“You put my entire family in hospital. Where the hell did you think I’d be, you moron?”
“Man, you must be outta your mind, frontin’ on me!”
“You almost killed my family, yet you can flirt with the fucking nurse like nothing happened. You think I’m the one who’s out of my mind?”
“That shit was Frankie’s deal. I was just along for the ride, blud.”
“Well, you won’t have a problem telling the police what happened, then.”
Jordan’s sickly face turned sour. “I ain’t saying shit to no one – especially the pigs. Frankie’s my boy and I don’t know what you’re talking about, anyway. I ain’t seen him in weeks. If someone took it to your family then they must’ve had it coming.”
Before Andrew had any chance to realise what he was doing, he’d thrown a punch at Jordan, hard enough to knock him off right off the bed. He hit the floor and clutched at his already wounded cheek. Andrew’s blow had spread open the bite mark and creamy pus trickled down Jordan’s face. The boy lay there for a moment, dazed, but then seemed to become possessed by a rage of his own. “Motherfucker!” He sprang up at Andrew, lashing out, not with his fists, but with a blade that he’d produced as if by magic.
Andrew stepped forward to meet the boy and managed to get both hands around Jordan’s knife-arm. A struggle ensued that sent the pair of them stumbling against the bed. Andrew had the leverage advantage and managed to bear down on top of Jordan, forcing him back against the bed. The knife pointed straight at Andrew’s face but it got no closer as he fought against it. In fact, the knife was beginning to move away from Andrew. The tip of the blade twisted, gradually pointing back towards the opposite direction. Jordan’s grip faltered – perhaps due to the weakness of his infection. Andrew realised that weapon was now under his control and that it would head wherever he wanted it to.
But where do I want it to head, exactly? What the hell am I doing?
Despite his weakening struggles Jordan still found the gall to spit in Andrew’s face. “Fucking white boy! You and your family are dead meat.”
Perhaps he thought the threat would get him back the advantage, but it didn’t. Andrew’s temper flared beyond control and he leant down on the knife, pushing with all of his remaining strength and adding his weight behind it.
The tip entered Jordan’s stomach just below his bottom rib.
All of the gangster-like aggression was gone, draining away, replaced by the whimpers of a child. “P-please man…please don’t.”
Andrew pushed the knife further.
And twisted it.
Andrew leaned close to Jordan and watched the life drain from the boy’s eyes. If Jordan had a soul it would extinguish within the next few seconds, but Andrew was sure that the boy had none to lose. Despite the mortal terror and child-like pleading, there was nothing on Jordan’s face that expressed the slightest bit of remorse or regret – no understanding of pain or loss. The only thing the boy’s expression showed was the selfish desire to hold on to his worthless life. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Pen deserves to live a thousand times more than you do.
Andrew twisted the knife again and the last glimmers of ethereal light finally left Jordan’s eyes. His body fell limp against the bed, knife jutting out of his ribs like a blood-soaked lever. Andrew peered down at the blood on his hands and could barely acknowledge what he’d just done. To murder a man was something impossible, yet it had happened. Even more disturbing was that he didn’t care one bit. In fact he felt good about it; not exactly happy at what he’d done, but certainly more positive than negative.
The hairs pricked up on the back of Andrew’s neck. There was a presence behind him. He spun around to find the nurse standing in the entrance to the cubicle. She’d returned with Jordan’s bandages and was now frozen in place with a look of horror on her face. Her mouth hung open while her eyes fixed on the dead youth sprawled across the gurney.
“I’m sorry,” Andrew said to her, “but he deserved it.”
Then he ran.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Andrew managed to flee through the hospital and into the car park without anyone stopping him. Other than a few funny looks and people jumping out of his way, no one even seemed to really notice him. In a hospital people were too concerned with their own problems to pay mind to anyone else’s. Now that Andrew was outside, however, he decided to slow down, and disappear a little more casually into the night. The decision was made in part from the sharp agony in his calf.
There was a modest taxi rank on one side of the car park, consisting of only two vehicles. Andrew wasted no time in going there, heading for nearest car, but he stopped before he reached it. He was covered in blood. His wounds had stopped bleeding but his clothes were covered. Most of the fresh blood was on his hands, but a small, wet circle drenched his shirt where Michelle had stabbed him. Andrew wondered how he would explain it to the taxi driver. Would they be used to such things, picking up passengers from a hospital? He couldn’t count on it.
Fortunately, as Andrew moved away from the street lamps of the hospital’s entrance, the blood became less of an issue. The stains became nondescript blotches in the darkness and would be of no concern to a casual observer, paint stains for all anybody knew.
He reached the taxi and pulled open the rear door. The car was a featureless, grey saloon and the driver was a middle-aged, Asian man who nodded at him as he entered the vehicle.
“Where to, my friend?”
Andrew gave his address and the driver set off, speedily pulling out onto the main road as if he had done so a thousand times before. It had gotten dark again outside, a full morning and afternoon having passed in the morbid halls of the hospital, and the weather was worsening too. The rain increased gradually, as if it had been waiting for nightfall to start its relentless tirade.
“Bad winter this year, my friend,” said the driver, peering back into the rear view mirror.
Andrew didn’t want to make eye contact, so he looked down at his hands. His fingers felt stiff beneath the thick cake of Jordan’s blood. “Yeah,” he replied after a few seconds, deciding that making conversation would be less suspicious. “Going to be snow apparently. Hope there’s no accidents on the roads like last year. That was a bad one.”
The driver nodded. “That poor man and his family? Drunk driver killed his wife and child? A tragedy.”
I know how he feels, thought Andrew, but then chastised himself for it. Bex was going to be okay and he would not know the loss of a child. He thanked God for that.
“The guy doesn’t live that far from me actually,” Andrew added. “Believe it or not, my wife was one of the paramedics involved in the accident. She changed careers not long after that; couldn’t stomach it anymore after what happened to that poor man. He drinks himself to death in The Trumpet now, I think. Shame.”
“Rough in there,” said the driver. “I’ve picked up some very nasty people from that place.”
“Wouldn’t know,” said Andrew. “Never been in there myself. Not much of a drinker.”
“Best way, my friend. Alcohol never did nobody any good.” The driver changed the subject. “So, everything okay at the hospital, my friend? You look very tired. Hope it’s not bad news.”
“Just my grandfather,” Andrew lied, shocked at the ease in which it came. “Cancer.”
The driver glanced back over his shoulder and gave the obligatory sad face. “That’s not good, my friend. I am sorry for you.”
“It’s fine. He’s very old and he’s had a good life.”
What am I saying? My grandfather died ten years ago.
“That is good to hear. Why do you have blood on you?”
Andrew made eye contact in the rear view mirror. “What?”
“You have blood on your shirt.”
Andrew gave a little chuckle and hoped it sounded convincing. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed. My Grandfather has been coughing up a lot of blood. I must have gotten it on
me when I tried to prop him up in bed to clear his airways.”
“That is very bad, my friend. I will pray for you.”
There was silence in the car for the rest of the journey. Perhaps the driver had sensed Andrew’s discomfort in the way the conversation was going. Reading people was something taxi drivers probably got very good at over time. Eventually, the taxi entered Andrew’s street. It wasn’t the expensive grouping of quaint properties it had been when he’d purchased a house there several years ago. Now things looked different, the seedy underbelly of the affluent street exposed forever. An atmosphere of menace hung in the air. Perhaps Andrew was the only one who sensed it – but it was there.
“Just drop me here,” he told the taxi driver. “Next to the red Mercedes.”
The taxi driver pulled up next to Andrew’s car and thankfully didn’t seem to notice the graffiti all over it. The man requested fifteen pounds for the fare, which was extortionate for the small distance travelled, but Andrew didn’t complain at the amount, and in fact paid twenty. Making another enemy – regardless of how inconsequential – was something he couldn’t cope with right now.
He thanked the driver and stepped out into the cold air and drizzle. The view of the street was a ghostly haze as the street lamps reflected off the falling rain. For some reason, the taxi driver felt the need to say goodbye by beeping his horn and the sudden sharp honk made Andrew jump. His body coursed with so much adrenaline that every droplet of rain hitting skin was like a tingling pinprick.
He reached down into his jeans pocket and pulled out his house keys, heading down the path to insert them in the lock. Even from outside his front door, the bloodstains were visible across the floor of the porch, leading all the way back down the hallway beyond. Andrew entered his house and locked the door behind him (not something he would have worried about at one time, but the possibility of intruders had become too much of a reality for him. It wasn’t just something that happened to other people anymore).
Andrew paced through into the living room and was shocked by the chaos that met him there. Despite being witness to how the room got into such a state, he still couldn’t believe the amount of gore matting everything – from the carpet right up to several small spots on the ceiling. The smell of mashed-up fish and chips had been replaced by the far more noxious odour of metallic, tangy blood.
My family’s blood.
Andrew collapsed onto the sofa, avoiding the armchair that had held him captive for almost an entire night – he’d never sit there again – and began to put his thoughts in order. There was no way out of the mess he was in now. He’d murdered a teenaged boy in cold blood and had been witnessed doing so. At the time, the nurse had been transfixed by the sight of Jordan’s mutilated body, but Andrew had no doubts that she would also have seen his face.
Not to mention the amount of cameras that a hospital is likely to have. I’ll be on Crimewatch before the night is through.
There was no getting out of the fact that very soon Andrew would be arrested and charged with murder. His reasons for committing the act would probably mean very little to the police, but Andrew’s vindication was that Jordan was jointly responsible for the torture of his wife and child.
Jointly responsible…
What’s going to happen to the others that did this? Will they get away scot-free?
Andrew could take the punishment for what he’d done – he felt no shame for his actions. What he could not take, however, was if his actions somehow helped to exonerate Frankie and the others. They would be free to blame the whole thing on Jordan now and would most likely do so.
He done the whole thing, yer Honour. I had nothing to do with it, innit.
And that was if they even went to court. They would provide alibis for one another and deny everything. That was exactly what Jordan had tried to do right before Andrew had gutted him like the cowardly fish he was.
How good it would feel to do the same to Frankie.
Andrew passed over the thought frivolously but then backed up and reconsidered it.
What’s to stop me? I’m going down for murder anyway. Pen could die and this might be the only chance I get to punish the person responsible. If my life is over then I may as well make it count for something.
Somehow, Andrew had found himself considering murder again and wondered whether he was in his right mind. Before this week, he’d never had a fight in his life – rarely even went so far as swearing at another person – but now he was thinking about leaving his house and hunting Frankie down like a rabid dog and killing him.
What shocked Andrew the most was that he’d already made his mind up. Looking around his smashed-up living room covered in the blood of the people he loved, Andrew was absolutely adamant that Frankie and his friends needed to die.
And they need to die tonight.
Andrew leapt up from the sofa, the pain of his wounds forgotten as focus and determination became his sole emotions. He headed to the kitchen and straight for the drawer beneath the microwave. He took out the longest blade he could find – a 9-inch carving knife. He wrapped it up in a tea towel and then stuffed the whole thing down the waistband of his trousers at the side of his hip so that the weapon wouldn’t dig into him. Then he stood still for a few moments, wondering if he should take anything else with him, but there was nothing more lethal inside the house than the knife he now possessed. He didn’t need anything else; just something he could kill Frankie with.
And I have that in my hand. Time to go…
Andrew let out a long breath, enjoying the calm it brought to him. Stepping back through into the living room, he took one final look at the mess of his home to reaffirm his intentions. There was still no doubt in his mind.
Into the hallway and through to the porch, Andrew unlocked the front door. The rain was falling harder now, hitting against the pavement with the same ferocity that Andrew felt pumping through his veins. He stepped out into the downpour and instantly felt refreshed as it baptised his flesh, cleansing the dried blood from his hands. He ran them now through his hair and slicked it back, squeezing away the excess moisture.
“Mr Goodman. Stay right where you are.”
Andrew looked through the darkness and spotted two figures at the end of his path.
Officer Wardsley and Officer Dalton were there to arrest him.
***
“I don’t have time for this,” Andrew told the officers. “I need to go.”
“Not going to happen,” said Wardsley. “We need to ask you a few questions up at the station.”
“I did it, alright? I murdered that kid. You want to know why?”
The officers had closed the gap between them without Andrew even realising it. Now they stood staring at him like he was a wild animal. They never answered his question, but Andrew decided to tell them his reasons anyway.
“I murdered Jordan because he was one of the bastards that shaved my wife’s head, snorted coke off her naked body, and then stabbed her and my daughter. I couldn’t give him the chance to finish what he’d started. I couldn’t let him walk around free to do it again.”
Dalton stepped slightly ahead of her partner and looked at Andrew pityingly. “You should have left it to us, Andrew. They’ll pay for what they’ve done, I promise. But now you’re in a lot of trouble, too. There’s better ways to deal with people like Frankie and his friends. ”
“Bullshit,” Andrew spat. “You don’t really believe that? They’re all going to cover for each other and nothing will stick. Jordan was already pleading ignorant when I cornered him.”
“Cornered him and murdered him,” said Wardsley, stepping up beside his partner.
Andrew examined both officers. If they were doing their jobs correctly, he would’ve already been in handcuffs by now, in their squad car and on his way to the station.
But they’re letting me talk, thought Andrew, which means they sympathise.
“Do either of you have children?” he asked them.
&
nbsp; Dalton nodded. Wardsley did not.
“What would you do?” he asked the female officer.
“I don’t know,” Dalton answered. “But what I wouldn’t do is murder someone in a hospital in front of frightened members of the public.”
Andrew laughed. “Makes it sounds like you disagree with my methods more than my actions.”
The suggestion was met with silence. Andrew looked into Dalton’s eyes and tried to read what she was thinking, but he couldn’t. Her expression was blank.
“You’re going to go to prison, Mr Goodman,” said Wardsley. “How does that help Rebecca?”
“It doesn’t help her,” he admitted, “but maybe by killing Jordan I’ve helped other people’s daughters. He was just a teenager; plenty of years ahead of him for terrorising more innocent people.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Wardsley, “but we still have to take you in. We have no choice.”
Andrew nodded. “And I’ll let you take me in without a fight. Just let me finish what I started.”
Both of the officer’s eyes went wide, shining in the darkness. Obviously the request had shocked them.
“I’m already going to prison,” Andrew explained. “Let me do some good before that happens. Let me make the world a safer place for other families so that they don’t end up like mine. Frankie is a cancer and I want to go and cut him out.”
“You’re insane that you’d even ask such a thing,” said Wardsley. “It’s ridiculous and I would suggest you don’t say anything else. We are officers of the law.”
Dalton stepped aside, leaving the pathway open and clear. She motioned with an arm that Andrew was free to walk by her. “You do what you have to do,” she said, “but soon as you’re finished you hand yourself in and confess everything.”
Andrew nodded vigorously. “You have my word.”
Wardsley stared at his partner in disbelief. “What the fuck are you doing, Laura? You’ll end up doing a stretch along with him. Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m just letting him do what we’re failing to do, John – make the streets safer.”
ASBO: A Thriller Novel Page 16