Who Dares Wins

by Vince Vogel

  Dorring realized that he had to do everything he could to find out if Kevin was, or had ever been, on the island. And if so, what he knew of the goings on of the place. What were they hiding? What were they worried about?

  They pulled up outside a terrace of gray block houses in the middle of a vale. The sun had come out and was now low in the late afternoon, making the clouds glimmer gold and bronze like the scales of a fish. Mo knocked on a little wooden door and a rotund old woman answered it with a ruddy face and suspicious eyes. She looked Dorring up and down for a good few seconds, her lip curling as she did, and only appeared appreciative of the custom when he handed over the hundred and fifty pounds. She gazed at the money greedily and snatched it from him, sliding it into the top pocket of her apron.

  They left with the keys. The road bent and twisted through the fields until it broke out of them completely and ran along the edge of the island along clifftops. Though the rain had ceased, the wind was still stormy and the sea battered into the rocks. At the lowest parts of the road, the water leaped up over the edge and drenched the road in spray, Mo gleefully splashing the car through the puddles it made. Gazing out to sea, Dorring saw the second part of the storm trundling towards the island. It was probably the same one. They were only inside the calm of it as it swirled around them.

  Dorring wondered if that wasn’t what was happening right now. That he was in the eye of something and it was calm for the meantime. But that this was an illusion. That bad things were swirling around him and closing in on his position. Soon the full weight of the storm would crash into him and he’d have to use every one of his wits to navigate his way through.

  The cottage stood at the top of some receding cliffs. The tide was all the way in and battered them hard, the spray reaching up over the edges. The cliffs were made from clay. That was why they were eroding so much. The wooden shack-like cottage was only ten yards from the edge. It wouldn’t be long before the sea dragged it into a watery tomb.

  Mo parked the coupe only a couple of feet from the edge of the torn clifftop.

  “When the tide’s oot,” she said when they got out of the car, “there’s a beautiful sandy beach all the way along here. You can see it a little further up.”

  She pointed along the shoreline and Dorring’s hawk-like eyes gazed to where she meant. Where the coast bent inwards, there was a width of sand covered in tidemarks of debris. It looked like the tide came in a few more feet than it was now. He wondered if he would wake up in the middle of the night floating out to sea in the cottage. On the other side of the beach, rolling hills of plowed fields and hedgerows dominated the surroundings back from the coast. Returning his eyes to the nearby surroundings, he observed a small forest backed onto the property, and then ran off the edge of the brittle cliffs. A lot of the trees had come away with the cliff edge and now lay at forty-five degree angles out of the clay. The cottage was hunkered into the trees as though trying to keep warm. It was a single story wooden affair with most of its paint peeling off and exposing faded timber that was turning the color of bone.

  Unlocking a padlock on the front door, they went inside. Mo switched a light on and it flickered in desperation until managing a dim, buzzing glow. The place was very basic, the door opening onto a single space. There was a small kitchen at the front which consisted of a stove, a sideboard with cupboards and a fridge. A bed in the far corner was covered in dirty sheets and the only separate room was a bathroom. In the middle of the main room was a burner, a tin pipe rising up out of it and going through the roof. They inspected the kitchen and it seemed that the last guest hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. Most of the utensils were lying dormant on the sideboard, covered in a film of grease. Next came the bed sheets, which Mo removed with a disgusted look on her face. Then came the bathroom, which appeared held together by the vile scum stains that covered almost every part of it.

  “There’s a village shop just up the road,” Mo said as they stood at the doorway. “You get a shower an’ I’ll fetch a few things.”

  “I’ll give you some money.”

  “Nay worry.”

  He turned to her and she smiled up at him. Then her eyes went dreamy and her cheeks went rosy. There was a warmth about her. One that came from the lustful feelings edging through her body. Dorring couldn’t help thinking of the woman with the mole. Mo was only a girl in comparison. One that appeared both innocent and naive. He felt that he was taking advantage of her. Even though it was the barmaid who was doing all the chasing.

  Before Dorring had time to think, she was on her tiptoes and her lips were on his. He hadn’t experienced a woman for some months and his body instantly warmed to the possibilities. It said: To hell with guilt! Have some fun.

  So he did. Said to hell with guilt and scooped the waif little body up in his arms. He pressed her into a wall and she wrapped her legs around him, gripping tightly onto the sinewed flesh of his back and driving her lips into his.

  He let her down and they paused, staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds.

  “You wanna take a shower?” she asked.

  Dorring grinned, lifted her back up, carried her into the bathroom and placed her in the bathtub. He turned the faucet and the shower head vibrated rapidly. There was a great creaking of pipes and suddenly the head burst with water, first a dirty brown fluid and then clean water fresh from the tank.

  “Eek!” Mo cried out as she wrapped her arms back around Dorring, the cold water soaking their clothing.

  They ripped it off and made love in the bathtub, Mo pressed against the wall and crying out into the tiles, her groans of ecstasy echoing out to sea and the movement of his body echoing the beat of the waves against the cliffs. The storm reached the island and the whole cottage began to shake with the wind and the rain.

  By the time they’d finished, it was in full swing, the whole place howling eerily as the wind traveled through the gaps in the cottage’s old structure. Dorring found some kindling in one of the kitchen cupboards and got the burner going, the two of them hanging their clothes on the door to dry.

  Then they got back in the bath and washed in hot water. Mo insisted on soaping Dorring’s body, commenting on how beautiful it was and asking about the scars she found.

  “It looks like you’ve been shot,” she said.

  “I was in the army,” he replied.

  “And you were shot?”

  “More than once.”

  “What about this one?”

  She was running a finger along a six inch scar that resembled an earthworm and went across his abdomen about an inch below his bellybutton.

  “Someone tried to disembowel me,” he stated. “Came at me with a knife.”

  “Bloody hell. What happened to him?”

  “I pushed my thumbs into his eye sockets,” Dorring said calmly, as though he was an office worker describing his work day to his wife. “He let go of the knife after that.”

  Her eyes brightened with a sudden macabre curiosity.

  “What’s it like to kill someone?” she asked.

  He had to think about it. It had been so long since he’d even felt the slightest twinge for those he killed. They deserved it in his eyes and their deaths were no more than a means to an end. He tried to think back to his first kills in the marines, before the SAS—by then he was too far gone. He thought back to the day he killed his first man upfront. The time when the guy jumped out at him and they were caught in a knife fight, the man dying as he held onto Dorring’s arms, his knife buried into the man’s chest. He had watched the guy’s eyes go blank. Watched the life drain out of him. He’d vomited that day.

  “It’s not good,” was all he said in the end. “Killing numbs you. Each death kills a little bit of you too. No matter how hard you try to deny it, it’s true. Even the most righteous kill does that. Kills you a little. Makes you a little more numb.”

  “And are you now completely numb?” she asked.

  He smiled at her as she washed away t
he soap suds from his hairy chest.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Not yet.”

  They finished in the shower, then sat in bed as the clothes dried. At their feet was a large window that looked out to sea. The rain lashed the pane, making it rattle in its frame, and the rough waves looked blurred behind it. Eventually, the sun was completely gone and all they could see was the black night and the rain hitting the window.

  When her clothes were dry, Mo went off to the village shop while Dorring arranged his things. There wasn’t much. Apart from clothing, money and his toiletries, there was a map of the island and a few other things, including the mobile with Kevin’s message on it. The only thing that could be described as a weapon was his hunting knife that he brought everywhere with him out of habit. He’d decided not to bring a gun to McGuffin, but since seeing the sidearm on the cop, he was now sincerely regretting it. He’d certainly feel far safer if he had a pistol of his own.

  When this was done, he stood at the window and gazed out to sea. The rain had calmed down and didn’t batter the pane so much. Switching the light off, he was able to watch the rough waters. On the horizon he saw two sets of lights about a hundred yards apart. One green. The other red. Though he could only see the lights, he realized it was two ships. They blinked in the rainy night’s sky. At first, he thought perhaps they were traveling over waves and the blinking was the result of the light going out of view behind one. But when they came further towards land, he saw the outline of both ships and realized that they were signaling each other.

  He watched the blinking lights and began to realize something. They were communicating with Morse code. Eventually, the ships were right beside each other and Dorring was sure that this was some confidential communication, though he wasn’t sure exactly what was said, as by the time he’d decided it must be Morse code, they’d already come to the end of their communication.

  “Hungry?”

  He turned from the window to see Mo entering the cottage. She switched the light back on and the ships were replaced by Dorring’s reflection. She was holding a grocery bag in each hand and shuffled over to the sideboard, where she dumped them.

  “More fish and chips?” Dorring asked.

  She smiled and ran to him, jumping up and throwing her arms around him so that he held her. Pressing her lips into his, she giggled.

  “You wanna do it on the bed this time?” she said.

  “You’re insatiable.”

  “It has been said.”

  Dorring carried her over to the bed and placed her carefully down on her back, her arms clinging to him so that he was bent over her.

  “You wanna earn yourself your dinner, big man?” she asked with a coquettish grin.

  “I guess I’ve got no choice,” he replied.

  “No, you haven’t.”

  7

  Dorring woke up early the next morning. It was windy, but the rain was gone. Mo was sleeping heavily, last night’s lovemaking having tired the girl out. Not Dorring, though. He was ready for his morning jog.

  Getting changed in near silence, he left the cottage.

  A rickety set of wooden steps led down the cliff to a thin stretch of wet sand. The tide was halfway out and the sea was the calmest he’d seen it so far. He placed headphones in his ears and set his music to random. On came Black Sabbath’s ‘War Pigs’. It had been a favorite of his father’s and reminded Dorring of rides in the car as a boy. He would sit in the passenger seat drumming imaginary drumsticks on the dashboard while his father pouted and pretended he was Ozzy Osborne screaming into the mic.

  Generals gathered in their masses,

  Just like witches at black masses.

  Gazing up and down the stretch of beach, Dorring picked north, put his head down and started. The sand sailed past between his feet, his body moving in one solid motion, a freedom filling him as he cleaved along with the fresh wind in his hair.

  Evil minds that plot destruction,

  Sorcerer of death’s construction.

  He came to a part where the cliffs were low and overhung with forest. Glancing sideways, he wondered whether he’d see anything in their rows. A part of him expected the hooded figure to be there. But the trees were empty and he faced forward once more, the beach spread out before him and the heavy metal music pushing him on.

  In the fields the body’s burning,

  As the war machine keeps turning.

  The forest ended and fields stretched to the side of him, a fence separating them from the beach, which was much wider now. The tide was further out and he gazed at the brown, choppy water as it washed out along the slimy skin of the beach, the sky a jagged reflection of blue and white undulating on the surface.

  Then he spotted something.

  Death and hatred to mankind,

  Poisoning their brainwashed minds.

  Dorring switched the music off and removed the headphones. He was standing still now. Gazing out to sea. Sure that there was something familiar about the shape floating in the tide about twenty yards out.

  Dorring jogged to the water’s edge, the sand sinking under his feet. He stood gazing in the direction of the shape and was sure that he saw the naked back of a man floating in the water.

  He flicked his trainers off and ran into the sea. The beach slipped down steadily underneath the water and he was soon up to his waist. It was bitterly cold, but it didn’t bother him. The mile he’d already jogged meant that his legs were sufficiently warm.

  Dorring dived into the water and swam to the body.

  It was male, completely naked and obviously dead. His lank hair floated in the water and resembled a black squid or an oil slick. His face was almost green when Dorring turned the body over.

  Dorring took ahold of him as though he was still alive, cupping the chin and laying the body along the length of his own, before swimming him in. When he reached a place in the water he could stand, he did so, hauling the body over his shoulder, and carried it back to the beach, where he laid it down on the wet sand so that it faced upwards.

  It was then that Dorring felt his whole body go rigid.

  In the water, he hadn’t had a chance to observe the naked flesh. But now it stared up at him and he couldn’t escape what he was seeing.

  The man was in his thirties. He had black hair. The tattoo of a swallow sat just above his left nipple and stood out sharply on the pale skin. In other places the flesh was blue from being in the salt water for so long. But he hadn’t drowned. Dorring was sure of that. Sure that he’d been dead before entering the water. His throat had been sliced open. That was how he’d died. Because of the time in the water, there was no blood and the wound looked like a wide, toothless mouth.

  The blood was absent from the other wounds, too. And it was these that concerned Dorring the most. Because he’d seen them before.

  Markings had been scored into the flesh of the abdomen.

  Who Dares Wins.

  The sky fell in on Dorring as he stared down at the words, noting the familiar strokes taken with the knife. It was true. What Kevin had said in the message. He’d found him and he was on McGuffin.

  The killer was here.

  8

  Fourteen years ago in Helmand, Dorring and Conner had gotten the MPs and the two surviving infantry soldiers back to base with no further problems. They helped them carry the body of the woman back to the medical center and then went to debriefing with their superiors. The riot at Sidique Market had become a big thing. Local allied army and regular British army had been sent in to calm it down afterwards. As well as the two soldiers who’d died in the escape, a further one lost his life and four more were injured in tackling the resulting melee. The superiors wanted it explained to them, for obvious reasons.

  The last Dorring had seen of Jane was when she thanked him at the medical center before he and Conner left.

  “You really helped us out there,” she had said. Before adding, “Not so much your partner. But you were good.”

  She�
�d put emphasis on you.

  “Thanks,” Dorring had said.

  Jane was about to add something, but Kevin called to her and she had to leave. This time, she offered her hand and Dorring took it warmly. He then watched her walk off down the corridor until Conner called out to him.

  “Oi! Lover boy. We going or not?”

  Now it was three days later.

  Dorring and Conner were in their dorm, Conner playing video games and Dorring lying on his bunk reading a book. A gentile peace was over the room. In one corner, men played pool and the occasional clink of the balls added to the calm ambiance. A radio played somewhere outside and its low sounds were carried into the dorm on the desert breeze.

  The serenity was broken, however, when their commanding officer came waltzing into the room. A barrel chested man with a stern face. The pool cues were dropped, the video game ceased, the book was put down, and all the men stood to attention.

  “At ease, men,” he said.

  His eyes scanned the room and found Conner.

  “Sergeant Jones,” he said, pointing his finger.

  “Yes, sir,” Conner said.

  “My office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Conner marched past him at the door and was gone. The commander’s eyes then scanned further around the room and stopped at Dorring, who stood by his bunk.

  “Sergeant Dorring,” he said. “Office.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dorring marched off and followed his friend down the corridor. In the office, they stood side by side in front of a large, pale yellow formica desk, waiting for the commander who had the habit of making his men wait at all times for effect.

  “What do you suppose this is?” Conner asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dorring replied.