by Andy Remic
Cal hid the Browning again. Licked dry lips.
Tried to breathe.
Volos strode into the candlelit kitchen and there was a scream as the woman placed a hand over her mouth. Cal followed, a reluctant accomplice, into the flickering modern interior scattered with cooking implements strewn down one untidy worktop. Cabinets ran around the kitchen entirely; the room was dominated to one side by a large farmhouse table, a bench, some sturdy thick chairs, a dresser. At the table sat a large man, and a pretty redheaded woman. The man surged up as Volos entered, and his eyes moved from Volos – to Callaghan.
‘What the fuck,’ he snarled, ‘are you doing here?’
Cal’s mouth dropped open. ‘Bronagh! What...’
But Volos attacked, leaping at Bronagh who swayed to one side – not quick enough. Three blows rained against large DI’s jaw, knocking him back over a farmhouse chair in a splayed parody of a comedy fall. The woman screamed again, and Volos whirled on her. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay from the table and crashed it viciously across her head, sending a scatter of glass fragments like dice and smashing her from her chair to lie immobile, blood on her face and in her eyes. Cal, mouth open, stood stunned stunned by the sudden violence. His shaking hand lifted the Browning.
‘Stop,’ he croaked.
DI Bronagh rolled fluidly to his feet, moving to one side and squaring up to Volos. They ignored Callaghan, and attacked at the same time, Bronagh throwing a right straight, right hook, both of which were blocked. Volos kicked out, but Bronagh deflected the blow and again thundered a combination of punches, one of which caught Volos and knocked him back. Volos leapt, feet crashing into Bronagh’s chest and both went down in a flurry of flailing beating limbs. Cal sidled to Bronagh’s wife, Beth, who lay slumped beside a kitchen cabinet, half wedged in place by a chair. She was groaning, eyes shut, blood a sticky web across her skin. Cal crouched, touched her shoulder gently. She jumped. ‘Come on,’ he said, and with hands under her arms, helped lift her and they both turned, as Bronagh delivered a cracking blow which sent Volos flying back against the table. With a roar, Bronagh charged but a boot to the chest knocked him back, grunting, as Cal lifted his acquired gun for a second time.
‘Stop!’ he screamed, ‘or I’ll fucking shoot!’
Time froze.
Both Volos and Bronagh turned on Cal, where the gun wavered at the end of his quaking arm. Bronagh lifted his hand and wiped a smear of blood from his chin. Tentatively, he wobbled his jaw and scowled.
‘Put the gun down,’ said Volos.
‘Wait!’ Bronagh held up his hands and took a step forward. The gun turned on him, wavering, shivering in tune with Callaghan’s raw open fear.
‘Don’t come any closer! You!’ He jabbed at Volos. ‘Why are we here?’
Volos smiled. A piranha smile. ‘I told you, Callaghan. To kill The Killer. To put an end to his serial murder.’
‘That,’ snarled Callaghan, gesturing at Bronagh, ‘is DI–fucking–Bronagh, you dumb bastard. I’ve worked with him for a fucking decade. He fucking hunts serial killers, you fish–faced moron!’
‘Volos’s smile fell. ‘No. This policeman is the biggest murderer on the London scene; he enjoys his sick work, don’t you Mr Bronagh?’ Volos took a step forward. ‘Now don’t be foolish. Give me the gun, Callaghan.’ His hand reached out.
The gun cracked, a bullet whining across the kitchen close to Volos’s head and ending its flight with a thud in the wooden window frame. ‘I said don’t fucking move,’ growled Callaghan, who was sick and down and had fucking had enough.
‘Hey, Callaghan.’ Bronagh’s eyes were deadly serious. ‘I think it’s time you let me deal with this. Let the police take over. You did well, boy. You caught the bad man. Give me the weapon, before you do something that’ll put you in prison for life.’
Again, the gun wavered – and those words shook Callaghan. For life. He opened his mouth, but Volos cut in, voice curiously soft. ‘Don’t listen to him, Cal. He’s a killer. He’ll take the gun, kill you, kill me. And then our game is over.’
Bronagh shrugged. Eyes glittered. ‘What can I say, Callaghan? The man’s a lunatic. You know that. You saw the body of the peeled woman back at the Wharf. You saw what he did to the fat guy in Stratford... he’s a fucking maniac. And I need to arrest him. Give me the gun. Let me do my job.’
‘Ask him about Mia,’ snapped Volos.
Bronagh shrugged. ‘What about Mia?’
‘You have her, don’t you? Down in your Workshop.’
‘Foolishness!’ snapped Bronagh, moving to Callaghan and taking the gun from the shaking man’s grip. He kept the pistol pointed at Volos’s chest and his other hand patted Callaghan’s shoulder. ‘You did well, Cal. Real well, boy–o.’
The gun cracked for a second time, and a bullet smashed Volos from his feet. Blood welled at his chest like a blossom of rose petals. DI Bronagh edged forward, peered down, then stamped on Volos's head, several times.
‘Is he dead?’ came Beth’s wavering voice.
‘Not yet. It’ll take more than a bullet to kill this tough fuck. You OK Callaghan?’
‘Hm?’
‘I said are you OK? You’re not hurt? Shot? Stabbed?’
‘No... no! Bronagh, man, but you shot him!’
Bronagh laughed savagely, grabbed a glass of wine from the table – miraculously undisturbed – and downed the contents in one. He shuddered. Nodded. Breathed deep. ‘Yeah, lad. I shot him.’ The gun lifted, then, and pointed directly in Callaghan’s face. ‘Now, I don’t like clichés, but put your fucking hands up or I’ll fill you full of lead.’
Cal frowned. ‘What?’
The bullet whined past his face and buried with a thump in plaster. Cal yelped, lifted his hands, slapped them on his head, stared wide–eyed at Bronagh. ‘What are you doing, man? I’m not part of this murder bullshit! You know that! I’m not with that fucking guy! He killed Jimmy – burned him to death! Said Mia would die if I didn’t go with him!’
‘Go on. What else do you know.’
‘That’s it!’
‘What did he tell you... about me?’
‘Nothing, Bronagh. Nothing, I swear!’
Beth, holding a towel to her bleeding scalp, crossed and whispered something in Bronagh’s ear. He nodded, and she smiled across at Callaghan – and something in that smile made Cal’s heart turn to ice. Her eyes shone. This woman had suddenly lost her sense of... innocence? Yeah, that was it. Callaghan’s mouth was a grim line and bitterness flooded his mouth like cancer.
‘She wants me to kill you,’ said Bronagh, only half looking at Cal.
‘You’re the police, Bronagh! What are you talking about?’
Bronagh sighed, and moved close. He nuzzled the gun under Callaghan’s chin, prodding hard. Then he smiled, nodded, and said, ‘You really are an innocent little fuckwit, aren’t you, boy–o? You know, I hate people like you – rich playboys who mince about town in their flash fucking Porsches, waving dirty money for all to jump, waving their VD cocks about and sticking the little maggot where it doesn’t belong. But – you know what really makes this whole situation so much worse? Makes we want to puke, to vomit, to rip out my own fucking intestines and beat you to death with them?’
‘What?’ Cal’s voice was stone.
‘When you start fucking the blacks.’
‘What?’
‘That Mia woman. Black fucking blood, my friend. You’ve been screwing a Nigger.’
‘Are you for fucking real?’
‘I’m sorry Cal, but you know too much; and,’ he laughed a bitter laugh, ‘you’re tainted by our coloured brethren. You’re going to have to die – like the rest of them. Die in fire and blood.’ His eyes shone. ‘Yeah, Callaghan – you made a bad lifestyle choice, boy–o. You made the wrong choice. You should have listened to your little fish–faced buddy over there,’ he gestured to where Volos bled, unconscious. ‘Little bastard knew what he was talking about.’
‘No,’ said
Callaghan, weakly. ‘You’re wrong... he killed Jimmy! I saw it with my own eyes!’
‘Jimmy was one of ours,’ snarled Bronagh. ‘Don’t you get it? You drive your fancy cars, fuck your fancy women... and all the time there’s a whole world under your nose and you’re blind to it, dickhead. Can’t see the wood for the fucking trees.’
The gun moved back, and Cal’s was focused on the dark eye but his mind spun, whirled around and down into a hated infinity.
Despite watching, he did not see the blow.
The pistol cracked against his head and slammed him down into a well of instant, brutal unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TEN
DIE BY THE SWORD
MIA KNEW NOT how long she hung. She flitted in and out of consciousness and cursed herself – for her stupidity, laxness, allowing herself to drop her guard, to be kidnapped in the first damned place. Normally, she was attuned to danger, and on two occasions had had near escapes at the hands of date–rape pieces of shit. How did that Cypress Hill song go? Pieces of shit who should be on a fucking noose hanging. She smiled. Yeah. And oh, how she pitied them – the useless, spiteful, hateful weak–minded little cunts who felt the need to use GHB, Rohypnol, or the many other countless rape–aids on the comedy drug market. What’s the matter boys? Can’t find a woman – any woman – willing to fuck you? Too pig–ugly, cock too small, or such a fuck–awful goddam lay that you need to resort to chemical inebriation to get inside a girl’s pants? Join the queue maggot penis – there’s a million just like you.
Mia’s first escapade had been a normal night out with some girlfriends. Most of her mates were fun, a good laugh, dancing and frolicking as young women do. But a couple... God, a couple were horrendous liabilities. You know the sort – drink to be sick, party till you piss your g–string, flirt like crazy until projectile erectile vomit crazy–paves a path down the front of that oh–so–sexy slick and satin off–the–shoulder party dress. Dance on the bar, skirt round your arse, cunt thrust into drooling gibbering pimpled faces, but hey who’s the girl who’s the lady who’s the party queen, right? There were a couple of Mia’s friends she’d disowned; not only because they drank until they passed out – no matter what the function. Wedding, vomit. Funeral, vomit. Kid’s birthday party, vomit. Meeting the Queen? Hell, drink till I puke over that Old Babe. Bet she likes a Bacardi or two as well, ain’t that right, ma’am? No. Mia had disowned them because of the inherent danger they put themselves – and their friends – in: constantly. So, Mia, five or six close friends, out for a few drinks, a dance, a boogie, a party, right girls? Let’s have a giggle, dance till we drop, tease us a few pricks and prick us a few egos. Mia had felt quite tired on her way out – and decided to limit herself to three glasses of wine. Modest, by her standards. She could normally, on a good evening, put away ten. But then something seriously serious happened – half way through her third drink, dizziness hit her like a brick. It was late, and two friends escorted her outside for some fresh air – thinking her dutifully drunk. However, Mia wasn’t drunk – she’d been spiked. She knew instinctively what had happened – after all, shite like Rohypnol was colourless, odourless, and easily ground into a powder. And hadn’t all the girls foolishly had their glasses of wine open–air atop a dodgy fruit machine? Careless careless. Stupid stupid. She tried to explain this to her friends – but they waved her down. ‘Don’t be so stupid’, ‘You’re being melodramatic’ and ‘What a load of bollocks’ were the favourite quotes hurled her way with growing aggression. Because, of course, it’d never happen to you, right? And the implication was: if Mia had been drugged, then it meant she was worth drugging. So why hadn’t the no–good dirty scumbag would–be rapists drugged the others as well? Too fat to be drugged? Too ugly to be raped? It took Mia three days to sleep off her ‘hangover’ and whenever she tried to bring the subject up she was always waved condescendingly into submission. ‘Where’s your evidence?’ her friends would croak like paralytic hags, smeared lipstick and dresses riding–high over protruding arses. ‘You’ve got to have your evidence!’ The fact that she couldn’t walk, talk, fuck or frolic – and her boyfriend of the time said when she arrived home she was a gibbering mess, worse than any ‘drunk’ he had ever witnessed, and had crawled into bed with a bucket without – for the first time in her life – getting undressed; all that, coupled with more than 12,000 date–rapes a year in the UK alone, and the fact she’d only downed three modest glasses of wine which had never, ever effected her like that before – surely that alone was the evidence her retarded pseudo-academic friends required? So, Mia had been made to feel stupid, melodramatic, over–exaggerative and attention seeking – and why? Because her friends were aggrieved they hadn’t been the fucking victim? Stop exaggerating, it never happens to you, it always happens to somebody else. Somebody anonymous in the paper. Somebody on the other side of the country. Don’t be so damned soft.
The second incident, much worse, had been in party capital of Magaluf. A Hen night, twenty–six partying psychopathic Hens all out for the time of their lives... Devil horns. Suspenders. Fake tattoos. Inflatable sheep. Comedy condoms and a host of other humorous gizmos to get the girls in the mood and give the Hen a right proper sending off. And all this, combined with a list of comedy tasks to make a dirty whore blush.
However.
One girl, Tabitha, married, six kids, desperate for a bit of fun other than the school run and cleaning up baby vomit, went absolutely mad. No. MAD! Drinking, swearing, heckling, getting her tits out on the dance floor, getting her pussy out in the street, prick–teasing any guy who’d go within thirty feet of her, dancing on the bar with no knickers and basically behaving – not like a girl on a Hen night – but an out and out, back to basics, good for nothing good old honest slut. Now, Mia liked sex. Mia loved sex. Mia was, on many an occasion, mad. But she wasn’t fool enough to lead a group of seven dodgy looking testosterone filled guys on a prick–tease for the whole of the evening. Mia wasn’t fool enough to drink their champagne. Because when somebody spends a few hundred squids on champagne, he (or they) expect something for their money. Right? However, as Tabitha got drunker and drunker, dancing and teasing, flirting and squirting, and the guys got progressively horny and more and more out of control, one of Mia’s friends overheard a conversation by the toilet doors; amongst the noise and the music, the smoke and the gyration, she heard the loud abusive guys talking of back alleys, gang rape, and Tabitha. The girl tried to get Tabitha out of the club – but she was young and dumb and full of cum. Or soon would be. She was more stubborn than any mule... and looking about as pretty as the guys fumbled her into a drunken circle on the dance–floor and sexually abused her to the funky beat of Moby. They tried to drag Tabitha outside, and it was only when Mia resorted to violence – and stuck her heel in one guy’s skull putting him in hospital for three weeks, that the bastards finally left Tabitha alone. The police had been involved. But what did they care? Another stupid–arse drunken Brit baring all in Shagamuff, getting pissed in Shagaluff, shagging all in Megaruff. That’s what they all did, right? Act like a whore, be a whore. Drink like a wino, so don’t expect to get picked up from your pool of vomit.
It was after that, Mia decided to calm her life with her wild and modestly alcoholic ‘friends’. Because, after all, friends change, and if a friend can’t be trusted – if a friend betrays another friend, is jealous or bitter or condescending when they should be working together for the common good, common protection, common girl power – well, Mia smiled sadly.
She’d just have to let that friendship slide.
Now, however, Mia licked dry lips. Shit. It felt like the time her wine had been spiked. So – what had they given her? It didn’t matter. This time, sex wasn’t on the agenda. This time, it was more serious. The agenda seemed to be... murder? She shivered. Chains jangled.
Stolichnaya was still seated, in the gloom, shotgun across her knees.
Mia couldn’t see her face.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I need to pee.’
‘Pee down your leg.’
Mia paused. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘I also need a drink. Before I die of thirst. Is that what you’ve been told? To let me die?’
Grumbling, Stolichnaya climbed up and disappeared from the room. She returned with a glass of water and moved warily in front of Mia, placing her shotgun on the chair and reaching up to hold the glass to Mia’s lips. Mia sipped gratefully at the water, which flooded like nectar into a mouth of desert sand. It was also, that moment, she released her full bladder with as much force as she could muster – ejecting a stream of piss from the crotch of her pants to dribble and gush over Stolichnaya. Stolichnaya cursed, and the glass hit the ground with a smash sending cubes rattling in all directions.
‘Oya! Dirty bitch!’ Stolichnaya hissed, and stooped to pick up the shards – as Mia lifted both feet and rammed them into Stolichnaya’s head with as much power as she was able. Stolichnaya staggered, but did not go down. She grabbed her head in her hands, stunned, swaying, and Mia swung on her meat–hook, on her chains, and wrapped both legs around Stolichnaya’s throat. Her powerful dancer’s muscles contracted. And slowly, she began strangling the old woman.
Stolichnaya struggled, hands coming up, clawed fingers gouging Mia’s flesh. Grimly, Mia hung on, eyes narrowed, fear thumping like drums in her head. If somebody else was to enter now... or if Stolichnaya was to escape... the consequences would be dire.
Stolichnaya tried to bite, but couldn’t align her teeth. She punched at Mia’s legs. At her calves and knees, sending shockwaves of pain through the woman’s entire body... but grimly, still, she hung on. Because –
To let go was to die.
And Mia didn’t want to die.
Slowly, Stolichnaya ceased her struggling, her blows becoming weaker and weaker as they danced a crazy, disjointed dance backwards and forwards in the oval flight–path of the chains. Finally, the old woman went limp – but, mistrusting to the last – Mia hung on for another minute just to make sure the bitch wasn’t bluffing.