The Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime Volume 8

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “We cannae take it, Rab,” Billy says. “Mind whit the Sergeant tell’t us.”

  “I just want tae haud it,” I tell him. I reach in and take haud ay it carefully with both hands, but it doesnae lift away. It’s like it’s connected tae somethin’ underneath, but I can tell there’s some give in it, so I try giein’ it a wee twist. It turns aboot ninety degrees courtesy of a flick o’ the wrist, at which point the pair ay us nearly hit the ceilin’, ’cause there’s a grindin’ noise at oor backs and we turn roon tae see that the back ay the fireplace has rolled away.

  “It’s a secret passage,” Billy says. “I read aboot these. Big auld hooses hud them fae back in the times when they might get invaded.”

  I look into the passage, expecting darkness, but see a flickerin’ light, dancin’ aboot like it must be comin’ fae a fire. Me and Billy looks at each other. We baith know we’re shitin’ oorsels, but we baith know there’s no way we’re no’ checkin’ oot whatever’s doon this passage.

  We leave the candles because there’s just aboot enough light, and we don’t want tae gie oorsels away too soon if it turns oot there’s somebody doon there. I go first. I duck doon tae get under the mantelpiece, but the passage is big enough for us tae staun upright once I’m on the other side. It only goes three or four yards and then there’s a staircase, a tight spiral number. I haud on tae the walls as I go doon, so’s my footsteps are light and quiet. I stop haufway doon and put a hand oot tae stop Billy an’ aw, because we can hear a voice. It’s a man talkin’, except it’s almost like he’s singin’, like a priest giein’ it that high-and-mighty patter. Then we hear that sound again, and Billy was right: it is loads ay people aw at once, chantin’ a reply tae whatever the man’s said.

  Queer, queer stuff, I’m thinkin’. Occult. Black magic.

  Still, I find masel creepin’ doon the rest ay the stairs. I move slow as death as I get to the bottom, and crouch in close tae the wall tae stay oot ay sight. Naebody sees us, ’cause they’re aw facin’ forwards away fae us in this long underground hall, kinda like a chapel but wi’ nae windaes. It’s lit wi’ burnin’ torches alang baith walls, a stone table – I suppose you’d cry it an altar – at the far end, wi’ wan o’ yon pentagrams painted on the wall behind it. There’s aboot two dozen folk, aw wearin’ these big black hooded robes, except for two ay them at the altar: the bloke that’s giein’ it the priest patter, who’s in red, and a lassie, no’ much aulder than us, in white, wi’ a gag roon her mooth. She looks dazed, totally oot ay it. Billy crouches doon next tae us. We don’t look at each other ’cause we cannae take oor eyes aff what’s happenin’ at the front.

  The boy in the red robe, who must be the magician that owns the joint, gies a nod, and two of the congregation come forward and lift the lassie. It’s only when they dae this that I can see her hands are tied behind her back and her feet are tied together at her ankles. They place her doon on the altar and then drape a big white sheet over her, coverin’ her fae heid tae toe. Then the boy in red starts chantin’ again, and pulls this huge dagger oot fae his robe. He hauds it above his heid, and everythin’ goes totally still, totally quiet. Ye can hear the cracklin’ ay the flames aw roon the hall. Then the congregation come oot wi’ that rumblin’ chant again, and he plunges the dagger doon intae the sheet.

  There’s mair silence, and I feel like time’s staunin’ still for a moment; like when it starts again this’ll no’ be true. Then I see the red startin’ tae seep across the white sheet, and a second later it’s drippin’ aff the altar ontae the flair.

  “Aw Jesus,” I says. I hears masel sayin’ it afore I know whit I’m daein’, an’ by that time it’s too late.

  Me and Billy turns and scrambles back up the stair as fast as, but when we get tae the top, it’s just blackness we can see. The fireplace has closed over again. We see the orange flickerin’ ay torches and hear footsteps comin’ up the stairs, the two ay us slumped doon against a wall, haudin’ on tae each other. Two men approach, then stop a few feet away, which is when wan ay them pulls his hood back.

  “Evening boys. We’ve been expecting you,” he says. The fuckin’ Sergeant.

  “I assume you took steps to make sure nobody knew where you were going tonight,” he goes on. I remember the train, the guard, the bikes, the return ticket in my trooser pocket. The Sergeant smiles. “Knew you wouldn’t let us down. What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh.”

  Four more blokes come up tae lend a hand. They tie oor hauns and feet, same as the lassie, and huckle us back doon the stair tae the hall.

  “Two more sacrifices, Master,” the Sergeant shouts oot tae the boy in red. “As promised.”

  “Are they virgins?” the Master says.

  “Come on. Would anybody shag this pair?”

  The master laughs and says: “Bring them forward.”

  We get carried, lyin’ on oor backs, by two guys each, and it’s as we pass down the centre of the hall that we see the faces peerin’ in.It’s aw folk fae the village. Folk we know, folk we’ve stolen from. I think aboot ma uncle and his blethers aboot secret gatherings. Auld bastard never knew the hauf ay it.

  “This one first,” the Master says, and they lie me doon on the altar, which is still damp wi’ blood. I feel it soakin’ intae ma troosers as the boy starts chantin’ again and a fresh white sheet comes doon tae cover me.

  I don’t know whether there was ether on it, or chloroform, or maybe it was just fear, but that was the last thing I saw, ’cause I passed oot aboot two seconds later.

  So.

  Ye don’t need many brains tae work oot what happened next, dae ye? Aye, a lesson was taught. A wise and skilled man, that magician, for he was the man in charge, the village in his thrall, willingly daein’ what he told them.

  Suffice it to say, that was two wee scrotes who never broke intae another hoose, and the same’ll be true of you, pal.

  I can see fae that look in your eye that you’re sceptical aboot this. Maybe you don’t believe you’re no’ gaunny reoffend. Nae changin’ your nature, eh? What’s bred in the bone, will not out of the flesh. Or maybe you don’t believe my story?

  Aye, that’s a fair shout. I didnae tell the whole truth. The story’s nae lie, but I changed the perspective a wee bit, for dramatic effect. You see, if you werenae so blissfully oblivious of whose hoose you happen tae be screwin’ on any given night, you might have noticed fae the doorplate that my name’s no Rab. I wasnae wan ay the burglars.

  I was the Sergeant.

  I’m retired noo, obviously, but I still perform certain services in the village. We’re a close-knit community, ye could say. So I ought to let you know, when you heard me on the phone earlier, sayin’ I’d caught a burglar and tae come roon soon as, it wasnae 999 I dialled. Mair like 666, if you catch my drift. ’Cause, let’s face it, naebody knows you’re here, dae they?

  Are you a virgin, by the way?

  Aye, right.

  Doesnae matter really. Either way, you’re well fucked noo.

  ***

  Aye, good evening, officer, thanks for coming. He’s through there. Sorry aboot the whiff. I think you could call that the smell of restorative justice.

  Go easy on him. I’ve a strong feelin’ he’s aboot tae change his ways. A magical transformation, you could cry it.

  How do I know? Personal experience, officer. Personal experience.

  HARD ROCK

  Gerard Brennan

  THE SWEET SCENT of groupie sex hung in the air. I grabbed the tequila bottle by the neck and gulped down a mouthful. Another hotel room. They’d all merged into one. Especially since our manager had decided not to book us into five-star penthouses. He said the savings would buy us better equipment, but I was still battering out licks on the same old Les Paul I’d started out our first six-month tour with. We’d just played the last set. No more shows. No more hotel rooms. And no more groupies. Except this last one.

  Buck-naked and handcuffed to the headboard, my last fuck of the tour smiled
up at me. I stood at the foot of the bed, not wearing much more myself – just my silk boxer shorts and a smug smile. Her body was at my mercy. Five minutes she’d known me, but she trusted this much. I’d have passed it off as typical groupie dumb-bitch behaviour, but this one didn’t strike me as the usual awestruck bimbo. She wasn’t after a story to tell her friends. She wanted to give me a story to tell. I plonked my tequila bottle back down on the dressing table. She writhed a little on the crumpled sheets, just for show.

  “You ready to go again, rockstar?”

  “I need another minute.” I smiled to myself. “Just lie there and wait for me.” Like she’d a choice.

  “Oh, you’re so mean, Joey D. Leaving me all chained up like this. I need some attention.”

  “What are you, some kind of nympho? I already fucked you twice.”

  “They were intro-fucks. Now that we’ve got to know each other, we can really go wild.”

  I shook my head, but my dick twitched in my boxer shorts. She was something to look at, all right. Her golden brown skin and black shock of thick curly hair spoke of Latin blood, but her stunning green eyes had an Asian slant. Hawaiian, maybe? Certainly a world apart from the flame-haired cailíní I’d pursued in my youth. Forget those frigid Irish chicks. I’d moved on to better things. I ran my fingers through my mane, a match for hers in length, colour and volume. Rock and Roll, baby.

  “Maybe a line or two of coke will get you going?” she said.

  Seemed like a good idea. I scooped the baggie and my little pewter straw from the round table in the corner of the room. I held it out to her.

  “Want some?”

  “No, Joey. I want you.” I poured some snow on the table. “Wait, Joey! Why would you want to snort off that old thing? Lay some of that powder on me, why don’t you?”

  “Party on, my lady.”

  She giggled. “My lady. What are you, a knight?”

  I ignored the wisecrack. She’d told me her name earlier, but I didn’t care about that shit. No need for names in this business. Something you learned pretty quickly on the road.

  I powdered her from her tits to her trimmed pubes and got to work like a Dyson. She giggled as I disappeared the coke, working from the top down. I didn’t get it all. Got distracted by that musky scent from between her muscled thighs. I tossed the straw over my shoulder and it pinged as it bounced off the wall. She raised her hips to meet my tongue, purring like a kitty cat.

  When I’d had my fill, I crawled up her body, licking patches of the missed coke off her skin on the way. My senses hummed. As we kissed, she hooked her toes into the waistband of my shorts and slid them down to my ankles. I reached out to the bedside cabinet for a condom. I always kept them next to the Gideon Bible. I’m not sure whether or not I meant it as an insult. I bagged Little Joey and guided him towards her.

  “Wait,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Let’s have a little more fun.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I was wearing a silk scarf. It’s on the floor by the door. Would you get it?”

  “Why?” I tapped the headboard. “You’re already tied up.”

  “I’ve something else in mind.”

  I wanted to fuck, but I humoured her. If she was into me wearing a white silk scarf it was no skin off my nose. So long as I got my hole. It’s something that’ll never change for me, but I can’t help feeling ridiculous when walking naked with a hard-on. What’s sexy about that? Worse still when it’s wrapped in a luminous green rubber. So I wasted no time. Dashing to the door and back, embarrassed by the wobble and sway of my dick, I fetched the scarf. Back on the bed, I started to put it on. She giggled.

  “It’s not for you, Joey. It’s for me.” I shrugged, and wrapped it around her elegant neck. “Tighter,” she said. I tugged on it a little. “Tighter.” I pulled a little harder. “Tighter, Joey! Tighter!”

  “What? You want me to fucking strangle you?”

  “Yes!”

  I froze. Was this chick for real? She stared me in the eye. “What? You never heard of erotic asphyxiation?”

  “Girl, I can’t even spell it.”

  “Oh, come on. You never dabbled in breath-control play? Baby, you haven’t lived.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hell, yeah. Joey, honey, you wouldn’t believe it. It makes you cum so hard.”

  “It makes you die.”

  “No, no. It’s breath-control. It reduces the oxygen flow to your brain to heighten the orgasm. But you release the pressure before going unconscious. You haven’t heard about this before? I thought you were a man of the world.”

  “Hey, I’ve been around, but most of my lays are happy with the old bang-bang. None of them ever complained either.”

  She pouted. “I’m not most lays.”

  I nodded. “Okay, baby. Let’s give this a go.” When you’re running on adrenaline, booze and cocaine, you’ll try anything.

  And I swear to God, as soon as I yanked on that scarf like I meant business, she became electric. I could almost feel static crackle between us as she bucked under me. I had to pull out after one short minute, not wanting to end the experience but knowing my limitations.

  “Oh, honey, don’t stop now.”

  Her voice was hoarse. Had I damaged her throat in such a short time? If so, she didn’t seem to mind. She was hungry for more.

  “You have to give me a minute. I’m ready to blow my load here.”

  “Put on another rubber. It might slow you down a little.” So I did. And she was right. I went a little longer this time, choking and releasing at steady intervals as I drilled her. But I stopped when her eyes began to stream.

  “Don’t stop yet.” This time, she barely managed a whisper.

  “We’re going too far,” I said.

  Again, that throat cancer whisper. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  And I wanted to go again. That feeling of power had me hooked. I hadn’t felt in control since the start of the tour, ruled by timetables, flight schedules and a fat-fuck manager. If she said she wasn’t done, who was I to argue? But first I went back to my tequila bottle. I was still too close to filling my doubled-up condoms.

  After four or five big shots of Mexican rocket fuel, I grabbed a handful of snow and pelted it at my handcuffed, kinky nympho. She smiled, and through puffy and reddened lids, her eyes glinted in the dull light.

  I leapt on to her, raising a fine white cloud, and we went at it even harder than before. I’d decided the third time was the charm. No more pulling out. Finish the job, roll up the scarf and unlock the cuffs. We’d pushed our luck far enough.

  And as I felt my own orgasm welling, I closed my eyes and continued to tighten and release the scarf every few seconds. The end came too soon. I sighed as I finally let go, then flopped on to my back beside her. I needed a cigarette.

  “Holy fuck, baby,” I said. “That blew my mind.”

  She didn’t reply. I figured her throat was too sore. I rolled on to my side to look her in the face. Check out her post-coital glow.

  “Hey, baby,” I said, a hand sneaking out to squeeze her tit.

  She didn’t respond. I nudged her a little. Then I stoked the raw skin on her neck, tentatively checking her pulse. Her head lolled in response to my touch.

  “Oh, no.”

  It was all I could think to say. She looked back at me with unseeing, blood-flecked eyes.

  She wasn’t glowing. She looked … Dead. “Oh, no.” Slowly, calmly, I got off the bed and went for my tequila. “Oh, no.”

  I took a slug. “Oh, no.” And another. “Oh … ” Another. “No.”

  I’m not sure how long I stood there, drinking tequila and staring at a dead groupie handcuffed to my bed, but eventually I snapped out of my daze. Something had to be done, but I was fucked if I knew what. There was nothing for it. I had to tell Larry. I used the phone on the bedside cabinet to call my manager’s room. As it rang, I looked at the Bible lying under
a smattering of condoms. I swallowed hard and averted my gaze.

  “Come on, Larry. Pick up the fucking phone.”

  “Fuck’s this?”

  “Larry! Man, I need to see you. Come up to my room, will you?”

  “Fuck’s this?”

  “It’s Joey D. Come on, man. I’m in room one-eighty-seven.”

  “Fuck you want?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. It’s important, okay?”

  “Fuck’s sake. Be there in a minute.”

  He hung up. I dropped the handset back in its cradle and sat on the edge of the bed. Then I remembered the dead chick. I jumped up and crossed the room, back to the tequila. I raised the bottle to my lips then lowered it without taking a drink. Enough already. I had to stop before I passed out. I lit a cigarette instead, flicking the ash on to the carpet rather than returning to the bedside cabinet for the ashtray. Just as I was trying to figure out what to do with the butt, the doorknob rattled.

  Larry’s voice cut through the wood. “Let me in, Joey.”

  I moved to the door, pausing at the bathroom to flick my cigarette butt into the sink. Larry bustled past me, bleary-eyed and wearing a white dressing gown. His thick, ginger chest hair looked even thicker against the white towelling. He scratched his fat ass as he squinted at me.

  “Jesus, kid. Put something on, will you?”

  Fuck! I was still naked. Mumbling an apology, I retrieved my shorts from the foot of the bed and pulled them on. With my modesty covered, I turned to Larry. He blinked rapidly as he tried to focus on the groupie.

  “Is she …?” he trailed off.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “I strangled her.”

  “What for?”

  “It was a sex thing, Larry.”

  Larry blinked at me now. “You sick fuck.”

  “It was her idea, man. I didn’t mean to kill her.”