Heartless Reaction

by Dawn Marsanne

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HEARTLESS REACTION

  First edition. October 11, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Dawn Marsanne.

  Written by Dawn Marsanne.

  HEARTLESS REACTION

  by

  Dawn Marsanne

  For Jonathan

  and my loving family,

  those around me and those who have passed.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Author’s note

  Prologue

  The knife was poised over the man’s hand which was held down in a vice-like grip over the tabletop.

  ‘Tell me! Who’s supplying your fucking gear?’

  ‘Nobody, you’ve got it all wrong!’

  ‘So why ain’t you getting as much from us? Eh?’

  ‘Business is a bit quiet, that’s all.’

  ‘This is your final chance. Ready Tyler?’

  ‘Oh, yes, ready as always.’

  ‘Look, I’ll get some more gear off you as well, just give me a bit of time.’

  ‘You ain’t got time. Last chance. Tyler has sharpened his knife real good. He’s doing you a favour. You wouldn’t want him to spit on it first would you?’

  Tyler laughed cruelly. Gathered some spit in his mouth then ejected it onto the floor.

  ‘See, he likes you!’

  ‘OK, OK, I’ll tell you. Tomorrow night. Outside Persford. It’s on my phone. Now let me go, please!’

  ‘What’s the code?’

  ‘Ten twelve.’

  The man opened up the text messages. ‘Which one?’

  ‘The last thread, under SB.’

  ‘Well, that’s very interesting.’ He showed the message to Tyler.

  ‘Got it,’ he said.

  The man nodded at Tyler who raised his knife and brought it down quickly. The screams were blood-curdling. The tortured man writhed in agony. Tears poured from his eyes and he collapsed on the floor. Next to him lay the tip of his left little finger.

  ‘See you around. They might be able to fix that if you hurry up and get to hospital,’ said Tyler. He wiped his knife on the man’s T-shirt. ‘Wrap it in a packet of peas. That should help.’

  ‘Good job, Ty,’ said his master as they left their victim unconscious and bleeding.

  Chapter 1

  Kenny Salveson felt dreadful. He had clearly picked up the vomiting bug from his children and now he was on his way home early from the night-shift at a courier distribution centre. As he drove along the quiet roads, he remembered with embarrassment the incident which had brought his work to an abrupt end. The illness had started without warning. One minute he was scanning the barcodes on a batch of parcels and the next he was sprinting towards the toilets feeling violently sick. He had successfully dodged fellow employees but seconds away from the sanctuary of a toilet cubicle, he projectile vomited his stomach contents down the entrance door.

  Ignoring his mishap, he had barrelled through the door and just managed to get his trousers down before a stream of foul-smelling diarrhoea cascaded into the toilet. He had been so keen to flush away the noxious material that he had stood up too quickly, rendering him dizzy. As he hid in the cubicle waiting to regain his balance, he listened to muffled voices outside in the corridor and wondered which of his unfortunate colleagues had discovered his offensive discharge.

  That had been thirty minutes ago and now he was driving home, praying that he could get back before he had another bout of sickness and or diarrhoea. On the passenger seat was a plastic bag containing more vomit which he’d produced about ten minutes after setting off. He had his window open against the disgusting smell and the fresh evening air was helping slightly.

  Kenny lived in Breckton, about ten miles from Persford, the two towns being separated by farmland and countryside. The roads were quiet at this time of night which helped what had turned into a race against time or a race against bodily functions. Worryingly, his stomach was starting to churn again and he could feel movement down his lower digestive tract.

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ he cursed to himself. ‘Please, please not again.’

  He knew that his bowels were getting ready to expel their contents and it was hard to clench his rectum against the inevitable whilst driving. If the latest threatened issuance was as bad as the last, he would end up completely soiling the upholstery on the driver’s seat and it would be a devil to clean.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he shouted appropriately. He pulled on to the grass verge, left his lights on and pressed the hazard warning button. He frantically unbuttoned his seatbelt and without locking the car, ran across the verge towards some trees. If possible, he could gain some seclusion and escape the indignity of being spotted by traffic which would doubtless increase in volume at the precise moment his trousers were down.

  About ten paces towards the deeper vegetation he realised that he could go no further. He pushed down his trousers which he had been undoing as he ran, tugged down his boxer shorts and squatted as the diarrhoea flowed noisily accompanied by loud bouts of wind. He remained crouched for a few minutes as another wave of fluid poured out. He was amazed at how much was contained in his colon, surely now it must be completely empty? At least empty enough to reach the sanctity of his house and a comfortable toilet. He had no tissues to clean himself but he didn’t care, he could shower when he got home.

  Kenny used the torch on his mobile to avoid treading in his faeces which were liberally coating the greenery. Recoiling from the disgusting matter he pulled up his lower garments and started to walk back to his car, scanning with his torch for any holes or obstacles. Fortunately, the recent dry spell meant that the verge wasn’t muddy which was the only positive aspect of the evening from Kenny’s point of view. As he neared his car, the edge of his torch beam illuminated something in a slight hollow in the grass verge about fifty feet away. It appeared, to Kenny, to be some discarded clothes or bedding.

  ‘Typical,’ he muttered. Fly-tipping had been on t
he local news recently and it was costing the council thousands each year to collect it. He got back into his car and prepared to pull away when something attracted his attention. The window was still open and he could hear the sounds of the countryside but this didn’t sound like a call from the animal kingdom. He was momentarily distracted as a lone fox scurried across the road in search of a meal.

  He listened again. It was definitely a cry and the more he focused on it, the more it sounded like a person in distress. He wondered whether his mind was playing tricks on him, after all, he wasn’t exactly feeling on top form. He got out of the car and strained his ears. As he wandered in the approximate direction of the sound it became louder. Though only faint, he was sure he could hear the words, “help, help.”

  Once again he switched on his torch and swept the beam across the lane from side to side, now he could see the outline of a person. Suddenly he was gripped with fear. Had someone been attacked? Was it safe to investigate?

  ‘Ahhhh,’ came another moan. Someone was definitely injured.

  Kenny decided it would be a strange place to lure a passer-by into a trap, after all, how likely was it for anyone to stop at this time of night. He walked quickly towards the source of the cries and discovered the victim. The young male wore dark clothing and had clearly been the subject of a vicious attack. His face was bleeding and a dark pool was spreading out from underneath him, soaking into the muddy track.

  Kenny leant down towards the man. ‘I’ve found you, mate. Hang on in there. I’ll phone for an ambulance.’

  He stood and made the emergency call hoping that he would have reception out here in the countryside.

  ‘Which service do you require?’

  ‘Ambulance, police. I’ve found someone seriously injured. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Your location, sir.’

  ‘I’m about halfway along the road from Persford to Breckton. I’ve just been past the sign for Standham Village. I’m by a track to a farmer’s field.’

  ‘OK, sir, the ambulance is on its way. Can you give any other details of your location?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he jogged back towards the beginning of the track, ‘it’s Foal Lane. Also!’ he shouted, ‘my car is on the verge, I stopped to take a ..’ he paused, ‘I stopped as I needed to relieve myself.’

  ‘What is the make and number of your car sir?’

  ‘It’s a white Ford Focus, GF59 JMP.’

  ‘Thank you. Your name sir?’

  ‘Kenny Salveson. Oh, God, the guy is moaning.’

  ‘Can you make sure that his airways are clear, sir? Sir, sir? Can you hear me?’

  He leant down and felt the injured man’s neck. He could feel a weak pulse. He realised he’d knelt in the blood as his knee felt wet. He suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he murmured as once more he felt bile and vomit rising up his gullet. He quickly turned away and vomited again. He felt cold and clammy as he sat on the grass, the operator’s voice in the background as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He put his head between his knees and willed the ambulance to arrive. Kenny’s dreadful evening had just got worse and worse.

  **

  Ron Radford was unable to sleep due to a pain in his chest which had started as a slight discomfort and was persisting despite taking some antacid tablets. He couldn’t get comfortable and decided to get up and go downstairs. As he carefully climbed out of bed, his fiancée next to him, Maureen Welch, stirred.

  ‘Ron? Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Two thirty, I think.’

  ‘Have you had any sleep? ‘I’ve sensed you being restless for a while.’

  ‘It’s this blasted indigestion. Can’t shift it. I think I’ll go downstairs, perhaps some tea will help.’

  ‘Oh, no, again? It’s happening more often.’

  ‘I’ll have to get some better indigestion medicine. Those chalk tablets are no good.’

  ‘I’ll go and make you a drink, you stay in bed,’ said Maureen. ‘Do you want me to rub your chest gently, perhaps it’s some trapped wind, I might be able to release it?’

  ‘It’s too painful,’ replied Ron, ‘but I’ll try some tea.’

  Maureen was heading down to the kitchen when she heard Ron cry out, ‘Ahh, shit!’

  She rushed back into the bedroom. ‘Ron? What was that?’

  ‘I’m OK, just a bit worse. God, I don’t know what’s caused this. I’ve never had it so bad before.’

  ‘Lie back, let me arrange those pillows for you,’ she said. ‘That’s better. I won’t be long.’

  Ron closed his eyes. His face looked pained. She ran down to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. She was becoming increasingly worried about his indigestion. It wasn’t as if they’d had a heavy meal and they had eaten at 7 p.m. so it should have passed through his system now. He’d not even had a whisky nightcap for a few nights. In the interests of speed, she just put a teabag in the cup and poured in the boiling water. It only needed to be left for ten seconds or so and after adding a dash of milk she headed back upstairs.

  ‘Here you are, it’s a bit hot but sip it slowly.’

  ‘Thanks, love. It’s feeling a bit better actually.’

  ‘Well, we are off to the doctor tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ groaned Ron. ‘It’s not that bad. Besides, it’s so difficult to get an appointment.’

  ‘Didn’t you say you used to see a doctor privately?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It was worth paying and I could see him anytime but he’s retired now. I go to the ordinary medical centre now, the one near the tennis club. The next nearest private doctor was twenty miles away and I couldn’t be bothered.’

  ‘You mean River View? That one?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve always found them very good there. Dr Evans is very nice.’

  ‘Hmmh,’ was all Ron could be bothered to reply.

  Maureen wasn’t going to let Ron dodge an appointment. The recent episodes could be the start of something more sinister and they needed investigating.

  Chapter 2

  After about fifteen minutes, an ambulance accompanied by two police patrol cars approached at speed and came to an abrupt halt. Upon hearing the sirens, Kenny Salveson had gone to the main road to stand by his car. He directed the emergency services to the injured man. Whilst he’d been waiting he had wandered around the grassy area and had once again stumbled upon the bundle of discarded clothing which to his horror he discovered was another male. The victim was face down in a slight hollow but by the light of his torch, Kenny could the back of his head. Kenny had bravely felt for a pulse but found none.

  ‘There’s a guy over there,’ he said to the uniformed officer. ‘He’s dead. I hadn’t seen him when I made the emergency call. I thought someone had dumped some clothing.’

  ‘OK, sir, stand back. We’ll take it from here. Please go and sit in the first patrol car. A detective will be here soon and will want to speak to you.’

  ‘OK, mate,’ said Kenny. He had texted his wife but she hadn’t replied. No doubt she was asleep. Fortunately, his bowels seemed to be settling down now and he’d not been sick for about half an hour. He realised he would need to tell the police that the vomit and diarrhoea belonged to him.

  The ambulance crew quickly loaded the injured man on to a stretcher and very soon the victim would be on his way to hospital. Kenny could see headlights from another car and the dark coloured Ford Mondeo parked up just in front of the row of vehicles. The detective strode purposely over to the uniformed officers securing the site with blue and white police tape and one pointed at the patrol car which was Kenny’s temporary refuge.

  Kenny climbed out of the car and found himself looking up to the newcomer who was at least six inches taller with a lean physique, characteristic of a basketball player.

  ‘Evening sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Andy Walters. Can you tell me briefly what happened and what you found?’

>   Kenny began to relay the events of the evening including the embarrassing details of his illness. He could see that the uniformed police had by now approached the dead body and were erecting a cover over him to preserve the scene. He’d watched enough violent crime dramas on TV but never believed he would ever be caught up in one himself.

  Another car arrived and Andy Walters turned around to see his colleague, Inspector Mike Harris who walked over and introduced himself to Kenny.

  Andy briefly explained the circumstances to his colleague who nodded his agreement.

  ‘Mr Salveson,’ said Mike, ‘we will need you to come down to the station at some point to make a formal statement. As you were driving along the road can you remember if you saw any other cars driving particularly fast in either direction?’

  ‘No, nothing, the road was very quiet. I hardly saw any traffic. I saw a couple of lorries but that was about it, sorry.’

  ‘You’ve been very helpful sir. Are you OK?’ He’d seen Kenny grab hold of the car door handle as if to steady himself. Mike automatically reached out a hand towards the witness but realised that if he fainted they would have to let him slide down the side of the car to the floor. Kenny appeared to weigh at least eighteen stones, several stones too many for his average height.

  A wave of nausea swept over Kenny again and before he could answer, he felt the vomit rising up his gullet once more. He rushed past the detective to the other side of the road and retched. ‘Jesus, fuck, not again,’ he said to himself. This was the most awful illness. His stomach muscles were starting to ache from the action of heaving his guts up. He squatted down for a few moments as he felt dizzy again.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mike, ‘he’s in a bad way.’

  DS Walters wandered across the road. ‘Look, I think you need to get off home. We have your details. Do you think you can drive safely? I can always get someone to take you back?’

  ‘I should be OK now, it’s not far. I can’t have much more to bring up.’

  ‘You have quite a lot of blood on you from the victim. The forensic guys can give you some emergency clothing, we’d like to keep your trousers and jacket.’