The Evil And The Pure (33 page)

“Beautiful,” he smil
ed weakly then hurried to the bathroom, popped pills, thought about his bank balance and how much today’s shopping spree had eaten into it. Popped more pills, headache flaring.

THIRTY-SIX

“Have you ever killed a man?”

Gawl leant back on the couch in Clint’s TV room and sighed. He’d been expecting the question, Clint building up to it for days. Nearly three weeks since Gawl injected himself into Clint Smith’s life and made a man of the dealer. Three weeks of taking him to pubs, strippers, brothels, listening to him babble on about himself, pretending to be his friend. At first he’d found Clint almost impossible to tolerate – he despised weakness, and Clint was weak in every department – but his feelings had changed over the course of their conversations and boozing/screwing sessions. He still looked down upon the young man, but Clint was in awe of Gawl and idolised him, and Gawl was starting to get off on that. He’d never been hero-worshipped before. It pleased him to have Clint listen intently to his every utterance, attaching weight to what he said, respectful, obedient, trying to ape Gawl’s gestures and expressions. He knew it was bullshit – the same nobody he’d been three weeks before, and no amount of wide-eyed wonder would change that – but fun to see himself through Clint’s eyes, a man of importance, an authority on most issues, strong, confident, afraid of nothing.

Careful not to reveal too much about himself
. Clint knew he could be fierce but he didn’t know he was brutal. Gawl painted himself as a man of honour, merciless when he needed to be, but benevolent most of the time, peaceful unless provoked. All lies, but Gawl had to win Clint’s trust and dependance, and the world for Clint was like the movies — gangsters were men of honour, with codes and ethics. That delusion helped Gawl manipulate him, so it had to be maintained.

At the same time
he’d had to fill Clint in on parts of his violent past, so Clint would believe he was a man of action, a master of any situation. He’d gradually fed Clint relevant but edited facts, said he’d worked as a thief, done some mob work in the States, a few bank jobs, protection, served as a hired heavy in the UK, Europe, Australia. Mixing truth with lies, giving the impression that he’d moved around so much because he didn’t enjoy being tied down, never mentioning the fact that he’d been run out of most places, that none of his bosses trusted him, that he’d always been hired for one-off jobs and rarely used again by his employers.

Gawl almost shat a brick when Clint brought up Shula Schimmel. He had been toying with the idea of mentioning that he’d recently raped a woman — given Clint’s antics in the brothels, Gawl thought maybe that would impress him.
Relieved that he’d thought better of it. A sleepless night worrying that Clint might somehow trace the rape back to him, that he might be setting himself up for his own downfall. But that was crazy. Nothing to tie him to what had happened. As long as he kept his mouth shut, Clint would never know. He pressed on as planned, kept talk of Shula to a minimum, changed the subject whenever Clint raised it, just not too obviously.

All the time trying to get Clint to talk about Phials and the lab
, unable to let go of his dream of millions, sure there must be a way to crack the chemist. He’d suggested visiting the lab with Clint, having a go at torture before the Bush’s men set to work on Phials, but Clint explained about Fast Eddie, the other guards, the security cameras. He didn’t like discussing Phials – old news as far as he was concerned – and he kept steering talk away from him.

Earlier that night he’d asked about Gawl’s name. Ga
wl admitted it was an invention, a derivation of Charles de Gaulle, while McCaskey was simply a name he liked. Said he’d had to change his name several times over the decades. Refused to reveal his real name, what Clint didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. That was when Clint came out with, “Have you ever killed a man?”

Gawl had anticipated the ques
tion and spent a lot of time preparing his answer. He fixed his pale blue eyes on Clint and said softly, “What do ye think?”

Clint gulped. Smiled shakily. “I
think you probably have.”

Gawl nodded sombrely.
“More than one.”

Clint held his smile. “Many?”

“A few.” Gawl cracked his knuckles and adopted a faraway gaze. “I’ve killed for a variety of reasons. Self-defence. Because I was paid. Once, when I was young, I killed a man in a drunken brawl. I’m not proud of my record, but I never killed for kicks.”

“And those you killed deserved to die?”

“Except for the guy in the fight, yeah.”

“No women or children?”

Gawl rolled his head aside to hide a facial tic. “Of course not.”

Lie heaped upon
mistruth piled upon fantasy. Gawl an addicted killer, a ghoul who preyed on the weak. No children – they didn’t interest him – but women? Oh yes. A couple of men in fights or the line of work. But mainly women. Eight of them. His slaughtered beauties.

The first
in Glasgow, when he was a teenager. A tramp. Found her lying in the gutter, drunk, groaning. Nobody about. He rolled her for loose change, then, hands trembling, he choked her. He didn’t mean to kill her. He kept expecting his fingers to part and slip away. But they locked together, throttling her, tightening further as she shook and wheezed and finally went still. Stayed closed long after she was dead, Gawl staring into her blank, open eyes, wondering if she was really dead or unconscious. Ran when he realised he’d killed her, from the corpse, the gutter, the alley, Glasgow. Terrified that he’d be caught and locked away for life. Hadn’t killed again for several years, thinking a lot about it, coming to terms with the beast inside himself, controlling it, planning for the future.

Since then he’d killed seven times, different types of women, different cities. Careful to space them out, leaving long gaps between each murder, varying his routine, never choosing two who looked alike or killing them the same way.
Most of them strangers, either women who knew him vaguely or not at all.

In an ideal world Gawl would have killed many more. Nothing fed his fires as much as taking
a life. Strong as a god afterward, skin buzzing with electric elation. He’d have slaughtered one a week if possible but he knew he wasn’t smart enough to beat the odds. He had to keep a tight rein on his hunger or fall victim to it. He’d be caught if he killed indiscriminately, locked away where there were no women, perhaps for life. Gawl didn’t mind jail, not when he had the thought of freedom to look forward to, but if he’d been sent down for twenty years, thirty, life… insanity would have followed. The beast had to be fed. It could tolerate long intervals between feedings, but not decades. Gawl recognised this and allowed for it, planning his murders around the demands of his inner demon.

The beast hadn’t mellowed with age. As hungry and demanding as ever. Gawl didn’t know how many more lives he’d claim before death took him. If he stuck
to his previous patterns, only one or two. Or perhaps the beast would demand a burst of chaos before the end, send him on a killing spree while he was still able, go out on a high, run the number up to fifteen, twenty, more. Gawl was hoping for a long, pampered retirement, but if the beast called for a murderous finale, so be it.

Gawl studied Clint, drinking a can of
beer. Satisfied that Gawl was a conscientious killer, he’d moved on and was waffling again, talking of expanding with Gawl’s help. Gawl smiled as he considered Clint’s reaction if Gawl told him the truth about himself, that he was a serial killer, and by the way he’d raped the woman Clint claimed to love. Clint lived in a fantasy world. What a shock he’d get if Gawl opened his eyes to how the world really was. Would he run to cousin Dave for help? The police? Or would he take matters into his own hands? Gawl laughed as he pictured Clint coming at him with his puny fists, kicking and shrieking.

“What’s funny?” Clint asked, gazing blearily at Gawl over the top of his can.

“Private joke,” Gawl grunted and leant forward curiously, dragging talk back to murder. “Would
you
ever kill a man?”

Clint smiled nervously. “Only if I had to.”

“But ye could if pushed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“If ye want t’ make it t’ the top the hard way – peddling drugs, dealing with the scum of the earth – ye’ll have t’ kill sooner or later. It goes with the territory.”

“
I guess.” Clint looked unhappy.

“Of course
if ye had a few million t’ play with, ye could hire someone else t’ do yer dirty work for ye…”

Sinking back in his chair, leaving Clint to muse about that, turning his own thoughts loose, lingering on the faces of the women he’d killed, remem
bering their death cries and shakes, smiling at the memories. Smile widening — looking ahead to a warm, crimson future.

december 200
0

THIRTY-SEVEN

A
taxi pulled up outside the lab and Dave Bushinsky stepped out, face as dark as the early December sky. From the other side Big Sandy emerged, yawning and stretching. It was afternoon but he’d been out late the night before with the Tynes. Unshaven and unwashed, as ordered. Dressed in black denim. Knuckles lightly smeared with vaseline to highlight his scars. The Bush stood aside while Big Sandy opened the outer door of the lab and pressed the button for the inner door. When that opened, both men entered, Fast Eddie closing the two open doors before following them into the lab.

“Where is he?” the Bush asked.

“At work.”

“Take us.”

Fast Eddie led the way to Tony Phials’ office, standard sized, windows covered with posters and charts to block the view from outside. This was where he did most of his thinking. He’d never before been disturbed here, everyone in the lab under strict instructions to leave him alone when his brain was whirring.

The search of his quarters had yielded no results. No slips of paper, no secret codes, no hidden formulas. The search
had concluded the night before, Wednesday. As soon as the Bush got the negative word, he phoned Big Sandy and told him the plan for Thursday. In a rush — if he was to buy into Spurs, it was now or never.

“You wait out here,” the Bush told Fast Eddie, then rapped on the door and entered before Phials had a chance to respond.

The chemist’s eyes widened with fear when he saw Dave Bushinsky and Big Sandy step into his office, then narrowed with relief. The Bush wouldn’t place himself at the site of anything unpleasant. Phials had nothing to worry about — yet.

“Gentlemen,” he welcomed t
hem, shaking hands with the Bush, ignoring Big Sandy, who’d closed the door and was standing to attention in front of it. “I hope this is a social visit.”

“
I’m afraid not,” the Bush said, taking a seat, smoothing out the creases in his trousers as he sat. Glanced at Phials seriously. “We need to talk.”

Phials nodded
and sat opposite his benefactor and captor. “So talk.”

“The formula
— I need it now.”

Phials shrugged. “I’m doing my best.”

“Are you?”

Steadily,
“Yes.”

The Bush looked away and muttered, “That might not be good enough.”

Phials sucked on his teeth. “Care to tell me what the rush is? When I started on this, I told you it would take time, I couldn’t guarantee results, certainly couldn’t commit to a deadline. You were fine with that.”

“The situation has changed.”

“In what way?”

The Bush smiled
rufully. “You’d laugh if I told you.” He looked at Phials semi-pleadingly. “I need this, Tony. I must have it. Now.”

“But it isn’t ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why would I withhold it
from you?”

The Bush maintain
ed eye contact. “You know how valuable you are to me. I wouldn’t sacrifice our friendship, even for something this big. There will be other drugs, other deals, more money to be made. I’m not going to cut off the neck of the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“I never assumed you would,” Phials lied, playing it smooth, heart racing.

“You’ve no reason to be afraid of me, Tony.”