Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  Scott rolled onto his back, the.357 now in his hand. He fired upwards, twice.

  The first bullet blasted Plummer's nose off, obliterating the fleshy appendage, which dissolved in an explosion of blood.

  He screamed in agony but the sound was cut short as the second hollow tip bullet hit him below the chin, tearing upwards into his head, through his brain and finally bursting from the top of his skull, lifting him off his feet.

  His head looked as if someone had place an explosive charge inside it. The entire cranial cavity seemed to detonate, blood and brain spattering the ceiling, spraying everything within a foot or so.

  His wig was blown clear, flying off to one side like a flattened cat.

  Plummer tottered for interminable seconds, his bald dome open to the air, portions of his brain hanging from the riven cavity, blood jetting madly into the air. Then he fell forward across the sofa, his body sliding to the floor, crimson spreading in a pool around him.

  ***

  Carol could only stand mesmerised. Her body shook, her nostrils were filled with the smell of cordite and death, her eyes had been blinded by the muzzle flashes, her ears rang from the thunderous discharges.

  She looked at Scott, then at Plummer.

  Scott. Plummer.

  Scott.

  She moved towards him, noticed that his chest was rising and falling slowly. She could hear a soft, wet sound. It was Scott's breath wheezing through the hole in his lung. The place was drenched with blood - floor, ceiling, walls.

  She felt the warmth beneath her bare feet, felt a jellied lump of matter between her toes and almost vomited when she saw it was part of Plummer's brain. She stepped back and looked down at Scott once again.

  He was lying on his back, his eyes half-open.

  Carol swallowed hard as she saw the wounds, the one in his chest gaping, a portion of bone shining through the pulped flesh and the bright blood.

  She knelt beside him, ignoring the blood that had soaked into the carpet around him.

  'Jim,' she whispered, touching his cheek with the back of her hand.

  He could see the tears in her eyes.

  'Oh God, Jim, I'm sorry,' she breathed, 'I'm so sorry.'

  He tried to breathe but couldn't.

  Tried to speak. Couldn't.

  Blood ran over his lips and down his chin.

  'Jim,' she repeated, touching his face once more, stroking it as a lover might touch a partner.

  His eyes narrowed too.

  Fucking bitch.

  'I'm sorry,' she said again.

  You betrayed me.

  His own eyes were moist now, both from pain and emotion.

  And fear?

  He could almost feel death touching him.

  'I didn't want this to happen,' she told him, still stroking his face. 'I'm so sorry.'

  Tears were coursing down her cheeks.

  She lowered her head, as if in prayer, her hands resting on her thighs.

  Scott raised the.357 and pointed it at her head. Carol had her eyes closed now.

  Bitch.

  He thumbed back the hammer.

  It was then that she looked up.

  The roar of the single shot was deafening.

  ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHT

  The sound of the discharge reverberated inside the apartment for what seemed like an eternity.

  It mingled with Carol's scream.

  She had seen Scott lift the gun and point it at her, their eyes locked for precious seconds, then she had seen his head burst as the 9mm bullet had hit it, pulverising his forehead.

  Frank Gregson stood in the doorway, the Taurus automatic still aimed at Scott, as if he feared the man would move again.

  Carol looked at Scott, then at the policeman.

  Tears were still coursing down her cheeks.

  'He would have killed you,' Gregson said, walking into the room, glancing at Plummer's body. 'Just like he killed the others.' He looked at Plummer once more. 'He was a madman. He wanted revenge.' Gregson nudged Plummer's body with the toe of his shoe. 'He did me a favour, though. Getting rid of Plummer.' The DI smiled. 'I just didn't want you to get hurt.'

  'What difference would it have made to you?' she wanted to know.

  'A lot of difference,' he said, his smile fading. 'I care what happens to you very much. I have done ever since I first arrested you.' He sat down on the edge of the chair, looking down at her. 'That's why I called you.'

  Carol looked vague.

  'What are you talking about?' she wanted to know. 'The phone calls,' he said. 'I called you at your home, at work, even here.'

  'Oh God,' she murmured.

  'I hated to think of you with men like Plummer and Scott,' he said. 'You deserved better than that. I wanted you to know I was watching you. I wouldn't have let anything happen to you.'

  'You were the anonymous caller,' she blurted, everything now beginning to drop into place with appalling clarity.

  'I didn't just ring you,' he said. 'Who do you think tipped Plummer off about that cocaine shipment?'

  'But why?' she wanted to know.

  'Plummer was too powerful. The gang's in London had taken over,' Gregson said angrily. 'They were running things. Men like Plummer and Connelly. Scum. Criminals and fucking murderers.' He spat out the words vehemently. 'I wanted a gang war, I wanted them to wipe each other out. To save us the trouble of trying to arrest them. Getting them to court on charges we knew would never stick. That's what we've been doing for years. The police are fighting a losing battle against men like Plummer and Connelly. I knew the only way was to use force but I can't do that, my responsibility to the community says I can't. I couldn't stop them. So I realised I'd have to make them stop each other. Kill each other. Wipe each other off the face of the fucking earth. That's why I tipped Plummer off about Connelly's shipment; I knew he'd take it because he was greedy. I knew if he took it Connelly would never stand for it. I knew there would be war, and there would have been. I would have won. The fucking law would have won for a change.' He sucked in a deep breath. 'Well, now it's all over. Now you're not tied to him anymore. You're free.'

  'Am I supposed to thank you?' she said softly.

  'Perhaps,' he said, smiling thinly.

  'Why did you have to do this to Jim?' she wanted to know.

  'Plummer set him up, not me.'

  'And if Plummer hadn't?'

  Gregson shrugged.

  'Then I'd have got rid of him some other way,' he said.

  'You're insane,' she said quietly.

  'The whole fucking world is insane,' he said wearily.

  'What about me? What happens to me now? You've told me everything. I know about you and what you've done. You're the evil one. You would have let dozens of men kill each other. You let Scott die for no reason. And I know it all.'

  'Who's going to believe you?' he said, smiling.

  'No one,' she said quietly.

  'You're mine when I want you now,' Gregson told her.

  'And there isn't a thing you can do about it.' He smiled.

  'No,' she said. 'I suppose you're right. No one's going to believe me, are they?'

  'You're mine, Carol,' he said mockingly.

  'I don't have a choice, do I?'

  'No,' he told her.

  She picked up the.357 lying nearby, steadied herself and fired twice.

  Both bullets hit Gregson in the chest. As he fell she got to her feet and put two more into him.

  The hammer finally slammed down on an empty chamber.

  Carol continued to pull the trigger, looking down at the motionless, bloodied corpse of the policeman.

  'All right, drop it.'

  The voice boomed through the flat as the first of the armed policemen entered, pistols trained on Carol. She smiled thinly and dropped the gun.

  'Jesus Christ,' one of the men murmured, looking round at the carnage.

  Carol felt strong hands grab her. She felt lifeless, unable to move; only her eyes, it seemed, were functioning.
She looked down at Gregson then at Scott.

  Words drifted to her through a haze that seemed to have enveloped her brain. It was as if she were watching herself from outside, through other eyes. The words continued;

  '… four dead…'

  '… Maybe she killed them all…'

  '… Tell his wife…' Two of the men were kneeling beside Gregson, checking for any signs of life.

  One of them looked up at Carol. This time, the words did seem to penetrate the haze.

  'Shooting a policeman,' he said angrily. 'You'll get life for this.'

  Carol looked across at Scott's dead body.

  'You'll get life for this,' she heard again as she was ushered out of the room.

  '… life…'

  She smiled thinly.

  ONE HUNDRED AND NINE

  The needle on the petrol gauge was touching empty, Finn noticed with alarm. Nevertheless he kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator of the Citroen, glancing up ahead to see, to his relief, that Dexter too was slowing down.

  There was a road of a kind up ahead, a badly tarmacked track that separated the fields from a large house built of dark stone.

  Dexter was guiding the Sierra up the short driveway of this house.

  Finn saw the doctor clamber out of the car and head for the front door, letting himself in, slamming the door behind him.

  Finn screeched up the drive behind him and stood on the brakes. He ran to the front door and banged on it several times, shouting Dexter's name. When there was no answer he turned and looked into the Sierra, noticing that Dexter had left the keys hanging from the ignition. Finn pulled open the door and dropped the keys into his pocket, then made his way slowly to the side of the house.

  He found a pathway leading down the side of -the building, its entrance guarded by a carefully cut arch of privet. Finn pushed open the gate and walked through, moving briskly around to the back.

  The large house towered above the DS as he peered through windows into the kitchen then, moving along, into what he took to be a study of some kind. As he passed the kitchen door he tried the handle but found that it was locked. A long, immaculately kept garden stretched out behind the house.

  He saw several objects lying on the lawn.

  Toys.

  There was a doll and a small yellow ball. A skipping rope.

  Finn picked up the doll, looking into its lifeless eyes for a moment, then dropped it back onto the grass and headed back towards the kitchen door.

  There were panels of glass in it.

  He broke one with his elbow then reached through and turned the key in the lock, stepping inside.

  He called Dexter's name as he moved through towards the sitting room.

  'Give it up, Dexter,' he shouted. 'There's nowhere else to run now.' He moved through the sitting room. 'If it isn't me it'll be someone else. I've only got to make one call and this place will be swarming with uniforms in less than five minutes.'

  He moved out into the hall.

  'Don't make things any worse,' he called. 'Chuck it in, now.'

  A sound above him.

  Finn looked up towards the landing.

  The stairs were directly ahead of him. To his left was the door of the study, to the right the front door.

  Finn wondered why Dexter hadn't just continued driving in the first place, why…

  Another noise from upstairs.

  … Why not escape? Why come here?

  He began to climb the stairs, one hand trailing along the bannister.

  Why come here?

  He was half-way up the stairs now, glancing around, his eyes always returning to the head of the flight.

  Another ten steps and he'd be there.

  He could hear the sound of his blood roaring in his ears.

  'Dexter,' he called.

  Silence.

  'There's no way out,' he continued.

  Movement.

  As Finn reached the top of the stairs, Dexter appeared from one of the room.

  He had a double-barrelled shotgun levelled at the policeman.

  'That's no answer,' Finn said, his eyes drawn to the yawning barrels of the Purdey. if you kill me, you make it even worse for yourself.'

  Besides which, I don't want to die, you fucking maniac.

  'This gun has been in my family for three generations,' Dexter told him conversationally.

  'Why don't you just put it down, then we'll talk,' Finn said, wondering if his skin looked as pale and cold as it felt.

  'The experiments at the prison, they would have worked,' Dexter said. 'They had worked.'

  'There's a lot of dead people who are lying around to contradict that argument, Dexter.'

  'It did work. It can work,' he insisted. 'I made it work.'

  He snapped his fingers, the barrel still aimed at Finn.

  The DS heard movement from behind Dexter, from the room he had his back to.

  'Come out,' Dexter said, turning his head slightly, his eyes never leaving Finn.

  A figure moved onto the landing beside him.

  'Oh, dear Christ,' murmured Finn, his eyes widening as he studied the features of the newcomer.

  It was a woman; at least he thought it was. The short hair made it difficult to tell at first, and the voluminous nightdress managed to conceal any shape convincingly. Perhaps she had once been pretty. Finn could only guess. If she had, those days were long gone. The skin was the colour of rancid butter and hardly an inch of flesh on the face was not disfigured by scars, welts or stitches. The forehead had been worst affected, the hair shaved back almost to the top of the head, criss-crossed by stitching, bruises and half-healed wounds, some of which had scabbed over. Others were only purple knots where skin had begun to form but had been picked away.

  Finn shook his head.

  'Jesus Christ,' he muttered under his breath. 'What is it?'

  'There was a car accident,' Dexter explained, 'in January 1976. At times it seems as if it was only yesterday, other times it seems like centuries ago. She was taken to hospital, but they couldn't do anything for her. The brain damage was massive. I worked in an asylum, then. They brought her there to see if I could help. I think they would have been happy if she'd just been locked away, but I didn't want that.'

  Finn noticed that the figure next to Dexter was holding a doll like the one that lay on the lawn outside. She was prodding the glass eyes.

  'I knew I could do something. They said she was violent. The brain damage had caused some kind of psychosis. My colleague and I experimented on her. Her and a number of others. The others died, but she responded. I've looked after her ever since, here at this house.'

  Finn was breathing deeply, his gaze moving from the figure then back to the shotgun.

  'You would have been kinder letting her die,' he said, I his voice a hoarse whisper.

  'No,' Dexter said, shaking his head. 'I wouldn't let her die. Never.' There was a note of anger in his voice as he looked at the policeman. 'Not my own daughter.'

  Finn swallowed hard.

  The woman smiled at Dexter, streams of mucus running from her mouth, hanging from her lips like thick, elongated tears.

  'Daddy,' she slurred.

  Finn clenched his teeth together until his jaws ached.

  'When I'm gone there'll be no one to care for her,' Dexter said. 'No one.'

  'Daddy,' she whined in metallic voice.

  'I won't leave her,' the doctor said.

  With that he spun round, aiming the shotgun at his daughter's head.

  'No,' roared Finn.

  The sound was lost beneath the blast as Dexter fired.

  She dropped like a stone, the doll falling from her grasp. Blood spattered the walls behind. Finn saw fragments of brain and bone dripping from the ceiling.

  He lunged towards Dexter, who spun the shotgun in his grasp, bit down hard on the barrels he'd stuck in his mouth and pulled the other trigger.

  The top of his head erupted like a bloody volcano as the blast carried mo
st of his skull away.

  He fell backwards, sprawled across the legs of his daughter, the Purdey falling with a thump.

  'Oh Jesus,' Finn murmured, holding one hand to his mouth, gazing at each body in turn. The air smelt of death.

  The DS picked up the doll the girl had dropped.

  Girl? Woman? God alone knew how old she was. And God had long ago tired of watching over this particular wretch.

  Finn held the doll in his hands, looking into its cold eyes, then dropped it.

  As it hit the floor he heard a whirring sound followed by one word, a metallic whine:

  'Daddy.'

  He turned and walked away, heading for the stairs, for the phone.

  The word echoed in his ears. In his mind.

  'Daddy.'

  He who considers more deeply knows that, whatever his acts and judgements may be, he is always wrong…

  -Nietzsche

  You can't win. You can't break even and you can't even get out of the game.

  -Ginsberg's Law

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: 598cd64e-90a6-4b3b-a6c5-647b70b1f4f1

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 4.10.2013

  Created using: calibre 1.5.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  Shaun Hutson

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