A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (29 page)

Stoner braked at the last minute, rolling the heavy Transporter right up to the motorcycle, and before Reve could say anything, Stoner was out of the van, running with astonishing speed at the passenger, who raised the chain ready to swing it. Before he could Stoner had hit him full in the face and as he tried again to swing the chain Stoner was on him, hooking his feet from under him grabbing and wrapping the chain around his right forearm, pushing past, causing him to fall, then turning.

Suddenly.

And stamping hard on his face inside the open-face crash helmet, cutting off a scream before it was properly born.

With no pause and no hesitation, Stoner vaulted over the leaning motorcycle, straight into the body of its rider, knocking him off-balance while screaming at him, ‘Die, die, die, dead man, die, die, die!’ He jammed the stiff straight fingers of his right hand with all the force of his upper body directly into the rider’s windpipe where it was exposed below the chinguard of the full-face helmet.

Then the chain was suddenly winding around the rider’s neck as he stumbled, clutching his throat and emitting a musical gargle all his own, falling to his knees and trying to swallow and to stop the chain. Stoner moved fast, so fast, around to the rider’s back, placed his left foot between his shoulder blades and pulled the chain, pulled it tight and pulled the struggling gargling man to the roadside barrier, where he wrapped the remaining length of the chain, holding its prisoner entirely captive.

With no pause, Stoner ran to the struggling fallen passenger, who was rubbing at his face and spitting blood and teeth and
trying to stand while enduring not insignificant pain from his broken jaw and broken teeth. Stoner kicked him hard as he could in the side of his head, protected as it was by the open-face helmet, and when he fell he kicked him again, this time in his stomach.

Maybe a single minute had passed. Maybe two. Certainly less than three.

Stoner returned to the motorcycle. Wheeled it to the side of the road, removed its ignition keys and rolled it down the embankment, letting it overbalance and fall on its side.

He returned to the rider in chains, slotted the bike’s keys between the fingers of his right hand and smashed them into and through the polycarbonate visor of the full-face. The face of the alien bled red blood and bubbled.

‘Never, ever, ever again try that stupid shit with me.’ Stoner ran back to the heavy Transporter, its engine idling patiently, its occupant staring in silent disbelief at the display of unarmed combat, climbed aboard and drove off. Another car, just one other, had arrived, but its view of the altercation had been blocked by the black bulk of the heavy Transporter, and as that heavy vehicle pulled away, the following car followed it, driver oblivious to the carnage he was passing through, concentrating on the conversation he was enjoying with his cell phone. It’s a question of perspectives.

‘It’s a question of perspectives,’ Stoner remarked to his companion, who sat silent, staring straight ahead as the van accelerated again. ‘Consider it a public service. No fee. The only effective form of self-defence is an offensive self, which I believe I’ve mastered. The moment you recognise an attack is on its way . . . attack first and harder. If the enemy cannot attack you . . . they can’t hurt you as much as you can hurt them. The only alternative is running away very fast and very far. Being a target is never an option. Not for me. Not again. Never again.’

‘You could have killed them,’ Dave Reve finally found his voice. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’

‘Go ahead,’ Stoner was as unconcerned as he sounded. ‘They’ll have your number from the call, so they’ll come to see you, and you can explain what happened. It’ll make an entertaining coda to the swimming pool saga, and your status as a guy who gets half-killed by a naked lady but then beats a couple of hard-boiled bikers to bits will reach new heights.’

‘I didn’t do anything! You beat them up, man!’

‘I was nowhere near. I have a dozen witnesses who can place me anywhere else. Anywhere I like. Call your colleagues, an ambulance, a couple of priests, the AA, anyone you like. I’m sure you’ll make a great story out of it.’

‘This is your world, isn’t it?’

‘It is. And welcome to it. No fee.’

‘I feel sick. I think I’m going to throw up.’

‘No you’re not. You’ll be fine. I’ll open the window. And I’ll take you back to your excellently prestigious and suburban Jaguar. The body of evidence – where we were going – can wait.’

‘Does this happen a lot?’ Reve’s colour was returning through the pallor of his face. ‘And where did you learn to fight like that? Did they even touch you?’

‘If one of them had got to me, I would have fallen. Two fast men will always beat one fast man, all things being equal. But they weren’t fighters. They were fools. Noisy fools.’

‘Who taught you to fight like that, though?’

‘The army. The army trains hundreds of us to fight exactly that way. Remember this next time you feel like a scrap with someone you don’t know.’

‘I never feel like that.’

‘Then you’ll be safe. Always walk away. Leave fighting for fools like me.’

‘Are there lots of guys like you?’

‘Oh yes. More every year. Left-over warriors. Depend on it.’ Reve stared ahead through the windscreen. ‘You could have killed them.’

‘Yes. But I didn’t, so you can relax.’

‘And it just doesn’t bother you. At all. Really?’

‘It’s just how I am. Always have been, maybe, certainly since the army and Ireland, Iraq.’

‘Can’t believe that the . . . the violence doesn’t affect you. That’s . . . inhuman.’

‘Of course it affects me. Don’t be stupid. If I wasn’t affected I’d be dead. Long since.’

‘So you just control it? You . . . what . . . zone out?’

‘Not really. You can’t zone out in a fight. You’d lose focus and lose the fight. Folk do that, fighting folk. They’re all dead or out of the business.’

‘Doesn’t it build up, though?’

‘Aren’t we the profiler, now?’ Stoner’s amusement might have been genuine, though the dead gaze suggested otherwise. ‘But yes it does build up. We all have ways of dealing with it, of handling it. Nearly there now.’ He was swinging the heavy Transporter into the car park containing Reve’s parked car, pulled around it, pulled up, already facing the exit. Unlocked the passenger door.

‘Go on, tell me. How do you control it, how do you work it out?’

Stoner’s smile gazed ahead, through the screen. ‘Sex. Also rock ’n’ roll.’

‘Drugs?’

‘They have their place.’

28

LIE IN WAIT

‘It’s the demons, isn’t it?’ The woman who styled herself Amanda intercepted Stoner as he headed towards the bar. He stopped. Walked away from the bar towards an empty table and beckoned her to follow him. It was loud by the bar. People enjoying themselves. Good for business.

‘What’s that? Demons who force you to attack strange men in strange ways in strange places?’ He was smiling. It felt to him that this was his first smile of the day, which it may well have been. He looked over her head towards the bar and flapped a hand for service.

‘No.’ She returned his smile. ‘No, the demons in your head who make up the tunes you play. The demons who force you to play the way you do. Demons who drive everything. You certainly do know them. You’d be unable to play like you do without them. You even try to drown them, don’t you?’ She looked around, back towards the bar. No approaching refreshment rewarded her attention. ‘Don’t laugh at me. I’m not joking.’

‘I’m not laughing. It would take something really funny to make me laugh tonight, and that’s not faintly funny. I don’t think I do demons, though. I think . . . I think there are too many demons.
I think my own music exorcises them. I think if I didn’t play the blues then the blues would drag me down. Drown me. The blues is the demon in me. I think that players are so much more lucky than everyone else. I think we’re a different breed. I think you can’t play unless you’re driven to it, and that everyone else wraps themselves in blankets of stupidity, dishonesty and distraction to keep their attention away from the demons. I think they succeed, too. I think that almost no one knows about the demons . . . recognises them. I think they waste the entirety of their lives avoiding the demons of their own realities; they just rattle around for the whole of their lives. No point, no purpose. They do nothing I can understand. They squander their one and only chance, because although Buddhism is a great and comfortable thing to believe in, none of us is coming back. The darkness is everywhere and the darkness is filled with the demons. It’s where they live. Inside the dark inside us all. I’m not laughing, Amanda. The opposite. The night is filled with crying tonight. I will break a head or two tonight. I have no wish to do this but I will need to do it.’

Drinks arrived. Water for Stoner, something frothy for Amanda.

‘Did you order that?’ She looked surprised. Stoner shrugged. Shook his head and glanced at the bar.

‘Everything is a message. The message here is that I should stay sober. The message is from Chimp, the guy behind the bar, the guy with the epic tats and the muscles. He is messaging that I look like a fight and he doesn’t want a fight and he is suggesting by subliminal secret messaging that I stay sober. That is unlikely, frankly.’

‘You saying that there’s a message in my drink, too? What the hell kind of message is in . . . this?’ She flapped capable strong fingers at the creamy concoction before her. ‘I mean, what the hell is it anyway?’

‘It’s a cocktail. Chimp likes making cocktails.’

‘I can see that it’s a cocktail. Thank you so much, Mr Stoner, sir, for sharing your sense of humour with a mortal. I know it’s a cocktail. It smells and it walks and it talks like a piña colada. I don’t care about that. It will taste great if he really can mix a drink. What I care about here is the message.’ She paused. Shrugged. Smiled in a minuscule way. ‘What message is here? For me, that is. Or is it a message to you?’

‘Both, at a guess.’ Stoner almost smiled again. A faint glow of comfort threatened to derail the deliberate darkness of his mood. ‘Could be he sees you for a frothy frilly tart, of course. Could be that he’s telling me not to waste time on an inconsequence. If that’s what you are. He doesn’t know that, and neither do I. I don’t actually know what you are. Or who. And don’t start telling me now. I have no patience for life stories. Not today.’

The transient experimental glimpse of happiness had retreated again.

Stoner’s phone shook in his pocket. He rose and walked to the bar, walked fast; folk cleared from him.

‘Has Bili left us any Stoli? Is there a drink left in here?’ He tried to smile at Chimp, but it was an obvious struggle. He gave up, banged both elbows onto the wet wood, shook his head and knuckled his forehead. ‘Feel crap tonight, mate. Want to drown something. Me, for example.’

An unopened bottle of supposedly genuine Russian vodka slid towards him. Chimp hadn’t moved. He did now; rolled his eyes to his left, towards the far end of the bar. A blonde woman raised her glass. Stoner nodded to her.

‘What’s she drinking? Fill her up when it’s her time, OK?’

He picked up the bottle, pointed it to the woman, nodded. She looked at him over the rims of her spectacles, nodded, made a pistol of her right hand and fired him a shot. She might also have said some words, but the ambient was too loud to allow passage to anything less lively than a full shout. Or a real shot.

‘Who’s your friend?’ Stoner was back at the table. Amanda stared with intent towards the blonde at the bar. ‘The smart blonde lady? Good hair.’

Stoner drank the entire contents of his glass of water and refilled it from the vodka bottle.

‘I’m not sure. She’s been here a few times. She asks after me, I’m told, but somehow we manage never to actually meet. But she’s good with her hands. It’s not easy to slide a bottle along a bar. Not and keep the thing upright. Takes practice. Maybe she’s after a job waiting bar. Who knows? Who cares?’

‘A fan, then?’ Amanda smiled a little. ‘Like me?’

‘I doubt that she’s exactly like you, Amanda. Really. If she was like you then she’d be sat at this table joining in, not sitting on her own at the bar, staring at the optics and the mirror and avoiding all comers. Strange behaviour.’

‘But she is a fan?’

‘You get used to this when you play. You brought your bellows? The big brass sludgepump? You want to wheeze some noise tonight? Is that the plan?

‘I thought you weren’t going to play? Going to have a fight tonight?’ She smiled some more. ‘Yes. The sax is in the car.’

‘In the car? It’s no use in the car. It’ll be lonely in the car. I feel sorry for it. Poor lonely sludgepump, alone in a lonely car. Makes me want to break something, the sadness. That’s what it does to me, sadness. Want to stop feeling sad? Break something.’

‘My dad always called trombones sludgepumps. Not saxes.’

‘Your dad sounds great.’ Stoner had drunk a full glass of the vodka and was relaxing. He looked up. Chimp leaned over him, carefully placed a litre bottle of sparkling water in front of him. Walked away. Stoner poured a glass of water, sank it. Poured more spirit. Sank that. Looked at Amanda. Sweat appeared on his forehead. His eyes remained entirely focused.

‘Your dad a player? Tell me about your dad.’

‘Jesus.’ Amanda walked to the bar, carrying the cocktail before her as though there was a danger of an explosion. Placed it in front of the blonde woman, who looked at her, expressionless, said nothing.

Stoner’s phone shook, rousing him suddenly from the approaching and welcome dullness. ‘Oh fuck off, Shard,’ he muttered as he flipped it open to read. But it wasn’t Shard. It was Dave Reve. Asking his whereabouts and if he could intrude. Stoner replied in the affirmative. Amanda had retaken her seat. She waved at the open phone.

‘More fans?’

‘Nope. A gentlemen of the constabulary persuasion, oddly. Not every night I find my company so in demand. The plod will come calling any time now. You OK with that? Where’s your drink? Did you throw it away?’

‘Gave it to your fan. She looks the sort to enjoy a good cocktail. Great wig she wears, too. I know wigs. That’s a posh one. Any chance she’s not an actual blonde? Who would have thought it?’ She turned to face the bar. The blonde woman raised the cocktail, shared with them an unreadable expression. ‘See. My friend.’

Amanda produced a shot glass and poured vodka.

‘
Naz drovie
!’ she said, and threw it back.

‘Steady with that. Too much booze too fast can make you throw up.’ Stoner’s half smile was showing signs of revival.

‘Oh what wit! Very funny. Practice makes perfect.’ She sipped. ‘Perfection in many things. Something to aim for. Did you know that all men believe that only men can hold their drink? It’s true. I mean it’s true that they think that. But women can absorb alcohol better than men. It’s because of the higher fat content in their bodies. Did you know that? I’m betting another drink that you did not.’

She drank that other drink before he could reply. He didn’t
reply. Poured himself another spirit and turned his gaze to the stage. The house band had left for their break. Stoner observed that someone had placed his Fender on its stand next to his amplifier, that the amp was switched on, lights were glowing. He admitted temptation. But only to himself.

Amanda studied him. ‘Play or fray, Mr Stoner?’

‘JJ. I think you know me well enough to call me JJ. Friends do that.’

‘I’m a friend? That’ll be the booze, then. In the morning I’ll be nothing. Just another fan. Or will your morning bring tea and toast with the classy piece in the wig? She never looks away from you, y’know. Never. Do you always have this effect on women?’

Stoner looked back at her. ‘No. No, I don’t. Do you ever actually shut up?’

Amanda smiled, wider and wider and the smile split into a laugh. A loud laugh which stopped the conversations at tables around them. She wound down to a wide smile and flicked back another shot.

‘I’ll go get the sax.’

She bowed to the nearby tables, turning more than half a circle while doing so, ending up facing the door.

‘Back soon.’

‘Who’s that?’ Dave Reve settled uninvited into the still-warm seat. ‘Looks nice. Welcoming. Not blonde, so I can feel safe? No?’ He did the quizzical eyebrow thing, settled a soft drink on the table. ‘You getting smashed, Stoner? Thought you were going to do some of your musical stuff. Or do you perform better when rocket fuelled? Do you need a fight first?’

‘Fuck off, Dave.’ Stoner’s expression was as welcoming, as amiable as his words. ‘Welcome to the club. The Blue Cube welcomes all-comers to an evening of booze, schmooze and bluesy music. What’s so urgent that it’s dragged you away from a lovely evening of domestic delight at the family hearth? You hoping for
another magic blonde? This place is crawling with them tonight. Chap can’t move without tripping over some classy tart or other.’

‘Who’s your brunette, then? Looks nice. Nice shape. Wide mouth, decently upholstered.’

‘You make her sound like an easy chair. A sofa. She’s a saxophonist.’

‘Any good?’

‘No idea. Shall maybe find out in a little while, although I am no judge of techniques on things without strings. What d’you want anyway? Tell me now. If I carry on with my Russian friend here, Miss Stolichnaya, and most especially if I remake my fond acquaintance with her sister, the bad lady Pertsovka, I shall soon lose all interest in everything but the girl, the music, the bottle and the night. I’m halfway there, so . . .’

He looked up, quite suddenly becoming aware that Reve was paying him no attention. He was staring at the bar.

‘What’s up?’ Stoner was rushing back to sobriety. ‘Who is it? Who’ve you seen? Is there a threat here? I see none.’

‘Back in a minute. You armed?’

Stoner shook his head.

‘No. Do I need to be?’

‘Maybe.’ Reve stood slowly, made a show of draining his glass of its non-alcoholic contents, and made his way to the bar, displaying conspicuous politeness to those he moved gently aside. He leaned, elbows to the counter, attracted attention, and ordered.

‘Stoner gets no new bottle till he’s played. You tell him that. Please.’

The barman was a big man.

‘You tell him. Man wants a drink, he has a drink. You want to be his mummy, you be that thing for him. I’m sure he’ll love you for it.’ He looked around at the faces around the counter, shrugged, displaying no recognition, and returned to his seat.

‘There a problem?’ Stoner appeared harshly sober. No trace of a slur. Eyes active, hands out of sight. ‘Tell me now.’

‘The blonde at the bar. The beautiful one.’

‘Yes? I have eyes, I can see. She bought me the bottle here. My friend Stoli. You fancy her? You’re acting more like you want to call in an air strike, mind.’ He was relaxing, misunderstanding. Reve’s tension was hidden, controlled.

‘She’s the woman from the pool.’

‘Say again.’ No lightness now. Stoner took his phone from his pocket. Keyed a text message to Shard.

‘The blonde woman is the woman who tried to drown me. No doubts. I was very close. I know exactly what she looks like. She’s the killer. She nearly killed me.’ Reve’s voice was rising, in both pitch and volume.

‘Look at me. Look directly at me.’

Reve did as he was told.

‘Pick up the bottle, Amanda’s glass, and pour yourself a drink. Take your time. Look one hundred per cent relaxed. She’s looking this way. She’s very nice looking, my goodness me, yes. I am unarmed and have no wish for violence in here. Unless it’s my own and I’m in charge of it. Look at me. Say something funny.’

‘Holy sweet fucking mother of God, that insane bitch is sat at your fucking bar and you ask me to say something funny? You off your fucking head, Stoner?’

Stoner smiled widely, shook his head. ‘Oh that was funny. That was so funny. You are such a comedian, Dave! Dead right. I’ve called for reinforcements. They’re on their way. Any moment now the cavalry will arrive.’

‘You’re talking crap, Stoner. I’m going to arrest her. You might be acting some stupid part as an unarmed superhero, but I have a gun in here, and . . .’

‘Oh do shut up!’ Stoner was actually laughing. ‘Forget all talk of guns. You’re not waving some fucking bazooka around in here.
The place is crawling with civilians having a good time and no one, cop or no cop, shoots them. OK? Speak up. Are we OK with this, Dave? Say yes and you live, fail to answer and I’ll disarm you and break your head to shut you up. Simple.’

‘OK. It’s OK. I don’t understand a fucking thing. Why are you grinning like some sort of fucking maniac, you fucking maniac?’