Consequence (31 page)
How many lives had it taken?
He was sure it would be ready to fire. The kidnapper was a murderer, he would have never held the gun to Howard’s head if it wasn’t already loaded and ready to kill. If it
wasn’t
loaded, he had his hands, he had his spirit, he possessed the strength of a man who had nothing to live for but vengeance.
Was it the gun that had killed Lisa?
He opened his jacket and, with the handle still gripped firmly in his right hand, he slipped his hand inside; out of sight of any unwanted attention but ready to aim and fire in seconds.
At a jogging pace he made a move for the final row of trees.
101
Michael Richards was panting and struggling to breathe, barely suppressing the need to rest against a wall or sit down and take the burning out of his legs and lungs. The consumption of alcohol probably didn’t help, but it was something he could barely feel anymore.
He looked behind him, his eyes flickering hesitantly towards the wooded area which was now in complete shade. He couldn’t see Howard Price but something told him that the old man was hunting him down.
Richards stopped briefly as his eyes tried to focus. Past the entrance to the flat block, over the empty road, lay a slight incline into the forest. It was normally used as a hide-out for teenagers or drunks, anyone wanting shelter whilst trying to hide suspicious activities from prying eyes.
Now something more sinister lurked inside the looming mass of trees, a destroyed car, a mangled friend and an angry father seeking revenge on the wrong criminal.
Turning away from the road he studied the semicircle of flats in front of him. The area was empty, most of the locals were at the pubs or clubs, the kids that littered the corridors and corners through the day would be on the streets or finding shelter. Signs of life shone from a few of the visible flats, flickering blue lights that bathed in orange glows.
He allowed his twitching legs to take control and he set off across the car park, his feet thudding against the solid tarmac as he drove forward.
He noted that only his Vauxhall occupied the large space. He acknowledged this with passing relief as he headed up the flight of stairs -- being careful not to draw attention from any curtain peepers -- and crossed to the flat.
Howard knew he was aiming for a long shot but it was all he had. The gun toting kidnapper, now lying dead in the woods in front of a savaged car, had mentioned Rokers Court. He had said he needed to go pick something up. Why he would divulge such information suggested to Howard that they planned on using his him and his car for as long as possible, probably before shooting him and discarding him like they had done to Lisa.
They wanted to keep him, toy with him and then toss him away. He was another pawn in their game, another life to waste in the pursuit of money, Lisa had been their ticket to money; Howard would be their ticket to freedom.
He entered the court breathing heavily. He had to stop, lean over and rest his hands on his knees. He spat out dry saliva and took in as many deep breaths as he felt he had time for. He was tired, the day had been long; the alcohol consumption high and he had never been a good runner.
He had felt better in the woods, but now, out in the open and ready to exact his revenge, he felt a sickening anxiety; a rush of blood and a rumble of his stomach. He still felt angry and he still didn’t feel remorse but something niggled away at his nerves.
A single car occupied the spacious area where he stood. His eyes fell on the vehicle instantly, he wanted to make sure the kidnapper wasn’t inside, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t trying to make his escape.
It was empty.
Glancing around he was sure he sought what he was after. He pulled the gun out from his jacket and continued.
A short walk across the dimly lit car park took him to a flight of metal stairs. He walked at a slow and deliberate pace, making sure to scan every niche before he took each step.
The rusted stairs clinked and moaned underneath his feet. In the silence of the night the sounds were like echoed gunfire and he found himself grimacing, as if his twisted features would stop the ageing metal from groaning.
At the top of the stairs he waited and listened, there was a blind spot leading to the second floor balcony, the killer could be hiding around the ominous corner, waiting to ambush him.
Raising the gun and drawing his elbows into his chest to steady his shaking hands, he walked forward on silent feet, careful not to make a sound and give away his position.
Reaching the corner he burst out and thrust the gun forward, his finger on the trigger.
There was no ambush. He relaxed and eased his grip on the gun, he had been holding it so tight it had imprinted itself onto his skin.
There weren’t many occupied flats on the second floor, but one of the few that
wasn’t
boarded up looked occupied and the front door was wide open. There was a straight line between him and the flat and with the balcony on his right hand side and a few closed flats on his left, he could concentrate on his objective and not worry about being jumped.
As his heart tried hard to escape out of his chest his feet walked on at a faster pace than they had done on the stairs. His eyes never left their destination.
The lights had not been turned on inside the flat. The kidnaper must have rushed in to try to hide, or maybe he didn’t know he was being chased and was collecting a few items before trying to make a getaway. He had been rushing, he hadn’t had time to shut or lock the door.
Howard felt a throb of anticipation course through his body, his heart palpitated and his sweaty hands gripped the gun even tighter. He stopped before the door to listen but he could only hear the sound of his own blood throbbing through his ears.
He entered the flat with haste, holding the gun out like he had seen in numerous American cop programs, he strafed one foot inside the hallway. It wasn’t as bad as he expected, he expected a pungent odour or a sickly, cold décor but he didn’t get any of that. The hallway was dark, as was the living room, which he could see to his right.
Slowly, trying not to make a noise, he moved another step, enough so he could see into the living room. His finger pressured the trigger tightly, ready to be pulled. Out of the corner of his eye, just past the entrance to the living room, he saw the duffel bag that had been used in the kidnapping, the one that carried the money that had cost his daughter her life.
He had the right flat and there was a good chance that the person who had escaped his grasp was still inside.
Revenge was finally going to be his.
Holding his stance he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did he couldn’t pick out the suspect. He let out a long breath which he hadn’t realised he had been holding, it wheezed out of his lungs with unnerving volume.
He ignored the sound, it wouldn’t matter, he had the gun and the advantage. With his concentration tight and his eyes on the room ahead he took two steps forward. His right foot was the first to trip the laser wire.
102
Michael Richards grimaced at the noise. The explosion was colossal, he knew it would be. Sitting on the hard pavement, with a concrete pillar behind his back, he shifted his position so he could catch a glance at what was once his flat.
The domicile was completely devastated. The front door and the walls of the hallway lay in chunks in the car park. The railing outside of the flat had warped and sliced in half, its two sections hung from the second floor, dangling and swaying in the shock-waves.
The flat itself was entirely hollowed out, as was the flats either side. The flat below -- unoccupied -- looked like a dollhouse, the roof ripped off for everyone to see inside.
Fragments of cement and plaster rained a thick dust cloud over the court. Material from sofas, mattresses and carpets swirled in the air and blocked the moonlight.
Richards brushed a tear from his right cheek and slowly rose to his feet. The police would arrive soon, even if the lawless locals didn’t call them the explosion would have been heard for miles around.
Fires had started in the building and a thick smoke soon joined the material in the air.
Tears still streamed down his cheek but Richards tried to ignore them. He had lost a friend tonight, a friend that had become a brother. He and Phillips were family, together from an early age, never apart. They had no once else, they relied on each other. Now Phillips was gone and Richards was alone.
He had to dispose of Price and the belongings in the flat, he didn’t have time to collect all the stashes and he didn’t want Price on his back. He had now committed murder, but in his eyes it was justified. That bastard had killed his friend, his brother, the only person he ever felt safe with.
Wiping more tears away, he bent down and picked up the two metallic cases from behind the concrete pillar. He took one in each hand and walked through the shaded estate. He closed his eyes as he made his way through the thick atmosphere at a deliberate pace.
People were opening their curtains on the other side of the exploded flat block, trying to catch a glimpse of carnage, but they wouldn’t be able to make out the shape of the retreating, lonesome millionaire, trudging depressingly to the dusty Vauxhall.
He was a ghost in the synthetic fog, a shadow in the snow.
His ears still rang from the explosion but he could hear occasional popping and crackling sounds through the high pitched whine as fire turned its deadly attention to electronics and dusty remnants, setting off a chain of mini eruptions.
He reached the car and opened the boot, taking his time to drop the cases inside. His eyes turned to the flat for the last time, through the dusty veil he could see the fierce red of crackling flames covering what used to be a bedroom, or a kitchen, he wasn’t sure.
After placing the cases in the boot and covering them with a quilt, he gently closed the door and clambered into the front seat. He pulled the car keys from his front pocket, grabbed hold of the rear-view mirror and stared at his face.
He was still crying and he couldn’t stop himself. He also looked worn out and deeply depressed. But something else lingered there, a sparkle in his eyes. After nearly a minute of staring at his own face he smiled. “One fucking million,” he said aloud.
The area was still quiet; he knew he had enough time to escape. He could head up north and stay with some acquaintances for a while, people Phillips and Richards used to hang around with, they would keep him safe. When it all blew over he would leave the country, maybe America, maybe Australia, it didn’t matter where, he had the money and had no ties, he could go anywhere.
Starting up the engine he looked to the roof of the car, his eyes on the skies. “Maybe I’ll even open a betting shop,” he said proudly.
Despite his constant smile, tears still rolled down his face.
