The Camp

by Guy N Smith

  A sudden mind-reeling thought. Cindy! He had left her alone, she could walk out, go to the police. And it was all this wench’s fault; maybe a deliberate plot. A decoy!

  His arms went back, he saw her throw up her hands in an attempt to protect herself but those frail limbs were no defence against his massive pile-driving fist. Bone on bone, something cracked loudly and she wasn’t screaming or crying anymore.

  A frenzy of hate and fear, he lifted her up again, was oblivious of the way she hung limply in his grasp, a broken puppet held by the neck. Shaken, tossed to one side. And forgotten as he remembered the girl in the chalet and feared what she might do in his absence. Running for the boat, pushing it out into deep water and beginning to row with the strength of desperation.

  Chapter Twelve

  The dawn crowd which had gathered on the perimeter of Green Camp presumed that the armed men closing in on chalet 24 were police marksmen; there was no reason to think otherwise because it was police who kept the watchers at a safe distance. Three shadowy silhouettes in the grey gloom, two edging along the lower walkway, another on the balcony above. And doubtless there were more covering the rear.

  A cordon of uniformed officers, patrol cars and a Land Rover with flashing blue lights. Without warning the sleeping holiday camp had been disturbed; knockings on doors, police officers urging the occupants of every chalet to grab their clothes and evacuate their digs.

  ‘Is it Chernobyl again?’ one woman asked.

  ‘Or a nuclear attack?’ Her bleary-eyed husband trembled as he pulled on his dressing gown. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Only when everybody was out of the chalets did the explanation come over the megaphone. ‘There is a man, believed to be armed, holding a woman hostage in number 24. Please keep back, for your own safety.’ Alan Jay had fled the island in blind panic, rowed frantically back to the jetty and leaped ashore, leaving the boat to drift away slowly on the litter-strewn water. Pausing, having to remember which way to go in this artificial world of bright lights and ear-splitting music. A kaleidoscope of colours, the roller coaster a roaring snake-like monster of multi-coloured fire, crowds spilling out of the cinema and queuing at food stalls, jostling one another for fish and chips and fresh seafood. A hostile environment where nobody cared for anything except their own needs. Selfish enjoyment.

  Like an escaped wild beast at bay he skirted the main camp, kept to the maze of chalets with their dimly-lit streets, bordered by vandalised rose gardens and sun-browned lawns. Slowing to a walk, trying to get his bearings.

  Sarah was forgotten; she had flitted into his life and then disappeared like a night shadow with the coming of daylight. Only Cindy mattered; a seductive whore who taunted him, demanded payment for the use of her body and threatened him with the law. Perhaps he was too late and she had already gone, was even now urging the police to come and arrest the man who had kept her prisoner and raped her. Lies, all lies. But he would not be able to disprove them.

  A primal urge in the very midst of his fears; in his mind he saw her lying naked, lewdly spread across the bed, a hand extended demanding money. Thirty quid and I’m yours.

  He laughed. If she was still there then he would take her. She could struggle all she wanted but she wasn’t getting any money for it. He had nothing to lose, she would claim he had raped her whatever. And if he kept her prisoner she could not fetch the police. He wondered why he had not thought of it before. However you looked at it, Cindy was going to be the loser; better to be hanged for a sheep than a lamb, as the saying went.

  He had found his bearings at last, moving fast and stealthily, checking the lower chalet numbers as he passed them. 75 … 68 … Running again, keeping to the shadows. Some of the windows were lighted, children complaining bitterly as parents demanded that they went to bed. People going out, others arriving back from their evening’s entertainment. Unlighted windows. 39 … 32 … 30.

  Breathless, his chest tight and stretched as though it might split like a winter snake shedding its skin in the spring. A dull ache behind his eyes, his vision partially restricted so that he had to peer closely at each door number.

  Number 24. He almost fell against it, pushed at it but it remained firm, resisted him. Only then did he remember that he needed a key to open it, panicking as he searched the pockets of his frayed shorts until he found it. Fingers that shook so that it took him several seconds to insert the key and turn it. The worn Yale lock clicked and the door creaked inwards.

  The chalet was in darkness, an empty black pit that breathed stagnant despair at him. He stood there in the doorway, afraid to enter. He did not want to be confronted by the truth, his worst fears confirmed; better to live in uncertainty as he had done all his life.

  Cindy was still here. She was in the bedroom just as he had left her earlier, asleep; naked, her legs splayed open, a hand stretched out on the coverlet in a mute demand for money. Thirty quid, no less. Take it or leave it.

  Relief came first, a wave of weakness that had him leaning back against the wall fighting against nausea, every muscle in his powerful body trembling. His vision dulled, almost cut out. A lurch forward but he somehow saved himself from fainting and the sensation passed. Just a roaring in his ears whilst he waited for his system to readjust.

  Alan tried to remember where he had been, how long he had been absent from the chalet, but his memory eluded him. It didn’t matter, he was back and Cindy was still here. His fears were unfounded.

  He sat down on a chair, took his time rolling a cigarette and lighting it, inhaled the bitter smoke gratefully. That was better. Cindy still slept, almost like she was in a coma of some kind.

  Funny thing, she no longer excited him. In a strange sort of way he despised her. A slut, an unnecessary encumbrance. He had to ditch her soon, maybe run out and leave her to it if he could not get rid of her any other way. As he watched her she stirred, stretched; her eyes flickered open. Looking at him but recognition was slow in coming. Bewilderment at first, then a nodding of the head. A smile that was no more than a stretching of the lips, an acknowledgment of his presence here. Her legs came together, the thighs pressed tightly; the hand outstretched still. Thirty quid or no go.

  ‘I wish you’d piss off,’ he said.

  ‘I wish I could but you’re keeping me prisoner here. Am I free to go then?’

  He regarded her steadily. ‘So you can call the pigs?’

  ‘No, I’ll just go.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ A sudden change of mood, rising to his feet, advancing on her, stopping a yard from her. ‘You’re trying to trick me. It won’t work.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ A laugh, the thighs opening slightly. ‘But it’ll cost you if you want me.’

  Alan drew himself up to his full height, closed his eyes and experienced that feeling of dizziness again. Something had happened. Something bad … he could not remember. Except that he was starting to get a familiar, pleasant feeling in his lower regions. He opened his eyes; Cindy was lying facing him, legs wide, knees drawn up. Laughing.

  ‘You cow!’ He spat but she didn’t flinch. ‘You’re going to get what you’re asking for. I …’

  There seemed to be a lot of movement outside, doors opening and closing, people hurrying along the concrete walkway; children crying. The funfair was no longer blaring out its deafening music. A holiday camp was always on the move but suddenly there was an atmosphere of urgency. Alan shook his head, tried to clear it. A cold grey light was seeping in through the curtains; which was crazy because it could not be dawn yet. He drew a hand across his sweating forehead, time seemed to have stood still. His whole body ached as though he had been standing here for hours.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he muttered, experienced a feeling of foreboding.

  Cindy was trying to say something but her words were drowned by a sudden hammering on the front door, a pounding that vibrated the woodwork, rattled the opaque glass. A shout from outside, a voice that was muffled yet commanding. ‘Open up. Armed po
lice!’

  Alan froze, turned, could make out a blurred outline through the door pane. Disbelief. Panic. Whirling, running through to the hall, stopping.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he screamed. ‘I’ve got a gun, too!’

  The silhouette disappeared. Oh, Jesus Almighty, the bitch had called the police after all. They’d come armed. And they think I’ve got a gun!

  He dashed through to the kitchen, was relieved that the curtains were still partly closed. On the table were the remains of a snatch meal, an empty can, part of a loaf. And the breadknife; he snatched it up, ran his thumb along the serrated blade, stared as blood dripped to the linoleum floor.

  A weapon, he wielded it, slashed at the air, sprayed blood from his injured thumb up the wall, a scarlet spottling. Cursing, going back through to the bedroom. Cindy was grinning, still offering her body.

  ‘You called the cops, then!’ He stood over her. ‘I shouldn’t have left you, you filthy bitch!’

  ‘No,’ Her expression was serious now, a trace of fear as her lower lip trembled. ‘I didn’t call them, I swear it. Oh, my God, I didn’t, you’ve got to believe me!’

  ‘Well, I don’t. And they’re armed, too. Because I’m holding you hostage. Well, the fucking pigs can have you for all I care. Sell your filthy body to them!’

  Outside they were using a megaphone, distorted words that might have been a fairground gimmick. He heard but didn’t catch what they said, probably something about giving himself up. In a minute, just give me a minute, I’ve something I’ve got to do first.

  ‘I should have screwed you, fucked the arse off you.’ He leaned across the girl on the bed who had drawn herself up into a frightened ball. ‘At least then I’d’ve had something to make it worthwhile.’

  ‘No, please.’ She was white and whispering, trying to edge away from him until the wall behind stopped her. ‘You can have me now. For free.’

  ‘Too late!’ He laughed, drew back his knife arm, plunged it down with every ounce of his exhausted body behind it.

  She screamed as the blade sank into her throat, snapped off. Alan did not try to dodge the jetting arterial blood, stood there and let it spray on to him; watched as she writhed, tried to pull the broken blade free. Convulsing, her movements slowing, her blood saturating the bed and dripping steadily on to the floor.

  He stood there and watched her die, wanted to mock her, to laugh aloud, but for some reason he didn’t. Numbed, not just because of what he had done but because he did not understand. All he knew was that out there police marksmen were waiting for him to give himself up. They could wait, he wasn’t ready yet. If only he could remember … something bad, but it was gone from him.

  Outside it was getting lighter by the minute, streaking in through the carelessly pulled curtains and shafting on to a lifeless blood-washed corpse. Unrecognizable, the head twisted away at an angle from him, the legs drawn right up and closed tightly in a final refusal.

  He said, ‘you bloody cow,’ and turned away, went back into the kitchen. A face peering in through the gap in the curtains was hastily withdrawn, they were shouting into the megaphone again.

  After what seemed hours he heard them coming, the door crashing inwards under the force of some improvised battering ram, shards of glass tinkling on the hard rubber tiles. Two men, they came in fast, pistols at the ready.

  Alan Jay stood there, still holding the snapped-off hilt of the breadknife. They didn’t look like police, something odd about them. Subconscious thinking, irrelevancies. The uniforms were dark grey not navy blue. Headgear like motor-bike crash helmets with the visors down so that the merciless grey eyes behind were magnified.

  ‘You cunt!’ the first one said and fired at point blank range.

  A report that was no louder than that of an air pistol but the weapon bucked in the gloved hand. A force that threw Alan Jay back against the wall, bored a symmetrical bloody hole in the centre of his forehead. Instant death but somehow he kept his feet, leaning back against the wall, several seconds before his body began to slide, the knees buckling and lowering him slowly to the floor. He pitched sideways, rolled over and lay still.

  The second man moved forward, slow deliberate movements, his hand going into his pocket and coming out with a shabby .38 revolver. He knelt down, opened up the inert fingers, slid the weapon into the hand, closed the fingers around it. Then he straightened up, nodded to his companion.

  ‘Good,’ the other grunted, permitted himself a humourless smile. ‘Let’s see what the Scene of Crime blokes make of that! Come on, let’s go.’

  Together they filed out, nodded briefly to an inspector standing by a parked patrol car, hurried on towards an unmarked van at the rear.

  ‘So we cocked it up, good and proper.’ Professor Morton was seated behind the desk in his office, his expression indecipherable to all but the keenest observer. A dejection in the way his shoulders stooped, the lines on his face more prominent than usual. A trace of apprehension in those steely eyes which were fixed on the stocky balding man seated opposite him.

  The man they called ‘Commander’. It might have been a rank or a name, none really knew. A shadowy figure who was reputedly their direct link with the prime minister. The top man. You only met him when there was trouble and even then you had to be high-ranking to be granted an audience. A bland face, rimless glasses, you could have picked out a dozen or more Commanders in the commuter rush hour; business executives, stockbrokers, financiers. You met him but when you tried to recall him in your mind all you saw was a silhouette. The art of human camouflage, one who faded into the background.

  Only his personality lingered; you never forgot that. Softly spoken, it wasn’t just what he said but how he said it. A tongue lashing without raising his voice, emotionless, immovable. But his very presence commanded your respect, unearthed a secret dread. His orders were obeyed implicitly.

  ‘Merely a hitch, an airlock in a water system.’ Commander neither smoked nor fidgeted, no mannerisms by which you remembered him. ‘Unfortunate, certainly, but nothing to worry about unduly. It has all been taken care of. But it must not happen again. Tell me, Morton, why did it happen?’

  ‘A combination of C-551 and cannabis, I guess.’ The professor craved tobacco but it would have to wait. ‘We weren’t to know it was a deadly cocktail until it happened. He killed the Mace girl then returned and murdered his own girlfriend.’

  ‘Did nobody shadow him when he left his chalet?’ An unwavering stare from unblinking eyes.

  ‘That was Jameson’s job. He hadn’t figured on them going on to the island. He couldn’t follow them unseen on the lake so he stayed on the shore. Anywhere else he would have been right on their heels.’

  ‘And what of the Maces?’

  ‘We cannot tell them whilst they are under the influence of C-551. They either wouldn’t believe us or else it would be forgotten in a few minutes. The only alternative is to administer the antidote to bring them out of it.’

  ‘No, leave them. We don’t want to tamper with existing experiments. There’s plenty of time for them to be told afterwards.’

  Morton nodded. ‘Morrison is frantic, thinks this will ruin his bookings for the rest of the season.’

  ‘On the contrary, he will be turning customers away. A double murder, the killer shot by trained police marksmen. They don’t come better on Bergerac. Never fear, everything will be covered up. Sure, the media will splash it on their front pages but a gun was planted on Jay so the inquest will be a formality. It will be forgotten in a week. All the same, we can do without publicity. Tell me, there are drugs being pushed on the camp and that can, as has already been proved, be detrimental to our project. We dare not risk another drug addict. Give me the details on this pusher.’

  ‘I have his file here.’ Morton slid some papers across the desk, watched uneasily as the other read through them.

  ‘Hmm.’ The squat head was raised but the eyes gave nothing away. ‘Paul McNee, two previous convictions. A police job, but I
’m afraid we’ll have to step in. We can’t hang around, particularly as he obviously knows Jay and we don’t want any conflicting evidence, however insignificant, cropping up, do we?’

  ‘We don’t.’ Morton suppressed a shiver. So calculated, he preferred to stick to the scientific side of these experiments. ‘You want us to go ahead with others?’

  ‘But of course.’ There was no incredulity that the matter of abandoning the experiments should even have crossed the other’s mind. ‘We have but scratched the surface yet. Up until now everything has been just too straightforward, Morton. We are looking for more than eccentricities, which is why observation must be stepped up. Jay should have been taken out before he even touched the Mace girl. I think we’ll have Jameson transferred to other duties, subtly of course. A sideways move, a hint of promotion; he’s an excellent man otherwise. We are all allowed one slip-up, provided it is not too serious. The man I have in mind to replace him will be here by tomorrow. His first task is McNee. But don’t concern yourself with our side of it, you carry on with your excellent work. Count this as your slip-up, too. As I said, we are all allowed one, even if it isn’t your fault. That is the penalty you pay for taking on responsibilities, being in the hot seat, as they say.’

  Anthony Morton was sweating long after Commander had left. Mingled praise and rebukes, the other left you to sort them out, interpret them as you would. No bollockings, he hit you harder than that. And the professor began to worry about Ann Stackhouse again; she had come mighty close to the brink, had taken him with her. He prayed that they had now stepped back to safety.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Muliman came to the Paradise Holiday Camp by public transport all the way from London. He had been instructed neither to hire a car nor take a taxi. Buses and trains, particularly during the tourist season, offered anonymity to the traveller. You lost yourself in the crowds, hunched in the corner of a packed carriage and nobody noticed you. You wore what Mr Average wore, you dined where he dined and ate what he ate. Conventional all the way and nobody gave you a second glance.