by Conrad Jones
I used my feet to prod Knowles’s feet back to his body and the butt of the shotgun to nudge his head closer to the corpse. I positioned them as close to where they once were as I could. I ran into the front room and switched on the gas fire without igniting it and then repeated the process in the dining room. I opened the oven door and switched on the gas and then did the same with all four rings on the hob. I ignited one of the rings and then grabbed the Staffie. I hooked Evie to her lead, and we crept unnoticed across the balcony, down the stairs and behind the cover of the high fence panels. The wheelie bin groaned as I put my shoulder to it and heaved, but it was compliant and slid across the gravel enough for us to disappear through the fence. We tiptoed across our neighbour’s rear lawn and I unbolted their garden gate. It took us into an alleyway between two rows of caravans and an indoor swimming pool. Apart from half a dozen grey wheelie bins and a rotting Talbot campervan, the alley was empty. We reached the truck and I managed to get Evie into the back without too much noise; then I hid the Remington behind the rear passenger seat. I stashed Knowles’s Beretta under the driver’s seat where I could reach it. If we were stopped by the police, there would be no gunfight. I had no wish to go down in a blaze of glory; that’s Hollywood bullshit. I wanted to live, but if I got a sniff of any Niners, uniform or not, then they would get a bullet in the face. As we neared the exit to the caravan site, the escaping gas ignited and there was a thumping whoosh as the windows on the upper floor of my home exploded outwards. It had been my home for a long time and I’m not sure if it was the sadness of torching the house or the horror of what I’d just done to two human beings that made me cry, but I sobbed uncontrollably. Evie tried to console me, but I needed more than a lick on the face. I had to wipe the flood of tears from my eyes before I could see well enough to drive. Evie Jones and I were a mile up the Porth Dafarch road by the time the armed unit arrived at the inferno.
CHAPTER 20
On the Run
Heading straight for the A55 was the right thing to do, although we would need a lot of luck to put some distance between us and the bloody scene we had left behind. I hoped that the fire would destroy enough evidence to gift me a chance in front of a judge, but my priority now was anonymity. Arterial roads and two bridges were the only way off Holy Island onto Anglesey. It was obvious I would head for one of them to get out of town, but I was convinced that no one would be looking for me until they’d figured out what had happened at my house. The fire would confuse the scene enough to cloud what had happened and who was to blame. I figured they would think one of the bodies was me and the other was my partner until a detailed investigation could be carried out. By that time, we’d be long gone.
Ged Knowles was proof enough that the Nine Angels had penetrated the police force. Obviously, I had no idea how far their reach went, but I had to assume that he wasn’t the only one. One thing was certain: when the fire was extinguished and the bodies were found in the ashes, they would blame the carnage at my home on me. They would arrest me and put me into a remand prison while they conducted the interrogation process, which would make me a sitting duck for bad cops and prison inmates alike. The other factor that I had to consider was Evie Jones. There was no way I would let anybody put her back into a kennel. Her hatred of other dogs would make it a living hell for her. I knew that I had to write this book and put my side of events forward in the only way that I know, then disappear. It would take me a while, but I knew that criminals remained undetected for years if they had half a brain and focused their minds on it. I had more than half a brain most of the time and my desire to remain alive and retain my liberty was intense. We take both for granted, but it has become my main focus in life.
I decided to head for the mountains and drove through Valley to the expressway. As I accelerated down the slip road onto the main carriageway, the heavens opened. The wipers squeaked noisily as they struggled to clear the torrent of water from the windscreen. I tuned the radio to Mon FM, Anglesey’s local station, and sure enough, within twenty minutes, news of the fire and reported gunshots were the lead bulletin. The newsreader informed listeners that there was at least one fatality at the scene and that there was growing concern about the whereabouts of the property owner, Trearddur Bay – based author Conrad Jones. I’d turned my Samsung off earlier, so if the police had tried to reach me, I didn’t know about it. The radio didn’t mention my partner, so I had to assume that they’d tracked her down to her mother’s and spoken to her. The fact she’d left me would only muddy the waters – ‘Estranged husband goes on the rampage’.
Despite the furore, I was desperate to let her know that Evie Jones was with me. I didn’t want her to think that she’d been trapped in the fire. But I guessed that if they were looking for me then they would be monitoring her calls. I hoped that she would figure out that the Staffie would have used the dog flap to escape the fire or she would be with me. It was weird: I had shot two people and set fire to my home, and my number one regret was not being able to tell my partner that the dog was okay.
I had no idea where we were going exactly, but I was acutely aware that the description of my truck would be circulating the traffic police bands pretty soon. I had to reach the section north of the A55 which filtered off to Bryngyran before I could exit and disappear onto the remote minor roads. I flicked stations trying to get a better picture of what the police were releasing to the Press, but the same bulletin was repeated on a loop. It wasn’t long before my next-door neighbour’s voice was added to the newsflash. She’d been interviewed at the scene and was describing how they’d heard a number of gunshots before the explosion.
‘I felt like I’d woken up in Beirut.’ The high-pitched voice was undeniably hers. I wondered how long it would be before other voices were tagged onto the piece.
The news was vague, which was positive for now. At least they weren’t broadcasting that there was a reward on my head, dead or alive. I analysed every word they said about it over and over. The severity of what I’d done wasn’t lost on me. I knew that I had crossed the line and that my life would never be the same again. A huge flash dazzled me for a second as thousands of volts hurtled towards the earth. The thunderclap rumbled over a few seconds later and the rain began to batter the windscreen. The downpour ricocheted off the tarmac, creating the image of a wall of water two feet high. My head was spinning as we reached Caergeiliog. We were nearing the quieter stretches of the motorway when I spotted blue lights closing on us in the far distance. Evie Jones was exhausted and sleeping peacefully on the back seat. The truck was cruising at seventy, which is quick for me. I really am Captain Slow. The only time I go over eighty miles an hour is on an airplane. I was on the run, but still couldn’t drive over seventy without breaking into a sweat and envisaging that one of my tyres would blowout at any second. I gripped the steering wheel and pushed my foot down hard. The truck accelerated easily, and the speedometer was showing ninety before I felt any vibration in the vehicle. The extra speed didn’t help; the police interceptor was gaining ground on us fast.
The blue light was closing quickly, and I figured it was about a mile behind me. I had to make a decision: stop and hope that my bizarre version of events would be believed or run and let things come out in the wash. The next exit was five minutes away and there was no way we would reach it before they caught up. The truck simply couldn’t go much faster, and as I said earlier, I don’t do fast. I couldn’t outrun a high-powered police interceptor on a two-lane stretch of expressway, but the steep banks on either side gave me an idea. I decided to see how effective the four-wheel drive was. I’d used the truck in the snow many times and it stuck to the road like shit to a blanket when the four-wheel drive was engaged. If I couldn’t outrun them, maybe I could out-think them. I waited for the ideal stretch of expressway, where the grassy banks veered steeply up from the tarmac and there were gaps in the hedgerows and treelines beyond.
I slowed down and turned off the headlights. Selecting low-ratio four-wheel
drive, I steered the truck up the steep incline. Despite the cloudburst, the fat tyres gripped the slope and the truck climbed the bank with ease. I pressed the accelerator and it roared up the slope without slipping once. When I reached the top, I could see the police car screaming to a halt on the motorway. I saw them leaning across the car to get a better look, talking frantically into their radio as they watched me smash through a fragile three-rail fence with ease. Calling for aerial support was out of the question while this storm raged. As I took the truck over the crest of the hill, I saw them attempt to drive their Volvo up the bank, but it only climbed a few yards before the wheels stuck in the mud. Soil and stones flew in the air as their wheels spun uselessly. Evie slept on through the panic. We’d had a lucky break and I patted the steering wheel lovingly as the truck ploughed onto remote farmland unhindered.
I drove across open farmland, which, from the number of fluffy white animals that I had to circumnavigate, I surmised was used for sheep-grazing. It was undulating, but no problem for the Navara. I carried on for fifteen minutes before turning the headlights on and our progress quickened. Five minutes further on there was a five-bar gate, which took me onto a farm track. Staying on the fields wasn’t an option. The rain was hammering down and the already sodden ground would soon turn to impassable swamp. Sooner or later we would come to a stone wall or deep water and we would have to travel miles in the wrong direction to avoid them. Eventually the police would realise that my whereabouts were not only a concern but a priority, and then every available resource would be thrown at finding me. I couldn’t risk the weather breaking and a police helicopter finding the truck on open land. We wouldn’t stand a chance of escaping that. The farm track was the best option and the farmer had considerately left the gate unlocked. As I steered the truck out of the field, I could see the lights of Llangefni in the distance and I drove the truck towards them. Heading back to the main roads or the motorway was too dangerous. If I could get through Llangefni town centre, the roads beyond weaved their way across the island to the mountains of Snowdonia. The roads there were narrow and unlit. We could blend into the night and lie low in the daylight hours. All we had to do was find our way off the farm and we’d be travelling at speed again.
The Staffie woke up and sensed my relief, and she sat between the front seats and licked my face. At that point I thought we had outrun them, but I underestimated the power of the Press and the influence that some news programmes have. Every mistake is a learning experience, but you can’t make mistakes when you’re a murder suspect. As we reached the end of the farm track, we approached the farmhouse and the outbuildings which surrounded it. The track weaved through the farm and was the only way that we could reach the roads beyond. The farm buildings were in darkness as we drove through the farmyard, but as we reached the entrance to the yard, a huge dark shape blocked our path. The Staffie suddenly pricked up her ears and I knew she sensed danger. A deep growl came from her chest.
I stopped the truck but left the engine running while I assessed the situation. A massive combine harvester blocked our path to the road. The truck’s headlights picked out the shape of a man wearing heavy overalls and a black donkey jacket. There were two black and white mongrels sat at his feet. He levelled a single barrelled shotgun at the windscreen. I had to laugh to myself. I envisaged him shouting, ‘Oi, gerr orrff my land.’ But something told me it wouldn’t be that simple. I’d driven roughshod across his land and he would have seen the headlights coming across his fields. He was protecting his farm, that’s all; or so I thought.
I had hidden my shotgun behind the backseat, and I couldn’t reach it, but I thought an explanation would be more appropriate than the Remington. Thieves steal thousands of pounds worth of farm equipment every year and I had driven my truck across his land in the middle of the night. How could I expect anything else? I opened the door and stepped out. The rain soaked me in seconds. Evie Jones was snarling at the mongrels, so I had to close the door to stop her jumping out and attacking them.
‘Hi, I’m sorry I came across your land, but it was an emergency. I was trying to get away from someone on the motorway,’ I lied. ‘I need to get into Llangefni. Can you tell me the best way to go?’
‘I know who you are,’ the farmer growled. ‘You’re that writer fella they’re talking about on the television. Turn off the engine and put your hands up.’
‘Okay, take it easy,’ I said. I swallowed hard and debated my options. Was the farmer one of them or had he seen me on the news? If he was one of them then I was as good as dead. If he wasn’t, I was looking at a long stretch behind bars and Evie would get the needle. I couldn’t let that happen either way. My mind conjured up too many scenarios for me to make a rational decision. Were the police officers who chased us Niners? Could they have traced the landowner and contacted him? Was that feasible?
‘Look, you don’t need to get involved in this,’ I said calmly, although I didn’t feel that calm. ‘Just let me by and I’ll be on my way.’
‘I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.’ He cocked his head and winked in a ‘stupid uncle’ type of way. ‘They asked me to keep an eye out for a truck crossing my land. They told me that you’re that writer fella who everyone’s after.’
‘Who asked you?’ I was losing my cool. I was losing my mind if the truth be told, but I didn’t want to fight with this man if he was just protecting his land. ‘The police?’
‘I pay no heed to the police, young man. Don’t matter to me if you’re alive or dead when they get here, so I’d be turning off that engine if I was you,’ he winked again.
‘Doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead?’ I muttered his words under my breath.
‘Nope. Don’t matter to me. Turn the engine off before I blow a hole in you.’
Now I was worried. He sounded like he had a vested interest in capturing me but for who? The police or the Niners? My head was spinning.
‘There was no need to threaten me, but I’ll open the door and turn the engine off, okay?’
‘Do it slowly, like I said. I don’t want to shoot you, but I’m not bothered either way,’ he warned with his irritating wink. I was getting sick of being threatened and I needed to get away from there. Once again, I was left with no choice. I opened the driver’s door and the Staffie bounded out of the truck like a whirling dervish. I turned off the headlights and dived behind the truck. The farmer fired his shotgun at me as his mongrels met Evie Jones. If he really wasn’t bothered whether I lived or died, then I owed him the same respect. Flight was no longer a valid option, which meant only one thing.
I could hear Evie tearing into the yelping mongrels. There was only ever going to be one winner, and she tore into them and tossed them around the farmyard like rag toys. The farmer kicked out at Evie trying to save his dogs; he stumbled and grabbed for a drystone wall to catch his balance. He broke the gun to discard the empty cartridge and scrambled for another one. His stumble cost him valuable seconds and I bolted from the back of the truck towards him. In a few strides, I closed the gap between us and pulled out the blade from my neck knife. He was closing the barrel as I reached him, but I was travelling too fast.
I gripped the knife in my right hand with the blade pointing outwards near my thumb and slammed it into his temple. I was running at full speed when I hit him; the tungsten blade pierced the side of his skull as if it was made from eggshell; his eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body went limp and collapsed onto the floor in a crumpled mess. I couldn’t let go of the knife for some reason. Blood pumped down my hand and trickled around my wrist. Its warmth had a creeping, repulsive feeling. I wanted to wipe it off as quickly as possible. His mouth was moving slightly and his tongue lolled from the side of his lips. His legs muscles went into spasm. It’s strange what you learn about the human body when you’re so close to death.
I released my grip on the handle and wiped the blood from my hands on his jacket. I felt the urge to wash them thoroughly, but that would have to
wait. Taking the shotgun from his hands, I turned to see how the Staffie was doing. It was clear to see that one of the dogs had fled and she had the other by the throat. She was dragging it like a toy and flinging it from side to side. There was no fight left in it, but Evie was making sure that it was defeated. I should have done the same.
I tried to recover the knife, but it was wedged deep into the skull and it wouldn’t budge. I put my foot on the farmer’s head and pulled with all my strength. There was a slushy noise as the blade came free. Using the sleeve of his jacket, I wiped the blade clean on one side and then the other before sliding it back into its sheath. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but there was a rhythm to it. Every heartbeat increased the flow slightly. I should have realised then that he wasn’t dead.
Suddenly, his eyes cleared, and he grabbed for the gun. I was so shocked that I slipped on the saturated grass and fell awkwardly onto my elbow. I was almost on top of him. His strength surprised me. He scratched at my eyes with one weather-beaten hand while he tried to wrestle the gun from me with the other. I broke free of his grip and managed to kneel up. I twisted my body and slammed the butt of the gun into the bridge of his nose, smashing the delicate bone and slicing a rent across his cheek. He released his hold on the gun and I brought the butt down again, onto his forehead this time. His damaged skull cracked and imploded, spraying me with grey brain matter and pink goo. It splattered onto my face and neck, and a globule of grey tissue dribbled off my nose onto my lips. I spat it out in disgust and slammed the gun into the remains of his face again. His body twitched as I rammed the heavy stock into his head again. It was as if I was in a bad dream and nothing was real. There was no rhyme or reason to what was going on; the world had become a dangerous game where the aim was to survive no matter what it took.
