Serial Killers Incorporated

by Andy Remic

  Finally, reluctantly, she allowed her grip to release. The old woman fell like toppling tinder and lay quite still. Mia swung herself, straining to look up at the hook which held her to the chains above. Then, slowly, almost lazily, certainly athletically, she lifted her legs and with shaking, fatigued arms, took her weight on her wrists and lifted herself powerfully towards the ceiling so that her legs, long, elegant, pointed, could entwine with the chains that fixed her there, holding herself upside down. Blood rushed to her head. Her distended hair described crazy shadows on the earthen ground. Mia fumbled for a few moments, and managed to unhook the chains from the hook. Then, with a flip, she somersaulted away and landed, staggering a little, on feet filled with agonising pins–and–needles.

  Mia’s breath exploded in a gasp.

  Freedom!

  Not so soon. She clamped her elation. Stomped on her joy. She still had a long way to go. She analysed the chain and hook around her wrists; they were old fashioned, like old iron manacles. These had been preserved; were oiled. They also had a lock.

  Mia crawled over to Stolichnaya. The old woman was blue. And quite permanently dead.

  ‘Shit.’ In reality, Mia hadn’t meant to kill the old woman. Just to render her unconscious. But then, if you play with fire, expect to get burned, yeah? ‘Sorry old lady,’ she said, and closed Stolichnaya’s eyes.

  She rummaged through the old woman’s cardigan, found the keys, unlocked the manacles and rubbed life and blood back into her wrists. She breathed deeply. What next?

  Her eyes fixed on the shotgun.

  Her eyes gleamed.

  She crossed, picked up the weapon, snapped it open to reveal the brass of cartridges. She slammed the gun shut. Checked the safety catch was off. Held the weapon to her body, ready, and turned to the opening like a tease before her...

  She moved, peered out, and saw a long tunnel leading away.

  Where the hell am I? she thought.

  Tentatively, she headed into the darkness.

  Callaghan breathed deeply, sighing, and opened his eyes. His head – and especially his cheek – pounded with raw hammer fire. The smell also hit him – wood–smoke, strong and close. And pain – pain in his arms and neck and shoulders. He glanced up. His wrists were slung above his head and knotted in tight chains. Cal rattled the chains wearily, and glanced around the small room which was stacked high with neatly chopped logs. In the corner of the room a hefty furnace burned, a red glow around the edges of an iron door. Above, pipes led away carrying heat to the house. The room would have been cosy – if it hadn’t been the chains hanging Callaghan from the meat–hook in the roof–beam.

  Callaghan groaned, consciousness returning in staccato jumps. He stared around the red–tinged gloom, then tried to free his hands without success. Chains rattled and jangled. Cal cursed again, and spat out a chip of tooth on dry saliva.

  In the darkness, something glowed. The tip of a cigar. Darkness detached from darkness and Bronagh stood, rolling his shoulders. He moved warily towards Callaghan, like a hunter stalking its prey.

  ‘Had a good sleep there, boy–o. Thought you might never come out of it.’

  ‘I think you broke my damned cheekbone!’

  Bronagh shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Do you mean, will I kill you?’

  Callaghan nodded, bitterly.

  ‘Yes. I will. In a little while. Don’t get too fret up. There’s stuff I need to know.’

  Cal’s mind worked fast, despite his grogginess. ‘You want to know if Jimmy told me?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bronagh’s smile fell.

  ‘Well, he didn’t.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Cal nodded, and Bronagh hit him. It was a full, straight blow which caught him just under the nose and thrust his head back under impact. There was a crack, chains rattled, and Callaghan snorted blood down his chest. His head spun and the pain was incredible – just intense. Eyes watering, head spinning, he coughed, and spat out more blood; and was dimly aware of Bronagh circling him.

  ‘I swear,’ said Callaghan, slurring as if drunk. ‘Jimmy told me nothing! Nothing!’

  ‘Why did you come here with Volos, then?’

  The blow came from behind, thundering against his ribs and cracking one. His body swung, limp, on its chains – like a human flesh punch bag. Callaghan whimpered, head down, tips of his boots dragging against the hard earth floor.

  Bronagh was in his face, then, impotent with fury, eyes wild and dark and evil. ‘Why, Callaghan, why?’

  ‘I told you, he threatened me, said Mia would die...’ Callaghan looked up. ‘You’ve got her? Here?’

  Bronagh said nothing. He turned his back on Callaghan, and all Cal could see were plumes of smoke engulfing the man’s head. He turned back, and head–butted Cal savagely, sending him swinging lazily on his chains with jangles of sound. Bronagh moved to the burner, opened the door, tossed in a chunk of wood. Flames surged at the draught of oxygen. Slowly, easily, Bronagh picked up a long iron poker and prodded it into the heart of the raging furnace. Then, he lowered the shaft, allowed it to touch the rim, and left the tip in the roar of intense heat.

  He turned back to Cal, who’s eyes were focused on the poker. ‘What you going to do with that, Bronagh?’

  ‘Tell me again about Jimmy. Exactly what he told you, before he died.’

  ‘He died before I arrived!’ screamed Callaghan. ‘All I know about you is what Volos said in your kitchen – that you’re a serial killer! I swear, that’s all I know.’

  Bronagh nodded sagely. Glanced back at the poker. Then back to Callaghan. ‘You know, Callaghan, in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never really liked you. Fucking gutter press making money out of people’s misery. At least when I kill, I kill clean – and I kill quick. I don’t benefit financially – only spiritually. And I perform a service for the world; I mop up the filth on our streets. The Niggers, the Jews, the whores, the queers. Fucking world is a better place – a cleaner place – without them. But listen to me, Callaghan – and listen well. I’m not about to jeopardise this mission because of some loose–flapping photographer with a hard–on for a good story. I know what you cunts are like. I know you can’t keep your tongues to yourselves...’ He laughed, a low, cruel laugh. Turned away from Cal and, with a rag, took hold of the poker. ‘And so.’ He sighed. ‘I’m going to ask you one last time, and if I don’t like your answer...’ he lifted the red–hot tip of the poker towards Callaghan’s face, where it sizzled and hissed and glowed with the pulsing red of near–molten iron, ‘I’m going to put out your eyes.’

  ‘Wait. No.’ Callaghan’s voice was slow and thick with emotion.

  ‘Again! What did Jimmy tell you?’

  In the darkness the door burst open. Beth stumbled in, panting, hair dishevelled. Bronagh looked instantly annoyed, glanced away from Callaghan, cigar clamped between his teeth.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘We’ve got a problem. It’s Mia. She’s escaped.’

  ‘Shit.’ Bronagh turned back to Callaghan, and nodded, as if saying a gentlemanly goodnight. ‘We’ll continue this later, my friend.’ He slammed a punch which knocked Callaghan into a spiralling, sinking world of velvet darkness.

  Mia crept to the edge of the tunnel. She followed the lit cable, and came to a junction of crumbling, old red and black brick. Where the hell am I? she thought. What is this place? It reminded her intrinsically of a sewer; but without the stench, without the raw sewage... it was like a series of tunnels made hundreds of years ago, brick crumbling, a musty, ancient smell in the air. Bulbs swung idly from cables every twenty metres or so casting long, swaying shadows. Mia clasped the shotgun tight in clammy hands. It gave her great comfort.

  She edged forward, one hand against the damp peppered wall. Her heart thundered in her chest. Beats of blood pounded in her ears. She had to get out. Had to.

  The tunnel stretched for perhaps a hundred metres, th
en came to a cross–roads. A junction. Mia chewed her lip. Which way out? To the right, and straight ahead, the walls changed from bare brick to rough–hewn stone. To the left, the walls remained brick. Back to civilisation? Must be!

  She eased along the tunnel, and the air grew more dry; warm. She was getting close to a heat source. To the left several arches appeared, door–sized and crumbling badly; they led into dark chambers where the light could not reach.

  Then she heard voices and her heart leapt. Could she creep past unnoticed?

  She moved closer, found an adjoining tunnel ending in a chamber which flickered with an orange glow. Again, voices. A gruff male voice, threatening and chilling in equal reserves. And... and...

  Callaghan?

  Mia scowled. No, it could not be. How the hell had he got down here?

  Ahead, a noise alerted her. She saw steps, and a square of daylight appeared framing the silhouette of a figure. Mia scampered back down the tunnel from which she’d emerged. Alarmingly, the figure followed – but at a sedate pace. Mia had not been spotted.

  She back–tracked, a fist in her mouth, a blade in her heart. She stopped again at the junction, then moved off into the shadows of the rock–hewn passage. Carefully, she watched; the figure appeared – it was a woman with bright red hair; pretty, but with stern eyes. She moved towards the chamber which had protected Mia – and Mia went cold. The woman would find the dead body. She would discover Mia’s escape... which meant, meant she had to run now...

  Too late. The woman came sprinting down the short passage, back out towards the world. Mia crouched in the darkness, wondering what to do, wondering what would happen. Voices. She heard raised voices. Shit. Shit. Mia back–pedalled again, moving into the passage where it grew darker in staccato leaps.

  Footsteps. Light and careful. They stopped. Low voices. ‘There’s only two passages she could follow. You take that one... I’ll take this one. The bitch stole Stolichnaya’s shotgun – so she’s armed. Here, take one of these.’ A pause. ‘If you see her, shoot to kill.’

  Padding footsteps.

  The bouncing beam of a torch light.

  Dripping with sweat, Mia turned and fled. She ran – as quietly as she could – but lack of food and water, the blows, the imprisonment, all had conspired to make her weak. She felt like a two–day old kitten. Still, grasping the shotgun she pounded down the stone passage with footsteps padding after her.

  Who was following? The woman? Or the man?

  Did it matter?

  And more importantly, was there a way out?

  The tunnel, for a tunnel it now was, started to lose its rigid angular shape and become more natural, more rough–hewn. It also started to descend, gently at first, then more steeply. Mia was running ragged, sprinting, lank hair flapping behind her. The shotgun was slippery with her sweat. And still the footsteps followed. She could hear them. The sound crawled through her like spiders.

  Mia realised she needed another junction, a place she could try and throw off her pursuer. With just a straight corridor down which to run, it became merely an exercise in stamina... And Mia’s strength was failing fast. Soon... she shivered... soon she would have to stand and fight.

  Then the light ended.

  She’d been following the swaying line of globes, felt like she was descending into some kind of deep mining tunnel. She’d visited such a place once before, in Wales. Even then, on a simple guided tour, the place had terrified her. Well, this was the same: claustrophobia kicked in.

  Mia ran past the final light, and on into darkness. Her sprint slowed, her hands coming up before her to ward off invisible obstacles; and then she stopped. A cool draught blew up from the tunnel depths making her shiver violently. She had a sudden feeling she was near a deep and fathomless void.

  She turned.

  Behind, the final light–bulb was a distant yellow globe. A figure came into view. It was big, stocky, and Mia could clearly make out the shape of a gun in one relaxed hand. She lifted her shotgun and pressed the rough–sawn barrels against her cheek. Tears ran down her face. To come so close! She had escaped... and now?

  ‘Mia?’ came the low voice. It filled her with terror. ‘Mia, my little flower? What are you doing down here, hiding in the dark? Come back to the light – I won’t hurt you, I promise.’

  Mia lifted the shotgun. Aimed awkwardly, from the hip. And realisation dawned like a blow. She would have to kill him. Shoot him. Another human being. In cold blood. She blinked away tears, and sweat, and fear. Licked dry lips.

  The man lifted his stocky handgun. It gleamed under the single, retreating bulb.

  He advanced into the blackness.

  Callaghan sat by a silver lake, framed in black and white, his body leaning low and trailing a hand in the water which parted, streamed by his skin, rejoined as mercury. He glanced up, frown on his face, confusion in his brain. Black mountains, jagged and vicious, rimed the skyline. A cold breeze blew. Callaghan shivered – and then blinked, for a young girl stood before him: she was nine or ten years old, with alabaster pale skin and ink–black hair. She wore a long lace–edged dress of bright white. She watched him, black eyes like glass and glittering with intelligence which belied her physical appearance, her visual age. Callaghan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again when he saw the sword. The blade was long, curved, its bloodstained tip resting against the ground.

  ‘You’ve come to take me?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was soft. Gentle. A lullaby.

  ‘To kill me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘You have come to hear me speak.’

  ‘Will I like what you have to say?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Callaghan bit his lip, pulled his hand from the silver lake. He scanned the deserted tree–lined road behind the girl; the trees shook in the wind, autumn leaves tumbling. Callaghan closed his eyes.

  ‘This isn’t real,’ he said.

  ‘Define reality.’

  ‘I’m not here.’

  ‘You are here in your dream. That’s real.’

  ‘Stop playing with words!’

  ‘I am not playing with words. You are the one in denial. You think you see everything, out there in the real world? You did not see the evil, like a cancer, in Bronagh’s heart. You walked like a puppy into his cage and allowed him to lock the door.’

  ‘He will kill me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do I stop him?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  She moved closer then, with tiny footsteps. Callaghan focused on the sword. ‘What is the sword for?’

  She leaned close to him. He could smell her, her natural perfume; she smelt of jasmine. She leaned so close her lips were touching his ear.

  Callaghan tensed – half expecting a murderous, surprise blow.

  ‘It is for The Killers,’ whispered the little girl.

  Callaghan blinked, groaned in the darkness, and cursed sobriety. He turned his head, arms screaming at him from above, and he could just make out another figure in the glow from the wood–burning furnace. It was Volos. He was unconscious.

  Cal watched the... man?... for a while, hanging there just like Callaghan, a victim, just like Callaghan, imprisoned, just like Callaghan. Not so fucking tough now, he thought, bitterness lacing his cynicism. And yet – yet if everything was right, everything was true, then Jimmy was a bad guy and Bronagh was a bad guy and this – this hulking freak with needle–teeth and jet hair was his friend. He had come to – to what? Help him? Help him do what, exactly?

  I’m going to die, he realised. How can I escape this? Chained to the ceiling waiting for Bronagh to come and put out my eyes. Shit. Torture. That was something that happened to other people... not sophisticated London cruisers!

  Tears came then, hot burning tears which coursed his cheeks. His face ached from the beating, his ribs wailed at him, his torn flesh moaned. And Callaghan hung there feeling sorry for himself, drift
ing gently, boots scuffing marks against the hard earth floor – as he waited to die.

  After a while, he blew snot out onto the ground, and shook his head. He licked dry lips. God, what he would give for a glass of water! He sighed, shook and pulled violently at his chains, but to no avail. Escape was impossible. Utterly, totally, impossible.

  Cal thought back. To the man Sophie had shot in the road. How he’d watched him die on the road, blood leaking into a wide puddle, skin exploded. And then the pregnant woman – carved up by Volos to... what had he said? Etch her bones? Send her to the Second Level? Then the fat guy in the mill. Strung out like vermin. Tortured – just as he, Callaghan, would be tortured. And Jimmy – burned to death, writhing in agony as fire consumed him and ate him whole. Yeah. So. How will I go? he thought.

  He smiled grimly.

  Whimpering, moaning, bleating. Crying and wailing.

  You’re not a man, he realised. You’re a fucking mouse.

  He lifted his chin, stared through a rainbow of tears, thought back over his long twisted life, his amoral career, his lack of consideration for anybody but himself. Selfish. That was the word for his existence. Utterly and totally selfish.

  Who will weep when you’re gone, Callaghan?

  Who will cry over your corpse?

  Who will place flowers at your gravestone?

  Who will light a candle for you?

  Nobody, he realised with awesome sobriety.

  Not a single fucking person on earth.

  He smiled then, let out a low crackling laugh. Yeah, he thought. My name’s Callaghan, a hard drinking, womanising no good son–of–a–bitch. I live for today, take any designer drug in the world, fuck anything that moves and steal anything that doesn’t... and to hell with consequences! Baby, I’m the man who put head into hedonism. The sex into sexuality. The cunt into cuntinental. And yet – I’m alone, alone in an over–crowded world, alone when there are a billion people right by my side. And I don’t give a fuck about a single living one of them...