Exit Wounds (4 page)

“Left,” Dean shouted, at the last minute. “Right here.”

As he turned the steering wheel, Paul breathed deeply. He had a temper and he knew it. Most of the time he kept it hidden and dormant, but when pushed he lashed out. Paul couldn’t shake the feeling that Dean somehow knew this, and was deliberately winding him up just to see what would happen. Right now, there was nothing Paul would like better than to show him.

“Straight over,” Dean announced when they came to a roundabout.

They pulled into another deserted industrial estate. Paul slowed the Audi A4 down to a stop.

“What the fuck are you doing?! Straight on!” Dean shouted.

Paul took a deep breath and continued on, heading straight for a line of warehouses. Richard frowned, curiously.

As they approached, the large shutter door on one of the factories began to retract, opening up before them.

Dean chuckled to himself, “Open sesame.”

Capelgwilym Road, Lisvane

Rebecca loved to jog. She enjoyed keeping fit but hated gyms, full of sleazy steroid-drunk men twice her age always trying to come onto her. Out here, in the country lanes behind the back of Thornhill estate, she was free from all that. Free from everything. She adored it all: The fresh air in her face, even if it did occasionally smell of manure; the sound of birds whistling, even if they were accompanied by the low mumble of the motorway. Despite all this she still felt privileged to have this little stretch of the country laid before her so close to home.

A sharp pain yanked at the back of her ankle, and she came to a reluctant, slowing stop. Kneeling down she rubbed the area, with her hand, trying to ease the soreness. She didn’t think she had torn anything, probably just a sprain. Rebecca checked her pulse and wondered about finishing off the rest of the jog, or whether she should just head home and rest it for a bit, try again tomorrow.

“Excuse me?”

The voice startled her, causing her to jump.

Gary smiled from the driver’s seat, through the passenger side window of the car. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Rebecca smiled back and replied through laboured breathing, “That’s alright.”

“I’m a little lost,” Gary started. “I’m trying to find Pontprennau surgery.” He pulled out a map from the compartment in the side of his door and spread it out across the steering wheel and dash. “I was told to get off the M4 here and turn left, but I ended up in somewhere called Tongwynlias and then that took me up to Caerphilly, so I followed the signs back to Cardiff and I’ve managed to end up here.”

Rebecca moved forward, “Um, it sounds like you got off the M4 at the wrong junction. I know where Pontprennau is but I’m not sure about the surgery...”

“Oh if you could help get me that far that would be great. It’s my first day, very embarrassing.”

Rebecca smiled again, “I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re a little late. Um...” She leaned in through the window to look at the map, with a finger.

“It’s open,” Gary told her, as she struggled.

Rebecca recoiled and opened the door. Gary took a deep breath. He had planned this and gone through the moment a hundred times in his head. He knew that she was the helping type, generous and trusting. He knew that her mother was a general practitioner and that the mention of being a doctor would make her more unsuspecting of him still. She wouldn’t doubt anyone unless they gave her reason to.

She leant in, her left knee resting on the passenger seat as her right foot still dangled outside. She pointed to a line on the map, “Here’s the junction where you should have come off. We’re here now, so if you carry on down these lanes.”

Gary watched the back of her head move as she navigated the journey for him on the paper in front of them. He flexed his fingers and raised his right hand, ready to snatch the long ponytail now only itches from his face. His left hand had already found its way into the compartment of the door again, and wrapped its fingers around the dampened cloth that he was going to ram into her mouth to stop the screaming, before sending her to sleep.

“She takes my money! When I’m in need! Yeah, she’s a trifling friend indeed.”

The sudden loud voice almost made Gary jump as he withdrew suddenly.

Rebecca cringed with an apologetic smile, “Sorry.”

She climbed back out of the car and reached for her phone that was attached to her waist strap, doubling as an mp3 player. “Hi Mom... Calm down, I’m on my way- ...okay, okay. I’ll be there now! ...Yeah- Yeah- Two seconds, Mom.” Rebecca turned back to Gary. “I’m really sorry. I’ve gotta go. Do you think you can find your way now? If you’ve got a pen I could mark it on the map-“

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” Gary interrupted, quickly.

“Okay, if you’re sure?”

“I’m positive. Thank you very much for your help.” Gary insisted.

Rebecca smiled warmly again, “Any time. Good luck with your first day.”

As she turned to walk home, still talking to her mother on the phone, Gary watched, unable to shake the image of that last smile out of his head.

So kind, so sweet and so, so young.

The vacuum in the pit of his stomach had returned and as he drove away past her, watching her wave to him in his mirror, he swallowed hard to keep himself from throwing up.

An Abandoned Warehouse, Cardiff Bay

Richard and Paul had been frisked twice again since their arrival. The second time they’d been told to spread their arms and legs Paul had asked the guy if he was going to buy him dinner first.

Now they had been led upstairs into one of the old warehouse’s offices. The filing cabinets still stood in the corner of the room, covered in sheet upon sheet of dust. The tile windows were missing a few plains and others were smashed or broken. In front of them was a large wooden desk, complete with an old wooden chair.

Richard scanned the rest of the room. There was little sign that the gang had set up shop here. The place was just as it had been left when it fell empty. They could have easily just walked in here this morning.

Dean had now been joined by five other thugs each with an AK-47 slung around their neck. Dean still carried Paul’s handgun. They stood behind the brothers, between them and the door, as they all waited in silence.

Paul glanced at the men. None of them displayed any significant signs that they had been professionally trained. The way they carried their firearms was sloppy and one even had his shoe laces untied. The Kalashnikovs didn’t surprise him either. They were probably the most accessible assault rifle in the world. Every man and their dog seemed to have one. Paul had been on both the firing and receiving end of his fair share himself.

After a few minutes, Paul shifted his weight, restlessly, “Have I got time to boil an egg?”

Richard sniggered in spite of himself.

“Are you hungry, my friend?” a loud, foreign voice asked from behind them.

Richard and Paul turned. Stood in the doorway was a tall man. He wore dark trousers and an open, pale blue shirt. His body was defined yet surprisingly gaunt, and covered in blue ink. His feet were bare and they too were plastered in tattoos. He had grey eyes and his head was completely shaved, only showing the faintest traces of stubble to distinguish him from being bald.

“Yeah, I missed breakfast,” Paul replied, his comical attitude unwavering.

Richard shot his brother a glare. He hadn’t expected him to talk at all when the organ-grinder had turned up, let alone mess around. “Giacometti?” he asked, trying to reaffirm his control over the situation.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, my friend.” The man said, ignoring Richard’s question completely, as he stepped into the room. He strolled behind the desk and sat down. “What would you like?”

Paul titled his head, not sure if this was a genuine offer or some kind of mind game, or even just a plain old rhetorical question.
Fuck it
. He was starving. “A bacon sandwich and a glass of orange juice would go down a treat. Thank you.”

Finally, the man acknowledged Richard’s presence, “And for you, friend?”

“Just a glass of orange juice, thank you.” Richard replied, reluctantly.

With a nod of the head from the ink-covered man, one of the thugs immediately exited the room, presumably to fetch the two brothers their breakfast.

“I am Giacometti,” the man announced. It could have been a reply to Richard’s earlier question or just a stand-alone statement. He smiled, exposing more than one gold tooth. “You must be the Gillespie twins?”

Richard nodded, “I’m Richard and this is my brother Paul.”

Giacometti stood up out of his chair and leant over the desk, to extend his hand to each of them. “Welcome.”

Richard and Paul shook his hand in turn. Sitting back down, Giacometti paused. He looked closely at Richard’s face and then checked it against Paul’s. “It’s amazing isn’t it? You are both exactly the same, and yet there are so many clear differences between the two of you.”

His eyes studied Paul’s face specifically. “Do you believe in God, my friend Paul?”

Paul paused, pondering the relevance of the question. Unable to draw any conclusion he decided to just be honest. “No.”

“Have you ever had faith?”

“I can’t say I have, no,” Paul shook his head.

“Your eyes are very old,” Giacometti said, staring deep into them.

Paul half-turned away, forcing a smile, “Too much television that is.”

Although he seemed to ignore the joke Giacometti’s gaze continued to burn and Paul did his best to meet it with his own.

“You look to me like a man who knows what it is to have sinned.”

Paul didn’t respond.

“I myself am such a man.” Giacometti pulled back the sides of his shirt further. “Each of these, marks a sin I have committed. I have one mark for each sin.” He allowed himself a small smile. “I’d have my hands and face covered by now, but then I would be too easily recognised and it is important for me to remain invisible. I think perhaps you have your own marks for your sins, my friend Paul.”

Paul ignored the terrible sound of screaming inside his mind, begging to be let in.

“We didn’t come here to talk about religion,” Richard told Giacometti suddenly.

Giacometti turned to face Richard. At first it looked like his remark had angered the man, but then his voice erupted with joviality, “But of course you are correct, my friend Richard! We are here to do business! But first I find myself asking, how is it I know I can trust you?”

“You either do or you don’t. That’s up to you,” Richard replied. His voice was unwavering, and carried with it the tone of a man who had been tried enough for one day. “Either way I’ve had enough of these pathetic little games.”

“Games? What games do you speak of?”

“The magical, mystery tour of Cardiff bay. The changing of vehicles. To me, to you. I’m not a fan of the chuckle brothers. You contacted us. Show us what you want us to do, or show us the door.”

Paul was impressed. He didn’t know his brother had it in him. His words certainly seemed to have an impact on their host. Giacometti’s face was all thought. This was the moment where he either had them executed by his guards or welcomed them with open arms. Watching his face Richard could visualise the gears turning inside his head, but if he said he was certain his gamble would payoff, he would be lying.

A smile, wider and with a visible depth of authenticity, spread as Giacometti nodded happily, “You’ve spoken well, my friend.” Without warning he practically jumped out of his seat, clapping his hands. “Come, follow me.”

Obediently the twins turned and followed Giacometti. Richard did his best to make eye contact with his brother as they headed towards the door but Paul made no effort to return the favor. Richard couldn’t help feel a stab of guilt about putting Paul in this situation. He knew Paul wasn’t entirely mended yet, and he hoped that being here didn’t hinder his healing anymore.

The Red Dragon Centre, Cardiff Bay

Tony Horton was very tempted to use his sidearm on this security guard. The portly, middle-aged man had done nothing but moan since Tony’s arrival had forced him to get off his fat backside and open the door for him. The main doors didn’t open before eight, and many of the venues inside didn’t start until nine o’ clock. The security guard had found it a great inconvenience to have to come all the way from his comfy monitoring desk to let the M.I.T. agent in.

“I don’t get paid to be a bloody doorman, you know,” he carried on.

The security guard had told Tony his name when he met him, but now, mere minutes later, it escaped him. It wasn’t because he had a forgetful mind; it was because Tony hadn’t thought it important enough detail to remember in the first place.

“Look, David-”

“John.”

“John, do you think we could get to the monitor room quickly? Preferably without a lecture on how hard your life is. Because after just seeing the mutilated corpse of a sixteen year old girl, I’m really not in the mood for your trivial annoyances.”