Perfect Day

by Kris Lillyman

  “C’mon, get in there,” Finch ordered, waving the shotgun in the direction of the living room. He was cold and wet from his long walk in the woods and was ready for the warmth of the fire which should now be burning strongly in the hearth. But he could not leave his prisoners in the kitchen. “Give him a hand,” he said to Sam, nodding at Vasily. “Make it quick, I haven’t got all day.”

  In fact, he did have all day - and now he had two captives to torture, not one - which meant the day ahead had just got even better.

  Sam pulled Vas up and helped to support him as they slowly navigated their way out of the kitchen, being wary of Finch and the barrels of his shotgun as they lumbered into the short hallway, passed the front door, and eventually down into the untidy living room; their captor following them every step of the way.

  The fire was blazing as rain lashed the windows outside.

  “Put him down there,” Finch demanded, jerking his head at the threadbare settee.

  Sam eased Vas down onto it, being as gentle as he could. When he had finished, he stood back up and turned to Finch who was standing maybe five feet away, still covering him with the shotgun. “So, what now?” He said.

  Finch opened his mouth to reply but before uttering a word the logs in the fireplace cracked loudly.

  Clearly startled by the unexpected sound, he turned and pointed the 12-bore towards the hearth, instinctively thinking it to be the crackle of gunfire.

  With his captor briefly distracted, and the shotgun temporarily aimed elsewhere, Sam seized his chance and dived forward.

  Finch immediately realised his error and swerved back but he was too late as Sam slammed into him, grabbing the barrels of the shotgun with both hands and forcing them towards the hearth.

  Suddenly one of the barrels blasted into the fireplace as Finch pulled the trigger accidentally. Flame, wood and sparks exploded violently into the room as if a grenade had been dropped down the chimney.

  Both Sam and Finch were rocked by the deafening blast as they staggered from the stunning force of the 12-bore’s recoil. Yet neither let go of the weapon as they wrestled for control of it.

  The brass poker which had previously leant against the hearth suddenly wheeled past Vasily’s head, narrowly missing it, as he, too, cowered from the explosion in an effort to save himself from a shower of scolding fragments.

  As he reared away his body weight caused the settee to tip over backwards, spilling him onto the carpet behind. Yet, as he landed with a heavy thud next to the poker, Sam and Finch were still fighting madly for possession of the gun.

  The lethal barrels of the 12-bore veered this way and that before suddenly exploding again. This time the shot blew a huge chasm in the low ceiling of the cottage sending plaster and wood splinters raining down upon them.

  Ignoring the dust and debris which now covered him, Sam attempted to knee Finch in the groin but his opponent somehow managed to twist his body so that the barrel of the gun smacked hard against the side of Sam’s head, stunning him momentarily and allowing Finch to snatch the now spent weapon free.

  Spinning the shotgun around, Finch grasped both barrels and used it as a club, slamming it into Sam’s ribs. However, he shook off the blow and, instead, used his full weight to barge into Finch; powering him backwards until he came up hard against the mantelpiece over the hearth; the dead rabbits dangling from his belt hanging in the destroyed remnants of the fire.

  Sam reached for the knife in his pocket but it got snagged in the lining and gave Finch enough time to head-butt him on the bridge of the nose, dazing him once more.

  Again, Sam ignored the blow, determined not to give into the pain as he at last managed to pull the knife free. But he was at an awkward angle and movement was limited, and as he gripped the curved antler bone handle he could do little more than thrust it forwards and hope for the best.

  The 7.5” polished steel blade stabbed clean through the waxy material of his opponent’s jacket and sunk right up to its black buffalo pommel in the soft flesh of his armpit.

  Finch howled in agony and instantly whipped the shotgun around again so that the solid mahogany stock cracked heavily against Sam’s ear.

  Severely rocked by the impact, Sam’s legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

  Meanwhile, Finch reeled away, retreating to furthest side of the room, near the window, unaware that both rabbits dangling from his belt were aflame. Even so, severely hampered by his injury and with blood pissing down his arm, he found the strength to rummage in his jacket pocket for more ammunition.

  A moment later, his grubby fingers seized upon an unused cartridge and as quickly as his wound would allow, he popped open the breach of the 12-bore and shakily slid it into one of the empty chambers.

  With great difficulty, he snapped the breach closed once more, suddenly conscious of an intense heat around his upper legs. But with no time to consider it further, and using every ounce of strength he could muster, he lifted the shotgun and determinedly took aim.

  From where Vas was laying, he could see the flames from the burning rabbits creeping up Finch’s legs and taking hold around his waist. But it was also clear that Finch would surely discharge his weapon, killing Sam, before realising that he was actually on fire.

  By now Sam had clambered to his feet once more and, like Vas, had seen the impending danger. This time, however, he was too far away to reach the gun - too far away to be anything other than a sitting duck.

  But Vas had noticed the brass poker on the ground beside him. “Sam, quick!” He shouted, grabbing it up and tossing it to his friend.

  With Finch about to fire, Sam instantly read Vasily’s mind as he snatched the poker out of the air. Then, without a second to spare, he hurled it like a javelin with all of his might at the man on fire.

  The shiny projectile hurtled across the smoke-filled room like a brass harpoon; slicing through the billowing clouds of plaster dust as it flew towards its target.

  Finch saw only the briefest flash of gold before it speared into his neck and severed his carotid artery; the force of impact spinning him around to face the rain splashed window.

  His mouth fell open as blood gurgled in his throat and flames clawed their way up his chest to lap around his shoulders; the poker skewered through his neck, sticking out both front and back.

  Yet Finch was not yet dead and felt every dreadful sensation as his body burned and his bodily juices boiled in his throat.

  Suddenly the wound in his neck burst like a damn and a shower of bright red blood spattered across the filthy glass of the window as if hit by a spray of crimson paint.

  Gripped with excruciating agony; his flesh cooking and his greasy hair singeing away, Finch watched with absolute horror as his skin crackled like a hog on a spit.

  Then, as the flames swirled around him and he screamed in terrible anguish, the shrivelled ruins of his charred fingers tightened involuntarily around the moulten trigger of the shotgun to discharge one final devastating load.

  Indeed, Finch’s dying act was to shoot a huge, gaping hole out of the window in another ear-splitting shotgun blast that echoed loudly through the deserted woods.

  Shards of razor sharp glass flew out onto the rain soaked mud of the turning circle beyond as Finch’s body, now totally engulfed in fire, fell forward and impaled itself on whatever jagged remnants remained of the window.

  At last, the man who had carved a swastika so callously across Claudette’s naked breasts had met his deserved end.

  The third of six was dead.

  ***

  Flames were now travelling across the stained carpet having already enveloped the far wall of the cottage and Sam knew they had to get out of there quickly.

  He raced over to where Vas lay and hoisted him up onto his good foot.

  “You okay, buddy?” He asked.

  “Yeah,” Vas r
eplied, his voice still pained but otherwise seemingly brighter, “I am now but I don’t think either of us will be if we hang around here much longer.”

  “Agreed,” Sam said as he set about helping his friend out of the burning living room and into the hallway.

  A moment later they emerged through the front door into the pouring rain and crossed to the Land Rover parked close by.

  Sam tried the door. It was open with the keys in the ignition. With the woods being so void of human life, Finch obviously felt no need to remove them.

  As the cottage burned, Sam helped Vas up into the passenger seat then ran and snatched up his friend’s sodden fur hat that was still sitting in the mud. A second later he jumped in behind the wheel of the Land Rover and turned the key to hear the rewarding rattle of the engine as it sputtered into life.

  Neither he nor Vas bothered to look back as they sped away from Finch’s blazing home, the heavy rain already dousing the flames and putting out the fire. But it would not help the charcoaled corpse of the man slumped dead in the blackened window frame.

  Soon, the cottage was nothing more than a smoky haze in the distance as the Land Rover bumped back down the muddy track towards Miriam’s little Mini which was parked waiting for them at the end to take them back to Cambridge.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The rain storm had not yet reached Cambridge by the time they got back. However, before Sam had even turned off the engine, Miri was outside. She had been waiting anxiously, checking the window every few minutes for any sign of her little Mini. When finally she saw it turn into the road from the junction at the top, she tore down the stairs and ran out to greet it.

  As it screeched to a halt in front of the house, she could immediately see Vas in the passenger seat and the pained expression on his face.

  She pulled open the door as Sam raced around the car to help Vas out.

  “It’s his ankle,” he said, his voice urgent and to the point. “Nasty head wound, too, but it’s his ankle that looks worse - he trod on a trap of some kind—“

  “A what?” Exclaimed Miri, clearly appalled.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Vas declared, whilst looking anything but.

  “Let me be the judge of that,” snapped Miri, suddenly adopting her professional persona, before adding to Sam, “And you, chéri? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he replied, as the pair of them lifted Vas carefully out of the Mini and helped him into the house, “Couple of bruises maybe but nothing more.”

  “And Finch?” Miri asked tentatively, her voice nothing more than a whisper as the three of them hobbled up the stairs awkwardly.

  “Dead,” answered Sam flatly.

  “Oh, thank God,” Miri sighed.

  “Yeah,” was all Sam said in reply, his tone less thrilled than she might have expected. Yet Miri put this down to the trauma of the ordeal itself, knowing it could not have been easy.

  However, the truth of the matter was somewhat different.

  Sam was not traumatised at all but, in fact, furious with himself for allowing Finch to die without first learning the identity of the three remaining men. Furthermore, with him now dead, it left Sam at something of an impasse with no clue as to where to turn next; his only hope being that Vasily’s father might yet turn up something useful to help guide him onwards.

  Nonetheless, they managed to get Vas upstairs into Miri’s top floor bedsit without disturbing any of the other house residents; laying him down on her bed the moment they were inside.

  As Sam locked the door behind them, Miri snapped on a pair of blue surgical gloves and quickly set to work.

  The head wound, whilst very bloody, was only superficial upon examination even though it would require several stitches.

  Vasily’s ankle however, was an entirely different matter.

  The bones, although not broken, were chipped and the flesh had been severely chewed which would make it impossible to knit neatly back together no matter what Miri did; the deadly teeth of the gin trap inflicting extensive and deep lacerations either side of his lower leg in a jagged zig-zag pattern.

  Indeed, judging by the force in which the trap had obviously snapped shut, Vas was extremely lucky to still have a foot let alone an unbroken ankle.

  Nonetheless, Miri did envisage him having some difficulty walking even after the wound had healed as the damage was too extensive. Furthermore, she suspected the skin would most likely pull and cause some degree of discomfort for the rest of his life.

  Ideally, Vas should have been taken to a hospital - not least for a head scan to eliminate all doubt of a possible brain injury - but also to receive the proper treatment needed for his wounded limb.

  However, all of them, Vas included, knew they did not have that luxury as it might raise too many questions, particularly if any of them were ever linked to Finch’s death.

  To stay under the radar was by far the better option and Miri would just have to do her best for Vas with the limited resources she had available at the bedsit.

  Vas, himself, whilst dreading the serious pain this might involve, was in complete agreement. He would just have to grin and bear it.

  So, without any further debate, Miriam administered a local anaesthetic, both to his head and ankle, and set to work.

  Sam could do little but watch and wait as the woman he now knew he loved painstakingly repaired his best friend.

  However, as he studied the pair of them, two things became absolutely clear. The first was that he could no longer allow people to put themselves in harm’s way on his behalf no matter how willingly they did so.

  Vasily was extremely lucky to be alive. Indeed, from what Sam understood, Finch had much planned for him so God knows what he might have been forced to endure had he not been found.

  As it was, he was undoubtedly scarred for life.

  The second thing Sam decided was that he had to leave.

  He considered it reasonable to assume that with three of the six men now dead, the other three might well be aware that they were being hunted. That being the case, they could possibly decide to take matters into their own hands and seek out the person pursuing them.

  As a result, Vas and Miri could find themselves in harm’s way and having already seen one person he loved brutally murdered he did not want to be responsible for another.

  So, as much as it would hurt, especially to leave Miri, he knew he had to go, well aware that his decision would devastate her, too, but there was simply no other choice.

  For the time being, with a potential police investigation into Finch’s death, it would be best if Vas went with him too. At least for the short term.

  They could fly to New Hampshire, spend Christmas together and allow time for Vas’ wounds to suitably heal, then, in the New Year, they would say their goodbyes once more.

  Vas could return to Cambridge, where hopefully, the police would have found no evidence of his involvement in the events at Pemberton Woods whilst Sam, with no other option, would stay in America and await information from Vladimir Voronin about where to find his next target.

  Because still the rage burned within him.

  Regardless of his feelings for Miri, Claudette still needed to be avenged and Sam would not give up until every last one of the men responsible for her murder was dead. Maybe then the image of her hanging lifelessly from the tree or the dreadful guilt he felt at being so powerless to help her would finally stop haunting him.

  But until then he would not quit.

  ***

  By the time Miriam had finished it was late afternoon. Vas had received ten stitches to the gash in his head and sixty two more to seal the terrible lacerations around his ankle. She had done a remarkable job; her work as neat and discreet as she could possibly make it, but no matter how tidy, he would bear the jagged zig-zag scar for the rest of his life.


  Nonetheless, when she had finished, she gave Vas a sedative to ease the soreness and help him sleep. Five minutes later he was dozing peacefully on the bed, his injured leg resting on a couple of plump pillows.

  Now exhausted, Miri went to join Sam on the small settee in the middle of her bedsit. He put his arm around her and she nuzzled her head into his shoulder as they sat there for a time in weary silence. It had been an eventful day for both of them.

  After a time, Miri eventually spoke, her voice soft and calm as she finally gave voice to what she had long feared.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” She said.

  Sam was a little taken aback by her intuitiveness, but then almost immediately admonished himself. After all, she was an intelligent and perceptive woman; two things he loved most about her, so how could he have ever been in any doubt that she might know what he planned.

  “Yes,” he replied simply.

  The word struck like a dagger to her heart but she remained resolute. “It’s for my own good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He answered once more. “If I stay here then there might be repercussions that involve you. It would not be safe, not at the moment.”

  “And later?”

  “I can’t say. I need to find the others. I won’t be able to rest until I do. I see them every day and it drives me—“

  “And if I begged you to stay?” Miri interrupted, “Promised I would help you forget - then what?”

  “Then I would say it would do no good,” Sam replied honestly. He turned and looked into her big, green eyes which were brimming with tears. “I love you. I think you already know that. But this is something I simply must do - no matter how long it takes, no matter where it leads me.”

  “Then I will wait for you, chéri, until you find the peace you’re searching for.”

  “No, Miri. You can’t. You must live your life - be free to do whatever you want, go wherever you please. Have a career, get married - I don’t know - but please, don’t waste your life waiting for me.”