by Guy N Smith
Amidst the pervading odour of coffee being brewed in the kitchen came squeals of female delight. The horror of earlier in the evening appeared to have been forgotten after the departure of Zinovsky and his gruesome cargo.
Mayo removed his headgear, stretched his weary limbs. Maybe he would forgo that coffee at least for the moment.
Sometime later the door clicked open and a shaft of light revealed a female, her blouse undone, her long fair hair falling about her shoulders. There was no mistaking his surreptitious visitor. It was Donna.
‘Hi, there,’ a nervous whisper and a soft click as she closed the door behind her. ‘I wondered where you'd got to, John. There's virtually an orgy going on back there, downstairs and upstairs, so I decided to keep out of the way.’
‘Very sensible of you,’ he was somewhat wary as she seated herself on the bed beside him. Wan moonlight streamed in through the un-curtained window. She was certainly a beautiful girl, cultured too.
‘What a gruesome evening,’ he grunted.
‘Yes, but it has happened before,’ her slim fingers were unfastening her jeans.
‘Do you realise the implications of going to Syria? Daesch is experiencing heavy bombing from the allied forces. Many have been killed, others have fled. It will be wiped to the ground very soon.’
‘I was training to be a nurse,’ she eased her jeans down further and Mayo noted that she was not wearing underwear. ‘I have a duty to tend the wounded to the best of my ability.’
‘And get blown to smithereens along with hundreds of jihadists.’
‘I have to take my chance on survival. I have a duty to perform to our followers.’
‘Why don't you leave here with me? We could creep out tonight.’
‘No!’ she snapped. ‘Our leader would find me, or rather his devoted followers would. You saw what happened tonight. I would suffer the same fate as a traitor to our cause.’
He sighed. They had radicalised Donna and nobody would change that, not even himself.
She stood up, shrugged herself out of the rest of her garments, sank back onto the bed naked. ‘We never got round to it, John,’ her fingers were starting to undo his own clothing.
‘It was prostitution,’ he whispered.
‘Yes, but only to find another follower to our cause. You were already one of us as it turned out so now sex is purely for pleasure. God, I want it badly, John.’
He could have pushed her away but already an erection was starting. His thoughts flitted briefly to Gwenda but he dismissed them. Infidelity had been part of his career over the years. This time would be no different.
Now they were both naked, embracing, their fingers exploring each other's body. Her thighs opened wide, she was warm and moist between them. Her hand slid onto his hardness, began rubbing it softly.
Then she was up on her knees, her legs spread wide, guiding him where she wanted him, a slow penetration which brought gasps of delight from her.
God, it was fantastic, Mayo pushed upwards as Donna bore down on him, twisting and turning, grunting their delight. Then it was all over; she sank down upon him and they rolled over in an embrace. Shortly afterwards he dozed, slept.
Mayo awoke shortly before daylight. He was aware that she no longer lay beside him. She had left some time during the night.
He stirred, picked up his fallen garments and dressed. The adjoining room was silent, clearly the night of debauchery was over and the others slept.
It was time to be gone. He tiptoed through the kitchen, turned the key in the outside door and stepped out into the cool of the early morning. It was going to be a long walk, he quickened his pace along the narrow road back towards the town.
Donna was back somewhere in that remote farmhouse; he had abandoned the idea of trying to persuade her to join him. She would go to Syria, probably never to return to Britain. So be it, he had another mission to accomplish. He pushed all else from his mind. He was ready for whatever the future held.
Chapter Four
Having booked out of his temporary accommodation, John Mayo collected his car and began the long drive to Lichfield. Already he was formulating a plan in his mind. He would leave his car at the home of some retired farmers, friends from the past. Then he would make his way on foot to the city, another drifter from afar like those who were moving into the area and make his acquaintance with Richardson. After that he would play it by ear as was his usual mode when on a mission.
It was late in the afternoon before he arrived at the address which Zinovsky had given him. It was a sizable semi-detached house in a suburban street, one which blended in with those on either side and opposite. He crossed the road, tapped on the door. It opened almost immediately.
‘You must be John Mayo. I was expecting you. Come inside.’
Mayo judged Dave Richardson to be in his mid-thirties, unkempt from his tousled hair down to his worn, dirty trainers. His eyes were sunken, his nose had been broken at some stage and two front teeth were missing. An unwashed odour emanating from him combined with a stench which could only be the result of smoking pot.
Mayo followed him through to the adjoining room which was cluttered with all manner of rubbish.
‘Zinovsky has sent you to help me organise what is planned,’ there was a note of resentment in the other's voice. ‘Not that I need it, but a helping hand would not come amiss.’
‘I'm happy to help with whatever you have got planned’.
‘Fine, then I'd better fill you in. One thing I'll make clear at the start is that I'm in charge here and I will do the organising of our plans. That said, you could be useful.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Good, now let me explain our forthcoming plans. We are in a prime position to deliver a devastating blow to the community here. Many other followers have moved in from the West Midlands principally Walsall and Wolverhampton. Some use this house as their residence, others are sleeping rough. More will follow.’
‘Sounds fine to me. Where do I stay?’
‘Right here so that we are in contact the whole time. There is a small room at the top of the stairs which you can use. I believe it was once a nursery when the former owners lived here.’
‘So, what are the plans, Dave?’
Richardson motioned towards a frayed and dusty armchair. ‘Move that clutter and sit down.’
Mayo deposited a pile of old newspapers and torn wrappings onto the floor. Christ, this was one hell of a dump, screened from the street outside by frayed curtains.
‘The so-called Spring Bank Holiday is but a week away,’ Richardson leaned back in an opposite chair, entwined his fingers, closed his eyes as if in deep meditation. ‘That will be our Big Day when we shall strike a decisive blow against those who control Britain. For them time is running out. We shall bring them to their knees. ISIS will rule. Before long the countries of Europe will follow. Zinovsky is already amassing his followers. Mayo's expression was stoic, did not reveal his innermost thoughts.
‘Our first major blow on the forthcoming Spring Bank Holiday Monday, that is the date for the so-called Greenhill Bower. It begins with the mayor crowning the Bower Queen on the steps of the Guildhall. Then a sizable procession begins, kids on lorries, tractors pulling other displays on a round trip of the city.
‘People come from the surrounding district, the pavements are crowded. Alongside this is a large market in Market Street. Then there is the cathedral, always a big draw and crowded. In all there are thousands of visitors in the city, a prime occasion to kill hundreds.’
‘I get you,’ Mayo checked his rising hate and anger towards these mass murderers.
‘A couple of bombs, one in the cathedral and another in the market which will also account for those visiting the nearby birthplace and museum of Dr Johnson.’
‘How will you set it all up?’ John Mayo asked.
‘We have at least two prospective suicide bombers eager to sacrifice their lives in our cause. They can't wait.’ He gave a laugh.
‘A couple of drug gangs have moved into the city in recent weeks. They will be useful to us but there is a deadly rivalry between them. I fully expect a shooting or a knifing on the streets any night. We need to incorporate them into our cause. That will be your first task, Mayo, to make contact with them and work on radicalisation.’
‘How do I go about it?’
‘You will need to get out there at night, wait for a pusher to contact you. Buy some dope off him, talk to him. Beware, there is a limited police presence in the city looking for pushers. The last thing we need is a gangland murder which will only serve to increase those limited police activities. If you can contact the leader before that happens and bring them here, we will amalgamate them in our growing numbers.’
‘Okay,’ Mayo nodded. ‘First of all, I need a rest after my long journey. Then I'll make a start after dark tonight.’
‘There is a small room on the landing which I have already put at your disposal. Make sure though, that you are not followed here after your excursions. A small group of incomers from the Midlands are already staying in this house. Zinovsky has arranged it all, bought this house under an assumed name. He has visited on a couple of occasions.’ There was no mistaking the flicker of fear on Richardson's face.
‘As you probably know we have already made contact in Wales.’
‘So I understand. He has unlimited power throughout both Britain and Europe, and it is believed that he also has Russian contacts. And…’ and the other grimaced, ‘it is believed that he is also involved in satanism!’ Richardson paled visibly.
‘So I believe,’ Mayo did not elaborate on the recent crucifixion.
‘Then I wish you luck tonight,’ Richardson straightened up out of his chair, delved in his pockets and produced a key. ‘Here's a key to the door so you can come and go as you please.’
‘Thanks. Now I'll go up and try and get some rest.’ His body ached after the long walk from the distant farm but his brain was racing after the recent pep talk.
He mounted the stairs and as he reached the landing a door opposite the room which he had been delegated opened and closed, obviously a toilet. A young girl clad in flimsy night attire and with long dark hair falling about her shoulders emerged. Her attractive features registered a momentary surprise at seeing him.
‘Hi!’ She smiled briefly before opening the door of an adjacent room and disappearing inside it.
John Mayer stiffened as recognition suddenly dawned on him. He recalled that photograph which Detective Inspector Wells had shown him.
It was incredible, there was no doubt in his mind that the young girl was none other than Gemma Jones who had vanished from her Welsh home a few weeks ago!
Chapter Five
Mayo slept fitfully, awoke when street lighting began filtering into the room through the frayed and moth-eaten curtains. He had not undressed and instinctively he checked on the .38 handgun in his pocket. Alongside it was the crucifix which he usually wore around his neck, dangling inside his dark shirt. On this occasion he would keep it out of sight for it would be sheer foolishness to let these people see it for their mindset was clearly focused on the black arts.
There was no hurry. He lay listening, there were sounds of movement from other parts of the house. Then silence.
God it was stuffy in here, a lingering scent of pot smoking. In all probability the windows were never opened.
It was time to go. A match around the side streets, his dark clothing would render him almost invisible in the shadows.
He let himself out into the dimly lit side street, locked the door behind him. In the distance he heard sounds of revelry, late night drinkers returning home from the pubs. He moved on, using darkened doorways to stand and listen.
A patrolling police car passed by, disappeared into an adjoining street. The last thing he needed was contact with the law.
He started as a woman stepped out in front of him from a dark passageway. She was plump, middle-aged and had a pockmarked face.
‘I'll do it for a fiver,’ she dribbled as she spoke. ‘A stand-up job against the wall.’ She was already starting to unbutton her blouse.
Mayo did not reply, quickened his pace. He was on the point of deciding to return to his base when, without warning, a black clad figure wearing a balaclava, leaped out of the shadows. A heavy bladed knife was thrust within an inch of his throat.
‘Mobile! Money!’ His attacker grunted in shrill tones.
Mayo, shocked as he was, stood his ground.
‘Come on or you get your fucking throat slit!’
John Mayo made as though to fumble in his pocket and then, too swift for the eye to follow, his right hand shot up and his fingers closed around that weapon-threatening wrist, thrust it away from himself. In the same movement his hand twisted with every ounce of force he could muster. It was followed by a sharp crack and the blade dropped to the pavement, clattered as it spun on the paving stone.
His attacker gave a sharp cry of pain, tried to kick out but the man in the black fedora was already standing on that foot.
‘Now,’ Mayo banged his attacker's head against the adjacent wall and ripped the balaclava clear of the features which it had masked, ‘let's have a proper look at you, you bastard!’
The glow from a nearby streetlight revealed youthful features twisted in agony and shock. Another cry of pain. ‘Let me go... please!’
‘Not until we've had a little chat. You picked the wrong victim, sonny. What's your name?’
‘My mates will kill you for this,’ he was trembling, his voice was now a whine.
‘Your name!’
‘Martin... Martin Smith.’
‘Where do you hang out? I guarantee you're not a local.’
‘I... I come from Walsall,’ the youth moaned with pain. ‘There are several of us. They... they sent me to spy on any immigrants, a mosque maybe.’
‘Neo-Nazis undoubtedly.’ He gave the broken wrist another twist. The youth moaned. ‘Which group?’
‘National Action.’
A far-right organisation banned in the UK around five years ago. ‘How many of them?’
‘A dozen. They're part of a larger group who will join them when they get the word.’
‘I know full well you scum are planning a race war,’ Mayo's lips were tight, his expression revealed the hatred building up inside him. ‘You're racist, anti-Semitic and homophobic, rejecting democracy, violent towards ethnic minorities. I've seen some of your propaganda material on social media before it was removed. You scum!’
The youth was crying with pain and terror. Mayo dragged him further into the shadows. ‘Now I want details of where your mates are skulking.’
‘Alright. If you'll let me go.’
‘That remains to be seen.’ He had confidence in his acute memory, he did not need to write the address down. It came in faltering tones.
‘They'll kill me for this if they ever get to know.’
Mayo bent down and in one sweeping movement picked up the heavy kitchen knife. ‘Right, on your way,’ he turned, strode down the side street, crossed the city centre until he came to the small railing-enclosed stretch of water known as the Minster Pool. A splash followed as the knife disappeared, had a flock of mallard quacking in alarm.
Only then did he make a call on his mobile to Charles Wells. It was answered with a recorded message, doubtless the other had retired for the night.
Mayo gave the address in Walsall, adding, ‘They're a National Action group. Raid 'em. A drop in the ocean but it's a start. Nothing to do with this jihadi business. I'm working on that. Leave it to me.’
Wells would act, Mayo had no doubt about that. Meantime he had to try to stop the proposed city centre bombing on the forthcoming Spring Bank Holiday Monday. Massacres were looming on two fronts with death threatening hundreds of innocent citizens.
Chapter Six
‘How did it go last night?’ Richardson entere
d the small room where Mayo was staying. The latter had just returned from the kitchen downstairs where he had made himself a bacon sandwich. Food had been laid out on the table and it was apparent that you just helped yourself to whatever took your fancy.
‘Very quiet’, Mayo answered with a full mouth. ‘Drinkers going home from the pubs and one or two whores looking for business.’
‘It's early days yet. By the way I heard on the radio this morning that Daesch has finally fallen to the allies. A temporary setback for us. Zinovsky will drum up another force.’
Mayo nodded. He wondered whether or not Donna would be going out to Syria now. ‘By the way, who's the girl in the room opposite?’
‘Her name is Gemma, Gemma Jones. She came up here from Wales. She will be useful to us, I have no doubt. By the way, she's a good screw,’ he gave a laugh. ‘I've shagged her a couple of times, all part of the radicalisation process! Try her if she takes your fancy.’
‘Maybe.’
‘By the way, I'm expecting a delivery today. Bombs. A couple. All ready for the Spring Bank Holiday. A big 'un to be smuggled close to the cathedral and the small one for young Watkins to blow himself up, and hopefully a number of people in the market at the same time. The bombs are coming already primed so all we have to do is to hide the big 'un near the cathedral and make sure Watkins does his stuff at a time to coincide with its detonation. The cathedral bomb has to be snuggled up there which won't be easy with the tight security they have in force there. So I think that's a job for you and me, John.’
Mayo pursed his lips, nodded his agreement. It couldn't have worked out better. Already a plan was formulating in his mind.
‘I'm going into the city later to do some shopping for myself,’ he announced as casually as he could. ‘Cigarettes and one or two other things I'm running short of.’
