Kill or Die Read online

  Julia tried to keep focussed. “We'll still get you to school, Lucy, only we’ll be staying at Aunty Steph's for a while. That’ll be nice, won’t it?”

  “Suppose so,” Lucy murmured, flopping back on her bed, eyes closed.

  Julia dragged her upright again, easing her feet into shoes. “The minute we’re in the car, you can go straight back to sleep, promise, only hurry, love, and help a bit, will you? You're as floppy as a rag doll.”

  Lucy stretched backwards to grab a threadbare teddy that had been Julia's when she was little. It pleased her to know it was her daughter's favourite, as it had been hers.

  “Can I take Mister Brown?”

  “Naturally we’re taking Mister Brown. You don’t think we’d forget him, do you?” She wrapped a blanket around her. “There, all set!”

  Keeping an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, in case she tripped over the trailing blanket, they went downstairs. And although Julia's smile remained fixed for Lucy's sake, inside, she was grieving. Oh, Ian, come home now, see what you’re doing to us.

  But, all was silent, except for the sound of a dog barking. It sounded like Bessie, Benjamin’s collie.

  On the third stair from the bottom, Lucy stopped abruptly. “Where’s Daddy?”

  Julia’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, then taking a deep breath, she said, “Daddy isn’t coming to Aunty Steph’s. It’s you, me, and Mister Brown. Daddy is staying here for a while.”

  The child’s face crumpled. “Why?”

  Julia blinked, and swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’ll explain in the morning. Not tonight, please, Lucy.”

  “But, I want to say goodbye to him.”

  “He’s not in,” Julia said tightly, the bitterness in her voice startling them both. More softly, she added, “Daddy is still at work. Lucy, please, we have to hurry.”

  The child remained stubbornly on the third step. Intelligent blue eyes fixed on Julia’s tear glistening ones. Solemnly, she asked, “Are you leaving my daddy?”

  A sob gurgled in Julia’s throat, and she took in her daughter’s face. She was so like her father, it hurt to look at her at that moment they both had the deepest of blue eyes, and a way of looking directly at you, as if reading your thoughts. Although, it had been a while since Ian had looked into her eyes. These days, he spent more time avoiding them. “Lucy, I have to. For a while anyway, until…”

  The child stamped her foot. “No! I don’t want to. He’ll be sad, if we go away.”

  “It's fine, darling. Please, we need to go.”

  Lucy turned troubled eyes towards her. “Don’t you love him anymore?”

  “Of course I do,” Julia said, as if the thought was ridiculous.

  “Doesn't he love me anymore, then?”

  Julia hugged her fiercely. “Don't be silly. Of course he loves you.”

  “Does he know we’re going to Aunty Steph’s?”

  Julia could see a hundred and one questions flying through her daughter’s mind. With a defeated sigh, she shook her head. “No, love, he doesn’t know.”

  The look on Lucy's face said she'd already guessed that. “Can I write him a letter?

  Julia's eyes fluttered shut, the effort of holding back the tears physically hurt. She nodded.

  Throwing off her blanket, Lucy raced back upstairs. Julia picked it up, and leaned against the wall, hugging the blanket to her chest, listening to the clock whirring and ticking. Benjamin’s dog had stopped her barking, for which she was glad. She hoped the old man was all right. Bessie didn't usually bark, unless someone came to the door. Normally, she would check, or at least phone him. But, tonight, she needed to get away, now.

  The solemn look on Lucy's little face, as she reappeared at the top of the stairs, banished all thoughts except the misery of what was happening to them. With the teddy tucked under her arm, Lucy descended gravely. Reaching the bottom, she wrapped the blanket around herself, and walked to the front door.

  “Have you written your letter?” Julia asked softly, and as her daughter nodded, asked, “And may I ask what you wrote?”

  Lucy said nothing, but mutely shook her head.

  With a sigh, and a last look around her, Julia grabbed her car keys, and opened the front door. Even before she had stepped out into the freezing fog, she shivered.

  CHAPTER 3

  Benjamin Stanton eased himself halfway out of his bed. Fumbling for his spectacles, he clicked on the bedside lamp. It was an Edwardian lamp, and probably one of the newest pieces of furniture in his home. Like everything around him, it told a story; it had a history. Its soft glow illuminated his bedroom, and he saw his ageing rough collie, with her nose pressed up against the bedroom door, barking to be let out.

  “Bessie, why did you have to wake me, hey? I was having such a nice dream. What's all this barking, anyway?”

  Bess cocked her head, with pleading eyes, then, turned back to the door, and carried on barking.

  “All right, wait till I get myself together. What’s the matter? Need to pee? I told you to go before we came to bed, fog or no fog.”

  He pushed back the heavy eiderdown, and eased himself around to sit on the edge of his bed. He reached for his walking stick. His joints ached. He and Bessie were a pair, fit for the knackers’ yard, and nothing else.

  “Your bladder isn’t what it used to be, is it, girl? Like mine. Well, keep your hair on, I’m being as quick as I can. You know, I was dreaming about my mother. Funny that, to dream about her after so long. You’d have liked her, Bess. She was a real softy with dogs. She'd have loved you.”

  He dragged on his robe, and shoved his feet into worn carpet slippers, as he spoke. Then, steadying himself, he shuffled to the door. The moment he turned the handle, Bessie’s head was around the door, forcing it wide with her body and out of Benjamin’s hands. She flew down the stairs, her paws barely touching the stair carpet, the way she used to when she was a pup.

  Benjamin shuffled to the top stair, and gripped the banister. Bessie had skidded to a halt by the closed lounge door. She crouched with her nose to the bottom of it, her barking only broken by a deep throaty growl. Benjamin descended slowly, he was going to need a stair lift, if he got any shakier on his feet. “Bess, old girl, what the dickens has got into you... Bess?”

  A white foam was gathering on Bessie’s black gums by the time he reached her, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. This wasn’t Bessie needing to pee. This was bad. Heart pounding, he backed away from the door, clutching his walking stick, and feeling behind him for the telephone on the hall table. Before he could pick it up, the door sprang open.

  At first, Benjamin thought Bessie had managed to turn the handle, as she pawed and scratched, until he saw his dog recoil backwards, lips drawn fully back to reveal her teeth. Beautiful teeth, Benjamin thought for a moment. But, the sound she made was like nothing he had ever heard his beloved companion make, in all their years together. Not a growl, more a rattle coming from deep down in her chest.

  “Bess…”

  A figure appeared from the lounge. A tall thin figure, all in black, face hidden behind a black mask. He could see eyes, though, through a slit in the mask. Manic, sunken eyes. Then, Bessie sprang, and those eyes screwed up in pain as her teeth latched on to his forearm. She hung there, legs dangling off the ground, swinging by her beautiful teeth from his arm, as he screamed and shrieked like a stuck pig.

  Her sable and white fur was becoming tarnished by blood, more dripped onto the Persian carpet violating the pattern. Benjamin lifted his walking stick in defence, as a long piece of metal fell from the intruder's hand, and clattered to the floor.

  He staggered to the phone, and with the receiver clutched in his shaking hand, he was suddenly overshadowed by someone towering over him. Someone else, dressed in black leather. The smell of it filled his senses. This one had only his eyes visible, like the one shrieking in the doorway. But, these weren't manic, pain filled eyes.
These were wide, calculating eyes—pale, and filled with hate and anger. His arm was raised. That same length of iron was now being held above his head. It was lead, Benjamin could recognise any sort of metal. It even had a kind of smell. Only the smell of leather was uppermost now.

  He had no time to cry out. In one swift, violent movement, the arm came down, and Benjamin felt himself sinking slowly, dropping to his knees. His own face, now streaked with blood reflecting back from every single silver button of the black leather trench coat, until he tasted carpet on his lips.

  Benjamin’s last thought was Bessie had stopped her snarling, too.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vincent stared down at the crumpled frail little man at his feet. Bile rose in his throat, and a burning fury tightened his stomach. Nash, the useless lump of crap, was slumped in the doorway, blood oozing from the rip in his jacket, and dripping from his sleeve.

  “This was your job!” Vincent raged. “I did your fucking job.”

  “I’m bleeding Vince, my arm…”

  “Stuff your arm!” Vincent snarled, stepping over the half-dead dog, and snatching a handful of Nash’s jacket collar, twisting it around his fist. He dragged him to his feet. “You were too slow, too fucking slow! You do the shitty work. Not me. I shouldn’t have done that. It’s your job, not fucking mine!”

  “Think it's got an artery. Do something, mate. Don’t let me bleed to death.”

  “You're not going to bleed to death,” Vincent snarled, wishing he would do just that. He loosened his grip, sickened to find Nash’s blood all over him. “Grab a fucking bag, and follow me. We aren't quitting now.”

  Slowly, Nash slid down the wall, until he sat, splayed out, by the dog.

  Vincent kicked out at the slumped form. “Get up. We can’t hang about.”

  “Can’t. Feel faint, Vince… Vince, help me, mate. Do something, please, Vince.”

  Vincent glared down at the pathetic figure crumpled on the floor, and pondered the pros and cons of actually leaving him to bleed to death. If he could be sure Nash would croak, before the coppers came, he'd shoot now. Only it would be his luck for Nash to be still alive and squawking, when they got here. And it wasn’t the prospect of Nash pointing the finger that bothered him. Worse was the thought of Nash looking for revenge at being left to take the rap. If he could carve up the surgeon who saved his life – and his missus, because he didn’t do a pretty job, then God help anyone who deliberately crossed him.

  With no alternative, Vincent grabbed Nash under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet. “Stay up. I’m not carrying you.”

  Nash wedged himself between the door posts. “It's gonna need stitching, get me to a hospital quick, mate. I can feel myself going.”

  Vincent swore under his breath, knowing if he wasn’t going to do a runner, he’d have to help him. Cursing, he took off his trouser belt, and applied it in what he hoped was a tourniquet around Nash's upper arm. Then, snatching a lace cloth from the hall table, he bundled it against the rip in Nash's sleeve, where the blood was pumping from. “Press as hard as you can.”

  Nash’s eyes were shut, his head flopped back against the wall. “Feel faint.”

  “You’re bound to,” Vincent said, knowing Nash would remember his treatment of him, if he didn't croak. “Didn’t think a scrawny little runt like you had that much blood in him in the first place.”

  “Fainted at school once, in assembly,” Nash mumbled, as Vincent tightened the tourniquet. “Teacher thought I was faking it, and left me there. Made everyone step over me. I came to, everyone gone, except for the Head, nasty bugger.” He half-opened his eyes. “You’re me mate though, Vince. Knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, save it, will you,” Vincent muttered going into the kitchen to grab a couple of grubby tea towels. He tied them around the wound. “Keep your arm up, and the belt tight.”

  “Feel sick…”

  “You aren't the only one,” said Vincent, stepping over the old man, and running upstairs three at a time. “I’ll do the bedrooms, you stay on your feet.”

  Systematically, Vincent went through each room, ransacking, looting, wrapping precious pottery into pillow cases and towelling. The antique silver collection filled an entire holdall. His excitement began to rise; the old man was loaded. This was the big one, all right.

  He’d buy a decent car, nothing too flashy, something that would impress the ladies. It was one thing nicking a vehicle, only it was never your own. You couldn’t ponce around in it, picking up women. No, he’d get himself off to a plush car showroom, take a few test runs. See them stuck up salesmen falling over themselves to serve him.

  He headed back to the stairs, but his body jerked violently, as he looked down at the carnage in the hall. His throat gagged. Too much blood. A dead old man, a half-dead dog, both slain by his own hand. That’s what incensed him. That was Nash's job. What the hell did he think he kept him for? Not his company and good looks, for Christ sakes.

  The holdalls were heavy, and he lugged them downstairs, avoiding looking at the mess. Dumping the bags at Nash's feet, he went through to another room, a study, avoiding Nash's weak attempt to hold onto him. He worked swiftly, methodically, taking everything he could carry. Satisfied, he went back into the hall, gathered up all the bulging holdalls, and dumped them in the kitchen by the back door. He went back for Nash.

  “Out the back, and keep the noise down.”

  The thinner man staggered, as Vincent pushed him out into the night. Vincent hung back. If the police had been called, they’d pounce on Nash first. He waited.

  “Where you gone, Vince?” Nash’s voice drifted through the fog.

  “Shut it,” he breathed, quickly following him, in case the idiot started yelling even louder. He closed the door with its shattered lock that had been so easy to force. If they hadn’t been detected, then the longer they had to get away, before anybody realised something was up, the better.

  “Get me to a hospital, Vince. Me arm’s killing me.”

  “No hospitals,” Vincent whispered, as they reached the car.

  Nash shot him a frantic look. “But, I need fixing up. I won't grass. I’ll say I was bitten by a stray dog. You don’t have to come in with me. Just drop me off.”

  “I said, no hospitals.”

  Nash’s pulled his balaclava off, his face twisted pathetically. “But, I gotta get this bleeding stopped, and I need one of them tetanus jabs. Ain't had one since me face got done.”

  Vincent opened the passenger door. “Get in, and stop harping on, will you?”

  For a moment, Nash hesitated, and then, with a pained look, he slumped into the seat. Vincent clicked the door shut, and moved silently around to the driver’s side. Once in, he buckled up his seatbelt, and turned the ignition key. The engine wrestled into life.

  Nash slumped against him, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. “Vince, please…”

  “We can’t take that chance, Nash,” Vincent said, soothing him with his silky voice. “There'd be too many questions. You don’t want to end up behind bars, do you? There aren’t many plastic surgeons in prison, are there? Now, relax, and we’ll put some antiseptic on it when we get back, and I'll bandage you up good and proper.” He forced himself to look into Nash's eyes, and smile reassuringly. “You’ll be as good as new again by tomorrow. Now, then, fancy a little Beatles’ music?”

  Nash closed his eyes. “Sure, Vince, mate, if you say so.”

  He pressed the 'play' button, slammed the car into gear, and stamped hard on the accelerator.

  They had gone ten yards, before Vincent thought to switch on the headlights. As he flicked the switch, another vehicle materialised in the pale beam of light, pulling out of the next driveway. A yellow Mini.

  His reactions were swift. He jabbed his foot hard down on the brakes, so the impact was nothing more than a scratch of metal and a tinkling of broken indicator light. But, for Nash, the sudden stop sent him
catapulting forward into the windscreen. His forehead hit the toughened glass so hard, it shattered, and then, he whiplashed back into his seat.

  Vincent stared through the blood splattered windscreen at the occupants of the Mini. A woman and a kid.

  Witnesses.

  CHAPTER 5

  The car's headlights came out of nowhere, as Julia pulled out of her drive. She instinctively tried to swerve, but there was no avoiding the impact. It was slight, a faint tinkling of glass breaking – a sidelight or indicator light. In the back, Lucy buckled into her seat, cried out in fright.

  Through the fog, Julia distinctively saw the driver brace his arms against the steering wheel, but his passenger shot forward, cracking his head against the windscreen so hard a circular cobweb effect of blood-smeared shattered glass instantly appeared, before he ricocheted back into his seat.

  “God! That must have hurt. Stay here, Lucy. He might need an ambulance.”

  She got out, heart thumping, and dashed to the other car's passenger door. She was aware of the driver getting out, and walking around the back of his car towards her. He was tall, taller than Ian, and he was five eleven. This man was broad shouldered, too, and dressed all in black, like a large shadow she was only barely aware off, as she focussed on the passenger. He didn't seem to have moved since ricocheting back into his seat. She hoped to God he wasn't seriously injured.

  “Shall I call an ambulance? I think your passenger is hu...”

  Her question was left hanging in the air, as Julia realised she couldn't make out the driver's face, because he was wearing a woollen balaclava. Something stirred in the pit of her stomach. A slight warning. She ignored it. It was a horrible night. Why wouldn't someone wear a balaclava? What mattered was the passenger wasn't moving. Was he unconscious? Dead? God, she hoped not.

  She went to open the passenger door when an arm, clad in black leather, was thrust in front of her, shoving her hand aside, and yanking open the passenger door. The thick smell of leather filled her senses, as he crowded over her.