Roadrage

by M J Johnson

  "It took me a while for the penny to drop," said Davies, "That you had to be the Gil Harper I've been reading about."

  Gil nodded; he took another sip of coffee, "We've had quite a time."

  "I know the way facts get reported aren't always accurate," said Davies, "But it sounded like quite an ordeal."

  Sally quickly swallowed a mouthful of coffee and put in, "Poor Gil was the victim of a total maniac."

  "Total maniac, is it?" echoed the policeman.

  "Geoff Owens must've been insane," she continued, "He murdered three people in cold blood."

  "From what I've read … insane or not … he planned meticulously … seems like he fooled a lot of people?"

  "I suppose plans had been festering in his mind over a long time," said Gil.

  "So the killer's dead now, right?"

  "I found his body … he'd left a confession on a lap-top."

  "Convenient," said Davies.

  At that moment the room flickered with a half-hearted burst of lightning followed by the distant rumble of thunder, now eight or nine miles away. It was feeble compared to what they had encountered earlier, but still enough to set Spike barking again.

  "Listen to your dog! He's off!" laughed Davies.

  "He's always been terrified of thunder and lightning … but I've never known him like this."

  "Something must've got to him," agreed Davies.

  "He'll settle down once the storm has passed."

  PC Davies nodded. He took a mouthful of coffee, was pensive a moment, then asked, "If you could bear it … I only know the bits I caught in the papers … but I'd be interested to hear, from the horse's mouth as it were, what happened."

  Gil took a large slug of coffee.

  "Top-up?" asked the policeman, holding up the cafetière.

  Gil held out his almost empty mug for a refill.

  "Miss?"

  Sally looked momentarily confused by the question.

  "Coffee?" Davies asked indicating the cafetière.

  She shook her head before taking another sip from her mug.

  Gil began to tell the story. He started with the white paint on his car. He said, "I wonder if that's why DCI Mullings is coming here? Perhaps they've figured something out about the paint?" he directed this at Sally, who was staring wide-eyed back at him.

  "Wasn't … what's his name … Owens is it … wasn't he responsible for the paint?"

  "Not according to DCI Mullings … he said …" Gil paused. He suddenly felt uncertain about the exact order of events. He tried again, "Not according to D …C … D …C … Mull … Mull …" Gil shook his head in an attempt to expel the fog from it.

  Something was wrong.

  He looked over at Sally for reassurance. The unresponsive expression on her face hadn't altered at all since the last time he'd glanced across at her.

  He looked at PC Davies' grinning mouth. There was something familiar about that grin and the gaps between his teeth.

  Nothing was quite as it should be.

  Gil staggered to his feet. The room was swimming before his eyes. Sally didn't appear to have moved at all.

  PC Davies was now laughing uproariously in his face.

  Gil's knees buckled under him.

  Before he lost consciousness, Gil thought, 'Policemen … not meant to laugh at you like that … Spike knew … should've listened … should've listened to Spike …'

  16

  Gil couldn't open his eyes at first. His head felt like it had been boiled and tumble dried. He was seated, leaning forward, chin resting on something firm, his left arm raised. He gulped in the cold damp air, thought he'd throw up but was relieved when the sensation subsided. His mind began to replay images: the storm, Sally staring uncomprehendingly, the grinning policeman. His eyes burst open and he jerked upright, left hand grappling against its restraint.

  Everything was fuzzy but he was conscious again.

  He was in the driver's seat of a car, a Skoda he recognised, though not his own. His left hand was handcuffed to the steering-wheel. Outside, the night was pitch-black, the wind high. The car windscreen was almost impenetrable through the constant rain. The driver's window had been left partly open and Gil's sweatshirt was soaked from the rain pelting through it.

  It was at this point that he glanced in the rear view mirror and let out a gasp as he caught sight of the figure behind him. Through sheer panic he made futile exertions to break free of the cuff. His heart leapt in his chest. Then reason returned, flight was not an option; pulse racing, brain pounding, he peered into the mirror again. The figure hadn't moved; the neck and head were stretched right back.

  He was scared for Sally.

  Gil twisted round to the farthest extent his cuffed wrist would allow and peered intensely at the human form which remained completely still. This person was physically large with broad muscular shoulders, slightly overweight and male; not Sally. The man's chin was clean shaven and he'd been stripped to his underwear. Gil wasn't sure if he was breathing.

  "Hello?"

  The man didn't respond.

  "Hello?"

  He was either unconscious, or … Gil didn't like to think about the alternative.

  Gil felt acutely frightened. 'Once I turn round, he'll leap on me,' he thought.

  This paranoia, undoubtedly exacerbated by his predicament, was also an after-effect of the chloral hydrate he'd unwittingly taken. He wrestled with his fears, reluctant to turn his back on an unidentified person, but reasoned it was important to explore his surroundings, glean whatever he could from them.

  The car offered various clues to its identity: several pieces of Dyfed-Powys Police insignia, a smashed car radio; the cuffs on his left hand were the same type he'd seen used on detainees during his brief incarceration by Kent Police.

  Drowned out by the heavy drumming of the rain, Gil hadn't heard the approach of feet. He spun round immediately as the rear door on the passenger side opened. It was the bearded man, no longer in police uniform but wearing a set of waterproofs. At first he looked surprised to see Gil awake. Then he smiled calmly and got in alongside the silent figure in the back seat.

  "Welcome back," he said, Welsh accent dropped. "Sorry I wasn't here when you came round … things to do."

  "What's going on?" asked Gil.

  "What's going on?" echoed the man "Tut, tut, tut … such a disappointing first comment! So clichéd!"

  "Who are you?"

  "Who are you?" repeated the man mockingly, "Not getting better, is it? I suggest you give a little more thought before opening your mouth again." The man leaned forward until he was only inches away from Gil's left ear. He adopted a soft, friendly, confiding tone, "Gil, if I told you who I was, I'd need to do unfortunate things to you, like I did to your friends."

  Gil felt a wave of panic submerge him; at once he was terrified. It was like waking from a nightmare only to realise it was still running. His chest began to heave as it took rapid breaths. He was on the verge of hyperventilating. "What have you done to Sally?" he gasped.

  "Gil, I appreciate you're anxious, but I suggest you breathe more evenly, otherwise you'll pass out."

  In a peculiar way, the advice helped. Gil directed his breathing down from chest to abdomen.

  "Very good. Those yoga classes paid off."

  At the mention of yoga, another wave of fear momentarily overpowered Gil; he had once belonged to an all-male yoga class.

  "Where's Sally? What have you done to her?" he asked, voice tremulous with fear.

  "We've got a lot of catching up to do before we get onto the bitch," replied his captor.

  "No! What have you done to her?" Gil shouted. "Sally. What have you done to her? Tell me!"

  "Alright … relax … I'd hate to see you develop an embolism. If it'll put you at ease, the bitch is inside the cottage. I drugged her too."

  "Is she okay?" probed Gil.

  His captor, who had remained calm up until this point, suddenly lost control and without any warning lashed
out with a fist. An explosion of white pain burst through Gil's left ear.

  The man's speech was staccato when he spoke, "For-Christ's-sake! She's-been-drugged! Of course she's not okay!" After this there followed a pause as he sought to calm himself again. His voice was more controlled when he resumed, "She's been drugged. It'll wear off and should leave her system without causing any permanent harm. Is that what's troubling you … making you behave like a girlie-boy?" he added with contempt.

  Gil took a deep breath; it helped to absorb some of the pain in his face. Hearing that Sally was alive gave him a little hope. Of course, there was no way to be certain the killer was telling the truth.

  "I've never seen you before tonight. Why are you doing this?"

  "Actually, we have met. Autograph hunter, Blatts' funeral. Remember?"

  He did remember; that was why PC Davies had seemed familiar. Gil stared ahead, as though mesmerised by the water streams cascading down the windscreen. He realised how easily they'd been duped and shook his head in disbelief. Thinking aloud he said, "That was you?"

  Gil immediately received a slap to the head, "I just said that didn't I? … Duh!"

  "But … I don't know you!" Gil spluttered, trying to present a smaller target by shrinking closer to the open window. "I mean, why … what have I ever done to you?"

  "What have you ever done to me? Answer: nothing."

  "Then why? What's the point?"

  "Ah, yes, the point, where should I begin?" The man thought a moment, as if he considered his reply to be of the utmost importance, "Ever felt alone?"

  Gil hesitated, he wasn't certain if the question was rhetorical. He didn't want to be struck again.

  "Hello … Planet Earth to Gil!"

  "Alone. I've felt alone. Definitely," responded Gil.

  "Thank you. Because if you'd tried to tell me otherwise, I'd have known you were fibbing … all those indulgent passages, full of self-pity, about how your first bitch got her neck broken due to your lousy reactions …"

  Gil loathed the derogatory terms his tormentor used when he talked about Jules and Sally.

  "… I relive those last vital split seconds again and again in my dreams and sometimes during my waking hours …"

  It took Gil a few moments before he realised the man was actually quoting from his own diary.

  "… I can't help thinking if only I'd done something different, perhaps Jules and our unborn child might have lived. At moments like these, I feel utterly wretched, dejected and alone."

  Gil felt an ice cold shiver run down his spine. He was certain his jailer had just quoted the diary verbatim. Gil would have been unable to accurately quote a single sentence. He discovered himself involuntarily struggling against the handcuff.

  "Very sorry for yourself weren't you?"

  Gil made no reply; half expecting to be struck again he flinched in advance, but no blow arrived this time.

  "Like you, I've felt alone too, but I'm glad to say never so full of self-pity," sneered his captor, "Inevitable I suppose that I should've felt isolated … I've always been an individual thinker." The man broke off to consider his uniqueness a moment, "We have a lot in common … the home life I endured throughout my early years was dull like yours. Even so, it helped instil in me self-reliance and an unshakeable belief that the vast majority of the human race exert about as much mental energy as plankton …"

  The killer seemed keen to talk. From Gil's point of view it was at least better than being hit.

  "Everywhere pettiness, bigotry, small-mindedness …"

  Although the situation didn't allow much scope, Gil knew he had to try and think straight.

  "A world of intellectual pygmies, weak and futile …"

  Gil decided to learn as much as he could about his predicament. It was the nearest thing he had to a plan.

  "I've read in every generation there are only a handful of worthwhile people. The rest, the unwashed masses … cannon fodder …"

  Gil thought, 'I must seize any chance … get help … find Sally. Think.'

  "Unfortunately, in the west, we no longer fight wars on the scale of the past … there isn't the stomach," he scoffed. "The worthless thrive ..."

  The other man who Gil had been watching intermittently through the rear view mirror still hadn't moved and didn't appear to be breathing.

  "For years I went on … went to work every day … grinned, suffered the boredom … presented a face of affability even when dealing with inferior types."

  It was mostly impossible to see through the relentless downpour landing on the windscreen, but from time to time it eased for a second or two. During these gaps, Gil realised the car was parked at the end of the track, facing downhill in the direction of the sea. He identified the stile, over to his left, and calculated it was little more than a yard from the car. However, it came as a surprise to him to see that the fence alongside it had disappeared.

  At this point, for no apparent reason Gil's tormentor began to laugh. It had a curious self-deprecatory note about it, "You won't believe this, but I considered setting myself up in a shopping mall with various weapons and plenty of ammunition. Of course, the only way out of that one is death … but I didn't see why I should die along with all the useless trash I would have removed from the gene-pool. I reconsidered." He leaned forward to confide, "I didn't want people to think I was crazy."

  Gil didn't feel it was the right moment to correct this delusion.

  "Over time, an idea evolved. For a few years I'd taken cars when the mood took me … I was always careful, wore gloves, set fire to them afterwards. My details aren't on any criminal databases. Impressive considering the things I've done. The point is it wasn't enough. Then one day it just came to me … I had to choose someone … someone who'd understand how I felt. Eventually, when conditions were right, I came across you …"

  "Christmas Day," interjected Gil; it was really an aside to himself.

  "Absolutely perfect … the rain, the occasion, a deserted motorway. I knew it had to be then! If I couldn't do it, I was a waste of space like all the rest."

  "Geoff Owens had nothing to do with it! He was just another victim." Gil had been so certain of Owens' culpability; the realisation came like a revelation.

  "Owens barely possessed the willpower to get out of bed each morning!" the killer scoffed, "He eminently deserved to die."

  "But why?" asked Gil, trying to grasp the deranged logic, "If you'd chosen me … why kill the others?"

  "You're missing the point, Gil. I never meant to kill you … well, not unless you forced me to. In fact, I've grown rather fond of you …"

  The approval failed to engender pride in Gil.

  "Let's be honest, you're not exactly MENSA material, but you did have integrity and were certainly a better subject than I'd expected. Perfect really."

  "Perfect, for what?"

  "To bring down and ruin."

  A cold shudder ran through Gil's frame. "Why?" he asked, turning to look directly at his tormentor, "I don't even know you!"

  "Exactly. I came to the conclusion a symbolic amends was owed me … penance, for all I'd suffered. You've heard the term, scapegoat?"

  If there had been any lingering doubts, Gil was now certain his captor was one hundred per cent madman.

  "I couldn't remove everyone who deserved to die. So I set about finding one … preferably someone I considered above average ... whose life I would destroy."

  To Gil's mind, the argument sounded not unlike the orthodox Christian view on sin. He'd never been able to fully grasp exactly why the most perfect fleshly incarnation had to die in order to expiate humanity's sins.

  "It's never been personal …"

  From Gil's point of view it wasn't easy to agree.

  "It's an act of revenge … a declaration of hate against humanity!"

  Gil couldn't help himself. "You're insane," he said.

  For his honesty, Gil received a blow to the left side of his head, which made his ear throb.


  "I'm disappointed," Gil's assaulter whispered through clenched teeth in the painful ear, "I'd hoped for more than insults."

  Unless he was prepared to receive more injuries, Gil needed to back-track, "I'm sorry. You'll appreciate I'm feeling quite threatened at the moment."

  There was a pause. "I can understand that," agreed his attacker reasonably.

  Gil couldn't take the tension any longer and had to ask, "Who's the man beside you?"

  "PC Glyn Davies reporting for duty," replied the imposter in a Welsh accent more exaggerated than before.

  "And is he …?" hesitated Gil.

  "Dead?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you think?" the man replied before going on to ask menacingly, "Your opinion, pray?"

  Once again Gil wasn't sure if he was expected to answer.

  "Yes? I'm waiting!"

  "I think he may be dead."

  "You think he may be dead?" his tormentor mocked, "Of course he's dead! Do I do things by half measures?"

  "I thought perhaps you'd drugged him!"

  "And how would I do that? Please drink this cup of coffee with chloral hydrate in it! Shove a valium up his arse? I strangled him with a length of electrical wire I'd stripped out of the house up there on the hill. I've been watching you two lovebirds from there for the past ten days."

  Gil suddenly felt his anxiety level shoot up again. He was shivering from the cold; numbness had crept into his arms and legs. Despite this, he managed to ask, "Why did PC Davies come here?"

  His tormentor laughed, "To wait for the cavalry, and deliver a message … more or less what I told you, about Mullings being on his way and new evidence."

  "How did you get him to tell you that?" asked Gil.

  "Volunteered it … thought I was you! 'Mr Harper?' he asked in his stupid Welsh accent. 'Yes', I replied, quick as a flash, wide-eyed and innocent."

  "How could he make that mistake?"