Face Book Read online

  She was in the car park now. Walking amongst the vehicles. She shivered, her teeth chattering. She wished she’d grabbed her coat on the way out.

  ‘Any casualties?’ she asked, fearing the worst.

  ‘Eleven dead, one injured. It’s a blood bath.’

  Dawn massaged her temples.

  That stupid idiot Reinbeck. Why hadn’t he listened? Why?

  ‘Where did it happen?’ she asked.

  ‘On the B694. The road that runs through Darkness Woods.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Twenty minutes, tops.’

  ‘There’s something else. Something you need to know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Armstrong wasn’t the only one being transported. There was another prisoner … James Ward. You remember him, don’t you? The one who killed those women. The Face Book guy.’

  Dawn remembered, all right. A shiver slithered through her body.

  ‘Are you still there, ma’am? Are you okay?’

  Composing herself, she replied, ‘Yes … yes, I’m here. Like I said, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  She went to terminate the call, but Jenkins said, ‘There’s been a bomb blast in the city, as well. At Lavadres. Haven’t got much info on that yet. Sounds bad, though. Bound to be fatalities and injuries, from the sound of things.’

  Dawn closed her eyes for a few seconds. Opened them.

  ‘Just when you think things can’t get any worse,’ she said, ending the conversation.

  The Indian restaurant was on the north side of the Boxford. Had Dawn opted for a Chinese instead, in south area, she would have been across the street from Lavadres. Her and Philip would have had an explosive end to their meal.

  She watched the traffic whizz past, headlights cutting into the night.

  You’ll be the next one in my book …

  ####

  On the way home, Philip sat silently in the passenger seat of their red Freelander. Arms folded, he stared out the side window at the dark landscape racing by. Dawn’s apologies fell on deaf ears.

  ‘Ignoring me like a sulky school kid isn’t going to help,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sick of coming second to your job, Dawn. Family should come first. Me and Abbie should be your first priority. Always.’ Philip turned and looked at her. ‘You’re very pale. Is everything all right? Is something bothering you? Something to do with work?’

  Dawn had told him about the bomb blast and the convoy being attacked. About the fatalities. She hadn’t mentioned Armstrong. Hadn’t mentioned Ward, either. She didn’t want to worry Philip and hoped the escapees would be caught by the time he watched the news. She’d never told him about Ward’s threat.

  Philip put a hand on her leg. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his eyes big and regretful. ‘I … I don’t know what I was thinking. This isn’t like normal. This is something major, so you have to deal with it. Day off or not. I’ve been a dick. Do you forgive me for being a dick?’

  Putting her hand on his, she squeezed tight and smiled. ‘I understand your frustrations,’ she sympathized. ‘Look, I promise to spend more time with you and Abbie. I know I’ve said that before, but I mean it now. You pair are the world to me. I love you both very much.’

  ‘And we love you, too.’

  They drove in silence for the rest of the journey.

  Black Hill, the town where they lived, was eight miles from Boxford. Their house was a modern four bedroom detached. Pulling onto the driveway, Dawn noticed the living room curtains part and a small, round face peek through. It was Jodie, the babysitter. No doubt wondering why they were back so early.

  ‘Make sure you pay her for the whole night,’ Dawn said. ‘We’ll just say that I don’t feel very well.’

  Abbie was tucked up in bed, but Dawn couldn’t resist seeing her. The door opened soundlessly as she crept into her bedroom. In the light spilling through from the landing, Dawn could see a mop of blonde curls sticking out from under the duvet. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kissed her four-year-old daughter on the temple.

  ‘Sleep well, sweetheart. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Most nights, when Abbie was asleep, Dawn would stay with her for a bit. She’d watch the rise and fall of the duvet. Listen to Abbie's breathing. Run her fingers through her blonde curls. Not tonight. No time for that.

  Sneaking out, Dawn shut the door behind her. Went into hers and Philip’s bedroom. Bending down, she undid the straps on her high heels. Kicked them off. Her dress dropped to the floor as she slipped out of it. She changed into casual clothes: blue jeans, red t-shirt, black jumper and sturdy boots. As she came down the stairs, Philip was saying goodbye to Jodie at the front door.

  ‘Hope you get better soon, Mrs. S,’ Jodie said, flashing a well-intentioned smile. ‘S’not food poisoning, is it? I’ve heard all sorts of bad things about that restaurant, y’know. My friend Clare says they cook cats and dogs. Or is that the kebab house on Portland Street?’ Her brow furrowed as she mulled it over.

  ‘Wish you’d mentioned this earlier,’ Philip said, concerned.

  ‘It’s not food poisoning,’ Dawn reassured Jodie. ‘I feel a little off. That’s all.’

  Jodie said that she loved looking after Abbie. She asked if they’d require her services again. Dawn told her they would, much to Philip’s delight. Waving goodbye, Jodie bounced off up the driveway. (She lived two houses down, so there were no concerns about her getting home safe.)

  Dawn’s brown cotton coat was hanging in the porch. Putting it on, she kissed Philip on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll be back as quick as I can,’ she said.

  ‘You always say that and you’re always gone ages. I’m going to put the news on, see what’s happening.’

  Dawn wished more than ever that the escapees had been caught.

  ####

  Arriving at a scene of chaos, Dawn parked up. Got out of the Freelander. The area had been cordoned off with red tape and cones. She flashed her badge at an officer and he lifted the tape so she could duck under. Jenkins saw her. Scurried over.

  ‘My God,’ Dawn said, taking everything in. ‘My … God.’

  The bodies had been bagged up, laid out in a row. Convoy police cars were riddled with bullet holes, interiors stained red. White-suited scene of crime officers were busy collecting evidence. The world seemed filled with blue pulsing lights.

  ‘They blew the doors off,’ Jenkins said, gesturing towards the armoured van. ‘They were heavily armed. Our men didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I take it neither of them has been caught yet, then.’

  Jenkins adjusted his glasses on his nose. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But we’ll get them. Ward will be hiding in the woods, so it’s only a matter of time for him. As for Armstrong, we don’t have a clue on his whereabouts. Looks like the lead police car was t-boned.’ He pointed to the 4x4, which was straddling the road, its front end smashed in, steam oozing from the bonnet. ‘I’ve already had a check done and it’s stolen, as you’d expect. It was reported missing three days ago by a man in West Chipham, down south.’

  ‘You said there was one survivor. Where is he?’

  ‘Over there,’ Jenkins said, nodding towards an ambulance as two paramedics were helping the man into the back. One trouser leg had been cut off so they could bandage his knee. He grimaced. Cursed as he was seated.

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Only briefly. Says he doesn’t remember much. Just that there were masked men coming out of the woods on both sides, bullets flying everywhere. He’s lucky to only have a bullet in his leg, that bloke.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dawn said, watching as the ambulance pulled off. ‘Very lucky.’

  ‘There were no other witnesses, ma’am.’

  A van arrived, outside the cordon. Written on the side: POLICE DOGS. In the rear, Alsatians barked and scratched, calling to their handlers. Eager to be let out.

  A helicopter shot past, heading over the woods, its light searching the night.

/>   Dawn looked towards the trees, the darkness beyond.

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ Jenkins said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  Snapping to, Dawn said, ‘Not many officers here. Not nearly as many as we need.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of men at Lavadres.’

  ####

  Stopping for a breather, Ward glanced up. Heard the whoosh-whoosh of the helicopter. Soon its infra-red beam would probe through the boughs and branches, searching. He was hot and sweaty. Knew he’d glow like a banked coal under the beam’s scrutiny. Shit.

  Twigs and dried leaves scrunched underfoot as he began to jog. The woods were so dark he could barely see in front of him. The terrain was littered with potential pitfalls, so he watched his step. If he were to trip, fall and break or sprain something … well, that would have been it.

  Game over.

  His breathing was raspy, laboured. He kept moving.

  Stitch clawed at his side. He kept moving.

  His legs ached. But he kept moving …

  Veering past a bush, he thought he heard dogs barking. And voices. He quickened his pace, his flabby belly jigging up and down beneath his grey overalls. He wished he was in better shape. Fitter. Wished he’d worked out while inside, like other inmates.

  He tripped over a rock. Went sprawling. Getting to his feet, he got going again.

  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh …

  The helicopter was getting closer. So were the dogs.

  ####

  Big Vegas Casino: Boxford

  Red had always been Byron’s colour. He never chose black, because he wasn’t keen on niggers. Dirty little fuckers, the lot of them. If there was an option to bet on white, Byron would have done so. He’d have wagered heavily on white. Every time. Roulette was his favourite game.

  As the croupier spun the wheel, Byron watched the gold ball dance amongst the slots. He had placed a straight-up bet on 21: his favourite number. The wheel span and span and then began to slow.

  The croupier said, ‘No more bets.’

  The ball jittered above the slots before coming to rest in 17. Three grands worth of chips were taken from Byron’s pile. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. It was small change to him. He could have lost 100k and it wouldn’t have bothered him.

  Byron went to place another bet, but Quinn appeared at his side, whispering in his ear: ‘About the blacks at the snooker hall …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Byron said, waving him away. ‘What have I told you about bothering me with trivial matters? Just do whatever needs doing and get out of my sight.’

  He put another three grand on 21.

  Coming in close again, Quinn said, ‘The guy who McCarthy cut up. You want me to deal with him as well, yeah? Or should I get some of the others to do it? ’

  Byron glared at him. That was answer enough.

  ####

  Sifting through the chest of drawers in his bedroom, Jack searched for a black hooded top. It had been a present from his parents two years before, for his thirty-forth birthday. Like all the other jumpers and items of clothing his mother had chosen for him, it’d been packed away. Forgotten about. She had a knack of buying items Jack would never be seen dead in. He hadn’t worn the top and never would have, had it not been for his disfigurement. The chav look wasn’t his style. Until now.

  He found it in the second-to-bottom drawer. Tucked over the back. He held it up in front of him. It was creased and looked as though it needed a wash, but it would do. He slipped it over his head. Pulled the hood up. Checking himself out in the dresser mirror, he yanked the hood down at the front to cover as much of his face as possible. People would be wary of him. They’d think he was a knife-carrying thug. Jack didn’t care. Covering his face: that’s all he was concerned about. Hiding his mug from view.

  No other room reminded Jack more of Eleanor. She had taken most of her belongings (anything that easily fit into a case), but there was lots of her stuff lying around. The now half-empty wardrobe they’d shared had some of her clothing in. The dresser was dotted with cosmetics: lipstick tubes, perfumes and creams. And then, of course, there was the bed. Jack remembered back to the last time they had made love. How long ago had that been? Three months? Four? Her scent was still on the sheets. The faint mixture of Honeysuckle and Jojoba.

  Jack got his jacket. Tugging it on with fretful gestures, he headed for the front door. He had two people to visit. He knew neither of them would be glad to see him. But questions had to be asked, answered sought. The sooner, the better.

  Leaving the house, he walked at a brisk pace. Head down, hands in his pockets. Other pedestrians gave him a wide birth. Some skirted around him, some crossed the street. Jack moved with intent, a purposeful stride. Like a man that might hurt anyone who got in his way.

  On the main road, a woman in a red knee-length coat was waiting in the bus shelter, holding a bag of shopping. Jack noticed her stiffen as she caught sight of him. As he entered, she left. Shuffled away at speed.

  Checking the display, Jack noted the next bus was due in five minutes. He flipped down a plastic fold-out seat. Perched himself on it. He sat forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at the floor. His mind raced with the things he wanted to say over the next few hours.

  The 34 turned up on time: 21:15. Jack heard it chugging towards him. He got up. Hailed it down. The doors hissed as they folded open. Stepping aboard, he approached the Perspex screen that separated him from the driver. With his head still down, Jack put a fiver on the pay tray and said, ‘Meadow Lane, please.’ He imagined the driver being relieved that he had pulled a note out and not a gun or knife. The driver made the five disappear. Silver and coppers clattered into the change dish. Jack scooped them up. Pocketed them. There were only two others on the 34. Near the front. A girl sporting a baseball cap that was tipped jauntily to one side and an old dear with the worst varicose veins Jack had ever seen. He went to the back, out of the way. At no point during the journey was he tempted to look out the window. The interior light’s glow reflected off the glass, making it a mirror.

  Twelve minutes later, Jack was outside the Fox and Faucet. The place was busier than when he had last visited, the car park a quarter full. Sounds of laughter and good cheer drifted to him on the chilly breeze. The last time I was here I looked normal, he thought. My life was falling apart, but at least I didn’t resemble something from a Scooby Doo cartoon.

  In the pub, he made his way across the room. Towards the bar. Two staff were pulling pints. One was a young blonde with big blue eyes and an impressive rack. The other was the old guy Jack desperately wanted to talk to. He remembered his name: Reg. People gave Jack funny, cautious looks. No doubt not sure what to make of the guy in the hoodie. He waited to be served.

  When it was his turn, he pulled his hoodie back just enough so his face was visible. Reg’s blood-shot eyes widened in recognition. His mouth twitched, opened, then shut. Clearly, he did not know what to say. So Jack spoke instead.

  ‘I’ll have a half lager,’ he said. ‘And five minutes of your time, if you can spare it.’

  ‘I’m busy,’ Reg replied. ‘Now’s not a good time.’

  ‘Thought you might say that. Just five minutes. Come on, you can get someone to cover. Look at me.’ Jack leaned forwards so Reg could get a close eyeful. ‘Look at what they did to me.’

  Madonna was playing on the jukebox, singing about how she was burning up. She faded out and Guns and Rose's Welcome to the jungle cut in: the song that had been playing when Jack was attacked. Listening to it made him feel numb. He took a slow, deep breath to cool his anger.

  ‘I’ve got people to serve,’ Reg said. ‘You can see that.’

  ‘And you can see what those goons did to me,’ Jack said, his voice unsteady. ‘I just want a little of your time, old man; you owe me that much.’

  Holding up a gnarled hand, Reg shook his head as if he was going to say no, but then said, ‘Oh God, I knew you’d come calling. All right, all right. I’ll talk to
you. But this’ll have to be quick; I’ve got a pub to run.’

  He poured a half lager and handed it to Jack, who downed it in one.

  ‘I should have asked for a pint,’ Jack said, wiping foam from his top lip. ‘I needed that.’ He held out a tenner, but Reg refused it.

  Signalling a black girl at a nearby table, Reg said, ‘Cassie, can you cover for a bit? Got something that needs doing. Won’t be long.’

  Cassie gave the thumbs up. Sauntered over.

  ‘Follow me,’ Reg said to Jack, lifting the bar hatch, ducking under, then leading him to a free table, next to the fireplace.

  They sat across from each other. Reg glanced around, left and right, behind him. Jack leaned forwards. Planted his elbows on the table. All business.

  ‘Now I know what you're going to ask me,’ Reg said. ‘You want to know who those three men were, don’t you? Well, I’m afraid I can’t help. Don’t know who they are. I’d never seen them before that night and never seen them since. Thank the Lord.’

  ‘Tell me, pal, aside from the scarring on my face, do I have twat written across my forehead?’

  ‘I’ve told you exactly what I told the police. I gave them descriptions …’

  ‘Vague descriptions.’

  ‘Yes, I was vague. I’m seventy-four years old and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be. What do you want me to say, my friend? I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Jack snapped. ‘Those idiots were in here trying to get protection money out of you. Do you expect me to believe that they didn’t come back after they’d done me over? The following night, or a few days after. They did, didn’t they? Who are they working for? Who sent them?’

  Reg glanced around frantically. Made a shushing gesture.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘You don’t know who might be in here.’

  ‘No, I will not keep my voice down. Tell me who the goons are? Tell me who sent them?’