by Jake Barton
Snake scooped up some pooling water from the floor with the spoon. Boiling would make it sterile. He transferred the powder to the bowl of the spoon, never, ever, spilling a single grain, his cupped hands shielding the precious cargo from a nonexistent wind. Safely accomplished, the bent spoon hooked over a protruding nail, he flicked the lighter, adjusting the flame. The bitter sweet pain as he delayed bringing the flame to the spoon brought a nervous giggle to his cracked lips, sweet agony knowing he finally had the power to end his pain, his longing. No surgeon brought more concentration to his work than this, the pale, greyish mixture bubbling with the heat. He looked at it longingly, the delay now unavoidable, shoot that stuff while it's still hot, and it would be fucking goodnight.
No gritty residue in the cooling liquid, a good sign. He knew better than most that heroin at street level is cut many times, adulterated with baking powder, cement dust, ground up chalk, even fucking Ajax, whatever was handy. The absence of obvious contaminant was a good sign, but ultimately irrelevant. Snake knew he would take it no matter what it looked like, regardless of the debris that accompanied it. He'd take it all.
He removed the hypodermic from its container, the needle still blackened with scabs of dried blood, pushed the needle into the ball of cotton wool and lowered it carefully into the bowl of the spoon, soaking up the liquid.
The veins in his arms and legs were useless, covered in scabs and ulcers. He had started with the small veins on the soles of his feet, hoping in those innocent early days to avoid the obvious bruising and heavily tracked arms of the addict, but all were useless now, veins receding from the threat of the invasive needle, retreating into flesh. He removed his shoelace and tied it round the stem of his penis, pulling tight, wincing as he slapped the prominent vein to make it stand proud. He muttered to himself, lost in the precision of a familiar routine.
"Make sure you're in the vein, always check for blood. Miss the vein it's a fucking waste." There was no one around to hear, but the sound of his own voice soothed him.
He never felt the needle, but as he pressed the plunger, his eyes widened as the rush began. The kick was instantaneous. Never like this, he thought as the veins behind his eyes burst and he slumped to the floor. His heart seized instantly as the pure grade uncut heroin flooded his blood stream.
Snake was dead before his head hit the cement floor, needle still jutting from his penis. One more drug culture victim.
~ Chapter 4 ~
The muffled rumble of waves breaking on the seashore provided a soothing backdrop to her thoughts as Donna pushed reluctant limbs into some form of sprint. The faintest hint of pink touched the previously unseen horizon, revealing dark banks of cloud building, harbingers of the rain promised for later. With the breaking dawn, slender tendrils of pale light worked their sinuous way through the great dome of blackness overhead. While not yet sufficiently severe for browsing travel brochures, the cold bit into her enough to make her aware of the temperature.
The sea looked choppy and unappetising with white-tipped waves churning ashore, definitely not a day for a paddle. The wind freshened and Donna leaned into it, feeling the sting of spray on her face as she shrank into the comfort of an old battered tracksuit.
Half a dozen white fluffy clouds, like galleons in full sail, drifted aimlessly across the sky. Beneath the waves, hidden currents and eddies swirled and writhed like a body-builder's muscles. The wind strengthened, stray gusts whistling fitfully through the trees and propelling fallen leaves and assorted debris across the road.
A single gull, scruffy and unkempt in its drab winter plumage, rose from the gloom like a scrap of paper caught in a sudden squall. Donna watched it soar overhead, then bank to the left and whirl away out to sea.
The chill of the early morning air rasped in her lungs as Donna ran along the sea wall. She got offended if anyone called her a jogger. She was a runner, not a jogger. There's a big difference. Jogging is another word for plodding. All the pain and none of the gain.
Donna didn't go in for any pitter-patter stride pattern. When she ran, she really went for it, flat out, or as close to it as she could manage. No set distance; just run to the point of exhaustion. Which she’d now reached – chest heaving, sobbing for breath and leaning on a cold iron railing watching the sea roll in. A tangle of kemp and seaweed swirled and twisted in the white foam and a dark mass of cloud loomed like a vast menacing presence scudding across the sky. Behind the cloud Donna glimpsed the first pale shifting shadows of dawn, there, not there, there again.
Her lungs were on fire, the pain in her calves almost beyond endurance, and she still had to go through all this again if she wanted to be home for breakfast. What her body really needed was an detoxification regime. Nothing but water and fruit for three or four days, eight hours sleep a night, and the elimination of harmful stress in her life. Dream on!
For the past year or so, she’d tried to alternate running with weight sessions, a tough circuit programme, martial arts training three times a week, while managing as sensible a diet as anyone who lived with Peg could reasonably expect. The results were disappointing. Instead of being as fit as a butcher’s dog, she was perched on the sea wall desperately sucking in air like a fish out of water.
Donna pumped her protesting limbs into action and set off for home. Andy was due in less than an hour and at this indecent time of the morning she still looked like a mugging victim.
*****
Despite the arrival of pale dawn sunlight on the water, the tree line was a solid wall of darkness, glowering at the lakeshore. Black and forbidding, like a malevolent presence around the small cabin. The silence was absolute, almost as if the previous night had extinguished sound as well as light. Marcus smiled, white teeth gleaming in the first vestiges of daylight. He loved the darkness and the silence. He waded into the icy water and pushed off into a vigorous crawl.
As sunlight cleaved its erratic way through the early morning cloud cover, brilliant on the distant hills, it softened the cloud edges into a shimmering dusky pink blush while leaving the surrounding areas locked into a drab gloom.
Marcus waded ashore and carried out an elaborate stretching routine designed to relax his muscles and recover from the chilling effect of the cold water. His chest moved in and out rhythmically, with no signs of increased respiration despite the effort of his swim.
His pulse rate was rarely above forty beats a minute, testament to his superb fitness, but also the level of control he maintained over his body. Moving like a cat, without a sound, he strode up the narrow beach towards the cabin to dress and prepare for the day.
"Any minute now," Donna said, glancing down at the scrawled notes on her lap.
Andy grunted. "That’s what you said five minutes ago."
Donna looked out the window. He’d been good enough to drive her out here at short notice, and Donna had to admit navigation wasn’t her strong point. They’d been right along the front once already, repeatedly swerving to avoid parked cars in the narrow road, before Donna realised she’d missed out a crucial part of the directions. In the circumstances, a little irritation on Andy’s part was not unreasonable. Donna hated to upset him as he would always be her favourite choice as a partner. She offered him her flask as a peace offering, but he shook his head.
No time for a proper breakfast this morning; just a doorstep cheese and chutney sandwich, washed down with a beaker of scalding coffee from Peg's secret stash. What she called real coffee; the kind that came in a bottle. Peg's idea of heaven was a mug of Camp coffee with evaporated milk. Even Donna had to admit a secret liking for the stuff. Must be something in her genes. She'd once taken a flask-full to share with Andy on a cold evening's observations. He savoured the taste and said it would always remind him of her. In what way, she'd asked, rich and mysterious? No, he'd replied, incredibly sweet and thick. Next time it had been her turn to provide drinks, Donna made a flask of Gold Blend for herself and a separate flask for Andy containing the cheapest own-brand crap she c
ould find. He'd smacked his lips and pronounced it delicious.
"I’m getting hungry," Andy moaned. One of these days, she’d warned, his appetite would start to catch up with him, but just now he was as slim as a racing greyhound.
"Do you want munchables or crunchables?"
They both grinned. It was their secret code for petrol station type snacks. Put simply, it means do you want sweet and chewy or something savoury? Specific items were never to be mentioned as they both liked surprises, part of the routine with which they whiled away the lonely hours of observations.
Donna’s ‘phone rang and she fumbled in her bag while Andy groaned theatrically. She listened intently, and then put it back in her bag without replying.
"Dexter wants us back right away. Dobson’s been on the ‘phone. Seems there’s been a development. A ransom demand."
*****
Alex lay on rough bare cement, his bones standing out in stark relief, skin pale grey in the murky light, lines of dirt in the creases of his body. Blood ran freely from wire biting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles. His badly broken nose streamed with mucus, teeth bared in his gaping ruined mouth. Eyes watering with deep black shadows under sunken sockets, beads of sweat in the hairline gave the lie to his compulsive shivering.
Screaming in frustration and torment, Alex was beyond help. In the depths of his agony he thought he was going to die, but to die like this, screaming where no one could hear, lying trussed and helpless on a cold damp, filthy floor? Self-pity overwhelmed him, his bony chest heaving he wept for himself and for what might have been. Don't leave me like this, he screamed to unresponsive empty walls. Stomach cramps tore again at his guts. He drew his knees up under his chin in an attempt at relief, oblivious to the cruel wires biting deeply into his flesh with each movement. He’d lost track of time since his captor had dumped him in the hollow behind a disused warehouse.
*****
Coarsely chopped bark chippings smothered weeds in the immaculate flowerbeds. The lawn edging defined as if sheared by the blade of a giant scimitar. Each strand of grass had its carefully defined place in the scheme of things, lining up alongside its fellows in an orchestrated demonstration of precision, like cavalry awaiting the order to charge. Not a single tuft of clover imposed itself on the brilliant green surface.
Purple clematis rambled its way up a trellised frame, supported by green ties, each fastened in an identical and perfect bow. The well-tended flowerbeds and neat lawns testified to the owners’ green fingers or to a paid gardener. Whoever was responsible, the impression was of complete serenity, the arrangement of nature in total harmony with the surroundings. All this effort was wasted on Dexter as he stalked towards the door, Donna in her usual position, scuttling along in his wake.
Only an hour ago, Donna had returned to the office and joined the rest of the staff assembled in Dexter’s room. Dexter was in charge with Roper very much in the background. This had become a big operation and Dexter was the man with the experience. He stood behind his battered desk, the surface disfigured by numerous grazes and scars and the overlapping rings of innumerable coffee cups. Cigarette burns pitted the surface like shrapnel wounds on flesh.
He’d stopped smoking five years back, yet a glass ashtray, a memento of the past, still stood on the far edge of the desk almost completely overlaid with loose sheets of paper, which layered a sub level of dog-eared books, mostly open and laid facedown, spines uppermost.
Some had torn-off sheets of paper protruding from their leaves, others marked with paperclips or the stubs of matches. A glass jar containing pens and rulers perched precariously on the very edge of the desk, and in a shallow Tupperware container, a riot of paper clips, elastic bands and staples overflowed onto a blotting pad.
Dexter told them he’d advised Dobson to contact the police and the man had refused to consider this; screaming down the telephone that police involvement would put his child’s life at risk. Dexter asked Dobson to stay put and do nothing until he’d spoken to him in person.
"Donna," Dexter barked. "With me. If there’s any comforting to be done, best it comes from you. The client specifically asked for you. Seems you made a good impression on his wife." Within minutes Dexter barked out the rest of his orders hastened Donna to the car and tore down Caldy Hill, with Donna still trying to fasten the seat belt.
At Meols Drive, the front door stood partly open. Dexter rapped on it, but obtained no reply. They entered, cautiously, and Dexter led the way into a large airy room where Mrs Dobson sat in a hard-backed chair, holding a telephone to her ear. She frowned, extending one finger to indicate she would be with them in a moment. They backed away, out of earshot, and studied the pictures artfully arranged on the pastel walls – impressionists, stunningly effective in their simplicity. Mrs Dobson replaced the receiver with a faint sigh and turned her face towards her visitors. "Thank you so much for coming," she said, her voice calm, almost as if greeting a guest at a formal dinner party.
Donna surmised that Dexter would have preferred to deal with her husband, and this was borne out by his opening words. "Mister Dobson? Is he around?" No time wasted in small talk, straight down to business.
Mrs Dobson shook her head. "No," she said. "He’s lying down."
Donna saw from Dexter’s expression that he was about to ask the woman to get him out of bed and spoke up to forestall him. "How are you managing? Can I get you anything?" Mrs Dobson turned towards her, tried to speak but faltered, lapsing into silence. Dexter said nothing as she reached down and pulled a small crush-proof package from under her chair. She opened the flap and tipped the contents onto the table: a single slip of paper.
Dexter reached out and gently teased open the paper. A simple message: ￡10,000, NO POLICE, the printed capitals boldly written in black stood out starkly against the white background. Wrapped inside the paper, a gold earring, simple but distinctive, a smear of blood stained the paper, a small section of the lobe still attached to the pin.
"Celine’s earring?" Donna already knew the answer.
Donna rushed forward as the tears began to flow, cradling Mrs Dobson’s head against her jacket, patting her back softly and talking to her with soft words of reassurance. Dexter allowing them a few minutes grace, walked to the far side of the room and stared sightlessly through the window.
"I’m sorry, Mrs Dobson. You must forgive my thoughtlessness." Dexter returned as the sound of sobbing eased. Blinking back fresh tears, she faced his gaze. "Thank you." Dexter remained silent, but his eyes questioned. "For letting me cry," she said.
She sat up and pushed a stray hair from the side of her face. Donna found the tiny gesture intensely appealing, as if her thinly concealed vulnerability had been encapsulated in that single action. She bent forward once more, her head in her hands, like a penitent at prayer. When she raised her head, her eyes, blank pools, fixed on the wall behind Donna.
Unblinking. Unfocused. Sad eyes, full of misery, on the verge of despair. Making a visible effort, she twisted her features into what she probably thought to be a smile. From where Donna sat, it looked like she needed a lot more practise.
"I’ll make us a cup of tea," Donna said, quite prepared to adopt her familiar role when the circumstances were right. Dexter nodded his approval.
"Coffee please." Mrs Dobson had reassumed her dinner party poise, but her voice sounded strained and unreal. As Donna left the room, a sudden flurry of heavy rain, driven by the wind, scattered against the glass like a handful of pea-gravel flung at a bedroom window by an impatient suitor and Mrs Dobson whimpered a small cry of distress.
Donna found the kitchen, topped up the kettle, and while waiting for it to boil, opened cupboards at random, ostensibly looking for coffee, but having a good old nose around. A magnificent Welsh Dresser contained a complete dinner set of Crown Derby. The surprise came when Donna opened one of the cupboards and found another identical dinner service. Crown Derby for everyday use. Impressive. In the next cupboard, she found a small glass coff
ee jar bearing a familiar name, her own favourite brand.
Peg would have prescribed hot tea with plenty of sugar, but Donna had her own ideas on dealing with shock. Black coffee, with chicory. Very strong, no sugar. Pure caffeine, each cup sufficient to kick-start the heart of a corpse. Donna found a granary loaf and made sandwiches with ham from the ‘fridge. As she finished, the kettle boiled and she filled two china mugs, not the best stuff, but still Royal Doulton, and added milk and three sugars to a third. Dexter wouldn’t drink coffee unless it was sickeningly sweet.
Donna piled the supplies onto a black lacquered tray and carried the sandwiches and coffee mugs into the drawing room. Or perhaps it was the morning room. She was glad her own house didn’t pose such problems. Dexter smiled at her, reaching out to take a mug and placing it with great care on a side table, the envelope he’d taken from his pocket acting as a makeshift coaster.
"Mr Dobson’s having a lie down," he said. "Paula says he blames himself for all this and she’s persuaded him to take a tablet and try to get some sleep."
Donna nodded. Paula?
"He never took it seriously," explained Mrs Dobson – Paula. "Oh, I don’t mean he wasn’t worried, but after the police told him how often this sort of thing happened, you know, girls going off for a few days? Well, he didn’t worry so much. He didn’t want to involve your firm, even though one of the policemen had suggested it, but I insisted." She hesitated, picking up her coffee mug, glanced at it for a moment and then set it down untouched. "I’m afraid I may have given you the wrong impression." Dexter sat up straight.