The Last Weekend

by Julie Morrigan

  Everything seemed to be going fine. Jimmy and Emily had decided to stay in the flat for the first year or so then look for a house, somewhere bigger and with a garden, one eye trained firmly on the local schools. The spare room had been done up as a nursery and filled with baby things. Emily had started her maternity leave and Jimmy spent his days in a state of high anxiety, waiting for a phone call, and raced home every evening to be with Emily and see how she was.

  The last time he did that, he knew the wait had to be almost over: Emily was overdue and sick of being pregnant, and they were both impatient to meet their child. Jimmy let himself into the flat and wondered that the lights weren’t on. It was late January and the days were still short.

  ‘Em? You there?’ he called, as he went through to the living room, assuming she had nodded off. Sure enough, Emily lay on the sofa, head on a cushion, book on the floor by her hand. ‘Em? Wake up, love.’ Jimmy stroked her hair. ‘Em?’ He rested his hand on her forehead. She felt cold. Jimmy’s heart started to hammer in his chest. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he muttered, as he felt for a pulse, for a breath. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and rang 999, fear making him trip over his words. ‘Why are you asking so many questions?’ he shouted at the operator, in frustration. ‘You’re wasting time, I need someone here right now, this second.’

  It felt like an age before he heard sirens, saw blue lights flashing in the street outside the flat.

  The paramedics did what they could, but it was no good. Emily’s heart had been a time bomb ticking away and it had simply had enough, had packed in earlier in the day and that was that. In an instant, Jimmy lost both his wife and his daughter – because, despite the fact that he hadn’t yet married Emily and nor had Lauren been born, that’s what they were. His life, his future.

  Friends and family rallied round, but it didn’t help. Jimmy tried to get on with things, but it wasn’t the same. There didn’t seem to be any point to anything any more. And then, just as Jimmy couldn’t see why anyone would set themselves up for heartache on the scale that he had experienced it, his friends got the point and started to want to settle down.

  So, there he was, once more out of step. Lonely. Melancholy. Inconsolable. Unreachable.

  Chapter 8

  ‘It never gets any better,’ said Jimmy. ‘The heartache, the sense of loss, they never end.’

  Reaperman squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder. He had heard stories like Jimmy’s many times, but they never lost their poignancy; each had its own peculiar slant, each mapped out some poor soul’s personal hell.

  ‘It may seem inappropriate to talk of practicalities after what you’ve just told me,’ he said to Jimmy, ‘but we must. If you’re invited to attend The Last Weekend, there’ll be paperwork to complete and you’ll have to make arrangements for your bill to be paid.’

  ‘I’ll pay up front,’ Jimmy said. He knew from an earlier round in the selection process that The Last Weekend was an expensive trip. ‘The insurance paid the mortgage off the flat when Em died, and there was more besides; death in service from her employer and another policy she’d taken out. She was very organised, very practical and pragmatic. She always had her own mortality in her sights, perhaps because she had lost her own dad at such a young age. I didn’t understand it, I never thought about death at all back then. It was something that happened to other people; older, more stupid, less lucky … God’s lottery, you know?’

  Reaperman nodded. ‘The arrangement fee is high because of the risk involved and because of the amount of planning and organisation required. This is not a cheap operation to run.’

  ‘It’s all academic, anyway,’ said Jimmy. ‘You could take everything I own and, provided this works, it wouldn’t matter a bit.’

  ‘It would matter to those you leave behind.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’ll have to sign a declaration of intent, to prove that it’s your will to die and that you have not been coerced, intimidated or threatened in any way.’ Reaperman paused. ‘You’ll also have to indicate the way in which you would choose to die. We offer death with dignity and humanity, and there are a number of options. We will, at all times, respect your wishes in this matter.’

  A chill ran through Jimmy. Was it anticipation? He couldn’t be sure. He had wanted this for so long: a way out, someone to light the path home. Someone to guide him to Emily and Lauren. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Well, after I’ve met with all the applicants, I’ll make my final selection. You’ll receive a letter telling you of the decision and including all the necessary information to either reapply or proceed, depending upon whether you’ve been successful this time round.’

  Jimmy nodded. He stood and shook hands with Reaperman. ‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘I really want this. I hope I get picked.’

  Reaperman nodded. ‘I know, son, I know. I’ll be in touch.’

  ***

  Jimmy didn’t have long to wait to find out whether he’d been selected: less than a week after his meeting with Reaperman in Claridge’s, he took special delivery of a large, fat envelope. Working on the principle that it only takes one sheet of paper to say ‘no’, he was hopeful as he ripped it open and pulled out the contents. He scanned the letter that was on the top of the pile of information: he’d made it through. As he looked through the rest of the material, he realised that Reaperman had not been exaggerating when he said that the administration and organisation of The Last Weekend was onerous. There were forms, arrangements, declarations … Jimmy decided that there was no time like the present. He went to make a coffee then settled down to get started on the paperwork.

  ***

  That evening he chatted with Mayfly.

  Indigo: Hi Mayfly – I heard from Reaperman today. I’m in. How about you?

  Mayfly: Hey, Indi, glad you made it. Guess what? I did, too.

  Indigo: What do you make of the set-up?

  Mayfly: I think it seems odd, and that it’s bound to. We haven’t exactly got anything to compare it with, have we? We’ve never done anything like this before.

  Indigo: First and last time, eh?

  Mayfly: Let’s hope so. The thought of failure …

  ***

  Very early on Christmas morning, just a little after midnight, Glasgow opened the sealed bids and read them. He was delighted to discover that the winning bid was nudging two million pounds. There were some quite specific requests attached to it, but nothing that couldn’t be fairly easily arranged. The winning bidder looked to be planning quite a weekend of it.

  Chapter 9

  In early January, a man called Gavin Anderson was flown by helicopter from London to the hunting lodge in the Highlands of Scotland. From there, Glasgow drove him to the house in the middle of nowhere. ‘Come on in, take a look around,’ he said, as he opened the door.

  Gavin grinned. ‘Call me Slayer,’ he said. ‘I’m having a nickname as well.’

  Glasgow managed to fight the urge to roll his eyes. ‘Slayer, I like it. Congratulations on winning the auction.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m excited about it,’ said Gavin. ‘This place looks amazing, as well, the ideal setting.’

  ‘It was a real find. Self-contained, middle of nowhere … perfect.’

  ‘And they’ll all just be here, waiting to be killed?’

  Glasgow nodded. ‘It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. They won’t know where they are, so they can’t escape. There’s no communication with the outside world other than via a telephone line, which we’ll cut the moment the fun starts.’

  ‘What about mobiles?’

  ‘Well, they’re not supposed to bring anything like that with them, but even if they do it’ll make no odds: there’s no signal.’

  ‘What if I need to get in touch with you?’

  ‘There’ll be a satellite phone you can use.’

  ‘Cool.’ He looked at Glasgow. ‘I want to know all about them. Age, sex, fitness level, why they want to die, all that sort of stuff.’

  �
��No problem. Come on, I’ll show you round the place. There’s all sorts of little staircases, tunnels and hidey-holes.’ After Philip had told Glasgow about the concealed staircase, he had explored the house thoroughly and been delighted with what he had found. Gavin was just as pleased when he was shown them.

  ‘I’ll need cameras everywhere, so I can keep an eye on them.’

  ‘And a record of what you do to them,’ said Glasgow.

  ‘Oh, definitely. I’ll want to screen that for friends, make a show of it. Be good publicity for you, too.’

  Glasgow nodded. He already had plans to sell copies of the recordings – not that Gavin knew that. There was a market for snuff, though, and it would be foolish to miss out on such a lucrative opportunity.

  ‘The best of it is,’ said Gavin, ‘it isn’t really murder, because they want to die anyway.’

  Glasgow put his hand on Gavin’s arm. ‘And yet you still get the thrill of the kill, my friend. But without chasing the fuckers over open land.’

  ‘Well, it’s not that I don’t enjoy the outdoor hunts. I’ll still do them. But this is special. A spree killer experience, with victims lined up for the taking. This is going to be one hell of a weekend.’ Gavin’s tongue flicked over his lips in anticipation.

  ‘Aye, no doubt. Then we’ll come in on Monday morning and clean up, and take anybody that’s left standing to the lodge.’

  ‘Can you set up a couple of monitors that show the camera feeds, in that big attic room?’

  Glasgow nodded. ‘Do you want to make that your base?’

  ‘Yes. That’s where I’ll want the special requests, as well.’

  ‘Do you know what you want yet?’

  Gavin shook his head. ‘Not until I’ve heard their stories.’

  Glasgow reached into his pocket and brought out a memory stick. ‘Here you go, it’s all on here.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks. I’ll get the list of stuff to you as soon as possible.’

  ***

  A few days later, Gavin Anderson was jogging along Chelsea Embankment, bottle of water in his hand, iPhone in his pocket and buds in his ears. It was cold and dark, the New Year not yet a fortnight old.

  He stopped outside of an imposing red-brick period building and stretched, then let himself in and headed for his apartment. Once inside, he stopped the music he’d been listening to while he ran, deposited the iPhone and ear buds on the console table in the hallway, and went straight into the bathroom. He put the water bottle on the vanity unit and turned on the shower, then stripped off and got under the jets of warm water. He soaped up, enjoying the feel of the better-defined muscles he’d developed since he’d begun his latest fitness regime. He had been determined he would be the winner of the auction and wanted to be in the best possible shape to make the most of it.

  Gavin dried off and dropped the towel on top of the pile of sweaty clothes on the floor; the cleaner could sort that lot out in the morning. Having dressed in his favourite designer tracksuit, he headed into the spacious sitting room and took a seat in the recliner in the bay window. He plugged the memory stick Glasgow had given him into his laptop and, within minutes, he was listening to the recordings that had been made in advance of The Last Weekend.

  As he listened, Gavin marvelled at the range of stories people had to tell, the horrors they’d seen, the torments they’d suffered, and he made notes against each name so Glasgow would know what to get to finish equipping his attic lair. He smiled to himself; their suffering was almost over – although the chances of them coming to the painless end they hoped for were slim to none. He’d maybe allow the girl an easier death … he wasn’t sure, yet. In any event, it would be different to what she wanted.

  Satisfied he knew what he was doing now, Gavin tapped out an email to Glasgow. It included the long list of things he wanted to make his weekend fun. That done, he went into his bedroom and tried on his outfit again; black training shoes, black tracksuit bottoms, black long-sleeved roll-neck sweater, black gloves and, finally, a black balaclava. He would be a ghost; they’d never see him coming.

  ‘Slayer,’ he murmured. ‘Fear me, for I am Slayer.’

  Gavin intended to give people the deaths they deserved. It would be spectacular. Each murder would be nothing less than a work of art.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Thanks, man,’ George Crawford said, as a passer-by flipped a pound coin on to the edge of the blanket he was sitting on. He picked the coin up and put it in his pocket, then stood and stretched, stiff from sitting on the pavement for a couple of hours. It hadn’t been a bad day; he had enough for a burger, chips and a cup of coffee for dinner, plus a soft drink and a bar of chocolate from the corner shop for later. He rolled up his blanket and tucked it into his rucksack; the sun was going down and it was time to get out of the town centre and to somewhere quieter, safer. Some people preferred to stay in the thick of it, but not George.

  As he was about to move off, a van pulled up at the kerb and a man jumped out. He had grey hair pulled back into a ponytail and a nose that wasn’t sure which direction it should be pointing in.

  ‘Hiya, we’re from St Peter’s Refuge,’ he said, indicating the sign on the side of the van. ‘Hop in the back if you fancy a hot meal, a warm shower and a comfortable bed for the night.’

  George hesitated, but then the man opened the rear doors and George recognised one of the other three people in the van.

  ‘Pottsy! How you doing?’ he said.

  ‘Canny, George lad, canny. You coming, then?’

  George looked at Sunderland, who nodded encouragingly and stood back to let him in. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I reckon so.’ Once George was inside and seated, the doors slammed and Sunderland jumped back in the front passenger seat, then the van pulled away from the kerb.

  ‘Here you go, folks,’ said Sunderland. He passed a thermos flask and some plastic cups through to the four people in the back. ‘Get that down you, warm you up a bit.’

  ‘Thanks, pal,’ said Pottsy, as he took them from him. He passed the cups out then opened the thermos. The aroma of coffee filled the back of the van. ‘Man, that smells good!’ Pottsy said, and he poured a cup for each of them then re-capped the thermos.

  George hesitated for just a moment; he hadn’t been on the streets for long, just for a month or so, since he’d left the army, but he knew enough to be wary of food or drink handed to him by a stranger, especially if it was homemade or not in sealed packaging.

  The set-up seemed kosher, though, and when Pottsy took a sip of coffee and sighed contentedly, he followed suit.

  Five minutes later George’s head was swimming and he was scared. The other three had already passed out in their seats and he was powerless to keep his own eyes open.

  ‘That’s them gone,’ he heard, as his head rolled forward on to his chest and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Back at the lodge, having safely locked the new prey in the pen in the barn, Sunderland and Helmand went into the house.

  ‘All done?’ said Glasgow.

  ‘Aye, that’s another four picked up,’ said Sunderland.

  ‘Eight for the next hunt, then. Not bad.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Helmand, pointing to the sheet of paper in front of Glasgow.

  ‘That’s Slayer’s list of requirements for the weekend do at the new house.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Helmand said, and Glasgow slid it over the table to him.

  Helmand scanned it. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t want much, does he? A seven-foot-tall wooden cross and a Harley-Davidson. Not often you see them on the same shopping list.’

  ‘Plus, a cosmic shit-ton of whizz,’ said Glasgow.

  Sunderland snorted. ‘He’s fucking mental.’

  Glasgow grinned. ‘He’s fucking loaded. Been all over the world killing rare animals, spent millions on it. Reckons this is the ultimate thrill, though.’

  ‘Gonna be a hell of a job getting that lot up into the attic,�
�� said Helmand.

  ‘Aye, I know,’ said Glasgow, ‘but at least there’s the lift. And that lot is what Slayer…’ – this time he did roll his eyes – ‘… wants.’

  ***

  A couple of nights later, George was running through the dark countryside, his heart pounding in his chest, breath tearing from his lungs. There had been eight of them when they were set loose, but at least two were down. He had heard a shot early on, heard Pottsy cry out in pain, fear or both, and glanced back to see him fall. He’d heard laughter as Pottsy begged for his life, then a single shot. George never stopped moving, darting from bush to bush, knowing he could so easily be next.

  When George could run no longer, he dropped behind a hillock to catch his breath. He looked around and there was no one was in sight, so he took a chance; he wriggled out of the boiler suit, rolled it up and stuffed it down his jumper. He kept close to the ground as he scuttled, crab-like, to the next bit of shelter. Meanwhile, more shots rang out and a woman screamed. There was a clump of bushes to his left, and he made for those next. He pushed his way into a rhododendron, heedless of the scratches he collected. Tall, bushy ferns grew in a ring around the base of the shrub and provided additional cover. George could hear shouts, screams and gunfire, but no one came close to where he was. He plucked leaves from the fern, trying to choose those that wouldn’t appreciably reduce the amount of ground cover they gave him, and laid them over his face and body. After a time, he pulled out the boiler suit and put it back on, needing the warmth it provided as much as anything – it was January, and bitter – then hunkered down and covered himself with the fern leaves again. He reckoned it would soon be time for the final signal, and if he emerged from cover without the boiler suit, they’d shoot him anyway.

  Sure enough, a short while later he heard a car horn beep three times and Helmand started shouting for any survivors to show themselves. George crept out and walked towards him. A part of him was angry that he was just giving himself up, but he had no idea where he was or how long it would take to get to safety. He could hear ‘We Are The Champions’ in the distance, the music seeming to mock him.