by Shaun Hutson
Walton struck him hard across the back of the neck and he fell to the ground between the two women who both stared down at him, their eyes bulging in fear. Sharon Kenning saw the blood from her husband's injured hand and shook her head. She suddenly thought of their son.
'Please, we have money,' Kenning said, wiping his eyes, trying to regain his composure. 'I'll give you whatever you want, just don't kill us.'
As the others watched, Walton unzipped his fly, hauled out his penis and began urinating on Kenning. The stream of yellow fluid spattered into the businessman who tried to shield his face but, as he opened his mouth to scream, some of the vile fluid filled his mouth. He gagged and then vomited violently. Walton continued urinating.
'Piss on your fucking money,' he said, grinning.
Jennifer Thomas laughed.
So did Paul Gardner.
And Mark Paxton.
Kenning spat the last few bitter-tasting dregs from his mouth and tried to stand up.
As he did, Michael Grant entered the room, followed b Maria Chalfont. '
Grant was carrying the machete.
'He says he's got money,' chuckled Walton.
'As much as you want,' Kenning gasped. 'Let me get it.' Grant nodded.
'What the hell are you playing at?' snarled Walton, glaring at his companion who was watching as Kenning fumbled with a wall safe behind him. He had difficulty turning the combination lock because of the pain from his hand but, finally, he tugged the door open and hauled out bundles of notes and some jewellery. He held them out to Grant as if they were offerings, objects which might pacify him.
'We don't want your money,' Grant said flatly, hefting the machete in front of him.
'Take it, please,' wailed Kenning, Dropping to his knees. 'Please don't hurt us. Please God ...'
The sentence was cut short as Grant struck him with the machete.
The blade powered into his left shoulder, smashing the clavicle. Blood ran from the savage wound, staining Kenning's urine-drenched shirt.
'No,' he screamed in agony. 'For Christ's sake.' He was sobbing now. 'Oh Jesus Christ .. no ...'
The machete descended again, cutting deep into his raised forearm.
The money fell to the floor.
'For God's sake .. please ... no.'
The machete caught him across the top of the head, splitting his scalp, cracking bone. The rent seemed to grow bigger until a throbbing portion of brain forced its way free like a bloated tumour. Blood ran down his face.
He fell forward, still sobbing, his words now more garbled.
'Jesus ... God Almighty ... oh God ...'
His wife tried to scream, her eyes bulging wide, the bile forcing its way up from her stomach as she watched her husband die.
His mother fainted.
Jennifer Thomas slapped the old woman's face, reviving her, ensuring that she didn't miss any of the spectacle.
The machete struck Kenning on the back. On the side.
On the face.
The lower back.
Blood jetted in all directions.
Grant continued hacking at the businessman who was curled up in a foetal position moaning. Low, gurgling noises in a throat filled with blood.
Maria Chalfont felt the wetness between her legs as she watched.
Phillip Walton looked on disinterestedly.
Mark Paxton burst a spot on his neck and sniffed at the pus, tasting it briefly before wiping it on the bedclothes.
'God ... God ...'
Kenning's cries were like the agonised lowings of a bullock.
Grant took one last maniacal swipe at him then stepped back, his breath coming in gasps, his clothes drenched in blood.
The killers in the room looked down at the butchered carcass, almost savouring the last spasmodic twitchings, the soft rasp as the sphincter muscle gave out.
Then, they turned on the women.
Twenty-Seven
The flat was small but tidy. The damp which was inexorably creeping up the walls had been washed off and covered with emulsion paint, the threadbare carpets had been vacuumed. There was a pleasant smell about the dwelling.
Which was more than could be said for the man who stood in the doorway of Nikki Jones' flat.
She turned to the customer who stood motionless in the hall.
'Well, come in, shut the door, you're letting all the heat out,' she told him, trying to disguise the impatience in her voice. She didn't really like the look of this bloke whom she'd picked up just twenty minutes earlier. She liked the smell of him even less. When he'd first approached her she had thought about refusing, such had been the vile odour he gave off. She'd encountered a few dirty sods during her three years as a prostitute and usually insisted they take a bath or shower before they got down to business but, as she'd opened her mouth to turn this latest customer down, he'd flashed a wad of twenty pound notes almost an inch thick and Nikki had had a change of heart. She could always hold her breath. Perhaps she noticed dirtiness so acutely because of her own attention to cleanliness. She kept herself, her flat and her baby spotlessly clean.
The child was sleeping in the other room and Nikki made her way to the door to check on him, slipping off her coat as she did so, revealing the tight, white T-shirt and leather mini-skirt beneath.
'Sit down,' she told her guest. 'I'll get you a drink in a minute.' And a deodorant, she mused, as she passed into he son's room.
In the sitting room, the man in the dark coat sat down, gloved hands folded across his lap, the scarf still wrapped tightly around his face.
Nikki pulled the door of her child's room closed behind her, not wanting to disturb him with the light which was flooding through from the sitting room. He was sleeping, the sheets pulled up to his neck. She leant over and pulled them down, tucking a loose comer around him then she bent lower and kissed his head.
'I love you,' she whispered and stood for long seconds gazing down at the boy. He was almost two years old and Nikki still had no idea who the father was. It could have been one of her customers, or it may have been any one of the half a dozen pimps she'd worked with during the past three years. She didn't know. Didn't want to know. He was hers, that was all that mattered. She hated having to bring customers back to the flat but it was her place of work after all. During the day she could afford to send him to a child-minder while she entertained her clients with a `soothing massage' (that, at least was the wording in the magazines she advertised in). But in the evenings she had him with her in the flat. One of her customers had once asked if the child could be included in the session for a hundred pounds extra. Nikki had told him to leave immediately. Sick bastard. Some people had no morals at all.
She kissed her son once more and then retreated back into the sitting room where her guest was still sitting at one end of the sofa looking distractedly around the room.
'Take your coat off,' she told him, increasingly irritated by his distant attitude. She knew that many of the men she brought back to the flat were nervous but this bloke showed no sign of anxiety, merely an unnerving detachment from the proceedings. Perhaps he was in a hurry, she told herself. Well, if that was the case, fine. The quicker she got the smelly bastard out the better. She crossed to a drinks' trolley and poured herself a small whisky.
'Would you like a drink?' she asked.
He shook his head.
'You don't say much do you?' she smiled and moved across to sit next to him, gritting her teeth as the vile smell assaulted her nostrils once more. She edged closer, her professional skill overcoming her revulsion. She reached for the top button of his coat but he gripped her hand, pushing it down towards his groin instead, guiding it towards the spot between his legs.
Nikki allowed herself to be manipulated, allowed him to press her hand to his crotch. She felt his erection through the material of his trousers and she squeezed it.
The man looked at her, only his eyes visible over the top of the scarf. There wasn't a flicker of emotion in them. It was like
looking into the eyes of a fish on a fishmonger's slab. No warmth. No life. The twin orbs seemed to bore into Nikki and she looked away, putting her drink down.
With his other hand he gently touched the back of her head, pushing it down towards his groin.
She hesitated, the hairs at the nape of her neck rising slightly. It felt as if someone were running a freezing feather up and down her spine.
'It's going to cost you more,' she said, realizing what the man wanted.
He dug his free hand into the jacket of his pocket and pulled out five twenty pound notes which he held up for a moment before shoving them down her T-shirt.
Nikki nodded, feeling his hand tightening on the back of her neck. As she lowered her head towards his groin she tried to hold her breath, struggling to undo his zip with her other hand. It came free with difficulty and she slipped her fingers inside, freeing his penis.
It felt cold but she ignored this peculiarity, anxious now merely to finish the job and rid herself of this client.
She bent lower, his erection now pointing up at her, brushing her lips as he pressed harder on the back of her neck.
She closed her mouth around the bulbous head and almost gagged.
There was liquid already seeping from the glans but it tasted unlike any glandular secretion she'd encountered before. It stuck to her tongue like mucus, oozing with greater urgency as she licked the swollen organ. The stench was now almost unbearable and Nikki knew that she was going to be sick. She tried to straighten up but the gloved hand held her firm, her mouth fixed over the throbbing penis which seemed to be swelling even more.
She clutched at his testicles, rubbing them in an effort to finish the vile task more rapidly. She felt them begin to undulate beneath her probing fingers, felt them contract, ready to spill their contents.
Yet above her she could not hear any breathing from her client. He seemed very calm for a man about to climax.
Instead, she was only aware of that stiff, reeking rod which had impaled her mouth and the frightful stench which was almost palpable in its intensity.
She worked her hand up and down his shaft, realizing with relief that he was at his peak. She sucked harder. He thrust violently into her mouth, driving his penis up until it touched the back of her throat.
She retched, tried to straighten up but the hand gripped her and held her. She tasted more fluid on her tongue then the cascade began. His penis jerked violently and the end seemed to open, expelling his emission.
Nikki's eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she felt her mouth fill to bursting point. Her cheeks swelled as she struggled to retain the ejaculation but then she realized that her mouth was filled not with fluid but with dozens of tiny objects.
Objects which were moving.
Twisting and turning on her tongue.
She sat back as the pressure on her neck was released, her mouth opening wide.
The maggots poured from it in a sickly white torrent and, as she looked down, she saw that the penis was still jerking, still spurting, propelling the minute monstrosities from the glans in a thick fountain. Some had already found their way down her throat despite the vomit which now rushed up from her stomach and gushed from her mouth, carrying with it hordes of the parasites.
Then the gloved hand was at her throat again, pulling her closer and she saw that the scarf had fallen from the man's face.
Beneath it his flesh was yellowed, peeling away from his bones like wallpaper, portions of it almost liquescent as it hung from his cheeks and chin.
She felt more of the maggots twisting in her mouth and throat, smelled the incredible stench of decay in her nostrils and, in one last second of consciousness, she gazed once again at the man's penis and saw a bloated, wriggling white shape haul itself from the slit in the bulbous head and drop into his lap.
Nikki Jones blacked out.
Twenty-Eight
Frank Harrison poured himself another glass of Jack Daniels and downed half of the fiery liquid in one swallow. He cradled the expensive crystal tumbler in his hand as if threatening to crush it. He looked at the man who stood opposite him.
'I told you when this business first started that I wanted something done and you've given me nothing,' Harrison said. 'No leads. No names. Nothing.'
Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe sipped at his own drink and shrugged.
'Look Frank, there are other things going on at the moment. I've got three corpses in a house in Primrose Hill that look like they've been put through a mincer. This nutcase, Crawford, we got him but he's got others working for him. That case takes priority over everything at the moment. I can't carry on making enquiries about who had a crack at you while this other business is still going on.'
'And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do?' demanded Harrison.
'Sort it out yourself.'
Harrison downed what was left in his glass and slammed it on the desk top.
'Fine. Because that's just what I intend to do.' He crossed to a large wooden box in one corner of the room. It was padlocked. 'Open it,' snapped the gang boss and Billy Stripes fumbled in his pocket for the key. He finally pulled the padlock free and lifted the lid.
Harrison reached inside, his back to Thorpe.
When he turned, the DI found himself looking down the barrel of a Sterling AR-19.
'Where the hell did you get that?' he asked, the colour draining from his cheeks. 'That's army issue equipment.'
'Yeah, like you said, perhaps I ought to take care of things myself,' Harrison said. 'So far I've been sitting around waiting for some joker to blow me away. Perhaps it's time I did some of the shooting.'
'If you start a gang war, Frank, then I can't protect you. It
was all I could do to keep Special Branch away from the murders of Joule and Dome. If you decide to go on a bender you can count me out.' He put down his glass and turned to the door.
The gunshot, when it came, sounded thunderous in the small room. The single bullet from the Sterling hit Thorpe's glass, exploding it into a thousand tiny fragments before hurtling into the desk top, blasting a sizeable lump of woo from the expensive piece of furniture.
'Remember what I pay you, Thorpe. You ain't going nowhere,' Harrison said.
The DI turned slowly, trying to remain composed. All around him, Harrison's bodyguards looked on impassively as the gang boss raised the rifle to his shoulder, drawing a bead on Thorpe, fixing his head perfectly in the cross-threads of the sight.
'I own you,' Harrison said, his finger hovering over the trigger. 'Try earning your bloody money. Find out who's having a go at me and do it quick otherwise I'm going to find out myself. And my methods might be a little bit more direct than yours. Then I think your superiors might wonder what the hell was going on.' He gripped the rifle more tightly. 'London's set to explode, Thorpe. Just make sure you don't get caught in the cross-fire. You make up your mind who's side you're on but don't take too long doing it.'
'Like I told you,' the policeman said. 'We've got to find whoever killed those three people up at Primrose Hill. That's the case I'm working on.'
`Then do some fucking overtime and find out who wants me dead, otherwise it might be you who ends up on a meat hook.'
Harrison squeezed the trigger.
The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.
Thorpe let out a gasp of relief, watching angrily as Harrison chuckled and threw the gun to Billy Stripes.
'You've got forty-eight hours, Thorpe,' Harrison told him. 'Then it's my turn.'
Twenty-Nine
The flesh had been taken, stripped away from Nikki Jones' face just as it had been from Danny Weller and Adam Giles.
Now there were three bodies nailed to the wall of the derelict supermarket, hanging there like the bizarre trophies of a crazed hunter.
The man who had once been Charles Ross touched the skin of his face and gazed at the trio of crucified bodies before him.
His coat was open to reveal the holes in his jacket, holes th
at had been put there two years earlier. Put there by a Smith and Wesson snub-nose .38 pistol. He gently pushed his index finger into one of the holes and then withdrew it, noting that the digit was dripping with dark, yellowish fluid. He raised it before him, watching as the mucoid substance dribbled down on to his hand.
Beside him, his face still wrapped in a scarf, the man who, in life, had been known as Liam Kelly stood motionless, eyes fixed on the three bodies. Kelly wore a hat to conceal his mottled scalp. He had never possessed much hair during his short life but now all that covered the patchwork of dark veins were a few silver threads of gossamer.
The one they had called Peter Burton smoothed the flesh over his face as if anxious to remove any creases, ensuring that it fitted as closely as possible over his rotting features.
Ian Massey plucked a piece of dangling skin from his neck, touching the ragged wound in his throat. The bullet which, two years earlier, had killed him, had exploded his larynx and left a gaping gash as large as a fist. Unlike the others he could not utter even the most strained of words.
The fifth man looked on impassively.
Each of them was armed with a variety of weapons but most potent in their armoury was their hatred.
'So why do we have to wait?' Burton wanted to know. 'Why not kill him now? Why not kill Harrison immediately? We've killed some of his men.'
'I want him to suffer,' Ross said. 'I want him to wonder where the next attack is going to come from, never being able to relax, not able to trust anyone, even those closest to him.'
'And the rest of his gang?' Kelly wanted to know.
'They'll die, every last one of them,' Ross snapped. He looked at the fifth man who turned to him and nodded.
Thirty
`Bastard.'
Tina Richardson studied her reflection before the full-length mirror in her bedroom and inspected the scratches on her breasts. She muttered more curses to herself as she stood there in her panties, spotting the bruises which marked her body in numerous places. She raised one leg and placed it on the stool in front of her dressing table. Running her fingers up the inside of her thigh, she felt the small scar where Harrison had burned her over a week ago.