Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (27 page)

The young clerk tried to help the elderly woman but Dexter, feeding from Pandora’s spirit, blocked him, first with his shoulder -- which sent a juddering bolt of agony through his crippled body -- and then with his fist. When the youngster was caught off-guard Dexter delivered a shift kick to his groin. It was dirty, but it did the trick. He dropped to his knees with a squeal and then twisted towards the floor.

Others came but Dexter was ready for them, able to block the pain and let the adrenaline take over. Dorothy’s husband and the man that had kidnapped him both rushed him. He hopped over Pandora -- climbing off her injured, barely breathing foe -- and charged straight for them with his head down and his shoulders out. The corner of his shoulder connected with Eric’s stomach, sucking out his breath and throwing him off guard. The kidnapper absorbed the charge, but couldn’t absorb the kidney punch that followed.

Dexter was hurting but he used the pain as a fuel, thought of the searing agony as an electricity that bolted through his body to provide life to his aching muscles. He barely had time to catch his breath before three more charged him. He fought one off with a lucky punch to the jaw, knocking the weakened, surprised man to his knees, but the others grabbed him, each taking an arm whilst Eric regained his composure and prepared to sucker punch Dexter into his open and exposed chest.

Dexter opened his mouth to spit at Eric, the only assault he could manage with his arms restricted, but Pandora acted first. She took out the man to Dexter’s left, driving the heel of her foot into the back of his leg which gave way under the impact. Dexter ducked out of the way of Eric’s slow and weary punch and then drove a fist into his ribs and another against the side of his head.

He turned around, ready to help but Pandora; he stopped when he saw that everyone was rising to their feet. They were all beaten and bruised, but none of them looked concerned, let alone hurt. Pandora was breathless, finishing up her assault on the man that had held Dexter. She stopped when she saw his expression, she turned, gave Dorothy a look of disbelief.

“What the fuck
are you
?” she asked softly.

Dorothy smiled, looked around. Everyone was surrounding them, some shining their torches, all smiling. Dorothy met each of their stares, the whole town of Fairwood at her back, and then she nodded towards Dexter and Pandora.

“Get them.”

***

The dead man grabbed him; Cawley nearly screamed.

“
It’s me!
” it hissed.

He wasn’t sure how the dead man knew his name or what business he had in frightening the life out of him, but then he recognised the voice. He turned towards his former partner’s voice, squinted as Andrew Simpson sparked up a lighter and illuminated his face.

“Are you okay?” Andrew asked.

The blow had knocked him for six, but he was slowly regaining his senses. He still had blurred vision and his ears still rang with an incessant scream, but his body was slowly shaking off the knock.

“I’m good,” he said, looking away from the bright light, seeing its embers dancing in the corner of his eyes.

“You see that?” Simpson said.

Cawley knew his friend was talking about the body. He turned towards it but couldn’t make much out. It was male, that much he was sure of, but it had been beaten badly and, in the warm, damp room, decomposition had set in. He tried to get a better look but his own form blocked the light from Simpson’s lighter, the body was doused in darkness.

“You think it’s them?” Simpson asked.

“Them?”

Simpson hissed, the light went out. Cawley listened to him whispering curses in the darkness as he shook his scalded hand before turning the light on again, this time with his sleeve tucked over his thumb to protect against the prolonged heat.

“The bandits.”

Cawley frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. He looked at the body again, gave the blackened outline a brief once-over and then shook his head. “I don’t think so. And there’s only one. Something else is going on.”

“What?”

Cawley rubbed his head, slowly climbed to his feet. “I don’t know, but we’ve got to get out of here quick.” He glared at his friend as the light went out again, when it came back on Cawley was still glaring.

“They’re coming back,” he said sternly, “to finish what they started.”

36

They beat them, hogtied them and tied ropes to their feet. Then they were dragged along the riverside by half a dozen men and women, with more ahead and behind. The sound of their feet beat a rhythm into the cobbled roads which vibrated through to the two fugitives as their heads, back and legs bobbled over the hard ground.

Dexter turned sideways, taking a few heavy knocks to his cheek as his head bounced over the ground and slammed back again. He watched Pandora with a sinking heart as she struggled against her restraints, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle her way out. He closed his eyes, turned back towards the skies. He didn’t even try to protect the back of his head from the hard ground. He had given up, he had failed not just himself, but the one that he loved.

Dorothy walked close by, he could see the tip of her head as his own head rocked up and down. He caught her stare once, she was smiling, the same smile she had given them when they first arrived in town; the smile that they had found to be warm and friendly.

***

Cawley and Simpson were waiting for them when they returned, one on either side of the door. They couldn’t see much in the dark but they used the lighter to get into position, shivering in the pungent cold of the flickering flame, passing directions through glances.

When they came through the storeroom door -- their footsteps heavy, kicking dust and vibrations from the floor outside the room -- the experienced officers pounced.

Cawley hadn’t entirely regained his senses, but he had enough strength and experience to call on. He grabbed the youngster, twisted his feeble arms behind his back, pulled until he felt the vibration of a shoulder dislocating; until he heard the scream and the childish whimper, then he turned him around and shoved him against the wall, face first. The whimpering stopped immediately, the youngster slid down, smearing the wall with a long streak of blood before crumpling into a human heap at the bottom.

The bandaged man was next. He looked unsure, had witnessed his friend being beaten, his other friend currently wrestling with Simpson. He didn’t know whether to run or fight. He chose the latter, launching at Cawley like a madman, his arms up in the air, his features twisted to aid a roar which erupted form his lungs and sounded more like an anguished moan.

Cawley jabbed him in the face. A simple, soft punch into an exposed, open area. His moaning silenced, he paused to glare at Cawley and then he changed his mind, deciding to turn and run, save himself from more bandages. Cawley stopped him before he could get away. He threw out a boot, tripped up the escaping patron who flew across the floor and skidded to a stop against a stack of bottles, like a bowling ball hitting the pins.

He moved toward him, wrestled his arms behind his back, felt the strain as the bandaged man fought to save his limbs. He was stronger than the youngster, he had more experience, more muscle, had been in a lot more fights, but Cawley had seen more than his fair share of violence. He won the struggle.

“Please!” he screamed, sensing that his shoulders would go the same way as the youngster’s. “I won’t fight, I won’t do anything, please don’t--”

Cawley held onto his arms, placed a boot in his back and pushed until his shoulders popped. It was cruel and it was brutal, but it was also the only safe way to immobilise them without handcuffs. He knew he was dealing with killers; he couldn’t afford to take any risks.

Simpson was still wrestling with the big man when Cawley looked over. He managed to win the battle, landed a few quick punches on his chin and his temple. When he was weak and disoriented enough to give up the fight, Simpson took his head and slammed it against the wall. Cawley opened his mouth to object, closed it slowly when he saw the big man slide to his knees, his face grazing the wall on the way down.

Simpson rubbed his hands together, gave Cawley a proud smile. Cawley looked around quickly, his eyes darting back to the room. “Where’s the gun?” he asked his partner.

Simpson shrugged but Sellers, who had heard the commotion from the bar, answered it for him. He appeared through the doorway, pointing the gun at the detective as he scanned the damage to his pub and his friends.

***

The night was clear, the stars were beautiful. As a child Pandora liked to stare at the stars and lose herself in them. She liked to make shapes and faces from them; she never understood the constellations and preferred to think up her own. They were always a place of wonder, of distant worlds where everything was possible and anything could happen.

When she had given up the fight, when her neck muscles tightened, weakened and gave way and she couldn't hold her head up any longer; when her brain took so many knocks that she struggled to retain consciousness, she stared into the night sky -- into that beautiful abyss of magical worlds and endless possibilities -- and she escorted herself away, away from Fairwood, away from earth.

She shed a tear for those worlds; for those lives; for those possibilities. She shed a tear for herself and Dexter, for what they’d lost. She shed a tear for the life they had taken, for the lives that they’d failed to create. She loved their life in the fast lane, but as much as she hated normality, as much as she despised the nine-five monotony and the limited ambition of family, house and home, she still wanted to settle down at some point. They both did.

She turned from the stars to look at Dexter and she shed another tear for him, because she didn’t know if she would ever be able to hold him again.

***

Cawley had a shotgun to his face, a shotgun held by someone who had killed in the past, but he liked his odds. Sellers was alone, the bandaged man was the only other conscious friend and he was reluctant and unable to raise a hand.

Cawley caught Simpson’s stare, saw a glint in his partner’s eyes which suggested he also liked the odds. They tried to keep their distance from each other, making sure Sellers was in the middle of them. He was unable to train the gun on both of them at once, but he realised what they were up to and ushered them back into the room; a room occupied by his two unconscious friends and one dead enemy.

He told them to stand by the far wall and then he snapped the light on, his face twisting into a sadistic smirk when he realised he had two policemen at his command. Cawley didn’t like that smirk; the smirk of an idiot and a madman, never a good combination.

“What’s your game?” Cawley asked. He tried to lower his arms but Sellers thrust the gun at him, played his finger on the trigger.

“Keep’ em fucking raised,” he snapped venomously.

Cawley did as instructed, sensing an envious look from the bandaged man as he lifted his arms high above his head.

“So, what is this?” Cawley asked. “Are you in the drugs game?” he made a point of staring at the gun. “Weapons?”

Sellers seemed confused, he slowly shook his head, keeping his eyes on Cawley. “You don’t get it, do ya?” he asked methodically, explaining something to a child.

“Get what?”

A smile slowly formed on Seller’s face, a wide-mouth grin of stupidity and psychosis. He nodded towards the wall, to the corpse which sat slumped near Cawley’s feet.

“Take a look,” Sellers said.

Cawley and Simpson twisted around to look, keeping their arms in the air.

“Jesus.”

Cawley barely believed what he was seeing. In the light he recognised the face; he knew the dead man.

“Now do ya get it?” Sellers asked.