Reckoning Point, стр. 66
“Mark,” I begged.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse and rough. “Yes. You can help me.”
A glimmer of hope bloomed and I tugged at his hand. Yes, I could help. If I could save Miles, just save one of them, it would mean the world.
Mark flung a towel at me. “Find some plastic bags, cover their heads. Then tie towels around them.” With that cold, vacant stare he let his gaze linger on each brother in turn before looking back to me. “I don’t want to look at them.”
In the kitchenette I opened every cupboard to look for plastic bags, to no avail. I didn’t want to put bags over my friend’s faces, I wasn’t so dumb to know that if you put a plastic bag over someone’s face they wouldn’t be able to breathe.
But I also didn’t want to defy Mark. He had killed two of my friends. He would kill me too, undoubtedly.
“Bags, boy. Where’re are the fucking bags?”
I jumped, Mark was behind me again. I gripped the fingers of my left hand with those of my right to stop them shaking.
“They have no bags,” I whispered. And as I spoke, inspiration struck. “But I saw some, down at the bottom of the building, the kiosk got rid of all their bags because they have changed their logo. My mother told me and I saw them, in the big bin downstairs. I’ll get them!”
I edged out of the kitchen area towards the door. Mark’s hand shot out, grabbed my upper arm. I closed my eyes, sure he knew my plan. I waited for the bang of the pistol. I closed my eyes, tensed my body.
I stumbled a little as Mark let go of me. I cracked one eye open.
“Go on, then,” he said.
I ran faster than I’d ever run before, down all the flights of metal steps. Underneath the building, where all the shops were, I was hidden from view of the balcony of number 1058. I darted past the bins, past the kiosk, and I ran for the phone box.
Inside, with hands that shook so much I could hardly insert a coin, I dialled a number that I had memorised. And even though the hour was late, the phone was picked up within two rings. A voice answered, a deep voice which spoke of authority and which I found soothing.
“Colonel?” I whispered. “This is Roland Van Brommel. Colonel, you need to come straight away, he’s killing them all!”
60
THE COLONEL
30th April 2000
The Colonel swept into the apartment, his big, black coat swishing behind him. He saw Roland first, standing in the kitchenette, wringing his hands.
“Roland,” he said, nodding at the young man. “Where’s …?”
By the blank look on Roland’s face, the Colonel knew the boy was unsure if he was referring to Mark or the three brothers. The Colonel raised his eyebrows questioningly, forcing Roland to come to his own conclusion as to the original query.
“Bathroom,” whispered Roland.
The Colonel took that to mean that all four were in there. He breathed in, slipped his hands into his pockets and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. Snapping them onto his hands, he made for the bathroom.
He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, surveying the scene in front of him.
It was bad.
The Colonel sighed, averted his eyes to look at the man who was sat on the side of the bath.
Mark Braith.
The Colonel had always known Mark was trouble. He had the demeanour of a normal man, middle-class, almost respectable. But the Colonel had followed Mark Braith’s activities for a while, had had his suspicions. The Smith debacle had made it clear just how off the scale Braith was. And now he had tipped over the edge, all due to the mammoth drugs he had consumed.
And it wasn’t just Mark, though as far as the Colonel knew he was the only one in this town to go this far. The whole place was dirty, contaminated with drugs and sex that were so much more than just a harmless joint or sexual liaison. It was too much. The town needed to be cleaned up.
And the Colonel was the only one who had the guile and guts to do it.
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands. “What have we here?”
Mark, at the sound of the clap behind him, looked up. His reactions were slow, dozy, the Colonel noted.
Stepping around Mark the Colonel peered at the inert bodies of the three brothers. He felt no sadness or sympathy for the loss of such young lives. He knew the brothers, knew they were as much into their drugs and drink and wild parties as Braith was.
The Colonel straightened up, walked out of the bathroom, back into the kitchen. Ignoring Roland, who hadn’t moved, he pulled out a stool and sat atop it.
Leaning his head forward, steepling his fingers to rest his chin upon, the Colonel began to form a plan.
“Make me a cup of tea, or coffee,” he instructed Roland. Casting his eyes over the debris of unwashed plates in the kitchen the Colonel lifted a finger. “Wash a cup first, boiling water. Use a new scouring pad or a cloth.”
The Colonel refused the first two cups that Roland offered him. On the first cup there was a long line of an old tea stain on the outside of the mug. On the second, there was a dash of red lipstick. He sent him back to the kitchen each time. The third cup he held up to the light, turned it carefully in his hands, lowered