The Killing Games

by Antony J Woodward

  He wheeled closer and he saw Sam’s bruised eye leak a bloodied tear.

  “Pease,” Sam managed to speak.

  “You see Sam, I was the one responsible for Jason’s death. He was arguing with me, and Aden stepped in to protect me. But he didn’t understand why Jason was angry with me… He didn’t know that I’d just told Jason that it was me who outed his secrets. Didn’t know that I was the one who orchestrated the exposing of his secret love affair with Jon Clemmons. That I was the one who destroyed the golden child, the best of all the Le Bonts…”

  “…and I know where Jon Clemmons is. I have done for weeks, but you were so interested in dominating me that I never felt like telling you. Look at how that turned out…” Chris leant forward and he pressed a finger into the open gash on Sam’s arm, it made Sam cry in agony.

  It was a little satisfying but Chris had to be careful he didn’t let himself get carried away. Sam didn’t deserve to die and be excused from the pain and torture he was destined to endure. “…And you could call it fate that I was the one who killed Damian.”

  “I didn’t know who the fuck he was, he was just some asshole who abducted Pierre. The first guy, no - the first person, I have ever loved. I killed him, your pathetic fag-hating brother, to protect Pierre. It was only after he was dead that I learnt who he was… and your good friend Detective Dubious knew I did it, figured it out. The one you thought had your back…”

  Chris took a deep breath, he wasn’t sure why he was telling Sam all this. Was it because he needed to say it, or because he felt Sam needed to hear it? He didn’t know.

  “You see, you was right about me. I’m not like all the others. I killed my own father, put a gun up to his head and shot his brains out. Because he left me, to a fate worse than death. To a loveless mother who hollowed me out.”

  The tears welled up again, but it somehow felt cathartic.

  “So you killing Pierre, that is actually the worst thing anybody has done to me… And I do want to kill you. I want to tear you a-fucking-part but I won’t. Because this is so much more satisfying…” he gestured to the dissection and amputated limbs, “and when they’ve finished with you, they’ll put your useless body in a vat of acid and you’ll just disappear. Like you never existed… Because they’re already forgetting about you, the last of the Le Bonts. Not that there was much left to redeem… Everything you worked hard for, your fucking promotion… Gone. Because you got greedy, because you tried to control me. But you didn’t ever figure out quite who I was…” Chris felt he was rambling now, he took a deep breath and shut up.

  “I buried Pierre today, but your pain isn’t over yet.” he stood.

  “Pease,” Sam called to him. A fresh blood-tear seeped out from the swollen eye.

  “Take care Le Bont,” Chris pushed the stool back into the corner he collected it from. “Maybe I’ll see you in Hell…”

  And with that Chris slipped away.

  Sam cried out an unintelligible moan, but Chris didn’t care. He slipped up those stairs and felt his cold hard shell slipping back on over his skin. He pulled the little handle that Jacqui had illustrated and he exited back into the house.

  He slid the panel shut, leaving Sam to the torture Pierre’s parents had every right to.

  He hoped that it might be a long while before he died yet…

  --------------------------------------------

  Jean Dubois shook Don Brassard’s hand and expressed his condolences. He saw Chris appear out of the corner of his eye, the kid had shaved half of his head. It was an interesting look, a homage no doubt. Jean stepped to the side and let another visitor offer their condolences to the man who had born the terrible tragedy of burying his own son. He intersected into Chris’ path, stopping him before he reached the stairs. The kid’s green eyes burnt up at him, there was a cold fire in his eyes that only came from the most profound of grief. They didn’t speak, not that they had reason to.

  Though Jean was convinced in time they would cross paths again, right now he had only one purpose. He handed Chris a little folded note, bowed his head “My condolences on your loss,” and turned to leave. Chris watched him meld into the throng of strangers.

  Chris felt a sort of curious kinship with the detective, but only because he had been there when Pierre died. He had been the one who had almost forced Sam to keep his word. He had been the one who had intervened and rescued Pierre when Chris couldn’t. The one who had honour and done the right thing.

  His impression of the dirty detective had softened, yet he still resented that his leash around Samuel Le Bont hadn’t been tight enough to prevent the tragedy.

  He glanced to the note, he unfolded it right here in the masses that were celebrating Pierre’s short life. It read “I hope you reconsider your potential, here’s that address” and it went on to give an address. He was pleased that the detective had found her, he planned on paying her a rather special visit shortly. It was a nice gift and something for him to sharpen his mood on.

  He climbed the stairs leaving the strangers to their half-hearted mourning and sometimes sincere condolences. He couldn’t stomach it a moment longer, he yearned for the quiet of Pierre’s room.

  “Chris,” it was Don, he stopped and turned. “You stay as long as you need,”

  Chris felt a little smile raise to his lips, he nodded gratefully and then he carried on up the stairs. Pierre’s father was a good man, if only Chris’ had been the same…

  Jean was already outside and he was pressing a cigarette to his lips. What a messy few weeks… He sparked it up, took a good long drag and headed down towards his car.

  Terrible business that the young lad had died, and if Jean was being entirely honest about it he did feel a little guilty. He had chosen Sam, had groomed him and repeatedly forgiven his indiscretions and it had cost young Pierre’s life. But were they his mistakes to regret?

  He ultimately hadn’t been responsible for all of Sam’s actions…

  Still…

  He reached his car and looked up to the house. Such a beautiful villa, elegant and tasteful. He delayed climbing into the car, instead he leant against it and smoked his cigarette. He idly watched the funeral attendees slowly leave. Dom, the infamous Jackal, shook their hands and exemplified a man capable of putting on a brave face. If you hadn’t have known better you would never have guessed he buried his dead son today.

  In a short space of time the status quo had changed in this quiet little town. A dead serial killer, a violent and twisted fight for the drug-scene and a terrible tragedy. Jean spotted a powerful head of the Parisian mafia leave the Brassard house, the Jackal had some very powerful friends in very high places. That boded rather well for the young grief stricken boy he’d taken under his wing. As long as Chris was under the Jackal’s care he was safe, he was safer than safe. He’d already heard through the grapevine that the Jackal had put a block on the contract over Chris’ head. There wouldn’t be anymore hitmen after the kid now, and that would be a good thing. It would give him chance to grow. And grow he most certainly would.

  As horrible as it was Jean suspected that Pierre’s unfortunate death would have a profound impact upon Chris and would shape him into something quite mesmerising. He hoped he would be around to mould that potential when the time came. For now, he knew he needed to give the kid space.

  Another important Parisian gangster emerged from the house. The Jackal was so renowned that even the mafia were paying their respects. Jean’s thoughts turned to Samuel, he wondered where he was. He knew he’d ran, but had he got away? The Jackal would be out for blood and a fate worse than death would be waiting for Samuel Le Bont if he didn’t manage to stay out of his reach.

  A little cold something caught him by surprise, he touched his cheek. It was a snowflake, and all at once the sky released the softest of snow flurries down upon the town. Jean held out his free hand and caught them. It was unusual to have snow this time of year, but perhaps it was symbolic?

  He glanced
at an upstairs windows of the villa, it was going to be a very cold winter in Melun.

  EPILOGUE:

  The man was fidgeting in the little study. His foot twitching uncontrollably as he waited impatiently. What was taking him so long? He scanned the small little room once more. Stained wooden panels, green leather furniture, thick and numerous bookshelves - they all painted a different atmosphere from what he expected. Away from the hustle and bustle of London city, he felt cocooned in here. But this wasn’t any ordinary lawyers firm, and his business here wasn’t ordinary. He’d been summoned and the gold envelope in his hand felt heavy. The man, in his late forties, was dressed smartly as his line of work dictated so. A sharp and tailored grey suit complimented his black hair that had a grey stripe running through it. He had been compared to Colin Firth on the odd occasion, but the man was convinced that was because of his very proper accent. A very proper accent he had spent a long time mastering. He was originally Italian, but he had moved here a little while ago. Now he was so impeccably good at his English impersonation he had pretty much lost his Italian heritage. There had been one hell of a plan to get to this point in his life and he‘d screwed over many people in his path. The end goal was now in sight, it was all starting to come together and he was beginning to worry this summoning was about to throw a spanner in the works.

  He closed his eyes, what was it that his wife said? “All comes right, have faith…” but it was hard to have faith when so much hung on this. The little recollection of his wife grew in his mind, eventually absorbing his thoughts. He missed her greatly, but he was unable to reach her. He had to play along for a bit longer, present as the gay man and carry on in this complicated games of lies for just a little longer. His heart ached for her however, and he couldn’t wait for it all to be over and him to be able to touch her once more. He fantasised about kissing her, about fucking her. He longed for the taste of her tongue, her tits and her pussy too. He enjoyed the taste of her pussy, it was a taste like no other girl before. He never did understand men who didn’t. There was something about the soft metallic tang and then hearing her moan.

  He shook the thoughts, now was not the time to spring a boner. He checked his iWatch, the appointment was running late. He had been on time, in fact he had been early.

  There was not a single soul in this study, the receptionist was awaiting out in the hall. She was typing away on an old mechanical keyboard and the noise was alien in this day and age of touchscreen-everything.

  He adjusted position again, his pants were bunching too tight and his testicles had stuck to one leg. He tried to adjust the testicle, but it was to no avail. He stood and used his hand to pluck it through the fabric. Cosmic timing laughed at him when the door opened and the person he’d been waiting for greeted him. “Mr Blushitt!”

  Instantly Blushitt dropped his attempt to rectify his wayward testicle, he flushed red and went to shake the man’s hand. The man was short, old and expensively dressed. He was wearing a suit that had been custom tailored by a very important Italian designer. He was balding, but had grown a short beard to compensate. He wore little half-moon spectacles that were perched on the end of his nose.

  “You wanted to see me?” Blushitt asked as the man mirrored his handshake with a good firm grip.

  “Ah yes, do come in.” and the little man invited him into the office. You wouldn’t have conjured the office as the appropriate place to conduct the business the little man did. It was orderly, but crammed with larges tomes and dusty archives. A large globe sat in the corner, but it wasn’t a secret switch for a secret lair. It probably housed a secret bottle of scotch, but that was the sum of it. The office felt very quintessentially English, it even smelled strongly of tea.

  “Mind for a cup of tea Mr Blushitt?”

  “William please, and yes that would be lovely,” William knew it was impolite to decline, he took the seat offered to him. The little man sat on the other side of the desk, he then poured two cups of tea into white pretty china cups.

  “You sent me this,” William placed the gold envelope on the desk. He was desperate to know why he had been summoned to the office. He had never been summoned before, it didn’t bode well. It made him feel sick… Had there been a complication?

  The little man didn’t answer, he slid a cup across the desk towards him.

  “We have done a lot of business over the years,” the little man sighed.

  “Yes we have, we’ve had a very fruitful working relationship…” where was the old man going with this?

  “Indeed we have, unfortunately we have ran into an issue that we cannot solve,” the little man slid his spectacles up his nose and looked intently at William, “I’m afraid we are unable to fulfil the contract,”

  “What? Why?”

  “I can assure you this is most unprecedented, but I’m afraid I’m having to revoke the contract,” the little old man sipped at his tea. He was calm and composed.

  “Why?” William stammered. What the hell?

  “The money will be returned to the same off-shore account you paid from, the contract will be null and void…”

  “Why goddamit? Why is it being revoked?” now Blushitt was getting angry and flustered. This was terrible news. He was inches away from his end goal, he nearly had full control of the empire he so desperately craved.

  The little man didn’t appreciate being yelled at, he took a small breath and waited for Mr Blushitt to calm back down. When he was satisfied that he had, he began to speak “Have you heard of the Jackal Mr Blushitt?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “He’s the most feared of all assassins, with good reason. He is the assassin you would send to kill the Devil… it could be argued that he has done that on numerous occasions,”

  “What’s that got to do with my contract?”

  “It seems that the Jackal has placed a block on the contract, a rarely evoked counter-contract that states anyone who tries for…” the little man leant up and reminded himself of the name on the contract laid out beside him, “Christopher Bourgh’s life will be killed themselves, as you can understand this makes the contract unavailable to be fulfilled,”

  “Why can’t someone just kill the Jackal?”

  The little man chortled, the small laugh came from the very depths of him. “Why Mr Blushitt, I assure you nobody would want to take a contract to kill the Jackal. They would be dead before they even knew it.”

  “So my contract is null and void…” Blushitt sighed in defeat.

  “I’m afraid so, while Master Bourgh is in the care of the Jackal, there can be no contract…”

  “Shit…” Blushitt slammed his fists on the table. “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “I’m afraid not Sir, I suggest that should you want Master Bourgh to die that you do it yourself,” though the little man knew Blushitt was too posh for such a thing. He had never got his hands dirty, he was too used to buying what he wanted.

  “Will he know who placed the contract?”

  “I assure you your identity will be protected, you will remain anonymous,”

  Blushitt stood sharply, he exited the room suddenly needing air. He barrelled through doors until he reached the smog of London. He landed on the pavement, fell to his knees and began panting.

  Shit. Shit. Shit!

  Not when he was this close!

  Why hadn’t the little shit just died along with his mother? Then all the empire would be his, he punched the pavement angrily. For a moment he considered what it would take to kill the little sonofabitch himself, but then he reminded himself he knew nothing about death.

  He slowly stood up oblivious to the judging glances from his fellow Londoners.

  What he needed was someone who would want to kill Christopher Bourgh, surely there was someone in this world who would want that? He was bound to have made a few enemies, especially if he was anything like his mother. Blushitt collected himself together and began to head off.

  That was his first port
of call, he’d probe Christopher Bourgh’s life and find out if there was anyone who might just want to kill him with the right incentive.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  One of my own criticisms, which wasn’t shared with all those who read “The Mendacity Games”, was the depth of the character Christopher Bourgh. He was an interesting vehicle for the reader and entertaining for sure, but he wasn’t particularly deep. He was an embodiment of a fantasy, the victim inverted.

  So, approaching this sequel, I wanted to fix that. I had to dive deep into Chris’ psyche and flesh him out. While also make him a somewhat likeable and interesting character, a hard task when he’s fundamentally a very dislikeable character. It wasn’t a conscious decision to improve Chris’ image by placing him amongst the morally corrupt, but definitely more to paint the world as a much darker and shittier place.

  The most striking difference between the two books is the structure of it. The first book was structured in such a way you was in for a ride. It was a roller coaster and every page took you one step closer to the end, the result of all Chris‘ planning and schemes. Which is why the chapters were backwards, because I wanted that pressure of counting down ever closer to the “endgame”.

  I couldn’t regurgitate the same stylings, and structure, for the sequel. Importantly I needed to write something different, yet try to keep the spirit of it alive. Which was scheming and villainy. Somewhere in amongst this game of secrets and murder is an allegory to growing up. A spiritual journey for the protagonist.

  I tried to take the tropes, invert them and just run with it, I wanted Chris to grow up and go to college - but I wanted Chris to understand he wasn‘t the biggest fish in the pond anymore. I wanted him to fall in with the bad crowd, to fall in love with someone.