by Lee Cooper
The deal went through without problems, and I stood, watching closely. Guns unloaded and cash exchanged. The men spoke with a deep Irish tongue. Making any kind of approach for information regarding The Eidolon stupid and suicidal.
Desperate but not foolish, if able to escape the shed with my life, they’d find me and then kill, without hesitation. By this time, The Reaper’s body was carried out the tunnel by Jack Gallagher, his son and two other men. Exhausted with carrying the colossal carcass, they dropped him as they entered the shed from the electrical mains room. This caught the attention of The Stable, who were preparing to enter the van and leave.
The driver opened the van door, heard the commotion and a loud thud from the north-west corner, paused, ambled ten metres away from the van, the passenger joined him. Once they saw the body, standing side-by-side, they turned to each other through their balaclava eyeholes for a few seconds, as if they knew who it was. Uttering no words, turning around entering the van again, they were off. Bobby opened the door and away they went.
Chapter 68
Lukas:
Mike Jenkins, Roy the Rover and the truck driver’s fate were sealed in the following two weeks. Lukas, Mr Dean’s loyal employee, spent his previous life in a special unit of the Hungarian Police, where you need the same unforgiving ruthlessness as the men he hunted. His last years specialising in taking down the worst possible criminals, those involved with the trafficking of young women, forced into the sex-trade, and his biggest hate, paedophiles. The repulsive images he witnessed, left a permanent scar. He personally carried out the killing of each man, complying with Mr Dean’s requests.
The first to meet his unforeseen death, was the truck driver. A wife and family of four, he was prepared to abandon them all for the sun of the Costa del Sol. After getting placed on the paedophile register, outcast by his family and sacked from his job. Left homeless, skint and marked out as kiddie-fiddler, you’d think that was punishment enough.
Flying to Northern Ireland, Lukas shadowed him one day, the man totally oblivious to his presence, until he joined him at a bar for a few drinks later on at night. Mr Dean asked for his death to be quick, by bullet. Being outcast by his friends and neighbours in Belfast, he turned to drink.
Pulling up a stool at the bar, Lukas took it upon himself to accompany the man for the evening, giving him hope he found a new friend. They drank all night, sharing stories of whatever. Closing time, leaving together, Lukas offering to give the man a bed for a night in his fictional flat. Relieving his bladder full of Guinness behind one of those big recycle bins. Lukas pulled out his Makarov 9mm pistol, a gun given to him by his Father before he entered the force, and his preferred weapon for killing. Screwing the silencer on, waiting for his victim to turn round.
Fixing up his buttons, lifting his drunk head, Lukas placed a bullet through the centre of the truck-driver’s forehead.
The second to meet his end, stoner Roy the Rover. He knew he couldn’t stay in east Belfast. Stoned but not stupid, he fled to Cork, Southern Ireland. Taking up residence in a seedy B&B. Taking three days to track him down, Mr Dean requested his death to be one of slight struggle. The Rover left the solitude of his room every morning 9am precisely, buying the daily paper. Returning to his room that day, a Hungarian hitman waited, lying on his bed, the Makarov 9mm pointed at the door. The Rover strolled in, laid-back as ever, reading the back page at the same time, he walked into his room unaware of the Hungarian’s presence. The momentary feeling of ‘This can’t be happening to me, I got away’ went sailing through his stoned skull.
The silencer wasn’t attached, so he had no intention of shooting The Rover at that moment, unless he felt it necessary.
“Hello Mr Rover, I think you will never come.” His English lacked the odd word.
“What the fuck?” The Rover looked round the room for an exit, he had nowhere to hide.
“Stay quiet, do what I say, and you live, OK?”
“OK…OK.” Instructing the man to sit on the bed and attach a handcuff to each limb. He obliged, the gun still pointed in his direction. Handcuffing his limbs round the corners of the bed, then filling his gob with scrunched up duct-tape and then a slice over his mouth. He was now helpless and in the hands of death.
Because he got greedy, and tried to dip his hands into Mr Dean’s pockets, Lukas had a special torture device for him. A ratchet cable-cutter usually used in the electrical trade. Two round, thick blades of this device closed together creating a gate, then ratcheted together till they met.
Placing the round gate of the cable-cutter around two of his fingers until a tight grip squashed his fingers together. Lukas began to ratchet gently, so Rover felt the most pain. Slicing through his skin before the initial crunch of the bone was meet with a silenced howl. The slow grinding of the bone as it cracked like a slow bite of a brazil-nut brought a rare, pleasant smile to Lukas. He counted the motions to The Rover like a primary pupil. Fifteen more ratchets before he had to stretch the device away from the skin like a melted piece of cheese, two unattached fingers lay on the reddened white sheets.
His call for mercy could not be heard, his screams muffled inside his mouth. The rest of the digits were removed in the same brutal manner, awake through it all, gave Lukas a tingle of respect for the man. The ten fingers lay on the bed. Blood went from gushing out, spraying around the room, to trickling out onto the sheets. Rover choked on his vomit. His arms were able to slip out the handcuffs as he sat upright, in complete panic. Terrified tears and groans like a wounded animal that needed put down came out his mouth. He flapped his fingerless hands in the air and tried to remove the restraints from his legs, his brain in shock, not registering that his fingers were no longer there. On top of his pain, came a splatter over the head from the butt of Lukas’s pistol.
Lukas set the timer on his phone for an hour, read The Rover’s paper, then shot him through the forehead with his silencer attached.
Mike Jenkins never returned to Aberdeen, instead taking his flight to Costa del Sol. His death was the choice of Mr Dean. Taking Lukas more than a week to track the grumpy bastard down, only added to his fulfilment.
Mike hired a lovely holiday-home under the plain name of John Smith. How Lukas managed to track him down was a mystery, but that was his specialty. Booking under such an ordinary name probably gave the game away, too obvious. Stalking him for a couple days, following his daily routine. Never off the phone, fearful of his predicament. Attempting to sell his belongings, car and house to gather funds for his new life.
His choice of cocktail, a tall glass of Planter’s Punch. Consisting of dark rum, lime and lemon, grenadine syrup with a couple of local herbs resembling small leaves. Late Thursday afternoon, waited-on by a young local man from his beach sun-lounger, his delivery of the cocktail was a tap on the shoulder, then his hand grabbing the glass without so much as a thank you.
Lukas was unrecognisable to Mike wearing surfer-shorts, a weight-lifter’s vest, shades and a Summery straw hat. Staying inside the beach-bar out of the sight of the heavy-set, arrogant man.
Inside his pocket, a selection of leaves from Gelsemium Elegans. Known to Russian and Chinese contract killers as ‘heartbreak grass’, inflicting a painfully slow death, if combined in the appropriate amount. Mike called the waiter, asking for another beverage. Lukas took it upon himself to have a Planter’s Punch standing by, replacing the local herb with his own special ingredient. With the coolest of confidence, strolled to the beach, tapped Mike on the shoulder, his right arm stretched over his left shoulder, grabbing the glass, gulping greedily.
Not so much of a word was muttered as Lukas returned to his seat to admire his work. There are five stages that flood your body.
The first stage landed after ten minutes, Lukas watched and laughed at his misfortune. Mike was disorientated, his head shifted around looking lost as he rolled off his seat. Dizziness was the first stage.
Rolling around on the sand, clutching his guts for a few minutes, bef
ore leaning over his lounger and started vomiting uncontrollably over his seat. Lukas was enjoying the act and his own Planter’s Punch cocktail from the comfort of the bar. Nausea was the second stage.
Some tourists tried to aid Mike and called for an ambulance. The constant vomit eased and then his body started contracting in timed formations of every twenty seconds like electric shocks, leaving him mimicking a zombie. Convulsions are the third stage.
There was no pill, no medication or miracles that could stop the process. After an hour, at this stage, inside the hospital, the poison shows its intended effects. Paralysis of the spinal cord and a loss of muscular function keeping you alive for some time, before asphyxia robs you of breath, resulting in choking to death.
Mike suffered immense pain for three hours.
I had one more favour to ask of Mr Dean, which meant I still owed him and I hoped it never had to be re-paid. In the small town of Turriff, thirty seven miles from Aberdeen. Harry ‘Ball Point’ Duncan took residence in The Royal Oak, a friendly bar where everyone knew everybody. The police had no leads to who left Micky with a knife in his back, which suited me. That meant he could be dealt with by my own wishes. Harry had taken a short-term labouring job with a loft-insulating firm, local to Turriff. Every night he chugged pints in the bar before returning to his room. Lukas, also an IT wizard, had gained access through a side-door leading to the upstairs rooms. A computer-virus was downloaded onto the computer, erasing the recording of his approach. In Harry’s room, Lukas waited behind a door from a built-in wardrobe, a hammer gripped at the bottom of the shaft. Chubby Harry stuttered into the room, stripped down to his birthday-suit and climbed into bed. Lukas waited to hear the snores before jumping on the bed and used the ball-point of the hammer to leave an indented hole in his temple.
The murder of Harry ‘Ball Point’ was carried out to my request.
Chapter 69
Fate:
Returning to normal existence was so difficult. The torture of my life over that time, will forever cast an unwelcome shadow and define the man I’d become. The reason why I had to complete my journey, was to find the man that ruined my life, the so called Eidolon. My Father.
Ever since Magill informed me about his new address inside the interview room, I took notice, willing to do whatever necessary to come within his sight. A phantom who couldn’t be found. Since leaving Aberdeen, he became number one on the wanted list by the Scotland Yard, MI5 and G2. Lived off the grid, away from civilisation. The address I sent Magill on the evening of the fight, was the venue in Dundee.
He had a massive riot-squad on standby, while he got a chopper escort from London. Needless to say, he was rather pissed-off after realising I’d played him.
When informing Mr Dean in our meeting that Davie Rhodes was The Eidolon, he was only too happy to help with his capture. Having previous history with The Stable who disfigured him, he felt it fitting he should help me. Now, having to face the reality my Father would never be found, I only had to get on with life.
I’d killed a man and prepared to kill another on the same night. My face had become unrecognizable in the mirror. Afraid of the reflection that gazed back at me, afraid of the company of my own kids. Terrified of their vision of me. Was it the same as I thought about my Father at that age?
It’s a funny thing, life. Has a habit of repeating itself. If your childhood was spent growing up in front of junkies or drunks, there's a good chance it’ll be passed down to the next generation. In my case, growing up with a beast turned me into one. The reality is, no matter what route through life I’d choose, I was always destined to walk my Father’s path. Doesn’t matter if it happened now or in twenty years, the end-result would be the same. We shared the same blood and with it the same demons. I had to change the path, lay a new one for my kids.
Spending the following months making amends with May, hiring a lawyer, countless letters were exchanged for eight months. Trying to convince her I’d become a reformed character, but May knew what lurked beneath the surface, lingered around for the next outburst.
After all I’d done to keep her away from the A&E and nursing, she returned to a role in the cancer unit in Aberdeen. Her Mother took the role as childminder.
Eventually, time earned me enough respect to be blessed with my kid’s company on weekends. Wasn’t until eight long, agonising months I’d get the sight of my two children, Jess and Joe Marks, Junior. The happiest I’d been for as long as I can remember. Overrun by pent-up emotion and heartache, tears streamed down my face, cuddling both of them with all the love I held.
After putting them through a rollercoaster of mental damage, I’d promised no more pain in their lives. They needed a decent upbringing to end this recurring nightmare in our family.
The regret at my family's suffering, added to the regret I had for Mom’s suicide, and Micky’s murder. Nevertheless, I got on with things as you have to in life. Using the blood-money, I paid off all outstanding debts on the house and moved back in.
Three months before, without my knowledge, May moved out, accepting a temporary home in Stonehaven. Despite how much love I had for Katie, I broke all contact. Even though the sight of her lovely face forever swirled around in my imagination, I had to break her loose. Couldn’t let her get involved with me, because that man will always lurk beneath. After all, she was a good person at heart, she didn’t deserve a beast like me. I would always think about her and the life I could have had with her.
Me and Tim did what we said, got out the game, entering a partnership together, working in the scrap trade, combined with house-removals. Work was tough going at times, the money decent and the hours were flexible. It suited us both.
Two years later, past my mid-thirties, all relationships were healed. Choosing to stay off the booze, scared of what might happen once the nectar hit my lips. But, I had a heavy smoking habit of twenty a day.
Boxing was put behind, never to surface, or so I thought. The gym equipment in my garage sold-off and replaced with a five-door family saloon, finally gaining my licence legally.
One Sunday afternoon, the back-garden filled with Dawn, Tim, their twin boys, Margaret, my kids and me. The barbeque smoked while we exchanged stories and laughed while playing with the kids. Me and Tim shared our own story, although most days we wished it could be forgotten. Managing to accept a lot of my past by now, moving on, being genuinely happy for the first time in years. Able to wake with a smile and sleep with a weightless conscience.
“Joe, there’s somebody at the door.” Dawn yelled out the kitchen window as she washed some dishes in the sink.
“Aye, I’ll get it.” Who the fuck was coming round at this time on a Sunday? Maybe it was May. Closing the kitchen door, I took a look out the living-room window, seeing a tall man stand with his back to me, hands by his side and a comb edging out his back pocket. A long, grey ponytail in a bobble hanging down the back of his vintage, denim jacket. Who the fuck is this? Opening the door, an arm flew in, gripping my neck, along with a couple of clunky steps inside my house, forcing me back.
“Alright, boy?” It couldn’t be? His big-boned, wrinkled, callous face right in front of me, for the first time in fifteen years. That same effect on me again: fear. That same impassive look of pure evil. Stood up on my tip-toes, my back up against the bannister.
The blood-vessels in my eyes burned, face turned bright purple. Attempting to scream out for Tim’s help, only made his hold tighter. My desperation causing my hands to grab his wrist was pointless. “What’s wrong, nothing to say?” He tipped his head sideways in a sarcastic motion. Playing with me, as he always had. My inner rage longed to be realised, I’d waited all these years for a glimpse, and now couldn’t mutter a word, leaving me gargling as I struggled to speak.
“Whcht’ I fukkc’ you doooin’ here?” Managed to mutter out a question.
“Came to say hello, son!” How fucking dare he call me his son. Struggling with his grip, longing for release, so I could inflict
my revenge.
“Seen your last fight, boy.” I immediately took notice, stopped struggling.
“What?” He loosened his hold, just enough for me to speak.
“I was there, watching.” The glimpse of my Father in the basement that spurred me to finish off The Reaper, had been real.
“Fuckin’ prick.” His hold on me was impossible to get out of.
“That's no way to speak to your old man! I never got the chance to tell you about your brother?”
“Who?”
“He used to be a fighter, like you. We called him The Reaper.”
THE END.
Published in 2015 by FeedARead.com Publishing
Copyright © The author as named on the book cover.
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A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
