Bone Machine (39 page)

She turned. He was right behind her. She had no choice.

Hitting her arm against the side wall to find a light switch, she ran as fast as she could down the steps, lights coming on
as she did so.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, the air taken from her lungs.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t speak.

Because of what she saw before her.

Behind her, footfalls on the steps. Slow. Heavy. No need to hurry.

He knew what she was seeing. What she would be experiencing.

Knew there was no escape down there.

He reached the bottom of the steps.

Peta turned, looked at him.

‘I know who you are,’ she said, chest heaving from exertion.

He smiled.

‘Yes.’

He came towards her.

Christopher was gone. Kovacs was gone. Now there was only the Snake. And the Snake was back where he belonged. Back in the
war.

A healthy way to live. A natural way to live. Survival of the fittest, the best.

And he was the best.

He strode through the warehouse holding his gun before him. Milo and Lev’s fires beginning behind him. And he was back on
the streets, in the towns, the villages. Houses, barns burning behind him. Fearful crying and angry shouts all around him.
The satiation of all desires. Life and death at his fingertips.

The power. The fear.

There was no need for pretence now. No need to hide behind false names, assumed identities. The war proved that to him. Gave
men licence to be themselves. Their true selves. And he knew who he was.

His empire here was crumbling. No matter. He would get away, start somewhere else. He was resourceful. He was strong. He had
plans in place. And he had to leave now.

He looked around. Smiled. Felt the comforting heaviness of the gun in his hands. It was cold. It was the power of life or
death at his fingertips.

He stepped over the body of Decca Ainsley. Another one who promised so much yet delivered so little.

Of the screaming girl whose name he had never learned. Another expendable in a whole list of them.

He bent down, picked up Decca’s discarded car keys. As he stood up, he looked at the flames. They were starting to take hold.
The girls were sitting in the people carrier, too terrified to do anything else. Expendable.

He smiled. He should have some fun now.

Really give them something to remember him by.

Donovan opened his eyes. He was still alive.

He undid the strap of his seat belt, pushed at the door of the car. It was jammed, wedged into the frame. A couple more strong
pushes and he had it. It swung open. He got out of the car. The front was crumpled where it had ploughed into the doors, the
windows gone. A complete write-off. It wouldn’t need a mechanic to get it going again; it would need a priest.

He looked around. Listened. Heard screaming and what he took to be gunfire from inside the warehouse.

‘Oh, shit,’ he said aloud.

He looked through the partially open doors. Saw flames licking their way up the back wall, building in intensity, the fires
being fed by two identikit dark-mullet-haired thugs in leather jackets. He turned away, back to the dockside. Caught a glimpse
of movement in the shadows to the side of the warehouse. He ran towards it.

And was greeted with two .45s pointed at his face.

Donovan stepped back, kept his arms by his side. The man holding the guns spoke.

‘Please stay where you are. I do not want to kill you.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Donovan. He looked again at the man, recognizing the accent. ‘I know you. Dario? Dario Tokic?’

The man moved uneasily. ‘Yes. And I know you, Joe Donovan. You have been a good man to my sister. I am going to go around
to the front of the warehouse. Do not try and stop me. I do not want to kill you. But I will.’

‘OK,’ said Donovan. ‘Where’s Katya? Is she with you? Is she all right?’

‘I am here.’

She stepped out of the shadows behind Dario. Even in the half-light Donovan could see she looked traumatized. Donovan made
to cross towards her. Dario stopped him with the gun.

‘She comes with me.’ Dario held her by the hand. ‘There are things we must do. She and I.’ He looked at her. Placed one of
his guns in her free hand. ‘Together.’ She made no reply. He pulled her with him. She allowed herself to go. She was too tired
to argue.

Donovan stood aside, let them go.

They went around to the front of the building. Donovan stayed where he was. He cocked his head, heard something: sirens. Police.
Saw a shadow flit across the front of the warehouse that belonged to neither Katya nor Dario. He waited a few seconds, then
followed the path Dario and Katya had taken.

Katya reached the front of the warehouse with her brother. She looked between the double doors. And gasped.

The people carrier was still in the centre of the floor, unmoving, flames moving closer towards it. She saw terrified faces
inside it, heard screams. The women were trying the doors: they had been locked. She turned to her brother.

‘Dario, you must do something!’ She pointed.

He ignored her.

She pulled at his sleeve. ‘They will die in there! Do something!’

He shrugged her off. ‘No. We have things to do first.’

He walked away from her, eyes darting all the time, a hunter looking for his prey.

Katya looked again at the people carrier. Two men got in the front seats. A shiver of recognition ran through her. Milo and
Lev. She remembered them. Remembered what they had done to the girls. Done to her.

They started the engine, drove the carrier towards the doors. She moved out of the way, back into the shadows again, as it
sped past her and away. Breathed a sigh of relief that the women had got out alive. Then stopped herself.

She knew where they were going.

She tried to shake off the thought, join her brother.

An arm around her neck stopped her.

She tried to kick, to scream. Couldn’t. Tried to run away. Couldn’t. The grip was too strong, too powerful. She could do nothing
to resist.

Her assailant plucked the gun she was holding from her grasp, flung it behind her.

‘Well.’ A voice spoke to her. A shudder went through her. She knew who it was. Just from that one word she knew who it was.
‘Don’t struggle. Don’t scream. We’re going to have some fun, you and I.’

She knew.

The Snake.

Dario, on the other side of the doors, looking down the other side of the warehouse, turned. Saw what was happening. Raised
his gun.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ said the Snake. ‘You might hit your precious sister. And you wouldn’t want that to happen,
would you?’

‘Let her go,’ shouted Dario. ‘Just you and me. Man to man.’

The Snake laughed.

‘Kovacs is dead,’ said Dario. ‘The little man I saw in the photograph with you. The snakes took him.’

The Snake smiled. ‘Then you have destroyed my business here, see? Look around. Congratulations. Is that enough for you?’

‘Never enough for what you did to our family.’ Dario was shouting now. ‘For what you did to our lives.’

The Snake said nothing. The sirens were getting louder, coming closer. He stepped forward. Dario stepped back, collided with
Donovan’s abandoned car. He quickly righted himself.

Too late. The Snake fired a single shot from his gun. It hit Dario square in the chest. He fell backwards against the Mondeo,
blood fountaining from the wound. Katya screamed, tried to run to him. The grip around her just tightened.

‘Are you still alive?’ shouted the Snake. ‘Eh? Good. I want you to watch what I do to your sister. That can be your final
image you take with you into death. When you see the devil, send him my regards.’

Dario struggled to get up, anger powering his body. He couldn’t.

The Snake laughed.

Then stopped dead.

‘Touch her or make just one move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.’

Donovan pointed Katya’s discarded gun at the base of the Snake’s skull.

Pressed in hard.

Peta stared. Eyes unable to comprehend the full horror of what she was seeing.

The room was laid out as if for a film or theatre set. In the centre was a heavy table, the wood matching the old cabinets
in the shop upstairs. On it were what she assumed were wrist and ankle restraints. The wood was old, scarred. Darker in patches
than in other places.

She knew what the dark patches were. She felt nauseous.

Around the space were mannequins, posed in different positions and decorated with dried, lumpen objects. She couldn’t make
out what the objects were. At strategic intervals were arc lamps, increasing the feel of theatricality. All centred on the
table. A workbench ran along the back wall. On it were various bladed instruments, all home-made-looking. Next to them were
several bobbins of heavy black thread and large needles.

She stepped closer to one of the mannequins, examined the misshapen objects draped around it. Recoiled once she realized what
they were.

Body parts. Skin. Internal organs.

‘This is my room,’ said a voice behind her. Oily, quavering with barely suppressed twisted joy. ‘This is where I do all my
experiments.’

‘I know who you are,’ said Peta. ‘The Historian.’

He frowned, puzzled. Then smiled. ‘Yes. I suppose I am. The Historian. Yes.’ He seemed proud of the description.

‘I know who else you are,’ she continued. ‘That weaselly little nobody of a security guard who kept trying to stare at my
tits.’

Anger flashed across his face. Hot and bubbling. He looked about to lunge but held himself in check. Peta watched him, braced
to run again. His head was cocked to one side as if listening to something only he could hear. His lips were moving as if
in conversation. He was nodding. Talking. He stopped, looked back at her.

‘They say you should be my last experiment,’ he said. ‘Instead of that whore up there.’

‘Do they?’ she said, edging away around the table.

‘They do,’ he said. ‘They also say you’ll be the one to tell me for definite. You’ll give me the answers I’m seeking.’

‘Is that right?’ she said, playing for time, trying to humour him. ‘And what answers would they be?’

‘The answers I’ve been trying to find,’ he said, as if it was obvious. ‘Life. Death. What happens to us when we die. Where
our spirit goes.’ He looked around, gestured to the room, gave a snort of a laugh. ‘What else do you think all this is for?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said.

She edged her way around the main table. He followed her.

‘They told me. Just now. That you’re the one who would tell me for sure.’

‘That’s nice of them.’

‘Oh, it is. Now, I’m willing to forgive what you’ve done to my hand.’ He held his hand up. The finger Peta had broken had
been snapped back into place. It now hung uselessly, like a swollen, mutant appendage. ‘And my eye. Because yours will be
the supreme sacrifice.’

He lifted up his other hand. It was holding the stun gun once again.

‘You’re a worthy opponent.’ He smiled. ‘But you won’t get away from me this time.’

Peta kept slowly moving.

The Historian kept stealthily advancing.

He gestured to an alcove on her right. ‘You see in there? There’s all my previous experiments. The ones who failed to make
the grade, shall we say?’

Peta looked. Three walls of the alcove were lined with deep chest freezers. Her knees threatened to give way once she realized
what was in them.

‘Want to see?’

Peta shook her head.

‘Never mind.’ Closer and closer. ‘This place used to be part of Newgate Street prison. Did you know that?’

Peta said she didn’t.

‘I had to tunnel under the city to find it. We’re miles away from anywhere. Too deep down for anyone to hear you scream.’

Peta reached the workbench, stood before it. She couldn’t feed his delusions any more.

‘No, we’re not,’ she said. ‘We’re in the basement of a shop.’

Anger flashed again in his eyes. He raised his stun gun. The electrodes crackled.

‘You’re just like all the others,’ he said, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Just another lying bitch.’ He smiled. It was like
an annexe of hell opening. ‘But you’re still going to be my final experiment. You’re still going to give me all the answers.
Just like they said.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ she said with a conviction she wished she felt. ‘I said that last time I saw you, and I’m saying it now.’

He lunged at her.

She dodged out of the way as the stun gun came harmlessly down on the workbench.

Peta picked up a knife, tried not to look at the blood encrusted and rusted along the blade, and turned to face him.

He lunged at her again. She dodged, swiped with the knife. It caught the back of his hand. She pushed deep, forcing it down
as hard as she could until it hit the wood of the workbench, became embedded.

He screamed, tried to pull it out. Couldn’t.

‘That’s for Jill,’ she said, and ran.

Around the table to the bottom of the stairs. Up the stairs as fast as she could go. Through the door at the top.

She slammed the door shut behind her, turned into the room.

And there, bending over the girl’s body in the wheelchair, stood Michael Nell.

He jumped on seeing her, then stood up, angry.

‘What have you done to her, you bitch? What have you done?’

‘So what do you intend to do?’ asked the Snake. ‘Stand here all night?’

‘Just until the police come,’ said Donovan. ‘They’re on their way now.’

The Snake gave a slight rolling chuckle. ‘And what if I don’t want to wait?’

Donovan pushed metal harder into skin. ‘I’m the one holding the gun. I’m the one who makes the rules.’

‘So you are,’ said the Snake.

Before Donovan knew what had happened, he had felt a pain in his chest, another in his leg and he was slumped against the
side of the warehouse, gun missing from his hand.

The Snake stood over him, still clutching Katya.

‘Amateur,’ he spat.

The siren sound intensified in volume. They were taking their time, thought Donovan. He knew the dock covered several miles,
but how far away had they stationed themselves? Wherever, they couldn’t come soon enough.

The Snake heard them also, looked around.

‘Get up,’ he said.

Donovan began struggling to his feet.

‘I said get up.’ He kicked Donovan in the thigh.

Donovan got up.

‘This woman—’ he gestured with the gun at Katya ‘—she means something to you?’

Donovan didn’t reply. The Snake smiled.

‘Good.’ He nodded towards Decca’s BMW. ‘You will drive me away from here.’

‘And if I don’t?’

He pushed the gun tighter against Katya’s face. ‘She and I will be in the car with you. Do I need to say any more?’

He didn’t. He handed Donovan the keys. Donovan crossed to the car, got in, turned the engine over. The Snake threw Katya in
the back seat behind Donovan, got in the front next to him.

The fire had reached the front of the warehouse now. Gaining in strength, the rain would not stop it spreading.

The Snake put the huge machine gun between his legs, pointed the automatic at Donovan.

‘Drive,’ he said.

Donovan did so. As they pulled away, Katya looked out of the window. Her brother lay sprawled across the bonnet of the Mondeo.
He had stopped moving. She tried to bite back her tears. Failed.

‘Shut up,’ said the Snake. ‘Stop wailing or I give you something to wail about.’

Katya screamed, leaned forward. She grabbed hold of the Snake with both hands, raking the skin off his face with her fingernails,
shouting curses and profanities in her native tongue. Her fingers reached for his eyes, tried to claw them out. Her right
hand found his right eye. She squeezed.

He turned, swatted her back. He twisted around and fired the gun at her. The sound nearly deafened Donovan. He stopped the
car.

‘What the fuck have you done? You fucking animal!’

The Snake swung the gun on to Donovan. ‘You want the same? Eh?’

Donovan said nothing.

‘Then drive, amateur.’

Donovan turned around to look at Katya. The shot had hit her somewhere in the chest. She hadn’t screamed, just put her hand
to the wound, held herself as if she had a bad muscle ache, moaning with the pain. The blood seeped between her fingers.

‘She is not dead,’ said the Snake. ‘Get me safely away from here, then you can get her to a hospital.’

Donovan was seething. His hands were shaking as he gripped the wheel. ‘You cunt.’

‘Whatever.’ The Snake pointed the gun at him. ‘Drive.’

Donovan gunned the car into gear, drove. He had no idea where he was going, whether he was taking the way out or a route that
would lead him to Turnbull and his officers. Just round and round.

Containers were piled high on both sides of him. He drove down the centre. Crates and pallets were waiting at the dockside
to be loaded or stored. Huge open-top trailers full of metal sat beside cranes waiting to be lifted on board.

‘Drive.’

He drove.

He knew what was going to happen. As soon as he had driven away he was going to be killed. And Katya, if she wasn’t dead by
then. He was under no illusions. Anger rose all the time. He wanted to scream, to shout. To pummel the steering wheel in rage.
He wanted out. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. He was angry. He was terrified.

His desperation increased as he tried to think of something, anything, that could get rid of his passenger, get Katya to a
hospital.

He turned a corner. And saw it before him. Something only the truly mad or the truly desperate would attempt.

At the end of the road was a forklift truck, the forks
about a metre off the ground. He looked at the Snake, back to the forklift. It would be just about right.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator, checked his seat belt was on, gave a glance in the back. Katya was lying down,
curled up in agony along the leather.

Donovan pushed harder. The car gathered speed.

The Snake looked at Donovan, frowning. Then straight ahead. Realized what Donovan was about to do.

He pushed the gun towards Donovan, shouted something. Donovan ignored him, pushed harder, his world shrunk down to the two
prongs sticking out before him, coming ever closer with each second.

Get it right. Or go down too.

The Snake tried to prise Donovan’s hands from the wheel. Donovan didn’t budge.

The forks loomed up.

No going back.

Donovan pushed harder.

Shouted to Katya to brace herself. Had no idea whether she heard him.

Gave himself the same advice. Hoped that God, if He existed, was with him.

The car hit.

Donovan turned his head to the right, closed his eyes. Brought one arm up to shield his face.

The windscreen shattered. The thick steel blade of the forklift punching through the glass, catching the Snake in the chest
as he made a lunge for the door. The blade impaled him to the seat, as thousands of glass razor shards rained into the car.

The car skidded away to the right, the weight of the forklift pinning the Snake’s body in place, the force of the car pulling
his body along, ripping him open as it went. A piercing wail sounded out louder than the screech of metal on
metal as the Snake struggled to detach himself from the impaling fork, as it tore both himself and the seat out of the car.

The car smashed sideways into a container and, with a squeal of metal, came to rest.

Donovan opened his eyes. Shook his head. Shards of glass fell from his hair. He felt his face, looked in the mirror. Cuts
and slashes where the windscreen had exploded, but pretty superficial, nothing too deep. Nothing that would leave him scarred
for life.

He felt his chest. Tender. The seat belt had saved him from too much damage but bruised his ribcage. He would ache for days.
He checked his body. Still in one piece. He flexed his legs. Still attached. And unbroken.

He looked out, saw the Snake’s ruined body, now just a ragged collection of used flesh, hanging from the front of the forklift.

Donovan exhaled deeply, checked the back seat. Katya was curled up foetally, arm wrapped protectively around herself, jammed
in between the back and front seats. Tiny shards of glass glittered like diamonds on her body.

Donovan got out of the car, pushed the seat forward, leaned in.

‘Katya? Katya?’

She turned slightly, wincing from the pain, opened her eyes.

She was alive.

Donovan smiled. ‘Katya …’ He put his arms around her, cradled her.

She tilted her head up.

‘Did you … Is he dead …? The Snake? Is … he dead?’

Donovan glanced at what was hanging from the forklift.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘He’s dead.’

Katya closed her eyes. Relaxed against his arms.

The sirens were almost on them.

Michael Nell stood before Peta. She recognized him straight away. Cries of pain and anguish came from the basement. The Historian
trying to pull the knife out. Her eyes darted between the man in front of her and the door at the top of the staircase.

‘What have you done to Anita?’ screamed Nell again. Then heard the screams coming up the stairs. ‘And what have you done to
him?’

‘I’ve not done anything to Anita,’ said Peta quickly. ‘Nothing at all. It’s the guy who owns this place. It’s him. He did
this.’

Nell frowned. ‘Graham? Graham did this?’

‘Yes,’ said Peta. ‘Graham.’ The screams abruptly stopped. He must have managed to pull the knife out. Peta had no time. She
decided to push it. ‘Your friend. He did this. That’s him downstairs. He was going to kill her.’

‘Don’t talk shit.’

‘He was, Michael. He was going to kill her and he was going to kill me. He kidnapped her.’

Footsteps began on the stairs. Slow, painful ones, accompanied by dark mutterings. He was coming up. And she doubted he would
be unarmed.

‘You’ve got to believe me, Michael. He zapped her with a stun gun, tied her to the chair. He was going to kill her. Like he’s
done with all the other girls. The one’s you got blamed for.’

Nell looked as if his head was about to burst. He looked frantically from the door to Peta, to Anita.

‘I … I used his studio … I took photos here …’

The footsteps got louder.

‘I know you did. But that’s all. Just photos. He did the rest. Graham. He killed them. Used them for his experiments, he said.
He killed my friend Jill. And that’s what he was going to do with Anita.’

Michael Nell flinched at the words as if they were physical blows.

‘Kill her. Slice her body up.’

‘No …’

The Historian reached the top of the stairs, flung the door open, knife in hand. He stopped, confusion etched on his face.
Saw who was there. Opened his mouth to speak.

‘You bastard!’

And Nell was on him. Fists, kicks rained down on him. The Historian backed away towards the basement. In his haste to get
away, he lost his footing, stumbled backwards down the stairs. Nell gave him no quarter, was straight down after him.

Peta slammed the door shut behind them, turned the key in the lock, slumped to the floor in front of it. Looked at Anita,
who was beginning to stir.

‘In a minute,’ she said, ‘I’ll have you out of there in a minute.’

She dug out her phone, put in a 999 call. Told them all the details, asked for Nattrass by name. Pocketed the phone, sat back.

Sounds travelled up from the basement. Unpleasant, violent ones. Peta tried to block them out.

She closed her eyes.

Snapped them open again.

Her phone was ringing. She answered it.

‘Oh, hi, Jamal.’

Listened.

‘Oh, no. Oh, shit …’