“Then we do a deal…” Tom froze. Ben had appeared in the doorway, holding the shotgun that Arthur Middleton kept hidden under the bed. Shit. He’d forgotten about that. There were cartridges. Would Ben know how to load them? Could he lift the gun? The recoil would knock him off his feet. It might break his collar bone, or his neck. Or worse. Capgras made a frantic gesture with his hand, telling Ben to drop the weapon.
Ben signalled back: a firm no.
Go inside, stay away, Tom signalled.
I want to help, Ben replied.
Don’t shoot him, Tom gestured. He’s your father.
No, Ben replied, he isn’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Shepherd barked. A thought bubble burst into life above his head. He turned and saw Ben, who had the shotgun levelled at his groin.
“Put that down,” Shepherd said. “Or you’ll be in a lot of trouble."
Even now, he sounded like a headmaster rebuking a child for running in the corridors. He had no idea about Ben. “Do as he says, put it down,” Tom said
Shepherd kept his gun trained on Capgras. But his eyes were fixed on his son.
In the distance, the sound of a car grew louder, heading their way, approaching the house. Had Shepherd noticed? Keep him distracted.
Ben gripped the shotgun, finger on the trigger. “Leave him alone."
The car slowed and came to a stop. Mark and Emma, at last. But walking into trouble.
“Who’s that?” Shepherd demanded, jabbing the gun in Tom’s direction, his eyes still fixed on Ben.
Capgras took a step forward.
Shepherd tightened his grip. “One more move…”
Ben staggered under the weight of the shotgun, but kept it pointed at his father, a scowl of defiance on his face.
Tom felt a bead of sweat trickle down his forehead. “Ben, go to Mark, give him the gun. Tell him what’s happening. Wait with your mother. Keep her away from here."
“Stay where you are,” Shepherd said.
A car door slammed shut.
Shepherd’s arm shook as he straightened it, his mouth writhing with tension, as if fighting an inner battle, unsure what to do next. His finger twitched.
A voice yelled from out front.
“Don’t speak,” Shepherd said.
Ben hoisted the gun.
The front door opened, Mark called Ben’s name, then Tom’s. Shepherd swore under his breath. Tom braced for pain and death.
Boom.
A gun fired. Capgras flinched, staggered from shock, but not from the impact of a bullet. He felt no pain. Shepherd, on the other hand, lurched from side to side, blood pouring from dozens of pellet holes in his face and chest. He dropped his gun to the floor, grunted and crumpled into a heap.
Ben collapsed against the wall of the cottage, knocked over by the recoil of the shotgun, gripping his right shoulder with his left hand.
Mark yelled franticly as he burst through the back door. He looked from Tom to Shepherd, then down at Ben. “What happened here?”
“He followed us,” Tom said. “There might be more of them coming. We have to get out of here. Put Ben in the car with his mother and go. Get to the ferry. I’ll deal with Shepherd."
“Emma… isn’t here…” Mark’s voice crackled with emotion.
“Where is she?”
Ben was on his feet in a flash. “Where’s Mum?”
“She didn’t make it,” Mark said.
“What do you mean…? You didn’t get her out? She’s still in prison?”
“They killed her.” Mark teetered, put his hand on the wall to support himself. “Torched the van, with her inside.” He tumbled towards Shepherd. “Murdering bastards.” He kicked his former boss in the stomach as he lay on the ground, bleeding to death. “Bastard.” He stamped on the man’s face.
“Not in front of Ben,” Capgras yelled.
Ben had turned white, his eyes wild with fear. There were tears on his cheeks. Tom rushed to him, wrapping his arms around the boy. What to say? What good would words do? The boy’s mother was gone. An image of his sister, trapped in a prison van, desperate to get out, dying from smoke and flames, flashed across his mind.
Ben howled with grief and thumped his fists against Tom’s chest. “Don’t let her die. Don’t let her be dead."
Tom gripped the boy tighter to him. How to heal this? How to numb the pain?
Shepherd groaned, clutching at the grass. “Help me…” he croaked.
“Get him an ambulance,” Tom said.
Mark did nothing.
“Do it."
“No,” Mark said. “We’ll all go to prison. Or worse. You know that."
“We can’t let a man die. If we can save him, we have to do it."
“He was about to murder you."
Ben’s body heaved as he sobbed into Tom’s chest.
“Get out,” Mark said. “Take Ben and go. Bring these people down. Only you can do that. Make them pay for what they’ve done.”
“Are you sure, about Emma? What did you see?”
Mark didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up Shepherd’s handgun from the grass, then the shotgun. “You won’t need these. It would be stupid to carry them onto a ferry. Get you arrested in no time. Go. There’s a late night sailing to Roscoff. You might make it. I’ll sort things out here."
“He has to go to hospital."
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” Mark said. “Buy you some time to get away."
“He needs medical attention."
“I’ll see to it. Leave it to me. The boy’s better off with you."
He had a point there. They had to get Ben to safety, and Capgras wouldn’t trust Mark with the job. Not at a time like this. Not ever. He scooped Ben into his arms. “Do the right thing,” he told Mark.
“I will, don’t worry."
Tom carried his nephew around the house, put him on the back seat of the stolen Mercedes and they set off, driving fast and hard towards Plymouth, and the ferry to France.
Chapter 84
Bitter Revenge
Waterstone waited until Capgras and Ben were in the car. He listened to them drive away, then he took the shotgun, turned it around and smashed the butt into Shepherd’s face as he lay on the ground, helpless. “That’s for Emma."
Shepherd grunted with pain.
Mark kicked him in the groin. “You had her killed."
Shepherd mumbled into the mud. Mark crouched beside him, rolled him over. His hair and skin were splattered with blood, his clothes wet and stained and stinking of it.
“Help me,” Shepherd croaked.
“Help you die?”
“Hospital..."
“You murdered her."
“No... no, you..."
“You had a hand in it. You and Naylor and Fulton-Rhodes."
“No... don’t…”
Mark pressed the barrel of Shepherd’s pistol into his cheek. “Should I let you live? When she’s dead? She was full of life and you never saw it. She was better than you, than all of you."
Shepherd struggled to raise an arm, gargling blood.
Mark assessed the man’s wounds. He might survive if he got to a hospital soon. But where was the justice in that? Besides, he’d tell the police who shot him. Ben would go to a young offenders’ institution, then prison. That wouldn’t happen. There was nothing he could do for Emma any more, but he’d do right by her memory and protect her son. If that meant killing Shepherd, and taking the blame, so be it. “Know what I’d like to do? Make you suffer, die slowly and in pain. But there isn’t the time. I don’t have what it takes any more, or the strength left. This will have to do."
“No… you don’t understand. Emma…” Shepherd coughed blood.
“She was worth a thousand of you. Ten thousand. Ten million.” Mark thrust the gun into his mouth. “You hurt her and Ben hates you for it. He’ll always hate you. You deserve death. He gave it to you. I’m only here to finish the work for him."
Shepherd groaned, una
ble to speak with a gun barrel between his teeth. Words would fail him at last.
Waterstone knelt on the grass, pushed Shepherd down and pressed the gun against his forehead. “Any final words?”
“Don’t kill me. Let me live, I promise you, Emma…”
Mark gripped Shepherd by the throat and pulled the trigger. Blood and brains splattered across his face. He wiped himself clean with the sleeve of his coat then staggered from the body into the darkness, cursing himself and Shepherd and DarkReach, the police, courts. All of them. Corrupt and self-serving, mean and cruel. Monsters, to a man. And he had been one of them. He had performed their dirty work and Emma was dead because of it. Ben would be a fugitive all his days. There was nothing to be done, except make amends. He jabbed the barrel of Shepherd’s handgun to his own head, his hand shaking. He wanted this, badly, right now, but it would have to wait. Ben still needed him.
Waterstone stumbled towards the kitchen, found a cloth and wiped down the shotgun to remove all trace of the boy’s fingerprints and DNA. He placed it in his car and tucked the pistol into a pocket of his coat. Then he dragged the corpse around the side of the house and levered it up into the boot. Where? The ocean? He had no skill with boats. Where then? A shallow grave in the woods? It was more than he deserved. Better to put him on show, turn his execution into a spectacle.
Mark returned to the cottage and methodically turned off the lights, shut the doors and windows, made the place look untouched, as if none of this had happened. The blood on the back lawn would wash away in the rain. And no one would come here unless Shepherd had already phoned it in. That couldn’t be changed.
He drove slowly, his emotions broiling inside of him, thinking of Emma, her pretty face, how they used to make love, the way her body writhed and wriggled, how she laughed and made faces at him. How she cried when things went badly for Ben. How she loved the boy, more than all the world, and wanted him to be safe and happy. All that was taken from her. By Shepherd. By Fulton-Rhodes. By DarkReach, and the Met, and the state.
And by him. He’d done his fair share. Lied to her. Cheated on her. Used her. Raped her. That was the truth. That’s how she saw it, how she felt, once she learnt who he was and why he was in her bed. She would never have taken him back, he’d known it all along. But he would have sacrificed everything to save her. He needed her. And without her, he was nothing. An empty shell. Walking dead.
He drove as the rain cascaded down the windscreen, peering at the road, heading for the bridge into Plymouth. He stopped half way across, pulled the body from the car, not caring who saw him as he dragged Shepherd’s corpse to the metal framework. Horns blared at him as he tied it up like a sacrificial offering, the head hanging limp and broken, blood dripping down the girders onto the concrete. He called the police control room, told them where to find the bodies then rammed the gun hard into his temple, whispered Emma’s name, and fired.
Chapter 85
The Clock Ticks
They stood on the aft deck of the ferry as the lights of England sank into the sea. They spoke little. Tom sensed the boy’s pain, the growing grief. There would be anger, to come. Rage at the loss of his mother. At the moment, he guessed, Ben still felt numb.
The wind howled around their heads, blowing their hair back and forth, making their eyes water. Blame the wind. The wind and the heartache, the sorrow and desolation.
Tom wondered when he’d see his parents again, or his brother. He must give them the news, but not now. Phone them in the morning, first thing. They might know already. Had they spent the day frantically trying to reach him?
It would hit Ruby hard. He pictured her face, how her lips would tremble and her eyes glisten. Would he see her again? Could he ever go home?
Ben shivered. Tom pulled the boy’s coat closed and zipped it up. “Catch your death,” he said, knowing he sounded like his own mother. Like every mother.
“Where will we go?” Ben asked.
“To friends in Brittany, they live in a ruined farmhouse, middle of nowhere. It’ll do for a time” What would they do for money? When his parents learnt what had happened, they would help out. And Ollie would see them right. But he would need to find work, and soon. He was too old to be scrounging off family. He could freelance, visit the world’s trouble spots, be a stringer from war zones. Too dangerous for Ben. Brussels then, report on the Eurocrats. Too dull. Capgras gripped the deck rails, watching the ship’s white wake, the moonlight on the ocean and the lights of the last towns and villages flickering through mist and distant rain.
“We’ll look after each other,” Ben said.
“Always."
“What will you do, about that thing you talked of. The dead man’s thing?”
“Dead man’s handle. A news story. Something to make a lot of people plenty angry. Or it should. Maybe they’ll shrug their shoulders and say ‘so what?’ That’s happened before, enough times."
“But we have the recording, that man saying he killed those people."
“Your father, you mean."
“He wasn’t my father."
No, Tom thought, he wasn’t. He might have been in Emma’s bed when the boy was conceived, but there was more to being a father than that.
“So you’ll put it in the paper?”
Capgras watched the white water churned by the ship’s propellers. He could still do a deal. Hand it all over, bargain for Ben’s freedom, and his own. Use lawyers. Go through official channels. He glanced at his watch. Nearly midnight. Only minutes left but there was wi-fi on the boat, and they had a smartphone. All he had to do was log on and press the button, delay the decision one more day. Buy time to think. To take stock. To run. To keep running. To get far away.
Not long now. Time slipped away on an ebb tide. There was no choice to make, never had been. He remained a newspaper man, deep down, and this was one news item that mattered: to him, his tribe, friends, colleagues, family. Everyone. People had a right to know what was done in their name, with their money and tacit consent. The clock ticked round to midnight. The story would unfold.
Chapter 86
The Tide Turns
A tidal wave of outrage crashed into the edifice of the establishment, swirled around its walls with eddies of discontent and demands for change, then slowly ebbed away. The news agenda changed, life went on and the state stood firm, unshaken and unbowed.
The dragon stirred. Its lair had been discovered, its peace and quiet disturbed. The monster sniffed the air. It sensed danger – little folk scurrying, trying to poke it with sticks, so the beast rolled over and crushed them.
The coldest of all cold monsters curled up in its bed, one eye open, an ear alert, listening, taking in everything. Hearing. Seeing. Remembering. Plotting its revenge.
~ The End ~
Tom, Ben and the rest (those still alive) will return in:
‘Bad Karma (Tied To The Mast)’
Book three of ‘The Capgras Conspiracy’
From the author
If you’ve read and enjoyed this book, could you do me a huge favour? Please, please, PLEASE tell your friends and contacts – and write a review on your site or Amazon, or anywhere you hang out. Even if it’s only a few words. Just tell people what you thought. The ideal review would be on Amazon because that makes a huge difference to the book’s discoverability and overall ranking. Anything you can do to help this book find its audience is really appreciated and I love the feedback. Now, once again over to third person narrative:
About the Author
Simon Townley is a British writer and the author of a range of cross-genre novels and short stories. He lives in Devon, England. You can see his Amazon profile here - where you will also find links to all his other books. .
You can find out more here: http://www.simontownley.com
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Acknowledgements
With special thanks to Ken Smith (author of ‘Worth Fighting For’) for help, advice and rewrites on all matters related to motorbikes, including both how to ride and fix them.
Cold Monsters (No Secrets To Conceal)
The Capgras Conspiracy – Book Two
By Simon J. Townley
Published by Beardale Books
http://www.beardale.com
[email protected]
Version 1: 2017.05.15
Publisher’s note
This text uses British English spelling.
Cover design by Beardale Books
Amazon Kindle Edition
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
Copyright © 2016 Simon J Townley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 27
