by Ryan Casey
Martha stuffed the grenade back in her handbag. “Yeah yeah. Dead because I called the police. Hate on me, all that.”
I felt my fists tense. “How can you be so dismissive about it?”
“I’m not being dismissive,” she said. She raised her voice. Walked over. Squared up to me. “If you’d clean your filthy ear holes out for a second, you’d realise I’m trying to help you here.”
I wanted to snap back at her, but I was tired so I shut up for now.
“Remember Jared?” Martha asked.
I nodded. “Jewellery guy with all the electronics. Yeah.”
“Well Jared got a special visitor yesterday,” she said. She reached back into her bag. Pulled out a piece of paper.
“Tim Cook asking for his iPhones back?” I asked, as I grabbed the piece of paper.
Martha didn’t respond.
When I saw what was on the paper, I knew why.
His head was shaven. He was dressed in green, army-style colours. But his eyes. His brown eyes. I’d know those eyes if I saw them a million miles away.
James Scotts.
“He just… he just…”
“He went into Jared’s Jewellers. Gave Jared his passcode and demanded to buy some equipment. Jared thought he was weird from the off, but he always gets weirdos, so he let him buy his stuff.”
“What did he buy?” My heart raced. My cheeks warmed up.
Martha looked at me, deadpan. “Grenades. Explosives of all kinds. And an assault rifle with a…” She cleared her throat. “With a camcorder mount attached.”
I looked back at the photograph. Back at James Scotts entering Jared’s shop. “And Jared didn’t think to stop him?”
“He didn’t realise until after he’d gone. Said he looked familiar somehow, but only realised later. But anyway, there’s… James Scotts said something else. Before he left Jared’s place. Might be something and nothing but…”
“What did he say?”
Martha gulped. Twiddled with her hair. “Jared asked where he was going and—and what he was planning with all this… this equipment. Because it’s very rare for somebody to go in buying weapons like this in such a large amount at Jared’s place. He usually deals with professionals—”
“What did he say?”
Martha paused. Stared me in my eyes. “He said he was ‘off to London to see the Queen.’”
I looked down at the photograph again. Looked at James Scotts, all shaven-headed, his identity still well on show.
“You should take this to the police,” Martha said. “But I… I wanted to tell you first. I wanted you to know.”
I ignored Martha.
Off to London to see the Queen…
I rushed into my bedroom. Grabbed a green rucksack from underneath. Stuffed some things into it—my wallet, my passport, just in case, and my phone charger. A few changes of clothes.
“Blake? Are… where are you—”
“I’m going wherever James Scotts is going,” I said. “Feel free to call it in to the police. But James Scotts is mine. He’s not getting away with what he did.”
I threw my rucksack over my shoulder. Stormed out of my room, pushed past Martha.
“Blake, you shouldn’t—you should leave it. Leave it to the police. He’s obviously scared now. Cornered. Let them catch him.”
I turned around when I reached the door to my flat. Smiled at Martha.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” I said.
Martha narrowed her eyes. “Get what?”
“Love.”
I grabbed the handle of my apartment door. Twisted it, and stepped outside.
If James Scotts was off to London to see the Queen, then so too was I.
I had to break out of these walls. I had to break out of this shitty little city. Break out of my bubble.
I had to confront the unknown, head on.
Only this time, I was having the last frigging laugh.
THIRTY-EIGHT
He presses his foot onto the accelerator and drives as fast as he can.
His heart races. He can’t help but smile even though he knows the end is near. He is wanted. A wanted man for all his “horrible crimes.”
And yet, here he is, driving to London.
Preparing for the final act.
He glances into the back of the car. Spots the assault rifle, the grenades. Granted, this part of the tale was not planned in advance. But sometimes, the best stories are the ones with the crazy, unpredictable twists. The best films had unexpected, explosive conclusions.
And if there was one thing he could promise, it was that this was going to be explosive.
He presses harder on the accelerator. Powers down the motorway. Signs for London are appearing now, which means he is getting closer.
He knows his days are numbered. He knows that after the final act, he will no longer be alive.
But all of his journey will be documented on video. All of it will be there, on tape, for the world to enjoy, to lament. A reminder of what happens when someone is pushed to their limits. When they are pushed over the edge.
He bites his lip. Tries not to think of the past. Would he have done all this if he hadn’t caught his wife cheating with that sleazy, grey-haired bastard? Would he have done all this if he hadn’t been fined for parking on double yellow lines later that day? If he hadn’t got that speeding ticket?
He smiles. Chuckles.
Of course he fucking well would have.
People didn’t always need triggers to topple over the edge. They just needed a little bit of confidence. A willingness to dare.
The capability, the desire to kill, had always been inside him for as long as he’d lived. It’s up to the doctors and the textbook writers to struggle over the hows and the whys.
He heads faster down the motorway. Opens the window a little, so that a breeze washes into the car, makes his breathing easier.
He is going to create a grand finale.
An explosive finale.
And hopefully, if Blake Dent does enough digging, he’ll come along to enjoy the fireworks.
A front row seat to the world premiere.
THIRTY-NINE
I would’ve loved to be able to speed my way down to London. Alas, I didn’t have a car, and I could only drive automatic.
Next best option was a piss-stinking train that took two hours.
I bit my nails as I sat in carriage A, which was closest to the front. There was a kid crying somewhere behind me, which was really getting on my wick. I kept on looking at my watch, but time was dragging.
Time I didn’t have.
Bloody hell. What was it with countdowns lately?
I spent most of the journey with my head pressed against the back of the seat in front. Only went to wind me up even more when the train arrived at a platform, suddenly swerved to the side, things like that.
I just needed to get to London.
I needed to get James Scotts.
I needed to stop him before he did whatever it was he was planning to do.
I wondered if Martha had called the police. Whether the London police were on high alert for what they were no doubt referring to as a “terrorist.” If she had called the police, I hoped to God she understood that I was getting my revenge, no matter what.
I didn’t care if it resulted in me being locked in a cell for the rest of my life. James Scotts was paying for the death of Danielle.
Revenge was all I had left.
We stopped at five, six stops. The train steadily filled up, to the point that I had a fat black woman beside me for the last stretch of the journey. She looked at me a few times, smiled at me, but I didn’t react. I’m not a racist—nothing like that. I just wasn’t into people all that much today.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are now approaching London Euston.”
I tensed up inside. So I was nearly here. Nearly in London. With London Euston the next stop, I looked out of the window at the approaching buildings of the big city. I wondered where th
e hell James Scotts was planning on going with his explosive toys. He’d said something about the Queen. Buckingham Palace? It was worth a try.
Shit. What if he was just bluffing about London? What if he was just being casual?
What if he’d stayed in Preston and was planning something horrible back home?
I noticed the brakes squeaking. Felt the train slowing down. Euston couldn’t be far off now. Couldn’t be far away at all. Weird that we were stopping so soon though. There was still a mile or two to go just yet.
And then the train lurched to a halt. The squeaking became screeching, total intense screeching. People tumbled forward, let out groans of discomfort. Even the train staff looked around like they didn’t know what the hell was going on.
A few bumpy, noisy seconds later, the train came to a complete stop.
Everyone was still. Everyone looked at one another, whispered, as the train sat right in the middle of the tracks, still some way away from London Euston station.
There was silence at first. Silence, confused stares and side glances. Tension.
The static of the train radio buzzed in. A woman’s voice, inaudible at first, but gradually more comprehendible.
“Sorry but we’ve got a delay up ahead. It shouldn’t be too long. Just sit back and relax for the time being.”
Cue a number of groans, eye rolls and a return of smiles. Shit—even the wailing kid must’ve stopped to listen to that radio message, as I’d only just noticed it’d started squawking again.
“Looks like a bit of a block,” the woman beside me said. She was staring at me with a big grin on her face. I wanted to tell her that I was Blake Dent, superhero avenging the death of my girlfriend.
Instead, I just shrugged and looked back out of the window.
It was when I looked out of the window that I noticed something.
The tracks curved to the right, so I could see Euston station, and I could see where our train was headed.
But on the tracks, coming our way, there was a man.
He was running. Running towards the train. He had something in his hands. Something long and metallic, like a…
My gut wrenched.
The green coat.
The bald head.
Shit.
I stood up. Walked down the aisle. Headed towards the door, barging past the food counter. I slammed my hand on the open switch.
“Sir, we can’t leave the train just now—”
“We need to get off,” I said to the tall guy behind the counter.
He shook his head. Smiled. “We need to remain calm and—”
“There’s somebody very dangerous running towards this train. If we don’t get the hell off right now, he’s going to—”
I didn’t get to finish my sentence because I heard something hit the train.
And before I had a chance to work out what it was, I heard the loudest explosion I’d ever experienced outside of Call of Duty to my right.
It flew me back.
Knocked me to the floor.
Made my head crack against a seat at the side of the carriage.
I heard screams. Smelled smoke, felt the heat of flames. I tasted blood in my mouth, felt searing pains on my head where I’d hit the floor.
I shuffled back, my right ear ringing and stinging with the blast. I blinked a few times, tried to see through the smoke.
I didn’t have to see through the smoke.
James Scotts was opposite me.
And he was pointing his assault rifle right in my face.
FORTY
Lying on the floor, smoke in my lungs and an assault rifle in my face, I fast remembered why I hated travelling by train so damn much.
James Scotts smiled at me. Stood and smiled, as flames flickered around the ruined wrecks of the train carriage. Smoke filled the air. I could hear screams behind me—screams and cries. The cries of people who had lost.
“Didn’t expect to see me so soon, did you?” James Scotts said. He laughed. “Disappointing, really. I mean, I knew you’d be right on to me when I dropped that little London clue with Jared. But hey. Nice of you to accept my London invite. And fancy you being on this train. What is it they say in screenwriting? A coincidence in the hero’s favour is a faux pas, a coincidence in the villain’s favour is good plotting?”
He lifted his assault rifle and blasted it over my head.
A woman stopped screaming.
He looked back at me. Pointed the rifle at me, as the carriage fell to bits. In the distance, down the line, I could see the flashing lights of police cars. But James Scotts had already done damage. He’d already made his point.
“But it shows a lot,” James Scotts said. He stepped towards me. Kicked some metal rubble at me. “Shows a lot of fight. A lot of willingness to take out your revenge. So go on. Here I am. Say what you have to say.”
My lips quivered. Now he was towering over me, I couldn’t think of what I wanted to say. Maybe because there was nothing to say. Only things to do.
Only actions.
I pressed my hand into the floor. Winced as pieces of broken glass stuck inside me. Struggled to my feet, my knees weak, my head spinning.
“You’d better hurry up,” James Scotts said. He pointed over his shoulder. “See those lights? Hear those sirens? They’re coming for me. So if you want your revenge, you’d better get it now. A climax to the story.”
I noticed above his rifle, a silver camcorder was sat, filming away. A first person capturing of events. The final act.
And I knew what he wanted. Exactly what he wanted.
“Oh don’t let the gun alarm you,” James Scotts said. “I’m just pointing this at you for the camera—”
“Why Danielle?” I asked.
James Scotts frowned. His smile twitched. “Why what?”
“Why Danielle? Why… why make her suffer? Because—because she didn’t do a thing. She… she was a good person. She didn’t deserve to suffer.”
James Scotts shrugged. “Maybe so, hero. Maybe so. But let me tell you this—she didn’t suffer. Not like she could have. I mean, sure, she took a few beatings. Took a few… seeings to, if you know what I mean. But she never fully met the hose. She never got it down her throat. She never—”
I swung my fist into James Scotts’ face. Felt his cheekbone crack against my knuckles.
He kept on smiling, kept on his feet. There was a bloodied bruise on his cheek. In the distance, I could hear police sirens approaching, the flashing lights getting closer. Flames began to spread around the carriage, smoke smogged up the air.
“Good hit. Not bad. But you can do better than that.” He pulled a long strip of green hose out of his pocket. Handed it to me. Winked. “Go on. Get that revenge you want. Be the hero, hero.”
My hands shook as I held the hose. Pieces of the carriage crumbled around me. James Scotts kept the gun pointed at me, the camera in my face.
I wanted to wrap the hose around his neck. I wanted to make him suffer for what he’d done to Danielle. I wanted to get my revenge.
But I could tell from the look on James Scotts’ face that that’s exactly what he wanted, too.
“You aren’t the hero, though,” he said. “Not in this tale. You’re the villain now, and this film is a tragedy. I’m the hero, because I killed my whore wife, and I killed that other slutty bitch, and I killed my brother, his family, and Danielle. And I loved it. I got hard doing it. I’m the hero—”
I smacked him in the face again, only this time he fell to the ground.
He didn’t struggle with any major force when I crouched over him, the sirens getting closer, the flames flickering away.
He didn’t struggle as I wrapped the hose around his neck, as I tightened it, gripped it harder, squeezed it.
He smiled. Smiled, as he went red, then purple, sheer look of victory in his eyes.
He smiled as saliva dribbled out of his mouth, down his chin.
He smiled as his legs started to twitch, as he went comple
tely blue.
“This is for Danielle,” I said.
He smiled some more when I said that.
As the camcorder filmed from the assault rifle beside us.
Something clicked inside me, then. Just as the sirens got close, as the flames surrounded the exit to the carriage completely, as the smoke made me woozy. This wasn’t for Danielle. This wasn’t what Danielle would’ve wanted.
No. This wasn’t for Danielle.
This was just a part of James Scotts’ film.
The ending he wanted. Dying like a martyr in his own movie.
His eyelids had already started to droop when I took the hose away, threw it to one side. He didn’t budge when I did, so I punched him in the chest repeatedly until he coughed and spluttered in my face.
“That’s right, wake up,” I said.
James Scotts gasped for breath. Looked at me with amused bewilderment. “What’s up, hero? Lose your nerve?”
“This is the police!” I heard just outside. “Put down your weapons! We are armed!”
I looked up into the smoke. “It’s okay,” I said, shaking all over, like someone was in complete control of my body. “I’ve got him on the floor.” I coughed out smoke. Shit, I was so close to passing out. “It’s… just get everyone out of here.”
“You’re weak, hero,” James Scotts said. He started chuckling. Chuckling away, as the camcorder continued recording, as fire extinguishers eased the flames from the exploded front of the carriage. “You’re a coward. A coward who couldn’t save his girlfriend, and a coward that couldn’t even give her the revenge she deserves. You really are a villain. No—villain gives you too much of a sense of importance. You’re a parasite. A Wormtongue, or a Peter Pettigrew.”
I held my breath. Tried not to look into James Scotts’ eyes, or at his laughing mouth.
“She screamed, you know? Screamed when I raped her. Made her ass bleed, too, but a few plasters sorted her out for another session later on. Did her with a screwdriver, believe it or not. It’s all on there. All on the camera. Raw, unedited… very raw.” He chuckled some more.
I clenched my fists together as the armed police entered the train, coming through the smoke like aliens from another planet.
