by Jon Grahame
Sandra reached her target before he could lift himself from the softness of the sofa’s cushions. His arms were pressed at his sides for leverage as he attempted to rise, providing an unobstructed target for the deadly thrust of her blade: she pushed the knife deep into his throat, the serrated edge ripping both his vocal chords and carotid artery. The blood spouted; some of it onto Sandra, whose blonde hair was now partially crimson, her face a caricature of a 70s rock singer, only her face wasn’t masked in paint. She pulled her knife free with a harsh grimace and, just for a second, Reaper wondered at what they were doing.
‘What the …?’
A third man appeared in a doorway. He wore a tee shirt and nothing else and was rolling a cigarette.
‘Don’t move!’ said Reaper, levelling the Glock.
The man dropped the makings of the cigarette and raised his hands. Sandra stepped past him and went into the second room with her own gun raised. Moments later, she returned, her gun holstered. The man in the tee shirt was taller than her by six inches. She kicked him behind the legs and he dropped to his knees. She grabbed his long hair in one hand and stuck the Bowie knife into his throat. Reaper sidestepped the arc of blood as she twisted the knife.
He wiped his own blade on the sofa and returned it to its sheath. He put the handgun in its holster. His mind was in turmoil. His own mission of revenge was one thing, but had it been necessary for him to transform Sandra into some kind of bestial killing machine? She pulled the knife free and kicked the still twitching corpse. Her breath was coming in short bursts as if she had run a marathon. She glanced at Reaper, her eyes without a semblance of normality – almost feral. Then she turned and went back into the other room.
The room where the slaughter had occurred was at the corner of the building and with the view towards the town centre. There was an open plan kitchen and dining area around the corner. He went the other way to follow Sandra into a bedroom that had open French windows and a balcony on which were placed a white metal table and two white chairs in art deco style. Very Hercule Poirot. The bed was large with a white metal frame. Upon it lay a girl who wore only a pair of black hold up stockings. Her small breasts looked as if someone had drawn around them with lipstick, until he realised that they were bite marks. A noose was around her neck and the end of the rope was tied to the top of the bed frame. Now he understood Sandra’s second bout of violence.
He felt Sandra’s eyes upon him. They had returned to normal but were filled with deep sadness and compassion. She had been there. She knew this girl’s suffering. Reaper nodded to her and turned back into the other room. As he passed, he kicked the corpse of the third man.
Only now did detail expand the first impressions of entry. The man he had killed had been in his late twenties, unshaven, about six feet tall, no excess weight. He wore jeans and a sleeveless vest, presumably to accentuate his muscles, but which had done nothing for the body odour that had assailed Reaper’s senses before the blood spilled. A reasonable specimen – for a bastard. The one who had had terminal trouble trying to rise from the sofa was shorter, but not by much, and fatter, which was probably why he had sunk back into the cushions as Sandra delivered the death blow. He had been early twenties, clean-shaven and in a fresh shirt. Even now, with the other odours taking over, he could smell the aftershave. What sort of twisted creature wore aftershave for a gang rape?
The third man was thin, weedy, and in his forties. Reaper remembered sunken eyes widening in horror in a skeletal face when he had walked out of the bedroom and seen them. The sort of downbeat piece of scum who would have found it difficult to get any half decent girl to look at him before the Happening. At times like this, Reaper hoped fervently that he was wrong about the afterlife. He might be an atheist but it would be good to think that these swine had gone straight to hell for an eternity of torment. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was blood splattered but not as drenched as Sandra. If anyone else walked through the door, she would scare them witless. He wondered how she was managing with the girl on the bed?
The girl was called Andrea. Sandra wrapped her in a pink raincoat that was too short and she wore flat black shoes. Reaper collected the men’s weapons and put them in a small suitcase he found on top of the wardrobe. The apartments were plush and would have been expensive retirement homes before their owners died and the rooms were taken over by Mad Dog’s animals.
Reaper led the way back, carrying the case in one hand, the carbine at the ready in the other; Sandra brought the girl, an arm around her in an attempt to diffuse her continued disorientation. The girl’s face was blank as if desensitised by days, maybe weeks, of abuse.
The car was where they left it, which was a surprise. Reaper thought Bradley might have lost his nerve and deserted his post. He hadn’t, but he almost did when he saw the state that Sandra was in. She looked like a survivor of a chainsaw massacre – or more appropriately, the perpetrator. He put the case in the boot and Sandra got in the back of the car with Andrea. Reaper got into the passenger seat.
Bradley kept glancing into the back and then at Reaper.
‘Back to your place,’ Reaper told him. ‘That’s Andrea. She’s in shock.’
The teacher did as he was told. They drove to the house without incident and he parked in the silent street. They went inside and took Andrea upstairs. Sandra took her and Meg into the front bedroom and closed the door. They stayed together for long minutes. Reaper washed his hands; he wasn’t bothered about his face or clothes. He counted any other stains as camouflage or deterrent. Sandra came out and nodded.
‘They’ll be okay. Meg is a resilient girl.’
‘Time for Part Two,’ said Reaper.
Bradley drove them to within two streets of Isaac’s Hill, taking a detour to avoid going close to Bits and Pieces, which was now on their right. The night glowed with its lights. He was given similar instructions. Wait for an hour. If they hadn’t returned by then or if he heard gunshots he should return to the house and wait. The man was becoming increasingly jittery. Much longer and he would be a liability. Much longer and he might break down and cry.
Reaper and Sandra approached the target carefully, taking their time. Shadows and silence. They glided through the streets. The flats were on a slight hill, facing any traffic approaching the town from the north. The entrance to the block was on a corner and to the rear. Lights showed from a first floor window. They crossed the road and inspected the entrance: a glass door that was locked. A dim light that glowed from somewhere above showed them a flight of stairs. Sandra faced outwards, at the ready; Reaper began to move into the darkness of a nearby alley, seeking another entry point, when she hissed to him. He turned and rejoined her and heard footsteps approaching. They both slipped back into the shadows.
Two people were crossing the road: a big man in front; somebody slimmer behind and carrying a plastic shopping bag. Reaper placed his carbine on the ground and took out his knife. The back figure stumbled on the pavement in the dark and bottles clinked.
‘Careful with those, bitch! Mossa needs his lube.’
‘Mossa’s a dirty sod,’ a woman replied.
Another victim?
The man put a key in the lock of the door, both hands in sight. Reaper stepped from hiding, the man half turned, and Reaper put the knife in his stomach and pushed upwards.
‘Jesus!’ the man said, his voice turning to a whisper before the word was completed.
‘It’s okay,’ Reaper said to the woman, over the man’s shoulder. ‘You’re safe now.’
‘Fuck,’ she said and dropped the bag of bottles onto the pavement.
For a second, Reaper thought she was swinging her handbag into her arms and then saw that her handbag was an Uzi. He stared down the muzzle and she pulled the trigger. It clicked. The woman wore tight black leather trousers and a black leather vest. He could now see a tattoo on her arm that
said Evil Bitch and here he was, still holding her boyfriend in an embrace of death on the blade of his knife.
‘Shit!’ she said, and Reaper knew she only had to move her thumb to find the safety.
Sandra shot her in the head with the carbine before she could and the woman slid backwards with a neat hole in the front of her head and a larger one at the back.
Reaper pushed away the body he was still holding; the knife was still embedded. He pushed open the door and ran up the stair whilst pulling a Glock from his right hand holster. A door opened on the first floor and someone shouted, ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mossa?’ shouted Reaper, to gain a second of indecision.
He saw Mossa, silhouetted in a doorway. He was holding a handgun. Reaper shot him twice, chest and head, and kept on moving, stepped over his falling body and into the room, gun levelled. Sandra was a pace behind him. She slid into the room, her back to the wall, the carbine held in covering position. They were in the living room of a not particularly elegant holiday apartment. A fey young man sat on the sofa, his face a mask of terror. He was gulping for air and waving hands delicate enough for a Renaissance painting in front of his face.
‘Who else is here?’ demanded Reaper.
‘No one. Just me.’ He began to cry.
Sandra crossed the room to an open door, darkness on the other side. She kicked it all the way inwards.
‘If there’s someone in there, you’re dead,’ said Reaper to the young man.
‘No one, no one,’ tears on his cheeks, his whole body agitated. ‘Just me. Just Mossa.’
Sandra went in low, kicked around, came out. He had been telling the truth. Another door led into an empty bathroom.
‘Who are you?’ Reaper was becoming wary of assuming innocence, even from someone so camp.
‘I’m Duncan.’
‘What are you doing here?’
There were no other weapons in sight.
‘I’m … I’m …’ He cried again and then said with an effort, ‘I’m Mossa’s fuckpig.’
‘What?’
‘I’m his fuckpig. He fucks me.’ The tears flowed. ‘He fucking fucks me.’
For Reaper the tension went. He exchanged a look of sympathy with Sandra.
‘No one will hurt you again, Duncan,’ he said. ‘Hide until this is all over. We’re taking Mad Dog down.’
The man’s tears and gulps paused at the enormity of what he had been told, as if it was beyond believable, and maybe it was. Reaper and Sandra left. They also left the handgun. Maybe Duncan would need it.
Downstairs, he retrieved his knife, wiped it quickly on the dead man’s shirt and stuck it back in its sheath. He shouldered his carbine and took the Uzi. He pointed across the street and they took cover behind a parked car to wait and see if anyone came to investigate the shots. Two minutes later, they spotted three people dipping in and out of cover, coming from the direction of Bits and Pieces. One stayed on the far side of the road and the other two crossed cautiously. Reaper touched Sandra’s shoulder and pointed to the man alone. She nodded and pointed the carbine, the red dot of the sight picking out the darker shade among the shadows.
‘Your shot,’ he whispered.
She took it, and the darker shade fell as Reaper stood up and blasted the other two with the Uzi in a four second burst that put them both down and twitching.
‘Now let’s go pubbing,’ he said, sliding the empty Uzi beneath a car for safety.
Chapter 3
BITS AND PIECES WAS LIT UP LIKE A FAIRGROUND RIDE. The pub had floor-to-ceiling glass windows that could slide open in summer, so that the interior melded with seating on the terrace. Tables and chairs spread all the way to a chrome and glass bar that ran the length of the back wall, lights shining and reflecting everywhere. A jukebox played Presley singing Love Me Tender, the sound soft and pensive. The door to the hotel was in the middle and to the right was the dining room, where the lighting was dimmer and more intimate. Next door was an alley and then what had been an Indian restaurant.
They watched from across the road. Cars had been left haphazardly, some double-parked. Men and some women were in the bar. The men carried guns and all of them looked agitated.
‘Jesus!’ Sandra said.
He looked at her and she nodded down the street. The body of a woman hung from a rope attached to a lamppost. It could have been mistaken for a bizarre Halloween street decoration except that it had once been a human being. From the clothes she wore, he would have guessed a middle-aged lady with a weight problem. Obviously not wanted by Mad Dog’s gang and so used instead as entertainment. In the circumstances, the retribution he and Sandra were dispensing didn’t seem so bad.
They exchanged another look, levelled the carbines, and started firing. Two males in the pub went down, sending furniture crashing, glass smashing, women screaming and everybody scrambling for cover. Shots were returned and they hunkered down behind engine blocks and wheels; the flimsiness of car bodies did not stop bullets.
The opposition was on both the ground and first floor and they fired indiscriminately but with enough frequency to make Reaper and Sandra keep their heads down. Some bullets came too close, sending showers of window glass over them.
‘Shit,’ said Sandra, as they crouched together.
‘Okay?’ Reaper said.
She nodded.
‘Just take care.’
‘You too.’
He placed his carbine in the gutter beneath a car, kissed two fingers and laid them on her blood-encrusted forehead. She gave him a tight smile and he was away, up the street, staying low, until the road curved and he could make a dash for the other side. From inside Bits and Pieces, the Righteous Brothers began singing You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.
Sandra was alone. This was their plan. Reaper to go in and she to stay and provide a barrage of annoyance that would keep the enemy wondering who and how many they were fighting. She fired and moved, taking advantage of the double-parking that brought double protection, wary of the upstairs windows and the better elevation they afforded the defenders. She slid open the side door of a VW van that contained a mattress and ropes, shuddering to think what use it had seen, and fired through the driver’s side window before retreating through the back door and taking another shot from the rear end of a double-parked Jag.
She noticed the preponderance of expensive cars that had been left haphazardly by gang members, rolled, and fired from behind the bonnet of a BMW. This was a crazy game she was playing and she didn’t dwell too long on the possibility that it could get her killed. It shouldn’t, she thought; she was a good shot, had trained hard and was focussed. The scum across the road had probably never been in a real fight and were showing a reluctance to show themselves for more than a snatched second whilst making their shots. Go careful, Reaper, she said in her head.
As Reaper crossed at the top of the street, he saw shadows flit across the bottom going in the opposite direction. A flanking movement. His heart sank.
‘Incoming!’ he yelled. ‘Left!’
The odds facing Sandra were lengthening but there was nothing he could do other than continue with the course of action they had planned. Sandra was good. Probably better than anybody their enemy had ever faced. But still, the odds worried him.
He slid round the curry house and into the alley. After the bright lights out front it was like entering a cave. He closed his eyes for a few precious seconds to encourage night vision and then opened them again; he could now vaguely make out the sides of the alley. He went forward carefully and approached the yard at the back, a deeper expanse of space, a deeper darkness, so dark that he walked into a rubbish bin that was as high as his shoulder. The gunshots continued from the front, making his progress seem slower than it was, and then he stopped as a door opened from the back of the hotel restaurant. A
dim light from inside illuminated a man coming out, a rifle in his hands. Reaper stepped behind the bin and took the Bowie knife from its sheath.
Even as he waited, the knife gripped at waist height, he reflected on how the changes wrought by the world had turned a normal civilian into a silent killer with a blade, who no longer minded the blood and the sharing of the last breaths of his victims.
As the man came around the bin, Reaper thrust the knife – in at the curve of the rib cage and upwards. His victim gave a yelp of surprise, dropped the rifle and, for a few moments, stood on tiptoes, his forehead resting on Reaper’s shoulder. A shove to shift balance and the man slid off the blade and fell to the floor with no more noise than the slap of dead meat. Am I getting immune to death? Reaper thought. He hoped so, at least for the foreseeable future.
He went in the open door and closed it behind him. He was in a kitchen, two doors facing him: one into the hotel reception area, the other into the restaurant. Someone shouted from upstairs. ‘Turn that fucking generator off!’
Someone else shouted, from downstairs. ‘Baz! Turn the generator off.’
A voice from the hotel front door: ‘I don’t know how!’
‘Shoot the fucking thing!’
Reaper stepped into the corridor and Baz, a small youth, ran straight onto his knife. He was going so fast that he took it out of his hand, spun around and fell face downwards onto it, driving it further into his body. Baz shuddered; a leg twitched. Reaper took out his handguns. He heard a noise in the restaurant. He went back into the kitchen and took the second door, the guns levelled, safeties off.