The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

  “I’m sorry,” the girl blustered as she tried to crawl backwards, having locked onto the blaze in his eyes.

  Donovan was around the desk in a flash and descended onto the girl. His hands found her throat and closed in tight. His whole body shook with a fury that he had never known before. This girl, this worthless piece of shit, deemed herself worthy to draw his blood, HIS BLOOD! Tolanson might have him by the balls but the day that he took shit from a little tramp was the day that he put a bullet in his own brain.

  The girl’s eyes were ringed with smeared mascara and bulged as he squeezed harder and harder. He could feel her struggles growing weaker and he bathed in the ultimate power. This was his world, his kingdom, and he still wore the fucking crown.

  It was a short while longer before he realised that she was already dead. He let her corpse drop to the floor and stood proudly. There were no feelings of guilt, no remorse, only power. He tried to remember if the girl had family. Normally they didn’t - a career in stripping never stemmed from a healthy home life.

  He poured himself another drink and slugged it back hard, enjoying the burning as it travelled down his throat. Only a minute ago he’d been feeling the pressure of Tolanson’s boot on his throat but maybe he just might surprise the bastard yet.

  The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.

  “What?” he answered good-naturedly.

  “That temper of yours will get you into trouble one day, Mr Donovan,” Tolanson said down the line.

  In a flash, Donovan opened a drawer and took out a revolver. He spun around expecting to see the politician somewhere close by.

  “Put the gun down, Mr Donovan. I can assure you that I’m currently too far away for such silliness; Besides, do you really think that it would do you much good?”

  Donovan sank down into the office chair and found his hands trembling.

  “Now I don’t want you to worry, Mr Donovan. I assure you that I understand perfectly. These things happen. Besides, it wasn’t like she was anyone of importance, after all, just a tart, to use your vernacular.”

  “What do you want?” Donovan sighed heavily.

  “Just a little reminder as to which side your bread’s buttered, my boy. I wouldn’t want you forgetting.”

  “What the fuck are you?” Donovan asked, genuinely wanting to know.

  But all he heard in reply was Tolanson’s laughter before the phone line went dead.

  ----------

  When the funeral service was over, Avery emerged back out into the cold dying light. She didn’t do well at funerals, but then again, who did?

  Debbie’s mother had transformed from wailing banshee to stone gargoyle and she wasn’t sure which was worse. The family had rounded around their matriarch and deep down Avery was relieved that the family had left her behind as they filtered away in back limousines.

  There was a reception at a local hotel after the service but Avery couldn’t imagine that many would have an appetite. The death of her friend was violent and hugely premature; this was no gentle passing, where a life would be remembered and celebrated. This was grief, thick and heavy.

  She took a few minutes for herself and wandered around the graveyard pondering just when to call for a taxi and whether or not she’d go to the hotel. As she walked slowly, she hated the constant reminder of just how fragile life could be as ages and dates were etched into stone. These were markers of lives lost and turned to dust. Some were tended while others were forgotten and left to ruin, reclaimed by the wild.

  She paused at the grave of a child. A small headstone told Avery that the poor mite had only been 10 years old. She couldn’t help but wonder just what sort of a god would take a soul so young.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” A voice startled her from behind.

  She turned to see a tall man watching her carefully. He was broad and a little soft. She judged his age to be somewhere north of 35 but most of his face was hidden behind a bushy beard. His eyes were deep-set and dark but they had a slight twinkle to them that glowed with a sharp intelligence.

  “The child,” he said, motioning towards the grave.

  “Maybe everyone’s born with an expiry date - we just can’t see it,” she replied.

  The man seemed friendly enough but he also seemed oddly familiar.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “Lomax,” he said, offering a formal hand. “Denton Lomax.”

  The name seemed to ring a bell somewhere but she still couldn’t place him. “Avery Grant,” she responded, shaking his hand.

  “Oh, I know who you are, Miss Grant.”

  “That sounds rather cryptic, Mr Lomax.”

  “I apologise for approaching you here, but you’re not often alone.”

  “Now you’ve slipped from cryptic to downright creepy,” Avery said, glancing around. She was more than a little perturbed to find that they were alone.

  “I’m… I’m not doing a very good job of explaining myself.” Lomax sighed awkwardly. “This isn’t easy to elucidate without sounding like a crazy man.”

  “I can see that.”

  Avery started to back away slowly, wondering just what this man wanted from her. She wasn’t getting any kind of threatening vibes from him, at least not yet.

  “Look, please don’t be afraid,” he suddenly said as he noticed her backing away. “I’ve been trying to speak to you for a while; it’s… it’s important.”

  “Wait a minute, have you been following me?” she asked as she evaluated his build. Was he the same man who had been watching her earlier? Was he the same man that she’d spotted loitering outside her apartment?

  “I needed to talk to you, Miss Grant,” he pleaded. “You’re in danger, you have to believe me.”

  “Danger from what?” she asked as she continued to back away, readying herself for a sprint escape if necessary.

  “He’s not what he seems,” Lomax said and she stopped in her tracks.

  It was the same line that Debbie had used on her last ever phone call and it couldn’t be coincidence.

  “Talk and talk fast,” she ordered.

  “I can’t, at least not here. Maybe inside the church?” Lomax asked, looking around nervously.

  “You think that I’m going to head inside a dark deserted church building with you? You must be nuts!”

  “It’s your life at stake, dammit!” Lomax exploded. “Don’t you understand that?”

  “What is this bullshit? Who isn’t what they seem? Why all the bloody secrecy?”

  “He can hear us; he can see us.”

  Avery looked around exasperatedly at the deserted graveyard. “What the hell are you talking about? There’s no one here!”

  “He sees all, he hears all, but maybe not inside.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who,” he whispered.

  “Tolanson?” she mouthed.

  Lomax only nodded, almost imperceptively, as his eyes darted around anxiously.

  “Look, I’ve just about had enough of the nonsense,” she said, shaking her head. “Wait a minute. I do know you, or at least I know the name; you’re a reporter, right?”

  Lomax shrugged non-committally.

  “Yes, you are, but you don’t cover politics, do you?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I do,” he stressed.

  “The hell it doesn’t. Look, I don’t know what your game is, Mr Lomax, but I don’t want any part of it.”

  “YOU’RE IN DANGER!” he bellowed and Avery flinched. “You don’t know who he is, you don’t know what he is. I… I can’t explain it without sounding crazy but you have to believe me, Miss Grant. I’ve seen the way that he looks at you. He’s got hungry eyes, Miss Grant; you must have felt that, surely?”

  “Look, Mr Lomax, you’re not making any sense. Christian Tolanson is a great man, and if I have anything to do with it, he’ll be our next prime minister.”

  “NO!” Lomax roared and Avery jumped rather than flinched this time. “You don’t know what y
ou’re doing. The only thing worse than him running is him winning. If you help him succeed, Miss Grant, then you’ll help him bring about the end.”

  “The end of what?”

  “Everything, Miss Grant, everything. You need to stop.”

  “And you need help, Mr Lomax. If you wish to speak to me again, I suggest that you do it on the record. Make an appointment like every other reporter, but I warn you, if I catch wind of you spreading lies about Mr Tolanson then I will end your career.”

  With that, she turned and started to walk away, her shoes squelching in the wet mud of the graveyard’s grass. She kept her head down and fought against the impulse to break into a run. She had never run from anyone and she didn’t want to start now, however tempting the proposition might be.

  She stopped at the gravel path and turned around but Lomax was gone. The man had been intense and worked up about Tolanson but he hadn’t made a lick of sense. Debbie had spoken about a man not being what he seemed, but Tolanson? The idea was preposterous. She had spent months in the man’s close company and had never once felt anything suspicious. Only that wasn’t quite true, was it? A couple of times he’d given her pause but only after she’d left his side. But surely that was only down to the crazy hours that she’d worked? A lack of sleep could make anyone paranoid; more gravy than the grave as a great man had once written.

  Her phone sparked into life in her pocket and made her jump, mainly because she was positive that she’d switched it off before the funeral. The caller ID displayed Tolanson and on instinct she answered straight away.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “How was the service?” Tolanson asked and she felt his care and warmth down the line wash over her.

  “Fine, thank you, if fine is the right word.”

  “Are you okay? You sound a little… well, a little out of sorts.”

  “I just had a run-in with a reporter,” she replied.

  “Oh no,” he commiserated. “I’m so sorry that they bothered you there.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t about the campaign, or at least I don’t think so.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  “Um… Lomax - Denton Lomax.”

  The other end of the line went silent for what seemed like an age.

  “Sir?” she pressed him after the pause became too long to bear.

  “Yes… I’m sorry, just wool gathering. You’re sure about the name?”

  “That’s what he said. Big guy, bushy beard, strange dark eyes.”

  “Ah, Mr Lomax,” Tolanson breathed. “You slippery fish.”

  “How do you know him?” she asked.

  “Mr Lomax was a little troublesome a while ago. I had rather assumed that he was no longer with us but I guess that bad pennies do have a habit of turning up again.”

  “I haven’t seen his name on any of the call sheets or press requests; who does he work for?”

  “Oh, Mr Lomax isn’t currently employed by any of the nationals. He’s… freelance, I suppose is the word; he’s also rather disturbed, I’m afraid to say. I do hope that he didn’t scare you?”

  “No, no I’m fine, but he was a little creepy, I don’t mind admitting.”

  “That man,” Tolanson chided. “I’m really sorry that he approached you, my dear.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. Mr Lomax appears to have developed a rather strong fixation on me personally. His previous bosses described him as unstable if I remember correctly. Some kind of emotional breakdown, I believe, but don’t you worry about him, my dear. We won’t let him bother you again, I can assure you of that.”

  “That sounds rather ominous, Sir,” Avery admitted before she could stop herself.

  “Oh, my dear.” Tolanson laughed warmly. “I just mean that we will make sure you have security in the short term. I also intend to pursue Mr Lomax through the courts, perhaps get an injunction or restraining order of some kind.”

  “Sounds messy; there’s a lot of bad publicity to be had here, Sir: dragging your name through the courts, giving a disturbed man like Lomax a platform. I got the impression that would be just what he wanted.”

  “Always thinking like a campaign manager,” he replied warmly. “Look, we’ll get into strategies for Lomax tomorrow, bright and early.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Avery hung up the phone and felt better, or at least as well as anyone could after being accosted by a nutcase with a grudge against her boss. She turned the phone over in her hand to call a taxi but was confused to find that she had to turn it on again, almost as if it had been off the whole time.

  CHAPTER 9

  CROSSROADS

  Denton Lomax sat lost amidst a universe of information. The small bedsit was overflowing with box upon box of information that had taken more years than he cared to remember to gather. There were multiple clippings pinned to the walls surrounding him. Some were crisp and new while others were yellow and fading but all concerned the same man - Christian Tolanson.

  He rubbed his forehead as the familiar weariness threatened to overtake him again. There were days when his passion boiled with a terrifying intensity and others when he could barely get out of bed. This had been his life for as long as he could remember and it was all he knew.

  The bedsit was tiny and stank of damp, but it was cheap and it was off the books. It was the sort of place where his grubby landlord stuffed his meagre rent into his filthy pocket and the tax man never saw a penny. The neighbourhood was as rundown as his room and almost every face down here was hiding from something or someone.

  A large magazine cover image was pinned to the wall in front of him and Tolanson’s face beamed down at him. The still image could never have been less so as the politician’s eyes followed him and burned with a fresh intensity. Lomax cursed himself for his clumsy approach at the graveyard. He had practised his conversation with the Grant girl for some time and yet he’d blown his anonymity apart in a flash.

  He flung a whisky tumbler against the wall and it shattered, spilling the remains of its contents across the stained carpeted floor.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he spat at himself as he pounded the side of his head hard with a clenched fist.

  He’d known better than to expose himself and yet he’d gone right ahead and done just that. He’d been living in the shadows for the past year or so and now he had thrust himself back out into the spotlight again.

  He’d been following Tolanson from afar, taking every possible precaution not to be discovered. The politician was far too dangerous already, and although he might not be the force of nature he’d once been, he was rapidly gaining power in the real world which was almost as bad.

  He’d seen the Avery woman a few weeks ago for the first time. A photograph taken with a long lens now held a prominent position on his wall and he’d started to take a strong interest in her.

  He wasn’t a stupid man, and although the woman’s vitality and beauty sprung from the page, it wasn’t any romantic notion that he held towards her; she simply reminded him of his mother.

  Both women were Amazonian, they were strong, intelligent and fiercely protective. It was a weakness towards her that had now placed himself back in harm’s way and the irony was that in his desire to protect her, he’d probably just painted a target on her back.

  The rotting door to his room trembled on its fragile hinges as a meaty fist pounded it hard. Lomax’s hand was inside his jacket on sheer instinct and the revolver was out in a flash.

  “Smith?” his landlord bellowed and Lomax relaxed.

  He crossed the room and slipped the gun away again. While the door was not exactly designed to keep anyone out, the inner locks that he’d installed were new and strong.

  “You in there, Smith?”

  “Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.”

  Lomax undid the bolts and eased the door open just a crack. “What do you want, Goggins? You know the deal. I pay above the asking price in cash and you stay th
e hell out of here.”

  “Rent day and you’re hiding in here,” the fat landlord declared angrily. “I still own this place, you know.”

  “Rent day’s Friday; this is Tuesday!”

  “Check your calendar, college boy.” Goggins laughed.

  Lomax tried to count the days and gave up quickly. He prised open the door a little further. Goggins was a huge man but all of it was soft and jowly. As per usual, the man wore most of whatever he’d been eating recently down his stained white vest and his round face was flushed red with the exertions of the small flight of stairs.

  “What you doing in there?” Goggins demanded as he tried to lean into the room to get a look.

  “None of your business; that was the deal, remember?”

  “Better not be anything illegal,” Goggins retorted.

  Lomax knew that the big man had little qualms about the legality of his residents; he just wanted to know if he wasn’t getting his cut.

  “Here’s your money,” Lomax said, thrusting a handful of notes into the landlord’s meaty fist. “Now piss off and leave me to my business.”

  “Maybe I ought to take a look for myself; maybe you’re screwing me. Maybe I start asking questions about you, Mr Smith.”

  Lomax flung the door open and rushed out. He grabbed Goggins by the front of his disgusting vest and forced him backwards until they hit the wall behind. Although Goggins weighed more, all of it was fat, and while Lomax wasn’t in the sort of shape he’d been in before, there was still enough muscle to do the job.

  Goggin’s head hit the plasterboard wall hard enough to make a dent. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?”

  “My business is my business, understand?” Lomax snarled in the landlord’s face.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean nothing,” Goggins stammered.

  “You are nothing, you fat bastard, and if I catch you sniffing around here again I promise that they won’t find your fat corpse!”

  “No problem,” Goggins gasped as his red face turned redder.