by Limey Lady
As if!
He glanced at Sean, who already had his gloved left hand over his gloved right. One hundred per cent certain he was going to lose, Pat tapped his own head. Grinning, Sean removed his hand to show that the coin was at tails. No point in arguing. Pat checked out the nearest door. It seemed to open into a kitchen and was secured only with a bog standard Yale. Better still, it wasn't properly alarmed.
He had the lock open in less than a minute and, leaving Sean as lookout, slipped inside.
*****
Pat hated doing this; it was even worse than nicking. Like violating the householders as well as taking all their jewels.
It was also still nowhere near a perfect world. The car keys hadn't been casually dropped on a handy worktop or table. This had to be the neatest, tidiest kitchen he had ever been in, including the shrine that was his mother’s. He stole out of there into a wide hallway, where there was a table which did have keys on it. Lots of keys . . .
Just not the ones he was looking for. There were house keys; people-carrier keys; Golf keys but . . . no frigging Lexus keys. It was starting to look like the man of the house kept them in his pocket, so he could make sure they were still there every time he jiggled his balls.
Pat took in the full layout of the house before going any farther. Downstairs was dominated by a large, open area that went right up to a glass roof. There were lots of smaller rooms around this area. Surely he would find what he was after without having to go upstairs, where people would be sleeping.
His heart was racing as he went from room to room. His breathing felt strange too, as if he was going to hyperventilate or something. Hardly surprising though, because he really, really hated this. And it was getting worse the longer he went without finding anything.
Was that coke a bit dodgy? Don’t say that, for Christ’s sake.
Fuck it.
Be a man.
Get on with it
At least the staircase was stone. No danger of squeaky boards as he carefully ascended. The rooms upstairs were laid out in a blunt horseshoe around the atrium, or whatever the hell they called it. For some reason the layout made him think of the balcony at an old style swimming baths.
Fortunately (or so he thought), someone had put nameplates on all of the expensive hardwood doors, which would otherwise have been indistinguishable. The moonlight through the glass roof made it easy to read these names. Still struggling to control his heart and breathing, he took tally.
Lots of kids' rooms.
No less than three BATHROOMs.
One (big, fuck off) MASTER BEDROOM.
Add on another two GUEST ROOMs.
And . . . wait for it!
Bingo! Right there before his eyes, HIS and HERS dressing rooms. He probably wasn't going to have to go creeping into the MASTER BEDROOM after all.
Moving as stealthily as he could, Pat approached the door marked HIS and eased down the handle, opening it a crack to see darkness before slipping inside. The moonshine couldn't penetrate nearly as far this windowless room and, with the door shut, it was black as pitch. He scratted about for the light switch and winced when it went down with a loud CLACK!!
A minute passed and nothing happened. Reassured but still unable to stop his body from flapping, he scouted the room. There were plenty of built-in wardrobes but no need to bother about them. He was sure the keys would be over there, in that recently-worn suit neatly draped on its hanger, beside the full length mirror and the pristine new suit, hanging ready for tomorrow.
And Bingo again! There they were, in the front trouser pocket, together with a fistful of change.
Pat secured the keys then turned in time to see the door handle begin to move.
*****
Shit! Pat thought. Shit, shit, shit!
The handle was moving with incredible, painstaking slowness. There could be no doubt question that there was someone out there, determined to do this just-so.
Pat pulled out the Glock and stood waiting, surprisingly calm now the game was actually on.
His heartbeat was strong but no longer thumping.
His breathing was controlled and relatively easy.
Best of all, his hand was steady as a rock.
The man who finally appeared in the doorway was almost as tall as Pat and physically well-built. He looked to be in his early fifties and the type who played squash at lunchtimes. Although he probably felt ridiculous in bare feet and flapping dressing gown, he looked like he meant business.
So did the 7 Iron he gripped in his meaty right hand.
‘A thief!’ he cried dramatically. ‘Shall we have five minutes before I call the police?’
Pat waved the gun at (he presumed) Mr Maxwell. ‘Why don't you just get out of my way and I'll go without hurting you.’
‘I'm not scared of that,’ Maxwell scoffed. ‘I can see it's a replica. By God, I'm going to enjoy this.’
He suddenly swung the club, missing Pat's nose by about an inch. Even though he did it one-handed the club scythed through the air with a deadly WHOOOSHHH. Pat took two steps away from him before being brought up against a chair.
‘For Christ's sake,’ he said. ‘Back off or I'll fire.’
Maxwell laughed as he took the golf club in both hands, raising it high, as though it was a headsman’s axe or something. ‘Go ahead,’ he jeered. ‘Squirt water at me. You may as well make a show of it before I give you a few for resisting.’
He clearly intended to swing again and Pat knew what terrible damage an iron golf club could do . . . even if the mad bastard confronting him didn't know it himself. Given no choice, he fired once, hitting his would-be executioner in the middle of his chest, watching in horror as he went down in a storm of blood and tissue.
Maxwell was quite obviously dead. Although Pat had never killed anyone before he had seen a few bodies, but none deader than this . . . or as messily dead. That sudden calmness had gone and he was panicking again, big-time. Forcing back a mouthful of spew, he edged around the body and made it to the door. Was it possible no-one had heard that?
Was it fuckers like!
Or was it?
Pat suddenly guffawed. Adrenalin was coursing through him. All that panic was miraculously gone. He was the hardest, smartest man in the world. Against all the odds he’d got the keys. All he had to do now was leave, sharpish.
He stepped back onto the landing and froze. There seemed to be about a thousand kids waiting for him in the eerie, silvery light at the top of the stairs. The nearest kid looked to be at least eight feet tall, with the stringy build of a born basketball player. He doubtlessly spent a lot of time dunking balls through that hoop outside.
‘You,’ he yelled, pointing at Pat. ‘What have you done to my dad?’
‘Nothing,’ Pat lied. ‘Let me past and you can see for yourself.’
No reply.
And there was no backwards movement.
Pat grinned at the ghostly, hostile faces and showed them the Glock.
‘Manners,’ he said. ‘Make that please let me past.’
‘Drop the gun,’ a scared voice said from behind him.
Pat turned to see a Eurasian-looking woman maybe six yards away. Under other circumstances he would have been delighted to meet someone like her in her thin white nightdress . . . especially meeting by moonlight outside a bedroom. But not tonight; tonight she had a tiny pistol in her hand and, even if she couldn't hold it anywhere near steady, she looked dangerous.
‘Drop the gun,’ she said again, and then fired twice in rapid succession.
Pat reacted purely on instinct. As one of the kids screamed, ‘No, Mum!’ he brought round the Glock and fired back, seeing her ample chest explode before swinging around again. And just in time. Led by the basketball player the host of ghostly kids were charging to the woman’s defence.
Now Pat couldn't stop pulling the trigger. The charge halted almost at once . . . as soon as the first bullets smashed into defenceless young flesh . . . but still he pulled. S
omewhere, deep down, he knew he was massively overreacting but he was as out of control as the situation. When the magazine was empty the landing was heaped with bodies. Adrenalin still coursing, he quickly reloaded then hesitated.
There was nobody left to shoot.
*****
Sean chain-smoked while he waited for Pat to get the keys, taking care to save the butts for discreet later disposal. At ease as he leant back against the house wall, he reckoned he was doing all right, considering Harry Williamson could show up at any moment. Apart from the chain-smoking he was well in control. He had no irrational rage at the sheer cheek of that cunt from Shipley. No need to lash out . . .
He had no clue what he was going to do about Kyle, either, come to that. He’d as good as offered him to Danny Painter but good old Danny Boy was dragging his feet. And try as he might, he hadn’t been able to come up with a credible suicide mission for the Crossflatts bastard. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps that utter cunt Williamson’s reaction to missing out tonight would give him ideas.
Talk about annoyed, Williamson would be having kittens.
Sean was on his fourth smoke when a shot rang out. Swearing, he docked his latest cig and crammed it in with the other stubs.
What the fuck was Pat playing at? Was that an accident? Or had the crazy sod topped somebody?
He opened the kitchen door, stuck his head inside and listened. For a moment he heard nothing. He was starting to think he’d imagined it when a young voice shouted something about his dad. Then World War Three broke out and he knew this was for real.
Fuck me, it’s like the Yanks were late for the first two wars; don’t say they’re here early for the next!
But he couldn’t blame Americans for starting this one; no way. If the initial impulse was to run there was no way he could leave Pat. Any natural inclination to be a coward was swamped by the inbred need to support.
Madness, he knew . . . but what the fuck.
Drawing his own weapon, he went inside and through to the enormous central hallway in time to see his mate coming down the stairs.
‘Pat,’ he shouted. ‘Out, out, out!’
‘Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!’ Pat yelled back crazily. ‘Out, out, out!’
Leading by example, Sean dashed outside. Fuck! There were shadows moving beyond the Lexus, at the road-end of the drive. He grabbed Pat as he burst out of the kitchen, clapping a hand over his mouth before he could speak. When he was sure Pat understood, he removed his hand and led the way to the rear of the house, then away through those same back gardens. Pat followed soundlessly over the series of walls.
They reached the empty property with square metres of scraped flesh but without any major incident.
Sean took the last few yards of the garden path cautiously, then stopped and had a look. There were eight people, presumably neighbours, milling around the driveway about three properties up. He guessed the gunfire that attracted them was also keeping them away from the house itself, although someone had already been close enough to trigger the external lights and alarm. There was no sign of any cops, armed or otherwise, but they would certainly be on their way.
Across the road from him the Focus waited patiently in the moonlight.
Sleeping silently, like the car in that fucking Stephen King story.
The motor was as good as mocking them.
*****
It was now or never.
With Pat close behind him, Sean crossed the road and unlocked the car manually. In perfect sync, looking back to make sure they hadn't been spotted, they pulled the doors almost shut and held them, not wanting to slam. Sean released the handbrake and let the slight downslope roll them slowly away from the scene of the crime. Using the rear-view mirror, he confirmed nobody had noticed them go. Avoiding the footbrake to keep it like that, he allowed gravity to assist until they were down the hill and out of sight. Then, when he was sure the brake lights wouldn't be visible, he pulled up and shut his door as softly as possible.
‘Fuck me,’ Pat said, following suit with the passenger door.
‘Quiet,’ Sean snapped, turning the ignition. He drove them in silence and without any lights through the heart of the residential area, stopping fifty yards short of Park Road, switching off the engine when he heard sirens. They both sank deep in their seats, wanting the Focus to appear parked and empty to the three squad cars that came screaming past.
Still more sirens approached. They stayed low until another police car and a large, unmarked van raced by.
‘That'll be the shooters,’ Sean said, restarting the car, ‘the men in the van, coming to sort out the mad gunman once and for all.’
He switched on the lights this time and turned into the major road, heading uphill, out of town. Taking care to stay within speed limits, he drove through Eldwick and the scattered High Eldwick, finally hitting Otley Road at Dick Hudson’s and turning right, open countryside below, Bingley Moor above. After about two miles he pulled up on a gravelled area on the side of the road, beside a reservoir which very patchily reflected the moon.
‘Right,’ he said, switching all off again, ‘how bad is it?’
‘Bad,’ Pat said. ‘You want to be getting away from me as soon as you can.’
‘Never mind feeling sorry for yourself, twat. Just tell me what happened.’
‘Sean . . . it’s really bad.’
‘Stop being a worm and fucking tell me.’
‘I got interrupted upstairs,’ Pat said, not looking at him. ‘The man of the house came at me . . . Mr Maxwell, I suppose. He tried to knock my head off with a 7 Iron . . . wouldn't believe my gun was real. I had to kill him or he'd have brained me.’
‘He must have been barmy.’ Sean couldn’t help himself. ‘Anyone in their right mind would have used a 4 Iron.’ When Pat didn't laugh he added: ‘I take it there's more?’
‘Yeah; the whole fucking family tried to grab me. His missus had a couple of shots.’
‘So you shot back?’
‘I had to. She was all over the place, but she'd have got me in the end.’
‘You did the double: husband and wife?’
Pat closed his eyes. ‘And the rest,’ he whispered.
Sean was impressed. Appalled, of course, but impressed for all that.
‘Sweet,’ he said. ‘That is what I call making your bones. How many did you get?’
‘It must have been at least six; maybe seven or more.’
‘
Seven?’
‘At least one of them was still breathing. I knew she was a witness . . . that I should finish her . . . but I couldn't do it.’ Pat sighed tragically. ‘What a fucking disaster.’
‘She probably won't be able to identify you.’ Sean thought a moment. ‘She can only have had a brief glance at you; and in dodgy light at that. If I hadn't known it was you coming down those stairs, I probably wouldn't have recognized you. So we just need to cover our tracks.’
‘I can't let you get involved. Not with all those people dead.’
‘I am involved,’ Sean said firmly. ‘And besides, I'd have killed Huyton all those years ago if you hadn’t stopped me. They’d have got me for that. And I probably wouldn't be up for parole even now. So I owe you. Shut up and let's get on with it.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
(Thursday 8th January 2009)
Alfie had been living up in the hills for nearly a week. He was used to cars stopping on the nearby parking area. He knew why they stopped too. Oh yes, he was only thirteen but he knew about sex from listening to Denny with various boyfriends over the years. And not just at night, when he could hear them actually doing it. Theirs was only a small flat; he sometimes couldn't help hear them planning ahead.
Which was interesting, he had to admit. Knowing what they were going to do together put a context on some of the sounds.
He’d quickly worked out that the car people weren't having normal, fun sex like Denny liked to have. No, they came here for illicit sex. Apart from the handful of teenager
s with nowhere else to go, these were men and women shagging other people's wives and husbands. At first he’d been tempted to try to watch, to add yet another context to the clearly popular activity. But the risk of being caught held him back.
These people were here to fuck furtively; he strongly suspected they wouldn't take kindly to spies.