Chapter 2

THEY DECIDED TO TAKE OUT THE GUARD POSTS FIRST and hope that any shots might be drowned by the noise of the disco in Bits and Pieces. Just their bad luck if Mad Dog decided to have a quiet night. Bradley was co-opted into their scheme, even though the teacher showed extreme reluctance. It was his bad luck that he’d admitted he had a car parked outside.

While Reaper and Sandra had been discussing their plans, Meg had changed into jeans and a tee shirt. The androgynous clothes made her look older and yet somehow less sexualised. The dress, Reaper realised, had been too similar to school uniform. Unsavoury suspicions lingered in his mind and he found it difficult to look at the girl without embarrassment. He sensed she felt the same, preferring to address any comments to Sandra rather than Reaper, and perhaps already distancing herself, ever so slightly, from Bradley.

They persuaded Bradley to help by giving him no option, even when he cited Meg’s safety as a reason why he should remain in the house to protect her. As protection, Reaper thought he would be as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. The teacher surrendered the car keys and they bump-started his Ford Focus down the gentle slope of the road to avoid what might have been several noisy attempts to fire the ignition by key. It had been a warm summer. The car started sluggishly and with a groan, as if it resented the disturbance, but soon picked up to tick over quietly.

Sandra spent a few minutes with Meg alone before they left shortly before ten pm. The town was shrouded in dusk, the streets valleys of shadow. The lights from the generator-fed Bits and Pieces a glow above the roof tops to their left. Behind them, the front door to Bradley’s house closed as Meg retreated to her sanctuary on the first floor. Bradley drove Reaper and Sandra towards the apartment block on the sea front. He parked two streets back and Reaper instructed him.

‘You wait here. We will try and do this quietly but there may be gunshots. Whatever happens, you wait here. It’s ten now. If we don’t return, you can leave at eleven. Go back to Meg, look after her and try to leave town.’ He held his arm in a strong grip that made the teacher wince. ‘But we will be back. And you had better be here. Clear?’

‘Clear,’ he said, nodding his head.

Sandra and Reaper left the car and slid into the shadows, one covering while the other gained ground, then reversing the process so that they ‘leap-frogged’ each other silently towards the flat expanse of the sea, which sighed and gleamed in the soft moonlight. The previous occasion Reaper had been here, the doors to the apartment block had been open and unlocked. He wondered if they had improved their security. They had; the doors were locked.

The apartment block stood proudly overlooking the sea at a point where the main road kinked. It was a white-painted confection that, on first sight, had reminded Reaper of the sort of seaside accommodation where Hercule Poirot might have stayed in the 1920s or 30s. Tonight, he suspected it would not be occupied by anyone as cultured as the Belgian detective. The balconies at the front provided a clear view of any vehicles approaching from the south, while the corner windows of its upper floors had unrestricted views towards the town centre.

Light spilled from a flat on the second floor. Not electric light, but the dimmer cast of battery-operated camping lamps. They went round the front of the building and saw that the lighting extended to a French window and balcony. Reaper pointed and twirled his finger. ‘Round the back,’ he mouthed, and they retraced their steps past the locked entrance and shop windows, until they found a narrow alley, as dark as a cave. The service entrance was unlocked.

Reaper used the torch that hung on his belt to light their way along a corridor and through a door that led into the ground floor vestibule of the flats. There was a lift that was out of use without power and carpeted stairs. Dim light came in through the glass of the front doors and an even dimmer light could be seen from above. He switched off the torch and they went up quietly, carbines at the ready.

They had agreed what they would attempt but knew it might be difficult to achieve. No loud gunshots if at all possible. And, as they had no sound suppressors for their guns, that meant knives. Reaper felt his heart pounding as they climbed and wondered if steel was such a good idea. He had killed several times with the knife but Sandra? The eighteen-year-old had also wielded a blade with desperate efficiency when it had been essential, but in cold blood? He stopped himself glancing in her direction in case she thought he was questioning her commitment. That was never in doubt.

The light grew brighter as they climbed. The guards, it appeared, were afraid of the dark. They had left a camping light in the corridor on the second floor. From behind the closed doors, came the soundtrack of a film. Shots, tyres screaming. An action movie? Maybe a film; maybe a video game. Somebody in the room laughed. ‘Look, look!’ he yelled. Someone else shouted, ‘Twat!’ An item of furniture was kicked over.

A settee sat incongruously halfway along the corridor. Reaper put his carbine on the cushions; Sandra did the same. He removed the Glock handgun from the holster on his left hip and pulled back the slide to arm it. The safety was in the double action trigger. He depressed the trigger one click so the safety was off. Sandra did the same with her side arm and transferred it to her left hand. They took the Bowie knives from the ankle sheaths and held them in their right hands. No gunshots if possible but, once through the door, they would be relying on surprise and improvisation.

They exchanged a last look and Sandra nodded. Reaper kicked the door in with one well-placed boot at the level of the lock and led the way inside. Images came swiftly; actions were swifter.

Two men had been playing a video game on a laptop that sat on a coffee table. One was sitting on a sofa that faced it, controls still in his hand; the other was on his feet, a side table upended on the floor, where he had kicked it. Since the man on his feet was closer, Reaper stepped straight up to him and stuck the knife hard into his stomach, angling it upwards to dig beneath the rib cage and penetrate the heart. The man staggered backwards and crashed over the coffee table. The sound of the video game ended abruptly. Reaper followed the man to the floor, pushing hard. He realised that the man’s breathing was heavy and that there was blood on his hand. He pulled the knife free and got to his feet. His victim hadn’t made a sound.

Sandra reached her target before he could lift himself from the softness of the sofa’s cushions. His arms were pressed at his sides for leverage as he attempted to rise, providing an unobstructed target for the deadly thrust of her blade: she pushed the knife deep into his throat, the serrated edge ripping both his vocal chords and carotid artery. The blood spouted; some of it onto Sandra, whose blonde hair was now partially crimson, her face a caricature of a 70s rock singer, only her face wasn’t masked in paint. She pulled her knife free with a harsh grimace and, just for a second, Reaper wondered at what they were doing.

‘What the …?’

A third man appeared in a doorway. He wore a tee shirt and nothing else and was rolling a cigarette.

‘Don’t move!’ said Reaper, levelling the Glock.

The man dropped the makings of the cigarette and raised his hands. Sandra stepped past him and went into the second room with her own gun raised. Moments later, she returned, her gun holstered. The man in the tee shirt was taller than her by six inches. She kicked him behind the legs and he dropped to his knees. She grabbed his long hair in one hand and stuck the Bowie knife into his throat. Reaper sidestepped the arc of blood as she twisted the knife.

He wiped his own blade on the sofa and returned it to its sheath. He put the handgun in its holster. His mind was in turmoil. His own mission of revenge was one thing, but had it been necessary for him to transform Sandra into some kind of bestial killing machine? She pulled the knife free and kicked the still twitching corpse. Her breath was coming in short bursts as if she had run a marathon. She glanced at Reaper, her eyes without a semblance of normality – almost feral. Then she turned and went back into the other room.

The room where the slaughter had occurred was at the corner of the building and with the view towards the town centre. There was an open plan kitchen and dining area around the corner. He went the other way to follow Sandra into a bedroom that had open French windows and a balcony on which were placed a white metal table and two white chairs in art deco style. Very Hercule Poirot. The bed was large with a white metal frame. Upon it lay a girl who wore only a pair of black hold up stockings. Her small breasts looked as if someone had drawn around them with lipstick, until he realised that they were bite marks. A noose was around her neck and the end of the rope was tied to the top of the bed frame. Now he understood Sandra’s second bout of violence.

He felt Sandra’s eyes upon him. They had returned to normal but were filled with deep sadness and compassion. She had been there. She knew this girl’s suffering. Reaper nodded to her and turned back into the other room. As he passed, he kicked the corpse of the third man.

Only now did detail expand the first impressions of entry. The man he had killed had been in his late twenties, unshaven, about six feet tall, no excess weight. He wore jeans and a sleeveless vest, presumably to accentuate his muscles, but which had done nothing for the body odour that had assailed Reaper’s senses before the blood spilled. A reasonable specimen – for a bastard. The one who had had terminal trouble trying to rise from the sofa was shorter, but not by much, and fatter, which was probably why he had sunk back into the cushions as Sandra delivered the death blow. He had been early twenties, clean-shaven and in a fresh shirt. Even now, with the other odours taking over, he could smell the aftershave. What sort of twisted creature wore aftershave for a gang rape?

The third man was thin, weedy, and in his forties. Reaper remembered sunken eyes widening in horror in a skeletal face when he had walked out of the bedroom and seen them. The sort of downbeat piece of scum who would have found it difficult to get any half decent girl to look at him before the Happening. At times like this, Reaper hoped fervently that he was wrong about the afterlife. He might be an atheist but it would be good to think that these swine had gone straight to hell for an eternity of torment. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was blood splattered but not as drenched as Sandra. If anyone else walked through the door, she would scare them witless. He wondered how she was managing with the girl on the bed?

The girl was called Andrea. Sandra wrapped her in a pink raincoat that was too short and she wore flat black shoes. Reaper collected the men’s weapons and put them in a small suitcase he found on top of the wardrobe. The apartments were plush and would have been expensive retirement homes before their owners died and the rooms were taken over by Mad Dog’s animals.

Reaper led the way back, carrying the case in one hand, the carbine at the ready in the other; Sandra brought the girl, an arm around her in an attempt to diffuse her continued disorientation. The girl’s face was blank as if desensitised by days, maybe weeks, of abuse.

The car was where they left it, which was a surprise. Reaper thought Bradley might have lost his nerve and deserted his post. He hadn’t, but he almost did when he saw the state that Sandra was in. She looked like a survivor of a chainsaw massacre – or more appropriately, the perpetrator. He put the case in the boot and Sandra got in the back of the car with Andrea. Reaper got into the passenger seat.

Bradley kept glancing into the back and then at Reaper.

‘Back to your place,’ Reaper told him. ‘That’s Andrea. She’s in shock.’

The teacher did as he was told. They drove to the house without incident and he parked in the silent street. They went inside and took Andrea upstairs. Sandra took her and Meg into the front bedroom and closed the door. They stayed together for long minutes. Reaper washed his hands; he wasn’t bothered about his face or clothes. He counted any other stains as camouflage or deterrent. Sandra came out and nodded.

‘They’ll be okay. Meg is a resilient girl.’

‘Time for Part Two,’ said Reaper.

Bradley drove them to within two streets of Isaac’s Hill, taking a detour to avoid going close to Bits and Pieces, which was now on their right. The night glowed with its lights. He was given similar instructions. Wait for an hour. If they hadn’t returned by then or if he heard gunshots he should return to the house and wait. The man was becoming increasingly jittery. Much longer and he would be a liability. Much longer and he might break down and cry.

Reaper and Sandra approached the target carefully, taking their time. Shadows and silence. They glided through the streets. The flats were on a slight hill, facing any traffic approaching the town from the north. The entrance to the block was on a corner and to the rear. Lights showed from a first floor window. They crossed the road and inspected the entrance: a glass door that was locked. A dim light that glowed from somewhere above showed them a flight of stairs. Sandra faced outwards, at the ready; Reaper began to move into the darkness of a nearby alley, seeking another entry point, when she hissed to him. He turned and rejoined her and heard footsteps approaching. They both slipped back into the shadows.

Two people were crossing the road: a big man in front; somebody slimmer behind and carrying a plastic shopping bag. Reaper placed his carbine on the ground and took out his knife. The back figure stumbled on the pavement in the dark and bottles clinked.

‘Careful with those, bitch! Mossa needs his lube.’

‘Mossa’s a dirty sod,’ a woman replied.

Another victim?

The man put a key in the lock of the door, both hands in sight. Reaper stepped from hiding, the man half turned, and Reaper put the knife in his stomach and pushed upwards.

‘Jesus!’ the man said, his voice turning to a whisper before the word was completed.

‘It’s okay,’ Reaper said to the woman, over the man’s shoulder. ‘You’re safe now.’

‘Fuck,’ she said and dropped the bag of bottles onto the pavement.

For a second, Reaper thought she was swinging her handbag into her arms and then saw that her handbag was an Uzi. He stared down the muzzle and she pulled the trigger. It clicked. The woman wore tight black leather trousers and a black leather vest. He could now see a tattoo on her arm that said Evil Bitch and here he was, still holding her boyfriend in an embrace of death on the blade of his knife.

‘Shit!’ she said, and Reaper knew she only had to move her thumb to find the safety.

Sandra shot her in the head with the carbine before she could and the woman slid backwards with a neat hole in the front of her head and a larger one at the back.

Reaper pushed away the body he was still holding; the knife was still embedded. He pushed open the door and ran up the stair whilst pulling a Glock from his right hand holster. A door opened on the first floor and someone shouted, ‘What’s happening?’

‘Mossa?’ shouted Reaper, to gain a second of indecision.

He saw Mossa, silhouetted in a doorway. He was holding a handgun. Reaper shot him twice, chest and head, and kept on moving, stepped over his falling body and into the room, gun levelled. Sandra was a pace behind him. She slid into the room, her back to the wall, the carbine held in covering position. They were in the living room of a not particularly elegant holiday apartment. A fey young man sat on the sofa, his face a mask of terror. He was gulping for air and waving hands delicate enough for a Renaissance painting in front of his face.

‘Who else is here?’ demanded Reaper.

‘No one. Just me.’ He began to cry.

Sandra crossed the room to an open door, darkness on the other side. She kicked it all the way inwards.

‘If there’s someone in there, you’re dead,’ said Reaper to the young man.

‘No one, no one,’ tears on his cheeks, his whole body agitated. ‘Just me. Just Mossa.’

Sandra went in low, kicked around, came out. He had been telling the truth. Another door led into an empty bathroom.

‘Who are you?’ Reaper was becoming wary of assuming innocence, even from someone so camp.

‘I’m Duncan.’

‘What are you doing here?’

There were no other weapons in sight.

‘I’m … I’m …’ He cried again and then said with an effort, ‘I’m Mossa’s fuckpig.’

‘What?’

‘I’m his fuckpig. He fucks me.’ The tears flowed. ‘He fucking fucks me.’

For Reaper the tension went. He exchanged a look of sympathy with Sandra.

‘No one will hurt you again, Duncan,’ he said. ‘Hide until this is all over. We’re taking Mad Dog down.’

The man’s tears and gulps paused at the enormity of what he had been told, as if it was beyond believable, and maybe it was. Reaper and Sandra left. They also left the handgun. Maybe Duncan would need it.

Downstairs, he retrieved his knife, wiped it quickly on the dead man’s shirt and stuck it back in its sheath. He shouldered his carbine and took the Uzi. He pointed across the street and they took cover behind a parked car to wait and see if anyone came to investigate the shots. Two minutes later, they spotted three people dipping in and out of cover, coming from the direction of Bits and Pieces. One stayed on the far side of the road and the other two crossed cautiously. Reaper touched Sandra’s shoulder and pointed to the man alone. She nodded and pointed the carbine, the red dot of the sight picking out the darker shade among the shadows.

‘Your shot,’ he whispered.

She took it, and the darker shade fell as Reaper stood up and blasted the other two with the Uzi in a four second burst that put them both down and twitching.

‘Now let’s go pubbing,’ he said, sliding the empty Uzi beneath a car for safety.