Blood Prize (5 page)

N
oah struggled through the small opening in the fence at the rear of the building. Every year, keeping fit became increasingly difficult. Despite the rigours of his life, he estimated that he remained a good fifteen kilos over his preferred weight.

He hated his beer belly. He understood the calories equation well enough. If he ate more than his body could burn off in the course of a day’s energy usage, then his system stored the excess as fat and deposited it around his middle.

There appeared to be an easy solution. Stop drinking fabulous red wine in large quantities and refrain from eating anything that tasted terrific and he would soon look like an athlete.

He shook his head in disgust.

That’s not likely.

His communicator began to buzz and a flashing green light appeared above its screen. This warned him that his team followed Vogel and the SRP from the warehouse.

Noah closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders.

They’re coming. Just hang on a little while longer, young man. I’ve got no use for a corpse.

He sat in the shadows, scrutinising the target area from a second story window at the far end of Queen’s Avenue. Hidden inside the disused building, he focused his Tasco field glasses, clarifying the targeted image that lay seven hundred and twenty-one metres to the north.

“I’ve got you, young man.”

He spotted the black SRP vehicle arriving in Burrow’s Street; a narrow lane running west off Queen’s Avenue. It jerked to a stop, directly adjacent to Tom’s old residence.

“You’re as predictable as ever, Vogel. You’ve got nasty blood in your veins.”

He felt anger grow hot on his face. Dumping Tom like that demonstrated his adversary’s sick sense of humour. Local people distrusted anyone surviving an SRP interview and treated them accordingly.

Noah discerned movement. The rear door of the black Ford Ventura sedan opened and a body flopped to the pavement.

“Well done, lad. You made it.”

The enemy sped away as the young man tried to stand. Noah could see smoke rising from his burnt clothing. He could only watch, as Tom limped away.

He heard a beeping sound and felt for his communicator.

“Noah. We think he’s heading towards the abandoned railway station at Squatter’s Flat. The team will be in place before he gets there.”

“Good. Keep alert and don’t make contact. This could be a setup.”

Tom’s choice of location created a predicament for Noah. Until they could eliminate the possibility of enemy involvement, they couldn’t make a direct approach for fear of a trap.

“Also, monitor all traffic and search for any type of electronic signal in or out of the area.”

A solid darkness permeated the east platform. Noah ordered several members of the PMSG to spread through the tunnels on both the western and eastern side of the station.

Only the faintest light from the stairwell, allowed Noah to see Tom creeping towards the old Station Master’s Office.

The boy seemed to be a good choice. His job required him to deliver a secure mobile phone to the room. This enabled Noah to have direct contact with Tom, without fear of detection.

“What are you doing? You silly boy?”

The youth pulled on the door of the hut several times, turned back in Noah’s direction, shook his head twice, then pelted the phone at the small office window. Noah could hear the pane of glass shatter from his position.

“You little …”

The street boys could be useful, but not always reliable. He began dialling.

“Come on, Tom. Pick up the phone.”

_____________

“Hello. Who is this?”

“Tom, yes. It’s Noah … from the bookshop. Are you alright, lad? Tell me about your injuries.”

Tom sighed. Even sympathy from a wanted activist, seemed better than suffering this alone.

“I’m burnt and bleeding, but I’m alright … well, apart from something sharp in my chest. It hurts when I breathe.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Tom sat up, using his elbows for leverage; his hands still contained shards of glass. He attempted to explain his meeting with Vogel, but the pain in his lungs made it hard going.

He frowned with an unwanted realisation.

I’m trusting a radical, a fugitive.

He tried to smile, but his entire being hurt. He didn’t care anymore, no matter what Noah’s motivation might be.

“You have to come to us, lad. You know they’ll kill you if you don’t.”

How could a lifetime of running from the police, be a sane choice? Yet, these same police threatened his life and caused this pain?

“Yeah … Great. I haven’t got a choice other than you.”

_____________

Noah guided Tom west along the east tunnel, until they reached the entrance to an adjoining maintenance shaft; its red steel door left unlocked and ajar. They entered and climbed up a steep stairwell with several landings, before finally reaching the surface. From here, Noah directed a smaller team to an old blue Toyota sedan, with faded, powdery oxidisation on the boot, roof and hood. Several small dents on the bonnet and left front fender, added to the look of disrepair, helping to make it nondescript enough to dissolve into the normality of the daily traffic.

They left London, taking an erratic route through the suburbs, as a precaution against a tail. Tom sat beside Noah, while two other people rested in the back seat; a pretty blond with hair cut short like a boy’s and a large man with dark features.

Tom felt embarrassed each time he cried out. The vehicle’s jerky movements caused him pain.

“I’m sorry, Noah. I …”

“Just hang on, lad. The drugs will cut in soon and you won’t feel so bad.”

They travelled along the M3, heading south-west towards Winchester. On the outskirts, they waited forty minutes in a hidden lane for a contact to arrive. Then, after receiving further instructions, they headed into Dorset via every lane and back road imaginable.

“We’ve been to this lane before. We’re going in circles.”

“It just seems like it, Tom. Close your eyes and try to relax, and let me do the driving.”

Tom felt sceptical until he spotted Noah pointing towards an increasing brightness through the front windscreen. With an effort Tom raised his head just enough to see the sign for Romsey glowing in their headlights.

“This is it. We’re nearly there, lad.”

Tom felt dizzy and disorientated as they headed down another obscure road, north towards Salisbury. Fifteen minutes later, they drove down a boggy driveway and arrived at a farmhouse, surrounded by enormous English Elms.

After helping drag some of the group’s gear into the house, Tom slumped into a chair beside the kitchen table. He looked up at the whitewashed walls and dark timber ceiling and then across the table at Noah.

“You promised me the truth once I became committed, Noah. Well, I can’t get any more committed than this … Can I?”

“It’s late and we’re all tired, Tom.”

“Can I, Noah?”

“No … I suppose you can’t.”

“Then tell me. You seem to know more about my life than I do.”

Tom saw Noah’s face scrunch and crease with concentration. He looked anything but happy.

“Alright, Tom. Your father’s discoveries started this whole godforsaken business.”

Noah looked away from Tom and softened his voice.

“And your mother … Well, she’s still one of the most wonderful women I’ve met. Everyone loved her.”

“That’s great. Where is she, Noah?”

“She’s gone, Tom. They’re both gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean?”

“They’re dead. They’ve been gone from us for many years now.”

Tom detected the sudden change in the room. Everyone’s attention centred on him. Presumably, to see how he handled such devastating news.

What are you all looking at?

“You should’ve told me this before, Noah. At least give me their names.”

Tom noticed the apprehension in Noah’s expression; a hesitation punctuated by darting eyes and a nervous fluttering of his lashes.

“Katherine and Alexander Fox.”

“
The
Alexander Fox?”

“Yes.”

“We’re talking about
Professor
Alexander James Fox?”

“Yes.”

Tom’s brain throbbed with an increase in blood flow. His eyes lost focus as did his ability to understand his feelings.

“Alexander Fox, the Satanist?”

He tried to remember how the Church described him.

“The Antichrist. The Devil’s entrepreneur. The modern-day Hitler.
That
Alexander Fox?”

“Yes.”

No … This can’t be true. Even little children knew this man as Mr Evil.

“Is this what you dragged me here for? To tell me my mother’s dead and my father’s a monster.”

“There’s more to this. Much more, son.”

“I’m not your son. I’m no-one’s son.”

“Tom …”

“No. You conned me. You made me think …”

The room began to swirl and Tom felt like he might vomit. He jumped to his feet and sent his chair tumbling over the polished wooden floorboards. He heard the sound of glass breaking, but he didn’t understand what that meant.

He staggered backwards as his mind began to spin round and round; a black vortex sucking him in.

“Tom … Tom … Tom.”

He heard someone calling his name, but it receded and vanished, as he plummeted into a black pit of unconsciousness.

The abyss.

T
wo accidents in one morning brought traffic on the Sydney Harbour Bridge to a halt. An hour and a half later, Isobel reached her office; a journey that normally took thirty-five minutes.

Perspiration trickled down her spine, as she walked from the car park. She felt drained of energy. It seemed weird that winter could turn into summer in just a few short days without any semblance of a spring.

She rounded the car-park corner into Sydney Road and stopped.

What’s all this?

A large group of people slumped about in front of her building. Isobel attempted to identify their faces, but the angle of the mid-morning sun, hurt her eyes.

She recognised the uniforms.

Hold on. They’re mine … My staff. Why the hell would they be out here in this heat?

She raised a hand to shield herself from the glare and noticed two police vehicles parked up on the curb.

“Let me past.”

Isobel pushed through a group of technicians sheltering in the doorway. She entered, spotted a police officer and signalled for him to come over.

“What’s going on? Who’s in charge here?”

“This is a police matter, young lady. Staff are to wait outside.”

“I’ll ask you again. Who’s in charge here?”

The man sneered and nodded towards a woman who appeared to be twice Isobel’s size in both height and girth.

“The sergeant’s busy, so if you could just …”

Isobel ignored the constable and strode towards the woman.

“You must be Isobel, the owner.”

The sergeant extended her hand.

“Do we know each other?”

“I’ve already interviewed several of your staff, they described you well enough. Please, come and sit down and we can talk. It’s only natural to feel a little overwhelmed.”

The sergeant led Isobel through a chaotic mess of overturned furniture, fallen racks of fabric and spilt chemical drums. The policewoman lifted two chairs from amongst the mess of broken equipment and sat down.

“I’ll ask the obvious first, Isobel.”

She withdrew her notebook and made a place on the only upright table, to write.

“Do you know anyone capable of doing this? Enemies or rivals perhaps.”

Isobel shook her head.

“No I don’t. Who would do such a thing?”

“According to your staff, there doesn’t appear to be anything missing. It seems to be some sort of threat, but if that’s the case, you’d have to know something about it, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh please … A threat?”

The sergeant sighed.

“Not revenge then?”

Revenge. Isobel stiffened. The note of cynicism in the policewoman’s voice meant she knew something.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean. People don’t take this kind of risk to threaten someone without a reason.”

Isobel scowled. It smelt like Jenna-bloody-Jovanovich and her pack of rapists.

“Look, Isobel, I’m not the SRP, but even an ordinary New-South-Wales coppa like myself, has a few good contacts. I know about the rape, unofficially that is, and I also know about your conviction for grievous bodily harm. A permanently scarred face and a wired-up jaw are bloody good reasons for revenge.”

Isobel tried to stop the images that raced through her mind, but she couldn’t hold them back.

Many months after the rape, some of her dorkier female classmates invited her to a birthday party. She accepted, not expecting any danger, but within minutes of her arrival, Jenna Jovanovich showed up with two other pretty looking vipers and set about baiting and insulting her.

“Look at my nose, bitch. The SRP did this, after you dobbed on me about some bullshit rape.”

“You know it happened. You made it happen.”

“That’s a joke. Who’d want you?”

Isobel felt adrenalin surge through her system, but instead of moving, she froze; her body shivering with fear and embarrassment. Her mind kept screaming. Move. Escape. Run.

Oh God …

Too late. Daniel and Roberto stood blocking the doorway. As Roberto entered, he threatened the seven other invited girls at the party.

“No-one moves and if any one of you talk, we’ll kill you.”

The boys took hold of her and Isobel remembered feeling a lump in her chest, the size of a fist. She tried to pull away when Jenna stepped towards her, but she couldn’t move. She turned her face away from the first punch, but the second struck her on the tip of the chin, causing a sickening pain to reverberate through her head.

Jenna laughed.

“How’s that feel, bitch?”

She moved in again, but before she could deliver another blow, Daniel removed his right hand from Isobel’s arm and thrust it down her pants. She screamed with pain as he brutalised her. Even now, her reaction to his abuse shocked her. In that moment, all of her fear and embarrassment exploded into something wild and uncontrollable.

Isobel’s scream sounded like a roar. She twisted and broke free, striking Roberto with the back of her hand. He fled from her, retreating several steps, before staring back with an expression of bewilderment. Only Daniel hung on; his silver bracelet momentarily caught in her underwear. He pulled hard and it came away. With both hands free, he reached forward, grasped the back of her dress with his left hand, and punched her in the back of the head with his right.

Isobel remembered the feeling in her head; her thoughts burnt, as if they swam in acid and her vision blurred with pain.

He screamed abuse at her and she recoiled from the strange high-pitched tone of his voice.

“I’m going to take you right here, you whore. Then … I’m going to smash your ugly head in.”

Isobel reacted without conscious thought. She felt her hand make contact with a heavy rounded object that turned out to be a Vodka bottle belonging to Roberto. In a wild panic, she lashed out and the impact jarred her arm. She felt the crunch of breaking bone, as Jovanovich collapsed at her feet. The next blow struck Roberto on the crown of his skull, which broke the bottle and covered him in a spray of raspberry coloured vodka. He fell to his knees, clutching his head.

She remembered seeing Daniel in a similar position to Roberto. He knelt with his hands covering his face in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood. It spurted through his fingers and pooled in his lap. He kept screaming the same words.

“You bitch … You rotten bitch …”

Only when she looked away from Daniel, did she notice the blood on the end of the broken bottle, which she still held firmly in her hand.

Isobel sighed and tried to shake off the loathing that came with her memories. She took several large breaths before addressing the sergeant.

“Look, lady. I picked up rubbish every weekend for a year and spent another one digging graves. They even kicked me out of school. I finished my studies through some shitty correspondence course. I think those bastards already got their revenge, don’t you? This is just a coincidence. Just some morons trashing the place for fun.”

Without a word, the sergeant stood and led Isobel towards the rear of the building. They climbed through the scattered debris, until they reached the entrance to Isobel’s office stairwell.

“Look behind you, Isobel. There’s something you should see.”

Isobel turned and looked back in the opposite direction. High on the wall of the second story, were a collection of bitter words written in red paint.

Oh God … It’s the same hateful garbage they put there before they killed my father.

BEWARE TOOL OF SATAN.