Bad II the Bone

by Anton Marks

  Patra started from her face, then her chest, arms and breasts down to her stomach and her legs. What started casually became more frantic as the horrors of tonight stood before her accusingly and she continued scrubbing as if she wanted to buff through skin, muscle, cartilage to clean white bone.

  Working her way back up to her shoulders, Patra started to massage her biceps in turn, trying to ease the soreness from them, hoping the force of the water would help too but they remained stiff. That hefty tree branch she had been swinging offensively at first and then when shit got real, as a tool of extinguishing life had taken its toll. Not that these walking dead cocksuckers didn’t deserve it but they weren’t all that way. Darkman had thrown in some wildcards in the mix to mess with their heads, play on the weaknesses they possessed.

  Taking life did not come naturally to them even under the circumstances and he knew that. What he had done was to be his little ‘go suck my dick’ message and they received it loud and clear.

  The Darkman had snatched a piece of them tonight, leaving the wound purulent and infected but his septic mind games would not take hold in them, she just knew it. In her case it was a small piece but significant enough to have her question what she did tonight. Making her believe that a dark cancerous corner of her psyche enjoyed thrusting the jagged points of the broken tree limb into the zombies throat, watching him flap like a fish out of water. Remembering how surprised she was at the feeling of its warm arterial blood arcing onto her arms and face and the guttural gasping for air from a shattered larynx of a man not a reanimated corpse. Then watching in horror that malevolent spark depart him – that thing Darkman had used to hold him enthralled - and then his humanity returning to his eyes, sparking them alive again just before he died.

  The few seconds looking down at his pale face and those piercing blue eyes felt like an eternity. Patra shivered although the stinging droplets of hot water bounced off her skin, gooseflesh marched up and down her back.

  Yep, Darkman had taken a bite and it would leave a permanent mark. And she knew there would be more to come but a sparkling sense of certainty punched through the dark clouds. It was the words from her father of all people, Pastor Ignatius Jones, that God fearing, pulpit preaching and family loving hypocritical mo’fucker who couldn’t look her in the eyes ever since he knew she was bi-curious, heteroflexible, AC-DC. The worst kind of heathen there was in his books. It’s going to be all right, he said in her head with biblical conviction. It’s going to be aaaalright!

  This time she believed him.

  Brixton Police Station

  Sunday July 21st

  10.45am

  Shaft looked at the circular coffee stains on his wooden desk and blocked out the drone of activity in the operations room at Brixton nick. He leaned back on his favorite chair - the one with the busted back rest he had bound together with packaging tape - and massaged his lumbar region into it until it creaked lovingly.

  He had mentally pulled himself out of the frenetic activity taking place around him. The other team was in the last stages of a sting operation that was hopefully going to apprehend a gang of armed robbers targeting Farringdon and its jewellery district.

  His small unit was sharing space with the Flying Squad but nothing more. The gung-ho optimism the Sweeney exhibited as standard did not rub off on Shaft. They needed to take a walk in his world and see how the lines of reality and fantasy blurred.

  Twenty minutes away from everything, just to refocus.

  Contrary to what his superiors thought about his legendary laid back attitude, these moments he took to think of other things, other interests, hadn’t affected his crime busting record at all.

  In fact, when the rank and file were doped up and tanked up from job related stress, his mental health would be intact.

  He checked today’s menu in his head.

  Shaft had two mouth-watering choices to occupy his short time.

  Y had left a voice message on his mobile and it sounded like she wanted to talk. And damn, he was not too proud to say even her voice was a turn on for him. So in effect he’d be enjoying twenty minutes of extremely sensual verbal foreplay.

  No contest, really.

  Except for mouth-watering choice number two.

  The neatly compiled manila folder sat tantalizingly in the middle of his desk, its recycled paper showing through its grooves like a busty woman would her assets.

  Okay it did not have an ass that brought tears to your eyes, or long dark sculpted legs that he would willingly volunteer over his shoulders in a steamy evening romp. But it was work and the weak man that he was, Shaft succumbed to the pile of folders’ immediate charms and the possible secrets it held over Y for the minute.

  Men, weaklings.

  He pulled the files along the table towards him and opened the top one reluctantly. Shaft took more time than usual to observe the blue Manila folder with the colorful elastic binder. He wanted to handle the coroner’s report with forceps and a Hazmat suit. Just the thought of the contents made his hands go clammy and an immediate animated knot of pain twisting into his gut accompanied with that sense of cold sweat and creeping flesh. Justine Dorset - murdered. No suspects and about a thousand witnesses. Modus operandi was similar to Enoch Lacombe’s sadistic viciousness - the poor girl was evaginated - on live fucking radio. The Scotland Yard forensic teams were having a field day with this. Impossible, unprecedented, inexplicable, bizarre were all words being thrown around to describe something no one could explain. Shaft hadn’t been able to attend the post mortem but the photograph’s said it all. Her body was turned inside out, all her internal organs, hanging outside of her skin suit like gross body ornaments. Now, how the rass do you affect the human body in that way? What in God’s name, can harness the kind of forces required to turn bone and muscle into itself like you unfurled a sock from your foot. If it was machine generated, the Metropolitan Polices’ brightest and best knew of no such technology that could affect the body in that way. While the other option was equally ridiculous and the conclusion unavoidable, he couldn’t deny the facts. It was caused by an antagonist who had the ability to bend and brake every physical law at will, leaving no signs of entry or exit, just a degree of bloodthirsty sadism seldom seen in London crime scenes. Shaft closed it and tucked it in at the bottom of the pile, his hand shaking.

  Calming himself, he picked up a covering letter that had been written by DI John Dawson and set out to make the contents even more appealing to him. He closed with an ominous message.

  Having read these documents under no circumstances keep them on your person. Destroy them immediately.

  The man was on a Mission Impossible tip but could you blame him.

  DI Dawson for all his eccentricity had made it possible for him to follow this case more closely than he would if he was researching it solo. If truth be known this could present itself as a sweet opportunity to earn the move from DS to DI. Career advancement aside, and ignoring Dawson’s hard-on for its historical value, it meant something to him personally. This case was his first ever as a DS in Black Book and, although long and bizarre the main suspect was eventually caught but the treasures were never recovered. Officialdom had the case retired while he had developed his seventh man theory. When the snickering of his superiors had died down, his line of enquiry was blatantly ignored. But Cold Case file FS13877 was never forgotten.

  It came to his attention again when one member of Darkman’s crew had testified against him and Deacon’s thugs who had joined the witness protection scheme began to be murdered in inexplicable ways and it was then Dawson contacted him.

  Only one man out of this situation of robbery and murder came away unscathed and that was the gangster Deacon himself. Shaft knew he had orchestrated Enoch Lacombe’s life sentence and made three soldiers in his firm go down for him. Two of his men never had the opportunity to plea bargain and were given full sentences for armed robbery and murder. The other, a self assured psycho whose claim to fame was his looks
and his legendary thirteen inch dick, was locked away in Belmarsh Prison, serving a reduced sentence of five years because he had helped in the investigation. Shaft had the benefit of all the current facts at hand but it still read like a tale of the fantastic. He wondered how the three erstwhile crew members who were banged away for their crimes had reacted to the news. Four of your mates had been murdered in the space of a month by an unknown assailant, who is able to kill by unknown means and leave without a trace. The prison grapevine was a very effective link with the outside world but even if you did know what had happened, three killers like that wouldn’t be worried. Why should they? Deacon’s men were untouchable on or off the streets and in the nick they were respected.

  Well that’s what they thought.

  Thomas ‘Gatling Gun’ Gardener was found on the recreation grounds after a late evening exercise session. He died from massive unexplained body trauma. The other two were attacked and almost eaten alive by rabid animals - rats it was thought – from the safety of their cells. Preliminary forensic notes showed the MO was identical to the other murders linked with this case. Dawson had made a footnote explaining that all forensic reports that involved the case had been transferred to another department. He seemed worried and concerned.

  “Jesas,” Shaft whispered to himself. “What the rass is going on?”

  He made a note on his smartphone to call Wormwood Scrubs again to book an appointment to see Enoch Lacombe. Only he could shine some light on this situation.

  Or could this be the doing of Jimmy Éclair who they had thought had been killed but had acquired a new identity? Appearing now from wherever he was to settle old scores.

  But why?

  Shaft’s theory had Jimmy Éclair being the recipient of a treasure that the Darkman had stolen and murdered for. If a failed robbery attempt by Deacon’s men as Jimmy was transporting the booty to a safe holding company had not brought this situation to the police’s attention then none of this would be an issue. Just another unknown network in the tangled web of the London underworld. But a shootout in North London tended to pique Scotland Yard’s attention. Jimmy had escaped the ambush and the empty truck was found in a scrap-yard with his blood all over the front seat.

  If he survived this, what kind of lingering grudge would he harbor for men who tried to kill him and with the kind of money at his disposal; the creative ways for revenge would be myriad.

  Murder just did not seem like one of the things on your mind if you were living it up in South America.

  And committing murders that could only be achieved if you were the Amazing Spider man, Jack the Ripper and some mutant with teleportation powers all rolled into one just was not sensible.

  He was missing something here, something crucial.

  And that bugged the hell out of him.

  He closed the file and stuffed it in his drawer. Looking up from his task to check out what was happening around him, he started rummaging through his tray. A pin stuck him in his finger tip and he swore. Being more careful this time he waded through rusty paper clips, furry magnets and a myriad of exotic stationery items until he pulled out a flaking black combination padlock.

  He secured the draw.

  At that moment he thought of Y and strangely how she and the girls could be inadvertently involved in this case. How a random fact he discovered had their new client actually knowing Jimmy Éclair.

  Now, wasn’t that a coincidence?

  Shaft was experienced enough to know that a break in a case could come from the most off centre of sources. So why not the girls?

  Stranger things have happened.

  17.

  Crypt Nightclub

  Central London

  Monday July 22nd

  13.11

  Spokes was drumming his fingers on the ornate desk, waiting impatiently for talks to reconvene on the subject of essential renovation that he needed to do before the Council’s Building Enforcement office closed down the nightclub for non-compliance. Little did the blood sucking, South American, blouse an’ skirt he called his business partner realize that it was an elaborate sham.

  The Dance was a week away and Spokes had to set some well placed lies in position to facilitate his permanent exit from this rat race. His frustration was real though and that came as a natural consequence of being in spitting distance of his partner.

  You work dat out.

  They had been business associates for four years and promoted some of the most profitable music promotions in London together. Carlos’ love of money above all else never sat well with Spokes but it had been a marriage of convenience. This is what Carlos thrived on and Spokes encouraged him along so the illusion that things were as always was reinforced. But Spokes wanted out and this was a part of his exit strategy. The story was he wanted the revenue from the bar and the door, altering the usual way things ran between them. And Spokes didn’t care that Carlos sensed a change in his attitude, this would be his swan song.

  He had obviously come on too strong in the initial negotiations because Carlos - the leech – suspected that something was not quite the same about this promotion. Spokes was too intense about it and from experience his Jamaican partner did not do intense. Spokes promised himself to tone down on the melodramatics.

  When he met Carlos four years ago, the man from Sao Paolo was in serious financial difficulty but he had a creative mind and ambition and with his promises and big plans he convinced Spokes to work on the nightclub’s structure and redecoration at a substantially reduced charge. Both their lives changed around about that time in ways Carlos would never truly understand. What he did understand without question was that they had been on a winning streak for the last four years, every promotion a smash hit and their partnership seemed to have the Midas touch.

  All good things mus come to an end, pardy.

  Carlos Velors - who had been called away from the discussion for the fourth time by the ringing phone - was not the easiest man to hold down. And even when you did have his attention, every sentence was punctuated by his incessant questions or the ring of the phone.

  Why even go through this shit?

  Well, it was this thing Carlos had about the etiquette of behavior between business partners. This was a gesture of respect that was being exploited by the trumped up little Napoleon for his own self aggrandizement. So Spokes felt it was his duty to make the exercise as uncomfortable for him as possible.

  He rose himself off the leather seat slightly, grimaced and broke wind.

  “Irritable bowels,” he muttered as a means of apology.

  Velors looked over to him from the phone and Spokes smiled brightly, trying to wrinkle his nose at the stench and seem unaware at the same time.

  Velors smiled back, brushing air from his nose.

  A combination of stress, the red peas and pork tail soup did not help his constitution.

  He belched next.

  Damn.

  What the hell was he doing on the phone for so long?

  The goddamn man was like an eel, unable to sit still for a moment without some erratic movement on his part. From a twitch of his eyelid, to suddenly jumping up out of his seat scattering whatever was in his way to the carpet.

  He was like some uncoordinated puppet unable to control basic movement. Spokes had to have his wits about him to not be pummeled by flying furniture or a flailing arm. Thankfully a meter of wood separated them but still it was an exhausting exercise to watch him.

  One more week of this to endure and it would all be over.

  He reached into his attaché case and slid one of the promotional flyers, a list of advertising sources and the fake Building Inspector’s report over to where his business partner was seated. The dummy Building Inspector’s report he had had done by a girlfriend in the council just as a smokescreen for Carlos’ attention. Not that he would question his need to smash through the wall in his office, that was his trade after all, but he just felt better covering all bases.

  Even s
howing him the flyers and the promotional pack was just a courtesy because Carlos had nothing to do with marketing and wouldn’t know the first thing that was required to arrange an event like this successfully. He just counted the chips and accommodated his requests. What made their unlikely pairing even remotely possible was steeped in the power of magic, witchcraft and Obeah. The Brazilian was sitting on top of forces that consistently bent and broke scientific laws and commonsense. Ancient trinkets and oddities collected by an Obeah man from around the world, stored below where they sat in a Roman crypt he had accidently stumbled upon while renovating the place four years ago and which he used as the perfect hiding place for Darkman’s ill gotten gains. He had used some of the more obvious wealth himself and made sure Jimmy’s family was looked after. The remainder he had buried, recorded and studied. He used his new found wealth not just to make himself comfortable but began to research and consult experts who could identify and unravel their secrets. Darkman returning to the scene had altered his plans but the results would be the same - a new life.

  And something as important as this could not be left to chance. The date of the dance just hadn’t been guessed upon but had been divined by men and women who knew these things.