Tales of Crow- The Complete series Box Set

by Chris Ward

  Patrick was just thinking to retrace his steps when a door burst open at the back of Suzanne’s house. He could only see the top edge over Suzanne’s wall, but the muzzle of a gun poked up between two helmeted heads.

  ‘Get off me, you pig bastards! I’ll cut your dicks off with the rustiest knife I can find if you lay one more hand on me!’

  Despite himself, Patrick smiled. Suzanne, the girl he loved like nothing else in the world. The next sound stunned him, however: the thump of a fist striking flesh, followed by a grunt of pain and then the scrabble of stumbling feet.

  ‘Take it easy, Winters,’ said a man’s voice. ‘She needs a mouth to talk out of if we’re going to find her old man.’

  ‘Bitch needs to learn some discipline. Come on, move.’

  Suzanne grunted again. Patrick craned his neck, but he couldn’t see them. The sound of footsteps told him enough, though. They were taking her out of the back entrance onto the alleyway.

  He had no weapons, not even a knife. The DCA were little more than organised thugs, but they would shoot him without a second thought.

  ‘Come on, get her round the front. Search the house. If you find her father, we can kill her, boss said.’

  One man sniggered, loud enough to chill Patrick’s blood. The DCA had a reputation for brutality towards prisoners, particularly females. That sound suggested more might be done to Suzanne before she was ever killed.

  ‘I want first dibs at the interrogation.’

  ‘I bet you do.’

  ‘I’ll fucking—uhh!’

  Another thump cut off Suzanne’s voice.

  As the men retreated, Patrick made his way back through the garden and hauled himself up over the wall as the group exited the alleyway at the far end. With his heart thundering, he raced after them, searching his brain for some way he could stop them taking her. Give himself up? Spin them a lie about her father so they let her go?

  He reached the road just as the first of the two vans sped past. He was watching its taillights go when the horn of the second blared. As he jumped back, the van sped through where he had been standing.

  The back window was tinted, but the van was old like most vehicles in Britain, and much of the tint had been scratched off. Something flickered behind it, a person, fighting against their captors.

  Patrick kicked the curb and screamed his frustration.

  Suzanne.

  The Department of Civil Affairs had taken her.

  2

  Suzanne

  The agent called Seth Winters didn’t know where to put his hands. Suzanne watched him warily as he stalked around the table where she sat with her hands tied behind her back, waiting for the next blow to come.

  Three times now, he had backhanded her across the face. Once he had punched her in the gut, and twice struck her in the back of the head with the ball of his palm. On one of those occasions, he had shoved her face against the table hard enough to bloody her nose.

  Keeping a count served two purposes. It passed the time, and it meant she knew just how much she needed to give back with interest when the tables were turned.

  ‘For the nine-hundredth time, no, I don’t know where my father is. He went off to work like he always does. Do you think I care? I’m eighteen. My plan for the day was to find some way to get drunk and then have sex with my boyfriend.’

  ‘You’re a damn worthless slut.’

  Suzanne forced a smile, aware it might incite his wrath. ‘I’m a teenager. What were you expecting?’

  Winters slammed his hands against the tabletop and glared into her face. ‘You think I’m tough with you? You should thank me for staying in here. There are guys outside that door who would strip the skin off your back.’

  ‘Good for them. And what exactly would they hope to find?’

  ‘Stanley Carmichael-Jones didn’t show up at his factory this morning. Our investigators have found massive sums of money leaving your father’s bank and being transferred into European banks. Yesterday saw a transaction of nine million pounds.’

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was ordering new carpets? He has expensive taste, my dad. Our kitchen knives are straight up silver—’

  Winters slammed his hands down again. ‘Shut up or I’ll cut out your damn tongue.’

  ‘And how exactly will that help? Come on, mate. I’m eighteen. Do you think I care what my dad does at work?’

  Winters gritted his teeth and lifted a hand. Suzanne closed her eyes, but the blow never came. When she opened them again Winters had turned away from her, facing a blank wall, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘You know, girl, you should play nice. Listen to me. I’m trying to help you. Things are changing. Do you know what Article 14.2 is also known as?’

  Suzanne sighed. ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘The Freedom of Speech Act. Passed by parliament last January. You no longer have the right to say what you want. I could lock you away forever just for what you’ve said to me in the last five minutes.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole.’

  Winters turned to face her. He smiled. Mid-thirties, she guessed. Not unattractive, but he pulled off a sneer that would make any movie villain proud. A hard body, one built through training yard exercises, but if he was here in the DCA he was better with his brain than his muscles.

  ‘Be nice to me,’ he said. ‘Be very nice, and I can get you out of here. There’s no video surveillance in this cell. Article 14.2, remember? It’s only you and me. Whatever happens is your word against mine. Now, I can walk out of that door and tell my boss you have no information of value, and that we should let you go, or I could say that you’re hiding something. Something that could be beaten out of you with a little effort. Which do you choose?’

  ‘Fucking kill yourself.’

  Winters drew his gun and jabbed it into her face. Suzanne gasped as she stared straight down the barrel.

  ‘You have nothing of value to say. I can see that now.’

  Winters pulled the trigger. Suzanne screamed as the empty chamber clicked.

  ‘I told you,’ she said, voice trembling. ‘I don’t know where my dad is.’

  Winters nodded. He put the gun away then folded his arms. ‘I think you might be telling the truth. I’m not sure, though.’ He unfolded his arms and began undoing his belt. ‘I’ll tell you what? I’ll give you five minutes to convince me.’

  The two DCA agents tossed her into the cell and slammed the door. With her hands tied, Suzanne had no way to stop herself as she struck the back wall, twisted around, and slid to the ground.

  Her face ached. One eye was swollen shut. Her nose and cheek ached, and one of her back molars was loose.

  Despite the pain, Suzanne smiled. Seth Winters’ desperate howling was something she would never forget, and it would bring her comfort no matter what happened next.

  She remembered Article 14.2. She might be a teenager, but kids in school talked more than adults did, with their heads buried in the sand. The government claimed it was to quell the increasing proliferation of hate speech and incitement of violence against minorities, but once pushed through parliament the crackdown had begun.

  She needed to sleep while she had the chance. Tomorrow could be tough, and if they decided to torture her, eventually she would talk, and her father’s little secret would come out.

  She hoped he was enjoying himself, wherever he was right now. She hoped he was doing what he claimed, which was to hunt for a European property where they could escape from the government, and not what she suspected, which was eloping with his tramp of a girlfriend and leaving her behind.

  Farther along the corridor a door slammed with a metallic clank and then someone else began to scream.

  Suzanne shivered. Soon, the DCA would come for her. She would fight them to her last breath, but something told her it wouldn’t be enough. She tried to think about Patrick, wondering what he was doing, whether he had gone to her house and found her missing. Would he care? Would he even look for he
r? Half the girls in school wanted to get with Patrick; he wouldn’t have much trouble forgetting her.

  It was stupid to think about such things, she knew, but it was something to cling to, and the alternative was far, far worse.

  Down the corridor, the scream cut off with a sharp, strangled cry.

  With her back pressed against the cold wall of her cell, Suzanne shivered.

  3

  Tommy

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I tried to get it but I need more time.’

  Tommy Crown sighed. He nudged the man’s cheek with the toe of his boot. ‘Sit up. Look at me. I can’t stand talking to someone without seeing their face. It’s kind of rude, don’t you think?’

  The man lifted his head. Tommy frowned at the sight of tears. So pathetic. He almost changed his mind.

  ‘You took two shipments of cigarettes, Mickey. I gave them to you in good faith. You promised me my money when the cigarettes were gone. Are they gone, Mickey?’

  ‘They’re … gone.’

  ‘So where’s my money?’

  ‘I was busted. Undercover. The DCA.’

  ‘The DCA are clowns. Am I supposed to believe that?’

  ‘Tommy—’

  Tommy kicked the boy in the side, making him grunt. ‘Mr. Crown to you, boy. Did your mother teach you no manners? What was she, some Soho tramp?’

  ‘My … I….’

  ‘Shut up. So my cigarettes are gone, and my money is gone. What are we supposed to do about that?’

  ‘I need more time. I promise.’

  Tommy hefted the length of pipe. One end was bent where he had ripped and twisted it off a fitting.

  ‘Do you know what promises are, Mickey?’

  ‘Mr. Crown, I—’

  Tommy clicked the fingers of his free hand. ‘Empty air. That’s what a promise is. I have no use for promises.’

  ‘I’ll get the money.’

  Tommy cocked his head. The scar down the right side of his face tugged on the skin of his neck.

  ‘But I do believe in the essential goodness of humankind. Don’t you, Mickey?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course you do. Which is why I’m going to give you a chance to find my money. You see, Mickey, you’ve probably heard a lot of bad things about me. Cold-blooded? A murderer? And you know what?’

  ‘What, Mr. Crown?’

  ‘There’s some truth in it. But there’s truth in a lot of things, don’t you think? It all depends on your point of view. And my point of view is that I have no need for your dead body.’

  ‘Tha … thank you, Mr. Crown.’

  ‘But I do have a reputation to uphold. You see, we live in dark times.’

  ‘Mr. Crown…?’

  ‘Tell me, Mickey. Which hand do you use to masturbate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good God, you’re blushing.’ Tommy looked up, glancing around the faces of his associates, who stood back in the shadows, their arms folded. A couple smiled, others nodded. All of them waited with keen anticipation.

  ‘I’ll give you five seconds,’ Tommy said. ‘One.’

  ‘Right!’ Mickey screamed.

  ‘Hold it out. Let me look at it.’

  Mickey held out a hand, his fingers trembling. Tommy swung the pipe and brought it down over the back of Mickey’s hand. Bones cracked. Mickey screamed, clutching his hand against his chest. Back in the shadows, a couple of Tommy’s men shifted their poses, perhaps surprised at Tommy’s speed. Good. It was best to keep them on edge.

  ‘I believe a true man does his own work,’ he said. ‘And it’s time for you to stop wasting my time and your own, and do yours. You have one week to find me my money. Get out of here.’

  Mickey, ashen-faced, could only manage a nod. Tommy decided to ignore the bad manners this time and waved for a pair of his associates to lead Mickey out. As they escorted the whimpering man to the door, Tommy wanted to tell them not to give him a second roughing up outside, but that would show too much compassion. Mickey had dug his own pit by being stupid enough to get conned, and could only accept whatever punishment was handed out.

  He was lucky. Kneecaps were Tommy’s standard, but in these dark days where no hospitals would take patients of a certain lower standing, one-legged men had little chance of recovering lost revenue.

  Tommy snapped his fingers, and his remaining associates came forward. Dave Green, Saj, Moose, Nevin Reynolds. Tough men, all. Loyal … if the price was right. Useful—always.

  ‘I want my cigarettes back,’ Tommy said. ‘Find out if that clown was telling the truth. If the DCA have them, I want them recovered before they hit the black market, and if they do, I want them bought back at a price I decide.’

  ‘Got ya, Tommy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On it.’

  Tommy turned to the last man, Nevin Reynolds. Older than Tommy by ten years, despite greying at the temples, Reynolds’ suit still bulged with beating muscle.

  ‘What is it, Nev?’

  ‘You won’t get them back,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘Why? We have done before.’

  ‘London is cracking down. I heard it from a man who knows a man just last night. All recovered goods are being shipped to the capital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one knows why.’

  Tommy nodded. ‘Then we’ll have to think of some other form of payback. I’m done with the Department of Civil Affairs and their damn prying eyes.’

  He dismissed them. For a few minutes he stood alone in the abandoned car storage warehouse, listening to the echo of his own breathing, letting his mind clear.

  London cracking down on the worthless thieves in the Department of Civil Affairs might not be a bad thing. Better would be removing them from service altogether.

  He went outside. His car stood alone now in the corner of the overgrown car park, dimly illuminated by the single solar streetlight that still worked. Tommy walked across to it, limping slightly from where swinging the lead pipe had tweaked something in his back. He sighed, tossing the padlock in the undergrowth behind the car, where his boot could find it next time he needed to fuck someone up in private. Shit was going down in London, and it wasn’t looking good. If there was anyone who might buy, it would be worth selling off what was left of his legitimate business before he was pushed fully underground.

  He climbed in and made his way back to the town. As he passed the large grey box of Whitaker’s Robotics Ltd where it sat squatted in a ditch beside the last A-road into Taunton, he noticed the sign had gone. Was Whitaker shutting down too? Robots, particularly in deconstruction and service technology, were still big business, so he had thought.

  Half an hour later, he reached his office. The light was still on in the reception, Manda having stayed behind to wait, it seemed like. Tommy smiled. There was nothing like a bit of violence to stir one’s lust. She must have known; he didn’t drive out to the old factory anymore just to take pictures.

  By the time he limped to the top of the steps, he had a raging boner. Half an hour of letting Manda ease his stress and he’d be ready for another long night of making calls. He shook his head, smiling, wondering how the world could turn so far that he’d be back to ringing up numbers on an old dial phone so old the numbers themselves had worn away. Six months until the next election, and he couldn’t wait for things to start righting themselves. It was about time.

  At the top of the steps, he paused. The lock was broken, smashed in by something clumsy and crude like a rock or brick. Tommy immediately reached for a piece of metal pipe which ostensibly appeared to be part of the stairs frame, but paused when a voice called out:

  ‘Uncle Tommy! Please don’t be upset.’

  With a scowl Tommy kicked open the door and walked inside. ‘You worthless little shit,’ he said to the boy sitting on the chair in front of the empty reception desk. ‘What the hell do you want, Patrick?’

  4

  Kurou

  A man was only ever the sum of his part
s, Kurou reflected, as he stood at the top of the cathedral’s bell tower and looked down on the glittering lights of the town of Wells spread out all around.

  It wasn’t such a bad place to die, was England. The weather was agreeable, the people were pliable, and most tools were available if you knew where to ask and had the money to pay.

  He was no longer sure how old he was, but his joints creaked when he walked, and only the refusal of his body to add flesh kept the burn scars that covered most of his body from restricting his movement further. One eye was but a memory, and the other, once able to spot a mouse running across a field at five hundred paces, was starting to fail too.

  There was little to live for, but like a barnacle clinging to the hull of a wrecked ship, endlessly harassed by the frustrated sea, he refused to let go. It was arguable that the pinnacle of his life’s work had happened twenty years ago, and that now he was the shadow that haunted the war-blighted corners of Europe, the revolutionary nests, the flattened towns and villages, and the shredded remnants of the once mighty internet. His memory was enough, his physical presence unnecessary, yet like most people consumed by their ego, it amused him to watch what happened.

  England, Britain, Great Britannia, the United Kingdom, Land of Hope and Glory … it had fallen to its knees of its own accord and no longer required his help in its ruination. Like a senile old uncle sitting in a potting shed, his hobbies and games were of amusement value and little more, a faded standard of a once great army, the fallen flag of a government bombed to its knees….

  ‘Uhh.’

  Kurou turned. The figure stumbling through the doorway behind him grunted again. Beneath the cowl no features were visible, but the stooped form suggested great age or hardship.

  ‘Laurette, how delightful. What, have you brought me a cup of tea?’

  The stumbling figure did not answer. It came a few steps farther then squatted down to its knees as though praying, its head slumped over.