Taming the Lion (5 page)

Chapter Six

He walked the streets, hands deep in the pockets of his coat, not wanting to draw attention to himself. It had been some weeks since he’d last taken this route through the quiet streets, and the lights of a passing police car reminded him that this was not the safest part of the city center for a man like him to be wandering through. But it was where he had to be tonight. The moon was full, unobstructed by clouds. A perfect night for what he needed to do.

Experience had taught him that one of the places the rough sleepers liked to congregate was close to the bus station, and he headed in that direction, taking a shortcut past the renovated Thermae spa, its glass-walled exterior lit up in shades of blue and green. A young couple made staggering progress down the street toward him, dressed in dark, Gothic-style clothing. The girl wore elaborate makeup in shades of black and plum, but beneath the mask of pale foundation, there was a face he thought he recognized. He told himself he was being paranoid. So many teenagers these days belonged to this subculture and hung out in the pub at the top of the street, where they drank strong cider and listened to doom-laden rock music. Even so, he turned his head away quickly, not wanting her to notice him. Unlike her, he didn’t belong around here.

He hurried on, aware that he didn’t have much time. He needed to find someone, and quickly.

It seemed his luck was in. As he turned the corner, he saw a huddled figure in a torn and grimy parka, sitting on a sheet of cardboard.

The boy couldn’t have been any more than twenty, but already he had the slumped shoulders and defeated attitude of a man three times his age. Not bad looking, though, even with all the dirt on his face and the lank hair matted to his forehead.

“Hey,” he called, wrinkling his nose at the sour odor of unwashed skin and stale lager.

The lad eventually looked up in response, although it took him a long moment to register that someone was talking to him. His pupils were wide, his gaze cloudy. The reason for that had to be the half-empty bottle of some proprietary flu remedy that lay at his side.

Cheaper than hard drugs. More potent than alcohol. Well, whatever it takes to get you through the night.

“Hey,” he said again. “Are you okay? Do you need a place to sleep for the night?”

The boy’s response was sharp. Obviously, he wasn’t quite as out of it as he’d first appeared. “You some kind of pervert, mate?”

He shook his head and flashed his most avuncular smile. He didn’t stop to consider what past experiences might have led to that particular conclusion. “Not at all. I’m part of a group. My friends and I… We look out for people like you.”

“What, you mean like the Salvation Army or the church mob that runs the soup kitchen down at the Abbey vaults?”

“We’re not dissimilar. We do have religious affiliations, yes.”

The choice of words had to be going over the boy’s head, but it didn’t seem to matter. Already, he was rising from his makeshift cardboard bed, making sure to gather his bottle of medication and shove it into a pocket for later use.

“So, where are we going?” The lad looked round, his expression wary.

“My friend Bulmer’s place. It’s a distance from here, but my car’s parked not too far away. Come on, you’ll have food and a warm place to sleep soon enough.”

In the past, a couple of the ones he’d picked out had fled at this point, some instinct obviously kicking in and warning them the offer might be too good to be true. But it was a cold night, and this boy appeared to have been on the streets long enough that the last of his resistance had been worn down.

The rough sleeper nodded. “Okay.”

They walked down the hill, toward the place where he’d parked his car. Inside, he congratulated himself at how easy it had been. It was why he came looking, rather than sending one of the others. He’d always known he gave off an air of being meek and soft. In most circumstances that would have been a disadvantage, but here it helped to engender all-important trust.

The black, anonymous-looking saloon sat under a street light. He pressed the button on the key fob to unlock the doors then encouraged his companion to get in. Once inside the confines of the car’s interior, the lad’s ingrained stink was hard to ignore but he did his best.

“So, do you have a name?” he asked, as they headed out of the city center.

The boy seemed to have to think about the question, as if it had been a long time since he’d been called by it. “Phil.”

He didn’t offer his own in response, and the boy didn’t ask.

With the heating turned up deliberately, the atmosphere was soporific, and it wasn’t long before Phil’s head nodded and he began to snore.

That’s it. You have a good sleep…

He watched the miles tick past, knowing the route so well he barely bothered to look for signposts. At last, the houses on the edge of the village appeared ahead, and to their right, the brooding presence of the Foolish Brothers.

The lights were on in Bulmer’s cottage, and the cars parked outside indicated that everyone had arrived. He brought the car to a halt then killed the engine. Even though the others would be waiting for him anxiously, he sat for a minute, composing himself. He needed to be in the correct frame of mind for what came next, and right now, he was giddy from the excitement of finding the lad. This was the one. He’d grown increasingly certain of it as he’d driven toward the standing stones. Tonight, everything they had dreamed of for so long would finally happen.

Becoming aware that time pressed, he shook Phil awake. “We’re here.”

“Whuh?” The boy seemed to have lost all awareness of where he was.

“Hurry up. My friends are waiting for you, and supper’s on the table.”

Phil didn’t object as he was led into the cottage, where the owner greeted him warmly. Bulmer took him upstairs so he could be bathed then dressed in the soft white robe that had been provided. He made no protest as he was encouraged to eat a bowl of stew, made of slow-cooked beef, succulent vegetables and specially picked herbs that brought on a feeling of euphoria. He clearly enjoyed being fussed over and made to feel special.

If the lad thought events had taken an unusual turn as he was guided outside and up to the circle of the Foolish Brothers, where he was stripped of the robe, he said nothing. He clearly didn’t appear to have any qualms about being naked in front of half a dozen of men. One by one, the acolytes sank to their knees and took turns in sucking his cock. Each one brought him to the brink of orgasm before pulling away. The blissful smile on Phil’s face gave away just how much he was enjoying this part of the ritual. Still fully erect, he allowed himself to be laid down on the flat stone that acted as an altar.

He only began to show signs of alarm as two of the group’s acolytes took a firm hold of his arms and legs, holding him in place. He struggled and begged for mercy as the low, rhythmic chanting began and the knife was raised in preparation for being plunged into his heart.

But by then, of course, it was far too late.

Chapter Seven

The rain began to fall as Kaspar waited on the slip road that led down to the M25. He shoved the handwritten sign saying ‘BATH’ back into the pocket of his rucksack then raised a thumb hopefully in the direction of the approaching traffic.

Until now, he’d been making decent progress. A little over an hour ago, he’d said goodbye to Blazej on the deck of the ferry. While the Pole had been in the shower, Kaspar had pulled a one-euro coin from his jeans pocket. He’d flipped it in the air, preparing to make the decision that had been on his mind since he’d first boarded. Heads and he’d seek out the Bath pride. Tails and he’d go to London. The coin had clattered on the floor. When he’d glanced down, the image of King Willem-Alexander had been looking back at him.

“So, where are you headed?” Blazej had asked as he’d come back into the main part of the cabin.

“Bath. I—er—have relatives there. And you?”

“Nottingham.” It was all Blazej had seemed prepared to say on the subject.

Kaspar found it hard to shake the feeling he would see a story on the news over the next couple of days about some mysterious underworld slaying in the Nottingham area. But that was his imagination running away with him, based on nothing more than idle speculation about the contents of Blazej’s bag. A man who’d held him so tenderly and spoken with such passion of his girlfriend back in Gdańsk just couldn’t be a cold-hearted contract killer.

“You need transport?” Blazej had continued.

“Well, I—” Kaspar hadn’t considered how he would make his way from Harwich to Bath, or even how far the two places were apart.

“Don’t worry. I find you transport. There will be someone on this boat who can take you at least part of the way. Come with me, and bring your bag.”

He’d led Kaspar out to where those passengers with cars and vans waited to be allowed into their vehicles in preparation for disembarking. Having found what appeared to be a likely candidate, Blazej had gone over to the man and addressed him in his native tongue. They’d had a rapid conversation, at the end of which Blazej had beckoned Kaspar over.

“This is Pawel. He can take you as far as the M25.”

Pawel, a stocky, balding middle-aged man, had nodded in acknowledgment.

Around them, people had begun to shuffle forward. Up ahead, the coastline had been a vague, dark shape against the gray sky of early morning.

“Okay, so I leave you now,” Blazej had said. “Look after yourself, Kaspar.” He’d enfolded Kaspar in a hug then stepped back.

Pawel had grunted at Kaspar to follow him. When Kaspar had looked back, there’d been no sign of Blazej. He had disappeared into the crowd as surely as if he’d never existed. Only the lingering pressure of his warm body against Kaspar’s acted as a reminder that what they’d done last night had been all too real.

“So, Pawel, nice to meet you,” Kaspar had said, but the man had not replied. Either his English was more limited than Blazej’s or he simply wasn’t the sociable type. He’d led Kaspar over to an elderly van that was all white apart from one pale blue side panel and appeared to be held together by rust. Convinced he was clambering into a death trap, Kaspar had taken a seat on the passenger side.

Within a few minutes, the boat had docked and they’d joined the slow procession of vehicles off the ferry.

Even though it seemed less than roadworthy, Pawel’s van had brought him to this junction without mishap. They’d barely spoken during the journey, but that had been fine by Kaspar. At first, he’d watched the passing landscape, trying to put his finger on the many subtle ways in which the English scenery differed from his native Holland, from the design of the road signs to the style of the housing that wound in a long ribbon along the side of the dual carriageway. After a while, he’d fallen into a light doze, his shoulder pressed up against the door.

Now he needed to find someone who was happy to take him the rest of the way.

Just as he was settling in for a long and fruitless wait, a bright red Mini passed by then came to a halt on the hard shoulder a few meters ahead of him. He ran to where it waited.

The driver wound down the passenger window. Kaspar peered inside to see a young woman who had a baby strapped into a child seat in the back of the car.

“I don’t normally stop for hitchhikers,” she said, “but I just hate the thought of you standing there on such a filthy day. Where are you going?”

“Bath.” He tried not to sound too hopeful, in case she was only traveling as far as the next junction.

“Well, I can take you to Reading. Hop in.”

Silently thanking whichever deity had just smiled on him, Kaspar climbed into the passenger seat.

* * * *

Bath was nothing like he’d expected. He’d walked the last couple of miles into the city center, past rows of houses arranged in a grand, sweeping curve, then down into the busy shopping streets and the shadow of the imposing Abbey.

Margaret, who’d picked him up at the motorway services just outside Reading, had been only too happy to give him the history of Bath when he’d told her he’d never visited it before.

“It’s beautiful. Really, it is,” she’d said. “One of the oldest cities in Britain. Colonized by the Romans, you know. They called it Aquae Sulis, after the hot springs they found here, and they built baths so they could enjoy the benefit of the waters. A temple, too, though that’s long gone. These days, I suppose the place is most famous for its links to Jane Austen…”

Kaspar had nodded, only half listening. He’d had to read
Pride and Prejudice
at school, and he didn’t understand the fuss about the book, even though half the girls in the class had declared that when they got married, they wanted it to be to a man like Mr. Darcy.

Now, he stood looking at the Roman baths Margaret had described and was wondering which of the many streets to take. He needed to find somewhere to stay, but he was also filled with the urge to seek out his own kind, to be among friends in a strange land. If there were pride members living or working anywhere near here, he was confident in his ability to search them out. He thought he’d caught a hint of something a couple of times already, but the spoor was old, degraded by the passage of days and the many other odors that lingered on the air.

Kaspar sniffed again, and this time he smelled something stronger, a trail he had the confidence he would be able to follow to its source. He began to move with purpose, only pausing when the scent was momentarily buried beneath the aroma of roasting meat coming from a stall selling hot pork rolls. It reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything today apart from a croissant he’d grabbed on the ferry. He dug in his pocket and found the money to buy a roll, which he then gobbled down with indecent haste before licking every delicious trace of pork fat and applesauce from his fingers.

Hunger temporarily sated, he set off in pursuit of the trail again. It led him down a side street and to a corner bar, all smoked glass and chrome detailing. The name above the front door read ‘løve’ in neon-blue lettering. Kaspar had been familiar with places like this in Amsterdam, with their aggressively modern design and their lower case signage. He tended to give them a wide berth in favor of the brown cafés where he’d be assured of a better class of beer and a warmer welcome. But his nose was telling him there was a shifter inside and so he pushed open the door.