“Some kind of joke?” Finucane swore again. “You’re not telling me Brendan’s risen from the dead?”
“I think the voice came from outside.” Adele pointed to the sliding doors. They hadn’t pulled the curtains when they came into the living room. Outside, the night was black. Not a star to be seen.
Finucane sprang to his feet. “Some bastard spying on us? They’ll be sorry.”
“Ged, be careful!”
“Don’t worry.” He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small knife. “Nobody messes me around.”
“I don’t think I locked the doors,” she said in a whisper. “He might…come in.”
“Switch the light off,” Finucane hissed.
With her finger on the switch, Adele said, “What are you going to do?”
“What do you think?”
The last thing she saw before the light went out was the glint of the blade in his palm. She heard him pull at the handle of the sliding doors, and then move through them. Moments later came the scream.
“Oh, dear me!”
She just couldn’t resist it, as she switched the lights back on. Walking to the open doors, she looked down at the concrete fifteen feet below. Finucane’s body was a heap of broken bones. Better check to make sure he was dead before she called the police to tell them about the intruder who had threatened her with his knife before falling to his death, unaware that the sliding doors gave on to a balcony that did not exist. Adele didn’t believe in taking chances.
Five minutes later, after dialling 999, she made her way upstairs and went into the spare room. Squeaky was lying on the bed, staring at her. At least, Adele said to herself, her ventriloquial skills had come in handy tonight. Only one thing left to do now. Was that fear in the doll’s eyes? If not, it ought to be.
She tore Squeaky’s head off, and then the rest of its limbs.
Yes, it was childish, but strangely satisfying. Certainly she didn’t feel a twinge of remorse as she waited for the police to arrive. She’d never fretted about tipping Josh out of that boat, the day after he told her he wanted a divorce, and she wouldn’t waste any tears on Brendan or Finucane, let alone horrid, ugly Squeaky.
Leave the guilt to her dead husband, and his dismembered conscience.
FISTS OF DESTINY by Col Bury
IT WAS TIME. They were ready. In the modest living room of the red-brick council semi, Bill took a breath to compose himself and gazed into innocent eyes.
“Apologies for the swearing in advance, guys, but I want you to know the full story,” he said, dipping his head, before recounting the events of the day evil visited Manchester…
The infamous Manchester rain gave way to a rare and stunning sun. It certainly wasn’t a day to be stuck inside the biggest skyscraper in the UK outside London – the Beetham Tower.
The business conference was due to start at 9 a.m., but Steve being Steve, he was there half an hour before. The discipline and respect gleaned from his military days were still a big part of him, despite now being on civvy street. His punctuality and meticulously bulled shoes, so shiny you could check your hair in them, were a testament to that.
The droning increased as people filed into the Hilton Hotel conference room on the twenty-second floor, just under halfway up, and Steve wiped sweat from his brow with a hanky as he headed for the large windows to take in the sights.
He noticed a big Asian bloke wearing a puffy jacket, who took a seat on the front row. Steve briefly felt uneasy, wondering: Why would somebody wear a padded winter jacket on such a hot day? Quickly dismissing the thought, he smiled inwardly, realizing his army days had made him paranoid.
He gazed in awe at a panoramic view over half the vast city; the “capital of the north” they called it. In sheer contrast to the plush tower, he looked south at the clusters of gloomy high-rise flats in the distance, where buying drugs was as routine as popping to the corner shop for a loaf. Focusing on the “The Seven Sisters”, a group of flats in Old Trafford, one of which Steve had managed somehow to escape, he could just make out the roof of his dad’s old local, where, sadly now, heroin ran as freely as ale. The surrounding streets led to the notorious Moss Side, home of the tit-for-tat shootings that had resulted in the media giving the city its unfortunate epithet: “Gunchester”.
On the flipside, Manchester’s vibrant music scene, stemming from the likes of The Smiths, The Happy Mondays, Stone Roses and, latterly, Oasis, had given rise to another nickname: “Madchester”. Steve recalled bopping on the dance floor of the Hacienda while brimming with amphetamines. Happy days…though long since tainted by unshakable images of his friends being blown up in Kabul, the guilt of survival still jabbing at his heart every day.
Below him, the bustling dots of city-centre shoppers and dominosized cars signified the city’s many decent folk going about their business. Scanning further, the Manchester Ship Canal and the River Irwell were like arteries leading to the heart of the city, the motorway network the veins, and the many rail-tracks the capillaries. The friendly Manchester folk were undoubtedly the blood running through the city, keeping it forever vital. However, one wrong turn from a naive visitor into the suburbs, and their experience of the so-called ‘friendly city’ would likely be one of hours spent at the local nick, telling a cop how they were beaten up for their possessions.
Surrounding the tower, numerous old red-brick warehouses – a reminder of the city’s past as a leading powerhouse in world textiles – were now converted into snazzy designer outlets, coffee shops and apartments, including Steve’s beloved Hacienda, where he’d met Lucy all those years ago. Lucy and the kids kept him going these days. They were the only antidote to the memories of comrades blasted to pieces, that sometimes brought him to the brink of suicide.
Steve ran a hand across the side of his heavily scarred neck, a constant reminder of the day he’d crawled from that burning tank… leaving his mates… screaming…
He shook those haunting screams away. He wasn’t surprised to see a woman beside him gawping. He vaguely recognized her: about forty, wearing a pinstripe suit and more make-up than Coco the Clown. Embarrassed, she swiftly diverted her gaze, pretending to look out of the window. Steve wasn’t too bothered; he’d got used to the staring years ago, and the name-calling – “Turkey Neck” being their favourite, not his. He followed the new direction of her gaze.
Outside, on a billboard, a huge poster, one half red, the other blue, advertising “United v City”, epitomized the passion of this football-mad city. Unfortunately, on derby day the red and blue often represented blood and bruises, especially the evening after the match, when beer-fuelled exuberance could erupt into violence.
A tram caught his attention, faintly rumbling the girders of a bridge to his left, a mass of tiny commuters exiting like scurrying insects as it stopped at Deansgate station, bringing him back from his musings.
Inside the conference room, everyone was dressed formally, clutching their respective folders, briefcases or handbags. A group to his left were also taking in the view, debating whether they could see Blackpool Tower in the distance through the Majorcan blue sky. One know-it-all chap with a fake tan and designer suit raised a few eyebrows, suggesting that from the top you could see Jodrell Bank Observatory and even Snowdonia in Wales!
By now, everyone was vying for the best seats – not too near the front, mind, in case the spotlight was on you, such was the nature of these sales-training days. However, never one to shirk a challenge, Steve had already placed his suit jacket around a chair, front centre.
As the others took their seats, Steve looked around for a familiar face, checked his watch and then shook his head. He’s late as usual – typical! He returned to his seat at the front, seeing that the big guy wearing the puffy jacket was actually sitting in the chair beside his.