by Wes Markin
He released Borya’s wrist and snapped his head left. Caught off guard, the Russian slumped forward. The blade burned as it ran across his cheek, potentially carving it open, before it left his face, and sank beside him in the soil. Screaming in agony, Yorke managed his first real punch and hit him hard in the nose.
Yorke was not a fighter, and didn’t enjoy it, but he was proud of that blow. He threw another. This time, he caught the fucker’s throat.
Borya reached up to his neck with both hands, and fell backwards, gagging.
Knowing he’d only seconds before Borya recovered and came again, Yorke ignored the gnawing pain in his face, and rolled onto his side. He then managed to work his way onto his knees, and then to his feet. All the time, he could hear The Dancer gasping for air behind him.
On his feet, Yorke turned and sprinted for the garden wall. It was stone, waist height and only several metres away. Vaulting it would take him out onto the lamplit street. Someone then would call emergency services. He shuddered over the final part of the plan: turning back and holding off the Russian demon until they arrived.
Where luck had partially come to his rescue moments before, it completely abandoned him now. As Yorke reached the wall, he slipped on a patch of mud, and went over it face-first. His hand was already up at his face to brush away rain-sodden hair, so the concrete didn’t connect directly with his nose. It still hurt like hell though. As did the other injuries Borya had already inflicted on him. He tried to turn himself over—
There came a shattering blow to his ribs.
Yorke lifted his head from the concrete and started to cough. He was directly under a streetlight, so he could see the blood dripping from his mouth. He prayed that it was coming from the gash on his cheek, rather than the result of an internal injury.
The next blow to his ribs landed with a crunch, and it was potent enough to flip him over onto his back. He looked up at the towering Russian kicking him.
Yorke didn’t have long left. His vision wasn’t swimming because of the rain anymore but was down to the catastrophic damage being inflicted on him by this monster. There was a pocket of emptiness looming up inside his consciousness; it was so appealing, but if he went to it, it surely would be the end of him—
Everything glowed. Tyres crunched. The kicking stopped.
Yorke laboured to breathe and nearly every part of his body was burning, but he forced his eyes open, and let his head loll to the side so he could see who had interrupted The Dancer.
Yorke saw an elderly man with a shock of white hair plastered to his head by rain. He was coming this way.
‘No … no … Get back!’ Yorke wanted to shout but struggled to even get the words out.
The man, who must have been in his seventies, was dressed smartly in a suit. He had a worried expression on his face. ‘Do you need any help? Is he okay?’
Yorke tried to warn him again. ‘Run … get the police ...’ Again, his words failed to make it through the downpour.
‘Help us,’ Borya said. ‘He’s been hit by a car.’
The man was fit and agile. He ran to Borya.
‘No … go back to your car!’
Borya had his arms behind his back. Yorke could see the boxcutter in his hands. He must have retrieved it from the ground before.
He’d primed the triangular blade.
The good Samaritan reached Borya and looked up at him. ‘Have you phoned an ambulance?’
‘Yes. They said a couple of minutes. Should be any time now.’
‘Please …’ Yorke said. ‘Get away …’
‘What’s he saying?’ The man stepped around Borya and approached Yorke. ‘Help is coming, young man, don’t you worry.’
‘Get … away …’
The man knelt. ‘My ears aren’t what they once were. My name’s Alfie … wait …’ Yorke watched his eyes widen. ‘Your face …’
Alfie turned his head and looked back up at Borya, who had also turned so the boxcutter remained concealed behind his back. ‘What happened to him?’
‘A car … I told you.’
‘Really? What’s his name?’
‘I don’t know him. I just found him like this.’
‘This wasn’t a car, son. His face. He’s been badly beaten.’
‘Run … run …’
Still kneeling, Alfie turned his head back. ‘Run, did you say? Why? Stay calm, young man. We’re here to help you.’
‘It’s him.’
Yorke watched the realisation dawn on Alfie’s kind face. The elderly man stood up, and Yorke prayed he would now take the advice he’d desperately been trying to give him.
Alfie turned and marched past Borya. Yorke looked up at the killer and saw him smile.
The blade flashed and opened a deep gash from Alfie’s right shoulder down to his left hip. Screaming, the elderly man arched his back and staggered forward.
‘NO!’ Fighting the pain, Yorke gritted his teeth, and forced himself into a sitting position. He looked up and saw the monster smile again before smashing his boot into Yorke’s already-broken face, sending him onto his back again.
When Yorke opened his eyes, Alfie had turned back towards them both. He was swaying on his feet, staring up at the big Russian. ‘Please …’
Yorke reached out to grab the killer’s leg, but his hand closed on empty air. ‘Stop ….’
Borya sank the blade into the side of Alfie’s neck. When he yanked it free, blood spurted everywhere. The old man’s hand flew to his neck. Blood spewed out between his knuckles.
Borya continued to stab the dying man.
It’s a fucking performance.
Yorke threw his hand out and clutched empty air again. He felt tears in his eyes, and a searing white pain ripping through his badly damaged body.
The Russian plunged the blade into the bottom of Alfie’s stomach, just above his groin. On the verge of death, the poor man leaned into the weapon and looked up at his killer through half-closed eyes.
Borya slashed upwards, right to Alfie’s chin, splitting him.
Alfie collapsed to the ground beside Yorke. His eyes were still half-open. Yorke could feel his ragged breath on his face. He was still alive.
‘I’m sorry …’ Yorke said.
Alfie closed his eyes.
Yorke looked up at Borya, who was slipping the retracted boxcutter into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He reached behind himself and pulled his pistol from where he’d tucked it into his belt.
It was Yorke’s turn to die.
Yorke tried, and failed, to sit up. He could barely breathe, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his ribs were broken and had torn through his lungs.
The Russian leaned over him and pressed the silenced weapon against his forehead.
Yorke closed his eyes. He’d rarely given the manner of his own death much thought, but on the few occasions when he had done, this hadn’t featured highly on the list of possibilities.
He closed his eyes and waited for the emptiness …
When it didn’t come, he opened his eyes. Borya looked down at him, still smiling. Then, he turned and walked away.
Yorke closed his eyes again—
‘Hey Mike …’
Yorke tried to force them back open, but it was hard.
‘Mike … come on fella!’
He opened them slightly, light swelled in.
‘Imagine the Summer Lightning, fella, that’ll bring you round!’ The accent was thick Irish.
Yorke opened his eyes fully and focused in on Kenny’s familiar face. A seventy-plus hardened drinker, who would have a memorial erected outside every public house in Salisbury when he finally passed on.
For a moment, Yorke hoped he’d dreamt everything that’d just happened. But when he let his head fall to the right, he saw Alfie’s body, and the headlights of his still-running car.
No sign of Borya though.
Thankfully.
‘It’s a good job I’ve changed my drinking-hole, or I wouldn’
t have been coming this way. The Cloisters just hiked their prices.’ Kenny said.
Yorke wanted to reply but didn’t have the energy. You change drinking establishments more times than you have hot dinners, Kenny.
‘You’ll appreciate this one. Going for an old classic tonight, Mike. Deacons. And before you worry, I phoned an ambulance.’ Kenny held his phone in the air. ‘I may be an old fella, but I can use technology like the best of them.’
Kenny knelt beside Yorke and took his hand. ‘You’ve been roughed up pretty bad tonight, buddy, but most things are fixable.’
Yorke took a deep breath. It was agonising and his chest rattled, but he wanted to speak, and he was able to send out a single word with his broken breath. ‘Alfie …’
‘Not fixable, I’m afraid.’ Kenny tightened his grip on Yorke’s hand.
Yorke could see the tears in Kenny’s eyes. It stood to reason that he knew Alfie. Kenny knew everyone.
‘Hard to believe it now when you look at a frail old thing like me, fella, but when I was a young man in the late sixties, I took a few beatings when the troubles began in Ireland.’ With the hand holding the phone, he pounded his chest. ‘And every time, I got back up stronger. Nothing holds people like us back, Mike. Now, look at me. Still going. Fit as a fiddle.’
You drink like a fish, Kenny … Yorke tried to smile but his face burned too much.
Yorke heard the ambulance.
‘And when you get back up, Mike, you’ll be stronger for it.’
Yorke felt the darkness laying claim to him again.
‘And God help the monster who did this to you.’
13
DOUGLAS FIRTH PRESSED enter on his keyboard and then stamped the new book.
PROPERTY OF HMP HANCOCK LIBRARY. DATE:
He scribbled in the date, added his initials, closed the cover and sat back in his chair.
‘All done?’ Wheelhouse said.
‘Yep. Three months of hard negotiation with the warden, and voila, one hundred and two new books, logged, and ready to read.’ He gestured down at the pile on the trolley. ‘And now it’s over to you. The shelves await.’
‘Why do I always get the shit job?’
‘It’s called being second-in-charge. An honourable position.’
Wheelhouse laughed. ‘Fair enough. I was never that high up on the outside.’
‘Precisely,’ Firth said. ‘I’ve empowered you.’
Wheelhouse picked up a book and stood there a moment longer.
‘So, what are you waiting for?’ Firth said.
Wheelhouse looked up at him; his expression had morphed into a serious one.
‘It’s in hand.’
‘It’s been two days, Doug, I’ve given you space. Not mentioned it.’
‘Doesn’t crying yourself to sleep every night count as a mention?’
Wheelhouse looked away.
‘Sorry, Herb.’
‘They stepped out of line, Doug. We never behaved like this. We never moved on families. Those that paid were those that deserved to pay. She was innocent.’
Firth sighed and stood up. He placed his hands on Wheelhouse’s shoulders. ‘It’s sorted. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. Payback is coming. It can’t be rushed. There is a natural order to these things – you more than anyone know that.’
‘There was nothing natural about what happened to Janice.’
Firth nodded but didn’t respond. He gestured down at the books again. ‘Let’s just get these on the shelves, old friend.’
Prison guard Gavin Harris walked into the library.
‘Never figured you for much of a reader,’ Wheelhouse said.
‘Maybe he’s come to learn?’ Firth said.
Harris marched over to them, chewing gum with his mouth open.
‘I’ll get to work, while you give this man some culture,’ Wheelhouse said, turning and taking the trolley handles. He chuckled to himself as he pushed it down the first of three aisles.
Firth sat down in his chair, leaned back, and looked up at the pissed-off guard. ‘Easy does it tiger, just a little banter.’
‘The services you pay me for Firth don’t include ridicule.’
Firth shook his head. ‘You did get out of the bed the wrong side this morning, didn’t you? Can I help you, Harris?’
‘Help me? That’s an interesting reversal of roles.’
‘Look, Harris, I’m not in the mood right now.’ He picked up an old copy of Robinson Crusoe, located the ribbon bookmark that was attached to the spine, and opened it to the page he was on. ‘He’s just about to tame his goats. Apart from the ones he’s going to kill and eat of course.’ He looked down at his book.
‘George has disappeared,’ Harris said.
Firth wound the ribbon bookmark around a finger. ‘He’s probably gone to his mother’s.’
‘Not what I heard. I heard that your flea-infested accountant disappeared into the wind.’
‘He’ll be back.’ Firth picked up a pair of blunt scissors from his stationery box. ‘He always comes back.’
‘And if he doesn’t, who’ll pay me?’ Harris had stopped chewing and loomed over Firth trying to look menacing.
‘He’ll return.’ Firth cut off the ribbon bookmark.
There was a clatter. Harris looked round to see what it was. Firth didn’t bother. He knew. Clumsy Wheelhouse had dropped a pile of the new books.
When Harris looked back round, Firth had the ribbon bookmark stretched out between two clenched fists. ‘They don’t make them like they used to. Strong these. Like garotte wire.’
Harris took a step back. ‘Is that a threat?’
Firth opened his hands and let the ribbon flutter down to the table. He then returned to his book. ‘George will be back, Harris. Now leave me in peace before I decide to stop paying you anyway.’
‘So, wow, it keeps happening,’ Willows said.
‘Yes,’ Pemberton said from the other side of the bed, ‘and the snog that had us all in a tizzy the other night suddenly seems like much ado about nothing.’
‘Well, I’m not going to get stressed out about that … I fucking loved it.’
‘Appropriate word,’ Pemberton said, turning onto her side so she could run her fingertips over Willows’ breasts. ‘But there is a problem here.’
Willows nodded, but she was too busy enjoying the physical contact to speak.
‘For me,’ Pemberton said, moving her hand to Willows’ hair now.
‘We’re in this together.’
‘But I’m the one with the other half, remember?’
‘I know ...’
Pemberton sighed. ‘It’d be easy for me to lie. To say that what happened to Mike has really shaken us up, left us vulnerable, and this is a coping mechanism. But I’m sick of not telling the truth.’
‘Which is?’ Willows’ heart beat faster for the answer.
‘That we like each other …’
‘How much?’ Willows raised an eyebrow.
Pemberton chewed her bottom lip. ‘A lot.’
Yorke looked out of the hospital window.
The ash cloud continued to overstay its welcome. It didn’t seem as dark as it’d done prior to the rainfall, but it was still there, lingering, and it was going to take more heavy rain to clear it any further. There was some forecast for the next day.
He closed his eyes and again saw the moment that the smiling killer walked away from him.
Sparing him.
Why? Did he want him to feel beaten?
Tick. He did.
Did he want him to feel devastated about being unable to stop Alfie’s murder?
Another tick.
He caught sight of his reflection in the hospital window. His eyes were puffy and bruised, and a large bandage covered the right side of his face, just under his eye. The cut had been deep and would leave a significant scar. But it could have been a lot worse.
‘Borya really does have a thing for faces.’ Yorke tried not to move his m
outh too much as he spoke. Not only was it incredibly painful, but it threatened to jar loose the stitches. Consequently, his words came out as a mumble. But they’d be doing that for a while yet, so anyone listening to him would have to get used to it.
He turned back towards Madden and Robinson who were sitting by his hospital bed.
The SEROCU bigwig nodded. ‘What did the doctor say?’
‘That my future grandchildren will think it’s cool.’
Robinson smiled.
‘It’s just a shame that most people will be staring in horror at it,’ Yorke said.
‘People like us pick up war wounds,’ Madden said, ‘it’s par for the course. The fact that you’re alive is a miracle, are you really going to dwell on a scar?’
That was Madden. Pragmatic and straight to the point.
‘I guess not ma’am. The best-case scenario is slight nerve damage. More than likely, my speech should return to normal, and the scar will fade over time.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Madden said. ‘Unfortunately, Parkinson’s wounds won’t fade over time … I decided not to bring the photographs of him with me, Mike. People always say it’s ten times worse if you leave it to your imagination, but in this instance, that’s simply not true. Your imagination isn’t capable of creating anything worse than this.’
‘I saw the photographs of Borya’s last victims.’
Robinson sighed. ‘The Dancer is becoming more ambitious. Enjoying himself more.’
‘He’s unrecognisable,’ Madden said.
Yorke felt an itch under the bandage on his face. He reached up to scratch it but checked himself at the last moment. ‘Depraved animal. Was Parkinson definitely shot afterwards?’
‘Definitely after,’ Madden said.
Yorke sighed. There’d been no love lost between him and Parkinson, and he was bent as they come, but the manner of his death was knocking him sick. ‘I need to get back up and at it.’
‘Look at the state of you, Mike,’ Madden said. No smile, no sympathy, just a statement of fact.
‘It looks worse than it is …’ He winced as he climbed back into bed. He realised he wasn’t helping his argument.
‘You’ve broken some ribs,’ Madden said.
