by Bill Ward
REVENGE
By Bill Ward
Copyright 2013 Bill Ward
License Notes
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CHAPTER ONE
Christmas was fast approaching. Not that Tom was feeling very festive as he hurried down Sloane Street, past the fashionable designer shops, towards where he’d parked his car. A sharp cold wind caused him to pull the collar of his old brown leather coat tightly around his neck. It had a rather worn look, not unlike its owner. In truth both had seen better days. He lowered his head and focused his eyes just a few feet ahead on the pavement, to escape the worst of the biting wind’s force. He drew small breaths through tightly clenched teeth, protecting his lungs from the frosty night air. He could just glimpse, out the corner of his eye, the shop windows screaming out their messages of goodwill, their brightly lit decorations illuminating the pavement. No doubt a lot of creative thought had been put into designing those windows, in an attempt to grab the attention of passing pedestrians.
It wasn’t just a result of the cold weather that Tom didn’t linger to look closer at what was on show. Even though he didn’t have many to buy presents for, he couldn’t afford to shop in this part of London without taking out a second mortgage on his home, or more accurately speaking what would be in fact a third mortgage. And Christmas or not, he had more pressing financial challenges than just buying a few presents. His bank had seemed to take delight from pointing out to him that, even before the further recent plummet in house prices, he had no remaining equity in his house to secure any additional borrowing.
He hated the way banks always made him feel like Oliver asking for more food. He had laughed at the suggestion he could meet with one of the bank’s business advisors, who somehow might be able to help. Tom knew from previous experience that would probably be someone much younger, who had never owned a business, or worked in the real world outside a bank. He had replied as politely as he could that perhaps, given the bank’s recent performance, they might have greater need of his advice. In truth, given the amount of sarcasm in his voice, he wasn’t actually all that polite.
He fondly remembered the days when he could pop into his local bank and have a chat with a manager he had known for years, and who shared a common interest in racing. Now it was a call centre and an impersonal secure message informing him of the bad news. Tom was certain if he treated his customers with the same contempt exhibited by the banks, he would soon have no customers. The problem was everyone needed a bank and they were all as bad as each other.
As a result, presents this year would once again have to be measured more by the thought than the value. Not that that was an entirely bad thing. It was more in the original spirit of Christmas and he actually quite enjoyed shopping for presents on a budget. Out of necessity he was creative in his selection of presents and generally it was appreciated by the recipients.
A heavy overnight frost had been the prediction and for once it seemed the weather forecasters would be right. That in turn was expected to lead to at least a week of snowfalls and icy roads, which in turn would bring chaos to Britain’s eternally ill prepared transport system. It would also inevitably result in horse race meetings being cancelled and for someone who owned a small betting shop, which barely provided an adequate income at the best of times, any reduction in turnover could only be viewed as impending disaster. Thus, despite generally enjoying Christmas, he wasn’t feeling very festive.
While the big betting shop chains thrust every form of slot machine at their customers, Tom’s clientele were mostly true horse racing aficionados, who gathered to share a coffee in the company of likeminded fans of the sport and debate who would win the next big race. Neither did they bother betting on the laughable virtual racing now beamed to shops. Even the coffee he provided was free of charge and if there was no real racing, then there was little revenue. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was a one off occurrence but over the last couple of years, there had been an increasing number of such occasions, resulting in a loss of revenue. The success or otherwise of running a betting shop was beginning to be far too dependent on the whim of the weather gods.
Tom moved at a brisk pace, encountering very few pedestrians going in the opposite direction. Anyone with half a sense was at home with the central heating on full blast. Tom had been willing to gamble on the bad weather not deteriorating further and had ventured out to meet his brother for dinner in a very smart Knightsbridge restaurant, owned by a famous television chef. In truth he hadn’t cancelled because this year it was his brother’s turn to pay and trips to swanky eateries at someone else’s expense were rare treats. The food had lived up to expectations. Dishes with unpronounceable names had tasted amazing. Indeed this pilgrimage they both made annually, on the first Friday in December to celebrate Christmas and keep in touch, had been a truly pleasant evening. For at least a few hours he had been able to forget about his financial plight.
Colin was ten years his junior. Unplanned he’d presumed but their parents weren’t the type to be asked such a question. Father had spent his life in the army and believed in firm discipline and doing things by the book. An expression Tom found faintly ridiculous, as he was sure no such book had ever been written.
By the time Colin was born, Tom was already in the English public school system. While the army posted his father around the world, Tom was packed off to be a boarder at a Prep school in Berkshire. It wasn’t an experience he remembered with any affection. He learnt to be independent and self-sufficient but to his mind the austere surroundings had not been a suitable replacement for the family home. He spent most of his school days playing sport at every opportunity and avoiding academia. In the sixth form he was almost expelled for running a book on the Derby, which paved the way for his future career. That he only scraped through his exams was the result of an absence of studying, rather than any lack of intelligence. He could work out the probability odds on any poker hand by the time he was eighteen.
He was in his second year at Portsmouth University, doing a Business Studies degree, when both parents were killed in a car accident. Colin went to live with their Aunt in North London but despite regular holiday visits, the age gap meant they had never really been close. Sadly, a few years earlier the Aunt had also passed away, leaving them with only each other as close family. That was when they had instigated their annual dinner, to ensure they didn’t lose touch. Now Colin was a successful young something in IT frequenting Michelin starred restaurants and Tom was a regular at his local Indian on Tuesday nights, when they did their special offer of everything you can eat for a tenner.
Tom wasn’t in any way jealous of his brother’s success in the corporate world. Even financial security wouldn’t be enough to induce him to spend all day behind a desk staring at a computer screen, or at least not a screen that was used for writing computer software. Tom often spent hours staring at a screen playing poker on one of the Internet sites but it would never occur to him to think of it in the same terms. Anyway, financial security could only ever be a transitory state, as there would always be the poker and the horses to challenge any risk of having stability in his life. It was rather like the search for the Holy Grail. Pursuing financial independence by gambling gave meaning to his barely controlled addiction but in all honesty he couldn’t imagine life lived anywhere except on the edge. The result of a close photo finish, or the turn of the river card when all in for a lot of money, le
ft you in no doubt you were still very much alive.
For a long time he had wondered why the last card dealt in a Texas hold ‘em hand was called the River anyway? He knew he’d felt like jumping in a river a few times, when that last card dealt had yet again not delivered what he needed, and turned to the internet to discover it’s history. The river card supposedly got its name from poker games on river boats. Often cheaters would deal a hidden fifth card from their sleeve to better their hand. When caught, the cheater would be thrown into the river. Tom often wondered if he had lived a hundred years earlier, whether he might have been a river boat gambler, although he couldn’t imagine ever being a cheat. He could see no pleasure in winning anything if you had to resort to cheating.
Colin had announced over dinner that he and Liz were trying for a baby, so there was every possibility of Tom becoming an Uncle, in the not too distant future. Tom greeted the news with a certain degree of apathy. He had nothing against children, quite the opposite but Liz so strongly disapproved of his lifestyle that he doubted he would get many chances to play the role of Uncle. Liz had made it very clear from their first meeting that she did not approve of gambling and gamblers. The frosty reception she gave him, when they did rarely meet, made the current weather seem innocuous by comparison. There was a regular open invitation to visit on Boxing Day but that was one of the busiest racing days of the year and he was needed in his shop. He suspected Liz knew that and it was the only reason he received an invitation. And if he wasn’t needed in the shop, he knew he would instead be at Kempton Park, to watch the racing not sharing the day with Liz’s look of disapproval.
Tom turned left towards the back of Harrods and hoped he might yet avoid the worst of the freeze on the drive back to his small detached home on the edge of Brighton. He would normally have preferred to take a train into London, especially with Colin buying the wine, but he had spent the afternoon visiting his accountant, who worked from home in a very nice house on the edge of Slough, which was virtually impossible to reach by train. There was also the possibility of trains being delayed or cancelled, if the weather deteriorated further, so he’d settled for driving. At least there was little sign of traffic in what was normally a busy part of town on a Saturday night. The only vehicle about was a large noisy beast, owned by the council, moving slowly up the road and disgorging grit from its bowels.
The famous store was closed but he noticed a small group of people emerge from one of the rear entrances. Hands were shaken and then one person quickly returned inside the store. That seemed to leave one broad man and two women, although he couldn’t be one hundred per cent sure, as they were wisely wrapped in large coats. They hurried across the road. All three were laden with bags displaying the store’s well-known logo. Privileged shoppers, Tom thought to himself. Perhaps even someone famous. He’d heard before of the store opening exclusively just for film stars and celebrities to be able to shop without the crowds.
Out of curiosity, and seeing they were headed in the same direction, he accelerated his pace a little. He was only about fifty feet behind them but couldn’t distinguish whom he was following, although he had decided it was one man and two women by the way they walked. He felt a tinge of disappointment when, after going only a very short distance, the lights of a nearby Mercedes flashed, announcing the group ahead had arrived at their car.
Tom almost jumped out of his skin when the two men suddenly appeared from out of the shadows and he simultaneously heard the explosion of a gun and saw the man accompanying the two women fall to the ground.
Scarcely able to believe what he’d seen, he quickly ducked beside a parked car, while up ahead at least one woman was screaming. He rested his back against the side of the car and drew slow deep breaths to try and combat the sense of panic he was feeling. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been seen but was listening intently for any sound of advancing footsteps.
His focus went back to the woman who was still screaming. He couldn’t just stay hiding and ignore her screams. Crouched low, he snatched a quick look from the rear of the car. He could see one man standing with his hand extended, pointing a pistol at the two women, while the other man was pulling one of the women towards an open car door. She in turn was resisting and the second woman was pulling her in the opposite direction to the gunman. Both men were simultaneously shouting at the women, swearing at the one to let go and at the other to get in the car.
Tom returned to safety behind the car. For an instant he wondered if a movie was being filmed but there had been no cameras. He felt his heart pumping at a hundred miles an hour and was worried it was going to explode out of his chest. He recognized the feeling and fought to stay calm. But this wasn’t just the turn of an important card. He forced himself to once again breathe steadily and focus.
He fumbled inside his coat for his mobile phone and with an unsteady hand managed to dial 999. “A man’s been shot and they’re trying to kidnap a woman,” he said quietly but clearly, not wishing to attract the attention of the gunmen. “Back of Harrods and hurry.” The woman at the other end of the line tried to ask further questions. Tom cut her off with a firm and slightly desperate, “Please hurry.” Then repeated, “They’ve already shot one person.”
He risked a further glimpse. The sound of another shot made him jump. It brought the tug of war to a halt as the second woman collapsed to the ground. Tom had observed the rose emission of blood and fragments of skull, exploding from the back of her skull, and knew with absolute certainty she was dead.
The callous bastards, he thought, placing his phone on the kerb, careful to leave the line open. Shooting the man had been bad enough but now a helpless woman as well. Seething with anger and using the parked cars for cover, he managed to move within about twenty feet without being seen by the killers.
He had no idea how he could help but at the same time knew he had to do something. They were too busy to have spotted him and he knew surprise was his only chance of success. He didn’t like the odds and wished he’d had more of his father’s army training, as he sprung from behind the last of the cars that afforded cover. A year in the army cadet corps didn’t prepare you for this type of encounter.
Twenty feet became ten then six. He charged the man manhandling the woman into the car, as he was closest. Just as he launched himself, some sixth sense made the man turn towards him and Tom saw the look of horror on his twisted face. In something akin to a rugby tackle, he hit the man sideways on below the shoulder with his full thirteen stone. As they both fell to the ground, Tom was grateful to hear the thud of the man’s head as it hit the hard pavement. He rolled off the motionless body beneath him and sprung to his feet as fast as he could. He knew the second man, the one who had held the gun, was to his right and as he looked in his direction, he saw the open-mouthed look turn to anger and then the gun arm turn in his direction.
Tom was winded from his efforts and though his mind told him to move fast, his body was slowed down by too many years of inactivity. He made a half-hearted effort to lunge at the killer but knew he’d never make it in time, when suddenly the man was knocked off balance by the remaining female victim, who hurled her bags through the air like someone used to throwing the hammer in an athletics competition. The killer raised his arm to fend off the shopping bags and that gave Tom the extra time he needed to once again throw himself forward at the man’s legs, in another crude attempt at a rugby tackle. There was no repeat thud of head on pavement this time but there was the sweet sound of metal bouncing across concrete as the killer lost his gun. Tom felt the man beneath him kicking out trying to get free but at least for the moment he was pinned to the ground. Tom was tempted to simply roll away and hope the killer would make his escape but there was also the other scenario in which he ran nowhere but instead found his gun and shot Tom for being so bloody stupid as to interfere.
As a man used to having to calculate odds for a living, he decided to err on the side of caution. He lashed at the killer’s head with his fists and
tried to pummel his kidneys. Still though the man continued to try and break free. Where the hell were the police when you needed them? Or at least a passerby who might help. Probably running in the opposite direction, if they had any sense. Exactly what he should have done.
The killer was ever more desperate and Tom realised he’d made a grave error in letting his head stray too close to the killer’s. He saw the head butt coming but, interlocked as he was, he could move very little and felt the full force of the blow on the bridge of his nose. As he saw the killer intended to deliver a repeat blow, he decided it was better to roll away and make for where he’d heard the gun fall.
He hadn’t anticipated how groggy his head felt and once he moved his weight off the killer, it was him who was quickest to rise to his feet. Tom was on the receiving end of a vicious kick that connected with his knee and halted his attempt to get to his feet. The killer was smirking as he moved in to deliver a further kick, when suddenly the crisp night air was shattered by what Tom knew intellectually was a shot but didn’t understand who was doing the firing. A second bullet passed close to him but just as he was about to dive for cover, he realised he was not the intended victim. The killer beside him fell to the ground clutching at his stomach. Tom spun around to see the woman standing there with pistol levelled at the man on the ground.
“Don’t you fucking move,” she screamed hysterically in an American accent.
Tom glanced at the body on the floor and though no expert on the matter, it appeared to him there was no chance of the killer moving, with the amount of blood that was gushing from his middle. Tom looked back at the woman who was shaking and seemed in a state of real shock. Gently he walked towards her and took the gun from her hand.
In the distance he could at last hear the sound of an approaching police siren. He felt an icy cold envelop his body as the adrenalin rush subsided and the chill wind combined with the shock to make him feel very weak. He also had the metal taste of blood running down from his nose, via his top lip and into his mouth. He wiped away the blood on his sleeve and walked over and checked the condition of the first man he’d tackled, who was showing no obvious signs of life. He felt for a pulse and quickly found one.