bastard is about to die at the hands of whatever fiend our lords and masters have dispatched, I guess they would say a very loud yes!
He’d had to park a few doors down the street from his flat, as the street was wall to wall cars. On a fine day in Durham, you grabbed a space where you could, unless you wanted to pay a fortune in car parking fees.
He’d tell the couple in the flat below that he’d be away for a few months, ask them to take the mail in, generally keep an eye on things. Not that there was ever any bother in this neck of the woods. Nice and quiet. Just how he liked it.
And they wouldn't take much asking, he thought with a wry smile as he locked the car. Gav would love the job of guardian. He was without doubt the nosiest person in the street-perhaps even the whole of the flaming North-and he was seconded only, by his lovely wife April.
He knocked on their door before going up to his flat. He frowned when there was no answer, and knocked again.
Strange, he thought. Gavin and April, in their fifties and both riddled with arthritis, hardly ever went out. In fact, on a warm day Gav was usually sat out in his wheel chair at the door on gossip alert. Shrugging, he moved to the window. Cupping his hands at the sides of his face to block the sun, he peered inside.
At first he could barely make anything out. Then what was in front of him began to make sense.
Stepping back, he gasped, the image flickering in his mind like some old black and white film. April and Gav, both naked, lay side by side on the floor, their twisted arthritic legs spread awkwardly. Both had been scourged. Ribbons of flesh were flung every which way, one ribbon intertwined in their clasped hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The short, muscular man camouflaged in brown trousers, dark green jacket and cap, had Mike in his sights. He’d known that his quarry would have to turn up here eventually. He’d actually turned up sooner than the man had expected. The trees the man was hiding in, across the street from the neat row of whitewashed houses, were perfect cover. Really, he thought, with a certain glee, I couldn’t have picked a better place for a kill.
His finger was ready to squeeze the trigger, the pressure slowly mounting, when an old woman in a red coat, bright yellow hat, and long strands of dirty grey hair hanging around her shoulders - walked in front of him.
For fuck's sake! he thought, raising the gun skywards. Get out of the friggin' way, you stupid old cow!
But she stumbled, rolling from side to side like some small, brightly painted fishing boat on a rough sea.
‘Fucking move,’ he muttered, his frustration mounting. He never liked to make a secondary killing, it left far too many loose ends. Everything kept neat and tidy, that was his motto, always had been, always would be.
That’s the way of it.
In the circles he moved in, he was well known for his tidiness. Tidy was what his punters liked. No loose ends. Nothing to tie either him or them to the kill. Satisfaction doubly guaranteed-then on to the next one.
They had trained him well from birth, his masters, though he’d never met any of them face to face. From what he'd been told by others in the trade, that was the best way.
On the island where he’d grown up, he’d speculated once or twice on who they really were. A few whispered questions, and the answers he’d received had been more than enough to make him keep his head down and his mouth shut.
Oblivious to what was taking place just yards from him, and the possibility that he was only moments from death, Mike was leaning against the wall, staring at the old woman but barely seeing her, because of the tears in his eyes.
April and Gav, dead because of me. Two of the nicest people in the world!
Why?
A warning!
To stop. Before I even start.
How many more?
He blinked, and the tears dried. What the hell to do?
At that moment, filled with despair, he felt like giving up. Running off somewhere, hiding,
He’d had to park a few doors down the street from his flat, as the street was wall to wall cars. On a fine day in Durham, you grabbed a space where you could, unless you wanted to pay a fortune in car parking fees.
He’d tell the couple in the flat below that he’d be away for a few months, ask them to take the mail in, generally keep an eye on things. Not that there was ever any bother in this neck of the woods. Nice and quiet. Just how he liked it.
And they wouldn't take much asking, he thought with a wry smile as he locked the car. Gav would love the job of guardian. He was without doubt the nosiest person in the street-perhaps even the whole of the flaming North-and he was seconded only, by his lovely wife April.
He knocked on their door before going up to his flat. He frowned when there was no answer, and knocked again.
Strange, he thought. Gavin and April, in their fifties and both riddled with arthritis, hardly ever went out. In fact, on a warm day Gav was usually sat out in his wheel chair at the door on gossip alert. Shrugging, he moved to the window. Cupping his hands at the sides of his face to block the sun, he peered inside.
At first he could barely make anything out. Then what was in front of him began to make sense.
Stepping back, he gasped, the image flickering in his mind like some old black and white film. April and Gav, both naked, lay side by side on the floor, their twisted arthritic legs spread awkwardly. Both had been scourged. Ribbons of flesh were flung every which way, one ribbon intertwined in their clasped hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The short, muscular man camouflaged in brown trousers, dark green jacket and cap, had Mike in his sights. He’d known that his quarry would have to turn up here eventually. He’d actually turned up sooner than the man had expected. The trees the man was hiding in, across the street from the neat row of whitewashed houses, were perfect cover. Really, he thought, with a certain glee, I couldn’t have picked a better place for a kill.
His finger was ready to squeeze the trigger, the pressure slowly mounting, when an old woman in a red coat, bright yellow hat, and long strands of dirty grey hair hanging around her shoulders - walked in front of him.
For fuck's sake! he thought, raising the gun skywards. Get out of the friggin' way, you stupid old cow!
But she stumbled, rolling from side to side like some small, brightly painted fishing boat on a rough sea.
‘Fucking move,’ he muttered, his frustration mounting. He never liked to make a secondary killing, it left far too many loose ends. Everything kept neat and tidy, that was his motto, always had been, always would be.
That’s the way of it.
In the circles he moved in, he was well known for his tidiness. Tidy was what his punters liked. No loose ends. Nothing to tie either him or them to the kill. Satisfaction doubly guaranteed-then on to the next one.
They had trained him well from birth, his masters, though he’d never met any of them face to face. From what he'd been told by others in the trade, that was the best way.
On the island where he’d grown up, he’d speculated once or twice on who they really were. A few whispered questions, and the answers he’d received had been more than enough to make him keep his head down and his mouth shut.
Oblivious to what was taking place just yards from him, and the possibility that he was only moments from death, Mike was leaning against the wall, staring at the old woman but barely seeing her, because of the tears in his eyes.
April and Gav, dead because of me. Two of the nicest people in the world!
Why?
A warning!
To stop. Before I even start.
How many more?
He blinked, and the tears dried. What the hell to do?
At that moment, filled with despair, he felt like giving up. Running off somewhere, hiding,
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