by Andy Remic
He returned, slapping the glass on the table. Wine spilled. Sophie tutted.
‘Making friends with the locals?’
‘Fuck off. If they try anything I’ll spread them across the fucking room!’
‘Yeah, and that’ll really help us keep a low profile, won’t it?’ She drank heavily. Her lips glistened. ‘Listen, we suspect Callaghan as being the pet they’re lining up for promotion. He doesn’t behave like he’s got the... shall we say fire needed for the job. However, if we’re right, and he is the man, we’re now in the perfect place to take him down.’
‘I still don’t like.’
‘You’re not employed to like it,’ snapped Sophie.
Vladimir’s eyes met hers. ‘I don’t like you being with him.’
Sophie paused, then, reading the pain in his eyes. She shrugged it off. Drank again. She smiled; which, in retrospect, was probably not a good idea.
‘Listen, it’s just part of the job. The mission. Part of lining him up and seeing if he’s got what it takes. The sex – well, it’s just part of the ruse, Vladimir. Just part of the game.’
‘It’s no game when he’s sticking his cock inside you.’
‘But it is. Don’t you see? That's just flesh, and as we both know, flesh is nothing.’
‘I don’t like it. Sophie. I don’t like it.’
‘You’re not expected to like it. You’re expected to do what you’re told.’
‘I’m going to kill him anyway.’
‘No you’re not!’ she snapped, face hard, lips bloodless lines. ‘You’ll fucking do what you’re fucking told, when you’re told it, and keep your big flapping mouth shut.’ Again, three men at the bar turned and watched Sophie and Vlad in their corner alcove. They were talking quietly. One of them gestured towards Vladimir. There was some muted laughter.
Vlad sat in silence, contemplating Sophie’s words. Then he sighed, and his huge shoulders seemed to sag. He nodded, finally, and took a sip from his own glass of neat vodka; rubbed at his moustache.
‘I just want to know one thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Enjoy what?’
‘Now you’re stalling.’
Sophie’s opal eyes met Vladimir’s. She made a tiny clucking sound of disapproval with her tongue. ‘We said we were never going to discuss this. It’s part of the job. The mission. The fucking agenda. We agreed this discussion was off–limits. Period.’
‘I need to know.’
‘You want to know. There’s a difference.’
‘So you did?’
‘Enjoy it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen Vlad, if you want to know if he made me come, then yes, he did. If you want to know if I sucked his cock, then yes, I did. And if you want to know whether I swallowed – then the answer to that, also, is yes. I fucked him time and time again, Vladimir. To gain his trust, and to get close to him. What did you want me to do? Play fucking Monopoly? Scrabble, perhaps? Frighten him off?’
Vlad surged to his feet, knocking both glasses of wine over. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he roared, eyes on fire, both fists clenched.
Sophie eyed him coldly.
At the bar, the three watching men peeled away and approached Vladimir as a unit. ‘Hey lady, you having some trouble?’ asked one of the men. He was short, stocky, with shaved ginger hair and tattooed knuckles. He had a flat boxer’s nose and narrowed eyes.
Sophie held up her hand. ‘It’s OK, gentleman, my husband was just leaving.’
‘No he damn well wasn’t,’ snarled Vladimir.
‘Listen pal, I think it’s time you left.’
Slowly, Vladimir turned. ‘Du–te in pizda ma–ta,’ he said, eyes glittering as he took in the three men one by one by one. He smiled then, with his teeth, and it was a particularly nasty smile.
‘What did he say?’ snapped one man, the tallest of the three and wearing his hair in a fuzzy helmet.
Sophie climbed to her feet, wiped a few stray droplets of wine from her sexy tight skirt, and analysed the three men – who were focused on her, and not the looming threat of Vladimir.
She smiled neatly. ‘He said, “Fuck your mother’s cunt”,’ she translated, taking a step back away from the inevitable whirlwind of violence to follow...
With a growl, the tall man threw a punch. Vladimir side–stepped, elbowed him in the face with a sudden springing attack that broke the man’s eye socket, then thundered a right straight in the small ginger pugilist’s nose. The third man landed a blow that sent Vlad sprawling sideways against a table, but as the man charged both Vlad’s shoes found his face and sent the man reeling in a cascade of scattered, overturned chairs. More men ran to the scene – and with growls and curses and bleeding knuckles, Vladimir attacked them all. Sophie circumnavigated the room, and walked daintily to the exit, stepped outside, lit a cigarette and shivered under falling snow. She crossed to the black Mercedes, climbed into the passenger seat and enjoyed a quiet cigarette as Vladimir worked off his frustration on the faces of the foolish.
Fire squirmed across the wood store. Callaghan watched with frightened eyes. Smoke plumed, choking him, making his eyes blur and water and fear stampeded like horses through his brain. ‘What we going to do? he cried out. Volos was struggling with his chains, fists clenched and muscles bulging as he attempted to bend or snap the iron links. Teeth clasped, face tight, as the dark–haired killer tried in vain to find a weak spot in the chains which bound him.
Fire roared.
‘We’re going to die,’ said Callaghan quietly. A chunk of burning wood fell from the store, landing at Callaghan’s feet. He tried to stamp out the flames, but unsuccessfully. The heat grew; first becoming oppressive, then painful. Sweat poured from Cal’s face. Heat prickled his skin, scorching his flesh. Oxygen was becoming scarce.
And then he saw, through the smoke, a figure – standing in the doorway.
Callaghan’s heart leapt, then died a billion deaths. Bronagh? Come back to make sure they die? Come back to kill them with hard steel bullets? To finish the job properly
Shit.
Cal blinked – as the figure moved swiftly forward through the thick, choking smoke...
Bronagh drove through snowfall, lights from the big Volvo cutting bright slices. The roads were quiet now the hour was late, and the snow increased heavily. He checked his watch. 2.00 AM. He smiled, coughed roughly, glanced in his rear–view where Mia lay still, unconscious, a tossed rag–doll on the back seat.
The engine roared as he put down yet more power, and tyres chewed snow–slush as he hit the M25, moving into the fast–lane and ignoring any threat of snow or ice as he took the big car up to over 100 MPH.
Mia groaned. Bronagh glanced back.
Her eyes were open.
‘Where are we going?’ she said.
‘To a quiet place.’
‘What did you do to Callaghan?’
‘Let’s just say he won’t be bothering us again.’
‘Cunt,’ she said, voice a low growl, eyes pools of ink on the back seat.
‘Most probably,’ smiled Bronagh.
The bleak motorway slammed past. Occasionally, the Volvo lost a little traction and a warning light flickered on the dash. Bronagh ignored this. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed, head lowered a little as he watched the dark, snow–laden and near–deserted motorway.
Mia, on the back seat, touched her face tenderly where Bronagh had beat her. Her flesh was swollen, her face swollen, stabbing her with dull throbbing pain. But worse than this, she considered the possibility that Callaghan was... dead. She tried to cry, but found that she couldn’t. She was way past tears. Past tears; and out the other side into a desert of oblivion.
Mia stared at the back of Bronagh’s head. I will kill you, she thought. If it’s the last damn thing I do! I will slaughter you like a pig. She smiled then; smiled at that. A Pig. Ha!
They cruised through the early hours. The dawn hours. Snow was stil
l falling.
Bronagh had tied her hands tightly behind her back, and she shuffled her body, trying to sit upright, trying to get more comfortable. Finally, using her chin against the upholstery, she got herself into a seated position and put her nose against the window. She watched the central reservation lit by sodium, thrumming past with the rhythm of a pulsing engine. Desolation settled across her and she imagined, for a while, that she and Bronagh were the last two human beings alive; alive on a holocaust planet of desecration and murder.
Eventually, she drifted into an uneasy, pain–filled sleep.
The engine stopped, bringing Mia awake into instant confusion. She spat her own hair from her mouth and blinked rapidly, trying to work out where she was, what she was doing, why she hurt so much. A cold wind rushed in, and Bronagh slammed the door with a thud of solid engineering. Mia struggled up, watched Bronagh walk slowly – holding his wounded stomach – across the service station forecourt to another car, a blue Nissan Qashqai; the door opened, Beth stepped out, and they embraced.
‘Bastard,’ muttered Mia. She watched, nauseous, as Bronagh opened the rear door of the Nissan and kissed his daughter, strapped onto her booster seat. ‘I don’t believe it! Even serial killers have family love. How twee, how fucking touching.’
The sound of her own voice in her ears made Mia feel strange. Surreal. Hollow. She shook her head, wondering just what the hell she was going to do.
She scanned the surroundings. Bronagh had parked at the edge of the petrol station forecourt; Beth on the opposite side, perhaps thirty metres away. He glanced back towards his Volvo; seemed to be discussing something with Beth. He gestured at his bound stomach wound. Blood had seeped through the bandage, and through to his shirt in small patches.
‘I hope it burns you,’ muttered Mia, then shuffled herself around so that her bound hands could reach the interior handle. It would be locked, of course. Still – she had to try. Nobody survived without trying!
Uncomfortably, no, painfully, Mia stretched and strained, reached the handle. She tugged, teeth gritted, face filled with pain. There came a subtle click. Cold seeped in. Mia blinked. It had opened. The fucking door had opened!
She shuffled around, glanced across the forecourt again. She was filled with a sudden nervousness. Bronagh seemed to be having a heated argument with Beth. Mia could hear raised voices. She glanced up – spied the CCTV cameras above the forecourt. She smiled. Good. He was causing a scene. Every little helped.
Slowly, she eased open the door and with great difficulty turned her body around. Her feet touched the tarmac and she felt like whooping with joy. The cold air filled her with a regeneration. She sidled out of the car, glanced around for another vehicle – maybe if there was another driver they’d see her plight, phone the cops ahh yeah but Bronagh was a DI, wasn’t he? Well, maybe they’d phone the fucking army then, somebody, anybody who could help her...
Bronagh glanced over. Froze, lips playing spasmodically as he realised what had happened. Mia ran, ran with all her speed and all her might across the tarmac and concrete and grass verges, back towards the motorway and sweeping black snow–fields beyond... she heard an engine roar, race fast, tyres squeal. Glancing fearfully back, she saw Beth’s Nissan slam away from the forecourt and disappear instantly. Bronagh was running after her, arms pumping, blood surging through his bandages and shirt with every jolt, his face very, very grim. Determined. He had definitely lost his sense of humour.
Mia put her head down, focused on sprinting, and fled.
Her feet slapped the road. Breath came in painful short bursts.
She ran, ran as if her life depended on it...
Which it did.
Bronagh, in pursuit, growled to himself. He’d left the car door unlocked. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid! He powered along with loping, easy strides. Despite being a big man, and smoking far too many, despite feeding his bloodstream with too much caffeine and enjoying the odd bottle of Jamesons, he was still incredibly fit. Fitter than he had any right to be. He ignored the pain of the shrapnel in his body. Ignored the blood seeping through his clothes with every pounding jolting slamming footstep. The pain... well, the pain was an inconsequence. Anger bullied him on. He ground his teeth and powered ahead...
And he was... gaining.
Mia sprinted up the slip–road, saw the dazzle of car–lights ahead. She started to scream, ‘Help, help me, I’ve been kidnapped! You’ve got to help me!’ and ran down the middle of the road waving her arms towards the approaching car. Tyres squealed. The car slewed in the slush, and juddered to a halt. The engine stalled. An electric window hummed down.
‘Oh my God!’ came a woman’s voice.
Panting, sweat stinging her eyes, Mia race to the driver’s door. ‘Please, help me, I’ve been kidnapped!’
In the BMW sat a woman, slight of build with fuzzy brown hair tied back into a pony–tail. She wore a thick bubble–coat and white mittens. ‘Quick, get in,’ she said, then looked up –
Into Bronagh’s eyes.
He slowed, as Mia fumbled with the rear door. He pulled free his stocky Browning and with a single crack sent a shot through the windscreen, and through the woman’s skull. Her head slammed back, bouncing from the leather headrest. Blood exploded in a shower within the BMW’s interior. Blood painted the seats and windows red.
‘No!’ screamed Mia, falling to her knees, ‘you bastard, no, you fucking killed her. How could you? How could you do that?’
Bronagh reached Mia, and the gun touched cold against her head. ‘It’s simple to understand, Mia. If you involve other people in this business, in our business, then I’ve got to sort out the problem. If you don’t involve other people... well,’ he smiled, ‘nobody gets hurt.’
‘You fucker.’
‘Whenever I get the chance,’ he smiled. The Browning slammed her head, and she went down in the snow–mush road beside an open BMW door symbolising escape and freedom and justice. Bronagh kicked shut the door, threw Mia over his shoulder, glanced around with wary eyes, and pushed the Browning down his trousers.
He walked back to his Volvo, continually glancing about. Only as he got close did he see the man – barrel–chested, beer–gut overhanging his black work pants, bearded face peering myopically through the gloom at –
Bronagh. Carrying a woman over his shoulder.
‘Here, what’re you doing?’ said the man.
Bronagh eyed the SHELL logo on the man’s uniform; glanced back at the stranded BMW on the slip road; tutted to himself that this shit was getting messy. He pulled free his Browning and shot the petrol–station attendant. The bullet passed through the man’s shoulder, exiting on a shower of exploding bone–shards. The man screamed and clutched the wound as Bronagh strode mercilessly towards him. The man backed away, blood covering his hand, blood splattered across his face, blood staining his uniform with fading pumping life.
‘What are you doing?’ he wailed. ‘What the hell are you doing? Don’t kill me, please, don’t shoot!’
Closer now, Bronagh fired a second shot, and the bullet slammed the man’s chest spinning him around to hit the forecourt with a leaden slap. Bronagh carried Mia back to the Volvo, dumped her on the back seat, then spent a moment fiddling with the child locks. He slammed the door shut with violence, and jogged back to the BMW. He eased the woman’s corpse from the driver’s seat, climbed in, powered the small BMW around to the front of the forecourt and abandoned it before the pay booth. He pulled free a petrol nozzle from the nearest pump, allowed it to drop to the ground with a clack, then with a laid–back air, easily, almost nonchalantly, DI Bronagh walked into the kiosk with its tinkling muzak and smell of machine coffee, crossed to the flashing display by the till, and activated the pump.
Mia, from the back seat of the Volvo – her prison cell once more – climbed groggily to her knees and spat out blood. She watched Bronagh holding the petrol nozzle like a gun, pumping petrol over the BMW and the dead station attendant. He turned the
nozzle on the pump itself, and a gush of petrol washed over the bright plastic. It soared across the concrete. Pooled around the BMW’s tyres.
Finally, Bronagh returned to the Volvo and pulled free a cigar. He lit the long brown cylinder and lazily tossed the match. Fire roared across the forecourt and Bronagh climbed in, started the engine, and they were away flying down the darkened slip–road towards the carriageway as fire engulfed the pumps, the BMW, the petrol station in its entirety – and flames and a raging bulbous blue fireball roared into the sky with a boom and Mia watched in silence, disconsolate with tears streaking her weary face, from the back–window of the speeding, fleeing Volvo.
Sophie sat in the darkness, smoking her cigarette. She thought of Callaghan. Remembered his hands on her body – on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. His face in her cunt, tongue doing what it did best and bringing her arching and writhing to orgasm. She thought of his pretty–boy face, his taut and athletic physique, his willingness to try anything once. She drifted back, like her cigarette smoke drifted through the Merc, and she remembered; remembered all those distant conversations...
Mmm, tastes good.
I did make it for you. What did you expect?
You put in a lot of effort...
I put a lot of effort into you, babe.
What you trying to say, Callaghan? I’m worth making an effort for?
Of course you are.
How much effort?
Well... I’d kill for you.
Really?
Yeah baby, I’d kill a whole fucking continent just to get to you – to kiss those breasts, taste that flesh, you make me hard, you make me bad, you fill me with a raging desire, an eternal roaring poison which is fucking unbelievable, fucking unstoppable.
Better be careful. One day I might hold you to that.
Please do.
You have quite a way with words, lover.
Baby, you’re everything I ever wanted.
Everything?
Everything.
What about when I grow old? Get wrinkles? Go saggy? Drooping tits and a wide–load arse? Will you kill for me then? Will you kill a whole fucking continent, then?
