Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  ‘Should arrest them for that,’ Jenkins said. He looked at his colleagues as if one of them might do something. His eyes were big and wide behind his thick-lensed glasses, which made him appear permanently startled.

  ‘Get after them, then,’ Dawn said. ‘After you’ve apprehended them, you can spend the rest of the night filling out the requisite paperwork.’

  Jenkins lost interest in the fleeing van.

  Flipping her mobile open, Dawn made a call. Officer Brewer answered after the first ring.

  ‘Are you good to go?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly,’ he responded. ‘We’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  ‘Excellent. The target is confirmed. Get back to me as soon as you have something to report.’

  Brewer assured her he would. The line went dead. Dawn closed her phone. Then waited.

  When Ward’s Mondeo had driven into the car park, the surveillance team had run the reg through their computer. A name and address had popped up. At the time they had no way of knowing this was their man. But the suspicious way he acted suggested it was, so Dawn had got a unit en-route straight away.

  The tip-off had come from a girl Ward had befriended on Facebook. A member of his on-line harem. She had been watching a news clip about missing persons and recognised two of the girls. At first, she hadn’t been able to make the connection. Thought no more of it. Until later that evening when she’d logged onto the website and Ward had pm’d her for a chat. She had clicked on his profile and noticed one of the missing girls on his friends list. Intrigued, she had scanned through the list and discovered the other.

  Ward had been intelligent enough to use an IP Mask, making his computer untraceable through the Internet. Which had left Dawn only one option: she’d had to befriend him, make him think she was interested, then arrange a meet. Up until the last minute, she had been sure something would go wrong: that Ward would smell a trap and back out. The temptation to pull the trigger and blow his brains out had been strong. Almost overwhelming.

  ####

  Brewer said, ‘This is it, get ready.’

  The policeman driving the van pulled over. Brought it to a screeching halt. They were on Hillview Road: a quiet country lane. The house they had stopped outside of looked derelict, almost ready for demolition. Slates were missing from the roof, the chimney canting wearily to one side. Chunks had fallen from the white rendering on the brickwork, giving the walls the appearance of a giant unfinished jigsaw. Rats foraged through rubbish piled high in the front yard.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Brewer said, getting out.

  Six officers burst from the van’s rear. They followed him towards the house. Brewer banged on the front door, demanding to be let in. If anyone was home, he wanted to give them a chance to open up. A few seconds, at least. Brewer banged again. No answer.

  ‘Do your thing, Harrison!’ he barked.

  Harrison was a big guy. As wide as the door he was about to break through. He stepped forwards with a red Breach. Readied himself. The door looked as if it would cave in with one good blow and it nearly did. The first hit made a sizable indent, showering Harrison with splinters. The second hit did the job. The lock gave way and the door burst open.

  The team entered the hallway. Fanned out, checking rooms.

  ‘POLICE!’ Brewer yelled. ‘THIS IS THE POLICE!’

  Like the front yard, the house was littered with junk and rubbish. Thick dust coated every surface. Brewer was accustomed to wiping his feet before entering homes (although not on a raid, of course), but he was tempted to wipe them on the way out of this shit hole.

  ‘God it stinks!’ someone said. ‘Christ!’

  ‘The place is clear,’ Harrison declared. ‘There’s no one here.’

  ‘Get searching, then,’ Brewer said.

  It took seconds to find something of interest. Harrison was checking the bedroom and called out, ‘Hey, take a look at this lot!’

  Everyone crowded through the doorway. Laughter erupted when they saw him holding up a huge, black dildo. He told them he found it in a cupboard along with all manner of sexual curiosities: whips, handcuffs, an anal orifice masturbator, plus a life-size sex doll.

  ‘I’d put that down,’ one of the officers said, referring to the dildo. ‘You don’t know where it’s been.’

  Harrison tossed it back in the cupboard. ‘There are dresses in here, look,’ he said, pulling out a red number and holding it up. ‘Either his girlfriend’s a bit on the butch side or our guy’s a tranny.’

  ‘The colour is very you,’ someone said. ‘You should try it on, mate.’

  ‘Enough silliness,’ Brewer said. ‘We don’t have time to waste. Keep searching, the lot of you.’

  About thirty seconds later, Harrison yelled out like he had been scolded.

  ‘BOSS!’ he yelled. ‘BOSS! OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’

  Brewer darted into the bedroom. ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  With his hands cupped over his mouth, Harrison nodded towards a book on the bed. Brewer picked up the weighty tome. Opened it. For a split second he thought he was seeing things, that the faces were fake. This was something the weirdo had bought from a joke shop. It had to be. But the skin and eyes looked so real …

  Brewer threw the book on the bed. He had been in the force twenty-five years and never seen anything so brutal, so inhuman. He wondered how anyone could be so unbalanced as to do such a thing. Flattened blue eyeballs stared up at him.

  Closing the book with a snap, he said, ‘I wonder what he’s done with the bodies.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the cellar,’ someone reported. ‘Just more junk.’

  ‘Unless he’s buried them under the floor,’ Harrison suggested.

  Brewer stared out the bedroom window. Miles and miles of forest stretched into the distance.

  ‘I bet they’re out there,’ he said. ‘Somewhere out there.’

  He unclipped his mobile from his belt and called Dawn.

  ####

  Cupping her mobile to her ear, Dawn could hardly believe what she was hearing. Now she knew what Ward meant by “You’ll be the next one in my book”. He would be put away for a long time. A life sentence beckoned, that was for sure. But this did not stop Dawn feeling uneasy. A strange sense of light-headedness came over her. She felt weak, nauseous.

  ‘You’ve got his laptop,’ she said. ‘Good.’

  ‘We’ll keep searching,’ Brewer said. ‘Give the place another go over.’

  Dawn watched as Ward was driven away. He didn’t take his eyes off her. Didn’t blink.

  1

  5 years later …

  Jack Williams needed a drink. An ice-cold beer wouldn’t make his troubles go away, but it would dull his senses, make things easier. For a few hours, at least. Some liquid gold down the back of the throat and plenty of it. That’s what he yearned for.

  The Fox and Faucet was always quiet on a Monday night. And that was something else he desperately needed: quiet. Time on his own to reflect on what had just happened. How things had gone so wrong. His ears were still ringing from the last words Eleanor had spat at him. Get out, you waste of space! Get out of my sight! She had never spoken to him like that before and he had seen from the look in her eyes that she meant it.

  Every word.

  He was on auto-pilot. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight. The cone-shaped headlights of on-coming cars hurt his red-rimmed eyes, dazzling him. Looking at himself in the rear-view mirror, he noted how pale he was in the white glow from the dashboard. Indicating left, he pulled into the pub’s car park, which was as empty as he had expected. There were a few cars scattered here and there.

  Jack eased his shit-heap VW beetle into a space and got out.

  He reminisced about the times he had been here with Eleanor for lunch or dinner. Back when things had been good, this was. Back when the future had been fine and rosy. On many occasions they had sat huddled in a corner, making plans about how they were going to renovate th
e old bungalow they had purchased, how many kids they would have and what they would call them. He’d wanted two and she’d wanted a Walton’s size family, so they had agreed on a compromise of four (two boys and two girls, ideally), mainly due to money issues. Although how they could afford to bring up even one child, Jack didn’t know. The words “pot” “to” and “piss in” came to mind.

  He thought it was true what people said. That money was the root of all evil. The cause of most problems. Despite both working full-time, Jack and Eleanor had struggled from the start. The only reason they’d been able to afford their bungalow was because it needed renovation. They’d had visions of turning it into their own little palace, visiting DIY stores to peruse for décor and furniture. But as the weeks and months passed and no progress was made, Eleanor became more and more frustrated. Every penny they made was accounted for. ‘We’re just living,’ she had said. ‘Just getting by and existing. This isn’t the life I want.’ Then Jack went and got himself sacked. Eleanor had thrown bills in his face and asked him how they were going to pay them. Jack had assured her that he would find another job, but she was having none of it. With unemployment at an all-time high, she didn’t rate his chances. She didn’t see why she should slog her guts out cutting women’s hair while he sat at home twiddling his thumbs.

  Someone slammed a car door, pulling Jack out of his thoughts, making him jump. One of the patrons was leaving, going home.

  Even though Eleanor had said hurtful things to Jack, he still wished he was with her. Maybe things weren’t too late. Perhaps there was still a chance for them.

  A cold wind was picking up, carrying slivers of rain, so Jack puffed his jacket collar up. Brown leaves skittered across the car park as he hunched himself over and made for the pub’s entrance.

  It was warm inside. Flames licked high into the canopy above the brick fireplace that dominated the room’s centre. Low-level red lighting added to the feeling of coziness. The juke box in the corner was playing Robbie Williams Angels. Pool balls rattled in the games area. The kitchen had closed an hour before, at nine o’clock, but the faint smell of roast beef still lingered. Not that Jack felt hungry; the thought of food made him feel sick. He ordered a pint. Plonked himself on a stool at the end of the bar. Taking a big, long gulp, he downed half in one go. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A young couple sitting at a table were holding hands, looking dreamily into each other’s eyes. Not the sort of thing Jack wanted to see. He hoped they would bugger off.

  Had Eleanor calmed down now? Was she regretting what she had said? Somehow, Jack doubted it. Him losing his job had been the final cock-up. Most likely the excuse she had been waiting for to kick him out, he concluded.

  Just one error and – bam! – he’d collected his P45. The mistake had cost the poultry factory thousands of pounds in lost stock. Part of his job had been to check the fridge temperatures. Something he had forgotten to do a few times. The fridges were reliable, so he’d always got away with it. But not on the last occasion.

  Not my fault we’re in the worst recession in living history, Jack thought. Not my fault I can’t get a job.

  ‘Penny for ‘em,’ the old man behind the bar said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Jack replied. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Penny for your thoughts.’ The old man smiled a toothless smile. ‘You look as if you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders and then some.’

  ‘I feel like I have.’

  ‘Things can’t be that bad, surely.’

  ‘Oh yes they can.’

  ‘Remember that the cup is half full, not half empty.’

  ‘Mine’s completely empty.’

  ‘I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I? With your lady friend?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘We’ve been in a few times.’

  The old man held out a wizened hand. ‘Name’s Reg,’ he said. ‘I’m the landlord of this fine establishment. Pleased to meet you.’

  Before Jack could shake his hand, the door opened and two beefy men entered. One of them made for the bar while the other cased out the juke box, apparently not happy with the song that was now playing: Welcome to the Jungle, by Guns and Roses. The guy by the juke box had a thick mop of ginger hair. He checked himself out in the long, thin mirror that ran the wall’s length, flexing his biceps.

  Reg looked worried. Jack didn’t think much of it, though. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was on Eleanor.

  ‘Hullllllo!’ the guy waiting to be served said. Every finger on his hand had rings on it. Even his thumb. Jack had an idea that they would make a good knuckle duster. An empty pint glass clinked as the man tapped his finger against it.

  ‘Come on you old git, get your arse over here and pull us some drinks!’

  His pal guffawed laughter.

  Disrespectful pricks, Jack thought.

  Reg ran a cloth over the bar’s polished surface as he made his way towards the man.

  ‘What’ll it be, gents?’ he asked.

  ‘Three pints of your finest cat piss, please.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Just get pouring the beer, yeah.’

  The young couple disappeared through the door.

  Ginger gave the juke box a kick, making Jack jump for the second time that night.

  ‘Ruddy thing’s swallowed my money,’ Ginger proclaimed, giving it another whack with his boot. ‘Bloody thing’s eaten my mo –‘

  Guns and Roses gave way to Metallica and he seemed happy with that.

  Reg had poured the three pints. ‘That’ll be ten pounds fifty’ he said, nervously eyeing his new customers.

  ‘On the house,’ Gold Rings said.

  ‘We don’t do charity here, gents,’ Reg said. ‘That’s ten pounds fifty, please.’

  ‘He doesn’t do charity,’ Gold Rings said. ‘What do we think to that, Qui …’ He realised his slip. Snapped his mouth shut.

  ‘This is what I think,’ Ginger said, joining his friend at the bar. Bending over, with a pained expression on his face, he let out a long, guttural fart. Gold Rings erupted into gut-busting laughter, like Ginger had cracked the funniest joke ever.

  ‘These drinks are on the house,’ Gold Rings said. ‘Believe me, they are.’

  Jack was about to stand up, tell him to piss off, when Gold Rings reached across the bar and grabbed Reg by the arm. He pulled him close. Whispered something in his ear. Jack caught one word: “protection”. He realised what was happening.

  Despite how frightened Reg looked, he shook his head. ‘I’m not giving you anything,’ he said, trying to pull away. ‘Not a penny. Now let me go-OOO!’

  Jack had seen enough. He emptied his glass for a last bit of Dutch Courage. Took a deep breath. Two of them. Big fuckers. Not good odds. But he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

  Besides, this wasn’t the first time the odds had been against him. In the army he’d had his fair share of manly encounters. Bar room brawls. He had beaten two dickheads before, so he could do it again. One good punch and the situation could easily turn into a one-on-one. Gold Rings seemed to be the leader. Brains of the two. Get him out of there quick and the other guy might have second thoughts. Jack figured if he could survive two years in the hell-hole that was Helmand Province, he could survive anything. It had been five years since he had left the army, though. He was in good shape, but not as fit as he would like to have been.

  ‘Why don’t we just calm down a bit here,’ Jack said, easing himself off his stool, showcasing his six feet two inch frame. ‘Leave the old guy alone, yeah.’

  There was a poker by the fireplace. Jack edged towards it. Just in case.

  Gold Rings let go of Reg. He eyed Jack up and down as if he were seeing a bizarre creature from an alternate dimension.

  ‘Looks like someone’s got a death wish,’ Ginger said, giving his friend a nudge.

  Ginger cracked his knuckles. His top lip curled into a snarl.

  ‘Who the fug are you?’ Gold Rings asked Jack.
/>
  Jack held his hands up, palms out. ‘I don’t want any trouble,’

  Reg said, ‘Get out now, you pair! Get out or I’ll call the police!’

  ‘I asked you a question,’ Gold Rings said to Jack. ‘Who the fug are you?’

  ‘Someone who doesn’t like to see people bullied,’ he responded. ‘Especially old men.’

  Ginger and Gold Rings exchanged a sideways glance, eyebrows raised.

  The door opened. Someone else walked in. A gigantic bald-headed bloke with the broadest shoulders Jack had ever seen and arms covered from top to bottom with tattoos. Not an inch of skin was visible. His t-shirt bore the legend: death will come on swift wings to anyone who messes with me.

  ‘You’re just in time for the fun,’ Gold Rings said, beckoning the bald-headed bloke over. ‘Just in time to teach this interfering do-gooder a lesson.’

  Three to one odds now. Not good. This isn’t going to end well, Jack thought.

  ‘Call the police!’ he said to Reg. ‘Quick!’

  Reg reached for the phone on the bar. But Ginger beat him to it, snatching it from him, ripping it out of its socket and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall with a clatter, bits of plastic breaking off.

  ‘You try and ring the fuzz again and I’ll break your arm off and beat you to death with it,’ Ginger warned. He brandished a finger at Reg.

  Seizing on this distraction, Jack picked the poker up. ‘Nobody needs to get hurt here, fellas.’

  ‘Oh I think somebody does,’ Gold Rings said. ‘Anyone who fugs with us has to get hurt.’

  Jack looked around to see if there was a way out other than the main door. There wasn’t. His only other option was to jump over the bar. Get through the tender’s archway, into the lounge. Before he could move, however, the three men advanced on him.

  ‘I’ll use this!’ Jack warned. He raised the poker high above his head. ‘I promise you, I will use this!’

  A woman from the lounge came through, no doubt wondering what all the noise was about. Standing sheepishly in the doorway, she hugged herself as if she was cold.