by J. D. Weston
The man looked around him into the darkness beyond the van.
"I'm alone, but you won't get far,” Harvey said. “You think you can make it to the other side before they get you?"
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
Harvey had seen it before many times. A man who knew that death was imminent asked questions with no answers, their brain somehow buying time.
“You make it to the other side, I’ll let you go.”
The man looked at the distance, the fence on the far side of the pen was barely visible in the black night. The hogs stood jostling for position and reaching their heads up eagerly.
Harvey walked toward him, switching the blade and the gun but keeping the Sig Sauer P226 aimed at the man’s head. He pressed the gun into the back of his skull, being careful to keep the distance between them. A desperate man will try desperate things.
“Keep your hands on the fence.”
Harvey felt around the man's waist and removed the gun. It was a small compact Beretta Nano, useless anywhere further than twenty feet away.
"I'll give you a fighting chance," said Harvey, tossing the man's gun into the middle of the pen. The hogs saw the move and heard the dull sound of the weapon hitting the mud behind them. They turned and scrambled to find it, their greed leading their minds.
“Now’s your chance,” said Harvey stepping back.
The man looked behind him at Harvey. His eyes were wild now. Adrenaline pumped through his body, and Harvey saw the fast rise and fall of his chest. The man psyched himself up with three loud breaths, his hands gripped the top bar of the fence, and he lunged upwards. He jumped down to the other side still holding the fence. Harvey acted fast, he jammed his knife through the man's hand and deep into the soft wood. It held fast. The man screamed, at first with shock and pain as he tried to release the fence, then he cried with fear at the realisation of what was about to happen.
"No, no, you said. You ass-hole, you said. No, stop, don't leave me here," he switched his head between Harvey and the hogs, who had stopped sniffing the inedible gun and now eyed him with curiosity. The bigger of the hogs took a step toward him. He grabbed the knife with his left hand and tried to pull, but Harvey saw the pain shoot through him in a violent burst of nerves. His hand slipped off the bloody wood of the knife's handle. The hogs moved closer.
Harvey waited for the pigs to reach the man before he turned and walked toward Tyson, just to make sure he couldn't somehow free himself before the pigs reached their dinner. He reached down, grabbed the sack and dragged his body to the van.
Harvey lifted the young man into the empty cargo space of the vehicle, turning his nose at the stink; he'd soiled himself.
He slammed the doors closed and walked back to the man who had stopped calling and threatening and had begun to cry as two of the hogs sniffed inquisitively around his legs. Harvey reached the body of the first man and bent to retrieve the van keys.
Looking up, Harvey saw one of the hogs take a tentative bite of the man’s soft flesh. Huge incisors sunk easily into the skin. He screamed himself hoarse, and jerked on his trapped hand, pulling the blade through the flesh. He growled through gritted teeth as he pulled harder. Louder still as the blade found the joints of his knuckles.
Harvey looked on with admiration of the man’s tenacity. He saw the man give a final wrench; his hand split in two and freed him from the knife. He stepped backwards and stumbled over the pigs onto his back. The largest of the hogs looked down at him, sniffed, then opened his mouth and closed his jaws around his face. The screams were wild and carnal. The ruined body of the man frantically fought the hogs off, but they were undeterred.
By the time Harvey had manhandled the first man's body over the fence and closed the driver side door of the van, the screaming had stopped, and the quiet content snorts of the hogs hung in the darkness; only the percussive tones of cracking bone and gristle accompanied their baritone grunts.
20
The End of an Era
Frank found the farm in the dark lane and drove past. His replacement Volvo was identical to his previous one and hugged the road with a familiar, secure feeling.
He turned right at the end of the road and right again back towards to the farm, finding a spot at the top of the hill to stop and look down upon it. He turned off the engine and pulled his binos from his bag. It wasn't hard to find the farm through the lenses, with it being the only lit building in the middle of the otherwise dark landscape.
He saw three buildings in a U-shape. The largest one in the centre remained unlit, he could see only the building on the left. Garages. The left door was open with a white van backed up to the entrance, and a single bright light on the soffit board lit the small compound. The building to the right faced away from Frank; he couldn't see if it was lit from where he stood.
There was a small flurry of activity around the back of the van, and the doors were slammed shut. The noise reached Frank faintly a second later.
Two men climbed into the van, and the compound fell into darkness as the garage door closed, triggering the automatic light to turn off.
The van pulled away, its headlights lighting the narrow lane in front, and turned right, away from Frank. He saw it meander along the road and watched as the lights faded into the distance behind trees and hedgerows.
He sat and waited for further activity, then slowly took the walk down the hill. Keeping to the side of the lane, he could jump out of the way if the van returned. Soon he stood on the threshold of the property.
Frank made his way into the courtyard, keeping to the right-hand wall that led him behind the conifers lining the perimeter. He stayed quiet and listened for the sounds of anybody approaching or dogs, he hated dogs.
The narrow space between the trees and the wall led to the rear of the property, where Frank found nothing but dark, empty windows and a dark, empty gravel-floored garden. A pair of iron gates were at the back of the garden, and Frank found that he could slip between two loosely chained ones. If he needed to escape, he'd make it, and sink into the darkness.
A light came on in the ground floor of the house. Frank saw that the room's central feature was a large brick fireplace, the type that serves a parlour on one side, and a lounge on the other. Two heavy orchestral chords struck loud through the glass. The space between them seemed to fill the void between Terry and Frank. It was the opening of Mozart's Don Giovani opera. He saw Terry Thomson in his gown leaning against the mantel. He was focused on something, but somehow his eyes were far away. A framed picture stood on the mantelpiece.
Frank cautiously stepped out of the light, worked his way through the shadows to the window and peered inside. Terry was fifteen feet from him, holding onto the wooden mantelpiece with both hands; a few tears rolled down his face, and his lips were curled in an angry snarl. Mozart was building behind him in winding woodwind arpeggios.
Frank watched, allowing the man his moment of weakness, a voyeur to his suffering. Frank thought of the times he too had broken. Times when he was alone, times when the smallest thing reminded him of his wife, like the time soon after her funeral when he'd walked mud into the house. He cleaned it before she had a chance to find it, knowing full well that she'd never find it. He wished she could find it. He'd knelt on the floor and picked up the loose mud, and used a sponge to clean the rug her mother had bought them. He'd broken down then, at the foot of the stairs, he’d curled into a ball and sobbed like a baby.
Frank looked on at Terry Thomson now and felt his pain, his loss. He saw himself standing there. No one else would know the pain of loss. The feeling that you are the only person ever to have experienced it; it was overwhelming.
Terry walked to the far side of the room by the doorway hidden from Frank's view. He poured himself a tumbler of brandy; it was a healthy measure. He scooped some ice from the ice bucket on the drinks cabinet and returned to the photo on the mantel.
Terry raised his glass to his dead son while he stood in the c
entre of the room. Meanwhile, Mozart faded into the soft tones that marked the halfway point of the overture. Wind instruments replaced the heavy strings; delicate tones clung to the ceiling and the walls. Then slowly and softly the string section increased in depth, building with each bar. Frank was transfixed. It was a solo performance; a monologue taking place before him. The music sang the unspoken words of Thomson's expression with eerie synchronicity. The pace of the orchestra increased with the intensity of Terry's tears.
The wind instruments sang his tears, and the tenor strings sang his pounding heart. Frank watched as Terry turned to refill his drink and froze, he stared at the doorway. Frank moved to see what had caught Thomson's eye, but the entrance remained out of view. Frank looked on enthralled.
Thomson shook his head slowly, he was denying something, death maybe. His eyes were downcast; it was not the behaviour of such a powerful man. Until he looked back up. His eyes moved first. His head seemed to follow. His snarl reappeared, and he raised his arms as if welcoming the guest in the doorway. Frank's eyes widened with the realisation of what was about to happen, but his feet remained planted, he had to watch; it was the final act.
Mozart artfully pieced the long and winding trails of flute and clarinet, like two intertwining birds gracefully flying alongside each other; lower and lower, until they met the deep roar of the river of cello strings, flying so close to the surface of the thunderous swell they almost touched. The river grew wild and ferocious, the birds fought to stay out of reach, but each time they were coerced back down by the charm and lull of the rhythm.
The music built its crescendo, piece by piece, until the stage in Frank's mind was a riot of perfectly timed and orchestrated dancing arms, until the birds and water met in an epic mutual climax, and Terry Thomson fell the floor. His brandy glass bounced on the soft carpet and smashed on the hearth of the great fireplace. His hand clutched at his broken heart; his bleeding chest. He took a last painful breath, looked up at the photo of his son, and closed his eyes in peace as Mozart faded to a deathly silence.
Harvey took the lanes slowly until he found the turn into the lane near the farm. He killed the lights and the engine and rolled down the hill and into the courtyard. He silently closed the van door and stepped onto the gravel. With the two heavies gone, Terry would be alone.
Harvey began to formulate a plan. The main house had an upstairs light on, then through the opaque glass doors, he saw a light turn on at the rear of the house. He tried the front door, softly and slowly turning the handle. It was unlocked.
Harvey stepped into the house and closed the door behind him to stop the breeze announcing his arrival. Classical music began to play, it came from the only lit room in the building, which was through the long hallway to the rear of the house. He pulled his Sig out once more and quietly stepped along it.
He edged into view around the door frame, listening for voices, but all he heard was the loud orchestra. Creeping further along the hallway, he caught sight of a robed arm holding a brandy. Further still, he found himself looking at the back of Terry Thomson's head.
Thomson was stood leaning against the mantel. A picture of Bradley and Terry in a restaurant somewhere was the focus of his attention. Terry turned, and Harvey stepped back and raised his Sig, waiting for him to walk around the corner, but he didn't. Instead, Harvey heard the chink of ice in a glass, a sniff, then the metallic sound of the aluminium lid being replaced on the ice bucket. Harvey chanced another look. He edged around slowly until once again he found Terry. Edging further still, he saw Terry standing in the centre of the room with his glass raised to the photo of Bradley.
Harvey stepped forward.
The music was loud, not how Harvey liked to work. Peace and quiet would have been safer, but he was committed.
The orchestra worked itself into a frenzy, building up to a crescendo as Terry turned, saw Harvey standing in the doorway, and froze.
“You want closure?” asked Harvey.
Terry Thomson just stared at first. Then he shook his head, denial. At least he wasn't begging for his life like most of them did. Harvey had seen many so-called hard bastards beg for their life, piss themselves and cry for their mums. Terry stood firm.
“I killed Bradley.”
Terry shook his head once more, wrenching his eyes closed and looking to the floor. Then he composed himself and accepted death.
Terry raised his eyes and his head. He stared directly at Harvey, took a deep breath in, raised his arms in welcome to death, and nodded. He was ready.
Two shots; one in the heart and one in the forehead.
Terry hit the floor just as the music finished. The timing was impeccable. His glass bounced and smashed on the brick fireplace as he took his last breath.
Harvey was out of the door by the time Mozart’s act one had begun. He opened the garage door on the left and saw the crate. It was stood on a pallet in the centre of the second garage.
Harvey prised off the lid and let it fall to the floor. Inside were twelve Heckler and Koch MP-5s. In a few moments he had the van backed up and the rear doors open.
Tyson lay in a heap by the bulkhead. Wide-eyed and scared, he shuffled himself further into the corner when the dim light fell into the van.
"Not your time yet, Shaun. Just you keep quiet." Harvey began shifting the guns into the back of the van.
Harvey heard footsteps on the gravel as he loaded the last gun. He peered around the van and saw a man in a long coat on the edge of the gravel. He was stood there looking at the house. He saw Harvey and called out to him.
“Hello,” the man said, he had a subtle Scottish accent, “I’m looking for an old friend of mine.”
"Good for you," said Harvey, closing the rear doors. He walked to the edge of the garage and hit the button for the door, which began to close automatically. The courtyard light turned off, and the driveway fell into darkness.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “I didn’t tell you his name. It’s Terry, Terry Thomson?” Harvey walked to the driver’s door, and the man edged closer.
"Mr Thomson is having a bit of a lie-down, come back tomorrow, eh," said Harvey, pulling the door closed.
The man began to say something else, but Harvey chose to ignore him and drive away. He glanced to his right to make sure the old man was out of the way and saw the gun pointing at him through the glass. The old man nodded at the ignition.
“Hands where I can see them,” he said.
Harvey put his hands on the steering wheel and looked him, not defiantly and not aggressively, but like he was making Harvey late.
“Out,” the man said, stepping back.
Harvey opened the door of the van and stepped down, keeping his hands in view. The man took one more step back, maintaining a safe distance.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Harvey didn’t reply.
“It was you that killed Bradley Thomson wasn’t it, but who do you really work for Mr Stone? How’s Adam Stimson?”
Harvey thought on this a moment. “Probably sipping a pina colada somewhere in St Tropez.”
“Is that right?” said the man. “Are you sure he’s not up north somewhere, planning a job?”
“And what job might that be?”
“Don't play me for a fool, I know more than you think.” Said the man, “Or are you really one of Cartwright’s boys?”
“Okay, well why don’t you tell me something?” Said Harvey, “Then we can both be in the know eh, I’m just picking something up.”
“And Mr Thomson knows you’re here does he?”
“Mr Thomson won’t have any objections, no.”
"You're Harvey Stone, I know you are," said the man. Right then, Tyson must have heard the conversation and kicked the side of the van from inside, and the man's attention was briefly turned to the noise. Harvey reached out with one hand and grabbed the handgun. He twisted the gun, which still had the mans finger in the trigger guard. A round fired into the air. The old man tried to r
elease his hand, but Harvey had his elbow locked. The whole arm was twisted, and the man was forced to bend over or have his arm snapped. Harvey had done this with one hand. He gently released the gun from the man's hand and pocketed it.
“You’re a cop.”
The man did not reply, he merely grunted at the pain and prepared himself to be shot.
With his other hand, Harvey reached around and brought the man’s arms together. He released the man’s belt and bound his arms behind his back.
"You're lucky," said Harvey. "Kneel." The man dropped to his knees in the gravel.
“Why is that? I don't feel so lucky right now.”
Harvey bent lower to whisper in Frank’s ear, ”Because I’m a good guy and I don't kill cops.”
21
Truth or Dare
Harvey drove the van through the open gates into John’s grounds and carried on past the house to the garages on the far side of the property.
He pulled the van into the long building between John's 1963 E-Type Jaguar and his Triumph Spitfire. Both cars were immaculately restored to their original condition and lay under custom-made car covers. Harvey had no real enthusiasm for cars and ignored them as he passed. He hit the garage door switch to close it and walked back to his house.
The little house felt strange, like he'd been away for a while. By the time he showered he was beat and slept in the single armchair in the lounge.
He dreamed once more of dark and light, and of fluid shapes. He chased Hannah through long grass at the edge of a wide beach. She ran slowly so that his young legs could catch her. He closed in, laughing and seeing her smile. The sky grew bright with the sun, but each time he tried to grab her she appeared further away, and the sky around her silhouette turned dark.
He woke before the sun, which was standard for Harvey, and walked across to John's house. He wanted to deliver the news before John left for work. Then once he had finished what he'd started, he could be free to go. It was the end of an era.
