The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  Edith returned to the table and was pleased to find that they were going to finish in time.

  “Do stop going on so, Mary,” she said absently as the woman started to moan and whimper on the floor. “It’s for your own good, I assure you.”

  Mary moaned again, louder this time. Edith had been ignoring her but set the papers down that she was currently checking with no small amount of annoyance.

  “Mary, would you like to explain what this is?” she demanded, holding up Mary’s own ballot with a tick placed next to Charles Wentworth’s name.

  Edith stood and walked over to the woman who started to try and crawl away. “Is this some kind of a joke? Explain yourself!”

  Mary held her hands up in feeble self-defence.

  “I see now that you were sent to test me, to sabotage our work here. You are the Devil’s spawn, Mary. I should have known it when I tasted your scones at the last bake sale.”

  Edith paused to snatch up a metallic walking cane that one of the other ladies had leant up against her chair. Edith hefted the cane in her hands and felt imbued with the power of the Lord.

  “Wentworth? WENTWORTH!” she roared as she swung the cane down with all of the holy power that filled her veins.

  The cane struck again and again, battering soft flesh and fragile bone. Edith swung the cane again and again until Mary’s face was an obliterated puddle. Blood splattered onto her clothes and some even reached her face, such was the ferocity of her attack.

  Eventually she stopped and dropped the cane to the ground with a clatter. Her chest heaved with the effort but her heart soared with righteousness.

  She returned to the table and none of the other women even looked up, their attention too concentrated on the task at hand.

  They finished up the switching and secured the new boxes for transport. As if by magic there was almost immediately a knock on the village hall front door and Edith stepped over Mary’s prone figure to answer it.

  She opened the door to a giant of a man, but she wasn’t afraid. This was another of Mr Tolanson’s soldiers, a protector who was always at his side.

  He walked past her and took the boxes in his mighty arms. He paused briefly to look down at Mary whose face was an unrecognisable bloody pulp.

  Mr McDere raised an eyebrow at Mary.

  “A non-believer, my brother,” Edith sighed. “She has been struck down by the virtuous hand of the light; all praise our glorious leader.”

  Mr McDere simply nodded and walked away carrying the boxes without a word. The door opened before he reached it and Edith sank to her knees in exaltation as Mr Tolanson walked in.

  “You have done a wondrous job, ladies,” he announced to the room and all of the other women bowed before him.

  “We seek to serve you,” Edith said through teary eyes. “Our hands are yours, our will is yours, our lives are yours.”

  “Thank you, my children.” The politician glowed from the doorway. “We shall see in a new dawn; we shall save our great country and raise it to the heavens once more so that God will shine his light down upon us all.”

  Edith crawled on her knees over to him and he reached out his hand which she took and kissed. Her tears fell on his skin and she looked up into his wide loving eyes and knew what he wanted.

  “I serve only at your command,” she wept.

  And then he was gone.

  Edith climbed unsteadily back to her feet. Her mind was full of what needed to be done; there could be no tomorrow without sacrifice.

  She took one of the petrol cans from the hall’s basement where they fuelled the generator that had been installed in case of a blackout. She splashed the foul liquid around the room as the other ladies remained seated. She was proud of their faith as no one complained as she spilled the petrol over their heads.

  They all held hands around the table and Edith took her rightful place at the head of the table before striking the match.

  The flames leapt hungrily around their still bodies until they were all engulfed - and soon, the hall with it - as everything burned away.

  CHAPTER 7

  NEW PLAYERS

  The party was in full swing by the time that Avery even thought about emerging from her office.

  The leadership campaign had ended in a landslide victory and now the whole party was united behind Tolanson. Patterson had made good on his promise to corral Goldman and the rest had soon gotten a whiff which way the wind was blowing. Christian Tolanson was now the Progression Party’s leader and he would contest the general election for prime minister. Even though they’d only just finished one campaign, the big one started tomorrow.

  The new building was a vast improvement from the original warehouse, and although they had only been here a few days, it already felt like home.

  “You coming out?” a pasty-faced young intern asked as he stuck his head around her door.

  The kid had the look of a man full of alcoholic courage and she knew that he was going to make a clumsy romantic stumble at some point in the evening.

  “In a minute.” She smiled neutrally, hoping to avoid any sign of encouragement towards his amorous intentions.

  “I can’t believe how much you’ve done so quickly,” the boy stammered.

  She thought that his name might be Bruce or Billy or something like that.

  “It was a team effort, and not to mention the fact that we had a lot of luck,” she replied.

  “The biggest luck we got was when the boss brought you onboard,” Bruce or Billy said, blushing furiously.

  “That’s nice, Bruce.” She smiled uncomfortably.

  “Um, it’s Raymond,” he said, going an even deeper shade of red.

  “Of course… Raymond,” she said, thinking that she’d been way off. “I’ll be out in a minute.

  Her blushing suitor ducked back out again, leaving alone.

  The desk was covered in polling data that she was still sifting through. Every aspect of her candidate, every subject, every contingency was covered in the spreadsheets. Somewhere in the mountain of numbers lay the equation to getting him elected.

  He was seen as the most centre-to-right-leaning candidate that the Progression Party had seen in its history. They were traditionally seen as the pacifists, the brainiacs - great in leadership theory but you wouldn’t want to have them defending your borders. The world was a scary place now with new threats emerging almost every other day. Her biggest obstacle was going to be convincing a nervous public that a Progression Party prime minister could keep them safe at night.

  The door was lightly knocked upon again.

  “For God’s sake.…” She went silent as she drew a blank on the kid’s name again. “I said I’ll be out in a minute!”

  “Not interrupting am I?” Tolanson asked as he poked his head inside the office.

  “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you,” she blustered, standing up to attention.

  For some reason the man made her feel like saluting every time that he walked into a room. It was a sensation of natural power and authority that he exuded, one she needed to share with the rest of the country.

  She felt her own cheeks burn red as he strolled slowly around the office, seemingly interested in everything pinned to the walls. There was no doubt that he was an attractive man, but her feelings ran further than the surface. When they in were such close proximity, she felt a desire to serve him, almost worship him.

  “So how are we looking?” he asked absently.

  “Tracking well across our usual base. Patterson is rallying the troops like he promised and, as of now, we no longer have any dissenting voices within the party.”

  “And outside?”

  “We still have a recognition problem. The press we got over the Buttler rally was a huge help in getting your name out there. That one photo alone was a godsend. It helped shape you as a different candidate from the usual Progression Party offerings.”

  “Yes, a godsend for us,” Tolanson mused. “But a shame fo
r poor Mr Buttler. One still image changed both our lives. We should never forget the less fortunate, Avery.”

  “You’re seen as youthful, vibrant and energetic,” she continued on a roll. “I say we capitalise on that and position you as a new bold choice for the future. An end to the same old routine, jobs for the silver spoon brigade and business as usual.”

  “You know that I went to Dunderline University, right?” He smiled. “It wasn’t exactly the local comprehensive.”

  “No, but you worked hard to get there and harder to stay; there was no family name to grease the wheels. The people love a success story, Sir, someone who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and stuck it to the man. That’s how we win, we show the voters that there is a different choice out there, that it doesn’t have to be business as usual,” she finished, almost out of breath, as her enthusiasm mixed with her almost pathological desire to win his approval made for a heady mix.

  “Why don’t you come and join the party?” He smiled. “Let’s save the changing of the world for tomorrow. I’m sure it can wait.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she agreed.

  He held the door open for her and she snatched up her things. Her phone had been locked in her drawer for the afternoon while she had shut the world away trying to form a strategy for the election. There were several missed calls on her phone and she could see that the message box was full.

  “Anything that can’t wait?” Tolanson asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she answered as her eyes scanned the list of missed callers only stopping by Debbie’s.

  She made a mental note to call Debbie in the morning after checking the time on her watch. Whatever Debbie had wanted, it could wait until then.

  ----------

  Jerry Sutherland checked the street up and down carefully to make sure that they weren’t being observed. His car was non-descript and the number plates had been taken from another vehicle just in case.

  “C’mon,” Wheaton whined from inside the car.

  Sutherland ignored him and waited with his eyes shut and his ears acutely trained into the night air listening for any sound of approaching cars. Only when he was sure did he open the car’s rear door and signal for Wheaton to join him.

  “Finally,” Wheaton moaned.

  “Just grab her legs,” Sutherland ordered.

  Together they carried the plastic-wrapped woman along the pathway and around the side of the house. The front door faced the street, and although the home was set back along a deserted lane, he wasn’t a man to take any chances at the best of times, let alone when he was carrying a dead body.

  “Don’t see why we couldn’t just dump her somewhere,” Wheaton complained again as he strained to carry the dead weight.

  “Your job isn’t to think, son, just do as you’re told!” Sutherland snapped.

  Normally he was a placid enough man with a steely core that didn’t shake, but the kid was starting to irritate him.

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” Wheaton pouted. “I’m the man now; Donovan’s gone and I’m the shit.”

  “What is it with you kids today and your spectacular failure to grasp the simple basics of your own language? You’re the shit? How can that be a good thing?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just carry her to the back door.”

  “Don’t order me around. I don’t work for you,” Wheaton barked too loudly.

  “Keep your bloody voice down,” Sutherland hissed.

  “Piss off!” Wheaton shouted, out of childish spite.

  The young man dropped the girl’s legs in protest. “You’d better start showing me some respect.”

  “Pick her up!” Sutherland ordered as he looked around nervously expecting them to be hit by a car’s approaching headlights at any minute. He was a cautious man by nature and this was not how he did business.

  “Screw you!” Wheaton laughed.

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Yeah, right,” Wheaton said as he pulled a small knife from his jacket. “What the hell are you going to do about it, old man?”

  Sutherland lowered the girl’s head gently to the ground and pushed his jacket aside, exposing a revolver in a shoulder holster. “Kid, I have neither the time nor the inclination to debate with you about any of the finer points of this evening’s activities. Pick her up and do as you’re told or else you’ll be joining the late lamented Mr Pryor… clear?”

  Wheaton’s eyes bulged and Sutherland could almost hear the gears burning as the boy’s brain worked overtime. He looked like a kid whose biggest decision tended to be what cereal he had for breakfast. Thankfully he eventually saw reason and reached down and picked the girl’s plastic-wrapped legs up.

  Together they carried her to the back door. Sutherland reached into his pocket and took out the girl’s keys, unlocking the cottage door. They carried her inside and set her down on the kitchen table.

  “Careful!” Sutherland snapped as the kid dropped the girl with a loud bang.

  “She don’t care.” Wheaton shrugged.

  Sutherland shook his head and wondered where Tolanson had dug up this winner. Donovan might have been a borderline psychopath but at least the kid had a smattering of intelligence, whereas Wheaton looked like he couldn’t tie his own shoelaces without an instruction manual.

  “What now?” Wheaton asked impatiently.

  “What’s the matter, got a hot date?”

  “Got business to sort; now I’m running Donovan’s crew, I need to get them in line.”

  “Well just wait here a minute.”

  Sutherland looked around until he found a sharp-looking kitchen knife.

  “What’s that for?” Wheaton demanded nervously.

  “Don’t panic, son. We’ve got to unwrap her, remember?”

  “Yeah, of course I do.”

  Sutherland shook his head at the sort of moron Tolanson had saddled him with; the big man must have been desperate.

  He carefully cut the plastic away until the woman was uncovered. He looked down with no little pity at her youth. She was fair-skinned and pretty and it all seemed like such a waste.

  “She’s cute,” Wheaton leered as he reached forward and cupped one of the dead woman’s breasts.

  “Leave her alone,” Sutherland said coldly.

  “Jesus, old man, you’re no fun.”

  “Death is never fun, boy. Have some respect.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

  Sutherland spent the next few minutes carefully arranging the girl into position while Wheaton watched on curiously.

  “What’s that for?” the boy asked.

  Sutherland continued to ignore him and set about his work carefully and methodically.

  Eventually, when he was satisfied, he stood back and checked the scene again. The girl’s neck had been broken in a fall and her head hung at an unnatural angle but that would matter little.

  “Stay here,” he ordered the boy. “And don’t touch anything.”

  Sutherland found the gas lines behind the kitchen cooker and eased the pipes loose. The air was soon corrupted with the toxic fumes as the room started to fill with the unmistakable smell and the sound of hissing.

  He returned to Wheaton and caught the boy leaping back from the girl’s body with a guilty look splashed all over his face.

  “What? I didn’t do nothing,” Wheaton fired.

  “That’s a double negative,” Sutherland mused as he checked the scene one last time.”

  “Huh?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come here and hold this,” Sutherland said, holding out the kitchen knife casually.

  Wheaton walked over to him and Sutherland drove the blade into his chest before the younger man had noticed.

  “What?” Wheaton said as he looked down at the spreading blood and the knife’s hilt buried in his chest.

  “Time to clean house, my boy.” Sutherland smiled gently. “It’s a brand new day.”

  Wheaton collapsed to the floor, gasping f
or breath, his dreams of power running out as fast as his blood pumped.

  Safety first, Sutherland snatched up a candle in the hallway and lit it as the gas continued to pump into the kitchen. He waited for a little wax to melt and then tipped the candle sideways to make a pool of hot wax on the floor before sinking the candle into it, creating a makeshift stand.

  He hurried back out to the waiting car and climbed inside. He was confident that he was far enough away from the house but he backed up 20 feet or so just in case.

  When the explosion came it tore out the back of the house and flames were soon racing through the rest of the cottage. Again, Sutherland waited until the whole building was engulfed before he made the call.

  “Detective Inspector Sutherland,” he said, identifying himself to control. “Westgate Lane… it looked like a burglary gone wrong but the whole damn place is on fire now so I can’t get back in. The woman is one… Debbie Barrett. There are two bodies at the scene and I saw a third guy running away when I got here. It looks like she managed to stab one of the bastards before he got her. Yeah, I’ll wait here for the fire boys.”

  He sat back and soon the sound of sirens echoed across the dewy countryside. It wasn’t the best plan in the world but Tolanson hadn’t given him much time to work with.

  The likes of Pryor or Wheaton could just disappear without trace and no one would bother looking for them - just one less scumbag in the world. Debbie Barrett, however, was another story: the girl worked for a bloody newspaper. If she went missing then people would start looking, and while The Star was only a local paper, it could still create enough waves to cause trouble.

  A burglary gone wrong was fine on the surface and the fire would consume a lot of the evidence, but Debbie’s lungs would be devoid of fumes meaning that it would quickly become apparent that she had been dead before the fire.

  His current working plan was that Pryor and Wheaton had committed the act together. Debbie had managed to fight back and stab Wheaton, then Pryor had run off but not before first burning the place down. It was far from the perfect plan but time was pressing and it was the best he could do at such short notice.