Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  The windows to the right of the door were fastened in the same fashion. I pushed on and reached the end of the building, before taking a path which led to the rear. A coil of rusted barbed wire blocked my progress and although it was dark, I could make out further rolls of razor wire beyond the first. If I tried to pick my way through, it would cut me to ribbons before I’d made more than a few yards. I couldn’t risk an injury which would need stitching, or a rusty wound which would become infected later on. Hospitals and doctors were beyond my reach. I had to find another way. I walked back the way I’d come and decided to try the second smaller building on the left. It was an unusual shape and from my position, there appeared to be no doors or windows in the front elevation. As I neared the building, I understood why.

  A road ran from the turning area to the side of the building, which was in fact a cutting shed and loading bay. There was a large opening on the far side which allowed articulated trailers to reverse into it, so that custom sized slate blocks could be loaded. From the side it looked like a low one-storey building. I was an illusion created by being built into the slope. The road snaked around the building and then dipped beneath it, hence it couldn’t be seen from where I had parked the truck. It wasn’t ideal but it was the best shelter on offer. I had no idea how far away Gaskin lived, or if he would come at all, but I had to act on the premise that he would arrive sooner rather than later. Encouraged, I jogged towards the loading bay entrance which was nothing more than a gaping black maw beneath the building. The road twisted in a sharp u-shape and dropped down steeply. I slowed my pace as I reached the incline, gravity pulled me down the slope where the darkness reached a new level. I literally couldn’t see a thing. I had no choice but to try and use the light from the screen of the mobile. I took it out and pressed the menu button. When the screen illuminated, so did a button on the side of the device. The button read ‘Torch’. I pressed the button a powerful beam of light illuminated the building. God bless JCB for making a mobile which was used by farmers, builders and contractors the world over. Someone somewhere was throwing me a lifeline. Using the phone as a torch, I entered the loading bay with renewed hope.

  The road stood a metre below the loading platforms which ran on either side from the front opening, all the way to the rear of the building. Stone steps cut into the platforms on both sides, allowing access for the truck drivers to supervise their loads. I took the steps to my right and climbed up. On the platform, the torchlight revealed tracks which would once have guided an overhead crane. The crane itself had been stripped, along with all the other scrap metal left behind when the quarry closed. At the end of the platform, wooden stairs climbed up to another platform which supported a supervisor’s office. The office spanned the loading bay, three wide windows, long devoid of glass, allowing a panoramic view of the operation below. Plywood hoardings covered the office windows now. If the stairs were intact and I could remove the hoardings, it was the perfect place to observe the niners if they fell for my trap. From there I could see them and cover them with the Mossberg.

  My first instinct was to position myself in the office and wait for them to arrive, but the more I thought about it, the more it looked like a dead end with no escape should things go wrong. With that thought in mind, I climbed the ancient wooden staircase. The smell of wet rot drifted to me and the steps had the spongy feel of decay. Each step brought a different creaking sound and the threat of plunging through the wood onto the concrete below hung heavily in my mind. I placed my feet carefully, testing the strength before transferring my weight. Progress was painfully slow but rushing now could end up with me lying helpless with a broken limb, a rat caught in my own trap. I counted thirteen steps to the landing. The door to the office was made from wood; three panels of plywood separated by thicker bars. The handle was missing, either broken off or removed on purpose to deter intruders. The floorboards on the landing groaned as I neared the door. I pushed it with the flat of my right hand and it moved slightly. A heavy barge with my right shoulder rattled the door in its frame and a second blow split the rotten frame near the lock. The door clattered against the wall as it flew open. The torchlight revealed an empty room, cobwebs hanging from the ceiling timbers. A strip light dangled, only one end attached, the wires exposed and the smell of damp and decay pervaded the dank air inside. The right hand side of the room was exposed brickwork; the left side was stud wall with the three boarded windows. I stepped inside towards the nearest window and instantly felt that the floorboards were different. I realised too late that decay had won the battle with the timbers and my right leg disappeared through the floor.

  Chapter 18

  My right leg went through the wood to the knee. I could feel warm blood trickling down my shin and there was burning pain coming from a graze above the ankle. I lurched forward and had to let go of the gun and the petrol. The floorboards groaned beneath my weight and I could hear fragments of wood hitting the loading bay below. I held my breath and waited for the noise to abate before trying to pull my leg free. I placed my hands palms down on the floor and pushed upwards. The wood cracked beneath me and I dropped through the widening hole to my chest. Debris clattered into the loading bay and I grabbed at thin air as I came to a painful stop; only my arms and shoulders preventing me from following it. My legs dangled freely as I desperately tried to find purchase on something underneath me.

  My breath came in gasps, fear and adrenalin forcing my body to fight my predicament. I looked over my shoulder and twisted my body around slowly. Grabbing the door frame with my left hand, I nudged the shotgun and petrol gently through the doorway onto the landing and then tried to pull myself up. I needed both hands to budge a few inches. A loud crack from behind me stopped me struggling and a low groan followed as the tortured wood settled again. Seconds felt like hours as I held onto the door frame. I took a deep breath and pulled with all my strength. My chest came free of the rent in the floor and with a few kicks of the legs, I was lying breathless face down in the doorway. The office floor creaked loudly and a fifteen feet section simply dropped away from the structure. With the support gone, the front wall snapped and followed the floor into the loading bay, crashing and splintering into dozens of pieces. I got to my knees, grabbed my gun and the petrol and sprinted for the staircase. As I reached the third step, the remaining sections of the office gave up the struggle to stay intact. Gravity proved to be stronger than the rusted screws and corroded nails and it ripped free of the walls, hurtling onto the loading bay below. A choking cloud of dust and debris filled the cutting shed and the clatter of timber against concrete deafened me.

  I jumped three steps and then leaped the last three, landing in a bruised heap on the platform. I sat up, tired and aching all over, as the clamour quietened. Giving up and walking away into anonymity suddenly became attractive; more attractive than anything before. I’d had enough. As I got to my feet, resigned to making it to the truck and driving over the mountains away from this madness, I heard engines approaching. Tyres crunched the slate shingle near the quarry gates, at least two vehicles, maybe three. I listened in the darkness as the engines laboured and then fell silent. I couldn’t see if it was the police or the niners but something inside told me that it was the latter. They were here and I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do next.

  Chapter 19

  I ran to the entrance and peered around the edge. Three sets of headlights illuminated the main building and the chimney stack. I could hear voices on the wind, three men, probably four. Their silhouettes shifted from one vehicle to another. One walked over to my truck and peered into the driver’s window. There were more words exchanged, some in Welsh, but not all. Then there was an angry exchange, raised voices, finger pointing, angry aggressive tones and then a punch was thrown. As one man fell onto the shingle, another made to help him while the others tried to kick him while he was down. More angry voices and finger pointing and then the two attackers seemed to calm down momentarily. They chatted and argued fo
r a few seconds and then they looked towards the buildings. I needed them in the cutting shed. I wasn’t sure what I would do when they were there, but I knew something would come to me. I took the lid off the petrol canister and poured half the contents onto the huge pile of rotten wood which only minutes ago was the office. Taking a disposable lighter from the bag of shotgun cartridges, I set fire to the wood. The flames jumped quickly from one piece to the next and as the fire met a petrol soaked section, it ignited it with a resounding whoosh. The wood crackled and pieces of burning embers shot into the air. Smoke began to fill the vaulted roof space as the flames climbed higher towards the ancient roof beams.

  I ran back to the arched entrance and looked over the loading platform. The niners were three hundred yards away and I knew that they couldn’t see the entrance to the cutting shed from their position, but they would see the glow from the flames. They turned and ran to their vehicles. I could hear some of their words drifting to me. I heard ‘bat’ and ‘hammer’ and then their headlights were switched off. They were coming; four men carrying weapons of varying descriptions. I ducked low and ran up the incline away from the cutting shed. Crouching as I ran, I hid behind the side of the building where I could see them approach but they couldn’t see me. As I watched them, something important sprang into my messed up brain. How would I know which one was Gaskin?

  As I watched them walking across the shingle turning space, I tried to decipher as much information as I could. Two of them held torches. One of them was much taller than the others and he was well built. He was carrying a baseball bat. The man next to him had a screwdriver; a very big one and his nose was bleeding. He didn’t look comfortable at all, in fact, he looked like he was shitting his pants. One held a claw hammer in his right hand and a carving knife in his left. They all had beer bellies that pushed against the material of their coats. I envisioned their guts hanging over their pants like droopy muffin tops. I guessed that the man with the nose bleed was Hughes, purely because I’d told Gaskin he was a grass but I didn’t see which one had hit him and to be honest it didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford to kill anyone until I knew who Gaskin was. The four men walked in silence and rounded the bend at the top of the incline. They looked at each other as they saw the flames inside the cutting shed.

  “Harris!” The tall man shouted. The others looked at him again for guidance. “Harris!” He called again.

  “Let’s take a look inside,” nose bleed man suggested. “He might be hurt.”

  “Shut your mouth, Hughes,” the tall man snarled. He waved the bat close to his face. “If he’s right and you have blabbed to the police, I’ll shove this bat up your arse and set fire to it. Do you understand?”

  “I haven’t told the police anything,” Hughes replied angrily although he looked very frightened. “Harris is a fucking liar. He always has been!”

  Bingo. Now I knew who was who. Or so I thought. It wasn’t the first time I’d been wrong.

  Chapter 20

  Geraint Hughes was fuming as he stormed down the incline towards the entrance. An orange glow illuminated the approach road and the interior of the cutting shed and thick grey smoke poured beneath the top of the arch. The accusations against him had infuriated him and had already cost him a bloody nose. Much worse would follow if he didn’t clear things up.

  “Harris, you gobshite!” He bellowed as he entered the loading bay. “What the fuck are you playing at?” A moment’s hesitation and he disappeared into the building.

  “What do you think?” The tall man asked the man to his left. “Do you think Geraint is a grass?”

  “I don’t know what to think yet,” the smaller man stepped into the light. Holding just a torch, he seemed the least dangerous of the men yet he had an aura about him. He wasn’t armed and he didn’t look nervous or scared like the others. “Follow him and see what’s going on. Bring Harris and Geraint out here.”

  “Bollocks!” The tall man hissed. “I’m not going in there.”

  The smaller man just glanced at him but there was malevolence in his eyes. Whatever silent message passed between them, the taller man lowered his gaze and walked towards the building. “You too, Rob,” he turned to the remaining niner. The man didn’t argue or question the command. He followed the others into the cutting shed. As I watched him from the shadows, his eyes scanned the area. He seemed suspicious as he looked around him one way and then the other. His focus passed over me twice but I knew he couldn’t penetrate the darkness. He shuffled his feet and for a moment, I thought he was going to about turn and leave, but he headed into the shed instead. There was only one way in and one way out. I had them where I wanted them.

  Breaking cover, I ran for the top of the incline and bent double to see what they were doing. The fire at the rear of the building was radiating heat and light and the glow warmed me as I approached the entrance. The four men stood peering beneath the fragmented wood, looking for signs of their friend underneath. They looked at each other, confusion and anger etched into their faces.

  “Your fat friend is dead,” I shouted to get their attention. The men spun around to face me, weapons raised instinctively. They had fear and surprise in their eyes. All except one. “His pervert of a wife will be spilling her guts to the police by now but Harris is fish food.” They eyed the shotgun and backed away as I approached. “Harris told me that Geraint Hughes is the master of your sinister tribe,” I lied. They looked from one to the other nervously. Hughes looked especially nervous. “That’s you, right?” I pointed the gun at the man with the bloody nose.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shook his head and his fat jowls wobbled making him look like a turkey. “I’m not in any sinister tribe.”

  “Why would you call it that then?”

  “Call it what?” Hughes looked confused.

  “A sinister tribe.”

  “That’s what you called it,” he mumbled but his face told me that he’d realised his slip up.

  “Your average man on the street wouldn’t know that the word ‘sinister’ isn’t a description, but we know that don’t we?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he looked at the floor as he spoke.

  “Well that’s a shame,” I took another two steps towards them. They edged backwards but the heat from the fire was too intense for them to move much further. “I only want Geraint Hughes, so which one of you is Hughes?”

  Three of the men looked at Hughes. Hughes looked shocked that they would give him away so easily. I couldn’t fathom why he was so surprised. They were all lying paedophile scum, so in my mind expecting them to be trustworthy was ludicrous. “I’m Geraint but I’m not the temple master,” his face drained of colour as he spoke. He knew that Gaskin and the others would despise him for his treachery, despite the fact that they had just betrayed him. “I’m no one.”

  “I’m the temple master,” the tall man lied. I suppose he thought there would be some devilish reward for sacrificing himself. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?” He sneered. “What do you want?” The expression on his face changed but it registered with me a second too late.

  “He knows Geraint Hughes isn’t the master,” a voice came from behind me. “Put the shotgun down or I’ll blow your brains out.”

  I kept the gun trained on the four men in front of me while I stole a glance behind. A tall man in a long waxed jacket was aiming a double barrelled Larona at the back of my head. “If I was you, I’d have already pulled the trigger,” I said. I didn’t care if he did or not and desperate men with no fear are dangerous. His curiosity had kept me alive.

  “Are you the writer who has been on the news?” He walked to my right hand side, the gun trained on my head. “You set fire to the farmhouse at Brunt Boggart, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll take it that you’re Glynn Gaskin.”

  “Clever man here, boys,” Gaskin chuckled. “Drop the weapon.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then you will die
here tonight.”

  “So be it, but who’s coming with me?” I aimed the Mossberg between Gaskin and the others.

  “I know all about you, Conrad Jones,” he smiled thinly. His thin lips barely twitched at the corners. Watery blue eyes narrowed as he spoke. “She’s got a thing for you. She wants you to suffer really badly and you will. Do you know how many of us there are?”

  “Too many.”

  “Clever and funny, eh?” he frowned. “If you lived another fifty years you wouldn’t make a dent in our numbers, you stupid bastard!”

  “Shoot the cunt and have done with this,” the tall man with the bat growled.

  I squeezed the trigger and the Mossberg roared. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space and none of the men were expecting it. The tall man was knocked off his feet as the blast hit him square in the chest. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His lips moved silently and crimson bubbles came from his mouth. I couldn’t help but notice the irony in the way his arms were splayed, like Jesus on the cross. Gaskin tightened his finger on the triggers but nothing happened. His eyes widened in horror as I turned the gun towards him.

  “Safety catch, dickhead,” I fired again. Gaskin was sent into a spin as the blast punched into his right shoulder. The shotgun clattered across the concrete. “Who is the stupid bastard now?”

  He slumped against the loading bay wall, his shoulder socket exposed; the white of the bone exaggerated by the dark ragged hole around it. All three remaining men covered their ears and turned away, staring over their shoulders at me in disbelief. “Where is Jennifer Booth?”

  “Fuck you!” He spat blood onto the floor. Thick mucus mixed with it as the globule landed near my foot. I leant over him and smashed the butt of the Mossberg into the bridge of his nose. There was an audible crack as the bones in his face disintegrated. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.