by Graham Smith
I carried my darling daughter to the foot of the stairs and called Karen. There must have been some detectable nuance in my voice as Karen came immediately with concern written across her freckled face.
‘What is it?’
When I told her what had just happened she came down the stairs in two bounds and cleared the baby gate like an Olympic hurdler.
Taking Amy from me she inspected her while telling me to call an ambulance.
By the time the paramedics had arrived Amy was drifting into a restless sleep. They were very good with her and with us too. After spending twenty minutes checking her over they said they could see nothing wrong other than a slight temperature which was probably caused by Amy’s cold.
When Karen and I queried what had caused Amy to stop breathing, they said they weren’t sure but they guessed at apnoea. To be on the safe side they wanted to take Amy to hospital so that she could be fully examined by the paediatricians there. Naturally there was no argument from either Karen or myself.
Karen climbed into the back of the ambulance with an overnight bag she had thrown together for her and Amy. I handed Amy up to my wife and locked the house door before climbing into our car and setting off behind the ambulance.
The closest hospital was fifteen miles away so I trailed after the ambulance at a steady seventy five on the motorway until we exited onto
Scotland Road and made our way into town.
Now that we were in stop - start traffic and I didn’t need to concentrate so much, I could feel the shake in my hands coming as the adrenaline began to leave my body. From the moment I had realised Amy wasn’t breathing I had been operating on full auto-pilot. Now I was coming back down to earth with a juddering bump. For the next ten minutes I hung on the tail of the ambulance carrying my girls as it crawled its way through the rush hour traffic.
We were within a couple of miles of the hospital when the lights on top of the ambulance sparkled into life accompanied by the wail of a siren. The ambulance shot forward as traffic parted to allow it passage.
Shit! This was serious. What was going on in there? Was Amy OK?
I kept my car within twenty feet of the ambulance as it weaved its way between the cars and vans which had mounted kerbs to create a Cresta run which we slalomed along.
The speedo must have hit sixty plus at least but I didn’t let anything slow me until a sudden turn caused me to introduce the rear passenger side of my car against a parked Mondeo. My Astra fishtailed wildly and I mounted the kerb and smashed into a rubbish bin.
The bin didn’t slow me down much, but it did set off the airbags. My nose met with the canvas life saver as a cloud of white dust enveloped the interior of the car.
I regained directional control before swatting down the bag with my left hand and reaching for the buttons to lower the windows with my right.
The ambulance was now some hundred yards ahead of me so I stamped on the accelerator as hard as I could, to hell with leaving the scene of an accident. We were now less than a mile from the hospital but the ambulance was still flying forward with lights flashing and siren wailing.
Reaching into my shirt pocket for my mobile I noticed that my wrist was covered in blood and that there was a gouge in my arm where my watch buckle had scraped against me.
Ignoring the blood and wondering absentmindedly why there wasn’t any pain, I called Karen’s mobile. It connected and I could hear it ringing until it went to voicemail. She’d probably left it at home. Either that or it would be on silent as usual. I tried again without any joy. This time I left a two word instruction, “CALL ME!”
My mind was racing faster than the car’s pistons as I imagined a hundred and one horrors assaulting my beautiful daughter in the back of the ambulance.
Cars were pulling back out into the wake of the ambulance and I had several minor collisions before I crossed the road into the grounds of the hospital.
I sped to the A&E entrance where the paramedics were unloading Karen and Amy and screeched to a halt beside the ambulance.
‘Is Amy okay?’ I demanded of Karen.
‘She’s fine. She’s sleeping now.’
‘What was with the sirens and the sudden mad dash?’ This question was directed at the nearest paramedic.
‘There’s been a pile-up on the motorway. We got the shout to go there as soon as possible so we put on the blues and twos to get here quicker.’
I turned round with a hearty sigh of relief, only to see the drivers of all the cars I’d hit coming towards me with murder in their eyes.
Hannah’s Last Hurrah
I based this story very loosely on an old joke and the fear every parent has over the next drug craze.
Christopher Elliott examined the teenage girl lying on the steel table in the bowels of Leeds Infirmary and lifted his scalpel.
Watching him perform the post mortem were DI Sheila Henry and her new DC who was beginning to look green before the scalpel had been lifted.
‘Here.’ Sheila was holding a small tub of vaporub.
Kingsley took the tub and applied a generous coating to his top lip.
‘Anything from the external examination Chris?’
‘Nothing but the obvious things you can see for yourself. Hannah here is in good condition and has no bruises or contusions and has not been cut in any way.’
As he was answering Sheila’s question, the pathologist made a large incision across her chest and began to remove her heart.
‘She’s nine stone two and her muscle tone is good. I would say that she either worked out regularly or had an active job.’
‘She had a gym membership in her bag when she were found behind the bins in back of Moonbeams.’
‘Had she been in there then?’
‘Aye. She was on CCTV having a grand time dancing wi’ her mates.’ It was Kingsley’s first words since entering the pathology lab.
While Elliott removed Hannah’s heart and weighed it, Sheila watched Kingsley battle with the gorge rising in his throat. When he looked on the point of defeat she pointed to a bucket in the corner she knew was there for that very reason.
Kingsley refused the bucket and after a manful swallow regained control of his automatic reflexes.
She’d never admit it to him, but Sheila was proud of the keen youngster who had been promoted at her recommendation.
A text from her DS informed Sheila that he’d just finished questioning the last of the staff who had been working at Moonbeams on Saturday night. All he’d learnt was that there had been no more trouble than usual and none of the staff could remember anything specific about Hannah, although they all agreed she was a regular face at the club.
Elliott’s voice snapped her attention back to the moment. ‘The liver is showing signs of spotting caused by excess temperature. Which coupled with the tear in the side of the heart suggests that this is another MDMA overdose.’
‘MDMA?’
‘It’s the chemical name for Ecstasy. Surely you remember that from your basic training?’
A chastened Kingsley looked at the floor without answering.
‘I’ll takes samples of the blood and stomach contents to confirm Inspector, but I’d bet you a bottle of malt that it’s ecstasy.’
‘Thanks Chris. Just don’t tell me that it’s in the blood and not the stomach again. We’ve had five of them this last month and it doesn’t add up.’
‘I know. When I’ve taken the samples I’m going to examine every inch of the body looking for needle marks. I suspect they may be injecting it instead of dropping tabs.’
‘Let me know.’
* * * *
Sheila let the younger Kingsley lead the way as he was still battling against the urge to vomit. The cigarette was ready in her lined mouth when she reached the door and was lit within a pace despite the wind whipping her long hair into her face.
Climbing into the passenger seat she instructed Kingsley to take them to Moonbeams.
When they arrived there they
found the manager talking with DS Fraser.
‘Show us see some footage of Hannah Jones in the club.’ Was her greeting to the manager.
‘I’ve already shown DS Fraser. I’m late for a meeting with the proprietor.’
‘Miss Jones is early for a meeting with an undertaker after being in your club. Show us the fucking tape or I’ll have this place closed down.’
Complying with bad grace, the manager took them into an office and showed them a few clips which showed Hannah bouncing about dancing and having what appeared to be the time of her life.
‘Look at how much she’s sweating Ma’am.’
‘Every one of our customers ends up sweating. They are dancing and there’s no open windows to provide a draft. The air con can only cool the place down so much. Plus they’ve all had a few drinks so there’s lots of fluid looking for a way out.’
Sheila silenced him with a look before pointing out, ‘she’s sweating more than most. Look at her compared to the girl beside her. She looks as if she’s been hosed down while the other lass looks like she’s just run up a flight of stairs.’
* * * *
After a few more looks at the grainy footage, Sheila and Kingsley headed out with Fraser and drove to their HQ at Millgarth House.
Instead of going to her office she made a beeline for the office of Hugh Leeming. He was the man who controlled all the CCTV footage in Leeds. His team could bring up images of almost every street in the city centre and she wanted to see what he’d found.
The camera which overlooked Moonbeams main entrance gave high quality images of Hannah hanging around a bouncer. Leeming showed them a series of stills which were timed around half an hour apart.
‘Can you print these off Hugh?’
He handed her a sheaf of pictures and then showed her a minute long piece of footage in which the bouncer and Hannah seemed to argue. At one point she tried to reach into his jacket pocket causing him to point at the camera.
‘He’s the dealer. He’s the one we want.’
‘That’s Brian Postlethwaite. He’s the only person we didn’t speak to.’
‘You two go and bring him in. I’m gonna get a bite to eat.’
* * * *
It took two days before they could track down Postlethwaite. Sheila spent four hours trying to get him to confess to dealing ecstasy at the club, but he denied everything saying that Hannah had been trying to grab his cigarettes from his pocket.
A dejected Sheila returned to her desk grabbing a foul cup of machine coffee on her way. Throwing a sheaf of papers across her desk she booted up her PC and checked her E-mails.
Halfway down the screen was the one she was looking for. She clicked on Christopher Elliott’s name and his report opened up.
Reading the report twice didn’t make the content any more believable so she picked up the phone and dialled his number.
‘Are you sure you’re right Chris?
‘Positive. I didn’t believe it either. But when I found the needle mark in her mouth I tested localised tissue and it showed a high concentrate of MDMA and saline. She’d been grinding up tablets and mixing the powder with saline then injecting it into her mouth.’
‘Only in Yorkshire would folk take E by gum.’
My Job is Murder
After having a story accepted into an anthology about action heroes who were larger than life. I wanted to write another in a similar vein albeit with a darker feel. My Job is Murder tells the tale of a most unusual assassin.
Friday
After pulling the trigger once, Kenny walked across the street to the prone figure and put another couple of rounds in Alky Andy’s head to make sure.
Today’s job was a piece of cake for an assassin as experienced as Kenny. Big Ste had contracted Kenny to dispose of one of his low life dealers who had been skimming. Big Ste wanted it done publically though, which added an element of risk. Or at least it would do, provided you cared about getting caught or gunned down by the police.
Kenny had no such worries. He was untouched by fear, immortal. Except that Kenny wasn’t immortal at all. His doctor had made sure he knew better. Not the GP down the local surgery, but the
Harley Street quack with letters after his name and a whole lot of zeros on his bills.
He had lung cancer. The doctor told him four months ago that he had a year to live. Kenny had accepted the news with a surprising calmness. Every day he now combatted the breathlessness and fatigue with a mixture of willpower and caffeinated energy drinks. His doctor had offered chemotherapy, but when he’d told Kenny that he’d be lucky to get an extra three months the offer was turned down flat.
Kenny wasn’t prepared to spend the last few months of his life suffering the side effects of chemotherapy just to win twelve more pain filled weeks.
Kenny had been a hitman for the ten years since he’d resigned his commission as a Royal Marines captain. Being realistic, he had never expected to last so long without being caught or killed.
Many were the times that he thought of stepping back and letting the young bucks take over, but the buzz was more addictive to him than any drug and the money wasn’t bad either. His mortgage was paid up and there was enough saved to put both of his children through university without running up student loans, that would take decades to repay.
Kenny worked jobs for Big Ste in Manchester and James Metcalfe in Birmingham with the odd trip to London whenever Sergios required his services. Most of the jobs for these three gangsters were made to look like accidents unless they wanted a particular statement made.
‘C’mon Kenny, let’s get out of here.’
He turned to the youngster who’d been sent with him in the hope he could learn his trade. ‘We’re not finished yet. Check his pockets for gear and then write the message.’
Simon looked like he was about to puke as he emptied Alky Andy’s pockets. When he handed the gear to Kenny, who pocketed it and handed him a spray can before pointing at the viaduct wall behind Alky Andy.
Simon took the can and sprayed a six foot high warning to all other prospective thieves. Kenny could only hope that they understood what Simon meant, as the illiterate moron had written, “Alky Andy was a theaf who got punisshtt.”
Kenny managed to stop the over enthusiastic youngster before he signed his name and led him back to the car.
‘What’s the score now boss?’ Simon was bubbling with excitement so Kenny decided to give him a little treat. Simon had seen him at work so it was only fair to show the lad how he played.
* * * *
All the hits Kenny had done for various gangsters hadn’t been enough to whet his blood lust. With the aid of a well placed source in the police, Kenny had been satisfying his darker side by removing some of the human race’s most despicable specimens from the planet.
Rapists, paedophiles and serial killers who got off on technicalities became his toys and he played with them until they begged him for death.
Father Seamus had been his first toy. That had been personal as Kenny certainly wasn’t his first toy. He’d screamed some very unholy things when Kenny peeled back the flesh from his leg and removed his fibula and tibia.
* * * *
Simon snapped him back to the present with a dumb question ‘Where we goin’?’
‘Hunting. But first I’ve an errand for you. Go into the offy and get four bottles of the cheapest vodka they sell.’ Kenny gave him a couple of twenties, inserted a rock compilation CD into the drive on the dashboard and made a call to his police source.
Kenny got a name and address from him and made a mental note to transfer his finder’s fee to the offshore account that he’d set up for him.
When Simon came back he went to hand Kenny the change but it was waved it away.
‘So what we huntin’?’
‘A rapist. Now shut up and let me work out a plan.’ Kenny had no plan to work out as he knew what he was going to do. He just wanted Simon to shut up so he could hear the guitar solo.
They were lucky tonight’s target was rich enough to have a detached house along a leafy lane on the Manchester suburbs. This meant that they wouldn’t have to take him to Kenny’s theatre of nightmares.
They got out of the car and Kenny retrieved a medical bag from the boot while telling Simon to bring the vodka.
When the rapist opened the door he was faced with the single eye of Kenny’s Glock.
Giving him no time to shut the door in his face, Kenny shot forward and cracked the man’s temple with the butt of his pistol hard enough to stun him. He didn’t want him unconscious as he wanted the man to know what was happening and first of all Kenny needed some questions answered.
‘Check his wallet and tell me his name.’ Kenny backed the man against a wall and was holding the Glock against his forehead to ensure compliance.
Simon duly obliged. ‘His name is Peter Howarth. Fuck me look at all this dosh!’
Ignoring Simon, Kenny questioned Howarth. ‘Is there anybody else here?’
When Howarth didn’t answer immediately, Kenny leaned a little harder, embedding the barrel of the Glock into his forehead.
‘Well?’
‘No there’s just me here.’ Beads of sweat sprang from every pore on his round face as he realised his predicament. ‘Who are you? What do you want? If it’s money I only have a few hundred in the house.’
‘We don’t want your money, this is more of an antisocial call.’
‘What do you want with me? I don’t know who you are so I can’t have done you any harm.’
‘Simon, get the gaffer tape from my bag and gag this fat sod.’
Another blow to the temple with the Glock stunned Howarth long enough for them to tape him face up to his dining room table. Once his arms and legs were immobile Kenny taped his head down, so that it too couldn’t move.