The Twelve

by D A Walmsley

  D A Walmsley

  The Twelve

  Copyright © 2019 by D A Walmsley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  D A Walmsley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  This is a work of fiction based on characters and events depicted in the Bible.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 1

  From out of the darkness and into the yellow glow of a street light steps the figure of a man. The dim light mixes with a fine drizzle and hangs in the air, creating a haunting mist. The figure stops, looking around at the terraced houses that make up this long narrow street, then slips back into the shadows, only his footsteps betraying his presence.

  He is not alone; another set of footsteps can now be heard, quicker, lighter, more urgent. A curtain twitches, exposing a yellow glint of light, followed by a stifled cry. The figure of a young man is standing at the gate, a gun in his hand.

  Through the mist the first man approaches. He is taller, broader; he too carries a weapon. He nods and goes through the gate to the door, flicking a half smoked cigarette away before banging on the door with a black gloved hand.

  “Stay here and shoot anything that tries to escape.”

  “OK Boss. Don’t you just love nights like these?”

  “I like it when people pay what they owe!”

  “I like it when they don’t!”

  For the residents of Zaricus Street, the presence of Matthew Levi and Dave Milo means one thing; trouble. When they turn up, it’s time to lock the door, turn off the lights and pray it’s not you they are coming for. For the men, this is just another night, another call.

  The light suddenly goes out, but it’s too late. He bangs on the door again, this time louder. Still nothing, only the sound of a siren in the distance.

  Matthew checks the door handle, to see if it’s unlocked. It’s surprising how many times he can go straight in. This time no such luck. He steps back and points his Jericho semi automatic at the lock.

  “Please, let me boss.” says Milo, who then raises his own huge Desert Eagle hand gun.

  Matthew nods and stands back as Milo unloads two rounds at the door. The noise is so loud it sets off several car alarms but before the noise has faded Matthew’s foot smashes open the door.

  Stepping inside, he checks for the light switch, which should be to his left; it is. He flicks it… nothing happens. Great! He takes a small flash light from his coat pocket, very useful in this kind of work. The narrow beam of light scans the hallway.

  “Come on Danny, I know you’re in here.”

  There is no answer.

  With Milo watching the entrance and the stairs, Matthew decides to check out the downstairs first and finds a light switch for the living room. This time, there is light.

  The room is sparsely furnished, a portable TV sits in the corner and there’s a well worn sofa and chair in the middle of the room. Children’s toys are scattered about, nothing of value. He moves through to the kitchen where he hears some scratching followed by a whimper. He brings his flash light up to the gun. Another whimper. The torchlight shines across the room. In a dark corner two sets of eyes stare back at him. One is a little girl, her back pressed against the wall. She is holding tight to what appears to be a small spaniel puppy. Shining the light in their faces, he slowly bends down to their level.

  “Where’s your daddy?”

  The little girl doesn’t answer.

  “Come here. Why don’t you show me where he’s hiding?”

  He reaches in to grab hold of her but as he does she bites his hand.

  “Ow, you little bitch!”

  He shines the torch into her eyes. She covers her face with her hands, letting go of the dog which runs into the living room.

  “If you do that again I’ll shoot you, understand?”

  This time he pulls her out quickly and forcefully and drags her back though the living room. She squirms and wriggles, trying to escape.

  “How long are we going to do this Danny?” he shouts from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Remember the good old days, when you always paid me. Remember all the discounts I’ve given you? How many others would do that, eh Danny? None, that’s how many. So why are you hiding? You’ve betrayed me Danny boy, and now I want my money.”

  He nods to Milo and they both start to slowly climb the stairs.

  “I’m going to give you a choice; either you come out and give me my money or your little girl here gets a 9mm through her little skull, understand?”

  A woman screams as Matthew and Milo make their way upstairs. They are halfway up when a light is snapped on and a small scruffy man steps forward at the top of the staircase. He has both his arms in the air and is shaking.

  “Good choice Danny. Now get me my money.”

  “OK OK, please don’t hurt her…. please.”

  The screaming is coming from the bathroom. “Don’t hurt her, my baby, my baby,” pleads the woman.

  Matthew points his gun at Danny, and when he gets to the top of the stairs he releases the little girl. She runs to her sobbing mother, who along with another three children are huddled together in the bathroom. Milo follows and begins checking the rest of the upstairs.

  “This is all I have, it’s everything.” Scrambling in his pockets Danny pulls out a rolled up wad of old notes. He shakes as he thrusts them at Matthew.

  “I just need more t…time, honest.”

  Matthew brings his face close to Danny and shouts at him, “You’ve had plenty of time, and this is all you can manage?”

  He presses the gun hard against Danny’s head.

  “Please no, please no, it’s been a bad month, I’ll get the rest, I
promise I’ll get the rest.”

  It’s a promise Matthew has heard thousands of times before and one to which he has become immune. Looking around he knows Danny can’t pay. Why do these people have so many children if they can’t provide for them.

  Matthew releases the pressure from the gun, and steps back. Danny sighs.

  “Anything?” Matthew asks Milo.

  “Nothing.”

  Matthew raises his gun again at Danny.

  “Boss, come on, have a heart. It’s my favourite part of the job.”

  “Fine, have your fun.” Matthew heads back downstairs as three shots ring out.

  At the door Matthew takes out his notebook and scribbles Paid next to Danny’s name.

  “Who’s next?” asks Milo.

  “I think we’ll call it a night” says Matthew.

  “Good, I’ve got something personal to take care of.” Milo points his key remote towards a black BMW, which flashes its indicators in response.

  For Dave Milo, being in the debt collecting business has been very rewarding. His brand new BMW is proof of that, but as with anything there can be downsides. Bullet holes and a smashed rear side-window are the reality of this very violent occupation. Matthew is always stressing, “Dead men don’t pay up, but a frightened one pays on time.” In most cases this is true, but a desperate man can be a dangerous man. The number of dead collectors testifies to that, not that it worries Dave. In fact he loves it; that feeling he gets when pulling the trigger of his Desert Eagle. The smell, the sound; the power that it gives.

  The few cars on the roads keep well away from the 2.5 litres of BMW engine, giving the 192 horses under the bonnet a serious workout. Within minutes Dave gets across the city, the rows of terraced houses giving way to larger semis. Slowing down he checks to see if he’s close, squinting to read the house numbers… no it’s too dark. He drives on for a couple of hundred yards then parks.

  With just a street name and vehicle type, getting the right house is a long shot. A blue Audi is not easy to pick out in the dark. He walks up the street checking all the cars; crosses over and walks back down. Just as he’s about to leave, he hears voices, one male, one female, a few doors away. His first reaction is to go for his gun, fearing he’s been spotted. But then more out of curiosity he goes over to have a look, making sure not to be seen. A girl is standing at a half-open door saying goodbye. A guy inside tries to get her to stay longer. As Dave stares, it appears the man wins, the girl steps back inside and the door closes. Through the glass topped door with the hall light behind them the couple’s silhouettes merge as they kiss each other.

  “Lucky bastard” Dave whispers to himself.

  As he turns to go, he notices a car parked on the drive behind a silver Ford Fiesta. It is a dark Blue Audi. He looks again at the couple. Is this the guy he’s looking for? Should he call out and see if there’s a response? But that would cost him the advantage. Then the couple separate and the outline of each of them is clearly seen. Yeah, it’s him alright.

  Dave’s heartbeat quickens and adrenalin surges through his body. He checks that the clip in his 9mm is full, and then from a shoulder holster produces another piece, flicking off the safety as he moves onto the drive.

  “Revenge is so sweet,” he says, before pointing both weapons at the couple and opening fire with both guns simultaneously. The noise is so loud with each explosion and flash that to Dave it’s like slow-motion. His ears pick up the smallest of noises: the glass smashing, the hall-light popping from a hit, the sound of the casings hitting the Fiesta next to him. He laughs as one after another the bullets smash through door and flesh. He’s not concerned that the girl is innocent; she is mere collateral damage and he is enjoying this way too much to care about her. He only stops when both clips are empty. Now it’s time to get the hell out of here.

  Chapter 2

  As the early morning mist begins to lift over the sea of Galilee and the dawn chorus starts to find its voice, for some it’s the end to a long, hard night’s work. One by one fishing trawlers, their lights blazing, return to the harbour.

  The beeping sound of an articulated lorry with the words CATCH OF THE DAY written on its side reverses slowly along the quayside, its hydraulic brakes swooshing as it comes to a stop. The sounds of a busy harbour play like a symphony, the natural and man-made all interwoven: waves splashing against the wall, diesel engines rattling, seagulls singing, men shouting. Fishermen begin unloading their catch onto the quayside and several men place the fish into trays and pack them in ice. They are then loaded onto the lorry using a forklift truck. Within hours today’s catch will be in the shops and supermarkets all across the country.

  Above all the noise one voice stands out, a loud booming baritone shouting at the last of the trawlers pulling up alongside the quay, “COME ON, HURRY UP.” Simon Peter, his stature as big and broad as his voice, is having a bad morning. This is because he had a bad night; the number of fish caught were well below his forecast. To anyone else it would still be a good night’s work, but for Simon Peter who had predicted record results, things are about to get a whole lot worse.

  On the boat pulling in alongside Simon Peter are two brothers, James and John. James, a younger version of Simon Peter, appears as fresh and alert as when he first set off, ten hours ago.

  “How’s he look?” asks John, peering out of the cab.

  “Miserable.” replies James.

  “Yes, I bet we’ve beaten the big man.” He starts to sing “Oh what a night, the fish were biting La la la la la.” He does a little dance.

  On the quay those within earshot all laugh. Simon Peter swears under his breath.

  “Sorry, what was that?” James shouts sarcastically.

  “I said get them weighed before you start celebrating” snaps Simon Peter, who turns away and shouts at two workers to help unload, “come on don’t just stand there.”

  As the men start to bring the fish ashore, Simon Peter looks over the amounts for himself and sighs.

  Another fisherman steps from the trawler. He is Andrew, Simon Peter’s younger brother who has been with James and John all night. He pats Simon Peter on the back before saying, “look on the bright side; more fish more profit, and hey you didn’t have to spend all night listening to those two argue.” He helps with a heavy crate being lowered from the boat to the ground. Last off the boat is John. He jumps down and studies the fish with James, double checking the numbers and weights. They don’t want there to be a mistake and Simon Peter to wriggle out of his bet and not give them a day off.

  “Oh I’m gonna enjoy that lie in,” James says, trying to wind Simon Peter up.

  “You haven’t forgotten what you’re doing later have you?” says Simon Peter, a knowing smile poking out from his beard.

  Quite clearly they have. Simon Peter continues, now unable to contain his delight. “Your father said I should remind you both about your community service, so don’t go home just yet.”

  James and John both sigh. “I can’t believe we’ve got that to do,” moans John.

  James turns to Andrew and asks “Hey Andy, any ideas how we can get out of the community thing we’ve to do?”

  “Ha, is that today? Well, you could pay the fine instead” laughs Andrew.

  Both give him a please be serious look. Andrew adds, “try to mention the lowest fresh-water lake in the world, and… don’t forget the net.”

  “Oh cheers Andy, big help,” says John.

  As part of the drive to extol the virtues of Capernaum to a wider public, the Tourist Board runs tours of the local beauty spots, showing off the natural wonders of the region and its long history. There has been fishing on the Sea of Galilee for thousands of years and they thought it would be a good idea to demonstrate how fish used to be caught before they turned to the more modern trawling method. James and John were the only two they could get. The brothers are doing this as part of their community service after they damaged the newly built harbour wall when they rammed into i
t with their trawler.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “I do, just shut up.”

  “You’re not even holding it right, let me have I go.”

  Surrounded by a group of people, James pulls back his arm and is about to throw the net into the sea. “Try bending your knees” John shouts to his brother. James stops mid throw and turns to John. “Will you shut up, I know what I’m doing, get on with the introduction.”

  “Err…hello, this is Lake Galilee, the world’s lowest fresh-water lake 680ft below sea level. It is roughly 13 x 7 miles with an area of 90sq miles and has a maximum depth of 150ft. It is fed by the river Jordan, flowing from Mount Hermon in the north.” John reads from a crumpled up piece of paper, points north ” …and to the Dead Sea in the south,” he turns and points south. “Now James is gonna show you how they used to fish in the olden days before electricity and stuff.”

  James limbers up and does a few arm stretches before carefully picking up the prepared net. It is circular and has small weights set at regular intervals around its perimeter. The idea being by getting it to spread out and land flat on the water, the weights sink to the bottom and then an attached cord is pulled tight trapping any fish that have been covered. He swings his arms a few times and throws the net. It opens up perfectly, spinning as it does, a bit like when you skim a stone across the water; the trick is the quick flick at the end of the throw. The problem is that James has let go a little too early. Instead of landing in the sea it goes into the air and lands perfectly… over John, entangling him like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Quickly James pulls the cord, turns to the crowd and with a big grin exclaims, “and that’s how you catch a shrimp!”

  The crowd thinking this is all part of the demonstration, laugh and applaud. James takes a bow, and moves towards John offering to help release him. The crowd, a foreign coach party, take photos of the brothers. James flexes his muscles at a couple of giggling teenage girls. John, red with embarrassment and struggling to escape the net, mumbles “you did that on purpose.”

  James laughs, saying “did you say something?” Then, seeing his brother’s discomfort, adds “wow, how red are you?”