Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists

by Paul Johnson-Jovanovic

  ‘Can we have a quick pint at the pub while we’re there,’ Quinn said as they got into the Warrior.

  ‘No,’ McCarthy said. ‘This is strictly business.’

  ####

  Inevitably, the police had lots of questions for Derek, Chris and Nelson. None of which they felt like answering. They wanted to get the formalities out of the way. Derek did most of the talking. The officer questioning him seemed suspicious that he didn’t have a clue who might have murdered his friends. At the third time of asking, Derek snapped.

  ‘How many times have I got to tell you, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What part of that don’t you understand?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things, sir,’ the officer reasoned. ‘If you can calm down, please.’

  ‘I am calm.’

  ‘You quite clearly aren’t.’

  Chris intervened, putting his arm around Derek. ‘Apologies, officer, but me and my bro have been through a lot in the last hour. You know, what with our best friends being murdered and all. So you’ll have to forgive us if we’re a little on edge. I’m sure you would be if you were in our position. Huh?’

  ‘I’m trying to establish what’s happened here, that’s all.’

  ‘And we’re just trying to grieve.’

  The officer sighed, then said, ‘Okay, I think we’ve got enough to be going on with for now. No doubt we’ll have to speak to you again, so don’t be surprised when you hear from us. In the meantime, if you think of anything that might help our investigation, let us know as soon as possible.’

  ‘We will,’ Derek said.

  147 was crawling with scene of crime officers, detectives and police. It would be many hours before they began filtering away, which frustrated Derek. He yearned to strike back. Didn’t care if he got hurt or killed; he just wanted revenge. If he could have gone after Byron on his own, he would have. But he knew Chris and Nelson wouldn’t let him. If he’d have sneaked off, they’d have followed.

  ‘Soon as the boys in blue are gone, we’re out of here,’ Derek said.

  Chris said, ‘Okay.’

  They watched as Jevon’s covered body was carried away on a stretcher. Tagging along, Nelson sobbed uncontrollably.

  ‘We need to make sure he doesn’t come with us,’ Chris said. ‘He’s a liability.’

  ‘I know,’ Derek said.

  ####

  The Fox and Faucet's car park was nearly empty. A few vehicles were parked around the entrance, but that was it. McCarthy eased the Warrior in next to one of them.

  'No wonder he can't afford to pay,' he said, 'if this is how busy it usually is.'

  'Busy or not, he still has to cough up,' Quinn said. 'In money or blood. Preferably the latter. It's more fun.'

  Gerard found this hilarious. 'Amen to that,' he said, climbing out. 'Blood over money, any day, when it comes to this job.'

  They entered the pub. Went to the bar. Not long ago they had been here and beaten the shit out of a guy. Taken him around the side of the building. Cut him up. McCarthy hoped tonight would be as entertaining.

  The old man was behind the bar. His face dropped as he saw them approaching.

  'Got the money?' McCarthy asked. 'Cash? Wonga? The green stuff?'

  'I need more time,' the old man said, keeping his distance. 'Things have been quiet lately. It'll pick up, though. You just have to be patient.'

  'Hear that, fellas,' McCarthy said. 'This old codger says we should be patient. What do we reckon to that?'

  Gerard laughed.

  Quinn, however, was not amused. Vaulting over the bar, he went to the till and pressed the buttons. 'How do you open this thing?'

  'There's very little cash in there,' the old man replied.

  'I didn't ask how much was in it,' Quinn said, bashing the buttons. 'How do I open it, duffer?'

  'Try head-butting it,' Gerard advised.

  'Smash it on the floor,' McCarthy suggested.

  'Press the red one,' the old man said.

  Quinn pressed it. The till popped open with a ping. Snatching up three twenties and a handful of coins, he pocketed the lot. 'What else have you got stashed away?' he asked. 'Duffer like you has probably got money in accounts and a safe somewhere. Where is it? What are you hiding?'

  'I'm not hiding anything and I don't have a safe,' the old man said. 'I gave you all my savings the last time you were here. Please, how can I give change to my customers if you take it all?' His wizened, arthritic hands shook as he tried to guide Quinn away. But Quinn didn't budge. He grabbed more notes and coins. Pocketed them.

  'We're going to give you a few more days to get the wonga together,' McCarthy said to the landlord. 'If you ain't got it the next time we come back, things will get nasty. You saw what we did to that twat who poked his nose into our business. The same will happen to you. Only worse.'

  Gulping, the old man said, 'I'll try and raise the money. I don't know how, but I'll try.'

  Quinn put his head under an optic. He pressed the dispenser. Whisky gushed into his mouth. 'Perg of the jog,' he gurgled: perk of the job. He swallowed, then belched.

  'What did I say about drinking tonight?' McCarthy said.

  'Sorry,' Quinn said, shrugging. 'I got carried away.'

  'I need a big-time shit,' Gerard declared. 'I'll be back in a minute.'

  ####

  Gerard went to the toilet, which was in the hallway that led into the lounge. He kicked the door open. There were two cubicles. Both available. Clenching his bum cheeks together he hurried into one. He locked himself in. Unbuckled his belt. He felt sure he would shit himself as he struggled to pull the zip down. He yanked on the zip until it became unstuck. He dropped his jeans, seated himself, then let rip. The seat was icy-cold, but Gerard wasn't bothered; he was just relieved he hadn't soiled his pants. That wouldn't have enhanced his hard man image, that was for sure. The graffiti inside the cubicle made him smile. Tracy Cummings gives good O, one declared. Call: 07956 443529.

  He decided he'd ring the number, just for a laugh. It was unlikely to be a real number, but he wanted to see who answered. If Ms. Cummings did, he have fun with her. Hopefully she was a prostitute (preferably a cheap 'un). If it was anybody else he would terminate the call. He began thumbing the digits into his mobile …

  Someone entered the room. Footsteps echoed throughout the white-tiled toilet.

  'Nice timing, dick-head,' Gerard whispered.

  He waited for whoever it was to do their business so he could get on with his. But now there was no movement. No sound of an unzipping fly. No squeal of a squeaky tap, or gush of water. No click of another cubicle door shutting and the latch being put across. Nothing.

  'Quinn? Is that you, Copper Top?' Gerard asked. 'Maccy?'

  No reply.

  A shadow appeared in the gap at the bottom of the door.

  'Whoever's out there, you better speak up or I'll come out and break your neck,' Gerard said.

  Knock, knock, knock …

  'This one's taken,' Gerard said. 'Use the other cubicle!'

  Forgetting about Ms. Cummings, he stood up and began wiping.

  'You wait 'till I get out there,' he muttered.

  Knock, knock, knock …

  'I'm going to crush your skull!'

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  'I'm going to put my fist down your throat – yank out your guts!'

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  Gerard finished wiping, then flushed the loo. He unlatched the door. Opened it.

  'Right, that's it,' he raged. 'Your mother won't recognise you when I'm done with you ...'

  A hooded figure stood before him.

  'Who the hell are you?' Gerard asked, getting ready to throw a right hook.

  The figure pulled his hoodie back with a gloved hand and said, 'Remember me?'

  Then he thrust his knife into Gerard's gut.

  ####

  'What is taking him so long?' McCarthy asked Quinn. 'I know he likes his quality time in the bog, but this is taking
the piss. He's been gone ages!'

  'He's probably whacking one out,' Quinn chuckled. He put some dance music on the jukebox. Simulated masturbating to the beat. 'Do you want me to go get him?'

  'I'll do it,' McCarthy said, walking away, leaving his associate to terrorize the old man.

  He went into the toilet and said, 'Yoo-hoo! Come on, big boy – time's up!' He clapped his hands together. 'Wipe your arse and get a mo – ' Then ho noticed blood on the floor beneath the door of the occupied cubicle. 'Ger? Are you in there? You all right, mate?'

  Probably slipped and banged his head, McCarthy thought. Knocked himself out.

  He opened the door. His jaw dropped – and he screamed.

  ####

  With his hood up, Jack headed for the pub's rear exit. Hearing the scream, he quickened his pace. He kept his head down as he carried his bag through the lounge, into the beer garden. He wasn't sure if anyone noticed him, or whether they'd be able to give a meaningful description. The best they could offer, he figured, was something like: well, he was average build and height, officer, wearing a hoodie and jeans, carrying a black bag. This would narrow it down to a quarter of a million suspects. Some use that'd be to the police. Had anybody seen the splattering of blood on Jack's jeans? It was unlikely. And did it matter? Without a meaningful description, he supposed not.

  Jack had worked carefully while removing Gerard's face. He still got blood on his gloved hands, though. So he'd taken the gloves off as he'd left the toilet. Pocketed them.

  Moving briskly past benches and patio heaters, he entered the dark woods at the side of the pub. He struggled through trees and bushes, getting his feet caught in tangles of scrub. Branches scraped his face. He was tempted to switch his mobile on. Use it as a torch. But he daren't. His car was only a hundred yards away, parked down a dirt road. Besides, weren't the police able to trace your whereabouts from mobile usage? Jack was sure they could. It would have been like wearing a tracking device.

  Safely back in his Astra, Jack reflected on what he'd done. He put his head back. Laughed out loud. Adrenaline pumped through him. His heart was thumping. He wished he could see McCarthy and his buddy when they found their friend. He wanted to see their faces.

  Flipping the interior light switch, Jack put the bag was on his lap. He opened it, then peeked in at Gerard's crumpled, bloodied face and eyeballs.

  Three more to go.

  Closing the bag, Jack turned the light off and considered what to do next. McCarthy and his sidekick would call the police. They'd have to. This meant Jack needed to put distance between himself and the crime, before the area turned into a circus of blue and red lights.

  He drove away. Headed home. Vamoose.

  ####

  Byron was in the shower when his mobile tinkled. He could only just hear it above the gush of water. He was tempted to ignore it. Wiping steam off the cubicle's glass, he regarded his phone like it was a troublesome bug. It vibrated. Flashed on the shelf above the sink. He couldn't make out the name on the display.

  'Fucking hell!' he said, yanking the cubicle door back and stepping out. 'What's a guy got to do to get five minutes peace around here!' He noted it was McCarthy. Rolled his eyes. Pressing the accept button, he cupped the phone to his ear. 'This better be good because I was in the shower!'

  His eyes widened as he listened.

  'Did I hear you right?' Byron said. 'Someone's cut his face off?'

  'Yes, boss. They've … they've cut his eyes out, too.'

  Byron had never heard fear in McCarthy's voice. He was hearing it now.

  'Who the heck would do something like that?' Byron asked.

  'I dunno.'

  'Who'd be sick enough to do that?' Apart from me, Byron thought.

  'I dunno. The Face Book Killer. Ward's still out there, on the run, so it could be him.'

  'Doubt it. He likes young girls, not hulking brutes. When and where did Gerard get attacked?'

  'We're at the Fox and Faucet. We were talking to the landlord when Ger went to the bog for a dump. He was gone a while, so I went to see what he was doing. That's when I found him. In one of the cubicles. Oh boss, I've seen and done some nasty things, but I've never seen anything as nasty as this.'

  'Where are you now?'

  'In the beer garden with Quinn.'

  'Have you called the police?'

  'No, I just wanted to let you know first.'

  'Call the police. Tell them you, Quinn and Gerard popped in for some beers. If they ask who you think did it, tell them you don't have a clue. It could be anyone. We've made a lot of enemies over the years. I'll get onto my people on the inside and get them investigating this with everything they've got.' Byron paused, pondering if there was anything else that needed saying. '… Oh, make sure the landlord knows what'll happen if he talks out of order. Got it?'

  'Yeah, I've got it.'

  'Did you get those other jobs done?'

  'Err, no – no we didn't.'

  Byron sighed. 'Let me know what happens with the police and get your arse back here as soon as possible.'

  'Will do, boss.'

  Terminating the call, Byron put his mobile on the shelf. There was a mirror above the sink. He wiped the steam off. Looked at himself. Who'd be crazy enough to go after one of my men? he thought. He wondered if it'd been a random attack, or had somebody targeted Gerard. If it was the former, not a problem. Gerard was an expendable piece of muscle. He had been good at his job, but was easily replaced. If it was the latter, that could mean trouble. What if someone's picking my guys off? Gerard could be the first. Byron shrugged this thought away. When I find out who's done this I'm going to unleash hell upon them.

  'Nobody fucks with me! Nobody!'

  ####

  Arriving home, Jack took his jeans off and put them on a hot wash, along with the gloves. He slipped into another pair of jeans. Black ones: to match his mood.

  Then he gathered everything he needed and sat at the living room table. Ready to fill the first page of his book. Before he could do this, however, he needed to figure out how to deflate Gerard's eyeballs. He opened the bag. Scooped them out. Took them into the kitchen, along with his knife. Over the sink, he cut the retinal cords off. Viscous fluid seeped out. He made an incision into the back of an eyeball, applying pressure until the fluid drained away. Using the same technique, he drained the other. He dried them with kitchen roll. Threw the sheets in the toilet. Flushed it. Satisfied, he took the eyeballs back to the table and seated himself again. Opening the sewing box, he pulled out a needle and reel of pink cotton. He struggled to thread the needle, so he wet the cotton with saliva. This time it went through.

  ‘You took my face,’ he said, setting to work, ‘so I took yours.’

  Gerard's face was bloody. Jack pondered whether to wipe it clean with a rag, but decided not to. The blood made it more macabre, which could only be a good thing as far as Jack was concerned. The face squelched as he positioned it on the page. He marked where the peepers should go with a pen. Whistled while he worked.

  Outside, the wind whipped up and whistled. Rain pattered against the glass.

  5

  What to wear? Sarah Chelwood wasn't sure whether to opt for something sexy, such as a negligee, or stay as she was: dressed in a blue knee-length skirt and floral top. Given what was about to happen, the former would be more appropriate. Most certainly. But the latter would allow her to keep some modicum of dignity. Even if it wasn't going to arouse the man who was due to knock at her apartment's front door in half an hour. While Sarah mulled things over, she slipped into her pink dressing gown to keep warm. The gown had FABULOUS written on the back. At that moment, she felt anything but fabulous. Cheap and dirty, yes. Without a doubt. Like a five quid prostitute. She tied the fluffy belt around her waist, not caring if she looked silly.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Sarah checked her watch. It couldn't be him. Too early.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!
/>   But if it wasn't him, who was it? At this time of night?

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The door shuddered in its frame.

  'Hold on,' Sarah said, making her way across the room, 'I'm coming.'

  She looked through the peep hole and saw him: Henderson. Byron's cousin. Her heart sank. He 'd said he would come alone, but there was another man with him. Another of Byron's hoods: Collins. A short, stocky man with a buzz-cut hair style.

  In that split second, Sarah changed her mind. Decided she couldn't go through with it. Had Henderson been on his own, maybe she would have. But seeing Collins had spooked her. What if he wanted to have her as well? What if there was a queue of them out there, waiting for a turn?

  A voice whispered through the door: 'Are you opening up, or what, darlin'?'

  'No,' Sarah said. 'I'm sorry but I can't do this. I'll get you your money. Somehow, I'll get you it.'

  'Open up, or else,' the voice whispered.

  'No,' Sarah said, backing away. 'I won't.'

  The sound of shuffling feet. Whispering.

  Before Sarah could think about running for the phone, three silenced shots pierced the door, around the lock. Splinters of wood flew into her face. Then someone burst in, sending her flying. She landed on her back, the impact driving the wind out of her. Henderson and Collins entered the apartment. Collins was holding a gun. A hopeless sense of doom filled Sarah.

  Looming over her with a vicious smile on his long, thin face, Henderson said, ‘Well hello there, sweetie. You’re on your back there. Best place for you, that. Best place for a slut. We’re going to have some fun, you and me. Oh yes, we’re going to have some fun. We had a deal and you're not pulling out of it.’