Chain of Vengeance: Chapter Five - Part Two

The following morning, as Jack was getting his wake-up call, Sam left his car and walked thirty yards down the road to the derelict house.

He always kept an eye on its current status. There were no arrangements being made for its resale or renovation: broken windows; rust everywhere; high hedge at the front shielding his activities from the street and the neighbours; red car with four flat tires in the drive, plants growing inside it, filling the dark interior. Fronds crept out through the splintered windscreen.

He slipped into the undergrowth to the right of the porch and made his way round to the back. The grass was wet and long. He paused, hand slipping inside his jacket. The grass was far too trodden down. Someone had been there recently and regularly.

The gun was loaded with a full clip.

He scanned the windows visible from where he was. A face: small, round, female: a child. She disappeared instantly.

Sam calculated probabilities then he finished making his way round as far as the back door. It was made of thin wood, painted green in the alcove of red brick, paint scratched. The padlock he’d put in place was gone. It was bent and broken to the right of the step in the weeds. The door wouldn’t open to the touch.

He raised his foot and kicked hard. It budged slightly. He whacked into it again and again. A child started screaming at the other side. Another joined in. Sam pounded the door, smashing his foot into it until whatever was on the other side had moved back enough to widen the opening. He forced his way through: kitchen without a cooker: plastic sheet covered table with an armchair dragged up to it that hadn’t been there when he last visited; three dirty plates; a boy, no more than eight, crying.

“Shut up,” said Sam.

The child stopped, glared at him, then continued. He moved through to the rest of the house.

In the hallway were two doors and a staircase. Rotten dampness filled the air. A woman appeared in the right hand doorway, the girl from the window at her thigh, a baby in her arms. She was in her early twenties; dressed in a purple outfit that showed dirt stains down the length of one side. She looked relieved and tense when she saw him. She eyed his clothes then she looked at his face. “We’re not doing any harm. Just give me a minute to get my things together.”

Sam walked straight past her and started up the stairs. “Keep out of my way. I don’t care if you stay. Suit yourself.” She wasn’t worth constructing The Lie over.

He got to the upstairs landing and walked straight through to the front bedroom: bay window, no bed, bare boards; a filthy brown Indian rug. He strode to the corner, pulling his penknife out. The floorboards were screwed down. He flipped out the screwdriver head and set to work.

Movement in the doorway: the little girl was watching. Her mother’s voice from down below: “You come down here now Kirsten! You keep away from him!” The girl didn’t move. She was staring, lips hanging half open. “Kirsten!”

Sam jammed the main blade of his knife between the boards and prised it up. He reached into the darkness and pulled out the miniature safe he had left there. The girl was over by the window. He stood up and took it to the mantelpiece.

Flicker of a police siren nearby. Sam tensed, and the girl did the same. He looked at her oddly. She had strange instincts for a child. He wondered briefly how long she had lived like this. Then he shook his head: irrelevant; focus.

The miniature safe was wrapped in black cloth inside a small sack. He removed these quickly and unlocked it. This was half of his most easily accessible emergency stash. He had never planned to need it. The girl continued to watch him, closer now than she’d come before. He didn’t bother to tell her to get lost. He counted through the cash, double-checking the amount then paused, and on a whim, unfolded a hundred pound note from the bundle and handed it to her. She took it but didn’t say a word. Sam looked at her a moment longer them pocketed the rest. There was enough to cover all mid-term eventualities.

Beneath the money at the bottom of the metal box was a collection of letters. He lifted them out, turning them over. He felt strange and queasy suddenly. He set them down on the mantelpiece.

The girl was still watching him quietly. “What are those?”

“Letters,” replied Sam. “They’re nothing. They’re from my sister.”

“Why did you keep them in there?”

He looked at her. He didn’t know why. He picked up the most recent one. It was strange to see Lucy’s handwriting now she was dead. The strokes were so narrow and tall, each word beautiful. Even the paper was crisp and pretty, faintly pink. He opened it right out, not really focusing on the words themselves.

“Are you okay?” said the girl.

Sam glanced down at her. “I’m fine. Be quiet.”

He put it back down and started to gather them up to take with him. Then he stopped.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

He picked up and scan-read the letter. The date was three weeks previously. Lucy was saying that she wouldn’t be staying at her house for the next few days. That she could be “reached at Jack’s.”

And there at the bottom was his address. The address of the man who murdered her.