Scallywag
A Novella
Stuart R Brogan
Copyright © 2017 Stuart R Brogan All Artwork Copyright © 2017 Stuart R Brogan Printed Edition & Kindle May 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it has been published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A huge thankyou and heartfelt gratitude to
My family for their continued support,
Nev Murray from Confessions of a Reviewer Publicity- A true gent and outstanding publicist. Thank you for having faith in me… world domination awaits both of us my friend!
Adam Millard for his superior editing skills and for making me appear better than I really am, Michael Bray for the excellent cover and layout, Rich Hawkins for the advice and amusing social media posts and Stuart Keane for taking the time to advise. Indirect thanks to Shaun Hutson, Clive Barker, James Cameron, and John Carpenter. To all of the reviewers, blogs and sites that have spread the word. Huge thanks as always to Smith & Wesson, Remington, Accuracy International & the Tunnel Shooting Centre for unbridled stress relief.
To my Wife Fiona, I love you.
And finally, to my readers, who are the reason for my continued efforts in the written word, I thank you
Now, let the blood flow…
One
Friday 16:37 hrs
Karen Wallace tugged at her blouse and returned to staring blankly at the pensioner on the other side of the counter. She swore quietly under her breath as the old man slowly and methodically prodded at the loose change scattered across his newspaper, his inaudible muttering beginning to get on her nerves. She looked up at the queue of annoyed faces waiting impatiently behind him. All she could do was put on a brave face and smile meekly, secretly empathising with their growing frustration but unable to expedite his transaction. Once again, she turned her attention to the infuriatingly dithering patron, inwardly willing the old timer to hurry up and locate the right change for his purchase. It was the same routine every time he came in. He would visit the Post Office next door to withdraw his pension money, then come into her little convenience store and purchase one pasty, a bottle of cheap cider, a small pouch of rolling tobacco, and a newspaper. At first she had offered to help, but the old man had become somewhat aggressive, as if resenting her assistance. After that encounter she had resigned herself to the fact that he didn’t want her help, which was why she no longer felt obliged to intervene.
She stared into space, her mind wandering to that blissful time when her shift finally came to an end and the weekend could truly begin. The night would commence with a few pints at home whilst getting glammed up, before heading off to her local pub to meet a few friends, and then—in all probability— culminating in a visit to one of the town’s many nightclubs, where water downed and overpriced lager were a perquisite to a foul-tasting kebab and overinflated cab-ride home. Karen smiled internally at the thought of a young girl of seventeen downing pints and shots. It wasn’t the done thing these days; young ladies should show more decorum and sip their alcohol. According to her parents, being a ladette was so 90’s. Despite her age, she had been visiting the town’s watering holes for the last two years, her mature frame and disposition never giving her real age away. None of the bouncers had ever asked for ID, despite some having their suspicions. They just didn’t seem to care. Much to Karen’s amusement, some had even tried to chat her up.
The florescent lights flickered momentarily snapping her back from her reverie. Despite the internal lighting, the grocery shop interior was somewhat dim. She stared out of the large shopfront window, her eyes trying to adjust to the gloom, the dark grey mottled sky promising an impending heavy downpour but, as yet, delivering nothing more than drizzle. Karen sighed and silently prayed it wouldn’t be raining when she hit the town later that evening. There was nothing worse than having to huddle outside in your best party dress for a quick smoke when it was lashing it down.
“That should be the right money love,” the old man announced quietly. Karen flashed her rehearsed retail smile and scooped up the coinage, not bothering to check it. She tapped her till and dropped the change in the register. She placed his goods in a plastic carrier bag and handed it to him, eager to finish the transaction.
“Thank you. Have a nice day,” she said with relief. “Next please,” she added, hoping it would pressurise the customer to exit the shop quickly.
Harry Davant sighed heavily and silently gathered his bag, adjusted his walking stick, and made his way to the front door, all too aware of the commotion he had caused. He hated the fact he was old. Since his dear Molly had died a year before, he had wondered what the point was in carrying on. Every day the same, nothing to look forward to, no one to share a cup of tea and a light-hearted joke with. How he missed her gentle smile.
When she had been alive they had visited the local pensioners’ coffee morning at the community centre every Wednesday as a devoted couple. It had been the highlight of their week. But now—on the rare occasion he did venture out—he had come to see it as nothing more than a distraction, a waste of time and a sickening reminder of his loss. Without Molly the joy just wasn’t there anymore. In fact, he had come to rename it the “Waiting to Die Club”.. Of course, Molly would have been rather disapproving of his flippant tone. And he, in return, would have grinned in playful rebuke. But she was gone now, so it no longer mattered.
During the entirety of their forty-two years of marriage he had always promised her that they would go together. But despite his failing health, he was still alive and kicking while she had been so viciously and unfairly taken from him. For this cruel twist of fate he felt guilt beyond measure, and longed for nothing more than to see her again. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He felt empty. And so it went on, a perpetual cycle of crushing despair crowned with an intolerable helping of self-loathing.
Harry exited the shop, tugged at his jacket collar, and pulled his flat-cap snugly over his head. He grimaced as the wind bit at his face. He looked around, then raised his gaze to the heavens just as the spitting gave way to increasingly heavier droplets. He glanced at his watch. He reckoned it would take him fifteen minutes to walk home his normal way, but he could shave off five minutes if he used the alleyway located alongside the small row of shops. Harry sighed. Normally he wouldn’t use—or even consider using—the alleyway. “Druggy alley” as the locals referred to it. The nickname placed upon it due to the unsavoury and antisocial groups of youngsters that congregated in its shadows. He recalled how the coffee morning had been awash with tales of gangs of feral kids selling drugs and tormenting innocent members of the public. Alas, it would seem the police didn’t care how many reports they received from the older generation; it was deemed of low importance.
But to Molly, Harry, and the rest of the estate’s elderly population, it was a blight upon the very fabric of their community.
Despite his initial trepidation, Harry wasn’t afraid. Far from it. He, himself, had been a bit of a hard man and fighter in his day. However, the reality was that he was getting old, and he was only too aware of his ever-decreasing physical ability, not to mention his unshakable belief in superstition. It would seem prudent that he shouldn’t tempt fate but as the rain began to get heavier he decided it was worth the
risk.
All being well, he would get back in time for the start of the antiques program he and Molly used to enjoy together. Gripping his bag, hunching his shoulders, he slowly made his way towards the end of the row of shops, all the while thinking of his beloved Molly.
*
Across the road, concealed by a heavily graphited and vandalised bus-shelter, Callum Benson cautiously eyed the old man leaving the grocery store. He remained motionless, his dark tracksuit bottoms and black hoodie helping him to blend in to his surroundings, which of course was the point. He smiled to himself, pleased that the weather was deteriorating. In fact, the worse the weather got the better it was for him. Heavy rain meant the majority of the general public would be too busy running for cover, thus making witnesses to his crimes incredibly unlikely. Especially if these crimes took place down a secluded alleyway.
Callum felt a sudden and unexpected pang of conscience. Deep down he didn’t want to follow this path, but fate had other ideas and had dealt him a rough hand. It was through necessity, not choice, that made him do these things.
He shook the apathy from his mind and lit a cigarette, struggling to keep the tobacco dry in the downpour, all the while watching silently as the old man paused for a few minutes, then slowly made his way towards the end of the row.
Callum inwardly hoped his intended victim was heading for the alleyway. For the past month he had watched his target’s routine and had surreptitiously followed him home on more than one occasion. He knew the man’s habits, had done his research and was pleased the old man wasn’t going to disappoint him today. All he had to do was wait for the right conditions, forcing the man to deviate from his normal path and present Callum with an opportunity.
The rain was heavy now, his hoodie top saturated and sodden against his shabby t-shirt and cold skin. But, regardless of the weather, he remained focused. Grinning as the old man turned down the alleyway, Callum flicked his cigarette butt and jogged across the road in the direction of his quarry, the shop lights casting islands of neon in the vast puddles around him, the tarmac transformed into an ever growing torrent of water.
Callum slowed as he reached the edge of the last building and cautiously peered around the corner. Ahead of him, approximately twenty feet and walking past a tatty looking transit van, was the frail and slowly moving figure of his target. After a final look around, Callum reached under his hoodie and pulled out a black scarf. He tied it around his head, covering his lower nose and mouth. He then pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, so as not to leave physical evidence of his transgressions. He took in a deep breath and launched himself forward. He was upon the man in a matter of seconds.
*
The force and surprise of the blow sent Harry tumbling to the floor. He tried to reach out to stop himself but it was no use. His face took the brunt of the impact, colliding with the wet concrete with a sickening thud. Harry was dazed; a mixture of rain-water and blood began to run down his face, the blood emanating from a deep cut that had opened up on his forehead, stinging his eyes. He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t respond. He rolled on to his back, frantically trying to ascertain what had happened. He could see a figure leaning menacingly towards him, and the figure was shouting, but Harry was unable understand what he was saying, his head still ringing from the concussive injury.
The figure lashed out in frustration with a half-hearted kick, which connected with Harry’s pelvis. The old man yelped in pain and, running on instinct, crawled backwards in an attempt to find safety. Trying to regain his composure, he frantically looked around for something to defend himself with, but there was nothing. His walking stick was well out of reach.
Harry suddenly felt cold metal and rubber against his back; he glanced behind to see the hulking mass of a Transit van. His torso was resting up against the front passenger wheel arch. Harry’s attention was snapped back as he felt the impact of a second attack as the figure lashed out with another kick
“What do you want?” Harry whimpered with tear-filled eyes, his mind a maelstrom of fear.
“Give me your money!” the figure retorted vehemently.
Harry thrust his hand inside his jacket pocket and fumbled for his wallet, eager to give his assailant what he desired in the hopes of halting any further aggression. He retrieved it and, with a shaky hand, tossed it to the ground in front of the man, who eagerly snatched it up and began pulling out notes.
“Is that all you’ve got, old timer?”
Harry didn’t have time to respond. The sudden metallic swish of the side door of the Transit being flung open made him stop abruptly.
His assailant looked up with a mixture of surprise and horror at the open door as five figures exited the vehicle, each dressed in black, their faces obscured by balaclavas. Before he could run they were upon him. Harry crawled to his right in a bid to escape this second surprise onslaught. He scrambled at the wet tarmac, desperately trying to find sanctuary, feverishly hoping someone would come to his aid. He glanced back over his shoulder and was relieved to see no one was in pursuit. Despite his diminishing health and powers of reasoning, it didn’t take him long to realise that he was not the intended target, and that these new arrivals were, in fact, only interested in his attacker.
The old man wiped the blood and tears from his face and looked on in disbelief as two of the five figures grabbed his assailant’s arms and started to drag him towards the van. Perhaps realising what they intended to do, the assailant began to resist, but no matter how hard he attempted to break free, he could not, for their grips were too tight.
He started to panic, his bravado rapidly giving way to abject terror. One of the attackers threw a heavy punch into the man’s face, the impact forcing his head to rock backwards. Another attacker produced a black bag and pulled it over his assailant’s slumping head; he yanked on it, making sure it was secured. Once again, another vicious blow connected. The figure nodded at his companions who immediately dragged the limp and unconscious body of Harry’s attacker into the back of the van. Harry watched on as four of the figures clambered in, slamming the door shut behind them.
The bewildered pensioner stared myopically at the fifth figure standing motionless before him. He cautiously staggered to his feet and backed away, worried that, now they had acquired their target, their attention would turn to him. The figure didn’t move and remained silent. Slowly and in one fluid movement he placed a single finger to where his mouth would be and made a shhhhh sound. In a wave of uncertainty Harry found himself slowly nodding and agreeing to the attacker’s silent yet threatening request. The old man remained unmoving and watched as the figure turned and made his way to the driver’s door. He pulled himself up behind the wheel and started the engine.
Harry remained still, couldn’t help but follow the vehicle with his eyes as it slowly pulled away. Not once did the driver make eye contact with him as he left the scene. Only once it had passed did the old man let out a heavy breath and began to rub his shaking hands together.
Through the downpour he watched as the van containing his attacker and the black-clad mystery men reached the end of the alleyway, slowly turned onto the road, and disappeared forever.
Two
Friday 19:00 hrs
Callum felt his head being forced backwards then left to fall forward as the black bag was violently tugged free. He felt groggy, his senses tumbling in a freefall; he winced as he felt the emanations of a stabbing ache begin to radiate from the base of his neck through to his temples.
He raised his head and tried to focus on his surroundings. There was only darkness, but he sensed that others were present in the room, close to him. He tried to stand but his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair he had been placed upon. He tried his wrists but they too were bound. He tugged at them, the urgency growing with each passing second, but his bonds showed no sign of movement.
Callum tried to calm himself, to get a grip and think rationally. But it was clear that this was no rational sit
uation. He started to hyperventilate, his heart rate increasing. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness, he frantically scanned the room for any clues as to where he was being held or for any means of escape.
An explosion of light directly in front of him caused him to close his eyes and turn his head as the bright flash temporarily blinded him. As fast as the light appeared it vanished. Callum once again tried to focus on the area in front of him, his burning retinas still reeling from the flash.
“Who the hell are you?” he bellowed, his nervous tone betraying the façade of heroism. The lights came on again. Callum lowered his head and scrunched his eyes tight, desperate to shut out the glare, but still the flash had its desired effect. “What the fuck do you want from me?” he screamed again. Once again, the room was plunged into darkness. Callum remained quiet so that he might hear any sounds that could assist him in determining his location. There were none, only the sounds of breathing from more than one person, all of which sounded even and calm.
Callum started to panic. What the hell was going on? He was just a nobody, a petty thief and part-time burglar. He didn’t deal with drugs and he certainly didn’t run with the big boys. His mind started to race. It definitely isn’t the coppers, he found himself thinking. He had had dealings with them on more than one occasion and no way would the police have the grit to engage in such a blatant and illegal act, especially in today’s politically correct and overtly nanny state.
But if it wasn’t them then that only left other criminals. He felt a sudden pang of helplessness, quickly followed by a surge of defiance. If his captors were indeed criminals, then it stood to reason that they had to be dining somewhere at the top of the food chain.
Scallywag TYPESET Page 1