by Kane, Paul
‘Sorry mate, but my need is greater than yours.’
Dean entered the next corridor, finding the way much easier now that he had a light source. There, at the end, was another window – this time there was no glass, but there was wire mesh that had obviously been placed there at some point for security purposes. Only someone had busted through it in the middle, and it was relatively easy for Dean to open up the leftover spokes to climb through.
No sooner had he started to do so than something pinged off the side of the building to his right. Another ricochet followed, definitely a bullet, but closer – aimed at the fire in his hand. Dean tossed that away outside, but also dropped the bottle, which smashed completely; so much for the weapon. Then he saw another spark from the end of a rifle, fired by one of the men that had set off after him. Dean scrambled backwards, leaving the lit wood behind. Really stupid; the flame had provided light, but also made him an easy target.
The man was there in seconds (alone, so perhaps they’d split up?) but by this time Dean had retreated and was on the inner side of the window again. He pressed himself up against the wall, observing as the bloke – he could now see it was Crouch – approached the fire on the ground and looked around, looking for Dean. Then the barrel of the gun was poking inside, a torch beam following, flashing around the room; Dean tried to control his breathing, not give himself away. There was a noise from outside and Crouch pulled the gun back to check it out. Dean let go of the breath he was holding, risked a glance through the window again.
Crouch was gazing in the opposite direction, waving the torch around out there – figuring that Dean must have run off. Dean’s eyes caught sight of those grenades again, then flitted to the wire on the window, and he grinned. He had an idea…
Have to do this quickly, he told himself – working hard. Working one of the loose wires free and bending the end of it into a hook. It would be just like those duck games; the ones at travelling fairs when he was a kid. When he wasn’t pinching people’s wallets, or on the slot machines, he really enjoyed this particular game. Could always snag those ducks… Snag this one now, he thought to himself, and you’ll win something even better than a cuddly toy.
The wire was out and stretching towards Crouch – at one point when the man moved forwards, Dean didn’t think it would reach. But then Crouch stepped back and it was on again: just a little further, a little closer. Dean stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth and—
There, done: the hook was in, curled around one of the grenade pins. In the end Dean didn’t even have to pull, because Crouch whirled around, maybe sensing someone was behind him – too late, of course. Dean only just had time to duck down under the window as a volley of bullets struck the wall.
Moments later there was a bang and, even as shielded as he was, Dean was jolted into the centre of the room by the blast. He waved his hand to clear the smoke, coughing – grateful for the fact he’d been thrown clear when he saw the mess the explosion had made of the wall: the rubble and the hole. But that was nothing compared to the mess it had made of Crouch.
Dean rose, stepping over the remains of limbs – the ground covered in blood. Bile started to rise in his throat, but he didn’t have time for that. Even if they’d split up – and he didn’t know that for a fact – they would have seen or heard the explosion. Time he wasn’t here… There was nothing useful in the detritus that he could see, so Dean staggered across the open space in front of him, letting out a silent thank you when he reached the relative safety of another building.
* * *
The place was like a labyrinth.
He’d never realised that this part of the city was so fucked up; it was like another dimension, another world. Like something out of a twisted horror movie. As he slipped between buildings and through them, he felt further and further away from his goal, from getting to the outskirts of Graffitiland. Plus he felt as if eyes were on him: the forgotten inhabitants of this world, or maybe the pictures themselves monitoring his progress? Still, he was doing pretty well to avoid his other two pursuers. And he was one down…
As time ticked on, he began to think again about maybe bedding down somewhere – hiding until the threat had past. Hoping that they wouldn’t find him first. There was an old battered husk of a car nearby, its tyres slashed – and even that had been covered in graffiti (across the side was the lovely phrase ‘Skream For Me!’). It occurred to him that if you stood here long enough, then you were fair game for the artists; either that or it just happened organically. But it would probably make a decent hiding place, for now at any rate – because Dean was also getting tired. No sleep and a trek through this place, on top of coming down from an adrenalin rush…
So he’d clambered inside, slumped across the backseat. Eyes heavy, he’d almost dropped off – when there came a rustling from outside. Dean levered himself up, looking out through the dirty windscreen which was doing a decent job of concealing his presence. There, not far away and cradling his machine gun in front of him like a baby, was Haggard. They’d definitely split up, Dean thought to himself.
He would have let him just go past, wander off and continue searching – if the man hadn’t paused, looked around, and spotted the car. Decided to head towards it to search the thing. Dean scrambled over into the front seat, thinking fast – if not exactly thinking on his feet, thinking on his belly. He risked another look up through the windscreen; Haggard was approaching, gun raised just in case.
Dean reached under the steering wheel, thankful that this was an old model – and hoping that there was still a little spark left in the battery. He waited, waited… If this didn’t work, then he was well and truly screwed. Wait…wait…
Touching two wires together, he created a different kind of spark – the engine rumbling into life. Haggard was reacting, training his rifle on the car and readying to fire. Dean flicked on the headlamps, knowing that – again – if they were dead, he wouldn’t be far behind them.
Light filled the area in front of the old banger; full beam, right in the eyes. Haggard brought one hand up to his face, to shield them – his other raised the gun upwards and sprayed the air above with bullets. By the time he brought it back down again, Dean had exited the vehicle. Bullets peppered it, taking out one of the headlamps but leaving enough light for Dean to see Haggard and run at him, pitching the man sideways. Recovering enough to defend himself, the still blinded Haggard hefted his rifle like a staff now – bringing it up and into Dean’s face, causing him to step back; to spit more blood out of the corner of his mouth. Then Haggard swung out with the weapon, turning it into a club, but missed his target completely.
‘Fucker!’ shouted the large man, blinking and swiping the air in front of him with the rifle once more. Dean looked about him frantically for something to use against Haggard, finally settling on half a brick not far away from his foot. Dodging a final swing of the rifle butt, Dean slammed the masonry hard into Haggard’s temple. His blind eyes rolled up into his head and he dropped his weapon. A couple more blows finished him off and Dean stood back from the felled man, breathing in and out quickly.
‘There! What d’you think about that, eh? Eh?’ The only response was the man’s right foot twitching spasmodically in the throes of death. Dean stared at the corpse, blinked a couple of times. Wasn’t like Crouch this time – that man had practically killed himself. And it wasn’t the first time Dean’d had to kill in his line of work, but that didn’t mean it happened often – or that he enjoyed it, as some on Danny Fellows’ payroll clearly did. Hadn’t had to do it for a long time, either, but Haggard had left him very little choice.
Haggard had also left him a gun. Dean reached down and picked up the firearm, pointing it and pulling the trigger to test it.
Click!
Nothing happened. Maybe it was out of ammo, so he checked Haggard’s body for magazines, but couldn’t find any. Perhaps it wasn’t out; perhaps it was just broken. Dean really didn’t know the first thing about machine gun
s anyway. Now, if it had been a good old-fashioned sawn-off…point and fire. Simple.
It was as he was examining the weapon that he felt something prod the back of his head; the barrel of another gun. So much for knowing what was around you, for thinking a step ahead. Somebody had crept up on him and was about to blow his brains out. Probably all that shouting, Haggard’s shooting. Didn’t matter now. Didn’t matter.
‘So, there you are, pretty boy,’ said the man in a Geordie accent. ‘Finally. Led us a bit of a merry dance, haven’t you?’
‘Just…just get on with it, Milburn,’ said Dean. ‘Do it if you’re going to.’
There was silence for a moment, before the man said: ‘Now where’s the fun in that?’
Why was Milburn toying with him? He had no idea how close this guy had been with Crouch or Haggard, so maybe that was the reason? Make him suffer before ending it?
‘Drop the rifle and turn around,’ ordered Milburn. Dean was reluctant at first, until the man shouted: ‘I said turn around!’
Dean did as he was told, faced him; faced the pistol pointing at his head.
‘Now then, we can talk sensibly,’ said Milburn, his voice changing – softening. ‘If I lower this, I need to know you’re not just going to attack me. Kill me.’
‘Wha…’ Dean’s brow was furrowing.
‘After all, I could have just offed you here and now. So, we good?’ A nod, though the frown remained. Milburn’s gun started to drop. ‘Okay… You want out – you’re almost there. Just through that alleyway, and beyond that the plaza, then you’re on the edge of Pleasant Moor estate.’ From what Dean knew of that place, he might well be jumping from the frying pan into the fire, but he should at least be able to find a phone box.
‘You’re…you’re just letting me go?’
Milburn nodded now.
‘Why?’
‘Does it matter?’
It wasn’t a guilty conscience, people who worked for Danny Fellows didn’t suffer from those. Revenge for something? No. Then it had to be…
‘Can I smell bacon?’ said Dean, but Milburn didn’t answer. If he was right then it meant that Dean wasn’t the only one up to things behind Danny’s back. That he really wasn’t that good a judge of character; that this man was sticking his neck out, even though it meant potentially giving himself away. Milburn turned the gun around, handed it to Dean.
‘You just point and fire. Easier than one of those things anyway,’ he told him, gesturing towards the machine gun on the floor. ‘Less to go wrong.’
‘If…if you are what I think you are, you’ll be in just as much shit as me soon.’
‘So… point that thing and fire,’ said Milburn, tapping his own shoulder. ‘Make it look good, but not too fucking good.’ When Dean frowned again, he added: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be found. And the chicks dig scars.’
Dean, once again, did as he was told – pointed and shot Milburn in the shoulder with a BLAM! He went down, grimacing. ‘Are you…?’
‘Go!’ snapped Milburn through gritted teeth. ‘Get the fuck out of here – hurry!’
He didn’t need telling twice. Dean headed off for the alleyway – almost there, the end in sight, and all three of Danny Fellows’ men down. Home free, then he and Vicky could get the hell out of Dodge.
Dean paused at the head of the alley then looked left and right. All seemed quiet, the plaza surrounded by more buildings decorated in the customary way here. One mural in particular caught his eye, this one on the plaza floor itself: angels with wings battling demons amongst the clouds. The eternal struggle of good vs evil; to be honest he wasn’t sure anymore which side he was on.
‘Right,’ he said to himself. Not far now, but a risk, a gamble – it was awfully exposed. He ran, sprinting as best he could across the concrete square. Before he knew it, he was nearly halfway. Dean began to laugh. He’d beaten bloody Danny Fellows, shown what—
The shot came out of nowhere, Dean didn’t even hear it this time. But suddenly his left leg was out from under him. His thigh was pouring blood, leaking all over the plaza; all over the demons. Dean heard footsteps from off to the side, looked up and saw Roberts holding a pistol with a silencer on the end.
He’d assumed, wrongly, that he was just dealing with the three men – probably because Danny had called them the hunters. Should have known the bastard wouldn’t play it fair. Roberts said nothing as he approached, gun still raised and pointed at him. Dean kept his hand underneath him, his own gun hidden until the last moment – then he raised himself up and fired. Bullet after bullet. Roberts’ body danced, like a puppet being worked by a lunatic master, before dropping…
And Dean clicked on empty.
Breathing hard again, he started to inch forwards – leaving a trail of redness behind him. He had to reach the other end of the plaza, before Mr Waterhouse showed up or something else stopped him. He was aware again of eyes on him, looking out from the derelict buildings of Graffitiland. As he crawled he came across an angel’s face, and – though he had never been the religious sort – he prayed then. Prayed he might make it out of here, have a chance to redeem himself. If he went now he’d just end up with the demons, burning in Hell for all eternity.
Crawling, crawling. Almost there, almost at the edge of the plaza – in fact he could see the outskirts of Pleasant Moor now, just waiting for him like a mirage in the distance. He made it past the concrete bollards, to the curb of a road just beyond it that marked the very edge of the ‘land’ he’d made it across. Dean was laughing again, hysterically this time.
Then he stopped when he saw the car parked up not far away. When he saw Danny Fellows leaning against it. Danny pushed himself off and walked round to the boot, popping it and taking something out which he held behind his back. Then he walked over to Dean. Of Mr Waterhouse there was no sign.
‘Shame about Roberts. I suppose I’ll have to drive myself fucking back now,’ he moaned. ‘I have to say, you’re no Van Damme… But you did all right, kid. I’m impressed.’ He could see Dean was looking beyond him, looking for the other man he’d brought – the final man. ‘Oh, you’re wondering where Mr Waterhouse is? He’s already begun the clean-up operation with his own team. You see, he has many skills, Mr Waterhouse. Torturer, fixer… I’m not sure what I’d do without him, if I’m honest. By the time he’s finished it will be like we were never here at all – he’ll even sort that bullet wound of yours, good as new.’ Danny suddenly looked up at the sky, which was still quite dark – but showing the first gradual signs of lightening. ‘Shame you didn’t make it to morning.’
‘I…I made it across… across Graff…Graffiti…’
‘Graffitiland. Yes, yes you did. Which means, I suppose, that I should make good on my promise. And I will, Mr Ashby; I won’t let you down.’ He brought the object he had hidden behind his back around to the front.
It was a can of petrol.
‘What…what are you…’ Dean spluttered, as the can was upturned and he was doused in the stuff. The stink of it on his clothes, his skin, up his nose.
Danny said nothing, just took something out of his coat pocket to show him. It was small and black and he flicked the side; Dean squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them when he heard a beep. The black box had a small screen on it, with a red flashing light. ‘I suppose you’re wondering how we found you, how we always knew where you were? Tracker…on the necklace.’ He smirked. ‘The one you couldn’t leave behind. Hers.’ Dean reached into his pocket, took out the piece of jewellery and gaped at it.
Danny’s cheating… Danny didn’t play fair; always several steps ahead.
‘Not that I’m into all that techno stuff myself. Prefer to keep things simple.’ He put away the monitor and took out a box of matches.
‘No… wait…you… you said… said you’d let me go… Said—’
‘I never said I’d let you go. I said you could be with Victoria, that you could be together, and you could have your money. That still stands.’ He bent, pract
ically shoving his face into Dean’s. ‘It’s like you said yourself, nobody likes being a patsy. Game’s over.’
Then he stood, took out one of the tiny pieces of wood and struck the head with his thumbnail (yet another spark). Before Dean could say anymore, he’d tossed it at him. The thing flew in slow motion, over and over, and his eyes trailed it. Until he’d…
Finally met his match.
It hit his leg and caught almost immediately, spreading up him, washing over Dean and foiling his attempts to pat it out with his free hand – playing with fire…
The heat reached upwards, tearing into his torso, getting to the core of him. Darkest before the dawn? Not here, not now – and the burning hot liquid stuck his clothes to his flesh, which was bubbling away on his bones; finally he was smoking again. The fires of Hell couldn’t even approach this, he thought in his last moments.
Aching… burning for her… (even as he clutched the necklace tight).
Screaming…‘Skream For Me!’
Then his mind, for some reason, recalled yet another part of Graffitiland, something he’d seen even before he’d begun running:
‘Sweet Dreamz’ it said…
‘Sweet Dreamz’.
* * *
‘I’ve eaten better looking kebabs on the way home from a bender.’
DS Chris Burton, tactful as ever, stood looking at the mess the accident had made of those two bodies. DI Erica Wright sighed. There was no one she cared about, nobody she trusted more, but sometimes Chris could be a proper knob. He’d be cracking jokes about ‘the burning issue’ any minute now… They were at the stretch of road leading out of the city that was notorious for crashes, a black spot the locals called ‘The Death Trap’ – and it looked like this couple had taken the bend at speed. The car hadn’t been spotted for a good few hours – not many people braved this route for obvious reasons – and by then the fire had all but burned itself out. Now it was just a blackened husk, the people who’d been inside it crispy to say the least.