Thunder (18 page)

The man was still talking. Growling some crap about distribution. It sounded religious. Typical. Then his captor reached out and picked up a carving knife.

‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ thought Omid, pulling himself against the cords, feeling them digging into his flesh as he tried uselessly to escape. ‘He’s going to stab me!”

But the lunatic just dropped the blade onto his lap.

Javed sat back and the rickety old chair creaked underneath him. Shifting fractionally. He could feel it. It definitely moved. Like it was broken or something?

Crappy old chairs.

Replacing them might just turn out to be one of the best things he’d never done...

~~~~~

More for something to do than anything else, I start to put things away into the backpack. I’ve always been one for tidying up after myself and it might as well be my parting gesture too.

Vengeance is already inside. Collapsed back down into its transport configuration. My small quiver is tucked down one side and conveniently holds the rucksack’s side up. It’s got a couple of normal arrows and my little mechanised monster – now recovered from the worm’s chest – in it. I feel bad about Vengeance – which is ridiculous, I know – but it feels like such a waste that this thing, that I love, will be destroyed as well.

I pick up the handsaw from where I dropped it earlier – Omid’s chairs had been so old that I’d hardly needed it in the end – and can’t help but smile at the horrified expression on Omid’s face when he sees it. I also collect up the pliers and bradawl that I used to screw my numerous hooks into his skirting boards. These all raise wide-eyed expressions of horror. I guess he thinks I’m planning on torturing him but, as it is, they all go quickly into the bag.

The five-litre acetone tin, with its red diamond warnings emblazoned on the sides, can stay there in the corner.

Stuff it...

I open the back door, and lean out and prop the backpack to one side of it, then return inside and close the door. The sentimental side of me has won out.

Vengeance can wait outside.

For some reason this feels right somehow.

I go to the sink and prepare to wash the charcoal from my face.

I want my face to be clean when I see you.

I can hear Omid jerking about again and glance over my shoulder. “Are you
sure
you want to do that?” I ask him.

~~~~~

Grabbing the knife with both hands, he started sawing at the cables round his waist. No good. The blade was as blunt as hell and the cable felt like it had got metal wires running through it.

He leaned his head forwards and strained to see over his knees. His trousers were saturated in some liquid. The stench from it was almost overpowering. Why couldn’t he place the smell? Something to do with make-up maybe?

There was sawdust on the floor by his feet... Hang on, didn’t the lunatic pick up a saw a couple of minutes ago?

He moved one foot slightly and felt the chair leg flex.

He moved his head to one side and could see rough saw marks in the wood at the top of it.

Why do that? To try to embarrass him or something? To try to stop him struggling? Is that what all the ‘keep still’ bollocks was about?

What a fuck-wit!

A plan started to form in his mind.

If he could break the chair’s forelegs it would topple forwards.

He tried easing himself up slightly, lifting his buttocks a fraction from the seat.

Yes! Then the bindings round his waist would slide off the chair back!

~~~~~

A bowlful of warm water is in front of me and I’m working up a soapy lather in my hands. ‘Eternity Soaps: Rejuvenating Your Skin Forever’ reads the bottle next to the sink. I guess we’ll be testing that soon.

I glance over my shoulder again and can almost see the hard, round, probably lichen-encrusted, pebbles of Omid’s intellect grinding around under the force of his tidal ineptitude.

He’ll work it out soon.

~~~~~

Yes, he could topple forward – his legs would already be free – and his bindings would slide off the chair. Then he could rush over and knife the bastard!

He carefully manoeuvred the carving knife so it was gripped tightly between his bound hands and pointing away from him.

The moron was still washing.

Had his back to him.

This was the perfect time.

He pushed forward with one calf. The chair leg creaked ominously.

Again!

The leg snapped.

He thrust his freed foot down for balance and started on the second.

His assailant remained washing... despite the noise?

Lunatic!

The second chair leg broke and, out of reflex, his leg dropped to steady him.

He was as good as free!

He suddenly felt himself filling up with a wave of triumphant fury. “Arrgghhhh...!” he yelled mutedly into the tightly bound gag.

~~~~~

I turn around after I hear the second chair leg crack.

He’s trying to yell something and, going by his expression, I’d say that he’s feeling delighted with himself.

Then he notices my face and his expression changes to one of shock. Then back to anger.

He lifts his feet, the chair starts to topple forwards and I nod over his shoulder toward the wall behind him.

~~~~~

Omid instinctively turned his head to look behind him as he fell. Perhaps there was someone else concealed in the room?

But there was no-one there.

Instead there were other cables, unseen until now, streaming out like strands of a white spider’s web from the back of the chair to the nearby wall where, standing on an eclectic collection of jars and cans, a series of storm-lamps stood with their wicks flickering. Every one of the lamps’ doors were open. Their flames flared brightly as if the fumes in the air were feeding them. The cables from the chair were attached to the lamps’ various handles and yet more ran to a series of hoops firmly anchored into the distant skirting boards.

Unable to stop himself, Omid tumbled forwards, pulling the wires taut, and bringing the lamps leaping off their precarious perches. He watched over his shoulder as they fell forward toward the pool of liquid on the floor.

Suddenly he remembered what the smell was. Nail polish... Acetone!

The first of the lamps crashed onto the floorboards and a gout of flame burst outwards towards him.

~~~~~

I watch him falling. See him trying, even as he sprawled forwards, to try to stop the inevitable. It was a pathetic sight. Sort of a half-lurch to one side.

I have planned several layers of redundancy into my trap but, as it is, all of the lanterns spark bright flame. The acetone vapours are more flammable than I’d imagined them to be, but then again, up to now, I’ve never had more than a small bottle to play with.

Flames start to rage around him. He tries to clamber onto his feet but the bindings round his waist are, of course, also very much tied to the base of the chair and it remains firmly lashed to him – there was a little more slack in one or two of the loops, just enough to help him jump to the wrong conclusion. He’s discovering that it’s extremely difficult to stand up when your body is bent rigidly into a sitting position. And it doesn’t help, of course, that he’s also tied to the wall.

The fire leaps onto his acetone soaked trousers, crackling as it starts to take angry bites from the accelerant-sodden cloth and he starts rolling from side to side – the small distance his tethers will allow – as he tries to extinguish it. But the flames are unstoppable and his actions only serve to fan them further. I can hear him starting to scream, even through the gag.

“I don’t know if there is a hell,” I announce loudly to his writhing form. “So you must burn here. With me. In mine...”

He leaps suddenly to his feet, drawing himself into a superhuman half-balanced stance which must only be possible because of the intense pain and need to escape, and rushes toward me like a living beacon of fire amongst the accelerating conflagration. Instinctively I take a half step backwards, hitting the cabinets behind me but the tethers do their job and he is held there. Trussed in the middle of the bonfire.

I am ready.

He is dying in agony in front of me.

I’m not frightened about whatever cleansing pain I might be about to endure. Whilst it will no doubt reach beyond my damaged nervous system, it’s irrelevant. It will be nothing compared to what I’ve already had to live through.

“I’m coming, my darlings,” I mutter to myself and suddenly you’re there, looking in through the window, from the garden. You’re holding Lizzie and I can see Grey Beard beside you and Dad.

What are you doing in the garden?

Dad is mouthing something through the flame-strobed reflections. “Not now,” he appears to be saying...?

You seem so real.

I’m not interested in Omid’s crashing, flailing, noises any more.

You are beckoning to me through the glass.

You look angry.

Do you want me to come to you?

Into the garden?

I can’t help myself.

You’re there...

I fling the door open and step outside and the raging inferno behind me draws a huge gasping breath through this new, gaping-wide, opening. A gale of oxygen streams past me, its wind chilling my hot cheeks, and with an unearthly roar the entire downstairs area erupts.

But you are not here...!

Why did you call me out of the house...?

Why...?

The moment has gone. The worm is turning to ash behind me whilst I stand here still suffering...

You tricked me.

All of you...

A solitary tear, spawned by a sudden feeling of utter desolation and loneliness, trickles down my cheek and I reach down, lift my backpack, and stagger along the garden path toward the alleyway.

~~~~~

Something woke him. He’d dropped off to sleep...

Shit.

Ellard leapt up in the passenger seat and checked the clock on the dashboard. Three-thirty. That was okay then...

He scanned the streets in front, no-one nearby, then turned and looked behind to see a darkened figure disappearing out of the street. On foot. Walking.

Something was wrong though.

Then he saw it. The dark alleyway was being backlit somehow.

He wrestled his way out of the sleeping bag and risked flinging the door open.

Smoke!

He could smell smoke.

Checking up and down the street he couldn’t see anyone else about, so he raced to the alleyway entrance. Flames were coursing up the side of one of the houses, flickering upwards from the ground floor. He could see them rising, over the dark fence line, pouring upwards like some inverted luminescent waterfall.

Shit, shit, shit...!

He pulled his phone from his pocket, punched the number for Greere and started running to get around into the other street. “Call in the Fire Brigade!” he yelled, as his boss answered sleepily. “Omid’s house is on fire! I need to rouse the neighbours...”

Greere was jabbering something about not getting involved.

“FUCK THAT!” He yelled. “Joe Public’s
got
to be warned! Call the Fire Brigade!”

He hung up and sprinted round the corner toward the conflagration.

“FIRE!” he bellowed into the frosty darkness...

~~~~~

Like some automaton, I walk and walk and walk.

The pack on my back is much lighter. It hangs casually off one shoulder as I make my way along residential street after residential street. Black hat, black gloves, black coat, black soul. I am a sable wraith in the darkness. A ghost of a human.

It feels unreal.

Almost as if I don’t exist anymore.

Is this a dream again? Like before?

Am I still in Omid’s kitchen? Dead or dying?

Am I just another ghost? Like you are, when you come to me?

Did you really call me outside?

One thing’s for certain. I expected to be dead by now.

This is now a different existence. My soul has been wiped entirely. You are gone. Lizzie is gone. The worm Omid, who had become my focal point, is gone. All of the ties, the anchor points to my past have been vaporised. Yet I continue to exist, and I continue to burn with vitriolic hatred and anger. I don’t care about Omid dying. I don’t care about myself dying. I have absolutely zero interest in the human systems we call society. I have no desire for home, for well-being, for procreation or wealth.

So, what comes next...?

At the moment, I have absolutely no idea except it will be a different Nick who treads this battered track. Different emotionally, mentally and, of course, physically.

I am not who I once was.

And I don’t care.

In the distance I can see a string of shopfronts, so I cut off onto a side street. They won’t open for hours yet but there might be cameras around.

Even ghosts need to be a little bit cautious.

~~~~~

Greere paced furiously around his small apartment’s living room. Glancing through the bedroom door he could see Sebastian lying there, nubile and naked, sprawled across the bedclothes. The youngster slept like the dead, especially after exercise. Well, pretty as he might be, he was going to get a nasty surprise tomorrow. There were plenty of wanton boys around and Greere needed to make himself feel better. Needed to give himself a present. His present would be to dump this sponging sex toy and find himself a new one.

He reached out, pulled the bedroom door closed and thumbed his phone again. This time Ellard answered. “Where
are
you?” Greere hissed angrily.

Ellard explained that he was back in his car. He said that the fire brigade and police were at Omid’s house and that the fire was still raging. There was a body reportedly inside. Ellard felt it was reasonable to assume that it was Omid.

“And you saw
no-one
?” Greere paused near his apartment’s small window. “I have to report to Sentinel. Now. Before he hears from someone else how incompetent you are!”

~~~~~

Ellard grimaced as he shoved his keys into the car’s ignition. “There were a handful of residents who came and went, either in cars or on foot and one who arrived by taxi,” he said calmly. “Other than that, nothing. I noticed one man, on foot, walking away, in the distance just before I noticed the flame...,” Ellard paused mid-sentence.