by Mike Bennett
‘But you’re not going to let him go!’
‘Well, I know that, but he doesn’t. It just makes the whole situation easier to deal with, for him as well as us.’
David’s horror deepened. ‘Jesus, Lydia, this is monstrous!’
‘No, David, this is business. Underwood needs fresh blood; I got it for him.’
‘But you just said he’s a junkie! His blood’s got all kinds of shit in it, maybe even disease.’
‘No, we screened his blood for disease early on, he’s clean. After that, it was just a case of weaning him off the smack, which was a piece of cake actually. All this stuff you hear about heroin withdrawal being tough is nonsense. The trick is not to pamper them. All I needed was this cellar and a gun, and look at the results. I ought to start a clinic.’
‘You think this is funny, Lydia?’
‘Funny? God no, you should have seen the mess he made when – ’
‘Stop it!’ David raised his hand before her face. ‘Just don’t, you’re making me feel sick.’
Lydia rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Fine.’
David looked back at the young man. ‘Where did you take him from?’
‘One of my people found him in Torremolinos.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Who, him?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Gavin.’
David looked around the room. On the table next to Gavin were a couple of books, a dirty bowl, and a spoon. Against the opposite wall was a rusty single bed, and in the far corner, covered by a towel, was a plastic bucket. A roll of toilet paper lay on the floor beside it. David went over to the bucket and lifted it. He felt the weight and brought it back to Lydia. ‘It needs emptying.’
Lydia took it and set it back down on the floor. ‘I’ll tell Ana.’
David picked it up again and held it out to her. ‘Lydia, this is your mess, not Ana’s. Now you can either leave here carrying it in the bucket or wearing it all over that expensive suit of yours. But one way or the other, it’s leaving with you.’
She sighed and took the bucket. ‘You know, one day you’re going to regret this, David.’
‘Perhaps.’ He went over to Gavin and gently called him by his name. Gavin tensed. ‘It’s okay, my name’s David. I’m a friend.’
‘Please ... d-don’t hurt me,’ said Gavin.
‘I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to get you out of here.’
Beneath the sack, Gavin’s head turned towards the sound of David’s voice. ‘Y- you are? Has my family paid the ransom?’
David looked at Lydia. She shrugged nonchalantly. He turned back to Gavin. ‘Yes, they’ve paid.’
‘Oh, thank God!’
‘But, listen, I can’t get you out right away, because there are some things I need to do first. Things I need to organise, like transport. Do you understand?’
‘No!’ Gavin stepped away from David, his hands outstretched behind him, groping for the wall. ‘No, you’re going to kill me, aren’t you?’
‘No, no, Gavin. I promise. You haven’t seen us, and we have the money, so we can let you go. All I need you to do is cooperate with me for just a little longer, okay?’
‘Do, do you really mean it?’ There was hope in Gavin’s voice.
‘Yes, I really mean it.’ From inside the sack came the sound of sobbing as Gavin began to cry, thanking him now, over and over again. David felt his own tears pricking at his eyes and he took a second to suppress them. Then, he took Gavin gently by the shoulders and led him to the bed. ‘It’s okay. Here. Just rest now and I’ll be back soon.’ He turned to Lydia and his face darkened with rage. ‘Upstairs. We need to talk.’
Lydia sighed with exaggerated boredom as he took her by the arm and lead her up the stairs. ‘All right, take it easy, Jesus. I don’t want to spill any slops from the bucket on your sandals.’
Once they were back in the corridor, David closed the door and said, ‘Last night, Lydia, John told me you were evil. Now I know cancer victims can get bitter and angry, and I thought maybe it was just the disease talking. But I can see now that it wasn’t. You really are evil, aren’t you?’
She smiled. ‘David. What kind of a thing is that to say to your only sister?’
‘How could you do a thing like this to another human being?’
Lydia folded her arms. ‘How could I do this?’ She laughed. ‘You seem to think that this was all my idea and that dear brother John was completely unaware of it all.’
David said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
‘Oh yes, that’s right. I don’t know whether John lost his evil marbles in his last moments in this world, but if you think he wanted me to pop down to the nearest farmyard and grab a couple of chickens for the resurrection, then you need to think again.’ Lydia leaned in close to David, letting the bucket knock against his knees. ‘All of this, this sacrifice procedure, was done following John’s explicit instructions. Instructions given to him by our father, who in turn got them from Lord Underwood.’ She smiled. ‘And we must adhere to Lord Underwood’s instructions, mustn’t we, David?’
David turned and walked away down the corridor.
Lydia chuckled and called after him, ‘You know, you could always try to round up a few rabbits to sacrifice, David, there’s always plenty of those hopping around.’
‘Just empty the bucket, Lydia,’ David called without turning. ‘Empty the fucking bucket.’
13
DAVID WALKED THROUGH THE KITCHEN. There was no sign of Ana; maybe she was off polishing the family knuckledusters or something. It was hard to believe that the nice little woman he’d been chatting over toast that morning was complicit in the imprisonment of Gavin. But at the same time, it followed – she was in the Sect, she was a servant of Underwood. He was angry with himself for not suspecting the worst from the outset: Lydia, Ana, Conchi, they were all a band of cut-throats, and he’d been a fool to ever think they were anything less. He looked at his watch: it was two-fifteen, siesta time. That explained Ana’s absence. She was probably off dreaming sweet and bloody dreams of her fanged Prince Charming, which was just as well; David was going to get Gavin out of there, and the fewer objectors there were to that, the better.
He stepped outside into the afternoon heat and hurried across the courtyard past the fountain to the front of the house. There on the drive was Lydia’s Land Rover and beside it, in prime parking position under the trees, was Ana’s red hatchback. He glanced around, there had to be another car somewhere, John must have had one; it was impossible to live this far out in the country without a car. Then he remembered the garage. Quickly, he walked around to the side of the house, his feet crunching on the hot gravel which grew thinner underfoot the farther he went around the house. As he rounded the back of the building, he saw the garage ahead. It was an old white building that had originally had been a farm machinery storehouse. The old corrugated tin roof had been replaced with terracotta tiles and the two front doors looked as though they had recently received a new coat of green paint, but otherwise it looked much the same as he remembered it. One thing that was definitely the same was the padlock and chain that held the doors closed. David tried the lock. It was well-oiled and shut tight.
‘Fuck it!’
The garage had always been out of bounds, and as a boy, he’d always accepted that; never before had he tried to get inside, and as he reached up and felt along the door frame, he got the vaguest sense of doing something naughty. Then his fingers touched a small, sun-heated key. He smiled, took it down and slipped it into the padlock. The lock sprang open and he removed it before pulling the chain through the door handles. He gathered the lock and chain together, flung them aside and pulled on the right-hand door. It swung open easily and warm air, heavy with the scent of engine oil, spilled over him. He looked inside. As his eyes were accustomed to the glare of the sun, the interior of the garage seemed at first to be almost a solid blackness. Then he made out the silver-rimmed he
adlights, which for a moment appeared like the eyes of a night predator watching him from the darkness. David smiled as the shape of the car before him slowly revealed itself; its sleek lines reflecting the sunlight like the surface of a black liquid. How could he have forgotten the Citroën, the DS that Arthur had used to take them out for drives in when they were kids? Apparently it had been Arthur’s retirement gift to himself. He had once told David that Underwood didn’t much care for the shark-nosed design of the car and so he’d had to wait until after Underwood had been interred before he could treat himself to one.
David walked over and touched its warm body. His fingers traced lines through a fine coat of dust to reveal an immaculately wax-polished finish beneath. No doubt John had inherited ownership of the car when Arthur died. So whose did that make it now? Was it his?
‘If you think that’s impressive,’ said Lydia from behind him. ‘Take a look over there.’ He turned back to her. She stood silhouetted in the doorway pointing into the deeper shadows to the left of the garage. He followed her finger to the shape of another car. It too was black and almost hidden in the darkness.
‘Here,’ said Lydia. ‘Let’s shed some light on the old girl.’ She swung the left door of the garage open and the sun drove the shadows back to reveal a large, vintage hearse. But not just any hearse, David observed: it was a Roller. The silver lady ornament and double-R Rolls Royce logo shone in the sunlight above the radiator grille and the old-fashioned, bug-eyed headlights.
David stared at the car. ‘Is that ... ?’
‘Underwood’s?’ Lydia walked in and stood beside him. ‘Yes. It’s a 1947 Rolls Royce Wraith. They used to travel around in it, and during the daylight hours, Underwood would ride in the back; in repose, as it were.’
David walked over and ran his hands reverently along the bodywork. ‘I’m guessing it’s still roadworthy.’
‘Oh yes. It’s roadworthy alright. The maintenance of these cars was another of John’s little hobbies. As you know, the Citroën was Dad’s car after Underwood was laid to rest, all Dad needed it for was his retirement. But this,’ she tapped the silver lady on her head. ‘This was in service.’
‘Oh? What do you mean by that?’
Lydia smiled and walked around to the back of the hearse. ‘Our father was a practical man. He made some little adjustments here and there that made this car better suited to his and Underwood’s needs. Then John, who was also a practical man, ensured that Dad’s adjustments were always as well-maintained as any other part of the car.’ She opened the back door and stepped aside for David to see.
David looked in and saw only an empty hearse. ‘What? This is the bit where the coffin goes, right?’
‘Yes. Nothing unusual?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked inside that many hearses.’
‘But it looks as you’d expect it to look?’
David looked again. The area where the coffin went appeared to be made of smooth polished chrome. Beneath it was a solid supporting structure upholstered in black velvet. He shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good. That’s precisely what Dad always intended.’ Lydia bent forward and placed her hands flat and about two feet apart on the black velvet section. She moved her thumbs around slightly for a moment then she smiled. ‘Here, and here,’ she pushed with her thumbs. There was a click, and the black velvet section sprang forward about a centimetre. Lydia reached beneath it and pulled.
David stood back as the drawer rolled silently out on smooth runners. When he saw what was inside, his mouth fell open. ‘Oh – my.’
Lydia looked up at him. ‘It’s dead cool, isn’t it?’
In stark contrast to the exterior covering, the interior of the drawer was lined with red velvet. It had been divided into compartments. In one compartment were clothes held down by black elastic fastenings: a pressed black suit, a white shirt, a tie and a pair of new black socks. Above them in another compartment was a pair of polished black shoes – not new, but worn. David looked at Lydia and pointed at the shoes. She simply nodded in reply.
David looked back to the drawer. On either side of the clothes, nestled in shapes especially cut to hold them snugly, were two Thompson submachine guns. David lifted one out and admired it. Its black metal surface shone dully in the shadows of the garage and it smelled of warm oil. ‘Oh, man. I used to have a toy one of these when I was a kid.’
‘It’s good isn’t it? Have you ever fired one before?’
‘In the army I fired plenty of guns. But never a Thompson,’ he felt the weight. The area around the circular magazine felt heavy. ‘It’s loaded?’
‘Naturally. It wouldn’t be much good in an emergency if it weren’t, would it?’
‘No, no I suppose not.’ David raised the gun to his eye and looked along the barrel to the gun sights. ‘It’s a real antique isn’t it? What is it, 1930’s, 1940’s?’
‘How should I know? Maybe John has a little section on them in his notes. Search under “armoury”.’
‘Armoury? You mean there’s more weapons?’
‘Oh yes. All sorts. If you like killing people then this is the job for you. It comes with a wide range of death-dealing tools and accessories.’
David put the Tommy gun back into its place in the drawer. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t like killing people.’
Lydia smiled. ‘I know. What conflict you must be feeling right now.’
David ignored her. He pointed at the only remaining object in the drawer: a briefcase. ‘What’s in the case?’
‘Why don’t you open it and see?’
He knelt and popped open the case. It was full of cash: bundles of euros, British pounds, American dollars and Russian roubles each in separate sections. David was impressed to see that all the money was current; John had obviously kept an eye on how notes – especially British ones – changed from time to time.
Then he noticed the passports, two of them, both UK issue. He took one out and opened it at the picture page. Underwood smiled back at him. The passport was current, though it had to be a forgery; a colour photograph that looked as if it had been cleaned up and colourised from an original black and white version, had been digitised and sealed under a skin of plastic. Underwood’s face, as always, was unchanged. He wore a shirt and tie, and his hair was short and shone with hair oil. David read the name next to the picture: Underwood, Daniel William. Born: 1970. He smiled and held it up for Lydia to see. ‘Talk about lying about your age.’
‘Yes. The other one’s John’s,’ said Lydia. ‘I suppose you’d better remove it and replace it with yours now.’
David said nothing. He closed Underwood’s passport and put it back beside John’s: the two together, Underwood and Flinch. Now the other passport would be his. He felt a momentary wave of dizziness and closed his eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lydia. ‘Overcome with emotion? Or did someone just walk over your grave?’
David ignored the question and pointed to the clothes. ‘Why the clothes?’
‘What, John didn’t mention the clothes situation in his manual?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t been researching how to dress him, have I? So, please, what is the “clothes situation”?’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Lydia said as she slid the drawer closed. ‘You’ll be able to ask the Master in person soon enough.’ She got up and slammed the back door of the hearse.
David smiled thinly. ‘Fine. Well, I won’t be taking this motor into town anyway. The last thing I need is to get pulled over with a kidnapped kid and a couple of Tommy guns on board.’ He went over to the Citroën. ‘This will do me nicely.’
Lydia sighed and followed him. ‘David, look. I know you’re angry and you think you’re doing the right thing, but you really haven’t thought this through, have you?’
‘There’s nothing to think through, Lydia. I’m not going to let you murder that boy and that’s all there is to it.’
‘And so what are you going to do? Take away our only te
sted and guaranteed-clean source of blood; spend half the remainder of the day driving him to Torremolinos or wherever, and then the other half driving back again? Assuming you even come back at all.’
‘I’ll come back, you don’t need to worry about that.’
‘Oh sure, no doubt followed by an armada of police. What do you think he’s going to do when you drop him off? Leave the sack on his head like the Elephant Man, counting slowly to a hundred to give you time enough to get away?’
‘I’ll be careful. I’ll drop him somewhere remote ... ish.’
‘He’ll still take your license plate number, you stupid hippy! Jesus, David, you’re living in a dream world! You simply can’t do this. Don’t you understand? There is no Plan B.’
‘There has to be.’
‘There isn’t.’
‘Damn it, Lydia!’ David slammed his hand on the roof of the Citroën. ‘You’re talking about murder.’
‘Oh, David, come on. You have to get past that notion. Do you think the men who work in slaughterhouses burden their consciences with words like “murder”? They probably think of the animals they kill as just things on a production line – which is what they are, really, isn’t it? Just things on a food production line? And that’s all the boy in the cellar is.’
‘Lydia.’ David pressed his fists against his head. ‘It’s not the same thing. We can’t just murder him!’
‘We have to! What else do you suggest we revive Underwood with? Smelling salts? A vampire lives on blood – human blood. And that boy is a source of, what? Eight or nine pints? Where else are we going to find that much fresh human blood on a Saturday afternoon, hmm?’
David shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Lydia laid a hand on his shoulder then said in a gentler tone, ‘Maybe it would help if you tried to think of it as taking one life to save another.’
David shrugged her away and walked out into the sunshine. He looked out across the miles and miles of olive groves that shimmered in the heat, as if the answer to the dilemma might suddenly appear, mirage-like, somewhere among them.
