

A Fear Of Choking

To Death

By

Richard Jenkins

## Published by Weston Books

Copyright © 2018 Richard Jenkins. All rights reserved.

The right of Richard Jenkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher or author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author's or publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: 978-0-9570560-3-9

# CHAPTER 1

The puke was sports drink pure and fresh. Jon retched it up all over her face. It did nothing to wash away the blood sticking to her hair. The killer wound was obvious, even to a squinting, unfocused stare, the right-side of her skull smashed open. Her blood red eyes still screaming the terror.

Why here? Why now? Why Ann?

Just seconds ago, Jon walking, a minute from home, a five mile run still fresh in his chest. His mind still emptied, at peace. He ran the Shropshire Hills, swam the pools and lakes. Always alone. A taste of something wild. His one taste now that Ann had told the truth and laughed their affair dead.

Her body lay planted. A den of trees gave cover. It was a place they had come for alfresco fun. It led from his garden out towards the hills.

He felt no guilt. No blood on his hands. The eyes of the living told him little, confused and dazzled him. The eyes of the dead were an easier view, thoughtless, turned off with nothing to hide.

He was not the killer. But the panic he felt erupting inside was a scramble to save himself. A life shattered, his own, flashed before his eyes. The consequences of murder came piling down on him alone. Exposure threatened him.

He ran, a minute's sprint to get back home. An upstairs window - the den of trees concealed the stain on an otherwise idyllic view. Autumn strokes brushed pasture land. A single house crashed the scene.

Find a body, be a suspect, be investigated. Jon knew this. Vomit left the trail. Their history scraped the groove deeper into granite. He would have to call the police. Of course, he should.

Ann seduced him. They met inside the village shop, a typical Londis, but with an additional line in bulk animal feed. He was countryside newbie with four months credit. He came for shelter - the hills and the solitude. He had little wish to integrate; he didn't think he could.

The Londis was usually out of bounds. Emergency supplies only. The anonymous expanse of a Tesco Extra, a fifteen-mile drive into the nearest town, suited his needs better. He dabbled with Tesco online, but the primal thrill of driving his nearly new Volvo XC90, just six months old and still in its birth year of 2016, kept his grocery shopping real. He was the boss; he worked from home. He shopped early morning when the store had an exclusive air. A VIP in the first class lounge ushered away from the hordes.

The day they first met. He went to Londis for a bag of coffee. Over-dressed as usual, head-to-toe Canali, his favourite luxury Italian menswear brand. The apparel he shared that Tuesday mid-morning with the village folk: a rust coloured wool/cashmere peacoat, black shirt, cream lightweight chinos and a pair of blue suede driving moccasins.

Such style made him think he looked like an important somebody going somewhere important with an obvious need to hurry. Entering Londis, a conversation with the lady behind the counter rehearsed in his mind,

"I like your coat."

"It's Canali."

"Who?"

"They're Italian."

"Never heard of them."

"I know. They're not like Armani. You can't buy their cologne in Superdrug."

"I wish my hubby would dress like you."

"I annually visit the charity shop to drop-off the waste. I could let you have first dibs."

"He hasn't got your physique."

" Right. Well. Bye."

Changing in and out of his uniform took five times as long as getting to Londis and back. Once home, and back at work, he returned the Canali to its spacious closet then returned to the office wearing pyjamas or sometimes only pants.

What scared him about Londis was the village inquisition. Their file on him was incomplete. They knew his name, and the lie he'd told - he was a day trader of shares and currencies working for himself from home. Why lie? Why not? He earned a small living building and hosting websites for not very successful sole traders, a majority being driving instructors. He didn't learn to drive until he was twenty-nine, eight years ago, which up until the moment in time was his darkest most shameful secret. While studying for his driving test, he realised many independent driving instructors had no internet presence. It was a market he could exploit, which he did, ruthlessly. As he worked from home, his parent's house, his overheads were minimal. He stacked them high and sold them cheap, undercutting all competition. He had four website designs which he mixed and matched several hundred times to provide websites for clients from all over the country. His current annual profit was £27,800. He felt himself a professional success, a man who had forged his own independent way in the world. Winning a six-figure sum on the lottery also helped, as did his parents who both died well - cheaply, long before incurring the costs of a nursing home. The day trader lie was to accommodate the fruits of his secret good fortune.

Jon knew good luck had come his way, although this wasn't simply randomness with an outcome favouring him. He thought himself more deserving of positive randomness than anyone else. Jon couldn't believe in true randomness, even though he believed in nothing spiritual, the freak was somehow always preordained. The lottery win was his by some exceptional right, a reward or gift for some unknown quality behaviour perhaps to do with his sartorial promotions.

Jon slipped inside the Londis and sped towards the coffee, the route rehearsed and followed, his head down, the exact money required clenched in his fist, ready.

At the shelf, a label confirmed the price. His senses bristled. The store was busier than expected. A glance at the till revealed an opening. He took his chance and made his move.

"Morning."

"Morning"

Coffee scanned. Price announced. Correct. Money passed. A quick count. Bingo.

"That's it."

"Thanks."

He turned to leave. The curtain fell, shattered. He stood exposed on the public stage, lost and unrehearsed, unable to improvise. Pam Croft: megaphone, truncheon, one-woman crowd control, self-appointed village headmistress, ranching pupils, all those caught within the village walls, and most considered special needs.

"Ah, you!" she boomed, victorious at having Jon trapped.

Jon blushed. Pam kept her contempt contained. She wanted Jon to volunteer. He had to, she said, as a newcomer to the village, he had to prove his mettle. Jon, startled by the suddenness, the unexpected barrage of scrambled communication, the prying eyes and judging stares. His mind went floppy. He couldn't read her face. The sound of her voice punished him, induced anxiety. He fell behind as she raced ahead but he remained trapped in the riot of her protest march. Slogans kept coming, pelted at him.

"Community action against speeding drivers." "A menace to the village!" "We must defend our borders!" "Children will die!"

She looked past Jon at a customer behind and recounted how the police had finally relented and agreed to lend her a handheld laser speed camera gun. This pause gave Jon a moment to find his senses.

"We shall catch the speeding vermin. I have high-visibility vests for all my troops. We shall stand on the roadside proud and defiant. The new knights of the village!" Pam continued. Her focus returned to Jon.

"I'm told you work from home. Doing what?"

"I trade shares. Ethical investments," he managed to say, words from a well practised script.

"Yes. I've been told. So lucky us. You can man the rush hour shift. Take this leaflet. It has all the details you need."

Jon took the opportunity and gladly grabbed the leaflet that she offered in her hand.

"Right. Yes," he said, backing away. "But I do a lot for Christian Aid." He lied on auto-response.

To avoid having to negotiate a way past her impressive frame, he took the scenic route down two aisles towards the door. He bumbled along, a little unbalanced, too fast and too self-consciously, desperate to escape the stage. The narrow door induced a panic. To push or pull? To save some face or make complete the image of a weak, incompetent fool? Over-thinking. Numb with indecision. Wasn't the door automatic? Two seconds away, Jon racing on. A woman, Ann, calm and unhurried, glides inside his tunnel vision. She exits the store, door pushed open, her caressing hand holding it open. Jon followed, slowing to twist through the door ajar.

"Thank you," he mumbled without stopping or looking her way.

"No problem," Ann replied, walking with him side-by-side. "Shall I take that," she plucked the leaflet out of his hand. "I could put it with mine straight on the fire."

Her voice was soft and warm, calm and soothing, pure ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response) and nearly gave Jon the tingles. He couldn't help but glance at her, she faced forward, her stare tilted towards the ground. Her long brown hair concealed her face.

"I'm Ann. We're on the same side, the sensitive souls."

Jon felt slightly wounded by that. He nearly replied, "I'm socially phobic in a variety of ways."

"That's your Volvo. How very impressive."

"Correct. Better," he thought.

"Handsome. Satisfying somehow. We should hop on in and speed through the village. Show Pam that souls like us refuse to live slow."

She laughed. Jon veered towards his XC90 parting from Ann who continued on her way.

"Bye, Jon," she said, without turning to look at him then waving the leaflet above her head. "And consider yourself free man, free of obligation."

All Jon wanted was to get inside his XC90 and shut the door on the outside world.

He sat, sealed inside his mobile gated community, relief outweighing shame. Glad to feel himself again with his personal space restored.

They met again two days later. Jon, close to finishing a three-mile run, passed the driveway that led to Ann's land - and a five bedroom cottage with stables, paddock, and annexe that Jon could see from his back upstairs windows. He heard his name shouted, an urgent, primal call. Startled, he stopped and looked. Ann came sprinting towards him. As the sky was cloudless, Jon wore his Oakley Radar Path sunglasses. With his eyes concealed, his emotions hidden, he felt less raw, barely exposed.

Running the hills made him feel as much of a man as he ever could. He felt empowered, elevated, greater than his usual self. He ran solo. Appalled by the thought of joining a club. Alone and at one with nature, he would sometimes imagine himself to be a giant bounding over the hills, forged from rock and bone.

He stood, waiting. He couldn't look away. Currents trapped him. Ann was older than him but beautiful, glowing country fresh. She ran freely, unashamed, speed, not gait, her only concern. She too was flushed from exercise. Jodhpurs, riding boots, and a polo shirt skinned her as tightly as Lycra skinned him. Sunglasses kept the surface smooth and knowable, hidden depths plugged. In one hand she carried a mobile phone, in the other, a whip.

She explained her urgent need,

"I need a man to drive me!"

Her frail mother had been taken ill. The care home had called just a minute ago advising her to come and visit as a matter of urgency. She couldn't drive herself. She was currently unable to do so. Please, could Jon be a hero and give her a lift?

Jon, flattered by the hero hype, and always willing to avoid conflict, agreed to her request.

"I'll go and get my car then come and pick you up," he said.

"No. It's only a few hundred metres. We'll run," she replied. "You lead! Take me!"

She held his hand. Dazzled by the moment, Jon felt no discomfort only the flow of adrenalin pumping between them.

"To the XC90!" he actually said it.

They set off, Jon the giant, cutting a path to safety. He steered them into a field of pasture that swept down towards the back of his house. Whenever their handheld bond got broken, it repaired to reunite them again. They passed through the den of trees. About to reach Jon's garden, Ann suddenly pulled away and answered her mobile phone. They both came to a stop. Jon watched as Ann spoke on her phone. He couldn't recall hearing it ring.

"What?...Oh. Right...She is?...Great...That's great...Tomorrow. Yes. Yes. Tomorrow."

Jon could only think it was good news from the care home. He glanced at his XC90, which he could just about see parked on the driveway, and felt a pang of disappointment, more for it than him, as he knew it craved a moment to test and prove itself.

Ann ended the call and looked at him, deflated.

"Emergency over. Oh, well, do I look a fool?"

Jon hoped her reddened face was blushing; it would help level the field and make her more touchable.

"I'm sorry," she continued.

"Not a problem. Anytime," said Jon.

"Deal. Thank you. But now, what now? Look at us so hot and breathless. And me with a whip. What will people think? Let them think anything. Anything. What concern is it to us?"

She laughed vaguely then stepped towards him coming in close.

"You'll have to excuse me, I'm somewhat giddy. It's all been so anti-climatic."

She looked unsteady. Jon held out a hand. She took it and held her balance.

"The high of a ride flattened by the news of a mother in crisis. I had no hope. No way to reach her. But then, you. A hero? Maybe. Yes. A hero, you. We joined the race, but it led to where? To here. To only frustration. Our rush of adrenalin denied a climax, a satisfying completing release."

She embraced him tightly. Jon felt like a giant.

"Isn't it terrible to see the aged so sad and decrepit?"

Her voice, almost a whisper, trickled into Jon's ear. He felt beguiled

"How long have we got to live as thrillingly as we can? To run, to ride, to feel whole, all the pleasures our bodies can offer?"

Jon could think of nothing to say, or do.

"Fuck me, Jon. Fuck me now."

"Uh? What. OK. But you start it though," he replied.

So she did, all the way to the finishing line.

Once done, she thanked him,

"Thank you. What a moment. Now, quickly, back to reality." She stood up, looking down on him. "And as you said, Jon, anytime."

And with that she hurried away.

They met again two days later. Jon was at work building a website for a failed driving instructor whose new business venture was pet sitting - anything smaller than a cat that could be kept in a cage or tank. The doorbell rang, it had built-in CCTV. Jon had CCTV cameras guarding every inch of his property. He checked the colour video feed on his computer monitor and saw Ann standing by the door. He froze. Instinct's first call was to pretend to be out. Ann's presence shocked him. Home alone, sealed inside the bubble, thoughts of a third awkward encounter hadn't started to nag. Their al fresco adventure still played in his mind as a positive. It was one of the most successful encounters he had ever had with a woman. Could he perform as well again? The stars had aligned. He was a giant of a man. Here, now, he felt himself, a designer of shitty websites.

Ann pressed the doorbell a second time. Instinct held Jon firm. What did she want? A lift? Sex? To get to know him more, if not properly?

He watched her. Her perfectly tailored clothes were chic and formal. It was a look Jon could only admire. Her posture was calm and relaxed, and her smile naturally formed. He wanted her, to help her. Did she want a lift? He owed her one, at least. Be a man. Level the score. Don't even charge her petrol money. And pretending to be out would be just as stressful.

He pressed a button on the keyboard to activate the doorbell's intercom.

"Hello," he said, not using her name to keep concealed his secret view.

Ann unfazed at hearing his intercom voice,

"Jon? I hope that's you?"

"Yes. Jon."

"It's Ann. We've met twice before. I'm sure you recall." She laughed carefree. "Jon, could I possibly trouble you for a lift? Please say no if you must. I would hate to be a pain, but you did say to me, as I said to you, anytime, the need or fancy takes us."

He froze a second time. He could pretend to be ill, infectious.

"Jon? Just a lift. A one way trip just four to five miles."

Her voice, so calming.

"Oh. Right. Yes. I'll be a minute."

He whipped off his vest/pants combo and scrambled into his emergency Canali.

When Jon finally stepped outside, Ann was standing by the XC90. She glanced at him briefly and flashed a gentle wave. The distance between them and Ann's averted gaze gave Jon's nerves reprieve. He faced the front door pretending to check it was properly locked and secure. He needed a final secluded moment. Once psyched ready, he turned and scurried towards her acting out his 'man in a hurry' routine.

Ann stood waiting, looking into the distance. Quick-draw style, Jon whipped out the car key fob, aimed and fired. The car unlocked. Ann glanced at him and smiled a silent thank you. She opened the driver's side back door and climbed inside. Jon was elated, inadvertently releasing a fist-pump. It was the best seat she could have chosen. Closing the door, she disappeared behind the tinted privacy glass.

Jon joined her inside. Ann was out of sight sitting directly behind him. He couldn't even see her in the rear view mirror.

"Right. Ready to roll," he said, hurrying to secure the seatbelt and turn the engine on.

"Wonderful. To Brockton. To the care home where my mother resides," replied Ann, her voice soft and unhurried.

"Brockton. Oh, Brockton. Yes. I know Brockton. I won't even need to sat nav it."

A warning bong started to sound. Jon knew why but the explanation wouldn't leave his lips.

"Is that my bong or yours?" asked Ann.

"You're not wearing your seatbelt," said Jon.

"Naughty me."

"It is a Volvo. It's got certain standards. It will bong all the way."

"Then strap me in, Mr Volvo."

"I don't mind if you don't. It's your responsibility. You're over the age of fourteen."

"Lucky for you."

"Uh?" then getting her meaning. "Definitely." The bonging stopped. "Right. To Brockton. Just give me a minute to pull out safely. It's a big car for the narrow country lane."

Jon feigned intense concentration, and the silence that came with it, as he drove slowly out of his driveway onto a narrow single-track road.

A warning bong began to sound. Jon glanced at the dash, Ann's seatbelt had been released. Her voice, her mouth just inches from his ear.

"Jon, please, don't think you have to talk to me. Don't worry about amusing me or keeping me entertained. This shouldn't be stressful for you. It should be a simple, easy pleasure. It will be for me every moment we share. We should agree to enjoy each other's strengths. Words are cheap and often false. What matters to me is the driving. The fact that you are actually doing something for me, helping me. That is what I rate and judge you on. Many women detest such silence, but let me assure you, I am not one of them. In fact, in many ways, as someone who can live inside their own imagination, I, like you, often find it preferable."

Ann sat back. The bonging stopped. Her voice remained inside Jon, making his body tingle.

Nothing more was said until they reached the care home. Jon parked. Ann moved to get out.

"Thank you. Thank you very much. I will see you soon. No need to wait. I have it all under control."

Three days later, she called on Jon again. They talked via the intercom. She required a lift. Jon was a little reluctant but couldn't say no.

Jon opened the front door expecting to see Ann waiting by the Volvo, but she loomed in large standing just outside.

"Jon, you're such a good man."

She stepped forward coming inside. Jon stepped back into the hall. She opened her full-length coat and let it fall to the floor leaving only a suspender belt and stockings to stun Jon rigid. As before, she started it. Jon was totally unprepared. Ann had to work hard to warm him out of his freeze, but animal instinct saved his day. The front door remained open. Jon feared exposure and noise pollution. Ann groaned and cooed but, thankfully, released no rapturous screams.

"All that porn saturating us. Thank god I've got you to make me feel so fucking real," she told him while riding him on top.

Initially shocked by this, and the smell of alcohol staining her breath at 12.15pm, he later concluded it was possibly the nicest thing a woman had ever said to him.

When finished, Ann had no time to hang around.

"That lift. Could you possibly run me home?" she asked.

Jon couldn't refuse. Once there, they exchanged phone numbers. From then on, when needing a lift, she would always call ahead and Jon would always pick her up.

Their affair lasted nearly four months. It was based on sex and chauffeuring. Jon drove Ann to a variety of places - the care home, a health club, a salon, a farm shop, the dentist, the hospital for a smear test, into Shrewsbury - sometimes dropping her off, other times waiting for her then driving her home.

The sex, which Ann always initiated, was never bedroom based. In terms of each other's houses, they never got passed the hallway. For Jon, this was perfect, his inner sanctum remained his own, unviolated.

At first, having sex in the Volvo felt wrong. But Jon forced himself to accommodate Ann's needs. So a blow job while parked-up at the care home became the routine.

Ann never threatened Jon's personal space. He never felt watched or judged. What conversation they shared was thin and direct. Like master and servant their eyes rarely met. She made him feel as comfortable as it was possible for him to feel. There were no emotional emergencies or crises of a personal kind that she brought to his door. She never sought his advice or asked how he was feeling. Her only demand was that they keep the affair secret, to which Jon readily agreed.

The XC90 performed brilliantly. A two week period saw a torrent of snow, but the XC90 would not bow down. It ploughed on through without missing a beat. Ann loved the car as much as Jon. "Yes, a four-by-four of this size driven exclusively in a town or city is a monstrosity. But out here, in the deepest wilds of Shropshire, such a car is an absolute essential bit of kit. You'd have to be desperate quite literally desperate to manage with anything less," she said on more than one occasion.

Although Jon had difficulties reading peoples' emotions and understanding their motives, he understood their affair and relationship was ninety percent sex, which he was convinced Ann not only enjoyed but craved. Yes, he drove her here-and-there, but this, for her, was little more than a perk that came for free with a lover like him. To prove his thesis, he started keeping a record - a sex to lift ratio.

He started to wonder if their affair could develop into something deeper like maybe they could risk renting a cottage in Wales for the weekend, Aberdovey would be nice and quiet. Having pondered the idea for a couple of weeks, Jon was ready to suggest it to Ann. But unfortunately her thirteen-month ban for drink-driving came to an end, and she dumped him.

Ann told him straight to his face, well, at times via the rear-view mirror. It was the last time she was ever to sit in the backseat of Jon's Volvo.

"It's over. I have to tell you. It has to come to an end," her voice was harsh, uncompromising.

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter. Don't look so humiliated. It makes you look pathetic, humiliated by such a trivial concern. I'm telling you straight and in person. We worked well together, all three of us. Let's leave it at that. Don't start whimpering or feeling sorry for yourself."

"If I look humiliated it's because you are telling me in person. I'd have been happier with a text."

"Well it's over. There won't be a next time."

"How will you get around?"

"I'll drive myself. I've got my license back. I've ordered a new XC90."

"Brand new? On this year's plate?"

"Yes."

"Bitch!" he said to himself.

"I could call it Jon," her voice was tinged with laughter.

"Don't! These cars are always female anyway."

"Fine. Well, just to make myself perfectly clear, don't dare make trouble for me, Jon. The quiet ones, are they the worst? A deep well of potential trouble? Well if they are, you don't scare me. Don't think I haven't got anything on you. Cause me trouble, trust me, I will leave a permanent look of humiliation fixed to your face. We had a mutually satisfying dalliance. Accept it and move on. Go out. Meet new people. There's plenty of tarts in the village to keep you entertained. But, be wise, don't you dare, ever, mention us."

"Trust me, I wouldn't want to."

Her voice softened. "I know. And I'll thank you for it. I'll say this too you're an excellent driver. You really would make a first rate chauffeur. The sex? Well, it was fun, but you run up hills I was expecting a much more commitment, more stamina, power and thrust. If anything, it was more akin to running down hill, too fast, on the edge of control, always expecting you to trip and fall at any moment."

"I can work on my fitness and improve my stamina. But you, there's not much you can do for your fading looks. You've been up and down that hill too many times. It won't be long before you're over it."

She laughed, pleased and surprised by his comeback.

"There's plenty I can do. It's amazing what surgeons can offer these days. Give them a call, they may be able to build you an average sized dick."

This did little to hurt Jon. He had Googled his measurements long ago with positive results returned.

When Jon got back home, he correlated the data he had recorded. The pie chart he produced powerfully visualized the truth: acts of chauffeuring, eight-one percent; acts of sex, nineteen percent.

So be it, he thought. At least it ended well - completely and permanently. A clean break with no splinters left flying through the air. She wouldn't talk about him and he wouldn't talk about her. Perfect. A moment of time sealed, gone.

Jon bolted from his window view. He rushed around the house pulling blinds and curtains shut. His thoughts dizzy, hyperventilating.

"Call the police, be a suspect! Call the police, and they'll call you, suspect number one. Be watched. Investigated. Interrogated. Pressed."

He tried to fight, to cling to reason.

"Call the police. Start the process. The sooner it begins, the sooner it ends. You've nothing to hide. Trust the police. Trust the public. Fuck no! Trust Ann? Ditto! 'Don't think I haven't got anything on you.' She said it. She made the threat. Created lies, to add to mine."

He felt threatened, exposed. Paranoia crept inside. Why was the body left so close to his house? A message? A set-up? On land nobody used, only him, and Ann, those times they....

What did the killer know? That Jon was ripe to stand accused, a perfect fit ready to catch the blame?

"I knew her. We had an affair. She ended it. She used me. Threatened to humiliate me."

He had to call the police. He had no other option. His vomit, his sweat, linked him to body and scene.

"I will be a suspect. Smoke and fire. Everything public. Dragged through the system. Falsely accused. Falsely convicted? Could they find me guilty? Sent to prison. Condemned to my worst nightmare. Confined to a space saturated with ugly, loud, stupid men."

Could the evidence be compromised? Could he wash it away? Would the weather do his bidding? Could the murderer have set the corpse alight?

What time did Jon have? Who else could stumble upon the body? No one walks that land. Who could report Ann missing? She lived alone. A step-daughter, her only child, lived in the annexe. From what Jon knew, they didn't get on and rarely spoke. It could be several days before someone informed the police. Did this give him time? Not without risk. If the body was found, or if the police later discovered Jon delayed reporting his find, he would stink of guilt.

Fire is quick and devastating. But a corpse would still exist. The flames would be a beacon. A murder investigation would crawl close, if not all over him.

If only the body would vanish, the murder could, for now, be concealed. A temporary measure. A missing person left behind to give his investigation time to discover who and why. To give him time to save himself, to foil any plot against him. The dead aren't impatient. They demand no justice.

"Pigs. Hundreds of pigs. Free range, outdoor reared, organic pigs. All a short run away. Give each a nibble, a tasty morsel. A treat. A different fucking day! Remove the body and me, as much as I can, from the criminal equation. But could I?"

It would mean destroying valuable evidence. But if he promised, vowed, to do all in his power to investigate the crime and bring the murderer to justice then, could he? A selfish act, but one to bring balance. A brave act to stop an injustice, the one that threatened him.

Inform the police now or dispose of the body now.

"The logistics? Easy. Think the minute, the DNA. Keep everything clean, contained. The act? Driven by fear. Know the fear. Know the consequences of failure, of not completing the act. The risk, number one, bringing the body home. But just one short run out in the open from the den of trees to your own back garden. The cover of darkness? Too far away. One night to get the job done. The pigs must have a midnight feast."

Act now or call the police.

He picked up the phone. A panic attack surged through him. He slammed the phone back down then ran to the garage.

He had the tent, a two-man self-erector. A minute later, it stood on the floor ready to use. Unable to peg it, he used two bags of sand to weigh it down. He had the tools, a hand-held electric reciprocating saw with six-inch blade and a George wet and dry vacuum cleaner. He plugged them in and positioned them ready to use. Other tools he placed inside the tent included scissors, a boning knife and a pair of garden loppers.

He searched for a pair of overalls, but knew he owned none. It fuelled his panic until an idea propelled him away.

He ran upstairs. From a wardrobe, he pulled his wetsuit. Noticing his snorkel and diving mask, he grabbed them too.

Back in the garage, he stripped naked, putting all clothes into a refuse bag, then struggled into the wetsuit. While doing so, he psyched himself up.

"The person has gone. There is nothing there. You do not fear chicken bones. You chop up meat! You cut the guts out of trout!"

An idea flashed, listen to music, like he did when cooking. Create an atmosphere of normality, drift away into song.

He ran into the kitchen to fetch his iPod. A laptop, he sometimes used to stream TV, was on the worktop. It gave him another idea, to manipulate his digital footprint, to create evidence of normal activity. He logged on to Netflix and started a stream, an episode of Top Gear. Safe and believable. Good, honest men having good, clean fun together. And all available episodes already watched several times so no trouble in recounting his alibi.

The garage set-up was complete. Jon stood, his thoughts racing, rehearsing the events about to unfold.

How to dispose of the soiled tent and clothes? Burn them. The pizza oven. The previous owner of the house had installed an outdoor wood-fired brick oven. Ann loved it, said her friends would adore the chance to use it to bake their sourdough loaves. With this in mind, Jon had fired it up and put in a loaf to bake. The fierce heat the oven produced destroyed the loaf. It came out a loosely compacted mound of jet black ash.

Jon grabbed a bag of charcoal, ran it to the oven and launched it inside.

Back inside the house, using tongs, he pulled three flaming logs out of a wood burning stove putting them into a brass fire-side bucket.

With the logs nestled inside the oven, the charcoal began to burn. Jon closed the iron door leaving the oven to build an incinerating heat.

All was set to go. Two energy drinks consumed, peak hydration reached. The route made clear. All doors and the back garden gate were open. Jon pulled on a black cagoule and raised the hood. Finally, he snapped on a pair of disposable rubber gloves.

He glanced at his mobile phone. Only fear spoke. The bottle smashed against the bow. There was no stopping now.

He ran a gentle jog. Observation, not speed, was his main priority on the journey down. He saw nothing untoward. What lay in the distance worried him most. There was ample light to mark him out. But what crime could be seen unaided?

Into the den of trees. The body seen, he stopped, looking all around, too quickly, too in thrall to panic. He wanted to shout, "Hey! Look! You! A body! I've found a body! Help me!" to flush out anyone near, or to speak, to tell, to ease a conscience. His silence remained.

Fearing his own stillness, he ran forward, his stare unfocused, the body set in his peripheral vision, diminishing it.

He grabbed the lapels of the coat wrapping the body cold then pulled the body into a sitting position. The body complied, rigor mortis had yet to take hold. A bear hug raised the body to a standing position. A friendly tree propped it up. Jon squatted down. The body flopped forward draping itself over his shoulder and brushing the hood from his head. Bracing to take the weight, he stood up straight. His legs held firm. His only thought, the finishing line.

He felt no pain. Speed was now his only concern, a battlefield run to safety. Untapped reserves of the human spirit fuelled his frenzy.

Beyond the den of trees, free to be tracked in the cross hairs, he felt a sense of winning.

Through the garden gate, into the house. The door kicked shut, locked. Finally, the garage, the body falling, thrown, into the tent. Jon dived in too, gasping for air, his every nerve firing. The murky, private, inners consoled him.

He took a minute to calm and settle, his eyes closed throughout.

Still shaking, he took off the cagoule and stuffed it into a waiting refuse bag. He then pulled up the wetsuit's hood, which squeezed the iPod's earphones hard into his ears, put on the diving mask and attached the snorkel putting the mouthpiece between his teeth. He felt himself ease, pressed into a protective skin that would create distance between him and the butchery, and any offensive odours.

Taking a moment to get used to breathing through the snorkel, he pulled the iPod from a small pocket on the wetsuit and turned it on to shuffle - Fix You by Coldplay played, loud and all-embracing. Good, he thought, something light and inoffensive to set an appropriate mood.

With his eyes squinting to blur the view ahead, he removed from the body a pair of Toggi Country Boots and the socks he found below. For speed, he used the scissors to slice through the fastened, Armani angora/cashmere blend full-length coat and then the skirt and jumper below.

He felt the wrists and hands expecting to feel a watch and jewellery, but his hands felt nothing. The neck and earlobes were just as bare. He searched the coat. An inside pocket held an iPhone. The screen flashed on - a message unread. He peeped, freeing his squint he eavesdropped a conversation. No security measure limited his access. He had experienced this lack of tech acumen during their time together, which worried him, he thought it revealed her character to be reckless and weak.

The sender was a contact named J.

"I'm home alone."

The reply: "Walk the dog. Fresh air is good for you."

J: "15 mins"

No reply was sent. Then a final message from J,

"I'm waiting."

Conflicting thoughts bombarded Jon. Was J the killer? Had he, Jon, acted in haste? With the body found, the message read, wouldn't the police have raced to find J? But who would leave such a blatant clue? No one without an alibi, without a stooge to blame. What did he know, enough to conspire? Jon lost his nerve; the phone turned toxic. He feared the time it would take to learn its truth. He feared the phone as a bug or tracker. He picked up the loppers and chopped it in three. It could aid his investigation, but his first concern was the threat it posed to him. He bagged the remains.

He picked up George's hose - the crevice nozzle attached to maximise the suction power. He reached outside the tent and switched the vacuum on.

Jon revved the electric saw. Usually, when using any power tool, he was the star of Health and Safety, but here, now, even in such a cramped, emotional environment, he squinted his eyes and prepared to let rip the haste.

With the crevice nozzle positioned to suck-up any blood, Jon set the six-inch blade on the right foot. It took little coercion to chop it clean off just below the ankle. Using the lopper, he chopped this first appendage into numerous smaller pieces then bagged them all into a bag he knew as, 'possibly too bony even for pigs.'

Next, he took the right calf off just below the knee. The bone was a tougher cut, so he finished it off with the loppers. Thinking the joint too large, he chopped it into three then put the pieces into a bag known to him as, 'quality pig feed.'

He cut the right thigh straight into three. More flesh meant more blood splatter, but not as much as Jon had envisioned. Without a pumping heart to create pressure, or to act against gravity, the blood, and other bodily fluids, were no match for the George which stemmed the flood with ease.

He proceeded with the next leg as he had with the first. He then took off the arms and moved on to the head. With the song, Set Fire To The Rain by Adele fuelling the drama of his own self-preservation, and a towel covering the face, he didn't even pause. He sawed and lopped it off then bagged it separately and whole, wrapped in the towel.

With the George losing suction, he turned to the tent door and very carefully checked the waste liquid compartment of the George which was just outside the tent. It was beyond the maximum mark and close to over-flowing. Having just prevented evidence contaminating his garage, he felt a sense of winning.

Using a measuring jug, he transferred the nine litres of pinkish slop into a waiting plastic storage box.

Back inside the tent, only the torso remained. Jon wondered if a field of pigs would devour it whole, bone and all. With tempting, messy, offal inside, he was prepared to take the chance, so he cleaned it up with the George then bagged it ready to go.

Using a clean towel, a pile of which he had left on the garage floor in easy reach of the tent, he made sure the exterior of each bag was clean before placing them outside the tent.

He wiped himself down with a towel then using the round brush attachment vacuumed himself clean. Once done, he turned the George off then crawled out of the tent.

Carrying the bag of clothes, which he had tightened into a pellet using gaffer tape, he left the garage through a side door that took him out into the garden.

The brick oven radiated a fierce heat. Jon opened the door and threw the pellet of clothes in. The charcoal glowed white-hot. He opened the chimney to let the fumes escape.

He turned on the garden hose and washed himself down. Dusk had darkened the sky. Could he feed the head to pigs? If smashed, pulverised, would the heat of the oven reduce the bone to ash?

Back in the garage, he used a clean towel to dry himself, which he then discarded into the tent.

He put the bagged head into another bag and then again into another. He searched the garage and found a sledgehammer and a lump hammer which, like most of the tools to be found in there, were once a part of his father's considerable collection. He had a tool for every occasion, to stop decay and the wilds of nature taking over home and garden.

Jon wrapped the triple-bagged head in a strip of thick plastic sheeting, rolling it several layers deep. To protect the sheeting from the hammer, he laid a piece of carpet, an off-cut left over from the shag-pile now covering his living room floor, over the sheet and head.

With sledgehammer in hand, he paused waiting for the final bars of the song, Candy by Paolo Nutini to finish.

As soon as the song, (I Wanna) Testify by The Parliaments started to play, he rained the sledgehammer down. It took several blows to flatten the lump.

Kneeling on the floor, he used the lump hammer to pulverise the pieces ever smaller. The going was chain gang hard. He couldn't help but visualise the brain liquefying with each and every blow. His own brain rebelled throbbing with stabs of pain.

Once content he could reduce the fragments of bone no further, and hopeful that once baked in the oven they would at least become more brittle and breakable, he took the plastic wrap to the oven and stuffed it into the inferno using a Dutch hoe to bury it amongst the charcoal.

Back in the garage, he picked up the storage box and carried it outside taking care not to spill a drop of evidence. In the garden, he removed a drain cover then poured the slop away, slowly almost trickling it in. Small pieces of flesh remained at the bottom. He tipped these into a small wooden box, used to store clothes pegs, then threw it in the oven.

What little slop the George contained also went down the drain.

He filled the George and storage box with bleach and water placing the hose, attachments and measuring jug inside to soak.

He turned on the garden hose and washed himself down. He then stuffed the nozzle into the drain and left the jet of water on to chase the slop away.

In the garage, he removed the snorkel, mask, wetsuit and gloves placing them all, except the gloves which he threw into the tent, into a refuse bag, along with the loppers, saw and Toggi boots.

He carried the bag to a bathroom and put it and the contents into a bath he had already filled with water, bleach and various other household cleaners.

He dressed for the cold and the night time run about to start. A headlamp would light his way.

In the garden, he turned off the hose. The smell of burning plastic stained the air. He threw a bucket of coal into the oven then used the door to fan the flames. He dared not look inside. He blocked out the sound of spitting fat.

Jon knew the way to the pigs. Darkness was no obstacle. The headlamp was adequate; his experience of the terrain considerable. He left the iPod behind; he needed his senses free and primed. A rucksack on his back held the torso. He tried to resist mental flashes, he as Luke, Yoda strapped to his back.

He went cross-country as much as possible. The fear of exposure drove him on. When running the narrow roads, headlights warned of approaching vehicles, always allowing time to hide behind a hedge or tree.

He jumped a wooden fence and entered the field of pigs. Darkness held it, silence too. A few dozen arc shelters stood mid-field. He walked through the black. The headlamp lit a small pool of the bare, neglected earth. He failed to see an electric fence - a two line system just one foot high. It gave his leg a painful shock, but the pain served him well. It felt good, cleansing, appropriate, a pure shot of energy. He touched the wire with his hand to feel the surge again. Once more for luck.

He had seen beds of straw outside the shelters. It was where he planned to deposit the food, on absorbent, regularly changed straw.

He feared attack, being knocked down and eaten, while, he bet to himself, still alive. He made no attempt to proceed quietly; he thought the pigs would smell him coming.

He thought he heard a grunt. He slipped off the rucksack and held it ready, to be weapon or distraction as required.

The shelters appeared out of the darkness. The moon moved free of cloud and helped illuminate the view. The stench of the pigs and their muck was caustic. Jon worried, would the food be lost, its aroma smothered? His own stink had so far failed to rouse the pigs. He was all that moved, the only sound disturbing the peace. He could only hope the pigs were fast asleep snuggled inside the shelters.

He took the bag that held the torso out of the rucksack.

"Here piggy, piggies. Come piggy, piggies," he called to them. "What the fuck am I doing?" he wondered aloud.

He held his breath and closed his eyes then tipped the torso out onto a bed of straw. From inside the nearest shelter, he heard muted grunts and rustling.

He reached into the rucksack and took out a kitchen waste caddy bin liner which was full of organic matter, including waste meat which he always threw in, and several additional chicken thighs he had taken from the fridge. This pig swill, he thought, might tempt the pigs into eating it and more. He lobbed a few handfuls into a shelter while kicking its steel wall and whistling as if calling a dog.

Moving back to the torso, he set a trail of pig swill. The grunts got louder, closer. He looked. A gang of pigs, bloody big ones, he thought, swarmed towards him. Startled, he stumbled, treading on the torso. Instinctively, he apologised, but then kicked the torso shunting it towards the oncoming pigs. The pigs set about it with a thoughtless, automatic greed. Jon watched the devouring listening for the sound of crunching of bones.

Pigs, late to the feast and too weak to barge their snouts to the front of the trough, came running after Jon. He panicked, backing away. Remembering he had brought a hand to test the pigs' appetite for the more bonier cuts, he reached into the rucksack. One bag remained. He grabbed it. It grabbed him back, the feel of something all too human. He pulled his hand out desperately trying to shake it free. The severed hand shot out of the bag. A lucky pig claimed it, fake fingernails and all. Many others, in demand of food, came running after him. He turned and sprinted away.

With the rucksack replenished, and the oven fed coal, Jon started his second, final run. Two fields shared the lot. The pigs in each were happy to oblige his crime.

Alone, running, Jon would often think of nothing or drift vaguely through a daydream, but tonight his thoughts were wild. To conquer them, he went through the plan, obsessing every detail over and over again.

The tent and all it contained, the rucksack and his running clothes he destroyed inside the oven. The discoloured wetsuit, snorkel and mask he cut into pieces then put into a refuse bag, as he did the loppers, saw and boots. He hammered a chisel into the top of the George damaging the electrics beyond repair. He cut the hose in half then bagged it with the attachments and measuring jug. He bagged the iPhone then smashed it into a thousand pieces. He took the bags and George to the XC90 and loaded them into the boot. His hands wore gloves throughout to prevent fingerprint contamination. Finally, he showered, scrubbing himself raw.

Why were no house keys found on the body? Jon had witnessed Ann leave her house without locking the door, propelled by a spontaneous, carefree spirit. However, in Jon's experience, only when she was set for a swift return. Had she gone to meet J and left the house unlocked? If so, would signs in the house point to this - lights, heating, a radio left on, even food in the oven or a stone cold loaf in the bread maker. Evidence that suggested a quick return, but which now told of something wrong - a vanishing, a need for immediate concern and action.

Jon wanted to pause the crime, to have no urgent alarms raised. He wanted a period of calm, time to think and investigate.

He ran to Ann's house - took the road, wearing slippers. The time was well past midnight. He felt completely alone and content to be so. He had always felt braver when on his own, no one to observe his weakness or sense of humiliation.

The house was in darkness. Jon walked towards the back door, the one Ann would usually use. A security light fired. He darted away beyond its glare. Gravel pressed through the thin soles of his slippers.

The back door was unlocked. Jon pushed it open and stepped inside into the kitchen. The house was cold. He felt unwelcome, small inside a great emptiness. He stood and listened. Convinced the silence was real, he kicked off his slippers and prowled inside. Using a small pocket torch, he checked the kitchen for unwanted signs. The fridge held several in the form of leftover food: a few slices of smoked salmon left in the packet, a bowl of olive and roast red pepper couscous, two cooked skinless chicken breasts, a salad and some hummus.

At last a good problem, evidence he could eat. He pulled a carrier bag out of his pocket and took everything he thought it inappropriate to leave in a fridge when having a long weekend away. He didn't consider it theft. He was doing the world a favour; he wasn't wasting food.

He also took a chunk of Stilton cheese, which, he knew, strictly speaking, was unnecessary, as the use by date had two weeks to run; however, who would miss it? Not even the lawyers dealing with her estate. With this in mind, he also took the Brie.

Five opened bottles of wine, of varying fullness, were also stored in the fridge. Jon thought about taking them. But, he concluded, given Ann's love of alcohol, a fridge full of booze would look correct.

With the fruit bowl and bread bin emptied, the only loose end that suggested a quick return was the unlocked door.

He found the key in the lock, bunched together with several others. It was the set she had given him to let himself in when charged with feeding Ruby, her pet cat, while she had spent a weekend at a health spa.

He wanted to probe deeper into the house, but the silence and emptiness suddenly became overwhelming. He felt a haunting, the killer's breath. The darkness hid him. But who, what, else? He felt too close to a killer unleashed, a presence unseen, prowling the dark unheard. He put his slippers on and left, locking the door behind him.

He hurried away, feeling out of his depth he raced to the shallows. The keys he hid beneath a cast iron antique boot scrapper that stood to the side of the front door. If found, he thought they would be considered an emergency set deliberately hidden.

He threw the slippers into the pizza oven. The coals were dying down. The clothes and towels had vanished into ash. He would have to wait to check for bones.

He ate the food, all of it.

Several hours of darkness remained. Jon knew he had to try and sleep. He needed to rise with the morning sun. Wrapped up in bed he watched several ASMR videos on his tablet computer, while regularly checking the feeds from the CCTV cameras that guarded his land. He told himself he was winning, that everything was going to plan. Finally, an ASMR video in which a female ASMR artist gave a soft-spoken commentary as she ironed some clothes, induced him to drift off into sleep.

Three hours sleep took Jon to daybreak. The alarm sounded at 4.45 a.m. His waking was instant, straight into the panic of reality. He knew without thinking, yesterday was not a dream, and nor was it over.

The pizza oven's exterior was still hot to the touch. He left open the door to help dissipate the heat.

Two double espressos and a homemade high energy smoothie fuelled his run. A 5 a.m. run was not his normal routine, but he thought it the path of least suspicion - a hill runner, dressed accordingly, running across fields, even if those fields held pigs, was more of a natural sight than a man dressed in jeans, walking the fields having driven there.

He wore a rucksack. It carried two empty Tupperware tubs - to store any leftovers he found.

The pigs were awake and active. For Jon's own peace of mind, he had to perform at least a quick, running, search of the field.

In the sky and the treetops, he noticed a large number of crows. Good, he thought, scavenger birds, for once a positive omen.

As sure as he could be that no one was watching, he jumped the fence and entered the field. He jogged as slowly as he dared, his stare scanning the ground. He jumped the electric fence. He wanted to touch it and feel the boost of an electric shock, but thought, if someone was watching him, he would look like a weirdo.

A dozen pigs began trotting towards him and quickly closed him down. Their playful, curious ways prevented him taking a direct route across the field, and so helped him conduct the search. To avoid their enquiries, he had to twist and turn and circle round, which gave him more time to scan the ground. A patch of red staining on straw was the only point of concern. The weather forecast predicted rain. Would the stain be washed away? Would the farmer even care to notice?

The two other fields played out the same - some staining but no other visible signs of concern, at least none that Jon had detected.

He ran home, taking a route that took him through the den of trees. Once there, he scoured the scene for clues - anything incriminating him, the murderer too. He found none.

The earth which had lain beneath the body, to his eyes, looked undisturbed. But would an expert's eye find it rich with information? If the rain held off, he planned to return. His cordless leaf blower would, he thought, disturb the scene with a natural air.

With the oven door shut, he soaked the oven's exterior with water from the garden hose cooling it down inside and out.

He swept the cremated remains out into a wheelbarrow. It was mostly ash, although some solid lumps remained. If they were coal or charcoal, they smashed to ash easily with a hammer, not so if they were teeth or bone. He found a dozen or so fragments of blackened bone and several complete and broken teeth all of which he placed in a Tupperware tub. The metal zips, press studs and buckles that had survived the inferno, he put into a carrier bag. The remaining ash, he scooped into a refuse bag. Having destroyed his mask and snorkel, he wore a DIY dust mask and safety goggles. The final scoop of ash he swept from the dustpan into the Tupperware tub.

He hosed down the wheelbarrow and the inside of the oven then closed the door for good.

Wanting to create a digital footprint that gave the impression of a normal day's digital activity, he quickly completed a new website, uploaded it the internet then emailed the client to tell him the website was live.

His Facebook and Twitter accounts were essentially fake. The professionally created cartoon-style profile photo he used for both showed only a slight similarity to the real thing. Obviously, it was more youthful, with an impressive quiff haircut and a short stubble beard. It was hipster light, enough to suggest digital design competence without looking like a dick.

Some of his posts were genuine - to announce a new website he had built or to link to driving instructor industry news - but most were not. He rarely lied about himself, in fact, other than exaggerating his running, he rarely said anything about himself at all. However, he would regularly plagiarize clever and witty posts passing them off as his own. His favourite source was a man whose profile stated he worked for Saatchi and Saatchi in London and Beirut. It was a ruse Jon thought perfectly safe, that would never lead to exposure, for the chances of driving instructors encountering these cool examples of the hipsterati were miniscule. Recent posts included:

'I'm so good at communicating with my neighbours. Just changed my WIFI name to YOUR MUSIC IS SHIT.'

'My phone reception is so dead I can contact the spirit world.'

'A plane crashing into a cemetery would seriously confuse the rescue team picking up the bodies.'

'I could never DM a picture of my penis. It's more than 140 characters long.'

'Sushi is so healthy! Even the food is on a treadmill.'

'My annoying neighbour called me at 4 am. Luckily, I was still up playing my trumpet.'

'All flowers are self-raising.'

'Weird, I have never seen an ugly mirror.'

'I'm not drinking and driving because I have no idea where my car is.'

'Some people should cure their dangerous addiction to oxygen.'

'Have to tweet. The universe won't expand itself into nothingness on its own.'

'When vain men get old they dye many times.'

'20 things to do before I die: 1- Shout for help. 2 to 20- Wait.'

He fired off a original post detailing his early morning run and his encounter with a field of pigs.

'Pig virginity lost! Ran loads of fields full of cows or sheep. First one today full of pigs! All very friendly. I'll be back 2nite for more.'

With the bag of ash, the metal remains and the Tupperware tub stashed in the boot, Jon started the XC90 and pulled away. He glanced at the nine-inch centre display. It told him his mobile phone had connected to the car. He pulled his Galaxy S7 out of a coat pocket and switched it off for fear it would leave a record of the journey he was about to take.

He drove high into the Shropshire Hills, thirty miles from his home. On an exposed, open, road he pulled into a small layby and waited to feel alone.

He stepped out of the car. No humanity marred the view. A solid breeze blew. Rain drizzled down. He opened the boot, grabbed the bag of ash and fed the contents carefully into the wind. The ash quickly thinned into nothing. When empty, he tore the bag into a dozen pieces then cast them out too.

The bone and teeth he deposited into the River Severn, dropped in from bridges or thrown from the river bank as he walked the Severn's loop around Shrewsbury's town centre. One piece at a time as the opportunity arose, sufficiently alone to pull a piece out of the bag inside his coat pocket and to drop or throw it as required. The rain eased his passage - it thinned the crowds, made him and the people he passed bland and anonymous excusing his hurried speed and the umbrella that hid his face.

He still felt exposed and scared. The route he took led him from the pristine parkland of Shrewsbury Quarry where the Empire continued alive into the grimier, darker sections of town or so his imagination told. From the centre, he ventured to where the workers toiled. He could taste the Victorian filth. With cobbles beneath his feet, he passed under the Shrewsbury Railway Bridge - an inelegant, squat, brick and iron construction that made him think of prison. Enclosed and with multiple lanes, it darkened the day around him. Echoes filled the space - dripping water, pigeons cooing and dropping shit. The musty smell and black, oil filmed water in which he saw eels and slime entwine disgusted him. He felt himself a Fagin or a body-snatcher clutching his prize.

From B&Q, he bought a George vacuum cleaner, a navy blue coverall (to fool the police if they searched his house as such workwear would have surely been used by a man chopping up a corpse) and two bottles of drain cleaner; from Tesco, a cheap pay-as-you-go LG mobile phone, and two bottles of bleach. Using the self-service checkouts each time, he paid cash for it all.

The Recycling Centre was busy, just how he wanted, to get lost amongst the crowd. He threw the loppers, and the metal remains into the scrap metal bay. The snorkel, mask, boots, measuring jug, vacuum cleaner accessories and the remains of the mobile phone, he threw into the non-recyclable bay along with the wetsuit, which he left in the refuse bag. The George and the reciprocating saw he dumped in the bay for unwanted electrical items. To prevent fingerprint contamination, he wore a pair of disposable gloves taken from a box he kept in the XC90 to wear when filling up with fuel.

Only the ash in the Tupperware tub remained. Jon had been unsure what to do with it, but now he knew. He drove home and once again went running.

By a stream, swelled by the rain, and concealed inside woodland, Jon sprinkled the ash onto the water. The fast flowing current took it, rushed a life away. He felt his own life, hooked, taken too. One threat had gone, but more would come. He could see no end, a constant rush. A strong urge to follow piled through him, to sprint the length of the stream out into the river, the sea, the world. But instead, he turned and ran away back to where he had come from.

At home, Jon locked himself away. He checked his mobile phone. There were no missed calls or messages. If there had been, he'd have dealt with them immediately, to lay the digital tracks that would tell of a normal day spent working. Before the night came, he took his iPad to bed, just for the CCTV, ASMR was not required to persuade him into sleep.

# CHAPTER 2

Jon's need for a normal day persisted - a ruse to aid his sanity, his alibi too. However, he went straight to the pay-as-you-go phone, bought to browse and call anonymously. A casual glance over local news websites, certainly no site searches using Ann's name, found that Ann had yet to make the news.

His working day began; he found a few Twitter tweets he felt were worth stealing and posted them as his own.

'Found another little wing in my wine glass. Fairy Liquid is a wanker.'

'You can work out how gullible you are by measuring the distance between your elbow and a Unicorn.'

'Just did weight training. I Placed my dumbbells under the bed and asked them to stay. They managed 3 years last time.'

His desk was by the window. The den of trees was in his view. He had to close the curtains to stop his stare hunting the slightest change or human, police, activity.

He worked his way through client requests for website content changes - lesson prices, special offers, car photos to be updated and so on. While engaged in such dull, repetitive labour he could usually drift lost into his thoughts or, happily, think of nothing. Today, every single job done earned him a much needed peep through the curtains or a refresh of the pay-as-you-go browser which displayed the Shropshire Star's news Twitter feed.

If he received a phone call, he answered it without any hesitation. Normally, he wouldn't, he would have to ask who and why? He could cope with using the phone, as he rarely felt observed; however, he was too much of a listener. His lack of conversation inspired too many of his clients to fill the void and rant aimlessly away, usually about their own problems and their various complaints and agitations with life and the world. Their openness startled him. He was often unable to keep up, too slow to process their thoughts and emotions. He lacked the skills and understanding to bring these verbal torrents to a polite conclusion. Whenever he could, he used text messaging and email, but some clients actively manipulated him into speaking on the phone. Tactics included persistent calling, refusal to leave a voice message that Jon could deal with using a text, or leaving a voice message asking Jon call them back. If the rant was a personal one, dealing with an illness or bereavement, he could tune the person out, reduce their voice to the level of background noise, especially if the person speaking was a woman, as they rarely expected him to comment or give advice, and their voices sounded softer, more appropriate. If the person was a man, he could barely deal with the awkward patheticness of it.

He felt he had to answer every call, to lay down the tracks of a normal day. It added to his stress, fed his anxiety.

Ron Munslow called at around ten a.m. Jon said hello and asked Ron if he liked his new website.

"No," said Ron.

"Why?" asked Jon.

"It's gay."

"Gay?"

"Gay!"

"How?"

"It's pink."

"It's purple."

"It's pink, man! It's pink! Even a woman I know says it's pink."

"What device are you viewing it on?"

"Two. My eyes. Both of which tell me it's pink."

Jon didn't like to try and guess peoples' emotions, but he thought Ron sounded distraught. Ron continued,

"The first thing I need to know is why. Why me? What made you give me a pink one?"

"You've got a purple car."

"It's maroon, you fool!"

"Don't judge the look, judge the effectiveness. Your website will be effective. My design ethos is simple, be effective. It even says that on my website."

"Don't try and blind me with science. It's gay. I'm from Rhyl, man! Rhyl! I want it changed, all the pink gone."

"To what?"

"To brown or blue. I don't know, you're the bloody design man."

He made the change immediately, although it took him only minutes he resented every second as moments lost to the window view and the refresh icon.

Alan Davies called to talk about making changes to the special lesson deals he offered new drivers. He often made this call, but rarely told Jon to go ahead and make any actual changes. His only true topic of interest was his idea, fantasy, to turn driving instructors into law enforcement special undercover agents. Driving instructors were perfectly placed to tackle and fight crime. The mobile SWAT teams of Neighbourhood Watch. They could spy, probe, inform, act as frontline officers when required. The elite amongst them could be given even carry guns.

"There's a lot of exes in this game: ex-police, ex-military, ex-scout masters like myself. We're wasted. We should be armed, weaponized, released. Set us upon the scum, that's all I ask. Wouldn't even want a wage. If I stop a crime, pay me a commission. Burglary, two hundred and fifty. A mugging, two hundred. Car theft or vandalism, five hundred. Rape, four fifty. Assault, depends on the damage, and the weakness of the victim."

Danny Peverall called at 10.50 pm. Jon didn't take the call. He couldn't face the spit and bile. He felt too fragile. Topics Danny would definitely address included: Enfield, his home town, had been ruined by foreigners; African blacks were all born wrong; driving test examiners were filthy and corrupt; NHS drugs were watered down; everyone thought themselves a 'cut above' when none of them were; and how lucky Jon was to live in Shropshire, which was proper England,

"I wanna move up by you, Jon. You've only got the Welsh to worry about up there."

Danny's greatest words of advice, words, which as Jon remembered them, spiked his anxiety,

"If you ever get taken into the mental ward don't tell the doctors you're having violent thoughts because then they'll never let you out. Ain't that right, Mum?"

"Now the doctors ain't English," said Mrs Peverall, who always seemed to sit in on their conversations even when Danny was driving his car. Jon wondered if she sat in with learner drivers too.

Around midday, Jon realised he hadn't paid his usual visit to pornhub.com, so he logged on and randomly selected several clips to stream - yet more digital tracks to indicate normality. He didn't even think about having a wank. His only desire was to refresh the Shropshire Star's Twitter feed, peep through the curtains and check the website for BBC local news. He found no news to satisfy his cravings. He couldn't bare the silence.

He had to go swimming. It always helped sooth and settle him, a wild swim, alone. And with his working day finished, it would keep his facade alive.

The disused quarry was now one of Nature's perfect swimming pools. It lay nestled between several craggy tors. Driving there, Jon had nearly turned back. High in the hills, the heavy cloud had become a disorientating mist that smothered the view. On a clear day, Shropshire could be seen rolling into Wales. But today, from the centre of the pool, the water's edge blurred unseen.

Jon walked towards the quarry. The purple heather looked black. He thought the mist had blocked the wind. The stifled atmosphere was too strange and still. He felt the world was his alone. He continued, possessed. No one would see him. No one would witness this normal man acting out his normal day.

He dived in, plunged into the instant deep, beyond the signs warning of danger and very deep water. Cold shot through his last remaining, best, wetsuit. He swam out into the middle. He couldn't swim fast enough. The water was black. He was the only disturbance. He forced himself under. But even this bottomless pit wasn't deep enough to wash away the blood. Nothing felt certain, a frantic unknown. All sense of control was flushed away. The panic was instant; the fear absolute. A cognitive overload swelled in his brain. He forgot how to swim. He thrashed the water; it thrashed him back knocking him down. He had to get out. He felt added to the poison, destined to join the scattered bones that lay await at the bottom of this cauldron.

He could only manage a doggy-paddle - a regressed, pathetic look for an adult man. As he dragged himself onto land, another panic took hold: where was the XC90? It couldn't be seen beyond the mist. He ran, spiralling outwards, desperate to find his island.

He stopped, falling to his knees.

"Think, man! Think!" he pleaded with himself.

A single, beautiful thought came springing back. Jon retrieved the Volvo's key fob from a secure pocket and the waterproof bag it was sealed in then pressed the panic function button. The car horn blared. He ran towards it. The flashing hazard lights shone through the mist, defeating it.

Locked inside the car, a beach towel protecting the driver's seat, Jon calmed himself by making plans to start an investigation, to join the loose ends into a knowable whole.

# CHAPTER 3

Where to start? What questions to ask? Jon's first: was Ann shagging some other poor sod from the village who wasn't as casual or forgiving as he, who lacked a sensitive disposition like the one he often felt cursed to own? Probably, he thought, and his name began with J.

But was J guilty of her murder? If so, he was no poor sod deserving Jon's sympathy. In fact, if J did kill Ann, Jon vowed, loudly, to bring J down, to crush him for the good of all womankind.

To start the investigation, he thought it best and easiest to take a look at Ann's social media presence. He doubted he would find anything substantial, if anything at all, but it was the obvious place to begin.

Ever cautious about leaving an incriminating digital footprint, he decided against doing this while located in the village. The pay-as-you-go phone may not point to him directly, but if used in the village to snoop on and target Ann so directly, it could gift the police a narrow net to search.

It was his day to go shopping anyway - into Shrewsbury town centre then onto a Tesco Extra. He would keep the routine intact including a visit to Starbucks where, if agreeable, he would sit in and use the free Wi-Fi to get online and start his investigation.

He left home right on schedule at eight a.m. exactly. Driving through the village, he approached the bus stop. The usual group of people, mainly students, stood waiting for the bus to arrive. Amongst them, but alone, was Maddy, Ann's stepdaughter. Jon would see her there almost every week. With her white woman dreadlocks bouncing out of a tie-dye head scarf and an overall style of dress he defined as 'confused weirdo', part peace monkey part anarchist soldier - big and bold hippie nonsense mixed with army surplus items including boots that looked too big to create an overall look that said, 'give me peace and love or 'ave a good kicking' - she was hard to miss. She made the college students look tame - mortgaged and careered teenage professionals - which may have been why they ignored her, that and her reputation for volatility and violence.

Although Jon knew little about her, he had once seen her storm out of Ann's house stopping to shout something back through the door. Jon couldn't tell what, the XC90's insulation was far too good - riff-raff proof he thought at the time - but he could tell she was full of rage. After slamming the door shut, twice, she stomped off towards the annexe.

When Ann finally appeared to take her lift she was full of silence and tension. Jon asked no questions, he feared the answers, having to comment and respond. But after a mile or two, Ann broke the silence and said,

"Do you know the best thing about having a stepchild? You don't feel guilty for hating them. Or worse, pitying them. And I do pity her. She's trouble, to others and to herself. Pubs have actually banned her. A woman, barred from local shitholes for drunken aggression and, it's been said to me, actual bloody violence.....Of course, men deserve it sometimes, but as a woman, really, show some class, some stealth!"

Jon passed the bus stop, his eyes fixed on the road, as always, for fear of being caught looking. Once clear, he checked the interior mirror. Maddy stood, the rebel face in the crowd, watching the XC90 while all around her looked the opposite way watching the bus pull up. Her stare didn't falter. It took a corner to force it from view. Jon felt threatened, warned.

The multi-storey car park Jon used stood next to Shrewsbury Bus Station. Once again, the cold, damp weather became his ally. His Hugo Boss wool/cashmere car coat was fully buttoned with the collar raised; his Darby tweed flat cap helped conceal his face. He waited, pretending to talk on his mobile phone. It was a short wait. The bus pulled in, and Maddy got off. She was easy to follow, unique in the crowd. He observed her; she walked quickly, her head bowed. When she turned into the quieter backstreets, Jon felt exposed. He stopped and allowed her to race ahead. When comfortably distant, he continued the tail. She turned out of sight, into a terrace of Georgian town houses, now a mix of residential and commercial properties. Jon increased his pace and just managed to glimpse her enter a building on the other side of the road. He continued along until he stood opposite the building she had entered. A brass nameplate on the wall indicated a business. He crossed the road, his stare checking the door for Maddy's exit. The nameplate read: Dr Loraine Allen Counselling Psychologist.

The Starbucks was empty enough. Jon collected his double espresso and took the loneliest seat he could find.

He connected to the Wi-Fi and found the website of Dr Loraine Allen. She was a Chartered Psychologist and Counselling Psychologist. Her areas of expertise were extensive. Jon scanned the list. Certain words jumped out: addictions, anger management, anxiety, bereavement, depression, emotional abuse, OCD, stress, trauma. He pitied her working day and hoped she was properly paid.

Was Maddy her patient? What issues did she have? Did she work there? What drew her eye to the XC90? Did she know something? Did she fear Ann was missing or somehow in trouble? But what connection could she assign to him? She could have seen him once waiting to give Ann a lift. Was she capable of violence to such an extreme? Would she even care Ann was missing, dead? Would it please her? She might inherit. If the truth brought trauma, at least she had a means to seek professional help.

Jon knew he often got people wrong. He focused on simplicity. She fancied the XC90. It pulled her into a daydream, away from a groggy morning start, a car to save her from having to share space with the general public. It was his bias, but, he thought, a fair one.

Jon switched his focus to Ann - his plan to scour her social media footprint. He felt increasingly nervous; his lonely seat was gaining company, and with his coffee finished, he felt unwelcome. He considered buying another. The boisterous queue put him off. He opened the Facebook App on his phone. A pulse of guilt flowed through him, beamed out of his face and eyes. The public space made him feel he was an intruder about to be exposed.

Were CCTV cameras filming him? They had to be. He glanced around. He caught a man staring at him, snatching his stare away. Man and machine, a two-pronged assault. Jon flicked his stare back at the man who, inane grin planted on his face, was thumbing his mobile phone. Jon was repulsed by the man and instantly judgemental. He labelled him a Vauxhall driver - cheap with all the kit. His Stone Island coat failed to make the fat stuffed into it look like muscular bulk. His type 2 diabetes was a matter of pride - proof he was living the good life.

Jon considered a move to leave. He looked at his phone. He had to investigate. He typed Ann's name into the search box. But would such a search leave a record the police could later recover? It would. But would they? Of course. If desperate for clues, they would have to try? The data would expose the place and time. The CCTV footage would clearly show a man from the village using his mobile phone. Street CCTV would follow. Fists would pump the air as the man was seen stalking the stepdaughter through the town.

Jon knew he was paranoid. Or was he? The level of risk was unknown. But the search could yield significant clues? He should take the risk but he couldn't, not here. He told himself, as the only current search engine of truth, he had to remain in the field fully operational. He had to protect himself.

He wanted to leave, to get out. He stood. His phone rang. It sounded, to him, foghorn loud. He scrambled to pull it from a pocket, desperate to silence it. His anger - he had forgotten to put the phone on mute, which was his usual tactic when entering an enclosed public space - and his embarrassment made him clumsy. He couldn't find the phone. He frisked himself all over, a little too vigorously, trying to locate it. Finally, he felt it. He pulled it out; it jumped from his hand. He lunged forward and with little grace just managed to catch it. The table saved him from crashing to the floor. The ringing stopped. He stood and eyeballed a wall, saving his face from all the stares, and pretended to speak into the phone.

"Hi. Yeah. Just chillin," said Jon.

"Hi, yeah? It's me, you nobby-numb-nuts!" A voice shouted, uncensored by the crowd.

Jon turned and looked. The man with the inane grin stood in front of him, holding and pointing at a mobile phone. He continued,

"It's me, Jonny, from Uncle Jonny's Driving School. Yeah! The one and bloody only! Your number one customer. And not just because you're the cheapest prick in town."

Jonny roared with laughter. Jon's heart sank, and his blushing deepened. He knew people were looking. He built Jonny's website and spoke to him regularly on the phone, so he knew his embarrassment could only get worse. Jonny was a reason Jon didn't advertise his services locally and turned down any such business that came his way, and not just because Jonny was loud, crude and uncensored, and couldn't see why calling his business Uncle Jonny's Driving School was so wrong, but because every time they spoke, he kept pestering Jon to go for a drink: "To check out the local flange,"

Jon wanted to play his joker, to call for an act-of-god: a car crash outside, an explosion to shatter the windows, a customer going cardiac arrest, anything to take the attention away from him and to provide him a means of escape.

Jonny grabbed the LG phone off the table.

"Two phones. You dirty, mucker. One for the wife and one for the girlfriend," he laughed, loud and dirty. "I got you there. You look like it. A man caught out here. Guilty as sin!" He glanced at the LG phone and read the name typed into the search box, "Ann Henshaw? What's she then, hey, a Tinder one-nighter? Well that was the deal, for her at least, but you want more? I got you again, ain't I? You tryin' to find her out? You ain't a stalker are you, mate, a weirdo menace to women?"

His laughter roared again. Jon wanted to punch him, but all he could manage was to snatch the phone out of his hand. Jonny continued unabated,

"How come you get all the action? I'll tell you why. Billy bullshit photos, that's how. Like your Twitter pic thing. That's upgraded your ugly mug. That's why I had to phone, I wasn't sure it was you. You must have spent some dong on that, mate. Should've invested in Botox. It would've improved your looks for real. Nah. I'm shittin yer. You know I'm shittin yer, don't yer? You know me. I can't believe we've never met. Never bloody met. Me and you never met for real. Jon and Jonny. Hey, you're half the man I am. Well, three fifths. Hey? See. I can do the maths."

Jon had to flee, but couldn't get the words out to make his excuses. He tried to but, they stuck in his throat. The best he could do was to wave his arms gesturing towards the door.

"You alright, mate? You look ill."

Jon took the opportunity, he nodded his head and began walking towards the door. Jonny followed hugging his side.

"Come on then," Jonny continued, "we'll go for that pint. Medicinal, doctor's orders. Uncle Jonny knows best. That's what he tells his pupils. You let Uncle Jonny be the daddy. I know it's early but we'll have breakfast first. We'll do an all-dayer in Wetherspoons. It's nearly a day off for me anyway. Not like yesterday, full on, mad one yesterday. Big business. Big business."

They reached the door, Jonny lunged forward and grabbed the handle blocking Jon out.

"And that's down to you doin my website, gettin it so good. That's why I owe you a beer. Yesterday, right, I was so busy I only had twenty-two minutes for lunch. Twenty-two minutes to eat a pie, drink a coffee and turn a turd. But I'll tell you this though, I did 'em all in one place, and sittin down."

He laughed for all inside to hear. Jon faked a smile and pointed at the door. A group of three young men stood outside waiting for Jonny to allow them access. Jonny obliged and opened the door. Jon quickly slipped out and hurried away. Jonny followed. They entered a pedestrianized square. Jon walked as fast as he could hoping Jonny would struggle to keep up. He didn't, as he started to jog, instantly beginning to pant. Jon, feeling ridiculous, felt forced to slow back down.

Jonny lowered his voice to speak in a confidential manner,

"Glad to have you alone, mate. Forget Tinder, here's an idea, a proper serious idea. You seen the news? Landlords chargin tenants sex for rooms. Sex! Real fuckin sex, mate. Advertising it. No shame. In your face. So here's the deal. Me and you, we do it for driving lessons. We start a driving school. You do the website; I do the lessons. No names mentioned. It's all undercover. It's an experiment sort of thing. But say it works. Hey. Say it works. A diary full of flange. Me and you, takin our pick, sharing the flange, mate, sharin the flange! Anyway you want it, mate. Always fifty-fifty, but anyway you want it. All legit. No rip-offs. We give the lessons. We're up to our nuts in guts."

"I'm going to be sick," said Jon, feeling it.

"Nerves, mate!" said Jonny, grabbing Jon's arm and brining him to a stop. "Excitement! We'll be sex billionaires!"

"Great. We'll do it. Call me. But let me go. Please, let me go." He started to back away. "I'm going to puke. I need the toilet, alone. Call me."

Jon turned and rushed away. Jonny stood, beaming a smile.

"Use Pride Hill bogs," he shouted after Jon. "They're always spick and span. You can eat your dinner in 'em."

Jon didn't feel free to scream, "you cunt!" until he was safely locked in the XC90. The first, "cunt!" was for Jonny, the second, looking into the interior mirror, he screamed it at himself - he blamed himself for giving Jonny the chance to speak Ann's name. A little self-loathing is good for the soul.

Feeling the need to keep his normal routine intact, he drove to the Tesco Extra and did his shopping. Once finished, he crawled back into the womb and took the XC90 for a drive, taking the long way home.

Uncle Jonny's sucker punch had plucked his nerves and left them ringing. His thoughts were obsessed, unable to pursue the investigation, for now at least. He wanted to hide, to fade away, to stop thinking Jonny and everyone else who heard Jonny shout Ann's name would instantly think of him, the guilty looking embarrassed man, the moment they saw Ann reported in the news as missing or dead.

At a petrol station, he filled the XC90's fuel tank right to the brim. It was already three-quarters full, but he felt the invasion coming. He had to make ready his only ally, his only means of escape. With this in mind, he bought a bottle of windscreen washer fluid and topped-up the reservoir tank. He then left to drive the three miles home.

Driving through the village news splashed all over him. Outside the Londis, a Shropshire Star sandwich board read, 'Village man reported missing.'

# CHAPTER 4

Jon carried two bags of shopping into the house, slow and controlled as if being watched.

Once through the front door, the stiffness fell. He ran into the kitchen, dumped the bags, ran back to the door, closed it, locked it.

He grabbed a single item of mail from the floor. The name and address caught his stare - printed in red ink on a piece of white paper sellotaped to the brown A4 envelope. He flipped the envelope over. A piece of grey gaffer tape reinforced the seal. He thought this odd, but, now back in the kitchen, his curiosity vanished. He sat at the table, discarding the envelope. He had to learn more about the missing man.

He used his iPad to get online. The digital footprint it would leave would look perfectly normal - a concerned fellow villager desperate to learn the latest news.

The story was front page news, at The Shropshire Star at least. The missing man was James Allen, aged 38. His wife, Elizabeth, had reported him missing. She and their two young children had been visiting and staying at her Mother's house in Herefordshire. She had last spoken to James on Sunday morning when he had seemed perfectly happy and relaxed, showing no signs of worry or distress. After returning home on Monday, Elizabeth learnt that James had been missing from his work. When all attempts to contact him proved unsuccessful, she called the police. His disappearance is out of character and a complete mystery. A photo of James presented him as happy, healthy and handsome.

Jon couldn't sit still. He felt light, his mood lifted. He stood and paced around. Sunday was the day he had found Ann's body. And James obviously began with a J. James had to be involved. James had to be the murderer.

Jon had to tell the police. He had to bring Ann into the picture. But how? Crimestoppers. Or some other way to anonymously inform the police he had seen James and Ann walking together, acting strangely or arguing perhaps, on that Sunday, and before too, as lovers.

But what of Ann's body, or lack of it? Had he acted in haste? How could it impact on him? Would the police believe a murderer who says the corpse he left has vanished?

No body, no crime, no means to convict.

But who, how is James? Could he break, confess? How hardened is he? A psycho-killer or a broken man? Look at the scene. He made no plans to kill. He lost control - a crime of passion, of blind, stupid madness. He has confessed; he's run away to hide. Think of his pain, his fear, the remorse, the guilt consuming him. He dead. He could be, in his car gassed, dead, confession letter written, ready to make his excuses. If not, then what? They find him. Questions: where is Ann? You killed her. Where did you dump the body? Without a body, he holds his nerve. But good, his life is ruined. Two lovers rendezvous, one never to be seen again, the other, to run away and hide. Why? Guilt! And other secrets, other clues, could be pulled from the dark, enough to convict or at least confirm people's hate. And if he evades all attempts to capture him? He remains the only suspect.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock! Sorted!"

Jon made the decision, contact the police anonymously, then let events take a natural course.

The brown envelope caught his eye. His curiosity reawakened, he picked it up, opened it and pulled out four sheets of A4 paper. Printed on the top sheet in large black letters was the following text,

'These are shitty prints from my shitty old printer. The digital originals are true life quality. All truth is seen. More good stuff to follow. No hard work on your part. It's the easy-life for you.'

Jon fanned the sheets of paper, slapped them down onto the table. The low resolution inkjet quality prints hid nothing from him. Three shitty photos revealed it all - in the den of trees, he picked up Ann's body and carried it away.

# CHAPTER 5

Jon stood in his office staring at the view - the den of trees fading into dusk. The three photos were ash, but demons never to die.

How? James. He returned to the body at just the right time or knew when to be there, to hide and wait. By luck or design, he takes out his phone and captures his stooge. But why not go straight to the police? Blackmail? For what? Who else does James want dead? Or money? But what can compensate for a life spent running, accused, reviled?

The door bell rang. Jon felt it like a gunshot. He scrambled to the desktop computer and opened up the video feed. Maddy stood filling the frame.

Jon felt compelled to answer the door. The mystery, of not knowing why she had called, would haunt his thoughts to ruins.

He opened the door and met her hard, uncompromising stare. He expected, wanted, her to speak. She didn't. The silence threw him. It lasted only a second but was enough to force him to yield,

"Maddy," he said, trying to sound pleased to see her.

"You know me?" she asked with a hint of suspicion.

"Of you."

"Then you don't know me at all, do you? I need to speak to you about Ann. You know her properly though, don't you?"

Jon couldn't take their closeness, the enforced stillness of his position. He felt trapped and forced to invite her inside where at least he could move more freely and hope to evade her stare.

He led her through the hall into the kitchen.

In business mode, he asked,

"How may I help?"

"You can tell me where the body is."

Seeing his face radiate shock, she smiled. He felt the colour drain from his cheeks.

"Don't worry, I don't think you killed her. From what she told me, you're not man enough. She's missing. I can't make contact with her."

"You think she's dead?"

"I was joking. You look wounded. Why? Perhaps you weren't just shagging her."

What did that mean? Jon's brain was beginning to freeze. He couldn't detect the meaning beyond her words. He thought her stare was a little softer. But why was she here quizzing him? Was he last on her list? Was she desperate having exhausted all other avenues of enquiry?

"I haven't seen her for quite a while," he said.

"In that way, I know."

She started walking around, looking, probing, gravitating towards the table. Jon felt mild relief, as she wasn't looking directly at him. James jumped into his thoughts. Did Maddy know James was missing, that he too was shagging Ann?

Maddy continued, "It's a big house this, to live in on your own. You've got no family?"

She looked at Jon expecting an answer. He looked at her blankly; his thoughts lost on James. He decided not to mention him, to lie if she brought him up. To confess knowledge would be to confess an interest, to look tuned-in. He had to appear removed. And an extra topic of conversation would extend her visit, which he wanted to end as quickly as possible.

"Ex-wife, kids, parents that visit, dog, cat?" she asked.

"No."

"So you're alone, when you're not shagging divorcees or other women no strings attached. You do lead the good life, don't you?"

"Well, you know, it's up and down."

"Plainly. What did Ann say to you about me?"

"Nothing," Jon replied, a little too enthusiastically having found the answer easy.

"Really? Nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Well, that she lets you live in her annexe."

"Her annexe? Did she tell you the whole property, house and annexe, used to be mine until she went to court, and took it from me?"

"No."

Reasons for this raced through is mind. His only conclusion was mental health issues.

"It's why I'm making the effort to look for her. If she is dead, I'll need her body," she said.

She looked at Jon, thinking he would get the joke. His startled stare told her he didn't.

"To set the will in motion, to get a death certificate, to inherit what is mine."

"You're joking," he got it.

"I am."

"Great one."

"Then why aren't you laughing?"

Jon couldn't think of an answer.

"You go running round here; I've seen you. I thought you might have seen her riding or walking or doing whatever."

"No."

"Are you over it, her dumping you?"

"Of course," he said turning his back on her then stepping towards the coffee making machine that stood on a work surface. "Can I make you a coffee? I've got a Sage Barista Express."

Maddy looked at the flashy looking device but was unimpressed.

"Really. I've got a teapot."

"This is a bean to cup coffee making legend. It does everything."

"Really, and I've got a teapot."

"Right. Tea." He side-stepped over to a kitchen unit, keeping his back to Maddy, and opened the door. "I've got chamomile tea."

"Goodness, she was wrong, you are fully manned-up, aren't you."

"I find it calming, after a five mile run alone in the hills and a solo swim in deep, dangerous water."

"Me too, after five pints of lager and a game of darts."

"Do you want a drink?"

"No."

He turned to face her. She was standing by the table, her attention focused on the Ipad. She picked it up.

"I suppose this is all the company you need. You're happy believing you're not alone," she said.

Jon, fearing she would wake the iPad and see the opened webpage on James, rushed over and grabbed the iPad from her.

"Porn?" she asked.

"No."

"No need to be embarrassed. I expect it."

She held his stare. He had to say something. He did,

"ASMR actually."

She laughed

"Exactly," he said.

"ASMR and Chamomile tea. Wow. Are you self-medicating, Jon?"

"No. Hey? I'm mostly a chilled-out success."

"Does it put you to sleep or give you the tingles?"

"You know what it is then?"

"Do you think we should talk about Ann?"

"I haven't seen her." He stepped away to put the iPad down and to put some distance between them. "How long has she been missing?"

"Long enough."

"Will you call the police?"

"No."

"Never?"

"If I have to, I'll do it in person."

"In Shrewsbury?"

"Where else?"

"When?"

"Why?"

"It's serious. I'm concerned. You must have spoken to a lot of people before getting to me."

"Why?"

"Well, who am I in this, to her?"

"A nobody?"

"Yes."

"Really? I wonder. I'm very intuitive. I have premonitions."

"Any recent ones?"

"Give me your number."

"My phone number? Why?"

"You might know something, or come to know something. Ann may be desperate. If she is, I'm sure she could use you."

"Then shouldn't I take your number?"

"Why? I'll know."

"That I know, something."

"If it's easier for you to get your head around, take my number. I don't care. I've already written it down."

She reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper which she held for Jon to take. He stepped forward and pinched it from her hand.

"Was that a premonition?" he asked. Maddy said nothing. Jon continued, "Do you want mine?"

"No. If I need it, I'll know it."

"If I hear or see anything I'll call you immediately."

"You don't remember anything, any trouble she talked about, any problems she had?"

"No. Never. She was always so in control."

"That's the worry, isn't it? How strange it now feels. If it feels the same tomorrow, I will go to the police."

"Right. Do."

Maddy held his stare for a moment then spoke,

"I'm going. Don't show me out. Get back to your medication, help yourself."

She walked away into the hall towards the front door. Jon stood watching, unsure if he should follow.

"Goodbye," he said.

"Yeah, see you again, Jon," Maddy replied without turning to look at him.

She reached the door and let herself out. As soon as the door closed, Jon rushed to it and locked it.

"See you again? See you again, Jon," he said to himself

Jon paced around the house a seething wreck of confusion, his thoughts playing Chinese whispers.

Maddy took the photos. Maddy killed Ann and James. All for hate, revenge, madness, a whopping great inheritance.

Maddy or James or both were setting him up. His life was in danger. He would die a slow, maddening death inside prison or be murdered, laid to waste as Maddy's next victim.

He shouldn't judge her for seeing a psychologist. He had a session himself once. Not that he had a mental illness. His issues were down to sensitivity and taste.

Maddy could be genuine, wanting only the truth. She'll give the police his name, reveal him - a lover, a shagger, a dumped lonely man.

The police will come as she came to investigate and snoop. Both suspect involvement. Then let Maddy learn about James. Let that occupy her paranoid mind.

Jon grabbed his phone, and sent Maddy a message,

'Just remembered, I have to drive into Shrewsbury tomorrow. Not until 4.30pm but, if you plan to go, I could pick you up and give you a lift to the police station. I have an appointment that should last an hour. Once finished, I could pick you up and drive you back home. No problem if it takes longer, I will wait for you. Jon.'

He continued to pace around the house the phone held waiting, ready. His thoughts busy constructing the message he would send if Maddy replied.

The reply didn't come until 11.15pm. Jon was in bed, wrapped tightly in the covers, his iPad held just inches from his face. He was watching an ASMR video play - his favourite artist, Maria, folding paper aeroplanes. Her voice and mannerisms had failed to enchant him into a peaceful sleep. All they induced was anxiety. He was too demanding, too desperate to feel the sweet, calming low. All he could do was repel it.

His laptop made matters worse. It sat on his belly, opened to show live video feed from the five security camera that guarded his house. He couldn't stop peeking behind the iPad to try and convince himself he remained alone.

The text message came. The phone shared his bed. Maddy accepted the lift:

'Thank you. 4.30 perfect. I will, must, do it tomorrow. See you then. Maddy.'

After reading the message several times, he reread the message he had drafted as his reply, which read,

'Will do. BTW have you seen the local news? A man from the village, James Allen, has been reported missing. It's in the Shropshire Star. I hope this isn't a bad omen. See you tomorrow. Jon.'

Content with the message, he sent it. He didn't expect an immediate reply. Two hours later, when he finally fell asleep, he still hadn't received one.

# CHAPTER 6

Jon woke with an idea pounding in his head - he should seek professional help. On the stroke of nine, he made the call and got lucky. The minor sense of celebration this brought quickly fell dead as he heard the morning's post drop into the cage.

One letter was waiting - a small jiffy envelope that looked tatty and reused. The address, red ink on white paper, told Jon it was letter number two.

The postmark revealed the letter had been sent from Shrewsbury the day before.

He ripped the envelope open. A bare CD-R fell out. He felt watched, menaced. His first thought was to destroy it. But he had to know, was it more of the same or something new and even worse?

With the CD-R inserted into his laptop, he scanned it for viruses and malware using three different software programs. No threats were found.

He opened up the E Drive and saw that the CD-R contained a single AVI file. Further proof, he thought, high-definition video evidence to stick the knife in far beyond repair. But what played was an audio file - the voice of a man somewhat distorted:

"Jon...Me (laughs). Who the fuck is that, you ask? Good question. It's me, Jon, me, the lord of all I survey. (laughs) It's a voice you ain't gonna forget. Ain't that right? Ain't I the one who's fuckin right? Not a voice to fear though. Not if you're wise. I ain't put the snaps on Facebook. Fuck no! You think I need the thumbs-up or a shit-load of likes? Fuck you! Nah, bit harsh that, innit? I should show some gratitude. I do. You're on the fuckin staff, sir. You got rid of one. I did the other. That thing I did, that you know I did, I had to do it. I had to cross the line. Been lookin, biding my time. And there I was, out and about, and I see him. Walked away a few times. But then I always make the wise move. And I did make the wise move. The cunt was mine. Walk away? Not a fuckin chance. I had to taste it and here it was the perfect fuckin spread. So I see him, don't I? One innocent man. Do that, and everythin else is a piece of piss. No fear or hesitation proved it to me. A job to do. Fuckin good job, one to enjoy. So I do it. But then your one pops the fuck up. So I do her too, had to, had to test myself. Got a bigger war to fight than two cowpat country bumpkins. No Dunkirk for me, laddy boy. First engagement, was a resounding victory. But anyway, I got my one in the van off home to make it vanish, and I'm thinkin missed opportunity, eight out of ten you pikey cunt. Could've set a trail. Set the pigs off to chase their little dicks. Could've left clues. Even his skin and blood under her nails, made it look like the bitch fought back, a wild banshee scratchin away. (laughs) Ugly thing that, ain't it? Bet you know that one, Jon. Deal with it different to me though. (laughs) Or do yer? So anyway, I get my one done and dusted then come back down. And there you are. A genuine, what the fuck moment. And thank you for it. That won't ever leave me. What a day for fresh new highs. I wish I could tell a thousand people. Not that I know a thousand people. Fuck no. So either you're a scum fucker pervert, I mean, fuckin hell Jimmy Savile or the waste on the ground was too close to home. Either way, you had fear enough to clean it up, to stop the shit leakin into your posh, up-arsed world. Well, I hope the job's a good 'un, Jon, cos if it comes back to anyone it's comin back to you. I hope it don't. I hope it's gone for a long old time, until one day, a long time from here, I'll happily claim it as one of my own. But anyway, adapt and move on. I see you and your mischief. I could add another to the day's activities. But three from the same shit village? (laughs) Fuckin madness, Jon. Fucked-up fuckin madness! So I think. I'm in the chaos, but I'm calm and clear. His phone, I've read it. He's home alone. Make it look like they've fucked off together or he's fled the scene of a jealous rage, body dumped or whatever. (laughs) Take the photos first for life's little album. Look back on those with a fond, happy smile. Anyway, I got the keys and wallet. Makes it easy. I got the address. I find the house. I see the car parked and ready. A quick reccy tells me all I need. No cameras. Not like your house. Fuckin hell, no. What you got to hide? Jimmy did fix it for you, did he, and put it in the cellar? (laughs) Anyway, I know what I'm doin. I fuck off back to mine. Leave the van, come back down in a need-to-scrap shit-heap. Two-mile from the target, I dump it in a field. Plenty of shit-heaps get dumped these days. It costs too much to do it legal. And it's clean. It ain't ever comin back to me. I walk the rest. Take the car, an Audi, what a fuckin cock. Anyway, it's now speedin down the pikey highway one-way to Albania. Money banked. Thank you very much. And you, Jon, you can thank me, cos that's helped you, ain't it? Don't fuckin lie to me or to your scrawny little self. I'm not sayin you owe me. I don't need anything you got to offer. But mutual appreciation, that's the thing, ain't it? Know who you're dealin with. Your fucked-up turn suited me to perfection. My reaction to it proved I am the man I see in my head, in my head, and on the streets, truly the real fuckin deal. Ready and able. Don't shit yourself, I don't want a partner. I'm the agent here, the demon ready to do the fuckin job as it should be fuckin done. But someone should hear my words, the righteous, glorious truth and all that bollocks (laughs). Because this is one for the records books. And look at you, Jonny boy. You're right on the edge of it. A prime fuckin view. The perfect man to hear everythin, to see the full fuckin show. And that, sir, you fuckin well will."

Jon replayed the file immediately. He didn't believe the words he heard. He dismissed them as a scam, or as some means to mess with his mind. Maddy was the author, not the voice, but she was the creative force behind it. Possibly. Or maybe not. Possibly! Or maybe not!

He started to run around the house, a subconscious attempt to expel the wells of nervous energy now gushing through him.

He knew he had to investigate; he had to find the murderer and evidence enough to convict. After two hours sealed within his bubble spent running round and round his house - living room, hall, kitchen, dining room with an occasional diversion up and down the stairs - he managed to convince himself he had the skills, and desperation, to solve the crime and save himself.

# CHAPTER 7

Jon dressed for his appointment. It took an hour and every minute felt a panicked rush. He didn't want to look soft, rather business-like and decisive, although his own boss, no slave to the office. In the end, he went default, a Canali waffle patch pocket navy blazer with a plain Canali shirt in pale blue. No tie. For the bottom half, he went for total comfort, so continued to wear his Boss paisley patterned loungewear trousers secure in the thought they wouldn't be seen.

Jon's thirty-minute session with Neville Stoddart - a fully accredited counsellor and psychotherapist - was due to start at 1.15pm.

Jon readied himself. He sat a few metres away from his desk framing himself in a 24 inch LED monitor and practising the pose he would take when the Skype Video Chat was live. With the ringtone settings page left open, he positioned his phone within easy reach outside the frame, just in case he needed to fake an emergency call that he could use to end the session abruptly.

The session would be Jon's second with Neville. The first was around the time he had moved to the countryside. It was part of his plan to advance himself and reach his full potential. He had chosen Neville for several reasons; he was based far away in Winchester, Hampshire; he was male, Jon feared a woman would be too penetrating and see too deeply into his soul; his website profile photo showed him dressed smartly wearing a plain business suit, which, another positive, looked to be several rungs below Canali or even Boss.

Jon didn't return for a second session because the first had left him feeling violated and exposed. Instead of a plain business suit, Neville had worn a brightly coloured and loudly patterned statement shirt, brown waistcoat and purple chinos. And instead of sitting behind a desk, he sat in full frame with his legs spread open a little too wide.

The video call connected. Neville's attire and sitting position showed the same lack of restraint.

"Jon. Great to see you again," said Neville.

"Thank you."

"It's been a while."

"It has."

"Not a problem. It's really quite common, an introductory session followed by a gap of some months until, bang, profound decision, a feeling of readiness, a desire to step forwards towards a better, more complete self."

"That's the goal."

"Great news," said Neville with absolute seriousness, as he leaned forwards in his chair somehow managing to break through the virtual world and violate Jon's personal space. "Brilliant," he continued.

Jon nodded his head. It enabled him to look away from the screen and break free of Neville's stare which had locked on to his. Neville sat back in the chair and continued,

"So, hey, the notes I wrote down post our first session, read and absorbed for sure, but, trust me, it's best we relegate them to the background. What's vital for us today, is for me and you, Jon, is for us, to focus on the now."

Neville paused, smiling broadly, wanting Jon's approval. Jon managed a nod. Neville continued,

"With that in mind, Jon, I have but a single question, just one simple question that I absolutely do need to ask....Why? Why have you made this decision to return to me? Why, and why now? Which you could say is two questions but give me a break, let's call it one-and-a-half."

Jon's practised pose - sitting up straight to enhance his chest, his forearms draped over the padded armrests, framing his upper body against the plush brown leather of his executive desk chair to communicate a sense of calm and dominance - fell lost into a fidget as he tried to remember his scripted lines,

"I want to be more social...I want to understand people better...As you said last time, I have high avoidance social goals. But I think I've made some progress. I've joined a local book club, and I'm writing my own book, a novel."

"Wow, that's great, you the author of your very own book."

"Yes."

"And the book club meets in a physical sense not a forum online or as we are here?"

"Physically and weekly."

"Brilliant. That's brilliant. And if it's anything like the book club I attend, wow, quite funky. How do you cope with that, the intimacy both physically and intellectually?

"It's difficult. They sit in a circle, which I hate. But it's a book club, I'm not the only, well, you know, weirdo."

"No, Jon! Don't. You mustn't say that!" said Neville exuding pain and hurt on Jon's behalf. "Say uniqueo! Uniqueo! My own word by the way."

Neville smiled proudly. Jon didn't have the time to acknowledge it. He continued,

"Well, I'm not the only quiet one and, of course, there are the people that never shut up."

"Oh, as with mine. Retired teachers mostly, even one who taught geography. Do you contribute to discussions?" said Neville.

"A little. I made the mistake of mentioning the book I'm writing, which, you know, questions, questions, questions. Which OK, I'd like to talk about it, but..."

"It's difficult for you?"

"The intensity of the questions, while sitting in a circle with everyone looking at me."

"Yes. A square could be more inclusive, a safer space perhaps. On a professional note, I must look into that, throw some seating shape experiments. What's your ideal shape to sit in?"

"Lines, like rows."

"So you can sit at the back?"

"At the front. No one can turn and look at you then."

"Brilliant. Would a triangle feel safer than a circle?"

"It might."

"But how to allocate the apexes? Goodness, the triangle, a potential hellhole of discrimination. Wait. No. Apologies. We'll have this discussion again, but then you can charge me an hourly rate. Back to you, Jon. What's your book about?"

"The hunt for a murderer. Nothing too original, but, one of the reasons I want to understand people better is to help with it. The writing, I think, helps me empathise. I want to understand the characters better, their motives, feelings, their complications. Lessons I can take into the real world."

"That's great."

"The murderer killed her step-mother and her step-mother's lover."

"Male lover or lesbian?"

"Male."

"Right."

"Why would someone do that for real though?"

"What motive have you given the character?"

"Money."

"Interesting. Money, sure, could be the spark but a spark without fuel creates nothing, certainly not the explosive force of murder."

"But mixed with mental health issues."

"And who hasn't been touched by those? Are we all just a spark away from committing murder?"

"Bad mental health issues, and a known history of pub based violence."

"Do you consider your own issues to be bad?"

"My issues are a basically high sensitivity and good, somewhat exclusive taste. I'm the last person who could murder. The consequences would kill me."

"Well, I'm no criminologist, but having read extensively, I can say that many murderers have, at some stage in their lives, felt deeply humiliated in some way, and not necessarily at the hands of the person they've killed."

Jon felt a panic began to rise. The pressure of Neville's stare exposed his thoughts and reddened his face.

Neville continued, "Does that connect you?"

"To what?"

"To murder. To the mind, to the soul of a murderer."

"No."

"Does it allow you to empathise with the murderer, to see them as a victim?"

"No. I'm hardcore anti-murder, in all its forms."

"Are you vegan?"

"No."

"I am. And, wow, do I feel great, clean."

"I'm organic, free range. I eat a lot of happy fish. Put that in your notes. I'm anti-murder."

"Wait, I think went me there again. Let's turn this back to you." He leaned forward in his chair, fixing his stare on Jon. "You know _humiliation_. In our first session, you talked about your own feelings of _humiliation_ , of feeling _humiliated_ on a regular basis by, you used the term, _your_ social incompetence."

Jon crept a hand on to the desk picked up his phone. "That's a positive," he said as he whipped the phone behind the back of his chair pressing the wake button to turn it on.

"Is it? How?" asked Neville.

"I don't need people. I don't need to interact with people now."

"You feel disconnected from people, from society at large?"

"Removed voluntarily, by mutual consent. Everyone's a winner."

"What about the people you love or just like?"

"I don't love or like anyone."

"No one?"

"I'm paying for this. Don't ask me twice."

"As a giver and receiver of much much love that draws a cold, dark chill right through me, Jon."

"You again. It's me. And me is happy to be alone."

"How do you feel when you witness suffering?"

"Scared I may catch it," replied Jon instantly regretting he had said it. He pressed the phone's screen expecting to select a ringtone option and hear a sample play. However, the phone remained silent.

"Your sole instinct is for self-preservation?"

"Rightly. I'm all I've got."

"You think and feel only for you?"

"Ditto."

With rising frustration and increasing force, Jon kept pressing the phone's screen, but still, no ringtone came to offer him release.

"You care for no one? No living thing?"

"Me. I am a living thing."

"Dare to think, do you fear yourself amongst people, what you may do if pushed?"

"Yes. I fear looking a twat when running away."

"From truth!"

"From conflict!"

"But cold without empathy, you, your only centre, you, your only focus."

"It doesn't mean I'm some psycho murderer!"

"But give you the spark and bang!"

"I didn't kill her!"

"Who?"

"Her. The step-mum, in my book."

"No. But empathise - disconnected, humiliated."

"I don't care enough for anyone to want to kill them. Passion, revenge, greed nothing could make me risk myself that way. I am all I need. I can walk away from people, erase them from my mind with ease!"

"And that is the fuel that fills your emptiness!"

"Oh, piss off!!" He stood up abruptly and instantly realised Neville would be able to see his loungewear trousers. "Yes. Fucking loungewear. Still a cut above your shitty clothes. And the slippers," he raised a foot and rested it on the chair to show off the slipper, "are still Oliver Sweeney! So..." he kicked the chair away, turned his back on the monitor and released an unrestrained, demented scream, his face boiling red. "Yeah, I've got issues! Stresses! But you did this to me!" He released a second scream. "That is your professional shame!" He released a third scream. When finished, he turned his head to look at the monitor. Three faces filled the frame - Neville and two middle age women. They all stared at Jon with varying degrees of fright and concern. Startled, Jon quickly turned his back on them.

"You bastards. I'll sue," he said.

"Jon, please, don't do anything stupid," said Neville. "We're still in session."

Jon realised what an unhinged fool he looked.

"No. Fine. See you next week, Neville," he said, with a little wave of the hand. He then dived to the floor, his hand outstretched aiming for a plug that sat live in a socket. The dive was good; he landed on the floor in easy reach of the plug which he yanked out of the socket cutting the power to the monitor and desktop.

Rolling around on the floor, he pulled the Canali blazer over his head to hide his shame and muffle his whimpering.

"No!" he said, fighting back. He pushed his head out of the blazer and looked at the blank monitor.

"Mess with me, a dangerous man? I'm dangerous! Dangerous! Keep on running. Keep on running."

Off he set on another run around the house in full blazer, loungewear combo.

# CHAPTER 8

The night had yet to form fully, but it was dark enough inside the Volvo to keep Jon's face concealed. He approached the annexe with caution. He had sent Maddy a text message to confirm he was leaving to pick her up. She replied, 'I'm ready. Thanks.'

He worried for his safety. If Maddy invited him inside, he would refuse. At best, Maddy's game was set to be blackmail, at worst another murder, if not something more twisted and worse.

What world did she inhabit? Jon's thoughts had ventured far. He considered it possible she was a member of an internet based satanic cult. Any attempt to seduce him would be seen, by Jon, as proof.

His best case scenario, Maddy was completely innocent - neither murderer or photographer. But if not her, then who?

He was bang on time, as was Maddy. As she walked towards the XC90, he noticed she had left lights on inside the annexe, and drawn curtains hid every window view.

The headlights caught her. She hadn't softened her hippy/soldier style. Good, Jon, thought. If he was police, the first impression she would cast was negative - a natural born agitator, a mass of bad attitude trying to hide an unstable mind. However, it could be a sign of innocence. With nothing to hide why front a better, more sophisticated style?

Maddy opened the passenger door and climbed inside.

"Hi. Thank you for this," she said.

"It's the least I can do, said Jon.

Maddy closed the door and put on her seat belt. Her presence was a weight that filled the cabin, an oppressive force too close to Jon. The faint aroma of a familiar scent - a perfume Ann would often wear - slipped through the air. He thought it a memory somehow aroused. But it rose quickly to dominate. The aroma was real, and Maddy was the source. Coincidence? Or some weirdo act of provocation? Even petty theft - a squirt or two of expensive perfume that no one would ever miss. He couldn't judge her for that, he thought, not after his theft of Ann's Stilton.

"Right, so," he continued, "the police station. I've never been there before. Never, ever, had the need. Oh, look, you've left the house lights on."

"So?"

"Nothing...Just the environment thing."

"And that's your concern, is it, driving this weapon of mass pollution?"

He paused, struggling for an answer. It came,

"One hundred and forty nine grams of CO2 per kilometre is considered pretty bloody lenient on the old Mother Earth, and that's exactly,"

Maddy interrupted him; he yielded to silence without complaint.

"God, don't bore me to death, Jon. If you plan to kill me, please, rip me out in some dark, exciting way."

"I'm not," Jon could say no more.

"Fine. Then what about sex? Do you expect some of that?"

"No."

"That was your deal with Ann."

"We didn't strike a bargain," said Jon squirming, thankful for the darkness.

"You gave her a lift, she gave you,"

He interrupted, "No! Don't."

"You won a good deal. You're quite the businessman. Or maybe she was the winner. She got driven and shagged for free by an expert driver and a red hot lover. Well, pull away, Jon. You can show me how you drive first."

Jon, happy to feel he wasn't sitting still, put the XC90 into Drive and pulled away a little too quickly.

"Am I making you feel uncomfortable?" Maddy asked.

"Yes," replied Jon.

"While sitting in your Volvo. Wow. That really must fry your brain. Well, if it's any consolation, my arse is perfectly cushioned. Could do with a massage though."

"The seats don't have a massage feature."

"Not quite Mercedes level then?"

"How do you know? Do Mercedes make buses?"

Maddy spluttered out a begrudging laugh.

"Insult the man but not his Volvo. What's that say about you?" He didn't answer. "Two people are missing. The lights make me feel the is house feel safe."

"Yes. Sensible."

"Just like your Volvo. God, aren't we a crusty old match?"

"Two people, so,"

Interrupting him, "I don't know James or anything about him. I'm not thinking about him in any way. I haven't the reserves. My focus is on Ann. If I give enough, I may see her. I may even learn where and how."

Jon remained silent, trying to process what she had said. She continued.

"You don't know what I mean. Well there you are, Mr Volvo man. Ley lines criss-cross this land. I need to tune in."

"To what?"

Maddy forced a little laugh, 'To what? Do you think you have the instincts to understand?"

"To help find Ann."

"To find the body and inherit my pile...Is that what you think? I bet it is."

"I don't think anything. I'm just the driver."

"Good."

"Shall I put the radio on?"

"No. Let's deal with the silence. Can you take it? I can take it. I'm quite happy to sit here and enjoy my perfectly cushioned arse."

"Me too. My own arse."

"Well then, let's get this over with."

They drove in silence for several miles. The cloud covered sky had hurried the night complete. A regular flow of headlights came dazzling through the darkness towards them. Maddy looked away. Her stare gazing through the side window at a view now closed to black.

Finally, streetlights. The hazy orange glow seemed to snap the black awake. Maddy stirred and looked forward. Jon waited to join a roundabout.

"Are you going through town?" Maddy asked.

"No. Be quicker on the ring road," said Jon.

"So, are we rushing?"

"I've got my appointment."

"For what?"

He hadn't thought to think of a reason, so said, "My feet."

"Your feet?"

"I don't like to talk about it."

"Good."

"I do a lot of running."

"It's no excuse."

A gap in the traffic opened up. Jon accelerated onto the roundabout and took the exit onto the ring road.

Maddy continued,

"Can I smoke? Don't answer. I know. No chance....Bitch. Not you. Ann. Thank you, Ann. Another little job for Maddy. It's a duty. Wouldn't be love though, would it?"

Jon feared she was getting emotional, "Um, well."

"I'm her next of kin." She laughed. "I don't care, but I do. I like it. It reminds her, I'm the one who's closest. I mean look at me, I'm the one, the only one, seeking her back. She's missing. But what does that mean? Am I surprised? Fuck no. Another one gone wandering off. That's the life. Wander off whenever you can. Fine by me. I prefer to see the truth, however harsh. I once caught a boyfriend shagging my best friend. It was beautiful. It was truth. I asked to join in. A final shag before we never see each other again. I thanked them both for revealing to me who they really were, a pair of absolute wankers."

Jon's fear intensified. He thought he might have to let Maddy smoke a cigarette, an emergency measure only to try and pacify her. However, as the Police Station was just seven minutes away, he concluded his best option was, for now, silence.

Maddy continued,

"Ann doesn't hide. Neither do I. When we wandered into each other's lives, it was clear what she wanted, for me to convert, to join her tribe, to take the role of her perfect daughter. But no way. Me? Fuck no. I was her equal. I told her straight. Why should I compromise? All these stupid things that I didn't want. A pony. I love horses. But the culture? I hate those girls. That dressing up. That slapped her face. But the knife in the back? I refused to go to a private school. Again, those girls; I hate those girls. But to Ann it was a sort of suicide, self-harm at least. It proved to her my lack of ambition, my retarded desires, whatever that meant. I'd shown myself to be a girl who could never be special. She barely thought me a proper woman. Well, fuck it. Then and now. She complains to this day I'm not successfully working or successfully married. Divorced more like it. That's been her way up. Three of them. All with a great big fat pay rise. I wasn't worth the fight. She stepped away, a safe, polite distance, which was fine by me. We know each other. It was for the best."

Maddy paused. Jon's mood was lifted by the clear road, in both directions.

"People, you've got to say, fickle shits most of them." Maddy continued. "But karma, who knows. Ann has always been mostly missing, less so than others I've known. Maybe she'll mostly return, just a few parts missing." She laughed. "You've got no family then? All dead and very conventional."

"Yes. Not you?"

Maddy laughed bitterly. "Oh, it's all good fun though, isn't it, life? Mum and dad divorced when I was ten. Dad pissed off with another woman, and I rarely saw him again. Mum remarried, I was eleven. Mum died. I was thirteen. Step-dad remarried, Ann, I was fourteen. A shiny new step-mum, lucky me. Ann divorced stepdad. Lucky him. The loathing was mutual, and I was eighteen, so what right did I have to give a shit? I was eighteen. I too was free to leave. Stepdad moved to South Africa. I couldn't complain, he bought me a house. Ann was furious, she did complain. He didn't have the right to buy the house. The money used was a shared, married, asset. He'd already vanished with a shitload of cash, or so the story goes, so the house was rightfully hers, to compensate, to make the divorce settlement lawfully just. She won. The law agreed. It wasn't personal, of course, just business. A woman who took care of herself. It became her annexe, the servants' quarters really. She kept it free for me to use. But free? There was always a cost. Little jobs and responsibilities, reminders it wasn't my home. But I've lived there on and off. The distance between us remained. But, if we forget the past, we can and sometimes do get on. She knows I'm the closest. And fuck, I know, that's enough to scare almost anyone. Non-special me. And who doesn't fear age and loneliness, going there alone and unprotected? Do you think of that?"

Jon didn't want to answer, so he asked her,

"Is your dad,"

She interrupted him, "No. He died. There was no connection. I tuned him to off long ago, freed it all up to feel and be with my mum."

Maddy remained silent for the rest of the journey, as did Jon.

Jon dropped Maddy off at the Police Station. They agreed he would return in an hour to pick her up and to phone each other if they incurred any problems. Jon also asked Maddy to text him if she learned she was going to be longer than an hour, as this would give him more leeway with his appointment.

Jon drove away calmly, but as soon as he was out of sight it was 'Go! Go! Go!' He accelerated fat, daring to do forty in a thirty zone.

Jon never broke the speed limit. Fast, aggressive driving was against the Volvo code. The XC90 was like the Hammer of Thor. It was a destroyer of all, lesser, things, a powerful tool he must only wield with great care and responsibility. But tonight he had no choice. He had twenty minutes max to get back to the village. Such driving jangled his nerves and brought on a mild panic attack. He hated himself. He became a loud, ridiculous, scummy boy-racer.

He overtook then cut off a driver; pulled out of junctions too early forcing other drivers to brake sharply; jumped amber traffic lights, and even one that was red. It was indecent behaviour that embarrassed him deeply. He took to bawling out apologies which quickly turned to excuses and lies,

"I'm sorry, but I got a chinky! Got a chinky Chinese! It's getting cold! I got a chinky! Got to get home! I got a chinky! It's getting cold! I got a chinky Chinese!"

Using the word chinky added to his sense of unease, but he felt it important to do all he could to connect with the common man.

The B-Road that led to his village soothed his panic. It was relatively free of traffic which allowed him to speed along unencumbered. It took him eighteen minutes to get back to Maddy's.

Jon reversed the XC90 a few metres up the annexe's long, secluded gravel driveway, then parked. He was setting up a quick escape.

The Boot Scraper gave up the keys. Jon sprinted back towards the annexe. A row of mature trees was the border that kept the two homes separate and alone.

Ann had told him one of the keys was a key for the annexe. His plan was simple, to get inside and search for clues - evidence of murder, blackmail and the hard copy photographic evidence that so clearly incriminated him. He had a maximum of fifteen minutes to find what he needed.

Although the annexe radiated light from every window, he felt alone and hidden. He didn't hesitate to slide the key into the lock and quietly open the door.

Jon stepped inside, closing the door behind. Silence. The hall he stood in was small and empty - not even a picture to brighten a wall. However, access to the stairs was blocked by a safety gate. Why? A child? Certainly not Maddy's own. Then maybe one who visits. Or did Maddy have a dog? He strained to listen, to hear the faintest sound. Nothing disturbed the silence.

An opened door at the end of the hall led into the living room. Jon scanned it quickly. It felt bare. A TV, sofa, reclining armchair, sideboard and a few other odds-and-sods couldn't dent the emptiness. Nothing felt hidden. The lack of clutter felt open and honest.

An archway led into a conservatory the exterior of which Jon could see from his office window, the glass often glinting in the sun. A deep cushioned wicker sofa set made the space feel snug. Closed vertical blinds blocked the view. Jon parted two slats and peeked out. His house was down the hill, just windows of light to break the dark country night.

He turned sharply, jumping to locate a sound - a faint metallic squeak. Silence. Squeak. Silence. Squeak. The source was moving towards him \- a small, modest sound but, amplified through the dark unknown, one that filled him with a growing sense of horror. Had he walked into a trap? Had Satan's cult laid in wait to ravage his body and soul?

He looked for a place to dive into and hide, but the conservatory offered no such sanctuary. He parted the blinds; he could open a window and jump to safety. Reflected in the glass, a zombie face appeared in the archway. Jon jumped with fright, turning to look.

"Fuck off!! I do have Christ!!" he screamed.

A little old lady, Maddy's Nan, pushing an Ewbank Carpet Sweeper, which squeaked as it rolled over the floor, came to a stop to stand in the archway. She looked at Jon without a hint of curiosity or concern. She was dressed ready for bed, a dressing gown hiding her night clothes.

"Are you my father?" she asked without much interest.

Jon could see she was of the living so began to calm down. He considered saying he was her father but a better lie came to mind.

"No. I'm the doctor," he said.

"That's where I sit," she said pointing to a chair. "You better not."

"No. I can't. I'm not here."

"Is my daughter back?"

"Maddy?"

"I know who I am."

Jon reasoned she had dementia, and that Maddy, her granddaughter, was caring for her.

"That's good," he said. "But actually you don't know me. I haven't been here. But if anyone asks, my name is," he struggled to think of an ridiculous sounding name that would make it sound the dementia was playing up if she repeated it to Maddy, "Chinky Chow Mein Hitler. Doctor Chinky Chow Mein Hitler Prawn Balls."

"Here. This is me. Here." Releasing the Ewbank handle and letting it drop to the floor, she reached into a pocket and took out a compact camcorder. "I've got it all in here." She flipped open the LCD screen and began filming Jon.

"No, don't. You can't do that," said Jon stepping towards her.

"Don't you, hey!" She threatened Jon with a raised fist. Jon instantly came to a stop. "Get savage with me. I'll scratch your eyes out."

"I'm not savage with no one. I love cats. Got six of them. Cute and lovely. Adorable. I'll show you them. But can't be filmed. It hurts me to be filmed. I'm allergic. I get a sort of sunburn."

"Nonsense. You're a man, aren't you? I've never heard such rubbish." She closed the LCD screen and put the camcorder back in the pocket.

"That's right. That's it. Thank you."

"Thank you? You owe me right and proper."

"Yes. Anything."

"Take me dancing."

"It's a deal. Disco?" asked Jon a little sarcastically.

"No. Proper dancing. All the glamour. I'm not cheap. You look a bit queer. Better take me dancing before it's too late."

She turned and stepped into the living room. Jon looked at his watch and swore to himself, "People, bloody, people!"

He hurried into the living room. Nan stood in the middle of the room her arms raised ready to accept Jon as her dance partner. Her smile and eyes glowed as if lost in a haze of dreamy romance.

Jon hesitated, standing still. To hold her, felt wrong.

"Shall we?" she asked.

Jon felt obliged - to appease her, to charm her into letting him delete the incriminating video. Suppressing his reluctance, he stepped forward and took hold of her hands. He expected her to start dancing, but she remained standing still.

"You lead," she said.

"What's the tune?" he asked.

"A waltz of course, you silly man. I've seen you before. Strong man, aren't you? I'll be a better one than that other one. Right sack of spuds. Not like me. I'm a lady. Shall I show you my fanny?"

"No."

"Then dance."

Now Jon had expected to feel a little repulsed, but Nan smelt clean and fresh, lightly perfumed with a zesty, appealing scent; her clothes weren't the typical musty smelling any-old-tat, her hair was clean, soft and conditioned and offered aromas of coconut; her short nails were painted a subtle red and looked recently manicured. Jon concluded, if Maddy was her carer, she was performing her duties exceptionally well.

Dancing in public would usually fill Jon with an aching sense of horror; however, here he felt virtually alone, certainly not watched or judged so off he went slowly, badly, waltzing around the living room. His clumsiness didn't spoil Nan's grace or elegance. She moved, floating, in spite of him. It was the happiest he had ever made a woman while dancing. Nan looked transported, as happy as can be, although her thoughts were plainly somewhere beyond the room and Jon. She hummed a tune that Jon hadn't heard before.

After a minute or so, time made Jon anxious, although he didn't speed up or try to bring the dance to an end. They continued for a few minutes more until Nan suddenly came to a stop and broke their hold.

"Enough, now," she said, dejected. "It's not the same. He's still here," she pointed to her mind. "I still see him, feel him too." She towards the conservatory. "You're not very good. Never marry a dancing girl. You'll bore her. Marry one who can't. You can fumble along together then not quite fitting." She stopped in the archway, turned to look at Jon, smiling. "Thank you though. You just can't compare." she pulled out the camcorder and held it, almost hugging it. "I'll never forget."

She turned and stepped into the conservatory. Jon followed.

Nan pulled on a cord to open a blind. She then moved to her chair, which faced the exposed window, and sat down.

Seeing Jon, "Oh, are you my father? Where's the daughter? She'll be back soon." She pointed to her reflection in the window. "Who's that there?"

Jon eyed the camcorder, which Nan continued to hug. He didn't have the heart, or nerve, to prise it off her. He hoped the risk of Maddy seeing the video of him was slim, and he always had the option of returning to annexe later on. With this in mind, and with Nan staring at the window, he crept away.

He looked at his watch. His fifteen minutes was almost up. In the hall, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs stuck in a loop of procrastination. Should he run upstairs and search for clues or get free of the house and keep to his schedule? He looked at the door. He wanted to leave. He looked upstairs. A short run into light was a tempting offer. He needed to find proof that to destroy, the evidence on him, and that to make public, to wave in the face of Maddy. He looked at the door then back upstairs. The squeak. He looked. Nan ambled through the doorway into the hall pushing the Ewbank along. Seeing Jon she stopped and called out,

"Hey! Not allowed up there. I'll tell on you. A dangerous game to cross this one."

"I..."

Jon glanced upstairs looking to find an excuse. The upstairs landing plunged into darkness. The ceiling light had somehow gone off. His finely tuned nerves shot him out of the house. Before he closed the door, he called out to Nan.

"Doctor Chinky Chow Mein Hitler Prawn Ball!"

The door closed, he remembered to lock it, clumsily pulling the key out of his pocket. Once locked, he ran straight towards the XC90.

"People! Bloody people! Fucking witches!"

His only consolation was knowing he could return to the annexe a wiser man with knowledge of the layout and the issue inside.

Driving back to Shrewsbury, Jon wondered why Maddy lied about leaving the lights on. Why not admit an old lady remained inside? What was she hiding? Did it prove Maddy was a compulsive, sociopathic liar? Maybe she was playing the old lady for financial gain or for motives far more dark and more sinister? But this knowledge could be a positive for him. The old lady could be a weakness for Maddy, offering him a means of leverage he could, if needed, exploit.

Jon pulled into the Police Station car park. Maddy was waiting, impossible to miss. Nothing else stirred. She was leaning against a lamppost illuminated by its orange light, her condensed breath and cigarette smoke rising above her.

Jon pulled up beside her. She dismissed the used cigarette, flicked it to the ground. Jon sighed and shook his head at this ungracious and reckless act of littering.

"What a lout," he muttered to himself.

Maddy opened the passenger door and climbed inside. She made no comment on the warm interior - too numb to notice the cold.

"Hi," said Jon.

"Your feet OK?" she asked.

"Almost perfect," he replied. "Did it go alright?"

"It's done," she said.

"Did you-"

"Tell the police you and Ann were lovers gone wrong?"

"No," he protested.

"Yes."

"You did?"

"No. Why would I? What are you in all of this? Bloody insignificant. I've always known that. I felt it. And now, well, I've seen it proved. A feeling made real. So why complicate things? Why send the police looking where there's nothing to find?"

"Yeah. Correct..So what did they say?"

"Enough. They said what they had to say. It's all in motion. Leave it. I need to go home."

Even Jon could tell Maddy wanted silence and reflection. In fact, the brightly lit car park, provided enough light for him to see her face looked sunken, drawn with sadness - a volatile one, he thought, one easily roused waiting to be provoked. He put the XC90 into gear and pulled smoothly away.

The silence suited Jon. It lasted most of the way back towards the village. But a mile from home, Maddy broke the peace with the sort of question Jon hated.

"What's your greatest fear?" she asked.

To answer it would be too exposing.

"ERR," Jon considered what lie to tell. "Being accused of being a paedophile."

"What?" said Maddy shocked and disgusted.

"Being accused, falsely! I'm not one. But, you know, imagine it. The horror. What could be worse? Doesn't that appeal to you?"

"Appeal to me? How?"

"Make you think I'm an OK kind of guy."

"Where the fuck are you from?"

"OK, it's not my worst fear. I lied. It is. It would be. But, my worst fear, day-to-day, hour-to-hour, it's personal, too personal."

"I dread to think."

"Choking to death. Yes. At home, alone. There I am, at home, alone, eating until, bang! One wrong move chucks me off the edge, throws me into a sort of death spiral. I'm choking, writhing on the floor basically disabled. Alone, completely helpless, choking all the way to a needless death. It's like drowning. And that's a new one for me now, drowning to death. But then, I don't have to go swimming. I do have to eat. I like to eat. I can afford quality food even if it is from Tesco. But I can't eat naturally, like care-free, or walking, god no, not walking. I have to sit and concentrate on every worried mouthful. Chewing and chewing waiting for the right time to swallow. It's tiring. There's a manoeuvre, the Heimlich manoeuvre, now usually referred to as abdominal thrusts. You perform it on someone who's choking. And it works, if done correctly. But what if you're choking and on your own? Like I'm sure to be. Well, there's another manoeuvre. But it's never been tested. It's only a theory. You belly-flop, you slam into the ground belly first. The shock of the impact is meant to dislodge and expel whatever you're choking on. A painful thing to do? Definitely. But also potentially life-saving. I got a plan to go into A&E with a made-up complaint, a front, just to test it out. Whilst there, in the safety zone with all the doctors and nurses, I'll force myself to choke on something then stand on a chair or better a desk to grab attention then I belly-flop onto the floor. If it works, I'm saved and armed with the knowledge to save my own life. If it doesn't, the nurses and doctors rush in and save me anyway. I then tell them the truth and well, I've added to medical science. Either way, to me, I'm a hero."

"Wow. Good god, you're properly fucked. You have a lot to worry about, haven't you? I mean, just you being you. Do you have mattresses by the side of your bed just in case you fall out while sleeping? You know, what, ten or so people a year die from falling out of bed. You wouldn't want to be reckless."

"I'm not. And you? You got any issues?"

"Hundreds. A bigger collection than you. And you know my biggest fear?"

"No."

"You should. It's not so far away from yours. Dying alone, properly alone, lonely and alone. And god, how lame is that?"

Maddy stared at Jon wanting an answer. He didn't oblige. The conversation was getting too emotional. He wanted it to end. He felt he had already said too much.

Maddy continued, "It's why my Nan lives with me."

Jon kept his eyes firmly on the road. Maddy kept her eyes firmly on Jon.

"Oh," said Jon.

"One of the reasons, there are many reasons. She's faultless. She's never let me down. That's why I left the lights on, so I could keep an eye on her."

"Watch her?" asked Jon, the pressure of Maddy's stare holding his head firm.

"She's got dementia. She can be lucid sometimes, other times lost, but still, she's always my Nan."

"Good. Dementia, worse than cancer."

"I've got cameras in every room. They send video to my phone. I can't be in twenty-four seven, but I can always keep a watch on her. I can even turn the lights on and off, remotely using my phone. It's better than putting her in a home. I'll never do that. Never. She's alright left for a short time. I know she is. She sits in the conservatory and films the view. She films the house and everything. I thought it was strange, but it's not it's beautiful. She films and watches, films and remembers. You should see her, Jon. The wonder of it."

Jon's face was burning red fired by guilt and exposure. His only comfort was the cooling dark, and the hope Maddy had been with the police and unable to use her phone while he was snooping around the annexe. He turned into Maddy's driveway and continued towards ahead.

"You should come in, meet her," said Maddy.

"Yes. One day. Another time perhaps."

"She'll like that. She'd love another dance."

"Would she?" said Jon trying to sound casual, pretending nothing was wrong. He pulled up outside the annexe. "Right. Job done. No charge. On me." He tried to force a laugh to signify a joke, but what came out was an unconvincing, feeble high-pitched, "he-he."

Maddy left him to fester in silence for several seconds.

"You think I did it," she said.

"What?"

"Killed Ann, James as well probably or vanished them somehow."

"ERR," Jon struggled to comprehend the situation. Maddy's voice was calm and quiet. Where was the violence, the furious rage? Was it the sociopathic cold and calculating presence of mind that kept it contained?

"You broke into my house. You went looking for evidence," said Maddy.

"I thought-"

"Is that what you, people, really think of me? Is that who people think I am?"

Jon thought, _look weak, be strong_."I was scared of you," he said.

"Good. You should be," she said with a harsher tone.

"I thought I was next."

"Next? At the hands of me? You're scared of me, a woman?"

"I'm scared of most people."

"I believe it."

"I'm not a fighter."

"Then what, a lover?"

"No. Not much of that either."

"Correct. I'll take Ann's word for it. Mind you, how did you reply when she told you as much? 'I'll have you know, I'm very sexually experienced for a man of my age, actually.' That's not a good line for a man in his thirties." She laughed loud and pure. "See, me and Ann we could have a laugh, occasionally."

"At my expense."

"Yes. Well, you are good for something, that and being the chauffeur. How did you break-in?"

"Keys. Ann gave me a pair, to feed the cats. I forgot, she forgot to ask for them back."

"Give them to me."

Jon handed the keys over.

"What you thought about me is wrong. I couldn't give a toss what you think about me, but know the facts you're wrong, completely wrong. She'll come back, and then you'll know. Ann is not someone who feels the need to explain her actions or to publicise her life in social media or anywhere else. She lives in the moment, for it, for the sensation of now. Lucky her, and lucky you, lucky I see you as funny, as a bloody fool really, as no one I need take seriously." She opened the door and got out. "But thanks for the lift and thanks for dancing with Nan. I suspect it looked better than it felt for you. But there you go, that's life, we'll have to deal with it."

She pushed the door shut, a little too aggressively for Jon's liking. He watched her. She scuffled towards the annexe. When she reached the door, the house key was held ready. She entered the house without a pause, no final glance or wave at Jon.

Jon drove home. His insights into Maddy hadn't advanced, remained theories without proof. He focused on tomorrow's post of what would come to damn him further down, and the cameras and App controlled lights that helped secure the annexe. He had to have his own, and with Amazon Prime, he would have them by tomorrow.

# CHAPTER 9

The post delivered another cheap CD-R dick. Jon played the audio file and heard the same distorted voice as before:

"You a man likes to binge watch the telly, Jon? Me, I couldn't give a shit what's on the box. Always on the job me, out and about workin, looking how to make. Hunt it, scavenge it - buzzard, owl, ptero-fuckin-dactyl. It's how I think. Earn it, the booze and ciggies, all the finer things in life. Need nothing from no one. Never. Bet you love to curl up on the sofa and get your dick in your hand. Not wankin, just checkin it's there, hoping you still got one. (laughs) Anyway, here's a story. It's like the fuckin radio this, ain't it? Back in the days when they had to make their own entertainment. I'll join that club. (laughs). Local dealers, won't say where. Know me from workin the door. Learn my reputation, an acquaintance of theirs learns it the hard way. They got this flat, use it to push weed and pills, a bit of coke and other shit things. Anyway, I've been doin the work, been goin round to score a bit of this and that. Not for use. Not even medicinal. To build up trust, to become routine, like an agent undercover. They got this samurai sword on the wall. It looks the part, but it's shit, blunt as a retards piss. It's an ornament. So I make the offer, I'll sharpen it, you give us some weed. The old gypsy trade. Me old man could take a butter knife and put an edge on it to rival any cutthroat. Anyway, deal done. I take round a little bag of tools to get the job done. I'm there for an hour, sharpenin the blade, watchin two of them smoke the weed and play video games. It's like I'm not even there. I'm sittin right behind them sharpenin the blade. They couldn't see me for smoke. They could hear me though, the scrape of the sharpenin stone slowly drawn against the blade. The telly volume kept goin up all the way to stupid loud. (laughs) I finish the job. It's quality. The best. I ask them, 'you got a melon?' Big laughs, and a whole big round of 'fuck offs.' I take that as no. So I say, 'what about a marrow or plums or a lump of fuckin pork?' No chance. See the thing is, a samurai sword is a slicin sword. You don't use it to stab you couldn't. It takes skill to use. I wanted to have a go, to show them, to prove how sharp I made it. A man is right to take pride in his work. But fuck it, I ain't got the time to piss about. Job done, the sword is theirs. They hold it like they're the absolute fuckin stars, masters of the fuckin' art. One of the dicks cuts his thumb. Then bets the other fifty quid he wouldn't dare use the sword to cut a chunk out of his dirty ginger pubes. Laughin, I mean, fair enough, I'd like to see that. I put the stone back in the tool bag and whip out the hammer. Now that's the tool, simple, brutal, effective. No trainin required just a pair a steel clad bollocks and a will that refuses to pause. Shame, they miss it, the final proof. I had to make it final. Nothin flash, no pompous samurai wank-off, just one, slow, precise cut. One for them each, ear-to-ear. No feelin's, no enjoyment, only that of a job well done. Professional. Get it done then fuck off home. No worries there, the flat's in a building full of cunts. No one gives a shit. Too dazed and fucked to see the dog shit they keep treadin in day-to-fuckin-day. Too gone from the police to even guess who did it, too lazy to think of a fuckin lie. If they ain't high, they're fuckin depressed. That's the sort. Women stuffed into onesies. All self-inflicted. So I'm out in broad daylight, hoodie on fair enough. Fingerprints? I've been wearing gloves, safety gloves I told them. That's the level. That's the level of your common drug dealin criminal. Well, there you are, Jon. Back out now. Always workin. Happy fuckin days."

It was the radio, nothing real, certainly not the news. Jon refused to believe the words told the speaker's truth. He could search online, but find the story or not, what would it prove?

Installing the interior security cameras and App controlled lights pinned down his doubts and fears. It gave him a sense of forging ahead into a positive, winnable, future. He had the means to succeed, to pay-off any blackmail, to fend off any attack.

The landline phone rang and smashed the calm of Jon's uneasy peace. It caused alarm, fright. It never rang. It churned up a panic. He had to take a moment to remember where in the house the phone could be. The ringing felt like a calling to a whole new level of pain. In a panicked daze, he hurried into the living room. The answer phone activated and cut the ringing dead. He stood, staring, not daring to pick the receiver up for fear he would hear the interrupted dial tone of 1571. It didn't take him long to convinced himself the call was an unsolicited nuisance one that he should rightly ignore.

The phone's ringtone erupted. Jon jumped to answer it as if compelled to obey the command. It was in his hand before one pulse of the tone had completed.

"Hello," he said.

"Jon, no time for bollocks," spoke a man's voice that was a undistorted version of the one heard on the audio files. "It's me, Bill. You know who. Good news for you, I need a favour."

The cordless phone allowed Jon to stumble around the room, which he did in something of a stupor as he scrambled his mind to form some faintly coherent thoughts.

"Good news?" said Jon feebly.

"You got a chance to make me happy."

"Good news for me?"

"I need an alibi."

"An alibi?" said Jon forcibly, shook awake.

"Not for nothin big, a footnote."

"You're him?"

"Fuckin hope so."

"The photos, the voice?"

"I'm him. The very one. I am the one, Jon."

"How did you get my number?"

"Fuck off! Bigger picture! I'm on the fuckin job here. You think I've got time to explain the little shit? I've just had the police round here accusin me of some right old nonsense. Date and time, where was I? So I told them, I was with you."

"How with me? You can't have been with me. We don't know each other."

"Exactly. Queer little cunt like you, with me," a quick rap of laughter fired out. "How's that work out? Couldn't make it up. So that's what I said. Me and you hooked-up for some dirty homo sex."

"No. Don't. Please."

"Had to. How's that for thinkin on the toes? I don't care what the pigs think. I ain't, so don't you think I am. Told them straight, I was AC/DC. I'll screw a woman given half the chance. There's plenty of evidence puts me inside a woman or two," another rap of laughter blasted out.

"You want me to lie to the police? You gave them my address?"

"I do. I did."

"I can't. How can I? How?"

"Easy. Think of yourself. Save yourself. Done that before, poper hardcore. What's this to that? Piece of piss. Just words, bullshit. Sit down, brew a cuppa, tell some lies. Easy fuckin day. Profitable, very profitable, keeping happy the man who knows. I'm your fuckin saviour, Jon."

Jon couldn't speak, his thoughts were overloaded processing the situation.

"Jon?" Bill continued. "You need a slap, Jon? I'll give Sean Connery one thing, got this right, woman needs a slap sometimes, sorts the situation, brings the bitch back into focus. Shall I come round and do the job?"

Jon managed to hold a thought. "The police are coming here?" he said.

"Nothin to worry about. They're from Somerset. Bigger country cunts than you lot."

"The police are coming here to me?"

"Should do. They're up here. Finished with me now."

"Today? They're coming here today?"

"Better fuckin had. Wasteful cunts if they don't."

"When? Today? What time? When?"

"From me to you but could be hours. They're pigs. What's the odds they stop at Greggs or some other trough to stuff in another feed? Probably makin moves to cheat some overtime."

"This has got to be a joke! You wouldn't do it! You wouldn't do this! It's not logical. It's not remotely fucking normal!"

"Ain't it? Then tell me, tell me I'm fuckin wrong!"

"You're making a connection to the place," he lowered his voice, "people have gone missing from. To free yourself from one, issue, you attach yourself to another. It's reckless."

"No evidence, no connection and there ain't no evidence. It's a simple routine enquiry, a need to eliminate a rumour, me, from the investigation. They got no hard evidence. All you have to do is talk some bollocks to two detectives. Look ashamed, embarrassed, they'll understand."

"I can't do it."

"You can. You're saving yourself you selfish cunt."

"I would do it. I want to do it. But I'm not sure I can do it. I've got issues."

"Listen! Learn the facts. I'm a one-eyed ugly cunt with a huge fuckin dick. You'll need to know that cos obviously they think you've seen it, my glass eye. It don't move. Some people don't notice it, but you're the type that would. Eye colour, brown. Age, fortyish. Height, six foot two. Build, brick shithouse. The ultimate bit of rough for a nice boy like you. We met online. I gave no specifics. It ain't their business. Tell them to fuck off if they press you. My hands are rough, scarred and things, with battery acid having done most of the damage. I came to you, Saturday, January fifteen about six o'clock. I spent the night, left Sunday morning around nine. That's all you know about me. We met that once, and only once. Easy. Got all that in?"

"They won't believe it. It isn't me."

"Shock and fuckin horror. You think the pigs will be shocked by you? They've seen it all you silly cunt. They won't believe you're anythin queer? Too posh and respectable to fuck some scum-end scrap man sort? Married, Jon? Got a girlfriend, Jon? Tell me more about yourself, cos all I really know is you chop up bodies for a laugh and a wank. That might surprise the pigs. Put that to the test, shall we?"

"No. I'll do it. I can do it."

"Good. Get it done, get it over. Nothin to worry about, just an alibi. I can only use you once. You're a one play joker. A brief, single connection. Crime, nothin up there serious, just a bit of robbin."

"Good. Right. A brief, single connection."

"I'll leave you to it."

"Wait. Where do you live? How far from me?"

"Not your concern."

"You've got to tell me. I need to know. I could run away here. I could run right a fucking way! I can't take the uncertainty! I need to know!"

"Shrewsbury, Castlefields. Pigs left ten minutes ago. So you go sit down, calm down and work it out yourself. Oh, and thank you, Jon, very much obliged."

"You'll give me the photos?"

Bill ended the call.

"You cunt!!" Jon screamed into the phone.

Jon gathered his panic and tried focus. Bill, his story, could all be lies, a cruel prank or test. He hoped it was, but also hoped he'd heard the truth. He saw his chance to secure the photos, hardcopy and all.

Whatever the truth, he had to take Bill's claims seriously. The police could arrive in the next fifteen minutes. An emergency panic mode kicked in. He felt himself blushing. He ran upstairs, stripping naked as he went.

The bathroom, Jon turned the shower on to maximum power, the water turned to the coldest setting, and stuck his head into the flow. The shock of the cold was a welcome pain. It cooled his face and numbed his brain.

Leaving the shower on, he ran into his bedroom. The window view was undisturbed. What to wear? An impressive suit to look formidable like a lawyer set for battle. But the shower? He could pretend to be taking a shower, forced to rush to get dry and dressed. The resulting commotion would explain his panicked, uncomfortable manner. The shower scenario it had to be.

He struggled with a pair of tracksuit bottoms, eventually winning and getting them on. The tracksuit top he left on the bed, ready to wear later.

Bread and coffee, an idea sparked. He could make the house smell homely, give it a warm, reassuring air. He ran to the kitchen. The aroma of coffee could be wafting its way through the house in minutes and, although to get a loaf baking would take much longer, as he didn't know when the police would arrive, he decided to get one on. He used his Bread Maker regularly. Yeast, flour, and water all went in, quantities guessed by eye, with the quickest, two-hour, setting selected. The coffee machine ground fresh beans and brewed a jug of strong, steaming coffee. He resisted taking a cup; he knew a burst of caffeine now would boot him over the mental edge.

He ran upstairs to check the bedroom window view. He remained undisturbed. In the bathroom, he threw his head into the jets of freezing cold water for a thirty-second pounding.

He ran into the bedroom, his head still soaking wet. A shitty Vauxhall Vectra was shoving its way onto his land. He ran back into the bathroom and plunged his head into the freezing stream for a count of ten. On nine, he stepped away towards the door and listened for the sound of the doorbell. No such intrusion came his way, only himself reflected in a mirror - guilt, embarrassment, something to hide all screamed out. He headbutted the freezing spikes and fought the cold for a count of twenty. As soon as he whipped his head free, he caught the sound of doorbell's chime rising above the water's rush.

The office, Jon spied the police, the monitor fed the view - two Caucasian males in their thirties, keen and interested speaking in short quiet burst, exchanging looks and expressions that communicated more than their simple words, stood outside the front door waiting. Both looked sharply dressed in dark coloured suits and overcoats. Jon felt his Boss tracksuit was barely a draw. He wanted to hide but knew he had to jump into the rapids.

About to activate the intercom, he was ready to speak in a voice he thought would make him sound gay, one so camp and obvious it would help make the alibi seem plausible. But he lost his nerve and so reverted to his normal voice, which wasn't quite its usual tone as nerves had pitched it higher.

"Hello. I'm sorry. I was in the shower. I've just got out. But how may I help you, now, please, yes?"

The initial formalities were conducted using the intercom. The two men introduced themselves, ID badges shown, as Detective Sergeant Jennings and Detective Constable Cove. They needed to speak to a Mr Jon Bennett concerning an ongoing criminal investigation. Jon confirmed he was their man then asked for a minute, to rub himself down and slip on some casual Boss clothes.

Jon didn't hesitate and tried not to think. He dried his hair and face, slipped on the tracksuit top then ran down stairs to open the door. With his hand turning the key, he felt cold ceramic tiles pressed against the soles of his feet and so realised his feet were sockless. He swore silently, a loud internal shattering cry. He couldn't tolerate the thought of being sockless in the company of two suited men. He sprinted back up the stairs, his only comfort, the thought of a perfectly ordered sock draw.

With a black pair of socks selected, he sat on the bed, paused for a moment to hone his focus and ready himself for the challenge ahead. The socks went on with little resistance. He shot away jumping past the mirrored wardrobe doors to exit the room unseen. If he had seen himself, the truth would have crushed him and caused him to fail.

Jon opened the front door and made brief and deliberate, but somewhat unfocused, eye contact with DS Jennings and DC Cove.

He tried to sound jolly and welcoming, "Right, sorry, hello. Come on in. I'm in the kitchen, the heart of my house," he said before turning and walking away towards the kitchen to leave DS Jennings and DC Cove to fend for themselves.

Jon continued, "Come in. Shut the door. Coffee? Tea? Juice? I'm teetotal weekdays. I'll have a smoothie. I've been for a run hence the shower."

DS Jennings and DC Cove stepped inside, closed the door then followed Jon into the kitchen.

Jon fluttered around opening and closing cupboard doors from which he eventually acquired a stick blender and its blender bottle attachment. "Drink?" he asked the two detectives as they entered the kitchen.

DS Jennings, as the senior officer, took the lead, "No. We're fine. Thank you. Shall we sit down?"

"No!" said Jon sharply turning his back on them. "I can't. I'm stressed. I've got social issues. I'm having therapy. Check it out, detect!" He grabbed a blackened banana from a fruit bowl on the worktop.

"OK," said DS Jennings surprised at Jon's sudden outburst. "Well, this is nothing to worry about just a simple routine enquiry."

Jon turned, pointing the banana at DC Jennings, jabbing it. "He was here! It's true! He rang me and said you were coming. He was here, with me. Feel my shame! Write it down then go! I'll sign the form. I'll tell the truth. He was here, as he said he was. He did not lie! Here with me, legally and rightfully! A single night. In and out. Nothing more than that." He turned back to face the worktop and began peeling the banana.

"You're referring to a Mr Bill Saunders?" said DC Jennings.

"Yes. One-eyed...you know what. From Shrewsbury, Castlefields. Yes, I like to slum it! He called me. So what? It's the modern age. And we're gay!"

"No doubt he did. It's not a problem. We expected as much," said DC Jennings.

"Wise," said Jon stuffing the peeled banana into the blender bottle.

"So, you're prepared to sign a witness statement stating that on Saturday the fifteenth of January Bill Saunders spent the entire night here with you?"

"If I had to, yes." He grabbed another banana and began to peel it.

"And that he arrived here at around six o'clock in the evening?"

"Around that time, yes."

"How did you two meet?"

"That's private and irrelevant. I'm not here to provide tittle-tattle. It's hard for me this, very hard. I'm a private person with all sorts of issues. I feel ashamed. But why? What have I done wrong? Absolutely nothing! I never do! So why should I care! I don't care! Look at me!" He faced them jabbing his blushing face with the peeled banana. "Justice! I do it for truth, my deep belief in justice and law. It gave us rights, my people and I. It freed the gays!" He clenched his hands to fists. The blackened banana squished to mush some squirting to the floor. He turned to face away, trying to wipe his hand clean.

"Mr Bennett, we're not here to judge your private life," said DC Jennings.

"No, so long as it's legal!" said Jon bitterly making it sound he had something to hide. "Which is good," he continued trying to correct his error.

"How would your private life be illegal?"

"It wouldn't, consciously! But, I mean...I think you think I'm lying about this. That you look at me and think, 'no way would a man like that ever connect with a man like Bill bloody Saunders!' But it's true! I did. I wouldn't lie. I couldn't lie. Do I look like the sort of man who would ever risk being sent to prison?"

DC Cove and DS Jennings glanced at each other and shared a private, silent joke.

"Mr Bennett, you've confirmed the details given to us by Bill Saunders and that, for now at least, is all we require of you, as I said, just a routine enquiry."

A sense of relief flushed through Jon, as he realised his ordeal was coming to a quicker than expected end.

"Right. Great. OK."

"Can I take your phone number just in case? There may be some small details we need to clarify."

"Fine. Easy. Have it."

Jon gave his home and mobile number, which DC Cove wrote down in a notebook.

"Right, well, thank you for your time. Shall we see ourselves out?" said DC Jennings

"Yes. Thanks. Goodbye," said Jon who then paused for a few seconds before turning to watch them go. When they had walked through the hall and reached the front door, "Wait!" he called out.

The detectives stopped and looked at him.

Jon continued trying to sound weak and vulnerable and succeeding, "Bill, he's a wrong 'un, is he? You know what I mean. Should I stay away from him? I think I should. I don't want any trouble."

"You're a grown man, Mr Bennett. You make your own mind up," said DC Jennings.

As soon as the detectives had left the house, Jon ran upstairs and spied on them from behind the bedroom curtain. They got into the Vectra and drove away.

Bill had asked Jon to lie, a task Jon felt he had completed successfully. Now Jon wanted payback, the photos, every copy in his possession for him to destroy.

He checked the phone, but Bill's number was registered unknown. Patience, he thought, Bill would make contact again and soon. He was right. Bill did; he came to take a closer look.

# CHAPTER. 10

Jon knew it was Bill. It sickened him - a beaten-up white Ford Transit van dumped on his land. He had been ready to sink away into the night to try and free himself from the stresses and panics the day had so far spewed out. He was expecting a phone call, some impersonal distance. But now, at the door, ignoring the bell, a fist knocked relentlessly.

Jon didn't panic. He felt numb, press-ganged, only able to surrender to his awaiting fate. He walked to the front door and opened it.

"Jon. Bill. We're gettin pissed," said the man outside as he held up a large bottle of Bells Whiskey. "You provide the food."

Bill stepped forwards. Jon instinctively backed away allowing Bill free and easy access. Without pause, Bill continued onwards down the hall and into the kitchen where he disappeared from view.

Jon looked out through the opened front door, felt the cold roll in. Security lights held the dark at bay, cut a tunnel through the chill and black.

Bill's voice called out, "Very nice in here, Jon. Looks alright from the outside. Very posh."

Jon looked towards the kitchen door but didn't see Bill framed in the doorway. He looked outside. The security lights switched to black, stillness inducing sleep.

"You thinkin of doing a runner, Jon?"

Jon looked. Bill stood in the doorway watching him.

"No," said Jon closing the door.

"Then in you come, make yourself at home. No. Better tell the news first. Good shit or bad?"

"Good. I said what you wanted me to say."

"You fucked the Old Bill?" he laughed darkly. "Get it? You fucked the Old Bill."

"I lied to them."

"Then we'd better have a drink together. Seal the deal for all its fuckin worth."

Bill stepped out of sight. Jon walked into the kitchen. Bill came walking through an archway that led to the living room. He carried two cut crystal whiskey glasses he had snatched from Jon's drinks cabinet.

"Cut crystal glasses and leather armchairs," Bill said. "All I need now is an ashtray. Not that you got one. Get me a cup or saucer, that'll do." He put the glasses down on the kitchen table next to the bottle of whiskey. "Come on, we'll fuck off in there," he said referring to the livin room.

"An ashtray?" said Jon.

"Yeah," said Bill as he removed his coat - a black donkey jacket showing the right amount of wear neither too new or too old.

"Right."

Jon walked away towards a kitchen cupboard. Opening it, he sneaked a peek at Bill seeing him clearly for the first time as he draped his coat over a chair then took out a tobacco tin from its left side pocket. His clothes were basic - a plain navy blue sweeter and a pair of black cotton trousers - and suggested he had made some effort to look smart. His thin but wiry ginger hair was brushed back over his scalp to display a worn, vandalised face - an undercoat of pale skin splattered with mottled red stains and freckling. His once broken nose was left twisted - a permanent middle-finger to flash at the world. His strong think-set body never lumbered, no movement was awkward, all were swift and precise. He looked older than forty but these additional years didn't diminish his menace or soften the edges of a nasty looking man. His stare was cold and uninterested. Jon couldn't tell which eye was glass. Neither showed more life than the other. Even Jon could tell they looked only inward, at the needs and concerns of the man himself. In passing, at a distance, Jon would give him the nickname, 'Fairground' - the grunt at the funfair who fights any locals mad enough to cause any trouble and who considers such violence a perk, part of his remuneration. But here, Jon didn't even dare to think it.

Jon returned to the table carrying a medium-sized saucepan.

"What the fuck is that?" asked Bill seeing the saucepan.

"A saucepan," said Jon.

"For an ashtray?"

"It's got a lid. It's useful."

"You want me to sit there holding a saucepan like I'm gonna puke or somethin?

"No."

"Quality whisky and leather armchairs and you see fit to give me a fuckin saucepan? Where do you rank me, Jon?"

"Rank you?"

"Shat from the gutter? Nice house, posh house. I'll give you that. How many toilets you got?"

"Toilets?"

"Yeah. Bathrooms."

"Three."

"Three shitters, three places to have a dump. You and me both. We're equals than, ain't we? Cos so do I, the bog in the house and the garden outside front and back."

"I'll get you a plate,"

"Plate, cup, bowl, saucer. Doesn't have to be bone fuckin china."

Jon hurried away to fetch a desert bowl. Bill opened the bottle of whiskey then filled both glasses three-quarters full. Jon returned to the table. Bill took the bowl.

"Thank you. Now, have a drink on me." He picked up a glass and offered it to Jon who took it and said,

"Thank you. I'm not used to whiskey."

"Drop a bit of water in it, take off the sting. You won't get judged by me. It's like steak. Eat that blood rare they say, well they can fuck off. I'll eat mine proper well-done. Can't always be the connoisseur, even men like us," he laughed - the forced laughter of a deadened soul - and raised his glass to Jon. "Don't expect me to wait for you though." He brought the glass to his lips and knocked back the whiskey in one. "Come on, let's sit. We need to talk." He picked up the bottle of whisky and tobacco tin then walked into the living room.

A great wave of clarity flushed over Jon. He began to hyperventilate as a panic attack started to invade. He fought it off. He had no choice. He rushed to the sink, tipped most of the whiskey away then added a good dose of water to the little that remained. Without pause or hesitation, he turned and paced towards the living room. The instinct for self-preservation keeping him numb.

Bill sat in a distressed leather vintage style armchair smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Seeing Jon enter the room, "Sit down, Jon. This night is yours. A thank you." He raised his nearly empty glass and used it to gesture towards a matching chair opposite. Jon followed the order. He sat, pinned down, forced to watch Bill pull on his cigarette then slowly exhale a cloud of smoke, which smelt sickly and foul.

"So," Bill continued, casually flicking the cigarette to knock off the ash into the bowl balanced precariously on the arm of the chair. "Here we are united in crime. I want to tell you everythin. Someone needs to know. I'm not as simple as you think I am. The alibi, I needed guns, couple of shotguns, so I went out and got them. Put in the work. I knew exactly what to do. A country shoot, you know, pheasants and peasants. I watched it, knew it inside out, a big estate with a posh old house. Put your country pile to shame. Right out in the sticks. I planned it, hid in trees undercover. No great skill. That's the thing, piece of piss, just the bollocks to do it. Two dozen cars, most flash-end four-by-fours, all gotta drive down this long private road to meet at the manor and all, most at least, gotta be carryin guns. They come, they meet, they do whatever, go and shoot, come back, eat, drink then fuck off home. Well, don't all leave at the same time, do they? There's always one nips off early or stays late to sober up. Gives me a chance to pick one off. So I hide in this wooded area that lines the private road. Camouflage, balaclava the works. The shoot's been and done. I'm ready, waiting. I've got this shotgun slip, a bag to carry a shotgun. And it's no piece of shit. It's leather, with age. I've polished it up. It looks stately, right at home. And I've stuffed it full of paper to make it look like there's a gun inside. Anyway, first car to leave is a Range Rover. As soon as I see it, I hurl the slip into the road ahead of me. The driver sees it, he stops. Posh twat, in his thirties, gets out, leaves the engine runnin and the driver's door open. He's got a chuckle on him. He's lookin at the slip, walkin towards it and he's laughin. Gloatin, smug fuck, I reckon, thinks he's got lucky. Anyway, there's a woman. His wife? Who gives one? She stays put, passenger window open to nag the man. Not my business. Couldn't give a shit. I'm straight into my business. I run the man, approach from the rear. He's bending down to pick up the slip. I drop the fist. Bang! Hammer blow to the top of his head. Puts him down and out, but for a bit of squirmin like a fucking worm. Wife screams. Window goes up."

Bill pulled on the cigarette, the last completing drag. The butt, he dropped into the bowl to burn and die alone. Jon kept his stare fixed on Bill, too scared to glance at the smoking bowl for fear his look may seem disapproving.

Bill continued, "By the way, I had a weapon. Didn't use it, didn't need to. Now it's all about speed. I beat wife to the driver's door. She jumps back, rigid, full of fear, actin like she's trapped. Silly bitch. She's pressed against a fucking door. Well, use it. Get out and fuck off away. I could grab her, rip her out but how many times in your life has a woman fucked-up the simple? I don't wanna touch her, even speak to her. So simple, I get it out and show her my huge fuckin dick. She looks, a proper look takes a moment to snap it in the memory. I should've said cheese. Bet she thought I had a semi. I didn't. She'd have to fuckin work for that, the posh fuckin bitch. Then she fuckin screams. It wakes her up, sets the panic racin. She gets it, the door. She's gettin out. I'm climbin in. Shut the doors and off I go. Nice motor. Takes me to the piece of shit I've come in, secluded clearin not far away. Transfer guns and two full boxes of cartridges, torch the Rangy, fuck off home. Pigs might have clipped the vehicle, but fuck them, vehicle no longer exists and no proof it belonged to me at the time. Plus I was fuckin you. What I'm really hopin for of course is that the police release a wanted poster, an e-fit, of a huge white dick," he laughed loudly, celebrating. Jon tried to fake a laugh, but only managed a short, sharp nasal expulsion of breath. Bill cut the laughter dead and continued to talk, "or think of the identity parade. Be worth a bit of time that. I've done time. Not that I was sloppy, made mistakes and so got myself caught. I got caught on purpose. I planned it. I set it up. A short little stretch, drug related and receivin stolen goods. Went inside, undercover. And that tells you what you need to know about me. This ain't for pleasure, well, pleasure comes as the beast gets fed and the beast in me's a fat old fuck. But, here it is, Jon, I had a son, the one and only. He fell in, drugs. All the way down, into the pit of junkie scum. He was murdered. Drugs did him. Did it himself, couldn't stop."

He brought the glass to his lips and knocked back the last sip of whisky. He picked up the bottle, which he had stashed by the side of the chair, and set about filling his glass, making no attempt to learn if Jon's glass was empty or if he required a top-up.

Bill continued, "I didn't need it. Business was shit. I was into scrap, still am. Scavenge, fly-tip, anythin. Make money, always survive, even bags of unwanted clothes. You know, the shit put in charity bags, left outside houses. I'll rip apart a skip, had to. Proud? Deeply. But I don't mind sinkin low. Your low. Not mine. As long as I live, I don't give a shit. Scrap was gold until, well, I'm sure you know what happened. Anyway, it's all fucked-up. I start workin the door. Shitholes, the bigger the shithole, the better. It was a way to meet people, dealers and the like. I get known. I can deal with things. Make things vanish. I am the fuckin scrap man. And I do scrap. But where's the thrill in smacking-up drunks on a Saturday night, even people caught with pills? What shitty little war is that to fight? Don't make the local news let alone a rightful place in history. But channels, openings, into the world that killed my son and opportunities to claw back justice and steel myself hard for bigger things to come. I move around, bigger towns and cities. Always get work on the door. Some places can't open lunchtime without the threat of violence to keep the locals quiet. Rented bases, one room in an immigrant nest, like in solitary confinement but happily so, removed from the surroundin swarms of whatever we've seen fit to drag the fuck in. Worked the door, worked the area, followed the chain. Men love to boast they know the players, it's like their celebrity gossip. I kept myself down, let things go. I made myself useful. I made things vanish, scrapped them proper. No questions asked. Undercover infiltration. Kept clawin away, often didn't have to do sweet fuck all. Don't call the police, don't call the ambulance. Let the fucker choke, let the fucker freeze. Low-life, street-life but I needed to rise above it, find scum as big as me. I'm not the fuckin infantry. I got the bollocks to hear my rage, speak to it, listen to it. So plan into action, my greatest move so far, I get sent down. How to be one of them? Fail. Be shit. Get caught. Prison is full of fuckin retards. But people like their own. I had to earn a reputation. So I did, and I played it brilliantly. I kept quiet, head down, ignored the chaos. Fuckin hell, like a Saturday night without bouncers and police. The screws are the weakest fucks you ever did see. Happy to let the scum rule the landings, cells, whatever. Always in retreat. Drugs everywhere, not for me of course. I kept calm, professional. Could've gone to work on endless zombie spice addicts, but it wasn't the time. I worked out who was who, who I could use, who could use me. And then, when it happened, I took my moment, became a fuckin legend. Some big stupid, twat, bulk his only asset, a gormless cunt but dangerous. Thinks, anythin that ain't come from his own little world is fuckin hilarious, inferior. Now as I said, I've kept a low profile. Shown the serious people, I ain't some mindless, loud mouth piece of shit only capable of bein a thug, that I'm strong enough to deal with life inside sober. I don't need escape. Well, this gormless prick starts on me. First, it's all about Shrewsbury. I'm his fucking comedy show. He's rantin on that I'm from some small shit town in Wales. It's comedy gold to him. Bullshit, he's wrong, you know that. He knows that. But still, he goes on and on. I let it go. He knows people, has friends inside. Best thing I can do is let it go, call it banter, show restraint. Self-control, that's the prize inside. I bite back now it's reckless, stupid, unprofessional. Anyway, he finds out about the eye. No one gave a shit to notice before, but somehow he sees it. Of course, off he goes takin the piss. I take it, even play along. But then he starts slapping the back of my head trying to make the eye pop from its socket while saying, 'go and have a look over there, mate. Go and have a look over there, mate.' So, he's done it, ain't he? He's made me the fuckin joke. I'm Syd-fuckin-Little, weak, pathetic stooge. The cunt's on my face brandin me a bitch. I have to rise. There's a great roar of laughter. Before it's even peaked, I've got him on the floor, and I've gouged his fuckin eyeball out. Straight in, stab a thumb into the corner and spoon it out until I get enough grip to rip if off the optic nerve. His scream cuts the laughter dead. I stamp on his face and break his jaw. Laugh at that you cunt! I play the crowd. Out comes my glass eye. I take it out. And in goes his blood dirty eyeball right into the empty eye socket. People are rightly entertained. Disgust and laughter, what could be better? I see the gormless prick tryin to get up. 'It doesn't work you useless cunt. You might as well have it back?' I shout. 'Catch? Ready? Don't forget keep your eye on the ball.' I pull it out throw it at him. Course, he don't catch it, but when it hits the floor, he seems to move to reach for it. I can't resist, I stamp on it, squash it like you would a garden slug. Makes everyone feel sick like they all thought it was their own eyeball getting crushed. A risk worth takin. No shit from his friends. They welcomed me in. The right people see me as useful. Conversations get started. Nothin comes back to me. No one grassed. And everyone now knows, I'll do whatever the situation demands."

He knocked back the gulp of whiskey that remained in his glass then set about pouring himself another.

"Look at me, the king on the throne, holdin court while you sit silent. It's good for us though, ain't it? The truth, spoken and heard. Yours to tell the world. Everythin you learn about me, it yours to go and shout about. You've got nothing to fear from me. You're no dealer or a grass. When I look at you, I see a man who's useful to me. If I get my day in court, fine, I'll be the one to tell of all the fuckin magnificence, every last detail. If not, if the ultimate sacrifice is the end for me, then here you are. You possess the truth, second-hand but still quality, a first class fuckin original. Release everything. Tell everything. Write a book. Make some money. How's that sound to you, fella?"

Jon paused, waking from the silence, he took time to process the question.

"Give it to the police, the voice files?" said Jon.

"The police, the press, put it on the internet. Give everyone everythin. There's a shitload more coming your way, letters from the front. I'm fightin a war."

"But..Could I?..I'd incriminate myself. I mean, there must be a way to it, but to admit I knew everything while it was all going on."

"Do it or don't. I don't give a shit. I'll be dead. Well, I won't cos I'm always one ahead, but if I am, you think of a way. I'll leave a record anyway. I'll write my own fuckin history. But you, you think of your slice of fame, which I'm givin you for free. Say you thought I was a nut-job fantasist, you never listened to what I sent. The first few you did, but all you heard was utter bollocks, me captured by aliens and lizard men. The old anal probe situation. You know, nothin original but on topic for you and me. When I came to visit, I'd sit gettin pissed, full of what you thought was bullshit. It made you uncomfortable, but you kept me happy cos you feared me, rightly as it turned out."

"OK. Yeah. But what about the photos?"

"Of you and that woman you used to shag?"

"Yes."

"I was right. Good man. I always admire a man who can punch above his weight."

"If they get found, how can I speak the truth? What chance will I have?"

"They won't get found. I'll make them vanish."

"How?"

"How? Fuck off! I could scrap a tank. You're gonna have to trust me."

"But photos, not metal, digital copies can be hard to completely erase."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. And digital records hard to fake."

"Meaning what?"

"The alibi. You said we met online. But what digital footprint exists to prove that?"

"Oh fuck off, as if that's comin round to give us a slap."

"The little details, the tiny minute details have to be taken seriously."

"Jesus Christ, you got the job, Bill fuckin Gates. And there's me thinking, you would be more useful in bodily disposal. Tell me, you fed her to pigs?"

"Yes."

"You fear prison, don't you, Jon?

"Of course."

"You should. It's savage inside. I don't. But then, I am savage inside. That's the need for revenge though, or vengeance. What's the difference between revenge and vengeance? No, don't bore me with an answer. All you need to think about is how I am on your side, on the side of all right people. Every kill I get is one less for you good people to worry about. Workin the door, of course, you see violence and shit and fightin but what you mostly see is compliance. People nicely queued waitin their turn, happy to be searched and filmed on CCTV. All to make them feel safe. Fear and menace, that's the job, that's the best to keep people in line. Thing is, some people ain't so easily scared."

"Boo!!!" cried Maddy.

Jon's jangled nerves exploded him out of the chair. The watered-down whiskey splashed out of the glass into his face. Maddy stood in the archway laughing at Jon. Bill, who rode the 'boo' without twitching a muscle, caught the joke and added his own mocking roar of laughter to Maddy's.

"Isn't easily scared," said Maddy, "not you, Jon."

"Who let you in?" said Jon.

"Oh, Jon, please, Jon, forgive me, Jon. How rude of me to just open the door and walk straight in. How wrong of me. And here's you, the old- fashioned gentleman type who stands when a lady enters the room and even offers his chair."

Maddy plonked herself down in the chair Jon had been using. She was clearly drunk and carried a four-pack of cider.

"So, you're a lady then?" said Bill.

"No. I was taking the piss. But this is nice. I didn't think I'd come round here and have something of a choice. I thought I'd have to make do with him," said Maddy glancing at Jon and giggling.

"Is that right?" said Bill.

"Have you been smoking?"

"I have."

"He let you?"

"He did."

"Well bloody hell. Can I share your bowl."

"You can, kitty. Lick it up."

"Give it to me."

"You want it you can come and get it."

The way Bill stared at Maddy unsettled Jon. "I'll get you another," he said. "You can have one each. It's safer."

"Safer?" said Maddy giggling. "God, who thought smoking was so dangerous?"

Jon rushed into the kitchen. The empty space offered him temporary relief. He tried to unscramble his thoughts. Maddy's presence could be a positive, a distraction, for now, at least. It could allow him a greater degree of movement - in and out of the kitchen as he played the host bringing food and drinks. But she also brought a volatility that could only increase as she continued to drink.

Jon felt the pressure to complete his bowl fetching mission within a reasonable time. As he grabbed a bowl, he noticed Bill's coat hanging on a kitchen chair. He thought of Bill's phone. Was it inside a pocket? He had to check. The phone could be the original hardcopy, the digital source of all the printed photos. Deleting them wouldn't be enough. Incriminating evidence could be left, hidden but recoverable. He couldn't trust Bill to make all evidence vanish.

With an eye fixed on the archway, he hurried towards the coat. Passing it, he dipped a hand into the left side pocket. The pocket was empty. Without pause, he continued towards the archway. One pocket at a time was all his nerves could deal with.

Jon had never encountered marijuana before but, he somehow knew he now smelt it wafting through the air in a great swirl of smoke. And that the king-sized, hand-rolled cigarette alight in Maddy's mouth had to be a spliff.

Bill caught Jon's stare, "Look at this one, Jon. And there's us thinking we're a little wild," he said.

Jon was momentarily speechless. Maddy had to go.

"This isn't some mass produced skunk crap," she said. "This has been home grown organically mainly to be given away basically for free to people with disabilities."

"You a spastic then?"

"Fuck off!"

A little rumble of laughter came rolling out of Bill, "I'm disabled myself. I've only got one eye."

"Ahh, poor you. You better have some of this then," she offered him the spliff. "And as you know, lucky for you, it's free to spastics."

"Bring it over here then."

"You want it you can come and get it."

"Does anyone want a coffee? A hardcore espresso shot?" said Jon, not overly sure why he said it.

Maddy laughed at Jon. Bill rose out of the chair and reached over to take the spliff from Maddy.

"No thank you, Jon. Weed and cider should get me through," said Maddy.

"Where's your Nan tonight? Is she safe and well?" Jon asked her.

"Very!" replied Maddy sharply. "Cared for as she should be! If that's any of your business. Do you think I might need a night off?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well then. Not that I've got anywhere to go. So here I am, a desperate woman."

"Give the lady the bowl, Jon," said Bill now sitting back down.

Jon stepped forward and handed Maddy the bowl. She glanced into the bowl and asked, "No crisps? Got any Pringles?"

"I bet he has the posh twat," said Bill.

"No," said Jon.

"He's lying," said Maddy.

"I don't do snacks."

Maddy laughed, "Don't do snacks? You sad fucking man."

"Not the salty sort."

Maddy's laughter flared-up. "I've been known to indulge. Give him the spliff," she said to Bill. "Give him the munchies. Then we'll find his salty stash."

"Have a drag, Jon. You won't notice. It's useless shit-" said Bill.

Maddy snapped, "And you're the friggin' expert are you?" she stood and moved to take the spliff back.

"I am," said Bill

"How?"

"My son was a junkie cunt, this shit to heroin and all inbetween."

"Well, blame the bloody parents."

"I do, his useless fucking mother."

"Oh, but nothing to do with you? Were you the full-time hands-on daddy were you?"

"I'd have done my job. Do I look like I fear work however fuckin dirty? My help wasn't wanted."

"Pity, because you'd have saved him, hey? Kept him away from all life's rubbish."

"From drugs? Easy. First sign he was usin, I'd have broke his fuckin legs. And cold turkey, that's a piece of piss when you're locked in a cellar."

Maddy plucking the spliff from Bill's hand, "But here you are, happy to follow, or did you lead, I wonder?"

"That shit? I've had stronger highs on spilt diesel. And here's the thing, I can handle it. There's nothin that controls me."

"Lucky you. Aren't you the man."

Maddy sat back down. Staring at Bill, who returned the stare effortlessly, she took a long pull on the spliff, held her breath to trap the smoke inside her lungs for a moment or two, then slowly exhaled to the sound a giddy, quiet laugh. Bill filled his glass with whisky.

Jon watched them, happy to be out of focus, his thoughts racing to find an advantage. Drink and drugs might weaken Bill and so provide an opportunity to check Bill's phone, to destroy it if required. And quieter thoughts also came creeping around inside his head. Thoughts to kill him, to take the chance, to play the situation for all it's worth, to erase the threat and menace. He knew Bill had him trapped. He felt tolerated but disposable, useful for now, but if not, if he became a nuisance or even a threat then Bill would have one simple remedy. But even worse even than that, prison for murder or other such crimes. All relationships, useful or not, create fallout. Investigation and intrusion, guilt by association, traps and unwelcome surprises. Association may bring investigations and claims of guilt. Even now, Bill could be contaminating the house with stray, incriminating, DNA, flecks stabbed and beaten out of his victims. The man is pollution of the dirtiest, most corrosive kind.

But daydreams of action, could Jon ever make them real? Not as an act of cold, hard murder. But such an act it would not be. Poison would be the easiest but how precise and exact could he make such an act be? If Bill drank himself stupid and fell asleep, what method could he then employ? Did he have a syringe? Could he pump in alcohol to overdose levels? Could Maddy play a role?

"So what's your name?" Maddy asked Bill.

"Bill."

"Bill what?"

"Doran."

"And your son's name?"

"Doesn't matter, he's gone."

"What? And how does that work?"

"I thought he was a Doran. That's what she told me. But I went to see his grave, after the headstone went up. I paid for it. I went to see it. And the name on the headstone was her name, some shitty, nothing, meaningless name."

"And that's important? That made a difference to you?"

"I'll tell you. I went back at night. Took a hammer. James May goes on that the hammer is a shitty tool, the tool of a pikey. But to me, it's useful, a tool, a weapon, it does the job. I took a hammer and smashed-up the headstone all the way to gravel."

"Pathetic. I hope they haunt you. Where do you live? I'll shake every tormenter out of their grave in that cemetery and point them to you, the desecrater."

Bill laughed. "Do it. I'll turn them, get an army of ghosts and demons. They'll know who to follow."

"Not after I've spoken the truth."

"Commune with the spirits, do you?"

"You wouldn't believe. I'm deeply spiritual, tuned-in and connected above and below. Nearly all the gods have wanted me at one time or another, fought for me they have."

"Who won?"

"None. None were good enough or ancient enough for me. Not yet anyway."

"Let me join the fight."

"You? You're just a man, and an ugly one at that."

"So, give us a go anyway. I'll smack-up the gods for you, sweetheart."

"Well, there's a line to tempt a girl. And, I have to say, I do have a thing for ugly men. They've got no pretence. I've slept with many. They try harder. And they're often very well hung."

"True."

"It's nature's way of compensating."

"Lucky me, in perfect balance."

"So, can I get anyone a coffee?" said Jon.

"Bloody hell, Jon. Join the party here. Have a proper bloody drink. Make yourself interesting, at least try and compete with Bill for my affections." She laughed then leaned forward to address Bill specifically. "He is actually straight, you know. Well, I've heard rumours."

"So have I, enough to make a big, ugly man blush," said Bill.

"Right. OK. A glass of wine for me it is," said Jon. Maddy cheered. Jon darted away towards the archway and into the kitchen.

Jon dipped a hand into the right side pocket of Bill's coat. A bunch of keys jangled. He pulled his hand out and hurried away.

Jon always kept his nine bottle wine rack full. Back-ups were kept in a cupboard. He searched the bottles to find the wine with the lowest ABV - a bottle of Duc de Belmont Côteaux Bourguignons 2015 at 12.5%.

As he poured himself a small glass of wine, his thoughts churned, searching ideas to save himself.

Crouched down, bent awkwardly into the corner cupboard under the sink to conceal his actions inside, he rummaged through - drain cleaner, dishwasher tablets, bleach, kitchen surface cleaner, disinfectant, to finally find and settle on a bottle of advanced slug killer pellets. Attempting to beat the dark and read the label, as if to learn the dosage needed to kill a man, he squeezed further into the cupboard, and doing so moved a pile of cloths which revealed the plastic funnel he used to fill the dishwasher with salt. He thought of foie gras and wondered, could this be used to pour alcohol down the throat of a man already drunk and somewhat incapacitated?

"What you after?" Bill's voice asked. Jon threw the bottle to the back of the back of the cupboard then tried to wriggle out calmly and without suspicion. Bill continued, "Your plumbin gone to cock? Or that your secret stash of whatever down there?"

Nearly free, Jon grabbed a dustpan and brush, "No," he said. "I was after this," he stood, turned to face Bill, who stood by the kitchen table, and held up the dustpan and brush for Bill to see.

"That your weapon of choice, is it? Yeah, about right that," said Bill.

"No. I was going to offer biscuits. If not crackers and cheese."

"Good, put a pinny on. You can serve us. It's hungry work gettin pissed." He reached for his coat and sank a hand into an inside pocket. When he pulled his hand out it was holding a phone. "Nothin spicy. I'm on the job tomorrow. I don't want the shits."

He walked away into the living room. Jon, lead by the phone, had to follow, putting the dustpan and brush down on the worktop.

Bill walked to his chair. Maddy held her phone and an opened can of cider which she was drinking from. She had finished the spliff.

"Right, give it to me. I'll put it in," said Bill to Maddy as he sat in the chair.

Maddy read out her mobile phone number.

"Right. Done," said Bill. "Anythin you want, anytime, call me. As I said, workin the door, I got all the right connections."

Bill looked at Jon and held his stare. What the look said Jon couldn't tell - smug, defiance if he had to hazard a guess.

"Forget the drugs, perhaps. I just want your number, maybe," said Maddy to Bill. Maddy's phone rang. Expecting the call, she answered it, "Anything, anytime? Right, one ugly man with a big fat dick."

Bill put his phone to his ear, "Whatever you want, but here's somethin, also got a in a nice posh fella tonight, goes by the name of Jon."

Maddy laughed and looked at Jon, "Oh, no thank you. Not for me. He's far too average for me." She looked back at Bill. "I'm a girl who likes extremes."

"Deal done. I'm on my way." He ended the call.

"No, don't bother. You think I'd be seen dead with a man who's phone is as shitty as that? With a full moon in the sky, my powers of telepathy would be more useful than a piece of crap like that, and have better features."

Bill held his phone up showing it to Maddy. Jon took a good look. It was tiny by modern standards, definitely not a smartphone. As it had a button keypad and one inch display, Jon was confident it couldn't have a camera.

"It's a phone, nothin more. All it should be. Smartphone, dull twat. The less technology somethin has, the less it can be used against you."

"Tell that to my vibrator, if you've got the balls."

Maddy burst into laughter. Bill stared at her in silence. Jon thought he looked unimpressed.

Maddy reached into a pocket and pulled out a bag of Golden Virginia tobacco from which she took a spliff.

"So you live round here, in the village too?" Bill asked her.

"Just up there with my Nan."

Bill laughed contemptuously, "You live with your Nan, a grown woman like you?"

"She lives with me!" Maddy snapped, offended. "I care for her."

"What she got, useless offsprin and then some?"

"You're a cheeky prick. I'd have thought you'd have learnt some charm with a face like that."

"I'm jokin. Just a bit of fun, girl."

"Girl? I'm more than a girl!"

"Woman then or person, or fuckin animal."

"Animal?"

"Say the truth. That's what we are. Makes us all the same. That voice you hear inside your head, bet it sounds exactly the same as the one I hear rantin away in mine. Same voice, different bullshit."

"Speak for yourself. You be the same. I'm not. I'm unique."

"Good for you. Fuck the crowd, leave the scum behind."

Maddy lit the spliff. Bill filled his glass with whiskey.

Bill continued, "So you care for your Nan. That all, that all you do and done?"

"You think? You look at me and somehow conclude that's all I've done and do? That's your level of insight? That's your intuition for the truth inside?"

"Touchy this one, Jon. I asked a question that's all."

"I've done many things. Things you wouldn't believe."

"Like what?"

"Ran things, schemes, businesses. Volunteered, travelled, advanced things, created things, invented things."

"Like what?"

"Ideas. I've created and invented ideas. I've educated myself. Trained myself. In fact, I'm in such a cycle now, a cycle of learning and advancement."

"Go on."

"Zoopharmacognosy. I'm learning to become a zoopharmacognosist, which, of course, you know sod all about."

"Guilty."

"Well, let me enlighten you. Zoopharmacognosy is the process by which animals self-medicate. A zoopharmacognosist enables animals to heal themselves, enables them to select plants, soils, and insects to treat themselves and prevent disease. Animals in the wild use their intuition all the time to select their own remedies. It's nature's way."

"Like cancer, disease and shit."

"Don't try and belittle it. Animals have an innate ability to self-medicate and that's a fact."

"So what, in comes a sick animal and all you say is, fuck off do the job yourself? Do you at least give access to Google to help research symptoms? Fair enough though, it's much like the NHS is now then." He laughed, boasting at his own joke, looking at Jon to see if he got it. Jon forced out a laugh so not to offend.

"Yeah, yeah. You laugh. You mock what you can't comprehend," said Maddy.

"No. I believe it."

"Is that a fact?"

"It is. So, what other irons you got in the fire?"

"I'm starting a business. Something completely different and original."

"What?"

"No chance. Something else beyond your comprehension. Too big for you."

"Tell me."

"For you to laugh at?"

"You don't believe in it then? Got no faith in it?"

"One hundred percent, I believe in it."

"Then fuck what I think. Tell me. Have the confidence. Fight the non-believers, that's what you gotta do, slap us down, woman."

"Well, I made a connection."

"To what?"

"Between a concern of mine, a big concern of mine, the environment, sustainability, the need for earth centred businesses to grow and thrive. Between all of that, and the new love of baking, like seen in The Great British Bake Off ."

"You've lost me."

"Easy. Sponge coffins." Bill looked at her blankly, as did Jon. She continued, "Coffins made of sponge. Big bloody cakes. Beautiful soft sponge. Every flavour possible, decorated, iced, the works. Environmentally friendly, biodegradable, perfection. And, not that it matters, but so soft and comfortable. Imagine, entombed in a bed of sponge, your exact body-shape carved into the top and bottom layers to create the perfect fit. And I know what you're thinking, show me an oven big enough to bake a sponge the size of an average coffin. Well, here's another dose of genius, of completeness, cremation ovens. Obviously, of course, absolutely the perfect size. And I wouldn't even need to turn these ovens on. They get so hot the residual heat would be more than enough to bake the perfect sponge. Crematoriums would become carbon neutral. And think of the smell, the odour a baking sponge would waft into the crematorium. What better transitional aura could there be between here and the after-life?"

"Well, you are a genius. But one thing, can you also do pie coffins, meat pies, cos I'm more of a pastry man myself."

"Piss off!" she threw her empty can of cider at him. He laughed and simply squatted it away.

"I'm being serious," he said. "The foil container, you can recycle them."

"Take the piss! Easy and fucking obvious, aren't you? Petty and uninspired!"

"Here's a thought Jon's thinkin, pigs. Feed the dead to pigs. No land needed for graves or fuel for cremation. Isn't that right, Jon?"

Bill looked at Jon, who struggled to find a quick reply and felt himself blushing.

"Yeah, good idea," said Jon. "Voluntary of course."

Bill looked back at Maddy, "There, your idea beaten already by our idea. And one Gregg's can't muscle in on. Not like yours." He laughed spitefully.

"Oh fuck off! As if you've got the gravity to deflect me from a path that's special. You're a stone, a shitty little stone, too small and vacuous to ever make any ripples in life."

"Oh right. I'll remember that. But here's a question, how come, with all your big ideas and plans, you live out here in the countryside, in a tiny little village? I'd have thought here was too small for you, that a woman like you should live in the city."

"What does place matter these days? For fuck's sake, get connected, Steptoe."

"Truth, I reckon, is this. You go to the city you're just another fuckin ghost lost in all the noise. You're nothin, invisible and pointless. But out here, in this tiny pond, you shout loud enough people have to look and take notice."

"Oh just fuck off! You're boring me now. And to think, you were close to getting a sympathy shag."

"I'm just windin you up. See what passion you got."

"Plenty of passion! Test it! Test it some more then you'll know it!"

"Test it?" he laughed. "Woman, stop talkin all your shit ideas and get back to looking fuckable."

She threw a full, unopened can of cider at him, hard and aggressive. He caught it with ease, instinctively.

"Wind me up! I'll get you!" said Maddy.

Jon stood up, "Food! I forgot the food. Who wants cheese and crackers." Thinking of the slug pellets. "Or something done in the microwave? I've got ready meals, Tesco's finest."

"Surprise us, and we'll do likewise, cos when you get back, we'll be havin that shag," said Bill.

Maddy laughed wildly trying to ridicule him.

Bill ripped open the ring-pull on the can of cider, sucking up the froth that gushed out, then looked at Maddy and said, "Here, get your beer goggles on, luv." He tossed the can towards her in such a way as to make it remain upright as it travelled through the air.

Maddy cut her laughter. Her defiant stare fixed on Bill. The can of cider just a blur. She seemed unwilling to play the game. But, with the can just inches from her face, a sudden rush of speed brought her hands in to clamp and catch the can, one hand covering the top to prevent any spillage.

"Fine," she said before bringing the can to her lips and gulping down all the cider that remained inside. "But that won't be enough not looking at you."

Bill knocked back his glass of whiskey in a single gulp. "Well, I'm lucky. I only got one eye."

"Who wants some port with their cheese? I've got some brandy too, somewhere," said Jon.

"Bring it all in," said Bill.

Jon turned to walk through the archway.

"Wait. Where's the toilet?"

Bill's voice pulled Jon back.

"And don't say the garden, or I'll piss on the carpet," said Bill.

"I'll show you," said Jon.

Jon and Bill walked towards the archway. About to exit the room a noise forced them to look behind. Maddy was lying on the floor and was having what appeared to be a tonic-clonic seizure or epileptic fit - her limbs were jerking rapidly and rhythmically, bending and relaxing at the joints.

"For fuck's sake," said Bill. "She got epilepsy?"

"Epilepsy?"

"She's your friend."

"Yes! Epilepsy! How do you know it is though?"

"Doorman ain't just dogs, not these days. You got to know things - first aid, health and safety and all that bollocks."

"You've seen it before?"

"Seen it all, self-inflicted most of it. At least she's got a condition. Seen women disable themselves. On the ground like dummies, dolls, weak and fuckin useless. Deserve whatever."

"I'll get some towels!"

"Towels?"

"Can they control themselves? Their movements?"

"For fuck's sake, make a fuckin sandwich, this ain't no panic. Look at her, which end do you want?"

"What?"

"Well, it's only polite to share, partner."

Jon stared at him speechless for a moment. Then, "I'm gettin some towels."

"Well, I'm big enough. And fuck me, finally, a vibrator for men," he laughed.

Jon ran into the kitchen feeling sick. He rushed around trying to think coherently while grabbing tea towels as he passed them. He kept glancing towards the archway expecting, hoping, Bill would come into the kitchen, but Bill didn't. Finally, he felt forced to run back into the living room.

Bill was walking towards Maddy who continued to have the fit.

"I've called an ambulance," said Jon, the lie just springing into life.

"You soppy twat. For a fuckin 'eppy?"

"I had to. She's been drinking. She could choke on vomit."

"Right, get me that cheese and bread and port. I'm off."

Bill stepped to his chair, grabbed the bottle of whiskey and tobacco tin then turned and paced the kitchen. Jon followed. Bill kept talking, "Ambulance. Then what? Police? Stinks of weed in there. And yeah, she might choke on her own vomit. I don't need that. I'm on the job tomorrow. My job. Back into my fuckin world. I don't need this draggin on. Where's the food? I was gonna spend the night here."

Jon ran to the fridge, opened it and took out a Tupperware box that contained three different types of cheese each wrapped in baking paper. Bill stood by the table putting on his coat.

"I'll sleep in the van, in a lay-by or whatever. No point goin home. I'm off this way tomorrow. All day and most the night. Give you another story to hear."

Jon open the bread bin, "I've only got sliced."

"What else would I want?"

Jon took out the wholemeal loaf. Bill now stood behind him. Jon handed him the bread and cheese.

"I don't know where the port is! I don't know where the port is! It could be upstairs! I could give you a bottle of wine, screw cap."

"That'll do."

Jon turned to the wine rack and pulled out the first screw cap bottle he saw. Glancing at the label, "A Rioja. Twelve pounds a bottle."

He held it out for Bill to take, but Bill didn't respond. He just held his stare for a beat too long until he slapped Jon hard across the face. Jon recoiled. Bill grabbed the bottle of wine.

"I like you, Jon. You're easily scared. You've imagination. You can imagine the horrors of what would happen to you. What I would do to do. But don't imagine I'm some scummy rapist type. I saw the look in your eye. I was jokin. Now thank you and good night."

Bill walked away to let himself out. Jon, still stung by the slap, watched. As soon as Bill closed the front door, Jon ran to it and locked it. He then ran back into the living room.

Maddy was on the floor still fitting. Jon kneeled down to her to check her breathing.

"Boo!!" She cried.

The shock threw Jon backwards. Maddy rang with laughter, but it sounded tired, forced.

"For fuck's sake! You were faking?" cried Jon.

"I always am," said Maddy struggling to stand.

"Jesus fucking...You-" Jon's anger dropped dead. Maddy had inadvertently saved him from a night with Bill. But, as he thought of a second advantage to play for, he turned the rage back on, which wasn't hard for him to do as the preceding days had whipped up a storm of woe and worry and left if bubbling below. "Leave! Get out of here! You cretinous bitch!"

Maddy, still crouching, leapt up and slapped him across the face.

"I was worried for you!" he pleaded, holding his stinging face.

"Don't be! You're the one who needs protection."

"Yes! I'm calling the police!"

"Don't be so fucking pathetic!"

"I might as well, I've got an ambulance to cancel."

"Yes. I heard. Well, you can deal with that alone."

She turned and stormed out into the kitchen. Jon stood, happy to let her go but then, remembering, he raced away after her.

Jon reached the hall. Maddy stood by the door, her hand on the key aggressively twisting it to and fro.

"Wait!" he called out to her.

Maddy looked, "What?"

Jon continued towards her. "Check he's gone." Reaching the door, he crouched down, opened the letterbox and peered out into the dark to see the rear lights of Bill's van moving off his land. "Right. Now you can go."

He stood, taking hold of the key he unlocked the door then backed away to leave Maddy standing there alone. She held his stare for a couple of seconds. Jon could see her anger had gone, abandoned to, he thought, empty-headed drunkenness. She opened the door and walked out leaving the door wide open. He waited several seconds before making his move. He closed the door and locked it.

As he did, he remembered what his mother would say, "Open the door an inch and watch the world come flooding in. All types, from everywhere and none of them ever welcome."

# CHAPTER 11

Jon was up and on the road before 7am. His mission was simple, to find Bill's house.

Castlefields was a short walk from the centre of town. It then spread north towards other even poorer parts of Shrewsbury. Jon reached the area with the morning light. Once a place of Victorian industry, it was now a compact housing estate with a historical range of housing stock, from rows of identical Victorian terraces to individual skinny new builds squashed in to be rented out, all basic homes for working, and non-working, people.

The streets were empty. Jon still felt watched, exposed by the dazzling presence of the XC90, its brilliance and expense jarring the mood of the lowly surrounds.

He passed the disused prison, a dark Victorian beast which stood facing-off against Shrewsbury castle in a battle to rule the streets.

He threaded the XC90 into ever narrower streets. Straight rows of terraced housing were walls of indifference from which he could glean to useful insight. He circled sheepishly lost in the maze. Huge faces on televisions watched him through downstairs windows. Finally, a tight, claustrophobic corner brought an entirely different view, open almost rural space. He continued forward. Trees lined the road. To the right, the River Severn rode a weir white and smooth then settled lower, demoted, to continue on its way. To the left, he passed an urban smallholding, gated and fenced, through which he glimpsed chicken coops and two actual sheep. Garden allotments came next, with sheds and greenhouses dividing well-tended plots of soil. Then common land with a children's playground and plenty of room to run a dog behind which an urban presence loomed - garage lock-ups and small commercial units all made of dirty Victorian brick. And then, sunken and alone, a mess, an eyesore, less a scrap yard more a garden filled with any old crap. A scattering of bare trees did their best to hide it from the community's view but, as Jon knew, the owner cared little for the views of people.

Jon stopped, pulled up. The road was his alone. Twenty metres of muddy track led to a good sized plot of land. The house, although detached, was small, little more than a two-up two-down, a featureless, neglected box. All land was used for business, to store a mass of waste: failed cars that had been broken and gutted; hubcaps and wheels; used car tyres; scaffolding poles; transport pallets; large kitchen appliances; house doors and floorboards; immersion heater tanks; a mound of unclassified scrap metal pieces. Jon could detect a sort of order to it all, but a decaying order, one left to fall away. A green corrugated steel outbuilding, as large as the house, stood out as in good repair and securely sealed.

Was this Bill's property? Jon concluded it was. His only niggle was how open and unsecure it appeared. He could drive in without obstruction, which given his plans was useful, but wouldn't Bill be a little more hidden? Maybe not, after all, he did boast he would shout his crimes to the world one day. This thought, further convinced Jon his plan was vital. As he pulled away to drive back home it occurred to him Bill's property, given its size and location, must be worth a significant sum of money. Three or four new builds could be squeezed in there. It could even exceed the value of his own home and land.

"Wanker!" he shouted. But seeing the river made him think, was Bill's land stuck in the middle of a high-risk flood zone? He knew the Severn broke its banks on a fairly regular basis, and that this area had suffered in the past. He hit the brakes then turned to look behind. Bill's land was low against the river and, he thought, close enough to suffer the occasional flood. His laughter became a victorious roar.

"Ah, wanker!!" he cried, laughing manically.

Jon tried to spend the rest of the day working from home, acting as he normally as he could. He had much to do, which helped, although he couldn't keep his nerves and worry subdued. The need to mentally rehearse his plan kept coming to the forefront of his mind. He had to give in. He paced around the house obsessing.

Jon planned to enter Bill's house, either in the company of Bill or on his own, illegally. He had to find all devices contaminated with the photos. He couldn't trust Bill to delete the photos, not properly, completely and permanently, not even with a half-arsed effort. He had to do it himself. He had to know. What device took the photos? A standalone camera, a tablet or phone? And were the photos then uploaded to be stored elsewhere? Did a laptop or desktop need doctoring too? Were printed copies littering the floor or foolishly binned to be readily found?

Bill said he would be out all day and into the night on business Jon feared to contemplate. Jon planned to return to Bill's house at 8 pm exact. If alone, he would do his best to gain entry, even if all he could manage was to peer through a window to see what devices he may have to take out another time. If Bill was home, or if he returned while Jon was on the job, Jon would plead he came on urgent business, with a need to speak to Bill about the lack of a digital footprint two gay lovers would have created while cruising the internet for casual gay sex. A very valid concern, he thought. To help set the scene, he would park his XC90 for all to see so not to seem hidden or suspicious.

# CHAPTER 12

At 8.05 pm Jon drove passed the turning that led to Bill's home. He could see nothing of the house or land as darkness hid the view. He had planned to pull over to give himself a moment, to wait, to watch, to gather his nerve. But a car followed behind. He felt hurried, scrutinised. To avoid suspicion, he drove on and around again.

The road was now empty. The area felt deserted as if one car had made such a difference. The smallholding, allotments, the playground were just space, the night. Jon stopped at the turning. Nothing had changed. His plan could remain exactly the same.

He drove on to the track and sped away revving the engine to create excessive noise, and switching the headlights on to full beam to flood the house with light. He wanted to make his presence known.

He came to a stop, his stare fixed to the house, waiting for a light, or the door kicked open, any sign of life. None came.

Fearful the stillness was nothing but a ploy, that secret surveillance observed his moves to learn and judge, he remained in the XC90 for only a minute. Leaving the headlights on, but turning the engine off, he opened the door and stepped outside. Without pause to listen or scan the view, he hurried towards the house.

At the front door, he found no bell or even a knocker. He had to use his knuckles. Having feared dogs, he had brought some sausages, but nothing barked or came running. He knocked loudly, several times but no one answered the call.

He stood scanning the view, straining to hear any suspicious sound. A still, cold night, a space deserted was all he sensed. He had feared security cameras, but no illumination surely meant there were none.

He ran back to the XC90 and switched the headlights off. From the glove box, he took out a Volvo branded torch that was capable of powering a variable beam to an ultra bright one thousand lumens - all that power packed into a discreet six inches impressed him greatly. He put it into a pocket then plucked two disposable plastic gloves from the box he always carried.

Holding the gloves, staring at them, desperate to rush them on, but his mind went numb. They didn't look right. They looked the same. He panicked, trying to work out which glove went on which hand. They were identical. His bloody hands were not. He wasn't a freak. He was absolutely normal. With a final desperation, he blamed the gloves as faulty. He stuffed them into a pocket then grabbed a second pair. He cursed himself. A flash of clarity returned the truth. The gloves could go on any hand.

He tried to rub a glove open, but the glove wouldn't part. He blew on it, huffing and puffing. Finally, it gave. He stabbed his shaking right hand into it. A finger snagged and edge breaking the seam. He cursed the glove, "I'll get some fucking Marigolds!" then threw it away violently into the wind. With immediate regret, he went chasing after it, fearful the glove would exact revenge and stand as evidence against him. After numerous attempts to stamp the glove trapped, he realised his fear was irrational panic. He had to take control.

Back at the XC90, Jon took another glove from the box, paused to plead composure, then with his hands inside the Volvo to help defy the wind, he slowly and successfully put the gloves on.

Jon ran back to the house. The first front window, wooden framed and single glazed, had a curtain drawn to block the view.

A tentative hand tried the front door. It was locked. Jon felt a certain relief. The frontal entry point wouldn't feel sneaky enough.

The second front window revealed only as much as the first, a curtain deep view.

Jon ran round to the back of the house. The first window he found was boarded-up. He switched the torch on to the lowest setting, which was enough to inspect the chipboard covering. It was damp and in poor condition and fixed to the window from the inside. Could he force it in and climb inside? He poked the board lightly with a finger. Solid, it refused to move.

He scurried away and found a back door, his perfect means of entry. He tried to open it with a push and a shake, but the lock refused to break.

He returned to the window but could only stand procrastinating. Finally, he poked the board with a finger using slightly more force than before. The board remained firm. He poked it again with the same force and determination to dislodge it from the frame.

He turned sharply thinking he had heard a sound that demanded concern. He rushed to take a look. Peering round the corner of the house, he saw nothing had changed. This panic spurred him on. He knew he had to act. He ran back to the window and rammed both his out-stretched hands into the board. The force was excessive. The board collapsed into the house and darkness. Jon fell in through the window, hinged at the waist. The sound of pottery smashing and a shrieking, angered cat jumped out. He recoiled back up to duck and cower with his back against the wall.

Jon thought about running fast away. But he knew, if he did, he would leave the scene of a failed burglary to fester behind, the stench of which may lead to him.

He stood, pointed the torch through the window and took a quick look inside. The dim beam was ineffective, swallowed by the space inside, what lay within remained in shadow. But, such was his need to finish the job, the view was enough to pull him in.

Due to the window's quite small size, he went in head first with his hands feeling for the floor. They found and crushed broken shards of pottery. He cursed and did his best to brush the shards away.

Now holding a hand-stand position, he wriggled his lower body through until his balance fell tipping him over into an uncontrolled forward roll. Something, only fairly hard and painful, stopped him dead, and with a thud of a sound, not a shatter or a smash, which was good enough and allowed him to claim success.

He stood, shining the torch which he turned to a higher setting. The room was full of clutter and old, worthless furniture. The scrap yard continued within. Ornamental pottery, much of it strangely floral and chocolate box crap was not so much on display but stored on shelves and in any available space, as were horse brasses; Toby jugs with ugly, freakish faces; antique tools; cardboard boxes full of old magazines and newspapers; and numerous other bits of rubbish. But Jon didn't have time to wallow in the glow of judgemental superiority, he had to keep his focus.

He navigated his way out of the room. The stench of cigars stained the air. Hunting for the back door, he quickly found. The key, thankfully, was in the lock. He turned it, unlocking the door to make ready his escape.

Jon examined the piece of chipboard. Protruding through it were a dozen or so nails. He lined-up the nails with holes in the window frame and managed to reattach the board to the window.

The room ran from the front to the back of the house. So that he could see headlights approach, he opened the front window curtains a little to make clear a view. Fearful this might expose the torch light to anyone outside he turned it down to the lowest setting.

On a table, he found an old, basic inkjet printer. A good wad of paper filled the input tray, and all cables were correctly attached. The power cable ran to an extension lead socket, but the USB cable dangled loose. Jon imagined a laptop or even a tablet brought here to print the photos out. A laptop was most likely, as they all have full-sized USB connectors. That would mean Bill used a camera or other digital device to take the photos. He would then have needed to upload the photos to a laptop so he could print them out. That meant at least two devices stored hardcopies of the photos unless properly and professionally deleted.

Jon scoured the room searching for a camera device. His nerves demanded speed, but his progress was slow and clumsy. The clutter in the small, cramped room hindered his flow. He feared causing damage. The cat, he hoped, would take the blame for the pottery already smashed, but anything else might raise suspicion, especially if Bill returned to find him on his land. And the dim torch light strained his vision. He had to lean in close to sift a useful stare through all the piled-high rubbish.

He thought of a solution, a quick burst of light to illuminate the entire room for enough time at least, to cast an eye over the bigger picture.

He peered through the curtain, checking it was safe to act. It was, but he couldn't pull himself away to the light switch by the door. The view was black. No van headlights pierced the dark. But what if Bill had turned them off or came on foot to approach unseen to satisfy his own psycho paranoia?

Finally, Jon rushed away to the light switch by the door. Poised to hit the lights, he lost his nerve, darted back to the curtains and took another look. Nothing disturbed the night. Jon pushed against the wall to force himself away. He returned to the light switch and flicked it on. Two ceiling lights flooded the room with light. Jon pounced on the view devouring every inch, like looking for a dropped jewel or a deadly spider. His stare stopped dead, transfixed. The matt silver casing of an Galaxy S7 gleamed like a beacon of modernity against the undesired senile junk of yesterday. He switched the lights off then ran to the window to check the view. No danger jumped out. A victorious rush of adrenalin made him feel a little sick.

The Galaxy phone was an imposter, as much, he thought, as he was - a man in this house dressed in the smart casual wear of Canali was definitely out of place.

Did Bill use the Galaxy phone to take the photos? Bill said he was returning to the body to drop some clues that would set a trail to James. Was the Galaxy one such clue?

Jon knew there was only one way to find out. He picked the Galaxy up and pressed the wake button, but the phone was turned off. If James's, it should be, if turned on and active, the police could learn its general geographical location.

Jon wondered if the Galaxy S7 was James's why Bill had taken the risk of keeping it? Was he a magpie unable to discard anything shiny or valuable? Maybe it has no connection to James. It could have been bought legally or acquired through some other theft.

Jon wanted to turn it on; he had to know. But he didn't want to lead the police to Bill. Not yet, not until he had destroyed all the evidence Bill had on him. But would he? What risk would he be taking turning it on? He might reveal the general location, but a densely populated area of Shrewsbury, and only briefly as if passing through. Without another lead to connect Bill to the crime, why would the police have any reason to seek Bill out?

Jon pressed the wake button and held it down. He willed the phone to be quick, to fight for him.

Jon didn't know if light or sound made him look, but when he did, he saw and heard the devil's bright eyes speeding in. He froze. The shape of the headlights, and the sound of the diesel engine, rough, noxious, defiant, matched his experience from the previous night. Bill was back.

Some sounds spluttered out of Jon's mouth. He tried to command himself, to remember his plan. His only thought was to leave the house. He ran towards the window. It slapped him with a jolt of clarity. Turn the fucking torch off. Get out through the back door.

The Galaxy phone, which his jumbled mind told him was his own, shone with a gentle light sufficient enough to help him navigate a way. He felt his plan was a stupid folly, that it was broken and exposed.

With the back door open, he stepped outside and quickly, silently, closed the door behind him. The cold, sharp wind brought an icy chill and the sound of a diesel engine idling away.

Remembering the, his, Galaxy S7 phone he glanced at it as he moved it towards a pocket. The wallpaper trapped a moment of joy - James and two young children huddled together in close-up, James in the middle holding them tight, all with smiles as bright as the perfect holiday sun that shared the scene with them. Jon's stare swept passed the photo. He knew he had gained a potential advantage, but one that was far from being his to use. He unzipped his jacket then cradled the Galaxy into an inside pocket. The image owned Jon's thoughts it brought him hope until the diesel engine spluttered dead.

He pulled his gloves off and this time let the wind take them freely. Hugging the wall, he then ran towards the front of the house. At the front corner, he stopped and peered round as if trying to stay hidden. The van's headlights remained switched on. Jon could see a man, who he didn't doubt was Bill, peering inside the XC90. To get his attention, Jon whistled in a way that mimicked the call of an owl badly. Bill looked but in the wrong direction.

"Bill! Over here! It's me!" Jon called to Bill just loud enough to be heard.

"Jon?" Bill called out without restraint, turning to find the right location.

"Shush! I'm not here."

Bill began walking over. "Good, then you won't cry when I fuckin' smack you."

"We need to talk urgently."

"You do need to talk." Bill came to a stop and stood just a metre away. Jon felt boxed in with his back against the wall. "So go on, talk."

James's Galaxy pulsed out a tone for a message received. Jon rode the panic. He could sustain the lie. The phone could be his own, and the darkness between them kept his face fairly well concealed.

"We haven't left a digital footprint or any sort of footprint," said Jon. "The sort two gay men would leave when cruising the internet for casual gay sex."

"So what? You want me to shoot some spunk up you're arse?"

"No!"

"Good, cos it wouldn't be my own."

"It doesn't need to be anyone's!"

"You takin the piss, Jon?"

Another tone for a message received.

"No. I'm here to talk, not for anything else, anything. I'm trying to stay hidden, for obvious reasons, but not from you. Look, there's my XC90. It's not subtle. You know it's me. You came round my house. Check your CCTV. What else could I have done here?"

"CCTV? What am I? A soppy twat like you? My reputation is enough to keep all the fuckin' cunts at bay. What kind of retarded prick would come here to try one on?"

"Exactly. I'm only here to help us."

"How?"

Another tone for a message received.

"I'll create a digital footprint, a fake one. I'll set you up an email account on my server and fiddle the records."

This was a lie that sprouted from Jon naturally and in the moment. His motive was to gain access to Bill's computer.

"Fiddle the records?" asked Bill.

Another tone for a message received.

"Make it look like we've been communicating longer than we have, before the date we said we first met."

"It's that easy?"

"Yes. I'll just need to load a new email account on to your computer and add a few fiddled records. Super easy."

"Too easy. Worthless. And who gives a shit anyway? Let's give the world a fuckin show, bold and fuckin brave. The real fuckin world, not the shitty internet kind. It's your lucky night. I'm on your side, Jon cos I think you know how to keep in line."

Another tone for a message received. Bill continued,

"You're in demand. Got some drama goin on?"

"Sorry. No. It's work. I've been ignoring people. I'm stressed! I'm a worrier. I guess you're not, but I'm very prone to anxiety issues. I'll turn it off." Now panicking, trying not to but failing, he rushed a hand into a coat pocket and took out a phone, his own Galaxy S7. He realised his error immediately. "Fuck!"

"What?"

"Work things, problems."

"Well fuck 'em. Turn it off."

"Yeah...Yeah."

Jon had to, he pressed and held the button, turned the phone off then put it back into the pocket.

"Right, that's it. You're off. The night is ours. Come here, follow me. Let's do this fuckin proper cos I don't gice a fuck what people think cos the truth will come out, all of it."

Bill paced away, turning to look at Jon to make sure he followed, which he did slowly lagging behind.

Bill continued, "Quicker. Come on. We'll do some walking tonight."

Jon increased his pace. He tried to think of something to say.

"How long have you lived here?" he said with an overly loud voice hoping to drown out the sound of any incoming phone messages.

Bill didn't answer or look back at Jon. He just kept walking towards his van.

Jon continued to ramble on, "I bet it floods down here, doesn't it. Floods a lot down here, doesn't it? I've seen it in Shrewsbury flood Frankwell car park. The River Severn that is. I tend to use Frankwell car park when I visit the town centre. It's open air. I don't like taking the XC90 into the multi-storey, any multi-storey car park. They were mostly built in the 60's, and 70's when cars were tiny. Even with the 360-degree surround view camera system that the XC90 is executive enough to have, as an optional extra, it's still quite a ride trying to park in a multi-storey car park."

Bill, reaching his van, opened the driver's door then turned to look at Jon who came to a stop just a metre behind.

Bill spoke, "I can park any car or van in any space that's big enough, even just big enough without the help of any gadget contraption. And that's no idle boast."

He turned his back on Jon and reached inside the van. Jon, seeing his opportunity, took one large step backwards then pulled the zip on his jacket down, his hand poised to tackle James's phone.

"Great. Good. That's driving a van this size, I bet. You get used to it. The size. Mind you, what's a transit van without a scratch or two?"

The van's headlights went off.

"Fuck off! I've never had a scrape parkin a van. I told you. You should listen."

Bill reached further inside the van towards the passenger seat. Jon slipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and fumbled with James's phone trying to turn it off. He managed to press and hold the correct button for a couple of seconds before his hand, almost involuntary, came shooting out. Bill's body had moved backwards firing Jon's nerves to retreat. They were right, Bill turned to face Jon. He was holding a laptop.

"Is that your computer?" Jon asked.

"My legend, Jon." He laughed. "All of it true in reality."

Pushing the driver's door shut, Bill began to walk away. Jon followed.

"Just for the record, remember I said how difficult it is to erase digital files, well, I have government grade removal software that can blitz any digital file absolutely dead, brutally dead."

"Like photos?"

"Like any digital file."

"Noted."

"I can,"

Bill stopped abruptly and turned to face Jon, almost lunging at him. Jon's nerves braked him an emergency stop.

"Are we drivin in a car together?" said Bill.

The force with which Bill spoke rendered Jon silent. Bill continued,

"No. We're walkin, so don't fuckin talk to me. I don't need the hassle, the constant yap, yap, fuckin yap. We're walkin, going somewhere, on business. We will be later. We're not out and about on some gentle fuckin stroll."

"Fine," said Jon to fill the silence.

"Talk and walk don't go together. We're men. We're not fuckin pram pushers."

Bill turned and walked towards the house. Jon gave him a few seconds head start then followed slowly. With the dark and distance providing cover, Jon whipped out James's phone and with a single press of the wake button checked to see if it was properly switched off. It was.

Jon followed Bill into the house. A single incandescent bulb hanging bare from the ceiling lit the hall with a harsh, unwelcoming light. Bill told Jon to shut the front door then disappeared into a room. Jon knew the room could reveal his crimes. He closed the door as requested, loud enough for Bill to hear. He was certain Bill would discover his crimes against property, man and man's reputation each punishable by an increasingly ugly and violent death. He felt sickened by his nerve to remain at the scene but then remembered how desperate he was and how low his life was in danger of sinking.

"Jon, here. Wait in here," Bill called to him from inside the room.

Jon complied immediately, hurrying into the room. Light leeched from the hall was all that challenged the dark. Bill stood in the shadows.

"You can sit at the table, check your phone or somethin. I'll get ready. I need to freshen-up. I bet I fuckin stink." He laughed coarsely. "You don't need the light on. There's enough light comin in."

Bill walked out of the room. Jon, continuing to comply to Bill's every word, sank into a chair at the table. The sound of Bill's footsteps charging upstairs made him wonder what path through the night he would now have to follow. But then he saw it, the laptop, there on the table, put there by Bill. It was the holder of truth, of evidence enough to convict them both. Jon could believe without any doubt Bill would record his crimes, secure his legend and the laptop was his means to do it.

It made Jon think Bill must have left a record confessing to the murder of both Ann and James. He wouldn't let anyone else, him, take the credit for such a cold, brutal killing. This evidence would free him from the charge of murder, but the photos could still implicate him in some way. Maybe Bill would be happy to let him take the credit for disposing of the body. But he said he wants him on-side, to further the legend after his fall. Too many thoughts. The only sane action would be to grab the laptop and run, take it somewhere and smash it, or better, strip out the evidence condemning Bill and save it to use against him. But what if there were other copies, back-ups uploaded to the cloud or another device?

Another option came to mind - infect the laptop with a virus, one that would completely wipe the hard drive. Jon didn't have access to such a virus, but he was sure he could find one or buy one from the web or even the dark web. If he could obtain Bill's email address, he could send him an infected attachment.

Jon's hand hovered over the laptop, shaking, poised to take possession. He listened for Bill. The sound of water streaming through the plumbing convinced him he had time. He could at least find Bill's email address and set-up a future viral attack.

The laptop was his; he drew it near. He opened it up but then snapped it shut. It was the sound of the trap snaring him. He knew it. Bill had left the laptop within easy reach to test him. He had memorized the laptop's exact position. Any deviation would be his to see. Jon's crimes, his night of conspiracy would be instantly exposed.

Jon moved the laptop back, trying to remember its exact original position. He fussed around for several minutes trying to determine the right location. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs forced his hand. He had to settle. He left the laptop where it was and sat back down.

Bill entered the room. He flicked a light switch, but his aftershave beat the light to Jon. The impact was critical, a slap of toxic masculinity, nineteen seventies man out to get drunk and look for a fight. No women required, unless deemed pig-ugly and pulled for a dare, like ordering the hottest most lethal curry at the end of the night. The pain and discomfort is the pleasure and bond.

Bill's outfit, the attempt to look smart, worried Jon. He wore navy blue Farah trousers; plain black slip-on shoes, which were unlikely to be even Clarks; a double cuffed black shirt; and, to crudely garnish the drab, a chunky gold neck chain and ID bracelet. At another, less stressful time, Jon would call the look, 'local pub darts final.'

As Jon stood up quickly to accidentally-on-purpose knock the table in the hope it may explain to Bill the laptop's movement, it occurred to him Bill had turned the light on to show-off his outfit. It made him think he should offer a comment, so he did.

"You look nice," he said.

"What?" said Bill, the threat of violence flaring in his eyes. "Yeah, right." he smiled. "You get in character."

"Are we goin out?"

"You know we are."

"Where?"

"Disco dancin."

"What?"

"Fuck off. Disco dancin? Believe that, do you?"

"I..." Jon didn't know what to believe.

"Come on. Out you go. I'll lock up."

Jon stood. Bill watched him. Jon felt forced to leave the room. He hurried out. At the front door, he stopped and looked back. Bill had yet to follow. The light remained switched on. The wait seemed too long, unnatural. Finally, the light went out, and Bill walked out of the room towards him. He was putting on a black woollen overcoat.

"You got any money?" Bill asked.

"Of course," said Jon.

"Out you go then."

Outside, Bill pulled the door shut. Then said,

"Follow me. It ain't far. The river walk into town."

They walked at quite a pace. Jon kept a metre behind. Bill's shoes with their fake leather sole drummed the footpath to break the silence. They didn't talk. Jon had plenty of questions but didn't dare to break Bill's walk/talk rule. His thoughts churned, dark and disturbing. He tried to fend them off with reason and calm, but one such thought kept repeating. Bill was planning to involve him in a sex romp threesome. He was planning to make solid the alibi. Their fictitious sexual relationship would be made more believable by engaging in a threesome, hopefully, surely, with a woman of Bill's acquaintance. And what a woman she was likely to be. Scraped from the gutter, age, looks, health, hygiene, mental age all irrelevant \- just a fanny for an alibi. To what extent Bill would push the fiction, Jon didn't know. Being naked together, sharing a woman, would that be enough to satisfy?

The weir hooked its roar into Jon. He felt the water fighting to steal his breath. With every step closer its force grew stronger. The night kept it hidden. Jon felt it was everywhere rushing towards him. He had no memory of thinking before he spoke,

"Ann gave me herpes, genital ones," he blurted out.

Without slowing down, Bill looked at him."So? Why tell me that?" he asked.

"It made me angry."

"Good. Dirty fuckin bitch. That's the posh ones. Always think they're above it. Glad I did her, I bet."

Bill looked forward and ended the exchange. Jon wondered if the lie would be enough to put Bill off. He cursed himself for not saying he had pubic lice.

Having passed the weir, they reached the paved path that ran directly beside the black and silent river. No barrier fenced the river off. No street lighting showed the way. Jon walked on his toes, ready to turn and sprint away. To his right, an embankment led to a row of houses. Lighted windows offered some comfort as places to run to while screaming for help. He knew the drop to the water was little more than a metre, but he still felt vertigo diminish his size and strength. The edge of the path was the event horizon. The river with its teeth of cold would consume a fully dressed man, whether fallen or pushed, into the black with cool, clean efficiency. If only he was the one with nerve enough to push.

He had given the river the meanest of scraps - bones. The bridge he had dropped the fragments from came into view ahead. A dozen lights brought it from the night to remind Jon of his journey.

Time didn't linger. Jon felt the final destination speeding towards him. Steep stone steps brought them up near to the centre of town. Streets lights revealed the empty gloom. A mist was creeping in. It felt that life had withdrawn in fear waiting for them to pass. Finally, several cars came crawling by, too slowly Jon thought. He felt watched, gawped at or mocked as the walkers out and up to no good on an undeserving Tuesday night.

With the road just clear, Bill veered into it to cross to the other side. Jon followed. The lighted window of a takeaway - pizzas, kebabs and fish and chips - caught his eye. It was barely open. No customers or servers stood waiting for food or money. The kebab skewer was meatless, not turning.

"Are we going for food?" Jon had to ask more in hope than expectation.

"Depends if we get lucky and pull," Bill laughed briefly.

Jon didn't expect him to say anymore but after a pause he continued.

"Tuesday night, it's a shit night. I mean out in the clubs so the bloke who owns the Peach Tree down here, he had a sound idea, get the queers in, gays and lezzers. Happy days for him. You wouldn't think it in a town like this. But fair enough, you wouldn't think me either. And no we're not on the pull, we're on business. Give us a tenner."

"A tenner?" said Jon, as he reached for his wallet.

"Give it to me now. I'll pay for us both. That's proof we're fuckin. Who pays for an adult if they ain't getting screwed?"

Jon pulled a ten pound note from his wallet. Bill snatched it out of his hand.

A gay club night. It made a certain, belated, sense. Jon hated nightclubs, but if that was to be the worst the night brought, he could find the strength to cope.

They approached the club. Two doormen guarded the door bored without people to herd, shuffling their bodies to keep warm, as if the amble fat wasn't insulation enough. Jon wondered if the takeaway was staying open for them alone. No music leaked out. Jon hoped the quiet exterior reflected the club inside. The night was still young. He hoped the club was more of a pub, yet to turn rampant and gay.

Trying to focus on positives, he considered the clothes he was wearing - a smart casual blend of Canali and Boss. His first choice outfit had been rugged outdoor activity clothes and a pair of hiking boots. But on reflection, in reflection a lengthy mirror session, he concluded he looked too professional, a man on a job and willing to get dirty for the crime of burglary. Accusations that could never be thrown at him while wearing a Hugo Boss cashmere driving coat.

Jon and Bill reached the club. The two doormen recognised Bill. Their surprise quickly turned to amusement. Suppressing full-blown laughter, they released their mirth through a series of sniggers.

"Bill. Night on the town, Bill?" said Doorman #1.

"He's come out to come in," said Doorman #2.

"You comin out? I mean in, Bill?" said Doorman #1.

"You know it's ladies night in here?" said Doorman #2.

"I'm comin in," said Bill.

"What for? Just to warm your cockles on a night like this?" said Doorman #1.

"We're both comin in. Problem?" said Bill.

"Not with you, Bill. We know who you are," said Doorman #1.

"Know you better now," said Doorman #2.

"Bit too well. Mind you, got to say, it's always a moving moment to see a man accept his true nature and self," said Doorman #1.

"Like you and baldness," said Doorman #2.

"That's right. He's right. Once I was afraid, I was petrified, thinking I could never live without the hair combed over at the side. But now, I'm out, mate. Loud and fuckin proud," said Doorman #1.

"Is your friend over eighteen, Bill? He's nice and legal, ain't he?" said Doorman #2.

"Over sixteen then," said Doorman #1.

"We have to ask. Never seen him before," said Doorman #1.

"That's the power of the internet. It's a national meat market now. Wonder these club nights still go on," said Doorman #1.

"It's the love of dancing," said Doorman #2.

"Dancing queens are they?" said Doorman #1.

"They love it. Shit music though. Not even a bit of Northern Soul." said Doorman #2.

"They don't play Def Leppard in here, Bill," said Doorman #1.

"Is this banter on the house?" said Bill.

"You know the score, Bill, you've got to have a laugh with the punters," said Doorman #1.

"Stops the violence does it?" said Bill.

"Maybe, but either way, we get our entertainment. Go on, get your hairy arse inside. I'm sure you and it will be made very welcome," said Doorman #1.

"We'll have to search your friend though," said Doorman #2.

"Search him. Do it. Get on with it," said Bill.

Jon felt buffeted around, unable to resist or even speak. Doorman #1 began to frisk him. A feeling that something was about to go wrong hit Jon, but before he could make clear his thoughts, which ventured towards the issue of carrying two mobile phones, Doorman #1 had pulled from Jon's pocket the Volvo branded torch.

"What's this potential weapon?" said Doorman #1.

"It's a torch," said Jon not blushing - frozen in the first split second of shock and cold.

"We've got our own lights in here, mate," said Doorman #2.

Doorman #1 turned the torch on. "That's an impressive six inches. Quite the pocket rocket."

"Six? Fuck off. My misses would say it's nine," said Doorman #2.

"She's a kind woman, I'll give her that," said Doorman #1.

"Six or nine, I wouldn't want to shit it out." said Doorman #2.

"Nah, up or down the arse," said Doorman #1.

"That's a Volvo branded torch. It has no dual-purpose to me," said Jon insulted.

"You always carry it?" said Doorman #2.

"I was out in the dark. There wasn't any lighting."

"Been walking the dog, sir, out in the countryside?" said Doorman #2.

"He thinks you, us, we've been out dogging," said Bill unperturbed.

"I didn't want to tread in the mud. I'm wearing Hugo Boss driving moccasins," said Jon.

"Well, wait a minute, the mystery thickens," said Doorman #1 as he displayed a disposable plastic glove he had just removed from Jon's pocket.

"I wear it when filling up," said Jon.

"An empty hole?" said Doorman #1.

"The Volvo with diesel! Smell it," Jon knew the glove wouldn't smell of diesel, but he said it anyway to protest his innocence in front of Bill.

"Not a fuckin' chance. I don't even want to touch it." He dropped it for the wind to take. "You want it you can get it."

"Anything else in his pockets? He'd be better off with a handbag. Wouldn't you, luv?" said Doorman #2.

"I dread to think. Nah, just the usual, for tonight's clientele," said Doorman #1.

"Can I have the torch back?" said Jon.

"You can, but only because we know Bill," said Doorman #1.

"Professionally, that is," said Doorman #2.

"He's a weapon himself," said Doorman #1.

"He was good on the door. Knew all about work mates taking the piss. Understood it, hey? How any weakness is up to get ripped apart," said Doorman #2.

"This a weakness?" said Bill.

"You know what I mean. Life's little surprises, you provide them, you deal with the consequences, let people deal with the shock," said Doorman #2.

"Gay's alright these days anyway. A son comes out gay, who gives a shit? The mum goes happy nuts excited at the thought of shopping for shoes. The dad, thinks, well at least he won't lose his house in some shitty divorce," said Doorman #1.

Doorman #2 laughed then said, "Yeah. The new gay, the new parental nightmare, that's your son or daughter coming home and telling you they've turned Muslim," said Doorman #2.

Doorman #1 laughed then said to Bill, "See we're only havin' a laugh," said Doorman #1.

"You're right to. Anythin that might stop the violence, for you boys, hey?" said Bill.

Jon followed Bill inside, bowing his head to hide his face from the CCTV. They scaled a flight of stairs. Bill barged through a door. Jon in the slipstream got through without effort. The club was only half full. Loud dance music couldn't fill the space. Bill paced away like a doorman on duty, marking his territory, laying his scent. The club was too light for Jon. He felt the stares acutely but caught none that stole an actual look.

Bill approached the bar, the barman's attention already snatched and fixed on him. At the bar, he leaned in close and gave his order. He then turned to Jon and spoke.

"You get these. I need a piss. Sit over there."

Bill pointed at a seating area then walked away. Jon watched. Bill's darting stare was conspicuous. He gave him a sense of purpose like he was hunting a target to fix in his sights.

The barman called to Jon. Two whiskies, doubles, were on the bar. Jon, lost in the haze of submission, paid the money, took the drinks and walked to a table.

Sitting down, Jon looked around. The scene was relaxed and peaceful, and somewhat underwhelming. A broad range of men and women sat or stood in mainly same-sex groups talking and laughing to each other. Jon was surprised at how average and how 'high-street' the people looked. He felt the gay currency had been devalued. Overall, the atmosphere felt controlled, which pleased him. Perhaps it was early. Maybe the club was gearing-up ready for the night to explode.

Jon had always hated nightclubs. They were dens of menace and inadequacy. But here he felt elevated above his former self. The men gave no edge of easy violence and the women, he told himself, as a bunch of hardcore lesbians, were genetically unable to find him attractive, which he somehow found empowering.

If the only objective was to make tight their alibi, he could definitely tolerate staying, especially, as it occurred to him, that even though he was one of the oldest men in the club, and heterosexual, he was by far the most stylishly dressed. And he wasn't even properly out - on a planned night out that is. Without any prior knowledge or preparation, he had ventured into a gay club but still managed to be the best-dressed man in the room. He felt validated, and his confidence received a much-needed boost.

With his anxiety over the club settling, his thoughts turned to James's phone. The break-in was now irrelevant. Bill had let him into the house. When the phone was discovered missing, Jon would be the only thief in town. However, if the photos were on the phone, if the phone was the original device, the benefits of destroying it, might outweigh any negative repercussions.

An ideal situation formed in Jon's mind. The photos are on the phone, stored on an installed microSD card, this he removes and hides in a sock. After the club, they return to Bill's. He puts the phone back. Chancing upon the phone, he questions Bill about it claiming to have heard James's phone was the same model. He protests at the stupid recklessness of keeping the phone and lies about how easy it is to trace phones even those switched off. They must destroy the phone immediately, smash it and throw what remains into the river. He wins the argument. He's free to go. At home, he investigates the contents of the microSD card then destroys it. Wishful thinking? Maybe. But stage one was but a simple chore.

A roar of laughter drew Jon's stare. A gang of eight women - all ample in many ways, a working-class posse on the loose, set free from work and family - swarmed the bar. Jon thought they were tourists a hen-do come to see the wildlife or bingo girls drunk on the joy of a winning house. But then he noticed one of the women wore a party sash with the words, '50, Fat and Horny' emblazoned on it in a zany pink font. He had expected 'fat' to have read 'hot' so at least, he had to admire her honesty.

Bill lunged in from behind to take a seat next to Jon.

"Fuckin hell," said Bill loudly as he looked at the birthday party, "who's left to man the checkouts at Morrisons tonight then?" He laughed, picked up his glass and took a gulp of whisky.

Jon, mindful of his need to drive the XC90 home, picked up his glass and took a tiny sip. He hated the taste, but for the hope of Dutch courage, he was willing to give it a go.

"I need to make a phone call," Jon said to Bill.

"Why?" said Bill.

"I didn't know we were coming out. I was meant to meet someone later."

"Maddy?"

"Yes," he lied.

"You dirty fuckin toad. And I thought you were a right gay twat," he laughed.

"It's not like that."

"Fuckin should be. Give her herpes. Poke that family in the fuckin face."

"I'll go to the toilet, make the call. It'll be quieter in there."

Bill didn't respond. A point in the distance held his concentration. Jon followed his gaze. Three men in their twenties were stood huddled together. Two of them, to Jon's eye, were plainly gay - over groomed and over trendy. The third man looked much rougher and street. He wore a big, padded, heavily pocketed winter coat with a faux fur trim hood that gave the impression he was out for the night not out for the club, that he would soon step outside to continue his rounds. The three of them began to walk away. Bill downed the whisky left in his glass.

"I'll just nip to the toilet to make that call," said Jon.

"You stay here and make it," said Bill standing. "I'll get some drinks. You finish yours. People gonna think you're a poof."

Bill walked away in a direction that followed the three men. Jon felt unsettled. Did Bill think the three men were dealing drugs? Surely, he wouldn't act, enforce his disturbed moral code, on that tonight? But what if Bill's plan was far worse than he had previously feared \- the desperate alibi enhancing threesome? But what? Murder? An act of male-bonding to the furthest extremes. And one to take ultimate control, to lock him into Bill's murderous world, to tie their lives together. The Gay Slayers. Jon read the news. He feared his fate was sealed.

Jon knew he had to continue his plan to wrestle control back into his life. About to take James's phone out of his pocket, his remembered, to remove the memory card, he would need to use the ejector tool. He needed a pin. The solution came quickly. His coat, a small plastic bag with spare coat buttons was safety pinned to an inside pocket. He rushed to get the pin. It wasn't an elegant move. His hands were shaking, the pin was tiny and awkwardly embedded deep inside the pocket.

The pin was his. He paused, scanning the room for Bill's return. The club was filling up. The dance floor took the over-spill setting people free to dance with an uncensored sort of intensity. People sat around him. He caught no one looking. The gaydar, he thought, must be flashing red sensing he was, one hundred percent heterosexual man. The club lights had dimmed. Was Bill hidden, watching in the crowd? Jon had to take his chance. With the phone concealed under the table, he worked the pin into the hole. He got lucky, the memory card slot popped out with relative ease, and a microSD card was there for him to take. The sock idea, he rejected. Better, he thought, to store it in the bag to hide amongst the buttons safe inside a pocket. James's phone followed. With stage one of the plan complete, he downed his whiskey hoping to settle his nerves.

Heavy, strong hands gripped his shoulders. Jon froze until shattered by Bill's loud, uninhibited voice. "Come on. Let's go home and fuck!"

Jon turned. Bill stood behind him without the slightest shame or embarrassment that now flooded into Jon.

Bill continued. "Come on. Quickly." He leaned in close to speak exclusively to Jon, into his ear. "Business done, just one more thing."

Bill put a hand under Jon's arm and pulled him up as if ejecting an immobile drunk. Jon didn't resist. He stood and followed and was glad at the speed they walked. People, figures blurred in Jon's peripheral vision, streamed passed coming the other way as he Bill led him down the stairs into the foyer and towards the exit. The two doorman noticed them leave but were too busy and slow to make further comment. Bill didn't even give them a look.

The street was nearly empty, not empty enough for Jon. Ahead of them, two men walked briskly along. He feared them. He knew them, the two plainly gay men. Now once again locked in Bill's sights. A coincidence, he hoped. At least he and Bill were walking back the way they had come.

Jon seeing the takeaway, "Shall we get some chips?"

"Nah. The night ain't over yet, laddy-boy," said Bill.

"Aren't we going home?"

"Only the dead don't make it home."

Jon noticed Bill had slowed the pace, and the distance between them and the two men remained constant.

A bridge took them over the River Severn. The two men walked out of view having taken the steps that led down to the river. Bill and Jon followed. The river walk was just as dark. Voices ahead told Jon the two men still walked their way. Bill continued forwards relentless, unchanging. Jon considered running away or just stopping to stand completely still to vanish in dark and silence. But then, to his left, the voices climbing a set of steps that led somewhere away from the river. Jon and Bill continued on leaving the voices behind. Bill turned to Jon and asked,

"You alright, Jon?" He sounded knowing, amused.

"Yeah," Jon replied.

Jon felt sick with relief. The darkness was once again his friend.

They passed under the Shrewsbury Railway Bridge. Several weakly glowing lights were little more than distant specs. Jon's ankle turned on a cobble. He stumbled but managed to snatch back his balance. He paused, standing still to regain his composure.

"Careful," said Bill standing close-by. "Been a painless one so far tonight." His face burst into view illuminated by the flame of a cigarette lighter as he lit what looked to Jon to be a large cigarette but was, in fact, a Café Crème miniature cigar. The flame cut to black. Jon caught the smell of the cigar smoke. Bill continued, "Easy, too fuckin easy. Like working the door there, dull and boring. You get them psycho gays like the Krays and whoever, but truth is, most poofs are exactly that, a bunch of fuckin' poofs. The lezzers are worse. They bitch-fight of course but just because there's nothin on the telly don't mean you stop watchin it."

There was a pause. They stood in their silence. Jon felt indoors, trapped, the prison doors locked shut. He stared at the glowing cigar tip, his eyes inexplicably drawn to the light, the promise of warmth.

Bill raised the cigar to his mouth and inhaled. Then exhaling broke the silence, "You want one, a cigar?"

"No. Thank you," said Jon.

"Good, cos what the fuck have you got to celebrate?"

Jon couldn't think of anything to say. His mind was racing to find another answer. Why have they stopped here, now, under the bridge? The answer he found seemed perfectly sane, to shelter from the wind to let Bill light his cigar, but it failed to satisfy.

Bill continued, "My son, he was worse than queer. A fuckin junky. I told you. He died up there, drowned in the river. What a cunt, what a useless fuckin cunt he was. Took him to be a man to bother with me. Well, I say a man, but a drug-riddled piece of shit would be the truth. Then he sees fit to visit. Wants money, course he does. Well fair enough. I offer him a means to earn but not good enough for him. He wants his money free and easy. Pay for the years of neglect, he said. First time I hit him. Did no good. He kept comin back askin for more. He stalked me like he stalked the smack. You can't beat a junky into submission they know a greater pain than that from a fist. But on and on. How much shit should a man let himself take? How much disease, humiliation, before it takes him too? A humiliated man is a dangerous man, if he is a man that is. So, I met him, wasn't an accident that night, our paths crossed down here. He wants money, fuckin scraps like a beggar askin for change. Then earn it, I said. Take a bet for money, big money, easy money. On a warm summer night like it was, with the Moon giving light all he had to do was swim the width of the river. Two hundred quid, cash in hand. I only had sixty on me so he wants that upfront. Fair enough. Cheap at twice the price. I hand it over. He squeezes it into a money bag, in with a little bit of weed. To keep it dry. The prick thinks he's got a chance. High on the thought of drugs, deceived. In he goes, sittin at the edge, he lowers himself in. Keeps his fuckin shoes on. That's the level of junky dickhead I had to call my son. I thought about telling him. I really did. But let him steal an advantage off me? Fuck off. I was out to win. He said he was a good swimmer, but he didn't last long. Weak little fuck didn't even fight. Seen pike kick the water harder. My first ever kill. Had to be done. I was forced. Put him down. Did him a favour. Didn't feel complete though, too clean, too easy like there had to be more, more guilty men to scrap. I got the job done. But well? As a man? Scavenging, innit? On the shitty little scraps left to fuckin' rot. Why can't an ugly cunt like me take the fuckin gold? Drugs killed my son. It wasn't me. I laid to rest the corpse he was. I couldn't stop, too many cunts laughing at me. Dealers, junkies all the same, ball of fuckin worms entwined. The real crime was all against me. Stole my boy. Like you stole the phone that's in your pocket."

"What phone? My phone?" said Jon.

Bill pulled on the cigar then spoke. "The phone you stole from my house."

"Yes. Right. I had to. Not for profit."

"For charity?"

"To protect us. It's James's, isn't it? It's James's phone."

"You think you own the photos now."

"No. How can I? I know you've got copies."

Bill stepped in close, "Give it me."

Jon rushed to retrieve the phone. "You've got to destroy it. It can be traced. It's evidence. It's reckless to keep it. It's fucking stupid in fact. Yes, I took it, but only to protect us."

Bill took the phone from Jon. "Is that the truth?"

"Yes."

"Well, you see, Jon, it's difficult for me to throw away things that have a value. But if something becomes worthless or a problem to me, I don't hesitate. I'll scrap it, make it vanish. Piece of piss, no qualms, no loss to me."

There was silence, a pause. Bill pulled on the cigar fuelling the glowing tip to bring light to his eyes, which both seemed fake, made of glass that would never shatter. With the exhaled smoke came a contemptuous little laugh that splurted out with a throw of spit that scattered across Jon's face. Jon didn't react he remained unmoving. Bill wrapped the phone against Jon's nose. Not with any great force but still it was enough to hurt and shock. Bill laughed. Jon, expecting more, cowered and covered his head with his hands and arms. Bill punched his fist into the phone once then twice. Jon felt the force and heard the crack. He looked to watch Bill throw the phone into the river.

"I told you," said Bill. "I'd get rid of the photos. I didn't fuckin' lie. But trust, Jon. How can I prove it? I could've made a thousand copies. You know that. So, tough, you'll have to live with the uncertainty. We're in this together now. And let's not be fuckin' stupid, you've got it cosy. I'm on the front line. You're some twat in an office and fine by me. But beware of collateral damage, shrapnel and the like. Best keep everything up front, Jonny boy. On the fuckin' nose." He laughed. "Come on. I'm a busy man."

Back at Bill's, Jon was relieved to see his XC90 poised ready to speed him away. He longed to climb onboard, to strap himself in and secure the doors. His hand, inside a coat pocket, gripped the key fob anxiously. Bill walked towards his van. Jon felt obliged to follow.

"Right, well, I'd better go," said Jon.

"Still time to meet that Maddy?" said Bill.

"Yes."

"She your woman?"

"Well."

"A work in progress?"

"Well."

"So from queer street to up to your nuts in lady guts, you and me, both."

Reaching his van, Bill stopped walking and stood by the van's back door. Jon followed his lead.

"Right," said Jon as he glanced at his XC90 pressing the key fob to unlock the doors. The indicator and headlights flashed.

"Nice motor," said Bill. "But give me a van any day."

He knocked a fist against the van. The van knocked back - something inside moved with a jolt to bang against the inner side panel. Bill laughed, pleasantly surprised.

"What?" said Jon instantly regretting he had asked.

"The guts, butchery for me."

Bill paused, staring at Jon as if expecting him to ask a question. But Jon feared the answer to the question now screaming in his mind so kept silent.

Bill continued, "A sheep. Would you believe it, a silly fuckin sheep?" Bill pulled from his pocket a set of keys. "Got that business done, that what I told you about, so off I go out on an earner, into the countryside fly-tippin. There I am doin' fifty down a country lane and out pops a sheep. I braked, of course, thinkin of the van, but too late, I hit the bitch. Van's alright, tough as mutton. And happy days, nice little catch for the freezer."

Bill unlocked the back doors then opened one side. An internal light came on. Jon averted his gaze and began to back away towards his XC90 as if repelled by what laid inside. Bill reached into the van and brought out a hammer.

"I thought it was dead," said Bill loudly looking inside the van. "I'll knock the fucker out. It can stay out here tonight and freeze to death. Who gives a shit, it's only a sheep. A useless fuckin' sheep. What you reckon, Jon?" He turned and looked at Jon. Seeing him backing away he began to laugh. "You want some chops, Jon? How about a leg? I'll bring some round. Hey, butchery's your game, ain't it? Look out for the post. The truth will out, Jonny boy! The truth will out us all!"

"Right. OK. See you, Bill," said Jon now almost running towards the XC90.

Bill climbed into the back of the van. Jon climbed into the XC90. Before he closed the door, the key fob was in its slot, the start button pressed and the engine running.

"Come on!" he said forcefully but restrained and quiet.

With a press of a button, all doors locked securely shut. Jon grunted a sound of muted celebration. He pulled away, struggling to put on his seatbelt and silence the warning bongs. The headlights illuminated the van. It was bouncing on its suspension springs.

"Up to you nuts in guts!" he shouted with contempt, revulsion, and fear all gagging the words tight. "Up to his nuts in guts!"

# CHAPTER 13

Jon put the microSD card into his laptop and examined the contents. A hundred plus photos told of a happy family life and showed a proud, smiling father out with his children and wife. Jon had to squint his eyes to shield himself from another reality. Finally, he found the interlopers, himself and Bill - a dozen of him all effortlessly incriminating, and two of Bill that he assumed were accidental selfies taken as Bill was familiarising himself the camera and phone.

Jon removed the memory card. There was nothing else to know. He found a pair of scissors. He knew he might possess the last images of a father now gone, the final recording of a child embracing their dad. The scissors did what they had to do, the flames of the log burner finished the job. It was a small, insignificant victory. All

As he took off his coat, the touch of his phone reminded him he had turned it off. He took it out and turned it on. A voice mail came through:

" Jon, it's me, Maddy. I called round, but you weren't in, or maybe you were but felt the need to hide from me, which makes sense, I suppose. If you were actually out, don't worry, I wasn't pissed. I didn't leave any mess or damage or anything else. Nothing for you to worry about....Nan's not very well...But anyway, I wanted to tell you, the police have informed the media about Ann. It'll be in the press tomorrow. The local papers, I guess. The connection to James, I don't know, we'll have to see...Oh, and they're doing a search, the police, a proper one. Men in white overalls, I suppose. And door-to-door enquiries. That'll take them all day given all the snoops and busybodies that live around here. They'll probably get enough information to arrest half the village, well, me at least. I don't suppose you'll say anything nice. Anyway, there you are, you wanted to be kept informed, and you have been. I do what I say. Goodbye."

Jon was about to call Maddy back, but thinking of something refrained. He ran to his office. Once through the door, he lunged for the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. He opened the curtains a little and peered through the window. No house lights fed light into the garden or beyond. He could see Maddy's house, bursting with light, the conservatory blinds blocking the view. To steady himself, he sat in his chair and paused to gather his focus. Once ready, he made the call.

Maddy answered her phone. "Jon?" she said.

"Yes. Maddy, hi," said Jon.

"You got my message?"

"Yes, just now. I've just come out of a meeting. I'm not back home yet. So, the police are doing a search tomorrow. Do they need volunteers because I'm happy to help?"

"Volunteers?"

"To join the search, to get involved."

"I don't think so."

"Right. So it's not like one of those things you see on the telly. A big line of people, police and locals, sweeping the whole area for the tiniest of clues?"

"It's not a murder investigation, is it?"

"No, of course not. But the bigger the better. Go in big. Don't take anything off the table."

"I don't know. The details go right through me. I can't take them in."

"The details? What do you know? Do you know the area they plan to search?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Whatever the area, it won't be deep enough, just a tiny slab of earth."

"They didn't tell you?"

"What does it matter?"

"It does matter. You've got to know these things. You've got to ask the right questions. There are ways to do things, correct procedures that must be followed. Did they mention a forensics team or a CSI unit?"

"We should have no faith in the police. We shouldn't believe they exist."

"Why?"

"It makes them real."

"They are real, very real."

"Our belief in them is all that makes them necessary."

"And our actions?"

"We should believe in people, even the craps ones."

"The police are people."

"They're the system, cold and clinical. Trust me, I know. Soon they'll have no human interface, only an App. Missing person, download the App. Robbery, burglary, download the App. Rape, murder, download the App."

"Good. It'll be more efficient."

"For you, and the system. Not for me."

"Human error, it's the curse we humans put on life, on living."

"You think you're alive, living?"

"I'm living too much. I'd like to live a little less."

"You think you have a life, Jon, a real life beyond existence?"

"Yes. Unless, and I hope it is, it's all a Matrix-style simulation because then, brilliant, none of the crap has anything to do with me. None of this, anything, is my fault."

"Something on your mind, Jon?"

"No. Nothing. The usual, just business and things and stress. All of it trivial compared to what's going on in your life, trivial."

"Stress, and feeling a little alone?"

"Yes."

"You should come round for a massage."

"What?"

"A massage, and yes, I'm still not pissed. It wouldn't have to be sexual."

"I'm not home for hours."

"And if you were at home?"

He flipped a coin in his head, as he knew he had no chance of knowing the correct answer himself, "No."

"Fine."

"Not now. The timing, and I'm not a normal man."

"Good. I'm pleased for you. But say it was for me, a selfish ask? Say it was me who needed such a moment, feeling stressed and a little alone?"

"I'd invite you round here for a chamomile tea."

"I could live with that."

"Good. It's done. Look, right look, I'd better go. But call me if you need to talk, or if you learn anymore, or for anything at all."

"I will. Thank you."

Jon ended the call. His need now was to hide away. He looked at Maddy's house through the gap in the curtains. The conservatory blinds twitched. He dived to the floor and scurried out of the room on his hands and knees. With his phone providing light, he ran down stairs and out of the house on a mission to hide the XC90 from view. Once parked in the garage, he ran back into the darkened house.

Jon - wrapped up in bed, headphones on to shut-out the world, to seal himself inside the ASMR bubble, his stare fixed to a video of his favourite practitioner role-playing a tailor's assistant taking a client through the options of having a bespoke suit made - tried to forget his troubles. He had even shut down the CCTV in an attempt to convince himself he had convinced the world he was somewhere far away.

# CHAPTER 14

Jon woke early or rather spluttered out of a restless night's sleep. He went straight to his office to check the view outside. The murky morning light revealed an unpolluted scene. The police had yet to invade.

He cursed his lack of vision. He had no clear sight of Ann's house only the land that connected it to Maddy's. However, if the search crawled the ground of the murder scene, he could spy on the police and watch them move naively by or stop to gather in a cluster to examine in detail something left behind.

He put on a tracksuit then got ready the house. The front downstairs curtains and blinds he opened fully to welcome looks inside, to shout he had nothing to hide. The rooms he made out of bounds until the police had been and gone. The front upstairs curtains he closed but not quite fully, spy-holes remained for him to peep through. The CCTV he turned back on. His office became the control room.

He feared the day would be long and exhausting. He envisaged walking for miles as the guard and watchman. Preparing a meal would be a risky distraction. His luck would have him trapped in the kitchen caught in the act while the police knocked on the door outside. To get him through the day, he decided to prepare a stash of healthy, light and energizing food.

The blender made an excruciating noise, too loud and violent for Jon's sensitive and anxious disposition. He couldn't complete the blend. The mixed fruit smoothie he made was far from smooth, but given the circumstances, acceptable. He took the jug, along with a variety of energy bars, nuts and two tins of mackerel up to the office. The window view remained undisturbed.

He began pacing around the house, up and down stairs checking the view front and back, the naked eye aided by binoculars and the CCTV camera bank. He was both jailor and prisoner, he knew.

He needed the exercise. He almost ran. His thoughts raced ahead. He could give himself up, call the police and confess all he knew and all he had done. It seemed the safest option. He could claim he had suffered temporary insanity. He could give them the prize of Bill, a trophy for the scrapbook, a true psycho-killer. His reward, a deal struck to gain a reduced prison sentence. But how weird would he look, how tarnished? He would become a public figure of contempt, to be mocked and derided for life. A true life sentence. Unless he served his time willingly, went on a journey for public and press. He could find redemption. He could regain his dignity and earn respect. But what would prison do to him? Could he cope with life inside? He could ask the therapist. Not directly, but pretending to ask for a character in his book, one based on himself. The character is found guilty of a crime he didn't commit. How does he cope in prison? Jon heard the therapist laugh at the question then say, 'Someone like you, locked up in prison? That's easy, anxiety, self-harm, breakdown, suicide. And that's if you get lucky and get put in solitary confinement. If you get thrown in with the bigger boys, you will become the new definition of well and truly fucked.'

Jon knew he wouldn't survive prison, reduced sentence or not. And anyway, Bill, taking revenge, could spin him into a web of murder and lies. It would be easy to claim Jon was using the police for his own selfish gain. An honest confession could lead to, his own, murder conviction.

The doorbell rang. Jon had seen them coming. He couldn't look at the CCTV. He laid on the floor trying to silence his heavy breathing. The doorbell rang again. He knew the two men were police. He didn't move for fifteen minutes.

The day dragged on. Jon continued to pace around the house fearing the police would return for a second visit. The search had yet to come into view. In many ways, he wanted to see it. He wanted to witness the police pass over the murder scene without pause or concern.

In the office, he raised the binoculars to his eyes. Maddy's Nan sat in the conservatory. She held her camcorder and seemed to be filming the view outside. Maddy stepped into view. Jon jumped, turned and stepped away. After a pause, he took another look. Both Maddy and Nan were gone.

Jon's thoughts sent him pacing away. Had his actions that day been caught on film? It was certainly possible. The widescreen conservatory offered the view. But distance would have smudged him into an unknowable blur. Unless she had caught him close-up, zoomed-in. She recognised him. "I've seen you before. Strong man, you, aren't you? I'll be a better partner than that other one. Right sack of spuds she was." It connected. Not that it mattered. He had ran to his house, carrying a corpse he ran back home. What finer detail would be required?

He started to panic. The odds Nan had filmed him were tiny. She doesn't upload to YouTube. No one, Maddy included, would sit down to watch what she had shot. He would be feeling the aftershocks of any premiere. Dementia was his ally. He could worm his way back into the house and get access to the camera. Maybe Bill was the star. Maybe the news was good. He continued to panic. The doorbell rang. He stood on the stairs half-way up. He couldn't freeze, he had to bound away, squirming as a guilty man caught in the act. He dived onto the landing floor and crawled into the office. A glance at the computer monitor confirmed the police had returned.

An urge to create an alibi, and to block out their presence, overwhelmed him. He sat up, opened a draw and took out a set of headphones already attached to an iPod. He put the headphones on and scrambled to play a song. The doorbell rang again. The headphones filled with music. He told himself, he was cooling down after finishing an exercise session. He stood and began to perform a light stretching routine. He feared the police, having heard him, would be banging on the door or shouting through the letterbox. If so, it would be better to be caught unawares with an excuse in place, than to let them think he was hiding. Catching sight of the mixed fruit smoothie, he poured himself a glass then left the office to walk around to continue his cool-down session.

He glanced at the front door down the stairs it seemed undisturbed. He hurried into a front bedroom and used a spy-hole to peep outside. The two police officers were walking away. One turned to look back towards the house. Instinctively, and needlessly, trying to play the role, Jon raced the glass to his mouth and took a large, thirsty gulp, while lunging forward to continue his cool-down routine.

The shock was numbing, a dark moment of clarity. The expectation of oxygen brutally denied. Jon couldn't breathe. A piece of fruit, an apple, he always knew it would be apple, was lodged in his windpipe. He was choking.

He peered through the spy-hole. The police officers were beyond his reach. He hated them even more. Flight and fight both kicked in. He ran towards the bed and dived headfirst on to it. The mattress with its two thousand pocket springs and four inches of breathable memory foam eased him to a gentle stop. It felt pathetic. He rolled off the bed onto the floor and on to his knees then dived forward to slam his torso into the floor. The apple remained stuck. He tried again, several times, each time harder while filling with the spirit and intensity of the kamikaze. The apple didn't dislodge. He scrambled onto a chest of draws then launched himself off to bellyflop onto the bed, but still, the apple refused to budge. Without hesitation, he threw himself off the bed and bellyflopped onto the floor. The impact was shocking. His bones felt shattered. He should have gone out for the count, but fear drove him on. He got up, ran out of the room and down the stairs. With several steps left to descend, desperation launched him forward, but, having jumped too powerfully, he overshot the floor to go smashing headfirst into a wall. Concussed, senseless but for the need to live, he unlocked then opened the door. Falling out, his legs giving way, the ground rearing-up slowly until a great, heavy blow punched into his back between the shoulder blades and finished the job pounding his face into the ground. The piece of apple, expelled from his windpipe, sat dribbling from his mouth with a stream of phlegm.

"Are you alright?" said Maddy as she kneeled down to him.

He looked at her, gasping air into his lungs. After a moment, he spoke, "Apple."

"You were choking."

"To death. I knew it."

"Your face was blue."

"You saved me."

"I did.

"You came."

"I felt it. I saw your fight, you against your greatest fear."

"Got loads of fears all queuing up to fight me. You can save me again over and over."

"I heard you once, I'll hear you again. I'm fully tuned in. I know that now."

"Heard me?"

"Your cries. That's why I came."

"To save my life."

"Yes. I did. I saved a life. Fuck, I feel so fucking high. Is that selfish? I came from such a low."

"I'm low and selfish and I feel like shit."

"No, you can't. You're lucky, you're new. You have a second chance to live better again. You're something reborn."

"What a fucking waste."

"You should be grateful."

"I am. Really. But, I'm bruised and battered. I'm broken probably in several key areas. That bloody technique, stop yourself choking when alone, it's fucking useless. I'll starve to death."

Well, that's the lesson. Don't be alone. Nothing is better that having someone close."

"Oh fuck, the day gets worse."

"What?"

"Nothing. What about the search?"

"I've tuned it out. The police are not my people. There are greater forces at work than the bloody police. Truth and justice, cannot be kept hidden from me."

"Fuck. "

"What?"

"I've got to lie down. I'm not my best. I'm not here. I've gone away. I'll come back sometime healthy and tanned."

He sat up and moved to stand, picking up the piece of apple from the ground. Maddy took him by the arm to help him up. He fought the pain. He wanted to be alone inside the house.

"Thank you. I owe you. Not much, it was only me," he said.

"Equal to me, so be there for me when I need to be saved."

"Right. But you'll have to text me. I have no special powers."

He walked away slowly towards the house. Every step caused him pain.

"Tuesday," said Maddy, "I'll book you in for a non-sexual massage."

"Yeah, that'll cheer me up," said Jon without looking back at her.

"Do you want some company?"

"No."

"You nearly just died and you want to be alone?"

"Yeah. I need the peace and quiet."

Jon entered the house and closed the door. Maddy kept watching. She didn't know what else to do.

Jon felt the need to keep the piece of apple. He placed it inside a bag of Birdseye frozen peas then returned the bag to the freezer.

What remained of the day felt pointless. He locked himself away. He went to bed lost in a depression of hopelessness and hatred.

# CHAPTER 15

The following day, Jon continued in bed floating adrift. He had no power to control events. He knew the end. A final meal was not his desire. The only sustenance he required was peace, quiet and solitude. The police would sniff the trail. It would lead them to him directly, or they would find their way through Bill.

He drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of bed. The snap of the letterbox brought him downstairs to find only junk and irrelevance - a catalogue of men's quality shirts which he took back to bed and read with a self-pitying sense of sentimentality.

Maddy phoned him; he didn't answer or listen to the voicemail she left. He stared at the bedroom TV. The noise it made was better than music as it had no feeling or effect. The people he watched were nothing to him, characters from a soap opera he had never seen. Their stories unknown, pointless.

He was sleeping when Bill called. It was past midnight. He woke without transition, leaving the world of sleep instantly behind. Sitting up, he answered the phone.

"Bill," said Jon.

"You alone, no Maddy?" said Bill.

"Yes, alone."

"Lucky you, cos one for the men this one, mate. Like a tale from god but all fuckin' true. It's like I'm live, on the scene and comin' to you, exclusively you, live and properly real. You got the next best seat in the house. One of the angels, one behind the man himself. I'm parked in the van having a smoke, still close enough to sniff the glory. Get a pen. I want this written, or record it. You can do that?"

He sounded high on adrenalin, celebrating a victory.

Jon spoke without thinking, "Yeah."

"Now? Do it now. How long?"

"Now, it's done."

"Then listen. Five men, all dead. Criminals, proper grade A criminals. Drugs, guns all on the scene, a stash of cash whipped from the scene (laughs). One man lives to walk away. You know who, the master of the fuckin scene, the instigator of the perfect crime (laughs). The crew I met in prison. Got their respect with the eye I took off that fuckin runt. We done business together, loss leader for me, but tonight it paid for itself a billion times over. One of the big boys, Hollis, close to the boss, a man called Kenny, a paranoid, fucked-up druggy himself, but funny, I'll give him that, and happy with a spot of the good old fashioned hardcore violence. Didn't meet him in prison, but met him since. He knew my reputation, what I did in prison, how I helped. Helped Hollis and the boys so helped Kenny too. It got me thanked, known. Anyway, Hollis wants a job done, a foreigner, off-duty, one for me and me alone. He's got this hoard of guns and the order to get them destroyed and properly destroyed, not sold or buried but vanished, broken, smashed, melted down professionally and properly done. The guns have been well used, too well used. The proverbial too hot to handle. Kenny has agreed to make them vanish for his own sake and that of some very nasty cunts. It's his profit and risk. It's his reputation. The order goes one below to Hollis. Now Hollis thinks he's clever. How it comes about, I don't know, but he sees an opportunity to makes some money, self-employed, behind the boss's back. Tool hire. (laughs) He knows this crew that like to rob drug dealers. Good for them. Still cunts though, still sell the drugs on. They've got some big job on, but what do they need? Guns! A one-off hire. So Hollis is the man. And fair enough, it don't seen stupid. Hire some of the guns out for a wad of cash, dealers gettin robbed, so no pigs called, get the guns back then make them vanish. Job done, money made. Of course, it comes with risk. The guns go out, take a detour, but these ain't men adverse to risk. And join the fuckin club cos I'm in on the deal, and in on my own, a foreigner too for me and me alone. (laughs). It's simple. I'm the man to make the guns vanish. He knows other people who could do the job, people he might normally use, but he thinks I'm somethin else, a man he can trust, or at least one who ain't gonna let slip the truth. Anyway, he gives me the spiel, tells me it all to put us in it together, united in risk, which is clever or would be if I was that man he could actually trust. So, I'm set to meet him tonight, up here in Cheshire, out in the sticks a mile shy of Clutton. They got these barns they use for dodgy deals and all that shit. He does the deal, he gets the guns back, then turns the guns over to me to be transported away good and proper. I'm meant to wait off-site. He's gonna call me when the deal's done. But I'm not, I'm hiding. I've done a recce. The barn, whatever you'd call it, it's basically a ruin from another age - brick walls, rusty corrugated roof, part stables part blacksmiths workshop, even got a furnace and a forge, not touched for a lifetime like, but still, a fair bit of scrap value in that. Anyway, I get the word everything's perfect. The robbery was a stunner lots more coke and cash than expected. Hollis, is a very happy man, on a percentage, cash and drugs. The risk he took paid off handsome. The guns are winging their way back to him. Now I've asked him, should I hang around as back-up as it's only him and some other bloke, who I don't know, come to meet the crew bringing the guns. He tells me, no need and he doesn't want me seen. The less who know about this business the better. There won't be no trouble he says, we may be cunts, but we're here to make money, and money is what's got made, and he always leaves a future profit dangling in front of greedy eyes to keep the peace and order. Good for you, I say. Good for fuckin' you. You're a wise one, you, mate. I'm watchin you, buddy and I'm taking fuckin notes. So, it's a dark old shithole, and I'm hidin in a stable, which still stinks of horseshit, which ain't a problem to me. I've come in through a hole in the wall. Hollis is waitin in his car, parked inside the barn. His mate is outside lookin out for the delivery boys to come. They arrive. Pleasantries, cock-waggin and then down to business. Hollis ain't stupid. He charged a deposit. They return the guns, bullets too. He hands back the deposit minus his fee. He puts the guns in the boot of his Range Rover, in with the guns that weren't required. Booty for me that I ain't ever gonna take. Next, he gets his percentage, a fat bag of money and coke. Right, job done, I'm thinkin, so I'm getting ready. When the drug robbers go, I'm coming out. I've got two sawn-off shotguns, both double-barrel, loaded and ready to go. But oh fuck no. The main man from the drug robbin crew, Pinner, I heard him called, he ain't ready to go, or he is, cos the fuckers gone and pulled out a gun, a handgun pistol type of thing. Better than the shit he took on loan. Bought that with the profits? Stole from the scene? Hollis is asking questions, and rightly so. But no, here's the answer, Pinner's been given the gun. He's been hired himself to get a job done. Got his own fuckin' tale to spin and tell. Starts with the line, fuck you, Hollis. I'm not sure I got it all, but he's got a boss or a man he wants to keep happy. They call him the Tax Man or Mr Manders. A fuckin accountant, got offices and everythin. A properly legit arsehole accountant. Needless to say, off the books, he's a proper cunt from Birmingham way. I know him, heard all about him. Anyway, he knows about the guns. He knows Kenny's job is to make them vanish. If he don't, if they hit the street or feed the pigs, Kenny's dead, in prison or both. Good, he thinks. Rival down. Fucked off for good. His business bought cheap. Nice business, good business, I'll get it fuckin done. So he makes the offer or gives the order, kill Hollis and whoever he brings, keep the cash and coke but bring the guns to me. It's perfect. Kenny won't even know the Tax Man gave the order. So here I am, watchin, listenin, the stand-off continues. What next for me? Simple, I shoot the cunt with the gun. This is my fuckin night. I'm not havin' some Brummie sounding cunt dictate the terms to me. So I throw a piece of brick out to the side of them all. It connects to somethin, makes a noise. Everyone looks. Pinner's two men both pull out blades. That's what I wanted to see they ain't got guns. One goes to check out the trouble. He's got a torch. He can't see nothing so off he comes back. Pinner starts up again. Out I go, both guns pointin. I'm behind them. They don't hear. Pinner thinks he's god. He's got a gun, laughing at his own power as Hollis pleads his case. Now a sawn-off ain't known for its long range accuracy, but that voice, that whining Brummie drone, I had to have a go, so I let one barrel off. The noise fucks everyone's nerves. Pinner's hit but not down or dead. I'm close range now, so I let the second barrel go. That's the job, takes a good joint, feed a family of six out of his chest and shoulder. I take a few steps away then stop, guns pointin at the two holdin knives, both on pause, hesitating. Got noise now rantin in the ear hole, but I'm the boss here. I respond to no one. I tell the two to throw the knives away, to get rid of them now or die. They comply. Pinner asks,

'What you doin here?' Like he's a little pissed off.

'Killin the man who was about to kill you', I say.

'Well, you can kill those two fuckers too,' he says.

'No,' I say. 'I thought you was someone to fear.'

'I am,' he says.

'Then make good on your reputation,' I say. 'But you ain't touchin my guns, or the new one,' the pistol I take from the floor. 'They can't live. You know they know too much.' So off they go at it. Best show, I ever seen. Made boxing look like two old grannies havin a fumble. I kick them the knives to finish their job. Then finish mine with the help of the pistol. And fuck don't it do a lovely job. Too good, I use all the bullets having a laugh. Leave the faces though. I want these cunts recognised. Could've used the pistol another time. But who gives a shit? I got five men dead. It's the perfect crime. Never gonna be reported. The bloke who owns the land, he knows the barn gets used. He won't call the police if he makes the find. He'll call one of Kenny's boys, who'll rush to get the guns and make the job clean. The Tax Man won't go near it. He'll be waitin. What's he gonna think? Shit gone wrong. Give it a day and all evidence will vanish. The crime won't though, will it? No way. That's gonna linger good and proper. Think of the panic, the paranoia, the trails pursued for revenge. Fingers crossed we'll get a bloodbath, while I'm in the bath getting clean and havin a wank (laughs). You got all that, Jon? What a fuckin chatterbox. (laughs). Anyway, add that to the file. I've got some cash to bank. (laughs) Well, I left the guns and drugs, too hot for me. (laughs) I'll be in touch, Jonny boy. Happy for you that. Happy for you, hey?"

Bill ended the call. An idea stirred in Jon - a trail to be set, and an honest one.

# CHAPTER 16

The journey to Clutton was effortless. The roads were dark and empty. Jon felt in control and, cocooned inside his XC90, that he was driving towards victory.

His plan was simple. He knew he had to do it. It was his best, last, chance. Bill had left the goal open. He could not lose his nerve. The view through the windscreen often seemed unreal. Deserted towns and villages vanquished by him, an agent of the night, a master of the dark world he now floated through.

It took an hour and a half to reach his destination. Dawn was beginning to smash his dreams. At home, he had used Google Earth to find the likely location. If Bill had been correct - barns a mile shy of Clutton - then Jon now drove passed another murder scene. He stopped to look but could only make out the basic facts - two dilapidated barns, thirty metres off the road, with nothing suspicious loitering outside. The only sign of recent activity was the opened farm gate that gave access to the land.

Feeling self-conscious, he drove away along the narrow country lane. It took a mile at least to find room enough to turn the XC90 round. Impatience rattled his nerves, exaggerated distance and time. Pressure built, he could have been sinking into the deep.

Before driving back towards the barn, he took the opportunity to put on the coverall, and disposable gloves he had brought from home.

The idea of driving the XC90 right up to the barn to enable him to get in and out as quickly as possible was seductive. However, he knew the wise move was stealth.

He drove back passed the barns. The road widened. He pulled into the lay-by he had seen on his way in. The barns stood a hundred metres away, less if he cut through a field. He chose to take the road. It would be cleaner and longer. If anyone had witnessed the XC90, he wanted to help its passing fade from significance, although he couldn't help but jog his way there.

At the gate, he took a moment to observe and believe the silence and stillness were real, that he was all that disturbed them. Partly convinced, he walked towards the barns. He felt exposed. The thirty metres of ground that led to the barns was open and wide, although dawn had yet to flush the night away the ambient light was rising. Hills, wooded and pasture, rose around him. He felt the lone player on the stadium's pitch. His navy blue coverall gave the impression of a farming man; his white Nike running shoes did not.

Approaching the nearest barn, he noticed a faint glow of yellow light seeping out of the entrance. He stopped, straining to pounce on any sound or movement the followed the light. The entrance was large enough to accommodate a tractor and seemed to have no door.

He continued forwards, one eye on the entrance, the other set to lead the sprint away. Nothing triggered the emergency cord and he quickly reached the barn.

He stood with his back against a wall, the entrance just metres away. He put on a disposable face mask, put up the coverall hood and pulled the draw-string tightly. The face mask caught and pooled his hot, stifling breath. He cursed himself for forgetting his torch and a pair of goggles. He snatched at the hood to pull it down, the face mask followed. They impeded his senses. Beyond himself, he could detect only silence. He had to make his move.

The planned slow creep inside jolted into a desperate rush that skidded to a halt as soon as he caught sight of the scene within. There was barely enough light to light the stage that stood at the far end of the barn. But the Range Rover's headlights and a floodlight hanging overhead combined with Bill's words to lift reality out of the dark and bring it screaming vividly into Jon's head. Crumpled on the ground were five dead men.

Putting on the face mask and pulling up the hood, he reminded himself that these were criminal men and dead, completely and utterly dead. They would feel no pain, or bear no witness to any new crime.

He had to identify Hollis. Squinting a little, he moved to study the bodies in close-up. He didn't feel sickened. His desperate need was his iron lung that kept him safe within. And the cold agricultural air somehow helped twist the human slaughter into a matter of livestock business. Four bodies were clumped together, a fifth lay metres away close to a second vehicle, an Audi A5. Jon approached the clump of four. All were vandalised, smashed and ruined, spread thickly with blood that had oozed out of them to quench the earth below. The two bodies laid on top had handfuls of flesh and clothing ripped from them. The two bodies below had been sliced and gutted by knives that remained embedded into the stiffening flesh one plunged into a neck the other a chest. So the two bodies on top were Hollis and friend.

Jon rifled through their torn, blood-soaked pockets. The contents of a wallet identified Hollis. However, he couldn't find a mobile phone.

He ran to the Range Rover, opened the door and looked inside. A cheap mobile phone was on the dash. He grabbed it. A single swipe unlocked it. Was it disposable, used for crime? He found nothing to identify it as Hollis's phone until, scanning the contacts, he found the entry, 'ill'. The number, the last four digits, matched those he had seen displayed on his phone when Bill had previously called. It was good enough. A workable phone, although not essential, would give him the means to execute his plan to its fullest potential. He would take the phone as real.

He returned to the clump of four. He had to do it. He had to set a trail that led to Bill. An eye for an eye it would have to be. He would leave no clues for the police to find. The criminal underworld would be the only hounds to catch the scent. Let them hunt Bill down and exact their swift and permanent justice on him. Jon would tell no lies. He would only play with truth.

He didn't hesitate. He jabbed his thumb into the corner of Hollis's left eye, rammed it into the socket and scooped, pulled and yanked the eyeball out. The blood-drained body spat nothing back. A rush of squeamishness made Jon shiver and shake the eyeball from his hand. But the job was good and easy. To fend off reality, he had in his mind the image of extracting mussels or other such shellfish from the shell, so in he went to prise out three more eyeballs, one from each of the men below.

Using the phone found in the Range Rover, he took a photo of Hollis's face making sure the empty eye socket dazzled the frame. He then snapped a few to show the bigger picture of murder, mayhem, and betrayal.

From the phone's contacts, he selected a contact named, 'K' then chose the option to send 'K' a text message. He typed the text, 'I know your crimes. My laptop won't lie. Druggy scum. Bastards!! Clutton ain't no safe place. More to come. Who will be next?' He attached one of the photos he had taken of Hollis then hit the send button.

He sent several more such texts, using a variety of photos, to contacts randomly selected making sure to avoid the one named, 'Ill.' Once done, he discarded the phone, left it for whoever to find.

As Bill had said, the guns were in the boot of the Range Rover. The quantity surprised Jon. One bundle wrapped in black plastic sheeting and sealed with generous amounts of gaffer tape was over a metre long and half as wide. He estimated it contained at least a dozen guns including rifles. A black canvas holdall held six automatic pistols \- all the same make and model and looked old, worn and well used - and a small block of what Jon assumed to be cocaine tightly bound in cling film. He guessed it would weigh around two-hundred and fifty grams, one quarter the size of a bag of sugar.

Bill had mentioned bullets, so Jon expected to find a box or two but found none in the holdall or boot. Had Bill taken them along with the cash? A gun too? He hoped Bill had. It would prove Bill's guilt when found. In fact, Jon thought it best to raise the stakes. He picked up the guns wrapped in plastic and carried them fast away. An idea sparked. He dropped the guns, retrieved the phone and took some additional photos to show the guns in the holdall were all that remained in the Range Rover's boot.

Texts sent, Jon ran back to the XC90 the guns carried on his shoulder. There was a dirty morning light. Trees in the distance were still black against the sky. When on the road, sandwiched between two neglected hedgerows, he felt barely detectable.

Back at the Volvo, the guns went into the boot, the face mask and gloves into a bin bag, ready to be incinerated when Jon arrived home. Trying to suppress a celebratory cheer, he pulled fast away. The road quickly narrowed. As a corner straightened, a vehicle coming the other way, itself too fast, was on a collision course with Jon and the XC90. Without thinking or braking, running on instinct alone, Jon swerved in and out of a passing place at the side of the road to narrowly, impossibly, avoid colliding with the car. Jon looked into the rear-view mirror to glimpse the aftermath. The vehicle, a pick-up truck, a Mitsubishi, he thought, a favourite with farmers from his part of the country, skidded into a hedgerow. Jon had to look away, he had felt a corner coming. He was right. He took it at speed. His manly confidence rose to the fullest it had ever been. He had handled the XC90 as if it was a Lotus Elise. It confirmed his driving brilliance. He had been put to the test and passed with excellence. The celebratory burst of cheer and laughter came booming out.

The driver of the Mitsubishi L200 - a white male, aged about thirty - was muttering to himself relentlessly repeating the number plate of the XC90 that had just caused him this minor bump and inconvenience. Still glaring into the rear-view mirror, his stare told of a desire to set-off in pursuit of the person who had just committed against him a major act of disrespect. From a pocket, he took out a mobile phone, opened a voice recording App, pressed record then spoke,

"JBB 123. Private Plate. Volvo XC90," he said with a distinct Birmingham accent.

After correcting the car, he pulled away. Approaching the lay-by, he noticed mud stained tyre tracks coming out of a lay-by into the road to continue in the direction of the XC90.

Approaching the gate that led to the barn, he noticed mud stained footprints of the human kind that continued in the direction of the lay-by.

The vehicle's satellite navigation announced an update,

"You have arrived at your destination."

Two miles from the barn, Jon carried the bundle of guns down a grassy bank towards a fast flowing stream. He had already been down to assess the depth of the water, but some sort of fear prevented him getting too close to the water's edge. Not that this could harm his mood. His success so far, including his handling of the XC90 to muscle a bully-boy local off the road was enough to thicken his skin.

Standing safe away from the water's edge, he scanned the view. The morning was fully born, but still, he felt hidden enough amongst the trees and undergrowth to throw the guns into the stream. He launched them away in a sort of double-handed shot put style. The splash was loud, but the evidence sank quickly. He risked a step forward to watch the bundle disappear beneath the muddy, brown water. He knew the stream would likely give the guns up, to become clear or shallow in the summertime. He didn't care. They set no trail to him.

Jon climbed the bank then ran back through a wooded area to the XC90, which he had parked off-road in a deserted clearing used as a car park.

A telescopic sight focused on Jon, the crosshairs standing steady. He stripped off his coverall and running shoes and placed them into the bin bag.

"Well, what we got here?" said a man with a lazy country drawl.

The man, who was known as, Gittins - a country die-hard, as happy as a pig in shit when he was with pigs in shit or just in shit - sat on a quad bike holding a pellet-firing rifle which he had aimed ready to shoot. A dozen dead rabbits adorned the bike, and two tied together with string were hung around his neck. He wore camouflage clothing splattered with mud. As he lowered the gun, a filthy smirk crept over his face.

"Some dirty dogger type, I reckon." He chuckled to himself then continued. "You lucky you rabbits, you just screw and be done with it. We humans, we all a bunch of pre-verts. We best keep an eye on this one."

He raised the gun and brought the scope back to his eye to watch Jon climb inside the XC90.

With a pair of Hugo Boss driving shoes fresh on his feet, Jon drove fast away heading for home. He dared to believe a problem was solved or would be soon, that the forces he had set in motion would now act to resolve the issue permanently.

Fifteen minutes later, a phone call directed Gittens to the barn. What he found there made him so weak and dizzy with shock he struggled to hold his mobile phone up to his ear.

"Oh the Jesus lord fuckin Christ! This ain't right, is it? This ain't right at all. I said up front, I don't mind some dodgy dealings, meetings and the like, stolen plant machinery and other such goods here for the night, even drugs and guns for an extra slice of the naughty cheese. But bodies, dead 'uns, humans, I said none! Dead or otherwise. I said, no illegal immigrants here on my land, sex traffic maybe, but no, I said, no dead bodies. What do you think I can do with this lot now? I got no fuckin farm shop to serve the shit away!.....Calm down? For a man dumped in the sea of shit I'm not wading in, I'm as calm as a man can be! You lucky I been shootin rabbits. You should've called me straight out of bed then I'd have had the edge on me. I'd have had all the edge on me then!...You will get it cleaned!...Right. No. Good....Suspicious?...Funny man in a Volvo, in a coverall stripping off. Posh twat looking fella. I thought him something of a dogger. Lots of that round here, and doggers love their Volvos, from what I seen...Details? Juicy Bacon Baps one, two, three."

# CHAPTER 17

The L200 sat parked in the car park of Screwfix - the retailer of trade tools, accessories and hardware products. It didn't look out of place. Pinner, the driver, sat in the driver's seat combing his hair in the rear view mirror. His buzz cut needed little attention, but Pinner gave it more than enough to set it straight. Once done, he rubbed a hand over the dark stubble that shadowed his face. He looked a little worried. With a flurry of fussy strokes, he brushed the grain trying to smooth and neaten the overall look. His mouth gaped open, his lips spread to expose his teeth as he checked for stray scraps of food. A thought struck him. He fumbled for his wrist watch to check the time. It kicked him away, he opened the door and climbed out.

Pinner pressed a button on the key fob and locked the L200. Scanning the view his reflection, ghostly in the driver's window, grabbed his stare. Without need, he fiddled with his shirt collar to make it no straighter than it had been before then dusted down his black leather jacket. It took a glance at his wrist watch to prise him away.

Passing the front wheel, he shimmied down a little to plant the key fob on top of the tyre.

The business park was home to mostly local and independent business: solicitors, printers, trade and office suppliers, technology service providers, financial advisors and more. Pinner hurried along, conscious of not becoming too hot or sweaty.

He reached his destination, a building named Sterling House, two-storeys of brick and glass - modern, clean and bland. Occupied by Manders and Associates Chartered Accountants and Business Advisors. Pinner stopped abruptly outside the revolving door and searched his pockets to double check he carried a piece of paper on which he had written JBB 123. PRIVATE PLATE. VOLVO XC90. And, for back-up, his mobile phone. Through windows, a floor of office workers could be seen quietly and diligently working away.

Mr Manders sat in his office behind his desk with his unflinching stare fixed on Pinner. Both sat stiffly with their backs plumbed straight, Mr Manders to precisely fit his chair, Pinner to conform. The space the office occupied overwhelmed the furniture it contained, but this office space was all that seemed excessive. The furniture, decor, and effects did their job with a smart, efficient grace without any fuss or show. Everything was neat and proper blending into a clean, coherent and forgettable whole. Mr Manders - a tall man with an athletic build who looked younger than his age of forty-five - was conservatively dressed in a dark blue suit with white shirt and matching blue tie. The spectacles he wore lacked any sense of modern trendy style but fitted his face with a natural ease to blend in effortlessly and emphasise his serious and precise nature. The only flourish of flash, in the room and on the man, was the gold cufflinks and tie pin he wore. No personal effects, no family photographs adorned his desk.

"Six?" Mr Manders asked in an accent that had been ironed flat to free it from the Brummie tone.

"Yes," said Pinner with some caution, his Brummie accent somewhat suppressed.

"Seven went back."

"They did."

"I was told there would be more."

"I took a good look but found only the six and the package of... nothing else."

"You've made them safe?"

"Yes."

"Good...So, our morning is disturbed."

"Yes."

"Something unknown rattles the numbers."

"The six are enough to make the play."

"Playtime, our playtime, not now, not yet. Why leave the six? Who would? Not a man who needed to make them vanish?"

"No."

"Then who? Whose game are we now playing?"

"Well, as I said," using his hand he gestured towards the piece of paper he had brought which now sat on the desk in front of Mr Manders, "it may have some significance."

"It may." His stare didn't budge. "But why the need for the finishing touch? Vain excess? Or something personal, a need to fulfil some internal kink? Or a deliberate act designed to communicate a message to me?"

"Or to him who needed the goods destroyed."

"Even so, one fact is clear, at the very least, it is an inconvenience to me. This is now our priority. I want this problem neutralised. I must know it completely. Is it one we made for ourselves, that we failed to see in our peripheral vision but one we can now find and see and own? Or is it something worse, a black swan event, something we had, or have, no control over, something that could damage us?"

"Where do we start?"

"With the details we have. I know the right people. You make some inquiries closer to home. The faintest whispers I want to know."

"Right."

Pinner leaned slightly forward placing his hands on the armrests as if he was about to stand, but he paused waiting for permission. Mr Manders gave a slight nod. Pinner stood and walked towards a door.

"One thing," said Mr Manders. Pinner stopped and turned to face him. "Your shoes, they're dirty."

Pinner looked at his shoes. From up above they looked clean.

Mr Manders continued, "The soles."

"Oh. Right. The location this morning."

"This is the city we have shops and services, opportunities for you to use your initiative."

"True."

"Keep me informed."

"I will."

Pinner sort of half bowed in a subconscious attempt to ingratiate himself with Mr Manders, who in turn offered the slightest nod to send Pinner on his way out through the door.

# CHAPTER 18

Kenny was a hulking man, not quite the full blob of obesity, in clothes his bulk still managed to give the impression, or risk, of well-packed muscle, and this wasn't a complete illusion for something had to power his natural, savage strength. His skinhead skull was shadowed dark by a thick growth of stubble, which suggested baldness wasn't the reason for his choice of cut. At nearly fifty years old, he still looked a formidable physical threat, the sort of man who could bowl through a crowd without saying a word, his look and presence enough to part the hordes whether daytime shoppers or pissed-up nighttime revellers.

He sat on a chair holding a mobile phone to his ear. A craggy brick wall was close behind him. Its white paint was flaking. His stare glared, unmoving as it watched a group of eight men who in turn looked back at him. Fifty-metres of open, disused factory floor separated them. It was a cavernous space - a king's great hall. The building, abandoned to decay but still structurally sound, was once the home of an engineering works. Remnants of the past were litter and scraps - shelving, desks, chairs, work benches, metal casings and more. The internal steel frame, painted turquoise, gave colour to the white windowless walls. Red painted steel crane beams attached to the main frame columns ran the entire length of the space and supported several heavy rusting winches. Skylights that lined the ceiling allowed daylight to flood in. Wooden doors also painted turquoise led to offices and other rooms. A grey spiral steel staircase at one end of the factory floor led up to a mezzanine floor that was sealed off behind a door and blind-covered windows.

Kenny spoke quietly through lips that moved little. His stare didn't stray from the men who stood and watched him.

"Yeah?..Right...You reckon?..You don't fuckin say. That right, is it? You can't see any? I saw them in the photos, clear as fuckin day, but you can't see any now? You're on the fuckin ground and you're tellin me nothin's there what I need to be? Catchin' is it, that thing down there? You got your eyes clawed the fuck out too?....Who's got the cock to lie to me? Oh there it is, that's the line, that's the fuckin funny line. Gotta laugh now, wanna burst a fuckin spleen, but can't though, can I? Oh fuck, no, even though it's a double funny? Out they pop all them eyes and now all the eyes are watching me. Hollis. There's one. Just one? He lied to me. And he had a tiny fuckin widge, half the drop of his fuckin balls. And he lied to me. There you go. There's one, one name. What's the odds there's a hundred more? But good news for me. How's Hollis lookin' now?....Do me a favour cut out his fuckin tongue....Is that a fact, through a fuckin wood chipper?...A fuckin what?... A fuckin Timberwolf. That meant to impress me?...Well, fuck, it does. You put him in feet fuckin first. I want his head in last. Maybe the fuck's not properly dead. And film it. I want to see it. And watch them country fuckin bumpkins. You look him in the eye, you make sure he's not a part of the lies. Too much of the billy-bull drillin down through my fuckin skull, mate. Could've been a good day, day of leisure, haircut, massage, snooker, what the fuck else knows. And it all got fucked for the sake of a liar. But you know this, here I fuckin am. I'm on the fuckin speed, mate. I'm fully fuckin powered. I've hoovered a fuckin mound of the good stuff and here it fuckin comes. I'm in the ring, and I don't mean for twelve queer rounds. I mean till the end of fuckin' time. You keep me informed. You get me clues. I wanna know who those other three are."

Kenny ended the call then put his phone into the top pocket of the Black Belstaff waxed Roadmaster jacket he was wearing. His stare remained fixed on the men. It sizzled with contempt and suspicion and a need for action. The men were his lower ranking associates, his best having been sent to the barn to clean up the mess. He knew they were scum, they had to be, but as long as they remained loyal and useful, he could tolerate their faults.

Kenny sniffed a single aggressive snort.

"You alright, Kenny? What's happenin?" one of the men shouted.

Kenny shot up out of his chair and screamed back, "The treacherous fuckin cunt!...We sort this now! Every single one of you get on the fuckin speed! You lazy English cunts!"

Kenny shot-off towards the men, a bowling ball released.

Max - a twenty-something steroid monster who, as Kenny's gopher and sometime driver, had reached his level in life.

Bim - a once feared street-fighter now punch-drunk and slow, but too stupefied to remember he was well past his best.

Bennett - a skinny nineteen-year old thief/deviant. A shoplifting legend. The store detectives' poster boy example of who to instantly suspect had entered a shop on a mission the thieve.

Wocky - a grinning, virtually toothless gimp, all sense and personal restraint beaten out of him, much to his own amusement.

Harris - a man born too short and too ginger for his ego to tolerate.

Paul, Tony, and Alan - all quite normal looking blokes, ex-football thugs now gone to seed. They hung around the fringes of Kenny's criminal gang looking to make the occasional earner. They had shuffled in under orders to come and make up the numbers.

All eight men stood watching as Kenny approached.

"So, what's the plan, Kenny?" said Max.

"Speed! What did I just say?" said Kenny, as he came to a stop amongst them and they formed a loose circle around him.

"You just said what you said, yeah? That's what you just said, yeah?"

"We get on the speed! We power ourselves for an all-fuckin-nighter! We get obsessed, like mentally fuckin ill, like self-harm fucked-up dedication!"

"Speed? But Joey's gone out for chips," said Bim.

"And kebabs. I'm havin a kebab. He is gettin me a kebab? I ordered it," said Alan.

"Fish, chips, kebabs the works," said Bim. "We got you a fish, Ken. We'll have loads of food here in a minute, but who's gonna want any that if we get on the speed now?"

"We've all dipped in, put our own money down," said Harris.

"Is that right?" said Kenny.

"Too right. I'm in for six fuckin fifty."

"Yeah, and you know, fish is running out, as my misses keeps tellin me. She's got problems with her nerves, Kenny, that's why I was late. She thinks everything's runnin out, water, tea, chocolate, helium." said Tony.

"Helium? What they put in balloons?" said Max alarmed.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's like fuckin oxygen," said Max properly worried.

"Who gives a shit? It's fish he's takin about, cod, and that is runnin out. It's not sustainable. Which is why we should eat it now we've bought it, every fuckin scrap," said Bim.

"I'll have the speed. Anythin like that you want me to have, Kenny, I'll take it, Kenny. I'll test anythin new you got as well," said Wocky.

"Fish is easy to nick. They don't even fuckin tag it. But no cunt round here ever wants it, unless it's fuckin battered. Even breadcrumb fish is no go round here."

Kenny walked away. The men watched him as he opened a door and went inside what was once the foreman's office.

"Hold on," said Bim, "what about drinks? Is Joey gettin drinks?"

"He's gone down the Fryer. Every twenty you spend down there, you get a free two litre Pepsi," said Alan.

"What, we're not havin beers?"

The sound of a door being kicked open made the men look. Kenny walked towards them. He was holding a big long handle axe with a gleaming head. The men tensed. Kenny as walked amongst the men eyeballing each one in turn.

"You hear the sirens, the emergency fuckin sirens blaring away in every fuckin direction?" said Kenny, as his stare landed on Max to demand an answer.

"No, not really, Ken," said Max.

"Deaf and fuckin dumb! Is that what I got around me?" Kenny continued on the prowl hunting for any signs of weakness. "Here we are red alert, grade A fuckin emergency and you cunts are talkin fish and chips with a dollop of who knows what the fuck nonsense on the fuckin side!!" He launched the axe towards Bennett and Jon. It sliced through the air narrowly missing their faces. The force of the swing broke his balance. He stumbled into a quicker, more aggressive step to continue his hunt confronting each man with his seething glare. "But no, I think, that's good, I think. It's good that death and murder and mutilation hasn't ruined a single fuckin appetite. It's good that none of you feels sick or disturbed or worried that the slaughter we've all seen in the photos and the promises we've all read in the texts ain't on its way here now, this fuckin minute, on its way here now this absolute fuckin minute. And the guns, I think. Do they give a shit? Do they care they're gone? Not properly gone, as I gave the order for them to be properly fuckin gone! But lost gone! Fucked gone! Fucked up the arse while drunk as a skunk gone! Thieved! Thieved guns now thieved from me! Ex-army guns now ex from me! And I wonder, do they know what those guns were used for? Do you know how and from where they got to us?" He latched onto Paul, placing the steel axe head against Paul's cheek. "You know about ballistics? You know what experts can learn from bullets and guns?

"No one believes in experts post-brexit, Ken," said Paul.

"So what, you're in charge? We listen to you now, do we," he stepped away from Paul to address the men as a group, "you stupid fuckin cunts?" He continued to prowl, he anger seething but contained, as he passed each man he brushed the axe against them. "Nah, that's good, that is, that's very fuckin good. Let's kill the fuckin experts. Let's kill the fuckin geeks. We'd be better off in medieval times with bullshit wizards and homo fuckin priests. We need to turn the clock back to a time of men with big hairy bollocks. Dedicated men with big, hairy bollocks, prepared to do whatever it takes to survive and advance and fuckin rule. We need a code, like knights and ninjas. A ceremony of sacrifice and commitment to the cause. If I was yakuza, I'd be choppin your fingers right the fuck off. In fact, get me his mum, Hollis, yeah, get me his mum. Get me her now. Well chop her head right the fuck off." He stopped in front of Bim, the axe pointing at his face.

"His mum?" said Bim.

"His nearest and fuckin dearest!"

"But she's a lollipop lady. She helps me kid cross the road to get to school."

"So I can't make a statement and you can't prove you dedication cos your retard kid can't be trusted to cross the fuckin road on his own?"

"He's a knob, you know he is."

"Got a brother, ain't he, Hollis? Got a cousin? Some fucker with a head? All you gotta do is find the will, and I'll find you a fuckin head."

"It's not my style. It's too jihadist. You know my views, Ken."

"Jihadist? I'm in Mexico with the fuckin cartels," said Kenny.

"You live in Cheshire, Ken."

"Greater fuckin Manchester."

"He had a dog. He loved it," said Wocky with a burst of enthusiasm.

"A dog?" said Kenny as he paced towards Wocky.

"Yeah. We could chop its head off ."

"Sick fuckin cunt. What breed? Pit Bull, Rottweiler?"

"Whippet."

"Whippet!!" Kenny exploded. He grabbed Wocky around the neck and held him in a headlock. Wocky's scrawny frame offered no resistance. His face quickly reddened but his gormless grin remained.

"Well ain't we the feared and vengeful gods of Greater fuckin Manchester! The fuckin whippet killers! Hollis got a goldfish we can chop the fuck up? Check his fridge when you're round his house, he might have a chicken in there, we can fuck that up too!" Kenny pushed Wocky away then continued to pace. As he gasped for air, Wocky grunted a quick, dizzy laugh as if happy for the high.

"Here is the reason," Kenny continued. "This is it, one hundred percent the reason why Hollis did what he did and fuckin betrayed me! What do I demand of you? What sacrifice does it take to be a member of this? You buy me a pint on my fuckin birthday? The yakuza take a finger, SAMCRO have a round of Russian roulette. A fiction, I know, then what about this?" Bursting with violence, he threw the axe as hard as he could towards Harris, Alan and Paul. Instinct whipped them away. The axe shot passed them and smashed into a wall. "Have that for real. Cos me, I can't get my boys to drop a chippie lunch to snort a mound of speed. We're on the verge of war with a gang of ex-royal marines, now naughty motherfuckers who gave me a job, a test, I know, for bigger and better things, if done right. If not, dead! Destroy the guns, make then vanish. I had the means, the channels to make it happen. Easy! Too fuckin easy! But not so fuckin easy due to what the fuck, I don't know. But I do know this, we got a two-pronged attack fuckin us. The marines we know, but who the fuck is this other cunt? Who, why, what the fuck are we up against?" He lunged towards Wocky getting close in, eyeball to eyeball. "Is it catchin? You think it's catchin? Tell me now, is it catchin?"

"What?" said Wocky oblivious to the menace and threat.

"Evil shit. I gotta know."

"What?"

"Be the man. Know the mind. What does it mean to claw a fuckin eye. What language is this fucker speakin? Who is he? What does he want? Let me step into his shoes. Let me know his mind cos mine's racing too fast. Who and why? What the fuck, do this?"

Kenny stabbed his thumb into Wocky's right eye. The force of the blow sent Wocky down. Kenny joined the drop lusting after the eye. Wocky's body hit the floor and crumpled still. Kenny followed through clawing thumb and fingers into the socket to tear the eyeball free. Wocky's screams were infused with a sort of insane laughter as if part of him thought he was the voyeur privy to the assault.

Kenny stood up straight, turned to his men and displayed the eyeball held in his hand. Their stares, shocked rigid, looked passed the eyeball to be fixed on Kenny's face. Fear held them silent.

"Don't look away you soppy cunts. Know your fuckin enemy," said Kenny. He then turned to Wocky, who's body writhed on the floor twisting with pain and emotion, and gently tossed the eyeball to him, as if expecting him to catch it. When he didn't, Kenny muttered, "Prick." He then turned and paced away. Speaking to his men but looking at none of them, he said, "Take him to the doctor. I'll save you some chips. You can eat them cold, you lame motherfuckers!"

Kenny walked into the foreman's office and slammed the door shut.

# CHAPTER 19

Mr Manders, sat at his desk completely silent and still, his thoughts locked on to the problem Pinner had brought to him earlier in the day.

The intercom buzzed. He answered the call.

"Ms Rice," he said.

"Mr and Mrs Caruthers to see you," said Ms Rice, his secretary, over the intercom.

"Show them in. Thank you."

Mr Manders rose up out of his chair. A quick tug on his lapels straightened his jacket. He stood watching the door. His stance was strong and true but made softer by his folded hands that hung at ease in front of him. He appeared statue still. But barely detectable beneath the impassive exterior, his upper and lower incisor teeth tapped together with an rapid, unyielding rhythm.

The door opened. Ms Rice took a step inside then stood aside to allow Mr and Mrs Caruthers to enter. Mrs Caruthers led the way. Mr Caruthers followed behind. They marched in unison, swift and nimble, their hands clenched stiffly by their sides. They were a matching pair, a long-term couple merging into one - both five foot five in stocking feet, stoutly built, and aged mid-forties. The clothes they wore were dull and banal, although pressed and presented with military grade neatness and care. Mr Caruthers wore a dark coloured fleece jacket, a dark coloured V-neck jumper over a slightly brighter polo shirt, a pair of black trousers and a pair of plain black leather shoes with a thick welted rubber sole. His short dark hair was perfectly combed and complimented by an expertly maintained lampshade moustache. Mrs Caruthers wore a dark coloured fleece jacket, a dark coloured V-neck jumper over a slightly brighter polo shirt, a black work skirt that went well below the knee, dark brown tights and black shoes the type worn by nurses and other workers who need comfort for their hard worn feet. Her hair was combed back and tied in a bun that had no flourish or decoration.

They walked straight towards the desk. Ms Rice left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Mr and Mrs Caruthers, we meet again," said Mr Manders as he offered his hand to shake.

"Mr Manders," said Mrs Caruthers as she shook his hand briefly and firmly.

"Good day to you, sir," said Mr Manders, as he continued the shaking of hands.

"Please, take a seat," said Mr Manders.

They all sat down with a stiff formality without fuss or pause.

"How's business?" said Mr Manders.

"Brisk," said Mrs Manders.

"You?" said Mr Caruthers.

"Ever changing," said Mr Manders.

"Such is the modern world."

"It is. How's your son?"

"The same" said Mrs Manders without any emotion.

"I see. But, again, such is the modern world," said Mr Manders.

"Indeed. One does try to evolve, adapt and move on but, of course, there has to be limits," Mrs Manders.

"There does."

"We don't shirk the truth. We have him labelled correctly. He's not one of us," said Mr Caruthers.

"No," said Mr Manders.

"Our work keeps us busy and interested," said Mrs Caruthers.

"As it should. Then please." He gestured towards an iPad that sat at the front of the desk. "A colleague of mine had an interesting morning."

Mr Manders picked up the iPad. Holding it so that Mrs Manders could also see the screen, he pressed the button to wake it up. The screen blasted out a graphic, close-up photo of the four dead and bloodied men clumped together in the barn. Mr and Mrs Caruthers were unperturbed.

"Are there more?" said Mrs Caruthers.

"There are," said Mr Manders. Mrs Caruthers began to swipe the screen. "Not all expertly taken," Mr Manders continued.

"No," said Mrs Caruthers in agreement.

"Five in total?" said Mr Caruthers.

"Yes. Three of mine," said Mr Manders.

"Any thoughts?"

"No. Only," He gestured towards a folded sheet of paper that sat on the desk. Mr Caruthers leaned forward and picked it up. "The vehicle was witnessed close to the scene, early morning, speeding away. The details for which enabled us to acquire the name and address."

"The registered keeper of the vehicle, the official records?" said Mr Caruthers.

"Yes, that's correct."

"Is he known?"

"No. A mystery."

Mrs Caruthers placed the iPad back on the desk then asked, "Is this to be a hole-in-one?"

"No. I need information, observation. I need to know more."

"Whatever you need we will be happy to oblige."

"Thank you."

"Right, well, we won't keep you. If that is it, we shall be on our way." She stood, Mr Caruthers and Mr Manders followed. "The usual channels of communication?"

"As always," said Mr Manders.

Mr and Mrs Caruthers paced across the car park towards a parked dark grey Volvo XC60. Mrs Caruthers led the way, but as they neared the XC60, Mr Caruthers accelerated hard into a Quick March to overtake and beat her to the front passenger door. Standing almost to attention, he dutifully opened the door to allow her to climb inside, which she did without acknowledging his action. Having checked Mrs Caruthers was properly settled in her seat, he pushed the door shut with all the conscientious elegance of a royal chauffeur. He then Quick Marched around to the driver's door.

Mr Caruthers sat in the driver's seat. With the key fob inserted into the ignition switch, he pressed the button and started the engine. Mrs Caruthers sat beside him rigidly facing forward.

"So, another day out, Major," Mr Caruthers said.

"The benefits of being the boss, Captain, the queen and country," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Shropshire," he said as he began to set-up the satellite navigation. "He drives an XC90, would you believe."

"Is that a fact?"

"It is."

"Then let us go see for ourselves if he's got the cock to match."

Mr Caruthers released a quick burst of laughter then spoke, "Oh, rightly so. He'll need it."

"He will, if guilty as charged. Mind you, if he does live up to the charge against him, he must be quite a man."

"Quite a man. Might be wise to go Jehovah, door to door."

"Might be wise.....Might be wise to go Jehovah, door to door."

"Would be wise. Good plan that, Major."

"Yes, Captain. A very wise plan, if needed."

"We'll wait and see."

"We shall."

"Jim Reeves?"

"Affirmative. More than usual. We venture into the countryside today, Captain."

"We do. And what a day for it."

"Co-ordinates inputted correctly?"

"Yes, Major. Permission to move away."

"Granted."

"Right you are, Major," he glanced at the clock. "Ten twenty three, let battle commence."

"I'll read the book. Who knows what we might be privileged to see."

She reached behind and took from the back seat a book, The Collins Complete Guide To British Birds. She left behind two pairs of binoculars, a wicker picnic basket and a picnic blanket.

"Pull away, Captain. Don't worry about me," she tapped the book with the finger. "I don't get travel sick."

Mr Caruthers looked at her admiringly. "No. What could sicken you, my Major? What could sicken you?" he said.

"As you know, Captain. As you know."

Mr Caruthers looked forward, his stare brimming with a sense of self-determination.

"Right then, let's go find ourselves a cock," he said as he put the car into Drive then pressed a button to activate the CD player. As he pulled away, He'll Have To Go by Jim Reeves began to play.

# CHAPTER 20

Jon had returned home to shower and to destroy the clothes he had worn at the barn. As his Nike trainers succumbed to the flames, he promised himself a treat, a wardrobe of new and updated clothes and footwear. As soon as he was free of Bill, he would indulge himself with a day of leisure shopping online for the best in gentlemen's designer apparel.

Once cleansed, he took a hammer to the CDs Bill had sent through the post. As evidence, the voice files were of little use to him now, and if ever found in his possession could do more harm to him than a soon to be dead Bill. he then forced himself to work. The inquires he had to answer, the website updates he had to complete all felt trivial and menial tasks. But the thought he was laying down the tracks of a typical day kept him focused. To this end, he fired off his first Tweet in several days, which came to him effortlessly and through excited laughter -

'What a day. Played a blinder. No longer up to my eyeballs in shit!'

Followed by one from his list of Tweets to steal,

' Facebook spoiler alert. Everyone dies.'

Finally, he thought it wise and typical to pay a visit to Pornhub, although still fearing police investigation, the porn he watched was barely hardcore and of the MILF genre only.

Throughout the day, his thoughts fixed on Bill, or rather the play he had made against him. Would his investment now strike it rich? He wanted to phone Bill to glean any information he could. To call him and have him not answer his phone. To call him and call him and have him never ever answer his phone.

Bill also gravitated towards his phone impatient to hear some news. But unlike Jon, he didn't hesitate. He picked it up and called Bradley, an acquaintance he met in prison and a friend of Hollis and his underworld fraternity.

Bill's lie was simple, he had been trying to get in touch with Hollis but without success. Bradley was quick to reveal all he knew, empowered by his knowledge of murder and mayhem, enthused by the drama of the story it was now his reputation enhancing privilege to tell.

Bill listened and did a good job of bullshitting surprise and shock as Bradley built to his climax to reveal the clawed out eyeballs and threatening texts.

"What the Jimmy-Mac-fuck," said Bill thinking, knowing but not quite able to believe his thoughts. "Eyeballs clawed out?"

"Yeah. Couldn't make it up, could you?" said Bradley.

"Well."

"But why? Why do it? What's it mean?"

"That I couldn't say."

"Could be sexual."

"Sexual? How the fuck?"

"Anythin can be sexual with these weird fuckin freaks."

"You reckon?"

"I do. I know."

"Clawing out a man's eyeball?"

"Yeah. Well, that or maybe you couldn't make it up. Don't mean nothin, we'll never know."

"Oh, you could make it up. I could make it up. Easy. Ain't so hard to claw out an eye. I nearly did it myself in prison once, but the screws got to me first."

Bradley had little to say about Kenny's response, other than to boast, "It's all gonna kick off big time." But Bill had had enough headline sensation to fulfil his need for news.

Bill sat at his laptop. He double clicked on a zip file named Bill Locke. A box opened requesting he enter a password. He typed in twenty-four separate characters. The zip file opened. It contained the evidence incriminating him for the murders and crimes he had committed so far from typed confessions to crime scene photographs.

He clicked on a jpeg icon named james01. A preview image opened up showing a selfie photo of him with James's corpse in the back of a van. He pressed delete and trashed the file.

"All yours, Jon. All yours you cunt. Have them on me," he said.

He deleted three more jpegs: james02, james03 and james04 and then a Word file named I Confess: James and Ann.

He closed the zip file then opened up the software CCleaner, a secure file shredding programme. In the settings menu, he selected 'secure file deletion' and then 'very complex overwrite 35 passes.'

"Who's a fucking Luddite? I'll make you vanish. No day in court for you, you twat."

Having set the recycle bin and the disk free space to be wiped, he pressed the Run Cleaner button and started the cleaning process.

He navigated to an unprotected folder outside the zip file named Jon, which contained the photos he had taken of Jon carrying Ann's corpse.

"All I fuckin need. That and you in the ground."

He stood reaching to grab the printer cable which he then connected to the laptop.

# CHAPTER 21

Parked high in the Shropshire Hills on a gravelled piece of land, which they knew was an officially designated a car parking area, Mr and Mrs Caruthers sat inside their XC60 eating their picnic lunch. On the weekend, the car park would often be full, as people came to walk, run and cycle, but today, for the moment, it was theirs alone. The view was stunning - soaring above an expanse of countryside, scattered villages, and isolated homes, Jon's included, which, through a good pair of binoculars, had been easy to survey.

They held a plastic plate just beneath their chin as they slowly and satisfyingly ate a soft, floury bap filled with a generous wodge of brie.

Mr Caruthers looked at Mrs Caruthers and watched as she took a bite. Once the mouthful had been swallowed, "To your liking, Major?" he asked.

"Yes. Very nice. Again, you prove yourself consistent," said Mrs Caruthers.

A glimmer of pride flashed across his face. "Cheese, the trick is simple. I always season my cheese."

"And rightly so. You get very effective results."

"Who, what, is a man that doesn't season his cheese? A simple twist, a quick, easy shake."

She looked at him, directly in the eye, and gave him a single, decisive nod. The glimmer of pride returned to his face. She looked away back towards the view. He followed her lead.

"Truly, a glorious view," said Mr Caruthers.

"It is. It's why I turned the music off. Such a sight needs no embellishment. Silence is enough."

"Yes....To think, to think how many men have been slain for this green and pleasant land. No doubt a battle, at some time in our long, glorious history, a battle here was fought."

"With many killed, and rightly killed, in defence of their king and realm."

"The green of civilisation can only grow on the red of blood."

"Yes. How very poetic, Captain. Finish your bap, we'll both take a chocolate eclair."

For a moment, they held each other's stare, until Mr Caruthers turned sharply to look out of the rear window. A car - a decade old Vauxhall Corsa - had pulled into the car park at an inappropriately fast speed. Ignoring the dozens of available parking spaces, it accelerated towards the XC60 bouncing on worn shock absorbers and the rough stony ground.

"Odd," said Mr Caruthers.

"Rude," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Provocative."

The Corsa pulled up next to the XC60 on the driver's side and parked. It was a neglected shit-heap. Shoddy repairs and thoughtless modifications, made it look fat-arsed and dressed in hand-me-downs. The paintwork was smeared on and blotchy and brought to mind pound shop fake tan. Inside sat two baseball cap wearing male youths - Matty and Blake, both eighteen years of age - who were head-banging away to hardcore techno music that boomed out of the stereo. The youth in the passenger's seat, Matty, looked at Mr Caruthers gave him the finger and laughed.

"Well, well, we meet the local scum," said Mrs Caruthers without a hint of concern.

Mr Caruthers lowered his window. Matty, egged-on by Blake in the driver's seat, turned down the music then wound down his window.

"You alright, mate?" said Matty laughing.

"Be fair lads, either keep the music off or go and park somewhere else. There's plenty of space," said Mr Caruthers.

"But we like the view, mate."

"As do we. Let us enjoy it. Be wise. You drive on. Move somewhere else."

Blake leaned over to the window, "Tough shit. It's our view. We live here. You ain't from around here, are yer. You drive the fuck on!"

"No, I'm not from here," said Mr Caruthers. "But I'm happy to visit your shitty home turf because, as common knowledge tells the world, all the women here are slags, and all the men queer."

"So what, you brought your misses back home to visit her mum?" said Matty, which made him and Blake whoop with laughter.

"You get out of the car then you'll learn who's the fuckin queer," added Blake.

"Yeah, and all the women are slags, lucky fuckin us," said Matty.

"So fuck off back home (adopting a bad Jamaican accent) cos we got some serious, grade-A weed smokin to do! Picnic time, bitch!" said Blake.

Matty wound his window up. Blake turned the volume of the music back up to full anti-social.

"No surprise. Even the yokels are crackhead wannabies," said Mrs Caruthers. "They'll be less of a challenge after a spliff or two."

The Corsa's car horn began to blare. It made a harsh, damaged sound. Mr and Mrs Caruthers looked. Matty and Blake were inside laughing at them. The horn continued to sound for five seconds then stopped for five then sounded for ten. Mr and Mrs Caruthers looked at each other and gave each other a nod. In unison, they opened their doors and stepped out of the car.

Matty and Blake looked a little shocked. Their postures became defensive. The pounding techno music cut dead to silence. Matty wound down his window but his psyched up aggression fell to silence as he watched Mr. Caruthers pull out a medium sized Swiss army pocket knife and effortlessly extract the large blade and corkscrew tools.

"Drive on? You had your chance," Mr Caruthers said. He then lunged at the passenger side rear tyre stabbing it with the blade and puncturing it severely. "Now you can't fuck off back home!"

Matty and Blake scrambled out of the Corsa. Mrs Caruthers headed round the Corsa towards the driver's side and Blake. She extended a Tungsten-steel telescopic walking pole a single length so that it formed a sturdy looking fourteen-inch truncheon.

Mr Caruthers headed for the front tyre on the passenger side. "But got a spare? A can of tyreweld?" he said before stabbing the front tyre with the blade.

Blake, shouting obscenities at Mr. Caruthers, began to run round the car with the intent to confront him. Mrs. Caruthers smashed the pole/truncheon into his face knocking him to the ground. A second blow upped his concussion to stable.

Mr. Caruthers held the Swiss army knife in his right fist so that the corkscrew stuck out through his closed fingers and the blade poked out from the bottom. Matty, seeing the improvised knuckle duster, and Blake's instant defeat, hesitated. Mr. Caruthers ran at him screaming a war cry as if charging the enemy with his bayonet fixed. Matty flinched, the instinct of flight propelled him away, but only into Mr Caruthers who rammed into him headfirst like an angry fighting bull his short, squat body flipping him over his back to launch him into the air from where he crashed to the ground with a bone-shattering thud.

Groaning, Matty rolled onto his back. Mrs Caruthers appeared above him to stand astride his face. She pulled up her skirt to expose her stockings and suspender belt and the fact she wore no knickers. Mr Caruthers pulled out his mobile phone.

"Shame him, Major," he said.

"Humiliate him, Captain," said Mrs Caruthers.

"The full hairy bush."

"It's new to him."

"Well, since he was pushed out crying and shitting himself."

"It'll come back to him. Shame on you baby-face," said Mrs Caruthers to a petrified Matty.

Mr Caruthers stepped in and with phone held ready, stamped on Matty's solar plexus. The force of the blow and shock of the pain caused Matty's body to jackknife up. Mr Caruthers took a burst of photos to capture Matty's face moving towards and crashing into Mrs Caruthers's exposed vagina.

As Matty slunk back down, Mrs Caruthers followed squatting down to sit on his face.

Mr Caruthers whooped excitedly, "Give him the mummy love, Major! The full mummy love! I'll get his phone and contacts. His friends will love to see this."

"Just a quickie. There's two naughty boys to shame today," said Mrs Caruthers as she contracted the walking pole back to a more manageable eight-inches.

# CHAPTER 22

As the evening closed in Jon made the call. Every ring was a step closer to the finishing line. The connection rang out to voicemail. The first heat went to him.

If justice had been swift, and surely, Jon thought, it would be, five men dead and mocking threats made, then Bill would now be captured. His laptop would seal his fate. His confession, however extracted, would be slowly enjoyed.

Jon worried his addition to the crime would be sussed by Bill, and this information freely told. But would Bill be believed? Even if he was, wouldn't Kenny and his crew be grateful? They bloody well should be. As should the world, he thought. Psycho no.1 removed and out of harm's way and all due to Jon's act of bravery and personal sacrifice.

Jon made a second call. Again, the phone rang out to voicemail. He left no message. He was winning.

His main concern was residual evidence. He worried, if Bill's body turned up, the police would visit Bill's home, as they would if Bill was eventually reported missing, and in searching inside find left-over evidence that incriminated him. He would have to search the property. But when?

Jon's phone rang. It made him panic jump. He looked at the caller ID. It was Maddy. He answered the call. She was upset, a little distraught, he thought. She was at the hospital. Her Nan had been rushed in by ambulance suffering severe stomach pains. Jon guessed she just wanted to talk, although she sounded a little incoherent. An idea then struck him.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. "Clothes for your Nan anything from the house? I know you don't have a car. I could bring them tonight."

"Really? Yes. That would be very kind of you," said Maddy.

"Oh, wait, I don't have the key anymore."

"It's where it was, the spare."

"Behind the boot scrapper?"

"Yes."

"Will you need a lift home?"

"No. I'm staying."

"I'll be a couple of hours. I'll call you when I'm nearly there."

"Thank you. I mean it, really."

"Not a problem, just tell me what to bring and where to find it."

She gave him some instructions. He thought he should write them down, but another thought brewed, the security cameras throughout the house, he would have to play it honest.

"Here's a thought, what about your Nan's camcorder, I could bring it. I know she loves to use it. If she's going to be in hospital a while, it might help," he said.

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know."

"Wouldn't do any harm."

"No. It'll be in her bedroom, I think."

"I'll find it."

As soon as Jon ended the call, he tried Bill's phone and listened to it ring out to voicemail.

With the key retrieved, he entered the annexe. Aware that Maddy could be watching, he acted with single-minded intent using her instructions to go straight to Nan's room. To darken the stage, he left the light off. The second-hand light spilling in from the hall was enough to aid and abet.

He noticed the camcorder on the bedside cabinet but went straight to the chest of draws. Maddy's list of items to bring included nightwear, a dressing gown, socks, slippers, a cardigan or jumper, but fortunately no underwear. Jon admired the standard of storage, how every draw was neatly and efficiently packed. Almost every item was ironed well and expertly folded, even the knickers, a pair of which he instinctively picked up to examine how they had been folded in on themselves. An act he immediately regretted - because they were a pair of old ladies knickers, and how it might look if Maddy was watching.

As Maddy hadn't mentioned him taking an overnight bag, and as the only suitable holdall he owned was one by Hugo Boss, he brought with him a 'bag for life' shopping bag. However, as he filled the bag with clothes, he wondered if such a bag might be a touch insensitive given Nan's poor health and failing age.

With the requested clothes gathered, he walked away, passing the bedside cabinet to sneak the camcorder into the bag, with one sly minimal movement. The charging cable, attached to the camcorder but not the wall socket, followed unexpectedly. Jon left it to dangle and drag behind.

Outside the annexe, he stuffed the charging cable into the bag, locked the door then returned the key to its hiding place.

Inside the XC90, he switched on the camcorder and navigated through the menu to find the Playback Mode. A clip automatically began to play, the last clip recorded. It showed Maddy in close-up gently sobbing, her eyes half closed turned away from the camera. Her eyes opened. Seeing the camera raised a tender sort of shyness. She reached for the camera and in taking hold of it span it around to show Nan lying in bed staring at Maddy impassively except for a tear escaping her eye.

Jon navigated away from the clip to scroll through the other saved clips, all listed in order of date. He found several clips filmed on the day Bill had murdered Ann. The first one was nothing, the empty countryside seen from Maddy's conservatory window. But in the next, Ann walked into shot to steal and fill the scene. Jon recognised her coat, the one he had destroyed. The shot was jerky with zoom, but the digital image stabilizer did a fair job as the shot tracked her in a brief close-up then pulled out to reveal the location. When she disappeared amongst the trees, the shot drifted away back to the empty countryside. Jon skipped through the rest at times four speed but found nothing of value. The next clip, however, was worth a lot more. The two clips became a matching pair.

Bill, hammer in hand, stalking prey unseen. Ten seconds of gold. A close-up zoom and wide-shot to reveal the man and location. And then, after of nothing, out Bill comes running, hammer concealed up a bank towards the road. Jon looked at the clips' time-stamp ticking away - just minutes ahead of the one seen in the clip of Ann. The clips corroborated each other.

Jon felt overjoyed, even more so when he found a clip of himself running towards the murder scene, his face still potentially recognizable even though the cagoule hood was up, and then carrying the corpse running back into his garden.

A low battery warning flashed on the screen. Jon closed the LCD screen shutting down the camera. He thought about turning it back on to delete the clip of him, but with the battery low and the controls unfamiliar, he didn't want to accidentally delete the incriminating clips of Bill, to even take the risk. He would take the camera home and do a proper job - examine all clips in detail, upload any that had a use, delete any that incriminated him, destroying the camera if he had to.

Starting the Volvo's engine, he wondered, could he ride his luck for another prize? He felt his confidence rise. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, about to turn the interior light off, he paused looking at his reflection admiringly.

"Luck? Am I lucky? No, I smart," he said. And with that, the decision was made. He would drive to Bill's house, to at least take a look and assess the scene.

He wouldn't go alone. Mr and Mrs Caruthers tailed him.

Bill's land and property was shut away in darkness.

The black night had shut away Bill's land and property. But darkness wouldn't keep it safe. Jon approached it slowly along the narrow road. He thought about pulling up outside the driveway, but a car following behind forced his hand. He turned into the driveway, then stopped ten or so metres along, cutting the engine and turning the headlights off. The following car drove passed then vanished. From the shape of the front and rear lights, Jon knew the car was an XC60.

Jon made the call. Bill's phone went straight to voicemail. Jon felt perfectly alone. Too cocksure to resist, he switched the engine on and drove towards the house loudly, the headlights on full beam, to wake a sleeping dog.

Jon parked. Nothing stirred. No van was parked outside. No flicker of life from inside the house.

With torch in hand, Jon jogged to the front door and gave it a knock. It roused nothing. A final scan of the scene convinced him it was safe to act. He ran to the boarded window and barged it from the frame. A pause to listen and observe, the torch probing the room inside, raised no concern or alarm. He climbed through the window. The torch beam knew what it had to find. And it did, the laptop on the table. Jon moved to it victorious.

"Gotcha! On film and now you're laptop, you Pikey fucking cunt!"

Jon didn't see the hit coming. It was clean and precise and knocked him straight to black.

With Jon bagged-up and secured inside the boot of his XC90, Bill climbed into the driver's seat. Seeing the plush interior, he spat out a contemptuous laugh.

"Pure fuckin twat, Jonny boy! Worth a few quid to me though." he shouted.

It didn't take him long to work out where to insert the key fob or which button to press to get the engine running. As he pulled away, he noticed the camcorder on the passenger seat. It made him recall Jon's claim, "Gotcha on film." He picked it up and flipped open the LCD screen as he continued down the drive way. Seeing the low battery warning, he snapped the screen shut. He would take a closer look once he had arrived at his planned destination.

As he pulled onto the road, he began messing around with any button he could find, which included jabbing the touch-screen control centre with his finger. This time his laugh roared victoriously.

The XC60 followed behind.

# CHAPTER 23

The bag Jon's head was trapped inside could have come from a town centre litter bin. The toxic mix of grease and vinegar soused his eyes and lungs. He didn't want to scream for fear of upsetting the people milling around him. It wasn't just him and Bill alone. He could hear men's voices, their laughter, and farts. The chair he was sitting on was hard and wonky. A wooden leg tapped the floor as he rocked the chair back and forth trying to dispel his anxiety. Consciousness had returned too fast and greedy. He was fully aware. No numbness remained to hide the pain or to confuse the situation. He felt a sense of complete unification, some nirvana reached. His mind, body, and soul all agreed, he was fucked beyond hope. Even his feet, and hands, were tied together to ruin his dream of running away - his preferred means of fleeing trouble. He had once run away from a traffic warden. Pressed-ganged into an underage pub crawl, a Christmas tradition at the sixth-form college he attended, he got drunk on a couple of beers. Walking to another pub, paranoid at being caught breaking the law, he glimpsed a man in uniform loitering by a row of parked cars on the opposite side of the road to the pub. Jon thought the man was police on a stake out and about to call in a raid on the pub to capture all underage drinkers inside. Unable to contain himself, he screamed, "the Babylon!" then turned and sprinted away. Why he used that word, he didn't know. But it returned every college day to haunt him along with the taunt, "It was a traffic warden, you dick." It was a recurring humiliation, one of many, that continued to call right up to the present. But how much longer, he feared, would the present now be?

Without warning, someone snatched the bag off Jon's head. The air was fresh and welcome for a single gasp only. A tidal wave of stares piled over him. The tears in his eyes were only partly due to the stifled, acidic air the bag had stained.

Jon was alone on the stage. His audience: Kenny and his men, minus Wocky but including Jordan and Robbie - both late-twenties, reeking of crime and ambition, serious, hard men, staring at Jon with impatience and hate - and Bill. They stood on the factory floor ganged together in front of Jon, who immediately classified them as the audience at a bare-knuckle bout - from videos he had stumbled upon on YouTube - and worse - from the recesses of his terrified mind - a crowd gathered to get off on an illegal dog fight.

Kenny led the pack, his body constantly fidgeting as if itching to explode. Jon looked down at the floor then pleaded,

"Ahh, no, put it back on, mate. Do a bloke a favour. You don't need to see me," said Jon with a whimper as he began to snivel.

Kenny looked disgusted. He began to walk circling Jon, "This is him, the suspect?" he said. "A man who shot and stabbed five men dead?"

"No, no," Jon said weakly.

"Could be," said Bill. "Said some things to suggest it."

"Under duress?" said Kenny.

"A little. I left plenty more to be knocked out of him. You got all the prime cuts, Kenny."

"So, here the fuck he is. An evening's work, five men slaughtered, but here he is shitting himself."

"Fuckin hell, too right," said Harris laughing. "Stand back, Ken. He's about to dump more shit than Santa does on Boxing Day."

Bim, Max, Bennett, Paul, Tony and Alan all laughed.

"Don't fuckin laugh at me!" Kenny screamed.

Bim, Max, Bennett, Paul, Tony, and Alan looked scared at the thought and quickly fell silent.

Seeing their fear and compliance, Kenny contained his rage then continued, "We're here because five men are dead and that ain't the end, gotta put another on the list tonight," he glanced at Bill then looked at Jon. "Now," said Kenny as he took hold of a winch chain that dangled from a crane beam above and moved it towards Jon. "You're the man. This is what they tell me." He attached the hook to the back of the chair Jon was sitting in then began to pull on the chain to winch the chair and Jon off the ground. The chair tilted forwards. The rope that tied Jon to the chair kept him strapped in. He raised no protest, too numbed by shock and fear. Once he had risen to Kenny's eye-level, Kenny clamped the winch secure to leave Jon hanging. "You're the man who did the deed, five men killed, two of whom were known to me. You then took some cheeky fuckin snaps and sent them to me to rub my fuckin nose in all your dirty fuckin shit."

Kenny pushed Jon aggressively away to send him flying towards the men like a bullied child on a playground swing. The chair, reaching the zenith of the swing, fell back with a whiplash inducing jolt. Kenny paced circling Jon as he continued swinging back and forth.

"I didn't kill anyone," Jon managed to say, roused by the suggestion he had. "I have never killed any human person." He looked at Bill, "It's him, Bill! He's the killer. He killed the five and more. All I did, and I confess this, I tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and remember, I'm a fucking web designer, this to me is some real dark shit, but what I did do, I did chop up then dispose of a body, a corpse, an already dead woman, and I did remove the eyeballs from two already dead men. But all because of Bill!"

Kenny glanced at Bill. Robbie interjected to question Jon.

"You admit you clawed their eyes out? You admit you were at the barn?"

Kenny looked at Robbie with a stare that still reeked of suspicion.

"Yes," said Jon.

"You chopped up the body of a dead woman? That a service you have for hire?" said Jordan.

Kenny looked at Jordan, his stare no softer.

"No! I had to," said Jon. "Bill killed her and I was as good as set-up for it. I was getting rid of falsely incriminating evidence. I had no choice."

"So Bill killed a woman, no business of ours."

"He killed the five men."

"How do you know?" said Robbie.

"He told me," said Jon.

"He confessed to murder?"

"Yes! He needs to, to boast, to feed his psycho-sized ego. He thinks he's on a glorious mission to rid the world of scum, drug dealing scum like all of you lot."

Kenny lunged towards Jon and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him firm. "Drug dealing scum, are we? You know that? Got evidence? Why? Got a plan to play us? Got a plan to fuckin grass us?" He pushed Jon away.

"No," pleaded Jon. "I'm just saying he hates drug dealers. He wants to take revenge."

"Bill did time for drugs," said Jordan pointing at Bill, who had a look of calm bemusement wrapped across his face.

"On purpose. He got caught on purpose," said Jon.

"He got sent down for a laugh? Got bored of Rhyl has he?" said Robbie.

"To infiltrate drug dealing gangs," said Jon.

"Why?"

"To get close enough to kill the big boys."

"What the fuck am I hearin here? What the fuck are we hearin', bullshit and fuckin bollocks?" said Robbie turning to look at the others to garner their agreement, which came in the form of muted nods and grunts. Kenny watched noting every response.

"His son was a smackhead junkie. He blames the dealers," said Jon.

"A junkie, and what the fuck are you high on?" said Robbie.

"Truth!"

Robbie and Jordan spat out a contemptuous laugh.

"Wanker," said Jordan. "You-"

Kenny interrupted, "Leave it. Too many voices, too many fuckin voices nattering on and fuckin on. This shouldn't be complicated. Should be an easy truth to sort. I should toss a fuckin coin cos it's fifty-fifty, ain't it, every fuckin decision is fifty-fuckin-fifty. Win some, lose some, fifty-fuckin-fifty. But still, Bill, you speak. You tell me what you know."

Bill looked completely unfazed by the request and the fact that now everyone was looking at him. "Before I got the call, nothing, absolutely fuck all," he said.

"Lies!" said Jon.

Kenny lashed out at Jon as he swung passed, clipping him with a fist on the side of the head. He told him to shut up and shoved him away then continued to pace circling Jon.

Bill continued. "Our only connection is that he lives not far from me. So fair enough, I get the call. You had the name and address of a man local to me. Do I know him, had I heard of him? No and no, I said, but I can ask around even get out there and take a look. Good, I was told, do it, it's urgent. And so I did, and when I did, out popped the opportunity to get him here to you. So I took it. I brought him here with me willingly, voluntary, happy to come, happy to help. Him? Untie the cunt, see how fast he runs the fuck away."

Everyone looked at Jon. It gave him permission to speak.

"He's undercover. He plans to kill you, all of you," he said.

"Undercover like James Bond, or the piggy fuckin police?" said Kenny.

"It's true. He's infiltrating your organisation."

Bill laughed, others sniggered.

"Is that right, Bill? Here you are undercover, infiltrating our organisation?" said Kenny.

Bill laughed briefly then said with certainty, "No."

"Why'd you claw the eyes out?" Kenny asked Jon.

"I was setting Bill up," said Jon.

"For what?"

"For you to kill."

"Ruthless man! He's got the spirit. Got a problem, kill it dead."

"I was telling you the truth, giving you the chance to take justice."

"What the fuck do I care for justice?"

"Revenge then."

"Better. But how was ripping out eyes gonna grass him to me?"

"He did it in prison. He was known for it."

"News the fuck to me."

"He was."

"Was he?" Kenny asked his men. All answers were negative. Kenny looked at Jon. "Not to them. Not to me."

"He told me. Some bloke, one of your men, was giving him grief. He had to act, so he did it. He did it!"

"You saw it?"

"No, but, he's got a glass eye."

"I have," said Bill. "Don't hide the fact. Here it is for all to see."

"He ripped this bloke's eyeball out then stuffed it into his own eye socket," said Jon. "You were meant to make the connection, know it was him and go after him, find the money and guns." Jon knew Bill didn't take the guns, but as he had lied about this in the text messages he sent, instinct told him to continue the lie and for the same reasons.

"The guns?" said Kenny.

"The guns, the money-"

"No! Start from the beginning, everything you know."

"I'm feeling queasy."

"Poor you. Want a lollipop? I'll cut your fuckin dick off, give you somethin to suck?"

"No! All I know. They betrayed you, Bill and Hollis. Bill told me everything. He was in on the deal. Once Hollis got the guns back, Bill was going to make them vanish."

"You know that?"

"Yes."

"More. Tell me more."

"The barn was the drop-off. This drug robbing crew returned the guns. Hollis got paid. Bill was meant to wait off-site ready to appear and collect the guns once the deal was done. But he was in there hiding. He was working to a bigger, even less honest, plan. It was an ambush. He got lucky, an argument broke out. The devil thrives on chaos! Out he steps two shotguns in hand, and even them he stole, you see, he's a fucking thief as well! The rest you've seen, five butchered men."

"That easy, that simple?"

"For a fuckin psychopath, a good, easy day's work!"

"Bill, for the record, you deny every word."

"No, not entirely," said Bill. "Hollis did hire me to do the guns, but I thought that was legit. Certainly not somehow going against you."

"That's his job. He makes things vanish," said Robbie.

"You were at the barn?" Kenny asked Bill.

"Nowhere near. The guns were meant to come to me," said Bill.

"Lies!" said Jon.

"Make sense for you to take them from the barn," said Kenny to Bill.

"For Hollis, not for me. Why should I take the risk of transportation? And anyway, if guilt is mine, sense is this, should've left this fucker where I found him."

"Or have shot the cunt," said Jordan. "Close his mouth for good. What doesn't make sense, no fuckin sense, is bringin him here in the first place."

"Yeah, you know someone knows business on you, and you turn them out to spill the beans, to plant suspicions when nothin, nothin, would have been known or even said," said Robbie.

"That is the bottom fuckin line," said Kenny to Jon close up into his face. " And the lines I've had today, the lines I've had are dirty fuckin furrows now, my friend, dirty fuckin furrows. Is he mad? Are you mad? Are we all fuckin insane?" said Kenny.

"He killed them, I promise. He took the money, the drugs, the guns. They were his to take." said Jon.

"Like you took the photos," said Kenny.

"Yes. I said so. I told you why."

"You took the photos. Who took the guns?

"Bill!"

"All of them? No! Fuck no, cos half the guns were seen in the photos you snapped and sent to me."

"So?"

"So," Kenny pulled out an automatic handgun from beneath his coat and puished the barrel into Jon's face, "this is a real fuckin gun, here and live, in your face, "So where are they now those guns you were the last to see?"

Jon was shocked by the revelation, "They're missing?"

"They are."

"I didn't take them. They can't be."

"Oh, so, half the guns can be, five dead men can be. But the guns you were last to see, they can't fuckin be?"

The quicksand of lies and confusion continued to pull Jon down. A part of him wanted to announce good, honest news, that he knew where half the guns happened to be. But he had sunken too low. His only way out was to wriggle and squirm worm-like - out of the darkness into the light to be drowned by the rain the flooded the soil.

"I don't know." Jon continued.

"Nor does Bill cos he wasn't the one to thieve them from me. Unless, of course, he went back to get them. But not a chance in the world would I believe that load of fuck."

"I didn't take them. I wouldn't take the risk."

"Why?"

"I couldn't be caught with guns. All of this, everything I've done, is to keep me out of prison. I'm basically a coward."

"A coward gone ruthless then what a fuckin risk you are. Can't do a bit of time. Go squealin' to pigs at the first sniff of prison?"

"I can prove Bill knows me."

Kenny turned sharply aiming the gun at Bill. "Hear that, Bill. He's got proof you lied."

"Let's hear it then. I got nothing to fear," said Bill.

"Phone records," said Jon, although he nearly said, Maddy. She could be his star witness, the one to confirm Jon did know Bill. But only if she could give evidence anonymously protected behind a screen. "He's called me. That will connect us. He's got-"

"Here's my phone," said Bill cutting Jon off before he could reveal the make and model of Bill's phone which Bill held up for all to see. "Have a look. Do what needs to be done."

"That is his phone! I know it. I've seen it. I could have told you that!" said Jon.

Kenny frisked Jon and quickly located his phone in an outer coat pocket. He took the phone and threw it at Robbie who caught it.

"Check it," said Kenny.

"Do you want my number?" Bill asked Robbie.

"There's no pin or nothing," said Jon. "You can go straight in. I work from home, check it out, I rarely go out. I don't fear losing it. I live in a nice, safe area. I'm bloody fuckin dull! This isn't me world!"

"No records, all deleted. Calls in, out, texts, there's nothin," said Robbie. "Is Bill's number a contact?" he asked Jon.

"No," said Jon.

"Fuckin useless," said Robbie as he threw the phone back to Kenny who caught it.

"It's him. He wiped them. He had the opportunity." said Jon.

Kenny placed the phone back inside Jon's pocket. "You can have that back. You might need it for an emergency."

"His laptop, check his laptop. He uses it to record his crimes," said Jon.

"For the police to find?" said Jordan.

"Yes."

Jordan, Robbie and several others laughed.

"Get his laptop! If you want the truth go to his house and find his laptop!" Jon continued.

"A fuckin' laptop," said Bill with a chuckle. "Owned by a man with a phone this shit?" He held up his phone for all to see. Most got the joke and laughed. Bill continued, "Even my porn collection is on VHS." Everyone, other than Jon and Kenny, roared with laughter.

"Best sort," said Alan. "Easiest to destroy in a hurry, if you know what I mean."

"No. What the fuck do you mean? You got pedo shit or something?" said Bill accusingly, which stopped all laughter dead.

"Fuck no!" said Alan startled at the accusation.

"No?"

"No! I mean, destroyed from the misses or the bloody kids. I mean, they know computers, can find all sorts of shit even when it's been deleted."

Bill laughed, "I'm takin' the piss, mate."

The laughter rose again, as it fell, Jon cut in, "We went to a gay club together. Ask the doormen, they knew him."

The laughter roared again.

"A gay club? Now I am gonna have to stab the lying cunt," said Bill laughing.

"Bill's gay?" Robbie asked Jon.

"Yeah. He'd do anything." said Jon more in anger and hate than truth.

"I spent time inside with him. He don't do fuckin' homo. If he did, he'd have done it inside. You got any queer in you, it's gonna come out inside. I shared a cell with this man. You say he's queer, I'll fuckin stab you!"

"It was for an alibi," said Jon.

"This is gettin fuckin stupid!" said Robbie to Kenny.

"This man killed five?" Kenny asked Robbie while pointing the gun at Jon.

"What do we know?" said Robbie.

"People went against me and this shit happened!"

"He was at the barn."

"He killed five men?"

"Did Bill?"

"This quivering piece of shit killed five fuckin men?"

"He's fought his corner mouthin off."

"His life is on it."

"I know," said Harris. "Get him to fight Bill to the death. If he wins, we kill him."

"What's that gonna prove?" said Kenny.

"Prove he's got some cunt in him."

"You're all full of fuckin cunt!"

"Maybe he's actin. I've read about the SAS," said Bim. "This could be his undercover mode, like when your car goes into limp mode and won't do more than thirty."

"Under cover? For who? Who is he then?" said Kenny.

"I don't know. A top-end assassin or somethin."

"Workin for who?"

"The military," said Bill.

"The SAS!" said Bim.

"Just a thought," Bill continued. "Hollis said the guns had a military connection in all the worst possible ways. Maybe the military were mopping up their shit."

This touched a paranoid nerve with Kenny. It froze his stare fixed on Jon. But the image of Jon as a military man would fully form, "No, no, no fuckin way," he said quietly to himself before rushing towards Jon, the gun pointing. "There more of you comin? Should I expect a rescue?"

Jon thought about pretending he was an elite soldier who's brothers in arms would be rushing in to rescue him. But this idea was overruled by a desire to appear weak and completely unthreatening.

"I design websites. I haven't even read any Andy McNab," said Jon.

"Kill them both," said Bennett with a lustful hope.

"Good idea!" said Kenny turning to aim the gum at Bill, who didn't flinch.

"Then you can't lose,"

"Wrong! I need the guns and one of these cunts knows!"

"They'll talk. Point the gun and do it."

"What if you pick the wrong one first?" said Robbie. "You ask Bill first, he can't answer so you shoot him fuckin dead?"

"Who gives a fuck, it's fifty-fifty," said Kenny.

"It'll prove to the other it's talk or die," said Bennett.

"Ain't fair that though, is it, really?" said Bim.

"So I sacrifice the man I trust most to show the man I think is a cunt what's gonna happen if he don't squeal?"

"Yeah. I'd do it," said Bennett.

"If they're gonna die anyway, why would they talk? If they tell the truth, do they walk away?" said Robbie.

"No! They fuckin don't!" said Kenny.

"Then kill 'em both," said Bennett.

"Why?" Kenny aimed the gun at Bennett. "What's that gonna hide? You need them dead?"

"No," said Bennett as he raised his hands.

"You alone?"

"It's just gettin late, boss."

"Fuckin late, too fuckin late, for who?" Kenny aimed the gun at each man in turn. "Who's the one here got lies to bury?" The men all looked at Kenny cautious and confused. None offered an answer. "Who deserves the bullet first?"

Robbie and Jordan glanced at each then gave their answer in unison pointing at Jon, "He does." The other men joined the chorus and agreed. Bill remained silent and unperturbed.

Kenny turned the gun on Jon."You?" he said.

"No!" said Jon.

"Who?"

"Bill."

"Why?"

"Cos I wanna watch!"

"And there it is, the wrong fuckin answer!" Kenny grabbed one of the winch chains and whipped it so that the clamp released. Jon crashed down on to the floor. He squealed in pain. The chair held firm.

"No! He did it! He did it!!" Jon cried.

"Lies!" Said Kenny aiming the gun at Jon's head.

"No!"

"You know you're dead cos you know your guilt."

"He's done this to me! I hate him!"

"One more kill for you to watch! A sweet, sick bonus for a sick, sick fuck!"

"No. You have to believe me!"

"Or maybe Bill, with a gun to his head, even spins a lie to try and save himself and in doin so saves you. A ruthless man! A thinkin man!"

"No. There's a woman, she's seen us together. She knows Bill knows me."

"Too late. You'll have her trained. A woman, she'll bullshit me with ease."

"No-"

Kenny rammed the palm of his hand against Jon's mouth silencing him. With his mouth to Jon's ear, he spoke in a whisper. "There's hope, some hope for you. I need the guns. You shut the fuck up here and now and there's hope for you and us." Kenny stepped away, turning to face his men. Jon felt a gut-wrenching high that quickly crashed to a gut-wrenching low, just one above imminent death.

"Bill," said Kenny, "you're a man, get over it, any slights against, any threats you felt."

"Needs must, Kenny, needs must," said Bill.

"You got my trust. No reason not to. Why the fuck bring him here? People do what they need to do. You didn't kill him because you had no need to. You had nothin to fear, simple. When I get the guns, you'll get the call to finish the job."

"Appreciated."

Kenny looked at Jon. "This fucker, get him up there, you know where. He needs to talk, and as you know, I have my methods. Then fuck off out, all of you."

"What, off on our way? That's it?" said Robbie.

Kenny turned to face Robbie. "It's hardly fuckin it, is it, Robbie? We got goods to find before we're hunted down and found ourselves. Be around, on duty. Alan, drive Bill home. And, Bill, the keys for his XC90, they're mine."

Jon looked and nearly screamed, No. He dropped to the bottom then one below.

"Yeah, right," said Bill, who took the keys from his pocket then threw them to Bill.

Bill caught the keys. "Might be a profit, but more likely it'll need to vanish along with him," he glanced at Jon. "If it does, you'll get another job."

Murder tonight, perhaps, Jon thought, that and now a dark violation.

Bill put the keys into a pocket. Jon looked at the floor unable to watch. He didn't need to close his eyes, the brown paper takeaway bag came down to cover his head.

# CHAPTER 24

Jon, still tied to the chair and with the bag over his head, was carried up the spiral staircase to the mezzanine floor. Three swearing men, aggrieved by the manual labour, hauled him up with rough impatience.

Jon offered no resistance or verbal protest. His body was numbed in shock, acting dead as it was touched all over by clumsy, sweating men. Even the head - he knew it was, he felt the warmth of breath and the screamed torrent of abuse, its vocal vibration, coming through his fly - rammed into his crutch, didn't cause his silence to break.

Finally, he was dropped, the right way up, and left sitting alone. He heard the men walk away, open and close a door then pound down the steel staircase. He felt a moment's relief at being left alone, but then the bag was yanked from his head. Kenny stood over him. He looked calm and somewhat vacant.

"Wankers. Huh?" he said pointing a large kitchen knife at the door, which he then moved to point at Jon. "I'm gonna give you a hand." Kenny pressed the blade against Jon's right wrist. "Help you talk." He slipped the blade underneath the vinyl cord that bound Jon's right hand. "Gesticulate." He pulled the knife back cutting the cord and freeing Jon's hand." Need a drink? You better fuckin had, cos if you don't you're a fuckin machine, and I can't deal with a fuckin machine sent from whatever time and place to fuck me up some damage...You want a drink?"

"Yes," said Jon.

"Somethin to soothe, cool and refresh?"

"Yes."

"Already made. Conviviality, two men havin a drink. Can't do that with machines."

"No."

"Evil fuckin psychos."

"No."

Kenny walked away. Jon glanced around. The room was a spacious self-contained, open plan apartment - kitchen, king-size bed, sofa, chairs, dining table, vast wall mounted TV with six stupidly large speakers, a bathroom that, but for a frosted glass screen of insufficient size, was open to see. Jon thought this horrific, even while living alone, he couldn't contemplate such a thing.

Jon felt the money, the crass expense, the unsettling effect of the colour scheme - black, chrome and cherry red. It was all sparkling new and high-end flash but littered with, what Jon deemed to be, council house waste - takeaway trash, empty beer cans and vodka bottles, tabloid newspapers, a bong, overflowing ashtrays and even several pornographic magazines the like of which Jon hadn't seen for many years. In fact, since he was just tall enough to snatch a copy of Razzle from a top shelf display in a failed attempt to browse the erotic treasures within. The five second peek he managed to steal stirred only shock, anxiety, and fear. Embarrassed paranoia caused him to fumble the Razzle into that week's edition of Mizz - a magazine aimed at teenage girls and one much nearer his level.

Kenny returned holding two pint glasses filled with clear sparkling liquid and topped with ice and a slice of lemon.

"Not much booze, a spit of vodka. We best start with a level head."

He held one out for Jon to take. Jon took the glass, his thirst and fear gave him no choice, although he wondered if the drink was as unadulterated as Kenny claimed. He took a sip and tasted the sharp fizz of sparkling water laced with a slight with alcoholic kick. The drip became a torrent, he gulped the drink down.

"Good man. On your side. Knock it the fuck back," said Kenny before he put the glass to his lips and poured the drink down in a single gulp.

Kenny sat down on a cherry red leather sofa facing Jon. A glass and chrome coffee table littered with council house trash separated them.

"Smoke?" Kenny asked.

"No," said Jon, "but thank you for the drink," he continued so not to sound rude or ungrateful.

"My pleasure. I'm not a savage or evil man. I want you to talk. I could cut you up, give you the full VIP, Guy Fawkes treatment, but no, not me."

"Thank you,"

"Me, I want a man to talk, I starve him. I lock him in a box and starve him...Bit of water fair enough, but fuck all else from me...Of course, it's a dark old hole is the box, just a space under the floor. It's over there," he gestured towards a far corner," so the man might get lucky, you know, spiders, woodlice, mice or rats. Makes no difference though, when it's time, I drop the man some beers. Don't take many, he'll always bite. A can of Stella does the job, sets the juices ragin big fuckin time. All I gotta do then is wave a kebab in his face, or a bacon fuckin butty. Anythin, I'll give him a fuckin App, he can order what he wants all for the price of a heart-to-heart chitty-fuckin-chat. And they do, cos what drunk and hungry man can resist his primal desires? There's a man in there now. Two days he's been in there. He'll be chewin his own farts by now. Won't do him no good though, fuck no...So, starvation, that or I load a man up with Ecstasy. Like I've done with you. Pure MDMA. I downed it too. We'll fuck this ride together, Jon. I need to. Too much speed has put me right down in the fuckin cracks."

Jon began to feel a panic attack coming as visions of getting high flooded his brain. Kenny stood up, reached over and took Jon's empty glass. "Time for a proper drink," he said and then walked towards the kitchen area. "This whole place I bought for flats. Fuck that now though, gonna be a club, a party fuckin haven. A free club, free for the people to come and rave." Passing a black granite worktop, he placed the glasses down then continued to walk towards the panoramic window. "I'll make the money sellin pills, like back in the day, warehouse gigs, free parties, and expensive fuckin drugs. Well, a man's gotta earn. What the fuck is a man that doesn't earn? Some cunt on the minimum wage? Before I went that far shit, I'd go jihadi. (laughs) See, I'm laughin already. And why, cos I'm here in my own fuckin domain."

He looked out though the tinted one-way glass window. Down below on the factory floor, he could see Robbie and Jordan huddled together with Bim, Harris, and Max. Robbie and Jordan led the conversation. Bim, Harris and Max listening intently, Max slowly nodding his head.

"Got a lot ready, sound system, lights, drugs, people, fuckin people. What to do with all these fuckin people?"

Jon gave no answer. He had imploded into a state of self-absorbed hypersensitivity desperate to sense any drug-induced change to his physical or mental state.

Kenny turned to a state-of-the-art Pioneer djing deck that was set out on a stand next to where he stood. He pressed a few buttons and scrolled through a track list.

The sudden boom of music - Wrote For Luck by The Happy Mondays - rampaged across the factory floor and pounded through the walls into the apartment. The huddle of men down below all looked up at the window. Kenny looked back hidden behind the one-way glass. Robbie quickly looked away and carried on talking. All stares fell on him. Kenny mouthed the lyrics to the chorus.

'And you were wet

But you're getting dryer

You use to speak the truth

But now you're liar

You use to speak the truth

But now you're clever.'

Bim and Max feigned goodbyes, that seemed wooden and forced - Bim laughing inanely and pointing at Robbie as if he had just told a joke while Max stuck-up both his thumbs as he backed away towards a door.

"We could be friends, me and you, Jon. You, the five-man killer," said Kenny but not loudly enough for Jon to hear, and with his stare fixed on Jordan, Robbie, and Harris. "If that's who you are...And if that's your game, you'll know and understand the pain."

Kenny pressed a button. The track, fed through the wall mounted speakers, played inside the apartment at a volume kind to conversation.

Walking towards the kitchen, Kenny asked, "You got a team, Jon, a football team?"

The question bounced off Jon without leaving a mark. The thought of getting high was making him feel high. He felt buried inside his own terrified self. The outside world was another realm. A slap across the chops brought him round. Kenny stood over him, a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses held in one hand.

"Who the fuck is your football team?" he said.

"I hate football," said Jon with a surprising amount of venom. "You want the truth, you can fucking well have it, it's a fucking stupid game watched by deluded, moronic arseholes!"

"Yeah?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I'm shocked, and a little disgusted."

"You want the truth, then you grow some bollocks!"

Kenny laughed, "True fuckin colours, out they come, out in the wash," he said placing the vodka and glasses on the table. "Drink?"

"No!"

"No thirst? Quenched already? You lucky fuck."

He grabbed the bottle of vodka then walked away.

A black and red shaggy rug covered a section of floor. Kenny bent down to it and folded it back to reveal a metre square wooden trapdoor locked with a heavy bolt. Laughing, he banged his fist against it then opened a small viewing hatch. A hand shot up through the opening - a fist at first but then a claw to grab and throttle. Its sudden desperation startled Jon.

Kenny rushed to the kitchen to retrieve the knife he had used to free Jon's hand.

Back at the trapdoor, he stamped the hand back into the hole then teased the bottle of vodka through the hatch until the man inside snatched it from him.

Kenny laughed then dangled the knife, tip of blade pointing down, over the opening.

"Fingers, you cunt. The tips of three. Prove some loyalty." He let the knife drop from his hand. "Or five fuckin toes, or I'll have your fuckin tounge."

He snapped the hatch shut then walked away leaving the trapdoor uncovered.

Kenny sat on the sofa, replacement bottle of vodka in hand.

"So, you want a drink, Jon?" said Kenny.

"No," said Jon.

"Good. Take it neat, a sweet, pure high. I wish I had your virginity."

"Why? The first time's always the worst time. The usual pit of despair," said Jon, his upper body constantly squirming, his eyes squinted shut as if trying to block out reality.

"First time's always the best time," said Kenny as he filled both glasses with vodka.

"Then try something new. Call me a taxi. We'll have an early night, separately."

"Go home to never fuckin sleep?"

"We could have a game of chess, winner takes all."

"What's your stake?"

"An XC90! The real fucking deal!"

"I already own it."

"Don't! Don't say it."

"It's the truth, and that's our goal."

Kenny knocked back the first shot of vodka. Seeing this, a vague, trippy plan formed in Jon's mind - let Kenny drink and drug himself into oblivion. He could crawl to the trapdoor and free a man who would then surely become his new best friend or, at the very least, a comrade brother in the war against Ken. Together they could escape their prison. The man may even see fit to shoot or otherwise destroy the incapacitated Kenny, and even have a crack at Bill, since Jon was now his hero and saviour.

"Something new, a different day, it's good for the soul. Let's go swimming?" said Jon.

"Fuck off. Who the fuck goes swimming, fuckin handicapped kids?"

"I do."

"Part of your trainin, soldier boy?"

"I'm a web designer,"

"This is new, this fucked-up little trip of ours. New and started by you, so you keep your head, Jon. You never know, you might win a prize."

"I'm all won out. All I can do now is lose."

"You're startin to depress me, and I'm an ugly, grubby man when I'm under that fuckin slag."

"Then let's go running. It's good for the spirits. We'll have a race. Let me go. I'll give you a proper head start."

"Like I'm fuckin handicapped?"

Kenny knocked back the second shot. Jon glanced at the trapdoor.

"No," said Jon.

"Not a fuckin chance."

"Wanker!"

"Tourettes comin out?"

"It's the stress. Wanker! Swine!"

"Swine?" Filling the shot glasses with vodka, "shouldn't that be cunt?"

"No. I wouldn't go that far. There's hope for us. You said there was hope."

"But all the plots and conspiracies, all this fuckin anarchy. Like you, you don't even support England, the national fuckin team?"

"No."

"Now that's fuckin dangerous. That's a play for anarchy that is."

"Good."

"So I'm deluded? I watch a game but the game ain't there? The spirit, the family, it don't exist?"

"The family? You think they care about you? Not the players, or the owners. I'll tell you why I hate football, Andrew fucking Chitty, a thick kid from school. Supported West Bromwich Albion. Did he live there? Of course not. We were well away from that shithole. But on and on he used to rant talking about his team, _we_ this and _we_ that, _we_ won or _we_ lost. But here's the question. Who are _we_? Who is _we_? You are not _we_! You are not the football team. You have no say or influence! You pay the players wages, you bitch! So who the fuck is _we_? Who the fuck are _we_?"

Kenny stared at Jon in stunned silence. Finally, after knocking back the two shots of vodka, "Who the fuck are _we_?...Who is _we_? Oh, fuck, that's put some very peculiar shit right inside my head...Who the fuck are _we_?...You've fuckin touched me.... _We_? We were a firm. Hooligans. Best days of my life. Well nearly. You remember the second summer of love?"

"Never."

"Beautiful times. Eighty-nine into the nineties. All these free parties. Small at first. But soon they're fuckin huge, big-time illegal raves in fields, empty factories, warehouses where ever the fuck. A glorious game to get on and play. Hoolie firms E'ed up and dancin and fucked to the point of tears. But money's always the scent of blood. Ain't that the fuckin truth? It started out, you'd buy a ticket, all hush-hush, you'd give cash to some bloke you never knew, or a friend of a friend and all that shite. You'd get your ticket, a date for the rave but no location, just a number to call on the night of the party, or a place to meet, like a car park or service station. The location was kept secret cos if the police found out they'd stop the rave. Anyway, people got wise, tickets got bought for bullshit raves that never happened or legit ones that the police uncovered and closed. So who's gonna pay upfront when you could, bein fair, pay on the door for somethin you can see is live and happenin? So there it was. Small little do, say a thousand punters all paid twenty cash to come on in. That's twenty grand in cash sloshin around in what amounts to the open fuckin air. What you gonna do? Bank it? Fuck off no. It's black market money, so fuck off no. As every crew with half a dick came to work out. A robber's delight, truly, fuckin hell. Off the books cash, guarded by kids, cocky and cool fair enough, but amateurs. Might be good for a drunken ruck against lads of a similar weight, but up against professionals, like Yardies, who'd keep their guns tucked away in pockets cos they preferred to pile in wielding machetes threatenin to chop up anyone who didn't do as they were fuckin told, well, and I saw it happen, they'd shit themselves in tears. And then, the drugs. Back in the day a pill of E would cost a tenner. So, a thousand punters, some of course preloaded, but still, what's the market, two-thousand easy. And if you control the door, you control the business. So there's another twenty grand cash to add to the prize. So protection, that's all it was, protection. There I was tooled-up, walkin around, big overcoat hidin weapons. On the scene but well and truly off it. Bit of a twat at first, watchin all these people loved-up and E'ed up thinkin the world had turned the right fuckin way for a change. But fuck it, I thought. Truth, ain't it. I know the truth. All these happy people just ignorant cunts. The second summer of love, just another summer for men and guns. But fuck me, good while it lasted, out and about with real, proper friends."

"I've never done drugs, and I've never done guns."

"Friends? You done them?"

"No."

"Enemies?"

"No."

"Done the drugs. Here you are. Good and proper."

"Never guns."

Kenny reached under the table and brought out his handgun, which he slid across the table towards Jon. It stopped close to the edge, within easy reach for Jon.

Jon looked then said, "Trust me, I'm only good with loppers on the already dead."

Wrote for Luck came to an end. Loaded by Primal Scream instantly followed. Jon felt a sudden rush of warmth, of music, consuming his body. "Fuck. What's in this music? You drugged me with music. This music's not right."

"It's hardly began. We'll see who you are, every step of the way," said Kenny.

"I'm me, the Volvo king! I am me! I love nature. I run in the woods, swim in the pools and lakes. I love nature. The clean part anyway."

Kenny stood snatching the bottle of vodka off the table, "But we, Jon. Who the fuck is we? Who the fuck are we?"

"This music is we."

"This music is we! Fuck the lord, Ghandi! You know, back in the day, took a military operation to put on a rave. But now, I reckon, give a few fucks of a mobile phone and the promise of somethin free and the whole fuckin world will come to my door. I'm fuckin Jesus with fish and chips and a can of fuckin Steller." He walked, a little unsteadily, to Jon. "Starvation? Say fuck to that, Jon. Us, we, deny our-fuckin-selves? Me and you, we, we should fuckin binge. We should gorge ourselves on every-fuckin-one and every fuckin thing."

He took hold of Jon's head and tilted it backwards. Jon offered no resistance. Kenny brought the vodka bottle to Jon's mouth. "See how long we last. That'll be your fuckin test."

He began to pour vodka into Jon's mouth. The vodka pooled, some spilling out, but Jon had to swallow, he couldn't resist.

With the bottle empty, Kenny tossed it away on to the sofa then lunged forwards to put his face nose-to-nose with Jon's, his hands gripping Jon's cheeks. "Shush! Who the fuck is we, Jon? Who the fuck is they, all them untruth cunts? We gonna waste them. Me and you, we gonna bullshit each other like people up only to fuck."

Jon travelled so fast his time stood still. He plunged down into himself on a mission to fight the high. He reached his central core, his secure backed-up copy of self. It was flagpole thin, and all he could do was cling to it like a cartoon-man caught in a hurricane.

The beating smashed open the world outside - the throbbing bass and his pounding heart. He stood alone amongst the chaos, a circus mob of dancing bodies, each one a shard from a vast shattered pane of stained coloured glass now raining down on him.

He had vanished through time. A vague memory of Kenny, cutting him free and saying the words - Show yourself, I'll be watching - whispered through his mind.

He felt watched, both of him, both the people he was - the drugged-up raver, and the real one, sober, Volvo Jon. The core rallied the truth. Jon screamed it back obsessively trying to fend off the intense, frenetic music and the hypnotising lights both of which conspired to lure him in with the lie of euphoria and a vast communal hug. The people were quicksand. He didn't want to dance, although he knew he could and brilliantly. The euphoria was the spirit of the crowd possessed with the demon conformity. Sure, he could suck it all up, devour it all with a single breath, or show-stopping all-star funky dance move, but the core repeated the truth, he was unique, so beautifully individual and so beyond all that stood before him. He had to remain himself, distant and alone.

He felt watched, and he was. Wocky - his eye patched and bandaged, his pain and memory bought off by copious amounts of free recreational drugs \- shadowed Jon as he navigated the throng of clockwork people. Jon felt hounded. Wocky's presence was blatant, but his motives were not. The bandaged eye, made Jon fear Wocky was a spirit from the past, a young, freshly defaced Bill brought back by gypsy spells to menace him in stereo. His good eye was bug-eyed open, his grin perverse and knowing. When standing still, which he did every time Jon came to a stop - with his path blocked or paused for thought in empty space - his body would pulsate with a high-frequency buzz that put a look of pleasure on his face that was somewhere past orgasmic. It freaked Jon out. He felt his fate was Wocky's will, somewhere trapped inside the scum of his low-life imagination.

Jon quickened his pace, twisting through the crowd. Less complicated men - the simple bulk of doormen - patrolled the periphery, like fun fair men working a ride, looking to relieve the routine with locals to fight.

Jon felt surrounded and sucked back into the crowd, forced on to a Waltzer for another sickening round. The music and lights turned against him, their lie rejected. His body felt pummelled by the music his mind lasered raw by the light. Bodies touched him, wormed in close to probe him. Was he the freak or were they? Was he the pale white man lost and at the mercy of the wild, fluorescent tribe? He knew, he had no escape, no space to be alone. Could he join the crowd, lose himself inside it? His central core screamed, don't you fucking dare.

A climatic rush of sound lifted hands into the air to be held in praise, swaying. Calling for what, escape? Jon too felt the force, recalling the hand that had burst free from the hole gasping for breath. It gave him a focus, a race to win. He had to find the stairs. His thirst was absolute. The slab of bulk, who stood guard at the bottom, gave him instant VIP access. He climbed the stairs leaving Wocky behind to pogo and orgasm his way into the beating heart of the crowd.

Jon went through the door into the apartment. The music followed him, muffled by the closing door, as did the itching, the dirty touch of the crowd that continued to make his skin and flesh creep. As the door closed, he dropped to his knees. He desired the hole, wanted to approach it on the level crawling, begging his case to enter.

"Let me in. Let me in," he pleaded as he scurried along the floor.

An image in the corner of his eye loomed in large. He stopped and looked. A man, positioned on all fours, was naked and chained to the bed. A greasy brown paper takeaway bag covered his face. The man breathed hard, snorting, sucking up the odours with all his lust. His neck was chained in position by two taut dog lead type chains, one attached to the ceiling, the another to the metal headboard behind him, as were his ankles and wrists. Jon noted that the man's bulbous hanging belly concealed his cock.

Standing next to the bed was a woman - a weathered hag, made thin by a liquid diet, aged forty in her dreams but feeling sixty plus when creaking out of bed in the morning. She held a large metal serving spoon and a blue plastic dog bowl that was full of something brown and sloppy. She was dressed in nothing more than a matching grey bra and pair of knickers, the condition of which only owner and paramedic should ever have to witness. For a moment it seemed a thought might come out as words spoken, her mouth opened, paused then closed, finally she giggled.

Jon squinted his eyes, "Don't look at each other, " he said. "We'll go away. I'm heading for the hole." He continued to crawl quickly away.

"Ooh, join the queue," said the woman who then laughed heartily and with surprise at herself.

The man snatched off the paper bag, at a painful stretch the chains gave just enough leeway. It was Kenny. His face was red and puffy. A dog collar around his neck, which was attached to the chains, was so tightly fixed as to be nearly choking him. He looked at Jon then at the trapdoor then at the gun that was still on the table. He tried to bark an order at the woman, but no coherent words came out. The woman still laughing failed to notice his concern.

Jon's hand slipped on a paper takeaway bag discarded on the floor. Thinking it was the one used to cover his head, he dragged it along with him.

Kenny tried to struggle free, an impossible task, while he screamed gagged orders at the woman.

"Now, now fat bastard," she said, playing her role. "Fat boys is naughty boys."

Jon reached the trapdoor. The hatch was still open. He put his mouth to the opening and spoke,

"I'm coming in. Let me in."

He released the bolt, pulled open the trapdoor then fell into the hole headfirst. The short drop felt freeing. The landing was painless, and the dark was beautiful. Something brushed against him.

"Don't touch me," he said. "This is my home."

The floor beneath him pulsated with bass. He put the takeaway bag halfway over his head to cover his eyes and ears. The trapdoor fell shut and completed the darkness.

# CHAPTER 25

Jon woke gently. The peace and silence outdid the captive stench. He could have remained static to drift back into sleep, but the cold nudged him out of his stupor, just enough to make him rise.

He felt for the trapdoor, slowly pushing it open and peeping out. Nothing moved or made a sound but on the bed the bloodied remains of men embracing. Jon's mind blanked, his stupor stirred. His next coherent thought was to question how he had gotten out of the hole. Having floated up was a real possibility. The room was ransacked, especially the kitchen. A wild, starving animal had gone looking for food. Jon stood staring, feeling nauseous. He became aware of music still ringing in his ears and his savage thirst for water. A strange calm befell him. He walked towards the bed. What he saw caused him no horror or alarm; he couldn't process the scene. It could have been a painting. Kenny, naked, face down on the bed, the sliced leather dog collar hanging above, a vicious gash stabbed in his back, his right ear torn, bitten, off, his right hand loosely holding a soiled, too large dildo, and trapped beneath his ample belly was the head and shoulders of an unknown man. Jon followed the man's limp denim-clad legs down to the floor. A bloodied kitchen knife ended the scene.

Jon looked back at the bed. The black sheets had drunk the blood. He looked away. He didn't have the will to unfold the clues into a plausible series of events. Remembering the woman, he cast his stare once around the room. He found no other human remains but located Kenny's coat hanging on the chair by the coffee table. Jon remembered instantly, the key fob for his XC90 stored inside a pocket.

The keys were his. The swell of emotion was quelled by him seeing the handgun lying on the table. He picked it up. It brought a little fear back to his soul.

He walked to the panoramic window and took a look at the view. Weak, morning sunlight revealed the factory floor to be once again disused. Just get up and go, he told himself, think of nothing, just get up and go.

A bolt and deadlock secured the door. Jon unlocked and opened it with sleeve covered hands. He walked down the stairs ignoring the clang of the steel steps. Thinking any exit door would be properly locked, he looked for a window he could open or smash. Inside what once would have been an office, he found his means of escape. Before climbing through the opened window, he tucked the gun into his trouser waistband.

The cold, fresh air and the wind against his face washed away what remained of his dreamlike stupor. He wanted to run but contained himself choosing instead to walk calmly through the deserted grounds.

The XC90 was a passport found, one lost in a hostile foreign land. It stood alone, parked, waiting ready. Jon couldn't contain his need. He started to run, a quick self-conscious jog. The gun jumped around in his waistband nearly falling out.

"Cock-a-doodle-doo. The cock has left the nest," said Mr Caruthers, looking at Jon through binoculars. "Spritely, too, given the night of debauchery."

He and Mrs Caruthers sat in the parked XC60 outside the factory grounds.

"We didn't do too badly ourselves," said Mrs Caruthers.

"What's this? Well, well, the cock has a weapon."

As Jon climbed into the XC90, he had pulled the gun from his waistband to stop it falling to the ground. Once inside the Volvo, he disappeared from view hidden behind privacy glass and by the angle of the car.

Jon sat in the XC90, tears welling in his eyes. After centrally locking all the doors, he gripped the steering wheel as if embracing a long missed loved one.

"I'm sorry," he said.

He looked at the gun on the passenger seat. Thinking he should hide it, he opened the glovebox to reveal the camcorder stashed inside.

"Thank you," he said as he once again gripped the steering wheel and put his face against it. "Me, the Volvo king? No, you, you the man king."

He looked up, pressing the button to start the engine. Remembering, smelling, Bill had abducted his car, he glanced at the rear-view mirror and was forced to readjust it to meet his, the rightful driver's eye-line. His reflection repulsed him. He looked ill, abused. His skin was icy white, but for a bruise below his right eye and glowing red spots cast across his chin. Unable to deal with the emotion of it, he looked away and busied himself with the sat-nav.

"Take me home, please take me home," he said.

"The guidance will start when you proceed to the highlighted route," said the calm female sat-nav voice.

"Thank you," said Jon pulling away. "I'll keep the gun then. That's a good idea."

# CHAPTER 26

Jon reached the outskirts of Shrewsbury. A sign for the hospital made him think of Maddy. He remembered exposing her name to Kenny. He put it down to desperation and excused the guilt. Still, he felt obliged to drop off the clothes. It would be good to keep her close. He may need her testimony at a later date.

In slow moving traffic, he took out his mobile phone. Several missed calls were registered, all from Maddy. It made him think, when he was missing and held hostage, she was the only one who called. With his mind still fogged by a tired, shallow haze, he didn't have the means to take this thought deeper. Noticing the phone was on mute (Bill) was enough to nudge his thoughts away.

He called Maddy. Keeping the call brief, he made his excuses claiming to have suffered a bout of Norovirus or something similar, a sudden, intense burst of excretion. But he was braving the after effects to drive to the hospital and bring her Nan's clothes.

Parked in the hospital car park waiting for Maddy, a sudden panic rushed through Jon. He opened the glovebox, grabbed the camcorder and turned it on. He had to check if Bill had deleted the incriminating clips. There was just enough battery power left for him to scroll through the saved clips and establish that the clips of Bill remained. It made Jon wonder if Bill had even seen the clips. He had to assume Bill had. Someone, surely Bill, had moved the camcorder from the passenger seat to stash it away in the glovebox. Bill was protecting it. Jon hoped Bill had seen the clips. It meant Jon had leverage, leverage that would come back to torment Bill the moment he discovered Jon had escaped and reclaimed his XC90 and all it contained.

Jon put the camcorder back inside the glovebox. The gun, which didn't seem real, more comforting than dangerous, he hid under his seat.

Jon looked at his face in the rear-view mirror and almost blushed in front of himself. Fortunately, he always carried a large handkerchief, if not on his person then at least one tucked away inside the XC90's tunnel console storage compartment.

He wrapped the navy blue handkerchief round his face bandana style. Then, to hide his eyes and bruise, he put on a pair of polarised sunglasses, which he kept in the XC90 for driving on bright, sunny days. The fact he looked a little gangster wasn't lost on him, especially since he had retrieved the gun to see how it accessorised the outfit.

He caught the somewhat alarmed stare of a woman passing by outside watching him. Seeing him look, she turned away.

"I'm poorly," Jon said just about shouting. "It's a bloody hospital, isn't it?"

He felt a small metal switch on the side of the gun, which he thought was the safety switch. He clicked it back and forth wondering which position was off and which was on. He aimed the gun at the floor between the brake and accelerator pedal. His finger toyed with the trigger. He wanted to know if the safety switch was on. For some reason, he thought the more gently the trigger was pulled, the more gently and quietly the gun would fire. His mind was in a comedown fog. He pulled the trigger, a depressed little act hoping for thrills, but the safety switch was on. It cleared the fog. He hid the gun under his seat and scanned the view for Maddy.

When Maddy, entered the XC90, she asked,

"Are you planning on kidnapping me, Jon?"

"No, " said Jon. "I'm protecting you from germs, you and your Nan. Trust me you don't want the night I've just had."

"No. Clearly."

"It was torture. I bet I smell awful. I know look it."

"No worse than me, no doubt. I haven't slept at all. Not a wink last night."

"Well, we are united. We both look like crap."

"Great. Thanks. Where are the clothes?"

"The back."

Maddy reached over, picked up the bag of clothes and brought it to the front. Jon watched and was pleased she didn't look inside. He didn't want her to notice the camcorder was missing.

"Thank you," she said.

"How is she?"

"She'll be better. I know what I need to do."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Something. I don't need to know the science. I know it's potentially bad, conclusive even. I'm tuned in. I sense it."

Jon wasn't sure what she meant by this but made no effort to question her further.

Maddy continued, "I was going to ask you to come to a new moon ceremony."

"Oh."

"It's good to bless the new moon, to welcome it."

"Yes."

"It has special light and energy. It can heal and bring good fortune."

"I think I've read that," Jon lied, thinking Maddy was talking complete nonsense.

"Help in the search for Ann, or to heal Nan."

"Right." He prepared to make an excuse and let her down. "When?"

"A day or two. I'm a little lost with the days at the moment."

"OK." Relieved he had time to make his excuses and feeling safe to sound keen. "Where?"

"Back home, if I'm able. Nan might be transferred to somewhere in Birmingham."

"The city?"

"Yeah."

"God, I hate cities."

"United again, something else we have in common, hate."

There was a pause as Maddy stared into the distance and Jon tried to think of something to say. Finally, Maddy spoke,

"I need a ciggy. I better go."

Jon nodded but said nothing. Maddy paused again for several seconds then without explanation reached forward and opened the glove box. Seeing the camcorder,

"The camera. I saw it. I see things."

Jon felt exposed. He looked away from her. Even with his eyes hidden by the sunglasses, he didn't want to take the chance Maddy might have the ability to look inside of him. Maddy removed the camcorder and charger and put them inside the bag on top of the clothes.

"Yeah. I forgot, the camcorder," said Jon trying to hide his despair.

"Well, thank you again."

"No, it's good to be a useful friend."

"We're friends?" before Jon could answer, she continued, "Good. I know. I see it." She opened the door and climbed out. "I'll call you." She closed the door and walked away.

Jon, too weak to reflect on his loss, started the engine. As it purred into life, he felt he should say something to his only friend,

"Don't be sorry," he told his XC90. "It wasn't your fault. She's got powers."

As he glanced in the rear-view mirror, he saw the handkerchief covering his face. He pulled it down, but his face felt too raw, too exposed, so he pulled it back up then drove away.

Jon crept the XC90 along his driveway towards his house. The morning gloom had forced him to remove the sunglasses, but he still wore the handkerchief around his face. The house and land looked undisturbed, correct.

He parked the XC90, as he removed the key fob, he instinctively felt for the main house key. It was missing. He double checked. But the key was gone. Only Bill could be guilty, he thought. Bill must have managed to remove it before giving Kenny the keys, after all, it was an obvious Yale front door key attached to the main key ring by a small circle of wire.

Jon reached for the gun. He thought the chances of Bill being inside the house were slim. Not enough time had passed for Bill to learn the twist. Still, once the gun was in his hand, he turned the safety switch to off.

With the handkerchief still covering his face and the gun held concealed in a side coat pocket, he walked to the house. He tried the front door. It was locked.

He unlocked the back door and entered the house. He felt no fear, as he felt too ill, his fight or flight instincts were an incoherent mess.

The house was empty, but Bill had paid a visit, to litter the house with cheap, dirty lies, home printed copies of the photos showing Jon carrying the corpse of Ann. And on the back of the dozen scattered on the kitchen table, scrawled in a disturbed, inconsistent hand, the words, 'I'm sorry. I had to. Me too. All gone now.'

Later, with his mind functioning correctly, Jon would conclude this was Bill's way of setting him up for murder. The police, learning of Jon's disappearance, eventually, probably only through Maddy, would enter and search his home. The photos, although not conclusive proof, would lead the police to think Jon was the likely killer and, for whatever reason, he had chosen for himself suicide. And of course, a proper forensic search of the house could unleash evidence that would truly damn and convict.

Jon secured the house locking and bolting everything he could. The front door and its missing key didn't worry him as he could lock it from the inside - deadlock, bolt, and security chain.

After taking a shower, which he barely noticed, he climbed into bed and wrapped himself up in the duvet and blankets. His laptop showed the CCTV; his tablet, his favourite YouTube ASMR channel, although he had yet to select a video to play. He wanted silence. An introvert worn down by the chaos of the crowd, he needed time alone to recharge and re-centre. His vacant mind drifted away. His only real external sensation was the cold metal touch of the gun he gripped in his hand.

# CHAPTER 27

After a solid twelve-hour sleep, Jon woke the following day his mind fizzing with clarity. The threats he faced came vividly back to life. Well, those he was aware of at least.

Mr and Mrs Caruthers, in their Travelodge room, were taking part in a Skype conference call with Mr Manders who sat in his office behind his desk. A moment of shocked silence had befallen them all. Mr Manders had learnt of Jon's visit to Kenny's factory hideout, while Mr and Mrs Caruthers had learnt of Kenny's likely murder - Mr Manders was a cautious man, and the whispers he had heard weren't yet loud enough to convince him fully.

"Your thoughts?" asked Mr Manders.

Mrs Caruthers took the lead, speaking discretely and often in code refraining from using names or words that suggested criminal activity. Her report can be summarized as follows. If Kenny was dead, Jon was the likely assassin. They had seen him leaving the potential murder scene with a weapon in hand. If Kenny lived, then Jon was almost certainly working against Kenny. For what reason, they didn't yet know. If Jon was working for Kenny then surely he would have taken all the guns from the barn to keep them safe or left them all there for Kenny to collect.

Their investigation into Jon's digital presence had revealed little and only highlighted the mystery surrounding him. Residents in the village where he lives stated Jon had mentioned he worked as a self-employed day-trader, although there is clear evidence to show he runs a website design business from home building and hosting cheap, basic and uninspiring websites for low-end sole traders. However, he lives in an expensive house and drives a top-end Volvo XC90.

A strange point of interest that may have relevance is the fact that two people from Jon's village are officially listed as missing. Thinking aloud, Mrs Caruthers wondered if Jon, who had only recently moved to the village, had embedded himself into the village in order to facilitate their disappearance. One of the missing people, a man named James, had various international business interests, which might be worth investigating more deeply.

The only other online reference to Jon, was a brief mention in a local newspaper that told of his success in a hill running race. He ran as an individual, not as part of a club, and achieved an excellent time, "SAS yomping pace" said Mr Caruthers bitterly.

His connection, if indeed there is one, to Mr Manders was still unknown. Beyond his men being at the wrong place at the wrong time, there may be none. The nature of the scene left at the barn, especially taking into account the clawed out eyes, may suggest something personal between Jon and Kenny.

The sum of the parts totalled a mystery. Clearly, Jon was in the game and on the job. His motives and who he was working for were unknown. Leaving half the guns rules out him working for the people who wanted the guns destroyed. What is certain, is that they must treat Jon as a very dangerous man, a top-end, highly skilled professional.

Mr Manders reflected in silence. Then gave his reply.

"Right. I'll do the maths. Then be in touch."

He ended the call. Mr and Mrs Caruthers glanced at each other then turned their attention to a mobile phone Mr Caruthers held in his hand. After a dozen or so seconds, the phone received a text message, which read,

Hold. Question. Kill. If not possible to hold, kill.

Jon saw the police coming - two plainclothes detectives, a male, who he recognised from the earlier visit, and a female. Both looked keen and sharply dressed, and younger than him, which was enough to cement Jon's mind. He wouldn't let them in, although he knew he couldn't continue to hide. He still felt ill, his reflection was enough to convince him. He would use it to his advantage.

The police officers rang the bell. Jon, sunk low on the bedroom floor, hidden at the side of the bed, laptop open and ready, answered over the intercom. When the officers asked if Jon could come to the door and let them in, he refused and claimed he was ill with sickness and diarrhea and that he was too weak to make it downstairs. For a moment, the female officer, DC Dunn, insisted he come to the door as they needed to speak to him face-to-face, but Jon wouldn't relent, even losing his temper, as he thought a man who had spent the night dashing to the toilet would naturally do.

"I've been up all night! A constant flood from both bloody end!" he cried. "Have you got the power, a warrant or something to force me?" he continued fishing for information.

DC Dunn confirmed they had not, although their visit was more than a simple routine call relating to the two missing persons from the village. This threw Jon somewhat, and he had to pretend he was having a dizzy spell before he could compose himself and give a reply.

"Ask me anything. I don't mind. If I can help, I must," he said trying to sound as if he was fighting off nausea. He didn't mention he could see them through a video feed, that he, the actor, was the one hidden in the shadows watching the action. From what he could tell of their facial expressions and body language, he thought they were resigned to the situation, and that the shaking of their heads and DC Dunn's wanker hand gesture signified they thought he was a prick but not a liar.

DC Dunn got straight to the point. Had Jon been having a relationship with Ann?

"No," he said immediately and with a confidence that quickly failed. "Not now, not for a while. So no, not now. But yes, several months ago."

The look DC Dunn gave her colleague DC Payne, who was taking notes, didn't inspire Jon's confidence.

"Was she the one who ended the relationship?" DC Owens asked.

"Yes, mutually," said Jon.

"Mutually?"

"It came to a natural end. It wasn't love. It was just sex. And that gets boring after a while, doesn't it, especially for a woman of quality."

Jon wasn't sure why he said this, and DC Dunn's perplexed, amused look and glance at DC Payne suggested she concurred.

"OK," said DC Dunn returning her attention to Jon. "So, there were no hard feelings between you, no animosity?"

"None."

"When was the last time you spoke to Ms Henshaw?"

"Months ago, when she ended it. That was it. We weren't friends or anything."

The two officers shared a look the meaning of which Jon couldn't tell.

"Is there anything you can tell us, any detail, anything you knew about her that may shed some light on where she is or what may have happened to her?"

"No. And I mean it. I've thought about it, of course I have. I've racked my brains. I've really thought deeply about it. But no, there's nothing. Our time together, was just basic. Really. We hardly talked. We never went away. We never spent the night together. We just met and..."

"Had sex?"

"Yes," said Jon a little offended, "or went for a drive. She really liked my Volvo XC90."

"Did she?"

"Yes."

"Well," she looked at DC Payne, "a woman of quality."

Jon thought she was mocking him. "Yes, beautiful in taste," he said sternly.

DCs Payne and Dunn shared an amused look.

"What's your occupation, Mr Bennett?"

"Why? How's that relevant?"

"It's just that some people in the village are under the impression you work as a day trader from home trading in shares and other financial products. However, it seems to us you're a web designer?"

"I'm both. I do both."

"You trade shares professionally playing the markets in real time?"

"In my own way, yes. Online with the Halifax. I've got a portfolio."

"You're an amateur investor then?"

"Amateurs don't make money."

"Do you?"

"Overall, I do, yes. Buy and hold. It's what Warren Buffet does."

"But it's not your main source of income?"

"No. But I've never told anyone it is."

"Even though a number of people have told us they think it's what you do."

"Chinese whispers. This is the horse's mouth, and he's giving you the facts. Do you know how much senility there is in the average English village especially a posh one like this where the old dears have the money to outlive their brains and to riddle them with drink?"

"The ones I've talked to have seemed pretty sharp to me."

"Well, keep on knocking, you'll find the fruit cakes and busybody bullshitters."

"Right. I will."

She looked at DC Payne and said something to him that Jon was unable to hear. DC Payne shook his head, which Jon read as him saying he had no questions to ask. DC Dunn then returned to speak to Jon.

"So, going back to Ms Henshaw and Mr Allen, you can think of nothing that might be relevant to our investigation?"

"No. But I'm on it. Trust me, I'm on it," said Jon.

"Very well, Mr Bennett. That's all for now. You work from home, don't you? So you're usually in during the day."

"Mostly."

"Well, thank you for your time. I hope the sickness and diarrhea clears up soon. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Jon watched them leave then set-off pacing around the house. The police were an obvious worry, but Bill was the wounded monster scratching at his door. The police added to the pressure. Bill's lust for vengeance would soon seethe again. Jon's only defence was the gun in his hand and Bill's misbelief the camcorder was still in Jon's possession.

When the call came through, just an hour later, Jon answered it without hesitation.

"Jon?" said Bill calmly.

"Yes," said Jon trying to match Bill's poise.

"You want the quiet life, Jon?"

"Yes."

"We could both walk away."

"We could."

"Let time decide when the truth comes out."

"What truth?"

"Mine. I want my fame, you know that, all that I done revealed."

"I know."

"You'd have to go quietly, silently in fact, accept I continue to kill, that I'm out on a mission to make the shit vanish."

"Yes."

"But you also know the advantage is mine. I won't repeat what is fuckin you up. All them thoughts goin round and round inside your head. But, I got a purpose, a bigger picture than you. I don't want you cuttin me short."

"No."

There was a pause. Jon listened hard to picture Bill's location. He could hear the faint sound of traffic. He imagined Bill sitting in his parked van.

Bill broke the pause, "What happened to Kenny?" said Bill.

"I did what I had to do," said Jon.

"That a fact? Moved on from violating the dead? Can bring your own corpse to the party now?" He laughed, a little dirty grunt of a laugh.

Jon didn't reply thinking the less he said the better.

Bill continued. "We could both walk away. Walk away or both move in to kill the other. Cos that's the two obvious solutions."

"We could...both walk away."

"We could. If there was trust."

"If there was."

"But there ain't."

Bill paused. Jon refused to fill the silence.

Bill continued, "When you had nothin to fear from me you didn't fuckin trust me. So what, now you got plenty to fear from me, am I meant to believe you'll trust me now?"

Jon didn't answer. Bill continued,

"And what silly cunt would now trust you? Me?"

"No."

"Paranoia, that's what we share now, Jon."

"Well, you won't get me jumping into the river."

"Nah, you'll have to be pushed."

"By a big man like you? A first class bullshitter! Lied about the eye in prison, and what else I wonder? I bet you didn't even kill your son!"

Bill roared with laughter, "Oh, what a soppy cunt I am. Didn't even kill my own druggy son. What a fuckin queer I must be! Have I let you down, Jon?" His laughter stopped dead. "You can't grass me, Jon, not with me alive, cos what I got on you can bring you down with me. If the pigs get involved, at the very least, you go down for Ann. You sick fuck. Me, I'm still known to the whole world the way I fuckin want. You mull it all over, Jon. You wait and fuckin see."

Bill ended the call. Jon was convinced. He had to act decisively. He had to gain every advantage. He would have to bring a corpse to the party. Bill would do the same.

After a quick burst of internet activity to research the Moon cycle, Jon made a call to Maddy. A small little lie, he hoped, would get him the camcorder back.

Maddy answered her phone. Jon said a quick hello then asked about her Nan and got the news he wanted, she hadn't improved and even better, Maddy had booked in to a near-by Travelodge. He laid it on. Maddy didn't interrupt. Her silence made him ramble.

"I've had an idea. I was outside last night, and a sudden thought about you and your Nan made me look up at the Moon and stars and wow, the power, it struck me...I got this feeling, this need...That Moon ritual you invited me to, to welcome and to celebrate the arrival of the new Full Moon, which is tonight, I checked. I could film it for you and your Nan...You know the light pollution out here is real low. If the sky is clear, and it's meant to be, the Moon will look amazing...I could use her camcorder to capture its light its mystical and magical power then bring it to you to use as a crystal heals or radiates positive energy... Your Nan could watch it, play it back, on her own camcorder. She could feel the Moon's energy, the healing power for herself... I don't know if I sound stupid, but it wouldn't be a problem. I could do it for you. If you think the Moon really does have the power and if your Nan is really worth it...It might help you too. I know you have a sensitivity for such spiritual things. The light will give you strength. If I'm talking bollocks, tell me. I'm just trying to be useful."

"Thank you. You are. But you don't have the camcorder," said Maddy.

"I'll come and collect it. It's a problem for me."

"My phone is basically dead. You'll have to give me a time to meet you outside the hospital."

"Great. Can I bring you anything?"

"Yes, some clothes and my phone charger."

Before Jon left for the hospital, he prepared his house drawing every pair of curtains and closing every window blind. He then double-checked the tech. Having installed the internal house cameras and automated lighting system similar, although better and more advanced, than the set-up Maddy used for the annexe, he made sure he could control it all through his iPad, laptop and phone.

Next he prepared his uniform, clothes to fight the cold and as dark in colour as possible to camouflage him outside at night.

In the garden, he checked the strength of his household Wi-Fi signal. So not to look suspicious to potential prying eyes, he used his mobile phone to this, rather than his iPad or laptop which he would later use when on the mission proper. The coverage was good, and the Wi-Fi remained connected in the several places he considered using to hide.

Leaving the laptop and iPad on to charge, he left the house for Maddy's.

# CHAPTER 28

Inside the annexe, Jon packed the clean clothes - all bulky grumps, even the pyjamas and the phone charger as Maddy had requested. Having said her phone's battery was low on charge, he felt confident she wouldn't be watching, and even if she did have the means watch him, surely her Nan would be the burden that consumed her thoughts and time.

Standing in the hall, he pulled out his phone and, pretending to check a text message, used it to scan for Wi-Fi signals. It found a new network. As the SSID code started with BTHub, he went looking for a BT Hub Wireless Router, which he found in the living room. He took the risk and pulled out the tab that showed the default password and wireless key.

Outside on the doorstep, Jon tried to connect his phone to Maddy's Wi-Fi. He used the default details printed on the router's tab and connected without a problem. The annexe could now become a potential base from which he could put his own house under surveillance.

He hurried away towards the XC90, his gloved hand gripping the gun which he had pulled from a pocket, his eyes scanning the view as if expecting an attack.

Inside the XC90 as he put the handgun on to the passenger's seat, a sudden thought brought a painful chill, What if the gun wasn't loaded, or what if the gun was a replica? He had to check the magazine. But how? Driving to the hospital, he thought of a way to succeed.

Parked, waiting for Maddy, Jon had fifteen minutes to spare. Using his pay-as-you-go mobile he Googled 'Beretta 90two', words he found engraved on the gun.

The results were pleasing. Beretta was an Italian make - apt he thought, a natural choice for a man of his style - and the 90two series was highly regarded.

Having downloaded the manual, he skipped passed the safety warnings at the top of the file to go straight to the section on loading the pistol with bullets. Reading the instructions, he depressed the magazine release button and slid the magazine out. Holes on the back of the magazine allowed for the visual counting of the bullets. Jon counted twelve, which, he thought, would be more than enough to get the job done.

He secured the magazine back inside the handle then read up on how to operate the pistol. There wasn't much to learn. He pulled back the slide to check if there was a round in the chamber. There wasn't.

He didn't feel nervous handling the gun, to him it felt appropriate. It elevated his confidence, in fact his very sense of self to somewhere just below highly trained killer or human, non-mutant freak, non-accident induced superhero.

He was desperate to fire a shot, to feel the power and hear how loud the bang would be while watching the look of surprised terror pop Bill's one astonished eye.

He made sure the safety switch was on then hid the pistol under his seat, just in time to catch Maddy walking towards the XC90.

As soon as Maddy got into the car, Jon felt watched and embarrassed. The opened door brought the public flooding in to chase away his private inner world.

She sat in the seat with her head turned staring at him. He felt exposed. Unable to tolerate their closeness, he reached into the back and fumbled for the bag of clothes.

"How is everything?" he asked.

"Bad," said Maddy.

"What are the doctors saying?"

"It doesn't matter what they say."

"No. Well, maybe the Moon will help."

"If she wants it to."

He gave her the bag of clothes. She peeked inside.

"You should spend the night at the Travelodge get some sleep and have a wash," said Jon.

"So I stink, do I?"

"No. But, you look tired. You have to sleep. You'll make yourself ill."

"I'm already ill."

"All the more reason to get some sleep."

"And scrub it all off?"

Jon looked at her blankly not knowing what she meant. She offered no clues or elaboration but just stared at Jon's awkwardness until she asked, "Did you find the charger?"

"Yes. It's in the bag."

"My phone," Maddy suddenly paused.

"What?"

"I don't want to use the word."

"Dead?"

"Or even hear it."

"It's a hospital, it's full of it."

"Everywhere is full of it, even quiet little villages full of boring, dull losers."

"Like where we live?"

"You think we live?"

"Too much. You'd be surprised."

"Would I? Did you see James's wife on the television making an appeal for information and whatever?"

"No."

"Why? Isn't this the biggest news, the greatest drama of our lives? You've been busy have you?"

"No. Well."

"Life goes on."

"Well, yes."

"She was strong. I could feel it. I mean, she knew about her husband and Ann. I could sense it. She knew he betrayed her."

"Did the police ask you to make an appeal?"

"I couldn't. I have to be here."

"Of course. That's understandable."

"I don't care if it's understandable or not. I won't be moved. I will be here. Nowhere else but here with Nan."

"Yes. I know."

"She's always been there for me, willingly, no motive other than love. I know that. She's never played any games. Never used anything as a means to keep me in place. Not money, a home, the promise of approval. Nothing. But still, we stuck together connected by something pure and truthful. Can you understand that?"

"Yes."

"Her only hold over me is love. That's all we have between us. She's never even told be a lie. Well, nothing important. Told me I was beautiful, of course. What Nan wouldn't?"

Jon was starting to perspire as an urge to flee swelled up inside of him. The car was filling with emotional volatility while he had a high-pressure job to go to, one that involved the use of specialist, highly dangerous tools. For a moment, he thought he should tell her she was beautiful with the emphasis on internal beauty just in case she detected his bullshit and was angered by it. However, taking advantage of Maddy's pause, he asked,

"Did you bring the camcorder?"

"Yes. You'll need to charge it. But, I'm not so sure now," said Maddy as she took the camcorder and charger from her shoulder bag and gave it to Jon.

"Of what?"

"Of trying to capture moonlight."

"Film it."

"Take it. Think of the wind and the tides. They used to be free, but now we steal their energy, we literally take the wind out of the wind. There has to be a consequence. What if it all just stops? In the doldrums forever."

"Don't worry. It won't. Some very clever men have it all worked out."

"Men?"

"And women," said Jon quickly trying to placate her. "Thanks to positive discrimination," he added.

"You look stressed and uncomfortable."

"Well, I need some moon."

"You're a funny man, odd, really very odd. In a good way perhaps."

"Right, well. Does it take one to know one?"

"God knows. I'm not sure I'm good though."

"You are, of course you are. Ask your Nan."

"Quick. There's just enough charge," said Maddy as worked her phone to activate an tarot card App."Choose a card." She showed Jon the screen.

"Tarot cards?" he asked.

"Nan passed the gift to me."

"An App? That's not very gypsy."

"It's not the cards, it's the gift of the reader. Now chose one. Tap the screen. I need to know."

Jon tapped the screen randomly selecting a card from a shuffling pack of face down tarot cards. Maddy pulled the phone towards her hiding the screen from Jon. She stared at the screen and Jon's chosen, now revealed, card in silence for a dozen or so seconds.

Although Jon had no belief in such nonsense, given his current predicament, he was desperate to hear any good news. "What?" he asked.

"You've been wronged. Be careful, or the truth will not come out."

"I can't think what that means."

"You fear exposure. You shouldn't. The world should know you, all your truth."

"Well, nothing obvious comes to mind."

"Do you trust the cards, Jon?"

He thought about lying to keep her sweet, but he didn't think she would believe him if he said he did. So he replied, "Honestly, no."

"I do, and I trust my instincts too."

She stared at him, deep into his eyes. He felt uncomfortable but couldn't look away. Finally, Maddy turned.

"I'm going for a fag, " she said. "Be careful with the camera. Nan didn't want to let it go until she realised it was for you."

She opened the door and climbed out taking the bag of clothes with her. As she closed the door, Jon said, "Call me if I can be of help, although I'll might be out and about with the Moon."

She forced a brief smile then walked away. Jon watched. When she was out of sight, he reached for the pistol and instantly felt its menace. It had become a different prospect. No simple electric saw or pair of garden loppers, but a frontline tool ready for public action.

"Do time! Do time! Time to do!" he cried at himself in an attempt to deactivate his hyperactive way. Glancing upon the camcorder, "Gotcha! Gotcha!" he cried, a finger jabbed into the pupil of Bill's one astonished eye.

He fired up the XC90. The camcorder was a victory; he had to make it safe.

# CHAPTER 29

Dusk beat Jon home. He parked the XC90 in its usual place - displayed for all, Bill, to see. As he studied the view for signs of disturbance, he was annoyed to realise he could have used his phone to observe the external and internal camera feeds of his house and land while parked a safe distance away.

He told himself to sharpen up, and an idea sprung up to compensate. He took hold of the camcorder and, in the near darkness of the cabin, searched for the SD Card slot. He assumed the camcorder would have one fitted, and that most of the clips, and certainly the later ones, would be stored on it. He was right, they were. But when he found the slot, he found it empty. He had planned to separate the memory card from the camcorder and hide it on his person to provide an extra layer of security.

He tried to turn the camcorder on, but the battery was dead. He prayed he was wrong, let the clips of him and Bill be safe, saved to disk. He had to check.

The pistol was matt black, perfect for the night. As Jon flicked the safety off, he cursed himself. He had spent too long inside the Volvo, a sitting duck on whom anyone could have crept up on. And what about snipers distant and hidden? He had to vanish into the night.

Fortunately, he knew he would appear to be acting naturally, if he jumped out of the XC90 and sprinted to the house, even on a darting, wonky course to dodge potential bullets.

If Bill was hidden and waiting, and Jon had to believe he was, or would at least make a move on him that night, he wanted to conceal the gun from him so that when he pulled it on him, the first round it would fire was one of fear and surprise.

Jon barged out of the XC90 then powered away slamming the door shut behind. He had never treated his ride so roughly. With the pistol held inside a coat pocket and the camcorder under his arm, he ran a twisting, volatile course. When he reached the back door, the key was held ready. He opened the door and slipped inside. Quick-drawing the pistol from his pocket, he nearly shouted, Freeze! The ceiling light was on, as were all other ceiling lights inside the house.

With the back door locked, he went through the house and searched every room and possible hiding place. Content no trespass had been committed, he connected the camcorder to charger and socket.

The camcorder contained nothing of value; the clips of him and Bill were gone. A new layer of paranoia wrapped him tightly. Who and why? And what had who seen? But then maybe a memory card hadn't been installed. Maybe the clips had been deleted from the internal memory. He checked how much free space the memory contained and discovered it was full of clips many months old. His conclusion was instant. A memory card, which held the clips of him and Bill, had been removed from the camcorder.

He called Maddy to make enquiries, but her phone, without charge, went straight to voicemail.

He paced around the house shaking his thoughts for clarity. One positive lifted the gloom, Nan had probably removed the memory card and, perhaps thinking it precious, still possessed it, which was good for him, because Nan was a woman he could get access to, and easily rob.

He had to move on. The night was dark enough now for him to sneak outside and hide. He dressed in the camouflaging clothes he had earlier prepared then turned off all internal and external house lights other than those which illuminated the living room.

As silently as he could, he left the house through the garage side door then crept into the garden. An area of giant bamboo and other overgrown vegetation provided him his hiding place. He settled down, sitting on the earth with his back against a wooden fence. Gaps in the bamboo gave him a good view of the house and most of his land. The laptop, concealed inside a canvas bag to mask the light from the screen, enhanced his surveillance capabilities as it allowed him access to every camera feed. The phone, also inside the bag, he would use to turn on and off various internal lights to give Bill the impression he was at home inside the house. Bill would think the garden was unprotected land until Jon stepped from the darkness to reveal his ambush.

With the equipment tested and the pistol held ready to use, Jon settled and began the wait. Alone and hidden and thrilled to be outside at night, he felt empowered. He looked at the sky. The Moon was gone, its light stolen by a thick layer of cloud. All good for him. A rush of adrenalin, for once gave Jon a sense of fight not flight. His den of bamboo aroused thoughts of Apocalypse Now and brought visions of Colonel Kurtz. Unable to control the urge, a primal need to psych himself up, he released a wild call into the night,

"Come on you, bastard. Who's the eye gouger now? I am the gouger! The gouger of eyes! I am he, the one true gorger of eyes!!"

Punching the air with the pistol it fired. The loudness of the bang was enough to flatten Jon. He shrunk back down into his hiding place, expecting to hear a scream.

Panicking, he rolled on to his hands and knees and roughly frisked the earth in a desperate attempt to find the expelled shell. His search was fruitless. He squeezed himself still, tensing all muscle to demand of himself focus. He could look for the shell when light, even hire a metal detector. He could take control, as he would do now.

An hour passed. Jon's hatred of Bill sustained him. The concealed solitude suited him. He was active but hidden, winning and unseen. Using his phone, he regularly turned the kitchen light on then off, and less regularly the landing light too. All to fool spying eyes into thinking he was inside the house. He was his own decoy.

The third car to breach the peace kept getting closer. Its headlights flickered through the hedgerows. The sound of its cheap diesel engine was apt for Bill, but no attempt was made to approach covertly. It swept in on to the gravelled driveway. Jon watched via CCTV. The security lights lifted from the darkness the shape of a Vauxhall Astra, which Jon immediately labelled, A typical shitty police car. But how cunning was Bill? What agents were at his disposal?

The Astra parked, its engine and lights went off. The front doors opened.

Two, Jon thought, I'm going to need a bigger pair of loppers, he joked to himself defiantly.

From the car, out stepped DCs Dunn and Payne, not quite fully revealed but somehow Jon knew. His peace had been disturbed, his plan violated.

"Cunts!" spat Jon.

Dunn and Payne walked straight to the front door. Jon watched them on his phone, clearly now, via the doorbell security unit.

"Someone's in," said DC Payne.

"Definitely," said DC Dunn before she rang the bell.

Jon gave it a moment to calm his hate. He had to answer, "Hello," he spoke into the phone to be heard over the intercom.

"Mr Bennett, it's DCs Dunn and Payne. I hope you're feeling better. I need to speak to you face to face. I have-"

"Fine," Jon interrupted with instant regret, but he couldn't resist. Guilt, pressure, and obedience compelled him. Plus, he needed them gone and quickly.

"But I'm not at home," he continued, his voice quiet, his body still. "I'm up the road at a friend's. I'm looking after her house while she's looking after her dying Nan in hospital. I'm in the middle of something. You'll have to come up to me."

"OK. You can hear us from there?"

"Obviously," said Jon with far too much bite.

"Where exactly?"

"The annexe next to Ann's house."

"Ann Henshaw? That's the bungalow where her step-daughter lives."

"So? I'm in the middle of something. I'm busy. Come up now, quickly."

"Right. We'll come straight up."

Jon watched them walk back to the car, urging them on, desperate to get up and run. But he didn't dare move, not until they were sealed inside the car.

As soon as they pulled the car doors shut, he jumped up and sprinted away. He had to go the back way - the long way over fields and up the hill. He held the pistol in his hand, thoughtlessly. Only in dreams had he run so fast. The dark, uneven ground made no difference. He would beat them. The bastards! They had to start the car, manoeuvre it out of the driveway and so on. He would beat them; he would have to. But the course kept getting longer; once inside the annexe, he would have to set the scene.

Jon won the race, but he couldn't rest. He hid the pistol under Nan's bed. As the laptop scanned for WiFi, he adjusted the house light to be as dim and concealing as practically possible. A table lamp in the living room was the only light he left on. With the WiFi scanned, Jon connected to the network then refreshed the video feeds to find nothing of any concern. He left the laptop open on the table, happy to let Dunn and Payne see it. With two people from the village missing, he was wise to be vigilant.

He began to pace. Where were DCs Dunn and Payne? They were playing a tactic making him sweat. He opened the door and looked outside. No headlights or shitty diesel engine disturbed the peace of night.

He picked up his phone and called Maddy. The call went straight to voicemail. Good, he thought, it's still charging. She won't be watching.

He found a pint glass in the kitchen and filled it with sparkling water from a bottle in the fridge. He placed the glass on the table next to the laptop. It would be something of a prop, for him to hold and keep busy with while interrogated by the police.

He checked the video feeds. His house and land were unmolested.

He opened the door. No car harassed the drive or road beyond.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Fucking pigs! Play the games you piggy fucking bastards!" he said.

"Mr Bennett," said DC Payne.

Jon looked. DCs Dunn and Payne came out of the darkness walking towards him from the direction of Ann's house.

"We went to the main property by mistake,"

"So we parked and decided to walk," said DC Dunn.

"Oh great. We'll that was funny then. That was funny. I've been waiting. I'm in the middle of something," said Jon before he turned and walked back inside. DCs Dunn and Payne didn't hesitate, they followed Jon into the house.

Jon marched down the hall. Once in the living room, he walked to the point furthest away from the door then turned to face it. The darkness gave him some veneer of comfort. DC Payne entered the room and came to a stop a few metres from the door.

Jon couldn't keep still or silent. He walked to the table and said, "Tea? Coffee? No. I'd make you one. But me, personally, I don't have caffeine this late in the day." He picked up the glass of water and began to take regular nervous sips.

"It's only really the evening, sir," said DC Payne.

"Evening? Close of bloody business."

"Well, it's twenty-four seven for us."

"Not for me, neither police nor criminal, honest, law-abiding citizen."

DC Dunn entered the room and stood next to DC Payne.

"Two people are missing one of whom you had a relationship with," said DC Payne.

"Sex with, had sex with, consensual sex with," said Jon.

The main ceiling light came on filling the room with light.

"Oh, sorry," said DC Dunn, her hand over the light switch.

Jon shielded his eyes as if the light caused him discomfort. "Turn it off! I'm sensitive."

"To light?" said DC Dunn.

"To people!"

DCs Dunn and Payne looked at each other having both noticed the heavy outdoor clothing Jon was wearing and the wet, soiled staining on elbows, knees, and bum. DC Dunn turned the light off then asked Jon,

"What were you in the middle of?"

Jon, relieved by the darkness, uncovered his eyes. "Forget it. Let's do it now. Let's get this out of the way."

"Last Monday, the fifteenth, a mobile phone belonging to James was turned on in the Castlefields area of Shrewsbury at around eight-thirty pm. Records suggests that you were in the area at about the same time. Can you confirm you were?"

Jon raced to calculate the best lie to tell. She said, records suggest, not CCTV footage shows. Could his XC90 have been caught by a number plate recognition device or perhaps filmed by some variety of security or traffic monitoring camera? Of course, the nightclub entrance was covered by CCTV, and maybe the town centre streets that led to it. However, he felt he could lie. If later confronted with CCTV footage taken in the club, he could claim he lied to protect his sexuality which he hadn't yet come to terms with. Of course, if the record was from the club, Bill would also be in the frame, and surely they would mention him if he now kept quiet.

"Yes. Probably, driving though. I think so," he said.

"Driving through the Castlefields area?"

"Through town that way."

"Where had you been? Where were you going?"

"Do I need an albi? I was driving. I like driving. I've got an XC90."

"So you were just out for a drive?"

"Tesco, I went to Tesco. It's up that way. Then back through the town centre to get home."

"That's taking a bit of a detour, isn't it," said DC Payne, "turning into, then driving through Castlefields only to get back on the road you left in the first place?"

"I don't drive an Astra. I'm not in a hurry to get out."

"Did you get out of your vehicle while in or around the Castlefields area?"

"No."

"Did you stop at all?"

"I stopped by the weir. I'm a wild swimmer. I'm planning a swim."

"You wouldn't have been able to see the weir though, would you? It would have been dark by then."

"Correct."

"So why did you stop?"

"The sound, the thrill. The dreams."

"You parked up next to the toilets?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying, the parking spaces down there, they're next to a public convenience, aren't they?"

"I didn't notice."

"Were you alone?" said DC Dunn.

"Very much," said Jon.

"You met no one in the Castlefields area that night?"

"No. And what business is it to you if I did?"

"Our business is to try and establish the whereabouts of two people that have been reported missing. Two people, you have a connection with."

"I live close to James. Is that a connection?"

"Did you have consensual sex with James?" said DC Payne.

"What?" said Jon.

"Slept together, had a relationship?"

"No. Piss off!"

"You and Ann. James and Ann. A small village community. It's a valid question. No shame in admitting it."

"So I somehow had possession of James's phone, and I, the technology guy, decide to turn it on, knowing full well it would be traced. Not to use it, but just turn it on knowing with the police state surveillance we have to put up with in this country, it was likely I or my XC90 would be seen or recorded in the vicinity. That's you play, is it? That's the best you could come up with?"

"We didn't say the phone wasn't used."

"Just turning the phone on would be using the phone. It would bring in undelivered messages and so on," said DC Dunn.

Jon struggled to think of something to say. Fortunately, something caught his eye on the laptop screen.

"What the fucking hell!" he cried pointing at the screen. "My home!"

DCs Dunn and Payne hurried to take a look. A video feed showed a group of four men wearing balaclavas and black military assault-style uniforms running on to Jon's land. As they neared the house, they fanned out as if to surround the house.

Mr Caruthers was pressed to the ground belly-side down with half his body hidden beneath Jon's XC90. He whispered into a small Walky Talky.

"Major One, this is Captain First, four masked men have breached the scene. Over."

The reply came through an earpiece he was wearing. "Captain First, is tracker laid? Over," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Affirmative. Over."

"Pull back now if safe to go. Nothing to report from here. Over."

"The ghost can float. Over and out."

He rose to his feet and moved swiftly and silently away.

DCs Dunn and Payne stared at the laptop. Three of the men were seen in separate feeds examining points of entry into the house.

Jon pulled out his mobile phone and began to speak into it, "I'm ringing you! I'm ringing you! Nine, nine, nine! Yeah, got any police available? What, they all out pestering good, honest local folk? Do something! Do something!"

"Who is it?" DC Payne asked Jon.

"How do I know! Robbers or worse! Luxury car thieves!"

"It looks like a burglary," said DC Dunn.

Jon thought, No, you dumb, cretinous...

"Come on," said DC Dunn.

DCs Dunn and Payne ran out of the room. Jon followed, now panicking about what the DCs might discover if they apprehend the raiders. Pointing out the raid had seemed a welcome diversion to stop their questions, but what deeper truths might it now lead them to? And what if the raiders were armed and willing, primed to kill him but also any police who got in their way? He could have said nothing and remained safely hidden, the all-seeing spy waiting for the optimal moment to make his own attack. But now he was out in the open, running into the fire with less power and authority than a Community Support officer.

Outside the annexe, they sprinted towards Ann's house and the parked police car. Jon could think of just two ideas to help prevent the DCs making an arrest. He pulled up alongside DC Dunn and said, "Do you want to stop for a breather? Don't feel pressured to keep the pace."

"Piss off!" she replied.

He had one idea left.

The police car came into sight. DC Dunn pulled out a set of car keys from her coat pocket and pressed a button on the key fob. The car's lights flashed as the doors unlocked. As Jon knew DC Dunn was set to be the driver, he turned his attention to DC Payne who was two metres ahead of him and about to reach the car. Jon kicked a burst of speed to pass DC Payne and just beat him to the passenger's door. DC Payne went for the door handle himself, almost barging Jon out of the way, but Jon fought back,

"I can show the way!" Jon cried as he opened the door then barged himself inside to join DC Dunn who had just sat down and was staring the engine.

"I'll show you the way. Pull out of the drive, turn left on to the road then drive straight all the way down to my house!: he said urgently giving hand directions.

DC Payne got into the back.

"Call it in," said DC Dunn to DC Payne as she sped the car away.

DC Payne reached into the front and snatched the handset from the radio. Jon studied the dashboard looking for the right switch to press. Fortunately, there was a key pad attached to the dash with brightly illuminated buttons labelled 999, 360, SIREN, AT SCENE and so on.

Reaching the end of the drive, DC Dunn turned left and accelerated hard down the road. As neither Jon nor DC Dunn had put a seatbelt on, the car bonged a warning.

Having called the incident in, DC Payne reached into the front to put the handset back on the radio.

"I can't believe this car's got bongs. Impressive," said Jon, who then grabbed the handset out of DC Payne's hand. "Here, let me."

As Jon moved to put the handset back, he took advantage of a bump in the road to accidentally on purpose fall forward and extend a hand towards the SIREN button.

Mr Caruthers and Mrs Caruthers sat inside the XC60, which was tucked away at the side of the road thirty metres from the entrance to Jon's drive, both perfectly still and silent, straining to hear any telltale sound that might come in through the opened front windows.

The sound of a police siren came blaring in and displaced the whine of a thrashed car engine, as the flash of blue light cut through the night.

"That quick," said Mr Caruthers.

"Unmarked," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Bloody unmarked," said Mr Caruthers in wonder.

"He's protected,"

"A killer?"

"A killer indeed. Right at the top."

"An orderly retreat, Major."

"Into the shadows, Captain First, to watch and follow."

While trying to keep control of the speeding car, DC Dunn pushed Jon's lump of a body forcefully away from the dashboard then turned the siren off.

"Was that on purpose?" she asked him.

"No."

"It looked like it was."

"Not consciously."

"Meaning?"

"What if they're armed?"

"With what?"

"Bigger shit than what you got!"

"That won't be a problem now."

"Drop me off."

"We're already here."

"I hate violence. I'm squeamish, a complete physical coward."

"You can stay in the car."

"I'm not even wearing a seatbelt," said Jon as he reached for his phone. "You've put me in danger. Call it in, if you get dead, I'm completely innocent and traumatized. This is traumatizing. You're traumatizing me!"

DC Dunn turned into Jon's drive. Jon checked the camera feeds on his mobile.

"Put your seatbelt on," said DC Dunn to Jon.

"Why?" asked Jon.

DC Dunn braked sharply. Jon flew forwards, and his face smashed into the dashboard. He pulled back and cried, "You cretinous bloody-"

"Come on," said DC Dunn as she open her door to get out, "keep the pace."

She and DC Payne rushed out of the car and ran towards the house. Jon checked the security camera feeds on his phone. The masked men were gone. To make sure, he turned on the siren and kept it wailing until he could see DCs Dunn and Payne running back towards the car.

Outside the car, Jon held up his mobile phone for the DCs to see, "They've gone. I was calling you back to tell you it's alright they've gone."

"So it would seem," said DC Payne.

"They're gone, and I'm gone. I'm off. I'm going," said Jon walking away towards his XC90 as DCs Dunn and Payne hurried to catch up.

"Wait. You can't just go," said DC Dunn.

"I answered your questions."

"And we've plenty more to ask you now," said DC Payne.

"I don't want to report it. They won't be back," said Jon.

"Who? So you know them?" said DC Dunn.

"Pissed-up local inbreds probably. They have rituals for everything. Deepest darkest Shropshire. Homemade cider's like crack cocaine out here. That and fucking cheese."

"Four masked men, a potential home invasion, and you don't want to report it?"

Jon twisted round to face them, his face bursting with rage, "Do I have to? Do I have to? No! Arrest me if you think you can, but you can't! You cannot keep me here an honest, law-abiding, sober citizen!" A pause brought a little composure. "I'm a nervous man. I'm seeing a therapist. I've got all sorts of phobias and none of them cool. I've got to go. I need to go. And I will! And for days, potentially, I'll be gone for days!"

With key fob in hand, he turned and walked to the XC90, unlocking the doors as he went.

"Where? To a friend's? You're going to check into a hotel?" said DC Dunn.

"I don't need a friend or a hotel. This is who I know, and this is who I need," said Jon referring to his XC90 as he opened the driver's door, "and she'll put me up anytime and bloody anywhere."

Jon got inside the XC90, closed the door and started the engine.

"We could section him," said DC Payne.

"No. Let's wait till he's lost it completely, and for good," said DC Dunn.

# CHAPTER 30

Jon hid away, parked in his XC90 high in the Shropshire Hills, although the dark and isolation did nothing to relax his nerves. For once, he thought, he would feel better and safer sitting in a brightly lit room amongst a crowd of people all of whom had visual access to his face. He considered driving to the nearest twenty-four hour McDonalds to feast with the common man, to utilise the power of the crowd while drowning his sorrows with an all-night bulimic binge. But all thoughts horrified him. He couldn't find one to soothe or placate. The four-man raid had quadrupled the threat.

He grabbed his phone and called Maddy. The connection rang only once before she answered.

"Hi, you OK," said Jon.

"Well, you know," said Maddy.

"Yeah, I know."

"How's the Moon?"

"Shy."

"It is tonight."

"Oh, and there was no memory card in the camcorder, and the disk was full."

"Nan has it. It's with her. She's holding it."

"How is she?"

"Dying."

"Oh."

"And matchmaking."

"Huh?"

"She feels you're the one."

"For her?"

"For me."

"She doesn't know me."

"Don't be fooled. She knows you. She saw right through you. You danced with her, and she knows you've been kind to me, above all else."

"She's got dementia."

"So? Do you think that's deadened her soul? It made it stronger. She told me to keep you close that you'll be good for me if a little strange."

"Right. Well."

"I have to go."

"OK. Keep me informed."

"Always."

Maddy ended the call. Jon thought, Always, didn't that sound excessive?

As soon as the phone's screen went dark, the XC90 felt dead, parked with the engine off, full of cold and pitch-black inside.

Jon was thinking guns. He already missed the pistol. Board and anxious, he let rip,

"Stand by your gun's America! Know your rights. Because it's the good little guy that'll suffer! Me and you, that's who'll get fucked!" he shouted at the world.

The four masked men, could have been the criminal crew of ex-Marines come to find the guns, he thought. His name would be willingly grassed by Kenny's men. No honour amongst thieves. The bastards, he spat. The one positive, he knew where half the guns were, and maybe the rest. What if the Accountant had them? When his men failed to make a boastful call, or return as planned, he might have sent some men to investigate. After all, it's reasonable to assume he would have known something was wrong several hours before Kenny got wind. The first on the scene for Kenny was the farmer, and by then the guns and drugs had vanished. If found at the scene by the Accountant's men then, of course, they would have taken them.

Mr and Mrs Caruthers sat in complete darkness inside their XC60 which was parked high in the Shropshire Hills.

"He's night training, honing his skills in the cold, dead of night," said Mr Caruthers.

"Yes. A quick five miles before he can sleep," said Mrs Caruthers, "or a night outdoors to harden his body with frost."

"He's quite the cock," said Mr Caruthers.

"Perhaps we should move in in take a closer look."

"Affirmative. Just give me the order."

Jon's pay-as-you-go phone started to ring. It was Bill. Jon didn't hesitate, he answered the call but gave no greeting. Bill laughed at the silence.

"Fuck off!" said Jon. Bill laughed some more.

"What you up to, Jon, been busy?" said Bill. "How many people lookin for you? Just one shitty twat lookin for me. No great worry for me though. You want the news? Disabled fella, early-twenties. Smokes the weed to help kill the pain. Bullshit probably, but he plays it well, a weak fuckin hunchback of a man. Always in character, I'll give him that. Anyway, I beat him to fuck. I don't know what. Druggy cunt. Cabbaged him. Not sure he's dead, not properly. But he won't live as we know it, mate. But fuck him, he's used to pain and disability. All your fault, though. I could've been out hittin the big boys, but thanks to you, he's my level for now. No time for the big league, just the shitty scraps of scum you find fuckin everywhere these days."

Jon kept silent. He couldn't speak. Bill filled the void.

" Playin a video game he was, Grand Theft Auto. I fuckin asked him. He had all the kit even a sound bar. A cripple with a soundbar. And these cunts have the nerve to moan for more and fuckin more. Mind you, what a life he had. A shit one really. He couldn't get out. Not much of a life playing the Hitman or whatever. All a game, some wank of a fantasy. And then out of the darkness comes me pointing a pistol with silencer attached, cold against his cheek. He shat himself. Didn't get up and runaway though. That would've been somethin. I'd have shot him anyway, not for drugs, but for thieving off the state. Pretending to be a some spasy spastic bastard. Anyway, gotta pick up the crumbs, gotta act quickly. Fuck the masterminds. Self-medicating dope-heads. Try whiskey you cunt, or killin. I'll thank you, Jon, for giving me this angle."

"Fuck off!!! Fuck off!!! Fuck off!!! Fuck off!!!" cried Jon.

Pause.

"No," said Bill, "and nor will the psychos lookin for the guns. I told your name's been mentioned."

"Good! Bring it on, cos I've got something they want."

"You reckon?"

"Half the guns."

"Bullshit."

"Half the guns safely hidden."

"You took the guns?"

"To make Kenny fucking destroy you."

"And that worked a treat."

"It will do now. I'll make a deal, guns for you! And all the guns, cos I reckon I know where the rest are too."

"Really? Prove it. Tell me."

"Fuck off! I'll tell the psychos when they agree my terms!"

"Well thanks for lettin me know. I'll let you go, let you make that call and do the deal. You got their number?"

"I don't need to make a call. They're looking for me."

"And when they find you, they'll cut the guns right out of your fuckin ball bag." He roared with laughter. "You know who they are? Won't find them on YouTube showing off their ink. They'll have no need to make a deal with you, you dopey cunt. Mind you, you can always sweeten the deal, offer them a free website, big man."

"The shitty scraps, cos that's your level! You are the shitty scraps! You think you're building a legend. But on what, the disabled, you're own junkie son? The only ones of any note, I'll get the credit for. I'm the fucking legend! I'm Five Man fuckin Jon!" He instantly regretted calling himself that.

Bill roared with laughter. "Well, bask in the glory, Five Man Jon. But who the fuck is lookin?"

"People who matter!"

"Couldn't see you if they tried. I bet you're out hiding somewhere. Me, I'm out on the road right fuckin now, writin the legend at every fuckin stop. Expectin the end. It's a mad fuckin frenzy, and it's all thanks to you, Jon."

"On the road running away from me!"

"Well, you are the fuckin legend."

"I got lucky. You'll see that."

"We're all flukes. That's all we fuckin are. Then we die, for no cunt to remember."

"Speak for yourself."

"Of course, you got Maddy. How's her drug habit? She need a cure? I'll give her some cold-fuckin-turkey right where it fuckin hurts."

"Do your best. She's at the hospital with her Nan, surrounded by hundreds of people. You stick to the easy scraps."

"Got some feelings for her, Jon?"

"No."

"What happened when I left that night? You jumped on-board for a freebie? You dirty fuckin' animal. Protectin her? Easin your guilt more like. She'll remember. They always fuckin do. Give her a slap and it'll all come back."

"Well as I say, she's at the hospital. Or is she?"

Bill roared with laughter then cut the call dead.

Jon started the engine. He had to get to Maddy's.

The XC60 crawled slowly along the narrow road with only the parking lights on to cut through the jet black of night. Inside, Mrs Caruthers held a phone, an App on which was tracking Jon's still stationary XC90.

"He's just around the corner ahead," she said.

Mr Caruthers braked gently to bring the XC60 to a stop. "What shall we do?" he asked.

"Continue forwards. And on duty, Captain, be ready for anything."

Mr Caruthers pulled slowly away. Mrs Caruthers's phone beeped a warning tone.

"Stop!" ordered Mrs Caruthers. Mr Caruthers braked sharply. "He's on the move."

"Now? He chooses now with us-" said Mr Caruthers.

"He knows. He's not the hunted. We are."

# CHAPTER 31

Jon suffered the dust and the black, claustrophobic space. The stench of air freshener and medicated creams, one of which Jon couldn't stop thinking was for old, scabby feet, were harder to take. He felt entombed, a pharaoh embalmed. Under Nan's bed was his hiding place. A valance sealed him in. Wooden slats were his only guard against the mattress. He hoped Maddy had used a plastic sheet to act as a stopper. Dried-up wet wipes and tissues had the presence of rats and poisonous creepy-crawlies.

He was hiding from Maddy and the rest of the world, but waiting for Bill to come. He thought he might have said enough to lure Bill in, bluffed him once or even double. Bill must think Maddy was either at the hospital, leaving Jon free to hide in the annexe, or at home, and an easy target for Bill to build his legend on, and commit an act of revenge. Either way, Bill would be tempted to pay a visit, and when he did, Jon would be ready with his deadly, beautiful surprise.

The pistol was back in Jon's possession and was now his only night-time comfort. It went some way to ease his nerves, those agitated by Bill at least. The crew of gun hunting psychos was a whole new well of concern. The police, he thought, had scared them away for a night at least, but the police intervention also marked Jon as a dirty, despicable grass. He was a whole new level of scum. The psycho's hate of him would be boiling, as would their need to retrieve the guns and silence him in the loudest, most painful way possible. But this night was for Bill, which is why Jon had parked his XC90 outside the annexe, to fatten the bait, to lure Bill inside.

Jon feared to even breathe too much in case his breath made a sound, like a ship's Sonar Operator desperate to detect the lurking threat of a submarine. All noise was suspicious. Only silence thawed him. When the letterbox snapped shut, he nearly puked. He couldn't move until a mobile phone started to ring. He lifted the valance. His view was virtual darkness, although he knew he looked towards the opened bedroom door and into the hall where he could see the faint glow of screen light. The ringing stopped. The glow remained for several seconds but then cut out. Jon aimed the pistol at the door. His loud, heavy breathing filled the space under the bed killing the silence. He shimmied out over wet wipes and tissues.

Fixed to the floor, sniper-like, he took long, slow breaths. Silence returned until a short, abrasive ringtone told of a message received, and the ghostly glow returned to the hall.

Jon crawled on his belly towards the door. Realising this was a clumsy way to proceed, he scrambled to his feet then ran to the door and into the hall wanting to get there before the screen light went out. He just managed to succeed. But as the light went out, he threw himself headfirst back into the bedroom.

Cowering on the floor, he expected a bomb to explode. One didn't. He waited for several minutes, then crawled back out into the hall. He stared through the darkness towards the phone. He couldn't leave it; it had to mean something. It could be innocent, meant for Maddy. It was her house after all. But it could be a bomb and meant for him, designed to leave no prisoners.

A sudden panic raced through him as he realised someone must be outside. He jumped up and aimed the pistol at the front door. He was under siege. The phone's screen lit up, and a ringtone pulsed. Driven forwards, he rushed to the phone and snatched it from the floor. Holding it at arm's length, he raced back into the bedroom and threw the phone onto the bed before ducking back out into the hall to shield himself from any explosion. When none came, he scurried into the bedroom. He found the phone - cheap and disposable - on the bed. He picked it up and woke it up, daring to touch the screen.

The text messages read:

"We know you are not the man you present to the world. We have seen your ruthless brilliance. Barn, factory, police protection. We do not under-estimate you. Our employer fears you as a high-level threat to his organisation. He would remove you permanently. However, a friendlier more cooperative approach would suit us all. What you want/need can be arranged. I'm sure we can assist each other. Our employer has no direct conflict with you only a fear that you have conflict with him. Call on this number. We will speak freely. Respectfully yours, Mr and Mrs C."

My ruthless brilliance, Jon thought, still able to fall for flattery even under such circumstances. Some clarity then returned. The Accountant, Manders, were these his people? Had he been seen at the barn or maybe one of Kenny's men gave him up. If Manders thought him responsible for the barn and Kenny, then Manders had good reason to fear him. Or the text could be lies, a simple ruse.

Jon made the call; he had to. Any chance to get the guns was a risk worth taking.

"Hello," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Who are you?" said Jon surprised the voice sounded female.

"Please, call me Major."

"You're a woman."

"Correct, sir. I am."

"The Major?"

"Or Mrs Caruthers. You are free to choose. Shall I call you The General?"

"No. I'm Jon."

"Jon it is, Jon."

"Are you alone?"

"Mr Caruthers, The Captain, and I are sitting outside in our XC60."

Jon paused trying to take it in.

Mrs Caruthers continued, "I know what you are thinking."

"What?"

"A Mr and Mrs Caruthers in a Volvo XC60."

"You blend in, you move without suspicion," said Jon.

"We do, which is an advantage in our line of work."

"In _our_ line of work, it is." Jon waited to hear her question that but she didn't. Her silence helped him believe she really did think he was a brilliant, dangerous operative. "Your employer is Manders?"

"Yes."

"You give him up so easily?"

"Why lie? You know the truth. I aim to build trust, a relationship."

"What's his occupation to the world?"

"Accountant."

"And your job is to protect him?"

"For now. And your job?"

"Is way off your pay scale."

"I believe it is."

"You saw what happened tonight?"

"Yes. You know we have been watching you."

"Yes," he lied.

"Are you now alone?"

"Jon is never alone. There are eyes and ears and backup swarming like flies. Bees. Wasps! They got a sting."

"I understand. The Captain and I we are both ex-military."

"Right. I see, and do you put your country first?"

"Always."

"What I want, what I need it isn't for me personally."

"For a higher purpose?"

"Sky-high."

"Duty would require us to assist in any way we can."

"A Mr and Mrs Caruthers in a Volvo XC60?"

"Sir, you might be surprised to see just how far a woman will go for her Queen and country, sir."

"Jon. Colleagues who work at my side I always see as friends."

"And mine, a lover."

Jon ended the call saying he needed to make consultations. He felt a rush of hope. Playing these people was an obvious risk. But any move he made to worm his way out of the predicament he was in would be saturated in fatty, all clogging risk. He felt he had authority over them. If he could keep his nerve, he could keep control.

He arranged the annexe then phoned Mrs Caruthers to give her precise instructions on how she and Mr Caruthers must enter the property.

Jon waited in Nan's bedroom in darkness, his coat removed to stop it rustling. He stood by the door which was slightly ajar giving him a view down the hall into the living room. He gripped the pistol tightly. The safety switch was off. The only light to illuminate the annexe was the glow of a dimmed table lamp in the conservatory that spread a soft, diminishing haze through the living room into the hall.

Three knocks rapped the front door. Jon steeled himself, got ready to discharge a bullet into living breathing flesh. The front door opened. Bodies shuffled in. The front door closed.

"We are here, Jon. I, Mrs Caruthers," Mrs Caruthers's voice called out in a higher than usual tone.

"And I, Mr Caruthers," Mr Caruthers's voice sang out in a deeper than usual tone.

"Following your instructions, we walk towards the light."

"A peaceful stroll. Hands raised as ordered."

"I would have stripped us naked, but you are a braver man."

The sound of footsteps, sensible rubber soles ever so gently squelching against the hardwood floor, came down the hall. Jon took a step back from the door, raised the pistol and adopted the stance of a marksman ready to fire. Two bodies passed the door just silhouettes but defined enough for Jon to see they had their hands raised. As they continued forward, he lowered the gun and stepped closer to the door to watch them enter the living room.

"Now entering the living room," said Mrs Caruthers.

"All exactly as ordered," said Mr Caruthers.

Jon pulled open the door. He had tested it for creaking. It didn't let him down. He lunged into the hall, as silently as he could, spinning round to aim the pistol towards the front door. With no unauthorized entry seen, he crept to the front door, locked it using the key he had left in the lock, then span around to aim the pistol towards the living room. After a pause, he crept forwards.

"Now entering the conservatory, " said Mrs Caruthers.

Jon entered the living room. In the conservatory, Mr and Mrs Caruthers stood in front of the two armchairs with their backs to Jon and their hands raised. The blind was drawn to hide the window. Jon crept forward, pistol aimed ready, then stopped. He lowered the pistol. With the conservatory lit more brightly than the living room, he felt hidden away just enough to ask,

"Turn and look at me."

Mr and Mrs Caruthers complied. Jon studied them.

"Yes, please, examine us," said Mrs Caruthers as she spread her arms and legs further apart.

Jon thought they looked plain and unremarkable, the comfy shoe brigade, although he also saw a solidness in them, a tough metal core that stiffened them. He told them to sit. They complied and sat in the armchairs with their backs to Jon.

"My apologies for the caution, but this way we all stay safe," said Jon.

"Agreed," said Mrs Caruthers.

"I admire your bravery, coming in like this."

Mr Caruthers replied quickly, "We come openly and honestly and full of professional respect."

"Then understand you have nothing to fear from me, although," Jon hesitated, but then couldn't resist, "I am licenced."

"Mmm," groaned Mrs Caruthers, somewhat pleasured and excited.

"And secret," Jon continued.

"We all work in the shadows," said Mr Caruthers.

"You are killers hired by a criminal," said Jon.

"Our casualties are never civilian," said Mr Caruthers.

"Although we did serve in Iraq and Afghanistan," said Mrs Caruthers before a short perverse burst of laughter broke free from her mouth.

"Served willingly and gladly and without any ongoing trauma," said Mr Caruthers proudly.

"And now, you are what you are. Not unlike what I once was before I was found and tested," said Jon.

"How can we help? Tell us." said Mrs Caruthers.

"Contact The Account. Tell him, he has something I want. Guns. If he gives them up, in fact, he must return them to the people who wanted them destroyed, he knows who they are. And I know he stole them. Once done, life returns to normal."

"And for us?"

"May the test continue."

Mrs Caruthers made the call and introduced Mr Manders to the situation. Their conversation was brief and sparsely worded but connected, government, secret, dangerous, terrorism, attractive and desirable were all words that fired Jon's imagination and ego.

Mr Manders wanted to speak to Jon directly. Jon stepped into the conservatory to take the phone then sank back into the shadows. With the phone to his mouth and ear, he said hello. Mr Manders gave no greeting. He got straight down to business.

"This is my problem," he said. "You want me to give the assets back to the people who wanted them destroyed. Assets I stole and planned to use for my own advantage. There could be retribution."

"Apologise, smooth things over. That's how we need things to be. These people could learn you have the assets anyway," said Jon.

"Half the assets."

"The other half we already control."

"Yes, of course, you took them. Why didn't you take them all when you had the chance?"

"Leaving some behind served a purpose."

"Which I can't be told."

"Correct."

"You could give them back. My name need never be mentioned."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"We don't exist. We can't just text them."

"Can I?"

"You can. I'll post you the evidence, send the police a copy too."

"It's blackmail then?"

"We always take the path of least resistance."

"So, I confess my sins to vengeful gods?"

"You give them what they want openly and honestly and in control."

"They've been inconvenienced, disrespected. They may want compensation? They may want to restore their no fuck with reputation?"

"They can fuck with me. You know my reputation? One week old and six and counting. And all on the job. No overtime required. You wanted to remove a certain competitor. You got your wish. You should thank me for that."

"I'll do as you ask, but when I make the drop, you can stand at my side as one of my men. They won't know, will they?"

"That, I'm sure, can be arranged. But you take full responsibility for taking all the assets. You don't say half, you say all."

"And your half of the assets?"

"Mr Caruthers will drive them to you. And they're yours, all yours. You took them all that's the word. I took nothing. Get me?"

"I'll make arrangements. And when all is done?"

"I vanish."

"Good. I won't."

He ended the call. When he turned around to face the conservatory, he saw Mr Caruthers standing to attention facing him. Mrs Caruthers continued to sit.

"So, I have a task, Jon," said Mr Caruthers.

"You do, Captain," said Jon.

"Your intelligence was impressive."

"Would you expect anything less?"

"No, sir. I would not, sir."

"Major, I could utilise you too."

Mrs Caruthers shot up out of the chair. "Test me. Anything," she said.

# CHAPTER 32

Jon dispatched Mr Caruthers to retrieve and deliver the guns. By the time he had reached the location dawn light would aid the search. Using Google Earth and Maps, Jon was able to text Mr Caruthers a reasonable set of GPS coordinates showing where the guns should be. It was an easy test he thought, one Mr Caruthers would surely overcome.

With Mr Caruthers gone, Jon's attention turned to Mrs Caruthers. He has no hesitation; he sent her to Bill's. Her mission was simple, to enter and search Bill's house. Her prime objective was to recover a laptop, or any other such device, the contents of which, he hinted, had the potential to compromise national security. The property should be empty. But if she was to encounter any man, she was to treat him as a high-risk threat and viable takedown target.

As he gave the instructions, she stood in front of the armchair, her body stiff and to attention, her head nodding to express her agreement and willingness at every stage.

Jon explained how to break in. Feeling he was on a roll, he guessed she knew the property's location having followed him there. He was right. It further enhanced his allure.

She would have to drive his XC90. Jon warned her not to mess with the command console for fear she might activate one of the very non-standard optional extras, although he assured her half-jokingly there was no ejector seat.

Finally, he told her where to park, a good half-mile away from the property, then asked her if she was prepared to do what he had asked.

"Of course," she said. "Would you?"

"Of course," said Jon.

She began to walk towards him, prowling with menace, out of the light into the shadows. "Then I too, for we, Jon are one."

"Yes. Are we?"

"Rare and rarefied, brilliant and beautiful to the right connoisseur. I want to share your taste."

Jon feared she was about to jump on him for violence or sex or a combination of both. Unable to think of a reply, he threw the car keys at her. She caught them with ease using only one hand. In front of him, almost toe-to-toe, she stopped, staring into his eyes.

"Think how to work me, Jon. Push me to the extremes of your imagination. I will never say no."

She held his stare for several seconds then marched away. Jon freed the shudder he had suppressed and let it shiver down his spine.

"Wait!" he called remembering. She stopped, turned to face him. "You might find photos of me. If you do, bring them to me. All of them."

"Thank you," she said then turned and walked away.

Jon remained in the annexe, his mission control, pacing through the darkness, checking windows and doors, drinking crap instant coffee, gun in hand waiting for his agents to call or for Bill to make a move.

His hatred burned. A spark flashed through his thoughts. Bill's house engulfed in flames and razed to the ground. A crude but effective way to destroy all incriminating evidence left inside the house.

He received a text. Mrs Caruthers had parked and was walking to the property. Twenty minutes later, a call came in. Mrs Caruthers had entered the house and completed her search.

"Did you find the laptop?" asked Jon.

"No," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Anything?"

"Photos. Many copies."

"Of?"

"An unknown man and woman. Nothing I shall ever remember."

"Destroy them. Bring them to me or destroy them. What else?"

"A man. There was a man."

Jon dared to hope. Was? Now dead? Finished?

Mrs Caruthers continued, "He is here with me chained up in the cellar just as I found him. Listen."

A naked incandescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated a dank, claustrophobic cellar. Stolen road signs, gas bottles and bags of donated used clothes along with other pieces of scrap filled the space. Tied to the wall was a young, beaten man, his hands fixed above his head, his feet bound together with twine. A dirty, oily rag was tied into his mouth to gag him. His winter clothing didn't stop him shivering. His frightened, angry eyes, stung by the diesel fumes that made the air toxic, glared at Mrs Caruthers desperate to learn her motive. She leaned down towards him and yanked the gag from his mouth. She held her phone towards him helping Jon hear what The Prisoner had to say.

"Call the police!! Call the fuckin police and get me fuckin out of here!!" The Prisoner screamed fear giving the energy to do so.

Jon heard over the phone. The voice didn't sound like Bill's. "Who is he?" he asked.

"Quite the sort, some sort of scum," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Fuck off!! You fuckin untie me!!" said The Prisoner.

"Now really, your language, do I not look like a lady to you?"

"A lady? Down here, doin nothin!"

From the handbag draped over her shoulder, she pulled out an automatic pistol and aimed it at his face. "And now, do I look like a lady now?" The Prisoner stared at the gun unable to process the reality.

"Does he have a glass eye?" asked Jon.

"No. They move rat-like, always on the make."

"Get me out of here. Please! I can't even breathe. He put diesel in buckets to fuckin choke me," said The Prisoner.

Mrs Caruthers looked, two buckets were on the floor just outside The Prisoner's reach. They did the job. She felt the stench poisoning her eyes and throat.

"Ask him if Bill did it?" said Jon.

"Did Bill do this?" said Mrs Caruthers.

"He killed my brother! He's left me here to fuckin do me!" said The Prisoner.

"Is he useful to you?" said Mrs Caruthers speaking to Jon.

Jon knew he had to sound in sure of himself, decisive. "No," he said.

"Should I release him?" said Mrs Caruthers.

"Yes!" screamed The Prisoner.

"No," said Jon. Would The Prisoner go to the police? He would. And give the police two for one, with Jon being the disposable freebie giveaway. "I can't let him contact the police."

"Then what shall we do?" said Mrs Caruthers.

"Who is he? What's he like?" said Jon.

"Are you a bad man, Prisoner?" Mrs Caruthers asked him.

"What the fuckin? Just fuckin get me out! Who are you? Who the fuck are you?" said The Prisoner.

"If we free you, you will owe us. You will have a debt to pay."

"Whatever. Good! Fuckin do it then! I'll pay!"

"Not money, labour."

"Anythin! I'll do anythin!"

"And how do we know you've got the stomach? Tell me your crimes, the worst."

"Stabbings, two. Some mouthy twat and a slag of a fuckin bitch."

"And that's your best?"

"What the fuck is this?"

"Your chance to escape."

"I'll sell smack to anyone, kids. I don't give a shit."

"He's a drug dealer, he can't go to the police," said Jon.

"You're a drug dealer, you can't go to the police," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Can for this. I got rights. Done nothin wrong! I want protection!"

"You can't protect yourself?"

"From a fuckin psycho? He killed my brother. So I ain't no angel, but, I'm a dad! I got four kids to look after!"

"And what's that cost you weekly?"

"Fuck all! I ain't no mug either!"

Mrs Caruthers turned her back on The Prisoner and took several steps away as she spoke to Jon with a quieter voice. "There, you have him, the man. Whatever it is you want from him, he will not give it. Does he know too much?"

"He does?" said Jon.

"Is silence your goal?" said Mrs Caruthers.

"It is."

"You can't trust him."

"No."

"I have a weapon. But, it will look too professional."

"I see."

"An accident would be better."

"How?"

"Fire."

"We're British, we have standards."

"Which he will benefit from, like all our welfare junkies. There's a lot in this house you want destroyed."

"Yes."

"Perhaps more that I haven't found."

"Likely."

"Fire will bring the house down, collapse it into the cellar. A tragic, devastating accident."

"It can't look suspicious, house or man."

"It won't. An electrical fire in a house like this will be accepted, and the twine that holds the man captive will not survive the flames."

"There's risk."

"Some as always."

"But...there might be a cat."

"I'll look. We're British after all. So, I'll do it?"

"Wait. Give me a moment. I've got another call."

Jon put her on hold; he had to think. But, he knew sometimes you don't need to think, you don't need to spend time weighing up the options or considering the pros and cons. Instinct and character were enough. So the answer came to Jon in an instant. Don't, he told himself. Don't.

He reconnected the call and spoke to Mrs Caruthers, "You're the agent on the ground. The decision is yours. Do what you think is best. You have full autonomy." He jabbed the phone's screen to end the call.

"I didn't!" he cried. "I didn't!"

Mrs Caruthers kicked over a bucket. Spilt diesel flowed towards The Prisoner. Terror fuelled his rage. His words of protest were an incoherent scream.

"I'm sorry," said Mrs Caruthers.

"For torchin me alive?" He found the words.

"No. For all the wrong turns you took in life. You lost." She pushed over a pile of vertically stacked large road signs which came crashing down onto his torso. His reaction was minimal, winded shock. A brief, cold laugh escaped her mouth. "But one last chance," she continued, "find your way out of this sweet pickle."

She turned her head looking for the second bucket of diesel.

# CHAPTER 33

Jon's roll continued, events conspired to give him no time to think. He patrolled the annexe, speed-walking, checking windows and doors on guard against attack. His phone rang; it was Maddy. Given the time, a desperate hour well past midnight, he feared she had bad news or worse just needed someone to talk to. But he couldn't resist. He had to keep her close, so he answered the call anyway.

"Maddy. You OK? You know what time it is? You woke me up," said Jon.

"Time, what shit is time? Time is nothing. You don't know the real time," said Maddy.

"No."

"Hospital lighting kills. Numbs you first. It's designed to. I need some weed to smoke."

"I can't help. How can I?"

"I've got some stashed away at home."

An idea began to form in his mind. "Do you want me to get it and bring it to you?"

"They're taking Nan to Birmingham, a specialist unit or something."

"Birmingham?" He felt connection, a good omen spoke to confirm his plan.

"Yes."

"When?"

"When an ambulance is ready. I could really do with a smoke. It's all artificial here, it pollutes the air."

"Shall I go and see if I can find it?"

"You could."

"Don't turn the lights on and watch me. I've got sensitive eyes especially after waking up."

"I've got sensitive everywhere."

"And I'm wearing pyjamas."

"Wow. Then let the old dears watch, one last thrill before they croak it."

"I'll call you when I'm there."

"What if I croak it?"

"What?"

"Gone, left for Birmingham."

"I'll bring it tomorrow, today, later today."

"To Birmingham? You can't do that."

"I can. It's perfect."

"How?"

"Easy I mean. It's only fifty miles, down the motorway mostly. And I can afford the M6 toll. And I want to."

"Really?"

"Yes. Look, I'll call you when I'm in your house."

He ended the call. He thought ten minutes would be the right amount of time to wait before calling her back, but his burgeoning plan took over his thoughts, and twenty-five minutes later Maddy called him. He answered and put the phone on speaker.

"You there yet? They're getting Nan ready," said Maddy.

"Just got here," said Jon.

"I won't be shy. Go to my bedroom, the bottom draw in the bedside cabinet."

Jon followed the instruction. His concerns about Maddy watching him receded. After all, he now had permission to be there. Inside the bedroom, he turned on a small lamp on top of the bedside cabinet then opened the bottom draw to find a nine-inch vibrator glaring at him.

"Oh for fuck's sake another-" he cut himself off.

"What?" said Maddy.

"Nothing. Where's the weed?"

"The battery compartment. I guess you know of what."

"Can I touch it hygienically?"

"Christ, Jon, you're the bloody weed. All man you, aren't you?"

"Yes, actually, yes!" he said forcefully as tension was released. "And I'll tell you this, there's been lots of man-shit going down round me tonight!"

"Benn playing Fifa?"

"No! Real, serious man-shit! Man-shit everywhere!"

"If I had the strength to worry for you, Jon, I'd be frantic. If I had joy left to laugh, I'd be pissing myself at your expense." She managed a brief giggle. "Man-shit? Dare I ask?"

"Big news! Big trouble!" Releasing he had said too much, "I mean, all my tech went wrong tonight including my WiFi."

"Blame your karma. Your aura is set to repel."

"Look," he put the phone and pistol down on the cabinet, "let's just focus on this." He picked up the vibrator delicately and unscrewed the cap to open the battery compartment. "Why hide it in here?"

"I didn't want Nan to find it. I made her a promise."

"But you leave this thing out to be found? I've read dementia suffers go through draws rearranging things."

"She was never a prude."

"What would you have said it was if she had found it?"

"A vibrator."

"As if she'd know."

"She'd guess."

"Given its size, I don't think she would."

"You can dream."

Jon tipped the batteries out into the draw. A plastic bag containing what appeared to him to be a small amount of marijuana fell out too. "There's nothing in there," he lied.

"There is. There has to be."

"I can't see it."

"It has to be there. In a small plastic bag."

"It isn't."

"I need it."

"Couldn't you call Bill? He gave you his number. He said he could get you some."

"No. Why would I do that? I'll be in Birmingham. He's not going to bring it. I don't know him."

"Oh, no, wait. Found it. I can't bring it now though."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes. Where?"

"I can't remember. I'll text you when I get there. Are you sure about this?"

"No problem."

"You're kind, or stupid, driving to Birmingham to bring me a little something to smoke. God, what are we?"

"Just trying to win a few."

"Win?"

"Survive."

"You think so?"

"Will you need somewhere to stay? You won't know how long you'll be there."

"Probably."

"Shall I book a room? I can get online and do it properly."

"I thought your tech had all gone wrong?"

"I fixed it. You see, all man me, all bloody man."

"OK. I'll let you know what happens, where and when and all of that."

"Likewise."

Jon ended the call. His plan was still active, and better, adapted. The initial setback had made it stronger.

He was lost to thought, thinking about winning, when a noise shattered the dream. Startled, he grabbed the pistol. Without thinking, he continued to clutch the vibrator. It felt thick and substantial, aggressive.

He looked at the opened bedroom door. Something moved down the hall. His legs froze, but his arms rose to wield the pistol and vibrator. Mrs Caruthers stepped into view standing in doorframe. She held a shopping bag and wore only her underwear - no-nonsense white bra and full brief knickers, which still managed to reveal years of wild, natural growth, elasticated stockings - and shoes. For the first time in memory, Jon looked into a woman's eyes and held her stare.

She glanced at the pistol then the vibrator and with a breathless flutter spoke, "Really, General, is that weapon for me?" She dropped the bag and raised her hands above her head to reveal two tufts of dark armpit hair.

"What? No," said Jon remembering he held a vibrator, which when he tried to shake from his hand, he couldn't, as if subconsciously he believed it offered some protection against Mrs Caruthers who was now advancing towards him with her hands raised in submission.

"Surely you're not the sort of man who needs bring a weapon into battle?"

"No," he knew he had to keep the illusion live.

"You could take any woman completely unarmed."

"Well," as could Bond.

"So, you must think I am one for extra special attention?"

Jon saw her look at the vibrator, "No." He lowered the pistol but kept the vibrator raised to highlight it. "I was on the job."

"We all get lonely."

"The business job."

"I don't judge you. I never judge my own. I know the truth. We all do."

"What?"

"We are perverts. Everyone one of us, desperate, exquisite perverts. Tell me, I'm wrong."

"You're right," he wanted to sound he was one of her own. She stood in front of him, too close. The wall behind him denied retreat.

She continued, "We spy. We lie. We lurk. We pester. We demand obedience. We punish. We hurt."

"Right, but we're still on the job. I've just had a call. We need to go to Birmingham."

She lowered her hands and took hold of the vibrator and pistol pinching them gently between finger and thumb. Jon still held onto them but ceded control. She guided them towards her mouth where she kissed the tip of each before putting both into her mouth and holding them between her teeth.

Jon continued, "Birmingham, we could stop for breakfast."

Her body began to sway as her arms rose above her head. "Choose your weapon then do me until you scream!" she said clearly even with a mouth full of tip.

"This isn't my style."

She spat out the pistol and vibrator, as if spitting in Jon's face. He felt spray hit his cheeks and eye, but he dared not wipe it off.

"The wrong weapon, General?" she said before thrusting a hand towards his crotch. Instinctively, Jon knocked her hand away. But she grabbed his wrist and somehow folded him into a chokehold - her right arm locked around his throat, his right arm jammed behind his back. Her strength was shocking and nearly overwhelmed him. With his throat strangled, he could barely breathe. In his free, left hand, he held the vibrator. He thought about trying to use it as a cosh but fearing she may see the act as foreplay, he let it go and formed a fist. Now if she had been a man, Jon might have froze and cowered still, but she wasn't, she was a woman, so he found the strength and agility to twist and break free and punch her in the face. She didn't go down but stood solidly, wild exhilaration flared in her eyes.

"Get a grip of yourself, Mrs Caruthers!" said Jon.

"No!" She dropped to the floor landing on her hands and knees with her rear-end facing Jon. "You get a grip of Mrs Caruthers!"

"You're on duty!" His phone pulsed a ringtone for a message received. "You see!" He rushed to the cabinet and grabbed the phone. "On call and very much still on duty!"

"But," she sounded deflated.

Jon read the message glad for the change of view, "Your husband has found the assets." Holding the phone for her to see, although she couldn't as she remained on all fours with her head sunk to the floor, he caught sight of the shopping bag left by the door. It was a chance to change the subject. "What's in the bag?"

"My clothes."

"Why?"

"They smelt of diesel. I-"

"Don't. I don't want to know. I have to have plausible deniability."

"I didn't want your XC90 to reek of it."

This reminded Jon of her usefulness and competence. "Right. Well, thank you." He hesitated. If she had been looking at him he wouldn't have been able to continue, but since she had her face against the floor, he was able to say, "You are special, and we won't always be on duty, and we may have to wait but think of the payoff when we can be our real perverted selves."

She snapped her head round to look at him like, it has to be said, a keen and dutiful dog. She then jumped to her feet and stood to attention.

"Birmingham? I know the city well. Do I have time to wash my clothes? I assume there is a washing machine and drier. The stink of old, decrepit people wafting about tells me there must be. There must be!"

There was. With her clothes washing, Jon kept her busy. She patrolled the annexe, pistol in hand pacing back-and-forth obsessively, stopping only to check the laptop and the live camera feeds showing Jon's house.

Jon hoped there was still night enough left for Bill to come and make a move. He thought about sending him a text message full of triumphant boasting and mocking the arson he hoped Bill had already discovered. But fearing he might incriminate himself, he resisted the urge.

Locked inside Maddy's bedroom, Jon connected his phone to the internet and searched for a place for Maddy to stay. If he couldn't get Bill that night, his plan would see him right, and he wouldn't even have to do the deed. Thinking a hotel would be both too public and secure, he settled on an Airbnb - a smart apartment in a building close to the city centre, which he booked for a three night stay. He barely regretted the additional cost, most of which would fall on him, as he could only rightly charge Maddy the cost of a Travelodge room. But if his plan delivered the goods, it would be money expertly spent.

Finally, feeling quite safe and protected, with his pistol at his side, and believing Birmingham was the place to rid himself of Bill, what with his allies, indeed stooges, being connected to the area, he even managed to steal a few hours sleep.

# CHAPTER 34

Mr Manders was always the first to arrive at the office. The stillness of the business park at 7:30 AM, gave him the edge. Nothing unusual or even slightly off would escape his eye. He knew the park's routine, its habits and people. If the need dictated, he would be ready to attack or speed away.

The car park at Manders and Associates was empty except for a white Ford Transit Connect van with a 2003 plate. Bill sat inside using the mirrors to watch a black Jaguar XJ Portfolio cruise slowly along the road towards the office building. He guessed its speed was 20 mph. Ten less than the limit. Having passed the car park's entrance, the XJ continued on towards a roundabout.

The XJ was the only car on the road, so no signal was required, but still, Mr Manders pushed up the stalk to start the right-side indicator light flashing. He drove all the way round the roundabout, indicating left to take the final exit and head back towards the building that bore his name.

He knew the van was wrong like dog shit on the carpet trod in by some careless scum of a man. It made him seethe with a cautious rage.

Bill watched the XJ return. As it neared the entrance to the car park, its left indicator started to flash. Bill responded to the signal, he removed his coat then opened the door and got out.

The XJ entered the car park. Bill walked clear of the van then raised his hands above his head which lifted his shirt up to expose his bare stomach and trouser waistband. He spun around showing the XJ driver he carried no weapon.

The XJ stopped, ten metres away from Bill who didn't hesitate to walk towards it, his arms now lowered but held to be clearly seen. Mr Manders watched impassively. Reaching the XJ, Bill stood right in front of it.

"Mr Manders or associate?" he said loudly.

Mr Manders didn't stir.

Bill continued, "Don't worry, I ain't got a squeegee. I ain't gonna clean your windscreen. I'm Bill. We need to speak. Guns, Kenny, coke. Where the fuck to start? All to your benefit though."

The XJ reversed calmly away. Bill stood watching as it swept into a parking bay. The engine purred to silence. The driver's door opened, and Mr Manders got out. For a moment, he stood and held Jon's stare as he raised a phone to his mouth and ear. As he began to speak, he pushed the driver's door shut, walked round to the front passenger door, opened it, walked back to the driver's side, opened the rear door and got in closing the door behind him.

Bill accepted the invitation and began walking towards the XJ. Through the windscreen, he watched Mr Manders watching him as he ended his call and lowered the phone.

Reaching the opened door, Bill almost fell inside to plonk himself down onto the seat to give the shock absorbers a testing bounce and to show he had little respect for such an expensive car. However, the XJ wasn't provoked and barely registered Bill's considerable bulk. Mr Manders remained impassive, like the aloof businessman in the back of a limousine just about managing to hold inside the contempt he felt for the buffoon of a driver who wrongly thinks he has earned the right to speak.

"Morning. Ain't we the early birds?" said Bill.

"Shut the door," said Mr Manders.

"Yes, sir." He pulled the door shut trying to slam it, but the soft close function defeated him. "I feel underdressed."

"You should do."

"I do."

"Yes, well, you left your van."

"Good van that, an honest van. A workin man's van."

"How do you earn a living?"

"Dishonestly, and with no front. Not in an office. Not like you. You look like a company man. What, seven-thirty to well past five? Even as a front that's too much bollocks for me." He turned to look at Mr Manders directly and gauge his reaction, but there wasn't one. He met Bill's stare and held it.

Bill continued, "I had a mate, money forger. Not a good one. Not good at anythin. Should've worked the bins or swept the fuckin road. But he got into forgin pound coins. Thing is, he only had one mould, a good one, but still, only one. So once he'd done the job, melted the metal, poured it in, painted it and everythin else, he could only make two an hour. Even if you ignore the costs, he was only makin two pound an hour. He could've done a paper round and earned a better fuckin wage. The judge at his trial said much the same. But you know his reply? He said, 'I don't wanna be a wage slave. I wanna be my own boss. And I don't give a fuck about the law either.' So, there you go, that's a man I admire, his spirit. Two quid an hour, but fuck it. It's a gain, and it's illicit."

"You like to talk."

"When appropriate."

"Loudly and in public."

"If me and you are the public. And what's this," he tapped the side window with a knuckle, "double glazed? It's a cosy bubble in here."

"Seven-thirty, you were right. And now I'm late."

"I do talk a lot, but I've got a lot to say. So here it is. I trust you're the type who can take it all in. You've got some property. Not yours, stolen. A play to bring a competitor, down. We both know who. Kenny. Well humpty-fucking-dumpty cos no one's gonna put him back together again. He wanted the property gone. He wasn't alone. Others did too. Serious, dangerous, professional people. But this property you got, it ain't complete. You only got half. I know that, and I know the man who's got the rest. Jon. Know everythin about him, know him too fuckin well. He wants all the guns so he can give them back to the people who wanted them vanished in the first place. And I'll tell you why cos he's out of his depth the silly cunt. He stole the guns. Took an opportunity and nicked the fuckers. Now, as you know, Kenny's orders weren't followed to the letter. Someone else, Hollis, saw an opportunity to profit, as did you, Manders or Associate. Anyway, fair dues to Hollis, he did plan to do the guns away as originally charged. And he hired me to do it. Cos that's what I do. I make things vanish. So, I was there that night. Off the pitch, but knockin around waitin to collect the guns, take them away and do my job, which I would've done well and for a fair fuckin price. So I heard it, everythin, boasts about the guns goin back on the street. And you think I give it loud. Well, I don't but your men do, and they did cos I heard your name shouted all over the place. Until, bang, it all goes off. How it happened, I couldn't say. Five men properly fucked up. Me, what could I do? Unarmed, I left. And no word of a lie, I heard a siren and thought with houses not too far away someone must have heard. Survival, self-preservation, you may not think it, but the urge in me is strong, so off I went and quickly."

Bill paused briefly. Mr Manders continued to stare at him impassively. His body, although sitting upright with perfect posture, seemed loose and relaxed.

Bill continued, "Anyway, and here it is, I told this to Jon, told him too much. Why? We were fucking. I mean we weren't friends. I was his bit of rough, and wanted to live up to, well, his fantasy. But he, the cunt, sees an opportunity, sniffs the money cos he owes to banks and people includin me. He's the sought of gay that has to look it. Designer clothes and all the latest gadgets and weekend breaks away. So, off he goes. Early hours. He finds the money, the deposit for the guns, and he's havin that no problem. The coke he bags too. Being queer and on the scene and all of that, being coked-up equals being cocked-up and that's the life he loves to live. The guns, he take and hides. Why? To set me up, to put psycho men after me. He wants me dead. No word of a lie. Get rid of his debt, get rid of the man who knows his play. He claws out eyes and sends off texts to make it worse. The man is a dirty fuckin deviant. Now, he did the eyes cos I told a lie. Said I did a similar thing when banged-up inside, and ever since I was known for it. Bullshit, I admit. The deed, not the reputation. But I told it him for all the right reasons, to turn the fucker on. And I have done time. You check that out all you want. Anyway, so the trail he set don't lead to me. And some farmer bloke who owns the land saw his car and gets him involved. Kenny and his boys, all know me, know I live close, so I'm the man they call. Go take a look and see what's what. So, I do. I pay a visit, and when I get there, I get my opportunity to take. I kidnap him. Now, I could've done the deed there and then. Could've done it to serve me. I'm the one who let slip the info. But I know Kenny needs the guns, and at the time, I didn't know Hollis was workin some foreigner so even though I had somethin to lose, I still took him up to Kenny. And guess the fuck what? He tries to say I did the five men. And not like a queer. He meant killed the five and robbed the goods. Not that he knew I did. He just agreed to lend me his car for the night so put two and two together. I told the truth as I told it to you, although I said nothin about you. And you ask yourself, has anythin come your way to say I did? No. So it's all about who they believe. And they believe me. I've done work for them, was on their side in prison. I've proved myself when the odds were very fuckin long. So, I walk away, to a shitload of shitty jokes, it has to be said. But don't bother me. Prison reveals a lot about men, deluded fuckers most of them. Inside, outside who gives a fuck. Anyway, Kenny, and you know what a fuck-up he was, decides to question Jon alone. Get him drugged, and starved or drugged and pissed and freely talkin. And no doubt Kenny kept up with him, set the pace I reckon. What happened next, I couldn't say. Did he do the deed, got lucky? Maybe, who knows? He was desperate enough, but if he did it was some freak opportunity. He ain't no man in that way. Anyway, he escapes, but shittin himself, petrified all the wrong sorts are after him. He panics, goes into hidin. So here's the question, what's his best move now? Get in touch with you, convince you to work together. You both got something the other one needs. But don't think you can trust him."

"I don't," said Mr Manders calmly interjecting, and showing no signs of listening fatigue.

"Good. He probably thinks that too. So what's his other move? Go to the police. Protection for evidence and information."

"Why do you think I've got half the property?"

"I know Jon only took half, one bundle. When Kenny's men got there, no property was left. Your men must of got there first. You would've been expectin a call. When it didn't come, you had to know."

"Why are you telling me this? What do you want?"

"One, good will. I'm here open and honest if a little bloody loudly. Two, if he does make contact, when he's no longer useful, I want him. He's mine to deal with. I'm the one who makes him vanish. Three, I'm actively lookin for him. If I find him and get the property, it's yours. No cost to you, just good will, to smooth over any ill. It's all a bit complicated. I'll give you that. Lance the fuckin boil, property back to those who want it or vanished at my cost. Jon silent and unreachable. Then back to business as usual for all those who survive."

"And that's it, simple deal done?"

"One issue. One of the guns, it's missing. Jon sold it. A pistol with silencer. Good news is, I know who has it. And I'm close to gettin it, and when I do, it's yours."

"What if I need it quickly?"

"I'll speed up the hunt. I got people, they're workin for me."

"What's your surname?"

"Locke. From Shrewsbury, the posh part of the West Midlands."

"Leave your number."

"Already written." He reached into a trouser back pocket and pulled out an empty packet of cigarette papers on which he had written his phone number. After showing it to Mr Manders, he put it on the driver's seat.

"Right, off to work then. Another day at the office. Mind you, bet we enjoy our work really, don't we? It's all good fun."

Bill opened the door and got out. Mr Manders watched him walk away. When he reached his van, Mr Manders raised his phone and made a call.

# CHAPTER 35

Jon never got travel sick, but for the entire drive into Birmingham, he felt both choked and nauseous. He could feel the XC90 blushing profusely to expose its guilt, forced to traffic guns and drugs and a predatory, psychopathic woman who sat in the back, her stare gorging on him.

He had asked for silence, and, of course, she followed the order, another debt he may have to repay. He claimed he needed to enter a military-grade Zen-like trance in order to rehearse the next phase of the operation mentally. It wasn't a total lie. He did need time to think and prepare. But the stifling weight of her presence, and the confined, inescapable space, forced his thoughts to obsess on a question. If she ever found out what an ordinary man he was, what type of bitch-slave man would he have to become?

It was a relief to set her free. But not to fly too far away. He wanted her close. Was this what they called a toxic relationship? Mr Caruthers was set to pick her up in the XC60 and together they would remain locked on the radar ready to strike or to follow Jon's next order to kill.

Maddy looked like she was walking in the wrong direction, away from the hospital not towards it, a patient who had discharged herself in need of a drink or other such fix. She might be disappointed. Jon had taken half the marijuana and crumbled it into the wind leaving what he thought was just enough for a single joint or enough fresh thyme to season a portion of his home-made authentic Italian meatballs.

Jon had texted Maddy his exact car park location, so he wouldn't have to get out and meet her at the entrance. Even so, she strolled vaguely towards the wrong lettered section of the car park. Jon gave her a call and guided her in.

"You alright? You look ill." Jon asked Maddy as she slouched into the passenger's seat. "What's your Nan got exactly? It's not catching?"

"Yeah, dementia, the one that rots your soul," replied Maddy with little expression. "Where's the weed?"

With the bag of marijuana hidden in his fist, Jon slipped it into the shoulder bag that Maddy had on her lap then whipped his hand back out.

"What the fuck! We're not at Sports Day or something!" she spat as she scrambled to retrieve the bag of marijuana almost falling into a panic as she clattered through the mess of things the shoulder bag contained. Jon watched her. She looked thinner and smelt unwashed. Finally, almost defeated, she recovered the marijuana but was shocked at the quantity she found.

"Where's it gone?" she asked him.

"It's there."

"There was more than this."

"It's probably dehydrated."

"There's barely enough for one."

"I don't want any."

"Spliff!" she snapped. "Sorry." She seemed to deflate, sinking into herself. "Just leave me alone. Go away. Stay there and just go away somewhere. We all do it."

Jon, hoping to lighten the mood, tried to think of a joke involving her Nan, the marijuana and her nine-inch vibrator, something to do with Nan not inhaling he thought, but he couldn't think quickly enough. Maddy took out a packet of tobacco and started to roll a joint."Don't say it," she said quietly and without looking at him. "I'll go outside. Just let me roll it here."

Jon kept quiet. She had given his plan a chance to succeed. He did nothing to disturb her concentration which waned lost behind a mental fog. It took several minutes for her to roll the joint. Finally, with the joint complete, she pulled the handle to open the door. Jon made his move.

"Oh, can I borrow your phone? I barely got a signal phoning you and it's low-"

"Help yourself," she half threw the shoulder bag onto his lap then got out of the XC90, closed the door and walked away.

Jon moved quickly. He found the phone and speed-wrote a text, which read,

"Big favour. Need your contacts. Really need some weed to smoke. In Birmingham at hospital with Nan who is very ill. But fell out with Jon so he owes me a favour. Insisting he come visit & bring me clean clothes etc. If you could get the smoke to him, next few hours, he could bring it with him. Text back only. Being naughty. Shouldn't use mobiles on the ward. Maddy xxx."

He sent the text to Bill. Waiting for a reply, he searched the view of parked cars trying to locate and keep a watch on Maddy, but he couldn't find her.

A text came through, it read,

"No problem. Why you fell out with jon? Bill."

Why indeed, Jon thought. Lies need a foundation of truth so believe me when I say,

"He tried to take my Nan's camcorder. Her favourite thing. Why?? Knob!!! Found it in glove box when dropping off clothes at shrewsbury hospital. He lied. But back with us here now."

He sent the text then continued his search for Maddy. She rose into view, from sitting on the ground to standing between two cars. Jon thought it was noticeably odd behaviour and worried it might draw attention to her and then him.

A text came through, it read,

"Strange times. Got to come that way so will bring the smoke to you. Don't tell jon. He hates the good stuff. Won't be happy."

Jon replied.

"Really? Big, big thanks. At hospital now but about to book a place to stay. Will text you with details later. OK?"

Jon watched Maddy. Her eyes were closed, her body was rocking back and forth.

Bill's text came through, "Yeah. C U later."

Jon replied, "Proper thanks. Really appreciated."

Maddy began to walk back towards the XC90. Jon took out his phone and hid it amongst the shoulder bag clutter. As he put Maddy's phone into his coat pocket, a ringtone sounded to tell of a text received.

"How much weed u want?"

Jon panicked. How was weed measured and sold? He thought about using the phone to google the answer, but as Maddy neared his fingers froze. Was the question a test? Bill must be suspicious. If Jon's answer was wrong or unduly delayed the suspicion would turn to fact. He had seconds to act, to beat both Maddy and Bill. His reply came from nowhere, fed to him on a rush of adrenalin.

"As much as you can get for 20 quid." He sent the text then muted the phone.

As Maddy opened the door and got into the car, a text came through, which Jon quickly scanned, "My kind of girl. Sorted," before slipping the phone into his pocket.

"Better?" he asked Maddy as he repressed a wave of adrenalin fuelled celebration. She didn't reply or even look at him. "Oh, I've booked you a place to stay." He paused waiting for a response, but Maddy remained silent, her vacant stare unable to move beyond her thoughts. "An AirBnB, a bloody nice apartment all for you, just a twenty minute walk from here. The Canal Wharf area. You're right next to the canal." Jon thought as she was expecting a hotel room, revealing this would inspire some interest, but it didn't. He continued, trying to impress, "It's got an induction hob and a jacuzzi bath. It's a pampering apartment. I thought of that. My marketing brain. There's no key to pick up just a security code to tap in. I'll text you the details when it's all comes through."

"Marvellous," said Maddy in a deadened tone that revealed nothing to Jon. Suddenly, she reached forwards and opened the glove box. Empty space held her stare.

"Do you feel anything, Jon?" she asked.

Jon scrambled to think of an answer. Maddy closed the glove box with strange, delicate care as if it was a treasured possession that brought back forgotten memories.

"Do you know," said Jon cautiously, "if you weren't such a strong, tough, independent woman, I might be worried for you."

"I better go," said Maddy with a sudden sense of urgency.

"Oh, I spoke to Bill and he said he could bring some weed."

She locked a fierce stare onto him, "So what the fuck, you're my fucking drug dealer now? "

Her harsh, aggressive tone startled him.

She continued, "And I thought you might care."

"I do," Jon managed say.

"I'm not yet looking past you, Jon. I still believe in my Nan. Don't destroy her for me. Don't you ever dare."

She held his stare, and even he could see the tears walled in behind anger and who knows what else.

He had to look away. He eased the move with words, "I know it's a difficult time-"

"I've got to go," Maddy interrupted. Opening the door, she took hold of the shoulder bag. "You do what you must do," she said as she climbed out of the car.

"I'll text you the details for the place to stay," said Jon.

Standing outside, she turned to face him. "Thank you. You've been kind." She closed the door. Jon held firm, kept control. He watched Maddy wander away, meandering on an inexact course. When she was far enough away, a burst of celebration came screaming out, he shook his fists and roared a victorious cry. He met the stare of a woman passing the window, "The test was negative!" he roared at her. "I will not be defeated!! I will not fucking die!!"

He read the woman's stare as hostile. It made him feel chastised. He sank down into the seat to hide. It brought into him a sense of what the fight was for, to get back to the quiet life, to spend a day alone lost in his own carefree bubble slipping in and out of pointless daydreams. In total command of his own small life.

With the woman gone, he sat up and scanned the view. Maddy was still plodding on. Remembering what she had said to him, You've been kind,

"Mutually beneficial," he said out loud, as if to correct her.

He didn't drive away. As he had already paid for parking, he decided to wait until sufficient time had passed.

While waiting, he dared to believe his plan was brilliant. Even if Bill thought the weed drop was a trap, he would still play along. Vanity would be his undoing. So what if Jon was waiting ready to strike? If he was, then great, a perfect opportunity to make the kill and take revenge. Jon was nothing, an easy fly to swat, a lonely, weak, desperate man. But Jon knew the cheats he had to play to make the game his own. And if Bill considered the drop real, he would still twist it into his lust to ex

narrative and see it as an opportunity to exact murder and revenge.

After twenty minutes, Jon made the call. He used Maddy's phone to call his Galaxy S7. Maddy didn't answer. The call went through to voicemail. He tried again, with more success, Maddy answered the phone.

"Jon," she said.

"You guessed. I'm a knob."

"No one needs to guess that, it's already known by all and everyone."

She sounded quite sharp, which worried him.

"I've mixed up the phones. I'll sort it out later at the place to stay."

"Good. I'm busy now."

"If you need a number, call me. If anyone calls you, or me on your phone, I'll give them my number to call you."

"No one will call me."

"I will. I am."

"Then what does it matter?"

"It doesn't. And no one will call me either."

"I will. I do."

"Yes. Right. So, later then."

"Later."

Jon ended the call, and allowed himself one fist pump and a single,

"C'mon!"

Remembering, he checked the view for prying eyes. There were none.

"C'mon!" he repeated.

# CHAPTER 36

Bill had his suspicions but didn't give a shit. He was going in armed and ready. Whether Jon or Maddy, he couldn't lose. Both were an opportunity to rich to ignore.

He had sent a text to Maddy's phone to say he had arrived in Birmingham. Ten minutes later a text came back to tell of complications - Maddy was unable to say what time she could leave the hospital and get to the apartment. But Bill was welcome to let himself in to drop the weed off or make himself at home and wait. The text included the address and security codes needed to open the building and apartment doors.

His reply was simple, "Will wait for you. On my way now."

Jon thought about dropping the facade, calling Bill to say, "Come meet me, bitch, man-to-man, one on one." But as he and his operatives had taken their positions, he thought it best to continue as planned. He had to be professional, cold and efficient. If Mr and Mrs Caruthers took the winning shot, then so be it. He sat in the back of their XC60 parked on the street facing the building that housed the apartment he had booked for Maddy. The privacy glass and failing evening light combined to keep him hidden. His XC90 was parked well away from prying eyes and criminal contamination.

Being professional, Jon wanted Bill to believe the Maddy story. It would help lower his guard as he entered the apartment. A clean and simple kill was all important. The boastful joy of seeing Bill recognise his own defeat would have to live in daydreams. And how they would flow frequent and free. He planned a binge to celebrate waking from his nightmare.

His plan was now complete. The gun drop was set to take place the following day, time and location to be released. Jon wouldn't attend. With Bill dead, he would bullshit a story, a new secret mission to commence with immediate effect. Mr and Mrs Caruthers would get their orders \- stalk the underworld for facts and names. An agent, maybe him, would soon make contact. After perhaps sleeping with Mrs Caruthers \- to leave her calm and satisfied and pliable - he would speed back home, gather some belongings, then vanish, go into hiding to sell the house and relocate somewhere beyond isolated and completely devoid of people. Missing the drop wouldn't be a problem. Manders already had the guns. If all went well, he wouldn't miss Jon. If all went bad, in the commotion that followed, no one would rush to remember a man who wasn't there.

Mr and Mrs Caruthers stood like statues, cold and unyielding, determined to achieve their goal. They and Jon would all get the man they desired.

Jon's choice of location had impressed them. The two bedroom apartment was spacious enough to appear welcoming while maintaining enough nooks and shadows to hide the grim and unforgiving.

Jon's wait was tense, a twist of high and lows, like a junkie waiting for H. He had one point to existence. The street outside the XC60 was schizophrenic. It either hustled with people and traffic or fell to a deathly stillness in which Jon saw all the ills of each and every city creeping towards him. He was glad to hold the pistol. It made him feel like one of the locals. he would protect his patch, secure his fix.

The apartment building was typical of the many newish builds that had sprung up around Birmingham's canal network. Against his naturally nervous disposition, Jon had chosen it for its central location. He wanted somewhere busy that had a natural flow to keep people, Bill, moving. The less time Bill had to pause and think the better. He also thought they could dump the body straight into the canal, even throw it off the balcony into what he imagined to be filthy, contaminated, oily water filled with swarms of disgusting, hungry eels. A perfect grave for Bill, a cretinous industrial throwback who should have been worked to death in the poor house long before he turned eighteen.

The building had its own underground car park, as well as a dozen bays squeezed onto the small patch of land it occupied. A barrier arm blocked access to the car park underground, the code for which Jon hadn't sent Bill. Apart from signs warning of no unauthorized parking, access to the ground level spaces, several of which were free, was unrestricted. Jon thought Bill was likely to park off-site at the side of the road and as close to the building as possible. He hoped so anyway, for in Bill's van, he thought would be the second prize of the night, Bill's laptop, and Jon had charged himself with its theft and destruction.

Jon had a clear view of the building's only entrance, which was also brightly lit, although he thought Bill's size and gait would be enough to expose him in the blackening evening light.

The first indication Bill had arrived was a slow-moving van that came to a stop at the entrance to the building's ground level car park. Jon saw it was a small Ford van on a 2003 plate. After several seconds, the van pulled away to disappear into a side street.

Jon had consulted Mr and Mrs Caruthers on how best to break into a van of that type. Their advice, if speed was the priority, smash and grab, shatter the relevant window to open the door from the inside. It made sense to him and the hammer he bought and now held revealed his intentions.

From out of the side street a dark figure came pacing along. Two cars moving down the road brought headlights to the scene forcing Jon to duck down for fear the beams would swoop into the cabin and snatch him into view.

Darkness restored, and the deathly stillness disturbed only by the beat of fake leather soles pounding the footpath, getting closer quickly. And then a deep grunting sniff, as if to load a mouthful of spit with mucus followed by the spit itself that Jon knew was aimed at the Volvo. Any symbol that reminded Bill of Jon was fair to insult and soil. Jon heard a gentle thud against a side rear window. It forced his breath still. He felt watched. The footsteps continued away. Jon dared not move until they faded to silence.

Through the rear window, Jon watched the figure walk back towards the XC60, although now on the opposite side of the road. Jon was sure the figure was Bill - the same fearless presence and 'fuck you' gait and the fake leather soles pounding the pavement. He walked with intent, alert to every change. Every parked car he passed slowed him down, took his stare and concentration. As he neared the XC60, Jon cowered low again. After a minute he dared to rise. Bill came to a stop, just metres from the turn onto the building's grounds. He stood scanning the view. The night looked his alone. Until the beam from a single headlight piled into the road followed by the whine of a moped engine. Both Jon and Bill looked. The moped travelled towards them. Bill hurried away towards the building. Did he fear the rider was primed to kill? A classic motorbike hit and run. Bullshit, Jon knew. But Bill? And on some shitty moped top speed forty miles per hour. But Jon feared Bill would think that was Jon's level. The moped passed the XC60. Jon saw it was a pizza delivery. All right and true, but would Bill react differently. Could this ruin the night and provoke the wrong kill? He looked for Bill, but Bill was gone hidden in the shadows that hugged the building. The moped took the turn and quickly came to a stop at the front of the building. Jon remembered, he had to send a text. He pulled out his phone. When he looked back towards the building, the rider had dismounted and was removing a pizza box from the rear storage unit.

The delivery man carried what looked like several large pizza boxes towards the building's entrance. Bill came into view, slipping in behind. As the delivery man reached the door, he turned to look at Bill. They seemed to exchange words. Bill tapped in the security code, opened the door then gestured for the delivery man to go in first. Well played Bill, Jon thought. Keep the advantage, follow behind.

Jon sent the text, "Arrived. Entering now. All good." Relief and excitement, a sense of winning fuelled his next move. He couldn't wait, he had to go. He had to possess the laptop. After all, the odds were slight, but Bill might win this battle.

He couldn't take the pistol, too much of a risk. A loud smash and grab might attract attention. If caught for something petty, why make it serious by carrying a gun? The hammer would have to do. Taking advantage of the still, dark street, he sprinted away hunting the van. Bill and the delivery man disappeared beyond the foyer. Jon saw and willed Bill on.

The side street the van had turned into quickly revealed the prize. Bill's van felt abandoned, the street snubbed. No residential frontage lined the street. Eight-foot perimeter walls cut off apartment buildings towering above on either side. All visible windows were double-glazed, and given the chill surely closed. If the sound of breaking glass, and even, although doubtful, a car alarm, penetrated, who would be roused or quick enough to catch him in the act?

Jon paused for a moment to gather the view and make sure no one was close. Convinced, he smashed the hammer into the left rear window and shattered the glass. Reaching an arm through the opening, he found the handle and gave it a twist to open the rear doors.

"Cheap piece of cunt!" he said when no alarm fired.

Bill wasn't surprised by the pizza delivery, for he was the one who placed the order. "Right to the top, floor seven," he said to the delivery man \- a puny youth of Asian descent who looked younger than his twenty years, who's thin goatee beard failed as a comb-over fails on a balding man to turn the clock one way - as they hurried up the stairs, Bill now leading the way. "I hate lifts. Pain in the arse, ain't I? Got no cash on me down there, and now up the fuckin stairs. All part of the job for you though, ain't it? You're out to earn. I'll chuck in some extra. You keep it though. Fuck the bosses. Cheeky bastards the bosses in food. Thieve all the tips, I hear."

The delivery man couldn't reply. Bill's commanding verbal and physical pace, overwhelmed him. He felt breathless, hooked and dragged in the wake of Bill's slipstream.

Bill looked behind and glanced at the three large pizza boxes. "I'd give you a hand, big man, but I know the deal. Don't give up the goods till you got the cash. Wise fuckin move that one. Birmingham's a fuckin shithole. Full of fuckin no-goods. And always has been a shithole. Nothin' to do with blacks and you lot." He reached a door that led to floor seven. "Here we are. Apartment three. Follow me," he said before he barged the door open shoving the sound into the joining corridor to announce his arrival.

Jon got lucky. He found Bill's laptop in the back of the van, and a tool bag full of general DIY tools. His phone lit the space. He searched the tool bag for a hammer, even though he carried his own. The thought of doing what he was about to do using Bill's own hammer, was too joyful a thought to ignore. A crazed spit of laughter cheered his success.

He knew by destroying the laptop he was also destroying evidence that could convict a man of many sickening crimes, but also help convict a man falsely of a crime he didn't commit. The memory card from Nan's camcorder would help prove Bill's guilt, along with an anonymous tip-off to the police - Bill's fire ruined house hides one more of his victims. Set the police on the trail and see what they find.

He glanced behind to check the coast was clear. It was. His stare went further imagining Bill in the apartment taking his final step, and the look in his eyes when turning to see Jon's gloating, victorious face. A second of clarity before the bullet flushed his brain of all the filth.

Jon, turning away raised Bill's hammer then raged it down to smash into Bill's laptop. The plastic casing took the blow well only cracking a little as if to give a defiant smile. Well, Jon thought, I'll wipe that smile from your conceited, ugly gypo face.

He tensed his body, called all muscle to the final battle. He raised the hammer high, too high it banged into the roof to send a cymbal crashing out into the street. For a moment, he felt exposed. But he then screamed, "Fuck it!!" for all the busybodies to hear as he released a frenzied attack on an innocent laptop that he had no need to silence.

Bill stood at the door to apartment three, facing it head-on. The delivery man stood at his side. Bill tapped in the code to unlock the door. With his left hand, he turned the handle and inched the door open. The first inch revealed some interior light, but to Bill, it was weak and deceitful. With his right hand, he grabbed the delivery man by the scruff of the neck, snatched him and launched him through the door, a kick to his back sealed his fate and shocked his body limp.

Bill pulled the door to and put an ear to the half-inch gap remaining. Telling sounds leaked out. A whack. A yelp. "It's not him," said a woman. "Bastard," said a man.

Bill paused for a moment waiting to hear Jon's voice. When it didn't come, he turned and ran away.

The laptop was beyond repair. Jon had smashed through the casing to reach the motherboard and attached hardware. Without mercy, he did his best to obliterate the hard drive killing it with a torrent of hammer blows.

His phone began to vibrate against the steel floor - as a man undercover on stakeout he had thought it best to mute it. The vibrating failed to rouse him. His mania drove him on and on desperate to eliminate his guilt.

The van rattled with the hammering. Every blow went through the target to bang against the steel floor. The echo chamber inside was enough to get Jon high. It was the worst steelpan drumming Birmingham had ever heard. Jon thought it the sound of any city, the background din to ignore.

The van lowered as the springs took additional weight. It took a moment for Jon to comprehend but just as he did,

"Hello, Jon," said Bill.

Jon span around, his body recoiling backwards in a desperate, instinctive attempt to flee but the steel partition separating cargo bay from cabin penned him in. By the door Bill, crouched ready to pounce. He pulled the door shut. A tinny cheapness sealed them in. Jon already felt mauled as the smell of the great unwashed slammed into him.

"I'm armed," cried Jon showing the hammer.

"That my hammer?" said Bill.

"Piece of fucking shit!" Jon screamed.

"So this is the moment my life's gonna peak. This your hammer? Too new for me," said Bill as he raised Jon's hammer into the light.

"You should be dead!" proclaimed Jon.

"Well, you got another go. Havin said that I've also got this." He pulled out a pistol with silencer attached and pointed it at Jon. Jon's phone started to vibrate against the steel floor."That your phone, or the sound of your piss comin out?"

Jon looked at the phone and desperately wanted to answer the call.

"Don't," said Bill. "And don't think they're comin cos they ain't. I left them a dollop of shit to clean up. So, this I can save for some other cunt," he slipped the pistol back inside an inner coat pocket. "Time's mine, ain't it? To do you the way I fuckin dream. Now," he smashed the hammer into the floor, "try and hit somethin that moves! Cos we can do this like men now, locked in a cell, to the death."

"I'm an undercover agent!" was all Jon could think to say or do.

Shouting to repress a roar of laughter, "And I work for Jesus! I can hear him now, Nail this cunt to the fuckin floor!"

The back door opened and a torch beam shone in followed by the calm, soft voice of a female, "Hey, now, what's goin on in here? Look at you two, two big fellas in here."

Jon and Bill looked. A Community Support Office - short, plump, unbothered by middle-age, could have been a lollipop lady - stood looking in. The torch beam made brilliant the reflective strips on her Hi-Vis coat and hat. With a radio attached to the coat at near shoulder height, Jon initially mistook her for police. Bill, however, wasn't fooled. He knew what a low ranking specimen of law enforcement she was. Her only real power being her radio, a direct line to the real police who would rush to her support if required.

She continued soft and unprovocative, her words pouring out generously and with ease "It's all very cosy, but all rather loud, don't you think? Too loud. And the language. Jesus and cunt and fucking. I know this is Birmingham, but there are still Christians knocking around. And no that's not a slyly negative comment regarding the multi-faith population of the city. Nor am I expressing a disbelief in your right to freedom of speech. I'm just saying, this really is a rainbow city, let's all act with that in mind, showing sensitivity and empathy for the views and feelings of the many different people that make up our wonderful city. That's the sensible way, don't you think? A good idea, luv, or lovelies should I say? What's with the hammers by the way? This isn't the place to beat your panels. Or for anything else you might do with hammers. Not that I'm passing judgement with that. You may argue the back of a van is a private space, but I'm not sure the law would agree. I'm Rose, and this is Alfie by the way." Alfie, her younger male colleague, swooped his face into view smiled and waved then went away. "We're Community Support Officers responding to reports of a commotion cum disturbance. Can I ask you what are you actually doing? Would that be a fair question to ask?"

"We're havin a row, a tiff -" said Bill.

Jon cut him off, "Don't say it! Queers again, are we? Have you got no other bullshit?"

"Hey, no, now, no, no, no. That's right out of order, even for a gay. Who's van is this by the way?"

"His," said Jon as calmly as he could manage having realised it would be best to give the impression nothing was wrong.

"Look, I know this looks stupid," said Bill.

"No, no. Not stupid. Curious, yes. But let's not use the stupid word," said Rose.

"All needs to be said is we're both consenting adults."

"As you should be."

"Isn't that right?" Bill asked Jon.

"Yes," Jon agreed. "Right, well, I better get back to the wife and kids,"

"Really?" replied Rose who then looked at Bill and offered her sympathy, "Oh well. Back on the Apps, hey luv."

Jon crawled towards the door. As he passed Bill, Bill spanked him on the arse.

"One for the road," said Bill playfully. "See you around."

"Yeah, look out for me," said Jon with a quiet venom.

"Next time make it harder,"

A bawdy laugh burst out of Rose, which she quickly suppressed, "Now now, kindness is the cure for many ills and disappointments."

Going head first, Jon almost fell out of the van. A combined headstand and forward roll somehow saw him onto his feet. After a moment to compose himself, he addressed them all, "Right then, see yer." He turned and pelted away.

# CHAPTER 37

Jon didn't know where to run to, only that he didn't want to stop. The entrance to the apartment building forced his hand. He knew he had no choice other than a detour back to the XC60 to make the pistol his own again. He sprinted there and back, the pistol held in his hand with only the night to conceal it.

Hiding amongst a cluster of large rubbish bins, he made a call. He had to know if the situation inside was under control. Mrs Caruthers assured him it was, although there were decisions to be made that, on this job at least, were above her pay grade. She apologised for her failings. Jon told not to. What mattered now was how they moved forward. He still considered her a major asset in the making. And the night had brought success. He had at least completed his mission to destroy the laptop. As for Bill, they would get another chance to destroy him and soon.

Knowing it was safe to enter the apartment, and with the small talk completed over the phone, Jon made his way into the building. Maddy had sent him a text. She was able to leave the hospital and wanted the details on how to enter the apartment.

The pizza delivery man was face down on the bed. His hands and feet bound together with plastic zip-tie restraints. Gaffer tape strapped his mouth shut and muffled a constant stream of chanting. Jon gave him the briefest of looks, his eyes almost squinting, before he closed the bedroom door, and returned to the living room to speak to Mr and Mrs Caruthers who stood at attention, their bodies stiff and proud as if to defy their sombre mood and shield against a harsh debriefing.

"Decisions," said Mrs Caruthers.

"Options," replied Jon.

"Silence?"

"Of course."

"He won't utter a word. He's perfect for us," said Mr Caruthers.

"His ethnic nature," explained Mrs Caruthers.

"The fear of shame, a reputation perverted," added Mr Caruthers.

"A night of willing debauchery to keep on file."

"It could have been worse. He could have been Welsh."

"I need this place clean in thirty minutes," said Jon.

"It's done! It's the Captain's turn, but if I jump on-board, we'll get it done in twenty and still take the pleasure for our sins."

"Good. Make it happen." He turned and headed for the door. "I'll be in touch. I have a meeting now...up the chain of command."

"As do we," said Mr Caruthers more to himself than anyone else with an involuntary lick of the lips.

Jon walked away, desperate not to think too much.

"Until tomorrow," Mrs Caruthers.

At the door, Jon turned and looked at her, "The drop," he remembered. The gun drop. Once again, he had no choice. He would have to now attend.

"I have the details. I'll text them you," said Mrs Caruthers.

Jon gave a nod then opened the door and stepped outside into the corridor. Turning to check Mr and Mrs Caruthers remained standing, he gave another nod, pulled the door shut then shot off across the corridor to the door opposite and apartment number four. After punching in the code to release the lock, he opened the door and slipped inside quietly closing the door behind him.

Jon sank into empty space and the embrace of solitude. He had booked the apartment as his own private back-up. Any regrets he had at not using it to spy on Bill, through the door spy-hole, were dispelled by the knowledge the pizza man's presence would have likely saved Bill anyway, and that now he had a space of his own to plan and prepare for another worst nightmare - a public performance, under the spotlight and centre bloody stage.

A text came through from Maddy,

"Details? Please don't let me down. Are you there? Coming? You said you would."

Jon couldn't reply until apartment three was clean. Birmingham City Hospital was just a ten-minute taxi ride away.

Would Maddy be safe in the apartment? Would Bill think to return, to lurk outside even somehow steal his way in? Jon knew he couldn't meet Maddy as planned. The gun drop tomorrow was his first priority.

But she would be safe. He was just metres away, armed, ready and willing. He had to prepare. He needed to find a lie to spin her. He didn't want to say he had left to go home. He wanted the option of being in Birmingham if he needed to use her again, and he wanted his phone back ASAP. Unable to think of a satisfactory tale, he decided to tell her nothing.

Pacing around the open-plan apartment, his stare skipped between his watch and the view through the door spy-hole. Losing the kill now angered him. But, he told himself, he'd gotten close. The game still played, and there he was competing.

Mrs Caruthers was good to her word. After nineteen-minutes the door opened, and the pizza man stepped into the corridor. A forced sense of concentration stiffened him. He walked away slowly, every step considered and deliberate, his stare fixed ahead, his feet aligned toe-to-heel like he was walking on a tightrope. Mrs Caruthers stood in the doorway watching.

"Yes, that's the way, you walk away. No need to run. Good boys are controlled boys," she told him as he went on his way, not daring to turn and look behind.

Minutes later, Jon watched Mr and Mrs Caruthers leave the apartment. He thought about calling Maddy but sent a text instead. Along with the entry details, he wrote,

"Remember you're in a city. Lock the door properly and keep security chain on."

A reply came within seconds. "Nothing to lose now. No safer than a small shitty village where people vanish. When you coming?"

Jon replied, "Not sure. Will let you know if I can."

He put his phone down on a table determined to ignore it, well Maddy at least. To help him achieve this, he assigned the phone number she was using, which was his own, a different ringtone - the crack of a snare drum.

After several drum beats had spat out, he received a text from Mrs Caruthers confirming the gun drop - at a multi-storey car park closed for repairs at 12.15 pm the following day. Jon knew the location. He had driven there earlier looking for a place to park his XC90. Closed signs and heavy site machinery told him to go elsewhere. It was a twenty-minute walk from the apartment.

His initial thoughts were full of conspiracy. The location seemed odd and suspicious. But he then realised he wasn't thinking like criminal scum. To people of their ilk, the car park would be a neutral space that was both public and private, a safe place for the simple exchange of illicit goods. It had a central location, with an all seeing-view of the city below. No doubt Manders had the influence to make the barriers rise. And as the day of the drop was a Sunday, Jon assumed, no workmen would be on site to witness the deal. It was the perfect location to get the job done. Far better than an isolated, squalid barn that was built for slaughter and imprisonment. In comparison, a multi-storey car park was a pleasant, civilised location that would help rein in their crude and violent instincts. Easy access in and out, an open but secluded space to help soothe tensions and complete a single objective, return the guns. No plots or other ambitions. Except, that is, for Jon's. If the opportunity arose, he would twist the knife deep and permanently into Bill's thick, beast-like hide.

His plan was simple. He was a government agent - not his invention, a truth hatched in the minds of Mr and Mrs Caruthers, trusted, known criminals who would be there to back him up, or rather, reinforce his recently won reputation as a hitman extraordinaire. Bill is a threat to national security. Through targeted killings of underworld figures, he plans to start a wave of destructive gang wars. In the pursuing chaos, other darker forces will rise. Any assistance, although not earning reward or favour, would be appreciated, and of benefit to all present. Bill's menace is a threat to their ill-gotten gains, to business, profits, territory, to underworld power and gangster respect.

Of course, if Jon could keep silent, he would. A good day would achieve one objective - the Marines walking away appeased. He would then work through Mr and Mrs Caruthers to bring Bill down with Manders as an ally or not.

In the corridor, he heard a door pushed open then swing shut. He manned the spy-hole. Maddy walked into view stopping at the door to apartment three. After lifting a phone from her shoulder bag, she paused staring at it head bowed before she slumped against the door, her forehead banging into it with a thud. Jon thought the move looked deliberate. It was another reason not to intervene.

Maddy lifted her head from the door. Entering the code into the keypad, as if startled, she snapped her head round to snatch a look at Jon's door. Repelled, Jon spun away and froze in an awkward position, his body twisted and bent down. He didn't dare move until he heard a door pushed open. Untied, he crept back to the spy-hole and took another look just in time to catch Maddy disappearing into the apartment behind a closing door.

As he pulled away from the door, a thought knocked him back. His XC90 remained alone, parked street-side. He could now leave to fetch it, bring it back and park it in the space he'd hired in the building's secure underground facility.

His clothes helped conceal his identity. The night outside would accessorise and complete the mask. It took him ten-minutes to decide how best to leave the apartment and get passed Maddy's door - fast but noisy or slow and quiet. He went with speed.

On the streets, he felt like an agent undercover, another lie walking the city. Every person he encountered was a potential threat. The pistol felt warm gripped in his hand cushioned inside the deep, quilted Canali coat pocket. Alive too, like a compass needle twitching to find its target. The police were of no concern, no presence on the streets. Saturday night revelry was some hours away. Early starters milled around. Just enough people to make him feel safe. A Tesco Express drew him in. He couldn't go hungry; he marched to war. A microwave feast would treat and suffice. The quiet interior let his dreams roll on. A bottle of Martini Extra Dry was the last item snatched from the shelf. Cash fed the till, the assistant's surly distance Jon's sense of winning.

The XC90 was perfect again. It was slightly too large for the underground space, but Jon was not to be defeated. Under pressure, he reversed bay parked faultlessly. He felt filmed and gladly so. A slow and quiet approach took him down the corridor. He put an ear to Maddy's door, head below the spy-hole, but her sobbing hidden beneath a cushion was too faint for him to hear.

Speed spun him into his apartment. He hadn't taken his, Maddy's, phone. A queue of missed calls and unread texts, all from Maddy, lined up to consume him. He felt stalked. Scanned highlights read,

"Where are you?"

"You promised!"

"Gone home? Why?"

"No home left for me. All gone now for me. You have? I'm here!"

"Why have you left me?"

"There's too much space in here to be left alone."

And the last text in full,

"No more. Silence now from both of us. Happy."

Jon muted the phone. He had to focus. He had to believe what others believed he was. The uniform was crucial. A smart, expensive suit or designer leisurewear, even down to a Hugo Boss tracksuit, or maybe practical, professional outdoor clothing something with a military edge. Fortunately, good wisdom had made him pack for every occasion.

Only a suit felt right. He had brought just one. It had yet to make its public debut. For a moment, he wished it was blander, anonymous, more American Secret Service until he realised his job wasn't to sink into the background but to stand upfront exuding balls and authority, to be the legend, five-man Jon made flesh.

The Canali suit was a navy blue Prince of Wales check with red overcheck crafted in a luxurious combination of virgin wool and ten percent silk which glossed the fabric with a subtle sheen. Combined with a white shirt, navy tie and a pair of Oliver Sweeny dark tan Goodyear Welted Oxfords, it made him believe he could turn the day brilliantly successful.

Concerned he would shine too brightly on the streets of Birmingham, he slipped on his black Canali cotton-blend gabardine raincoat and watched in the mirror as he fastened it up. It brought completion. He felt the part, ready for anything, a urban huntsman for the Chaos Age.

He couldn't stop pacing around the apartment, an endless orbit between a full-length mirror, the spy-hole and the bottle of Martini, which to his annoyance didn't contain any vodka, but still it fed an ever emptying glass. Every stride, every sip, was a step towards self-belief. His mantra, "Close and competing. Out of the trench and the up!" The pistol, held in his hand and often quick-drawn from the coat's side slash pockets, channelled his rage against Bill and whipped-up thoughts of the final revenge. Jon knew his position wasn't negotiable. Bill was the dictator. All Jon could be was the lone assassin or master puppeteer. His allies gave him confidence. Their belief in him was his greatest weapon.

Feeling tipsy and fearing his underarms were building a sweat that might ruin his shirt for the following day, he forced himself to bed. With his uniform neatly laid out and the pistol close to hand, he fell asleep dreaming of the man other people believed him to be.

# CHAPTER 38

Jon fell through the bustling city streets, his bubble ricocheting off people rushed between shops and places to eat by the slap of cold and oppressive push of a dead grey sky. He felt concealed, enough to look inwards. He wanted his heart to fire, to provoke his senses but it ran flat and silent, numbed perhaps with disbelief.

His XC90 was left behind, too cumbersome a means of rapid escape. If he needed to flee, he would do so on foot, fast and free through the congested streets. The pistol too was parked and hidden, an unnecessary risk. Go armed, show weakness or a will to provoke. And could he use it like the man they thought him to be?

To compensate, he gripped his phone. Maddy's final text was the last received. Jon knew he owed her an apology. He had thought about sending her a text, to make sure her night had passed undisturbed. But until the drop was complete, he couldn't tune her in.

In sight of the car park, on Jon's orders, the XC60 waited to pick him up. He had walked this far to keep the safe-house hidden.

Mr Caruthers drove. Mrs Caruthers sat in the back with Jon. She had asked his permission to do so. It kept his ego fixed one above reality.

"You may," he had replied giving permission, before returning to silence and fierce concentration, which he strained to push out and reveal through a stiffened facial expression. He thought it best to ask no questions, to give no hint of uncertainty.

Signs made clear the car park was closed. Only site traffic was permitted to enter.

"Ignore the signs," said Jon. "V.I.P it."

Mr Caruthers did as instructed and drove passed the raised barrier arm to enter the car park.

"What level?" asked Jon.

"Five," replied Mrs Caruthers.

"Good, " said Jon, who then cut himself off before he let slip the dullest of facts - that level five was his favourite and most used car park level.

Jon had experienced early morning car park emptiness numerous times, but nothing to prepare him for the splendor of complete and total desertion. It gave him the sense the world was his alone, and he a giant within it. Everything felt in order. He could see nothing to suggest the repair work had started.

Level five sullied the view. A Jaguar XJ sat parked head-on blocking the way, as did a bespectacled man standing tall and firm. Jon read him quickly - a man of business, serious, stoical, dressed without flare in a plain dark blue suit. No coat, perhaps to help show he carried no weapon.

"Manders?" asked Jon.

"Affirmative," replied Mrs Caruthers.

Mr Caruthers turned right then braked to park the XC60 fifteen metres away from the XJ. Manders began to walk towards them. Good, thought Jon, You come to me. And bring those crappy clothes.

Emboldened, Jon quickly unbuttoned his coat, slipping it off as he opened the door and got out. Manders stepped in close - taller, broader, his stare locked on to Jon's.

"Nice suit," said Manders with an expression Jon couldn't read.

"Yeah," replied Jon momentarily fazed by the comment and physical presence that greeted him, "and great fucking shoes," he then added with a whip of total confidence.

Manders gave then broke the slightest of smiles. Jon looked away and closed the door, his ego surging up beyond level eleven to the dizzying heights of clear blue sky.

As Mr and Mrs Caruthers exited the XC60, the squeak of tyre rubber turning on a resin coated ramp told of a vehicle driving up from below.

"Right, " said Manders.

The other three looked his way. He returned a stare which plugged them into his own authority. He turned and walked. The others followed. Centred between the Jag and XC60, they stood together waiting.

A gleaming Volkswagen kombi van rolled onto the deck. Through the windscreen, Jon could see only one man, the driver, his face hidden beneath a black balaclava. Jon felt his heart raise the alarm and fire into pounding. He glanced at Manders - cool and unmoved.

The van came to a stop facing them. Doors opened to eject four men - all phantoms skinned beneath black combats and balaclavas. Jon laughed at the sight as his nerves broke free. The echoes of closing doors saved him from having to grovel across the divide, although Manders was reluctantly and wrongly impressed.

The four marines lined up to face the four in civvies, like a wall to stop a riot. Jon felt each pair of eyes hunt him down and prise him out.

Marine #1 turned his stare on Manders, "Right, enough's been said, so you show us the goods now," he said.

Manders gave a nod to Mr Caruthers who in response walked away with an easy calm showing no fear. Marine #2 headed his way, striding at speed.

At the XC60, Mr Caruthers opened the boot. Inside were the guns - the original two bundles, one wrapped complete, the other split half open.

After a quick examination, Marine #2 delivered the news, "There's one missing at least," he reported back.

"One! Just one," proclaimed Manders,

"You said you had them all," said Marine #1.

"I said, I'd return them all, which I will as promised here today."

"We've got a plan B make no mistake."

"Wise but unnecessary. I have just one simple plan."

The squeak of tyre rubber from below chased away by the sound of a rough diesel engine accelerating hard.

"What the fuck is that?" asked Marine #1, as his comrades tensed, getting ready, hands moving behind backs.

"The gun," said Manders.

The panic sensation of fight or flight began to sicken Jon.

"How many men?" Marine #1 demanded to know. "We agreed four apiece no more."

"One man, one gun."

"Your man!"

"Neutral and with information we all need to hear."

"What information?"

"Could be true, could be bullshit," he glanced at Jon, "But nothing to worry about if the truth has been told as already said."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"He told me a gun was missing. You confirmed that is true. A gun he claimed he could deliver here to us today. "

"Then hope he scores another goal."

"He's got good form."

"Know the stakes."

"I'm not a betting man, which surprises people does that."

"I'm surprised to see you here on the frontline."

"Agreed. My reputation has slipped. Too entrenched. Too much the bookkeeper."

Jon looked for ways to escape - a one-way road down or a door leading to a lift and stairs. But with repair work due to start the following day, how many locks would he have to break? And if he took the road, he knew, he just knew, who he'd meet driving up the other way. Sprint to the door, thirty metres plenty of time for a bullet to catch-up, or an angry scum of toxic Marines. So when the small Ford van on a 2003 plate raced onto the deck, Jon tried to unfreeze his mind in a frantic search to find a deep, stinking well of appropriate bullshit.

Jon caught Manders looking at him.

"Of course," Manders spoke loudly for all to hear above the van's engine, "if all this man brings is lies, we have the means to bury them. No harm done. Another notch scored for the reputation."

The van braked to a stop. Jon watched as Mr and Mrs Caruthers recognised the driver - a photo taken from Bill's house to identify their target. Jon remembered giving the order, which he thought inspired, such a short time ago when he was in control. They looked at Jon - concerned, confused. All Jon could do was look away and continue his search for lies.

Bill cut the engine then lunged out of the van unrestrained, striding forward a vast grin owning his face, absorbing the roar of a belly laugh, "Alright, chaps. Shit car boot this. Me the only one sellin?" he greeted his audience holding the pistol up high for all to see.

"You wait there!" Marine #1 gave the command, backed-up by Marine #3 pulling an semi-automatic pistol and aiming it at Bill.

"No trouble from me," said Bill stopping. "I do as promised," He bowled the pistol away sliding it across the ground towards Marine #2 who scooped it up with a dexterous touch. After a quick examination, he informed the others, "It's good."

Marine #1 turned to Manders, "What information? You make yourself clear."

"Clear and honest. In the interests of full-disclosure, when we first made contact, we agreed," he pointed at Jon, "he was a dangerous man."

"We did," replied Marine #1 as he brought his hands from behind his back to reveal he too held a pistol.

"But I told you more, passed information given to me by my people and indeed confirmed by the man himself."

"Big fucking man from the other side, beyond the fucking police."

"But then here it comes," he pointed at Bill, "an alternative view of who he is. One that puts him well below the legend straight into the gutter we'd all gladly piss in then flush away forever."

Jon frozen outwardly appeared to show no fear. His brain had fainted, his body had yet to catch up.

"The true version. My version," added Bill. "He's a fuckin nobody, playin every single one of us."

"But is he?" Manders turned on Bill. "Who knows you? Do I?"

"Oh, here the fuck we go again," said Bill loosely, before turning a rage on Jon. "Look at him! Is he gonna speak? Is he gonna say somethin'!"

Everyone looked at Jon, who stood without response, his stare glazed and still, inadvertently emitting a sense of menace. Not that Bill was fooled. He continued,

"No! Look at me! Let me speak!" He was given the stage. "It's a shitty old day in a shitty old hole. We can twat around here wankin each other off with claim after claim, or I can settle this once and for all, five-minute job, piece of fuckin piss. If he's the man, this killer hitman, SAS trained, fuckin god-like Tarzan cunt, then set him the fuck on me. Me and him, here and now all the way to the glorious fuckin end. Cos who am I? I'm a man aggrieved. I'm his his victim!"

Bill listened to the silence, observed the stillness, witnessed nothing to demand restraint. He focused on Jon, priming himself to attack.

"What if he's true? He could have back-up." Mrs Caruthers spat in a panic trying to convince herself, her intense glare addicted to Jon almost enough to crack him open.

"Then what the fuck? You're safe!" Bill surged towards her, a burst of aggression he quickly reined not wanting to provoke the wrong fight.

Mr Caruthers quietly pulled a pistol out of a pocket.

Bill continued, "He's here with you, sanctioned deal, ain't it? Official arranged and all legit. I'll be the cunt you silly fuckin bitch, cos I'm the one who's gonna kill him! Got every right to smash him up with a great big fuckin hard-on. Ask the boss!" He looked at Manders and softened his tone, "Oh, and by the way, in the interests of full-disclosure Akela here and her bitch boy cub have made you look like a fuckin prick, and I tell you that as a loyal man."

Mr Caruthers tried to make eye contact with his wife, but she couldn't stop looking at Jon.

Bill continued, "You trust people fooled this easy? Who work away from the job? Who tried to kill me last night on the nod of a spastic fuckin fraud, planned and plotted but failed!"

Mr Caruthers's stare drilled through Jon to reach his wife. It implored her to trust no one.

Bill turned away from Manders to address people beyond the scene, "So, if there's back-up come save him!" He faced Jon. "Because my threat is a promise, and as I've proved, what I promise I do!"

"Sounds fair to me," Manders told Bill before turning to Marine #1. "You?"

"You press play. We'll watch and see." Marine #1 replied. He then looked at Marine #2 and gave a nod. Marine #2 scooped up the guns and carried them back to the Volkswagen. Marine #3 lowered his pistol.

Jon couldn't think of anything to say. Tied to a chair with a bag over his head had given him time to thaw and seek sanctuary inside the black and himself. But here, the exposure was instant enough to quench him solid.

Manders backed away towards the XJ, "Move away, give them the ring," he told Mrs Caruthers. She complied taking a step back.

"You doubt me?" Jon spoke almost without knowing he had.

"Just another day at the office," replied Manders.

"Then I stand alone." Instinctively he realized, only one option was his, however ridiculous, he had to stand and fight.

Bill gladly obliged. He came striding over, "No law here, Jon. No rules now."

His fists rose to take a fighter's stance, low and arrogant already crowned. Jon stood waiting as if dazed and concussed, but safe in the stillness of an interval between rounds. Bill roared a laugh. However pitiful his opponent nothing could tarnish the beating he was about to lavish on Jon. It really would arouse every pleasure sense. He released a powerful sweeping uppercut that raced for Jon's chin with savage desperation. As the fist reached its target, Jon slipped away with an almost taunting precision freeing the punch to break Bill's balance.

The lie was reborn. Only Bill had the knowledge to disbelieve. He used the momentum from the failed attack to spin around and launch an ugly mutant punch. But, Jon slipped away side-stepping the assault with wily ease. Bill struggled to keep his footing. He appeared to all the big, redundant lump of iron versed against the precision cut, titanium drone. But Bill was no amateur. He lowered his fists, whether Jon's reflexes were fuelled by luck, talent or the will to survive, to win his hands would need to dig deep into dirt and blood.

Instinct fed Jon's tunnel vision. With Bill's defences down, the instruction came to attack and kill. The punch came screaming with a primal cry born through the pain of total effort. A chilling screech that fell as dead as the sloppy, skinny punch that slapped into Bill's shoulder without even causing a sting.

Bill didn't pause for effect, to highlight Jon's puny assault. His jabbed a fist into the side of Jon's head. A quick, light punch but enough to stun Jon back into concussed reality. Now for effect, Bill slapped Jon's face and head with an open palm once, twice and several times more. He was a limp and easy target.

"Is this the man, is he?" Bill asked his audience laughing.

Bill pinned Jon to the ground with a boot stamped against a his calf.

"Top fuckin hitman? Elite fuckin trained?"

With both hands, Bill grabbed the back collar on Jon's jacket and pulled up as hard as he could ripping the jacket off Jon and nearly dislocating a shoulder or two. Jon remained strangely silent emitting no gasps or screams.

"You reckon he's inked?" Bill asked the Marines. "Got the mark of the regiment like you boys, hey?"

Bill went for Jon's shirt. The buttons popped, and the fine twill fabric tore and severed at the seams. Jon's neck tie with the shirt collar hooked stubbornly over it, snared his throat choking him, as Bill continued to maul the shirt to shreds.

"If any ink's that Celtic shit, I'll kick him all the way to a fuckin cabbage!"

The shirt fell shredded off Jon's back. His tie remained around his neck but saved no dignity. Bill rolled him on the ground searching his naked torso for tattoos. Jon was too far gone to resist.

"Nothin! But don't be shy." Bill pulled a flick knife and extended the blade. "Let's see him, shall we? See this cunt raw."

The sight of the knife induced in Jon a burst of energy, he jack-knifed up turning onto his hands and knees into a sprint start position. But before he could fire away, Bill kicked him in the back of the head to flatten him into the ground. Next thing he felt was a blade cutting through his trousers running up the leg all the way to and through the waistband. He didn't dare move. His trousers were pulled from under him. Socks and shoes, boxer shorts, and a tie clutching the remnants of his shirt were all that covered his body.

"Need more proof?" Asked Bill as he prowled around the ruined Jon. "Well, one last chance." He stopped by Marine #3 and pointed at the pistol he held. "That loaded? On safety?" A nod came back. "Lend it me."

With the Marines focused on Bill, Mr Caruthers watched Manders watching the Marines - stares loitering with intent.

Marine #1 gave a nod to Marine #3 who then handed Bill the pistol.

Mr Caruthers sensing a change averted his gaze a moment before Manders turned his stare on him. He focused on Jon, the hate palpable, and not just a show for Manders.

Striding away, Bill threw the pistol at Jon. It bounced off him and slid away to land on the ground within reaching distance. "Yours, I'll get me own weapon."

Hope flared in Mrs Caruthers's eyes. Mr Caruthers growled to release rage.

Bill reached the van.

Jon's hand reached the pistol.

Bill leaned inside and retrieved his hammer.

Jon sat up, the pistol jumped in his hands.

Bill strode towards Jon. The sheer joy of the moment refused hesitation.

Jon captured the pistol. The trigger was locked.

Bill raised the hammer ready to finish the job.

Jon studied the pistol - familiar but different enough to jumble his mind.

Bill, so near and uncontained, "And to think we've been fuckin each other up the arse for god knows what time!"

"He can't be queer!" Mrs Caruthers cried.

Bill roared a laugh.

Three levers - slide release, strip down, safety on and off - confused Jon's decision. He chose the one nearest his own, decocked, hammer.

Bill rushed forward building a momentum to rain a blow down.

Jon pushed the lever two full clicks, raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. The pistol fired. Bill recoiled spinning one-eighty as a bullet tunnelled through flesh. He dropped to the ground but only as far as his hands and knees. Blood seeped from his left shoulder to stain his shirt. The bullet had ripped through the deltoid muscle but had left him still full of life and hate.

"Look at me!" demanded Jon, still aiming the gun.

Bill obliged, turning aggressively, unafraid, like a rabid dog ready to pounce. Jon aimed for the body, finger poised to kill. The pistol flew from his hands kicked free by Mr Caruthers. Jon dived after it.

Mr Caruthers, pistol leading, thrust forwards after Jon. "Shall I? Shall I?" he screamed.

Jon turned and looked. Mr Caruthers loomed over him, his every muscle seething with rage, both hands gripping the pistol desperate to take the point-blank shot.

"Let me! Give me this!" Mr Caruthers pleaded.

"Do it!" said Manders.

"Don't!" demanded Mrs Caruthers.

Mr Caruthers looked. Mrs Caruthers aimed her pistol at him held in an aggressive two-hand stance. "He has dishonoured us!" he cried.

"He's more than this!"

Marine #1 raised his pistol ready to fire at Mrs Caruthers, "Stand down! He's got to fuckin go!"

Mr Caruthers turning his pistol on Marine #1, "Fuck you, Corporal!"

Quick as a flash, Marines #2 and #4 drew their guns. Sensing their move, Mrs Caruthers aimed her pistol at them. Jon, rolling onto his knees, scooped the pistol off the ground and caught in the slipstream of his only ally, aimed the pistol to back her up. Marine #2 locked him in his sights. Seeing, Jon cowered behind the pistol aiming it back as if it might shield against an oncoming bullet. With a flick of her wrist, Mrs Caruthers accepted the challenge and entered the dual against Marine #4.

"Your free man moves," said Mr Caruthers referring to Marine #3, "I'll start this war for us all to fucking dance!"

"Your line's got a weakness, old man," said Marine #1.

"Try him!" said Mrs Caruthers as she scurried forwards stand next to Mr Caruthers.

Bill rose slowly to stand. Manders met his stare and gave a slight shake of the head. Bill answered with a subtle nod then, still looking at Manders, took a single step back away from the action. Manders replied with a subtle nod of his own.

"And you, Mr Manders, what you got to say?" asked Marine #1.

"You ask me, the simple accountant with the simple plan?" replied Mr Manders.

"You plan this?"

"What fool would?"

"Then what's the change?"

"No change. Simplicity wins as it always does."

"No adapt, move on?"

"I'll nudge a little, but everything else stays bang on the money."

"We deal with this alone, we leave alone."

"As the fuck do we!" added Mr Caruthers with a crazed level of enthusiasm.

"You already dead, old man? Cancer giving you balls beyond your midget fucking stature?" said Marine #1.

"Test my nerve! Test it till I fucking break!"

"Then no man's land, you cunt! Test our discipline!"

Marine #1, pistol fixed on Mr Caruthers, took one step forward. The other three Marines followed in unison to keep the line intact.

"I'll meet you anywhere," said Mr Caruthers as he quick-stepped two paces towards the Marines. "Close enough to kiss you all the way to a fucking corpse."

"And I'll fuck you oral with my stinking piss!" said Mrs Caruthers as she followed Mr Caruthers.

"This is how the world moves on!" proclaimed Manders. "Now I see how respect can vanish!"

Jon's thoughts cleared. Why was he someone's backup? He could run, escape, take one, final, lucky prize. Bill, injured and outgunned, wouldn't follow. The others would write him off, although no doubt promise revenge for another day. But then none might survive to deliver it. If Marine #2 fired a bullet, a hail of death would follow, a reflex chain reaction. The professional move would be to turn the gun on the immediate threat, on Mr and Mrs Caruthers, giving the Marines the advantage. Jon felt expendable in a good way.

"Respect?" Marine #1 questioned Manders "Standing there off the fucking pitch. Not enough desk between you and the action? You want some, Mr Manders? You wanna come join the fray?"

"You need to ask. You need to fucking ask. So yes, of course, I need to join the fray!" said Manders. He removed his left hand from a coat pocket. Clenched in a fist, it held a knuckle knife - a six-inch steel blade with a spiked tipped knuckle duster handle. "All these guns and just like my youth, I think I can take the world with a blade and knuckle duster combo." He laughed. "The brilliance of youth! How the fuck we shine when we fear nothing," he held the knuckle knife aloft, "and one of these, although I brought two."

Jon considered his options. The door to the stairwell or the ramp leading down? Once free, he

"Then step in, Mr Manders, step in as close as you dare!" said Mr Caruthers who then took another two steps towards the Marines followed by Mrs Caruthers.

"You do it! Come on in before there's no fucking room!" said Marine #1 who then took two steps forward, followed by his crew to stand just metres away from Mr and Mrs Caruthers.

"Bill!" Manders called out, "Cover your eyes. You will be my witness, take word to the street."

Jon sprinted away. A bolt of commotion flared as attention switched his way. All but Manders who pulled a stun grenade from a pocket, pin ripped out with teeth. Bill launched after Jon hurling the hammer. Manders tossed the grenade into the fray. The hammer bounced off the ground to catch Jon's feet. He stumbled, tripped and fell. The stun grenade exploded with a blinding flash of light and powerful punch of sound. A shockwave threw Bill to the ground. Jon cushioned his fall.

Manders, crouched down in a defensive position, his back to the explosion, rose to begin the attack. The prey was easy. With a knuckle knife held in each hand, he stabbed, slashed, punched and kicked his way through the stunned, numb stock.

Bill's body pinned Jon to the ground, his grip crushing the pistol from Jon's hand. Bill stood, pistol aimed at Jon's face. Jon was a minute behind, concussed and confused. Bill watched as Manders continued the slaughter. The scant resistance offered made it no less impressive. Bill retrieved his hammer then kicked Jon in the balls.

Manders raged stabs into the writhing mass of faceless Marines. Mr Caruthers choked blood for breath before dying alone. Mrs Caruthers was the first dispatched with a single punch to the side of the head, her throat slit for certainty. Manders, energy fusing within, couldn't turn off the fire. But sudden as a power cut all his energy went gone. A hammer blow cut the line. Manders crumpled to the ground. Jon watched Bill steal the crown, his senses fully woken to see the new regime. Bill filled the roll, deforming the dead with his hammer, tagging his name onto the murder scene, claiming the dead for his own.

Bill paused for breath, the crack of a snare drum snapped the air. Bill glanced at Jon whose stare led to his jacket lying ruined on the ground.

Bill roared with laughter, "Hope, Jon? No fuckin hope for you!" he dropped the pistol and pointed the hammer. "Goodbye to the world. And good riddance too. You'll be gone forever and forever despised." He lifted his shirt to reveal black gaffer tape wrapped around his chest. "A memory stick. Backup! All my fame and some cunt of a shitty bit-part killer."

Jon scrambled to his feet and sprinted towards the stairwell door. Bill strode after him. Passing Jon's jacket, he reached down and plucked the phone from a pocket. "Who loves yer, Jon? Who's the last person to call?" He glanced at the screen and read the name displayed, "Jon!" Another roar of laughter. "Us, queer cunts? Never! We fuck ourselves first and only! Maddy though, hey? This her phone, swapped them round to play the deal. I know yer, Jon. I fuckin know yer, don't I?"

Jon reached the door. He tried the handle. The door was locked. Bill laughed. Jon kicked the door. It didn't open, so he kicked it again repeatedly.

Bill came to a stop a few metres from Jon, his stare fixed on the phone.

"A truly glorious day. This is the day, I woke a god." He read her text, "You didn't come. Nan gone forever. I have to join her. I have to jump. No point living this alone."

Jon stopped kicking the door, turned and looked at Bill.

Bill continued, "That's your woman, ain't it? You killed her too. Too busy chasin men. There we go, truth comes out, you are a fuckin queer! Mind you, odds on, cry for help, these bitches bein cowards. See what Bill can do, hey. Give the bint a push."

"Don't!" Jon Pleaded.

Bill thumbed in a reply, "Come and stop me or fuck off and run."

"Don't! Please!"

"Please?" another laugh roared out. He read what he had typed, "Jump! Do it! You're just another ghost in the city. Not seen, not heard, not wanted."

"Don't send it!"

"Done it." He dropped the phone to the ground.

"You cunt!"

"You useless fuckin cunt! You, that's you, a useless fuckin cunt!"

Jon turned and attacked the door with kicks and shoulder led body slams.

Bill watched laughing at Jon's ineffectual assault. "A useless fuckin cunt! You're good for bullshit, Jon but don't pretend to be a man." He stepped forward, grabbed Jon by the hair and, owning him, yanked him away and down to grind him into the ground.

"Now, watch the winner, before he smashes you to dead"

Bill powered a kick towards the door. His boot connected with the handle. The door flew open. Momentum thrust Bill forward into the stairwell. Jon watched him vanish, heard a scream deadened by shock, then a hard thud that bounced into an echo before the door swung shut to slap it away.

Silence. Jon couldn't move or even think.

The beat of a snare drum cracked his shell. Reality crept inside. But still, he didn't dare move for fear Bill would come raging back.

Silence - seconds but minutes to Jon - eased him towards the door. He inched it open, peeking. The stairwell was an open shaft all the way down to the ground floor and the lifeless body of Bill.

Scaffolding lined the walls. Jon's thoughts surged ahead. He could climb down, slow and cautious, and claim the prize, one more lucky win. Time was his only enemy. No sirens, yet, so maybe never, nor a Manders controlled team to clear the waste. But Maddy?

He closed the door, stepped away. The carnage came like projectile vomit racing towards him. He ducked, crouching down. Maddy's phone, the screen cracked, was enough to force a decision. He grabbed it, stood and ran.

Reaching a sprint, he suddenly stopped to look back at the stairwell door. He could leave it ajar, wedge in evidence to alert any clean-up team to the filth below. Guilt filled the pause. He made the decision.

"Give me this! I'm owed this!" he cried to the mythical gods of natural justice as he ran towards the bodies piled high.

"I'm still going! I'm going!"

With a pistol in hand, he ran to the door and used it to complete his plan. A quick look at Bill revealed no whimpering agony, but at least, surely, he laid there dead.

"I'm coming! I'm coming!" he cried to Maddy this time as he re-entered the race to reach her.

The phone still worked. He typed a message, "I'm coming. Be safe. Please. I'm sorry. All to blame. Hate me not you. The bnb?"

With the message sent, he kicked hard to reach his fastest, most maddened sprint. The ramps took him down to level one. Traffic shot passed the car park entrance. An emergency escape door with a panic bar opening offered a quicker route. He pushed the bar releasing himself onto a deserted backstreet. The emptiness shocked him. He felt the cold and his lack of clothing. A pair of Tesco boxers, a pair of Pringle socks and his Oliver Sweeny shoes were all that covered his flesh. But he knew he couldn't hide. He couldn't run away.

He soon met the crowds and felt every bit exposed as a deranged man pelting along the pavement in his underwear should. He heard the laughs, the shouts of abuse, witnessed appalled, terrified looks. Most people rushed to avoid him. Those that didn't, he swerved to miss screaming at them,

"I'm going! I'm coming! I'm coming! I'm going!"

He knew this was an introduction to a bigger more vicious public. The man in the street he could dodge with ease, but the mob was gathering, sharpening their homemade hate. An image flashed his thoughts, a hood covered convict hustled from court jostled by press and public through a gauntlet of hate, but the convict was him, and he without a hood was stark bollock-naked.

He gripped the phone almost crushing it, squeezing it into life, but it remained silent. It was all he had left, all that promised hope.

"I'll save her!" he cried for the crowds to hear. "I'll rescue her!" he continued, phone held aloft.

A security chain refused Jon entry into apartment three. He screamed for Maddy to let him in.

"Maddy, let me in. I..I," he didn't know what else to say.

An anxious, elderly man came out of apartment two, to tell Jon, 'She's on the balcony,' and 'the police are coming.' Before he had a chance to react to Jon's state of undress, Jon hurried passed him and entered the apartment.

Maddy was on the balcony, stood over the railings, the heels of her feet perched on the narrowest of edges, her hands, clipped to rails, were all that kept her from falling. Seven storeys down, the bleak canal looked as hard and as black as Asphalt. An audience watched her - from balcony boxes to the cheap seats on the ground below.

Jon appeared on the neighbouring balcony - six-metres of separation that couldn't be bridged by physical means. His presence lifted a cheer, a mix of hope and derision. Sensing him, Maddy turned her stare onto him. She looked shockingly vivid, not weak or worn, a dark sun beneath the darkened sky.

"Don't!" Jon pleaded.

"Why, because I'll haunt you?" she replied.

"You do already. I love you!" The lie burst out.

"How? How?" she screamed.

"Stupidly. Fucking stupidly. I felt too close. It scared me. I fucked it all up because I'm full of something not quite right for you."

"So goodbye, Maddy, I'm not right for you. Be alone, Maddy, I can't even sit and talk to you."

"I'm here now. I'm talking now. I'll do anything now."

"Then jump!"

"Jump?"

"Save me. Prove her right."

"Who?"

"Nan."

"Nan?"

"She believed in you. She created you. You killed her creation. You killed me too."

"Right, you jump! Do it! Jump! You will not die, because I will save you! I'll jump in and make you not fucking die!" He raised his voice to proclaim to Maddy and the world, "That is my pledge to woman and people!"

"No. You jump first."

"Why? It's your fucking suicide!"

"Be there. Wait for me."

"What if the water's not deep enough?"

"Now you think of that!"

"Life is rushing before my eyes! I have clarity now!"

"For you, just you! You see nothing but you!"

"I see you. I feel you. I'm full of empathy for you, sweet Maddy."

"Oh piss off! Please, just piss off! How can it be? How? Nan saw us together. We were happy and free together. We were everything we could be together. We had a fame together. We were somehow even admired."

"Us? Your Nan was mentally ill."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't!" Jon thought she was about to jump. "Right!" He climbed over the railings to take to the ledge like Maddy "There's another life now, another life on the line right now."

"You can swim, and you're dressed for it. Is that to save your designer clothes?"

"I could swim," said Jon remembering the panic attack he suffered last time he went swimming. "Can you swim?"

"No."

"It's not that wide. You can doggy-paddle to the side."

"Oh, I can't even kill myself! Another fucking fail! I'll jump headfirst. I'll snap my neck or go unconscious."

"I have panic attacks." Looking at the water below, he felt an attack stirring.

"I have-"

"Don't! Let's not compete. Neither of us can stand as the face of wellness. The world can see us now for all we truly are."

Maddy let out a despairing cry, "To think _you_ could save _me_!"

Jon felt a thousand stares riveted to him forever. Every window and balcony of the neighbouring buildings seemed filled with people armed with phones. He glanced below, from the balcony beneath him a selfie-stick with a phone attached stuck out like a probe to film him. A cell and solitary confinement suddenly felt an attractive offer. Twenty-three hours a day of relative peace and calm made more comfortable by grassing-up the information he had on the criminal underworld.

"I'm feeling dizzy, " said Maddy.

"So am I," replied Jon.

"I'm really feeling dizzy."

"Epileptic dizzy?"

"Oh, and you've not done worse than that? Shall we compete on that? I'll show you some evidence. I'll show it the world."

He thought of the camcorder's memory card and wondered if Maddy had seen the clips of him hauling corpse. But what did it matter? His fate was sealed.

"I fucking love you!" He shouted convincingly. And at least a woman on the outside, of prison, would prove useful. "I truly fucking love you!"

He jumped - eyes closed, breath held, resigned. Hitting the target, he felt no pain, no slap of cold. The water felt like filth, not clean and crisp like a mountain lake, but the blood and secrete of eels.

The canal bed touched his feet. He kicked hard to power himself up towards the surface, but like fleeing in a dream, his whole body felt immobile, stuck in a moment of terror.

Panic dragged him up to the shock and punch of air. All his mind could contemplate was a need to gasp for breath. Moving limbs to swim or stay afloat was beyond him. He thrashed around gulping liquid into lungs. He went back under and felt a slowing, an emptying of the mind.

Her hold was solid. He felt safe and controlled. Maddy was the one to save him, left arm embracing him firmly, the right arm swimming to land.

"You said you couldn't swim," he spluttered.

"Thank fuck I can," Maddy replied.

"You lied."

"There are no lies. Our truth is mine. I own it now."

# CHAPTER 39

Jon got lucky. The wreckage left at the car park was made to vanish. Manders had arranged the team. When they arrived, anxious Manders had yet to call, only one man was missing - a man named Jon now feared alive and savagely lethal, a legend beyond all mortal compare. He became untouchable, a savage storm that passed to myth with a destructive power to be feared and admired. No associate of the car park dead dared to go looking, or even to whisper his name.

The charred human remains found in the fire razed rubble that was once Bill's home, forced the police to investigate and eventually led them to a second backed-up confession, which, just like the one strapped to Bill's chest, contained no reference to Ann or James or Jon.

However, the bedsit rental in a squalid part of Rhyl, kept by Bill as a bolthole cum lock-up, where the second confession was found also gave-up a watch and wedding ring both of which belonged to James.

It wasn't conclusive proof, but along with the record of James's phone being used post-disappearance in the area where Bill lived, it was enough to lead the police up a one-way street with dead-end accepted and blocking the way.

As for the fact Ann and James weren't mentioned in Bill's confession, criminal psychologists claimed it was logical for Bill not to include the murders of two innocent people so not to conflict with his narcissistic self-image of heroic, avenging angel. In all likelihood, they concluded, he would have killed Ann and James as a test of will and to score a victory in a self-conceived initiation ceremony. But where was Bill? The police thought dead, killed by the underworld he was raging a war against.

Jon expected to go to prison and did. He and Maddy went viral. Phones had filmed them from every angle. He wanted to slip away from the very public glare. But Maddy lapped it up. It proved her Nan's premonition and tangible existence in the spiritual world.

Jon couldn't just leave Maddy. He had confessed his love for her, and she thought it real, as did the millions who watched the YouTube videos and went on to read and learn of the sadness in Maddy's tragic life-story. The loss of her beloved Nan, and the likely murder of her step-mother, Ann only added to the waves of goodwill that came flooding her way.

Maddy became an inspiration, a woman who survived great loss and tragedy to find true love and the strength to grow ever stronger. She was something reborn - an entrepreneur and lifestyle guru. She led the way. Jon dutifully followed behind. He thought the fame would quickly pass. But Maddy had the skills to make it flourish. She documented their life together on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, YouTube and more. They set-up house and business together. Jon was the silent partner. They married and merged their properties, including Ann's house which Maddy eventually inherited, into a single estate. Jon's house became what Maddy termed The Commune where people came to stay while attending one of Maddy's workshops on mental wellness or cleansing one's body and soul (both humans and animals catered for), or on Zoopharmacognosy, or while burying a loved one and either scattering the ashes in the ancient Shropshire Hills or making use of a bespoke sponge coffin with Maddy and Jon providing ceremony and counsel.

Their full moon ceremonies were a wild success. She and Jon recorded a CD of music, Moon Chants For The Missing which got them on the One Show and took them on a mini tour to perform live all over the country.

Jon's struggle to break free of his social anxieties provided Maddy with a means to educate and inspire other such suffers. The treatments and healings she put him through she filmed and documented for all the world to watch. Maddy pushed him hard and often into the limelight where she encouraged him to talk openly about his issues at regular workshops and seminars. Jon found this method hard and painful, especially the drama and comedy improvisation sessions, but to Maddy it was part of the process to treat and heal him, to cleanse his karma and to turn him into the special man her Nan knew he could become. Her mantra was, 'You can fight yourself but not your destiny.'

His only consolation was the beard she allowed him to grow.

Why didn't Jon listen to the screaming voice inside his head and run fast away? Because it wasn't just love that kept them together. Nan's hold over Maddy may have been nothing but love, but with Jon, Maddy knew, a little extra kept safe and hidden would help keep Jon on the righteous path to spiritual salvation.

She possessed the memory card. The story she told Jon was, Nan had given her the camcorder and asked her to watch the video it contained. The only clips Maddy found were of herself and Jon. Nan had deleted everything else. It was her way of saying find the love and get together, of showing Maddy her thoughts, memories, and future dreams.

Jon took this to mean Maddy had seen the footage of him carrying Ann. He tried to offer an explanation, but Maddy hushed him quiet and told him none was needed. She knew the truth. She felt it, his truth, but also Bill's, whose ugly soul still stained the air from beyond the grave. All Jon had to say, many times a day, to himself, to Maddy, and to their million followers on social media, was,

"You can fight yourself but not your destiny."

# THE END
