by Gabriel Kron
My reactions were good. I took the opportunity of the closed gap between us, slid into his space and started to grapple with him. My primary concern was controlling his knife arm. I was inside his personal space and hit him hard with an elbow. It was a solid hit. I could feel his rib cage give. I hit him again with an elbow, trying this time for his head, the idea being to strike and then apply a head lock. My strike didn’t land. It caught his shoulder giving him an open invitation to hammer fist my groin. The blow was ineffective, glancing off my already cut thigh. That hurt.
Still controlling his knife arm, I stamped on the inside of his knee joint and as we crashed to the floor, I spun around and tried to apply a choke hold.
I couldn’t fully apply it as I controlled his knife arm. The attacker struggled using his free hand to prevent me from fully choking him unconscious. He tried using his feet to gain purchase on the floor to free himself and also use the knife at the same time. I was relatively safe behind him, but unable to let go, and it would seem unable to choke him out until I did.
I couldn’t hold this for long. Sharp stabbing pains where I had been shot were accompanied with the feeling of wetness. I was bleeding not only from being slashed with the knife, but from the gunshot wound again. How bad I didn’t know, but there was no way I could hold on for much longer.
“Fucking hell!” Clive shouted as he stormed into the room.
“Help me!” I shouted as I strained to hold on, feeling my strength sapping away. “The knife, mind the knife!”
Clive looked around the room and found a broken chair leg.
Seeing Clive’s intention the attacker struggled, but I applied the hold as hard as I could. Pain coursed down the side of my body. Clive hesitated, worried about hitting me.
“Just do it. Come on!” I hissed.
Clive swung the chair leg at full tilt and smashed the knife out of the attacker’s hand, the blow was so hard that I heard bones shatter as blood splattered across my face. The knife flew across the room and although we didn’t know it at the time, so had one of the fingers. The attacker tried to scream, but only a strained gurgle made it out.
Now that the knife was no longer a threat, I adjusted my choke hold and with all my might applied it like I had never had cause to before. His good hand clawed at my arm trying to prevent me from rendering him unconscious. He struggled harder, his legs kicking out, his body thrashing. This now was pure theory for me. I had choked out opponents in the dojo before and even done so on one guy in self-defence, but this guy was hardened by real combat. He knew how to fight and survive.
With one final strain of effort, I jerked my forearm tighter and drove my knees hard into his back—
Krckk!
I heard the sickening deep seated crunch in his neck and a final exhalation of breath as he suddenly stopped struggling.
“Arrrrrgghhh!” I pushed and kicked the now dead weight frantically away. What had I done!
Out of breath and hurting, I sat on the floor looking at the lifeless body.
My lungs burnt as I gasped for air, “Check... him... Clive, please. Is he...... dead?” What had I done!
Clive crawled over and checked for a pulse.
“What have I done?”
Clive shook his head and was also out of breath, “He’s dead... Come on... let’s get out of here.”
“Check him,” I said.
“Dan, he’s dead.”
“No, check his pockets. I want to know who this fucker is.”
Clive rummaged through the dead man’s pockets.
“Nothing,” Clive said and immediately backed away. “Let’s go.”
“They’re still after me! How’d they know we’d be here?”
“Let’s just go now,” Clive said. “Please.”
Clive helped me to my feet. I was able to walk, but I hurt, and was still bleeding.
Once in the yard, Clive walked on ahead to get the car.
The Friedmann’s Residence. Day 32.
Karin cleaned and dressed my wounds as I lay on the couch.
“You are lucky. You could have ripped this right open again,” she said. Where the knife had sliced through my clothes and across the ribs was deep but was superficial compared to my other wounds. The cut across my thigh was much deeper and needed several stitches.
“Thank you Karin. I’m really sorry to bring this to you and Henrik.”
“Don’t be sorry. This is not your fault is it? You have obviously stamped on a few feet with this Lockridge device.”
Karin went over to a large wooden desk and unlocked one of the drawers. From inside she withdrew a black leather holster and handed it to me.
“Here, take this with you,” she said.
The holster was heavy. I unbuckled it and withdrew what I recognised as a Luger 9mm. There was a magazine already inserted and another in a pouch on one side of the holster.
Karin took the Luger from me, pressed the magazine release button on one side and withdrew the magazine. She then pulled the knurled toggles up and back and looked in the breach before releasing them.
“Okay, watch closely, I'll tell you what Henrik told me. This is a Luger P zero eight, it holds eight, nine millimetre rounds. This is the loaded indicator, if it is up then there is a round in the chamber. If down, it is empty.” Karin then took the loaded magazine and pushed it firmly into place. “Pull the toggles back and release.” The toggles snapped back. “Notice the indicator, it is up.”
Karin went on to explain the safety and how to reload.
“This is a valuable gun, I can’t take this,” I said.
“It is all I can give you that may help. Consider it a loan. You can give it back to us one day,” Karin said as she tidied away her medical bag. “Now, rest Daniel. You must rest before you travel this evening.”
Before finally succumbing to the sleep inducing side effects of the pain killers Karin gave me, I had another look at the page of code and the brushes I had found in the burnt remains of Johann’s desk.
Locke Farmhouse.
I was back at the Locke farmhouse. It was dark, the bulbs hanging from the ceiling barely glowing, shedding little light, the coiled filaments only just bright orange. The room was dark, but I wasn’t alone. I could feel and hear there was someone else, their breath close, bearing down on me.
Where was the door? Fumbling along the wall, I tried to find it. Where was it? I started to panic as I couldn’t find the door in the shadows.
An arm was suddenly round my neck. I had to fight. I shot my head backwards trying to head butt my attacker, but it didn’t connect and the arm around my neck started to squeeze, taking advantage of my now exposed throat. The pressure was building. I tried grabbing his arm, but my fingers just slipped off the greasy sweaty skin.
Stamping back on his legs, my own felt like lead moving through thick water, and although they connected with his shins, they had no effect.
My eyes felt as though they were going to explode as I strained to breathe in — but no air would come. I felt myself thrashing with my legs and arms. My whole body burnt for that breath.
It didn’t come.
I couldn’t move any more. I could no longer feel my hands or legs.
And then there was the laugh. Sophia’s laugh. I opened my eyes and saw Sophia sitting up in the bed, her head bowed with her chin on her naked blood drenched chest. A large hole where her heart was had been ripped through her left breast.
I felt the bones in my neck break as Sophia slowly raised her head to look at me.....
“Gharrgh!” I heard myself gasp as I woke up. I was sweating profusely as I sat up confused and disorientated in the blacked out room. Instinctively I felt my neck and sighed. The images of the nightmare were still vivid. As I lay back down I saw a faint blue glow on one of the occasional tables and gave little thought to who had left their mobile phone on the table, but was thankful for its light to focus on as I drifted back to sleep.
The Locke Farmhouse, 3:06pm Day 32
>
Following a report from the local Police, Sebastian Wolf arrived at the Locke farm shortly after 3:00pm. A local patrol car had spotted a grey Audi parked outside the farm and had gone to investigate, finding the ransacked house and then the dead body upstairs.
As Wolf walked into the farmhouse, the fact it had been ransacked was a little puzzling. He had seen the crime scene photographs taken the night of the murders and the place had been tidy. Someone was searching for something, that much was certain and didn’t require a detective for such a deduction. But what was it, and had they found it?
In the bedroom upstairs, Wolf examined the body of a male in his late twenties. Pulling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves he did a quick check of the body. Rigor mortis was just beginning to set in around the neck and jaw, telling Wolf that he had died about three hours previously maybe four as it was quite cold. The left hand was badly injured, with the index finger missing, looking as though it had been ripped off, and two other fingers partly severed.
There was no identification on the man, in fact, he had nothing at all on him. Most people had some wallet fodder, a receipt, coins, keys, but not this guy. Wolf scanned the room. It was a mess. There was blood everywhere. Using a small but powerful torch he shone it under the bed. There was a hand gun on the floor. Wolf didn’t touch it, but made a mental note of the make.
Continuing his scan of the room, he also saw a knife, the kind used for hunting, rather than a kitchen knife. Again he left it where it was so that the crime scene scientists could do their jobs. There was going to be a finger somewhere.
“Detective Wolf,” a voice called from downstairs. Carefully stepping over the debris he made his way downstairs, where a uniformed officer told him that they had found something they thought he should see in the car.
On the passenger seat of the grey Audi was the contents of a manila envelope found in a briefcase in the foot-well. A single A4 photograph sent a chill through his spine. Wolf recognised the picture immediately.
“Bateman?” he said out loud. What is it with this Bateman? Had he been back here looking for something? Why the photo? And still no ID for the new corpse upstairs. Was he another victim of Daniel Bateman?
Friedmann’s Residence. 7:00pm Day 32.
Karin woke me up at 7:00pm as agreed. I didn’t have much to pack, but Karin had given me a sports holdall for a change of clothes. I’d been wearing jogging bottoms and T-shirts all the while I was recovering. Karin had also bought me a pair of jeans and a cotton check shirt similar to the one in the passport photo of Lee.
The mobile phone had gone from the occasional table. I figured whose ever it was had retrieved it whilst I slept. I carefully folded the page of code up and put it back in the tin with the brush pieces. I then wrapped the notebooks and the rusty tin in a towel and placed them at the bottom of the holdall.
Being British, the prospect of carrying a gun or even having the option to, whatever the legality, felt strange. But, after three failed attempts on my life, including actually being shot, the thought that I may be able to fight back made me think it was a necessity.
I withdrew the pistol and ran through the routine of drawing the toggles back hard so they locked into position and then inserted a full magazine of 9mm parabellum rounds. I pulled the toggles back again and released, allowing them to snap back inserting a round in the chamber.
I tucked the Luger into my trousers. Then I tried it tucked in at the small of my back. Neither was comfortable. Making sure the safety was on, I tucked it into the end pocket of the holdall, along with the spare magazine. I put the holster to one side on the bed as I had no intention of taking it and every intention of returning the gun.
Personally I didn’t think I could look anything like Lee, but after a #2 crop, a few days of stubble and glasses, the resemblance was quite remarkable.
“Hey, you look just like him if I squint,” Clive joked when I joined the others at the kitchen table. He opened the passport to compare me to the photo. “Actually, you do look like the picture.”
Clive checked his watch. “I think we should probably go.”
Karin gave Clive a couple of carrier bags with sandwiches, fruit and a flask of coffee. We intended not to stop, but to try and get back to England in one go. We agreed that we would share the driving and do two hour stints.
I was going home to a different reality to the one I left.
Route A44, 10:12pm Day 32.
It was raining hard. The windscreen wipers just didn’t have a chance at clearing the deluge. Clive had slowed down considerably, but at the speed he was doing now, the corner tightened too quickly for the wet conditions. The BMW, even with its traction control, couldn’t manage as the tyres failed to clear the water and began aquaplaning. The back end slid sideways — the pit of my stomach reacting to the sudden change of direction.
Clive responded well, steering into the slide, which stopped us from spinning completely around, but left us straddling both lanes on a blind corner. We hadn’t hit anything and had managed to remain on the road.
There was silence for a second before either of us breathed out.
“Jesus!” Clive finally said.
“You held that well,” I said. “Maybe we should—”
I was cut short by the sound of tyres skidding across the wet road towards us from behind. Before we could look, the car jolted violently forwards as our two cars crunched together. I felt as though I had been punched as my head recoiled into the head rest.
It wasn’t bad, the air-bags hadn’t deployed and we weren’t hurt. Just shocked.
From behind us, I heard the occupants get out. One of them was shouting angrily in German as he started inspecting the damage. He kicked our car as he ranted.
“Shit, we don’t need this,” Clive said and started unbuckling and opening the door. “I’ll go and deal with this. We don’t need the police involved.”
I could see four young men dressed for a night out clubbing begin to inspect the damage. One of them began gesturing towards us and shouting.
As Clive started to open his door, the one who was shouting stormed towards him and forced open the door as Clive was climbing out.
“Scheiße! Schau', was du gemacht hast! Mein Auto! Du Schwein! Du verdammter Dreckskerl, ich bring' dich um!” he shouted and then without warning punched Clive in the head.
Clive didn’t even see it coming. His head snapped to the side and he fell from the car onto his hands and knees.
I climbed from the passenger seat as Clive was dragged back up onto his feet and lined up for another punch.
“Oi!” I shouted with as much command as I could muster, and then fired two shots into the air from the Luger and then aimed it at the guy about to punch Clive again. “Let go! Now!” I shouted.
At this point everyone was frozen, no-one moved, which wasn’t the response I needed. Still aiming the Luger at the man’s cropped head I took two steps forward. “Back off! Now! Schnell!” I shouted.
Finally, he let go of Clive and stepped back. He wiped rain from his face as he spoke to me.
“Du glaubst, du kannst mich erschießen? Arschloch!” the man said.
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up and back off! Sprechen Sie Englisch?” I asked.
All four of the guys from the other car had stopped where they were and stood looking at each other. This was bad, bad from every perspective, but there was no way I was going to let these skin-head thugs mess up any chances of getting home.
I aimed the gun at the man next closest, the one who had tried to pull his friend off Clive, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” I shouted at him.
“Yyyes,” he stuttered.
“Good,” I said. “Tell your friends to come around the front of the car now!”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’ve got a fucking gun, that’s why. Do it now!”
I aimed at one of the front tyres of their car, another BMW, and shot it out.
Immediately the guy whose car it was sta
rted complaining again.
I shot one of the other tyres out as well and then aimed at his head again. “Shut up! And get round here. Now!”
I couldn’t believe how this was going down, I could feel anger raging through me, which I needed to control, but I also knew I could use it. Ramming the gun into the guy's face wouldn't have been helpful at this point.
Of fight or flight, it had to be the latter. My main concern was to get back to England, and to do that we needed to avoid the police as much as those that wanted to suppress the Lockridge.
“Give me your phones!” I commanded of the one who spoke English. “Your phones, give them to me, now!”
The man translated and immediately started getting his own phone out. When the others didn’t immediately follow he said really quickly, “Scheiße, das ist der Typ aus den Nachrichten. Der gesuchte Mörder.”
Suddenly it was a race to produce their phones.
I didn’t understand what he had said, but did recognise the word for murderer, Mörder. He recognised me!
There were four phones, so I figured that was all of them. I told the one who spoke English to throw them into our car, which he did. All the while I aimed the gun at him.
I then slowly and carefully walked over to their car, withdrew the keys from the ignition and threw them as far as I could into the dense undergrowth beyond the grass verge.
“Clive. Get in. I’m driving,” I said as I stood there pointing the gun at the one who had hit Clive. As he got into the car, I walked up to the skin-head, bringing the gun just inches from his face.
“You messed with the wrong guys tonight, pal. You crashed into our car, and then you assaulted my friend. You deserve this!” I turned to the one who spoke English. “Translate.”
“What you going to do?” the translator asked nervously.
“Just fucking translate!”
