Nightmare City

by Nick Oldham

  Donaldson was vaguely aware of a scream from Francesca and the sound of a scuffle behind him and a rasping male voice, shouting.

  Donaldson’s attacker launched a big kick towards his exposed groin. He grabbed the foot just centimetres before it connected with his balls and clung desperately onto it whilst the man tried to shake him free, and pounded him repeatedly in the side with the chain. Fleetingly, Donaldson saw the traffic passing below, under the bridge. It was a long way down.

  Donaldson bit into the big man’s leg, right on the calf muscle at the back of the shin. He sunk his teeth in as hard and nastily as he could, trying to bite through the oil-tasting denim, knowing he couldn’t, but trying anyway.

  Bites work well in fights.

  The man let out an agonised roar. With a superhuman effort he yanked his leg out of Donaldson’s grip and teetered backwards, holding the bitten area.

  Donaldson was up onto all fours, shaking his head. His toes sought grip on the slippery wet metal surface and he tried to launch himself at the man. He didn’t connect as hard and accurately as he would have liked, but when his left shoulder rammed into the man’s lower belly, it forced all the wind out of him with a rushing groan. He pushed him off-balance. The man toppled over and landed on his back with Donaldson about to dive onto him.

  Still with the chain in his hand, he swung it wildly at Donaldson, who ducked properly this time, feeling the whoosh of air as it sailed past his head. The man whipped it back in the opposite direction so quickly that this time he caught the side of Donaldson’s face, knocking him from his position of advantage, sending him sprawling against the railings again.

  Donaldson was on his feet first, recovering well, despite feeling that his jaw had been broken by the impact of the chain across it. He hit the man hard, determined to finish it. Twice in the face, Donaldson’s fists bunched hard like iron blocks, right-handed, two blows to the side of the jaw. The impact of each jarred his knuckles, but it did the job. The big man, who was only halfway up to his feet, dissolved like a jelly.

  Donaldson spun round, concerned for Francesca.

  He was too late. The second man had her pinned up against the railings, a hand clamped around her throat, trying to push her over. She struggled, twisting, fighting and clawing like a cat, but the man was too strong. With one last great shove, she went over the railings; her legs came up, she screamed, then was gone into the void.

  ‘Nooo!’ howled Donaldson, racing towards the second assailant, who simply turned and ran across the bridge into the rain and the darkness of night.

  There was a screech of brakes below, a dull thudding noise, then the metallic crunch as cars collided. Donaldson stopped and looked over the railings. It was hard to make anything out properly. There was confusion on the road. He could just about see the figure of Francesca underneath the wheels of a car. A hand stuck out, seeming to be reaching for something. Then it stopped moving.

  Donaldson’s jaw was not broken, although it had swollen to twice its normal size and was as hard as iron. A nasty-looking, raised red-raw wheal ran from his right eye down across his chin with indentations in it, into which the chain could have been fitted perfectly. It looked as if someone had driven some sort of wheeled kitchen implement across his face. His eye was swollen and black too.

  The painkillers prescribed by the doctor at the hospital were not working. He didn’t want them to work. He wanted to feel pain ... because he was that way inclined at the moment.

  He was listening to Detective George Santana who was talking about the attacker in custody. Donaldson was not liking what he was hearing.

  ‘Romero is a well known tough-nut. Convictions for robbery and violence. He works as a team with another no-good local criminal. We are looking for that man now. It looks like robbery was the motive, and it went wrong. They have robbed tourists before.’

  ‘So what you’re goddam trying to tell me is this incident has no connection with Sam Dawber’s death. It was purely coincidental, am I right?’

  Santana shrugged. ‘What is the connection?’ he said evenly. ‘You tell me what it is and I’ll believe you and investigate it.’

  ‘Francesca was going to give me information about Sam’s death. She’d already told me Sam had been murdered. We were going to my room so she could tell me everything she knew. There’s just too much of a coincidence, George.’ Donaldson counted on his fingers. ‘Sam writing Hamilton’s name down; my visit to the timeshare, his reaction to me; Francesca turning up to see me and then those bastards waiting for us on the bridge. It don’t take a genius to see it all, so go on, George, you tell me there’s no connection,’ he concluded, challenging Santana.

  Santana nodded and conceded. ‘You are probably correct. But it is very circumstantial, even with the best intention in the world.’

  Donaldson breathed a sigh of relief. Ally-fuckin’-looya, he thought.

  ‘However,’ cautioned Santana, ‘unless Romero tells us something, there will be a problem making a connection.’

  ‘What has he said so far?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. He’s an old hand. We may never crack him.’

  ‘Fuck,’ uttered Donaldson. He was completely deflated, frustrated and pissed off. It was the powerlessness, the lack of control that was really irritating him. Being in a foreign country made it all a million times worse. Everyone else spoke a language he could just about say ‘Hello’ in, and their police force seemed either unable or unwilling to run with the ball. God, he wanted to scream. Unfortunately he could not open his mouth wide enough to do so. He would probably be on liquids for a week until the swelling went down.

  ‘OK George, I know you ain’t impressed by my gut feelings about this, but I ask you, implore you, to keep an open mind about it. Keep your ear to the ground - don’t just forget it once me and Sam get on board that silver bird tomorrow. I’m sure Sam was onto something and it obviously involved Hamilton. And if you do find anything out, let me know soonest . . . and really give that Romero some pain.’

  Santana nodded. He laid a hand on Donaldson’s shoulder. ‘I will, my friend. Trust me.’

  Yeah, thought the American. What you’re really sayin’ is, ‘Get off my island and leave me in peace, you Yankee busybody.’ Once I’ve gone, you won’t give me a second thought, will you - and whoever killed Sam’ll get away with it.

  A jolt of pain leapt through his jaw. He cupped his face gently in his hands and his thoughts turned to Francesca. The words he’d said to her stuck in his craw and tried to choke him.

  You can trust me.

  Liar.

  ‘Right, people,’ said Henry, addressing the small team of officers who were dealing with the Dundaven enquiry. It was 10.30 p.m. They were all raring to race off for a drink; Henry was ready to go home and sink into bed, but not before he’d said one or two things.

  ‘First of all, well done re today’s work. We’ve started making some inroads into this man Dundaven and I’m sure that if we stick at it, we’ll turn up some real dirt and it’ll snowball ... if you see what I mean. But there’s still a lot of questions need answering. What was he really doing in Blackpool? What were his intentions if he hadn’t got pulled? What was he going to do with the guns? Where have they come from, where are they going to? Who is the bastard answerable to? In other words, who is his boss?

  ‘From tomorrow I think the important thing is to get the prosecution papers sorted out, get the file right, ensure there’s no loopholes anywhere. In that respect each of you review the file critically and then get me, then CPS to do the same. Let’s make it watertight.’

  There was a general nod and murmur of consensus.

  Henry saw the female detective, Siobhan Robson from NWOCS at the back of the room listening. She had a smile playing nicely on her lips. Henry acknowledged her with a quick nod.

  ‘At the moment, Nina is alive and making some progress, but still critical. They’ve operated on her again today and she was in surgery for four hours. The doctors say it
was a success, but there’s more to come. She’s young, strong and brave and there’s every chance she’ll pull through.’ One or two of the detectives showed by their faces they were relieved to hear the news. ‘So, tomorrow, first thing, we’ll charge him with Attempted Murder on her ... but if she doesn’t pull through, we’ll simply amend it to Murder. He’s been charged with McCrory’s murder already.

  ‘We need to start rooting around into McCrory’s background too, which might be easier than Dundaven’s. So far we’ve only found his mum, bless her soul. She thought he was an angel.’

  ‘He is now,’ chirped one voice. There was a titter of laughter.

  Henry smiled too. ‘Let’s find out about his connection with Dundaven. That could maybe open some chinks. . . So what I’m saying is there’s a bloody long way to go with this yet. This is just the start, OK? Right, thanks again, everybody. See you all in the morning ... unless there’s any questions?’

  ‘How’s Guy the gorilla?’

  ‘Doc says he’s doin’ just fine.’

  They had all been standing around the office. They shuffled slowly out past the figure of Siobhan Robson, who looked at Henry, gave him another smile, then left herself.

  Henry watched her go with interest. She was very, very nice indeed ... but he was above those sorts of thoughts. He sat down heavily.

  Whatever happens, mass murder, terrorist attack, suicide bombing, I will not be coming into work one single minute before nine tomorrow, he thought. Wild horses won’t even be able to drag me out of my pit before 8.15.

  He’d thrown his pager into a drawer and was thinking of the delights of his duvet when one of the DCs who had been working on the murder of Marie Cullen came into the office.

  Her name was Lucy Crane. ‘Hi, Luce.’

  ‘Boss,’ she said, chewing gum. She was a no-nonsense detective with an air of toughness about her which belied her five-and-a-half foot frame. She was also a lesbian. ‘Summat pretty interestin’,’ she said in her broad Lancs accent. ‘Could be summat, could be nowt.’

  She threw a piece of paper down in front of him with a name scrawled across it.

  ‘Locked up one year ago for kerb crawlin’ in Blackburn. The prostitute who was showing her fanny for him was Marie Cullen, arrested at the same time.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Henry. He reread the name just to make sure he hadn’t misread it. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate. ‘Any up-to-date connection between the two?’

  ‘Haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Keep it that way for the time being.’

  ‘Reet, boss.’ She was unfazed but she’d had longer to get used to the idea than Henry, who now found he wanted a drink.

  ‘C’mon, let me buy you a pint,’ he said. Kate and his bed would have to wait just a little while longer.

  Chapter Ten

  Doctors are supposed to have a sensitive touch, but the consultant who, at ten o’clock the next morning, was probing along John Rider’s ribcage with fingertips like pieces of dowling must have been the exception that proved the rule. Rider flinched each time he was touched.

  After the ribs the doctor moved to the skull, handling it like a rugby ball. Equally roughly he pulled up Rider’s eyelids one at a time with his thumb and shone a penlight torch into his pupils. Then he listened to Rider’s heart and lungs by planting a stethoscope on his chest which felt like it had been left in a freezer. The doctor made a few muttered comments about giving up smoking and drinking or death would not be far away. After this he tested Rider’s blood pressure - which was extremely high - with a tourniquet so tight Rider thought his arm might drop off.

  The consultant stood up and sniffed haughtily. A nurse handed him a set of X-rays which he held up to the light and inspected. He hummed, muttered to himself and handed them back to her.

  Then he regarded Rider over the frame of his pince-nez which were balanced precariously on the tip of his bulbous, pitted nose.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Like shit,’ said Rider honestly.

  ‘Only to be expected. You had a rather severe beating, but although you’re black and blue, it doesn’t seem to have done any permanent damage. Two of your ribs are broken, but they’ll heal in their own good time. Your spine is bruised, but will improve once you get mobile. And, of course, the cheekbone under your left eye is fractured. The rest is superficial bruising. Your skull is OK. The reason you were kept in was because you passed out. Basically, you’re fine. The most dangerous thing for you at the moment is your blood pressure and the state of your lungs. Give up smoking, Mr Rider. It kills, especially at the rate you smoke.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Rider sulked like a schoolboy.

  ‘You don’t wish to make a complaint to the police, I hear.’

  ‘No. Wouldn’t be any use. They had balaclavas on.’

  ‘Your decision,’ said the consultant. ‘But you really must cut back on the fags - that’s my medical advice to you.’

  Rider nodded.

  ‘You are now discharged from hospital.’

  Isa and Jacko collected the invalid twenty minutes later and helped him down the corridor to the car park where the Jag was waiting. Rider rolled painfully into the back seat and Jacko drove him back to the basement flat. Throughout the journey Isa leaned back over the front seat and looked with concern at Rider who winced with every bump they hit.

  Between winces, he glared back at her accusingly.

  ‘You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you,’ she said bluntly. ‘I can see it in your face.’

  ‘Depends on your definition of stupid.’

  ‘My definition? OK - my definition of stupid is someone who can’t control his emotions, someone who has done well for himself and dragged himself out of the gutter of violence, but then steps back into it at the first opportunity because he wants revenge. That’s my definition of stupid - an idiot who wants revenge because that’s all he understands. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Get revenge.’

  He said nothing with his voice, but his expression said yes.

  She closed her eyes in despair and held back the tears because she didn’t want him to see her cry.

  ‘Please don’t do it, John,’ she appealed quietly. ‘There won’t be any winners from it.’

  ‘Isa,’ he began with a dangerous tone, ‘those two guys nearly fucking killed me. All they needed to do was say to me, “Don’t get involved”, that’s all. I didn’t actually need telling, truth be known. I wasn’t going to get into some fucking gang war that has nothing whatsoever to do with me. But they went well OTT. They were fucking out of order. There’s no way I’m gonna let this pass. No way. Jacko - turn in here.’

  ‘Eh? The zoo, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, the fucking zoo I mean, you moron,’ he growled.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Will you just do what you’re fucking told to do! I want to see if that gorilla’s OK - all right?’

  ‘Anything you say.’ Jacko slowed the car and headed up the driveway to the zoo. ‘Barmy if you ask me,’ he mumbled.

  Despite the agony attached with movement, Rider leaned forwards between the seats. His mouth was only inches away from Jacko’s ear. ‘If you ever call me barmy again, Jacko, I’ll fucking kill you. D’you understand?’ he rasped hoarsely.

  Isa stared at him, completely dumbstruck.

  Jacko’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t dare look at Rider. As a barman, the same threat had often been uttered to him by drunken, violent customers, but it had meant nothing. Rider’s words, however, shook him to the core. He was very frightened of the man who was now his boss.

  Rider gave Isa a warning glance and leaned back in the leather seats. His face bore the beginning of a sneer. His top lip quivered. His eyes seemed to change to deadly, emotionless orbs. There was a cruel, determined look on his battered features. A look that Isa hadn’t seen for ten years, o
ne she had never wanted to see again, one which meant deadly trouble.

  He had metamorphosised before her eyes. He had reverted to type.

  Rider looked out of the car window, his nostrils flaring angrily. He was aware of the change, too. Like a monster had been reawakened inside him; or some dreadful death-bearing virus, perhaps. Part of him wanted to fight and neutralise it, to destroy it for ever, but it was growing with every second, becoming an unbeatable force, taking over his whole being and personality, driving him on.

  A force that meant he would extract revenge.

  The worst thing about it was that he was quite enjoying the sensation. Rather like injecting a controlled drug. Something he knew he shouldn’t do, but once it was done and the euphoric sensation was creeping through his veins, it was great. Like he’d been asleep for ten years and had now risen from the ashes.

  Those bastards didn’t know what they’d unleashed.

  He saw the tears forming in Isa’s eyes. Ignored them.

  But before he went over the edge, there was one last good thing he wanted to do.

  About twenty minutes after seeing John Rider, the consultant visited another of his patients on the morning round. The name of the patient was Shane Mulcahy and two days before, the consultant had been forced to remove a severely damaged left testicle.

  Throughout Shane’s short stay in hospital, the only period he had been quiet and pleasant was when he’d been under general anaesthetic. Otherwise he had proved himself to be the stereotypical lout, minus the lager. Nothing was good enough for him. The food was ‘shite’. He would have preferred beef burgers and chips all the time. He was rude to the nurses, whom he called ‘tarts’, to the doctors, of whom he was slightly afraid, and his fellow patients, who he thought were all silly old bastards.