by Shaun Hutson
'Who the hell would do it?' he said, not really expecting an answer. 'And why? For years there's been peace and now this. Somebody getting too fucking ambitious no doubt. So, one of my best men is killed, another one wounded. Thank God Tina wasn't hurt.' He turned to face the person who sat on the leather sofa. 'I'm telling you, some bastard is going to pay for this. If I let it pass then anyone will think they can walk over me and I'm not having that.'
He turned back to the window, gazing out over the darkened park. Trees swayed in the wind, spectral fingers that had lost many of their leaves rattled beneath the balcony.
'I'd just like to know why,' Harrison continued. 'I haven't stepped on anybody's toes, none of my interests conflict with any of the other organisations in London. Unless it's one I don't know about.' He finished what was left in his glass and poured himself another, his anger boiling up again as he rounded on the solitary figure who cradled a glass of brandy in his lap.
'Put the word out on the street,' Harrison said. 'I want to know who was behind that attack. I'll pay for the information if necessary and, before you say anything, I'll take care of who's behind it my own way, right?'
The figure shrugged.
'It's more than two years since there was any trouble like this. I should know, it was me who started it last time,' said Harrison. He pulled off his tie and threw it into one of the leather armchairs then, holding his drink in one hand, he began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
'Well I'm not having it. And it happened on my manor too. That makes it worse. What a fucking nerve.' He downed more of the whisky. Then he turned to face his visitor who sat quietly, allowing the gang boss to vent his fury, knowing that no words could calm him.
'You tell me if you hear anything, anything at all. I want to know, got it?' Harrison snarled. 'Where do they think they are, fucking Belfast? Bombs, machine guns.' He shook his head, drained his glass and hurled the empty receptacle across the large lounge where it shattered against the wall.
'Fuckers,' shouted Harrison, furiously. 'You find out,' he growled, stepping closer to the other occupant of the room. 'And you do it quick, right? I don't pay you twenty thousand a year for nothing. Find out who wants me dead.'
Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe nodded slowly.
Six
He awoke suddenly, as if propelled from a nightmare, eyes jerking open, mouth forming soundless words.
As he was dragged to his feet Danny Weller shook his head as if trying to clear his senses. A vile stench filled his nostrils, a stench so rank that he thought he was going to vomit. He felt strong hands gripping his wrists, dragging him backwards towards the wall of the supermarket storeroom and, suddenly, the circumstances of his predicament came flooding back with a clarity which forced a moan from his throat.
The figures were standing in front of him.
Three of them.
Two others held him against the wall as he struggled in their-grip, aware of the numbing coldness which seemed to radiate from them. It was as if the chill ran from their own hands into his veins causing him to shudder as they slammed him back against the wall and held him there.
The first of the watching trio stepped forward and gripped Weller's chin in one powerful hand, running his fingers over the flesh, enjoying the smoothness, stroking the skin as a man might stroke the face of his lover. But there was no emotion in this gesture.
Weller felt the pressure on his chin increase and he let out a grunt of pain. By now, the stench was almost overpowering and it was all he could do to keep a grip on consciousness.
The moon had retreated behind a thick bank of cloud so the supermarket was once again in almost total darkness. But, even so, Weller knew that his captors were close.
Exactly who, or what they were he didn't know.
The one that held his face took a step back and glanced across at the two who held Weller's arms. He nodded slowly and the younger man felt his hands being forced back against the wall. He tried to struggle free but the pressure on his wrists only increased.
'Who are you?' he wailed, tears of fear once more running freely down his cheeks.
He heard a metallic rattle and looked to his left.
One of the figures had taken a handful of flat-headed nails from his jacket pocket.
He pressed one into the palm of Weller's left hand.
The movement was so swift he barely had time to scream.
The figure gripping his wrist dropped down and retrieved a piece of broken concrete; then with one powerful blow he struck the head of the nail.
Weller shrieked in pain as the metal spike was driven through his hand, each successive stroke sending it deeper into the flesh of his hand then beyond into the wall.
Blood burst from the punctured palm, spurting on to the jacket of the one who stood before him but the figure did not move, merely continued to stare into Weller's face as he tried one last time to escape.
His right hand was pressed against the wall and, quick as a flash, he felt another of the metal spikes being pounded through that palm until he was supported not by the freezing hands but by the thick steel nails that transfixed his palms. Blood dripped to the floor where it soaked into the dust like ink into blotting paper.
Weller sagged forward, his own weight threatening to pull him free of the wall but a cold hand was fastened once more beneath his chin. He fought to retain his senses, pain stabbing up both his arms now. It felt as if his hands were on fire. Yet still he was denied the mercy of unconsciousness. Still he found that he was looking into a face which could have been plucked from a nightmare.
The skin of the man's features was stretched so tight over the bones of his face it seemed that it would tear, like plastic which has been pulled beyond its breaking point. Weller expected to see the skin burst. Instead, he saw it begin to heave, as if there was something beneath that dry skin.
The flesh began to undulate, slowly at first but then with greater speed until a bulge appeared beneath the left cheekbones, rising like a boil, swelling like some obscene tumour, growing before his eyes until finally it burst.
The boil was filled with maggots. Dozens of the writhing white forms twisted and turned in the festering hole until they spilled forth, dropping to the ground, some of them dropping into the puddles of Weller's blood.
He screamed loudly.
`Who are you?'
The leader moved closer and Weller recoiled as the stench threatened to choke him.
Then the others joined their leader, staring at the young man nailed to the wall with something akin to fascination.
He felt his stomach contract, felt it trying to expel its contents.
He heard a sound that was all too familiar.
The swish-click of a flick knife.
Then he felt it against his cheek, the point gouging into his flesh, digging deeper until blood began to run from the wound. And yet the knife was wielded with immaculate skill, drawn in light quick movements through the skin of Weller's face to expose the network of muscles beneath. He screamed again as he felt the blade moving beneath his right eye, scraping against his cheekbone. up and across his forehead then down the other side of his face.
When it reached his neck he did pass out.
The figure with the knife cut the last piece of flesh free then slid two fingers beneath the skin as if it were some kind of mask.
Pulling carefully, the figure pulled the skin free, coaxing it away from the eyes with the aid of the blade.
It came away in one piece.
One dripping piece of skin.
The figure turned to those watching and held the mask of living flesh aloft like some kind of bizarre trophy.
Two of the others stepped forward and began removing Weller's clothes, tossing them aside until he was naked.
Then they set to work.
Seven
The footsteps outside his door woke him.
Carter sat bolt upright, awake in an instant, ignoring the slight ache from his injured shoulder. H
e heard the footsteps and peered towards the door, watching the shadows beneath.
There was someone out there.
Listening.
Waiting.
He glanced across at the emergency button beside his bed, his finger poised over it.
The door handle turned slowly.
Carter swung himself out of bed, his eyes never leaving the slowly-turning handle. To hell with the emergency button, he thought. He'd deal with this himself.
The door opened a fraction, light from the corridor beyond spilling across the floor.
He saw a figure illuminated in the tight.
The door opened further, the figure took a step inside.
Carter sat on the end of the bed and waited.
Tina Richardson closed the door behind her and smiled at him.
`You'd never make a hitman,' said Carter, quietly, a smile spreading across his tips. He stood up and she walked towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, drawing his face to hers. Their lips pressed together, her tongue pushing against his, seeking entry to the warm moistness inside his mouth. He pulled her hard against him, aware of the growing warmth spreading around his groin, the heady scent of her perfume and her hands now gliding across his chest and back as he responded fiercely to his kiss.
When they finally parted, Tina was breathing heavily.
'I thought you'd been killed too,' she told him, gripping his right hand tightly.
She sat down on the bed beside him, shrugging off her coat.
Carter saw that she was wearing only a thin sweater and a leather skirt. Her hair was freshly washed. She smelled as if she'd just stepped out of a shower. He touched her cheek with his free hand and she kissed his fingers as he traced a pattern over her lips.
'How did you get in?' he asked, glancing at the clock. 'It's nearly three in the morning.'
'I sat in the car outside the train entrance,' she told him.
'There was only one porter on duty. It was just a matter of waiting.'
He smiled.
'For what?'
'Everyone has to pee eventually,' she informed him. 'I sneaked in then. I knew you'd be in this room, Frank always uses the best facilities for his men if they're injured.'
'Where is he now?' asked Carter, anxiously.
'He went back to his own place about midnight. I told him I'd be OK on my own.' She leant forward and kissed him again, quickly. 'I was so worried about you. I had to see you. I'm sorry, Ray.'
'We'll both be sorry if Frank finds out. We'll end up propping up a flyover somewhere,' Carter told her sardonically.
'I'll go if you want me to,' she said, getting to her feet.
Carter held her hand and pulled her back down beside him pulling her close, feeling her breasts pressing against his chest as they kissed. He allowed one hand to slide beneath her sweater, reaching higher until it closed over one unfettered mound. He rubbed gently, feeling the hardness of her nipple against his palm. She sighed and reached for his growing erection, encircling it in her hand, coaxing his stiffness. She pushed him back on the bed, slipping free of his hands to lay beside him. She kissed his chest, nipping the flesh between her teeth, sliding lower until her tongue flicked at the bulbous head of his penis.
'No,' gasped Carter, somewhat reluctantly. He sat up. 'Not here. Not now.'
She didn't speak but merely sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him.
'How much longer have we got to go on like this?' she asked. When she turned to face him he saw tears in her eyes. One solitary, salty droplet ran down her cheek. Carter leant forward and kissed it away.
'Meeting in secret, both of us frightened of what we say in case we give ourselves away,' she persisted. 'It's been like this for six months now. The odd night together if we're lucky but always looking over our shoulders. Looking for Frank.'
'That's the way it's got to be, Tina,' said Carter quietly. 'We have to be careful, both of us.'
'I hate the way things are,' she said wearily, clutching at his hand. 'But I know you're right. To a certain extent we both need Frank. Without him I'd have nothing ...'
Carter interrupted her.
'That's bullshit,' he snapped. 'We don't need him. He doesn't own us.'
'But we can't just walk out on him can we?' she said challengingly. 'He'd kill us.'
'Then we'll take that chance,' he said and pulled her to him, gripping her by the back of the neck, feeling her hair on his powerful hand. She responded fiercely, her hands once more drawn to his erection. This time he didn't stop her; instead he allowed her to rub his shaft gently while he lifted her sweater and bent forward. His lips fastened around one of her hardened nipples and she lay back, across the bed. Her own hands now left his penis as she undid the zip of her skirt and wriggled out of it, pushing the expensive leather to the floor.
Carter slipped off his pyjama bottoms and stood naked before her for a second before dropping slowly to his knees.
He gripped each of her ankles and parted her legs further, nuzzling the silky gusset of her panties, his tongue lapping at the edges of the material before squirming inside the loose elastic.
She lifted her legs and snaked them around his shoulders, drawing him closer, allowing him to pull her panties aside, urging him on as he began to probe her liquescent cleft with his tongue. She stroked his hair, her breathing becoming more laboured as he began flicking at the hardened bud of her clitoris. Tina felt that familiar warmth spreading across her thighs and stomach and she moaned aloud.
There was movement outside the door.
They both froze, as if turned to stone. A moment of passion preserved for interminable seconds.
Footsteps.
Carter backed away from her slowly, his eyes on the door.
Tina lowered her legs, trying to control her breathing.
'Mr Carter.'
They shot each other anxious glances.
'Mr Carter.'
He recognised the voice of the night nurse and crossed to the door.
The handle turned but he gripped it, easing the door open himself.
He peered round the door and saw the nurse standing there.
'Are you all right?’ she asked. 'I thought I heard a noise.'
'I couldn't sleep,' Carter told her.
'Would you like something to help you sleep?'
'No thanks.'
'You should try to rest.'
He nodded then gently closed the door, listening as her footsteps echoed down the corridor.
When he turned back towards the bed, Tina was pulling on her skirt.
'I told you it was useless, Ray,' she said dispiritedly.
He returned to her side and kissed her forehead.
'I'll have to go,' she told him, her cheeks still flushed from the excitement she felt.
'I hope you can get out as easily as you got in,' he told her, smiling.
She nodded.
'We can't go on like this forever,' she said. 'We have to get away.'
Carter didn't answer; he merely crossed to the door and looked out. The corridor was empty so he ushered her out, pausing to kiss her.
Then he closed the door, listening as her footsteps receded.
Carter stood with his back to the door, head bowed.
She was right. They had to get away.
But there was still Harrison.
Eight
The house had been empty for over a year.
The last paying tenants had moved out and other occupants had made the building their own. Rats, mice, spiders the size of a baby's fist - all moved freely within the derelict shell. Damp had crept up the walls like a malignant black shroud, stripping paper from crumbling brickwork. It hung in reeking tatters like putrescent flesh.
In the kitchen woodlice and silverfish scuttled over the cracked worktops, prey to the spiders that had spun their webs in the sink.
The sitting room was large, with an open fireplace which, at one time, must have been a welcoming sight. Now, instead of a glow
ing fire the black hole contained only a mound of dust and some rotting excrement.
The windows, smashed long ago, had been boarded over. Upstairs the three bedrooms were in a similar state of decay. In one lay a grime encrusted blanket, stiff with stale vomit. The legacy of the last human visitor to the place. A drunk who had used it as a place of shelter during a storm. But even squatters had steered clear of the house, unable to tolerate the vermin and the stench. The building and those that flanked it had been marked for demolition by the Whitechapel authorities over six months ago. The cost of making them habitable again had proved to be prohibitive and a developer was rumoured to be interested in the land. It seemed that the derelict buildings might yet prove to be worth some money but, as yet, none had been forthcoming.
The three houses stood empty and unwanted; grass and weeds in their small front gardens had grown as high as the boarded front windows. Other residents of the area stayed clear of the empty buildings. No children played near them for fear of what might lurk inside. The minds of children are capable of imagining far worse horrors than catching tetanus from a rusty nail or getting a rat bite. As far as the children were concerned, the houses were home to all manner of vile monsters and demons - which was fine by their parents as long as it kept them out of the filthy dwellings.
But there were others who found the darkness and the solitude welcoming. Others who lived happily amidst the filth with the other vermin.
Those who moved as quietly and stealthily as the creatures of darkness with whom they shared the crumbling abode.
The houses had human occupants and had done so for the last two weeks.
They paid little attention to the stench and the decay. They had known worse. Much worse.
No one had seen them arrive. No one ever saw them leave.
They chose their times carefully.
They had searched for just such a building, somewhere untended, a place shunned by those who lived close to it. Somewhere isolated and yet still close to the centre of London.
