Stark Contrasts (An Adam Stark novel Book 1) (3 page)

“Aye, that sounds like a plan. I'll head over to his house and see if anyone's in. I might be able to find out if he had any enemies. You never know, this might be some sort of twisted gang thing. I don't think so, but in this city, you never rule out anything these days.”

Katz nodded in agreement and Stark headed for the corridor.

“I'll call you if he wakes up, sir,” Katz shouted as he closed the door to the room.

John Constance must have been hanging around, waiting for him to reappear. He strode towards Stark with purpose.

“Told you it was a weird one!”

His face twitched and his head moved sideways then up; an involuntary tick Stark had become accustomed to. Somehow, this morning, the movements seemed more pronounced than usual.

“Aye, sure is, John. Have you heard anything about the lad or the circumstances?”

Stark kept walking as he asked the question.

“Well, I heard he was a bit of a gang-banger. Always in trouble with the cops. One of the nurses recognised him. She was none too sympathetic actually. Seemed to think he most likely asked for it.”

Constance revelled in this stuff: divulging information, being of service, relaying something important to the case. Of course, it wasn't really of great import. Stark reckoned it amounted to little more than tittle tattle. Whenever the guy switched into this mode, Stark lost interest in humouring him and, sometimes less than subtly, made his excuses.  

“Ok, John. Gotta dash. Duty calls. Thanks for that. Keep your ear to the ground for me now won't you?”

Stark flashed a winning smile and increased his pace towards the exit.

Constance stopped before he wandered into the lobby and risked being noticed by someone who'd rather he got on with doing the job they were paying him to do.

“Will do, Detective Inspector Stark. See you later.”

5. Learning

The laughter swept through the corridor as the pitiful, dripping figure of Frankie Monroe trudged past. The cruellest taunts came from Paddy Kerr and his partner in all things unpleasant, Dan Farrell. I didn't laugh. I watched and I thought about Bub and Gordy, about all that was wrong with this situation.

Kerr and Farrell made it their business to humiliate and degrade Frankie Monroe any time they could. Frankie was small, geeky, clever. He struggled with sport and had the misfortune of a late developing body. For a couple of insecure morons, he presented an unmissable target. That day's ignominy came from having his head flushed down the toilet. A tried and tested, old favourite of school bullies the world over.

I wanted to help, to intervene, but I needed to have more about me. Kerr and Farrell may have been insecure, moronic bullies, but they were also two big, strong lads and they would have happily and easily put me in my place physically. I would change that.

It wasn't exactly an inspiration, but it was while watching the Karate Kid one day that it came to me. That's what I would do to gain an advantage, to help poor, downtrodden little Frankie Monroe and his ilk. Martial Arts.

I was a quick learner. A natural. The athletic flow of my limbs combined with an unrivalled work ethic saw me advance up the belts much quicker than most. I knew beyond any doubt when I was ready. The colour of the belt, the exam passed, irrelevant to my true nature, my true ability.

The day it all changed forever, the day I knew why I was here, arrived spontaneously. Sure, I'd thought about what I might do, considered options but, on the actual day, it was instinct drove me on. Rage against injustice. A dark voice inside.

Frankie had been steadily declining. An already quiet, timid boy became invisible, neglected and ignored by all. A pariah. This was before schools took bullying seriously. To most, it was a rite of passage, an unfortunate affliction the unfortunate needed to endure temporarily. It would toughen them up, it wouldn't do any long-term harm. From the other kid's point of view, they avoided Frankie. They didn't want Kerr and Farrell's high beam to sweep over them by association. As long as they had Frankie to pick on, they'd leave everyone else alone.

It was a scorching day, the sun hammering on the tarmac of the playground. Kerr and Farrell pulled Frankie's trousers and underwear down, pressed his bare flesh against the scorching surface. Frankie squealed like a piglet, but this only encouraged them.

“What's the matter little Wankie Frankie? We thought you'd like a bit of hot cock, you little poof!”

The two lads ended themselves laughing at this. Other kids joined in half-heartedly, some trying to ingratiate themselves with the hard men by congratulating them on their tremendous sense of humour. My indignation burned fiercer than the sun overhead.

Distracted by their convulsions, Kerr and Farrell failed to notice Frankie wriggling away, pulling up his trousers and running off.

When Frankie was cut down from the window frame of the janitor's shed later that evening, I made my mind up to act.

The dark was what I needed, what I've craved ever since. Kerr and Farrell, unrepentant, cocksure, drinking in the local park. Celebrating their victory over a foe who never had a chance against them.

I sneaked round behind them, using trees and bushes for cover. Kerr was on a children's swing; one of those used by toddler's, with a small cage around the seat. Farrell leant on the frame, swigging from a large, plastic bottle of cider.

The darkness provided the element of surprise. It was all I needed. The roundhouse kick sent Farrell sprawling, the bottle of cider spraying its contents in all directions as it hit the ground. I pushed Kerr backwards off the swing, his head thumping off the entirely unsuitable hard standing such swings used to be set in. A crescent of crimson spreading.

I grabbed Kerr by his t-shirt and pulled him in close.

“Little Frankie Monroe says fuck you. If you ever pick on a boy like him again, I'll be back. And, next time, I'll do a lot worse than break your scalp open. Do you understand? Do you get it Kerr you fucking moron?”

Kerr groaned, some kind of expletive, indistinct but defiant. A scuff of shoes alerted me to Farrell's return. Before he could get anything on me, I rolled away, pivoted on my hip, stood, kicked his legs from under him. As he hit the ground, I punched him square in the face. His nose crumpled, blood gushing like  a fountain in response. I followed this assault up by stomping on both their groins.

They moaned and wept and started pleading. I ignored them, not confident they were getting my message. I kept beating on them intermittently until eventually I tired and decided to make a tactical retreat.

The attack became the talk of the school. Kerr and Farrell humiliated, the biters bit. Bruises lasted for days, their disgrace permanent.

My power established, the message sent, the lesson learnt.

6. Stupid Trucker

The rain fell to earth in huge dollops all day. Massive showers interspersed with monumental downpours. The road slick, gutters running with miniature rivers in spate. Vehicle tyres gave off that familiar whoosh as they cut through the surface water; a soothing sound but also a warning. The voluminous spray made it feel like driving in the clouds; cars transformed into aircraft. Such conditions require extra concentration and should require more caution from all those out and about.
Should.
 

“He's an absolute arsehole that guy!”

“He certainly is.”

“Someone's going to get killed if he keeps that up.”

“Yup. Hopefully, just him, but more likely some poor unsuspecting sod with a couple of kids and a dog in the car.”

“You know, it doesn't matter how many times you tell some folks, they just don't seem to want to listen or take notice.”

A conversation like this would take place between me and Garry most times we were out on the road together. We often admonished folks who were misbehaving, but for some of them, it seemed no amount of telling off or standard punishment would suffice.

When you travel the same route over and over you get to notice repeat offenders. The guy in the truck was doing it again. A leviathan of a vehicle, travelling right on the speed limit, a matter of inches from the back of a small family car. One dab of the brakes from the car and that truck would be making kid pancakes.

“Maybe we need to teach him a different kind of lesson?”

“You mean like the one we discussed last week?”

“Yeah. I think it's about time we did something a little bit different to the usual.”

“Ok, I'm game.”

Darkness was important, for obvious reasons. The lorry pulled into the petrol station at about nine-fifteen in the evening. The air uncommonly humid for that hour, the breeze still carrying a warmth with it from earlier in the day. The driver dropped from his cab and headed for the toilets. He probably spent around twenty minutes doing whatever he was doing before returning to fill the truck with fuel and buy a few sundries in the shop. With his requirements met, he climbed back into the cab.

“What the fuck?!”

I put my finger to my lips as I put the gun against his ribs and pointed for him to go ahead and drive off.

After driving for about a mile, I gestured for him to pull off the main road. We stopped in a lay-by on a quiet lane, got out and met Garry on the verge. He'd parked his car in front of the truck.

“Come on, mate! What's this all about? If it's the lorry or the load then just take 'em,” said the trucker, genuine fear and trepidation in his voice.

Garry gagged him, tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him, before pushing him into the boot of the car. I took the truck and we drove to our next pit stop.

The cottage was set back off the road, with a driveway wide enough to allow the truck access. It belonged to a friend of a friend, who once let me stay there. Unbeknownst to him, I copied the key to make coming and going separately more convenient for me and my wife. Possibly illegal and definitely a tad rude but, as it turned out, very convenient for the task in hand. Me and Garry had visited earlier in the day and prepared what we needed. We got straight to work.

First off, we trussed him up like a stuck pig. He struggled for a bit, but it was two against one and we knew what we were doing. Once immobilised, we wrapped him in a dark shroud; leaving only his eyes uncovered. Next, we taped his eyes open. It was important he saw the error of his ways. Lastly, we tied him to the bull-bars on the front of his truck. In the dark, it wouldn't be obvious what was going on to anyone watching. It might look a bit odd, but not too suspicious.

Leaning down, I uttered the only words he would hear either of us say.

“It's time for a little driving lesson.”

I climbed into the truck's cab and fired up the engine. Its deep, throaty roar comprehensively drowned out any pitiful noises the guy was trying to make.

Garry got in the car and returned to the main road. I followed close behind. Far too close behind.

We drove for around twenty miles. I would drop back about thirty yards and then accelerate to within an inch or two of Garry's bumper, where I would stay for a few seconds, before retreating and then repeating the exercise all over again. We'd spent time practising this manoeuvre in the preceding week, honing our co-ordination. It was terrifying.

Stopping at another pre-arranged spot, just off the road, we untied the guy from the front of his truck and pulled the tape from his darting, frantic eyes. Garry knocked him out cold with a golf ball wrapped in a cloth bag. A simple but effective cosh that left a confusing fingerprint for forensic teams and usually prevented any messy bleeding. We took back the ropes and shroud and laid him across the seats in his cab to sleep it off.

Back in the car, we took off our masks and wigs. Garry spoke on behalf of both our stomachs.

“I'm so hungry I could eat the bloody steering wheel off this car! Let's go and find a kebab shop.”

“Good idea. I'll buy you a beer to celebrate a job well done. I don't think he'll be driving right up the arse of the car in front in future, don't you?”

It was good to share these things with Garry. He always showed a great appreciation for my mini-rebellions against life's irritants. A great guy and a pleasure to work with – solid, dependable, always had my back. What more could a copper ask for in a workmate?

7. Night-time

I can sense his unease and it feels good. Darkness enfolds me like a cape, enriches me, my power turned up to ten. He will soon learn a far harder lesson than that already received. His macho bravado, his unwarranted disdain: it will soon vanish.

Air slips quietly in and out of my lungs like gentle waves lapping on a shore. A half-hearted breeze drifts listlessly through the car park. A light stabs on and off irritatingly; a sign of neglect and disinterest. You would be hard pushed to call it rain, but moisture definitely surrounds us.

The earlier incident is there with him. I can sense it from the far side of the car park. It's like a solid ball of consternation sitting in his chest; clutching his breath and squeezing tightly. To him, it probably seemed random, unjustified. To me, it seemed incomplete...almost timid.

This is my purpose, my reason for being. I have known this for some time now. I was put  here to right wrongs and teach lessons. Some of these lessons will be harsh, but they are necessary. Without them we will sink further into the mire. Flailing around for solid ground as we accept and accede.

Examples require clarity in order to support my mission. There must be no ambiguity of purpose or required outcome.

He is barely breathing. Like the inhalations and exhalations of a moth. His heartbeat a fluttering of wings.