Captives

SIXTY-THREE

It was the smell that alerted him.

Trevor Magee had passed the small entryway to Long's Court when he noticed it.

The rank odour of sweat and urine made him wince.

Long's Court was silent, a curious contrast to the noisy hustle and bustle of the square just yards away. The smell, coming from the rear of a building, might easily have been the unpleasant odour given off by a dustbin in need of emptying. There were bins in the small yard behind the building, even a large wheeled skip which bore the name BIFF A. But it was, in fact, a bundle of dark clothing that looked as if it had been hurled against the far wall of the darkened yard. A bundle which, as he drew closer, he realised was a person.

From more than a few feet it was impossible to tell even the sex of the figure. Magee moved closer, inside the high stone walls of the yard, walls that effectively cut. it off from anyone who might be passing.

He moved into the impenetrable gloom of the yard, one hand slipping inside his left hand pocket. He was standing over the reeking individual now, peering close to get a look at the face.

It was a man. He was yet to reach his thirtieth birthday, Magee thought, but ravaged beyond his years. How long he'd been sleeping rough no one could tell. Magee looked closely at him, trying to focus on the face in the darkness, to pick out his features beneath the grime that covered his face like a second, darker skin.

The smell was almost unbearable; Magee could feel it clogging his nostrils.

He reached into his pocket and slowly pulled the knife free.

It was about eight inches long, double edged and as sharp as a razor.

Magee leant forward and touched the man's shoulder, simultaneously pushing the knife gently up beneath his chin so that the point was just touching flesh.

There was no movement.

'Wake up,' Magee whispered, as if trying to rouse a lover from slumber. His voice was gentle, cajoling. 'Come on, wake up.'

He shook the man more firmly, the knife still poised.

Magee could feel the beginnings of an erection pushing against his trousers. His breath was starting to come in low gasps.

'Wake up.'

The man opened his eyes and blinked myopically, trying to focus. He was suddenly aware of the coldness beneath his chin and his eyes widened in shocked realisation.

Magee smiled.

He drove the blade upwards with one powerful thrust, feeling it puncture skin, rip through muscle and crash into teeth. Gums were cut open and the knife scythed through the man's tongue, momentarily pinning it to the roof of his mouth before severing it. As the man opened his mouth to scream, part of his tongue fell into his lap. Blood gushed from the open orifice. Magee smiled broadly. He struck again, this time bringing the knife down into the top of the man's head, using all his strength to force it through bone that splintered and cracked with a strident shriek.

As Magee tugged it free a large lump of bone came away on the end of the knife. For fleeting seconds, a sticky mass of brain matter welled up through the hole.

The tramp had fallen forward onto his face, his body twitching madly, blood spreading out around his head. Magee ignored the crimson puddles and knelt beside the dying man again, this time rolling him over onto his back. He felt inside his own coat pocket and pulled out the corkscrew.

The tramp's eyes were closed but Magee used his thumb and forefinger to push back the lids. He drove the corkscrew forward, burying it in the man's right eye, shoving down hard on it, twisting it in the socket, ignoring the spouting vitreous liquid that erupted from the riven orb. He felt the point scrape bone and pulled back hard.

Most of the eye came away, torn from the socket. But the corkscrew had burst it like a corpulent balloon and its fluid ran down the tramp's face, clear liquid mingling with blood. Enough of the eye came free to please Magee, though, and he watched as it dangled on the optic nerve.

He rammed the corkscrew into the left eye and pulled again. This time the curled metal merely came away with jellied lumps of vitreous humour sticking to it. He tried again, uncaring that the tramp was motionless by now, the stench of excrement already beginning to permeate the air.

The corkscrew tore the flesh at the side of the man's nose before skewing into his eye again, gouging the torn sphere badly and tearing the lower eyelid. Magee shoved two fingers into the socket, scooping the eye out until it fell onto the concrete. He looked at it for a second then got to his feet and stamped on the eye, hearing it pop beneath his foot. He slipped the knife and the corkscrew back into his pocket and walked away, turning out of the yard and into St Martin's Street again. He walked unhurriedly to the bottom of it and peered down Orange Street.

A taxi was approaching, its yellow light on. Magee raised an arm to stop it, walking round to the driver's side.

The driver looked at him aghast.

'What the fuck happened to you?' he wanted to know.

'I want your cab,' said Magee, tugging at the door.

'Fuck off, I'll…'

The driver got no further.

Magee pulled the knife from his pocket and, with a blow combining demonic strength with effortless expertise, slashed open the taxi driver's throat.

Gouts of blood erupted from the wound and hit the windscreen with a loud splash.

The cabby made a squealing noise and clutched at the ragged edges of the wound as if trying to hold it together, to prevent the blood pouring through his hands.

Magee tore open the driver's door, grabbing the man by the shoulder, hauling him from the cab. He fell heavily oftto the road, his eyes bulging wide with fear as he felt his life-blood draining away. As he tried to breathe the chill night air filled the gaping hole in his neck. His body began to spasm.

Magee leapt into the driver's seat and pressed down on the accelerator, heading away from the scene of carnage, his own brow furrowed. He glanced into the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was following.

All he saw was the body of the taxi driver lying in the road, blood spreading out rapidly around him. There was blood all over the windows, too, and Magee had to wipe it away with the sleeve of his coat in order to see through the windscreen. The car was like a mobile abattoir.

He put his foot on the accelerator and the taxi shot forward. He found himself struggling with the wheel, fighting to keep the vehicle under control. As he swung it into Charing Cross Road he nearly collided with another car. The driver sounded his horn furiously as the taxi sped on. Magee paid it little heed. Up ahead the traffic lights were on red but he didn't slow up. The taxi went hurtling across the junction with Cranbourn Street doing sixty.

Hunched over the wheel, Magee smiled.

He was relieved that no one was following him. He didn't want anyone trying to stop him.

Not yet.