by Andy Remic
Something went click inside his head.
He sighed. And blinked away tears.
He coughed, spat, and realised: there was time to change. There was always time to change.
If I get out of this shit, he realised, I’m going to be a good boy. I’m going to do good things. Right things. I’m going to help and care and love and cherish. I’m going to have improved moral fibre for breakfast. Increased integrity for lunch. A plate of dignity for dinner. And I’m going to hold my head up high and Contribute to the Planet.
Yeah.
If I get out of this shit.
And if I don’t?
His eyes gleamed.
Well then.
I’m going to die like a fucking man.
There came a hiss, and Volos was awake. He instantly glanced up, worked powerfully at the chains, then looked over at Callaghan with dark, brooding eyes. Only then did Cal realise Volos had been beaten heavily. When Volos smiled, many of his needle–teeth were missing.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cal, slowly. ‘Bronagh kicked the shit out of me, left me unconscious. When I awoke, you were here.’
‘We have to escape.’
‘I’m up for that.’ Cal grinned at Volos. ‘Just show me how.’
Volos tilted his head. Stared hard at Callaghan in the red–glow of that small cubic furnace room. ‘You have changed, my friend. You have grown...’
‘Stronger?’
‘You have clarity.’
‘I’m sick of being kicked around like an unwanted mongrel.’
‘So you are ready to fight?’
‘Damn fucking right.’
‘Do you know where Bronagh is?’
‘Apparently Mia has escaped. They have gone after her. You were right Volos – she was here. The only – and I mean only thing that really concerns me is Jimmy. I don’t believe he could have been one of the bad guys; I’ve known Jim for a long time. We go way back, been through a lot of bad shit together.’
Volos was silent for a while. When he spoke, his words were low, clipped, economical. ‘Callaghan. Sometimes, as people move through life, as the years flow by, they... change. They become moulded by events, by things that happen in their lives, events for which they have no control. They cannot help what they become – but it is there, real, shaped by destiny. Do you remember Jimmy’s sister?’
‘How do...’
‘How do I know of her? I’ve been tracking Jimmy for a very long time. It took me a while to find his controller, Bronagh. But that’s another tale of violence. Jimmy’s sister, about two years ago, was...’
‘Raped.’
‘Yes, on a trip to Egypt. She was abducted and raped by three Egyptians in Cairo – a savage and brutal attack which lasted four days. However, the Egyptian authorities were superb and efficient, they caught the rapists within twenty–four hours. As per the law of the country, these men were executed.’
‘I... didn’t know that. Jimmy never spoke of the... details.’
‘No. He led everybody to believe it was a reasonably minor incident; not something involving – execution. And though he hid it well, these events changed Jimmy. Turned him into something which you might consider unsavoury. When his sister returned to Scotland, she was a shadow of her former self. Agoraphobic, scared of shadows, she finally became a hermit. Refused to see her family or friends. Jimmy, in effect, lost his sister – she became dead to him. And as a result, he turned against a vast section of the world community.’
‘Jim wasn’t like that.’
‘No, Jim was clever. He never appeared like that. But it was there, burning like a dark flame in his soul. He was thence head–hunted, tracked down by Bronagh – who was building an army.’
‘An army?’ Callaghan laughed. ‘What kind of army?’
‘Why, an army of Killers,’ said Volos, meeting Callaghan’s gaze.
They hung there, staring at one another, drifting gently with a lilting jangle of chains. In the furnace, the fire burned down, burned low, the glow diminishing until both their faces were tattooed by shadows.
There came a distant thud.
Volos gave a thin–lipped smile. ‘Looks like Bronagh’s home again.’
‘How do we get out of this?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
‘And if you don’t?’
‘Then he’ll kill us,’ said Volos, simply.
Bronagh advanced into the black, torch beam bobbing. Mia turned, fled, ran blind, the shotgun forgotten for a moment because she could not use it could not fucking use it! How could she shoot another human being? Fire metal into soft flesh, watch blood pump from ruined arteries, watch life–light fade from a corpse’s face? Every human was sacred. Life was the greatest gift. What right did one person have to take that gift from another?
She ran, ran hard, feet digging the hard earth ground, the bobbing light from Bronagh torch unwittingly aiding her flight as it gave definition to the passageway. Suddenly, a crack reverberated down the tunnel.
Mia froze, skidding, losing her footing. She stumbled, landing on her knees, the shotgun jabbing into her ribs and making her squeal. And then he was there, before her, looming in the darkness and Mia squealed again and pulled the trigger –
There came a boom.
Bronagh was picked up and tossed backwards down the passageway. His torch dropped at Mia’s feet, his rag–doll body connected with the tunnel wall, and he flapped and flopped, finally rolling to a stop on his face.
Smoke filled the tunnel.
Mia’s ears hissed and boomed, as if filled with the rolling ocean.
‘Shit,’ she exhaled, and threw the shotgun down in horror. She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Panic fluttered butterflies in her breast. Then, focusing thoughts, she pushed herself to her feet and steadied herself against the wall. It was damp. The texture rough under shaking fingers. She moved forward a couple of steps and picked up the torch. The beam pointed accusingly through the smoky darkness – picked out the still body of Bronagh.
I shot him, she realised.
I killed him.
She moved forward on jolting legs which didn’t want to work. She stopped beside the body, played the beam up and down his dark crumpled suit. She noticed his shoes were polished. He wore grey socks. The suit had a slight pinstripe. His hair was dark; greying at the temples.
She poked her foot underneath Bronagh’s body, tried to roll it over. But couldn’t. Getting down on both knees, she put the torch between her teeth and grabbed him, lifting him, rolling him over with a grunt. He moved like flesh chunks in a sack, limbs loose on ball–bearing joints.
Mia ran the torch over him again. The crooked, disjointed posture. The blood soaking legs and belly, soaking his white shirt, peppering his suit with gore.
‘Shit,’ she said, chewing her lower lip. ‘What have I done?’ but a sane part of her brain said girl he kidnapped you and was going to kill you – it was self defence, you had no other choice, just like back in the boot of the car when you tried to fire the rifle...
She shook her head. She felt tears well in her eyes.
The torch–beam played up the shirt and torn jacket, to Bronagh’s face. The expression seemed relaxed. Almost serene. She reached out, touched the flesh of his cheek. His eyes opened. ‘Boo,’ he said and then was there, hands in her hair, dragging her up with him as she started to fight and scratch and kick. With a slap he rammed her head against the tunnel wall, and Mia was knocked down into a world of dazed confusion. ‘You bitch,’ she heard him mutter, and his free hand explored the wounds on his body. But he did not wince. Did not cry out. He showed very little evidence of... pain.
He grabbed the torch from the floor, and with her hair wound tight about his fist in an unbearable vice–like grip, dragged her down the corridor and further into the charcoal black.
‘You want to see down here, little dove?’ he muttered. Mia said nothing, feet kicking at the earth. She
tried to struggle again, but he shook her like a dog with a bone and she squealed, a clump of hair coming free in his large fist. He stopped, grabbed her, slapped her viciously, re–gathered her hair and tightened his hold. Mia whimpered like an injured puppy.
‘Well then, I’ll show you our little playground, shall I? You’ll have fun there. It’s ever–so exciting.’
He dragged her on, the torch picking out a continuing descent until they came through a tight, low–ceilinged passage into a large chamber, the walls black brick and lined with moss and vertical streams of trickling water. The chamber was old. Ancient. And it lingered with a curious smell. More water could be heard dripping from a black ceiling. Mia was thrown onto her knees, and Bronagh knelt beside her – and she was suddenly aware of the gun pressing under her jaw.
‘Don’t kill me!’
‘Kill you? I don’t want to kill you. Your future event–horizon is going to be so much more varied and interesting than a simple execution, my little black dove. Now, look around.’
Mia glanced up, afraid of what she might she see.
The chamber was large, much bigger than she’d first realised. The brick walls stretched off past the defining beam of the torch. The floor was earth, and as Mia’s eyes adjusted to the gloom she could make out hundreds of small black sticks planted vertically. Each stick was no thicker than a man’s finger, and perhaps twelve inches high. They were equally spaced – almost like markers in a garden plot, or in a...
Mia frowned.
A graveyard?
‘What are they?’ Her voice was hushed; little more than a whisper.
‘They mark the fallen. The slain.’
‘Graves?’
‘Yes.’
Mia met Bronagh’s eyes then, and could see a gleam there, past the pain of the gunshot wound. It was a gleam of fanaticism. Of corrupt pride. Disjointed values. Misplaced morals. Fucked–up fascism. And stupidity; oh yes, basic primal stupidity.
‘I don’t understand.’
Bronagh focused on her. ‘Here lie the Niggers, the Pakis, the fucking Jews. This is their graveyard; a resting place for those who do not belong on our beautiful shores. Those who should not be allowed to breathe the purity of our air, or drink our fresh clean water. They are the slaves. They are the corrupt. They are the filth.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said Mia.
‘Ha! Who’s to say what’s crazy? I know what I am. I embrace what I am. I – and others like me – hunt down those of dubious faith, dangerous politics, disgusting sexual orientation... and base unclean colour.’ He stroked her chin. She turned her head away. ‘Just like you, my pretty little Nigger–black dove. You’ll scream so high and long when I pluck out your eyes and cut out your spine.’
She slapped him then, a hard stinging blow.
‘You fucking disgust me,’ she said.
‘That’s the spirit, girl. I knew we’d picked the right woman to help with the marriage. But then,’ his voice grew low, dangerous, ‘I could tell what type of blood ran through your veins by the foul colour of your perverse fucking skin.’
He dragged her up, and her world spun. There were hundreds of markers, signifying hundreds of people that Bronagh and his little culture club had murdered. He punched her suddenly, a thundering right–hook that drove her to the ground and cracked her eye–socket. Pain lanced through her brain in pulsing rhythms. She cried out, drooling to the soil and for a fleeting instant she thought he was going to kill her right there and then... and bury her, with all the other murdered unfortunates.
She looked up. Tears streamed. Lips trembled.
‘Don’t,’ she whispered.
‘More than a thousand people a year go missing,’ he snarled. ‘You and all the other cosy little educated people, locked in your fire–warmed false–prophet living–rooms watching synthetic life on your dead–eye TVs, stuffing faces with pre–packed mechanically reclaimed meat, filling veins with cheap alcohol oblivion and puffing at whatever weed comes your way – you do nothing, you understand? Nothing as we pluck the dirt from under your eyes and bring it here, here to prove its worth.’ He was panting. He stared around. ‘And all of them – as you can see – all have been found wanting. Their deaths are not murders; it is justice, sweet justice, plain and simple and pure and deserved.’
Mia said nothing.
He dragged her to her feet, and away out from the terrible chamber with its low–level stench. Her stomach churned, and she vomited on the ground as he dragged her.
Bronagh did not notice; or chose not to notice.
And as she stumbled, Mia cried honeyed tears for the slain.
Bronagh entered the furnace room dragging Mia by the hair. She was clutching his arm, face screwed in pain, feet kicking and stumbling the earthen floor until he threw her roughly at Callaghan’s feet.
‘Bastard,’ she hissed.
‘Quiet, bitch.’
She glared at him. Then smiled without humour. ‘You are a fucking moron.’
Bronagh laughed, clutching his abdomen, and staring up at Callaghan. ‘Your whore shot me, Callaghan. And we can’t be having that, can we boy–o?’
‘I always said she had immaculate taste,’ said Cal, cold eyes regarding Bronagh. He stared down at Mia. ‘You OK, girl? You should have aimed higher – blown his fucking brain open.’
Mia shrugged, giving Cal a dazzling smile. ‘Alas, there was no brain to excise.’
Bronagh kicked Mia in the face, a heavy blow that sent her reeling, rolling in the dirt, to lie face down, breathing heavily. He glared at Cal, at Volos, then shook his head and clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘So, is this a comedy moment for you, Callaghan?’
Cal said nothing.
‘Laugh it up, dickhead. Because it’s me, ME! who’s going to have the last fucking laugh. You hear that, you pathetic little newspaper man?’ He moved to the corner of the ceiling–high stacked wood–store as he spoke, produced an old rusted metal can with a broad–diameter screw–cap. This, he began to work loose with a rhythmical squeaking. ‘You’re going to regret the day you ever fucked with me. I can promise you that.’ He turned, paused, glared at Volos. ‘And you – when you go back to your Lady – give her a big fucking kiss from me.’ He grinned with stained teeth, removing the cap from the container. Liquid sloshed inside. Turning, Bronagh circled the chamber splashing petrol over the wood. Liquid gleamed in the glow from the furnace.
‘Don’t do this,’ said Callaghan, quietly.
‘Why not? I want to do this.’
‘I can help you.’
‘With what?’ Bronagh cackled with laughter. Fire glowed in his mad eyes. ‘You’re nothing but a thorn in my side, little boy. Well, now the game has been exploded wide open – thanks to your serial killing buddy here. But – I have one thing to thank you for.’
‘What’s that?’
Bronagh dropped the empty can on the floor, where it gave a protesting clang. He stooped, and lifted the unconscious body of Mia in powerful arms. His stomach and legs were soaked in his own blood. His face was a snarl. Lips black and devilish. His eyes raged like nuclear fire.
‘You brought me a gift, and she will make a fine bride.’ He pulled free a box of matches, and leisurely struck one. A flame flared with sulphur smoke. Bronagh backed to the door.
‘Don’t do this!’ shouted Cal, panic suddenly eating him. A rawness filled his head, his breast, his soul. He couldn’t die... not like this! He remembered the blackened squirming body of Jimmy; the weak and feeble struggling, the writhing of primal agony. His clenched his jaw in fear.
Be strong, spoke his inner–self.
Be calm!
Bronagh gave the room one final sweep with his eyes. They lingered on Volos, who said nothing, dark orbs focused, lips pulled back a little revealing needle teeth.
Bronagh tossed the match, and was gone.
Fire curled across the wood–store with a whoosh and Callaghan shook his chains in panic, cursing, swinging violently against the merciless metal
which held him in thrall...
Volos, in silence, closed his eyes.
And prayed, as smoke filled the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMPURITY
SOPHIE STEPPED INTO The Hog’s Head wine bar and bistro, moved across to the large, well–dressed, too–good–looking man at the bar, smiled sweetly from behind tinted sunglasses hiding bruised–iron eyes, and tossed back her luxurious velvet hair.
‘A wine, darling.’
Vladimir nodded, ordered, glanced up and down the bar, then gathering the drinks he led Sophie to a corner table. They sat, Sophie cleaned half her wine in one swallow, then dabbed at the corners of her mouth as Vladimir watched her over steepled fingers.
‘Yes?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘What’s “it” again? Did I lose the thread of the conversation?’
‘The whole situation. With Callaghan.’
‘Yes. You’ve already demonstrated that.’ She touched her dark glasses. Sophie smiled sourly. Drank the rest of the wine. Met Vladimir’s gaze with open challenge. She lifted her empty glass, tilted it towards him in a suggestive manner.
‘The last thing I need is you getting pissed,’ he snarled, a touch too loudly. Several men at the bar glanced over. Sophie smiled at them sweetly.
‘I’m not getting pissed, my flower. I’m simply relaxing a little after the hell of the past week.’
‘Does he suspect you?’
‘No.’ Sophie shook her head. ‘He’s way too dumb for that.’ She gestured with the glass again. ‘If you don’t get me a refill, I’ll put this fucking glass in your face.’
‘You always were charming, wife.’
‘You always were a dick, husband. Now, do what you’re told.’
Vladimir took the glass, moved to the bar, and jostled two large men aside. There came a brief exchange, and Sophie read the open aggression on Vladimir’s face. She sighed. Never one for subtlety, she thought. And in resignation she realised... violence was just his little way.
