by John Kerr
He turned to the man’s wife, grabbed her by the throat and threw her in the direction of Riley and Willoughby.
‘Strip that and give her what she needs,’ he said in a calm voice. Willoughby ripped at her clothes and within half a minute she was naked and he had his head between her soft milky thighs. Dumas stood with the daughter on her knees in front of him and had his penis in her mouth. He was thrusting his pelvis back and forth and seemed to be getting a great deal of pleasure out of it. Brooks and Shelton appeared at the door leading to the kitchen and nodded to Demarco.
‘Found it. It’s below a back room floor. There’s a hidden staircase and there must be two or three hundred kilos at least. The little shit must have been on the take for the past ten fucking years.’ Demarco told them to load everything into the van. Then smiled and turned back to his victim, still hanging from the wall like a carcass on a slaughterhouse hook.
‘So who’s been a naughty boy then?’ he said, shaking his head slowly, then added in a low growl, ‘Don’t you worry, we won’t tell if you don’t.’ He slowly walked over, reached up and pulled the knife out of the wall in one easy, unforced movement. The man crashed to the floor in an uncontrollable heap and rolled over onto his back. His eyes locked immediately on the knife in Demarco’s hand and his body began to shake uncontrollably when he realised it wasn’t over yet. Dumas lifted the girl up onto her feet and threw her over the back of the sofa. He knew what Demarco had in mind so he turned and left to help the others. In the time it took for Demarco to drop his trousers he had ripped most of the girls clothing off. He positioned himself behind her and waited until both her mother and father were watching. He thrust himself forward and forced into her. She let out an involuntary almost silent squeal and dropped her head onto her hands. Demarco thrust in and out as hard as he could. This was as much about control as it was sexual gratification and he was sure to make it last. Without completing the event, he lifted the limp girl until she almost stood upright and in a swift smooth movement he cut off her right breast. The sudden stab of pain rippled through her entire body and she hung limp in unconscious agony. Demarco lifted the severed breast, placed the nipple in his mouth and spat it into the air towards the body against the wall. The man closed his eyes and knew death would now be his only saviour. Demarco obliged without a second thought. The Colt 38 Super ended their lives quickly as he fired a fatal round directly into their foreheads. Demarco Salis didn’t flinch he just casually went into the kitchen and lifted a large green apple from the bowl on the table. He bit deep into it and savoured its sweet taste before leaving the house and carnage behind.
‘Where to now?’ Dumas asked as Demarco lowered his massive frame onto the passenger seat beside him. Demarco said nothing as he watched the last of the bags being loaded into the vehicles. Finally, he turned to Dumas.
‘There are only a few more things to collect before we’re ready, so let’s get on the road before daybreak. We split up from here take three different routes. We’ll meet at the motorway services at Southwaite on the M6. I want to be in our final location within the next three days so I don’t care what route you take as long as you head north.’
‘North? How far north?
‘North until the population thins out.’
‘God knows when that will be.’
‘Just you get us over the border and I’ll tell you when to stop.’ Demarco patted Dumas lightly on the shoulder, put his head back into the headrest and closed his eyes. He felt completely at ease. The United Kingdom held no fear for him. He was in control of his own fate and fearful of nothing and no-one.
ELEVEN
Sunday 22nd October was the blackest night Jake had seen for a long time. Low clouds obscured the light of the moon so that he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He drank the last of his brew and could feel the hot liquid make its way down his throat to his stomach, a comforting contrast to the chill night air. It lifted his spirits no end – it always did. Slowly and deliberately, he packed everything away and set out, without bothering to glance at his map. There was no need. First light was another three hours away and he had long since covered his target of twenty-five kilometres. Could he possibly make it forty-five?… Push! Push! Push! Within half an hour the sweat mingled with the thin sheen of raindrops on his forehead. He was making good speed; just like old times, except now he lacked a target at the end of the tab. Tonight was for him alone.
It was cold - the kind of damp, icy cold that made his fingers swell to twice their normal size, and forced him to arch his back, shrinking into his body so that less of it was exposed to the elements. Although it was raining hard, his secret was always the same. Take in plenty of fluids and keep the body core hot. A small drop in the core temperature by even a couple of degrees could prove fatal, especially for the lone nightwalker. A long ten-hour tab through the night was nothing to Jake – covering long distances was his food and drink. Nothing made him feel as good as finishing a long drag just before first light and getting into cover before anyone else was up and about. There was a saying which always brought a fleeting smile to his lips,
‘An old soldier never dies; he just fades into the undergrowth.’ At thirty-six, Jake was certainly not an old soldier. He had, however, been out of the army for two years now and quite liked the position of postman in the little village of Fenton in the lowland hills of Scotland. The lifestyle was as far away from his past as he could possibly get, and from his window he could look out over the rolling countryside. The Ochil hills were a gateway, leading up to some of the best scenery he had ever come across in all his travels. And after eighteen years in the military, serving throughout the world and in many conflicts, that was saying something.
The night was coming to a close and the sky in the far distance was paling into greyness. Jake felt good, and knew he could keep going for a long time yet. He was wet through but his mind was still alert and he was in good shape. He had pushed himself hard and had covered a great deal of ground tonight but time was almost up and with first light fast approaching, his old military instincts began to clamour that he should find a safe-haven. He tried to push the thought aside – those impulses were from a time when there could have been people out looking for him, people wanting to do him some damage. But now there was only Jake, the hills and a few thousand sheep to worry about. He was now only twenty-five metres from the summit, tired and wet but glad to be nearly home. It was still dark and the ground made a squelching sound as he pushed towards the top. There wasn’t a breath of wind, leaving the dampness to hang in the air. The small cairn at the top of King’s Point suddenly loomed out of the darkness - it was like meeting an old friend, and Jake’s spirits lifted. A couple of hundred metres down to his left was the flat plateau known to everyone as the Mol. Although he couldn’t see it in the darkness he knew it was there and he could feel it. It wasn’t really a plateau - in fact, it wasn’t even particularly flat - but from far below in the village it looked as though someone long ago had taken a huge slice out of the side of the hill and appeared to be as level as a billiard table. Jake knew he would be home soon so he ignored the tiredness and damp that was beginning to seep into his skin, and pushed on through the dark. The hill suddenly fell away and the updraught from the valley far below made him wince. It was quite windy on this side of the mount and he could almost feel the void of the blackness below. Jake pushed on and on, ever closer to home and further from the wilderness that he loved. The village was only two kilometres away. He took a break and sat with his back against a large rock. He made a brew and watched in silence as daylight slowly began to break over the far-away hills. Night was turning into day and he could smell the freshness that he loved. The little village below was still asleep and nothing moved, except the small stream behind the row of houses on the outskirts. At the far left-hand side of the settlement, the trees slowly swayed in the light morning breeze and the field behind the trees held his old friend, Harry B. Fletcher’s sheep. Harry was an inte
resting man – a ‘poacher turned farmer’. Every now and then, the sheep would take it upon themselves to somehow get into the village of their own accord, much to Harry’s great consternation and the amusement of the local children. As Jake sat there on the flat rocky outcrop, overlooking the small town below, his thoughts drifted back to life in the village when he was a boy and the stories the other children told. One such tale was about King’s Point Mol itself. According to the other kids, it was the way to a secret hidden valley, which in years gone by had held a thousand wild horses. Time and again, all the children would try and reach the top only to be forced back by the sheer scale of the climb. In reality, they never managed to get more than a hundred metres up on the lower slopes, but at the age of nine the climb had felt to Jake like an attempt on Everest itself. Even at that tender age though, he had known that one day he would look down on the secret valley and would go on to achieve even greater feats of climbing and endurance. He loved the feeling of the wind and rain in his face, of standing so high up that he could see the rest of the world far below. It always gave him a sense of how unimportant he was in the great scheme of things, how insignificant and small he really was. These hills had been standing here for a million years and more and he would be here and gone in the blink of an eye. To Jake it had always been, and would continue to be, a privilege and a pleasure to stretch his legs across these peaks. The sky above had relented and released all the rain it had held. Small pockets of light blue could be seen trying to push through the tumbling clouds, declaring that it was going to be a good day. Jake sat and watched for half an hour as the night lost its battle with the coming daylight. The inevitability of it all was not lost on him. If only life itself was as predictable as the sight he was witnessing.
TWELVE
Brooks pulled the car into the Southwaite service station and stopped the vehicle between Demarco’s van and Corseta’s car. He and Max Shelton casually entered the diner and filled a tray with food and two mugs of strong coffee. They moved over to the empty table facing the door and Brooks nodded to Demarco with barely a movement of his head. The diner was more full than empty and nobody took any notice of the group of men casually talking to each other over lunch.
‘We travel from here along the A75 towards Stranraer. 25 miles east of there is a small place called Wigtown. It has a small bay and at 2 in the morning the night after next we pick up our delivery.’ Demarco said. He stopped speaking to allow a young woman carrying a tray of food walk by, she was being pulled along by the small child which she was tethered to. ‘We have to go into the water so we’ll need 3 wet suits. Willoughby, you’re the diver here so you pick up what we need and select 2 others to retrieve the merchandise with you.’
‘Got it.’
‘We also need a large truck to transport the gear. Max that’s your job. Don’t break any heads or make any noise. We can’t have the law looking for a runaway truck.’
‘Done.’ Max said, filling his mouth with handful of fries.
‘Brooks and I will locate a generator and any other sundries we’ll need. A small 250cc trail bike is going to be useful so if you see one Regis, lift it.’ the big black guy nodded slowly.
‘Pasquale I’ve a little job for you and Max to do at a different location so you won’t be coming with the rest of us.’ Pasquale said nothing but gave a short nod of his head.
The noise inside the diner grew suddenly louder as eight maybe ten football supporters came through the automatic double doors. They all wore white football tops with the sponsors name emblazoned on the front. LG it said in large grey letters next to the red circular logo. As soon as the doors closed they sprung open again as even more football shirts entered. Another dozen or so filed through and noisily started chanting as they approached the counter. The single decker coach sat outside in the car park 150 meters from the front door. Only cars could park close to the food hall with the buses relegated to the far end. Willoughby glanced at the guy sitting opposite him and threw a quizzed look at him. ‘Fulham supporters up from London for the cup tie with Carlisle.’ the guy said. He quickly finished his coffee, lifted his unfinished burger on a bun and made a swift exit. Like lemmings on a cliff edge the rest of the place empted quickly until only the Fulham casuals and Demarco and his team of warriors sat facing each other. The atmosphere changed immediately. The casuals had been here many times before. They had fought up and down the country. To them it was a way of life and they looked forward to it from one game to the other. In fact, to them the game was secondary and breaking faces was the order of the day and today faces would be broken. A white shirt walked from the counter and placed his tray on a table occupied by three other shirts. He casually lifted his blue plastic chair over his head and let it go in Demarco’s general direction. The object was only half distance to its target and Demarco’s men were all on their feet. The diner erupted into absolute chaos. Spencer Riley sat closest to the shirts and as a result got to them first. His reactions were swift and deliberate as he dropped his head six inches and watched the iron bar swing harmlessly over his head. His fist connected easily with the stubbled chin of his attacker. The sound of the jaw as it cracked open only served to excite him even more. Brooks and Max Shelton got there next and waded straight into five shirts at once. Max generated enough force with his forehead as it struck a casual that he knew no-one would have to worry about him as the unconscious body fell heavily onto the floor. Brooks hit the guy on his left with a four punch combination two to the body and two to the head which dropped him immediately. The guy to his right caught him with a weak left hook to the side of his face. Brooks automatically rolled his head slightly then drove a vicious left hard into the guy’s solar plexus. The air emptied completely out of his lungs and as he doubled over Brooks smashed his knee up into his face. It opened up like a burst water melon and he splashed into a deep pool of his own blood by the time he hit the floor. Eric Alborz rushed with Pasquale Dumas and Willoughby into the fray like hyenas onto a one legged gazelle. Eric Alborz hit everything directly in his line of sight. His arms pumped like a runaway jackhammer and bodies dropped all around him. Dumas grabbed hold of two younger guys and held them by the hair while Willoughby hit them both with the same right handed punch four times until he got the timing just right. They fell at his feet but before he could do any more Dumas jumped up into the air and came down hard on the tops of their heads. A big guy with a huge wiry beard that made him look like a pirate lunged at Ricardo Corseta. With a deft twist of his upper body Ricardo slipped him to the left, grabbed him by the balls and pulled hard until he was forced down onto his knees.
‘You must be the famous Jack Sparrow we’ve been hearing all about.’ Ricardo laughed as he began pounding down on top of the mans head. He continued to beat on him till his eyes closed and he slumped face down onto the floor.
‘Hello, I’m Mr Corseta, slayer of ugly pirates. Have a nice day.’ he said as he stepped away from the limp body at his feet. Nikolai Bestir was now surrounded by three white shirts. He picked up the iron bar which was swung at Riley and presented it to them like a sword fighter. They were transfixed. They glanced at each other inviting one another to move. Nothing happened. So Nikolai dived straight in. He swung the bar in a wide arc and connected with the head of a guy wearing gold rimmed sun glasses. His face exploded and half his teeth exited his mouth as he spat blood, teeth, shades and half his jaw over the guy to his right. Regis hit the third guy with a table and knocked him sideways and watched as he crashed headlong into the shirt with half his face missing. Demarco watched it all from his seat. Eric Alborz was still hitting everything within his arc and only stopped when he mistakenly connected with the back of Max Shelton’s head. ‘Fuck me Eric; wish you’d open your goddamn eyes when you’re throwing those things.’ Max shouted as he rubbed the throbbing lump growing out of the back of his head. Suddenly it went quiet and still as the bodies rolled around the floor, all in different levels of consciousness. Regis had a giant of a man still
pinned hard against the back wall. He had his left hand on the guy’s throat and was punching slowly and methodically at the centre of the man’s heavily bloodied face. Finally he loosed his grip and hit him as he fell with a thunderous right which dropped the guy straight into a deep coma. Demarco lifted himself and his unfinished coffee from the seat and drifted slowly over to the carnage on the floor. A quick glance round the diner told him all his people were still on their feet and in full working order. A total of six aimed punched from the casuals had found their mark compared to probably over 350 from Demarco’s men. The ratio was more than good and showed him that if this was the best that the United Kingdom had to offer then this was going to be a walk in the park. He stopped beside a table and underneath it lay the shirt who had thrown the table. Demarco nodded at Riley and Brooks and they quickly dragged the casual out from his hiding place. He was mid to late twenties. It was hard to tell without first removing the blood from his face and replacing the left side of his forehead. He slowly rolled onto his back, opened his right eye and through a heavily glazed retina tried to focus on Demarco. He watched as the hulk of a man above him looked round the blood spattered diner for the last time. Finally he looked down and said. ‘I think you can call this 1-0 to us.’ he took a large gulp of his cold coffee and spat it over the crumpled body below him. Four minutes later Demarco and his people drove out the car park and within minutes they had separated and had started the next leg of their journey north. All had taken different routes.
THIRTEEN
The sun never did climb very high in the late October sky but it did try hard. Jake could feel the cold ebb away as the temperature slowly rose by a few degrees. The valley floor was still in relative darkness and he would try as always to beat the daylight home. It was something he had done for the past few years and it was now time to go. He crept slowly off the hill and pushed his way through the undergrowth. He could sense the ground fall away as the valley floor made its way up to meet him. There was a crispness in the air and he could feel the cold grip the inside of his throat as he drew breath. Home was only half an hour away and he automatically increased his pace. Jake came up to the boundary fence that ran from the edge of the village down past the old schoolhouse. It had lain derelict for the past two years and ended below the small football field at the far end of village. A door closed with a crack and the noise immediately sent Jake onto one knee. He automatically held his breath and switched on as if once more back on the job. Something caught his eye at the back of the houses about 400 metres to his left. The small burn at the edge of refuge huts ran alongside a row of disused outhouses. What was it? He let his breath out slowly and tried to focus but it was still too dark. There was something there and it was moving very slowly.
