Bone Machine

by Martyn Waites

  Donovan pushed harder. The car gathered speed.

  The Snake looked at Donovan, frowning. Then straight ahead. Realized what Donovan was about to do.

  He pushed the gun towards Donovan, shouted something. Donovan ignored him, pushed harder, his world shrunk down to the two prongs sticking out before him, coming ever closer with each second.

  Get it right. Or go down too.

  The Snake tried to prise Donovan’s hands from the wheel. Donovan didn’t budge.

  The forks loomed up.

  No going back.

  Donovan pushed harder.

  Shouted to Katya to brace herself. Had no idea whether she heard him.

  Gave himself the same advice. Hoped that God, if He existed, was with him.

  The car hit.

  Donovan turned his head to the right, closed his eyes. Brought one arm up to shield his face.

  The windscreen shattered. The thick steel blade of the forklift punching through the glass, catching the Snake in the chest as he made a lunge for the door. The blade impaled him to the seat, as thousands of glass razor shards rained into the car.

  The car skidded away to the right, the weight of the forklift pinning the Snake’s body in place, the force of the car pulling his body along, ripping him open as it went. A piercing wail sounded out louder than the screech of metal on metal as the Snake struggled to detach himself from the impaling fork, as it tore both himself and the seat out of the car.

  The car smashed sideways into a container and, with a squeal of metal, came to rest.

  Donovan opened his eyes. Shook his head. Shards of glass fell from his hair. He felt his face, looked in the mirror. Cuts and slashes where the windscreen had exploded, but pretty superficial, nothing too deep. Nothing that would leave him scarred for life.

  He felt his chest. Tender. The seat belt had saved him from too much damage but bruised his ribcage. He would ache for days. He checked his body. Still in one piece. He flexed his legs. Still attached. And unbroken.

  He looked out, saw the Snake’s ruined body, now just a ragged collection of used flesh, hanging from the front of the forklift.

  Donovan exhaled deeply, checked the back seat. Katya was curled up foetally, arm wrapped protectively around herself, jammed in between the back and front seats. Tiny shards of glass glittered like diamonds on her body.

  Donovan got out of the car, pushed the seat forward, leaned in.

  ‘Katya? Katya?’

  She turned slightly, wincing from the pain, opened her eyes.

  She was alive.

  Donovan smiled. ‘Katya …’ He put his arms around her, cradled her.

  She tilted her head up.

  ‘Did you … Is he dead …? The Snake? Is … he dead?’

  Donovan glanced at what was hanging from the forklift.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Katya closed her eyes. Relaxed against his arms.

  The sirens were almost on them.

  Michael Nell stood before Peta. She recognized him straight away. Cries of pain and anguish came from the basement. The Historian trying to pull the knife out. Her eyes darted between the man in front of her and the door at the top of the staircase.

  ‘What have you done to Anita?’ screamed Nell again. Then heard the screams coming up the stairs. ‘And what have you done to him?’

  ‘I’ve not done anything to Anita,’ said Peta quickly. ‘Nothing at all. It’s the guy who owns this place. It’s him. He did this.’

  Nell frowned. ‘Graham? Graham did this?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peta. ‘Graham.’ The screams abruptly stopped. He must have managed to pull the knife out. Peta had no time. She decided to push it. ‘Your friend. He did this. That’s him downstairs. He was going to kill her.’

  ‘Don’t talk shit.’

  ‘He was, Michael. He was going to kill her and he was going to kill me. He kidnapped her.’

  Footsteps began on the stairs. Slow, painful ones, accompanied by dark mutterings. He was coming up. And she doubted he would be unarmed.

  ‘You’ve got to believe me, Michael. He zapped her with a stun gun, tied her to the chair. He was going to kill her. Like he’s done with all the other girls. The one’s you got blamed for.’

  Nell looked as if his head was about to burst. He looked frantically from the door to Peta, to Anita.

  ‘I … I used his studio … I took photos here …’

  The footsteps got louder.

  ‘I know you did. But that’s all. Just photos. He did the rest. Graham. He killed them. Used them for his experiments, he said. He killed my friend Jill. And that’s what he was going to do with Anita.’

  Michael Nell flinched at the words as if they were physical blows.

  ‘Kill her. Slice her body up.’

  ‘No …’

  The Historian reached the top of the stairs, flung the door open, knife in hand. He stopped, confusion etched on his face. Saw who was there. Opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘You bastard!’

  And Nell was on him. Fists, kicks rained down on him. The Historian backed away towards the basement. In his haste to get away, he lost his footing, stumbled backwards down the stairs. Nell gave him no quarter, was straight down after him.

  Peta slammed the door shut behind them, turned the key in the lock, slumped to the floor in front of it. Looked at Anita, who was beginning to stir.

  ‘In a minute,’ she said, ‘I’ll have you out of there in a minute.’

  She dug out her phone, put in a 999 call. Told them all the details, asked for Nattrass by name. Pocketed the phone, sat back.

  Sounds travelled up from the basement. Unpleasant, violent ones. Peta tried to block them out.

  She closed her eyes.

  Snapped them open again.

  Her phone was ringing. She answered it.

  ‘Oh, hi, Jamal.’

  Listened.

  ‘Oh, no. Oh, shit …’

  48

  Donovan stood in the centre of Albion’s ruined office. The weak sunlight was having trouble penetrating the closed blinds. He was alone in the shadows. Trying to find respite, peace. He looked around.

  Spaces where computers should have been, files strewn all over the floor, broken doors left hanging. Then the next strata of upheaval overlaid: SOCOs’ remains. A sign on the front door read: CLOSED FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE.

  He couldn’t see very far into that future. All he could see was the past. Playing it over and over in his mind. Tyne Dock and its fallout.

  It was like some mad nightmare. No matter how many times he played it over, he was still unsure of the correct order of events and his part in them. Memories came back to him like snapshots of dreams, were fired towards him like acrobats out of cannons, tumbling and changing.

  Standing in the rain, wreckage all around him, sirens getting louder, he had called Sharkey for protection. Then he remembered being strapped and boarded into the ambulance, taken to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Gateshead. Prodded, poked, examined for spinal injuries, concussion. None found, he was advised to go home and take painkillers for the pain that would strike him in a few hours’ time.

  Asking the doctors about Katya. Being told the bullet had torn mainly through muscle, miraculously missing lungs and major arteries. She was expected to be up and around within a week. Sharkey telling Donovan she was then likely to be sent home. Since the criminal she was going to testify against was no longer alive. Donovan didn’t have the strength to argue.

  He remembered trying to sleep after that, but seeing only Tyne Dock, death, the impaled body of the Snake. Seeing him again when he opened his eyes.

  Seeing the news, Nattrass and Fenton talking about apprehending Michael Nell and their capture of the killer who had been terrorizing the city. Then hearing who the killer’s two final, intended victims were. And dropping the coffee mug he was holding.

  Then getting a phone call, hurrying to the General Hospital. Peta and Jamal waiting at the front
desk, Peta white-faced and red-eyed, Jamal a frightened child. The nearest thing he had to a family. His heart ached to see them like that, ached even more when Peta told him about Amar. Donovan not being able to take it all in, having to sit down. Still critical but stable. Still unconscious. They didn’t think the bullet had caused any spinal or nerve damage, but it was too early to tell. They would have to wait.

  Shaken and damaged, the three retreated to Peta’s house. None of them could talk. But all of them sharing the pain. Eventually their bodies, drained and tired, couldn’t function any more. They slept, slumped on sofas and armchairs.

  Donovan couldn’t sleep for long. When he closed his eyes he saw Christopher’s body explode again next to him. He looked around. Had to get out. Not wanting to disturb the others, he rose and left the house, slipping the lock into place as quietly as he could. He needed to get some fresh air, some perspective. He thought his walk was aimless, but found himself standing outside the Albion offices. He skipped under the police crime scene tape, let himself in.

  Stood there.

  A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he shouted.

  A muffled voice replied to him. He recognized it.

  ‘Come in, then. It’s open.’

  Footsteps in the hall. Then Turnbull appeared in the office. He looked around the place, took in the destruction, eyes fell on Donovan standing in the middle of it.

  ‘Christ, they did a number on it all right,’ he said. Donovan nodded.

  ‘Here.’ Turnbull extended his arm. In his hand was a carrier bag. ‘For you.’

  Donovan took it, opened it. A bottle of Laphroaig, still in its tin. Donovan looked at him.

  ‘Said I’d replace it,’ said Turnbull.

  Donovan almost broke into a smile. ‘And it’s not cheap shit, either.’

  ‘Get the glasses out, then.’

  Donovan went into the kitchen. Thankfully, damage there was minimal. He brought back two glasses, swung an office chair round, sat on it. Turnbull did likewise. Donovan unsealed the bottle, poured.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  They drank. Sat in silence.

  ‘So,’ said Donovan eventually, ‘you here to run me in?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Turnbull. ‘You’ll have to make a statement, you’ll be questioned, but I doubt it’ll go any further. I’ll get you out of it. I owe you one.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You too.’

  Talk turned to Nattrass and her double collar. ‘Should have seen it sooner,’ said Turnbull. ‘Used a stun gun he must have bought off the internet. Should have known from the unidentified bruises. We were checking where Nell’s studio was. Pity we didn’t find it quicker.’

  ‘Easy to be wise in hindsight,’ said Donovan.

  ‘Yeah. And the cellar. Full of freezers. And the freezers full of body parts.’ Turnbull shook his head. ‘We’ll be trying to put those together for months.’

  ‘Doubt you’ll have much luck,’ said Donovan. ‘Think how many girls just disappear every month. Girls who no one even knows are here.’

  Turnbull nodded his head sadly, sipped his whisky. ‘Yeah. But we got the result. Good work all round, I suppose.’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Donovan. ‘Should have been a simple job for my team. Put in the hours and go home. Now look what’s happened to Amar. Look what Peta went through.’

  ‘And you.’

  Donovan nodded.

  They talked some more, the conversation getting looser and more inconsequential as the whisky kicked in. Eventually Turnbull stood up.

  ‘Better go,’ he said.

  ‘Back to the office?’

  ‘Given the rest of the day off. Thought I’d go home. See what’s there. Start salvaging.’

  ‘Good idea. Will you still have a job to go back to?’

  Turnbull shrugged. ‘Hope so. What about you?’

  Donovan shrugged. ‘Stick around here for a bit. Go over to Peta’s later. Visit the hospital. Start picking up the pieces.’

  ‘Rebuild Albion?’

  ‘Yeah. I hope so.’

  The two men shook hands. Turnbull left.

  Donovan stood alone in the room again, the whisky swirling around his head. He took another shot, finding his thoughts calmer, his way forward clearer. Then another to capitalize on that feeling. Then another just to be sure.

  He sighed. Wondered what to do next. How to start rebuilding.

  Further thought was cut short. His mobile was ringing. He answered it.

  Sharkey.

  ‘What?’ said Donovan, preparing a verbal volley. But Sharkey’s tone, his words, silenced him.

  ‘What?’ asked Donovan again, his tone more serious this time.

  Sharkey paused. ‘It’s David,’ he said.

  Donovan swallowed hard. Waited.

  ‘Your son. We’ve found him.’

  Find out more about books by Martyn Waites and Tania Carver on his website:

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