Face Book: A disturbing novel full of shocking twists Read online

  ‘I can change. Get another job. A better one. I know it’s hard out there, that there’s not many jobs, but I’ll get something. I’ll train, if you want me to? I can do … I dunno, an accounting course or similar. I’m sure that’d impress your mother.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with my mother.’

  ‘So there isn’t anything I can say that’ll change your mind?’

  ‘You say you’ll change, but I know you too well. You’ve got no ambition and I have. I think it’d be better for both of us if we moved on. You’ll find someone else. Somebody who’s more suitable for you.’

  ‘Looking like this!’ Jack said, pulling his hoodie back and jabbing a finger at his face. ‘Is the Bride of Frankenstein available for dates? ‘Cause that’s all I’m going to get. And even then she’d think twice.’

  A man with a terrier appeared from an alleyway. He looked at Jack as he strolled past.

  ‘You see!’ Jack shouted after him. ‘This is how it is for me now. I get gawkers like that, staring at me! Get a good eyeful, did you? Want a photograph, you inconsiderate fuck!’

  The man scurried away, pulling the dog after him.

  ‘Jack, please,’ Eleanor said. ‘Just ignore him.’

  Jack looked up at the house they had stopped outside of. It was big and modern. Just the sort of place Eleanor had always dreamed of owning. The sort of place Jack would never be able to afford. The living room curtains were open. They could see a family of four on the settee, watching TV. Daddy on the right. Mummy on the left. Two kids in the middle: a boy and a girl. All cozied up. Clearly happy.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a home such as this,’ Jack said. ‘I hope you find someone who can. Your mother will line up dates with suitable candidates. Men who have nice, comfortable incomes and big cars …’

  ‘Stop talking about my mother; I told you, this has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘That old bat doesn’t help the situation.’

  Eleanor walked away, back towards her parents’ house.

  ‘Hey, hold on!’ Jack said, struggling to keep up. ‘I’m sorry. I … I shouldn’t call her like that. She is your mother, after all.’ He couldn’t resist saying it a “well, you can’t choose your parents” kind of way.

  ‘Don’t mention her again,’ Eleanor said, keeping up a brisk pace.

  Jack noticed a group of hoodie-wearing youths farther down the street, where he and Eleanor had just been. An unusual sight in Warrington. Jack hadn’t seen one police officer or patrol car and assumed it must be because they were busy elsewhere. Searching for the prisoners who had escaped, or dealing with the aftermath of the bomb at Lavadres, no doubt.

  ‘What are we going to do about the house?’ he said, chasing after Eleanor. ‘I can’t afford to pay the bills and someone will come knocking soon … Can you slow down, please? My legs are still hurting a bit from the beating I took, so if you can just ease up on the speed.’

  Eleanor slowed a little, but kept moving.

  ‘We’ll have to give the house back to the mortgage company. My dad will sort everything. He’s going to hire a van so he can remove my furniture.’

  ‘Not so long ago it was our furniture.’

  When kitting out their home, Jack had contributed very little (just a few bits and bobs he’d picked up at a boot sale). Eleanor’s father had supplied them with a TV, microwave, bread maker, bookcase, rugs, dining table, plus many other things.

  ‘You’ll have to move in with your parents, as I have’ Eleanor said. ‘Or you could rejoin the army. Maybe they’ll have you back.’

  ‘Move in with my mum and dad! Be serious. I’d rather live in a bus shelter, thanks. As for the army, that’s not an option. I’m too old. And I really wouldn’t want to end up somewhere like Afghanistan again. That was the worst three months of my life. I did my four year stint. That’s in the past. You’re my future.’

  ‘I can’t hold your hand anymore, Jack. Sometimes you have to go backwards before you can go forwards. The way I see it, you don’t have a choice but to shack up with your mum and dad.’

  He didn’t know what to say to that, so they walked the rest of the way in silence.

  When they reached Eleanor’s parents’ house, Jack said, ‘Can we at least be friends? There’s no reason why we can’t be civil to each other.’

  ‘If I see you out and about I’m not going to ignore you. Of course we can be civil. But we need distance between us for the foreseeable. It’ll make things much easier.’

  In an upstairs room, curtains twitched. Then they parted and Camilla’s face appeared in the gap. She cupped her hands against the glass to cut out the glare. Jack was tempted to give her a wave. And the one-fingered salute. You got what you wanted, he thought. You bitter old witch.

  ‘I love you,’ he said to Eleanor. ‘Always have and always will.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘Please don’t say that,’ she replied, edging backwards down the driveway. ‘If you loved me, then you would have made more of an effort to keep me. Actions speak louder than words. I believe what I see, not what I hear.’

  In an attempt to stop Eleanor’s retreat, Jack blurted out, ‘Where’s your car? Where’s the Beetle?’

  ‘At the scrap yard. It’s finally conked out. The Big End went (whatever that is?). Or at least that’s what the bloke at the garage said. I’m getting another car. Nothing fancy, just another run-around.’

  ‘You mean your dad’s getting you another one,’ Jack mumbled.

  Eleanor reached the front door. Opened it.

  Just before she went inside, she said, ‘I hope they find the people who cut you up, Jack. I hope they lock them away for a very long time. Don’t come calling again, because I won’t talk to you.’

  And then she was gone, the door closing before Jack could say anything else.

  ‘Shit!’ he said, kicking out at thin air. ‘That went well!’

  The round face was gone from the window. Jack knew Camilla would be downstairs now, quizzing her daughter, attempting to extract every detail. Eleanor wouldn’t divulge information. But that wouldn’t stop her mother trying.

  Jack wanted to speak with Eleanor again. Convince her that he loved her. It was pointless badgering her anymore, though. Actions speak louder than words, she had said. No amount of begging or proclamations of love would change anything. Best to leave it. For now, at least. The bus stop was the only option for Jack. So that’s where he went.

  ####

  Flooring the accelerator, Ward pushed the speedometer past 90mph.

  ‘Slo … slow d-down,’ Mildred whined. ‘You’ll kill us both.’

  ‘I’ll kill you anyway, if you don’t shut up!’

  Ward didn’t know where they were going, or what road they were on. All he was concerned about was getting as much distance between him and the flashing blue lights behind. But he was never going to be rid of them if he couldn’t shake the helicopter. No chance. He could hear it. Above. Blades whooshing away. Shadowing him. Like there was rope connecting the Fiesta to it. Invisible, unbreakable rope.

  The cuffs were causing him problems. Each time he changed gear he had take his hands off the steering wheel and do it double-handed. Several times he’d come close to crashing, but managed to recover at the last second.

  ‘They go a lot easier on criminals who give themselves up,’ Mildred said, blustering. She was gripping the side of the seat. Digging her nails in so hard they were piercing the fabric. ‘Why don’t you do the right thing and let me goooooo-OOOOOOOOO!’

  Ward was so occupied trying to spot the helicopter, the car veered off the road. For a second he thought he’d lost it. Thought they were going to crash through the grass verge to their left and total the Fiesta. End up wrapped around a tree, a twisted mess of metal and flesh. Gravel pinged against the chassis and underside. Then Ward pulled the steering wheel hard over, getting them back on tarmac.

  ‘Shut your fucking hole!’ he said. ‘One more word! Just one m
ore and see what happens!’

  Blue lights up ahead. In the distance. Closing fast.

  Passing a road sign for the next junction, he noted two options: Stoneyacre (3 miles), Cavershall (4 miles). Left or right? Shit.

  ‘What’s at Stoneyacre?’ Ward asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it a town? A village? A hamlet?’ When Mildred didn’t reply immediately, Ward blurted, ‘Talk, woman! Talk!’

  ‘It’s a vi-village,’ she stammered. ‘Not much there.’

  ‘And Cavershall?’

  ‘That’s a town. Walter and I do our shopping there.’

  Ward took the left turn, swinging the car around the corner like a rally driver around a hairpin bend. The tyres screeched. Skidded, fighting for traction.

  ‘Woooo-HOOOOOOO!’ Ward shouted, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I haven’t had this much fun in a long time! WOOOOOO-HAHHHAAAAHAAA!’

  He straightened the car up. Floored the accelerator. Speed, baby. Speed.

  ‘Oh my,’ Mildred said. ‘I think I’m going to …’

  Ward looked at her. Saw that she’d turned green.

  ‘Wassup?’ he asked her.

  ‘I think I’m going to … going to be … to be …’

  Slumping forwards, she threw up all over herself.

  Bargaining tool or not, Ward was tempted to boot her out. Lean across her, open the door and push her out. Be gone with the bitch. Had he not been wearing cuffs, he probably would have. But he had more pressing issues. The helicopter. The blue lights behind. The constant wail of sirens he was sure he’d never evade.

  Ward continued on into the night, eating up the road.

  ####

  ‘Any news?’ Dawn said, radioing through to the helicopter.

  ‘He’s heading north towards Cavershall,’ came the reply. ‘We’ve got units waiting for him with a Stinger. I’ll keep you informed, let you know when the target has been stung.’

  ‘Okay. Good work.’

  Letting the radio drop to her side and thump against her thigh, Dawn wheezed a frustrated gasp.

  ‘It’ll be over soon,’ Jenkins said. ‘He’s done for.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I hear it.’

  Two officers were trying to calm the old man, tell him everything was going to be fine, that they would get his wife back and were sure she’d be unharmed. The city’s finest were in pursuit, dammit. There was only one possible outcome. The Face Book Killer didn’t stand a chance. He was a goner. His time was up. And the old man would soon have his wife back in his arms. None of these reassurances did anything to calm the old man, as far as Dawn could see.

  ‘Let’s just hope all works out well,’ she said, nodding towards the officers. ‘Otherwise those pair are going to have some explaining to do.’

  Jenkins said, ‘Poor fellow. His name’s Walter Curshaw and his wife is Mildred.’

  They watched as Walter cried inconsolably.

  ‘If we’d have got here quicker, this wouldn’t have happened. That woman wouldn’t have been kidnapped.’

  ‘There’s no way of knowing that, ma’am, so don’t torture yourself about it. We got here as fast as we could and that’s that.’

  Dawn buttoned her jacket up. ‘It really is getting cold,’ she said, shivering. ‘There’s a nasty chill in the air.’

  She stared trance-like at the rhythmic pulse of blue lights.

  ‘It is getting a bit nippy,’ Jenkins agreed.

  ‘Any news about Armstrong?’

  ‘Just had a call from unit forty-three. Apparently, they’ve found an abandoned ambulance five miles east of Edgemont. Parked down a country lane, under a bridge. They’ve contacted every hospital in the vicinity, but no one knows anything about it. They all say it isn’t one of theirs.’

  ‘It’s a perfect getaway vehicle. Who would stop it?’

  ‘Officers en-route to the scene of crime saw one heading away from town, so I’d say we can be pretty sure we’ve found our getaway vehicle. We just need to know what they transferred to.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone think it funny that an ambulance was driving away from the area so soon?’

  ‘It seems not. I guess they were preoccupied with getting there. Whenever I see the emergency services coming, my instinct is to pull over, get out of the way.’

  ‘I think that’s everybody’s instinct. What about the 4x4 that was used in the convoy raid? Any details on that yet? It’s stolen, I take it?’

  ‘It was reported missing by a Mr. Newstead in West London on Wednesday. Once forensics have gone over both vehicles, I’ll let you know if they find anything. I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘Has Border Control been informed?’ Dawn asked Jenkins. ‘Armstrong will try and get out of the country now. Not straight away; he'll stay hidden somewhere – for a few months, at least – and then he'll attempt it.’

  ‘Border Control has been informed. Soon as I have details, I’ll let you know. But they don’t have the resources to deal with this effectively. They’re just as overstretched as every other public service. Keeping Armstrong in the country is next to impossible, in my opinion.’

  The officers dealing with Walter had seated him in the rear of a police car. They were still trying to calm him, but it was no good. He attempted to get out and an officer pushed him back down.

  ‘Mildred!’ Walter cried, struggling. ‘Let me up, I can’t sit here while my wife is with a maniac! Get your hands off me, young man. Let me UPPPP!’ He stuck his head out of the car and shouted, ‘LET ME UPPPPPPP!’

  ‘You need to stay seated,’ the officer said, towering over him. ‘You’ve had a nasty shock and you need to relax.’

  ‘The guard who survived the attack on the convoy,’ Jenkins said to Dawn. ‘I take it you’ll want to talk to him?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dawn replied. ‘He’s the first person I want to speak to. Eleven killed and only one survives, with nothing more than a bullet in his leg. If that doesn’t smell iffy, I don’t know what does. Oh yes, I definitely want to talk to him.’

  ‘His name’s Ryan York. Haven’t come across him before.’

  The name wasn’t familiar with Dawn, either. She assumed he must be new.

  ‘We’ll pay him a visit in the morning,’ she said. ‘See what he’s got to say for himself.’

  ‘You know what,' Jenkins said, 'I’ve been thinking …’

  ‘Steady on,’ Dawn said, waving a cautionary finger at him. ‘I’ve warned you about that.’

  ‘… and I’ve come to the conclusion that a bomb going off at Lavadres just as the convoy was being attacked is a bit too much of a coincidence. It’s obvious that it was a diversion to stretch the force and maximise Armstrong’s chances of getting away. I’m not a big believer in coincidences, as you know.’

  ‘Neither am I. We’ll check the CCTV footage, see if that pulls anything up.’

  ####

  Derek couldn’t string two pots together. Couldn’t remember ever playing so bad. He was chalking his cue, lining up shots, but he was on autopilot. His mind wasn’t on the game; it was on one thing and one thing only.

  Charles Byron.

  ‘You should open for business tomorrow,’ Jevon said, racking up reds for a new frame. ‘You can’t let these bastards ruin things for you. Those hoods will come calling again, wanting cash. When they do …’ he clenched his fist, cracking his knuckles, ‘… we’ll smash ‘em.’

  ‘I’m not patient enough for the waiting game,’ Derek said. ‘I want to do something now.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have to wait long. ‘Specially now we’ve made nuisances of ourselves at his gate. He’ll want to teach us a lesson. Show everyone what happens to people who dare to stand outside his pad, shouting the odds. Show everyone what happens to niggers who dare cross him. Damn, I’m looking forward to this dust-up!’

  Placing the colours on their spots, Derek said, ‘How far do you think they’ll go?’

  ‘They’ll wanna give us a good beating,
I’m sure. Maybe break a few bones. Spill a bit of blood. Send out a message to anyone else who’s thinking of standing up to them.’

  ‘One of ‘em said it’d be a shame if this place burnt down. D’you reckon they’ll take it that far?’

  Derek realised he was probing for words of comfort. Had Jevon said no, he wouldn’t have believed him. They both new what sort of people they were dealing with. They both new anything could happen from here on in.

  ‘Arson is a distinct possibility,’ Jevon admitted, ‘but our gangster friends ain’t gonna get money out of you if they torch this place, are they? So they’ll try more intimidation. Crank things up a notch. Don’t be surprised if they turn up with bats and blades and all sorts of nasty shit. We just need to be ready for ‘em, brudda. You got any weapons we can use?’

  ‘There’s a baseball bat behind the bar.’

  ‘That’s a start. We can stud it with nails. Anything else?’

  ‘Got a few knives in the kitchen that are long and very sharp.’

  ‘Great, we’ll cut ‘em to shreds. Gut ‘em. And let’s not forget Willis’s gun. He’s itching to pull it on someone.’

  Derek patted Jevon on the back. ‘I like your enthusiasm,’ Derek said, chuckling, ‘but I was hoping for a more diplomatic conclusion to this. Perhaps it’s best if you let me do the talking when the time comes. As far as the gun goes, I don’t want that thing making an appearance unless absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Diplomatic conclusion,’ Jevon said reflectively, as if muttering strange, exotic words he had never heard before. ‘My fist in somebody’s face: that’s the only diplomacy I know. I don’t care what anybody says, it works every time.’

  Bending over the table, he positioned himself for break off. He sighted down his cue. The ash brushed against his chin as he feathered away. Usually, he was a master at getting the white tucked tight on the baulk cushion. This time, however, he blasted the white, sending reds skittering. One of them dropped into a centre pocket.

  ‘Jammy git,’ Derek muttered.