Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  ‘Gun club my arse!’ he snarled. ‘I heard you were snooping around Tehidy asking questions.’ The man pulled out a machete. ‘I think I should teach you a lesson.’

  Guthrie reached for his gun.

  In a flash, Lucifer had pulled Guthrie to the ground. The steel blade of the machete hovered only millimetres from his face. The man was strong. Elbowing Guthrie hard in the ribs.

  ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ Lucifer yelled.

  Smack! The back of the machete struck Guthrie’s nose. Blood spurted out onto the dry, lumpy earth.

  Lucifer made a sudden grab for the gun.

  As Guthrie battled to keep him away from the gun, he failed to notice the machete was still in his other hand.

  ‘Ahh!’ Guthrie had been cut in the arm.

  Lucifer made another attempt to seize the gun.

  Drenched in his own blood, Guthrie bit hard into his assailant’s balding head.

  ‘You bastard!’ Lucifer roared, as they wrestled like savages. Their teeth barred like rabid dogs.

  The man made another surge towards him with the machete. Guthrie grabbed at the nearest object, a golf club. He wacked Lucifer hard, knocking his legs from under him.

  Waiting for a further onslaught, Guthrie was surprised when Lucifer failed to move. Perhaps it was a ploy, feigning to be unconscious. But, when he saw the blood oozing down into the earth, the truth hit him full on. Lucifer had fallen onto his own machete. It was an accident.

  Ripping the shirt off the corpse, he used the material to bandage his own bleeding arm, and then proceeded to search the man’s trouser pockets.

  All he found was a wallet, a passport and around £50.

  The passport showed that Lucifer’s real name was William Martin Jackson, DOB 22.8.1957. The passport had been stamped only once — Belgium.

  Guthrie could not phone the police and incriminate himself, but the corpse was at least 143 kilos, too big to bury on site. There was only one option, and that was to chop up the body.

  Reaching inside his shirt for his crucifix, Guthrie kissed it, and then made the sign of the cross.

  'Our Father in heaven,’ he prayed over the body. ‘Forgive us our sins. Jesus Christ, forgive me my sins. Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, William Martin Jackson and me, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.’

  Kissing his crucifix, he made the sign of the cross over the corpse. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, forgive him his sins and let him rest in everlasting peace. Amen.’

  Opening up the remaining sheds, he found an axe, a pair of pliers and a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves. In the last shed he discovered a roll of giant, black plastic sacks and a tarpaulin.

  Making an apron out of a plastic sack, he put on the rubber gloves. Carefully laying out the tarpaulin, he pulled the heavy corpse onto it. Luckily his nose had stopped bleeding. As for his arm, although the bandage was soaked, the blood had clotted.

  Raising the axe above his head with both arms, he brought it back down with a mighty thrust. The blood gushed out onto the tarpaulin as the torso split in two.

  The head had come off easily, they usually did. The neck, even on a body builder, was one of the smallest parts of the upper torso.

  CHOP. The blood spurted and then died. The arm had come off the socket - CHOP and now the other arm. Legs, thick, muscular, which meant he would now have to saw and chop, so difficult slicing through bone. There were so many sinews, and muscles.

  ‘Whoever fights monsters,’ Nietzsche’s words suddenly came to mind. ‘... should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.’ But Guthrie knew, that for him, the warning was already too late.

  Using pliers, he proceeded to remove the penis, testicles, eyes, fingers and toes. Although he was not squeamish he found it exhausting, and by the time he had removed the tongue and teeth he was near collapse.

  Sitting down on top of a stray boulder he glanced down at the mess he had made, wondering what on earth he was going to do with it all. It was then he spotted a van hidden behind some trees. Perhaps it belonged to his victim.

  Chopping up the rest of the body as finely as possible, he threw the deposits into a wheelbarrow. The jelly and fluids leaking everywhere.

  Once the wheelbarrow was filled, he tipped the contents into five plastic sacks, and then dug up the earth to cover any remaining traces of blood and guts.

  Perhaps it would have been easier if he had been killed instead, he thought. At least with physical torture there was an end in sight. As he had told the prison shrink after Stella’s funeral, ‘My brain is still safely floating in the CSF waters. But it’s my mind that has drowned.’

  In a garage forecourt overlooking the ocean near Portreath, Guthrie sat in the van toying with the idea of dropping the sacks over Hells Mouth, the spot between Godrevy and Portreath where the suicides jumped. He even considered driving to the Lizard or Land’s End where the currents would be stronger.

  The sacks were piled on top of each other in a large dingy that he had found in the back of the van, no doubt belonging to the man’s children. The only other items he had found in the van, was a fishing rod and a tin of maggots.

  The dissected corpse was already causing a stench.

  Winding down the windows, the sea air wafted in. It smelt good, salty and fresh. He had never caused an accidental death before. Although it was not his fault the man fell on his own knife, even so, it had been careless.

  Driving down into Portreath harbour he noticed the tide was ebbing. It was all so silent, only the sounds of the ocean could be heard pounding the shoreline.

  Dragging the empty dingy across the sand towards the water’s edge, he wondered what Stella would have done, had she been there.

  Returning to the van to collect the sacks, one at a time, he tipped out their contents into the dingy. Covering each load with some of the maggots.

  When all the sacks were empty, he pushed the dingy out into the sea.

  Once it had floated out for about half a mile, he took his handgun and attached the silencer. Aiming towards the dingy, he pulled the trigger. The dingy burst.

  It was gone 3 o’clock by the time he got back to the Eden Project.

  After parking the van, he sprayed it with one of his old MOD issue aerosols, to remove all fingerprints and traces of DNA.

  By 3.45 Guthrie was able to climb back on his bike and head for home. Exhausted, traumatised and bruised, he vowed never to be so foolhardy again. In future it would be bullets only.

  But despite it all, he was feeling positive. He was getting closer to the man who had killed Stella, and more than anything he wanted to see him die.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Blankenberge was miserable early that morning. The rain pounded against the café window where Paul Trembath sat overlooking the marina.

  Children were running alongside their mothers, carrying small umbrellas, and wearing bright yellow or red plastic coats to match their boots. These were the locals. The tourists lacked the sense to realise it might rain, they were soaked to the skin. But, the back streets of Blankenberge were full of gift shops, confectioners and patisseries that would cheer them.

  The statues seemed to be the main attraction for the tourists in bad weather. They particularly admired the statue of Hendrik Conscience, and the one of the fisherman.

  Trembath’s favourite statue was the one of the woman with big breasts. He liked big breasts, but sadly his wife had fairly small ones. Not that he was getting to see her as often as he would have liked these days, what with work and other commitments.

  Suzette would like to move to Belgium, and he would not mind too much; as his favourite attraction here was, of course, the casino. Although he had lost more than he had won, but, that was the name of the game. Trembath considered it a good night out, especially if he got to take a pretty croupier back to h
is hotel.

  Blankenberge beach was far superior to most English beaches, he thought. Well, it used to be when they had the quaint hotels with verandas on the front. Now they had ginormous high rises lining the promenade, packed to the hilt, which meant the beach was chock-a-block with bodies. At least the gift shops still sold good quality products, nothing like the cheap tat you would get back home. Here was craftsmanship.

  ‘Bonjour, my friend, glad you’re not standing in the rain,’ the tall, black haired Maxime laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth.

  Trembath laughed, standing up to kiss his friend on the cheek.

  ‘Do you want a refill?’ Maxime offered.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  When Maxime returned with the coffees Trembath was still looking out at the rain.

  ‘You’re deep in thought.’

  ‘Just thinking what your uncle would have done if he were still alive.’

  ‘Sebastian Dubois the Koning Bij, that’s what they called him.’

  ‘Yes, King Bee. There’ll never be another king like him.’

  ‘When are they making the drop?’

  ‘Tonight. Your English is very good, they taught you well at Eton College.’

  ‘Leadership qualities and Received Pronunciation, sadly I learnt neither.’

  ‘Mm, sounds ominous.’ Trembath laughed. Apart from the scar on his chin he was good looking when he smiled, it gave him a boyish look. Yet, his looks were not only an attraction for girls. He had succumbed to one other outside his usual comfort zone, and that was Maxime. He wondered if it was on offer again tonight.

  ‘Anyway, we’re here to talk business, so let’s get started.’ Maxime pulled out the documents from the attaché case and placed them on the table. ‘You’ll need to sign this one, and this one,’ he pointed to the relevant pages. ‘You don’t need to bother signing that page.’

  Trembath signed in the designated places, and then, with a strange look in his eyes, he whispered, ‘we’ve got to eliminate him, Maxime. We’ve got to kill that bastard before he blows us all out of the water.’

  Maxime looked quizzically.

  ‘Our Mr Henry Guthrie OBE, worked for Intelligence.’

  ‘Whose intelligence?’

  ‘British Intelligence of course. And, he also worked for Interpol.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Think he was just a mercenary,’ Trembath grimaced. ‘Anyway, I don’t know what everyone is waiting for, we should just kill him.’

  ‘Shh, keep your voice down.’ Maxime glanced round, to catch any eavesdroppers. ‘I think first we need to go back to my apartment and have a nice lunch. A little wine, some music, and see what else there is on offer.’

  Trembath did not like the term bi-sexual, and never had been until he met Maxime. Although, he still preferred women, he had to admit it had been a rather delightful experience. Maxime was quite beautiful, his body muscular and honed. Void of body hair like a woman, and yet not a woman. It was just a bit of fun, no depth of feeling, no commitment of the heart, not like he had with Suzette.

  *****

  As the Hercules C-130 flew towards the Indian Ocean, it was still undecided where they would make the drop.

  ‘It will be too foggy, I’d take a bet on it.’ Corporal Rob Mylor took a bite of the Mars bar, as he sat in the dark fuselage. ‘But, it’s too late to change the plans.’

  ‘Never too late!’ the pilot called out from the cockpit to the aircrew of two, Rob and a teenager, Andrew Morrish.

  Andrew looked surprised after hearing the pilot’s voice.

  ‘I thought the Wing Commander would be flying this. Who’s the pilot?’

  ‘A thing of great beauty,’ Rob whispered.

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘This is just a small drop today, don’t need them.’

  Andrew returned to his game of patience, using a pack of grubby cards. Rob finished cleaning his rifle that was lying in bits on the floor.

  ‘Rob, did you know the King Bee?’

  ‘Me? No. But I’ve heard all the stories, he was a legend.’

  ‘Why do they call him, Koning Bij?’

  ‘That was his nickname, I think it means king bee in Dutch or in Belgium lingo, somewhere like that. His real name was Sebastian Dubois.’

  ‘I’ve been reading the books you gave me,’ Andrew boasted. ‘I didn’t realise that the United States used 21 million gallons of Agent Orange over Vietnam.’

  ‘Yes, to defoliate the jungle in order to kill the people. But it wasn’t only the fucking U.S., Andrew. We did similar.’

  ‘Why was it called that, was the gas orange?’

  ‘Ha-ha, you silly arse. It was shipped in drums that had an orange stripe, nothing more exotic than that, I’m afraid,’ he laughed, exposing the chewed up Mars bar in his mouth. ‘They sprayed over three thousand villages, and it gave the residents cancer.’

  ‘Various types of cancer the book says, and birth defects.’

  ‘Yep, over 400,000 Vietnamese people died. But that’s what war is like. It’s either you or them, as you’ll be finding out yourself,’ Rob warned. ‘You see, the U.S. is renowned for this sort of thing. Once, they even experimented on their own people, what a bunch of fucking morons, ha-ha.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ll never believe this,’ Rob’s eyes opened wide. ‘The US released swarms, and when I say swarms I mean swarms of mosquitoes. Their stock of quinine must have run out, ha-ha.’

  ‘Where did they release them, New York?’

  ‘Ha no, daftie, they’d never do that. No they released them over Georgia and Florida.’

  ‘Wonder why they did that.’ Andrew placed his last card down. He had lost.

  Rob paused to eat the rest of the Mars bar. When he had finished he wiped his chocolate stained hands on his overalls.

  They were quiet for a while.

  The teenager helped himself to some water and then dealt out fresh cards.

  ‘Not far now!’ the pilot shouted back. ‘About 15 to 20 minutes.’

  Andrew looked nervous.

  ‘You’ll be fine, son, nothing to it,’ Rob reassured him, slotting the pieces of rifle back together. ‘The mosquitoes I was telling you about, well, it was part of an experiment to see if insects, you know, those that carry diseases, like the mosquitoes carry Malaria, could be used to carry biological weapons.’

  Rob poured himself a mug of weak tea from the flask, and then lifted up the flask to the teenager.

  ‘No thanks. What happened to the people in Georgia?’

  ‘Dunno, probably died. That’s where you get your Aids from, the Yanks dropping their lethal chemical gases over the jungle.’

  ‘I thought it was from chimps.’

  ‘Monkeys have been around since the beginning of time. So, the question is, why would they suddenly give the blacks this disease in the jungle?’

  Andrew shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No doubt the Brits or the Yanks were testing it in the jungle, or dumping their chemical waste there. But, it obviously backfired.’

  ‘Or they wanted to decrease the black population there for some reason,’ Andrew suggested. ‘What about Hiroshima? But I suppose they wouldn’t do that now.’

  ‘Ha, don’t be too sure. It was only. . . now when was it? It was only about 2 years ago when there was that incident in Tokyo.’

  ‘You mean the subway attack? Oh, my God. So when we drop the waste we’re really like murderers.’

  ‘No, you can’t look at it like that, son. As the Wing Commander always says, these Somalis are not like us.’ He paused to take a sip of tea. ‘But the world is a bad place when chemical weapons get into the wrong hands.’

  ‘So, once we make the drop we’re going straight home?’

  ‘No, the pilot will drop us off in Belgium, and then fly the plane back.’ Rob reached out for the bag of sugar, crumpled up near the biscuits. ‘A Sea King will be waiting for us. We have to fly some gold bull
ion back to Cornwall.’

  ‘Won’t it be recognised?’

  ‘It’s been sprayed black.’

  ‘How do they sell the gold once it’s back in Cornwall?’

  ‘You ask too many fucking questions, I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Forget it. We’ll be dropping soon anyhow.’

  ‘I suppose local jewellers buy it.’

  ‘No.’ Rob lowered his voice. ‘Don’t repeat this to anyone. You’ve heard of the Gold Centre, haven’t you?’

  ‘You don’t mean the Cornish Gold Centre at Tolgus Mill, do you?’

  ‘That’s the one, on the road to Portreath.’ Rob now dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘The deputy manager made a deal with the Wing Commander.’ He paused to spoon the sugar into his mug of tea and began to stir. ‘He takes a cut of the profits in exchange for putting it through their system.’

  The plane suddenly slowed down.

  ‘Right boys, get ready to drop!’ the pilot called out from the cockpit.

  Rob gulped down the tea, throwing the empty mug to the floor.

  Both men grabbed hold of the large, black container which occupied a third of the fuselage, and dragged it towards the open door.

  ‘Best open the lock and throw out the contents separately,’ the pilot called out. ‘As the container might float. Wear your gloves.’

  ‘Okay, ma’am.’ Rob opened the container, now wondering in what direction he should throw.

  *****

  Standing on the side of Blankenberge’s vast marina, Maxime was pacing up and down. ‘He’s late,’ he complained, lighting his fifth Turkish cigarette.

  ‘No, he’s not. He told us it would be between 1.30 to 2 a.m. depending on the tide.’ Paul Trembath was agitated, constantly glancing down at his watch, 2.15.

  Then, suddenly they saw her, the tug was heading into the harbour.

  They both ran along the wharf to meet the vessel, waving frantically.

  ‘What is the cargo this time?’ the skipper asked tentatively, as they jumped on board.

  ‘Only gold bars,’ Trembath replied.

  Maxime waited until the skipper had gone to tie up the boat, before he turned to his friend. ‘What about the sweet bee, Sheik Amir will be expecting it if he’s sent all this bullion? What did you tell the courier when he asked for the suitcase?’