Without Conscience

by David Stuart Davies

  Harryboy jumped in the driving seat and revved up the engine before turning the car round and then lurching off at speed. ‘I gotta dump this motor now. It’s too hot. That’s another job for tomorrow,’ he said matter-of-factly, as he turned into the Old Kent Road.

  Rachel closed her eyes, her forehead resting against the cold glass of the side window, her world collapsing around her. In the darkness, she could see the dead face of the young policeman with the dark red, bloody third eye staring back at her accusingly.

  EIGHT

  Peter’s attempt to reach London proved more difficult than he imagined it would be.

  He had used most of his pocket money to pay for the bus fare to Exeter and so his plan was to sneak on to a train to London and hide from the ticket collector in the lavatory. At Exeter station, he checked on the train times. He was in luck: the next London train was in thirty minutes. He bought a cup of tea and a small packet of rich tea biscuits in the buffet bar and then sat at a little table nervously, not daring to look around him in case someone asked him what he was doing there, why he wasn’t at school and why he had treated Mr and Mrs Booth so badly by running away. At last the tannoy announced that the passenger train for Euston was ready for boarding and would depart from Platform 3 in ten minutes. He gulped down the last of his tea and bought a platform ticket before making his way towards Platform 3. His heart sank as he saw that there were two men in railway uniforms checking the tickets before passengers were allowed down on to the platform.

  He had to think fast. He really didn’t want to miss this train. He wasn’t sure how long it would be before Mrs Booth realized that he had done a bunk and got the police looking out for him. The thought of being dragged back to the village and having to go to that school again filled him with dread.

  He must catch this train.

  But how?

  What would the great comic book hero Tiger Blake do in this situation? Well, he would probably just shoot his way onto the train and make the driver take him to London at gun point, but, really, if he had to go under cover and not be discovered, he’d have to do something more subtle.

  A minute later with a rough strategy sketched out in his head, Peter approached the two railway men. The older of the two, a ruddy faced, bewhiskered fellow whose nose bore witness to his fondness for alcohol looked down at him with a smile.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re travelling on your own, sonny?’ he said with a smile.

  Peter shook his head. ‘With my mum and dad,’ he said quietly but with some confidence.

  The man looked over Peter’s shoulder as though he expected these phantom parents to be close at hand.

  ‘Where are they then?’

  Peter shifted awkwardly. ‘They went ahead of me. I’ve just been to get something to eat.’ He held up the packet of rich tea biscuits as evidence. ‘They’re in Coach C,’ he added hurriedly.

  ‘Are they now,’ said the railway man, the smile fading. ‘And where’s your ticket then?’

  ‘They’ve got it.’

  ‘Have they now?’

  The other ticket inspector, a thin wiry fellow with a bald head, gave a sneering laugh and turned away with a bored expression on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘Please let me through. They’ll be expecting me.’

  The ruddy-faced inspector shook his head. ‘Can’t do that sonny. I’d lose my job if I let you through without a ticket.’

  ‘But my mum and dad are waiting,’ he said, his face crumpling with despair.

  The inspector laughed. ‘Here Bert, we got a proper Donald Wolfit here. Tears an’ all.’

  Bert just grinned in a bored fashion.

  The inspector bent down until his rubicund face was on a level with Peter’s. ‘Look, my lad, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know your parents are not on the train. And you know your parents are not on the train. You’re not the first one to try and pull this little trick for a free train ride.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ cried Peter, his heart sinking as he realized his plan was not going to work.

  The smile on the man’s face had faded altogether now. ‘Why don’t you run along, sonny, before I fetch a policeman to you?’

  Peter gritted his teeth with frustration. He couldn’t let this old fool get the better of him. And he had to catch that train.

  ‘Look,’ he said suddenly with great excitement, his arm shooting out directing the attention of both men down the platform. ‘There’s my dad now.’

  As both men gazed down into the gloom of the platform, Peter slipped past them, heading, as fast as his legs would carry him, towards the train. It took a few seconds before the two porters realized what had happened. With a cry of, ‘Hey, stop. Stop that boy!’ the red-faced porter hared off in pursuit, while Bert, the wiry, bald-headed fellow, leaned indolently on the barrier and chuckled. It was no skin off his nose, he thought. If the little blighter wanted a free train ride, let him have it. It was hardly a capital offence. Let old Dennis blow a gasket trying to catch the kid. Much good it would do him. He fumbled in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes. Might as well have a smoke while he waited.

  Meanwhile red-faced Dennis, whose visage was even more rubicund now with his exertions, was catching up on the boy, as he dodged in and out of the unsuspecting passengers. Peter cast a glance back and saw to his horror the inspector close behind him. He put on an extra spurt to reach the end carriage and clamber aboard.

  ‘Bugger!’ snarled Dennis, aware that it would be far more difficult to catch the little bastard now he was actually on the train. Why had this to happen on his shift? With a weary sigh he hauled himself up the steps and into the carriage. The corridor was empty apart from a young soldier who was leaning out of the window, his hand casually holding a cigarette as though he was watching the smoke rise gently towards the station roof.

  ‘You seen a boy in a raincoat come down here?’ Dennis asked brusquely, disturbing the young man’s reverie

  ‘Went down there,’ he said casually, nodding his head towards the next carriage.

  Mopping his brow, Dennis squeezed past him and carried on to the next carriage. He now realized he had a monumental task. The corridor was heaving with passengers. By the door a large man in a smart three-piece tweed suit was having great difficulty hauling a trunk on board. On seeing Dennis his eyes lit up. ‘Just the fellow!’ he cried, in what Dennis thought of as a posh accent. ‘Help me get this brute stowed away, old chap.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can’t just now. You see I’m—’

  The posh man was having none of it. ‘You’re a bloody porter, aren’t you?’ he snapped, his face suddenly clouding with anger.

  ‘No, sir, I’m a ticket—’

  ‘Then do some bloody portering,’ the man cried, ignoring Dennis’s attempt to explain his rank.

  ‘Did you see a young boy go past here?’

  The posh man gazed at Dennis as though he were mad. ‘I saw a bloody large trunk that I can’t move on my own. That’s what I saw. Now get hold of that strap and stop prevaricating.’

  With a sigh of resignation, Dennis bent down and grabbed hold of the strap ready to haul the trunk into one of the compartments. He knew that there was no chance of catching the boy now. There were ten other carriages; he could be hiding in any one of them. And the train was due to leave in about five minutes. He hated to admit it, but the little blighter had got the better of him.

  As he helped to manoeuvre the trunk into the compartment, he felt a sudden twinge in his back. Oh, no, he thought. The old trouble. He stood up awkwardly, biting his lip to avoid crying out with pain. That would serve him right, chasing after young lads. He needed to take a page out of Bert’s book. He noticed that he’d done bugger all. He’d probably be back at the barrier, all calm, cool and collected, having a smoke with a big dopey grin on his face.

  ‘Thanks for your help, old boy,’ said the posh man in the smart tweed suit, after the trunk was safely stowed. He held out a threepenny bit. ‘That’s
for your trouble.’

  Dennis looked down at the coin disdainfully. He was about to say something derogatory, but, as he straightened himself up, he suffered another spasm of pain which effectively silenced him.

  In the first carriage the young soldier took a final drag on his cigarette before letting it fall out of the window to land on the edge of the platform. Strangely the sight of it satisfied him and he stared at the tab end for a moment still glowing with life. Then he moved into the adjacent compartment which was empty apart from his greatcoat which was piled in the corner opposite the window.

  Closing the door to the apartment, the soldier addressed the coat, a smile playing about his lips. ‘I think we’ve managed to lose your friend, but I reckon you’d better stay there until the train sets off.’

  The coat moved slightly, but Peter knew better than to show his face until he heard the guard’s whistle.

  NINE

  The night Harryboy shot and killed the policeman, he had sex with Rachel again. It was hard, fast and brutal. There was no sense of tenderness, affection or consideration on his part. It certainly could not be regarded as love-making. He was just satisfying some dark feral appetite. It was as though he was on some drug-induced high, a state stimulated by his killing of the young policeman. The murder and the power that it suggested to Harryboy’s mind inflamed his libido. To complete his own twisted image of himself as master of the world, this fevered bout of sexual self gratification was the sealing dominant act.

  Rachel lay there in the dark, terrified and traumatized, fighting back her tears, as he pounded into her. Tonight she learned that she was not a person to him at all, just a convenient object. His passion – if one could call it that – was purely an exercise in self-pleasure. It could have been anyone or anything that lay beneath him, as long as he was in control and he reached his climax.

  He did so with a hoarse cry of triumph, sweat rolling down his face, eyes aflame in manic euphoria. Once his fury and passion were spent, he rolled over without a word and within minutes was grunting in a dreamless, contented sleep.

  Rachel remained lying on her back, unable to move, tears now rolling down her cheeks, sick to her heart at the pain and indignity of her violation. The man was an animal and a murderer and, God help her, she was his. She was his to do with as he wanted. She brought her fist to her mouth to stifle the sob that was festering deep inside her. For the first time in her short life she wished that she was dead. What she would give to be in her own cramped little bed at her mum and dad’s back to back in Wales. But now the milk had been spilt and no matter how many tears she shed, they were to no avail.

  Sleep evaded her for several hours. She lay staring at the cracked ceiling, trying not to think of the man who lay at her side, breathing heavily in untroubled slumber. Eventually, tiredness overcame her, overcame her misery and fears, and she slipped into the dark refuge of sleep.

  When she awoke, daylight was streaming into the room and the space beside her in the bed was empty. For one moment, one precious moment, as she dragged herself from protective slumbers, with her mind not fully functioning, Harryboy’s absence brought her a sense of relief and almost joy. Had he really gone? Had he really left her? Was she really free? However, these half-formed drowsy thoughts lasted for a few seconds only until Harryboy’s voice broke into her brief reverie.

  ‘Mornin’, sleepin’ beauty. I wondered when you were going to join the land of the living.’ He was over by the washstand stripped to the waist shaving, white lather masking the lower half of his face like a hoodlum Father Christmas. He gave her a wink and turned back to the shaving mirror.

  That phrase of his, ‘The land of the living’ echoed in Rachel’s mind and again she witnessed the shooting of the kind young policeman. The scene flashed before her like a movie: she heard the gunshot, she saw the open mouth frothing with blood and the neat crimson crater in the pale flesh of the forehead. She ached at the thought of it and tears moistened her eyes once more.

  ‘C’mon, Rach. Rise and shine, we’ve a lotta work to do today and I reckon we’d better leave this dump and get ourselves somewhere else to stay. Best to keep on the move. Never stay too long in one place, that’s my motto. So get your face on and pack your bag. OK?’

  He was businesslike and chirpy, showing no signs of concern, worry or remorse – no signs that he had actually killed a man the night before. The event had been wiped from his memory and it had certainly never reached his conscience. Rachel now believed that he didn’t possess one.

  ‘OK, Harryboy,’ Rachel replied, in the manner of an obedient child who had just been told to eat up her greens or she’d be sent to bed early. Like a robot she got out of bed and slipped on her underclothes.

  ‘Good girl. First thing we do is grab ourselves a good breakfast and then we have a new gaff to find and then …’ – he rubbed his finger and thumb dramatically before his face – ‘more moolah.’

  With effort, she affected a smile and began to pack her bag.

  Within the hour they had left the hotel. Harryboy had engineered it so that they slipped out down the fire escape to avoid paying the bill. ‘Might as well save as much money as we can,’ he grinned. ‘Anyway, the place is a rat hole.’ Having now abandoned the car because ‘it was too hot’, they wandered down Shaftsbury Avenue for a while until Harryboy spied another small hotel. ‘This’ll do for a few nights,’ he said dragging Rachel through the swing door.

  Later they went into Soho in search of breakfast. An emaciated autumn sun broke through the thin clouds from time to time dusting the wounded city in a pale, melancholy amber light. The sunshine, feeble though it was, seemed to emphasize the damage and decay that the bombing had brought to the streets. This depressed Rachel even more and once again she thought of the comparatively untainted contours of her home town, the fresh cool Welsh wind and the green undulating hills. Why had she entertained the idea that London, this dusty crumbling, noisy heap of smoke-stained buildings was glamorous and would offer her a more exciting and happier life? She had been so wrong.

  By contrast, Harryboy, on his own patch, felt perfectly at home and at ease. He saw the rubble, the dust, the bomb-crippled buildings, but they meant nothing to him. They did not impinge for one moment on his feelings and did not affect his happiness in any way. In essence, they had nothing to do with him. In fact, to Harryboy, nothing had anything to do with him, but himself. He was the only one that mattered and always would be. That was the way you survived and he intended to survive come what may.

  Eventually they found their way down Dean Street and discovered Benny’s café.

  ‘This’ll do,’ Harryboy sniffed, pushing Rachel through the door. They grabbed a table by the window. He ordered the ‘Airman’s Special’ while Rachel just asked for toast and coffee. Benny in his usual friendly manner served them with a smile, trying to persuade ‘the pretty young lady’ to have something more substantial than toast. ‘Warm bread alone will not set you up for the day, miss,’ he cooed. Rachel was touched by his kindness but assured him that toast would be fine. Harryboy ignored the little café owner, retreating behind his newspaper.

  When Benny left them, Harryboy folded the paper over and passed it to Rachel pointing out the late news column. There was the report of the shooting: Constable Alan Reece, 29, was shot on Calder Street, just off the Old Kent Road at around ten o’clock last night. His body was discovered by a young couple, Peter Dawson and his girlfriend Avril Watts on their way home from the cinema. Reece leaves a widow and two children aged four and seven. The police are following up leads and hope to make an arrest in the next few days.

  ‘What does it mean … the police are following up leads?’ she asked, a note of panic in her voice.

  Harryboy leered at her. ‘Ah, they always say that. They don’t want the public to know they ain’t got a clue. There are no leads and they certainly will be no arrest.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t wet yer knickers, angel. We’re as safe as houses.’

  A horri
ble thought suddenly struck Rachel. So horrible that her blood ran cold. What had the policeman said about the car being stolen … and involved in a murder? ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ she said evenly. ‘You’ve killed someone before.’

  Her deadly seriousness seemed to amuse Harryboy and he grinned broadly. ‘Might have,’ he said at length, stroking his chin. ‘Might have.’ And then he winked at her. ‘Practice makes perfect.’ He chuckled like a gurgling drain.

  Rachel felt a tightening across her chest and her mouth went dry. She couldn’t speak and if she could she wouldn’t have known what to say. Now she knew. She really knew. The man she was with was a callous, heartless killer who didn’t think twice before snuffing out someone’s life. How many people had he killed? Two, three, more? Oh, God, numbers didn’t matter now.

  Across the room behind the counter Benny was drying some plates, but he couldn’t help watching the young woman sitting with the rather unpleasant pug-faced man. She was so pretty and yet she looked as though she had all the troubles of the world on her shoulders. The man didn’t seem to care. He showed no concern for her. In fact he seemed to be grinning all the time. There was something harsh, even repulsive about his demeanour. Perhaps, thought Benny, he’s the reason she’s sad. When the man left the table to go to the lavatory, Benny went over to clear the table.

  ‘You all right, my dear?’ he said gently, as he placed the mugs and plates on his tray.

  She seemed surprised that he had spoken to her at first and then she nodded vigorously. ‘Sure,’ she said in a quiet voice without much conviction.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Benny kindly, knowing it wasn’t true. He felt sad that someone so young should be so unhappy.

  Rachel forced a smile in an attempt to reassure the kind stranger, hoping that he would leave her to her own thoughts.

  Benny gave a brief nod and went about his business.

  Moments later, Harryboy returned. He slipped Rachel a ten shilling note. ‘Here you are. Take yourself off to the pictures or something. I got a little business to attend to this afternoon. I’ll see you back at the hotel about six. You be there!’