Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘You don’t know who might be in here.’

  ‘No, I will not keep my voice down. Tell me who the goons are? Tell me who sent them?’

  People were gawking now, which was what Jack wanted.

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Reg said. ‘They’ll burn me out if they find out I’ve blabbed. You need to let this go. You don’t want to mess with these men. Look at what they’ve done to you. They’ll kill you if you cross them again. Christ man, haven’t you learned your lesson?’

  ‘You may as well spill, because I’m not leaving ‘till you do.’

  ‘I’m not blabbing.’

  ‘They won’t know you told me. I won’t dob you in.’

  ‘What if they’re pulling your fingernails out with pliers? Or holding a blowtorch to your face, to your eyes? You won’t be able to talk fast enough.’

  ‘How much are they squeezing you for?’

  ‘A thousand a month,’ Reg said, visibly deflating. ‘It’s killing my business. If things continue the way they are, I’ll go under.’

  ‘What then? You’ll be out on the street, I’m guessing.’

  Shrugging his boney, withered shoulders, Reg said, ‘Most likely, yes.’

  Jack had relaxed back in his chair. He leaned forwards again, fixing Reg with an unflinching stare. ‘I can make these people go away,’ Jack said. ‘I’m ex-military. I used to kill people for a living, so it’s not a problem. Just give me a name. You can keep your pub, get on with your life.’

  Reg mulled things over for a few seconds, then said, ‘I … I’m not sure what to do for the best. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.’

  ‘You’ll lose your pub if you don’t. That’s for certain.’

  Reg thought long and hard before he spoke again.

  Jack could see he was getting through to him, so he gave him time.

  ‘Okay,’ Reg said, eventually. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘And …?’ Jack said, urging him a step farther.

  ‘Charles Byron,’ Reg replied in a low voice, looking up to the heavens as if saying a quick prayer. ‘He’s a gangster from the city, a big cheese in the underworld around here. I expect you’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Charles Byron,’ Jack said, letting the words roll slowly over his tongue, savouring the bitter-sweet taste of every syllable. 'Yeah, I’ve heard of him.'

  Staring dreamily at the fireplace, he watched the flames lick high into the canopy. He listened to the crackle of burning embers. Fight fire with fire: that was an old saying. One he’d always believed in. None more so than now.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t help you out,’ Reg said. ‘I should have at least tried.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’d have ended up like me. Maybe worse. You did the right thing, don’t fret about it. I’ll make them pay. I’ll make them all pay.’

  Reg mentioned three names. Gave descriptions. Jack said thank you.

  ####

  Ward was on the verge of giving himself up. He was spent, gassed out. Exhausted. Done for. Sweat was dripping down his face. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest.

  Stopping again for a breather, he leaned forwards. Put his shackled hands on his knees. Drool dripped from his bottom lip. His comb-over hung down in front of his eyes. He desperately needed a piss.

  The helicopter was somewhere above. The whoosh-whoosh of its blades made the trees’ branches swish back and forth. Leaves dropped out of the sky like confetti.

  Dogs: yap, yap, yap …

  Stumbling on, Ward shimmied over a rock. Began jogging.

  Shapes danced amongst the darkness. Those shapes could have been anything. Any creature or monster. But he had no time to worry about what might be lurking in the night. The monsters that were chasing him were real. They were bearing down. Hot on his scent. Shit.

  ‘I’m not going back!’ he gasped. ‘Not going back!’

  Up ahead, through the trees, Ward caught a glimpse of something …

  Lights!

  He splashed through a shallow stream.

  As he got closer to the lights, he emerged into a clearing, near a thatched farmhouse. From here he could see the helicopter hovering above the woods. Near enough to see the pilot.

  Ward ran for the farmhouse, passing a green Fiesta parked on the driveway. Across the yard he went, sure that the building’s side door would be locked. Hell, there was a fugitive on the loose and it was surely all over the news, plus every radio station, so the occupants would have secured the place.

  He tried the door. It was open. He stepped inside, into the kitchen.

  ####

  In the farmhouse, Walter Curshaw stuck his head through the living room curtains and looked up at the helicopter hovering in the distance. He and his wife, Mildred, weren’t used to noise. Especially at this time of night. They had retired to get away from the hustle of city life – away from noise – so this break in serenity was somewhat surprising. And annoying.

  ‘Do you think someone’s lost in the woods, dearest?’ Walter said. ‘Do you think this is a search and rescue effort?’

  His eyesight was poor, so he couldn’t make out the word POLICE written on the helicopter.

  Mildred was sitting in her armchair, resting her short, stubby legs. She was reading a Patricia Cornwall novel under the bright glow of a goose-neck lamp. Glancing over her book, over the rim of her half-moon spectacles, she raised her eyebrows in a “who cares?” gesture.

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time somebody’s got lost in the woods,’ she grunted, ‘and it won’t be the last.’

  ‘They don’t usually send out air support, though, do they?’

  Mildred sighed. Went back to reading.

  ‘What about dogs?’ Walter asked. ‘Do they send out dogs? I can hear barking. They sound close.’

  ‘There could be an escaped killer on the loose,’ Mildred said. ‘A knife-wielding maniac or a gun-toting weirdo. Why don’t you switch the TV on, see if there’s any mention of it on the news. Or, on the other hand, you could sit back down and finish the book you were reading.’

  ‘’Maybe I should lock the door. You know, just to be safe.’

  ‘Yes, Walter, if you must. If you must.’

  He made his way across the room, as quick as his nobly knees would take him. He was about to enter the kitchen when he heard a noise. Footsteps? His eyesight was shot, but his hearing was still serviceable.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, edging forwards. ‘Is somebody there?’

  ‘Walter, what are you doing?’ Mildred called out. ‘Who are you talking to?’

  He couldn’t see anyone. The door that led into the yard was shut, which was good. Perhaps he had imagined it. Yes, that had to be it. All the talk about serial killers had set his nerves on edge and he’d imagined the noise. But then he saw footprints on the floor. Leading away from the yard door. Towards the recess at the far end.

  ‘What are you doing, Walter?’ Mildred called out again. ‘Who were talking to?’

  ‘Call the police!’ Walter said, backing out of the room. ‘I think there’s an intruder!’

  A man jumped out from the recess. He was holding a carving knife that Walter recognised as being one off the sideboard. Baring his teeth, the man charged forwards, letting out a guttural cry of rage.

  Mildred screamed.

  Before Walter could think of what to do, the man had shoved him into the living room. Knocked him to the floor.

  ‘Do exactly as I say,’ the man said, ‘and no one gets hurt. Try anything funny and I’ll … I’ll cut your faces off. Time’s short. I am not pussy-footing around here. Do we have an understanding?’

  Mildred’s mouth opened wide, like she was gasping for air. Her face turned bright red. The Patricia Cornwall novel dropped the floor, forgotten about.

  ‘It’s him! It’s James Ward! ’ she gasped. ‘It’s the Face Book ker-killer!’

  ‘Please don’t hurt us,’ Walter pleaded, crawling towards his w
ife. ‘We’ll do anything you want – just don’t hurt us.’

  Ward ran his finger across the knife’s blade.

  ‘Ok,’ he said, ‘here’s what’s going to happen. In a few minutes, police are going to be all over this place, so one of you is coming with me as a hostage.’

  ‘No!’ Mildred screeched.

  Walter pleaded, ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Shut it!’ Ward said.

  ‘Why don’t you just give yourself up,’ Walter advised. ‘It’ll only end badly for you this way. Give yourself up, fella, and they’ll be more lenient on you.’

  He got to his feet. He positioned himself in front of his wife, who quivered behind him, still in her seat.

  Lunging at them, Ward shoulder-barged Walter out of the way, then yanked Mildred up. He span her around. Grabbed her from behind. She let out a high-pitched yelp, like a dog that’d had its tail stamped on. Then Ward put the knife to her throat.

  ‘Scream and I’ll cut your throat,’ he said. ‘Open you up from ear to ear, I will.’ He focused his attention on Walter. ‘No time to fuck around! Gimme your car keys!’

  Walter said, ‘Don’t hurt her! Please don’t hurt my Mildred!’

  He shuffled forwards. Wasn’t sure how he could help. Felt compelled to try, though. He couldn’t just stand and watch. He loved her. She was miserable at times, but had a good heart.

  ‘Keys!’ Ward reiterated. He pressed the blade tight against Mildred’s throat, making her squeal. ‘Get them! NOW!’

  Retrieving them from the drawer, Walter put them on the sideboard.

  ‘If I was twenty years younger I’d tan your hide,’ he said. ‘How do you expect to drive wearing handcuffs?’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ Ward said.

  Voices echoed from every direction outside.

  Dogs barked. Close. So very, very close.

  The helicopter sounded as if it was overhead.

  ‘When they catch you,’ Walter said, ‘I hope they throw away the key.’

  ‘Open the door,’ Ward said. ‘And don’t try anything stupid. I’ll slice her open, I swear it.’

  Walter did as instructed.

  ‘Now back away,’ Ward said to him.

  Again, Walter did as instructed.

  Then he watched as his wife was bundled through the doorway. Across the yard, towards the Fiesta.

  ####

  Emerging from the trees, Dawn and Jenkins caught sight of Ward as he was climbing into the driver’s side. Other officers emerged as well, struggling to hold back their dogs that were straining at the leash. Barking. Going nuts. Showcasing their teeth.

  The Fiesta started up. Took off down the driveway.

  ‘Where are we?’ Dawn said to Jenkins. ‘I want a squad car down here now!’ She had to raise her voice because the helicopter was now circling overhead, whipping up a gust of leaves.

  ‘No point in us continuing the chase,’ he said, out of breath. ‘He’ll be miles away by the time we get a unit here. He won’t shake the chopper.’

  An old man came out of the farmhouse, stumbling towards them. ‘That maniac has got my wife!’ he shouted, erupting into tears. ‘That Face Book murderer has taken her hostage!’

  Jenkins moved to steady him, then Dawn radioed the Eye in the Sky.

  The gust began to subside as the helicopter moved away, following its new target. The Fiesta.

  ####

  Eleanor’s parents lived in Warrington, a small town eight miles east of Boxford. The average property price was a million. Lawyers, doctors, dentists and other professionals lived here. Police patrolled regularly along the wide, tree-lined streets. On foot and in cars. Unlike where Jack lived. The only time police were seen there was if someone had been shot, raped or robbed. Even then they were notoriously slow to respond.

  Stepping off the bus, Jack moved briskly along Meadow Lane. He stopped outside the Greys’ house. Just looking up at it made him feel inadequate. It had been constructed in Mock Tudor style, with a half-timbered frontage, in-filled with herringbone brickwork. The windows were tall and mullioned, adorned with leading. A tall chimney pointed skyward on the steeply-pitched roof.

  The lights were on, so someone was home. There was no sign of Eleanor’s VW Beetle. Her father, Ken, drove a silver Mercedes. It wasn’t on the drive, which meant he was out (probably at the Nineteenth Hole, sinking Martinis with his high-powered business friends, Jack thought). One less to deal with. Although it wasn’t Ken he’d been worried about; it was Eleanor’s battleaxe of a mother: Camilla. She would be the problem. Same as always.

  Jack was sure he saw the downstairs curtains twitch. A hooded figure outside, staring at the house, would cause concern. Camilla was the sort to call the police at the merest glimpse of a suspicious character, so Jack got on with it.

  He walked down the driveway. Pressed the front door buzzer. From inside, he heard voices. Through the obscure glass, he saw someone approaching. A round and portly figure that could only be the Battleaxe.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked through the glass. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Eleanor,’ Jack said. ‘And I’m not leaving ‘till I do.’

  ‘She’s not here,’ came the curt response. ‘She’s gone out.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jack said, calling her bluff. ‘I’ll wait ‘till she comes back.’

  ‘There’s no point waiting; she doesn’t want to see you. And I don’t want you hanging around. You’re not welcome here now.’

  ‘Like I ever was,’ Jack replied, making no attempt to lower his voice. ‘I can wait outside if I want to; it’s a free country.’

  ‘I’ll phone the police. Tell them there’s an interloper in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘You do that, if it makes you feel better. But I’m not going anywhere.’

  A second figure appeared behind Camilla. This one a bit taller and a lot slimmer.

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ Jack heard Eleanor say. ‘I owe him that much, Mum.’

  Eleanor unlocked the door. Opened it.

  Pursing her lips together, Camilla glared at Jack, then recoiled in horror.

  ‘Oh my!’ she said. ‘Look at you!’

  Jack saw a flash of compassion on her face. Something he had never seen before. It was gone so quick, however, that he thought he must have imagined it.

  ‘Why bother talking to him?’ Camilla said to Eleanor. ‘He’s only going to try and convince you to get back with him. You’ve made your mind up. You said you didn’t want him. What’s to discuss? You know I don’t like you on the streets at night. It’s not safe. Even around here.’

  ‘There’s plenty to discuss,’ Eleanor replied. ‘And I’ll be fine.’

  She disappeared for a few seconds, then came back wearing black suede boots and a matching overcoat.

  Camilla had always sported the same hairdo: a tight perm. When she got angry, when she was seething, Jack was sure those brown curls tightened, as if spring-loaded. Judging by the look on her face, those curls were ready to boing! loose now, like an explosion in a mattress factory.

  ‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ Eleanor said to her.

  Stepping outside, she closed the door before Camilla could respond.

  Jack followed Eleanor to the road. They began to walk.

  ‘I’m so sorry I only visited you once,’ she said. ‘I know I should have been there to support you.’

  ‘Why weren’t you there to support me? I know things have been rough between us lately, but how could you abandon me like that? How could you leave me lying there in hospital after I’d been beaten black and blue, cut to shreds? How, Eleanor? How?’

  ‘I was told by the nurse that your injuries weren’t life-threatening.’

  Jack couldn’t believe his ears. ‘So because I wasn’t at Death’s Door, you thought it was okay to visit once? Look at my face!’ He stopped. Pulled his hoodie all the way back. ‘Look at what they did to me!’

  Unable to meet his gaze, Eleanor said, ‘I
blame myself for what happened. If I hadn’t thrown you out, you would never have gone to that pub. This wouldn’t have happened to you.’ Her azurite blue eyes went glassy wet. ‘It’s all my fault.’

  ‘Of course it’s not your fault; I chose to go there and I, stupidly, chose to stand up to some thugs who were bullying an old man. I paid the price. Oh boy, did I pay the price.’

  Jack desperately wanted to pull Eleanor close, to hold her. He yearned to once more feel her touch, to run his fingers through her long, straight brown hair. His heart ached at the possibility (probability) that he would never kiss her again. The thought that she might meet someone else was beyond contemplation. Too painful to consider. Although he was sure Camilla would approve if the new man was a professional.

  ‘Have the police caught the men who did this to you?’ Eleanor asked. ‘Why were they picking on an old man?’

  Jack pulled his hoodie back up. ‘No, they haven’t been caught,’ he said, not sure how to reply. He didn’t want to worry her by mentioning gangsters and protection rackets. ‘You know what the pigs are like. Bunch of over-paid Muppets, if you ask me. I guess those scumbags were picking on him ‘cause he was an easy option. That’s what cowards like them do. Target weak people and fight in numbers.’

  ‘I just can’t get my head around how anyone could do that to you. There’s some evil people in this world. Does your face hurt. I bet it does, doesn’t it?’

  ‘A bit,’ Jack said. But my heart hurts a lot more, he thought.

  ‘I hope they catch them and throw away the key.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  They kept walking.

  ‘If this hadn’t happened to me,’ Jack said, motioning towards his face, ‘do you think things would have been okay between us? You’re mum seemed adamant you’d made up your mind that you don’t want me, which I understand. I mean, who’s going to want me for a boyfriend, eh?’

  ‘This has got nothing to do with what’s happened to you; it’s because I’m sick of not being able to pay the bills. Sick of living in a house that’s falling apart and the fact we can’t even afford a pot of paint to decorate. Sick of wearing worn and tatty clothes, because I’ve haven’t got money to buy new ones. That’s not the life I want, Jack. I want more.’