The Flesh is Weak (P&R3)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Yes, Richards. Now you know.’

  ‘You’re telling me that your parents didn’t exist?’

  ‘According to Somerset House. When I had time, I planned to get back on to them because it’s obviously a mistake.’

  ‘That’s what activated MI6’s interest in you,’ Knight said. ‘The records would have been flagged Top Secret, and when you submitted your request to Somerset House for them to access the files, they would have contacted us.’

  ‘But why, what’s so special about my parents?’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I know. My boss, Sir Charles Lathbury, didn’t tell me anything else.’

  It was a shame he’d never find out now, Parish thought. Who were his parents? Why were their records classified Top Secret? Who the hell was he?

  A door opened. As light poured in, Parish screwed up his eyes. Slowly, he opened them to slits. Rick Murcer squatted in front of him wearing a dinner suit.

  ‘Hello, Parish, I think I owe you something.’ He hit Parish in the face with a clenched fist. Blood burst from his nose and trickled into his mouth.

  ‘You bastard,’ Richards shouted.

  Murcer gave a laugh. ‘Really Mary, there are children present.’

  ‘I wish you’d die.’

  ‘Ah sadly, it’s you that is going to die.’ He pushed his hand inside her blouse and squeezed her breast. ‘Now this is what I wanted.’

  She tried to wriggle away from him, but couldn’t. ‘Go to hell, scumbag.’

  He put his other hand between her legs. ‘You’ll be there waiting for me, Mary.’

  She twisted and squirmed, but it didn’t deter him. ‘Stop it, you bastard.’

  ‘After they’ve killed you, I think I’m going to have sex with your warm corpse.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Parish tried to spit a gobbit of blood at Murcer, but it merely ran down his cheek and into his left eye. ‘Get the fuck away from her, Murcer.’

  ‘And what will you do if I don’t?’ He hit Parish again with the back of his hand and laughed.

  Murcer stood up as two other men came in wearing dinner suits and began wheeling them towards the door. All five of the captives were suspended from a rail that was part of a metal framework with wheels and resembled a portable clothes rack found in shops. They were trussed and hung up like carcasses ready for slicing and dicing.

  ‘You’d better release us,’ Parish said. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘We know who you are, Parish,’ the man at the front of the rack said. ‘The only one we don’t know is the woman dressed in black, but we’ll find out who she is soon enough.’

  They were wheeled out into a huge room and positioned in front of a five-sided table with five men and women seated at each of the five sides.

  ‘Ah,’ a man said getting up from the table and coming to stand beside them. ‘Our special guests have arrived. Let me introduce you to Detective Inspector Jed Parish, Constable Mary Richards, Doctor Maurice Michelin... who are you, my dear?’

  ‘Alex Knight, MI6.’

  ‘Interesting! We’ll get to you in a little while and find out why you’re here exactly... And the boy is Gabe, the son of Detective Inspector Raymond Kowalski – fifth generation Polish immigrant.’

  ‘Why have you brought us here?’ Richards asked.

  ‘Because of your inquisitive nature, Constable.’

  ‘You won’t get away with it, you know,’ she said.

  The man laughed, and there was a ripple of laughter around the table. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been getting away with it for over twenty years, Constable. It was only the unfortunate discovery of one of the gravesites in Galleyhill Wood that has brought us to your attention and, of course, you to our attention. We’re going to have lunch now, and afterwards I’ll tell you a little bit about the Clan of Tubal Cain. Oh... I forgot to mention... lunch today is the reporter Mr Oliver Masterson.’ He laughed again, and sat down in the centre of one of the five sides.

  Male and female waiters wearing black and white appeared carrying steaming silver platters, tureens, jugs, breadbaskets, and a variety of different sized dishes.

  ‘What did he mean about Masterson, Sir?’ Richards whispered.

  ‘Use your imagination.’

  ‘Oh God, is that what they’re going to do to us?’

  ‘I would imagine so?’

  ‘So, that’s what it’s all about, Parish – cannibalism,’ Doc Michelin said. ‘They’ve abducted, killed, and eaten one child every year for the past twenty-two years. Now, they’re scoffing Masterson, and we’re next on the menu.’

  Gabe started crying.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, Doc,’ Parish said.

  ‘He would have found out sooner or later.’

  ‘What, you’re saying these sicko bastards are going to cook and eat us?’ Alex said.

  ‘You’re calling them sick,’ Richards said. ‘You’re the one who kills people for a living.’

  ‘But I don’t eat them.’

  ‘No, but you may as well do.’

  ‘Will you two stop arguing,’ Doc Michelin said. ‘As much as I like being wedged between two beautiful women, I’m not keen on being fought over.’

  ‘Do you really think I’m beautiful, Doc?’

  ‘Present swelling and bruising excluded, of course, Constable.’

  ‘Thank you, Doc.’ She turned to Parish. ‘What are we going to do, Sir?’

  ‘We’re all going to gnaw through your straps like mice. You can free us, and we’ll make a run for it.’

  ‘You’re being mean, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, stop asking stupid questions, Richards. If you hadn’t noticed, there’s nothing we can do except hang around. Anyone else got any brilliant ideas?’

  Nobody spoke.

  ***

  Lord Peter Kinsey stood up, a glass of port in his manicured hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen – a toast.’ He raised his glass. ‘To our newest Clan member from America, Mayor of Lake Webster in Massachusetts – Arnold Hoffmier.’

  ‘Mayor Arnold Hoffmier,’ the other Clan members chorused.

  Lord Kinsey took a long swallow of his glass of Warre’s 1987 Vintage Port, and the other Clan Members followed suit.

  He raised his glass again. ‘Another toast,’ he said his words sounding slurred. ‘To our honoured guests.’

  Everyone raised glasses towards the five people hung upside down from the metal framework. ‘To our honoured guests,’ they echoed Lord Kinsey.

  ‘It is not often that diners are able to toast their food in advance,’ Kinsey said to cheers and laughter. ‘But now it is time for the after-dinner entertainment.’

  At the verbal cue, five waiters wheeled out large containers like black plastic dustbins without lids and placed them underneath each person, but the waiters were dressed differently – they had rolled up their sleeves and donned light-blue plastic aprons – and in their right hands they held stainless steel bone saws. The whole charade resembled a synchronised performance.

  ‘The Clan of Tubal Cain,’ Lord Kinsey continued, ‘has been in existence since our founder and the ancestor of Cain first began the practise of consuming his enemies, and it has continued unabated since that time. Some people may look at us with disgust, but genetic studies have proven that all humans are now descended from cannibals...’

  ‘Here, here...’

  ‘...Once a year, on the anniversary of the formation of our Clan, we gather to consume human meat.’ A waiter filled up his glass, and he moved from the table to stand in front of his honoured guests. ‘You might wonder why we eat children, Inspector Parish? Well, adults generally are tough and stringy, although...’ He turned to the other diners. ‘...I think you’ll all agree that Masterson was unusually tender?’

  ‘Here, here...’ They all raised their glasses and drank.

  ‘Now don’t go formulating the wrong ideas about us, Inspector. We are not a group of crazies; we don’t worship Satan or any other ethereal deity; we simp
ly enjoy human flesh and are willing to pay for the privilege. Although we do use the pentagram as a Clan symbol, it is merely to reflect our belief in the five eternal elements of spirit, air, water, earth and fire. We are all Freemasons, but a very secret offshoot of Masonry.’ He took another drink of his vintage port and brushed a lock of blonde hair back from a tanned forehead. ‘Did you know that Tubal Cain was the first stonemason? No, but I’m sure you would have found out if we had left you to pursue us.’ He went to the table, helped himself to a Cuban cigar, snipped off the end, and lit it. ‘Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Inspector, but I think it’s time. Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that diners don’t like to hear their food screaming, so we’ll give you a little something to make things easier – for us.’ He laughed.

  A woman came out with five syringes on a silver tray.

  Lord Kinsey of Rotherhithe gave her a slight nod and she picked up the first syringe.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Do you think they’re really going to kill us, Sir?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it, Richards. I’ve racked my brain for a way out, but when we’re strung up like this there doesn’t seem to be any escape.’

  ‘It was nice knowing you two,’ Doc Michelin said.

  ‘And you, Doc,’ Parish replied. ‘We had some good lunches.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t talk about lunches, Parish.’

  Richards began crying and then choking.

  ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t start crying, Richards. You’ll find that because you’re hanging upside down all the runny snot that usually pours out of your nose will slither into your throat.’

  ‘That’s disgusting, Sir.’

  ‘Disgusting, but true.’

  ‘I want my dad,’ Gabe Kowalski said.

  ‘Yes, so do I Gabe. Your dad would be a welcome site about now, but I’m afraid he doesn’t even know where we are.’

  The woman injected the boy first, but as she turned round to take another syringe from the tray, a .338 Lapua Magnum LockBase B408 bullet entered her forehead and turned her brain to mincemeat. She collapsed in a heap in front of Doc Michelin who said, ‘Is this the cavalry, Parish?’

  Parish looked, but he couldn’t see anybody – he had no idea who it might be. ‘Let’s not get our hopes up too soon, Doc.

  As far as I know it’s not one of ours, and they might not stop at the bad guys.’

  ‘You’re a half empty type of guy then, Parish?’

  ‘I’m a realistic type of guy, Doc.’

  ***

  John Linton had heard all he needed to hear. These rich slimy bastards had not only killed his Amy, but they’d eaten her as well. The jury had deliberated and agreed on a guilty verdict, the judge had passed sentence, and now Staff Sergeant John Linton was conveniently on hand to carry out the executions.

  He shot the woman with the syringe in her hand first. Then, while the gunshot reverberated around the warehouse, he chambered another round and shot the blonde-haired man who’d done all the talking.

  It felt so good to be doing what he loved to do; what he’d been trained to do; and what he excelled at. He breathed in the cordite like a cocaine addict snorting lines of white gold, and felt rejuvenated, and on top of the world.

  The diners round the table were confused, and merely sat there as he picked them off one at a time. Eventually though, some of them realised that they were sitting ducks and tried to run for the exit, but John was as good at hitting moving targets as he was with stationery ones.

  The continuous explosive noise drowned out any screams, shouts, or pleas for mercy. There was no mercy in John Linton’s lexicon, or in his heart. This was justice – an eye for an eye, a life for a life. It was payback for the loss of a daughter, a wife, a career, and eight years of miserable non-existence.

  He’d have to count them, but he thought he’d killed all of the diners. There were waiters trying to escape, and another security guard was spraying an Uzi at him. He shot the guard, and a waiter who tried to pick up the Uzi. He waited, but it now seemed safe enough. He stood and made his way along the maintenance walkway to an internal ladder and climbed down it. Thick smoke hung everywhere like a morning mist. At the bottom of the ladder, he walked towards a line of thirteen waiters and chefs that had lined up against a wall with their hands up. He kicked each body unnecessarily as he passed it to make sure they were dead, but a bullet through the head usually did the trick.

  ‘Please don’t kill us,’ one of the female waitresses begged.

  Grabbing the Uzi hanging by its strap, he sprayed the whole line. They knew what they’d been serving – bastards. He checked all the other rooms, and found a man in a dinner suit called Middlemass who offered him half a million pounds to live. John shot him and took the money anyway.

  While he’d been lying on the maintenance walkway assembling the rifle and listening to the blonde-haired bastard spouting drivel about clans and stonemasons a plan had begun to mushroom in his head. He’d got justice for Amy and he’d join her soon enough, but he had mates out in Iraq and Afghanistan who needed his expert help. One thing was certain, he couldn’t stay in England – there was no way in hell he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail.

  He made his way back to the main room.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to kill us now?’ the bald-headed man said.

  ***

  ‘No, Mr Linton isn’t going to shoot us, Doc,’ Parish said. ‘Are you, John?’

  ‘No, I’m not going to shoot any of you, Inspector. Although you might want to keep the woman tied up until you find out what she was doing under your car last night.’

  ‘It’s all right, John, she’s already told us what she’s been up to.’

  Linton leaned against the heavy wooden table, picked up a banana, unwrapped it, and took a bite. ‘I’m wondering how this will work before I release you all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Richards said.

  ‘Well, here’s scenario one. I set you all free, you arrest me, I spend the rest of my life in prison.’

  ‘You’ve murdered at least forty people in here,’ Doc Michelin said. ‘There are laws, people are innocent until proven guilty, you can’t simply take the law into your own hands.’

  ‘And let’s not forget Aaron Carter outside the Old Bailey,’ Parish said. ‘That was you, wasn’t it, John?’

  ‘Yes, that was me – someone else who deserved to die. And I don’t think I want to talk about the law, justice, and innocence now. Let’s just say that in this case extreme measures were necessary to achieve justice for my innocent daughter, and all those other children.’ He bent down, rolled over the blonde-haired man, searched his clothes until he found a wallet in the inside jacket pocket. ‘This bastard is Lord Peter Kinsey of Rotherhithe for fuck’s sake,’ he said after rifling through the wallet. ‘And I bet the others are just as powerful. There was no way my Amy was going to get justice. The law is for the poor, not the rich. Those who have money and power make the laws, they’re not subjected to them.’ He threw the wallet on the floor, and then kicked the body of Lord Kinsey.

  ‘So, what are you going to do to us?’ Richards said.

  ‘And I wish you’d decide quickly,’ Doc Michelin said, ‘because I’ve got an itch that I would love to scratch.’

  Linton paced in front of them. ‘Here’s scenario two. I set fire to this place, so that it can never be used again. I have no idea who owns the building, or who Tantalus Industries are, but they’re implicated in the whole thing, so I’m going to destroy it and hurt them. Now, here’s the tricky bit – When the fire is well underway, I release the hands of one person who then releases everybody else so that you all escape before the building collapses on you and kills you all.’

  ‘I don’t think I like that scenario, Mr Linton,’ Richards said.

  ‘Tough. What it means is that you’ll be more concerned trying to get everyone out than following me. You see I planned to die here today and join my daughter, but t
hen I changed my mind because I’ve got mates who need my help. Now, if you do try to follow me, then I will shoot you. So, are we clear on the plan?’

  ‘We’re clear, John,’ Parish said. ‘You can release my hands first.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you think that’s a good idea, but I wonder whether you’d sacrifice them to follow me. No, I’m afraid I don’t trust you, Inspector. I’ll release the old guy’s hands, he’ll slow you down a bit.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Doc Michelin said.

  Linton found a large container of cooking oil in the kitchen that he used to pour over any combustible material he found throughout the warehouse, but made sure he left an escape route to the door for himself and the others. Once the container was empty, he set light to the puddles of cooking oil and in no time the place was ablaze. He returned to the others and released Doc Michelin’s hands.

  ‘Right, I’m off now. There should be enough time for you to get free and get out, but if I’ve miscalculated I apologise in advance.’ He picked up a heavy bag from the table and walked towards the door.

  ‘Well Doc,’ Parish said. ‘I hope you’re up for this?’

  ‘I’m never going to be able to reach my ankles and undo the buckle.’

  ‘Come on Doc, it’s not like you to run out of intelligence. Undo Richards’ hands, she can crawl up your body, which will be a bonus, and undo the strap at your feet, then we’ll be home free.’

  ‘Of course, I’m an idiot.’

  While the Doc and Richards looked like participants in a game of Twister, Alex Knight said, ‘Can I put something to you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m listening, I have nothing better to do.’

  ‘I hate being an MI6 agent. Sir Charles Lathbury thinks I’m useless, and I am because my heart’s not in it. What I wanted to be when I left University was a fashion designer, but I couldn’t find a job.’

  ‘So you became a spook, a bit of an extreme career jump?’

  ‘I know. I had the idea I’d be a female James Bond killing the bad guys, but its not like that – you’re not one of them.’