The spidery handwriting read: My whole life has been about killing.
I’ve studied it, learning the lessons well
and I always have an escape route planned.
Neither you nor the sheriff’s men can stop me because
you’re chasing a ghost. I’ll always be one-step ahead
of you and escape because I can slip through the cracks
in the walls. And when alone after I've killed, I worship
the devil and think of murdering you Thomas – and your
whole family.’
Chapter 22
In the afternoon one day later, panicked by the message written on the parchment, Thomas visited the old Abbey in search of the Abbot’s wise words.
‘The truth affrights us all my son,’ said the Abbot, his tone quiet but intense, ‘it's an indictment against the city that we can't catch this killer.’ He took Thomas’ arm, leading him down the cloistered halls of the Abbey at a sedate pace. ‘The weak and needy were always left to fend for themselves before you came along my son. Their care was niggardly enough and it shames us all. Even now miserable people lay in the streets everywhere, sick and half-dead. I saw a girl in a doorway yesterday, her hair matted and feet rotted away by the harsh weather and I gave her bread, but it was love and care she needed, which is why I’m going to canvas for a hospice for the needy and downtrodden. If God’s penny is to promise them a better life it's opportune.’
Thomas smiled crookedly, nodding to the Abbot. Then his mind flashed back momentarily to his own miserable, degrading upbringing at Alnwick castle with his brother Malcolm – the dreadful beatings, the awful beastings and the inevitable sexual abuse at the hands of baron Sedgwick and lady Ann who revelled in every minute of it. It had been nothing short of torture. ‘Let’s hope for good news then,’ he said coming back from his painful daydream. His voice was low and reverent, mindful of his surroundings. ‘Most might contribute, seeing as how the poor and wretched offend passers-by with their stinks and vapours. People may even pay generously to have the streets and alleyways cleared.’
The Abbot pressed Thomas’ arm. ‘Aye,’ he said quietly, looking as vulnerable as a little boy would.
Thomas suddenly looked serious again, squeezing the Abbot’s arm. ‘I’ll help you if I can, but if anyone can accomplish this task it’s you. Your energy and quick wits will count for much and help you raise the needed subscriptions, I’m sure, even though the people will be hard to persuade because their purses smart from the king’s taxes. I on the other hand must steel my nerves and find a solution to my own plight. Many may still suffer more pain unless I find the killer at large.’
‘I know. ‘Tis true,’ agreed the Abbot frowning gravely.
Thomas didn’t voice his full-blown fears this time to the Abbot, concerning his affliction of temporary madness when he seemed possessed by the evil spirit that was the killer. He was careful with what he said, not wanting to appear ludicrous in the eyes of his friend – even though he thought the Abbot would believe him. He left the Abbey just before midnight.
It was a cold but dry evening with no moon showing through the dark clouds, and as he rode his stallion his mood was anything but cheerful. Nottingham was now full of thieves and beggars, fanatics of one kind or another and many frightened people, any one of which could be the perpetrator of the murders, and the only clue he had to the sadistic killer’s identity was the triangular scar on his left forearm. So, the Abbot’s idea to persuade the city folk to part with their hard earned money to build a hospice might seem an almost impossible task, but he knew that catching the killer was an impossible task.
Thomas arrived back at his lodgings on Bole Street in the early hours of the morning and he stepped down from his stallion, tying it to a hitching post. Turning, he walked wearily toward his doorway. But then he paused to the sound of a quiet footstep behind him. He turned again, frowning. However, there was no one to be seen and the street was dark with no lighted windows. ‘Who goes there? Who is that?’ he called.
A dog growled and barked but there was no reply.
‘Come out from the shadows and show yourself,' said Thomas still frowning, and he leaned down snatching the hidden dagger from inside his boot. Still there was no reply, but there was the sound of running so he gave chase, following the sound of booted feet.
Suddenly the sound stopped at the end of a narrow alleyway and mad laughter rang in the air. He followed in the direction of the laughter, but as he rounded the corner of a building where the ally came to an end, there was no one there. He looked up at the twenty-foot-high wall with broken glass set on top, standing cold and silent in front of him and then glanced behind. He looked back at the wall, staring with incredulity, because as strong, nimble and agile as he was, he couldn’t scale the wall without a rope – it was as simple as that. However, someone had.
More laughter came from the other side of the wall and a shiver trickled down Thomas’ spine like a sliver of ice. Then he was jerked from his worrisome thoughts when he felt something wet hit his face. It was a raindrop and beginning to pour down.
He ran back down the alleyway in the direction from which he had come, slipping on a patch of wet ground and almost fell over. He caught himself. But by the time he reached his front door it was coming down heavily and he was soaked. Putting his key in the lock he opened the door, and to his surprise the fire was still lit and it warmed him. He removed his boots, took off his heavy leather tunic and wet shirt and walked over to the fireplace, hanging them up in front of the fire to dry. Then he stared at himself in the polished metal mirror. His handsome features looked tired, eyes dark rimmed and weary and his face was stubbly. He walked back over to the door, locking it and then went up to the children’s bedroom.
They were fast asleep in the dark so he knelt by each of their beds, kissing their foreheads. ‘Evil will never touch my loved ones, not now, not ever, I so swear it before almighty God,’ he whispered in each of their ears as they slept soundly without a care in the world. ‘For I am your Guardian Angle and will protect you until the day I die – and I promise that will not be one day soon, for evil carries the seeds of its own destruction and I will find where those seeds lay, and how best to use them. Or my name is not – Thomas Flynn the Third.’
He walked across the hallway, lit only by a fat candle that cast a buttery light. Blowing it out he went into his own bedroom where he climbed with relief between the linen sheets. Lira was fast asleep too. Kissing her forehead he whispered his love for her, and the same declaration he had made to the children. He meant every word, and like the true hero he was, he would die first, before letting any harm befall any of them.
He lay on his right side watching Lira’s eyes flicker, knowing she was dreaming of better days, and then he turned over on to his back, focusing his mind toward the tunnel of slumber. His last action before falling asleep was to snuggle right under the bedclothes and cuddle up to his one true love. And his last thought was that nothing and no one would ever harm a single hair on any of their heads. Then he closed his haunted eyes and his features relapsed into a taciturn mask that seemed almost bitter and cruel as he once again dreamt of his abusive upbringing.
*
Meanwhile, the serial killer with strange moans and shrieks of laughter was working on his scheme for murder. Soon he would put his final plan into action. The deaths of Thomas Flynn and family would be the culmination to his own long history of violence. Ironically, he was planning his own death also. And insanely, his devil worshipping had given him the idea that he would be a leader of otherworldly creatures in the afterlife. For this reason alone he did not fear his death, which made him an even more formidable adversary. Could greater evil really overcome the greater good? He certainly believed it could and didn’t doubt it for a single second.
His cave was dark, lit only by candles in iron brackets around the walls, and at his side fast asleep sat the hound from hell. Red dye covered the walls of the cave and in
a far corner lay the implements of devil worship, discarded and unneeded – for the time had come. His time had come. The plan was right. All he was waiting for now was a full moon and that was only seven days away. Now he would spend his last hours of life as a phantom, a ghostly figure, unseen and unheard. And as he planned those last days and hours his face was expressionless, eyes doll-like showing neither the pleasure, nor the excitement he was feeling.
He stroked the hound at his side, smiling crookedly, laying on his back relaxing. It was the first time for a long time. He gazed up at the ceiling of the cave, watching the flame-shadows of the candles dance and transform into evil spirits right before his eyes. They were malevolent, dreadful, nasty little creatures lurking in the dark, just waiting for life. I’ll release them very soon, he thought.
*
The next morning Dardo and Dody were up early, and both were very tired after an exhausting evening the night before. Neither had slept well either. Both men felt thoroughly dispirited and weak in resolve as well as in body, because their first night of trade in the Dog and Duck had been bloody hell from start to finish, made even worse by Thomas’ conspicuous absence. And because there was no formidable doorman, there was no peace of mind for either of them. But then, Thomas’ employment as doorman wasn’t supposed to start for another week, meaning another seven, bloody, endless days.
Dardo was aching all over from carrying the heavy casks of ale and wine – and from fighting. His body felt like someone had thrashed him all over with a wooden cudgel. Dody felt pretty much the same. Now both men were on their knees, scrubbing the floor, trying to remove the smeared bloodstains left from the knife fights the night before. They had watched in disbelief, a single argument between two thieves escalate into a knife fight, then escalate further into a bar-room brawl involving every single one of their clientèle – a mixture of noblemen, privateers, thieves, murderers and cutthroats. Even stranger was the fact that the argument began over which of the two thieves were sporting the worst scars and best tattoos. The triviality of it all was incomprehensible to them.
Dardo stood up and walked over to the tavern’s only mullioned window. It had begun to rain and was coming down hard, splashing on the panes, distorting his view. ‘Bad weather again outside,’ he said sullenly. ‘Another ill omen.’ He frowned and sighed, then cast a nervous look at his friend, who was now a lively strapping lad apprenticed as a swordsman to Thomas. ‘No disrespect intended to you Dody but, we do need Thomas’ presence here tonight, or there won’t be much left of this place in a week’s time,’ he said wearily in a sad, heavy voice, casting his eyes over the roomful of broken chairs and tables. The place was a mess and he felt himself flush with anger at the sight of it.
Dody nodded emphatically with fierce eyes under bushy brows, ‘'Tis a sinful world and most don’t believe in the good Lord as we do, and have no moral code of conduct to live by. The Lord’s Commandments mean nothing to thieves, cutthroats, rapists and murderers. Strange though, how they still pray when they’re being hanged from the gibbet on their Judgement Day,’ he said with a tone of relish in his voice.
‘At the beginning of the world, do you think humanity was divided by God into the saved and the damned?’ asked Dardo.
‘I’ve thought about it often, and it makes more sense than anything else,’ replied the other. ‘But then, only the God-fearing would think like that wouldn’t they? I do believe the damned will burn in the fires of Hell one day though, and by the look of the dreadful things that are happening around Nottingham at the moment, I don’t think Judgement Day will be too far off for us all.’
Dardo nodded gravely, his face bleak, bereft. ‘Is it not God’s way to sometimes send doubt to try the spirit of those he loves most?’ he asked lowering his head reverently as he mentioned the Creator.
‘Probably,’ agreed Dody banging his calloused fist on a table, ‘but most of God’s children are wicked and have committed every sin there is. Just look around you and you can see all the evidence you need to convince you of it.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘But one day, when I'm summoned by Him, I'll be dressed in rich robes, sat at a great table in a great hall and invited by His angels to eat,’ his voice shook at the thought, ‘whereas the wicked will be chained in the fires of Hell with the devil as their gaoler,’ he added with scorn.
Dardo nodded slowly in agreement. ‘If you have the chance, what will you say to the wicked at this time?’
‘Only that they got what they deserved. And that they should have earned an honest crust like the rest of us,’ said Dody, starkly. His eyes came up, meeting his friends gaze and he realised that he was the strongest of the pair. ‘And whatever happens tonight will not be a repeat of last night in this tavern, this I swear,’ he avowed. And the other believed.
By early evening they had cleaned up the bar and dining room and fires were blazing in both rooms. A new sign hung over the bar, which announced: ‘Violent and rowdy behaviour will not be tolerated at any time. This is not the Bedlam. Take it outside if you want to act like animals and don’t come back. We thank you!’
There was the smell of steamed vegetables and broiling chicken coming from the kitchen where the cook, Minnie Sykes was preparing the evening meals. Both men opened the outer doors ready for business, then went and sat by the fire at the far end of the room, but even the sight and warmth of the welcoming hearth could not dispel the tension they felt washing over them. They exchanged uncomfortable glances as the first customer came through the heavy doors.
He was very tall and enormously fat, wearing a grey food-stained shirt and leather jerkin. A dark stain on his hose showed that he had soiled himself, and he had a clump of filthy black hair and deep-set piggy eyes that stared truculently at the makeshift sign above the bar as he approached it. ‘Which one of you pisspots is serving me tonight?’ he asked them in a bullying voice.
The two friends glanced at each other sharply and stared back at the man. ‘Do you believe in fate Dardo?’ asked his friend nonchalantly.
‘Fate?’ grunted the other.
‘Yes,’ nodded Dody. ‘You know. It doesn’t matter what you do because your future is already decided.’
‘I – I don’t know,’ stammered Dardo in a tight voice. ‘I've always thought the future depends upon the choices we make.’
‘And you would almost certainly be right according to my way of thinking,’ agreed his friend. ‘So, what are our choices here? Number one: I can get up off my tired behind and serve this... fat bastard. Number two: I can let you get up off your tired arse and you serve this... fat bastard. Number three: my favourite. I can kick the fat bastard out of here, telling him to take his money and his belligerent self elsewhere. And that is called free-will, which by-the-way; the good Lord gave me an abundance of.’ He hauled himself to his feet, clutching the leather-bound hilts of his twin swords. ‘You can either leave peaceably, or leave in pieces spitting blood,’ he announced with menace and mockery in his confident smile.
The giant man was dumb struck. No one dared speak to him thus. ''Tis a cocky mongrel you are. But, I’m wondering how you would eject me without those swords in your hands?’
‘Dardo climbed to his feet. ‘He couldn’t.'
‘I didn’t think so,' said the other with a snarl.
‘But then, he wouldn’t have to,’ Dardo countered.
‘Why is that?’ the man asked.
‘Because I’d do it, and the pleasure would be mine.’
Just at that moment, ten men entered the tavern, armed to the teeth with every conceivable weapon. They were blood spattered, looking extremely tired. Dardo immediately recognised them as mercenaries as the leader pushed past the giant man and smashed his fist on the bar top. ‘I want mead and mutton, and lots of it,’ he shouted.
Dody, still clutching the hilts of his swords looked nervous but rounded on the men. ‘Hard day?’ he asked pushing his way through them. He vaulted the bar and began to serve. ‘Have you been hunting?’
Dody looked incredulously at the varied array of weaponry the men were sporting. ‘Were they particularly fierce rabbits of an extraordinary size,’ he asked amiably as he served them all with a tankard of aged best mead.
The giant man laughed as the leader of the mercenaries thought for a moment. ‘Worse,’ he said finally, stiffly.
Dardo nodded slowly in anticipation of the answer. ‘Worse?’ he said exchanging uncomfortable glances with Dody.
The leader smiled a gap-toothed smile. ‘Just kidding.’ he said. ‘We had a run in with the Sheriff’s men and now they're all dead, every one of them. Just little pieces of them scattered here and there.’ He began to laugh, as did his followers.
The fat man gave a snort and chuckled to himself. Dody and Dardo stared grimly at each other. The mercenaries had already tasted blood this day and had a zest for it. However, as good a swordsman as Dody was, he was no match for ten seasoned professionals. Even Thomas himself would be hard pushed to deal with the likes of these thugs, he thought.
The leader stared at the two friends incuriously, the whites of his eyes around his scarred irises lending something doll-like to his gaze. ‘Well, where’s the mutton?’ he said, and he sauntered across the room to the fire, slumping to a stool like a sack of cabbages. He was big, mean and ugly with greedy pale blue eyes that were never still, toothless too, and what little hair he had was red. He warmed his hands, the evening being a cold one.
‘Is there some urgency?’ asked Dardo flatly.
The fat man's eyes lit up. ‘You can serve me with some food too.’
Furiously Dody rounded upon him, swords drawn. ‘The only food you're going to get is food for thought,’ he snapped, ‘So here’s a piece of sound advice. Leave now before I sharpen both of my blades on your oversized arse.’
A Violent Man ( the story of Thomas Flynn ) Page 30