Gripping Thrillers

by Iain Rob Wright

  Frankie pointed the gun back at Andrew and cocked the hammer. “This fucker!”

  Davie looked at Andrew and seemed confused. “Andrew abused you?”

  “Yeah,” Frankie said, nodding his head adamantly, tears forming in his eyes.

  “What the hell are you talking about,” Andrew cried out. “You’re talking complete nonsense. I never met you before.”

  “I don’t buy it,” said Davie. “Andrew doesn’t even work at a prison.”

  Frankie’s twitch went into overdrive, and a nauseated expression took over his face. “Well… not him exactly. It was McMillan.”

  Andrew was stunned. “James McMillan. My half-brother?”

  Davie looked at Andrew, obviously confused. “What?”

  “My half-brother is called McMillan. I haven’t seen him in years, but his surname is McMillan. Is that who you’re talking about, Frankie?”

  Frankie said nothing, but Davie nodded as if something was making sense. “Let me guess, you two look alike?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I guess. We have the same eyes and similar hair, but we’re not twins. Like I said, I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “You look close enough,” said Frankie, marching towards him and grabbing both sides of his bloodied shirt yanking him to his feet. “Soon as I seen ya, I thought you was him. Was only when I saw you up close that I realised you weren’t–that piece of shit must have been your brother or something.”

  Andrew shook his head and pleaded. “We haven’t seen each other since I was a teenager. He lived with his father while my mother remarried someone else. He was already ten years old when I was born. I barely knew him.”

  Frankie slammed Andrew back against the wall. Pain exploded from his knee. “You share his blood. You probably have the same sick shit running through your veins as he does.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Andrew. “I’m sorry for what my brother did to you. I’ll tell the police, make him pay. I promise.”

  Frankie released his grip slightly. “You know, I actually believe you.”

  “Good, because I mean it.”

  Frankie nodded. “You know I can’t let you go though, right? It’s too late not to follow this shit through to the end, and there’s no way I’m ever gunna let you tell about what McMillan did to me.”

  Andrew grunted. “You killed my wife. There’s no quitting now for either of us.”

  He reached for the can under his armpit and pulled it free. His index-finger gripped the release and pressed down hard. A pungent jet of liquid exploded from the can’s nozzle and hit Frankie in the eyes and nose. The excess vapour flew back and entered Andrew’s airways as well. Both of them fell to the floor in a choking, spluttering mess.

  Andrew’s vision was like being under water, all blurs and wet squiggles. His entire face filled with a burning sensation that worsened with every breath he took. While he couldn’t see the room clearly, the sound of Frankie cursing was as clear as day. This was it. It would all end now, one way or another.

  Andrew placed his palms down on the floor and tried to get to his feet, but it was impossible. The dizziness, twinned with the uselessness of his knee was too much to overcome. Andrew knew that his daughter was bed ridden and that Officer Dalton was too injured to help. The only person able-bodied enough to help was Davie.

  But where did Davie’s loyalties lie?

  “Come on, man, get up,” Andrew heard Davie say to his brother. “We need to get out of here.”

  “Okay,” said Frankie. “You’re right, little bro.”

  Andrew sighed. Thank you, thank you. Finally this whole thing is over.

  “But I need you to kill them first. Do you still have your gun?”

  “No way,” said Davie. “I’m not shooting anybody.”

  “Do. You. Still. Have. Your. Gun?”

  “Yes,” said Davie. “I have it, but I’m not using it.”

  “Then I’ll go down forever, is that what you want? If you get rid of the witnesses, then we can sort out some sort of alibi and get through this as brothers. I’ll owe you, man–for life. Please, Davie. I need you to do this for me. You’re the only person I have.”

  There was silence in the room as Andrew lay on the floor, terrified and blind, waiting for the next turn of events in this hellish nightmare that had become his life.

  “Okay,” said Davie. “It’s time to put an end to all of this once and for all.”

  “Thank you, little bro. I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I know that, Frankie. I love you, too, and that’s the only reason I’m about to do this for you.”

  There was more silence, interrupted only by what must have been Davie removing a gun he had hidden in his clothing.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Andrew,” came Davie’s voice. “I truly wish none of this had ever happened to you.”

  Andrew said nothing. He just closed his eyes and replaced the blurriness with darkness. He waited for the end, tried not to listen to his daughter’s scream–he didn’t want that to be the last thing he ever thought about. So he thought of a time long ago–to the day that Bex was born, back when they had been a happy family. Perhaps in the next life they would be again. He and Pen would still be together.

  He listened to the sound of a gun being cocked.

  A pause that seemed to go on forever.

  Then there was an explosion of sound and the smell of smoke.

  Bex wailed.

  Andrew opened his eyes.

  His vision had cleared a little since closing them, and though he could not make out the finer details, he could see that a body now adorned the floor. A body that was thankfully not his own.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” said Davie. “I hope this makes up for it a little bit.”

  Andrew stared, trying to understand. He wasn’t certain, but it looked like Frankie was lying dead on the floor. Davie had shot his own brother.

  Andrew shook his head with disbelief. “W-Why?”

  Davie didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “I’ll go and get some help.” He dropped the gun on the floor beside his dead brother and left.

  Andrew realised that he hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute, and expelled the air from his lungs. Things in the room slowly came into focus, and the first thing he made out clearly was Officer Dalton lying on the floor beside him.

  “Hey,” he said to her. “It’s over. Help will be here soon… Officer Dalton… Laura?”

  Andrew put a hand on the woman’s chest and rocked her gently, and then more firmly. She did not wake up. Her body slid sideways and flopped onto the tiles. The blood had stopped pumping from her stomach, and she was no longer breathing. He mourned the loss more than he would have expected. He’d met the policewoman only days earlier, yet she had been a massive part of the reason he and his daughter were still alive. He would never forget what she did for him–Dalton’s sacrifice.

  “Dad?”

  Bex’s voice was like music, clearing away the nightmares that filled his head and replacing it with love and hope. She would be safe now, and that made the world bearable again. It was just he and she now, and he would never let anything hurt her ever again.

  “Everything is going to be okay now, honey,” he told her. “It’s over.”

  Andrew’s vision finally cleared, and he used it to make certain Frankie was dead. The bullet wound in his temple confirmed it, and he gave the biggest sigh of relief that he’d ever taken in his life and then let it out slowly. He was about to lose consciousness, but before he did, he managed a smile.

  Yep, he thought sleepily. It’s finally over.

  Epilogue

  April 17th

  Dear Diary

  Today is my twenty-first birthday. Dad and I spent the afternoon at Mom’s grave. We both still miss her every day. Visiting the cemetery helps alleviate some of the pain, but I know it affects Dad differently than it does me. He still blames himself for being unable to protect us that week Frankie force
d himself into our lives.

  It still shocks me that Davie Walker shot his older brother that day, to save me and my father. I’ll never know the full reasons why he did it, but I can still picture him now, squeezing that trigger as though the weight of the world fought against him. It must have been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. But he did it anyway. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

  After the events in the hospital, the police arrested Davie for murder, but after they took my Dad’s statement about what happened, they offered him a deal: testify against Dom in exchange for a reduced sentence. He was looking at about five years. When my Dad got a lawyer involved, the police dropped the charges altogether. The court case against dad’s half-brother, McMillan, is due to start any day now. Apparently Frankie wasn’t his only victim, a dozen more have come forward.

  Davie went into care after it was discovered what a poor excuse for a mother he had. His identity was withheld to protect him from the media-circus that ensued to cover what came to be known as the West Midland’s Massacre. I don’t know what happened to him after that, but I hope he’s okay.

  Eventually my wounds healed and things went back to normal little by little. We sold the house and moved to the country, away from the pavements and lampposts of urban living, and away from the memories that haunted us. Somehow, I managed to get my head together enough to finish high school and move on to college. I’m at university now–my third year studying Law. All in all, I managed to get through the ordeal Frankie put us through with my mind and body still intact. A scar across my stomach is the only physical reminder of the night I nearly died.

  Dad hasn’t been so lucky. Even five years later, he still walks with a pronounced limp. The wounds of his mind are even worse. Sometimes when we watch TV together he starts crying for no reason. His emotions don’t work the way they used to. If I go out without calling him every two hours, he panics.

  It’s not all bad, though. After what happened, there was a media furore about how the police had failed my family, and about how all the red tape in the criminal justice system did nothing but hurt the people that needed protection the most. My dad fronted a campaign to increase police powers, and he succeeded. Now young offenders can be given something called an ASBO and placed on a public register for as long as the police deem necessary. They can also be escorted back to their homes if they’re caught congregating after nine o’clock at night. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. People have hope again.

  After what happened to my dad, neighbourhood watch programs began popping up all over the country and memberships sky-rocketed. People started coming together, fighting back against the thug culture that was threatening to invade our country. If anything good came from my mother’s death, it’s that the UK today is a safer place than it was when she died. Dad holds on to that dearly. Last year he went into politics.

  Dad formed an organisation committed to protecting the streets from crime through a series of initiatives. One of those demands the Government to allocate part of the annual budget to evening activities for impoverished youths. One of the failings that led to much of the UK’s gang violence was teenage boredom. My father helped change all that–he called it Pen’s Law. He also spearheaded an investigation into young offender’s homes and was disgusted to find out that the claims Frankie made about his half-brother were true.

  Officer Dalton was, of course, honoured for dying in the line of duty. Nobody, other than her partner, Wardsley, ever knew that she’d let Andrew go after Frankie. Wardsley asked my dad to keep the fact quiet, and he’d been happy to. Dalton was a good woman. Once a year we visit her grave too; sometimes Wardsley comes with us. I think they were more than just partners.

  I guess we’ll never know if Frankie was evil or just a result of a crippled and decaying system that failed him from the day he was born. All I know is that the world is a scary place, and that, like my dad, I’m going to do everything I can to help make it safer. I don’t want any other young girls to lose their mothers the way I did.

  This is my last diary entry. At twenty-one, I feel I’ve outgrown the need to analyse my daily thoughts by writing about them. I know myself well enough now. I guess I should end it here. I need to get ready. Dad’s taking me out to celebrate my birthday. At least we still have each other…

  3. The Housemates

  “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

  – Edmund Burke.

  “Competition is a sin.”

  – John D. Rockefeller

  “Game Over.”

  – Jigsaw, Saw (2004)

  Day 1

  The ferry glided ashore. A bus waited on the hill. Rain came down in silver sheets against the velvet darkness of the endless night.

  Damien didn’t like wearing the hood over his head and had managed to peek out from beneath it several times in the last hour. It was uncomfortable being in the dark, unable to see, unable to even hear properly.

  Damien’s hosts had told him that the hood was necessary – that the location of the island must be kept secret. The only information they had divulged willingly was that his destination was somewhere off the northern coast of Scotland. The atmosphere’s cold, penetrating bite made it easy to believe that Damien had been taken north. He rubbed at his shoulders.

  Freezing my bloody knob off here.

  Not wanting to push his luck, Damien pulled the hood back down over his face and listened intently. It sounded like the captain of the small passenger ferry was about to give orders.

  “Okay, everybody! I’m afraid you will have to leave your hoods on for just a little while longer. The house is just over a mile inland. A bus will take you there now, and then you can finally take the hoods off and settle in.”

  There were sighs of relief from all around. Damien wasn’t sure how many other people were on the ferry with him, but he estimated at least ten – definitely enough bodies to constitute a crowd. They were all wearing hoods the same as his.

  So I have about a dozen competitors. That puts my odds of winning pretty low.

  Near the ferry’s bow, a man had begun ushering everybody ashore, barking orders in a clipped tone like machine gun fire. Damien stumbled past the gruff gentleman and was hustled along onto what felt beneath his feet like a wooden jetty. The freezing rain made him shudder as he left the shelter of the boat.

  Remind me never to come to Scotland again if this is what it’s like.

  Damien started up an incline, towards where he imagined the bus was parked. An engine idled nearby and the acrid odour of spent petrol mingled with the scent of wet soil. An owl hooted.

  When Damien finally stepped onto the waiting bus, he greeted the heavenly warmth with glee. It must have been several hours since his journey had begun and he was starting to feel the weariness in his bones.

  Damien’s hosts had collected him from a train station in Sheffield, where he had then been driven even further north for almost three hours. That was when he had been told to put the hood on. He was ushered onto a waiting coach with several other people and then continued on yet another leg of the journey, which had ended with the trip on the ferry from which he had just departed.

  The hood prevented Damien from seeing who his companions were on the bus, but he heard some of them chatting blindly up ahead as he navigated the aisle.

  Time became a blur. Weariness and boredom had led to a dazed passing of seconds and minutes and hours until Damien felt nothing but the desire to sleep. He was glad to hear he was now only a mile away from his final destination.

  Thought I’d never bloody get there.

  He groped his way along the aisle of the stationary bus and found himself a seat on the left. He sat down and relaxed back into the soft cushion.

  Oh, yeah. That feels better. My arse is killing me.

  Just another twenty minutes and this wretched trip will be over.

  Nerves began to tickle at Damien’s psyche as he sat there and waited
for the bus to get moving. The bizarre nature of the situation began to sink in. Home seemed far away; he already missed his friends, his work, his old life. It was a situation he never would have got himself into usually, but…

  When needs must…

  The Devil drives.

  Damien felt someone dump down on the seat behind him. The bus grumbled into gear and started moving. The rain continued falling heavy, thudding against the window panels on both sides.

  Damien closed his eyes beneath his hood and allowed himself to rest. He was worried that rest would be hard to come by during the days ahead.

  The bus sped up, jerking and hopping as it traversed uneven terrain. A couple of times it felt as though the vehicle had gone off road completely. There were no sounds coming from outside, no noise from other traffic, no grinding steel of industrial buildings. Wherever the bus was heading, it was seemingly in the middle of nowhere.

  The stranger who had sat on the seat behind Damien leant forward and whispered. “Pretty exciting, huh?”

  With the hood still over his head, Damien was unsure if the woman’s question had been directed at him. After a few seconds he decided that it was and gave a reply. “I don’t know if ‘exciting’ is the word I would use.”

  “Really, then how would you describe it?”

  “Overdone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this is all a bit dramatic. We’ve been whisked away in the dead of night under the cover of darkness to a destination we know nothing about. Is it really necessary?”

  “It’s just part of the experience. Putting on a good show.”

  “It’s stupid.” Damien sighed. He pulled the hood off his head and blinked his eyes. He’d had enough of being in the dark. It was ridiculous. He understood the need for privacy, to a certain extent, but he was done feeling like a prisoner of war.

  “Sir, please put your hood back on!”

  Damien glanced down the aisle to see that the bus driver was twisting around. The man was skeletal with cheekbones that leapt out at right-angles. Beside him stood a colleague, a burly man in a set of black overalls and work boots.