by David Mark
Five, six, seven . . .
The syringe sliding down his sleeve and into his left hand . . .
. . . eight, nine, ten . . .
The sharpened bicycle spoke emerging in his right hand as he passes the water cooler and the trio of blue plastic chairs . . .
. . . eleven, twelve . . .
Turning the handle on the surgery door and stepping into a square, brightly lit room.
Dr Malcolm looks around from his computer screen. Behind his spectacles his eyes widen in surprise. Then the syringe is in his neck and he makes a gurgling sound and slips down from his chair as if he is made of rags and stones.
Flemyng is in the chair, staring at the ceiling; black protective goggles cover his eyes and his mouth is propped open with plastic clamps. He does not move, just carries on listening to the hum of the radio, teeth bared in a rictus grimace. Mahon’s face appears in his line of sight; his own teeth visible through the holes in his ruined skin. Flemyng chokes on his sudden, primal terror.
‘You look like a skull,’ says Mahon, and pushes the bicycle spoke through the gap between Flemyng’s third and fourth ribs. He has wrapped one end in duct tape to serve as a handle of sorts but it offers little protection as he puts his weight behind it and pushes it all the way through Elton Flemyng and into the chair.
Flemyng tries to move. From his throat comes the sound of a frenzied, frightened swallowing.
‘I’m Mahon,’ says his killer. ‘You might not know this but your little brother’s dead. I took what was left of his head. I’m going to take yours now. Two isn’t much of a collection, but it’s a start. And I promise I’ll have a lot more before the end.’
Mahon pulls the cleaver from his pocket. The blood on the blade belongs to Tyrone Flemyng and he hopes that when the police examine Elton’s neck, they will find forensic traces. He wants the Headhunters to know what to expect.
He brings the blade down as if chopping the head off a chicken. The cleaver chops into Flemyng’s open mouth, digging as far as his jawbone. In a spray of red, Mahon pulls the blade free. He chops down twice more, through skin and cartilage, bone and skull. When he is done, two-thirds of Elton Flemyng’s head is hanging to one side, clinging on by a flap of skin and hair. Mahon pulls it loose, as though tugging a dead plant from dry earth. He opens his jacket and removes the plastic bag he has tucked into his sleeve. He puts the head and the bag inside his coat, tucked up high, like a rugby ball.
Mahon does not look back. There are seventeen steps to the fire door and twelve down to the car park. He will be a street away before the alarm is raised.
As he moves, he has the decency to nod a quiet word of thanks to Blaylock for his part in bringing Flemyng here today. He would apologise for costing him his life but Mahon thinks that would be disingenuous and he doesn’t like falsehoods.
As he emerges into the cold, blue morning, he feels a slight pressure in his armpit. Elton Flemyng’s top teeth are gnawing against his skin. Mahon decides not to reposition him. He feels that Elton deserves the chance to fight back, even if it is too little and a lot too late.
Chapter Eleven
There are two inmates seated at the plastic-topped table in the dining hall of HMP Bull Sands. One is a double murderer, sent down for life in 1981. His name is Ash. Before his incarceration he was a joiner. A father of two. A keen angler and committed football fan. Three and a half decades ago he caved his wife’s head in when she told him she had no idea where he had put his car keys and suggested, quite reasonably, that he should hang them up on the hook by the door where they were supposed to go. He struck her seventeen times with the short, stout club he kept in his angling bag and which he had used the day before to end the suffering of a brown trout as it slithered and bucked in the wet grass. When his neighbour came to investigate the screams, Ash killed her too. Then he slit his own throat. The police saved his life, then charged him with two murders. He’s been in the prison system ever since, slowly moving through the different categorisations until landing here. He’s due for release some time next year. He’s fifty-nine now. A little portly. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt, jeans and white trainers and there is a leather bracelet around his wrist, given to him by a twelve-year-old girl he has never met, but who calls him Grandpa. He is Owen’s only friend inside.
‘You’re going to be nothing but dust by the time you get out,’ says Ash, looking angrily at the fresh bruise on Owen’s face. ‘This can’t carry on, mate. I’ve never pried, you know that’s not my style. I know you’re a target and everybody admires the way you refuse to let it break you. But how long will it be until people lose patience and you’re fighting off a whole bloody prison on your own? Tell them, Owen. Whatever it is you’re hiding, tell them.’
‘You’re a good lad, Ash,’ says Owen, and smiles a little, as he realises the nonsense of the sentiment. He lets the smile fade quickly for fear of it causing fresh pain. There is a swelling around the hinge of his jaw and it hurts to chew, grin or talk above a whisper. Last night a house-breaker called Conroy came into his cell and said he’d heard Owen had been talking to coppers. He had an empty mug of tea in his hand and smashed it into Owen’s face without further preamble. Owen took the first blow, hoping it would be the last. When Conroy continued to rain punches upon him, he retaliated. Conroy is in the hospital wing this morning with two cracked ribs and a fractured patella.
For four years, Owen has managed to survive by taking the beatings without complaint. He has fought back often enough for word to get around that he is no easy target. His time in Bull Sands has been easier than in the previous prisons, where his tormentors had more influence. In Bull Sands, the man to fear was Elton Flemyng. He and his brothers made a deal with a very specialised group of individuals to take over the North-East. He got his nickname because he celebrated his new alliance by having three crates of premium Russian vodka delivered to the wing and encouraging every inmate and warden to toast his success. He had the power to get himself a private room within Bull Sands, but he preferred company and comfort. One of those comforts was Will Blaylock, who he had transferred into his cell. Within a month, Will had smashed Elton’s teeth out and been killed as an example – butchered by Flemyng’s new associates to show what happened to people who cause problems.
Owen is exhausted. He feels like a dead plant that some fool continues to water. He has held one trump card up his sleeve for years but, as his energy fades, so too does his resolve to keep fighting.
‘They’ll pay,’ says Ash, as if he has just had a wonderful idea. ‘If they’ll hurt you time and again then there’s no doubt they’ll pay you for whatever it is you’re holding back . . .’
Owen is about to say something to lighten the mood when there is a sudden blaring alarm from the loudspeaker on the wall. All the men stand up instantly, expecting an announcement of a sudden inspection or roll-call. Instead, a reedy voice calls for all prisoners to remain in their cells and for all B-unit officers to attend the main gates immediately.
Owen looks up, bewildered. Officer Milne is holding a mobile to his ear and the colour has gone from his face.
‘Escape?’ asks Ash, under his breath. ‘Who was out and about last night?’
Owen says nothing. There have been plenty of occasions when inmates haven’t returned to the prison. None has provoked such a reaction.
‘What’s going on?’ asks Ash, as Officer Elwis bustles past. She’s one of the kinder faces on the wing.
‘Not now, Ash,’ she says.
‘Go on, ma’am, just the bare bones . . .’
Officer Elwis gives the sigh of the eternally harassed and bends down low. ‘Flemyng’s not coming back. Somebody got to him during his dental appointment. Cut his head off, from what we’re hearing. Now, not a word. Off to your cells.’
Owen feels as if his heart is a bird trying to smash its way free of a cage. His vision slides a little, as though he is staring at the world through a porthole. He feels Ash’s arm upon him, steadying him as
they make their way back to their room. Ash deposits Owen on the bed and stands in front of him, face animated.
‘Fuck!’ he says, eyes gleaming. ‘Fuck, there’s going to be blood on the walls, man. This is bad. Really bad.’
Owen looks up. His legs do not feel as though they belong to him. He feels like the only man alive who knows what Flemyng’s death means. He is talking before he even realises it. Once he begins, the secrets spill forth like water through crumbling brick.
‘I’d have been dead like Flemyng four years ago if it wasn’t for one bargaining chip, Ash. I’ve got dirt on somebody important. I’ve got their voice on a memory card, bragging about their lies. If I die, it goes public. So they hurt me. They push me as far as they can and tell me to give it up. But if I give it up, I’m dead.’
‘Owen, you can’t fight for ever . . .’
‘I’m so tired. I thought that maybe I could hold out a little longer but I don’t think I can. I need your help, mate. I never ask for help but I need yours.’
‘Anything,’ says Ash, squatting down.
Owen looks deep into his friend’s eyes. He has never allowed himself to trust anybody not connected to him by blood. He feels overcome by the sudden colossal need to be free.
‘Get the memory stick for me and hide it somewhere I don’t know about. Don’t tell me where you put it. I can’t know.’
The lustre in Ash’s face fades a little. ‘Owen, I can’t do that. If you don’t know they’ll just hurt you until you can’t get up.’
‘It’s the only way I can think of not to break. Please. You can get a cab from Boston and be back before roll-call. You’ll be saving my life.’
‘Or taking it,’ says Ash, rubbing his nose and considering the proposition.
‘It’s just a taxi ride away,’ says Owen, and he feels drunk as he speaks. His mind is full of Elton Flemyng; this big, brutish man who seemed so damn untouchable. His eyes begin to prickle.
‘I want to help . . .’
‘The church at Randall House,’ Owen blurts out, and it feels as though the words shoot from his mouth like so much bile and blood. ‘My father was estate manager there. Lord Ansell allowed him to be buried there. In the chapel there’s a loose flag, three pews from the cross on the left-hand side. The memory stick’s under there. Hide it. Keep it safe.’
Ash’s face changes. His features twist into something that might, in bad light, be taken as apology. And then he shakes his head and stands.
‘You silly, silly bastard,’ he says, as though he is chastising a favoured pup who has eaten an expensive pair of shoes. ‘All those beatings? All that pain? You just needed a friend, didn’t you? And I need some money to start again. I’m almost sorry about this. But I couldn’t resist.’
On the bed, Owen looks up through teary eyes. His face is cold. The tips of his fingers feel blue and numb. He suddenly wishes that this were a more secure prison with a locked door.
‘Ash?’
Ash shakes his head again and walks out of the room. Owen is too dumbstruck to speak. A moment later, Ash returns, removing a slim mobile phone from a condom and wincing slightly. He peers at the screen and presses three buttons. A distant, soft ringing sound fills the small cell.
‘I’ve got it,’ says Ash, flatly, into the receiver. ‘Location. He’s spilled his guts.’
It feels as though Owen’s whole self is fragmenting. He imagines himself as a thing built of burned wood; a fragment on the softest breeze swirling into nothingness in flakes and curls.
‘He wants to talk to you,’ says Ash, handing over the mobile.
Owen’s fingers shake as he takes the phone. It’s cold against his burning cheek.
‘You did well,’ says Doug Roper, and his voice is so smug that there should be oil running out of the receiver. ‘I almost admire you. But you broke. I win.’
Owen can barely find the energy to hate. ‘I could have been lying,’ he says, but his voice is too weak for the threat to carry any weight.
‘No, you’re done. You’re broken. And I’m bulletproof. Now, pack your bags and think about the future. I’m a man of my word and I said you could be paroled once you played ball. In a few days, you’ll be on the outside with nothing between you and me but empty air.’
Owen manages to say a name. ‘McAvoy . . .’
‘Don’t you worry about him,’ says Roper, though his tone has become more harsh. ‘He’ll be disappointed, of course. But suddenly you don’t care about what happened to your little friend. You got it all wrong. You don’t want to help him.’
Owen had thought he stood a chance. That he could make it through his sentence then bring Roper down.
‘Don’t cry,’ says Roper, mockingly. ‘You’ve got so much to look forward to. I swear, your coming-out party will go down in history.’
Owen drops the phone and slides on to the floor. He can barely hear Ash’s voice as he seeks reassurances that the money will be deposited as promised.
On the dirty cord carpet, Owen presses his knuckles into his eyes hard enough to make them weep. He cannot let the mask slip now.
Chapter Twelve
It’s a cold and bright day, with a sharp wind blowing in off the sea, bringing with it the smell of wet sand and rotting vegetation. Owen and McAvoy walk together up the narrow road from the dining hall to the administration blocks. Owen walks as though he is carrying a coffin on his back. He can feel something in the air; something he was witness to as a journalist and which he has grown to understand as a criminal. There is a tang to the breeze; the sense of a gale altering direction. Were he to try and describe it, he would talk about the sensation one experiences when a child is petting a strange dog, or that moment when the drunks in the taxi rank move from gentle name-calling to something more venomous. The whiff of violence.
‘I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer,’ says McAvoy. ‘But we’re getting somewhere. We know that Will was acting on orders. This was all somebody else’s plan. It’s got links that go so high up the chain they don’t even touch the street any more. If you were to testify we could move you. Put you somewhere safe.’
Owen can barely hear him. Somewhere deep inside himself he remembers hating this man, feeling that he had abandoned him. Owen can barely find the enthusiasm for such hatred any more.
‘I’m getting out, Aector,’ he says. ‘I can’t be a part of it. Will got killed and we both know he didn’t deserve it. Nobody deserved that death. But I can’t be involved any more. I have to keep my head down.’
Owen watches McAvoy struggle with his emotions. Even now, he wishes he could take some of the heartbreak out of the detective’s eyes.
‘I wanted to put things right,’ says McAvoy, at length. ‘I thought I had a chance to do that. Tell me, please, what else I can do. I can’t carry this.’
‘I know how many burdens you carry, Aector,’ says Owen, with the tiniest twitch of a smile. ‘There were times when I wanted you to wake up screaming, hating yourself for turning your back on me. Then I met you again and I realised you’re already punishing yourself far more than I ever could. Go home to your wife. Talk about plants. Forget about me.’
McAvoy is sweating, despite the breeze. He scans the horizon as though he is hoping to see some kind of answer come charging in off the ocean. Owen feels sorry for him. Wants to tell him that very soon none of this will matter.
‘You wanted my help,’ says McAvoy, beseechingly. ‘I know you did. The clues you gave me. The herbs . . .’
‘None of it matters,’ says Owen, kicking at a loose stone. ‘We’ve both bled in each other’s name. Let’s not try to bleed more.’
Their steps have taken them towards the prison exit. The main gates face out on to seemingly endless farmland; flat greens and browns stretching away.
‘It feels like I’m seeing you out,’ says Owen. ‘Escorting you off my property like some country laird.’
‘Maybe one day you will,’ says McAvoy, though there is no optimism in his voice.
Roper was one of the first cops to arrive. He was white with fury. He already had a man in the dock for the crimes that Tony Halthwaite committed. He didn’t need any heroic deed from a journalist or a holier-than-thou detective sergeant. As his team tried to make sense of the scene, as the paramedics tried to save McAvoy’s life, as Tony Halthwaite screamed and blood pumped from the ragged wound to his groin, Roper took Owen to one side and demanded answers. Owen told him everything: that Halthwaite was a killer and McAvoy had risked his life to save him.
‘I don’t give a fuck,’ said Roper. ‘I hope the Jock bastard dies. Interfering cunt. This is my city. Mine! Do you know how many people I’ve put away just because they pissed me off? How many crimes we’ve chalked up as “solved”? Do you know how many men are in the ground because they got in my fucking way? I’m Doug fucking Roper, and you’re going to die in more pain than you could imagine.’
Using McAvoy’s phone, Owen recorded every word. It fed on to the memory card on the answerphone in his home. After his arrest, he had no opportunity to retrieve it, but he used the last of his money to buy himself a favour from one of the security guards at Hull Crown Court. He paid him to retrieve it and hide it in a place Owen knew all too well – never knowing for certain whether he had done as he was told. When Owen was convicted, Roper’s pets came for him. As they broke his bones, Owen heard Roper breathing heavily through a mobile phone held aloft in the cell doorway by one of the warders. He was enjoying the show. But he fell silent when he recognised his own words. Owen repeated them from memory, mumbling Roper’s own confession through bleeding lips and managing to look triumphant even as the boots and fists rained down.