by Jon Grahame
Reaper squinted at the herded residents. They had been split into two groups, the men separate from the women and children. He recognised faces in the crowd, some bloodied, some wounded, probably by beatings rather than gunshots. All the men had their arms secured behind them, undoubtedly cuffed with those unforgiving and unyielding plastic bands. The way they were standing made him look more carefully. They were in pairs, shackled together at the ankle for extra security. With rope? More cuffs? The women were roped together differently; the rope tied around each waist.
Machine guns had been mounted on the backs of two lorries. One was at the base of the hill behind him, pointing into the square. The other was to the rear and side of the captives, keeping them under cover.
Muldane stopped in front of him.
‘You don’t look so tough,’ he said, and struck Reaper across the face with the swagger stick he carried.
The pain was sharp and vicious, but it cleared Reaper’s head.
‘What do you want?’ Reaper asked.
‘Want?’ said Muldane. ‘I don’t want anything. I’ve got what I want.’ He indicated his meaning with a vague wave of the swagger stick at the people and the village. ‘You’re a bonus. A disappointment, but a bonus.
I really thought you would pose more of a problem after everything Houseman told me.’ He leaned back and pretended to give Reaper a closer scrutiny. ‘But, if truth be told, you don’t look much. Certainly not Grim Reaper? More like Dim Reaper.’
‘What happens now?’
Muldane smiled and his chubby cheeks dimpled. ‘I’ll tell you what happens now. At midnight . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘In just over an hour’s time, we shall burn you at the stake.’ The words were meant to shock and they did. ‘You see, you have a reputation. A bullet in the back of the head isn’t good enough. You deserve something more theatrical. An event where you can scream for a while so that your reputation dies with you.’ The dimples got bigger. ‘A little performance that will make the men see the wisdom in offering no resistance, and the women more willing to fulfil their duty as volunteers. For a short time, you’ll be the star of the show. Now . . . that’s something to look forward to, don’t you think?’
‘It’s novel,’ Reaper said, a lot more calmly than he felt.
‘Then we will give the men the chance to join us as soldiers. Those who don’t make the grade will become drones. Dangerous ones will be put down. The women will become volunteers and will be given to my men.
Your special forces . . .’ he said it with a sneer ‘ . . .are being kept apart. They will receive special treatment. Even the boy – we have chaps of a certain proclivity within our ranks. But first, we shall put on our little show so that everyone can see you certainly aren’t that special and that resistance is pointless.’ He nodded in satisfaction. ‘I’ll see you in an hour.’
‘I can hardly wait.’
Muldane snorted at him in derision, turned abruptly away, and walked towards the manor house.
His sergeant said, ‘Take him to the barn.’
The rope was pulled and Reaper fell. He was kicked several times before he could regain his feet. Dragged to the barn by Houseman and two guards, they went in through the small access door. The barn was illuminated by a battery-powered lamp. Half the interior had been used for storing drums of petrol and Pete’s Harley Davidson, shapeless beneath a sheet of canvas, but there was still enough room for them to throw the rope over a beam. The rope was pulled taut and his arms were stretched above his head. It was thrown over again to stop it slipping, the height adjusted so that he was on his toes, and the remaining length was tied off on the central supporting timber. The position was meant to render Reaper helpless and make him feel vulnerable. It succeeded.
Houseman stood in front of him, close enough to spit on. So Reaper did.
The man lost his grin and slapped Reaper across the face.
‘A slap? Is that the best you can do?’ Reaper taunted.
Houseman swung his fist, and pounded it into Reaper’s body. Landing one blow seemed to rouse his animosity further and he continued swinging, throwing punches with both fists until Reaper hung from the rope and no longer attempted to stay on his toes.
‘Muldane told you what’s going to happen,’
Houseman said, breathing heavily, ‘but he left out the detail. Let me fill you in.’ He stepped closer to Reaper so that he was almost whispering in his ear. ‘The men we captured will be given the opportunity to join our army. There are two conditions before they are accepted.
They either have to kill someone in cold blood, or rape a woman. We nominate the victim and a selection committee watches the deed take place. Neat, don’t you think? It means that everyone in our ranks is equal. We have all committed the ultimate crimes, we have all made the same commitment.’ He grinned.
‘We truly are a band of brothers. Evil bastard brothers perhaps, but brothers none the less.’
‘You’ll get no takers,’ Reaper murmured. ‘No one will join you.’
Houseman laughed softly. ‘Your faith in humanity is misplaced. We’ll get takers, never fear. We always do. And do you know something? Once that threshold has been crossed, the men no longer hesitate to cross it again. They become serial killers, serial rapists. They lose their souls.’ His grin was vicious. ‘Oh yes, and your special forces? You know, those special forces you allowed a Paki to join but turned me down for?
They will, as the Major says, get very special treatment. Gang rape before they all follow you into the flames of hell. Every man in the army will take a turn.
By the end, they’ll welcome the fire. If they’re still alive.’
Reaper raised his face and locked eyes with Houseman. He couldn’t help but rise to the bait.
‘I should have killed you when I had the chance.’
‘Yes, you should. Because my revenge will be very, very sweet. The Major has promised me the girl. Little Emma? Very understanding, the Major.’
Reaper attempted to spit again but Houseman saw the intention, stepped back and threw more blows into his body. Reaper swung like a punch bag. Houseman aimed a kick and Reaper managed to turn enough to avoid the boot’s direct contact with his genitals, although he groaned loudly as if it had found its target.
‘I’ll see you soon, Reaper.’
Houseman left with one of the guards, leaving one behind. The man sat on a bail of straw and watched Reaper dangle from the rope. After a while, he walked behind him out of sight, and Reaper felt a sudden blow in his backside that caused him to swing further.
He groaned. The guard walked to the front and stared at Reaper with a grin. He was in his fifties, thin as cancer, and had a front tooth missing.
‘Just wanted to kick a legend up the arse,’ he said, and laughed throatily.
He wandered back to the straw bale, took out a packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. Just as he went to light it, he looked at the stacked drums of petrol, thought better of it, and went outside. As soon as the small access door closed, Reaper grasped the rope and began to heave himself upwards. He did not have a great deal of play in the plastic cuffs, but he was able to climb the rope, hand over hand.
Houseman’s blows had hurt, but had not been harsh enough to cause any real damage. Reaper had faked greater pain and injury than he had felt. How long would the guard take? He climbed quicker, ignoring the pain in his wrists and in his shoulders.
Eventually, he could throw a leg up towards the beam and, at the second attempt, he straddled it. They had stripped him of almost all his weapons, but had somehow not noticed the throwing knife that lay between his shoulder blades from the slim silver chain around his neck. He tugged at the front of the chain and retrieved the knife in its sheath. The cuffs had cut into his circulation. His fingers were numb and felt three times their normal size, but he managed to palm the knife and run the razor-sharp blade over the plastic.
It parted swiftly, giving him more scope to use the knife on the rope. A few de
ft cuts and he was free, just as the door opened and the guard stepped back inside.
The man closed the door behind him before turning.
He stopped in surprise when he saw the empty space where his prisoner had been. He looked up and saw Reaper on the beam just as he threw the knife. It embedded itself in the man’s forehead: three inches of steel straight into the brain. He fell without a sound, and a second later, Reaper dropped to the floor.
Among Reaper’s earlier defensive preparations, he had hidden caches of arms in four different parts of the community. One was beneath the guard post where Arif had been killed, another was near the rear entrance to the estate, the third was in the pub and the fourth in the barn. The guard had been armed with a Lee Enfield rifle that must have been more than sixty years old, and a Webley army revolver. Muldane’s army, Reaper recalled from his watch in Whitby, were equipped with a wide variety of arms. Perhaps some had already exchanged old for new from Haven’s armoury.
He took the Webley and the lamp, and went behind the oil drums. He shifted two straw bales, prised up some boards and pulled out a bundle in a sack. Inside, wrapped in a greased cloth, was a loaded Glock, two spare magazines, and a Bowie knife that fitted comfortingly in the empty sheath strapped to his right leg.
There was also a set of throwing knives which he strapped to his left arm. He pushed the Glock into his belt and put the old Webley in the sack that he carried in his left hand. He prised at the boards again, higher this time, and two came loose, although the nails made a small screech that made him pause and listen. More prising and he made a hole that he could enlarge until the space was big enough for him to step through. He took the lamp back to its original location, so that its glow might be seen from outside, then exited into the night from the back of the barn.
The land in front of the manor house was still lit by arc lamps. The captives sat on the ground. Three of Muldane’s army were preparing a bonfire around the stone cross at the crossroads. They had put a two-wheel cart against it to provide a platform, and were packing the area beneath the cart with combustibles.
Lights were on in the manor house. Armed men patrolled the spaces in between the village houses, moving from light into shadow. A motorcyclist rode from the parking area in front of the manor house up the hill towards the guard post near the front gate.
The village houses were unlit, although dim lights showed in the Farmer’s Boy. Reaper took out the Bowie knife and moved back, away from the barn and into darkness, before making his way up the hill behind the open lorry that held one of the machine guns. He crossed the road that went over the hill, and moved into the cover offered by one of the unlit cottages. He studied the area in front of him for a long time before moving again, silently across the grass, until he was behind another cottage. The pub was two buildings down, towards the light. He stayed in the shadows, crouched low and moved slowly. He made the next cottage. He listened at the door and windows. He knew it was empty. His sixth sense told him so. The pub was the next building down.
He continued to stay low and move with caution.
He eased himself down the sloping ground and saw the sentry outlined briefly as he caught the light from the village square. Reaper left the sack on the ground and went forward silently until the area he was in was obstructed from the arc lamps, even if he stood upright.
He was sure the man was alone. The moon was hidden and the clouds were making the night claustrophobic, but they were on his side. Reaper got to his feet and strode forward, the knife held at his side.
‘Got a light?’ he said, waving his left hand in the air as if it held a cigarette.
‘What?’
The guard was taken by surprise at Reaper’s sudden arrival from nowhere, but his instinct was to reach into a pocket for a lighter rather than to raise a gun.
It was all Reaper needed to get in close and bring the knife up through the stomach, between the curve of the ribs, and into the heart. The man gasped and drooped briefly against Reaper before he was pushed away to fall silently into the grass. He cleaned the blade on the man’s clothes.
Reaper went back and recovered the sack, then checked the man for weapons. He had one of their Heckler and Koch carbines, and a Glock in a holster belt that was stuffed with spare magazines. He unfastened the belt and put it in the sack. He hoisted the carbine over his shoulder and went deeper into the shadows at the back of the pub, the knife still in his right hand. Light spilled from the rear window of the dining room that had doubled as a concert room.
Shaggy had played in there. How was Shaggy now?
How were Pete and Ashley and all the other members of the disparate group who had become his friends?
He peeked through the window. The light was dim and diffused, reflecting from the rough white walls. It was coming from what he guessed was a battery powered lamp, that was in the front room. He could hear Sinatra singing Fly Me To The Moon. Kate was standing in the middle of the room, her hands cuffed behind her back, while a fat man in black jeans and T-shirt swayed to the music in front of her. Kate’s T-shirt and bra were raised and the man’s hands were on her breasts.
Reaper controlled his breathing. He leant back against the brickwork of the wall, felt its solidity and pressed against it. He focused on the reality of brickwork and a warm night, the breeze and the sound of an insect, the prowl of a cat along the roof. He made the world real again while channelling his rage. He opened himself to the night, allowed his senses to range wide and went to the back door. It was unlocked, as usual, and led into the bottle bank and ground floor pub cellar. He stepped inside. A cat followed him in, brushing against his legs.
The interior door opened directly behind the small bar. He stood flat against it and listened. Male laughter, a woman’s voice, a hard slap, hand on flesh. He opened the door and the cat slipped through. Frank Sinatra got louder. He bent low and eased himself behind the bar. He left the door half open behind him.
‘What the fuck?’
‘It’s the cat.’ Sandra’s voice. ‘He’s always doing that.’
The cat squawled obligingly as someone aimed a kick at it. ‘Hadn’t you better warn your mate upstairs? Wild animal on the loose.’
Good girl. She had guessed, or perhaps hoped, the entry had not been achieved solely by the cat and was telling him where they were. She got another slap for her cheek, but did not cry out. Reaper rose from behind the bar with a throwing knife between thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Sandra was sprawled along one of the bench seats. Her T-shirt had been raised and the tops of her trousers were open. The man responsible was so ordinary that Reaper was almost disappointed. Medium height, medium build, clean shaven, regular features. He wore the regulation black shirt and a pair of black trousers which were open at the front. At the squeak of floor-boards, he turned and saw Reaper. Reaper smiled and threw the knife. It took the man in the throat and he fell backwards against a table that Sandra stopped from toppling with her feet.
Reaper went round the bar, eased the man to the floor, and used a clean knife to cut the plastic cuffs behind Sandra’s back. Her eyes looked past him, an indication, towards the dining room, and she mouthed,
‘One in there. With Kate. One upstairs.’
He nodded and walked to the arched doorway that led into the dining room. Sinatra still played. Some other song, but Reaper wasn’t listening. He took the knife from his ankle sheath and walked into the dining room without hesitation. The man was facing away from him. He was behind Kate, his groin pushing against her tied hands, his hands upon her breasts. He was humming along to the song. He was on his way to Monterey.
Reaper stepped behind him. He put one hand softly over the man’s mouth and the blade of the already bloody knife against his throat.
‘Remove your hands,’ he said softly, and the man gasped and lifted his hands sideways.
‘Who the—’
‘Your worst nightmare.’
Kate stepped away and turned, love and relief in her gaz
e, and he indicated with a turn of the head that she should move. She walked past them. Reaper slit the man’s throat and the blood gushed from the carotid artery. He held him until the flow eased and then lay him down quietly in his own gore. He wiped the blade roughly on the back of the man’s shirt and returned it to its sheath.
Sandra had cut the plastic cuffs binding Kate’s wrists.
Kate had pulled her top back down and now came into his arms. They said nothing, simply held each other for a moment. When she let go, Sandra hugged him too.
‘We thought . . .’ Kate said.
‘I knew you’d come,’ Sandra said. ‘I knew.’
‘I hoped,’ said Kate.
‘How many upstairs?’
‘One,’ said Sandra, in a low voice. ‘He took James and Jenny. They were told not to rape us, not yet at least. But they planned on having some fun. I don’t know where upstairs they are exactly.’
‘I’ve heard movement in both bedrooms,’ Kate said.
Reaper took them back into the bar area and produced the sack of weapons. He put a finger to his lips and said, ‘I won’t be long.’
He opened the door that kept the upstairs private from the public area of the pub and listened at the foot of the stairs. If the man with Jenny was similarly involved as his two companions had been, he could be likewise distracted. He went upstairs silently in the dark, missing out the steps that creaked; the ones he had learned to avoid when he had so often returned late from a vigil in the motor home and didn’t want to disturb Kate. Two bedrooms and a bathroom led off the landing. One bedroom door was locked but someone was kicking at it. He guessed James. The other bedroom door was open and the light from another battery-powered lamp spilled onto the landing.
Jenny lay on her back on the bed where Reaper and Kate had slept and made love. Alongside her was a thin man who was intent on discovering her body.
The time for subtlety and silence was past. Reaper strode into the room, gripped the man by the throat with his left hand, forcing him onto his back on the bed, and thrust the knife into his stomach. The first blow didn’t kill him, so he did it again. Twice, three times. The man gurgled and died . . . not a man - only a spotty, weak-chinned teenager.
