols being fired and reloaded in rapid succession.

  But all this noise did nothing to distract him from the one sound he’d never — ever — be able to shake for the rest of his days. A sound that would haunt his dreams for years to come.

  The sound of grown men crying.

  Good officers and scum sobbing alike as the life seeped from their bodies in ribbons of red. Lying at his feet, Prior’s partner clutched the open-wound that used to be his stomach, coughing up blood with every tortured breath.

  ‘Hold on, Yates.’ he whispered.

  Ducking down behind the crates and junk of the warehouse he removed the empty clip from his gun, slipped in a new magazine and was picking off two more enemies in under thirty seconds. The men were pacified — each shot in the right shoulder — but not dead. Nor were they likely to die from their injuries. Unlike Yates.

  His team were bound by rules and red-tape to do their best to protect these low-lives, to bring them down in one piece. One piece that could be questioned afterwards. The last thing the department needed was more bad press; more accusations of police brutality. But what about a botched-up raid? An out-and-out blood bathed shoot ‘em up? These scum-bags didn’t aim to pacify; they shot to kill.

  It pissed Prior off that they’d been sent in so ill-prepared. After months of surveillance, of tailing, under-cover operations and evidence-gathering; after building such a strong case against Simmons and his cronies. But senior management had pushed. And pushed.

  Elections were coming up. And the city council wanted to remind the people of Merseyside exactly why they were in power and why they should remain there. And it didn’t matter if a few uniforms were lost along the way.

  It didn’t matter that a good DI with a string of appraisals, an unblemished history of service, a wife and three young daughters was bleeding to death at this very moment. What did matter was that the council appeared tough on organised crime and to hell with the lives of his officers and their families.

  Fucking politicians. Fucking bureaucratic bastards!

  ‘Fuck this!’ he thought.

  He needed to clear a path if he had any chance of saving Yates, of calling for extra units. Or paramedics. He’d get Yates to the hospital himself; blues-and-twos it down the M53. There would be no hope in trying to make it back across the water from Birkenhead at this time, but he could get to Arrowe Park Hospital in around five minutes if he floored it. Radio ahead, get Yates seen quickly.

  Maybe there was a chance.

  But, if he didn’t pick off someone important — and quick — they’d sit here shooting at him and his few remaining men like tin-ducks at a fairground stall until they ran out of ammo.

  He peered through a gap between a stack of metal barrels to find Keating – Simmons’ right-hand man — taking a knife to a young cadet. Prior didn’t know the boy personally, but that wouldn’t make it any easier when it came to offering condolences to his family. Knowing they would want to be told that his death had been quick and painless.

  The boy was screaming, sobbing, begging for his life as Keating sliced at his face, tearing his young flesh and discarding it onto the metal mesh of the upper floor. His hands were tied and he wriggled and squirmed as the knife was suddenly thrust into his thigh and twisted. The boy yelped in agony and pleaded to deaf ears.

  Keating’s nick-name was The Scalpel.

  The reasoning behind that name was fast becoming more and more vividly apparent. He was certainly skilled with a blade; a self-professed sick fuck who prided himself on keeping his victims alive and suffering for as long as possible.

  As long as he liked.

  And yet sicker still, laughing and taunting even as the young cadet spat blood and pleaded with them to stop, was the twisted face and head of this mismatched criminal family; the reason they’d all come together in the first place. Jacob Matthew Simmons.

  And to think, his mother had given him such a biblical name. The only kind of righteousness Simmons knew was self-righteousness; he was a swindling crook, a thug, a pimp and a general, all-round bastard.

  Prior knew he had no other choice. Knew they’d torture the boy for fun, keep him hanging on for hours — or days — if they could.

  He had no clear shot at either Keating or Simmons and, cursing under his breath, raised his gun to put a single bullet in the lad’s head.

  His body slumped to the deck.

  He shouldn’t have even been here.

  Keating turned, pissed that someone had dared to interfere with his happy-time, while Simmons, who had just been giggling like a twisted, sadistic schoolboy, was momentarily stunned into silence.

  Then suddenly the heavy-looking fire-door behind the pair was thrown open and Simmons moved towards it with such a speed that it caught Prior almost completely off guard.

  But, he wasn’t about to let them get away so easily.

  He moved from his hiding place under heavy fire from Simmons’ minions as he darted forward to get a clear shot. Red-hot metal tore through the flesh of his arm, another bored into his thigh as he threw himself painfully against a length of pipes.

  But now The Scalpel had him in his sights.

  Time seemed to slow as events collided in a surge of blood and bullets.

  ‘I told you to stay outside!’

  The voice belonged to Simmons. He blocked the fire-escape and the slight figure that stood beyond. A tiny figure, nothing more than a silhouette. A girlfriend, maybe? Who could tell?

  One thing was certain, he wasn’t getting away this time.

  Prior took aim, steadying himself against the wall. He pumped off two rounds.

  They found their target. The first severing Simmons’ spinal cord at the neck and the second splitting his head wide open, splattering the minute figure that stood before him with brain matter, shattered bone and blood.

  In the next moment Prior was thrown forward — pressed forward — by a vent of scalding hot air that surged suddenly from the pipe behind him.

  It seemed that The Scalpel was not only good with a knife, but also incredibly accurate with a gun.

  Prior heard a something which sounded totally inhuman. It was somewhere between a scream and a low, rasping moan. He felt the flesh on his back began to bubble and burst. And only in his final moments of consciousness, before the falling crates and barrels pinned him in agony to the dusty cement floor — before he split his head so wide that it would later require sixteen stitches — only then did he realise that the terrible, painful sound had been born in him.

  That it had issued from his lungs. And passed his lips.

  Prior jumped.

  He sat bolt upright in a bed cold and wet with his sweat; a thin, clammy film covering his body. A film that sheathed his lean torso and solid abs. His scarred back.

  A perfect bead rolled down between his eyes and over his strong nose as he panted, trying desperately to regulate his breathing. To regain control.

  It was just a dream. Just a dream.

  A nightmare.

  A memory.

  He pressed his palms into the mattr
ess, trying to steady himself, pushing back the bile that torched its way up from his stomach. Come on, Jon. Get a grip!

  He looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. 08:05.

  Shit!

  Why hadn’t his alarm gone off? Maybe it had. Maybe he’d hit the snooze button in his sleep again. That was happening more and more lately.

  And it wasn’t just the getting-up he was having trouble with, but actually getting to sleep in the first place.

  He swung his legs off the mattress and, wiping his face — massaging the sleepy skin — he forced himself to his feet.

  Quick shower today.

  Then again, it usually was.

  As he passed the bathroom mirror he caught a glance of the scarring that crept across his back and his right shoulder; a mass of thick, white webs spun across torched-red flesh that still looked tender fifteen years on. Scarred tissue creeping over his collar bone like a long, bony finger; the hand of Death reminding him just how close he’d come to never leaving that warehouse.

  He’d stopped trying to hide the pencil-mark scar that cut back from his hairline a long time ago. It was visible, but not all that noticeable.

  Unless you were looking for it.

  Prior exhaled a sigh. It was the breath of an apology. The same apology he’d made silently to his team all those years ago; that he had made with every breath he had taken in and exhaled ever since that day. That awful day when he had been the only one to survive.

  One of eighteen.

  He supposed that made him lucky. But that didn’t stop him feeling guilty. It only made things worse.

  Come on, you self-pitying dick.

  He reprimanded himself, turning on the shower. Checking the temperature was only degrees above luke-warm, the ex-DI stepped inside the awful, cream, plastic cubicle.

  The bile rose in his throat once more.

  09:40

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  He stirred. Groggily. Head still thumping.

  Where the hell . . .

  Ah. It came back to him. The sea; the nausea; the opera; the headache; the Polish girl; the nausea; the doctor . . . the doctor!

  A self-satisfied, satanic grin spread across his face as he rubbed his eyes. Sitting up, he took stock of the lavish room that Vince had clearly spared no expense in booking. Good. At least he’d be travelling in style, even if he did feel sick as a dog!

  Painkillers!

  He searched the bed frantically. Picking up his trousers, he went through his pockets. He found his cardkey, four pound twenty-six in change, a pre-rolled joint, a lighter . . . but no painkillers.

  He hadn’t . . . Oh, he fucking had! He’d left them in the Medical bay!

  Fuck! After all that!

  Still, at least he had the joint.

  He crawled on his stomach towards the glass doors. They opened inwardly and would lead anyone who’d actually be crazy enough to want to go out there onto a dark-wood decked balcony.

  He pulled the left door open. Just a crack. There was a wrought-iron and glass patio table with a parasol and two matching chairs bolted to the deck outside.

  Not that he’d be sitting in either of the chairs!

  Lighting up, he rolled onto his back, inhaling deeply. The sweet, sweet green calming him; numbing him with every drag. Working its way across his brain; snaking towards his pain receptors.

  He lay this way for several minutes, contented. Drifting.

  Ah, yes. That was so much better.

  Dragging his last hit down to the roach he held onto the smoke, tossing the butt outside and slowly exhaling through his nose. He turned over and lay on his stomach for several minutes more. Eyes closed. Breathing in the salty air.

  Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. Being at sea.

  He could feel the soft motions of the ship on the water; he was even acknowledging the fact he was actually on water instead of trying to convince himself otherwise. The air was fresh and nice and full of potential. The potential to sit outside and enjoy himself, to bask in that morning sun that was already delightfully warm.

  He opened his eyes just as a stray wave splashed up, spraying the decking. Spraying his face.

  Fuck that!

  Throwing the door shut, he turned and rolled — army-style — towards the centre of the room before hauling himself on his elbows across the lush, cream carpet towards the bathroom. Once inside, he pulled down the toilet lid and sat there, head in hands, breathing deeply.

  Though the joint had numbed the pain in his head greatly, it was still present. Nagging behind his eyes, drumming his temples from the inside, squeezing at the base of his skull like a ferret clamping onto his spinal cord! Gnawing. Gnawing.

  He looked up and out across the room. It was fairly neat! But then it was early days yet.

  Suddenly, and with great delight, his pale blue eyes fell upon the untouched mini-bar.

  Thank you, God!

  How had he missed that before now?

  Snatching the cardkey from the bed, he swiped it through reader on the side of the fridge and opened the door. Oh, well-stocked heaven of alcoholic beverages!

  Taking two vodka miniatures and a blue-canned energy drink from the top shelf he scooted back to the bathroom, careful not to notice the watery view in his periphery as he went.

  He burst the packaging on one of the non-descript plastic tumblers that were always provided in hotel bathrooms then emptied one tiny bottle of vodka into the tumbler before opening and pouring in half a can of the honey-coloured fizzy drink. While it settled he opened the second vodka bottle, swigging half of it in one shot.

  He grimaced and shook his head, pouring the remainder into the tumbler.

  Sitting on the toilet once more, drink in hand, he leaned back against the cool tiles, sipping at the drink and feeling his brain begin to spark as he recalled the events of the previous night.

  He sat there, smiling. Contemplating death.

  Not his own. No, God no, that would be morbid!

  He thought of death; the act.

  Of physically holding the life of another in his hands . . . and slowly . . . slowly squeezing. The pure, unadulterated pleasure of it burst like the golden bubbles on his tongue.

  A vibrant thrill tickled inside his stomach. It stirred at his groin.

  Yes, the sea air was full of potential. Just not the sort he’d first imagined.

  There was the potential here — miles away from land and coppers — to get really creative with death. Unbridled and free from Vince — for all his good intentions — he could finally make his mark.

  So . . . where to begin?

  10:15

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  Christine Kane sat in the conservatory beyond the Grande Central restaurant. She had been relieved to find the doors open, though it was still incredibly humid inside.

  Her polished cane was leant against the soft-cushioned chair next to her and — as was her usual routine for this time — she was busy updating her journal with her thoughts, her views and her feelings concerning the events of the previous night. Though she had already managed to fill two pages on that particular subject upon returning to her room after leaving Kelly that evening!

  Sleep had been nowhere in sight and simply could not be tempted near. Even after a shower and a glass of red as she slipped under the crisp, new duvet of the luxurious double bed; even as she ate up the latest chapters of her favourite author. She was simply nowhere near tired enough to drift off and sleep.

  No matter which way she had tried to occupy her brain, her thoughts would return to settle around the idea that this big, comfy bed would be an awful lot comfier and somewhat more exciting if a certain someone were sharing it with her.

  Stop it!

  She was feeling giddy again; butterflies in the pit of her stomach. It was stupid. She was acting like a doe-eyed school girl, lusting after . . . after . . . the successful and confident young woman she’d met only the night before. The virtual stranger to wh
om she had even given her number!

  She never did that!

  She knew she was falling for the raven-haired artist with the amazing blue eyes.

  Who was she kidding? She had already fallen for her.

  This woman who was fifteen minutes late for their breakfast date. No, not a date. A meeting. Or was it a date? No, it should definitely — for the time being at least — be a friendly breakfast meeting between two people interested in getting to know one another. But then, wasn’t that a date?

  Oh, damn it!

  Not that it mattered if she didn’t bother to show up.

  Then she’d be glad it hadn’t been a date after all. She had never been stood up by a woman before and didn’t plan to be on her first ever date with one.

  Not that this was a date!

  ‘Would you like to order breakfast now, Dr Kane?’

  The friendly, young waitress had been twice since she’d seated her; once to refill her coffee and once to asked that same question. But, that had been over thirty minutes ago. And Christine was beginning to feel the waking growl of the hunger that had been slumbering inside her stomach.

  She smiled at the blonde-haired girl who waited patiently.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone.’ she said.

  The waitress returned her smile with a small nod and shifted her weight to continue serving other guests.

  ‘Actually,’ Christine conceded, ‘Can I have the full English without mushrooms or black pudding, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ The waitress laughed, scribbling her order, ‘D’you want toast with that?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘White or brown?’

  ‘Brown.’

  ‘Marg or butter?’

  ‘Oh, butter.’ Christine smiled, ‘Definitely butter.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  Christine returned her attention to her journal, spelling out KELLY LIVINGSTONE for the umpteenth time.

  God, she had it bad!

  But, there was still no sign of Kelly.

  Good job it wasn’t a real date.

  10:15

  Saturday 14th May, 2011

  Up on deck.

  He felt pretty pleased with himself; with his accomplishments so far. He didn’t dare walk too near to the edge, just kept to the centre of the top deck, already crowded with couples, laughing and sunbathing. And children — too many children — running around without a care.