by Andy Remic
As the farmer turned back, there came a crack from dark undergrowth. The farmer was punched back, a blossom of blood appearing against his overalls. He hit the ground hard, and lay violently still.
Cal instinctively dropped to one knee, mouth dry, eyes fixed on the blackness in the trees. I’m next, he thought. I’m fucking next! Survival instinct kicked him in the skull. They’re going to kill me...
A man in a black suit limped from the woods. He held a gun casually, and when he reached the farmer he glanced down and pushed at the body with the toe of his polished shoe.
Then he looked up.
Cal froze to the spot. His whole world spiralled down into this moment, this focus, as the suited man limped towards him. His face was rugged, precisely shaved, he had a thick black moustache drooping under cold, grey, fish eyes. Cal noticed his hands were large, fingers thick and powerful; like those of a labourer.
The man stopped several feet away, skidding a little on loose gravel. He swayed, blood trickling down his face from a scalp wound.
Cal glanced back. Sophie was kneeling beside the toppled BMW, her face lifted towards the man; her pallor was deathly white. Her eyes raged with terror.
‘Don’t hurt the girl,’ croaked Callaghan.
The gun lifted – and pointed at his face. The man’s eyes locked on Callaghan and he realised he was facing Death. The man was cool, calculating, professional; unfazed by the metal violence behind him, and the dead body on the road. There was no give in that face; no compassion, no sorrow, no empathy. He truly did not care whether Callaghan lived. Or died.
The man gave a little nod. As if to say: OK. When he spoke, his voice was deep, resonant, almost musical. He said, ‘It’s time we finished this thing, Mr Callaghan.’
Cal closed his eyes.
He could not watch his own execution.
CHAPTER FOUR
CAT & MOUSE
JIMMY SAT AT his cluttered desk and stared at the envelope. It was small and square, just like the others. He tore it open, aware it had Callaghan’s name on the front but willing to wilt under his friend’s fury in order to see what the pestering little poet bastard had to say this time...
The neat type read:
an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth
will little callaghan ever find proof
down on the ground he will quiver in fear
when all my cold bullets
start drilling his ear
Jimmy frowned. Shook his head. Bit the top from his bottle of Lagavulin and took a series of satisfying gulps. The peaty taste made him wince a little. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and frowned as he again surveyed the ‘death–threat’ note.
‘Useless literati poets,’ he muttered. ‘Should be hung, drawn and quartered, every last scumbag! Made to eat their own poisonous pens! Made to smoke their self–published amateur spineless anthologies with a mix of Columbia’s finest! Amen!’ He took another gulp of whisky. It was powerful stuff, bordering on peatreek, even. Like his old da used to make.
‘Yeah, any wanker with a propensity for intelligentsia should be tortured. Aye!’ He took a third hefty swig, spilling a few droplets on the typed note before him. Oops, he thought. That should tickle Bronagh and the boys down in forensics! They’ll be looking for a whisky drinking poet madman! Ha ha! Not that any police bastard will try and help Callaghan now... after all, he’s a suspect, right?
The phone rang.
Jimmy picked it up, ducking as a lobbed paper–ball sailed over his head and he offered his office–sharing journalistic colleague The Finger. ‘Yeah?’
‘Ah yes, Jimmy. This is your friendly neighbourhood helper, making a charitable call on behalf of our freedom of speech, the justice of the journalist – and the right for the liberated unwashed public to access wholesome front page news during breakfast.’
‘Mr Volos. Long time no shit. What’s been keeping you?’
‘Ducking and diving, Jimmy–boy.’
‘Listen, can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course. It does not mean I shall answer.’
‘Are you into poetry, Mr Volos?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Cal – that’s Mr Callaghan – has been receiving some interesting poetry. Actually, when I say “poetry” what I should say is the hopeless drivel of some pre–pubescent anally tortured adolescent with a wrist–slit fixation and a fetish for bad regurgitation.’
‘Can you be pre–pubescent and adolescent, Jimmy–boy?’
‘Ahh, whatever. Look, that murder you sent us to the other night – Jesus, man, how the hell are you getting this information? The only way I can think of is...’
‘If I am the murderer?’ There was a tinkling of laughter, like breaking crystal. ‘Let’s just say I am a professor – and my speciality is that which many sub–intellectuals study and elevate to the rank of deity: the topic of the serial killer. Have you received further information from DI Bronagh on the body you photographed? Any insight as to who she was? Her actions? Her life? Where she came from? Aims, objectives, goals, motives?’
‘Not yet, he’s going to...’
‘I suggest you ask him. I suggest you ask him to be explicit. Because, Jimmy–boy – the world needs the truth. And that’s the business in which you are employed. Am I right?’
‘The truth?’
Ignoring Jimmy’s question, Volos said, ‘Are you and Callaghan free this evening?’
‘Yeah. Why?’ Jimmy laughed soberly. ‘You got another juicy violent murder for us?’
‘I have, Jimmy. I most certainly have.’
When the gunshot came, it was louder than Callaghan could have believed possible. It seemed to fill his head, fill the woodland, fill the world. It boomed, deafening, slamming his ears with hard fists. And he knew – knew because he’d read about these things – accounts from soldiers in a hundred battles and a million wars... when you heard the shot, well, game over mate. It was too late. You didn’t see the bullet, and you didn’t feel the bullet, and there was no pain. The first thing you knew you had a hole the size of a fist in your belly and your blood was pissing a river over your boots and you were dead, my friend... dead.
No pain, he thought.
There’s no pain.
That means I’m dead...
‘You can open your eyes now, Callaghan.’
Cal did a mental double–take. He breathed, realising he had been holding great lungfuls of precious air. Elation slammed him like a helve. Adrenalin flushed his system – more powerful than cocaine – and he opened his eyes into confusion...
When he spoke, there was no hint of comedy in his voice; no humour at all. He said, ‘You mean I’m not dead?’
‘Not yet, fucker.’ The voice was harsh. It was Sophie’s.
Cal blinked. He tried to decode what had unfolded before him. And suddenly, the confusion tumbled into a natural order: and he could think again.
The large, black–suited man was lying on his back, panting, blood flecking his lips. His gun lay a few feet away, carelessly tossed. Cal’s head snapped right; to fix on Sophie, kneeling, her hand still inside her purse and her eyes locked to the man she’d just shot.
‘The Makarov?’
‘Give the boy a medal.’
Cal allowed his heaving chest to calm. Sophie did not look at him; her gaze was still fixed on the wounded killer. His panting was swift and shallow; the fingers of one hand were twitching involuntarily. Blood beaded his lips; stained his white teeth.
‘Get his gun.’
‘I...’
‘Get it now!’ Sophie’s head turned and she glared. Cal stumbled forward, knelt, picked up the man’s pistol.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. ‘Jesus Christ! You shot him! Shit Sophie... Shit.’ Then it occurred to him; to ask the right question. ‘Is this bastard one of Vladimir’s men?’
Sophie climbed smoothly to her feet and moved to stand over the injured killer. His eyes tracked her with a glimmer of fear. She levelle
d the Makarov at his face and looked over her shoulder at Callaghan.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. And he doesn’t sound Romanian. Vlad normally employs Romanian hitmen. After all,’ she smiled, a sickly sweet smile, ‘it’s a matter of national pride.’
Cal looked at the gun in his hands, suddenly aware he was holding the weapon that had just slaughtered an innocent farmer. A bad taste filled his mouth like rat piss. ‘Is this gun... is it a Romanian gun?’
‘No. Heckler and Koch P7K3. I’ve never seen Vlad use one of those.’ She glanced down at the wounded man. Blood had turned his white shirt into a crimson, slick pulp. She nudged her pistol and offered a malevolent smile. ‘You work for my husband?’
The man gritted his teeth, face filled with pain. He said nothing.
‘Callaghan. Go and check the car.’
‘What? I...’
‘Go and check the damn car. There was probably more than one killer; the other guy might not be dead, and I don't want a bullet in the back of the head.’
Callaghan stumbled away from Sophie, stumbled away from the wounded killer. All he could think about was no, this cannot be, it’s a nightmare. It can’t be happening. Any minute now I’ll wake up in bed next to Mia and kiss her honey lips and...
He stopped beside the farmer and stared down at the corpse. The man’s eyes were open. Glassy, like blue marbles. Cal could smell blood. A copper stench. And he could smell earth, and soil, and pine, the scent of a churned and machine–raped woodland.
Callaghan shivered, feeling the need to retch filtering into his system. He hurried on, past the skewed tractor and stopping by the side of the road. He peered myopically into dense gloom. He could see the buckled, smashed Mercedes CLK, surrounded by a trail of shattered black glass and twisted metal panels. The car was ticking softly, steam hissing as it rose from a crumpled and corrugated body–shell.
He glanced back at Sophie. She was talking to the wounded killer, but he couldn’t hear their words. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. And he knew then; knew he had to go into those trees, where there was probably an injured man with a gun – waiting for him.
He glanced down at the retrieved weapon he carried.
He took a deep breath.
Calmed himself. Gritted his teeth...
And moved forward.
Darkness fell. His boots crunched debris and he could smell petrol. That was bad, wasn’t it? And wasn’t it this point there came a click of ignition and the car exploded in a ball of raging, glowing inferno?
Dickhead, he thought. Too much Hollywood in your veins.
He quickened his pace. It seemed the best thing to do.
The Merc was a mess and he stopped beside it, peering into the devastated, buckled interior. No windows remained intact; no part of the shell had been unaffected by impact.
Well, there’s no second man, he thought, licking salty, fear–rimed lips. He turned to leave the dead car, then caught a glimpse of something pale folded amongst gnarled tree roots, bared and twisted foliage, victims of a merciless erosion. Cal moved tenderly, picking his way with care. He glanced back – to note the Merc’s windscreen had disintegrated... And through this vacant hole the passenger had been flung. A rag–doll. He wore a black suit, crumpled and torn, embedded with twigs and leaves and damp woodland detritus. He was lying face down, folded, both arms outstretched above his head. His hands were caked in sodden mud and pastel autumn leaves.
Cal moved close; nudged the sack of loose flesh with his boot.
No movement.
He tucked his boot under the man and with a grunt, hoisted him over. The body rolled and flopped, limbs loose on slick, ball–bearing joints. Callaghan blinked. The man’s face had gone; ripped free by a brutal impact with the windscreen. Gaping holes and a meat–peppered skull embedded with glass slivers stared back. The tongue seemed abnormally long.
With a sharp intake of breath Cal averted his eyes, turned, and sprinted back towards Sophie, stumbling to a halt on the roadway beside her. The P7K3 felt very heavy in his hand; a dull, black, alien thing. Something to be abhorred.
‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ Sophie said, voice cool. She looked at Cal. Met his gaze. Held it.
‘What the fuck are we going to do about this? Do we call the police? We have to... we have to call the police! They’ll know what to do. They’ll believe us, yeah?’
‘Have you thought about what you’re saying?’ Her words were low, measured, calm. ‘Really thought it through?’
‘What do you mean?’ Callaghan’s eyes were wide. Crazed. He was a trapped animal. A fox in a snare.
‘If the police come, they will find us. Here. Together.’
‘So?’
‘We will be taken to a police station. Possibly charged. Locked up until the questioning is finished. Vladimir will find out. No ifs. No maybes. We will feature in the newspapers; in your newspaper.’ She gave a little laugh, appreciating the irony.
‘What can we do?’ Cal’s voice calmed a little. His mind began to work and he glanced up and down the – thankfully – deserted country lane.
Sophie’s opal eyes narrowed, locked on Callaghan, lips compressed into thin lines of blood. ‘First,’ she said, voice gentle, velvet hair ruffling in a tender breeze, ‘we’ve got to kill him.’
‘Kill who?’
‘Him.’ She gestured down without looking. As if seeking disassociation. An excision of empathy. De–humanisation.
Callaghan looked at the man. Blood dribbled down his chin. His shirt and suit jacket were sodden. I didn’t realise the human body had so much blood inside...
Yeah you did, snapped his inner–demon.
You’ve photographed it enough times!
‘Can’t we just leave him?’ Cal’s voice sounded timid. Feeble, even to his own ears. Internally, he mocked his own cowardice.
‘No.’ Sophie’s face hardened, eyebrows arching into a frown. ‘He came here to kill you. Don’t you get it, Callaghan? Somebody wants you dead. If you leave him now, and he doesn’t die, he’ll just come after you again. He won’t stop. This is his job; you must finish it here, finish it now.’
‘I can’t kill him.’
‘You must.’
‘I just... just can’t. I haven’t got it in me. It’s wrong... don’t you see? Look at the poor bastard, lying on the ground bleeding like a pig with its throat slit... he’s injured, Sophie, and he’s unarmed...’ Cal’s voice trailed into uneasy silence.
Sophie gave a tut, and glared at him with acid eyes. She held out her bullet–holed purse, pulling free the bulk of the Makarov pistol. ‘Hold my purse. I’ll do it.’
‘No! Wait.’
She raised her eyebrows in question.
‘I’ll do it.’ He gestured weakly with the Heckler & Koch. ‘How does this thing work?’
‘There’s no safety catch. There’s a grip control in the butt; hold it tight and pull the trigger. The rest, as they say, is history.’ She moved away towards the BMW, glanced back but he couldn’t read the expression on her face.
Callaghan stared down at the man. He came here to kill you, Callaghan told himself. He came here to blow your damn stupid head off. And he would have been successful – then killed Sophie – if she hadn’t stopped him; if she hadn’t shot him.
Cal held out the H&K pistol. He hated the feel of the thing. He could smell its whore stink: oil and metal, and the lingering aftermath of cordite. To Callaghan, it was the perfume of death.
A tear rolled down his cheek. He snarled at himself, and realised the man on the ground was laughing. Blood frothed on his lips, and the bastard was laughing.
Callaghan aimed the gun. ‘Something funny?’ he spat.
‘You need to be careful with that bitch.’
‘What?’
‘She’s a real wild one, Callaghan,' he gurgled. 'You sure you can handle her?’
The shot came from behind Cal, taking the killer’s head neatly apart. Blood flushed from the partially destroyed craniu
m. Sophie put her gun into her purse and sighed, eyes averted.
‘Let’s get going. Before anybody else stumbles on our private little massacre.’
‘You shot him!’
Cal stalked towards her, and her hand came up to cup his chin. Her hair flowed behind her, a liquid, ebony waterfall. Her stunning beauty and anger slapped him into submission.
‘Pick up the bike. Let’s go,’ she said.
Sophie crouched before the stone hearth, coaxing the kindling into life. Within minutes she had flames licking and crackling dry wood, and Callaghan pulled the old floral settee across the flagstone floor with a grating of wood on stone. He slumped down wearily in front of the fire, kicked off motorcycle boots and avoided Sophie’s gaze. Instead, he stared into the expanding firelight as it spread and greedily ate the wood.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
Couldn’t.
The fire crackled, flames leaping up, and Sophie moved back from the blaze and sat beside him. The settee creaked in protest. She reached out, touched his face, stroked his cheek with velvet fingers. Finally, he turned, looking deep into her eyes. Her visage had softened now; lost that hard look from back on the narrow woodland lane. Lost that savage display of... the killer.
‘Don’t judge me,’ she said, quietly.
He sighed. It was a big sigh. ‘This is a whole sack of shit, Soph. What the hell are we going to do?’
‘We’re not going to do anything.’ She smiled then. Reached forward, kissed his stubbled cheek. Again, her perfume and heavy musk washed over him like a powerful narcotic – and he tried to force it away but she was kissing him, delicately, tenderly and with need and he realised she was more than just a girlfriend to him, more than just a lover more than just a woman – she was his protector and his mother and his father and his sister and his brother; she would look after him, had looked after him always and forever and ever and ever Amen and tears rolled down his cheeks and now the adrenalin had gone and the chase had gone and they were back in safety, in the sanctuary of the nest; the shakes took him pretty bad and she held him tight and they drank whisky and watched the fire until the horror gradually, finally, ultimately, subsided.