The glee became equally intense anger as Lenny, with a cry of rage, tightened his gip on Karen’s throat and banged the handle of the gun against her head. She gagged, trying to pull her head away from a follow-up blow, legs thrashing wildly. Lenny refocused his efforts on escaping, his legs propelling his body faster along the floor.
Larkin watched from behind the table as Lenny dragged Karen behind the counter, all the way to the door at the back of the bar. Larkin scrambled across to the corner of the bar, following them, but was dissuaded from venturing further by the bullet Lenny fired that splintered the wood at the side of his head. He pulled himself back sharply. By the time he felt it safe enough to chance another look, they had gone.
Larkin pulled himself up into a crouching position and ran behind the bar, head down to avoid stray bullets and exploding bottles. He reached the door at the back of the bar and found a prone Mickey Falco; dazed, blood gathering from a cut over his left eye. Mickey was still wearing his barman’s apron.
“They came past here,” Mickey gasped. “I tried to stop them but Lenny smacked me one with his gun. He’s gone, Steve. An’ ’e’s got Karen an’ all.”
“I know, Mickey. That bastard’s won,” spat Larkin, slumping down beside him. In the bar the fight was starting to wind down. They would count the bodies later.
“The bastard’s –” Larkin stopped in mid-sentence. “No he hasn’t.” Larkin stood up, newly energised. “I know where they’re going. Come on.” He stuck out his hand, helped Mickey to his feet.
They left the pub by the back door and made their way cautiously round the side. What was left of Charlie Rook’s team were bundling themselves into a black Merc, paintwork pitted, glass spiderwebbed, with bullet holes. There were a couple of bodies, their own men, sprawled in the road. They were left where they had fallen. Job done, the survivors were getting ready to squeal away.
As soon as they’d gone, Larkin ran and Mickey limped over to where Larkin had parked the Saab. Luckily it hadn’t been in the line of fire and so wasn’t damaged. They got in: Larkin as driver, Mickey as passenger.
“Where we goin’, then?” asked Mickey.
“To where Lenny’s taken Karen.” Larkin started the car. “Mickey, how the hell do I get to Dagenham?”
Where the Wild Roses Grow
“Here we are,” said Mickey. “Dagenham. City of dreams.”
“Yeah,” said Larkin. “I’ve had dreams like this before.”
They had driven out of London on the A13, past the overdeveloped Isle of Dogs, the squandered glory of the Dome, and outwards. Dagenham itself could have defined the word depressing. A collection of drive-thru McDonald’s, run-down retail parks acned with rust, with boarded-up bingo halls and health-threatening nightclubs, choked by the industrial clouds from the Ford plant and the exhaust fumes from the never-ending stream of M25-dodging juggernauts. Larkin wouldn’t have been surprised if the letters DEAD END had materialised in the sky in huge neon letters. To make matters worse, the long-threatened rain had now turned up, throwing a dull, grey tarpaulin over everything.
Mickey directed Larkin to an industrial estate. Even given the fact that it was six o’clock and most people should have left for the day, the whole place looked deserted, if not abandoned. Most of the industry on the estate had long since ceased. They drove down broken concrete roadways looking for the yard. The buildings were all ex-factories, now reduced to crumbling empty shells. Every other site they drove past had a ‘For Sale’ board pinned to the wire; weathered and faded, they seemed to have been there as long as the buildings.
With no man-made order, nature was re-asserting itself. Weeds pushed through the broken concrete, moon-cratering the once flat surface, while more sturdy plants challenged the remaining structures. The land was being reclaimed.
The place they wanted was right at the end of the road, far away from any remaining inhabited units. As they approached, Larkin killed the headlights and rolled the car to a slow stop.
A high, barbed wire-topped fence, now browned with rust, surrounded the perimeter. Its base was obscured by wild grasses and plants, roses and vines. A huge pair of sturdy iron gates, newer than the fence, stood chained and padlocked, barring any entrance.
“This the place?” Larkin asked.
“Supposed to be,” replied Mickey. “Looks deserted.”
“That’s probably the idea.” Larkin pointed to the gates. “D’you reckon you could climb them?”
Mickey sighed in anger and exasperation. “Looks like you’re on your own, mate.”
They shook hands, Mickey wishing Larkin all the best, and he left the car. He pulled his fleece around him, trying to keep out the cold and the rain, ignoring the small slivers of wood and glass that rubbed against his skin. He grabbed hold of the gates, pulled himself up with only the slightest twinge of resistance from his recently injured shoulder, and swung over. He landed on the other side and looked round.
A rough road of gravel chips lay ahead of him, a fence on either side. He walked down it. Straight ahead was a large warehouse, old and redbrick, with a rolling door pulled tightly closed at the front. At the side was a newer addition, a flat-roofed breeze-block building, initially painted white, now several shades of grey.
The warehouse faced onto a large yard. It was divided up into several bays separated on three sides by walls made of old wooden railway sleepers slotted into concrete posts. The bays took up the whole of the back wall, itself strengthened by sleeper and concrete walls. A couple were full of metal skips stacked five or six high, some held smaller square metal crates, themselves full of scrap metal. Some bays just had piles of metal in them, either identifiable objects such as old car radiators and engines, or more obscure industrial waste. The rain lent an oily sheen to everything.
There were two cranes in the yard; one a grabber, the other a grabber and shovel combination. There was also a number of smaller, more dangerous-looking machines with long, heavy metal blades attached to a motor. They couldn’t have said ‘Industrial Accident Waiting To Happen’ more clearly if they’d had the words printed on the side.
The furthest wall bordered a path. Larkin saw that it led to an old jetty, the wood green and rotten-looking. Above the rain he heard water slapping against its supports. He presumed the sludge-coloured river was the Thames.
He had a quick look around. The warehouse seemed the likeliest place for activity, even though he could see no light emerging from there, so he moved cautiously towards it.
As he approached he heard a noise: a door opening, footsteps crunching gravel.
He looked round for a hiding place, saw a skip to his left, and jumped behind it.
The sound was coming from the side of the warehouse. Larkin tried to see what was happening but couldn’t. There was, however, a skip next to him which he could hide behind and get a better view. He crept slowly behind it and looked round the edge.
At the side of the warehouse were two vehicles: a BMW and a Jeep Cherokee. As he watched, Lenny opened the boot of the Cherokee and pulled out a large, heavy bundle. It was blanket-wrapped but unmistakenly human-shaped. He struggled to get it over his shoulder, knees sagging from the weight, then shut the boot and made his way back to the side door.
Larkin planned his next move. There was no way he could just walk in the place, especially unarmed, so he would have to be more subtle than that. After all, although it seemed like an accurate assumption, he wasn’t sure Karen was actually in there. He looked around. Not the main warehouse. The breeze-block annex looked the best bet. Crouching down, he made his way around the back of the skips, moved swiftly over the open space of the yard, and flattened himself against the far wall.
He edged round the side, crouching beneath the windows, aiming for the door. He found it: modern, half-panelled with glass, unlocked.
Larkin was about to turn the handle and enter but stopped himself. Why would it be unlocked? Wouldn’t there be an alarm? He cupped his eyes to the glass, looked through
the window and got his answer.
On the floor of the office was a man, middle-aged, dressed in dirty old workclothes, with a ragged, gaping, meaty red hole in his chest, blood pooled beneath him.
Larkin became lightheaded, his stomach flipped and his knees buckled. There was nothing pretty about the body. Taking deep breaths to steady himself, he turned the handle and entered.
The office had the usual trappings: filing cabinets, a PC, phones, chairs, desks and calendars showing pictures of naked women. Everything was covered with several films of grease and dirt. A working man’s office. Larkin gingerly stepped in, trying to avoid looking at the mess on the floor.
To his left was an internal window which afforded a full view of the warehouse. He wanted to see but not be seen, so he crouched down underneath, bringing his head slowly up to eye-level, and peered in.
The place was sparsely lit by overhead lights, but Larkin could make out bins containing metal stacked around the walls, touching the ceiling in some places. Scraps of metal and packing materials littered the floor and in one corner was a cropper, its heavy metal razor edge at rest. Next to it was what looked like a car press in miniature. The press had a small space, about the size of a child’s coffin, and two very thick sharp plates to handle the work. Industrial tools that Torquemada would have been proud of.
As Larkin watched, Lenny unwrapped the blanketed figure. To his astonishment, it was a very battered Charlie Rook, his wrists handcuffed together in front of his body. Lenny pulled down a hook attached to a length of chain from a ceiling-mounted hoist, fitted the handcuffs over the hook, and hauled him up, slightly off the floor. Any relief Larkin felt at seeing Charlie Rook was tempered by the fact that next to him was Karen, similarly suspended. She looked exhausted and in pain. Larkin looked again at Lenny. The man looked sullen and distracted. Hardly surprising, thought Larkin, the news he’d just received. Next to Lenny, dressed in jeans, boots, sweatshirt and fleece, was Melissa. Her hair was scraped back and her face held such a cruel expression that even from a distance it sent a shiver through Larkin. As he watched, she spoke.
Unfortunately, Larkin could only make out muffled sounds through the glass, so he tried to get nearer. A door set into the wall leading into the warehouse was slightly ajar. He pulled it slowly open and entered.
He was conscious of being visible, so he quickly moved behind a pile of bins and listened.
“– all fucked, Charlie,” Melissa was saying. “And you fucked it. You’ve got no vision, no …”
The words trailed off as her temper took over. She became suddenly inarticulate with anger, hands bunching into fists, pummelling the chest of the hanging man. Now we’re seeing your true colours, love, thought Larkin. You’re a vicious, dangerous psychopath.
Melissa’s rage abated and she resumed talking, gasping for breath. “You see, Charlie,” she said, her voice dripping with pity, “I had to do it. Had to take over. I’ve got vision, my sweet. I have to use it.”
Her mood swing was as swift as it was unexpected. It confirmed to Larkin that the woman was unhinged.
“You see,” she said, as if she was a teacher patronising a retarded pupil, “I gave the disc to the girls. I sent Lenny and Ringo after them to get it back. I had planned on keeping the disc to myself and telling you the girls still had it. But …” She gave a theatrical sigh, turned towards Karen. “This little bitch got a bit too clever, didn’t she?” She squeezed Karen’s face. “And now we have to keep the little whore alive, don’t we?” She squeezed harder. “Don’t we?”
Larkin stuggled against the impulse to rush forward and intervene. He would have been powerless.
Melissa let go of Karen’s cheek. Tears were forming in the girl’s eyes. “But that doesn’t mean things have to be comfortable for you. You’re going to have to do what I say.”
“And if I don’t?” Karen managed through a broken sob.
“I’ll show you,” said Melissa, face lit by a sick light. “Lenny, bring the stuff over here.”
Lenny didn’t move, just stared into space.
“Lenny!”
He shook himself from his unpleasant daydream and moved over to the far wall. He trundled a trolley over, stood it beside Melissa. Larkin recognised what it was. The twin cylinders of an oxy-acetylene torch.
“This is what happens, Karen,” said Melissa. She ripped off Charlie Rook’s shirt, fired up the torch, and went to work.
The screams were sudden, loud and sickening. Larkin blocked his ears, screwed his eyes tight shut. It was no good, he could still hear it. And he had to do something about it, or Karen would be next.
Unblocking his ears but trying to dislocate his mind, he moved slowly around the wall of the warehouse, using the bins for cover. There was just enough space for him to squeeze through, and he worked his way round until he was flattened against the wall nearest to where the torture was taking place. Seeing nothing to hand that would help, he took another couple of deep breaths and began to haul himself up the stack of bins.
Charlie Rook’s screams camouflaged the noise of his climb. He reached the top, peered down, and wished he wasn’t seeing what was happening in front of him. Melissa was systematically searing the skin from the man’s back. Larkin swallowed hard, forcing down the bile rising in his throat, and edged his way along the stack, making sure he couldn’t be seen from the ground. He stopped when he was positioned directly above the trolley carrying the gas cylinders, and risked a look down.
He knew he had only one chance to get this right, so he braced himself against the warehouse wall, arms against the bin in front of him, and pushed as hard as he could.
The bin toppled over but the rest of the stack, thankfully, held. It came crashing down on its intended target, knocking the cylinders over, wrenching the torch from Melissa’s hand, raining plumbing fixtures and taps all around. Keeping the element of surprise on his side, Larkin jumped down after it.
Melissa spun to face him, her mouth gaping. She was the first to work out what was happening.
“Lenny! Get him!”
Lenny ran towards Larkin, trying to pull his gun free as he came. Larkin, thinking quickly, grabbed a length of copper pipe from the bin he had just upset and swung it at Lenny. It connected with the man’s forearm, knocking the gun from his fist.
Lenny flinched in pain, grabbed his arm and still kept coming. Larkin ran to the side, dodging out of the way.
Unfortunately, his boot rolled on another length of piping, causing him to lose his footing and stumble backwards.
Lenny was on him fast, pressing his thumbs into Larkin’s windpipe, his mouth twisted into a rictus of hate. Larkin tried to pull the arms from his neck but it was no good, they were locked. He tried prising the fingers back but they wouldn’t budge. Lenny’s arms had locked like a pit bull’s jaws. They wouldn’t let go until Larkin was dead.
Frantically, he groped round the floor for a weapon. He found something smooth, cold and angular. That would do. He brought the object up with as much force as he could manage, smashing it against the side of Lenny’s head. The blow connected, sending Lenny’s brain bouncing off the inside of his skull. He cried out in pain, his grip loosening slightly. But not enough. Larkin did it again, but Lenny kept on choking him.
Larkin managed to see what the object was in his hand: a tap. One with four long, straight handle grips. He manoeuvred it round in his hand, steadied Lenny’s head by pulling his hair with the other hand, and rammed it straight up, aiming for Lenny’s right eye.
He found it. Lenny screamed like a wild animal caught in a trap, and let go of Larkin completely. Larkin, who had closed his own eyes in case he got any of Lenny’s in them, opened them and rolled away. Lenny staggered back blindly, stumbling against the press.
“You’re gonna die for that, you cunt!” he shouted.
“I don’t think so,” said Larkin and found another length of copper pipe. He picked it up, ready to defend himself from another attack.
But Lenny h
ad other things on his mind. He was in pain and reeling around blindly, outstretched hands grasping uselessly. His fingers curled and uncurled, feeling their way along the side of the press. Inadvertently and oblivious to what he was doing, his hand fell onto the huge red starter button and pressed it. The machine clanked into life.
Larkin saw what was going to happen and called out, trying to warn Lenny. It was no good. Lenny was in too much pain to hear. He had his right hand pressed into the remains of his eye, gasping in agony, and stood with his left hand on the edge of the press, gripping it for support. He didn’t see the huge razor-sharp blade come down and take his left hand off from below the knuckles.
Lenny screamed all the harder. He brought the stump of his hand up to his good eye and looked at it. As soon as he saw it, his screams started to subside. At first he fell silent but, as Larkin watched, he began to sob, slipping to the floor, back against the moving machine, inadvertently hitting the off switch. He curled himself up into a foetal ball, body jerking with pain.
Larkin found the spectacle pathetic. He almost felt sorry for the killer. Knowing he would be no more trouble, he turned his attention to the others.
Charlie Rook was still hanging there, but there was no sign of Melissa or Karen.
Larkin crossed to Charlie Rook, looked at him. The man was in shock, his eyes blank, escape tunnels into another world. His back was a charred, bloody mess. The stench was awful. Larkin wanted to get out of the warehouse, and when he saw that the side door was open, he ran to it and exited. Into the rain, into the night.
Once in the yard, he looked round. The cars were still parked there, so they hadn’t gone far. He checked the skips, the cranes. Nothing. No movement, no sound. He looked at the ground and saw lines through the dirt and gravel, being rapidly eroded by the rain. Drag marks leading to the jetty. Larkin followed.
As he approached, he began to discern two figures making their way towards the end of the jetty, one pushing the other, silhouetted against the lights on the far side of the river.
Candleland Page 23
