by T. J. Lebbon
Maybe it had been a Jeep.
The dead man had not been killed in the crash. He was mutilated, a thick branch shoved through his left eye socket and into his brain. Rose had seen many dead bodies, and been the cause of quite a few, but this one disgusted her. It spoke of intense enjoyment in the act of killing. A sick delight in inflicting horrendous pain.
Monk had been here, the man now calling himself Lip. Somehow, he had taken Holt.
She thought of trying his phone but decided against it. Lip might still believe that Holt had come alone. If that were the case, then in such dire circumstances she might still retain a slight advantage of surprise. Although with someone like Lip she wasn’t sure that was really much of an advantage at all.
Watching Holt’s old Renault in her wing mirror, sad at leaving something of him behind, she’d continued up the steep road. A couple of miles further on she’d passed several police cars, a recovery vehicle, and an ambulance. She’d slowed as she passed, offering a concerned smile to the officer who waved her past, and noticing the nose of a police car protruding just above road level.
If they had yet to discover the crashed car and signs of a bloody fight just two miles back, this must all have happened very recently.
Since then, she’d driven hard for the place Andy had told her about. A quick couple of texts to him had confirmed that they were still untouched.
We need to meet before we get there, she’d texted. She couldn’t afford to trust him. Meeting somewhere neutral was the only way to begin this. She’d googled and found somewhere appropriate. There’s a pub a few miles before Aberaeron, the Helmsman. Midday. Be careful. They’re ahead of me.
I think we’ve lost them, Andy had replied. She did not trust that, either. People like Lip and the Scott family did not leave things to chance. She knew that from the research she’d carried out into them three years ago, although Lip had been a blank. Now that she knew more about who and what Lip was, she could not underestimate them for an instant. Neither should Andy.
Holt had been shot before. She’d seen his scars. They were both marked by their pasts, physical wounds the least painful.
‘One more scar, you clumsy bastard,’ she said as she drove. She only wished he could offer one of his terse responses.
Rose had never learned the levels of control and detachment that Holt possessed. Her hunt of the Trail had been driven by chaos and randomness, and she had maintained a state of restrained panic all through that pursuit, and beyond. It had settled somewhat during the years after, and in subsequent violent confrontations, with or without Holt by her side, she had reined it in. Learning to control the heart-thumping panic had turned it to her advantage. Indeed, it had lowered from panic to an alertness, adrenalin-driven and sense-sharpening.
Holt seemed to stroll through these encounters, while she sprinted.
Now, she felt less in control than she had in a very long time. Since the Trail, nothing she had embarked upon had been personal. There had always been a sense of justice at play in the contracts she accepted, something else that set her and Holt apart. But she could never call it personal. There was no catharsis in her actions, and no sense that by helping them she might help herself. She was not that foolish. Nothing could change what had happened to her family, and nothing she ever did could lessen the horror. Even killing Grin, the bitch directly responsible for their deaths, had done little to fill the emptiness.
But Holt was her friend. He pinned her to the world to stop her being blown away. Now with him in danger, perhaps even dead, she felt the storms closing in once more.
‘Keep control,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Take it easy, don’t get too …’
Adam stands before her in their kitchen, rubbing her earlobes and whispering ‘Ooooo-saaaaahhh’, smiling away the stresses of a hard day at home with the kids.
Rose accelerated to overtake a slow-moving tractor.
Events were rolling fast, and now that the police were involved, things would quickly come to a head.
Perhaps she should have brought bigger guns.
The Helmsman was a large roadside pub with a spacious car park, a grassed picnic and play area for kids, and a block of four independent retailers alongside selling clothing, crafts and confectionery. It was very obviously aimed at the tourist market. The pub itself was an old building that had been extended several times over the years, an expansive two-storey structure with four large bay windows on each level facing out onto the car park. Tastefully done, its facade promised more than a basic chain pub’s fayre.
Dom circled the car park once, searching for any CCTV cameras. Seeing none, he reversed the Mazda estate into a space close to the main building, turned off the engine and sighed heavily.
‘So she’s here?’ Emma asked.
‘If she is, she’ll be watching us,’ Andy said. ‘Come on, let’s go inside.’
‘I’ll check it out first,’ Dom said.
‘I think we should—’ Andy began, but Dom cut him off.
‘I’ll check it out.’ He slammed the car door behind him and walked quickly to the main entrance, looking around, trying not to seem twitchy. They’d stopped half an hour earlier to buy some new T-shirts for him and Andy, but there was no hiding his injuries. Conscious of his swollen eye and puffy red nose, he opened the door and paused in the large glassed-in foyer. There was a cash machine on the left, and beside the tall windows viewing into the pub’s interior were two long tables of tourist information leaflets and posters. He pretended to browse the leaflets whilst scoping the interior.
It was a large open space. Pillars were set at regular intervals, and tables and chairs were placed almost at random. Some were dining sets, others more comfortable sofas and seats. Several island units housed condiment stations and collection points for trays of dirty crockery, and the bar was large and U-shaped, protruding into the pub at the rear. Lines of real ale pumps glimmered gold in the sunlight streaming in the south-facing windows. Staff bustled behind the bar and delivered food around the pub, all dressed in dark-blue uniforms. There was a dedicated coffee bar in an extension to the main building on the right, open to the bar. The whole place was bustling.
Fire escapes were prominent in every wall.
Dom smiled grimly. Usually the first thing he’d look at in a place like this would be whether they were serving real ale, and then he’d peruse the menu boards to see what daily specials might be on. Now, he was looking for points of escape and areas where danger might be hiding.
He moved along the leaflet displays and plucked up a few at random. Beyond the large entrance hallway, he could see no signs of Lip inside. An older woman sitting in a comfortable chair in the coffee bar might easily have been Sonja, because he’d never seen her. A younger woman ushering a couple of kids along could have been Mary. He’d only caught a quick glimpse of her. She held her arm awkwardly, maybe from a gunshot wound. But why would she have kids? And this woman was black, whereas Mary was mixed race.
Another woman was looking directly at him. She sat at a two-seater table on her own, a mug and plate before her. As he caught her eye she looked away, brushing her phone screen with her thumb and taking a sip from her mug.
Dom waited to see if she looked again. Maybe this was Jane Smith. Or perhaps it was just someone who’d glanced his way and seen a battered and bruised man loitering in the pub’s entrance lobby. Anyone would stare. Wouldn’t they?
She did not look again.
As he turned around to go back outside, Emma and Daisy entered, followed by Andy.
‘We need the loo,’ Emma said. She paused and glanced past him.
‘Is that her?’ he asked Andy. ‘Behind me, sitting at a small table by the red pillar?’
Andy looked and shook his head.
‘I’ll get drinks,’ he said to Emma. She came close and kissed his cheek, and he felt ridiculously grateful. He watched Andy over her shoulder. He seemed nervous.
‘Come on,’ Emma said to Daisy. They entered
the pub, and as Dom went to follow, he felt the gun tugged from his belt.
He span around. Andy was already tucking the weapon into his own belt and ensuring his T-shirt covered the butt.
‘We can’t afford to make a scene,’ Andy said.
‘So what are you going to do with that?’
‘A lot more good than you, should the shit hit the fan.’
Dom turned his back on his ex-friend and entered the pub. Noise swept over them, a comfortable, carefree hubbub. He walked past tables, skirted a large comfortable seating area, and headed for the coffee bar to the right. He waited in the queue to order drinks. Andy stood beside him.
‘Get me a cappuccino?’ Andy asked. ‘Probably best we don’t stand together, we look like extras from a war film.’
‘Sure,’ Dom said. As Andy went to leave, he grabbed his arm. ‘What you said, about Emma. About how she almost fucked you.’
‘That was nothing,’ Andy said. He lowered his voice, although music played through ceiling speakers and dozens of conversations provided a stew of noise. ‘That was all me. She loves you, mate, and she’s a good woman.’
‘You tried to screw my wife?’ Dom asked.
‘I made the offer,’ he said. ‘She declined. Without a moment’s thought.’
Dom thought of punching him again, how good it had felt. Confusion stirred his thoughts, tiredness made his limbs heavy. Yet he could not do anything like that here. The violence that had so recently made him feel good had left behind a sense of nausea.
‘Yeah,’ Andy said. ‘I’m a bastard. I’ll find us somewhere to sit.’ He nodded at the coffee bar, behind which the barista was now waiting for Dom’s order. ‘Extra shot.’
Mary’s phone shrilled, and when she glanced at the screen and put it on loudspeaker, Lip immediately knew who it was.
‘I have them,’ Sonja said. ‘But it’s delicate.’
‘Where?’ Lip asked.
‘A pub called the Helmsman. I’ve sent the postcode to Mary’s phone.’
‘Already plotted it,’ Mary said. ‘We’re five minutes away! Don’t let them leave.’
‘Why’s it delicate?’ Lip asked.
‘They’re in a pub, Lip. It’s big. Lots of people here.’
‘You’re waiting for us?’
‘In the car park, by the kids’ playground to the left of the main building. I’m wandering around between parked cars. Can’t do this too long or I’ll start looking suspicious.’
‘Try to get closer,’ Lip said. ‘Leave the line open. See what you can see.’
It was usually Sonja giving orders, but she didn’t object. She knew that this was more his sort of world. The hunt, the kill. She’d been drawn in, just like Mary and Frank. But Lip was the one who lived and breathed this sort of work.
‘What about …?’ Mary asked, glancing back.
The man in the back of the Jeep was bound up tight, arms and legs secured. He could not shout. But Lip knew it would be a risk, leaving him there while they parked in a public place.
Maybe I should just stop and kill him now, Lip thought. The idea brought a thrill of anticipation, but also the disappointment of an opportunity lost. He didn’t like to rush these things unless he absolutely had to. And with Holt, he didn’t want to.
He watched for an opportunity, and only a minute later fate smiled. He pulled off left onto a narrow lane, winding down a steep slope towards the sea in the distance.
‘You’re going to do him now?’ Mary asked excitedly.
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘Just shut up, Mary.’
She fidgeted angrily but said no more.
The building Lip had seen signposted from the coast road appeared a couple of minutes later. It was an old, run-down church. Slates were missing from the roof, ivy smothered the tower and spire, and if it had stained glass windows they were hidden away behind purpose-cut timber boarding.
‘Let us pray,’ Mary said, giggling.
‘Stay here, keep watch.’ Lip jumped from the Jeep and approached the rear hatch. He looked around quickly, ensuring they were alone. There was no sign of anyone else having parked here in a while – weeds populated the small parking area, and a silence heavier than the heat hung around the church. When he was sure they were alone, he lifted the door.
Holt squinted against the flood of light as the door and parcel shelf lifted up, then started squirming against his bonds. His wrists were already bleeding from where the rope had abraded his skin.
‘I’ll punch you in the nose,’ Lip said. ‘I’ll keep doing it until it breaks. Then I’ll leave you. Maybe you’ll drown in your own blood. Or maybe you’ll suffocate.’
Holt grew still, glaring at him. If hate could burn, Lip would have sizzled to a dried husk.
He assessed his prisoner. Ropes were still tight, and tighter every time Holt struggled against them. His left side was soaked with blood from his gunshot wound. So was Lip’s Jeep, and he’d have to dump the vehicle very soon. But he was used to that. Material things mattered to him about as much as people. He grew attached to nothing.
He held Holt’s face still and checked his mouth. It was still glued tight. If Holt had the use of his hands, maybe he’d be able to rip his lips apart, using fingers and fingernails to tear the skin. If he could handle the pain.
‘My father raped me when I was a child,’ Lip said. ‘It started in secret, in the dark. When my mother found out she started to watch. She’d masturbate while he did it. During the day it was as if nothing had ever happened, and we played happy families. I was too young to understand. Then after a while they started inviting their friends to take part. Sometimes they paid, other times my parents gave me for free. There are probably still videos, somewhere. I grew up being subjected to that, and when I was too big and started resisting, they kicked me out. Disowned me and cast me out on the streets. Like it was my fault. So I wandered for a while, slept rough. Eventually found my calling.’
Holt’s eyes betrayed no pity, and Lip was hardly surprised. This was a man with his own violent history, and no story would shock him.
‘Actually, that’s a lie,’ Lip said. ‘It’s one I’ve told before. One of many. The truth is, I really like what I do. My parents were nice people. Normal, loving and devoted, unremarkable in every way. It was them I killed first. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done since.’
Holt made a noise in his throat. A curse, or perhaps a promise. Whatever, they were words that would never find voice.
‘Not long now,’ Lip said. He delved behind Holt, brought out a tyre iron, and cracked him across the side of the head. Holt groaned and rolled onto his back, then his wounded side. Lip hit him again, across the back of the neck this time, and he stopped moving.
He might only be out for a few minutes, but it should be enough.
Lip heaved the unconscious man over his shoulder and headed for the abandoned church.
Chapter Thirty
Trouble
Emma was already thinking this was a mistake. Dom and Andy were drawing curious glances with their bruised and battered faces. Dom was worse off with his split nose and puffy eye, but Andy’s right eye was still watering from where the glass had scratched it. He blinked quickly, and sometimes allowed his eyes to close altogether.
They were all exhausted. The coffee would only go some way to keeping them awake. They needed somewhere quiet and private to rest, not a public place like this. Families bustled, eating lunch on their way to or from holidays. Businessmen sipped beers, staring into computer or phone screens. Perhaps it was guilt, but Emma could not see any group that looked more out of place than them.
They’d managed to find comfortable seating close to the Helmsman’s coffee bar, a couple of sofas and single seats, a table, and trellised plant pots with ivy and other climbers forming natural partitions. Andy had taken a seat affording him a good view of the entrance. He held his mug to his lips, sipping occasionally and watching through the steam.
Our lives have changed forever.
She leaned across from her chair and squeezed Daisy’s leg. Her daughter smiled back. Dom reached for her hand, and for a moment the three of them were touching, forming a family circuit that gave them all strength.
Andy tensed in his seat and sat up straighter.
‘She’s here?’ Emma asked.
But Andy only looked at her, Dom and Daisy, and Emma realised then just what a dangerous creature he really was. He was no friend. He never had been. This was all about him.
The old woman eased herself into the comfortable seat between her and Andy, across the low table from Dom’s and Daisy’s sofa. Emma realised straight away that this was Sonja, and as the woman groaned and made herself comfortable, Emma had a chance to size her up.
She sat down like an old person, pained and stiff, one hand pressing into the small of her back. But Emma didn’t think for a minute that this was genuine. Sonja was thin and strong, and everything about her exuded strength, confidence and control.
She carried a small handbag. Grey, leather, it might have been owned by any older woman. But when she held it in her lap, and patted it when she caught Emma looking that way, Emma knew it contained more than purse, tissues and a packet of mints.
‘Busy here today,’ Sonja said. She was looking at Emma as she spoke, then she turned her head, nodding at Daisy and Dom before finally staring directly at Andy. ‘Son.’
‘Mother,’ Andy said. His voice was flat and emotionless.
‘Nice to see you’ve brought your friend and his two cunts.’
Emma caught her breath, and she saw Daisy twitch in her seat. To hear such language from an older woman – one who looked somewhat refined, intelligent and smart – was shock enough. But to hear it in such a place made it seem almost staged. Emma felt herself drawing in, their small group apart from the hustle and bustle, not part of it. This was a very private scenario. A brutal story being played out against a backdrop of normality.
