'Yeah, maybe. But if we get him out of the way we still have to find his followers.' He dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. 'Before anyone else ends up like Mrs Donaldson and her kids.'
'You sure it's safe in here?'
Danny Weller pulled the blanket around his neck and glanced up at the roof of the building. Through one of the holes he could see the night sky, dotted with stars as if someone had hurled sequins at black velvet.
'What do you mean, safe?' Sean Robson wanted to know. 'If you're worried about the coppers finding us ...'
'No, not the coppers. I mean, the bloody place isn't going to fall down around our ears is it?'
Robson shook his head and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, studying the mucoid smear for a moment before scraping it off on his trousers.
'They're knocking down the tower blocks,' he reassured his companion. 'They ain't interested in this place. It'll do for one night anyway. At least it's better than sleeping in the street.'
He peered through the gloom at the interior of the supermarket. The floor was covered by a thick layer of dust and dirt, parts of the roof were missing and most of the windows had been smashed but at least they wouldn't be disturbed.
Robson regarded the empty shelves and felt his stomach rumble. He imagined the shelves full of food as they once had been but the gnawing pains in his belly convinced him that that was one fantasy best left alone. He concentrated on the bottle of Haig which he held in his hand. Robson took a long swallow then offered it to his companion, who drank deeply. Rather too deeply. Robson shot out a hand to take the bottle from him.
`Take it easy,' he snapped. 'That's got to last.'
Weller regarded the older man warily for a moment then licked his lips and nodded. At twenty-nine he was three years younger than Robson. Both had been jobless for more than five years, alcoholic for a little longer. Homeless for perhaps three years. They had eked out their living by, at various times, begging, stealing and, very occasionally, working in menial jobs where the promise of a meal had seemed more attractive than the prospect of wages. But what money they did come by was hastily spent on drink.
Robson in particular would do anything for the taste of whisky. He knew it was destroying him, eroding his brain cells, eating away at his liver, but he didn't care. It was only a matter of time for him now. Lung cancer had been killing him slowly over the past eight months; it was merely a question of which killed him fast. The booze or the disease. It didn't matter either way to him.
He'd met Weller in Wormwood Scrubs two years earlier. He himself had been given seven days for disturbing the peace while the younger man was serving a two month sentence for aggravated assault. He'd used a Stanley knife on the owner of an off licence who had refused to serve him.
The relationship between the two men was a curious one. There was nothing sexual about it, although, in the beginning, Robson had wondered if his companion was a little dodgy. There was no other word to describe him. He looked dodgy. His face was very smooth, to the point where Robson doubted it had ever felt, or needed to feel, a razor. And his features were soft, almost feminine. But Weller had never made any attempt to get close to his older companion and for that Robson was grateful. Mind you, let him try it. Just once. He gripped the bottle more tightly and took another swig.
Weller knew little about the older man except that he had once been married, the marriage had floundered and Robson had been evicted from the house after repeatedly beating his wife. Weller had always been aware of Robson's capacity for violence and, on more than one occasion, had seen it put to use. He feared rather than respected his companion but was willing to put up with the older man's volatile nature. Weller had suffered enough loneliness to last him a lifetime and even the company of someone like Robson was preferable to the solitude which he had known before they met. He knew that Robson was dying but he did not dare to imagine life alone once the older man was gone. Only now, as Robson coughed and spat blood, did Weller consider him with something approaching pity. When the bottle was offered to him again he wiped the blood flecked sputum from the rim before drinking, the sound of his companion's choking coughs ringing in his ears.
Robson held his chest, gritting his teeth until the pain subsided slightly. He drew breath but even that simple act sent fresh waves of pain through him and he held out his hand for the bottle which Weller reluctantly passed back.
`Fuck,' muttered Robson, rubbing his chest.
He hawked again but this time the thick mucus merely dribbled over his chin, hanging like obscene streamers from his beard.
'You all right?' Weller wanted to know.
'No, of course I'm not,' snapped Robson. 'But there's not much I can do about it is there?' He wiped the crimson saliva away.
Weller could only shrug.
The scream made them both look round.
'What the fuck was that?' murmured Robson, his pain momentarily forgotten.
The sound had barely died away when another split the night. Like the first. A scream yet something more. A howl. A roar of pain. Or rage?
Silence descended for a few seconds and then the sound came again. Louder this time, it seemed to fill the men's heads and Weller felt the hairs at the back of his neck stiffen and rise. An uncomfortable silence descended and both men remained still, as if fearing that their own movements might trigger a repetition of the sound.
For interminable seconds they sat as if frozen. Then Weller got slowly to his feet and moved towards one of the windows on his right. It had been boarded up but there were gaps between the planks which enabled him to see into the darkness beyond. A watery moon illuminated the rubble of the site and cast thick shadows.
Weller cupped his hands around his eyes and peered out into the darkness, eyes flicking back and forth for the source of the sound.
Something moved.
A swift almost imperceptible deviation in the mounds of rubble drew his attention.
Before he could focus properly on it, the shape had gone, swallowed by the shadows.
'Probably kids pissing about; said Robson, appearing at his companion's side.
'It didn't sound like kids,' the younger man noted, still scanning the gloom.
When the sound came again it seemed to reverberate inside the shell of the supermarket itself, so strident and loud did it seem.
But, this time the roar did not die away swiftly, it seemed to build slowly, from a low rumble to a deafening bellow which caused the men to shudder.
It finished with startling suddenness.
'Kids my arse,' hissed Robson. 'What the fuck is that?'
His breath was coming in short gasps and, even in the gloom,
Weller could see how pale his face was, as if all the colour had drained from it.
It was then that the doors at the far end of the building began to shake.
Both men spun round, squinting through the darkness towards what had once been the main entrance to the supermarket. The doors were padlocked and boarded up, but the pressure from outside was such that they continued to rattle. It sounded as if heavy blows were being rained upon them.
'Come on,' snapped Robson, tugging on the younger man's sleeve.
Weller needed no second prompting. He turned and followed him towards the back of the building where they had first gained entry. Through what had been a store room, on into an area which still held fridges the size of cars, once used to store meat. They finally reached the back entrance and Robson pulled it open.
Had he succeeded he would have screamed.
As it was, the sight which met him seemed to freeze not only the blood in his veins but also the muscles of his throat.
They seemed to lock tight, catching the cry of terror before it had time to escape.
He was rooted to the spot, only his eyes moving, flicking back and forth, up and down, riveted to the shape which blocked his way. He tried to take a step backwards but there was no strength in his legs. He felt the bile clawing its way up from his stomach but even that seemed to clog in his throat as he finally managed to shake his head in disbelief. A final gesture.
The hand shot forward and fastened itself around his throat, lifting him bodily from the ground.
Weller began sobbing hysterically as he saw Robson lifted off the ground, legs kicking madly. Then, finally, the younger man turned and ran back into the supermarket itself.
By the time he stumbled into the enveloping darkness the front doors had been forced open and he saw dark shapes moving along the dust-filled aisles towards him.
Three of them.
Moving swiftly. Purposefully.
Behind him he heard a loud gurgling sound which he guessed had come from Robson but the noise was rapidly forgotten as he realized his own fate.
They were almost upon him, filling his nostrils with a stench unlike anything he'd ever encountered before, reaching for him.
The moon passed overhead like some kind of massive searchlight, its dull radiance searching through one of the holes in the roof and momentarily lighting the supermarket interior.
Illuminating the faces of the figures.
Weller dropped to his knees, hands clasped before him as if in prayer. As if some gesture to the Almighty would remove the sight before him. Tears of fear and terror coursed down his cheeks and he wailed like a lost child until finally, as they drew closer, that wail turned into a caterwaul of desperation.
Then they were upon him.
The radio hissed and spluttered as Ray Carter twisted the tuning dial. Music and voices filled the interior of the jag as he passed different frequencies, finally tiring of the convoluted sounds. He switched the set off and sat in silence.
The wind was getting up, bringing with it the first drops of rain. Carter flicked on the windscreen wipers, allowing them to clear the glass. All around him a collage of neon signs above pubs, clubs and restaurants lit the night. Beneath the artificial twilight he could see figures moving. Two men were arguing loudly outside a pub just down the street. close by he saw a tall black woman tugging at the sleeve of a man who seemed intent on getting away from her. He eventually shook loose and scuttled off, pursued by the woman.
A powerfully built man in a suit much too small for him stood in the doorway of a club, a short cigar jammed in one corner of his mouth. He was tapping his foot in time to the music which was roaring from the interior of the club. The doorway was lit by a couple of red bulbs which made the doorman look as if someone had doused him in blood.
The wind whipped some discarded hamburger cartons across the street. They reminded Carter of bizarre tumbleweed in a strange Western. He chuckled to himself. This was no Western town. He doubted if the Wild West had ever been anything like Soho at eleven p.m.
A couple of youths passed the car, shouting. One of them banged the roof and they both looked in, grinning at Carter. Their smiles faded rapidly as they caught the expression on his face. If looks could have killed, the two youths would have been ready for wooden boxes.
Carter continued to glare at them and they moved away quickly, breaking into a run as they reached the end of the road, glancing back, perhaps to make sure they weren't being followed. Carter smiled and sat back in his seat, catching sight of his reflection in the rear view mirror.
He saw the dark shadow across his cheeks and chin and drew a hand across the bristles. He needed a shave.
Harrison was bound to comment eventually. He liked his men to look smart. It reflected badly on him if they didn't.
Carter glanced out of the jag and found that he could see into the restaurant where his boss sat, gazing enraptured at the blonde girl opposite him.
Carter watched them for a moment longer and then began fiddling with the radio again.
The tap on the window made him jump and his right hand went instinctively to the 9mm Smith and Wesson automatic which nestled in its shoulder holster beneath his left armpit.
He twisted in his seat and saw the face of his brother grinning through the glass at him.
Carter pushed open the door and clambered out.
'Day-dreaming?' said James Carter, pinching his brother's cheek.
The younger man raised his fist as if to strike the newcomer - then they both laughed.
They were of similar build. Both about five eleven. Ray, if anything, slightly more heavily muscled. He was a year younger than James but they had often been mistaken for twins. Both had the same dark brown hair and both surveyed the world through steel grey eyes. But James carried a deep scar on his left cheek which ran from his ear to the edge of his nostril. A few inches lower and the cut of the Stanley knife would have severed his jugular vein. He'd been lucky to escape with only fifty stitches.
'I thought you might want a drink,' said James. 'Nip inside.' He motioned to the restaurant. 'I'll watch the car.'
'What about Harrison?' Ray enquired, indicating their boss.
'Don't worry about him; he's too busy with Tina.'
'I know, he's like a kid who's just figured out how his dick works.'
'Perhaps he has.'
'They've been in there for three hours already.'
'That's true love for you, my son,' chuckled James, sliding behind the wheel of the jag.
Ray pulled up the collar of his jacket, dug his hands into his pockets and walked across the street to the restaurant, kicking at an empty Coke can.
He pushed open the door and walked in, the small bell over the entrance announcing his arrival.
Frank Harrison looked round momentarily and raised a hand in acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the girl who sat across the table from him.
At twenty-three, Tina Richardson was almost half Harrison's age. Carter had heard several stories about her life before she'd moved into a flat in Kensington which Harrison paid for. Some said she'd been a model, others an actress. Someone had even told him she'd been on the game. Maybe there was a little truth in all the stories. She certainly had the looks to make her a success in any one of those professions. Even the oldest one in the world. Her hair was almost silver - but the colour was nature's handiwork not that of a peroxide bottle. It cascaded down her back as far as her shoulder blades like a shining waterfall. She wore little make-up, except on her eyes. Those blue eyes into which Harrison was gazing so raptly.