Last Rites Read online

  Last Rites

  SHAUN HUTSON

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  BY SHAUN HUTSON

  Assassin

  Body Count

  Breeding Ground

  Captives

  Compulsion

  Deadhead

  Death Day

  Dying Words

  Erebus

  Exit Wounds

  Heathen

  Hell to Pay

  Hybrid

  Knife Edge

  Last Rites

  Lucy’s Child

  Necessary Evil

  Nemesis

  Purity

  Relics

  Renegades

  Shadows

  Slugs

  Spawn

  Stolen Angels

  Twisted Souls

  Unmarked Graves

  Victims

  Warhol’s Prophecy

  White Ghost

  Shaun Hutson Omnibus 1

  Shaun Hutson Omnibus 2

  Last Rites

  SHAUN HUTSON

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Published by Hachette Digital 2010

  Copyright © 2009 by Shaun Hutson

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any

  form or by any means, without the prior

  permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published and

  without a similar condition including this

  condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters and events in this publication, other

  than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library.

  eISBN : 978 0 7481 1577 8

  This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE

  Hachette Digital

  An imprint of

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DY

  An Hachette UK Company

  This book is dedicated, with great respect, to the memory of Mr Bob Tanner.

  Acknowledgements

  This, for those of you who are interested, is my thirtieth published novel under my own name (I’m not including the thirty odd under pseudonyms) so I suppose it’s something of a landmark. It seems strange that such a landmark (or travesty in the view of some, I’m sure) should have come to pass with so little help from others. I struggled through this one just about on my own. So, not the customary three page list of people, places and things that normally clog up the opening pages of one of my offerings. Instead, just a polite thank you to a select few.

  Many thanks to my agent, Brie Burkeman for her continuing battle. Without her help and insight you wouldn’t be reading this book.

  Every other name that follows should know why they’re included, especially by now.

  Barbara Daniel, Carol Donnelly, Andy Edwards, James and Melinda Whale, Jo Roberts, Jason, Jonathan and Maria Figgis, Rod Smallwood, Val Janes, Steve, Bruce, Dave,Adrian,Janick,Nicko,Ian Austin,Leslie and Sue Tebbs, Brian, Martin Phillips and Graeme Sayer.

  I continue to thank Cineworld UK, especially those at Cineworld Milton Keynes. Mark Johnson, Debbie, Martin, Paula, Gareth, Dan, Richard, Helen and anyone else who’s either been unwittingly left out or who’s since left.

  I would also like to thank Liverpool Football Club. Aaron, Steve, Paul, Tommy, Dave, Pete, Kevin, Brian and Neil as well as Stewards Pete, John and Vinnie.

  I wish there were a more adequate word to use than thanks when it comes to my mum and dad but, unfortunately, as there isn’t it will have to do. I hope they realise how much it means.

  The same goes for my wife and daughter. Words can never describe how much they mean to me. I hope they too realise it.

  And, as ever, lastly and most importantly, I thank you lot, my readers.

  Let’s go.

  ‘The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.’

  Andrew Marvell

  Exploration

  The underground passageway was narrow. Barely high enough for the man to walk in without stooping and hardly wide enough for him to extend both arms on either side of him. Every now and then, the blade of the shovel he carried scraped against the bricks and a loud clang would reverberate throughout the tunnel. Whenever this happened the man cursed under his breath, waited a moment then walked on, the metallic sound ringing in his ears.

  The floor beneath his feet was slippery. Some of it was stone, the majority just earth, moistened by the recent rainfall that had seeped through the ground and puddled in a number of places in the subterranean walkways.

  The wetness brought with it a cloying, almost overpowering smell of soggy earth but also of something else not so easily identifiable.

  Something rank and rancid.

  Something ancient and long buried.

  The man shuddered and moved on, the beam of the torch he carried cutting through the gloom effectively enough. He was breathing heavily desp
ite the fact that he’d only been walking for ten minutes or less. It wasn’t the distance that was tiring him. It was the difficulty of the terrain and of having to walk bent over like some arthritic old-age pensioner that was causing him to suck in deep lungfuls of reeking air.

  He wondered if there were rats down here with him. It was a perfect environment for them. Spiders too had infested the underground tunnels, spinning thick webs in so many places that he was forced to part their dusty webs with his hand if he saw them in time. Sometimes the webs would brush against his face, sticking to his hair or the stubble on his face and then he would have to pause and pull the strands free, spluttering as he did so. The tunnels beneath the ground were pitch black and had been abandoned many years ago. Shunned by the sensible and the sane. Only frequented occasionally by men like himself.

  He wondered how many there’d been before him. How many had travelled this febrile and exhausting route in search of what he now sought? How many had ventured into this underground labyrinth with the same objective?

  How many had left, he pondered briefly, and the thought was enough to raise the hairs at the back of his neck. He stood still for a moment, trying to get his bearings, anxious to avoid taking a wrong turning in the impenetrable gloom. If he strayed from the path he now walked then he knew he had little hope of ever finding his way back to the surface. Another thought that made him swallow hard.

  Could he, he wondered, simply lose his way down here? Wander helplessly for hours on end, turning this way and that, unable to see clearly until he became irretrievably lost?

  The possibility didn’t bear thinking about so he chose to push those thoughts far to the back of his mind, not daring to entertain them for too long.

  His torch beam flickered and he felt a stab of almost uncontrollable panic. For an instant he was plunged into the most total blackness he’d ever experienced in his life. So complete and consuming that he couldn’t see a hand in front of him.

  He shook the torch and, to his great relief, it glowed brightly once again. The man was angry with himself because he had no extra batteries with him and he didn’t want to be without the light, not down here. Not now. He shone the torch ahead of him and its powerful beam picked out the crumbling stonework that surrounded him.There was a particularly wide expanse of filthy water about ten feet ahead of him and he sighed at the thought of trekking through more of the freezing liquid. The last puddle he’d trudged through had soaked his trousers as high as his ankle. He hoped this latest obstacle wasn’t as deep.

  He turned and glanced behind him, ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.

  For what seemed like an eternity he stood there, back pressed to the closest wall, satisfied he was still alone in the tunnels, at least for the time being. He nodded to himself for reassurance and sucked in another deep breath.

  He moved on.

  1

  North London

  The bones in his nose splintered like glass.

  From the sheer force of the impact Peter Mason guessed that the cause of the damage was a foot, driven into his face with lethal power and savagery. His mind had only seconds to appreciate this latest injury when another thunderous blow cracked two of his ribs. He gasped, trying to suck in air, attempting to get to his feet. He had to get up, he knew that. Had to raise himself up from the concrete, away from the kicking feet that swung at him as if he were some kind of human football.

  As he tried to rise, blood from the cuts on his forehead ran into his eyes and he blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision. Mason got as far as his knees, flailing blindly with both hands to ward off his attackers. He felt another crushing blow to the back of his neck and pitched forward, scraping his chin and the palms of one hand on the concrete.

  ‘Cunt,’ he heard hissed from somewhere above him.

  He raised one arm to protect his head but it merely exposed his torso and he felt more kicks to his stomach and back.

  ‘Fucking cunt,’ another voice snarled.

  And they were at him again, raining blows towards his head and the arms he protected it with. Another kick caught him in the back of the skull and, for precious seconds, Mason thought he was losing consciousness. He curled up, protecting his head with both hands now, attempting to roll into a foetal position to minimise the area of his body that they had to aim at but, more importantly, to protect his head.

  More kicks slammed into his clutching hands, splitting the skin and jarring his knuckles but he clung on desperately.Apart from the odd powerful and painful kick to his stomach and lower back, they seemed to be concentrating on his head now, doubling their efforts as they saw him pulling himself more tightly into a ball before them.

  Another kick sent white hot pain through his left elbow.The one after that almost splintered his right wrist. He gritted his teeth, knowing that he must remain in this position if he was to have any chance of survival. If they managed to get to his exposed head for any length of time then he would have no chance.

  He heard their words, cursing and deriding him even over the impact of their blows. Some of the words were said breathlessly. Perhaps they were tiring with the sheer concerted effort of beating him for so long. His watch was already shattered on his right wrist and, even if he’d been able to see it, Mason may have been surprised to discover that they had been striking him for less than a minute. It felt like an eternity and he feared that they would somehow retain their strength for longer than he could.After all, there were five of them. Buoyed by youth, adrenalin and fury, they could keep up this assault all night. Couldn’t they?

  He tried to tuck his knees in tighter to his stomach but his strength was failing. One of them kicked him hard in the small of the back and pain lanced across his pelvis and buttocks. He wondered if the blow had broken his spine. Almost involuntarily, he allowed his legs to stretch before him and, immediately, one of them aimed a kick at his briefly exposed genitals. It missed and connected with his right thigh, thudding into the muscle there and numbing the limb.

  Another stamped on him. This time on his arm, trying again to force him into loosening his grip on his own head. Attempting to make him expose his face and skull to their ferocity. The pain was excruciating but Mason somehow held on. He could taste blood in his mouth but he wasn’t sure if it was coming from his split lips, the cuts on his face or whether he already had internal damage.

  Punctured lung? Ruptured spleen? Pulverised liver or kidneys? There was so much they could already have done to him.

  But, as their kicks intensified on his arms and hands, he was in no doubt that they wanted to vent their full energy on his face and skull. It was like a beacon for them. If they could force him to relinquish protection there then they could finish the job. Mason hung on with even greater defiance at this realisation.

  Kicked to death.

  The words flashed through his brain just as another foot connected savagely with his hands. Another came down onto the side of his head and caught his ear, almost tearing off the lobe. He felt fresh blood burst warmly onto the side of his face, some of it spattering the pavement next to him. He heard a shout of triumph from above him, felt another withering kick to his already throbbing elbow.

  His grip loosened slightly and they seemed to sense their triumph. Like hunting dogs seeing the last faltering steps of an exhausted prey, they redoubled their efforts and Mason groaned in agony as two kicks caught him on the crown of his skull. His head swam and he realised that he was about to black out but he knew that once that happened he was dead. Without the paltry protection for his head that he’d managed to maintain, they would kill him. It was as simple as that.They would kick him to a pulp. Drive feet against his face and head until the bone simply caved in. Mason tried one last time to roll over, to get to his feet.

  It was useless.Another blow slammed into him, bending one of his fingers back so far it threatened to snap off. He thought he heard the bone snap but still he tried to shield himself with arms that were almost pulv
erised by the incessant impacts. A foot stamped on his head, the entire weight of the one who struck landing on his cranium now and that thought stuck in his mind and stayed there.

  They were jumping on him now.

  Rising from the ground a foot or so and landing with all their weight on his battered body and head.

  Unconsciousness began to flood in upon him. More blood splashed the concrete beneath his head. He saw one of them running towards him, preparing to kick his head as surely as if he were about to blast a football into an empty net.

  Mason knew this was the end.

  2

  Blinding white light.

  Peter Mason closed his eyes again to shield them from the cold glow above him.

  Stay away from the light.

  Was that what it was? This searing luminescence above him, was it beckoning him towards eternity?

  Mason was aware of agonising pain all over his body. It felt as if his limbs had been inflated. As if every millimetre of skin was a thousand times more sensitive and that every exposed portion of flesh was being jabbed constantly with red-hot forks.