Retribution - A Dish served Cold

Chapter Eighteen

John woke as the strangest of feelings swept over him. Like a child, he wrapped the duvet around him but merely managed to toss and turn while seeking that position which would allow him to drift back into the world of dreams. Sleep avoided him as his mind became a whirl of activity demanding he organised his life better. A noise disturbed him. Was someone in the house, or was it his imagination?

The dark troubled him. John took his time as his feet dropped to the floor. He rubbed his chin and thought, this doesn't seem right. Where am I? With his right arm outstretched, he inched forward one step at a time. His hand brushed rough brickwork. From the blackness, a bright light blinded him. He stopped, shielded his eyes and saw David Little grinning like a predator ready to eat its prey.

They stared at each other.

David waved the Glock in his right hand at John, then at Angela and back again. "Don't fucking move. You think you're better than me, don't you?"

John raised both hands as if surrendering. "Let's not exaggerate what you are. You act as if you're God's gift. In reality, you're dogshit on the sole of my shoe. And if you didn't know by now, a Heinz Fifty-Seven mongrel is better than you."

David's brow furrowed. "You have a big mouth and are at the wrong end of my gun. Look behind me. We have guests." He waited for a response.

John stared into the gloom and saw Jackie and Angela on their knees with their hands bound. "Why are they here? They have nothing to do with us. My wife's dead and can't be here."

"I asked her to come. Told her you wanted to see her again." David raised his pistol and pressed it against Jackie's forehead. He laughed as he pulled the trigger. "Don't make a move, or your bit on the side gets the next bullet."

"If you say so."

David pointed the Glock at Angela. "Scream, bitch."

She glanced at him. "Fuck off, arsehole."

The pistol boomed again, its loud report echoing along the tunnel.

John woke, lying across his king-size bed, thankful it had been a dream. His bed sheets were soaked in sweat. He glanced at his alarm clock, four-thirty. "Shit."

Angela was part of his life. She was a problem never envisaged. He should have known things never work out as you want. He lay there contemplating what was for the best.

Wide awake, he removed his traps and descended the stairs. The kitchen, lit by the full moon shining through the window, was silent. He lit a cigarette and sat at the table. His long-held conviction that one should never underrate the opposition came to the fore. A passing ambulance, with its siren blaring, interrupted his thoughts. I wonder what poor sod needs one of them?

A sense of relief surged through him. Whether Angela liked it or not, she must take a holiday. He glanced at the kitchen clock. I'll call her first thing. Weary, he returned to bed, not bothering with his intruder traps. As he fell onto the bed, he closed his eyes. He did not fall asleep but listened to every creak and groan of his home as his overactive mind created problems that did not exist. Somewhere, a dog barked, a car door slammed, and it went quiet. John managed to sleep and woke at 0800.

Not at his best, his head ached like someone had used it as a punchbag. He showered, towel-dried his body and dressed in his tracksuit. Muttering but with determination in his stride, he jogged towards Angela's home. The strong wind struck his face. It was not a day to study the scenery. Thirty minutes later, he stopped. His eyes scanned the outside of Angela's nineteen thirty-four three-bed property. Unlike his house, this was her home. Its exterior desperately needed a coat of paint. It simply required work. "Shit," he said aloud when he saw her Red Fiat 500 was missing. "I should have telephoned."

He strolled along the garden path, sat on the step out of the wind, leaned against the door, and relaxed.

He pondered how to convince Angela she should disappear while he dealt with the Little brothers. But, immersed, he failed to see her vehicle come to a halt.

He lifted his head as the click-clack of her high heels caught his attention. Today, for the first time, he gave a big smile. "I'm relieved to see you."

"What a strange thing to say. Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

She unlocked the door and strolled to the kitchen with him following.

"Will you make the coffee? I had one hell of a night. High on drugs and alcohol, one nasty boyfriend decided to beat his girlfriend into a coma because she looked at another man in the pub. I could have killed the obnoxious bastard. To keep my job, I have to uphold the law and take a statement from the creep who tells me he didn't mean to hurt her. Meanwhile, I have the pleasure of detective Hawkins and his sidekick asking stupid questions."

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Angela. Your heart's in the right place. Sometimes, I wanted to kill the sick bastards who damaged children. A jar of Vaseline came to mind as to how prison inmates treat paedophiles. Sit and relax. Want something to eat?"

She gave a weak smile. "No thanks. Why were you sitting on my doorstep?"

"Because I had a nightmare last night, and I'm worried about your safety. I want you to take two weeks' leave."

"I can't, not after last night's escapade. The abuser will appear in the magistrate's court sometime today. It's a foregone conclusion he'll have to attend the county court sometime in the future."

John frowned. "The waiting list for county court appearances is three months or more."

Angela shrugged. "I'll have to wait and see what happens. Now, what were you saying about a nightmare?"

"David Little had you and my dead wife with your hands tied and on your knees. He shot my wife in the head, and you screamed. All I can say is the screaming stopped, and I woke up. Stupid, I know, but it scared the shit out of me."

"The kettle's boiling."

John made two coffees and handed one over.

"Do you believe in dreams?" asked Angela.

He held up his right. "I can't say I do, but it sounded and felt like I was there. You know, the brothers have charmed lives. All three can make people disappear. When they do, the force suffers from a lack of evidence. No one ever talks. However, I did threaten David. I have given my legal beagle a letter telling him everything if I disappear. Because of what I must do, I fear for your safety."

"John, I come home from work to find you sitting on my doorstep. I was not expecting you and planned the next few weeks without you. She looked at him, opened her handbag, and removed an aerosol-labelled hair spray.

He took the can and smelt the nozzle. "This is not hairspray."

"No, it's Mace and useful if someone comes on heavy. I'm a woman who can handle herself, but I will never walk into a situation unarmed."

"Where the hell did you get that?"

"Last time I was in the States. A friend of mine gave me two cans. She uses it on drunks and villains. You can have my spare can for protection."

"No, but thanks for the offer. About taking time off, do I sense a lack of enthusiasm? You deserve a holiday, and I suggest a couple of weeks might be ideal."

"I'll do as you ask when I know the date of the county court trial. I need to give my evidence to make sure the bastard's convicted. As you know, a good defence lawyer will manipulate written words until they mean nothing."

"I'll accept your decision because I respect you and trust you'll keep your word." He finished his coffee and placed the empty cup in the sink, filling it with water. "You're tired. I'll leave and let you recover from a lousy night." He leant and kissed her on the lips. "A can of Mace. You are something else."