Heathen/Nemesis

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘Fuck you,’ Ryker said.

  She leaned closer.

  ‘No, fuck you. You’re scared of him, aren’t you, whoever he is? That’s why you didn’t want that other moron to hurt me. It’s why you pulled me back inside the train when you could have left me to die. You’re not going to get another chance to threaten me. This train doesn’t stop until it reaches London now, and I’m not moving from this seat. If you want to risk killing me, that’s fine, but you’re going to have to kill the conductor and the other passengers in this carriage, too. Have you got the stomach for that, or are you only brave when you’re threatening a woman?’ She sat back, smiling. ‘You blew it. You should have let me fall, like your friend. But you daren’t, dare you? You gutless piece of shit.’

  Ryker leaned forward menacingly, anger colouring his face.

  ‘One brandy,’ the conductor announced, returning with the drink and handing it to Donna.

  She thanked him.

  ‘Will you stay with me for a minute? This other gentleman is going back to his seat now,’ she said, smiling at Ryker.

  ‘I can stay,’ he said through clenched teeth.

  ‘No,’ said Donna, making a great show of concern for him. ‘I’ll be fine now. Besides, I just need to relax. I might even get a couple of hours sleep before we reach London. Thank you for your help.’

  Ryker hesitated a moment, then got to his feet. He paused, looked at her then stalked off down the aisle.

  Donna took a sip of the brandy, feeling it burn its way to her stomach.

  Most of the chill had left her now and, with Ryker’s departure, she felt more comfortable. Nevertheless, she realized that she was only safe until the train reached King’s Cross. Once in the capital, she was fair game once more. She had to find a way to escape him.

  ‘Are there phones on board this train?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ the conductor said.

  Donna felt her heart sink.

  ‘I’ve got one of these bloody things, though, if you want to borrow it,’ the uniformed man said, pulling a portable phone from his pocket. ‘We use them for getting track information and arrival times, that sort of thing. I can speak to the driver on it if I want to,’ he said, smiling. ‘Not that I want to, miserable bugger.’

  Donna felt her spirits rising again.

  ‘The reception’s a bit haywire sometimes, especially in tunnels, but it should be okay,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the phone from him. He checked that she was all right, then told her he’d be back in a while and wandered off down the aisle.

  Donna called to him.

  ‘What time do we get to King’s Cross?’

  He checked his watch, then pulled a timetable from his jacket pocket. He ran his finger down the list of times.

  ‘We’ve made up some time,’ he informed her. ‘As long as there’s no hold-ups, we should be in about 1.30 a.m.’

  She thanked him, then turned her attention to the phone, punching in digits.

  She glanced at her watch.

  10.16 p.m.

  At the other end, the phone was picked up.

  ‘Julie, it’s me.’

  ‘Where the hell are you? I ...’

  The line crackled.

  ‘Just listen to me, I haven’t got time to explain. I’m on a train from Edinburgh, it arrives at King’s Cross at 1.30. Julie, you must be there to pick me up. Do you understand? You must be.’

  ‘Donna, what’s going on . . . ?’

  ‘I told you, I can’t explain now. I’ll tell you everything when I see you. Julie, we’ve got to go to the cottage in Sussex. I want you to drive me from King’s Cross down to the cottage, right? Just listen to me. Go into the wardrobe in our room, get the guns and the ammunition and bring them with you. Bring the letter from Chris’s solicitor, too. Please, just promise me you’ll do it.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me . . .’

  Donna cut her short angrily.

  ‘Just do it, Julie. King’s Cross at 1.30. For Christ’s sake, be there.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Julie told her.

  Donna pressed the ‘End’ button on the phone and laid it on the table.

  While she was on the train she was safe. Once they reached King’s Cross she had no idea what Ryker would do. She looked at her watch again.

  In less than three hours she’d know.

  Fifty-Nine

  Donna cupped one hand over her eyes and saw the lights of King’s Cross through the window as the train slowed to a crawl, preparatory to gliding to a halt.

  She was already on her feet, glancing back in the direction of the next carriage where Ryker was. There were a couple of men standing there by the door, waiting for the train to pull in and stop.

  Of Ryker there was no sign.

  She picked up her suitcase and made her way along the aisle, pausing to inspect the damage to her legs. She’d removed her ripped stockings earlier and now, as she looked down at the patchwork of scratches and grazes, she was relieved that there hadn’t been more damage. There was one cut just above the ankle; it had bled only slightly. She shuddered when she thought what her fate might have been.

  The conductor appeared, smiling broadly.

  ‘Would you like a hand with that case?’ he said.

  She accepted the offer gratefully, feeling the train slow down even more as it cruised into the vast amphitheatre of concrete and glass that was the terminus itself. Other trains, some also newly arrived, stood emptily by platforms, their passengers long since departed. At this early hour there weren’t that many people on the concourse. It wouldn’t be so easy to melt into the background.

  She glanced behind her to see if she could catch a glimpse of Ryker.

  Still he was nowhere to be seen.

  She looked at her watch; they were on time. She prayed that Julie was waiting for her.

  The conductor was babbling on good-naturedly about long train journeys but Donna scarcely heard what he said. She smiled and nodded as he wittered on, moving towards the door as the train drew into the platform. The conductor pushed the door open and peered up the train to see that others were doing the same.

  It finally bumped to a halt. All the doors were thrown open and the uniformed man climbed down first, offering Donna his hand as she stepped onto the platform.

  The first thing that struck her was the cold. It was freezing inside the huge building; it was as if someone had sucked every ounce of warm air from the interior and replaced it with icy breath. As she exhaled, her own breath clouded before her.

  It was quiet, too, every sound echoing around the cavernous dome. Footsteps on the dark concrete platforms seemed to reverberate inside her head.

  She walked quickly beside the conductor, who carried her case towards the barrier. There was no guard there to check tickets. Donna glanced around, looking for Ryker amongst the three or four dozen other people who had left the train along with her.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  They were drawing closer to the barrier now and Donna began looking for Julie, praying that her sister was waiting, hardly daring to contemplate what she would do if she wasn’t.

  The conductor was still chatting happily. Donna didn’t even bother to acknowledge his ramblings now, her mind was too occupied. Her eyes were too busy picking out faces amongst the other passengers.

  Where was Ryker?

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  He was less than ten yards behind her, hands dug deep into his jacket pockets, walking fast, gaining on her. He pushed past an old woman in his haste to reach Donna, looking at the woman angrily as he nearly tripped over her suitcase.

  Donna tried to quicken her pace, hoping the conductor would do likewise.

  Ahead of her were half a dozen people, two of them pushing trolleys laden with luggage. Donna looked back at Ryker, then ahead once more.

  She quickly slipped ahead of the trolley pushers as one of them blocked the exit, manoe
uvring his way through. Those behind were prevented from going any further.

  Including the conductor.

  He walked to the barrier and handed Donna her case over the rail.

  ‘I’ll be okay from here,’ she told him, seeing Ryker drawing nearer. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She took the case and spun round.

  The first trolley was still stuck, its owner now flustered, aware that he was blocking everyone else’s way.

  Ryker pushed against the back of a man trying to get through and got an angry glare for his pains. He could see Donna on the other side of the barrier heading towards a dark-haired woman, whom she embraced.

  They headed for the car park outside.

  Ryker vaulted the barrier and ran after them, slipping one hand into his jacket, touching the hilt of the knife.

  He ran out through the main doors and looked to his right and left.

  No sign of them.

  He scurried over to the taxi rank. None of the vehicles had just picked up. There was no sign of Donna or the other woman. He stood on the pavement, hands on his hips.

  ‘Fuck,’ he rasped, knowing he’d lost them. He turned and walked slowly back into the station, heading for the payphones. He found one that took money rather than a card and dialled a number.

  His hands were shaking.

  It was picked up after a couple of rings.

  ‘Farrell,’ the voice at the other end said.

  ‘It’s Ryker,’ he said, trying to control the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We lost her.’

  At the other end the phone was slammed down.

  Sixty

  The headlights of the Fiesta cut through the darkness.

  It was almost 2.45 a.m. The roads were all but deserted south of London. The deeper into Kent Julie drove the more the two women began to feel as if they were the only people left on earth. Nothing was moving on the roads apart from them, it seemed.

  Perhaps it was a good thing.

  It was all Julie could do to concentrate on driving, as she listened incredulously to the chain of events her sister recounted.

  Donna felt exhausted, drained both physically and emotionally. She lay slumped in the passenger seat, a jacket around her knees to keep her warm. The heating was on inside the car but it did little to drive out the chill that seemed to have settled in her bones. Recalling what had happened to her, especially on the train, served to intensify that cold.

  She had come so close to death.

  She shuddered.

  Was that how Chris had felt seconds before he died?

  She closed her eyes for a moment.

  ‘We should call the police,’ said Julie.

  Donna ignored her.

  She was thinking of what had happened on the train. About the two men, their threats. Their fear of the man who had sent them to find her. What had Ryker said his name was?

  ‘Donna, I said we should call the police. This is too serious now,’ Julie persisted.

  Farrell. She opened her eyes, her tired mind gradually focusing on that name.

  On that face.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘It was the man at the house the day Chris was buried.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I told you that one of the men on the train kept saying that Farrell needed information from me, that Farrell had said I wasn’t to be killed. That day at the house, the day of the funeral, I caught a man in Chris’s office going through his papers. His name was Farrell. Peter Farrell.’

  ‘It could be a coincidence.’

  ‘It could, but I doubt it. He was looking for something that day; he said it was a book. Those men were looking for information about a book. Farrell sent them. It’s the same man, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Even if it is, what does it prove?’

  ‘It proves that Chris had something Farrell wanted. Something he thinks I’ve now got. Something which he was prepared to kill for.’

  ‘Then call the police,’ Julie insisted.

  ‘They haven’t been able to protect me so far,’ Donna snapped.

  ‘So what are you going to do with the guns? Shoot anyone who attacks you?’

  ‘Did you bring them all?’

  ‘Yes, and the ammunition. They’re in the boot. You didn’t answer my question.’ She looked across at her sister. ‘Donna, you can’t take the law into your own hands. This isn’t America. It’s not some bloody film where the heroine straps on a gun and blows away the bad guys. This is reality.’

  ‘And it was reality on that train when I was nearly killed,’ Donna answered angrily.

  ‘Who do you think you are? A female Charles Bronson? Call the police, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Julie, whoever those men are, whoever this Farrell is, they want something badly enough to kill for it. They might have killed Chris. They’ve tried to kill me. If they try again, they might not be too fussy about who they hurt in the process.’ She looked at her sister. ‘You’re in danger, too. Perhaps it would be best if you left me at the cottage and went back to London. I’ve already involved you more than I should have. You should get out while you still can.’

  ‘You really think I’d leave you now?’ said Julie softly.

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

  ‘I’m staying with you, Donna. No matter what. But I’ll tell you something, I’m scared and I don’t mind admitting it.’

  ‘Join the club,’ Donna said flatly.

  They drove most of the remainder of the journey in silence, speeding through Kent into West Sussex, along roads flanked by hedges and trees, past isolated houses and farms.

  It was approaching 3.15 when the headlamps picked out a sign that proclaimed:

  WARDSBY 15 MILES

  CHICHESTER 18 MILES

  Donna instructed Julie to take the left-hand fork in the road.

  Sixty-One

  The ferocity of the assault lifted Peter Farrell off his feet.

  He was slammed into the wall with crushing force and enough power to knock the wind from him. Reeling from the onslaught, he toppled forward but managed to keep his feet until a second attack pinned him to the wall and held him there.

  ‘You said you would get the book,’ snarled Francis Dashwood, gripping Farrell by the collar. ‘We relied on you and you failed.’

  Farrell recoiled, not from the verbal tirade but from the rank stench that wafted over him every time Dashwood spoke. It was a smell like rotting meat, a rancid, cloying odour that made him nauseous.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said breathlessly, trying to inhale as little of the fetid air as possible.

  ‘Your apologies are no good to us,’ roared Richard Parsons. ‘We need the book, not your pathetic excuses.’

  Dashwood let out a howl of frustration and hurled Farrell across the room. He crashed into a table, somersaulted over it and landed heavily on the carpet. He lay there for a moment before rolling over and getting to his knees.

  The other two men advanced upon him.

  ‘It has kept us alive for over two hundred years,’ Dashwood told him. ‘Get it.’

  Farrell clambered to his feet, breathing heavily, forced to inhale the reeking smell. He looked at the other two men. There was a yellow tinge to their skin. Parsons’ eyes looked sunken, with blue-black rings around them making him look badly bruised. The flesh of his hands appeared loose, as if it didn’t fit his bones.

  The skin beneath his chin hung in thick folds that swayed back and forth as he walked.

  Dashwood looked even worse. A sticky, pus-like fluid dribbled from the corners of both his eyes. The orbs themselves were bulging in sunken sockets, criss-crossed by hundreds of tiny red veins, each one of which looked on the point of bursting. Like Parsons, his skin was sagging in places like an ill-fitting suit. In others it had begun to peel away in long coils. One of these coils hung from his left cheek like a spiral, frozen tear.

  The stench inside the room was practically intolerabl
e.

  ‘Your men failed at the house and then on the train,’ Dashwood reminded him.

  ‘We will not tolerate another failure. You must get the book and bring it to us personally,’ Parsons told him. ‘Do you have any idea how important it is? Not just to us, but to everyone connected with this organisation?’

  ‘If the contents were to be known, as Ward wanted them to be known, the results would be catastrophic,’ Dashwood reminded him. ‘Get the book.’

  He shoved Farrell, who fell backwards, colliding with a chair and almost falling again.

  ‘It isn’t at the house,’ he said, looking at each of the men in turn. ‘We’ve already checked. She didn’t have it with her ...’

  Dashwood cut him short.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ he snapped.

  ‘I’m not sure, but . . .’

  Farrell was interrupted by a powerful blow across the face. As it landed he felt the repulsively soft feel of Dashwood’s skin against his own.

  ‘You know what will happen to us if the book is not found,’ snarled Dashwood. ‘You can see what is already happening.’

  He grabbed Farrell again and pushed his face within inches. ‘Look.’ He touched the coil of rotting flesh with his free hand, pulling it slowly free. The skin tore slightly, leaving a red mark. Dashwood pushed it towards Farrell’s lips, jamming the length of putrid flesh into the other man’s mouth.

  Farrell closed his eyes as he tasted the rotting matter on his tongue.

  ‘Taste our pain,’ hissed Dashwood, gripping Farrell’s chin, forcing him to chew on the strand of flesh. As he spoke his foul breath swept over Farrell in a noxious cloud. ‘Smell our suffering.’

  Farrell knew he was going to be sick.

  He felt Dashwood’s index finger inside his mouth, pushing the slippery piece of skin further into the moist orifice.