Retribution

by Jay Nadal

  Retribution

  Jay Nadal

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Current book list

  Stay in Touch

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Published by Jay Nadal@282publishing.com

  Copyright @ Jay Nadal 2016

  All rights reserved.

  Jay Nadal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Foreword

  Hi there, it’s Jay Nadal here. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my writing with you. My books are set in the coastal resort of Brighton on the south coast. For the Brightonians amongst you, you’ll recognise many familiar locations in my scenes.

  Brighton offers such a vivid and diverse landscape that it makes it a pleasure to incorporate many well-known settings that bring my writing alive.

  If you want to keep in touch, then connect with me below and join my VIP early readers list:

  Join up to my advance notification list here.

  Prologue

  Christopher Johnson gazed through his study window as the darkness of the night enveloped him. The warmth of the summer sun still hung in the air long after its global orb of light disappeared below the rolling hills of the Sussex Downs. A tall brass, antique nightstand towards the back of his room illuminated the darkness. The soft glow from a lamp cast a faint shadow across the hundreds of books that filled the built-in bookcase. Row upon row of worn volumes displayed on wooden shelves that extended the full width and height of one wall.

  As the evening wore on, he found it increasingly harder to concentrate. His thoughts whisked him away at every opportunity, far from the countless hours he’d already spent reviewing the books. How many bloody ways were there to explain the impact of conflict and change in the Middle East c.1914–1995 on modern-day society in the region? So very dull, he’d decided.

  Many hours at his desk had left him tight and knotted. He leant back in his vintage chesterfield dark red leather captain’s chair. The leather squeaked beneath him as he shifted, the 1940s wooden frame creaked like the timbers of an old sailing ship from a bygone era. His back and shoulders cracked as the tension eased. It was the least of his worries. His weak arthritic hip locked, forcing him to lean to his right to release the seized joint. He rubbed the tender area as it clicked. To the left on his desk, stood a tall pile of books that he still needed to work through. To his right, a half glass of Merlot, his third tonight which helped to numb the monotony of his work and melt away the stress of the day.

  For company tonight it was just him, his books and the relaxing sounds of Tristesse by Chopin, wafting from his well-worn mini-CD player positioned on a small mahogany coffee table. The energetic and atmospheric tones of the music left his senses sated. The dramatic rise and fall in tempo stirring the air and taking his mind on an intoxicating journey.

  The music was just loud enough to mask the sound of the intruder. His footsteps softened as he walked on the thick plush red hallway carpet that led to the study. He’d chosen his footwear carefully. The bare wooden parquet floors of the hallways and walkways of the main building magnified sound, making it impossible for a silent approach.

  Johnson was deeply engrossed in his work, flicking through pages, humming along to the music, whilst tapping the end of his pen on the dark mahogany desk. The overpowering smell of mellow Virginia pipe tobacco clung like a mist in the air. Faint clouds of smoke floated gracefully as they swirled and danced around the room in no particular direction, their trails illuminated in the glow of the light.

  The ornate brass handle on the old mahogany door turned millimetre by millimetre. The intruder opened the door just wide enough to peer around the edge. From his vantage point, he could see Johnson at the far end of the room in front of the window. The fool hadn’t heard him coming, dozy sod. You’ve made this far too easy. A bus could have driven past you and you wouldn’t have noticed it.

  The intruder crept forward one step at a time, his body moving in perfect synchronisation with each slow steady breath. He was just a few inches behind his target as he raised his left hand, the thin blade of the knife glinting in the light.

  Johnson froze as the feeling of the cold steel blade pressed against his neck. Terror gripped him; his drowsy senses loosened by the wine willed him to fight back. He swallowed hard as he stared ahead, his eyes wide open in fear. From his seated position, he could see the reflection of the intruder standing behind him in the darkened window, his face masked in a balaclava.

  “Get up,” the intruder said in a calm and measured tone.

  “What is it that you want?” Johnson’s voice quivered.

  “Retribution.”

  The intruder repeated his demands again as he pressed the blade against Johnson’s neck, his right hand yanking the man’s collar from behind, pulling him out of the chair.

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “Retribution? I don’t understand,” Johnson asked in abject terror. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades as he tried to keep his body from shaking. “My wallet is in my jacket. Take it. There’s fifty pounds in there. Here, you can take my watch. Take anything you want. Just don’t hurt me,” he said holding out his wrist.

  “Come with me,” he repeated more forcefully this time, yanking Johnson who stumbled and almost fell. But only almost.

  He marched Johnson through the hallway and downstairs, leading him out of the back door into the darkness of the night. Johnson squinted hard, desperately trying to adjust to the blackness. Confusion and panic forced bile to sour his throat.

  The intruder had waited for this moment. He’d planned this for many years. He’d chosen his spot in the forest, a place isolated enough where no one would disturb them, or hear the man’s screams.

  The masked intruder pushed Johnson. The half crescent of the moon provided enough brightness in the blackne
ss of the night to illuminate the edge of the forest. Johnson struggled to keep pace as he was pushed and shoved along, forcing him to stumble on the uneven ground, a mixture of heather and gorse tangling in his feet.

  The two men arrived at a small clearing. All along Johnson had been insistent, his bravado surfacing occasionally, demanding an explanation. He’d receive none. He was thrust down to the ground, the intruder now looming above him, holding the knife just inches away from Johnson’s face.

  “It’s your fault. You’re to blame. You let it happen and you did nothing,” the intruder said reciting the Latin phrase Ignavus iners timidius tu mori debes. Johnson being well versed in Latin challenged the intruder. “I’m not a coward. I don’t deserve to die. What the hell is this all about?” he shouted in fear, bucking upwards in a futile attempt to throw the intruder from his prone body.

  “I want you to admit your guilt. I want you to beg for forgiveness.”

  Johnson started to cry, his frustration boiling over as he pleaded for his safety. “I can’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re going to die anyway. You don’t recognise me, do you?” the intruder said through gritted teeth as he unmasked his face.

  Despite the darkness, Johnson studied the man’s exposed features. “You?…but you’re…”

  The steel blade pressed further into Johnson’s neck.

  “No, think back…much further back,” the intruder insisted.

  Johnson studied the man hard. Certain features bore a resemblance, a striking resemblance in fact, to someone he once knew. The realisation hit him, his eyes widening into shocked orbs. Johnson’s jaw dropped as if it had become unhinged, the magnitude of his situation sinking in bone-deep. As deep as the cold, unyielding earth below his own face. Tears started to well in his eyes, fear turning his stomach into knots. “I can’t say anything. They’ll kill me. I swore I’d never say anything.”

  The intruder waved the knife in the man’s face with wicked intent, pressing the tip into Johnson’s cheek causing a small nick, the first signs of precious lifeblood glistened in the night sky.

  “You have a choice. You die by the sword or you hang,” he said looking towards the noose that hung from a strong branch.

  Panic consumed Johnson. His head spun, his chest heaved and he struggled to breathe as bile raced up his throat once again. He was old now. Once he’d been a junior wrestling champion afraid of no one and fought opponents older and bigger. Now he was a former shell of his past virility. He had very little chance of overpowering the man, and an even slimmer chance of outrunning him.

  The desperate plight of his situation spun his mind like a tornado, his thoughts colliding into each other. He found himself submerged in a dire hole, and tried to rationalise it. Perhaps he could talk his way out of this, but the wine had dulled his ability to think clearly. Or the fear. He fought back.

  “This can’t be. No. This is ridiculous, but…but…no you won’t get away with this.” The words tumbled out as he struggled to draw ragged breaths. Even though he wasn’t making sense, he continued to plead. To poke a hole in a psychopath’s twisted logic. “You can’t make me do anything. You’re just trying to scare the shit out of me!”

  “You’re right. I can’t make you do anything so I’ll make the decision for you.”

  The intruder flung the knife down on the ground, before leaning down and punching Johnson hard in the face, dazing him in the process. He grabbed him by both collars and hauled him up, before delivering several more blows to the man’s stomach, forcing him to double up in agony and crumple to his knees.

  Offering Johnson no compassion or mercy, he dragged him along on his knees. He pushed and pulled him in the direction of the noose, forced the noose over his head and yanked up the slack before Johnson could wriggle out of it. Johnson fought hard to remove the rope from his neck, but he was a fraction too late. The intruder started to pull hard on the rope as it tightened around Johnson’s neck. Johnson screamed, as both of his hands gripped either side of the rope. He struggled, thrashing and kicking in a desperate attempt to release the pressure from around his neck. Ragged inhales racked his torso as his lungs fought to take in oxygen.

  The intruder used all his strength to haul the rope up just high enough to lift Johnson’s feet off the ground. His muscles tensed, forcing him to grit his teeth and use every last drop of energy to lean back into the pull. The forest floor offered little grip as the overgrown grass and dead vegetation robbed his shoes of any firm footing.

  Johnson fought with every drop of energy that hadn’t been sucked out by fear; desperate to pull down on the rope so that his feet could still remain in contact with the ground, affording him precious seconds to take a few more gasps of air. Spittle tumbled out of his mouth; his eyes bulged as the pressure increased, crushing the veins in his neck and starving his body of oxygen. His mind swirled like a dark vortex as confusion took hold, the light-headedness blurring his vision.

  His body thrashed as the pain intensified, every sinew of his being fighting to stay alive. The intruder proved far too strong for him; he was fast losing the battle to live. With one final pull of the rope, Johnson was now suspended from the ground, his legs flailing in an imaginary running action. His eyes bulged as the pressure built in his neck. His final few gasps of breath came small and sharp, his arms scratching and clawing at his neck.

  In the space of a heartbeat, he stilled. His body hung there with his head bowed forward, his arms and legs hanging lifelessly. His body swayed gently and melodically in the stillness of the night much like a human wind chime, the only sound, the creaking of rope as it pulled tighter, slowly coming to a stop.

  1

  The undulating slopes proved a challenge for the most competent of runners. To the group of fifteen-year-old boys, the hills presented the ultimate test in endurance, pace and strength. They’d been running for twenty minutes. The reputation of the house was at stake and the risk of facing the wrath of the sports teacher and housemaster, proved enough of an incentive to spur them on.

  Even though the summer heat loomed only a few hours away, the cooler conditions of the morning offered them a light breeze and a refreshing chill that prevented them overheating.

  Their route led them east towards the hamlet of Westmeston. They travelled along single lane tracks barely wide enough for a car, and certainly not accommodating enough for the farm vehicles that criss-crossed this landscape as they headed from one field to another. The lead runner frequently shouted a word of warning about oncoming vehicles to those behind. The message was relayed in sequence down the line, as they puffed out their cheeks and carried on.

  They barely had time to take in the beauty of the landscape, or the tall green hedges that skirted the road, and the traditional stone walls that enclosed the few dwellings that made up this small community. The 11th century parish church was a mere spectator as the runners passed. From there they headed north-west towards Ditchling across country. Their legs were fast being sapped of energy as the rough terrain and inclines forced the line of boys to thin out, the strongest taking the lead, the weakest beginning to trail.

  Matthew Edrington was a trailer. Running had never been his forte; he was into reading spec fiction, creating music on his laptop, and keeping his Facebook fan page ‘All Things Ginge’ going. He’d spent most of his life being the butt of jokes about his bright ginger hair. A recent attempt to play it down by growing it longer and sporting the unkempt mop look, hadn’t stopped the jibes and digs. Together with his bright blue piercing eyes, pale complexion and high cheekbones, many had taunted him about his soft boyish looks. “Poof,” “gay boy,” “you big girl,” and “grow a pair of tits,” were hurtful comments he took on the chin daily.

  His Facebook page was an attempt to face his issues head-on, to embrace his traits. In reality, it was his alter ego running the page. He hid behind it and the smokescreen the page created. Matthew was weak; he knew it, often never feeling comfortable
in his own skin and lacking in self-confidence. He never sought out attention. “Edrington, you’re not a team player. You’re a waste of space,” were the words that crumbled his self-esteem each and every time his housemaster singled him out.

  He puffed out his cheeks and stared at the ground as he plodded on. As each minute passed, his pace dropped off a fraction more. The heavy panting of the other stragglers loomed up behind him. They levelled with him briefly, throwing him exasperated looks that suggested he was once again going to be responsible for the house coming in last in the weekly cross-country competition.

  Despite the sinking feeling that swelled in the pit of his stomach, his pencil-thin, pasty legs wouldn’t carry him any faster. His mind willed him to speed up, to turn things around. Come on you can do it. But his body was fast failing him, his lungs were tight as he fought to take in deep lungfuls of air. His throat was dryer than a desert plain. The lactic acid in his thighs stung. They felt like two heavy concrete blocks that were stuck in a quagmire of mud.

  Time seemed to stand still and the landscape remained the same. He was sure that he’d travelled a few hundred yards further, but his surroundings remained strangely familiar in his eyes. The other pupils were fast disappearing in the distance, as they looked like tiny dots on a radar jerking forward inch by inch.