by Luis Samways
She was a mess. Alive, but still a mess. She owed her life to Hamish. And now he was dead. It dawned on her that it had all been real. There was no escaping the truth on this one. Hamish was dead, and she was not.
“Why?” she asked out loud. Not to anyone in particular, but she hoped that someone might hear her. But nobody did. The only response she got was from the speeding traffic beside her. She was on her own.
“I’m sorry, Hamish,” she said, breaking down into tears. They were streaming down her face like an open faucet. She wasn’t sure if she could carry on any longer. The guilt was too much. It was bearing down on her. She felt guilty for dragging other people into her own mess. She was responsible for the death of a friend who only wanted to help. She had no way of knowing that he would come for her. And when he did, she was ever so grateful. But it didn’t change the fact that Hamish was dead, and Donny the Hat was responsible.
Sure, Donny was also dead. But it didn’t sit right with Demi. It wasn’t fair. Hamish had a loving family. A mother who thought the world of him. A father locked in prison who had a heart of gold, and when he finds out that his boy is dead, that heart of gold will most likely stop beating. Then there was everyone down at the pub. They all loved Hamish. He was a good man. A decent human being. Someone you confided in. Someone you talked to when times were tough. But then he got that twinkle in his eye. Demi wasn’t stupid. She knew that Hamish liked her in a different way. A way that would have made things complicated. She knew that the only reason he’d rescued her was because of the way he felt about her.
It made her cry some more. She was truly responsible in more ways than one. But Donny was the main culprit. He had sent those men to kill them. He knew that his last dying breaths were going to be wasted on signing their death warrants. It made Demi feel sicker than before, to know that he knew he was dying, and he would use his last words to condemn them. It made her realize what sort of a person Donny was.
“Nothing but a cunt,” she said, wiping the tears off her cheeks.
She decided that she wouldn’t dwell. Even though the gut-wrenching emotions she was feeling were nothing but torture, she knew she had to get right with justice. She knew that she had to throw some justice down Hamish’s way. And there was only one way to do that.
“Hurt the ones he loves,” she said.
Demi shifted into first and started to make her way off the hard shoulder. She turned and joined the northbound traffic.
“Make all of them pay,” she said, continuing to drive.
And then a light bulb went off in her mind. An explosion of clarity washed over her, and she knew exactly how to make them pay.
“Take away the one thing they love the most.”
Forty-Five
Two Hours Later:
They had the sirens on at full blast. They were racing through the country roads at speed. What led them there was just a hunch, but it was soon becoming apparent that something wasn’t right.
“You sure they checked the whole place?” Amy asked while she watched her partner tame the steering wheel as they raced through the countryside. Behind them, two other police cars were tagging along. All three vehicles were kicking up dirt and dust as they smashed through the bends and straights.
“Yeah, a unit went down there to check whether they could find Donny. His pub is completely empty. Not one single soul present,” Lionel said as he continued to grip at the wheel as he took the sharp corners. Every now and then he caught himself checking on the progress of the cars behind him. They were keeping up, but just barely. He knew he was a fast driver, but never knew he was actually good at it.
“Seems strange that the pub would be closed on a weekend. Surely that’s when most of their business is made?” Amy asked, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Lionel clocked what she was doing as she raised a cigarette to her mouth and lit up.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Smoking. What does it look like?”
“In my car?”
She took a drag and blew some smoke in his direction. “Yeah, in your car. You want me to step outside or something? Sorry, I would have and all, but I thought that we were in a bit of a hurry.”
“In future, warn me if you’re going to light one of those cancer sticks in here!”
“Go fuck yourself, Lionel.”
Lionel’s eyes widened a little in shock. He’d never heard his partner talk to him like that before. He put it down to the stresses of this particular case. But that didn’t make it easier on him. He was fuming and wanted nothing more than to let her know he was upset. But he decided to bite his tongue and drive. There wasn’t long to go now. The sign that sat outside Ashford had just been passed. They were now in the village limits. He knew where to go. He’d been there before. Donny the Hat had allegedly buried a few people in the area before. They had tried to get it to stick, but he walked free. It annoyed everyone at the time. Lionel had his own theory as to why the Met didn’t want to touch this particular case with a barge pole. He figured that it was to do with the past cases they’d attempted to pin on Donny the Hat. But every time they had something on the man, the British justice system found a way to turn it into nothing but circumstantial evidence.
“I’m sorry, Lionel,” Amy said, but Lionel was staring off into the distance through the windshield. He was concentrating on the road before them, both physical and metaphorical. His brain was wondering. He wondered what would happen when the Met found out about their little extracurricular activities. He wondered if they would be disciplined for it. He also wondered what would happen if they found Donny the Hat red-handed. Would they be commended or condemned?
“Fine, ignore me, then. It won’t do the case any good,” Amy said, dragging on her cigarette. It was her second one in the space of four minutes. She was a nervous smoker. Time seemed to tick slowly in her universe. Slow enough to make her unaware of her chain-smoking. Before she knew it, she was on her third, and the silence was back. It was stifling her. The only thing she could hear was the sound of her cigarette burning down. The bright orange cherry on the end was burning hot. It was popping and hissing. The sound was echoing in her ears. The silence was getting to her. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“Okay!” she screamed, rolling down the window and flicking her cigarette out. “You happy now? Is this to your satisfaction?” she asked.
Lionel’s inner thoughts were interrupted by her outburst. He jolted his head to the left and saw her rolling up the window. He smiled. It made her angry.
“Fuck you, Lionel!”
He smiled once again.
“I mean it, fuck you!” she said.
“Look, you can smoke in here if you want. I don’t really care, to be honest.”
Amy gave him another piercing look.
“So why did you tell me to pack it in then?”
“Because it won’t change the fact that if we fail on this – if this is all just a big waste of time – our jobs will be done.”
She nodded and said, “I suppose you’re right. But it doesn’t make it any easier, you know? Having to deal with the realization that our jobs will be gone if this is all for nothing. And let’s not forget, Donny the Hat would have walked away from another suspected murder. There’s only so many times we can go after him before the court of human rights slaps a harassment case on us. We fuck this one up, I’m sure we’ll be that much closer to one.”
They stopped talking for a while. They were making a hard left when they came to an emergency stop. The sound of the two cars behind them doing the same thing sent shockwaves of panic through both detectives. They both craned their heads around to anticipate some sort of collision, but luckily enough, the convoy behind them came to a stop without incident. Lionel turned his head back around to face the front and saw what had made them stop. A farmer had flagged them down. He was getting out of his vehicle. The 4x4 he was in was parked in the middle of the dirt road. He walked up to the dr
iver’s side of the car, and Lionel rolled down the window. He could see the man had a startled look on his face. His old haggard skin looked weathered and pale. Lionel didn’t know if that was what the man usually looked like or if he had been frightened by something. But he soon found out the reasoning behind the man’s complexion.
“You here for the murders?” the farmer asked, his country accent blaring through his yellow and black teeth.
Lionel looked at the man in surprise and then turned to look at his partner.
“What murders?” she asked.
The farmer tipped his hat at Amy and then said, “Up in my field. Two dead big’uns. Gunshot wounds. Looks like they were digging a hole. A wooden coffin next to them. Well, it don’t matter much now, does it? They were found. And they were murdered.”
Lionel nodded his head and asked, “You call the police?”
“Yes. ’Bout ten minutes ago. I was going to ring them again.”
“Why would you ring them again?”
The man tipped his hat at Amy again. Deep down, she was getting pissed off by the man’s gentlemanly approach. She was no feminist, but she didn’t need to be treated like a queen, either.
“Well, I found more dead bodies, yer see,” he said, scratching his chin.
“Where, in your field?” Lionel asked.
“Well, not really. In my other field. Next to ma’ barn. Five dead men. I recognized one of them, yer see. I didn’t know if it was wise to call the police. But seeing the bastard’s dead, I thought, why not?”
Lionel nodded and asked, “Why weren’t you sure whether to call the police?”
“Ah, that’s an easy answer, lad. Would you call the police if you found Donny the Hat in your barn?”
Forty-Six
Demi Reynolds pulled up to the curb, the car’s suspension bouncing as both wheels rebounded a little as she parked the car. She turned the key, and the engine died. Demi glanced at herself in the rearview mirror once again. She looked dark, covered in soot. The bags around her eyes were still present. The tired look she wore was still going strong. It radiated off her much like joyfulness does off a pregnant woman. But she wasn’t joyful. Nor was she pregnant. She was angry. And that was what was radiating off her. Anger and sadness. A sadness that was eating away at her. Nibbling on her gray matter. Destroying her sense of life.
The death of Hamish was hitting her hard. She had already vomited because of it. Being physically sick because of a death was a new sensation to her. She wasn’t used to that sort of thing. The most she’d ever managed in mourning was a few tears and a one-night stand. After all, that was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place. If she hadn’t decided to do her mourning routine, then maybe Hamish would still be alive. Donny’s brother would also be breathing. Those five men who worked for Donny would be alive. And his pub wouldn’t be burning to the ground as she sat and watched.
She looked down at her hands and saw the soot on them. They were black and covered in dust. She had matches in her right hand. Only one match left. Seven used. The matchbox was one of those you got from strip joints. They usually had a love heart of some sort on the front of the package, and under the flap a row of matches sat ready to be used. Most people would use the matches for cigarettes and whatnot. But Demi, she used them for fire. To create fire. Smouldering flames that burnt down generations of gangsters.
The orange hue coming from the pub bounced off the windshield. She watched as the empty street became engulfed in flames. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the fanning flames that seemed to be licking the curvature of the atmosphere. The stars were out that night, so it was fitting as she watched the pub she’d spent years in deteriorate second by second. After twenty or so minutes, the sound of approaching sirens made her sit up in her seat. She had zoned out and was watching the pub she once called home burn down to the ground. In it, all the memories she had of growing up and eating Sunday roast in the beer garden came flooding back to her. A tear rolled down her cheek, but she remained stubborn. She knew she’d done the right thing. Like it or not, it was the only thing to do. After all, Donny had made her life hell. For the past week, he had brutalized her, threatened her with death, and held out until she wanted it. But he didn’t kill her. No, he tortured her both mentally and physically. All because she’d stood up for herself. He was one of the people in her life who had told her not to take any shit. So she learned quickly not to. But everything changed that night when she protected herself in that Aston Martin. Unfortunately for her, there would be no escaping the grip of Donny the Hat for a whole week.
But she would escape. And she would fight. Some would die, and he would be one of them. Was it all worth it?
“No,” she whispered under her breath.
She could never live in London again. She would have to move. She would not be safe. The police would want to ask her questions. It would be better if they thought she was dead. Better for her. Better for them.
There was no way she would go back to prison. Not after being locked up by Donny. Sure, she knew that actual prison was a lot more tolerable. But she wouldn’t be taking any chances going forward. She was no longer in the business of killing. She was in the business of surviving, by any means necessary.
The sound of approaching sirens got closer and closer. If she waited any longer, she wouldn’t be able to escape their grasp. But she wasn’t going to stick around. She took one last look at the fanning flames in front of her. The building that she once called home was now nothing but smoldering bricks and orange-tinged timber. She fired up the engine and shifted the stick into reverse. She did a 180 and turned. She shifted the gear forward, and up one, going into first. The engine revved into the night sky, and she put her foot down, seconds later shifting up once again.
She turned the corner, and the sight of blue flashing lights met her. They weren’t stopping. They were racing to the scene. Three fire engines. Sirens blaring. Loud and proud. They passed her without incident. She ignored them as they passed her. She shifted the gear once again and broke off into the horizon.
She didn’t quite know what waited for her in her future. She conceded that death would be part of it. But she wouldn’t focus on such macabre things. Demi Reynolds was a fighter. She wouldn’t give up.
“I need to collect my things,” she muttered under her breath.
She knew that she couldn’t go back to her flat. It was better if everyone thought she was dead. It would help her escape into the ether. But she couldn’t dissolve into hiding without money, passports, and her bug-out bag. Demi knew that it was vital she got those things. She wouldn’t survive without them.
“Five o’clock,” she said, looking at the dash. Night was fading, and morning was breaking. She had an hour before sunrise. By then, she’d be gone. Off the island they call Great Britain and off to Iberia. She figured she’d be better off on the coast of Spain, or maybe sat on a café port side to the River Douro in Porto, Portugal. She had an hour to think about where she was headed. But for the time being, she had to get to her bag in one piece. It was buried somewhere in a national park in Kent. Under a black rock, next to a birch. She had marked the birch with a knife. A little “X.”
“‘X’ marks the spot,” she said, putting her foot down, racing off to safety.
Her new life started now. But it could end just as quickly. All that needed to happen was one mistake. One mistake that could cost her her life.
Demi wasn’t aware that she was hours away from making it.
Forty-Seven
Detectives Francis and Craig were following the farmer on foot. He had already shown them two dead bodies and a hole in the ground up the road. Amy and Lionel had come to the conclusion that the hole in the ground was meant for Demi, and something must have gone wrong. There was a coffin with the lid destroyed positioned next to the six-foot-deep hole. They had spent twenty minutes or so at that particular crime scene. Local police were already on the scene, doing their part to make things worse. Th
ere was always something about country cops and trying to make a crime scene their own. It was like they were territorial. Amy didn’t quite understand it. She was one for thinking about the victims, not worrying about who got the commendation for a job well done.
“How much longer until we get to the other scene you told us about?” Lionel asked as he tagged along behind the old-looking farmer who had stopped them in the middle of the road earlier.
“Maybe five minutes. Depends how quickly your feet move,” the farmer replied.
“Great,” Lionel heard Amy say from behind him. He turned to smile at her, but she was looking at the ground. She had a scornful look on her face. He could tell that she wasn’t in the mood to be walking, let alone taking orders from a decrepit old-timer farmer.
“What’s your thoughts on the coffin, then?” the farmer asked, still leading the way. They were walking down a dirt road. It seemed to go on for miles. Straight ahead, with no end in sight.
“It’s a coffin, that much we can tell,” Amy offered in response. The farmer spat on the ground and started to mumble. Amy was a little disgusted by it and made sure that she didn’t step on his spit.
“I know it’s a coffin and all, but what are your thoughts on it? I mean, why would he be burying someone out there? And why did whoever was in that coffin smash a hole in the top and go walkies? Dead people don’t punch their way out of coffins,” the farmer said, stepping over some medium-sized pebbles that were scattered on the sides of the road. To Lionel, the road appeared never ending. The night air was making him feel wobbly, and the darkness was filling his mind with thoughts of dread. It was safe to say that he wasn’t really in the mood to be answering questions from an inquisitive farmer, no matter how much of a help he had been in tracking down the bodies. So he let Amy answer once again.
“I can’t really say how she escaped,” Amy offered in response, soon realizing she’d said too much. She stepped over some rocks this time, nearly tripping over one of them, but she steadied herself on Lionel’s shoulder. He didn’t acknowledge it at all. He just left her be. He was in a world of his own, thinking about thick duvets and double pillows. He didn’t have time to be worrying about the rocks on the ground.
