by Matt Drabble
RAPTURE FALLS
M.S Drabble
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I beginnings 4
CHAPTER II introductions 8
CHAPTER III tall tales 19
CHAPTER IV led by the nose 30
CHAPTER V subtlety 49
CHAPTER VI crossroads 64
CHAPTER VI growing up 78
CHAPTER VI meet and greets 89
CHAPTER VII not so happy trails 101
CHAPTER VIII on location 110
CHAPTER VIV pride and falls 122
CHAPTER X controls are spiralling 140
CHAPTER XI nearly there 156
CHAPTER XII true natures 164
CHAPTER XIII epilogue 181
CHAPTER I
BEGINNINGS
“I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending,
Saith the Lord, which is, and which was,
and which is to come, the Almighty”.
Revelation 1:8
The grey Cardiff landscape lies dull and lifeless in the nights wet winter gloom, the capital city has long since packed away its bustling argumentative shoppers and closed for the night. The neon hum and glow of bar and pub signs pierce the misty rain reflecting in the dirty puddles gathering in the pock marked pavements. It is 3am and only the darkest motivations are still scurrying amidst the narrow streets ignoring the hour and the weather. The sound of footsteps echo in the dark herald a purposeful stride, the man is around 6ft tall, his stocky frame is encased in a padded waterproof coat, his hood pulled heavily forward obscuring a dishelved face. His muddy boots are stomping and splashing along Westgate Street hidden in the imposing black shadows of the Millennium Stadium, the man repeatedly turns, whipping his head nervously, glancing around on all sides.
Gerald Wilkes was cold, wet and as worried as any one man can possibly become without dropping dead of an embolism. He was already running dangerously late, a fact confirmed by every glance at his illuminated watch; the soft green glow from the watches light illustrates the stress and worry on his heavily stubbled face.
The small envelope secreted inside his large jacket weighed next to nothing, but it carried its own force of gravity slowing his once determined walk to a crawl. Gerald headed along the dark and deserted street, his heart pounded and his chest wheezed, his whole body was starting to emit a rank smell of sweating desperation despite the cold night air. The small brown envelope was burning a hole through his clothes and into his soul causing a cloak of despair to begin eating him alive.
Gerald was scared, Gerald was miserable and Gerald felt more alive than he had ever felt before. His body was now moving involuntarily forward, his pace gathered momentum as his final destination grew inevitably closer. Up ahead he could see the vague outlines of shapes moving in the murk under the railway bridge. Several hundred yards to the left the city stood in its urban surroundings, civilisation held aloft beacons of technology and advancement, but Gerald knew that where he was heading three hundred yards may as well have been three thousand years. As he neared the meeting point under the railway bridge, he could see the figures more clearly, a non descript dark blue Ford Fiesta was pulled up onto the pavement, at this hour and in the this area of the city the chances of interruption, or, as the thought flashed through his mind worryingly, help, were pretty much nil.
Two men and a woman exited the car as Gerald came into view; they stood rock still exuding an icy calm demeanor. They wore identical dark suits with matching navy overcoats; none of the figures spoke as they carefully observed the approaching man. The woman assumed the front; she tilted her head at an almost imperceptible angle, giving the narrowest of movement to her left. The man to her left felt the inclination and casually unbuttoned his coat and slipped his hand smoothly inside; he held it there and waited. At this point she took two paces backward and opened the Fiesta passenger door; the interior light cast its warmth into the cold night pushing back the dark tunnels shadows illuminating them. All of these movements were committed without a word being spoken or a look thrown, communication was intuitive and instant.
Gerald had now reached the figures, his heart was pounding hard, threatening to burst through his ribcage and shower the pavement in a crimson tide. He knew that the second he spoke, his voice would betray his fear and put him in danger; he had to contain his emotions for the sake of everything that he was and hoped to become. The small package nestled in his inside pocket was straining now to be freed, his entire future was now achingly close and dangerously near. The woman in blue stepped forward and suddenly it was all too much for Gerald, he sank to his knees and shuddered before the woman, the fervor poured through him and he sobbed before his destiny. The woman placed a large smooth hand on the kneeling man’s head; her cool touch soothed the burning brow beneath her. Her accent was clipped and strange, her voice radiated through the man’s head, warming and comforting as it flowed through his ears.
“Peace, my son”, the woman whispered.
The man stepped around to the rear of Gerald’s weeping form, carefully avoiding even the briefest of touches, his distain for the man was palpable, he steeled himself for the action, determined to make the contact as concise as possible. He drew the small bejeweled handled knife from his coat in one swift movement, the blade slid across the man’s throat severing his Carotid Artery in a smooth and rapid motion.
Gerald’s realization was slow to dawn, one minute he was raised and filled with a blinding white radiance that filled his soul and the next he was drifting downwards, spiraling into darkness. He was struggling to breathe, his throat was wet and drowning, his lungs filled and flooded, he sank to the floor. He tried to speak but his voice no longer worked and merely rasped, spluttering a fine red mist into the cold air.
The woman knelt beside the dying man, she closed her eyes briefly and a small smile etched across her lips, it hung on her face looking unnatural and out of place. She opened her eyes and reached inside the dead man’s coat, her fingers touched the envelope, her hand jerked at the electric contact as she found the prize. The power surged up her arm as she pulled the item encased in tedious brown paper out into the night, her companions stood over her, their faces showing a complicated attempt at excitement. The woman stood, she cast his eyes once to her left at the man on her shoulder, the communication was clear, the search was almost over.
CHAPTER II
INTRODUCTIONS
“Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth.
I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”
Matthew 10:34
The car boot was dark, claustrophobic and stank to high heaven; every time the car went over the smallest of potholes or bumps found on the Cardiff streets, the impact jarred the trapped occupant’s broken arm. The man was around six foot one fourteen stone and curled into the small dank space; a difficult and awkward search had already confirmed that there were no items of any usefulness to be found.
Baine retreated into his mind in an attempt to separate the pain from his arm, as the broken bone ends jarred and scrapped together with every involuntary movement. He recounted the events that had led to his incarceration, there were three men sitting in blissful comfort amongst the cars plush seating. All three were large and heavy set with faces that told a hard tale through scars and imperfections stemming from badly healing dangerous wounds. They had approached him in a manner denoting some competence, but without displaying any formal training, thugs not soldiers, they were obviously under orders for retrieval not elimination. He knew where they were all now heading, and he knew who would be waiting for him at the other end, undoubtedly eager to meet him, but unlikely to be extending any hand of friendship.
Jon Sinclair was a villain, and not the kind that you wo
uld see on a weekly basis being portrayed on any soap opera, the stereotype with a dark suit and a cockney swagger, the product of a middle aged, middle class writer without so much as a toe dipped into real life. Trouble was, that this actually was real life, where the blood is dark and warm and the only person calling “Cut” does so in the blinding reflection of a sharp blade. Sinclair’s medium sized Cardiff empire incorporated the foundations of the enviable drug trade on which the business was built, a small protection racket, a very profitable money lending arm which will always find a home in cities with a poor underclass and various other schemes of varying degrees of illegality. Most recently, as a lot of criminals seem to gravitate toward, Sinclair had begun to find that the legitimate arms of his income were beginning to bear far more fruits than the illegal ones; his branches into the property market had made him more money in the last five years than everything else combined. The regeneration of the Cardiff Bay area had made his squalid low rent houses incredibly valuable as the Welsh Assembly began pumping millions of the taxpayer’s money into the regeneration project. Sinclair began selling the falling down rat invested buildings at an unbelievable profit to the very authorities who had been for many years ineffectually attempting to put him behind bars.
As far as Baine was concerned he had no feelings for the man or his business one way or the other, however someone considered one of the many skeletons in Sinclair’s closet a black building block that they were not able to allow to stand. Baine had been walking in Sinclair’s shadow for over four months now, trailing the man’s habits, associates and regular routes looking for gap. Sinclair was a reasonably cautious man, used to protecting himself from rivals and the authorities, but time and his movement into legitimacy had dulled his edge and lulled his senses, it was into this grey area that Baine walked into.
The car slowed to a halt and rose on its suspension as the men shifted their weight and departed the vehicle, in the dark Baine cleared his mind and set his body. The car boot lid slowly opened, Baine felt the men’s apprehension and nervousness, and a ghost of a smile momentarily passed his lips looking strange and misplaced on his hard set face. The dim light from a nearby streetlamp filtered through the night, illuminating Baine’s prone form, his obviously broken arm seemed to reassure his captors raising their spirits and pushing back their inexplicable fear of the smaller fallen man. Two of the large barrel-chested thugs pulled Baine from the car whilst the third glanced around the deserted street, he allowed himself to slump and stagger relying on his captors for support. Baine surveyed his surroundings as they headed for the rear entrance of a large seemingly derelict factory building, the street was empty and isolated, the lack of potential witnesses pleased Baine as they went inside.
“Mr. Baine” a large voice boomed from behind a ratty looking desk, all Sinclair was missing mused Baine was a silky white cat to stroke, he fought hard to suppress the laugh bubbling in his throat, he still had to maintain the part of the incapacitated and subdued. The third thug had stayed outside, guarding the door, Baine’s arms were clamped either side by thugs one and two, the broken arm pain had subsided.
“Tell me son, did you think that I wouldn’t see you skulking in my shadow?”, Sinclair stood and moved around the desk, he pulled himself to his five foot four frame, Baine did not need to see the man’s shoes in the dark gloom to know that he wore lifts, he carried himself with the anger and bitterness of all short men. Sinclair was stocky with a now softening build of weightlifter too old to uphold his once proud physique, he wore an expensively tailored blue pinstriped suit accessorised with flashy jewelry designed to scream that he no longer belonged in the council house gutter he once crawled out of.
“You’d better answer me you prick”, Sinclair now stood full bore in Baine’s face, the lack of response and more likely the lack of obvious fear from the captive man was beginning to infuriate Sinclair who lived his life surrounded by sycophants. Baine’s stooped position brought him face to face with Sinclair who grabbed a handful of hair and painfully yanked Baine’s head back, spittle spraying wildly from his now feral mouth,
“Did you believe that you could get close to me, did you think that I wouldn’t see an amateur like you coming, did you think that I couldn’t snatch you up any time that I saw fit, did you honestly believe that it wouldn’t end like this, in an empty room, face to face, with no-one to hear the screams?”
Baine lifted his head and looked Sinclair square in the eyes for the first time, his reply was low and ice “Actually, I was counting on it”.
Tony Beck sat in a parked Astra overlooking Cardiff Bay, the cold grey water called imploringly to him, patience he thought, just a little while longer. Tony’s life had ended around five months ago when he had stood in a police morgue identifying his nineteen year old daughter Amy, dead and bloated lying prone on a wintry metallic table. He had buried his wife two years ago devoured from the inside by a ravenous cancer, his daughter had been his only life ever since and now she too was gone, taken by another cancer, Jon Sinclair. Amy had been the warmest, brightest person Tony had ever known, she had been studying to be a nurse, determined to emulate the care and invaluable help and support that she had received during her mothers illness. To make ends meet during her studies Amy had taken a part time job in one of Cardiff’s small private clubs as a barmaid, unbeknownst to Amy or her father it was one of Jon Sinclair’s clubs. Being an attractive young woman Amy found herself increasingly uncomfortable at the ever growing attention of some of the clubs clientele who soon made it abundantly clear that they expected a personal service above and beyond the serving of drinks. Amy had told her father who demanded that she never return, unfortunately Amy had been raised correctly and felt the need to work out her notice and leave the job properly whilst informing the clubs owner precisely what she thought of the practices being carried out under his roof. Her naked body had been fished out of the cities river four days later, the police confirmed that she had been raped and strangled, the subsequent investigation turned over no suspects, the club’s manager protested that Amy had never turned up for work.
Tony had tried to push the police to go after the clubs owner but had been taken aside by an older detective who filled him in on the life and times of one Jon Sinclair. He was warned in no uncertain terms what could happen to him if he continued to make waves and as to the amount of police officers that supplemented their income by working as “Security Consultants” for Sinclair Enterprises. The detective looked worn and damaged, with a faced scared by the strain and troubles of the job. He handed Tony a small white business card with just one word printed on it, “Baine” above a mobile phone number.
Tony had sold everything he owned and the proceeds now sat in a small black leather carry case on the back seat of the Astra. Tony breath caught in his throat as the small mobile phone sat on the car’s dashboard gently vibrated. His hand hovered above the phone closing his eyes and pausing briefly before he answered.
“Hello, Baine?” Tony asked nervously.
“It’s done” answered the calm steady tone.
Tony slumped forward, the last five months anguish loosened its grip from around his heart ever so slightly.
“As I requested?” Tony kept his eyes closed as he tried to picture Sinclair on his knees begging for his life.
“Exactly” came the reply, “Money?”
“Where you told me to leave it”
“Make sure that you’re long gone” Baine’s voice demanded.
Tony looked up and out into the misty dawn breaking over the river, “Don’t worry, I will be”.
Tony pressed the end call button on the mobile, he opened the car door and stepped out into the light drizzle, he walked tall to the rivers metal barrier, climbed over and plunged headfirst into the welcoming embrace of the dark water.
Baine had collected the money from the parked Astra at the dockside, the winter sun, such as it was, struggled to heave itself over the horizon, its weak rays defeated by the cloud
y gloom pervaded over the Welsh capital. Baine quietly cursed Beck for leaving the car unlocked where any early rising scumbag could have spotted the temptation of an open car regardless of the ridiculously early hour. He pulled out of the small car park and began nursing his black Nissan Micra through the riverside area, the car was six years old, not too new and not too old, mechanically reliable but most importantly neither noticeable nor memorable. The car was a perfect complement to Baine’s persona; he was the very definition of inconspicuous, the very embodiment of average. For the business he was in it was imperative to never be noticed or remembered, when meeting new clients he was always amused by their preconceptions. They always expected a Brad Pitt look-alike with a Vin Diesel build, dressed in a cool black suit and wearing wraparound shades. When Baine turned up standing around five eleven with a slight paunch wearing a Marks and Spencer suit looking like every other Building Society clerk he could feel their disappointment. What they always failed to realize is that tall, attractive, muscular, well dressed men were noted by everyone in every environment, Baine was not.
Cardiff sprawled open before him, the city a confused mix of the improved and the impoverished, the small neon glow from the dashboard clock told him it was 5.23am. The traffic was light but gaining momentum as the workers began their reluctant early morning influx into the working day. Baine stretched his taught frame amidst the confines of the small cars cabin; his arm, miraculously healed, was still stiff from the night’s earlier break. Not for the first time he stared at a miraculously healed wound on his body and pondered the mystery, he flexed his fist, working his fingers as even the stiffness began to fade. Baine had spent his entire life to date wrapped in a fog of the inexplicable, he had no comprehension of his own previous existence before eight years ago. As far as he could ascertain one wet Tuesday morning he awoke, he felt no panic or nervousness, merely naked of clothing and wearing a calm demeanor. The bed that held him was a modest wooden double; the room was plainly decorated and thinly furnished. He eased himself out of bed and walked over to the one window, the curtains, once pulled, revealed the Cardiff skyline bathed in the dreary weather. There was a small rather cheap looking bedside table on which sat a small black mobile phone and a white business card, the card’s message was simple, it read “Baine” in a neat typeface under the name sat a mobile phone number. He instinctively knew this to be his name and his phone number. Baine walked across the room and to the medium sized wardrobe, he paused to review his reflection in the door’s mirror. He estimated his own height at just under six foot, his face was smoothly shaven with ordinary hazel eyes, he looked as though he had once been in decent shape but now starting to soften, his overall appearance was pretty plain and non-descript. He pulled the dangling rope pull to turn on the light, the wardrobe held a selection of non-descript shirts, trousers and suits neatly hung, an assortment of tops and jumpers folded into cubed spaces, two pairs of plain shoes and a pair of trainers, all of the footwear and clothing looked worn but not old. Baine looked his naked form up and down immediately recognising that the clothes all looked to be the correct size. On the floor of the wardrobe sat a medium sized oblong metallic case, the small light reflecting off of the shiny surface. Baine cocked his head to the left, his face momentarily showed the signs of information processing, he knew what the case contained without opening it, tools of his trade. The understanding of purpose was clear and irrefutable to him, he knew three things, his trade was death, he was good at his job and business was booming.