When he woke up, his room was pitch black. He squinted at the clock at the side of the bed and saw that it was two minutes past three in the morning. He lost count of the amount of swear words he used as he went downstairs to make himself a much needed cup of tea.
5.
He got to Monsun’s just after nine thirty. He was sat in the waiting area watching the middle aged but very nice looking receptionist going about her business. She was wearing a dark red silky looking top and Patrick was pretty sure that she wasn’t wearing a bra. He had texted Jack this morning to tell him about the solicitor’s appointment and he had offered to come with him. Patrick had declined, more to get pleasure out of the fact that Jack would instead have to go to work. He would do anything for a day off, not that Patrick blamed him. Jack was a delivery driver, dropping off parcels to bored and lonely housewives, or, at least that was how Jack described the job. Patrick guessed that it wasn’t as glamorous as Jack was making out. Jack had never really found his calling, at least not yet. Patrick hoped and prayed that one day he would, because he knew that Jack had a hell of a lot more intelligence than he gave himself credit for.
The receptionists phone buzzed, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts. She stood up to reach for a writing pad off the shelf above her head. Patrick sneaked another peak at her and his initial thought looked to be correct. He could clearly see the shape of a nipple pressed against her silky material. He snapped his eyes back forwards, he was turning into a pervert, there was no doubt about it. He needed to find himself a nice girlfriend and soon. A door opened opposite to where he was sitting and an ageing gentleman with the most incredible moustache and a brown tweed suit came striding out. He offered his hand out to Patrick.
“Mr Hurst I presume?”
Patrick stood up and shook the gentleman’s hand. “Yes sir, Patrick Hurst at your service.”
“My name is John Monsun, would you like to come through.”
Monsun led Patrick into a large office. The walls seemed to be lined with shelf after shelf of books. Monsun sat himself behind one of the grandest desks he had even seen. He waved Patrick into the seat on the other side of the table which, given how old it looked, was surprisingly comfortable. Monsun held up a large envelope.
“This Patrick is your late father’s last will and testament. With your permission I would like to open it and read out the contents.”
“Consent granted,” said Patrick and Monsun laughed, sending a whiff of pipe tobacco and halitosis in his direction.
Monsun picked up a silver letter opener and deftly drew it across the top of the envelope. He pulled out the contents, smiled at Patrick through his enormous moustache and began to read.
“It is hereby written that Mr. Patrick James Hurst, son of the deceased Mr Richard James Hurst is the only living heir of the Hurst estate and assets. In conclusion of the investigation conducted by this office and by the relevant law enforcement authorities, no suspicious circumstances surrounding his death. Mr Patrick Hurst will therefore become the rightful owner and inheritor of the aforementioned estate and assets in accordance with the last will and testament of Richard James Hurst. The estate consists of the property known as Layton House, located in Layton Valley and all its contents. The assets are five bank accounts and two building society accounts which will be transferred to new accounts in the name of Patrick James Hurst. The collective amount of these accounts are five hundred and sixty-two million four hundred and twenty-two thousand and four pounds and sixty-six pence.”
Monsun looked up at Patrick. There was silence in the room for a few moments.
“I’m sorry, would you repeat that?” said Patrick. His heart was thumping like crazy and his head couldn’t process what it was that he was being told. Monsun told him the figure again. Patrick opened his mouth and promptly vomited on Monsun’s desk.
6.
He had left Monsun’s office with his legs feeling like jelly. He had signed the pieces of paper and been handed the account details and everything else that went with it, including a small set of keys which belonged to Layton house. He had made his way into Hemminton and visited all of the banks that had high street walk-ins and sorted out his paperwork. The staff in each of the banks had kissed his arse big time. Patrick had spent most of his financial life with his account so far in the red that he thought it was bleeding to death. His wage wasn’t a bad one, and it paid the bills but there wouldn’t have ever been any flash cars and nice suits to go with it. Each time he looked at one of his new bank balances he was blown away, it just didn’t seem real. In the last bank he went to he asked for some cash to be drawn out, just to prove to himself that it was real. The arse kissing bank worker had even provided a nice leather case for him to carry it in. Patrick had caught the bus home the case sitting on his lap. It felt pretty heavy to him, and he couldn’t wait to get home just so he could look at it. He plucked out his mobile phone and checked the time, it was just after two. He knew Jack would still be working, but he phoned him anyway. He picked up after two rings.
“S’up?”
“Jack, I need to you meet me at my house, as soon as you can.”
“Are you alright buddy, you sound a little strange?”
“I’m fine, I just really need to tell you something. When can you come?”
“Bro, I can come right now, I have a couple of hours spare.”
“Thanks Jack, I will see you at mine. I won’t be long, I’m just on the bus.”
“Gotcha’” said Jack and hung up.
Patrick’s body was pulsing with adrenaline. It had been since he had sat down on the bus and he had given himself a moment to think about the implications of suddenly becoming a multi-millionaire at the age of twenty-seven. His life was now an open book; he could do whatever he wanted to do with his life. The problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.
When he got back to his house in Newtown Jack was waiting outside for him in his van. He was smoking a cigarette and listening to the radio which was hiked loud enough for Patrick to hear it from the top of the street. He saw Patrick and jumped out of the van. The radio went mercifully quiet.
“Whassup fuck face,” said Jack in his usual cheery manner.
“Come inside, I got something to show you,” said Patrick and keyed the lock on his front door.
Patricks front door led right into his kitchen. It was an odd set up, but it suited him down to the ground. He put the leather case on his dining room table. The weight of it caused the legs to creak momentarily. They both looked at it for a moment.
“Well? You gonna show me or do I have to make three guesses first. If it is a severed head, I’m not gonna be your friend anymore,” said Jack.
Patrick giggled and then he popped the two catches on the front of the case. He flipped the top open and there, nestled inside the case, was fifty thousand pounds. Jack’s mouth dropped open and his hand came up to cover it.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled through his fingers.
“I know,” said Patrick, grinning like a fool.
“Where the fuck....Oh shit, you saw that solicitor today,” said Jack.
“That’s right, daddy left me some stuff,” said Patrick.
“And....this is it?” said Jack.
“Nope. This is the tip of the iceberg,” said Patrick.
There was a pause for a moment and Jack grabbed Patrick’s shoulders. “Right, come on, tell me everything.”
“I got his house up in Layton Valley and I got all of his money.”
“How much Patrick, stop holding out on me,”
“Five hundred...” said Patrick and he felt his throat close, his voice got cut off.
“Thousand?” said Jack.
Patrick cleared his throat. “Million.”
Jack’s hands moved off Patrick’s shoulders and both of them clapped over his mouth. “Holy shit,” he muttered again.
Amazingly, Patrick felt himself tearing up. “I don’t know what to do Jack, I just don’t know what to d
o.”
Jack grabbed him and hugged him. He started to laugh and after a few moments Patrick began to join in. Soon they were laughing and jumping up and down, both of them with tears coursing down their faces.
There were a few stray beers in Patrick’s fridge. They sat down near the huge pile of money and began to make plans together.
7.
On the morning that Patrick Hurst discovered he was a millionaire, D.C.I. Robert Denton was up early. He was sat on the edge of his bed, cursing his very existence. He was also cursing the large bottle of scotch whiskey he had bought from the shop on his way home. He had a murderous headache that pulsed and snarled at his temples, making him feel sick as a dog. His stomach was churning with the remnants of the scotch and whatever food he had bothered to eat, which these days was usually a take away of some sort. This was the life that he had endured since the day that his wife Mary had gone. The house was in a full state of disrepute, which had made him realise just how much Mary had done for him over the years. It was his fault that she wasn’t here anymore. If only he had been better, and more aware then none of this would have happened. Since she had gone he had taken to sleeping with a gun under his pillow. It helped with the paranoia. However, it couldn’t stop him from waking up at an ungodly hour and being unable to get back to sleep. Since the moment he had seen that photograph of Mary, since he had that image indelibly etched onto his memory for the rest of his life, once he woke in the early hours of the morning, his mind would not let him return to sleep. It would whirl the image round in his mind until it drove him crazy.
It was four in the morning, and he knew that sleep was done for this night. He stood up and started to make his way out of the bedroom. He had top brace himself against the walls for balance, he was still feeling the slight drunken effects of yesterday’s supper. He managed to get out of the door and to click the light on for the landing. He hobbled slowly down the stairs, thinking about his impending cup of tea and a few hours of utter self-pity that lied ahead before he was due at work. If he didn’t have his work right now, he would probably be going insane. He made it to the kitchen and took the kettle off its stand so he could fill it up with water. He was about to turn on the tap when he felt a gorge of acid rising in his chest. He set the kettle down and threw up into the sink. The remnants of last night’s whiskey splashed on to a week’s worth of dirty plates and cups. The foul smell rose from the sink and struck his nostrils, causing him to puke again. He stood at the edge of the sink, holding on to the edge until the nausea passed. Then he slowly picked up the kettle and filled it as well as he could from the tap without touching the vomit coated dishes. He returned the kettle to the stand and clicked the button. He decided to go and see if he had any cigarettes left in the living room while the kettle boiled. He sat down heavily on his sofa and looked at the coffee table in front of him. Mary loved that coffee table from the moment she had seen it. He had resisted buying it at first, but women always got their own way in the end. He couldn’t imagine the room without the damn thing now. There was a box of his smokes sitting on the table and he picked it up. When he opened it he was relieved to see that there were three little coffin nails all in a row. He pulled one out, grabbed his lighter and lit up. The feel of the smoke going down his lungs relieved him a little, but there was something about the room that didn’t feel right. He couldn’t quite place a finger on what it was, but the hair on the back of his neck was standing up and he had an uneasy feeling that he wasn’t alone. To his left, the door to the living room suddenly banged shut and the living room light switch was flicked. The bulb came on, lighting up the room and showing Denton that his policeman’s instinct had been right. The masked man had been hiding behind the living room door and now he was slowly walking around the front of Denton brandishing a shotgun.
“You....” said Denton.
“Yeah, me Bobby, just little old me,” said Mask.
“What the fuck do you want now?”
Mask pointed at the pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind? I’m gasping.” Without waiting for a reply, Mask grabbed the pack and pulled a cigarette out of the box for himself. He fished a lighter out of his pocket and snapped a light to it. He drew deeply and chuffed out smoke in Denton’s direction.
“There, that’s better. Now we can chat about things can’t we Bobby old chum,” said Mask.
“There is nothing left to talk about, I did what you asked of me now I want you to tell me where Mary is,” said Denton. He was shaking with the onset of a hangover and a deep pulsating rage that he had only ever felt once before and that had been when Mask had shown him the photograph of his wife.
“Now, why on earth would I do that?” said Mask, with a sickening grin on his face. Trails of drool began to run from the corners of his mouth.
“You promised, you fucking bastard, you promised me.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I. But see, here is my problem Bobby, how do I know you did the job properly? What if people start looking for me again? That would never do. You see, my God won’t allow for any mistakes.”
“Look, I did everything you asked me to, I cleaned Layton House, there was no evidence of anything other than an accident. I closed the file myself.”
“You see, there is more to this than meets the eye Bobby. My God told me that Dicky had a son. Dickie’s boy is going to get everything, which means that the job hasn’t been finished has it?”
“That wasn’t the deal, you told me that I had to make sure Layton was clean, that was the deal. I did my part, now give me back my wife you sick fuck,” roared Denton.
“Two things Bobby old buddy, first I love the fact that you still have the bollocks to want to fight me, second of all I think you should have let me know about Dickie’s little puke son. I think that kind of information is pretty important, a little bit of a bonus if you like. So, the question is, am I a man of my word or do I really not give a shit and just do exactly as I wish?”
“Please....I’m begging you please....” said Denton, his voice was close to cracking.
Mask looked at him for a moment, almost pityingly. “Dear oh dear Bobby, this is just not becoming of a man in your position. I thought you were a tough nut eh? Balls of steel eh? Cock the size of an anaconda? Perhaps not. Tell you what, you and your lovely Mary can be together again. I like her cunt Bobby, it’s one of the best I have ever been inside.”
Denton tensed and Mask laughed, sending trails of spittle flying towards Denton. After his laughter calmed he reached into his inside pocket and drew out what looked to be more pictures.
“Here you go Bobby, you can be with her again brother,” said Mask and handed Denton the pictures.
Denton’s eyes grew wider. The first picture was the picture that Mask had shown him when he had first taken Mary, a picture of her tied to a wooden dining chair. She was naked, blindfolded and gagged. He flipped through the pictures feeling his breath becoming more and more shallow and the adrenaline bursting through his body. The second picture was of Mary lay on a bed with Mask’s penis thrust deep inside her. The third picture was of Mary with a knife plunged into her throat. The fourth picture was of Mary’s severed head in a toilet bowl. Her lifeless eyes were staring up at Denton, almost accusingly. Denton threw the pictures at Mask and launched himself off the sofa it him. Mask fired the shotgun at Denton’s midsection, knocking him back into his seat. There was a large burnt hole in Denton’s middle. Blood and bile were rushing out of the wound and into Denton’s lap. After a few moments a slew of ruptured internal organs slopped out of the hole. Mask took the last drag of his cigarette and pitched it right into the pile of guts on Denton’s lap.
“Ug.....urrrgh...” said Denton. His eyes were still blazing at Mask, he still wanted at him.
“Now then Bobby old pal, I told you that you and your dear Mary would be together again, now it’s time to go and see her,” said Mask. He reached into his coat and drew out his knife. He went over to the back of Denton’s sofa and gripped him by his hair
. He took the knife and began to saw at Denton’s neck. He was humming the whole time he was cutting, as if he was cutting down and old tree in his garden on a summer afternoon. After five minutes of cutting and hacking, Denton’s head was free from the shackles of its body. Mark looked at it for a moment and then dumped it in Denton’s lap.
His work here was done. He just needed to leave his message and then he could be on his way.
After all, he had more people he needed to talk to.
8.
The few beers that Patrick and Jack had started with had turned into far more. The fact that money was no longer an object mad things so much easier for them. After the few beers from Patrick’s fridge had been drunk they had gone for a little walk up to the shop at the top end of the street. It wasn’t top of the range but it served its purpose. It had everything that they needed for this evening anyway, namely plenty of drink. As they walked round the store they couldn’t help but talk about the wealth that had fallen into Patrick’s lap and the endless possibilities that they could do with it.
“We could buy everything in this shop if we really wanted to,” said Jack.
“Shit, we could buy the whole fucking shop,” said Patrick.
They got to the isle that contained the alcohol and they both picked up a twenty-four pack of beers each. They went to the counter and purchased several packs of cigarettes each. The girl behind the counter saw what they were purchasing and she smiled at them both.
Duet Page 20
