The Revenge Trail

by AA Abbott

  “Kat, why don’t you come over and have your make-up done with the bridesmaids?” Amy said. “Dee’s out doing a TV interview, so the rest of us are having champagne.”

  Kat was tempted, until she moved, and her morning sickness resurfaced. “I’m not drinking,” she replied. She wanted Tim to return and deliver on his promise too. After that, why not? Pregnancy needn’t stop her being sociable. She could reprise the old days, when she, Amy and their friends giggled together as they prepared to party in London on a Saturday night. Was it only three years ago? It felt much longer.

  “I’ll be round soon. Keep the coffee warm for me,” she said.

  Chapter 35.

  Shaun

  Shaun was woken by the sounds of trickling water and clanking pipes. He sat up, adrenaline jolting through him. Who was using his toilet? He’d had no cellmate since Sidey’s departure.

  Daylight filtered through flowery curtains, striking a wall decorated with butterflies in shades of peach. He was alone, as he should be, but not in his cell. Memories of the night flooded his brain: the dash to the car park, blue lights on the highway, the reception from Barbie. He grinned, then shuddered, glancing at the door. It was firmly shut, the exercise bike and other heavier items of junk piled against it.

  Footsteps, and a television blaring into life, carried through the closed door as occupants of the house went about their morning routines. The plumbing wasn’t located in the spare room, but it was noisy. Shaun moved the jumble out of his way, emerging onto the landing. His bare feet enjoyed the sensuous feel of carpet. He now recalled there was a bathroom opposite. Tiptoeing into it, his hand on the weapon in his pocket, he splashed his face with water from a pink sink. He dried himself with a matching fluffy hand towel, then used the blush-coloured toilet, deliberately leaving the seat up.

  Downstairs, the boom of a television competed with the clatter of breakfast dishes. An aroma of scorched bread assailed his nostrils. Shaun realised how hungry he was.

  He was supposed to be Australian, wasn’t he? “G’day,” he announced, entering the kitchen.

  Scott and Barbie were sitting at a rough-hewn, rectangular oak table with two young people. A boy and a girl, they were both adult height, but had the spotty skin and diffident slouch of adolescence. They looked uncomfortable in their tight black school uniforms. Scott had no offspring to Shaun’s knowledge, so these must be Barbie’s.

  The boy nodded, and the girl said, “Hello,” before both returned to munching toast and staring at the screen that dominated the wall beside the door. Sooty lounged at their feet, catching the odd crumb as it fell to the floor.

  Barbie’s attempt at a smile emerged as a scowl. “Good morning, Al. This is Jack and Ashleigh. Sit down.” She gestured to the chair next to Scott, a piece of heavy oak furniture like the table and kitchen units. “Would you like breakfast?”

  She and Scott had bowls in front of them, in which Shaun spied half-eaten gruel. Evidently, bacon and eggs were out of the question.

  “Hot buttered toast?” Shaun asked hopefully.

  “Can do you brown, with Flora,” Scott said, standing and removing two slices from a plastic-wrapped loaf kept within a wooden box bearing the legend BREAD. He dropped them into a toaster decorated with pictures of wheat grains.

  “There’s soy yogurt and fruit too,” Barbie said. “Or coconut porridge. You’re welcome to a bowl.”

  “No thanks, but a cup of tea would be nice,” Shaun said, already nostalgic for a Belmarsh breakfast pack.

  “I’ll make it with soy milk and brown sugar,” Scott offered.

  Shaun nearly exploded. “How come you’re so fat on a diet like that?” he asked Scott.

  Barbie looked smug. “That’s what I keep telling him, Al,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how healthy the food, if you eat too much of it, you’ll put on weight.” The television caught her eye. “Do excuse me; it’s the yoga programme.”

  The teenagers immediately began studying their mobile phones. Barbie and Scott directed their attention to the screen. It held Scott’s gaze even as he set Shaun’s toast before him with a tub of margarine.

  “Hi, I’m Dee.” A beautiful woman beamed from the screen, brushing honey-coloured hair out of her face. She wore a tight red Lycra vest and leggings, an outfit which left nothing to the imagination.

  “She’s fit. Do you think those are real?” Shaun asked.

  “I’d say so,” Scott replied, so quickly it was obvious he’d already considered it.

  Barbie fixed him with a glare that would have frozen hell.

  “My gift to you today is a sixty second stretch,” Dee said. “First, we’re going to think of a beautiful blossom. Here’s mine.” She produced a daffodil. “Isn’t it uplifting? Such a cheerful flower, filled with the scent of spring.” She sniffed the bloom. “Don’t do this at home if you’ve got asthma. Now, whatever you’ve chosen, just focus on it in your mind. Really appreciate the colour. Drink in the scent. Take a deep breath through your nose.”

  Shaun stared at the couple. They were breathing in, beatific expressions on their faces.

  “Now, out through your mouth,” Dee said.

  Shaun was unimpressed. “What does a man need to do to get a cuppa?” he demanded, the Australian accent fading as irritation gripped him.

  “I’ll make one,” Ashleigh said, rising to her feet and switching on a kettle.

  At least one member of the household understood the meaning of hospitality. Shaun thanked her profusely, despite the tea’s foul taste. He spooned extra sugar into it, vowing never to let soya milk near his tea again. Although he’d yearned for food during his low-calorie regime, he found he’d lost his appetite.

  Scott and Barbie were kneeling on the flagstone floor, stretching their arms towards the ceiling. Dee, far more elegant, declared the exercise finished and told them to breathe once more.

  “Strange. I thought you breathed automatically,” Shaun said.

  Barbie gave him another filthy look. “Be quiet,” she said. “Dee’s on the couch.”

  Shaun gaped at the television with renewed interest, only to see reality fall short of expectations. Dee was being interviewed by the presenter, a middle-aged man called Paul. He boasted an orange tan, obviously fake, unlike Dee’s dewy glow.

  “So, Dee,” Paul said, “you’re getting married today.” He placed a hand on her arm.

  Dee simpered. Her brown eyes sparkled. “That’s right, Paul.”

  “And is this your first time?” Paul leered.

  Dee confirmed that it was.

  “I’ve tied the knot three times,” Paul confided. “The triumph of hope over experience, perhaps.”

  Scott was fiddling with his fingers, clearly bored.

  Barbie remained enthralled. “What a sleazeball. You tell him, Dee,” she advised, as the yoga teacher said she wanted to be married forever.

  “Mum, you’re embarrassing,” Ashleigh said.

  On air, Paul complained he hadn’t been invited to the wedding.

  “It’s close family and friends,” Dee said.

  “Like Kat White, the designer vodka queen,” Paul said. “And Marshall Jenner, the MP who fiddled his expenses? You have some strange friends.”

  Dee giggled. “They might be my partner’s buddies, Paul. Have you thought of that?”

  Shaun wondered if his hearing was flawed. “Did she say Kat White?” he asked.

  “They’re good friends,” Barbie said, giving every indication she was on intimate terms with Dee herself.

  “Barbie teaches the same yoga moves as Dee,” Scott said, with pride. “She’s met Dee networking, haven’t you?”

  Barbie smirked. “Can’t think what happened to my wedding invitation,” she said.

  “When is it?” Shaun asked.

  “Keep up, Al,” Barbie said. “It’s today. Weren’t you listening?”

  Shaun clenched his fists. He’d have to take Scott aside and speak to him about keeping the woman in order. First, he nee
ded Scott’s help to obtain suitable clothes, not to mention phoning Vince and Ben. The sooner he was on that private jet, the better. It pained him that he had unfinished business with Kat, of course. She deserved to be punished for the long years he’d endured inside.

  Maybe there was a way. He had a gun, and if he could only find out where Dee’s wedding was, he could use it. The idea of revenge began to worry at him. Shaun was about to ask Barbie about the marriage venue, when he noticed the interview was ending. A hashtag appeared at the bottom of the screen.

  “Viewers, you can follow Dee’s happy day on social media,” Paul said. “The hashtag is #yogadeeandcharles. Now for a summary of the news, starting with a report that’s just come in. A violent murderer has escaped from custody in south London. Police are warning the public not to approach Shaun Halloran, who is armed…”

  Before Paul could say more, Shaun spilled his tea. The tepid liquid covered the table in a sticky sheet, then dripped onto the floor. Sooty, the greyhound, started lapping up the puddle.

  “Silly me,” Shaun said, his fake Aussie twang more pronounced than ever. Somehow, in jumping to his feet, he was standing in front of the television. “Do you have a cloth?”

  The dog slunk to the back door, whining. Either it detested soya milk too, or it had drunk enough to warrant a trip outside. Scott released it into the garden, then scrubbed the table and floor. The rest of the family stayed seated, Barbie pursing her lips. Shaun joined them again once he was satisfied that Paul had moved on to other topics.

  “It’s World Water Day,” Paul said. “The theme is Why Waste Water? We’ll be talking to schools in London about their efforts to save our precious aitch-two-oh.”

  That sounded dull to Shaun. Barbie evidently thought so too. She switched off the set. “Time you went to school,” she told her children.

  Shaun’s sweaty hand reached into the pocket of the dreadful loose, short trousers, and clutched his pistol. He should shoot all four of them, and have done with it. It wouldn’t take much for Barbie and the children to grasp the truth: a repeat of the local news on television, or a glimpse of a newspaper, and he’d be back inside.

  The dog reappeared, worrying at a bone. Scott fondled its ears. Shaun felt sick as he saw a loving glance pass between his old schoolmate and the animal. Relaxing his grip on the weapon, he knew he couldn’t kill Scott. This was one of the few men he could trust, a friend who had offered shelter in his hour of need.

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Barbie said, following the teenagers out of the kitchen.

  Scott, still petting Sooty, tutted. “Another Amazon parcel?” he said.

  Whoever was at the front door, Barbie wasn’t keen on them. “You’d better come in,” Shaun heard her say, her tone grudging. Moments later, she returned to the kitchen.

  The first thing Shaun noticed was the two peaked caps her companions wore, the black and white chequered pattern as revealing as a flashing blue light. Momentarily, his hand gripped the Glock 17 again. Then, holding his loose waistband with his other hand, he rushed to the back door.

  It was still unbolted. Shaun darted outside.

  Sooty followed him, barking. The dog obviously thought it was a game. Shaun picked up a loose stick and threw it as far as he could. His ploy worked; the animal raced after it.

  Scott’s garden appeared to be an enormous lawn, almost the size of a cricket pitch. It was bounded by beds and shrubberies, and a fence the height of a man. Shaun ran in the opposite direction to the dog, scaling a fence on the right-hand side.

  This gave onto another plot of similar size but with more shrubs and trees. The householder also liked rose bushes, as Shaun discovered when his bare feet landed on thorns. Sooty’s barking, and the sound of men in Scott’s garden, stopped him uttering curses.

  Cradling the gun against his chest, he crept from tree to tree, using them for cover and navigating his way around the side of the house. At the front, he checked the roadway, left and right.

  The only sign of a police presence was the patrol car parked on Scott’s drive next door. Shaun bolted around a corner.

  Ahead, the houses were newer and closer together than Scott’s old cottage. Shaun dived into a less well-kept garden offering refuge in its trees and straggly undergrowth. Hiding behind a shrub, he saw one of the police officers dash along the road. Although the fellow was alert, flicking his eyes to both sides, Shaun had concealed himself too well.

  Broxbourne would be crawling with the filth soon. How had they known? Shaun regretted his kindness in sparing the lives of Scott and his family. They hadn’t deserved it. Desperately, he scanned the neighbourhood for a means of escape.

  He saw a black Mercedes C class saloon on the drive of the house opposite. Its owner was just emerging from the house, opening his car with a click of the central locking.

  Shaun sprinted towards him.

  “What do you want?” The man’s voice was refined, his body language solid. He was probably in his thirties, tall and slim, his mousy hair cropped close to a squarish head. His clothes, a charcoal suit and blue checked shirt, spoke of a day ahead in an office. The car bore a personalised number plate, PAT 72. This was someone used to getting his own way.

  In a matter of seconds, Shaun took in his victim’s height and build, and made his decision. “Do as I say, Pat,” he said coldly, “and you won’t get hurt. Give me the car keys.” He flashed the edge of the pistol in his pocket.

  Pat didn’t hesitate. He placed the fob in Shaun’s free hand.

  “Now, get in the car,” Shaun commanded. “In the driving seat.”

  Pat looked as if he wanted to argue, then appeared to think better of it when Shaun glared at the gun. He stepped into the car. His Adam’s apple bulged against the top button of his shirt, his freckled skin flushing.

  Shaun sat next to Pat, handed him the key, and ordered him to drive.

  “Where?” Pat asked, his demeanour more submissive now.

  It was a good question. Unfortunately, it was difficult to answer. All Shaun knew of Broxbourne was that it was on the A10. “Find a country field that’s quiet,” he ordered.

  Pat trembled. “You don’t need to kill me,” he said. “I’ll do everything you say.”

  “Good. Then I won’t kill you,” Shaun said. “But be in no doubt, Pat, I certainly will otherwise.” He stroked the Glock 17, and kissed it. “This little baby never misses.”

  Shaun ducked down as Pat reversed off the drive, nearly knocking a policeman over. Pat shouted his apologies. The policeman seemed to know him and paid no further attention.

  “I thought we could go to the river,” Pat said.

  “I don’t need a travelogue,” Shaun growled. “Just remember, I’m right here.” He nursed his weapon in his lap, while Pat drove to the edge of the village.

  The landscape switched abruptly from modern housing estates to green fields. The car ambled over a river bridge, turning shortly afterwards into a large car park.

  “This doesn’t look quiet,” Shaun said suspiciously, eyeing a collection of low wooden buildings.

  “Nobody’s around,” Pat said, anxiety increasing the pitch of his voice. “This is the country park. It isn’t open yet. Now, will you let me go?”

  “Not yet,” Shaun said. Theirs was the only vehicle in sight, so Pat probably wasn’t lying. “Stop the car, then.”

  Pat complied. “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  “Get out of the car, and take your clothes off.”

  Pat made a gagging sound. Spittle bubbled on his lips. “My God. Not that, please.”

  “Are you calling me gay?” Shaun asked. He grimaced. “I’m not, so cut the hysterics. Just do as you’re told.” He added, “You can keep your underpants on.” Waiting until the businessman was outside the car, he exited it himself. Holding out his hand, he said, “I’ll have the car keys back, please. And everything in your pockets.”

  Pat extracted a wallet, driving licence, comb, iPhone, packet of Polo
mints and some loose change. He placed them carefully on the car’s bonnet, before stripping down to his boxer shorts.

  The clothes bore Marks & Spencer labels. Shaun shook his head. In his heyday, he’d had his garments made for him in Savile Row. Still, he had no choice. With luck, he wouldn’t catch any infections or infestations; no noxious odours floated towards him as Pat undressed. “Socks too,” he ordered, removing his jeans with one hand.

  Pat stared at him, animal fear in his brown eyes. “You said…”

  “I’m not gay,” Shaun shouted. Collecting himself, he said, “Tell me your PIN numbers, for your phone and your cards. Don’t lie.”

  “4321,” Pat said. “I use it for everything.” He began to sob.

  “Really?” Shaun said. “How careless. Anyone could guess that.”

  “You don’t have to,” Pat whispered.

  “Thanks.” Shaun smiled. “That’s all I need from you, Pat.”

  “Then you can let me go. Please,” Pat begged. “I’ve got a family. A wife, and a baby daughter. I want to see her grow up...”

  “I have to be certain you won’t talk,” Shaun interrupted.

  “You can rely on me,” Pat said.

  “I said, I’ve got to be certain, Pat. Sorry, mate.” Shaun whipped the man’s forehead with the butt of the pistol.

  Pat staggered groggily backwards, falling to his knees.

  Shaun found the boot release button. It wasn’t difficult; he’d driven Mercs before. He risked putting the gun down as he hoisted Pat’s semi-naked body in the air, thanking the gym work-outs that had built the strength he required for the task.

  Pat didn’t fight as Shaun squashed him into the car boot. The businessman didn’t even groan when his knees and elbows were shoved against sheet metal.

  Stuffing his jeans in Pat’s mouth, Shaun closed the boot and dressed quickly. Pat’s shoes were a size too large, but the suit and shirt only fractionally loose. Filling his pockets, Shaun adjusted the driving seat, switched on the satnav and set his course for the A10. He didn’t yet know where Dee was getting married, but heading for London was a good start.