by Andy Remic
For long moments her hands explored everything within her reach. The metal was hard, with a flat thin edge. Her quest moved along this section – and she frowned. An idea danced tantalisingly just out of her grasp. What is it? she thought. What the hell is it?
She felt something stuck to the metal. It was moist, and crumbled under her probing fingers. Soil, she thought. Fresh soil. And she went terribly cold, because she had just worked out what the object was.
It was a shovel.
That’s bad, she thought. That’s really fucking bad.
Her breathing, shallow and panting, increased in pace as more rivulets of sweat trickled down her skin, stung her eyes, soaked the cloth covering her mouth. Again she worked her jaws, trying to loosen the gag and she felt it move a little; with great concentration she stretched her tongue until she thought it would tear from its root. Pain stabbed in little frenzies underneath her tongue. She curled the tip around the edge of the gag and stretched and pushed; it moved some more, and working her jaws she rubbed her head against the carpeted floor of the boot interior, and rolled the gag down from her nose and mouth until it lay like a sleeping snake coiled about her throat.
Mia breathed deeply. Great gasping breaths, a drowning woman coming up for air. The urge to scream welled deep in her breast but she fought it savagely. She could taste vomit quite clearly on her lips, but it was overwhelmed by acid stench and chemical taste... which had thankfully diminished, now the cloth had gone.
What the hell did it remind her of? Hospitals, she realised. A kind of medicinal, acetic stink. Mia shuddered. The cloying aroma reminded her of death.
What now? Her mind swam, and she breathed deep in an attempt to dispel the chemical fumes of... whatever had been used to render her unconscious. She shivered again. At least they don’t want me dead just yet, she thought. But then... why the hell not? Why even keep me alive?
That thought was even worse.
And she remembered the shovel again.
She moved around the inside of the boot, once again thumping her head on the ridged interior. She clamped her teeth, and refrained from crying out as pain slapped her.
She had left Wonderland, hadn’t she? Pushing past the large Romanian man and Paulo, grabbing her coat, heading out into the diagonal freezing sleet spat from obsidian skies. It had been dark, damp, the air pneumonia chilled. Her boots clattered as she hurried down the deserted pavement of Soho Square towards Sutton Row. Tottenham Court Road tube station was only a couple of minutes away; and yeah, she remembered thinking she would go and see Callaghan, tell him about the large Romanian named Vladimir who had been sniffing around asking personal questions. Was he police? Shit, she remembered thinking – she had to warn Callaghan! If he was police, Cal had to get rid of his coke stash! But if the man was a gangster... then...
Darkness.
Something over her face. Something dark. She struggled, but sank as if to the bottom of a deep ocean. And now... this. In the back of some rapist kidnapping bastard’s boot. Was it Vladimir who kidnapped her?
That cold laugh, a bitter bark when the boot opened. It had been male, she was sure, despite the spinning in her head and muffled confines of confusion.
Mia frowned again. After leaving Wonderland, she had been checking her back–trail pretty vigorously. She was spooked, on edge, an animal with senses heightened in self–preservation. She had been watching for somebody following her. So then – from which strange hell had her attacker sprung?
‘There!’ she said. And smiled. She had managed to get the rope, or cloth or whatever the hell her hands were tied with, against the blade edge of the shovel. Yes! she thought. Just like in the movies. So then, let’s see if this damn idea works!
She rubbed the binding backwards and forwards along the blade. The edge wasn’t sharp, but Mia could feel resistance, feel the rope bite. She clenched her teeth in a grim snarl and worked as hard as her cramped, pain–stabbed muscles would allow. Backwards, forwards. Backwards, forwards. Stop. Listen. Wait. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards. Forwards.
What if he’s still out there? she thought in sudden horror, pausing at her escape attempt. What if he’s stood right there outside the boot just listening and laughing silently because he knows I’m nearly there nearly free and he’s going to spring the boot and finish me off in a painful smashing fucking instant...
Come on girl. Be strong. One step at a time.
One step...
She worked at the binding. Worked hard. Sweat bathed her features, and for a while she didn’t think it was going to work; a deep sense of desolation filled her soul to the brim. And just as the feeling reached a peak, breached her jagged mountain of despair, so the binding released like flesh under a knife, a gentle tearing, a soft parting. Mia’s legs thrust out straight in cramped spasm, and she brought her arms round in front of her and flexed her fingers, trying to drive blood into tortured hands.
Slowly she worked, untying the bindings, and she pulled the gag from her throat. She reached down and untied her feet. It took time. The knots were small and tight. Focused terror drove her.
She lifted her hands, placed them above her against the boot lid. She pressed. It was locked. Her hands explored her surroundings; she gripped the spade for a while, then released it and continued her sensory journey. She found a torch, but it didn’t work. She found a coil of rope. And blankets. And... bags. Bin bags?
Yeah, mocked her imagination. To wrap the bodies in...
She continued to search. Her hands came across something long and fashioned from metal. It was cool to the touch. Her fingers traced the shape, disbelieving at first, until she came to the stock – and the trigger. It was a rifle. A long rife. But was it loaded? How could she tell? She knew nothing about guns...
Mia moved the rifle and lay it against her twisted hip. Then she found the spade, and levered it against the boot’s ceiling. She pushed, and levered, felt the spade flex under the intense pressure of her maximum efforts. But the mechanism was too strong; the damned car was too strong. Probably a bastard Mercedes, she thought with bitterness. Just my luck. Why couldn’t it have been an old Fiat Panda?
A sound arrived.
Outside.
Outside; in the real world.
Mia froze, then scrabbled with the rifle. A tear wormed down her cheek. She brandished the weapon awkwardly, left hand cradling the long barrel, right hand reaching behind to rest against the trigger.
You’re going to get it, she thought as she cried.
Whoever you are, you’re going to eat a bullet.
Footsteps came close. Stopped.
Mia heard the jangle of keys.
She tensed – and there came a bass click as the boot mechanism released.
Closing her eyes, she squeezed the trigger...
Callaghan’s scream echoed around the Lady Chapel and gradually, eventually, died. His eyes were wide, tongue drawn back in his desert–dry maw. He realised his fists were clenched; but he could do nothing. Nothing! Only watch his friend die.
Jimmy was pale. Like wax. His eyes were glass baubles. The eyes of the dead...
Cal’s gaze lifted. Fixed on Volos. What is he waiting for? snarled his brain. What the hell is he doing?
‘Acknowledge.’
Callaghan blinked. Time was treacle. The drifting words took an ice–age.
Blood beaded against the cut–throat razor’s blade; a single pearl of crimson which grew, expanded, rolled down gleaming steel until it reached the edge. It fell, wobbling, to connect with the marble... where it shattered like crystal.
Cal’s eyes snapped to Volos’s. Volos was smiling. He raised his eyebrows, head tilting in question.
Cal licked his lips.
‘Acknowledge!’ hissed Volos.
‘What?’
‘Acknowledge his life is mine, a babe cradled in my purged hands. Acknowledge I can rip out his throat. Acknowledge I can slice his windpipe and drink his fucking blood. Acknowledge I have him utterly and totally and
completely in my control.’
‘Y –yes.’
Volos dropped Jimmy to the ground. Jimmy moaned, and he rolled forward, forehead hitting the floor with a dull slap. Cal sprinted, knelt beside his friend, lifted Jimmy’s head to his lap. His finger moved, touched the cut of flesh just above Jim’s Adam’s apple. Jimmy’s blood stained Cal’s skin; an indelible accusation.
Callaghan looked up, frowning.
‘You see,’ said Volos, black eyes shining as if filled with unshed tears. ‘I can show mercy. I can show compassion. I have allowed him to live... for he is not my enemy. You are not my enemy.’ His voice dropped to a growl. ‘But I will not always be so tolerant. I will not always be so merciful. You will come with me, Callaghan. You will come with me and you will bear witness; you will watch as I carve the bones. You will watch as I despatch the Deviant.’
Callaghan took a deep breath.
‘You want to show me a fucking serial killer?’
‘Yes. You will need your cameras – and your notebook.’
‘You... you don’t expect me to – do anything?’
‘Not at all.’ Volos smiled, needle–teeth glinting against the crimson slash of his mouth.
‘And if I do this... then you will leave us alone? Me? Jimmy? Mia? All of us?’
Volos nodded, a single movement. ‘I want you for a limited time period only. I do not wish you harm.’ A strange look came over Volos’s face; an expression Callaghan could not place. A look which made the photographer frown and lick his lips in fear. ‘That would be... foolish... of me,’ finished the large killer.
‘I...’
But Volos whirled, strode from the Lady Chapel, left Callaghan cradling Jimmy’s unconscious figure... and wondering what the hell he was going to do.
The first blow broke Sophie’s nose, spinning her round, a shower of blood splashing out across the black and white kitchen tiles. She grunted, stunned, fell back, but was supported as a powerful grip took hold of her fine silk dress, tearing it slightly, before she could crumple to the floor.
She looked up into cold hard eyes in a hooded face.
‘You didn’t do your job,’ said the voice.
‘Fuck you,’ she snarled, teeth stained red, and she laughed, a high–pitched sound tinged with a hint of madness. The tone of the helpless. The laughter of the lost.
The second blow caught the side of her head and she went limp, moaning, eyes fluttering as if her spinning mind was debating whether or not to sink into that dark, welcoming well.
The third blow caught her cheek with a crack, and the arm lowered, fist relaxed. Sophie was allowed to sink to the ground, black dress torn down the centre, one breast easing free as she cradled the floor and drooled against terracotta tiles.
He watched her for a while. Watched her chest rising and falling.
Then he moved to the door, and was gone.
Sophie opened her eyes. She coughed, and spat a mouthful of phlegm and blood, then eased herself with a groan into a sitting position. She smiled, wincing at the pain in her swollen face, and tenderly reached up to touch her nose. White light flared painful, and she waited for the searing fireworks to pass. Then she pushed a finger into her mouth and eased free a broken cube of tooth. She dropped it to the tiles where it rattled like a dice, then sat in her own pool of crimson.
She used the worktop to lever herself to her feet. She looked down, dazed, and realised she had lost a shoe. She kicked free her remaining shoe and the tiles were cold under her toes. She moved through to the lounge, bare feet leaving imprints in speckles of her own blood. She grabbed a bottle of Metaxa from the cabinet.
‘Son–of–a–bitch.’
She poured herself a generous measure, and gulped the brandy down with urgency. It stung her broken tooth, but she did not care. She allowed the fumes to infuse her; allowed alcohol to kick through her veins like a deadly toxin.
It felt good.
No, she thought, with a blood–crusted smile.
It felt right.
She moved to the settee, found her small leather bag. Reached inside, and took out her 9mm Makarov. The gun was heavy, yet finely balanced in her delicate hands. She weighed it thoughtfully, head muggy from the beating.
She reached for the telephone.
Lifted the receiver.
And dialled.
Cal drove them home through the snow, Porsche sliding and wheel-spinning alarmingly on the narrow country bends. When they reached the motorway, the centre of the lanes were clear with banks of snow climbing for freedom to either side of the tarmac ribbon. He pushed a steady 60, tail–gating when necessary to force more careful, sensible drivers out of his path.
Jimmy sat in the passenger seat, sullen, a bottle of Bells in his lap. Every now and again he took a long gulp and winced – both at the cheap blend and the pain from his wounds. Upon regaining consciousness, Jim moaned more about the lack of choice at the quiet corner off–license than his beating by Volos.
‘You OK?’ Cal glanced across.
‘Yeah. Don’t be worrying about me, Callaghan. I’m a tough nut to crack. But... that Volos was fast, hey? And what an uppercut! I won’t wait for him to make his move next time – I’ll just shoot him in the fucking back.’
‘There won’t be a next time.’
Jimmy gave a crafty sideways glance. ‘Yeah, Callaghan, there will be a next time. Nobody does that to old Jimbob and walks away with his kneecaps. Well, not for very long, laddie.’
‘Listen,’ said Callaghan. ‘This Volos is one dangerous man. He could have killed you. Could have slit your throat – in fact, for a moment that’s what I thought he was going to do – it was in his eyes, Jim, in his demonic eyes!’ Cal shivered. ‘You should have seen the look there - it went straight down to his soul. He is insane. He is touched by the Devil. But... he chose not to kill you. Like he said, he had your life in his hands – and he chose to let you live.’
‘Bollocks Cal. If he'd wanted to slot me, he would have done it there and then. And yes, he’s dangerous, but so am I. There’s a lot of things about me you don’t know, lad. A lot of bad things.’ He looked out of the window, away into the snow–filled darkness.
‘Jimmy, I can sort this, mate.’
‘What? By being his puppy for a few hours? Don’t delude yourself Callaghan; when this cunt gets going, he won’t stop. And if you’re not ready for him, well, it’ll be your corpse I’ll be writing about in tomorrow’s news.’
They continued in silence.
Cal dropped Jimmy at a pub near his home, then made his weary way back to Canary Wharf. Parking at his underground spot, he killed the lights and glanced over to where McGuinness leant against his own car, arms folded, face cool but eyes holding a dangerous inner light.
Cal stepped out, coughed, and grinned at McGuinness. The smile was not returned.
‘Been out gallivanting, have we?’
‘Just needed a bit of time to myself.’ Cal shrugged. ‘You know how it is. All this babysitting is a bit intrusive on a man’s personal space. Know what I mean?’
‘What happened there?’ He pointed to Callaghan’s chin.
Cal touched the cut. His eyes darkened as he remembered the blade of the metal–handled cut-throat razor.
‘I cut myself shaving, mate.’
‘Well, Bronagh wants to see you in the morning. He was really pissed you did a runner.’
‘Pissed? With you, or me?’
‘Both of us. And Callaghan, it’s late now, but in the morning you can do us both a favour – show me how the hell you got out of the Marriott. We thought we had every angle covered.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’ Cal checked his watch. ‘However... as you said, it’s late, and I’ve got a friendly bottle of whisky waiting with wide open legs and come–to–bed lipstick. So... can we get moving?’
McGuinness grunted, jacked himself from the car, and followed Callaghan to the lift.
Cal dropped his keys on the table when the phone rang. He cursed, moved t
o the receiver, lifted it warily from its cradle. ‘Yeah?’
‘Callaghan?’
‘Sophie. You OK? You sound a bit... shaky.’
‘You know when we spoke – last night? I said Vlad had been following me; I said he maybe even suspected something?’
‘Yeah babe. You said he was suspicious. Suspicious of your movements, and that he’d followed you but come up with rat–shit. You said we’d have to keep a low profile for a while.’ Which is just fine by me, he thought. The longer and lower, the better. ‘But he knew nothing about me. Right?’
Sophie took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Well. He’s had some men on it. Men with an IQ. Because... now he’s come up with something. Something much more specific.’
Callaghan shivered. A premonition tapped on his brain and gave him a little wave. He didn’t want to say it; didn’t want to speak the words. But they tumbled free anyway, like vomit from a greedy puppy. His voice was funeral soft. ‘Vladimir knows about me?’
‘Yeah. But more importantly, he knows about us.’
‘Ahh.’
‘He has photographs.’ Sophie started to cry, bubbling down the phone. Her words rushed between staccato gasps. ‘He has a name. And an address.’
‘A name?’
‘Your name.’
‘Oh. That. Oh. Shit. But... does he know I’ve got a police escort?’
‘Yes. That’s the one good thing. The one thing that might... ahh... postpone his plans. I don’t think even Vladimir wants to tangle with the police on such a large scale.’
‘But once I lose my police babysitter... Then I’m a dead man?’
Sophie said nothing. Just continued to cry.
Aww, bollocks, thought Callaghan, rubbing at his temples in frustration. I just don't believe it! Double shit and triple shit with a bastard turd chaser. What do I do now? What the hell am I supposed to do now? How did he find out? I just can't believe he found out... He wanted to scream. To stand on the roof of his penthouse apartment, stare out over the glowing lights of London, and scream and scream until his throat closed and he could scream no more. What a time for it to happen, he thought. What a time! Couldn’t he have picked a better moment to discover his wife’s infidelity? Like... during the middle of World War III, for example?