Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part Four

 

7

 

Blood ran down Lucy’s smooth forehead into the pit of her left eye then trickled onto her cheek.

Her blond hair was sodden around a crumpled dent where the jutting mantelpiece had cut through the bone and made pulp of the grey matter beneath. Her head looked misshapen: wrong in  a more complete way than just the gaping eyes and blood and the awful stillness. The red stain seeped down her neck and started to spread across her low-cut pullover, infecting the white. Lucy’s body was twisted, bare legs bent at the knee. Except it wasn’t her body anymore – this thing that looked more like some horrific twisted mannequin than a girl – it was her corpse.

Jack leant against the opposite wall, hands splayed down at his sides. The rage was gone. The emptiness left behind created a physical sore, but other emotions clamoured to fill it. He started to shake his head then stopped. He pushed himself away from the wall and walked forward, toward Lucy’s body, rapid and then slow. He reached out to touch her. His eyes were wide and gaping, like hers. He dropped to his knees.

It was only minutes since they had talked about his destiny as an artist and now that was irrevocably finished. He was a murderer. His life could not continue as it had done. There were only three options open to him now.

Cover it up: like some wretched half-human killer in a late night murder-mystery. Sneak her corpse out of the hotel after nightfall, find some soft earth in the depth of a pine forest and bury her, filling her blank eyes and open mouth with soil, covering her pretty clothes and beautiful hair in dirt. Then go on and live the life of cover-ups and alibis and lies, lying to her friends and her family… perhaps killing more of them if they came close to finding him out.

Or confess: call the police: tell them what he had done; do his best to convince them what had made him do it; hope they understood though he knew they would not... Because surely there was nothing a woman could say that would justify her death, however calculated to cause pain. And that meant prison. It meant his life would be over.  

And what else was there? Going on the run? Leaving all security and comfort behind? Perpetually on edge; in danger of exposure? Travelling from one small town to the next, performing menial work for menial pay, always afraid of exposure and capture?  

His life as he had known it was over, and it mattered not one bit how insidious she had been. No one would care. No one would understand.

He didn’t understand himself.  

8

 

 

Sam Decker’s face was completely blank as he walked up the stairs toward number six, disliking the creaks the tired staircase made beneath his feet.

Eight rooms in all, scattered throughout the three-storey building: holiday rooms with limited views of Clifton Suspension Bridge. The stairwell walls were drab, plain, unadorned; nothing more than somewhere to sleep; no charm. He glanced back and to his right: external window. The bridge was just visible; overly showy; nothing but a tourist trap.

Sam considered Lucy, conscious for a second of his appearance. He ran a brief check: hair in place, slicked down and back; suit free of ablutions; dark grey overcoat hanging free and unimpeding, surprisingly light. He slipped his hand inside his suit jacket: gun loaded and easily accessible.

Quick in and out then away fast to catch his plane.

He turned off the stairs and headed down the long corridor to his sister’s room, not really wanting to meet her new boyfriend; not caring enough about him to go to the trouble of making The Lie. But he wanted to see her for this last time before he left; to... tidy up the loose ends of his personal connections. He couldn’t leave the country without saying goodbye and after his boss started putting things together he might not be able to come back for some time.

If ever.

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part Three

5

  

Jack rolled onto his back and shocked himself when it occurred to him that he was glad it was over. Lucy sighed, naked beside him. The sex had always been good before. They’d been going out for what… three months almost? Just over? His distraction left him mildly troubled. He checked the time. “We’d best get a move on. Your brother’s going to be here any minute.”

“I’m trying to enjoy my afterglow if you don’t mind,” said Lucy. She didn’t make any move to get up.

Jack frowned and reached for his underpants. He got dressed, looking out the window at the sloping park and the bridge beyond as he did up his shirt. It was important to make a good impression. Relationships between a man and a woman could be broken on the bad opinions of the opposing family. He put on his shoes and socks and ran his hands through his hair to straighten out the tangles then sat on the edge of the bed.

Lucy got up and carried her clothes into the bathroom. “I’ll just be a minute. If Sam comes, make him a cup of tea.”

“I think the single teabag the hotel provided lost the last of its flavour yesterday,” replied Jack.

Lucy said something obviously meant to be witty but it got lost in the click of the door.

Jack reached for his wallet. He popped the press stud and tilted it back with one hand until it flipped open. There was a frayed plastic window built in below the credit card slots. Slightly out of synch with the frame was a photo. He took it out, slipped the wallet into his front jeans pocket and held it, resting his hand on his thigh.

The picture was of Lucy on the beach: just her head and shoulders, straight blond hair gently lifted by the wind, smiling. He remembered the day, shortly after they got together; the wrestling match they had in the sand just before the picture was taken; the day when he realised how perfect she was for him.

He was still looking at it when Lucy emerged, fully dressed, her hair back in place. When he saw her he realised immediately what had made him distracted while they’d made love. He remembered the unease he’d been feeling and he remembered the secret Lucy had told him about her brother.

“You okay Jack?”

He snapped out of the trance. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Worn out by our Olympic performance?”

“Something like that.”

She hooked up her shoes and put them on. “You look like you’re enjoying a good daydream.”

Jack tried to make eye contact but she wasn’t turned his way. She was sitting on the bed, bending over to fiddle with her shoes. “I guess I was worried about your brother arriving half way through.”

Lucy stood up, walked across the room, realised her shoe wasn’t on straight and hobbled to the fireplace to lean against it while she readjusted herself.

Jack circled toward the door. “I might pop down to the car and get the painting I’m working on.”

“That self portrait?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. The quicker you paint a masterpiece, the sooner you can keep me in luxury.”

Jack chuckled. “I wish it were so simple.”

“It’ll happen if it’s meant to. Maybe you aren’t destined to be an artist.”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stopped short of opening the door then turned. “Was it true?” he asked. “What you told me about your brother?”

Lucy tilted forward, hair hanging down around her face. “Would I lie to you?”

“You tell me.”

She stopped playing with her shoe, leaving it undone, and straightened up. There was a mirror above the fireplace. She looked at herself then her eyes flicked across in the reflection to him.

“What is it?” asked Jack.

He thought for a minute she was going to cry but instead, a grin stretched her lips. “There’s something I haven’t told you about,” she said. “A couple of things actually.”

A quiver of the same nausea he had felt on the bank of the river came back. “What things?”

“It’s not that big a deal. Just stuff I haven’t told you.”

“From before we met?”

“No. After.”

Jack folded his arms then unfolded them again. “What is it?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.” Tension was building in his lower back.

“You promise not to be angry?”

“Yes. I promise. Just tell me.”

Lucy continued to look at him in the mirror, locked eyes briefly with herself, then turned to face him. She drew in a breath, smiled; almost laughed, clearly nervous, then she opened her mouth and told him what it was she had done.

Jack listened to it from the beginning of the story to the end. It took several minutes for the details to clarify. She told him first about one thing and then about another. Jack’s face remained passive. It showed surprise and nothing more. But as she spoke, disbelief slowly became anger; anger became fury; fury became rage.

She finished her story. Jack looked at her standing there and tried to reconcile the significance of what she had said. He registered the curling sneer of her lips, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, the arrogance of her pose.

She laughed, seeing his expression, covering her mouth with the backs of her fingers. “I’m sorry Jack,” she said. “I know I shouldn’t; but you look so ridiculous, standing there staring at me like that; like a little girl who’s lost her dolly.” She winked at him. “I told you. We can still carry on going out.”

Jack stared at her. It seemed somehow, that these last words were the most horrifying of all.

We can still carry on going out.

The rage swept over his mind. The pressure of his blood rose, bubbling, then rose again. All he could see was the sneer on her lips. The hotel room was gone. Nothing existed except this paralysing anger. It overcame all rational thought.

Jack drew his hand back. The movement was almost slow. The rage crested, ready to release all its energy.

Lucy let out the first breath of a whimper and the sneer dropped from her mouth as she realised what was about to happen. Her eyes started to widen as surprise shifted horizontally into shock and then dropped into fear.

Then from down by his belt, Jack’s hand came up and forward. Lucy lifted her foot from the ground, trying to step back. She came down on the unfastened heel. It went out from under her. Her tight skirt restrained her legs awkwardly. Her foot didn’t reach the floor. Jack’s hand struck her cheek, slapping her, making a sharp crack of flesh against flesh. Lucy’s head snapped to the side. Her whole body twisted from the force of his blow.

Her other foot left the carpet. For a moment she floated, not a single part of her touching the surfaces around. The fireplace was behind her. Its bulky grey stone, all edges and corners, expanded.

As quickly as it had overcome him, Jack’s rage vanished. It turned into panicked realisation. He saw the danger and reached after her but it was already too late.

Out of control, Lucy’s head shot toward the fireplace, hair flailing. Her arms reached out desperately, fingers unable to clench anything but air. Then her forehead smashed against the stone. A hard unyielding corner of mantle-shelf cut into her flesh and into the bone.

Jack heard nothing: no sharp splintering crack; no mushy squelch; no sound as her body finished its arc and fell in against the grate. It folded upon itself then shuddered, her torso lifting off the floor as her limbs spasmed and fell still.

Jack staggered, regaining his balance; staring. He moved back away from her, the walls of the hotel room drawing in suddenly at their base. A second jolt ran through her body. It shook her limbs and threw her head round until her eyes were visible. They were empty. Jack lifted his foot to step closer. Another final awful shudder came and he froze, then she was still again: finally irrevocably still.

Jack felt a connection suddenly. He felt the earth beneath his feet, even through the carpet and the floorboards. He felt it through the foundations of the hotel. He felt the ground spreading away from him as though he were literally attached to the whole planet. He was part of it: this vast black mass that tumbled through space.

Lucy was dead. And it didn’t matter what she had said to him now; what she had done. It made no difference to anything or anybody.

She was dead. And he had killed her.

 

6

 

 

“Could you tell me which room Lucy Decker and her boyfriend are staying in please?” asked Sam.

The woman sitting behind the DIY worktop hotel counter was fat and ugly: bags under her eyes, greasy red hair cut short behind the ears. She looked up, then immediately broke eye contact. Everything about her suggested repulsive eating and living standards. Sam smiled. “I’m really sorry to bother you. You looked so pretty sitting there in the afternoon sun.”

Her face cracked with pleasure at The Lie.

Sam broadened his smile. “Miss Lucy Decker,” he repeated. “My sister. I’m in town for business. She asked me to stop by. Which room is she staying in?”

The woman reached across to a register book next to her till exposing liver-spotted hands. She had one wedding band on her ring finger and two more on the third and forth fingers of her right hand. “I’ll just find out for you.”

Sam’s eyes left her, flicking in a one hundred and eighty degree arc from one item in his field of view to the next, a ritual so dogged that he barely noticed doing it. He took stock of every trinket and keepsake on the shelves: the pictures on the walls behind the landlady’s head, the official items used in the business. It was a process that didn’t always turn out to be useful but more often than not did. And it kept his mind focused.

The ugly woman tilted the register up, squinting at the page. Without glancing down she reached for the pair of round pink spectacles hanging from a cord at her neck and held them in front of the book like a magnifying glass. Any second she would make eye contact again. Sam prepared his smile: broad enough for benign support with room for expansion when she gave him what he needed.

“You know I shouldn’t give out this information really,” said the landlady. “My husband…” She glanced into the dark posterior of the building then leaned forward conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “He makes out like it’s a crime.” She smiled. “Silly bugger.” The smile became what was meant to be a laugh but was only an ageing wheeze. “You look like a nice young man though,” she said. “And it is your sister.”

“That’s right.”

She gestured toward a staircase, limited on her reach by the strap of the glasses she was holding, and pointed with them. “Upstairs. Second floor. Room six. They just got back in twenty minutes ago, her and the boyfriend. Don’t know where they went. Out walking I think. Shall I call ahead and tell her you’re coming?”

Sam walked toward the foot of the stairs, dropping the facade of The Lie from his face now he had his back to her. “No thanks,” he said, “I’d rather surprise them.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part Two

3

 

“I didn’t even know you had a brother,” said Jack.

There were less than thirty minutes now to the killing.

Lucy stretched, leaning into the bench, her ice cream way above her head and wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t I tell you?” She sounded evasive.

“Nope.”

Jack looked over the railings in front of them at the bridge and the valley below. They were next to its foundations. The river was narrow today, bordered by slick mud flats. It was tidal; joined a few miles downstream to the sprawling River Severn and beyond that to the sea. It looked slow and weary. The opposite bank was thick with trees and bushes, almost completely wild.

He couldn’t shake off the unpleasant feeling he’d picked up on the road below. It had dulled the shine of the day. Every time he looked at Lucy he felt it more. He’d never had a psychic episode; wasn’t entirely sure he believed in them, but… that was what this felt like.

He’d bought the ice cream; he was doing his best to ride the conversation; but he didn’t feel comfortable. He couldn’t relax. He looked at his watch, frowned, and looked back at the bridge.

“Jack?”

“Yes?” Lucy was looking at him expectantly. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else. Did you speak?”

“Uh huh.” She nodded, licking her ice cream. “About my brother.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“When’s he going to be here?”

“What time is it now?” she asked. Jack showed her his watch. “We ought to start drifting back. It should be soon.” Lucy shuffled her bum on the seat, bumping up against him. “Though there’s still plenty of time for you know what, you know how I like it, with you know who.” She giggled.

“Who?”

Lucy dabbed his nose with the wet end of her ice cream. “Guess.”

Jack wiped it off and sucked the end of his finger. “You’re on. I’ll race you back to the hotel.”

“Are you serious?”

Jack got up and ran to the top of the bank behind the bench, looked back and grinned. “You’re falling behind already.” 

Lucy got up slowly and only sauntered after him. “I don’t feel like racing.”

“Only because you know you’d lose,” said Jack, thinking just for a moment that she played all the games she wanted but only on her terms. He changed the subject quickly. “So tell me about your brother.”

“He’s one of a kind.”

“In a good way?”

Lucy smiled, flashed her eyes and didn’t respond directly. “He’s a few years older than me. We don’t see that much of one another. I write to him. He never writes back. He chucks them away unopened. It’s a nice little arrangement: sort of like a diary.”

They started to walk down the grassy slope toward their little hotel. It was on the bend of a narrow road facing the park, nothing more than a converted townhouse, but it was pleasant enough and well-located.

“Where does he live?” asked Jack.

“London.”

“And you never see him?”

She shrugged. “We used to be closer. He’s not the sort to keep in touch, that’s all. He never sees our parents. It gets a bit depressing at Christmas.”

“Why did he fall out with them?”

Lucy turned her face away, looking across the valley. When thirty seconds had passed, Jack realised she wasn’t intending to reply. Suddenly she looked back, eyes sparkling playfully. “Do you want to hear a secret about him?”

“Is it something he’d want me to know? Considering I’m about to meet him for the first time?”

Lucy stopped, chewing her lip, smiling mischievously at the same time. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

Jack looked blankly then shrugged his right shoulder. “If you want to tell me.”

Lucy came close. She slipped the fingers of her left hand into Jack’s belt and lightly touched his cheek with the other, standing on tiptoe. Jack bent down so she could reach his ear.

She told him the secret.

 

4

 

Sam knocked and waited.

Robson opened the door of the shabby terraced house: eyes dull, lips slack, fat-encased bald head mottled with uneven stubble. When he recognised his visitor he showed his teeth, gave the thick-wit human equivalent of an animal growl, then stepped back to allow access.

Sam entered. “How’s business?”

“Fairly shit.” Robson lumbered into the front room with Sam behind.

It wasn’t a conventional lounge or dining room: floor length curtains that had been closed long enough to accumulate crap on top of where they rested; fire-damaged corner desk in the centre of the room; two PCs, a printer, a digital camera and several heaps of clutter; wheelie bin, dragged in from outside, against the back wall: full. More rubbish scattered around it: pizza boxes, miscellaneous food wrappers, old computer magazines, etc. A second desk: this one with three angle-poise lamps; one with a large magnifying glass built in. Tweezers, glue, plastic film, scalpel; zero clutter.

Robson dumped himself into the leather chair behind the central desk. “You got the money?”

Sam nodded.

“Hand it over.”

“Let me see them first.”

Robson gave another of the sneers that showed his teeth, hesitated, then reached into the bottom desk drawer and pulled out an envelope. He slapped it on the desk.

Sam had met Robson as part of his work. When he found out what it was Robson did he dropped the investigation and covered it up.

He checked his watch. Twenty minutes distance to Lucy’s hotel. He considered how long he would need there and the travel time to the airport as he picked up the envelope and slipped the contents into his hand.

Three UK passports.

He opened the top one to its back page.

BARNADO. GEORGE ANTHONY.

The picture showed a dark haired man with a side parting, beard and glasses. He could only recognise himself because he knew who it was. It looked perfectly authentic. He allowed himself a brief smile then checked the other two, dropped the empty envelope back onto the desk and placed the passports in his inside left pocket. He withdrew a smaller envelope from his inside right and tossed it to Robson.

Robson grunted, ripped it open and tipped the cash out loose onto the desk, gathered it up laboriously into a neat pile and started counting. He grinned broadly while he was doing it.

“That should keep you in Coke and pizza for a day or two,” said Sam.

Robson licked his lips. “More like a couple of months.” He flashed his eyes. “Wanna tell me what you need three passports for?”

Sam walked to the door. “Not really.”

Chain of Vengeance: Chapter One - Part One

1

 

BRISTOL – ENGLAND

 

 

 

Jack Catholic held Lucy’s arms just beneath the shoulders and pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers.

Her death was less than one hour away.

She nibbled his lower lip then giggled. He smiled and kissed her again, wrapping his arms round her back. Jack held onto that second kiss. He didn’t want to break it. It felt critical suddenly to keep it going as long as he could. Beside them the river flowed, the late afternoon sun coming down through the struts and cables of Clifton Suspension Bridge, two hundred yards away and hundreds of feet up, spanning the valley.

Lucy turned her body just a little and gave him a pat on the wrist. He loosened his grip and pulled away. She laughed. “Are you trying to suffocate me? If you were, you did a pretty good job.”

“If I’d been trying to do that you’d be dead by now,” said Jack.

“And what would you do with my body?”

He gave her a quick  up and down glance then shrugged and thumbed over his shoulder at the river. “I’d dump you in there.”

“In front of all these witnesses?”

He looked at the cars moving past parallel to the flow of water. The valley sides were steep. Across the river were woods and a railway track. This side was pavement, the road and then another steep slope crowded with houses. The two of them were the only people visible on foot. “What witnesses?”

“On the bridge!” Lucy pointed.

“Those dots?” said Jack. “Those aren’t people. They’re ants.”

“They’d see everything. Not to mention all the people driving by. You’d never get away with it.”

Jack pulled her close again. “Maybe I wouldn’t care about that. Besides… I bet they’d applaud me. They might even help to cover it up.”

“Then you’d better get on and do it,” said Lucy. “I’m bored.”

They kissed again. When they pulled away Jack felt a tightening across his stomach. It crept round his sides and into his lower back.

“What’s up?” asked Lucy.

His cheeks were tense but he shook his head. “Nothing.” He looked at her. “I just—“

“What?”

Jack’s gaze locked on her eyes, dropped to her lips, rose again. Something wasn’t right. “I don’t know.”

“Do you feel sick?”

“No. I think maybe…” He turned away from her but couldn’t keep his eyes elsewhere. It wasn’t real, it was probably indigestion, but it felt real: it felt like a premonition... or foreboding. It was silly and almost certainly something he ate.

Lucy ran her fingertip from his shoulder to his elbow. “You should lie down. Let’s go back up to the hotel.”

“Yeah. Probably a good idea.” Jack gestured to the bridge. “Why don’t we get an ice cream or something first? I think I can just about stretch to that. What do you think?”

“Okay.” Lucy slinked her wrist through his arm. “Sounds wonderful. Then afterwards we can go back to our room and—“ She stretched up to his ear and whispered.

Jack’s smile broadened to a grin. “Who could refuse such a demure and respectable lady?”

“If you think that’s respectable I must not be trying hard enough.”

They both laughed and turned toward the cut-through that would take them back up to the top of the hill.

“By the way,” she said, “I hope you don’t mind. I know this is our first trip out of London and everything but I sort of invited someone to call in and see us.”

Jack was a little disappointed but he made himself not mind. “Sure,” he said as they started the steep climb. “Who?” 

2

 

 

Several miles away, Sam Decker pulled in under the trees at the side of the quiet suburban street fifty yards from his destination. He cut the engine and reached for the bag in the foot well of the passenger side. He kept his head up, eyes slowly scanning left to right.

No one in the street; no one visible in the windows of any of the houses; unlikely he would be seen but he kept the bag low just the same; kept watching, opening it by touch.

He withdrew a black automatic pistol, ejected the magazine, checked the rounds, then reinserted it. He pulled the slide back then let go. It snapped forward, chambering a round. He checked the safety catch was in place then set the gun on his lap and took the shoulder holster out of the sports bag. He returned the bag to the foot well, eyes still on the street.

This was the moment. Every action he’d taken over the past five years led to this exact point in time and space. The past and the future had only this one pivotal instant between them. It was an arbitrary point – one that he’d chosen – but a point that needed to be set. He couldn’t keep pushing forever. The likelihood of discovery was increasing each day. The opportunity to continue amassing capital was becoming outweighed by the risk.

Sam put the shoulder holster on over his shirt, took his black suit jacket from its position over the passenger seat and slipped into it. He inserted the barrel of the pistol into the holster and let gravity drop it into place.

The decision was made. It was time now to take his activities to the next level. He could no longer think like an innocent man. From this point on he was potentially a fugitive. Every situation had to be planned from its worst-case-scenario. There could be no surprises.

Down the street the building he had come to visit stood tightly amongst its neighbours; one more three level terraced house made descript by its shabbiness. The whole street was thirty years beyond its prime. That particular house exhibited decay that looked many times that age: too far away to make out exact detail but there was a fuzziness, a lack of focus that meant peeling paint, splintered damp-stained window frames, cracked glass, dishevelled garden.

It suited its owner.

Sam reached into his jacket and touched the pistol with the first and second fingers of his right hand. He withdrew them, running them along the grip then opened the door and got out of the car. Nobody was in the street but it didn’t matter now. They wouldn’t be aware of the gun if he were standing next to them. He started walking along the pavement toward the dirty grey house.

Three more stops to make and then he could leave the country; that was all: this one… both of his stashes back in London later that night… and before he left Bristol, his sister’s hotel.

To see her one last time.