by Thomas Emson
Aaliyah said, “Yeah? You fucking think so, crybaby? You think they going to say, Hey, you all behaved really cool. Go home and don’t say nothing about what you seen, yeah?”
The hoodie cried. The lad in the baseball hat sobbed, too.
Aaliyah said, “You’re pathetic. You think you’re tough, but you’re pathetic.”
A middle-aged woman in a grey business suit said, “We should pray.”
“Yeah? I been praying all my life and no one’s listening, lady,” said Aaliyah.
“Jesus will listen,” said the woman.
“He ain’t listened to you all your life. Why’s he going to listen now?”
“Because we are in torment.”
“We’re in shit, not in torment.”
The dark-haired man with the scar and the ponytail strode over.
He frowned at them. Aaliyah looked past him. Teresa’s body had been lowered, and two vampires – that’s what they were, no denying – dragged off her carcass. Aaliyah felt sadness for the bride-who’dnever- be and her waiting groom.
But then she thought, Fuck them, now – it’s all about me.
She steeled herself. She guessed the dark-haired man would grab her next. Terror clutched at her heart, and her bladder felt loose. She wanted to cry and scream.
But there was no way she’d die without a fight.
The others wailed and begged as Scarface approached. He saw Aaliyah stare at him, and he leered at her. She wondered if he was a vampire, too. She couldn’t see any fangs in that mouth.
He was sexy, though, and although she’d never dated white guys, she’d fuck him to get out of here.
Her nerves tightened and her muscles tensed. He swung the cage door open and gritted his teeth. He reached out, and grabbed for Aaliyah’s hair. But she sprang forward and bit into his hand. She sank her teeth into the soft bit just between the thumb and the forefinger, and the guy yelled.
The dark-haired woman and the vampires raced over.
Aaliyah bit harder, knowing she didn’t have much time.
Scarface, spitting and shouting, punched her, and stars exploded in front of her eyes. But her jaw clamped tighter on his hand. She tasted blood, warm and coppery. He hit her again, and pain flared in her head. The vampires grabbed her hair, hissing at her. They pulled her off. Blood spouted from the man’s hand. The vampires lapped their tongues at it as it spat from the wound. They threw Aaliyah aside, not interested, going instead for the blood pulsing from the man’s injury.
He kicked one of them away. He yanked the rag that held his hair in a ponytail and waved it at the vampires. They recoiled. “Get away from me, you dirty cunts,” he said, panic making his voice high-pitched.
The dark-haired woman who’d killed Theresa said, “Away, away,” and harried the vampires, her fingers around her collar. They scurried off, hissing.
“The bitch bit me,” said Scarface.
Aaliyah’s vision cleared. The vampires, half-a-dozen of them, lurked a few yards away. They licked their lips. They slavered like dogs waiting for a bone.
The woman said to the man, “Go get that seen to. We don’t want your blood all over the place, they’ll get a taste for it – go.”
He ran off, saying over his shoulder, “That whore, she’s going to die slowly and painfully, tell her that.”
The woman leaned over Aaliyah and Aaliyah said, “You want some, bitch?”
The woman laughed. “You’re feisty.”
Aaliyah said, “Yeah? You’re fucked,” and kicked out.
But the woman dodged the heel. “Hold her down,” she said, and the vampires bounded forward.
The creatures pinned her legs and torso down. Aaliyah fought back, but they were too strong for her. They stank of rotting food, and it almost made her throw up.
“Go ahead, fucking kill me, then,” she said. “Kill me, you bitch.”
Tears streamed down her face. She knew she was going to die, and although she wanted to go like an Amazon, here she was weeping like a baby.
“Ion wants to kill you slowly, and when he means slowly, he means slowly,” said the woman, “he means days of pain like you’ve never known.”
Aaliyah sobbed. “Let him. Bring him on, the fucking gay boy.”
The woman smiled. “No, you’re far too much fun to be meat and carcass. I have a better idea for you, tigress. Throw her in.”
And the vampires hauled her off, her face scratched and bruised, her knees tearing. Her heart raced and blood thundered through her. And she heard the others scream and wail and beg like cowards, and cursed them for being so weak.
Chapter 55
CONFESSIONS.
THEY listened to the news as they headed up the M25 and the news said terror stalked the streets of London.
“They don’t half exaggerate,” said Lithgow from the back of Sassie’s Mini.
The headlines told of death and carnage. Witnesses expressed fear, officials called for calm, analysts spouted bullshit.
Lawton switched off the radio. “I know what it’s like; I saw it,” he said.
It had been difficult getting out of London. Traffic crawled, and armed police carried out checks on vehicles leaving the city.
But Lawton felt good being out of London, felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He glanced across at Sassie, her eyes fixed on the road. He said, “I want to tell you what happened in Basra.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve already seen,” she said.
Lawton glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Lithgow sleeping.
“I don’t want you believing what you hear from people like Crane, from the press.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I didn’t murder an innocent man, Sassie. I didn’t kill an unarmed civilian.”
“Okay,” she said again.
And then Lawton told her.
* * *
Basra, Iraq – November 2004
TWO men stumbled out of the knackered VW. They had backpacks strapped to their bodies. They made their way through the crowd, towards the Shia mosque. Dust rose up as they strode across the road.
Panic spread through the crowd. Kids started to point. Traders started shutting down their stalls.
Lawton ordered the Scimitar to stop. The vehicle jerked to a halt.
He leaped out of the tank, Rabbit and Billy Tell backing him up. He told them what he’d seen and they saw what he saw. They moved quickly, the crowd parting, the crowd pointing and shouting towards the backpackers racing towards the mosque.
Lawton licked his lips. His throat felt like sandpaper. He could hear his pulse throbbing in his ears.
Shouts filled the street. People spilled out of buildings. The backpackers screamed as they headed for the mosque. Worshippers scattered.
Lawton shouted at the backpackers.
One of them stopped, turned to face Lawton, Rabbit, and Billy Tell.
The backpacker was young, late teens, sweat pouring down the creased skin of his face. He bared his teeth and raced towards the soldiers. The crowd screamed and spread. Lawton said, “Shoot him, Rabbit.”
Rabbit fired. The onlookers cowered. Blood sprayed from the backpacker’s head. His body flew backwards and hit the ground. Dust coughed up around his body. He was almost sitting up, the backpack preventing him from lying prone.
Lawton, chasing down the other backpacker, told Rabbit and Billy Tell to disengage to get bomb disposal here – now.
The mosque doors swung shut as the other suicide bomber reached them. He turned to face the street. The worshippers ran about, shouting prayers, calling on their god. Lawton, twenty yards away from the backpacker, shouldered his SA80 and said, “Hands in the air, down on your knees,” and then he said, Down, down, in Arabic.
But the suicide bomber looked up to heaven. He said, “Allah akbar”
– God is great – and held his arms up to the sky. And then he reached into his pocket.
Lawton told him, No – first in English, then in Ara
bic.
The bomber took out a mobile phone. He held it up. He stared at Lawton and grinned. He said, “Come, English animal, come die and watch me go to Paradise as you go to Hell. Come die.”
Lawton stalked him. His throat was dry. The heat was stifling under his body armour. But the armour wouldn’t protect him if the bomber triggered his device. The bomb would blow the doors off the mosque, kill Lawton and anyone else hanging around when they should’ve fucked off.
Lawton, hands sweating on the rifle, kept moving towards the backpacker. The bomber started to pray. He held up the mobile phone.
He was waiting for Lawton and Rabbit and Billy Tell to come close enough. The other two Scimitars in the convoy had unloaded, now, and there would be more troops down here any minute.
The bomber was going to take as many infidels with him as he could.
He stopped praying and opened his eyes. He whipped out a pistol from under his flak jacket and shot an old man cowering at a wall. The old man slumped. Screams filled the air. Someone tried to drag the old man’s body away.
He’s drawing me in, thought Lawton.
Lawton would take him alive if he could.
But these guys weren’t scared of dying and weren’t soft about killing.
The man aimed at Lawton. Lawton fired. The man screeched and his gun hand exploded – blood and bone. The weapon hit the ground.
He still held the mobile phone in his other hand. He went stumbling down an alley and Lawton started after him.
From behind someone said, “Be careful, sarge, cover’s coming.”
Lawton followed the bomber, and the bomber stumbled, his rucksack heavy on his back. He fell on his backside. Blood pulsed from where his hand should’ve been. He scuttled backwards, kicking up dust.
A group of children came up the alley. Lawton waved them back, but they kept coming. They pointed at Lawton, knew they’d get sweets, football stickers. The bomber heard them, looked over his shoulder.
He looked back at Lawton and laughed.
The bomber said, “They will go with you, English animal. The apostates.”
He raised the mobile phone. He started chanting his prayers.
Lawton said, No, no, no, put it down, put the fucking thing down.
The kids raced up the alley, kicking up dust.
The man’s thumb hovered over the call button. He prayed, a babble flooding out of his mouth. The kids kept coming. The dust blinded Lawton.
The bomber screamed, went to press the call button.
Lawton shot him through the head.
Chapter 56
BATTLE LINES.
London Gateway Service Area – 10.38 a.m., February 10
THEY stopped to fuel up. Lithgow snored in the back seat. Sassie filled the car while Lawton went into the store to pay and stock up on food. He came back with crisps and pasties and chocolate and water.
She fired up the Mini and guided it out of the service area, joining the M1.
Lawton waited for her to say something, but she didn’t so he said, “Do you understand why I did it?”
She said, “I don’t – agree with the war.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “Do you understand why I did what I did?”
“I – he – he was fighting for what he thought was right.”
“He was going to walk into a mosque and kill innocent people, and then he was going to kill a bunch of kids.”
Her face went red and she said, “What? Like the Americans don’t do that? And our army? Like they haven’t killed innocent people in this war?”
Lawton bristled. He said, “You can’t see the difference?”
“Killing’s killing.”
“Okay,” he said, “we blow up a weapons dump that Saddam – that nice man who murdered thousands of his own citizens – built next to a school. The school gets blown up, and ten children die. We didn’t target the children, Sassie. And it’s not a good thing they died.”
“No, it’s not.”
“That man I killed was going to walk into a mosque and, on purpose, kill innocent people – on purpose, Sassie – ” He sighed. The rage faded. There was no way he could win.
If you’d not been in a war, you’d never understand – Lawton knew that. The Major was right when he said that most people don’t live in the grey place where soldiers do, that place where right and wrong, good and bad, sometimes doesn’t exist.
Lawton was angry with Sassie for being so simplistic. He was angry that she still accused him of killing.
Then she said, “I don’t blame you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re just a tool.”
He didn’t respond. He let his temper pale. He knew that he’d always be alone in this. Only those who’d been in the same place would understand. Guys like Rabbit, like Billy Tell.
Staring out the window he said, “Sometimes we have to fight, you know. Sometimes we have to go to war.”
“I just think fighting’s wrong.”
He said, “You didn’t think that the other night when you drove that piece of wood through that thing’s heart.”
She said nothing. Lithgow snorted in the back seat. The M1 whipped by.
* * *
Two hours later at the Norton Canes Service Area on the M6:
Lawton drank coffee at Costa; Sassie browsed the magazines at WH
Smith; Lithgow sat with his feet up on the table next to Lawton, crunching his way through a packet of boiled sweets.
Lawton got up and walked out of the cafeteria, over to WH Smith.
He stood behind Sassie. She was flicking through a copy of Marie Claire. He said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Without turning, she said, “Oh yes. How many more people have you killed, then?”
“I’ve killed plenty, but I’m not apologizing.”
She spun round, fire in her eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a moment. And then he said, “Jenna came round.”
She creased her brow. Lawton realized how strange this matterhttp:// www.snowbooks.com/ebooks 228 of-fact statement sounded: he’d just said that his dead ex-girlfriend dropped by his flat.
Sassie shook her head and her mouth opened and closed. Lawton rubbed his neck and looked away.
He said, “She was – wasn’t alive, Sassie. She wasn’t her. She was – something else. Like those things in the house.”
He told her what Jenna had said about not feeling anything, only hunger, only animal instincts.
He said, “And she said she needed blood. They survive by drinking blood.”
Sassie reached up and touched his throat. She tugged down the collar of his shirt. Her skin paled and her eyes widened and in a voice gravelled by fear she said, “No, no.”
Chapter 57
OLD SOLDIER.
THE block of flats loomed over the estate. The old man lived on the second floor. Lawton smelled urine as they climbed the stairs. Graffiti plastered the walls. Shouts echoed along the walkways.
“This is lovely,” said Sassie, grimacing as she scanned her surroundings.
“Yeah, a country fit for heroes,” said Lawton.
She said, “A man his age should not be living in a place like this.”
Tom Wilson’s granddaughter, Margaret Wilks, let them in. They’d phoned ahead, Lawton saying he was a former King’s Regiment man.
Tom Wilson’s Manchesters had become the King’s Regiment in the 1950s.
Margaret Wilks had been reluctant to let them see her grandfather.
But Lawton heard the old man shout, Who’s there, Meggie? and when she explained, the old man said, A Kingsman, eh.
“He’s very frail. He’s almost a hundred-and-six, you know,” said Mrs.
Wilks, a blonde in her mid-fifties. She led them through the hallway into the living room. The flat was neat and tidy. A television was on but turned down, and the old man sat with headphones on, watching the set. He watched Saving Private Ryan, the opening scene depicting the No
rmandy landings. Lawton knew those twenty-four minutes on screen were about as realistic as film could get in representing what war was like.
Tom Wilson was thin and small, his skin covered in liver spots and wrinkles. But his eyes were wide and sharp, staring at the screen.
Mrs. Wilks went over to him saying, “Granddad,” but the old man was fixed on the film.
She lifted the headphones off the old man’s head and Lawton heard the gunfire and the shouts spilling out of the television. He felt a pressure in his chest. Those sounds weren’t special effects to him. He’d heard them for real, seen their consequences.
Tom Wilson had as well.
The old man’s eyes narrowed and they scanned his three visitors and then they settled on Lawton. “You’re the Kingsman,” said Wilson.
Lawton felt a rush of pride. He went to Wilson and took the veteran’s hand, introducing himself as Former Staff Sergeant Jake Lawton, King’s Regiment, “proud to meet you, sir”.
Wilson gestured for them to sit. Lawton took the armchair next to the old soldier, Lithgow and Sassie huddling on the two-seater settee.
Wilson asked his granddaughter for tea, and she went through to the kitchen.
“I read about you,” said Wilson, eyes on the film. “I got my greatgrand- daughter to look you up on this internet thing – like a library the size of the world. All manner of rubbish in there.”
“And did she find me?”
“Yes, she found you.” Wilson turned to look at Lawton. “And I don’t believe a word of it, son. I know what war’s like. Not like those poncey journalists.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Wilson flapped a hand. “Ah, don’t call me, sir. I made sergeant like you did. The name’s Tom and I’ll call you Jake. Is that right?”
Jake smiled. “Yes, that’s right. And those are my friends, Dr. Melissa Rae and Fraser Lithgow.”
“I know why you’re here. I’ve seen the news from London, read the papers.” He glanced over at a copy of The Sun with the headline “Hell” plastered across the front page. “How did you find me?”
