The dark side of my soul (12 page)

Shotgun! That was not what I wanted to hear. That would swing the pendulum heavily in the favour of the home team.

He gave me a knowing evil grin. “Now let see if you use gun, if you pull trigger.” He evidently didn’t expect me to be able to do it.

“I didn’t want this,” I said. “I came here to try to talk to you; to save both our families a lot of trouble but you couldn’t be reasonable could you?” I was pointing the gun right at his chest.

The old man appeared at the open caravan door with something in his arms. It was an old fashioned shotgun, a two barrelled affair, the kind that is used to shoot clay pigeons. He stood at the doorway loading shells into the barrels then he stepped down onto the earth and with the weapon casually held in both hands across his chest he began walking towards us. He must have been able to see that I had a gun but like his son he didn’t think I was going to use it.

I kept my pistol pointed at the son’s chest. “Don’t come any closer,” I yelled out to the old man. He hesitated for a moment then started moving again. This was it. They were not going to let me get away without doing me serious harm. It was them or me.

I tried once more. “Don’t come any closer or I shoot your son,” but it was no good. Neither of them believed I would use my weapon.

I felt vindicated.

This was self-defence.

I was about to be seriously hurt.

There was no alternative.

And I wanted to do it.

I squeezed the trigger.

It may have been because the old man distracted me or maybe I didn’t hold the gun firmly enough, I don’t know, but for whatever reason even at that close distance my aim was off. The gun kicked up and to the left and the bullet hit the big traveller in the right shoulder. The sound was tremendous as the gun fired and for a brief moment the muzzle flash lit the whole area. My victim’s face changed from a gloating sneer to surprise and pain. He dropped the tyre iron, staggered backwards and fell clutching his wound.

The old man lifted the shotgun into a firing position but did not fire. Instead he started moving faster. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t fire the damn thing then I realised that the buckshot from his gun probably had a wide spread. If he fired from where he was there was a good chance some of the lead shot would hit his son.

I took a shooting stance, aimed at him, kept as steady as possible and pulled the trigger. Another flash briefly lit the scene and the loud boom rang across the fields but I missed and the bullet twanged as it hit the caravan. He kept coming. I took aim again and fired. Another explosion of sound filled my ears but again I missed. He was getting closer. I couldn’t afford to miss again. The son was rolling over on the ground, getting out of his old man’s line of fire.

“Shoot him Da,” he called.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I was supposed to be in control. At close range the old man would have the advantage, he was bound to hit me so I turned and ran for cover behind the Range Rover. I covered the ground in leaps and bounds and dived behind the front of the vehicle just as he fired. If my gun was loud then the sound of the shot gun was colossal. The lead shot hit the car with a crescendo of noise and the windscreen and the side windows shattered.

If I poked my head up I was certain it would be hit so I dropped to the ground and peered under the Range Rover. All I could see were two sets of feet standing on top of one of the tracks of dried mud. The son was up and his father was still coming closer. If I couldn’t hit him before, when I had his whole body to aim at what chance did I have now to hit a leg or an ankle but by resting my elbows on the solid ground I was able to steady the gun much better and he was getting a lot nearer.

Trying to stop my hands from shaking, I took careful aim at his lower leg. I had to hold the gun firmly. It must not kick upwards and hit the bottom of the car. I squeezed the trigger gently and heard the loud retort followed by the scream. I had hit him. He fell and the shotgun boomed again but this time the buckshot went harmlessly into the air. He was on the ground just the other side of the Range Rover. He rolled over and we were looking at each other under the car. I was already in a shooting position and his eyes widened with fear as he saw me. I held the gun steady and fired again. His body jerked with the impact as the bullet hit him in the chest. He spun onto his back and remained motionless.

The next moment the son emerged at the tail end of the Range rover. He was standing with the tyre iron in his left hand and his right arm hanging useless by his side, the blood from his shoulder wound discolouring the blue overall. He may have been injured but he came at me with incredible speed, the weapon held high ready to strike. I barely had time to turn to face him but as he bore down on me I aimed and fired. More by luck than judgement I shot him in the stomach and he crashed with a loud thud onto the patch of scrubby grass by my side. Even then he tried to move, tried to get up but his strength failed him and he collapsed onto the ground.

He was no longer a threat. I knelt by his side and those deep blue eyes focused on me, his face contorted with pain and hate.

“Life is fragile. Even for the strong and healthy it can be taken away so easily. We never know what the next day or even the next minute may bring. Our own actions can determine our future. I only wanted to talk but you couldn’t be reasonable could you. Now, as you said to me, someone has to pay the price.” I placed the barrel of the pistol against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

The back of his head blew off into the grass. I turned away. I did not want to see it. I went around to the old man but he was on his back with his eyes wide open and still. I had no need to shoot him again.

Adrenaline was pumping through my veins. It was over and I could not deny that I had enjoyed the thrill but now I had to move fast. To anyone nearby the gunfire must have sounded like a war zone. Remembering this time to put on the safety catch of the pistol, I made for the break in the hedge.

Returning the weapon to my pocket and pulling up the hood of the fleece I came out onto the road and looked in both directions. To my relief no pedestrians were in sight, the path was empty. It was almost completely dark but as I started walking towards the layby where I had parked, a truck came into view, its headlights illuminating the road ahead. It motored by, oblivious to the events in the field.

Wishing that I had stopped closer I hurried on as fast as possible without breaking into a run. Another vehicle appeared and went by but this one was slowing down. I heard the engine noise change and as I looked back I saw it turn into the killing field. Rooted to the spot I waited and a moment later I heard the screams of one or maybe two women. With no time to lose I started running as fast as my feet would carry me along the uneven path. I never knew I could move so quickly. Usain Bolt would have found it impossible to catch me as I raced back to the layby.

The Ford started first time and I was in and away and going at seventy miles an hour along the deserted road. My heart was beating nearly as fast as the car was racing and it was a while before I was able to control both the car and my heartbeat. Slow down, slow down my brain insisted but my body refused to co-operate. At last the tail lights of a slow moving vehicle in front made me ease off the gas and drop my speed to a sedate thirty five miles per hour.

It was okay, I was in the clear, take it easy, don’t do anything stupid, relax and put on some music. Thirty miles an hour seemed like hardly moving but I didn’t want to overtake the car in front and draw attention to myself.

When I heard the sound of distant sirens I willed the driver in front to go faster. “Come on, come on, go, go, go,” I yelled at him but he stuck religiously to his speed. I tried not to get too close, not wanting him to remember the colour or make of my car but it was hard to hold back. The sirens were probably nothing to do with me. I just had to relax and take it easy.

“Move you bastard,” I shouted at the slow guy ahead, knowing that he couldn’t hear me and that it would not change anything but at least it made me feel better. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel. The sirens grew louder.

After an interminable age we came to the final roundabout and the ramp to the motorway and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The driver in front took another turning and I was able to join motorway just as two police cars came around the roundabout in the opposite direction, their blue lights flashing.

Once on the busy M20 and mingling with the hundreds of other road users I was lost in the crowd, safe. The adrenaline was still pumping through my body and I felt great. As last time it hadn’t gone quite as planned but I had done it, got rid of the threat once and for all and now there was no one left who knew about Sandra’s accident. I switched on the radio to a local station. They were playing in the ghetto by Elvis Presley. I sang along.

When I got home, as was becoming usual, Sandra was waiting for me with a worried look on her face. “How did it go?” were her first words.

I closed the front door and leaned back on it. “You could say it went well.”

“You know what I mean what happened?”

I didn’t know how she would react. I had no way of hiding the fact that for the second time in a month I had committed murder. “I shot them. I killed them both. I had no choice. I tried to reason with them but one of them, the big young one, came at me with a tyre iron and the older one came at me with a shotgun. I had to defend myself. I had no choice.” That was becoming my favourite phrase, as though I could justify murder by insisting I had no other option.

Sandra stepped up to me and put her arms around my shoulders. She had a strange look in her eyes, it may have been pride, I don’t know. “Did anyone see you? Did you leave any clues?”

I was amazed how calmly she took the news. I could have just told her that I had done the weekly shop. “No, no one saw me, I am certain of that and I didn’t leave anything behind that the police could trace me by.”

“Did you keep your hood up all the time?”

“Yes but I am sure there are no cameras out that way.”

“How about tyre tracks,”

“I parked a good way away from their place. Of course I had to walk from the car but the ground was solid, I don’t think I would have made any footprints. The police will know that the weapon used was the same as the one in the forest but I can’t see that being a problem. I’ve still got the gun.” Then I remembered the trouble I had freeing it from the pocket and I told her.

“Okay, I’ll fix that,” She said. “But right now we’re going out. Take off that fleece and hide the gun in the clock, quickly.”

“Wait a minute I could do with a drink,” I said, confused. Where are we going?”

“You’ll get your drink at the nearest pub. We need to go quickly.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t cooked dinner, but most importantly you need an alibi. We can get to the black Horse in a few minutes in the car. We can have a meal, get drunk, I mean seriously legless, be noisy, flamboyant and make ourselves noticed so that people, especially the staff remember us. As long as we go soon they won’t remember exactly what time we arrived, they will say that we were there all night. We’ll leave the car at the pub and get a cab home, give the driver a decent tip. Maybe I’ll play up to him a little, anything to make him remember us. Come on change your clothes, we’ve got to move fast or it won’t work.”

I couldn’t believe how she had changed. “Were you a criminal in a previous life?”

That made her laugh, “Maybe I was, who knows, but we need to act quickly or it will all be for nothing, come on now and get a move on.”

Twelve

Things moved swiftly after that. The next morning the local TV news was all about the murders. The shootings even made the national news. More people murdered near Folkestone, one commentator said. Another called the town the gun capital of Great Britain. A maniac is at large stated another.

The previous night had turned out as Sandra had planned. It was pretty raucous and I was fortunate not to be suffering from a hangover so I celebrated the fact with a breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms and toast washed down with several cups of black coffee. While eating I watched the various reports and a smile came to my face. I was headline news.

Harry Conrad, a bloody accountant, just your average upstanding citizen, an unremarkable slight man who stood no more than five foot nine, okay maybe five eight, with short brown hair was causing mayhem. I felt important, as though I had achieved something. I was famous and it felt good. After all, the people that had been killed were all scumbags, petty criminals, who in one way or another intended to do me harm. I was merely standing up for myself and instead of letting the bullies and the extortionists trample all over me I had reacted. Most people would love to do the same but convention tied them down. But best of all, thanks to Sandra’s quick thinking I also had an alibi.

After breakfast I went online. I really had hit the jackpot this time; the news was all over the internet, theories and wild speculation was rife, all of which added to my good humour.

I switched off the computer and went for a short walk in the morning sunshine. It was a beautiful spring day; the birds were whistling and the countryside smelled clean and fresh. Nodding to a passing stranger, I walked by the spot in the lane where Sandra had hit the woman. The only indication of the accident was a dried up bunch of flowers some well-wisher had placed by the side of the road. That event had changed our lives. We were different people now and there was no going back.

Returning at about eleven I had just got in and kicked off my shoes when the telephone rang. Taking it in the hall, the thin high pitched voice of Terry Bovey was instantly recognisable.

“Hey man how you doin’?”

“Fine Terry, how are you?” I was a little surprised at the call.

“Listen. I’ve a problem that you could help me with,” there was a delay as he waited for my reply.

“What is it?” I eventually asked.

“It’s nothin’ much but it’s a bit too complicated to go into over the phone. Are you free this evening?”

“Well I’ve nothing planned,” I noticed something odd about his tone, nervous perhaps?

“Good, can you come to my place at about eight thirty? The workshop will be closed but I’ll be up in the office. Ring the bell on the side door.”

Straightaway I became suspicious. I smelled a very big rat. Terry Bovey always insisted on leaving his workshop at six at the latest. He never stayed late.

“I work six days a week, ten hours a day. No way do I stay later then six, no way, never,” I remembered his mantra from years ago and he always stuck to it. Unless he had changed dramatically, and there was no reason to suppose that he had, something was wrong.

“Eight thirty,” I said almost disbelieving. “What happened to I never stay late?”

“I don’t usually but this is kinda’ necessary. You’ll see why when you get here.” The high pitched voice had gone up a notch.

I didn’t like it. Something was wrong about the whole call. “Can’t you tell me what it’s about?” I asked, pushing him.

“Look man, it’s real complicated. Can you make it or not?”

He was putting me on the spot but I could always agree and then if necessary cry off later. “Okay I’ll come along, see you at your place at eight thirty.”

“That’s great man, It won’t take long I promise. See you later,” he sounded relieved and ended the call.

The sun was still shining and Sandra was in the garden planting some tiny shrubs that she had bought. When I kneeled beside her and told her about the call she stopped what she was doing and regarded me with one of her more serious expressions.

“Don’t go. It doesn’t sound right. He’s up to something.”

“I know but I can’t think what it could be. He can’t possibly suspect me of killing his sons. If he had any evidence he would have given it to the police.”

We both remained on our knees in the garden as though we were offering prayers to some unknown deity. In the end Sandra spoke quietly but with conviction. “If you have to go, take the gun.”