The Evil And The Pure (18 page)

Big Sandy fixed on Shula for several long seconds
then closed the door gently and looked to the Bush for answers. “Larry Drake got her high and raped her. She was found in an alley, half-naked, unconscious, beaten.”

“You’re sure it was Drake?” Calm, saving his rage for later, when he could unleash it on a live target.

“She told me he was with her. Plied her with E’s and coke. She doesn’t remember the rape, thank God — the end of the night’s a blank, maybe because of the drugs, maybe because of the blows to her head. They were at a club together. I checked with the bouncers – got them out of bed,
very
unhappy bunnies – and two of them recalled Drake leading her away.”

“I told you not to trust him.” Big Sandy bitter, a rare criticism of his boss.

“You want a fucking medal for being right?” the Bush hissed, face reddening. He took a step towards Big Sandy, then controlled himself. Deep breaths. Turned away, massaging the back of his neck, weary. “Find him. Break him. Kill him.”

“You want
in on it?”

“No. Alice
needs me here.”

“You have his address?”

The Bush passed a piece of paper to Big Sandy. “He won’t be there, not after this. He must have been out of his fucking head to do something this crazy, but as soon as he comes to his senses he’ll realise he’s fucked. He’ll run.”

“I’ll find him,” Big Sandy said and the Bush saw the hatred in the giant’s eyes, knew he could trust him to do the job right.

“I want this taken care of quick,” the Bush said. “If he gets out of London it could be weeks – months – before we track him down.” A pause. Looking to make sure they were alone. Lowering his voice. “Use the hounds.”

Big Sandy stiffened. “I can find him without them.”

“Yeah, but it’s how I want it done. Fast Eddie will help.” Big Sandy shrugged and turned to leave. The Bush called him back. “Sandy — make it painful.”

Big Sandy didn’t smile. “On that you can fucking rely.”

The lab.
Fast Eddie and Phials waiting for him, Fast Eddie nervous, Phials grim. The chemist spoke first. “Letting them out in the middle of the city is a bad idea. If they break loose…”

“Just get them ready,” Big Sandy replied.

“I know Dave’s upset, but if we wait for him to calm down, I’m sure –”

Big Sandy turned to Fast Eddie. “Can you prep them?”

“If I have to,” Fast Eddie nodded, not liking it but knowing better than to argue with Big Sandy when his eyes were like this, flecks of fire amidst the grey.

“No,” Phials gr
imaced. “I’ll do it. It’s crazy, but if you won’t listen to sense…” He stormed ahead of them, muttering bleakly. Stopped when he reached the hidden door leading down to the cellar. Scoured the wall with his fingertips, searching for the secret panel. Slid it up and keyed in a five digit code. The wall opened, three sliding doors retracting one by one to reveal a steel door. Another code had to be keyed in for this, again five digits. When it slid back, a strong scent hit the three men — disinfectant and faeces. Big Sandy gagged, Fast Eddie flinched, Phials took no notice, accustomed to the stench.

The chemist
’s eyes glowed unnaturally in the cold neon light. He pressed ahead, leading the way. The cellar was a maze, stacked with boxes of chemicals, crates of guns, an illegal and valuable arsenal, reason enough for the secrecy, though not the primary reason — that lay further on.

The trio passed the crates and boxes, not glancing sideways or hesitating until they came to the cages. Four
of them, one inhabitant per cage. The bars were thick steel. The floor, plates of steel. The hounds, each on a short chain in the centre of its cage, howling, snarling, snapping at the scent of humans in the air.

The
Bush loved dogs. He’d been breeding and trading them all his life. But no pedigree poodles for him. He bred dogs to fight and hunt. For years he’d owned the toughest, meanest dogs in London, if not the whole country. He fought them regularly and they usually won, ripping out the throats of the competition, a nice little earner, the Bush’s most prized possessions.

For some men the fights were not enough.
They wanted more and were happy to pay big for even darker, twisted pleasures. The Bush saw an opening and set up the hunts deep in the countryside. He bought forested property which couldn’t be traced back to him. Installed a shitload of video cameras. Had his team pick a homeless guy from the streets, a junkie without any friends, who wouldn’t be missed. Set him loose in the forest then freed the hounds. They had been specially bred and trained. They hungered for blood and fresh flesh. They ran the junkie down and tore him apart. The Bush and a handful of carefully selected guests watched it all through the cameras, betting on how long the junkie would last once the hounds started after him.

The Bush didn’t free the
hounds often, no more than three or four times a year, always for a small, wealthy, appreciative audience. He made a sweet profit but not enough to justify the risk — he’d serve serious time if word of his games ever leaked. He kept the hounds because he needed the bloodshed, the betting on human life, the vicious thrill of the savage hunt. He had a hunger for the debased, and the hounds allowed him to channel and stay in control of his darker desires and needs.

Phials loved dogs too.
It was how the pair’s paths originally crossed. A mutual acquaintance told Phials about the hounds and invited him to come see them in action. The Bush and Phials bonded. Phials wept with joy as he watched the dogs run down their prey. He had never seen anything so wretchedly beautiful.

To entertain himself
during his incarceration, Phials had been experimenting with some of the Bush’s prized hunters. He’d added chemicals to their genetic mix, curious to see what he could do with them, how far he could push them, keen to prove that he could triumph over any design of nature’s.

The
hounds in the cellar were the fiercest of their kind. Most hunting dogs were bred either for their speed or keen sense of smell. They weren’t designed to fight. The hounds were different, larger than most, stockier, more like German Shepherds in appearance. Their fangs were long and thick, their eyes wide and crazed. Savage to begin with, under Phials’ influence they had become creatures of pure, undiluted hate. The four that he kept at the lab were the most monstrous of the lot, victims and pioneers, the face of a ferocious future. The Bush delivered his meanest specimens to the lab and Phials drove them even further down the road of madness and bloodlust.

T
he Bush had never used the hounds in London. They had only ever been unleashed in the safety of the forest, where no casual observer could see them hunt and kill. Releasing them on the streets of the nation’s capital was a crazy, reckless gamble. But his niece had been raped and dumped in an alley. The Bush was in a crazy, reckless mood, and the men who served him knew better than to question the commands of their master.

Big Sandy
studied the hounds as they spun in wild circles inside their cages, leaping at the bars, their large nostrils splayed wide, drooling, howling, snarling, snapping at the air. Their hair was caked with blood, vomit, shit. Phials’ drugs had shortened their lives. They found it hard to digest food. They couldn’t control their bodily functions. Their hearts beat too fast and they had trouble breathing. Phials expected these four to be dead within months. He didn’t care. Nor did the Bush. Plenty of replacements on standby.

“How many of them are we taking?” Fast Eddie
mumbled, squinting nervously, praying to God that Big Sandy didn’t want to take them all.

“Could we handle one each?” Big Sandy
asked.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Phials said. “The
pair of you
might
be able to control one between you…”

“Then we’ll take th
at one,” Big Sandy said, pointing to a hound which had just pissed itself with excitement. “Get it ready.”

Phials plucked a syringe from a rack on the wall and prepared it, fingers steady as they gripped the needle, features assertive. Fast Eddie produced a set of keys and unlo
cked the door of the cage. The hound retreated, growling gutturally. Phials stepped past Big Sandy and Fast Eddie, syringe held down by his side.

“Need a hand?” Big Sandy asked.

“No,” Phials said softly. He opened the door and walked straight at the dog, head erect, empty left hand slowly rising, fingers fluttering, the hound’s eyes locking on the chemist’s dark, smooth palm. Big Sandy watched uncertainly. He hadn’t seen Phials at work with the hounds before. He was worried, thought this would end in a bloodbath. Fast Eddie not flustered — he knew Phials was on solid ground.

T
he hound growled, pissed itself again, then leapt, fangs bared, powerful hind legs driving it forward at pace. Phials ducked and wrapped his arms around the dog, as if embracing a lover, hauling it upright. As the dog staggered around the cage on two legs, trying to make space to bite, Phials plunged the tip of his syringe into the beast’s neck and pushed down the plunger with his thumb. The hound made a choking noise and stiffened. Its eyes closed and its jaw and limbs went slack. Phials gently laid the animal to rest on the floor then exited.

Fast Eddie took the syringe. Phials was shaking now
, but only a slight tremor. Big Sandy stared at him, the first time he’d felt anything approaching admiration for the captive chemist, but tinged with pity, seeing what Phials could have been if he hadn’t fallen victim to his addiction.

“
He’ll be out for ten minutes,” Phials said. “Slip his harness on while he’s unconscious.”

“W
ill he be docile when he wakes?” Big Sandy asked.

Phials laughed. “
For about five seconds.” He turned to Fast Eddie and licked his lips. “Can I have one of the guys call for Clint while you’re gone? Ask him to bring Tulip?”

“Sure,” Fast Eddie smiled.

“How about some E’s?”

Fast Eddie frowned. “I can’t authorise that.”

“Please…” Phials shaking bad now.

Fast Eddie took pity. “
OK. But only enough to give you a mild buzz.”

“A
mild buzz is all this sad old buzzard longs for,” Phials grinned, then drifted away, muttering over his shoulder, “Shout if you need me.”

Big Sandy watched
the chemist leave, still torn between admiration and pity. Then he put Phials from his thoughts and focused on the animal in the cage, hurrying to fetch its harness, conscious of the clock ticking, not wanting to be caught in the cage with the thing if it came back to life unharnessed.

Breaking into Larry Drake’s apartment, Big Sandy alone, Fast Eddie in the van, the hound chained in the back. Quick exploration — clothes scattered across the floor of the bedroom, a wardrobe door half-open, space on a shelf where a travel bag might have been. The bird had flown.

Big Sandy hurried downstairs. A young man – one of Drake’s neighbours –
was in the corridor. He eyed Big Sandy suspiciously and started to ask a question. Big Sandy locked gazes. “You don’t want to get involved.” The young man flinched and made to withdraw. “Hey.” Big Sandy spread the thumb and little finger of his left hand, closed the three middle fingers, lifted the hand to his ear and shook it. “You don’t want to phone anybody either.” The young man stared at the giant, gulped and nodded then shut his door hastily.

Big Sandy and Fast Eddie hustled the
hound up the stairs. It was muzzled. The leash was a steel bar with a leather choker round the dog’s neck. You could administer an electric shock by pressing a button on the leash’s handle. Big Sandy had sneered when Fast Eddie pointed that out to him, didn’t think he’d need it. By the time he’d got to the top of the stairs he’d already had to stun the beast four times. He was sweating, muscles strained, struggling to hold the powerful hound in check.

They
hustled the hound to Drake’s bedroom. Big Sandy grabbed a handful of clothes and stuffed them in the dog’s face. Snorting, the hound tried to back away. Then it caught the smell of Larry Drake and stiffened, flashing on previous hunts, recalling past kills, adrenalin kicking in, pressing its snout deep into the clothes, inhaling, slavering, locking on to the scent.

Big Sandy let the
hound get a long whiff of the clothes, then crashed down the stairs with the dog, Fast Eddie following. The hound stopped on the pavement, sniffing wildly, passersby staring with shock and distaste at the filthy creature and its handlers.

“Does Drake have a car?” Fast Eddie asked.

“No. Banned for three years for drunk driving.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“The Bush kept it quiet.”

“What if he got a cab?”

“He wouldn’t have — afraid he’d be traced.”

“But if he did?”

Big Sandy shrugged. “Then we drag this fucker round London till he catches the bastard’s scent.”

Fast Eddie nodded wearily
. It wouldn’t be the first wild goose chase he’d been on. No point complaining, he was paid good money to take whatever shit the Bush threw his way. Besides, anything was preferable to babysitting Phials.