With a surge of energy, Acid shoved forward before releasing one hand from the metal bar and throwing a punch that caught Davros with a hammer fist to the radial nerve, an inch above his elbow. The force and accuracy of the strike made him release his grip and she could reclaim the improvised weapon. She put all her weight behind it, felt the skin pop and his muscles tear as she drove the rusty metal into his twisted guts.
With the bats screaming in her ears, she jerked the spike to one side and opened up Davros’ belly like the gaping mouth of a muppet. Blood and sinew hit her in the face as he gave birth to a wet bag of ruptured intestines. But she wasn’t done yet. As her ex-colleague grabbed impotently at the air, she positioned herself under the metal bar and levered it upwards, slicing through more skin and muscle in an act of enforced Seppuku. Death by disembowelment.
Davros groaned and slumped forward. His body was shutting down. No fight left in him. Acid let the metal bar drop to the ground and leaned in to steady him. With the last of her own strength, she sat him down by the side of the bottle bank and knelt beside him.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Don’t fight it, Ratty.”
The dying assassin looked at her and let out a guttural, humourless laugh. “I always said you’d be the death of me,” he whispered. “But I never thought it’d be like this.”
“No,” she replied. “But there you go. You knew what you were getting into when you signed up for this life. It’s all you deserve.”
“That what you believe?” he gasped, fading now.
“What I know,” she said. “None of us are innocent. Not even me. Especially not me.”
She got up, supporting herself against the bottle bank. She knew pain was on its way.
“Acid,” Davros rasped. “About your mum. It wasn’t cool what happened.”
Acid didn’t answer. She waited as his eyes slowly closed and his face was washed of all expression.
Mission complete.
Davros Ratpack was dead.
Four
Along Portland Street and up into the recently revamped Piccadilly Gardens, Manchester’s city centre was already buzzing with a heady mix of its citizens. The threat of violence and imminent bad choices were in the air as packs of young, coat-less girls hunched together for safety and warmth. Alongside them, football fans and beer boys rubbed shoulders with clubbers and office workers who, after one too many after-work drinks, were now stretching the session out into the evening.
But notwithstanding the exuberance and shared inebriation of the crowd, it didn’t stop them staring – or letting out quiet gasps of shock – at the woman limping, barefoot, down the side of the Britannia Hotel. Her heavily made-up face was bloody and swollen, her thick black hair wild and unkempt. A red sequined dress hung from her slim frame, revealing a body covered in cuts and bruises.
Acid Vanilla held her torn side as she staggered onwards, sticking to the shadows where she could. Her plan was to get back to her hotel as quickly as possible, get out of these ridiculous clothes and examine her injury. She’d already lost a lot of blood, and her insides tingled with pain and infection.
She pictured the fully equipped survival kit on the nightstand in her hotel room, but any patch-up job would only be a temporary fix. And whilst she no longer worked for a shadowy assassin network, hospitals were still out of the question.
By the time she got to her room, it was ten-thirty. She unzipped her dress and stepped out of it before carefully unrolling the top of her tights and examining the damage in the full-length mirror beside the door.
She pulled a face. It was bad. The wound itself wasn’t massive, but it felt like a piece of metal had broken off inside of her.
A rumble came from the other end of the room. “Shit. What now?”
Her phone was vibrating noisily on the dresser opposite the grand double bed. She hobbled over and picked it up, the caller ID showing Spook Horowitz. Acid puffed out her cheeks. It was the last call she wanted to take right now. But if she didn’t answer, the kid would only keep trying, she’d be worried about her. Acid tucked a strand of blood-matted hair behind her ear and hit connect.
“Hey, Spook. You okay?”
“I am, yes,” the young American snapped. “Are you? I thought you were going to call me the minute it was over?”
Acid glanced at her reflection in the mirror and raised her eyebrows. “I only got back to the hotel a few minutes ago. Give me a chance.”
“And? Is it done?”
She nodded solemnly. “It is done. Davros Ratpack is an ex-assassin.”
Spook was silent for a few seconds before she asked, “Are you hurt?”
“A little.”
“What does that mean?”
Acid walked over to the mirror and inspected her side. She got a finger either side of the wound and manipulated the skin. The adrenaline had now fully subsided and it hurt like hell. She might have cracked a rib.
“I’m injured, but I can sort it,” she told Spook.
“What? Injured? How?”
In the mirror, she rolled her eyes. “Calm it, kid. I’m fine.”
“I knew I should have come with you.”
Acid scoffed. “I’m fine. Honest. We knew this wasn’t going to be a splash about in the shallow end. But I’ve got it under control. I swear.”
Silence again from the other end of the line. But Acid sensed there were more questions coming and didn't have to wait long to hear them.
"Do you need medical help?" Spook asked.
She squinted at the wound. It needed a good few stitches, for certain. But first she needed to get whatever was in there out. She felt around some more. The piece of metal didn’t move. It was embedded in one of her ribs.
“I think so,” she told Spook, looking down to see a pool of blood on the cream carpet.
“Go to hospital then. Please.”
“You know I can’t.” Acid shoved the phone under her chin as she walked into the bathroom. She turned on the mixer taps and waited for the water to run warm. Then she leaned her body over the sink and dabbed the wound to clean it. “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There’s someone in Manchester,” Acid told her. “I’ve not seen him in years, but he can help me.”
Spook sniffed. “Who is he? Is it safe?”
Acid reached over to the toilet and picked up a roll of toilet paper. She wrapped it around her hand a few times and ripped the wad free. Dabbed at her side.
“An old acquaintance. That’s all you need to know. Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control.”
“What do you mean? Who is he, Acid? Tell me.”
“I’m going now, Spook. I’ll ring you tomorrow.” She held the phone away from her face. “Don’t worry. Bye.”
She powered the phone down and went back into the bedroom before removing her tights along with her bra and pants. Naked, she unzipped her case and found the first aid bag. Out came a handful of cotton wool, surgical tape, a roll of QuikClot, and a bottle of ethanol. She returned to the bathroom and stood in the bath to pour the entire bottle of ethanol into the wound in her side. It hurt like hell and she had trouble stifling her screams, but it was needed. Once clean, she stuffed the wound with the haemostatic dressing. Then she grabbed some more for the top and stuck it down with enough surgical tape to hold it in place. It was a botched job, and already blood was seeping through, but it would hold until she got where she was going.
She rubbed herself down with a handful of baby wipes, enough to remove most of the blood from her body. Then she dressed in fresh underwear, a pair of black Dior jeans, and her original Black Sabbath 1978 tour shirt.
Another handful of baby wipes took care of the blood and stage make-up from her face. She grabbed her overnight bag and got rid of the rest with removal cream, and applied Chanel Noir Profund liquid eyeliner to her upper and lower lids, finishing with a feline flick at the corners. Lastly, she ran her trademark Chanel Rouge Coco ‘
Carmen’ lipstick over her full lips – albeit now swollen into a grotesque trout-pout on one side. She placed the lipstick and eyeliner back in the bag and brought out a bottle of pills. Pure unadulterated codeine. None of that mixed-with-paracetamol nonsense. She screwed off the lid and shook out four white pills. Swallowed them down dry.
“Fuck it,” she sneered at her reflection. “That’ll do.”
She walked back into the bedroom and removed a thick wad of notes and a Glock 45 from the side compartment of her suitcase. She checked the magazine and stuffed the pistol in the back of her jeans. Then she slipped on her boots, pulled on her black leather jacket, stuffed the money in the inside pocket, and returned to the mean streets of Manchester.
Five
Outside the hotel Acid jumped in the first black cab she saw. “Levenshulme, please,” she told the driver. “And step on it.”
The driver eyed her in the rear-view mirror. She could tell he wanted to say something, but then she hit him with her best don’t-fuck-with-me look and he thought better of it. She sat back and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the existent possibility she was about to make life a lot worse for herself. She held onto her side as her pulse throbbed inside the wound. The piece of railing inside of her felt alien. The rust and dirt would already be seeping into her bloodstream.
Thankfully, the driver got the message and spared no horses in getting her there. Fifteen minutes later he brought the cab to a stop half-way along Levenshulme’s high street, the sprawling road bridging Manchester’s border to the neighbouring Stockport. She flung some notes at the guy and exited the cab, holding her side all the while. As the taxi drove off, she stood on the side of the road and tried to find her bearings. She hadn’t visited the area in over ten years and whilst the inevitable gentrification was clear (modern wine bars and vegan cafés now stood alongside the Irish pubs and betting shops), it had the same ambience as always. The streets still bristled with an air of menace.
She walked until she got to the end of the main strip. Here she took a left and circled back on herself, following the road around the next bend. And there it was. The same as she remembered it.
The Green Devil.
The music didn’t screech to a halt as Acid Vanilla entered the large public house and let the heavy doors swing shut behind her, but it might as well have done. Despite being close to last orders, the pub was heaving with people. A rag-tag bunch of coffin-dodgers, part-time gangsters and Irish travellers eyed her suspiciously as she walked to the bar.
She eased her side against the polished wood top and waited for the barman's attention. A quick glance around told her she was the only woman in the place. The only non-Irish person, to boot. The air was heady with smells of Guinness and rye. Acid thought back to the last time she’d drank here, when you couldn’t see across the room for the thick cloud of pipe and cigarette smoke. Today, however, the air was clear. She could now see the peeling wallpaper, the yellowing photographs and newspaper clippings pinned to the wall, not to mention the IRA and INLA insignia hanging above the wood-panelled bar. None of which made the place any more pleasant or inviting. She clutched her side as the barman approached.
“What can I get ya, miss?”
He was a stout, middle-aged man with white sideburns and a red face.
“Do you have Chivas Regal?”
He looked pained. “I don’t think we do. We got an excellent selection, mind.”
Acid peered over his shoulder. “A Jameson, then. Double. Two chunks of ice.”
“Coming right up.”
The man placed a tumbler down in front of her and free-poured a generous measure. It had never been the sort of establishment to bother with optics and measuring cylinders, and Acid was pleased it had kept some of its appeal.
“So what brings a nice girl like you to a place like this?”
Acid watched as he took a small silver shovel from an ice tray and plonked two cubes into the glass.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m a nice girl. Far from it.”
The man looked her up and down. “Is that so?”
“I’m looking for someone. Perhaps you can help.”
“Maybe I can.”
“The Dullahan. Is he in?”
The man froze. All the blood drained from his face. “Sorry. I’ve never heard of that person.”
Acid narrowed her eyes. He was scared of something. Or someone.
“I’m not the police or anything,” she told him. “I’m a friend of The Dullahan. Well, an old acquaintance. I need to find him.”
The barman swallowed. “You worked with The Dark Man?”
Acid took a sip of the Jameson. “You could say that.”
“Same line of work?”
She raised her eyebrows. Nodded. Now he was getting it.
“He’s not here,” he said, speaking in hushed tones. “Hasn’t been in for years. After his wife died, he stopped drinking. Keeps himself to himself.”
“I see. Do you know where I can find him?”
The man stiffened and glanced over her shoulder. A sweetener might help. Acid reached into her jacket pocket and took out two fifties. She slid them over the bar top.
“For the drink.” She kept her fingers on the notes. “And any information.”
The barman eyed the cash a second, then sighed. “A oner? For the whereabouts of The Dark Man? Sorry, dear. I don’t know a damn thing.”
Acid sneered and pulled out another hundred, and another. She placed the notes down and her hand back on top of the pile. The barman glanced at the cash, glanced around the bar. None of the pissed-up old thugs were interested.
“Fine. I’ll give you the last address I had.” He got a notepad from the side of the till and scribbled down a few lines, handed it to Acid. “It’s around the corner. Ten-minute walk. But don’t you tell him it was me who gave you this. All right?”
Acid released the money and grinned. “Sorry, who are you? Never seen you before in my life.”
She downed the Jameson and hurried out the way she came. The night was drawing in and the air cold against her skin. Holding the address up in the orange glow of the streetlights, she walked on, swaying now because of a banging headache and the severe loss of blood. At the speed she could manage, the walk was somewhat longer than the ten minutes suggested. More like thirty. But eventually she turned a corner around the side of an old mill and there it was.
“What the hell?” she murmured to herself.
Her first thought was she’d been had. In front of her, standing back from the other houses and in its own grounds, was a thatched cottage. The garden was overgrown and full of rusted metal, but still, it was the last place she’d ever expect to find the mighty Dullahan.
As Acid staggered closer, she took in the quaint red window frames, the ivy sprawled around the brickwork, the terracotta milk-bottle covers. She was fading fast and hoped to god she had the right house, but it felt like a stretch. She shuffled up the path and banged on the front door, steadying herself with an elbow against the frame. The sensation of cold, hard metal under her knuckles was both a shock and reassuring. The door had been designed to look like your typical suburban wood or PVC affair, complete with number and door-knocker and painted red like the window frames. But on closer inspection, she found it was made of reinforced steel. Maybe she had the correct place after all.
A few seconds went by before Acid heard movement. Shuffling sounds. Annoyed grunts. Instinctively, she moved her hand around her back and felt for the reassuring grip of the Glock 45. Larger than her usual 19, but the extended grip gave better control and more accuracy. She removed it from her waistband and held it to her stomach, feeling the reassuring coldness of the metal barrel through her t-shirt.
She heard more movement. A key in a lock. A bolt sliding free. The door eased open to reveal a short, thin man with a thick head of white hair. He was wearing a crimson velvet smoking jacket over a white t-shirt and electric-blue jogging pants. Around his neck hung an enormous eme
rald-encrusted shamrock that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rapper. He gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Fuck me. I thought you were dead.”
“Nice to see you too. Can I come in?”
The Dullahan didn’t flinch. “I don’t do visitors. Whatever you’re after, I can’t help ya.” He made to shut the door but Acid got her boot inside.
“Please. I need your help.” She pulled up her t-shirt to reveal the leaking wound, the dressing seeped in blood. “I’ve got nowhere else to go. I’ve brought a pot of gold. Please.”
The old man looked troubled, but opened the door wider. “Fine. Get yourself inside. Quick.”
“Thank you,” she gasped, as she fell into the hall.
The last thing she saw was The Dullahan – her old nemesis and one-time rival – locking the door behind her.
Then she collapsed, unconscious, at the old man’s feet.
Six
She felt immense pressure in her stomach. In her head, too. The bats nibbled at her synapses, leathery wings of instinct flapping at her nervous system. She tried to speak. To call out. But all she managed was slurred mumbling. Inane words with little meaning. Danger was present here, the bats told her. She had to wake up. But she couldn’t move.
Time slowed.
The world stopped.
Then, later, through a dense fog of semi-consciousness, a figure appeared. It loomed over her through the haze and she felt a cold hand on her forehead. She sensed the glint of instruments. A scalpel. The skin on her stomach was stretched and manipulated. Cold steel penetrated her flesh. The dead skin cut away. A fresh wound, dragged together with stitches. She screamed into the darkness but made no sound. She wanted to tell whoever – or whatever - this was to stop. To let her go.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 27
