Heathen/Nemesis

Forty-Seven

The pistol was pressed against his cheek so hard that it almost broke the skin.

The sudden cold chill against his warm flesh woke him but, as Martin Connelly tried to sit up, shocked into consciousness by the sensation, the muzzle of the .45 was jammed against his face with incredible force.

In the darkness, and still half-asleep, he was unable to focus immediately on the figures standing around his bed.

All he was aware of was the deathly cold of the gun barrel. For a fleeting second he wondered if he might be dreaming, but this time he had woken into a nightmare.

Connelly blinked myopically, trying to clear his gaze, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He felt his bowels loosen, felt the hairs on his neck and forearms prickle as he saw the face of the first intruder, the one who held the gun.

‘Get up,’ hissed Peter Farrell, stepping back. He kept the gun pointed at Connelly’s head the entire time, the barrel never more than inches from his face. The muzzle seemed to expand, to grow into a vast black tunnel before his eyes.

‘Move,’ Farrell continued, grabbing Connelly by one arm and jerking him towards the door of the bedroom.

The other man picked up the dressing gown lying on the end of the bed and threw it at Connelly. He looked at Farrell as if asking permission to put it on, to cover his nakedness; although, at the moment, decency was the last of his worries. Nevertheless he pulled it on and padded out onto the landing. Farrell kept close by, the gun still held at his head.

‘I told you before I don’t know anything,’ Connelly said quietly, his voice cracking. His mouth felt dry, as if someone had filled it with sand.

Farrell grabbed the back of his hair and yanked his head back, forcing the gun hard against his temple.

‘I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now. I want some fucking answers,’ he hissed.

‘For Christ’s sake ...’

He was cut short by a shove in the back that nearly made him overbalance and fall down the stairs.

He shot out a hand and caught the banister, steadying himself. On shaking legs he began to descend.

Farrell and the other man followed him.

‘Have you been in contact with the woman?’ Farrell wanted to know.

‘Which woman?’

‘Ward’s widow, who do you think?’

‘Why should I have been?’

Farrell drove a foot hard into the base of Connelly’s spine, the impact knocking him off balance. He toppled forward, pitching off the steps. He crashed against the wall then fell, rolled the last few stairs to the hallway.

Farrell was on him in an instant, dragging him upright, the gun held beneath his chin.

‘Have you been in contact with her?’ he repeated.

‘No,’ Connelly said, hurt by the fall. ‘Look, I swear to you, I don’t know anything.’

Farrell pushed the agent’s head back sharply, banging it against the wall with a sickening thud. For a second Connelly thought he was going to pass out, but a hard smack across the face kept him conscious. Farrell grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him towards a closed door leading off the hallway.

‘What are you doing?’ said Connelly, realizing which room he was being shoved towards.

‘Move,’ snapped Farrell.

Connelly was about to push the door when it was opened from the inside and he found a third man there.

Farrell pushed the agent inside and was joined by the other intruder.

All four men stood in the room and Farrell raised the pistol once more so that it was aimed at the agent’s head.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ Connelly babbled timorously.

‘We’re not playing, Connelly,’ Farrell told him and pulled him across the hot and clammy room.

The kitchen was large but the air was warm and dry.

Connelly didn’t know how long the rings of the electric cooker had been on but one of them was almost white-hot.