Heathen/Nemesis Page 26

  ‘I wish you could feel what I’m feeling now,’ Donna said vehemently. ‘Anger, sadness - and I feel like a fool, too. I feel as if you’ve been laughing at me. I feel as if everyone’s been laughing at me. Was it because your own marriage failed, Julie? You couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy after what happened to you? Was that it?’

  ‘I’ve told you the reasons and I know it’s pointless to say it but I’m sorry, Donna.’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll go now. You won’t see me again, I promise you.’

  ‘No. You’re not walking out on this, Julie,’ Donna rasped. ‘You say you’re sorry.’

  ‘I am. I know you don’t believe me, though. You never will.’

  ‘Make me believe.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Stay and help me destroy The Sons of Midnight.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You mean you won’t?’ Donna glared at her sister. ‘It would be so easy for you to walk out, wouldn’t it? Well, if you want to show me you’re sorry then you’ll help me.’

  ‘That’s emotional blackmail.’

  ‘Too fucking right it is. Anyway, you’re not giving yourself an opportunity to get over your guilt if you walk away. Stay and help me.’

  ‘We could both be killed.’

  ‘Look on it as paying back a debt,’ Donna said, her eyes narrowed. ‘You owe me that.’

  Eighty-Four

  The .357 bucked violently in her fist as the hammer slammed down.

  The retort was massive. Even with her protectors on, Donna could still hear the dull ring as the heavy grain slug struck the back wall of the range travelling at over 1,450 feet a second. As another bullet left the barrel she felt a spattering of tiny metal fragments bounce off the wooden wall of the booth and pepper her hand. The smoke from the round cleared. She jabbed the red button on the control panel beside her to retrieve the target. It whirred back up the range towards her. As it drew close she laid the Magnum down and leant forward to inspect the grouping of her shots.

  On the man-sized target she had put three shots through the centre, two in the outer ring and one low, in the groin.

  Donna shook her head, reached for the roll of sticky white spots and covered each hole, jabbing the red button once more to send the target back up the range.

  She pushed six more of the hollow-tipped shells into the cylinder and steadied herself, squinting down the sights.

  These next six she fired off quickly and brought the target back, her hand still slightly numb around the base of the thumb where the recoil of the Magnum had slammed the butt repeatedly against her palm.

  All six shots were in the central area.

  Donna nodded and removed the target, selecting another and pinning it to the black rubber backboard.

  She was the only one in the range. She usually was during the day; the clock outside, beyond the double-thickness bullet-proof glass panels, showed that it was just 11.15 a.m.

  She had risen early that morning, despite not getting back to the house until almost four. Sleep had eluded her for all but a couple of hours. Despite that, she felt fresh and alert. She turned to look out at Julie and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the plate glass. There were dark rings beneath her eyes and her skin was pale. She might not feel tired but she looked as if she’d been without sleep for days.

  Julie.

  Donna had given up even trying to suppress her anger towards her sister. They’d exchanged words only briefly that morning, most of them unpleasant.

  Now Donna turned back to face the counter where the .357, the .38, the Beretta and the Pathfinder were laid out. She selected the .38 and began thumbing in bullets from the box to her left.

  She still felt numb from the revelations of the previous night.

  Her own sister involved in an affair with Chris.

  Donna shook her head.

  Perhaps it would have been easier just to let Julie walk away. Walk out of her life. If she did, there would be no one left for her. Better the company of one she hated than complete loneliness.

  Donna snapped the cylinder shut.

  Did she hate Julie? Hatred was a very strong emotion. Stronger, she was beginning to think, even than love. But did she truly hate the younger woman?

  She raised the .38 and took aim, firing off the six rounds evenly.

  No one is to be trusted.

  Christ, how prophetic the words in Chris’s letter had proved to be.

  She brought the target back and looked at the damage. Two in the centre, two in the head. Two in the groin. She covered the holes with white spots, sent the target away again and began pushing 9mm shells into the magazine of the Beretta.

  How many times had she done this when Chris had been with her?

  She almost smiled.

  They’d been coming to the shooting club in Druid Street for almost three years. As she thought of her husband she felt a familiar but fleeting twinge of sadness but it was rapidly replaced by anger.

  She hated Julie for what she’d done. She hated Chris for his part in the deception. She hated The Sons of Midnight for what they too had done.

  Someone had to pay for her anger; someone must be forced to suffer for her pain. It would be that organisation. Those who had tried to tell her that not only was her husband a liar and adulterer, he was capable of murder too.

  Adulterer.

  The word seemed peculiarly archaic.

  Murderer didn’t.

  That was one of the things which really troubled her. She didn’t find it easy to dismiss the suggestion as effortlessly as she would have liked. Why would Dashwood lie? Some kind of psychological trick? But why taunt her about facts she could never prove or disprove? Why?

  Why?

  There were so many questions; she knew that she would never know answers to most of them.

  She continued thumbing bullets into the magazine.

  Why had Chris decided upon an affair with Julie?

  There were ten in the magazine now.

  What had been so wrong with their marriage to make him do such a thing?

  Eleven. Twelve.

  Had Dashwood been telling the truth? Had her husband not merely wanted to expose The Sons of Midnight? Had he joined their ranks?

  Thirteen.

  Had the man she’d loved been capable of murder?

  Fourteen.

  And there still remained the mystery of Suzanne Regan. If it had been Julie embroiled in the affair with Chris, then why had Suzanne Regan been with the writer when he died?

  Was there no end to these mysteries? No end to the pain?

  She pushed in the last bullet, slammed in the magazine and worked the slide, cocking the weapon. She raised it, drawing a bead on the centre of the target.

  If there were answers she would find them.

  And then?

  What was there to live for after that?

  Donna gritted her teeth and tried not to think about it. For now she had something to drive her on.

  The desire for vengeance. And she would not stop until it was hers. Someone was going to suffer for her torment and she didn’t care who it was.

  She fired off all fifteen rounds with remarkable rapidity and accuracy, the shots shredding the centre of the target, the pistol bouncing in her grip, empty shell-cases flying from the weapon until finally the slide shot back, signalling the weapon was empty. Donna lowered it, her breathing heavy, the stench of cordite strong in her nostrils.

  Dark smoke surrounded her like a dirty shroud.

  Eighty-Five

  ‘It has to be the place in Conduit Street.’

  Donna prodded the sheet of paper with the locations on, her eyes moving swiftly back and forth over the names:

  RATHFARNHAM, DUBLIN.

  BRASENOSE COLLEGE, OXFORD.

  REGENCY PLACE, EDINBURGH.

  CONDUIT STREET, LONDON.

  The meeting places of The Sons of Midnight.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Julie asked. ‘What about Oxford?’
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  ‘London would have been easier for them to reach after leaving Essex but,’ she exhaled deeply, ‘I can’t be sure. All we can do is check it out. If they’re not there, we’ll keep looking.’

  Julie regarded her impassively across the table. The tension between the two women was almost palpable.

  ‘Didn’t Chris ever mention them to you?’ Donna asked, not looking at Julie. ‘Did he ever talk about his work to you?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t discuss something with me that he refused to discuss with you, would he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I knew him up until the last few weeks. Now I’m not sure of anything he would or wouldn’t do.’ She looked at Julie irritably. ‘I thought I knew you too, Julie. Looks like I was wrong about both of you.’

  ‘Why do you want me around, Donna?’ Julie demanded. ‘You can’t stand me near you any more because of what happened. It would be best for both of us if I left.’

  ‘I told you why. You owe me your help, because of what happened between you and Chris.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t think I enjoy looking at you and imagining what you and he used to get up to, but I’m damned if I’m going to let you walk away from what you did. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To think it was over and you’d escaped the consequences.’

  ‘I’m not proud of what I did, Donna. If you think I am then you’re even more fucked up than I imagined.’ She spat out the words angrily.

  Donna allowed her fingers to touch the butt of the .357 that lay on the table but she kept her gaze fixed on Julie.

  ‘Why don’t you use the bloody gun on me,’ Julie said challengingly. ‘That’d solve your problems, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it,’ Donna told her. ‘Don’t think I haven’t imagined how much I’d enjoy killing you.’

  ‘I can understand that. Revenge seems to be the most important thing in your life now, Donna,’ said Julie sardonically.

  ‘Perhaps it’s because there’s nothing else in my life any more,’ Donna told her. ‘Chris is gone, even my memories of him might as well be gone. You destroyed them, Julie. When I think of him I think of him with you. I think of his deceit. Your deceit. I shared him for ten months with you.’

  ‘I saw him once a week, if that,’ Julie said. ‘In all that time, if you add up the hours I spent with him it’s probably no more than two weeks.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make it more acceptable, is it?’

  ‘Look, Donna, I thought you wanted to destroy this group of men. I thought you wanted revenge on them. That’s your mission now, isn’t it?’ She made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Then concentrate on that.’

  ‘And forget everything else?’ She smiled thinly.

  They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

  ‘So what do we do?’ Julie asked finally.

  ‘We find them. All of them.’

  ‘And then?’

  Donna looked down at the .357.

  ‘Kill them.’

  ‘I think the police might have something to say about that,’ Julie observed.

  ‘To hell with the police,’ Donna snapped.

  ‘Wasn’t there something in Chris’s notes about destroying the book?’ Julie asked.

  ‘“Destroy the book and you destroy them”,’ Donna muttered, as if she’d learned the words by heart. ‘And you think they’re going to let us walk in and do that without a fight?’

  The two women regarded each other across the table. Julie’s eyes roved over her sister’s outfit. The two shoulder-holsters she wore looked strangely incongruous.

  Beneath one arm she carried the Beretta. As Julie watched, she slid the .357 into the other holster.

  ‘Mrs Rambo,’ Julie said almost scornfully. ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?’

  Donna eyed her malevolently.

  ‘People are going to die, Julie,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe you and me, too.’ There was angry resignation in her voice. ‘But who cares?’

  She got to her feet, glancing at her watch.

  It was 7.46 p.m.

  Eighty-Six

  The drive into Central London took less than fifty minutes. Traffic was relatively light, even in the centre, and Julie parked the Fiesta on the corner of Conduit Street and Mill Street.

  ‘It’s not too late to stop this bloody insanity,’ Julie said, looking at her sister.

  ‘We’ll leave the car here,’ Donna said, ignoring her.

  She reached beneath her jacket and gently touched the butts of each gun in turn.

  ‘We don’t even know which house it is,’ Julie protested.

  There weren’t many to pick from. Most of the buildings that occupied the street were shops or offices, their stonework grimy with years of accumulated muck. Donna gazed at the frontages of the buildings, her eyes finally coming to rest on a dark brick edifice sandwiched between a jeweller and a travel agent.

  ‘From Chris’s notes, it has to be that one,’ she said.

  The house had three stone steps leading up to its black front door. There were two windows downstairs, three on the first floor. Shutters were pulled tight across all of them, preventing prying eyes from seeing in. A length of iron railings ran in front of the building, some of them rusted, the paint having peeled away. Stone steps led down to a basement.

  ‘What do we do? Just ring the doorbell?’ Julie asked cryptically.

  ‘There has to be a back way in,’ Donna mused, studying the other structures nearby. She saw what appeared to be a narrow passageway leading alongside a building about twenty yards down the street. ‘Come on,’ she said and swung herself out of the car, leaving Julie to follow.

  They hurried across the street towards the passage, Donna pausing briefly before stepping into the dark walkway. It smelt of stale urine. Donna wrinkled her nose as she made her way along, with Julie close behind her.

  The passageway opened out into a large, square yard. Surrounded on all sides by buildings, it had a claustrophobic atmosphere. Donna shivered involuntarily as she moved over the damp concrete towards the rear of the house.

  Another heavy wooden door confronted them, and two ground floor windows. The building appeared to be in darkness. No sounds came from inside, either.

  ‘It’s not this house,’ Julie said flatly.

  Donna moved closer to the window and slid her fingers carefully beneath the sash frame.

  To her surprise it moved slightly.

  She tried again and a gap about two feet wide opened.

  Wide enough for them to slip through.

  Donna hesitated.

  This was a little too easy, wasn’t it?

  Perhaps they were expected.

  And yet, as she’d said to Julie before, as far as Dashwood and the others were concerned both women had died in the waxworks.

  And yet ...

  Could it be a trick?

  ‘Do we go in?’ Julie wanted to know, her heart thumping that little bit faster.

  A trick?

  They had to take that chance.

  Donna eased the window up a fraction more, then swung herself over the sill and into the room beyond.

  Julie followed.

  The woman lay on a rug in the centre of the floor.

  She was naked.

  So was the man who lay beside her.

  The room was silent apart from their low breathing.

  The watchers made no sound.

  The man finally looked up, as if seeking permission to begin.

  Francis Dashwood, seated at a long oak table at one end of the room, nodded slowly, a crooked smile on his face.

  As the man in the centre of the room moved onto the woman, his erection bobbing before him, a great cheer arose.

  As he thrust hard into her a chorus of hand-clapping and cat-calls accompanied his actions.

  The noise began to build to a crescendo. In the brightly lit room sweat glistened on the couple in the centre of the floor.

&n
bsp; Donna stood in the darkened room, listening for any sounds of movement. Apart from Julie scrambling through the window, there were none.

  Donna closed it behind her.

  ‘No alarms?’ Donna mused quietly.

  Julie didn’t answer. She was squinting around the room, trying to pick out details in the gloom.

  The walls were oak-panelled, hung with large paintings in ornate frames. Shelf after shelf of books loomed from the blackness on two sides of them. There was a fusty smell inside the room; it reminded Donna of the odour from the Grimoire. Ancient paper, now yellowing, expelled its stench like decaying flesh. There were four or five high-backed leather chairs in the room, too; the arms were worn, the furniture very old.

  On the other side of the room was another door.

  Donna moved towards it. Julie followed, glancing up at the stuffed birds that lowered down from the corners of the room like silent sentinels. She recognized the birds as hawks.

  There was a strip of light beneath the door and Donna paused, wondering what lay beyond the wooden partition. She could hear no sound from beyond. Even the noise of traffic passing down Conduit Street outside was barely audible, so thick were the walls of the dwelling.

  She knelt, trying to see through the keyhole, desperate to know what lay beyond.

  She could see nothing.

  Just that strip of light beneath it.

  Again, almost unconsciously, she allowed one hand to stray inside her jacket and brush against the butt of the .357.

  If there was anyone beyond this door she would be ready for them.

  She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it.

  Eighty-Seven

  It looked like a hallway.

  As Donna eased the door open and peered through she saw a large area of black-and-white tiled floor with three doors leading off it. To the right was a staircase. The hallway was twenty feet across, perhaps a little more. It was brightly lit by two enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the ornate ceiling. Donna could see the clusters of lights reflected in the tiles.