Fairwood (a suspense mystery thriller) (2 page)

Pandora bounced off him, used her hands to stop herself from running into his bulbous belly and then pushed herself off him when she did so.

Dexter stopped rigid behind her, turned to face the room whose occupants were closing in on him like starving men swamping the last morsel at a buffet.

“Substantial reward,” Stetson said with a grin beneath the prominent brim. “How much do you think that’ll be?” he asked to no one in particular.

The young drunk answered him with a sniggering grin, “Tens o’thousands I reckon. Mebbies more.” He leered at Pandora who was trying to bridge a gap between the fat blockade and the encroaching wave of body odour and lust. “‘Though I think there’s sumate a lot more interesting ‘ere.”

Pandora grimaced at him, immediately regretting her flirtatious smile moments earlier.

The bartender stepped forward, brushing the youngster aside. He stopped a few feet in front of the couple. The pulsing throng stopped behind him, waiting like a pack of dogs for the order to kill.

“Seems like you two ‘av been busy,” he said with a sadistic grin that peeled apart his face like a terminal slice from a razor-sharp sabre.

Dexter nodded slowly.

“They say you’s ‘av stole tens o’thousands,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, his smile switching into a hungry look of negotiation.

Dexter nodded again.

The bartender glared at him from a moment, then at Pandora, then beyond them both. He looked past the bulging frame of the man blocking the door, towards the car park. “That your vehicle out there?” he asked with a flick of his head, knowing full-well it was.

“I know what you’re thinking--” Dexter began.

The bartender raised his eyebrows, gave a wry smile. “
Do you
now?”

“The money isn’t in there.”

“Really?” he asked, unconvinced. “I suppose you’s ‘av spent it all ‘av ya? Handbags and dresses for your little tart, maybe?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Pandora spat, receiving a giggle from the back of the pack and an amused stare from the rest.

“Feisty little bitch you got there. How’s about you cut the shit, give us the money and I won’t let Rex ‘ere ‘av his dirty way with ‘er.” He pointed to the lustful teenager who was practically dripping with anticipation. “And the others of course,” he said with an appreciative glance towards Pandora, “none of us would want to pass up such an opportunity.”

Pandora growled. Dexter sneered.

The bartender lowered his arms and his eyebrows, gave Dexter a quizzical nod of his head. “What do you say? Give us what you’ve got and we’ll leave you alone, let you fuck off back to your thieving ways.”

Dexter nodded softly, reluctantly. “It’s in the car,” he said with a lowered head.

The bartender grinned. The teenager deflated, grumbled under his breath.

“Keys,” he ordered, holding out his hand.

Dexter removed the set from his pocket, tossed them towards the bartender who clasped them in his palm, grinned a celebratory grin and then passed them to the mopey and horny kid by his side.

“Check the car, grab what you can. Be quick.”

He trudged off as the others watched. He had the space to walk freely past Pandora but he squeezed tightly past her nonetheless, brushing up against her until she felt his desperation brush against her leg. She scowled and stepped backwards, reeling under the scent of alcohol and halitosis. Then she launched herself at his throat.

She clasped her arm around his neck, twisted and pulled until he was off his feet -- up against her body, his chin dangling from her wrist. He kicked the floor, tried to right himself, to stand up and defend himself, but she threw a heavy toecap into the back of his knees, bringing him back down again.

Dexter threw himself at the big man behind her. He launched every inch of his size, muscle and strength at him, hoping the elements of surprise and size would benefit him. It did. The big man absorbed the blow poorly; he rocked sideways, toppled into a nearby table. Dexter bounced off him just as he collapsed with a clattering thud against the wooden top, flipping glasses into the air before slamming against the floor.

He moved for the door which opened outwards into the car park. He held it open behind Pandora. 

The crowd stood hesitantly, wide-eyed and uncommitted. They watched as Pandora bent the teenager over -- facing the floor, his backside pressed against her groin -- before sending him into them like a human battering ram. He toppled, skidded to his knees before the bartender, who stumbled over him as he tried to give chase.

Pandora turned and ran, straight out into the car park, straight for the car.

Dexter continued to hold the door open as he listened to Pandora rattling the keys behind him. The mob was rushing behind the toppled bartender, initially unsure how to react, then dead-set on giving chase. They clambered over the beaten teenager, over the messy floor, towards the door.

Pandora struggled with the keys, struggled to find the right one to fit it in the lock. She flashed a worried glance towards the door; saw the mass of movement shifting towards her partner, felt her heart growing agitated in her chest.

Dexter waited until the first man, the man in the Stetson, rushed for the threshold, then he slammed the door shut with all his might. The glass panel that covered the upper-half of the door swung towards Stetson. The door met with the brim of his hat, flattening it against his face, before the glass cracked against his forehead and shattered against his nose. A hail of shards exploded over his face, raining shrapnel down on him.

He screamed, wailed and threw himself backwards, into the advancing army. He tripped a couple of them up, sent one of them sprawling into the bottom of the door just as another slice of glass dislodged itself, fell and stuck between his shoulder blades with jarring precision.

They toppled over each other in an assortment of screams and curses. The bartender, who had, thanks to the tumbling teen, been the last in the advance, watched them trip and fall. He rose and clambered over them, kicking and climbing over the bodies -- watching in disgust as Stetson wandered away, his hand covering his bleeding face.

He made it to the door, yanked it open and prepared to shout at the escaping convicts. What he saw silenced him immediately.

Pandora had found the right key, managed to unlock the car. She had clambered into the passenger seat just as Dexter appeared from the driver’s seat, having ducked in to retrieve a handgun from the glove box.

He pointed the weapon at the bartender, a gleam in his eye as he stared down the sights.

The bartender felt a wad of dry phlegm force its way down his throat. “Please,” he said softly. “Don’t kill me.”

Dexter laughed, gave a gentle shake of his head. “Go back inside,” he warned. “To the toilets.
All of you
!” he waved the gun, gesturing to the men on the floor who were surfacing to the sight of the weapon. “Wait in there until we’re gone. No one follows us; no one tries to be a fucking hero. You can call the police if you like, I don’t care, but if any of you tries to follow us…” he trailed off. He didn’t need to finish, the gun did that for him.

The bartender backed up into the bar with the troop of stumbling wounded behind him. Dexter waited by the driver’s seat, waited until all of them -- including the blood-drenched Stetson, who was practically shoved into the toilets by the others -- were safely tucked away in the back room before slipping behind the wheel.

2

The rain
- splattered afternoon was turning grey. It was summer, the sun was still out, yet the world was thick with misery and an early night seemed to be descending.

Max Cawley sneered at the bleak horizon. The thick build-up of cloud was so dense, it looked like the town had been wrapped in an opaque bubble. A few hours ago, when he surfaced from his sofa -- where he’d slept face-down, drooling onto the cushions -- the skies were lit with the promise of sunshine, an orange flare that threatened to break through the misery. After an hour that flare extinguished, the sun gave up.

He coughed into his hand, felt a wad of spittle soak his palm. He wiped his palm on the back of his pants, took a cigarette packet from his back pocket and stuck one of the sticks between his dried lips.

“Those things’ll kill you.” An obligatory warning, spluttered from the mouth of any and every pompous prick who likes to stick his nose in someone else’s business. If he wanted to slowly kill himself for the benefit of a mouthful of smoke and a quick buzz, that was his fucking problem.

Max merely grinned in reply. His partner, a skinny depressive man who had never been near a cigarette but had, over the course of his thirty-eight years, drank enough alcohol to drown a rock band, struggled to return the gesture.

Andrew Simpson had been Max’s partner for five years, and, although he could be a pompous prick, his comments on smoking had always been in jest, offered as a standing joke.

“I don’t get it,” Max said softly, watching as Andrew sunk in on himself, his head in his chest, his hands tucked deep into the long pockets of his rain-soaked trench coat. “Why?”

Andrew shrugged, his coat momentarily burying his neck. “I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore.”

Max was disappointed and annoyed. He looked around, beyond his partner’s shoulders. The police cars still littered the street outside the bank, a throng of spectators gathered behind a police cordon, bracing the cold and wet day for a chance to appear on the news or see the blood spilled by the celebrity criminals. Cameramen and dole-faced reporters were packing their equipment into a series of vans that had arrived almost as quickly as the police had, baying for their pound of flesh and their headline story.

Max took a long pull from his cigarette, tossed the burning stick to the ground where it sizzled on the wet tarmac. “Five years as a detective, fifteen in the force, you can’t--”

“I’ve made up my mind,” Andrew said, lifting his head, his soppy eyes staring into those of his partner. His friend. “It’s not right. I can’t do it anymore.”

Max wasn’t happy but he wasn’t completely surprised. Andrew had problems, always had. Things started off well for him, but after his promotion to detective, after the murders, the rapes and the dregs of society, he’d taken a fall. He had problems with depression and alcoholism as a youth and that came rushing back.

“I thought I’d tell you first,” he said respectfully. “I’m handing my resignation in this evening.”

“You just decided this now? Give it time, think it over. What happened in there, with the security guard--”

“That’s not it,” Andrew said, perking up somewhat. “I mean, yeah, that’s part of it. Rodgers was just a poor fucker who wanted to play hero for his kids, he wanted his moment in the sun before he resigned his pointless existence to the big, bland fucking abyss; he didn’t deserve to die, but no, it’s not just about him. It’s about all the others that didn’t deserve it: the young girls raped and beaten; the kids killed by feckless parents who can’t think beyond their next hit; the bar brawls, the one-two-many drinkers who ruin their own lives and end others’ because a few drinks and a careless remark. It’s about the sickness we have to put up with, the violence, the hatred…” he trailed off, exasperated.

Max merely shrugged, waiting for his partner to continue. Andrew finished, retreated in on himself. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his chin on his chest. “I can’t do it anymore.”

“So, what?” Max asked. “You gonna go work in Homebase? Flashing fake smiles to customers who think they own you because they can afford to buy the fucking toaster you’re trying to sell them?”

Andrew shrugged. “Anything’s better than this.”

“You’re a quitter.”

“Maybe.”

Max was annoyed, almost fuming, but he could see he wasn’t going to get the heated response he wanted. “Fuck off then,” he said, letting his frustrations out. “Fuck off back to your booze and your boring life. The force doesn’t need you anymore. You’ve lost your fucking balls.”