He began to descend.
He moved without undue haste, gripping the dog's collar to prevent it rushing away. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs which led to his kitchen and a small sitting room. Beyond that was the shop.
As he reached the door he eased his grip on the dog's collar, patting its head to calm it. But the animal was already scrabbling at the door, anxious to be let loose on the intruders.
'Steady Bitsa,' he whispered to the cross-breed. Bitsa seemed an appropriate name he'd thought, it had bitsa this and bitsa that in it. He smiled to himself. The dog was powerful and eager. Whoever was in the shop was in for a bloody surprise.
Bob paused for a moment and, as he did so, silence seemed to descend.
Had the intruders heard his approach?
He swung the shotgun up across his chest, as if seeking reassurance from the weapon.
Sod them, he thought, his face hardening. If they'd heard him, too bad. Perhaps they'd have the sense to get out while they still could.
He kicked open the door.
'Take them, Bitsa,' he hissed and the dog went hurtling through the kitchen and sitting room, swallowed up by the gloom. It was barking and snarling loudly as it reached the shop itself.
Bob prepared himself, listening to the frenzied barking of the dog.
Then silence.
He swallowed hard and edged forward into the sitting room, aware for the fast time of the numbing cold which seemed to have filled the building. It caused his skin to rise in goose-bumps and the hair at the nape of his neck stiffened.
And there was a smell too.
A rank, fetid odour which made him wince. But he pressed on towards the shop, eyes fixed on the open door which led into it.
In the sodium flare from the lights outside he could see that two of the gun cabinets had been forced open, shotguns and rifles removed, pieces of broken glass scattered over the floor.
The stench and the cold intensified but Bob's anger seemed to make him oblivious to these considerations and, wielding the Franchi before him, he advanced into the shop furiously.
`Right you bastards,' he shouted, swinging the shotgun up to his shoulder.
With his free hand he slapped on the lights.
Darkness.
Nothing happened. The shop remained unlit.
Bob's heart began beating faster as he caught sight of the motionless form of Bitsa lying in the centre of the room.
Its head was surrounded by a spreading puddle of blood, its body still twitching slightly.
The bottom jaw had been practically torn off, it hung from the battered skull by just a tiny network of muscles and ligaments.
Bob took a step towards the animal, his attention suddenly wandering, his concern not for the weapons which had been stolen from him but for his dead pet. Bitsa had been a big dog. Whoever had killed him had done it quickly and with incredible power.
Whoever ...
The hand closed on his shoulder and instinctively he spun round.
It was at that point that the lights came on.
Bob found himself staring into the face of the intruder and as he did his heart increased its speed, its pumping became uncontrollable. He felt white hot pain stabbing at his chest, spreading with incredible swiftness along his left arm, causing him to drop the shotgun.
He opened his mouth to scream but only a low croak came out as the intruder pulled him closer, gazing into eyes which were bulging wide with pain and shock.
And horror.
The intruder was dressed in a two piece suit, filthy, covered in dust, holed in three places across the chest. And, in those holes living things moved. Creatures which writhed and twisted and slid over one another, exuding a noxious liquid. And, where there should have been eyes the intruder sported two more of these holes, holes which were nothing more than seething pits filled to bursting point with parasitic forms. And yet it could still see. Could still look at Bob who now felt as if his head was exploding. The pain in his chest and arm grew, spreading up his neck until it felt as though his upper body had been filled with red hot lead, as if his blood had been transformed into molten metal.
He tried to back away but his legs buckled under him and he dropped to the floor, the pain searing through him, unbearable.
Blood from his dead dog splashed his hand as he tried to drag himself away from the intruder who merely took a step closer, looking down on Bob with something akin to fascination.
Bob tried to suck in a breath but his throat had constricted. His chest felt heavy, his head was spinning. He rolled on to his back, eyes still bulging wide, the whites suddenly reddening as two blood vessels burst and his left eye turned crimson.
And, above him, the intruder peered down through those pits of writhing, reeking shapes, one of which fell and landed on Bob's heaving chest. Then it merely stepped over him and strode from the shop leaving Bob alone again.
The pressure inside his chest seemed to grow ever greater until at last the inevitable happened. His heart simply burst.
Bob Chamberlain lay still as his sphincter muscle opened and allowed his body to empty itself.
The stench of excrement filled the air, mingling with the other, stronger, smell.
The stench of decay.
The smell of so many flowers was overpowering.
Carter coughed as the sickly sweet scent settled around him like an invisible cloud. The priest paused in his endless ramblings and glanced across at him but Carter merely nodded for the man to continue. For all the effect the words were having, the cleric might as well have been speaking a foreign language.
Carter stood with his arms by his sides, immaculate in a black suit. The slight breeze ruffled his hair and rustled the lower branches of the tree above him.
Birds sat silently peering down at the small gathering below them, wondering what these black creatures were doing. One finally flew off, the movement scattering leaves, sending them to the ground, drifting lazily. One landed on top of the coffin beside a huge wreath of red carnations which carried the tributes:
`To Jim
An ace among Kings
Love Ray'
Carter took a step forward and brushed the leaf aside, careful not to disturb the other floral tributes which covered the lid of his brother's casket.
Everyone in the small gathering had sent flowers of some description. From the small bouquets sent by other members of Harrison's firm, right up to the massive white cross of roses which the boss himself had offered.
He stood beside Carter as the flowers were removed and the coffin was lowered slowly into the ground.
Carter sighed. It all seemed to have happened so quickly.
He'd been discharged from hospital two days before and, on returning home, had been visited by Harrison who'd informed him that all the arrangements for Jim's funeral had been made. He, himself, would pay for everything. That, he'd said, was only right. He'd pay for the coffin, the flowers, whatever was needed.
The cost wasn't important. Jim had been a good boy. One of his best. Harrison's appraisal of his brother's character had done little to relieve the pain which Carter felt. A pain which, after the death of his father, he had not thought he would ever experience again. But now, standing at the graveside, he felt that same hurt and it was all the more acute because of his realization that he was now completely alone.
He had no one.
He glanced briefly across at Tina who was looking down at the grass beneath her feet.
No, he had no one.
When the time came, the priest approached him and led him towards the graveside, allowing him to peer down at the polished coffin.
Persuading him to throw in the first handful of earth.
Carter felt, for one ridiculous moment, like a child who had won some kind of fairground competition.
`Go on, sonny, you can be the first one to throw dirt on your brothers coffin. Go on, just get a handful and throw it in'.
He bent and scraped up some earth, hesitated a second and then dropped it in.
Bullseye, he thought as the dirt hit the brass nameplate.
Anything from the top shelf.
Carter smiled to himself. Perhaps he was going slightly crazy. Perhaps the pain-killers that the doctors had given him were making him high. Or perhaps he merely couldn't stand the solemnity of the occasion any longer. Fuck it, he thought, stepping back. Jim was dead and all the weeping and wailing in the world couldn't bring him back to life.
Harrison stepped forward and added his own handful of earth to that already scattered on the coffin lid.
The gang boss stood with his back to Carter who looked across at Tina once more and found that, this time, her eyes were on him.
They exchanged a brief glance, aware of Harrison's men all around them. They could afford no tell-tale flicker of emotion in those fleeting looks. She gave him a thin, brief smile and he nodded almost imperceptibly in return.
The other members of the firm filed past the coffin, one or two of them crossing themselves.
Jim had been well-liked by his companions and Carter was gratified to see that there were almost two dozen of them present. Each moved dutifully past the grave, head bowed in reverence until Carter was left alone on one side of the yawning maw. The priest looked at him and then turned to Harrison but the gang boss merely shook his head, motioning for the priest to leave the graveside, to leave Carter alone.
Tina hesitated for a moment but Harrison gripped her hand and guided her away.
She chanced a quick look back as they walked to the waiting cars and saw Carter standing close to the grave looking down into it, as if in silent conversation with his dead brother.
With the wind whistling around him, he stood for what seemed like an eternity, gazing down into the hole, fighting back tears of both rage and grief.
Then, finally, he turned and strode back towards the waiting cortège.
Behind him, the birds began singing in the trees.
Carter held the black suit before him on the hanger, plucking a stray hair from the collar. Then he opened the wardrobe door and replaced it among his other clothes.
Harrison had told him to take the rest of the day off despite the fact that Carter didn't much feel like being cooped up inside his flat alone after the funeral. He returned to the small dwelling in Finsbury, showered and then went for a walk.
His seemingly aimless ramblings took him back towards Islington, towards the street where he and his brother had lived most of their lives but when he reached the street he hesitated and turned back, wandering home again. He spent the evening in front of the TV and dropped off to sleep, a bottle of vodka beside him, a glass gripped in his hand.
By the time he woke the sun had fallen behind the jagged skyline of the capital, flooding the twilight sky with crimson, until the heavens resembled a floor cloth soaked in blood. And with the evening came a chill.
Carter pulled on a sweatshirt. He'd jammed the Smith and Wesson 9mm in his belt at the back, the weapon hidden by the folds of his sweatshirt. He stood before the full length mirror in his bedroom, twisting and turning, making sure that the weapon couldn't be seen. When he was satisfied that it was invisible, he wandered back into the sitting room and poured himself another glass of vodka, swallowing half the fiery liquid in one gulp.
The strident ringing of the phone startled him.
He shook his head, as if trying to clear the fog which shrouded his brain, then he crossed to the phone and picked it up.
'Hello.'
'Ray
He recognised her voice immediately and allowed himself a smile.
'Tina. What's wrong?' he asked, the smile suddenly fading.
'Nothing. I wanted to know how you were,' she told him.
'I've been better,' he told her.
'I didn't get a chance to say anything to you this afternoon.'
'Nothing needed to be said. It's over now.' He changed the subject. 'Where's Frank? You're taking a risk calling me.'
'I'm not expecting him until later. I had to speak to you, find out how you were. I wish I could be with you.'
'If you come you'd better bring a bottle,' he said humourlessly. 'The one I've got's nearly empty.' He glanced at the bottle of Smirnoff and at his glass.
'Will I see you tonight?' she wanted to know.
'I don't think that would be a good idea, especially if you're expecting Frank. I'll probably end up in the same hole as Jim if he finds out.' He paused for a moment. 'Tomorrow maybe.'
Silence.
'Tina?'
He heard sounds of movement at the other end of the phone.
Carter frowned.
The phone went dead.
She hadn't heard the key in the lock.
Hadn't heard the door swing open.
Only when he pushed it closed behind him did Tina realize that Frank Harrison had walked into her flat.
She turned and smiled at him, trying to hide her fear, praying that he hadn't overheard. At the same time she pressed down on the cradle of the phone, severing the connection.
`Frank,' she beamed with practised sincerity. 'I wasn't expecting you this early.' She replaced the receiver and moved away from it.
'I thought I'd surprise you,' Harrison told her, the bouquet of roses held in one hand so that it bore more resemblance to a club than an offering of affection. He smiled but the gesture never touched his eyes. He held the flowers out before him, as if daring her to take them for him.
She took a pace forward, reaching for the bouquet.
`They're beautiful,' she said, preparing to take the offering.
Instead, Harrison jerked them back from her grasp and gripped her wrist with his free hand, pulling her close to him.
'If you're that pleased with them then prove it,' he said, smiling even more broadly. But, on Harrison's craggy features, the exaggerated smile looked like a mockery of emotion. As genuine as the greasepaint grin of a circus clown.