The Life and Times of William Boule.: Dead girls tell no tales. A heart-pounding action thriller...

by Max China

  With the boy securely pinned to the floor, Boyle took the room key from his hand. ‘Billy bloody whizz,’ he said, recognizing him. ‘Where is she?’

  Still held down, unable to move, Mohammed thought quickly. I cannot die. He would find a way to escape. ‘I show you,’ he said, quaking with fear.

  Boyle spun him over, staring into his face intently while his free hand found its way around the boy’s testicles. ‘You tell me now,’ he growled quietly. ‘Or you’ll never see another day.’

  Chapter 7

  With Mohammed gone and his father not due home for hours, Carla changed into her new garb. The kid was right. She’d be too hot keeping her jeans on. She removed them and, rolling them up, put them in her bag ready to take with her. Dressed in his mother’s clothes, she awaited his return. It felt strange. More than once, unusually for her, she found herself worrying. She couldn’t help but empathize with him, and his life. Looking around the apartment, she imagined it filled with his siblings, mother fussing around, father never there, and Mohammed taking on the role in his absence.

  She crossed the room to the photographs and lingered, examining them more closely. Now she understood why he’d said ‘no look’. His mother was dressed in what she was now wearing. The fond smile on her lips disappeared. She frowned. The stale odour of the clothes was getting to her. The tang held far more than mere smell and she knew it, yet couldn’t define it. She imagined briefly what it must have been like to be the matriarch in that household. And then a thought settled on her.

  Something’s wrong. She felt it as surely as if she were there with him. He’s in trouble. What had she been thinking, allowing the boy to go off like that? Her reluctance to involve the police – because the story was in Boyle coming after her, coming to England – had led her into placing the boy in danger. The way she’d planned it suddenly seemed inconsequential. For a moment she dithered, then – mind made up – she grabbed her bag, removed an atomizer, sprayed puffs of cologne over herself to mask the mustiness of the clothes, and resolved to go and find him.

  Making her way from the rabbit warren of streets and alleyways took longer than she’d thought. After flagging down a taxi driver on the main road, she soon arrived at her hotel.

  Ambulances and police cars, with lights flashing, ringed the entrance. A crowd had gathered in the car park.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked a bystander, anxiously.

  ‘Someone’s been murdered, and ...’

  A huge wave of guilt rose inside her, shutting her off from everything. Walking like an automaton, she slipped through the melee in the foyer unnoticed, as if she were a ghost. She reached the desk and asked for her key. The receptionist told her she couldn’t go to her room.

  ‘My passport,’ she said. ‘I need my passport ...’

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed barely perceptible glances exchanged. The porter moved slowly away, towards a policeman.

  He spoke to the officer, who brushed him away.

  The boy persisted, pointing at her. The officer looked up. Their eyes met.

  Her mind switched from the depths of agonized guilt to her own predicament. All logic left her. She made an instant decision, and one she probably shouldn’t have.

  She ran.

  Chapter 8

  Heart pounding in her ears, her breath became ragged as she fought to control it. Zig-zagging through the bustling crowd, she cleared the car park, turned left and ran towards the market. At home she could run for miles, but this was different. Adrenaline surging through her veins made pacing herself difficult. Uncertain of how much longer she could run, she threw a glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, less than fifty yards away, two gendarmes were chasing her.

  She paused at an intersecting alleyway. Left or right?

  An arm snaked out, wrapping itself around her waist from behind, and jerked her into a doorway.

  Instinctively clawing at the jambs, she dug her fingernails in.

  Time slowed down. She sucked in air to scream. A hand clamped tight over her mouth, muffling the sound. Her bladder puckered. She kicked out with both legs, dropping her weight, digging her heels hard against the pavement. Bending her legs for additional purchase, she drove backwards with a force that surprised her. Locked together, their two bodies tumbled off balance and crashed down hard. She landed on top of her assailant.

  ‘No – scream – lady!’ he hissed, wincing with pain.

  ‘Mohammed? But I thought ...?’ She paused to regain her composure. ‘They said ... somebody said there’d been a murder, and I thought ...’

  ‘Yes, him try murder me, too.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Lady, he in your room. He squeeze mine balls, and say, “Tell where is she.” And I fight, lady, very hard for you, but my balls ...’

  ‘Did you tell him where I was?’ she asked gently.

  He looked down. ‘Yes. I think maybe I get away, tell you, go! But he take me on balcony and throw me off ...’

  ‘But how did you survive ... you don’t seem hurt.’

  ‘My balls is hurt,’ he protested. ‘But I catch wall, next one down.’ He lifted his T-shirt revealing ugly bruising and scraped, raw flesh. ‘I run here, and I am fainted, I think.’ He grimaced.

  ‘You must go to hospital, Mohammed. Are you hurt anywhere else?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You may have broken some ribs …’

  ‘Leave me, I be OK,’ he said.

  Hesitant, she chewed on her lower lip. ‘Did you get my passport?’

  ‘No, he take … Oh, lady, I am scared. You must go to police. This man very bad.’

  She knew what he said was true. Her mind raced through the possibilities. ‘Mohammed, I need you to trust me. When I go, he will follow, and he will never come back. When I get my story ...’

  The boy shook his head and said with quiet certainty. ‘He will kill you, and your story ... it is nothing for you then.’

  She considered her answer. ‘It’s for the children I don’t yet have.’ Are you lying, Carla? Her words surprised her. She shook them from her head. ‘I will return. I’ll give you money for your family. I hate to ask ... But what about my phone?’

  ‘I had in my one hand when he throw me ...’ Disappointment marred his face. ‘I drop it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Look, I’ve got to go and you’re going to get yourself to the hospital.’

  Barely able to contain himself, he raged inwardly – a series of suppressed grunts and mews railing behind tight-bitten lips. The coppery taste of blood sobered him. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, staring at its foamy redness.

  Fuckin’ bitch. I didn’t ask for this! Fuckin’ none of it. Merde! His fists, clenched and hovering, wobbled in the air as he fought back the urge to go wild.

  Breathing slow and deep, he calmed himself and then, lifting her book, turned to the back and examined her face more closely. With her image inches from his nose, he turned it through different angles, as if it were three-dimensional and he could see around her picture. Becoming aroused, he sniffed the remnants of her blouse and then, tearing it in two, propped the book up next to him.

  He unzipped, unleashing himself, teasing it with the soft fabric that, not so long ago, had been against her skin. Taking the book, he introduced her photograph to his cock.

  ‘Suck it,’ he commanded.

  He laid back, wrapping one half of her blouse around his cock and holding the other under his nose. Imagination took him over; masturbating furiously, he cried out at the moment of ejaculation.

  ‘I’ll fuckin’ ruin your cunt,’ he growled, and then – staring closely at her monochrome, captive face – ran a trail of sperm across her lips. ‘That’s right, you like that, don’t you? You goin’ to fuckin’ love it.’

  He scissored his fingers, and snipped at her lips.

  He would find her, and he’d keep her.

  ‘Gonna fuckin’ ruin ya,’ he whispered.

  Snuggling into
a more comfortable position, he slept.

  He dreamed about Kathy. A huge, aching ball of longing lodged in the pit of his stomach.

  Voices. Chiding him. Mocking him. His mother and his father. He tried to shut them out, closing the door on them. His father’s parting shot stabbed him. You know someone else is fucking her now! Although the thought angered him, it turned him on in a strange way, too.

  At first light, he didn’t immediately climb out of bed; reaching for the book instead, he leafed through to where he’d read up to previously, thinking there might be some news on Kathy.

  The next few pages were not absorbed. His mother was back, telling him he wasn’t capable of feeling, that he had no feelings, that his idea of love was obsession. A compulsive desire to possess ... Same as your father. The words stung him.

  ‘I’m not anything like him!’ he roared.

  The apple—

  ‘Shut up! Can’t you see I’m reading?’ He looked around the room. Nobody there. Silence. His thoughts stilled, he read on.

  He’d only heard her voice once, but it was with him as his lips moved silently, and his finger traced the lines following her narration.

  ‘I have the confession to make; I am with cancer. I never believe in God before, but now? I want to believe … I want to believe I can be forgiven. But for you, only confession in small part. The priest, he will have the rest.’

  Henri! Boyle mused on God. What is it that people fear? Their gods don’t scare me. His eidetic memory triggered, he remembered every time he’d ever said or even thought that. The kid with the seashell god. The Congolese priest and his god. The girl on the ferry: Oh, my God! And more, many more. Not one thing bad had happened to him. If he was so bad, and there was a God, he’d have struck him down.

  Henri was speaking again, his voice crystal clear in Boyle’s head.

  ‘He took to the Legion like it was made for him. No one asked questions. He kept himself to himself, slowly gaining respect. I don’t think I’ve ever known someone learn to speak French so quickly. He had this incredible memory ... I knew what he was and in the camouflage of war and turbulence, no one else noticed. So he raped and killed women in Chad, the Congo and other places. Let me explain. Before I knew this, he saved my life one day ...’

  Boyle drifted back in time. He’d hung back from the others hoping to find a woman. He’d heard voices rising in anger behind one of the few mud huts that remained intact. Instinct told him to flee, but curiosity demanded he look. Henri was stripped naked, beaten, and on his knees. The mob’s leader had a cleaver raised, his crazed eyes focused on the back of his stricken comrade’s neck.

  Boyle shot him without hesitation. The bullet struck him high on the shoulder, spinning him around. Their eyes met momentarily. He strode purposefully towards the mob who, in unison, were also turning towards him, some half-falling and scrambling in their eagerness to attack him. Their faces were masks of hatred.

  He shot cleaver-man in the face and marched, shooting, right into the fray, emptying his gun, using it as a club at close range – bobbing, weaving, coshing with it.

  When he’d finished, all that remained of a dozen men lay dead or unconscious on the ground.

  A warrior appeared from around the corner with a spear drawn back, launching it with all his might. He remembered how he’d surprised even himself when he caught it. The look on the other man’s face was a picture. He grinned as he remembered how he’d run him through with it, and behind the thrower ... the women and large-eyed children cowering at his feet. He’d felt like a god, the power of life or death in his hands – and in that moment he had ejaculated. He remembered it well, knowing if he had not he might have left Henri for a little while ...

  His eyes refocused on the page.

  ‘We ... It was the spoils of war for us. I joined him. He’d never had a friend before. And I had the fascination, you understand? He was crazy, but smart. At first, the other men thought he was, how you say – poof. Never joined us whoring. Always he went somewhere else, alone. One night, I followed him. I should have intervened, but I was drunk, crazy with hash ... and je ne sai quoi ... maybe I don’t live tomorrow ...’

  He skipped over the rest of the lines, pausing to read where Carla had noted that he was extremely well endowed with a penis, when erect, some nine or ten inches long. She speculated this might have been one reason he found it difficult to maintain a relationship.

  Stupid bitch. Maintain a fuckin’ relationship? Kath loved it! ‘You’ll find out for yourself in a little while,’ he breathed, and flicked over the page.

  ‘I didn’t see him again until 1981. Then two, maybe three years later, he visited with his wife to meet me for a holiday, you know? Very quiet woman, with beautiful eyes. She have the harelip like him, follow him like a puppy, but you know ... something in the eyes, she is not happy.’

  What’s this the bitch is saying?

  ‘Following the interview with my source, I searched the archives to see if any disappearances had coincided with his trips to France and nothing showed up that could be linked to him. However, I did come across a report of a young girl who’d disappeared on her way back from France while on a ferry. After more research, I discovered something very interesting. William Boyle had used his Foreign Legion name, Boule, to board the boat, the same one the girl had disappeared from ...’ Clever bitch. He shook his head in grudging admiration. Oh, how he was going to enjoy his revenge.

  He took a perverse delight in reading about himself; her unbiased style of reporting had him thinking they’d get on well together, the same as Kathy, once she got to know him better. As for Henri, he was glad that cancer had got him. Saved him a job. Might have to put him outta his misery. That’s what friends are for. A moment of fleeting regret, an acknowledgement of the disappearance of youthful things, touched him. He was more tired than he’d been in ages. It was that little bitch with the bat started it off when she clobbered you. He still had the old march-or-die mentality in him, but for how long?

  Got business to do ... Yet, his thoughts meandered on.

  He remembered how he’d gone out on the boat deck ... he felt his cock stiffen. Jesus, this thing ... It was one thing his dad was right about. You can’t let your cock rule your head – it’s got no brains.

  Flipping the book over, he stared at her photo, coolly assessing her. You ain’t going anywhere without your passport. Oh, and the way you snoop, you know about that body in your room, and the kid, by now. You can’t afford to go to the police. No, and if I had to guess your next move, it’d be what you think I would think that you wouldn’t do. You’re going to go overland. His fingers traced her mouth. No time for that now. You’re still here, and I’ve got to get out there and find you.

  Chapter 9

  Miller hated flying. It hadn’t helped that the passenger next to him, a young Spanish woman, had been silently counting off the beads of her rosary ever since take off. She appeared to have put herself into a transcendental state. Apart from the movement of her fingers over the religious talisman, she’d hardly moved during the flight. Now, as the aeroplane began its descent, she crossed herself three times, and returned to whispering her inaudible prayers.

  ‘Say one for me,’ he said.

  She regarded him with irritation, and returned to the previous bead.

  ‘OK,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’ll say one for both of us.’

  He braced himself hard, legs rigid, pushing himself back into his seat as the aircraft touched down, tyres squealing in protest as it bounced, engines in reverse, roaring. He noted from the corner of his eye that she had mimicked his position, hips slightly raised from the seat, their legs strangely parallel. The aeroplane decelerated rapidly, slowing and taxiing into position. They relaxed in unison, relieved at landing safely. The rest of the passengers on the aeroplane clearly shared the sentiment; the deck filled with the massed sound of unmistakably excited voices chattering in a multitude of different languages, punctuated by the metallic unclipp
ing of seatbelts.

  He turned to the raven-haired girl and smiled. ‘Thanks for getting us down safely.’

  She flashed small white teeth, and tossed her corkscrew hair to one side. ‘It works for me every time.’

  She was about the same age as Stella. A sense of guilt unexpectedly washed over him; she had so much wanted to join him, and he had done something he hadn’t wanted to. He’d gone back on his word, deciding that the trip was too dangerous. ‘Look, Stella,’ he’d said. ‘It’s going to be bad enough looking out for one other person apart from me. Two people ... It’s best if you stay. If something went wrong and you fell into his hands ...’

  ‘You don’t even know that he’s there ...’ she said.

  ‘He is,’ he replied with certainty, a hand on each of her shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. The expression on his face left her in no doubt that he believed himself to be right.

  ‘How do you see these things?’ she said. ‘I mean, you’ve told me some of it before, but you always hold back, never tell me exactly how.’

  ‘It’s because I don’t know all of it. She put something in me when I left you with Ryan that last time.’

  ‘You mean the Sister?’

  ‘Yes. I was seeing more and more before we met. It’s to do with our original link-up, but now she turns me on and off like a surveillance camera ...’

  ‘But why would she do that?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘I have no idea.’

  With Stella’s help, he had successfully narrowed down the search for Carla, using Google search images. The blue doors, the castle walls and the seagulls clinched it for him. Mogador. Now known as Essaouira.

  Exiting the terminal, he ignored the attentions of the many would-be porters and got into a taxi. His valise placed on the floor between his legs, he instructed the driver. ‘Take me to the best hotel in Essaouira.’