RECRUITED: A Mike Humber Novella (Demon Series Book One) (7 page)

A few steps to go and my make shift garrotte is made ready with the other end of the boot laces wrapped round my left hand. Gripped and ready I stay low and keep my eyes glued to the back of his head. The phone in his hand bleeps once, then twice. He thumbs the screen and presses it to his ear. A tinny voice speaks to him. He answers in a language I don’t understand. A conversation takes place while I remain frozen to the spot and hoping to fuck he doesn't do what every other twat having a phone conversation does and walk about with that zombie shuffle. He takes a step forward and so do I. Talking into the phone he turns slowly to the left and I match his movements, staying close behind and in the blind spot to his rear.

He gabbles on in a muted tone, sucking on the smoke and gesturing with his hand between puffs. God come on you fucking prick. Selfish fucking prick. My thighs are starting to burn from being held in a crouch. Get off the phone so I can strangle you for fuck’s sake.

The call ends abruptly. He lowers the phone, jabs at the screen and slides it back into his pocket with a heavy sigh. I charge forward but the fucker hears me coming and spins round at the last second.

De Smet staggers back in alarm, his face showing alarm, he goes to call out but morphs quickly into defensive mode. I slam the attack home, literally charging bodily into him. He yelps and tries to turn but my hands are already up pushing the length of the boot lace into his neck. I twist round trying to get behind him but he goes with me, both of us turning on the spot. I drive a knee into his side, straight into the kidneys. He gasps with pain but keeps turning. I step back quickly and heave on the lace with enough force to take him off his feet but the fucker was prepared for the move and comes with me, staggering to stay upright. His right hand goes for his waist with what I can only assume is a desperate reach for his phone.

This has to end quickly so I launch forward with a hard kick to the back of his legs. I keep kicking, slamming the base of my feet at the back of his knees while levering hard on the bootlace. His left hand is up, scrabbling to keep the material from tightening on his neck. Another heave and this one takes him off his feet. Those obsessive hours in the gym have made me stronger than I realise. He goes down heavily with a burst of air that escapes from his lungs. I tighten the garrotte and start heaving on the ends with all my might. He tries to draw breath but already his throat is constricting. That right hand scrabbles for the phone but in his panic and confusion he reaches behind to the back of his trousers. A snake and wriggle to get my feet onto his chest with his head is almost on my lap. I quickly circle my hands to make the adhoc noose tighter and wrench my upper body back with every ounce of strength I have. A gurgling gasp escapes his mouth as the first gunshot echoes through the park. A pistol in his right hand, the bastard had a pistol strapped to the back of his trousers. I heave harder, my arms straining from the exertion. The gun waggles and waves but already the lack of oxygen to his brain, the pain and the shock are causing him to become confused. He could point the gun over and take a few pot-shots, but he doesn't. He lets another one go into the air maybe hoping to draw attention or maybe just clutching the trigger in reflex of being choked to death.

Strangling someone isn’t like the movies. It takes a lot longer. The body reacts to any perceived threat and reacts accordingly. His body produces a surge of adrenalin to counter the danger. He scrabbles with fresh wild energy, bucking and twisting to the left and right. My heels slam down onto his chest as we roll around grunting and hissing. Sweat already pissing down my face, I lean back to try and avoid getting any on him. The pistol lets off another shot, then another, the huge retorts booming into the quiet of the night.

The fight drains out of him in seconds. The hand holding the gun sags down and his body goes limp. I hold the strain for another couple of seconds and release suddenly. Pushing him away violently I scrabble round to stare down at his bright red face. He draws breath slowly but he’s unconscious. The small bones in his throat will be broken and crushed but he lives.

Moving to the side of him I quickly check his pockets and pretty much already know what I’m going to find. The police wallet is in his back pocket, where every copper keeps it. Detective Phillipe De Smet. Fuck it. The hand gun is a standard 9mm Glock. I shoe it away in case he suddenly snaps awake and drop the rucksack from my shoulders. Inside I draw the bottle out and lever the spout up. My right hand works his mouth, forcing it open. The spout is pushed in and I squeeze down on the plastic bottle. He reacts instantly, writhing in agony as the thick bleach hits the back of his throat, drowning with horrendous chemical burns that will sear his windpipe and insides. I squeeze hard forcing the bleach in ensuring I get a decent amount into his throat. Pulling the bottle out I spray it over his face, into his eyes and then on his neck and finally back up to squirt the last few bits into his nose. The bleach is tucked away and the lighter fluid comes next. That gets sprayed liberally over his clothing with a heavy dousing on his chest and face. I make sure his arms and legs get wetted by the liquid before standing up, drawing my lighter and thumbing the wheel. Reaching down I lean away as he ignites and I’m up, shoving everything back into the bag as he lets out one last agonising scream. His body engulfs in flame that shoots up into the night air. Alive and I’m guessing conscious now, he tries to sit up and almost manages it before slumping to the side and falling quiet.

I’m running. Sprinting back down the path as I hear the first sirens warbling in the distance. Too close for comfort and on breaching the end of the path I gain the road and sprint faster into the side streets. A police car comes towards me, sirens blaring into the silent air and the flashing blue lights bouncing off the windows of the nearby buildings. I drop flat behind a parked car and stay prone until it swooshes past then I’m up and moving again.

One street away from the city centre I bring the sprint down to a jog then to a walk. My breathing is ragged and deep. Sweat pours from my face and soaks my t shirt so I duck into another darkened recess and sit down to let my body get back under control.

Seven

‘
Mum? It’s Mike.’

‘Mike! Where the hell have you been?’

‘With Uncle Phillipe,’
I reply with exaggerated cheeriness, ‘
hey, did you know Uncle Phillipe is a policeman? And a detective…how cool is that? And he had a gun and everything…’

‘Are you being serious?’
Her voice drops to a hushed tone.

Wearing a clean t shirt and now with the baseball cap tucked safely back in the bag which is once more held over one shoulder, I slowly thread my way back towards the fleapit hotel with my tourist map held open in my hand.

‘
Yep,’
I keep my tone light despite the raging emotions flooding through my systems, ‘
a detective no less. Did you know?’

‘No. We had no idea.’

‘Where was the footage captured?’

‘A holiday cottage, Williams booked it using his credit card. We managed to get in and rig the place with cameras. We only got the footage back a week ago…’

‘One week? Fuck me you lot move fast.’

‘We had to, so what now?’

‘Now?’

‘Uncle Phillipe,’
she says as though we’re talking about a real relative, ‘
do you think we should leave him?’

‘Er…it’s a bit late for that.’

Silence at the end of the phone until she clears her throat softly. ‘
You’ve done it?’

‘Yes.’

‘My god…but…’
She falls silent again and for a few seconds neither of us speak. ‘
Where are you?’
she finally says as a way of breaking the silence.

‘
Going back to the hotel unless I find a bar on the way back in which case I’m getting pissed.’

‘Mike, you’ve not had alcohol for months. I don’t think…’

‘I just watched my Uncle Phillipe die,’
I cut her off, ‘
I think I deserve a drink, don’t you? Besides, I need to find a date for the evening. Preferably one you pay for.’

‘What?’

‘Someone to spend some time with…’
I let the words hang, ‘
someone who will remember me in the days to come…you know…should anyone need to remember information like that.’

‘What?’

‘For fuck’s sake. An alibi! Fucking spell it loud for you shall I?’

‘Oh…Oh!’

‘Ah the fucking penny drops.’

‘Okay, well…as you see fit,’
an edge of disgust to her voice, ‘
but we’d prefer it if you did not draw attention to yourself.’

‘I would invite you for a drink but seeing as you’re back in Blighty that kind of rules that one out.’

‘Mike, don’t do anything stupid. You haven’t drunk for a long time.’

‘Bye then.’
I hang up and pocket the phone. Fuck me. I just killed another man. How many is that now? Four? I’m a mass murderer, a serial killer. The adrenalin burning off has left me shaken and full of anxiety. Burning the body will destroy nearly all of the fibre traces and the post mortem will reveal the bleach down the throat. You can’t get much more newsworthy than that.

Was he married? I didn’t even think to check his wedding hand. Did he have children? Did he abuse them or just other peoples’? I think back to the footage and compare the intense hatred and burning rage I feel against the memory of killing De Smet in such an awful way, and you know what? The emotions from the footage outweigh the remorse at killing by a thousand to one. A dirty thing. A bad thing. But that man will never hurt another child.

No bars on the way to the hotel so I head inside and find the same woman behind the desk.

‘Bar?’ I make the motion of drinking with one hand. She nods and points across the lobby to a set of double doors and goes to stand up as I walk off. She says something but I ignore it and head straight through into what has got to be the filthiest shithole I have ever seen.

Broken bar stools at the broken bar. Broken shelves only partially filled with dirty bottles. A few tables and chairs, all mismatching and held together with tape. Men sit with women they have paid for. Women with tight tops, short skirts and hard eyes. No one looks at me but everyone is aware. I cross to the bar and cast my eyes along the bottles.

‘Vodka,’ I ask the seedy looking tattooed man leaning over the bar in deep conversation with a hooker. He gives me a disdainful look, says something to the woman and walks over.

‘Money?’ His accent is thick and definitely not French or Belgian or whatever the fuck they speak here.

I drop a twenty euro note on the bar which is swept up with the fluid like grace only a desperate junkie can muster. He places a glass in front of me and pours a double shot then slowly draws the bottle away with a questioning look. I drop the next twenty euro note and he leaves the bottle and walks back to his conversation.

I swallow and look down at the clear liquid. My hands are trembling from what I’ve done, from the exertion, from the shock and from pure desire to drink alcohol. I haven’t had any for a long time. The denial to give self-punishment and cause myself more pain. But now. Right now after choking, poisoning and setting a man on fire I’ll take whatever comfort I can find.

My hand grips the glass. This is going back to what I was. My hand lifts the glass. This is regression to a life that was full of pity and abuse. The glass brushes my lips. This will be a mistake and the first step back onto the road of being a washed up alcoholic.

But it tastes fucking good. I down it in one and relish the harsh burn as it cascades down my throat. Within seconds my whole body tingles from having the thing it has been demanding for so long. I pour another and savour the pleasure of lifting it slowly. Fuck life. Fuck denial. Fuck everyone and everything. The second one goes down easier than the first and suddenly it all seems just a little less bad. Not good, never good. Just less bad than it was ten minutes ago.

‘No smoking,’ the heavy accent speaks out as I roll one up. I turn languidly to glance pointedly at the people smoking at the tables behind me. He shrugs and repeats, ‘no smoking.’

With a sigh I drop another twenty on the bar. Fuck it. I’m sure The Carlisle Group have deep pockets.

It’s gone within a second or two and in its place is a nice little ashtray. Me, the vodka and the ashtray. Lifelong buddies.

‘Another glass,’ the first sound of the voice next to me has me groaning with dismay. The barman slides one down which is caught and filled with my precious vodka. I don’t speak but sip my drink and smoke my cigarette. ‘No questions?’ she asks after a lengthy silence.

I shrug. ‘What’s the point? You tracked the phone.’

‘We did.’ She nods with a movement I catch from my peripheral vision. ‘Nice place you chose.’

‘Plenty of others,’ I remark with a suggestion she can go find one.

‘Discretion guaranteed,’ she quotes from the notice board at reception.

‘That’s what it said.’

‘We’re sharing a room,’ she mutters, ‘my stuff is already up there.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Well, you said you needed some company.’

‘I did.’

‘And you said you would invite me out for a drink.’

‘Yep.’

‘So I…’

‘But you were already here,’ I cut her off.

She falls silent and still I refuse to look at her. I don’t want to look at her. She’s pretty and my eyes deserve to be punished by staring at the ugly ashtray and the ugly bottle and…

‘How did you do it?’ she whispers after edging closer. Her arm brushes against mine and the contact is uncomfortable. I want to move away but can’t be bothered to expend the energy involved.

I shrug and sip vodka.

‘Tell me,’ she urges, ‘how?’

‘Why? What difference does it make?’

‘Did he suffer?’

This time I do look over with some consternation at the question posed. She stares at me with an expression I can’t quite make out. Hunger? A desperation? ‘Did he suffer?’ she asks again with a hard edge to her voice.

I nod, once and softly. She locks eyes on mine and stares as though searching for something. The softness of her features makes me want to cry. The femininity of the woman. Big blue eyes and skin so soft and warm looking. She doesn't belong here. This is a place for the broken and dirty, the tainted and ugly. But there is a hardness to her gaze, an iciness there that I start to fathom might be the real woman and the softness is a projection of what she wants men to see. Still. She makes me want to cry so I look away and take a big swig in the hope that getting steaming drunk will ease the pain.

She pushes on, leaning closer still and dropping her head to look up at me, ‘I want to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ she nods firmly, ‘I want to know.’ Her tone is demanding, almost petulant and I half expect her to tell me she paid for it so she has the right to know the details.

Fuck it. I turn and stare at her. ‘I choked him with a pair of boot laces until he passed out. Then I poured neat bleach down his throat, into his eyes and up his nasal passage…’ she watches me with fascination, ‘then I doused him in lighter fluid and set him on fire,’ I finish and turn away, then turn back to face her, ‘then he died,’ I add with a nonchalant shrug.

She watches me closely, hanging off every word I say. When I finish and she doesn't look away I can’t help but think she wants more. She swallows, blinks and widens her eyes.

‘Wow,’ she whispers, ‘you did that?’

A strange question to ask given the circumstances. ‘That’s what you wanted isn’t it?’

She nods again, seemingly unable to find the right words. ‘What does it feel like?’

‘What?’

‘Killing, what does it feel like?’

‘Fuck, Elizabeth,’ I shift with discomfort from her penetrating gaze, like she’s trying to see into my soul, ‘it doesn't feel like anything…’ I take another big swig and refill my glass, and being the gentleman I am, I fill Elizabeth’s too. ‘It feels awful,’ I add softly, ‘numb but…fucking terrible all at the same time…ah fuck it, I’m getting drunk.’

‘No, go on,’ she urges me softly with a gentle placing of her hand on my forearm.

‘What do you want to know?’ I blink quickly, startled at the slight slur in my speech. Christ my tolerance has dropped if it’s hitting me already. ‘Like,’ I glance away and trail off.

‘Like what?’

‘You look hungry,’ I say to her.

‘Hungry? I’ve eaten…’

‘No…no no,’ I shake my head, ‘like hungry for the details…like…you want to know the morbid details.’

‘I do,’ she whispers, ‘really.’

‘Why?’ I ask like a child. ‘Why’s that then?’

‘It fascinates me,’ she says with brutal honesty, ‘and I want to know how he suffered…’

‘Oh yeah,’ I nod emphatically, ‘you were abused too weren’t you?’

Pain crosses her face at the clumsy way I say it. ‘I was but…’ she stops to think for a second. ‘Yes, yes I was.’

‘By Williams?’

She nods again and drops her eyes with a look of complete sadness that even in my state I’m pretty sure is contrived to fuck.

I lean in close, so my face is but inches from hers. She looks up with a mixture of being startled and waiting expectantly as though I’m about to try and kiss her. ‘De Smet,’ I whisper quietly and probably quite drunkenly, ‘died a very painful death,’ I edge closer so I can keep my voice as low as possible, she doesn't flinch or make any effort to move away. ‘Choking isn’t like the movies. It takes minutes and the person fights like a bastard. He pulled his gun and shot bullets into the air. He was panicking, fighting for breath…’ her eyes flicker between my mouth speaking the words and my eyes revealing the emotions, ‘when he passed out I released and let him breath for a few seconds.’

‘What then?’ she whispers so intensely and I can’t help but see the first flush spread across the base of her throat.

‘Then,’ I lean in closer. She nods, urging me to keep going, ‘then I slowly poured the bleach into his mouth. Blisters were forming within seconds, melting the skin from his tongue and he woke up screaming in agony.’ I want to puke, to vomit and cry. I feel tears burning the back of my eyes and I grip my glass so hard I fear it will break but she watches and licks her lips with a hunger for more. I swallow and stare deep into those perfect blue eyes.

‘What then?’ She edges in closer, her eyes narrowing to widen and I can feel the heat coming from her body.

‘Then,’ I nod and tilt me head. She tilts hers in an invitation to kiss her, ‘then I came back here to see a rancid fucking cunt who gets off on the misery of others…’ The slap rings out loud across the bar. The barman glances up, shrugs and carries on with his conversation. My eyes screw shut at the stinging pain burning my cheek. It feels nice. It hurts and feels nice. Pain is what I deserve now. Pain is what I have become. I open my eyes to see her staring at me with fury etched on her face. An instant transition from being turned on to insulted in the worst possible way.