I KILL

by Lex Lander

  All this happened faster than the telling, and ended when the room diffused with light. I was on the floor, winded, pinned there by Stephen Bloore.

  ‘Andy, for God’s sake, man!’

  ‘Get the hell off me,’ I snarled, and as if in a daze he complied at once.

  We both stood up. A circle had formed around us and the mood was ugly: the men glowering, the women shrilly resentful. Two men were examining the TV.

  ‘It’s fucked,’ one of them growled.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ some female demanded.

  More ominously and male: ‘Let’s sort the bastard.’

  Too maddened to be scared, I rounded on Stephen. ‘Give me that DVD.’

  ‘You gone bonkers, Andy?’ He was genuinely upset. ‘I invited you here as a friend …’

  ‘And I’m asking you as a friend. Give me that DVD.’

  A collective growl arose. Several of the men closed in on me, but I elbowed them aside and went for Stephen.

  ‘The disc …’ I took him by the lapels and shook him. ‘I want it.’

  ‘Well, you can go and fuck yourself, mate.’ Our friendship was gone beyond recall. He wrenched free. ‘Let’s have him out,’ he said to those nearest to him. The circle around me contracted, forcing me back into the window recess.

  It was all very businesslike. They manhandled me out of the room and down a corridor, past the banquet hall. I went unresistingly to the inevitable eviction, since I couldn’t hope to prevent it. No violence was offered. Unless you count the culminating boot up the backside that drove me down the terrace steps to an all-fours touchdown at the bottom. A woman laughed jeeringly.

  ‘Don’t come back, will you?’

  I got up painfully, both knees bruised, my pants ripped. ‘If I do, you’d better not be here.’

  Derision accompanied me as I hobbled over to the Merc. I reversed out of the line. The crowd began to stream back into the house for further helpings from the carnal feast. I drove away, stifling the urge to work off my fury and humiliation on the car. Once out of sight of the house, I stopped and waited, with the engine running and the heater blasting.

  Minutes crawled by. I did a three-point turn and chugged cautiously back towards the house on sidelights, until the terrace, which was flanked by several outside lamps, came into view. Nobody around. About fifty yards on a clump of evergreen bushes grew, twice the height of a man. I reversed in beside it. Through gaps in the foliage the entrance to the house was visible, as I had hoped it would be. I settled down for a long wait, serenaded by Radio 2’s hits from those swinging sixties.

  People began to leave at around two in the morning. The departures were very orderly. Cars drove past my hiding place at regular intervals until only a yellow Chrysler Viper and a DB7 were left, and still Stephen Bloore remained inside. It was close to three o’clock when he finally emerged, his scrawny girl friend clinging to his arm and staggering a little. Lady Marcia was with them, also shaky on her feet, a champagne glass in her hand. Kisses to the cheek were exchanged all round.

  ‘Sorry about all that shit with my friend,’ I heard Stephen say. ‘My ex-friend, I mean. Send me a bill for the damage.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, dahling,’ Lady Marcia retorted.

  As I secured my seat belt, the yellow Viper trundled past. I let it get as far as the road before starting the engine. A car like that would be easy to follow, provided Stephen didn’t play boy racer.

  Luckily for me, he drove responsibly, even sedately. When you have that many horses on tap you don’t need to flaunt it. We headed along the A412 and in due course joined Western Avenue in the direction of the city. At this hour, even London’s traffic sleeps. Keeping the Viper in view without being spotted called for some nifty acceleration at stop lights, but I managed to stick with it as far as the West End, and only once jumped a red.

  Stephen’s destination was a mews off the Fulham Road, coming into Chelsea. I left the Merc on a meter space just around the corner. Moving smartly and staying in the shadows, I loped down the short access drive. Just in time I came to where the drive opened out into a courtyard, to see him unlocking his front door. His girl friend was being sick by his feet and he was cursing her without much consideration for sleeping neighbours.

  Now I knew where he lived. I left without hurrying. I would be back.

  The gun I needed was of a rather special genre. Illegal in the UK and consequently unobtainable over the counter. Anyone without connections would have more chance of tracking down the Lost Treasure of the Incas than of getting hold of such a weapon. It so happened that I had such connections.

  In the bleak, wind-seared dawn, with daylight still below the skyline, I packed my bags. Breakfasted alone on coffee. Wrote a brief note of thanks and farewell to Julie and Willie and the girls. I couldn’t have faced them this morning. Their cheerful, busy, bustling, so-very-normal company would have served only to underscore Lizzy’s plight. And what a plight. At the mercy of people without moral or scruple: used, abused, debased. Who knows what physical and psychological damage she might have sustained. Some of it might be irreversible.

  The thought of it was a jagged edge sawing at my nerves. So I shut my mind to all but my immediate, urgent mission. Slipped out, making less commotion than a dormouse having a bad dream.

  On the edge of the village of Nuper’s Hatch, just inside the M25 between exits 27 and 28, stands a dairy farm. It is a working farm, with cattle, a herdsman, a milkmaid, and a dog. And a very special owner. The farm makes no profit from its livestock. Mad cow disease and the collapse of market prices killed all that years ago. Even so, it will continue to trade for the foreseeable future because its real income is derived not from its farming activities, authentic though they were, but from what goes on in a purpose-built cellar below the barn.

  Here reposed an Aladdin’s Cave of firepower. I doubt whether even a hundred people had ever seen the inside of it. Visitors were allowed entry only by appointment and recommendation.

  The Genie of the Lamp was a Catholic Ulsterman, one Tagd Corry. A human scarecrow, stooped, gaunt and bloodless of complexion, with hands that arthritis had made into talons and fingernails that were perennially dirty, notwithstanding his millionaire status. He greeted me with a cheerful hail in expectation that I was about to spend some money. For why else would I be here?

  ‘Top o’ the morning, Tagd,’ I said with a grin.

  The basement was a good seventy feet long, and divided into two unequal sections: a firing range occupied nine-tenths of the floor space. Windowless and soundproofed to the ultimate degree. The other tenth was given over to a small stockroom-cum-office. It was there we went first, for what Tagd termed the “professional consultation”.

  ‘It’s been a while, Mr A,’ he observed, from the opposite side of his scarred desk, squinting at me through glasses with round lenses and skinny black frames. “Mr A” was the only name he knew me by.

  ‘I’ve been working abroad a lot lately. No reflection on you or your merchandise, I can assure you.’

  ‘It’s to be hoped not. As far as I’m aware I’ve never lost a client other than through natural causes. Or …’ The rogue-ish grin almost made him look human, ‘is it unnatural causes I’m meaning?’

  I chuckled politely at his black humour.

  ‘I need two items, Tagd. A shotgun and a handgun, plus ammunition for both.’

  Tagd fingered his Adam’s apple. It was so pronounced it sagged over the knot of his tie.

  ‘Is that it?’ He rocked back on his chair and hoisted furry black eyebrows towards his hairline. The distance was not great.

  ‘Not quite. I’ll be taking the handgun with me when I leave, but I’ll be returning it possibly later today or tomorrow, for shipment to the Continent along with the shotgun. To Holland.’

  The eyebrows seemed to have set at mid-forehead level.

  ‘Holland, is it? That won’t come cheap, I’m thinking.’

  ‘I couldn’t care a flyin
g fart. Just do it and bill me. I’ll give you the usual on account.’ The usual being £1000 on top of the price of the hardware.

  Tagd made no notes. Behind the Neanderthal brow there pulsed a brain of Mensa proportions and a memory to match.

  ‘The shotgun,’ he said. ‘Any preference? I can’t recall selling you a shotgun before and that’s a fact. Handguns only, I’m thinking.’

  ‘You think right. This is a one-off.’

  ‘Unique, is it? So what’s your particular pepper pot: Smith? Franchi? Beretta? They’re all in stock.’

  I made a negative sound. ‘You wouldn’t have a Stakeout, by any chance?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Tis clairvoyant y’are, to be sure. ’Twas only yesterday I picked up a pair of the beauties. Not many of my clients ask for Ithacas. If they want a pumper with a pistol grip they usually go for the Smith.’

  ‘Just shows how ignorant they are.’

  Tagd produced a bunch of keys and took them to the stockroom, which was separated from the office by a heavy gauge wire mesh partition. He disappeared behind the ceiling-high racks and I heard the clink of metal against metal and the rattle of chain.

  The Ithaca he returned with was second-hand. Nowadays Tagd rarely trafficked in new weapons, largely because the cost of smuggling them in had risen beyond the willingness of customers to pay, whereas a used firearm, being already in circulation, carried no such penalty. He bought selectively, personally reconditioning every gun. He even gave a guarantee, albeit of the unwritten variety. His reputation was that solid.

  While I played with the Ithaca, testing the smoothness of the magazine pump and getting a feel for the trigger pull, Tagd rustled up more goodies. A trio of handguns whose only common denominator was that they were all revolvers, plus a variety of cartridges to fit. Disregarding them for now, I loaded three no. 8 Birdshot into the magazine tube of the shotgun.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said, and Tagd did his stuff with the keys again to admit us to the firing range.

  In contrast to the down-at-heel office the range was lavishly, you might almost say lovingly, equipped, with static and moving-figure targets, all illuminated. A computerised scoreboard and headphone ear mufflers were suspended over each of the three shooting stalls. Tagd spent his money where it counted.

  Accuracy tests aren’t necessary for a shotgun, and I wished only to satisfy myself that it functioned as a gun should function. Not that I really had any doubts. Tagd’s own trials would have been infinitely more exhaustive.

  Tagd indicated that I should fire into the bank of sand at the base of the target zone. I clunked a shell into the firing chamber, set the safety catch and ascertained that the trigger was now locked solid. Messy accidents I could do without.

  Safety off, I held the gun at the hip. Having no butt stock the Ithaca Stakeout can’t be aimed. You just thrust in the general direction of the target, and let the spread of shot do the rest. But you can’t intimidate unless you (a) have full confidence in your weapon, and (b) are prepared to use it with lethal intent.

  Inside the headphones the first shot was no louder than a carpet beater in action. The recoil, on the other hand, was savage. A stockless shotgun calls for the firmest of grips. The sand convulsed, and that was all. That was fine, all I had expected. The only evidence that I had fired at all was the gun smoke pricking in my nostrils, and even this was swiftly drawn away through some unseen extractor vent.

  Tagd, lounging in the next stall, headphones in place, nodded his satisfaction. I loosed off the second and third cartridges close together. God, it could kick! It was years since I had last used a stockless shotgun, and I had forgotten about the backlash.

  ‘Does the other one kick as hard?’ I asked, removing the headphones.

  ‘About the same. Are you wanting to try it?’

  ‘No, I can cope. Let’s see how these handguns of yours perform.’

  Back in the office I played with all three revolvers in turn. Swinging out the cylinders, thumbing the hammers, assessing their pointing qualities, testing the trigger pull. Tagd knew his guns and his customers, and the selection was not arbitrary: a Smith & Wesson Model 28 Magnum, a.357 Korth, identical to the model I already owned, and, lastly and of moderate interest technically-speaking, a chromed Uberti Inspector, a.32, made in Italy. The two magnum pistols had 4-inch barrels, the best compromise between bulk and ballistics; the Uberti was an inch shorter.

  We returned to the firing range.

  ‘Roll ’em,’ I said to Tagd, who was lighting a cigarette – awkwardly, on account of his arthritic digits. He nodded and set the moving targets in motion. They were representations of comic book gangsters with fedora hats, cigarettes drooping from the corner of the mouth, and Chicago-style Thompson guns.

  With my twelve rounds from the Korth pistol I scored alternate head and heart hits, and not a single miss. Tagd stood at the back of the range, ear-muffed and smoking languidly. Once, when I glanced at him while reloading, he made an appreciative circle of forefinger and thumb.

  ‘You can’t buy better,’ he conceded when I told him to wrap the Korth, ‘or pay more.’ He left the cigarette in his mouth as he spoke, just like his cardboard gangsters.

  ‘I know it. Let me have fifty rounds with it, will you? And a shoulder kit. And don’t forget the slugs for the shotgun. Special Grade, huh?’

  He gave me an intent look. ‘No problem.’

  From a Gordian knot tangle of leather straps and webbing I extracted a Horseshoe shoulder holster. It was the older pattern with the back-welt that pushes the gun forward for the fastest possible draw. Again we removed to the office, where Tagd did sums on a desk calculator.

  ‘That comes to £3,467.28.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I’ll knock the twenty-eight pence off as it’s yourself.’

  No Value Added Tax, naturally. This was not the kind of transaction you record. Without comment on the amount, I made out a cheque drawn on a Swiss account for SwF5000, which, depending on the rate of exchange on the day, would convert to something approaching £3500. My name on the cheque was a pseudonym.

  Tagd scrutinised it. ‘’Tis indeed an honour to do business with you, Mr A.’

  ‘I’ll bet you say that to all your customers.’

  Tagd laid a plain brown box, the size of a large book, down on his desk.

  ‘Let me load it before you pack it,’ I said.

  Again that intent look.

  ‘Would you be taking the shoulder rig?’

  ‘No. Send it to Holland.’

  The Korth fitted the box exactly. A few strips of parcel tape to keep the lid on, and I was ready to sally forth.

  ‘If all goes well I may be back later today or sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll be looking after the shotgun for you meanwhile, don’t you worry.’

  ‘So long, Tagd.’

  He saw me off the premises. Up the steps, through a hydraulically operated trapdoor cover, camouflaged with a stuck-on layer of straw. With my purchase locked in the trunk, I drove back towards the city, exceeding no speed limits, jumping no lights. Nothing beats an illicit cargo for converting you into a model motorist.

  It was after mid-day when I came to the mews off Fulham Road. Wispy snowflakes were curling down from a darkening sky as I rolled into the courtyard. The Viper was there. As far as I could tell it hadn’t been moved since last night.

  As I got out, the windows of the cottages stared blindly at me from all sides, reflecting that dirty-looking sky. I opened the trunk and ripped apart the box and filled my hand with the meaty grip of the Korth. A snowflake settled on my nose, melting instantly. Others tumbled around me, thicker, faster, as plump as goose down.

  I thrust the gun down inside my waistband, buttoned my jacket, and crossed the few yards of cobblestone to the door of Stephen’s cottage. It wasn’t locked, so I barged in and was getting my bearings when Stephen erupted from the woodwork, his face suffused with outrage.

  ‘What do …?’ was the full extent of his expostulations be
fore the sight of the Korth shut his mouth.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ I demanded.

  ‘Who?’ The outrage was receding fast. ‘You mean Emilia? She’s in bed … upstairs. What the fuck is this all about, Andy?’

  ‘Shall we find someplace more comfortable to talk?’

  He became sullen. ‘If you say so.’ He led the way into a long, L-shaped room; a dining area occupied about a third of the floor space.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, and wagged the Korth at him. He sat on a dining chair and glared. ‘I’ve come for that DVD.’

  He groaned. ‘For fuck’s sake, not that again!’

  ‘ And I want the name of your supplier.’

  ‘You must be round the bleeding twist.’ He was recovering fast now. Maybe he reckoned the gun was just a prop.

  I eased the safety catch off. It sounded loud in these still surroundings. Though a busy thoroughfare was less than twenty yards away, no traffic noise penetrated.

  A stair creaked. I spun round as Stephen’s bedmate walked unsteadily into the room, using the wall for support. Wan of complexion, brown hair bedraggled, last night’s make-up still clinging on. A Kate Moss clone. Wearing Stephen’s bathrobe, by the look of it; the sleeves hung below her fingertips.

  ‘Give him what he wants, Stephen.’ Her voice was listless.

  ‘Keep out of this, Emilia,’ he said, a warning glint in his eyes.

  ‘It’s good advice,’ I said. ‘I’d take it if I were you.’

  The girl, Emilia, subsided inelegantly to the floor, letting her head flop against the wall, as if the strain of holding it erect was too much for her.

  ‘The DVD,’ I said easily to Stephen. ‘And a name – or I amputate a toe without anaesthetic.’

  Perhaps it was the offhandedness of the threat that gave it impact. Truculence faded and uncertainty took over.