Heartman: A Missing Girl, A Broken Man, A Race Against Time

by M. P. Wright

  “I don’t even know what those words mean let alone whether ten grand could buy it, Mr Blanchard.”

  “We could consider a larger amount if you thought you were being unfairly coerced into making a rushed decision?”

  He smiled at me again, which sent a chill through me. I felt an acidic taste at the back of my gullet, which I hacked at to clear.

  “Perhaps you’ll take that drink with me now, knock that frog out of your throat?”

  He turned to walk back to his mahogany drinks cabinet. I cocked the hammer of the 45 all the way back, stopping Blanchard in his tracks.

  “I won’t be taking that drink from you, or your lousy money. Just hand over Stella Hopkins to me.”

  Blanchard raised his arm and threw both his finished cigarette and its holder into the fire, then slowly turned to face me again, his angry eyes smouldering in their sockets as he glared into my own, his hands bunched into tight fists at his side.

  “I’m afraid that outcome simply isn’t possible, Mr Ellington. You and I are not that different, I’m sure. Name your price, but Stella stays here with me. You see, I consider her to be a very precious asset.”

  I gripped the gun tighter in my hand and took a step towards Blanchard, not taking my eyes off him for a second.

  “Well, that’s where we differ. Stella’s not a piece of property, she’s not some slave, and she’s coming with me whether you damn well like it or not!”

  I watched as Terrence Blanchard nodded to himself slowly, taking in my determined words. Then he spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Mr Ellington, let me explain something: it took me quite a search before I was fortunate enough to come into possession of Miss Hopkins, a unique beauty. I first saw Stella last summer with her guardian, Mr Linney, a man I know you are well acquainted with. From the moment I was introduced to her, I knew that I wanted her . . . and to get to know her more intimately. However, I knew Mr Linney was a pious man and that it would take the most delicate tact and diplomacy to get near to his ward.

  “I also knew he was eager to purchase a sizable amount of land in my ownership in the Filton area of Bristol. You see, Linney’s honourable but rather naive intention was to create a small housing development that would allow those from the . . .” – Blanchard considered his words for a moment – “from the colonies, people like you, Mr Ellington, so that they may procure their own homes in the future. So one evening while we were both attending a rather ghastly charity dinner, I took Earl to one side and quietly suggested that if he was happy to allow me contact with Miss Hopkins that I would be prepared to offer my land for a less costly figure. It was an exciting proposition, hard for him to turn down.”

  “You’re telling me that Earl Linney went ahead and sold Stella to you so he could build houses for coloured people?”

  I could barely believe what I was hearing.

  “Well, that’s what happened in the end, only in a roundabout way. Things are never what they seem, Mr Ellington! As it happened, Mr Linney refused me outright. Now, as with all men who are cursed with having the need to stand on the moral high ground and repent their sins in deed or thought, Earl felt compelled to seek atonement for even being party to what he considered to be improper. His conscience demanded it of him, and that’s when he made his fateful mistake.”

  “Yeah and what mistake would that have been?” I was growing tired of Blanchard’s monotonous lecturing and wanted him to cut to the chase.

  “Earl Linney told his wife, Alice, Mr Ellington and she was far more understanding than her spouse. I was rather taken aback at first when she first contacted me in such a surreptitious manner to request that we meet. A convergence after dark in a secluded part of the county: it was all very covert, I have to say. Alice drove a hard bargain: she clearly had no affection for Stella and offered to bring her to me on request. All I had to do in return was to reoffer the land sale to the alderman and create a convincing scenario in which our subterfuge would be accepted by her husband. Of course, I concocted some cock-and-bull story, sold him the land cheap and he swallowed my story hook, line and sinker. There was, however, a small caveat: I informed Alice that Stella must remain with me, until . . . well, until I’d finished with her. It seemed only fair after I’d had to lose a great deal of money . . . but I have to say I have had my money’s worth.

  “You’ve been flailing around in the dark all this time, having scraps of misleading information dropped into your lap, and those deceptive inaccuracies have led you to a very dark place where you really don’t belong. You’ve come for the wrong person, Mr Ellington; you should be talking with Alice Linney at this moment, not me. She’s a rather devious lady, you know; I was rather impressed with her, deadlier than the male, all that sort of thing.

  “It’s a pity that because of her there have been so many unnecessary deaths, so many deceits. She is clearly the one with the real business acumen in the marriage, you know. And she has a much darker talent for treachery than I would never have credited a woman with possessing. Alice Linney is quite a cruel beast. I wonder if her poor husband knows that.”

  40

  I was having real trouble taking in everything that Blanchard had been telling me.

  “I don’t believe anyting you’ve just said, Blanchard, and if I did it don’t explain why you’d need to keep Stella like she was some caged animal. You didn’t need to keep her under lock and key. Let’s face it, you hadn’t any worries about her blabbing to anybody, she can barely read or write. Who could she have betrayed you to fo’ Christ’s sakes?”

  My mouth was dry and my body trembled with anger.

  “Let’s just say that I prefer to keep my personal life away from the prying eyes of others. I wasn’t concerned about betrayal, but I was concerned about putting myself at any risk. Mistakes are made, accidents happen, people talk, Mr Ellington.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard ’bout the private parties you been holding here of late. They seem to have a lot of prying eyes taking part in them. Tell me, did you pass her around to your buddies or just keep her to yourself?”

  “That’s an interesting question coming from the man who’s supposedly here to rescue her. Stella’s an asset to my little fellowship. All precious items draw the attention of interested parties. The discerning guests who attend the Erotica Negro are no different. They appreciate items of quality and distinction. It would have been churlish to have denied them the pleasures of Stella’s individual peculiarities.”

  “You sick son of a bitch, how’d the hell you sleep at night with all that crap rattling round in your head? You may be dressed like a gentlemen but you got the scruples of an alley cat, mister, you know that? I’ve had enough of this . . . It’ll be a pleasure to drag your ass into Bridewell police station later. I know a Detective Inspector Fletcher there who will be real interested to meet you and that shitbag Mickey Warren. By the way, if you’re thinking he’s gonna come running to your rescue in a minute you got another think coming. He’s sleeping off a smack in the mouth I gave him in your stables out back. Now take me to where Stella is!”

  Blanchard walked back to his desk and leant against the front of it, then looked at me head on his furtive eyes that I knew were looking for a chink in my armour, a weakness that he could take advantage of. Like all predators, he was out to make a kill.

  “As I said to you a moment ago, Mr Ellington, handing over Stella to you was never going to be an option. Surely you didn’t think I would confess the truth to you without considering the implications of such a precarious decision. I have what you would call a back-up plan. But I’ll let Mr Grey tell you all about that . . .”

  For a split second from the corner of my right eye I saw the razor-sharp blade of a machete coming towards my outstretched arm as the colossal frame of Papa Anansi appeared from behind the velvet drape and charged towards me. I instinctively threw my body backwards as Papa Anansi lashed out and fell past me, but his machete made contact with the barrel of my gun, knocking it
out of my hand and spinning it across the room. Seeing this, Blanchard sprinted towards the bookcase, stumbled, then disappeared down steps behind a concealed door in one of the panels. I recovered just as Papa came at me swinging the knife viciously at my chest and head, and I backed closer up towards the fire. He lashed the bush-cutter close in front of me a couple more times, and as his arm drew back to come at me again and I dropped down low and struck out hard at his shin bone. Papa wailed out in pain. I saw a brass poker sitting in its stand in the hearth only a few inches away from me, and grabbed it and managed to block the Jamaican killer’s next ferocious blow towards my head with it. I struck out with the metal spur but missed him, then as I went to strike at his shoulder Papa sidestepped me and smashed his boot into my stomach, sending me across the room and knocking the wind out of me.

  I knew I was in trouble and, gasping for breath, I tried to crawl across the carpet on my elbows to create some distance between me and the giant, but he came back at me with tremendous speed. I kicked out at him weakly, and as I went to hit out again Papa growled at me, “Stay on yo’ ass, you piss ant!” He savagely put the boot into my chest, doubling me up in pain. I lay on the floor helpless as he stood over me. I could see his cold, black, shark-like eyes staring down at me unemotionally from behind large strands of matted dreadlocked hair that hung over his pox-scarred face. He shot me a look of merciless scorn, then dragged a throatful of mucus into his mouth and spat it at my chest before raising the machete above his head, ready to unleash his rage down on me.

  “You are one dead Bajan pig!”

  I shut my eyes, dug my fingers into the carpet and waited for the razor’s edge to slice into my flesh.

  The unexpected noise of the shotgun firing was deafening. I felt warm, sticky liquid splatter across my face and neck, and the harsh stink of burnt meat and cordite filled my nostrils. I opened my eyes to find Papa Anansi still standing above me; his muscular arms were now hanging loosely at his sides, the machete still limply held in his hand. I stared at the jagged twelve-inch gaping hole where his guts had once been before the pimp fell to his knees in front of me. Both eyeballs protruded as dark blood oozed from his mouth, and he let out a final desperate gasp for life. It was the last thing Papa did as he hit the floor dead at my feet. I heard the familiar to-and-fro action of another cartridge being loaded into the pump-action’s breech and saw Vic standing in the doorway, gazing down at the man he had just killed. His face was hard and resolute.

  He casually strolled across the room and picked up the Colt 45 pistol, then returned and stood over me, holding the gun by its barrel for me to catch hold of. I reached up for it and took the walnut grip in my trembling hand. Vic let go of the barrel and gestured with his outstretched palm to help me up. I felt a sharp pain in my ribs as my cousin got me to my feet, and we stood looking at each other for a moment before Vic spoke.

  “I thought I told you to holler out if you got into trouble, fool!”

  I pointed to the door in the opened panel of the bookcase. “Pass me a torch, Vic, Blanchard’s disappeared down here.”

  We made our way down the stairs with the faint light of the torch. I gripped the 45 in the other hand as we warily made our way towards a glow coming through an arched doorway at the bottom. Vic was a couple of steps behind me and held the Spencer shotgun shoulder height in front of him. As we neared the foot of the stairs, he put his hand on my shoulder as a warning: that’s when I got the first unmistakeable whiff of gasoline. I gestured to Vic with the flattened palm of my hand to get him to stay where he was, then made my way down towards the open door and walked into yet another large, poorly lit room.

  “Be careful where you’re standing, Mr Ellington, and I’d advise you not to take another step – not unless you want to go up in flames, that is.”

  Terrence Blanchard stood drenched to the skin in fuel in the centre of an alabaster-walled cellar. From its low ceiling hung a series of candelabrum fittings each lit with a series of candles. In the walls around, five feet up, were a series of small recesses that all held large wax lights, their tapers glowing, helping in a small way to illuminate the miserable-looking crypt. I looked down at my feet to find that I was standing in a pool of gasoline, then stared back up to Blanchard, who was now holding a silver cigarette lighter at arm’s length: his thumb was sitting on the plunger button and a discarded jerrycan had been emptied then flung across the floor.

  “I’d be correct in assuming you’ve come looking for your prize?”

  Blanchard slowly took a couple of steps to his right to reveal a large white stone platform, around three feet high, with a mattress at its base. Curled up in a ball on top of it was Stella Hopkins. A long length of iron chain had been bolted to the wall; it ran along the base of the plinth and was attached securely to her slim ankle.

  “She’s quite all right, Mr Ellington, sedated, but quite all right. She means more to me than you will ever understand. When Stella is resting, as she is now, I always like to think of her as being a princess in a fairy tale: a real Sleeping Beauty, don’t you think?”

  “I think she looks like a young black woman who’s been chained to a wall!”

  I took a step forward; my hand squeezed at the grip of the 45.

  “Don’t take another step, you bloody fool, not unless you want the whole place go up like a scene from Dante’s Inferno . . .”

  Blanchard raised his left arm, the palm of his hand outstretched.

  “‘I come to lead you to the other shore, into eternal darkness, ice and fire.’”

  “What the hell are you talkin’ ’bout, man? Now put that lighter down on the ground real slow and back away over to that side wall.”

  I nudged the barrel of the 45 towards where I wanted the barrister to move, but he ignored me.

  “Interesting that you should mention Hell . . . Well, I couldn’t have put it better. Dante once said that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in a period of moral crisis maintain their neutrality. Neutrality! That’s what I’ve been trying to achieve while you’ve been sniffing around, Mr Ellington, to maintain a sense of the impartial, to be . . . detached. I’ve let others concern themselves with the complications that have arisen from Stella being here, with me.

  “I have mixed in circles you cannot imagine, Mr Ellington, from princes to the kings of the underworld, and I know a lot about the criminal mind: too much, you might say. Suddenly you realise there is no difference between them; all have their failings, their weaknesses, so it was easy to find people to supply my private little gatherings and the discreet errands I needed carried out using men like Mr Grey, or Papa, as you know him. I take it from the strident gunshot that I heard resonating around the building a short while ago that Mr Grey has joined his . . . fellow lowlifes, in Hades. That’s a pity, but no great loss in the grand scale of things. However, the gun you’re holding in that hand of yours didn’t create such a deafening noise, that came from a more powerful weapon, no doubt fired by the other black bastard that tags along with you.”

  Vic swung around from behind the wall and slowly came and stood at my side, the pump-action pointed directly at Blanchard’s head.

  “You want me to blow this crazy ole fucker’s face off, JT?”

  Blanchard didn’t give me the chance to reply and took a step forward with the lighter poised in front of him.

  “Stop right there! At your feet and liberally dispersed around this room, and doused over myself and young Stella there, is enough petrol to eradicate any trace that any of us have ever been here. I have no intention of letting either of you walk out of here alive, and I do not relish the thought of having to face any of my fellow barristers in court, so, as I said before, one has to have a back-up plan.”

  Blanchard swiftly put his hand in to his pocket, drew out a small slip of paper and held it out at arm’s length, and then pushed down the plunger of the lighter. A small blue and yellow flame flared up into the air. Vic edged forward and Blanchard drew the paper towar
ds the short jet of rising fire, holding them inches apart. I held out my arm to keep Vic from moving any further.

  “So, gentlemen, enough is enough, this is where it all ends . . . I don’t know about either of you, but I’m not afraid to die. And the truth is I like secrets and I think I’ve told enough of them tonight . . . Goodbye!”

  Then before either of us could say anything to him or move, Blanchard touched the paper into the lighter’s flame, then dropped both at his feet, igniting his whole body in a ferocious ball of fire. The floor awakened and erupted into a carpet of flames.

  Blanchard’s piercing screams were lost in the commencement of the firestorm; now, with his arms reaching out, his engulfed form began to run towards me. Vic stepped in front, knocking me out of the way, and pulled the trigger of the pump-action, hurling Terrence Blanchard’s fire-consumed body across the cellar and slamming it into the wall.

  I snatched the shotgun out of my cousin’s hands and screamed, “Git the fuck outta here, Vic!” Then I burst through the intense blaze towards where Stella was shackled. I forced another round into the pump-action’s breech as I ran and fired towards where the chain was secured, blowing the manacle out of the wall and releasing the heavy metal restraint. I threw the gun down at my feet and stood over Stella’s fragile, unconscious body. I grabbed up the blanket at edge of the mattress and covered her with it, then hooked my arms underneath her back and drew her slight frame close to me.

  When I turned to face the bonfire that was raging all around me, I could just about see Vic through the choking smoke and brimstone. He was yelling out to me from the doorway, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the conflagration that was exploding in front of where I was standing. In my head I heard the cries of my wife and child, calling out to me to come for them. I closed my eyes, pulled my coat over the back of my head the best that I could, then ran out into the fiery holocaust. As I launched myself across the burning room through the scorching heat of the cellar, I could feel the intense heat burning at the tail of my coat and the skin starting to blister on my calves. Then Vic’s huge hands reached out to me from the doorway and we fell into his waiting arms. He yanked Stella from me, then turned and carried her up the stairs towards Blanchard’s study.