by Conrad Jones
The front page gave a brief timeline of the affair and Pamela was quoted as saying, “He must have had some kind of mental breakdown.” How the fucking hell would she know anything about my mental health? Inside was a two-page spread detailing our relationship, accompanied by a dozen photographs of us as a couple on various days out. Two of them clearly showed my wedding ring. A quarter of the page showed a pretty six-year-old girl. She was the image of Pamela. Her name was Constance, allegedly named after her father, Conrad. Bullshit. Pamela told the newspaper that she had never told me that she was pregnant because she didn’t want to split up my marriage. She knew that the relationship could never work because I was obsessed with my career.
My mind was spinning. At first I thought that she was trying to make a few quid by selling her story, but the more I looked at Constance, the more I started to believe her. When we split up, Pamela left the company about six months later and I heard that she stepped down from senior management and took on a part-time job somewhere. That fit in with her being pregnant and leaving work to become a single mother. If Constance was six years old, then Pamela would have been pregnant immediately after we split up. Or she was already pregnant and she was telling the truth. Constance could indeed be my daughter. The article made me do backflips in my mind. Was I her father? I could have been. The rest of the afternoon went by in a whirl. Although I was on the run, the news that I may be a father was earth-shattering. For some reason, it put me on a high. I took the chance of calling my brother back, which shocked him slightly, but I needed him to contact Pamela and find out the truth. It was three hours later when I called him back for a progress report.
My elation turned into bitterness, hatred and anger. My brother had spoken to Pamela and she convinced him that Constance was my daughter. She said that when she had first seen my books on the Internet, she couldn’t bring herself to tell me about our daughter in case I thought that she was a gold-digger. That was hard enough to digest, but when he told me that Constance had been missing since the previous day, I knew that they had taken her. Something snapped inside me.
Chapter 22
Snapped
I’d had enough. I thought long and hard about it, but the same conclusions sprang to mind. They were trying to get to me by tracing my friends and family. My ex was dead and Ross was missing. Pamela Bonner had told the world that I had a six-year-old daughter and now Constance was missing. Whether she was my daughter or not was irrelevant; they thought that she was. Who would be next? My estranged wife, my mother or my brother could all be on their lists. I was debating how long I would serve for manslaughter. If they sentenced me to ten years, I would serve seven. But in reality I was looking at spending most of the remainder of my life in jail, if I was lucky enough to face a lower charge. The alternative was that the Niners would eventually find me and torture me to death. When you look at it that way, my options were not great. If the law caught up me, Evie would be destroyed. If the Niners caught up with us, they would destroy Evie Jones, too, but in a less humane way. Whatever we chose to do, we were fucked.
In my mind, something snapped. I wasn’t prepared to sit back while they hurt the people that I cared about. I didn’t know how I felt about Constance, but I did know that I had to do something to stop them hurting her. They were killing other people to get to me and there was only one way to stop them. I had to go to them. Don’t get me wrong, I did not decide to give up or give in. I was not going to surrender myself to them or the police. I decided to go and find them. They were only humans after all.
Ged Knowles and his bitch died easily enough. Knowles told me where his nexion was based. The newspapers hadn’t published any blinding revelations about the search there, so I had to assume that nothing concrete had been found. It had been weeks since it was searched. If there was anything incriminating on the farm, it would have been all over the press. They’d cleaned the place of any evidence, I was sure of it. Even if they had cleansed the farm, there would be some connection there which may lead me to their hierarchy. I intended to start at the top and work my way down until they got the message that my family and friends were out of bounds. I would cut the head from the serpent and hope that it didn’t grow back.
The police weren’t able to prove that there was nexion at the farm, but I didn’t need proof. I didn’t have to work within the same constraints they did. Knowles was in agony when he told me where they met; I believed him. The police must have looked into the owners, but they couldn’t arrest anyone without proof that a crime had been committed there. I didn’t need proof to tell me that they were guilty and I didn’t need the courts to convict them. The Remington was a far better punishment than prison. I made the choice to take the fight to them, and if that meant that I had to die, then it would be my way, not theirs. Evie Jones would want it that way, too, and I knew she would fight them with me without batting an eyelid. I was cool, calm and collected as I doctored my shotgun licence with a false name and a new photograph. “Danny Holley” made a trip to a sporting outlet and bought enough shotgun cartridges to start a war. With my ammunition bought, I cleaned both shotguns and sharpened my neck knife. I cut the photograph of Constance from the newspaper and folded it into my wallet. Then I needed to find out as much information as I could about the farm called Brunt Boggart.
Chapter 23
Brunt Boggart
My search was a quick one as the farm was easy to find. Brunt Boggart is old English for “Burnt Witch”, an apt name for the place. It is in a small village on the outskirts of Liverpool called Tarbock Green, and the history behind its name is as dark as the hearts of the people who gathered there. Google it if you are still doubting me. Mystery and myths shroud the history of the farm. Obviously, a witch met a sticky end there, and ever since then bizarre things have happened. Open-minded folk will see it as a curse from the tortured witch, but the sceptics amongst us will say that place has merely suffered from a series of unfortunate events.
The old farmhouse stood for decades, but it became dilapidated and subsidence caused by the deep shafts from Cronton Colliery affected the foundations, making it unsafe. Old Mrs Strachen, the matriarch of the family, refused to move out of the building despite the structural damage. As senility crept up on her, she became frightened of an old woman who followed her around the house. Of course, nobody else could see her. She died there when a fire sped through the dwelling. In the early seventies, the Strachen family built a new farmhouse on the same site and it, too, burnt down. During a ten year period, they built another three and all three burnt to the ground within months of completion. The family suffered from a history of tragic deaths and mysterious accidents before they sold the farm and moved away. Where else would you choose to worship Satan and his dark forces?
As I read about the history of farm, I felt numb. Some of the newspapers had made a lot out of its sinister past while others brushed over it, feeling that their readers would think the story was being dressed up by reporters. My opinion is that historians have documented the tragic events on that piece of land for years and the Order of Nine Angels wanted to tap into the evil forces entwined in its history. If you believe in spirits and such things, then it is not difficult to comprehend my theory. I do to a degree, but I find it difficult to believe something which cannot be explained.
My sister Libby is a medium. She is a twin from my father’s previous marriage. My dad left their mum when they were toddlers and society in those days made it difficult to see estranged children. They never knew him when they were growing up. He contracted cancer in his seventies and when he was dying I asked him if he wanted me to contact them. He thought about it for a while and said no. He said he had caused enough pain in their lives and didn’t want to cause any more. I met the twins long after his death and Libby knows things about my father that she could not know. I’m not sure how it works, but my theory is that everything has the capacity to absorb energy. Energy makes the universe exist, right? Take crystals for instance, th
ey absorb energy. Quartz is used for all sorts of things. What about vinyl records and DVDs; they can store hours of music and film and then we replay them on devices. Well, I think the elements around us absorb events that happen near them. Wood, bricks, tiles and concrete absorb heat and radiation; they are forms of energy, so why can’t they store information? A ghost, for instance, is a replay of something that happened centuries ago. Mediums and spiritualists are just better at replaying the information than we are. Anyway, I think Brunt Boggart absorbed the evil of the witch and the elements there replay it for those who have the ability to channel it.
What does that mean to me? Absolutely nothing. I was past caring about the Nine Angels and what they believed in. I didn’t care whether they had supernatural powers or not. I know they can’t stop a bullet. They bleed, they burn and they die the same as we do. They would never stop looking for me and I was tired of hiding. It was time to take my destiny in my own hands. I loaded up the truck with the shotguns and shells and realized that I might need a little more firepower. I also thought seriously about leaving Evie Jones in the caravan, safe and sound, but I did not think that I would return from this journey. She stresses when she’s alone and I couldn’t predict when or if I would get back to her. The thought of her trapped in the caravan, running out of food and water stopped me from leaving her. I decided we would travel together. We would fight together and probably die together. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have next to me when the time comes.
Chapter 24
Pipe Bomb
If you want to learn how to do something, the Internet is a wonderful tool. You can find out how to make anything you like. I wanted to build some grenades and I found several sites on how to manufacture pipe bombs. I found a very useful video, which explained the process in idiot-proof fashion. I’m not very good with tools and my abysmal record of failed DIY projects serves as witness to the fact. A local plumbers’ merchant sold me a length of lead pipe and I bought two boxes of display fireworks from a garden centre. Using a hacksaw, I cut the pipe into ten-inch lengths and then hammered one of the ends closed. I then filled the pipe with gunpowder from the rockets and stuffed tampons into the open end as fuses. I made six in total. I didn’t think that I would need any more than six and I didn’t think I would live long enough to wish that I had made seven.
When I had finished making my pipe bombs, I bought two bottles of merlot and a large portion of fish and chips from Vinegar Jones’s chip shop in Bowness. Evie Jones ate a full lamb’s liver, cooked chicken mixed with a tin of tuna fish and a bag of doggy chocolate buttons. It was our version of the last supper. I took her for a long walk around Tarn Howes, which is one of the most beautiful parts of the Lakes. I felt terribly guilty about taking Evie with me to find them. I had a choice to put my life in danger, but she didn’t. My conscience was wrestling with the idea, but the alternatives seemed worse.
There is a footpath which circles the tarn and the scenery around it is stunning. The peaks in the distance merge with the skyline and the views are breathtaking in the winter and summer. Walking around there in the peace and quiet with the Staffie trotting beside me made everything that was happening seem like a bad dream. I still feel like it is a nightmare now, and I want to wake up, but I can’t because it is real.
Evie Jones shattered the peace and quiet and brought me back to reality when she spotted a duck on the water and launched herself off the path in a valiant attempt to savage it. I learnt three things about mallards that evening. Number one, they are open to aerial attack from the bank; number two, they cannot beat a Staffie over five yards; and number three, they are really crap at fighting. By the time I had pulled her extended lead in, there were blood and feathers everywhere. As much as I love her, she is nuts.
It was Friday and the full moon was due in four days. If the dust had settled at the farm, then the satanic order would be meeting the next night at Brunt Boggart and we would be there to greet them. I had no idea if they would take Constance there or not, but I had to start somewhere. If there were any Niners there and I got the better of them, I would make them talk. If they knew anything about Constance’s disappearance, they would tell me. I packed up the Land Rover and changed the letters on the number plate using black vinyl tape. I decided to leave the caravan where it was in the unlikely event that we survived. I guzzled the wine from a plastic cup and the alcohol numbed my muddled mind and allowed me to sleep for a while. It is strange to think that my tortured dreams are not as bad as my living nightmares.
Chapter 24
Pipe Bomb
If you want to learn how to do something, the Internet is a wonderful tool. You can find out how to make anything you like. I wanted to build some grenades and I found several sites on how to manufacture pipe bombs. I found a very useful video, which explained the process in idiot-proof fashion. I’m not very good with tools and my abysmal record of failed DIY projects serves as witness to the fact. A local plumbers’ merchant sold me a length of lead pipe and I bought two boxes of display fireworks from a garden centre. Using a hacksaw, I cut the pipe into ten-inch lengths and then hammered one of the ends closed. I then filled the pipe with gunpowder from the rockets and stuffed tampons into the open end as fuses. I made six in total. I didn’t think that I would need any more than six and I didn’t think I would live long enough to wish that I had made seven.
When I had finished making my pipe bombs, I bought two bottles of merlot and a large portion of fish and chips from Vinegar Jones’s chip shop in Bowness. Evie Jones ate a full lamb’s liver, cooked chicken mixed with a tin of tuna fish and a bag of doggy chocolate buttons. It was our version of the last supper. I took her for a long walk around Tarn Howes, which is one of the most beautiful parts of the Lakes. I felt terribly guilty about taking Evie with me to find them. I had a choice to put my life in danger, but she didn’t. My conscience was wrestling with the idea, but the alternatives seemed worse.
There is a footpath which circles the tarn and the scenery around it is stunning. The peaks in the distance merge with the skyline and the views are breathtaking in the winter and summer. Walking around there in the peace and quiet with the Staffie trotting beside me made everything that was happening seem like a bad dream. I still feel like it is a nightmare now, and I want to wake up, but I can’t because it is real.
Evie Jones shattered the peace and quiet and brought me back to reality when she spotted a duck on the water and launched herself off the path in a valiant attempt to savage it. I learnt three things about mallards that evening. Number one, they are open to aerial attack from the bank; number two, they cannot beat a Staffie over five yards; and number three, they are really crap at fighting. By the time I had pulled her extended lead in, there were blood and feathers everywhere. As much as I love her, she is nuts.
It was Friday and the full moon was due in four days. If the dust had settled at the farm, then the satanic order would be meeting the next night at Brunt Boggart and we would be there to greet them. I had no idea if they would take Constance there or not, but I had to start somewhere. If there were any Niners there and I got the better of them, I would make them talk. If they knew anything about Constance’s disappearance, they would tell me. I packed up the Land Rover and changed the letters on the number plate using black vinyl tape. I decided to leave the caravan where it was in the unlikely event that we survived. I guzzled the wine from a plastic cup and the alcohol numbed my muddled mind and allowed me to sleep for a while. It is strange to think that my tortured dreams are not as bad as my living nightmares.
Chapter 25
Brunt Boggart
The journey south was uneventful. We avoided the motorways and stuck to the back roads, so progress was slow. We didn’t encounter any police cars, bad ones or otherwise. It was a two-hour journey that took three. When we arrived, we found that Tarbock Green was a leafy greenbelt, comprised of farmland, woodland and sleepy livery stables. I used Google Earth to study the area around the farm and spo
tted an acre of woodland, which offered an elevated view over the farmhouse and its outbuildings. It was not far from the farm and it offered perfect cover. I could watch the farm unnoticed.
We drove by the entrance to the farm and I spotted something that hadn’t appeared on Google Earth: the owners had erected a high perimeter fence made from corrugated iron sheets and there were padlocked gates across the entrance. The extra security reinforced my suspicions that they would return. I parked the Landy in a derelict petrol station on the edge of the woods. It would have been a busy garage in its heyday before the M62 stole the traffic and all its passing trade. Opposite, there was an old pub called the Brickwall Inn. The once white facia was tinged with green and slates were missing from the roof. It was boarded up and the wooden sign outside was blistered and peeling. It reminded me of the dream I had the night before Peter died. There was something about the village which felt wrong. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could smell decay on the wind.