Brothers in Blood

by David Stuart Davies

  Matt handed him a giant gin and tonic. ‘Come on, Sunshine, let me show you upstairs.’ He held out his hand and Laurence felt obliged to take hold of it. They moved up the narrow staircase on to the upper floor and Matt led Laurence into the gym. It was as Alex had described it. To Laurence it was like a smooth and polished high-tech torture chamber. There was a running machine, a rowing device, dumbbells and an exercise contraption which looked like something out of a science fiction film. Any moment now Peter Cushing would appear and strap him into it while attaching electrodes to his forehead.

  ‘You like to keep yourself fit, I see,’ said Laurence lamely.

  ‘You don’t get a body like mine without working for it,’ said Matt and stepped back, pulled off his black T-shirt to reveal an impressive, fairly sculptured waxed chest, although the tummy was getting a bit podgy, thought Laurence. Better not mention that though.

  ‘Very nice,’ he observed, while his mind was groaning, ‘Jesus, he’s got bigger tits than Raquel Welch.’

  Matt jumped on an exercise bike and began pedalling like fury. ‘It keeps you toned and focused. Fit and active. Fit and eager, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ said Laurence quietly – so quietly that Matt slowed down his manic pace of pedalling and cast a curious glance at him.

  ‘You seem nervous,’ he said.

  Laurence shrugged. ‘Nah, it’s just not my scene. I’m too lazy for all this. I’m content to be the slob I am.’

  ‘I could soon train you up, build up your muscles. As they say, the body is a temple. It should be treated with respect.’

  It was with that comment that Laurence knew it would give him great pleasure to kill this arrogant self-centred bastard. And he wanted to do it now.

  ‘My body is less of a temple, more of a Methodist mission hut.’

  Matt grinned and clambered off the bike.

  ‘I think we’ve done enough of the small talk now, don’t you think? Let’s move on to pillow talk, eh?’

  So soon? thought Laurence, his body tensing. This fellow doesn’t waste time. Very well, then, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll have to start without my back up. It’s time for action stations.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Laurence suddenly, his features contracting into a concerned frown as he pointed in the vague direction of the far corner of the room.

  Matt, suitably distracted, turned his back and followed Laurence’s gaze.

  As he did so, Laurence snatched up one of the silver dumbbells lying on the floor and brought it down on the back of Matt’s head with great force. There was the gentle sound of cracking bone, a brief spurt of blood which mingled with Matt’s gelled hair, before he fell to the floor face down with the faintest of moans. Laurence bent over him and repeated the action with the now bloodied dumbbell. After the second blow, Matt lay still, apart from a strange twitching movement of his right hand which lay outstretched on the polished wood. For a few moments, his fingers danced erratically as though they were using an invisible typewriter and then they froze into the shape of a claw as death finally took dominion.

  Slowly Laurence rose to his feet and stepped back, his heart racing, his mouth suddenly sandpaper dry. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This is not how it was planned. Something had taken him over. Controlled his actions. What was it? Fear? Hatred? Impatience? Whatever. Some erratic and unreliable emotion had stormed the citadel of his cool and calculated nature. And he was horrified at the result. Not the fact that he had killed the bastard – just that he fallen prey to undisciplined feelings. He should have waited until Alex was there, allowed his friend to witness the fear in the bully’s eyes, to have given him the pleasure of being in at the kill.

  He heard movement on the stairs and hushed voices in conversation. It was Matt’s cronies. They had arrived for the fun. He slipped back and stood behind the door just as they entered. On seeing the body before them and the pool of blood which was now collecting around the damaged head they froze in their tracks.

  ‘Christ all fucking mighty,’ said one eventually. This exclamation broke the spell, reanimated them, and they both rushed forward and knelt by the body.

  Bald-headed Dave, thickset with piggy eyes and a pock-marked skin, sensing another presence in the room, instinctively glanced behind him and saw Laurence. It did not take him long to size up the situation and with a roar of anger he launched himself forward, but Laurence was ready for him and kicked him with great force in the crotch. With a loud two note staccato cry, Dave fell back and dropped to the floor only a few feet away from the dead body of his friend.

  Ronnie rose from his crouching position and began advancing slowly on Laurence, who backed away wondering what the hell he was going to do now. Dave also showed signs of recovery and with some effort began to clamber to his feet.

  More noise on the stairs and Alex and Russell burst into the room. They were balaclava-ed up and each was carrying a shot gun.

  The two assailants froze in their tracks

  ‘Waste no time,’ barked Laurence, with great relief, stepping back behind them.

  They obeyed him without hesitation.

  Almost simultaneously the shot guns fired, each barrel aimed at the stomachs of the two startled men.

  It was over in seconds.

  The three bodies lay side by side on the polished floor wood like some gory battlefield tableau.

  Laurence, Russell and Alex stood for some time in silence gazing at the dead men, each experiencing a strong mixture of conflicting emotions.

  For Russell, it had been a step too far. This wasn’t killing as it had been in the old days. Randomly and for fun. There was something dirty about this project. Targeted victims. A vendetta. A motive. Dirty …and dangerous.

  Alex shared similar feelings but yet he was also disappointed that he had not been the one to kill Matt as had been arranged. Maybe it had got too dangerous for Laurence. He was taking the biggest risk after all. But the whole purpose of this project had been for him to try and bring a kind of closure to his pain and the deep-seated humiliation that he still felt through the cathartic action of killing Matt. Circumstances – whatever they were – had denied him that. He knew, too, that this particular set of killings had changed the dynamic of their operations. Probably it had brought them to an end. In many ways that would be a relief. Now perhaps was the time to bring the Brotherhood to a close.

  If that were possible.

  Laurence was simply relieved that it was all over. He was disappointed that it had not run as smoothly as he had hoped but the outcome at least was as satisfactory as it could have been. He too still had great reservations about killing with a motive. It was not part of the game – the game that he’d invented. Somehow, weirdly, it seemed immoral. But what the hell, they had done it and his plan had worked with remarkable efficiency. He should be pleased about that. Suddenly, he found himself grinning.

  ‘Right,’ he said briskly, turning to the other two, ‘mission accomplished. Let’s go.’

  As they sped away with Russell at the wheel, the three men remained silent for some time. There was not the usual cheesy, cheery bonhomie that usually ensued after the completion of one of their projects.

  As they neared the lights of Huddersfield, Laurence, who had been sitting in the back of the car, leaned forward. ‘Right, gentlemen, a successful evening but one not without its dangers and possible repercussions. We split tonight and we do not – I repeat – do not contact each other for twelve months. We must not provide the police with any possible links. Is that understood?’

  The other two men murmured their assent. They knew he was right.

  ‘I will instigate the next meeting. Wait for me to get in touch. OK, now drop me here. I’ll walk back to the hotel.’

  Russell pulled in on the lower side of the town centre and Laurence clambered out.

  ‘Well done, gentlemen,’ he grinned and gave a sharp salute before disappearing into the night.

  Back at Matt Wilkinson
’s house, the three bodies still lay prone on the shiny gym floor, the bright lights glistening on the fresh blood. Imperceptibly, to begin with, one of the men’s eyelids fluttered. It was Ronnie Fraser, the blonde-haired one. After a while, his eyes opened in a lazy drugged fashion. There was a lack of comprehension mirrored there. He groaned and grimaced, not understanding just how lucky he was.

  TWENTY

  It was Alex who first learned the terrible truth. It was on the Tuesday lunch time following the killings at Matt Wilkinson’s house. As usual he had taken lunch at the little café around the corner from the design studio where he worked. He liked to get away from the place and its stultifying environment for an hour and from the narrow-minded bores he shared an office with. He picked up the local paper which someone had left behind expecting to read of the multiple murders in an isolated house at Ravensfield. It wasn’t a story he was going to relish. Indeed, he had already successfully blotted the memory of the event from his mind. It was something that he found relatively easy to do – even from the early days. In fact he knew he had to or he would be haunted by guilt. He knew he didn’t possess what he perceived as Laurence’s armour plated conscience.

  Alex glanced at the headlines and his blood ran cold. What he read made him gag on his sandwich.

  HORRIFIC MURDERS

  IN ISOLATED HOUSE. TWO DEAD.

  ONE MAN SURVIVES VICIOUS ATTACK.

  One word bore into his brain and knotted his stomach.

  Survives.

  Survives!

  Christ Almighty!

  Alex dropped the paper, the room already swimming before him, the other diners, chatting in a casual fashion, were slowly drifting out of focus.

  Survives.

  One of them was still alive. Miraculously. How on earth…?

  Alex clasped his hand over his mouth, desperately trying to bring his emotions and his stomach under control, but the terrible implication of the news he’d just read, kept rocking his equilibrium. He had to pull himself together or people would start to notice. Become suspicious. God, they might begin to suspect the truth, his fevered mind suggested. The truth… that he was one of the murderers. For one terrible moment he thought he was going to be sick then and there. He gulped loudly forcing the food back down his gullet.

  With some effort, he rose from his seat, snatched up the paper and headed for the lavatory. Sitting himself down in the cubicle and locking the door, he held the newspaper in his trembling hands and read the article in full. He skimmed the details about the cleaner finding the bodies first thing on Monday morning and realising that one of the men was still alive. This was a Mr Ronald Fraser, ‘a thirty-year-old accountant, who is now in a very serious condition in Intensive Care in Huddersfield Infirmary. Police are waiting by his bedside in the hope that he regains consciousness and will be able help them with their enquiries into these – there was that phrase again – horrific crimes.’

  Alex crumpled the paper and stared unseeingly at the cubicle door before him and the motto scrawled there with some sharp instrument: ‘I LIKE TO FUK WOMEN’.

  ‘…in the hope that he regains consciousness.’ Those words pounded in his brain. The bastard was still in some sort of coma. So all was not lost. The devil still might die, taking any incriminating evidence with him to the grave.

  He might die.

  And then… he might not.

  It was clear to Alex that if this Ronald Fraser recovered he may well identify individuals who wanted revenge on Matt and his mates for their brutal sexual exploits. He’d have to confess to their little peccadilloes of course. Their luring innocent gays to the house and raping them, but what’s a little buggery compared with murder, to ‘horrific crimes’. Then these individuals – these suspects – would be rounded up, interrogated, investigated and thrust under the microscope. No stone would be left unturned; every dark corner of their lives would be scrutinised, analysed and dissected. Nothing would deter the police until they nailed the culprit.

  Until they arrested him.

  Alex Marshall.

  For a brief moment, he wanted to scream. He needed some release or his heart would burst. Instead, he screwed up his eyes, clenched his fists leaned forward until his head rested on the door and moaned.

  Time passed and slowly he began to relax and see things in a more practical, less dramatic light.

  He realised that he would have to tell the others. No doubt they would find out quite soon anyway. This was not just a nasty local crime. It was juicy enough for the nationals and the television ghouls to deal with it detail. He knew that contact should only be made in an emergency – but this was an emergency. He would have to write to Laurence – he never had a permanent telephone number – just a private P.O. Box number – but he would ring Russell that evening. As he rose to leave, his trembling legs gave way and he flopped down again. It was then he realised just how frightened he was.

  Very frightened.

  PART THREE

  TWENTY-ONE

  At police headquarters in Huddersfield, Detective Inspector Paul Snow was perusing a series of black and white photographs taken at the scene of the crime. They did not make pleasant viewing. Somehow the blood, registering as black on the photographs, seemed to Snow to be more disturbing than if it had been red. The images held a grim fascination for him and although he wanted to slip the glossy pics back into the brown envelope in which they had been delivered, he remained gazing at them with a growing sense of unease. This was not going to be an easy case for him to tackle. For the first time he rather wished that an important investigation hadn’t landed on his desk.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the lightest of taps on his door and Sergeant Bob Fellows entered carrying a couple of small boxes. He was a stout fair-haired man about thirty with a ruddy complexion and deceptively innocent eyes.

  ‘Got some really interesting stuff here. A nice evening’s entertainment,’ he said wryly, plonking the video boxes on Snow’s desk. The inspector raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘We found then under the floorboards at Wilkinson’s gaff. In the gym. Seems he and his mates were into a bit of torture – bumboy style – and they liked to capture it for posterity.’

  ‘Really.’ Snow lifted up one of the video boxes and slipped the tape out. ‘Souvenirs, eh?’

  ‘Yup. We located the recording equipment hidden in the roof space. Basic stuff. Domestic but practical enough.’

  ‘Nothing on the night of the murder, I suppose.’

  ‘Nah. That would have been too jammy. They wouldn’t have been prepared for what took place.’

  ‘I suppose we’d better watch these then.’

  Fellows nodded. ‘I gave one a quick ten minute gander. To be honest that was much as my stomach could take. I’m not into gay porn, especially when there’s violence involved as well.’

  ‘You are a sensitive flower, Bob,’ Snow observed in a monotone. ‘Get a telly and video in here and we’ll have a little film show. See if it’ll toughen you up.’

  Fellows gave the inspector a mirthless grin and nodded.

  Sometime later, the two men sat uncomfortably mesmerised by the grim scenes played out before them on the screen. Neither spoke as they watched Matt Wilkinson and his cronies forcibly manhandling, abusing and raping their victims. There were six men – six victims – in total. It was gruesome and as a tough experienced copper, Snow knew that he should be able to watch this stuff without feeling as he did now, very uncomfortable and repelled by the grainy images that shimmered before his eyes. What made it worse were the cries: the men begging, screaming for mercy and the ghoulish laughter and increased brutality that these pleas invoked.

  Snow found himself digging his nails into the palms of his hands in a kind of angered distress. These three vile men deserved to die, he thought. After what they had done, he had no sympathy for their fate. As for the bastard up at the hospital… Snow would happily go up there now and pull the plug on the machine that was keeping him alive. But
there was another reason, more haunting and much more disturbing that caused his unease. A reason that he could not reveal to any of his colleagues.

  To anyone, in fact.

  When the second tape ended, the picture having turned to a blurry hissing grey, the two men stared at the screen for some time as though hypnotised by it. Eventually, Sergeant Fellows leaned forward and switched off the television and extracted the video from the machine. He had been making notes as they had watched and he now referred to these.

  ‘Six men over a period of nine months. All, it would seem, lured to Wilkinson’s house on a promise and then surprised.’

  ‘Until last Saturday when it was Wilkinson’s turn to be surprised. It looks like revenge, Bob. A rather spectacular revenge.’

  Fellows nodded in agreement.

  ‘See if the technical chaps can grab reasonable images of the victims’, said Snow. ‘If we can track these poor devils down, that should give us a lead.’

  ‘A pretty sound one. Will do. And we could also get the artist to draw a likeness if the tape picture is too indistinct for a decent still.’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’ Snow said wearily, his mind reluctantly wandering back to those rough, violent and degrading images. And to the faces of the victims. Their expressions which initially showed shock, soon transmuted into horror, and then agony and disbelief. It seemed to Snow that a couple of them were already more than a little drunk before the proceedings began but were sober enough to experience the brutality of their physical invasion with crystal clarity. Each whelp and cry produced guffaws and animal grunts from the attackers. It was like some medieval torture chamber. It was strange but predictable that none of the victims had come forward to the police about these attacks. Obviously the shame and the fear of exposure were greater than their desire to convict their attackers. Snow empathised with their feelings. No doubt they thought it best to limp away, lick their wounds and try to wipe the whole ghastly business from their minds. All except… All except for those who returned for the ultimate revenge. Forensics had suggested that were probably three individuals there on the night of the murders. The three musketeers come to settle a score. Whether any or all had been victims was debateable.