The Evil And The Pure (19 page)

The
hound was drifting off to the left when it changed its mind and spun right, picking up speed, lunging along awkwardly. Big Sandy and Fast Eddie panted as they kept up, Big Sandy keeping a firm grip on the hound’s leash, ignoring the startled stares of the people they passed. Fast Eddie said a quick prayer that they didn’t run into any cops but Big Sandy didn’t pray — didn’t believe God heeded the prayers of the damned.

The
hound led them steadily east, snout to the pavement, cutting a path through the Sunday strollers and shoppers, everyone ogling the bizarre trio. Big Sandy hated drawing so much attention. If they caught up with Drake and the hound was linked to his death afterwards, Big Sandy and Fast Eddie were screwed. Too many witnesses would have seen them with the dog. There were limits to the number of people that even someone like the Bush could buy off.

They cut through Harrington Gardens,
past the Harrington Hall Hotel where Big Sandy had first met Shula. Anger flared fresh in him and he urged the hound on, thinking viciously of Larry Drake and the torment he’d put him through before killing him.

Angling south down Sloane Avenue, then further south tow
ards the river, Big Sandy trying to guess where the hound was leading them, how Drake would have run. The actor had skirted local Tube stations, Fulham Broadway, West Brompton, Earl’s Court. In Drake’s position Big Sandy would have hopped on a train, got out of the city ASAP. But Big Sandy wasn’t a public figure, likely to be recognised wherever he went. And Drake didn’t know about the hounds, how easy it was for them to track him. He tried to think like Drake — anxious, desperate, panicked, eager to hole-up, get his head straight, formulate a plan. Couldn’t check into a hotel. Had to be a friend’s house, someone he could trust, close enough to get to on foot.

Halfway down a residential street, t
he hound stopped outside a house and threw itself manically at the front door. Big Sandy stunned it several times until it went limp. Then he handed control of the hound to Fast Eddie, put his shoulder to the door, counted to three, and slammed it. He slammed again. Again. The fourth time it cracked. Big Sandy kicked in the door and hurried through, Fast Eddie and the hound crowding in after him. Stairs. Doors. Apartments. Big Sandy stepped aside and nodded Fast Eddie forward. Fast Eddie stepped past, struggling with the hound as it whined with excitement and hunger, scrabbling towards the stairs.

Fast Eddie checked with Big Sandy to see how he wanted to play it. Big Sandy closed the front door, stared up the stairs, waved Fast Eddie on. The
hound lunged up the steps, dragging Fast Eddie with it, Big Sandy taking the steps three at a time after them. Left at the top, past two doors. The hound stopped at the third door and went insane, jumping at the handle, trying to bark, eyes wild. Fast Eddie tugged back the dog, teeth gritted, fingers slipping on the leash, cursing. Big Sandy ignored his partner’s struggles, stepped up to the door, kicked it open.

A l
iving room. A woman and Larry Drake. Drake crying, the woman trying to comfort him. They leapt to their feet when Big Sandy burst in. Drake screamed. The woman rushed Big Sandy. Drake darted for the window. Big Sandy slapped the woman aside. The hound dived for her but Fast Eddie dragged it back. Big Sandy caught Drake and hurled him face-first into the wall. The actor slumped to the floor, groaning. The woman got back on her feet and rushed Big Sandy, shrieking. Big Sandy caught the woman by the throat, silencing her. He leant forward and hissed, “He raped a girl.”

“No,
” she gasped. “Not Larry… he told me…”

Big Sandy, soft but firm,
“I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you fuck with us.” The woman went cataleptic with fear. “Take me to the bathroom.” She didn’t respond. Big Sandy snarled, “
Now,
” and released her.

The woman stumbled backwards, rubbing her throat, weeping. Big Sandy took a calculated step toward
s her. She moaned and led him to the bathroom, trembling wildly. The hound was over Drake, keeping him on the floor, Fast Eddie letting the muzzled beast worry the actor. Big Sandy checked inside the bathroom door for a key. He took it out and shoved the woman in. “You’ll hear us leaving. Don’t make any noise until we’re gone.” She started to protest. He silenced her with a finger. “Don’t push me.” Seeing murder in his eyes, she nodded obediently, terrified.

Big Sandy locked the door and turned on Larry Drake. The actor was squealing,
trying to slap the hound away, scratched and bleeding from the dog’s claws. “Pull it off,” Big Sandy grunted, cracking his knuckles. Fast Eddie gripped the leash tight and hauled the hound away. The hound didn’t want to retreat, remembering previous kills, the taste of human blood and flesh. It lashed out at Fast Eddie, straining against the hold of the choker.

“I didn’t rape her!” Drake yelled, pressing his hands together, praying to Big Sandy to spare him, face distorted with dread, eyes swamped with tears. “I only heard… about it… this morning. I swear I didn’t –”

A snapping sound — the hound’s choker. It broke free and hurled itself at Larry Drake. Drake screamed. Big Sandy started forward to pull the hound off. Then he paused. He’d had an idea. He knew he might end up regretting it, but he wanted Drake to know real fear and agony before he died. Before he could talk himself out of it, he leant down and undid the clasp at the back of the hound’s muzzle, then pulled it free.

“Are you fucking crazy?” Fast Eddie shrieked.

“It’s not interested in us,” Big Sandy smiled humourlessly, watching as the hound tore into Drake, the actor already bleeding and whimpering. His screams rose sharply, then died away to a gurgled groan as the hound attacked his mouth, as if kissing him. Drake fought back, but the hound ignored the feeble blows and dug in. Big Sandy watched solemnly, passionlessly, as it readjusted and fastened on Drake’s throat, biting through flesh and cartilage, blood gushing from the wounds, soaking the hound’s face, Drake’s body thrashing.

H
e didn’t last long. Within a minute he’d stopped shaking, eyes fixed on an indeterminate point in space, limbs relaxing as he surrendered to death. The hound carried on biting, clawing, chewing, snuffling like a boar in search of truffles.

Big Sandy moved to the front door
and checked the hall outside. Nobody had come to investigate, neighbours either out shopping, sleeping off hangovers, or too wary to show any interest.

Big Sandy closed the door
then emptied the contents of Drake’s bag over the floor, making sure there was nothing there to tie him to Dave Bushinsky or Shula Schimmel. He thought about the woman in the bathroom. Drake must have told her about the Bush and his niece. She could identify Fast Eddie and himself.

They had to
kill her.

He felt sick as he
recalled his mother, walking in as an eleven year old to find her dead on her bed. He hated killing women, especially when they were innocent. But Drake had involved her. She could bring them all down, him, Fast Eddie, the Bush. He had no choice.

Big Sandy focused on the
hound. It was moving slower now, almost sated, whining softly. He picked up the choker and examined it — no good any more. He was still holding the muzzle. He turned to Fast Eddie. “Get the van. Park outside. I’ll slip this on when it finishes with Drake. We’ll bundle it down the the stairs, drive it back to the lab.”

“
You’re sure you’ll be OK here with that thing?” Fast Eddie asked.

“
On a full stomach it should be easy to handle.”

“And the woman?”

“I’ll deal with her while you’re gone. We’ll bring the bodies with us.”

“We’re not gonna leave them here?”

“Can’t. It’ll be obvious they’ve been mauled by a dog. People saw us on the streets with the hound. We have to dispose of the corpses. I’d like to send in a team to clean up but there won’t be time, we made a lot of noise, the cops won’t be far behind us.”

“They could come while I’m gone for the van,” Fast Eddie noted.

“All the more reason to get a fucking move on,” Big Sandy huffed.

Fast Eddie
blanched, nodded, made sure his clothes weren’t bloodstained, then left to fetch the van. Big Sandy spent another minute studying the hound as it fed on the remains of Larry Drake. His eyes were almost as lifeless as the actor’s and his hangover had kicked in again. He felt absolutely wretched, but he knew that he would soon feel even worse. Leaving the hound to mop up the scraps, Big Sandy set down the muzzle, cracked his knuckles and turned to face the bathroom door. A pause. A long, agonised breath.

He started forward.

FOURTEEN

Hallowe
en horror at White Hart Lane. Clint sat with cousin Dave in the South Stand, watching Spurs lose 3-1 to Birmingham in a Worthington Cup game, home fans screaming abuse, everyone disgusted except Dave Bushinsky who seemed delighted by the poor quality of football on display.

The Bush
a life-long Tottenham Hotspur fan. A regular since he was a boy, when he used to cycle to home games with his grandfather. Travelled a lot around the country in his teens and twenties to follow them on the road. Now he tended to go to home games only, and not even all of those – a busy man – but his love for the club was as strong as ever.

Clint
had been doubly horrified when the news broke about Shula. First, he was honestly devastated. It tore him up inside when he heard the sickening news. He wanted to rush to her side, profess his love for her, tell her this changed nothing, offer to do anything he could to help ease her pain. Since he couldn’t do that – it would look strange, him turning up out of the blue to proclaim his love for her – he turned his thoughts towards punishment. He would find the one responsible for hurting her, track him down, torture him, kill him, deliver his head on a plate to her. But Big Sandy beat him to the punch, and therein lay the source of the second horror.

Larry fucking Drake.

Clint had sold Drake the drugs that he’d used to get Shula high. The guilt of that was bad enough, but if cousin Dave found out it could be the end of the line for him. Dave might view him as an accomplice, wonder if Clint had known what Drake was planning. Especially if someone had spotted Clint outside the Groucho, earlier that night.

Clint hadn’t known about Drake when he’d trailed Shula to the Groucho. He just wanted to see where she was going for dinner, who she was dining with. A
shock when he spotted her meeting up with the actor. Miserable as he watched Drake kiss her cheeks, seeing his dreams go up in flames, no way of competing with a celebrity. He had planned to follow Shula around for the rest of the night but he abandoned those plans immediately. Depressed, he’d wandered away and spent the night surfing the Tube, but only occasionally dealing, spending most of the time staring off into space, feeling like a groom who’d been jilted on the altar.

Cousin Dave might not see it that way. If he learnt that Clint had supplied Drake with the drugs, and that he was present when Drake linked up with Shula, he might
think that Clint had served up his niece to the scumbag. Clint would have a hard time defending his case if Big Sandy and the hounds were sicced on him. From what he heard on the rumour mill, Drake had barely even had time to scream.

He’d barely slept the next few nights, waiting for Big Sandy to break down his door, for the nightmare to claim him as it had claimed Larry Drake.
But to his relief the weekend passed, then Monday and Tuesday, with no mention of it, no summons, no sign of the giant or the hounds. He started to sleep soundly again.

Now that he was free to focus on
Shula again, he made plans to visit her, not right away, but soon, when she was over the worst of it. Maybe this would turn out to be a blessing in diguise. The rape changed nothing as far as he was concerned. He still loved her, still wanted her. She would see that in his eyes, feel grateful for it, come to see him as a man she could depend upon, one who would overlook what had been done to her, who could love her purely, in a way that many men maybe no longer could.

As Clint recovered from his shock, outraged d
isbelief that Drake had raped her gave way to a different kind of anger as he realised that with Drake dead, his dream of selling to the stars was in tatters and he was back where he started. He came to hate the actor even more than he already did, furious at him for getting Clint so close to the real action, only to leave him stranded.

Clint t
ried putting the Drake business behind him but he couldn’t. The bitterness wouldn’t go away. America had seemed so close, almost within reach. He’d thought a lot about what Phials had said, about setting up base there before trying to win Shula’s heart, and it made sense. If Drake had come through for him, he could have made the move, established himself in New York, returned for Shula within a few years when she still young and unattached. Now he was back to looking at things long-term, and who knew what would happen with Shula while he was labouring away with all the other dreamers.