Heathen/Nemesis

Thirty-One

The roar of the Porsche’s engine filled the garage as Martin Connelly left his foot on the accelerator a second before easing off. Through the open window he could smell the acrid stench of carbon monoxide fumes. He took his foot off the pedal and sat back, switching off the engine. It gradually died away.

Connelly rubbed both hands over his face and sighed wearily.

‘I’ll call you when I get back,’ he said, raising the pitch of his voice slightly, imitating Donna’s words. He swung himself out of the car and slammed the door hard.

Connelly walked to the garage door and pulled it down behind him, locking it from the inside. There was a connecting door through to his house; he didn’t switch on the fluorescents inside the garage as he locked up. The only light coming into the garage was from a tiny skylight window above him. Glancing up, he saw that night was now in command of the sky. The blackness outside was almost as total as that surrounding him in the garage.

He could smell the drink on his breath. He’d stopped off at a pub on the way home for a couple of vodkas. Neat. No fucking about. He promised himself a couple more when he got in. The agent selected a key on the bunch in his hand and slipped it into the lock of the door which joined the house and the garage. He stepped through into the hall.

The arm which snaked round his throat took him by surprise, both by its speed and its strength.

Connelly was practically lifted off his feet by his assailant.

He tried to cry out but a powerful forearm was wedged hard across his windpipe.

The tip of a knife was pressed against his neck just below his left earlobe.

The touch of it made him squirm; he felt his bowels loosen slightly.

‘Keep still,’ the voice behind him rasped.

In front, the shadows in the hallway seemed to be moving independently, dark shapes detaching themselves from the umbra and gliding towards him.

Two more figures stood close to him; because of the darkness he couldn’t see their faces. They stood like sadistic spectators at some violent exhibition.

‘Where’s the book?’ said one of them.

‘What book?’ Connelly managed to rasp as the arm loosed its grip slightly.

The respite was only temporary, however. The grip was re-applied with even greater ferocity.

The leading figure stepped forward a pace and drove a fist into Connelly’s stomach with incredible force. The blow tore the wind from him and left him wheezing, wanting to drop to his knees but still supported by that choking grip.

The knife was pressed slightly harder into the soft flesh beneath his ear.

‘You stupid bastard,’ said the first man contemptuously. He leaned forward so that his face was only inches from Connelly’s. The weak light coming through the hall window illuminated parts of the visages, but otherwise Peter Farrell remained bathed in shadow. ‘Do you want to play games?’ He snapped his fingers and the knife was handed to him.

He pressed the point to the tip of Connelly’s nose and pressed gently, hard enough to make an indentation but not with sufficient force to draw blood.

‘I don’t know where the book is, I swear to Christ,’ Connelly gasped, still held by that vice-like grip.

‘Liar,’ said Farrell. He began tracing the tip of the blade around the agent’s cheek, pausing at the corner of his eye. ‘I could have your eye out with one turn of this knife. You know that?’

‘I don’t know where the fucking book is, I swear to you,’ Connelly gasped, his eyes bulging madly in their sockets.

‘You were his agent. You knew what he was working on.’

Farrell trickled the knife point down to Connelly’s bottom lip and pressed. Gently at first.

‘No,’ Connelly said, fearing that to move his mouth would cause the blade to cut it.

Farrell withdrew it slightly.

‘Did he tell you what he was working on?’

‘Some of it. He was very secretive about his work.’

‘And you never asked?’

Farrell pressed the point against the underside of the agent’s chin.

‘Tell me what you did know,’ the big man demanded. ‘Tell me what you knew about the book.’

‘I told you, he never spoke about what he was writing.’

Connelly’s words were interrupted as Farrell pushed the blade up harder beneath his chin, hard enough to break the skin. Blood welled up from the puncture and ran down Connelly’s throat, staining his shirt collar.

‘Find the book,’ Farrell said quietly, drawing the blade across the agent’s cheek, stroking his earlobe gently with it. ‘Find it. Someone will be watching you, not all the time, but you’ll never know when. If you go to the police I’ll personally come back here and cut your fucking head off. Understand?’

Connelly closed his eyes, aware that blood was still running from the cut beneath his chin.

‘Understand?’ snapped Farrell angrily.

‘Yes,’ Connelly croaked.

Farrell whipped the blade to the right swiftly and powerfully. The cut sliced open the lobe of Connelly’s left ear. The fleshy bud seemed to burst, blood spurting from the gash. As the pressure on his neck was eased the agent fell forward, one hand clutching at the bleeding lobe. Crimson liquid streamed through his fingers.

Farrell looked down at the injured man as he opened the door, allowing his companions out first. He saw the blood puddling on the hall carpet as Connelly tried to staunch the flow.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ Farrell said.

Then he was gone.