“She’s going to share that stash if it kills me.”
“It’d better not,” she replies.
He looks down at her with a smile.
“They’re coming out!” Finn whispers and moves closer to Deacon.
“Don’t worry, we’re well hidden,” he placates, sensing her anxiety then turns his attention back to the warehouse.
He hears the clack, clack of Saskia’s boots, harsh across the open space then watches as she struts over to the van, flings the door open and sits herself inside, sliding up to the middle seat. Murray slinks in next to her, gaunt with his red hair thinned to almost nothing, then Sergei gets in to drive.
“Murray really does look like a wreck!” Finn exclaims.
The engine starts, and the van swings backwards with a screech of tyres, speeds out of the compound, and disappears down the street.
“No respect!” Deacon mutters as he watches the van disappear. “He’s an idiot—didn’t let the engine warm up nor nothing.”
“Does that matter?”
“It does if you want to keep that van on the road. Anyway, Carl’s still inside.”
“So, we can’t go in?”
“So, we do go in. It’s a perfect opportunity to talk to him.”
“What if he doesn’t want to listen?”
“Well, we’ll take what we want anyway—I won’t let him stop us,” he says and steps out from behind the tree. “Come on,” he beckons. “Let’s relieve Saskia of some of her stash.”
Finn laughs as she runs to keep pace with him. A flicker of happiness creeps into his soul and he takes great delight from the anger and rage he knows Saskia will drown in when she discovers what’s about to happen.
It was only the start of payback for that witch.
“Stop here,” Saskia demands as they reach the top of the road.
Sergei presses gently on the brake and brings the van to a stop just before the turning down to the club.
“What now?”
“Now, we get ready,” she replies. “Shift, Murray.”
He coughs and leans his head back against the seat’s headrest.
“I said shift,” Saskia repeats, her voice becoming shrewish.
Here we go! And she doesn’t think she’s like mother! “Come on, Murray!” Sergei chides. “Best do as you’re told.”
Murray jerks in the seat as Saskia jabs at him with her elbow.
“I swear, Murray,” she says, her voice another tone higher. “If you don’t shift I’ll-”
“For the love of … you’ll what Saskia? Make my life hell?” Murray shouts banging his fists down on the dashboard. Sergei watches and frowns as the man sags, his head leaning forward. Something was wrong, and not just his frustration at Saskia’s demands. “It already is hell, woman!” he says turning to her, his voice deep with pain. His eyes are bleared red and tears seem to be clouding his eyes.
“Well, I-”
“Oh, shut up!” he says rasping.
“Are you, OK fella?” Sergei asks, trying to deflate the situation. He can’t stand a scene. His heart always starts beating that bit quicker and his belly clenches when they start at each other. Too much like a déjà vu. Too much like home.
“No, Sergei, I’m not. Look at me. Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I don’t realise that I’m nothing like the man I was even two months ago?”
“Well, I guessed something was up—you’ve gotten thin, mate, but-”
“My life’s over!” he shouts, staring at Sergei and then holds Saskia’s gaze. “I’m dying Saskia. I know I am. I can feel it in my … in my soul,” he says, barely able to hold back a sob as he beats at his chest with his fist. “And you,” he says staring hard into her eyes, “are making my last days on this earth hell!”
Saskia remains silent as Murray stares at her, and Sergei watches as a tear rolls down Murray’s cheek as he searches Saskia’s face for a response.
“Haven’t you got anything to say, Saskia? Hasn’t our time together meant anything to you?”
Saskia stiffens in her seat. Unable to see her expression, Sergei watches Murray as he waits for her reply. He frowns at her silence.
“Huh?”
“If you’re not going to help us get rid of this gang of rats, then you’d best get out,” she says with finality.
Murray’s eyes widen and his face drops. Sergei gets another glimpse of death and looks away, screws his eyes tight and clenches his jaw.
“You’d best do as she says, Murray,” he mutters as he looks out at the bank of trees that line the road’s verge.
The door handle clicks and he listens as Murray steps out. Saskia shifts in her seat and the door slams.
“Well,” she says, “how rude!”
Sergei sighs. “You really do have a way with people, sis.”
“I do, darling brother. Now, let’s get rid of these new rats!”
Carl turns at the sound of footsteps as they echo in the cavernous shed. They couldn’t have been to the club and back already, and the guns and crossbows were packed ready for action in the back of the van, so there was no need for them to come back. Unless … He smiles. Unless they were beaten back. Now wouldn’t that be a turn up for the books!
Deacon stands almost filling the doorway and behind him stands another figure.
“Hey!” he calls in greeting although his belly rolls. He’d liked this giant of a man the first time he’d seen him back at the pub, him and the lad … He stops, his memory flitting from the scene in the pub to Saskia’s cackles as she’d recounted the fire at the shop. His hand half raised stays frozen mid-air as he remembers that the boy was dead along with that other teenager. Just kids! Saskia was just as bad as that Morgan bloke—just as ruthless, perhaps worse, because she got a kick out of hurting people and he, well, he guessed he was just a white-collar criminal. Saskia—she was criminally insane and a psycho to boot.
“What can I do for you?” he says as though Deacon stepping into Saskia’s domain happened every day of the week. Deacon takes another step forward. “You’d best not come in any further. They’re only down the other end, and if they catch you they-”
“We saw them leave, Carl,” Deacon replies, blowing away his defence.
“Right. Well, you’d best not come in anyway. You’re not Saskia’s favourite person, and you know what she’s like.”
“Yeah, a queen bitch,” the woman retorts as she steps beside Deacon.
“Hah! Well, you could say that.”
“She’s insane.”
“Yeah. I think you’re probably right on that score, so you’d best go. What you doing here anyway?”
“We’ve come to take our share,” Deacon replies, stepping closer.
Carl takes a step back. “No, you can’t take nothing!” he replies, a knot twisting in his belly. “Last time I let someone take something Saskia didn’t let up on me for weeks.”
“You helped us before, Carl,” Finn replies. “Cassie said you were good to her. You helped the kids when they were desperate.”
“Yeah and I paid for it,” he replies pushing his hand through his hair at the back of his head. The lump was still there, along the tenderness, where Saskia had cracked him.
“I’m sorry about that,” Finn continues. “But we said a prayer for you when we ate the food,” she says smiling.
Carl looks into her eyes. She’s got a good heart, he can tell.
“Well …”
Deacon steps forward again. “I can tell you’re not like them, Carl,” he says with a flick of his head towards the doors.
Carl shakes his head in agreement.
“From what I see, and I can figure out people pretty quickly, you’re a good bloke. You’ve just got yourself tangled up with these psychos.”
Carl nods his head and watches Deacon closely. He was a burly man, muscular and broad-shouldered. His dark hair and beard were getting wild, but there was kindness in his eyes—not like the weasel sneer of Murray, or the cold hate from Saskia.
“There was no one else. My missus died early on—they all died so quick. Murray was the only one left around here—at least I thought he was until he hooked up with Saskia and Sergei.”
“I understand, Carl,” Deacon continues. “Which is why I’m going to make you an offer.”
“Offer?” Carl asks, his brows knitting in confusion.
“Yep. Come work for me.”
Carl’s eyes widen as he processes what Deacon has said.
“Work for you?”
“Yes. You said it—we all need people—we need to stick together if we’re going to survive. There’s plenty of room at the pub—you’d get your own room. I’ve sorted it so the fireplaces work again and we’ve got fresh meat-”
“Fresh meat?”
“We set traps and hunt,” Finn explains.
“Yes, Carl. Fresh meat, and we’ll soon have fresh vegetables and fruit too.”
“And we’re not psychos,” Finn adds.
“Well …”
“Listen, Carl. Together we’re stronger. We can fight people like Saskia and Sergei and start to build a better life,” Deacon continues.
The thought of a warm fire, fresh meat, and what he imagines will be good company, is enough to convince Carl. “I’m in,” he replies with conviction. Perhaps they could be his new family? “So, I hope you’ve brought a van. I’m not keen on lugging a load of boxes up that hill to the pub.”
A weight seems to have lifted off his shoulders as he leads Deacon and the girls down the aisle and points out where the tinned food is stashed. For the next ten minutes the warehouse echoes with thuds and clanks as boxes, tins and dried food is collected and dumped into the wheelbarrows Murray had ordered him to fetch from the hardware shop. He’ll be glad to see the back of that mean, lazy bugger!
“I think we’ve got enough for this time,” Deacon says with a satisfied grin as he returns from the van parked outside.
Saskia was going to hit the roof when she realised the van was gone along with the food. The thought makes him giggle, but his belly rolls. He wanted to be far, far away from here when she did. There was no way he wanted to suffer that particular fallout!
“Just in time for lunch,” Finn laughs as she walks at Deacon’s side.
“Shall we go?” Deacon suggests.
Carl takes a final look around the warehouse with its stacked shelves, and then to the mattress with its grubby and crumpled sheets. That rancid hag wouldn’t be able to force him to sleep on them again! He turns to Deacon with a sigh of relief. “Let’s!”
Murray staggers back along the road, Saskia’s cold eyes still boring into his mind as he replays her last words. The road ahead seems blurred and he stumbles, cockling over onto the tarmac as his foot catches the kerb. He lurches almost half-way across the road until he steadies himself. A bird flaps, then disappears into a nearby tree, as he continues along the road. No cars, so no need to go back onto the path. He struggles to make sense of his thoughts and his body is consumed by a pain he’s never had to endure. If only he could get back to the warehouse, he’d lie next to the fire and die wrapped in his blanket—the only ease left for him. Godforsaken, that’s what it was. Oh, lord, why have you forsaken me? At the outer reaches of his consciousness, a rumble grows. Unable to focus clearly, something looms in the distance. Is this it? Is this the light? He stops, reaches out his arm as the brightness approaches. Take me. Lord, take me. He drops to his knees and sags down, his head bent. Something bangs and then he hears voices too muffled to understand, senses a pressure on his shoulder, and all becomes black.
Chapter 10
“What’s wrong with him?” Finn asks as Deacon bends over the crumpled body in the road.
“He’s sick,” Deacon replies.
“He looks dead.”
“Maybe he is,” Carl adds. “I think he may be dying. He’s got so thin the past few weeks especially, and he’s just been knackered—no use to anyone. Saskia’s been doing her nut about how lazy he is.”
“What should we do?” Finn asks.
Deacon looks down at the man. His instinct is to help, take him to hospital and let the doctors save his life, but this is Murray, and Murray burnt any bridges that may have been built when he helped Saskia burn down the shop.
“Nothing,” he replies.
“Nothing?” Finn asks.
“Harsh,” Carl says.
“Life’s harsh,” Deacon replies. “We’re going to have to get used to it.”
“But he’s dying on the road!” Finn adds with feeling.
“He is,” replies Deacon, remembering Kit and fights the urge to help. He stands tall again and turns away. Murray groans.
“Come on,” he says and turns back to the van.
“Are you really going to leave him, Deacon?”
“Yes, Finn. I am,” he replies with finality. Perhaps whatever broke in him when Kit died won’t ever be mended.
Sitting back in the driver’s seat, he starts the engine, takes a final look at the crumpled figure - just a bag of bones really - and steers the van to the right. As the van pulls away, he checks in the rear-view mirror. The wind is rising, but other than the movement of the last strands of Murray’s hair swaying in the wind, and his jacket flapping, the body is completely still.
Jackson stares back at Frank, watches as the man struggles against Dirk and Aaron. He jerks, pulls forwards, then staggers back as they hold him fast.
“So,” Jackson says looking straight into Frank’s angry and narrowed eyes. “We’ve finally found out who it is.”
Frank spits across the room, and the gob of mucus lands on Jackson’s boots, sliding in its spittle to the sole. He takes a step forward, raises his arm and slaps Frank hard across the cheek. Dirk yanks him back and Jackson waits in silence until the man is still.
“You know the rules, Frank.”
He makes no reply, just pulls at his arm again.
“You know the punishment.”
Frank grunts.
“You should do. We sat together, you and me, and worked them out.”
“So?”
“So?” Jackson exclaims. “What the hell’s happened to you, Frank?”
“I was hungry.”
“We’re all hungry, Frank. What if we all went round taking what we wanted? Huh?”
“Listen, Jackson. I was here before you. It was me who found you. Remember?”
“Sure I do, but listen, we agreed on how things would be. We agreed the punishments. We agreed that if anyone was found breaking the rules then that’d be it. End of discussion.”
“Sure, but-”
“But?”
“It’s me, Jackson!”
“You? You better than everyone else then? The rules don’t apply to you?”
“Pack leader’s privileges.”
“Pah! There’s only one boss around here, Frank, and that’s me.”
Frank pulls against the men standing either side.
“This gives me no pleasure,” Jackson lies, “the rules are clear, anyone found guilty of stealing food has to be punished.”
Frank grunts again. “This is ridiculous!” he spits. “It was only a tin of spaghetti hoops!”
“Aaron, take him outside. Make sure he’s hog-tied.”
“Sure,” Aaron replies and pulls at Frank.
As he stands his ground Aaron pulls harder and Frank staggers forward.
“We’ll do this quick. Get it over and done with,” Jackson continues, calling to Frank as he leaves the room. He looks to Trina at his side. “So, where we going to hang him from then? I was thinking that tree across the road would work. Or perhaps the goal posts on the field.”
Saskia ducks down beneath the top of the fence as the doors of the club swing open and a huddle of men, angry and jerking, stumble out of the doors. A man’s voice, loud and insistent, sounds across the gravel, and she listens as his grunts are followed by a thud then scuffling. Some sort of fight on the gravel perhaps? Sergei at her side, she rises again,
the toes of her boots resting on makeshift brick steps, and peers into the compound. More people are leave the clubhouse and gather round the struggling man. His jacket and hair are smeared with dirt. Another man, his blond hair flopping over his forehead, sits on his legs tying his wrists together. Saskia wobbles on the makeshift bricks and her nose catches the top of the fence. She teeters on her heels, a spike of pain scratches at her top lip, and she yelps.
“Shh!” Sergei reprimands as the blond twists his head at the noise.
She teeters again and tumbles off the pile of bricks, her ankle cobbling as she falls. Landing heavily on the grass, the corner of a brick jabs into her hip and she yelps again.
“For crying out loud Saskia!” Sergei hisses as he stares down at her. “They’ll hear you.”
“Are they coming?”
“No, but that’s no thanks to you!”
“Oh, shut up!” she returns testily.
“Shut up yourself,” he spits back and stares back over the fence. “They’re up to something with that bloke.”
“You don’t say!”
Pulling herself up, her spiked heels sink into the grass. Why the hell couldn’t people just concrete this crap over, she wouldn’t have to put up with muck on her boots then!
“Yeah. There’s a load of them outside now all taking a look.”
“Who’s in charge?” she asks as she steps back up onto the bricks, she wobbles again.
“Steady on! Not sure. It looks like it could be that bloke standing next to the tiny brunette,” he explains pointing a finger out into the compound.
She searches the group. Yes, that would be the leader, she was sure. He has an air of superiority about him and a strength she recognised. There must be at least fifteen of them! She’d have to get Carl, Loz and Sergei to make sure the warehouse was even more secure. If this lot got to find out about it they’d have real trouble on their hands, forget about Deacon and those girls, these were the real deal.
“What do you think they’re going to do with him?”
“How would I know?” she replies with irritation. “But it looks like he’s really peeved them off.”
“That’s an understatement.”
The Path to Destruction Page 5
