by Nick Oldham
The man gurgled, slumped onto the back step of the ambulance, clutching his neck, trying to stem the flow.
Six feet away, Trent watched him writhe and begin to bleed to death.
When the man no longer moved, Trent stepped over him and climbed into the back of the ambulance. He cleaned up the self-inflicted wounds on his arms with antiseptic wipes and dressed them with bandages. He undressed himself, towelled himself clean, and got into the ambulance driver’s gear which fitted him well — a green overall and trainers. Over the top of this he put an anorak from which he cut off the epaulettes. He threw his prison gear into the ambulance and then helped himself to the wallets belonging to the dead paramedic and prison guard. This added another forty-five pounds to his stash of cash, four credit cards and a driving licence.
He briefly considered setting fire to the ambulance, but realised all that would achieve would be to draw attention to the fact he would not be very far away. It was a good decision because the ambulance was not discovered until after midnight, giving Trent ample time to do what he had planned.
He strolled boldly towards the retail park, posing as an off-duty paramedic; he knew he would find an ASDA store open until ten. Before entering the store he went to a hole-in-the-wall cash machine on the outer wall where, using the ambulance-driver’s card, he withdrew the maximum allowed that day.
Three hundred pounds richer and armed with a nice, new, non-squeaky trolley, he went shopping.
In the ‘George’ clothing shop within the store he selected a couple of smart new outfits and two pairs of shoes, with underwear, socks and shirts to match. Next he bought a selection of tasty food and drink which could be consumed on the hoof and finally a few toiletries and a large holdall.
Feeling his luck was still in, he pinpointed the busiest check-out with the most harassed-looking till operator and joined — the queue. He presented the ambulance driver’s credit card and looked the young girl directly in the eye. There was no problem. Being under severe pressure, the girl swiped it through and couldn’t even be bothered to give a cursory glance at the signature on the receipt as opposed to the card. It was as well she didn’t. Trent’s was nowhere near that of the man he had murdered.
He sailed through on a high, bearing two hundred pounds’ worth of clothing. He went directly to the toilets and changed into a new outfit, washed, brushed his hair, cleaned his teeth, emerged a new man.
Clean. Unruffled.
Even with the time to buy a newspaper at the kiosk and linger over sausage and chips at the in-store cafe.
Twenty-five minutes later a taxi dropped him off at the railway station where he boarded the next train north.
And here he was, only minutes away from his home town, his old stomping ground, Blackpool. It had gone like a dream.
The old lady had nodded off.
Trent smiled indulgently at her. Bitch.
Next stop along the line was Poulton-le-Fylde, the last one before the end of the line at Blackpool.
Guessing, rightly, that there were likely to be cops waiting at the terminus, he decided not to push his luck too far. He looked slyly around the almost deserted railway carriage — no one was paying any attention to him — and dipped his hand into the old lady’s shopping bag, helping himself to her unguarded purse.
It went straight into his pocket.
He hit the platform running as the train pulled into Poulton-le-Fylde and trotted away, carried by his own momentum.
In a cubicle in the public toilets he examined with glee the contents of a well-stocked purse. Trent blessed the stupid old woman who probably did not have a bank account and kept all her savings underneath her bed. There was almost five hundred pounds stuffed into the purse, plus a large handful of loose change.
He transferred the money into his pockets and wedged the purse behind the toilet block.
A few minutes later he was settled in the snug of a nearby pub, a pint of bitter in one hand, a cumbersome-looking sandwich in the other. He estimated he probably had about half an hour before he needed to move on. When he did he would simply catch a cab into Blackpool, book into one of the thousands of guest-houses, and disappear amongst the great unwashed.
Home and dry.
A dithery Steve Kruger put the plastic cup to his lips and took a sip of the scalding-hot black coffee.
With Tapperman and Myrna, he was out in the sultry street, about a hundred yards away from the Armstrong brothers’ apartment building. The trio were leaning on a semi-permanent burger stall from which they’d bought their drinks.
Myrna looked very ill. Her normally lovely golden-brown skin had developed a tinge of grey and her eyes were tired and sunken.
Tapperman was talking at the same time as inserting a greasy onion-laden cheeseburger into his mouth.
‘ Fuckin’ incredible.’ He shook his head and wiped the dribble of fat from his chin. ‘To do that to somebody. I mean, hell, Texas Chainsaw Massacre eat yer goddam heart out.’ The last of the burger disappeared.
‘ Okay, Mark, we get the picture,’ Kruger cut him short. He breathed out long and hard and tried to manage the memory of what he’d experienced in the last hour.
On recovering from his vomiting fit in the corridor, Kruger had gone on to witness the rest of the carnage in the apartment which had belonged to the Armstrong brothers. After edging past their heads on the coffee table, he was treated to a tour so he could see where the remaining parts of their two bodies had been scattered.
Their limbless torsos had been dumped in the bath; their arms and legs were distributed around the living room, kitchen and two bedrooms. The final, nice touch, was that their private parts had been sliced off and placed side by side on a plate in the icebox.
Kruger didn’t linger. His experienced eyes saw everything they needed to see. He urgently required fresh air. But the atmosphere of the late afternoon in Miami was clammy, making pleasant breathing a difficulty, even on the sidewalk. The air from the apartment stuck in his lungs; he seemed unable to expel it.
‘ They were good boys,’ croaked Myrna, the first words she had spoken for some time. ‘Good boys and good workers. They didn’t deserve to die, not like this.’
Kruger looked at her. Some of the colour was flowing back into her face now that anger was beginning to replace shock.
‘ Yeah, they were,’ Kruger agreed. The Armstrongs had been two of his first employees and had stuck with him through the early days. Both had been tough professionals and superb investigators. Both were good friends to Steve Kruger. He had spent many nights in their company, particularly during the dark days of divorce, and had crashed out several times at their apartment when he’d been too drunk to get home. The apartment, therefore, held fond memories for Kruger. The three of them had hit it a few times with willing ladies.
Kruger’s eyes returned to Tapperman. ‘Any leads?’
The big cop shrugged. ‘I guess you an’ me are thinking pretty much along the same lines.’
‘ Yeah — Bussola. He’s supposed to be a whizz with a chainsaw.’
‘ Only rumours,’ Tapperman cautioned.
‘ No smoke without fire.’ Kruger frowned. ‘Anything from the other tenants? To do that with a chainsaw must have made a hell of a racket.’
‘ So far, no one’s heard a mouse’s fart and no one saw nuthin.’
‘ But a chainsaw in that place! Must’ve been like a lion roaring in a cookie jar.’
‘ Nuthin’ — yet. But these state-of-the-art chainsaws can run almost silent.’
‘ Forensics?’
‘ Again — nuthin’ yet. Crime-scene guys reckon whoever did it was wearing plastic gloves and overalls… which’ll all be destroyed by now.’
‘ It was Bussola,’ Myrna blurted out. ‘He warned us we’d regret it — and now we do.’
‘ Myrna, honey… I know it was Bussola, you know it, and so does Steve here… but provin’ it’s gonna be one helluva godamned difficult thing to do.’
‘ In
that case, Mark — “honey” — you’d better get your ass into gear,’ Myrna retorted.
In the dream Danny had been transported back in time. Fifteen years to be exact. She was on-duty and attending the Liltons’ address in Osbaldeston. It was all very clear, as though she was actually there again. She drew up in the car, stopped outside the front of the house and got out. She could hear the argument in progress. Joe Lilton versus his then wife. Danny walked towards the house. She could hear the words being shouted, but she wasn’t really listening. They were going into her brain, but not registering… then the dream changed and went black and she was being pinned down. A face appeared above her, grotesque features, but it was definitely Jack Sands. His breath smelled of spermicidal cream. He held her down and tried to force her legs apart.
There was an interruption. A metallic sound, followed by a sort of shuffling noise.
Danny woke with a start.
The noises were not in the dream, they were reality.
She sat bolt upright, sweat pouring off her, heart pounding, her senses switched on, acute.
There it was again. The click of metal followed by the shuffling noise.
Danny cursed.
Jack was back.
Once more she recognised just how vulnerable she was. The phone was downstairs — off the hook — and there was no alarm on the house with a panic button right where she needed it — next to the bed.
She rolled off the bed, wrapped her dressing-gown tightly around her.
Time check: 1.30 a.m.
Out onto the landing to the top of the stairs. No lights. Don’t switch the lights on. Be brave. Catch the bastard.
That metallic sound again. This time she recognised what it was. Her imagination ran riot. It was the sound of the metal flap on the letter box. Christ! He was pouring petrol into the house! He was going to torch it, burn it down and kill her at the same time.
Danny emitted a mad scream of anguish and threw herself at the double light-switch on the landing. Both hall and landing lights came on. Scaring him away was now her priority, before that lighted match came through the letter box. She raced downstairs, bellowing words which were incomprehensible.
She leapt down the last five steps, twisted into the hallway and faced the front door.
It was not petrol which had been pushed through.
A dozen red roses, several with broken stems, lay there forlornly on the mat.
Danny sank to her knees and picked one up. She crushed the flower in the palm of her hand and allowed the creased petals to drift onto the carpet.
Steve Kruger sat silently in the passenger seat of the Lexus whilst a trance-like Myrna drove him home. There was nothing of value to say. Kruger had been warned about the dangers of dealing with the mafia and the warnings had proved to be accurate. Two of his employees had been butchered and no doubt he, Myrna and Kelly (who he had phoned, found to be safe and well, and warned to get out of town) were probably still in grave danger. All because he had been frightened by his ex-wife’s big mouth, threatening to reveal things which might destroy him.
‘ I’m sorry,’ he said meekly.
‘ I’m sorry too — for everything,’ Myrna replied, stressing the last word. The meaning was bluntly clear to Kruger. ‘Everything’ included their sexual encounter.
He sighed and screwed up his face, sick to the stomach, disgusted with himself for having been so weak-kneed as to accede to Felicity’s demands. He should have called her bluff. After all, she was the one who would have had to prove he sold restricted weapons to an unfriendly country.
He rubbed the base of his thumbs into his eyes.
The Lexus drew up outside his house.
Kruger wrapped his fingers around the door-handle, paused before alighting and glanced sideways at Myrna. ‘Drink? Coffee? Anything?’
She did not look at him. ‘Not a good idea,’ she said, addressing the steering-wheel. Her voice was like stone and her body language gave Kruger the impression she hated him. She tapped the wheel and after a moment she relaxed. She looked sadly at Kruger. Her voice became soft. ‘Not a good idea,’ she repeated. ‘I need to get home.’
‘ I…’ Kruger began to speak with a stutter.
Myrna reached across and placed a forefinger on his lips. ‘Don’t say something you’ll regret. We need to get back to square one — and get our revenge for Jimmy and Dale.’
Kruger was startled. It was apparent the old Myrna had returned.
‘ Yeah, you heard right. I said revenge. I want revenge on Bussola, and one way or another I’m gonna get it. And if I can’t do it by fair means, I’ll sure as hell do it by foul.’
Kruger nodded. ‘Look after yourself,’ he said.
‘ I’ll be okay and so will Kelly, I guess. He won’t do anything against us… but you’ll need to be careful, Steve. He might well come after you.’
Moments later, Myrna pulled away from the kerb.
Kruger let himself back into his house, totally exhausted.
It was 10 p.m. After pouring a beer down his throat and setting the house alarm, he crawled into bed, unmade since he and Myrna had been writhing ecstatically around on it.
The last thing he did before sleep was to reach out to the drawer in his bedside cabinet. He fumbled under a couple of paperbacks and his fingers found the butt of his. 38 police special. He pulled it out and placed it carefully on top of the cabinet, pointing away from his head.
Then he slept, secure in the knowledge that only another matter of feet away, in his wardrobe, were several other guns of various calibre and design which he could reach in seconds if necessary.
Trent openly cruised the bars and clubs of Blackpool, enjoying his newfound freedom, savouring the taste of alcohol and getting very drunk indeed. He was sure no one would recognise him. After all, he was nine years older, thinner and much more gaunt than he had been; his hair had shaded to grey and his facial features become narrow and pinched.
Nine years before he had looked like a predatory owl, now he looked like an evil weasel.
He drifted into a few pubs where he knew he could get some good information on where to go later. As it was his first night out of jail he wasn’t too bothered with the quality. All he wanted was a taster to whet his appetite.
Eventually he got word of something happening in the secure back room of a strip joint near to North Pier. He wasn’t sure what it would be — it was difficult to pin people down to specifics — but it would do.
When the clubs closed at two, he went to a cash machine and because it was another day, he was able to withdraw another?300 from the dead ambulanceman’s account.
With cash almost bursting out of his pockets, none of it his, he strolled to the club specified. He had been directed to go up the fire escape and knock gently on the first door he came to.
It would cost him fifty dabs.
He knocked, the money ready in his fist. The door opened. A gorilla/bouncer took the cash and counted it carefully. He directed Trent to the second door along a poorly lit corridor.
Trent went into a darkened room, illuminated by lights which had been dimmed almost to black. He paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom.
He saw four rows of chairs arranged in a horseshoe shape facing a huge TV screen at the far end of the small room. About a dozen people, all men, were seated. Some conversed in a subdued way. Others were completely alone.
Trent weaved his way through the chairs and sat down on the front row to have an unrestricted view of the screen. He checked his watch — stolen from the ambulanceman — and saw the digital figures flicker onto 3.00 a.m.
What light there was in the room doused to black. Everyone’s attention focused on the screen, which flickered.
The image of a child, wide-eyed and beautiful, appeared.
A frisson of excitement captivated Trent’s body.
The films Trent saw that night were about half an hour each. They originated from Holland and had been
dubbed poorly into English. The quality of the camerawork was shoddy, but the pictures were fairly sharp. The editing was questionable.
Both told much the same story.
One was based around a little boy who looked to be about nine years old.
The other was about a little blonde girl who looked slightly older.
They were both very graphic tales.
Each film began with what appeared to be the abduction off the street of the child. The story carried on with the captivity of the children, both of whom were tied naked to a bed. The story progressed to the sexual abuse of the kids. Sometimes by one person only, more often by a group of people. All men. During these scenes the children screamed and were allowed to do so. This seemed to fire the depraved lust of their captors and tormentors.
The climax of each mm was the rape of the child by one person, who with a noose around the neck of the child reached orgasm at the same time as apparently strangling the child to death. The deaths looked very real. Probably were.
Trent left the viewing room tremendously excited by what he had seen. It had been worth every penny.
He knew he had to go and repeat it.
Less than two miles away was the sea-front hotel on South Shore which belonged to the Lilton family. The hotel was quiet and in darkness. Outwardly it looked peaceful at four in the morning.
Inside was a different matter.
Ruth Lilton was in a deep, coma-like sleep on her bed. She lay on her back, mouth open, snoring. A cocktail of carefully administered alcohol and sleeping tablets had put her there. Virtually nothing could have woken her. Not even the whimpering cries and the deep male groans escaping from under the closed door of her daughter’s room.
Claire cried out in pain and shame each time her stepfather rammed his unprotected self into her. It was almost a blessed relief when he roughly turned her over, adjusted her loose limbs so she was on her hands and knees and carried on from the rear. The pain increased with deeper penetration, but at least she did not have to look up at his face, wasn’t obliged to inhale the intoxicant fumes he breathed all over her, or smell the sweat and body odour of him. She could bury her face in the pillow. It was also a relief because she knew he would finish quicker in this position.
