On Deadly Ground

by Simon Clark

  I breathed deeply to calm my racing heart. I needed to get out to find Kate. Or torch the bastards alive if they’d harmed her. But I needed to be calm, level-headed. I sat on the floor, my back to the whitewashed wall. Gingerly I conducted a fingertip examination of my scalp where I’d been clubbed.

  It was incredibly tender. Bumps and swelling left my head feeling as lumpy as a mountain range in miniature. But at least the skin hadn’t been broken.

  I looked over the basement again. This time more carefully.

  There was no furniture. In one corner, a plastic bowl half-filled with water. I sniffed it. I’d only drink if I was desperate. Those psychos might have thought it a damned good laugh to add poison or some powerful laxative.

  On the walls were yellow marks where people had urinated. By the steps to the door a perfect hand print had been left on the wall in blood. There were more drops of dried blood spattering the wall. The same kind of effect as flicking a loaded paint brush. Someone had even used the blood to paint a picture.

  It was supposed to be a happy-smiley face but something told me that whoever had painted it hadn’t been smiling. Probably painted in the poor sod’s own blood, too.

  I remembered that as a kid, if I’d been in trouble or was miserable, I’d go and pull faces in the mirror, or make stupid big clown grins. It was an instinctive way of trying to cheer myself up. I guess the blood artist had attempted to do likewise.

  Now I noticed the walls were covered with graffiti.

  I began to read at random. Benjamin Crowley. Beside the name, a series of tally marks: IIII. He’d been counting off the days.

  Four days he’d been kept down here. I wondered what had happened to him on the fifth.

  There were messages, too:

  Name: Dell Okram

  Address: 26 Rudwell Drive

  Highgate.

  Please tell my wife, Sarah, I am alive and well—D. O. July.

  Another hand had added a lunatic postscript:

  Tell Sarah Okram, Highgate Superbitch, that Dell is ALIVE!

  NO LONGER!!!!

  HA! HA! R.I.P

  There were lines of poetry scribbled here and there, all mixed in with Bible verses, lyrics from songs. Some English, some foreign.

  I found myself tracing the words with the tip of my finger. Suddenly I experienced an overwhelming sense of the presence of the people who’d been held captive in here before me. I empathized. Their fear and dread for what the next day or the next hour would bring—it was identical to mine. They, too, would have been lost in that bleak, godawful nightmare that they—we—couldn’t wake up from.

  They’d written on these white-painted walls whatever was important to them. Messages to mothers, fathers, lovers, friends. Some made no obvious sense:

  Dad, it’s true what she said about Moe. They wouldn’t take it from Toni’s. I wish I could show you where it’s hidden.

  Always love, Gina.

  Some made poignant sense:

  If you see Angela Piermont please tell her I love her. And that I’m sorry I left her to cope alone with the baby. Thank you.

  – Luke Grant (Pimlico)

  The surreal:

  Jesus’s fault—they must stop poking me up—i’m going to get dead so the fucking don’t make it bleed no more — i’m going to soon get dead—cos then jesus won’t hurt me no more.

  Some caught your throat:

  Mummy, They put Jilly in the car with the pit-bull. She is screaming so hard I can hear her down here. I’ve got to escape. Tesco says he’s going to cut me longways.

  I’m sorry I was naughty a lot. Kiss little Lee-Anne for me. I’ll try and be good for God.

  I miss you and love you. Lots of kisses from your Lindsay.

  I shook my head. If only I had my rifle I’d take real, real pleasure in shooting the whole lot of the sickoes, so help me I would.

  Again I thought about Kate. What were the bastards doing to her? My imagination shot images through my head. Kate struggling. Her blonde hair messed across her face. I remembered the way the one called Tesco had practised with the hand drill. Boring holes into the post.

  I listened hard. I couldn’t hear any sound from the building. All I could make out was the sound of a dog barking outside. It sounded muffled, far away.

  I looked back at the wall. What had the kid written?

  They put Jilly in the car with the pit-bull…

  I thought of Kate being pushed inside a car with a dog driven mad by hunger. Then those psychos crowding round to watch the battle inside.

  Girl against mad dog.

  I paced the floor of the basement, my feet crackling over the newspapers. The messages on the walls were like pins being jabbed into my skin.

  A voice, insistent—as sharp as a pin itself—said over and over: Do something, Rick. Do something, do something, do something…

  Yes.

  But what?

  I paced the floor. Again and again my attention would be drawn back to the messages on the wall. All those messages that the victims of these sadists had felt compelled to write. And those victims must have known the messages would never reach their intended recipients. They were the equivalent of a deathbed confession, or a final farewell. Already I knew it was important I should write something there. Already I wanted to find a stick or fragment of stone to scratch my own last testament, so keenly did I feel a kinship with those people.

  Desperately I hungered to avenge their deaths.

  As I paced, I felt as if something almost nuclear had began to burn inside me. The rage built up and up. A tremendous pressure that needed venting on at least one of those monsters that had taken Kate and myself to this dump.

  Christ, what had they done to her? Just what in God’s name had they done? If they’d hurt her…if they’d hurt her. I clenched my fists.

  At that moment the door opened at the top of the stairs.

  I stood in the centre of the basement; on that rug of stinking newspaper; with those walls covered in messages written by crying, frightened men, women and children, maybe only moments before being taken outside and—

  —and what?

  Having their heads dipped in petrol then set on fire?

  Being chewed alive by mad pit-bull terriers?

  Hunted for sport?

  Shot in the gut?

  Nailed by the bottom lip to a table?

  I watched Cowboy, still in his cowboy hat and cowboy boots, come down the stairs. He was followed by Tesco, then a beanpole of a guy. All had the silk ribbons hanging down from their legs, arms, belts. They carried rifles.

  Here it comes, Rick.

  You going to go to the slaughter meek ‘n mild?

  Or—

  Tesco was nearest to me. He smiled.

  The scratched message on the wall came into my head as clearly as if it’d been scratched into my brain: Tesco says he’s going to cut me longways.

  A blast of sheer energy erupted inside me.

  This’d get me killed, but Christ, was I going to enjoy it.

  With a snarl I moved like I’d exploded. My fist blurred through the air.

  Tesco’s rat eyes widened in surprise. He tried to lift the rifle, his face turned stupid with shock.

  Something else guided and powered my hand. I gave a huge yell as the energy ripped through, turning my fist into a weapon of destruction.

  Kra-kkk!

  My fist crunched the centre of his face. Tesco grunted, then fell back as if he’d been made from nothing more than paper.

  Chapter 67

  I stood there panting. My fist started to tingle. And I didn’t give a shit. That psycho Tesco lay flat out on his back; his eyes turned slitty; he made choking sounds; blood flowed from his nose; every so often it formed snotty bubbles at his nostrils.

  Cowboy poked him with the rifle. He groaned but didn’t move.

  Beanpole had me covered with his rifle. I froze. That punch had taken everything I had.

  Now they’d kill me.


  Cowboy looked down at Tesco, then back up at me again. There was an expression of amused surprise on his face.

  He pushed the rim of his hat up with the point of his finger.

  ‘Nice one,’ he said in awe. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen Tesco knocked down in one.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Hell’s bells, you made a mess of his nose. Look, the bugger’s flat.’ He looked up at me again. ‘Nice try, but unnecessary.’

  ‘Believe me…’ I tried to catch my breath. ‘It was worth it.’

  ‘Unnecessary,’ Cowboy repeated, ‘because I’d come down to apologize for hitting you on the head.’ He smiled. ‘And to tell you you’re free to go.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘It’s true. OK, Lanky, no need to point the rifle at Mr Kennedy any more.’

  ‘Mr Kennedy?’ I was suspicious. ‘Why the mister?’

  ‘Because we made a mistake. Like I say, you’re free to go. But we’d sure like you to have a meal with us first.’

  The suspicion wouldn’t quit. I was certain it was some trick. All part of the sadists’ games. Take you upstairs, pop a hand grenade down your shirt, run like hell…screamingly funny, huh?

  I asked, ‘What made you change your mind?’

  The man grinned. ‘Let’s say Jesus saved you.’

  ‘Jesus?’

  ‘Jesus.’ Cowboy nodded.

  Still I wouldn’t move. If only I could get that burst of energy back; maybe I could swing at Lanky and grab the rifle.

  Cowboy Man shrugged. ‘You need convincing.’ He turned back towards the stairs. ‘Miss Robinson! Miss Robinson? Would you mind stepping down here?’

  ‘Kate?’ I couldn’t believe my eyes. ‘Kate. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine.’ She came down the stairs smiling. I saw she now wore a silky blouse over a pair of leggings. They looked new, so did the pair of espadrille sandals on her feet.

  ‘Lanky, give me a hand with blubber nose.’ Cowboy Man and the human beanpole bent down, grabbed an arm each and dragged Tesco away.

  Kate looked at me in surprise.

  ‘Yes, Mr Kennedy’s doing.’ Cowboy shook his head in amazement. ‘Some punch, Mr Kennedy, some punch.’

  The pair of them dragged Tesco by the feet upstairs. Every time his head clunked against the concrete steps he groaned.

  ‘Hush now, sleepy head,’ Cowboy said as they dragged him out of sight.

  I looked at Kate in amazement. She looked clean, refreshed, as if she’d just spent the weekend relaxing in the garden.

  I reached out and squeezed her arm. It felt so good to touch her again. To know she was unhurt. I squeezed her arm again. She hugged me.

  ‘You’re OK?’ she asked, her green eyes anxiously searching my face.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I thought they might have killed you.’

  ‘I was certain they’d killed you.’

  ‘Oh, Rick. Give me a hug. Mmm…tighter. Mm, that feels good.’

  ‘Good? It feels great. Hell. You smell great.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll find you some clean clothes.’

  ‘Wait a moment. Kate, what happened?’

  ‘When I made it to the surface after leaving the car I saw them pulling you unconscious into the boat.’

  ‘No. I mean, what made them change their minds about us?’

  ‘Jesus told them to let us go.’

  ‘Jesus? This is a wind-up, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Jesus told Cowboy to let us go.’

  ‘Lunatics.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve spoken to Jesus, too.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Jesus? You’ve actually—’

  ‘Uh-oh. You’ve another visitor, Rick.’

  Tutts cautiously leaned in through the basement door as if shy to intrude. ‘Sorry…uh, I don’t mean to…interrupt or anything.’

  I said under my breath. ‘What have they got up there? A turnstile? Are they letting them in one by one?’

  Kate’s smile broadened. ‘If there’s ever a Rick Kennedy fan club you’re guaranteed at least one member.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’ In a louder voice I called up to Tutts, ‘Come on down.’

  She stepped down, awkward in high heels. She was wearing a short zebra-patterned skirt and a halter-neck top, along with a pearl necklace and long silver earrings. When she got close enough I noticed that from the earrings dangled miniature silver designs of the sole of a foot and the palm of a hand. And close up I was surprised how young she looked.

  ‘She’s gone to a lot of trouble to look nice for you,’ Kate whispered, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  OK, Rick, I told myself, bemused. This is where you wake up on the floor again. It’s a dream, like the Grey Man attacking Kate.

  I told myself that. I even bit my lip so hard it stung. But no, this was reality.

  Tutts really didn’t look as if she knew how to greet me. For a second it looked as if she’d give me a hug and kiss me. But she opted for shaking hands.

  ‘I’m sorry they did that to you,’ she said. ‘Life’s different now. They get crazy. Take stuff, drink stuff, you know?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But you’re all right now. They didn’t hurt your head?’

  ‘Well…it’s still in one piece.’

  ‘I can get you food?’ She smiled. ‘I can make a lovely spaghetti with bolognese sauce. We’ve even got Spanish wine to go with it. That’s right, isn’t it? Spanish? No, Italian, right?’

  Her nervousness made her speak faster. ‘Madonna’s got some Italian wine at her place. I can borrow some from—’

  ‘Tutts, ah, Tutts,’ Kate interrupted. ‘Thanks, but we’ve been invited to have a meal with—’

  ‘Oh, of course, you’re having supper with Jesus.’

  Oh Christ…I mean, oh shit. Jesus? Speak to Jesus? Dine with Jesus? They were all at it now. What next? Hey, let’s go roller blading with Jesus. Last one down Golgotha Hill is a silly sausage.

  ‘Yeah…sure.’ I forced a polite smile. ‘Thanks very much for the offer, Tutts. Love the earrings.’

  ‘Do you really?’ She sounded delighted as well as astounded. ‘I made these in the workshops. It’s the only thing I kept from the old times.’

  ‘They look really nice.’

  There in the basement, with the blood on the walls, and the messages from men, women and children now dead, we actually made small talk. Tutts watched me closely with those close-set eyes of hers. In a weird way she seemed to be trying to see something in my face. As if I was going to send her an ultra-important question via my expression alone, and she desperately didn’t want to miss it.

  At last Kate checked her watch. ‘Sorry, Tutts, we’ll have to go.’

  ‘Oh, right. Sure. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you. But it’s OK, he won’t be mad if you’re late. He’s nice.’ He?

  I knew who the ‘he’ she was referring to was. ‘Jesus?’ I asked.

  Kate took my arm. ‘Jesus is waiting to meet us.’

  Chapter 68

  Jesus stood behind the long table. He broke a piece of bread from a loaf. After that, he filled two glasses with red wine from a jug. Then he offered Kate and me the wine, together with a piece of bread.

  Jesus said: ‘Please. Kate, Rick. Sit down.’

  Jesus had a Liverpudlian accent.

  Kate and I sat down. We were in a hotel restaurant. There were no other diners. The tables all had crisp white tablecloths, wine glasses with a single white rose as centre pieces. The cutlery shone in the light slanting in through the windows that stretched the full length of one wall. Outside a pleasant street, lined with Victorian town houses and chestnut trees, ran downhill. Two hundred metres away the street ended in the new Lake of London, leaving only rooftops and the skeleton tops of drowned trees to march away along the line of the submerged road. A church tower rose up from the waters half a kilometre away, its clock frozen at ten to two.

  First, we’d been presented with glasse
s of cold beer in the hotel lounge bar. Then we moved through into the restaurant where we were served massive pepperoni and bacon pizzas by the man who looked like a human beanpole.

  Jesus actually did look like Jesus. Well, at least the Hollywood portrayals. Aged around thirty, he wore the same bumfluff beard and long hair. His eyes were blue and he even affected the gestures, moving his hands out at either side as if embracing us as he spoke. Jesus wore a black leather waistcoat and black trousers. Perhaps the major flaw in the impersonation, apart from the clothes, were the letters tattooed across his knuckles. They spelt out ‘Gary Topp’. His real name, I guess.

  We talked. Jesus repeatedly apologized about what had happened to Kate and me at the hands of his gang. He particularly wanted to hear the story of my attempted escape in the Rolls-Royce.

  ‘And the car didn’t fill up with water straight away?’ he asked in that soft Liverpudlian accent that could have come straight from John Lennon’s mouth.

  ‘No. Rolls-Royce make—made solid cars.’

  ‘They’re not meant to be submarines, though?’

  ‘No.’

  He asked again what we’d seen underwater. He was fascinated by the image of the streets and buildings lying on the bottom of the lake.

  ‘Shame about Mental,’ Jesus sighed. ‘We knew he couldn’t swim. He was terrified of water. Always sat on the floor in the middle of the boat.’

  ‘He just jumped onto the car bonnet.’

  Jesus shrugged. ‘Don’t blame yourselves. He was beginning to become a loose cannon anyway. He’d molested some of our girls. Oh, yes, he always apologized. In fact, he’d cry his eyes out, he was so full of remorse, but…’ Jesus shrugged again. ‘Come on, come on, eat up. Good?’

  ‘Marvellous.’ Kate picked up a triangle of pizza in both hands and ate hungrily.

  ‘Great pizza,’ I added. ‘Bread, too. We haven’t tasted bread in months.’

  ‘No yeast?’

  ‘No ovens. We’ve spent the summer in tents.’