by Jason De'Ath
“Phew!” exclaimed the gunman merrily, “I certainly needed that.” there was a brief pause and then he asked: “D’you wanna go...? Cora?”
Vera was somewhat dumbstruck by this remark, partly due to being called ‘Cora’ and partly due to being asked if she would like to “go”. After a few seconds she coughed-up a reply: “On my own?”
“Yeah, course... Jus’ don’ run off or anyfink, otherwise...y’u know what.” the gunman replied rather casually.
After sitting in that car for well over two hours, she knew that she would be crazy to refuse; after all, there was no knowing how much longer this would continue for. She accepted the opportunity. Once Vera had left the vehicle, the gunman leant forward to engage with Gregg: “Lovely girl.” he observed.
“Yes. Yes she is. Look, why don’t you just leave her here and I’ll drive you wherever you want... What do you say?” petitioned Gregg.
“Dunno about that. She’ll jus’ get the ol’ bill.”
“Sorry? Oh right.” said Gregg somewhat deflated, “Look, what do you want from us? You’re scaring the hell out of
Vera. Why not just tie us up and leave us here?”
“Could do. But I’m tired: I need y’u t’drive.”
“I’m pretty tired myself, to be honest.” asserted Gregg.
“Yeah, but y’u’ got Cora to help y’u.”
“It’s Vera.”
“You what?”
“Her name is Vera.”
“Yeah, well, she better come back, f’r your sake.” the gunman reminded him a little resentfully. He clearly did not appreciate being corrected.
“I’m sure she will.” assured Gregg, then internally berated himself for that moment of selfishness.
“Y’u’ wife know about ‘er, then?” sneered the gunman.
“I don’t think I know what you mean.” lied Gregg defensively.
“Don’t give me that bollocks.” scoffed the gunman, but Gregg chose not rise to it. “Don’ get me wrong – I don’ blame y’u.” he graciously added, “I mean: no ‘arm is there?”
“I wish you’d just tell us what you want.” remarked Gregg reproachfully.
“Nufink. I don’ wan’ nufink... Relax.” was the gunman’s unhelpful response. Gregg abandoned his vain attempt to reason with the gunman and resigned himself to the necessity of enduring this lunatic’s continued whims in the hope that sooner or later an opportunity to extricate them would present itself or, that the gunman would weary of his little game and finally free them. They waited silently, Gregg with considerable agitation, the gunman with growing impatience. “She’s takin’ ‘er time.” he eventually moaned. At that moment emergency sirens were heard and flashing blue lights approached them rapidly. Gregg sat up excitedly. The gunman instantly froze; then he quickly recomposed himself as an ambulance passed by. A few seconds later, Vera returned to the vehicle.
“Feelin’ bett’r luv?” the gunman whimsically enquired.
“Yes, thank you.” she replied contemptuously.
“Don’ forget oo’s got the gun, darlin’.” he reprimanded in an impassive tone. “‘Ow’s the petrol situation?” he continued, addressing Gregg.
Gregg turned the key in the ignition to switch on the electrics – there was about a quarter of a tank: “We’ll need to get more, soon.” he informed the gunman.
“Onward Jeeves.” the gunman commanded in a poorly improvised upper-class accent.
Chapter Three
The gunman managed to direct them around the outskirts of Kingston and then on to the A3, heading for Guildford. This route ran through a low population area of mainly open countryside, with a smattering of parks, woodlands and non-arable farm land. This road was now fairly quiet in both directions, and very dark. They had taken on more fuel at Esher Services, where the attendant had been as inattentive as the previous one had; the only other vehicle they had crossed paths with at that stop was an oil tanker, and that had been leaving just as they arrived. It was as though fate were conspiring to perpetuate this terrible ordeal, providing little real chance of a reprieve from the inevitability of some sort of bloodshed. The gunman had been largely silent – apart from intermittently barking directions – for over half an hour; Vera suspected that he was drifting in and out of sleep. She nudged Gregg and having got his attention, mouthed: “I think he’s asleep.” “Are you sure?” whispered Gregg; Vera glanced around quickly.
“He’s dozing.” she affirmed; “Where the hell do you think he’s taking us?”
“I haven’t a clue. I can’t figure out what this is all about. It all seems a bit pointless... Do you think he could be an escaped prisoner?”
“He looks a bit too well dressed.” noted Vera observantly.
“Why did he say that, then?”
“I think he’s trying to scare us...”
“But, why?” queried Gregg. Neither of them could answer that one.
“Why don’t you just crash the car?” she suggested.
“Are you crazy?” Gregg protested, “I’ve only had it six months.”
“It’s only a car, Gregg. Not much use if you’re dead.” she bluntly pointed out.
“Not at this speed: we might not survive anyway.”
“There might be a chance when we get to Guildford.”
“May be. I’ll think about it. We need to be in a residential area; no good out here.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m saying, wait until Guildford... Shhh! I think he’s stirring.”
The gunman lapsed out of his sleepy state and entered a more lucid period. Having yawned a few times and gathered his thoughts, he searched the blackness for some indication of their current location.
“Where the hell are we?” he eventually asked, slightly disconcerted.
“Still on the A3.” Gregg informed him.
“How far to Guildford?”
“About ten miles or so, I think.” estimated Gregg.
“Okay. What were you two talkin’ about?”
“I was just saying we will soon be in Guildford.” offered Vera, thinking quickly.
“Right. Okay. Put the radio back on.”
Vera turned the radio back on, but it was now out of tune; she was now having trouble picking up a clear signal, until a voice speaking German broke through the ether.
“That’ll do. It could be Luxemburg.”
The Byrd’s ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ soon filled the void within the car. Despite its cheery tone, there was something unnervingly pertinent about many of the lyrics in this song; the circumstantial coincidences sent a shiver up Vera’s spine. She had a deepening sense of portent, as though this story were already written into history, impossible to deviate from; and now they were gradually descending into their inexorable oblivion. This was further confirmed when they approached Guildford and the gunman instructed Gregg to stay on the A3, effectively by-passing the historic county town. A few miles past the town, they came to the Milford roundabout, where the gunman directed them to turn right onto the B3001. About two miles along this road they entered the small village of Felstave. There was a smattering of 18th century cottages, but little else. There was however a turning down a single track road which was signposted only as ‘Wood’. As they drove down this bumpy road sandwiched between hedgerows in the pitch black, Vera truly believed they were entering the depths of Hell. After about half a mile, the track opened out a bit, with a clearing on the left hand side of what was an ominously spooky wooded area.
“Stop here.” said the gunman in a confident tone; “Turn the radio off.” he further instructed, “I want some quiet to fink.”
Think what, though? Vera grabbed Gregg’s hand: the foreboding was unbearable. They both felt nauseous, hardly able to catch their breath.
“I like it here.” the gunman obliquely stated.
“What are you...? What are you going to do?” Vera asked apprehensively, her lips trembling.
“I might ‘ave a kip.” came the gunman’s glib response. The panic-strick
en couple were all too aware that they had allowed this madman to lead them into a literal dead-end. There would be no escape from this miserable god-forsaken destination.
“I’ll ‘ave to tie y’u bofe up.” noted the gunman casually.
“Are you going to kill us.” snivelled Vera.
“I wasn’t plannin’ to. Wha’s in y’u bag?” he asked referring to a shopping bag (which she had had at her feet throughout the journey).
“Nothing much.” she replied hesitantly.
“‘And it back, then.” the gunman ordered in a quiet, yet persuasive tone. Vera took a deep breath then lifted the bag up and between Gregg and herself, at which point Gregg grabbed the bag and directed it toward the gunman. Two shots rang out. The bag dropped harmlessly between the front seats. The distinctive smell of gun powder floated wistfully in the air. Gregg’s shocked expression froze into Vera’s mind; blood began to ooze from the right side of his chest and he slumped forward against the steering wheel. Vera screamed: “You bastard! You’ve killed him!”
“Shullup…!” the gunman screamed back, “I need to fink.” A deeply sombre silence overtook the scene inside the car. Vera could smell the blood, as it was so profusely draining from Gregg’s lifeless body. She began to quietly weep.
“Are y’u sure ‘e’s dead?” the gunman challenged optimistically.
“Yes!” she ear-piercingly screamed, “He’s not breathing; he’s not moving... So much blood.” “Sorry – it was an accident...”
“Sorry! – sorry! You’ve bloody killed him!”
“‘E scared me; ‘e moved too quick.”
“You’ve got the fucking gun: why would you be scared?” she shouted angrily, turning to face the man with the gun, before abruptly turning back in a flood of tears.
“Don’t cry luv... It was an accident.” reasoned the gunman seemingly in need of absolution.
Vera continued to cry, but in her head her mind was racing. She reckoned that whether or not Gregg’s death was an accident, her life was now imminently in danger. She would need to persuade this stupid man that she was not a threat, if she wanted to live. She would need to overcome her trepidation and repulsion, and ingratiate herself with him. Meanwhile, the gunman was contemplating Vera’s womanly wiles: she was wearing a gold coloured two-piece dress, with a tie collar; it was knee-length, with short sleeves revealing the freckled flesh of her arms and her slender legs. The material was a manmade rayon/acetate, which clung tantalisingly to her supple figure.
“You won’t hurt me, will you?” she beseeched him in a deliberately weak and feminine manner: she hoped to appeal to his ego as well as his animal instincts. “I don’t really know what you look like – I couldn’t identify you... I know you didn’t mean to kill Gregg; I’ll tell them it was an accident. You’ve treated us well, otherwise.” she convincingly appealed, not daring to turn around.
“I didn’t wanna kill anyone.” agreed the gunman, grasping at this potential allusion of forgiveness.
“You like me – don’t you?”
“Yeah, course; y’u’ lovely... I like red’eads.”
Vera’s stomach physically cringed; her heart was racing and her mouth dry as sandpaper. She just couldn’t quite bring herself to hand herself over on a platter. The gunman sensed her difficulty and made a helpful suggestion: “Why don’ y’u get in the back with me. We can ‘ave a nice friendly chat, then.” As much as her body resisted, her mind forced her to overcome and, after a short pause, she stepped out of the car and approached the rear door. It felt to her like opening the cage to starving lion and sticking one’s head in – but that’s exactly what she did. The gunman shuffled back a little and patted the seat in an inviting manner; she was utterly filled with dread, but she got in anyway. For a few seconds she sat rigid, not wanting to look at him; she could feel his breath on her hair. Suddenly she relaxed and went into survival mode: turning her gaze into the darkness she could see that he was fairly young, not much older than her; in better circumstances, she might have found him vaguely attractive. His deep blue eyes sliced into her soul like white-hot lasers.
“Now, tha’s a bit more cosy, a’n’t it?” he said in an insouciant manner, seemingly unaffected by the dead body of
Gregg Mason, laying just feet away. Vera faked a smile and asked: “What should I call you?” “Call me Alf. Now, give us a kiss.” he seductively prompted...
When the rape was over, Vera felt physically sick, completely degraded, diminished to the level of a common prostitute. She hugged herself for comfort. “Put y’u clothes on.” he callously told her as he got out of the vehicle.
Outside she found the gunman standing next to the open driver’s door pondering what to do with Gregg’s corpse. He looked at her a little disdainfully: she sensed that she had depreciated in his estimation and that remaining passive had in fact lost her some respect, rather than gaining her the empathy she had anticipated.
“I’m gonna need y’ur ‘elp.” he informed her dispassionately, “Pull ‘im out of the car.” Vera stared in disbelief and bewilderment. However, her emotions were now so numb that nothing would be likely to upset her. “I can’t get blood on me cloves.” he explained. Vera simply acquiesced: she was of fairly slight build and certainly not accustomed to heavy lifting, but somehow she summoned the strength to haul Gregg’s dead weight out of the car. “Did I see a blanket in the boot?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you want it?”
“Yeah. Get it will y’u.” He was starting to treat her like an accomplice. She did as requested, thinking that it was to cover Gregg’s body, lying as it was in an undignified heap.
“What y’u doin’?” he complained.
“Oh, I thought...” she started as she was about to throw the blanket over Gregg.
“No, no. I need it to cover the seat; so I don’ get blood on me... Better find somefink to mop up first, though.” Quickly realising that there wasn’t anything around or in the car that could be used, he told her to take off her top. “We’ll use that.” he said, actually meaning her; “Go on then” he added. Vera complied, painfully aware that he was right behind her, possibly waiting to shoot her. When finished, she flung the blood soaked top on the floor in disgust. For a moment they just stood there somewhat self-consciously.
“Show me ‘ow this car works.” solicited the gunman. Vera hesitated, such a need struck her as rather implausible, given that he was originally proposing to the drive the car himself and, therefore, must surely already have a reasonable understanding of how to drive this car. But it was an innocent enough request, so she cautiously pointed out the location of the controls and explained how the gears worked. Having completed this task she emerged from the car to be confronted by the gunman who was standing right in front of her, about six inches away. She suddenly had an inexplicable apprehension come over her and she instinctively knew that he intended to murder her. In an instantaneous realization of her predicament she thrust her knee deep and hard into the gunman’s gusset, inducing an excruciating testicular pain: he dropped to the floor in shock and sheer agony. Vera immediately kicked off her heels and ran, like a deer pursued by a wolf, into the pitch dark woodland. The moon was providing shards of ghostly fluorescence intermittently into the deep gloom of the wood, but she could not see where she was placing her feet, nor did she have the time to care. Consequently, she tripped over undergrowth and dead vegetation on numerous occasions, injuring every part of her body, as she frantically fled for her life.
The gunman gradually gathered himself after several minutes of eye-watering discomfort, not to mention a severe blow to his macho pride. “Bitch” he muttered under his breath. Though he had seen where she entered the wood and could hear her rustling bushes as she ran, as well as her yelping in torment every time she had a tumble, he could not pinpoint her location. So, in a frenzied attempt to prevent her escape, he began shooting indiscriminately in the general direction of the noises. Four shots echoed into the abyss and then he reloaded. No longer ab
le to hear anything other than a distant Barn Owl, he ventured further into the wood, using the streams of moonlight as guidance. Looking all around, he thought he could discern the sound of gasping – he homed-in on it.
Vera was suffering diabolical sensations: in addition to her various cuts, scratches and bruises, she had now had a bullet wound to her left thigh. Having more or less collapsed to the ground, she just lay struggling for breath, determinedly suppressing her torturous collection of pains. Distressingly she could hear the gunman slowly but surely getting closer.
Eventually, she could contain the agony no more, letting out the tiniest squeak of anguish: it was enough to allow the gunman to fix her position.
“That weren’t very nice.” he complained staring down at her prostate body. “I was gonna let y’u go. But I can’t now.” He cocked the weapon, adding: “Sorry.” Three shots were fired, two to the chest area and one to the head, all at standing range. In the deadly silence that followed, the gunman kicked Vera’s legs to convince himself that he had finally finished her off. Satisfied, he walked purposefully back to the car, where he promptly drove away at speed, throwing up dirt and debris, some of which settled back down on top of Gregg’s corpse. The prophetic eerie hoot of a Tawny Owl reverberated in the still night air.
