by Shaun Baines
Daniel shrugged. "Once I knew the coke couldn't be contained at The Playground, I had to make a decision. If what they say about Blizzard is true, it's too dangerous to be on the streets and these are my streets, Scott. Make no mistake about it. I'm not letting my daughter grow up in a city like that. I'm doing it my way."
Glaring at him, Scott raised the scalpel. His skin lost what little colour it had. His eyes darkened. These were the signs Daniel was waiting for, the same signs he'd learned to decode as a child. He was trained for it. They told him to be scared. They told him to be ready.
"I'm going to fucking kill you," Scott yelled.
Whipping out the Heckler handgun, Daniel aimed it at Scott's head. It was the gun he kept by his bed. The one he had pressed into his father's eye and the same gun his daughter had used to make her first kill.
Scott jerked to a stop, his eyes round and disbelieving. The scalpel crashed to the floor.
Daniel pointed the gun at the oxygen cylinder.
Monica gasped. "Oh, God. My baby."
The sound of Wren gurgling filled the room. He seemed happy, thought Daniel.
"There's no cocaine," he said. "We have no money. All you have is in this room. You have one chance to save your family. Don't think I won't do it. So I'm going to ask you again."
Scott had his family. It was time for Daniel to find his.
"Where is Bronson?" he asked.
Chapter Fifty
The Alsatian padded through the room, its scarred nose twitching.
"No-one home," Daniel said from the doorway.
The main bedroom in Cedars Mount was at the end of a long corridor. A double bed dominated the space. There were two dressing tables and 'his and hers' wardrobes.
The dog had greeted him on the first tinkling of broken glass. Daniel's hand was through a window and working the locks of the front door. It waited for him to enter and then bolted up the stairs. Daniel followed, hoping to be led to Bronson.
"You're no bloody Lassie," he said.
Dropping to its belly, it scratched under the bed, mewling.
"No more," a female voice said. A thin hand appeared, the skin stained with blood. Bandage scraps sagged from the wrist, exposing a hole in the palm. It was partially healed, not as fresh as the wound from her missing ring finger.
The AR-18 rifle went from hanging over Daniel's shoulder to his hands. He levelled it at the form under the bed. When it didn't move, he grabbed it, pulling it into the room.
Eleanor Maguire was bound with rope. Like her hand, her clothing was cloaked in gore. Tiny forks and knives protruded from her breasts. By her side was a sticky bread knife. Daniel matched it with the gash in the lower half of her body. Her stomach had been cut open like a white loaf.
"You're dying," he said, lowering the rifle.
The Alsatian whimpered and laid its head on Eleanor's thigh.
Saliva dribbled from the corner of her mouth. "It was Angel. Her madness. It got loose."
Daniel tensed, but he wasn't thinking of Angel. His thoughts went to Eisha.
"Why?" he asked. "What made her do it?"
Pain rippled through Eleanor's face. Her wrinkles tightened, hiding her eyes. "Do I deserve this?"
He'd tried to kill his brother and his father, but Daniel had always stopped. His anger always retreated at the last moment and he couldn't say why. It wasn't love, not as he understood it, anyway. Was it the connection between them? Was that what stopped him? Whatever it was, it wasn't enough to stop Angel.
"We all deserve it," he said.
Eleanor gasped, her remaining life escaping through pursed lips. The skin around her face relaxed. Even in death, she held onto her remorse. Daniel saw it in her eyes.
The Alsatian shuffled closer to her, curling into a ball.
"Try not to eat her," Daniel said and left them to their own devices. He stole down the staircase, pausing when he heard a noise.
The kitchen had a homely, farmhouse feel. Its counters and cupboard doors were made from red cedar. Copper pans hung over a central island where bowls of boiled sweets had been laid out in a line, as if someone was hosting a children's party.
There were two doors. One was a back door, leading out to the garden. Daniel checked it first, opening it to the night air. A path ran along the side of the house. The coast was clear. Proceeding to door number two, he listened to the grind of machinery on the other side.
He inched the door open, his view muted through green tarpaulin. There were shapes beyond, but nothing was clear. Daniel counted to five, reaching three and burst through the covers, his rifle leading the way.
The room was a conservatory with a high-pitched roof. Tarpaulin was draped over the glass walls. There were blood stains everywhere, some old, some new. Knives, hammers and rusting clamps were abandoned on the floor. There were black rolls of duct tape and boxes of razor blades.
Bronson groaned from the corner. He was tied to a piece of cane furniture. His head was taped to the back of the chair, his eyes fighting to stay open. His breath was laboured and he was completely naked.
"Bollocks," Daniel said and rushed forward.
He pulled off the tape and set to work on the knots.
Bronson flinched at his touch, relaxing when he recognised Daniel. "Am I in Hell?"
The knots were easy to undo, but Daniel focused on them intently. His friend's testicles were even uglier close up.
"Worse. You're still in Newcastle," Daniel said. "Where's Angel?"
Bronson coughed, red saliva spraying from his mouth. Daniel eased his head into an upright position.
"She heard you coming," Bronson said. "You didn't kill the dog, did you?"
"Of course not. That's horrible, though it is probably eating its owner right now." Daniel searched the conservatory while Bronson regained some strength. The sound he'd heard was of a bone saw. It tucked under a glass table, looking like a handgun without a barrel. A rectangular, serrated blade provided the easiest way for lazy butchers to cut through bone. Thankfully, the saw was clean. Angel hadn't used it, but the trigger was depressed with a strip of tape, tricking Daniel into thinking she was still in the room.
He turned to Bronson. "Did you see where she went?"
Bronson pointed to the sheeting behind him and Daniel tore it down, revealing a glass door into the garden. He nudged it open, dropping into a crouch. Scanning the darkness, he swung his rifle from left to right. There was nothing to aim at. The light from the conservatory was swallowed by the dark. A black lawn was littered with fallen leaves. The bare branches of trees looked like grasping hands, but there were no shrubs, no outbuildings, and nowhere to hide. Angel had got away.
"Watch out," Bronson shouted.
Daniel turned to see Angel coming from behind, swinging a copper pan above her head. Her eyes were manic, blue hair trailing in her wake. Dropping to her knees, she slid along the floor, striking the pan against Daniel's right knee. He staggered into the conservatory windows, hearing them crack against his weight.
The pan soared upward, connecting with Daniel's face. His lip burst open. He tasted blood and gulped back a loose tooth. Spluttering, he grabbed a handful of Angel's hair, wrenching her upright, but she dug her nails into the flesh around his eyes. He tore his head away, freeing his eyes, but Angel returned like a troublesome mosquito.
Daniel jammed an elbow into Angel's neck. The pan fell from her hand. She grabbed her throat with both hands, her mouth gaped open as she gasped for breath.
Wiping the blood from his eyes, Daniel kicked the copper pan aside and raised his hand, slapping her hard across the face. Angel spun on the spot, losing her footing, collapsing into the table. Shards of glass exploded like rays of light, slicing through Angel's face.
She lay on her back. Daniel shook the bone saw free of glass. It was still whirring. The sound buried itself in his head, tempting him to use it. He clamped Angel's arm to the floor and lowered the saw to her wrist. She struggled, but her fight was over and they both knew
it. All that remained was vengeance.
The bone saw went silent. Daniel frowned, pressing harder on the trigger. His eyes followed the wire from the saw to the wall. Bronson, wrapped in tarpaulin tarnished with his own blood, held the plug in his hand.
"This isn't right," he said.
"She was going to kill you," Daniel said. "She was going to kill all of us."
"I know," he said, lumbering forward, "but there's someone who wants to see her first."
***
Angel was rigid with fear, her eyes large through her fallen blue fringe. She gripped the seat, her fingernails bending into the wood. Her lips moved, but her voice was silent.
"Are you sure about this?" Daniel said.
Bronson was dressed in a turtleneck jumper to keep him warm. It was one of Daniel's and it stretched to Bronson's knees. He sat at the back of the rowing boat, looking into the water.
"Yes. I want her to know what it feels like to be alone." Bear sat next to Bronson, his face sallow, catching moonlight in the pits of his cheeks. His arm was in a black sling, immobilising the broad shoulder that had taken two of Angel's bullets. Hospital food had robbed him of weight, but as Daniel stared at him, he realised Bear had lost so much more.
The boat sat heavy in the water. Working the oars, Daniel rowed them to the centre of Five Oaks' lake.
The man-made island was twenty square feet, beginning life as building rubble before topsoil was added at Ed Dayton's behest. Shrubs were planted to naturalise the island, but they were soon overrun by thorny brambles. From the shore, it looked like a tangled nest, but the island's value lay in its isolation.
"She can't swim," Bronson said. "I overheard her mother at dinner."
Angel's eyes were closed. Her teeth chattered and whispered words tumbled from her mouth.
"You have to get out of the boat. I can't. They're going to leave you there to die. I can't do it."
"Who's she talking to?" Daniel asked.
"Don't care," Bronson said, rubbing the wounds on his legs.
The boat hit shallow water, its bottom scraping on the lake bed. Angel cried out. Leaping into the lake, Daniel wrapped his arm around her shoulders and dragged her backwards.
Angel's hands fought for purchase, her fingernails breaking as she clung to the boat. "No, don't," she shouted. "Please. I'll do anything."
"That's what we're afraid of," Bear said, shuffling forward. He ignored his pain and Angel's wet sobs, and plunged a fist into her hands, but her grip held firm. Cursing, he released her fingers one by one. Daniel tugged and Angel lost her grip with a scream. She battled against him, her arms flailing, but Daniel pitched her into the thorny hold of the brambles.
Rushing to his seat, Daniel pushed off the island with an oar. The three men bobbed in the waves, watching Angel struggle free of the brambles. She raced to the shore, but stopped before her shoes touched the water. Pacing back and forth, she screamed, a guttural low howl of terror.
"Take me back", she shouted, her arms in the air. "I'm sorry."
Bear covered his face with his hands, turning away from the others. His shoulders shook, rocking the boat and Daniel averted his gaze.
"There's plenty of water to drink," Bronson shouted back, "and we'll bring you a food parcel tomorrow."
"Look at this." Daniel stopping rowing, reaching into the bottom of the boat. It was a photograph of a man and his heart froze. The eyes had been scratched out, like Eisha's toy cat, like Eisha's dolls.
"What is it?" Bronson asked.
His daughter wasn't going to end up like Angel. Daniel would never let that happen.
Daniel looked at the photo again. "Nothing important," he said, throwing it overboard.
Dawn was breaking as he rowed them back to Five Oaks, colouring Daniel's face in an orange glow. "You're not honestly going to keep Angel alive, are you?" he asked.
Dipping his hand under the surface, Bronson dabbed water on his brow and looked toward home. "Not this time."
Chapter Fifty-One
Mitchel Phitt sat in his Audi Quattro at Ravenshill Services. It was the last outpost on the A66 before the road plunged into lonely moorland. He loosened bacon rind from his teeth and with one last chew, swallowed it down.
He called himself portly, though his fellow sales reps called him fat. His grey hair was lank and thinning, brushed high from his brow. A double chin swamped the knot of his tie.
Taking a paper serviette, he wiped his mouth and tossed it onto the passenger seat with the others. A grey Skoda pulled into the parking bay beside him. He looked into the car, but the windows were masked behind sunscreens. A young woman climbed from the driver's seat and stretched. He gasped as the early morning sun lanced through her thin top and he saw what God had given her. She walked in front of him, giving him a nod and a brief smile before entering the service station.
A familiar craving swept over him. How long had it been? Too long, the craving answered. There were a handful of vehicles in the car park, probably belonging to sales reps like him, selling their souls up and down the motorways for a miserly monthly bonus. But they weren't exactly like him, he thought. Phitt awarded himself a bonus of his own every now and again.
Squeezing out of his Audi, he followed the young girl inside.
Ravenshill was an identikit of the other service stations he frequented. It housed brand name shops, mostly American, surrounding a central seating area where travellers took a moment's rest from their journeys. Three men on separate tables nursed coffees and tapped frantically on their phones. The female assistant of an empty newsagents stood at her counter flicking through a magazine. She caught him ogling her and scowled. The bitch was too old for him anyway.
Phitt searched the shops, but failed to find the girl. There was only one other place she could be. She'd obviously stopped off for a tinkle. It was perfect for him. The toilets were next to an arcade of fruit machines and he waited inside, feeling his excitement rise. He watched over the seating area. The sales reps were engrossed in their business. Pulling the girl into the arcade would be a cinch. What he did after that wouldn't be as easy. At least, not for her.
Struggling under his stomach, Phitt released his belt buckle because speed would be a factor. As he did, the girl strolled along the other side of the food court. She was walking to the exit.
How did she get by him?
He followed her again, slowing his pace, trying to appear casual. The female assistant watched him, her face screwed with suspicion. Phitt diverted to a side door he used in emergencies, hoping to reach the girl in time.
He was in luck. More than luck. The girl was bent over the open engine of her car, chewing on a fingertip. He admired her taut legs and the curve of her rump. His craving swelled and he quickly checked his breath in the palm of his hand. Damn it, he thought, but it didn't matter. By the time she was close enough to smell his bacon breath, she'd be helpless anyway.
"Having car trouble?" Phitt asked, flashing the grin that won him the Bottlemore account.
The girl looked up and he read the anxiety in her face.
"I don't know what's wrong with it," she said. "The car just died. Do you know anything about engines?"
"I'm afraid not."
The girl kicked the car bumper. "Just another ten miles to go. I only stopped to use the loo. I wish I'd kept going now."
"Well, I'm glad you didn't. I would have missed the chance to make your acquaintance." Phitt gave her another of his smiles and turned his back on her. "It was nice to meet you. I hope you get where you're going."
Opening the driver's door, he pretended to clean the front seat, blood coursing through his choked arteries. This was the moment. This was when he'd know for sure. Had she fallen for the kindly old gentleman routine? Or would she watch him drive away, somehow sensing his predatory nature as some girls did?
Phitt had made his sales pitch. All he needed to do was wait.
"Hang on a minute," she said, rushing to join him. "I couldn't have a lift, could
I? Like I say, it's only ten miles."
"Is someone waiting for you?"
"Yes. My boyfriend. He's waiting for me."
Of course, he was, you stupid bint. They all said that. They all offered up the threat of an imaginary boyfriend. It was police advice, but what difference did it make to good old Phitt? Even if it was true, the so-called boyfriend was ten miles away and this little girl wasn't getting past mile one.
"How could I say no to a damsel in distress?" Phitt pointed at the passenger seat. "Oh, dear me. What a state. You might have to clear all those serviettes before you get in."
He stepped back, opening his arms.
"Let me get my bag and I'll be right with you," she said, running back to her defunct Skoda.
Phitt shifted the pleats of his trousers around his crotch. As soon as she reached inside, he'd bundle her to the floor. By the time she screamed, they would be on their way to a place off the B414. It was secluded, surrounded by trees. Beautiful, really.
"Got it," the girl shouted, slamming her door shut.
"We ought to make a move," Phitt said. "Don't want to keep your boyfriend waiting."
"Don't worry about that," she said.
The door of the Skoda opened. Phitt saw a leg first, long and gangly, followed by a second. A man swivelled in his seat, planting his feet on the ground. His skin was icy white and his blue eyes locked with Phitt's. He carried a sleeping baby in his arms and when he stood from the car, he towered above the sales rep.
"Who are you?" Phitt asked.
"I'm Scott," he said, swinging a fist. There was no pain, just a transfer of power. Phitt was lifted into the air and his head struck the wheel arch as he fell. The impact snapped his jaw shut and he bit off the tip of his precious tongue. Then came the pain, as if his nerves were howling. The electric taste of blood filled his mouth. Even in his dazed state, he knew he'd landed between the two cars, hidden from view. Fear forced Phitt to his knees and he attempted to crawl to safety.
"Don't let him get away," Scott said. "Grab his ankles."
The girl searched the Audi glove compartment, pocketing a wallet. "You don't tell me what to do anymore," she said.