Last Rites (2 page)

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 pulverised 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.

He was also aware of movement. For fleeting moments he thought he was floating. His body was moving along without his feet touching the ground. And, all the time, that blinding white light remained above him.

So, this was what death felt like.

Apart from the pain it wasn’t so dreadful, he thought. But he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be enveloped by the light. He wanted to walk. To live. He wanted the pain to stop.

He tried to turn his head but couldn’t. His neck was broken, that was the only answer.

‘Can you hear me?’

The words floated through the haze of pain but they didn’t really register.

‘Can you feel that?’

Mason couldn’t feel anything at all except pain.

‘What about that?’

Nothing, he thought.

‘Don’t worry.’

Who was speaking to him? He wondered for a second if it was God.

Then he blacked out again.

Where were the clouds, Mason thought. If this was heaven shouldn’t there be clouds? And angels? And Jesus? And everything else that he’d been told to expect when he was a kid. He could see people in white but he was sure they weren’t angels. They had no wings.

Always a giveaway. No wings.

And they weren’t floating or playing harps. Two of them were looking at him and they were speaking but Mason couldn’t hear what they were saying.

He wanted to ask them where the clouds were.Where Jesus was. Where his own mum and dad were for that matter.Weren’t you supposed to meet up with your dead relatives when you went to heaven?

What a fucking cop out. No angels. No clouds. No mum or dad. No Jesus. Not even any pearly gates. Did all those fucking painters lie? Were the clouds and the angels just a figment of Michelangelo’s imagination? There was nothing to mark this out as heaven.

Just pain.

Perhaps it was the other place. Not heaven.

Downstairs.

In which case, why wasn’t it hot? Why weren’t demons jabbing pitchforks up his arse? Why couldn’t he see the Lake of Fire? Where were the rest of the damned? Shouldn’t they be hanging up in chains like rotting Christmas decorations? Where was Hitler? Where was Stalin? Where was Attila the Hun?

He must be well pissed off. What’s the good of having a nickname like ‘The scourge of God’ and not even being in the welcoming committee? Welcome to hell, Attila can’t make it. He’s playing poker with Jeffrey Dahmer, Heinrich Himmler and Torquemada. Sorry.

Hell. Welcome to it.

Yeah, you fucking are. Looks like Hieronymus Bosch and Dante were liars too.

Mason closed his eyes again.

How long had he been asleep? It was the first thing that Mason thought as he opened his eyes. He had several seconds of blissful comfort and then the pain came rushing in at him from all sides. He sighed and, for a moment, he feared he was going to be sick. Mason prepared to tilt his head to one side, not wanting to vomit all over himself but he couldn’t move his head.The feeling passed and he sucked in a deep breath that hurt his chest.

His mouth was dry, his lips cracked. Someone was standing close to him, looking at him. Mason felt something being pushed towards his mouth and it took him a moment to realise it was a straw. He managed to guide the plastic tube into his mouth using his tongue then he sucked as hard as he could. The water filled his mouth and ran down his throat and he wanted to cough but the pain was worse when he did. He closed his eyes tightly.

‘Just sleep now,’ the figure before him said gently and Mason felt the straw being pulled from his mouth.

Sleep.

It seemed hard to do anything other than that.

Darkness flooded in once more.

3

Walston, Buckinghamshire

The cat was overweight. Years of overfeeding had softened its naturally feline shape, bloated it. The indulgence of its owners had done nothing for its health but the cat ate what was pushed before it unthinkingly and it enjoyed the pampering. The nightly excursions into the back garden of the house where it lived and the fields beyond was one of the few acknowledgements of its natural status. A brief reminder of thousands of years of instinct. It didn’t run free through the gardens of the houses or the fields that backed on to them, it waddled as best it could with its oversized frame, the small red collar around its thick neck almost hidden by folds of skin and black and white fur.

It wanted to hunt. To chase the mice that scurried through the fields and gardens when night came, but its shape prevented that. It made a few half-hearted advances towards birds when it was allowed out during the day and it had once actually managed to catch a mouse. It had strutted defiantly back to its home, the dead rodent gripped in its teeth and the cat had dropped the tiny lifeless form on the kitchen floor but its owner had screamed and scolded it. Still the cat prowled during the hours of darkness, perhaps remembering its hunting triumph. But now it seemed content to wander around outside the back door for fifteen minutes or less then squeeze itself back inside through the flap in the door that was barely large enough to accommodate its overfed frame.

But, on this particular night, it spotted movement beneath the hedge at the bottom of the garden and it moved with an elegance that years of indulgence had been unable to remove. On fat legs it glided through the flowerbeds towards the source of the movement. The cat paused, ensuring that its prey had not spotted it.

The mouse continued to clean itself, its snout twitching. It didn’t seem to have noticed the cat which now moved closer, its eyes fixed on the rodent.

The cat continued to advance, paws pressing soundlessly across the dark earth, its passage further hidden by the small shed that stood between it and the mouse.

The rodent pricked up its ears and looked around and the cat paused again, sinking lower to the ground but its belly dragged in the dirt and it straightened up again as it continued to close the distance between itself and the mouse.

The rodent returned to cleaning itself, turning away from the houses and from the cat.

A strong breeze blew across the garden, rustling the privet hedge and bringing several scents to the nostrils of both cat and mouse. The mouse stiffened, rising up on its hind legs, perhaps catching the smell of its hunter. The cat, for its own part, showed its teeth and prepared to run at the mouse. There was another gust of wind and the mouse scuttled away towards the hedge. The cat followed, moving as quickly as it could, diving at the rodent, hauling itself through the hedge in pursuit of its prey. It hissed and swiped a paw in the direction of the fleeing mouse but missed and could only watch as the tiny creature disappeared into the tall grass of the field beyond.