Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  Doctor Reeve motioned towards the barn. ‘Move.’

  Angel approached the doors, her heart beating fast, her footsteps dragging, her head a whirl of uncertainty. Should she make her move now or wait until she was inside? There was no way she could be a hundred per cent sure Mark was in the barn unless she waited. But by then she would almost certainly have to tackle two men at once, and her chances of success, already slim, would be reduced to virtually zero.

  ‘This is the end of the line for you, Grace,’ said Doctor Reeve.

  That decided Angel. If she was going to do anything, it had to be now. She pulled out the knife and turned to face the psychiatrist. His eyes widened momentarily, then a smile of cruel amusement spread across his lips. ‘And just what do you think you’re going to do with that?’

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  ‘Only if you can dodge bullets.’ Doctor Reeve pulled the Glock’s trigger. Nothing happened.

  In the blink of an eye, Angel covered the few paces between them. Doctor Reeve just had time to let out the first note of a scream before she sunk the knife deep into his throat. ‘Not too clever, are you?’ she spat, wrenching the knife out and lodging it between his ribs.

  Doctor Reeve swung the gun at Angel, catching her a glanc­ing blow to the head. The gun span out of his grasp, clattering to the ground several metres away. With the knife still in him, he pushed past Angel and staggered towards the barn, emitting a gurgling, wheezing sound from his throat.

  Angel dove for the gun. She snatched it up at the same moment the psychiatrist began hammering his palms against the barn. One of the doors scraped open. Light flooded out, framing a powerfully built man in black military-style fatigues and a bomber jacket. The man had dark brown hair and eyes. She’d never seen him before in her life. In his gloved hands, he held a handgun.

  Angel flicked off the safety catch, took aim and fired. The first shot hit Doctor Reeve in the shoulder. He twirled like a crazed dancer before he fell. The second hit the man, punching him onto his back.

  Warily, Angel got to her feet and approached the doorway. The psychiatrist was lying on his side, limbs flung out at odd angles. He didn’t appear to be breathing. His accomplice lay unmoving too, his eyes closed. A wisp of smoke rose from a bullet hole in his chest. The impact had knocked the gun from his hand onto the bonnet of a black Range Rover. Next to the four-by-four was an inconspicuous little red car. And slumped on the floor beside the car was a figure in a dressing-gown with a cloth bag over their head. Mark! The name rang out in her mind, but instead of relief it brought gut-twisting anxiety. He was here, but was he alive? The bandages had been cut away from his shoulder, exposing a bloody mess of torn stitches.

  Oh God, let him be alive. Please let him be alive. The plea filled Angel’s mind as she stooped to retrieve the knife from Doctor Reeve’s body, then darted to Mark’s side. She removed the bag, revealing eyes wide and blinking with fear. The fear faded to uncertainty as the eyes took in Angel’s relieved expression. She peeled the duct tape away from his mouth. He spat out a rag and gasped, ‘Grace?’

  Angel wanted to say, No, but she made herself nod. ‘You’re safe. Everything’s going—’ She broke off. She’d been about to say, Everything’s going to be OK. But that would have been a lie. Everything was not going to be OK. Not now. Not ever. Her eyes dropped away from Mark’s.

  He groaned as she started sawing at the plastic handcuffs. When the knife cut through the cuffs, his right arm dropped to his side and hung there like a dead thing. He examined the red welts where the cuffs had bitten into his wrists, slowly flexing the life back into his left hand.

  ‘Can you walk?’ asked Angel.

  ‘I think so.’

  Angel helped Mark to his feet. With him leaning heavily on her, they made their way to the doors. ‘I was right,’ Mark exclaimed upon seeing Doctor Reeve. ‘He is one of them.’

  Them. The way Mark’s mouth twisted on the word made it clear to Angel who he was referring to. She jerked her chin at the other man. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He called himself PC Stone.’

  ‘Well I’d say it’s a fair bet that’s not his real name. Let’s see if he’s got any ID.’

  Angel rifled through PC Stone’s pockets but came up empty-handed. She turned her attention to Doctor Reeve, remembering that he had Herbert’s book. She reached into one of his trouser pockets and pulled out a bunch of keys. At that instant, PC Stone’s eyes flicked open.

  ‘Watch out!’ cried Mark, but his warning came too late.

  PC Stone grabbed the Glock and twisted it from Angel’s grasp. His other hand drove deep into her stomach. She crum­pled, breath whistling through her teeth. PC Stone righted the gun in his hand and swung it towards her.

  ‘No!’ shouted Mark, kicking the gun out of PC Stone’s grip. It skittered away underneath the Range Rover. He snatched the broken spoon out of his sling and stabbed it at PC Stone’s left eye. His aim was good, but there was little strength behind the blow. The sharp plastic tip pierced the eyeball, but didn’t push through it into the brain behind. PC Stone screamed, clutching at the spoon and flinging it aside. Tears of blood spilled from his eye. In an attempt to stem them, he pressed his palm against the wound. His other hand groped for the gun.

  Mark pulled weakly at Angel. ‘Come on.’

  Still winded, she pushed herself to her feet. Leaning against each other like wounded soldiers, Mark and Angel staggered away from the barn. ‘Can you drive?’ she gasped as they neared the Audi.

  ‘Yes, but you’ll have to work the gears. I can’t move my right arm, so I’ll have to steer with my left.’

  Angel stopped suddenly, muttering, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘The book. I’ve got to go back for it.’

  ‘What book? What are you talking about?’

  Angel started to turn towards the barn, but Mark grabbed her arm. ‘You’re crazy. You can’t go back there.’

  ‘I have to!’

  Angel jerked her arm free, sending Mark stumbling to his knees. At that instant, the crack of a gunshot echoed through the night. PC Stone emerged from the barn, swaying like a drunkard, gun in hand. Angel threw herself towards the Audi as a second shot rang out. Sparks flashed off the bonnet. She yanked open the door and dived across the driver’s seat. Mark crawled in behind her. ‘Where are the keys?’ His voice was loud and panicked.

  Angel thrust them at him. Staying hunched low, he put the car in gear. Then he reached across himself to start the engine. Another shot. The rear passenger window exploded, spraying glass over them. Mark pressed down hard on the accelerator. The front wheels span and screeched, but the car didn’t move.

  ‘The handbrake!’ cried Angel. ‘Release the fucking hand­brake!’

  Mark did so and the car lurched forward, climbing a verge and hitting a hedge. He wrenched the steering-wheel leftwards and the car veered back into the lane. A fourth shot sounded, the bullet thunking into the back of the car. Then they rounded a bend and the barn was hidden from view.

  ‘We did it!’ Mark laughed shrilly, a wave of euphoria rushing through him. ‘We fucking got away.’

  ‘We’re not home free yet,’ warned Angel. ‘He’s got a car, remember?’

  Mark’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. There was no sign of pursuit. ‘He won’t come after us. Not with his eye all messed up.’ He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself of what he was saying.

  They were on a long, straight stretch of road that cut between hedgerows overhung with trees. A mile or two in the distance streetlights marked the outskirts of a built-up area. ‘Where are we?’ asked Mark.

  ‘No idea.’ Angel hugged her arms across her stomach as though she was cold, her forehead gathered into deep furrows. ‘I shot him in the chest. Why wasn’t he dead?’

  ‘Maybe he was wearing a bullet-proof vest.’

  Angel nodded, knowing Mark must be right. She hugged herself tighter, exhaling a strangled groan
of despair. She’d lost the Glock. Even worse, she’d lost the little black book. She had no way of tracking down the Chief Bastard. It was over. Everything was over! The Chief Bastard would remain unpunished and free to continue destroying children’s lives. Her face twitched with tormented, impotent rage at the thought. It flashed through her mind to tell Mark to pull over and let her out so she could return to the barn. It would be little more than a suicide mission, but it would be better to die that way than to live with the knowledge that she’d failed.

  The engine flared and cold air whipped in through the shattered window as Mark put on a burst of speed.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Angel.

  ‘I thought I saw headlights in the mirror.’

  Angel twisted to look out of the rear window. There was no sign of following headlights. Maybe Mark’s fear was making him see things that weren’t there. Or maybe their pursuer had cut his vehicle’s lights. She realised with a leaden thump of her heart that she couldn’t leave Mark, not until she was sure he was safe. But where’s safe? she wondered. The hospital? The police station?

  A short distance up ahead the lane split into a Y shape. ‘Cut the lights,’ said Angel.

  Mark did so, plunging them into moonlit darkness. ‘Which way?’

  Angel pointed to a gap in the hedge. ‘Go through there.’ Her breath whistled as the Audi juddered along a rutted farm-track. ‘Stop and turn off the engine,’ she said, when the lane was hidden from view by a grassy hollow.

  They sat in silence, ears straining for the sound of approach­ing engine noise. A minute passed. Two minutes. Nothing except for the slight rasp of Angel’s breathing disturbed the silence. Mark blew out his cheeks. ‘I think we’ve lost him. What now?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Angel speared a glance at him, suddenly resentful of his need for her help.

  Mark blinked, taken aback.

  Guilt tugged at Angel. The last thing Mark deserved was her anger. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just I haven’t got a clue what now. I never expected to be sitting here with a hitman on my arse.’

  ‘Is that what he is, a hitman? I thought maybe he really was a po…’ Mark’s voice wobbled and trailed away. He swayed forward as a wave of faintness washed over him.

  Angel caught him, her hand slipping on the blood streaming from his shoulder. ‘We need to sort your bandages out.’ She pulled the bandages back up, but it was too dark to see what needed to be done to keep them held in place. ‘I’m going to switch the light on.’

  ‘What if he sees us?’

  ‘We’ll just have to risk it. Better that than you bleeding to death.’

  Angel snapped on the interior light. She cut two strips off Mark’s gown. He groaned as she used them to tie the bandages tightly over the jagged gash. ‘Thanks,’ he said hoarsely, when she was done. ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘You don’t owe me a fucking thing.’ The sharpness was back in Angel’s voice. She switched the light off, more because she couldn’t bear to see the gratitude in Mark’s eyes than because she feared discovery.

  A moment passed, then Mark said tentatively, ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question about Stephen Baxley?’

  Angel made no reply, but the tension in her silence was so palpable that Mark’s voice snagged in his throat. His need for answers quickly overwhelmed his nervousness. ‘How did you meet him?’

  Angel remained silent for so long, he thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then in a low, intense voice, almost as if she didn’t want Mark to hear but felt compelled to speak, she said, ‘Do you know the Devonshire Green skate-park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I used to hang out there after school. There was this guy. He must have been about thirty-five or forty, and he always wore a grey flasher’s mac.’

  Mark frowned. He had a vague recollection of his so-called father owning just such a coat.

  ‘Not that he ever flashed anyone, or anything like that,’ continued Angel. ‘He just used to sit watching the kids on their skateboards.’

  Mark exhaled with revulsion. ‘Jesus, what a creep.’

  ‘Yeah, he was one creepy fuck. If I saw him now, I’d spot him for what he was in a second. But back then all I saw was a lonely bloke with nothing better to do than sit on a bench. A harmless saddo.’

  ‘How did you get talking to him?’

  Angel was silent for another long moment. Then she began quickly, as though watching her memories flash by on a screen. ‘I’d had a run-in with my dad. He’d rolled in from the pub after work with a skinful inside him, same as always. I knew as soon as I saw his bastard eyes that things were going to turn to shit fast. He used to get this look in them, like the sight of Mum and me made him want to puke. He hadn’t been in the house for more than a minute when he found some excuse to go off on Mum. I got between them, so he belted me too. I’ve still got a scar on my chin where his wedding-ring cut me. I ran out of the house. I didn’t stop running until I got to Devonshire Green. I can’t remember if I was crying. I must have looked sorry for myself because your dad—’

  ‘He wasn’t my real dad,’ broke in Mark, his voice laced with loathing.

  ‘Sorry. Stephen asked if I was OK. I told him to piss off, but he didn’t leave. He offered me a hankie for my chin.’ Angel’s voice became faraway as she burrowed deeper into the soil of her memory. ‘He didn’t ask how I’d got cut. He just looked at me, waiting for me to speak. And after a while I did. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because of his eyes. I remember thinking he had nice eyes. And once I started talking I couldn’t stop. Things I’d never meant to say came out. I told him how my dad was always beating the crap out of me. And how I hated him so badly I wanted to kill him. I’d never talked to anyone about that stuff before. My mum made me promise not to. It felt good to get it all out. He said he understood how I felt because his dad used to beat him up. He told me he ran away from home when he was fifteen and never went back.’

  ‘That was a lie. He lived with his parents until his early twenties. He was just trying to gain your trust, I suppose.’

  ‘Well it worked. Over the next few days I got into the habit of stopping by his bench for a chat. He had this way of listening that was different to any other adults I knew. He made me feel…’ Angel searched for the right word, ‘special.’

  ‘That’s funny. He made me feel the exact opposite,’ Mark observed in a wry tone.

  ‘He was very good at making people feel what he wanted them to feel. I found that out later on.’ Angel heaved a breath. ‘So anyway, I told him how I wanted to run away but didn’t know where to go. And I told him how sometimes I thought about killing myself because it seemed like there was no other way out. That’s when he offered to help me. He said a friend of his had an empty flat I could use. I was too naive to think he might want something in return.’ Another silence. Another heavy sigh. ‘We arranged to meet up in a few days. When the day came – I think it was a Thursday – I skipped school, returned home after my parents had gone to work and packed a bag. Then I went to Devonshire Green. Stephen was waiting in his car. He was really nervous. He made me lie flat on the back seat. Then he drove to The Minx and left me in the car while he got the keys to the flat.’

  ‘The Minx? What’s that?’

  ‘A strip-club on South Lane. His friend owned the place.’

  ‘What was his friend’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’d like to find out.’

  Mark’s forehead wrinkled. The Stephen Baxley he knew mixed with businessmen, financiers and politicians, not strip-club owners. ‘Maybe it was someone he knew from back when he lived in Park Hill.’

  ‘Stephen lived in Park Hill?’ Angel said, surprised.

  ‘He grew up there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have known it from the way he spoke.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he made a big effort to lose his accent. The only time it ever came out was when he got angry. Do you reckon this friend of his could be one of the men from the bas
ement?’

  Angel thought about the Chief Bastard. She thought about his smooth, respectable face, his polished, cut-glass accent. Not exactly the character traits you associated with a strip-club owner from Park Hill. Of course, the Chief Bastard could have dropped his accent too. A doubtful frown shadowed her face. She’d worked in numerous strip-clubs. Their owners had all been hard-bitten, rough-talking men. In their line of business, such pretensions would be seen as a weakness, not an advantage. ‘It’s possible, I guess.’

  ‘You don’t seem convinced.’

  ‘Whoever they are, they’ve got some seriously shady con­nections in the north-east.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because it was a friend of Stephen’s friend who took me to Newcastle.’

  ‘Why were you taken to Newcastle?’

  Angel rubbed her forehead. Mark’s questions were starting to make her head reel. ‘Keep your gob shut a minute and I’ll tell you. The flat was a grotty little place, but I didn’t care. For the first time in my life I didn’t have to be afraid of my dad. It’s hard to describe how that made me feel. It was… it was like I could suddenly breathe.’ As if to emphasise the point, she inhaled deeply. Her breath seemed to snag on something, and she coughed for a moment before continuing. ‘Stephen and I talked for hours. I don’t remember what about. I do remember that he suddenly kissed me. Then we fucked.’

  ‘He forced himself on you.’

  ‘He didn’t have to. I wanted to repay him for his kindness. He didn’t want money, so I gave him the only other thing I had to offer.’ A snarl came into Angel’s voice. ‘What I should’ve done was stick a knife in the dirty bastard.’ She paused to swallow her anger before resuming. ‘After that first night, Stephen came to see me every few days. He’d bring me magazines and clothes, and he cooked for me. We went on like that for weeks, maybe even months. I lost track of time. I never left the flat. The outside world seemed to barely exist any more. Then one day he said he had some friends who wanted to meet me. He took me to a big house out in the country. I’d never been in a place like that before. I remember thinking to myself that whoever lived there must be really important.’ A contemptuous hiss sliced through the darkness. ‘What a dumb little bitch I was.’