By the time he got past the bus the van was out of sight. The road ahead was clear for a while and Steve accelerated close to seventy in the thirty mile-an-hour zone. When he rounded the bend he could see the van once more. It was way out in front, beyond two sets of traffic lights, heading towards a series of roundabouts where the killer could choose to take the motorway, a dual carriageway or one of several small country roads.
If Steve was going to lose him now that would be the place.
He maintained his reckless speed, weaving dangerously between the slower moving cars. The first set of traffic lights was accommodatingly green but the second turned to red before he reached them. Steve dropped his speed but he did not stop. He manoeuvred past the waiting cars and threaded his way through the contra-flow of traffic at the junction. He ignored the shouts and honking horns of irate drivers and did not notice the police car peeling away from the traffic and turning in pursuit of this dangerously irresponsible biker.
Steve had lost sight of the van again. His eyes streamed from the cold wind in his face and he blinked away the tears as he scanned the road ahead.
Then he saw it.
It was in the left-hand lane, rising up towards the first roundabout, stuck in a line of slow-moving traffic, waiting to turn onto the dual carriageway. This was his chance to close the distance. He opened up the throttle and the Kawasaki gave a throaty roar as it powered down the road.
The wind was loud in his ears but Steve slowly became aware of a police siren behind him. He glanced in his wing mirror to see the police car closing fast, the cars that had slowed him down now moving aside to let it pass.
Steve ignored it.
His thoughts were only for the black van, and for the prisoner within.
He closed rapidly on the van and as he reached the back of the slow-moving line of traffic he pulled onto the gravel verge running down the side of the road. The back wheel of the Kawasaki slid and skidded in the gravel as he advanced on the van but he just needed to get ahead of it. Then he could block its path and tackle the driver.
*
Lucifer was frustrated by the slowness of the traffic but he had learned over the years to master his annoyance at the failings of the immaterial world. Impatience led to errors and errors led to failure and confinement. And so he waited in the line of traffic anticipating the service that would soon commence.
The witness lay in the back of the van, unconscious or stupefied with terror.
Lucifer had been required to strike him a second time when they reached the van. Harder this time. Enough to quieten the witness until the time of his confession.
A sudden flash of blue light in his wing mirror caught his attention.
An agent of false justice.
Lucifer looked to see if it had any bearing on him. It seemed not. It was some way back although it was now driving on the gravel verge at the side of the road, seemingly in pursuit of a motorbike that was coming up fast on the inside.
Lucifer glanced at the bike, and then he looked again and the sudden flash of fury made his skin burn.
It was the angel, the guardian angel of the witness, riding out to save his ward.
But Lucifer would not have it. He let the traffic move away in front of him, opening up a gap. Then he turned the wheel to the left and lifted his great foot until the van’s clutch engaged. He waited until the angel was almost level with him and quickly lifted his foot. The van lurched forward into the bike’s path and Lucifer felt a satisfying crunch as the bike crashed into the side of the van.
*
Had he been a fraction slower Steve would have slammed right into the back of the van. As it was he glanced off the side and went careering up a grassy bank and straight into a wooden fence. The bike was wedged against the broken fence trapping his leg and Steve tried desperately to free the bike as the black van drew away. The traffic ahead had opened up and the van drove steadily up towards the roundabout. Steve heaved against the bike and was just working his leg free when the police car skidded to a halt on the gravel behind him.
Two policemen jumped out and before Steve could regain his feet they had rushed across to restrain him. Steve found himself sprawled across the front of the police car his face pressed against the warm bonnet and his hands snapped quickly into handcuffs.
‘Just take it easy,’ said the policeman holding him down when Steve tried to adjust his position.
He was trying to twist round so that he could see the van, see which way it went.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Steve. ‘You have to stop that van.’
‘You were driving like a maniac long before that van pulled out on you,’ said the policeman without relaxing his grip on Steve. ‘Now, what’s your name?’
*
Glancing in his mirror, Lucifer was gratified to see the angel being apprehended by the police. There was a certain, pleasing irony in that. He watched as they hauled him across the front of the car.
‘Farewell, guardian angel,’ he thought. ‘The witness is mine.’
The chorus sang victorious.
*
Steve watched despairingly as the van turned left onto the dual carriageway heading east. One of the police still held him down while the other sat half inside the car, the police radio in his hand.
‘Relax,’ said the policeman holding him. ‘We’re just checking to see if we’ve run into you before.’
Steve closed his eyes in the face of utter defeat.
‘Psimon,’ he thought. ‘Oh God, Psimon…’
The policeman in the car was waiting for a reply.
‘That’s right,’ Steve heard him say. ‘Brennus… Steven Brennus, 70, Court Farm Road.’
‘What is it?’ asked his colleague at the unusual delay.
The policeman in the car did not answer at first. He held up his hand, listening. Then his eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open. His face flushed visibly as he hung up the radio and stepped out of the car.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ asked the policeman holding Steve. ‘Has he got a record?’
‘No,’ said the other, reaching into his pocket for the key to the handcuffs. ‘He’s got immunity… Class A Transactional Immunity.’
The policemen’s demeanour had changed completely; ‘all possible assistance’ was the term they had used. Now they quickly helped him manhandle the bike down the grassy bank and back onto the road. It took several attempts to clear the carburettor and get it started but finally it spluttered and coughed its way back into life. Steve revved the engine as it found its feral voice.
‘Is there anything else we can do?’ asked the policemen over the noise.
‘Yes,’ said Steve as he turned the bike in the direction of the roundabout. ‘You can put out an alert for a black Mercedes van.’
The policemen nodded.
‘And then,’ said Steve as the Kawasaki sent a hail of gravel flying against the police car. ‘You can stay the fuck out of my way.’
The massive bike powered away as Steve took up the chase once more. The van had vanished but the dual carriageway was a long straight road and…
If he were lucky…
And if he were quick…
He might yet still find his friend.
Chapter 30
‘How long had it been?’ thought Steve. ‘Four minutes… five?’
It did not sound like much but on a fast road like this that could be four or five miles at least.
‘How far to the next junction?’
He was not exactly sure. All he knew was that the junctions were few and far between. The only things he passed were small private side roads leading to big houses, farms and there was one sign for a scrap-metal yard and tip. Some of these smaller roads were to the left and some to the right with short filter-lanes allowing would-be users to cross the other side of the dual carriageway.
Steve flicked glances left and right as he past each driveway but they were dark and unlit and there was no sign of the van.
He blazed down the road doing upwards of ninety miles-an-hour. He streaked past the other vehicles, the cold wind tearing at his clothes and hair but he did not feel the cold as he tried to control his mounting anxiety.
‘Where are you? Where are you?’
The road climbed a small rise and Steve remembered that the first junction lay a mile or so beyond. If he had not found the van by then which road would he take? How would he decide? He shut away the doubts and screamed up the hill. And when he reached the top his spirits rose.
The traffic had come to a standstill, queuing all the way up to the junction almost a mile ahead. Nothing that had come through here in the last twenty minutes had passed through this jam. The van must still be there.
Steve sped down the long slope and picked his way through the standing traffic, searching all the while for sight of the black Mercedes van.
The first quarter mile… nothing.
Halfway through and still no sign.
Steve’s heart felt like a heavy lump of stone as he reached the end of the traffic jam.
The van was not there.
‘I’ve lost him,’ thought Steve. ‘Oh God, I’ve lost him.’
The bike idled impatiently as Steve sat astride it in the middle of the road. Cars honked at him but he did not hear them. He was fighting to keep despair at bay.
‘Where did he go? Where the hell did he go?’
Steve had definitely seen the van come onto the dual carriageway. So where was it now?
‘He must have turned off?’ concluded Steve.
That was the only answer. The killer must have turned down one of the private side roads. But which one? There was no way of knowing and it was foolish to try and guess.
Steve would have to check them all.
*
Lucifer would waste no time with the witness. The light of providence shone upon him. The sudden appearance of the guardian angel proved it so. He had thwarted the angel but still he must act quickly. There would be no mistakes tonight.
He locked the van in the barn, carried the witness into the chapel and laid him at the foot of the altar. He took the short-bladed fist-dagger from the altar and cut off his clothes. Then, leaving the witness naked on the floor he went to change.
When he returned the witness was starting to come round, shivering and moaning round the wire gag in his mouth.
Lucifer stood over him and began to pray.
*
Steve crossed the central reservation through one of the gaps reserved for emergency vehicles. Now heading back the way he had come he pushed the bike as fast as it would go. The first turn-off was just back over the rise, on this side of the road; he would be there in less than a minute.
‘Private: No Entry,’ the sign read but Steve ignored it. He turned onto the rough track and switched the bike’s headlamp to full beam illuminating the twisting way ahead. The potholed track continued for perhaps two hundred metres to an old cottage abandoned long ago. However, enclosing the cottage and the surrounding area was a high chain-link fence. The area inside had been cleared and covered with gravel and was filled with numerous large metal containers.
Steve stopped in a wide puddle outside the heavy gate. A dog started barking and two big Alsatians loped into view barking aggressively through the wire. The sign on the gate read, No Tipping / Keep Out and Steve was not inclined to go any further. The gate did not appear to have been opened recently and there was nowhere else for a van to go. He manoeuvred the bike round and headed back to the road.
*
Psimon opened his eyes to a waking nightmare.
The killer loomed above him, the tall dark youth from his childhood, the stranger from the church, the constant terror of his dreams and waking hours too.
He was here.
He was real.
And Psimon was at his mercy.
*
Lucifer concluded his opening prayer and lowered his upturned hands. The witness had awakened; he could feel his eyes upon him. He looked down and the chorus rose up in fervent harmony. This was what he lived for. To humble such as he.
*
Psimon could not comprehend the lack of humanity in those dead black eyes. His mind was blinded by the dark light of evil before him. Shrinking back against the hard stone floor he tried to cry out but found that he could not.
*
Lucifer smiled at the fear in the witness’s eyes.
‘So,’ he thought. ‘Not so formidable after all. Not so strong as we had thought.’
He turned his back on the witness and crossed to the wall of the chapel, to a wooden stand where he kept the rod and the staff. The witness would be quickly humbled. He would confess his sins, he would be cleansed, and he would die. Lucifer would take the breath of life from his lungs and dump his body in the ground, like so much rancid meat.
*
Psimon tried to squirm away as the killer returned, arching his body like a worm. But the killer grabbed his legs and hooked his ankles over the end of one of the short pews. Psimon was left with just his bare shoulders against the stone; his hands were tied securely behind his back. Naked and freezing he felt horribly vulnerable and exposed. He watched as the killer lifted two long staves. One a brass crosier and one a wooden shaft that might once have held a cross. Both were battered and stained. The killer raised the staves and began to speak.
‘Yea, as you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, you will fear my anger. For I am there with the rod and the staff. With the rod and the staff I humble thee.’
The killer’s voice was deep and guttural and possessed of a horrible melodic quality. And as he ended his short perversion of scripture he brought the staves down on Psimon’s naked form.
Psimon screamed as the thick brass rod smashed into his shins, the wooden shaft whacking down against his unprotected feet. He stared up with utter panic in his eyes. He could not move; he could not twist away. Over the years he had felt the torture again and again but now he was here in the chapel of night, and in reality the pain was far, far worse. The rod and the staff they rose and fell again… and again... and again.
And Psimon screamed.
*
Steve had checked a farm and a track that led to a disused electricity substation. Now he followed another private road that was sign-posted ‘Private: Access Only’ but a vehicle had driven down this track recently. The splashes from the puddles along the way were still wet and shining in the Kawasaki’s headlamp. Steve wondered if this were the place.
God, he hoped it was!
He followed the track round a broad curve and came upon a large house with two big cars parked upon the gravel drive. One an expensive-looking Audi and the other a Range Rover still wet from its splashing through the puddles on the track.
The front door of the house opened, light spilled out and several well-dressed adults emerged.
‘No,’ said one of the men. ‘No trouble at all.’
‘Most people end up at the substation, next turn down,’ said a woman coming to help carry the bags from the back of the Range Rover.
Steve ground to a halt in the gravel.
The people turned to look at him, a dour looking man riding a big motorbike, no helmet and a face of fury.
‘Can I help you?’ asked one of the men taking a step towards Steve.
Steve ground his teeth and let out an animal growl.
‘No,’ was all he said. And with that he spun the bike round and headed back to the main road.
‘Oh, God,’ he thought as he pulled back onto the dual carriageway. ‘How long has it been?’
It must be forty minutes now since he had last seen the van, maybe more. The killer could be anywhere. Steve was losing hope. He turned onto another private road with a sign saying Dryden Farm. The track rose up slightly and Steve could see the lights of farm buildings through the trees. It looked homely and peaceful but Steve could not afford to pass it by. He tore up the track, turned into the yard and almost collided with a t
ractor reversing out of a barn. The bike slid sideways on a slick of mud and slurry and Steve careered into a row of aluminium feeding troughs.
The elderly farmer climbed out of the tractor and hurried over to Steve.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t see you there… you came in pretty fast.’
Steve could not hide his disappointment and frustration. He was struggling to keep the bike upright in the slippery yard.
‘Easy there,’ said the farmer. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
Steve felt the bike steady as the farmer grabbed the pillion bars behind the seat. He pulled it backwards allowing Steve to steer the bike away from the feeding troughs.
‘You lost?’ asked the farmer warily when he saw the expression on Steve’s face.
‘I’m looking for a friend of mine,’ said Steve as he tried to turn the bike around.
‘Oh?’ said the farmer.
‘He’s in a black Mercedes van,’ said Steve.
The farmer paused for a second, thinking.
Steve drew slowly forward not wanting to accelerate too quickly on such a slippery surface. He was almost back on the road where the bike’s tyres could find some purchase and speed him away.
‘The Harper boy drives a black van,’ said the farmer and Steve came to a lurching halt. ‘Though I’ve never known him have a friend.’
Steve just stared at the farmer, his heart suddenly pounding excitedly in his chest.
‘The Harper boy?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said the farmer. ‘Is that who you mean?’
‘Big guy,’ said Steve. ‘Dark hair.’
‘Bloody massive, more like,’ said the farmer. ‘Aye, that’s the fella.’
‘So I’ve come up the wrong track?’ said Steve, trying not to sound too desperate for information.
‘Yep,’ said the farmer. ‘You need to get back on the main road and turn left. Go up to the roundabout and come back down on the other side of the road. It’ll be the third turning on your left, big pylon by the drive. The house is set back some way from the road. Grim place now,’ he rambled on. ‘Not what it was when Mr Harper was around. Mind you he was an odd one too,’ he gave Steve a knowing look. ‘Bible basher if you know what I mean…’
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