The Dark Master of Dogs

by Chris Ward

  ‘As you wish.’

  They headed back to the main DCA office. A roadblock had been set up to contain small groups of protesters camped outside. Armed guards parted the crowd to allow the car inside. As a couple of rocks hit the reinforced glass, Urla was glad that behind the tinted windows she was invisible.

  Back in her office, she made some phone calls, ordering an armed unit to dispel the crowd around the northern office. ‘Talk to them first, but if necessary, use force. Arrest anyone who refuses to comply.’

  The jails would be full within hours, she knew. The situation was worsening. It had been escalating for months, ever since the working by-laws and Law 14.2 came into force, but now with roads being pulled up and more DCA on the streets, the voice of dissent was growing louder than ever.

  She had made some poor choices, but she still had the upper hand. The DCA and her local policing forces had all the resources; the people were mostly unarmed due to a decade of ongoing amnesties. That thing at the public execution was a major worry, but it had been alone and there had been no word of it since. Traces of blood had been found, meaning it had taken some bullets; it could be lying dead somewhere and no longer of concern.

  The phone rang.

  Urla stared at it. Not her regular phone, but a special line, one direct to her office. Only one place had the number: the Department of Civil Affairs Head Office in London.

  She took a deep breath, summoning her authoritative voice. ‘Urla Wynne, DCA Regional Commander, Somerset Central Division. How can I help?’

  ‘Ms. Wynne?’ The voice was hollow and cold. ‘This is Jeremy Troughton.’

  Urla gave a slow nod. She knew him. Troughton was superintendent of the entire DCA. She had never spoken to him before. Doubts made her hands shake. Had he heard of the unrest growing in her local area? Was he going to dismiss her, or worse, order her to come to London for questioning?

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘This is just a social call,’ Troughton said, with no hint of emotion in his voice displaying that it was true. ‘It’s just to inform you that Maxim Cale, head of the National Freedom Party, is planning to visit your region as part of his campaign tour ahead of the upcoming election. I would like you to organise his stay and provide security. I don’t need to tell you that Cale might be our next prime minister. His safety must be ensured.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I will do everything in my power to make sure that happens.’

  ‘Of course. I would expect nothing less.’

  Urla’s hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the phone. Troughton read out some dates and times which she struggled to write down with her free hand, then abruptly hung up. Urla was left standing with the phone in her hand, wondering quite what had just happened.

  Maxim Cale was a massive figure in the government. Coming out of nowhere to lead the NFP, a party barely a decade old, he was experiencing a surging wave of popularity. With campaign promises including zero unemployment, greater policing and security, rises to minimum wages, a lowering of the pensionable age, as well as gradual reversals to many of the controversial policies of recent years, he was expected to sweep to power in the elections coming up in the summer.

  He was more than just important. He was Britain’s future.

  When he came to power, he would have more influence than anyone had held in years. If she presented herself right, Urla could find herself out of the small town she had spent most of her career, perhaps into London itself.

  The local unrest had to be crushed before it could disrupt Cale’s visit.

  The clock was ticking.

  Urla called Justin. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘We need to stamp this out before it gets out of hand, and if that means getting to the heart, then so be it.’

  ‘I’ve already drawn up a list of suspects,’ Justin said.

  Urla smiled. It was like he could read her thoughts. ‘Can you come in here for a moment, please? I’ve been feeling a little cold. I need something to … warm me up. Set your phone to voicemail and make sure you lock the door behind you. I’m taking no more calls or visitors for the rest of the day.’

  ‘I’ll be there in less than one minute,’ Justin said.

  17

  Tommy

  Kurou wouldn’t take no for an answer, but abducting people for hideous experiments had never been Tommy’s style. Breaking a few arms and legs was one thing, submitting someone to have a dog’s snout sewn to their face and their body filled with metal and chemicals was quite another.

  He wasn’t sure who he hated that much. No one easily attainable at any rate.

  Tommy had never been afraid of the dark. Even as a child he had preferred the night to the day, and he had been taking long nighttime walks for as long as he could remember. It was a time when most of the town was asleep, the few remaining cars were off the roads, and the most interesting people were abroad.

  His encounter with Kurou and the Huntsman had reminded Tommy of an emotion he rarely felt these days: fear. He feared no man, but Kurou held that definition only by lack of any other, and the Huntsman was something out of a nightmare. Having to be thankful to something which had nearly killed him was an unusual experience, but one, he sensed, that would put him in good stead when the eventual collapse of society as he knew it came to pass.

  Maxim Cale. He spat on the ground. Word from his sources inside London claimed that the rising politician was as full of lies as any other, that his interpretation of policies which had excited the voters would be more brutal and suffocating than anything that had come before.

  The people, though, wouldn’t listen. Like sheep, they would follow a trend until it was too late. Not until dead eyes stared up from the bottom of a cliff would the true reality be seen.

  And by then Cale would be lording it from the top of Parliament Tower.

  Tommy had no intention of lying among the pile of dead, real or metaphorical. He still had his plans, but there were also people he wanted to protect. And the best way of protection was with a deadly weapon, something Kurou could provide.

  Somehow, he had to find Kurou’s source material.

  Tonight felt different. Usually the night was silent, trouble only found if one went looking in the right places. But tonight he heard distant commotions, a muffled explosion, gunshots. Faces peered fearfully out of windows before snapping curtains shut. Police and DCA cars screeched around corners, lights flashing. Thuds came as doors were broken in, people dragged out of their beds.

  He was armed, two loaded pistols inside his jacket, along with a taser, a bottle of mace, and a knife sharp enough to cut bone. His armoury would see him spend a long time in a DCA cell, but he had no intention of being caught, only to stay out long enough to see what was going down.

  He found Saj and Nevin Reynolds in their usual bar. People called Saj the Butcher, because he was one, of a sort, running an abattoir outside the town. Nevin had two faces: by day he wore a police uniform and terrorised local punks, by night he ran an illegal gambling den, one known as much for the sharing of information as for its trade.

  ‘What’s going on up there?’ Tommy asked, taking his usual seat between the other two. Saj passed him a beer, a filthy homebrew which made Tommy wince.

  ‘A purge,’ Nevin said. ‘Urla Wynne’s gone on another rant, looking to cut the head off the uprising monster before it gets to its feet. I’m officially on call if anything gets out of hand, but this is the DCA’s thing. They’ve requested to handle it alone. Stupid woman doesn’t know what she’s doing.’

  ‘That execution was a foolish attempt to display power,’ Saj added. ‘She’s gone and riled the people up too bad. It’ll take a slaughter to quell it, but that’s what’s coming. I’m telling you boys now. You think this is bad? It’ll be worse before it’s done, believe me.’

  Tommy had to agree. He told Saj and Nevin to keep their ears to the ground, and to pass on anything important they heard. Then, feeling a nervous excitement that wouldn’t allow him to dawdle for
long, he headed back out to the street, unsure if he was looking for trouble or trying to avoid it.

  DCA purges weren’t uncommon. Everyone knew someone who had been dragged out of their beds and into an unmarked van, never to return. Act 14.2 was just the icing on a cake the government had been baking for a long time.

  This though, this was unheard of. It would cause a great dent in the local society, with so many prominent figures taken in for questioning. Some might return, most would likely rot in a hellish jail somewhere.

  But Tommy’s biggest fear … was that he might be on the list. As he rounded the next corner, he found that fear confirmed.

  His office, on the second floor of a two-storey building, was ablaze. Smoke poured through broken windows, and flames licked up the walls. A pop followed by a crash from inside indicated that his gas main had exploded. Soon, the building would be nothing but a shell, his entire life’s work gone.

  That on the surface, at least.

  He watched from the darkness of an alleyway across the street. A few faces peered out of nearby windows, but no one had ventured outside. Tommy listened for sirens, but the few he heard were distant, heading away. He had at least achieved a status to make the DCA’s list, and by default he was now a wanted man.

  There was nothing he could do. He turned away, one hand patting the two guns inside the lining of his jacket, the other touching first the knife, then the bottle of mace and the taser.

  Now he was looking for trouble.

  He headed back up the street. The DCA weren’t so numerous that they could work in packs. They relied on their status, a loaded weapon, and surprise to achieve compliance, but they weren’t ready to be hunted.

  It didn’t take long. Halfway up the street ahead, a van pulled in against the curb, bumping up over the flagstones. One man got out, coming around the front of the van, already pulling a gun from his belt as he headed up the path to the front door. He banged hard with the butt of the gun, then when a few seconds passed without an answer, he turned the gun on the lock and shot the door open.

  As he barged inside, Tommy heard a woman’s scream.

  He jogged along the street on the opposite side, waiting for a gap in the streetlights to run across to the van. He peeked in the passenger side and found the guy at the wheel playing on a phone. Tommy crept around the front, a gun in his hand. He jerked the door open, stepped up quickly and shoved the gun’s barrel into the man’s mouth.

  The man screamed as a couple of teeth broke. Tommy spun the gun around, cracking the man across the temple, then shoved him over and climbed inside.

  The man had fallen across the passenger seat. A pair of DCA handcuffs secured his hands behind his back, and a dirty rag they probably used to clean the windscreen made a decent gag. Tommy pushed the man down until he was lying in the foot-well.

  ‘I don’t know how awake you are, but if you make a single fucking sound I’ll shoot you in the neck,’ Tommy said. ‘I’ve heard that’s where it hurts the most. You bleed out. You can feel every drop of blood flowing out of you. Remember … not a sound.’

  Tommy waited in the driver’s seat, wondering if the other DCA agent would notice him through the tinted side window. How observant were they? Would the man notice a slight change in posture, enough to put him on guard, or was he as stupid as his companion?

  He was taking his sweet time. Tommy drummed his fingers on the dashboard, wondering if the agent had found a sweet-looking wife or daughter inside and decided to exercise his dick. If he had, Tommy would blow it off, then perhaps let the man crawl back to his office as a warning to the others. One day the fuckers might learn.

  Two figures appeared in the doorway. The first was a captive, a man Tommy didn’t recognise. In the light through the door Tommy saw swellings and bruises on his face. The second was the agent, holding the man cuffed behind his back. The DCA man’s hair was ruffled, one eye swollen closed. Good; it looked like the captive had put up a decent fight.

  As he pushed the captive forward, a woman appeared in the doorway, screaming abuse. The DCA man pulled a gun with his free hand and waved it around, shouting at her to get inside. The commotion had woken half the street, Tommy saw, lights on now in several windows, a few faces peering out.

  Well, if they wanted a show, it was about to start.

  The DCA man pushed the captive down the path and out into the road. He banged his gun hand on the van’s driver’s door. ‘Get the hell out and help me with this bastard,’ he shouted.

  Tommy opened the door. He lifted his gun, took a quick aim, then shot the DCA man through the shoe.

  The man screamed, crashing to the ground. Tommy jumped down, kicked him in the stomach a couple of times, and then swung the gun’s butt into the man’s face.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said the captive man staring at Tommy.

  ‘Vigilante justice,’ Tommy said. He searched the DCA agent’s belt and found a key for the handcuffs. As he freed the captive, he said, ‘Tell the people that Tommy Crown now works out of a different office. Help me get this cocksucker into the van. Then it might be a good idea for you and your family to go and pack. You’re on their list now, and once you’re on it, you’re not coming off.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ the man said. ‘The cunt just pulled me out of bed. I had a go, but he had a gun.’

  Tommy gave a grim smile. ‘Luckily I have one too, but I’m on your side. Quickly, help me with him.’

  They hauled the groggy DCA agent into the van, the blood from the wound in his foot dripping all over the road and the passenger seats. Tommy slammed the door, then patted the man on the shoulder.

  ‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘Don’t stick around. They’re like fucking horse flies.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the man said.

  Tommy climbed back in and drove off. A couple of dispatch messages flashed up on a dashboard screen, so he switched it off. Then, as he headed through town, aiming for a road that led up into the Mendips, he called up Saj.

  ‘I need a car and some muscle.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  He gave Saj a location, then he headed out of town. He turned off the main road that headed up through Cheddar Gorge and down a dirt track, killing the lights. At a farm gate at the end, he pulled the van to a stop, wound down the window and looked through the gate at the lights of Wells spread out below.

  It had once been a pretty decent place to live.

  The DCA men had a packet of cigarettes, so Tommy smoked one, reliving something he hadn’t done in twenty years. They also had a radio—something else that was hard to come by now—so he tuned it to a rock station and listened to some songs he remembered from his childhood.

  Oh, how he would go back there now if he could.

  Lights flashed on the lane behind him, briefly dazzling him in the side mirror. Tommy pulled his guns in case it was the DCA, but it was Saj with Nevin beside him. Tommy climbed out and gave them instructions. Both men listened with wry smiles, then got straight to work.

  They loaded the men into the boot of Saj’s car then torched the van. It plumed with flame as Saj drove away, Tommy beside him with Nevin in the back.

  ‘Where are we heading?’ Saj said.

  ‘Carmichael Industries,’ Tommy said. ‘I owe someone a delivery.’

  Then, with Saj and Nevin chatting easily beside him, he called Kurou.

  ‘I have your first shipment,’ he said. ‘I’ll be bringing it tonight, so be ready. The goods are in pretty decent condition, although one of them might have a slight limp.’

  18

  Patrick

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Suzanne smiled. ‘Yes, Patrick, I’m sure.’

  ‘But those men—’

  Suzanne rolled her eyes. ‘I might look a bit roughed up, but they only fucked me. I’ll cut their dicks off when I find them, but it was only sex.’

  He still didn’t look convinced, but Suzanne knew how to convince him. In the musty confines o
f the old four-poster bed, she took control and they had sex for the first time since the whole ordeal had begun.

  And it felt almost great enough to forget their ongoing nightmare.

  ‘What do we do, Patrick?’ Suzanne asked, lying naked beside him, one hand stroking a bare stomach that was as hard from lack of food as it was from exercise. ‘I mean, we’re fugitives now. We’re hunted. We can’t go back home or we’ll end up in jail.’

  Patrick scowled, wishing she could have let them enjoy the moment a little longer before pulling the wide world back in. ‘For crimes that don’t even exist. Neither of us did anything wrong. Don’t forget that.’

  ‘I’m trying but I just feel guilty anyway.’

  ‘Don’t. We’re now prisoners of Uncle Tommy. Sure, it’s a bit better here than it was in jail, but we still can’t leave.’

  ‘Moose said wait for him to call.’

  He remembered what Moose had said, but it had been several days now and no word. Race was out there somewhere, perhaps hurt, and with half a dog stuck to his face. Tommy was the only one who might have answers, even though the threat of taking his payment hung like a black cloud over Patrick’s head. He wouldn’t give Suzanne up without a fight, not again.

  ‘Why, though?’

  Suzanne gave him a light slap across the cheek. ‘Because he’s trying to protect us.’

  ‘You don’t know my Uncle Tommy like I do. He’s a gangster. He’s as dangerous as the DCA.’

  Suzanne shrugged. ‘At least he seems on our side. He had that man come and cut us down.’

  ‘Race. I told you, it was Race.’

  ‘Patrick, I know you said—’

  He suppressed a groan. She still didn’t believe him. He pulled away from her and climbed out of bed, reaching for his clothes.

  ‘I’m going to talk to Moose,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on.’

  ‘Patrick!’