Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Julie asked, moving across the room, pulling her dressing gown on, glancing warily at the pistol Donna gripped expertly in both hands. ‘You can’t shoot whoever it is, Donna. This isn’t a film, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I know. And whoever is down there isn’t going to back off when someone shouts cut, are they?’

  The two women locked stares, Julie blenching as she saw the determination in her sister’s eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ said Donna, moving slowly towards the bedroom door.

  Julie hesitated a moment.

  ‘Do you want to wait until they’re up here?’ Donna asked challengingly.

  Julie shook her head. Both of them paused by the door, listening.

  The sounds were still coming from downstairs.

  Donna heard a creak, a sound she recognized well.

  One of the hinges on the sitting-room door squeaked.

  The intruder was moving into the hall.

  It wouldn’t be long before he made his way up the stairs.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Open it,’ Donna said, nodding towards the handle of the bedroom door.

  Julie reached for it, hesitated, then closed her shaking hand around the cold brass. The chill seemed to fill her entire body. Goose pimples rose on the flesh of her forearms. She wondered if she would find the strength to force the door open.

  What lay beyond in the gloom?

  ‘Let me out first,’ whispered Donna. ‘When I tell you, put all the lights on.’

  Julie nodded, remembering that there was a panel of four switches close to the door which controlled the lights on the landing, the stairway and the hall.

  Donna gripped the gun more tightly, her own body quivering slightly in anticipation as much as fear.

  What if the intruder was armed?

  What if she had to fire?

  She remembered the hours she and Chris had spent standing on a firing range, the shooting designed as a hobby to begin with. As they’d attended more regularly they’d become proficient shots, then accomplished marksmen. When firing at a target, anyway, Donna thought.

  Targets didn’t shoot back.

  Was he still in the hallway?

  If so, what would be her best strategy?

  Confront him? Hold him in the sights of the .38 until the police arrived? And how were they to arrive when the lines had been cut?

  Thoughts tumbled through her mind madly.

  What if he was already outside the door, waiting for her to emerge?

  She closed her eyes momentarily, trying to push the thoughts aside, trying to clear her mind.

  Come on, come on.

  She could feel her heart thudding hard against her ribs, the blood rushing in her ears.

  You can’t wait all night.

  Donna held the gun out in front of her.

  Do it.

  ‘Now,’ she said, and Julie pushed the door open, allowing Donna to slip out onto the landing.

  She scrambled across the carpet, the gun held out moving awkwardly as she attempted to keep the .38 raised.

  It was pitch black on the landing; the only light came from a small window about half-way up the stairs.

  In the light from that window Donna saw a figure.

  The figure was moving up the stairs.

  ‘The lights,’ she shouted frantically and Julie joined her on the landing, slapping at the switches.

  The landing, the stairs and the hall were all bathed in light. In the explosion of radiance the intruder could be seen clearly.

  Julie screamed.

  The sound echoed off the walls and drummed in Donna’s ears as she too recoiled from the figure’s features.

  She could scarcely find the strength to stand up as she saw him freeze, startled by the sudden appearance of the two women and, she thought, even more so by the sight of the gun.

  Julie put a hand to her mouth to stifle another yell of terror as she looked at the man’s face.

  It was pale, almost yellow, the eyes only sunken pits. There didn’t seem to be any whites. The flesh itself was rutted with a dozen or more deep gashes, some of which looked as though they’d partially healed only for the scabs to picked away again, revealing purple welts beneath. On the forehead and cheeks were large protuberances, nubs of flesh that looked like boils on the verge of bursting, brimming with corpulent pus. The man’s head was covered by fine white hair that swirled around his ravaged face as he moved. The mouth was nothing more than a gash between the chin and nose filled with moulding teeth.

  Julie took a step back, her eyes riveted to the horrendous sight.

  Donna dragged herself upright, the gun still pointing at the hideous intruder.

  As he began to move towards her she realized that the repellent features were not those of a man at all.

  The intruder was wearing a mask.

  The sudden realization fortified her and she took a step towards him.

  ‘Stand still,’ she shouted.

  The venom in her command seemed to take the man by surprise. He looked at her, then down into the hall at something she couldn’t see.

  Donna heard the sound of the front door bolts being drawn, the chain being pulled free.

  The figure on the stairs turned to run.

  ‘I’ll shoot,’ Donna bellowed.

  As she ran towards him the figure vaulted the bannister.

  He either misjudged his jump or failed to calculate the distance from the landing to the hall.

  From fifteen feet he crashed to the hard floor, landing with sickening force on his left foot.

  The snap of breaking bone was devastatingly loud inside the house.

  The man screamed in agony as he felt uncontrollable pain shoot up his left leg.

  The cuboid and navicular bones in his foot had simply disintegrated under the impact and, so huge was the force with which he fell, the left fibula had snapped, part of it impacting into the talus at the top of the foot, the other part tearing through both the flesh of his shin and also the material of his trousers. A jagged point of bone projected from the leg like an accusing finger. The man screamed again as he toppled to one side.

  And now, from over the banister, Donna saw that there were two intruders, one urging the injured one to follow him out of the front door.

  Donna swung the pistol round and drew a bead on the injured man who was being lifted by his companion.

  Kill the fucker.

  The second man looked up and saw the wild-haired woman with the gun.

  He too wore a mask.

  Kill them both.

  He hooked one arm around the waist of his crippled companion and the two of them hurried through the front door.

  Oblivious to any danger she might be in Donna raced down the stairs after them, stumbling at the bottom.

  ‘Stop,’ she roared, her breath coming in gasps. But she could already hear a powerful motor start up. As she reached the front door she saw a car hurtling away from the house, its tail-lights disappearing into the night.

  Donna banged the floor with her free hand and crouched by the door, the cold breeze rushing past her. She sucked in a deep breath and hauled herself upright. As she turned she noticed blood on the hall floor.

  Julie descended the stairs slowly, using the banister to support herself.

  ‘We’d better get the police,’ said Donna. ‘I’ll go over to Jackie’s and call them. One of them was hurt badly.’ She smiled thinly as she said it. She tried to slow her breathing but it was an effort.

  The blood on the floor glistened beneath the bright lights.

  Thirty-Four

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Detective Constable David Mackenzie. ‘They disable the alarm, use a glass-cutter to get in, don’t leave any prints behind and wear masks in case they’re spotted. They cover every eventuality but they don’t take anything.’ He shook his head.

  Standing in the sitting-room he looked around in bewilderment.

  ‘Nothing’s
even been broken, let alone taken. Burglars usually ransack the place. These two look as if they were being careful not to disturb things too much. As if they didn’t even want anyone to know they’d been inside.’ Again he shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ He looked at Donna, who was sitting on the edge of the sofa stroking her neck slowly. ‘You’re sure nothing was taken, Mrs Ward? I know you say you’ve checked ...’

  ‘Nothing was taken,’ she interrupted him.

  The clock on the mantlepiece said 2.36 a.m. The police had arrived more than thirty minutes ago. Already they’d dusted for fingerprints but found none that shouldn’t have been there. Donna had called them from Jackie Quinn’s house, telling Jackie there was nothing to worry about.

  Did she really believe that herself?

  She’d told Mackenzie that one of the men had been injured, badly, as far as she could tell. Word had been put out to surrounding hospitals that all casualty admittances with leg injuries were to be reported.

  The two women had not been able to help much by way of descriptions apart from recounting details of the horrific masks the burglars wore and that one appeared to be rather thin (the one with the broken leg).

  Mackenzine had no doubt that the masks and the clothes they wore would have been discarded by now.

  ‘You say no shots were fired by you or the burglars, Mrs Ward?’ the policeman enquired again, checking his notepad.

  ‘No. You only have to check the gun for that,’ Donna said wearily.

  ‘And you can verify that the guns are licenced?’

  ‘My husband and I both held Firearms Certificates. We were members of a gun club; we shot there regularly. I’ll give you the number if you want to check it out.’

  ‘Just routine,’ he said, smiling. ‘Why did you have guns in the house, Mrs Ward?’

  ‘My husband was away from home a fair bit. He said I should have more adequate protection than a burglar alarm. It was my husband who insisted I learn to shoot.’

  Mackenzie nodded.

  ‘Am I the one on trial, Detective Constable?’ she said irritably.

  ‘I have to ask these questions, Mrs Ward,’ he said apologetically. ‘I mean, this isn’t New York. It’s not every day a young woman pulls a gun on a burglar. This is new to me.’

  ‘I didn’t pull a gun on him,’ Donna corrected. ‘I was protecting myself and my sister. God knows what would have happened if he’d got upstairs.’

  ‘Would you have shot him?’ Mackenzie asked flatly.

  ‘My house has been broken into, my sister and I could have been in danger and all you’re concerned about is whether or not I would have shot the bastard who did it.’ She glared at him for a moment. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know, but I’d like to think that I could have pulled the trigger if I’d had to. But if I had, it’d be me you’d be arresting, wouldn’t it? To hell with saving my own life and my own property.’ She ran a hand through her hair.

  Mackenzie lowered his gaze a moment, his voice softening.

  ‘Mrs Ward, do you think this break-in could have anything to do with your husband’s death?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the policeman; you tell me.’

  Mackenzie could only shrug.

  ‘It was just a thought,’ he added belatedly.

  Donna was already certain there was a link.

  Mackenzie looked around him. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more we can do here now. We’ll leave you in peace.’

  Donna got to her feet, ready to show him out, but the DC motioned her to remain seated.

  ‘There is one thing, Mrs Ward. The fact that they broke in but didn’t take anything, and also that they were obviously professionals, makes me think they were looking for something specific. Something particularly valuable, perhaps. Can you think what it might be?’

  Donna shook her head gently.

  ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’ Julie wanted to know.

  ‘Normally I’d say no, especially after having had a gun pointed at them. But if they were looking for something, and it’s that important to them, then it’s possible.’ He looked at both women. ‘Be careful.’

  Thirty-Five

  The pain was excruciating.

  Howard James had felt pain before, but nothing to compare to the agony he felt from his shattered leg.

  ‘Get me to a fucking hospital,’ he said, frantically shaking the arm of the man who sat next to him.

  Robert Crossley looked down at his companion huddled in the passenger seat of the Orion, his broken leg stretched out before him. The splintered bone was clearly visible poking through the rent in his trousers. Blood had congealed thickly on the end of the smashed fibula. There was dark matter oozing slowly from the centre of the bone which, Crossley concluded with revulsion, was marrow. The stench inside the car was almost overpowering.

  ‘How much longer do we have to sit here, waiting? I need help,’ wailed James, his cheeks tear-stained, his skin milk-white.

  Crossley wiped perspiration from his face and looked at his watch.

  3.27 a.m.

  It was almost thirty minutes since he’d made the phone call, stopping off quickly at a pay-phone before swinging the car off the main road and into Paddington Recreation Ground. The vehicle and its two occupants now stood silently in a children’s playground. The wind, blowing across the open ground, turned the roundabout and Crossley looked up nervously every time he heard it creak. Swings also moved gently back and forth in the breeze, as if rocked by some unseen hand. Beside him, James continued to moan loudly as the pain seemed to intensify.

  ‘I can’t take this much longer,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Please.’

  Crossley nodded and looked round again, as if seeking inspiration from the children’s slides and climbing-frames.

  He heard the soft purring of a car engine and saw the Montego rolling slowly towards them, its driver flashing his lights once as he approached.

  ‘Who is it?’ gasped James.

  Crossley didn’t answer. He pushed open the driver’s side door and clambered out, unsure whether to approach the Montego or wait. He decided to wait, watching as the driver switched off the engine and slid from behind the wheel. He walked with brisk steps.

  A strong breeze ruffled Crossley’s hair and made him shiver. Inside the car James was huddled in the seat like a whimpering child.

  ‘What went wrong?’ Peter Farrell snapped, looking at Crossley then down at the injured James.

  ‘She had a fucking gun,’ Crossley told him. ‘I wasn’t going to argue with a gun.’

  ‘So you found nothing?’ Farrell persisted.

  Crossley shook his head.

  ‘Did you check his office. Upstairs?’

  ‘We didn’t get that far,’ Crossley said. Then, turning towards his injured companion, ‘We’ve got to get him to a hospital, he’s hurt bad.’

  ‘The police will have put out checks on every hospital for miles. How bad is it?’ Farrell demanded.

  ‘Look for yourself,’ Crossley told him and pulled open the passenger door.

  Farrell saw the smashed bone sticking through skin and material.

  ‘You were careless,’ he said irritably.

  ‘We were unlucky,’ Crossley protested.

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘And what the fuck would you have done if she’d pulled a gun on you?’

  ‘Pulled one on her,’ Farrell rasped, taking a step closer so that his face was inches from Crossley’s. ‘You could have jeopardized everything. We won’t be able to get near the house for a while; they’ll be expecting it. You fucking idiots.’ He turned his back on them for a moment, hands planted on his hips.

  ‘So what do we do about James?’ Crossley asked. ‘He needs help, for Christ’s sake.’

  Farrell turned slowly. His hand went to the inside of his jacket.

  Crossley’s mouth dropped open as he saw the taller man pull a gun into view.

  The silencer jammed into t
he muzzle of the .45 made the weapon look enormous.

  Farrell fired two shots into James’s head.

  The first hit him on the bridge of the nose, almost severing the appendage and taking out an eye as it exited. The second blasted away most of the back of his head, spraying it across the driver’s seat and the side windows.

  The body toppled sideways, the eyes still staring wide in shocked surprise, the mouth still open.

  ‘Get rid of the body and the car,’ Farrell said flatly. ‘Call me when you’ve done it.’ He turned and headed back to the Montego, pausing as he opened the door. ‘Crossley, you fuck up this time and I’ll kill you, too.’ He climbed into the car, started the engine and drove off, his lights still out, disappearing into the darkness.

  Crossley looked down at the corpse, the breeze bringing the stench of blood and excrement to his nostrils. He shivered and he knew it wasn’t just the wind.

  The roundabout creaked again. The swings moved gently back and forth.

  Thirty-Six

  The porter accepted his tip gratefully, nodded and glanced at Donna as he left, smiling approvingly when her back was turned.

  She waited until the door was closed and then crossed to the window of her suite, pulling the curtains aside. The Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin overlooked St Stephen’s Green and Donna gazed out onto the park for a moment, glad to be safely at the hotel. ‘The most distinguished address in Ireland,’ boasted the legend on the desk notepad. Donna stood at the window a moment longer, gazing out at the people in the street below. Finally she lifted her small suitcase onto the bed, flipped it open and began taking clothes out, sliding them into drawers.

  The flight had been smooth but Donna didn’t enjoy flying. It didn’t frighten her; she merely disliked the physical act of getting on a plane and sitting there for the duration of the journey. Fortunately the Aer Lingus 737 had delivered her from Heathrow in less than an hour, so she’d barely had time to become bored.

  She’d promised to phone Julie that night to let her know she’d arrived safely and to check on her sister. The break-in of the previous night had shaken them both, but Julie more so.