The Dark Master of Dogs

by Chris Ward

  A couple of turns later, the bus reached an area Patrick recognised from a time he had visited on a school trip. They were only a few streets from the town’s hospital, so Patrick rang the bell to be let off at the next stop. As Patrick pulled out Don’s wallet to pay for his ticket, the driver waved him away.

  ‘I expect you need it more than the damn government does,’ he said, grinning. ‘Have a good day.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Patrick jumped down, giving the bus a quick wave as it pulled away. He didn’t have a map, but a signboard next to a war memorial told him the hospital was nearby. He had to pass a DCA checkpoint to take a direct route, so he wondered if he ought to skirt around. When he peered around the corner of a bank, however, he saw a huddle of people outside the checkpoint, shouting abuse.

  A mob.

  Unable to quell his interest, Patrick headed down the street until he was at the back of the throng, among the casual onlookers. Perhaps two hundred people had surrounded the checkpoint, with those at the front demanding the return of loved ones. Some brandished crude weapons: kitchen knives, gardening forks, wooden clubs. Their threat felt very Stone Age to Patrick, but on their side they had strength in numbers. No more than three or four men manned each DCA checkpoint. They might get off a few shots, but the mob would overwhelm them if it came down to a scrap.

  ‘Come on!’ someone shouted. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

  To Patrick’s surprise, a door opened, and a DCA agent stepped out. He lifted a megaphone to his lips and began to talk to the crowd.

  ‘If you have any requests or demands, please ensure they are put in writing and addressed to our head office. We do not suffer idle threats. We are a policing force working for your benefit. We are on your side.’

  The crowd, particularly at the back, was beginning to stir, their ire dampened by the spokesman’s words. A few people around Patrick shrugged and drifted back into the streets.

  ‘We are here to help you, don’t forget that. However, enemies of the government will not be tolerated. We are one people, one voice, one country—’

  Something hissed through the air overhead. It hit the metal case of the megaphone and deflected into the spokesman’s face. He gurgled and stumbled backward, an arrow sticking out of his mouth.

  The crowd roared and surged forward, several men kicking through the checkpoint door and pushing inside. Patrick glanced back, and saw a dark shadow climb down from the roof of a building opposite and run off up a side street.

  Without hesitation, he gave chase. The figure headed up the street, pausing at the corner where its head swung languidly back and forth. It was wearing a hood like the one which had rescued him, the one he was certain was Race. Was this the same one, or another?

  He had closed to within a few steps when the figure set off again, crossing the road and diving into an alleyway opposite. Patrick sprinted after it, narrowly avoiding being struck by a bus lumbering out into the road from a stop around the corner. The blaring horn didn’t quite hide the obscenities the driver aimed at him through an open front window.

  As he rushed down the alley in pursuit of what was only ever a shadow around the bend up ahead, Patrick knew he couldn’t keep this pace up for long. His lungs were already bursting, and the creature was easily outpacing him. As he emerged on to another residential street, he saw the hem of its robe disappear around a corner farther ahead.

  He leaned over, breathing hard, sweat dripping on to the road.

  Frowning, he bent to touch a dark patch of liquid nearby, lifting his finger to sniff it.

  Oil.

  ‘Huh.’

  It had to have come from the figure as it had passed this way. Patrick looked out across the road and saw intermittent dots leaving a trail, followed by a larger patch where the figure had paused in the shade of an overhanging tree.

  He might not be able to keep pace, but he could track it.

  No longer bothering to try to keep it in sight, he concentrated instead on following the trail it had left, while simultaneously keeping out of sight of any people or traffic on the roads.

  The trail led across the town, out into the countryside. He nearly lost it when the figure abruptly turned off a road, climbing up over a hedge into a field. Luckily the field had been recently plowed, the drips of oil glinting in the sunlight where they had fallen on freshly churned mud. The figure ran straight across, following a path due north. Patrick followed at a more sedate pace, reluctant to leave himself so exposed, yet happy to be off the roads.

  So it continued, the figure leaving a trail as it climbed over a hedgerow into another field, then spent some time following a farm lane, before cutting through fields again. As he walked, the drips of oil no more than a few metres apart, Patrick wondered what kind of creature he was following, something human yet simultaneously machine.

  It was no surprise when he climbed over a last hedge and found himself at the end of an industrial estate.

  He knew this place, because some of his friends had worked up here, on the production lines of the last local food factories in operation before they moved into the cities. Now, only a handful of buildings were in use during the day, while at night it was a place to avoid. People hung out in the abandoned holdings to fight and deal in contraband. The estate wasn’t a place you went without good reason.

  The trail made a zigzag motion across one pavement as though the figure were staggering and at the last of its strength, but Patrick no longer needed to follow. He knew where it was going.

  Carmichael Industries.

  Suzanne’s father’s company occupied one of the larger buildings at the far end, a giant grey warehouse with no windows or doors. As Patrick crept up to the corner of a building across the street and peered around, he wasn’t sure what he expected to see.

  His Uncle Tommy’s sedan parked outside wasn’t one of them.

  24

  Saj

  ‘It’s down here,’ Dave Green said, pulling up the coal chute lid and pointing the torch at a staircase hidden inside. He looked up at Saj and grinned. ‘I never told you about this place, did I? Honestly, I haven’t been back here in a while. Always gives me the creeps down there, but I needed somewhere safe to hide my stash.’

  ‘Down there?’ Saj said, frowning. A cellar opened out at the end, but it looked damp, dark, and uninviting.

  ‘Yeah. It’s a safe box. If you want, you can stay up here. I mean, I don’t really want to bring it up, but it freaks me out down there too. I’ll bring it up if you like, just so you know I’m not bullshitting.’

  Saj looked around, taking in the woodland at the back of the abandoned mechanics yard. You could never be certain the DCA bastards weren’t out there somewhere. The only place that was ever really safe was in the dark, underground. The thought of going down there, though … it made him shiver. Dave was tying back the door, which was banging in the wind.

  Dave said he had a stash of dope, street value of a quarter mil if they could get it into London. He wanted Saj to run it, meet a contact inside. An easy job, and why should he doubt Dave? They’d done smaller jobs before. He trusted Dave as much as he trusted anyone, more than Tommy even.

  ‘Safer down there than up here,’ he muttered, grinning as he stepped past Dave on to the wooden steps leading down.

  Dave chuckled. ‘Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you?’

  Saj didn’t even have time to turn back. Something heavy struck him on the back of the head, he felt a dull pain as though someone had sucked all the water out of his brain, and then he was falling forward, the floor coming up to meet him.

  He hurt everywhere, but for the first few seconds after he opened his eyes, the glare of the light hurt the most. It was only after, as his eyes slowly adjusted, that he realised from the pain in his legs and arms at least two of the four were broken.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ a voice said, ‘I only gave you a little push. The kind a mate might give another mate after a game of footy in
the park. Not like I jumped you or anything, and I ain’t about to give you another kicking while you’re tied up. Not really my style, being a bully like that.’

  Saj opened his mouth to speak, but found something cold and metal pressing against his chin.

  ‘Sorry, old friend, but I don’t want you making a scene. You can whisper to me nice and quietly, but if you get too excited I’ll twist the handle here and close you up a couple of degrees.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Saj muttered, struggling to make any sound at all with the bottom of the brace or vise or whatever the fuck it was right below his mouth.

  ‘Just some information. That’s all.’

  ‘Dave, I’m your mate—’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s rather an archaic term in this day and age, don’t you think? Trust’s another word soon to go obsolete.’

  ‘Come on, man—’

  Dave cranked the vise half a turn, cracking Saj’s teeth together. He groaned as Dave released it.

  ‘I’m not playing games, Saj. I want some information. I’ve been out of the loop a while, and I’m keen to get back on the inside, preferable right into the centre. Now, what do you know about Tommy’s recent connections?’

  ‘Nothing—’

  The vise cranked, cold metal pressing down on the top of Saj’s head. He realised how easily Dave could close it up, slowly squeezing until first his teeth burst out of his face, then his nose pressed up into his eyes, and finally his head gave way with a single loud pop.

  ‘Do better.’

  ‘He’s … he’s been hanging around up at the old Carmichael place.’

  Dave leaned down. Grinning in an insane way Saj had never seen from the man he considered a friend, he tapped Saj on the nose.

  ‘That’s more like it. More. Come on, I know you talk to him.’

  ‘He tells us only what we need to know. Only when he wants us.’

  ‘What’s he doing up there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The vise cranked. Saj groaned. He could barely move his tongue between his teeth.

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘He’s helping … the new owner,’ Saj muttered.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Supplying … raw materials.’

  ‘Which are?’

  Saj closed his eyes, wondering if, after everything he had been through over the years, this was where he would die.

  The vise cranked. Saj felt a tooth break.

  ‘Come on, cough up, and I might let you go.’

  ‘People,’ Saj said, his voice the faintest of whispers.

  25

  Tommy

  ‘Look into these hollow pits he calls eyes,’ Kurou said, flapping the newspaper in front of Tommy’s face. ‘Doesn’t the mere sight of him fill you with anger?’

  Tommy sighed. ‘Maxim Cale. He has the government in his pocket whether we like it or not. And it’s not like we could possibly be worse off, is it? Who knows, he might actually do some good.’

  Kurou’s single eye blazed. ‘You’re a fool, like the rest of your country’s people.’

  Tommy glared at him. ‘You sew dog snouts on to men’s faces and you want me to think bad of him?’

  Kurou’s face spread into a grin. ‘I, sire, am but an artiste. Maxim Cale is a marauder. He will flatten this land, grow the people fat for his own gain, then extinguish all lights to bring forth his perfect, eternal darkness.’

  ‘You’re no more a poet than you are an artist,’ Tommy said.

  For a cripple, Kurou moved faster than Tommy could have imagined. He found himself with two claw-like hands caressing his face, iron strength in the wiry arms holding him tight.

  ‘An artiste is always looking for a fresh palatte, sire,’ Kurou said, stroking the side of Tommy’s face. ‘Are you volunteering to assist my search for perfection?’

  ‘Get off me.’

  With a birdlike titter, Kurou released him, moving back behind the desk with a stumbling dancer’s twirl. He poked a finger at the newspaper. ‘Enough games. To the matter in hand. I would very much like to see this man’s head on a plate, or at least in some sort of solution from where it can watch but not see.’

  ‘Well, good luck to you.’

  ‘My army is small, sire. Yours, with your influence, could be great.’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in being some sort of revolutionary fuckwit,’ he said. ‘Politics is an idiot’s game.’

  ‘As, one might say, is crime.’

  ‘But crime pays better.’

  ‘Does it now? Are you entering the current lottery, sire? The one that saw your offices destroyed?’

  Tommy scowled. ‘It’s a minor setback.’

  ‘One that, I presume, will not derail you from your continued supply of fresh, supple, raw materials?’

  Tommy grinned. ‘As long as they come in suits and wearing a badge, you can have all the ones you want. However, I believed this was a two-way deal. I think I’m due another favour by now.’

  Kurou nodded. ‘Your wish is my command, sire. After all, the most succulent fruits come from the cross-pollination of two vibrant trees.’

  ‘Good. There are plenty of ways I can make use of those monsters of yours.’

  Kurou tilted his head like a bird, peering up at Tommy out of his single working eye almost from underneath. Tommy felt a stirring urge to punch him, to smash his face into the tabletop until there was nothing left, then burn down what had become a laboratory of monstrosities and walk away while he still could.

  ‘For someone not interested in revolution, you seem rather inclined to set the wheels in motion for a little underground railroad.’

  ‘Damn you, idiot, talk English. I’m only interested in protecting my assets. The government is stripping everything. You could have the DCA at the door at any time, demanding you sign over Carmichael Industries to public services. The reason I went into civil law was so I could stay under the radar longer.’

  ‘Like a low-flying bird. Such easy prey for the keen-eyed hawk.’

  Tommy was tiring of a form of conversation that felt like two steps back for each one forward. He grabbed his coat off the back of a chair. ‘I need to get back to the town, see what’s going down. I’ll be in touch soon. In the meantime, I’d suggest you keep your head down.’

  Kurou grinned. ‘There are few closer to the ground than me, sire.’

  Tommy headed out. As always, when he closed the door of Carmichael’s behind him, he felt an uncanny sense of relief. Sometimes he wondered if being in league with Urla Wynne and her cronies might not be safer than forming an alliance with the mysterious Doctor Kurou.

  He grinned as he reached the car, opened the front door and climbed inside. Urla Wynne would certainly ease the strain on his eyes. She might not be an oil painting, but she certainly wasn’t the crushed pumpkin he always thought of while in the presence of Kurou.

  As he started the engine, he wondered idly why he hadn’t locked the door.

  Then something flickered in his vision before going tight around his neck and making him gag, hauling him back against the headrest.

  ‘You fucking traitor,’ a voice said as what Tommy thought was a rolled towel went tighter, cutting out his breath. ‘I trusted you, but you’re in league with whoever took Race. Did you see what they did to him? Did you have anything to do with it? I should kill you, Uncle. I thought we were family.’

  ‘Patrick….’ Tommy gasped, recognising the voice. His fingers clawed at the towel, trying to slip underneath. He knew if he could get a decent grip he could haul the boy off.

  ‘I’d expect it of my mother, but I thought you had loyalty,’ Patrick said, jerking the towel, making Tommy’s cheeks feel swollen with blood. ‘I’m fucking ashamed of you.’

  ‘Let go….’

  Tommy remembered the can of mace he kept in a side pocket, just in case of such events. Funny, how he was so prepared for any eventuality, but when one came, he felt helpless, his fingers stretching, just i
nches away.

  The towel relaxed. Tommy gasped, rubbing at his neck.

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ Patrick said from the backseat. Tommy glanced in the mirror and saw tears in Patrick’s eyes.

  The fucking wimp. No better than his brother.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Patrick said. ‘Drive.’

  Tommy didn’t bother to question the boy for his demands. There would be time to settle that later. He slipped the car into drive and the electric motor hummed gently as he pulled out of the car park.

  It was some moments before he could speak again.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you,’ he croaked. ‘You’re supposed to be in the safe house.’

  ‘We got attacked,’ Patrick said. ‘The DCA showed up. I don’t know what happened to Moose, but I heard gunshots.’

  Tommy scowled. ‘They must have got a tip-off. Where did you go?’

  ‘We stole one of Moose’s cars, but the battery died outside of Glastonbury. We walked to Suzanne’s mother’s place, but her mother and stepdad had been taken by the DCA. Her sister Kelly was hurt. They’re holed up in a cabin outside Cheddar reservoir, but I need to get some medication for Kelly. That was where I was going when I saw that … thing. I followed it back to Carmichael’s. Goddamn it, Uncle, what are you doing?’

  ‘There’s a lot going on you don’t know about.’

  ‘I thought we were family.’

  ‘We are. I bailed you out, didn’t I?’ Tommy was tiring of Patrick’s petulant sense of entitlement. ‘Look, I know a place we can talk.’

  ‘You’d better have some decent answers,’ Patrick said, slumping back in the backseat, staring angrily out of the window.

  Tommy glanced at him in the rear mirror. He was just a kid growing up in an increasingly harsh world, but even so, he needed to learn a little respect.

  26