The Rebirth of Henry Whittle

FOES REUNITED

My oak floor is a sea of pornography and pills. The house empty; Phoenix taken.

Upstairs I open my window, stand on the ledge and reach to the guttering, retrieving a plastic package. I withdraw a fully automatic gun from waterproof wrapping and check the chamber's loaded. Dropping to the floor I pull out a knife, in a shoulder holster, strapped to the bed base.

***

I drive at optimum speed between cameras.

I head off-road into the woods surrounding Jacobs's house; the four by four taking me in as far as practical.

Jacobs is no different from a high-status target, except he knows I'm coming. That doesn't mean I'm knocking.

From under the passenger seat I withdraw and pocket an injection of adrenaline.

I run through the woods flattening the earth. Minute beads of rainwater bounce from the foliage as I drive forward towards Phoenix. To hell with depersonalisation. The more I imagine him dead, the more I feel alive; the more I think of Phoenix, the more I become me.

The house is shrouded in darkness and death. If a location scout needed a spine-chilling house, this is it. It has a greyness that can only be achieved from neglect and abandonment. Phoenix's life depends on me gaining access stealthily.

Utilising blind spots, I disable his alarm and enter. There are two ways of accessing the tunnels, by the basement door, obvious, or by a dumb waiter, which may or may not be sealed at the bottom.

First door, open two inches; dismantle spring gun. Ten steps in - a wire trigger.

It bothers me that a perfume, unused by Phoenix, drifts through the house; Kate needs a few tips on how to creep up on a suspect. It's clear she took the direct route; she'll have alerted Jacobs, putting herself in danger.

One room leads to another. In it a lifeless body is sprawled across the carpet. His pulse is weak...barely there. I dial the police, leaving the phone on his chest. Tom Brady's chances are low. He's been battered - very possibly to his death.

*****

A long fluorescent light hangs above me, its brightness stinging my eyes. I hear Priti sobbing. Breathe in, breathe out. I think of English Lit class and what a good teacher Mr Jacobs is. Breathe in, breathe out. Oh, God. What a fucking idiot! I'd wanted so much to impress him. Breathe in and out.

"Phew."

In and out.

"Phew."

The paralysis agent has faded enough to turn my head to where Priti is strapped to an upright trolley. Why Priti? She's not the enemy. Oh my god. She must have come across him on the way over. Oh my god. It's my fault. Me being needy as usual has brought Priti to this.

Do I see double, no treble? Because there's a multitude of Pritis and Mr Jacobs; in places they merge into a mangled thing. I squint repeatedly. As my vision restores, I realise the walls are mirrored. Red mirrors - is there such a thing?

The stench in the room is unbearable, but I can't raise my hand to hold my nose. I scan the chamber. Jesus. There is blood, a lot of it. On the floors, on the...Fuck the mirrors aren't red. They're smeared with blood.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

The room screams of the demise of girls - lured to their deaths by pretty words spoken by soft lips and a heinous heart.

And Mr Jacobs. There is a lot of blood on him, too.

I don't want to look around, but I force myself. Maybe when I can move, I'll grab something, knock Mr Jacobs out.