Dark Angel - a gripping serial-killer thriller with a nail-biting ending

by Chris Simms

  ‘Get the fuck off me!’ Finally, he freed a hand and scrabbled to catch hold of the other person’s wrist.

  The scathing laughter picked up. Jon cursed: if I could just hold this bastard’s hand still, I can bite his bastard fingers off. The hand withdrew and, an instant later, Jon felt his head jerk. Colours bloomed in his head. He’s punched me. Or slapped me. Jon wasn’t sure which was worse. Anger coursed through him like a rush of bright water.

  Cool head, he thought. Think. ‘Please,’ he whined, letting himself go limp. ‘Leave me alone.’ He brought his knees out of the crumpled sleeping bag and up to his chest, while curling his hands over his head. The foetal position: the posture everyone instinctively adopted when a fight was lost.

  The pressure on his head eased. Whoever was above him assumed they had won. Which was a mistake. A terrible mistake. Jon knew that once the person stood up straight, the stamps and kicks would start. Before the hand lifted completely, he clamped both hands around the person’s wrist and yanked with all his strength.

  The person just had time to let out a grunt of surprise before his face connected heavily with the doors just above Jon’s head. Keeping a tight grip on the wrist with one hand, Jon placed his other palm against the ground and quickly twisted over onto his knees. His shoulders were now beneath the other person’s chest. A punch connected with the side of his jaw. But the angle was awkward; it didn’t carry much venom and certainly wasn’t going to stop Jon as he planted a foot on the ground and, using the powerful muscles of his legs, drove himself fully to his feet. The person was now draped over his shoulders, both trainers clear of the ground, legs kicking about uselessly as his free hand thudded harmlessly against Jon’s back.

  Jon glimpsed the look of astonishment on the companion’s face before he whirled in a tight semi-circle; the head of whoever was over his shoulder connected with the side wall of the doorway. The person cried out with pain. Leaning to the side to keep the person’s skull wedged against the surface, Jon ran him across the panelled doors before heaving him against the far wall. He hit it with a dull thud before dropping to the ground. Not pausing to stop, Jon lunged an arm out at the other person. His fingers closed on the neck of the bloke’s shirt and, for a moment, they were face-to-face. Just time for a quick smile before Jon slammed his forehead into the person’s mouth. The bloke staggered backwards across the pavement, collided with a bin and fell over.

  Jon turned back to the doorway, vaguely aware of a sour taste on his tongue and lips. The man who, while giggling, had assaulted him in his sleep wasn’t finding things so funny now. He was back on his feet, just. Some kind of gym monkey, with a tight T-shirt to show off his muscled torso. Jeans that shrouded, Jon guessed, legs like a pair of matchsticks. Hair that had probably been in an overly elaborate side-parting, but was now a straggly mess. There was a strip of skin missing from one side of his face. Blood was pouring from his nose, dripping from his lips and chin. He was looking at Jon with wild and desperate eyes.

  Yeah, Jon thought, you’re cornered. And I’m only just getting started. As he closed in on him, pulses of blue light started bouncing off the pavement and walls around him.

  ‘Stay exactly where you are!’ Even though the voice was from the road immediately behind him, the roar of blood in Jon’s ears gave it a distant quality. He could just make out a car’s doors being opened.

  Another voice shouted, this one sounding closer: ‘Move and this taser gets fired straight in your arse!’

  Two of them, then. Jon raised his arms from his sides and half-looked back. Multi-coloured halos danced around the lights of Stevenson Square. A couple of uniformed officers were beside the kerb. Each one had a taser pointed at him. ‘They attacked me.’

  ‘I said, put your hands behind you.’

  Jon was amazed by the amount of adrenaline in his system. He’d been in enough scuffles to be familiar with the way the hormone heightened your senses. Made everything super-sharp. But this ... part of him wanted to whirl round and take on the uniforms, too. He felt bloody invincible.

  ‘I said, put your fucking hands behind you!’ The voice was angrier this time.

  ‘Why the fuck are you arresting me?’ he called back. ‘This prick attacked me while I was asleep in that doorway!’

  The same voice again. ‘Shall I just fucking give it him?’

  The other officer spoke up. ‘Last chance, mate. Hands behind your back or you’ll find yourself flipping about on that pavement like a fish.’

  Sighing, Jon touched his fingertips against the small of his back.

  A hand came down on his shoulder and he was steered firmly towards the building. ‘Face the wall. Now, do I need the cuffs? You going to cause any more trouble?’

  It felt like something was shooting a stream of bubbles into his blood. He had to breathe deeply a couple of times before he could speak. ‘They attacked me.’

  ‘You were asleep in that doorway, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that’s illegal? Anything in these pockets that shouldn’t be? Any needles?’ The officer asked as he started to pat Jon’s pockets.

  From the corner of his eye, Jon saw the man emerging from the office doorway. He had untucked his T-shirt and was using the hem of it to dab the blood from his mouth and chin.

  ‘Are you OK, sir?’ the officer behind him asked.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I think so.’ The man glanced uncertainly at Jon.

  ‘An ambulance is on its way. What happened here?’

  ‘Well ... we were just checking on him. Seeing if he was OK.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Jon realised he’d snarled the word. He twisted his head to see a bystander had helped the man’s companion to his feet. The one he’d head-butted. It looked like he’d live.

  ‘Who bloody asked you?’ The officer behind him demanded, pushing him against the wall. ‘I asked if there’s anything in these pockets of yours that’s going to injure me. Syringes, blades, anything like that?’

  Jon had to breathe deeply. ‘No.’ His heart felt like a piston in his chest. The feeling of sheer power was almost overwhelming. It was like, if he dipped his knees, he could spring up to the window ledge above. Scale the side of the building like Spider-Man. He wrestled the urge back down.

  The officer’s breath felt warm against his ear as a hand reached into his jacket. ‘This your phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Honestly, I didn’t start this.’

  ‘Course you didn’t.’

  ‘Look, can we speak in the back of your car?’

  ‘Why?’

  Because, thought Jon, I need to let you know I’m a police officer. And I don’t want to spend the next few hours in a cell. ‘Just need to have a quiet word.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jon felt his shoulders relax. Thank God for that.

  The officer searching him called to his colleague. ‘Rich?’

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘MDV?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Expected, is it?’

  ‘Imminent.’

  MDV: mobile detention van, thought Jon. Lying bastard. They weren’t about to have a chat in the rear of the vehicle; they were going to arrest him, sling him into a secure cubicle no bigger than a toilet, and probably let him stew there until morning.

  Fuck that.

  He swept an arm back, spinning on the ball of one foot as he did so. His elbow connected with the officer’s chest and – to his surprise, the man fell away like a cardboard cut-out. His colleague’s eyes went wide as he began to scrabble for his taser once more. Jon jumped over the stricken officer and sprinted off up the street in his socks.

  Chapter 29

  Gavin tugged gently at the lapels of his long black raincoat. When he had the wings strapped on beneath it, he always worried the feathers were being damaged. Or that they were creating an odd-shaped lump beneath the material.

  Three in the morning: the time when the temperature always seemed coldest. He removed a black woollen cap fro
m the pocket of his coat and pulled it on over his head. Just as he was about to step out of the side street’s shadows, he heard the thud of rapidly approaching footsteps. He paused. A big bloke in a flappy army coat and no shoes shot by.

  Gavin frowned. Odd. He waited a few seconds and, sure enough, a uniformed police officer sprinted past. A snatch of breathless words. ‘Lever Street! On foot, towards Ancoats!’

  Gavin melted back into the darkness. No point heading into that part of town, then. He turned around and moved quietly in the opposite direction. Seconds later, he was in an area of open ground. An open-air parking lot, flanked by a wide expanse of water. What was once a wharf that connected to a long stretch of canal. He knew that if he took the towpath leading into the city centre, it would take him through a tunnel before emerging at the top of Canal Street. From there, he could bear left to the block of student flats the university were about to knock down. The empty building was tall, and he’d heard several rough sleepers had started sneaking in at night. It would be worth a check.

  There was a male figure lurking near the mouth of the first tunnel. Some lonely soul, hoping for a quick fumble with a stranger. Gavin could feel the man’s eyes tracking him as he moved past.

  ‘You all right there, mate?’ the person asked in a soft voice.

  He kept looking straight ahead. ‘Not interested, thank you.’

  Once inside the short tunnel, his footsteps started to echo. He kept an ear open behind him, but the other person hadn’t tried to follow. Soon, a set of steep stone steps appeared on his left. He climbed up them and emerged on to David Street. Perfect: the condemned tower block was on the adjacent road.

  Jon reached the intersection with Great Ancoats Street and looked back. The officer was a good fifty metres behind. ‘Keep the fuck up!’ Jon bellowed in his direction before laughing out loud. This was fucking ace. Which way, now? He toyed with the idea of the Oldham Road. What would it be: seven, eight miles to the moors? He liked the idea of a chase across the hills. Jumping streams, leaping rocks. No bastard would get in touching distance. The sour taste still lingered in his mouth. He patted his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Thirsty. Where to get water? There was a garage on the Cheetham Hill Road that stayed open all night. Yeah, let’s get me a little drink there.

  Another glance behind. The officer was still about fifty metres back. How could that be? Was he just running on the spot? Felt like he’d been stood here thinking for ages.

  ‘Fucking useless, mate!’ He set off along the main road. The headlights flowing in his direction had halos, just like the ones had in Stevenson Square. These were bigger, though. And they were shooting out little sparks of silver. Like silent fireworks. Was it some sort of headlight filter car shops had started selling? Jon drifted to the edge of the pavement for a better look. The nearest car swerved across to the far side of the road. So did the next while letting out a long beep. Don’t be like that. Only checking your special effects, Jesus.

  Gavin looked across the grassy area to his right. The Vimto Sculpture was just visible across the expanse of grass. A giant bottle, with a scattering of over-sized pieces of fruit at its base. Bizarre.

  Before him stood the empty building. Hoardings had been erected around it. Attached to them at eye-level were regular-spaced signs. O’Connell Brothers, demolition.

  Gavin followed the path towards the rear of the building. The way they got into these places was always at the rear. Out of the normal world’s sight. He soon spotted a section of hoarding where the base had been forced apart to create a narrow gap with the neighbouring panel. He squeezed through the wedge-shaped opening, careful to not scrape his back and the delicate wings beneath his coat.

  In front of him, a knee-high line of metal loops emerged from the concrete. A bike rack. One loop had a front wheel chained to it, another just a bike’s frame. He didn’t bother trying the empty building’s rear doors. Instead, he hugged the base of the building, going in a clockwise direction, waiting for some kind of alternative entrance. One that was more discreet. At the second corner, he came across a service door: ‘Fire Exit. Do Not Block.’ The area before it was clogged with industrial-size bins. But there was a narrow corridor through. He pushed a palm gently against the door. It opened.

  The corridor beyond was pitch-black. Once he’d closed the door behind him, he took a key ring from his pocket and pressed its little button. A dot of white light appeared on the floor at his feet. He directed it forward; a short set of steps. Careful to make no noise, he climbed up to the top. A door that probably opened onto a communal area. He turned to the next flight of steps, knowing if he kept going he’d eventually reach the roof. High spots: always the best place to find someone who was ready to leave this world.

  Someone shouted at him from across the road. ‘Run, Forrest, run!’

  Jon turned to where the voice had come from. Three pale faces lit from above by a harsh streetlight. Shadow had pooled in the men’s eye sockets. It lurked in their open mouths like tar. They were all laughing at him. One had a bottle in his hand. Drink, Jon thought. I need a drink. He wondered whether to cross over and ask for a swig, but his legs wanted to carry on. The pavement was like a sprung floor. Every time his feet connected it was seven-league-boots stuff. Striding impossible distances with every step. He continued running, parked cars flowing smoothly past like they were on a conveyor belt waiting to be picked. I’ll have that red Audi, thanks. But no big pincer came down from the sky to lift the vehicle off. Too bad.

  Coke. His eyes were snagged by the bright sign. A nice cold can. That would hit the spot. Stop the rot. What what. He steered himself towards the vending machine. The lines of cans were queuing behind a clear window, all covered in dew. Can after can. A can-can of cans. So close. He delved a hand into his pocket and it came back with coins cupped in the middle. A twenty. A few tens. A five pence, too. He rattled each one down the hungry opening and into the guts of the machine until no more were left. Nothing. Come on, come on, don’t be like that. I fed you plenty. He lifted both hands and grasped the thing firmly by its shoulders. Are you and me going to fall out? No response. Not a peep. A gentle shove. I’m warning you. A good shake. No? Maybe there was a button to press. Was there a button to press? He took a step back. There most certainly was: a black one. Coins cascaded into the little tray below it. Down into a crouch for a look. Jackpot! A twenty. A few tens. A five pence, too. Hang on, are those the ones I just put in? He picked out a five pence piece, squinted at the Queen’s profile. ‘Ma’am, I’m most terribly sorry, but there seems to be an issue with your credit.’ The comment made him want to laugh, so he did. He sank to his knees and laughed and laughed until his stomach ached and his forehead was resting against the Perspex.

  Something about the building was making him feel optimistic. At the doors to the third floor, he thought he heard music. A metallic hissing from somewhere nearby. He cracked the fire door open an inch and saw a thin glow further along the corridor. Someone was in one of the rooms, then. But could there be anyone else?

  He continued with his ascent. Four, five, six, seven, eight. How many tons of steel and concrete did the structure weigh? All of it waiting to be smashed apart. By the twelfth floor, he could go no further. The door before him said ‘No Access’, but he wasn’t so sure. The lock mechanism was missing, for a start. Punched clean out. He crouched at the perfect hole that had once housed it. The cool air flowing in made him blink. Beyond, was a two-tone band: dark-grey and orange-black sky. He tested the door with a shoulder, but it didn’t budge. It took him a second to work out why. Pull, not push. He hooked a fingertip into the hole and it swung inwards without a sound.

  When the soles of his shoes made contact with the surface of the roof it sounded like rough sandpaper. Away to his right, a red dot hung motionless in the night sky above him. The warning light of a nearby crane. Looking down, he could just make out a cellophane wrapper at his feet. That hadn’t blown up on any breeze. People had been here. The nex
t thing he saw was a shopping trolley lying on its side. He shook his head. Why? Why bring that up here? Unless it had been transported up when the lifts still worked. He stepped round it and began a slow survey of the dimly lit roof. Nothing in the shadows directly in front, nothing to either side, nothing behind him. The sense of disappointment was sharp. For some reason, he’d felt sure the place wouldn’t be deserted.

  He checked his watch. Dawn would be breaking soon. A blackbird somewhere nearby had already started to madly twitter. His last full night on earth and he hadn’t found anyone. He quelled his feelings of disappointment by thinking about the next evening and being reunited with Claire and Sophie.

  He was turning to go when he heard a delicate whimper. His neck twisted. Where did that come from? It had to be the other side of the brick construction he’d just stepped out of. Careful not to make a sound, he moved round it. A lone figure came into view. A sense of elation surged up; he knew it! And he knew exactly what the person was up here for. He stood still, happy to just watch for a little while.

  The figure was leaning against the rail, head bowed forward, totally still. Trying to build up courage, no doubt. I can help you with that. He approached, treading softly. Once closer, he could see the other person was quite small. Thick coils of hair distorted the shape of the head. A slender hand rested lightly on the rail. Rings on two of the fingers. What he could see of the jaw line was soft and round. He realised with a shock it was a woman.

  Chapter 30

  The little window in the centre of the door dimmed. Someone was out there, looking in on him. There was no point asking what was going on: no one was prepared to give him an answer. About an hour or so before, he’d heard the other prisoners being taken, one by one, from the back of the secure van. Jon hunched forward on the little bench and rested his head in his hands. Anything to try and lessen the pounding in his temples. He badly needed a drink which, he appreciated, was ironic seeing as his feet were like two islands in a pool of liquid. The smell filling the tiny cubicle told him the liquid was urine. He had no idea if it was his own, but suspected it was.