by Vogel, Vince
Davey observed a light “go on” in Deck’s face.
“Why’s Jacob suddenly itching to put it up?” he enquired.
“Hey!” Deck looked at him with a serious face now. “It ain’t got nothin’ to do with me, Dave. I’m just the messenger, innit. Boss man’s the one holdin’ out for more. Says you and your bra owe ’im.”
“Me and my bra have always been good to your boss man. Five years ago, we helped him expand his business with commercial takeovers of rival franchises.”
“You what?”
Davey groaned.
“We helped him take out Franky Gold.”
“Ah, yeah,” Deck said, nodding his huge watermelon head up and down. “But that was a long time ago. Times have changed. Now he sees hisself protectin’ you boys. Especially with gettin’ your girls through Canvey customs. And since this Brexit shit, it’s gonna cost more to get it through. There’ll be more bullshit with the border closin’ up.”
“Well, your boss man shouldn’t have voted for Brexit, then.”
Deck shrugged his broad shoulders, and Davey smiled at his big dumb mug.
“Fuck it!” Davey said with a grin. “Let’s get your money, before this rain starts up again.”
“Bin rainin’ long time, innit.”
“It has, Deck. To wash all us sinners away.”
Davey turned around and nodded to one of his men, who immediately went back to one of the Hummers and pulled a large suitcase out. Having retrieved it, the man walked across the bowl, passing Davey and Deck, and handed the suitcase to one of Deck’s people. The Earles’ man took it and walked it over to a car to be checked over. No one trusted anyone these days.
While this was happening, Davey and Deck continued to stand facing each other.
“You watch the footy last night?” Deck asked in an attempt to drum up a conversation.
“Yeah. Arsenal were shit. They might be flash in the odd game, but in Europe and against the big teams they’re fuckin’ useless.”
“That’s ’cause they need another defender and a holdin’ midfielder, innit. Maybe someone better than Giroud to get on the end of things.”
“I think you need a couple of midfielders.”
“Probably. I got tickets to see them this weekend and I was gonna—”
An odd thing happened then.
The side of Deck’s head exploded, and his blood and brains flew into Davey’s face, temporarily blinding him.
“What the fuck!” he muttered as he wiped fragments of skull from his eyes.
When he could see, Davey looked down and saw Deck on the ground with a hole in his right temple, blood seeping out of it and the poor man holding his hand up to it as though he thought he could plug the opening. Instant confusion spread through everyone, and each side looked over at the other.
Davey turned around to his men and screamed, “Who fired that?”
But they merely shrugged and looked at one another, none of their guns drawn. Davey turned sharply across to the Earles Crew, who were watching their general go into seizure and cough up the last of his life. Suddenly all hell broke loose in those woods—one of the Earles Crew put two and two together and gathered that the shot must have come from the Doyles, so they fired back, catching the man to Davey’s left in the face, throwing more claret over him. He immediately dived for cover, as did everyone else, and the place exploded into gunfire, the birds instantly darting out of their nests in the trees.
In the mayhem, one of the Earles Crew who’d found cover behind a Range Rover watched as the men crouched on either side of him took bullets, one taking several in the chest and the other straight in the face, the back of his head exploding. The tinging din of metal and gunshot filled his ears, and he was stricken with panic. In the chaos around him, people were being shot left, right, and center, and he decided he wanted no part of it. He darted away from the wreckage of the vehicle and crawled into the woods on his belly, through the thick scrub, his designer clothing quickly becoming saturated by the wet muddy ground and snagged by the copse.
Finding a large thicket, he crawled into it, the whole wood ricocheting in explosive gunfire around him. Pulling himself through the thing, he made his way up a slope. On the other side, he dropped down the edge of the ridge that encircled the bowl. Now that he was covered by the peak of land, he cautiously crept around it, hoping that he was safe.
He continued on his way around the bowl until he saw a track that led away through the trees. He came to the decision that this was the way out. And even if it wasn’t, at least it led away. He began walking along the muddy pathway, thinking he was out of danger, but got no more than fifty meters when a man in a black ski mask stepped out from behind a tree directly to his right. Before he even knew what was happening, Ski Mask grabbed ahold of him, threw him onto his back, and plunged a large hunting knife deep into his chest as he landed on top of him. The masked man held his hand over the other’s mouth and twisted the knife, his eyes staring into the dying man’s the whole time, all the way up until the moment they went blank and the chest heaved for breath no more.
As Dorring sat atop the dead man, he listened out for the final few shots to ring out, and when he hadn’t heard one for at least a minute, he stood up, retrieved his knife from the chest, wiped it on the grass and placed it back in his knife belt. Then he went back behind the tree, picked up the M24 sniper rifle, placed it onto his back with the shoulder strap, and returned to the corpse. After loading it over his shoulder, he began making his way to the rest of the dead.
In the bowl were six bullet-ridden four-by-fours and a host of bodies. Alex quickly counted five in the center, nine scattered around the vehicles, and another two who had been shot running into the woods. With the one on his shoulder, that made seventeen. He’d counted eighteen earlier. That meant a man was missing.
Dorring threw the dead man down next to another body. He then picked up a handgun lying on the damp leafy ground, turned back to the discarded body, and shot it several times in the chest to cover up the knife wound. Someone coughed loudly behind him, and Alex turned to see that one of the men by the Hummers was still alive. He was sitting by the rear wheel arch staring blankly forward with his hand over a chest wound. Using the gun he found on the floor, Alex shot the man in the head.
He then made his way to the large one in the middle—Deck. Kneeling beside the body, he lifted the head up with one hand and fetched the knife from his belt with the other. Holding the skull steady, Dorring pushed the knife into the hole in Deck’s right temple. Twisting the blade, he opened up a larger cavity, the skull cracking as he sheared into it, until the hole was big enough for a man’s fingers to fit through. He returned the knife to its belt and thrust two of his fingers into the skull, fishing around for something. Eventually he found what he was looking for and felt that it was still warm. He gripped his fingers around it, brain squirming through them, and pulled out the slug.
Dropping Deck’s heavy body back to the ground, Alex opened his hand, picked away the pieces of brain, and found the bullet. He placed this in the pocket of his jacket and stood up. Putting his ear to the wind, he listened out for the final man. If he was in the woods, he was sure to break a twig and make himself known.
But it wasn’t a twig that alerted Dorring to number eighteen. It was another spluttering cough. Alex waited to hear it again and, when he did, located its source to the rear of one of the Hummers. He was practically silent as he eased his way across the leaf-ridden floor to the other side of the vehicle. There he found the tattered remains of Davey Doyle, covered in blood and holding a large wound to his stomach, the blood spread out through most of his shirtfront.
Alex couldn’t believe his serendipity. He’d planned that Davey would be one of the first casualties, as he was standing directly in the center when Alex had shot Deck. But somehow he’d escaped the worst of it and found his way to cover.
For several seconds, Dorring stood to the side observing the younger Doyle brother, when Davey suddenl
y turned sharply to him, as though a ghost had whispered in his ear. His eyes widened at the sight of Alex’s masked face.
“Who the fuck are you?” Davey exclaimed weakly.
“Do you believe in the Devil, Mr. Doyle?”
“I’m an atheist.”
“Then it’s too bad for you.”
Davey feebly attempted to lean forward and grab the handgun that lay at his feet. With little effort, Dorring came before him and picked the gun up well before Davey’s fingers were anywhere near it. Alex then placed the handgun in the back of his jeans and crouched in front of the dying Doyle brother. Looking him straight in the eyes the whole time, Alex lifted his ski mask.
“Do you recognize me?” he asked when he had.
“I don’t know… Not really.”
“Take a good look at my face,” Alex insisted. “It’ll be the last you ever see.”
Davey pierced his eyes, as though this would help. A sudden wave of recollection struck him, and he did recall Alex. It was the eyes. The blue eyes. That look of hollowness in them, like two crystal voids. Those eyes had unsettled Davey the night they’d dragged the boy into the dog kennels and beaten him. He was much larger now, and an added hardness had been added to his face, but Davey never forgot the eyes of a man.
“You’re the kid that came round causing trouble all those years ago. You broke into the house and tried to kill my brother. But the fuckin’ dog got you.”
“Do you remember why I tried to kill your brother?”
“You said he’d killed your father.”
“Correct. Because he’d killed my father. And for my attempt, he had me beaten.” Alex began shaking his head, a morbid smile stretching his lips. “You know, you really should have killed me instead.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said so far that makes sense.”
“It’s no joke. You should have killed me, David. The pain you would have stopped if you had. Mine and so many others.”
Dorring swooped forward and pushed Davey’s hands aside from his stomach wound. Keeping his eyes on Davey’s the whole time, he plunged his fingers slowly into the bullet hole. Davey screamed out and attempted to bat his hand away, but there was no strength left in him and he gave up feebly. Alex fixed his eyes on Davey while forcing his fingers into the cavity, ripping the flesh as he entered.
“Who’s killing these girls, David?”
“What… girls?” Davey groaned.
“The girls turning up nailed to crosses.”
“How the fuck… should I know?”
Dorrring took ahold of something between his fingers and began twisting it. Davey instantly screamed out.
“This can last as long as you want it to,” Alex said to him.
He stopped and Davey caught his breath back, his face pale as snow, beads of sweat washing down it. Alex brought out his phone from his pocket and flicked the screen.
“Do you recognize this girl?” he asked, holding it up to Davey’s blank eyes, a picture of Becky on it, the smiling school photo, sun reflecting off her blonde hair.
Davey looked at it for a second and shook his head.
“No… no, I don’t.”
“Her name was Becky Dorring. She worked for one of your places two years ago. Maybe recently too.”
“You can’t expect me to know every… girl who works for us. Hundreds of them come through our doors… every year… I only get to know them if I’ve fucked them… and I’ve only fucked a few… not all of them. I wouldn’t have a prick left if I had!”
He began to chuckle gently at his own joke, surprised that he could be so jocose in the face of death. But his amusement didn’t last long. Dorring took another grip of Davey’s guts and twisted even harder. It felt like someone was pulling at a raw nerve, tugging all his entrails out, electricity shooting up his body. He screamed once again. The joke now long gone.
“How about this?” Alex asked, flicking his phone to a picture of Becky on the cross.
Davey frowned at it.
“That’s this fuckin’ freak,” he spluttered. “That’s got nothing to do with us. Shit like that is bad for business.”
“Then why was it good for business when you did the same to my father?”
“I’m afraid it was… That wasn’t some whim. Your pa wouldn’t be bought off… he knew too much. That meant he had to be gotten rid of. I’m not proud of killing any man… I wish I didn’t have to. But quite often… it’s better than leaving a man who can hurt you alive.”
“What did my father know?” Alex said, giving Davey’s insides another twist.
“About… us,” the younger Doyle brother gasped in agony.
“What about your nephew, Billy? I hear he’s a terrible bastard these days.”
“Billy wouldn’t do that. Sure he likes to hurt girls, but he keeps it manageable.”
“Maybe Billy’s been unable to keep his habits manageable of late.”
“He doesn’t kill girls. He only… hurts them.”
“To some, it could be perceived as the same thing.”
“Look… I don’t know anything… If you fuck off now… I’ll say nothing.” Davey suddenly frowned. “Anyway, what the fuck are you doing here in the first place? You with the Earles?”
“I’m not with the Earles, no.” Alex gazed straight into Davey’s eyes and added in a deeply solemn tone, “You know, you should have seen your face when your friend covered you in blood. You should have seen all of your faces. All looking around to see who’d fired.”
Davey’s eyes narrowed.
“It was you, you bastard.”
Dorring removed his fingers roughly from Davey’s stomach, making the injured man squeal once more, and stood over him.
“It was,” he admitted, “and I’m afraid that if you know nothing about my sister, then it leaves only one other use for you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re to be a martyr to the cause, David.”
Dorring took the gun out of the waistband of his jeans, brought it around, cocked the hammer, and blasted Davey Doyle straight in the face, killing him instantly. Afterward, Alex spent a few seconds staring down at the chewed-up physiognomy of Davey Doyle, before gently shaking his head and tossing the gun into the bushes. He then knelt by the corpse and took a look in Davey’s pockets, pulling out his wallet. He stood back up and began going through it. Inside was the usual documentation—driver’s license, credit and banking cards. Alex tossed it onto the body so that it lay on the lap.
Looking down at the dead man one last time, Alex heard a cracking twig echo in the dank forest a little way off behind him and quickly flipped his mask down. In a sharp movement, he swung the M24 off his shoulder, turned, and was looking into the woods through the sight. About fifty meters ahead, up the bank of trees, he saw an elderly man standing at the top of the ridge, his little terrier dog sniffing the ground a few feet in front. The man had been walking the dog and come across the scene by accident. But Alex couldn’t leave any witnesses. This had to look like a Mexican standoff.
He got the man in his sights, the guy simply standing there completely stunned at what he’d come across, and was about to squeeze the trigger and send a bullet into the old man’s forehead when he felt something tug at his trouser leg.
Taking his eye away from the scope, he glanced down to his right. Standing there was Katya. She was looking up at him and shaking her head.
“No, Papa,” she whispered.
Alex took one more look at the man. With a gentle groan, he lowered the gun and ran off into the woods. Though he’d left a single witness, he was sure that he’d achieved the first part of his mission.
He’d started a war.
27
In one hand, Jack held a spatula and absentmindedly flicked oil over two eggs as they bubbled away in a lake of fat. In his other, he held Becky’s diary up to his eyes. He was two-thirds of the way through it, having spent all night reading and only getting to sleep around four. Not that
he had been able to sleep anyway. Carrie’s visit had truly done a number on him. His mind had been like windswept leaves after she’d left, so many questions and thoughts rotating simultaneously in his head while he and the boy had sat watching football.
When the match had finished, he put Tyler to bed and retired himself. He’d known that he wouldn’t sleep and had taken Becky’s diary with him. It had then fascinated him for the next six hours. It was comprehensive, almost every page filled in the long journal, and was in no chronological order, mentioning things randomly without date or time.
The Beast became a popular subject, interspersed between the girl’s hopes and dreams. Hopes for a better future. To have a family of her own one day. To be a professional. To cast the Beast, her drug abuse, exploitation at the hands of men and promiscuity firmly in the past and simply be “happy.” Becky Dorring had wanted happiness so badly, and it pained Jack to read of these hopes knowing that they had been ended so violently. These dreams of hers haunted him.
In one section, she wrote about visiting a prospective university with her mother. She’d wanted to do an English degree and become a journalist.
It was so cool to see Mum smile so much today. I felt like I was making her happy for once, instead of worrying her all the time. I told Doc Holby, and he asked me if it made me proud of myself to see my mum happy with me. I told him overwhelmingly that it did. I know we’ve had our problems in the past—and for a long time in Rampton I hated her—but I really do want to imagine a future where my mum is in my life. To see her smile as I collect my degree. To wipe a tear from her eye as I say “I do.” To play with her grandchildren.
We had lunch at the university canteen, and the whole time she talked excitedly about her own days at university. She said they were the best years of her life. Then, as she was talking about them, her face went sad and tears filled her eyes. I thought it was the nostalgia that was making her sad—thinking about life before Dad’s death and everything. But when she reached across the table and laid her hand on mine, she looked me in the eyes and told me that she’d feared this day would never come. I asked her why, and she said that during my “troubles” (her euphemism, not mine) she’d been scared that instead of going to university and having a normal life, I would be in some kind of facility the rest of it. She began sobbing and I said she shouldn’t be sad. She replied she wasn’t. These were tears of happiness. Of relief. I got up out of my seat and took her in my arms. For all her faults, I truly love my mum.