The Dark Master of Dogs

by Chris Ward

  Despite the pain, Suzanne smiled. Seth Winters’ desperate howling was something she would never forget, and it would bring her comfort no matter what happened next.

  She remembered Article 14.2. She might be a teenager, but she wasn’t, and kids in school talked more than adults did, with their heads buried in the sand. The government claimed it was to quell the increasing proliferation of hate speech and incitement of violence against minorities, but once pushed through parliament the crackdown had begun.

  She needed to sleep while she had the chance. Tomorrow could be tough, and if they decided to torture her, eventually she would talk, and her father’s little secret would come out.

  She hoped he was enjoying himself, wherever he was right now. She hoped he was doing what he claimed, which was to hunt for a European property where they could escape from the government, and not what she suspected, which was eloping with his tramp of a girlfriend and leaving her behind.

  Farther along the corridor a door slammed with a metallic clank and then someone else began to scream.

  Suzanne shivered. Soon, the DCA would come for her. She would fight them to her last breath, but something told her it wouldn’t be enough. She tried to think about Patrick, wondering what he was doing, whether he had gone to her house and found her missing. Would he care? Would he even look for her? Half the girls in school wanted to get with Patrick; he wouldn’t have much trouble forgetting her.

  It was stupid to think about such things, she knew, but it was something to cling to, and the alternative was far, far worse.

  Down the corridor, the scream cut off with a sharp, strangled cry.

  With her back pressed against the cold wall of her cell, Suzanne shivered.

  3

  Tommy

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I tried to get it but I need more time.’

  Tommy Crown sighed. He nudged the man’s cheek with the toe of his boot. ‘Sit up. Look at me. I can’t stand talking to someone without seeing their face. It’s kind of rude, don’t you think?’

  The man lifted his head. Tommy frowned at the sight of tears. So pathetic. He almost changed his mind.

  ‘You took two shipments of cigarettes, Mickey. I gave them to you in good faith. You promised me my money when the cigarettes were gone. Are they gone, Mickey?’

  ‘They’re … gone.’

  ‘So where’s my money?’

  ‘I was busted. Undercover. The DCA.’

  ‘The DCA are clowns. Am I supposed to believe that?’

  ‘Tommy—’

  Tommy kicked the boy in the side, making him grunt. ‘Mr. Crown to you, boy. Did your mother teach you no manners? What was she, some Soho tramp?’

  ‘My … I….’

  ‘Shut up. So my cigarettes are gone, and my money is gone. What are we supposed to do about that?’

  ‘I need more time. I promise.’

  Tommy hefted the length of pipe. One end was bent where he had ripped and twisted it off a fitting.

  ‘Do you know what promises are, Mickey?’

  ‘Mr. Crown, I—’

  Tommy clicked the fingers of his free hand. ‘Empty air. That’s what a promise is. I have no use for promises.’

  ‘I’ll get the money.’

  Tommy cocked his head. The scar down the right side of his face tugged on the skin of his neck.

  ‘But I do believe in the essential goodness of humankind. Don’t you, Mickey?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course you do. Which is why I’m going to give you a chance to find my money. You see, Mickey, you’ve probably heard a lot of bad things about me. Cold-blooded? A murderer? And you know what?’

  ‘What, Mr. Crown?’

  ‘There’s some truth in it. But there’s truth in a lot of things, don’t you think? It all depends on your point of view. And my point of view is that I have no need for your dead body.’

  ‘Tha … thank you, Mr. Crown.’

  ‘But I do have a reputation to uphold. You see, we live in dark times.’

  ‘Mr. Crown…?’

  ‘Tell me, Mickey. Which hand do you use to masturbate?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good God, you’re blushing.’ Tommy looked up, glancing around the faces of his associates, who stood back in the shadows, their arms folded. A couple smiled, others nodded. All of them waited with keen anticipation.

  ‘I’ll give you five seconds,’ Tommy said. ‘One.’

  ‘Right!’ Mickey screamed.

  ‘Hold it out. Let me look at it.’

  Mickey held out a hand, his fingers trembling. Tommy swung the pipe and brought it down over the back of Mickey’s hand. Bones cracked. Mickey screamed, clutching his hand against his chest. Back in the shadows, a couple of Tommy’s men shifted their poses, perhaps surprised at Tommy’s speed. Good. It was best to keep them on edge.

  ‘I believe a true man does his own work,’ he said. ‘And it’s time for you to stop wasting my time and your own and do yours. You have one week to find me my money. Get out of here.’

  Mickey, ashen-faced, could only manage a nod. Tommy decided to ignore the bad manners this time and waved for a pair of his associates to lead Mickey out. As they escorted the whimpering man to the door, Tommy wanted to tell them not to give him a second roughing up outside, but that would show too much compassion. Mickey had dug his own pit by being stupid enough to get conned, and could only accept whatever punishment was handed out.

  He was lucky. Kneecaps were Tommy’s standard, but in these dark days where no hospitals would take patients of a certain lower standing, one-legged men had little chance of recovering lost revenue.

  Tommy snapped his fingers, and his remaining associates came forward. Dave Green, Saj, Moose, Nevin Reynolds. Tough men, all. Loyal … if the price was right. Useful—always.

  ‘I want my cigarettes back,’ Tommy said. ‘Find out if that clown was telling the truth. If the DCA have them, I want them recovered before they hit the black market, and if they do, I want them bought back at a price I decide.’

  ‘Got ya, Tommy.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘On it.’

  Tommy turned to the last man, Nevin Reynolds. Older than Tommy by ten years, despite greying at the temples, Reynolds’ suit still bulged with beating muscle.

  ‘What is it, Nev?’

  ‘You won’t get them back,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘Why? We have done before.’

  ‘London is cracking down. I heard it from a man who knows a man just last night. All recovered goods are being shipped to the capital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No one knows why.’

  Tommy nodded. ‘Then we’ll have to think of some other form of payback. I’m done with the Department of Civil Affairs and their damn prying eyes.’

  He dismissed them. For a few minutes he stood alone in the abandoned car storage warehouse, listening to the echo of his own breathing, letting his mind clear.

  London cracking down on the worthless thieves in the Department of Civil Affairs might not be a bad thing. Better would be removing them from service altogether.

  He went outside. His car stood alone now in the corner of the overgrown car park, dimly illuminated by the single solar streetlight that still worked. Tommy walked across to it, limping slightly from where swinging the lead pipe had tweaked something in his back. He sighed, tossing the padlock in the undergrowth behind the car, where his boot could find it next time he needed to fuck someone up in private. Shit was going down in London, and it wasn’t looking good. If there was anyone who might buy, it would be worth selling off what was left of his legitimate business before he was pushed fully underground.

  He climbed in and made his way back to the town. As he passed the large grey box of Whitaker’s Robotics Ltd where it sat squatted in a ditch beside the last A-road into Taunton, he noticed the sign had gone. Was Whitaker shutting down too? Robots, particularly in deconstruction and service technology, were still big business, so he had thoug
ht.

  Half an hour later, he reached his office. The light was still on in the reception, Manda having stayed behind to wait, it seemed like. Tommy smiled. There was nothing like a bit of violence to stir one’s lust. She must have known; he didn’t drive out to the old factory anymore just to take pictures.

  By the time he limped to the top of the steps, he had a raging boner. Half an hour of letting Manda ease his stress and he’d be ready for another long night of making calls. He shook his head, smiling, wondering how the world could turn so far that he’d be back to ringing up numbers on an old dial phone so old the numbers themselves had worn away. Six months until the next election, and he couldn’t wait for things to start righting themselves. It was about time.

  At the top of the steps, he paused. The lock was broken, smashed in by something clumsy and crude like a rock or brick. Tommy immediately reached for a piece of metal pipe which ostensibly appeared to be part of the stairs frame, but paused when a voice called out:

  ‘Uncle Tommy! Please don’t be upset.’

  With a scowl Tommy kicked open the door and walked inside. ‘You worthless little shit,’ he said to the boy sitting on the chair in front of the empty reception desk. ‘What the hell do you want, Patrick?’

  4

  Kurou

  A man was only ever the sum of his parts, Kurou reflected, as he stood at the top of the cathedral’s bell tower and looked down on the glittering lights of the town of Wells spread out all around.

  It wasn’t such a bad place to die, was England. The weather was agreeable, the people were pliable, and most tools were available if you knew where to ask and had the money to pay.

  He was no longer sure how old he was, but his joints creaked when he walked, and only the refusal of his body to add flesh kept the burn scars that covered most of his body from restricting his movement further. One eye was but a memory, and the other, once able to spot a mouse running across a field at five hundred paces, was starting to fail too.

  There was little to live for, but like a barnacle clinging to the hull of a wrecked ship, endlessly harassed by the frustrated sea, he refused to let go. It was arguable that the pinnacle of his life’s work had happened twenty years ago, and that now he was the shadow that haunted the war-blighted corners of Europe, the revolutionary nests, the flattened towns and villages, and the shredded remnants of the once mighty internet. His memory was enough, his physical presence unnecessary, yet like most people consumed by their ego, it amused him to watch what happened.

  England, Britain, Great Britannia, the United Kingdom, Land of Hope and Glory … it had fallen to its knees of its own accord and no longer required his help in its ruination. Like a senile old uncle sitting in a potting shed, his hobbies and games were of amusement value and little more, a faded standard of a once great army, the fallen flag of a government bombed to its knees….

  ‘Uhh.’

  Kurou turned. The figure stumbling through the doorway behind him grunted again. Beneath the cowl no features were visible, but the stooped form suggested great age or hardship.

  ‘Laurette, how delightful. What, have you brought me a cup of tea?’

  The stumbling figure did not answer. It came a few steps farther then squatted down to its knees as though praying, its head slumped over.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so despondent. I’m sure things will work out. A penny for your thoughts?’

  A low growl came from under the hood.

  ‘You brought me something, didn’t you?’

  An arm poked out from the cloak, caked in bandages that stank of blood and oil. It slid forward a black plastic container.

  Kurou leaned down and picked up the box, turning it over in long, bony hands, talons more than fingers. He picked off the lid, immediately recoiling at the putrid smell that gusted up from inside.

  ‘Dead,’ growled the hooded figure.

  Kurou stared at the cluster of naked bodies, each little more than the length of his little finger. Even in the dim twilight, he was able to see the tortured expressions on their newborn faces, as though their brief time in the world had been filled with torment.

  ‘And the mother?’

  The hooded figure didn’t move. ‘Dead.’

  Kurou scowled. He kicked the box out of the man’s grip then turned away, leaning on the cathedral tower’s balustrade, his heart beating, his face flushed. From behind came the sound of his servant gathering up the spilled contents of the box and replacing the lid.

  ‘It is no matter,’ Kurou said, mostly to himself. ‘There will be more chances yet. There will always be more chances.’

  As he glared at the town below, filling with an urge to hate and destroy, he sensed the hooded man still standing behind him.

  ‘Laurette. What is it?’

  A rustle of paper. Kurou turned. An arm reached out from the folds of the cloak, clutching a handful of papers, partly scrunched.

  ‘Oh, Laurette, how many times have I told you not to open my mail?’ Kurou grinned, snatching the papers out of the servant’s hand. ‘What do we have here?’

  ‘Deeds.’

  At first Kurou thought he had misunderstood. Then he nodded. ‘Have we really? So soon?’

  He angled the papers up to the light of the rising moon so that he might see them better. His single eye scanned quickly, taking in the pages of complicated text in a few seconds.

  ‘You brought a pen? There’s no point wasting time now, is there?’

  Laurette’s other hand lifted, holding out a blue biro. Kurou scowled—it ought to be black—but the servant was almost mindless. He wasn’t to know.

  With a flourish, he signed his current assumed name at the bottom of the last sheet, next to the signature of the current owner of the property being transferred into his charge, a Mr. Stanley Carmichael-Jones, esq.

  ‘Delightful,’ Kurou said, handing the papers back. ‘Be sure these are delivered promptly and correctly to the correct city office. If you fail, I’ll take your other eye. Then we’ll see how well we’ll get by with just that nose of yours, won’t we?’

  Laurette gave a jerky half-bow and retreated to the door. As he reached it, he paused and muttered, ‘Thank you.’

  Kurou nodded. His twisted, deformed face split into a wide grin. ‘You’re very welcome … sire.’

  5

  Patrick

  ‘I heard about your brother,’ Tommy said, lighting up a cigar and taking a long draw. ‘Still no news? That’s not why you’re here, is it? He’s an annoying little shit, but I would never hurt my own blood. You know that, don’t you?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘Then what?

  ‘The Department of Civil Affairs has arrested Suzanne. I went over to see her and found them there. She’s being held somewhere in town, no doubt. I need to get her out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  Tommy leaned back in the armchair and took another drag on the cigar. ‘You sure you don’t want one of these? My treat. You should smoke one while you still can. The pricks in London are planning to close the borders to all foreign trade. Did you hear what I just said? They’re blaming the war over in Eastern Europe, but that will be over soon enough.’

  ‘I have to get Suzanne out. Then we’ll run. I don’t care where. This country sucks. Maybe we’ll go to France or get over to Ireland somehow.’

  ‘Wow, ambition. What a life to lead. Forget her. She’s as good as dead.’

  ‘I can’t. If you won’t help me I’ll go in there myself.’

  Tommy coughed, unable to help himself. ‘You? Come on, Patrick. Don’t be ridiculous. You’d get gunned down before you got within fifty yards of the front door. I’ll say it again. Forget her.’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘Come on, Uncle. I know how much you hate them.’

  ‘Not enough to start a war I can’t win.’

  Patrick looked down at his hands. ‘I’ll do anything. You name it.’

&nb
sp; Tommy sucked on the cigar, then leaned forward. He blew smoke into Patrick’s face, then put the cigar down on a plate. The scar down one side of his face blazed red. Patrick forced himself to hold his uncle’s gaze, when all he wanted to do was run.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a big promise to make. You know what I’d do it for?’

  ‘What?’

  Tommy’s smile sent a shiver down Patrick’s back. Even at her most sober, his mother had begged him to stay away. His uncle was a man who had adapted to Britain’s changes better than most … with all that entailed.

  ‘Pretty little thing, Suzanne, isn’t she?’

  Patrick nodded. ‘She’s beautiful.’ He would go even beyond that, but his uncle’s eyes said he already knew.

  ‘I bet you’ve had some good times with that piece, haven’t you?’ Tommy leaned back, making Patrick flinch. ‘You know something, Patrick? If you ask an old pirate to help recover a treasure, you can’t expect him not to want a share of the spoils, can you?’

  Patrick gave a slow nod. ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘So, what I want to know is if you’re truly willing to do anything to get her out.’

  ‘I told you. Anything.’

  ‘I’ll get her out, but I want her.’

  ‘You—’

  ‘Just one night. Then you can have her back.’ Tommy grinned. ‘If there’s anything left.’

  Tommy’s cheeks burned. The thought of letting Tommy put his hands all over Suzanne sent shivers of disgust through him. Drunk, his mother had often rambled about her brother’s activities, where his money came from. One story was that he ran most of the brothels in Bristol, and that he personally “road-tested” each new girl to ensure a standard of quality for his customers.

  ‘I said anything,’ Patrick said, looking at the floor.

  Tommy chuckled as he stood up. He patted Patrick on the shoulder. ‘Good lad. Now, give me a few days. I need to make some plans.’ He walked to the door and held it open for Patrick.